rarehxnter-blog

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tounan:

It was a sort of light, earthly feeling that enveloped his body, something powerful—  but not quite threatening.  As Bakura felt this uplifting sensation drag him languorously from the pit of darkness in which he’d spent the last few mind-numbing years, he shuddered, unable to properly move his stiffened form as it was swallowed whole by a vast, sun-like warmth.

With a thump, his body hit the hard ground like lead, eyes shooting open in what may have seemed a panicked haste.  What the hell was this?  Was he dead?  Was he saved?  The answers to his questions came the instant Bakura had managed the strength to cock his head in the direction of shuffling footsteps, eyes widening at the sight of a familiar, unforgettable face approaching to loom over him.

     ❝ — …Marik… ❞   he began, his voice hoarse as all hell from so much time spent in indefinite silence.  With a weak attempt to clear his throat transitioning into a cough, Bakura continued, holding the other’s gaze with a half-formed glower and the conflicting bewilderment that lay beneath it.   ❝ …What did you do…?  Why am I here…? ❞

The manifestation was quick, brilliantly bright and surprisingly silent. Perhaps Marik had expected fanfares, or just... something. He edged over, carefully leaning over the body that had appeared atop the stone tablet, placing a hand either side of his head to peer down at him, scrutinising. The brown eyes would open to meet a pair of wide, bewildered violets. He was half-expecting Bakura to start groaning like a zombie: he hadn't much faith in his Resurrection abilities. He may have been proficient with ancient texts, but Marik was no necromancer.

When the accented voice rang out, Marik's expression turned from one of suspicion to one of delight, gaining some sort of narcissistic pleasure over the fact that his name was the first word to be spoken.

"Bakura!"

His greeting rang out in response. He thought, perhaps, it would be wise to give the man some space, allow him to become re-accustomed with his corporeal form. But with all the excitement of a spoiled child, he found himself unable to move too far away from the Spirit. What if he faded again, when he turned his back?

"A soul-summons: an incredibly complex one, if I may add. Your spirit would be the most awkward of all souls to summon," it only made sense: Bakura never did anything by half. He exposed his arms, where deep gashes were still healing along the lengths of his biceps. Self-inflicted and neat, torn with purpose.

"A pint of blood. Really?"

Not to mention all of the other items he'd had to acquire to complete the unlocking ritual of the soul before him. He smirked, then finally rose to his feet, a little giddy with the joy of his success. He gestred to his small kitchen suite, and hummed.

"Tea?"

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i’m addicted to really domestic, post-canon fanfics about marik and bakura…i dunno.

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Cosmos: War of the Planets / Send Them Off! by Bastille

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bastille // send them off.

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@hybrius

It turned out that it was very difficult to get an appointment with Seto Kaiba. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected: he was the CEO of a multi-million yen company, after all. Eventually, though, after weeks of trying to get through, he had managed to slot in an hour meeting with the man, and he was honestly rather excited. If Kaiba was half the businessman he claimed to be, he’d be excited too, once Marik was done with him.

The elevator was taking him to the top floor of KaibaCorp’s tower. Of course Kaiba’s office was on the top floor. A lord had to survey his dominion from on high, did he not? Such a lofty position was very befitting of the man’s ego. 

Marik held his hands neatly in front of himself, clasped together as he whistled, idly, staring around at the various posters in the elevator. Most were addressed to employees. Various hotlines that they could call if they felt stressed at work, leaflets advertising fringe benefits available to particular classes of worker. It seemed that KaibaCorp took good care of its employees. Just as well, really, considering there seemed to be no room for weakness within the ranks.

Finally, the elevator reached its destination, and Marik stepped out into the waiting room prior to the CEO’s office. He checked in quickly with the woman he assumed to be Kaiba’s personal assistant, and when she said ‘Mr. Kaiba will see you now, Mr. Ishtar’, he gave her a pleasant smile, and wandered into the office. 

He closed the door neatly behind him, and met the eyes of the other man. There was a terribly diabolical edge to the grin he shot him.

“Long time no see, Kaiba.”

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@heartof-thepharaoh

The last person he’d expected to find wandering aimlessly around Domino City was the Pharaoh. Hadn’t his soul returned to its final resting place? Hadn’t that been the point of it all? He recalled the situation well, pictured the names and faces of all those involved in his mind’s eye. A motley crew, if ever he’d seen one: they had parted as allies, on unsteady but civil terms. 

Marik was a criminal by heart, and he knew how to follow someone. Perhaps he could have simply greeted the man, but where was the fun in that? Habit drove him to stalk Atem, easing after him in the shadows with the Scepter tucked safely away in the inner pocket of his jacket. His footsteps were silent, allowing his shoes to roll carefully onto the pavement like a cat’s, watching the man before him with brilliantly bright eyes and a smug smile. 

Eventually, his attention span depleted. He’d never been one for patience. A lifetime of being spoiled by doting, albeit violent, parents had raised a man who was as demanding as he was dangerous, and now, he demanded attention. He called quietly from the shadows.

“Pharaoh!” 

He stepped out, into the middle of the alley, and lifted a hand in a quiet, casual greeting. His smile was a charming one and he raised an eyebrow. Tickle me curious, he mused to himself.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he gestured to Atem in his entirety, tilting his head a fraction of an inch to the side and inclining his head. A silent question that he expected the man to understand, even without use of words. It was obvious, surely. 

How are you here?

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@hiddenknxves

Marik pulled his jacket further around his shoulders. Damn, evenings in Domino were cold. The temperature dropped far more quickly than it did in Egypt, although the nights weren’t quite as bitter. He remembered sitting under the cloudless skies at night, feeling the dust tickle his arms, and watching his breath condense on bitterly cold air. With no clouds to insulate the environment, Egypt turned near-Arctic at night. But this, here in Domino, was a different kind of cold entirely. It was damp, heavy and disgusting. He grumbled.

The sun had already set, but it was only five in the evening. A typical Western winter. Considering he planned on being here a while, he hoped Spring would hurry up and arrive. 

He slipped into a bar with the intention of relaxing a little. He wasn’t by any standards a social flower, but he didn’t mind the odd bit of human company. It was distracting, which was required, at times. He settled at the bar, flagging the tender and ordering a vodka on the rocks: no fuss. He took it, when it arrived, and took a sip of it, grimacing somewhat at the taste, and not paying too much attention to the area around him. 

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RAREHXNTER - penned by Teddy.

❝ you are apollo and you have traded your silver bow for a shotgun and a mean right hook. boy who screams anarchy from the roofs of police cars, boy born for revolution. boy, the world is yours.                                        all you have to do is burn. ❞                                                                     —    révolutionnaire // m.c.p.

This is an open, independent Marik Ishtar roleplay blog set 5 years post-canon. Includes mature themes: drug use, alcohol use, mature language, gore and violence. All themes are tagged and NSFW is never roleplayed on the dash.

Inspirations include: The Babadook, The Last Guardian and Shadow of the Colossus.

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@tounan

The young man whispered, lips moving seamlessly, repeating ancient words in an endless chant as his hands pressed, firmly, against the stone tablet before him. He had prepared for years: spent night after night reading scriptures and journals, research done by historians with intelligence far superior to his, but with determination only a fraction of the size. Besides, he had first-hand experience in dark magic. This was quite the task, but it was nothing impossible. 

His cat, Ramesses XII, watched with wide, frightened eyes form the other side of the room, either nervous of her master or for him. As Marik’s chanting grew louder, she skittered away into the kitchen suite. If she’d had fur, it would have been stood on end. He didn’t notice her disappearing, eyes completely focused on the tablet before him. There was no pentagram, no candles, no scattered raven figures. His summoning was far more modest, but far more mentally challenging.

He had been opening and exercising his mind for years and now, finally, finally, he was ready, but he could already feel his throat constricting and his hands quivering. Reconstructing a soul was taxing, but he could feel the power beginning to rise below his palms, like he was drawing salt out of the ocean. This had to work. He didn’t know what might happen if it didn’t.

As the final words of his chant left his mouth, his volume rose a little. Were his hands glowing? Could he feel a breeze? He took a deep, steadying breath, and shut his eyes tightly. Then, with an almighty effort, he wrenched his hands away from the tablet, and waited, afraid to reopen his eyes. Afraid that he would see, or not see, the spirit he had been trying to reform.