#shockwavepulsar

[nibelheimraised]

@shockwavepulsar​ replied to your post “HOW ATTRACTIVE IS YOUR MUSE? Diagnosis results; Cloud Strife, your...”

"It's...not wrong."

Naturally, he has an eloquent answer to the confession. “...Huh?” His gaze lingers on her before he mumbles, “Think you need to upgrade those glasses.”

[hartofbalamb]

I ship you with Seifer, Rinoa, and Quistis all at the same time. OT4.

Ship Meme | status: open

Squall.exe has stopped working. 

[badassbarmaid]

shockwavepulsar replied to your post: ...i mean, looking at that comparison of Tifa...

Do…people not know how sports bras work??

((Nope.))

[livelyfellow]

shockwavepulsar replied to your post “@loqis​  //  “Zellybelly……” “….What did you just call me??””

Should I cross universes and tell him about that one time you T-Boarded into the Ladies' Room...or???

“You’d cross universes just to betray me?? Whose side are ya on anyway, Quistis?!”

[youngrevolutionary]

@shockwavepulsar​**  **post - trauma sentence starters  //  "I brought you a blanket."

It’s the empty quiet before the dawn that Quistis finds a strange comfort in. There’s no sound of Cadets wandering the halls, no distant roar of slain foe in the Training Center, no noise. Nothing. It allows her a moment or so to pause from her life, from the professional SeeD, and to feel like a human being.

She leans against the railing of the balcony and looks out just past the coast towards the archipelago, admiring the gentle pinks and purples peeking out from behind dark clouds. A crisp breeze rolling in from the mountains breaks her connection with the sea and causes her to close her eyes and take in a deep breath. Somehow, it stings a little.

Clinging to that feeling, Quistis desperately tries to ground herself, to rid herself of the numbness and return to reality. It’s not exactly healthy to be able to sort of _shut off _one’s senses to cope with trauma, but her body seems to offer no protest to the frigid temperature. Other than her sluggish movements, of course.

“Thank you,” she breathes, wondering how he got here and how he knew to bring her such a thing. Maybe he heard. Maybe he was aware that a particular mission yielding quite a few of her former students had ended in absolute disaster and many haven’t been found. Those who have been found were deceased.

She knew she would have to face the news of a pupil of hers coming to an untimely end at some point, but she wasn’t prepared. There was nothing that could have prepared her for such a thing and not at such a high volume of casualties. Even years later, they had an impact on her. They were hers. They trusted her, had followed her instruction, and it led them to their deaths. It felt like their demise was her responsibility despite the fact that it was just an accident, an unfortunate circumstance involving the instability of mother nature of all things. A cave-in could have happened to anyone, but why did it have to be them? Why did it have to be her students?

Why couldn’t she get one thing right?

“It’s not my fault, is it?” she chokes out and clears her throat. Of course it’s not, she knows this somewhere deep within the swirling vortex of self-doubt, but she needs to hear it from Seifer— needs to know that someone she failed believes she isn’t the cause of this.

He had orders. Orders from a particularly _caring _mutual friend who had assigned Seifer with the task to bring Quistis a blanket and nothing else. Deliver the cover, say nothing, turn around and leave. No 'Seifer' commentary, none of that cocky bravado, no harsh criticism telling Quistis what she had done wrong or remind her of the itemized list he keeps of all her failings, no cutting words, nothing just-- bring her the blanket and come back inside.

But of course, anyone who knows Seifer Almasy _knows _that he's going to do as a Seifer does. So he not only brings the blanket to Quistis, he unfolds it, and he wraps it over her shoulders. And then he remains -- feet planted firm as he stands behind her for a moment, eyes watching the small wisps of blonde that blow in the gentle breeze. They shine almost like gold-spun thread in the pale moonlight.

‘And it’s so beautiful...’ Those words stay hidden away inside the back of his mind. Hands stay held to her arms long enough for Quistis to take hold of the blanket. Anyone out there for too long would be freezing. But nobody was clamoring to get her back inside, no. She would come when she was ready. On her own terms. And Seifer can respect this. But even so, he decides to keep her company, leaning back against the ledge of the balcony with folded arms, studying Quistis in this ‘moment.’ 

He will never know or be capable of knowing what she is feeling in this very moment. And this puzzles him. Truly. He’s played the role of Captain, of Commander... but he’s never molded or shaped young minds. He’s never been in Quistis’ position before. Seifer was a solider. A mercenary. Casualties just happened, death happens. It’s never bothered Seifer, death was only one facet of the job, part of being SeeD. There was little time for sentimentality-- the contract was all that mattered. Mourning came after they were paid.

At least, all these years, that was how Seifer had always interpreted the rules. Even when his methods saved lives, he was punished, regardless.

But the burden of death weighs so heavily on Quistis that Seifer can visibly see it. It's carried in those shoulders, a demon latched and looming over her like some kind of dark cloud-- this demon known as Doubt. How it clings to her, lapping at wounds and drinking up every ounce of surety. Every bit of her strength, resolve...

But here, in this moment, when Quistis asks Seifer if it isn't her fault that her cadets had died, he.... says nothing. As instructed, he wasn't supposed to make her feel worse. Eyes forward, Seifer can see them sitting just inside, their orphanmates. Their so-called ‘family.’ They're either waiting for Seifer to 'break the rules' or anticipating Quistis' return back inside, prematurely forced or coerced by Seifer. Either way, inside is where they sat vigil around a table of comforting foods, a few bottles of wine, flowers... Someone brought a guitar, and it can be heard getting tuned from inside. Even Angelo sits just inside the open doorway, waiting for something to happen, for something to be said.

He knows that they're doing what they can to comfort and be there for her, so... why is it so wrong for Seifer to do the same?  

"You could have never known what was going to happen," Seifer finally says, eyes leaving the doorway to observe the strands of hair blowing freely as the winds shift. "Even if you did-- you could never be so careless. You would have never sent them in. Not if you had known.." 

Far too often, his eyes so often bare the brunt of Seifer's scrutiny when he looks to her, but this time-- this time, he blinks, and his brow softens-- he's a different person entirely. A different facet of Seifer so few so, so rarely ever see. And -- how like the unpredictability of mother nature herself to come and prove a point when those strands fall into Quistis' face.

His gaze never leaves her. Seifer, so daring and so bold-- brings his hand up to gently brush these blonde locks away from her face.

His hand lingers to keep those strands in place, skin warm to the touch of a cold cheek. The breeze dies down, and he takes a second longer to study her before he pulls his hand away. What he has to say is important -- because what Quistis needs from Seifer can’t be obstructed by distraction. 

These words she needed could've come from anyone, but when Seifer spoke them, he spoke them with conviction because here, he promises to her--

"This was not your fault."

[prideanddiscipline]

( @shockwavepulsar continued from x )

  He rolled the half-empty rocks glass between his fingertips back and forth across the bar that they’d both happened to serendipitously find themselves at that evening — though he supposed it wasn’t all that unusual considering anyone who’d spent any time in the small port city of Balamb knew there was only one place worth the gil. 

  “You’re right,” he lifted his glass at last, tipping it toward her in a sort of one-sided cheers before bringing it to his lips and talking into it “I don’t want to hear it.”

Wincing back the burn from polishing off the amber liquor he set his glass back down and tapped the rim by way of request for another, finally fixing her with that avoidant gaze. “It’d be nice if that was true, Quisty, but it’s not,” he stated, matter-of factly, leaning his elbow into the bar and letting his head tip toward the shrug of his shoulder. 

  “Squall’s too busy with Garden up his ass to spend time with you. Your career and aspirations would suffer from being seen with the likes of war-criminals like me, and I?” he let out a low, sardonic chuckle, “well, I’ll be doing this song and dance until the day I die, won’t I? Trying to prove to Garden, Galbadia, whoever-the-fuck-else that they didn’t royally screw the cactuar by letting me out of D-District.”

  He shifted on his seat a little to draw closer to her, his voice dropping a few notches to add a sort of personal, conspiratorial tone between them. “You see, everyone knows what I’m capable of now — that’s... the problem,” he tapped the side of his forehead, gaze narrowing. “The expectation is to reform and repent, but oh, also keep on murdering people, but do it for us. That’s something you failed to teach us as cadets, Trepe —  when you get right down to it, the only difference between a war criminal and a war hero is who wins and gets to write the history books,” he sat back in his seat, draping his arm over the back and nodding to the bartender as his glass was slid back to him.

  “If you fail to impress someone, you get to go on living your nice, boring life. Move to the coast. Adopt a cat. If I fail to impress someone, I go a mile deep in sand with four steel walls to keep me company until I lose my mind and bash my own head in.”

  An easy smile found its way to his lips as he lifted his glass off the bar toward her again, waiting this time for her to reciprocate. “Cheers.” 

[dragoonxdive]

@shockwavepulsar liked this post for a sinday starter (still accepting)!

Aranea’s eyes were on the campfire. Quistis and her had spent the entire day slaying daemons, and even if she was quite tired, she also wanted to RELAX. That was the only way to sleep well; otherwise, she knew she would keep thinking of daemons. At first, she had thought of only talking about pretty much anything that crossed their minds, but another part of her had always been attracted to the other woman. She was a great ally on the battlefield, and she was also a great friend. But there was also a special tension between them. When they were training together, they enjoyed a bit too much falling on each other and teasing each other. So maybe this was time to actually liberate that tension.

The dragoon stood up and approached the other woman, going right behind her. She started playing with her hair before she chuckled softly against her neck. “I’m going inside the tent, but I think you should join me. There’s... something I want to show you.” She said, hoping Quistis would get the hint, before she put a soft kiss against her neck. 

[irishais]

fic: firestarters (seifer/quistis)

summary: he doesn’t understand how they got here. for @shockwavepulsar. 

Quistis Trepe has a pretty mouth.

He doesn’t know why he’s so fixated on that, but it’s better than being fixated on anything else, especially the words coming out of said mouth, spoken at him, rather than to him. Seifer is too far gone to catch more than one out of every thirty, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll shut up when she shuts up, and no one is capable of stopping her before then.

The shock blanket from the ambulance is very scratchy around his shoulders. Seifer’s gaze slips from her lips to the brown fabric, and he thinks maybe he should peel it off, hurl it aside, but his arms don’t respond to his commands, nor do his legs. The whole reason he’s still sitting here, on the curb outside of what remains of his little apartment building near the sketchier end of town, is because standing up seems like it’s completely impossible.

Right now, the building is a dying inferno. He’s lucky the other two occupants weren’t home (and he’s sure that’s the middle of Trepe’s rant, that he could have killed someone else.) There’s nothing they can do but watch it burn, Balamb’s tiny fire department keeping the blaze controlled until it smothers itself out beneath the sea-salt-scented night sky.

Trepe’s mouth stops moving, when his eyes slip back onto her face, and he hates the expression he sees there, hates the way sympathy downturns her lips and saddens her bright blue eyes. She’s not even really dressed for the weather, in gym shorts and a t-shirt with a band logo he’s never heard of written across the chest, her hair loose and blowing in the wind.

He should feel grateful that someone’s come down from Garden at all to make sure he’s alright, but right now, he doesn’t feel anything at all, just the lingering heat in his palms, the itchy blanket, the breeze across heat-struck cheeks.

The fire could have consumed him, and yet, it hadn’t, an untouched circle on his bed even as the rest of the apartment had raged-- instinct had driven him out the second-story window, into the scrubby grass below.

“It was an accident,” he says finally, and it’s the first thing he’s said since he woke up, a scream still on his lips and the fire raging. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

Her face softens, and when she wraps her arms around him, Seifer doesn’t know how to react, because this isn’t their usual MO. They’re not soft, they’re not gentle. His face turns, nose pressing against the curve of her neck, breathing in her scent instead of the smoke, her hand on the back of his head, fingers carding through his hair-- Seifer sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath, and feels the weight return to his body, feels the ground beneath bare feet.

“I know,” Quistis says. “I was just afraid.”

She takes him back to Garden with her, settled in the front seat of her practical, silver SUV, her Garden parking tag hanging from the rearview mirror. He rolls down the window, because the air conditioning is too stifling for him to breathe.

It is a very quiet drive. She’s spent so many nights at his apartment lately that Seifer’s almost forgotten how silent and serene the halls of Garden are after midnight; they take the shortcuts, and end up at her dorm sooner than he he realizes, when she enters her keycode. Faint beeps echo, drawing his attention down to the motion of her hand, the door sliding open to admit them access.

Her dorm is neat, organized; it is a sharp contrast to Seifer’s place-- was, anyway. He’s got nothing, now, he guesses, except the gym shorts he’d gone to sleep in, and the shock blanket still wrapped around him.

Awesome.

“Do you want to take a shower? Eat something? I have some instant noodles, and there’s some leftovers in the fridge...”

He shakes his head to the food, and moves in the direction of the shower, aware she probably wouldn’t want him covered in soot and dirt and grass stains in her white-sheeted bed. Seifer leaves the blanket in her laundry hamper, and the shorts on the floor, and turns the knob to somewhere cold.

She’s still awake when he walks out of the bathroom a while later, wearing a pair of sweats he’d left the last time he had stayed here, sitting in her bed with her laptop on her knees and her fingers moving over the keyboard. There’s a cup of tea on the nightstand, steaming warm and fragrant; he picks it up and drinks it without asking permission. It soothes something in him. Tastes nice, at least. Like she’s put honey in it.

Her glasses are sliding down her nose when Quistis looks up at him. He slouches on the mattress next to her, occupying what remains of the space-- Garden isn’t built for men like him, men who take up more space than they should be allowed, but right now, he needs the closeness, the comfort, the unusual things that he would have never asked for of Quistis Trepe not all that long ago.

She shuts her laptop, offering it to him to set on the end table; Seifer complies, and tries to give her back her cup of tea.

“I made it for you,” she says. “It’s got valerian in it; it’ll help you sleep.”

“Oh.” He looks into the cup, like she’s poisoned him, but keeps drinking it anyway, because the warmth it provides is something different, something not as intense as magic, as the fire.

God, he’s so tired of burning.

“I’ll be out of your hair in the morning,” he says. “I’ll crash with Fuu or Rai for a while, I guess.”

“You can stay here as long as you want. I’ll order in a bigger bed.” It’s something like a joke, in the surreality of their situation, but it makes him smile a little, at least, and her reactionary smile is a much nicer look on her lips than fear and scolding and worry. She takes his hand, fingers threading through his, whip-callused skin still like velvet against his palm.

Seifer lifts their twined hands, and kisses the back of hers.

“But you’re still gonna stay up all night and make sure I don’t burn down your place, too, right?”

She shrugs, head coming to rest against his shoulder-- there’s a distant thrum of pain there, and he thinks maybe he fucked something up on his landing during his mad flight. That’s a problem for tomorrow, for Kadowaki. Right now, wild horses couldn’t drag him out of this bed, from beneath her cheek.

“Maybe.”

And maybe it’s valerian in that tea, maybe she’s doped him, but the exhaustion that’s been kept at bay by the fire, the subsequent shock, the drive back to Garden, slams into him with the force of a train; he sets the mug down near her computer. She draws the comforter up over them.

He’s asleep before she gets the blanket all the way up, the maybe quips never making it across his lips; this time, the dreams don’t come, there’s no defensive fire that bursts from his hands in an effort to keep a witch at bay. 

He sleeps, and when he wakes, he isn’t alone.