There are not enough fics on AO3 of Cloud Strife fucking his mum, Claudia.
Single mother in a remote small village, raising an isolated socially awkward son who struggles to make connections. It practically writes itself!
There’s a scene in the games where she talks about the perfect woman for him and she’s basically just describing herself. They’re also the spitting image of each other, which is just automatically hot. Plus, think of the extra layers of angst when she ultimately dies.
I need that shy traumatised boy in her asap!!
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crackfic based on strife’s final minecraft challenge video. strife visits church. it’s selfcest. i’m sorry.
The building is grand, all etched out in varying shades of red in elaborate angular designs. Clay interlaces with crimson to frame the stained glass window, and usually such monochromatic extremes might be considered boring but here it demands attention like no other.
This is the cathedral that Strife built. This is the world that Strife built, and none other shall compare. His metaphorical stake in the ground will be a testament to how he’s going to survive this place, and it will be driven into the ground with pizazz and style.
But before he can say that he’s done that, he has to finish one final task.
The dragon! The dragon has slain so many, the dragon of endings, of purple fire and steel spikes and a casual disregard for solid objects, and well, Strife’s not scared but he knows that the soul needs placating and guidance before he’s ready to face that sucker.
The hall he steps into isn’t quite vast and full of ancient holiness, but that’s because he built it like three weeks ago. Nevertheless, the building echoes with an almost imperceptible hum, and thrums with the religiousity of a one-man religion. If you could measure up religiousity in discrete units, why, the religiousity of this place would be off the charts! That’s just how much he believes in himself!
And  at the end of the hall, overlooking the sacred blocks of redstone, is himself.
Who else would he go to for such an important task? Who else to administer the benediction?
He approaches the priest. Head bowed in respect, he begins by complimenting himself. Oh, how the gold trim shines when combined with those carmine robes! Of course, he takes the compliments graciously, as he knows the Master of the Church should.
He’s here for a blessing. Of course he is. The blessed conquer and the blessed rule, just look at all the reigns of kings and queens backed by gods. It’s even better when the god just happens to be Yourself, because You would clearly be so willing to bless such a dedicated devotee as yourself.
And it would be foolhardy to go out to face the end without a little extra help.
The man before him seems like a perfect reflection, which he is. The blond hair and goatee, the piercing green gaze, the look of lofty arrogance as the priest speaks casually about the church and the tax-deductable workers- all him, all wonderously him and nobody else-
Putting trust, or love, or faith into someone else’s hands? Pah! Strife’s tried that before, and he’s even held another’s heart in his hands, fragile and beating and his, but all that’s in the past and in the end, sometimes you have to admit that the only person you can trust is yourself.
The priest is holding an emerald. He touches Strife’s shoulders with the jewel; first the right, and then the left. With each touch, Strife shivers involuntarily, his eyes never leaving the priest’s piercing green ones.
He looks at the emerald, at the tiny reflection of himself in it.
The priest smiles gently, and raises the emerald above Strife’s head. “With this blessing”, he says, “you will go forth with the wealth and the power of strife, and Strife. In your endeavours, you will succeed. Go forth.”
Hesitantly, he steps away from the priest. He thanks him, but he doesn’t quite want to leave. There’s something more he has to do, something that can’t be left unsaid here-
And the priest takes Strife’s shoulder with his other hand, pulls him closer and gently kisses him on the forehead. His lips feel cool like the emerald he holds. Strife closes his eyes and breathes, refusing to let this moment escape from him.
This doesn’t entirely feel right, but it’s the best he has.
The priest steps back. “Go forth, my little emerald,” he says.
