#a worthy opponent! he finally meets his match | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lauraneedstochill · 1 year

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Love always wakes the dragon / Chapter 2

summary: Aemond thinks she’s a worthy opponent — a relentless fighter, a fearless dragon rider, her temper and stubbornness only matching his. But there’s a catch: she is Daemon’s daughter who wants nothing from her father and has her own reasons for coming to King’s Landing. One of them is meant to save the other. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OFC words: ~ 8000 warnings: enemies to lovers, slowburn, sword fighting and a bruised male’s ego author’s note: I’ve read a few fighting scenes and, as much as I enjoyed them, I always thought people go easy on Aemond. so I decided to make him sweat a little... also, I added an instrumental track that fits the fight scene perfectly, and I highly recommend you put it on! ⏪ part 1

2. The Wild Dragon

The dragonkeepers form a small crowd — as Daemon approaches, he sees the men standing still and gazing at the sky, the lack of movement making them look like statues. He hears a low buzzing of gasps and when he looks up, he finds himself in the same position, stunned and open-mouthed. The dragon is circling above the alcove, its wings stretched like a snow-white sail, and the rare, blinding beauty of it makes it hard to look away. The patch of bronze starts from beneath its neck, running down to the tail — the color mix brings back a certain memory of his, and Daemon finds himself lost in his thoughts for a moment.

Only when the dragon goes to the fourth round, the prince comes to his senses:

“Why isn’t it landing?”

One of the dragonkeepers turns to him and hesitantly points to the other corner of the gates. Daemon then notices a group of guards lined up with swords in their arms, looking far from delighted.

“Are you out of your mind?!” the prince yells. “Lower your weapons, you imbeciles!”

The guards retreat and the dragonkeepers back away, too, still keeping their eyes on the beast — in worry, in wonder. He circles once more and then finally flies down, and Daemon catches a glimpse of the rider — her clothes are dark, cloak withering on the wind. He feels his chest tightening with each gust, the long-forgotten feeling rousing in; he can’t remember the last time he’s been so nervous.

The white dragon lands with a grace of a cat — moving paws in synch, it lowers the neck and folds the wings, its limber body huddling closer to the ground. There’s a sharpness to its features, half of his snout crisscrossed with scars, his scales coarse up close, pale and solid like ivory. The beast focuses on Daemon, then glares at the guardss. The reptile’s green eyes are specked with gold, the damning force being the crux of his every move. A rumbling vibrates in the back of his throat but it doesn’t grow into a roar — it’s a warning on itself that he gives them before slowing movement, much to everyone’s relief.

The rider jumps down, landing on both feet, and puts the hood back so Daemon can take a closer look at her. Merely a second is enough to see — she’s an image of her mother, in every feature of her face and even in the way she moves, a rare fusion of gracious and fast-paced. Her hair is put into a braid, the color of it so rare he’s only seen it once before — in the sunlight, it looks as bright as fire, but right through it cuts a thick strand that frames one side of her face with white, the shade of it matching Daemon’s head of hair. And when he meets her gaze, he notices that she has his eyes: the shape is a bit different, more round, but they are the same color and there’s a familiar, threatening heaviness in them. It’s only two pieces of the puzzle that she’s assembled of, but now that Daemon sees her, he has no doubts that she is, in fact, his daughter, and that feeling is almost flattering.

She doesn’t look flattered in the slightest.

When she eyes him briefly, she shows no emotion at all — uncaring, casually unimpressed. It becomes awkwardly silent, and Daemon realizes that he’s never been that good at making the first step. But maybe it’s time for him to try.

“There was no mention of the dragon in the letters,” his voice comes off a tad softer than usual, and he keeps his distance but his enthusiasm fuels him to shorten it.

“Well, surprise,” she deadpans and pats the dragon, her gloved hand gliding against the scales, a small bag clenched in the other one. “Seemed like you took more interest in discussing other matters. What is the proper way of greeting you? Should I curtsy?” she asks,and he isn’t sure if she’s jesting, her tone matching the unreadable expression on her face. “I must apologize for my manners in advance, I’m afraid.”

Her straightforwardness brings a smile to his face, and Daemon steps closer. “We can get the formalities out of the way. I would like to welcome you to King’s Landing, lady —”

“There is no need for that. You know I am no lady, nor am I seeking any titles. You can call me Lia.”

“But that is not your name,” he remarks unsurely, a line of confusion settling in between his brows. Daemon is suddenly questioning every piece of information he knows — or rather the lack thereof.

“That is a part of it,” her answer sounds well-rehearsed as she dispassionately tears syllables. “That’s how my mother called me, so I am quite used to it.”

Even with her name cut in half, she has more authority than the most decorated lords, Daemon thinks. It’s both inexplicable and intriguing, and he holds on to that thought — until it collides with another one, tardy and grim: when she talked about her mother, she used the past tense.

Memories get their claws into his heart as he’s reminded of Baela and Rhaena clinging to him, their muffled weeping and grief-stricken eyes. He knows that the pain of losing a mother leaves a mark that will never be erased — but kind words and a shoulder to cry on can at least help ease the suffering.

Daemon moves with the intention of opening his arms, his chest is a harbor of acceptance when he asks:

“How’s your mother been doing?”

Lia blinks once, twice, then says — plain and simple:

“She died.”

It sounds as mundane as discussing the weather, and Daemon is startled by the lack of sentiment. It was, indeed, uncharacteristically naive of him to expect her to rush into his arms. But her guard is up so high he feels like he’s facing an actual wall, and it makes him anxious — and that’s not what he is used to deal with when it comes to his own children.

But before Daemon can express his concern, he hears a disgruntled snarl — they both turn to see the white dragon coiled into a defensive stance. A couple of dragonkeepers are approaching him falteringly, and Lia raises her voice at the beast. “Olwen!”

His dilated pupils dart to her, and the snarling abates, but his wrath bolsters, and now he’s nothing less of a pure danger. Both his and her eyes are trained on the men, and as one of them comes closer, Lia catches a dull glint of metal in his hands.

“No chains are needed,” she instantly speaks up.

“It is a matter of precaution, we mean no harm —”

“I said,” Lia steps in front of the man, “My dragon will not be chained.”

Her tone immediately loses the light coating of friendliness — if there ever was any to begin with, and she allows no objections. The dragonkeeper looks at her helplessly then turns his gaze to Daemon, waiting for the instructions.

“They want to make sure he stays in the cave,” he clarifies peacefully.

“He doesn’t do well with chains.”

Daemon notes that all her responses are ill-defined which makes him wonder if she does it consciously or not. Whatever her reasoning is, it only leaves more questions than answers.

“Will he do well with other dragons?”

“Olwen will be on his best behavior,” her reply comes out too harsh, so she tones it down a bit. “Put him in any closed space, and he will sleep for days, he won’t care about anything else.”

Daemon casts an evaluating glance at the beast and gestures for the dragonkeepers to stand back.

“I’ll lead the way,” he doesn’t need to turn around to know that she’s following him — her eyes land on his back like a punch.

They pass the gate and the rows of columns carved into the stone surface, illuminated by the torches on the walls. Daemon strains to pick up any sound the dragon makes that can be alarming but he only hears the beast’s footsteps and occasional sniffing. Looking over his shoulder, he is surprised to see that Olwen calmly tags along, not reacting to the unknown environment nor the distant roars of other dragons. Once they reach his cave, the beast merely gives it a look-over before settling down in the darkest corner. Lia leaves the bag tucked under his wing and glances at Olwen with the faintest of a smile. It disappears once she turns to her father.

They walk back in silence but unlike her dragon, Lia takes more interest in her surroundings — she examines weaves of caves and tunnels, looking around after every turn. Daemon watches her out of the corner of his eye, vigilant and hopeful, as he keeps fighting the desire to please her, to be liked by her, this stranger that has his blood but acts like she wants none of it. He opens the carriage door for her, smothering his ego, but Lia hesitantly looks inside, and he guesses that she’d rather go on horseback. Yet she concedes, sensing his determination to bond. He thinks it’s a small step in the right direction.

Lia sits closer to the window, her interest seemingly flaring up even more. That or she doesn’t want to be near Daemon, and he brushes off the latter. He wants to offer his condolences but is afraid her wall of defense will turn into a mountain he won’t be able to climb so he chooses a safer option.

“How was your journey? Finding the Dragonpit didn’t pose a problem for you, it seems.”

“The maps you sent were very detailed, thank you,” Lia doesn’t turn to him, keepsing focus on the landscape that soon gives way to the streets busy with fairs and taverns.

“Is King’s Landing always this crowded?”

“We are taking the main streets, with all the trading points and venues clustered here so these are usually filled with people,” Daemon explains. He doesn’t mention that he chose that road so she could get a better view of the city.

“Keeping an eye on things must be quite hard,” Lia debates.

“Hence why we have the City Watch,” Daemon grins, the feel of the gold cloak wrapped around his shoulders still fresh in his memory. “The Watch ienforces the crown’s laws so our city is safe for all its people. I can show you around later on, should you wish for it.”

“If the city is safe, why would I need a guardian to take a walk?” when she looks at him, there’s a gleam of laughter in her eyes, and Daemon thinks that Rhaenyra would’ve liked her. He really hopes that she will.

“I am only offering my company,” he rebuts gaily.

“One would think the Prince Consort has better things to do,” the corner of her mouth curls but the other one doesn’t follow, and the hint of a smile never grows into an actual one. Instead, her face is set on agitation when she says:

“I may help you pass the time,” with these words, her hand disappears under the cloak — and then Lia gives him a folded piece of parchment. “My mother wrote this for you.”

Daemon can feel that she doesn’t want to give it to him. It’s in the way her hand is gripping the letter, in the way she looks at it, her lips tight and jaw clenched. And yet she lets him take it.

“You know what it’s about?”

“I think I do. And I would prefer if you kept it a secret,” Lia’s voice is quiet — and for a second she almost sounds hurt. But she averts her gaze and straightens her posture, and he can’t figure her out, once again.

“You didn’t read it?”

“The letter is sealed,” Lia states the obvious. “If it wasn’t meant for me then I will not open it.”

“You could’ve burned it, you know. Keep whatever there is a secret.”

And Daemon thinks he will rip the letter to shreds if only she asks, if it makes things better for her. She lightly shakes her head.

“It was my mother’s wish to give it to you, and I respect it,” Lia says firmly. “I can only hope that you will respect mine.”

“Sooner or later, everyone will find out,” he warns her, with a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“I am in no rush,” her reply is short, and she turns to the window, signaling that the conversation is over.

Lia peers out, her eyes on the road again. Only now, in the broad daylight when he takes a closer look, Daemon realizes that it looks like she’s mentally mapping every location they pass. And he doesn’t know the destination she has in mind. The audience with the Queen goes better than Daemon hoped for — which means it’s not half as bad as it could’ve been.

Rhaenyra’s frustration due to the unannounced visit is quickly replaced by burning curiosity when Lia comes in. She sees the girl who doesn’t try to hide behind Daemon’s back and boldly keeps eye contact with the Queen. Lia stops a few feet away from the throne — and she doesn’t curtsy. Instead, she politely takes a bow, not looking away for a second.

Someone else might’ve considered her behavior insolent but Rhaenyra impatiently stands up to walk closer to the girl, not offended but rather intrigued. Daemon wonders if she sees a younger version of herself in Lia — and his wife thinks of it, too. She is also more surprised by the lack of a title than by the name his daughter chose.

“Not a single person in my village had a title or a last name,” Lia points out, and she bears no shame. The look on her face also suggests she doesn’t expect the Queen to understand.

Rhaenyra doesn’t ponder for long. “It is fair to call you a lady, I believe, since you have dragon’s blood in your veins.”

“As you wish, your grace,” Lia simply agrees — and it’s leniency as it is. But the Queen allows it.

She asks more questions than Daemon did, and the girl seems affable with her replies yet somehow she gives all the same information, and not a word more. Still, he observes them with unconcealed satisfaction, pleased with the flow of their voices, with the calmness that sets in the hall, and he’s just a moment away from finding relief —

“How did your mother die?” Rhaenyra asks all of a sudden, and it makes Daemon flinch at his spot.

“Of an unfortunate injury she left untreated,” Lia begrudgingly answers, and he notices that the violet of her eyes goes a shade darker.

“Wasn’t your mother a healer?”

It’s not intended as a taunt, Rhaenyra just can’t resist wanting to know more, her attempts almost child-like, and Daemon tenses up. They are both perplexed by the dry chuckle Lia lets out.

“She cared too much about everyone else but too little about herself.”

There’s no hiding of vitriol seeping through her words but Lia’s face is indifferent again. Rhaenyra studies her reaction — luckily for Daemon, she does so not as the Queen but as someone who experienced the same loss once.

“Hardships of life only shape your character,” she states leniently. “I presume that coming all that way to King’s Landing wasn’t easy but we are glad that you did. It may take you some time to consider this place home — I assure you, the servants are ordered to satisfy your every whim”.

Rhaenyra means well, Daemons knows it, and yet for some reason, he wishes she phrased it better. Whatever Lia actually thinks of the Queen’s speech is left unsaid — his daughter only gives a polite half-smile in return.

“That is very generous of you, your grace. Frankly, I feel like I want to rest for a week, nothing else.”

“Do you really intend to?” Rhaenyra’s friendliness slightly falters. “We planned on having a family gathering at dinner.”

“Dare I ask you to postpone it just for a day? Surely it would be rude for me to fall asleep at the table,” Lia’s smile doesn’t reach the eyes, and a lull in their conversation makes Daemon uncomfortable.

“Well, I suppose just a day won’t make a difference. After such a long journey you do deserve to rest,” the Queen says after a pause. “I need my husband to return to his duties for now. The maid will show you to your chambers,” she calls for a girl who’s been standing at the door, and the maid approaches them as quietly as a mouse.

Lia’s eyes flicker to Daemon, and he almost expects her to argue, but she says nothing aside from a hushed “thank you”, and then follows the maid out of the room. Rhaenyra watches them, tacit and pensive.

“I truly do not know what to think,” the Queen drawls when they leave. “But she is really quite something,” and her appraisal is followed by a chuckle.

Daemon nods, agreeing. Only he doesn’t find it amusing at all. Lia thinks the maid is just a couple of years younger than her but she doesn’t want to clarify. Just yesterday Lia was picking up branches to make a fire in the woods, some dirt undoubtedly left under her fingernails. And now she is being led to her chambers by a maid. It feels as ridiculous as it is nauseating, and it only gets worse when she sees the room — the size of the house she’s grown in and with way more furniture than she’s ever seen put in one place.

Lia stands at the doorway, still and confounded, when the maid humbly says: “If you are in need of anything, you can —”

“No,” Lia cuts her off so sharply, it startles the girl.

Lia turns to her with an apologetic look. “What is your name?”

“Annora,” she answers meekly, hiding her eyes to the floor.

“Annora, I can guarantee you I need nothing else. You are free to leave for the rest of the day,” Lia tries to sound both persuasive and kind — and not disgusted with her own pretense.

The girl gives her a confused look but seems too scared to object so she takes leave with no questions asked. Lia stays at the entrance and listens to her retreating footsteps, disregarding the pompously furnished room. After the sounds in the hall die down she slips out without looking back. Lia roams around and learns every exit and searches through every room she can open. She follows no rules except one — shall things go south, she must know how to get out, fast and without being seen. So she memorizes the turns, the pattern of corridors and stairs while trying to avoid the people endlessly pacing through the castle. A few times she has to take a step back, hide in the shadows and in between columns while maids and guards and noble women with too many underskirts run by. Lia does her best to ignore the fuss, taking time to explore the huge building, with doors and corners and the awaiting unknown.

When she finally gets to the backyard, it feels like only a couple of hours have passed but Lia is surprised to see the sun setting. The sky gradually darkens, dabbed with yellow and maroon, showing the approach of the evening. Only once she steps outside, she realizes how much she needed some fresh air, how there’s a lack of it in the musty, sweltering castle. She is relieved to see that the yard is way less crowded, with only a few servants and a couple of knights at the gates. Her eyes skim over the open space when she hears the metal screeching — distinct and all too familiar to her: turning around, Lia predictably sees two men sparring, their swords being the source of the sound. Her attention is quickly drawn to one of them — lean, tall, and fending off his opponent with ease, his long silver hair flowing with each move. His hits seem as clear-cut as the features of his face — and although she didn’t see him that well the first time, she recognizes him immediately. Aemond is the very embodiment of imperturbability, each stroke of his sword deliberate and sharp, and Ser Criston can’t let his guard down for one second. It’s a sequence he’s learned over the years: there is no rush in the prince’s attacks, there’s exhausting suspense. Aemond watches him, throws in a few teasing strikes, leisurely but maniacally tiring his opponent out. Only when you least expect it, he will deliver a series of blows, strong enough to knock an adult down, just enough to satisfy his ego.

And yet, Ser Criston senses that something is off. The prince is missing his usual fervor, his competitive energy, not pressing the fight but rather tolerating it, which Criston considers odd.

“Your focus seems to be elsewhere, my prince. I wonder what’s on your mind.”

Aemond shoots him a cold glance and easily blocks his hit, then spins and abruptly strikes forward, his sword stopping at Criston’s neck.

“Wondering does you no good, Ser Criston,” the prince remarks with a small grin, retreating.

“Fair enough,” he smiles in return. “I suggest we take a break.”

They had to start later than usual, and by now all the spectators dispersed and the yard has long been empty, quiet, softly illuminated by sunset. One of the guards goes to light the torches on the walls, and Aemond absentmindedly watches the flames grow, taking a few gulps of water. Despite Ser Criston being right in his observations, training still had a calming effect on the prince. He did enjoy the slight soreness of the muscles, his mind concentrated on the momentum of movements, on the way his body adapts to the tempo and responds to the threat. He concludes he can go for another round, still invigorated, somewhat restive, always at the ready.

But when Aemond turns around, his eye is drawn to a cloaked figure, and all the clarity and concentration dissolve upon realizing who he’s looking at. He recognizes her immediately.

Christon follows Aemond’s gaze, spotting the girl, too, and then squints a little.

“Is that —”

“I believe so,” the prince replies tersely.

They were on the way to the training yard when they saw Alicent leaving Helaena’s chambers, looking surprisingly grim. Caught in the moment, she had to reveal the cause of her sour mood — or maybe Alicent was actually looking for a reason to tell someone of it. She wore a grimace of annoyance as she recounted what happened at the small council’s meeting. Her explanation left much to be desired but Criston listened attentively, seemingly intrigued. Both he and Alicent missed Aemond’s stunned expression — somehow he instantly guessed who was the rider of the white dragon. But it brought him no relief.

It has long been known that his mother and Daemon have a bone to pick with each other, but Aemond is never hasty with his judgment. His uncle’s daughter is a girl he knows nothing about, so he tries not rushing to conclusions, or labeling, or worse. And yet Aemond keeps going back to that image of her — audacious in her freedom, coming into their lives at the speed of a dragon she claimed even though she wasn’t supposed to have one in the first place. He even let himself wonder how their first meeting would go, thinking of an uncomfortable family gathering with forced smiles and awkward conversations.

But suddenly she’s here — her black cloak fluttering like an unknown flag, no sign of a smile on her face, no lack of confidence. And it’s somewhat fitting that she’s defying the expectations already, his included.

She keeps her distance and pays them no mind as her eyes are set on the table with practice swords, their blades reflecting glimmers of orange and red the sky is painted with. Criston notices Aemond’s wistful stare, then clears his throat and approaches the girl.

“It’s not often I find ladies to take interest in swords.”

“I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure of admiring the craftsmanship,” she answers, earning a pleased hum from the knight.

“Well, these two swords were cast only a week ago,” Criston enthusiastically comes closer.

Sensing it, she glances up at him, out of interest or as a precaution, and Aemond sees a white strand of hair sticking out, a rebellious sign of her Targaryen roots confirmed by the color of her eyes. He discreetly examines her, takes in every subtle detail he can notice as if her appearance can give him a clue for what’s underneath. But her face is a mask of reticence.

“This looks like Valyrian steel,” she infers, and Criston nods, pleasantly surprised by her guess.

“You have seen it before?”

“I have definitely heard of it. And it is truly beautiful up close. How long does it take to make one?”

Aemond’s never been good at striking up conversations, avoiding them on the pretext of not liking idle talk. And yet now his taciturnity weighs on him — and he doesn’t know if he’s troubled by the feeling of being excluded again or the blind urge to be the one she’s talking to.

Criston’s chattering comes with no reprehensibility, and she welcomes the nuanced explanations, listening attentively.

“You are quite passionate about the subject,” she concludes.

“It’s only fair for the knight to know more of the weapon he uses,” he clarifies, modest as ever. “Although, I believe we haven’t been properly introduced — I am Ser Criston Cole, the Master of swords. You’ve walked in on me and Prince Aemond training.”

She doesn’t acknowledge Aemond’s presence, and he feels like a ghost, an unnoticed shadow, and the neglect unnerves him. Ser Criston is more worried about respecting social norms.

“And how should I address you?”

“Just Lia will do,” she bestows him with a smile so fleeting, he might’ve as well imagined it.

“Lady Lia, then,” he corrects, and her face is briefly shadowed by disdain.

“There’s no value in adding that.”

Aemond comes up to them then, not waiting for any invitations and intending to be reckoned with, his brows draw together at her comment.

“Getting a title is something people usually pride upon rather than eschew,” he points out in a studiously courteous manner.

“Sounds like you care about it more than I do,” Lia barely spares him a glance, her head tilted as she follows the gilded pattern of the sword with her finger.

She doesn’t mean to mock him, her tone plain and stance relaxed, but the relative ease with which she brushes off his remark wounds all the same. Aemond is so used to people being intimidated by his mere presence that the lack of reaction does come off as an offense — or maybe he’s too eager to take it as one.

Ser Criston is oblivious to Aemond’s nerves slowly cracking, too absorbed in the conversation with Lia.

“To fully appreciate the craftsmanship, you should see it in action. Do you know how to handle a sword? I can show you.”

“It is really kind of you to offer but I’ve wielded a sword before,” her emotionless response implies she’s not affronted yet Criston notices a smile in the corner of her lips again. He wonders if it’s a sign of amiability, or a jeer.

“I am sure you haven’t held —”

“You can take one,” Aemond suddenly suggests, words escaping his mouth before he can think them over.

Ser Criston stops midsentence, darting an inquiring glance at him but the prince ignores it, his eye boring into Lia’s back.

“If you spar with me,” he adds — and sees that her finger stops at the edge of the blade, signaling that now he’s got her attention.

“You already have an opponent to entertain you.”

“I am not looking for entertainment,” Aemond adamantly retorts.

He is looking for a fight, he wants to say — but when Lia finally glances at the prince, he catches an unspoken sign of understanding.

“If you win, the sword is yours,” Aemond continues as his impatience simmers, risking to bring his temper to a boil.

There is no logical explanation for his persistence — Lia shows no interest and takes no offense, absolutely nothing suggests that she wants to fight, and she merely looked at him once since she came. Maybe that last part is the one he’s got a problem with.

Criston waits for the girl to refuse — and to do so sheepishly, in a ladylike manner. Instead, she fully turns to the prince.

“Seems like you’ve been training for quite some time, aren’t you tired?” Lia eyes him from head to toe. “I’d like us to have a fair bout.”

Aemond stifles a laugh, reeking of overconfidence, his reaction all too familiar to the knight but usually off-putting to the others — just this attitude alone led to more fights than Criston can count, even though the prince had no trouble winning all of them. But Lia doesn’t lash back or quarrel — she is a blank canvas void of any color.

“I won’t cut you, worry not. At least I will try my best,” Aemond’s reply is hardly a promise with his voice being so evidently teasing. “Do you need a warm-up?”

She feels her legs humming from the number of stairs and turns she’s taken throughout the day, and the anticipation heats her body, rushes her blood and her heartbeat.

“I’ll pass,” she declines, and just for a moment, her gaze turns sneery, and Aemond guesses that she’s also not the one to back down. That bare glimmer of her character is enough to strike a chord in him.

Criston looks between them, finally grasping how the dynamic escalated, the air thick with tension as Aemond and Lia stare each other down without a hint of doubt on their faces.

“You are fortunate to spar with a very skilled swordsman,” the knight mentions delicately, hoping that his implication might cause Lia to reconsider.

“If you say so,” is her only reply — and there isn’t a shred of uncertainty in it.

Before going to pick a sword, Lia looks around. This time, Aemond actually wishes there was a crowd to make a spectacle in front of. But as her eyes are roving through the yard, Criston guesses that she’s sizing up the space, taking all the details in, — and it is definitely not a sign of her lacking the experience. He’s never trained a woman but someone clearly took their chances with Lia.

She goes to the further end of the table where the shortswords are lined up, and Aemond sneers: he’s proficient in using longswords, he maneuvers heavy blades with ease, and going for the lighter version will pose no challenge for him. Lia chooses the one with a smaller hilt, silver and set with emeralds: she weights it, makes sure it sits comfortably in her hand. Criston notes that her thumb lays on the flat of the blade which gives her a better hold of it. She twirls the sword a couple of times, her movements smooth and polished.

The knight turns to Aemond — and he is already looking at Lia.

“You do know how to hold it. Do you know how to use it?” the prince taunts.

“Do you?” she throws him an assessing gaze.

“We are about to find out.”

🎵

Lia twists the blade backward, and it stops right behind her shoulder, barely an inch away. She holds it there as she approaches the prince, staying at a safe distance. The forged metal is tinted with the blooming sundown — it’s bright, sinister scarlet, and Criston gets a sinking feeling of worry, the idea of them sparring not so tempting anymore. But he hesitates for just a second too long — and then it’s too late to meddle.

Aemond strikes first, not harshly but rather testing — Lia swiftly moves out of his way, without even raising her sword, and his blade almost grazes her cloak, but the material slips away in the air. The prince takes a step back, circling her as she stands, barely moving but not letting him out of sight, not shying away from him. His gaze hunts her like prey but she’s hawk-eyed, and she is yet to show her claws.

Criston directs his focus to Lia in an instant. She’s got good awareness of space, her stepping is correct and aligned with her rare hits, her pacing akin to a measured cadence. Using the sword in one hand gives her a longer reach — but she hardly ever initiates attacks. Instead of stopping Aemond or trying to engage, Lia easily dodges, and that behavior only serves to embolden the prince’s fervor. It bothers Criston, and he furrows his brows, watching the girl closely, discerning how aloof and impassive she seems in comparison to Aemond — he’s smoldering, she’s stone-cold, and her movements are almost... lazy.

That’s when Criston realizes: she’s the one wearing the prince out, not the other way around.

It only takes Aemond a minute to draw the same conclusion, and he feels a flash of irritation in his chest. He might’ve underestimated Lia but he isn’t used to being toyed with, and even though her face is still without expression, now her style of fighting almost seems taunting. The prince usually took pride in his self-control yet he was slowly losing it — and he hates to lose, he never does.

Aemond quickly weighs his options, chancing a glance at the yard, and a distant object catches his attention. It’s a middle-sized barrel, but it’s enough to slow her movements, he thinks, and once she’s cornered the prince might consider mercy. He intensifies his hits, pressuring her to move further away, right into his trap, to his proclamation of victory. Aemond’s chest all but puffs, his hubris blossoming. But it turns out to be disastrously premature.

Lia looks over her shoulder — and then jumps over the barrel like it wasn’t ever there, barely an obstacle, or at least not for her. She gives him a look that makes him feel stupid — and Aemond is anything but. Even from a distance, Criston can feel the anger that sparkles in the prince, his shoulders tensing up and his grip on the sword tightening. He is scary when he’s angry — when he allows himself to be, when the build-up emotions emerge from the darkness of his stiff restrain — Aemond doesn’t hold back then, and he is scarily dangerous, dreadful, deadly.

But anger is only fuel and, shall you spill too much of it, the fire will be too hard to control — and the lack of control can be lethal when someone aims a blade at your heart. Yet it seems that what Aemond may lack, she’s got plenty of, and Criston finds himself wondering if that unemotional canvas of hers is actually a facade that covers something else.

They are separated by the barrel but Lia has no intention of hiding behind it — as she goes back around, she gets rid of another restriction, hastily tossing the cloak away, and Aemond finds himself involuntarily staring at her. Her clothes are also dark: the upper garment is long-sleeved and waisted, the material of her trousers dense and fitted tightly around her thighs. It differs from everything he’s seen on the ladies of the court, and she wears it like a second skin that stretches and covers every curve of her body. As Aemond’s eye lingers, he lets his guard down, almost missing the moment when she hits, fast and without warning — the prince blocks it at the very last second, their swords locking at foot level, and her blade stops right at his knee.

Aemond’s face expresses the utmost bewilderment. She didn’t cut him — but the intent was there.

The prince inhales sharply. He can forgive her still, he can dismiss her insolence and blame it on her lack of manners, on her luck, on any ludicrous reason that he may come up with in the next thirty seconds which he definitely needs to calm himself down. He is trying with his every breath, with his every muscle to regain control and resolve the situation peacefully.

But Lia isn’t looking for peace when she says — brazenly, her eyes fixed on him:

“Doesn’t seem like you live up to the praise you’ve been given.”

His temper explodes in a second. Aemond lunges at her, an annoyed grunt bubbling in his throat, and he strikes, merciless and quick, adrenalin roaring in him. She bends backward, his sword gliding just above her, and then she ducks under his arm and moves away. He barely has time to turn to her when she winds in from the other side, their swords clanging — and Criston regains his senses at the loud sound.

The knight feels his heart racing, the feeling of worry now bruising him as he can’t take his eyes off the two opponents.

Aemond’s blind spot is clearly on his left, and yet Lia never aims there, not taking advantage of his weakness, and Criston can’t help but respect her for that. However, she notes him having a dominant right hand, most of his blows targeted to cover the opposite side, leaving him open to attacks from the right. The moment she realizes where to strike, her blows become harsher and more vigorous, as her sword cuts through the air with a flick of her wrist. She’s got speed and agility, she’s unwavering, she’s a hunter too.

Aemond does not give in, furious and unflinching, and yet, even with the most ferocious attempts he misses her — merely by an inch — but misses nonetheless. Lia dodges every attack, each of her blocks calculated and her gaze alert, her desire not to yield only matching his. It’s refreshing, it keeps Aemond’s blood pumping, the anger-driven energy coursing through him. It also hurts his ego quite a bit.

There’s a bizarre harmony in the way they carry themselves, Criston notices, and their anger looks about the same — fiery and scalding. And it’s only a matter of time before anyone gets burned.

Aemond runs out of patience first.

Lia bats his sword aside once more and pulls back, falling into his blind spot, and Aemond needs to spin around to keep her in sight. But his mind is clouded with fury that pushes him to take the risk — instead of repeating the well-known movement, he takes a swing at her, his aim nothing but instinctive. He’s never followed blind instinct so literally; he’s also never done anything so horribly, dangerously stupid.

Criston’s heart plummets like a pebble through a hole as he watches Lia’s blade missing Aemond by a hair — and it truly is a miracle if he’s ever seen one. But then the prince’s sword lands right next to her shoulder, and they both instantly halt movement, their breathing heavy and eyes locked.

There is dead silence around them, the sun is long gone, the sounds vanished, all the guards witnessing are petrified.

It takes all of Aemond’s willpower not to press the blade further into the material of her clothes to cut it. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but he wants to leave a mark. A sign that he did win, a reminder of his victory just for her to keep.

“I shall teach you a lesson on how to keep your attitude in check when you’re talking to a prince,” his words are laced with frustration yet he smirks, bathing in the satisfaction that winning always brings him.

“Only when you learn to not get ahead of yourself,” she whispers — and with that, he suddenly feels a metal blade poking at his ribs. Taken aback, Aemond looks down and, surely, she’s holding a small dagger to his side with her free hand. His delight is as short-lived as ripples on a pond.

“Now, this is not fair,” he mutters, not looking so smug anymore.

“Fairness be damned when someone’s threatening my life,” she glances up at him, their faces so close they can feel each other’s breath. She smells of ashes and the crisp freshness of the forest, and her expression doesn’t change but her eyes darken, just like the sea does before the storm, which makes him feel uneasy.

And yet, Aemond refuses to lower his sword.

“Will you be as fierce without an arm?” he hisses.

“I can survive without one. But I’ll cut into your heart first,” her voice is terribly calm, and he knows she’s not bluffing.

“That is enough,” Criston is on the verge of yelling. “No one will cut anything!”

He tries to squeeze in between them but to no avail — Aemond doesn’t budge nor does Lia. Criston’s never been the one to babysit the kids, yet right now he wishes he had more experience with tantrums — because that’s exactly what it is, he thinks. Except the two participants have long outgrown the age appropriate for such behavior, and both are, unfortunately, armed.

He takes a deep breath and throws a hand in between them, more firmly this time.

“You know as well as I do that this has to end,” the knight gives them a stern look, “And with both of you intact.”

Lia’s eyes dart to Criston, and he takes it as a sign of her being the one he can reason with.

“I do not think using a dagger was acceptable but to be fair, we never established any rules. And you are a good fighter,” he puts emphasis, not letting the prince interrupt. “So I propose we agree on a draw, and you will still get your sword.”

She looks at Aemond. “I believe said agreement requires mutual consent.”

Criston maneuvers his palm next to Lia’s shoulder and puts his other hand close to where she’s holding the dagger. He glances anxiously at Aemond, and the prince scowls, irritated, not in the habit of backing down. He holds her gaze for a couple of seconds — and then they lower their weapons, the movement almost synchronized except Lia does so with grace while Aemond just does everyone a favor.

Crison gently stops the girl, his hand intercepting the one she’s holding the sword in.

“I will sharpen it myself and have it back in the morning,” he promises — and she gives it up with no objection.

Aemond seethes at her compliance he hasn’t been graced with, clinging to his sword while his pride whines in offense. He watches Lia putting the cloak back on, twirling the dagger in one hand, so unbothered and composed as if he left no impression on her while she all but carved her way into his head. While she has her back to him, he thoughtlessly makes a move in her direction, and Criston’s eyes widen, a word of warning rooting in his throat — but he doesn’t get a chance to voice it.

Lia stops and turns to Aemond in one swift motion, her gaze heavy and cold — and immediately on him again. For the second time she takes him by surprise, and the prince freezes at the spot. She looks directly at him and, without breaking eye contact, slowly shakes her head no. She doesn’t utter a single word but the coldness of her gaze speaks for itself. Her eyes are saying if you dare to pick the sword, I will kill you. I will bury my dagger in between your ribs, and my face will be the last thing you see.

She’s standing in front of him — a woman wrapped in the darkest shades of black, and she radiates the most alarming threat he’s ever seen. She gives him the same feeling he gets every time he touches the blade with his bare fingers, every time he flies with Vhagar up in the sky, rising above the clouds until his lungs start burning and the air is too cold to breathe in. It’s the feeling of imminent danger, of him balancing right at the edge of a foul. It’s challenging as much as it is fascinating. And Aemond likes a good challenge.

He takes his hand off of the hilt, his crooked grin a telltale sign of his refusal to wave a white flag just yet. Criston notices the movement and breathes out, looking puzzled but relieved. Not a single word is shared, and Lia doesn’t give them another glance before leaving, the prince and the knight gazing after her.

“I want to ask what just happened but I am not sure you will give me an honest answer,” Criston drawls.

Aemond keeps silent, his eye following Lia’s cloak, and the desire to go after her feels like an itch, like a pull he can’t explain.

“I don’t think it will be wise to tell my mother,” the prince says all of a sudden.

Confusion is evident on Criston’s face, brighter than the light of the torches it’s illumed with.

“She would’ve wanted to know of it,” the knight attempts to reason. “I am your family’s sworn protector and it’s my responsibility to —”

“I am asking you as a friend,” Aemond cuts in, his abrupt request leaving the knight stunned. The prince doesn’t move nor does he look at Criston, his sharp profile not letting any emotions slip through. And yet, these words are the biggest sign of trust Aemond has ever shown the knight in years.

Criston bites down a smile. “Understood, my prince.” Lia navigates the corridors, taking directions from memory — she goes past her chambers, past the bed made for her, to the other end of the castle. She sneaks to the gates and lures the guards out by throwing a rock at the fence, trying not to laugh at the fact that it takes two grown men to go check for the source of the noise. The girl escapes into the darkness of the night, into the vibrant city that’s still awake, filled with noises and people scurrying about.

She blends into the crowd, feeling her pulse finally slowing down as she stems the fire within her, and it meekly fizzles. Rowdy alleys and dark corners seem more welcoming to her than the entirety of the Red Keep, and Lia is almost tempted to get lost and forget her way back — but she can’t allow herself to. So she only quickens her steps and pulls the hood lower, trying to race her own exhaustion that unavoidably catches up to her.

Halfway to the Dragonpit, Lia feels a gaze on her but the place is too crowded for someone to stand out — and it’s clearly an advantage not just for her. She sees a couple of drunk men staring, red-faced yet not threatening enough, same for a few beggars and street dancers that reach for her but can’t keep up. The only one who does stick out is a little girl eight or nine years of age winding after her — her face sly, her clothes too neat for her to live on the streets. Lia takes note of the kid but doesn’t let it show; her dagger hidden under the cloak does save her from the hassle of worrying.

The cavernous building atop the hill looks even bigger at night, grand and daunting, and the stern faces of the guards don’t soften the impression given. But they let Lia in with no questions asked, most likely contrite about their hostile greeting earlier in the morning. She doesn’t gloat and only enters with a nod, slipping into the tunnels shrouded in stillness, her path accompanied by the rare crackling of the torches. When she walks into the cave, Olwen looks barely awake, blinking a few times in her direction, and Lia finally lets her body relax in the coolness of the twilight.

Weariness flows through her body like a stream of water, stripping her of the feigned composure and fake indifference. Her face falls and her fists open, and the build-up tension springs free with each inhale — deep, slow, blissful. As she’s standing there, in the dark cave only lit by the glow of her dragon’s eyes, she quietly reminds herself:

“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Calls himself Knuckles.”

Olwen glances up at her and lets out a roar, low and choppy, and it sounds almost like a purr. The dragon moves his head closer to Lia, and she sits on the ground, gently touching the rough skin of his snout. She knows he can feel it — her anger sparkling at the surface, ready to ignite at any second. But he also feels the pain that’s been wailing deep inside, vile and heavy on her heart. She thinks it’s unfair to him — this connection that they share, the unexplainable bond, and she almost wants to apologize. She knows he won’t understand.

Lia leans back on the dragon, using her cloak as a blanket and letting the exhaustion wash over her. Her eyelids flutter shut and she whispers again:

“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Goes by Knuckles. Raven woods. Yellow and brown...”

This reminder is not a lullaby but a never healing scar branded onto her skin, tearing her life in half, leaving nothing but ruins, bodies, death. But when Lia finally drifts off, she is greeted with no dreams, and it feels like a blessing, that oblivion of hers. Because most nights, when she closes her eyes, she sees a dark forest burning in flames, filled with endless screams. Back at the castle, the one-eyed prince lies wide awake, his restless mind not letting him sleep as he keeps replaying the events of the evening in his head. Aemond’s body has gotten tired but his nerves are strained, the memories of Lia still fresh — the way she looked at him, daring and unashamed, the way she moved — dexterous, fast, never giving up. A recalcitrant opponent, a resistant fighter, a bastard with a wild dragon.

Or maybe she’s a dragon herself.

He wonders if he can tame her.

• when she turns to him and shakes her head — that was inspired by the scene from “Hawkeye”. I think Yelena nailed that “I can kill you with my bare hands” look, and her character overall is very inspirational to me. 🔥 my masterlist

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

tagging everyone who asked: @greenowlfactif, @iiamthehybrid, @melsunshine, @rosegardenpatsu

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empresskrennic · 3 months

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♟️👑 Empress x Krennic

The new Empress loves playing 'games,' but she's beat everyone in the galaxy. But when she steps onto the Stardust 3 station, she finally meets her match...

NOTES: Krennic did not die on Scarif. I take liberties with canon in support of a better story.

STAR WARS • Director Orson Krennic • Female Emperor THEMES: Power Imbalance, Playing Games, Exhibitionism SPICE LEVEL: Ramps up from 🔥 to 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 -Spice level is annotated per chapter-

🚫 18+, MINORS DNI

Chapter 1: Kiss the Gauntlet 🔥

When my boot crossed the edge of the Delta shuttle’s ramp and softly kissed the docking bay, a thousand stormtroopers in crisp lines of pure white snapped to attention.

Echoing in a singular clap, the sound was as clean and impressive as the station itself. Idly, I compared my glistening boot and the polished lines of the decking, wondering who had expended more effort in preparing for my arrival: Krennic, who had obviously thrown down all his chips in the hope of winning my favor…or me.

My pause was not unnoticed. I could feel the annoyance running hot in the veins of my assistants, who stood six respectful steps behind me, waiting warily for my next move and knowing they could not predict it.

I cracked an affectionate half-smile at my boot.

Their thoughts always betrayed them. I threw them off balance. Kept them wondering, never able to calibrate accurately to their Empress’s actions. I admit it, I deliberately deceived them; but in my defense, it was a great strategic game. Tons of fun.

And it was my hallmark, my callsign. Surprising, unnerving, seemingly unnecessary actions I threw my entire authority behind, threatening (and sometimes doling out) demotions or transfers to Hoth for the warm-blooded and Tatooine for those who preferred cold. I’m not mean or crazy. And I’m certainly not a psychopath, like that one-dimensional genius Palpatine.But seriously…if the Empress of the Galactic Empire wants to shine her own boots, she shouldn’t have to shoo her assistants away more than once.

But unfortunately…no, not unfortunately. It’s actually sweet. Just annoying…I had a kind of magnetism that attracted people who wanted to care for me, to protect me like some kind of incontinent grandma.

Or incontinent Grand Moff.

I chuckled to myself at the joke, eyes still studying the shiny boot tip touching the equally shiny docking bay, internally betting on who would try to get my attention first: would the stormtroopers shift uncomfortably, or would my assistants clear their throats?

They cared for me. Truly, I knew. Mentally, I forced myself to acknowledge it, to appreciate it, like a rich kid who really likes steak but is served world-class chicken instead. But I couldn’t shake the fact that I hated it. The gentle cronyism chafed like a left-handed blaster bolt in a plasma coupling.

I liked a good fight. But it felt like the galaxy had been drained of worthy opponents after the war. I hoped my successes on the Cat, the ISD Catastrophe, weren’t the cause. It very well could have been because I did so well that they made me Empress after Palpatine’s unfortunate accident that I definitely had nothing to do with.

Rustling brought my gaze up from my boot. Not my assistants; no, the sound came from straight ahead, down the middle of the stormtrooper gauntlet. All at once, my assistants’ annoyance suddenly ran ice cold.

A swath of fluttering cape in a creamy white just barely offset from the stormtroopers’ stark white—deliberately chosen to be maddening, I observed with cautiously sprouting glee—announced his arrival. The cape was so bloody interesting I stood inelegantly still with one foot forward, frozen as I drank in the fluid dynamics of his chosen game piece.

When he drew near, I tore my attention from his magnificently strategic fashion choice and stepped down, waiting for him to come to me. His body was hard and lean, his gait long and aggressive—no, get it together—and his uniform was the same rebellious cream white as his cape. His boots were as shiny as mine.

His tan face was stoic, with narrow, pouty lips and a heavy brow. The creases in his skin were created by deep concentration and study rather than humor, anger, or anxiety. His hair was a confusing tapestry of pale shades, from silver-gray to wheat blonde. Mesmerizing. Made for combing with fingers—

His eyes were the only part of him he could not strategically select for this game. They were authentic, ice blue, and bearing down on me with an equal level of assessment. But there was complexity there I couldn’t identify.

I tasted his feelings. Trepidation. Determination.

A glimmer of desire—quickly quashed.

He didn’t yet know it, but he’d just made the first move on my board.

Or did he?

“Finally,” I murmured quietly as he stepped into my personal space. He locked his lean body into a snappy, flawless salute.

But then his hand twitched.

Nearly flawless.

That was unexpected.

Our eyes locked.

It had been deliberate.

Something old and cold and cynical melted in me.

Delicious.

As he took me in for the first time in person, not in a holo, something changed in the subtle expression of his eyes, morphing into something hard and analytical. It looked good on him. I found myself ejected from my comfortable home arena and floating in his…lost, marveling, and waiting for his large, black-gloved hands to reach down from the heavens and save me from the stars.

Was I attracted to the man, or to his game?

I lost my own internal bet as I cleared my throat, regaining my attention and composure. “Director,” I said simply, offering him room for an opening gambit. Most couldn’t resist the opportunity to speak at length to the Empress. Paired with my Force sensitivity, it always telegraphed their intention and methods and made for easy conquest.

But this time, I couldn’t shake the feeling I had already lost the advantage.

I felt a flash of undefined heat…passion? What kind?... from him, then his mind closed. Either he is sensitive also, or he is in complete control of himself. Disciplined.

The latter thrilled me.

“My Empress,” Krennic said gravely, lowering his salute. His accent tasted like caramel, gritty with sea salt. A subtle emphasis on the first word shot me further out of my carefully cultivated, stable orbit and I lost control for the first time in a long time.

Electric warmth shot through my body from deep within as I gazed into the depths of his blue eyes. I sucked in a breath, my lips parting at the intensity of my sudden desire.

His focus flicked quickly to my mouth. Creases formed at the corners of his eyes. Relief? No. Satisfaction. The bastard was holding in a laugh of triumph.

That did it. Silently, I cursed and imagined slapping myself.

It was my move now. I lifted my chin.

Blowing out my breath, I paused, then held out my hand, wrist limp, palm down.

Kiss it.

It was an ancient custom that had never been observed in the Empire because who would want to kiss Palpatine’s wrinkly old fist? I’d never bothered to demand such indulgent genuflection. Until right now.

Between two master players, it was a hell of a gauntlet to throw.

Undecipherable thunder tore across his face. Then the mass of onlooking stormtroopers, the entire Stardust 3 project, and the galaxy itself faded to inconsequence as Director Krennic knelt in a grand billowing of cape, gently took my hand in his gloved hands, and pressed his soft, warm lips to my skin.

The texture of his carefully combed blonde-gray hair bent over my hand made the moment too intimate. He was too close, we were touching too much. I itched to run my fingers through it, to separate the layers, to understand him and the way he played the game.

Instead, my fingers closed around his, and I felt his clench in response. No emotions. Controlled.

But his breath betrayed…something. It was hot and quick, and I felt his lips move subtly. He stayed there far too long. Either he was taking his time, getting the measure of me to learn my weaknesses, or he had…other aspirations.

Maybe both.

His kiss felt like a promise, felt like a threat. It felt like a cheat code and a decisive defeat. It was beseeching and hungry. It was overwhelmingly everything, possibilities without probabilities.

Anticipation warmed my chest as his unreadable face lifted, his Hoth-ice eyes drilling into mine from beneath the shadow of his heavy brow. I blinked slowly, unable to tear my gaze away, unwilling to flinch first.

A promise, I decided.

But of what?

I could not wait to play Krennic’s game.

-------

Taglist: @99tech99 😘

#star wars fan fiction #star wars fic #sw fanfic #krennic #orson krennic #director krennic #krennic smut

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sskklvr · 1 year

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WAIT DID ANYONE EVER ASK U ABOUT UR YURI ON ICE AU COS IF NOT PLS SPILL I LOVE SSKK AND YOI AND I SHOWED UR DRAWING TO MY BESTIE COS I WAS SO EXCITED I NEED TO KNOW MORE!!!!

AHHGHF SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, THE YOI AU IS A BIG INCOHERENT MESS SO I STRUGGLED TO PUT IT INTO WORDS <//3

THIS IS ALSO SUCH A LONG REPLY BC I JUST. RAMBLE. I AM SO SORRY IF THIS MAKES NO SENSE, IT IS ABSOLUTELY ALL OVER THE PLACE-

Okay! So I really really love the AU, but sadly there's no cohesive plot to follow if we're gonna be honest- I have a few points, like the banquet I changed up, and Akutagawa's appearance as Atsushi's coach is also changed, but other than that I really just have this to draw connections and put sskk in silly little YoI scenarios </3

I tried real hard to match BSD characters to YoI but it was just not working for me [I've been messing with this AU for like, a year after all] Even deciding between Akutagawa and Atsushi as who would be Viktor and Yuuri was a bit complicated, bc I personally think it has potential either way. The obvious, and generally more fitting choice is the one I went with ofc, but I think a version where Atsushi is Akutagawa's coach would be just as interesting!

Anyway, despite being mostly just for kicks, I still tried to put thought into it!

With how Yuuri was constantly surprising and surpassing Viktor's expectations, I figured Akutagawa's ability to surprise Atsushi with his actions would work well. [Also because I think the scene in the parking lot where Viktor tells Yuuri he'll resign as his coach if he doesn't make it to the podium is very reminiscent of the scene in s3 with the imagery of Akutagawa shattering from Atsushi's reckless words-] But again, Akutagawa as Viktor works just as well since Yuuri says in the very first episode that Viktor never ceased to surprise him, if we're going that route. As well as the fact that both sskk and Viktuuri learn from each other throughout their respective journeys together.

Like Atsushi's 2 costumes being based around his ADA design/The Tiger, and Beast, or Akutagawa having a lighter coat/his overall main design being a lot brighter to symbolize the change from yk, the Mafia in canon. I also threw in the Ch88 themed look for Akutagawa's younger version because I wanted to draw Akutagawa with longer hair, but the design itself is supposed to symbolize a sort of 'end' to his skating. Since Viktor begins to lose inspiration further down the line until meeting Yuuri, that's what I'm trying to implement with the design. If that makes any sense-

Since Akutagawa in canon had been searching for worthy opponents as a way to gain Dazai's approval, when he finally met his match against Atsushi he was practically thrilled [for lack of better words/to put it simply--] So I'm taking that idea and throwing it into this AU as Akutagawa gaining back his passion for skating when he sees the potential in Atsushi even despite his loss at the GPF. Speaking of, the banquet also goes a bit differently-

I figured stripping and pole dancing wasn't really Atsushi's style, I don't know how to explain it so I might doodle it sometime, but I have this old ass screenshot of me talking about this AU to mildly sum it up

And going back to Atsushi's 1st costume being ADA themed, I wanted that to tie into Yuuri's first program being about his career and life, and the love he has for the people who stuck by him through everything. The ADA is kind of a perfect example for that, I mean, Atsushi's entire uniform was given to him by each member so I figured it was a perfect parallel. Although there really isn't a tie between the Beast costume and Yuuri's Eros program though- That was just for fun, in a way.

I also definitely want the ADA itself to act as the hot springs that Yuuri's family runs, but I can't figure out which characters would be which person- I'm ALL ears for any suggestions for that btw, I literally only have sskk decided, everyone else is a toss up-

Ahg, there's so much more I'm forgetting, I'm sure, but I wanted to answer this somehow bc I've been dying to get out my thoughts for this AU

Anyway, thank you for the ask! And I'm sorry my response was super late and a full length essay- If there's any specific questions or curiosity, I'll do my best to answer </3

#this is peak keyramblings for sure #bsd #bungou stray dogs #sskk #shin soukoku #yuri on ice #keyramblings #the least fleshed out AU I have and I can still talk for probably hours about it- 😭

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dirtydxxds1 · 6 months

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Ring of Destiny: Love, Wrestling, and Everything In Between

A Dean Ambrose/Jon Moxley Fanfic

Chapter 1: Breaking Barriers - A debut to remember

I had finally reached the pinnacle of my wrestling journey. Breaking through glass ceilings and overcoming every obstacle in my path, I had earned my place in the WWE. Tonight marked my debut on Smackdown, a moment I had dreamed of since my days as an NXT Women's Champion. The opportunity to contend for the vacant Smackdown Women's Championship against the likes of Alexa Bliss and Becky Lynch was both thrilling and nerve-wracking.

As I stepped into the locker room, I couldn't believe I was sharing the space with legends like Mickie James. She had been my inspiration since I was young, and her mentorship had shaped me into the wrestler I had become. With her guidance, I had honed my skills and incorporated elements of her signature moves into my own repertoire.

But amidst the excitement of my debut, my mind couldn't help but wander to another wrestling icon – Dean Ambrose. Ever since his explosive debut alongside Seth Rollins and Roman Reigns in 2012, I had been captivated by his presence. Obsessed and infatuated, I knew I had to make my mark in the WWE, not only for myself but to catch his attention. No obstacle or opponent would deter me from my goal of meeting him, of proving myself worthy of his admiration.

"Rory? How’re you feeling?" Mickie's voice interrupted my thoughts, bringing me back to the present. I greeted her with a smile, grateful for her support and guidance.

"Hey Mick! I'm feeling a mix of nerves and excitement," I confessed, knowing that tonight would be a pivotal moment in my career.

Mickie gave me an encouraging smile. "It's natural to feel nervous, but you've got what it takes, Rory. Just go out there and show them what you're made of."

Her words bolstered my confidence, and I nodded in determination. "Thanks, Mickie. I won't let you down."

As I made my way to the arena, the anticipation and adrenaline coursed through my veins. The roar of the crowd echoed in the distance, a reminder of the electrifying atmosphere awaiting me. Tonight was my chance to prove myself on the grandest stage of them all.

Standing in the gorilla position, I took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for the momentous occasion. The stage lights illuminated the entrance ramp as my music hit, signaling my debut. With a surge of adrenaline, I stepped through the curtain, greeted by the deafening cheers of the audience.

The match was a whirlwind of intensity and emotion as I faced off against Alexa Bliss and Becky Lynch. Every move, every strike was executed with precision and determination, fueled by the desire to seize the championship title.

Despite the odds stacked against me, I refused to back down. With Mickie's teachings guiding me, I fought tooth and nail, refusing to let anything stand in the way of my dreams.

In the end, victory was within reach as I delivered the final blow, pinning Alexa Bliss for the win. The referee's hand slapped the mat for the three-count, and the crowd erupted into cheers as I was declared the new Smackdown Women's Champion.

The moment was surreal as I held the championship title high above my head, tears of joy streaming down my face. In that moment, I knew that all the sacrifices and struggles had been worth it.

But amidst the celebration, there was one person on my mind – Dean Ambrose. As I glanced towards the backstage area, I couldn't help but wonder if he was watching, if he had seen me achieve my greatest victory yet.

As the night drew to a close, I vowed to continue chasing my dreams, knowing that with determination and perseverance, anything was possible. And perhaps, one day, I would have the chance to meet the man who had inspired me from the very beginning.

#the shield #wwe wrestlemania #wwe superstars #wwe nxt #wwe #seth rollins #dean ambrose #roman reigns #romance #determination #championship #jon moxley #cm punk #aj lee

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daisyvramien · 7 months

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Writerblr Word Finder Tag Game!

@lauravanarendonkbaugh has tagged me in a #Writeblr game and it’s my first time doing this!!! Hopefully it makes sense, I'm using my beloved from “The Monolith’s Reign: Chronicles of the Tower Wars”!!

[TW FOR THE BLISTER ONE: Wounds, pus, description of wounds in general and a d*ad body!!!!]

None:

The echoing clack of Kadjade's boots reverberated through the marble corridors of the Tower of Apex, her sharp gaze slicing through the air like a blade. With each step, her determination radiated, a palpable aura that commanded attention and respect. Her dark hair cascaded around her shoulders like a waterfall of midnight, framing a face etched with determination and defiance.

None dared to meet her gaze directly as she strode past, her presence demanding obedience without a word spoken. She was the epitome of strength, her every movement a testament to her skill and ferocity. None could match her in combat, her prowess on the battlefield unmatched by any other in the Vanguard.

As she passed a group of chattering new recruits, her patience wore thin. With a flick of her wrist, she intervened, her words laced with the bite of sarcasm.

"None of you have the discipline to be worthy of the Vanguard," she spat, her tone dripping with disdain. "If you spent half as much time training as you do gossiping, perhaps you'd stand a chance."

The recruits fell silent under her withering glare, their eyes cast downward in shame, their nervous energy palpable in the air. But even in the face of her intimidating presence, their tongues seemed to loosen, the words tumbling out in a stream of chatter.

"We heard the council is still refusing to name you captain," one of them ventured tentatively, a hint of sympathy in their voice.

Kadjade's jaw clenched at the mention of the council's obstinance, a bitter taste rising in the back of her throat. "None of your concern," she snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut through steel.

But they pressed on, oblivious to her simmering anger. "But you're the best fighter we've ever seen! It's not fair," another piped up, their words laced with genuine admiration.

Her patience worn thin, Kadjade's dark eyes flashed with frustration. "Do you have any idea what's lurking beyond these walls?" she hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Monsters, waiting to tear you limb from limb. Do you think your idle gossip will protect you when they come crawling out of the shadows?"

The recruits paled at her words, their bravado evaporating in an instant. Images of gnashing teeth and bloodied claws danced in their minds, filling them with a bone-deep terror they could hardly comprehend.

Kadjade watched with grim satisfaction as the reality of their situation sank in, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air like a shroud. "Train harder," she spat, her tone final. "Or none of you will survive the night."

Unbelievable:

The digital dummies flickered to life as Kadjade launched herself into a whirlwind of strikes and kicks, her movements fluid and precise. Each blow landed with a satisfying thud, the simulated opponents dissipating into pixels under the force of her onslaught.

Her trainer, a grizzled veteran with a steely gaze, watched from the sidelines, his arms crossed over his chest. "Is that the best you've got, Kadjade?" he taunted, his voice laced with mockery. "I've seen newborns with more fight in them."

Her jaw clenched at his words, a simmering rage building in the pit of her stomach. With a snarl, she redoubled her efforts, her attacks coming faster and fiercer than before.

"Pathetic," he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "No wonder the council refuses to name you captain. You're nothing but a waste of space."

Her temper flared at the mention of the title she coveted, her fists tightening with pent-up frustration. "You think you're so special, don't you?" she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "Just because you stumbled into that title doesn't make you a real leader."

Unfazed by her barbs, the trainer smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement. "And what would you know about leadership, Kadjade? You're barely fit to hold a sword, let alone command an army."

Her muscles burned with exertion as she pressed on, her determination unyielding despite the relentless barrage of insults. With each strike, she channeled her anger into her training, her resolve unwavering in the face of adversity.

As the session wore on, Kadjade pushed herself to the brink of exhaustion, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. But through sheer force of will, she persevered, her movements becoming a blur of motion as she unleashed her full strength against the digital adversaries.

And as the last dummy dissolved into nothingness beneath her onslaught, a sense of exhilaration swept over her, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. "I swear...," her trainer muttered, his voice tinged with grudging admiration. "Maybe there's hope for you yet, Kadjade."

But she wasn't done. Far from it. Kadjade's sleek ponytail clung to the nape of her neck, dampened by sweat as she launched herself into another round of furious attacks. Her chest heaved with exertion, each breath a labored gasp as she pushed herself beyond her limits. The black training uniform clung to her body like a second skin, darkened patches of moisture spreading across the fabric as she fought on, eyes locked on her targets.

"Higher level!" she barked, her voice sharp and commanding, cutting through the air like a whip. "I want dual blades, and bring on the fucking rain!"

The room obeyed her commands with a flicker of digital magic, the simulated environment shifting to accommodate her demands. Dark clouds gathered overhead, heavy with the promise of a downpour, and within moments, rain began to pour from the ceiling in a torrential cascade.

Undeterred by the deluge, Kadjade continued to fight, her movements fluid and precise despite the slick surface beneath her feet. With a swift motion, she reached for the dual blades at her side, the weight of the weapons familiar and comforting in her grasp.

The rain soaked through her uniform, plastering it to her skin as she spun and slashed with lethal precision.But amidst her battle cries and grunts, her trainer's voice interjected, his taunts driving her forward even as they grated against her nerves.

"Is that the best you can do, Kadjade? Unbelievable. I've seen children with more skill than you!" he jeered, his tone dripping with condescension.

Gritting her teeth against the rain and her frustration, Kadjade shot back, her voice sharp and defiant. "Maybe if you spent less time mocking and more time training, you'd be worth something, too!"

Her words hung in the air like a challenge, daring him to prove her wrong. But instead of rising to the bait, her trainer merely chuckled, a smug grin playing at the corners of his lips.

"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" he replied, his tone infuriatingly casual and a grin slowly but surely appearing on his lips. "You wouldn't be half as entertaining if you weren't so determined to prove me wrong."

Blister:

The corridors of the Tower of Apex were alive with whispered rumors, a sense of unease hanging heavy in the air like a shroud. Kadjade stormed through the throng of people, her annoyance palpable as she demanded answers to the chaos that seemed to envelop the tower.

"What's going on here?" she snapped, her voice sharp with irritation. "Why is everyone whispering like frightened children?"

But her questions were met with uneasy glances and stammered excuses, the truth remaining elusive as she pressed on, determined to uncover the source of the commotion.

And then she saw them. Two figures moving with purpose, their faces drawn tight with grim determination as they maneuvered a body concealed beneath a blood-soaked sheet. Without hesitation, Kadjade followed, her curiosity outweighing her apprehension as she trailed after them into a dimly lit room.

What she saw there turned her stomach, a wave of nausea rising in her throat as she took in the blistered, swollen form laid out before her. The stench of decay hung heavy in the air, threatening to overwhelm her senses as she struggled to comprehend the sight before her.

"What… what happened to them?" she managed to choke out, her voice barely above a whisper as she fought to keep the bile at bay.

The figures turned to face her, their expressions grim as they revealed the truth behind the horror before them. "We found them at the bottom of the Apex," one of them explained, their voice heavy with sorrow. "They were crawling, desperate to get back inside."

The body lay sprawled on a cold, metal table, shrouded in a blood-stained sheet that did little to conceal the horror beneath but not for long. And as Kadjade approached closer, she could see the blistered, swollen skin, marred by deep, angry welts that oozed with pus and bile.

Beside the body stood the trainers and teachers of the Vanguard, their faces drawn tight with sorrow and disbelief. These were the men and women she had trained alongside, comrades in arms bound by a common purpose. But now, they seemed like strangers, their expressions masked with a veneer of stoicism as they grappled with the enormity of the tragedy before them.

And then there was Amath, a figure of authority and power, his presence a looming shadow in the dimly lit room. He watched with a mixture of concern and detachment, his gaze fixed on the body before him as though searching for answers that remained stubbornly out of reach.

As Kadjade approached, she saw one of the trainers reach out with gloved hands, gently prodding the blistered flesh with a mixture of revulsion and curiosity. The sight made her stomach churn, bile rising in her throat as she struggled to keep her composure.

"Please," she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper. "Stop."

Amath's somber gaze shifted to Kadjade as she intervened, her plea hanging heavy in the air like a desperate prayer. For a moment, his expression softened, a flicker of empathy crossing his features before the weight of duty settled back into the lines of his face.

"This cannot go unanswered," Amath declared, his voice low and commanding, cutting through the solemn silence of the room. "We cannot afford to ignore the threat that looms within our midst."

The trainers and teachers nodded in solemn agreement, their faces grim with determination as they exchanged uneasy glances. This was not the first body they had encountered, nor was it likely to be the last. The threat was real, and it was growing with each passing day. And they had to do something.

"This marks the fourth body in as many days," one of the trainers murmured, his voice heavy with resignation. "We cannot allow this to continue unchecked."

Amath nodded in agreement, his jaw set with determination as he turned to address the room. "We will increase patrols throughout the tower," he declared, his tone unwavering. "No corner will go unsearched, no shadow left unexamined. We will find whoever is responsible for this, and we will bring them to justice."

Sweet:

The gardens of the tower sprawled out before her, a verdant oasis nestled within the stone walls of the fortress. Lush greenery enveloped the space, vibrant blooms bursting forth in a riot of color beneath the warm rays of the sun. Fragrant flowers perfumed the air with their sweet scent, mingling with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil.

As Kadjade watched the new recruits frolic in the water, her heart warmed at the sight of their unbridled joy. They splashed and laughed with abandon, their youthful exuberance infectious as they reveled in the simple pleasures of the garden.

Tall, graceful trees provided shelter from the midday sun, their branches swaying gently in the breeze as dappled light danced across the emerald carpet of grass below. Butterflies flitted amongst the flowers, their delicate wings shimmering in the golden light as they danced from bloom to bloom.

Nearby, a babbling brook meandered its way through the garden, its crystal-clear waters glistening in the sunlight as it wound its way towards a small pond at the center of the oasis. Ducks paddled lazily in the water, their cheerful quacks echoing through the tranquil space.

As Kadjade stepped closer to the water's edge, she felt the warmth of the sun on her skin, its golden rays bathing her in a sweet, comforting embrace And for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to forget the weight of her responsibilities, losing herself in the simple pleasure of the moment.

But as she lingered, lost in the warmth of their laughter, a voice shattered the moment like glass, pulling her back to the harsh reality of her duties. It was her trainer, his eyes alight with amusement as he caught sight of her uncharacteristic smile.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he teased, his grin widening as he sauntered over to her side. "Kadjade, the fearless warrior, caught with a smile on her face. I never thought I'd see the day."

With a steely determination, she squared her shoulders and met her trainer's gaze head-on. But as Kadjade tried to hide her smile, her trainer's teasing voice cut through the air like a knife, his words dripping with a playful edge.

"You finally decided to join the land of the living?" he chuckled, his grin wide and mischievous. "I thought maybe you'd forgotten how to smile, Kadjade. That this was something foreign to you."

She shot him a sidelong glance, her own smile fading as she prepared herself for the inevitable barrage of teasing. "Don't get too excited, Rurh," she retorted, her tone sharp but playful. "It's not every day I get to see new recruits making fools of themselves in the gardens."

Her trainer chuckled at her comeback, his laughter warm and genuine as he clapped her on the shoulder. "Ah, but where's the fun in that?" he replied, his grin widening. "Besides, I think you secretly enjoy watching them stumble around like newborn foals."

Kadjade rolled her eyes at his remark, unable to suppress a smirk despite her best efforts. "Maybe I do," she conceded with a shrug. "But don't let it go to your head. You're still as insufferable as ever."

Her trainer laughed at her jab, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he leaned in closer. "Ah, but you wouldn't have me any other way, would you, Sweetheart?" he teased, his voice softening with affection.

She couldn't help but smile at his words, the sharp edges of their banter softened by the warmth of their camaraderie. "Don't push your luck, old man," she replied, her tone teasing but fond. "You're lucky I tolerate you at all, Rurh."

Thank you so much for tagging me, and I sadly don't know a lot of people here so if you peeps want to do it, feel free to tag me as you complete it!!! My words are: Violet, Daisies, Watchtower and Ashore !!

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themculibrary · 9 months

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Flirting Masterlist

Awww, Flirting, No... (ao3) - pherryt bucky/clint G, 3k

Summary: Bucky's settled in at the Tower and has integrated with the team but now he has a new challenge ahead of him...

How do you court people these days anyway? Has he lost all his charm or is Clint just oblivious?

Careful (ao3) - Pickwick12 bucky/sarah G, 649

Summary: Bucky and Sarah get to know each other in the most ordinary way possible.

Catfish (ao3) - L1av steve/bucky E, 28k

Summary: Catfish /ˈkatˌfiSH/ - A catfish is someone who pretends to be someone they're not using Facebook or other social media to create false identities, particularly to pursue deceptive online romances.

Steve Rogers is a famous movie star, known for his role as Captain America. Bucky Barnes is a bored law student who drinks too much wine. Bucky gets on match.com to boost his confidence. What he doesn't expect is a guy using Steve Rogers' pictures on a dating profile. Bucky decides to mess with the guy. After all, what idiot uses Steve Rogers' pictures on a dating site?

Not like it's really him, right? Bucky may need more wine.

Common Tongue (ao3) - withered bucky/tony T, 1k

Summary: Tony is well-versed in the multiple ways of annoying people, that Rogers happens to be constantly scandalized by his flirting with Bucky is really just a gift onto itself.

In Tony's defence, Bucky started it.

Don't Tempt Me (ao3) - AdamantSteve steve/tony E, 5k

Summary: Tony flirts shamelessly to make Steve jealous. He gets super possessive and drags Tony off to teach him a lesson he won't soon forget.

Fighting, Flyting, Flaunting, Flirting (ao3) - Redring91 loki/tony M, 9k

Summary: “What’s flyting?”

“Tis a form of verbal battle performed in the courts of Asgard, where opponents trade insults in verse.” Thor explains.

“Offensive poetry?” Tony clarifies, because that sounds awesome.

Thor nods. “Loki was by far the best skilled at it – it was not for nothing he came to be known as Silvertongue. He ceased competing in official matches after a time though. He deemed there were none on Asgard who could claim to be a worthy match for his attentions.” Thor levels a thoughtful look towards Tony at this.

“So, you’re saying that Tony derailed the fight because Loki enjoys it when they’re insulting each other?” Clint says slowly.

Thor gives a rather helpless shrug. “Loki has always enjoyed flyting.”

Hurry Down the Chimney Tonight (ao3) - Wolfsheart bucky/tony T, 8k

Summary: After a day of playing Santa, Tony has to keep the suit on for the Avengers-S.H.I.E.L.D.-SI Christmas Eve party. He's tired and sore, but he's happy to play along through the festivities. Especially when Santa (Tony) himself gets the gift he's been hoping to get for a while.

If Only In My Dreams (ao3) - ElisabethMonroe bucky/sarah G, 3k

Summary: When a threat takes Sarah and the boys away from home on Christmas, Bucky finds a way to bring a little bit of home to them

I'll Be Seeing You (ao3) - OhCaptainMyCaptain steve/bucky E, 10k

Summary: “C’mon Steve,” Bucky coos jokingly. “Try n’ get me to come home with you.”

I may never go home but at least I have you (ao3) - ziazippy5379 peggy/natasha T, 1k

Summary: Peggy finds a woman in strange clothes in the alley behind her apartment.

light my love (ao3) - sunshineonclosedeyelids druig/makkari N/R, 523

Summary: Druig and Makkari go bar hopping. Druig is feeling sappy and Makkari is happy to indulge him.

Re(a)d All Over (ao3) - brandnewfashion, MusicalLuna steve/tony G, 3k

Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Tony Stark can blush.

It just takes Steve getting drunk on some magical Asgardian mead for it to finally happen.

Starbucks Is Canon (ao3) - 74days steve/bucky T, 8k

Summary: Bucky's been trying to book Captain America actor Steve Rogers on his show for longer than he can remember. But when the actor does agree, he's not expecting their first meeting to be quite so... well documented... by social media.

Up Close and Personal (ao3) - stuckybarnes peter/wade T, 19k

Summary: Peter and Wade team up so often, in fact, that they’ve ended up belly-to-belly in broom closets, wedged together like puzzle pieces in wooden crates during hideouts, and in various close-up positions that require a significant amount of trust for Peter to be comfortable with. But it took a while.

What Footage? (ao3) - AlexTheShipper bruce/rhodey/tony E, 6k

Summary: Canon Divergence in which Tony questions what Footage Steve Rogers saw, and how it gave him the right to decide Tony's worth. Then decides to work with Rhodey, and Bruce to stop Loki without the help of Captain Righteous, and Sketchy government organizations.

What's Left of Kisses (ao3) - Draco_sollicitus steve/bucky E, 75k

Summary: Bucky Barnes, history teacher and sometimes Human Disaster, has absolutely no major expectations of his class trip to the National Museum of American History.

But, a chance run-in with Steve Rogers irrevocably changes the course of his life.

Steve loves his teammates - especially the Maximoff twins, whom Tony has dubbed Steve's "freaky ducklings" - but it's not until he stumbles across a shy, handsome man in the Howling Commandos' exhibit that he realizes what's been missing in his life.

(And when Steve falls, he falls hard - and for always).

Who Needs Peter Parker Anyway? (ao3) - mauvera harley/peter T, 15k

Summary: When Harley finally gets to come to New York to hang out with Tony he's excited to build some robots and blow stuff up. Instead Tony is insisting that he meets that damn intern that he's been bragging about for months. Harley doesn't even have to meet the guy to know he's already sick of Peter Parker.

In other news that cute guy that hangs around the tower keeps running away before Harley can find out his name. Damn it.

#themculibrary #marvel #mcu #masterlists #flirting #flirting masterlist

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spellmage · 10 months

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i may have started a new durgetash oneshot :)

Enver had cleared the meeting table for this, had swept up blueprints and schematics into both arms and gently, reverently, set them down on his desk. He moved like he was carrying a patriar’s prized jewels, not the product of a hundred sleepless nights. Of course, Enver would argue that they were matched in value, his papers the evidence of his genius, proof that he was worthy of Bane's attention. Value in potential, he had said once, value in what will come of the world when we are done. Maidris silently watched his hands as he worked, lounging back on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs like he was sitting on a throne, legs spread, arms folded, only his eyes moving, tracking each roll of parchment that Enver touched. Dim candlelight flickered off gold as he moved, his fingers like pieces of art, each knuckle adorned in twinkling expense. A little gaudy for his tastes, but it suited Enver like it was just another layer of skin. He wondered if it would flay just as sweetly, if he would sigh as it peeled back from his flesh. “Calimshan or Cormyr?” Enver asked as he finally set the board down and pushed Maidris’ pieces –white– to his side of the table. Maidris took note of the colour but said nothing on it, storing it away as he sorted his pieces into place. “Calimshan.” The Cormyrian method of declaring one’s moves before they were made was clumsy and noisy. Cluttered. If the opponent’s face was not tempered it revealed far too much, reducing the challenge to nil. In contrast, Calimshan produced far more deliberate moves, no hands waving distractedly over the board, touching and poking and prodding at each available piece. It was direct, it was vicious, and it suited them both well.

#i had this brainworm that was like ‘what if i made them play chess how horrible would that be’#and this is the result #fun !#this is the nerdiest thing i've ever written #dnd AND chess ??? pick a struggle #mage fics #wip

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kenpxchi · 2 years

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@sphaeraa - death drabble

Finally, a fight to push his limits.

The clash of the two anathemaic forces have torn the world about them asunder. The sky, barren of clouds, still remains dark with their overwhelming clashes. Each time they meet, pieces of the earth are blasted skyward, their conflict creating an arena-sized crater about the two of them. It’s gone on like this for hours, the two points of reiatsu burning in the earth, each of them matching, then outpacing the other in a cycle of ascension. Each of them adapts to their opponent, and counters: the divine vessel and the demonic beast.

Standing in the midst of the crater, the two face each other down in a moment of relative calm. His skin a burning red, horns jutting out from his forehead, Kenpachi stands, burned with sacred fire, the flesh of his arm blasted away, leaving little more than bone. And yet, that arm still grips his sword, still somehow moves despite the lack of flesh. The ground beneath his feet cracks, crumbling away beneath him, the earth itself fleeing his presence as the Hōgyoku similarly demolishes the environment, siphoning the reishi out of the ground and absorbing it as pure power. Breaking down the foundations of reality and supplanting them onto itself, becoming a walking calamity, subsuming all that came near.

If Kenpachi had his memories, he would have been reminded of another foe. Azashiro, he who merged with all he perceived. As he is now, raw and instinctual, shuddering in place as his muscles threaten to tear themselves to shreds, he can’t do much thinking. Instead, he acts, as does his opponent. Both of them fly at each other at blistering speeds, the space behind them detonating as Kenpachi’s legs shred, thighs and calves bursting apart from the force of his jump.

The world goes white as they clash, heaven and hell collapsing into each other in one infinitesimal moment, as the divine artifact tries to subsume him. And yet, the blade of Nozarashi cuts anyway. Reality crumbles, shattering away like glass at the weapon’s edge, as it carves through space, time, everything... splitting the marble in half.

The spontaneous destabilization compounds upon the earlier blast, and a wall of blinding light expands outwards, sending all matter within a hundred kilometers into oblivion. The world is calm, the echoes of the blast fading into the sky like the aftermath of a thunderclap.

And there, Kenpachi slowly rises to his feet on legs whose muscles hang limp and free, torn to shreds. Half his face is gone, stripped down to the skull, the horn still poking out of the bone. It’s impossible. With his body in that state, he shouldn’t even be able to move, let alone rise to his feet, but the beast roars, supplanting the silence with a cry of victory. A celebration of a battle well-fought. He had wished for so long to finally find an opponent worthy of testing his might against, seeing just how far he could truly go. True to its purpose, the Hōgyoku had made his wish come true.

#;; ic #sphaeraa

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abyssembraced · 2 years

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Thinking about Ghost in Hades again lmao

There is. A very good chance that Ghost has been adopted by Nyx dgfshs. She's just. Everybody's mom. She's already got a lot of biological children, and from what it seems, if she sees someone who doesn't have a mother she'll just be like "hey I can be your mom if you want" ahsfhgh. Someone who adopts everyone and someone who is adopted by everyone. A match made in... Well, the Underworld I guess! So basically, Thanatos, Hypnos, all of Nyx's many other children, meet your new weird sibling <3 dgdshfh

Woe be upon Hades, because he is now faced with another person who refuses to stay put in whatever place they were stationed in. Thankfully, unlike Zagreus, at least Ghost isn't trying to escape the Underworld. They just wanna explore it!! And given that the entire Underworld is huge, if not infinite, they'll be happy doing that for a looooong while. It does mean, though, that they often venture out of... I guess Asphodel? Hades and the others wouldn't know enough about Ghost's past to reasonably put them in Tartarus or Elysium, so I guess the "neutral" area of Asphodel it is. Or maybe they'd just be allowed to stay in the House of Hades as long as they make themself useful, since Ghost is a Really Weird Shade and maybe the gods would rather keep an eye on them if they can.

...Or maybe Zagreus has decided to let Ghost stay in his room/training area and keeps them hidden away from Hades dgdshsh. Since if Skelly can be there and somehow go unnoticed by Hades (according to Achilles anyway), then why not Ghost too? That one recliner you can buy for Zag's room has become Ghost's Underworld bench.

But anyway yeah. Regardless, Ghost doesn't stay put in one region. I could see them spending a decent amount of time in Elysium, battling all the other shades, since constant fighting is something they're used to (and they do enjoy sparring against skilled opponents). And if they do decide to take a break, I'm sure there's some place where they could chill with all the other more peaceful shades in the area (since I highly doubt Patroclus is the only one there who isn't interested in fighting. Zagreus just doesn't run into them during his escape attempts because Hades is sending all the warriors and such to stop him).

I also imagine Ghost, upon being gifted a nectar, dumping all their charms on the ground and sorting through them as they try to decide which one to give to Zagreus in return dgdgsh. They wanna give him something useful, but not too good, y'know? Not something they'll really regret not having. Sorry Zagreus, you aren't getting Shaman Stone or Unbreakable Strength agshsgdgs. Maybe he'd get Longnail as their keepsake? A range increase would be a unique effect (though I could see it being either super op or too small of an increase to be worth using over other keepsakes), and Ghost would still have Mark of Pride anyway so it wouldn't hurt them too much to give it away. And they can't just give him Mark of Pride! That one's special! Ghost earned that charm by defeating the Mantis Lords in combat. Zagreus hasn't done that, so he isn't worthy of it!! (He totally could beat them, yes, but he hasn't, so no charm for him!)

Though also, Ghost can't actually drink any of the nectar Zagreus may give them lmao. Eventually Zag notices that Ghost is still holding onto all the bottles he's given them, and is like "aw c'mon, why don't you try one? You'll really like it, trust me. Actually, hey, why don't you share this one with me in the lounge right now?" So they go to the lounge, like what happens with most of the characters in the House of Hades. And that's when Zagreus finally realizes that Oh. They uh. Don't Have A Mouth. Even with their mask off. Ghost wasn't drinking the nectar he gave them because they physically couldn't. But maybe he decides to let them keep all the gifts anyway and also continues to give them more (so that Ghost has a longer "bond route", thinking gameplay-wise), telling them that they can regift it all if they wanted to and make their own friends. From one video game protagonist to another dgdgsh

Which, actually, gives me another cute thought of Zagreus giving Ghost an Ambrosia and explaining to them that it's a rare and special gift compared to nectar that should be given to close friends they really care about. And then later, in the last conversation of their "route", Ghost gives him the Ambrosia, because he is their Special Friend that they really care about (non-romantically obviously. I don't think I have to specify that but just in case)

Anyway, if Ghost was an npc in the actual game, I imagine they'd be a bit similar to Thanatos in the sense that they'd also show up randomly sometimes in the middle of a run. They'd have a chance to appear after a chamber has been cleared, entering the room either from the same door you entered from, or from one of the doors you just unlocked (or in Asphodel, Ghost can either ride in on one of the rafts you'll be using to move to the next chamber, or ride in on their own raft that parks near the one you originally rode in on). Their exact location is random. Upon talking to them, they'll give you some of one of the permanent currencies (darkness, gems, keys, nectar (except maybe not nectar in this case)). The type of currency you'd get would either be random or based on the region Ghost is encountered in (gems for Tartarus, keys for Asphodel, and darkness for Elysium? Based on what the fish from each region give you, but replacing Elysium's nectar with darkness). They'll never appear in the Styx though, since Cerberus would definitely attack them if they went up that far dgdgsh. Ghost can only be talked to once a run, but since their appearance might be pretty missable at times, maybe they'll have a chance to show up again if you didn't speak to them the first time? And, like Thanatos, when you talk to them during a run they'll have a chance of appearing back at the House of Hades afterward.

The whole idea with their meetings during runs is that sometimes, Ghost's exploration of the Underworld just so happens to coincide with the route Zagreus is taking to escape it. And upon meeting up with their friend, Ghost decides to share some of the treasure they've found with Zagreus before continuing on their way.

So actually, given that, maybe Ghost's keepsake would be the Wayward Compass? Haha funny Hollow Knight fandom memes and all, but its effect could also be somewhat in line with the ones the boon-giving gods give. It would increase the odds of Ghost appearing when equipped, and would buff the amount of stuff they give you, going from 2x, to 3x, and then 4x when maxed out. The base amount of darkness and gems they give would probably be pretty low, to keep things balanced, but since they only appear once per run and you'd have to equip a specific item to get a significant amount of stuff, I think those numbers are reasonable. Lore-wise, Ghost could be using the charm to better track Zagreus' location, so that they can actively seek him out once they've gathered a lot of treasure to give him.

Also, going back to non-gameplay-related stuff, I think it'd be really funny if, once they get their replacement mask, Ghost gets annoyed with everyone still calling them a "shade". It was fine when they were stuck in their unstable Void form, since that could be considered a Shade. But not anymore! They're back to being a stable vessel again, thank you very much! Dgsgsh

#ooc #.🪲#🪲 headcanon | ghost #<- ((i guess??))#((ngl i kinda wanna do something now with all these thoughts dghsdg))

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frontproofmedia · 2 years

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What's Next For Terence Crawford?

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By Sina Latif

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Published: December 16, 2022

The boxing fraternity was preparing itself for Terence “Bud” Crawford to face Errol Spence Jr for the undisputed welterweight championship until, in true anticlimactic fashion, those talks did not come to fruition. Instead, Crawford made the sixth defense of his WBO welterweight title against a tough David Avanesyan at the CHI Health Center in Omaha.

The shining light to emerge from this fight was that it finally marked the return of Bud. After a year-long layoff, he made his comeback on the newly emerging and unknown platform of BLK Prime pay-per-view.

Nobody was clamoring for this fight, but given Crawford’s inactivity and the American recently turning 35, momentum is key entering 2023.

Avanesyan was no slouch by any means. He is a worthy and deserving title challenger. Unbeaten fighters with high hopes were stopped in their home territory by the Russian. After the Crawford and Spence showdown became so tantalizingly close to being finalized, a shadow was always going to be cast over anything that followed.

Since his loss to Egidijus “Mean Machine” Kavaliauskas in February 2018, Avanesyan was in the hottest form of his career, stopping all six opponents, including the likes of Kerman Lejarraga and Josh Kelly. An undefeated Lejarraga was stopped in the ninth round in their first meeting in March 2019. Then, in the immediate rematch, Lejarraga was steamrolled in the first round. Josh Kelly was an undefeated British prospect, viewed as someone to watch out for in the future, with a potentially high ceiling. Avanesyan derailed those hopes and set the Englishman back by nearly two years until Kelly’s recent impressive win of his own against Troy Williamson.

Crawford was making his first appearance in a professional boxing ring since his most significant victory to date against former welterweight champion Shawn Porter in November 2021. Crawford became the first man to stop Porter, the immensely talented switch-hitter reminding people about his capabilities. Such a reminder again was overdue, and it came in devastating fashion.

Crawford gradually broke Avanesyan down over the first five rounds with consistently debilitating body shots and uppercuts; then, a swift right hook knocked Avanesyan out cold with 46 seconds left in the sixth round.

Crawford has all-time great talent and is one of the finest and most complete fighters in the modern era, but with the clock ticking, Crawford needs to cement a legacy that matches his in-ring talent with a career-defining fight. Bud cannot afford to have many more of these sorts of fights, in which he faces dangerous and risky opponents that offer nothing more for his legacy, especially when it is his only fight of the year.

Fighters of the caliber of Avanesyan, with all due respect, are not legacy-defining opponents for Crawford. Avanesyan is an unknown quantity in America, and his scalp is highly unlikely to embellish Crawford’s resume in any way.

Make no mistake, Crawford deserves all the credit in the world for his achievements and consistency. This was his 17th successive world title fight. Reaching the top is one thing. Greatness is staying there. We have recently witnessed Josh Taylor become the undisputed super lightweight champion, then awarded a controversial points win in the first defense of his undisputed status against Jack Catterall. Teofimo Lopez reached the mountain top at 135 lbs against Vasiliy Lomachenko to become unified lightweight champion, then lost in the first defense of his unified titles against George Kambosos Jr. These are quality fighters, but also provide examples of how challenging it can be to stay at the peak of the mountain once it is reached.

Avanesyan was no easy knock-over job for Crawford. However, Crawford is now at a stage where only the elite will suffice as opponents. He has won world titles and defended them against a host of contenders. Now, he needs to face his elite generational rival, Spence, to write his name into the history books as one of America’s true pugilistic greats.

Ultimately, this Avanesyan fight perfectly summarised Crawford’s career. Crawford is taking a risky fight that he will get no credit for winning after the frustration of yet another year of not getting the Spence super-fight.

There is still time for Crawford to get the fights the public wants to see and, most importantly, that Crawford’s career needs. By all means, the negotiations table can now be revisited to see if the Spence showdown can finally happen. There are young and hungry welterweights like Jaron “Boots” Ennis and Vergil Ortiz Jr waiting in the wings for their title shot. They can also be big fights for Crawford. Bud has even expressed his desire to move up to super welterweight and challenge undisputed champion Jermell Charlo.

If these fights happen, the general perception of Crawford will change drastically.

(Featured Photo: Tom Hogan/BLK Prime)

#SL #Terence Crawford #David Avanesyan #Errol Spence Jr.#BLK Prime #WBO

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theanimekid · 2 years

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Heavenly Scent

Lu Bu x Warrior! fem reader

Synopsis: You have known Lu Bu since childhood, and you were always there thick and thin, and now your friendship is to be tested by the scent of the heavens itself.

Warnings⚠️🖤❤️: Smut ahead, biting, getting steamy in the hot spring.

A/n: we need more Lu bu Smut. So I did one.

No man can taste the fruits of autumn while he is delighting in the scent of spring flowers.

The smell.

It was the smell that made him so drawn to you. Of his childhood when it was just the two of you. Exploring the roots of your home and beyond. Until the day you were sold off to a wealthy family. He went looking for you on that day with a bouquet, wisteria, peach flower, blue marigold, and some cherry blossoms. Only to find himself in a devastating situation, you were being dragged to the ground into a cart by an older adult. Shackled in chains. His bouquet dropped to the hard ground. Shattered.

It was the smell that made him so drawn to you. Of his childhood when it was just the two of you. Exploring the roots of your home and beyond. Until the day you were sold off to a wealthy family. He went looking for you on that day with a bouquet, wisteria, peach flower, blue marigold, and some cherry blossoms. Only to find himself in a devastating situation, You was dragged to the ground into a cart by an older adult, wrapped in chains. His bouquet dropped to the hard ground.

He felt his heart race like a beating drum as he ran towards you, running, running, and running. But it was already too late as the horses ran out into the distance.

That day he swore an oath that he'd get strong and bring you back to him. Into his arms once more. But he will forever remember the smell.

But those were years ago, and he had gotten strong. If not the strongest of all men. He fought countless armies that no one couldn't even match his power. His army grew with every passing day.

But this day, he had finally met his match.

Another kingdom was about to meet its end, his soldiers were ready and waiting for their lord's command. With A swing of his halberd, he and his army began their campaign.

Among his enemies was a woman. Who was brave enough to take Lu Bu head-on with her gauntlets armed and ready to smash whoever was in front of her. Their battle was fierce, neither side backing down before the enemy. Lu Bu couldn't control his excitement for finally. Finally, he has found a worthy opponent. Their weapons clashed while the world trembled around them. Only one will make it out alive.

After an incredible battle between who is stronger than the other, Lu Bu came victorious with his prize on his shoulders. Her.

Months passed since he fought that woman and brought her to join his army. The first female he'd let join his army. It reminds him of someone else he knew a long time ago. As his army and Lu bu (who is not a big fan of parties) celebrated another raid, the woman stood out from the party. Her arms crossed along with bandages on her thighs, Hugging her flesh plump skin, and metallic thigh-high boots.

She felt exhausted, but she'd never shown it. She spun around and left the crowd to continue their celebration, not knowing that Th general's eyes followed her out of his army and into the forest. Later then, he started following you. She traveled deep into the forest grounds for quite some time, all the way to her secret hiding spot. Not much of a hiding spot but her place of peace and serenity. Wher only the cherry blossoms and wisteria trees grow, lanterns swing into the wind's soft embrace. She felt the memories wash over her as she continued her descent into the dort road. The memory of how she was sold off and forced to her only friend behind.

She stopped suddenly and turned her head, only to see nothing behind her. I could've sworn someone was following me not long ago, she thought as she turned her head again. Lu Bu hid behind a giant wisteria tree. He felt an ache in his chest. The tingle in his crotch. He wants to see, he needs to see, Just what lies behind that armor and steel, behind the mask she covers. He heard her footsteps walking away and took it as his cue to continue following her from a distance.

His mind snapped to reality as he watched the woman take off her armor. Each piece of metal revealed more of her tender skin, To the softness of her breasts that carry her chest. To the curves of her hips sway so delicately that she'll tease a man with them, especially a general. She finally reached the back of her mask and unbuckled the straps behind her, showing her soft and young face as her long hair fell behind her, touching the ground. Your lower stomach revealed your slight six-pack poking out in the skin. A body well built for a warrior like her.

Primal desires were about to flood over him. He always thought about the type of woman you would become. But a warrior. With an intoxicating scent, with a body built on the battlefield. And with a beautiful face of that of all the Three Kingdoms. There's no distinction... he has to claim you before anyone else dares to think so.

He watched you rise and fall into the hot spring, your soft length fingers caressing your chest, your breathing while giving a sigh of relief as you stood above the water.

"I know you are watching, so can come out," you spoke softly, as you'd turned around with those innocent eyes sparkling like teardrops. Lu Bu steeped from behind the trees, his halberd in one hand and his other clenched at his side. Along with a smug smile on his face. And, eyes staring down at you like a quarry. And if you're his prey, that makes him a predator.

he couldn't waste any more of this, he impaled the halberd into the dirt, the clothing came afterwards and marched his way to you. You were the first to make a move and slowly guiding your fingers across his giant chest while standing on your tippy toes to. Exploring every inch of flesh and tattoo on his giant form, The giant felt your fascination through your fingers, he felt a prideful smile on his face. HE grabbed our hands and picked you up from the helm of your ass, and gave it a nice squeeze.

You gasped as he shoved his lips to yours, a rough yet passionate kiss. He sat in the water, his lips still locked with yours as he felt something at your entrance. He unlocked the kiss to hear the beautiful sounds of your voice as he thrust into you repeatedly. Hitting your g-spot every time, you felt as though he'll split you into two. As he pounded into you, his fangs marked the valley of your breasts, his h iron grips at your hips to keep up with his pace

The hot spring shook as he still continued to drill into you without rest, the sound of your voice chanting his name over a thousand times. You felt your body completely come undone as you reached your climax, now seeing stars. A couple of thrusts and grunts later it was his turn to come undone. Both panting, as he fell on his back and you with it. The flying general smiled as you laid on his chest, exhausted, and still impaled on his manhood. You looked at your general who was smiling at you.

"Something amusing, general?", you asked regaining your composure.

" Thinking about I should've done this sooner after we fought". He added.

You scoffed, " Still a cocky asshole I came to be friends with".

"Yet you slept with this cocky asshole".

You rolled your eyes and laid on his chest. flustered, "Shut up".

He took his large hand and caressed your back as he looked to the sky, the stars shining above the two of you. He'll thank the heavens for reuniting with his no longer friend, but a lover and future wife.

A/n: Who shall I write next?

#lu bu #ror x reader #record of ragnarok smut #snv lu bu #shuumatsu no valkyrie smut #lu bu x fem reader #snv fanfiction #ror lu bu #record of ragnarok x reader #female reader #x reader #reader insert #shuumatsu no valkyrie #shuumastu no valkyrie x reader #record of ragnarok #lu bu smut #snv lu bu x reader

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skzkkun · 3 years

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sinner

pairing: priest!yeonjun x reader

warnings: this fic heavily features religion (christianity) and biblical references, based on my own knowledge being raised roman catholic, as well as themes of blasphemy (i.e., church sex / priest kink)― if this would make you uncomfortable, please read with discretion. hard kinks. references to drinking alcohol / being hungover.

synopsis: when you told your friends that you had the hots for a charming stranger, the last person they expected for you to be talking about was the local priest. . . i guess that's one way to get a reckless, party-goer to attend church. (reading playlist)

word count: 3.6k

taglist: @punchmebaekhyun, @irockgyu, @boba-beom, @fav9yu, @earth-to-leiki, @bbyboychanyeol, @xcookiemonsteer, @iamthereseee, @jungwoos-world15

(unable to tag: @st4rrys00bs + @nctshow)

“Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” (Matthew 26:41 )

December 12th, 11:26pm

"OH MY FUCKING GOD!" You scream in delight, with your friends around the booth hollering along.

Beomgyu had done it.

The man triumphantly slams the shot glass down on the wooden table in acknowledgement that he had finally beaten your record: officially becoming the esteemed 'Most Drinks Drunk' champion of the month.

"That's my Hyung!" Kai coos, halting his clapping to wipe an imaginary tear from his eye. You all laugh as a bartender frowns at your group, causing you to all hush down. Regardless, Beomgyu continued to bask in his victory with a smile.

"I have to say, 'Gyu," You begin, "I never thought you would steal my crown, but I'm impressed!"

"Well, you―" He hiccups, "You're a worthy opponent, (Y/n)~" The new champion drunkenly sways, cueing Soobin to order some much-needed water for the group.

"He's going to regret this tomorrow morning," Taehyun whispers lowly next to you, smirking as the man in question rushes to the toilets.

"Oh, obviously," You reply, turning to your friend, "He's a dumbass."

"(Y/n), don't be a big meanie all of a sudden," Kai piped up, whining cutely from across the booth, "You started the whole competition in the first place!"

"True," You chuckle at the younger man's pout, as you stand up from your place at the sticky table, "At least I can handle my booze."

It was true, you were all too familiar with 'Vitus': the local bar that hosted a cast of embarrassingly drunk university students, incredible songs and (most importantly), cheap alcohol. After being a regular here for three years, you could safely say that there has never been a dull moment. It’s the perfect spot to drink with your friends before they go home for the holidays.

While you drunkenly reminisce about your nights spent in this bar, with your friends cheerily singing along to the song playing in the background, the bell of the bar’s front door rings. As you glance over curiously, your breath catches in your throat.

In all of your time at this bar, you had never seen this man before― surely, you would have noticed someone so stunning and out of place. He’s a tall man with raven hair and a jet black outfit to match. There was an intimidating tension to almost everything the stranger did: as if every act was performed with disdain. His veiny hands move to adjust his collar, leading your eyes to focus on the clerical collar that adorned his neck, and your eyes shifted from his fingers to his plump lips as he―

Wait. Holy shit.

Aren’t those kinds of collars the type priests wear? What the fuck was a priest doing in this bar? I mean, you’re never the type to gatekeep, but were priests even allowed in bars? I guess you had never thought about it before…

Before you had the chance to get lost in your own confusion, Soobin tapped your hand; your head shot up to meet his warm gaze. “(Y/n)! You never told us― how did your date go last night? You were so excited before you left, and then you didn’t update the group chat!”

“Ehh, the date was ok.” You reply, finding sudden interest in the melting ice cubes that swirled around your empty glass, as Beomgyu stumbles back towards your group after spending too long in the restroom. “Jake was really great, he seemed like a sweet guy! I just… I think we’re looking for different things.”

You slumped against the plush booth, your ears and cheeks aflame with a shameful blush; the implication of your reply was not lost on the boys either. Your head is warm and fuzzy from the free-flow of spirits and cocktails.

“Different things, huh?” Beomgyu laughs with the kind of genuine glee one only has while they’re blackout drunk, “Noona~ you know there’s no shame in admitting that you’re just looking for some good sex.”

The innocence of Kai’s shocked laughter and the chaos of Taehyun choking on his drink was the perfect response to Gyu’s boldness. With a grin, you just wordlessly shrug and playfully slap your friend― What could you say? The drunken bastard was, annoyingly, 100% correct. Not like there was any harm in your endeavour to try to find someone to hook-up with.

“Yeah, yeah― like you know anything about good sex, ‘Gyu.” The roar of your friends’ feral laughter continues to boom through the bar as you hop down from your seat. The sudden, dizzying blur of the bar set in as you stood up. It was the stark reminder you needed to realise how many drinks you had tonight.

December 12th, 11:51pm

After staring intensely at your drunken reflection, you rest your forehead against the grimy mirror as water flows from the sink’s faucet. You were sure it had been more than 15 minutes since you left the booth, so it wouldn’t have surprised you if the boys had already left by now. After blowing out a deep breath once, you stand up and blink once more at your reflection.

“You okay over there?”

You shriek, jumping at the sudden intrusion of the new voice. As you calm down, you immediately recognise the man behind you as the sacrosanct man with the clerical collar. Momentarily forgetting how to speak, your mouth snaps shut. The priest’s lips curl into a soft grin, closing the distance to lean around you and turn off the faucet.

“Long night?” He chuckles, his breath warm on your neck.

‘Oh fuck, he’s hot. Are priests allowed to be hot?’ You thought, swaying drunkenly in front of the tall man in black.

“Umm,” You begin, trying to muster up an interesting response as you feign relative sobriety, “Are you… a real priest?”

‘Nice one, (Y/n)’ You think.

He laughs warmly as he holds a hand out by your side to protect you from falling over, his sincerity giving you butterflies. “Yes, I am― Why? Did you have something you wanted to confess?”

“Wha-”

“I mean, you’ve been staring in the mirror for like ten minutes. Aren’t your friends waiting for you?”

“Oh, yeah. I just… It’s been an intense night. You know how it is― Well, I guess you don’t since you’re a priest… Wait, have you been watching me this whole time?” You sigh, as you realise how incoherent your alcohol induced ramblings must be, admittedly not ideal for a good first impression. “Sorry, I’m just― Sorry, Father.”

His eyebrows lifts as he smiles again, seemingly endeared by you, “Let’s get you some water, little one. I think you need it. You came with Soobin, right?”

“You know, Soobs?” You quietly ask, looking up at the priest in confusion.

“Yeah, ‘Soobs’ is one of my best friends― I just came to visit him before he leaves for Christmas.” He guides you out of the restroom, slowly helping you to a seat by the bar.

“Ohhh,” You carelessly hop onto the barstool, “Wait, I don’t think I got your name? Any friend of Soobs is a friend of mine!”

“Yeonjun, but you should really call me Father.” He snickers, turning to order two glasses of water.

“Wait, you’re Yeonjun? Soobin mentions you a lot, I’m surprised we’ve never met.” You smile up at him, your bright eyes reflecting the neon lights from behind the bar, “I’m (Y/n), by the way.”

December 13th, 9:12am

“YOU’RE KIDDING―” Soobin doubles over with laughter on the dorm’s sofa, “You wanted to find someone to have sex with, and you chose Yeonjun? A PRIEST?”

You curse Soobin and his inability to develop hangovers, as you moan and rub your temples helplessly.

“Hyun- Hyung…” Beomgyu whines from his place on the distant armchair, curled up as if to protect himself from the world. “Stop yelling, some of us are dying here.”

You unite with Gyu’s and his begging, “Yeah, Soobs have mercy. Let us recover, then you can preach to me.”

“I don’t know, (Y/n). It seems like you have a thing for people that are preachers―” The cushion you threw hits the eldest man square in the face before he can finish his sentence, as you curl up further onto the plush sofa. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop teasing and buy you fools some painkillers and orange juice; text me when Kai and Tae wake up, okay?”

“Sure thing, dad~.” You reply sarcastically, eager to recess back into your dreams: at least then you wouldn’t be plagued with this disgusting migraine.

The eldest man chuckles as he begins to leave the apartment, “Wow, I really had no idea that you were into guys that you could call ‘Father’.” Your second cushion you throw hits the door as Soobin shuts it closed behind him.

Finally, the best cure for a hangover floods the apartment.

Silence.

...

“You’re going to have sex with the priest, aren’t you (Y/n)?” Beomgyu whispers from across the room.

“Oh, absolutely I am.”

December 20th, 7:32pm

Yeonjun guided you along the frosted, cracked cobblestone of the church's path, protected under the gloom of the menacing gargoyles above. As thankful as you were that Soobin gave you the priest’s number, being in front of St. Cecilia’s Church with the man was more terrifying than you were prepared for.

You tensed as you both entered the chilled, dark interior. The tendons of your neck stood out like wires. Yeonjun adored how you looked like this: deliciously vulnerable. Although the priest mentally scolded himself, he couldn't help himself.

“I’m glad you called me. It’s nice to see you again,” Yeonjun grins, “No need to be frightened, I’m right here for you, sweetheart.”

You slowly nodded but said nothing. You did not have to: Yeonjun could tell that you were scared. He was too familiar with the reek of stale incense and the chemical freshness of the paint that failed to cover the damage beneath it. The courage that you had built up from the outside world corroded, just as the Holy Ghost permeated your skin.

What a paradox it is: to despise how you allowed this crap to eat away at your self-worth and yet be unbelievably turned on by how vulnerable it rendered you. Call it arrogance, hubris or just greed for control, but Yeonjun did not want to compete with mortal temptations. If you were going to be vulnerable, Yeonjun wanted to be the one who made you feel that way.

When Yeonjun found you in the restroom, alone in a state of drunken sombre, his heart broke. You were not crying for him, like those who attended his congregation to confess their sins.

Nor were you weeping over the exquisite thing you could become when he renders you desperate. Over how he could punish your ass with his hand. When you raise your hips, like a cat in heat, and soak his fingers with your desire.

Your drunk self was, instead, grieving for your desperate need for guidance.

So, if Yeonjun was going to compete with the sinful temptations outside the walls of his church, he figured that he had to take it to the source.

“Over there, my sheep,” Yeonjun lowly whispered, gently directing you to a pew halfway down the nave, facing the chancel.

The old wood creaked as you both sat, side-by-side, in the deserted, sepulchral cave. Yeonjun was usually unimpressed that his church was typically uninhabited. It only fuelled the rumours that it would soon close due to its ageing and dwindling congregation. However, at this moment, the priest had never been more grateful. He thanked God for this opportunity to be with you alone.

“Kneel,” Yeonjun commanded, motioning with a nod as he looked down at you: his authority palpable.

You hesitate as the priest slips his arm around your shoulders and nestles his mouth against your ear.

“Kneel, or I’ll drag you up to the altar by your hair, bend you over it and fuck you.”

You try to pull away, desperate to scan his face for any hint of sarcasm. “Yeonjun, I― Father, someone could come in. Someone could see,” You hiss.

"Look at me, (Y/n). Do you think I care? Do you think I am not perfectly willing to take whatever the consequences of that might be? Would they apprehend me for indecent behaviour? No. Chances are, they would freak out quietly and ask us to leave," Yeonjun stares at your shocked face. “As much as I am concerned about my immortal soul, my sweet. And I don’t believe God gives a shit where I fuck you.”

"Shhh!" You glance around frantically as Yeonjun reads your face, acknowledging the reaction his words have caused with a sly grin. Ironic how devilish a man of God could be.

“Okay!" You respond through gritted teeth, "Okay...” You edge off the pew and onto your knees. The mid-length dress that hugs your frame rides up your waist. The garment flares at your hips, draping over your ass.

On the pew behind you, Yeonjun reaches forward and strokes his soft knuckles down your back. “Put your hands together and pray.”

“I- what… what should I pray for?”

“I don’t care. It’s not going to matter soon― Will it, sweetheart?”

Beneath the dress, your legs are bare; Yeonjun gently pushed his way between your clenched legs into the heat. He caught a nice soft piece of inner thigh between two fingers and pinched hard enough to elicit a timid gasp.

“I can’t,” You shakily whisper.

“You can. And you will.” The priest stood up straight, moving in front of his kneeling form, “Beg to your God, (Y/n).”

He pinches hard again, in the same spot. It will leave an ugly bruise, but Yeonjun likes ugly bruises: it gives him a reason to kiss you better. You didn’t release the tension in your thighs, but you edge your knees apart. Just enough for Yeonjun to be allowed access to what he wants.

Soft and smooth and humid: source of most of your misery and an incredible deal of your joy. Yeonjun eased his fingertips between your lips, pushing your underwear to the side, and into your moist slit. Leaning forward until his face is buried into the crook of your neck, Yeonjun whispers. “I don’t think you’re praying, my lamb.”

“I-... I-.” You stammer: it was more a bleat than a complete response.

(Y/n), Little Lamb of God. Who turns Yeonjun inside out with your brimming eyes and your flooding cunt. Who validates every nasty thing the priest does to you.

As Yeonjun shifts the angle of his hand, pressing the edges of it into the taut and trembling tendons that attempt, with or without your intention, to keep him out. You fight and you fight and then, pressing your forehead to your clasped hands, you relent and relax your thighs.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Your internal muscles flutter as Yeonjun probes your hole with his middle finger. The interior of your cunt is like heaven to the man: you were smooth and rough, tight and accommodating. Now you are all tensed up and only just moist enough for Yeonjun to penetrate. But he knows you. It wouldn’t be for long.

“You know what you want, (Y/n).”

The knuckles of your joined fingers are white. Lips are bitten together, the way they started when Yeonjun lays a first hard smack on your exposed ass.

“Mmmm.”

It is not a moan of pleasure: it was a whimper. Yeonjun holds his hand still, his finger embedded and motionless. “Be brave, my gorgeous girl. Come on. You know what you want.”

For a long moment– the aeon in which Yeonjun had time to wonder if he had made a mistake– You kneel, statuesque: equally petrified on the inside as you look on the outside.

Maybe Yeonjun didn’t understand you after all? Maybe you had convinced yourself this would be good for you because it was what Yeonjun wanted. Maybe Yeonjun was just an arrogant prick? Maybe Beomgyu was right for laughing at you for trying to fuck a priest.

'No, that’s impossible. Gyu’s never right.' You thought, shaking your head.

You think about removing his hand. Yeonjun thinks about the humiliation of patting you on the shoulder and saying: ‘Okay, sorry, love. I’ve made a mistake.’ Yeonjun wrestles with the potential consequences of that: of being wrong in your eyes, of heedlessly pushing you where you couldn’t go.

Then, you inhale – drinking in the musty, incense-bitter air in long, low, stuttered breath – and begin to move your hips.

It wasn’t until that moment that Yeonjun noticed how dry his throat had grown. The rush of relief burns his chest and sends a jet of lust through his body. Instantly, Yeonjun was hard and throbbing.

“There’s a good girl,” Yeonjun whispers, brushing your long hair to the side and tracing your cheek with his free hand.

“Oh, god!” You choke on the words and push your ass backwards, forcing more of his finger into your cunt.

You do it again and again. Experimental, small backward motions at first. Then your cunt begins to clench around Yeonjun's finger until you slide yourself easily onto it, and his palm was awash with your juices.

Yeonjun watches your hips buck. He listens as your breath becomes rough. But your eyes are shut tight, and that wouldn’t do.

“Open your eyes, (Y/n). Open them.” He commanded.

“No,” You panted.

And there was that familiar twist of Yeonjun's mouth. The crooked smile he wore in pleasure.

He tangles his hand and forces a second digit. “Do it.”

You gasp as your eyelids flutter open. Wide, staring. Fearful and aroused. But it didn’t stop you from moving. You are still, relentlessly, bucking your hips against the man's relentless fingers. He slips his free hand under your jaw, tight on your neck, and pulls your head up. He forces your gaze on his towering form.

A harsh sob rises in your throat; Yeonjun feels it against his fingers, like something ripping out. Yeonjun feels the first uncertain contractions of your impending orgasm; the definitive fluid motion of your hips pushes you closer.

“Is my poor sheep crying?" The priest coos in faux sympathy, before squeezing your neck tighter.

Tears begin to course down your cheek as your entire body trembles. Slicking his thumb in the sopping mess between your legs, Yeonjun eases it into your ass. You gasped, whining with an incoherent noise.

The priest wasn’t sure whether you were answering his rhetorical question or if you were whining about his penetration of your hole. Yeonjun didn’t care. He hauls your back from the rail and plunges his fingers into your with all his strength.

You stiffen in his arm, rut against him once, twice, and orgasmed with such force, Yeonjun thought you could squeeze his fingers out of their sockets. Your fluids pour over his hand, down the insides of your legs.

“Oh my― Fuck…,” You whine. “Fuck you!” As the last of your contractions squeeze around his fingers, you give a hard shudder in his arms and you repeat yourself. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

Withdrawing his trapped digits, Yeonjun freed his hand and smoothed the back of your dress down, then pulled you off your knees onto his lap.

You both sat in serene silence for a while, listening to the natural movement of the old, desolate building as the wooden pews expand in the afternoon heat― it was peaceful. It was heaven.

“It’s wild how hungry I am.” Your hand moves onto his lap, as you rub your open palm against the bulge in his pants. “I could suck your cock now, Father, then we could find somewhere to eat.”

He smirks, eyes widening a fraction. “Very tempting, but I’m really hungry as well. Let’s eat now, then we can fuck later,” Yeonjun said, getting to his feet and pulling you up with him.

As you both slowly walked out of the humble church, and into the early afternoon light, you almost collided with an elder priest, walking along the entrance path with deliberate steps.

You smile and nod, “Afternoon, Father.”

“Good afternoon. I tell you what―” He halts in his tracks, “It is so nice to see young people coming to the Church again. I hope to see you around more,” he smiles with genuine appreciation, as he continues his way into St. Cecilia’s Church.

#txt x reader #txt smut #txt imagines #txt x y/n #yeonjun x y/n #yeonjun smut #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun imagines #kpop smut #kpop x reader #kpop imagines

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astudyincontrasts · 2 years

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I wish u would write a fic where reader is one of those ppl sitting at a chess board in a park waiting to play with someone walking by and they're about to pack up bc it's getting late but then silco stops them and plays a match

Silco x GN!Reader SFW

TW: mention of parental death

It was a hit or miss crowd in the paltry scrap of patchy scrub grass and struggling weedy diseased saplings that passed for the closest thing to trees in the tiny 'park' at the outskirts of the undercity. Truth be told it was less a park and more a lot where a decrepit building demolishment had never resulted in new architecture. Reclaimed by what few weeds counted as the elements, and then further reclaimed by the local residents into public space.

Makeshift small tables and benches cobbled together from recycled scraps, scattered planters overflowing with whatever seeds or pretty weeds the local greenthumbs deemed worthy of care, and multicolored tatters of laundry fluttering in crisscrossed lines between the buildings it was sandwiched within, the park was not an unpretty thing. Simply unrefined, a make-do as were most all things in the undercity.

Most days it hosted a rotating small crowd of local old-timers looking for a quiet, shady place to relax, or roving gaggles of children at play. Constantly a meeting spot for the ladies of either nearby building to stand and chat as they watched their younglings make mudpies or joyfully tear up fistfuls of tough grass.

And on any given day a couple of the old-timers, or more rarely someone young and starved for stimulation like yourself, sat for hours on end playing chess or checkers, sometimes even dominos or knucklebones if the right crowd was around that afternoon. But again, if you weren't one of the elderly grey men with a fellow regular partner to play with, the crowd was hit or miss for someone seeking a game.

Many of the elders wouldn't give a younger player the time of day. Too rash, to inexperienced, too hot headed or too likely to be a sore loser. So on and so on ran the list of their prejudicial reasons not to play with anyone who didn't look three hacking coughs away from death. When he lived down here, Viktor used to stop for a few games with you anytime he passed the park and found you unengaged. He was brilliant, if quiet and terribly serious. And since he'd left to attend the university in Piltover you hadn't seen him again.

Not that you blamed him. Why come back once you got free? No one wanted to risk getting soiled with the scent of the undercity once you'd been given the opportunity to finally wash it from your clothes.

Still, you missed him. He might have always won but you always learned a new trick or tactic to use against your next opponent.

Huck was another who'd play you anytime he swung by. Older, so the elderly regulars tolerated him more, but kind in a squirrely sort of way, kind enough so he'd always play a round with you if you weren't engaged. He never stopped talking though, a kind of stream of consciousness prattle that could have been more irritating if it weren't for how utterly harmless and eager the little man was behind his round spectacles. He was good, but not great at the game, but beggars couldn't be choosers and any opponent was better than none.

Many of the boards the old-timers played on were much like the furnishings of the park itself; cobbled together of remnants, or handmade, or cannibalized bits from a multitude of countless other mismatched sets and all played on fields hand-painted with slightly wonky lines. But not yours. Yours was perfect.

A family treasure, inherited from your father when his fishing trawler did not return from a haul. He'd been the one who taught you how to play. A looming, large and dock-scented figment of your childhood, he'd been a quiet man with an intimidating and stern presence. You were at a lost to recall any other moments of your early life when he paid you mind aside from the times he sat you down and taught you the game.

At the time it felt like perhaps on his rare visits home from the sea that he found your young presence to be little more than an irritation. A tiny human that had somehow found its way into his home and his life and ate the food on his table and ran underfoot. He was a constant threat used by your mother; wait until your father gets home, wait until your father finds out you broke the dish, wait until I tell your father how you disobeyed. Something in the way she said it made him feel like a boiling tower of wrath just itching for an excuse to unload on you and tan your skinny hide.

Now that you were older it was easier to understand that it was more likely the big man had no idea what to make of you, felt awkward and at a loss at how to bond with a small child he saw but rarely, and instead kept his quiet distance until he'd grabbed upon the idea of using the game to interact with you devoid of small talk and the other niceties he did not do well. He'd been a good teacher and you a quick learner, eager to please the man you feared, each of you learning each other over the pieces and moves and gambits.

And then when he didn't come back one day the lovely set with its polished brass and smooth ivory pieces belonged to you. Playing felt like a way to keep what little you had or knew of him alive. And in a life and town where the chance to use the intellect you'd been given was practically non-existent, it fed a brain hungry for challenge and craving intelligent distraction.

You’d sat there for two hours. Knee bouncing impatiently, the lovely board laid out neatly before you, offer of the first move on the open seat across from you, just... waiting. A few of the old men played at other tables. A pair of housewives rocking babies on their hips leaned against the brick of the nearby building and gossiped. You waited.

And waited.

And waited, and nothing. No takers. The relative emptiness of the street not far from where you sat promised little in the way of passersby who might be enticed, and what few people there were out and about were too busy in their own lives to spare some time for a game not too many down here understood anyhow.

Heaving a sigh of resignation for another fruitless afternoon you turned to begin packing up the game to head home. Only to turn from dragging your pack out from under your seat to find someone settling themselves in the seat across from you.

He was lean, and what passed for clean cut down here. Obvious trencher but with a class about him that was unusual. Not too many other men you knew in the undercity bothered with wearing a tie, let alone one clipped to collar with a brass frame that gleamed dully at the throat. The creamy white of it was a touch incongruitous with the slight shabbiness of the rest of his attire; sleeves of his shirt shoved up to just below elbows in a habitual way that had left rumples in the stiff burgundy and black striped linen that looked permanent. Once black vest over-laundered now to more of a deep grey was neatly fitted to his whipcord frame and a bandage wound taut around one long thigh over dark pants.

One sharp gazed teal eye and one gogging round black eye with a pupil like a living hot coal watched you from under the line of his brow as long fingered hands laced themselves under the faint slice of a waiting smile. You tried, and failed, not to stare at the dead, blackened scarred skin that swept back around that dark eye from the top of cheek to temple. At all the deep carved scars that etched one half of his face and made crevasses in thin lips.

For all of it, he was sinisterly handsome, with a strange sense of youth offered to him by that slight build that seemed out of sorts with the assured confidence of his bearing. He reached out and made the first move.

You sat there and stared. The same quiet simmering menace you used to attribute to the hulking form of your father in your childhood rolling off the man across from you in silent waves. He touched the trigger on his side of the little timing box you’d cobbled together yourself where it sat beside the board and the click-tick of it coupled with the start of the play clock snapped you into motion.

You made your move.

He countered.

“Silco.” He offered, voice like oiled silk, pitched low. Quiet. Nothing loud about the man save for the warning claxons he set off in the back of your brain. “Lovely board.”

“Thank you.”

“And you are?” He countered again.

“Winning. Checkmate.” Blame it on your pride at taking him in so few moves, or the fact that he was a stranger and this was your park, your home turf, your game. Blame it on the way he set you slightly off kilter. Blame it on whatever you like, but the notion to offer the stranger a touch of sass instead of your name felt almost empowering, flew in the face of how intimidated he made you. Won both the match and a little bit of your nerve back.

“Hmn.” He stared down at the pieces in mild surprise. And then reset his. You reset the clock and your own pieces. He spun the board, gave you the ivory set and the right to go first. Out with king’s knight.

You took him in the next game in twenty.

Watched his teeth grit at your checkmate, but he still reset the board rather than get up and leave. You turned it to give him first move.

“You’re from here?” He asked quietly. Going about his strategy more carefully this time.

“Yes. Born and raised.” You countered, hit the clock. “And you?”

“Mining fissures.” He replied with a hint of boredom in the flat tone of that soothing rasp of a voice. Given his build and those fine hands that was a surprise, not to mention him being this far topside. Few made it out of the mines once they went in.

“What is it you do, besides wait for strangers to come play games with you?” He asked, amusedly taking one of your pawns.

“Nothing of consequence.” You answered, removing the threat of the knight that just took your pawn. And glanced up to catch him staring sharply at you. “Uh, I’m just a dogsbody for a local merchant. Textiles.”

“You can read? Write?” Your turn to give him the cold glare, and it earned you a silent huff of a laugh as he made his next move, sliding queen’s bishop across the board. “Its a question, not an insult.”

“Yes, and do sums.” You answered, stiff jawed in spite of his reassurances and your own knowledge that it wasn’t that odd of a question to ask someone down here. Not everyone had the luxury of schooling and many were taught by parents who were barely taught themselves. Better to put little hands to work to keep food on the table then send them to class to fill their little minds with the false hope they might someday be able to climb out of this pit. “Checkmate.”

Silco was staring at the board appraisingly before lifting the weight of his gaze to you again. It was difficult to pick which eye to give your attention to. That blue one was coolly commanding, but the unblinking stare of that livid red one... It was impossible to tear attention away from it.

Board reset, turned, clock ready. Your move.

“What do you do, Silco?” Pawn forward.

He hummed another little laugh to himself and took his move.

“I’m building.”

Not ‘I’m in building’ or not ‘I make buildings’ but rather the coy ‘I’m building’ struck your curiosity. Your move.

“Anything in particular?” you asked mildly, trying not to sound too intrigued.

“The future.” He countered your move. “Check.”

Attention slid back to the board. How had you missed it? Clever little ruse. Easily undone with a quick castling.

“That sounds... ambitious.” It sounded mad and self-important is what it sounded like, but he didn’t feel like the sort of man you said such things to.

“Hm. And you lack ambition?” Another move of his. “Check.”

You flustered, glowered, felt your hackles rise. Another wasted move to block... wait... hand hovered, moved to chose another route.

“Trying to survive is ambitious enough around here, don’t you think? Check.”

That curling smile was back to touch one corner of his mouth as fingers flexed and extended like fine flight feathers on the end of a bird’s wing in their interlacing before his chin.

“There’s more to life than just survival. Checkmate.”

Your turn to stare at the board in shocked consternation. It had been subtle, masterful, a perfect trap that teased you in move by move from the start and had played off your own gambits and technique, taken full advantage of your confidence.

Silco pressed his finger down on stop of the play clock and rose, picking at the folded up cuff of his sleeve before offering you one last little slice of a smile.

“If you’d like to play another game, or decide that you might be a bit more ambitious than simple survival, come down to the old cannery.” He smoothed hands down his vest and gave the hem of it a tug to smarten it’s lay as he made to leave. Let his head cant toward the side of that dark eye as he spared you one last glance before turning to go, gavel voice drifting back over one insolently slumping shoulder. “The clock is ticking. Time to make a move.”

#silco #silco drabble #silco x reader #silco sfw #drabble request #silco fic #arcane #arcane fic #honestly this might be the tamest thing with Silco in it I’ve ever written

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