#white lipped pit viper

[filopay]

Happy Lunar New Year 2025 🪵🐍

[unicornblossom13]

[Animals I Believe Best Represent The Ninjago Boys]

1) Kai would be an Asian Leopard Cat:

2) Cole’s would be a black Gray Wolf:

3) Jay’s is going to be a Hamerkop:

4) Zane’s would be, pretty obviously, a Gyrfalcon:

5) Finally, Lloyd’s would be a White-Lipped Pit Viper:

[colorsoutofearth]

Blue form of White-lipped Island Pitviper (Trimeresurus insularis) from Komodo Islands

Photo by Matthieu Berroneau

[herpsandbirds]

Please may we have some really cool snakes that I can share with my friends who are celebrating Lunar New Year and the Year of the Snake?

For the Chinese year of the snake, let's have some Chinese snakes!

Fea’s Viper (Azemiops kharini), family Viperidae, China

Venomous.

photograph by 王锦泽

Black-banded Trinket Snake aka Red Bamboo Snake (Oreocryptophis porphyraceus pulcher), family Colubridae, Yunnan, China

photograph by Gernot Vogel

White-lipped Pit Viper (Trimeresurus albolabris), family Viperidae, Hong Kong

Venomous.

photograph by Adam Franc

Mangshan Pit Viper (Protobothrops mangshanensis), family Viperidae, endemic to the mountains of Hunan and Guangdong, China

ENDANGERED.

Venomous.

Photograph by cowen_p

Fujian Coral Snake aka Kellog’s Coral Snake (Sinomicrurus kelloggi), family Elapidae, Guandong, China

Venomous.

photograph by Adrian Ng

Hainan Mountain Rhinoceros Rat Snake (Gonyosoma hainanense), family Colubridae, found in Hainan, China

photograph by Colubra (@colubra_reptiles)

Flower Snake aka Moellendorf’s Rat Snake (Elaphe moellendorffi), family Colubridae, found near a cave entrance in Qingyuan, Guangdong, China

photograph by Adrian Ng

Green Cat Snake (Boiga cyanea), family Colubridae, found in South Asia, SE Asia, and southern China

Rear fanged, mildly venomous.

photographs by Dick Bartlett

[br-uwu-cewayne]

thinking about a young, stereotypically pretty-boy (for masculinity in the 70’s) Gordon starting on the force

and the idea that some of his key personal traits and habits and appearance - the big glasses, thick mustache, perpetual 5 o’clock shadow, close shorn hair, disheveled style, big coat, open “disdain” for the more “ridiculously elaborate” svelte dress and personal care habits of his affluent peers like the Waynes and other key Gotham political and financial figures - all stemmed from trying to hide that

just… one too many uncomfortable looks from his superior officers… one too many snide comments from his other brothers compatriots allies coworkers competitors rivals enemies on the force around him…

and that strategizing brain tick-tick-ticks ahead calculation the risks and the dangers and the suitable solutions and the next pair of glasses he buys are chunky enough to hide his bright eyes still soft and not crinkling around the edges or baggy beneath yet, and a scraggly mustache slowly starts to overtake his pretty, pouting upper lip, and the classic seventies ginger waves curling just below his ears get buzzed in tight to match the butch, military look of the rest of his department and he slams that closet door tighter and tighter shut

and STILL he feels like a sore thumb of a target for the first few years, sticking out swollen and unnatural and all the more obviously an interloper. like trying and failing to emulate masculinity makes it even plainer that he wasn’t built for it.

until one day he puts his glasses on and notices his mustache has really properly come in nice and full and he’s become accustomed to how his short hair has settled around his brow and he’s even packed on a few strong pounds around his shoulders and midsection, soft but sturdy

and it’s not the same kind of comfort he used to feel when he looked at himself and would fantasize having the freedom of the long-haired hippie boys in their lanky bodies and lively flowers and flowing clothes and wandering hands and open thighs

but seeing a new prescience, that of the powerful men in those Other magazines, with their thick facial and body hair and dirty greasy jeans and white tank tops pulled tight around large chests and bellies and powerful hips and big wide palms and eyes honed sharp and piercing by the experience of the world… the sort of eroticized masculinity pouring out from the centerfolds of the magazines he hid under his bed until his marriage…

it’s not like he hadn’t been settled with himself before. it’s not like he didn’t feel like a man, or thought men couldn’t or shouldn’t BE pretty… but as much as he hates to credit the fear and the pressure of trying to survive amongst those wolves with ANYTHING, he hadn’t exactly been HAPPY either. Had never sought out his own manhood, didn’t think anything of it all really.

Not like he does now, decades later, no longer playing a character with it but embodying it fully. in fact, so much so he’s having to temper it in a different way - fear of enjoying it too much, knowing that to keep flying below the radar he has to walk a fine, fine line.

Juuuust masculine enough, juuuuuust All American Man enough, knowing that if he enjoys it a little Too Much and pushes it a little Too Far someone will spot the caricature of it all and see him for what he is. But he’s had practice. Between the Chicago and Gotham police forces he’s come up in the toughest, most judgmental, most back-biting pit of hissing vipers looking for any weakness to exploit. He knows how to straddle the line between Performance and Genuine to keep those baying hounds off track - tossing them just a bit of scent they expect so they never sniff around any closer. So they presume they’ve found all there is and skulk off in search of a different target.

Yeah, he knows how to make sure the self-centered power-hungry ambition-blind cops and politicians and criminals and even his wife only see what they expect to see. What they WANT to see. After twenty years, he’s finally confident in that.

So he’s utterly unprepared when this fucking nutcase in kevlar armor shows up all genuine and honest and moral as fuck despite the violence he enacts, who’s eyes and words cut sharp as the curved blades he throws straight through Jim’s mask just as clearly as the Gordon can’t make heads or tails of the caped stranger’s own.

[lcfthaunted]

Pale eyes flick from the flames to the daemon, and she offers Hester a gentle smile but makes no move to lie down. Lazily, the viper looped around her neck says, “She doesn’t sleep much anymore. Don’t take it personally.”

“Calophias,” Mazie chides gently.

“It is exhausting,” Cal complains. “You sleep so little it is a wonder you can still move the next day.”

“You are welcome to sleep if you are tired.”

Pale blue scales shift against her skin as Cal loops about her neck again, resting his head on her shoulder. Quietly, intended only for her, “I have no intention of leaving you alone with your thoughts, Mazileah.”

Mazie reaches up and gently strokes his head with the back of her index finger, eternally grateful for his companionship. Redirecting her attention to Hester, she murmurs, “It is quite alright. I cannot imagine you are given much opportunity to sleep restfully, with the life you lead. We can wake you, if anything happens, or we grow weary.”

open to mutuals

THE HARE HAS her paws tucked under her as her human counterpart falls into a rare, heavy sleep. he snores loudly for a moment before she nudges his arm, making him roll onto his side, silencing the sound. satisfied, she hops back to her usual post by his head, face turned toward the fire to warm her twitching nose.

" you can go ahead & sleep, " she says to their companion, " i can keep watch. "

[stearleart]

white-lipped pit viper ink drawing

Continuation of some snake doodles with this sketch of a white-lipped pit viper!

[the-goat-bazaar-of-art]

Preview for Chapter 6 of Pit of Vipers

"Did you see what she was wearing?" Severus asked, rage buzzing beneath his skin like a cluster of bees. 

"Sybil?" Sirius glanced over, casual. "Yeah, she always wears that stuff. Ever since she came back from traveling with those Romani witches and wizards."

He hopped onto the narrow stone wall that bordered one of his neighbor’s front gardens, perfectly at ease. "Why does it matter?"

Severus glared up at him, seriously considering shoving him off. "Why? Because if my mother had worn anything like that in Cokeworth, she'd have had her teeth kicked in. Or worse. If she didn’t have magic, that’s exactly what would’ve happened to her."

Sirius’s smirk slipped. He blinked down at him, confused. "Why?"

Severus stared. Long and hard. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if Sirius was being deliberately thick or just so steeped in privilege he didn’t know what he didn’t know.

Against his better judgment, he decided to explain.

Because Sirius Black, the white pureblood boy—whose family inbred itself into preservation rather than risk so much as a drop of Muggle blood—wouldn’t know what it meant to be a half-Romani, half-Iranian woman walking through the slums swarming with National Front bastards. 

Wouldn’t know that you could be pale and still never be white enough.

"Because, Black," he said, doing his best to hold back his natural sarcasm, "my mother is visibly not white. Her family was from Persia, before the name change. Her own mother was Roma. She practices a religion that's not Christianity. She kept a lot about the Princes from me, but she did tell me we wore black in public and not colorful outfits. Because it was safer."

He raised his fingers, counting. "Our noses? Sharp. Pointed. Big. Our skin? Olive. Or yellow, depending on who’s throwing slurs that day. Our hair? Greasy, black, not European." 

He paused, casting a nasty glare at the ground. "My name isn’t even supposed to be Severus. It should’ve been Savir.”

He shook his head of the name that wasn't his. "And until very recently," he continued. "We lived in all white neighborhood with neo-nazis because she tied herself to a man who couldn't be fucked to move out despite knowing his wife got rape threats daily because of her race." 

If Mother hadn't left Tom, he realized sharply neither her or him would had dealt with the bigots in Spinner's End. 

Shock flickered across Sirius face, then something more quiet. Guilt. 

He jumped off his perch, now the two were standing toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye. "I didn't think about...all these years. All those mean comments about," he waved his hand, gesturing, "I didn't know."

"Most people don't think," Severus said, snappish. "But whatever works for a laugh, right?"

"Well, not anymore." Sirius said, a slow smirk forming on his lips. "Not after that dance."

And like that, Severus's anger vanished under a cloud of embossment. His cheeks turned pink, and sharply turned away from Sirius. 

[materassassino]

The Old Guard Dæmon AU

Probably done before, but I wanted to write one myself, so I thought I'd make a guide to the Guard and their respective dæmons, to go with the fic I just posted for it.

Andy: Hwehnto (Przewalski's horse)

Yeah, a wolf or some other predator might fit, but let's face it, the supreme horse girl should have a horse for a dæmon. *h₂weh₁n̥to- is Proto-Indo-European for "wind", butchered into a modernly comprehensible Hwehnto/Hwento. He is a very serious and stoic dæmon, much like Andy, but his outbursts of emotion are striking. He is vicious in battle and will not hesitate to attack both human and dæmon, if necessary.

I did also consider a tarpan for Andy, but there is literally one photo in existence of one. I generally assume that actually it would be some European wild horse so old it doesn't exist anymore, and we've lost all modern knowledge of it. So Przewalski's horse will do.

Quynh: Minh Nhat (white-lipped pit viper)

Of course our viper would have a viper! Small, quick and venomous. He doesn't have a name yet because, frankly, I don't speak Vietnamese and I want him to have a cool name like most dæmons have. His name is Minh Nhat, which means "bright sunlight", in contrast with Quynh's name. More outgoing than most dæmons, will talk casually with other humans, and is prone to little acts of thievery (thimbles, small nuts, little trinkets), mostly out of delight with the object than any malice. Very tiny! Likes spending his time tucked up Quynh's sleeve. Will not hesitate to bite a human should the need arise, but tucks himself in Quynh's collar or scarf when in battle.

I was torn between this and a red-headed krait, but ultimately went to an actual viper (well, pit viper, close enough).

Joe: Tayyib (scimitar oryx)

(Oddly difficult to find a photo of one alone, with no radio collar, that hasn't been shot by some bastard trophy hunter).

Tayyib (named that way for obvious reasons and chosen by Joe's mother's dæmon) represents everything poetic and artistic about Joe, and is calm and wise. Dislikes fighting, but will if he must: watch out for those horns! Yes, he is a male dæmon, a rarity, another commonality Joe shares with Nicky. I wonder why? A very good listener who gives good advice.

I don't know why I decided on another ungulate for this hapless team (can they even go anywhere?), but I did. I figured a desert antelope of some kind would be good for Joe, and it was a toss-up between this and an addax. I admit I chose it just for the name.

Nicky: Bonamico (Luzon bleeding-heart dove)

Geographically, it doesn't make sense. Symbolically? I had to. Bonamico is quiet, contemplative and kind, barely speaks except to Nicky, Joe or Tayyib, but is always concerned for those about him. He is far more nervous than Nicky, but stores a lot of knowledge, a trait he does share with Nicky. His favourite place to perch, other than Nicky's shoulder, is between Tayyib's horns (although occasionally he likes to sit on Joe's head). He does the scouting for the group, as the only bird dæmon.

This bird is the entire reason I made this damn AU. It's just too perfect. Look at this Catholic-ass bird!

Booker: Amandine (black rat)

*wheezing* I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm not sorry.

Now, the problem with dæmons is that we have rat symbolism, which is of rats as dirty and sneaky, but we're also modern human beings that know perfectly well rats are cute, intelligent and affectionate creatures that make amazing pets. Amandine herself is mostly just shy and quiet, although she does like it when she gets the chance to roast Booker, but then again, who doesn't? She is their little reconnaissance expert, being sent in to buildings and small places to chew through wires and spy. She, unlike Booker, is always supremely well-groomed.

I did consider a ferret or stoat, something a little more noble, but I personally do love rats so much and so I wanted a positive rat dæmon, for once.

Nile: Dakarai (red wolf)

I wanted to give Nile something supremely American, but she was in the Marines, and soldiers of most kinds tend to have dog dæmons, so no stereotypical birds. But Nile is also smart and quick-thinking, and family-oriented, so the red wolf made sense to me. Dakarai is loyal and far more serious than his human, a bit more cynical. Having been trained in a modern Armed Force, post-Geneva Convention, he's never touched another human being and has exclusively fought other dæmons. He is, of course, a good tracker.

Someone had to have a canine in this group. Might as well be Nile!

Bonus (under the cut for cockroach reasons):

James Copley: Vindemiatrix (common raven)

The Odin symbolism of the knowledge-seeker raven, honestly. She perches in odd places, watches everything, and reports back. She is a secret-keeper and prone to keeping her own counsel, not interacting much with other dæmons. She, like Copley, misses his wife and her Pallas's cat dæmon something fierce.

Stephen Merrick: Unnamed (American cockroach)

Need I say more? He deserves it.

Dr Meta Kozak: Unnamed (hagfish)

A disgusting dæmon for a disgusting woman, who burrows into people's bodies and eats them from the inside out. She carries the horrid thing in a lightweight tank backpack, one of the many modern accomodations for people with water-dwelling dæmons.

Keane: Unnamed (Eastern black rhino)

A beautifully noble dæmon, unfortunately wasted on a bastard.

Lykon: Unnamed (melanistic leopard)

She was graceful, majestic and courteous, and absolutely breathtaking in battle. She would dispense affection to daemon and human alike, much like Lykon himself.

[ormspryde]

New D&D character, Mystislav; aka, the world's most tired man.

[ID: A drawing in ink and colored pencil of a humanoid reptile, colored teal and white after a white-lipped island pit viper, dressed in a hooded robes. He looks extremely tired. /ID]

[wendievergreen]

Miscellaneous Snakes

I'm proud of myself for drawing 14 snakes in one week, but I also kind of regret it (￣ ￣|||) spread myself a leeeetle thin. Real snakes cited and quick thoughts under the cut

1: Mlegtugwam (Calloselasma rhodostoma, Malayan pit viper, Malayan ground snake, Malayan moccasin)- most of the asps were assigned random venomous snakes. I picked the reference image based on the pose.

2: Girtranaeg (Xenopeltis unicolor, sunbeam/iridescent snake)- god its eyes look so silly. Anyway, y'all should look up sunbeam snakes, they're beautiful

3: Hrukgolklo (Micrelaps bicoloratus, Kenya two-headed snake)- I didn't draw it in a circle shape because I was so charmed by the original photo. They really look like they have two heads, it's adorable.

6: Tafmiwukri (Micruroides euryxanthus, Sonoran/western/Arizona coral snake)- red because its victims sweat blood

4: Thagolgrom (Naja naja, Indian/spectacled/Asian/binocellate cobra)- obvs I had to include the most iconique serpent somewhere

5: Shabalrang (Rhabdophis subminiatus, red-necked keelback)- in my sketch its eyes were closed, but than I remembered that snakes don't have eyelids😔

7: Krefemklog (Vipera berus, common European adder/viper)- I really like how the vapor turned out.

9: Nrogklongo (Neelaps calonotus, black-striped burrowing snake)- just a little guy

11: Zriggwanto (Chrysopelea ornata, golden tree snake, ornate flying snake)- ZHOOM

8: Kraehozdim (Elaphe quatuorlineata, four-lined snake, Bulgarian ratsnake)- lives in Italy, on the larger side for a European snake. The pattern is from a stereotypical dairy cow, the white lip is a milk mustache.

10: Samgleshti (Crotalus cerastes, sidewinder, horned rattlesnake)- I'm 90% certain I found the original species during research. Luckily, there's a very similar snake in North America, lol. Horns are inspired by Jacob sheep

12: Kramlengga (Macrovipera lebetina, blunt-nosed/Lebetine/Levant viper)- I like how its eyes turned out. So piercing! (◉-◉)

13: Galwinglik (Bitis schneideri, Namaqua/spotted dwarf adder, Schneider's adder)- the smallest venomous snake

14: Yeakrindra (Leptotyphlops carlae, Barbados threadsnake)- the tiniest snake of all!

I finally got around to listening to the Maniculum Podcast this week :) I love it! 10/10

[underafullmoon3]

The komodo island pit viper is one of the most beautiful snakes on the planet. Most people don't know that these beautiful bright blue snakes can be found inside Komodo National Park, alongside the komodo dragons.

Trimeresurus insularis, also known as the white-lipped island pit viper, is a venomous snake native to Indonesia and East Timor. These nocturnal ambush predators are small to medium-sized, growing to 40–60 cm long. They have heat-sensing pits to detect prey body heat and long, retractable fangs to inject venom. They hunt birds, frogs, lizards, and small mammals like rats and mice.

[cherubispunk]

ICHOR. BLOOD. WATER. (part ii // blood.) - Din Djarin x Witch!AFAB!Reader

summary: stranded. alone. a traitor to your people, your family. aeaea is the prison of paradise you call home, and he is the prophecy you like to call an enigma. the 'man made from metal', forged in fire, melted by your spell that is no witchcraft on your part. he is the hunter, you will always be the prey. it is the way as the fates designed it.

a note from lucy: this was meant to be posted earlier and it was also meant to be longer but ive been through so much these past few weeks i couldnt bring myself to write much more. for those waiting on dealer!Joel, its coming. it might just take me a little while. thank you all for your patience. i love you all, look after yourselves.

playlist

wc: 1692 Warnings: 18+ MDNI! DARK CONTENT! mythology!au, no use of y/n, dubcon, smut, p in v sex (unprotected), reference to , cussing, mentions of witchcraft, voyeurism, mentions of drinking alcohol, mentions of food and descriptions of eatin, oral sex - m receiving, orgasm denial, toxic relationships, dom!din/sub!reader dynamic, sex as a means for manipulation and control, manipulative!din, stockholm syndrome?

series m.list | m.list

You can teach a viper to eat from your hands, but you cannot take away how much it likes to bite.  — Madeline Miller ‘Circe’

‘Strangle me with Aphrodite’s very pearls. What a beautiful creation. Funny how we will all die but seek love for a pitiful salvation.’ Words engraved, etched into the gravestone of…this. This creation of torture. Of serpents’ forked tongues and gnashing lions teeth. Silence so large and gaping it made your heart dare to beat only in the ricochet of the shiver down your spine. He was the sharp blade of a knife, you were the wetstone he used to perfect its slide of slice. Bleed ichor from your veins while he grazes blunt teeth over the shallow skin upon your collarbone. 

You didn't care. ‘Give me that pointed, glimmering blade’, you thought, its vermillion stain now smeared too with gold. ‘Give me that blade. Some things are worth bloodshed.’ 

He was a killer. And his bounty was set on your spirit. Your calm. Your superiority over him. In his field, he was a master of his art. His armour gleamed as a trophy for his succession of rank. His clan– Here…he was a novice once again. Knew not a drop of knowledge of your craft, nor the whispering properties of each flower bud, fruit pit and herb stem in your garden. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme were nothing but cooking materials to him. And even that was a stretch to his mind. 

You wished to be Anothny’s Cleopatra to him. Not a wicked witch of the western tides. Toughened beauty, once black coals under pressure, now gleaming in diamond and its own giant covalent structure. Him swooning over your flesh for months and his tongue speaking within your mouth. There was no turquoise over your eyes, nor the stain of the madder root over your lips to paint him with. His face was still an image that belonged to your mind. Not the reality you lived now with him tangled in your sheets. Rippled muscled under a tapestry of scars and skin. 

He did some things. Mainly doted care to the child whom you sense properties in. A magic akin to your own, yet not all the same. His was one of energy, a flowing combination of entities, living a breathing through you, him, the mandalorian and each living being on this island. Mauve further. It was a balance that even you did not know the tipping point of nor the origin of its birth. It was shaking. It crumbled under the erosion of water to salt pillars until its foundations skimmed to their very bare bones. 

It took with it the light of your sanctuary and morphed into Tartarus, so your soul may burn in forged cast iron chains. They were white hot in the black soot tinders. Glowing violently in your corneas while they singed sight. Scorched touch. Seared taste. The battle of yours and the child's power. 

You watched in awe one night, the lights out, but a single sliver of silver from Artemis’s glow caught the sharpened tip of a knife you know strapped to your thigh under the skirts of your dress. Would his blood sizzle when it touched the blade, as you only imagined it ran hot and thick with the brazen burn of his anger. Ichor? No. He was no god. But his touch was of divinity. And left a tingle of power in its bone cramping wake. Wailing for more. 

Only just the night before you had dropped to your knees in the doorframe of your chambers. Took off his armour beforehand in wordless undoing. Your tragic hero ending. And then gave him your mouth. Not words. Nor cunt. Just the mouth. Tip of the tongue, the lips and teeth. The stretch of his cock still wrung out your throat. Slick and wanting while it mimicked the way your cunt hugged the tip so well. Tased of salt and something more. Something forbidden or taboo. And he took his time with slow shallow thrusts at first, a large gloved hand cradling the curve of the jaw that went slack to let him buck deeper. 

This morning was one of the first times you lamented over the now restricted motion in your jaw. The ache still nagged into the later hours, when The Mandalorian returned from your gardens, the bloody and mangled caracas of a rabbit thumping down on the table. He sat at the head of the table opposite you, cleaning the blood from his knife on his cape. You thought if you saw his eyes — be it hickory, azure, or pine — you would have crystallised in that very moment and that very form. Cured oak table under your fingertips, feet planted into the terracotta floor. His irises setting your thrumming heart dead still.

This was the man you let into your bed.

He remained there, sat still in his chair while the child babbled in the kitchen with you. You took that rabbit. Skinned it. Dressed it. And roasted the meat in a marinade of white wine and spices from the edge of your fenced garden. Later you would hang the pelt and let it air — make something for the child. Mittens maybe. 

For now, you took your time circling the table to place each plate down: cheese, seasoned greens, a cup for the vessel of wine to his side. The silverware gleamed menacing in dim candlelight while he awaited each plate, unmoving in his armour while each delicacy was gifted to him upon his high table. And when you retired to your seat, the child had taken his too and started his feast, sticky plum jam smeared over his lips as he dribbled innocently and unaware over his rabbit leg.

But upon your silver plate was a single strip of black cloth, folded over twice on itself. 

Your eyes lifted to meet him, wide in wondering question. Only to hit a barrier of beskar when you see his visor still covers his face. Not a scrap of food had been helped onto his plate by his still gloved hands. His boots that traipsed dirt through your door were still on his feet, caked in mud on the soles.

“What’s this?” Nothing. Not a word past his lips. “Am I to figure it out for myself?” He cleared his throat, raising his head so his chin jutted out towards you. “Your eyes.”

“My eyes?” 

“You must wear it if you are to eat with us.” 

You pouted, pressing your tongue to the flesh on the inside of your cheek, then kissed your teeth. 

“You mean to dictate my freedom in my own home.” You scoffed and slung your arms across your chest, crossing them. “At my own table? You are sick in your own head, Mandalorian, if you think I am one to bend my will to the whims of others. Especially in my own house.” And he repeated,

while his shoulders drew taught under his pauldrons with the armour gleaming in the silver glare of Selene’s chariot. And he planted a seed in your stomach, turned in it, and made you feel sick. You preferred him between your legs, his name between your teeth and tongue. 

“You must wear it if you are to eat with us.” 

Eyes fell to the plate, that cloth once more. Would it be poisoned? The fabric snared with nettle to sting your eyes. Here you had two choices. Stay, blind yourself, yield to him somewhere other than your chambers. Or stand and leave. Either way, it was an act of submission. 

You did neither. Instead, you stood, kicking your chair back behind you before swanning over to the seat next to him, taking the other leg of rabbit and sinking your teeth into its cooked flesh, all the while your eyes on him. To tartarus with xenia, he outstayed his welcome long after he passed the threshold of your home. Helios could come and smite you for all you cared, the fates could snip your golden immortal line of yarn. No horror could compare to the satisfaction you had as you stuffed your face with food you'd slaved over for him. His refusal was your gain and soon you moved onto the plumbs, sticky sweet juice dribbling down your demented smile. 

You wafted the half chewn and mangled fleshy bone in his face, smirking with your mouth full. 

“Go on, Madalorian.” You crooned, “have a bite. Give in a little.” 

His hand snatched your wrist the moment the words left your stained lips, gloved fingertips making something click in your bones. You bit down the pain with a swallow, smirk remaining triumphant across your features. 

“Put it down.” He grimaced, curling his helmet covered lip at the state of you. Unkempt and wild, shrewish in your dignity. 

“Or what?” 

He let go. Sat back, pushed out a huff through his nostrils. 

Then he stood. You watched unphased and delighted with yourself as he took the child who cooed up at him. And listened out for his heavy footsteps as he climbed the stairs to his and the child’s room. Then silence. All the while you tossed the stripped bone to his plate and licked your fingers. 

You didn’t know what you would rather prefer. Him to come back down. Or stay and retire to bed. Regardless, he’d take you eventually. Here or up in your bed chambers. Unlace your corset or nightgown. Use you as his nightcap before slipping off. Without getting a look upon him. Not a sliver of his visage to hold to in sleep. 

He did come down. And with a heavy hand bent you over the head of the table, a gloved palm pressing your face into the wood. 

Physically you were here. Mentally, you were back against the silver birch. His cock splitting you in two once again while you smiled sadistically in candlelight. Him seeping into you through the cracks of your ribs, the gaps between your teeth. The opening of yourself to the twisting knot of denial within you. 

Between your thighs where he belonged. 

[herpsandbirds]

White-lipped Pit Viper (Trimeresurus albolabris), female, family Viperidae, Viet Nam

Venomous.

photograph by Tran Phuoc Loi (@lowzi_herp)

[exotic-venom]

(Trimeresurus albolabris) white-lipped pit viper

[rafent]

✦ 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅 ✧

There is a cottage in the woods.

Nil watches it through tiny breaches in the briars, like the peepholes of a starving white wolf. A nuclear family nests inside consisting of father, mother, and child; picture-perfect, as quaint as the humblest aspirations can hope to be. The hardworking father descends the mountain to peddle cut lumber. The diligent mother rises early and fills the forest with smells of plain but revitalizing cooking. The lone child plays all by her lonesome, quietly and causing no trouble, asking after no toys her parents cannot afford.

Each is hard at work in their painted-on roles, but the mother especially. She dabs away her sweat with the bone of her wrist, tidies her spilling bun and adjusts the straps of her apron when they fall loose amid midday labors. Her chemises and linens air on the clothing line, brought in before the preparations for supper.

These pristine appearances are what throw him off, of course, the singular child that induces pause. Is it not all too mundane? Should there not be a second wretch to frolic in the garden beside the first? Over the course of several days, Nil gleans what he can for the simple act of confirmation. On the fourth, he approaches. He learns there are many allowances the littlest ones will make for a kind and studied smile.

“Do you know my mama, mister?”

“I do. I am friends with her, from long, long ago, but it is very cold outside. Can I wait for her in there with you?”

“Okay.”

It is the most innocent that let the devil into their home. It is the most innocent that is the devil, after all. Kindly Nil sits and waits, his fingers drum thoughtfully against the naperon, studying the stains of spilled, ill-dried broth. The smell of washed millet and dank wood. It is a pleasant home, a proper home; that is the reality; the truth, in the same way that Nil does not really know who this child’s mother is, her face, her age, or even her name. He knows only that they have the same eyes.

She arrives eventually. She sees his eyes, too. How? her chalk-white expression asks. At this distance there is no mistake for either of them. After a moment he rises from the chair with a severe set of his mouth, there is nothing of Nil in it anymore.

“Outside.” On his demand they go together. As one might estimate the age of an oak tree by its quantity of rings, the length of existence for a Fell Child can be judged by different visual parameters; the cocked alertness of her spine, the clenched fingers down at her side, the primordial readiness of fight and flight. But it is futile, Rafal has made sure of his advantages from the moment they stepped out, the defective Child leading and Rafal at her back. It does not stop her from trying.

“I’ve left Gradlon behind. My ambitions, my dragonstone—everything. I have a family. You don't have to do this.”

His lips twist, amused, bitter, disbelieving, everything at once. He laughs with all his chest and says to the pleading red eyes that have damned her, neither gleeful nor triumphal, merely factual: “But I will. Did you think laying with a human and birthing his pups would absolve you of this struggle? Never.”

Those born of Gradlon cannot run even from the enemies they have never made. The dice their blood has cast for them from the moment each drew breath, hissing in the viper pit hundreds and thousands strong, wanting with all their wicked hearts to be the last and only one. Revanche, a conferred axe from Divine Dragons, points at her like a wielded guillotine, like Rafal is judge, jury, and executioner. The reality is only that he is rightful heir over it all.

And ultimately, like it has been for countless others, it is easy. She is nothing like Nel. Her atrophied strength does not compare, not the pitiful tooth she straps to her thigh - a single knife batted away - or the futile scrabble of her nails down his arm in her final throes. Her face is not remotely alike, too plain without the dragonkin's trappings of gold, that it evokes nothing when he stares into it, rips into it. So it is easy. 

“Mama! Mommy! Momm—”

Hair topples fully from the struggling bun, the apron like Rafal is white now freckled and stained. Rafal looks down at a homely brown-haired niece; a nameless, wretched, sorry inheritor of Fell Dragon legacy and sees nothing of her mother in her; there is everything of her human father about her. That does not leave him satisfied. He is the one that will not take chances.

...

Too soon, the truant father returns home from cutting wood, catching a young man in his home with an axe in his hand, his two greatest treasures shattered on the floor. His mouth opens to yell, to scream, to say anything at all. This noise stirs the wolf, startles him, provokes him, and for that there is movement—

. . .and then there is silence.

There is a cottage in the woods and no family inside.