BURN THE WITCH.

hélène laughs, high and light, a hand vaguely covering her mouth — some imitation of a playground bully, that childlike cruelty that she and ismahan shared in so readily. she pouts in faux sympathy as her brother storms off, but her hip presses itself against ismahan's — a point of connection, of comfort.

the methods they employed were so often simple, petty, hélène taking joy in the tricks her beloved was able to play with the greatest of ease, but the depth behind it remained. despite their simplicity, such tricks allowed her a power over her brother that she had not held before. long at the mercy of his selfishness, his whims, his need to take and take without regard — ismahan had swiftly put an end to that cycle with the mere wave of her hand, the simple fact of her presence beside her.

SOME DAY YOU WILL ACHE LIKE I ACHE ...

happy birthday to my beloved jannah! everyone is legally obligated to follow my best friend on her gorgeous original character, @bewitcheds, and her amazingly written dante, @devilsparda. though i would genuinely be surprised if anyone who followed me didn't already follow them because i don't even go here anymore and i'm pretty sure every follower i've gotten since i came back has been due to them promoting me. my sappy rant about how much i love jannah will continue after this post break.

[ LIKED FOR A LYRIC STARTER. ] Anders has a way of making himself at home in @bewitcheds presence, perhaps to her chagrin. Ankle crossed over his knee, leaning back, the only restraint that keeps him from outright tormenting Ismahan beyond the irritant nature of his body language is the fact that despite certain polarities of their behavior they remain so painfully alike — antithetical to the modern processes of falsehood and decorum, bordering a pair of ancient curmudgeons. He can respect that. What clings remnant to the edges of Ismahan is as old and familiar as Anderson himself.

SHE CASTS HER GAZE UPON HIM like a judgement extracted from the dregs of a diviner’s bowl. there is, in the cadence of his stride, something too known that coils beneath her skin like smoke beneath stone, setting alight the ancient sigils singed into her nerves. he does not move wrongly, nor rightly, only familiarly with the indifference of a godless cherub, molting wings in dust-laden sunlight, & that is the truest offence. he reclines into her space with that same old pococurante sprawl, & it is not the posture itself but the memory it disinters that sets her teeth on edge, like a buried hex come back to gnaw its way through dirt.

she straightens slightly ( instinctively ) as anderson extends his hand towards jinx, the motion needling at her composure like an itch beneath silk. yet jinx, blessedly inscrutable to strangers, lets the gesture wither in the air, denying it the dignity of reception. the tension unspools & pride swells in the cavity of her chest. finally, you good-for-nothing creature.

                    ❛    You actually believe that I would come begging for your assistance in things ?    ❜        𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬 ,  𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐛𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧        before arms fold over chest ,   the Yamato lightly tapping against the Devil's shoulder as a scowl begins to settle over features .   By this point it isn't even so much annoyance towards her reaction but rather an expectation to be met with ire from @bewitcheds .   Encounters prior led to brief alliances  (  much to the dismay of the both of them  ) ,   yet even the moments of silence seemed to continuously detonate something in her that led to biting words met with ones of biting winter .  

❛ I DON'T HAVE TO, CONSIDERING IT'S what you actually did last time, ❜ she seethes, words barbed & half-fermented: even as she spits them out, she realises that she has never known vergil — a demon whose pride is as tall & indomitable as her own — to beg, they have never deigned to lower themselves to the act of supplication, perpetually constructing their exchanges as though an infinite array of contingencies might be at their disposal, should she reject them, their provocations always achieving the intended result.

in that caustic swell of her indignation, an ever-present spectre haunts the recesses of her mind; it always does when engaging with vergil in these ceaseless diatribes: why does she even entertain these fleeting coalitions?

their head thrums. it brings a dizziness they can never quite swallow, the flashing in front of their eyes like an old screen, dented and flickering. the rhythm of their pulse in their ears feels like waves of static washing over them, so loud they can barely hear their own thoughts. not that their thoughts are often just their own, lately. v hasn't known silence in so long. the persistent ringing in their ears, at least, is growing slowly weaker. their hands, wrapped around the pistol like a lifeline, are still trembling.

"wh— dunno, i ..." they squint against the flourescent light, against the sharp pain in their temple, and not even the god damn expensive kiroshi optics can fix the way everything vibrates slightly. even ismahan, whom they now eye with renewed suspicion. confusion. v's raspy voice struggles to start, breaking even as she pushes through it. it jumps in her throat, tripping over itself, while she desperately clings to composure til her knuckles turn white.

"how the fuck am i s'posed to know how you did that?! fuckin'... magic or something."

❛ you heard? you're talking to people about me? it's either that, or you're listening to other people talk about me. regardless — i am not struggling. ❜ he's narumi gen and he's never struggled with anything in his life, having always been a natural born genius and prodigy at everything. a finger is pointed right in her face, because he can't have any misunderstanding start to spread around.