#Flat Glass Coatings Market

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ prompt sets of three 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

write a piece featuring - in any capacity you can think of - all three things depicted in the given prompt!

¹⁾ a polka-dot bikini, a throw blanket and a pint glass

²⁾ a sliotar, a flat tire and a thunderstorm

³⁾ a teakettle, a fresh bruise and rosewater

⁴⁾ a chipped enamel bathtub, a blue sweater and basil leaves

⁵⁾ howling gale winds, an inflatable paddling pool and an oil lamp

⁶⁾ a fresh buzzcut, pink bubblegum and rolling tobacco

⁷⁾ gas station bandaids, a cellophane-wrapped bouquet and muddy footprints

⁸⁾ a lipstick print, skinned knees and stained-glass windows

⁹⁾ a busted streetlight, green olives and a teak countertop

¹⁰⁾ gun oil, red lace and an old armchair

¹¹⁾ a fresh tattoo, a sacristy, and guilt

¹²⁾ a corner booth, sweet patchouli and a wallet

¹³⁾ donuts, orange juice and a jail cell

¹⁴⁾ a cold red bull, shaking hands and broken traffic lights

¹⁵⁾ new graves, a busted headlight and silver rings

¹⁶⁾ handcuffs, brightly coloured building blocks and fir trees

¹⁷⁾ a shortwave radio, takeout containers and a bare lightbulb

¹⁸⁾ broken windows, waist-high grasses and lit matches

¹⁹⁾ orange segments, divorce papers and a front porch

²⁰⁾ horror movies, steaming showers and cold bedsheets

²¹⁾ brazilian lemonade, a split lip and daisy chains

²²⁾ a red convertible, a priest’s collar and dogtags

²³⁾ a corner office, parking tickets and greyhound races

²⁴⁾ bitten lips, army fatigues, and coca-cola

²⁵⁾ old wives’ tales, creaky stairs and cherry lipgloss

²⁶⁾ smooth whiskey, greying hair and warm hands

²⁷⁾ hospital food, full moons and a reconciliation

²⁸⁾ exes, candy wrappers and a twin bed

²⁹⁾ a rural motel, a pocket knife and iodine

³⁰⁾ a dirty martini, a dressing gown and blood under fingernails

³¹⁾ slept-in braids, a lamplit office and an explosion

³²⁾ blueberry pancakes, a restraining order and the taste of rum off someone’s lips

³³⁾ farmers’ market peaches, burnt coffee and houseplants

³⁴⁾ a late text, faded jeans and lightning strikes

³⁶⁾ desert air, zinnias and chocolates

³⁷⁾ an old truck, freshly turned earth and a tv dinner

³⁸⁾ wedding rings, wildfire and wrought iron gates

³⁹⁾ a hostage situation, evergreen trees and a pierced tongue

⁴⁰⁾ unripe strawberries, bitter wine and a kitchen table

⁴¹⁾ a head laid down in a lap, green tea and a break news announcement

⁴²⁾ a fire alarm, a flower-patterened apron and an ajar kitchen window

⁴³⁾ a jar of jam, two shots of vodka and a stack of car manuals

⁴⁴⁾ techno music at 4am, knitted jumpers and a broken watch

⁴⁵⁾ a green silk scarf, a pan of burnt food and the trunk of a car

⁴⁶⁾ bound hands, a crescent moon and laughter

⁴⁷⁾ a winter coat, a heatwave and fresh mangos

⁴⁸⁾ a thrift store sofa, a highrise apartment building and creaking floorboards

⁴⁹⁾ missing teeth, a house half covered in ivy and cheap beer

⁵⁰⁾ undeveloped camera film, stomach kisses and cigarette smoke

[peachesofteal]

The Crypt anthology

“You dropped this.”

You whirl on a dime, legs twisting together and rolling you off balance at the last second, the stranger’s hand shooting out to try to steady you before you catch yourself. “Alright little love?” Powder blue eyes hold you tight, some sort of virose thrall bearing down into your temples, rooting around in the matter between your ears.

“I’m fine.” You manage, but the words lack conviction. Long fingers dig in the soft spirals of your brain, looking for something, picking and pulling.

“Lookin’ a bit peckish there, sure you’re alright?” All you can manage is a nod, one foot sliding behind the other, placing you firmly out of reach.

“I’m fine.” The two words are all you can manage, still trying to escape the trance, the dark tug behind your ribs. Long silence plays out, and with a closer look, you register him fully. Tall. Broad. Shoulders wide enough to close in around you, green jacket faded into sun parched moss. It wouldn’t button around his chest, the waffle henley beneath doing you no favors by the way it tapers to his belt, a strong jaw cloaked by a swath of beard and moustache.

Older than you, stronger than you, an astral man amidst a city of depravity.

Step closer.

A storm cracks outside, thunder rattling the windows, your vision tunneling inside the market, people doing their shopping ebbing around you, a rock in water, stalls and their goods fading into the distance.

The only thing you can see is this stranger and his bright blue eyes. “Thanks,” you croak, knuckles tense on the strap of your bag, net of spilled oranges now safely tucked inside the canvas. When did that happen? Your smile is forced, seasick though the ground is solid beneath you, and when the eye contact breaks to flicker over your shoulder, you jolt back to your sense, and turn away.

The blue eyes stay with you all the way home, into your flat, through the night. You think about them as you cook yourself dinner, as you pour yourself a too generous glass of wine. You feel them as you curl up on the couch, malignant presence lingering just outside your window.

It’s only once you undress and slip under your blankets that you finally feel a semblance of peace, as if the gaze has moved on, the undying focus abated in a sliver of moonlight.

Your dreams are filled with blood.

An oil slick across an ocean, too vast to know where it ends and begins, you fight to keep your head above water, legs kicking frivolously in the dark, terror tight around your throat, horror lurking on the outside of your mind. Thalassophobia renders you almost useless, the panic just enough to keep the drowning at bay.

Can you die in a dream?

A hand appears from nowhere, and you cling to it, wailing and gasping until you’re pulled ashore, laid flat on your back against black stone sand.

“Alright little love?” Him. The same eyes peer down, shining like the sun, chasing away the darkness settled in around you. He stuns you.

“Y-yeah.” He’s close enough cigar smoke permeates your air, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt like a lifejacket. It takes a moment, a second of realization-

You’re covered in blood. Hands, feet, forearms, face. It coats your lips, iron and earth in your nose, soaked all the way to your lungs. Heavier than tar, slicked to your windpipe, drowning your beating heart in ichor.

“Oh god, oh my god, what- what is this, what is this-“ You’ve never heard your own voice at this pitch, shrill, piercing, the sound of someone crying, the sound of someone freefalling.

That can’t be you, can it?

“Easy now.” He holds you by the shoulders. The sun and moon cycle overhead, light and darkness rotating, disorienting you further, a whimper crawling from your throat. “Shhh, I know, I know,” he rubs your temple, thumb stained ruby red, and then lifts it to his mouth, lips curled into a devilish smile, “knew you’d be perfect f’me.” The ground begins to shake, the sky splitting apart, white tendrils snaking across the sea to your ankles, and he frown, disappointment lingering in the lines of his face. The rough scrape of his beard presses to your cheek with a kiss, and he nestles a coin into the palm of your hand, the dream turning opaque before disappearing completely, your eyes opening to ceiling of your bedroom.

Just a dream, you remind yourself throughout the day. Just a dream, though it’s nearly impossible to keep your mind from wandering, remembering, tasting the salt of the ichor like it’s still fresh on your tongue.

“Hey!” Your coworker snaps her fingers, alarm flashing across her face. “Are you okay? You look… sick.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Maybe you should call it a day. Seriously, you look like death.” Your agreement is weak as she practically shoves you out the door. “Go home and take a nap or something.”

“Hello again.” Your heart jolts, battering against your bones in a frantic beat. “No need to be scared.” You blink. “I’m John… from the market yesterday? You dropped your oranges?”

“John.” Your tongue ties around his name, and though its polite to give yours, you can’t force it out. His brow furrows.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Good sense and manners appear, spurred on by years of chastising by your mother, and you grimace.

“Oh. Sorry. I’m a bit under the weather.” He looms ahead of you, blocking a portion of the sidewalk.

“Headed home then?” You nod. “I’ll walk you.”

“Oh, no. That’s not necessary.” He gives you a sharp look, the dispel to an argument, razored, jagged teeth closing in around your attempt at a refusal, and pulls at your wrist, thumb holding steady over your pulse point, heart rate slowing from a panic to a lull.

Your head hangs, and you slump, exhaustion tugging your limbs down towards the ground. The path doesn’t split before you, no way to choose one way or another, hedgerows too tall to peer over, lost and unable to discern the way. Your hands find your pockets, and brush across something unfamiliar and cool.

A coin.

Darkness closes in around you-

And the word goes black.

You wake in a bed.

Not your bed.

It’s big, wide enough your legs and arms spread out with touching the edge of the mattress. The sheets are fine, cotton you could never afford, threads delicate, spun silk. Luxury. A far cry from your one-bedroom flat.

“There you are.” Time jolts, bringing you into the present with startling speed, a hand clasping over your mouth before you can release a scream. “No need for that.”

“John?” You mumble into his palm. Your head is natant, woozy with the rocking, feet scrambling on a ship far away, desperate to hold tight to a rail, a lifeline, a moment of balance in a violent storm. “I’m gonna be sick.”

There’s a haunting, familiar taste on your lips and you lick them over and over, the tip of an iceberg, a memory just barely visible above placid water. You grasp at it, tug yourself closer, swallow the nostalgia until it rears its head-

Blood.

Horror wraps an unforgiving fist around your throat.

“What-“

“Welcome home.” What? Your feet tangle in the sheets, a net around your ankles. His big, warm hand flattens over your chest, blue gaze honing in, the predator ready to devour his prey. “Can hear your heart, little love.”

“This isn’t my h-home.”

“It is now.” He’s casual, leaning by your hip, now stroking deft fingers over your ribs. “This is my home, and now it’s yours too. You don’t need to worry, you’ll be well cared for.” The cold green sick feeling surges, and you roll over to the side of the mattress, spewing the contents of your stomach onto polished hardwood floors.

It’s not bile, or water, or even food.

It’s red. Dark red, dripping off your lips like rain, flooding the grooves beneath you. He rubs your back like you’re a child who needs soothing, grip tight on your arm when you try to rip away.

“It won’t always be like this,” he coos, clucking his tongue in sympathy, “the taste is difficult to get used to.”

“The taste of what?”

“Blood.”

[katz-chow]

how time passes

a/n: domestic price is the only price i will take, thank you very much. my submission for @glitterypirateduck's christmas fics. song? "love to keep me warm” by dodie & laufey. why? you'll see :) merry christmas everyone 🎄

warnings: gn!reader, fluff, sfw, cold, snowy night, leading up to a smut ;)

For John, there’s a certain aspect of life that he isn’t all too familiar with. Domesticity seemed like a world away, hidden almost. Of course, he sees it all around him; in how young couples shop for decorations for their first Christmas, or how older couples shop for grandkid presents for their nth Christmas, how candles are rare to find nowadays, all the colorful ones taken by menorahs sitting on windowsills.

He remembers it clearly when he first realized how teasing a normal life can be. It was on the same cobblestone street that he finds himself on right now, right through the glass planes of a small cafe. In a way, domesticity found itself behind a China cabinet, displayed and just an inch away from his grasp, and yet the veil between them remained locked. The feeling of being a lover, a husband just right on the other side, staring back at him like window shopping. How frustratingly fleeting it is.

The wind blew a bit more wildly back then, snow caked upon the roofs of the many buildings that surrounded him, all occupied with families. He remembers the way his hands would go numb from the hours that he walked around the market square, just to avoid the rickety radiator in his flat.

But that was years ago and the heater of the cafe he’s sat in seems unbearably warm. John sat himself in the corner, two drinks on the table and a tiramisu that he knew he had to get as soon as he set his eyes on it. Unconsciously, he looked at the gold watch on his wrist, just to check the time instead of looking incredibly pitiful alone in a room of company. He cleared his throat, then looked around; a Christmas tree with paper ornaments of children’s drawings littered through its branches, the electric fireplace that changed colors, and the soft jazz that played through the speakers.

His phone buzzed next to him on the small round table. He looked at the notification with a dash of his brow, a storm’s approaching. More snow. A chuckle bubbles up in his throat as he thinks of the irony of his first Christmas back in town almost 5 years ago, the same cold but not the same emptiness.

Almost as if on cue, the jingle of the bell at the door rang out and there you were to greet him. Still in your work clothes but with a long overcoat and a much too big scarf around you. If John could say it to you, he would say you look swaddled up like a baby. But he’s a gentleman and he knew that if he did say that, you’d refuse to put on the much-needed layers and opt to freeze to death.

He waves you down when he sees the way you stand there, hands in your pockets as your eyes wander around. He sees your eyes land on him and you bright up as you waddle over in your snow boots. He stands to pull the chair out for you, scooting you in.

“You look toasty.” He compliments, sliding the warm mug of a mocha latte over to you. He smiles even more when he sees you take off your coat and scarf, quickly grabbing the mug and holding it close to your nose. “Don’t burn your nose off.”

You glare at him playfully as you take a whiff of the chocolate goodness presented to you. “Maybe then I don’t have to smell you and that detergent you accidentally bought.”

John throws his head back, exasperated. Did he buy the wrong detergent and does it smell so obnoxiously strong you have to dilute it with an unscented one? Yes. Will you let him love it down? No, unfortunately.

He watches as you take a sip, sinking your shoulders down as you let the warmth fill you up. “This is really good, I’m glad you picked this place.”

“Saw it a few years ago, thought it’d be nostalgic to be back.” He replies simply, taking a sip from his own.

You place the mug down and narrow your eyes at him, “Nostalgic? You took your ex here or something?” You say accusatively as you place your hand into his palm on the table.

He winces at how cold your hands are compared to him. “Something like that…”

The last time he was here, he ordered one tiramisu and one latte. He then stayed for hours, watching people walk in and out, taking advantage of the buy one get one half off promotion that the young cafe had to offer. He thought about how unfair it was that even drinks came in pairs during the holidays and he’s still painfully alone. So, something like an ex.

“Your hands are freezing, Baby. Where’d you put your mittens?” He asks as he holds your hand tightly, rubbing his thumb over your fingers.

You smile cheekily towards him, opting to stuff your mouth with a spoonful of tiramisu instead of answering. This caught his attention as he pressed on, a small chuckle following his words.

“I forgot them…” You mumbled, obviously, you did! You squeeze his hand back and look around the cafe, avoiding his gaze entirely.

You see him shake his head as he laughs, and you look back at him, laughing and smiling sheepishly along. The scene was unreal, music in the air, warmth filling every bone in your body, and your favorite person ever, holding your hand.

He lays out both his palms in front of you, signaling for you to take advantage and settle your own hands on his. You do and he cups them together, rubbing some heat into them. Softly as ever, his beard tickles your knuckles as he gives them a small kiss on his lips. You feel your cheeks heat up just a bit, stinging from the cold they were previously in. You slip your hands out from under him and place them on each side of his neck, he grumbles, annoyed.

“We’re so cringe…” You muttered quietly, now hyperaware of the public setting the two of you were seated in.

He grasps your hands again and holds them close. Deciding to completely ignore the comment you made, he switches over to pepper your knuckles in kisses instead. “Wanna get outta here then?”

You nod and he lets go off your cold hands, which you promptly stick in between your thighs to warm up. John waves to a barista, pointing out to the snowy scenery. She seems to understand as she gives the two of you two paper cups and a box for your cake.

The two of you link arms and he pulls you out of the cafe, bundled up even more than when you came in with his beanie on your head. His other hand holding the bag of your little treat.

Snowflakes gently and steadily fall on your shoulders and head as he leads you back to his car, you having taken a cab over from work. John looks around at the nearly empty streets, most people taking shelter within the shops or in the comfort of their homes. He looks at you, a content smile painted your face even if the tip of your nose was turning pink and your hands still cold in his coat pocket and in his own hands.

You didn’t seem to complain about the how Jack Frost nips at your cheeks. And even if you did, he knows it’s not all too serious as you still down the packed streets full of cars.

“You cold, Darling?” He leans down a bit to whisper in your ear.

You look at him, your eyebrows raises in the cutest way. You shake your head and continue to watch the way the two of you were headed.

John didn’t think much about anything else, just the way your thumb rubs over his hand in his pocket, the crunching of score under your boots. He didn’t even think about his movements as he turned and backed you into the nearest wall, his body shielding you away from the world as you felt his breath on the tip of your nose.

“You’re so beautiful…” He grins down at you. The to-go bag now hook onto your arm as your hands found solace in his pockets.

You giggle at him and kiss his nose, then both his cheeks. John’s hands find either sides of your face as he cups it. His thumbs rubs and pinches the apples of your flesh.

He leans down and gives you one good kiss on your lips, you quickly melt into it and your hands escape to wrap around his waist under his coat. The kiss rushes through your veins, your body not feeling so cold anymore.

He pushes your head back a bit more with the force of his kiss. Fingers sliding back into the locs of your hair and into the back of your head, cushioning it from the hard, cold bricks.

“I’m warm now…” You giggle as he pulls away from you. Your teeth makes in contact with your bottom lip and your eyes big and glossy to draw him in.

He laughs and gives you a kiss on your forehead for good measure. John gives out a shaky breath as he leans to the side of your face, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “How about we hurry home and I warm you up more effectively?”

A breath hitches in your throat as you nod just a bit. He chuckles and kisses your cheek, pulling you into a u-turn when he realized y’all meant to take a right at the cafe.

[bloodlust-1]

The Consort ₊⁺જ⁀➴

NSWF | Explicit 18+ | Angst | Blood | Ascended Astarion | Spawn Tav | Dark | Smut | Trauma | Stockholm Syndrome | Violence

Ascended Astarion x fem Tav

Chapter: 2 | Red Is Traditional

Summary: In a tumultuous tale of love, power, and betrayal, Tav finds herself entangled in a complex relationship with Astarion, a heartless vampire lord who will stop at nothing to maintain control over his newfound spawn. As Tav witnesses Astarion’s transformation and descent into darkness, their love is put to the ultimate test amidst love triangles, drama, and the pursuit of world domination. Redemption seems like an elusive goal while Tav grapples with the realization of who her lover has truly become.

UPDATED EVERY MONDAY

AO3 LINK | MASTER LIST

Lovely photo by @aristenfromwarsaw

"Wake up." Tav was shaken awake by Astarion. She rubbed her eyes and looked up at him, confused.

"What's going on?" she asked. Her eyes darted to the window and the sun was slowly settling down into the horizon. Astarion was usually in the palace by that time, with no intentions of leaving.

"Don't question me, just get dressed," Astarion said, passing Tav an embroidered black cloak. "We must hurry before it gets too late and the shop closes."

Tav's eyes widened. "oh - okay." She sat up from the bed and hurried to put on the luxurious cloak and slippers. "Is there something going on..?" Tav stumbled as her finger got snagged while trying to slip on her flats.

"Wait," Astarion held Tav by her shoulder as she fixed herself. "You need to drink this first." He reached for a glass cup sitting on their bedside.

The thick liquid of blood filled the brim of the cup. It was darker in color than Tav's freshest pint of the slick, but he was right. She needed to eat before starving herself.

As Tav gazed at the glass in front of her, a look of disgust crossed her face. With a swift motion, she pushed it away, “I don’t want it..”

Disgusting.

Astarion’s expression shifted into a frown, his eyes reflecting a hint of anger, "You can eat all the food you want, but we both know it'll never give you the proper energy your body needs."

With a subtle yet commanding gesture, he pressed the glass against her lips, his tone firm yet strangely alluring. “Drink.”

She held the glass lightly and sipped the thick dark slick. It coated her mouth in a bitterness that turned Tav's face sour.

"It's bitter," she coughed, dabbing away the excess spill from the corners of her lips.

"It's old," Astarion continued. "But it'll give you some energy."

Astarion had to bottle animal blood for Tav, and not every day was a successful catch.

Tav took another sip and forced it down. It tasted awful, but it did give her a little energy.

"Okay," she said. "I'm ready."

Astarion studied Tav's face, his dark eyes glittering with amusement. He cupped her cheek, pressing his thumb against the smeared blood on her lips. "You're a mess," he chuckled, his voice low and playful. "But you look so beautifully delicious."

He leaned over and licked the traces of blood left on her skin, pressing his lips into hers in a small kiss. Tav willingly opened her mouth, her heart pounding. She could feel his tongue against hers, and the taste of his kiss was intoxicating.

Astarion pulled away, his eyes still locked on hers. "Now we can go."

Tav nodded obediently, her mind still reeling. Her chest pounded with a heat that burned from the absence of Astarion's touch. She had never felt so alive.

They left the palace and headed to the market. Tav held onto Astarion’s arm as they walked down the familiar streets of the lower city.

"Where are we going?" Tav pulled her cloak's hood over her head, shielding her from any light left in the horizon.

"Fabrics. The party is formal attire and I wanted you to wear only the finest material." Astarion guided Tav up the ally ways and she gazed up at him, face flushed.

"Are you going to...sew me a dress?" She tried to peek up at his face, and when his eyes caught hers, he nodded once with a smirk on his face.

The rush of warmth squeezed Tav's chest and her smile beamed brighter than any star in the sky. Tav knew Astarion was a skilled sewer, but she had never seen it for herself. This felt special.

The city was still under construction from the Netherbrain and it was kinda sad to see all the rubble piled up in front of destroyed buildings.

Astarion tugged on Tav's arm as she got caught between her feet staring out at the ruins of what was once a grand city.

“Come now, my dear," he said with a stern lilt to his voice, "We're almost there." He too looked at the rubble, remembering how weak and helpless he had felt back then. But now, he was stronger than ever.

With a small jingle of the door, a wave of natural fibers hit Tav and Astarion. The countless rows of material covered the walls and the store clerk greeted them,

"Good day!" The clerk's eyes sized up the couple and his eyebrows perked up. They looked expensive. "Looking for something as flawless as you two?"

Tav cracked a shy smile, her elf ears dropped with reddened tips. She waited for Astarion to speak, "Yes. I want nothing but the best."

The clerk's smile widened and he guided them to a section of the shop with a wave of his hand, "Of course! I have the finest material all available to the likes of you. Here - take a look."

Tav eyes trailed down the rows of fabric, and one caught her eye. A purple velvet material. It was soft to the touch, stretchy, and rich in color.

"Astarion, look how pretty." Tav rolled out a piece of the velvet from the roll, face flushed with amazement.

Astarion’s face turned bitter and he shook his head, "No, darling. Just feel how heavy it is. Do you really want to drag this dress around?" He scuffed, how foolish.

"I suppose..." Tav rolled the velvet back with a sigh. "I thought it just looked pretty."

"What you thought and what is true are two different things. Now - let us take a look at this." Astarion rolled out a silky red fabric with a glint of approval in his eyes. "Now this is something worth our attention. Red is traditional after all."

Tav hummed with a nod, yes it really was beautiful. Maybe he was right, the velvet would be a heavier material.

"That is our mulberry silk. It is made from the cocoons of silkworms. It is one of my finest materials in all of Faerun, everyone will know its worth just by its look and feel."

The feel? Tav would be wearing it and there's no way he'd let anyone touch her under his watch. Astarion frowned, "No one will be touching this material except me." Jealousy blurred his vision for a moment before clearing his throat, "This will be all."

The clerk's worried expression landed on Tav. It was like he was trying to telepathically send red flag signals to her, but alas, she knew this side of Astarion too well. And sometimes it was very abrasive.

To cut the tension, Tav spoke out with excitement, "Well! it's very beautiful. Thank you for your time, sir.

~

As they walked home, Astarion noticed the admiring glances from other prying eyes as they passed by, and a flicker of jealousy crossed his face.

It wasn't Tav's fault she was unique in beauty. She was definitely foreign in appearance compared to the city’s people. She bared clear crystal white eyes, that were eerie yet captivating. Growing up, the wood elves thought she was born blind, but it was just genetics. She looked ghastly with dark glowing skin like licorice and had long messy locs. Her hips were fuller than most, with petite shoulders. Even in a cloak, she shined in the crowd. Nothing could mask her beauty.

She was Astarion's vision, his muse.

He subtly tugged at Tav’s arm, a gentle yet possessive gesture that didn’t go unnoticed. Tav turned to him with a knowing smile, her eyes sparkling mischievously, "Jealous?"

Tav shrugged, she was used to people staring at her.

“Tav,” he murmured, his voice laced with possessiveness, “When people stare, they'll know your mine.”

Tav stopped in her tracks, turning to face him fully. She reached out to gently cup his cheek, her gaze unwavering. “You have nothing to worry about, my dear vampire,” she assured with a grin. “I have eyes only for you.”

Astarion’s expression softened at her words, a rare smile escaping his lips as he shook his head amusingly. “You are daring, my dear spawn. But I suppose I am reassured by your words.”

There’s no need to be jealous when he consumed so much of her already, mind body and soul.

Tav tried to pull his face into a kiss, but she was stopped mid-gesture. Astarion grabbed her wrist, and he loomed over her with dominance, "Now, now. We must save our energy. I still have to take your measurements."

Tav yanked her arm away from Astarion, slightly rubbing her wrist, "I really don't like when you grab me like that, Star." She felt a little crossed.

He leaned in closer to Tav, his voice low and seductive. "On the contrary, you do. It's Just when you're not on your knees is when it is a sudden problem."

Tav raised an eyebrow, looking slightly offended but also amused. She crossed her arms and scoffed.

“Oh, is that so?” Her tone teased. Despite the provocative comment, she refused to let Astarion’s charm rattle her composure. She met his gaze head-on, unflinching and bold.

“Well, if you think that’s a problem, maybe you’re just not used to someone who can stand tall in your presence,” Tav batted her eyelashes in amusement.

Tav took a step closer to Astarion, their faces merely inches away. “But don’t worry, I’m sure we can find a way to work around that little issue,” she added with a wink.

Astarion’s lips curled into a smirk, “That mouth is going to get you in trouble.”

He was entertained and impressed by Tav’s cheekiness. Without missing a beat, he reached out and grabbed her hand, intertwining their fingers. “Come now, Let’s not keep the night waiting any longer,” He appreciated her daring nature and found himself drawn to her fiery spirit.

But in the back of his mind, Tav would have to suffer punishment for speaking so rashly to her master. In all due time, of course.

Next part here

Any thoughts? Comment 👇🏼 I love to engage!

See ya next Monday ( for a smutty chapter! ;p)

I'm posting chapter 3 NEXT NEXT Monday (March 4th) since I couldn't wait to get this out. and then I should be able to stay consistent every Monday since I have a few chapters already written up :D

[cuubism]

part four of Hob running into Dream between their centennial meetings [final chapter] [& explicit chapter]

--

Hob spends several weeks afterwards fretting.

True to Dream’s word, no one had tried to stop him leaving Fawney Rig. They must have been sleeping, or perhaps just dead. Hob didn’t much care. Dream had gotten out of there. That was what was important.

It’s the afterward that Hob’s uncertain about.

For all his attempts at displaying his normal pride, and strength, power, Dream had seemed worn, tired, after escaping from his cage. As well he should. But he hadn’t stopped even a moment to rest. What if he gets himself hurt chasing after his tools? What if he gets captured again?

Hob does some digging to see if he can find Dream’s tools himself, but to no avail. It doesn’t help that he’s not certain what the tools are. That ruby, maybe. Dream always had it on him during their meetings. But if it was sold or passed around, it wouldn’t have been under the provenance of Dream’s name, which was too obscure, and simply searching for mystical gemstones on the market is too broad a net.

He’s still poking around at it when, several weeks later, Dream swirls unexpectedly into his flat.

Hob jumps, nearly flinging the antiquities sales ledger he’s reading at Dream’s head in instinctive defense.

“Apologies,” Dream says, standing very still in the center of the living room. “I did not intend to startle you.”

“Dream!” Hob lurches to his feet. “Christ. Thank God you’re okay. I’ve been worried.”

“You worried for me?” He sounds ever so slightly touched. And he’s— he’s wearing Hob’s coat. The sight of it startles Hob so much it takes him a second to appreciate the rest of Dream’s outfit, which—

—he’s really taken the new year in stride, hasn’t he, Christ. Dream has always dressed to the times at their meetings, always the peak of elegance and grace, and now is no different.

But now it’s a panther’s grace, not a king’s. His jeans are skintight, and Hob swallows hard at the thought of the lithe muscle of him that he’d seen but barely taken in during the rush of the rescue. His black t-shirt is simple but so much less than Hob’s used to seeing on him, his fingernails are painted black and shiny like claws, and he’s got studs running up his ears, heavy dark makeup hooding his eyes, hair as much of an electric shock as when he’d stepped from his prison, vibrating at the pitch of glass shattering.

He looks dangerous. He always looks dangerous, but now he’s dangerous in the way that would have knocked Hob into a wall if he’d met him in a nightclub. Kneecapped him more effectively than any weapon.

Hob would want to look dangerous too, if he was escaping from such a prison.

His brown overcoat is fair ruining the look Dream’s sporting, but still he wouldn’t have it any other way. He swallows, throat clicking dryly, and all he can manage to say, gesturing at the coat, is, “You still have that.”

Dream takes it off, holds it out to him. This reveals his bare, wiry arms under his t-shirt.

Hob shakes his head, still strangled. “Keep it.”

So Dream drapes the coat over his arm.

“As promised, I have returned to assure you of my wellbeing,” Dream says. “Unnecessary though it is.”

“It’s not unnecessary.” Hob finally manages to get his legs to work and moves closer. Dream does look better. He’s less gaunt, still pale but no longer with quite the pallor of a corpse. His ruby is once again hanging around his neck. “I’m glad to see you.”

Dream inclines his head. “I promised you a boon in return for your help,” he says, and he looks slightly wary now. Does he really think Hob would try to take advantage of him? His oldest—at least in his own mind—friend?

“You coming back is more than enough,” Hob says. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Dream seems, if anything, more disconcerted. “I would not leave a debt between us unpaid.”

There’s no debt, Hob thinks, but arguing this point is probably not going to get him anywhere. “Stay for tea, then, and consider it paid.”

“That is what you would wish?” says Dream, brow furrowed.

Hob sighs. “My friend, you don’t have to pay me to help you. But if you insist on it, then all I want is the pleasure of your company.”

Dream frowns, but sits at the table. “Very well.”

Hob busies himself making tea, and when he returns from the kitchen Dream is still sitting where he left him, hands steepled on the table, Hob’s coat draped over the back of the chair. He looks distant, lost in thought.

“Something on your mind?” Hob asks, setting a mug before him.

“Chance,” says Dream, taking it, lifting the cup delicately and sipping slowly. “And coincidence. It was chance that allowed me to step into a sleeping guard’s dream—a mere lapse in concentration. Chance that we met outside the hospital, so that later I may think to call upon you and believe it possible you would answer. Chance that one man—” his gaze flicks to Hob— “would be thinking of me with enough fixation that the weakest form of my power could still connect.”

“Of course I would answer,” Hob says. It’s Dream. His eternal stranger. That Hob wouldn’t drop all to help him—unthinkable.

“It was not a requirement of our arrangement.”

“You didn’t have to help with those—what were they? vampire hunters?—that time either. Still never told me how you knew about that, by the way—” Dream’s lips quirk up, but he doesn’t explain—“but you did. How long would you have been stuck there, if I didn’t intervene?”

“A very long time, I expect,” says Dream, lips thinning to a line. He says it with apparent equanimity, but under the stoicism is a flash of hurt. A raw wound, that cage, still. Which isn’t surprising, and neither is that Dream would do what he could to avoid it being seen.

“So tell me, if I were in that cage, would you have left me there?” Hob says. “After all, you owe nothing to me.”

He half expects Dream to say yes, to be honest. It’s possible Hob will regret opening this line of questioning.

Dream’s countenance darkens, and for a moment Hob swears the actual room darkens too. Something flashes in Dream’s eyes, and he looks very inhuman, for that fleeting second. “That would be gravely offensive to me. To attack one who bears my mark is tantamount to attacking me.”

That’s... not the reason Hob would have gone for. But boy is it something.

“Um,” says Hob, grip tightening on his untouched tea. “Your mark?”

Dream’s gaze turns to him. “I would not tolerate abuse to one who is under my protection.”

“Oh,” says Hob, choked. He really doesn’t know what else to say.

Dream sips his tea, and is silent. The thrumming energy that Hob hadn’t realized had been buzzing in the air around them finally fades.

He must know by now that the feeling is mutual, even if Hob has little protection to offer, even if Dream is the only one he would care to offer it to if he did. The only being on this earth he would wade through Hell’s high waters to help.

“What did you do to them?” he asks. “At the manor.”

He still doesn’t really know what Dream is, what his powers do.

“Made them sleep, and dream,” says Dream. Dark satisfaction curls on his lips. “They won’t wake.”

Dream, Hob thinks. Literal, then. A shiver runs up the back of his neck.

“Does that frighten you?” Dream asks. He seems darkly enamored with the prospect.

“Little bit,” Hob admits. Something about Dream whispers of nighttime dangers, especially when darkness swirls around him like that. “Still sitting here, though, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Dream muses. “You are.”

The fact Hob’s had to accept about himself is that no matter how primordially frightening Dream flexing his powers is—and it is—it’s also alluring. It’s more alluring than frightening. It’s magical in the way the night sky is a brilliant and consuming abyss.

He downs half of his tea as if it were something stronger, then, pushing his luck, says, “I think you should stay awhile. If, of course, you have no more critical tasks to occupy yourself.”

“I don’t,” says Dream. His gaze touches on Hob’s hands, chest, jaw. Interested. Proprietary. He really would have come for me if our positions were reversed, Hob thinks incredulously. At least after we met in 1915. He doesn’t know if it would have been out of friendship, or just possession, annoyance and offense that something he’d come to consider his had been taken from him. Maybe it doesn’t much matter.

Hob stands up, and Dream’s eyes follow him. Hob circles his chair to the kitchen, possibly a bit closer to Dream’s back than he really needs to be. He feels like nothing so much as a lure, like he’s taunting some dangerous thing into playing with him. Dream’s attention prickles on the back of his neck. “Wine?”

Dream inclines his head.

Hob fetches two glasses and a dust-covered bottle from the wine rack under the cabinets. A good vintage, this one. Only the best for his stranger. Especially if he’s willing to let Hob draw him in to something deeper.

Heart pounding in his chest, Hob walks to the living room, gesturing with the wine bottle for Dream to follow. Which he does, like a shadow peeling up from the table to slip across the floor.

Hob uncorks the bottle and sets it on the coffee table to breathe, then sits on the couch. He expects Dream to take one of the armchairs, but instead Dream sits beside him, though with a small distance between them. Hob’s body thrums with his proximity. He remembers the moment they’d touched, when he’d helped Dream out of the shattered remnants of his cage. Just a brief moment of support, but truthfully, Hob had longed to hug him. He’d like to think it was an impulse to comfort Dream, but it may have been more selfish. An assurance, for himself, that Dream was okay. Enjoyment in the pleasure of his touch.

When he judges the wine’s breathed enough—or really, when the tension of just sitting next to Dream gets the better of him—Hob pours two glasses. Holds one out to him. “1875 vintage. Hard to believe that’s considered old.” 

Dream takes it in delicate fingers, raises the glass to his nose and inhales the scent with a hum of pleasure. The sound runs right down Hob’s spine.

“The youngest thing in the room,” Dream agrees, and Hob chuckles. Dream takes a sip of the wine, and his pleasure deepens. “It is very good.”

“I’m glad.” Hob takes a sip of his own. It is good. Nice trick he’s hung onto it for all these years.

“Does wine actually get you drunk, or are you impervious to it?” he asks.

“It can affect me if I allow it to,” says Dream.

“And are you now?” It feels like pressing on something beyond just curiosity. But he presses.

“Would you want me to?” The energy around Dream hums. Hob feels like he’s being challenged. He’s uncertain which answer to that challenge is what Dream wants.

But he answers. Pulse jumping in his throat like his heart itself has moved up under his jaw, he wraps his fingers over Dream’s hand. His hand is just as bony, skin just as smooth as it looks, and very still. He doesn’t move away.

Hob lifts his hand, kissing the soft skin of Dream’s inner wrist, over the stark tendons. “I think I would,” he says.

The tension buzzing in the air around them snaps.

Dream goes from sitting stoically beside him to being in his lap in half a second, his boots melting away into sand as he goes. Hob catches him by the hips with a barely-restrained yelp, and Dream smiles at it, pleased and predatory. He straddles Hob’s thighs, pushes his shoulders into the back of the couch with wiry strength, the lightness of his eyes—human blue, now, not dark and starry—standing out even more starkly against the dark eye makeup. Christ, but he’s stunning. Hob’s never had him so close, and it takes him a moment to come back to a semblance of sanity.

“Never have I had such a gallant rescuer,” Dream purrs, sliding his hands up and over Hob’s shoulders.

“Oh, enjoyed that, did you?” Hob asks, breathless. “Got a good show?”

“Mmm. I did,” says Dream. And he kisses Hob. Hungrily, devouring his mouth, all the weight in his gaze and his words from earlier set alight.

Hob must be dreaming. Does merely interacting with Dream count as dreaming? Regardless, he’s not about to miss out on the opportunity, even if he is dreaming. He readily opens his mouth for Dream, and Dream sweeps his tongue in, bites at his lip, he is powerful and demanding and all-encompassing and it’s glorious.

Hob slips his hands just under the waistband of Dream’s tight jeans, over his hips, and Dream smiles against his mouth. “You are daring,” he rumbles, and doesn’t seem displeased about it.

“You jumped into my lap,” Hob reminds him, and Dream chuckles lowly.

“You kissed me,” he counters.

“Oh, like this?” Hob takes Dream’s hand again and kisses the inside of his wrist, then nips at the skin. Dream’s eyes darken.

“Supplication,” he observes, the word sweet and satisfied. “Befitting such a fair rescuer.”

“Is that what’s due to your station?” Hob asks, sucking a bruise into his soft skin. “Always knew you were some regal thing. Damn haughty enough for it.”

This could have been offensive, but Dream only smirks. “I am king of my realm,” he says, though doesn’t elaborate on what realm that is, exactly. Something with dreams, presumably. Hob would have to be daft to not have pieced at least that much together.

“My lord of dreams,” he says, and Dream’s eyes flash. Right on, then. “I hope you don’t mind if I take some liberties.”

“If they suit me,” says Dream. Of course.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Hob says. And without dallying any longer, he returns to the tight waistband of Dream’s jeans, undoing the button and zipper and finding the soft skin underneath, his hipbones, the vee of his pelvis, the swell of his arousal in his underwear. He’s reluctant to really undress Dream at this point, unless Dream does it himself, but he pushes down the hem of his underwear to take Dream in hand, strokes him once, loose and revenant. He can’t believe he’s touching his stranger this way.

Dream shivers, sighs, tips his head back. Enjoying his touch. That itself is such a reward; Dream wanted to know what favor he would request? Seeing him like this is its own boon, its own privilege.

Dream grinds into Hob’s hand, fingers wrapped around the back of Hob’s neck, twisted in his hair. Hob pays no mind to his own erection, it’s secondary, he’d rather watch Dream. The way his eyes flutter shut, his mouth lax and open. Hob strokes him with an uneven pace, relishes in Dream grinding against him, writhing in his lap. He slips his free hand down Dream’s back, under his waistband, grabs a handful of his ass and pulls Dream closer. Dream lets out a low moan, grip tightening on the back of Hob’s neck.

“Do you like that, darling?” Hob murmurs, even though it’s fairly clear that he does. “Is that good for you?”

“Acceptable,” says Dream, even as he leans in, touching his lips to Hob’s, breathing against him. Hob chuckles. Dream’s lips are soft against his and it’s intoxicating.

“If we’re only at ‘acceptable’,” he breathes, “you’ll just have to come back to give me a chance to improve.”

Dream’s lips twitch up in a small smile. “Perhaps.”

“Welcome anytime,” Hob says, twisting his hand and rubbing his thumb over his slit, pulling a shiver and a moan from Dream. “I want to figure out what makes you feel good. Wanna get my mouth on you, have for ages.”

“Ages?” says Dream, and now his hand finds Hob’s chest under his shirt. Those slim, cold fingers trail down his skin, leaving a prickling trail behind, and Hob shudders, temporarily losing his pace. Dream smiles with what Hob can only interpret as mischief. He would be murderous in bed. He would be such a brat, Hob just knows it, and what Hob wouldn’t give for the chance to fuck it out of him. Haughty little thing.

Of course, this would probably result in Dream bringing his full power and kingly dominance to bear to make Hob cry, but he’s not exactly opposed to that. It might, in fact, have featured in some prominent fantasies over the years.

“Ages,” Hob confirms. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Flattery,” drawls Dream, seeming quite pleased about it. He tips his head back as Hob keeps stroking him, and Hob kisses his throat, biting a mark into the skin, which feels very daring indeed. Dream just tips his head to the side, letting him. It’s heady, the allowance, the sense that Dream is luxuriating in his touch, the fluid lines of his body grinding in Hob’s lap. Pre-come beads at the tip of his cock, he must be close. It’s strange, the normalcy of his body in this moment.

Though Hob wonders if he can actually control his body, if he can prevent himself from coming so he can luxuriate in something that he likes for longer. The thought only makes him harder, and he presses Dream to him by the small of his back, finally giving in to temptation and grinding against him. Dream makes a satisfied humming sound, almost a purr.

“Will you come for me, darling?” Hob murmurs against his throat. “Wanna see you. Gorgeous thing.”

Instead of answering, Dream plucks open the button on Hob’s trousers, slipping his hand inside to take Hob in hand. Hob startles—fuck his fingers are cold—but then mentally stutters at the feeling of his stranger, Dream, touching him, pleasuring him. How long has he held improbable dreams of that?

He loses himself to it for a while, their hands on each other, the way they move together. Dream’s touch is unpredictable, giving and taking, and it has Hob on a wire, drawn after him. Always drawn after him. Dream, meanwhile, is a vision of hooded eyes and dark makeup, superiority on his face again as he watches Hob fall apart at his touch, but Hob sees the shivers of want that go through him, that send ripples through that superior look. He slows his pace, dragging his touch with agonizing patience up and down Dream’s cock. Watches the shudder run through him. And then Dream comes with a gasp, as if surprised by it. He tips his back, eyes closed, mouth open and long throat bared. He’s radiant and loose in that moment in a way Hob hadn’t thought was possible—and the sight of Dream’s pleasure is enough to send Hob over the edge, too, spilling over both of their hands.

For a moment they just breathe—or, Hob breathes, Dream seems to settle his existence back in order in a more metaphysical way—and Hob brings a dab of Dream’s spend to his lips, tastes it, more out of curiosity than anything. He doesn’t taste like much at all, it turns out. Sort of like the way a sex dream might be incredibly vivid but have no real smell or taste to it—ha.

When he looks back up, Dream is watching him. Gaze still heavy, though sated, for now. He’s just as stunning when Hob’s gaze is clear. What Hob wouldn’t give to get him in an actual bed, to really dishevel him. Smear that makeup. Mess up that outrageous hair.

But he wonders if Dream will simply leave again, instead. He’s fulfilled whatever obligation he felt in assuring Hob he was still alive, and now he’s taken his pleasure, too. It would be just like Dream to disappear now with only a vague promise of a meeting a century in the future. Before having Dream in his lap, kissing him, touching him, seeing the shudder of climax run through him, Hob might have been able to bear that. But not now.

But Dream doesn’t get up. His hands are braced on Hob’s hips, playing idly with his t-shirt. He seems to be deliberating on something. Deciding whether to go, perhaps.

“Stay a while, if you want,” Hob says, even though it might have been better to remain quiet and let Dream come to him. His nerves always come back around Dream, and when he’s nervous he runs his mouth. “If you need a rest after… well. You must still be tired.”

Dream stiffens. Shit. Goddamnit, Hob.

“You assume me to be infirm?” Dream says, tightly.

“No, I—”

“I assure you, I am more powerful than I have been in eons, and will gladly demonstrate—”

“Dream, no.” Hob strokes his hands up and down his sides, and Dream stills, though he still looks one misstep away from biting. His eyes are guarded now, and that’s not what Hob wanted at all.

“I know you’re powerful,” he says. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that, even with all that power—” he touches Dream’s chest— “I was worried about you. You went through all that and you didn’t even flinch. You said before you would have helped me if I was the one who got stuck in that place, hm? Well, continuing that scenario, would you blame me if I was a bit fucked up afterwards?”

“I don’t suffer human injuries, Hob,” says Dream, stiffly. He doesn’t climb off Hob’s lap, though, and Hob knows he’s right. Even if Dream won’t admit it. “I have taken my vengeance. That is all that is required.”

“Sure,” says Hob, hand still over his heart.

“Your concern is unwarranted,” Dream continues, though Hob hadn’t contradicted him. “I am not hurt.”

So he’s the type that needs someone to push. And also the type that’s run away when Hob pushed in the past. Great. Fortunately, Hob has an eternity to wait if Dream runs again.

He strokes his thumb over Dream’s wet lower lip, over the corner of his mouth to his cheek. “I think you are hurt,” he says quietly.

Dream opens his mouth to speak, but Hob covers his lips again with his fingertip. It’s too bold by half, and he almost expects to get turned into sand, but instead Dream stills.

“And you’re right to be,” Hob continues, just as quiet. “And it wasn’t enough, that vengeance, was it? It’ll never feel like enough. And it burns. And under that—” he presses harder against Dream’s chest, where his other hand still rests— “it hurts. I see it. I get it. And it’s okay.”

Hob’s mother had always wondered aloud where in God’s green kingdom Hob had gotten his foolishness. And where indeed. For Dream really might smite him for that. But Hob doesn’t take it back. Stronger than the fear that Dream might leave is the need to give him the moment of comfort and rest and empathy he so clearly has not allowed himself to have. Hob doesn’t know if he has anyone else in his life to offer such a thing. He hopes so. But even if he does, it’s obvious to Hob in his iron posture, his careful control, that he hasn’t let himself lean on it. The sex felt good, filled some need, but Dream still kept all his stern, haughty power through it. Never quite believed Hob wouldn’t abuse his trust if he let himself fully relax.

Dream’s dark gaze bores into his, burning with the same low fire as the hurt, the anger Hob knows is still deep in his chest. But it’s not anger at Hob, not this time. With everyone in the manor already punished, his anger has no direction. And Hob knows that sometimes with no other target, that type of anger will turn back on oneself. He may still leave. He might run from it.

Instead, Dream leans into his hand, and Hob’s heart trills with surprise, then relief. He takes Dream’s face between both hands, framing those harsh cheekbones with his thumbs. Dream doesn’t say anything in response to Hob’s words, but then Hob’s always been the more verbose between the two of them. Always running his mouth, and sometimes it gets him walked out on, and sometimes it gets him this. Dream leaning into his touch, and closing his eyes, and letting out the most gentle of sighs as Hob strokes his thumbs over his skin. That’s answer enough.

He draws Dream close and kisses him.

It’s different this time. The hunger has shifted. Less urgent, but still chasing a certain need. Hob notices the way Dream slips his hands close, skin-to-skin. Seeks out touch and warmth, rather than pleasure. Apparently he’s decided he will let himself have some degree of it from Hob, and Hob gives it freely, enthusiastically, he would have even if Dream had never been captured, would have fallen into bed with his stranger given the first hint of an opportunity, but it’s different now, when he feels he can offer Dream something he needs. Something he has not had for so long.

He pulls his t-shirt off over his head to give him access to more skin, if that’s what he wants. Dream hums in appreciation, pressing his hands to the warmth of Hob’s body. Rubs his cheek on Hob’s. His skin is utterly smooth against Hob’s stubble. Hob wraps a hand around the back of his head, drags his fingers through his hair. Dream lets out a shivering sigh and shifts closer, pressing their bellies together.

Come closer, Hob thinks, but doesn’t say out loud, not this time. Come closer, it’s alright. It’s alright, darling. Let me give you what you need.

He doesn’t say it, for the last thing he wants is to chase Dream away. He leans back against the couch, curling Dream’s body further into his, arm low around his waist. Dream tucks his face into Hob’s throat. Hob’s breath shakes. Grateful for the trust of this strange, wonderful creature.

“Staying for a while then, love?” he asks, rubbing his hand up and down Dream’s back.

“Mmm,” says Dream. “Perhaps.”

Perhaps might as well be yes, for he doesn’t move, just sinks further into Hob. And for as long as Hob might have dreamt for, wished for the opportunity to have his old stranger in his bed, out of lust when they first met, and care and passion later, this is so much more special. What he’s always truly hoped for, deep down, more illicit and impossible than sex. And for Dream, too, it seems a much greater expression of trust than just sleeping together, as it were. He could perhaps have tempted Dream into bed in a prior era, but he could not have gotten this, not before Dream’s imprisonment.

So of course, he lets Dream stay, relishes in Dream staying, getting what he needs to feel better even if he won’t voice it, never voices it. And when some time has passed, he knows not how much, of Hob stroking his hair and Dream settled against him, and Dream finally sits back up, and Hob knows he’s going to say that he has to return to his duties, he’s stayed too long already— he takes Dream’s dear face between his hands.

“Come back,” he murmurs, “if you want to. You know I’m always here.”

“A man of constancy,” Dream says, with a little smile.

“You said you thought I could change. I hope that’s true. But that’s one thing I wouldn’t. That I’m always here. At least, whenever you come back.”

“And for our chance meetings as well,” says Dream.

“I don’t know if it’s totally chance,” says Hob. “I think I’ve just been waiting for you.”

Dream is Hob’s own source of constancy. A guiding point, ever since they first met. Perhaps it started with the chance meeting of Hob’s loud mouth and Dream’s penchant for challenge, but it doesn’t feel like chance anymore. Chance does not involve so much choice to come back.

With great care, Dream kisses him, a light press of lips that Hob holds dearer than anything, and then sits back again.

“Very well,” he says, and at last slips off of Hob’s lap, all his clothes miraculously perfect again as he stands, though his hair carries the lingering traces of Hob’s fingers still. “I shall return. If you are waiting.”

“Always,” Hob vows, and watches with awe and reverence as Dream lifts Hob’s hand to his lips and kisses his palm, watching him with his dark gaze all the while. Then he turns away, already swirling into a cloud of sand, and Hob’s heart aches with a mixture of sadness and hope, the feeling of endings that also herald new beginnings. And Dream swipes up Hob’s coat from the back of the chair where he’d left it, and then he’s gone.

Hob presses his palm to his lips, touching where Dream just touched, feeling nothing so much like he’s been engaged in a long, careful courtship and his suit was finally accepted. They don’t really do courtships of that kind in this decade. But his Dream is not a creature of this or any decade, and Hob’s always had a lingering fondness for the ‘old ways’ in that regard. The ways of romance they’ve preserved only in novels, nowadays.

He looks at the scattering of sand on his floor, and the empty back of the chair where his coat had been, the places Dream’s already claimed in his life. And just smiles.

[britt-kageryuu]

Donnie and Mikey are streaming together today. Their models are wearing shirts reading 'Smarts and Crafts Team', blue jeans, lab coats, safety glasses, gloves, and boots. They're messing with some science based crafts on the AR set. Shelldon and River sitting on the a box that has the chat box overplayed on it.

"So we got some resin to try out some crafts we found online." Mikey announced while they put some drop cloths on the floor around the table. "But we don't trust something not spilling, and this stuff can get tricky to clean if things go wrong."

"Which is part of why we're using UV resin, that we can just pop in the basking room for a bit to let set." Donnie says, in flat tone that sounds a bit sarcastic, "We're going to start simple, then work up to complicated, though that may go in reverse with us."

Mikey goes off screen to grab some supplies. While Donnie puts the big bottles of resin on the counter.

A cartoony turtle shell slides across the screen to have cartoon Mikey pop out with fan fare, coins tossed around, and Miss. PaintSlatter Donated $30!

Mikey jogs back in to check the notification. "Thank You, Miss. PaintSplatter for the $30. Oh 'Do Shelldon and River have access to mobile games? Hey Dee?"

"Shelldon doesn't play mobile games, but River plays Animal Crossing Pocket Camp. Partially for the app exclusive items you send to New Horizons, partially to befriend Villagers she wants, but can't find in NH." Donnie answers while he sets up some small molds. Then picks up and tests a heat gun.

"Well, we got the resin, pigments, molds, mold release, heat gun, little charms we plan to put into the resin. Are we missing anything?" Mikey askes.

"Spare gloves, paper towels, and the tall trashcan!" River answers back, then smacks the chatbots out of the chat box!

"And proper ventilation, or maskes." Shelldon says with a bit of snark.

"Right, I'll go get the portable ventilation, and trashcan and Mikey, please grab our ventilator masks from the art closet, a box of gloves, and the paper towels." Donnie instructs while they go grab said items.

Shelldon and River are left to entertain chat.

"What did I find that scared Dee? Sorry, we have been sworn to secrecy under threat of having our game libraries memory reset to no save files." River says.

Shelldon nods with his eyes closed. "And I don't have access to the file that was sent because Dee blocked me from getting it."

"FOR GOOD REASON!" Donnie tells from across the room, as he brings in what looked like an air purifier with a long tube sticking out of the back. "And for those who are confused, yes this is the portable ventilation system. Yes, it's a air purifier that I found in the dump, and heavily modified it." He announces with a bit of pride, "While I'm sure I could find something like this on the market, I wanted to build one myself."

Mikey also returns with his stuff, and organized the counter a bit so there's less of a chance of something getting knocked over.

They proceeded to finish set up, and get started on some simple resin experiments. And at least one small spillover and frantic clean up, before shouting 'You saw nothing!' And a 'Clip Recorded and Saved' from both Shelldon and River, who don't mention it right away.

Chat was still begging for the info of what Scared Dee, but after some were knocked out it calmed down, people started giving suggestions on what the guys could do with the resin.

----------------------

Masterpost

My actual favorite nickname for Donnie is Tello, and I want to have River call him 'Tello Tello', but that can't really happen with most of my story. Unless I can think of another behind the scenes post.

[hellsgayngels]

find the art to go with this here!

it's cold outside, and crowley did not want to go out, but aziraphale wanted to go shopping, so here he is wrapping the scarf aziraphale had just finished knitting for him more tightly around his neck.

(it's one of many - he has them all tucked away in a box under the bed in his flat, and he adds to the collection every time he receives a new one. aziraphale likes to knit and thinks he's quite good at it. he is now, anyways.)

"is the fidgeting really necessary, my dear?"

"'s bloody freezing out here, angel," crowley snaps, perhaps a bit harder than he meant to. "we haven't all got the benefit of the heaven's angelic light, you know."

aziraphale's grasp on his arm tightens just a tad, not enough to hurt but just enough to pull him in closer. it would have been a fine gesture if it hadn't flustered crowley enough to miss a step, and if there hadn't been a patch of ice in exactly the wrong spot.

(for a demon of hell, ending up on one's ass in the middle of a busy sidewalk is the greatest humiliation one can face. which one could argue is rather the point. it didn't help that crowley had been on the bumping end of many a slippage himself.)

aziraphale immediately hauls him back up, murmuring "oh dear, crowley, i'm ever so sorry, are you quite alright darling," while clearly holding back a grin, which only added insult to injury.

"yeah, yeah, fine," crowley mutters, brushing snow off the back of his coat and glaring down any passersby who dare portray an ounce of sympathy. "can we get on with it? this next place better be enclosed against the elements."

(why anyone would choose to have an open-air market in the dead of winter was beyond him. he'd send every vendor right downstairs if they didn't already provide, in aziraphale's words, "simply the most scrumptious little bit and bobs", and who was crowley to deny his angel of the bits and bobs?)

"oh yes, and it should be delightfully warm as well, it's this new café i've been meaning to pop in on. i hear they have the most delicious eclairs..."

aziraphale continues to chatter about the various confections and competencies of the new café while crowley desperately tries to regain feeling in his fingers. somewhere along the way he realizes aziraphale has stopped talking and is instead gazing at him in a way that could, to any casual observer, appear fond, but crowley sees the glint of mischief in it and narrows his eyes behind his sunglasses.

"yesss, angel?"

aziraphale smiles, and stops, and the pedestrian traffic flows around them as he takes crowley's hands in one of his own (he's not even wearing gloves, the bastard) and leans forward to plant a kiss first on crowley's forehead, then to the curve of his nose, and finally on his mouth as warmth blossoms from every point of gentle contact.

"better, my dear?"

crowley's glasses have somehow gone slightly askew, despite not being touched, and he can feel the tips of his ears flush red.

"mmnk," he says coherently, and aziraphale's arm is around his again as he gently steers them both through the door of a bright little place full of warm smells and soft music and time, and time, and time.

[nevermorgue]

Nevermore OC posting time...

I have Auguste, a Swiss-French private investigator. He is inspired by Edgar Allan Poe's Auguste Dupin series (HIGHLY recommend reading it) Age of death: 22 Birthday: February 4th 1920s France An odd man who is scarily good at his job. He lives off the bare minimum, preferring to care little about materialistic items. He is scarily good at reading people, able to predict even thoughts if he can successfully follow someone's train of thought. He has been successful in many cases he was hired to handle, but his biggest weakness is anything that focuses on his own feelings. He is the most socially awkward man on the planet, and his constant poker face doesn't make it any better. He can see someone's expression and have a pretty good guess as to what they are feeling, but would struggle to recognize the same emotion in himself. He goes undercover as a fence to investigate an uprising in faked decoys of a specific product in the market. He unfortunately gets a little too nosy and gets "silenced" (beaten and buried half alive). He has no sense of personal space, always breathing down someone's back whether it be to observe them or just look at what they're looking at. It's a little creepy, but he sees it as "doing his job". He isn't unfriendly, but he most certainly comes across that way with the dull, flat tone of his voice. He has messy ash blond hair and grey eyes. His bangs tend to hang over his eyes, and his hair is a bit unkempt and fluffy looking. He is 6'1, and his uniform consists of a black and white open, thin fabric trench coat over a white button up and dress pants, his suspenders hanging at his sides. He has a pin on his jacket of some sort of golden symbol, matching the golden rim of his circular glasses. tldr: socially an idiot despite his scarily uncanny ability to solve logical situations. would put his fork on someone else's plate with no remorse. No ideas for his spectre yet, but he's definitely neutral.

[totowlff]

chapter nine — crossing the line

➝ that night, cassie was only sure of one thing: she needed toto.

➝ word count: 4,7k

➝ warnings: smut

The glass in her hand was empty again. Looking at the bottle of wine on the coffee table, Cassie let out a long, frustrated sigh. She knew would regret drinking so much the next day, but, right now, considering the feelings that were consuming her, a second glass of wine seemed like a minor concern.

The rational side of her knew there was more to her life than having children, but all of her other goals and desires seemed secondary. She leaned forward, filled her glass, and took a generous gulp. She could hear her father's voice in her head again, cold and snide. 

“You are completely useless”, he said. “You’re unable to fulfill even the most basic of your roles as a woman”.

— Fucking hell, Cassandra — she muttered to herself. She tilted her head back, trying to keep tears from running down her face again. She had cried enough the past few days. She was tired of it.

After a few seconds of deep breathing, Cassie looked back at the television, where Sophia, Britt Robertson's character, was trying on some clothes from a thrift store. Girlboss hadn't been her first choice of entertainment for a night of wine and contemplation about her life's failures, but the only other thing she found interesting in Netflix at that time, a Spanish series about a bank robbery, had her crying again less than fifteen minutes into the episode by showing a blonde woman finding out she was pregnant.

Surely, the universe was mocking her.

Taking another sip of wine, she watched as Sophia found a colorful coat when she heard the doorbell to her flat ring. Cassie picked up the remote and paused the episode before getting up from the couch and walking over to the apartment door, pressing the button that unlocked the building’s exterior door. A short time later, there was a knock at her door. When she opened it, she found Toto standing at her doorstep. He was wearing a white shirt and dress slacks. He looked like he had probably just returned from the factory.

— What are you doing here? — Cassie asked, quietly. She couldn’t bear to look at him.

— I came to see if you were still alive — he replied, as his eyes traveled to the half-empty wine glass in her hand — Are you drinking?

Cassie looked at the glass.

— Yes.

— You shouldn't be drinking, Cassandra.

— Why not? — she said, taking another sip of wine — It’s not like I’m pregnant or anything.

His eyes briefly widened in shock, but then his expression immediately softened, as if he wasn’t expecting the news.

— You’re not?

— No — she replied, looking into his eyes, offering him a pained smile — It didn’t take.

Toto stared at her for a few seconds, his eyes filling with sadness, and his jaw clenching in frustration. Seeing him like that made Cassie's heart shatter. She had let him down. She had made him sad.

She was a monster.

Cassie turned and walked slowly back into the living room, in complete silence.  She didn’t invite Toto to come inside, but it was implied — she heard the sound of the door closing and footsteps following behind her.

— Why didn't you tell me?

She set her glass down on the coffee table and sighed as she sat down on the couch, trying to quell the raging tempest of emotions inside of her — frustration, anger, guilt, and sadness.

— Cassie, I've sent you countless messages — Toto said, trying to temper the irritation in his voice — I called you… I don't know how many times. I left probably a dozen messages on your voicemail. I asked Victoria to check if you were going to work. I kept stopping by the marketing area at the factory, because it seemed like you had just disappeared!

Cassie certainly hadn’t handled the situation in the healthiest way, but finding out that the whole process — all the pain, all the injections, exams, and the amount of time she’d invested in trying to get pregnant had amounted to nothing made her withdraw inside herself. However, Cassie had forgotten to consider that she wasn’t on this journey alone. Toto had gone headlong into the idea and was as invested in it as she was.

— I didn’t want to distract you while you were at the races — Cassie said, her voice thin.

She heard Toto approach her, not looking up at him as he stood in front of where she was sitting, leaning down to place his hands on her shoulders. She looked into his eyes, fighting the urge she had to turn away from him. 

— Cassie, you will never be a distraction to me — Toto said, his voice soft.

— But…

— I will always be there for you…

— Toto — she tried to say.

— Always, especially with regards to our child.

— There is no child, Toto! — Cassie snapped. Her frustration had gotten the better of her. Toto was stunned and speechless — There's no baby, there's no child, there's nothing! Nothing! Nothing!

He stared at her, his jaw set.

— There is nothing because the process failed. I failed. Again — Cassie said, looking down at her feet, her eyes filling with tears — Honestly, I should have expected it. My parents always said I wasn’t good for anything. I could never do anything right in their eyes, and I don’t know why I thought this would be any different. I don’t know why I thought things would work out. I don’t know why I was hoping I’d be able to get pregnant, especially at my age.

Her throat ached from how tight it was.

— I never should have expected something good to happen, you know? I do everything wrong, all I do is disappoint and hurt the people around me. I'm a fucking disgrace!

— Cassie — Toto said, trying to interrupt her.

— And it's frustrating as hell to realize your parents were right, you know? — she continued to talk as she looked towards the window in her living room — Because I tried. Really, I did. I made an effort, I invested all of myself in this process. I invested myself physically, emotionally, financially, and in the end, everything they’ve always told me is true. I'm a fucking useless woman who can't even do the basics expected of her.

— Cassie, we can try again…

— How the fuck are we going to do that? I used all of the money I’d set aside for this from my grandmother’s estate. That’s all gone now! If I take out a loan, I have no idea how the fuck I'm going to pay it back! The best part is, I haven't even finished paying off the first round, so now it’s just pointless debt!

Toto strode forward to where Cassie was sitting on the couch, sat next to her, and took her face firmly between his hands.

— Cassandra, will you be quiet and listen to me? — he said, practically shouting.

Cassie swallowed. Her lower lip trembled, her breathing unsteady.

— You're not useless. You are not a failure — Toto said, his voice soft and quiet again — You are the bravest woman I know. 

She blinked.

— Your parents don't know a fraction of what you really are. If they saw the Cassandra that I see every day, they would see that their daughter is a smart, determined, hard working woman, not a useless one. They would know that their daughter is brave enough to become a mother on her own, because she knows she is capable of it.

— Toto...

— Cassie, I don't know of many, any, even, other women who would willingly go through this process alone. The fact that you planned to, that you walked into the clinic and were prepared to face everything involved by yourself, all because you had a dream of becoming a mother and were willing to make it come true. You’re the only one I know of who would’ve been capable of it, and I admire you so much for that…

She didn't know what to say.

— I just want you to understand that even though you're brave enough to face anything to make your dream come true, I’m with you. I’m dreaming about it too, Cassandra. And I will be there for you, no matter how long it takes for you to get pregnant.

Toto leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes fixed on hers.

— Cassie, I will give you a child — he whispered — I promise you.

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. Her skin burned, her breath was heavy, and her heart was beating so fast she thought it might burst.

Cassie was tired of Toto's words. She wanted more than that.

She wanted him.

She moved to close the gap between them, tentatively touching her lips to his, and he obliged her. Toto's mouth was soft and his movements delicate, his thumbs caressing Cassie's cheeks with the same tenderness she had felt every time he held her hand during the seemingly countless exams and procedures she had undergone in the last few months.

Tilting her head slightly to the right, Cassie parted her lips as an invitation for him to explore her mouth. Her hands found their way to Toto's chest, fingers sliding against the fabric of his shirt, up to his collar. She grasped at it, holding herself tightly against him. It was as if he had taken away Cassie's ability to reason, or even breathe, and she didn’t care a bit. She just wanted him, and nothing else.

However, he didn't respond in the way she'd hoped.

— Cassie — Toto said, panting, his nose touching hers — No… We… No…

— Please…

— You're not okay right now — he tried to argue, as she brushed her lips against his, her fingers clenched in the fabric of his shirt.

— I need you — Cassie whispered, pleading to him. She had never dared say anything like that to him, but at that moment, Cassie felt like he was the one keeping her from going adrift in that sea of sadness. She needed to feel something beyond the agonizing emptiness that had gripped her since she found out she wasn’t pregnant. Toto was the only one who could transform that sadness into something more bearable.

She felt his hands slide from her face to her shoulders, pushing her away from his face. He looked sad and confused at the same time, his lips red from the friction of the kiss they’d just shared.

— Cassie, you need to rest — Toto said, in a serious tone — You look exhausted. You're going to stop drinking, go to your room, and I'm going to bring you something for the hangover. Then, you will sleep. Tomorrow, when you're nice and sober, we'll talk, okay?

She looked at him, confused. She had been drinking, but unlike the night she’d first resolved to have a child, when she'd downed an entire bottle, or the few nights after receiving the pregnancy test result, she'd only had two glasses. She wasn’t drunk at all, but she couldn't deny that she was tired. She’d slept very little since getting her test results, and it was fitful sleep when she did get it.

— Okay — she murmured.

He ran a hand through her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.

— Now, go to your room, and I'll bring in some medicine and some water for you, okay?

Cassie pursed her lips, standing up and walking slowly into the bedroom, her mind scrambling for a way to get him to stay with her. She didn't want him to leave. She didn't want to spend another night alone, in that apartment, especially after that kiss. Cassie wanted more. She needed more. 

Cassie needed Toto like he was the air she breathed.

Her resolve gathered as she took her last few steps into her bedroom. As soon as Cassie entered, she shut the door behind her and ripped off the old T-shirt she was wearing. Then came her shorts, and her panties. She flung them into the pile of clothes that had been collecting in the corner of her bedroom for the last week. She ran her hand through her hair, taking a deep breath when she heard footsteps in the hallway outside of her door. “It's now or never”, she thought.

— That's the last — Toto began to say, looking up to see her completely naked. Suddenly, his words were lost on their way to his lips as they parted in shock, his eyes absorbing the image of her. She walked in slow steps towards him, the cold air of her flat causing goosebumps on her skin.

— You said I'm brave — she said, as he set the medicine and the glass of water down on top of the chest of drawers just inside of her bedroom door — That I go after what I want.

He swallowed hard.

— Well — Cassie said softly, running her tongue over her bottom lip — I want you.

The silence in the room stretched out for a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Cassie. Toto seemed to be trying to think of what to say, his gaze fixed on her face, as if searching for any hesitation or doubt in what she'd just said. However, she knew he wouldn’t find any. She was completely sure what she wanted at that moment.

— Fuck, Cassandra — Toto growled. He stepped forward and took her lips into a kiss that was nothing like the one they’d exchanged in the living room. There was no more shyness or hesitation. It was as if the tension that had been building between them had been released, leaving only the desire they had for each other in its place.

In the living room, he hesitated to go any further, but at that moment Toto didn't wait a second to start exploring her mouth, likely tasting the wine that was still on her tongue. If there were any sounds in the room, Cassie couldn't hear it. The only thing that rang in her ears was her pulse, strong, intense and fast. Her hands were at the back of his neck, gripping tightly, as if he would try to run away. Cassie would never let him get away, not now.

That night, he was hers alone.

With his hands resting on her waist, Toto began to lead her backwards, almost blindly, his fingers gently squeezing her skin and pulling her against his own body. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Cassie felt her body leaning back a little to bridge the considerable gap in height between her and the man she was kissing. However, with her breasts pressed against his chest, it felt like they were closer than ever, but all of their closeness wasn't enough. It never would be.

Cassie only realized what he was doing when she felt the back of her legs meet the edge of her mattress. Toto gently laid her down on her bed, her red hair spilling over her sheets in a coppery halo around her head, as he leaned over her body. Releasing her lips with a nibble, he lifted himself above her, taking a few seconds to catch his breath and look down at her, an expression of wonder on his face as his fingers gently traced over her cheeks.

— You look like an angel — he murmured — My angel.

She pulled him by the collar towards her, their lips crashing together in a kiss that was neither gentle nor delicate. Cassie had a lot to say, but at that moment, her kiss alone was able to convey everything she was feeling. She let her fingers slip down, trying to clumsily undo the buttons on his white dress shirt.

— Toto — Cassie managed to say, as his lips slid through her jaw towards her ear, kissing and nibbling her skin.

— What do you want, Cassie? — he whispered in her ear — Tell me what you want.

Words seemed completely scrambled in her mind, her brain struggling to put together a coherent sentence. After a few seconds, she managed to translate her wish into a sentence.

— I want you to take off this fucking shirt — she mumbled, feeling a shiver run through her body at the feel of his warm breath against her skin as he chuckled.

Toto sat back up for a moment, haphazardly trying to unbutton his shirt. He lost patience after the third button and yanked the shirt over his head, tossing it back over his shoulder with little care as to where it landed. Then he leaned over her again, but this time over Cassie's neck, his lips descending towards her breasts. When they found one of her nipples, she felt a delicate nibble, which made her gasp as she ran her hands through the dark strands of his hair.

He could tell it pleased her, so Toto continued licking and sucking her skin with enough passion to likely leave dark marks. She couldn't say that she wasn't leaving hers on him either, since while he was busy with her breasts, Cassie made a point of digging her nails into his back, a silent approval of his sensual exploration. However, it didn’t take long for her to become turned on to the point of discomfort. With one of his knees wedged between her legs, she began to rock her hips against him, hoping the friction of her pussy against the fabric of his pants would offer her some relief.

If she expected that to go unnoticed, she was wrong.

— What’s wrong, Cassie? — he asked, looking at her.

She whined, biting her bottom lip. 

— You want more?

She nodded, her brows pinching together in frustration.

— Tell me what you want — he said, his fingers stroking the side of her hip — Tell me and I'll give it to you, my angel.

Cassie took a few seconds to absorb the last two words. He had never called her anything other than her given name or the nickname she always introduced herself by. Him giving her a nickname made her feel special. Well, more special than he already made her feel, with all the attention and affection with which he treated her.

Running her tongue over her lower lip, Cassie looked into his darkened eyes.

— I want you inside me.

Toto was silent for a few seconds. 

— Are you sure?

She took his hand that was resting on her hip and brought it to the spot between her legs, rubbing his fingers against her pussy. She was practically dripping wet so it wasn't hard at all for them to slip through her folds, the touch of his fingers against her making her jaw clench.

— Yes.

Muttering something she didn't understand, Toto stood up again, unfastening his belt and taking down the zipper of his trousers, pulling them down along with his white underwear. The sight of him completely naked sent a wave of heat rushing over Cassie's skin, straight to the spot between her legs. 

She always thought Toto was handsome, but at that moment, as he repositioned her in the middle of the bed and placed himself between her open legs, she thought Toto was something else entirely — beautiful, almost otherworldly. He looked like something out of one of the frescoes painted in Pompeii or a Greek stone relief Cassie had seen in college, in a class of classical art. He looked like a god.

— Beautiful — she whispered, without thinking about it. 

Leaning over her body again, Toto didn't respond. He preferred to kiss her, with one of his hands sliding between her head and the mattress. A few seconds later, Toto leaned his forehead against hers and looked deeply in her eyes.

— Can I?

— Please — she whispered, pleading with him.

Cassie felt him position himself at her entrance and enter her, slowly and gently. It was an easy slide considering how wet she was, but he still took his time. However, it wasn't just the sensation of finally feeling him inside her that was making her feel pleasure. It was the way Toto looked into her eyes, his eyelids fluttering slightly, his lips parted and his nose brushing hers. It felt like he, too, was finally getting something he needed, that he’d wanted for a long time and felt like he couldn’t have.

When he was fully inside of her, Toto remained still for a few seconds. It looked like he was trying to process the sensations coursing through his body.

— Are you okay? — he asked, his teeth clenched.

Cassie didn't know how to answer that question. Physically she was more than fine, enjoying the delicious stretch of his cock filling her. But emotionally, she felt something strange, especially with the way he rested her head in his hand and the way he looked at her, searching for any trace of pain or discomfort.

— Yes — Cassie replied after a few seconds — Just… Fuck…

— Are you uncomfortable? Do you want me to pull out?

— No — she said, quickly, putting her hand on his arm — No. It's just… Fuck… It's… Very good…

— Do you want me to move?

She nodded, biting her lower lip. Her permission was enough for Toto to start thrusting his hips, slowly and gently at first. The movement made Cassie sigh, her fingers tightening on his arm. It had been awhile since she had had sex with anyone, if her last experience with a man could be even called sex.

It had been one night about a year ago, after a third date she'd had with a guy named Christian. After a few kisses and some increasingly daring fooling around, they ended up in bed together. However, the proceedings only took a few seconds of clumsy thrusting before he came and passed out on the mattress next to her, as if he was a teenage boy. She didn’t get a shred of satisfaction with the whole thing. The experience had been so bad that she'd considered being celibate. But with Toto inside of her, pressing delicate kisses to her as his hips drove into her, she couldn’t see herself ever living without wanting to experience this again.

She would gladly fuck him forever, especially if it meant getting to hear the low grunts he made with each thrust, and see the look of concentration on his face, the tip of his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. She wanted more.

— Faster — she murmured, her eyes fixed on him.

— You want me to go faster, my angel?

— Please, faster — Cassie repeated, as Toto brought his free hand to one of her thighs and lifted it, wrapping her leg around his waist, changing the angle a bit so he could go deeper. Then he withdrew his hand from under her head and reached for her hand that was gripping the sheet beneath them, intertwining his fingers with hers as he quickened the rhythm of his hips. 

The room filled with the sounds of their pleasure, but it was more than that — there was an intimacy in that moment, as Toto held Cassie’s hand in his, the way he looked at her so tenderly, calling her the nickname he’d given her with such affection. It brought a few tears to Cassie’s eyes, but they weren’t tears of frustration or sadness, like they had been since she got her test results, but tears of pleasure, of happiness.

After some time, Toto slowed down, opting for deeper thrusts as he towered over her. Releasing her fingers, he took his hand to Cassie's face, sliding his fingers over her skin, wandering over her neck, chest and sternum, reaching her belly.

— I can't wait — he murmured, the words coming out in the rhythm of the thrusts  — To see your belly grow… With my child inside…

— Your child…

— You're going to be… The most beautiful… Mother in the world — Toto continued, his hand sliding down her abdomen, close to her navel.

— Fuck — she moaned, her spine arching as her fingers landed on his hand.

— I will give you… A child… My angel… I will… I promise…

— Please — she whimpered, her hand gripping his fingers, the muscles in her legs growing tighter — Fuck… Please…

— Cassie…

— Fuck, yes…

— I will… Pull out — he groaned, trying to hold on to the few threads of self-control he had left in that position — I will come… On you…

Cassie's eyes snapped open, grabbing onto Toto's hand.

— No — she answered bluntly, which made Toto stop, looking at her.

— What?

— Don’t pull out.

— Cassandra…

— Please, Toto. Don’t…

His serious expression changed into a smirk.

— Do you want me to come inside you?

She nodded.

Leaning over Cassie, Toto took her hand and led it back to the mattress. Then he resumed the movement of his hips, slowly, almost as if he wanted to tease her.

— Do you want… Me to come… Inside you… Cassie?

— Yes — she whined, lifting her other leg to his hips and moving her own, trying to maximize the sensation. He lowered his face further, touching his forehead to hers.

— I will come… Inside you…. But first… I want to… See you coming… My angel.

— Please — Cassie moaned — Please… 

 Lifting himself up again, Toto braced himself on the mattress and sped up the rhythm of his hips. The sensation of the imminent explosion was making the muscles in Cassie’s legs and back go taut. She was like a compressed spring. Her desire to come was becoming an urgent need.

Sliding her free hand between their entwined bodies, she began to massage her own clit, seeking relief from the pressure building inside of her. However, she felt his hand wrap around hers, removing her fingers from between her legs, replacing it with his own.

— Let me… Do it… For you — he said, his thumb drawing circles in her most sensitive point, matching the rhythm of his touches with his thrusts.

Closing her eyes, Cassie could only concentrate on the oncoming sensation, the bubble that was about to burst in her belly. She was close and the sounds that left her lips no longer made sense. It was an incomprehensible mix of grunts, moans, loose words and sighs every time Toto thrusted at her in the right angle.

And then, the bubble burst.

— Fuck — she gasped, lifting her chest and pressing her heels against the base of his spine, the wave of pleasure dragging her away from that room, away from that city, away from everything. Cassie's body was shaking, her toes curled, her hand clung to his, nails digging into skin while her mouth was slightly open and her eyes closed. She had arrived in heaven, surely. There was no other explanation for how good she felt.

When she felt the wave dissipate, her muscles spasming with the aftershocks, Cassie opened her eyes to Toto giving his last few thrusts before letting out a deep, guttural, almost primal growl, releasing himself inside her. The heat of his come inside her brought a smile to Cassie's face as she was still trying to catch her breath.

That feeling was indescribable.

As soon as he finished, Toto pulled out from her, collapsing onto the bed. The feeling of emptiness that washed over Cassie had her squeezing her thighs together, her eyes still lost on the ceiling. The silence stretched for long minutes, their breathing being the only sound in the bedroom. 

That was, without a doubt, the best sex she had ever had in her life. It was unlike anything she’d experienced with any other man she’d been with. "Maybe this is what they call making love," she thought, before mentally correcting herself.

There was no love between her and Toto. Well, at least on his part. Cassie liked him, cared about him, she wanted to have a baby with him more because of his desire to do things differently than for herself at that point. She wanted him to be happy, even if she had to condemn herself to being unhappy.

However, she didn't want to think about her own unhappiness in not being with someone she liked. That night, he was hers, and she would cling to that fact as long as she could.

 Cassie turned towards Toto, nestling her head against his chest. He nuzzled the top of her head with his nose and kissed the crown of her head. Beneath her ear, she could hear his heart beating. The heart that would never be hers.

It was that soft sound that made her fall asleep.

[akirakirxaa]

Soft prompts: 19. 'it made me think of you.'

[Soft Prompts here! Going with my Haurch Lives AU (one day I'll give it a better name than that) post-Endwalker. There will be spoilers, even if minor.]

Akira cracked open her eyes again. Though she knew time had passed, she had little way of tracking it with how erratic her sleeping habits had been while recovering. A nearby chronometer told her it was early morning, just past dawn. She was also disappointingly alone. Before she could spiral in worry that something had happened to pull her husband away, something bad, she noticed a small folded paper on her pillow.

Please do not worry, my love. I have gone to fetch more supplies as it seems we will be in Sharlayan for some time while you recover. I'll be back soon.

It wasn't signed, but she knew Haurchefant's handwriting well. Worries eased, she carefully rolled and pushed herself until she was sitting upright, wanting to get something to drink but now eyeing the space between her and the small eating area the annex as if it were an ocean she needed to cross. Though the rolling chair the Sharlayan chirurgeons had supplied her was next to her bed, her arms were still in too much pain to propel it herself. As the drowsiness of sleep receded, she realized she had overlooked a glass full of water (and a water jug full of more besides) on her bedside table. Relieved that someone had thought to make sure she would have something to drink when she woke, she drank down most of the glass in one gulping drink, not realizing how thirsty she'd been.

"Ah, you're awake!" a delighted voice called from the door, and Haurchefant bundled into her room with various packages near-tumbling from his arms as he clung to them. He tossed them on the table before crossing to her, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips before helping her into her chair and rolling it to the table for her.

"I've dropped most of what we need at the Leveilleur estate," he explained as he started opening some of the bags she was eying curiously. "Ameliance insisted you stay there instead, so that you might have assistance with anything you require even if myself or the Scions might be occupied." The first bag contained some simple breakfast foods from The Last Stand, warm eggs and crispy bacon and bagels. Relieved that her stomach seemed to be agreeing with her today, Akira dug in while Haurchefant started on the next bag.

"I was on the way back when I spotted this in the markets," he explained, unfolding what at first glance looked like a blanket. "It made me think of you."

While it appeared to be a normal blanket, upon closer examination it looked more like a backwards robe, with the arms sewed onto the solid area and the opening clearly meant to face the back of the wearer. She set her utensils aside and reached for it; it was made of some soft and warm material not unlike her favorite blankets from home.

"I know you get cold easily," he went on. "And it does snow here on occasion. I thought that, while you need the chair, this might be easier to put on and keep on than a coat or flat blanket." She ran her hands along the fabric again, unable to meet his gaze, confronted by both her frustration of her body being so beaten up that she would need it and how touched she was that he would find such a thing for her.

"It's perfect," she finally gave him a bright smile, though she could not quite hide how her eyes had begun to mist. "Thank you."