Summary: Four small drabbles about the Turks. Kinda. For MOIRA :D
Warnings: Reno's mouth. Sex. Kinda.
"I see the glass as half full, only it is a shotglass, there are four of us and we are very, very, thirsty."
Her breath burned, like sulfur scorching fertile land. Delicate fingers that most often saw the trigger of a gun than other's touch curled around dark strands of hair. Owning, holding, cradling, taking... Four things Elena could do with her hands.
Lead me not into temptation, for my God will protect me...
Her fingers left furrows on the other's hips, violet trails of what other people called 'lovemaking.' Tifa called it 'fucking', her wine red eyes not nearly as hard as she'd like to pretend. Elena just called it 'Hell'.
Hell is for sinners.
And for this one, she'd gladly burn.
There is a certain irony of being alive.
The same irony that there is for being dead and going to Heaven, isn't it?
Or to Hell, in your case.
Maybe your Heaven is your Hell.