Started: 4/11/2008

Finished: 12/18/2008

….I think, this WAS for Constance's birthday. I think, because her birthday is around the 18th (right?) But, I found it when I was clearing off my computer, and decided to post it.

pairing: kaixel/ rating T/ general.

summary: all aboard the sex god express, resistance was futile.

DISclaimer! Don't even go there.

´¨¤.¸¸. ´¨¤.¸¸

He was on fire.

Literally.

You sit watching, dazzled, as he plays with his most precious love. To some, this is impossible, but somehow he has manage to tame its flicking lips and its burning touch. He's different, not anything you're used to, with spiky, red hair more out of control than anyone's you have ever seen (even more so than your best friend.) He catches you in your worse moments, which is very hard to do, a smirk on his face and a sarcastic remark soon to follow. You can't stand him, but the minute you look into his (somewhat alluring) emerald green eyes, you can't remember your name. He's like Materia to your veins - it drives you insane.

Girls like you don't fall for guys like him. You're smarter than they say (Olette, Yuffie, Larxene, the list goes on…) You know what boys who play with fire can do to you, and you know that you should stop looking into his eyes every time he talks. His voice is like music, and he knows where to hit you with his snide comments, and you just can't beat someone like him. He can play with fire, dammit, how in the hell are you supposed to fight that? He's sexy and unstoppable - the best you can do is talk with your eyes closed, which drives him crazy. You've become a master of nonchalant chitchat, serving constant fuck-yous to his pick-up lines. He's starting to realize he doesn't have a chance with you, or at least you're hoping he is. Then you can stop thinking about how it would feel to be in his arms, and if Olette is right about his lips being God's own paradise. But you don't like him or anything. You're just curious.

Right?

He's heartless, a manwhore, not right for you at all. You know this, and you have common sense (at least you think so), and yet here you are, on his (very manly) couch. Waiting for him to get out of the shower (because no, you don't want to take a shower with him). Not because you want to be here, you remind yourself, but because you have to be. He invited you in, and it would have been rude to say no. You don't want to come off as rude. You're not secretly hoping he'll come out of his shower naked or anything. You know better, right? Of course, right. Well, no. No. This is no time for doubt. You have to know that you're better than any of them, because you are. You aren't jumping on the sex god express like the rest of them. You aren't tempted by his alluring green eyes or his spiky, red mane - especially not that sexy whisper of his. None of it makes you melt into puddle. None of it.

You put down the wallet he'd dropped. You're about to leave when the bathroom door opens.

Your mouth drops in awe. You forget that it's not polite to stare, forget that he's a manwhore and you will never be one of those girls. He's mesmerizing. Not sexy, just utterly beautiful, and you want him. You want him now. That's when you snap back to common sense and remember that you don't want him (even though you do. Oh, how you do.)

"Wallet." You shrug, pointing at it, and turn, leaving his sexiness behind. You ignore his laugh, that little I-know-you-want-me smirk. It's much smarter to be speechless, you decide for next time. (Next time, you'll just kiss him and get it over with.)

You aren't like others girls.

You'd tried to resist him.