What about an AU where Veld keeps getting reincarnated over and over again and Vincent and Elfe hunt him down every time. How would that go. And how would everyone react.
crimson chaos:
Hm. I have spent a night and a day on it, and I don’t think I can perfectly answer this question unless I am given more information on the circumstances. For example, what could be the reasons why Vincent and Elfe have to hunt Veld down? Or do they all have their memories from their past lives? Were those memories recalled in a series of flashback, or were they born with them? Were their first meeting ever the lives that we have all came to know from the FFVII Compilations? There are just so many factors that could influence my Vincent’s decision.
I do think, however, that if that first impression is the partnership I have always embraced for my Vincent here, then he would definitely want to find Veld. Similarly, if he perceives Felicia to have a connection with Veld, then he probably will try to find her too. And if this proves to them as a recurring event, they might even devise some scheme so that they can always easier meet each other in their next life. They might even have a phase that they say to each other before they pass on. ‘See you when I wake up’ seems like one among the good candidates there.
Also, @execoterrorist said she thought that in terms of Elfe/Felicia, ‘The first few times would hurt but eventually it’d be a commitment.’
Title: Darkness hides all
Author: Enide Dear
Pairing: Valenwind
Rating: NSFW!
Summary: Cid and Vincent talkes about prior sexual encounters and masturbates *blushes at summary*
Who asks the other on dates: Vincent, it seems. He did have his big mouth and oftentimes, run it. Who is the bigger cuddler: Vincent. He does not admit it but he totally is big for cuddling.Who initiates holding hands more often: Veld. He knows when Vincent needs it. Vincent, sometimes, does just to let Veld knows how much he appreciates it.Who remembers anniversaries: Both. Sometimes Veld acts as if he doesn’t remember only to get Vincent all work up.Who is more possessive: Vincent.Who gets more jealous: Again, Vincent. Brat can be childish at times.Who is more protective: They protect each other. That’s what partners do.Who is more likely to cheat: Neither. Although their relationship is sort of more open-ended at the moment.Who initiates sexy times the most: Veld loves his dirty sexting.Who dislikes PDA the most: Vincent. He accidentally kills it far too many times.Who kills the spider: Neither. There’s often too many killings in one day for them anyway.Who asks the the other to marry them: Vincent, and he puts a candy ring on it too, fresh from its bubblegum colour packaging.Who buys the other flowers or gifts: They both do.Who would bring up possibly having kids: They have never discussed about it (yet). The way they live their lives never seem appropriate for such a discussion to be brought up.Who is more nervous to meet the parents: Veld thinks Grimoire is evil. He is likely right.Who sleeps on the couch when the other is angry: They sleep on the floor to each side of the bed.Who tries to make up first after arguments: Vincent.Who tells the other they love them more often: Pretty sure it is 75 percent Veld, and 25 percent Vincent.
"For the love of all things holy in Wutai, Valentine!! WHAT THE HELL do you think you are doing??", roared the bunny with a particular set of big round chocolate brown eyes as he took a step into the apartment he and his partner now shared. Were Veld asked since when did this peculiar arrangement begin, he could not precisely say. He doubted Vincent could either regardless of how astoundingly keen the ravenette’s memory is. Veld was not surprised there. This was Grimoire Valentine’s only son after all.
Instead of being shameful, Vincent merely threw him an amused look through a set of ridiculous goggle he now wore. Claret irises, made more prominent by the same crimson substance that coated the entire of their room and left its vibrant splay across the goggle’s crystalline pane and white jumpsuit alike — items borrowed from the Science department, Veld gathered — met levelly his own as Vincent shifted from his kneeling position and strolled forward. “Baine said I can’t match what he bought.”
Snap.
One glove pulled free and tossed away soon found one appendage coyly tugged at Veld’s tie.
“I said otherwise.”
One firm tugging found attention redirected.
Where nose almost brushing nose, it was funny that had Veld thought back then, how he, himself, seems to focus upon the smirk faintly playing across his partner’s lips instead of the crime he had obviously committed. The tangy scent of citrus was strong, such were other varieties of chocolate and maple. Is that really pomelos’ shells I see? Dismissive, Veld bat at his partner’s wrist. The action earned him more of that particular insufferable smirk, Veld knew without having seen for it was now his back to Vincent’s observance. Considering he was shrugging off his own jacket, that made him feel strangely bare! Veld compensated the notion with a no-nonsense tone.
"I don’t care about your damn bet with Baine on whose mix of fake blood is better. You are cleaning this mess." To Vincent’s eyes, the bunny’s nose seemed to wiggle in annoyance as well as he pulled down his tie. Perhaps that had made Vincent’s next decision — to completely or not drench Veld’s entire body in the crimson syrup he was earlier working on — even more justifiable. It was a good thing Veld had already lost both the jacket and the tie! The punk seemed to possess a strange sense of humour when it comes to what he constitutes as charming.
Even more obvious, was the escaped laughter that lacing through taunting baritone in a quiet “Opps?”
Right.
One.
Two.
Thre….
—Fuck it.
They ended up a bit of bruised and with a bit of real blood drawn that night, if not as well, far too sticky for Veld’s taste. Veld was still thinking on how great a bath actually was when Vincent’s nose came nudging against his collarbone before the ravenette’s own form similarly followed. Chest pressing against back, were it any other, Veld would not have allowed. This, though, was Vincent.
Punk ass kid.
“You are still cleaning the mess comes tomorrow..—” Veld rest his hand atop Vincent’s arms as the other edged closer with a small hum.
”…—and put less pomelos in those the next time.”
”I still want my money.”
outofcharacter:
"I tried to write it from Vincent’s perspective but I sadly failed. I don’t think I did pull the Veld either." ;a; "Veld is drakonlily and I’m just…I don’t know… me. I hope it is at least entertaining though!”
"Also, when there's a bet between two Turks, it is a done-deal there exists also others' on those two Turks. It's a family tradition."
There is reference to Lucrecia / Vincrecia as the important part of Vincent's life that she is, without actually rehashing DoC flashback scenes.
Veld goes to Vincent for help regarding his daughter, Felicia/Elfe, during the events of Before Crisis. Three POV: 'present', 'past-journal', 'past'.
The beasts are restless inside, powerful; the scent of blood, the honing in upon a target. Closer, closer, aim, trigger--
His arm (that godsforsaken limb. Gilt covered, guilt ridden. Never a hint of gold in the darkness) flexes. The sound scrapes over wood, over soft plush velvet. Different sounds, different textures. A whine, a rip.
--Bang.
His fist clenches, hard against the lid. It is not pain. It is awareness.
(It is the belly of the beasts churning. Restless, restless.)
Will I ever find rest?
Another bang; a crack, a splinter. Light seeps in, refracting off secret sins of gold, of matted ebony hair, of pools of crimson blinking slowly (reigned in).
Blood eyes take in the dark suit, compact muscles (always ready, a faint voice whispers; wire coiled tight, hard and heated), chestnut hair and lines. So many lines deepened into unfamiliar grooves, bearing foreign marks.
He hisses, and it sounds bestial. He averts his gaze, yet catches a separate glimpse of gold as he turns. His treacherous limb grasps forwards (unbidden) ripping at cloth; beading blood under the clutch of claws and the snap of a chain.
"What- is this?" He holds the ring up to the other like a sacrificial murder, polished gold on tarnished metal and voice cracking from no use.
The old man (old man!) in front of him shrugs, ignoring the bright trickling paths down his torso, "It didn't fit anymore," and holds up a left hand, bone smooth, unblemished, but for a faint glow nestled within the depths.
Matching grotesquery. Inhuman.
(They always were a shade of inhuman.)
"You... married?!" It is little more than a hiss, yet dangerous; reverberating peels against stone walls. "Where-?" (Not who. Never again. That he could not stand to be witness to once more.)
"Dead." Hazel eyes, always as hard as stone, flicker imperceptibly.
The returning laughter sounds strangulated and echoes mockingly through the basement lair.
______________________________________________________________________
[Personal File//Valentine012]
The Department of Administration & Research received news earlier - one of their own, dead, following a basic patrol mission within Sector 3. An embarrassment enough by itself (rookie died at the hands of a domesticated grashstrike, for Leviathan's sake), it was further revealed that the owner had been in cahoots with a known arms dealer.
With no back up, the target escaped this fair city of Midgar with enough ballistics to fuel another civil war should Wutai be so disposed as to entertain such a notion again. Probability: highly unlikely, given Shin-Ra interests.
To say the Chief and her Short-Stuff Shadow were concerned is a fair assessment. Not that they showed it. Just set about implementing their new operational processes.
Namely, no member of the Department to work without a partner. Partners to be paired up on a name by name basis. Personal skill-sets have been ‘taken into account’.
Funny how these things work out.
_______________________________________________________________________
Vincent arched, his body twisting leverage upon the smaller man effectively locking him hard against the floor. A limber leg broke free of its confines, and, with a vicious jerk, he drove a knee direct into the groin of his new partner.
Veld's howl choked into non-existence, his fingers tightening against Vincent's wrists and blanch resisting the urge to curl up tightly against the nauseating waves of pain coursing through his body. All that was uttered was a sharp groan of pain encasing the words, "You… utter bastard," as he held on, vice like, assessing.
Vincent merely smirked towards his oppressor before bucking again and finally obtaining enough leverage to throw Veld across the room. Deceptively languid motions had long fingers wrapped around the standard issue firearm, propped over his chest, aimed and triggered out – one above Veld's skull, the other directly between his legs – before Veld had even had chance to move from his sudden sprawl or to unleash a return attack.
A low chuckle emanated from the other side of the room, "Admit it, you're just fascinated with what's between my legs, aren't you Vince?" Then, as if to prove a point – or perhaps it was to alleviate the pain in his balls – Veld spread his legs wider and cupped the heel of his palm over himself.
Vincent rolled over onto his shoulder, the one opposite to his cocked gun, and used the momentum to stand. Pointing the barrel towards Veld he stalked forwards, eyes dark as he sniffed with only a small measure of humour, "My name, is Vincent."
The last thing Vincent remembered was the clattering sound of a gun ricocheting off the ground and another chuckle, as the edges of his vision turned black.
"I'm here to ask for your help, Vince."
Granite will always crack, slowly but inexorably, over time. Fracture lines spun from timeless webs of deceit over those features; deepen, deepen, to something deeply unfamiliar; something… (Human.)
He snarls at the sight, around those words, vortices swirling under the surface clamouring to emerge in retribution.
"It's Vincent!" He roars. Such familiar argument, countless times made; issuing forth in an alien tone, only to quieten to a growl at it's own timbre, "I'm not a Turk, not anymore."
(Not even human, not anymore)
"You-"
A dark accusation, a reminder. His blood sings with the voice of an angel. Her voice (her sweet, sweet voice) joined over years to meld monstrous sounds flooding his veins.
"-put pay to that."
A touch comes suddenly, smooth and cooling, firm against his cheek before tangling into his hair. It commands, even as it speaks silent apologies. It is honest, even when speaking lies. Once a Turk, always a Turk.
"I'm not asking as a Turk, Vince."
"No. You're lying..." He spits, sniffing the air like the beast he is, crimson cloak breathing in whispers around him. Inhale, exhale, "A Turk waits behind the door. I recognize the stench."
That stench of blood and starch and determination and gunpowder residue. So familiar, so understandable, so--
He nuzzles into the touch, and it feels like belonging.
(Like hunger.)
"Gods, Vince..." The shallow breath flutters askew, tilting the axis. (Incongruity incarnate).
Sudden rage slams hard inside of him, slams hard against the other; sending them both to the cold and heartless stone below. He pitches overhead, gauntlet sealed against the fragile skin of an exposed throat.
"I do not need your PITY!"
He feels the ebbing slackness of submission beneath him, the stifling of a fight pulsing thick sticky ambience into the room. He feels his own sinuous strength forcing out choked sounds, "Vince- Vincent..."
****
[Personal File//Valentine015]
Two days I was out of training, holed up in the office with a stack of paperwork my partner dumped over first chance he had. Shorty's got a cute idea of discipline.
Two days. Not a long time in the grand scheme of things, but plenty long enough for changes to be made. You see, Veld's the Chief now.
One minute you're around, and the next, you're nowhere…
Some people might say that there is no need for a whole Department dedicated to the facilities of Administration & Research, but we maintain a decent team. Even with the high turnover. Truth of the matter is - some people don't even have a clue.
And we're going to utilise that fact to build upon the department now that Veld is Chief and I'm his shadow. It's time for a change, and we're leading the charge.
Ladies and gentlemen and xenos alike, welcome to The Turks.
Thock- The small red ball emblazoned with Shinra's golden diamond bounced off the wall at an obtuse angle. Vincent, laid back in the chair with one leg folded over the other, raised his hand without even looking up from the file and caught it in his palm.
"Hm?"
Vincent was never much for speaking out loud but that soft noise spoke plenty enough to Veld. Over the years they had perfected the art of minimalist communication.
Ker-thock- First the floor, then the other wall. It seemed to say: What's gives? When are we going to see some more action?
Veld caught the ball neatly, rolled it between his fingers then tossed it over again with a little more force.
Ker-thock-thock-thock- So damned impatient, it replied.
A three wall bounce. Vincent always suspected Veld was a bit of a show-off around him. But if that was what it took to work together, he would deal. Because now they worked together just damn fine. Though it had certainly taken its sweet time.
Vincent was fluid where Veld was economical. Vincent specialised at ranged offence where Veld had always preferred close quarters on the field. Just as one was perfectly comfortable cooped up at his desk, the other itched to move if kept in a single spot for more than a few minutes. And as Veld's reputation was to the ability to wield words as well as any weapon, Vincent reflected on things in silence, reputed more for his physicality and aim.
Both men understood their differences, knew that one weakness could be shored up with the other man's strengths. The second time they had met in the training room, each parry and blow was slowly matched, felt out, clarified and synthesised.
Within a few weeks they were a well oiled machine. Within months they were synchronised in form and thought. Within the year they moved as one; sheets cast off, teeth and skin bared.
Thunk.
The ball smacked Veld dully between the eyes. Vincent tipped his head downwards to hide his smirk behind his fringe. Nobody should try to best him with projectiles.
It amused him vaguely, in that college-boy way, to know that Veld still tried. He supposed it could be considered one of their own in-jokes.
_______________________________________________________________________
Dread anticipation for the worst words possible comes, then passes.
He could not have stood to hear Please (surely wouldn't, would never beg) or to hear I'm Sorry (I’m So Sorry, I'm So Sorry: she repeats those words, over and over and over).
Brief relief piques until he hears, "My Daughter."
(...another child?!)
Another surge once more. There is a sickening crunch, and he withdraws from the warm body beneath him to the cool confines of a corner, the sting of impact still vibrating his armour.
Silence broods first before the sentences start to swarm.
Missing histories abstracted, detached, meaningless; delivered with subtleties of callousness, Ockham-sharp, that set about redressing the other man.
He listens and watches, watches. He watches from the shadows and no longer touches. (He no longer trusts)
"Ultimate Summon materia-" It carries on, delivery brief, robust, sharp. Snippets of things he had been kept apart from.
"Zirconaide fragments-"
He fights to keep the beasts in check.
_______________________________________________________________________
[Personal File//Valentine042]
This will be my last entry on this thing. No doubt it would be deleted, encoded or some such shit.
Technology was never my strongest suit.
Fucking ---------
_______________________________________________________________________
"Nibelheim."
A folder passed hands, neatly, from Veld to Vincent. The Chief in Command of the Turks rolled his shoulders back and stood stock still, hazel locked in as effective as any sniper sight.
Vincent drew himself up to full height with an unfettered grace that belied his true capacity for violence, holding Veld's gaze for a mere moment before lowering his eyes to scan through the contents.
The actual parameters of his mission were laid out, hidden beneath the stark black and white. Bodyguard duty to the scientists occupying the Nibelheim reactor, a base located in an old mansion at the back of the small country town. Miles away from anywhere. Miles away from Midgar and ShinRa HQ.
Miles away from Veld.
"Tch-" Vincent shrugged, knowing that Veld could read him just as good as he could read his partner, yet still keeping up an appearance of nonchalance, "Why me?"
"You're the logical choice. I will oversee the installation of the Gongagan reactor, but there are certain elements surrounding the Nibelheim mission that marks it as yours." Veld’s tone brooked no argument and was inflected at just the right moment to put his exact point across.
"Science & Research."
Veld gave a short nod as Vincent answered his own question, whilst Vincent himself could feel the heat of anger rise in his torso, cursing under his breath at the euphemistic nature of their records, "Bodyguard duty?"
Veld's eyebrow twitched upwards. It was just the two of them in the office, but they had become ever more cautious about their levels of speech and gestures when on ShinRa property.
"That's what the mission file states, Vince."
Vincent made another annoyed noise and turned away, roughly pulling out his desk drawer before he set about stocktaking. First, he break-loaded the specialised three barrelled revolver he picked up after their third field mission together.
Vincent had called Veld insane that day. Veld had just laughed and replied that his words might have been a little more convincing if Vincent himself wasn't covered head to toe in someone else's blood. Then he had passed over this absolute beauty of a gun from the raider's cache.
Snapping it shut with a smooth wrist flick, Vincent slammed it on the top of the desk, "Dammit, Verdot. I didn't follow my father's footsteps for a reason."
He drew in a deep breath sharply before continuing. Next he re-assembled another two standard handguns he had augmented himself, pocketing mostly basic rounds interspersed with a few specialised magic-based ballistics.
Finally he walked over to the office wall, his back to Veld still, and plucked off his favourite rifle from the stands. As he hoisted it onto his shoulder and started to recalibrate the sights he added lower still, "I'm not a scientist."
Veld watched his partner as he went through the practiced and highly-skilled motions, knowing not to interrupt Vincent in his tasks. He knew it calmed Vincent; the smooth slide and clicks hypnotic, the singular focus familiar.
What Veld actually did was move slowly around the corner of his desk, one sure and quiet footfall at a time, until he leaned himself against the edge, in position,aand answered, "Right. You're a Turk. You get no say in this, Vince."
Vincent growled, "But you call the shots, Veld."
Even his stance holding a rifle was absolutely unique to Vincent; legs pushed apart on a 180 degree angle, his body switched to a single armed extension that followed the shape of the gun. All in alignment and beautifully vicious. The barrel was nudged against Veld's forehead, and the Turk Chief was in Vincent's sights.
Veld did not even blink. In close quarters he had the upper hand. It was something they both knew. It was something that could even be called one of their in-jokes.
He told Vincent as such, delivered with little humour, after he had made one swift continuous motion to incapacitate. An arm block to the barrel, using the momentum to knock it out of Vincent's grasp whilst simultaneously destabilising balance; a leg sweep underneath to turn, twisting his partner's arm up his back, forcing him over the desk and pinning him down with a headlock.
Veld hissed at his ear, and there was no way any mics could pick up on the hyper-directed tone, "You forget I know you, Vincent. I can predict what you are going to do before you do it with remarkable accuracy."
Vincent could feel Veld shift slightly to obtain a greater hold before continuing, tone slipping dangerously into an unfamiliar tenor of emotion.
"I know your stances, I know your preferences. I know how you like to watch me whilst I'm sleeping, I know you track my every move when we are apart. I know you are an intense, changeable bastard, yes, but I know you in all your forms. You cannot stay here, Vince, and you will not. You are going to Nibelheim."
Vincent struggled against Veld, pushing up against the hard line of his partner's body, the beat of his heart thumping a rhythm through the hard wood below his chest.
"Are you telling me this is personal?!" He could feel Veld tightening the hold, his breath was ragged and his vision was starting to spot.
Then the grip relaxed. Vincent gulped in a deep breath, as Veld shook his head and turned on his heels to walk out the office door, drawn in and rigid and cold.
"No Vince. This is professional."
Even when spoken thickly from a bloodied mouth of raw flesh and smeared teeth, his eyes flash with pious cognizance at the words.
Clarity, sense memory. His (true) history from the darkness snaps him to attention whilst Chaos swells and wails inside.
_______________________________________________________________________
Vincent had not laid eyes on anybody before that was so beautiful; the scientist in her lab coat, the lady beneath the professional white.
Her delicate clothes and accessories were entirely more provocative than any standard dark-blue clean cuts of a Turk uniform. She was feminine and soft, clear human emotion written across her fine features. Gorgeous, cascading hair that fell past her shoulders twined and bound with a yellow ribbon. He stilled to drink in the vision, a man parched for something so separate from the world in which he found himself.
He absolutely refused to think of Veld. How could he? Not when Dr. Lucrecia Crescent epitomised so much of his polar opposite.
Opening his mouth, he was stunned to find his voice caught between professionalism and an uncharacteristic gentleness that had come forth, "Vincent Valentine reporting for duty, ma'am. I have been assigned your protection."
He was so dazzled by their differences, Vincent did not see her tell-tale gasp of recognition.
He could not even see the few possibilities of how similar they could be.
_______________________________________________________________________
(His vision is hazy, the sterile banks of computers, the cold metal under him and wide leather straps biting at his limbs. He looks at his hands and they are those of a Galian Beast. He lets out a blood-curdling scream.
(That was my sin.
And this...
This...
Is my punishment.))
The words are bondage, tethering his soul; binding him to this stone, this coffin, the memories that repeat, that repeat, that repeat.
He hears the murmurs that are spoken in his own voice, a mantra of the damned, "This... This is my punishment."
Another voice carries then; small, insignificant yet persistent. A clutch of a door and the sounds of bullets pierce his contemplations further.
"Sir, we're under attack. Avalanche, four of them by last count and more coming through."
He blinks, blood red bleeding. Another touch issues at his shoulder. He shudders, even as it reassures; firm and solid and real.
The touch grounds him.
And the sound of gunshots call him.
Bang- (He feels, a blossoming heat in his chest.)
Bang- (He grasps, guiding the body behind him.)
Bang- (He moves, each particle expansive.)
Bang- (He is, lightning through stormy skies.)
Bang. And the deed is done.
He retreats to the silence; stone cold, fierce heat and the familiar sight of another beside him (it is as light as a caress). He almost laughs.
"I heard voices, Veld. Many people have been here sin-"
"I know." Veld interjects, suffixed, I know you. Just as you know me.
He shakes his head, matted mane tangling around the nape of his collar, “I know-” (Counterstrike- Like you used to know me)
“I heard things, Veld (I know too much). You can find what you're looking for... Here." Fingers clasp, slipping secrets between still strangely human touches.
"Leave me now. I will not rejoin you. This is my punishment, and I must atone. You would not understand-”
"I do."
A press, leaves a simple band of gold caught between closing hands, "...This is also my punishment."
The darkness returns. Amongst wood and plush velvet (he covets the circle tight against his chest) Vincent rests, for now, once more.
“God. There are so many. My favourite writer is Drakonlily who is the first person ever to introduce me to him though. They keep veld blog(s) on Tumblr and you can check them out here or here. They also keep loads of their work here, of which, safely said, many have came to form a headcanon for my Vincent. There are also work by Eli here which I love to bits because I have always associated my Vincent with lots of Christianity belief. You should also check this one out as well because the dynamic between them is just exactly how I imagine my Vincent feel sometime toward Veld in his moment of weakness. I hope I have answered your query?” ;)
