April 2007, Nibelheim
More than a year after the incident, Tifa adapts to her new body.
She becomes more independent, relying on others less for many tasks, including Cloud. She rarely asks for help anymore—she just figures out a way to do things herself. He comes home one Friday and finds her cleaning, bent over in his bathroom scrubbing the bathtub. Her shorts ride up, her butt pokes in the air as she alternates cleaning products.
He washes his hands, watches her from the corner of his eye. He likes Tifa in this position, on her knees, leaning over the edge of the basin. Her shorts leave little to the imagination, exposing the curve of her butt cheeks, the smooth canvas of her thighs. She wears pink ankle socks, the bottoms darkened with water stains. The intense smell of cleaning products might be getting to him. He wants to smack her perfect ass, but the door is opened, Zack and Aerith are in the living room being eternal cock blocks.
Cloud wipes his hands on his jeans, pushes the sleeves of his pullover up to his elbows. "You good down there?"
Tifa's ponytail swishes as she snaps her neck towards him. Squinting against the white lights gleaming over her body, she manages a smile, drops the sponge, and wipes her forehead with her arm.
"I'm okay, Cloud."
He wants to tell her to stop cleaning, he'll take care of it. But Housewife Tifa is really fucking hot. So, he just lets her get back to it, doesn't disturb the process.
The following Friday, he comes home and Tifa stands in the kitchen peeling potatoes.
She wears the same little shorts he now recognizes as her housework pair, and a tee shirt that fits her and isn't his. Her hair is up in a messy bun. As she leans on the counter, the stub of her arm holds the potato down while she uses a knife to slice off the skin. She leans into it, slouching her back. Next to her, Aerith lugs out a big pink pot, wearing a flowy dress and an apron like they're about to film a cooking special.
Cloud likes Homemaker Tifa, but he still worries about her. He pulls off his sweatshirt, ties the sleeves around his hips. When he walks into the kitchen, Tifa notices him, lets the knife clatter to the cutting board as a smile envelopes her face.
"Hi Cloud!" She's so cute, he wants to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, and take her to the bedroom. But he behaves himself, hugging her instead. Tifa is a little sweaty, smells like cleaning chemicals mixed with the perfume she likes. Fuck—she's so hot like this. He likes it when she's a little dirty. Her cunt tastes thicker and fuller and—
No. Bad Cloud. That's not what he's concerned about right now.
"I don't like that knife being so close to your neck." He stops her as she reaches for it again, gently clasping her wrist. And Tifa frowns, her eyes turn big and glittery like he's upset her. Aerith bangs cutlery beside them, her ponytail swaying as she bends to open a drawer.
"But I wanted to make dinner," Tifa complains in that whiny voice he loves as her fingers crawl towards the knife. Aerith slips between them, and she knocks Cloud's hand away with a firm smack, her green eyes shining in a hostile glare.
"Tifa's making a Russian soup for us. If you're not gonna help, get out of my kitchen."
Cloud also notices the changes in Tifa's body. It's been very gradual the last six months, that he isn't that aware unless he really looks at her. And Tifa's always been insanely hot—but her body's out of this world now. Somehow the sex has gotten even hotter, and he likes fucking her tight little body, spreading her toned thighs and grabbing her waist that's so flat and firm he thinks Tifa is probably in better shape than he is.
But the less she needs him, the more he worries about her. Cloud wants Tifa to be independent, but he doesn't want her to hurt herself in the process. He trusts that she's careful, but he still worries—because he loves her. He loves Tifa as much as Zack loves Aerith. He's totally pussy whipped—absolutely obsessed with her. If Cloud could only choose two things to survive, he'd pick the internet and Tifa.
So, he doesn't interfere. Cloud lets Tifa clean the bathtub and cut potatoes and whatever else she feels she needs to do around the condo to feel liberated.
~oOo~
Tifa tries writing a letter to her dad.
She sits at Cloud's desk in the midmorning after he's gone to work, still wearing his tee shirt as a nightgown. Her hair is unbrushed, her face unwashed. The curtains are closed, hushing the room in a muted darkness. Tifa slouches, resting her elbow on the desk, and stares down at the notebook in front of her, idly twisting a pink feathery pen that Aerith gave her. She hasn't written much.
Dear Tatko,
How are you?
She scratches it out. That's not how she wants to address him, how she should express herself. But Tifa doesn't know what to write, how to articulate her feelings or if she even should. Her fingers dig in her scalp as she rests her forehead against her palm.
Her heart beats like a distant drum slowly growing louder. It feels like a countdown to something inevitable, something she doesn't understand. Tifa picks up the pen again, tapping the point against the paper, watching blue dots spot the page.
Her knee bounces in agitation as she rolls her ankles below her, grabbing the fibers of the carpet with her toes. The stub of her left arm lies flat on the surface, and she feels the wired spine of the notebook prick her at the edge where her skin puckers. Tifa has so many feelings and emotions she wants to express—her anger, confusion. Feelings of betrayal. The love and hatred she holds for him in her heart. She wants him to know how much he hurt her, how he ruined her life—but he must know that already. He must have known all along. For the last decade, how he's hurt her. She knows it's not a secret. The only logical answer is that he just doesn't care. He doesn't care that he hurt her, she doesn't need to tell him. But she wants to—she has to.
I hate you.
I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you.
Tifa writes it over and over again, squeezes the pen so hard her fingers pulse in pain. Her teeth grit, jaw tensed as she breathes fumes through her nose. She presses the words so forcefully that the paper rips beneath her grip.
You're a bad person. The worst person. Mama knows what you did to me. She hates you, too. I hate you. I never want to see you again.
It's not fair. I was good. I never did anything bad. And you still hurt me. I was scared of you all the time. I didn't do anything wrong. You're a monster. You're a bad man. I hope you die.
Her tendons flex over her knuckles. Tifa unleashes her anger on the notebook as if it were the embodiment of her father. She channels all her fury, releasing the pain she keeps bottled up. So full of rage and resentment, she snarls, catches her bottom lip between her teeth, her hair spilling over the page and paint her words in the image of oxidized blood.
Die
Die die die die die die die die die DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE
She's manic in the way she writes. Goes outside the lines, fills the page with the word. She doesn't realize she's crying until she sees the ink smear with wet droplets. Looking at what she's written, she stops herself in her frenzy, her pen clanking to the table.
She shivers as she sits there, staring at her own creation. Struggling through her breath, her sight is blurry from the tears coating her eyes. She tries to blink away what she sees, but it's still there. All that hatred unburdened, abused on a sheet of paper in a notebook.
Tifa is angry. But she's also so sad. She doesn't want her dad to die. She doesn't want to be a monster, too. She hates that life turned out this way. Why couldn't they be happy? Why couldn't things be better? Maybe if he treated her differently, Tifa would have grown up normal. She'd have friends, be more outgoing instead of so scared of everything. She'd still have her arm, and she could be more useful to Cloud and their family.
Tifa wipes her face and puts the notebook away. She's not ready to write to her dad yet. Not until she figures out exactly what she wants to say to him. Because right now, her emotions are too mixed. She has no point to make.
Tifa wakes up in the middle of the night from a bad dream.
Her eyes burst open as she gasps, struggling in the bed as she's not immediately aware of where she is. It's dark and she can't see anything. Just feels something hold her down, wrapped around her waist, so close to her breasts. And Tifa panics, shuffles against the barrier—she feels strong arms and warm skin. She's too fresh from her dream, sees the face of her father so clearly that it feels like he's there—he touches her, finally has his way with her. And even as she struggles against him, he still tries to ground her. Letting her know she can never truly escape him.
"Tifa—Tifa—"
No, it can't be him. Tatko never calls her that. He calls her Tsveta—it's not him. It's not. Her heart gallops, she feels the pounding in her ribcage, and it goes up her throat like she's choking on her own heartbeat. A familiar scent engulfs her. It's warm and sweet, makes her feel safe in an instant. It's Cloud's smell, her favorite smell. And he's here with her, holds her when she sits up and stammers through her breath.
"It's okay. You're okay," he reassures her with the gentlest voice. Cloud remains patient, even when she wakes him up. He never raises his voice at her. Tifa grips his shirt, curling her fingers as she searches for his heartbeat. She feels it strumming in a steady rhythm, playing a lullaby that eases her as she lets him guide her back down to the bed with him.
He doesn't let go of her, holds her protectively in the cage of his arms. No one can hurt her if Cloud is here, when he holds her and shields her from the dangers of the world. Tifa feels safe, bound in his warmth and strength, immersed in his smell.
Her body still shivers from the remnants of her dream. Her cheek falls to his shoulder, the cotton scraping her skin as she rubs against him. He palms her back over her shirt, plucks the ridges of her spine. Her leg tangles between his, as she's desperate to get impossibly close to him, to crawl inside his skin. Her hand splays on his chest so she can feel his heart and make sure that he's real.
"Are you alright?" he asks her, maintaining the tenderness in his tone.
Tifa takes a deep breath and lets her sigh spill out of her nostrils slowly. "I had a bad dream."
"I got you. You're safe."
She believes him. Cloud will protect her, he always does. Tifa loves him so much. Every day she loves him a little bit more. Her heart swells, it's overwhelming. It'll burst with all this love she holds for him. Sometimes she's scared that it's too good to be true, that he'll leave her one day and all this will end. She needs him—even as she tries to do things on her own, she still needs him because he makes life feel just a little less empty.
When he starts massaging the muscles in her upper back, Tifa flinches, biting back a wince. He notices, trickles his fingers over her body lightly as he traces the painful area with care.
"Does that hurt?" he asks her softly.
Tifa squirms, curling her leg over his hip. "Kinda."
She hopes he'll stop the interrogation there, but he starts prodding her back, pushing his hand into the wing of her shoulder blade. The pain is sharp where he touches her, and her eyes squeeze shut as she whines, pulling his tee shirt into a clump in her fist.
"You're covered in knots."
Tifa bites the sleeve of his shoulder as he works her back. He digs his knuckles over tender muscles, and it hurts so good. It makes her want to cry and gasp a breath of relief at once. Tears sting her eyes as she shuts them, fidgeting through the painful massage. He tries to be gentle with her, but she's so tender and achy that even the lightest touch hurts her.
"Do you want me to stop?" As he starts rubbing soothing circles on her spine, she feels the movement of his lips as he speaks against her hair. "Am I making it worse?"
"No. Keep going, please." She's ready to fall back asleep, and she gets used to the rhythm of his caress, craves the sharp pain that alleviates the even greater one. He loosens her tight muscles, presses his fingers directly against stiff knots that have plagued her back for months. Tifa shudders in his embrace, so grateful to have Cloud who loves her and takes care of her in every way.
"How long have you been in pain?"
He knows—she doesn't have to tell him. He's figured it out, seeing the way she responds to his touch, and now she worries him. In the middle of the night when he should be asleep, awake now because of Tifa. But he's concerned, no hint of annoyance laced in his tone. He doesn't stop touching her, healing her body with affection.
Tifa squirms, hopes to delay answering the question, but Cloud waits for her. "A while."
When he shifts, he holds her a little bit tighter, and she feels the breeze of his sigh rustle her hair. "Where else does it hurt?"
Tifa wants to say everywhere—because it's true. She's in nonstop pain, and while she can pin-point the areas where she feels it the most, it's really an assault over her entire body.
"My knees."
Cloud hesitates. She wonders if she is testing his patience. He continues moving through his massage, searching for more knots along her back. He lifts the bottom of her shirt as he dips inside and makes direct contact with her skin.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
He doesn't sound angry or annoyed. Not even disappointed. He keeps the same tone with her, but Tifa is scared. She feels like she did something bad and she will get punished for it. Even though time has proven her wrong, she still holds the fear inside her. Especially now, after the nightmare she had. She's afraid it will come true.
"I don't know," she tells him in a tiny voice, muffling the words against his shoulder. "I'm scared that you'll tell me to stop dancing."
Cloud sighs, she knows he takes his time searching for the right words to combat her. "I won't tell you that. But Tifa, if he's pushing you too hard—"
"He's not."
Tifa didn't want to tell Cloud about the pain. But she doesn't want to lie to him, especially since he figured it out. She feels bad for her sharp reply. Cloud still touches her, going through the motions. As his knuckles rake over her spine, she feels the heat of his hands on her bare skin.
"I'm sorry," she says so softly it gets lost in the shuffling of her body.
"I don't want you to be in pain." He sounds almost defeated, like he knows she won't relent to his concern. "I don't want you to get hurt. I love you."
Tifa's heart drops, sinks to the pit of her stomach, and her chest feels suddenly hollow. "I love you, too," she whispers, restraining tears as they threaten to ravage her eyes.
For a while, they are silent. She's lulled by the sound of his breathing, the gentle strumming of his heart as he rubs her back with a loving tenderness. But just as she's about to fall asleep, Cloud speaks up again.
"Can you tell your doctor?"
There's a hopefulness to his tone that crushes her. She doesn't want him to worry about her. But she doesn't want to risk being able to dance—
"I...I don't know."
"Please?"
When Tifa hesitates, he pushes her just a little bit more. "I promise, whatever happens, we'll make sure you keep dancing, okay?"
She knows his promises are not in vain. Cloud will always keep his word. So, Tifa trusts him, lets her eyes drift close as she submits to his will and doesn't argue further.
"Okay."
Tifa wakes up when Cloud is about to leave for work. She turns in bed, squints against the bombardment of daylight that pursues her through the window. His side is empty, she dives her face in his pillow to immerse herself in his scent as her legs curl beneath the blanket. She hears him in the room, feels his presence nearby. And he must know she's awake, because his weight suddenly tilts the bed and he's all over her.
Tifa giggles against the onslaught of affection. She rolls to face him, engrossed in the fresh scent of sweet cologne, the mint of his breath that feels like ice on her neck when he cuddles her. He delves his face in her throat, takes a deep breath that fills his lungs with her as he hugs her close to him.
Tifa feigns a struggle, lengthens herself for him and gets dizzy from the sudden influx of everything Cloud. "You have to go," she tells him with a teasing voice.
"I have to get my fix of sleepy Tifa smell first."
He smells her harder, overexaggerates the gesture, and it has her ooze giggles from her mouth. She welcomes his kiss, puckers her lips and sighs into his affection. Tifa was scared Cloud would be mad at her this morning, but he's not. He still loves her, showering her in so much adoration that she's saturated in it.
Sometimes, Tifa feels like she's trapped in an infinite nightmare. But other times, she waltzes in a dream where everything feels perfect and life is happy. Today, she hopes for a brighter day, where she can chase the sun's glorious rays as it searches for her, always eager to bless her in its light.
~oOo~
Tifa chooses her song for the show at the end of the year.
It's from the blue Britney Spears CD Cloud got for her. And it's her new favorite song. She listens to it every day for the last year on the CD player Cloud gave her. It's a very pretty midtempo song, and Tifa is excited because she's never danced to pop music before. She imagines feeling the rhythm pulse through her veins, a new world opening up to her. But Andrea is not so optimistic in rehearsal when Tifa tries dancing to it.
He stops the music abruptly, catching Tifa in mid-turn. She crashes along with the melody, losing her spot in the mirror and stumbling in the sudden silence. It leaves her disoriented, she has to turn the opposite direction so the room stops spinning. She sees her own image reflected back to her, watches herself fumble in an eclipse of mirrors caging her in the room, the fluorescent lights bouncing off the walls and highlighting her in a hideous glow.
Her chest heaves as she chases her breath, fluttering through a series of blinks until her vision clears. Tifa looks like a hot mess, her ponytail sloppy and uneven. She ran out of clean workout clothes, so she's wearing Aerith's pink shorts and matching sports bra, both too tight on her. The bottoms of her feet burn against the floorboards from dancing barefoot. Sweat sheaths every inch of her body, and she's unsure if she's glistening or just looking like a sweaty pig.
She hears his dreaded footsteps, the disappointed click of his tongue as Andrea approaches her. Always so unpleased, ready to correct her because there is always something wrong with the way Tifa dances.
She does everything he tells her—some things nearly impossible. She does them and doesn't complain. But he still finds fault in everything she does. And now, he is ready to point it out to her. The next way she can improve herself, watching her how a hawk stalks its prey.
Every day, Andrea looks the same. He wears the same dance attire, the white tee shirt and black leggings, dark hair on his face and head. But he changes a little, too. He gets a little meaner. A little nastier. He throws in unnecessarily cruel comments when he corrects her. Maybe he thinks it will inspire her to do better. But Tifa doesn't know if it really helps. It just makes her feel stupid, like she shouldn't be here. She's afraid he will say something like that now, that she flexes her stomach like she's preparing to get punched in the gut.
Andrea shakes his head, rubbing his temples as if the sight of Tifa gives him a headache. "You know you've chosen very sensual music, don't you?"
Tifa falters, almost loses her footing standing in the center of the studio at the shock of his question. She's not stupid, she's heard the song enough times to memorize the lyrics. She knows what it's about, how sexual it is. She's not sure what it has to do with her dancing.
"I—I know."
Andrea frowns, his arms curling over his chest in an all too familiar stance. "Then why do you dance like a nun?" he asks. "Where is your passion? You are supposed to be the physical embodiment of the music."
Tifa doesn't know—she's not trying to dance like a nun. She's just performing the movements like he told her. Doing them correctly, with the right technique so he doesn't get mad at her. But it's still wrong. Everything she does is wrong. "I wasn't trying—"
"Maybe you need to change your song," he tells her, in a way that feels too threatening to be a suggestion. He releases an arm, extends his palm for emphasis. "Find something more innocent, less provocative—"
"—No." Tifa bites her tongue, lets it shrivel in her mouth as her hand shoots to her face. Andrea stands in front of her, blocking her view of herself in the mirror. She only sees him and the reflect of lights shining against the hardwood floor. He quirks a brow at her, and Tifa's afraid he's about to go into another rant.
She lowers her tone as she clears her throat, staring at floor. "I—I like that song. I wanna dance to that song only."
Tifa feels exposed. The whole world sees her naked and judges her. Her body, the way she dances. The expressions she makes as she moves. Andrea stares at her, shreds her clothes with his eyes in a way that isn't sexual. Just critical. Tifa can't even be sexy, she doesn't know how. Maybe he will teach her.
"You need to get in touch with your sensual side." As with everything else, he tells her what she needs to do but doesn't show her. He explains how Tifa can succeed, but leaves her to figure it out on her own. She is desperate to learn—so desperate to be the best. Standing in pain that she buries and hides, she stifles her sobs eager to escape.
"You're still so stiff, so soulless—" When Andrea grabs her by the shoulder brusquely, Tifa flinches from the sudden hostility. He rattles her, trying to loosen her up. She tries to maintain her posture, but she slouches, feeling weak and vulnerable. She only disappoints him more.
"When I watch you dance, I feel nothing. I'm not inspired or moved by you. I don't even feel pity for you." He lets her go, shakes his head with displeasure as he still studies her body like she's a specimen for him to dissect. "I can't even laugh, because it's so pathetic. What little faith you have in yourself. How you struggle to let yourself feel anything."
Tifa holds her breath, tries to shield herself from the impact of his words. But they pierce through, stabbing her heart and leaving her bleeding out on the floor. She clutches her chest, feels the blood seep to her palm. His words cut deep, they leave a wound that tells her she will never be good enough. Why is she here? Why does she break her body when she will never succeed?
"I want to do better." Her voice is tiny, helpless. Pleading with him as she pulls on the neckline of her top. "Please tell me what I have to do, and I'll do it."
But Andrea waves his hands, shakes his head like he wants no part of it. "That's not something I can help you with. Your sensuality is something only you can only uncover on your own. You need to look within yourself and find it." She maintains her position, doesn't move as she watches him go back to the sound system to start the music. "Or ask your husband to help you."
Tifa's song spills in the room. It bleeds with sensuality, freedom—the way she wants to be, how she craves to feel and dance. She wants to embody the music, turn her limbs into brushes that stroke the canvas of the floor. She wants to paint the contents of her heart, let the ink splatter and coat the air in her emotions. Tifa wants to be free, she wants to let go.
But she's scared, terrified of doing all those things. Still trapped in the cell she's been held in for so much of her life. Afraid to reveal herself, because he might hurt her—the one she loves and hates, resents and pities. Her dad has been gone for over a year, but he still haunts her, still holds power over her. If Tifa reveals herself as a sexual person—he might find her. And punish her. Lay claim on her body and take away the joy of sex.
It's one of the many things Cloud has helped her discover—the beauty and power and pleasure of being touched. And it's so personal, so private. What if she comes out as a sexual person to the world? They see her raw and bared, her soul naked. To see Tifa for who she is, her heart pulled out of her chest—and she's afraid someone will hurt her, take her heart and stain their fingers with her blood. Smash it, pulverize it—hurt her for being so free. Because Tifa was never meant to be free. Born to live in a cage of doubt and shame. Of hiding her body because it is shameful.
Only Cloud has seen her—she has only trusted him in the care of her body. But what if she trusted herself, too?
Tifa stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
She's stripped, her clothes scattered on the floor. Prepared to shower and wash the dried sweat off her body. The silence echoes, she hears the quaver of her own breath as she watches herself. Bright lights sheathe her , haloing her in an ethereal glow. Tifa leans in, feels the cool porcelain of the sink chill her palm as she tries to see what Cloud sees—what her physical therapist saw—what every person who has ever told her she is beautiful sees when they look at her.
She pulls the scrunchie, releases her ponytail as her hair cascades and embraces her shoulders. Long, thick and dark—tumbling velvety waves contrast against pearly skin. Tifa looks at herself. Doesn't criticize or judge—gazes at her image through the lens of lustful eyes.
She poses, pushes out her chest as she lifts her arm and rests her hand behind her head. Her breasts jiggle. She sees the tautness of her stomach, the expansion of her hips. Her nipples perk against the cool air. Her stare lands on the stump of her arm. It ruins the illusion for her, that she's sexy and can command a room. It looks weird—when she zones in there, she just looks like a freak.
Tifa closes her eyes, takes a controlled breath that fills her belly and spills from her nose. She steps back, tiptoes against the clutter of her clothes, feeling the cold tile on her feet. Her eyes open, she sees herself not just as a closeup, but as a bigger picture. Tifa is not just her arm—she's more than that. She's legs, a lot of legs, long and curvy and lean. And her breasts—
Her hand slips from her hair, travels down her neck. She's forgotten about her arm, follows the trajectory of her hand as she creeps towards her breast. She cradles it, lifts it higher, squeezes the mound of flesh as a shiver tickles her spine. Her thumb flicks her nipple, it gets harder, pebbles from the faint touch. Tifa feels funny. And Cloud isn't here, he's not the one making her feel this way. It's just her and her reflection—she looks at herself, turns herself on. Tifa is more than just her arm. She's long dark hair and a smooth neck. She's brown eyes and heart-shaped lips. Tifa is breasts that are sensitive even to her own touch.
Her hand snakes lower, fingers slithering past the silk of her skin, trickling lower. Lower—stopping before she reaches between her legs. Her thighs clamp together, she shoos her own touch away. But she can still see it—folds that peak through her slit, leathery beige flesh that glistens in the dew of her arousal. Tifa doesn't like to look at it. It's embarrassing and gross. But Cloud likes to stare, he said she's pretty there. He likes to kiss her and make her feel good. Tifa is too scared to try it herself.
She poses more—changes her position. Makes her chest the focus of her posture. Her arm wraps around her ribcage as she leans her weight on one hip, elongates her neck and throws back her hair. Her eyes narrow, her lips part, her breath releasing as a sigh through her teeth. Tifa feels warm and funny. She wonders what it would be like if she danced this way. How would it feel? For her to move this freely and be so in tune with herself? That dancing could make her feel this beautiful and sexy, and others would be there to witness her lose herself in this trance.
Tifa wants to dance the way she has sex. But she needs to learn to do it by herself, without Cloud. How does she do that? How can she learn?
She turns on the water in the bathtub, lets it warm up before she lifts the faucet so it emerges from the showerhead. When she steps in, she's instantly immersed. It feels like hail hitting her body, the droplets sprinkling her skin as her hair absorbs the wetness and becomes a sopping mop on her head. Tifa feels nervous—but why? She's alone. No one can hurt her here, no one can see what she's doing. She wants to express herself—she wants to find Cloud. But no, she can't—she's alone. She has to do this alone.
Tifa doesn't know how. She's never learned. Only knows from muscle memory the way Cloud touches her.
She gets the thought out of her head. It can wait, Cloud can take care of her when she goes to bed. This was a stupid idea. Tifa will figure out another way to express herself in dance. But she feels tense now, she doesn't know how to relieve it.
Looking through Aerith's soaps, she tries to find the pump for the shampoo. She reaches for the shower caddy, squinting against the warm droplets that sprinkle her face. When she pushes aside a pumice stone, something stands out. It's hot pink, a little toy in the shape of a bunny.
Tifa takes it, brings it close to her face. It's smooth, rubbery. Has little ears and a nose. So tiny, it fits in her palm. She doesn't know what it's for, why Aerith keeps it in the bathroom. It feels kind of squishy, and when she squeezes it, it starts vibrating.
Tifa squeaks, drops the little bunny to the floor. It rattles against the white basin like it's having a seizure, caught in the onslaught of water. Tifa feels the vibration tickle her feet, climbing up her shins. She stares at the toy, mesmerized. She thinks she knows what it is now, why Aerith keeps it here.
A series of blinks keep her eyes wet, water dribbling over her forehead, her cheeks. Gliding down the line of her neck. Tifa stares and stares and stares. She tries to rid the idea that plagues her mind. She can't do that—it's gross. It's bad. That's Aerith's bunny. It would be so naughty if she played with it, too.
Tifa crouches, picks up the toy and lets it shimmy in her hand. She acts quick before she changes her mind—juggles the vibrator as she uses the nub of her arm to pump soap directly to her palm, shuffling to wash it as much as she can. Then she leans against the wall, slides to the floor as she sits and lets the water bombard her. She almost doesn't notice it, too enamored with the energetic little rabbit she carries.
This is bad, this is bad—she shouldn't do this. It's probably not sanitary. Maybe Aerith will be mad if she finds out. But it's too late, Tifa's already spreading her legs, lets her knees hit the wall and the edge of the tub as she leans back.
Her gaze plummets, she sees herself stretched, her folds pulled apart. She's already swollen. It's so ugly but beautiful somehow, watching the blossoming of her own sex. Like rose petals being pulled apart. She finds the most sensitive piece of her core, a stiff pink bead. It's raw, it scares her to touch it by herself. Cloud is the expert of her body—but Tifa should be, too. She should know herself even better.
The bunny buzzes, makes her hand go numb the longer she holds it. She doesn't wait anymore, pressing it between her legs with caution.
She stifles a yelp—bites her lip as she whines through the movement. It tickles—it feels funny. It buzzes directly against swollen nerves, but after a second, something happens. Something different—intense. Unlike what she's felt before with Cloud. Not better or worse. Just different.
Tifa becomes less stiff, her body relaxes under the stream of water that scatters over her. She's not afraid anymore—doesn't fear the comfort of pleasure by her own hand. She is safe, she is free—moves the pink bunny in little circles over her open core. The bathroom is bright, she can see everything—every droplet that douses her flesh, the pores on the folds of her sex. Her own audience, she performs for herself. And the goal is not to be the best, but to feel. Tifa wants to feel everything, to share her feelings through every movement she makes.
She groans, shuts her eyes, rolls her neck against the tile of the wall. Buckles her hips into the rabbit. It buzzes and sings to her core, the vibrations traveling all over her body, to the tips of her breasts, swelling on her mouth. Tifa feels good, she is free. She ascends the ecstasy only she can grant herself. Climbs until she reaches the top, stands at the edge of a mountain and she looks down, watches the downfall of pleasure that awaits her.
It's a long fall. A long, glorious fall. Her body jerks, slips and slides against slick porcelain. Painted in drizzling droplets that feel like she's being peppered in kisses. It feels amazing, how she brings herself to life with her own hand. Tifa didn't realize she held such power. Her eyes burst open—she stares at the shifting white of the ceiling and sees God. She's free—Tifa is free. She is beautiful and powerful. And no one can stop her.
When she crashes from her high, Tifa feels a little ashamed for using Aerith's toy. She scrubs it clean, returns it to its hiding spot. She briefly dries herself as she gets out of the shower, droplets from her hair forming a tiny puddle on the floor. Tucking the towel over her breasts, Tifa tiptoes out of the bathroom, quietly opening the bedroom door and slipping inside without drawing attention to herself.
The room is dark, she hears noise coming from the TV. Cloud sits on the bed, propped against a stack of pillows. He holds a controller, a knee pulled to his chest so he can rest his elbow there and balance his cellphone against his shoulder. His hair is damp, he wears grey sweatpants and a black wife beater. His body is on display for her. Toned arms sculpted in deep curves, broad shoulders plated in firm deltoids. His neck is long and lengthened as he reaches his ear to his phone. She sees the sparkle of his earring. Cloud looks like a bad boy. And Tifa was being a bad girl in the bathroom.
She leans against the door, slips her hand over the knob so she can twist the lock. Cloud doesn't really acknowledge her. He stares at the screen as he talks on the phone and strangles the controller in manic mashing.
"Reno, I was there. I saw it. Wedge says Yuffie told him to look up some video called two girls and a cup. He was dumb enough to do it at work—"
Tifa doesn't pay attention to what he says. Her heart is beating too fast, it clogs her ears, gets stuck halfway up her throat. She thought she took care of herself in the bathroom, but it only made her hunger worse. She sees Cloud look so sexy on the bed, his skin bathed in the shadows of the evening, every sharp edge and curve of him etched in greyscale. His shirt hugs his body, exposing the dip of his collar bone, embossed chest muscles. His hair is golden and messy, frames his face and makes him look even cuter. And Tifa gets hot standing there, watching him play his game and talk to his friend. Tifa wants to play a game, too. She wants to play with Cloud.
"—He calls Cid, says his computer got a virus. Dumbass leaves it on. We get up there, and you will not believe what the fuck was on his screen—"
Cloud is laughing, chuckles through his words. A smile plasters over his lips and dimples dot his cheek. He's so cute when he smiles, it makes Tifa's insides twist in her stomach. Her toes curl on the carpet, her butt kneads against the door. She doesn't want to interrupt him, but she almost doesn't care. She wants it right now. Cloud can talk to his friends later. He can play his game some other time. He has to take care of Tifa now.
She walks over to the bed, climbs on top with the stealth of a snake. The sheets wrinkle as she crawls over to him. Her hair drips, dotting her trail on the blanket. Cloud is still talking—she surprises him when she pulls the controller from his grasp. His knee straightens, he struggles to hold the phone. The towel slips when she climbs on top of him, binding her knees to his hips.
He stares at her with ample eyes, blinding crystals shrinking against dilated pupils. He stammers to speak into the phone. "Uh, R—Reno, I'll call you back."
He doesn't wait for a response as he shuts it closed, chucking it to the other side of the bed. It misses, tramples to the floor. Cloud doesn't notice. The towel bunches around her hips, and his hands are all over Tifa. His rips the towel off her, throws it to the floor. It makes her feel funny how excited he gets. She twitches between her legs, a fresh new round of desire overtaking her.
Tifa is impatient, she already starts rubbing herself against his bulge. Cloud always takes too long, taking his time with her. But Tifa is too horny. Heavy lidded eyes, her mouth agape—she pulls his shirt up to his chest so she can look at his body, splays her hand on his stomach to balance herself. She feels the divots of muscle engraved in solid flesh. He's a few shades darker than her, even in the muted darkness she sees the difference of their complexions.
He grunts, grabs her breasts in a rough squeeze that has her squirming against him. "I'm always so happy when I get to see you naked," he gushes.
When he flicks her nipples, Tifa groans, rolling her neck as her hair fans over her shoulders. Cloud is hard, she feels him press between her legs. It makes it worse—her desire possesses her, turns her into another person. Demanding and aggressive, she loses herself in his ministrations at the tips of her breasts, his desire hoisted at her sex.
He kisses her throat, nipping her skin as he devours her, slides his tongue over the expanse of her neck. His hand slips, finds the center of her body. She's almost numb there from the vibrations of the toy only minutes ago. He growls against her throat, starts swirling his fingers over her sex.
"You're already so fucking wet—"
No, Tifa already took care of this. She wants to have sex. Cloud won't shut up, she gets annoyed. She uses all her strength to push him down, crushing the tower of pillows so he's on his back. He stares up at her in a state of delirium as she straddles him, yanks his hand from her thighs and sees her slick bind his fingers.
"Stop talking," she orders him in a commanding tone she almost doesn't even recognize. His hands fall to her waist like he's an eager soldier ready to serve her. She likes looking at him like this—with his shirt pulled up and that willing gaze in his eyes.
He nods, fighting the smile that tries to claim his lips. "Yes ma'am."
Tifa feels herself twitch between her legs. And she works quickly then—Cloud helps her pull his sweatpants and boxers past his hips until his length is freed. It springs from its confines, smacks her belly in a lewd slap. He's so hard and firm, spilling his arousal from the slit and she glares, holding him—she rolls him in her fist just to get a reaction. He heaves steam from his nose, looks at her like he wants to ravage her, but he restrains himself. Tifa just wants him to sit there and be good, to let her have her way with him.
She lifts her hips, aligns him with her entrance. Slowly, she sinks down, feels him stretch her out as he fills her to the hilt. Cloud groans beneath her, elongates his neck—she starts moving, fast, energetically. Curves her back and leans forward as her hips are possessed, her pelvis slamming against him. She's so wet that she can hear the joining of their bodies, the slopping, vulgar sound that splatters over the room, blending with the chaotic harmony of their panting breaths.
Cloud strains his face, squeezes her stomach as he holds her. Tifa takes him frantically, like she's lost control of her body, her hips willing themselves to move on their own as she bounces on his length. She drips a puddle near his navel, he's doused in sweat and her slick. Tifa was clean, but now she's dirty again. She feels him hit her cervix, and she clenches him from inside her.
Cloud listens, he lies there and doesn't move. He doesn't talk. He just lets Tifa do what she wants. And she wants to use him the way she used Aerith's pink bunny. She wants to make herself feel good. And she likes that it's Cloud—that's he's a real warm, living body. And he loves her, he takes care of her. He helps her discover herself and the power she holds in her own pleasure.
Tifa feels good—she feels so good. Her body is on fire, her skin basked in flames that make her sensitive. Her nipples pucker, begging for attention. And she whimpers, lowers herself so that their bodies are pasted together by the tackiness of their sweat. She kisses him, licks his lips and crashes her teeth to his. Kissing him sloppily, with a ravenous hunger that spills out of her. She tries to tell him what she wants, he already knows.
She arches her spine and undulates against him, feeling him slip in and out of her through the tide of her body. His hands trickle over her ribs, clasping her breasts. Tifa moans in his mouth, her drool dribbling down her chin. His tongue swipes her lips so he can drink her spit. Tifa likes it—she spits in his mouth, sees it hang over his lip. He takes it from her, lets her do it again as he pinches her nipples between his fingers. Twists them, swirls gentle strokes with the edges of his thumbs.
Tifa is hot—she's so hot. She takes him a little faster, a lot harder. Her body goes crazy above him as she smears her spit on his lips, gnashes her pelvis so her hip bones slam into his. She's on the edge—Tifa wants to come. She wants to crash as a lifeless heap in Cloud's arms. She lifts herself, digs her nails into his chest as she clamps her palm between his breasts. Her back bends in a delicious curve that's painful, and she shifts her hips up, gasps at the sensation of the new angle. And Tifa moves.
He grasps her waist, holds her steady, watches her with those strained eyes and clenched teeth, her drool stained on his face. Tifa takes him, takes his body and uses him to get off. But it's okay—Cloud gets off, too. When she plunges her hips so hard and so deep, her breasts bouncing with the motion of her hostility—Cloud stares at her so hard, watching her aroused face and bounding breasts, her hair thrown over her shoulder, her hips stuttering when her orgasm finally hits her—
It's sudden and warm and makes Tifa go crazy. She gasps through the sensation, lets it envelope her body in a heated rush that escalates. Claims her in a deliverance that has her keep going and going and going—she's so manic that Cloud's already gone, he comes with her because she's so furious in her lovemaking. He can't hold on anymore—but she keeps moving anyway. He grabs her, pulls her down to his chest, grunts through his orgasm as he fills her with an oozing warmth. Tifa squirms against him, gasping for breath, trying to fight the affection he gives her, so crazed in her release that her body seizes—
And she crashes. It's over. She's a comatose pile on top of him. Tifa can't move, their bodies are glued together by sweat. Their heartbeats collide, creating a frantic rhythm of clashing drums. She struggles to catch her breath, feeling his arms wrap around her, holding her close to him. Cloud nuzzles her neck, stirring her back to life. She hears the commotion from the TV, feels him rake his knuckles over the bones of her spine.
Tifa is a little embarrassed now. She was so hot that she went crazy. Did she really spit in his mouth? That's so gross. Why did she do that? She wonders if he liked it. Maybe he did, Cloud doesn't say otherwise.
And now Tifa is sleepy. It's not that late, but she exhausted herself from all the stimulation. She climbs off Cloud, swallows a grunt as she feels him slip out of her, his spend trickling down her thigh. She reaches for the tissue box at the bedside table, cleans herself up. Cloud still lies beside her, stares at the ceiling like he's absolutely spent. Tifa's never seen him like this. Is he okay?
When she curls up next to him, she pulls his shirt back down, snaps the waistband of his sweats over his hips so he's covered and tucked inside his pants. She searches for his warmth, cuddling against him as she uses his chest as a pillow. It takes a moment for Cloud to respond, for him to slip his arm around her, lugging her closer to him and encasing her in his heat.
Tifa feels peaceful basking in her post-orgasmic bliss. Cloud smells good, he's warm and yummy, the scent of soap and old cologne and the fresh smell of sex is peppered all over him. She breathes him in, nestles her cheek on his firm chest. His heart is going crazy, stammering against her ear. When Tifa lifts her head, her hair spills over his shoulder, paints him in black ink. Cloud looks dazed, his eyes half-opened.
"Are you okay?" she asks in a quiet, timid voice. She's afraid she might have somehow broken him.
Cloud blinks, chewing his bottom lip. His hand lazily reaches to pet her head, towing her back down against him. "I—I'm fine."
Tifa should get up and put some clothes on, but she's too comfortable now snuggled up next to Cloud. He keeps her warm, she'll be okay. She doesn't know why she suddenly feels so happy. It's a sensation she doesn't want to go away. Her exhaustion blends with a bubbliness that has her twisting beside him, trying to get impossibly close as she lengthens her neck, pecks little kisses all over his cheek, at the edge of his jaw.
Cloud finally snaps back to reality, uses the back of his hand to wipe the drool on his chin. He reacts, huffs a laugh as Tifa serenades him in affection. When he tilts his head, he catches one of her kisses on his mouth.
"You're insatiable," he murmurs through a chuckle while Tifa fidgets in his embrace, pressing wet marks on his cheek.
"I can't kiss you?" she asks in a small voice.
Cloud shifts against her, getting more comfortable as his arm coils around her. "Kiss me all you want."
~oOo~
Cloud figures Tifa is probably jerking off in the shower.
Every night this week she comes back to the room in just a towel and totally ravages him, interrupting whatever bullshit he's doing. It's really fucking hot—he likes that she leads the sex and he just sits there and takes it. She even does some nasty shit like spitting in his mouth. Fuck, he can't get enough of her like this.
Tonight, he waits for her on the bed, in the same position for her to ransack his body. He lies low, resting against two pillows. He's been making it easier for her, he's mostly undressed, but he keeps his boxers on so he doesn't seem too desperate. His laptop is on his chest, burning his skin, but it's fine. He'll make this quick.
He scrolls through his Myspace. It's not nearly as revolting as it used to be. Yuffie still messages him, but he's learned to ignore the links she sends. He's looking for a specific post this time. It only takes him a second to find it.
Pictures of Reno's dog. But these are different—Tifa is in them. He finally convinced her to go over to Reno's apartment the other week, and she got to meet the dog. Reno took pictures. Seeing the little crusty chihuahua on Tifa's lap pulls at Cloud's heartstrings—there aren't that many of them, and the few he has are only reserved for her. She smiles and looks so happy. Shit—Cloud needs to get Reno to give him his dog. If he can see that smile on Tifa's face every day, Cloud is willing to do anything.
He right clicks, saves all the pictures to his hard drive. He has a folder he keeps with pictures of Tifa. There aren't too many of them, but he hopes to fill it with memories of her.
When he refreshes the page, he sees a notification for a new message. Cloud doesn't check it, he knows it's Yuffie on some bullshit, probably trying to infect his computer with a scat porn virus. Hearing the rustling of the doorknob, he shuts his laptop, scrambles to get it under his bed before Tifa comes in.
Her hair is dripping, her body cloaked in a towel. Glistening skin from the dewy droplets of her shower. She glimmers like a star that lost its way, searching for the moon, but she finds him instead. Her eyes are dark, encased by expanding pupils. She's beautiful—he can never get enough of her, watching her, devouring her body with his eyes. The way she rolls her ankles, grips the carpet with her toes. Tifa always says she looks weird—but Cloud doesn't see it. He's so in love with her, he's blind to her handicap—so used to it now, Tifa has always looked this way to him—beautiful and perfect.
She's a little shy tonight, hesitates to climb on the bed to get to him. Her cheeks are flushed, it carries down her neck, disappears in her towel. Cloud sits up, straightens his back and glances at her as she slides next to him.
"Hey." He scans her, crossing his arms over his chest as he tries to hide the smug look that wants to invade his face. "How was your shower?"
Tifa silences him, crawls on top of his body, her hair spilling droplets over his stomach. When she straddles him, she lets the towel drop around her hips. Cloud discards it, starts palming her immediately. Her skin is hot to the touch, her breasts feel heavy in his hands.
Cloud behaves—he lets her do what she wants. He loves the vision of her losing control, getting off on his dick. He loves to see her confidence the more independent she becomes. He loves seeing Tifa smile as she cuddles an old dog. He loves to see her growth, because Cloud loves Tifa. He loves her so much.
~oOo~
Tifa vows to herself that she will stop using Aerith's bunny, because it's gross.
She washes it thoroughly after each use, but there's still something yucky about sharing it. So, she tries using her hand instead. It's not as intense, and it takes longer for her to come, but she enjoys the experience. She likes to touch herself lying in bed in the late morning, before dance practice when Cloud is at work.
She works herself between her legs, her panties pulled down to her ankles. She comes to the image of Cloud because she always misses him so much during the day, and she doesn't get to see him until nighttime when she comes back from dancing.
But now she can quell the desire she feels when he's not home. She doesn't have to wait hours for him to come back and handle it. Tifa discovers freedom through the power of her hand. And she touches herself so much, she's afraid she'll become addicted to it.
Tifa carries that newfound power with her to the studio. She masturbates before rehearsal, and the remnants of her high follow her. She walks differently, carries herself a little taller. She's already thinking about the next time she's going to do it. It excites her, like a secret she keeps with herself. Tifa's been having sex for almost a year, but she only now starts to feel herself becoming a sexual person, that her sexuality ties to her identity.
And it moves her—in the sway of her hips, the curve of her back. She feels it in the tips of her toes when she's in relevé—long and lengthened, her neck arched back as she spins, feeling the breeze swirl around her. She bleeds vulnerability through her dance. She feels so empowered that she forgets her pain—it disappears in that moment. There is only Tifa, the dance floor, and her body.
She dances, and she's almost naked—wears her black leotard, but no tights. Barefoot, balanced on the balls of her feet. Her legs stretch, she holds her shin to her face. Bends and twists—moves her arms and watches herself in the line of mirrors.
Tifa forgets—she forgets the horrible thing that happened to her. She doesn't see a freak—she doesn't see anything. Not specific body parts—just the dance. Her arms are there, they move as she glides, framing her body, painting a picture against the floor. Tifa is an artist—her body is the ink that spills, splashing an image that tells the story of the music. She is visual poetry—Tifa is free. She is free.
And she cries from the weight she releases, the raw emotion she displays. She cries and keeps dancing even when the music stops—turning, turning, balanced on one foot, the other bent in a piqué. She spots herself in the mirror with each spin, going faster, lifting higher. Tears splatter off her face and drizzle a rainfall in the air.
And she stops herself, catches her breath. The room doesn't spin, she is balanced. She holds her chest, feeling the frantic pulse of her heart. Her face is wet, her skin sticky as her tears already start to dry. Her hair falls from her bun, she pulls it out, lets it bounce off her shoulders in messy waves.
And Andrea is there, he steps closer to her. Looking like he always does, but a little different every day. But he regresses, watches her with narrow eyes, stroking fine hairs on his chin. Scanning her from head to toe like he's inspired—as she wears a leotard and nothing else, nothing to hide her legs or restrain her breasts, her hair unbound and just as free as she feels. Sweat drips off her body, and she glistens like she's coated in glitter.
Andrea gets close to her, and Tifa tenses, swallows the lump in her throat. She doesn't know what he's going to say, if he'll approve. She holds the nub of her arm for comfort, thumbs the puckered skin where the joint used to be.
She sees the wheels turning in his gaze. She thinks she might have inspired him. And she drops her breath when he nods, patting her shoulders unexpectedly.
"This I can work with."