#its a peach wine uwu

[crowned-ivy]

#by myself #mine #alcohol tw #?? #its a peach wine uwu #hands #dark acadamia #dark academia aesthetic #gothic #<3 #ftm #gay #idk #mlm #vintage fashion #hand #vintage jewelry #vintage jewellery

[alexandriteobscuraarchive]

~Miche is going to cautiously sneak up---not that you can really sneak while wading into water that's up to your ankles---and start combing her fingers through Krim's damp hair. (because I HAVE to play with his hair now uwu)

((!!!! Yessssssssss!))

The water rippling around his white linen robes is the color of peaches and wine in the sunset; the warmth present in both its temperature and hue clinging on doggedly even with the night pressing in overhead. Krim sits in the center of the pool with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes half lidded against the sinking sun. He doesn't even bother to turn his head when he hears the sound of splashing approaching from behind.

Only one person knew to look for him here, after all.

"You don't need to wait for me, Miche, you can head back before it gets dark." More like she should head back. Gods, he sounded so tired. Everything about the day had been wrong. Krim hadn’t been able to weave that morning; and even his previous hibiols spread around his lodgings seemed FOREIGN to him, and it had just gotten worse from there.

Krim can feel Miche standing just behind him now; just as he can feel her fingers combing their way through his hair as if trying to soothe him, and it’s all he can do not to pull away from her. And even less not to slap her hands away---or perhaps hit her and then keep hitting. The hands nestled in his lap ball into tight fists but remain where they are.

Even shutting his eyes---shutting them tight enough to hurt----was useless. He couldn’t get away from any of it. The undercurrent of worry and fear on everyone’s faces fear is too light a word; TERROR is much more fitting followed him even if their eyes did not, even if they failed to speak with their usual bright and happy tones. Even the Elder had been off. Every fiber of her being had given off an air of anxiety the likes of which Krim had never felt before and once it had infected him he could do nothing but wait for the crash.

Something was happening. Something was coming----someone was coming---and he’d have to wait for that crash, too.

“........” Soft eyelashes frame heavy eyes as he finally opens them, his face now pointed towards the water, the reds of which had deepened during his brief repose. And in that peaceful moment even the water was wrong. It was the color. That now deep red but soon to be violet color suddenly made him feel sick to his stomach. It wouldn't be just water for much longer---soon it would be BLOOD. Perhaps as early as tomorrow. Perhaps that night, as soon as the curtain fell, because something or someone was coming. He couldn't even feel Miche’s fingers moving through his hair anymore; the tender weight of them reduced to nothing when set against the oppressive buzzing in the center of his head.

Was she even still there? Was she still standing behind him...? He can’t bear to turn around and check. It might be the last time he gets to; the last check, the last look, so of course he can’t do it.

“Miche....?” You need to go home. You need to leave---not just me but this place all together. You need to.

#;;ask response: ic krim #;;ask response: with squiggles #anonymous #blood mention tw #blood tw #you: prompts for something cute and soothing; me: gives you trepidation and angst instead

[kittenshift-17]

👀 Howdy and Happy New Year uwu!👀

Happy New Year! This is an excerpt from one of my upcoming Houndrya fics (aged-up Arya and Aged-down Clegane). It’s called Snap and Snarl.

Sandor Clegane hated balls. Standing around in Court and guarding Prince Joffrey was bad enough at the best of times, but a collection of High Lords and Ladies all gathered together to forge alliances, or pick fights, or plan marriages was his idea of torture. And as someone who lived in constant pain from true torture in his youth, that was saying a lot.

Worst of all, tonight’s stupid party was all for the sake of marrying off the Stark Bitch. The Hound curled his lip as his eyes scanned the hall from the seclusion of his corner where he was already skins and skins deep into the finest Mereenish wine. Joffrey, having been forced to wed the Little Bird in wolf’s colors was grousing and whining about something or other to whoever he thought was most interesting in the room from a boyish perspective on knights and kings and war. Stupid cunt. Sandor was still surprised the little shit could tell the blade from the pommel of a sword, even though he’d been the one to drill it into the little cunt’s head.

Too much like Gregor, that one. Sandor would be long shot of him if it weren’t for an oath he’d taken and a lack of anywhere else more decent to go. Guarding the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms came with certain perks he wasn’t willing to part with so easily, including access to all the sour wine he could drink, fine quarters with a soft featherbed, and Gold Lions filling his pockets to be spent on whores and whatever else took his fancy. Even if it was boring as fuck.

“Sulking, dog?” Joffrey piped up, always willing to kick the mutt that guarded him if it might make the other little pricks laugh.

Sandor looked down at the young prince, though he was now a man grown, and smirked a little at the thought of what the cunt might do should his faithful Hound turn on him and rip his throat out. After some of the screams he’d heard from their shared bedchamber and the marks he’d seen on the Little Bird, Sandor knew he’d be doing the kingdom and its future queen a favor if he did.

“Ugly beast, isn’t he?” one of the Tyrell cunts said none-too-quietly, eyeing Sandor’s ruined face with disgust as though it was his first time witnessing such gruesome horror.

His fist clenched tighter around his tankard, but Sandor showed no other outward sign of imagining what it would be like cleaving the cunt’s head in two with his axe. You’d think that after a lifetime, they’d have all stopped staring quite so much at the burns marring his ugly face, but dumb cunts would always be dumb cunts, he supposed.

A cry of surprise followed by hissing whispers fell over the hall at that moment and the Hound tensed, his gaze searching for the threat that had set them all off.

Rage festered in his gut, turning the wine sour when he found it.

The Stark Bitch had arrived.

Sandor curled his lip like a mongrel dog, his angry eyes drinking in the sight of the bitch as she strode into the room on her father’s arm. By the gods, there was a woman who could match his rage tonight, Sandor thought, smirking a little as he traced his eyes over her. Jammed into a dressed that nipped her waist in and shoved her tits up onto display, she couldn’t have looked less like she wanted to be there had she carved the words ‘FUCK OFF’ into the skin of her forehead. She looked uncomfortable. She looked angry. She looked like she’d sooner kill every cunt in the room than spend a single second consorting with any of them.

Worse.

She looked like a fucking feast.

The Hound gripped his tankard tighter, drinking in the angry flush staining those pale tits a creamy shade of peach and the luscious curves she’d been hiding under her tunic and jerkin. Fuck, if every cunt in the room didn’t want to nail her to the throne and fuck her until she howled. His cock stirred in his britches and Sandor was thankful for the armoured uniform he wore that hid it from view.

Gods, but he hated her.

Feral little bitch, she bared her teeth, and gnashed her fangs at him every chance she got. She never cowered back from his terrible sneer, nor flinched when he spat the most vulgar and hateful things he could work into any conversation. She never backed down, never backed off, never gave him a fucking inch. He hated her. Since the day she’d set her wolf on Joff, and he’d hunted some bloody butcher’s boy, she’d wanted to shove a sword through his eye, and he’d wanted to wring her scrawny neck. Seventeen, she’d turned at her last name day. Just ten years his junior and growing more beautiful by the day.

But she hated it. He knew that much. He’d watched her enough to know that she’d hack those lusterless brown locks from her head and lop her tits right off if she thought it’d get her more than the life she was doomed to. Tonight, she might very well find herself betrothed to the richest fucking cripple in all the Seven Kingdoms. And she’d probably kill the cunt for it.

This one wasn’t made for silk gowns, and soft bairns and sweet songs.

This one was forged from ice, a flesh and blood wolf in human skin, ready to rip the throat out of any who crossed her. And it wasn’t so hard to cross her. Kill a bloody butcher’s boy, and she’d threaten to string you up by your innards, one day. Only his size and strength had stopped her, he reckoned, and one day even that might not be enough.

"Willas is a lucky man," a Tyrell sitting with Joff commented, eyeing the girl eagerly. "And when his bum-leg keeps him from fucking her properly, reckon I'll be there to see her right."

The shit eater grin on the cunt's face boiled Sandor's blood, but he didn't say a word.

"Ever thought of sampling both Stark sisters at once, your grace?" Another cunt asked Joff.

Joffrey rolled his eyes, much to Sandor's surprise.

"I'd sooner cut my cock off than lay a finger on that frigid cunt," Joffrey declared. "Icy bitch, more a Wildling than a highborn lady."

"She's timid?"

Joffrey laughed. "The opposite. She'd cut your throat in the night and be gone before they could find your corpse."

"Dangerous?"

"She thinks so," Joffrey answered, looking over at the Hound. "You've seen her ‘dancing lessons’, Dog. Is the Stark Bitch dangerous?"

More than you, cunt, Sandor thought cruelly.

"Only to herself," Sandor smirked instead. "And anyone who gets in her way."

"Really?" A Tyrell asked. "Have you ever been in her way, Hound? I've heard talk that she lashes out viciously at you."

"Every day," Joffrey complained. "Vulgar little bitch, she doesn't even flinch when he calls her a cunt or baits her about the traitor she loved."

No, she never flinched, Sandor thought, eyeing her as she was swept across the room and presented to the awkwardly standing heir to Highgarden. The bitch never flinched when he loomed, or barked, or growled. She sneered and snarled and bit at him as cruelly as any wolf. Among the roses of Highgarden, she would be a wicked frost and likely spell their doom.

She curtsied clumsily before the lord when he bowed and kissed the back of her hand, but the curl of her lip told a tale all its own. Sandor's brow furrowed when he caught the way she winced as she rose, and the rigid way she held herself, like she couldn't hardly draw breath.

Was she swooning for the bloody cripple? Or dying in her dress?

Sandor's eyes narrowed when she declined a seat, but greedily accepted a cup of red wine, and gulped it down. Her Father never released her arm as he introduced her around the room, and the Hound watched the girl gather lustful looks like a bitch in heat.

She never smiled. Her mouth often twitched in a mockery of one, but it didn't reach her eyes. As soon as her Father was drawn into discussion with the King, Arya Stark slipped away.

And unbidden, the Hound followed.

There were enough other guards about that he need not watch over the prince so closely, hence his heavy drinking, and no one batted an eye when he circled the festivities as lords and ladies danced. Probably thought he needed a piss. Wasn't a bad idea.

But first, he had a Wolf to bite.

When he found her, she was gasping, leaning against the stone wall of a darkened corridor far beyond the noise of the great hall and sounding like she was dying. Her hands clawed at her back, arms bent unnaturally, scrabbling for the ties.

"Pretty little Wolf, all dressed in sheep's clothing, eh?" He sneered, announcing his presence and stepping out of the dark.

He anticipated a snap about his own well-shined armor and freshly bleached white cloak. And the bitch left him wanting.

Only another rasping breath filled the hall, accompanied by the sound of fingernails scrabbling against silken ties.

"The fuck are you doing?" He asked, annoyed.

"Can't... breathe..." she choked out, turning toward him and by the light of a torch far behind him, he could see the wideness of her eyes and the angry flush of her cheeks. Her lips were turning white.

"For fucks sake," Sandor growled, lunging for her and yanking loose the ties of her gown, huge fingers pawing at the delicate silk until it hung loose.

Still, she gasped raggedly. Still, she clawed.

"Corset," she gasped out. "Under... the silk."

"They'll try to take my head for this," Sandor grunted, digging his fingers into the silk and yanking it apart to reveal a stiff and evil looking corset of brittle whale bone beneath.

He yanked at the ties, but the fuckers wouldn't budge, too delicate and slippery for his drink-clumsy hands.

"Cut it," Arya gasped when he swore.

He did. The blade of his dagger desiccated the nimble threads and the wolf-bitch groaned before inhaling a deep and greedy breath, slumping against the wall.

"For fucks sake, girl. Why the fuck you wearing it, if it might kill you?" He growled, spinning her to face him and watching the way she drew breath after breath, still without the energy for snarling in return.

"Mother's orders," she managed to grunt after an eternity when he shook her, demanding an answer. "To make me look like a Seven damned Lady."

"Not enough silk or wine in the world to make that happen," he sneered.

She shrugged her shoulders free of his grip, ignoring the jibe. Sandor watched as she leaned back against the wall, tipping her head back and closing her eyes as she breathed deeply. The move exposed the long, pale column of her throat and drew attention to the way her tits still sat shoved up toward the low neckline of her gown, offered to him like a glorious feast.

Sandor clenched his fist around the pommel of his sword, unable to tear his eyes away, and unable to deny the throb in his blood-heavy cock. Fuck, he hated her, but what he wouldn't give to drag his teeth across her jugular. He could just imagine how she would whine like a bitch in heat, unafraid to claw him to bits in return.

Fuck.

He couldn't stand it. Growling under his breath, the Hound turned away. She wasn't his to devour, no matter how glorious the fight to the death might prove. His blood pounded in his ears as he began to stomp away, but her low voice called him back.

"Wait..." she said. "I... could you re-lace my gown? I can't reach them on my own..."

Sandor turned back, and he saw the shock register in her eyes at whatever evil lust glinted in his glare.

"Do I look like a fucking handmaid?" He snarled.

"You look like a man who doesn't want to be found out for unlacing the dress of the Hand of the King at what may prove to be her betrothal feast."

Fuck. The bitch had him there. Sending for a maid would be admitting to unlacing her to begin with.

Growling again, he stomped back, roughly grabbing her and shoving her face-first against the wall. She grunted at the impact, and started to turn back, all too willing to slug him one for the attack, but Sandor pinned her cheek against the stone with one huge hand on the back of her head.

"Hold still," he growled when she tensed, before his fingers grasped the thin ties of the gown and yanked them tight.

She gasped when he pulled too hard and Sandor cursed again, loosening them again before jerking them into a quick knot. When he was done, he stepped back quickly, pulling his hands away before he could smooth his palms over her corset-forged curves like his cock was begging of him. The last thing he needed was the trouble that would follow a mistake like that. It had been risky enough following her. No matter the way his cock twitched for her or any other highborn lady, he was just a dog from a lower house. She wasn’t meant for the likes of him. Hells, no one was meant for the likes of him, miserable fucking shit that he was.

Stomping back in the direction of the feast before he could do something that he’d regret – or, more likely, something Lord Stark would make him regret when the little birds and spiders haunting every corner of the city spotted him and reported to someone more important – Sandor turned away from the girl, intent on drowning the stiffness of his cock in enough wine to wilt the fucker.