[ . . . ] feeling delirious .

𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨.

❝     and     if     i     don’t?     ❞     a     poised     challenge.     undeterred,     unfazed,     unmoved     by     the     ire     in     mako     -     laden     gaze.     an     assimilation     of     guilts     &&     regrets     &&     self     -     inflicted     shame     she     recognizes.     she’s     held     its     hand     before.     familiarized     herself     with     it     on     a     molecular     level     that     could     sunder     the     bones     belonging     to     storm     -     wrought     she.     it     could     make     &&     unmake     her,     &&     she’d     wager     he’s     no     different.     odds     stacked,     travesties     abundant     —     they     stand     in     destruction     like     cataclysmic     storm     -     bodies.     thunder     that     cracks     through     the     marrow,     catches     in     the     eyes     like     glinting     revelation.     tempered     -     shine     flash     ;     sparks     arc     through     sinew,     prepared     to     force.     the     hand     held     taut     to     sternum,     push     -     back     met     even.     like     a     stalemate     she     allows.     

toy     soldiers     picked     apart     by     the     leaders     of     whatever     crusade     would     see     them     die     for.     suspended     like     marionette,     gods     at     play     in     their     domains     as     if     the     troubles     of     the     mundane     mean     naught.     so     in     the     furrowing     of     a     sculpted     brow     -     line,     jaw     goes     tight     &&     tenses     in     lieu     of     understanding.     

With  poor  attitude  comes  poor  consequence,  and  Cloud  does  well  to  reap  them  in  measurements  too  tightly  woven.  He's  met  with  a  wall  he  cannot  pass,  cannot  crack,  cannot  break,  and  Lightning  does  well  to  make  it  known.  He  meets  reckoning  with  her  fist  now  tied  to  the  shirt  lifted  from  his  chest,  eyes  widened  with  disbelief  for  only  a  moment,  as  the  motion  ignites  a  specific  rage  spurred  from  fear,  now  violent  and  explosive;  the  pain  against  the  back  of  his  neck  sends  him  into  a  burning  inferno  of  vehemence.  He  attempts  to  force  her  to  unhand  him,  but  before  he  can  draw  any  strength,  he's  thrust  back  into  himself  and  has  no  choice  but  to  catch  his  breath.

His  own  fists  are  clenched  now,  and  he  glares  down  at  them.  There's  nothing  he  can  do  but  stand  pathetically  angry,  betrayed  and  embarrassed,  dissatisfied  with  himself  and  the  ill  reminder  of  all  he  lacks.

❛  Shove  it.  ❜   His  footfalls  begin  at  a  speed  that  only  increases  the  further  he  walks,  shoulders  tight,  jaw  clenched,  a  fervent  determination  striking  through  his  mako-ridden  vision.  Every  step  echoes  with  a  firm  thud  of  thick  soles  against  the  ground. 

Kid?  He  doesn't  look  that  young,  does  he?  He's  with  Shinra,  has  been  for  a  few  years  now…  Should  be  grown  enough  to  avoid  the  nicknames,  at  least…  Still,  the  critique  allows  a  thickness  to  build  in  his  throat  that  he's  forced  to  swallow  audibly,  and  immediately  starts  to  correct  his  stance  and  position,  quite  obviously  without  having  any  real  direction.

The  SOLDIER  looks  at  him,  and  Cloud's  nervousness  is  surely  showing,  and  he's  aware,  which  makes  him  even  more  uncomfortable.  Damn  feelings…  He  should  be  like  steel.  Like  Sephiroth.  Such  thoughts  cause  him  to  straighten  his  shoulders  and  wear  a  straighter,  more  confident  expression.

Approximately 4 months and 6 days since Reeve or Cait Sith last had contact with Cloud. All of them busy with their lives, and especially after the recent events concerning Geostigma and the Sephiroth clones who had been running around. The months prior to the three dangers showing up to Edge, Reeve had experienced personal tragedy because of the illness that ravaged across the land.

His mother had been one of the first cases of people who had contracted the mysterious sickness. At first she seemed alright if not fatigued as if stricken with a common flu. Then the splotchy dark marks started to spread here and there on her. Ruvie would say she was fine, just tired, just achy. Never admitting that she knew deep down nothing was getting better. Reeve had been unsure what to think. Then one afternoon he came to visit with some fruit he picked up, and she was slumped there on her sofa having already passed that morning.

Reeve got sick too. His came a few months after even though he had tried to avoid the rain at all costs. Funny, he used to love the rain.

So when the time came to take up arms again and try to source an end to everything, he sent Cait Sith in his stead. Still busy, still unable to properly fight one on one himself as much as he would like to. Reeve just wasn't cut for the overly athletic maneuvers the others tended to take on. And now -- it was peaceful again. People were still nervous, looking up to the sky at every rain cloud, but pressing on with hope. It was during this time that Reeve decided he was long overdo to head down himself and see Cloud and the others in person if possible. Calling never seemed to do the trick after all. And so he stepped through the door where Cloud sourced out his delivery service taking a gander. "Heya Cloud, are you here? It's been too long!"

The  days  have  slowly  lifted  into  something  lighter,  physically  and  emotionally.  The  sky  has  opened  from  the  clouds,  and  the  weight  of  living  feels  less  like  drowning.  Black  splotches  of  Stigma  no  longer  taint  his  hands,  nor  Denzel's,  and  he  hopes  to  whatever  existence  beyond  his  own,  that  it  does  not  plague  anyone  else's.  Every  day  lately  feels  just  like  the  last;  mild  changes  here  or  there,  different  places  to  offer  different  deliveries  that  result  in  different  experiences,  and  yet,  he  feels  like  a  cog  in  a  wheel,  cycling  through  life  without  a  care  or  individual  thought.  For  someone  once  considered  a  hero,  he  sure  doesn't  feel  like  one.

This  day  is  just  as  stagnant  as  the  last,  perhaps  more  stagnant,  as  Tifa  has  taken  Fenrir  out  to  scout  for  needed  fruits  and  vegetables  –  things  he  should  know  by  now,  but  still  tends  to  mess  up  time  to  time.  The  bar  is  closed  for  the  morning,  so  he  spends  time  doing  extra  cleaning  whilst  keeping  Denzel  and  Marlene  busy  and  occupied.

There's  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  two  kids  run  behind  the  bar,  wide-eyed  and  giggling,  while  Cloud  cracks  the  door  just  so,  uttering  a  rejection  before  he  notes  who  stands  there.  ❛  Hey,  sign  says  we're  –  ❜      Oh.

❛  Reeve.  ❜   He  allows  the  door  to  open  fully,  a  silent  invitation  for  him  to  come  inside.  ❛  Yeah,  ‘m  here.  ❜  As  if  it  weren’t  already  obvious  enough.  ❛  You  need  somethin'?  ❜  He  asks,  as  if  it's  obvious  there's  a  purpose  for  this  interaction  in  mind,  a  habit  he  assumes  most  people  possess,  even  when  often  proven  wrong.

@callmeteor : "it's just this campfire story for kids."

mathelin sighed. “ come on. you can tell me. i won't bite. no one will, &. i'm interested. ” that was either the best or worst thing to say. he ( obviously ) did not know this man much. a coincidental run - in &. the elezen sat them both down. “ we got time to spare. ” a whole lot of it with the final days behind him.

❛  ‘S  not  anything  to  write  home  about.  ❜   A  half-hearted  shrug  collapses  from  his  shoulders,  and  he  leans  forward,  further  into  himself,  retaining  his  outward  confidence  despite  it.  His  sigh  is  offered  in  turn,  and  his  ‘lack  of  decorum,’  as  he's  grown  more  aware  of  it,  seems  to  bite  him  in  the  ass  far  more  than  he'd  like  to  admit.  He's  determined  not  to  fuck  this  one  up.

the last time a man had touched her so intimately, she'd been left to weep in her chambers; a broken bird with nowhere to fly. this time, when it's cloud addressing her so sweetly and kissing her with such reverence, she folds into it with abandon. fingers desperately clasp for purchase. the cool skin of his shoulders is yet another shock to her system, but pleasant nonetheless. the way his mouth travels down the column of her neck, hot breath fanning her skin, has her trembling already in anticipation of what else is to come.

she ought not to be so eager to be undone by his hands, and yet cannot find it within herself to reel in her emotions. so badly, she's wanted to replace those terrible, black-tar memories with something holy and right. and this moment in her room, with cloud acting less like her sworn bodyguard and more like a besotted lover, could never be anything other than sacred.

The  way  Corinne  is  exposed  through  the  cast  light  and  shadow  of  the  moon  looks  like  something  out  of  a  dream,  unrealizable.  He  peels  his  lips  from  the  beating  of  her  chest,  and  cannot  help  the  stare  that  loses  itself  to  her  breasts,  now  hardly  hidden.  Thumb  dances  over  the  string  that  holds  up  her  clothing,  and  his  eyes  look  as  though  he  is  both  enamored  and  searching,  exploring.  He  looks  to  her  like  he  has  struck  diamond  after  days  of  mining;  radiant,  glowing,  beautiful.  He's  undeserving,  but  he  doesn't  care.   ❛  Could  I…?  ❜   Call  him  selfish,  but  he  desires  nothing  more  than  to  share  his  vulnerability  with  her,  and  be  shared  with  in  return.

His  fingers  linger  there  a  moment  as  she  grinds  against  him,  and  he  is  surely  as  hard  as  is  possible,  feeling  every  shape  of  her  through  the  fabric  that  confines  them.  With  the  lustful  motion,  he  grips  her  tighter,  eyes  closed,  and  mouth  sucking  in  a  breath,  lips  left  slightly  ajar. 

go ahead, he says. as if the witch has only been holding back until permission would be granted to her. she had been attempting to annoy him for nearly an hour now, only now she would not need to hide behind pretending to read the tome she had already memorized at this point. the book is placed to the side, set down, the lilacs of her gaze never quite leaving cloud's eyes.

❛    if i said i wanted you, would that have helped?    ❜ his attention was what she meant, but she liked the way this was phrased much better; the insinuation was not lost on her and yet her expression does not change. still, she wonders if speaking her heart outright would change anything, given how all of her previous attempts have ended before.

And  with  the  simplicity  of  a  single  sentence,  he  is  staggered  to  silence,  eyes  locked  to  hers  with  confusion,  and  something  else  that  lingers  beneath  the  surface.  He  feels  his  tongue  catch  in  his  throat  for  a  moment,  and  once  again,  he  cannot  maintain  their  sight;  his  vision  is  cast  to  the  knuckles  of  his  glove.  The  only  words  that  manage  to  scrape  from  his  tongue,  like  a  dull  blade  upon  its  whetstone,  come  out  a  bit  weaker  than  he'd  like…  ❛  Yeah,  probably.  ❜   There  are  times  he  can  be  far  too  honest.

And  while  he  is  distracted  by  her  advances,  nervously  looking  beyond,  he  feels  the  light  thump  upon  his  forehead,  and  lifts  his  neck  and  eyes  with  a  stunned  immediacy.

Ah,  sparring.  Of  course.  That's  exactly  what  he…