Chapter 2: The Starlight Proposal
The neon glow of Seventh Heaven faded behind me, swallowed by the labyrinth of corrugated steel and dripping pipes that was the Sector 7 slums. I took my time, deliberately choosing the longer route towards the Wall Market sector. The air was cool and damp, carrying the metallic scent of the reactor’s runoff. I wanted to give her every second she needed. An hour was an eternity to change your mind, and part of me wondered if I’d be standing alone outside a locked door.
Near the ruined church, a splash of color caught my eye. A girl in a faded pink dress stood beside a basket of flowers, their vibrancy a rebellion against the surrounding gray. They were real, not holograms, their petals soft and fragile. I bought a small bunch of lilies, their white stark and pure. The girl smiled, a quick, shy thing, and tucked my gil away without a word.
The market was a riot of noise and stink. I navigated the crowd, my hand never far from the hilt of my knife. I found a vendor selling liquor from behind a wire grate. The wine wasn’t great, but it was a deep red and didn’t smell like vinegar. The condoms came from a different stall, a grim-faced old woman handing me the foil packets without a glance. Extra-thin. I shoved them deep into my coat pocket.
The Starlight Inn’s buzzing sign was a lie. There were no stars here, only the perpetual orange haze of the plate’s underbelly. The courtyard was a graveyard for machinery. My boots crunched on rust flakes as I approached the door marked with a peeling ‘7’. I stood there for a full minute, listening to the distant rumble of a train, the thump of music from a nearby club. Then I knocked, three firm raps.
The door opened a few inches, then wider.
She was there, haloed by the warm yellow light from within. Fresh from the shower. Her jet-black hair was damp, darker, clinging to her neck and the sides of her face. She wore a simple white tank top, thin enough that I could see the shadow of her nipples, the tight curve of her breasts unrestrained. Her shorts were shockingly brief, showing the powerful, sculpted length of her thighs. She was barefoot. She looked younger, and utterly defenseless in a way that had nothing to do with physical strength.
Her amber eyes were wide, nervous. She smelled of clean skin and cheap, soapy jasmine.
“Hey,” she said, her voice smaller than it had been in the bar.
I didn’t step forward. I held out the lilies. “For you.”
She stared at them, then at me. A slow, deep blush spread from her cheeks down her throat, disappearing into the neckline of her tank top. It was a raw, unprofessional reaction. Beautiful. Her fingers, delicate but strong, took the stems from me. She brought them to her nose, inhaling.
“No one’s ever…” she trailed off, shaking her head slightly. The tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. A real smile, tentative and sweet, touched her lips. “Thank you, Ron. They’re… really nice.”
She stepped back, opening the door fully. “Come in. It’s not much.”
I entered, and she closed the door behind me, the click of the lock echoing in the small space. The room was exactly as advertised: clean, sparse, dominated by a large bed with a faded floral spread. A single chair sat by a small window overlooking a dark alley. The hum of the market was a muted drone. It was a world away from the sticky bar and the backroom.
She moved to the small sink, filling a cloudy glass with water for the flowers. I set the bottle of wine on the narrow dresser, the clink of glass on particle board loud in the quiet. I shrugged off my coat, laying it over the back of the chair, my sword leaning beside it.
When she turned back, she had composed herself, but the flowers in their makeshift vase were a stark, innocent centerpiece on the dresser. She leaned against it, crossing her arms, which pushed her breasts together. A defensive, yet inviting posture. The bartender was gone. This was just Tifa, in a strange room with a man who’d paid her.
“So,” she said.
“So,” I echoed. I didn’t crowd her. I stayed near the foot of the bed, giving her space. “You closed up okay?”
“Yeah. Wedge is covering for me tomorrow. Told him I wasn’t feeling well.” She said it with a slight wince, as if the lie tasted bad.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” I said softly. “About anything.”
She uncrossed her arms, letting her hands fall to her sides. “I know. That’s what’s weird.” She looked at the wine. “You want a drink?”
“In a minute.” I took a step closer, just one. “Come here.”
She hesitated, then pushed off the dresser and closed the distance between us, stopping just out of arm’s reach. Her eyes searched mine, looking for the trap, the cruelty, the transactional gleam. I kept my hands at my sides.
“This is the part where you usually give the rules,” I said.
She nodded, chewing her bottom lip. “Right. Rules. No… intercourse. Obviously. I don’t… I can’t.”
“Noted,” I said, my voice low. “What do you want, Tifa? Right now. Not what the menu says. What do you want?”
The question seemed to surprise her. Her breath hitched. Her gaze dropped to my chest, then lower, before flicking back up. The blush returned. “I… I want you to kiss me,” she whispered, the admission sounding torn from her. “Like it’s not part of the job. Is that… is that included?”
A thick, heavy heat settled in my gut. My cock, already half-hard since she opened the door, stirred aggressively against my pants.
“That’s free of charge,” I murmured.
I closed the final space between us. I didn’t grab her. I brought one hand up, slowly, letting her track its movement, and cupped the side of her face. Her skin was warm, damp at the hairline. She leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut.
I bent my head and kissed her.
It was soft, at first. Just a brush of my lips against hers. They were full, yielding. She made a small sound in her throat, a whimper that was all relief. Her hands came up, resting tentatively on my waist. I deepened the kiss, slowly, my tongue tracing the seam of her lips. She opened for me, and the taste of her was clean, sharp, uniquely Tifa.
The kiss unraveled something in her. Her hands slid up my back, pulling me closer with a strength that was all martial artist. Her body pressed against mine, the soft, heavy weight of her breasts flattening against my chest, the firm muscle of her thighs aligning with mine. She kissed me back with a growing hunger, a pent-up urgency that had nothing to do with performance.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing heavily. Her lips were swollen, her eyes dazed and dark.
“Okay,” she breathed, her forehead resting against my shoulder. “That was… okay.”
I chuckled, the sound rumbling in my chest. My hand slid from her face down the column of her neck, my thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. “Just okay?”
She looked up, a flicker of her old playful defiance in her eyes. “For a mercenary. You’re not terrible.” Her own hand drifted down, palming the thick, hard ridge of my erection through my pants. Her eyes widened slightly at the size. “Holy shit. You weren’t kidding.”
“Told you,” I grunted, my hips pushing reflexively into her touch.
Her fingers found the button of my jeans, popped it with a deft twist. The zipper rasped halfway down.
I caught her wrist, gentle but firm. “Wait.”
Her eyes snapped up to mine, confused, a flicker of defensive hurt surfacing. “What’s wrong?”
“Not a damn thing,” I said, my voice rough. I brought her captured hand up, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. I just… want to look at you. You’re so fucking pretty, Tifa. It’s insane.” My gaze traveled over her face, the damp hair, the full lips, then down the incredible landscape of her body—the powerful shoulders, the heavy curve of her breasts under the thin cotton, the narrow waist flaring to hips those shorts barely contained. “This body. It’s a masterpiece. How is there not a line of guys from here to the plate trying to be with you?” I loosened my grip on her wrist, letting my hand slide down to hold hers. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
The question acted like a pin. The confident, playful woman from a moment ago vanished. Her shoulders slumped inward. She looked down at the worn carpet, her whole posture deflating. “Not… not anymore.”
I stayed quiet, just holding her hand, letting the silence ask the question.
“His name was Zeke,” she said to the floor, her voice flat. “He was a mechanic. Good guy. He… he figured it out. Saw a soldier leaving too much money on the bar, put it together. He said he loved me, but he couldn’t share me.” She gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “He didn’t get that it wasn’t about sharing. It was about keeping the lights on. Keeping AVAL— keeping people safe.”
I put a finger under her chin, applying the lightest pressure until she lifted her face. Her amber eyes were shiny, but fierce, refusing to let tears fall. That strength, even in hurt, stole my breath.
“Listen to me,” I said, my thumb stroking her jaw. “Zeke was a fool. Tonight isn’t about what I can take. I want to make you feel good. Just you.” I brought her hand to my chest, over my pounding heart. “My promise? These pants stay on until you’re sighing, until you’re satisfied. However you want that to look.”
She searched my face, her vulnerability a tangible thing in the small room. Then she giggled, a soft, watery sound that broke the tension. She nodded, slow and deliberate. “Okay. But if you spring that monster out without my say-so, I’m kicking your ass. Tournament rules. No weapons.”
“Deal,” I grinned, the threat somehow more intimate than any touch.
I shuffled closer, eliminating the last inch between us. My free hand, the one not holding hers, settled on the pale, bare strip of her stomach where her tank top had ridden up. Her skin was fever-warm, smooth as polished stone over the defined, rigid plane of her abdominal muscles. They tensed under my palm at the contact, a fighter’s instinctual flinch, then gradually relaxed as I traced the subtle ridges with my fingertips.
Her breath shuddered out, warm against my neck. The fighter in her was surrendering, piece by piece, to the woman. I watched her eyelashes flutter, her lips part slightly. This was the threshold.
Gently, I tucked a damp strand of her hair behind her ear. My fingers lingered on the shell, tracing its delicate curve. “Easy,” I murmured, my voice a low vibration in the quiet room. “Just feel.”
I leaned in, letting my lips brush the sensitive skin of her temple. She exhaled, a soft sigh. I kissed the hinge of her jaw, then the strong cord of her neck, just below her ear. My hands settled on her hips, firm but not demanding. “Come with me,” I whispered into her skin, my words a warm caress against her pulse.
I guided her backwards, one slow step at a time, towards the waiting bed. Each retreating step was a minor victory. My mouth never left her skin, tracing a burning path from her temple to the hollow behind her ear, then down the exquisite line of her neck. She trembled, her hands finding my shoulders for balance, her head tilting to grant me better access.
The backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress. She froze for a second, the reality of the bed a tangible barrier. Then, with a look of pure trust that speared me straight through the chest, she let herself sit. The old springs groaned softly beneath her weight. She looked up at me, amber eyes wide and dark, her body framed by the faded floral spread.
I didn’t join her. Instead, I lowered myself to the floor, the worn carpet rough against my knees. I was at her eye level now, but subordinate. The power dynamic from the bar was utterly inverted.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice husky with confusion and a thread of excitement.
“Appreciating the view,” I said, my gaze intent. I reached for her left foot. It was, as I’d noted earlier, surprisingly delicate for a martial artist, the arch high, the toes neatly aligned. I cradled it in my hands, my thumb pressing into the instep. She jumped at the contact, a small, reflexive jerk.
I bent my head and pressed a kiss to the top of her foot, just below her ankle bone. Her skin tasted of soap and salt. I felt her shiver. I kissed my way up, my lips a slow brand along the hard curve of her calf, over the dense, sculpted muscle earned from a thousand kicks. My hands slid up to support her leg, fingertips digging in just enough to feel the incredible power thrumming beneath the skin.
I reached her knee, kissing the sensitive hollow behind it. A sharp gasp escaped her. I moved inward, my lips trailing fire along the incredibly soft skin of her inner thigh. The scent of her, clean from the shower but now underpinned by something warmer, muskier, flooded my senses. Her muscles quivered under my mouth. I could see the thin, gray fabric of her shorts growing darker, a damp shadow spreading from the core of her.
My progress was achingly slow, deliberate. I neared the junction of her thighs. Her breathing was ragged, each inhale a sharp pull. She was gripping the bedspread in white-knuckled fists, her knuckles stark against the pattern.
I kissed the damp fabric directly over the heart of her heat. The material was soaked through, warm and clingy. I could feel the distinct, swollen shape of her through it. I pressed my mouth there, firm, letting my breath heat her further.
“Ron—” My name tore from her throat, a strangled plea.
I looked up, my chin nearly brushing her inner thigh. Her head was thrown back, the line of her throat exposed and straining. Her eyes were squeezed shut. The damp spot on her shorts was undeniable, a dark bloom of pure need.
“Tell me to stop,” I said, my voice gravel. “Say the word and I get up, we open that wine, we just talk.”
Her eyes opened. They swam with a chaos of feeling—shame, desire, a wild, unfettered hunger. She shook her head, once, a sharp, defiant motion. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Her command hung in the air, a permission slip written in fire. I didn’t need telling twice.
I kissed her again through the thin cotton of her shorts, my lips closing on the swollen, distinct bud of her clit. I inhaled, and her smell filled me—clean sweat, that faint jasmine soap, and the deep, essential musk of her arousal. The fabric was a damp, hot barrier, and I worked my mouth against her, applying firm, rhythmic pressure.
She cried out, a sharp, surprised sound that broke into a moan. Her hips jerked off the bed, seeking more friction, more contact. I slid my hands under her, grasping the full, perfect curves of her ass, holding her steady as I feasted on her through the cloth. Her thighs trembled against my ears.
I looked up at her, checking in. Her face was a portrait of unraveling control. “You know,” I said, my voice muffled against her heat, “if I wind up spending a thousand gil just to lick your pussy, it’d be the best money I ever spent.”
The tension shattered. She giggled, warmly, genuinely, the sound mixing with her panting breaths. It was the most beautiful noise I’d heard in years. In that moment, the bartender, the fighter, the transaction—all of it melted away. Then, wordlessly, she arched her ass slightly off the bed, a clear, eager invitation.
I hooked my fingers into the sides of her tiny shorts. The wet fabric resisted for a second before yielding. I pulled them down, over the powerful swell of her hips, down the taut length of her thighs, past her knees. She helped with a slight kick, and then they were gone, discarded on the floor beside me.
My first view of Tifa’s pussy took my breath away.
It was perfectly framed by the powerful lines of her thighs, a stunning contrast of softness and strength. Neat, dark curls lay damp against her skin. Her lips were flushed a deep, gorgeous pink, swollen and glistening with her desire. She was completely bare to me, open, and so utterly exquisite it made my chest ache.
I didn't speak. Words were useless now. I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t known I was holding, the sound one of pure reverence. Then I leaned forward and tasted her, properly, for the first time.
My tongue slid through her folds, gathering her essence. She was salty, musky, perfect. She gasped, her hands flying to my hair, not pushing or guiding, just clutching. I found her clit again, that hardened, sensitive peak, and circled it with the flat of my tongue, slowly, watching her body bow.
“Oh, gods,” she choked out, her hips lifting off the bed.
I held her down with an arm across her stomach, feeling the hard muscle there contract and release. I licked her like a man savoring his last meal, with slow, devoted laps, then focused, teasing flicks. I slid a finger down, finding her entrance, and pushed inside, just to the first knuckle. She was so hot, so tight, clenching around nothing.
“More,” she begged, the word torn from her. “Please, Ron.”
I added a second finger, stretching her gently, my mouth never leaving her clit. Her breath came in sharp, ragged sobs. The sheets twisted in her fists. I crooked my fingers, searching, and when I found that rough, spongy spot inside her, she screamed.
It wasn’t a loud scream. It was guttural, broken, like it had been ripped from a hidden, wounded place. Her whole body tightened, a bowstring pulled to its limit. Her thighs clamped against my head, her back arching impossibly high. I kept my mouth on her, my fingers working inside her, relentless, as she shattered.
The waves of her orgasm pulsed around my fingers, a rhythmic, gripping flutter. I rode them with her, softening my tongue to gentle laps as the intensity peaked and began to ebb. Her body went slack, collapsing back onto the mattress with a heavy, breathless sigh. The room was silent save for our ragged breathing and the distant, ever-present hum of the plate.
I slowly withdrew my fingers, bringing them to my mouth to taste her fully. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dazed, tracked the movement. A fresh blush darkened her cheeks.
I rested my cheek on her inner thigh, feeling the muscle twitch in aftershocks. Her skin was fever-hot and damp. We stayed like that for a long moment, the only sound our breathing settling back into rhythm.
Finally, I pushed myself up from the floor, my knees protesting. I sat on the edge of the bed beside her hip. She looked wrecked in the best way—hair fanned out, lips parted, a sheen of sweat making her glow in the low light. Her amber eyes found mine, soft and unguarded.
“Okay?” I asked, my voice rough.
A slow, dazed smile spread across her face. “Okay,” she whispered. Then her gaze flicked down to the prominent bulge straining my jeans. Her smile turned sly, a hint of the playful bartender returning. “Your pants are still on.”
“They are,” I agreed, not moving.
She propped herself up on her elbows, her breasts shifting enticingly under the thin tank top. The vulnerability was still there, but layered with a new, curious confidence. “That was part of the deal. You don’t get to break your own rules, mercenary.” She reached out, her fingers brushing the button of my jeans. “A deal’s a deal.”
“A deal’s a deal,” she said, her fingers working the button of my jeans. It popped open with a soft click. The sound was obscenely loud. She looked up at me through her lashes, that new confidence warring with a flicker of shyness. “My satisfaction’s been recorded. Officially. So these,” she tugged at my zipper, “are now forfeit.”
“Who’s the mercenary here?” I asked, my voice tight as the denizen strained against the opening fabric.
“Right now,” she whispered, leaning up to brush her lips against mine, “I think I am.” Her kiss was slow, deep, tasting of herself and our shared heat. As she kissed me, her hand slid inside my jeans, her cool fingers wrapping around the thick base of my cock. A jolt of pure lightning shot up my spine. Her eyes flew open, wide with genuine shock. She broke the kiss, looking down. “Oh.”
“Told you,” I grunted, my hips lifting slightly into her grasp.
“You said a can of beer. You undersold it.” She gave an experimental stroke, her touch firm, exploring. Her thumb rubbed over the slick head. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “This is a problem solver.”
I laughed, the sound rusty and real. I caught her wrist, stilling her hand. “My turn.”
I leaned over her, my shadow swallowing the light. She sank back into the pillows, watching me, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The thin white cotton of her tank top was practically transparent now, clinging to her skin with a faint dampness. I lowered my head, my lips finding the slope of her pale, heavy breast just above the fabric’s edge. The skin was impossibly soft, warm, smelling of soap and her unique salt. I kissed a slow trail upwards.
I could see her nipple pebbling through the thin top, a dark, hard peak straining against the worn cotton. I closed my mouth over it, sucking hungrily. The damp material grew slick, conforming perfectly to the rigid nub as I drew it deeper.
She gasped, a sharp, shattered sound. Her hands flew to my hair, tangling in the strands, holding me there against her. Not guiding, just anchoring. Her back arched, pushing her breast more fully into my mouth. I suckled, alternating pressure, my tongue circling the stiff outline through the fabric. A low, continuous moan vibrated in her chest.
I released her nipple with a soft, wet sound. The cotton was dark and transparent where I’d worked it. I lifted my head, meeting her dazed, needy gaze. “Tease,” she breathed.
“Absolutely,” I agreed, my voice rough. I shifted my attention to her other breast, capturing that neglected nipple through the top with the same hungry insistence. I tasted the faint starch of the cotton, the salt of her skin beneath. She groaned, her head thrashing side to side on the pillow. Her hands in my hair tightened, urging me on.
With my free hand, I trailed my fingers down the quivering plane of her stomach, through the damp curls, and found her heat again. She was so wet, swollen, open. I slipped a finger back inside her sex, then another, sinking deep into that incredible, clinging warmth.
She cried out, her hips bucking off the bed, driving my fingers deeper. Her inner muscles clamped down in a rhythmic, involuntary pulse. “Ron—please—”
“Please what?” I murmured against her breast, my fingers curling inside her, stroking that rough spot that made her toes curl.
“I want to see it,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Let me see. Let me touch you. Properly.”
I withdrew my fingers slowly, bringing them to my lips. I kept my mouth on her nipple, sucking gently as I tasted her again. “Soon,” I promised, the word muffled against her. “I’m not done up here yet.”