Fic: Like a Falcon, Diving (NC-17, Loz/Tifa)
Like a Falcon, Diving
She didn't know why her mind brought her back to the same place, the same time, again and again.
FF7: Advent Children, Loz/Tifa. 2400 words. Written for starherd for het_challenge
NC-17/MA/Not Worksafe for sex, violence.
In her dreams, her mind brought her back again and again to the church. Flowers and earth, broken wood, the sting of materia on the air. Marlene was nowhere to be seen, though -- and she knew all through I've been here before. I've done this before. This is over.
The air sparkled and cracked with anticipation. This time it wasn't a surprise. This time she knew who was coming.
I've done this before.
The door banged open and his footsteps rang like drumbeats, and she couldn't deviate from the script until he said
let's play
and then she was free to move. And move she did.
The first time she fought with desperate strength: leap and spring, grunt with pain as he swung her into one of the pillars, twist away and rise out of the debris to descend on him, the wind in her hair and her fists down to slam the full force of her weight and her momentum against the back of his neck. She could hardly feel the beat of her feet across the floor as she pursued him, trading blows as fast and smooth as if they'd coordinated it, although it was anger and not planning that guided her movements. He was dead -- dead, subsumed, absorbed by the Lifestream; whatever it was, he should not be haunting her.
In the end, the first time, she woke up fast and breathing hard. She sat in the dark for long minutes, her arms wrapped around her legs, her cheek against her knees, and wondered why she dreamed of him, of all people. In the morning, she shook off the remnants of her dream and went to work with unusual vigor. By midday, the sunlight slanting through the windows, the cold bottles of beer lined up in the cooler, Marlene's bright chatter had driven away the last clinging shreds of silver and black, flowers and worn wood.
But she fought him in her dreams that night, and again the next night; and by the fourth night, she was resigned to it.
It wasn't real in any literal sense, that much she was sure of. Though she might feel the stomach-drop lurch of agony when her wrist smashed in his grip, or the warmth of his blood dripping all over her hands, when she woke she was untouched -- not even a bruise to show for it. And yet neither was it unreal as dreams were; unlike her other dreams, this one always made sense, in its own way; never faded into the mists of dreamlogic; remained sharp and clear all the next day.
He could move with an inhuman speed that she could never match and his blows carried with them monstrous strength, but she was more flexible than he was, could twist out of his grip in ways he never predicted. And he always seemed surprised by the strength of her blows -- at least she didn't understand how else to read the expression on his face besides 'surprise,' the way he stared at her as she punched him, the expression right before her fist connected with his chest, his eyes strange slitted catgreen and awed. She didn't understand that.
(If he was as a tiger -- for he was powerful indeed, muscle and solid weight, but he moved with shocking delicacy despite it -- well then: she was a peregrine. Force was not always about size. Her claws were as sharp as anyone's.)
Fighting wasn't something that Tifa thought about. There wasn't time, in a fight -- and she'd trained so much, fought so often, that her muscle-memory and reflexes could do the job better than conscious thought anyway. Her arm came up to deflect his punch before her mind even registered that he was preparing for the blow, and she only realized that she'd decided to follow it with a handspringing kick to his jaw when her palms met the splitering boards and the inside of her foot cracked against his jawbone.
When things were really clicking, when she fought someone good enough -- and when she wasn't holding back -- it didn't feel like fighting. It felt like flying. It felt like wind and rain and thunder. None of her companions, no one in Avalanche or the WRO, would fight her that way, any more than she would fight them that way. Always, at the end, they pulled their punches; they were friends, they couldn't face the possibility of actually hurting one another seriously.
He was good enough, and then some. And in the dream he would smash her ribs, gladly, just as she would twist his arm until the joint grated and gave way.
Over the weeks, day by day, she found herself resenting the nightly fights less and less. It was the evening she found herself looking forward to going to sleep -- looking forward to when she could break off the leash of her daily responsibilities and cross a broken church lightfoot and wild to meet someone who was both her equal at the art of combat and who would never pull his punches -- that she began to worry.
She pursued him across the floor, flower-petals clouding upward in her wake. He turned suddenly so that she had to pivot to avoid him, and she wasn't quite fast enough. His hand closed like iron on her shoulder and she braced her foot against his knee to push off and away, and in that moment with his mouth near her ear he said
You're beautiful
and it stopped her, stalled her, turning her head a little so her eyes met his --
and his fist sank into her stomach and drove her backwards, and she felt her spine flat and hard against the boards of the floor
and then she was awake in her bed, bolt upright in the dark, wet with sweat and shaking, and the memory of cat-eyes, serpent-eyes, filling her gaze. She reached out and turned on the lamp by her bed.
A glove lay on her bedside table. In the warm pool of light the lamp cast, it glowed with the sheen of well-worn leather. She knew immediately that it was not one of her own because it was many times too big. She picked it up, hands trembling. The glove smelled of musky leather, of oil, a little of salt-sweat, and of the sweet stinging odor of Lifestream.
Her fingers clenched on it. She didn't realize how tightly until the seams popped.
The next day she bought a little bottle of sleep aids and took it before bed, with warm milk, and if she dreamed of anything, she didn't remember it.
The day after that, she went to the church in daylight. She had visited it so many times in dreams that it was a surprise to see it as it now was: half-full of the bubbling pool of healing water, and though it was empty just then, she saw little piles of gifts left by those who had come to the water for healing -- staling baked goods, fruit, cut flowers, toys, left for the being that they called the Healer or the Spirit of the Rain or the Lady of the Well, and who Tifa called simply Aeris. (She knew Yuffie came from time to time to make off with those offerings that appealed to her, with a total lack of shame. "Aeris won't mind if I borrow her stuff," she said, and the truth of it was Tifa was pretty sure she was right, but she sighed and rolled her eyes anyway.)
She halfway expected him to come, as she sat there -- but he didn't; the church was quiet but for the lap of water and the heavy humming of bees attending to the white and yellow flowers. "Why is he bothering me?" she finally asked, out loud. "You're in the same place with him, right, Aeris?" She waited, but of course there was no answer. Ironically, only Aeris herself had been able to hear easily across the veil between the physical world and the Lifestream, and even for Aeris, herself half a human, it seemed to be a struggle to make spirit-deaf and -dumb humans hear her. "Well, if you can't tell me, then ask him," she said.
And to her surprise, she felt a little curl of laughter, the same laughter she'd heard all the nights they'd slept in the same tent on their travels, and whispered to one another like children. You see him every night, said her voice, resonating from somewhere in Tifa's spine. Ask him yourself.
That night, she weighed the sleeping pills in her hand, then curled her fingers around them and carefully put them down on the bedside table, and succumbed to sleep undrugged.
A church, flowers, sunlight; black and silver, long tiger paces across the floor.
Aren't you healed? she asked as he advanced. Aren't you whole yet, remnant?
Rain, flowers, dark wings.
Yes, he said, still coming toward her, long strides and the hollow sounds of boots on floorboards.
Then why are you here? She tensed and prepared to spring, every muscle coiled close and tight.
I wanted to play, he said, simple. He stopped. He held out a hand to her, and she could see that his glove's seams were loose along one side.
Her breath held in her chest, and then she launched herself at him, like a falcon catching the wind.
Even faster this time -- she couldn't track his movements with her eye, although her body knew where he was and reacted accordingly. She rebounded off the wall, avoided his punch by the narrowest of margins, skidded over the floor and turned the skid into a leap -- and then he wasn't where she'd expected him to be, moving with silvered speed, but she wasn't where he expected her to be either. It was all movement. No thought. Just kinesthetics, space and time.
You're beautiful, he said, and she thought: so are you.
As always, there was no analysis, no moment of decision; her body made choices for her, and followed through on them, swift and fluid. Her legs snaked around his waist, her thighs bracing just above the lean angle of his hipbones. She hooked one arm around his chest, the other over his shoulder. She didn't kiss him, but she bit at the angle of his jaw, and his mouth dropped open on a wordless sound.
And she was right, he was hard, she could feel it through the leather of her shorts and his pants. His mouth dragged hot up her throat, from collarbone to below her ear. She braced her elbow against his shoulder so that she could arch back and let him work on the zipper of her shorts, of his pants, and then unwound one arm to she could part the folds of her body, so he could slide in. He pushed in hard, without preamble, except that this was all preamble -- this was all one thing, all of it, stretching back weeks. Not a courtship so much as one long dance.
He stretched her a little, and she shuddered and hooked her legs together behind his back for purchase. Her hips rocked against his, setting the rhythm as much as he did. Hard, fast, but not rough: smooth, smooth because they each reacted so quickly that everything just flowed. He got her back up against one of the pillars for more purchase, and she braced her elbow on his shoulder for the same reason and moved, just moved, flex and thrust.
He wasn't gentle, but then neither was she. She didn't bite, she didn't scratch, she didn't pull his hair -- but she held his shoulder and the back of his neck so hard she knew she was leaving bruises. and he moved in an unrelenting rhythm, deep, deep. Tension rippled in her cunt, sparked up her spine and then down again, built like a weight low in her body. She could feel his breath against her ear, rough, with just a little voice behind it. His eyes were open, but then so were hers. He dragged down the zipper of her shirt and cupped her breast. She dug a hand into the short-cropped silver of his hair. She jerked her hips, tightened up on him -- thought about saying something but then didn't. No words. He made a thin, startled noise, and that was enough and more than enough as he snapped his hips and then again, her back against the pillar a little painful but not as much painful as the slowbuilding heat was good. So she moaned and breathed hot in his ear, and he grunted and flexed his hips again.
Her body drew tighter and tighter, muscles flexing and pulling taut, skin already sheened with sweat now slick with it. Her breasts pushed up against the leather of his shirt, rubbing her nipples hard and sensitive, and she felt his rhythm breaking up but that was okay because the tension pulled tighter and snapped. She came, pulsing tight around the width of him, inside her, tense and deep and throbbing wet, nothing neat or elegant as she threw her head back and groaned. It wasn't a pretty noise, but still he buried his face against the juncture of her neck and shoulder and rocked his hips as he came, too.
She woke, her thighs sweaty, trembling a little. She lay back against the pillows and trailed a hand over the thin fabric of the shirt she slept in and thought, pleasantly, of nothing in particular for several long minutes. Then she got up and walked over to the dresser. The cool night air wrapped around her bare legs. She tugged open the bottom drawer and lifted out one of her practice gloves, the leather worn almost too soft to be of use anymore. Almost, but not quite. She put it on the beside table and slid back into bed, and slept deeply, without dreams.
When she woke the next morning, with the thin yellow light of dawn slanting through her window, the glove was gone.
She didn't know why her mind brought her back to the same place, the same time, again and again.
FF7: Advent Children, Loz/Tifa. 2400 words. Written for starherd for het_challenge
NC-17/MA/Not Worksafe for sex, violence.
In her dreams, her mind brought her back again and again to the church. Flowers and earth, broken wood, the sting of materia on the air. Marlene was nowhere to be seen, though -- and she knew all through I've been here before. I've done this before. This is over.
The air sparkled and cracked with anticipation. This time it wasn't a surprise. This time she knew who was coming.
I've done this before.
The door banged open and his footsteps rang like drumbeats, and she couldn't deviate from the script until he said
let's play
and then she was free to move. And move she did.
The first time she fought with desperate strength: leap and spring, grunt with pain as he swung her into one of the pillars, twist away and rise out of the debris to descend on him, the wind in her hair and her fists down to slam the full force of her weight and her momentum against the back of his neck. She could hardly feel the beat of her feet across the floor as she pursued him, trading blows as fast and smooth as if they'd coordinated it, although it was anger and not planning that guided her movements. He was dead -- dead, subsumed, absorbed by the Lifestream; whatever it was, he should not be haunting her.
In the end, the first time, she woke up fast and breathing hard. She sat in the dark for long minutes, her arms wrapped around her legs, her cheek against her knees, and wondered why she dreamed of him, of all people. In the morning, she shook off the remnants of her dream and went to work with unusual vigor. By midday, the sunlight slanting through the windows, the cold bottles of beer lined up in the cooler, Marlene's bright chatter had driven away the last clinging shreds of silver and black, flowers and worn wood.
But she fought him in her dreams that night, and again the next night; and by the fourth night, she was resigned to it.
It wasn't real in any literal sense, that much she was sure of. Though she might feel the stomach-drop lurch of agony when her wrist smashed in his grip, or the warmth of his blood dripping all over her hands, when she woke she was untouched -- not even a bruise to show for it. And yet neither was it unreal as dreams were; unlike her other dreams, this one always made sense, in its own way; never faded into the mists of dreamlogic; remained sharp and clear all the next day.
He could move with an inhuman speed that she could never match and his blows carried with them monstrous strength, but she was more flexible than he was, could twist out of his grip in ways he never predicted. And he always seemed surprised by the strength of her blows -- at least she didn't understand how else to read the expression on his face besides 'surprise,' the way he stared at her as she punched him, the expression right before her fist connected with his chest, his eyes strange slitted catgreen and awed. She didn't understand that.
(If he was as a tiger -- for he was powerful indeed, muscle and solid weight, but he moved with shocking delicacy despite it -- well then: she was a peregrine. Force was not always about size. Her claws were as sharp as anyone's.)
Fighting wasn't something that Tifa thought about. There wasn't time, in a fight -- and she'd trained so much, fought so often, that her muscle-memory and reflexes could do the job better than conscious thought anyway. Her arm came up to deflect his punch before her mind even registered that he was preparing for the blow, and she only realized that she'd decided to follow it with a handspringing kick to his jaw when her palms met the splitering boards and the inside of her foot cracked against his jawbone.
When things were really clicking, when she fought someone good enough -- and when she wasn't holding back -- it didn't feel like fighting. It felt like flying. It felt like wind and rain and thunder. None of her companions, no one in Avalanche or the WRO, would fight her that way, any more than she would fight them that way. Always, at the end, they pulled their punches; they were friends, they couldn't face the possibility of actually hurting one another seriously.
He was good enough, and then some. And in the dream he would smash her ribs, gladly, just as she would twist his arm until the joint grated and gave way.
Over the weeks, day by day, she found herself resenting the nightly fights less and less. It was the evening she found herself looking forward to going to sleep -- looking forward to when she could break off the leash of her daily responsibilities and cross a broken church lightfoot and wild to meet someone who was both her equal at the art of combat and who would never pull his punches -- that she began to worry.
She pursued him across the floor, flower-petals clouding upward in her wake. He turned suddenly so that she had to pivot to avoid him, and she wasn't quite fast enough. His hand closed like iron on her shoulder and she braced her foot against his knee to push off and away, and in that moment with his mouth near her ear he said
You're beautiful
and it stopped her, stalled her, turning her head a little so her eyes met his --
and his fist sank into her stomach and drove her backwards, and she felt her spine flat and hard against the boards of the floor
and then she was awake in her bed, bolt upright in the dark, wet with sweat and shaking, and the memory of cat-eyes, serpent-eyes, filling her gaze. She reached out and turned on the lamp by her bed.
A glove lay on her bedside table. In the warm pool of light the lamp cast, it glowed with the sheen of well-worn leather. She knew immediately that it was not one of her own because it was many times too big. She picked it up, hands trembling. The glove smelled of musky leather, of oil, a little of salt-sweat, and of the sweet stinging odor of Lifestream.
Her fingers clenched on it. She didn't realize how tightly until the seams popped.
The next day she bought a little bottle of sleep aids and took it before bed, with warm milk, and if she dreamed of anything, she didn't remember it.
The day after that, she went to the church in daylight. She had visited it so many times in dreams that it was a surprise to see it as it now was: half-full of the bubbling pool of healing water, and though it was empty just then, she saw little piles of gifts left by those who had come to the water for healing -- staling baked goods, fruit, cut flowers, toys, left for the being that they called the Healer or the Spirit of the Rain or the Lady of the Well, and who Tifa called simply Aeris. (She knew Yuffie came from time to time to make off with those offerings that appealed to her, with a total lack of shame. "Aeris won't mind if I borrow her stuff," she said, and the truth of it was Tifa was pretty sure she was right, but she sighed and rolled her eyes anyway.)
She halfway expected him to come, as she sat there -- but he didn't; the church was quiet but for the lap of water and the heavy humming of bees attending to the white and yellow flowers. "Why is he bothering me?" she finally asked, out loud. "You're in the same place with him, right, Aeris?" She waited, but of course there was no answer. Ironically, only Aeris herself had been able to hear easily across the veil between the physical world and the Lifestream, and even for Aeris, herself half a human, it seemed to be a struggle to make spirit-deaf and -dumb humans hear her. "Well, if you can't tell me, then ask him," she said.
And to her surprise, she felt a little curl of laughter, the same laughter she'd heard all the nights they'd slept in the same tent on their travels, and whispered to one another like children. You see him every night, said her voice, resonating from somewhere in Tifa's spine. Ask him yourself.
That night, she weighed the sleeping pills in her hand, then curled her fingers around them and carefully put them down on the bedside table, and succumbed to sleep undrugged.
A church, flowers, sunlight; black and silver, long tiger paces across the floor.
Aren't you healed? she asked as he advanced. Aren't you whole yet, remnant?
Rain, flowers, dark wings.
Yes, he said, still coming toward her, long strides and the hollow sounds of boots on floorboards.
Then why are you here? She tensed and prepared to spring, every muscle coiled close and tight.
I wanted to play, he said, simple. He stopped. He held out a hand to her, and she could see that his glove's seams were loose along one side.
Her breath held in her chest, and then she launched herself at him, like a falcon catching the wind.
Even faster this time -- she couldn't track his movements with her eye, although her body knew where he was and reacted accordingly. She rebounded off the wall, avoided his punch by the narrowest of margins, skidded over the floor and turned the skid into a leap -- and then he wasn't where she'd expected him to be, moving with silvered speed, but she wasn't where he expected her to be either. It was all movement. No thought. Just kinesthetics, space and time.
You're beautiful, he said, and she thought: so are you.
As always, there was no analysis, no moment of decision; her body made choices for her, and followed through on them, swift and fluid. Her legs snaked around his waist, her thighs bracing just above the lean angle of his hipbones. She hooked one arm around his chest, the other over his shoulder. She didn't kiss him, but she bit at the angle of his jaw, and his mouth dropped open on a wordless sound.
And she was right, he was hard, she could feel it through the leather of her shorts and his pants. His mouth dragged hot up her throat, from collarbone to below her ear. She braced her elbow against his shoulder so that she could arch back and let him work on the zipper of her shorts, of his pants, and then unwound one arm to she could part the folds of her body, so he could slide in. He pushed in hard, without preamble, except that this was all preamble -- this was all one thing, all of it, stretching back weeks. Not a courtship so much as one long dance.
He stretched her a little, and she shuddered and hooked her legs together behind his back for purchase. Her hips rocked against his, setting the rhythm as much as he did. Hard, fast, but not rough: smooth, smooth because they each reacted so quickly that everything just flowed. He got her back up against one of the pillars for more purchase, and she braced her elbow on his shoulder for the same reason and moved, just moved, flex and thrust.
He wasn't gentle, but then neither was she. She didn't bite, she didn't scratch, she didn't pull his hair -- but she held his shoulder and the back of his neck so hard she knew she was leaving bruises. and he moved in an unrelenting rhythm, deep, deep. Tension rippled in her cunt, sparked up her spine and then down again, built like a weight low in her body. She could feel his breath against her ear, rough, with just a little voice behind it. His eyes were open, but then so were hers. He dragged down the zipper of her shirt and cupped her breast. She dug a hand into the short-cropped silver of his hair. She jerked her hips, tightened up on him -- thought about saying something but then didn't. No words. He made a thin, startled noise, and that was enough and more than enough as he snapped his hips and then again, her back against the pillar a little painful but not as much painful as the slowbuilding heat was good. So she moaned and breathed hot in his ear, and he grunted and flexed his hips again.
Her body drew tighter and tighter, muscles flexing and pulling taut, skin already sheened with sweat now slick with it. Her breasts pushed up against the leather of his shirt, rubbing her nipples hard and sensitive, and she felt his rhythm breaking up but that was okay because the tension pulled tighter and snapped. She came, pulsing tight around the width of him, inside her, tense and deep and throbbing wet, nothing neat or elegant as she threw her head back and groaned. It wasn't a pretty noise, but still he buried his face against the juncture of her neck and shoulder and rocked his hips as he came, too.
She woke, her thighs sweaty, trembling a little. She lay back against the pillows and trailed a hand over the thin fabric of the shirt she slept in and thought, pleasantly, of nothing in particular for several long minutes. Then she got up and walked over to the dresser. The cool night air wrapped around her bare legs. She tugged open the bottom drawer and lifted out one of her practice gloves, the leather worn almost too soft to be of use anymore. Almost, but not quite. She put it on the beside table and slid back into bed, and slept deeply, without dreams.
When she woke the next morning, with the thin yellow light of dawn slanting through her window, the glove was gone.