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kon4ka · 2 months

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Challenge: Drawing D&D classes - Topic 8 - Priest

🌪Priest Valkur of the Storm Domain🌪

Race: Kenku (Raven) Origin: Sailor

📘 Backstory: He was kidnapped by pirates as a child to be sold to a thieves guild, but the child seemed too frail to the customer and the deal did not take place. He would have been thrown out into the cold if the daughter of the Duke, who was in charge of thieves and pirates, had not intervened and wanted to “buy the bird.” You could say he was lucky, he stayed to live in the port city as the girl’s personal servant, errand boy, and then friend. After some time, the Duke was executed, and the Priest and the girl fled with the pirates and pirated for a long time, gathering strength in order to take revenge and capture their hometown.

✒ Character: Relatively good character for a kenku, considers himself indebted to the people who raised him. Cunning, calculating and cunning, cautious and suspicious of all unfamiliar people. For a long time, like everyone else, I dreamed about flying and the lost spark of talent, but after a while I found myself realizing the plans of my friend, receiving instructions from her and using skills that she did not have.

Speaks mostly in her voice (to everyone except herself at her request). He enjoyed sea adventures, and his skills more than once saved his own skin and the skins of the entire crew, for which he was chosen by Valkur as a priest. Together with his girlfriend, he often changes teams and ships, going on all sorts of adventures, She is driven forward by curiosity and a thirst for research, and by his duty as a priest to protect sailors and affection for her. He still wonders why God paid attention to him despite his damned race.

🪢 Skills: Knows a lot about shipping, at different times performed almost all existing roles on the ship, is familiar with bureaucracy and politics. It's almost impossible to get him drunk. He can scream like a fire siren that “he can even shout at a ship on the horizon,” according to the statements of the teams that sailed with him.

✨ Features: Falls for glitter, but knows when to stop. Uses his fallen feathers to write. Loves to dress up colorfully. Smooth and almost waterproof feathers.

🌪 Жрец Валкура Домена Бури🌪

Раса: Кенку (Ворон) Происхождение: Моряк

📘 Предыстория: Его в детстве выкрали пираты, чтобы продать гильдии воров, но ребенок показался заказчику слишком хилым и сделка не состоялась. Его бы выкинули на мороз, если бы не вмешалась дочка герцога, который вел дела ворами и пиратами, пожелавшая "купить птичку". Можно сказать ему повезло, он остался жить в портовом городе личным слугой девушки, мальчиком на побегушках, а потом и другом. Через какое-то время герцога казнили а Жрец со девушкой сбежали с пиратами и долго пиратствовали, собирая силы для того, чтобы отомстить и захватить родной город.

✒ Характер: Сравнительно неплохой характер для кенку, считает себя обязанным людям, что вырастили его. Хитёр, расчётлив и коварен, осторожен и подозрителен ко всем малознакомым. Долгое время как и все грезил о полётах и утраченной искре таланта, но спустя время нашел себя в том, что реализовывал замыслы своей подруги, получая от нее инструкции и применяя навыки, которых у нее не было. Говорит в основном ее голосом (со всеми кроме нее самой по ее просьбе). Ему пришлись по душе морские приключения, а его навыки не раз спасли его собственную шкуру и шкуры всей команды, за что был избран Валкуром в качестве жреца. Вместе со своей подругой часто меняет команды и корабли, отправляясь во всевозможные приключения, её гонит вперед любопытство и жажда исследований а его долг жреца по защите моряков и привязанность к ней. До сих пор недоумевает почему бог обратил на него внимание вопреки его проклятой расе.

🪢 Навыки: Знает многое о судоходстве, в разное время исполнял почти все существующие роли на корабле, знаком с бюрократией и политикой. Его почти невозможно споить. Умеет орать как пожарная сирена, что "даже на корабль на горизонте докричится", по заявлением команд, что с ним плавали.

✨ Особенности: Падок на блестяшки, но знает меру. Использует свои выпавшие перья для письма. Обожает наряжаться пёстро. Гладкие и почти непромокаемые перья.

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flowerprose · 5 months

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NAMESAKE 🌷💀🌿

a hades and persephone myth retelling

NANOWRIMO '23 WRAP-UP

When I saw these mood boards aligned on my Instagram, I knew I wanted to post them together at the end of the month.

My personal goal was to reach 30,000 words by the end of NaNo. Despite numerous days off, I achieved that. Now I strive to finish the rest of the manuscript by the end of January '24. Thank you to everyone who left kind encouragement this month! I've never felt more assured with this story than I do in its latest rendition. 😊 Someday soon I'm going to hold this book in my arms and squeeze it tight. And truthfully, I'm excited to wrap this up and move forward with something new.

With that said, this will also be the final excerpt I share of NAMESAKE! The next time I reach out, it will be to announce that the story is complete!!

EXCERPT

His brother descends upon the forest floor, blistering and sudden, much like the bolts sheathed at his side. How many mortal years have spanned since the last time the two of them stood, face to face? Zeus meets him with a weathered look, not nearly as boyish as he once was. Fucking across the countryside has clearly taken its toll on him. “Zeus,” Hades says, his hands casually spinning the helm precariously between his palms. “Hades, what brings you to the surface? My daughter?” “So she’s yours,” he feigns. Zeus’s stormlike eyes shine as he nods. “She is,” he says solemnly. “Demeter… for all I know, she’s sunken into the earth. She never left Kore’s side. She cannot part from her grave-plot.” Hades nurses a condolence on his tongue, but Demeter marked him with her burning ire long ago, and such customs will not soothe her anguish. Least of all when he’s partly to blame for her suffering even now. He glosses over it instead. “Let her mourn however she needs to. I’m curious, though, how a God can perish. Have you looked into this?” “It’s all we’ve done.” He eyes the helm spinning between Hades’s hands before glancing towards the silent woods, cautious of his next words. “My children, my wife, every God within this world is investigating what caused this. Kore may only be the first of us to go.” Hades doesn’t react to such news, though Hera seems the least likely to care about another spawn of Zeus dusted from her realm. “Assure me that she’s safe. She belongs in your domain now.” “She belongs to me,” Hades says, firmer than his brother-king would like.

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#namesake:writing #hades and persephone #myth retelling #greek gods #nanowrimo #my writing

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acceptccnow · 6 months

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Leveraging Credit Repair Merchant Processing for Growth

Article by Jonathan Bomser | CEO | Accept-Credit-Cards-Now.com

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dynamic-power · 7 months

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@justmori suggested a few prompts to me, and this one stuck out: Az and Crowley don't seem to drink wine together and talk about everything under the sun anymore. What happened?

And while I had completely intended to sit down and write an angsty little blurb, I ended up with this exploration of Az instead. Just a little look into the change in his relationship with Crowley between series 1 and 2.

My asks are always open, so drop in with prompts or opinions or just to say hi.

Words: 922

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After the end of the world was stopped, something changed. Aziraphale wasn’t exactly sure what it was, only that it had happened sometime between standing as a united front with a demon and the son of Satan and sitting in the Ritz for drinks with that same demon. Sans son of Satan, of course.

Before Armageddon, Aziraphale would expect to run in to Crowley every few decades or so. They would see each other, sometimes on purpose, and partake in shenanigans that neither were likely to report to their own domains. Often times, these meetings would end with a bottle or two of wine and discussions, ranging from philisophical and introspective to downright absurd.

Aziraphale never minded, of course. He rather enjoyed the time with the demon, though he never liked to think too much about that fact. Instead, he told himself it was because he and Crowley were of a kind; two timeless beings, alone and surrounded by humans, who were there and gone in a mere handful of decades. No one understood their unique situation better than each other.

But it always came about with alcohol. Inebriation, even for an angel and a demon, came with soothed nerves and loosened tongues. A bottle in and Aziraphale would complain about Heaven and Crowley would gripe about other demons. Two or three and they would talk about their shared appretiation for humans, their feelings surrounding their given tasks, and even their pasts.

Aziraphale felt vulnerable when he was in such a state, but around Crowley, it was accompanied by a sense of camraderie and safety. Despite his companion being a demon, Aziraphale felt comfortable around him in a way he’d never felt around another being in the entirety of his existence.

By the time the 20th century came around, he was able to admit that he looked forward to running into the demon. He always knew what the best bottles in his wine cellar were, always knew of the most exclusive up-and-coming restaurant, always prepared for the day that the demon would once again stumble into his life. And Crowley did. Increasingly often, and sometimes literally.

And then they had stopped the end of the world that Aziraphale loved so dearly, and suddenly Crowley wasn’t coming around every few decades, she was stopping in to the bookshop every few weeks.

He began coming round just to chat. Slowly, the chair beside Aziraphale’s became Crowley’s. An empty space on one of the shelves near the door remained empty for when Crowley came around and took off those blasted sunglasses. Azraphale got used to his phone ringing, not because of customers, but because Crowley was bored.

Alcohol became less of a tool for conversation and more of an indulgence as they got to know each other. Aziraphale found that they no longer needed that excuse of inebriation to talk, to be comfortable around one another.

It was on a sunny afternoon in May when Aziraphale realized just how deep his feelings about the demon ran.

He was sitting at his desk, sifting through a new first edition he’d managed to track down, when he looked up and to his left, where the two armchairs sat looking out the window. They were both empty; he prefered to do work from his desk, and Crowley hadn’t been around in a few days.

He missed him.

The reality of it hit Aziraphale hard enough that he sat back in his chair, momentarily forgetting about the book. He’d never properly missed anything a day in his life. The closest he’d ever come was Heaven. Sure, he thought it would be nice to be back in Heaven, but his bookshop was his home. His bookshop, where Crowley sometimes came by and put their glasses on that shelf and sat in the most bizarre position in that chair by the window and talked with him about everything and nothing and-

He missed him. Craved his presence more than he craved a good meal, yearned for his company in a way he hadn’t thought angels even could.

He’d gotten so used to the companionship, he realized, that it was noticable when there wasn’t another voice in the bookshop, snarking at him or harassing curious humans into leaving.

He wanted to be upset with himself; wanted to remind himself that it wasn’t safe to be this close to a demon, that these feelings were unnecessary or maybe even dangerous.

But he knew he couldn’t.

The front door flew open and Crowley stormed in, all flailing limbs and noisy energy. There was no hesitation or uncertainty in her movements as she plucked her glasses off and turned bright, shining, yellow eyes on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale couldn’t contain his smile, but he did shove down every emotion besides the contentment he felt at having this demonic presence again. Anything else could be examined later. Or maybe never. He had a duty to Heaven, after all.

“Hello, Angel,” Crowley drawled, flinging himself into his chair so that he was sitting on it sideways. They peered at Aziraphale from over their knees, waving a hand at the book on his desktop. “Whatcha’ got there?”

A first edition book he’d been trying to find for a century. “Nothing of importance, Crowley.” He turned in his chair, ignoring the book entirely and devoting all his attention to the demon and the sense of warm familiarity that settled over his shoulders. “Drink?”

“Nah. You know, I saw something the other day that made me think of you.”

“Did you now?”

#the relationship between crowly and aziraphale is something they don't have with anyone else #they see each other the most frequently #they have an understanding that humans and even demons in hell and angels in heaven don't have #and i think that should be explored more often #the feelings they have for one another are significant because they've probably never felt them before #they've never had anyone who knows them quite so intensely #and i'm gonna stop rambling now #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #genderfluid crowley #all pronouns for crowley #dyno writes

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luimagines · 1 year

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Evil thought.

Reader was Warriors' childhood best friend he grew up with. They both joined the military together and he had a crush on him. Captain never got his chance to admit those feelings as when Cia casted her spell which pulled in the other eras...Reader was caught in the blast. No one knew where they went and a body was never found.

Cue to present Warriors as he travels with the Chain. They were currently in Wild's era near the Zora Domain. Lately there been reports of a strange creature that attacks any monster they see and brutally injures travellers if threatened. Sidon asks the Chain to check it out as the last sighting was where the nearby Lynel dwells.

It doesn't take to long to find this creature for a loud monstrous roar and the tell tale signs of someone fighting a Lynel (i.e elemental flying arrows from skywards than just the liontaur roaring). The sight the Chain would come upon is brutal.

Dozens of slain monsters, every one with black blood strewn about and amidst it all is a black blood Lynel limping away in fear. The beast doesn't get far as the monster is hurled off the mountain by a 21 ft tall giant wearing strange armor. And Warriors is frozen still.

It isn't because of the giant's razor sharp fangs jutting out like curved tusks, blood red scaled arms nor mace like tail, not the pale spikes jutting out their back, shoulders and thighs all stained in black blood. The reason is because despite all these frightening features, the giant was Reader. His friend who gone missing since the War of Eras.

In truth, Reader wasn't dead but instead warped into a very dangerous dimension similar to Nevada from Krinkels' Madness Combat series. A maddening modern era apocalypse where the sky is red as blood with the rules to survive being adapt or die and kill or be killed.

It was there they became a MAG, a giant supersoldier know for their intense ferocity against opponents, ability to shrug off immense pain and for a select few like Reader even regenerate lost limbs fairly quickly. That 'strange armor' being custom modern military grade tactical gear as their weapon of choice is a huge battle axe.

Reader spots them and the Chain (except Wars) prepare themselves for a difficult fight. No one expected for the giant's fury to immediately dissipate as they see Wars and speak.

Reader: L-link? Is that really you?

Warriors: I should be asking you that. *tearing up*

Man is about to cry as everyone is very confused. Wars knows this berserker? What the heck is going? The Captain gets a reunion hug. MAG!Reader has a great handle on their strength so they can hug without hurting anybody although they still have to be careful with their sharp claws.

Warrior steps forward slowly, as if any wrong move would break the image in front of him.

"Captain?" Wild keeps an arrow in his grip, just in case.

Warrior gulps and reaches a hand out. "I thought.... we all thought you were dead... What... what happened to you?"

Wind and Time shift a little uneasy in their spots. Wind is the one to step forward and grab onto Warrior, just in case. "Is it... them?"

"Is it?" Time asks for clarification.

Legend shoots his arm up. "Can we know who them is?"

Warrior touches their outer shell. "My best friend."

#pinky replies #monster! reader #MAG! reader #anon stories #seems long enough to fit that tag

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casliveblog · 19 days

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Custom Toonami Block Update!

It's time for what I call the Delicious in Gundam update!

Now that Inuyasha and Castlevania have settled nicely into the block, we need a new starter and after a surprising amount of difficulty I think I'm ready to try the 'schoolgirl lesbians commit war crimes in mechs' show because I've had a hard time getting into Gundam shows before and adding both war crimes and lesbians tends to be a good way to pique my interest if Lycoris Recoil is anything to go by.

Meanwhile on the other end of the spectrum, Delicious in Dungeon joins Frieren for the Autistic Elf Power Hour because I've heard a lot about the jarring plot shift and cute characters and now I just gotta check this shit out.

So there we have it, The Witch from Mercury blows up hospitals to start us out, Inuyasha swings into its Final Act next, all hell breaks loose with Castlevania, Jujutsu Kaisen continues to expand its Domain. Delicious in Dungeon fries up a fight and Frieren's got its back after that, and lastly Vinland Saga takes the long voyage home.

"If you run, you gain one. If you move forward, you gain two."

#ooc #Toonami #Custom Toonami Block #The Witch from Mercury #Delicious in Dungeon

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digitaldynamicserabd · 6 months

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infodailyblog · 3 months

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seoness · 2 years

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(18+) Day 1 of Kinktober - Orgasm Denial

Smut | (TV-show)Sandor Clegane x fem!reader

A tease for a treat

A rat would have been more welcomed. The maester said nothing as you handed over the parchment, sucking at his teeth as he read through the list.

"Do you not have them?" you asked, keeping the smile locked to your face.

"Of course we have them," the man hissed back before turning on his heel.

Of all things you thought you'd miss of home, Septon Chayle was not one of them, but at least the overseer of the library of Winterfell didn't look at you like filth had gotten the ability to breathe.

Roll after roll filled your arms and one particularly heavy book bound in blackened leather.

"You be careful with those, girl. They are worth more than your life and tell your lord to send more suitable hands next time."

"Pardon, but it is not custom for us to question our lords in the North," you replied.

What wasn't worth more than your life? You polished jewelry worth more than you'd make in an entire lifetime and set tables for feasts where meat and mead would be devoured for more than years' worth of wages. What was the southron fool going to say next? Don't swim with the books, or you'll ruin the pages?

The heavy ironwood door closed behind you and the halls of the Red Keep met you. This was your domain. Not the chambers with their tall windows and tapestries of myrish silk, furniture of oiled wood from some land you would never see, and golden candelabras. No, it was the maze of brick and tile that was your home. Where you could walk as a shadow with the rest of your kind, gaze locked low and without sound.

The maester had taken his time fetching Vayon Poole's order. Had he not, you could have taken your time, but soon the excuse of getting lost wouldn't suffice. Where could he be?

The stables?

One of the courtyards?

For each search, the butterflies in your stomach grew. Passing one of the many bridges, the lie of getting lost was becoming more and more true.

Rounding the corner, there he was, standing guard by one of the doors. The Hound was not a man one missed easily. There was the obvious feature, the burn he carried that claimed half his face, but it was the rest you saw. A man that towered above all others and each time he moved, people held their breaths in fear. They were clever, writ right. It was you the gods had gotten wrong.

With each step, the tingle in your stomach grew and your heart began to race as his gaze caught yours.

"On duty?" you asked.

Clegane nodded back at the shut door. "Lesson." But his gaze lowered to the scrolls in your embrace. "The Hand has you running like some page?"

"I offered when Master Vayon requested for the service to be done," you replied and his nose scrounged up. "Is something wrong?"

"That what northerners call those a rung above? Masters?"

Sometimes he just made it too easy. Trying to keep from grinning, and failing, you took a step forward allowing him ample opportunity to see past the scrolls and instead down the neckline of your dress.

"He is the steward... do you envy the steward of the Hand, my lord?"

"This is no time for your games, woman."

"I am not the one," you answered, taking a final step closer. "You are the one being rude."

Even now, as the Hound loomed above you couldn't help but shrink. The intensity of those dark eyes... His hand caught your waist like a vice. Not so harsh that he hurt you, but impossible to slip away.

A shiver ran along your spine as his mouth reached your ear, his deep and raspy voice, a whisper, "Told you I work best with clear commands, no fault of mine you're too coy to give it."

You looked to either side, it was unusual for him to be this open, but no servant or lordling was walking the halls. "And if I gave it now?"

The snort in your ear made you flinch, and Clegane straightened, his brow cocked. "Go on then."

It was he that was playing a game, toying with you, teasing until you were close to madness. He had no issue plucking you up like some bone to carry to bed, but as soon as his need was met, yours continued to go unsated. And the rudest of all? He blamed you. At times you cursed yourself for going out that first fortnight in King's Landing and finding a Hound in one of the wine sinks. Made brave by too many cups you had gone to him. Some men fucked to no abandon, but not him. No, Sandor Clegane had more rules than you could count and his mood was fickle at best. It didn't help, feeling like half of it was mocking, having you name each thing he was to do until your cheeks burned bright red and your breathing so quick you couldn't form the words.

Your lips pressed shut, and a tug at his hold was enough to make it go.

"That master of yours keep a close watch?" the question was out the moment you stepped aside.

"The postern gate?" you asked back.

Night claimed King's Landing, but there was no true silence even in the dark. The stirring of the great city reached its way up Aegon's Hill to the window left ajar in the Tower of the Hand. Not that the sleeping hall gave much peace, snores mixed with the occasional creaks of beds. Slowly you slid out of bed, tip-toeing in the dark to where you had laid the cloak and boots. The dark wool fell over your shoulders. Keeping your feet bare so there was no sound of footsteps as you made your way through the halls. A mouse, no, a cat. No mouse ever felt so wicked.

The brisk night air was nothing to that of the North. Here it nipped, a gentle thing, but back home, cold was like a bite that drove deep into the bone. Your heart pounded as you crossed the inner courtyard, but no shout came, no call, and as you pushed at the gate, it had already begun inside. A throb. Low. It left you empty, waiting for what only he could fulfill. The hinges wailed as the weight of the gate left you; instead of wood, there was dark steel.

Clegane didn't stand there a shadowy figure. He never had. No one would dare question him if found by some lowly guard. The dark gaze didn't keep yours for long before falling down, his lips twisting.

"Do the wolves have that good an ear?"

Ripping the boots from your embrace, Clegane knelt before you, muttering underneath his breath as he pushed them on you.

"I didn't want to chance it," you replied, pulling at the cloak bundled in the fold of his arm.

It was finer than yours, a blue so dark it was almost black, with golden clasps. A broad silk band ran along its edges where yellow gemstones had been needled into its pattern. It swallowed you up. Pulling the hood over your head, you took up your usual role as his tail. There was no way to avoid walking past guards to reach his quarters, but the Hound took care so there was only one thing they saw, just a man that had paid for a woman at one of the brothels in the city to serve him for the night.

You never met the eyes of those guards, your fingers latching onto his belt, allowing Clegane to guide you through the keep. You only knew the sounds, the three door hinges that would creak before all this work was made worthwhile.

Chiiiirrss.

Your fingers curled around the leather, and his scoff made the smile on your lips grow.

Striiiiii.

"Was it a difficult day?" you asked.

He scoffed again, "Little help you offered in that."

Chiiiiiinnng.

The faint light of the brazier filled the bedchamber. Making the red stone glow. Compared to most of the chambers of the Red Keep, it was sparingly furnished. A bed stood against the long wall, a chest at its end, and a table stood ready with wine and cups in the furthest corner. Slipping out from his back, you steered your steps to the bed, finding a seat at its edge. All the while, the Hound watched you, studied you.

It was nothing meager in the sight of him standing tall before you in the dark plate with the sword fastened at his hip, yet the Hound found a softness. It had taken some nights for you to finally put your finger on why.

He breathed out.

The Red Keep, the King and Queen, the crown prince he was sworn to defend, and the court with their whispers and hidden daggers were all left at the threshold. A day of hard work would leave you deflated, crawling into the sheets, but Sandor Clegane grew. There was no tenseness as he moved, and his fingers began to undo the buckles of his armor.

"No help this time?" he asked.

"I enjoy the view," you replied.

Besides, those buckles took twice the time for you to undo. Piece by piece he rid himself of his armor. Your own was a shorter affair, both your cloaks finding a place on the floor with your boots. Left in his arming jacket and breeches, he came for you. His finger tapping your chin, a silent ask for you to meet his gaze.

His rasp low and deep, "And what command is there tonight?"

You leaned back, savoring as his gaze wandered lower. The linen of your nightgown was thin and forgetful as you are the lacing of your neckline was left undone.

"I am at your mercy. Whatever you want to do to me, you may," you said, but his lips pressed to a thin line. "No?"

He was the one to be infuriated? You were the one mocked night after night. How could he turn giving orders to something inferior? What did it matter if he made you wet, warmed you, fucked you if you never reached it?

Clegane towered above you, watching, waiting, but enough was fucking enough.

"Goodnight," you chirped and turned to crawl to your spot.

Breath catching in your throat as his hands closed around your waist. Linens twisting beneath you as he pulled back.

"At my mercy?" Clegane repeated your words and a chuckle filled the chamber. "Couldn't figure what you were, woman, but I see it now."

His fist filled with the back of your nightgown, forcing you up, sitting on your knees. His breath tickled the nape of your neck as he lowered. "What a little fool you are."

You could hear the sound of fabric shifting before a push sent you forward. Yanking your skirt up, he spared no time, and you felt him push against you. Another chuckle left him as he felt just how wet you were.

"A fool and a liar."

"How very kind," you countered.

Before he had been slow, but in one stroke, he entered. The bed creaked beneath as you failed to keep on your arms, the mattress suffocating your whimper.

"Kind now, my little fool?" But you couldn't even push yourself up let alone answer. "No?"

His hips pushed, grinding deeper. The muffled cry made the body behind you halt.

"Hurt?"

A hand slid in underneath you and air finally filled your lungs.

"No," you breathed out, spreading your legs, his size pressing at your walls. "Could- could I be on my back?"

Tipping over, he dodged the leg that flew, spreading further. The brazier's light caught on his face, casting stark shadows, but you could see the worry writ across it. The brow furrowed and jaw clenched. Holding out your arms, the scowl only set deeper.

"I'm not hurt. Come," you sighed.

"Another game?" he asked but heeded your wish, his nose brushed against yours, and his cock fully returned inside you.

"Do fools play games well?" you asked.

Your hands traveled up the arming jacket, arms hooking around his neck, the stubble prickling your lips until you found his. Placing one kiss after the other until they softened to your touch.

"Still at your mercy," you whispered, bucking up your hips, grinning as a groan left him.

Clegane began to move out until his tip brushed against you, only to enter again and return just as slowly. Your fingertips grazed along the arming jacket, joined by his, it found its place on the floor beside the cloaks. The heartbeat that had been running like mad steadied as he pulled the shoulders of your nightgown down, bundling at your waist. Your nails running along his chest, dark hair sprawled across, traveling down his stomach.

Clegane's pace remained calm, and the hands began to travel. You caught his lips once more as his thumb reached your right nipple. Pinching, only for his mouth to take its place. Your breathing grew heavy. Bucking up your hips, you allowed him to hit deeper. Nothing was left to muffle your moans, making them fill the night. His arms curled around your waist, and a shrill giggle filled the chamber as he lifted you up into the air, only cut off by the whimper as he lowered you down.

"Seven hells," with the curse his pace grew quicker.

Lifting just enough so his cock wasn't fully in you, each jerk of his hip harsher than the last. The drop came with no warning, the mattress hitting your back.

A whirlwind of touch, hands hooking underneath your legs, his mouth finding your neck. Kissing and biting along your sensitive skin until the tingle began to fog your mind.

Your hips answered him, meeting each thrust. Instinct guided you, searching for anything to offer pleasure or give it. As he lowered, you pressed your head up, forehead resting against his chest. Able to see him, his cock glistened. Each time there was less of him inside you a throb called out for him to return. Clegane slammed down and you were certain the bed would break beneath you.

The second time a cry climbed out your throat, "Gods!"

His lips caught your ear, biting gently, "Asking the gods for mercy now, little fool?"

Clegane's body tensed around you, continuing where he left off, his pace only growing wilder.

The sudden emptiness made a whimper leave your lips and you felt the warmth of his seed as it struck your lower stomach. The arms rigid as stone around you. The air turned heavy with his scent. Leaning back, the Hound took in the sight, his cock still resting against you.

Rolling his hips, his length began to grind against you. So now your torture truly began?

"I know what you're doing."

"That so, little fool?" A smile spread across his lips, and the throbbing grew, begging for more of him.

Clegane didn't stop, the length of his cock stroking against you until the throb was like a heartbeat. You couldn't keep from rolling your hips. Each pleasure laid itself atop the other, climbing, tensing.

It left your lips a sigh, "Please..."

The weight of the mattress shifted and you looked on in horror as he left the bed. Fetching a rag from the table, he tossed it at the trace left on your stomach.

"Can't do much with a please, little fool," he said.

Your eyes fixed low, his cock had not lost in size, the stiffness gone. The sight left your mouth dry. Fine. What was your pride, what was another sin? As Clegane came close, rubbing away his seed, you spread your legs again and you met those dark eyes that made the rest of the world disappear.

"Please, I want you to..." rubbing your lips together, but it helped nothing against the desert in your throat, pretending not to feel your cheeks burning. "Please make me cum, Sandor."

"Not that hard, was it?"

"Others take you," you muttered as he took to the bed, stretching out.

Clegane smacked at the side of his hip. "Go on then, don't know shit on how to make a woman spent, use me as you please."

Stunned, you blinked at the sight. Use him?

Swallowing the last of your pride, you climbed up on him, straddling his lap. His hands stroked your thighs as you began to grind against him. It took time, to catch up, regaining the pleasure lost as he had broken away. Your hips rolling back and forth. Shutting your eyes to focus on each sensation, how he grew hard beneath you, the warmth of his hands. against your skin. Your breathing grew quicker and each moan left soft and pleading.

This was yours.

He was yours.

It was so close, so ready, so near completion.

The shove knocked you off but the mattress kept your landing pain-free and all your work, all that pleasure was ripped away.

"What are you doing?" you hissed. "I did what you wanted, I gave your stupid command."

"And I am not one for mercy, little fool."

Pulling you to him, the Hound wrapped you up in his cover. "Best get sleep."

"Sleep? Sleep? Sleep is not what I want."

The fact that he pulled someone squirming and hissing to him was little bother for Clegane.

"Never had this power, not going to give it up so easily, little fool," he said.

"What power?"

"A true fool," he chuckled.

"And if I tend to it myself?"

"Then you'll sleep with your hands tied behind your back. Now shut your mouth and get rest, we'll need it come morrow."

#sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane

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