And it was all a lie, but they were rather content with that. (Tseng/Aerith)
Only a fool could truly believe their actions meant anything : his hands fumbling blindly against the blue folds of her dress, desperately seeking skin, hers deftly removing a silk tie. This was not love, not love in the slightest, but a carefully constructed and flawlessly executed lie. She knew it and he knew it and yet there among the flowers of her church, spread out on the soft folds of a well worn blanket it mattered little.
His kisses were sharp and efficient with a searing heat reminiscent of bullet fire. She groaned and rolled; found her bearings and pressed down on top of him, smirking briefly at how easily the Turks' second in command could be conquered before covering his mouth in a fervent kiss. And she lingered there, staring into his eyes, hands moving from his now undone tie to his belt, relishing the hitched gasp of a sound as she undid his fly. She loved it when he lost control -- the way his hips involuntarily shot up to grind needily against flesh; the noises he made when they were naked and bearing everything but the truth.
And it was all a lie, but they were rather content with that.
Because when he closed his eyes and thrust within her, his hands lingering near the small of her back, she knew that he was imagining hair shorter and several shades lighter; angles not so soft and feminine. And if she squinted hard enough she could almost picture dark locks just a little more unruly. She could almost feel the firm-muscled body of a warrior bringing her to climax, rather than the assassin she was truly straddling.
Laying there together, it was not love they shared. It was not affection, at least not of the kind they were seeking. Whether by means of exile or the military, the objects they desired were oceans away leaving them with each other and the lies they told themselves to get by.
No, it was not love.
But perhaps it wasn't meaningless.