#arcane strife

[satellitedusterart]

🐱🐶 doodles

[flowersbane]

i feel like you’ll understand me if you understand these four fictional characters i relate to to my very core:

[goddessofroyalty]

I remember this Reddit story about 1940s America, where a man was told by the doctor that he's gonna have to choose between his wife and the baby because labor was going really bad. The man responded by going out to his car, grabbing his gun, and making it clear that they would both survive or the doctor won't. So the doctor used forceps (still rare at the time) to help get the baby out, saving mother, child, and himself.

Anyway, that just really seems to be like something Vander or Sephiroth would do, like if Silco or Cloud were having a rough delivery, they would very much threaten violence if put into that situation. Their signature weapons in close reach with murderous intent if either their partner or baby dies

They both would but would be very different about it.

And Vander's interesting in I think he would be fully aware of what Silco's choice is in the matter is - save Silco (which isn't because Silco is cold or uncaring or anything, but Silco's a survivalist who has things he plans on doing and that isn't dying for a child that might not even make it to double-digits to live. He's accepted stillbirth is a real possibility for how the pregnancy might end he's needed more). But Vander doesn't want to make the call and threatening violence is a way of not having to make the call. So yeah if either his partner or child dies the doctor dies.

With Sephiroth. I don't think he openly threatens the doctor. But the threat is definitively there. Mostly because to actually openly acknowledge it means that there's actually a risk of it (and therefore a 'weakness' in the person he chose to have a child with or his child). Instead he brushes it away with something like "they will both be fine assuming you are not incompetent at your job" - and it's that last bit coupled with his general aura that gets across the threat.

[bruxa-de-salem]

wanna put here some of my lovers and musics

[demon64]

You know, I'm almost surprised that there isn't more fandom crossover between League of Legends and Darksiders, especially since they share at least two voice actors. Liam O'Brien is Yasuo in LoL and War in Darksiders. JB Blanc is Braum in Lol, Vander in Arcane, and Ulthane, Thane, and Valus in Darksiders. I know most people don't really pay attention to VAs, but I'm pretty sure there are people that have wanted to see the VAs other works.

I know I personally wrote a fanfic where War and Strife visit The Last Drop and meet Vander, I wrote Death fighting Thresh, I'm working on Fury meeting Pantheon, and I've thought about the Death visiting Ionia, and I currently got somewhat started on Karn, one of the makers, accidentally ending up in the Freljord and meeting Nunu & Willump, at least a first paragraph to go from for it at a later point. He kinda went through one of the portals at the Tree of Life & Death and just ended up there randomly.

I've also thought about the idea of War meeting Ahri, maybe he's investigating the Shadow Isles as Ahri is there in the Vault of Vesani researching her people. Or maybe just War being there during the whole plot of Ruined King, but he's just chilling in the background, watching the whole thing, believing the group can beat Viego.

I've also considered maybe the Horsemen in the past encountering Kayle and Morgana, maybe Fury specifically meeting the Twins half-Aspects of Justice. I've also thought about maybe the LoL characters somehow ending up on the shattered Earth, maybe helping Humanity in the Endwar. At least Morgana would be on the side of Humanity while her sister is on the side of Heaven.

I'm having fun with these ideas so I may just get semi-started on some of these and maybe post them at some point.

[prismaticstarshch]

someone please tell me i'm not the only one who finds this nostalgic

[satelliteduster]

sorry for the onslaught of goncharov posts i just love media that isn't real

[flame-wing-dragon-phoenix123]

Final Fantasy x Arcane: League of Legends!

[felassan]

[pics] with the news that Bellara is a mage: this means she is not a warrior or rogue who just happens to be using a magical artifact or something like that (the golden bow/arm). I wonder then if these devices are things that only mages can wield, things powered by their own magical power? Strife is a non-mage Veil Jumper, and he uses a regular bow. the series has long had 'mage warrior-types' as specs for mages (Arcane Warriors and Knight-Enchanters), so it's cool that there's now basically what seems like an 'Arcane Archer'. I wonder if the golden bow device is an ancient elven item? it has that look, two. as a follow on from that, since Bellara is a Veil Jumper who is obsessed with uncovering ancient elven secrets, perhaps the device is something that she found on one of her excursions? :> or maybe it's more like a manifestation of her power.

lore which is worth remembering:

Among the ancient elves, there were mages who trained their magical arts to augment their martial prowess. They channeled magical power through their weapons and bodies, becoming terrors on the battlefield. Most consider these skills lost forever, but they may still linger in forgotten corners of the world. Arcane warriors may learn to use their magic score to satisfy the strength requirement to equip higher-level weapons and armor.

Solas tells us more about the AWs in DA:I dialogue:

"The formal name for the techniques you have learned was the Dirth’ena Enasalin, knowledge that led to victory. Mages who eschewed physical confrontation called it Ghilan’him Banal’vhen, the path that leads astray."

he says that AWs were elite guardsmen, bodyguards and champions for ancient elven nobles, that with their physicality they were the willing embodiment of will made manifest. Arcane Warriors once widely existed in the ancient elven world, but the skill lingers today. maybe Bellara's changing bow is her will made manifest in this way?

Knight-Enchanter techniques are derived from those of the AWs. when KEs do their thing, they're summoning a blade from thin air (well, from the Fade).

Bellara's mage-ness and the bow reminds me of these kinda things. I wonder if she has trained her magical arts to augment her martial prowess, and if she channels her magical power through the weapon ('weapon' is general, it doesn't say 'it has to be a warrior weapon') and her body?

more triangles btw.. 👁️

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 5: Resolve

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Hello, all! I know, it’s so soon! But this one is a cobbled-together piece of stuff you’ve already seen, just padded out a bit more. I figured I might as well push it on out now, so here ya go! Featuring Jason Lannister for the very first time, to finally bring all this shit together a bit more cohesively. As always, thank you to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ for reading though this and reassuring me it isn’t total shite!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, age gap, general Daemon grottiness, allusions to non-consensual sexual situations.

According to most, Daemon Targaryen is a man in possession of little capacity for feeling beyond what is required to partake in lechery and barbarism. He knows himself; his disparagers are not entirely wrong. Except for one important, essential truth—he would die for his family. He loves his family.

Love, as he understands it, is what he has always felt when looking upon his brother, upon Rhaenyra. No matter the strife that has torn him from his kin time and time again, he can freely acknowledge that such sentiments will remain everlasting.

A kicked hound is one most loyal, he thinks with no small degree of bitterness. Or perhaps the meanest hound is more loyal. Either way, I am the hound—and my master, the king.

Love is what has wrenched harsh and twisting in his heart whenever he laid eyes on you, a toddling girl-child eternally eager for the cossetting attentions of your uncle, your kepa—and he had always been kepa, never Viserys, no, your father had never received an honour beyond being called ‘papa’ like any common pauper—now a stranger in so many ways.

The garden and the morning repast had served to ignite the wellspring of all his wildest desires, delivering to him seemingly all he had ever wanted in a prospective bride—young and beautiful, obedient and good-tempered, Valyrian of colouring and of status. But you had seemed smaller than your younger self, trapped in a prison of your own making, hidden beneath layers and layers of chaste courtesy and painstaking banality. And then, accompanying you to the Dragonpit had given him a curious glimpse into the power you kept hidden, the ancient strength of your lineage slipping through the cracks in your genteel veneer.

Regal. Arcane. These are the words that had come to mind watching you interact with your mount, none other than the famed Cannibal himself. Something of the majesty of the Conqueror lay within you, waiting for the necessary spark to kindle the flame. Your exchange with Athfiezar—your silent fearlessness, your devotion to your savage beast, your unassuming poise—reminds him that, for all your equally meek and mild-mannered nature, you are still Targaryen. You are still his sweetling.

It is this that elicits a consuming curiosity to know more.

You are an interesting puzzle, a strange contradiction, one whose buttermilk skin and pert teats and spit-shine lips should herald as a welcome to sample the delights hidden by the fabric of your darling little gowns. Yet, you act not as a silly young thing learning of her sway over men—teasing with fluttering lashes and bit lip and lilting tone as Rhaenyra had—but as a docile girl disinclined to press the limits of propriety as all maidens do. You ride the most savage dragon in the known world, and yet there is no such quality in you that echoes your mount’s disposition; instead, a loveliness that is near to cloying, pure and unadulterated and surely too good to be true. You are a fucking princess, and yet you are perfectly content to fade into the periphery, drawing little notice to yourself and seeking none from those around you, not even your own blood. A scholar, quick-witted and erudite, but somehow still so sweetly unknowing of the depravities that rule the minds of men who lay eyes on you.

You fascinate him. And his newfound realisation does not lessen his temptation to fuck you—to ply you with praise and charm and no small hint of avuncular affection (the reminder of your shared blood thrills him to the bone as always) so that, over time, you might be swayed to give your maidenhead to him—but, rather, that it results in a metamorphosis, a muddling, his longing mingling the base needs of the flesh with a rekindling of his fondness for you.

Which is why he cannot stand the presence of Jason Lannister.

“Why are you entertaining this farce?” Daemon asks, fists clenched at his sides. “A pompous fuck like him has no business anywhere near her.”

“Whatever is the problem, brother?” Viserys says distractedly, hunching over his miniature of Old Valyria and studying the replica of the Targaryen manse on the outskirts with intent. “Jason Lannister is Lord Paramount of the Westerlands. By any standard, I would think he is the best contender for her hand.”

That fucking model of his. Daemon resists the urge to smash the king’s stone city into rubble, though doing so might grant him the attentiveness he is sorely lacking from the man. “Are you not hearing me? He’s an arrogant cunt. He’d bore her in a sennight, let alone whatever hellish span of time an entire marriage would last.”

Viserys hums noncommittally. “She will make do”—he waves Daemon off—“as all noblewomen must when their fathers command them to marry. That is her lot in life. Besides, Lord Jason is one of the wealthiest men in the realm, and I am told he is rather pleasing to a lady’s eye. She could do worse than he.”

His brother’s remark is a fair one—of the trio, Jason is the preferable choice. And what a fucking miserable choice it would be.

He rolls his eyes. This is going nowhere. “And Tyrell? Your idiot son? Are they the ‘worse’ you speak of?”

Between that foppish peacock, his spiteful little twit of a nephew and the prancing lion, the latter just barely scrapes by as the best of the bunch.

“Enough, Daemon.” The king sighs, finally deigning to look up from his pile of rock. “These are the suitors she herself has chosen. I care not for the particulars, only that the girl should be wed before her eighteenth name day. Each of them possesses some quality I am sure she finds worthwhile…” At that, he pauses, brow furrowing. He squints up at Daemon. “What is your interest in the matter, anyway? It has naught to do with you.”

Shit. Daemon makes an evasive comment—something about sullying the purity of their noble lineage—and departs as quickly as he can, eager to escape the risk of Viserys’s suspicion falling on him. It would not do for the man to suspect his intentions toward yet another of his daughters.

He does not intend to seek you and the lord out, truly, but it nonetheless does not surprise him to realise that, upon freeing himself from the wrathful spiral of his own musings, his feet have taken him to the very same garden where he had first laid eyes upon you again after so many years, where you are now enduring the attentions of the insufferable Lannister patriarch. On this occasion, Cole is nowhere to be seen, and the entry is instead guarded by one of the Cargyll twins.

Daemon spies you on the path just inside, a careful distance placed between you and Jason. Though he cannot make out your expression from his vantage point, he observes well enough the flourishing bow the lord proffers in your direction, the polite curtsey you extend in return, his smug prancing step as he leaves your company. He sees the manner in which your shoulders droop, your head bowing as you turn to wander past the great tree and out of sight. My poor girl.

And then his view is blocked by a garish wash of red and gold.

“Prince Daemon,” Jason says with a haughty simper. With a curt nod, Daemon wordlessly returns the salutation. His lack of warmth is noticed. The Lannister lord hesitates for a moment before returning to his condescending civilities, forcing a relaxed stance. “I was most glad to hear of your return.”

He doubts that. There is little love lost between him and the lord. Jerking his chin toward the garden, he asks, “Leaving so soon, are we? I had thought the entire afternoon was devoted to this little outing.”

Jason chuckles awkwardly. “Well.” He scratches his beard. “The princess has another engagement to attend to. Something about a tutor.”

Thank the gods for that Lysan fellow. They had never met, but Daemon is certain he’d like the man well enough.

“Doesn’t concern you?” he asks, scarcely bothering to conceal the scepticism from his tone. At the confusion on Lannister’s face, he clarifies. “That she’d rather spend time with her tutor than with you?”

“Why would it, my prince?” is the answer, self-assured as ever. “He is old, and frail. Best for her to spend as much time with him as she can before she leaves for Lannisport.”

That genuinely irritates him, and not simply the notion of you being shipped off to the lurid monstrosity that is Casterly Rock. Even he knows that your meetings with your tutor are less obligations and more gatherings of friendship—your spirit would surely crumble if you were denied your dearest companion after being coerced to marry.

Daemon suppresses a sneer. “Your confidence is… admirable.” If misplaced, he wants to add.

“There is little competition to be found,” Jason says with a toss of the head. His tawny hair rustles in the gentle breeze, giving him the appearance of the sigil his house has claimed. Fucking ridiculous. Then, the man has the audacity to clap a palm against his arm. “Never fear—I shall take utmost care of her. She’ll want for nothing as my lady wife.”

He shrugs off the over-familiarity, stepping out of reach. “For a time, perhaps. And in a decade? Two? A princess of the realm has no business playing nursemaid to her husband in his dotage.”

He is older than I, he thinks. And if she is truly considering him above the others, then…

“I might be the eldest of her suitors, yes,” the man says, a tense smile disguising his offense poorly. “But I have a rather substantial inheritance, unlike the Prince Aegon, and my constitution is more… pleasing than the Lord Tyrell, I’m sure.” His mouth curves into a knowing smirk at that, leaving Daemon with no uncertainty as to what he really means. That little— “I would not dismiss Jason Lannister from the competition just yet. She will choose me. I suggest you accustom yourself to reality, Prince Daemon.”

He grunts dismissively, incensed. There is no reply he can give in this moment that won’t incite the Lannisters to break faith with House Targaryen; and so, he chooses to remove himself from the odious man’s presence entirely, stalking past with nary a word of farewell.

You sit where your younger half-sister had a scarce moon’s turn ago, eyes fixed toward your lap, turning an ornament about with your small fingers. As he nears, the lion salient glimmers in the sun, gold against gold in dazzling vulgarity. Of course, he’d gifted her something with his own fucking sigil on it. What a worthless bequest.

When he calls your name, you hardly react. Your gaze flickers up to him for a mere moment before falling once more, resuming your surveyance of the item in your grasp. There is a pensive expression lingering in your frown, the crease in your brow. It tells him all he needs to know of your true feelings for the Lannister lord, regardless of the man’s own delusions.

“Why—you look positively miserable, sweetling,” he says, settling himself beside you. You glance up at him again, sullen pout puffing out your lower lip. Though your disposition is so downtrodden, it is tempting to press his thumb to that lip, to push inside and feel the wet warmth of your tongue pulse against his flesh in a coquettish tease. “Not enjoying being courted? The gifts, the attention, the romance…”

You take the bait beautifully. Starting at his reference to the pendant in your hold, your nostrils flare exasperatedly. “No. No. I—I just—” You stop, shaking your head. “Never mind.”

“Go on,” he cajoles gently, lowly. “Tell Uncle Daemon.”

It is all the encouragement you need. “There is little romance to be found in this—this charade.” You sigh, eyes fixed on some minute detail past his head. He’s struck by the melancholy in your voice. “These men—Lord Jason, Lord Denys, Aegon—they do not want me. They want an idea of me. A Targaryen bride with pale hair and Valyrian blood. One who will give them children they shall make little effort to raise, a silent doll to clasp onto and show off at feasts and balls… as though possessing me is somehow meaningful. They do not—they do not see me.”

It’s here your voice cuts off strangely. He wishes it hadn’t, for he finds himself enthralled by the mournful monologue that paints a picture of the loneliest girl in King’s Landing. There is something yearning and haunted in that saccharine stare of hers, he thinks. A babe with her arms held out, wailing at the world as it leaves her abandoned in the crib. It’s an eerie echo of a conversation that took place a decade prior, though the lead role lacks the infantile petulance of the previous star.

He finds himself retracing those steps almost without realising.

“Idīnnon dēmalio syt verdilla mērī issa. Dīnakson toliot, gaoso gaomagon kostas.” He is testing, prodding, waiting for what might result from his efforts. Marriage is only a political arrangement. Once you are wed, you can do as you like.

The words make your cheeks flush fetchingly and your brow wrinkle once more, glancing back at him apprehensively. Pretty pink girl with a pretty pink blush; how far down does it spread? You swallow—pause—look away, wrestling with a thought. You peep back up at him.

“Se skorverdon jessivo aōt kesrȳsi jiōrtas?” you ask with surprising cynicism. You exhale loudly, staring at some fixed point in the distance. “Ābrazȳri buttā, riñar daor, mērpāves… Tolī jaelan.”

And how much joy did this bring you? you say. A wife you hated, no children, loneliness… I want more. The quiet longing in your voice is palpable.

He grimaces at the mention of his bronze bitch—he’d rather not know how widespread the knowledge of the circumstances around her… accident… had been in the wake of his departure.

“What is it you want, then?” he asks, switching back to the Common Tongue, the corner of his mouth already contorting in anticipation of the naïve response. True love, a happily ever after… We don’t get to have happy endings, he thinks to himself.

“I want someone who loves me,” you say, pressing on crossly at the huff of laughter that escapes him. “I never said I would love him!”

The pessimistic elucidation takes him aback. Again, it is not exactly what he had been expecting. Full of surprises today. He tips his head consideringly at you, inviting you to continue.

You hesitate for a moment.

“I… They say my father loved my mother. I believe it, but—” You swallow, the corners of your mouth turning down as you mull over your words. “They say he had a choice when baby Baelon was born. That he could cut her open to get the babe out, but that it would mean her certain death.”

Gods above. Where in the seven hells had you learned that piece of information? Viserys had kept the circumstances of Aemma’s death under tight wraps, never even deigning to mention it to his own brother. It was pure happenstance that one of the maids he enjoyed fucking at the time had been present on the unfortunate day.

Your eyes glisten as you speak, limpid pools of lilac glowing like fire in the light. “I do not think I could ever choose my own life over my child’s—but they say he did not even ask her, that he just… held her down while they—How could I ever trust a man to raise the babe I bore him if he would be willing to butcher his own wife in her childbed?”

He watches as you clench your eyes tight, set your jaw and exhale a few shuddery breaths. When they blink open, they are no longer so tear-bright. Daemon suddenly admires you for it, for the way you so ruthlessly suppress weakness. He wonders how often you’ve been made to force back your pain for the good of your family.

“What happened to your mother was a terrible tragedy, sweetling.” He reaches forward to finally grip your small, pale hand in his. It is cold and dwarfed entirely by his own. “But you cannot live in fear forever.”

You make to pull your hand away. He closes his grip tighter upon it, coercing you to look up at him properly.

“When hope is gone, what choice left is there but fear?” It is a whisper, carried on the breeze, and the thinly veiled misery pains him in the chest, right in his heart.

I thought that beating thing was black and dead by now, he thinks to himself.

You shake your head, smile. The picture of the melancholy maiden fades from view as you affect an appearance of energy once more, gentle and muted as it is. “I know my father loved my mother, and so love is no guarantee of loyalty. But it would be helpful, I think.”

“You see love and loyalty as intertwined, then?” he cannot help but ask. He is intrigued by this rare showing of spirit, of vitality, a resurrection of his baby niece from long ago. It is you, finally—his little girl, only now you possess the curves of a gold-gilded whore and the thousand-year gaze of an ancient, arcane being.

“Do you not?” Your head is tilted like an inquisitive bird’s, artlessly assessing. “You cannot have one without the other. Loyalty without love makes for an easy traitor, and love without loyalty makes for an unhappy marriage.”

He laughs again at the latter part of your pronouncement. A sweet, trusting little filly waiting to be broken in.

“There are many ways to love someone, princess.” He ogles you shamelessly, savouring the affectation of outraged bewilderment painting your countenance. “I imagine you’ll find few of them in the marriage bed.”

He waits for you to question him—to ask him what he means, to ask him to explain, to teach you, show you—but instead, you pull back, taking all the warmth from his palm with you.

“I dislike your implication, Uncle,” you say stiffly, returning your hand to your lap and nestling it between your thighs to retain the heat.

Fuck.

He backtracks raising his hands in a jesting show of defeat. “I meant nothing by it, gevivys.”

Beauty. It is an apt title. An underwhelming one, even. Surely there is little else more beautiful than the sight you make here, now, a rich blush spreading along the unblemished expanse of your chest—regrettably enclosed by pale damask just above the protrusion of your tits—the planes of your throat, not quite travelling up to decorate your cheeks.

You sigh. “You never do.”

Daemon lets the conversation lull, deciding to instead look upon the little revelation before him. You are an interesting puzzle, one whose decorum in the face of his gentle compulsion—that same persuasion he had so often utilised to get fetching girls to strip bare for him and show off their equally-as-fetching cunts—had instead left him lacking. The body of a slut and the mind of a scholar, all wrapped up in wide eyes and honey-sweet words and wild hair the shade of Old Valyria. Of home.

A wild thought seizes him. If he leans forward, he could do it. He could grip you by the back of the neck and pull you to him, press his lips to yours and coax you past your panic and fear and into a hot, sweeping rhythm, a push and pull of tongue and teeth that would set you both alight. And from there, how simple would it be to murmur pretty praise as he lowers you down, raises your skirts up, cleaves you open until your blood wets his cock with the proof of his claim, incontestable, not even by the king himself? The deed would be messy, perhaps distressing and no doubt painful, but it would solve several issues at once. He would be free to do as he likes with his lascivious desires after you are made to wed him, and you would be free from your pitiful suitors and given a husband worthy of you. In time, the hurt and shock and fright would fade, he knows it.

He could. He could. He—

The spell is broken. Your attention is diverted by the yells of a dark-haired boy as he bowls his way to you, throwing himself across your lap with a cry of your name. Daemon tries not to glare at young Lucerys as he tries to roughhouse with you. Having somewhat learned the schedules of his family, it baffles him somewhat that the child is not at his daily lessons. Should Laenor not have him now?

The thought must conjure the man himself, the Velaryon scion appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Laenor’s expression is forbidding as he strides over to you and his son, silver locs swinging with the velocity of each step. With his glare affixed to his face, he reaches a hand down to you in silent command, staring daggers at Daemon all the while.

What the hells is his problem?

You take hold of your goodbrother, bewildered, and allow him to tug you gently from the bench beside Daemon. Lucerys slides from beside you with a rustle, easily revolving around to dart toward the grass. You are already grabbing at the boy’s wrist to stop him running off.

Daemon watches Laenor attempt to rearrange his countenance into something less violent. “Would you take Luke off to the training yards, sister?”

A look of vague incomprehension crosses your face at the question. At least she senses the oddity, too, he acknowledges.

Laenor’s head turns down to where he sits, and it is then that it dawns on him that his nephew-by-marriage has very possibly been watching him stare at his baby niece’s tits for longer than he can claim plausible deniability of.

Ah, shit. The darting, mistrustful gaze suddenly makes sense.

“Of course, Laenor,” you say sweetly, biddably.

Daemon cannot help but wonder what else you might comply with if gently persuaded. He glances up at you from where he sits, smirking as you turn to him.

“It seems we must part for now, sweetling,” he tells you. He ignores Laenor’s grimace from behind you.

“It does.” You shift lightly. It is clear to see that there is something about your shared conversation that has unnerved you. The notion sends a trail of perverse excitement through him. He wonders what other reactions he might prompt out of you with gentle teasing. “I—thank you, Uncle. For listening.”

The words are honest, free of artifice. It is surprisingly warming to hear. When you make to depart, he calls you back.

“What—no goodbye kiss for your beloved uncle this time?” he asks, hoping he’ll bait you into action. He determinedly disregards Laenor’s huff, eyes trained on you as you swallow with trepidation before quickly making the short few steps back to him.

Your knee settles on the seat beside him, clearly meant to be no more than a brief resting place so that you may carry out his implicit request and leave—if not for the way in which your skirts gather around your leg in a manner assured to result in your toppling over should you attempt to rise without fixing them. Daemon turns his head to yours as you free yourself from the tangle. Up close, closer than he would ever dare get usually, he can see each lash that frames your eyes, the hairs that sprout from your brows, the slick cherry bloom of your mouth—a whisper-sweet gather of plump, plush fruit he wants, needs, to take a bite from.

Would you let me, little girl? he wonders.

You gasp, a short little breath of surprise, and lurch away lightly at the closeness. A brave little thing, you return to him, pressing those precious petal-soft lips to the skin of his cheek. Your covered breasts press involuntarily against his arm.

Fucking hells.

“Sȳz bantis, kepus.” Good evening, Uncle, you say in that light little accent of yours, an unintended provocation of his basest yearnings.

With that, you bundle the boy up in your capable little hands and make for your destination, the Cargyll knight falling into formation behind you.

“Care to explain—well, all of that?” Laenor asks.

Oh—yes. Daemon pushes himself from his seat, deliberately stalling while he thinks of a response that isn’t what the fuck how the fuck when the fuck and why.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says idly, slyly, glancing over at him.

“No!” His goodnephew leans forward into his space. He is taken aback by the vehemence in his tone, uncharacteristic of the bumbling, affable man. “You don’t get to do this to her. Not this one. Not this time.”

“Whatever do you think I plan to do to her?” Daemon laughs, wondering at the answer himself.

Whatever would she let me do to her?

Laenor sighs, steps back.

“Look.” He nudges him to walk alongside as they make for the garden’s entry. “She’s not one of your whores, Daemon. She’s just a girl. She’s not the type to play your twisted little games, so leave her be—please.”

He is warmed by the defence of your goodbrother, an admission of familiarity and care that is sure to have flourished since the man’s entrance into the family some years ago.

“What makes you think I have any intention of—how did you put it—playing games with her?” If he were a little less honest with himself, he would be affronted by the manner in which Laenor has jumped straight to an accusation. But Lord Flea Bottom’s reputation is inescapable, even after so many years. “Perhaps my objective is pure and wholesome.”

“Right.” Laenor snorts, shaking his head as he folds his hands behind his back. “You’re far more likely to fall in with her horde of suitors than to believably claim familial interest.”

True. And yet… why not? He’s conceived all manner of plots to satiate his wants, from drunken fumbles in the dark to his half-baked impulse from but a moment ago. Unlike his previous conquests, though, he doubts the need will dissipate after a single fuck. You are too important to him—his precious girl turned darkest desire, the only woman he could ever deign to carry on his line with.

Viserys has been pressuring him to seek out a bride. He mightn’t be happy with the prospect of his brother asking for his daughter’s hand, exactly, but there is surely no debate that he is the best contender. Not Jason. Not Denys. Not fucking Aegon. Daemon. And, well, if the asking should go poorly—how simple would it be to whisk you away to Dragonstone, to speak the vows and seal the deed before it can be undone? There is no risk this time, no Iron Throne to lose, no treaty or agreement that cannot be broken…

He can see it now. Your sweet little face peering up at him, marked with his blood, lip dripping red with the pledge of entangling your souls together in savage Valyrian custom. Your pretty little eyes wide with maidenly shock as he breaches your untried cunt, tight and pulsing and hotwetwarm, binding you to him irrevocably. The slow waddling of your gait as you round with child, his child, his sweetest babe bringing forth life of her own, belly ripe with seed and leaking his spend—

“Laenor,” he says slowly, eyes glinting as his lips upturn in a wide grin, “I do believe you have the best ideas.”

Read the story on AO3 here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/120880855

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[weatheredfailnot]

Please take these sections from EE3 on the Shadowkeeper (Cylva) because I love her so dearly

Transcript below:

A NAME SPOKEN IN WHISPERS

Around the time Ardbert and his comrades left Tomra, they stumbled upon evidence of the larger design. Threads linking together the disparate troubles of the realm. A name spoken only in whispers— the Shadowkeeper.

A singular force sowing chaos and discord throughout Norvrandt to an unknown end.

During Nyelbert's search for an energy source to replace the crystal he shattered, he began to suspect that the now-lost stone was not, in fact, a naturally occurring mineral, but rather had been deliberately placed under the mountain. Pursuing the truth of that theory led them to discover a connection to Lamunth, the gem counterfeiter whom Ardbert and Lamitt apprehended so long ago in Nabaath Areng. When they visited Lamunth's gaol cell to interrogate him, however, they found the man convulsing on the floor and frothing at the mouth. Ere the poison took his life, he managed to sputter the name of the Shadowkeeper. Further investigation revealed that this sinister figure had ordered Lamunth to secret the crystal in the mine shafts, and in return rewarded him with the illusory magicks he would employ in his forgeries.

They also came to learn that Tadric, the mastermind behind Voeburt's monstrous plague, had not worked alone. Research documents recovered from the court mage's laboratory mentioned the Shadowkeeper by name, the meticulous entries describing how the arcane lore shared by his co-conspirator had contributed to the completion of his transformation magicks.

The mining industry of Nabaath Areng threatened with demolition.

A scheme culminating in the death of Voeburt's royal heirs. The Shadowkeeper had plotted the downfall of two mighty nations, and Ardbert's band feared that Lakeland, the third of Norvrandt's major powers, would be next.

Lo and behold, a rebellion erupted in the home of the elves. The reigning king was deposed, and the Shadowkeeper, their heretofore faceless nemesis, took the throne.

The elven king, Lelfrey, was a passionate proponent of the arts- music and dance in particular- with his focus on such refined pursuits earning him equal praise and scorn. His was a peaceful rule, free of war and strife, but this passivity cost his kingdom dearly in matters of foreign diplomacy. A poor negotiator, he ceded border territories to Voeburt to avoid conflict, and signed an economic agreement with Nabaath Areng that put Lakeland at a clear disadvantage.

As these political blunders chipped away at the nation's authority, a sentiment of discontent among Lakeland's high-ranking nobility began to fester and grow. Traditionalists dreamed of a return to the golden age when all of Norvrandt lay under their control, and it was the Shadowkeeper who granted them the power to act. Rumors that this new player was the king's bastard child ran wild, and, true or not, served to unify the disgruntled nobles under a single banner. They indulged in treachery to undermine rival nations, while at home, their assassins targeted influential royalists. The scene was set for revolution.

The Shadowkeeper was attended by two dark-robed mages, by whose malevolent arts the traditionalists were empowered. One of their gifts was lupine transformation, a change which granted the recipient preternatural strength and agility. Thus bolstered by a company of these wolfman soldiers, the Shadowkeeper's faction stormed Laxan Loft and captured the royal seat for their leader. No sooner had the winning side declared a new age of glory for the elves than did they muster their forces and launch an invasion into Voeburtite lands.

Caption reads: The Shadowkeeper emerged amid blood and chaos, a formidable and enigmatic figure perpetually encased in stygian plate armor. Similarly clad in midnight raiment, the Shadowkeeper's forces inspired terror in all who witnessed their advance.

THE BATTLE OF LAXAN LOFT

The heroes were poised to continue their search for Nyelbert's replacement stone in Nabaath Areng when the silver-haired Cylva abruptly left the party. The swordswoman excused herself on the premise that she wished to reconnoiter the troubling situation in Lakeland, but in truth, she was hurrying back to don her black armor, unsheathe her blade, and lead the elven traditionalists in their rebellion. Cylva, the great deceiver, had been the Shadowkeeper all along.

She was, in truth, no bastard child of King Lelfrey-that was merely a fiction concocted by Mitron and Loghrif, her Ascian accomplices. Her true origin lay in the Thirteenth, where she had died young and powerless, an unrealized champion of the reflection-turned-void. The Ascians had found her in the moment of her demise, and it was they who brought her soul to the First to serve as a pawn in dark machinations.

Cylva was to insinuate herself into Ardbert's band, and guide them along the path to becoming Warriors of Light. That which they cast aside in their journey towards heroism, she would take into herself, growing ever stronger as a disciple of Darkness. And when all was in readiness, she would reveal herself as the villainous Shadowkeeper. By her hand would the Warriors of Light be slain, and despair sown in the hearts of the populace.

What the Ascians did not plan for was the Shadowkeeper's defeat at the hands of Ardbert's party. Cylva had steadily amassed her power, feeding on her erstwhile comrades' respective sacrifices of personal ambition, innocence, independence, and tradition. Yet despite her best efforts, Ardbert would not forsake what she sought to purloin- his caring heart.

Even in the midst of their deadly confrontation, he regarded her as a comrade in need of saving.

Thus denied her full ascension, the Shadowkeeper wavered and fell.

Swallowing their grief at the loss of a friend, the heroes turned their wrath towards the villains who had orchestrated this tragedy. The Warriors of Light now shone so brightly that even high-ranking Ascians could not stand against their incandescent fury. Even as Ardbert struck his final blow, fulgent power swelled in a cataclysmic wave, and the Flood of Light was unleashed upon the lands of the First.

Caption reads: In her bid to slay the Warriors of Light, Cylva turned her transformation magicks upon herself. Though Ardbert and his comrades did indeed struggle against this formidable lupine abomination, it was the necessity of striking down their former friend that presented the greatest challenge.

[satellitedusterart]

opera study + small doodle

[voidselfshipp]

Crying over the names of the legendary boons in Darksiders 1.

》written from the perspective of an eldest sibling《

1)DEATH'S BLESSING.

I know I shouldnt take this so literall,but the Word "blessing" from DEATH. He who holds himself to be the worst of the horseman,the one beyond repentance,The one without "a soul". Even from afar he still cares for his youngest brother,death gives him A BLESSING,his genuine blessing.

How it gives War more souls? More resources to help him? How he can get Harvester? That it works better when you assign that boon to the scythe? Do you think a part of Death's soul,the very thing he claims not to have, lingers in this arcane thing to still Keep his brother safe? How he stil cares so deeply even if he denies it vehemently?

2)STRIFE'S OFFERING.

Just look at genesis,how close they are by the end,how they mourn together and hold eachother up. Do you think war remembers and has seen in detail and maybe with a bit of awe whenever Strife uses Mercy & Redemption? How hes memorized the EXACT pulse and grip his brother uses? This boon gives him profiency with the gun, it makes him more durable to ranged And projectile attacks.

Do you think the true magic is the memories of his brother? How maybe just a bit of Strife's Essence guides his aim, his bullets and takes the hit for him? Not to mention War gets "MERCY".

Do you think he can hear STRIFE'S voice saying "aim higher,remember wind resistance. Breathe. Keep your grip steady,youre not alone. Im still here with you"

3)FURY'S EMBRACE.

Arcane expert extraordinare, badass fighter. This boon gives War more wrath for his abilities,shows him all the treasures. Do you think he can kind of hear the softest ring of fury's voice guiding him to the treasures? Do you think she used to give him trinkets when they were kids and thats why that boon works that way? Do you think he can hear the inflexions of her voice?

Stern when he missed something that was right in his face.

Playful and jovial, so reminiscent of her younger self.

Urgent and,dare I say it, worried and scared when its something that Will heal him or protect him?(Like the abyssal armor)

How beautiful is it that Fury lends whats the center of her personality: Her anger. She shares it with her brother, gives her power to him without hesitation even if time and circumstances has pulled them appart.

Maybe by taking that anger from fury,war can help his sister feel better. How she embraced him and guides him like an elder sister. The memories of their Bond when younger still linger,still tethers them together. Time is passed but their siblinghood prevails.

And the name? EMBRACE. Fury? Hugging war? Dont think so. But it can be a symbolic embrace, Like the one she lives in the end of darksiders 3. She sees her errors and faults and begs Ulthane to help War.

Do you see how fundamentally each one of them cares so deeply for their brother??????

Im going to CRY.

[artificial-absinthe]

I finished the first season of Arcane. It's impressive, so artistic and strong in narrative telling. Every character has a marked personality conveyed through their every feature including their looks and body language. Highest pinnacle aesthetics, the scenery is captivating.

That being said, every transformers fan that watches it, perhaps, can't but notice the striking parallels with the Aligned and Idw1 lore. Actually... the background plot is quite the same.

The major problematic arises because there's a dramatic split of social hierarchy.

In Transformers, it exists the caste system and functionism. In Arcane, society is divided in high and low classes as well. Low castes are heavy work labourers, such as miners, gladiators, etc. They are rude, often violent, and outcasts. They suffer scarcities and unjustice from a government who despises them or is oblivious to their strife. The same for low classes in Arcane. (Save for existing gladiators)

High and mid castes are government, scientists, military, artists, not brute workers such as archivists. The same for Arcane.(save for archivists)

The different castes/classes are split in separate places. Low castes/classes are not allowed into the wealthy cities.

The low castes in Transformers and low classes in Arcane live in cities polluted by the vapors of factories and such, or that seem darkened somehow. The sick, the addicted and the mentally ill are common. Crime is not in short supply. Criminals are exiled or seek shelter there because there their activities are unnoticed.

Kaon (Transformers)

Zaun (Arcane)

Iacon (Transformers)

Piltover (Arcane)

The ruling entity is conformed by an association of a number of characters called the Council in both cases. (In Transformers there's also a Prime, which has no analog in Arcane)

The High Council and the Hall of justice. (Transformers)

The Council and their Tower. (Arcane)

There are also enforcers.

The antagonist is a menacing character, witty, terrifying and sexy arrogant as hell who has no qualms on use whatever means to get his way. They come from mines, they want freedom and autonomy to their kind but also crave power and know no boundaries. They value loyalty in a high degree and demand it, –the consequences of betrayal are dire. They endorse violence as way of change and are cruel and remorseless. They both have deep streaks of scars on their faces creasing their lips and share a liking for purple, dubious substances.

Megatron and Dark energon

Silco and the shimmer.

Also, they used to have an ally whom they referred to as brother, but who parted ways with them because of the virulent and dangerous, radical tendencies of the turned antagonist. These ally is/was noble, strong but kind and knows/learned that violence should be the last resort.

They both have as well subordinates that would follow them through hell because they, among other reasons, see in them that which any other. And these subordinates are feared and their own way of creepy.

Frag, it's Soundwave!

Oh, no, it's Jinx...!

And Sevika

Overal, the running story and focus is obviously very different, with various elements of their own, but honestly, the background plot and various parallels sometimes caused the fleeting feeling that I was watching a prewar tfp human steampunk version. Don't take me wrong, I loved Arcane and am very interested in the next season.

[demon64]

Here is one of the League of Legends/Darksiders fics I created. This one having to do with War and Strife going to The Last Drop from Arcane.

Had fun writing this one, even if it took some time to find my groove with it at first

Now, onto the summary:

The Last Drop was just somewhere to quickly get some food and drink. Neither War nor Strife knew if would become one of their favorite places to be in their free time. Just somewhere they could chill out. New friends abound, and many tales to tell the people who do not know of the Horsemen or the Apocalypse.

[utmvarchive]

Reapertale: a summary.

As stated before, some AUs seem to run in different formats. "Reapertale" is another such AU, but rather than running as a soap opera, this Tale seems to play out like Greek mythos, positioning monsters as gods.

Toriel, goddess of life and warmth, gave breath to the earthly realm and sprouted humankind... but they were not yet mortals, and as they continued to propagate, so did conflict among them, and the balance of the earth tilted. His majesty Asgore, god of the sky from which he and the other first gods were born, and to which they would return if ever they passed on, turned to Gerson, god of wisdom, for answers. And Gerson, in turn, commissioned Gaster, god of the arcane, to conjure a counterbalance. Together, they used the power of darkness to invent the gods of death– Sans and Papyrus. Their conception deeply offended her majesty Toriel, and she secluded herself on the earth to swear off any further creation.

Though life would continue, sterility and stagnation would break out in the goddess' absence, and humanity's faith in the gods would falter. This brought on the loss of the god of hope– Asriel– as he was reaching to save Chara, a devoted acolyte, from tragedy. He was too late, and when his stardust fell into a pool of their blood, he would be reborn as an emissary of despair... again as a golden flower.

As it would happen, Chara would be the reapers' first job; but the gods of death were still newly-formed, and the dark magic used to conjure them still leaked from their forms and their scythes. Thus, only a moment's hesitation was enough for Sans' essence to corrupt Chara's SOUL, which was already embittered by the betrayal of mortal and immortal alike. They would escape, adopting the role of a demon in the following centuries.

In his effort to find Chara, Sans instead found Toriel's hidden sanctuary. The two were confrontational at first, but soon it became clear that Sans liked finding somewhere that allowed him reprieve from his thankless job, being the brother in charge of collecting the SOULs of the damned and the restless. In secret, they grew close...

...and then, claiming a role as harbinger of entropy, Chara too found Toriel. Though a god, they struck her down using a scythe stolen from Sans, igniting an Era of Corruption– an outbreak of strife, stagnation and stillbirth.

Undyne, goddess of war, was next to find what was left of the fallen god's hideaway, and confronted Sans before she could see could see that he too was grieving. Papyrus managed to intervene and calm Sans, stopping the spread of his necrotic influence, redirecting Undyne's attention to seek guidance from the father gods.

Of the first gods, Asgore was still in mourning, Gerson had gone quiet, and Gaster had gone to consult an all-seeing mirror. The mirror could show him everything– past present and future– but Chara had found it first, clouding its vision to lure him closer. They trapped him in it, and they shattered the mirror, scattering him and all memories of him with its shards.

In an effort to buy more time to rediscover life, the goddess of knowledge... Alphys... would be tasked with finding alternatives for creation. Her... first attempt involved the willing sacrifice of other gods, but these efforts would be in vain. The second attempt involved making a new vessel for a prematurely disembodied SOUL, and so... Mettaton would be created as a golem, embodying self-love.

What remained of the slain goddess was eventually detected by the opposing reapers at the same time, but Sans was thankfully faster than Chara and took her SOUL into hiding within his and Papyrus' own realm. He procured a stained-glass flower she'd once made for him after his touch withered the live white lily she previously tried to hand him, and he sacrificed the gift to bring her back with the essence of hers it had preserved. Thus, her restoration was secured.

But it would not be until the emergence of Frisk, demigod of mercy, that Chara would be cured of corruption and instead represent faith, and the balance of their world would finally stabilize.

...Seeing that mirror for myself would make my job so much easier if it were still intact...