#alt 20

When Simon’s phone buzzed with an unknown number, he didn’t think twice. He answered with his usual clipped tone. 

“Ghost speaking. Who is this?” 

A shaky voice met his ear. “Hi love… yeah, I’m on the way home right now.” 

His brow furrowed. “Who is this?” he repeated, firmer now, thinking it was a prank. 

A nervous, breathy laugh followed. “Yeah, yeah, I’m on 2nd and Park now. Maybe five more minutes.” 

Simon went still. Why was a stranger giving him their location? He knew those streets—he wasn’t far. Something in her tone—tight, trembling—put his instincts on edge. 

“I’m on the way,” he said flatly. 

“W-what?” you stammered. The click of your heels faltered as you slowed, your mind reeling. You hadn’t meant to call a random number—you’d meant to call your brother. Your shaky fingers had mistyped the numbers. You’d just wanted someone to know where you were. 

There was a man following you. The distance between you slowly shrinking. 

You kept walking, phone pressed to your ear like a lifeline. You didn’t dare look back; one creep trailing you was bad enough; you didn’t want to invite a second. 

“Talk to me,” came a low, rough voice through the speaker, followed by the deep rumble of an engine. 

“I- um… you don’t have to come,” you tried, your voice small, almost pleading with yourself as much as with him. 

A deep grunt was your only reply. 

“You sound nervous,” he said after a beat, voice flat but edged with something you couldn’t name. “You being followed or something?” 

He hit the nail on the head. 

You let out a shaky laugh that died in your throat. “Yeah. I am.” 

There was a rush of wind on the line, then his voice again—calm, clipped, commanding. “I’ll be there in two minutes. Take a right on 3rd when you get there. I’ll be waiting at the corner. Don’t hang up.” 

Your heart thudded painfully. God. Were you really doing this? Putting your trust in a stranger’s voice and a roaring engine? You were literally being followed, what if the man on the phone was worse? 

You curse under your breath, glancing over your shoulder. The man behind you had closed the distance—too close now. Panic churned in your chest as you reached 3rd. 

And there he was. 

A man on a black sports bike, helmet on, visor down. Even from across the street, you could feel his gaze settle on you. Then, without a word, he looked past you—toward your stalker—and dismounted. The way he moved was deliberate, almost predatory. 

Your heart kicked into overdrive. God, what have I done? 

He approached, gloved hand lifting just enough to stop you, fingers barely brushing your waist. His voice came through low, muffled beneath the helmet— 

“Mount the bike. Be back in a minute.” 

You hesitated—then obeyed. Maybe it was the calm in his tone or the way he hadn’t grabbed you, just guided. Either way, you found yourself settling onto the seat, hands trembling. When you looked up again, the man who’d been following you was gone. 

Not even a minute later, the biker reappeared, dark visor lifting just enough for you to see the pale glint of his eyes— 

“You okay, luvie?” 

You nodded automatically—then shook your head, words catching in your throat. Tears welled before you could stop them. 

He stepped in close, knee braced against the bike, voice low and steady. “Breathe…” 

You didn’t know why you trusted him, but you did. And when he hesitated, then opened his arms, something in you gave way. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, arms settling around you in careful strength. “Just breathe.” 

He was solid. Warm through the leathers. You could feel the tension in him—like touch wasn’t something he gave easily—but his hand moved gently along your back, tracing calm into the panic until your heartbeat slowed. 

After a few minutes, you lean back, looking up at him. Your puffy features reflect in his visor. “I should... I should go home.” 

“Oh... Let me take you.” He unclips his helmet and slides it off. He’s devastatingly handsome. Scarred in ways that make you not want to ask, but his blue eyes are startlingly gentle. He passes the helmet to you, your hands trembling as you take it. 

It only takes him a moment to realize you don’t know how to put it on. A quiet laugh escapes him before he moves a little closer. Steady hands help you slide it over head, then tilt your chin up to fasten the strap. You’re grateful for the visor so he can’t see the flush spreading across your cheeks. 

He swings a leg over the bike and glances back. “Hold on, okay?” 

You nod, shaky hands wrapping around his warm torso. The helmet rests lightly against his shoulder. He reaches back, one hand finding the outside of your thigh, pulling you closer until you’re pressed to his back. 

“Sorry... have to be closer,” he murmurs, voice soft—careful, like he’s trying not to startle you. 

John stared at the screen, reading the little text, explaining that the ‘base’ was the person on the ground, holding the ‘flyer,’ who was the one doing the acrobatic looking stuff in the air.

Then it dawned on him what this was all about, and a grin settled on his face. “You just want to prove that we can do this. Without courses or training,” he grinned at Sherlock, who averted his gaze.

“Nonsense.”

John laughed at that. “Yes, you just want to prove that we can! Oh, this is so you.” He looked back at the screen again, scrolling down to look at some of the displayed poses.

“So, what did you have in mind for us?”

Sherlock looked a bit surprised, as if he hadn’t expected John to agree so readily, but then he pressed his chest against John’s back and leaned down over his shoulder to have a look at the screen as well.

“I haven’t decided yet. Thought you should have a look as well.”

John hummed and scrolled through the different poses.

“Ugh,” Sherlock exclaimed after some minutes. “Why have they all so preposterous names?”

John chuckled. “You mean ‘The Thrown?’ Or ‘The Candlestick?’” Sherlock wrinkled his nose at that.

“This one looks a bit like titanic.” John pointed at a picture of ‘Thigh Stand,’ where the flyer was standing on her partners knees with arms outstretched, the arms of the base wound around her belly.

“Titanic?” Sherlock asked, and John shook his head. “Movie. Well, partly.”

John stopped at the next figure. “What about this?” he asked. “The star. Think we can do this?”

Sherlock huffed. “Of course.”

“Well then.” John got up, picking up the laptop and motioning for Sherlock to follow him into the living room. “Let’s just hope the carpet is thick enough. Or do you have a sleeping pad or something?”

Sherlock pulled a face at the question, and John shrugged. “Carpet it is then.” He pulled his jumper over his head. “Should we warm up?”

Sherlock tilted his head in contemplation, but then shook his head. “Don’t think we need to. Unless you plan to make an entire session out of this?”

“Nah,” John huffed. “I’m glad if I can hold you up long enough for you to get into that pose.” He motioned at the laptop.

“I’m not that heavy,” Sherlock pouted, discarding his dressing gown. “Also, you shouldn’t speak badly of your strength. You’ve got quite the powerful hips, if you know what I mean. Back and thighs as well, of course.” He winked at John, actually winked, and now John was thinking about different things he could do with his strength.

“We can do that later,” Sherlock added, as if having read John’s thoughts. Or maybe he’d just seen the signs of his body.

“Yes, well. Your fault if I change plans along the way,” John murmured, running a hand over his groin.

“Quick then, on your back,” Sherlock instructed, and John did as he was told, casting one last glance at the picture they were trying to recreate.

“This won’t actually help matters, you know? On your back,” John muttered. “How about get off your pants?”

Sherlock swatted his arm. “Concentration, please. This is a delicate matter. Now, legs up. 90 degree. Right.”

He tilted his head, looking at John, then at his laptop. “Well, I best swing up from standing above your head and you stabilise my body with your feet. Then you can relocate your feet to my shoulders and voila, star. Give me your hands,” he ordered, standing right behind John’s head.

“Wait, what?” John panicked. Was Sherlock planning to perform a handstand on John’s outstretched arms and use his legs as a wall to lean against?

“Wait, Sherlock, shouldn’t we reconsider this warming up or stretching business with– ugh!”

Sherlock was already leaning back to get his momentum, then swung his legs up.

John huffed, feeling the sudden weight on his elbows and shoulders, his shoulder blades digging painfully into the wooden floor, the carpet not as good a cushion as he’d hoped.

“Urgh, Christ, Sherlock!” he pressed out through gritted teeth, and then Sherlock’s back already hit John’s waiting feet.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, apparently a bit worried about his momentum. Now he’s worried, John thought hysterically.

“I’ve got you,” he panted, and indeed, Sherlock was ‘flying’ over him now, wobbling on John’s shaking arms and slightly more stable legs.

“Oh god,” Sherlock panted, his cheeks reddening and his curls all over his face. “Your feet,” he huffed, the strain of holding himself in this position probably more difficult than expected. “Move them to my shoulders!”

“Working on it,” John panted back, carefully trying to move one foot up Sherlock’s back, while supporting his weight with the other one.

“Tell me again you’re not that heavy.”

“That’s just the uneven distribution of the weight,” Sherlock replied, sounding a bit put out, despite their precarious situation.

“I’ll give you that one,” John panted, one foot now pressing into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Now!” He tightened his grip around Sherlock’s hands. “I’m getting up the other foot. Swing up a bit if you can. I’ll give you a bit of a push. In three, two, one–“

He gave Sherlock a slight push with his leg, then hurried to find his position on Sherlock’s second shoulder.

“John!” Sherlock all but gurgled, the strain of maintaining his position visible on his face, his arms shaking slightly. Or was that John?

Sherlock’s body swayed dangerously in his efforts to keep his balance, and he wobbled precariously on John’s arms, his hands holding John’s in a death grip.

“I’ve got you,” John panted, simultaneously trying to remain as still as possible and to move in Sherlock’s favour, to try and balance him a bit. “You can do that.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, then leaned his head back against John’s shins and tightened his muscles, pulling his body up and into the position of the star.

“Yes!” John positively shouted at him. “Yes, yes!”

Sherlock looked at him, a proud gleam in his eyes, but then he wobbled again, and with a surprised “John!” Sherlock lost his balance and crashed down to the floor next to John.

“Christ, you okay?” John asked, struggling to sit up.

Sherlock picked himself up from the floor, looking gloriously dishevelled, his face red from the strain and his curls all over the place.

“Fine,” he huffed, and John couldn’t help but laugh at the madness of it all, still panting for air.

“My balance isn’t what it used to be, I’m afraid.” Sherlock looked displeased about that fact.

John shook his head at the put out expression on Sherlock’s face, still giggling.

“What? You don’t say. How long has it been since you danced regularly?”

“About twelve years?” Sherlock grumbled. “Maybe more…”

“Well, in that case, I think we did remarkably well,” John stated, actually feeling a bit proud.

“Alright, I suppose,” Sherlock agreed. “Chinese?”

“Yes!” John nodded eagerly. “Starving, after that exercise of yours.”

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The website is in German (sorry), but the pictures should speak for themselves.

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Tell me if you want to be added or removed from the list :)

The Shinra Building slept uneasily.

Metal groaned somewhere above, the sound carrying down seventy floors of glass and steel like the breath of a restless beast. A low hum threaded through the air: the steady thrum of mako conduits deep within the walls, alive and pulsing, a heartbeat for the empire that fed upon it. Sephiroth stood in the dim corridor of the executive wing, as he always did. His silhouette tall against the faint green glow that seeped through the vents.

The building was on lockdown. Red warning lights burned intermittently along the walls, flickering like slow, uncertain flames.

Somewhere beyond, alarms muttered in soft tones: restrained, almost polite. The intruder was still contained in the lower levels, yet the tension in the air coiled tight, like the instant before lightning strikes.

His hand wrapped around the hilt of the Masamune. The steel was cold, yet comforting; a promise of control amid chaos. He listened. His breath slow as he closed his eyes for a moment.

The vibrations in the floor, the subtle flicker in the power grid, even the change in the air pressure. All of it spoke to him. But beneath those physical currents was another, more intimate pulse: the Red String of Fate.

It tugged warmly and faintly against his wrist. Its presence was something that he grew familiar with long ago, as it had always been there.

Bianca.

Her presence shimmered against the edge of his awareness like candlelight through fog. Her emotions were muted but tangible: fatigue, discomfort, and the steady rhythm of her breath strained by something unspoken. The tug deepened: a whisper that felt less like pain and more like the body’s plea for gentleness.

He frowned slightly.

She was strong: stronger than any humans and many gods. Yet through their bond, something fragile pressed through tonight. The Red Thread pulsed once, tightening, and Sephiroth turned sharply. His long coat whispered behind him as he moved and searched for his wayward wife. They had married the previous week in a ceremony that was for Shinra and not themselves.

He found her two corridors down, in one of the narrow auxiliary passageways used by high-ranking SOLDIERs. The lights here flickered faintly, as green merging with sterile white.

Bianca stood braced against the wall, one hand resting just below her ribs, and her other pressed to the cool metal panel beside her.

Her wings folded close and shivered faintly with each breath.

She wore her crimson turtleneck, the Shinra insignia glinting faintly beneath the harsh lights, her brown suspenders strapped horizontally across her torso. She did not wear them like he did, crossed over his chest.

Her skirt brushed her thighs with each slow movement, and the black leather of her boots gleamed faintly with reflected emergency light. Strands of her dark hair had escaped their ribbon, curling damply against her cheek.

When she looked up, her indigo eyes met his. Her pupils narrowed to slits, as he stood there: tall and imposing amidst the pulsing green light.

“I’ll be fine,” she murmured softly, her voice steady but tired. “Just . . .tired.”

Sephiroth’s gaze traced her face: the pallor beneath her makeup, the faint tremor in her hand. There was a sheen of sweat at her temple. She bit her lower lip unconsciously, a nervous habit he recognized, and his chest tightened in response to it.

More than tiredness, he thought.

He stepped closer, the soles of his boots silent against the floor. “You are pale,” he observed, tone even but weighted. "Again."

She exhaled, a shaky little laugh. “Long day.”

The faintest flicker of nausea rippled through their bond, brushing against his chest like static. It wasn’t sharp enough to incapacitate her, but it was there.

Beneath it, something warmer, heavier: a subtle ache low in her body that translated through the thread as a pressure against his ribs. He masked the flicker of concern, shifting slightly to position himself between her and the end of the corridor.

The smell of disinfectant hung heavy in the air, mixing with the bitter aroma of brewed coffee wafting from an open office down the hall.

Bianca wrinkled her nose. The motion so small that most would have missed it. But Sephiroth noticed. He always noticed. Her wings twitched once, feathers rustling, and her expression pinched as though the scent itself scraped across her nerves.

“You dislike the smell,” he said quietly.

Her lips twitched. “You could say that.”

The Red Thread pulsed faintly in agreement. Warmth bloomed where it touched his skin.

A low tone interrupted them: an alert chiming in Sephiroth’s earpiece.

“Containment breach detected,” the robotic voice announced. “Specimen. Unidentified. Sector sixty-seven. All personnel to designated lockdown zones.”

Bianca’s breath hitched. The faint glow of the alarm light bled over her face, tinting her features scarlet. Sephiroth turned his head toward the direction of the alert. His mind already calculating distance and response, yet that tug from the thread persisted: a faint pulse of distress from her side.

“Stay behind me,” he said, not a command but a quiet certainty.

She arched a brow. “You know I don’t—”

“Bianca.” His tone softened just enough to silence her.

For a moment, she looked as though she might argue. Then she pressed her lips together and nodded once, shifting closer. The warmth of her aura brushed faintly against his, a quiet shimmer of celestial and infernal energies intertwined. He could feel the tremor in her frame—subtle but there—her breath quickening slightly as they moved toward the elevator access.

The freight lift to Hojo’s laboratory creaked open when Sephiroth keyed in the override. The metallic scent grew stronger as they descended, mingled with the hum of mako tanks and ozone. Bianca’s expression tightened. She pressed her knuckles briefly against her mouth as though steadying herself but concealing the small, gagging sounds she made.

When the lift stopped, a dense silence met them.

Floor 66. Hojo’s laboratory.

The lights flickered overhead, casting long, shifting shadows over the glass containment pods lining the corridor. Each held its own quiet horror: shapes that had once been animals, now suspended in pale fluid. Wires threaded through translucent skin. The smell of sterilization fluid and burnt ozone was thick enough to taste.

Bianca’s breath came shallow. “Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

Sephiroth didn’t need to be told. He could feel it. The air was alive with an unfamiliar vibration, a frequency that made the mako conduits tremble. Somewhere down the hall, a metallic crash echoed. It was followed by a low, wet growl that didn’t belong to anything human.

When it came into view, even Sephiroth paused.

The creature was a grotesque fusion of flesh and shadow: humanoid only in the vaguest outline. Its body shimmered with iridescent veins of glowing, emerald mako and something darker. Black fluid seeped from cracks in its hide and puddled onto the floor.

Multiple eyes blinked across its shoulders and back: some glowing blue, others red, each focused on a different direction. Never blinking. From its spine unfurled a pair of fetid wings. They were not feathered like Bianca's but slick with residue. Each movement accompanied by a stench like burning chemicals.

The scent hit Bianca first. She inhaled sharply. Her own wings twitched, as she almost backed away.

"Stay close," Sephiroth ordered.

"That thing,” she whispered, as her voice cracked like thunder breaking the calm. “It carries the same blood. Mine. But mixed with something else.”

The creature’s head snapped toward them, and it howled.

The sound tore through the corridor like a blade through glass: raw, metallic, resonant enough to make the mako conduits shudder and pause. The vibration crawled down Sephiroth’s spine, a low buzz blooming behind his temples.

His enhanced senses reeled under the assault. Even the Masamune’s metal hummed faintly, sympathetic to the frequency. Bianca flinched. She folded slightly. Her hand pressed to her abdomen as the howl raked through the air again. Higher, shriller, wrong.

Sephiroth caught her before she could stumble. His arm circled her waist with the ease of instinct. Her breath trembled against his chest for a heartbeat before he spoke, calmly, steady, and a still point in the chaos. “I’ve got you.”

The Red String burned faintly around his wrist, carrying the pulse of her distress through him. Then he released her with deliberate precision, stepping forward as the lights flickered overhead. His voice dropped into command-channel calm.

“All lower-ranked SOLDIER units failed containment,” he said into the comm. “I, Sephiroth, am engaging.”

The howl came again closer this time, shattering glass along the corridor. Sephiroth raised his blade, the Masamune gleaming with reflected mako light near the left side of his face and shoulder.

“Stay back,” he told Bianca. “It reacts to movement.”

Then he moved: fluid, lethal, a whisper of silver and shadow. The creature lunged. Claws dripped with black ichor. Its fetid wings battered the air. Each step it took reverberated through the metal flooring. Its eyes pulsed like dying stars. Each resembled Bianca and his eyes.

Sephiroth met it head-on.

He blurred forward in a flash of motion, striking quickly. Eight slashes fell in rapid succession. Each so fast that the very air itself seemed to tear.

The creature shrieked and howled at once. Its cry rose into a psychic pitch that sent sparks across the walls and static through Sephiroth’s mind. For a heartbeat his vision fractured. The world reduced to pulsing color, and Bianca’s aura a faint glimmer in the haze. He forced focus through sheer will, driving a booted heel into the floor to anchor himself.

“Enough.”

His palm turned upward. A circle of red materia flared at his belt. Heat rippled through the air as a fireball hovered over his palm, growing in strength and size. The fire burst forth in a precise, searing arc, engulfing the creature in a tide of molten light.

It screamed: a sound that shifted instantly back into that same, bone-shaking howl. Its flesh slouched off, blackening and charring like burnt chicken skin. The burnt stench wafted between the creature and them.

The psychic frequency slammed into him again and was sharper this time, buzzing like hornets under his skull. He gritted his teeth, pushing through the distortion. He’d endured worse in the mako chambers and Professor Hojo during training. He would not falter now.

Behind him, he felt Bianca’s aura flicker with nausea. Her breath caught audibly. He adjusted his stance instinctively to shield her from the worst of the reverberations, angling his blade to reflect the blast of heat and sound. His hair whipped around his face and against his back and shoulders, as the Masamune bent the sound around them.

The creature lurched forward. Its half-melted wings flapped weakly, and its body dripped with smoldering residue. Sephiroth moved again. Smooth and as quick as an exhale: one clean arc of motion. Silver sliced through the vibrating dark. The blade cleaved deep, meeting flesh, muscle, and bone, cutting through core and shadow alike.

Its final howl was deafening: an unholy wail that rolled through the floor and up the walls, making every glass cylinder shiver.

Bianca’s wings flared reflexively. Her feathers rattled, as her hand pressed hard to her lower ribs as if steadying herself against the invisible pressure.

Then the sound broke.

The creature collapsed in on itself. Black fluid hissed as it met the floor. The lights overhead steadied. The psychic buzz faded from Sephiroth’s mind, leaving only the quiet hum of mako and the faint rasp of Bianca’s uneven breathing behind him.

Through the Red Thread, he felt it again. Her nausea sharpened, and her pulse uneven: a illness he had felt since Angeal's Day of Remembrance a month ago.

He forced his movements to remain precise despite the awareness clawing at his focus. He ended the monster with one clean strike now. The blade tore through core. The body split with a wet, final sound before collapsing in a heap of hissing flesh.

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the mako tanks. Then the sirens dimmed. The air, though still thick with iron and ozone, began to settle, as its body started to fade out into tiny motes of green light.

Sephiroth turned.

Bianca stood against the wall. One hand pressed to her chest, and the other resting low on her abdomen. Her wings trembled faintly, feathers ruffled. Her eyes found his: dazed but aware.

“It’s over,” he said quietly, as he dismissed the Masamune. The blade slowly disappeared when purple mist moved along its form.

She nodded, but her response was delayed.

“That. . .thing. . . ” She swallowed hard, as the color drained from her cheeks. “It was part of Project N, wasn’t it? Part of us.”

He didn’t answer.

Her body swayed slightly, and before thought could intervene, he was beside her again. One arm steadied her by the shoulders. She tensed briefly, then exhaled, and leaned into the contact just enough for him to feel the minute tremor running through her frame.

“I’m fine,” she murmured again, but her voice had softened, unraveling at the edges.

“You are not,” he said simply.

Her lips parted to argue, then closed. Instead, she let him guide her away from the laboratory, through the silent hallways and up the freight lift toward the quieter executive floors.

Each level they descended seemed to leach a little of the tension from her body, though he could still feel the strain humming faintly through their connection: an ache, a fatigue that refused to fade.

When they stepped into one of the smaller rest quarters near the 59th floor, the sudden stillness enveloped them. The room was modest by Shinra’s standards: a small couch, a table, and soft light filtering through glass panels.

Outside, the city shimmered beneath a dark sky. Midgar's reactors glowed faintly with emerald light, a beacon against the night.

Bianca sank onto the couch, exhaling. Her wings folded tightly around her. The feathers dimmed to a dusky hue.

Sephiroth remained standing for a moment. After a pause that might have been hesitation, he knelt before her.

Her hands were clasped together in her lap. Her knuckles were pale. He reached out, the leather of his gloves creaked faintly as his fingers brushed her wrist. The Red Thread glowed faintly between them beneath his glove and around her flesh, warmth radiating in the space where string met skin.

“You are trembling,” he said quietly: a bit too quiet.

“I’m tired.” Her tone was soft, but something beneath it carried a note of vulnerability she rarely allowed anyone to hear. These were moments only Sephiroth witnessed.

“It’s been a long day, and my body’s just—”

She stopped, grimacing faintly as another wave of discomfort rippled through her. Her hand shifted instinctively toward her lower abdomen. “It’s nothing serious.”

Through the bond, he felt it again: not pain, exactly, but heaviness. It was a quiet, deep strain that seemed to draw energy from her very bones.

He studied her face: the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the pallor at her lips, and the way her breathing caught just slightly after each exhale. He had seen her after illnesses, after torture, but he had never seen her like this.

“You have overexerted yourself,” he said.

Bianca smiled faintly, the curve of it weary but sincere. “You sound like Zack.”

He didn’t return the smile. “Zack does not carry command authority quite like I do.”

That earned a soft chuckle from her, but it quickly faded as she leaned back, eyes closing. A lock of her black-and-indigo hair fell forward. He reached without thinking, brushing it aside with the backs of his fingers. Her scent lingered faintly in the air—something like pumpkin spice—threading with the faint chemical sweetness of mako.

Her breathing evened out gradually, but he could still sense the discomfort underneath. Through the Red String, it pressed against him like a low hum. He found himself matching her slow and delibrate rhythm, until the pulse of the thread steadied.

Minutes passed in silence. The only sound was the faint whir of the building’s systems and the occasional creak of the wind against the windows.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost drowsy. “You shouldn’t worry so much.”

“I do not,” he said automatically.

Her lips curved again, just barely. “Liar.”

He said nothing.

She opened her eyes then, and their indigo depths reflected the faint green light filtering from the city below.

“You always try to carry everything alone,” she whispered. “Even me.”

He met her gaze, expression unreadable. “You are not a burden.”

Her fingers brushed against his, the contact feather-light. “Then stop treating me like glass.”

He did not withdraw.

“You are not glass,” he said quietly, “but you are breakable.”

The words hung between them. It was just the unadorned truth. Bianca looked at him for a long time, something unreadable flickering behind her tired eyes. Then she leaned forward, resting her forehead briefly against his shoulder. It was a gesture so small, so tentative, that he might have missed it had he not felt the surge through the Red Thread: the warmth, the ache, the quiet gratitude.

His hand lifted slightly, hovering just above her back. Then he allowed it to rest there, a careful weight, steady and grounding. Her wings relaxed beneath his palm, as the feathers rustled softly.

Outside, another storm began to gather over Midgar. It seemed to rain wherever Bianca was. Distant thunder rolled across the skyline, the scent of ozone filtering in through the vents. Bianca’s breathing deepened, and her body finally loosened the last of its tension.

Sephiroth watched her in silence. Her pallor remained, and the faint sheen of exhaustion clung to her, but there was a softness in her expression now: a quiet peace that made something in his chest ease. The Red String pulsed once more. Slow and certain.

Even when she had morning sickness and weakness from their previous failed pregnancies, Sephiroth did not understand what had unsettled her body tonight. Whether it was stress, exhaustion, or something quieter and deeper blooming remained unseen. But he knew one thing. Whatever it was, he would not allow it to break her.

His gaze lingered on her profile, as the faint color returned to her cheeks and the way her lashes trembled. She drifted near sleep. For a moment, the chaos of Shinra and the horrors of Hojo’s work faded to insignificance. There was only this room, the quiet surrounding them, and the heartbeat tethered to his own.

When she stirred, murmuring something too soft to catch, he whispered the same words he had spoken in the lab, softer this time, meant only for her, as he had grown much softer this last month. “I’ve got you.”

The Red Thread glowed faintly in reply.

And though he would never name what he felt—not yet but soon—the warmth that lingered in his chest as the storm gathered outside was proof enough that it was real.

Whatever this was, he thought as he watched her hand unconsciously press to her abdomen, her lips parted in a sigh of relief.

Whatever this is, he continued his thought, I will not let it break her. Not now. Not ever.

@themaradwrites @craftyhal @kitcatling @prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen

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But Giyuu’s eyes glistened feverishly and when he spoke, his voice sounded ever so restless. “This movie was a masterpiece. I have no idea how we’re supposed to survive until the next one.”

Sanemi’s heart skipped a beat and he felt himself nodding emphatically. The movie had indeed been amazing, and he was still blown away by the experience. “It was legendary,” he said and cast a glance back at the cinema hall, almost longingly. If it were up to him, he could watch the movie right over again. “But at least we can read the manga, I guess. Though I’ll have to buy it first.”

That was a sour thought and a faint voice in his mind whispered that he certainly would not read it that soon, considering the price of the manga and the current condition of his bank account. Sanemi grimaced and heaved a sigh.

Giyuu looked at him, a pensive expression on his face. “I have the manga,” he said carefully. “I bought it two weeks ago, haven’t read it yet though.”

Before Sanemi could stop himself, he turned to Giyuu, the yearning expression still on his face. “You’re a lucky guy,” he said wistfully.

To his surprise, Giyuu’s cheeks blushed ever so slightly and he quickly averted his gaze. “I am,” he muttered. Then, a bit louder, “You can borrow them, if you’d like to.”

For a moment, Sanemi just looked at him. Giyuu still stared at the ground, his face half hidden behind strands of hair falling down. He was still holding the now empty popcorn bucket, his fingers around the edge, maybe a bit too tight. And in that moment, something in Sanemi mellowed.

“That’s kind of you,” he said quietly, surprised by how different his own voice sounded when he was not angry. “I’d like to do that.”

Giyuu nodded hastily, still mustering the carpet of the cinema. The crowd had carried them back into the lobby, leaving them right before the doors leading out into the night. Once they passed through the doors, they would head in different directions, marking the end of their fake date. Only a few steps, then Sanemi would have mastered this charade. He just had to say his goodbyes and then he was free to leave, to go back home. Find an excuse for his friends why it had not worked out and then pretend like this had never happened. It was so easy.

Sanemi did not move a muscle. People moved around them, parting like the sea when they were swept around them, diving back into the dark. And yet, their chattering had turned quiet, almost as if he and Giyuu were hidden behind a veil that separated them from the world. Giyuu did not move either, his gaze still turned downward.

And then, Sanemi heard himself say, “I’m kinda hungry. Want to grab some food?”

Giyuu’s head shot up and for the first time, he lost control of his face. His ocean eyes widened when he looked at Sanemi, a kaleidoscope of emotions surging through them. “You want to have dinner? Like, together? You and me?”

And somehow, this broke the spell. Sanemi laughed and nodded, grinning to himself when Giyuu stared at him completely incredulous. “Yes, together. Are you down?”

For one second, the fear that Giyuu would say no flickered through his mind. But then, Giyuu’s face grew calm and he nodded tentatively. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, I’m down.”

Something deep within Sanemi fluttered and he quickly cleared his throat. “Uh, great. Maybe we should get rid of the cups and bucket first, though.”

Giyuu looked down at the bucket he was holding as if he had never seen it before. Then, he nodded to the big bin that sat right next to the umbrella stand. Together, they walked over and dropped the empty cups and bucket into the bin. Once they had vanished into the gaping maw of the bin, Giyuu took a step to the side and carefully pulled his umbrella out of the stand.

When he looked up at Sanemi, he was back to his usual blank expression, though it now looked way more familiar to Sanemi already. “All set,” Giyuu said. But then, he hesitated and looked up at Sanemi. “But where are we going?”

Sanemi had already thought about that and with a gust of cold air through the opening door, a memory came back. He tilted his head and looked at Giyuu pensively. “I think I know a spot,” he said. “I hope you like pasta.”

As if the popcorn bucket had not been enough, the rain now seemed to join in on the scheme, and Sanemi found himself under an umbrella that was not his. They moved perfectly in sync, careful to avoid the curtain of water flowing down on all sides. Of course, the umbrella was not big enough to cover two men, though it was a quite big umbrella, to keep things fair. And so, Sanemi’s shoulder slowly started feeling wet and he was sure that Giyuu experienced the exact same thing, just on the other side. And yet, Giyuu did not take back his offer to share his umbrella. In fact, he even moved a bit closer whenever Sanemi tried to give him more space. He seemed determined to share the umbrella, and Sanemi did not question it. After all, the rain was pretty icy.

The strenuous walk did not take long. The restaurant was closer than Sanemi remembered and he had rarely been so happy to see light flowing through the windows onto the street. One glance inside revealed to him that there were quite a few free tables, and Sanemi silently sighed in relief. For a dreadful moment he had entertained the thought of the restaurant being all booked out, leaving him looking like an idiot.

“We’re there,” he said and gestured towards the door. Giyuu followed his movement, stepped to the door – and held it open for Sanemi, holding the umbrella over his head.

Sanemi’s face started feeling hot and he quickly slipped inside, avoiding Giyuu’s gaze. “Thanks,” he murmured, and was more than grateful for the server who came towards them and smiled at him.

“A table for two?” the server asked and when Sanemi nodded, he gestured at the half-empty restaurant. “Pick whichever table you’d like.”

Sanemi looked around and quickly noticed that he had also forgotten how cozy this restaurant was. It was rather small, nestled between two bigger buildings. The inside was full of warm colors, honey-colored furniture and red curtains lining the windows. Each of the tables had a small candle in its middle, flickering softly. Very welcoming, and maybe even a bit too cozy. Sanemi’s skin started heating up when he realized that each occupied table looked very much like the people sitting at it were a couple.

His cheeks burning, he pointed at a table in a corner, as far away from the couples as possible. “How about that one?” he asked Giyuu, without looking at him.

And from so close behind him that his skin started tingling, he heard Giyuu say, “I’ll follow your lead.”

Sanemi nodded quickly and made his way to the table. When he got there, he slid into the seat that had its back turned to the rest of the restaurant. He decidedly did not want to see the couples, the tables that reminded him of candlelight dinners and an old Disney movie. Shuddering, he took a mental note to not order spaghetti and meatballs under any circumstances. From the corner of his eye, he saw Giyuu giving him a curious look. But he said nothing and sat down across from Sanemi.

Only a few seconds later, the server came to their table and greeted them with a friendly smile. He handed them the menu and asked them whether they had already chosen what to drink. A bit overwhelmed, Sanemi decided on water.

“Let’s take a whole bottle and share,” Giyuu said, half to Sanemi, half to the server. The server nodded and smiled. Then, he walked off, leaving them to their menus.

Now that they were seated, Sanemi suddenly had no idea what to talk about. So, he fled into the menu, scanning it for the dishes he had had the last time he had been here. To his luck, Giyuu seemed to take no exception at his behavior and also studied the menu. He seemed entirely immersed, his finger elegantly turning the page from time to time. Sanemi, on the contrary, struggled to focus. Without wanting to, his gaze kept wandering up, caught by Giyuu’s blue eyes that shimmered in the light of the candle on their table.

“Here’s your water,” the server said and Sanemi winced. He had not noticed him coming closer and quickly leaned back when the server carefully placed two glasses and a big bottle of water between them. While he poured water into their glasses, he asked, “Have you decided what you would like to eat?”

Sanemi motioned for Giyuu to go first, still holding on to his menu. While he listened to Giyuu ordering a pasta dish, the intrusive urge to order spaghetti and meatballs surged through Sanemi and he felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat. He swallowed hard and almost choked when both Giyuu and the server suddenly turned to him. “Uh, I’ll have a pizza funghi,” he said, too flustered to come up with anything other than his favorite.

The server smiled and jotted their orders down on his notepad. Then, he reached for something he had set down on the empty table right beside theirs. Sanemi and Giyuu both looked at him in surprise when he placed two small plates down before them. On them, there was a beautiful arrangement of tomatoes, mozzarella and basil, olive oil drizzled over them. “This is our famous caprese salad. A greeting from our kitchen, if you will. Please enjoy!”

Giyuu thanked the server politely and Sanemi nodded along, surprised at the kind gesture. When the server walked away, he looked back at Giyuu. Now that he had had a bit of time to settle in, Sanemi finally started to process what had happened. Only two days ago, he would have called anyone crazy who told him this would happen. And even a few hours ago, he would have given everything to escape this situation. But right now, he felt weirdly relaxed, almost as if his nervous system had started to accept the surreal situation.

When the candle flickered in a sudden breeze, Sanemi realized that he had been staring at Giyuu absentmindedly. He cleared his throat, feeling a bit embarrassed, but Giyuu just returned his look calmly as if there was nothing strange about his behavior. And suddenly, it hit Sanemi how patient Giyuu had been. He had gone along with the whole thing, even though he had virtually not had any reason to do so. He could very well have ignored Sanemi’s friends calling out, he could have revealed Sanemi’s lie. But he had not, and he was still here.

Sanemi took a deep breath and met Giyuu’s gaze. “Thank you,” he said. When Giyuu looked at him askingly, he added, “For going along with this, I mean. You didn’t have to do that.”

Giyuu tilted his head and for a second, Sanemi could see the slightest hint of a smile on his face. “No worries. I don’t mind fake dating you.”

Weirdly enough, Sanemi’s heart picked this exact moment to skip a beat. For a moment, he had no idea how to respond and finally settled on an awkward nod. To gloss over his confusion, he gestured at the caprese salad. “Nice gesture of them,” he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “Didn’t expect that.”

Giyuu looked down at his salad and his eyes darkened. “Yes,” he muttered, but his voice sounded a bit strained.

Sanemi who had just taken his first bite swallowed uncomfortably, puzzled by this sudden change. He almost choked on a piece of basil and quickly took a sip of water to flush it down. His mind started racing when he replayed the last few minutes, trying to figure out what he had said to cause this shift. But as far as he could remember, he had not done anything but thank Giyuu. And he had said it was fine, so that had probably not been offensive. Unless Giyuu had been sarcastic about it, of course.

Sanemi’s heart started beating faster when he asked himself whether Giyuu was just good at hiding his disdain. Maybe he had felt forced to go along with it, maybe he was secretly rolling his eyes and hoping that this farce would be over soon. That would explain why he did not speak much. And –

In the meantime, Giyuu had taken his fork and now picked at the caprese salad, looking decidedly uncomfortable. And when Sanemi could not take it anymore, he blurted out, “What’s wrong?”

Giyuu winced and looked up, his expression pained. Sanemi watched incredulously when the faintest blush appeared on Giyuu’s cheeks. For a moment, he seemed to struggle with himself, then his shoulders sank down. “I don’t like tomatoes,” he said so quietly that Sanemi almost did not hear him.

It took a second for the words to sink in, but then Sanemi laughed out loud. Giyuu’s eyes widened and his blush deepened. Sanemi shook his head and grinned at Giyuu. “If that’s all,” he said, his voice quivering with relief. “I’ve got you. If you want, I can take your tomatoes.”

And when pure, unfiltered relief spread on Giyuu’s face, Sanemi could not help but smile to himself. He pushed his plate closer and watched Giyuu who now looked around warily and then shoveled the tomatoes onto Sanemi’s plate when nobody was looking. And when Sanemi pulled his now tomato-laden plate back, Giyuu sighed so deeply that Sanemi could almost feel the table between them shake. When Giyuu looked at him, his eyes were blue as the sky. “You’re my savior, do you know that?”

This is part of a multi-chapter fic. Follow along at:

A/N: I tend to ignore the influence Jadis had on Edmund when writing him, I like to think Aslan's forgiveness did more than her cruelty. But I also think that when you go through trauma you are never fully healed. You may go months, years, without thinking about it and then something mundane can trigger the memory. I just wanted him to have someone there for him when it does.

Zelda’s fingers ran through Link’s hair as she hummed softly into the darkness. Link’s breathing refused to slow, instead coming in short, shaky breaths. She kissed the top of his head and inhaled deeply. His dark, woody scent was familiar, calming.

The weeks since his battle with Demise had been hard. The ecstasy of Link’s victory, the relief of Zelda being free from Demise’s demonic control, the pride and jubilation from Groose as he told everyone in Skyloft about their glorious triumph—it had all had to eventually wear off, ultimately leaving behind two scarred children with fresh memories of a life’s worth of pain.

Once the adrenaline had worn off and they could fall, weeping, into each other’s arms, it had been a whirlwind of amazing stories from both of them. Zelda had seen the scars that Link had collected on his journey. The mottled burns, the thick white lines, the place deep in his shoulder that was always sore, the remnants of an electrical shock—each one came with a story about some awful situation he had found himself in. He spoke about it so casually, with such a carefree smile on his face, that Zelda could almost believe that he didn’t mind the memories at all.

Almost.

She knew what he was doing: downplaying his own fears and feelings to show that he was there for her. Showing her that even when his own world had come crashing down around him, he wanted to protect her. And while it was true that the memories of her ordeal with Demise felt like they were crushing her, she knew they were nothing compared to what Link was hiding away.

But sometimes, when the nights were especially dark, his façade came crumbling down. All she could do was hold him. And hold him she did.

Link took a long, shuddering breath against her shoulder. She pulled him closer, tucking her chin over his head. “Don’t worry, Link,” she said, her soft voice echoing off the walls of the Sealed Temple. “Everything is fine. We’re safe, both of us. It’s all fine.”

Link said nothing. Zelda felt his arms begin to relax and took that as a good sign. “Just keep breathing deep, okay? You need to sleep. It’s okay; I’ll watch over you. I’ve got you.”

Zelda picked up her humming again and stared at the temple wall, dimly lit by the moonlight, as Link’s body finally went limp in her arms. She heaved a deep sigh with relief and slowly lowered her head against her makeshift moss pillow. Link didn’t stir as she adjusted him at her side; hopefully, it would be a long time before he awoke.