A/N: This is for Day 6 of Seventh Heaven Week, the prompt is Honeybee Tifa! I literally started shipping LesTi last week, and was suddenly inspired one morning to write this story. I reverted back to my experimental, darkish style haha. Enjoy!
Rated M for sexual themes, and implied violence.
bite
"Yeah, this one won't do." Leslie holds the polaroid to the light.
The bar is empty, so is the stage. Confetti is being swept up by teens from the slums. They're always ready to take on any job for money.
He tosses the polaroid to Andrea who's been idly flipping through audition submissions. Still images, the faces of girls populate the counter surface, their million gil smiles are haunting, all needy for validation. Andrea picks up the polaroid Leslie discarded, whirls it his fingers, inspecting.
Andrea hums a note in approval. "I'm beginning to distrust your judgment."
Leslie glares at him, sharp eyes cutting like razor blades as he thinks of that girl's smile—the one in Andrea's hands. It was subtle and forced, barely a smile if you could call it that. Her red eyes had pierced through the photo and into Leslie. Eyes didn't fade in seduction, doesn't have that haughty quality that some auditioning girls have. Her gaze seemed like it'd ruin him if he'd seen it in person. It's all too familiar–too close to home. He's seen that kind of stare before.
He feels a shiver down his neck as he remembers his dead fiancée's gaze. Empty, keeping him in a chokehold, eyes long-gone, far-off as though she were being kidnapped by daydreams. Leslie knew how to drag her back to the present moment. He brought her back every time. But not this time.
Tifa Lockhart is written at the bottom of the polaroid. Andrea makes a comment on the symmetry in her face and body. Talks about how her breasts are large for her figure. She's wearing a white lace bra that hugs her breasts tight. A scar trickles between them, silvery like animal teeth.
Tifa has full, round cheeks and a tricky little mouth.
Leslie decides she's not worth it. "Don't bother calling her back."
Andrea raises a brow. "Ah, but she's beautiful. Afraid she might get too popular huh?"
"Something like that."
The girls come in the next day, shuffling through the doors on the bright stage. All in short shorts and cropped tanks, bodies in different sizes. Their chatter is loud, excited, but it's put to a stop when Andrea comes off his seat and into the light. His welcoming smile and open arms helps the girls settle their nerves. However, silence follows once Leslie comes behind him. His arms are folded, cap lowered.
Leslie spots the girl he told Andrea to reject. He kisses his teeth. She's the only one not looking at them, her hand grasps at her elbow in an effort to self-soothe. Pathetic.
"Welcome! Welcome! You ladies are gorgeous! I'm sure, you all know how to make a patrons heart flutter." Andrea's voice booms across the room, echoing off empty booths. He twirls his wrist for extra effect.
The girls all bow in unison. "Thank you Andrea Rhodea," they sing.
That girl–what was her name again? Tifa? Tifa. She hasn't made a move, remains in her wounded kitten position. Gaze on her heels. She's pissing Leslie off.
Don't waste our time.
"Hey!" Leslie cuts in. The girls straighten their backs. "You there," he says, staring at Tifa. She hasn't looked up yet. She scratches her elbow. "If you don't want to be here, you're free to leave."
The rest of the girls gasp, all turning their attention to Tifa as Andrea looks onto Leslie with an amused expression.
Her hand falls from her arm. She rolls her shoulders back, clasping her hands together to stretch. Leslie's jaw locks, teeth gritting.
"I'm sorry," she says. "But I'm staying."
Her voice. Husky, determined. It reminds him of someone.
Her stare: deadpan, unwavering. It shakes him to his very core.
The auditions start. When it's Tifa's turn, she lowers her gaze. Closes them for a moment. The first upbeat note of her chosen song awakens her, has her eyes shooting open. A quiet, developing rage glistens in them. Fire is about to explore on stage.
Leslie can't place a name to his feelings. He thinks there are threads, thousands of them, digging then slicing into his chest. Beneath his shirt, the pendant around his neck feels like a noose. He has to take it off. Yet he can't. He's bound.
Tifa begins her dance, starting on the floor, not fully seated, palms keeping her up as her hips sway. It's meant to hypnotize.
Leslie's smart enough to leave.
Andrea Rhodea has chosen three new Honeybee girls. Tifa Lockhart is one of them. Her stage name: Ruby Hart. Her pin straight hair is wavy, makeup done to highlight her cheekbones, sharpen her jaw, accentuate her eyes. She's like a different girl, stripped out of her passivity as her bustier allows some of her breasts to spill. The rest of the suit entraps her waist, stockings are like a peek into what they could do.
She's already worked three nights, becoming the brand new toy of the Honeybee Inn. She's showered with gifts, has her own fan club. Some of the other girls struggle with their envy and some want to be her.
Leslie doesn't blame them. Sitting by the bar, he watches on.
Tifa Lockhart should be the face of Honeybee Inn. She wears the bee costume as if nectar should be dripping off her lips. Music sings through her body when she dances. Stage lights allow her skin to glow. A lithe body like hers knows when to bend, curve, and arch to a rhythm that plays to patrons' midnight fantasies. Her half-lidded gaze is impressive, mimics how easily she could come. A natural hither, they're whispers from her plumped mouth.
Leslie takes a sip of whiskey, ignoring all the cheers, howls, and whistling that disrupt his immersion into Tifa's on stage persona. She learnt fast how to work the pole. Her arms are strong, hidden muscles sculpted as she twirls around it, legs supporting, as she slides upside down. No one else notices her strength. They're busy leering at her breasts, mouths frothing when her leotard hikes up her ass.
Her dance number eventually ends. She's raking in tips, bowing to the crowd with a well-timed wink before she disappears from the stage. Leslie is bored during the next performances, decides to take a break outside in the back alley beside the Inn.
That's where he sees her alone. She should be inside with the other girls, counting her gil, distributing her share. Instead, she's in the darkness, changed out of her costume donning civilian clothing. She's taking a deep breath. Exhales as Leslie draws near.
She makes no effort to greet, even edges away from him. A foot crushes the loose litter around them. Tifa's arms remain close to her body, palms rubbing against each other as she tries to suppress her shivers.
Leslie places a cigarette between his lips, lights it up then smokes. After the first hit, he decides he'll talk to her. Get to know his coworker. He's supposed to be the one who protects all the Honeybee girls. Might as well build rapport despite his ill feelings.
"Need a cig?"
"No, thank you."
He takes another hit, gives her a sidelong glance beneath the brim of his cap. "Like what you do?"
Tifa fidgets with her fingers, digs a nail into her cuticles. Her nails are short and are unpainted, he notices.
"How do you…" she hesitates. "How do you want me to answer that?"
"I don't really care."
"Then, I guess I like it." Her nail has dug too far. Blood seeps out, lining the creases of the innocent nail. "I like it a lot."
Near them, a drunken man tries to enter the Inn but is refused. Show's started. It's too late. He spits on the ground in front of the Honeybee Boy, yells profanities at him. The people in the square stop their wandering, people drinking watch on. Neon lights blare, flickering at men and women whose plastered faces showcase a need to release inhibitions. Noises, music from the Inn, voices, flirty exchanges, glasses clinking. Wall Market is the place to be, ignore the troubles from the daylight.
"And how about you, Leslie?"
This is the first time she's said his name, it captures the wind out his throat.
"Do you like working for Andrea?" She shifts her feet. "How did you end up here?"
Taking another hit, he exhales the smoke. Nosy girl. Wisps fly from the end, tailing Tifa's forlorn expression. He flicks off the remaining ashes.
"The same way anyone ends up in Wall Market."
Graffiti on the walls screams 'fuck shinra', it weaves into other phrases condemning this kind of forsaken life. He spots a heart, the other half drooping. Two initials are set there.
He continues, "You get pushed into circumstances you'd never thought you'd be in. I wonder if the same goes for you."
Tifa doesn't say a word. She smudges the blood around her finger, smears it on her nail.
His mouth is filled with the metallic taste of blood. And he knows it's hers. The corpse visits him in his nightmares, invades his smell with rotting flesh. Skin gradually melts off her bones. She often pins his shoulders, her mouth a gaping hole with black mud spilling out. He begs for forgiveness–cries for it. Begging transforms her, turns her beautiful. Her short dark hair brushes his neck, lips press upon his. Straddling him between her thighs, she's a succubus itching for retribution.
Her stage name was Black Beauty. She haunts him, chokes him using the pendant, glints silver in her teeth. Lily in a heart. It breaks a tooth.
However, this nightmare is different.
The succubus takes a different form, body intact. Her beauty is a bullet for him to dodge. Lashes flutter, framing eyes the colour of wilted roses. This woman peers into him, sees into his subconscious, detangling the webs of self-loathing.
She smiles, reaching to trap his mouth with hers.
He wakes up, body trembling. Sweat coating his skin. Gasping for air, he grasps onto the pendant on his chest. Leslie holds it tight, never letting go for the rest of the night.
One week later, Tifa approaches him before a show. He's sitting by himself at an empty booth, going over past transactions, and contracts with vague wording. He has a list of what to purchase for the Inn: new lights, Wutain rice vodka, cordless microphones etc. For the girls: birth control, condoms and vials of 'phoenix blood' meant to purify their skin.
Tifa sits across from him, keeping her distance. The table between them acts as a barrier neither one of them is allowed to cross. Leslie doesn't look up until she says his name.
He sets his notebook down. "Yes, Tifa?"
Her bangs cover an eye. She frowns. "I'd…like to become a Nectar Alley girl, in addition to my duties as a Honeybee girl."
Leslie's grip on his pen tightens. His head throbs, remembering how he met the girl from his nightmares.
"You're not cut out for that," he simply says.
"I've asked Andrea Rhodea and he approved. I'm asking you because you take care of the operations."
Fucking Andrea. He sighs, folding his hands. You really wanna do this, Tifa?
"Then you start tomorrow. Meet me here at noon. You'll have a client set up by then."
"Wait, what already?"
"Libidos don't just die down like that. If you're hesitating this early, then you might as well back down. Stay a pretty Honeybee girl."
She digs a nail into her cuticle, hissing a little. "I-I'll meet you tomorrow then."
"Good."
Tomorrow comes. The first client for new Nectar Alley girls is always some hire from Andrea. The aim is to get the girl warmed up, fool her into believing that this line of work is suitable.
They have a list. Some of them are Shinra Turks. After their first taste, it's free game.
Tifa and Leslie meet outside the Inn in the same alleyway they first spoke in.
Ahead of them, the beating sun reflects beer can scraps on the ground. Neon lights aren't so neon anymore. They're a subdued shade. Dirt and dust clung onto the plastic. There are calling cards scattered about on the ground. People loiter the streets, hung over in last night's clothing.
Leslie thinks Tifa looks different in the daylight. She appears younger in her skirt and cropped tank. Bare faced except for the mauve stained on her lips.
Tifa greets him with a small wave, hesitating before finally smiling at him.
Leslie's jolted by it, keeps his shit together as he pulls a thick bracelet from his pocket and places it in her hands. He explains the procedures. It's a tracking device. The emerald jewel is an emergency button. Once pressed, Leslie will come in taking care of any sicko john. For the time being, he'll be on standby waiting for the signal on his phone.
"Think of it as a protection service," he states.
"I don't need protection."
Leslie scoffs. "I'll be around the area anyways. Let's head out."
"Okay."
Tifa trails behind him, fiddling with the bracelet, unable to get it on. They move in silence, until they stop a couple blocks from the hotel. Leslie turns around. "Having doubts?"
She's blushing. Leslie doesn't want to admit that it's cute.
"I'm having trouble with this."
Leslie yanks her wrist, snatches her bracelet, opens it up at the crease. He snaps it onto Tifa's wrist. It clicks. "There."
She nods at him. "Thanks."
He lets go, fingertips stinging from her warmth. "Your client's in room eleven. Enjoy."
"Mm." Tifa touches her wrist, leaving soon after.
Leslie stares at his hand. It's been a while since he's touched a woman. There's no need to acknowledge that now. How stupid. His hand clenched into a fist.
The phone vibrates in his pocket. He checks the message.
Yo, is she coming soon?
Yeah. Don't over do it with her.
Reno over does it.
Tifa returns, legs wobbling, her tank top torn at a seam near her bosom. Her mouth is bruised a dark pink, swollen with saliva glistening on it. She's in a daze, could hardly speak. She's reaching into her skirt pocket.
"Not here," Leslie says.
"Sorry," she gasps.
Her dark hair covers her neck, goes past her breasts. It's so thick, so long. He wonders how she maintains it. She should cut it short.
"Pull back your hair."
She appears confused but eventually obeys. Stroking her hair, she tosses it behind her shoulders, revealing her neck. There are small bruises, a tender red that mars her skin, threatening to spread and conquer.
Reno, you fucking idiot. He isn't supposed to mark her. That's never part of the deal. Fuck her brains out. Don't leave any evidence. Let the new girl gain confidence, have her continue this exchange of give and take.
"You won't be able to get work with hickeys on your neck."
"He got carried away."
"Go to Madam M. She will fix you up. But don't let any other future clients mark you like that. You'll be out of commission and there aren't enough potions around to take that off."
"I understand. It won't happen again."
"Yeah." Leslie makes a note to warn Reno. As if he'd listen. This was one of the few times he's stepped out of line. "Think you want to continue this type of work?"
Tifa says yes without looking at him.
"Something bothering you?"
She furrows her brows. Leslie takes out a cigarette.
"You never told me that guy was a Turk."
"Didn't know," he lies. "Doesn't matter either. You'll have all types of clients." He presses down on the lighter, ignites the cigarette. After a puff, he asks, "Got a grudge against Shinra?"
"No," she answers too quickly. Must've been lying.
Leslie chuckles. "Everyone here's been screwed over in some way or another by them. Your grudge isn't unique."
Reno becomes a regular, heeds Leslie's warning despite his itching jealousy. They don't need to pay Reno to fuck her, everything's according to his whims. He knows how to access her, and that's through Leslie's number. Only Reno knows the man behind the number.
Tifa continues to take in clients during the day, her load increasing as they blow theirs in hers. Leslie waits nearby accordingly, takes a portion of her cash when they go back to the Inn. He sets up future appointments for her and the other Nectar Alley girls. There's no screening process for clients, they see the girls' photos online, pick the one they like most as if they were picking out toys. Then Leslie relays the info as the middleman. Clear cut and simple, unless some psycho decides to hurt them. Leslie, on the other hand, is not half bad at cleaning up.
Never once has Tifa pressed the emerald on her bracelet. Leslie is grateful yet a part of him wants her to–to quit. He's being sick in the head but it's been quite some time since he bloodied his hands.
Nighttime is where Tifa's a spectacle to be gawked at. The star of the show. There's no danger when there's an array of constellations looking over her. Leslie being one of them.
She suckles her straw, makes a slurping sound that stirs Leslie out of his reverie. "Sorry," she mumbles.
Leslie settles a hand on his cheek, taps his foot against the leg of the table. He'd been counting her gil, responding to clients through text. Reno wants to see her after one in the morning. Another client wants to see her at three in the afternoon.
"Do you want to try this?" She reaches across the table, tilts her glass forward when it's close to him. Half of its fuchsia content is left. Her straw slides to the centre, and is covered with bite marks like tiny scars. "I made it myself."
He doesn't bother questioning how. He's seen her chatting up the bartenders, maybe learning a few tricks up her sleeve. She doesn't wait for his word. The glass slides across the small distance on the table, disturbing the stack of gil.
"Alright," Leslie says. "I'll bite."
She laughs a small laugh. "Enjoy."
He takes a sip from the rim, her straw dangling close. It smells strongly of dragon fruit, the kind his dead fiancée liked. Remembering that might ruin the taste.
Tifa waits in anticipation, leaning forward in her seat.
The drink tastes tangy, with the right amount of sweet that hits his tongue. There's a hint of vodka. He swallows. "Not bad."
Tifa smiles. It's genuine like a child's, unlike the contrived smiles she bares to audiences. Leslie feels hopeless, knowing now that he wants to keep seeing it.
Leslie is asleep, but he knows he's trapped in a dream. Body paralyzed in the real world, yet his body in this world isn't exactly free. The seconds he becomes aware he's entered this state, fear encroaches his throat awaiting the nightmare. He expects blood, melting flesh. Preps his words of forgiveness.
The shadow falls from the ceiling, it's form solidifying atop his body, pressing him down until he's sinking and becoming one with the mattress. His eyes are squeezed shut, but he feels nails prying them open.
Obscuring his vision are strands of dark hair, twisting to reveal a face reflected in yellow light. She blinks red, takes his face in her palms. On her neck are those rouge marks from her first time. They grow, spreading like water on sand, connecting then altering into a large strangling mark around her neck. Leslie wants to scream but he can't.
The figure whispers, caressing his cheek. "Everything's going to be alright."
She waves a finger at his eyes, from one to the other. It's a pendulum swinging. Blood appears in the fingernail seams, dribbles down, coiling around her finger. A pendulum bleeding.
"Imagine it."
No. He doesn't want to. He can't.
"What are you feeling?"
A gold lily within a silver heart is the pendant, returned the night before. Red walls. Gold trimmings. Roofs like Wutain structures. Hand with a poisoned rag clasping onto his mouth. Consciousness fading. A scream: unrecognizable. His fiancée's panicked expression slipping into sadness. Murky waters. Floating atop, a body bag he refuses to unzip.
"I couldn't save her. I had no control over anything." Tears stream past his eyes, down his temples. "I loved her," his voice, barely above a whisper. His heart hurts, attempting to mend, his words are needles piercing to sew. "I couldn't save her, there was nothing I could do. And that's what I have to accept."
The figure above him smiles. There's no blood on her, no marks around her neck. She rests her head on his shoulder. His hand interweaves with her long locks, he buries his nose in them, inhaling her scent.
Tifa.
She is his catharsis.
The pendant remains in a small bag these days, staying in Leslie's pocket as he wanders Wall Market during the afternoon. He checks out the street markets overflowing with fake designer bags and cheap jewelry. Food stalls reek of oil. Underneath his cap, his forehead sweats at the sweltering heat from the sun. In one of the item vendors, he spots paper flowers. There's glitter on the yellow folds.
Tifa once told him that if she ran her own bar, she'd make drinks with edible flowers. He chuckled, suggesting that she should eat flowers during her next performance. It was silly, it was stupid but it was an exchange that made them grow fonder towards one another.
It seemed that ever since Leslie's nightmares stopped, he shed all his defenses around Tifa.
"Hey, how much for that flower?"
"2 gil."
What a strange thing to do, buying a Nectar Alley girl a paper flower after someone else's been inside her. He reaches for his wallet. There are sudden vibrations in his pocket, dinging at a disastrous speed. He swipes it out, fumbles to open the notification. The screen flashes in red.
T.L Danger. T.L Danger. Leslie runs.
The man is already down.
Leslie arrived with a gun, silencer on. His frantic breath wavered the moment he saw Tifa.
He was prepared to see her tied up, bloodied, and hurt. He would've been ready to cut the throat of the assaulter, blood gliding down the dagger that he carried at all times. Leslie might've relished in hearing the strangling words of a man begging for mercy.
Leslie isn't afforded these opportunities. The sicko he thirsted to hurt is writhing, a leg twisted at a painful angle. Leslie recognizes the eyes of the older man. Leslie's been around Wall Market long enough to know how sick one could be in their head, it's all based on how they look at you. This man keeps his stare on Tifa, leering even with his jaw kicked in.
Tifa has her fists up in defence. Lips are unfurled, baring teeth. She's breathing heavily, sweat dripping down her brow. Her maroon merrywidow appears like a protective angel turned demon on her body. The emerald on her wrist gleams at Leslie.
The room does not smell of sex. Nor does it have evidence of a woman in distress. The bed is made, with few wrinkles in the centre.
"Tifa," Leslie calls out.
She's in a strange trance but the beckon of her name wakes her. When she glances at his direction, veiny eyes expose innermost fears. Tifa sinks down to her knees, as if she'd lost control of her body. "Leslie!"
Leslie runs, capturing her in his arms. His throat constricts, mouth gasping for air as flashes of his past, his failures, rise in his vision.
"Breathe," he hears Tifa say. It's more for her than it is for him. Yet he takes it all the same.
He does as she says, rooting himself to the girl that lay in his arms, still alive. Leslie could still protect her.
"Leslie," she utters, hand grasping at his face. "I've been d-drugged."
Shit.
"Tifa, stay with me!"
They hardly make it to Leslie's apartment when Tifa slams open the door, falling to her knees at the head of his mattress on the floor.
Leslie noticed during the entirety of the journey, her eyelids drooped. Her panting carried a mewling lilt. The hands that were around his waist had crept lower and lower, skimming his neglected muscles before he flicked them away.
As he approaches Tifa, she grabs onto his wrists, whipping him into the bed. His breath, stolen from him.
Leslie's nestled between her thighs caught in her web.
He'd be hard pressed to admit that her breathy sighs, and lust stricken stare didn't make his blood boil. His cock hardens beneath his pants as she grinds her warm crotch against its curve. In a blur, she strips, peeling off every article of clothing until she's left wearing that merrywidow like the minx she is.
Amidst the swell of her breasts, her biting scar greets him in a glare, reminding him that the girl he's longed for is not truly herself at this moment. He ignores the warning, drifts his fingers onto her spine, wanting to thrust them in her warmth .
Fuck.
Tifa takes his gloved hand in her mouth. Teeth clasp onto a finger, sliding the leather off. It falls unceremoniously. She rakes her teeth over a couple of bare fingers, eliciting a sharp gasp from him when she sucks, sinking deeper. Her mouth is so fucking hot. Her tongue, so wet. Leslie needed to stick something else in that scorching cavern. That thought is cut short.
Tifa suddenly kisses him with a reckless abandon that he isn't familiar with anymore. Lightheaded, her spit melds onto his lips, tongue poking and gliding in time with his. He needs to stop. Within the second his saliva-coated hand brushes her plump breasts, breaching her scar, he realizes he's biting off more than he could chew.
Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pushes her face off his. Whining, Tifa presses herself harder against him. Underneath his pants, pre-cum dampens a spot on his briefs.
"Tifa, you're not yourself right now, I can't have you like this," Leslie says, voice strained, denying his very own desires.
"I-"
"You're under a drug that increases your libido. It'll be eating at you for hours on end." Leslie holds Tifa's waist, gently lifting her off and placing her back on the bed. He hovers over Tifa, admiring how she looks under him, hair strands fanned out like they're underwater. Tips of her shoulders are flushed a pretty pink. Collarbones barren of any marks. There's that thought of using his mouth to mar it with sweet bruises. But he holds himself back, telling her that he'll return with an antidote, and that she should stay put.
As he gets up to leave, he feels a tug on his wrist.
Tifa's face is tempting, yet her frown further exposes her vulnerability. "Would you if I wasn't? Would you have…?" She squeezes her thighs together, squirming, resisting.
"That's not what's important right now."
Shutting the door behind him, her question lingers in his head, searching for an answer. It's easy.
I would've.
The day after, Tifa doesn't attempt to engage with Leslie, nor does she completely avoid him. She hides under a shy façade, answers quietly to Andrea's small talk. Laughs when she has to, especially around the other Honeybee girls.
It's standard procedure to inform the Nectar Alley girl that the troublesome client has been taken care of. It's often Corneo's men who do clean up, erasure of a crime. Leslie rages as he thinks of that man, but he breathes to distill the emotion.
It's two hours before the show. Tifa in full costume sits at the empty bar, legs crossed. Her lips are puckered on a straw, hand drums along the glass.
"Getting loose before your performance, Tifa Lockhart?"
She flinches, straw slipping from her mouth. Leslie slides in the seat next to her, feeling the tension between them draw thick patterns across his chest. He lowers his cap.
"You could say that." Tifa swirls the ice using the straw before facing him. "I… wanted to talk to you about something."
"If it's about the bastard from yesterday, he's been taken care of."
"No I, I wanted to talk about quitting–being a Nectar Alley girl that is…" She starts to dig a nail into another on her other hand, peeling its skin. "I'm sorry, it's just–"
"I understand. I'm sorry for what happened yesterday." But all he remembers is her body, sensual, seeking his.
Her hair covers her face, shielding him from seeing her fully. "It is what it is."
"I know."
Tifa's nail is about to pierce her tender skin, Leslie reaches and places his hand over hers. She looks up at him in surprise.
"You should stop with that habit, Tifa."
She laughs, small and quiet. "I guess." She keeps laughing until tears come from her eyes, defeated in purpose. "You must be wondering why I'm in this kind of work."
Leslie strokes a thumb on her knuckles, gaze softening.
Tifa stops laughing, she speaks, "Agency. That's all I ever wanted. I like dancing, I like being touched." The last sentence is a still silence that seeks Leslie's understanding. "I want to continue dancing. But I want to keep being safe."
"Tifa…even if you stop fucking for money, I'll still be here to make sure you're safe and protected."
"Leslie, you don't have to. You're not obliged."
"I don't go back on my word." Leslie grabs something from his pocket then. The pendant imprints itself into his palms before he places it into hers. "Get rid of that habit of yours. Fiddle with this thing if you want."
"Leslie, I can't…"
"Your rehearsal's starting soon, you should leave," he cuts in, waving her off.
"You're right." Standing up, she puts on the necklace under the fur collar of her outfit. She's withholding a smile, her eyes gaze down on the floor, shy. "Thank you."
Turning her heel, she's stopped by Leslie's hand on her wrist. Looking back, her mouth opens by the slightest.
Leslie says, "And for the record, Tifa. I would've. I'd still like to actually."
Tifa's blush is as cute as the first time he's seen it. She smiles.
Beautiful.
"Well, then. I'll see you after the show."
He releases her, the edge of his lip rising. "Yeah."
Night eventually comes and the Inn is crowded with patrons. Liquor pumps through their veins, while the bass from the music thunders in their chests. As Tifa appears on stage, warm lights cast their glow on her. The crowd's screams fall deaf on her ears. She disrobes, exposing the smooth lines of her body along with the contours of her hidden strength. Making her approach to the pole, her confident smile is aided by the sultry gaze she shares with the audience. When she catches the sharp eyes of Leslie Kyle, she begins her routine, dancing languidly on the pole, body moving in soft waves that sensualize the two's budding connection, unbeknownst to the onlookers.
If this is what it means to let go, Leslie Kyle would deem himself more than satisfied.
A/N: That's the closest thing I've written to a smut haha. You can find me on twitter little_robots and on ao3 for latest works.
Thank you so much for reading!