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❛ sure, sure, all of that sounds fine, ❜ christine said, cutting into the oscar-worthy monologue with the sharp punctuation of a pile of books being dropped onto the counter. dust billowed in lazy spirals, catching the light of the hazy london morning spilling in from the windows. slapping her hands together, she motioned for her to continue. ❛ except i didn't understand a word you just said. ❜
starter call. • @fatalhymn
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Kisses the cranky angel
It's the most mundane scene that's unfolded between them so far, Kane thinks — him before the stove, and Amelia hovering nearby. She's stolen at least two slices of tomato and equally as much of the flatbread he'd prepared.
“Let it cool down,” he told her. The demand fell on deaf ears, to no one's surprise. He, for a change, made a real effort not to bicker about it. Things had felt easy today ( so far, at least! ). As much as he enjoys arguing, he enjoys peace and quiet in his home more.
“You're like a bloody hamster, hoardin' food like that,” he grumbles — not in earnest, though, but rather in good humour. “You realise all this will taste better when eaten together properly, right?”
“Tastes pretty good to me already,” she deflects. Typical, expected, and again stirring a sense of amusement in him. For all the blood-boiling irritation she elicits in him, he's rewarded with moments in time like these, too. If only he weren't the type to hold a grudge; to remember the negative — to be a pessimist, in essence.
Before he knows it, and before he can get any sort of worked up about it after all, he feels a hand on the side of his face, and then on the other, turning him away from the stove and towards her.
Then, her lips on his — soft, warm, red, and undoubtedly staining his as she lingers.
For a moment, he considers letting the food burn in favour of throwing her over his shoulder and taking her to bed.
“Mm — hmph. I see what you're doin'. Joke's on you, though,” he warns, staying close intentionally. The food sizzles next to him. “The food'll burn if you keep this up, and I know you're the hungrier one out of the two of us.”
"You are being surprisingly quiet about all this," Pavel says, narrowing his eyes ever-so-slightly as he locks eyes with @fatalhymn across the fire. Their campfire crackles and pops, dancing as if amused by the silent accusation writing itself across his face. The shadows thrown across his face highlight his scepticism, carving sharp angles across what would otherwise appear to be a youthful face incapable of such an intense, piercing look.
"But you argued with me for at least ten minutes when I said I wanted to join you." He huffs at the memory. "And with very poor arguments, too. Yet now you have nothing to say?"
@fatalhymn said: i can't believe you shot me.
" -------- consider it a tax for doing villain adjacent things! " he has another blunt-tipped arrow nocked should he need it. " hands up where i can see 'em, girly-girl. "
@fatalhymn asked: ❝ Really? It was all my fault? ❞
“yes!” her scream is deafening, echoes off the walls as she whirls. an accusatory claw points and she blinks, jaw aching in its tension. a bowstring snaps. or has snapped. “yes! yes it’s all your fault! that’s how it works when you fuck something up!”
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@fatalhymn said: "you look so excited to see me again, how cute."
unprompted asks / ALWAYS ACCEPTING ↷
❝ You broke into my apartment. I want my stuff back. ❞
Wren looks exasperated to see Amelia again, thank you very much. This isn’t how she’d plan on meeting — chance encounter, not carrying weapons. Not that her track record of being willing to shoot the assassin is great...
Her stuff. She’s vague very deliberately. Her dog tags are missing, the only memory she has left from home. But she’s wary of what she calls them, here; military dog tags, but Systems Alliance being unknown to this world, this point in history. At least the N7 logo for special forces means nothing, here. Her date of birth carved on the tags says 2154 for the year. Wren can, and has, play it off as... just a necklace that looks like dog tags. But she hates it when she has to lie about it, to make a joke out of her own life. The assassin has no idea she’s taken something that matters to Wren, and she’d like to keep it that way; no need to willingly hand over the leverage.
STARTER CALL [ACCEPTING] FEAT. @fatalhymn
LELIANA HAS NOT TRUSTED THIS ONE FROM THE MOMENT their eyes met from across the room. the reasoning being very simple: a look in the mirror could not show her a better crafted mask———— & you only recognize facades when you yourself are wearing one. (& IF THE PERSON YOU TRUST LEAST IN THE WORLD IS ALSO YOURSELF.) still they wound up side by side . . . predictably, it is the safest option to keep an eye on each other. another thought likely shared by the two of them———— simultaneously, the exploration of her own line of thoughts is rather intriguing & frightening. "on whose invitation are your here tonight?" leliana asks, knowing full well there will neither be an answer that is truthful nor one that is straight. but with the swish of fancy gowns around them & the clinking of expensive jewelry against crystal champagne flutes . . . it is the question any normal attendee would have asked. "if you can excuse my curiosity."
@fatalhymn sent
" You know what would actually make a killer book ⸻ " she refuses to smile at her own pun, but she wants to, appearing thoughtful instead as she taps her chin. " A story about hot assassin that kills everybody."
"A hot assassin that kills everybody?"
Billie turns her head to look at Amelia, her own grin betraying her with the twitch of amusement at the corners.
"Everybody but their lover, I imagine. But wherever am I going to find one of those to model my main character off of. Hot assassins don't simply fall into your lap every day, do they?"
