Final Fantasy VII - # 06. Birthmark - Birthmark
Title: Birthmark
Author: seventeenblack
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Reno/Aerith
Prompt: 06. Birthmark for
50scenes
Word Count: 897
Rating: Erm... PG-13?
Summary: Aerith has some issues with marks on her body, and Reno thinks she's ridiculous.
Warnings: Reference to sex. Some sappiness. >>
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’m broke. That’s that.
“Knock that off,” Reno mumbled over the cigarette between his lips, pulling Aerith’s hand away from the center of her bare chest. His eyes remained in front of him, squinting through the smoke toward the shadows that swayed on the dark walls. His heart was still trying to regulate itself to a steady pattern, their bodies still sweat slicked from a round of vigorous lovemaking.
“Mm,” was the only response she offered, her hand falling limply between them beneath his.
Even now, almost a year after they’d started seeing each other, he still caught her idly trying to cover herself as though it was a subconscious habit. Or maybe it wasn’t.
A few minutes later she’d slipped her hand from his grasp and was doing it again.
“Aerith,” he said more firmly, pulling the filter away from his lips to emphasize his words. “Stop it. You can think of somethin’ better to do with that hand.”
His long, slender fingers wrapped around her small palm and drew her hand away from the center of her chest.
“Got somethin’ in mind?” she sighed, turning her head to face him with the beginning of a smirk forming over her scarlet lips.
“Mmhm,” he hummed with a smile, turning himself to rest his head on her chest, and pulling her hand around him. His other hand draped off the edge of the bed on the other side of her, still holding the smoldering cigarette between his fingers.
He could feel the instinctive tensing of her muscles before she relaxed. He sighed.
Before the days of black dresses and bottles of whiskey by the crate, Aerith was proud of her perfect alabaster skin. Well, it wasn’t perfect, exactly, but it was splashed with no more than a few freckles here and there, and she certainly wasn’t vain enough to mind the markings.
Even now, she still had a fair and even complexion, pale as porcelain, at least to the eyes of anyone that never saw her body below the neckline of her clothing.
“Babe, you need to get over this,” he whispered, lifting his head slightly to kiss the textured skin. He kept his aquamarine gaze on her face, his expression without amusement or judgment, but genuine and obscured by unkempt tendrils of vermilion hair.
Modesty didn’t exactly suit a girl of her nature. Who had ever heard of a loudmouth, sex crazed drunk that was covered from head to toe twenty four hours a day for fear of showing too much inappropriate skin while guzzling down a pint of whiskey and making suggestive comments to any attractive thing in the vicinity?
Of course, those days were long over, anyway, ever since Reno had come along. Well, ever since he’d finally gotten her into bed, anyway. It had taken longer than both of them would have liked, and when he’d finally figured out why, he’d almost laughed at the absurdity.
Aerith being timid? That would have flown a few years back when she was still a pink wearing slum rat, but not now. And over a few scars?
She just blinked down at him with eyes of deep absinthe, her lips parting as though she meant to say something, but hesitated and brushed her fingers over his forehead instead. The red locks shifted, but immediately fell back into disarray.
He’d never once heard her say something as petty or shallow as, “Oh, but they’re ugly.” No, she wasn’t the type. It was insecurity, there was no doubt, but it bothered him that she was so self-conscious of them.
“Darlin’,” he murmured, sliding his frame up to place his lips against hers gently. He pulled back no more than an inch and smirked. He wasn’t really sure what else to say. The foolish woman had to know how he felt about them, didn’t she?
“It’s just something I want to let go of and… they won’t let me,” she said suddenly. She felt like a jackass saying it. Was she really so affected by something as minute as scars?
He tilted his head and gave her a dubious look, his fiery ponytail sliding from his shoulder to drop onto the pillow next to her, on top of her own mass of hair, strewn in disorderly chestnut waves. “Now, why would you wanna do something like that?”
He saw movement in her throat and he shook his head, reclaiming his resting place upon her chest as he lifted the cigarette to his lips and took another pull, careful not to burn her with it. He had precariously placed himself right next to the scar of the exit wound where she’d been run through.
Of course he didn’t like that she’d experienced such trauma, but the fact was it signified something that had forever changed her for the better as far as he was concerned.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Aerith knew this. Over time she’d pieced it together; Reno wasn’t a man of many words when it came to expressing anything outside of anger or belligerence. His actions, and the occasional moments of sober tenderness had led her to realize that he thought of them not as scars at all. They were pivotal turning points of two versions of her.
She slid her other arm around him, both now locked together, neither concerned of the marring.
Not scars at all. Birthmarks.
Author: seventeenblack
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Reno/Aerith
Prompt: 06. Birthmark for
50scenes
Word Count: 897
Rating: Erm... PG-13?
Summary: Aerith has some issues with marks on her body, and Reno thinks she's ridiculous.
Warnings: Reference to sex. Some sappiness. >>
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I’m broke. That’s that.
“Knock that off,” Reno mumbled over the cigarette between his lips, pulling Aerith’s hand away from the center of her bare chest. His eyes remained in front of him, squinting through the smoke toward the shadows that swayed on the dark walls. His heart was still trying to regulate itself to a steady pattern, their bodies still sweat slicked from a round of vigorous lovemaking.
“Mm,” was the only response she offered, her hand falling limply between them beneath his.
Even now, almost a year after they’d started seeing each other, he still caught her idly trying to cover herself as though it was a subconscious habit. Or maybe it wasn’t.
A few minutes later she’d slipped her hand from his grasp and was doing it again.
“Aerith,” he said more firmly, pulling the filter away from his lips to emphasize his words. “Stop it. You can think of somethin’ better to do with that hand.”
His long, slender fingers wrapped around her small palm and drew her hand away from the center of her chest.
“Got somethin’ in mind?” she sighed, turning her head to face him with the beginning of a smirk forming over her scarlet lips.
“Mmhm,” he hummed with a smile, turning himself to rest his head on her chest, and pulling her hand around him. His other hand draped off the edge of the bed on the other side of her, still holding the smoldering cigarette between his fingers.
He could feel the instinctive tensing of her muscles before she relaxed. He sighed.
Before the days of black dresses and bottles of whiskey by the crate, Aerith was proud of her perfect alabaster skin. Well, it wasn’t perfect, exactly, but it was splashed with no more than a few freckles here and there, and she certainly wasn’t vain enough to mind the markings.
Even now, she still had a fair and even complexion, pale as porcelain, at least to the eyes of anyone that never saw her body below the neckline of her clothing.
“Babe, you need to get over this,” he whispered, lifting his head slightly to kiss the textured skin. He kept his aquamarine gaze on her face, his expression without amusement or judgment, but genuine and obscured by unkempt tendrils of vermilion hair.
Modesty didn’t exactly suit a girl of her nature. Who had ever heard of a loudmouth, sex crazed drunk that was covered from head to toe twenty four hours a day for fear of showing too much inappropriate skin while guzzling down a pint of whiskey and making suggestive comments to any attractive thing in the vicinity?
Of course, those days were long over, anyway, ever since Reno had come along. Well, ever since he’d finally gotten her into bed, anyway. It had taken longer than both of them would have liked, and when he’d finally figured out why, he’d almost laughed at the absurdity.
Aerith being timid? That would have flown a few years back when she was still a pink wearing slum rat, but not now. And over a few scars?
She just blinked down at him with eyes of deep absinthe, her lips parting as though she meant to say something, but hesitated and brushed her fingers over his forehead instead. The red locks shifted, but immediately fell back into disarray.
He’d never once heard her say something as petty or shallow as, “Oh, but they’re ugly.” No, she wasn’t the type. It was insecurity, there was no doubt, but it bothered him that she was so self-conscious of them.
“Darlin’,” he murmured, sliding his frame up to place his lips against hers gently. He pulled back no more than an inch and smirked. He wasn’t really sure what else to say. The foolish woman had to know how he felt about them, didn’t she?
“It’s just something I want to let go of and… they won’t let me,” she said suddenly. She felt like a jackass saying it. Was she really so affected by something as minute as scars?
He tilted his head and gave her a dubious look, his fiery ponytail sliding from his shoulder to drop onto the pillow next to her, on top of her own mass of hair, strewn in disorderly chestnut waves. “Now, why would you wanna do something like that?”
He saw movement in her throat and he shook his head, reclaiming his resting place upon her chest as he lifted the cigarette to his lips and took another pull, careful not to burn her with it. He had precariously placed himself right next to the scar of the exit wound where she’d been run through.
Of course he didn’t like that she’d experienced such trauma, but the fact was it signified something that had forever changed her for the better as far as he was concerned.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Aerith knew this. Over time she’d pieced it together; Reno wasn’t a man of many words when it came to expressing anything outside of anger or belligerence. His actions, and the occasional moments of sober tenderness had led her to realize that he thought of them not as scars at all. They were pivotal turning points of two versions of her.
She slid her other arm around him, both now locked together, neither concerned of the marring.
Not scars at all. Birthmarks.