#doomedlovers

(NO TWS, I believe. If anything here should be tagged for trigger let me know🌸)

     Sephiroth would have some nickname for you. Before Nibelheim, it would be something sweet and cute. Let’s say you have a quality that would incline him to call you ‘puppy.’ Maybe when you two met, you were hyper and excited to meet him and he found it amusing. Before Nibeheim, it would be sweet, soft, and affectionate. Most likely teasing or playful, too. 

“Look at you, getting all cheerful just because I complimented your improvements. Just like a puppy.”

He would most likely only use it in private with you, or a whisper when the others’ backs were turned. But post-Nibelheim Sephiroth would use it exclusively as a mocking insult, with dark affection behind it. Imagine you, standing against him (maybe protecting Cloud or even Aerith, depending on if you see yourself apart of that group) and right after absolutely humbling you with Masamune, he becomes silent when you’re on the ground. You, out of curiosity, look up to him, just to see him looking down at you with twisted softness and a slight smirk.

“So eager for reprimand, hm?” He leans down, forearm resting on his knee comfortably as his silvery silky hair falls over his shoulders. He smells just as you remember him, something like the way steel and blood taste along with something startlingly close to cologne. “Just the way I remember. A rebellious little puppy. Powerless yet defiant.”

After that, he stands so smoothly it takes a moment for you to realize he moved at all. And he walks away, knowing Cloud/Zack/Aerith/Tifa will rescue you from here. But the fact he remembered that silly little nickname? It sends a tremor down your spine. Whether or not it’s pleasurable is up to you.

    Sephiroth, without a doubt in my silly head canon obsessed mind, is a gentleman. Or at least before Nibelheim he was. But certainly, before, when you were his partner/underling (doesn’t matter as long as you are fem!User) you got the knight treatment a lot.

You, along with Cloud and Sephiroth and a few other grunts, sat around the campfire. Just a small rest day. Yet, it was cold. You shivered but didn’t complain. It was that moment you realized… where did Sephiroth disappear to? Just then, you feel something warm around your shoulders. You look back in surprise, and none other than Sephiroth is laying a blanket around you.

“No need to freeze to death when we have a job to do.” His words sound cold, but his voice is velvety and his face expression shows caring tease. You smile and nod, wrapping it around yourself. But somehow, it hurts you. You know that just about everyone has some sort of crush on the great Sephiroth. And you hate knowing you have one that may never be reciprocated. But still, it is these small bits of affection that keep you going.

Post-Nibelheim Sephiroth? Still gentlemanly, but in a darker way.

Okay, okay— I know I’m reaching far here. But imagine, you go to a ball with the FF7 group. They all are doing their own thing, dancing and having fun or brooding in the corner.

But you? You don’t want to dance. You feel anxious. You leave into the silent upstairs balcony. Maybe you’re not even supposed to be there.

As you catch your breath and lean over the railing, looking down at the gardens, you feel a presence. A presence that makes you feel uneasy. A presence you recognized immediately.

Sephiroth.

You freeze. Can you even turn around? Is it really him? Has your imagination and fantasies gotten so bad you hallucinate him?

But you turn around anyway. Right there, hardly a foot away, is him.

His head is tilted like a curious cat, staring right at you, before his mako-green eyes scan over the rest of you approvingly before snapping back up to your eyes.

“I wonder why you aren’t down there. Could it possibly be… you can’t bear the thought of dancing with anyone else, save for me?”

You have no idea how he ever found out about your crush, but his voice is like poisoned honey to your ears.

You scowl, leaning away from him as he steps closer. 

“Now, now.”  He says softly. “Don’t become so vicious. I thought you loved parties.”

‘Shut up!’ You wished you had the courage to yell in his ridiculously handsome face. ‘Why won’t you leave me alone!?’ You wanted to ask.

Before you can respond, he gently but firmly takes your waist and your hand.

He sweeps you away from the railing, beginning to lead your favorite dance. The Violet Jewel, it was called. You saw it performed at a ball by a woman in violet jewels, some sort of noble. You remember telling him it was romantic. It was sensual, intimate.

And now, just as you once wished before it all went wrong, he was dancing it with you.

You begin to follow along. You can’t help but be drawn to him, like a bee to a poisonous flower. For him, his attraction to you is like a weed to a lovely flower.

You are swept into the magic of the dance, even bringing your inner thigh to his outer hip just the way it goes in the dance.

He smiles, and for a moment the world is narrowed to only you and him. Nibelheim is forgotten. Fire becomes a faraway thing, harmless to your love for him instead of being what was supposed to burn it away. All that exists are the sweet moments you had with him, suddenly you are just two lovers dancing at a ball, secluded and illuminated by moonlight.

The dance, after beautiful eternity, draws to its end, and he indulges you, holding the small of your back and dipping you.

Forgetting everything negative about Sephiroth, you indulge him, too. You allow your eyes to shut softly as you are dipped, lifting one leg up as if pointing your toes to the sky, exposing your neck and leaving you vulnerable as you catch your breath and loll back before he slowly, gently brings you up.

You melt in his touch, looking up at him with eyes full of fulfilled desire and love so potent he will never forget it; he will only crave it from you from here on out.

But the illusion shatters when you notice the blood on his armor. Even on the very gracious benefit of the doubt that the graceful and elegant Sephiroth managed to have wine spilled on him, or even more graciously guessing he may have helped someone in need…

You know that’s a willing ignorance.

You push yourself away, shaking your head. “No.. this is all wrong…” you say quietly, withdrawing.

Sephiroth is startled by the disappearance of your humanly warmth, and his hands lift as though trying to will you back.

You make the mistake of looking up at him… seeing the almost human desire for love and contact in his eyes. The way his beautiful face looks so sorrowful, the way his lips part and brows raise ever so slightly…

You turn away, walking for just a moment before sprinting away, unable to hold back the tears. Tears for what could have been, tears for the evil regret you have of not joining him, tears for wishing he never found out about his origins.

AKA the feminised name of my saviour

Three of my pens have dried in trying to write your name. the chorus tells me to put my pen away. to close this letter and turn back to the life infront of me.

but i can't let go of the life we could have had.

I find the tiniest glimmers of you in the golden hours. i see what we had in my students. i tell them about us. they see themselves in ways we never could have.

In the late hours of the darkest nights your words haunt me. "I wonder how much of the last 8 months were real". I wonder how much that side of me was real. am i even that? did i feign it for you?

did you make me it?

How long will i keep the green light on my dock, when you have crossed international waters?

i burnt my green flame on someone near you just to try and see if i could warm you.

there is so much i could say but so little would find you.

I wonder if you cant still see my face, bleeding, through the ones and zeroes.

This is something that I wrote late last night before I went to bed. I had the idea the other night while trying to get to sleep, and just wanted to have something started. Before I knew it I'd written nearly two full pages of text. For your consideration, here is the tale of a vampire druid:

Hemora was the love of Elekses the Third, Baron of Duskvale. He often told her that he could not live without her, and would gladly die for her. One day, though, she came to him and told him that she was ill with a disease which had been passed down through her family. There was no cure, no alms or remedy that could stop it, and within half a year she would wither away. But she thought she had found a way, one that her forebears had never considered, though for good reason. Hemora asked Elekses again if he would die for her: he said yes without hesitation. Then she asked him if he would taste undeath with her, and he paused.