Disclaimer: FFVII and its respective characters are property of Square Enix.

She kisses him before closing-time and he makes a mistake by allowing it to follow through, tongue, teeth, and all. All except the sex.

It's seconds before they come up for air.

They leave it at that.

He arrives home – a rumpled bedsit that smells of stale cigarette smoke – and takes off his jacket, then his shirt, still feels his heart pounding like a shot against bone, then dips his head below the bathroom faucet flow and wills it to run down into the drains with the rest of his filth. Ten minutes later, he's lying in bed, imagining that the noise is right where it belongs in Midgar's rotting core, dying nice and slow with a perfume so rankly sweet it'd call for a reburial. Again. And again.

Again.

By Bahamut, she's a holy kisser. Her mouth works in tandem with the racing footsteps he's heard approaching in his sleep, when she's about to fly at him with her fists closed.

He has his eyes open to keep his mind occupied with brittle, steelier things. His body is not as willing an accomplice so he'll take his pleasure with a dose of shrapnel in the form of teeth that nip and nails that claw at clothed skin. Damn him if there's a mirror lucky enough to behold what he's seeing right now: their portrait in monochrome, black cotton skirt and suit, white trim and shirt. There's something prosaic in this moment, if he can pin it down before her on the bar counter.

And by Jenova, she's a crisp little pistol complete with a catch and trigger. He doesn't know which he's fingering and that makes this all the more blasphemous. You never aim in the dark.

There is nothing, if not empty cusses, he's emptying into that hot mouth he holds with his own for the length of one sacred closed-eye moment of peace until he's run out of air again and he's moving down to her neck, fiddling the toggle that holds her top together.

It's always a fall with her. It's always a cliché with her and he should've known that all along because fuck if it isn't written on that perfect body in his own handprints and hickies. That what her name was, isn't it? She's locking him out with those long smooth legs and splaying him open with come-hither eyes that somehow hold fast to the few thorns she's placed in his sides in the past.

Out of control, out of line. He's proving how low he can sink just to get within reaching distance of that elusive key.

She swivels her hips just so, right on target so she hits the spot. This time, he does allow himself a moan.

It's been a torturous exercise in control. She's straddling him with her lips flushed and parted but high enough so that he can only lie frustrated as they hover above his. He's never noticed before how the muscles in her abdomen tense when she lowers herself, taking up as much of his length as she can take within her. He's never known how tight she could be on the inside as well.

She moves again, choking on a gasp. Shit, she's so fuckin' beautiful.

Beautiful.

He can't be bothered to think of the 'how' and 'why'. She's beautiful, she's perfect, what they have now is both, endless and no strings attached… it stings but that could be the pleasure too, writhing itself into his lust so that the line between that and pain is a blurry pool of sighs, aches, and touches…

"Damn, Tifa!"

He climaxes, gurgling on variations of her name mixed with every curse and proclamation that comes to mind. As the night comes into focus from the blinding white, so does she. Smooth, dark hair he hadn't realized he was stroking, eyes that do not meet his.

There are more nights after that one, the progression of each which leaves them with the same outcomes, only slightly altered. The kiss, the sex, the moments which aren't supposed to matter that follow. He touches her hair one night, kisses the back of her shoulder when she rolls over on another. It's only release they're both after and yet…

On the spur of the moment, after another such round, he turns towards her and kisses her full on the lips. No tongue, no teeth, no need or want for anything but an answer.

Which she gives him.

By Bahamut, she's a glorious trap.

They don't do anything but lie still, watching the few street-lights flicker to life from outside the window. He changes his mind, wanting to flick the switch on a memory rather, and looks at her instead. Through some terrible and wonderful twist of fate, her head lies in the crook of his arm even though she'd rather gaze at the ceiling than at him. There's supposed to be synonym for this, he realizes.

He's done something worse than screw around.

Neither of them talk. That poisonous word hangs above them, misting, clearing, swallowing excuses, creating new awful ones that speak more truth than either of them have with the other. It'd be a beautiful thing as most fragile things were. The trouble was Reno could tell beauty from a beast and the worst part was that it was usually after the first stab to the chest.

And by Jenova, for a few glorious moments – in those aftermaths, those fleeting, unwarranted touches – they had been beautiful.

The feeling worsens.

He gets up from bed and she follows. She probably couldn't care less but he finds himself watching her still, her shoulders tensing as she pulls on her shirt, sweep of hair falling over her cheeks… pale, flushing as she winces from her soreness… her mouth trembles… he can hear it in her voice…

"It's over."

She's smarter than she looks. He wonders, for an instant, if it had been better if she'd realized sooner.

Sometime later, she's running from him, the drum of her heart against his chest slowing to a shadowy, echoing halt. She was always a pretty little pistol and he'd hate to look away, in case he caught sight of the blood pooling at his feet.