#he belongs to the desert snakes

[acoraxia]

this one goes out to the insanity that is me and @ninja-knox-ur-sox-off’s server

#oc: de wenyi #doooooo i tag him #no #bah #he doesnt deserve it #he belongs to the desert snakes #art stuff

[m2ok]

Golden Salvation Pt.2

pt. 1

cowboy!Ghost x m! reader

A/N: There will be one more part to this just to wrap everything up :)

Your pulse thundered in your ears as the stranger loomed closer, hand gripping lethal iron at his hip. Fight or flight instincts kicked into overdrive - this was no ordinary burglary; you could see it etched in every predatory line of his body.  

This man had come for blood, your blood.  

Slowly, you raised your hands in a gesture of peace even as your mind raced. One wrong move and you’d be pushing up daisies come morn. These were the dark shadows Simon lived in, the enemies he’d made through his notorious work. And now they were coming for him...through you.  

.“Don’t want no trouble, mister,” you said, keeping your tone calm and even like you didn't know why this man was here. As if there could be any other reason for someone to break into a home as dingy as your own. “Just a simple bartender is all – barely got a dollar to my name”  

This snake didn't need to know how deep your bond with Simon went, especially since hiding your relationship was the only way you could see to get out of this situation.  

The man cackled at your words, rolling his eyes as the smile dropped and he stalked closer to the bed, aiming the gun at you as he cocked it back with a sickening crack.  

“ Mhm... as if you weren't all nice and cozied up to him not mere hours ago – ya really think im gonna believe you?” He gave you a mocking grin 

 “No no im not stupid sweetheart. Im not here to collect any of his debts from you – I care more about the eight men o’ mine your Ghostie killed. Those boys were my family, he didnt think twice about that though when he shot em’ dead where they stood. Figure I should make him feel the same hurt I do, hm?”  

“You won’t hurt him none-” You tried to reason “His heart don't belong to me, he won’t spare a second glance past this cabin. Hell, He's probably halfway across the desert by now” Your voice was shaky as you spoke, lies seeping through your lips at the risk of your life. You knew what you meant to Simon, no one else was able to get into his space as you did- at least not if they wanted to walk away with their life.  

The man's smirk dropped, new anger burning in his eyes as the grip on his gun tightened, “I saw the way that mongrel looked at you, you’re his boy and that's clearer than any mountain river” he scoffed, finger moving from the side of the gun to rest on the trigger.  

You closed your eyes, praying in your head, but not to any god. No, your prayers were aiming for Simon's rescue, praying that he would somehow know you were in trouble and come rescue you from it. 

Simon sat astride his horse on a dusty ridge, watching the moon rise silver over the desert wastes. A half-smoked cigarette dangled idly from his lips; he’d been nursing the same thoughts over and over since dusk fell heavy as a shroud across the badlands.  

 Thoughts of you.  

Somewhere deep in his gut, an uneasy feeling roiled. Like an invisible string tugging at his soul, trying to tug him back the way he came. Simon growled low in his throat, frustrated with his own foolish longings. You’d made your stance clear – this life wasn’t for you, not truly. And he had no right to ask you to join him.  

And yet... 

A crack suddenly split the still night air. So faint and far that any lesser man may have missed it entirely, but not Simon.  

In an instant he was vaulting onto his horse’s back, boots pounding twin paths in the dirt as they flew towards the distant lights of your little town. Another shot rang out, louder now, and Simon’s blood turned to ice in his veins.  

He knew that sound – deep in his bones he knew something was horribly wrong.  

Choking the reins in a near stranglehold, Simon rode as if all the demons of hell were nipping at his horse’s hooves. Towards you. Towards salvation or damnation, he did not know. But by God, no son of a bitch was gonna harm one hair on your head if he could still help it.  

Help was coming- you just had to hold on.  

The man fired the gun, a sharp sting hitting your side before it blossomed into agonizing pain. You let out a pained cry, one hand instinctively going to land on your wound while the other covered your mouth to muffle your sobs. Your hand was soon coated in dark crimson, entire body shaking with adrenaline as the man cocked the gun once more.  

“Was gonna just end you, but I figured I should make this painful the same way he did. Should fill you with so many bullets he won’t be able to recognize you” he hissed, aiming the gun at your other side.  

Simon was little more than a blur of dust and primal fury as he crashed through the remains of your splintered front door. For a split second, time seemed to freeze – taking in the scene with a single, piercing gaze.  

You,curled onto the bed clutching a bloody wound. And him. That snake. Gun pressed sickeningly against your body as he spewed his venomous threats. With an almost guttural roar, Simon’s Colt leapt into his hand like it was part of his very being. Two blooming shots rang as one; his aim was true as bible scripture.  

The intruder pitched backwards, scarlets blossoms exploding from where his eyes once were. He was dead before he hit the floor.  

But Simon saw none of it. Already he was at your side, tatty serape ripped and pressed desperately against your weeping injury. Brown eyes wild and scared met your own, and for a moment the steely outlaw facade slipped entirely.  

“Darlin’...” he choked, voice thick. “Talk to me, baby. Stay with me now, ya hear?” Working frantically to stem the flood, Simon tangled scarred fingers gently through your hair, anchoring you to this world with his touch alone. 

“That’s it…keep breathin’, just keep breathin’” His voice dissolved into ragged prayers mere ghosts could hear. Help was still minutes away - but for now, you had Ghost. And he’d be damned before he let the reaper take you from him. 

You were sobbing, your brain mangled with confusion and fear as the adrenaline ran out and the full pain of the bullet lodged in your abdomen had you reeling, 

Red painted everything around you, hands, clothes, and sheets underneath you drenched in it. 

“Simon-” you rasped, breathing labored as you looked around with wide eyes at the gruesome scene in front of you. It was too much, you could feel your head going light- brain fuzzy and ears ringing as you fought not to close your eyes. 

“It hurts” you choked, trying to shove his hand away from where he was pressing down on the wound to stop the torrent of blood flowing out. “Simon I cant-” you said, throat raw from the sobs that came out. 

You wanted so badly to stay with him, to be able to wake up tomorrow with him, but you didn’t know if you’d get that with the way you felt your strength leave your body.

“It hurts- it hurts” You were almost begging, for what you didn’t know. You just wanted the pain to go away. 

You were terrified- not ready to die yet, and especially not like this, not when you had so much left to do. The thought alone sent a new set of tears streaming down your face, hand shaking- clutching the bleeding wound on top of Simon’s own to try and ebb the pain that burrowed deep in your skin. 

Simon felt his world crumbling as your agonized crimes tore through him, sharper than any bullet ever could. Seeing you in such anguish ripped open a fissure in his battered heart, letting the demons of his deepest guilt and self-loathing spill forth in a torrent. 

“I know, baby, I know it hurts…” he choked, pressing you close as if trying in vain to absorb your pain into himself. His own broad shoulders shook with ghosts of rage and grief, tears cutting rivulets through the dirt caked on his cheeks. 

Goddamn it all, he should’ve been here. Should have followed his instincts and never left your side. Now it may be too late to hope for forgiveness, your blood staining his hands a brand of failure he could never outrun. 

“Please, darlin’, please hold on…’ Simon begged, voice breaking as he spoke. His bandana was wrung out and useless now - in desperation he moved to cradle you fully, applying trembling pressure with his bare hands and what remained of his coat. 

Distantly he heard the clatter of the approaching horses, but paid them no heed. You were fading, slipping away before his eyes, and all the strength and guns in the world couldn’t stop it. 

“Don’t ye leave me now…I can’t do this world without ya…” A broken whisper, barely audible above the thunder in his ears. Simon pressed his forehead to yours, sharing the same ragged breaths, two souls more tangled than any root or vine. Hanging on a blade’s edge against the dark. 

You stared up into Simon's eyes, eyebrows cinched in pain and eyes soaked with fear. 

“I don’t wanna die, Simon” you whispered, voice shaky as you clung to him - like he alone could save you from this fate. 

You could feel your heartbeat slowing, breathing ragged as you gasped for air that just wouldn’t enter your lungs….

Soon enough the doctor burst into the room, medical kit in hand as he came barreling over to you. He very carefully took you out of Simon’s arm with some convincing, to lay you back on the bed before he opened up his kit. 

He handed you a flask filled with whiskey “You’re gonna want to drink this - it’ll help ease the pain” He said. 

With shaky hands you drank the bottle, a scream ripping from your lungs as the man began to carefully dig into the wound, grabbing hold of the bullet with sterile tweezers before carefully pulling it free. 

With practiced care he cleaned the wound, a harsh whimper leaving your lips at the sting of pain before the wound was stitched up and bandaged. 

You were shaking, sobbing so hard your throat was raw and your lungs burned - the pain was unbearable and a large part of you wished you could just die to get away from it. 

The doctor had you drink another flask, the alcohol numbing the pain receptors in your brain just enough to allow you to fall into a light sleep. 

Simon sat vigil at your bedside through what felt like hours, not letting go of your limp hand once. Your cries of pain echoing loud and endlessly in his mind, driving spikes of pure anguish deep into his soul.

He watched in heavy silence as the doctor worked, breath caught tight in his chest, hardly daring to hope. But then - your ragged breaths evened out, color returning sluggishly to waxen cheeks. Alive. You were alive. 

It was nearly two hours later when the man was done, wiping his hands on a rag as he stood up on shaky legs. 

“He’s stable” The doctor said simply

Choking back sobs of relief, Simon buried his face in the crook of your neck, leaving a trail of gratitude-laced kisses amongst salty tears. “That’s it, darlin’...you fight. Got too much left to do in this world.” he’d whisper to you, voice so soft only you could hear

 “Most important thing now is cleaning that wound twice a day lest it get infected. If it does…” The doctor ordered, his words trialing off though his intentions were clear. He put down a set of bandages and cleaning solution on the nightstand for Simon’s use. 

“It’ll take a long time to heal, I reckon” The doctor said “but my work is done here, y’all know where to reach me should he take a turn for the worst” He said, tilting his hat to Simon before he gathered his tools and headed out of the shabby cabin. 

Simon took the doctor's words as gospel, nodding along to every word before the man left. He spent the next few hours cleaning up the mess that was now your little home. He dragged the body out back to deal with fully in the morning, cleaned your sheets and changed you into new clothes, boarded up the broken window, and finished by fixing the door that he had come barging through. 

His own hands were gentle as churches doing their appointed duty, cleansing and dressing the angry wound each time without fail. Whatever it took to coax your stubborn spirit back to the land of the living. 

Days bled into each other without notice. All that mattered to him now was you. And slowly, so slowly - full color seeped back, fever broke its hold. Eyes fluttered open to meet his own once more, full of pain but oh-so-blessedly alive. 

“Hey there, sunshine…” Simon whispered hoarsely, like a parched man dying of thirst at an oasis. Finally, finally, he allowed himself the ghost of a weary smile. 

You were going to be alright. And by God, he’d spend his last days making sure of it. 

You slowly sat up, a soft whine leaving your lips with the movements as you aggravated the still raw wound. “Simon” you mumbled as you held his hand, reaching over to take a swig of the whiskey on the nightstand to ease the searing pain. 

You rested your head back against the pillows with a soft sigh. It had been a few days now, and the pain was still a dull yet constant ache in your side. 

You took the sight around you in, everything was clean and neat including your bedding and clothes. Even the floor had been mopped, the only reminders of your near death being the hole in your side. 

“Simon you did all this?” You asked simply, eyes wide as you gazed up at him. 

Simon huffed a soft, weary laugh at your question, gently squeezing your hand just to make sure you were really here and he wasn’t hallucinating. 

“Course I did, darlin’. Weren’t about to let ya recover in filth,” He replied gruffly. Truth be told, tending to your every need had been the other thing keeping his demons at bay these long days and nights. 

Keeping busy spared him time to think - and thinking led down paths too bleak to tread. Like how terrifyingly close he’d come to losing you forever.

Holding your gaze with quiet intent, Simon softly brushed calloused knuckles along your cheek “Reckon it’s about time i started pullin’ my weight ‘round here proper. Ain’t no safe place for ya out here alone” A question lingered in the subtle quirk of his brow, the hopeful yet wary gleam in tired eyes. After all that had passed between you both, was there still room for him at your side? A Ghost finally ready to lay his soul to rest, if you’d have him. 

You could only hum softly at his words, sleep still filled in your bones. You didn’t answer him, instead you patted the empty side of the bed “Come sleep next to me, Si. You need the sleep” You said, your words a silent confirmation that you still wanted him. 

Simon gave a soft grunt of approval, too weary in body and soul to do anything but obey your gentle prompting. Careful not to jostle your healing injury, he stretched his long limbs out beside you with a satisfied sigh. 

It felt strange but right, sharing your space in such an intimate way after so long living apart. Like the final piece of a puzzle slipped neatly into place. 

Turning his head, Simon watched you watch him through half-lidded eyes, drinking in every beloved feature as if to confirm this wasn’t some whiskey-fueled dream. Reaching out, he lightly touched the graceful curve of your cheek before letting his hand come to rest against the steady rise and fall of your chest. 

“Sweetest sound there is,” he murmured, voice sleep-roughed and thick with meaning. A tousled head tucked itself beneath your chin with a contented sigh, tension seeping from tense muscles. 

Come what may with the light of dawn, for now all was peaceful. You were alive, you were safe. And against all odds, Simon had finally come home to roost. 

You held him close in your arms, gentle fingers carding through thick hair as you let his head rest against your now steady heartbeat. He needed the comfort, you could tell, and you were more than happy to give it to him. 

“Rest now, Si. I'm not going anywhere. Can’t get rid of me that easy” You assured, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. 

It was a funny thing, holding such a toughened man in your arms, keeping him close and coddled despite the almost laughable size difference. 

SImon made a low sound of gratitude at your soft reassurance, melting bonelessly into your gentle embrace. Your gentle fingers winding through his hair brought forth a wave of lethargy he’d fought to stave off this long week past. But no more - here in your arms, he was finally allowed to let his guard down. 

It still struck him sometimes how two souls so disparate could fit together so seamlessly. But you’d always had a way of easing even his most ragged edges, soothing demons he thought long beyond taming. Lithe as you were in your current state, your strength ran deeper than any show of force ever could - and he found solace there like nowhere else. 

“Missed this…” he mumbled, so soft it was barely audible even in the stillness enclosing your little world. One arm curled protectively around your middle, thumb brushing idle patterns against the slowly healing wound beneath the bandages. 

A prayer of thanks on parched lips, Simon let weary eyes slide shut. Sleep rose like a gentle tide, carrying him off to oblivion sheltered in the piece of heaven he’d begun to call home. You’d brought him back from the brink of darkness once more, anchor in the storm. And for that, he was eternally grateful. 

#cod modern warfare #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod imagine #cod x male reader #male reader #fanfic #ghost cod #ghost x male reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x male reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x male reader

[actual-changeling]

winter returns. aziraphale does not.

there have been a lot of internal arguments throughout september and october, but eventually crowley decided to transfer all of his plants and a handful of other important belongings to the bookshop. he wasn't leaving it except to nip over for coffee or take the bentley on a drive so it wouldn't get cranky, so why bother returning to his flat?

it turns out to have been the correct choice.

before the first snow, before the nights got longer than the days, long before the end of the year, crowley cranked up the heating in the shop and curled up in his armchair once more. he does not quite hibernate as such, but he comes close while in his serpent form.

muriel, who has taken to not addressing him by name at all after crowley had told them several times to drop the 'mr. crowley', gently picks him up throughout the day and allows him to settle where he pleases. mostly around their shoulders, sometimes along one or both of their arms; other times he seeks out the warmth radiating from their skin coiled up tightly in their lap.

no one sees the serpent of eden dozing on a lower angel's stomach, and no one hears when they read to him, talk to him.

"he will come back, you know. eventually. i haven't known you for long, but i can feel how much you mean to him."

"it was kinda weird at first since you're a demon, but i- well. miss nina said we are friends, and miss maggie agreed."

"i've never seen snow before; it's pretty. hopefully you're not cold."

no one sees him pressed against the window, uncaring for the chill forcing its way through his slim body, staring up at the sky in a fashion unheard of for snakes, waiting, waiting, waiting.

crowley tries to dream of the garden again, seeking out the blurry memories of warmth and ethereal protection, remnants of a grace he is no longer allowed to carry within himself. the sweet aroma of ripe apples, the smell of blooming flowers and desert sand soaking in their first taste of rain, the feeling of feather-rippled wind catching in his hair, a caress that isn't one, a touch that could be one in a few millennia.

crowley tries to dream of peace, but no matter if he wakes or sleeps, all he gets is smoke and ash and a profound sense of loss so ancient he aches and aches and aches.

still, he waits until that is all he is, a desperate wish shaped in his image.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #muriel #aziraphale #crowley and muriel #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #im getting quite attached to crowley and muriels dynamic help

[yuri-is-online]

Ranted about this elsewhere already buuuuut . . . Hot take: OB Jamil keeping the reader as a pet/slave is pre-relationship.

Jamil's whole shtick is wanting to free himself from servanthood and getting the equality, freedom, and respect he deserves. Why would he not want that for his lover? Hell one of his biggest insecurities is trapping them with him under the Asims and being unable to give them the life they deserve.

A Jamil who's in a relationship where he 10000% smitten, comfortable, and genuinely open with s/o would rip his own heart out before even thinking of trapping them or seeing them as lesser. This goes double for his overblot (we've seen with the Shround's that it is possible for overblots to do things out of love).

So what doth thou thinketh of this scenario: OB!Jamil who's just finished sending the gang to the middle of the desert having the immediate thought "FUCK YEAH! Now I can finally spoil my beloved!"

OB!Jamil just throwing embarrassment out the window and spoiling the absolute shit out of his lover. I'm talking shameless PDA, no filter whatsoever about how much he loves them, giving them just about anything they could want. Feeling hungry? Here's a feast of your favorite dishes and Jamil is the one feeding you. Little chilly? You're now dressed in enchanted fine silk fit for a queen and cuddled up next him. Worried about your friends out in the desert? Now you get an adorable pouty overblot asking for your attention and making it really hard to say no. Ironically any manipulation he pulls will be the light hearted kind he usual do to get their attention. Also worth mentioning that Jamil is calling them every pet name under the sun while being kissed constantly by the snakes.

Just Overblot Jamil willingly and happily going full malewife mode for his Sultana.

God it will be hard to convince him that overblotting it bad, won't it?

You know I usually have a hard time wrapping my head around Yuu being in a relationship with any of the ob boys pre blot, but the events make it pretty clear that the actual order the blots happen in is pretty flexible σ(￣、￣=) so after squaring that in my head:

Pre-Relationship OB Jamil would want to keep Yuu in a cage because he subconsciously knows they aren't his but he still feels the desire to keep them close. The walls of the cage area physical manifestation of Jamil's emotional repression surrounding his feelings towards Yuu but that's not we're brainrotting about today~

Overblot! Jamil (and just Jamil in general really) is pretty hard to convince that overblotting was a bad idea. Granted he doesn't want to die so yes he'll agree that's bad once he comes to his senses but for now he's really pleased with himself. Finally, he gets to have your attention all to himself and there is no one to judge or interrupt him. He made sure to throw the biggest annoyances across the desert, you can stay right here with him in his embrace exactly where you belong. Being kissed by the snakes is such a cute concept TᴖT He has so many things he's wanted to say, so many many kisses he wanted to give, times he's wanted to touch and hold you that he was never able to do because of his place in the world. I like the idea of Overblot Jamil dancing with Yuu while he sings the sappiest love songs imaginable. Anything to make up for lost time, now that he's free there's so much he can finally give you.

That's what you've wanted this whole time too... right?

#<3 asks #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #jamil viper x reader

[allfandoms-writings]

Task Force 141 and a snake in the barracks (ft König)

as someone who lives out in the middle of a desert and routinely gets rattlesnakes under my door and in my garage, i wondered what people who don’t deal with snakes much react to finding one lol könig's thrown in here because i like the gif don't come at me

Ghost ― if it's not venomous and there's some form of protection between him and the snake he's okay with it. He's seen and dealt with too many snakes on his deployments to have a massive fear of them but he still doesn't like them.

Soap ― scared shitless. He's never even seen a snake back home, so when he finds out chilling out in a shady spot on the base he's spitting every Scottish curse known to man at it. He's the one who alerts people to the snake and is the first one to leave the moment someone else has handled it.

Price ― is indifferent to them. They leave him alone, he leaves them alone. If he finds a snake and it's relatively small, he'll pick it up and put it somewhere else. Anything bigger and it no longer becomes his problem. "I'm a Captain, Houston. Not a snake wrangler," is always his response when Bones pokes fun at him.

Gaz ― his fear of bugs translates over to snakes, but with a deeper fear. He even sees a glimpse of a snake and he's booking it to the highest point he can get to.

Alejandro ― also likes snakes, but doesn't like handling them. He's been bit a time or two when he was a kid and while he respects them, he will respect them from a distance.

Rudolfo ― hates them. He finds a snake and he kills it. End of story. He yells at Bones when he sees her freeing one and she books it with snake in hand.

Bones ― loves snakes. As a kid she would come home with snakes and frogs and horny toads in her pockets and her mother had to strip search her to make sure none of the little critters got inside the house. She's usually called to deal with the snake for this exact reason, and she has no problem even picking up the venomous ones and setting them outside where they belong. Once she even chased Gaz with a little king snake she found. "Gaz, come back! These eat the rattlesnakes, they're friendly!"

König ― oh my god he will throw you to the wolves if he finds out there's a snake. He freezes and doesn't move until it moves somewhere else or is moved.

#imagine #task force 141 #bones enters task force 141 #simon ghost riley #john price #kyle garrick #rudolfo parra #call of duty imagine #call of duty modern warefare ii #john mctavish #konig #alejandro vargas #call of duty oc

[suthex]

See I have outfaced you, demon! See, I have faced the one who is submerged in the limbs of [NAME NAME] born of N.N - like someone who flies up and then stops and settles on a high place, like the flying of Ra [or else: the Sun] when He is rising. I have outfaced you in the same way, demon! But see, it is the [name of god] who knows me, namely that I belong to the tribe of gods; those who speak with the snakes, who kill the vipers, those who make an end of your life-breath! See, from the breasts of Anat/Astarte I have suckled the big cow [wife; mother] of Seth.

See, I have lots of words against you. From the big pitcher of Seth I have drunk them, from his jug I have drained them. Listen, demon, listen! The voice of Seth is roaring, you shall listen to his roaring. While you are tortured, Seth will lift you up with his mighty hand and he will throw you onto the solid stone. The deserts drink you up, you who is against me, the deserts drink you up since they are thirsty. The ground which is dried-up and stone-dry drinks you up; the ground that never becomes satiated now drinks you up. It is this that drinks you up, demon!

Then the gods will learn of your death, then the [seven] Hathor-goddesses will learn that your heart has left. Set has vanquished you, demon. Powerless are you, you who submerged and plotted against me. The heat of your mouth does not exist any longer. Victorious are the Mighty Ones.

- (modified by me) ”24. Another Conjuration”, Ancient Egyptian Magical Texts, J. F Borghouts

#grimoire

[justforbooks]

Richard Serra, who has died aged 85, was a remarkable cultural figure – a sculptor who belonged to the generation of American minimalists, was associated with process art and made experimental films, yet evoked something of an earlier, more heroic age. The critic Robert Hughes described him as “the last abstract expressionist”.

Although this statement stretches the point, Serra’s interest in the processes of sculpture led him to some extravagant gestural acts that belie the severity of his grand public commissions. Weight and Measure, made in the early 1990s for what is now Tate Britain, exemplified his austere side, with its massive steel forms designed to counter the building’s overbearing classicism. However, some of his other works, such as the twisting, “torqued” structures installed at the Guggenheim in Bilbao in 2005, are positively baroque.

Curled around an existing sculpture, Snake, that was commissioned for the museum’s opening in 1997, these steel works, dominated by ellipses and spirals, articulate spaces in which the gallery visitor can wander. They are monumental enough to take on Frank Gehry’s grandiose architecture, but, with their patinated surfaces and curved forms, also have an intimate, sensual quality. Above all, Serra’s sculptures create a remarkable interaction with the public and a strong experience of gradual discovery – hence the installation’s title, The Matter of Time.

His works have proved popular with curators, but are not confined to museums. They have appeared in settings as diverse as the Tuileries garden in Paris, the Federal Plaza in New York, and the Qatari desert, attracting responses from intense admiration to a public inquiry. One of his sculptures, Fulcrum, was put up in 1987 at Broadgate outside Liverpool Street station in London. It manages to combine monumentality with fragility, made of weathered steel plates that appear to support each other precariously.

He was born in San Francisco into a family that provided a foundation for his later career as a sculptor in metal. His father, Tony, who was from Majorca, was a pipe-fitter in a naval shipyard. His mother, Gladys (nee Fineberg), who was the daughter of Jewish immigrants from Odessa, used to introduce her son as “Richard, the artist” and was, later, touchingly enthusiastic when he began to make his way in New York. Serra himself laboured in steel mills during his time as a student and subsequently, in 1979, made a compelling film, Steelmill/Stahlwerk, about German workers in the industry.

Serra began his studies in 1957 at the University of California in Berkeley, graduating from the institution’s Santa Barbara campus with a degree in English literature. He followed this in 1961 with a three-year course in painting at Yale University, New Haven – a period in which he also worked as a teaching assistant and as a proof-reader for Joseph Albers’s book Interaction of Color (1963). At Yale he encountered such luminaries as Philip Guston, Robert Rauschenberg, Ad Reinhardt and Frank Stella, before winning a fellowship that took him to Europe in 1964.

In Paris, Serra was profoundly impressed by the sculpture of Constantin Brâncuși, but in Florence the following year he continued to paint, producing coloured grids in timed conditions controlled by a stopwatch. It was only with his first exhibition, at the Galleria La Salita in Rome in 1966, that he made a definitive move away from painting, filling cages with live and stuffed animals.

After moving to New York in the same year, Serra initially survived by setting himself up as a furniture remover, together with his friends, the composers Philip Glass and Steve Reich. Serra’s artistic development at this time was rapid, moving from experiments with rubber, fibreglass and neon tubing to the metal sculpture for which he became renowned. He soon began his long-term association with the Leo Castelli Gallery in New York, in whose Warehouse annex he was photographed in 1969 throwing molten lead at the wall with a ladle.

In the same year Serra refined this procedure by splashing the metal against a small steel plate stuck into the corner of Jasper Johns’s studio. The “castings” produced when the lead cooled down were rough, expressive forms, but this project also inspired Serra to create more impersonal pieces, in which metal sheets were wedged into the angles of rooms, leaned against each other or pinned to the wall by lead pipes. His emphasis on objective phenomena – mass, gravity and other physical forces – can also be seen in his remarkable experimental films.

In Hand Catching Lead (1968), the hand is in fact the artist’s but it is shown disembodied, trying to grasp rather than cast pieces of falling lead, which it drops or misses altogether. The repetition of this fundamentally pointless act gives the film a serial quality, akin to the celluloid process itself.

Serra’s engagement with the cutting edge also led him to work with the land artists Robert Smithson and Nancy Holt. In 1970 he assisted them with Spiral Jetty at the Great Salt Lake in Utah and, after Smithson’s death in 1973, Serra helped to complete Amarillo Ramp in an artificial lake in Texas. His own site-specific sculptures included Spin Out: For Bob Smithson (1972-73), in the park-like surroundings of the Kröller-Müller Museum at Otterlo in the Netherlands. Here the three converging steel plates interacted with each other and their environment, exemplifying Serra’s aim that “the entire space becomes a manifestation of sculpture”.

The 1970s was a difficult decade in Serra’s life. In 1971 a worker was killed in an accident during the installation of one of Serra’s sculptures outside the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. His five-year marriage to the artist Nancy Graves ended in 1970, and his mother’s suicide in 1977 was followed two years later by the death of his father. However, in that decade he also met his future wife, the art historian Clara Weyergraf, with whom he collaborated on Steelmill/Stahlwerk. Clara was also to play a vital role in shaping his sculpture, as well as giving her name to Clara-Clara, a powerful, curvilinear work that was installed in the Tuileries garden in 1983. The history of this piece exemplifies Serra’s problems in making site-specific art, since it was originally intended to feature in a show at the Pompidou Centre, but at a late stage was deemed to be too heavy.

Clara-Clara’s travails were minor in comparison to the controversies surrounding Tilted Arc, a sculpture 36 metres long, set up at the Federal Plaza in Manhattan in 1981. Condemned for being intrusive, a magnet for graffiti artists and even a security risk, it was eventually removed in 1989, four years after a public hearing in which a majority of witnesses had advocated its preservation.

Despite this setback, Serra’s career continued to flourish. He had two retrospectives, in 1986 and 2007, at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, which also devoted a permanent room to his monumental work Equal (2015), as well as major exhibitions at home and abroad. He showed frequently with his gallery, Gagosian, in London, New York and Paris, most recently in 2021.

In 2001 he received a Golden Lion for lifetime achievement at the Venice Biennale, in 2015 the Légion d’honneur in France and, three years later, the J Paul Getty Medal.

During his latter years, Serra became heavily involved with public projects in Qatar, above all the four steel plates, rising to over 14 metres and spanning more than a kilometre, erected west of Doha in 2014. Known as East-West/West-East, the work engages spectacularly with its surroundings, the gypsum plateaux of the Brouq nature reserve in the Dukhan desert. Serra himself described it as “the most fulfilling thing I’ve ever done”.

He is survived by Clara.

🔔 Richard Serra, artist, born 2 November 1938; died 26 March 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #richard serra #in memoriam

[zabo-writes]

Bounty Hunter Grian AU (Scar is the bounty but he makes it difficult)

Grian was good at his job. As a bounty hunter, it paid to be adaptable and efficient. He could spend weeks at a time playing the role of someone’s friend only to kill them when the time was right, or deliver them to the highest bidder. And he didn’t even feel bad about it, for the most part!

Above all, Grian prided himself on his ability to remain calm and collected in any situation.

Unfortunately, his latest mark was making that extremely difficult.

“Scar, put your clothes back on! You’re going to get yourself killed”

Grian shouted with exasperation at the man who he was attempting to gently shepherd in the direction of the nearest city. Who would be crazy enough to take their armor off in enemy territory? There were bandits in this desert! Not to mention the giant worms and the countless undead…

“Ah, I’m sorry Grian! It’s just that the sun feels so nice today. These muscles just can’t be contained!”

Scar flexed from atop his alpaca, and gave Grian a wide grin and a wink that inspired very little confidence. Grian looked away pointedly.

The client for this bounty was mysterious, and quite tight-lipped about their identity. They went by the title “The Jangler,” and communicated only through written messages. Normally Grian wouldn’t take a job from such an untrustworthy source, but the Jangler had paid a handsome amount of diamonds up front.

The bounty also specified that Scar was to be kept alive.

Alive. Somehow.

That was how Grian had come to be in his current personal hell.

‘It’ll be easy,’ he had said! Just pretend to be friends with this guy, kidnap him, deliver him to a safe house, and get a bunch of diamonds out of it! Done and dusted.

That was before he had met Scar. The man had an uncanny ability to flirt with danger at every turn.

Traveling the same road Grian has navigated for years? Would’ve gone swimmingly, but Scar insisted on taking the scenic route instead! Right into the middle of a zombified village that Grian promptly had to save them from.

Making camp for the night? Scar insisted that Grian trust his “Unbeatable camp-making skills” before promptly sticking the tent poles right into a burrow belonging to a venomous snake.

Stopping at an outpost for supplies? Pretty routine job, but Scar tried to scam the owner into buying some shiny pieces of glass. The owner caught on, and the whole place pulled crossbows on him. Grian had to break Scar out of a jail cell before the town quite literally executed him, AND he had to pay three times the normal amount for their supplies. Not to mention, he now couldn’t show his face in Tumble Town for a good while.

But miraculously, after many many long days, they were finally riding into the city where Grian was to deliver his mark.

And that meant it was time for him to finally show Scar his true colors.

“Grian— I don’t understand, what’s going on? I - ah, not so tight!”

With practiced motions, Grian used a lead to bind Scar’s wrists behind his back.

“I’m sorry Scar, I’m just doing my job. Though I am impressed! I’ve never had to work so hard to keep a mark from getting themselves killed.”

Scar was quiet, for perhaps the first time since Grian had met the man. He let himself be lead around the outskirts of the city to a large old mansion. Grian knocked on the door, and stood awkwardly for a few minutes with his tied-up quarry.

Grian sighed, “Well, that was a bit anticlimactic… I had my whole cool betrayal moment and everything! Did I get the address wrong?”

He began to reach for his pockets to find the note from the Jangler, but froze when he felt a blade against his neck.

His blood went cold.

“Well done, Grian! Now just hold still for a moment, I need to get my keys…” Scar spoke softly by Grian’s ear.

Grian was not a fan of being threatened, thank you very much. He began to reach for his sword “What on earth, Scar?! When did you untie—“

His struggle was thwarted by a surprisingly strong grip that wrestled his arms behind his back. With only one hand, apparently, because the other one reached around his shoulder to unlock the door.

In a much shorter amount of time than Grian cared to admit, he found himself inside the mansion and sitting across from Scar at an ornately carved wooden table.

And he was smiling that stupid grin of his again. Grian met his gaze with a glare.

“So I take it you are the Jangler?”

“The one and only! But please, Grian, we’re friends now aren’t we? You can still call me Scar.”

“Scar. Why on earth did you hire a bounty hunter to kidnap yourself?” Grian grumbled with his head in his hands.

“Well it was certainly safe, wasn’t it? I mean, you did such a good job saving me from all those threats, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you!”

“I’m not a bodyguard!”

“But it certainly paid well didn’t it? Oh, speaking of which, now that you’ve passed your interview: I have a job offer that you simply can’t refuse,” Scar remarked smugly.

“Interview?! That whole thing was—“

Scar slid a chest of diamonds across the table.

“Oh come on, Grian, for old times sake? For your friend Scar?”

Grian stared silently at the table for a moment, before meeting Scar’s eyes with a fierce gaze.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the job?”

#scarian #hermitshipping #hermitcraft fic #bounty hunter au #loosely inspired by trigun #I think my definition of shipping is perhaps skewed #I would like them to cause problems for each other #desert duo #trafficblr #3rd life fanfic #zabo writes

[helluvaoutlaw]

Striker Headcanons

A list of headcanons for my version of Striker.

- He eats a lot, but never gains weight, he remains a skinny imp noodle, and no one can understand how he does that.

-He trains regularly, physical exercise is very important to him and likes to stay fit.

- He smokes occasionally, when he wants to relax or is lost in thought (he picked up this habit from Susan).

- He enjoys drinking tequila and whiskey, and it's very rare for him to get drunk.

- He has a great bond with all animals. He inherited this special connection with nature from his paternal grandfather, Amaru, who belonged to a tribe of serpentfolk and was a shaman/hunter. Striker knows very little about his grandfather because his father saw him only a few times when he was a child. All Striker knows is that he was a snake-like demon, a desert shaman, and that he came to see him at his birth.

- He loves spicy and savory foods, but dislikes bitter, sour, or bland ones.

- He sleeps in fetal position, holding his tail.

- He learned to play guitar from his mother, June. The first song he learned is "You Are My Sunshine" (Christina Perri's version), a human song his mother heard from a sinner in the Pride Ring years before he was born.

- As a child, he was very curious and would explore the caves and the abandoned mine near his home all by himself.

- Despite his efforts to hide it, Striker is a hopeless romantic.

- As a child (and even now), his favorite book was "The Adventures of Robin Hood," a human book his father managed to pick up at the market. His father gave it to him for his seventh birthday.

- He is an only child.

- When he was young, he was extremely shy and awkward with girls, still unsure of his sexuality and desires. I headcanon him as bisexual.

- He visits his "auntie Suzy" every couple of weeks or so, and calls her occasionally. He hates Extermination Day, and every year he tries to hide from the infernal guards, who the day before patrol Pentagram City to evacuate the hell-born demons. Unfortunately, every year Striker is forcibly dragged away from Susan's house (even though it takes about twenty guards just for him). He spends the whole day and night anxiously awaiting Susan's phone call, which she promptly makes early in the morning to let him know she's okay.

- Human objects used to be rare, but now Striker can easily find books and songs from the world above almost anywhere.

- When he's short on money and has no clients, he performs in pubs or saloons, singing and playing his guitar.

- His hat belonged to Cole, his mentor, who taught him everything he knows: shooting, fighting, riding, taming beasts... everything.

- He's the only known demon to have successfully tamed a Firebreed stallion. This particular breed is rare and way too dangerous to even get close to, but somehow Striker did it.

-He's still very bitter about Blitzø refusing to join him. He knows they could've been an unstoppable force.

-He has a small, red heart-shaped birthmark on his lower back, right about his left butt cheek.

#helluva outlaw #helluva boss #striker #helluva striker #helluva boss striker #striker headcanons #headcanons #Blitzø #susan

[theladyofbloodshed]

A Court of Tangled Flames - Chapter 16

An afternoon spent shopping at markets in drizzle did little to extinguish the fire flaring in Eris’ temper. His anger wasn’t directed at Nesta, and she knew that. Not once did he snap at her or show any sort of displeasure towards her. Still, his anger seemed to trail their steps like a spectre. It was unwilling to leave him. Anything that Nesta touched at the market, Eris bought without hesitation. Rugs, ornaments, scarves, trinkets, clothes – all of it. Throughout it all, his fury lingered at his shoulder. In moments of quiet, his face shifted into that of wrath. Nesta did her best to soothe it, to reassure him that Beron had not hurt her, but it did not ease it. Even when she tried to explain that Phelan had in fact released her from Beron’s clutches, he would not hear of his brother doing a good deed.

Only when they had sat through a service in a gilded temple did Eris soften. Nesta had listened to it all with near-reverence, hearing stories of the Mother that passed down through history on the lips of believers. Beside her, Eris had sat poker-straight in the pew, barely blinking.

Once the crowd began to filter out, Eris remained there, brows drawn down in contemplation. She threaded her fingers into his limp hand.

‘I wasn’t harmed, Eris.’

He pressed her hand between his own protectively. ‘But you could have been, Nesta. He waited until he knew I had departed to call you to him.’ Eris bowed his head as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it once. ‘Do you think you can forgive me for leaving you exposed?’

It wasn’t anger directed towards his father, but to himself for being complacent and leaving her unprotected in the Forest House. It was guilt that tainted his mood, she realised.

‘You are blameless.’

‘I am your husband. It is my duty to protect you. I’ve failed in that.’

‘I don’t want this conversation here.’

Leading her by the hand, Eris exited through the deserted aisles of the temple, pausing only to say a brief goodbye to the priestess that was met with a blessing for a peaceful evening. With a whistle, four of the dogs that had been hunting out in the forest returned to Eris in a display of immeasurable obedience. He gathered them up by the collars then winnowed them all to a familiar location; the cottage sat alone in the darkness. A gentle wind rustled through the trees surrounding it.

It was cold inside from disuse. The dogs quickly made themselves at home though as they scarpered into each room to sniff at every corner. While Eris lit the fire, Nesta hurried to fill a copper kettle for tea. She had learnt that Eris needed a cup of tea at least every hour and he was not at all fussy about the type. Nesta settled on a peppermint tea, hanging it over the flames to heat.

Eris sat on the edge of the couch, face still drawn with misery. Nesta couldn’t take it. He had done nothing wrong; she would not have him drowning himself in regret. Without considering it, she sat on his knee and wove her arms around his neck.

‘You’ve never failed me, Eris. You do not need to seek forgiveness.’

He touched his forehead to hers. A hand rested around her body with an ease like it belonged. Perhaps it did.

‘All I want is for you to be safe and happy – but maybe that’s not with me.’ When Eris kissed the side of her head, Nesta tried to ignore the tingling across her body. ‘I’m furious that he summoned you, knowing I wasn’t there.’

‘But it means he’s reluctant to do it when you’re around. There’s a silver lining.’

‘You won’t make an optimist from me, Nesta. Not when it’s your safety on the line. I always have to believe the worst in people.’

Nesta shook her head. ‘Your brother, Phelan, he truly was helping me.’

‘Don’t ever give him the benefit of the doubt. I might be a snake and Lucien a clever fox, but Phelan is a mix of both. Cunning, charming, ruthless. He’s the one who alerted my father to Lucien and Jesminda’s relationship to gain favour. He’s the one who managed to save his own skin before Tamlin snapped his spine. Never trust him, Nesta.’

‘You don’t believe he could change?’

‘A snake sheds its skin, but it’s still a snake. He knows the tide will change one day and it will be better for him to not be my enemy.’

It was a lesson that Nesta needed to learn to survive in the Autumn Court. She wanted more than Eris being forced to protect her at every turn. She wanted to be her own defender. Most people were not good. It was better to learn that now than later.

‘Your father was remarkably soft with me.’

While Nesta explained her strange moment with Beron and their magic, Eris’ face darkened.

‘You’re lucky Elain isn’t here. He loves to pit two against each other, to be soft with one, cruel with the other. Make one jealous, the other spoilt. Then he’ll grow cold and lavish the other with attention. It makes us resent each other – and still be desperate for his affection.’ Nesta knew he was speaking from experience. Beron was still Eris’ father, and most children wanted their parents to love them.

‘Do you think he did that to drive a wedge between us?’

Eris rolled his amber eyes. ‘I’m not worried that you’ll begin lusting after my father. His favourite game is psychological intimidation. He’ll be trying to keep both of us on edge. The next time he tries to touch you, kill him.’

Nesta snorted. ‘And be executed?’

Eris made a face then jiggled her on his knee so she had to cling onto his shoulder. ‘I’ll be high lord. I promise to pardon you.’

‘And what will I be?’

A long pause followed. ‘I will be high lord. You can go where you wish to go. We won’t have to play pretend anymore.’ 

***

The days rolled away as easily as the trees shed their leaves. Eris kept Nesta as close as he could – and time went quicker that way. She was endearing herself more and more to the people they met, not just in Altor Hay but in the other little pockets that Eris had created across the court. Once more, they visited another legion in the army where she transformed into a charismatic lady of the court. When he imagined one day finding a wife, he’d always envisioned having to tutor her intensively on proper court etiquette. Nesta needed none of it. She navigated social circles, could dictate and direct conversations; she was witty and clever, combatting questions with scathing honesty or offering sarcastic responses to eternal pessimists. Many females in the Autumn Court would be too timid to seize the reins and would rather seek approval. Not Nesta. Only once had Nesta sought his opinion on her conduct, and Eris was more than happy to lavish her in praise that made her squirm with embarrassment.

Some days – when Eris was locked into the driest council meetings known to the world – he left her in Niamh or Orla’s capable hands. Sometimes Maceo would visit her there to continue their lessons. It gave Nesta a balance; dry lectures with Maceo were followed by physically warring with Niamh in the garden before Orla swept in to offer Nesta a chance to chat over a slice of cake. Eris was glad she had found a friend in his friend, but more than anything, he wished he could bring her two companions to the Autumn Court again. The thought of surprising her one day with her friends made him almost want to winnow straight to Windhaven to find Emerie. Her smiles were the greatest reward.

Their hours of pretending to be a couple were agony for him. Eris was in too deep now, he knew. Any excuse to touch her while they played the happy couple was relished. Each time that Nesta nuzzled against him or sought his opinion had him bursting with pride. He was a fool. A love-struck, hopeless fool whose heart would be broken when Nesta no longer wanted to engage in their silly game.  

After another terse dinner with his family, Eris had to get her out of the house for a while and they’d rode the horses into the sunset, chatting with an ease he hadn’t had with anybody new in a long time. They had sat beside his fire, sharing stories of their past, with a fur chucked around their shoulders. Nesta had been born to wealth which explained her ability to fit seamlessly into high society in the Autumn Court then it had all been taken from them. When he had learnt how neglectful her father was and how cruel her mother was, Eris had not hesitated to pull his arms around her to comfort. For longer than necessary, Nesta remained encased in his arms. She’d even said that she was sorry his father was the way he was too. Both had a terrible father, a distant mother; the eldest child with the family name resting upon their shoulders.  

‘We don’t need to pretend here,’ he had said, chin resting on top of her head.

‘No, we don’t,’ Nesta had replied – but she hadn’t made to break out of his arms.

With seemingly no trap able to be uncovered by the Autumn Court spies, Beron Vanserra had replied that their delegate would attend the celebrations for Kallias’ birthday. Not only would Eris need to be on his guard, sharing close quarters for the night with his family, but the Night Court would be in attendance. He and Nesta would need to be in tandem with each other. To refuse the invitation would be a slight against the Winter Court. Eris hoped Tamlin would attend to make things more interesting; the attention might shift away from him and Nesta then at least with a volatile high lord also in attendance.

They spent another evening in the cottage which Nesta had filled with all of her new items so it felt more like her. One wall had been stacked with shelves and the rows were gradually filling with books. She’d changed the bedroom style so the sheets were pale blue and a white fur was thrown across the bottom. There were more pillows than anybody could possibly need on the bed – and beside it was a basket for Safera, the most frequent visitor. Sometimes, Nesta stayed the night at the cottage alone to give her space from the Forest House. Eris would go elsewhere those nights, usually to Orla’s, though sometimes he reunited with the army or to his secret villages. He missed her. Even if it was only a few hours apart, he found himself missing her proximity. Eris was better with Nesta; he hated to be the cold, cunning heir in her presence, only wanting to be her doting husband.

Nesta settled a plate of dinner down for him at the table and brushed a hand against his shorter hair before she sat down. ‘I’ve never cooked this before. Put it in the bin if you dislike it.’

The steak was divine. She had cooked it to perfection; slightly seared on both sides but rare inside. 

‘You are a marvellous cook. Every soldier in the Autumn Court will already be whispering about Nesta Vanserra’s culinary skills.’

‘It was a simple stew requiring little skill.’

Eris shook his head. ‘I cannot imagine your sister cooking for the Illyrians or the Dark Bringers. I’m still in shock that you were so skilled at preparing the meat.’

‘Feyre hunted for us, but deer was too much work for her to prepare alone. She cannot cook a thing either, so I did the cooking for all of us. I hated it then. We never knew when our next meal would come.’

‘You don’t have to cook for me. Don’t feel as if you must fulfil a stereotype.’

She cocked an eyebrow at him, her fork hovering inches from her mouth. ‘And you’d cook for us? Toast for every meal?’

‘That was terribly rude. I think you’ll find I can manage a nice spread of crackers and cheese as well.’

‘You pampered little heir.’

Eris held out his hand to her. ‘Look at these hands. They’ve never seen a hard day’s work in their life.’

Their peaceful dinner was interrupted by Niamh. The hellion wore a bright, yellow cloak and a scarlet, scooped-neck dress. She didn’t look as if she’d brushed her hair in a couple of days. Not at all subtle. Eris did not know how she managed to not be caught. She was too cocky for her own good.

‘No news on it being a trap. Nobody from the Night Court has been seen interacting with Winter so it genuinely might be simply a party. The high lord is on tenterhooks though. Twice this week, I’ve watched him tear into an Illyrian male with unnecessary brutality.’

‘His mate grows heavier with child each day. He’ll be more on edge as a result, the desire to protect overwhelming sense.’

Niamh shrugged. ‘Watch him at the party. It will be where they’ll announce Nesta’s sister’s pregnancy so one wrong look and he’ll be starting a war – especially as they’ll all be dead soon.’

Beside him, Nesta went rigid.

‘Niamh, perhaps you could consider your words before they leave your tongue.’

‘I speak the truth. It’s not my fault his spawn is going to kill her.’ Niamh huffed out a breath. She was in a sourer mood than usual. ‘Sorry Nesta.’

‘What’s your problem?’ Eris asked whilst he laced his fingers into Nesta’s hand to try and manage her mood. The last thing he needed was Nesta and Niamh going head-to-head. Niamh could be acerbic but Nesta felt deeply. Feyre was her sister despite it all.

Niamh crossed her ankles over each other sprawled out on the floor with a cushion beneath her head. A smoke-hound had his head resting across her abdomen in slumber. ‘That shadowsinger is still staying at Emerie’s shop.’

‘And why is that an issue?’

‘Because every time I go there, he’s there. I can’t have a moment alone to speak to her.’

Nesta cocked her head to one side then a smile began to curl upon her lips. ‘Why do you need a moment alone with Emerie?’

‘Because she’s utterly gorgeous,’ Niamh replied without missing a beat. ‘Eris. That other thing. I’m certain its where we think it is.’

‘That other thing?’

The wretch had dropped that into conversation on purpose. She grinned like a cat from her place on the floor while Nesta glanced between them both in anticipation.

‘Eris?’

‘I will, of course, soon propose that Orla can safely deliver the child. I don’t know if they’ll trust me without your endorsement. But I’d like something in return.’

‘You’d like to bargain over my sister’s life?’

Her tone could have cut. Niamh grinned even wider. ‘Told you it was a silly idea.’

‘They have your Made weapons and the Mask.’

‘I want neither,’ Nesta insisted. ‘I do not want that Mask anywhere near me.’

‘Briallyn has the Crown. The Harp remains in play somewhere. I’d like that in our possession rather than another’s,’ he explained. Nesta’s glare bore into him hot enough to boil his blood. ‘While you’ve been staying with Orla, I’ve been researching the last mentions of the Dread Trove. The Harp was last known to be located on an island off Prythian.’

‘He’s had me winnowing every night to every known island in search of it.’

So that was what Eris spent his late nights researching on the week they were distant from each other; he was searching for the Harp. ‘And? You’ve found it?’

Eris clasped his hands together. ‘I believe it to be on the Prison warded to only the high lord’s blood. I’m not prepared to negotiate only for that. There’s a chance it still isn’t there or that we might not find it. We are proposing to save the lives of the high lord, the high lady and the heir to the court. I am not prepared to accept just a flimsy chance that we might find the Harp.’

‘We should save them because we can do it. Not because we want anything, Eris.’

He knew this was never going to be a nice conversation. He wasn’t an altruistic person. He never had been. Only for Nesta would Eris give everything to gain nothing. But this was too good an opportunity to refuse. He would force Rhys to make a true bargain, inked on their skin, that he would support his claim to the throne – him and the Night Court’s armies.

‘Rhys would do exactly the same.’

‘You are a better male than he is. Prove to me that you are, Eris.’

No, he wasn’t. He was worse.

‘What if I bargained for access to this court regularly for Emerie and Gwyneth?’

Nesta’s eyes flared with anger. ‘Do not try and twist my arm into this.’

Niamh let out a raucous laugh that startled the dog laying on her stomach to alertness. ‘Nesta, how would you like to kill your husband? Shall I fetch you a knife or will your magic suffice?’

‘My sister’s life is at stake and you are planning to negotiate over it.’

‘You are being emotional. I am being pragmatic. If this was any other situation, we’d maximise the benefits like any other trade agreement. I understand that she is your sister. I understand that you are worried. We will save her. That will always happen, Nesta. But there are benefits for us which we would be foolish not to seize.’

With fluid grace, Nesta rose. Eris expected her anger to be a throbbing wound. He anticipated silver fire to crown her, but she was too well-trained with her power now to loose it without conscious effort. What she delivered was far worse. Disappointment drew her mouth into a frown and tears rimmed her eyes.

‘I don’t want to speak to you tonight.’

Her light footsteps tread up the stairs with little noise. The dogs all followed her. She waited for them before the bedroom door closed with a click. Eris raked a hand through his hair, still not used to the length. From the floor, Niamh let out a clucking sound.

‘Who in the world said that you had a silver tongue? You ploughed through that conversation like an ogre. You’re holding her sister’s health hostage. If you want to consummate your marriage, that is not the way to do it.’

Niamh got to her feet with an ungainly groan. ‘I’m heading back to Windhaven. Hopefully that miserable bat has found another roof to hang from. A word from the wise, let Nesta put the idea forwards to her family to heal the rift between them. Don’t let the relationship between the Archerons rot like your own with Lucien. Oh – and you better grovel to her.’

***

A festering mood was not at all what Nesta had wanted for her evening, but she was reluctant to let it go. She wanted – needed – Eris to be different. And yet she knew the rumours about him. Had known he actively worked against his father in the shadows. It just hurt when it was Feyre’s life being bargained over.

She’d have happily stewed alone all night in the room, but one by one the dogs grew restless trapped there. One began scratching at the door and floorboards, whining slightly when she needed to be let out. Nesta did not even know if Eris was still in the cottage; he had a habit of moving silently.

Nesta waited on the step as the dogs raced off into the darkness. They listened to her commands sometimes, but Eris overrode her. Once, she’d managed to have five of them sitting then Eris told them all to stand again to annoy her – then he’d sent Safera leaping up at her chest with a deep, rumbling laugh. A wind rustled through the trees, swaying the branches in the dark. The night was crisp enough to have her rubbing her hands up her arms.

A weight settled around her shoulders. Eris stood behind her in the dimly-lit house draping a blanket around her body then his arms did the same; they crossed over her front, drawing her to him. She rested her body against his chest, inhaling the cold air.

‘I’m so sorry, Nesta. I should never have thought to use your sister’s life as an opportunity to improve my fortunes.’

‘But I can understand entirely the merits of it. Anybody in your position would.’

‘And you would hate me for it. It’s not worth it,’ he said simply.

Nesta sighed and he tightened his hold, kissing her on the temple.

‘The next meeting that I have with them, I’d like you to come with me. You can tell your sister that we have a solution.’

‘She won’t trust me. Rhysand definitely won’t.’

His nose nuzzled against her hair as he kissed her again. ‘You are offering your sister salvation. You are promising her a future and at least some tranquillity towards the end of her pregnancy rather than fear. We will make them listen.’

In his arms, she turned to look upon him. His amber eyes had turned almost black in the darkness, but there were flames within. Always, a fire burnt in his soul. It had helped her own to burn again.

It made sense to seek the Harp and have it in their possession, not to yield, but to keep track of. Nesta knew that Eris wouldn’t solely research the Harp; he’d have delved deeper. In all of her lectures with Maceo, she’d learnt morsels of information about Eris the scholar. Maceo had proudly declared that Eris was the brightest boy he’d ever taught with a memory like no other, able to quote his lectures verbatim back to him. A quiet but confident boy who never sought out friends, preferring the company of animals. Maceo had laughed with his hands on his belly, telling Nesta that Eris had once kept a clutch of orphaned eggs in his bedroom that he tended to constantly until a servant had found them and Beron ordered the nest destroyed. With every year, Eris became more aloof, more concerned with court politics than anything else.

Despite Beron’s iron fist, there was still a small boy inside who wanted to do good.

‘You would give up the Harp, the weapons, anything that Rhysand would give you – for my benefit?’

He held her gaze, steely determination warring with the fire in his soul. ‘It would be a waste. And I find that I do not care. I have someone I care more for.’ He gave her a lop-sided smile. ‘I’m certainly not foolish enough to lose the friendship of Nesta Vanserra. That would be a sacrifice too great.’

They stayed up late discussing how the conversation might go with the Night Court. Nesta was adamant she did not want to spend time with them over the Solstice celebrations – and she shut down his suggestion of them both attending with a sharp glare that made him laugh. She couldn’t inflict that sort of cruelty on Cassian. Wouldn’t ruin Feyre’s birthday with an argument.

Before offering Orla’s talents, however, they had to get through the Winter Court celebration. Many eyes would be upon them in their first public outing as husband and wife. Tongues would wag. As far as most of Prythian was aware, the Cauldron-born sister who slayed the king had been tangled with the Night Court’s general, not the Autumn’s. Eris braced Nesta for the sort of comments she might receive; insults that she and her sister liked to sample males from each court. Nesta had heard enough of the vile comments thrown at Feyre when she switched from Tamlin to Rhysand.

They’d have to be on their guard constantly in front of his family and hers.

On the morning that they were due to travel to the Winter Court, there was a jittery energy in the Forest House. For the first time, Nesta caught servants whispering in the corridors rather than their usual submissive silence. When she’d pressed Eris over it, he had explained it was because all of the Vanserras would be away and the council would oversee the court for the night which meant a night without any of his brothers prowling after servants or forcing them into cruel, impossible tasks. 

The pair of them spent the morning beneath the glorious sun training her magic and the dogs. Nesta could manage to winnow a decent distance now though still within a visible range. It was becoming easier, more automated. Eris had likened it to training a muscle. She wished training the dogs was as simple; they had their own spirits. Twice, she’d caught Eris issuing the same command with his hand behind her back to make the dogs obey and she’d shoved him away in annoyance. The puppy was partly her responsibility to train so that he’d listen to both of them equally. It was harder than magic. Sometimes the dog didn’t even listen to Eris. His recall didn’t exist and often Eris would have to winnow to the puppy, scoop him up and return him to Nesta. 

‘It’s a good job you are cute.’ In Eris’ arms, the dog licked her hand as she rubbed his muzzle.

‘Me or him?’

Nesta ruffled his auburn hair. ‘Do you need a fuss as well?’

It was an easier lesson than usual with Eris wary over depleting her magic before entering another court. 

‘How can I create like your soldiers? I saw a bear in the camp made entirely of flame.’

‘One day. Try and form a circle first - that’s the easiest shape. Visualise your magic forming it before releasing it.’

It required several attempts but eventually, Nesta made a squashed sort of circle that quickly dissolved into nothing. Again, she tried, forming circle after circle of various sizes, some lasting longer in the air before fizzling out.

Eris stretched out his fingers towards one of the circles and a minuscule dragon made entirely of flame was conjured. It flew through her silver circle with outstretched wings then nosedived into the undergrowth, turning it to ash. 

‘Show off.’

He tipped his head towards the sun, laughing loud enough to scare a bird from its branch. 

‘Talented is the word you are looking for. Brilliant. Incomparable.’

Nesta rolled her eyes and pressed a hand to his chest. ‘Arrogant.’ 

‘I’ll teach you everything I know - which is a lot - so you can be as talented as me.’

Her fingers touched his neck, massaging it slightly. ‘How does it manage to hold this massive head up every day?’ 

His smile was delightful. Even as he drew her to his body to wrap his arms around her, he still shook with silent laughter. ‘Why is it that when my wife wounds me with her razor-sharp sarcasm, I find enjoyment from it?’

‘Because you have realised exactly how lucky you are to be married to me.’

Warm hands turned her face to look at him. There was no teasing on his expression now. ‘I know how blessed I am to be your husband. It will never be something I take for granted.’ 

At the sounds of hooves approaching, they peeled apart. The lady of the court approached flanked by sentries and servants. A prisoner within her own home. 

‘We are returning. We must ready ourselves for travel. Do not be late.’

Eris opened his mouth to say something to his mother. His fingers had flexed as if he was about to reach out to her but had thought better of it. But she had already dug her heels into the horse’s flank and trotted away from them with her minders following close behind. 

Ice crept into Eris’ expression. Wordlessly, he drew the hounds to him then ensured Nesta’s coat was buttoned up. He extended his arm for her to take.  

Beron hadn’t just made Eris’ life a misery or his mother’s but he’d formed a wedge between mother and son. She was a stranger to him, just as Lucien was. Nesta understood then why Eris was always so keen to touch her, why his arms came around her constantly, why he always laced up her stays or boots or did the buttons on her coat or wouldn’t let her leave until her gloves were on. Because he had never had anybody else to care for. Because his mother had been taken from him and he hadn’t been given affection. Because, at his core, he was as lonely as she was.

‘Eris.’

The amusement that had been there minutes earlier was replaced with stoic silence. Within his amber eyes was an immeasurable sadness that Nesta wished she could take away. 

‘My mother is right. We need to go.’

‘Eris,’ she tried again, voice hardly more than a whisper. ‘When was the last time you spoke to your mother alone?’

‘I don’t remember. Perhaps when I was a boy.’

They would spend the night in the Winter Court together. Beron had business with Kallias regarding a trade agreement so they would arrive earlier than other guests giving them a chance to explore the court. 

Eris had promised her a sleigh ride through the snow but with his mood shifting to frozen despair, the thought was not appealing. She had to figure out a way to have mother and son speak so that she could see the goodness within Eris still. He had done enough for her happiness; it was time that Nesta brought him the same joy. 

@owllover123 @rarephloxes @this-is-rochelle @sv0430 @fanboy7794 @kitkat-writes-stuff @sugardoll22

#next one will be the winter court party there was too much to squeeze into this one #a court of tangled flames

[izunias-meme-hole]

My Definitive Top 10 Favorite Characters 

Number 1. Sauron (Lord of The Rings) - The Original Dark Lord. A fallen being of great power, obsessed with order. The enemy army is his army, Mordor is his kingdom, the Nazgul are his servants, the One Ring is his power source fueled by a fragment of his own soul that tempts and corrupts all who bear it, his eye shines its malevolent gaze upon the world with the intent of ravaging and conquering all that it can see, and the entire story is caused by his machinations. Whenever I look back at Sauron as a villain and character, I end up remembering why he is as infamous as he is. A great villain sometimes can just be a genuinely terrifying presence.

Number 2. Ganon (Legend of Zelda) - Honestly after so many years, Ganon still holds up as a villain. Ganondorf Dragmire was the biproduct of a curse created by Demise to ensure that his hate is reincarnated just so he can destroy Link and Zelda’s descendants, and Ganon himself was born as the only male in a desert that belonged tribe to warrior women known as The Gerudo, eventually ending up as their king thanks to Gerudo traditions. Ganon had a huge presence in Ocarina of Time, manipulating you into locating the Triforce and immediately took over Hyrule during your time skip. In Hyrule Warriors, Wind Waker, Twilight Princess, and A Link To The Past, he adapts in some form either that be because of genuine character development, an ego increase, or a desire for revenge. However in Breath of the Wild, the end of all three timelines, we think that he fully succumbs to Demise’s curse and became a being of pure hate known as Calamity Ganon, who basically almost destroyed Hyrule 100 years ago. Then in Tears of The Kingdom we learn about his first incarnation, the ambitious Gerudo turned Demon King that ravaged ancient Hyrule and got sealed away for generations under Hyrule Castle, who came back to life 5 years after Calamity Ganon was beaten, and tried to turn Hyrule into a hellscape where only the strong can thrive. This exact same incarnation of Ganondorf was also behind Calamity Ganon! Overall, Ganon is a surprisingly versatile and interesting take on a evil king, combining power with intellect, tragedy, anger, class, savagery, inevitability, arrogance, and pure EVIL which is why he’s one of the greatest villains in gaming history and fiction in general.

Number 3. Sephiroth (Final Fantasy) - Sephiroth is one of the hardest bosses in gaming and a genuine horror villain. He is a tragic monster born from science, and a loyal “son” fo his alien mother, Jenova, but he’s still scary as hell thanks to his god complex, unlimited strength, ethereal vibes, years of experience, his ability to live off of pure spite just so he can make the lives of his enemies (and Cloud) complete hell. His appearance in of itself is creepy due to how beautiful, yet unsettling it is, thanks to his silver hair, green snake-like eyes, and perfect physique which is complimented by a black coat. However the most dangerous things about him are that he’s completely delusional, his strength is unmatched, and just how far he’s willing to go to distort other peoples sense reality, specifically Cloud’s sense of reality. Sephiroth a tragic character and a phenomenal villain.

Number 4. Malenia (Elden Ring) - A masterfully done example of a SUPER TOUGH optional boss in my opinion, with a decent character that ties to the history of the world and backs up said in-game difficulty to boot. Also the concept of someone being that goddamn sickly yet still being so undeniably persistent, powerful, and near-invincible is intriguing and cool, and it's executed very well in her case. That and I like how she's basically her little brother's, Miquella's, biggest supporter, so bonus points for that.

Number 5. Ozai (Avatar) - This guy... oh HOOoo this guy. Fire Lord Ozai, in my personal opinion, is the best villain in any animated series, one of the worst father's in fiction, the perfect representation fascism, imperialism, and a prime example of what makes a dictator. Ozai grew up as the prince of an empire, alongside his older brother Iroh, but unlike his brother who was praised by their father and became a war hero in the eyes of the Fire Nation, Ozai was often dismissed and had plans to achieve more power and eternal glory through more shadier means. Eventually, he married the descendant of Avatar Roku, Ursa, and sired two children, a boy and a girl. The boy was named Zuko, a good natured lad who was a total "failure" from his perspective, and the girl was named Azula, who was considered a prodigy, and in her father's eyes she was a perfect extension of his influence. Eventually, Ozai assassinated his father and took the throne after Iroh lost his own kid and took some time to himself, which resulted in Ozai becoming Fire Lord. During his tenure as Fire Lord, he consistently makes his predecessors look like saints and babies. In addition to continuing the idea of taking over the Earth Kingdom, this bastard authorized more genocides, has encouraged more admirals and generals to make the men under their command into cannon fodder, fought his own son for questioning one of his generals and burned half his face off, tried to have his brother and son killed, tried to commit genocide against the Earth Kingdom after taking it over, and so much more. And all of this stems from two simple things. A belief that he's deserving of all the power, glory, respect, and fear on the planet because he's the descendant of a powerful emperor, and the fact that he's a small man without that power. Ozai is far from a complex character, but that doesn't stop him from being a great villain.

Number 6. Cell (Dragon Ball) - Cell is a Perfect villain. He’s got the traits of 3 main villains (Piccolo, Vegeta, & Frieza), along with some Goku elements in the mix, and it makes sense when you remember that he’s an android with the cells of the universes strongest fighters. Also he’s got the ability to absorb people, can perfectly copy techniques that would take years to learn, has quite the suave and charming personality in his perfect form, is extremely funny and snarky sometimes, is terrifying a lot of the time, and overall Cell was designed to be the endgame villain of Z, before Toriyama was asked to write the Buu Saga. Not only that, but he's got a surprising amount of psychological depth too for what is basically a pure evil killer bio-android made from the Cells of many different warriors, which makes him a full reflection and deconstruction of how Toriyama wrote his previous villains. In short, Cell WAS the final boss of the main campaign of the series until the Buu Saga and the continuous milking of the series. In short, Cell was, and still is, the PERFECT Dragon Ball villain from start to finish in terms of concept and execution.

Number 7. Bowser (Super Mario Bros) -Bowser is a genuinely great villain who is both versatile and fun as hell. Sure, there are a crapton of underrated villains in the Mario series, but no matter what you cannot really hate this guy. He’s a giant fire breathing turtle-dragon who’s a evil king, but he’s also a meathead, arrogant as hell, has very cool boss fights, is a surprisingly good father to his kids, an amazing protagonist and ally, as shown in games like the Paper Mario Series, and Mario & Luigi Series, occasionally scary as shit, not to mention he’s one of the more likable villains in gaming. Also let's not forget how terrifying he is in Mario Party with his friendship destroying mini games and mechanics. So yeah, Bowser’s a cool character and fun villain. He’s also my Smash Bros main.

Number 8. Griffith (Berserk) - COMPLETE. MONSTER. I jest, but in all seriousness Griffith is just the worst, even before he went full villain yet his downfall is still somewhat pitiable. A boy who grew up with nothing and rose from nothing with only his wits and charisma. Funnily enough, he could even be considered as sympathetic at certain points before his descent, despite how selfish he was. His entire character, and pursuit of a dream fits so well with the themes of identity, free will, and dreams, and overall he COULD'VE been better. Alas, Griffith was willing to go to dark places to fulfill his ambitions, and not only did things eventually go wrong, at his lowest point he willingly plunged himself into the darkest place imaginable in order to achieve his dream, and he did so without any regrets, becoming a complete and utter monster in the process. I hate this man, yet I still see how pathetic he is to the point where I pretty much pity him.

Number 9. Xemnas (Kingdom Hearts) -This guy is to this day one of the best Disney villains ever. Xemnas is the nobody of the Seeker of Darkness, Ansem, his husk given sentience, an entity that can feels nothing and wasn’t meant to exist, yet he’s quite the specimen and one of the most consistent character in the series. He’s a very sinister figure due to his nature, the fact that he’s a special nobody like Roxas, his inability to feel emotion, and his belief that negative emotions are what give the heart power, but at the same time you somehow manage to feel pity for him because of these things. While what he does is his own choice, you can clearly see that while he’s a different entity from his human self, he still chooses to go in that hollow shadow because it’s in his own nature, and it ended up being his downfall. That and his boss was truly a test of your skills. TL;DR: Xemnas is amazing.

Number 10. The Joker (Batman) - If there's one good thing about nostalgia, it help you remember certain things, and if you end up looking at the very thing you're nostalgic about from an analytical sense, you can end up figuring out for yourself if this gem from your childhood was good or bad. How does this relate to The Joker? Well The Joker is a bright, colorful, exuberant and funny clown, something that's supposed to bring joy and laughter to others, yet he is a nihilistic, psychopathic criminal whose only goal in life is to spread death, destruction and chaos through Gotham City in the most creative way possible because that's what brings him joy and laughter. He's a perfect contrast to Batman himself, who looks like an actual demon, yet chooses to protect the innocent. An amazing take of the Clown Prince of Crime requires menace, genuine comedy, a lack of care for life, a passion for what he does, and good writing. A prime example of a great Joker is shown in Batman: The Animated Series, a show that actually is worthy of being as fondly remembered as it is. The B:TAS crew understood the assignment and provided the definitive iteration of the character, completely inspired by his early comic appearances, with Mark Hamill's iconic voice for the character being the cherry on top. Despite all of the flaws in the Batman series over the past 100 years, the villains are unironically a compelling element of it all. Though despite the diversity of the entire rouges gallery, a well done Joker remains a perfect archenemy.

#(one behind the mask) Mun Izunia #ganon #ganondorf #sephiroth #Bowser #Cell #ozai #Xemnas #griffith #the joker #Malenia Blade of Miquella #Sauron #legend of zelda #the legend of zelda #final fantasy #ff7 #super mario bros #berserk #kingdom hearts #kh #elden ring #lord of the rings #batman #avatar the last airbender #dragon ball #ranking

[sidecharactersdomatter]

Thoughts I had during TGCF S1 Ep 8

-Previously on TGCF…

-They got spotted

-Xie Lian’s snake bite has gotten worse

-Woah that was a really cool fireball and lightning fusion attack

-EXPLOSION!

-Thank you San Lang for protecting your man like a champ!

-Hi Nan Feng

-Ninja fast

-Fighting fire with fire people!  Pun count: 9

-More Camera shakes

-Nan Feng gave em time to escape the hooded women

-They nodded in sync!

-So that’s where Zhao was hiding (I find it weird that desert guide shares the same name as that admiral from the last airbender)

-Ooooh cool more Ban Yue lore!

-Behind you

-Seems like its a legend

-Oh it is relevant to the fern

-It sounds like a legend that belongs in the 1000 and 1 nights

-Oooh it looks like a palace found in the Levantine, Middle East, and Persia

-Hi Tian Sheng

-You can even see his silhouette as he moves through the grass

-Ooooh his poor, poor head

-He’s got a lot of uncles in the caravan

-Fu Yao is not the best at crowd control folks

-Well that was a coincidence

-Thank you San Lang now moment of truth people

-Oooh the crushed fern stung his hand a bit on impact, love that attention to detail!

-And San Lang’s expression, is worried if he hurt him, but it worked!

-Oh yeah the next scene, Xie Lian thanks San Lang for healing him but they didn’t animate his mouth moving,  did anyone else notice that animation error or is it just me?

-Aw he’s sitting next to Xie Lian

-Oh that scream’s a bad sign

-Oh that’s just gross

-Yeah but our faces don’t stick out of the ground dude

-At least it’s very different when Sokka got stuck in a hole while Toph was teaching Aang earthbending (Another great Last Airbender Ep folks)

-Ugh he licked his lips

-The sound made when he moved his eyes (bluck)

-Yeah I wouldn’t step on where that guy’s in the ground

-Yeah he would totally bite you

-Oh that traitor merchant is dead

-Thank you whoever that was

-Ok that sort of looks like peak character design

-Ok the general’s voice is cool

-Thank you for ending the sentient fertilizer general

-You tell him San Lang

-Ugh

-I hope the human fertilizer is dead, it is in the manhua though

-You’re looking right at him, I’m just going to call Millstone ‘Kemo’ like in the manhua

-More zombie soldiers

-Aw no they’re gonna need sacrifices

-There’s the perceptor

-That’s a deep pit

-Man Xie Lian’s so selfless

-Zhao’s fight response kicked in

-No unstoppable forces don’t defeat immovable objects

-Not Zhao!

-Eeenie meanie meinie that kid (probably Kemo)

-No not Tian Sheng!

-“Sully not thine honor on innocent blood” That almost sounded like a bible quote…?

-Oooh hints of Xie Lian’s pre 3rd ascension life again

-Dude Xie Lian was royalty

-No one not even the Ban Yue soldiers paid attention to San Lang

-He’s gonna jump into the pit

-Aw he told Xie Lian not to worry Ahhh!!!

-He’s jumping into the pit

-Trust fall!  (You’ll see next ep peeps!)

-You’ll find out what he said way later

-He jumped into the pit

-Ruoye returned emptyhanded

-Oh and Xie Lian’s scream!  Kind of needed more raw emotion though

4 EPS left of Season 1 people!

#my reaction #episode reaction #episode commentary #episode 8 #tian guan ci fu #tgcf #heaven official's blessing #english dub #tgcf season 1 #Xie Lian #San Lang #Hua Cheng #Ban Yue #Kemo #tgcf kemo #Tian Sheng #avatar the last airbender #atla #aang #sokka #toph #admiral zhao #ruoye #Nan Feng #Fu Yao #Feng Xin #Mu Qing #Nan Yang #Xuan Zhen #Xianle trio

[philistiniphagottini]

your tkb smut from a couple weeks back has been literally living in my head rent free, something about the way you write him scratches an itch in my brain <3 could you maybe write something about him and cunnilingus + (giving) praise with a fem!reader? please and thank you!

Oh my god thank you Anon. I'm really happy that you enjoy my writing. Thanks for sending in a request, hope you enjoy :)

cw. smut, oral sex (fem receiving), slight praise, female reader

"Ahh, Bakura."

You sucked in a sharp breath between your teeth, kiss swollen lips trembling as another pleasant tingle raced along your curved spine. Your blood simmered with an unbearable heat, sweat prickling your bare flesh and every hair on the nape of your neck standing up as Bakura dragged his rough tongue through your creamy folds. There was no finesse to the way his tongue delved through your slick pussy, pushing and prodding until your wet sex opened up like a delicate desert flower in bloom.

Another whimper bubbled up the back of your throat as you writhed under his ministrations, hands fisting the silken sheets hugging your body and pulling the material taut between your fingers. Your eyelashes brushed against your burning cheeks as warmth licked at the base of your spine, slowly trickling and coiling in the pit of your stomach as Bakura delved his tongue deeper into your sticky folds. Long wisps of his snowy hair tickled the sensitive insides of your plush thighs, setting every single nerve in your body on edge as another pleasant tingle wracked your spine. Your hand tried to reach for the back of his head when another violent tremor left you feeling breathless, but before your fingertips could curl around his locks, he snatched your wrist. His grip was firm as he wrenched your hand away, slowly guiding it back to the comfort of the sweat soaked sheets where it belonged.

His eyes danced with mirth as he stared up at you, parting from your tender heat with a slick pop as he breathed deeply. Your intoxicating scent curled in his lungs, his hungry eyes roving over your bare form spread beneath him, eyes fixated on your dripping centre. Your toes curled into the soles of your feet at the sound that clawed at the back of his throat, a wicked smile lighting his features as you slowly crumbled beneath him.

"You taste like the ripest of fruits" Bakura mused.

Your eyes traced the movement of his tongue as he slowly dragged it over his parched mouth, the tip peeking between his lips like the flicker of a snake’s forked tongue. Your hips trembled in his grasp as his hands sank into generous amounts of skin, the soft pudge spilling between the digits as he dipped his head back between your supple thighs. You threw your head back with a loud whine of his name, the cold metal of his rings biting against your heated skin as he pulled your hips flush to his mouth. A chuckle breezed past his lips as the tip of his tongue poked at the hood of your clit, the pretty pearl sitting at the top of your pussy flushing to life from the sudden attention.

"What a good little Pet" he said, his hot breath soaking through your sticky folds. "Keep singing my praises just like that."

Without further warning he dove straight back down, mouth latched onto your pussy like he was a parched man and you were the oasis in the desert. The hot coil in your stomach twister tighter as another violent spike of pleasure made your toes curl hard into the soles of your feet. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as your nails threatened to tear holes into the sheets beneath you, debauched sounds spilling from your mouth in a cacophony of delirious pleasure. Your lungs pinched in your chest, soft tits bouncing and nipples pebbling with arousal as Bakura sucked your clit into his warm mouth. You could barely think past the thick haze clouding your mind as your thighs tensed, ready to clamp down on his head if given the opportunity. But Bakura was so exceedingly good at keeping your legs spread wide open for his viewing pleasure, his grip on your thighs almost bruising as he made you feel every slow, torturous drag of his tongue along your dripping slit. Beads of arousal dripped down your quaking thighs as his teeth nibbled on your tender clit, teasing the tightly packed bundle of nerves as stars wavered in your vision.

His sun kissed skin was searing to the touch as his nails raked along your flesh, carving crescent shaped marks into your skin. It felt like your heart leapt up into your throat as he dragged his rough tongue over the aching nerves of your clit, the fierce flames boiling in your stomach until you couldn’t handle it anymore. It felt like a bolt of electricity raced along your back as the hot coil in your stomach shattered into a million fragments, flooding your veins with white hot relief. You screamed until your voice stung in your throat, struggling to keep your eyes uncrossed as your drooling pussy clenched around nothing, the empty feeling only making you squirm for more. You could hear Bakura humming low in his throat as he continued to lap up the juices from your core like it was a sweet nectar, your body trembling as his tongue poked against the raw, hot nerve of your clit. The little bud twitched when he suckled it back into his hot mouth, teeth applying pressure as your overstimulated nerves made you shriek.

A mirthful laugh rumbled in his chest as he pulled back with a loud pop, your body shaking like a leaf in the wind. Your mind was still spinning, nerves all frayed at the ends as your senses sluggishly crawled back to you. You mewled softly when you felt Bakura’s tongue flickering against your sopping entrance, tongue eager to plunge into the depths. You tried to crawl away from him, but with an irritated pinch between his brow he simply dragged you back towards his greedy mouth.

"Wait, I just came" you exclaimed with a heady slur.

The muscles in your shoulders tensed as Bakura pressed his nose against the aching button of your clit, all noise of protest simpering down as you swallowed around the lump in your throat. You could feel his hot breath on your messy pussy again as his eyes flicked up to your face, a devilish grin lighting up his face as his sharp teeth glinted beneath the flicker of pale candlelight.

"And? I’ve yet to have my fill."

#my writing #yugioh #ygo #yugioh dm #yugioh thief king bakura #yugioh smut #thief king bakura x reader #fem!reader #x reader

[blackleatherjacketz]

Battle Born

Marc Spector x Female Reader

Summary: Marc calls you up after nearly a decade of silence and wants to meet up for drinks. You can’t say no.

Warnings: NSFW!, 18+ only, Explicit Smut, Choking, Spitting, Biting, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Hair Pulling, Nipple Play, Fist Fights, Attempted Gaslighting, Medical Lingo, Military Background

Word Count: 3239

Tags: @acutecupidity​ @letsby​ @likedovesinthewnd​

Read more MARVEL stories HERE! Read more Oscar stories HERE!

“Take your shirt off, Spec.” The gray cotton of his t-shirt clung to his chest in an uneven black oval as his skin peaked through a jagged tear just below his collar. He should be bleeding, hunched over, grabbing his chest in pain and struggling to breathe, but his lungs appeared to be working just fine. The splattering of blood that covered his hands and upper body didn’t seem to belong to him, drying and cracking over his unscathed knuckles in the brutal August heat.

“Let me examine you, it’s the least I can do.” You offered again.

“It’s nothing,” he brushed off, beads of sweat dotting at his temples. “I’m fine.”

He’d called you out of nowhere from a number you didn’t recognize, asking to meet up after nearly a decade of radio silence. His voice was shaky, almost desperate as he told you he needed to see your face, someone he trusted to level him out from whatever it was he was going through. If he were any other man you might have brushed him off, gone back to sleep after he woke you from your sleepy marathon of Ancient Aliens, but he wasn’t just any other man. He was someone you’d spent years in the service bonding through blood, sweat and tears with; only to have him disappear on you in the middle of the desert without a trace.

Part of you wanted to hear what he had to say while the other part just selfishly wanted to see him again. His rugged face had been worn by the time you’d spent apart, still remarkably unforgettable as you spotted him from across the bar. He seemed to have gotten even more handsome somehow, his olive skin barely wrinkling around his sable eyes as he smiled at you with his back against the wall. His high and tight haircut had grown into streaks of silver snaking their way into long charcoal curls, slicked back with a coat of summer sweat.

You’d caught him up on the past ten years of your life as you drank together, telling him more about the horror stories you acquired working in the hospital than he would about his life as a private sector mercenary. His eyes glazed over about halfway through his tale, something dark and unspoken weighing heavily on his conscience. It was bothering him more than he let on, but he danced around it the way only Marc Spector could, telling you just enough about a job gone wrong in Egypt before asking the waitress for the tab. He paid in cash before walking you home, before two men jumped out of an alley, mistaking his lack of height for weakness.

They’d grabbed you first, a mistake he made them pay for with fountains of blood and broken bones only after you saw the glint of a knife dive deep into his chest. The street lamp in the corner flickered on and off, the electrical short tricking your brain into thinking you were watching an old moving picture as Spector effortlessly incapacitated your attackers. It had all happened so fast, you barely had time to register the image of Spector ripping the knife out as it clattered onto the pavement at your feet. You’d seen him fight dozens of times before when you served together, but never like this. This time something was different.

“Spec,” you started again softly, folding your arms across your chest in the safety of your own apartment.

“You’re overreacting.” He walked over to the kitchen sink and started washing the blood off his hands and face.

“Overreacting? He fucking stabbed you!” You glared at him with concern. Overreacting? Overreacting?! I’ll show him overreacting… no. No, I won’t. Take a breath, just… breathe. You grabbed a clean hand towel from the drawer and stepped toward him, pointing at the hole in his shirt as proof. “I saw it go in, Spec, I swear I did, I...” At least you think you did, didn’t you? Yes, you were absolutely sure of it.

He took the cloth from your hands as little droplets of water collected on the tips of his curls, dampening his shirt even more as they took their time falling onto his chest. “You wanna see?” He challenged. “Huh? Is that gonna make you feel better? Is that gonna calm you down?” His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline as the speed of his words increased with his frustration.

“Yeah, actually, I do,” you pressed. “You could have a hemothorax right now, a pneumothorax even, but you were so insistent on not going to a hospital after all that back there. I mean what the hell was that?” You paused and took a breath, pointing a finger at him. “And just because I’m a nurse doesn’t mean that I have all these life-saving supplies here at my disposal! So before I can go to sleep tonight I’m gonna need to know that you’re…” You lost your train of thought as soon as he pulled his shirt off over his head, dropping it onto the floor.

“Oh,” you whispered, feeling a knot start to twist in your belly.

He grabbed your hand and placed it where the blade should have cut through his skin, pulling you in close enough to feel his breath on your cheek. “See? You feel that?”

“Mmm hmm.” Your whisper vibrated through your lips as the skin beneath your palm felt perfectly smooth, without scar or blemish. But how could that be? How could he heal so fast, even if the man had only nicked him with his blade? Surely there’d have to be a scrape or scratch somewhere on his torso. What wasn’t he telling you about what happened out there?

“I don’t need a hospital.” His calloused fingers held your hand in place, sending a shiver down your spine as he traced the inside of your palm with his fingertips.

“Okay,” you nodded, swallowing hard. “I can see that now.”

The intoxicating scent of his cologne mixed in with the sweat on his chest as it rose and fell beneath your touch, his heart beating even faster than yours. You felt your breath hitch, your throat begin to dry up as you stared at his body for fear of looking up into those eyes from this insanely intimate angle. Your desire to know what made him heal so fast was suddenly overridden by the desire to know what his mouth tasted like instead. “What do you need?”

Spector lifted your face with his opposite hand, curling his fingers beneath your chin until his mouth pressed against yours. Notes of smoke and honey faintly remained as he parted your lips with his tongue, a mere ghost of the aged liquor he drank earlier as his grip on your hand tightened. You breathed him in, smoothing your hand up and over his shoulder until you cradled the back of his neck, fingers weaving their way into the base of his hairline.

His kiss became intense, an attack on nearly all your senses as his lips and tongue explored every inch of your mouth. Teeth clashing against yours, he hummed as he sucked on your tongue, pulling it taut into his mouth before letting it fall back into place, nipping at your bottom lip. He smiled and grabbed recklessly at your hips to pull you in even closer, creeping his hands up beneath your shirt to find the hook of your bra, unclasping it in one fluid motion.

“Your turn.” He broke the kiss, watching you raise your arms as he pulled both items off you, tossing them on the floor next to his shirt. He was kissing you again before you could even blink, backing your thighs up against your kitchen table as he lifted you onto it with a hurried fervor. His lips left a trail of fire down your neck and jawline as he cupped your breast, sucking little spots into your skin that you knew would bruise later, but didn’t really seem to care.

You pressed your fingers up his scalp as he kissed down your chest, gooseflesh unevenly raising up your skin as he took your nipple between his lips. The tingling sensation of his tongue circling around it was quickly interrupted by the sharp pain of his teeth. The sudden bite drew out a mewling moan from your lips before you tugged on his curls in retaliation, leaning back to give him full access to your chest.

“You like that?” He kissed his question into your breastbone, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger as he bit into the other one.

“Uh huh,” you sucked in your breath, already missing the taste of his mouth.

“Good,” he muttered, biting down even harder before slowly licking his way down your abdomen. “You know how long I’ve wanted to taste you?” He looked up at you with those eyes, black and languid as a single curl fell down in front of them while he mouthed his way down your pelvis.

“How long?” You gently moved the curl to the side, running both hands through his hair as he slid his fingers beneath your pants and underwear.

“Ever since I met you.” He pulled your clothes off of your hips, the hot summer air barely a relief as he completely disrobed you.

“Oh yeah?” You remembered feeling some kind of way the very second you saw him on your first assignment. His face alone had made you blush, made you turn away in frustration as you tried to do your job in peace, but his voice, his smile, his hands and eyes? Well, those had sent your hand straight down your PT shorts as you tried to keep quiet in your bunk while everyone else tried to sleep overseas. You’d gotten along with everyone in your company just fine, but you always thought that Spector favored you above anyone else. He always laughed at your jokes, saved your favorite snacks for you and kept you company on fire guard, but he never made a move. Not until tonight.

“Yeah,” he confessed, getting onto his knees and pulling you close to the edge of the table. He winked at you and wrapped his hand around the outer part of your thigh before licking a stripe up your already soaking wet length.

Fuck, that felt good. You still couldn’t believe this was finally happening. Three hours ago you had almost forgotten who he was entirely, and now he was here eating dessert at your dining room table. His breath warmed the delicate skin between your thighs, patiently kissing you everywhere except for where it counted until you rolled your hips forward, brushing your clit against his nose. You felt him laugh, tracing his fingers up and down your lips to collect the juices at your entrance before spreading them apart to get a better look at you.

His tongue suddenly returned to your sex, keeping your folds spread wide open as he lapped up the natural heat from your swollen cunt. His fingers eventually eased their way inside of you, his saliva mixing with your arousal to lubricate them as he buried each knuckle even deeper. “Mmm, you taste so fucking good.” He brought his thumb up to your bud, pressing it up as another moan echoed from your lungs against the kitchen walls, drowning out the dull hum of the old air conditioning unit in the window.

“Yeah?” You pulled tighter on his hair, putting his mouth back onto you.

His response was muffled as he took the hint, looking up at you one last time before closing his eyes and getting to work. His mouth was insane, working in tandem with his fingers that pushed into you as he took your clit between his teeth, sucking on it the same way he had your tongue earlier. Oh God, he was too good at this; you could tell that he had done this dozens of times before just to become absolutely perfect at it in time to reunite with you.

You let your own eyes close, focusing on that blissful feeling that he sent to the center of your body with each flick of his tongue and thrust of his hand. You couldn’t help but gasp and hum as he pushed wave after wave of pleasure into your core. Each one was bigger than the last, building on top of each other as they swam up your spine one by one until they finally crashed into your brain, roaring loudly with insurmountable crests of delight. Your body shook as the peak shattered, arching your back toward the sky as he continued to consume you, relentlessly making your thighs twitch and your toes curl.

You nearly ripped the hair out of his head as you rode the aftershock, bright white stars appearing on the inside of your eyelids as your humming turned into even louder moans. You could feel his saliva dripping down your lips and ass, the sound of the droplets hitting the tile floor almost as loud as his fingers slicking in and out of you. He barely slowed down his penetrating rhythm as he suckled your bud into his mouth one last time, pulling it out before letting it spring back into place. He opened his eyes and ran his fingers through the layers of your sensitive skin, making you quiver with overstimulation as he grinned like the cat who ate the canary.

He got up off his knees as you propped yourself onto your elbows, gazing down at him in the haziness of your afterglow. He’d never looked as good as he did right now, your scent and flavor smeared all over his face.

“Open your mouth,” he demanded, standing up between your thighs.

“Okay,” you whispered with a nod, letting him grab your chin with his sopping wet fingers.

“Stick out your tongue.” He hovered over you, pressing your cheeks together until you did as you were told. He looked down on you with a lustful gaze, studying your face before spitting directly into your mouth, watching the white string of saliva fall down the back of your throat.

You felt your heart beating in overtime as you kept your tongue out for as long as you could, savoring the taste of your sexual concoction before gratefully swallowing his secretions. You licked his lips before he kissed you, a salty tartness taking over as he made a mess of both your faces.

“Tell me how you want to be fucked.” He rutted his clothed cock between your legs, squeezing your ass with his opposite hand.

Jesus God, what have you done in your life to deserve something this good, this… undeniably delicious? In all of your fantasies about him, he was never this aggressive, this fucking filthy.

“Let’s move to the couch.” You didn’t tell him that you were skeptical this table would support your own weight, let alone the weight of the two of you going at it.

He grinned and kissed you again before letting go of your face, grabbing both of your thighs and hoisting you onto his hips before carrying you down the hall into the living room. Tossing you onto the sofa, he unfastened his belt and jeans, pulling them down to his ankles to reveal just how ready he was before stepping out of his boots.

“Tell me how you want it,” he ordered again, licking his palm before slowly stroking himself with a needy stare.

“I want,” you paused as you watched him slick his fist over his girth, a motion you could watch him perform forever, if you were being honest with yourself. “I want you to fuck me from behind,” you confessed, unsure if you could handle any more stimulation from him, or from that.

“Turn around, baby.” His voice was like wet gravel on a back road, halfway between a whisper and a growl as he climbed onto the sofa, grabbing your legs and tilting them to the side. He slid himself inside you the second you got onto your knees, stretching out your smooth muscle with a pleasure so intense it made your head start to spin. Those stars returned to your eyes as he bottomed out with a stuttering grunt, wrapping an arm around your waist to draw you in even closer with each thrust.

“Oh my God, Marc,” you groaned. You slipped up and called him by his first name as those indulgent stars seemed to shoot up and down your body, barely escaping through pathways of clenched fingers and toes.

He followed suit and muttered yours against your shoulder, biting into it as he wrapped his other hand around your jawline. His pace quickened as he turned your chin to face him, planting breathy little kisses onto your lips and face as he relentlessly snapped his hips into your cheeks.

“Marc, please!” You begged, unable to handle any more stimulation as his balls continually collided with your sweet spot.

“You want me to come inside you?” He slid his hand around your throat, pulling you down onto him with a tightened grip as you barely whispered the word ‘yes’ into his mouth. “What was that?”

“Yes!” You shouted, tears welling up in your eyes as your ecstasy all but consumed you, forcing your teeth to chatter and your arms to give out as streams of saline ran down your face.

He cradled your body, the sweat from his stomach saturating your lower back as he held you against him, spilling his orgasm inside your well spent heat. His fingers clutched at your throat, nearly halting your already stifled breath as he rattled and hummed, almost breaking the skin at the nape of your neck. He sucked your flesh into his mouth, massaging it with his tongue as he howled deep vibrations into your very bones with his wild and untamed groans. His cock twitched against your walls, leaking down your inner thighs as he pulled out and pushed back in, slower each time until both of your moaning had stopped.

“Wow, that was…” you whispered, finally collapsing onto the couch as he reluctantly let you go. “Amazing,” you finished, frowning as he pulled himself out of you, the brief loss of contact making you feel instantly alone before he laid down beside you.

“Yeah.” A genuine smile crossed his lips as he kissed you again, wiping the tears off your face with the back of his thumb. “We should have done that a long time ago.”

“Well, this way we don’t have an audience of the whole battalion.” You kissed his palm as he held your face, fingering the golden star pendant that dangled from his neck. You’d always imagined what his dog tags would say if you got close enough to look:

SPECTOR, MARC D. O NEGATIVE. JEWISH.

But this was better, more meaningful, him coming to you out of desire instead of leaning on you in a time of stress and confusion just because you were the closest one there. He’d remembered you after all these years and sought you out, looking you up to rekindle what you both had been holding a pretty strong flame to.

“Yeah, I guess not.” He looked up and over at the kitchen, playfully biting his lower lip. “You got any popcorn?”

#moon knight #marc spector #oscar isaac #marc spector x reader #moon knight fan fiction #moon knight fanfic #marc spector fanfic

[snow-system-wol]

S'ria finally gets to learn about himself -- even if it's uncomfortable that it was through someone else. (Partway through the first Gyr Abania visit. Does reference S'ria Snippets Ch 12 events.)

warnings: nothing specific, but memory loss and cultural identity weirdness. theres a snake

Ao3

It'd gotten back to S'ria eventually – subtly at first, the obvious rumor mill whispering in his vicinity. Several of the people at camp started looking at him differently.

There'd been awe from some of them before, the usual response his reputation seemed to elicit. There was something new there, now – those that had seemed a bit jaded to his presence now looked a bit…softer towards him? And those that were previously too intimidated by the Warrior of Light title to speak with him suddenly found the courage and comfort to do so. He appreciated both the kindness and the willingness to treat him a bit more like a normal person, but it just left him confused.

S'ria honestly had no idea what had happened for such an overnight shift.

His first real clue was someone calling him “brother”, same as she referred to the other members of the Resistance. The only other person among them that got that treatment was Lyse.

His second clue was that Alisaie and Lyse had both been acting strange ever since he'd passed out in the desert yesterday (which he was, quite frankly, still embarrassed about). He could understand them perhaps being overbearing or concerned or even dubious of his health. This was something else though. S'ria had suffered enough lapses in his memory to wonder if there'd been more that, something he'd missed happening. Usually it was battles that disappeared from recall, but occasionally other things caused it too.

S'ria didn't need the benefit of a third clue, because J’tandhaa came right out and said it.

It might've happened sooner, if he'd had a prior reason to speak with her. As things were, her wares and his interests didn't much align – but he had dropped by purely on a favor for someone else. She leaned over, conspiratorially, and quietly said that she wanted to let him know something. Purely as a courtesy among fellow survivors. He didn't have time to question what that meant before she continued.

“Your friend, the young girl – she's been asking some prying questions about your past. She's likely figured out that your tribe used to be here from context, and I think other parts of camp have heard it on the wind as well.”

Your tribe used to be here? S'ria had a different question for almost every single word in that phrase, and the very first was perhaps why she seemed to think he'd understand what was being said. His voice came out high and stressed, managing to crack multiple times on just a few syllables. “Pardon? She what?”

The look J’tandhaa gave him was sympathetic, almost unbearably so. “She pointed out the exact location on the map – whatever…reaction you may have had to passing by your home must've been worrying to them, for her to start asking around.” 

S'ria placed both hands on the counter, as slowly and gently as he could to avoid slamming them into the surface instead, and stared down at the wood. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

She started to respond and her voice quickly tripped from the start of annoyance at his response to genuine uncertainty. “You're an S Tribe boy, aren't you?”

“It's in my name.” S'ria knew she wanted a better answer than that, but he was having a hard time understanding what the question meant. He could only hope that the bland half-dissociated response didn't come out sounding fully impertinent.

“I thought… aren't you a real member, not just from one of those city-seeking families that still claim the name for their own – if you don't want to answer, just say so instead of getting smart with me.”

S'ria could almost laugh. That was why so many people suddenly started treating him differently? Because they had this false hope that he was really one of them, that he belonged here? The want for the vaunted hero of the realm to be someone just like them? That misunderstanding was cruel for everyone involved.

Except… S'ria couldn't say for certain that it actually was a misunderstanding. Nothing was disproving it. He was fairly certain his name had always been S'ria. He'd allegedly not been in Limsa Lominsa before Jacke found him, when they were both teens. He didn't know who his parents were, couldn't remember anything before the Rogue's. And, most damningly perhaps – even if he didn't remember what had happened out in the hills, it was increasingly clear that he'd missed something important again.

It…sounded more plausible the longer he thought about it. He had over a decade unaccounted for, almost anything could've happened. It was also nearly impossible to consider, though. S'ria had long since given up on trying to recover his past – and had always harboured doubts as to whether that was a good idea in the first place. But here, there was suddenly a tempting answer to pursue.

It took most of S'ria's courage to push forward into the unknown.

“I don't know.” He wished he was no longer standing, the way his legs shook to admit that. “I wish I could give you a better answer. But I don't remember.”

J’tandhaa didn't immediately respond, lapsing into something that S'ria didn't know how to interpret. He was fairly certain that she hadn't wanted this complicated of a conversation and that maybe he should walk away now.

He was stopped by her speaking up again. “I have an idea. Might not work but it's an idea. Let me get someone to tend the wares and then I'll meet you at the south entrance.”

She took off immediately and S'ria was left to meander towards the meeting point and wonder if he should've tried to stop her first. Somehow, out of all that had happened, this was one of the most terrifying moments he'd experienced lately.

They were barely a few dozen steps out of the Reach when S'ria stopped and turned to her with a look of horrified realization.

“You – you aren't taking me back to that spot, are you?”

She shook her head and the fear immediately dropped from his face. “No. Though the fact that you seemed immediately scared of going back to the remains feels like it should already be an answer for you.”

S'ria was completely at a loss for how to respond to that and, after a few moments of silence, J’tandhaa began walking again. She assured him that they likely wouldn't need to go far at all.

She paused once more to ask him, suspiciously, if he had any sort of phobias of creatures or critters. S'ria responded with a somewhat baffled no.

They wove past beasts and kept an ear out for patrols, all while she kept her attention firmly fixed towards the ground. She seemed to be getting a bit frustrated. S'ria was about to ask what she was even looking for and if he could help – and then she made an excited noise and immediately dove down to plunge her hands into a thicket of dry grass.

“S'ria, come down here and look at this.”

He dropped into a crouch by her, a touch nervously. Perhaps it was warranted, because she immediately turned around and lifted a snake up to him.

Now, S'ria wasn't at all scared of snakes, and there was nothing particularly threatening about this one – striped with thin white bands on black scales, barely the length of his arm. Despite that, he still felt an immediate jolt of fear – moving from a crouch to gracefully landing on his ass in his haste to put some distance between himself and the snake.

J’tandhaa chuckled, not unkindly. “Wrong snake, friend. This one's black with white bands – the one that'll kill you is white with black bands.” Her expression grew more serious, face softer. She put the snake back into the grass and reached out a hand to help S'ria to his feet. “A child wouldn't much know the difference, better for your mother to beg you to avoid any snakes with those color stripes. Aye, you wouldn't flinch if you didn't have the instinct to be afraid.” She patted S'ria on the back, heedless of the fact that he looked like he might easily keel over. “Welcome home.”

#ffxiv-oc #snow-system #S'ria 🌸❄️ #ffxiv-reactions #writings #he's not quite so keen on the whole 'real' member thing that's happening

[flowerprose]

HADES

the unseen one, receiver of the dead & king of the underworld

from namesake, a hades and persephone myth retelling in which hades is a skeleton, stripped of his godhood and powers, and persephone is a young flower maiden in search of her missing mother.

Role: Protagonist and POV character

Character Snippet: below the cut

ask to be added or removed from the tag list!

The God of the Dead bears no crown in the land of the living. Shadows drape around him, like a dusk-veiled cape, like gossamer cloth, like lampblack flesh. Below, his eyes taunted between sunken gold and expiring embers. But here, the darkness where his pupils reside swallow all traces of light. His light-eater gaze punishes almost as severely as the stone-withering look of the serpent woman he calls friend.

The warmth of Hell deserts him when he steps into Gaian land. Grass and plantlife recoil from his steps, poisoned by the very menace of his being. Hades neither admires nor instigates such death; it follows him, clings to him, the way the dead have marked him with their stench and know he will lead them home.

But the Gaian earth—this is a realm he seldom visits. Even when he claimed his wife, he gutted the Earth, let the tendrils of the Underworld drag her into his arms. His helmet grants him invisibility, but what can cloak him from the stench of humanity? The way humans and life have swallowed this world?

Suffocating. In the depths below, at least he can catch a breath.

Something is wrong here, of course, beyond his unsheltered presence. He lifts his arms, bones bonded by magic or by will, he does not know. He bears no flesh, no armour, nothing that would even entice a hound to gnaw. Rot clings to him, festering and rancid, like his king-body melted and all that remains is this sticky mess of what mankind calls a body.

A curse of sorts, he presumes. Demeter. Mother of his wife, sister of himself. Wretched, life-bearing creature with a penchant for punishment, much like the other she-devils who throned the mountaintop of the world. If anyone wished unrelenting harm on him, he would cast blame to she. Mother, her only solace. Mother she can be again, but not to his bride.

He walks in death, leaving a trail of flower limbs and grassless earth behind him. Each step a desecration to Demeter, to Gaia, to every wretched bringer of birth and life. All but one—his other half.

Hades reaches out with his skeletal hand, concentrating on the slivering shape of his servant and curling the air around his arm. The air manifests into a serpent, summoned by his will and word.

“Massssster,” it hisses softly. The black beast bows its head demurely, but as it unravels around him, its shape monstrous and engorging, it leans over him, like a sickly tower about to topple forward.

“Find my bride,” Hades commands. “Bring her to me or call me to her—but do not leave her side.”

“Persssssssephoneeee,” the snake whispers. Hades nods, and it vanishes into black smoke, the sliver of its body undisturbed by the molten trail Hades left behind him.

What would the Gods do when their kin starved? When their only whisper of might and glory belonged to him? And yet his body rotted into the very bones he commanded. How could the very world be plunging into his domain, yet here he stood, too weak to rule the Underworld bestowed to him.

#namesake:writing #hades x persephone #greek mythology #character intro #writeblr #myth retelling #my moodboards #ahhhhh so many of my favourite photos i saved for him ended up going towards other moodboards but! #i really do love how this turned out #i love hades so much #he has a very... sardonic personality #i hope i do him justice!!! #my writing #namesake:character intro