Pairing/Character/etc: Rude/Tifa Lockhart
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Theme: #27- Touch
Disclaimer: I do not own FFVII or any of the characters therein. I just play with them from time to time.
She hadn’t known she had needed to be touched. Perhaps deep down she probably had always known she needed to be touched, to be kissed, to be held and cared for just because she was who she was, not as a replacement for something else. Still, she didn’t realize it consciously until his hands had gripped her waist and pulled her towards him, kissing her soundly.
She had been surprised, and not so surprised. A part of her was screaming not to give in, that he was the enemy and to be like this with him was a sin. But she knew he was no longer an enemy. Not a friend, not an ally, but not an enemy. Not an enemy.
She had made a sound. She remembered that much: a small sound half way between a moan and a whimper as his lips worked against hers, his tongue explored her mouth, his hand sat gently yet firmly in the thickness of her hair. She hadn’t meant to make that sound. She really hadn’t, but she couldn’t help it. It felt so good to be touched, and not in that bruising way most guys kissed.
She had her share of fumbling kisses, mostly from men who wanted to date her for one thing. They would press their lips against hers, harsh and bruising, and let her know their desire. They would always end up going home with a broken limb or singing soprano for weeks afterwards.
A part of her wanted him to touch her more, feel his hands on her skin, but not then, not then. He wouldn’t have anyway, she knew. He had too much respect for her, he openly admitted that. She was beautiful to him, and special, and he wouldn’t take advantage that way. He would feel too guilty.
Eventually he did touch her though, pulled her into a nearby alley and whispered words to her that made her flesh crawl, made her stomach clench, made a warmth spill across her stomach and made her shudder as his lips touched her earlobe.
That night she lie beneath him, his hands traveling down the line of her body, her nails digging into his back as she moaned beneath him, moaned out his name as she panted softly, slowly. Her grip would tighten as their sweat glistened skin slid against each other and she knew she would leave marks the next morning, she knew he would have bright red lines across his skin and she would feel bad for it later, but he was making her forget, making her not care, making her mind hazy with pleasure and lust and heat.
She held onto him desperately, trying her hardest to keep from losing all sense of time and reason, desperate for more contact, more of a touch. She was an addict now, and she wasn’t letting it go, couldn’t let it go, needed it, wanted it, badly, desperately.
He twitched above her, the sounds of her moans shuddering him to his core. She was beautiful to him then, eyes closed, mouth parted in a silent scream. He wanted to lose control, wanted to just fuck her hard and fast and feral, but he wanted her sounds more, her pleasure more, so he fought the urge and kept the pace slow and grueling, almost too much for him to take, much too much for her to take even if he didn’t know it.
The warmth spread and her eyes clenched, her head pressed backwards against the pillow, her nails dug in deeper, blood pooling beneath her nails, and she called out his name, a scream to her own ears, a whisper to his. “Rude.”
Afterwards she curled up against his side, desperate to keep that warmth, that contact, desperate to touch him more, to feel his warmth and never let this feeling go.
But she knew it would end.
And that was her greatest fear.