AN: For disclaimer, see chapter 1. Lyrics belong to She Wants Revenge. This is it, folks. Once again, shout out to CBK1000 for making this fic awesome with her glorious beta skills.
He thinks of the things that are his, truly his, to give to another should he ever so desire.
His real name, his real age. His real smile. His full attention. His love. His life (although with ShinRa, he's not sure if he really owns that anymore).
Back up a sec, and think of the things you oughta learn first.
Name, okay, age, yeah, okay. Job, phone number. Birthday, maybe, if you're that fucking sentimental and shit.
She's given him none of these. She only talks in moans, and sighs, and pants, and gasps.
But he knows how to make her cum in less than a minute, knows how to make it last longer than an hour, until she's begging with claws in his back and gnashing of perfect white teeth. Knows every fucking glorious inch of her, inside and out. Sees her soul in her eyes. Knows the weight of each breast, the width of her waist and hips (with his thumbs touching, hands splayed over the base of her spine, his fingers curl over the jut of her hips; when he laps at her, one hand pressed against her belly is all it takes to keep her still). Her skin has no marks, save the ones he's put there. She smells like musk and green tea and herbs and tastes like vanilla and honey.
She never tells him "no". Lately, she doesn't say anything.
That bothers him more than it should.
Felt too much, did she feel a thing?
Long, dark hair, never saw her cry
There's no affection or sentiment, though, if he is entirely honest with himself, he knows there could be. There had been, before she fucking disappeared on him. Shared smiles, and long slow kisses, and tracing invisible patterns on hypersensitive, slick, post-coital skin.
Now, she melts under his stare, and he can't be sure it's fear or desire that keeps her there. Nothing is soft, or slow, or sweet. She is a bird of paradise, once caught for a time in a cage, but he'd left the door open; now, he holds her in his fist, and she may peck and scratch and squawk but he'll hold fast until he is ready to let go, even if he can feel that little body being broken with the force of his need.
But she doesn't fight. She meets his fury head on; molds against his hardness, bends with his tempest. She turns the other cheek, and he is all too happy to use the back of his stinging hand.
He wonders how much more she's willing to take. Better yet, how much more has he got?
He doesn't see an answer, but he thinks she does.
Perhaps one day?…Never mind.
All the nights we shared, were we just killing time?
It's not as easy as he thought it'd be.
So he pined over her…he never pined over fucking nothing or nobody before, and it's done a number on him.
So she comes back and he's thinking, well, here we go, another chance to get my kicks and get her out of my blood for good. Make her sorry for fucking coming back in the first place, 'cause he really doesn't need this shit that she put in him, and maybe some pain and tears on her part will exorcise the monster chewin' away his insides.
He doesn't want to know why she came back. He really doesn't want to fucking know.
But instead of it getting better, it's getting worse. She's like a disease, multiplying and festering and spreading, and every time is the last time until it becomes the next time and soon, he can't fucking breathe without her pushing the air into his lungs with her mouth, and his heart won't beat unless he's pounding out a rhythm inside her.
Sick of trying to find a way inside
Sick and tired of all the after
Sick of trying to find a way to slide
Even though it always ends in laughter
It's never hard to tell when things are done
She looked into my eyes and a voice said RUN
She says that I'm a mess but it's alright
Whether it's two weeks, two years, or just tonight
He's back from a bender with some of the rookies. Rude's been giving him a wide berth lately, and the noobs don't know him well enough to know better.
He falls against his front door, the floor tilting underneath him as he lets his head roll back, kaleidoscope swirls behind closed lids.
He takes a deep breath through his nose to push the bile back, and a hint of something in his nostrils bends him forward like a punch to the gut.
His fucking apartment reeks of her.
He's gulping now, slack-jawed and swaying, an arm on his stomach to keep him from retching. And now he's laughing, or crying, he's too fucking wasted to tell, and the moment passes as fiercely and unexpectedly as it came.
He catches something shimmering in the corner of his eye, and turns to glance down the darkened hallway. She's standing in the doorway to the bedroom.
She's found the dress.
He squeezes his lids tight, turns his head away, feels gravity, maybe something else, pulling down the corners of his mouth, struggles with a lump in his throat.
His next breath is a choked wheeze, and he's suddenly got a knife, warm from his body heat, smooth and heavy and familiar. He cradles it in his trembling hand for a moment, and she, crazy bitch that she is, is right beside him now, onyx eyes shining up at him before blinking down at the weapon.
He can barely hold himself up, and it's not just from the booze and the drugs. An exaggerated flick of his wrist and he's holding the knife by the blade, offering her the handle.
"Cut it out." His throat is sore with the lump, the words aching.
She takes a step back, then stops. She doesn't make another move.
He is louder, a bit more forceful this time, jabbing his hand out. "Take it and cut it out of me. Get it out."
She doesn't even blink, but he recognizes the understanding that settles on her face.
It's too close to pity.
He leaps at her, their bodies slamming into the wall. His forearm presses against her throat, the blade touches her cheek, just below one frantic eye, and now we have some life in this bitch yet, ladies and gents.
"I could gut you like a fish," he growls. He watches her squirm, mouth gaping mutely, can feel her chest sucking uselessly-ribs jutting, shoulders heaving, her hands clutching his arm, nails digging through the cloth.
When her lids begin to droop, he stabs the knife in the wall by her head, pulls his weight back just enough.
The sound of rushing air, the strangled whoop that's pure desperation and reflex and sounds nearly the same coming from any throat, even this one, so she's not so special after all-this sound gets him harder than he's been in days. His mouth descends, and now she's needing the air in his lungs, and he's not letting her have it.
When he wakes up, minutes (hours?) later, he is still dressed, a Reno rag doll propped against the wall, legs sprawled, ass numb, head throbbing, neck stiff, fly open.
His knife is on the floor between his thighs.
The dress is in a shredded pile a few feet away.
The air around him is sharp and cold with early morning, and he knows already that she is gone.
I can find a reason that we should quit
I can find a reason to do it
I can find excuses for all my shit
She tells me just to work right through it
You can occupy my every sigh,
You can rent a space inside my mind
At least until the price becomes too high
He is in Tseng's office, his entire life thrown haphazardly into a old cardboard box sitting at his feet.
He toes the box with his hands shoved deep in his pockets while Tseng stoically fingers a sheet of paper in his hands.
One slow blink and his boss is sizing him up with that stare of his, and he cocks his head, juts his hip, and emulates a calculating squint right back.
When Tseng says nothing, Reno straightens, the humor gone, gaze averted to the window at Tseng's back. "It's just temporary."
"Oh, I know." The reply, quick and certain, is unexpected. "Anything outside Midgar is usually beyond you."
"Yeah-"
"The last time you and Captain Highwind had any contact resulted in your forceful removal and a 72 hour confinement."
"Yeah, well, he fucking asked for it."
A silence descends, in which Tseng folds his hands on his desk and waits.
His subordinate rolls his head back with a muttered curse before descending to gather the box at his feet. "I'm not gonna fuckin' beg for it. You need a body, Cid needs some hands, and here the fuck I am-"
"Palmer called me earlier this morning." Tseng noiselessly opens the top drawer of his desk and removes a pen. "You've been requested."
Reno smirks knowingly, propping the box on his hip to reach forward and snatch the signed transfer from his superior's hand. He gives a final toss of his head before rounding toward the door.
Tseng's voice is more amused than curious. "So are you going to tell me what happened?"
He doesn't pause in his stride, disappearing out of the office, his voice hollow and distant. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
Fucking Wute.