The result of looking up random words in a dictionary.
Disclaimer: Don't like, don't read. I know many people are uncomfortable with the subject matter, and I don't mind con-crit (actually, I love con-crit in a sort of masochistic, character-building way) but complaining about the relationship because it's "gross" is not helping me in any way.
I cannot stress this enough: There is sensitive material in this that some people may not find acceptable.
I am exhausted with comments on Youtube, mostly, but FF can be just as bad.
For The Money
When she first meets him, feels his dark eyes studying every inch of her, she can't help but squirm.
She's a scourge in a skirt, a boulder in the current, and the sun demanding repentance—she will stop at nothing to bring him down, and he amuses himself with the thought.
So he lets her slide, for the simple fact that she is a child, and cannot change anything.
He thinks that even if he loses to her, he will continue his business—he never intended this battle to be their last.
When she sees him standing in the gym, in that black suit emblazoned with an R, she's not surprised, but she didn't expect it, either. All she cares about is getting her last badge.
He tells her he will no longer lead Team Rocket, and she thinks there is no way that his subordinates will end anything, and doubts if he will, either.
She meets him again, in a cave on an island, and she believes him for once when he says," You have matured since I last saw you."
"You are not the good one here," he says," and I am not the bad one." She looks at him, astounded. "Tell that to all of the people you've hurt." "And you may do the same."
His explanations are always so easy, simple, as if 'for the money' can justify everything.
The skin under her skirt she reveals when twirling after winning a battle—he can't help but study her budding curves, no longer a slip of a girl.
She's so naïve, he used to think, so easily led—but they both know now she will cut him in half.
They battle—in Pokemon and words—and they wouldn't have it any other way.
"I am a woman," she yells at him when he uses superiority of age over her. "Now bow down and kiss my feet!"
He enjoys playing with her mind, she thinks, when he smiles his smiles and looks at her in ways that makes her wonder what his true intentions are.
She often asks if he wishes to take back anything, and he always replies that he regrets nothing.
"Money makes the world go round," he states. To which she replies, "You aren't very good at science, are you?"
He finds himself trying to look better in her eyes, to make up for hurting so many people to the woman who brought him down. He has no time to be ashamed of the man he has become as he scrubs her bathroom floor.
When their fingers brush, their hands entwine, sometimes they fool themselves into thinking it's right.
She doesn't give him her innocence. Oh no, she makes him work for it—because working isn't his style, and he'd much rather steal it away.
A bit before her eighteenth birthday, she gives into the apex of the fever and the feelings of right and wrong swirl and merges in the delirium.
It's a power play.
Who will win in the