#Legacy of Fire

[zephyrprince8]

I noticed on the second issue, that they added the MAX Comics branding on the cover, which was Marvel's short-lived imprint for adult content after they broke with the Comics Code Authority.

Also, I can believe that this is the Shadow King in this universe, but I'm more surprised that this is Illyana Rasputina/Magik in the bottom right....

X-Men: Phoenix, Legacy of Fire #2 by Ryan Kinnaird

[thecreaturecodex]

Spawn of Rovagug, Xotani

Image © Paizo Publishing

{Sponsored by @tar-baphon​. Although I imagine that @monstersdownthepath​ will be happy to see it too, since they had to sort of average the 3.5 and PF2e statistics of Xotani. PF1e skipped it completely, maybe because it appeared in literally the last D&D 3.5 adventure Paizo published. I did run Legacy of Fire, and loved it. Personally, I made a few tweaks. Even if Jhavhul had succeeded, his consciousness was just going to be overwritten by Xotani; you don’t compromise with a Spawn of Rovagug. The sponsor asked me to adjust its CR up by 1, which was really only a matter of deciding how many HD to give it. Besides that, and the lava bombs borrowed from PF2e, this is a pretty straightforward conversion.]

Spawn of Rovagug, Xotani CR 21 CE Magical Beast This creature is a living magma flow, a cross between a wingless dragon and a centipede. It is the size of a building, jagged obsidian plates rising from its back and sides, and gouts of flames shooting from cracks in its surface and drool from its maw. It has eight empty eye sockets, but still seems able to see just fine. 

Xotani the Firebleeder is the weakest of the Spawn of Rovagug, but this still makes it one of the most deadly creatures in Garund. When Xotani is awake, it avoids the sun. It finds sunlight blindingly bright and surprisingly painful, and so remains underground by day, creating a network of tunnels from its own burrowing and from the lava that it spews and leaks. By night, it emerges, setting everything ablaze in its path. It has no desires or intentions other than pure destruction, although it will consume the ashes of what it destroys as a mockery of natural predation. It does take extra damage from the touch of cold, but cold damage enrages Xotani more than dissuades it.

Xotani is an unstoppable force in combat, moving like a lava flow over anything that stands in its path. Its very touch sets combustible objects ablaze, and weapons turned against it melt into slag. Xotani’s main strategies are either breathing a torrent of fire over clustered enemies, or grabbing and swallowing a single powerful foe. Wounds that open in Xotani’s flesh spew magma reflexively, and Xotani can fire lava bombs from its back. Xotani is barely sapient, but knows enough to avoid using its breath weapon against foes that are immune to fire: these it just eats after softening them up with claws and teeth.

The Firebleeder was “slain” by a powerful order of mages millennia ago, and is currently slumbering beneath Pale Mountain in Katapesh, where the color of the rock is said to come from the crushed bones of those who died in battle.  However, Xotani came very close to being awakened in the recent past. The lovesick Jhavhul, an efreet general, attempted to possess Xotani in order to have a form worthy of the object of his obsession, Ymeri the Queen of the Inferno. Without the twisted wishcraft used by Jhavhul, Xotani will not awaken for centuries. But it does now stir in his slumber, and droughts, wildfires and heat waves are more common around the Obari Ocean because of it. And plenty of other doomsday cults, misguided fire worshipers or simply bad actors may be able to wake Xotani yet. 

Xotani the Firebleeder       CR 21 XP 409,600 CE Colossal magical beast (fire, spawn of Rovagug) Init +8; Senses blindsight 120 ft., darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision, Perception +26 Aura frightful presence (300 ft., Will DC 27) Defense AC 38, touch 6, flat-footed 34 (-8 size, +4 Dex, +32 natural) hp 403 (26d10+260); regeneration 30 Fort +25, Ref +21, Will +20 DR 15/epic; Immune ability damage, ability drain, bleed, disease, electricity, energy drain, fire, mind-influencing effects, paralysis, permanent wounds, petrifaction, poison, polymorph; SR  32 Defensive Abilities heat, hibernation, supreme regeneration; Weaknesses cold, sunlight blindness Offense Speed 60 feet, burrow 40 ft., climb 60 ft. Melee bite +32 (4d8+14 plus grab and 5d6 fire), 2 claws +32 (2d8+14 plus 5d6 fire) Space 30 ft.; Reach 30 ft. Special Abilities breath weapon (70 ft. cone, 1d4 rounds, 16d10 fire, Ref DC 33), firebleed, lava bomb, swallow whole (AC 26, 40 hp, 2d8+21 plus 20d6 fire), trample (2d8+21 plus 5d6 fire, Ref DC 37) Statistics Str 38, Dex 19, Con 30, Int 3, Wis 17, Cha 18 Base Atk +26; CMB +48 (+52 grapple, +68 overrun); CMD 62 (cannot be tripped) Feats Combat Reflexes, Critical Focus, Greater Vital Strike, Improved Critical (claw), Improved Initiative, Improved Vital Strike, Iron Will, Lightning Reflexes, Nimble Moves, Power Attack, Staggering Critical, Stunning Critical, Vital Strike Skills Climb +27, Perception +26, Survival +23; Racial Modifiers +8 Perception, +8 Survival Languages Aklo (cannot speak) SQ unstoppable force Ecology Environment any land or underground Organization unique Treasure incidental Special Abilities Blindsight (Ex) Xotani’s blindsight is based on hearing. If it is deafened, Xotani cannot use its blindsight. Firebleed (Ex) As an immediate action upon taking at least 10 points of slashing or piercing damage, Xotani can spew lava from its wound in a 30 foot cone. All creatures in the area must succeed a DC 33 Reflex save or take 10d6 points of fire damage. Creatures that fail the save are coated in cooling sticky lava, being entangled and taking 5d6 points of fire damage for the next 1d3 rounds or until they spend a full round action to scrape the lava off. The save DC is Constitution based. Heat (Ex) All of Xotani’s attacks deal an additional 5d6 points of fire damage, and any creature touching or striking it with a unarmed strike or natural weapon take that damage. A manufactured weapon that strikes Xotani is incinerated and destroyed; a magical weapon may attempt a DC 33 Fortitude save in order to survive. The save DC is Constitution based. Hibernation (Ex) Spawn of Rovagug can sleep for years, decades, or even centuries and do not need to eat or breathe during these periods of dormancy, though they breathe normally and eat ravenously and almost constantly once they’ve been awakened. If a spawn of Rovagug is forced into an environment where it cannot breathe and would suffocate, it goes into hibernation until conditions are right for it to reawaken. Lava Bomb (Su) Once every 1d4 rounds, Xotani can create lava bombs as a standard action. Treat this as a supernatural version of the meteor swarm spell (ranged touch +22, Reflex DC 27) with a range of 400 feet. The save DC is Charisma based. Sunlight Blindness (Ex) Xotani’s light blindness is only activated by true sunlight. Supreme Regeneration (Ex) All spawn of Rovagug possess regeneration, and no form of attack can suppress this regeneration; they regenerate even if disintegrated or slain by a death effect. If a spawn of Rovagug fails a save against an effect that would kill it instantly, it rises from death 3 rounds later with 1 hit point if no further damage is dealt to its remains. It can be banished or otherwise transported as a means to save a region, but a method to kill Spawn of Rovagug has yet to be discovered. Unstoppable Force (Ex) A spawn of Rovagug can always charge, even if its movement is impeded or its path is blocked by another creature. It receives a +20 racial bonus on combat maneuver checks to overrun and Strength checks to break or destroy objects, and can make one such check as a free action as part of a charge. In addition, the natural weapons of a spawn of Rovagug ignore all forms of damage reduction and hardness.

[saessenach]

What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms… or the memory of a brother’s smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.

Jon Snow - and family that haunts him, because sometimes ghosts make for the best love stories.

[somnoir]

Gotham's newest Crime Lord - part 3

Part 2 | Masterpost

"You know your way around the city." Dan commented, eyes narrowed once he realizes that Kitty and Johnny adapted a little too well to Gotham. Going to places even he didn't know existed, exploring and giving them intel he never realized was relevant. They knew history of Gotham in a way a local would. 

Johnny shrugged, turning back to Kitty who welcomed Ember with a bright smile. The two were squealing, talking about how they were going to help mess with Firefly after burning down a well-loved studio down town. 

For Dan, he wasn't going to intrude too much on his former rogues but... "You're from Gotham. Both of you." 

Johnny twitched, watching as Shadow moved to play with Elle in the air. 

"Yeah, we’re not too sure if our folks are still kickin’, but Kitty and me took off after they flipped over our thing. This place still gives me the heebie-jeebies, but hey, you guys are here. Gotham’s cool these days with all the furries and rogues runnin’ around." Johnny laughed, his cocky nature still burning bright, even when he looked almost melancholic at the memory of this place. 

No ghost was truly comfortable in their hometown, whether they died there or not. This was where they were born, where their lives began. 

"I see..." Dan mumbled, glancing to the space where Danny was usually in. His younger brother was off doing kingly duties again, slumped by work and the Observants pestering him about shit. 

There's a quiet knock on his door and Jeremy was poking his head into the room again. The ghosts didn't even care, continuing to be visible and floating around. Discomfort and a bit of fear was clear on the man's face but he turned to Dante with as much courage as he could muster. 

"Boss, we've got a lead on the missing kids." 

Ah, yes. The recent disappearances of children. He doesn't know where they go, what happens to them. All he knows is that children were picked of the streets and never to be seen again. 

"Someone's been takin' kids?" Kitty grimaced, not minding how Jeremy shuddered. "Dan, dear, darling! Send me and Johnny. We know this city better than Batman and his little birdies."

Again, Dan sighed. "Gimme a minute, Kitty. Not enough information." He grunts, turning to Jeremy to hand him the report. 

"Anything else?"

"Well... About the Bats..."

"They snoopin' around again?" 

"Trynna sniff out Phantom." Jeremy shrugs. "Red Hood's been pretty active. Heard he's been wonderin' about Phantom not visitin' the kids last week." 

"Thanks Jeremy. Tell Marigold I said hi." 

"Will do, boss!" 

Once Jeremy left, the other ghosts were swarming Dan like bees. Their eyes glittering with anticipation, excitement, and vengeance. It felt strange for them to pay attention, to follow him. Danny's always felt like the better leader, struggling and suffering in the role yet rising above it all. That was why he was the king now. 

"Alright, let's get to work. Most of these kids have one thing in common. Their skills. Flexible, acrobatic, and have some sort of combat training. Usually in self defence." Dan plugged in the USB into his laptop, projecting the screen on to the tv. "The latest disappearance is Layla Smithson. Fourteen. Gymnast and was sent to take taekwondo classes by her parents. Before that was Evan Chavez. Another gymnast but was also known to get into multiple fights."

"So whoever is takin' the kiddies, they go after the ones with pretty good skills." Ember hummed, turning to Kitty and then nudging her. "You've got anything to say about that?" 

"Well... Maybe." Johnny shrugs too. 

"Ooh! What about that nursery rhyme every Gothamites gets to listen. Y'know. About the court."

Dan frowned. "What court?" 

"The court of owls!" Kitty grinned, "Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowy perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send the Talon for your head." 

"Who the fuck uses that kind of shit for a nursery rhyme?" Dan scowled, but considered the possibility. "Any idea if they're real."

"Very." Johnny warned, "When Kitty and I died, we came back here a couple of times. Explored the place and tried to dig up secrets that would have killed us if we were livin'. One of 'em was the court. A secret society of a bunch off rich bastards."

"Johnny," Dan warned, knowing that something was still being kept from him. 

"There's another thing..." Johnny hesitated but Kitty took his hand and continued. 

Kitty grimaced, "The Court of Owls has a bunch of soldiers. They got this chemical they use on people, turnin’ ‘em into their own assassins. From what me and Johnny dug up a while back, these assassins were trained when they were kids. They call 'em Talons."

Dan wanted to yell, scream. Burn down the cursed with it's cursed bricks. Fuck. Fuck. Was the world always so shitty? 

"You're telling me... There's an entire secret society that uses chemicals to turn children into assassins?" 

Children.... Fucking children. They were weaponizing kids!

Ancients, he might just commit mass genocide again. 

"Alright. Alright. We leave the living people out of this. The court? Their talons? I want all of you prepared. I'm gonna contact Danny to drag Skulker and Wulf's asses here immediately."

Elle grinned, "GRAB AMORPHO TOO! We're gonna need his help if we want to dismantle the court."

The office is vacated quickly, with Elle dragging Ember and Kitty for girl time and Johnny runs off with shadow. Dan is left alone, frustrated at the new information before he does his best to summon his brother, the very annoyed ghost king that appears before him in full royal regalia. 

"A bit busy, Dan. Still tryin' to fight the laughing magician to help with getting rid of the Anti-Ecto Acts. Constantine is running around trying to destroy the GIW now." 

Dan snorted. He knew about John Constantine. The crazy motherfucker who's soul fragments were scattered around and Danny had to deal with the paperwork and mission to collect them all. 

"I know, yeah, sorry. I get that's important. But we've got a situation here."

"What would that be?"

"Secret society of rich fruitloops that are worse than Vlad. They're kidnapping children and making them into brainless assassins."

Immediately, the room grows colder than the far frozen. Danny's eyes are as green as they could ever be, but his pupils were an icy blue that would have made Frostbite shudder. 

"What do you need?"

"Skulker, Wulf, and Amorpho." 

"I'll send them on your way. They'll be here within 3 hours." Danny sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "I'll finish up things on my end to help."

"Sure thing, twerp."

"Fuck you." Fondly. 

"Fuck you too." Affectionately.

"OH! Your revenant was looking for you." 

"THE SEXY RED HOOD WAS LOOKING FOR ME?!" 

It was an entire week of silence. Of Wraith not doing anything at all. Even the rogues felt apprehensive to act on anything after Wraith's new subordinates started popping up to pester them. The reports were the same. Distorted footage, meta-human abilities, and a ridiculous amount of chaos. 

Apparently, Two face has waged war on one of them, named Ember. Riddler was also ready to throw hands with Specter. And then Harley and Ivy were hunting down a couple names Kitty and Johnny 13. Why they were named that, none of them knew. But considering Wraith and Phantom's titles, the entire group was Ghost themed. The majority of Gotham have taken to calling them the Ghosts. 

But then...

"Bruce... Get a look at this." Barbara's voice shook, horrified as she stared at the screen. Majority of the family was already in the cave, preparing to patrol once more. But their eyes were drawn to the screen. They all froze, struggling to fathom what the fuck was it they were looking. 

"Holy shit." 

Everyone was frozen, staring at the clear, untampered screen. 

Bruce sucked in a deep breath, reading the bloody message written on the wall of... He couldn't recognize it properly. "Farewell to the Court of Owls that once watched from their shadowy perch. Their talons covered in the blood of children they once purge. Farewell to their judge, the parliament says goodbye. To Talons, to owls, the ghosts says hi." 

And right beside the message was the hanging body of what Bruce recognized was the Judge of the Court of Owls. 

The Court of was in ruins. 

"Holy shit. HOLY SHIT!" Tim screeched, almost stumbling as he stared at the morbid message. "The Wraith and his ghosts took out the fucking court."

There was a loud rev of an engine, momentarily dragging their attention to Jason who was hurriedly getting of his bike and taking of his helmet. "Fuck, you've already seen it."

"You saw it in real life?! Where the fuck is that? The location is distorted but the entire thing is being broadcasted to the entirety of Gotham." 

"There are two of 'em. That one's on the clocktower."

Barbara snapped her head towards him, "MY clocktower?!" 

"Sorry 'bour that Barbie. But it got the job done for them, all of Gotham know about the court now."

Bruce grimaced, "And the other location?" 

"Arkham... The Talon is the one being hanged up there. The message is shorter: Bye-Bye owls. Shouldn't have messed with the dead." Jason clicked his tongue, "That's either about the fact that the court has been messing with the dead or it's cause Wraith's group is called the Ghosts." 

Jason shook his head, knowing for the fact that he'd have to track down Phantom soon. His eyes turned towards Dick, who stared at the screen as if a burden was just freed from him. Jason thinks it has. 

They had found out about the Court a little while ago, then found out about Dick's situation with them. How the circus he grew up in was one of the facilities that groomed Talons. How Dick was supposed to be recruited as one when his parents died. 

"Dick?" Jason murmured, gently taking Dick's hand. The other man jolted, his domino mask hiding whatever emotions there was in his eyes. 

"Little Wing..." 

"C'mon. Let's go grab some of Alfred's cookies. The rest of the family can deal with this." Jason quickly hurried his older brother out the cave, urging him to change our of his suit. 

Dick, once again, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, struggled to understand that his nightmare that was the Court was finally dead. Most likely slaughtered by the hands of a new crime lord, a rogue that seemed desperate to keep children safe. He held the tea tightly, closing his eyes as Jason sat opposite to him. 

The court was dead. 

Talon was dead. 

"I'm gonna go look for Phantom in a bit." Jason hummed, trying to appear comforting to Dick. 

And the image of the Judge of the court's body hanging from the clocktower flashes in his head again. 

"Jason." Dick whispered, "Get me a meeting with Wraith."

"What?" Jason blinked, "Dickie, no. Wraith might seem like a pretty nice guy with how he's protecting the kids, but he's still..." He paused, "He's still like me." 

"I need to meet him, Jaybird. I need to confirm that the Court is gone for good. He's the only one who can do that for me." 

"Why would Phantom even let you meet him?"

Dick frowned, sucking in a deep breath before taking Jason's hands. 

"Tell him that Nightwing was supposed to be a Talon."

Part 4 | Masterpost

[n0endw0nderland]

"Sebastian?! Did you set your uncle on fire?!"😳😱🫣🔥

This is an homage to the "Disaster Girl" meme.

In this case, Sebastian is Disaster Boy, grinning mischievously at the fact that it's not the house that's on fire, but his uncle.

Ominis would surely have been horrified 😂

[queerliblib]

Just a reminder. Happy Pride y’all 🧱🧱🧱!

These & many more titles can be found in the Pride Guide on our Libby homepage! As always, these are all available FOR FREE with a free QLL membership 🌈📚

Love our work? Contribute to our annual Pride Fundraiser if you’re able (and share the hell out of it either way) to keep QLL up and running for 2026 and beyond. This year, fundraising teams that raise over $300 real American dollars will get to ✨CHOOSE A BOOK TO ADD TO THE QLL COLLECTION✨

[choccy-milky]

☼ seb & clora x elden ring ☼

SUPER self-indulgent thing i had to draw once i got the idea, bc i love FromSoftware and all their games (...& also bc i will never get tired of drawing clora like an ethereal lightbulb LOL 🔆) ↓ extra doodles and a lot of yapping below❗ ↓ (& elden ring DLC final boss spoilers)

their boss mechanics bc im a nerd LMAO🥰

if you target clora and kill her before seb, seb will be inflicted with madness/frenzy, and his stats will be raised for the remainder of the fight

with clora dead, seb will stop using holy/slash damage, and will instead use occult, madness/frenzied flame, and his own blood to inflict bleed damage

killing clora first makes the fight wayy harder, but also reaps much better rewards/a unique item (like the ornstein and smough boss fight in DS1)

if you kill seb first and don't finish off clora quickly enough, she'll just keep reviving him over and over (like the twin princes fight in DS3)

when you get seb down to like 10% health, he'll stop going on the offensive and will instead do everything he can to protect clora (while being visibly beaten up & limping😭kinda like sif in DS1)

this is the boss i re-skinned them as (promised consort radahn) bc i love this design...and even the lore makes sense bc the big guy (radahn) was brought back to life to serve miquella and fight for him (kinda like my seb and his horcrux👀) i also considered giving clora a halo similar to miquella's (but in the design of her hairclip) except i scrapped that bc i thought it looked weird LOL. i still like the idea tho so...just pretend its there LMAO🙂‍↕️🙏 ok im done 🗣️

[saydesole]

Black R&B Singers Part2

Isley Brothers -Living

Aretha Franklin 1942-2018

Barry White 1944-2003

Whitney Houston 1963-2012

Bobby Womack 1944-2014

Minnie Riperton 1947-1979

Earth, Wind, and Fire -Living

Lisa Fisher -Living

Rest in peace

Maurice White (earth wind and fire )1941-2016

Fred White (Earth Wind and Fire) 1955-2023

Roland Bautista (Earth Wind and Fire) 1951-2012

Chris Jasper (Isley Brothers ) 1951-2025

Rudolph Isley (Isley Brothers) 1939-2023

Marvin Isley (Isley Brothers) 1953-2010

O'Kelly Isley (Isley Brothers) 1937-1986

[burquillos]

Deku and Dynamight call that D&D!!

Pro Heroes taking a pic for a magazine article or something

[novaursa]

Legacy

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: dinner with a lion

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The heat of Harrenhal’s stone walls suffocates you as you sit, bound and chained, in a shadowed cell, distanced from the other prisoners. The silence presses down heavily, disturbed only by the occasional scurry of rats in the corners and the distant, echoing clamor of soldiers outside. They’ve kept you here as a prisoner of value, locked away from the common rabble. No one dared speak your name aloud, but you know what you are to them—a Targaryen, a relic of a world shattered and hunted by Robert’s Rebellion.

Your eyes trace the rough-hewn stones, your thoughts lost in Winterfell's cold embrace, where you’d been a ward, a stranger among wolves yet somehow belonging. Ned Stark's honor had felt like a shield back then, the North your sanctuary. That safety, of course, had long been stripped away. The warmth of winter fires, the laughter of his children, Arya’s giggling fits as she followed you through halls… You press those memories deep, lest they break you here in this hollowed-out fortress of despair.

The iron door creaks open. You don’t lift your head, knowing that if it’s a guard, his words will be as cold as his chainmail. Instead, you hear the soft scuff of small, light footsteps—a child’s, perhaps, or someone pretending to be one.

“Y/N?” The whisper is barely audible, like a breeze skimming across snow. You jerk your head up, blinking to adjust to the light spilling into the cell. A thin figure stands just outside the barred door, cloaked in rags, dark hair wild and tangled around a dirt-smeared face. The eyes, however, are unmistakable—storm-grey, fierce with a fire that the years hadn’t dimmed.

“Arya…” you breathe, hardly believing what you’re seeing.

She glances around quickly, as if expecting someone to appear out of the shadows, then steps closer to the bars, wrapping her hands around them. She is small, thin, but you can feel her strength through the steel.

“They’ve separated you from the others,” she says, her voice low but urgent. “Why?”

A bitter smile tugs at your lips. “They know what I am. Who I am.” You can’t help but reach through the bars, brushing a thumb over her knuckles. “But they don’t know you, it seems.” You pause, studying her. “Why are you dressed like…?”

Her face hardens, though her eyes still shimmer with the relief of seeing you. “I’m Ary. A boy.” She grins a little. “Keeps me safer that way. They don’t look too closely at boys.”

You nod, understanding. Clever girl. Brave girl. Your heart aches at the thought of her wandering through these deadly halls, relying only on wit and stealth. “You shouldn't be here, Arya.”

“Neither should you,” she retorts, voice fierce. “You think I’d just stay hidden, knowing they have you locked up like some...prize?” She gestures toward your chains. “You’re all they talk about.”

The words sting, though you knew what you were to them—what you’d always been in the eyes of those who held power. “Yes, well, they love parading relics of conquest.”

Arya scoffs, glancing down the hall as the clang of footsteps grows closer. She pulls back slightly, but her gaze holds yours. “I’m going to find a way to help you.”

Before you can respond, the guard rounds the corner, a hulking brute who grunts upon seeing Arya standing too close to the bars.

“Oi, boy!” he barks, jabbing a gloved finger toward her. “What’re you loitering around here for? Get along!”

Arya nods quickly, ducking her head. “Sorry, m’lord. Was just looking for scraps.”

The guard snorts, shoving her away with a meaty hand. “Scavenge elsewhere, rat.” His eyes slide back to you, cold and suspicious, before he turns and lumbers away down the hall.

You exhale slowly, your fingers trembling against the rough metal of your chains. In another life, Arya would have been free to roam Winterfell’s hills, a wild little shadow among wolves. And yet, she’s here, risking herself to reach you. As she slips away, she looks back just once, her expression determined, her eyes flashing with a promise.

The hours blur together after that. Servants and guards move past occasionally, sneaking glances but offering no words. No one knows what to do with you; even here, your Targaryen blood marks you as something foreign, an unpredictable fire they’d rather keep contained.

But then, as night falls and the cold sets in, Arya returns, slipping through the shadows. She brings a small hunk of bread and a waterskin, passing them through the bars.

“Eat,” she whispers, watching you with a fierce, protective glint. “You need to keep your strength.”

You take the food gratefully, feeling a spark of warmth. “Thank you,” you murmur, voice low. “How did you…?”

“I’m faster than most of these lumbering fools,” she says, a spark of pride in her tone. “I’ve learned things. I know how to make myself invisible.”

You chuckle softly, the sound echoing in the quiet cell. “You always did have a knack for hiding. Even in Winterfell, you could vanish like a shadow.”

Her face softens, a brief flicker of nostalgia crossing her expression. “Winterfell feels like a lifetime ago.”

“For both of us,” you reply, meeting her gaze, the weight of shared memories hanging heavy between you. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Arya. These people…they won’t think twice about harming you if they suspect anything.”

She nods, her expression fierce. “I’ll be fine. But I’ll come back. I’ll find a way to get you out.”

There’s a fire in her eyes, a determination that reminds you so painfully of her father. And as she slips away into the darkness, leaving you alone once more, you feel a renewed sense of hope—a fragile, flickering ember amidst the cold stone walls of Harrenhal.

The hours drag on, each one marked by the slow drip of water echoing in your cell, but eventually, the familiar rhythm of Harrenhal’s dungeons changes. You feel it before you see it—a shift in the air, the sound of hurried footsteps, the murmur of anxious voices reverberating through the stone walls. The guards move with unusual purpose, stiffening as they march past, casting wary glances at each other.

And then it clicks. A name floats through the muted conversations, spoken in low, reverent tones. Tywin Lannister.

Of course, he would come. Tywin would never leave something—or someone—of value to fate or neglect, and as a Targaryen in Lannister captivity, you are valuable. The realization sends a chill through you; you know what Tywin’s arrival means. After all, this was the man who orchestrated Robert’s Rebellion from the shadows, who ensured your family’s ruin.

Hours pass, leaving you with your thoughts, steeling yourself for the inevitable. It is nearly dusk when you hear his unmistakable footfalls—a measured, deliberate pace, the stride of a man who owns every room he steps into. The door to your cell opens, and there he stands, backlit by the torches in the hallway, his sharp gaze fixed upon you with that calculating intensity that has always defined him.

You rise slowly, the chains at your wrists clinking softly as you meet his gaze, refusing to bow or avert your eyes. He steps forward, and the guard closes the door behind him, leaving just the two of you in the silence of the cell.

"Y/N," he greets, his voice low and steady, as if he were greeting an old friend rather than a prisoner.

"Lord Tywin," you reply, keeping your tone neutral, though a simmering resentment lies beneath it. "I wondered how long it would take you to come see me."

He inclines his head, a barely perceptible acknowledgment. "I was surprised to learn you were here. I'd thought my orders were… clear."

"Well," you reply, voice laced with defiance, "your orders seem to have missed me by a few years and several hundred leagues."

A flicker of something passes over his expression—irritation, perhaps, or simply the mild inconvenience of something not going precisely to his plans. He regards you with that unyielding gaze, assessing, calculating. "You always did possess a certain… rebellious streak."

You lift your chin, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "It was a trait I shared with my family. At least, those who survived."

"Indeed," he says, with a faint curl of distaste. "And yet here you are, once again, a ward of sorts—though not of Winterfell this time." He studies you a moment longer before taking a step back, hands folded behind his back. "I did not expect you to involve yourself in… certain matters."

"I didn’t choose this," you reply, the bitterness plain in your voice. "Do you think I wanted to end up here, in the middle of this war, far from my family?"

Tywin raises an eyebrow. "Family? The very family that plunged the realm into chaos and left nothing but ashes and memories?"

You grit your teeth, the anger simmering within you. "My family fought for what was theirs. They believed in protecting their own."

"Their own." He almost laughs, the sound devoid of warmth. "A convenient justification." He takes a measured step toward you, his voice lowering. "But there are two choices now—obey, or find yourself utterly without power or purpose in this realm. It’s time to accept which path will ensure your survival."

The implication hangs heavy in the air, but you hold your ground. “And what path is that, exactly?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gestures toward the door with an almost casual wave of his hand. “You will be brought to me, Y/N. The other prisoners here… they are of no value, save for labor. They’ll be put to work.”

You look away, unable to hold his gaze, a knot of resentment building in your chest. You know what this means—that he intends to keep you close, in his grasp, as leverage, as something he can wield. Just another prize in his relentless pursuit of control.

“Then I suppose I don’t have much of a choice,” you say quietly, resigned.

“Choice?” Tywin’s lips twist into a thin smile. “Perhaps not. But survival? That, you do.”

He pauses, his gaze lingering on you, assessing you once more before turning toward the door. Just before he leaves, he speaks again, softer this time, though there’s no warmth in his tone. “There was a time I believed you would find your place at Winterfell. Let’s hope you find it here in Harrenhal, though I doubt it will be as kind.”

With that, he turns, his cloak sweeping behind him, and the door closes. You are left in silence, the chains at your wrists heavier than ever as you stare at the empty doorway, Tywin's words echoing in your mind.

They bring you through the winding stone corridors of Harrenhal, flanked by guards who grip their weapons as though you might suddenly decide to fight. You don’t look at them, choosing instead to lift your chin, steeling yourself for what awaits. Soon, you reach a heavy iron door and are led into the dimly lit council chamber, where Tywin Lannister sits at a rough-hewn table surrounded by maps and documents. His eyes flick up as you enter, cold and unblinking, assessing you as if you were a pawn on one of his battle maps.

"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the chair across from him.

You hesitate, a beat of defiance thrumming in your chest, but there’s little point in resisting now. With a quiet dignity, you take the seat, keeping your posture poised, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you appear weak.

For a moment, he says nothing, his piercing gaze steady as he studies you, hands clasped before him. The silence between you is thick, heavy with the weight of a past neither of you acknowledges directly.

"Have you thought of what your place here will be, Y/N?" His voice is measured, devoid of warmth. “It’s time you learn that your loyalty—whatever remains of it—has a purpose.”

“Is that what you’re hoping to extract from me?” you reply, tone cool, unwilling to betray any weakness. “Loyalty?”

Tywin’s mouth forms a thin line. “I had thought that was something you would recognize. I recall a time when I gave you something very few in Westeros would have considered—a chance. Yet, here you are.”

You raise an eyebrow, the bitterness you’ve tried to suppress bubbling to the surface. “If you’re expecting a thank you, Lord Tywin, for ‘saving my life’ and sending me North, you’ll be disappointed.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches, though his face remains otherwise impassive. “I expect no gratitude. Only an understanding of what is required.” His gaze sharpens, icy and relentless. “The time for grudges and sentiment is over. We are at war, Y/N, and there are no innocents in war.”

You bite back a retort, letting the words settle. Tywin had always been a strategist, a man who saw lives as currency in his endless schemes for power. To him, you were a valuable piece in this game, nothing more.

Before you can respond, there’s a shuffle at the door. A small figure enters, head down, dressed in rags that disguise her almost entirely. You freeze, a flicker of recognition sparking within you. Arya. She’s keeping her head low, her gaze on the floor, playing the part of a servant boy with remarkable precision.

Tywin barely acknowledges her, but you sense the tension rolling off him as he glances briefly at the child. “Good,” he mutters, gesturing for her to approach. “Pour us some wine.”

You catch her eye just for a split second, then force yourself to look away, masking any flicker of recognition that might betray her. Fear coils in your stomach, a sick dread gnawing at you. Arya is so close to him, close enough to be touched by the man whose armies are locked in a brutal struggle against her brother Robb.

She moves with surprising grace, her hands steady as she picks up a pitcher of wine and fills Tywin’s cup first, then yours. You can sense her nervousness—the slight tremor in her hands, the careful restraint in her movements. Every instinct screams for you to shield her, to pull her away from Tywin’s cold gaze, but you force yourself to remain still, trusting in her disguise.l

Tywin raises his goblet, studying you over the rim, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You’ve come a long way from the girl I once sent North,” he says, taking a slow sip. “And yet, I wonder if you truly understand the stakes of the game you’re caught in.”

You meet his gaze head-on, a defiant spark igniting in your chest. “Perhaps it’s not the game I care about, Tywin. Perhaps I’ve come to understand that there’s more at stake than power.”

He sets down his goblet, fingers steepling before him, his expression hardening. “That’s where you are mistaken, Y/N. Power is the only thing that matters. It is the only reason you are here, alive, in this moment.” He gestures to the chamber around him, as though the walls themselves bear witness to his authority.

Beside you, Arya keeps her head down, silent as she completes her task, retreating a step as if hoping to melt into the shadows. Yet, despite her best efforts, your gaze drifts to her, a rush of protectiveness coursing through you, though you know it’s a risk. You want to shield her, to keep her far from Tywin’s attention, from his scrutiny. Her fate hangs by a thread, poised perilously close to discovery, and you cannot allow yourself to falter.

Tywin’s gaze sharpens as he notes your momentary glance toward Arya. He doesn’t ask, but there’s an unspoken question in the air as his eyes linger on you, piercing and calculating.

With Arya now lingering in the background, Tywin returns his attention fully to you, his tone softening just enough to sound almost conversational. “Tell me, Y/N, do you believe that loyalty alone will ensure victory? Or will it take more?”

He waits, and you know that beneath his words lies a deeper question—a challenge, a demand for allegiance that you cannot easily give. 

You swallow, feeling the weight of Tywin’s question linger in the room like a shadow. He watches you closely, his gaze dissecting every breath, every shift of your expression.

“Loyalty alone doesn’t ensure anything,” you answer finally, your voice carefully neutral. “It’s a weapon, a means to an end, but hardly the end itself.”

He inclines his head slightly, as if acknowledging your answer. “Precisely. Loyalty is useful—necessary, even—but it is not enough to build a legacy.” His tone is cool, distant, almost as if lecturing a pupil. “Power is what matters, Y/N. Power builds kingdoms, reshapes worlds, burns down houses that have stood for centuries.”

The words are exactly what you expected from him: cold, ruthless, and unyielding. Yet, as he continues, there’s an intensity beneath them, a deeper thread of something that you can’t quite name.

“Legacy,” he says, his voice lowering to a murmur. “What we leave behind is all that remains when we are gone. Our names, our accomplishments… these are what endure. Without them, we are dust, forgotten.”

You meet his gaze, holding it with a defiance you can’t quite suppress. “I thought you cared little for anything but victory, Tywin. For all this talk of legacy, I hadn’t pegged you for someone who worried about what others would remember.”

A shadow of a smirk flits across his face. “Perhaps you misunderstand me. I care little for how others perceive me—but I care greatly for what they cannot ignore. For the things that endure, long after I’m gone. It is not enough for House Lannister to survive. It must be unassailable.”

You nod slowly, absorbing his words, though a part of you bristles against his philosophy. He sees people as tools, pawns in his endless game. That’s all you are to him, a valuable piece he can wield to achieve his vision.

But then, he leans forward slightly, his eyes fixed on you with a sudden, burning intensity. “And that is why I’ve decided to take you as my wife.”

The words strike you like a blow, leaving you momentarily stunned, the breath stolen from your lungs. You blink, trying to process what he’s just said, wondering if you’ve misunderstood. But the certainty in his eyes tells you that he means every word.

“Your… wife?” The words come out in a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

“Yes.” His tone is final, unyielding. “This union would serve both of us well. You would be restored to a place of power—protected, in the only way that matters.”

For a moment, you struggle for words, reeling from the unexpected declaration. You’d braced yourself for talk of alliances, of politics, even of Tywin’s usual calculated strategies—but this? This was something you hadn’t anticipated.

“Is that what you think I want?” you manage, forcing your voice to remain steady. “A position, a title, the protection of your name?”

He studies you, expression unchanging. “You may not realize it yet, Y/N, but your value is not solely in your bloodline. You are a weapon that could be sharpened, a tool with the potential to fortify both our legacies.”

Just then, a clatter erupts from the corner of the room as Arya accidentally knocks over a pitcher. The clay shatters, water spilling across the stone floor, jolting you back to reality. Arya’s face blanches, and she drops quickly to her knees, mumbling apologies as she gathers the broken pieces.

Tywin’s gaze flicks to her, his expression hardening. “Be more careful in the future, Ary,” he says, his tone sharp but controlled. “I don’t tolerate carelessness.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Arya replies, her voice low, strained, as she hurriedly cleans up the mess, hands moving with a practiced grace.

Your eyes dart to her for a heartbeat, concern flooding through you despite your best efforts to mask it. You don’t want to give her away, to betray her presence as anything other than a humble servant, but the fear lingers, sharp and gnawing. She’s too close to him, too vulnerable here under his scrutiny. Each moment she spends in this room feels like a risk, a danger you can’t control.

Tywin’s attention returns to you, his piercing gaze heavy with expectation. “As I was saying,” he continues smoothly, as if the interruption had barely registered, “this union would be… advantageous. For you, for me, for both of our houses.”

You take a steadying breath, suppressing the whirlwind of emotions roiling within you. “And what if I refuse?” you ask quietly, testing him, though you already suspect the answer.

Tywin’s expression hardens, his tone cold as steel. “I am not offering you a choice, Y/N. I am informing you of your future. It would be wise to accept it.”

A shiver runs through you, the weight of his words pressing down upon you. Arya continues cleaning in silence, her movements careful, but you feel the tension radiating from her. You force yourself to look away from her, to keep your focus on Tywin, unwilling to risk drawing his attention back to her.

Tywin’s eyes linger on you, cold and calculating, as he gestures to the guards stationed by the door. With a curt nod, he speaks in that same low, commanding tone, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“Escort Lady Y/N to her chambers,” he orders. “See to it that the servants prepare her properly.” He pauses, considering you for a moment, as if appraising your reaction. “She is to be made presentable.”

You feel the urge to rebel against his words, to refuse, to assert the independence he seems so intent on stripping from you. Yet, you know that any defiance here would only play into his hands. Tywin Lannister has you cornered, and he knows it. His intentions are clear—control, alliance, and power, as always. And now, he intends for you to become part of that legacy.

The guards approach, and as they move to escort you, you stand, casting a final glance at Arya. You want to say something, anything to reassure her, to let her know you will look out for her. But you cannot. Not here, not now. Her head remains down, eyes trained on the floor as she finishes cleaning the broken shards of the pitcher, and you feel a pang of fear for her, lodged deep in your chest. You force yourself to look away, to keep your expression neutral as the guards lead you from the room.

As you reach the doorway, Tywin’s voice calls out, halting you momentarily.

“Ary,” he says, turning his sharp gaze upon her, “go to the kitchens and tell them to prepare a dinner for two.”

Arya nods quickly, bowing her head as she mumbles a quick acknowledgment, then scurries out of the room, slipping past you without so much as a glance. You feel a twinge of relief at her quick escape, but the fear doesn’t ease fully as the guards guide you down the halls.

The walk to your chambers feels long and heavy, the walls of Harrenhal closing in around you, a sharp reminder of your captivity. As you near the chambers Tywin has commanded be made “presentable” for you, your mind races, grappling with the implications of his intentions. A marriage—his twisted idea of protection, of binding you to him, as if that could erase the past or reshape your allegiance.

The door to your chambers opens, and the servants immediately set to work, preparing clothes, linens, a bath—all of it designed to fulfill Tywin’s idea of what a “presentable” lady should be. You endure it silently, your mind still reeling from his words, the promise of a future that feels more like a cage.

And somewhere, perhaps in the very kitchens beneath you, Arya is carrying out his orders, a young wolf in disguise, dancing on the edge of discovery.

[aquarius-cookie-jar]

Sup chat, it's the Legacy of Cacao au ocs back in another "What if they were in the BAAU by @cuppajj" doodle dump post. Ft mainly Fire Flower, Powdered Sugar, and Berry Choco.

General ideas about them is here.

Other stuff - -

Honestly, I wanted to do more, but art block got me at the worst time lol.

[zephyrprince8]

Finished up X-Men: Phoenix, Legacy of Fire by Ryan Kinnaird I truly can't believe this bizarre adult Marvel comic exists. And what a weird time -- when comic-making technology was changing.

I wonder what other MAX comics I would enjoy, or enjoy marveling at (pun intended). Possibilities include Fantomex (2013), Rawhide Kid (2003), Wolverine MAX (2012), Rawhide Kid (2003), Howard the Duck (2002), and Edgar Allan Poe (2006).

[ruubesz-draws]

Wwwweeeeeee~

Ion dude probably regretting his life choices

That one scene from the Monarch series ep. 10

(Inspired by this gif:)

[seren-knight01]

YOU like Daenerys Targaryen because she’s blonde, Valyrian, and burned down kings landing in the show in a ragey “girlboss” moment.

I like Daenerys Targaryen because she’s defying colonialism, breaking generational cycles of violence, and protecting the innocent in SPITE of her Valyrian heritage, and she would NEVER burn down a city full of innocent people.

We are not the same.

[watchinglee2]

Let's Make A Deal - Zane Phillips x Male Reader

Warnings: smut, language, semi public, anal, unprotected sex

Plot: You have a choice to make. Two candidates. One promotion. But when he walks into your office, the meeting takes an unexpected turn. Hands on the desk. Hushed voices. The door locked just in time.By the time he leaves, the decision is made. And you’re the one left unraveled.

Let's Make A Deal

Word Count: 1.1k

It was a Monday morning and you were in the office battling a difficulty decision. It was choosing the new head of the Marketing department for your company (Global Tech Inc). There were two employee's in the running which were Elijah and Zane. Both were perfect candidates, almost too perfect.

You had to come up with the decision by the end of the day but needed something more to push it over the head and solidify who would get the position, you just didn't know what it would take. Just as you were in the middle of your thought, your assistant alerts you that Zane needed to see you and you allow him to come in.

"Hello Zane. What can I help you with" you say looking up from your work. "I just wanted to talk to about the promotion. We were supposed to hear about it last week Friday but nothing came."

"Oh yea. Sorry Zane. This process have been really hard because you guys are both are great. I should have let you guys know earlier but I should have a decision at the end of the day". You give Zane a smile as you completed your sentence while getting lost in their crystal blue eyes.

"Well thank you for that update, but maybe I could persuade you into making your decision faster." Zane stares longingly into your eyes as he slowly starts to unbutton his shirt almost leaving you in a trance.

"Zane this is very inappropriate. I think you should leave" You stand up and show him the door but not making eye contact with him out of fear that you will fall into his seduction.

"Mr. Y/L/N I seen the way you look at me in the halls I know you want me." Zane was objectively beautiful everything about him was perfect. His smile, his eyes, his hair, his personality and most importantly his body.

"Let's make a deal. I get what I want and you get what you want for however long you want it". Zane slowly walks over to you as he backs you into the corner and drops his shirt revealing his chiseled abs and bulging muscles. You couldn't help but let out a silent "oh my god" in awe of how built he was.

Zane leans in and slowly plants a kiss on your lips and slowly pulls away as he eyes linger on your mouth. You are stunned but can’t help but to enjoy it. “Zane I-“ Zane shushes you instantly before you could finish your sentence. “Just let me please you.”

Zane begins planting soft wet kisses on your neck as he pins you against the wall. You knew it was wrong but you also knew you couldn’t escape him as his strength was too much to bare. And honestly you didn’t want to.

To your surprise Zane picks you up and carries you onto your desk where he throws everything off the table and lay you down on it. Your lower body tips off the edge of the table and Zane rapidly takes off your pants and underwear.

"Oh shit. You're so hard for my already baby.” Zane teases your cock by taking it in his hands and gripping your dick harder. Your tip leeks out of his hand and he slowly jerks you up and down while aligning his member with your entrance.

As Zane slides in you gasp and he expands your insides. He covers your mouth to leans down to whisper to you. “Shhh just let me fuck you”. You try to contain yourself but Zane’s dick is touching your soul.

Your body begins to contort as Zane widens your hole. Squirting sounds that resemble the sound of mac and cheese emerges as Zane goes in and out of you. You cover your mouth to try and contain your high pitched breathy moans.

Zane smiles at you watching you enjoy his flesh. "Does it feel good?" Zane says that knowing that you can barley make out words. After a few minutes of Zane pounding into you relentlessly you hear a knock on the door. It was your assistant, Jalen.

Your assistant was asking for you to review some documents before the meeting. Panic sets in as you realize the state you’re in—half-naked, pinned beneath Zane, your desk a mess.

Zane doesn’t stop. Instead, he grips your hips tighter, thrusting deeper, his breath hot against your ear. “Tell him you’re busy,” he growls, his voice thick with lust.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “J-Jalen, I—ah!—I’ll review them later. Just—just leave them outside.” Your words come out in broken gasps, barely coherent.

There’s a pause. Then, Jalen’s hesitant voice: “Are you alright, sir? You sound… off.”

Zane chuckles darkly, his fingers digging into your flesh as he fucks you harder, making your legs tremble. “Tell him you’re fine,” he orders, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you, forcing a whimper from your lips.

“I’m—fuck—I’m fine, Jalen! Just—just go!” you manage, your voice cracking as Zane’s pace becomes brutal, his hips slamming into you with no mercy.

The sound of footsteps retreating is the last thing you hear before Zane flips you onto your stomach, bending you over the desk. His hand grips the back of your neck, pressing you down as he re-enters you in one rough stroke.

“Now,” he purrs, his voice dripping with dominance, “let’s finish what we started.”

And as his cock claims you completely, you realize—this promotion was never about qualifications. It was about who could take control.

And Zane just won.

Zane’s thrusts grow erratic, his breath ragged as he nears his climax. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he slams into you one final time with a deep, guttural groan.

You feel his cock pulse inside you, hot and thick, before he pulls out abruptly, stroking himself roughly until thick ropes of cum splatter across your chest—marking you, claiming you.

Panting, Zane steps back, admiring his work with a smug smirk. He tucks himself back into his pants, buttoning up his shirt with effortless arrogance.

“There,” he murmurs, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Decision made.”

You’re still sprawled across the desk, breathless, skin flushed, your own release denied—left aching and desperate. But the way he looks at you, like he already owns you, sends a shiver down your spine.

Zane leans down, pressing a final, possessive kiss to your lips before pulling away. “See you at the promotion announcement,” he says, straightening his tie.

And with that, he walks out—leaving you wrecked, sticky, and utterly at his mercy.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You lost.

And you loved every second of it.

[frenchydelacour]

How could anybody hate these three?