serafim

[serafim]

northern crater - redux!

#imagery. #my art. #i miss seph #need to write him again

[serafim]

patch .   help  my  muse  patch  up  a  wound . + reverse

As much as it lingers in the air between them, Sephiroth knows better than to state the obvious. Genesis has already donned a characteristic scowl on his face, so Sephiroth lets the roll of gauze spooling out around Genesis's torso do all the talking. 

If it were Angeal in his stead, the man probably would have been lectured three times over already. 

A few dirtied towels are gathered nearby on an end table. Blood, dirt, unpleasant slivers of blown steel are tangled up in the fibers. He has already pulled strings for them to be here in the comfort of Genesis's personal quarters when Science would have liked nothing better to glean some inconsequential piece of data on SOLDIER physiology that they did not have before. Theirs is a never ending quest, and Sephiroth cannot imagine that thirst will ever be satisfied no matter how many bodies they have at their disposal.

In that regard, perhaps he is biased.

All the better that Genesis is in his own bed here and now, even if Sephiroth has gone to painstaking lengths to prevent blood from getting on the sheets. 

Impractical from start to finish to circumvent standard procedure, yet it is not annoyance that creases Sephiroth’s brow as he tears away the roll of gauze and ties off the ends with a well-practiced reef knot. He will mend within the week, like they all do. 

In the meantime…

“Shall I fluff your pillows? Help you put your feet up?” Sephiroth arches a brow, good-natured. Having Genesis Rhapsodos owe him more favors is not a terrible trade, all things considered.

#poeticphoenix #c: genesis

[serafim]

The smile that Sephiroth mirrors back doesn’t quite reach his eyes. At least they are alike in that regard; apex predators need not expend their energy unless they absolutely must.

Sephiroth traces his hand over the concrete walls without looking back at Weiss. Hardly the walls of a prison. Cold seeps in through his gloves, through the palm of a hand that is not his own. His image, after all, is only a projection through a clone at best. Shambling waifs they may appear, Sephiroth has an awareness of all of them...and the interesting places they end up.

“When I realized I could use them to reshape this world,” he answers, honest, not at all deterred by deflection in the of of another question. Weiss’s existence offers more potential than a passing curiosity and friction is not the objective here. “Perhaps we have a difference of opinion, then.”

❛  i wonder sometimes how much we really understand our own gifts.  ❜ @serafim

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫? The smile Weiss sought to crack made no attempt not to look painfully forced. Seated on the concrete floor, he lazily rested his back against a wall and cocked a brow at Sephiroth. Instead of giving an answer - not that he could offer a satisfying one - he just drove the conversation with another question. His interest in it was far more genuine. "When did you start thinking of them as gifts?" The Deepground Soldier deemed that gifts usually don't come with a price.

Everything they are, everything they've been made to be- was there even a point in seeking to understand these things? If so, he didn't know it. Not yet. Maybe, the older swordsman would teach him something new.

#endweapon #c: weiss #mmmm vaguely 7R lol

[serafim]

 dressed.

"Don't you think this is cinched a bit...tight?" Even before the question fully leaves his mouth, Genesis's expressions telegraphs the answer.

The belt looped around his waist is exactly as tight as Genesis wants it to be.

"Have it your way," Sephiroth relents with a sigh. Like all of Shinra's seasonal celebrations, the Vernal Gala has always been an event that aspires for unreasonable levels of opulence. SOLDIERs were, of course, relegated to the ceremonial uniforms with their gold epaulettes, medals, lanyards, and all other dressings that Sephiroth considered wholly unnecessary where the Company liked nothing better than to advertise their own commemorations to the world at large.

He tilts his chin up to prevent the fabric at his throat from bunching up while Genesis's hands work to deftly button up the front of his uniform.

"I take it you have another prank planned this year? If I recall correctly, Tuesti was quite cross with you after you changed the direction of all the exit signage and the guests ended up triggering a deployment of Slug Rays when they wandered down the wrong hallway..."

#theomachst #c: genesis

[serafim]

patch + caress / it's been 84 years, from verona c:

What a strange pair of monsters they make; monsters made. Sephiroth remains still as Verona tenderly plies a blanket of gauze over his wrist. Blood, bright, red, seeps through the pale wrappings like a rosy watercolor. Regularly spaced lines, carved by claws. One for each finger. An incomplete tally.

Four is an appropriate number. Inauspicious. The number of death.

Sitting idle has drained the heat of battle from his skin, and the rise and fall of his chest beneath the loose hospital gown is near imperceptible. The Drum has its own rhythm. Pulse and thrum, ebb and flow. A steady supply of mako moves through curved, arterial pipes. He can hear it even through the veneer of steel at their backs. Above them, below them. Constant. Live with it long enough, and it becomes a part of you. Heartbeat. Inhale. Exhale.

The harsh light strips embedded in the ceiling make him squint. A slight glance upwards causes his pupils to painfully constrict. Any longer would spell a headache. His eyes fall half-mast, with the tickle of long lashes over his cheeks. 

He is younger than he looks. Older than he feels.

Still, they have moments. Rare ones, precious ones, when Science finds itself satisfied-- when the machines are silent and they no longer find themselves monitored or measured. Space in which they do not have to be ferocious, where they need not cut until the other bleeds, where they can simply be.

Sephiroth leans into the curve of Verona's palm where it brushes up against his chin, then up along to cup his cheek. He lifts his gaze then. Perhaps the subtle dilation of his pupils gives him away, perhaps he ought to be more guarded, perhaps he wants to be seen.  

#strywoven #c: verona #[ μ ] – εγλ 1992 - 0000.

[serafim]

𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄    (a  series  of  nonverbal  prompts .   mature  themes  present ,   ‘ my ’  muse  belongs  to  the  one who  posted  the  meme  -  send   “ + REVERSE ”   to  reverse  the  prompts .)

→     𝐈 .    GENERAL

❛   hush .   raise  a  finger  in  a  gesture  to  silence  my  muse . ❛   sit .   gesture  for  my  muse  to  sit  down . ❛   door .   hold  a  door  open  for  my  muse . ❛   tap .   tap  my  muse  on  the  shoulder  to  garner  their  attention . ❛   hunger .   give  my  muse  something  to  eat  /  drink . ❛   cook .   present  my  muse  with  home - cooked  food . ❛   brush .   work  a  brush  /  comb  through  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   read .   silently  read  a  book  alongside  my  muse . ❛   hand .   hold  out  a  hand  for  my  muse  to  take . ❛   dressed .   help  my  muse  put  on  an  article  of  clothing . ❛   note .   give  my  muse  a  note  saying :   [ content ] . ❛   amplify .   turn  up  the  music  in  the  car .

→     𝐈𝐈 .    ANGST

❛   patch .   help  my  muse  patch  up  a  wound . ❛   night terrors .   hold  my  muse  after  they  wake  up  from  a  nightmare . ❛   company .   silently  sit  with  my  muse  to  comfort  them. ❛   hospital .   my  muse  is  told  that  yours  is  in  the  hospital . ❛   revelation .   show  my  muse  evidence  of  a  lie  they  told . ❛   indulge .   find  my  muse  drinking  to  cope . ❛   downfall .   find  my  muse  collapsed  on  the  ground . ❛   console .   comfort  my  muse  as  they  cry . ❛   nurse .   give  my  muse  company  in  the  hospital .

→     𝐈𝐈𝐈 .    AFFECTIONATE

❛   wink .   wink  at  my  muse .  ❛   wrap .   wrap  an  arm  around  my  muse’s  [ shoulders  /  waist ] . ❛   caress .   gently  caress  my  muse’s  face . ❛   tousle .   mess  playfully  with  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   chest .   place  your  head  on  my  muse’s  chest .    ❛   comb .   comb  fingers  through  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   grasp .   run  to  my  muse  &  jump  into  their  arms . ❛   lean .   lean  on  my  muse’s  shoulder . ❛   tender .   kiss  my  muse  on  the  [ forehead  /  cheek  /  nose ] . ❛   abrupt .   kiss  my  muse  out  of  the  blue . ❛   chaste .   chastely  kiss  my  muse . ❛   good morning .   kiss  my  muse  the  morning  after . ❛   volumes .   gaze  at  my  muse  in  a  way  that  silently  says  ‘i love you’ .

→     𝐈𝐕  .    VIOLENT

❛   strike .   [ slap / punch ]  my muse in the face . ❛   gun .   wield  a  gun  at  my  muse . ❛   twist .   twist  my  muse’s  arm  behind  their  back . ❛   throttle .   aggressively  wrap  your  hands  around  my  muse’s  throat . ❛   parch .   burn  my  muse  with  a  hot  object . ❛   take down .   forcefully  bring  my  muse  to  the  ground . ❛   gouge .   wield  a  sharp  object  at  my  muse . ❛  shunt .   shove  my  muse  backwards . ❛  stickup .   yell  at  my  muse  to  put  their  hands  in  the  air. ❛  shoot .   [ fatally  /  non-fatally ]   shoot  my  muse . ❛  stab .   stab  my  muse with a  [ knife / other object ].

→     𝐕 .    NSFW

❛   surprise .   send  an  unexpected  nsfw  image  to  my  muse . ❛   pin .   push  my  muse  against  a  [ wall,  table,  other ] . ❛   go down .   go  down  on  my  muse . ❛   choke .   intimately  wrap  your  hands  around  my  muse’s  throat . ❛   belt loops .   pull  my  muse  closer  by  their  belt loops . ❛   skinny dipping .   go  skinny  dipping  with  my  muse . ❛   rip .   tear  a  piece  of  clothing  from  my  muse’s  body . ❛   mark .   leave  a  mark  on  my  muse’s  body  [ specify where ] .

#memes. #maybe i can convince seph to do something

[serafim]

@breathofthearth

Ugly fears, old fears that he has held closely to his chest. He has spent many an evening wondering. There are truths, even inconvenient ones, that are not enough to move the world. Not even to save itself. Yet when they arrived at Cosmo Canyon, were granted succor by the wise sages and their kindly glittering eyes behind wiry spectacles and learned enough to discern the truth, Aerith did not recoil from it. The dusty research journals he pored over in the Shinra manor basement were right about one thing: his mother had not been human. Aerith did not gaze upon him and see someone, something different. She held his hands in hers and they spent the rest of their evening under the open sky and its endless expanse of starlight and dust. 

After all that he had borne witness to: Aerith’s stubbornness, her little indulgences, her unfaltering kindness, her growing knowledge of her people and her place in the world, on this Planet and all the responsibilities she bore out of her heritage, Sephiroth knows he should have better anticipated her next course of action– to strike directly at the heart of HQ and address the rumors they had been hearing about Science’s most precious specimen recovered out of the ashes of Nibelheim. 

Shinra has had its fair share of issues with security leaks. People talk. 

If there still existed any chance that Jenova could seek the ruin of the Planet once more, then they needed to stop the creature that had caused the near-extinction of the Cetra hundreds of years before.

What did that mean for unnatural atrocities like him and every SOLDIER that also shared her cells? He never did ask her, and he couldn't shake this particular feeling the more the question weighed on his mind. The same feeling he felt back in Nibelheim. Like someone important was waiting for him to wake up. Someone who he never properly met, but has known him his whole life. An eerie, cold, and unwelcome feeling.

Someone.

Something.

His mother. The Calamity. 

“You’re sure about this?” he asks one last time as they prepare to disembark. The rusting seams of the rattling can truck they have stowed away on seem to groan in response as it shuttles them down the crowded expressway. 

Not too late to turn back, to let humanity find someone, anyone else willing to play hero. 

Despite having been the one to ask, Sephiroth also knows what Aerith’s answer will inevitably be. He steadies her with a light hand on her waist as he releases the lock bolt and the loading door rolls up towards the freight ceiling with a clattering thump. 

The open door gives them a direct line of sight to the Tower. Ground spotlights criss-cross hazy beams of light that illuminate the heavy concrete and steel walls of Shinra HQ through the many layers of mako smog that hug Midgar’s highest peak. Landing beacons blink faintly at the top. Every floor has its fair share of silhouettes, backlit.

Employees, bustling to and fro across the halls. Security officers, Turks, SOLDIERs, salarymen, interns, techs, researchers. Monsters lurk there, too. Some human-shaped, some not. Elevators ceaselessly moving along their pulleys. Up and down. Top to bottom, bottom to top. Mako lines, glowing, pulsating as they course along the underside of Science’s playground in the upper floors. The engine and the drum. 

Would that he could, nothing would be more satisfying than to reduce the entire structure to slag. Sephiroth can only think of one person who truly possessed enough mana to do so. 

“Hang on tight. We’re going to jump.” 

#breathofthearth #c: aerith #queued.

[serafim]

@hisalis

There has been no variation in his answers. Sephiroth has not yet answered any one of Zack’s requests with ‘no.’ Not outright. Even so, Zack asks. The questions, the fact that they are posed, that Zack does not budge an inch until he receives an answer, that matters. It matters in a way that Sephiroth has gradually come to better understand over time in combination with Zack’s cheerfully patient persistence. He is accustomed to being observed, but to be perceived is another issue entirely. More a wonder than an issue, when it comes to Zack. 

They rarely have the time to spend together. Some of it is stolen, chanced upon by coincidence or sporadic moments of shore leave when their rotations happen to fall into sync or overlap at convenient intervals. 

For all of Zack’s powers of perception, he is still spectacularly lacking in subtlety in other ways.

Like right now, with Zack edging towards him once the elevator doors have slid closed. The panel lights up after a second destination has been added to the elevator’s queue and it shudders to life with a musical chime played through speakers installed somewhere in the ceiling.  A brief glance at the numbered buttons tells him Zack is likely on his way to meet with Angeal for training. His own stop is past that floor. A place Sephiroth is loath to frequent even on a good day. 

The floor panel does not hold his attention for lack. Zack has his usual look of intent about him, and Sephiroth is left to guess at what permissions he may be granting in this brief sliver of time. Assuming no one else boards the elevator after them. 

“You don’t have to ask me this time,” Sephiroth intercepts helpfully. A preemptive yes might save them a few precious seconds from interruption. 

#hisalis #c: zack #cough. a million years later.

[serafim]

#HOPEFLOWER

independent  aerith  gainsborough,  written  by  nini. 

#promo

[serafim]

breathofthearth​:

She’s gotten used to the lull of the boat as it crests the waves that lead them out of the glacier region, though the cold has not yet abated. Even in the cabin, where it is warm, the frigid air finds ways to seep through the cracks and gaps of this old boat, so she’s thankful for the extra layers. Given that she’s not the one doing manual labour, her blood’s not pumping and no one seems to mind that she’s wrapped herself in yet another blanket.

Aerith is really looking forward to reaching the shores of Costa del Sol.

As she enjoys the view of Sephiroth untangling the net, it’s easy for her to fall into a spiral of thoughts that she’s come to keep hidden from him—particularly her worries about them and when Shinra will find them; it’s no longer a question of if as she’s come to know that the company is relentless in their pursuit of the Promised Land—so much so that they sacrificed her mother in order to find their answers.

The urge to curl into herself is strong, especially when she thinks about Ifalna.

Aerith knows, with absolute certainty, that she can not—will not—go back there. The Tower is a place she never wants to see again, and if it means a life on the run—a perpetual race to get away from Shinra—then so be it. She’s not going back there and she’ll make sure that Sephiroth never goes back there.

But she also knows that running forever is not going to solve their problem. Shinra has resources that they don’t, and they’ve made it clear that they’re willing to expend those resources if it means taking back what they believe is theirs.

One of the crew approaches her with a fresh cup of hot coffee. She takes it and takes a sip, not caring much for the taste but it’s hot and would probably taste better if she put a boat-load of sugar in it—but there doesn’t seem to be sugar on board, so she has to make do. She’s silently thankful for the interruption of her thoughts, but frowns a little when Captain Appa reemerges and blocks her view of Sephiroth.

It seems that, with their journey underway, there won’t be much time to talk or see much of each other what with all the work that needs to get done. She hears about the mountain of chores that are needed to do on a boat—even as small as this—and only gets to spend time with Sephiroth when they’re asleep in their bunk.

The bed is clearly not meant for two people, but she doesn’t mind. Plus, it means she gets extra body heat when they’re smooshed together on what passes for as a cot. She can smell the brine that’s on his skin and hair, as well as the crisp winter breeze; it’s been getting slightly warmer with each passing day as they navigate towards the south.

On one particular night, as he’s fast asleep, she’s still wide awake—no thanks to the several cups of coffee she’s had throughout the day—and spends a few moments caressing his hair out from his face.

Eventually, Aerith loses count on how many days they’ve spent at sea, but she overhears the first mate mentioning something about passing Junon harbour. By now, icebergs and snow capped mountains are far behind them as she looks out to sea and can see nothing but ocean and feel hot air. The sunlight on her skin, now that she’s back to wearing at least one layer of clothing, feels so good that she can almost cry.

The peace and quiet does him some good, even if only to the extent that Captain Appa finds every possible excuse or opportunity to make use of Sephiroth’s strength and overall dexterity to essentially retrofit as much of his ship as possible short of him having to address anything that required getting into the water. 

Discreet surveillance by any pursuers is nigh impossible in open water. Only crying gulls and the occasional pod of sleek-bodied marine mammals follow in their wake. There is no guarantee that Captain Appa and his crew would hold their silence if pressed, but that cannot be helped. He cannot threaten nor buy out Appa’s men more surely than Shinra can. 

The best they can do is not to overstay their welcome in Costa del Sol. 

Aerith has, as of late, developed an apparent addiction to the cheap coffee they keep in constant rotation in and out of her hands as she empties her mug. He stops every so often between ferrying thick bundles of algae-encrusted rope, tools, wooden crates filled with spare parts, and stacks of mesh fishing traps to check in on her and provide general updates on their progress. The gradual change in temperature has relayed their approximate location better than words can, but even a brief exchange of pleasantries give him the excuse to brush the back of his knuckles over Aerith’s cheek in passing. 

Judging Sephiroth to have sufficiently earned his keep, the captain finally gives him leave to enjoy the remainder of the trip on the day of their arrival in peace.

“Perhaps we should invest in a sun lamp next we find ourselves in the north again,” Sephiroth muses, stepping up alongside Aerith as she suns at the bow of the ship. They can already see the low-lying beach shacks and bungalows of Costa del Sol from here. A colorful line of umbrellas driven into the sand stand in defense of the warmth and blinding sun sparkle of rolling waves and seafoam. 

Glancing at Aerith, Sephiroth tentatively reaches out to rest a hand over her hip. As far as matters of contact, of simple appreciation, he hopes to have improved. If not…She’ll probably tease him about it sooner or later. 

Sephiroth smiles to himself, then pulls Aerith against him. “All packed? I imagine we’ll disembark soon, and then…” he trails off with a slow shake of his head and an almost sheepish clearing of his throat as the ocean breeze lifts away strands of his hair. Aerith’s hair too, feathers against the front of his coat. “Well, I suppose I have a promise or two I must uphold.”  

#breathofthearth #c: aerith

[serafim]

@unforestalledreturn -- brush .   work  a  brush  /  comb  through  my  muse’s  hair

Few people have the gall to waltz into his private quarters unannounced. Few people…except the ones that do. Consistently. 

Sephiroth straightens as he meets the gaze of Genesis's reflection in the mirror with mild exasperation. Exasperation, because Genesis has that look on his face. The seconds pass; a moment’s impasse. He could pretend to have been looking at the water stains near the bottom of the glass instead and that somehow Genesis leaning against the doorframe escaped his notice, but if there’s a worse option in all this, it’s ignoring Genesis in any capacity.

Sharing rituals strikes him as strangely intimate. He does not know if Genesis will see it the same way, nor can he find a compelling reason to refuse. The question of whether he wants does not occur to him, for the request, unworded, spoken through curious, mako-bright eyes, is perfectly innocent enough to take at face value. 

Prompted by little more than chance. 

This is likely the first time Genesis has been blessed with such timing in order to witness Sephiroth with a boar bristle hairbrush in hand, halfway down along a stretched ribbon of silvery hair. Other times have mostly ended in missing shampoo bottles off the recessed shelf behind the shower glass door. It must be some sort of compulsion.

“You could try to look less excited,” Sephiroth remarks with an arch of his brow as he pulls the brush all the way through to the end.

His level of dress has no bearing on how he reacts to Genesis's (typical) unannounced visit, but Sephiroth strives for some level of decency. A deep forest green satin-silk robe hangs off his shoulders, fully open. Sephiroth places the hairbrush on the dark, granite countertop long enough to loosely tie his robe closed with a hanging sash before he turns, wrist flipped upward with the hairbrush handle out first towards Genesis.

"Here."

#unforestalledreturn #c: genesis #technically he isnt brushing seph's hair yet but that's ok

[serafim]

make your muse a dragon

tagged by @evocatled

tagging: anyone who hasn't done it yet bc i'm always late to these things 🙃

#s: memes

[serafim]

@cloudvii​ - ❛   hunger .   give  my  muse  something  to  eat  /  drink .

Sephiroth makes a disapproving noise by clicking his tongue against the backs of his teeth. 

“Nearly got yourself killed for these transfusions and now you're going to end up almost killing yourself because of them." He doesn't know why he deigns to bother with a lecture at all, especially given the fact that so little clearly gets through Cloud Strife's thick skull to begin with.

In a way, he can appreciate the rationale. Finding yourself completely indentured (or should the word be indebted? Is there a difference in Cloud's case?) to Rufus Shinra must tap into the demand for a particular brand of self-representation. One that doesn’t allow the Turks to poke a million holes in your armor and one that bares its teeth in defiance at the suggestion of weakness. Whatever Cloud imagines to be weakness, at any rate. 

“Drink,” Sephiroth sighs impatiently as he shoves the mouth of a bottle of water towards Cloud’s face. “You’ll need to consistently keep your body fueled while it acclimates to the amount of mako in your system. How are you adjusting to changes to your metabolism?” 

He has not placed great import on revealing his whereabouts in the late hours of the night ever since he had abandoned the Company. Only their promise keeps him here, tethered to the city. Atonement, of a sort, even if he does not imagine the odds would be in his favor if Cloud’s loyalties were ever called into question if Shinra, whether junior or senior, were to discover that Cloud was in semi-frequent contact with Sephiroth of all people.

Fortunately, he has found means to fashion several safehouses along the peaks of the Slum’s oddly tilted tenement towers and within the winding mazes of its many alleyways. Multiple redundancies kept away in the back pocket, in case anyone ever came sniffing too close in places they shouldn’t.  

This particular refuge is the one closest to Seventh Heaven, and consequently, the least sensitive of locations to reveal to Cloud while he was busy having an out-of-body experience. Leaning over, Sephiroth dims the lightbulb hanging at the center of the small lean-to, then snaps his fingers between Cloud’s eyes from where he’s propped up against the rusty iron wall. “Drink,” he repeats, this time more forcefully. 

#cloudvii #c: cloud

[serafim]

@lcvide - revelation . [Maybe something about not having seen Genesis or Angeal, post-desertion?]

He needed more time to conduct his own investigation. To ascertain the truth and whether Genesis’s and Angeal’s disappearance was some kind of fabrication or reality. The fear is there, that perhaps his friends had genuinely thought him unworthy of the truth, that he would either be unable to help them or hinder them at worst. Overshadowed by the invisible influence of the collar they imagine to be at his throat, perhaps.

 “You answer to Veld...and as such, directly to Shinra,” Sephiroth replies, unflinching at her claim that he had purposefully chosen to mislead the Company on the whereabouts of his friends. 

I… will not answer to Shinra. 

Sewn into the fabric of his own accusation, for Cissnei to draw her own conclusions by his refusal to answer. He does not share the Turks’ desire for absolute obedience. His mistake had been to make others think that he did. Company loyalist and skeptic alike.

Not without reason. Not anymore.

Sephiroth folds his arms over his chest, turns his back to her to look out between the blinds and the slanted light angling through them. Light that seems to sift through the deep shadows in his office, climbing off the walls and bouncing off reflective metal trimmings. Looking for nothing in particular. The glow of his eyes is faint, visible in the dark as he glances over his shoulder at her. “Make no mistake, they will be handled accordingly for abandoning their posts. What I will not have is the Turks rushing in to turn this into another coverup operation as soon as Shinra’s risk analysts decide that they cannot sit around and tolerate a proper investigation.” 

He needs more time. Time enough to sift through the backchannels and figure out what’s happening. Why he had been walled off, why they left. Abandoned, a part of him wants to believe. He believes it more with each passing day.

“If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with Veld. He can come talk to me directly instead of hiding behind his subordinates.” 

#lcvide #c: cissnei

[serafim]

@wingsandsteel​ -- ❛   belt loops -- As Sephiroth passes, Angeal reaches out and up, seizing hold of belts and loops, all with a concerted tug into the black hole of the penthouse sofa.

Momentum carries him exactly one step beyond the point of no return before he allows Angeal to pull dim down beside on the cushions with all the aplomb of a vaguely perturbed cat. 

“Hmm, I beg your pardon, Hewley?” Sephiroth arches a brow, seemingly nettled.

The performance is brief.

He cannot hold onto deceit for long, whether playful or veiling. Not around Angeal, in any case. The couch is roomy and plush, met against his backside and flanked by a campfire-pleasant warmth thanks to an invitation of sure hands and tugs. Sephiroth is, in fact, quite perfectly content to lean his weight against Angeal’s shoulder; drawn in by gravity of warmth and a convenient vacancy in the space between Angeal’s side and his arm. Then, he turns, angles to push his nose up against Angeal’s jawline and into his hair for a nuzzle. 

“I don’t believe those belt loops were made for tugging.” 

An interruption during the daily tedium of his responsibilities while off-mission is not remiss. Even if that means he might be late to the board meeting by a few minutes…

“I expect a reasonable explanation for your actions.” Sephiroth pauses for thought and a glint of mischief accompanied by the flicker of a smile. “A bribe would also suffice.”

#wingsandsteel #c: angeal #auuduuhgdf so fluffy

[serafim]

@primalvessel​ - Quick 'goodnight' kiss. Because why not.

There is no great meaning behind the action. He did so because he felt like it. Not because the sight of Maru sleeping so peacefully fascinates him, and certainly not because he has gambled on the fact that the Warrior of Light is too exhausted from their travails to know.

Even without the benefit of his second eye, one and his presence is enough. Who would be foolish enough to challenge a great wyrm with a something...someone precious to protect? Just because they have a roof and four walls does not mean they are safe for a moment.

A lone cricket chirps in some corner of the room, hidden by the cabinetry or sequestered into one of the broken sections of the cracked stucco walls.

He will find that damned insect later and send it to an early grave.

For now, Sephiroth is content to sit at the edge of the bed with his hand hovering about Maru’s face. Inches away from cupping it against his palm. He does not, however much he wants to. That feels too intimate.

A kiss to Maru’s cheek, lingering, feather light, strikes him as better suited to satisfy this sudden and inscrutable urge to display affection when no one else can hold him accountable for it.

#primalvessel #c: maru #what. no. i haven't been hoarding this forever or anything.

[serafim]

@breathofthearth - torn stitches + blood washing down the shower drain

The words are sitting on the tip of his tongue.

I don't need your help.

There is no bitterness in them, no resentment, even if he can taste their shape and imagine their sound.

Water and blood, cloudy swirls and tails of iron red circle the drain and gurgle into the plumbing lines below. His hair sticks to his back as the flow of water from the shower head above bounces off his back from where he stands, nude, partially doubled over and tensed under the icy spray. The lip of a great, deep gash stretching over his ribs is extensive enough that normal humans would have fainted from shock alone, never mind stand conscious to debride their own injuries without the aid of anesthetic or a balled up towel to scream into. Mangled stitches that had kept the wound closed peek out from bloodied tissue.

With great effort, Sephiroth says instead, "I only need a few more minutes. Then you're free to do as you like."

Perhaps it had only been a matter of time before they found themselves back where they started, back in the heart of the city of steel choked by smog and mako. Murmurs from disturbed sailors disembarking from a recent journey between the western and eastern continents were impossible for them to ignore. They'd caught wind that Jenova's body had been brought back to the Tower, trapped away behind a glass cage somewhere in the Drum.

Trapped, he thinks, because he can still feel that alien presence there, reaching for him like pale hands in the dark whenever he closes his eyes.

After everything they'd learned, the recordings left behind at the Icicle Inn, the elders at Cosmo Canyon and their extensive library of books on Planetology, combined with what he had discovered in the belly of the Shinra Mansion, of course they had to go back to Midgar.

All at the same time that Shinra decided it was high time for them to reclaim their property.

And Scarlet has stepped up her game. To draw Hojo's ire, perhaps, knowing that the Science Head wanted nothing more than to have Sephiroth delivered to him intact and alive and killing Hojo's prized subject would affirm the superiority of her engineering genius over his preposterous science without a doubt.

Whether all of the events of the past few months were coming to a head or some plan beyond their knowing has been set into motion, he does not know.

There is much he still does not know, and so much he struggles to keep pieced together. Sephiroth looks at Aerith, and he can't help but wonder if he has failed her already. The Calamity, the scourge from the skies which had decimated her peoples, is not a threat she could ignore.

As he came to understand her determination and newfound calling, he also realized their competing priorities. He hasn't told her yet. He hasn't figured out how, how to tell the last steward of the Planet that she should abandon her charge. Sephiroth reaches to twist the knob bolted to the off-white tile which gleams in the dim lighting like yellowed teeth until the pipes groan and quiet and water drips at his feet.

"Alright. You wanted to redo the stitches?"

#breathofthearth #c: aerith #hm. this was supposed to be short but that didn't happen #¯\_(ツ)_/¯