#and my all time favourite poem!

[zingaplanet]

Here dwell together still two men of note

Who never lived and so can never die:

How very near they seem, yet how remote

That age before the world went all awry.

But still the game's afoot for those with ears

Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:

England is England yet, for all our fears—

Only those things the heart believes are true.

A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane

As night descends upon this fabled street:

A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,

The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.

Here, though the world explode, these two survive,

And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

- 221b, poem by Vincent Starrett

#appreciation post to my ultimate love of arthur conan doyle's works #and my all time favourite poem! #granada holmes #victorian holmes #sherlock holmes #acd #holmes #sherlock #johnlock #holmes and watson #poetry #literature

[orpheuslament]

do yall know about this

#probably one of my favourite poems of all time it makes me insaneeeee #mark doty #words

[chronicowboy]

do u guys know the poem about the butch strip club?

#sami rambles #one of my all time favourite poems but nobody ever knows what i'm talking about when i say it

[girlfictions]

Louise Glück, from A Myth of Devotion

#this is one of my all time favourite poems ever i just adore her work #louise glück #on love #on grief #poetry #words #quotes #typography

[firstfullmoon]

Terrance Hayes, “The Same City”

#I posted the highlighted part before on here but I wanted to post the whole thing because what the hell #I think this has become one of my favourite poems of all time #w #poetry #terrance hayes

[pemguims]

prayer for werewolves

if you are unfamiliar with jared mccann and his story i recommend you check out this very excellent primer by @yamball :)

#jared mccann #seattle kraken #nhl edit #hockey poetry #jared mccann YOU get my favourite poem of all time!! #i had such fun editing these pics...my longest poetry post so far!!!

[teaforthetilllerman]

amorous friendship belle randall \\ interview with exclusiv paul mccartney \\ us against you fredrik backman \\ mikey and nicky elaine may \\ thick as thieves the jam \\ banshees of inisherin martin mcdonagh \\ bookends theme (reprise) simon & garfunkel \\ interview with the guardian paul mccartney

#finally watched the banshees of inisherin so felt like a good time to finish this up and post it #dont normally do #web weaving #but im thinking a lot of thoughts and this is the culmination of them. and amorous friendship is one of my favourite poems ever #paul mccartney #mclennon #technically #mikey and nicky #not tagging the rest too embarrassed #sorry if the dividers look a bit strange but it was hard to read all thrown together

[simmyfrobby]

The Sidney Crosby Noah Kahan video sounds too cruel and now I kinda want you to do it..

not my medium, sorry! but here. have a poem.

— John Darnielle, at the Cat’s Cradle, Carrboro, NC, 2015-04-07 (found here)

#sidney crosby #this is genuinely my favourite hockey picture of all time #I use it ALL THE TIME #everyone say thank u mr Patrick Smith for taking painful pictures #hockey poems #even though its a quote not a poem but #its mr mountain goat #everything he says is basically poetry

[loveofastarvingdog]

AND THEN I CONSIDER THE DELIGHTFUL ANDROGYNY OF THE RODEO — timothy l.l.s.h.

because transsexual desire exists in rural towns just the same as cities, and because we love our roots just as much as our queerness.

may be easier to read if you click on the image :)

my poetry tag list (ask to be added or removed<3): @gracekisses @callcenterkilljoy @icantleave @hauntedpearl @chaosnatural @raytoroinmybackpack @carveredlund @pinknatural @deanwinchestersfloralwallpaper @obsessionofspn @destielgaysex @faithdeans @heartshapedcas @howldean @redwinesupernova @cosmosinfinity23 @impala67-aka-baby @samsrowena @aturnoftheearth @themichaelvan @casbeeminestiel @notreallyaroad @littlebitofdiaz @frogstiel @magdaclaire @babyheller @hellergregoryhouse @saintedcastiel @mayfieldarc @how-the-feathers-have-fallen @cmonprovolone @punishercd @raspberryfemme @patchesofwork @wolfinmyribcage

image description underneath the keep reading

[Image Description: a poem that reads

Well, lookit those lovely chick-a-dees, a-meanderin’ and amblin’ and Ignorin’ the Sun shining mightily in their eyes when they’re unlucky, And soaking tan with a red-underbelly into Their neck and shoulders when Lady Luck loves them once more.

My! What a sight, what a thing to love! These young birds take their fistfuls of cash and wads of green  And scramble their way up dusty-side just to reach glory. Oh heavens, the glory of a soda fountain when you have a sweat-soaked Ten-dollar clutched in all ten fingers, the glory of pointin’ With dirt under your fingernails At the largest size they have displayed, and sayin’ your please and thank you ma’am’s In the softest voice you got ‘cause your mouth is already Waterin’ something awful at the anticipation of the cool, fizzy drink.

Don’t guzzle it now, sweet things! Wait for that blessed relief-giving condensation to Settle along the sides of your plastic cup, little pearls, little water-snails Racing down to plop themselves bodily to The boot-ground dust of the Earth. Let them swell their little round shells and then quick! Gather Them up in one swiping palm, one heaving hand,  And smear that dripping prize across your salt-flecked forehead; Let its rivulets tumble over your brow and into your eyes, and Squint against the salt-sting of foreign tears caught In your thick calf-lashes.

Oh, pretty little darlings, have you tasted it? The sugar and dye, sweet-soft and fizzling in your stained mouths, Headaches already beginning to worm low and aching behind Your squinting eyes. Have you memorized the shuffle-step it takes you to alight on your stadium seat? Look away from the water truck soaking the ring, Tear your eyes from the rainbow rising with the dust,  With the water vapor,  With the murmur of your dozen, dozen voices. Playfight ball-caps versus cowboy hats and add a point for each fancy belt buckle, Count the church-worthy button-ups and remember that Everyone has different places  To worship.

And ah, what fat luck, arriving early enough to pick your seats when The stands are still so empty! Take the chance you have to feast yourselves on watching people stream in; Drink them down, the tired-eyed mothers, forehead-wrinkled fathers, Satiate yourselves on numbering the children wandering listless and over-excited around you, And carefully avoid looking too long at The young people with their soft-slender hands and hand-me-down boots,  Their pink-open mouths, flashing teeth as they talk, sweat, swallow down lemonade. As they speak in voices that don’t lend themselves To being masculine or feminine, too caught up in the fat enjoyment of Being young and  Alive.

You’re starving yourself, dear things, by choking down the desire while you Suck down the saccharine corn-syrup molecules just the same. Go ahead, grow into your own shoulders and make eye contact with warm brown and rosy red, Tilt the brim of your hat and let the actor in you embody it as full confidence and Not half-shame. When you shrug beneath the bleachers all too-long legs and too-hunched back,  Let yourself taste the tart lemonade on their lips and ask them to call you something softer  Than the name your daddy gave you. Let them place broad palm on the goose-flesh of the skin of your ribcage, Let yourself be taller than them and let them treat you porcelain-fragile anyways.

Say it with me now, The thunder above your heads is not Sodom and Gomorrah, it is a thousand feet, A thousand hands, A thousand writhing bodies stomping and hollering for  The best bareback bronco score so far tonight, and no one cares that you are missing. No one cares that you have found your existence In the arms of a sexless young thing just like yourself, surrounded by cigarette butts And a handful of discarded and crushed Bud Lite cans and Dust that just won’t die.

What’s the name of your soul, sweethearts? What do you hide away when you’re where the people can see you? The knees of your lightwash jeans are dirty when you crawl back into the world. The cheers of the crowd have gotten just a little less sharp in your ears. You share a drop of your soda with a puddle of gnats and scream for the Oklahoman rider, And no one looks twice At the shape of your hands and jaw.

When the Sun sets in your eyes tonight, you’re too busy putting Your two fingers to your lips and whistling louder than a trainhorn’s shriek To care that your drink has gone flat and Lukewarm.

��timothy l.l.s.h.

/end description.]

#one of my favourite poems i have ever written. maybe my favourite of all time #this took a few days to write but god... i loved it #poetim #original poetry #poetry #timothy l.l.s.h. #timothy's txts. #image description #trans poetry

[moami]

being in your 20s and 30s is billy joel's "slow down, you crazy child" and “slow down you're doing fine, you can't be everything you want to be before your time” and “though you can see when you're wrong, you know you can't always see when you're right” all of a sudden and curling up around yourself, on the floor where it’s cool and calm, because yes I have to, and yes I am, and there is so much time and we are not running out because we are so so young in this world.

#words #idk just something on my mind when hearing the song #maybe one of my all time favourites #bawled my eyes out first hearing it #moamiswriting #and still sob when it comes on #tears brimming lips quivering #takes one line to make me feel like a child again #billy joel #vienna waits for you #songs #text post #text posts #prose #poetry #poems #poem #writing #original writing #authors on tumblr #youth #20s #advice

[wouldnt-give-a-fig]

A consoling message from Lemony Snicket (an original poem)

Dear Reader, 

If this letter finds itself in your hands I am immensely hopeful that you are the Intended recipient. Correspondence has Been known to be inaccurate before, A word which here means “there are better ways  to deliver sensitive information than by carrier pigeon” (No matter who you are, however,  Please make sure to feed Wilbur some  Sorghum, millet, or even sunflower seeds  Upon receipt of this letter. Those are his favorite.)

As you know (at least if you are who I  Think you are), it is not easy to complete Baticeer training with a full course load, Ask the right questions in the wrong environment, Earn a living while you are spending it, And write essays on an empty stomach.

You might find yourself thinking  That you ought to have known better, That of course ill-fitting glasses come from ill-meaning optometrists, That leaking roofs require attention before monsoon season, That you can only order so many root beers before  The waiter tells you to leave the restaurant, Even if the person you have scheduled to meet three hours ago  Has not yet arrived.

But in a world that is wretched And makes a wretch out of you, There is no greater defiance than to Speak to it kindly. Collect your fearful doubts and doubtful fears Nothing is nobler in a face of tears  Than to keep going.

In all this noise May you find the corner of the library Where it is quiet.

— L.S.

#original poem #lemony snicket is one of my favourite writers and his books were a huge comfort for me growing #wrote this for a poetry assignment and the prompt was to write in another person's voice #twas at a time where i really needed someone to tell me to keep going and so i wrote this letter to myself in his voice as an encouragement #and it kind of helped a lot #so even though it's kind of dumb i wanted to share it here in case it could help someone else too :) #lemony snicket #asoue #atwq #a series of unfortunate events #all the wrong questions #poems #poetry #daniel handler

[catilinas]

Dunt: a poem for a dried up river

Alice Oswald

Very small and damaged and quite dry, a Roman water nymph made of bone tries to summon a river out of limestone

very eroded faded her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down a Roman water nymph made of bone tries to summon a river out of limestone

exhausted        utterly worn down

a Roman water nymph made of bone being the last known speaker of her language she tries to summon a river out of limestone

little distant sound of dry grass        try again

a Roman water nymph made of bone very endangered now in a largely unintelligible monotone she tries to summon a river out of limestone

little distant sound as of dry grass     try again

exquisite bone figurine with upturned urn in her passionate self-esteem she smiles looking sideways she seemingly has no voice but a throat-clearing rustle

as of dry grass                                        try again

she tries leaning pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn little slithering sounds as of a rabbit man in full night-gear, who lies so low in the rickety willowherb that a fox trots out of the woods and over his back and away              try again

she tries leaning pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn little lapping sounds        yes as of dry grass secretly drinking        try again

little lapping sounds    yes as of dry grass secretly drinking        try again

Roman bone figurine year after year in a sealed glass case having lost the hearing of her surroundings she struggles to summon a river out of limestone

little shuffling sound as of approaching slippers

year after year in a sealed glass case a Roman water nymph made of bone she struggles to summon a river out of limestone

little shuffling sound as of a nearly dried-up woman not really moving through the fields having had the gleam taken out of her to the point where she resembles twilight        try again

little shuffling clicking she opens the door of the church little distant sounds of shut-away singing    try again

little whispering fidgeting of a shut-away congregation wondering who to pray to little patter of eyes closing                                    try again

very small and damaged and quite dry a Roman water nymph made of bone she pleads she pleads a river out of limestone

little hobbling tripping of a nearly dried-up river not really moving through the fields, having had the gleam taken out of it to the point where it resembles twilight. little grumbling shivering last-ditch attempt at a river more nettles than water                                        try again

very speechless very broken old woman her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down she tries to summon a river out of limestone

little stoved-in sucked thin low-burning glint of stones rough-sleeping and trembling and clinging to its rights victim of Swindon puddle midden slum of over-greened foot-churn and pats whose crayfish are cheap tool-kits made of the mud stirred up when a stone's lifted

it's a pitiable likeness of clear running struggling to keep up with what's already gone the boat the wheel the sluice gate the two otters larricking along                                     go on

and they say oh they say in the days of better rainfall it would flood through five valleys there'd be cows and milking stools washed over the garden walls and when it froze you could skate for five miles      yes go on

little loose end shorthand unrepresented beautiful disused route to the sea fish path with nearly no fish in

#legally you must read. dunt: a poem for a dried up river by #alice oswald #one of my favourite poems of all time ever it's one that really Does need to be read in full like quotation will not reproduce the effect #of the repetitions!!!!!! #poetry #long post -- #beeps

[newvision]

Wendy Cope, the Orange, from Serious Concerns, published 1993

#this is one of my favourite poems of all time and I’ve been rereading it a thousand times since yesterday #it just makes me so happy I cannot explain it #Wendy cope #the orange #literature #books #poetry #litblr #american lit #american literature #English lit #english literature #dark academia #aesthetic #light academia #academia #dark academia style #dark academia aesthetic

[sneez]

since i started testosterone in february i have been reading a stanza of andrew marvell’s poem ‘the garden’ every month to track the way my voice has changed. today i finished it :-)

#my voice #does it belong in that tag given that i am speaking and not singing. ah well in it goes #andrew marvell #it is exciting to finally be able to post this! given the nature of the project i've been working on it for a while #i can't remember if i was initially intending to post it but i think it's neat so you guys can see it too :-) a questionable gift unto ye #it's one of my favourite ever poems which is why i picked it. partly because it's a cracking poem but also because the garden in #question is very likely fairfax's garden given that marvell wrote it whilst he was living at his house to tutor his daughter :-) #i love the line about melons. i love the idea that fairfax was growing melons. his melonship #also 'the luscious clusters of the vine upon my mouth do crush their wine' is such incredible imagery i think about it all the time #stopping myself now before i start explaining all my favourite parts of the poem because then i would just be reciting the whole poem #sorry the audio quality changes quite a bit by the way i kept changing where i recorded #oh also i skipped a month because my voice hadn't changed at all (between the first and second stanzas i think) which is why the #number of months doesn't quite match up to the number of stanzas #i do wish i had recorded a stanza when i was one month on T given that my voice barely changes in the last few verses. ah well #anyway i hope you enjoy it my dear friends :-) holding you all in my arms #also as usual i have a few messages and things to answer so i will do that soon! i have been enjoying being active again after so long :-) #ive got a song to post soon too. he he ho ho ho. hum hum hum

[polarisbibliotheque]

Invictus (Vergil fighting nightmares and his s/o calming him down)

Pairing: Vergil x Reader

Summary: Calm nights were a rare blessing in your house. When Vergil has memories in the form of terrible nightmares, you are the one to stand by his side to remind him that now, everything is ok.

**TRIGGER WARNING** Vergil's nightmare is very explicit. It's about when he was conscious while being a puppet of Mundus - so we have mental abuse, torture (whipping), blood and humiliation. He also goes through a panic attack and needs his s/o to ground him.

The subjects here are quite heavy and, if you're sensitive to those themes and can't handle some more graphic descriptions, I'd advise not reading it. Like so, reader discretion advised.

Author's notes: Oh well. I always wanted to write on Vergil's past, precisely because we don't know how much this man has suffered to do the things he did. I'm a firm believer he has PTSD and needs a hug - so, if Capcom isn't going to give him one officially, I'll be here to fill this man's life with love and comfort.

Dante too, but today is not about him xD

His knees were buried in the freezing, smooth snow. Vergil wanted to cry, but his body wouldn’t allow it. He wanted to let go of that sword, dripping blood of his enemies, but his hands wouldn’t obey. His dark, crimson bloody fingers wanted to wash his sins away in the whiteness of the snow, but he couldn’t bury them in the frozen floor.

Vergil kept his head bowed, fighting his own body to breathe. But his eyes… His shimmering blood red eyes could still consciously see under the horned helmet.

That wasn’t him. That wasn’t Vergil, the Dark Slayer, Son of Sparda. His body forced him to remain calm, but his mind told him not to. His soul told him to rebel. To break those shackles that kept him trapped in that prison of his own making.

Why…?

That was the question revolving inside the mind of the once great son of Sparda.

Why did all that happen in his life…? Why did his father vanish? Why did his mother die? Why wasn’t him enough to protect her? Why wasn’t him powerful to properly protect himself in that night of fire? Why did he have to live alone, without knowing his twin brother was alive for most of his life? Why was he kicked in the streets like a stray animal by other humans, forced to live on his own at such a young age? Why did he have to tough up as a child to protect himself to survive? Why did people hate him just by looking at him – a helpless, homeless child, searching for food and shelter? Why did demons chase him down like he was the sole survivor of the house of Sparda?

Why was his brother such a fool to insist on making out of Hell with him? They would’ve never made it out together – and Dante would’ve never survived in there. Vergil’s odds were much better. He couldn’t hold that foolish, soft-hearted brother of his back. Dante would’ve died in there – Vergil surely did.

Why did he have to die? To be forced into servitude by his father’s enemies, to have his free will taken away from him. To serve as an enslaved soldier, obeying every order without questioning, but screaming inside his soul – always conscious, but never able to break free... Only to watch the terrible deeds someone else told him to do. Only watching himself sink deeper into failure and humiliation, bowing submissively to the one responsible for his family’s demise.

Why…? Hadn’t he suffered enough…?

Vergil’s very essence was slowly being taken away from him, slowly dying while he watched, unable to change his fate. Unable to move. He wanted to – but he couldn’t. Still kneeling in the snow, Vergil wanted to scream all the frustration out of his lungs – but he had no mouth to do so.

His breath started to gradually raise its rhythm. Vergil didn’t notice at first, until a gush of cold air stung his lungs, immediately flushed out in a hot breath.

“It’s time to come back, Nelo Angelo.”

He heard the voice in his head, another command. His legs wanted to move him up from the snow and walk straight into Mundus’ lair, to report as a humble servant of his; another of his humble knights.

For the first time, his legs dared to disobey Mundus and finally listen to their real Master. With knees freezing cold, Vergil felt his body trembling after a long time without knowing what that was. He forced his fingers to freezingly open, letting go of his sword. Burying the black gloves in the snow, Vergil saw the crimson blood dissolving into the white – never to be seen again.

He fought to raise his hands to his head, as his arms seemed to be held down by weights of pure iron. With fists up, Vergil used all his strength to slowly raise them, trembling from the effort. Under his mask, he bared his teeth, but his body didn’t allow him to make any noise.

One hand glued on one side of the black helmet. The other, soon followed the first, on the other side. They stayed in place as if magnetically attracted, never letting go, but never falling back on the snow again.

Vergil tried to take deep breaths, his lungs stinging from the cold. His throat was dry, coarse. He needed to do it. He wanted to do it.

Grabbing at the sides, Vergil managed to start pulling it out. His hands froze mid-way, refusing to do so – his body fighting his own mind. With every new effort, he moved a few inches up. But he wouldn’t give up. Vergil had suffered too much for one lifetime, but he never gave up. He would drag his dying body to his mother’s grave and die as Vergil, son of Sparda and Eva, brother of Dante – as himself. Not as anyone else.

Not. As. Anyone. Else.

With a last effort, he took the helmet off – being free from his confinements for the first time on his own.

Vergil looked at the snow – so pale, so fluffy, so crystally beautiful, as the one he played with Dante when he was a kid and their parents watched to make sure they wouldn’t get hurt. His eyes didn’t glow red: they were back to his silvery, moonlight tones.

Vergil could breathe.

Tossing the helmet on the floor. He started to cough incessantly. His throat had an ache that seemed to have installed itself there for years. Taking one of his hands to his neck, Vergil coughed blood, spitting it on the snow, another hand on the floor, holding him up.

Staring at his own hand, he realized: it was the first time since he had been encased in that infernal armor, he had control over his own body.

Vergil stared at his hands in awe.

“Nelo Angelo! I gave you an order!”

Once again, his body started to tremble. His veins were on fire, burning from inside out, forcing his body into compliance.

But his soul wasn’t made for compliance. Vergil would never be compliant. He was born to make his own fate and walk his own path, even if it ended with his blood over his mother’s grave. He was Master of himself, and no one else. His essence could never be controlled. And Vergil would die as himself. As his mother’s and father’s son.

“You… Have…” He muttered between his teeth, forcing the words in a raspy tone. His voice hadn’t been used in years, unaccustomed to speaking once again – to be expressed with the fire of the one who commanded it. “No… Power…” As he kept muttering, Vergil forced his body to get up, once again with an effort as if a thousand shackles held him down, to be forever bowed in Hell. As his feet buried in the snow and he pulled himself up, something warm came down his cheeks, contrasting with the harsh, wintery flow. “Over… Me!”

His voice echoed through the mountains and shells of dead trees, reverberating through the corpses of dilacerated demons. Vergil stood, trying to pull his body back to his proud pose, failing due to the lack of energy and trembling legs. He willed his control back to his body, showing a son of Sparda could never die as a mere puppet.

Blood flowed down his face, from his eyes – tears now made of his very own life.

“You have no… Power over me…” Vergil said once more, as if that would remain engraved as a mantra inside his head – as if it had the power to banish the control which made his body obey someone else.

Demons appeared. Angelos. Hell Sentinels. Hell Knights. Mundus sent all of his most powerful brethren to break Vergil once more. He took his sword in his hand again, barely able to stand but never backing down from a fight – specially one that meant his own freedom. If it was for him to die, he would die fighting as himself.

It took time, but he fell once more. Grabbed and shackled with thick, cursed chains, Vergil was dragged by his neck back to Hell – hands tied behind his back, forced to walk like a dog, in a humiliating procession in front of all the other demons. His upper armor was taken off, leaving him vulnerable to all kinds of attacks while his walk of shame proceeded. His chest and back leaked blood, his feet bumping in the horrifying path to Mundus’ lair, his legs trembling, and knees scarred.

Vergil held his head high, forcing the tears of blood to stay back while all his pride was stripped away from him, listening to all the horrible things those demons screamed about his mother, his father, his brother. Hearing the laughs. Being spat, tossed around, stabbed, made a jester to entertain the vilest of creatures in all worlds – helpless, without strength to fight back. Vergil could barely keep himself up, but his head… That was all he had left. A little bit of pride and the memory he was son of the mightiest demon to the day – and of the most loving human in the world, even if she had abandoned him to save his brother on that fateful night.

“Vergil… Son of that traitor Sparda. It seems like you need to be taught a lesson once again.” Mundus’ voice reverberated on the floors of Hell, the cackling laughs of the demons nearby creating a music of horror. Vergil was forced to stop in front of him, still held by his neck with a chain, like an animal.

“You will never break me.” Vergil raised his head even higher, keeping his nose as high as he could, silvery eyes burning like fire. A fine vein of blood slowly dripped from one of his eyes.

“Oh, I will. You will vanish, the bloodline of Sparda will perish. You will remain Nelo Angelo and die when I tell you too – Vergil will never exist again after I’m done with you.”

“I will die as myself.” Vergil took a deep breath, his lungs trembling as he expired. “The son of Sparda and Eva. Brother of Dante. Vergil, the Dark Slayer.”

Mundus’ didn’t answer to Vergil’s boldness. The demons that had him on a leash forced the man to kneel in front of the king of Hell, holding his arms outstretched by the sides of his body. Vergil tried to fight the chains, but they only made them tighter, forcing more blood out of his veins. The demon who held his leash pulled him forward as two other demons appeared with whips.

“Your resolve will break by pain, spawn of Sparda and that whore Eva.” Mundus’ voice jested, making the other demons cackle again. Vergil gritted his teeth, enduring the humiliation – the whips and chains might hurt his body, but the words… Those scarred his pride, his soul. His very essence. “You will son be crowned again… Nelo Angelo.”

As the first whip cracked, Vergil didn’t make a sound – holding his will to grunt. His silvery eyes kept taunting Mundus’, making him know that wasn’t enough – he would have to do much worse to break him. Vergil had suffered and tasted so many kinds of pain before, it would take much more than a couple of whips.

And Mundus would continue until those eyes stopped defying him – something Vergil didn’t do even when he started grunting from the pain.

Those demons never thought they would see Vergil, the great son of Sparda, lying barely conscious on the floor, mumbling for his mother to hold him.

*

“Vergil…? Vergil…! Wake up, love...!” Your voice seemed like a faint memory to his ears.

But his voice was loud and clear to you. He tossed around under the sheets, screaming as if all demons in Hell were chasing him at once. You never heard him so terrified – only when he had one of his nightmares. Only when his mind took him back to the days he was so abused he couldn’t even call himself ‘Vergil’ anymore.

You had to snap him out of it – but it was dangerous. Vergil turned aggressive: his self-protective instincts triggering and his very own devil threatening to come out – teeth already sharp, nails turning into claws. He could hurt you badly if you weren’t careful.

“Vergil…! Wake up! You’re safe!” You reached out for him, knowing very well he was hearing you. Vergil turned his head to you, making you sure he was chasing your voice. “It’s ok… You’re safe. I’m here. Open your eyes…”

But he went back to screaming, as if something grabbed him by the neck. Vergil was almost kneeling on the bed at this point – and you tried your best to keep him from reaching out to Yamato.

If he did, well… You’d have to buy a new bedframe. Again.

“Vergil…! Listen to my voice…!” You spoke as gently as you could, being bold enough to approach him. You know he wouldn’t stop until something anchored him back to reality. “Vergil…!”

You placed your warm hand on his face, trying to get him to stop moving. As soon as he felt your touch, Vergil gradually stopped, seeming to follow your movements, your voice.

“You’re safe. You’re with me, love.” You whispered; voice as smooth as silk. Your other hand found the other side of his face, carefully caressing a lock of hair away from his forehead, as he liked to wear it. “You are safe, Vergil. Wake up.”

You noticed as his breathing gradually went back to normal, inspiring profoundly to let go of the air and do it again. Vergil opened his eyes slightly, finding your legs kneeling in front of him on the mattress. His neck and forehead were damp with sweat, your hands warming up his cold skin. His own fingers were trembling, and he could barely feel his legs. His back was on fire, as if the whips had just cracked his skin open for the first time.

“I’m with you… You’re safe, my love. Hear me? You’re safe.�� You kept repeating those words, knowing it was the key to bring him back to the present – ignoring that intrusive memory in the form of a nightmare. Vergil didn’t always tell you about his nightmares, but he did mention they were about the times he was forced to live under the control of Mundus and slowly lose himself, or when he was just a kid trying to survive in a world that despised him – or that dreadful night he and Dante lived so many years ago.

Vergil raised one of his trembling hands to his face, enveloping your fingers with his. Closing his eyes, Vergil took a deep breath, moving your hand to caress his jaw, his nose, his lips. He ran your fingers on his mouth a couple of times – your touch, so different and softer than his, always seemed to ground him once more. As your fingers painted the form of his lips, he became more aware of the moment he was living: the mattress, the Devil May Cry, his room, the cars passing by on the streets, the silence of an ordinary day in a human life, the texture of the sheets against his skin, the weight of his body on the bed… You.

His heart rate decreased slowly as Vergil came back to reality, to his present. He wasn’t in danger. He wasn’t in Hell anymore. No one had power over him. He was free… He was Vergil. Son of Sparda and Eva. Brother of Dante. Father of Nero. The Dark Slayer. Your lover.

He was safe.

“Did I…” Vergil cleared his throat, his voice rasping to leave his chest after all the screaming. “Did I hurt you…?”

“No. You would never.” You whispered back, smiling peacefully at him while caressing his ruffled, distressed white hair. Vergil stared back at you with tired and melancholic eyes.

“Not consciously, my dearest.”

You knew what that phrase implied. Vergil was one of the most powerful human and demon to ever step on earth – challenged only by his brother – but you knew what kinds of fears he hid away in the darkest corners of his soul. It took you a long time as a couple and eons of trust to reveal the most vulnerable parts of yourselves – and Vergil was no exception.

He was half-human, after all. He had his own demons – the ones only he could see and only he could face and kill. Vergil feared losing control again: of his body, of his soul, of his essence. He feared being a puppet. He feared hurting those he loved – after he did all to gain power to protect, even himself, that power could also be used to kill. And, in case that happened once more, only Dante could stop him – by then, the damage would already be done.

“I don’t believe you could hurt me, even unconsciously.” You murmured back, still caressing his face. Vergil longed for your touch, and it grounded him even more, anchoring him back enough so his mind wouldn’t fly away in a flashback – as he was now awake. “You’d know it’s me. And I know your will, it’s as strong as mine. You’d never allow yourself to be controlled without a fight… And you’d never let someone hurt me, even through you.”

“Hmmm…” Vergil pondered your answer, taking another deep breath. Now he noticed how cold it was, as his body gradually relaxed and the drops of sweat found the chilly air of the night. “What makes you so sure…?”

Your answer wasn’t in words at first. Placing your hand over his chest, you felt his heart beating under your palm – a little fast, but definitely slower than when you woke up. Vergil looked at your hand for a few moments, turning his silvery gaze to your own eyes as your touch warmed his chest. You could always melt the ice he thoroughly encased his heart in.

Staring at the path to your soul, he knew. Nevertheless, you decided to put it into words – believing in their power as a little kind of ordinary magic.

“This is the heartbeat of a human.” You whispered, approaching him enough for Vergil to feel your hot breath on his lips. It was soothing, comforting – as if you could envelop him in a much smoother and kinder world than the one he had lived for so long. Your eyes, though, held his gaze. “The line from your heart would find mine, for it isn’t in our bodies… It’s tied to our essence, to our very soul. As your eyes are finding it right now inside mine, you would find it – no matter in what form, state of mind or lifetime… Your heart, your human heart, would find me, and you’d know. You would never hurt me… Consciously or unconsciously.”

It was a rare sight, but you could see it shimmering in the moonlight and running down his face: a single tear trailed slowly on Vergil’s cheek, glimmering like a lonely diamond, and resting on your thigh.

Another rare sight was the one of Vergil closing his eyes and allowing himself to cry in front of you, letting go of his usual proud, strong, and stoic demeanor; opening a side of himself only for your eyes to see. Leaning his head on your hand, Vergil let his eyes cry to his heart’s content.

“And you should know… I will always be here with you. It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll*. I will always walk with you, Vergil, to protect you, cradle you or fight by your side.” Your other hand went up to his hair, feeling as Vergil’s tears increased their flow. Even so, he didn’t make any noise. “I fear nothing when I’m with you because my love for you is greater than whatever worry fate can throw at me. My soul will choose yours in any form, state of mind or lifetime – and whenever those memories come to terrorize you during sleep, you can be certain I will never run away, for I am here to walk through life with you, no matter what.”

Vergil always believed there were words, proses or poems for every situation in life – but, at that moment, he felt draught on his tongue and rain on his eyes. There were no words in any of the languages he knew enough to express the warmness on his chest that swelled and made him breathless from the things you told him – because, as he once might have said, he too wanted to be protected and loved.

Vergil’s head found its place on your shoulder, nuzzling your neck while his arms wrapped around your body. You didn’t even flinch or think before retributing, caressing his messy hair and wide shoulders. His form – always so regal, towering over yours – was now curled around you, trying to find the best way to comfortably feel like nothing in this world could tear you both apart.

Your heart found his inside your chests and beat in unison. In all his troubled and tortured path, Vergil never thought he would find love and protection like he yearned when he was a child – turning to power to feel safe. But now, in your arms, he knew he could never feel entirely safe from his power only.

For when Vergil screamed from the terrors he had lived, you never ran away and always held his hand to walk through the very fires of Hell alongside him. In a way, that reminded him of someone else… Someone who held him in her arms long ago, who walked through fire to save her children and put herself in danger for love.

That was the very last time Vergil felt safe in his life… Until now, in your arms. And if that wasn’t love, then Vergil could argue he didn’t know what was.

*

*Invictus, by William Ernest Henley:

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

#devil may cry #devil may cry fanfiction #dmc #dmc fanfiction #dmc imagines #devil may cry imagines #vergil x reader #vergil imagine #dmc vergil #vergil sparda #vergil x you #devil may cry vergil #Invictus is my favourite poem since a VERY long time ago #it has always helped me to keep strong #and I like to think it has helped Vergil #because let's be honest it seems like HE is the one who wrote it #also sorry for all the graphic pain and suffering #but I dunno we seem to forget Vergil literally went through Hell and is mentally quite broken #not that it excuses his actions but he is... complicated #and I want to give him a little peace he deserves it

[autisticbillpotts]

we talk about Ode To Spot a lot (which is good I love cat poem) but the other poem Data recites in that episode is soooooooo much

Then we sat on the sand for some time and observed how the oceans that cover the world were perturbed by the tides from the orbiting moon overhead "How relaxing the sound of the waves is," you said. I began to expound upon tidal effects when you asked me to stop, looking somewhat perplexed so I did not explain why the sunset turns red and we watched the occurence in silence, instead.

#I recite this to myself all the time dfhgjbnvfmv #you ask me what my favourite poem is and I say Data's untitled 8th poem from TNG episode 'Schisms' #personal #st blogging