Prompt: "I'm Cold" "Here, have my jacket" (alternative prompt 25)
Pairing: Steve Harrington x GN!Reader
Summary: You and Steve take the kids to the fair
Word Count: 1.3k
Warnings: fluff (obviously), friends to lovers, food mention, first kiss, this is meant to take place after the main events of season 2 (pre Snow Ball)
“Guys look! The Tilt-A-Whirl is running again!” Dustin shouted to the others with giddy excitement.
“No! We said we were gonna go on the Gravitron.” Lucas crossed his arms over his chest, an annoyed look on his face aimed at Dustin.
Will hung his head and released a sigh, “Guys, I’m really hungry, and you said after the bumper cars we could go get food.”
Dustin placed his hand over his heart and spoke with earnest, “Will, I promise, we will get food after the Tilt-A-Whirl.”
“You’ll want to wait until after, trust me.” Steve whispered to Will.
“How about this,” you clapped yours hands together to get everyone’s attention, “I think Steve and I can trust all of you to go do your own thing, as long as you don’t leave the fair, don’t wonder off by yourself, so use the buddy system, and you meet us at the entrance at nine, okay?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be watching us?” Mike looked over at Steve with a furrowed brow.
Max slapped his arm causing him to wince, “Shut up!”
“Ow!”
“We are not being watched?” El asked, looking to Mike for confirmation.
He nodded as he rubbed his arm, “Yeah, just stay with me though, okay?”
She nodded and took hold of his hand. The blush that spread across his cheeks made you smile.
“Great, go have fun!” Steve waved them off. As they went on their way, splitting off into two groups, Steve took a seat on one of the tables and groaned, burying his head in his hands, “I am so tired of being the goddamn babysitter.”
You sat down next to him, “I know, that’s why I suggested they can take care of themselves.”
“Thank you.”
You could have melted at the small smile he gave you, “You’re welcome.”
You had no plans to go to the county fair. It wasn’t really your cup of tea. You would much rather spend your time at home with a book or watching a movie, but when Steve called you and practically begged you to come with him and the kids you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.
Steve Harrington was your weakness, when he called for you, you came running, no questions asked. It was almost laughable how head over heels you were for him, but he was too oblivious to notice, which made you equally annoyed and grateful.
Steve sat up and ran a hand through his hair, you always admired how his hair seemed to effortless fall back into place after he would run his hand through it, almost like it did it on purpose, like his hair knew the role it played in Steve’s life.
“So, now that we ditched babysitting duty, what should we do?”
You shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Steve chuckled, “What do you usually do when you go to the fair?”
“Well, dingus, not all of us go to the fair on the regular.” You pushed his shoulder playfully.
“Alright, alright,” he stood up and offered you his hand, “come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Trust me, it will be fun.”
With the way he was looking at you combined with the string of lights above you reflecting in his eyes, how could you deny him?
You took his hand and smiled, “Alright.”
~
Steve took you all around the fair, the two of you did what felt like everything, the carousel, the cheesy haunted house, the Ferris Wheel, everything. You were surprised Steve didn’t want to go on more “intense” rides, but you figured he didn’t want to risk messing up his hair, though you thought that would be impossible.
After the Ferris Wheel, you decided to grab some food. Steve told you to go find a table and he would get the snacks. You found a relatively clean table under more of the string lights from earlier with a view of the rollercoaster. You looked over and saw some of the kids getting in line and waved to them, but they were too focused on the ride to see you. You chuckled to yourself and looked down at your watch, a quarter to nine, time really had flown by.
A cold breeze blew past you, sending a chill down your back and into your arms and legs. You cursed yourself for not bringing a jacket. It was surprising you hadn’t needed one until now, it had been chilly most of the evening, but you suspected spending most of the night with Steve’s hand in yours had kept you warm. Another breeze caused you to shiver; you rubbed your hands up and down your arms, but it didn’t seem to help.
“You okay?” Steve asked as he approached the table, a tray piled with food in his hand.
“I’m cold.”
“Here,” Steve set the tray down and shrugged off his coat, “have my jacket.”
“No, Steve. It’s fine.”
“I insist.” He didn’t offer the jacket to you; he simply walked around you and placed it on your shoulders.
His jacket was warm. So warm that it instantly banished the chill from your body. You pulled it tighter around you, savoring the feeling of having a piece of him wrapped around you. It smelled just like him, woodsy with a hint of vanilla.
“Alright,” Steve plopped down next to you, “so I got us the fair staples, you got your corndogs, kettle corn, loaded fries, nachos, and, of course, fried Oreos.”
“Fried Oreos? Seriously?” You didn’t know if you should be disgusted or intrigued.
“Listen, I know what you’re thinking. Why mess with the perfection that is an Oreo, but I am telling you these babies are incredible,” he grabbed one and took a bite, letting out an overdramatic moan, “Delicious!”
“I don’t know, Steve. Maybe I’ll just stick with normal fried food, like potatoes.”
“Come on, just one bite.” He held one up to your mouth.
Once again, you couldn’t bring yourself to say no to him. You leaned forward and took a bite.
“So, what do you think?”
You looked at him with a frown, “I think you have terrible taste in snacks, Steve.”
“What?” There was slight offense in his tone, but mostly amusement.
“I said what I said.”
Steve slid closer to you, “Well, I think you’re full of shit.”
“Oh, no, you’re full of shit.” You quipped back.
As your amused laughter died down, you realized how close Steve was, his shoulder was brushing against yours, you could feel the warmth of his leg pressing against yours, and you felt his fingers ghosting over your hand. He was impossibly close, you couldn’t stop your eyes from drifting down to his lips, only for a second, but he noticed. Steve smiled and leaned in, but he didn’t close the distance. He waited with bated breath for you to respond, to lean in and close the gap.
And you did.
Kissing Steve Harrington was everything and nothing like you imagined it would be. Soft yet firm, gentle yet passionate. You enjoyed the way his hand found its place at the nape of your neck, pulling even closer, as if he were trying to fuse your bodies together. You finally got to run your fingers through his perfect hair, and it was just as soft as you thought it would be.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” Steve admitted when you pulled apart to breathe.
“Really? You have?”
He leaned his forehead against yours and whispered breathlessly, “I really have.”
“So…does this me you like me?”
“Why else would I have asked you to come to the fair with me?”
You both chuckled softly before leaning back in for another kiss.
“Hey! Lovebirds! It’s three minutes to nine, stop sucking face and let’s go!” Dustin yelled as he, Mike, and El passed by.
You busted out laughing while Steve glared after Dustin.
“I really hate that kid.”
“No, you don’t.”
He released an irritated sigh, “You’re right, I don’t.”
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John looked up from the paper and swallowed his bit of toast. Sherlock was sitting opposite him at the kitchen table, fiddling with his phone but not really focusing on it.
“Yeah?”
Sherlock looked down at his hands, put his phone down on the table and picked it up again. John frowned at the display and lowered his paper even further.
“Sherlock? You alright?”
“Yes, yes. Fine. I’m just wondering…” He looked up at John, and now John saw that it wasn’t a state of actual distress Sherlock had worked himself into, but rather one of hopeless curiosity and anticipation. He almost looked like a little child, looking forward to a birthday party.
“Yes?” John encouraged, leaning back in his chair and trying to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Sherlock was trying so hard.
“Well, you know. About today. This month.”
John tilted his head and lifted one eyebrow, prompting Sherlock to elaborate. Sherlock shot him a glare, knowing exactly that John wanted him to spell it out.
“What is it that you’ve planned for today?” he blurted out eventually, looking at John with intense eyes that were mostly expecting, with just a small hint of frustration. Probably about the fact that he couldn’t just deduce it.
John smiled, leaning forwards again and propping his elbows up on the table.
“I thought I’d leave it a surprise,” he said calmly, noticing the downward curve of Sherlock’s mouth.
“Okay, I can tell you something, I suppose,” John added, “So you don't have to suffer all day. It takes place in the evening. Or night, rather. Has to be dark.”
Sherlock gave him a look, both eyebrows raised, and John laughed.
“No, not what you’re thinking. Outside the bed.”
John picked up his paper again, revelling in the feeling of fondness that washed over him at the sight of Sherlock, trying to figure out whether he was disappointed or excited about the fact that their bed wouldn’t be part of today’s plan.
“Have you eaten?” John asked in an attempt to divert Sherlock’s thoughts. The scowl on the detective’s face only deepened at that, which gave John his answer.
---
“John…” Sherlock whined, sprawling on the sofa.
“Alright,” John sighed, getting up from where he’d been sitting at the desk and closing his laptop. “Guess now is as good as ever.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said in an exaggerated drawl, simultaneously trying not to let his excitement show. He was failing rather miserably, since he was standing in the hallway not two minutes later, complete with coat and shoes, all but tapping his foot impatiently.
“Come on, John,” he urged, holding out his hand for John to take as he went down the stairs.
“Would you wait until I’ve got my jacket? Jesus… You don’t even know where we are going!”
“Yes, that is my problem. Not knowing what today is about means not knowing what this month is about. I don’t like not knowing.”
John sighed, but the sigh turned into a chuckle towards the end and he let himself be pulled down the stairs by Sherlock, only one arm actually in his sleeve.
Sherlock flagged down a cab for them and John told the cabbie the address.
“That’s north of Regent’s Park,” Sherlock muttered, and only then did he notice the little bag John had brought with him.
“What’s that?” he asked, already pulling it open and peering inside. “A blanket. And a thermos. Tea? Most probably. Primrose Hill. At this time… Sky relatively clear, temperatures mild for October… You want to go look at stars, don’t you?”
John smiled fondly at him. “Well, kept it a secret longer than I expected. What do you think?”
Sherlock looked at him, then leaned back and let his gaze go into the distance.
“It’s fitting,” he murmured eventually, and John smiled, reaching out for Sherlock’s hand.
“Yes, I thought so as well. And don’t worry, I don’t intent to turn it into a lecture. Just looking.”
Sherlock nodded absently, looking out the window, but squeezing John’s hand gently.
---
“Now, if I can offer you a seat,” John said, gesturing exaggeratedly and motioning for Sherlock to sit down on the blanket they had spread on the ground.
Sherlock rolled his eyes good naturedly and gracefully took the generously offered seat, looking up at John expectantly. John followed suit, not as elegantly as Sherlock, but he got there in the end.
“Well?” Sherlock asked, shifting until his hip was pressed against John’s.
“Well, sit back and look up. Enjoy, if possible?”
John leaned back until he was propped up on his elbows, aware of Sherlock still looking down at him. After a long moment of silence, Sherlock murmured softly, “I’ll always enjoy your company. Regardless of what we’re doing.”
John had to close his eyes as the words hit him unexpectedly. He took a deep breath, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest, then he opened his eyes to find Sherlock’s, still boring into him.
“You know,” John said, shifting back up into a sitting position, “We’ve been together for so long now, most people in our place would complain about the spark that has gone missing by now. However, not only do you keep that ominous spark alive, you regularly make me feel as if I’m falling in love with you all over again.”
He shifted closer towards Sherlock, who was still sitting upright instead of looking at the stars.
“You ridiculous, mad, clever man. You are, an absolute marvel. And I love you!”
He gently placed his hand over Sherlock’s, who promptly intertwined their fingers, but seemed a bit speechless at the moment.
John squeezed his hand. “Now lean back and look at the damn stars, before you make me cry. It’s why we came here, after all. The stars, that is.”
Sherlock blinked at him for another moment, then he turned and shuffled down the blanket to lie back.
There weren’t a lot of stars to be seen, the light pollution still too prominent, but it was better than in central London.
“The big dipper,” John stated, pointing in the general direction of the constellation. Sherlock only hummed.
John turned his head at the lack of response. “You read up on astronomy, didn’t you?”
This time Sherlock didn’t reply at all. Instead, he shifted closer to John, wriggling until he was close enough to rest his head on John’s good shoulder.
“You alright?” John murmured, and Sherlock nodded.
“I’m a bit cold, that’s all.”
John gently nudged Sherlock and moved to sit up. “Here, have my jacket,” he said, already shrugging out of it.
“John, I don’t–”
“Take it,” John insisted. “I guess I got used to cold nights in Afghanistan. And the nights here aren’t nearly as cold.”
He motioned for Sherlock to lie back down, then spread his jacket over his body.
“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered, pulling John down to join him.
“You love it,” John whispered teasingly. “Because it smells like me.”
Sherlock groaned but sank his face into said jacket. “Yes,” he all but whined. “Your fault.”
John chuckled at that, tugging a loose curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “I’ll take that blame.”
---
They’d stayed there for a bit over an hour, John vehemently denying that he was indeed freezing his bollocks off.
And considering that they’d come to watch the stars, they’d spent surprisingly little of their time there actually looking up, too caught up with each other.
Well, they’d just have to come there again then, John had said as they’d folded the blanket. And Sherlock hadn’t objected.
---
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Summary: Bianca collapses from mysterious illness during early morning drills, forcing Sephiroth to confront fear and tenderness he can neither command nor control.
Pairing: Bianca Moore (f!oc) / Sephiroth
Other Characters: Zack Fair, Angeal Hewley (mentioned), Genesis Rhapsodos (mentioned), Professor Hojo (mentioned)
Possible Trigger Warnings: abuse mention, body horror, collapse, emotional distress, fainting, grief, laboratory trauma mention, medical experimentation, nausea, physical weakness, surveillance, vomiting mention, vivisection mentioned
Possible Tropes: angst, bonded souls, caretaking, canon divergence, emotional hurt/comfort, established relationship, foreshadowing, found family, mutual pining, past trauma, protective behavior, red string of fate, tragic backstory, unspoken love, pre-fall Sephiroth, sane!Sephiroth, author is sleep-deprived
Author’s Note: This piece was created for @flufftober, prompt Day 28 and also for prompt 18 (Swoon) and 25 (Shared Coat), It is also for Sephiroth Week hosted by @week-of-silver-winds, prompt: Day 6 (Broken).
Light seeped slowly into the Shinra Building, gilding the lobby’s marble floors with a pale reflection of sunrise. The dawn light poured through the glass façade, cutting through the last of the night’s shadow, turning the white marble into gold. The chandeliers above, hanging three stories high, flickered to life in intervals: a soft hum of electricity preceding the warm glow of light cascading across banners embroidered with Shinra’s insignia.
The air smelled faintly of steel polish, sterilized air filters, and the distant bitterness of brewing coffee, a sterile peace before the day’s orders began. The polished floor reflected the slow movement of troopers and staff trickling in, their footsteps echoing like metronomes in the cavernous quiet.
Sephiroth stood near the reception desk, posture flawless as always. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, shoulders squared beneath his long black coat. Today, he had left the apartment without his pauldrons, as thoughts pressed down upon him. This was not like him.
His coat whispered faintly when he shifted, the smooth weight of the leather tracing his form in disciplined stillness. The faint scent of ozone followed him: sharp and clean, like the promise of a coming storm.
His cyan eyes were cool and unblinking, scanning the lobby without truly seeing it, as though his attention was elsewhere and was drawn by the thin, unseen thread that connected him to the woman sitting a few feet away.
Zack Fair sat sprawled across from him, bright-eyed and far less formal. He was halfway through a breakfast sandwich—triple meat and egg—that seemed almost comically large for even his appetite. The younger SOLDIER’s black hair caught the light in wild spikes, his uniform crisp but the turtleneck rumbled just before his brown, leather belly guard with Shinra's logo engraved upon it. He swung one leg idly as he ate, cheerful despite the hour, the mako in his eyes glinting with good humor.
Between them, Bianca perched on a low sofa, cross-legged, a paper cup of coffee held delicately between her hands. A small napkin rested in her lap with a single donut. It was barely touched with some of its powdered sugar dusting her fingertips.
She looked delicate this morning, he thought. Too delicate. Her wings were folded tightly against her back, a tale-tell sign she didn't feel good. The indigo and black feathers overlapped with meticulous precision, as though she feared a single tremor might cause her to unravel.
Her waist-length black hair, streaked with indigo, flowed down her back. Half of the locks were tied high with a white ribbon that had loosened over the course of the early morning. A few tendrils framed her face, clinging to her pale cheeks. Her indigo eyes shimmered faintly beneath the overhead lights. Feline pupils, like Sephiroth's, narrowed at the brightness. A faint shimmer of exhaustion clung to her like a veil. Even her lips, usually quick to smirk, seemed dulled.
Zack grinned around another mouthful. “You’re eating like a bird, B. You need real breakfast if you’re joining drills.”
Bianca smiled faintly, her tone soft and teasing. “Don’t mock the donut, Fair. It’s all that stands between me and insurrection.”
The sound of her voice was light, but Sephiroth could hear the faint rasp beneath it.
Zack laughed, the sound echoing faintly across the empty space. But Sephiroth’s attention didn’t waver from her. He could feel her unease as a subtle tremor beneath his own skin: the thread between them whispering something unspoken. She hadn’t touched the donut again. Since the memorial that SOLDIER held for Shinra a month ago, she ate tiny amounts, but he couldn't blame her. He was doing the exact same thing: not eating.
Her hands, slender and pale, trembled slightly around the cup.
A flicker of sharp and unsteady nausea moved through her aura. Through the red thread that bound them, the sensation reached him like a ghost pain. His stomach tightening, balance momentarily off-kilter.
The nausea came on in waves: uneven, foreign, yet piercingly real. It wasn’t his body that rebelled, but it felt as though it were: a tightening deep in his abdomen that rolled upward into his chest, disorienting in its suddenness. The sterile air of the lobby turned metallic on his tongue, tinged with the faint bitterness of coffee and steel polish.
For a man trained to suppress every flicker of discomfort, the intrusion was startling, no matter how many times he experienced it. It was an echo of Bianca’s imbalance bleeding through the thread that tied them. The world tilted for half a heartbeat, vision sharpening too much, too fast, as if light itself pressed against his nerves.
The sensation didn’t fade so much as it settled, as an unwelcome pulse pushed beneath his ribs, steady and wrong. His muscles tightened instinctively, an old reflex from years of mastering his own body under pressure. Yet this wasn’t fatigue or hunger or the aftermath of combat. It was hers.
He could feel it in the rhythm of her breath, in the tremor of her fingers around the cup. The thread between them thrummed like a struck chord, vibrating with her unease. It was intimate in a way that unsettled him. Her weakness written into his own flesh, and his composure tested by something he could neither fight nor command.
He swallowed and shifted fractionally closer, lowering his gaze to study her.
“You’re pale,” he said quietly. “Cold?”
“A little,” she murmured, voice soft, frayed at the edges. She tried to smile, but it faltered. “It’s just the temperature they keep the building. It's like an icebox.”
He straightened slightly, schooling his expression. Concern warred with discipline, but training won out. “You should have eaten more than that.”
Her lips curved with a spark of mischief, though it didn’t reach her grief-tinged eyes. “Commanding tone, Sephiroth. Careful. People might think you care.”
His response came without hesitation. Steady and quiet. “I do.”
Zack interjected, "And he has positives emotions, ladies and gentlemen."
At Sephiroth's narrowed stare and thin, pressed lips, Zack apologized quickly and placed both of his hands together, contritely, which even had Sephiroth stifle a laugh.
She blinked, as if caught off guard by Sephiroth's earlier bluntness. Then a quick, fragile, brittle laugh escaped her. She rose, pressing a hand to her abdomen as if to steady herself. “I’ll be fine. VR room calls.”
She took one step forward and swayed.
The paper cup slipped from her hand, shattering the calm of the lobby as it hit the marble floor. Coffee splattered across the pristine surface. A dark bloom spread against the pale stone. Sephiroth caught her before she hit the ground. One arm braced behind her back, the other gripping her forearm firmly. Her skin was icy, and her pulse racing. He swallowed thickly as again the nausea hit him.
Through the thread, her panic struck him like a second heartbeat in his own chest. The red string around their wrists flared in the corner of his vision, burning crimson.
Zack was already there, sandwich forgotten.
“Got her,” he said quickly, steadying her other arm. “Easy, easy. Hey, B, breathe.”
Bianca tried to protest, shaking her head weakly. “It’s fine. Just dizzy—”
“It is not fine.” Sephiroth’s voice had gone low: too calm, too controlled to mask the fear that laced it.
Together, they guided her through the lobby, the space stretching endlessly before them. The hum of Shinra’s machinery echoed faintly through the floors. Troopers and clerks turned discreetly away, pretending not to watch as the Hero of Wutai and a First Class escorted the Angel of Shinra toward the private elevators. Whispers followed them. There would be talk tomorrow. The gossip wheel always turned.
When the doors slid shut and after Zack told Sephiroth to call him the moment she was feeling better, the sound of the world outside fell away, leaving both Bianca and Sephiroth alone. The elevator ascendedin silence, the faint vibration of its motion underscored by Bianca’s shallow breathing.
Sephiroth’s hand remained firm on her shoulder, feeling the trembling beneath the layers of her uniform.
When the doors opened, the air shifted. Their apartment was warm where the world outside was cold. It bore the marks of two people who had carved something human out of steel: a soft rug spread over metal floors, plants thriving in the window light, a faint citrus-sage scent from one of Bianca’s handmade charms burning low in a dish. This was ALL her doing, transforming the sterile space into something that looked like life.
Her extra set of boots sat by the door, neatly lined beside his. A half-finished sketch lay across the coffee table, beside a mug of paintbrushes and a feather tucked into the rim.
He guided her to the couch, where she sank weakly into the cushions, wings trembling.
“Stay still,” he said, unfastening his coat and settling it around her shoulders.
The heavy leather dwarfed her, swallowing her frame until she looked impossibly small. She gave a weak, tired chuckle. “You’re too serious sometimes.”
He knelt beside her, eyes fixed on her trembling hands. “You’re unwell.”
“Maybe I’m catching something.” Her voice wavered between humor and fatigue. Her eyes, glassy with exhaustion, flickered toward him but didn’t quite focus. “I haven’t been able to hold anything down. So, I don’t eat.”
"You need to eat." Hypocrite.
Through the red thread, her confusion rippled into him. Beneath it, something deeper—an undercurrent that felt both strange and alive—shifted within her aura. He couldn’t name it, but since last week, it was growing.
Outside, the hum of Midgar traffic began to build: a reminder of a world that never stopped moving. Inside, everything felt suspended.
Bianca pressed her hand to her stomach, voice barely a whisper. "Something’s changing. I can feel it.”
For a heartbeat, Sephiroth didn’t breathe. The light from the window traced the curve of her cheek, making her look fragile in a way that unsettled him. His gaze flicked instinctively to her hand, the small tremor in her fingers, the way she seemed to fold in on herself as though something inside her had shifted, and the body she trusted no longer felt like her own.
The faint sound of the city beyond the glass—airships, engines, the pulse of Shinra’s empire—seemed to fade into a low hum. In its place, he felt the pull of memory: sharp as a blade and just as merciless.
Genesis’s disappearance still carved through him like an unhealed scar. Sephiroth remembered the day Shinra declared Genesis and Angeal “killed in action.” Bianca had bitterly said the phrasing had been clinical, detached. It was as if they thought loss could be archived and filed away, but it rotted someone from the inside out.
He could still hear the contempt in his friend’s voice that last time they crossed blades in the Shinra Building, Would you be the hero?, spoken not in hatred, but in disbelief. That damn poem his friend was always quoting, that had started to define Genesis's life.
Then, he remembered, the accusation that Sephiroth was complacent in the breeding program which tied him to Bianca, which to this day he reverently denied. He was only protecting her from Hojo. No one understood that it was Sephiroth who held in her organs when the scientists had dumped Bianca in their shared room when he was thirteen, how he slept by her on the floor that night, with his hands pressed against the wound until her flesh started to stitch itself together, again.
And then there was Angeal, whose honor had been the last steady thing in their crumbling circle, gone now too. His death passed down to Sephiroth through a single report, stripped of everything human, before the funeral a few weeks later and the memorial almost a year after his death. His old friend had been reduced to a slogan, to a motto. Bianca had protested that, too.
He felt the absence of both men as though part of his own structure had collapsed. Genesis had been ambition set aflame; Angeal, restraint given form. Without them, there was only the hollow quiet of expectation and the echo of orders, and Bianca.
But above all, the ever-present eye of Hojo who always watching through the cameras. Bianca had said Hojo was always calculating, as if their grief were just another variable to measure. Sephiroth could feel it even now: the low buzz of surveillance in the corners of their private quarters and the faint click of hidden lenses adjusting their focus. The man’s gaze lingered like a parasite on the back of his neck. Angeal's words came back to him, 'Protect her, Sephiroth', as if he hadn't his entire life. Her life meant everything to him.
His jaw tightened. “Grief can do that,” he said at last, his tone a study in control.
It was easier to name it grief than to consider that something unknown was happening to her. Not degradation. Hojo had said that her cells could somewhat stabilize even human's exposure to the foreign cells inside Angeal, Genesis, and Sephiroth briefly, but what if something beyond his reach and ability to fix ailed her? He couldn't lose her, too. His heart clenched tightly.
Bianca’s eyes lifted to his, and the denial broke in her gaze before it ever reached her voice. The tears came soundlessly, falling onto her lap like fragments of light. She wiped at them fiercely with the back of her hand, the motion almost angry, as if to reclaim what little composure she had left.
“It doesn’t feel like grief,” she whispered, and the crack in her voice made something in him twist. "It feels like I am dying."
Sephiroth wanted to reach for her. He always did when her mask slipped, but the memory of the cameras held him back. Every touch, every flicker of concern, might be studied, dissected, used. Used against her and him. Protect her, Sephiroth.
So, he stayed still, and the space between them filled with the sound of her quiet breathing, the faint rustle of her feathers as her wings trembled.
And Sephiroth, who could command armies and fell fiends with one blow, could only sit there. He was helpless before something he could neither fight nor understand, as the woman he could not lose whispered that she was changing and was coming undone, and he feared she was right.
This fragile, trembling vulnerability before him? He could not fight it, as he had dragons, behemoths, and abominations. He could only watch. Only curse their upbringing.
The red thread pulsed again, then dimmed, exhausted.
She tried to stand, saying that she felt fine and murmuring about returning to training, but her legs gave out before she’d taken a step.
He caught her easily, but this time, unlike in the lobby, she went still in his arms. Her breath came shallow, her body limp.
He lowered her to the couch, as his heart pounded behind his ribcage. “Bianca.”
No answer: only the faint rise and fall of her chest. Damn Shinra. He was shocked at the thought, but he pushed it away. For now.
Sephiroth gathered her into his arms, holding her close. Her wings folded around her body instinctively. The soft feathers brushed his cheek. The scent of her clung to the air around them.
He rose and carried her to the bedroom. Her mismatched socks peeked from beneath the hem of his coat. The domestic absurdity of it made his throat tighten.
Hours passed. When she stirred, she was cocooned in blankets with his coat still wrapped around her shoulders. Her indigo eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, and then softened when they met his.
“You fainted,” he said simply.
Her lips curved faintly. “Not my most heroic moment.”
He sat beside her. Papers were scattered across the nightstand: mission reports and status logs. He’d been reading them aloud in a low, even tone to anchor himself while she slept.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted when she noticed. “Reading steadies the mind.”
Her smile was small, tired. “You worry too much.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he adjusted the coat around her shoulders and brushed a lock of hair from her face. His touch was slow and deliberate. Almost reverent.
“I like when you do that,” she murmured, half-asleep.
His hand lingered a moment longer before retreating. “You haven’t been eating.”
“I can’t keep anything down,” she confessed softly. “Even the smell of coffee turns me.”
He frowned, eyes narrowing slightly. “You should have said something.”
Then, he chastised himself. He had known about the nausea through the thread, but he was too deep within his own grief to say something.
“You’d have told me to rest. And then you’d worry.”
“I already am.”
Her laugh was faint but real. “You’re not supposed to admit that, Seph.”
He met her gaze. “Then I’ll deny it later.”
She sank back into the pillows. Exhaustion softened her face.
“We’re both coming apart,” she whispered. “You just hide it better.”
He didn’t argue. The leash of Shinra had frayed them both, though his mask of composure held. Around them, the apartment breathed quietly. The hum of the city muted beyond the window, the faint clink of rain beginning against the glass.
She stirred again, murmuring, “It smells like rain.”
He looked at her, watching the fragile peace return to her face.
“Rest, Bia,” he said softly.
Her eyes closed. Her thick lashes brushed her cheeks. The red thread between them glowed faintly. Warm. Alive. He felt its pulse echo against his own chest.
He sat beside her for a long time, as he read in silence. The quiet broken only by the sound of turning pages and the rhythm of her breathing. Between the lines of tactical reports, he found something steady. Something human. Something worthy of healing for.
Reaching over to the sandwich he had fixed earlier, he took a bite before putting it back down upon the plate. In that moment, Sephiroth had made a choice. To live. To thrive. To protect her. To pick up her broken pieces and stitch her back together, as he often did when they were children, clinging to each other in that windowless room with just a thin, ratty blanket shared between them in the labs.
She slept. Her wings folded softly against her back, as she shifted upon her side. The storm in her body eased. Her hands slipped beneath the blanket and cradled her belly. He reached over and adjusted the comforter to cover her shoulder once again.
The thread pulsed once more. Not as a chain, but as proof that, even in the cold heart of the machine, something gentle still endured. And for that fragile heartbeat, it was enough and worthy to protect.
Sunshine's Flufftober - Alt 11, Alt 12, Alt 15, Alt 19, Alt 20, Alt 25
Let Me Be Your Fire -
Prompts: Alt 11, Alt 12, Alt 15, Alt 19, Alt 20, Alt 25
Rating - E
Pairings: Fíli/Ori, Kíli/Tauriel, Bagginshield, Dís/Original Female Character, Nori/Dwalin, Dori/Balin, Gimli/Legolas, Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Word Count, at the present time: 229,955 words
Summary:
When Thorin's rule as King Under The Mountain comes into question 13 years after Erebor was reclaimed, Fíli alongside Ori step up to assure their restless kinfolk of the future of their reclaimed kingdom by offering to marry and produce the next in line to the Throne Under The Mountain.
While having known each other since they were pebbles, both Fíli and Ori will realize they have a lot to learn if their nascent friendship and arranged marriage have a chance of making it at all.
Can love grow amidst duty and remain, or was their idea all for naught?
Thank you to @usuallysublimepenguin for this lovely prompt art piece!! I cannot thank her enough still for creating this for my fic! :)
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Flufftober Alt 22. Wearing Each Other’s Clothes + Alt 25. “I’m cold” – “Here, have my jacket”
hello i've returned from the depths of hell (reality) /j
hopefully i'll have more time to write now :D hopefully,,,
(this is an original work!)
(中文版)
@flufftober
Arashi’s alarm ring out, waking her up just as she was about to fall asleep again.
“Hmm…” Arashi sits up, eyes still closed. She rubs her eyes, then goes down the ladder of the bunk bed to turn off the alarm.
She grabs a random uniform shirt from the basket of clothes. Oh, she got a long sleeved one by accident. Well, it's pretty cold out anyway, so she puts it on.
Arashi finishes changing. She wiggles around in the shirt, which feels a bit tighter than usual. It's probably because she rarely wears the long sleeved uniform, she reasons.
Opening the door, she greets Daisy. “Good morning.”
“Oh! Good mor—” Daisy pauses. “Wait. Is that my shirt?”
“Huh?” Arashi looks down.
“That student ID is mine, isn't it?” she points to the numbers embroidered on the left chest side.
Arashi blinks. “Oh. No wonder this shirt felt smaller.”
Daisy bursts into laughter. “How- Why did you even have my shirt in your room?”
She vaguely recalls going to the laundry room late at night, and putting the basket of newly dried clothes in her room.
Oh, wait, they share a laundry basket.
“Ah,” Arashi goes and takes the basket out of her room. “I must have taken your clothes by accident.”
Daisy laughs. “So that's where the laundry basket went!”
Arashi laughs as well. “Sorry, I was really tired.”
Daisy runs her icy fingers up and down her arms, trying to get warmer. She pulls on her skirt, covering her legs as much as she can. Thankfully her socks are warm enough, but she still can't help but rub her legs together.
Maybe she should have known that these conference halls always have the AC on the strongest setting.
“Are you cold?” Beside her, Arashi says.
“Yeah,” Daisy sniffles. “I’m really cold. Should have brought a jacket.”
“Here, have my jacket,” Arashi says, about to take off her jacket.
“Huh?” Daisy whips her head and looks at Arashi. “There's- There's no need for that! I’m good, besides, aren't you cold? You're wearing short sleeves underneath.”
“You're shivering, Daisy,” Arashi says, “I’m not that cold anyway.”
The jacket is put on her like a warm blanket. She unconsciously leans into the warmth before reaching to take it off and hand it back to Arashi. “I’m fine, really—”
“No, no, you can have it,” Arashi pulls on the jacket, covering Daisy’s arms. “Just put it on.”
Daisy hesitantly accepts the jacket. It is quite bigger than her, and still warm from Arashi’s body temperature.
Though her fingers still feel like ice, somewhere inside she feels warm.
