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“!@#$%^&, !@#$%^&(), !@#$%^ !@#@%^# %**#@$@#!,” the mountain of a man muttered beneath his breath, staring hard at the aged and scratched-up grain of the bar’s counter. It was getting to be too much for him, it really was. The stress of his war against Shinra, of being a single father, of managing his rag-tag rebels…after his statement-making stunt, his cell was cut off from the greater whole of AVALANCHE, not disavowed but distant from any support, logistical or financial. Things were not looking good.
“!@#$%^&(@#$ cowards,” he groused, and tightened his fist around the shot glass with the misfortune of holding his next drink. Compared to the size and scale of his remaining hand, it was a pathetic little thing, practically a thimble, and he’d need three dozen more like it to get as wasted as he wanted to be. Already being a dozen in though, he had a decent buzz going on.
His eyes, shaded despite it being two hours to midnight and stuck within a dimly-lit bar besides, lifted and stared up at the television mounted over the bar. The volume was muted, not that he cared to stand up and fumble for the button that would switch it back on. Considering the peak of his crew-cut hair brought him just over 6’7, it wouldn’t have needed much more than a lean forward. Closed captions were not on, but he didn’t need them to know what the news anchors were kvetching about. Again and again and again since it happened, they had replayed the footage of Reactor No. 1 being blown to smithereens, hammering into AVALANCHE as terrorists, claiming they had been financially motivated.
That they had pressed for ransom. Bullshit.
“!@#$%%^W%@#! pieces of !@#@$@$%,” he muttered again, and at last threw back his shot.
Seeing the reactor go to kingdom come should’ve been a rallying cry, not something that AVALANCHE’s secret brass saw and denounced as going too far, taking on too much heat too quickly. “What the !#@$$@%%%@# do they think they’ll do, pussyfooting !@#$%%#? Not going to bring Shinra down by inconveniencing the !@#@$%%@%#%ing !@@#@$@$$@ of !#@$@$$$@$@ with little things,” he muttered, finding no solace in another mouthful of shitty liquor.
Shitty liquor was all they could afford, in Seventh Heaven. Shitty liquor was all he ever tasted. Beneath the bar though, tucked away in a place he doubted even their bartender had seen, he was keeping a bottle of bubbly, the kind of shit you needed to jackpot at the Golden Saucer to ever sample. Fell off the back of a truck somewhere. Originally, it had been a gift for Dyne, something to He intended to pop the cork on that bad boy it to celebrate his grand proclamation of open action against Shinra
Hadn’t worked out, though. He didn’t fool himself into thinking clearing his plan of action with AVALANCHE’s head cheeses would have changed anything. They wanted to do a little safely and wait for some big moment that Barret Wallace knew would never come about. No great monolith came crashing down from erosion. AVALANCHE needed to be like its name: fucking terrifying, an unstoppable force of nature, for the sake of the nature being raped and abused by Shinra and all its subsidaries and corporate partners.
“!@$%%@%#$,” Barret scoffed and slammed his shot back down, bringing his stump up to wipe at his mouth. He didn’t think twice about wearing the gatling gun attachment around and about. Not around anywhere Marlene was, though, and definitely not while he was drinking. His darling little daughter was asleep two buildings over, in Marle’s care for the evening, and he wasn’t ever going to risk her. That, and his people would be livid if he shot another television. The one mounted above the bar was new but not exactly legally obtained. The gun moratorium came after Reactor No. 1, go figure.
But…
For all of that, it was not the real source of his stress. Not that or having to raise a child in the slums of Sector 7, which he found more of a joy, frankly. No: what had Barret’s goat was managing his rag-tag band of rebels. But that wasn’t altogether fair to most of them. He hoped going through six dozen shots might bury his real problem.
Jessie? Fantastic. The woman made shit happen. Biggs had the brain that didn't go with Barret's brawn and bravado-first leadership. Wedge had a heart of gold and kept everyone feeling good about themselves and the mission, plus cats. Guy had so many fucking cats. “!@#$#%#%@# pussies,” Barret muttered. “Love !@$#@$@#$@ pussy cats.” He really did, and so did Marlene, but he didn’t feel it would be wise to have one in 7th Heaven.
Cloud? Blondie? SOLDIER boy? He was a piece of shit sellsword who wasn’t willing to fight for the cause for its own sake, and for that reason Barret disdained the man on a personal level. On a practical level– well, yeah, the guy was an ex-SOLDIER and he had proved his worth. He was worth every gil they spent. If they hadn’t lost funding and weren’t desperate to scrape it together, Barret would’ve been ready to re-up their informal contract. Still would’ve cussed and bitched about it, but he cussed and bitched about a lot of things.
Except…
Barret stared down and into his empty shot glass, as though trying to use Telekinesis materia to bring over a bottle and pour it full of more shitty liquor. He hadn’t cussed or bitched about the thing that had him riled up. Couldn’t, not in good conscience. Not without feeling like a piece of shit. And so he drank alone in the bar he may as well have owned, the sign in its window turned to ‘CLOSED’ with the same weight of a declaration of mourning.
No drink surfaced. He could have just got up and gone around and grabbed a bottle himself, but… she didn’t like that, no she did not. She, the problem. He was trying not to think about her but she was always there, in his head or in his dreams or in his proximity. The problem… it was a recent thing. She hadn’t always been. Fifteen years his junior, he had never looked twice at her. Not like that. She was just another one of his gang, a member of his cell, a soldier in the good fight. She was a bit of Jessie and a bit of Biggs and a bit of Wedge and frankly? She was a bit of Cloud too. A fine fucking shitkicker, in Barret’s preferred parlance. All of that, and a damn good bartender, able to hold down the fort at home base.
The fact that she was a hot piece of ass, well. That hadn’t mattered to Barret. He was way too old for her. He knew she was beautiful but if he even thought about a woman in a romantic sense, his first thought was going to be whether or not they could contribute to Marlene’s childhood in a meaningful way.
And that was the worst thing about it, honest-to-fucking-Planet. She was too fucking young for him but things had changed, and she was fucking great with Marlene. A fully-fucking-grown woman but still too young. Too young to be a mother to a five year old, especially. Wouldn’t have even been legal when Marlene was born. “!@#@$#%#%#$,” Barret scowled.
He didn’t blame Cloud for the shift, unsubtle as it was and as obvious as the connection was. In a fair world, Barret would have recognized promptly that what he was noticing about her was intended for Cloud’s eyes, and not his. Maybe then, he would have been able to calmly discuss the issue with the woman in question. As easy as saying, ‘hey woman, your childhood crush arrived and since then you’ve started wearing less, and you’re showing off in a way that he clearly doesn’t care for but is distracting the rest of us’.
In a fair world, Midgar would have risen up against Shinra when the No. 1 Reactor went bye-bye.
Hell, in a fair world, Shinra wouldn’t have ever gotten off the ground to begin with.
In his unfair world, it seemed more like sexual harassment from her than friendly-fire.
Even then, as he put off the inevitable, he could hear her. The scuff of her broom on the floor, still on the other side of the room. Her soft hum. The thump of her boots. It got him twitching. Nothing untoward about any of it, but it left her on the edge of his mind, and he could picture the way her hips shifted as she went… the way that her hair swung, begging for his hand… the way her ass’ cheeks pressed against the seat of her skirt…
Finally, he sucked in a breath and grimaced. Liquor was not going to pour itself. “!@#%#%^$@,” he spat, and then called her name. “Tifa! You done yet?” She had said she wouldn’t pour another drink for him until she had cleaned up for the night. Wanted to have a drink herself, apparently. Wanted to have it with him. Wanted to pick his brain. He knew he should’ve said ‘fuck that’ and gotten his own a while ago.
“Almost,” Tifa called back cheerfully, like having him hold-over on another drink was an innocent thing, a playful little bit of tease. “Give me a minute.”
He should’ve fucking left but for as much as he couldn’t be around her, he couldn’t not be around her too. It was too fucking much. She was too fucking much. If she wasn’t so fucking goddamn sexy… fuck, if she had just kept wearing the athletic shorts under her skirt or that heavy duty sports bra— Planet damn it all, couldn’t she have at least kept the heavy duty sports bra? Being bright and winsome and wholesome did not give her permission to swagger around with those weapons of mass destruction swinging around! She should’ve known not to open carry like that.
Even without all the shit-ass liquor he had tossed back, even stone-cold dry, Barret wouldn’t have picked up on his own hypocrisy there. Not with her around. It was just too hard to be around her dressed like that, and ‘it’ in this case referred less to his general existence and more to the less-generalized existence of his hard cock. At least his pants were roomy, built with an eye towards a gentleman of his size, and if Barret was one thing, he knew it was that he was a fucking gentleman. Sat down, downplaying it got even easier. He’d gotten into the habit of making sure his stump was between his libido’s intent to tent up and Tifa at any given moment.
“!#@$#@%#%#W% @$@$%#@%#@% $@$#@#%#ing !#@$#@$#%#%#@% @$#@$@#@#@$,” Barret growled-grumble-muttered to himself, a string of foul language that would have made Wedge blanched and Biggs stressing out over how to contain a Grenade Bomb. Jessie might have lost it cackling if not for the implications, somewhat harrowing. And Tifa—
He should’ve tried to think of something else but no, instead, he thought of Tifa. How happy she was when she managed to reconnect with Cloud, and how enthusastic she was on selling Barret and Biggs on hiring him. Then and there, the mountain of the man did not appreciate that they would be his last days with the Tifa he’d gotten to love. PLATONICALLY. Almost father-like! Soldierly! A warrior in the good fight! She had been so delighted when he got off the train, seeming to Barret like a little too slender and a little too pretty for what he was supposed to excel at (violence, violence and more violence).
Cloud didn’t seem to share that excitement or appreciate hers, and that made for the last day with the Tifa he knew, period. The next day harkened the change in her wardrobe, and a new bounce to every action Tifa took. Not just for the sake of being cute, but literal too, considering the new armor she slotted her Big Mamma-Jamma materia into. The unneeded stretching and jumps, exercise routines that probably didn’t need to happen in the middle of 7th Heaven. Getting up on the bar to change lightbulbs, even! Shit like that, Barret hoped was just an unfortunate incidental affected by Tifa’s outfit overhaul, but he didn’t know for certain. Maybe she sabotaged the bulbs overnight in anticipation of climbing up there and giving them all a good peek.
—Truly, the math was all there. And he wasn’t a stupid man, was he? He’d even been pretty damn fucking good at math in school, for as shitty a school as they had in Corel, anyway. But maybe his problem was that he saw the situation too clearly, and read a little too deep into it: the guy Tifa had been all hopped-up to get with wasn’t interested, and she was obviously trying to lure someone (namely him, Barret, future hero responsible for Shinra’s downfall and protagonist of his own story) into being her rebound. A little balm on her bruised ego, or some shit.
Maybe his liver was a little less iron-made than he figured, the way his mind was going. Or maybe he was just a little worse off for those years poured into being a single daddy-o. Whatever the case was, it sure as shit didn’t help that he hadn’t known the touch of a woman since he strapped a fucking gatling gun to his stump and made it a daily accessory. Tifa’s tifaness just made the dry spell come to the fore, now, and it was an excruciating thing.
“Alright!” Tifa announced, with the up-swing and -clack- of the foot-pedal garbage can’s lid swinging up, signalling the dump of everything swept up. “All done. I’m all yours, now,” she said, starting her way across the room.
Her choice of words were unfortunate and made a vein near Barret’s temple twitch visibly, but they were not yet enough to form the core of their coming crisis. “‘bout !@#$%^ time, woman,” he grunted, releasing his shot glass and slowly turning to look over his shoulder and watch her approach. Tifa had that big, long, stiff pole in hand, but not the one that was just about dying to meet her. The dust-pan was clipped into place just over the broom’s head. “Don’t !#@$@%ing know why you @$#%%@!$% bothered, won’t be anyone coming in here tomorrow.”
7th Heaven’s popularity waxed and waned. Tifa was a star attraction… but most of the Sector 7 slums had an inkling of what the bar really was, and they had a healthy respect for their own mortality.
“Not with that attitude,” Tifa smirked at him, leaning the broom against a pillar and pausing to stretch her arms– always with the fucking stretches! At least pulling one arm across her chest and lifting the other over it got in the way of her personal speed bags. Though, comparing them to Mako Reactors might have been more apt. If she was deliberately stretching in a way that hid her tits behind her arms, then her arms were as effective as just a few trees hiding the Planet-polluting Shinra bullshit behind it. They were just too big to be hidden. “But a little early happy hour will get business rolling, just wait and see,” she said, switching arms.
Through his shades, Tifa couldn’t see where his eyes went. Big reason for wearing them indoors right there, nevermind the fact that they were equally ridiculous to wear out in the slums. Living under the Great Pizza in the sky, they were never in danger of getting too much sunlight. His eyes didn’t feast on her chest but rather her exposed midriff. For all the strength in her core, she showed very little sculpting there, a little hint of abs rather than proper definition, retaining a slimness to her silhouette. As she leaned from either side for the stretch, her hips led the movement.
They were damn fine hips. A mama’s shape, for sure. Wide and ready to rock as much as roll, and in his dreams (very wet ones, since her change), Barret often dreamed of himself as a man in full once more. Yeah, losing a hand sucked, but he never regretted it so much as he did these recent days, knowing he could never grab Tifa by both of hers. Not that he ever would. Not that he ever COULD, because he was a better fucking man than that and she was fifteen years younger. Obviously. But good luck telling that to his brain. —Damn fine hips.
Not the star of the show, though, not by far. They were wide but Tifa’s unleashed chest had no comparison and the punk must have known that. Barret gave a delayed, distracted grunt and turned forward before his silence made his stare obvious. “Sure. Yeah.”
She was beside him a moment later, smelling like no woman beneath the pizza plate ought to– clean and crisp with a hint of perfume. Mountain flowers, from her own podunk mountain-adjacent town, not his, but homely. “Thanks for waiting,” she said, not even doing him the decency of taking a seat two stools over, where he would have a buffer.
“Yeah,” Barret grunted, and watched through the corner of his eye as she proceeded to do what he kept himself from, like a good fucking guest in the bar he owned. She leaned over, her long, thick and sheeny mane of brunette hair hanging aside. Thick and full, it wasn’t practical for a soldier of the good fight and without a bit of binding near its end, it would’ve run almost down to her thighs. Instead, it fell almost perfectly at the mid-point of her ass, and along where he imagined her ass’ crack to be anyway.
Athletic shorts. Stockings. Tifa had a preference for short skirts that allowed her legs plenty of movement, and she had always worn things that kept her decent while exercising those options. Big emphasis on that had, though. The skirt she had on was nothing new, but it was all long leg, all shapely calf and thigh now. He had seen her throw a kick the other week that flashed a quick glance at her panties, and well. She kicked fast. That blue blur was stuck in his memory, longing for its details to be filled. Though her hips couldn’t match the power of her tits, the backside they supported was ample and did all it could to help, its firm cheeks almost clear-cut against the strain of the skirt.
Too tight a skirt for martial arts, had to be. But she kept with it. “So, um,” Tifa was saying, and she’d probably been saying other things that Barret’s brain filtered out until she neared the point, “you’ve been talking to Cloud, right?” she asked, as her fingers found a bottle of shitty liquor. For herself, she hooked a pint, remaining leaned over long enough to fill it to the brim via their tap of Cosmo Canyon Cranberry Lite.
“... Yeah,” Barret said verbosely, and forced his eyes towards the television as Tifa took her seat. Still way too close. With her own drink taken care of, she opened the shitty bottle of shitty liquor for him and poured out a shot.
“Just business stuff?”
“... Yeah.”
“Has he, um…” Tifa slid over his shot and he took it, tossing it back right away. She picked up her frothing pint and took a careful sip before continuing her question, “Said anything about me? He’s been so distant and I guess… I don’t know, I was hoping—”
She jolted mid-sip when Barret slammed his empty shot back down and grunted, “Another.” Set down her pint dutifully though, and gave him another of his mouth-swill. “Hasn’t, no. Blondie doesn’t have a lot to say about anything.” He glanced at her. That was a mistake. Over and down found her shifted to face him, her back arched just a bit, her shoulders back, her face serious. There was disappointment on that pretty thing, and plenty to read into if Barret took a breath, took a minute and put himself in her shoes. But his own shoes were all boots, custom-made, and Tifa could have slid her own steel-toed shitkickers into his and walked around comfortably.
Instead of reading into her face, he read into her cleavage. Her new choice of tank-tops tended to have a scooping neckline, and too small for her size besides. But they didn’t show much more than that most of the time, just the size and the swell and her, and the swing too, frankly. Whatever brasseries Tifa was running with, they couldn’t have been great for mobility and comfort. Posed so, though, and viewed from on high—
Just as well for her to be drinking Cosmo Canyon. Over a dozen shots into his night, Barret could see the cosmos in the canyon of her cleavage. It wasn’t a perfect thing, her skin. She sported a long, years-old scar that crossed over her left breast’s side, from the near-death injury that ought to have left her crippled for life. It did not detract from the whole of its presentation, though, not one bit. Wouldn’t have been a canyon if it was all perfect, pristine skin. No other marks, though, no blemishes, no spots, no moles, no freckles. Just milky white milkers, !#@$@$%#% !#@$@#$@$ing !#@$#$#%&! Barret thought to himself without an ounce of shame and then several ounces on top of it. Some irritation ladled over it drowned out any self-blame that might have been assigned.
He was a big man. He knew some big women. He had never met one with a quarter of Tifa’s fitness that maintained such a rack that seemed unhealthy. Back when he let himself think about women more often, he’d been into those harder chicks, able to take it and give it in spades, but he always wished for a little more on them. A little more than his huge hand could handle. Still though, she was too young for him. Couldn’t be a mama to Marlene. Couldn’t…
“—you know? And it’s like… it’s like he’s after forgetting so much of what made him into who he used to be. Sometimes I can see a hint of it in his eyes, but when I do, it’s like catching an angle that lets me see through the bars of the cage he’s put up around himself. And then I lose it, and he seems like a wall to me again. All brick,” Tifa was saying again.
Barret grunted and thought about brick houses and the ways they were stacked, and tossed back his shot. He wasn’t usually a listener. In this case, he was not listening at all. His shot slammed back down on the counter as Tifa went to take her second sip from the pint.
Oh, she was quick. Agile on her feet and deft with her hands, which had a damn strong grip. Could bench plenty, Tifa Lockhart: Barret would have hesitated to arm wrestle her on a good day, that’s how fucked her strength seemed. But her mind and her mouth and her heart were all pouring it out to him, needing to talk to someone about what was bothering her.
No amount of physical prowess could have prevented her from jolting a second time at Barret’s bash against the wood, and her forearm just so happened to be leaned against its edge and caught its quake. Her whole arm felt it. Her shoulder jerked and her fingers twitched and it happened, then, the thing that would come to define the remainder of her life and of Barret’s too. It was a small thing and an innocent thing and an accident at best, but it made for ripples like a stone cast across a lake’s water. Small as they might have seemed, they would reach distant shores.
Not that the ripples seemed that small at all, considering the size of Tifa Lockhart’s Nibelheim-made all naturals. Barret went dead still and dead quiet and stared hard at them.
***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***-***
“Oh. Fuck.” Tifa stared down at herself with immediate embarassment and annoyance. The pint glass clacked on the counter as she released it, half-empty despite her one-and-a-half sips not even amounting to an inch off the top.
The rest of her Cosmo Canyon Cranberry Lite left her white tank-top wet and clingy. Could have been worse. Could have been so much worse, but Ms. Tifa Lockhart knew what she had and did not make it a habit of leaving her bedroom without her girls' supported. They needed it and they were worth it and well frankly, keeping back pain at bay was a big point in favor of foregoing titty freedom from the moment she woke up to the minute she went to sleep. The color of her supportive wear peeked through nice and clean against the fabric, black… and evidently lace, at that.
Tifa had intended for it to be a big day, for her. For Cloud. Maybe the day. She only owned one such bra– not common at all in the slums under Midgar’s upper crust –but she saved it for special occasions, when she wanted to feel powerful and sexy.
It had not been a big day. Not even a day, in the grand scheme of their relationship. Unloading her baggage on to Barret had been helping, even if it only got started. Biggs and Wedge, well, she didn’t want to rant to guys her age about it. Jessie’s advice would have gotten a bit… racy, she knew. But Barret had been around the block and she never worried about where she stood with him. He was trusted, someone she felt safe around. Not her father, not her father figure, but almost to that point. He was certainly the dad of their little family unit.
—Could have been worse. If something like that happened with Cloud there, it would have left Tifa mortified. One of the guys or a customer?
Humiliating. But Barret, with Barret she could just be embarrassed and annoyed and not even feel like her mouth was befouled through saying a cuss-word. Something felt off though, in the way he grunted. He didn’t leap to say sorry or throw something over her, the way Tifa might have expected him to– not immediately, but an expectation that would come after the fact.
Not dangerous, though. With Barret, Tifa was safe. “Sorry. Uh,” she said with flushed cheeks and a glance up at his face, shades on, gaze hovering on her without a change to his expression. “All this time pouring drinks, and this is the first I’ve ever spilled something on myself,” she laughed, and not a ha-ha, he-he laugh, but a this-sucks, all discontent. Her hands splayed aside of her chest, to avoid getting her fingers damp or something that might dry funky on her fingerless gloves.
“Yeah,” Barret said, and he said it simply. He said it stonily, and had she the time to spend on a bit of hindsight, Tifa would have realized every other monosyllable had been likewise, flat and restrained. But it had just happened and she was in a rush, feeling no need to be frantic about it. Her mind was already on how she would handle it.
“Let me um, just grab a towel down here and then head upstairs for a shirt, I guess,” she said more to herself than him. Sleep shirt, probably? Not like I’ll be doing anything else tonight. She slipped down from her stool, boots hitting the scuffed and stained floor, and started to slip past Barret, towards where the bar’s counter would lift and let her get to where the magic would happen, if more people came in and ordered cocktails.
Four steps. A second and a half, maybe. That’s how far she got and how much time passed before she stopped in her tracks, and not of her own volition. Barret did not turn in his stool. His hand just went out for her. Maybe he meant to snatch her wrist. That’s what she assumed, even though he’d gotten a fistful of her hair instead, near where it was tied off, down low. Close to her ass. The immediacy of her stop kept it from being pulled and Barret, he didn’t tug on it.
She stopped and looked back at him, for a moment wordless and confused, for a moment awaiting clarity. It would come to her slowly and she would wait for it, as Barret shifted his lumbering frame around on the stool that seemed paltry beneath his mountainous heft. His weight was something else, and it added to the weight of the moment itself. Up went his stump, lacking the fingers to remove his shades and fold them up and put them away precisely. They could push up his brow, though, until they sat astride his head like the informal crown of their AVALANCHE cell’s leader.
Tifa had a chance to speak. Plenty of chances to speak. But uncertainty kept her waiting, knowing that an answer was coming her way, and trusting that it would be a good one. Grabbing her hair? Probably an accident. He had a lot to drink, maybe it was well-intended. She could tell him nice and easy to let go in a second and it wouldn’t be a problem.
“Tif,” Barret said as his eyes met hers, not at all beady in his face but so small relative to the cliff-face of his features, strong and proud and determined. That downplayed their brown, a lighter sort than hers, which were more brick-like in hue. Larger too in their almondine shape, with lashes thickened just a tad for her planned play against Cloud, and brows that had benefitted from an otherwise unnoticeable touch-up.
“... Yeah?” Tifa asked, and she still felt safe. It was Barret. Barret, a big teddy bear of a man, like an oversized moogle doll in the presence of his daughter. Just a little drunk and maybe not considering the overtones, she figured.
“Not gonna lie to you. Getting real !@#$%ing sick of this #@$#%@$% shit. This week has !@#$%^ing sucked and I ain’t putting up with another minute of it,” he told her. He gave her the floor, so to speak, as his lip curled. “You want it so bad, you could have !@#$%^@$ing asked for it !#!$#%#%ing days ago.”
She just stared at him, lips parted, trying to do the math in her head. The math was all there for Barret, and he’d come to the wrongest of answers. It slid into place for her quickly enough, what he was getting at, but not the crucial misunderstanding. Her words, with the faintest hint of affront, did not clarify the issue at hand. She didn’t realize yet what it was. “I– no, no way, that’s not how I want things to be,” she said.
Her thoughts scrambled over his meaning and her denial. Yes, she wanted to attract Cloud but she wasn’t in a rush to… to go to that next step with him. Not that she was prudish or against the idea, it just wasn’t an immediate desire!
Oh, but it wouldn’t have helped if she had included ‘with him’. Barret probably would have taken it to be some third-person reference to himself and just rolled with it.
It sure as shit wouldn’t have helped if she managed to go into a full-on ramble that would have left it unambiguous the only eye she meant to attract was Cloud’s. Not because Barret wouldn’t have believed her, or anything like that– the ramble just would have needed time to build to its critical mass. And Barret’s culled patience would not allow her the opportunity to get that ball rolling.
He rose, and compared to the sound of Tifa rising, light on her toes, he was a rockslide, an AVALANCHE in human form, the truest embodiment of their namesake and intent. And that rockslide was coming down on Tifa hard and fast and without a hint of mercy. “!@#$%^,” he said, and Tifa blinked and flinched back as though he had slapped her. It was just a word, just a blink of one, and not one he lingered on, but what a shock it was to hear him call her bitch. “If you ain’t hungry for my cock, why the !@#$%^ did you spend the last week teasing it?” he scowled at her.
Tifa felt herself go cold, icy, almost frozen, definitely numb. She wasn’t… afraid of Barret, not even then. But she would need a twin to come close to covering his wingspan with hers, and over a foot of height besides. That size difference was noticeable. She felt small around him but never vulnerable, never in danger. She wasn’t sure that was what she was feeling right then and there but it was the closest comparison, and the abruptness of it all, the wild wrongness of it all, it kept Tifa from blurting out a denial, a correction.
Barret wasn’t a bad looking guy. He was handsome. A little scary, not to her but in his intensity, sure. But he wasn’t the guy she wanted and had always thought she would end up with. Nevermind the fact he’d been... how old when she was born? He had to be twice her age, right? He could be her father.
He released her hair. His one step into her personal space amounted to the avalanche burying her. It truly went that quick. Tifa hadn’t learned martial arts for the sake of beating guys off of her person. She didn’t do self-defense. When someone got inappropriate with her in a way where a quick word didn’t correct things, she was quick. She was brutal. She ended it before it got started and corrected any presumption of her figure or friendly attitude leaving her soft or susceptible—
With strangers and assholes, though. All those times were with strangers and assholes, not her fearless leader. Not a man she respected and was as close a thing to a father as she had in Midgar.
His right arm moved and he seemed to reach down and something touched Tifa’s ass through her skirt. It wasn’t a hand. Would she have jumped into action if she had felt a grip? — Probably not. All the same, she knew there was something touching her backside, just not what. Just under it, blunt and curled and pulling her in. Into him. Tifa had hugged him before but he had never hugged back. Not her, not Jessie, not Wedge. Only Marlene got that much overt affection from him.
Tifa gave a grunt as she slapped against the mass of meat that was Barret Wallace. It only felt like an embrace for a moment, and her arms moved of their own accord, as if to return it, unsure of what else she was expected to do. As they cleared up around his sides though, she realized the angle that he had her at, not full-on centered but her right pulled close, her left a little more open.
It felt like it was happening so slowly, but it was quick. From the first step, it was quick. He just did it. No ceremony to it, no warning.
Just— he grabbed it. His hand could handle it. Shocking enough that someone would dare to do it and manage to do it. Nobody ever had. But Barret had. Just now. It had happened. It was the only thing that happened to her, but it was a contradiction to everything that she knew. It wasn’t something that Barret would have done, so it couldn’t have been what happened. Or maybe, maybe– ignore what he was saying, maybe he just wanted to help her with the wet top. And he just didn’t think about how he was doing it. That made sense.
“Uh,” Tifa heard herself say, and she meant to say it in an amiable way, but she heard how much of a damn squeak it was in her throat, colored by the sensation of him squeezing her covered breast. A tentative squeeze, the same way one might feel out if a pimple would pop. “I’ve got it under control,” she said.
“!@#@$#%$, you think after all that, I’m under control?” Barret asked her, anger and disbelief married on his gobsmacked face. “!@$@$@$, !#$@$@$#. Under control!” he scoffed, disparagingly. “This !@!#@$. This !@#!@ing !#!#@$,” he crowed to himself. The bra kept her from feeling his grope all that directly, but the size of his hand ensured he caught some of what made up her cleavage. “!@!$@#$, I’ll show you control,” he said.
And then they were face-to-face. Tifa heard her little flutter of a grunt, and it was a second longer for her to appreciate it was less of a ‘he just stooped to my level’ and more that he had picked her up, able to scoop her with his stump. Control, indeed. Her heart’s slowed beating spiked right back up as he turned them both around, and her hands went to his forearm as though to grab it. Not pry, though. “Wait,” she said. “Slow down, Barret–”
“Drop the !@#$%ing act, Tif. I ain’t playing. I’m !@#%^ing sick of playing,” he told her, and for all his drinking, he sounded stone cold sober. “No more !@#$%ing around for you. Time to find out,” he said, his sentiment punctuated by the fall of her ass upon the bar’s counter.
And with her body being set down, the illusion of anything happening slowly broke. Shattered. Scattered. Not an iota of it remained. “T-this isn’t playing!” Tifa insisted, and she started to move forward, to get up or down or— which was it? Did it matter? Suddenly, such miniscule minutiae felt weighty as her mentor’s trademark Meteodrive. But she didn’t have the time to think it through. Didn’t have time to think about how to apply Zangan’s teachings. By the time her legs were ready to shove her feet down, Barret was there.
Between her thighs. Had she splayed her knees for him or had he pushed himself in there? “Damn !@#$%ing right it ain’t, !@#$%^,” the big man scowled, close enough that for all the sobriety of his tenor, she could smell the liquor on his breath. Then that mouth was up against hers, and Tifa could scratch off her first kiss. His beard itched around her mouth but mostly, she was aware of the immediacy of her body being invaded by him. His tongue was larger than hers but not in the colossal sense of their mismatched size.
—hadn’t even kissed Cloud when they were children, had she? Not one peck on the lips. And what Barret went for skipped that. She stilled against him, and in that stillness felt herself absorbed by all that was not still at all: mainly, her breast. First one and then the other, squeezed and plied, shoved and kneaded like he was trying to make bread. Her fingers remained on his arm but did little to stop him, not even trying. There were other ways for Barret to touch Tifa, and he did not hold himself back.
As he said: damn fucking right they were not playing. Tifa had to accept that fact when his stump introduced itself to her womanly core. Even through the lacy black panties that matched her bra, it was not a faint feeling. The spread of her legs had jilted her skirt up her thighs, but it wasn’t like the thing was long enough to protect her from what he did in the first place. She gasped plaintively into his kiss and tried to shirk back at last, releasing his groping hand’s wrist with one hand to blindly pat back along the bar.
Were it anyone but Barret, she might’ve grabbed that shitty bottle of liquor and made use of it. Her fingers found it but— but they just settled to the side of it, anchoring her weight, holding back on her escape. Tifa did not want what was happening to her, but she could not deny that there was something… pleasant to being touched. To having her womanhood and desirability affirmed by someone she was close to. Not the man that she wanted, but even so… even so… even so, No, he’s just not in his right mind. Oh, Planet.
She didn’t feel like she was in hers, either, having her tongue tangled and played with by his. That made Tifa’s shoulders squirm with discomfort, a discomfort stacked thrice by all the intrusions. The violation of her mouth was just the tip of an iceberg. Their kiss, her first, it dragged on. Paced and measured breathing was something that Zangan taught her, but she didn’t stick to it, and found her lungs longing for a clean inhale in short order.
A chance for that came about abruptly, when Barret pulled back, but Tifa had the wherewithal to use it another way: “Please, stop it—”
He wasn’t short of breath. He didn’t even seem to pause, his mouth going to the side, to her neck. His hard sniff of her perfumed neck was an inhale of a sort, but not a very practical one. “Reminds me of my !@#$%ing wife, gone to the !@#$^ing lifestream,” he growled, which quieted Tifa briefly. Barret seldom mentioned his wife. Then his lips were kissing that neck, and not in the way one would expect a man to kiss his long-missed wife at a long-awaited reunion. There was a bite to it, literal, and a suck too, and tongue to smooth it all over between.
She whimpered. Nobody unwanted had touched her before. She didn’t know how sensitive and ticklish her neck was to an intrusion. It hurt too, and it hurt, the betrayal, but— his hand kept prying at her tits. Those were as sensitive, if not more, the places yet-covered by lace demanding their share of attention. Her thighs tensed and her knees unwittingly bumped against the outside of Barret’s hips. Down there, the lace across her womanhood was thin. It was damp. It was receptive. A little abrasive, his stump’s rub, but she was wet and he was more welcome than not. Tifa tried to strangle her whimper, for what little it did. All that resulted in was a more torrid mewling.
—The bruise was well-formed by the time he broke off her neck, marked as his, her locked heart knew. But the sort of lock she had, it wasn’t much good against brute force and a stubborn will. He came back up and took her mouth again, and his hand traded places with his stump. They both lost the tactile pleasure of playing with Tifa’s Sector-famed breasts. For all their size, his fingers were deft, and they did not move drunkenly.
She felt the briefest lick of cool air upon her cunt’s lips, well-dampened by her body’s dew. Down there, now bare, Tifa was even more responsive. She’d gone all-out to feel sexy and primed for coaxing Cloud on to her. It probably wouldn’t have involved any nudity, sure, but she had gone further anyway. Just for confidence. Freshly shaven, smooth and unused to naked touch. Period. It was the first time that she’d been hairless down there, period.
All Barret had to do was pull them aside. She regretted trading out her athletic shorts, until his fingers were pushing inside her, finding a pink carpet rolled out for her. The walls of the reception hall therein were not quite prepared for someone like him, not even his fingers. Tifa had barely ever touched herself and certainly never used anything that might prepare her hole for something wider. It felt good. It shouldn’t have. It felt a bit bad still, and she could feel herself shaking with a fear that split the difference with her sexual excitement.
—Felt even better, once his fingers got moving, probing. Tifa might not have thought herself to be prudish but his thick fingers down there proved her wrong. She didn’t know what the fuck anything was. Intruding herself got her squirmy and giggling, but someone else doing it, someone who remembered whereabouts to touch to turn a woman’s life upside down? The busty brunette brawler was begging into his parted lips, begging loud and lewd without words. Might’ve felt to her like her tongue was trying to escape his, but it sure wasn’t. The sanctity of her mouth had nowhere to go.
Then came the pressure, right there. Right where he caressed. Right in that place that sent an undulation up her spine and seemed to spark her nerve endings like one of Shinra’s power lines severed clean and left to dangle for the six or seven weeks it would take them to dispatch someone to an impoverished area. Tifa could feel how her cunt’s tightness almost melted around him, and how quickly it tensed right back up, not wanting to give him a chance to pull that pushing finger away. One of her legs jerked up and hooked over the small of his back, far from discouraging. The strength of her prime ass-kickers indeed jerked him inward, more instinctive.
One of her hands remained clinging to the wrist of what now fucked her, and she at last squeezed into it, short nails digging in and scratching blood. But it didn’t stop him. If Tifa wanted to stop him, she knew just how far to slide her fingers along to attack the tendon that would make his hand go floppy as a limp dick. That was the comparison that came to mind, perhaps a subconscious warning of what was obviously not limp, not limp at all.
There was no stopping it now, what was coming, not without someone walking in the front door with blithe ignorance of the CLOSED sign. Cloud was off dealing with some side client a sector over, some flower girl none of them knew. Everyone else had their own apartment from 7th Heaven. Well, Jessie didn’t, but that girl had four boyfriends and three girlfriends and probably twice as many other beds she slept in on a regular basis.
The noise that Tifa’s body was making, not the muffled mewling but the sodden squelch of her needful hole, ought to have been upsetting to hear ears. It was lurid and wrong and she had asked him to stop but— the longer it went on, the less she remembered that. The more it just was, and the less it was just pleasant, being touched, being wanted. The less she thought. The less she knew. The more of that, the better.
She felt the thing coming, knowing not what it was but a doomtrain hurtling through all barriers. There was a desperation in her throat’s breathless keen at its apex, at the point of no return, a plea that Barret paid no mind to, a plea that Tifa would have shrieked and punched him for adhering to. Then it hit and her body exploded with an energy beyond what Zangan had taught her to master, and Tifa knew nothing, period. Everything was nothing and nothing was everything and she was crying and her cunt was crying too but its tears were of a different sort. What came of her cunt was not good or great or right: it was an awesome thing, and not in a casual sort of way.
Moments of slackness counterimposed with tight quivers, and her head lolled once Barret came away, grunting, breathing a bit hard himself at last. She panted, in comparison, and deep down knew her mouth to be lolling and herself to be drooling, just a tad. Not purposefully. Might’ve been his spit. But she was.
Less awesome, then, to have Barret push his finger into her mouth and rub across the flat of her tongue. She tasted herself on his skin. Tifa fancied herself a clean girl and that couldn’t have been hygienic, but her lips and cheeks slowly acquiesced to a squeeze and a suckle. There was a sharpness to the taste, and a tang too. “Know what that flavor is?” Barret growled in her ear.
Goosebumps flushed her skin. She made another plaintive noise, the closest thing to a no she could manage, and opened tear-blurred eyes to behold his angry face. He smirked at her and said it bluntly: “That’s the taste of an honest !@#$%ing whore, Tif. That’s the taste of what you !@#$%^ing are.” A tear trickled down her cheek but she couldn’t say it was born of hurt feelings. The same finger caught it and fed that to her too.
At last she asked, her voice shaking with a weakness she never knew, but felt glad of, “Are you… done?”
Another acquiescence there, subtle and unplanned, but all the same.
“No,” Barret said after a moment of nothing, and shoved her fingers off his wrist with his stump. “!@#$% no. You owe me something for all that, !@#$%. Get down and take off your clothes.”
“And that’s… that’ll be it?” Tifa asked quietly, meeting his eye, gnawing at her bottom lip. A bit of reciprocating seemed fair enough. She didn’t exactly want to do it, do what he did to her, but all the same, if it kept the peace… she wasn’t adverse to it either. Nothing felt all that strong to her then and there in the wake of bliss’ strongest punch.
She presumed much. She blamed herself for it all.
He wouldn’t be doing this if I hadn’t… even if I didn’t mean to… but was she regretting it?
“Yeah,” Barret grunted, and took another step back, and then another. Tifa wasn’t sure if she regretted the lead-up or what happened, but she could feel a part of herself that regretted his absence from her space. Down she slipped, and after a moment’s hesitation turned her back to him, not wanting to look him in the eye. The tank-top was still wet, and it clung to her curves as she pulled it up and off. The skin beneath was damp not just with her cranberry-flavored light beer, but also with traces of sweat.
It was the first time something so… uninvolved had gotten a sweat out of her.
Next went her skirt, unbuttoned and unzipped and pushed down until it cleared her knees and fell altogether. She didn’t feel great about leaving it on the floor, but her tank-top was dropped unceremoniously on the bar’s counter and it didn’t feel worth the effort of going any further. After that, Tifa unbuckled her gloves– the belt kept them nice and snug for punching –and set those down with more care.
She turned to face him, then, undressed in her eyes.
Not in his, though. Tifa had a strong awareness of her own space, but it had slipped her, the sound of Barret shuffling everything off. Including his boots. He stood there, all naked muscle and hair and… and… and… the sight of him disquieted her. Of him. Not the whole package, but the erection she’d been subconsciously fearing. It rose high, its size only downplayed by the angle it achieved, more three o’clock than four. The second her eyes were on it, Barret’s hand had his big black shaft under control.
His masturbation was not a languid thing, his meat thwacked hard. Something pulsed inside her cunt at that. Beneath the cock’s shade, Tifa noticed his balls too, big and burly as she would’ve expected. The whole of the package left her flustered and feeling suddenly dizzy, but not so dizzy that she didn’t look up and meet his eye when he said: “All the way, !@#$%^.”
Another moment’s hesitation, but a shorter one. Then, with an uncomfortable swallow, Tifa Lockhart reached down to the hips of her panties. Their crotch was still pulled to the side, exposing her to him, but he was clear in his wants. They slid down over her thighs smoothly, and she could not bring herself to break eye contact with him. Once they puddled around her boots, she stepped out of them and straightened, reaching back to unclasp her bra.
Their eye contact broke when it started to slip down her front, down along her arms. Barret’s nostrils flared as he became the first man to see them… while she was conscious, anyway, but that was a whole other thing, long dealt with. One day, their size would get the better of her and gravity would have their way with them, but Tifa did what she could to stave that day off. In her youth, they remained high, more supple than pert with their overripe swell. Her nipples were stiff tips upon her puffy areolae.
There was an impulse, then, to try at covering herself. She could hide her cunt, but her tits would be a losing battle. Even so, it was a battle she should have thought through, but the way he was looking at her… and what difference did it really make at this point, anyway…? He wanted her and he was going to have her and all Tifa could bring herself to say was, “Just once. Okay? Just once.”
His abandonment of eye contact justified her looking upon him, his cock’s crown now glistening damp. It seemed even larger than it had been a moment ago and she didn’t dare guess its size. Tifa forgot all about her boots, but there was a good reason not to leave her gloves on: she knew she’d need both hands for him.
“We’ll !@#$%ing see what you think about ‘just once’ after I’m through with you, !@#$%^,” Barret said softly, too softly. She didn’t like him continuing to use that word towards her but… she didn’t mind it either and that was a hard thing for Tifa to try and square. Her heart skipped a beat when he stepped towards her, once, twice, thrice, and then his cock was brushing her stomach. She swallowed and her fingers started to lower towards it. Between its length and their heights, its head almost came up to the bottom of her breasts. She didn’t dare guess its size but it was. Not. Small. Not even close to the average one might imagine, for a man of his scale.
Tifa just barely grazed it before the stump and hand took her by the waist and pushed her around. Surprise colored her sharp intake of breath, but she should’ve known better. Just once, and it would be with her hands? After making her get naked? After refusing to stop or slow down…? “Barret, hold– hold on a second,” she said, starting to twist her waist to look back at him.
… could’ve fought him, when he bent her over. When her ribs pushed down against the bar, breasts dangling over the side that she normally served from. Could’ve fought herself and kept her ankles close but no, those slid wide, and not just for the sake of adopting a pyramid-esque position for stability. Tifa grunted and grappled at the wooden counter, a counter she knew dozens of men had imagined having her upon, just like this. She managed to look over a shoulder and mumbled the warning she didn’t think she needed to issue. “This, this isn’t a good time for this.”
Tifa was a virgin but she wasn’t uneducated. What was about to happen– and there was no stopping it now! –held risks. But she didn’t say it more clearly than that. Being frank was beyond her. It would’ve made the situation all the more real.
“!@#$%, it’s the only time for this,” Barret scowled down at her, his stump pushed against the small of her back, a needless pin. His hand needed to handle the mammoth protruding from his pelvis, and it did so with an apt simplicity. For half a second, Tifa thought the thing rubbing against her twitching twat’s lips was his stump again, for how blunt it felt. Too small though, while not being small at all. “Could’ve just !@#$%ing asked for it any !@#$%ing time before now, but no, you wanted to show off with a wet !@#$%ing shirt,” he sneered.
“T-that’s not what, it was an accident–” Tifa protested weakly, that mewl already back in her voice, and her cunt tensing with anticipation, not to hold him back but eager to feel the return of Barret’s fingers inside of her. But what proceeded to push into her slickened folds was not a finger, no. It was longer and thicker and far fuller, and it had no mercy or pity for the one that had provoked its arousal.
The breach was a quick one, with how ready she was. It shouldn’t have been with her lack of experience, but on the other half of their baby-making equation, Barret had no shortage of brute force and no patience to taper it down with. A sharp little whimper colored the air once his head was pushing in, and it was at that point that Tifa’s fearless leader grabbed her hips, stump and hand in unison, and held nothing back with his Limit Break.
That thrust, the way it ripped right through her, Tifa would’ve believed it was his stump and not his cock. She would’ve believed he had fit the Cannon Ball or Pile Banger over his short-changed forearm, if he claimed it so. The only thing Barret had to say at that moment, though, it was a growl and one of raw victory, raw as his rawdogging. That thrust, it was a Hammer Blow, and not one Tifa would ever recover from. In an instant, any claim to innocence she had hopes of clinging on to… gone.
For part of that instant, his cock breezed across that sensitive little part of her he toyed with earlier, and that had promise. But the angle wasn’t right, and the pressure didn’t last, and the size of him was too much for her to take so suddenly, so violently. Shock muted her outward cry as her eyes surged wide and her body bumped forward, thighs banging against the bar counter, tits slapping against a nearby bottle and glass and sending them shattering to the floor.
He stretched her wide but she barely felt that. What Tifa felt was that hammer hitting her cervix, with room to spare and without much appreciation for the fact they wouldn’t be hilting. The first cry might’ve been muted but the groan thereafter was less so, leaving her weak and dazed. And fact was, those things just compounded upon how weak she had already proved to him: weak and unwilling to resist against his persistence, and all the weaker once she felt how good it could be.
For the second time that night, she used the most appropriate word for the situation, doubly so for how it now applied as a label: “FffffFFUCK,” came the gasp after the groan, and to a groan it returned right thereafter, bottom lip bitten savagely as her back tried to coil. Now inside her, though, Barret wasn’t looking to stay straight. He didn’t need a hand or a stump on her hips while he was inside her; the size of him and its demanded stretch ensured she was going nowhere, even without the bar pinning her.
Barret’s burly front came down against her back, and his hands helped themselves to the raw stuff of her heavenly breasts, all squeeze and pinch, now unrestrained and undeterred. When he teased her nipple directly for the first time, a whore’s hard hiss shot out from behind her bitten lip, eyes closing and squeezing tight. The closeness he achieved kept him in deep, in a place he had no business being deep, and kept him rubbing up against her womb’s defensive line.
Maybe a different kind of shock took her, from that. There was no hope of her finding any form of balance or equilibrium while he was going at her, but there was an undeniable pleasure found in the spasms he coursed through her with each of his savage thrusts. Barret’s stump couldn’t play with Tifa’s tits with the same grace as his remaining hand, but it ran along her side and abdomen, a massage-like stimulation that she found to be quite welcome.
“!@#$%ing cocktease finally getting what she !@#$%^ing deserves, ain’t she?” Barret growled in her ear, and finally, finally, finally Tifa felt an inkling—
“C-Cloud, I was– trying– to get–”
“Yeah. But you got me instead, and now this tight ass pussy of yours ain’t for nobody but me,” Barret growled, and in just a few words more dictated the course of the rest of their lives: “Fact is, after this, ain’t nobody but little old Barret is going to fit so nice and snug in you. You’re mine, girl. So be good for me.”
A word slipped out of her in reply, almost immediate. It wasn’t a word she had used in years, not since he passed away, and certainly not in such wanton surrender to the base desires shoved upon her. “Daddy,” she keened, and Barret’s next thrust seemed even rougher, as though the boy from a mining town thought he might manage to tap a deeper vein of ore within her.
It mostly just left her breathless and whimpering and desperate. Impulse pushed her hand to reach back for his, wanting to hold his hand, to interlace fingers. A lack of higher thought or consideration ensured it was his stump that she found, but Tifa held on to that thing tight all the same. Barret’s lips came down on her neck again, first behind her ear, then trailing, finding a place to form a second love-mark upon her.
Not that there was much love there, not between them. What they had going was all lust, inhibitions discarded, claims made. There were men who would have possessed Tifa before, if they had the opportunity to do so, but she never gave them the chance. Barret did not ask for a chance or beat around the bush. However they ended up where they were now… he had taken Tifa and made her his.
She hadn’t intended to sleep with Cloud that night, if things had worked out, if he hadn’t fucked off for that other job. But she would’ve, if he showed an interest in it, slutty or not. Tifa hadn’t touched herself a lot but the times that she had, she thought of him, and the hero he would be to her. He promised so much— Barret hadn’t promised shit but there they were, man and woman, all grunts and gasps and no shortage of pain. It felt good to Tifa. It felt right, as much as he absolutely should not have been where he was, and ought to have been going slow as a fucking snail. As much as his balls slapped her clit, it wasn’t enough to make up for his disregard for her cervix’s delicacy.
All the same— it felt right.
His fingers abandoned her breasts, leaving them sore and one sure to be smarting tomorrow with a bruise. That was just as well; her snatch was going to be sore and she was going to be walking funny, not just from having her hips jammed but from the bruises her thighs would have, hitting the bar so many times. Barret’s fingers gathered up Tifa’s long locks around his wrist, never slowing, never showing delicacy. Much of the brunette curtain had whipped free of the little binding near its end already, not that he sought to restore it. When the leash was formed, he pulled up, and her gasping head tossed back for him. Her back would have arched, if not for his stump pushing down on it.
Somehow, he went harder. He found it within himself to go harder. Tifa could feel his Angermax: the big Catastrophe was on its way and there was no bucking it now, even if someone walked in on them. She didn’t want him to stop (though he should have), but there was something she had to say, something he needed to understand. “Buh, buh, buhreeet,” she squealed out, struggling to manage something as simple as his name, when the thing to be addressed was complicated.
He did not acknowledge her but she wasn’t waiting for him to. “Rrrrrru, ru… iskyyyyy!” Tifa wallowed out. If he came inside of her… there was a chance… there was a chance and she didn’t have room for a baby in her plans, not until AVALANCHE succeeded at blowing Shinra sky-high.
Stone cold sobriety once more, shooting something both hot and cold straight through Tifa’s center: “Marlene would love a !@#$%ing younger sister,” he said. It was not lust or fear that shot through Tifa, though all the same she felt sick for a moment. That might’ve just been from yet another three or five or eight pushes against her cervix, though. “And I ain’t against raising your baby, !@#$%^. !@#$%ing !@#$%, Planet knows you were built for making ‘em.”
—Tifa’s eyes rolled at that, and not with a submission to pleasure. She wasn’t going to cum. He wasn’t fucking her with that intent. He’d given Tifa pleasure unwanted, and took his own unchallenged from her. Much lower and gravelly was the final exhale that marked Barret unloading, his cock making the Big Shot but his seed delivering the Mindblow that left Tifa whimpering, shaking. She could feel how full she was, though the parts of her that drank up his seed could not feel it so distinctly.
His mountainous weight remained atop her for a good five minutes afterward. Though Barret’s cock went soft within the first, his size was still poignant within her, even without a swell. He released her hair and let it spool out on the other side of the bar. Although Tifa’s shaking body longed to let her head loll and slip down from the bar, he kept her pinned there, and his hand refused to let her head drop. It came up under her throat, under her chin, its hold possessive but now gentle. He kissed her hickeys. He nibbled her ear.
His stumped arm ran over her side again, but under too, nuzzling her breasts as they hung, swaying slightly with every little movement of their bodies. It was not a quiet five minutes, though. Between kisses and licks and nibbles, he voiced quiet nothings that served to soothe, even punctuated crassly. He reiterated all those promises he already made and more.
Most of them flowed through her as readily as his seed would when he unplugged her hole, but one stuck, as his stump massaged her breast. “Made for this !@#$%ing !@#$%, seriously… body made for !@#$%ing, and these tits…? I love ‘em but they ain’t for no grown-ass man, girl. Be a real shame if you didn’t get to feed a kiddo with ‘em.”
That sentiment was lacking for the harshness and rough disregard he had elsewise shown her. In that sentiment, Tifa heard a hint of the Barret she knew and loved. Her first and only. He’d done something terrible, but— the love she had for him, it wasn’t just platonic anymore, was it?
She was his and she knew it. Even if he woke up from this mood tomorrow and begged forgiveness– oh, but Tifa knew he wouldn’t. His satisfaction was tactile and audible in their touching, and the sounds their bodies made. He had broken her and he had no problem buying her.
“My !@#$%^ing !@#$%^,” Barret whispered in her ear, at last, before beginning to withdraw. She flinched and let out a little whimper when she felt him slip out of her, left feeling far too empty, gaping with a want for his return. Still, he would not let her slip down and into a formless puddle: his hand and stump spread her ass for him to gaze upon the back-view of her plundered pussy, the true locked heart his cock had proved a capable key to. “Damn, girl. If you weren’t !@#$%ing lying to me… heh. Well, you can get a morning after pill, if you want. You’re mine, but I ain’t gonna make you have a baby you don’t want. That !@#$% would be !@#$%^ up.”
Tifa didn’t say anything. A moment later, he gave a lazy spank across her supple ass, more playful than hard. She grunted, and that seemed to mark the moment she was allowed some autonomy. He stepped back from her, and slowly she turned herself around. Slowly, she looked down at herself, hips cocked at an angle that allowed her a partial glimpse of how hard-fucked she was. Some of his ample leakage was along her thighs, most of it on the floor.
… it was a lot. She was educated but that didn’t mean she had a frame of reference for what a lot was, but it was very much a situation where seeing it was knowing it. Tifa stared at it, at the proof of what they did, and sniffed back a tear that wasn’t at all self-pitying. He kissed her again, not as crudely, but far more brief. Aside from labored breathing, a quiet filled 7th Heaven, the pair of them staring at each other.
Something adjacent to awkward began to rise up between them, more on Barret’s side than hers as she stood there, slumped back on the counter, knees shaking. He glanced away from her and reached up to scratch the back of his buzz-cut, saying after a moment, “Well. I’m gonna go wash your !@#$%^ing cunt off my dick and uh…”
Tifa dampened her lips and advised him softly, as she allowed her knees to give out and settled to her knees before him: “You could just wash my fucking cunt off your dick… right here… daddy.” He did not need her to explain what that meant, though Tifa did not appreciate what she was actually suggesting.
If her pussy struggled with him, her throat had no hope. All the same, what was done was done and over with. She was his, and already felt glad for it. Neither would find themselves wanting for much more than that. But the next time Barret called her bitch, Tifa gave his jaw a quick correction, and he never took his luck for granted again after that.