jetblackknight

[jetblackknight]

how do you need to be touched ?

cautiously.

your teeth are bared, as they have been, your jaw aching for so long as growls slip free. you always have to defend yourself. you lash out in fear. you need someone who does not shrink back . . . a hand falling slowly to your shoulder, however briefly, in a reminder that you do not have to lunge. there is no danger here, now.

tagged by: @copy-of-a-shell tagging: @famiglia-lealta @sunfallsprophet, @captianimarum, and anyone else that wants to do this : >

[jetblackknight]

⚔ ────▪ ❛ 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙽𝙰𝙼𝙴, 𝙸𝙵 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝚁𝚄𝚃𝙷 ? . ❜ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ Vergil raised a brow, twirling around the weapon in question teasingly, as if he would actually allow the little shark to touch such a memento. How good it felt to finally have it back in his hand.                          ❛ You are little, in comparison to me — human. Thin as a rail. Little. And you are a shark. A biter, with sharp little teeth that dig in like rose thorns and refuse to let go. What are you, if not a little shark ? ❜

"VROOOIII--!!" ""

@jetblackknight "If you don't stop calling me LITTLE SHARK, I'm gonna take that Yamato of yours and split the whole of your ASS IN HALF--!!"

[jetblackknight]

Send 📎 and an AU you'd like to see my muse in, and I'll say if I'd do it!

[jetblackknight]

⚔ ────▪ ❛ 𝙸 𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴 . . . 𝙲𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙾𝚂𝙸𝚃𝚈. 𝙳𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙽𝙴𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙴 𝙽𝚄𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝚂𝚄𝚁𝚅𝙸𝚅𝙴 ? . ❜ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ It was an easy thing to ask — and Vergil was not one for easing into things. The small talk and pleasantries were secondary to knowledge. They always had been. He walked gracefully into Grue's Cellar, holding the door open for his ( not his, but what appeared to be ) humanity, letting it shut behind him. He walked as if he had done this a hundred times, his stature tall. Though half-demon himself, every hunter in the bar averted their gaze. They knew of him. They knew his name. His snow-white hair. His intimidating height. His fierce expressions. He was a Son of Sparda. Brother of Dante, the Legendary Devil Hunter. Though his brother wasn't allowed within this dingy old place's walls, Vergil was.

                         ❛ Here. A good place to watch the others. We won't be bothered. ❜ Slipping into what was unofficially " his " side of an old leather bar booth, the cushion squeaked and whined under his weight ; but it did the same with this new version of himself. Or whatever he was. It was still so hard to understand. And the artificial demon's lack of knowledge of them was . . . strange. It wasn't unwelcome, but it was strange. And yet, Vergil felt completely at ease. They both knew about as much as the other, in this instance. To share such cluelessness was a comfort.                            And true to Vergil's word, the only interaction had was a single, full glass of wine and the bottle it came from appearing at the table from one of Grue's daughters ( Vergil believed it was Nesty ; she was too young to feel bitter over Dante, too young to remember what had happened ) — though this time, there was a second, empty glass beside it.                          ❛ You don't have to drink, if you don't want to. She includes it as a courtesy. It isn't often I sit here with another. ❜

‘Clumsy.’ 

V figured that was a good way to describe himself at the moment. Clumsy and lost, and hoping Vergil wouldn’t just leave him to his own devices or kill him. He was only now realizing that he’d been putting a lot of faith in Vergil���s generosity and goodwill.

Regardless, he couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed that he’d zoned out like that. 

At the mention of his eyes, V brought a hand up, the pads of his fingers brushing underneath one of them. Were they really that strange? That seeing them would tip off the average devil hunter that he wasn’t a human? He supposed he had no real frame of reference. Vergil was the first human-adjacent being he had ever spoken to.

With that same hand, V then flicked his bangs into his face. The black strands already fell over his eyes, no matter what he did, so he figured he might as well use it to his advantage.

While he wasn’t particularly worried about any threats humans may pose to him, Vergil was showing concern for his well-being - he doesn’t miss how he hovers, making sure he won’t fall - so the last thing he should do is cause any problems for him.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he replies. “Lead the way.”

[jetblackknight]

// finally caved and bought a phone upgrade ( still not a new new one, but definitely an upgrade ; it's got a notch now lmao ) and I'm. Living for it. The tumblr app finally isn't draining my battery or making my phone hot anymore LOL

All they need to do now is add the ability to either use an HTML editor or add small text and life would be perfect and I'd never miss a goddamn reply because I could do it from the device I'm on most of the week 😩

[jetblackknight]

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ How quickly the tables turned upon his muddled mind ; in an instant, he was no longer the demander, no longer the dominant person in the room. But there was a shift — it was a . . . good one. He fell into his role perhaps a little too easily, but not in a way that was concerning. Half-lidded eyes stared at the person standing before him, his chin gripped and his wrist within their grasp. How easily Vergil could have twisted out of such a grip, deity or no, but he simply . . . didn't.

⚔ ────▪ ❛ 𝚈 — 𝚈𝙴𝚂, 𝚂𝙸𝚁. 𝙽𝙾 𝙾𝚁𝙳𝙴𝚁. 𝙸 . . . 𝙸 𝚂𝙰𝙸𝙳 𝙿𝙻 — ❜

                          Was it correct to call Djahima a sir ? Vergil still wasn't sure, but that didn't stop him from saying it. In this moment, ma'am, or my liege sounded a little . . . too wrong. Sir just felt right. And so did he, brushing against their hip. Every movement was electricity against his exposed skin, against that little sliver of sensitivity hiding behind its ( tastefully tight ) sleeve. He only felt bad that he was staining their good top with a small mess of his own. There was no time to think much of it, though ; he was captured with their lips in an instant and took from it as much as he could, desperate, aching with need. How difficult it was, not to wrap an arm around their waist and keep them close . . . but that was not the game they were playing, was it ?                           His tongue just barely brushed past their perfect teeth before they ripped away from him — Vergil could not stop himself from trailing along like a lost puppy, even staggering a little forward before realizing that he, probably, should not have. Their teeth on his lip was like hellfire, blooming with sensation that made his entire length twitch against their hip. Had it not been for that, they might not have noticed that anything was amiss. Nothing changed. His breathing remained even, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth open dumbly. Would they realize, in that moment, that he had orgasmed just then ? That the tug of his lip was enough to rile him to the point of peaking ? There was nothing else to give it away. No mess against their clothing, no gasping breath, no flush of his cheeks ( well, there may have been, but his cheeks were already so flushed that it was difficult to tell if they had gotten any deeper ).                            All Vergil could do in response to Djahima's question was nod, but the answer ( Yes, sir, ) was there, on his tongue. 

                          He watched, dumbly, as Djahima used their magic to make this experience all the more intriguing. He noticed that, often, even in a state like this, that they used their ability to manipulate nature to everyone's benefit, when they weren't in a sour mood. Vergil almost felt wrong to salivate in the wake of his first orgasm ; to so greedily await what he knew was to feel like reaching Eden. That Djahima could even produce such an interesting-looking tongue was a miracle. His thoughts instantly turned to imaging what it would feel like wrapped around his —                            Father Alive —                           Like a moth to a flame, his second undoing unraveled, as unfortunate as it were, before Djahima's eyes — the unyielding, twitching throb of his length in their palm, the slight buck of his hips forward, the lull of his head backward to hide the way his eyes rolled back in his head. Were it really so easy ? For Vergil, the answer seemed to be a resounding and enthusiastic yes.                          ❛ A — And this is . . . just your . . . hand ? ❜ He asked as if such a thing were an impossibility. Yet still, nothing erupted from him but that steady throb ; it lasted little over thirty seconds before settling within their grasp. Only a few clear, slick beads dripped down their thumb in response. Perhaps Djahima might have known . . . or perhaps they thought he was merely so touch-starved that this was riling him almost to completion. He prayed it was the latter. 

ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴇᴀꜱʏ.

With how fervently he yearned for them, their touch, they were sure that he was already near the brink. Djahima would typically hold back and tease a bit more subtly to move him along at a slower pace. However, given the resilient nature of his demonic lineage coupled with their own growing curiosity, Vergil was in luck: they deemed it appropriate to move along from simple teasing to actual foreplay.

Yet before they could give him what he so desperately wanted, Vergil's excitement got the better of him. They gave him a look of mild disbelief as he took hold of their wrist. Instead of giving him what he wanted as they had intended, they now twisted their hand in his grip so that theirs was the one holding his, jerking it away from them before reaching up to grab his chin with the other. Letting the nails from their thumb and index finger dig into his cheeks, Djahima pulled him in while they themself leaned up, positioning him so that his face was perhaps an inch or two away from theirs.

"Before you said 'please', I started to think you was givin' me an order." Their eyes narrowed ever so slightly at him, windows to a world frozen in a pale lavender dusk—a color most bizarre in a way that was simultaneously pretty and repugnant. Then they shook their head as if what they just suggested was ridiculous. "No...that can't be right. After all, you did say 'please', did you not?"

Before he could react any further, they led his face even closer to theirs. Then, with just a taste of the passion that Vergil was missing from the last shared kiss, Djahima captured his lips with theirs. The kiss was almost serpentine in nature as they leveraged plump, deep brown lips to push his further apart, twisting their mouth over his and pulling him in deeper.

They allowed the kiss to persist until the very moment he became completely invested, then pulled back while nipping at his bottom lip. "Be good for me. And I will be very good to you. Understand?" They relinquished their hold on his face and wrist, settling back down on the edge of the bed. "Now, where was I..." They swiped their tongue over the palm of their hand once more. Only this time, when they went to lubricate their fingers some more, golden calligraphy-like runic symbols alighted on their handsome face to herald a mucilaginous torch-lily tongue that stretched out of their mouth and twisted obscenely around their digits. Finally satisfied with the results, Djahima ever-so-gently let their fingers curl around his shaft with the pad of their thumb slowly caressing the head in tight circles around his opening.

[jetblackknight]

// little late but HAPPY REBIRTHDAY VERGIL !!!! Todays the day Dante wakes up from his month long nap and decides he's gonna kick urizen's ass into oblivion, but underestimates V!!!

[jetblackknight]

⚔ ────▪ ❛ 𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈 . . . 𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴 . ❜ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ And that much was the truth — Vergil had read much of deities in his life, books from centuries ago, modern, any he could get his hands on to learn of his father. The name had appeared in many of them, but he could not recall where she originated from. Still, his memory had to have known more than he did, to bring it up, didn't it ? Djahima's question sounded more like an accusation than a curiosity, now that he thought of it. The deity must have been important to them, in some way. 

                         ❛ Goddess of . . . truth, among others, I—I believe, y-yes ? ❜ He peered at the being beyond him, and their indiscernable gender ; perhaps it was wrong of him to liken them to a woman. Or perhaps not. Such was difficult to tell, in these times, though not without lack of trying. And Vergil was trying, at the least. If it came up in conversation, it came up. If not, then he would follow suit to whatever the being in front of him decided. ❛ And the Earth. ❜                           Vergil gestured to the scenery around the two of them ; a cottage in the middle of a healing forest, no longer a wild jungle influenced by demonic energy. To them, a being who could become the weather, make creatures out of the Earth, control greenery and . . . well, it wasn't a far leap to assume they had the power to control other aspects of the Earth, no ?                           Unfortunately for him, he had forgotten one of the other things she presided over: peace. And Djahima's powers showed him anything but peace. He sipped at his tea, again, his fingers shaking far less than they had been before. He wagered another look at the being in front of him, flitting little glances that weren't so much suspicious now as they were curious. People-watching had become one of his favorite pasttimes as of recent — relearning what it was to be human. Learning the faces of them, their expressions, their motivations, their relaxations. 

                          They think you're flirting.                           Thoughts from a much more perceptive being of his own, pushing the just-recent memory forward. Beginnin' to think you sweet on me. That was not what they had said, but it was how Vergil seemed to remember it, a game of telephone that had to go through three people before himself. His cheeks flushed, then, though he couldn't quite understand why ; he wasn't sweet on them ( yet ). He barely knew them ( yet ). He wanted nothing to do with them ( liar ).                           ❛ I . . . remember very little else . . .  M-Many days spent r-reading. Not, not all of it stuck. ❜ He tripped over his words a little more, taken aback by the very thought, even if it were spoken in such a teasing tone. Djahima's shifting mood was, among everything else, quite interesting. He made a quiet note of it, filed away in a manilla folder slowly growing thicker with each thing he learned of them.

"ʏᴇᴀʜ, ᴍʏ ᴘᴏᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴄʟᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴡɪɴꜱ." So said Nero, Djahima's newfound friend on this strange island. "Heh...they're nothing alike, though. They almost look nothing alike too, the way they dress and all. Except that one time when it was raining—dad's hair got wet, so you could tell they were really twins."

They knew the moment they saw him that he was Nero's father and Dante's twin brother. Very few individuals had hair as colorless as downy feathers with a complexion to match. Had he kept completely still with his hand securely gripping the hilt of his katana, they might've mistaken him for a clothed marble sculpture like those of ancient Greece. He certainly had the chiseled looks of one, but that went for all three of those boys. Of course, this "Vergil" seemed much more proper than the other two. But a dressed-up goathead was still a goathead.

Still, all was calm now—at least for Djahima. Vergil still seemed tense after everything that transpired, but they could do little to change that other than what they were already doing now. They were used to being feared, either accidentally or purposely, as was by design both by themself and their mysterious circumstance. In fact, they might even go so far as to say that they very much preferred to be feared than anything else. It kept any potential adversaries in line. This apparently held true even for half-human beings.

In repeating their words, it seemed to Djahima that Vergil was trying to reach some sort of understanding with them, or perhaps less them and more their very words. Just how worldly was this young man? They began to think that he was little more than a fledgling flitting around his nest until he mentioned the names of deities from several continents. And compared these gods to them.

"You think me a god?" They arched a brow at his comparisons, though not without an amused half-grin. "If I ain't know better, I'd say you was going sweet on me, yeah?" They gave a lighthearted chuckle, though as the prodigal son of Sparda began to explain himself and offered his apology, Djahima waved their hand dismissively. "You are safe. Apology accepted. Now," they took another quick sip from their cup. "Tell me: what do you know of Asase Afua?"

[jetblackknight]

⚔ ────▪ ❛ 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙸 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴 𝙰𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚉𝙴, 𝙽𝙴𝚁𝙾 . ❜ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ It's such a small statement, a throwaway in the wake of his son baring any feelings with him. He knows the weight of Nero's statement ; understands the implications and empathizes with it and him. He was quick to anger and alone once, too — and to think of everything lost in the wake of his choices was like being chained to the bottom of the sea . . . again. Vergil tries not to dwell on the statement too much, standing, holding out a hand to his son to help him up. 

                         ❛ But yes, we should go. Cake . . . And then whatever lies beyond. ❜ His wording is deliberate — an offer to extend what they have now, to remain in the company of one another for a little longer than the time it takes to bake pastries. To be let in. He only hopes the offer is not too subtle to go unnoticed, and is taken kindly. and even if it wasn't . . . Nero always knew that he was welcome at Devil May Cry. Vergil is certain that his younger twin would have made that well and clear several times over, now. The fact that he was now here, too, did not change that.                            He allows Nero the moment needed to prepare, and kicks off once he is, transforming in the air — taking to the skies is as easy as moving his wings to the breeze . . . but that doesn't change the route. Instead of heading for the sea, to fly over and back to the mainland, Vergil makes the decision to take the ferry, anyway. And in good time ; he touches down just as the second-to-last horn sounds, and quickly pays for both of their tickets ( not that Nero would have needed a ticket . . . he was certain the boy had free use of any service in Fortuna for as long as he lived, for the good that he has done for the island ). Still, it only feels right.                           ❛ You don't mind, do you ? ❜ His voice is . . . normal, even, but his eyes tell a different story. He had forgotten his lack of the Yamato, again. In the moment, so proud of Nero for trying to fly, and successfully flying some distance, it had been put out of his mind. His apprehension is as clear as the distant look in his eyes. A side of Vergil that Nero does not get to see often .❛ I'd forgotten how . . . long the flight from here to Red Grave can be. It would do no good to have you crash into the ocean. ❜                           But his explanation sounds more like a concealed excuse, and a poor one at that. With a tightly locked jaw, he gestures politely, offering for Nero to go first just as the final horn sounds — only a few minutes to board, now. People around them, some lucky tourists, a few residents, and some others, are walking towards the small vessel, luggage and groceries and whatever else in their hands. But Vergil, curiously, does not seem to step on it just yet.

Frankly, Nero decides, he doesn't want to know anything about shittin' out an egg or anything even remotely similar. The more he learns about his mutated and mixed nature, the more he actually finds he doesn't want to know it. As always, the youth would prefer to reach those things naturally and not think about it or cross the bridge, so to speak, until he was physically stood at its footing. A problem for another day; a day he'd absolutely hate, that's for sure but--- it wasn't that day.

Nero's thoughts deviate quickly, however - briefly chuckling to himself at the mention of his first meeting with his dearest Uncle Dante - - not that he'd know that at the time. In fact, he'd known very little at all other than the sudden murder of the Holy Priest, the panic, Nero's own instinct to try and eliminate the threat. Looking back... it made him smile.

"He dropped through the stained glass cupola above and shot the Holy Priest square in the head. It was in the middle of a service too - - panicked people running everywhere. So I did my job and tried to take him down... ended up having a spat, basically destroyed the inside of the church, and I almost bested him at one point. Pinned him to the stature by his own sword through his chest, thought that was the end of it... But yeah; my initial response to get him away from people was to run at him and take both of my boots square to his face." Good memories, to an extent - - but remembering Credo being there... how he'd helped the people out... it hurt him. Not being there fast enough later on in their endeavours was Nero's greatest failure, and Credo's death yet haunted him terribly.

"For the most part, y' ain't missed much." Growing up he had been a quiet and uncertain child who had preferred his own company and that of books about the stars - but as he grew older and more agitated with the world, he grew angry and rebellious. His time in the Order of the Sword was likely the most structure he had ever had, and even then he was a typhoon of Chaos at best. Nowadays... he was far more stable in his actions, had calmed a lot - - but it seemed the disasters continued, regardless.

Even as he speaks, he reaches out to accept a few of the candies, beginning to feel better for consuming them while eyes fixate briefly on the distance. It's weird... thinking back - -how comfortable he had felt confiding in V while they'd gone about their business, only to find himself speaking to the more complete version and feeling... strange. Perhaps it was the reality of it, the full weight that made the youth feel that... strange way. He'd always surrounded himself with found family, but now he had discovered to living relatives...

"Don't think we'd have gotten along when I was younger, anyways--- I was way too quick to anger and hated being around anyone so - - - could say you dodged a bullet, really." Even he knew, looking back, that he'd been a nightmare and if it wasn't for Dante's intervention Nero's life could have really taken a darker turn after the whole Sanctus thing in Fortuna.

As for apparently looking pallid - Nero shoots a glance at company and then looks away, humming in idle thought. He was feeling utterly drained that was for sure, but generally feeling better by the moment. Perhaps it was the reflecting upon certain memories that had made him appear somewhat sickly, given their traumatising nature, but he idly nods regardless.

"I guess I always just--" His sentence comes to a rather screeching halt as he contemplates whether he even wants to talk about it - old traits of burdening everything by himself beginning to rise once more. Things seen, things acted within, things that had happened... they were his to bare, burdens forever on his shoulders. "--end up feeling like absolute shite when thinking about what got lost on the way." Vague, certainly, but they offered enough.

"But yeah- lets get moving, either way."

[jetblackknight]

reblog if you are firmly against the use of AI in roleplay spaces. this is not the place for AI-written drivel or generated images.

[jetblackknight]

Send my character messages that you think will strike a nerve.

Whether the reaction be anger or sadness.

[jetblackknight]

⚔ ────▪ ❛ 𝚂𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝚁𝚄𝙴, 𝙸 𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙿𝙾𝚂𝙴 . ❜ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ And it isn't as if Nian isn't correct ; he would have continued his voluntary isolation had it not been for their chance meeting, and his decision not to attack on sight. He was learning, however slow it was. Committing the idea of giving others a chance before growing guarded and distant. It was a difficult, enduring lesson to internalize. And here Vergil was, successful. He was drinking, with someone he could call a friend — even sharing things that he usually wouldn't. It wasn't exactly baring his heart, but he was . . . doing it. And it felt like enough.

                         ❛ If this is exposure therapy, then . . . it is far less . . . daunting than previously imagined. ❜ And it was the truth — this was going swimmingly, compared to previous attempts ( attempts that, perhaps, he would tell Nian about in time. For now, he did not feel like being laughed at any more than they already were ; but that was just the alcohol settling in as he swished it around in his own glass and took a sip ). The alcohol burned, less so than the Everclear ( thank Sparda ), but still enough to register in his throat. He did not make as awful a face, though. ❛ You've been quite the interesting companion thus far, tonight. My brother and I do not often make friends with those of fully-demonic heritage, if that is what you are. ❜                           He shrugs, taking another sip ; and despite being a novice with drinking, the glass looks as if it belongs in his hand, the way he so casually holds onto it and sips from it. He doesn't quite set it on the coffee table when he lowers it, but rather uses his own gloved hand as a coaster, the other still wrapped around the glass. ❛ I would tell you to consider yourself lucky . . . but that seems tasteless and cruel. And — And the truth is, that simply isn't the case, here. ❜                           Vergil turns his head away from Nian, instead staring at the Empusa on the wall, taxidermied and displayed like fine art ( and such was the depth of his twin brother's expertise in decor. Vergil thought the thing was rather tacky, next to the old bar and the giant neon sign above it, reading Devil May Cry just as the one outside. Then again, this was a man who had scantily-clad women laid out all over the walls, too ).                           ❛ I . . . had no intention of fighting you, in truth. That, That must come as a surprise, but it is true. I'm so tired of fighting. ❜                           His last sentence trailed off into a whisper ; his eyes a little glassy, though they were fully open and staring at the back of the bar, now, past the shelves and the bottles of alcohol into the tarnished mirror behind them. It was strange, to see the words leave his own mouth. He had never felt the desire to fight less than he had meeting Nian, despite everything that would have told her otherwise. And it was a strange sensation to feel himself.

          𝒕𝒉𝒆   𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒓   𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉   𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓   𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒕   𝒊𝒔𝒏’𝒕   𝒔𝒐   𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒅𝒚   it tricks their lightened feet,   nor do they lose footing to any dusty corner of the rug or imperfectly waxed wooden board.   so,   when the darkness in the room fizzles out,   nian is firmly planted against the jukebox they’ve found to much awe and wonder,   both hands poorly serving as visors to where the records are kept,   all but fogging up the glass surface with insistent breath.   they turn to see,   without the need for squinting or putting the eyes to great work,   vergil disappear into a doorway,   whose cleft in the wall they’d only vaguely registered. 

          when the no longer dead quiet,   no longer pitch black devil may cry shows its semblance,   it’s so unlike vergil,   yellow lights and pub games   ⸻   as he’d mentioned,   the head of business would be his brother.   yet,   other than a lack of dwellers right then,   the air of solitude is there,   tacitly,   bleeding from things in piles.

           ‘   thanks,   i guess?   been called worse,   i gotta say,   ’   and they do, absentmindedly.   the flipside used to be theirs,   once,   in isolation and supposed content until their stomach and a nagging itch would beg otherwise.   thus the mantle of bother would come to be proudly claimed;   easily traded for an honest,   volunteered drink.

          the background clinking and fussing becomes a background set of directions,   which nian needs to steer their attention to catch   ⸻   of them,   only half successfully,   with much interest remaining on their personal grounds for exploration   ⸻   and their eyes fall on vergil as he reappears,   and takes a seat.   vodka,   old news versus the everclear,   but certainly a more gentle poison for a half-drunk to nurse,   endearingly so with a couple of ice cubes.

          ‘   i think you look pretty well-adjusted,   all things considered.   gettin’ out of the house is a start   ’    nian elects the arm out of all the space to occupy on the loveseat,   then reaches for a glass of vodka to claim.   ‘   the two of us wouldn’t be here having this nice lil’ chat if you hadn’t,   yeah?   ’

          nian takes a giggle from their own words,   then a swig from the drink.   it doesn’t taste freshly-opened-crisp;   they aren’t picky or sober enough to tally shelf life years,   only to guess that in however many they may be,   this bottle isn’t one that’s been shared often.

          ‘   but then,   what,   do demons make for better company?   ’   nian does protest,   if that’s the case.   shrugging,   they continue.   ‘   i kinda get it,   though.   it’s not easy to know what to expect outta people   ⸻   what they expect outta you.   feels like they set themselves up for bullshit a lot,   honestly.   ’   one more swig,   and a glance at him,   however gone is the thought of gauging for a reaction.   ‘   me,   i think that’s pretty funny.   maybe you're just due for some exposure therapy.   ’

[jetblackknight]

I'm missing two replies because I can't focus right now, so those will get done on Saturday, but I got most of them done tonight and they'll post over tonight and tomorrow ( hopefully )

( this also isn't singling out any replies as more important than others ; I reply in order of oldest to newest and sometimes my brain just goes BLLPHTT before I can finish all of them !! It's no one's fault )

[jetblackknight]

March 28, 1913 Letters to Felice by Franz Kafka First published : 1973

[jetblackknight]

⚔ ────▪ ❛ 𝙳𝚄𝙲𝙺𝚆𝙴𝙴𝙳 . ❜ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ He repeats the word dumbly, disoriented but stoic in expression ; it will do no good to be vulnerable now. He cannot remember if the woman beside him is friend or foe, and neither of his halves wish to say much more than what they have already. Vergil sits up, slowly, a body full of burning, aching pain. But it is dulling, somewhat — much like his migraines, as of late.

                         ❛ The Qliphoth . . . ❜ It comes back to him, slowly. The ambush — his slow reaction time ( no doubt due to the fact that he had been, for the first time in years, enjoying a chocolate-filled croissant, freshly baked from a little cafe down the street from Devil May Cry ). The Holy Water, its fiery pain piercing through his thigh, attempting to root him in place so he could not teleport away. That poor croissant . . . crushed into the cobblestone street during the battle.                            His expression briefly turns to irritation, before defeat. Sitting up is a chore ( his legs feels wooden, so stiff and unmoving ), but he manages, waving the woman away before she can help. He has done enough to her dress and her skin already, drenching it in the brimstone-scented crimson of his life. He blinks away pain as much as he can and turns to face her, really face her.                           Tania. The name echoes through his thoughts again, though not in his own voice. The cadence is softer, dulcet, mischevious. He did not meet this woman as himself.                          ❛ Y—Yes, ❜ Vergil murmurs, nodding once, ❛ The Incident. I . . . Remember. ❜                           A half-truth, but one she will most likely believe. She must have seen hundreds of people in that month ; his face would have become a blur like the rest. She would believe him. A mistake he had, and would always continue, to make — underestimating Tania's perception. He had no idea that she already suspected something, her face serious, but serene. As if seeing an old friend. And she would be correct, in a way.                          ❛ How did I . . . get here ? ❜                           Her stature left little room to carry him — her perceived strength even more. Yet Tania was the only one here, besides himself. Vergil's eyes wandered to her space, trying to recall if he had ever been here as someone else. If he had, he was not " allowed " to remember. A throbbing sensation in his temples began, causing him to reach for his right, though there was no wound there. No, those had already healed, as superficial as most of them were. The rest were slowly beginning to heal, too, now, with the duckweed in his thigh doing what it needed to do. His eyes wandered there, instead, watching it pulse with life ; a snake in reverse.

She was taken aback when she heard him mutter under his breath. "Little Butterfly.." The name sent shivers down her spine. She could not remember the last time anyone had called her that except....... But he had disappeared, a topic she could never quite breach with Nero whenever she spoke with him. Titania didn't have enough time to react and pull away, her eyes widen in shock as his eyes suddenly fly open and she's once again reminded of a certain poet.

Lavender... How strange to think they were just as beautiful as his eyes when she was certain there couldn't be any more beautiful. When his head lays back she pulls back, only to find herself reeling when she hears her name leave his lips. The Fae does her best to shake off the feeling but she can't forget the way it made her heart twist.

Just who are you?

"T-that's me, you gave the people at the clinic quite the scare you know. I worked there temporarily as a volunteer during the Qlipoth Tree incident. I take it you knew me from that time?" It was the only explanation that would make sense to the nurse. Who else would come to a place she didn't work at unless they didn't know she stopped working there? "After the tree was destroyed I ended up starting my own clinic. It's not necessarily above board so I can't take payment, but I do specialize in care of devil hunters and demons. So you're in good hands." There was no certainty that he was lucid in this moment, with how his speech cut off repeatedly it was very likely he wasn't fully in his mind at the moment. But she found talking with her patients when they're under duress or extreme pain helped them distract their mind even if it was only a little. Just enough to get them through the worst of it.

She pulls away from him for a moment to set aside her glasses, they would only get away at this point. Her arms and skirt were stained in his blood but she didn't reveal any sense of fear on her face. She was calm and focused, her sole priority in this very moment was this beautiful man who lied on her bed who sought her out for help.

"I've got you." She speaks in a voice calm yet firm, like an anchor in a raging storm keeping him from being washed away in the sea of pain and paranoia. "I'm already working on getting the Holy Water out of your blood stream." Once she was certain he wasn't going to try and leap out of her couch in hysteria she resumed cleaning the blood from his face with the wet cloth. Easily her free hand slipped in to grasp his own, a physical anchor for him to help him through the pain. "Just focus on me ok? It will be a little while longer until the duckweed's absorbed the holy water from your blood stream. So please bear with the pain a little longer."

The Fae couldn't understand why her heart reacted to the way he rasped out her name. It was like she was listening to a pray that was only meant for her ears. None of what he said made sense to her, her mind whirling to try and comprehend the strained affection in his voice, the fogged yearning in his eyes, how it made her heart race and her stomach twist. How could her body react in such a way to a man she's never met before? How is it that he felt so familiar yet so foreign at the same time. She wanted to ask him, demand an explanation

"Do you think you can sit up for me?" She asks once she's certain she's gotten most of the blood cleaned from his face. Once he's able to walk he'll need a shower though, and a new pair of pants. "This," She holds out the small bottle full of strange green liquid as it swirls inside. Her other hand still remained entwined with his as she pops open the bottle with her thumb. "Will help with the healing process." The familiar scent of green orbs wafts from the bottle along with an unknown sweet scent that was akin to syrup.

[jetblackknight]

𝔰𝔮𝔲𝔞𝔡𝔯𝔞 𝔨𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔬𝔪𝔞 𝔡𝔦 𝔙𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔬𝔩𝔞 ℑ𝔛

𝕍𝔸ℝ𝕀𝔸

[jetblackknight]

fyi i do not “crush” i experience violent, all-consuming devotion and yearning that leaves me physically ill