#waver velvet 01
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@giftober 2023: DAY 5 - FRIENDSHIP
We're friends. We'll become best friends, Waver!
#Lord El Melloi II Case Files#case files ep: 01#Melvin Weins#Waver Velvet#giftober2023#animationsdaily#animationsource#animeedit#dailyanimanga#dailyanime#animangaboys
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hey gang check out my horrible guys
cw: heavy drinking, shitty dysfunctional relationships. technically cal was also getting misgendered this whole time but I've chosen to use his actual name and pronouns for my own comfort
01.
“Dear, don’t fidget,” whispers Jonah through gritted teeth, and Cal locks his ankles together to try to keep his legs from jiggling under his skirt. Jonah pats his arm with one gloved hand, a strained little gesture, but sweet. Cal can feel that people are staring at them across the table, and he goes back to focusing on his oyster fork.
Jonah is so patient with Cal, they must be thinking. Cal can never control himself at these things, and Jonah never shouts. Plenty of people in Cal’s family would have lost patience by now, including the cousin glaring at him from across the table. He can feel sweat beading on the back of his neck. This dress has a high lace collar that’s awfully uncomfortable.
He carefully detaches the oyster from the shell with the tines of the fork. He doesn’t really like oysters. but he chokes another one down just for the look of the thing. Jonah gives him a small smile when he looks up, and quickly moves one of the remaining oysters onto his own plate.
...Jonah is so patient.
02.
Cal drinks straight from the bottle, leaning back against one of the velvet curtains and letting it half envelop him. It’s green velvet, dark. Darker than the trees in the greenhouse. He presses his cheek into it. It’s so soft. It smells like dust. The sky outside the big bay windows in the gallery is butter-and-gold with sulfuric clouds, and the colors waver pleasantly in his vision.
He takes another swig from the bottle of brandy and gives a small cough as it goes down just a little too fast and hot. Oh, well. It’s starting to taste pretty good now that he’s—
“Are you drunk?” demands Jonah, wrenching the bottle out of Cal’s hand. Cal jumps, briefly scrabbling at the folds of the velvet drapery like he thinks he can sink into it. Maybe he can just hide underneath it and sneak away. Jonah’s voice is so loud.
“We’re about to leave to shop for your wedding dress!” Jonah splutters. He sets the half-empty bottle down on a table, where it’s certainly going to leave a ring of condensation, and extracts Cal from the curtains. “My mother is going to be there,” he adds, more horrified.
“Still don’t get why your mother is coming.”
“I— okay, I don’t either. She insisted, though, so we’d better put on a good show. We’ll get you some water on the way down.” He’s checking them over with his quick, precise little movements, pinning hair back in place, ruffling back out the lace front of their dress. Cal loves how…precise Jonah is. So good at picking up the pieces. Jonah’s always picking up pieces.
Cal tears up a little. “Sorry,” he says.
Jonah shakes his head and picks up Cal’s velvet jacket, discarded on top of a bookshelf. “You know, your problem is that you’re selfish,” he says. He won’t meet their eyes. “You never think about how much your actions affect other people.”
“It— it’s MY damn wedding dress!” Cal retorts. “It’s you who went and made it into a production!”
“Volume,” Jonah says, softly.
Cal wheels on his heel and slams Jonah into a wall. There’s a sharp crack as his head collides with the wooden paneling. The bookshelves rattle, and Jonah grunts. He stares at Cal for a second, brows furrowed, and slowly removes their hand from his arm.
“…I’m so sorry,” says Cal, aghast. He drops his hand and takes a step backwards, a little unsteady on his feet.
“That’s going to leave a lump,” says Jonah, his voice very distant and sharp on the edges. “I suppose you’re pleased with yourself.”
“No, I’m not, I promise—!”
Jonah pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s go get some water, and I’ll ECHO our parents to let them know we’re delayed.” He sighs.
“I’m just nervous, I think,” says Cal mournfully. The stairs are kind of tricky to go down drunk, especially with the hem of his dress getting in the way. “I can’t help it, I haven’t liked any of the dresses we’ve looked at so far, they’re all…they make me feel lumpy.”
“Very few people can go wrong in tailored clothes, and we’ll be getting yours tailored,” says Jonah, not reassuringly. “And if you can’t pick one our parents can just pick one for you. You needn’t get so worried about it.”
He gives them a small smile when they get to the kitchen. “It shouldn’t be stressful,” he adds. “Drink. And take this, it might help clear your head.” He pushes a pill into their hand and they swallow it obediently.
“Sorry,” says Cal again.
“I’m sure you’ll look wonderful,” says Jonah, who is looking out the window and absentmindedly rubbing the back of his head.
03.
Dear Jonah,
I’m sorry. I couldn’t go through with it. I’m afraid I’ve been lying to you. It turns out that I’m a guy, actually, and I think you might have been able to tell recently, and I know that’s not something you’re ready to deal with.
I want to see the rest of the galaxy. I want to have adventures. I want to go places where there are people in danger and help them and I want to be in and out of some real, actual danger. Not just falling out of trees or cloud-diving. Maybe I really am selfish, but I'm also drunk, and I don't care. By the time you read this I'll be offworld.
You can tell everyone I had a nervous break. They’ll believe you. Your mother never liked me much anyway.
My name is Calix, by the way. I guess you deserve to know.
Love you.
04.
Dear Calix,
I don’t think you’re sorry at all.
Don’t try to reach me again.
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Fate/Hunter
Fate/Hunter
https://ift.tt/trZlS0d
by rtnneedsaving
The Holy Grail War, a battle royale style ritual competition from the far East that grants the winners a Holy Grail capable of granting possibly any wish. It is the ultimate stage where magical practitioners get to test the limits of their abilities and Jack Kline will take part in it. For the Fourth North American Holy Grail War, Jack is able to summon Castiel, an Angel of the Lord, as a Servant. But with remnants of the previous War still lingering and outside interference threatens the Greater Grail, Jack and Castiel must face enemies far more powerful and deadlier than both of them combined.
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Author's note: You don't need any prior knowledge about the Fate franchise to read this fic. Terms and concepts will be explained in each chapter.
Words: 2256, Chapters: 1/21, Language: English
Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005), Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/Grand Order
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: F/F, M/M
Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Jack Kline, Dean Winchester, Jesse Turner (Supernatural), Claire Novak, Kaia Nieves, Sam Winchester, Delphine Seydoux, Aaron Bass, Golem (Supernatural), Charlie Bradbury, Clive Dillon, Ben Braeden, Renee Mendez (Supernatural), Eileen Leahy, Rowena MacLeod, Lucca Camilleri, Jimmy Novak (Supernatural), Bad Place Kaia Nieves, Eliot Ness, Waver Velvet, Mrs. Butters (Supernatural), Flat Escardos, Asa Fox, Mary Winchester, Marie Constant (Supernatural), Jim Murphy (Supernatural), Kelly Kline (Supernatural)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jack Kline/Jesse Turner, Kaia Nieves/Claire Novak, Castiel & Jack Kline
Additional Tags: Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Dean Winchester is Ben Braeden's Parent, Holy Grail War (Fate), Heroic Spirits, Temporary Character Death, Rider Dean Winchester, Berserker Castiel, Alternate Universe - Holy Grail War (Fate)
via AO3 works tagged 'Castiel/Dean Winchester' https://ift.tt/wKl8SI6
June 12, 2023 at 01:30PM
#IFTTT#AO3 works tagged 'Castiel/Dean Winchester'#Destiel#ao3feed#ao3feed Destiel#Destiel fanfic#Dean Winchester/Castiel#Castiel/Dean Winchester#Dean x Castiel#Castiel x Dean
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Depart 01
A planet looms into view, dimly lit by a smoldering red star: a pinprick of wavering light in the velvet void. From this small, backwater planet, with its small, dim star, a grand departure is underway. Its people are fleeing.
But the courier does not notice this speck outside in space. She is looking at the cargo bay, at the place where there should be cargo—her most important cargo yet in fact, the delivery that would prove her worth, the ancient artwork that should, by all accounts, be in a museum (and certainly is, in some fairer parallel universe)—but the bay does not contain it. The bay is, in fact, almost empty. Almost empty, except for the scattered crumbs of packing material, leading across the bay and to an ill-fitting panel on the back left wall.
Solas Vega is a tall, imposing woman: her broad right arm is covered in dark, thick tattooed tendrils; her left arm is an equally broad mechanical prosthetic fitted with menacing silver tools. Her face, now, looks somewhat serene, or calm—but she cannot completely hide her emotions, and her right knuckles grow pale and her fist clenches and releases, clenches and releases. She has learned to ground herself, in the past years: it’s a lifetime since she earned her callsign Havoc. Many of the younger couriers only know the new her; they assume the name is perhaps ironic, a joke. As if Havoc tells jokes, or lets them be told about her.
A man tried, once. To laugh at her. She was less forgiving then; hadn’t yet learned to control her rage. He had not joked again. Ever.
The lights in the cargo bay flicker. The infestation must be big, Solas thinks. She doesn’t have room to worry about the possible dangers that entails, not with the empty cargo bay in front of her. You might think her priorities are questionable, considering the dangers of an energy-sapping swarm of jellyfish-like fungi living, floating, devouring, inside the electronic-stuffed panels of your space vessel, a space vessel currently drifting through the cold dead chasm of open space, where everything—life support systems, propulsion, communication—everything was dependent on said electronics functioning properly. If you do think this, if you think that maybe she should consider the present peril a more pressing issue than the missing (eaten? Probably eaten. Almost definitely eaten) cargo, then count yourself lucky you have not encountered the type of people Solas has to answer to.
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@vclours
Carefully, England finalised the last of the runes around the summoning circle, the residual magic from his writing igniting the air around him in tiny, incandescent bursts. He wasn’t truly focusing on the thoughts in his mind, but that was alright; he’d done this enough times to know what he’s doing.
Preparations complete, the Nation spoke the incantation, watching with satisfaction as the circle’s glow became brighter with every word he uttered. Then came the final line of the spell – and then there was a great whoosh as the circle became engulfed in swirling smoke, the shadow of a figure visible from within its center. England waited patiently for the smoke to clear, and the figure to be revealed, speaking only once he could see the other’s face.
“So you’re the Bringer of Doom that I’ve summoned?” he asked, nodding as he gave the man an appraising look. From physical traits alone, he wouldn’t have expected his designated ultimate weapon to resemble a rather harmless young man, of all things… but of course he of all people couldn’t judge power by appearances.
#vclours#waver velvet 01#event: dreamscape#thank you!!#please let me know if you'd like anything changed!
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@vclours - Event Starter Call - Night 3
“....I still can’t recognize any of these constellations....” He mumbled as he looked up to the night sky. “....Are we in a place without the normal stars?”
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Books and Ladders | Waver Velvet |
The library in Sector 005 didn’t offer the best selection of books on magic. She’d probably be better to borrow some from a person who could actually use it. Trying to study general magic was tough when you couldn’t use it yourself. It was a decent, collection, though, so she spent quite a bit of her freetime here. Enough that they had kicked her out for closing before.
The books she wanted were always on a free shelf. She had to borrow the ladder to fetch them, but this things wheels were really making her uncomfortable. She was pretty sure she was going to send herself rolling rapidly in the other direction. It hadn’t happened before, but it could! As a result of this fear, the moment that the ladder moved in the slightest, she tossed the book she was pulled out to hold tightly onto the shelf.
“Oh dear...”
Ah, this was not going to go well for her, was it?
@vclours
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@keiisho
A lecture. Or, maybe it was better to say THE lecture. Waver had not stopped talking the moment he was welcomed into Kairi’s condo. Naturally, it didn’t take long for him to located where he was staying. He understood Waver’s concern for not getting in touch since they arrived to the new city. After all, the necromancer had disappeared for a month without correspondence. Shishigou had only flopped back on his bed while Waver continued to scold him for another 15 minutes...
“ Velvet... stop. Just stop.”
The frown on his face matched his tone, even with his sunglasses-- frustrated and exhausted. He stared for a moment, then laid back down. He patted beside him and sighed heavily, arms crossed over his head
“ Lay down for like 5 minutes, geezus. What’re you trying to achieve ragging me about the state of things right now? I’m fine. There’s nothing we can do right now. 5 minutes. That’s all I ask. We can think from there.”
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@vclours liked for a starter.
Since it was their first week in Hive City, Chihiro decided to try and do some reading on the town-- possibly look into old newspaper archives, or history books about the city itself. Was that also monitored by the scientists? For such a vast city, consisting of so many sectors and areas, it seemed almost too much for just a handful of people to monitor. Or perhaps Chihiro was underestimating how many hands were behind this project of theirs.
What bothered them the most, was how normal life seemed to be in the city, like there was no real experiment going on. Like everyone was oblivious to being so closely watched. It only made Chihiro that much more uncomfortable.
Walking through aisles, the programmer wasn’t quite paying attention when they mistakenly bumped into someone-- it was just the slightest tap, but they were carrying quite the load of books. With a gasp, Chihiro turned and went to apologize, but instead saw the book on top slipping. Just barely catching the book by its cover, Chihiro let out a small sigh of relief, looking to the stranger apologetically.
“I-I’m sorry for bumping into you, I should have been paying more attention, and I made you almost spill your books...”
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I posted 569 times in 2021
14 posts created (2%)
555 posts reblogged (98%)
For every post I created, I reblogged 39.6 posts.
I added 418 tags in 2021
#ace attorney - 120 posts
#fire emblem - 82 posts
#dgs - 47 posts
#p5 - 40 posts
#klapollo - 26 posts
#fe4 - 24 posts
#legend of zelda - 23 posts
#homumiko - 20 posts
#yusuke kitagawa - 19 posts
#waver velvet - 17 posts
Longest Tag: 125 characters
#arthur 'i despise demons and don't remember the half of my life i spent being experimented on as a demon clone' auguste angel
My Top Posts in 2021
#5
productive use of my evening
(yes you must look at them twice!)
9 notes • Posted 2021-03-12 03:04:01 GMT
#4
two zines i want to be in have applications open right around the same time so i'm fighting off my imposter syndrome with a knife and printouts of the two fic comments i got today
11 notes • Posted 2021-02-08 02:46:46 GMT
#3
please i am so exhausted i want to go back to a couple weeks ago where i had energy to froth at the mouth over gay detective dads
13 notes • Posted 2021-08-31 00:00:57 GMT
#2
oh right i can post fic here too. this is the post-interrogation room scene that's been occupying my brain for the last month.
Yusuke touches him like he’s something delicate, like a precious ornament or a priceless piece of art. A small part of Akira protests at such careful treatment—he’s not fragile, and if the past year hasn’t proven it yet, he doesn’t know what will—but he quiets that voice for now, and lets himself be cherished.
20 notes • Posted 2021-05-10 11:02:43 GMT
#1
if Klavier Gavin dressed up as Herlock Sholmes for halloween, would he do it like this... or like this?
59 notes • Posted 2021-10-31 22:47:05 GMT
Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →
#my 2021 tumblr year in review#your tumblr year in review#sorry i needed to post it#laughing at how my top posts are cosplay a fic my ocs and two random personal posts#like yeah that's about it
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—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒖𝒔;
pairing: john wick x f!reader
word count: 7.2k+
summary: You want him to fear you. And he will.
warnings: STRONG VIOLENCE, blood, emotional distress/trauma, mentions of torture, swearing, angst.
notes: Thank you so much for the feedback on Part 1!!! Ngl, I got carried away again but there’s something deeply enjoyable about these two so here we are. Fair warning, this one is gonna get messy.
children of ares series: 01 | . . | 03 |
“I’m surprised you’re alone.”
Your head lifts at the sound of his voice over the music.
John stands behind you in that familiar, overly calm manner of his that never seems to waver. The dark suit he wears seems to make him blend in with the darkness of the club as he nods his head towards the empty seat opposite to you in a silent question.
Your lips twitch upwards slightly, and you lean back in your own seat. “You don’t need to ask.”
John slides smoothly into the booth, and his obsidian eyes sweep over you once but the action is hardly sexual or makes you feel uncomfortable in any way. It’s a warming gesture, a protective one, and it makes something pleasant bloom in the pit of your stomach.
You’ve only been back in the great game for two months, and in that time Tarasov has only allowed you and John to work together once. He seems hellbent on breaking you in on solo missions. You aren’t sure if it’s his version of additional punishment but you find any thoughts of your boss beginning to fade as John gazes at you silently.
The singer on stage transitions into another song, her sultry voice dipping as a slower number begins. Winston, at least, knows how to choose his entertainment.
I give him all my love, that's all I do.
“How’s Venice?” you ask eventually, and John blinks as if he’s been lost in thought. “Any trouble?”
John doesn’t miss the tinge of sarcasm in your voice and his mouth twitches into one of his almost-smiles. “No trouble. I’ve been back for a week.”
Your eyebrows jump and you shift in your seat. “And you didn’t drop by for a visit? Why I’m hurt.”
Something changes in John’s eyes then; it’s a subtle shift you only pick up on because you’re starting to know his tells, and your nerves prickle at the silent intensity of his gaze.
And if you saw my love, you'd love him too.
“You seem to be making new friends,” he states, at last, a touch flatly, and this time your eyebrows rise in genuine surprise.
“The Italians,” you offer offhandedly, tapping your fingernails against the smooth wood beneath your hand. “They’re hardly my friends. The old man is even more unpleasant than Tarasov. His kids are promising though. Gianna likes you at least. Couldn’t shut up about you when she learned who I was. I think it made Cassian jealous.”
You don’t bother hiding the sardonic bite in your words, but John is not one to indulge in petty gossip so you don’t expect him to comment. He listens to you patiently though; the same way he always does, no matter how inconsequential the topic is, and it suddenly hits you just how much you’ve missed him.
It’s only been a week but the ache is like a dull throb that quakes your bones every time you move. Too often you have caught yourself wondering what John was doing or how his missions have been going. His presence here, now, is like a soothing balm you haven’t even realised you needed.
A love like ours could never die.
Before you can change the topic, however, John speaks, “Promise me that you’ll be careful.”
The seriousness of his voice only makes his morose expression even more severe, and your teasing half-smile crumbles away. “Are they that dangerous?”
John’s expression gives nothing away but he does lean closer, his eyes sweeping over the other patrons in a knowing manner. “Everyone in our world is dangerous,” he states gruffly, his words soft.
“And so are we,” you comment lightly, your lips curving playfully, dangerously. “It would be unwise for people to forget that.”
The singer on stage leans closer into the microphone, her words hushed and sensual while the song progresses and you blink, leaning back in your seat.
“You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” you speak up, finding it hard to talk all of a sudden. “Not that I’m unhappy to see you but…”
“It’s your birthday.”
He says it so simply and in that blunt manner of his, it’s like that fact somehow explains everything in the universe and you stare at him, uncomprehending.
“I—I didn’t realise you knew when my birthday even was,” you whisper over the growing lump in your throat. You can’t recall the last time you celebrated your birthday, or when anyone even bothered to remember it. So even though you have never taken much interest in celebrating it before, this feels different. Somehow, John knowing and coming to see you because it is your birthday feels… “Was it Winston? I swear that man knows everything.”
He gives me everything, and tenderly the kiss my lover brings, he brings to me.
But John doesn’t indulge in your line of inquiry. Instead, he reaches inside his jacket and takes out a black velvet box, placing it in front of you.
For a second, you feel your heart seize.
Your suddenly clammy fingers squeeze tightly before you forcefully relax them and calmly reach across the table, taking the box into your hand.
Much to your surprise, it is a ring. Just not the type most women would hope for.
It’s a viper. A silver, coiling thing that has beautiful detail engraved across its entire, curling length. The head sits slightly bent to the side, exposing the little gems in its eyes that reflect the exact same shade of your own.
For a long moment, you’re speechless, adrift. You stare at the ring in your hand as something warm simmers in your gut.
“Happy birthday.”
Your eyes lift to him. His expression has softened a touch, just slightly, but you imprint it in your mind. You hoard these moments—these rare, precious minutes with him when his and your guards are both down, and it truly does feel like it’s just the two of you against the world.
One day, inevitably, when something goes wrong—and it always does—you will miss him so terribly. You will miss him like one misses the feeling of the sun on their skin, or how gentle breeze feels kissing your skin on a warm summer’s day.
You will miss him the way the sun misses the moon.
You will miss him because you love him.
And it makes you so very sad that you do.
I know this love of mine will never die. And I love him, ooh.
“So then he says to me, he says—hey, are you listening to me?”
“Always.”
You bob your head happily, your arms still linked as John unlocks the hotel room door. You sway on your feet slightly and his grip on your tightens. The main reason you don’t drink is because you don’t trust the world you’re in nor the people in it. But you allowed yourself this indulgence tonight, and you wonder what it says about you that there’s a part of you that trusts John so completely that you don’t even hesitate.
It’s a simple truth to you.
John will keep you safe.
It’s not like you’re drunk, either. Yes, perhaps a bit tipsy but it’s been a while. These last few months have been soaked in blood and poison, not alcohol. A viper strikes without mercy or prejudice. They only leave devastation behind.
And that’s what you want. Devastation.
If only because you never want to give Tarasov a reason to lay a hand on you again. In fact, you want that same wariness he regards John with to be directed at you. You want him to hesitate, to shift in discomfort every time he thinks you will not be happy with what he has to say.
You want him to fear you.
And he will.
He will.
The room is dark when you enter and John reaches for the light switch, kicking the door closed with the back of his foot. You lean against him for a moment—a purely selfish and self-indulgent few seconds in which you savour his warmth and unyielding strength before letting go. The world tilts to the right without John’s steadying grip on you but you still make it to the couch, falling onto it with a bounce and a loud giggle.
It feels good to laugh. You haven’t in a while and it feels almost foreign.
John is right behind you. Your dark, silent shadow. He doesn’t speak but his eyes gleam with amusement when you squint at him.
“I’m not drunk,” you grumble and John’s eyebrows rise.
“Uhu,” he grunts, watching your pathetic and clumsy attempt to take off your shoes.
Why is it easier to kill a man than take off these stupid things?
A moment later, another pair of hands join yours, carefully peeling your fingers away. Your breath hitches in your throat and the pleasant warmth in your blood turns into an inferno when your head lifts to see John kneeling before you. The slopes of his face are relaxed—almost gentle—while he patiently works on unclasping your shoes. His touch is featherlight, and yet it still manages to shoot bolts of lightning up your leg.
You stare at him wordlessly, caught in the moment. The ring on your hand gleams in the low light, and you bite your tongue to control the sudden urge to say something you know you will regret the moment you open your mouth.
Instead, you focus on the few rebellious strands of hair that brush against his forehead whenever he moves. You should tease him about it. His hair is getting long. Except you don’t mind it, at all. Biting back a shiver when his fingers grasp the back of your heel, you stare at his partially hidden eyes. They look so dark in this light. Merciless. A monster’s eyes that swallow every shred of light in the room.
Except they aren’t. Not to you.
In sunlight, they’re more golden brown than obsidian. You know because you’ve caught yourself looking one too many times, and they always struck you as beautiful.
God. When did you become so—
So soft.
“When—” you start, and stop. Your tongue feels clumsy but you force yourself to say something. “When I was eight my parents they, uh, they moved us to Italy. I didn’t know what for back then. But we were on the run. I knew that much. We lived in Bulgaria before that, and I don’t think whatever my parents were involved in went that well. But, well, before my parents managed to make anything of themselves in Italy they really struggled. Most days we barely had anything to eat. My father stole often.”
John’s hands pause briefly, but he resumes his work without interrupting you. You’re grateful. Now that you’ve started talking, it feels like you can’t stop.
“That summer I went through a bit of a growth spurt. Well, of course, we didn’t have money for new clothes so my Mama stole for me,” you continue, your voice hitching in places. “And—and this one time I needed new shoes so badly because my old ones were falling apart. So she stole this beautiful blue pair for me. They had jewelled clasps and this pretty floral pattern and—it was the nicest thing I’ve ever owned. I loved them immediately. That is until I put them on. They were too small. And I, uh, I can recall it even now, my Mama’s face when she asked me if they fit. I could have told her the truth. But we had scraps for food and people in town were starting to whisper about our family. So I smiled at her and told her that they fit perfectly. She gave me this look…it was so sad. She hugged me tightly and neither of us spoke after that because we both knew that I was lying.”
John is looking at you now, listening intently. He looks both older and sadder all at once but you don’t point that out.
Instead, you wiggle your free toes and smile through the sting prickling your eyes. Your smile feels brittle when your eyes meet but you only stretch your lips further.
“All I can remember is the feeling of those beautiful shoes squeezing my toes till they were numb,” you whisper softly and chuckle harshly immediately after. A tear escapes and you wipe it off angrily. “My feet were bloody but I said nothing. My parents were keeping us alive, and the least I could do is keep my mouth shut and wait. But I swore to myself that one day I will never have to worry about being forced to wear shoes that are too small for me. Never feel trapped again. Tarasov thinks he knows me, thinks he understands me. But he doesn’t. I’m scared of him, that’s true. But one day…one day he will be the one to fear me.”
“I know.”
The laugh that escapes you sounds harsh, perhaps a touch shrill, but you love him so much at that moment. Love his easy, unwavering faith in you.
The nameless thing between you finally has a name and you shudder in both happiness and fear.
John rises to his feet with the elegance of someone who is in complete control of his body and extends his hand towards you. There is no hesitation when you grasp it in yours. He helps you stand but when he moves to let go, your own grip tightens. His hand is so warm that a selfish part of you doesn’t want to let go.
The Boogeyman. The monster you’re supposed to hide your children from.
You reach for his tie, pull harshly, and kiss him.
It’s a slow thing; shy and fragile, much like your feelings for him. At first, John doesn’t move. He remains still and silent, but when he finally does move, it’s equally as careful. Slow. His free hand comes to rest lightly against the small of your back and you shiver.
The kiss is only a simmering, slow joining of you and him that last no more than thirty seconds before he pulls away.
You’re gasping. Breathless. Suddenly hot all over. No amount of alcohol could ever make you feel like this. Shivering from such simple contact.
You’ve kissed people before, but they’re not John.
No one could be John.
His fingers brush against the curve of your jaw, always so delicate and slow. You know how easily these hands can take lives. Which only makes his careful touch that much more thrilling.
It’s pathetic. How weak he makes you.
“We can’t,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and low, and his words slice through you like a hot knife. Your eyes snap open, and you haven’t realised that you’ve closed them till the exact moment you have to meet his regretful gaze. He looks conflicted, a deep frown twisting his features. His lips part and you hold your breath. “Maybe if things were…different.”
“Different?” you echo numbly, blinking, and pull away slowly, your eyes dropping to the floor. Your lips still tingle, the taste of him on your tongue, and you can’t inhale without remembering what it felt like to share oxygen with him. “Okay.”
“(Name)—”
“Don’t.”
Your eyes lift to his, hard and unblinking. “I always knew nothing could ever happen between us. Not while Tarasov holds us tied to him. You don’t have to explain yourself. It was stupid of me to except anything from you.”
But it still stings. God does it sting.
John takes a step towards you but your hand snaps out, pressing against his chest and stopping him in his tracks. Against the black of his shirt, the ring on your finger gleams even brighter.
“Please,” you plead and hate yourself for being reduced to this, again. “I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” he says firmly, and his hand comes to gently rest on top of yours.
Shaking your head, you jerk your hand away and—for the first time since you met him—you turn your back to him.
That foolish, naive girl that still lives deep down begs for him to say something, to turn you around and kiss you again. Tarasov and consequences be damned.
But John is a man of discipline, of honour, so when a few minutes later you hear his retreating footsteps and the soft closing of your hotel room door, you don’t react.
The pain, as always, comes later.
You don’t sleep.
You can’t.
It’s almost like your body sobered up in a span of softly whispered “we can’t” and John walking out of the door.
He wakes up at the crack of dawn. You leave long before that.
The shower you take is barely lukewarm but you can’t bring yourself to adjust it. Instead, you allow few silent tears to join the water going down the drain, and try your hardest to control the sob that tickles the back of your throat.
Down, down, down.
Getting changed is a dull blur, as is gathering your clothes and walking out of the door. John is only next door. A part of you considers stopping and letting him know that you’re leaving. But as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you immediately crush it to nothing.
The truth is that you’re not made of marble.
Seeing him now would just be torture.
So you walk past his door.
Charon, ever the professional concierge, doesn’t let his surprise show upon seeing you up so early.
He takes your details, takes your room key. He wants to ask, you know he does. You certainly look like a mess but you can’t force yourself to speak even when you usually would.
“We look forward to seeing you again very soon, Miss Vipress.”
You pause for a brief moment, contemplating.
But don’t reply before walking away.
Tokyo is, frankly, freezing for this time of year.
The cold nips at your nose and you shift in your spot on the floor, your joints creaking in protest. As time continues to pass without your mark making an appearance, your focus starts to waver.
If John were here he would tell you to never relax on a job.
John.
The mere thought of the name coils your stomach into an uncomfortable ball of bitter emotion. Perhaps you took the coward’s way out when you left without saying a word but who can blame you? It’s too hard. Too hard knowing that even if he feels something—he didn’t push you away immediately, he even kissed you back—he still can’t be with you. Your world is not made for silly daydreams of love and happiness.
That’s why you have stayed away.
Why you haven’t seen him in weeks, maybe even months. Time tends to blur when you go from one job to another and you’re glad for the distraction.
It’s better this way. Distance will do you good.
Last you’ve heard, John was back in New York because Tarasov has been planning something big for a while. Frankly, you’re just glad he gave you free rein for the time being.
That’s how you’ve ended up in Tokyo. Your rather handsome 1 million contract has been set up to take out some Yakuza boss that’s causing trouble to his competitors in Kyoto. One power-hungry man going after another. Some things never change.
But the pay is good and it’s a pretty clear cut mission so in hindsight, you can’t complain too much.
Except, your target is almost thirty minutes late now.
Unease prickles down your spine the longer you wait.
Something creaks behind you.
The first man drops dead before he comes anywhere near you, a poisoned needle making him twitch on the floor in agony.
But there’s more.
They appear like a swarm from every darkened corner of the alleyway. Somehow they know your exact location.
And they have come prepared.
Never before have you been as thankful for the foresight to bring enough poison to take down a small army as you are then. You let the suppressed gas canister do its work first, the dispersing poison inside making men and women alike drop dead to the floor. Their skin blisters and eyes haemorrhage from their blood vessels rupturing upon contact. The next stage is their lungs collapsing and you hope they die before that.
Despite your hope, most of them choke on air and blood, dying in agony.
The rest is a hail of bullets and blades.
You have the advantage of being immune to your own poison and dance through the carnage easily, knowing full well that on a windy night like this one the gas will only stay in the air for another few minutes at most. Then, it will disperse into a milder irritant. A pesky distraction at best.
A blade slices across your arm and you snarl low in your throat, your muscles aching from the strain of trying to hold back another assailant aiming for your jugular.
Give yourself space.
A poisoned blade is slick in your hand. Wet from all the blood you’ve coated it in and you stumble back, slicing viciously. The figures in black have to climb over their dead comrades to reach you now, and you try to keep them back by releasing blade after blade, needle after needle of poisoned metal at them. Those that get close enough meet their end at the end of your fists and gun.
Focus.
Shoot, duck, reload, aim, throw, exhale.
Deep breaths. Control the pain tearing through your split knuckles.
You focus on breathing, on alertness that makes your body tense so much your muscles—even well trained and strong—still strain under the pressure.
Shoot, left, drop, slice, reload now.
The figures keep coming.
And coming.
Despair ceases your mind when you realise that if you stay in the alleyway, your chances of making it dwindle to nothing.
John’s stern voice goes devastatingly quiet in your head.
Whoever sent these people after you clearly didn’t underestimate your abilities like so many have in the past.
Knees hitting the floor, you roll, slicing through the tendons on the man who just tried to gut you with his sword. The man crumbles, shouting in pain, and you grasp him by the neck, your knife sinking deep into the unguarded flesh. You drag a line, blood spilling and hug him to you, letting the hail of bullets hit his body instead. The man squirms before stilling, his gasps of pain ceasing forever.
In the dim light, you catch the look in his eyes.
He looks scared.
They always look scared.
There’s movement behind you and you turn sharply, but too late to stop the knock on your temple.
Your head spins as you drop to the side, kicking blindly. Your vision swims and you grasp your gun before firing. The first two shots miss but the third finally hits and you groan, scrambling to your feet.
Disorientated, you don’t react fast enough.
A bullet tears through your leg and you scream, crumbling to the floor. Then comes a kick to your stomach, making you curl into a ball and roll on the floor.
Your vision is white from agony.
Fingers covered in blood and shaking, you attempt to curl them into fists—attempt to reach for your leg and ebb the blood-flow.
Footsteps draw closer and you snarl, trying to open your eyes and see the face of the one who did this to you.
A kick to your side hits brutally and you roll onto your stomach, gasping for air. God, it’s so hard to breathe through the agony travelling from up your leg and sides.
“Stop your squirming, bitch.”
The words are acidic in their bite, spoken in clear Japanese but twisted by an accent you can’t pinpoint.
You don’t listen, trying to regain your senses, knowing full well that it’s a matter of seconds before they put a bullet in your head.
But before you can do anything pain pierces through your shoulder, and you choke on your scream.
A blade.
A blade that has gone clean through your right shoulder, and currently creaking against the dirty pavement underneath you. Your blood looks black in this light and your head swims.
Blackness takes you before you can form another coherent thought.
You live.
But the following days make you wish you hadn’t.
The man grins widely as he talks.
His name is Kishi. Or at least that’s what others call him.
He likes visiting you. Likes seeing you weak and beat, likes spinning tales about all the wonderful things they were still eager to try on you. Whenever he suspects you’re not listening to him closely enough, he has others beat you till you lose consciousness.
That’s the best scenario you can now hope for. When compared to their other methods, being beaten is like being tickled.
But you’re so thirsty it’s getting hard to focus on anything he’s saying.
A scream echoes from somewhere in the far distance, and your eyes flutter closed for a second.
Figuring out that you’re not the only one being kept here was the easy part. But realising that you’re in a remote location far from any urban activity that at least gives you a sliver of hope someone may stumble upon you has been a whole other mental blow.
Torture is a wicked, ugly thing.
Human bodies are resilient though, and according to Kishi you’re their “guest of honour” which meant that after the pain came some deranged form of care.
They have decided to keep you alive for now, but you doubt that’s going to be a permanent arrangement. Eventually, they will either grow bored or the reason they’re keeping you here will expire. After that…
After that, there are a great many things that can happen to you. None of them pleasant. Most of them horrifyingly terrible and painful in fact.
Effectively, your continuous existence depends on getting out of here before that happens.
Easier said than done, of course. You’ve been bound from head to toe. You couldn’t so much as twitch without catching someone’s attention. Your muscles have long since cramped and gone numb from disuse as well as blunt trauma.
The only chance—if any—you have of getting out is…
You force your treacherous mind to quieten. Force yourself to banish the thought of the one person you could imagine missing you, perhaps even looking for you.
But that hateful voice in the back of your mind reminds you that there’s no reason why anyone would care enough to look.
You are, as you’ve always been, alone.
“Enough.”
Kishi speaks in English which is rare.
Apparently, he finds the language ugly. Some delirious, pain-riddled part of you can’t blame him for thinking that despite the fact that he’s responsible for your torture.
Your teeth clatter loudly in the now quiet room, and your lungs rattle with every deep inhale of air.
It hurts to breathe. Things blur in front of you and you try to blink the droplets of water still stinging your eyes.
It’s cold. It’s so, so cold.
“Still fighting, aren’t we?” Kishi mutters thoughtfully, this time in Japanese, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Didn’t know bitches came this tough.”
Few men chuckle but Kishi doesn’t laugh. Kishi only stares.
His eyes are dark.
So dark that if you focus on just them you can almost imagine that—
A shaky breath escapes you but you don’t speak. You’ve lost the ability for sarcasm and humour days ago. Especially after you’ve been shown just how much more severe these sessions can get if you show disrespect.
“Leave us.”
The men shift; surprised, wary. “Master?”
Kishi’s eyes leave yours, and his face twists into a sneer when he faces his men. He’s in his late forties at least, and you can tell from the lines etched deep into his face that this is a familiar expression. His face knows this hatred, this cruelty, as if it’s second nature.
“I said fuck off!”
The men obey because they’re afraid, not because they respect him. In fact, they can’t leave fast enough as the metal door groans shut and you stay slumped in your spot.
Your hands are still bound, wrists raw and blistered, but your feet aren’t. They simply dumped you in this creaky chair after they were finished. Your soaked clothes cling to your skin and you shiver again, your body trembling from the effort to hold yourself together.
Kishi stares.
Your throat bobs when you swallow, waiting for him to say something. He always speaks first. That’s a fact you learned early on. After you spoke first once—sarcasm flowing free and your mocking tone making others cringe—Kishi punched you so hard that your teeth rattled upon contact, one of your back molars breaking free. Blood dribbled down your chin after, the impact still vibrating through your skull and neck.
A rough, warm hand touches your jaw and you jerk back to reality.
A phantom memory of another warm hand touching you in exactly the same manner mangles your heart to pieces, leaving a fresh bleeding wound in its place.
“John.”
It’s a strangled, weak whisper but this time more than your physical body aches. Longing and terror mix dangerously till for the first time in days—maybe weeks, months for all you know—you feel tears fill your eyes.
The fingers against your jaw tighten till you whimper in pain.
“Who is this John you long for?” Kishi questions curiously, his hand jerking your head from side to side while he inspects you like one would a slab of meat. Clinical, indifferent. “You plead for him in your dreams. Whisper his name when the pain gets too much. Do you hope this John will save you? He won’t. You’re dead to the world. You’re nothing but a piece of meat for me to do with whatever I please. I’ve been keeping my men away from you. But perhaps…”
He makes a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat before he throws his half-smoked cigarette to the floor. His rough fingers slide away from your jaw and down the slope of your neck, causing you to jerk in your seat. Kishi laughs at that; a cruel, empty sound as his eyes lift to you.
“What’s the matter, huh?” he mocks, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Are you going to plead for your John? Some weak, pathetic nobody? Did he give you this? Is that why you fight so hard, eh?”
Kishi grabs something from his inner jacket pocket, and awareness slams into you when your foggy mind registers what you’re looking at.
Your ring. John’s ring.
A small breath escapes you, and your swollen fingers twitch.
Kishi’s smug sneer sparks something in your gut—something hard and cold and furious. When you reach for the familiar coil of the viper, his other hand slaps yours away harshly. Your teeth grit from the shooting burn but you stay silent, obedient. Being reckless now will not do you any good.
But you’re grateful for the pain too because for the first time in days you feel awake. Your body is weak and broken in so many ways but—
Your hands are bound tightly, but your feet aren’t.
And more importantly, you’re alone. For the first time since you’ve been taken, you’re alone in the room with this man.
I don’t need anyone. Not when I’m the most dangerous one here.
Biting back a smile, you let your head to loll back and stare at him.
He notices your expression and his features darken.
“Closer.”
You don’t recognise your own voice; it’s faint and frayed around the edges but that doesn’t surprise you. Your cracked lips hurt from simply speaking but you don’t regret that either. You stopped talking a long time ago, and Kishi hates it. He wants you to engage in his sick little game.
That’s why he leans closer.
Because he believes that you are weak—or perhaps he doesn’t think that you’re weak at all, but that he’s managed to somehow strip away your killer instincts instead.
His breath stinks of tobacco and you force your expression to relax when you come face to face.
“Closer, please.”
Kishi’s hand presses against your waist suddenly, eager, his breaths growing more shallow with every second. Sickness squeezes your already cramped stomach but you hold your breath to calm down.
Just a little bit more.
Kishi’s hand is rough as he explores, his lips eagerly pressing against the shell of your ear and you smile.
“That nobody is called John Wick.”
Kishi freezes as if struck by lightning.
And that’s all the time you need.
The kick you deliver to his knee makes him slump against you but you don’t register the moment your teeth sink into his neck.
You don’t register the agonising pain as he tries to free himself by jerking you back by your hair.
There’s just the sensation of hot blood in your mouth as you rip.
Kishi stumbles back, gasping, helplessly grasping onto his neck where his life force is leaking far quicker than he can stop it. Your ring falls to the floor with a sharp cling! and you follow its path with your eyes.
A knife appears in Kishi’s hand and you jerk to the side, the chair crashing with you as the man topples over to the floor behind you.
Your legs don’t obey you at first but with a scream of frustrated pain, you still manage to kick him in the head. Scrambling on your knees, you hurry towards the fallen knife. Your fingers skim over it but a weight falls on top of you, pulling you back.
Everything cries with agony as you squirm wildly, screaming into the dirt as Kishi tries to push your face into the ground. Your bound hands feel like a deadweight but you only fight harder, trying to throw him off. He punches your barely healed right shoulder and you scream again. Your fingers—
Jerking, you slam the back of your head into his face. Kishi shouts something you can’t make out but it gives you just enough time to turn around and bury the knife into his neck. His movements cease as he stares down at you blankly. Shocked.
You jerk the knife out, blood pouring, and stab him again, deeper. With all the hate and hurt roaring in your ears, you barely hear his chuckle before he slumps over you. The weight of his body makes you cry out and breathing heavily, you awkwardly push him off. Kishi, now eternally still, collapses beside you with a heavy thud.
For a while, you lay there unmoving, staring up at the ceiling, convulsing from both adrenaline and terror.
There’s blood all over your mouth, inside your mouth.
There’s just enough time to forcefully turn around before you throw up. The lumpy rice from last night looks as pathetic as you feel, and your fingers sink into the cold dirt beneath you, tears stinging your eyes. Some still escape and you scream again, this time in frustration and rage.
You want to get up, but you can’t.
You’re too weak, too exhausted.
So weak, so pathetic, you couldn’t save your family and now you can’t even save yourself.
Tears come even harder, prickling your already bruised skin even more.
A glint of silver suddenly catches your eye and you still.
Your ring. John.
“Master, sorry to disturb you but everything went so quiet—”
The man halts in his tracks, stricken by the scene before him. Of his master laying in a pool of dirty blood.
Your mind goes crystal, terrifying sort of still.
The bloody knife in your hands leaves them so fast the newcomer doesn’t have enough time to even react. It doesn’t stick like you wanted though—it’s too heavy, your hands are bound and you’re too exhausted and disorientated to throw accurately. Despite all that, luck is on your side, and it slices against one side of the newcomer’s throat, cutting through the fragile skin like soft butter. Blood rains freely, almost like its been eager to escape its host, and you fall back onto the dirt, gasping in pain. Cold sweat covers your forehead and you ghost your fingers gingerly over your ribs.
It’s too hard to breathe, but broken ribs would leave you in mind-numbing sort of agony. Cracked, then? Or bruised?
Inhale, exhale.
The newcomer continues choking on his blood. Kishi is still.
Ferocious, savage sort of satisfaction blooms when you hear the man finally fall silent. You have never—not once—taken joy in taking lives before. You always made light of your job because you had to. Because too often it felt like if you didn’t make a joke or tried to lighten the situation, you would drive yourself mad with the cruelty of it all.
Digging your fingers into the dirt, you turn onto your stomach.
Your legs feel like jelly but if you can’t walk, then you’ll crawl to freedom.
First though—
First, between muffled curses of discomfort and even more tears, you craw your way towards the silver ring laying on the ground.
It’s covered in dirt and blood.
You grab it in a fist of dirt and it feels like a victory, like your love for John. Because it’s both sweet and painful all at once and you blink rapidly. Dirt crumbles from beneath your fingers and you put the ring on.
Or try to.
Your bruised, swollen digits are not what they were when John first gave you this ring.
They shake so badly that for a moment you can’t help but think that it’s useless to even try. Helplessness swells inside your chest and you squeeze your eyes shut, gnashing your teeth till you feel your gums starting to hurt.
Then one centimetre at the time, you force the ring onto your finger.
It hurts.
But everything is hurting so you don’t open your eyes till it’s done and when it is you stare at your hand in low light. Seeing the ring back where it belongs fills you with the energy you needed to crawl back onto your knees. Digging your fingers in, you half-crawl, half-stumble towards the now dead guard. You don’t bother to look at him because you need to get out of here first. Sooner or later someone else is bound to come looking and you have no time to waste.
It takes considerable effort to unhook the small, well-fashioned blade from the guard’s belt with your hands still tied. But eventually, it comes loose, and you grapple for the handle, awkwardly twisting your hands till the blade kisses your bindings delicately. It takes almost five minutes of painful hacking until the binds finally come loose. Your wrists look mangled; angry, red lines cutting deep into the delicate flesh.
You throw up again. Or try to, at least. Your empty stomach cramps painfully, jerking your whole body from its central gravitational point. Forehead pressed deep into the dirt, you calm yourself and gather strength in your core.
Then, sticking the short blade deep into the ground, you use it as a crutch.
Your knees give out almost immediately, making you fall face-first into the dirt again. Your still healing leg aches terribly and you feel more tears in your eyes.
Weak.
“Stop crying,” you croak to yourself, bitter and angry about your own inability. “Stop crying.”
Your hand curls into a tentative fist, John’s ring pressing into your worn skin and gritting your teeth once more, you force yourself to rise to your knees.
Kishi’s knife is the first priority after the small sword. It makes you feel better, more like yourself, to be armed once again.
Free.
For now.
Blades you know intimately well. A part of you wishes you could grab the poison they took from you but there’s no time for that.
Swiping your forearm over your eyes, you inhale deeply, ignoring the crackling in your lungs. Then, you rise.
Your knees wobble again, every muscle straining.
Short, wheezy breaths slip free but you don’t care about the fact that you sound like you’ve just ran a marathon.
There’s only the end goal.
Get out, get out now.
One foot in front of another. It’s hard to breathe and it’s even harder to walk.
But you keep walking.
Step by step.
You want to see John again. Even if—
Stumbling out of the door, you stare at the dark corridor to either side of you. They always bring you from the left side which leads deeper into the underground facility. Surely that means that going right will lead you to some semblance of safety.
Hope is a dangerous thing. But right now it’s all you have. Because without it you might as well go back and lay down beside Kishi and wait for your own death.
Every step is a varying degree of agonising, but your shoulder presses against the wall as you continue moving. It’s a slog and your head spins with every clumsy step. The taste of blood lingers too and you heave once more. Nothing comes up. Small mercy.
Commotion.
You almost fall over again in your hurried attempt to stop.
Have they figured out you’re gone already?
There are no cameras in the “fun room” as Kishi used to call it. But no—no, you realise in dazed confusion, the commotion isn’t coming from behind you but from the direction you’re heading towards.
It’s so close you can hear the sounds of a struggle from just around the corner. Both the blade and the knife tremble in your hands but you wait for your chance, listening intently.
The telltale sound of what has to be a body hitting the ground reaches your ears, and light footsteps move in your direction. The moment whoever it is rounds the corner and makes themselves visible, you’re going to slice their arteries open.
The person draws closer, closer, closer.
Now.
You lunge the moment a silhouette rounds the steep corner, your knife and sword raised.
But the figure reacts faster, slamming your body back against the wall, excruciating grip on your sore wrists. You feel the blades slip free from your hands and fall to the floor.
You stare.
The figure stares, too.
Then, a raspy, hysterical giggle forces itself from out of you.
It seems like you’re wrong and you never did make it out of the fun room. Maybe you died during the torture or Kishi gutted you like a pig during your fight. Or perhaps the guard did move fast enough and you’re now long dead.
It would certainly make more sense than seeing John right in front of you.
Here. After all this time.
The thought makes you laugh again; a bubbling, hysterical sound and you don’t realise you’re crying till John’s horrified features begin to blur.
That’s funny, too. After all he’s done, after all you’ve seen together, it’s hilarious to think that it’s here—now—that he looks so horrified. This is hardly the worst thing he’s seen.
His hands drop away. “(Name)—”
He sounds hoarse, and so terribly sad.
For some reason, something odd sticks out about him. Your shaking hand reaches out and tugs on a loose strand of his raven hair. “Your hair has gotten long,” you whisper and laugh again, choked. “It looks really g-good.”
You don’t remember losing consciousness.
. . .
an: there’s more where that came from~ ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
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Lord El-Melloi II Case Files: Rail Zeppelin Grace Note episode 1 preview; airs July 6th
#Lord El Melloi II Case Files#waver velvet#lord el melloi ii#melvin waynez#reines el melloi archisorte#the quality of this pv was not exactly good#and the coloring even worse im sorry lmao#case files: ep 01
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@vclours ✿ ( sc )
The first thing Sakura decided to do after meeting up with Rider was the check out a nearby bookstore.
For cooking books, of course.
While she could just use her phone to look for recipes, there was something about making something out of a book that interests her more. Maybe because it just felt more natural to her, or something like that.
Plus, given that she was stuck here, she didn’t want to fall behind Shirou in the cooking department, especially since he wasn’t around to teach her anything new. It was time to step out and learn more herself!
( not that she would have any trouble, but she liked learning from her senpai )
She was mostly thumbing through the contents of the books, seeing if there was anything that particularly stood out to her. She wanted to try her hand at making more Western-style food, so the books in her hands were of that variety. Her gaze glanced up a little when she felt the presence of someone near her, a boy around her age ( or a few years older, give or take ) was thumbing through a horror-detective fiction novel that she recognized.
“Oh, I read that! It’s really good. It’s really suspenseful,
too. If you’re into mysteries and horror, you’ll like it!”
#vclours#✿ ‵ WAVER VELVET.#✿ ‵ VCLOURS. ( 01 )#✿ ‵ A LONELY‚ UNFAMILIAR WORLD. ( isola )#i hope this is ok!!
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Fate/Eden Character Profile 01
Cleo Velvet, 24 years old. The granddaughter of Waver Velvet. In another timeline, the Velvet family were a respected family with a long lineage. They specialized in both alchemy, and abjuration, also known as defensive magic. Cleo is no exception. She is a master of her craft, able to create barriers of energy of all shapes and sizes. Her manipulation of that energy is exceptional, and she may even be able harness it for more than just mere shields.
She is a kind, but serious person, often regarded as cold by those who don’t know her personally. Her upbringing was one of high society, and the best education one could find. Unlike most of her family, however, she does not hold herself above others. She has a strong distaste for her mother, and father. Both of whom put their status above most things. She loves her grandfather dearly however and looks up to him, as a role model.
She was chosen as a master in the war to obtain the Fruit of Eden. In pursuit of this prize, she summoned her servant, Saber. Though she doesn’t particularly care for Saber’s flirtatious, and playful nature, she still respects her, and the two make a strong team.
(This is one of several ocs in my Fate fic. Fate/Eden Made with dreamselfy.)
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honks my little clown nose. its me ike here on 01/12/22 to drop e.a poe bungou stray dogs who was housed in flat 8 (crown). his defining song was buried alive by creature feature. in his place i am tentatively reserving waver velvet (lord el-melloi ii) from the fate series. you can contact me at trimmau on tumblr and twitter, and also in the scribe server!
Hey there Ike!
E. A. POE has been sent home for you, and WAVER VELVET is on reserve until January 19th!
♩♪♩♬ SCRIBE CAESURA
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Love Game 1
Pairing: Baekhyun x Reader (Hanbyeol) ft. mentions of Sehun x Irene
Genre: romcom | fluff | enemies to lovers!au | cheating!au | smut (later on)
Word count: 3.5k
Summary: Byun Baekhyun founded a company that aids people cheat on their partners, while Park Hanbyeol runs a firm that helps find evidence of infidelity. However, they both face real difficulties when they help their common friends. Regardless of the effort, they are bound to fail. Miserably, I may add.
Masterlist | 01 | 02 | ...
It was a beautiful evening; the sky in its unique shade of orange, the air unusually clean, the street musicians playing smooth jazz. The scenery was breathtaking, most certainly postcard-worthy, yet the man clothed in a fine, navy blue suit, sitting in a local cafe, a cup of espresso and a piece of cheesecake on the table in front of him did not appreciate the view, as he stared at his phone, waiting for a message from his secretary.
Ultimately, his phone rang. It wasn't the long-awaited call from his secretary, though. Rather confused, Baekhyun looked at the name flashed up on the screen; Oh Sehun—his friend, freshly married at that. Scratching his temple, Baekhyun answered the call, having no clue why Sehun wanted to reach him.
"Baekhyun, I need your help," the voice on the other side of the line quickly spoke, not even bothering to greet his friend; he just went straight to business.
"Hello to you too, Sehun," Baekhyun casually replied, heaving a deep sigh, knowing that Sehun would start his rant as soon as he made sure the other one was listening. "What's the matter?" Baekhyun encouraged, being generous enough to donate his friend a little bit of his time. Even if he managed to get another client, he'd not schedule the meeting earlier than tomorrow's morning.
"Baekhyun, you have to help me," Sehun started, and Baekhyun sat back in his chair, comfortably resting his back, throwing one leg over the other. "I told Irene I'm going on a business seminar, but the thing is, I am not alone," Sehun trailed off, hoping that Baekhyun would get the hint. Actually, he had to; infidelity was the source of his income, after all.
"Okay, it seems you have everything under control," Baekhyun commented, reaching for his coffee, taking a small sip of a hot beverage, the caffeine almost had no effect on him given how much he drinks it daily. "What's the real problem?"
"The problem is..." Sehun made a dramatic pause, almost as if he wasn't already terribly stressed, "Irene's friend's here. I saw her when I went for more ice. My marriage will be over if she sees me, Baekhyun. You have to come here, and help me out man, for the old times' sake!"
"I'm kind of busy at the moment," Baekhyun mentioned nonchalantly, enjoying the way Sehun's voice stuttered and wavered, and just reeked of desperation.
"Baekhyun, please, treat me like one of your clients," Sehun urged, balancing on the verge of begging. His marriage to Irene was too important, he just couldn't lose her for one of his meaningless mistresses. Although he didn't love Irene, his family business benefited from the merger tremendously.
"Okay, let's say that I agree, which Irene's friend? Was it Wendy? Jiwoo?" Baekhyun asked, as he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to remember how they looked like. At the wedding, he had seen the bridesmaids, yet given the amount of alcohol he had had, the image was quite blurry.
"Neither, it's Hanbyeol." Sehun stated truthfully, and Baekhyun almost hung up. No matter how much he wanted to aid Sehun, he just wouldn't willingly go to another battle with the she-devil, the antichrist, the Satan in the flesh.
"No, you're on your own, Sehun." Baekhyun announced the second he heard her name. Sinister flashbacks projected into his mind, a shiver ran down his spine, his hands shaking. He had met Hanbyeol once, and it was enough for Baekhyun to run away from any girl who was named the same; regardless of how beautiful the women were, Baekhyun would still pale at the echo of her name.
"I'll pay double," Sehun offered, hoping that Baekhyun would reconsider his abrupt decision. He hated Hanbyeol, and she hated him, but Sehun's proposition was quite tempting—it was a shit ton of money! However, was it really worth it? He'd have to cover up for Sehun, and quite possibly come face to face with the only person he detests with every fiber of his body.
"Tempting, but no, sorry, I am busy, actually, I'm meeting my client right now," Baekhyun lied, his cheek stinging at the reminiscence of the slap he had received from Hanbyeol at the wedding. "I can send one of my employees over to handle the situation, I think Lay should be available tonight," he spoke like a mindless machine, wondering if Lay really had a clear schedule right now.
"I thought you knew me, Baekhyun. I always want what is best, and there's no better than you at this," Sehun started, buttering up Baekhyun, expecting his boastful words to convince the latter. "I'll pay triple, Baekhyun, just come here and help me, will you?"
Sehun had to be joking; the second Baekhyun heard the word 'triple' he clenched his fist and bit on it, a distinctive ka-ching! rang in his ears.
"Ugh, fine. Text me the address, and I'll be there asap." Baekhyun spoke quickly, and ended the call, not even waiting for Sehun's reply. Leaving his untouched cheesecake and a half full cup of coffee on the table, he wiped his mouth with a napkin, and quickly got into his car, the location already in his GPS.
***
"Hi, Irene, what's up?" Hanbyeol answered the call, wiping her hands in the napkin, pushing a plate with fries away from her.
"Have you seen him yet?" Irene asked, impatient to know the details of the mission. Sehun was her husband, and even if they didn't love each other yet, she hoped the feelings would stem anyway. It hadn't been even two months since the wedding, and he treated her with the same exact indifference. She could handle the snail-like pace, yet there was something she couldn't tolerate—infidelity. If she was able to stay faithful to him, he could, too.
"No, I have not," she quickly replied, before she took a huge gulp of lime coke, "that's really strange, though. I'm at that meeting with all these businessmen and Sehun is no where to be found," she started to explain, looking over her shoulder wondering if her friend's husband finally showed up. "At first, I thought he bailed because this place is incredibly boring, since everyone seems to have a stick up their ass, but then I asked the guy who distributes the name tags, and apparently Sehun never showed up."
"Oh," Irene murmured, sounding obviously disappointed.
"It doesn't mean he's cheating," Hanbyeol instantly added, defending the guy. It was strange for her to protect her target, but she really didn't want to upset Irene. There was no proof that he cheated on her, she didn't catch him red-handed, perhaps, Sehun had a valid explanation on why he hadn't showed up yet.
"It doesn't mean he's not," Irene spoke, her voice quiet and cold, disappointment lingering in her tone. She could sense that Sehun hadn't been telling her everything, her suspicion backed with many unanswered texts, ignored calls, and a sweet scent of perfume which definitely didn't belong to Irene. They didn't love each other, but they could, and Irene was willing to try.
"Don't worry, I'll stick around for the weekend, and if anything fishy happens, I'll report it straight back to you," she reassured her, and licked her lips, "according to his payment history, he's here. If there's a woman with him, I'll find her and skin her alive for you."
"Thanks, Byeol. I can always count on you," said Irene, her voice again cheerful. Sehun might be distant to her, but she and Irene, they're fucking tight, although she wasn't always faithful to the only rule their friendship venerated—chicks before dicks, obviously.
"Yeah, anyway, I'll mingle with the other entrepreneurs, and don't forget that we're having brunch on Monday with Jiwoo and Wendy." Hanbyeol reminded her before she hung up, and hid her phone in her purse.
God, she hated these parties. Snob businessmen were gathering, drinking expensive champagne, and discussing their corporations. Normally, she'd not attend, but for Irene's sake, she did, and if it wasn't for free alcohol and appetizers, she'd already go crazy.
"Where are you, Sehun?" Hanbyeol whispered to herself, as she looked around, no familiar face ever flashed before her eyes; only men in their late fifties.
This party sucks.
***
"I'm here, where the hell are you?" Baekhyun yelled into his phone, as he walked into the hotel, his steps leisure, his elbow high. "What room as you in?" He questioned further, as he passed the bellhop, examining the exquisite decor; the place just screamed splendor.
"Room 304," Sehun replied quickly, putting on a bathrobe with his free hand, "I'll meet you outside, I don't really want to trouble her," he added, as he tied the velvet strip around his waist, his phone tightly squeezed between his ear and his shoulder.
"See you in a minute," Baekhyun mechanically spoke, ending the call, his head high, the gaze fixated on the elevator in front of him. Casually, he pressed the button, and the doors immediately opened, his reflection looking back at him in the mirrors in golden frames. The ride was short, yet it was long enough for Baekhyun to fix his tie and comb his hair with his long, slender fingers.
"Thank God," said Sehun, relief written all over his face. "I owe you so much for this," he sighed, the stress slowly leaving his tensed figure, as he knew that Baekhyun wouldn't let him down. Baekhyun was a professional, and it was certain that Sehun's secret was safe; Baekhyun was his warranty that Hanbyeol wouldn't catch him with another woman.
"Of course, you owe me a shit load of money," Baekhyun stated, as he looked at his friend, his stance nonchalant yet authoritative. "I'll be expecting a transfer from you on Monday, better don't be late."
"Yeah, whatever," Sehun answered with a shrug, the triple amount of money that Baekhyun had demanded for his service meant very little to nothing to him, given how rich his family is, "better tell me what's your plan, Baek."
"Since it's an emergency, the procedure is quite different," Baekhyun started, taking a sigh, as he stood on his heels, his fingers entwined behind his back, "send your lady to the hotel spa, you have to go to that business party, so Hanbyeol..." Baekhyun cleared his throat, which was bone dry, as her name barely left his mouth without vomiting, "so Hanbyeol would see you. When you're sure she saw you, I'll approach her and keep her busy, and you're free for tonight," he explained slowly, making sure that Sehun understood every detail of their plan; they only had one chance, and even the tiniest mistake could mean 'divorce' which was definitely the last thing Sehun wanted.
"You're a genius, Baekhyun. Thank you!" Sehun said, knowing that his secret was in good hands—Baekhyun's hands. "I'll get dressed and see you downstairs in a bit?"
"Sure," replied Baekhyun with utter nonchalance before he sent him a lopsided smirk, and turned on his heel, waiting for the lift to take him downstairs. "Good luck, and let's hope she won't suspect anything."
***
Baekhyun was standing in front of the entrance; one pair of doors separating him from the one and only nemesis of his. Moreover, not only he was going to see her, but what was beyond his comprehension, he had to approach her and maintain a conversation with the spawn of the devil itself. Surprisingly how eventful his evening has become; he surely wasn't mentally prepared for this meeting. As a matter of fact, he wasn't certain he'd be ever ready to face her.
With a deep sigh and short pep talk, he pushed the doors opened, his eyes roaming around the crowd seeking her.
"Okay, it shouldn't be that bad," Baekhyun spoke to himself, as he strolled inside, wide forced smile decorating his visage, as he bowed to some random businessmen and adjusted his elegant tie.
Much to his dismay, he spotted her in an instant; she was wearing a navy dress which terribly matched his suit. If he had to be objective, he'd even dare to say that she looked hot, yet given their brief history, he had to refrain himself from turning around and leaving Sehun on his own. Regardless of how pretty she looked, Baekhyun's judgment was clouded by the lousy memory.
The moment the waiter approached Baekhyun, he gladly took a glass of champagne, and gulped it down in one go. He needed it, he just wouldn't approach her without any preparation. Perhaps, she'd be a little bit more bearable if he fueled himself with alcohol. Normally, he was confident and brave, yet right now, he had to drink some more to boost his courage.
"Fancy seeing you here," Baekhyun spoke as he approached her and obtained her attention. She recognized his voice immediately; her figure slowly spinning around, a dreadful expression written all over her face. If Baekhyun hated her with pure passion, the animosity she felt toward him was twice as strong.
"I wish I could say the same," she muttered, as she eyed him from head to toe, not caring if he could hear her.
"Ouch!" Baekhyun pressed his hand against his chest, faking the pain that she caused with her harsh words. "Actually, I can't say I expected a warmer reception," Baekhyun commented, looking away, almost as if one look into her eyes would turn him into stone. "So... what brings you here?"
"It's a CEO gathering, and I am a CEO." Hanbyeol answered vaguely, not sparing him a glance either; his presence was repellent enough to handle. "What about you?" She asked, although she couldn't care any less about his reason; she only wished he'd go away after the small talk.
"Pretty much the same," Baekhyun replied, snatching another glass of champagne. "It's a perfect place to hand out business cards, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess," she agreed with a nonchalant shrug, finishing her alcohol.
"Though, it'd be way more pleasurable if Sehun didn't force me to go to that boring seminar in the afternoon. I thought I was going to die out boredom. At least, they provide food and alcohol." Baekhyun spoke casually, as he stared at her profile, examining her reaction when he mentioned Sehun's name. Just as he expected—she turned her head, their eyes locking for a brief moment.
"Sehun's here? I had no idea," Hanbyeol effortlessly lied, trying her best to look surprised, yet calm, so Baekhyun wouldn't figure out that she knew. So Baekhyun wouldn't fathom the reason behind her presence. She was going to bust Sehun with another woman, not get caught spying on him. "Well, it's a small world, isn't it?" She added, looking at Baekhyun, checking him out, approving his clothes and styled hair.
No matter how much she despised him, she couldn't deny that he was quite handsome.
"Yeah, it is," Baekhyun agreed, as he readjusted his tie, and put his hands into the pockets of his expensive suit. "Anyway... would you like to have a drink? I could use some," Baekhyun proposed, as he noticed Sehun in the crowd. Unlike Baekhyun, Sehun wasn't accustomed to this kind of stress, and it could be pretty risky for them if Hanbyeol approached him and started talking. Right now, it was Baekhyun's duty to keep her away from Sehun.
"I don't think so," Hanbyeol casually rejected his offer and turned around to leave him alone, yet if only he didn't grab her shoulder, she would be out of his side. "I said that I didn't want to, Baekhyun." She spoke, abruptly yanking her arm out of his grip.
"Come on, it's one drink, I'm not asking you to have sex with me," Baekhyun explained, trying to signalize that he didn't have wrong intentions. If she really thought that he was flirting with her, she was terribly mistaken, probably as wrong as it was possible. "For the old times' sake?" He smiled at her, almost as if he tried to seduce her.
"For the old times' sake all you can get is a kick in the nuts," Hanbyeol retorted, smirking when she saw Baekhyun's pain expression, as he was perfectly aware that she was capable of fulfilling her threat.
"Pass," Baekhyun replied with a sheepish smile upon his face, and took a step back, his hands immediately hovering above his crotch.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," she spoke, and turned around to leave. Baekhyun couldn't let that happen, especially when she was about to head toward Sehun.
"Are you still dwelling on the past?" Baekhyun asked, following behind her. "Whatever happened, happened; let's just forget about it." He proposed, but Hanbyeol only scoffed, as she continued to walk away from him.
Baekhyun couldn't be serious. Why did he urge her so desperately to talk to him? She was perfectly aware how little she meant to him, if anything, Baekhyun was supposed to avoid her like the plague. It was the only logical development of their relationship; they ought to restrain their contact to the very minimum. The most adequate behavior should be leaving one room when the presence of the other party spotted, and what Baekhyun tried to propose was the exact opposite.
What was his hidden agenda?
"I already did," Hanbyeol stated casually, not even sparing him a glance, "though, I still don't want to hang out with you."
"It's just one drink, relax." Baekhyun carried on, as they approached the bar, and raised his hand to obtain the bartender's attention. "My treat."
"Drinks are free," Hanbyeol said matter-of-factly, as she sat down on the stool, and Baekhyun immediately occupied the seat beside her. "Okay, cut the chase. What do you want from me?" She asked, being fed up with Baekhyun's insistent attitude. She didn't want to be anywhere near around him, and he must've felt the same; why did he bother?
"I don't know anyone here—"
"You know Sehun," Hanbyeol interjected, trying to prove him that he had better options than pestering her.
"Yeah, but I spent the whole day with him, I want to throw up when his face flashes in front of my eyes. He's my friend, but there are limits." Baekhyun explained with a cheeky smile, hoping that she understood him. Sighing, Hanbyeol looked at him, as he ordered drinks for them. He was irritating, but she realised that he wasn't going anywhere; if she could get rid of him, he'd already be out of her sight.
"Okay, whatever," she spoke, as she sipped on her sweet drink, her eyes seeking Sehun in the crowd. In her opinion, he didn't act like a person in the affair; he was somewhat relaxed, making casual conversations with businessmen in their fifties, not even sparing a single glance at the beautiful women who accompanied them.
"Hi, there," said a man who just approached the bar, one hand laid on the counter, the one one gently pressed against the small of her back, "can I get you a drink?" He asked, giving Hanbyeol a wide smile.
"She already has one," Baekhyun interjected, immediately jumping off his stool, "and she's with me," he added, as she swiped the man's hand away. "You're welcome, I protected you. He won't bother you anymore."
"You're the one bothering me, Baekhyun." She retorted, shaking her head in disbelief, as she sighed and bit her straw. "Besides, he was kind of cute, if anything, you just cockblocked me."
"I'm trying here," Baekhyun defended himself, returning to his seat. "It'd be much easier if you told me why you hate me so much."
"You really don't know?" Hanbyeol asked, looking him in the eyes, trying to determine whether he was seriously this shameless or simply ignorant. "Okay, fine. Let me enlighten you," she started, and Baekhyun gingerly nodded his head, waiting for the explanation. As far as he remembered, it had to have something to do with Sehun's and Irene's wedding.
"Please, do. I really want to know."
"At the wedding, we flirted with each other and it was really nice," she started, and Baekhyun responded with a gentle bow, taking in the information, "but later, I saw you making out with someone, and I was seriously pissed when after the toast you came back to me as if you just didn't shove your tongue down other woman's throat. All the attraction disappeared like a snap of fingers."
"Really, that's it?" Baekhyun asked with his eyebrow raised upwards. "Aren't you a bit melodramatic? It's not like we were in a relationship."
"It doesn't matter, Baekhyun." Hanbyeol answered calmly, a polite smile upon her face. "Don't get me wrong, but I know a little something about players, and I can tell when I see one."
"Well... I know a little something about relationships," Baekhyun started, making Hanbyeol interested in whatever he had to say, "why even bother to be with someone when eventually it's going to fall apart?"
"Relationships don't fall apart without a reason; people just stop trying. It's not going to last if you don't care to maintain it," Hanbyeol fought back, even if she didn't want to discuss that matter with him.
"Yeah, I agree, and that's why I don't do relationships."
"Good for you."
#baekhyun scenario#baekhyun smut#baekhyun fluff#baekhyun fanfiction#baekhyun#exo fanfiction#exo scenarios#exo smut#exo fluff#cheating#cheating!au#enemies to lovers
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