thwritersroom
the writer's room
the Writer's Room for the Discord server, Tifa's Harem. If you are under 18, please leave now.
27 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
biscuit-munchies
Wuh oh! It's brainrot time!
preemeeumm
PREMIUM INFLUENCE
attention-hoar
Attention Hoar
detectiveaesthetic
Paint him like one of your french girls.
Photo
~Prompt Spotlight~
Come and join us for Seven Days in (Seventh) Heaven, a Tifa Lockhart multi-ship challenge ~ running March 21 - March 27 2021
12 notes
·
View notes
Text
come and see
ii. come and see
Of all the assignments Tseng could have given him, this was by far the most annoying.
Reno sat in the last pew watching her from afar move about the dilapidated church that looked like something out of an art history book in the Shrina museum. Instead of hitting Wall Market with Rude, he had to babysit Tseng’s underage creeper crush in Sector Five and escort her home.
“Hi, no Tseng tonight?” Aerith asks gathering her belongings. She knew the routine by now, she was no stranger to Turks or Shrina.
Reno knew Tseng didn’t want to give this assignment up, even for a day, but that’s what happens when make the big bucks as a Director and get pulled into last minute board meetings.
“No, sorry babe. He’s got big boy problems. Ya got me instead. The name is Reno,” he says extending his hand out for her to shake.
Reno didn’t understand all the hype about this girl. Sure, she was cute and could grow magic flowers or something, but, Gaia, everyone was talking about her in Shrina. SOLDIER, Turks, and the labs were all going crazy for this broad. What was the big deal about her?
Still holding his hand, her lips curve into a coy smile.
“Come and see,” Aerith says, as if reading his mind; her glittering emerald eyes, staring right into his tar-black soul.
Holy fuck.
-xx-
Prompt Notes: Aerith, Reno, “come and see”, art school, tense
FFNET Link
0 notes
Text
white graveyard
i. white graveyard
The fine white wool of his suit is blinding even in the low ambient light. Slick hair so pale it readily takes on the blue hue of the light matching the color of his eyes. He stands in front of her with his head held high, the regal air of a king, as the fingers on his left hand begin to tap in an impatient rhythm next to his untouched glass of gin.
They all warned her, every single one of them.
“He’s very persuasive,” she recalls Reeve Tuesti cautioning her when she initially agreed to the proposition. “Be careful, he gets what he wants no matter what.”
And damn them all for being right.
Truth is she didn’t mind working there. While she didn’t care much for the monochrome bar with the stylish cream-white furniture atop dark wood floors, all dripping with a certain opulence that reeked of him, the job was good. Too good. Rufus Shinra paid her well to bar tend a few evenings in the Shinra headquarter executive lounge.
Dare she say he was actually very pleasant to serve drinks to, even charming.
“Well?” he asks again as he kisses the hollow where her neck and collarbone join.
Charming enough to get her to agree to something she never would imagine doing in a million years, but here she is digging her own grave.
“Just once,” Tifa whispers as her jaw locks, her free hand grips his as she follows him into the back room.
-xx-
Prompt Notes: Rufus, Tifa, graveyard, “Just Once”
FFNet Link
1 note
·
View note
Text
Share with us...
Super excited to hear people are already creating for our challenge in March! If you have any ideas, WIPs or sneak-peeks you want us to re-blog, please tag them #SeventhHeaven2021
(NSFW content must be tagged)
11 notes
·
View notes
Link
HI GUYS!
Exciting things to report… currently working on setting up Seven Days in (Seventh) Heaven, a week long prompt challenge celebrating Tifa Lockhart and the characters we love to ship her with.
This is a celebration of ALL Tifa ships, no matter how un/popular (as you know, I’m sipping on those rare vintages) so if anybody is interested in taking part, please give us a follow on Twitter!
Prompts need to be submitted by 14th January (drop me a line if there’s anything you want to suggest) and will then be finalised/posted towards the start of February. The challenge will run March 21st to March 27th. Hope you see you all there <3
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
You were the maître d, so of course you wouldn’t understand. When everyone shouts at the kitchen and you accidentally burn yourself only to be rewarded with yells and curses for walking the wrong order to the window or for overcooking the lamb, you wouldn’t know how much it kills my soul. Make all of it tenfold in every day that I spent in the kitchen and that was my life. Too bad I really love cooking, so I’m stuck here.
You would enter the kitchen and look over, even when everything was going to hell. The Head chef shouted at me again for the undercooked pasta and all you did was stare. Because what else could you do? But there was the sympathy in your eyes as you watched it all unfold that said you wouldn’t reprimand me for my mistake even when your neck was on the line. I appreciated that. It was a little comforting.
The shift ended with more shouting for the wreck I caused. Everyone was looking at me and all I could think was how much I wanted to stay in the kitchen. It’s where I belong. I just needed another chance to try harder. I was grinding my teeth so hard because I didn’t want the waterworks to start. It was a waste of time and I wanted to spare myself from the embarrassment. I wanted to show that I am strong enough to take it, even when I wasn’t. And I’d like to think that you read through that because you started walking to our direction.
“Chef. That’s enough,” you said.
It wasn’t a nag. That was never your style. But the usually soft look in your eyes had turned hard and even Chef knew you weren’t backing down. He stopped, finally, and stormed out of the kitchen. When he was gone and everyone returned to cleaning their areas, you looked at me.
“Let’s talk outside,” you said.
I held my breath as we walked out, passing through the dining area where a few more of our patrons stayed until way past the restaurant’s closing time. You lead me to the patio and the gentle gust of cool evening air whipped to my face. I could hear the chirps of the cricket and the splash of water hidden by the miles and miles of tropical trees from where we were standing on the balcony.
You turned to me and I felt my chest cave in when I met your gentle eyes, surveying me by the looks of it, searching through for the right words to say. It shouldn’t be too hard, really. “Good job today,” would have been nice. Or maybe a reassuring “you won’t be fired.” But maybe I was overthinking.
It took a lot of energy to compose myself before I could say something. “What is it, Mr. Tuesti?”
“I just want to ask how you are coping in the kitchen,” you said. “Especially with…”
You trailed off, but that’s okay. You didn’t want to mention names even when we both know exactly who it was. You didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. I would have done the same.
“Mr. Tuesti, I want to stay in the kitchen.” I sounded a little begging, and it didn’t help that my voice almost broke because my heart was already in my throat.
You frowned. Not the angry kind, but just frowned. I didn’t know what that meant, but it clenched in my chest.
“You will stay in the kitchen for as long as you want to,” you said gently. You were just too kind, too nice for your own good. “But I want to ensure that your wellbeing is taken care of.”
“Please don’t mind me. I can take it. I just want to cook.”
“Tifa…”
That was when I broke down, the second you called my name. I wanted to tell you how much it killed me to fail in the only thing I loved doing. I worked too hard to be in this kitchen, to cook with the biggest names in the industry. I wanted to tell you how much of my life I had given up to build a career as a chef. To beg you to please, please don’t make me leave. Please don’t let it be you who would have to ask me to leave.
But you didn’t say anything. You just let me cry. I would catch you looking at me and not knowing what to do. or what to say. You would shake your hands on your side and tried to be discreet about it. You were nervous, I could tell. But I didn’t want to make you nervous. I wanted you to say something. You were the maître d and I had admired you. Always have.
“What can I do?” you asked.
I shook my head. I didn’t want to ask for too much. What you said was enough.
“Allow me to do something. Anything. Tell me what you need.”
Your voice was gruff and gentle, but your disposition was all but lost. I could see through my blurry eyes that you were looking at me intently, determined to make me stop crying. But maybe words were not the only way to solve this problem. So when I reached out to hold your hand and you squeezed mine, I felt better.
#a: scribbleness#ch: tifa lockhart#ch: reeve tuesti#r: tifa + reeve#r: reeve + tifa#f: drabble#insp: generator
0 notes
Text
Paris. The City of Lights. The Ooh La La (whatever that means). You’ve heard all about the art, the food, the cheese, except you’re not here for that. You've lost her. Again.
But the sound of fighting alerts you. When you turn the corner, it's her. You (regrettably) shout, “Ten guys and one girl? Someone’s gonna be sore!” Then you finish off the last two together—Go Team Fair!— take her in your arms, and say, "Hey, there's a room without a door nearby. Shall we find it?”
"Fine, Zack," Tifa answers you. "But this isn't how I envisioned our honeymoon."
#a: motchi#zifa#ch: zack fair#ch: tifa lockhart#r: tifa + zack#r: zack + tifa#f: drabble#insp: generator
1 note
·
View note
Text
“What is this thing I have to obtain? A… job?” The eye on her chest blinks in confusion, and the tentacle sprouting from her stomach roils uncomfortably.
Lazard sighs as he looks at… her? Yes, probably a her, if the… anatomy... is any indication. “If you’re going to stay on this planet long-term, then yes, you will need a job. Most people have to take care of themselves down here.”
“I cannot just take what I require, or desire?”
“People generally frown upon that sort of behavior. Taking things without asking tends to piss most humans off.”
“Why should I care about the feelings of humans?” The entity blinks in confusion, although it also might be due to Lazard’s flashlight shining directly into her eyeballs.
This is not exactly how he expected his nightly walk to go, but his life is already weird enough anyway. Finding a murderous alien in the woods is honestly one of the least strange things that have happened. He’s been sitting on a log with her for the past two hours, discussing Gaia and the way life runs on their tiny little rock.
Maybe he shouldn’t be telling her everything she needs to know in order to brutally slaughter them all, but hey. Jenova is a stranger in a strange land and maybe… just maybe… all she might need is a friend.
0 notes
Text
Tseng hasn’t been to a drive-in since their spring break when their love burned hot and fast like a gasoline fire. He leans the seat back as the movie starts, catching the lingering scent from their last tryst in his backseat.
As his hand moves lower and underneath his waistline, he’s thankful for the tinted windows and loud explosions as the movie starts with a literal bang.
He remembers her soft brown hair, the heat from her breath, her half-lidded emerald eyes.
And she always smelled like flowers.
He grips himself harder, thinking of her lips.
“You feel like summer."
#a: absolutehysteria#ch: tseng#ch: aerith gainsborough#r: aerith + tseng#t: tseng + aerith#f: drabble#f: smut#insp: generator
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
“You mean you’ve never had a s’more?!”
“I do believe that is what I just said, yes.”
Zack flops back in his folding chair, hand slung over his eyes. “You can’t tell me that. I’m a chef, man. And a s’more… it’s the hallmark of any good camping trip!”
Sephiroth doesn’t meet his gaze, preferring instead to focus on the dancing flames of the campfire. “My diet was always strictly monitored.”
“Okay, okay, let’s not bring up your depressing-as-fuck childhood,” Zack says, “but… damn. No s’mores? Did your parents hate joy or something?”
Sephiroth takes a moment to answer before he says, hushed and melancholic, “Joy, and each other.”
Zack’s smile falters.
1 note
·
View note
Text
“Mr. President.” Tseng appeared in the doorway, wringing a washcloth from his hands. “It’s time for your bath.”
Rufus remained silent, slumped in the corner of the bedroom, the edge of his fingernail clawing at bits of wallpaper. His back was littered with anomalies — all inexplicable to the human eye — ooze and filth, liable to infection.
Tseng started towards him, as if retrieving a wounded animal that would not give. He was met with the baring of teeth.
“I don’t need you to help me wash.” Rufus growled. He rose from the ground, his legs wobbling in a manner of all directions. He had not his cane with him, nor any form of assistance that would help sustain the brittle bones of his body; it was through the will of pride alone that he could stand, so briefly and infinitesimally, all on his own. He collapsed into the Turk’s arms, and then, after an interminable silence, stifled a short, meager sob.
“You always do that.” Tseng whispered, brushing the blond forelock out of his face. “Pull away when I try to get close. What are you afraid of?”
#a: lonebeauty#rufus x tseng#ch: tseng#ch: rufus#r: rufus + tseng#r: tseng + rufus#f: drabble#insp: generator
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
They marked her grave by a persistent patch of yellow peonies that grew along the city’s perimeter. Cloud drove a stake into the earth and tied a piece of pink ribbon to the top.
It flutters in the breeze now, rising and falling rhythmically, and Tifa would like to believe that the wind is her breath.
A new flower appears every time she comes here. Some are hers; some aren’t. The dirt around the daffodils looks fresh. Life follows death in the graveyard garden. It’s Aerith’s last act of defiance.
For those left behind, every offering, an apology—every blossom, a confession.
#a: quartz#ch: tifa lockhart#ch: aerith gainsborough#r: tifa + aerith#r: aerith + tifa#f: drabble#insp: generator
1 note
·
View note
Text
When she wakes, there are flowers from the meadow on her bedside table. Tifa recognizes them for what they are--an apology for their argument last night--and reaches to take a deep, full breath of their scent before she stands to dress.
When she comes downstairs, the kettle is just whistling, which means he must have been listening for her. Sephiroth sits at the table with a mug of coffee and his hair tied back, and he waits for her to make her tea to her liking and sit down before he speaks.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he says without preamble, and Tifa swallows a mouthful of tea before she answers.
“Thanks for the flowers,” she responds. “That was very sweet of you.”
“I've been thinking…” he starts, before he falls silent and slides a folded-up piece of newspaper in her direction. “Well, just take a look for yourself.”
Tifa unfolds it to reveal an advertisement for the Starlight Swingers, a jazz ensemble she’s enamored of. And they’re going to be in town in the near future.
“Are you asking me on a date?” she asks, secretly giddy, as if they hadn’t been together for two years already, as if she was still angry that she was mooning over him, of all people, to begin with.
“I thought you might like to go. We could dance.” His voice is calm, but a hint of a flush blooms on his cheeks nonetheless.
Tifa laughs. “I never thought you liked music all that much. Or dancing.”
“I don’t. But I do like you.”
That sentence stops her in her tracks. “I think I can make you learn to like it,” she says at last, humbled by his vulnerability. “The music, at least. The dancing I’m not too sure about.”
“Well,” he says, after one very long, pregnant pause, eyes on her, “as long as it’s with you, I’m sure I’ll come around.”
#a: maxfieldparrishes#sephti#ch: tifa lockhart#ch: sephiroth#r: sephiroth + tifa#r: tifa + sephiroth#f: drabble#insp: generator
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tifa’s heels sink into the mud and her hair swirls around her cloche hat as she treks across the field to meet him.
He stands amongst the stones, proud and erect, hands in his suit pockets and his silver hair whipping in the wind as he watches her approach.
She passes through the circle and she feels it: the tingle, the charge, the change in the air. It dances around her, and she shivers as she nears him. Part of it is fear, yes, but there’s something else inside her--something she doesn’t want to name--as well.
Her town is still smoking, burned to the foundations, and she can still hear the echo of the bombers’ engines, ringing in her ears.
There is no home left, so here she is. With him. In need of him. The traitor.
She stands in front of him, stonefaced. He looks at her, appraising, then he says: “Ask me.”
She swallows. Everything in her mind is fire.
“Ask me,” he repeats, looking at the columns of smoke in the sky, and Tifa makes her choice.
“Teach me. Please.”
#a: maxfieldparrishes#sephti#ch: tifa lockhart#ch: sephiroth#r: tifa + sephiroth#r: sephiroth + tifa#f: drabble#insp: generator
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
The wall is cold and gritty through Elena’s shirt, digging into her shoulder blades. It’s a sharp pain, searing her blood.
His eyes are burning too, and she’s drawn to him, a moth to a flame.
They’re panting. Blood stains his scarlet hair, and there are bruises along his jaw. The adrenaline is intoxicating. He’s all sharp angles and rough edges against her.
When he crushes his mouth to hers, there’s no tenderness, just teeth and tongues and heat.
It pools deep inside her.
She can’t. Her heart is breaking. “I loved you once.”
His fingers tighten in her hair.
#a: bouncymouse#reno x elena#ch: reno#ch: elena#r: reno + elena#r: elena + reno#f: drabble#insp: generator
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
It’s sweltering at the bottom of the canyon. Sephiroth sits on a rock, watching the river go by, waiting for Lucrecia.
(She had set off for the cave hours ago. It isn’t far, and she hasn’t returned after one hour. When he reaches through Mother’s cells to find her, he feels… nothing.)
If he cared about her, it would be enough to worry him. The creatures that grew after the impact and the fire roam freely, feasting on any bits of flesh they can obtain. Most of the few travelers through their hard, rocky land have fallen prey to them, and Lucrecia and Sephiroth have discovered enough corpses rotting in the sun that burying each severed, mangled body became more trouble than it was worth.
The bones littering the roadside should be the first sign to any intelligent traveler that they should find an alternate route. Or, better yet, flee while they still can.
The world is broken, charred, but in a way that he knows comes from Mother (Lucrecia had told him as much), he finds it… oddly peaceful. Almost preferable, in fact, to the way it was before.
There is no more Shinra, no more Midgar. The towers in the horizon are black shadows, monster hives, devoid of any life except the creatures that lurk there, crawling in the darkness to find any scrap of mako they can get. Mako, and blood.
Sephiroth leans his head back and looks up at the brilliant, star-filled sky, tranquil and placid. He has never known such a silence.
It is beautiful.
When he hears the rumble of rocks falling off the trail down to the river bottom, he knows Lucrecia has finally returned.
“Anything?” he asks her, and she shakes her head, already on the verge of tears.
“No,” she says, and she blinks one drop away before he can make a snide comment. “There was nothing. Just silence.”
“What a shame,” he answers, but he doesn’t mean it. Lucrecia is the trade-off he has made for the life he lives now--neither of them can die, and neither will they be attacked; the creatures sense his Mother in them both, and they fear her. He doesn’t want Lucrecia there, but she won’t leave him, and besides, her desperate attempts to find another living human being amuse him.
Lucrecia sits on a rock, buries her head in her hands. “Maybe there really isn’t anyone else,” she whispers, her voice hollow and defeated. “I’m sorry. If I had known this is what your life would be…”
For some reason, the sight of her so beaten both irritates and saddens him. If she won’t be proud of their survival, their continued existence, their exceptionality, then he’ll be proud for the both of them.
He reaches out to her through Mother. He isn’t comfortable asking such things of Lucrecia, but… he feels he should make the gesture all the same.
Lucrecia lifts her tear-stained face, full of surprise and wonder, and takes his offered hand.
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
The room is full of delegates from other planets, other galaxies, but Sephiroth knows his mother is here.
She’s hunting. He feels her bloodthirst echoing inside him too.
He passes by ambassadors and dignitaries, quiet, respectful, drawn as if by some black magic to the veins pulsing underneath their skin, scales, fur…
He sees her, finally, her back to the corner. She’s almost invisible, even to his eye, weak and withered with eons of hunger. But the festive room doesn’t know about the bodies in the lab, the broken containment doors…
Sephiroth meets his mother’s eye, and holds his tongue.
1 note
·
View note