NINE-SHOOTER.

A quick-access to my very important rules and about pages, plus some tags that are important to my rendition of this kitsune.

DISCLAIMER: ASIDE FROM SELECT INTERACTIONS WITH OKAMI MUSES AND SOMETIMES IT MAY NOT EVEN BE THE EXCEPTION, MY FANDOMLESS/ADAPTIVE PORTRAYAL CAN PROVE TO BE VASTLY DIFFERENT FROM THE IMPRESSION THE ORIGINAL NINETAILS GAVE IN THEIR CHAPTER. 

BE ADVISED.

THEREFORE, MOST INTERACTIONS AND CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT TENDS TO BE OFF-FANDOM AND NOT OKAMI RELATED, BUT IT IS NOT ALWAYS THE CASE.

This is also known as ... canon-divergent.

RULES

NINE

VERSES

[ Jean’s so fine-tuned to detect anger in others that a lot of the time he sees it when it’s not there, but he can practically feel it radiating off of Nine’s body. It doesn’t scare him, because he knows it’s not directed his way; he hasn’t even told Nine what happened, yet, but they hadn’t needed to know. They haven’t even seen the damage up close, yet, but they hadn’t needed to see. ]

[ Either a choke or a laugh leaves Jean’s throat. ]

S’alright. Don’t have to go avengin’ me. 

[ Voice slightly slurred, but not even close to being incomprehensible. Jean himself doesn’t seem too upset about his circumstances, just doing his best not to think about them; Nine gets a pleased, comforted hum in return for their physical affection. He’s just happy to have been found by one of the two people in this world that he trusts. ]

[ It’s a sad state of affairs when, even with them, he’s reluctant to show his face. ]

[ But he does, and blood trickles down his neck instead of onto his collar, making him shiver. It’s obviously the slash of a blade - or, in this case, the broken end of a bottle, but Jean isn’t letting that on - a deep gash that almost follows his cheekbone from temple to the side of his mouth. ]

Good thing I’ve already got a fucked up face, huh.

       ❛ Yeah, because you’d say the same if it was me, ah? ❜

        A certain sadness blooms within them, nurtured by the delicate graze of a squeeze to Nine’s corrupt heart. The tug of reality, the notion of truth -- uncertain. Would Jean have stopped, or would they have let their anger take the reins before anything else?

        ...Would they have wanted to hang the aggressor from their guts just like they did, or was that vendetta not worth it?

      ❛ We both do; don’t mention it. ❜

        Finally, Nine’s eye, that blue, red and gold iris mixed in a dance for dominance, finds the features they deeply adore. This time, however, it bears company -- something that shouldn’t be there, contrasted easily by the existence of their original eye.

         A cruel, red gaze; a gate to hell, sclera as dark as the night overhead.

     ❛ But every scar has an owner, and to bear them in our skin is a promise, a statement, Jean.

      ... ❜

      It matters little right now, shown so by the way Nine willingly detaches from their own train of thought. Their blood finds their clothes, and the kitsune decides they’ve had enough of seeing them bleed. A surprisingly soft tongue finds its way across their neck, then, to their wounds; cleansing away the liquid and ... somehow easing away any sting or further bleeding.

To myself?

[ He gets to his feet, resilient enough that the help of Nine’s snout makes it easy. As time passes, it becomes apparent that he’s got his face turned away from them both as a mark of trust and shame, and to hide a wound marring the other side of his face; occasionally little blooms of scarlet will appear on the fur of his coat’s collar. ]

[ By now he’s convinced that attackers target his face because they know it’ll hurt him where it counts. It does. He doesn’t want Nine to look at him right now. ]

I probably had it coming. No, I didn’t do it to myself. [ Jean wouldn’t have hurt his own face. He wouldn’t have torn his own shirt, either, for that matter. …Their fur is so soft. He leans the side of his head into it. ] He’d be so upset, Nine…

       Bubbling bile builds in their throat, they feel their anger steel into a hardy mass of hatred and violence within, a single thought rising above the many others that cross their mind.

       Find them, find them, find them.

       ...But then, then ...

  He’d be so upset, Nine…

      Jean’s words decapitate the beast threatening to lunge out within Nine’s chest, that undying thirst for revenge, the same manifested all those years ago; cast out from heaven, crestfallen. Their snout caresses their neck, teeth grazing their ear gently in a subdued whimper, coming to a sit before Jean.

       This time, right now -- it is not the right one.      

      ❛ I could not blame him, I can’t deny that I am. ❜ 

       Their shame is not lost to them, Nine pushes lightly against them. It is different this time, Jean doesn’t feel the ivory of their mask or the softer markings that run down its features. Instead, fur; at the corner of their eye, they may witness it themselves.

     ❛ You’ve got nothing to hide, don’t turn away from me. ❜

     They reassure simply, their snout finding its home underneath their arm, an aid to stand, a promise provided in the physical, and soon, beyond -- though not before scenting the crimson they clad themselves in; it is theirs, to the demon lord’s disappointment, but not dismay. 

      Within, the grace with which they devote their trust is not lost to them, but as things stand, Ninetails encounters a more pressing matter dwelling within their thought, soon manifested by a couple questions; meant to soothe both parties in their regard.

    The court of the divines had decided your punishment, a day you had awaited not with fear, not with nervousness -- no apprehension despite what they were to do to you to this day. Not even as they drag your muzzled self by the scruff, your body idle in the stun of iron shackles, engraved with celestial sigils that made your every move feel like a thousand acts. 

    You can barely keep your eyes open, you feel two hands at the back of your neck; you remember two Guardians had come for you, and you had not resisted; hopeful that they would see that your punishment was unfair, unjust. In that belief, you had allowed them to shackle you and drag you out soon after your legs gave in, your legs dragging across the fine marble ground.

    One of them had taken the liberty of kicking you while you were down, for their pleasure -- the heretic deserved it, after all; too good to be true, too benevolent to BE A CHILD OF GOD. Their boot had shattered the bone in your snout, you felt the warm red escape your nostrils. At least that had been enough to please them, to stop them from hitting you further, although you hear them complain about the trail of crimson you're leaving behind, something about having to mop that later.

     At last, they reach the gates, your limp body in tow. You can see everything, although bright lights hurt your eyes, and you feel as though you've been crushed by Cassiel's hammer.

      Your judgment day was here, and ahead lay your noose. 

[ He doesn’t like being touched when he’s not braced for it, but the claw against his chin doesn’t even make him flinch. Something to do with the way he’s hanging onto Nine’s every word like it’ll be the death of him if he doesn’t; he might not even notice if a gun went off against his ear. ]

I don’t feel broken.  [ A lie. He didn’t, for the longest time, when he really should have. He feels broken now because people tell him he is. ] I don’t know how much love I have for you, though, it’s -

[ He’s got so much love in him, just locked away somewhere deep, because he was afraid of it. Jean re-centres; re-assesses; starts again. ]

- Are you trying to trick me into agreeing to something I’ll regret agreeing to, or are you being honest? You don’t need to. If you want my soul, whatever’s left of it, you can have it. If you want my devotion, I’ll be devoted. I’ll play with you, but I don’t like anyone taking advantage of my  [ limited ]  trust.

      A strange feeling catches at their throat, clinging to their chest like a burden that shackles further thought and action. Familiar words, familiar emotions -- a little fox cradled under the sun, fur caked in blood and the hatred of betrayal. Nine’s fake sight bears into his worried gaze, and they feel themselves harden in resolve.

     ❛ Nobody truly feels broken, sometimes there’s just cracks we perceive as a notion of justification.

            But everything can be mended. ❜

      You are a firm testament to that, Ninetails. They had spoken as such to them, bleeding and choking, the kitsune buries their steel further upon their heart, and the dying angel has lasting dying words, a final lasting impression. Let your love define you, not your hatred, otherwise, you will fail.

      The blade still, hovers as if as uncertain as their owner, they both watch Jean with renewed confidence that somehow finds itself shaken by the truth behind the man before them; empathy.

     ❛ There are no tricks here; only the agreement to providing what the world denied you; what it denied us, unfairly so.

                Your greatness will be my success, and my catharsis, if you will allow me. ❜

        His tail presses close to his small, curled form. Little whimpers barely break past his shut maw. Yet, he still crawls closer to them, and hides his head deep in their fur.

      ❛ Shh, it’s fine, I’m here. ❜

“Ah- hm. Well, that’s a double entendre if I’ve ever heard one.” Or your mind’s just in the gutter, Teddy, how about you try that one on for size? “But as for what I’m going to do about it…”

He smiles, and then kisses Nine on the nose of their mask.

      And in that gesture, Nine finds the kitsune’s head bracing right against his chest, affectionate as they press their forehead to his form.

“Couldn’t have said it any better.” a wicked smirk. Shen knew where his place was in the world. He was well aware he was in fact, the unhinged protangonist of his own story.

    ❛ I think I could’ve, actually.

    With the help of another lord, of course. ❜

    The demon lord speaks, mimicking the grin as well; any goodness within them rotten for the moment as they bear closer.