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Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me.
With the soft jingle of the doorbell, the entrance of a new customer – two actually – was proudly announced. The shop's owner, wearing a lavender sundress, a royal blue cardigan, and dark green apron, gave the pair a chipper wave. “Welcome to my shop, Language of the Flowers. My name is Aerith and I will be your translator for the day. How can I help you?”
Sheepishly, the thirty year-old something man offered the local florist an awkward laugh, while his son began to wander the sore, eager to observe the vast accumulation of colorful flowers. “Hello, Aerith. Yeah. Uh, today's my wedding anniversary.”
“Oh, congratulations!” Aerith exclaimed, ushering the older gentleman further into the shop. “You're just in luck, too! My husband and I celebrating our anniversary, too!”
“What a funny coincidence,” the man said, nodding along. “How long have you two been married?”
“Two of the most fantastic years of my life,” she retorted, donning a peaceful grin. “What about you?”
“Me?” The man seemed somewhat caught off-guard by her question, as though he hadn't been paying attention for a second there – his hazel stare on Aerith quizzical, curious, yet intensely focused. “Oh, yeah. Ten years.”
“Wow! That is quite the milestone. An entire decade,” Aerith remarked, her mind swept away at the notion.
“You're telling me. I'll have to pick up something extra special to mark the occasion. I don't want roses, though. My wife despises roses of any kind. She says they're too impersonal and cliché.” Burying his hands into the depths of his loosely-fitting jean pockets, the stranger cast an exasperated, by hopeful gaze around the outlet. “Mind you, I'm pretty clueless when it comes to flowers and their symbolism. I don't want to pick out something where I could accidentally call her fat or something.”
“Don't worry about a thing. You're in the right hands,” the beautiful shopkeeper brightly reassured him, certain that somewhere in her stock of greenery was the perfect gift. “I highly recommend a daffodil, or perhaps a bouquet of them.” Gracefully, she gestured to an entire collection of vibrant yellow-and-white flowers, each one feasting upon the delightful sunrays shining through the wide windows. “'I recognize myself in you and you in myself. We are one in the same.'”
“Hmm?”
“That's translated from the flowers,” the Cetra stated, gingerly brushing the pad of her index finger over the soft, sunny petals. “You see, the flower was named for Narcissus.”
“Narcissus? Isn't that the dude who fell in love with himself?” chimed the young boy from across the room, turned toward the Forget-Me-Nots.
The boy's father winced at this addition of information. “I don't know that I want to imply that my wife and I are narcissists.”
A gentle giggle bubbled from the young woman's lips, dismissing his naive concern. “That's because you misunderstand the tale. Narcissus did not fall in love with himself. He fell in love with his reflection after one of Cupid's arrows pierced him one day, when he stopped to drink some water after a hunt.”
“I'm not sure that I understand the distinction between the two.”
“When Narcissus gazed into the water, he finally saw that special person we all spend our whole lives searching for – the person that complements our very soul. But when Narcissus looked away, he lost that wonderful connection every time, over and over. Perhaps he thought that the love of his life was trapped in another realm of existence, visible to him and only him when he stared into his reflection. He was doomed to live a truly loveless life, where only the clearest of surfaces could satisfy his craving for love, since he could never find someone who reflected him in the ways that made him feel safe and secure. And so, the hunter drowned himself after existing with the curse for so long. The gods took pity upon Narcissus and turned him into a daffodil. His love split from his original body and multiplied so that eventually, Narcissus could love infinitely,” Aerith pontificated passionately, her tone airy, yet serious like that of a thespian reciting their favorite monologue. “Isn't that how families are made anyway? You find someone who fits you like that last part of the puzzle, you fall in love, and you bring children into the world – to share and multiply that love.” Every so often, her emerald orbs would flicker toward the back of the boy's head – a shaggy, sand-colored mass of curly hair – the only part of him that she had glimpsed thus far since the father and son duo had entered the Language of the Flowers.
“You make a compelling case,” the customer replied, sincere in his compliment, though amused. “And you're right in more ways than you know. We've struggled these past few years, after our beautiful home was destroyed. For a long time, we were aimless, with nothing but the shirts on our backs, accepting hand-outs and scraps from total strangers – some who were genuinely the kindest people you could ever meet, and some who were bitter and bored. Of course, all of them were just as helpless. I mean, we were homeless, with a child to look after! My wife and I never imagined that we would have ever our safety and financial security stripped from us one night out of the blue, and then a raise a son on top of that chaos – to become teacher, mentor, and parent all in one. That's... That's tough on a marriage. Tiring, too. There were so many days, consecutive days at that, where I was tired from being father, provider, and educator. Too tired to be a husband.”
Nodding, Aerith absentmindedly adjusted the straps of her apron, then swept her cascading, tawny waves of brunette hair behind her shoulders. “But you made it through, all the way to ten years.”
“It wasn't easy, but it would've been harder if she didn't concentrate on finding food while I took care of getting money together, or if I didn't see to sewing clothes while she kept them clean,” the stranger elaborated – his tone solemn, yet not sad. In a way, he sounded appreciative.“We make the choice to complement each other every day, no matter how tired we are. Not a day has gone by where – Oh! That's where I recognize you from!”
Startled by the potential consumer's outburst, a light gasp ejected from between Aerith's lips. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry,” he apologized, even as relief washed over the contours of his face. “You helped evacuate Sector Seven, didn't you? When the plate was about to fall.”
“Oh. Yes. That was me,” the Cetra answered. Her hand wandered away from the daffodil, preferring to nervously fiddle with a loose thread from her dress.
“It was bothering me this whole time – that I remembered you from somewhere. I almost didn't recognize you without the braid and pink dress.” Evidently just as nervous, he scratched the back of his head, a wide grin, possibly wider than a coat hanger, was plastered across his visage.
In return, Aerith smiled, though hers was much calmer while it started to dawn on her – that perhaps why she recalled the boy, from that night. Perhaps that's why she experienced intense familiarity grinding in the bottom of her stomach. “There were many different faces that night. There was so much going on..”
“Oh, I don't expect you to remember me. Us, I guess. My family.” Anxiously shrugging, he then let out a momentary, but sharp sigh. “You saved us that night, you know – you and that guy with the red bandanna. I've always wanted to say thank you – if you hadn't been there, I might not be alive to celebrate an entire decade of marriage with my wife. So, thank you.”
Gradually, the planet's main guardian began to connect the dots as the grateful man spoke to her. He was a face, a face of hundreds, that had not been spared before. A tight, jagged breath hitched in the back of Aerith's throat when she forgot how to breathe for the tiniest second; the whites of her eyes changed to a baby pink as the tears welled, though none spilled over.
All the while, time seemed to pass slower, the seconds stretching into long, long minutes when the client called out to his son. “My name is Abel, by the way. This is my boy-”
“Denzel,” the two adults uttered concurrently.
Arching a curious eyebrow at the shop owner, Abel rested a hand over the young boy's shoulder. “How did you-”
“I don't know. He just looks like a Denzel. You and your wife chose a fitting name,” Aerith retorted, desperately trying to get her voice to cease its weird, emotional trembling as her soft, heartfelt gaze lay upon the boy named Denzel. She found the sensations wrestling between her stomach and heart – the sensations of longing and familiarity – to be inexplicable. Her brain wasn't totally capable of realizing why Denzel's sweet, round facial features struck a chord so deeply embedded in the furthest reaches of her memories, only that somehow, in some way, she's known him. Used to know him.
“Are you alright?” asked the nine year-old boy, confused and concerned by the florist's questionable behavior, showing no recognition of her. When Aerith didn't immediately answer, Denzel instinctively took one of her tremoring hands betwixt both of his in a soothing gesture. “Missus Aerith, it's okay. Everything is okay.”
His comforting whispers plucked the Ancient from her teary-eyed stupor. The harsh chills within her body eased. “I'm terribly sorry about that. I'm not sure what came over me.”
“No need to apologize. I get the exact, same way when my mind wanders back to the last few years. I think all of us are still recovering from the trauma,” Abel said.
Gently, Denzel gave Aerith's hand a reassuring squeeze.
Although the new, odd ache within her heart wasn't quite cured, she appreciated the child's warmth and kindness, and squeezed his hand back.. “Thank you.”
“So, about the daffodils – how about a dozen?”
“Of course. Coming right up.” Back to business, the savvy businesswoman wasted no time in completing Abel's request, gathering and arranging the radiant flowers in a beautiful bouquet. “May I interest you in a vase? They're all handmade and decorated by the children from the Biggs-Lockhart Place. All proceeds go to affording the kids' expenses.”
“Sure. That sounds fantastic. Denzel, you know your mom's tastes best – please go pick a vase that's gonna wow her socks off,” Abel commanded his son, playfully mussing the trick strands of his blond-brunet hair.
“Sure thing, Dad!” Denzel scurried to a shelf where a variety of vases and flowerpots sat, waiting in excitement to be chosen for a new, great home. For approximately a minute, he scoured the shelves for the perfect one, and ultimately selected a mostly clear vase, with a long line of mint-green painted from the base, to the top, and around the petal-like rim. Simple, yet elegant. “I think Mom will like this one the best! It's the coolest!”
“Ah. Actually, that one was made by my husband, Cloud,” Aerith informed the boy as she traded the purchased items for Abel's stack of gil. “He'll be so happy to learn that his masterpiece found such a lovely family!”
“Thank you for all the help you've given us, for everything really,” Abel commented with the utmost satisfactory, carefully holding onto the tenth anniversary gift.
“You're very welcome. Stop by anytime!”
“Bye, Missus Aerith!”
Father and son waved farewell to the shopkeeper, prompting her to wave back, though she silently struggled against her instincts to not let them ago – to allow Denzel to return home with his happy family – even if the precise cause of her melancholy remained a mystery.
Emitting a hefty, long suspiration, Aerith perched her backside upon the stool behind the register counter – soaking up the sharp quiet of the room, left alone with her flowers, thoughts, and a brand new, all-consuming void. Over and over again, she recalled the contours of Denzel's face – the roundness and innocence of his expression permanently etched in her memory as though she'd encountered him a million times. But where? When? The specific, exact details from her past, that she once recollected with the most perfect clarity, became spotty, mixed up, and unclear – the old memories from a past that was now negated, irrelevant, and rapidly faded over the last two years – like scars, always there, yet healed over.
Denzel. Aerith would never truly remember why the sweet boy's face resonated with a stunning familiarity, yet she could sense that his fate had been massively altered somehow, due to something she'd done. And she knew that Denzel was better off and happier because of it. But the knowledge did very little to settle the sense of longing that burrowed itself inside of her soul.
Inattentively, Aerith drummed her expertly manicured fingernails against the redwood countertop while her thoughts strayed further and further, until she practically forgot where she was – musing upon the day itself. That's right! Today marked their – hers and Cloud's – second wedding anniversary, the second year in a row where they could celebrate the fact that she was still alive, that Jenova and Sephiroth were defeated once and for all, and that flowers bloomed anew across her beloved planet. The world, the future, and destiny itself – they were all fresh and uncharted. Aerith could no longer benefit from future sight, fore each day she lived from here on out was its own unique adventure – a notion that was sometimes frightening, but usually invigorating. That's why she and Cloud got married as soon as possible – to cherish and relish the brave, wild unknown side-by-side.
It was a happy day, full of reminders of what was past and what was still ahead.
Suddenly, an idea blazed through her brain, stemming from the burning ache in her gut – yes, that must have been it. Encountering Denzel in the Language of the Flowers was the planet's way of giving Cloud and Aerith its nod of approval, a sign to create a future that would outlive them.
Once more, the bell posted above the entry door jingled, this time to announce her husband's arrival. “Well, look who it is. I was just thinking about you.”
“Only good things, I hope.”
The Flower Girl slid off the stool and bounded into Cloud's waiting arms, wasting no time in vanquishing the vile proximity between them. Caught off-guard by his wife's enthusiastic kiss – as she urgently molded her lips to his – a quick moan of surprise vibrating from his vocal chords, though it turned into a groan of delectation when Aerith methodically flickered her tongue against the roof of his mouth, a trick that never failed to arouse the synapses in his brain. Normally when he came to pick Aerith up to go out for dinner, they would exchange an entire dialogue of flirtatious banter and then plant some family-friendly, perfectly-suited-for-the-public type of smooches on each other; but this kiss possessed the opposite tone.
This was foreplay.
“I want you so badly, Cloud. I just can't wait,” the professional gardener murmured against Cloud's lips between his exhilaratingly sharp nips at her own.
“You can have me any way you want, but we should probably cover up all these windows and grab some protection,” the local mechanic suggested, even as his digits took on a life of their own – smoothly popping open the button's of her sundress one by one.
“No. No condoms,” Aerith stated. Swiftly, although hesitantly, she maneuvered away from Cloud to close all of the window blinds and shut the curtains. “Cloud, I think it's time we start trying to have a baby.”
For a ten-second span, Cloud was motionless, perhaps even nonexistent, as his thought processes needed to shut down and reboot. Blank-faced and still, all he could managed was a singular blink in Aerith's direction, before he was able to absorb information again. Baby. She wanted a baby. “Right now?” he spluttered clumsily, puzzled by the news. Granted, he also wanted to start a family with Aerith; it was something they had often discussed at length and agreed they both wanted. Someday. Eventually. In the future. When the time was right. Was someday today?
“Yeah,” retorted the planet's sole interpreter, her orbs of endless chrysanthemum beckoning him to her. “Don't you want to make one with me?”
“O-O-Of course,” the hero stammered nervously, trying to not let her seductive phrase completely consume him just yet. “But doesn't this feel kind of sudden? Even unromantic? I always pictured us in bed, surrounded by candles, all that junk.”
“All that junk,” Aerith echoed sardonically. “Oh, Cloud, I love when you sweet-talk me.”
“You know what I mean,” Cloud continued, rolling his eyes at her theatrical swoon. “Do you really want to do it like this?”
“Yes,” she answered, not skipping a single beat. “With all of my heart. Today, it finally sunk in – everything we've done. We did it, Cloud. We really, actually, truly changed the world. We brought the flowers back. Everyone is thriving. Our love for each other survived every obstacle. Life didn't just cease to exist after Happily Ever After. Personally, I can't imagine anything more romantic than my dearly beloved husband making wild, passionate love me while we are surrounded by the sweet aroma of flowers.”
“Good. I was just checking.” Her counterargument made more than enough sense, persuading Cloud to resume his prior actions.
In the blink of an eye, a pile of clothing laid discarded on the flower store's tiled ground, while the married couple engaged with one another, their most primal instincts taking over. Grunts and groans resonated off the shop's walls when Cloud hoisted Aerith up, his wide hands firmly holding his wife by her plump backside, with her smooth legs clasped around his hips, as he escorted her over to the check-out counter. Carefully, he perched her over the edge, then lied her backward – showering hungry kisses upon her mouth the entire time.
Over and over again, he drew impatient mewls from the love of his life, the sensational sounds growing louder as he took his dear, sweet time to savor the way her hips spontaneously gyrated against his, attempting to lure him inside, to skip the audacious teasing. But Cloud was a playful lover, intent upon delivering his wife to the precipice of insanity and back. The easiest method was to put his mouth to work. A strong, electric current of a shiver combed up and down his spinal column when he sucked Aerith's left breast into deep cavern of his mouth, tracing the solidified, rosy pink nipple around and around with the edge of his tongue, while his fingers pinched and squeezed at the opposite one – giving each tit an ample amount of tit.
Meanwhile, the world's heroine had been reduced to only producing whimpers. Digging both sets of fingers deep into the soft, cinnamon-scented, corn-colored roots of Cloud's locks, Aerith arched her back as though she meant to smother him in the supple slopes of her chest. In response, a husky chuckle rumbled from Cloud's system as he tauntingly pressed his teeth around the summit of her sensitive button, knowing full well that it would cause her to squeal. Easily, for him, the second best part about sex was the variant of noises he could elicit from Aerith, fore they each possessed their own meaning – spoke to him. For example, when his excited freak of a Flower Girl squealed, it signified that he had found the perfect maneuver of stimulation – how to teeter on the balance between pain and pleasure, ravaging her senses with delicious, addictive torture. His cock throbbed simultaneously, feeling equally teased.
But patience was a virtue. And if reproduction was the goal, then Cloud was determined to achieve just that.
Releasing Aerith's breast from his mouth with a subtle, but wet pop, his lips finally traveled lower – licking a trail down from the whiny, accelerated beating just underneath her chest, around the slim navel, and to her salivating sex.
“You're aggravating sometimes,” Aerith whimpered, sitting up with her back straight
The right-hand corner of his lips perked to form a devilish smirk at remark, aware she meant it as a compliment. “Is that right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Come on, Aerith. You're an intelligent woman. If you want me to do something for you, say it. Use your words,” he challenged, peppering kisses on her inner thigh.
“I want you to make me cum with your tongue,” the Ancient vocalized between deep, steady breaths.
Naturally, the former mercenary obliged his lover's straightforward request. With a sensual motion that rewarded his ears a wanton mewl, Cloud slithered his tongue up an down the sensitive, reddened nub as though he aimed to tame the growing fire building inside of her lithe being, when all he actually accomplished was stoking the flames. More and more nectar leaked from the entrance of Aerith's sopping-wet pussy, weeping for sweet relief, while Cloud expertly pressed the flat of his tongue against the brunette's clitoris, greedily suckling like an alcoholic at the tip of his bottle, enjoying the sugary flavors of his wife's womanhood as they collected on his tastebuds.
For a second, every noise that had been streaming from Aerith's mouth ground to a halt, signaling that the inevitable was upon them – until the volume of her sounds heightened. “Uengh, Cloud!” Aerith squealed when her husband hooked two fingers in the wonderful warmth of her welcoming womanhood, toying at the ridged texture of her g-spot. “Yes, yes, yes! Cloud!” Her exclamation left her bereft of breath as her wailing walls collapsed around his curved digits, his tongue still petting her pretty, pink clit as the shopkeeper was caught in a wave made of pure Oxycontin.
And then, her moans transformed into giggles.
Rising up from his kneeling position, the blond man planted his palms against the cool countertop as his wife latched her own, talented mouth on the side of his neck. “Fuck,” mumbled the mechanic under his breath, the functionality of his mind short-circuiting at the way Aerith's teeth ghosted at the easily stimulated skin, while the tip of her tongue traced lines along the nape.
“Now, it's your turn. Give me everything you've got,” the wild vixen whispered against the shell of Cloud's ear, her tone still needy, but sultry.
“Mmm.” Suddenly, one of Cloud's hands snaked around the hollow of Aerith's throat – gently, of course, yet hungry; his fingers did not dare squeeze. He simply angled his lover's neck toward his mouth to deliver a devouring kiss upon it as if he were some breed of incubus ready to feast on his prey – leaving behind a mark that claimed her as his own – before his teal eyes gave her a look that was just as ravenous. “Turn around.”
Obeying her husband's command, the flower merchant hopped off the register counter, turned around to face away from him, and then lied herself back down along the slightly slick surface – arching her ass. Immediately, a drawn-out, high-pitched moan stretched its way through the air, liberated from Aerith's vocal chords at the same moment Cloud's knuckles dove into the supple flesh of her ass to find and kneed at the muscles underneath.
Finally, he, too, decided to indulge his needs – gliding his cock stupendously deep into the brunette's inviting snatch. Holy sweet Shiva. His eyeballs nearly rolled into the back of his head at the way her pussy gave him one, tantalizing quiver – already putting his stamina to the test. But he resisted the urge to completely unravel. Slowly, Cloud started stroking his endowed, girth-blessed manhood against the slick velvet of the most beautiful woman's cavern, in and out.
His fluorite irises wandered forward to one of the windows that Aerith forgot to completely cover. When had the sun gone down? Thanks to the cover of night, the window wasn't able to capture a full-length reflection; but what he could see, he very much enjoyed. Aerith's perky tits were mashed against the counter's surface – the swells of each buxom and shiny and so fucking sexy.
“Cl-Cl-Cloud!” her soft voice stuttered, distracting him from his spellbound stare at the window's reflection. “God, you feel so good! Faster, please!”
Taking his pace up a notch, his hips' gyrations became more powerful in consequence. Now, Aerith was screaming at the top of her lungs while her hands tenaciously gripped at the counter's corners. His thrusts were merciless, his sex pounding at hers with a heedless, enduring determination to fill her. Moisture glistened upon his bare chest, a cooling bead sliding down from his pectoral muscles, as his engorged member hammered along Aerith's dewey channel, though enough sense of mind was left to make certain he wouldn't hurt her.
And then – oh, god – and then, as her cunt clamped around his cock – the muscle spasming in the strongest hold, as though she meant to possess him – spurts of watery mess splashed outside of her lower body, coating each of their pelvic regions.
“You're amazing.” Whenever Aerith squirted on him, it never failed to send Cloud toppling over the edge, straight into a nether world of sexual, blissful oblivion himself. But this time there wasn't a rubber barrier to stop him from feeding her womb all of his seed. Exhaling a breath, one that he had been subconsciously keeping sinched tight in his lungs, Cloud allowed his body to fall victim to the allure of Aerith's orgasm, and came himself – his balls unleashing a heavy load. “God, I fucking love you,” were the only coherent words his mouth could string together while his brain waded through a sea of pleasure and relief.
“Right back at you,” Aerith panted, all but a puddle of nerves and satisfaction. “I have never been so glad to live just downstairs from work.”
“Same here.” But it would be awhile before either one of them could muster up enough energy to walk again, let alone all the way down a flight of stairs. Rather, Aerith remained laid out across the countertop while Cloud collapsed into a heap on the floor, the latter gazing up at the ceiling. “I gotta say – unprotected sex agrees with me.”
“We gotta do that again some time.”
“Let's fuel up on some food and give it two hours. I'll be ready for a second round then.”
Laughing as she struggled to peel herself from the counter's sweaty surface, Aerith murmured, “Happy anniversary, Cloud.”
/ / /
“Happy anniversary, Aerith,” Cloud whispered, placing a soft kiss to the top of his wife's head, brimming with pride and happiness that burned inside of his chest. “You did so well.”
Absolutely, downright, undeniably bone-tired, Aerith's vanilla skin glowed euphorically as she cradled a tightly swaddled bundle in her arms. She was unable to peel her eyes from him, their newborn son, and his itty-bitty face. “I still can't believe how much I love him already.”
“He is beautiful. Definitely takes after you.” Tenderly, Cloud curled an index finger against the baby's soft, tomato-red cheek. “Our son.”
“Denzel,” Aerith muttered, high on the chemistry between bliss and exhaustion running through her mind.
“Denzel?” Cloud repeated quizzically. Vaguely, the name chimed a bell or two, but he was more perplexed by the sudden change of heart. “I thought you liked Sora for a boy?”
“I do. But this one isn't meant to be Sora. He's Denzel. He just is,” declared the new mother, resting her heavy head along Cloud's side as he leaned over her and the baby. “Denzel Gainsborough-Strife.”
“Hey, Denzel. I'm your dad,” Cloud whispered to his baby boy, as the latter appeared to recognize his name – opening his blue-tinted, gray eyes to peer into the visages of his parents.
In return, Aerith and Cloud's hearts melted; she outwardly gushed out a long 'aw!' of adoration while he merely smiled, both struggling not to sob from joy. “And I'm your momma. Your dad and I saved the world just for you.”
As though in reply, Baby Denzel's mouth formed a tall, perfect 'O', yawning sleepily.
“Not that impressed, huh? Some day you will be,” Cloud chortled.
With that, Aerith scooched over, patting the empty half of the hospital bed to invite Cloud for a well-deserved nap after twelve hours of labor; he obliged, cozying up to her in the next second. Surrounded by baby's breath and green chrysanthemums from family and friends, the Gainsborough-Strife family trio fall fast asleep, with nothing but the future ahead of them.