#Recovery Partition

[vietproit]

Hướng dẫn cách xóa phân vùng Recovery Partition trong Windows

Hướng dẫn cách xóa phân vùng Recovery Partition trong Windows Nếu bạn đã từng nhìn vào ổ cứng hoặc SSD của mình trong Windows Disk Manager và thấy một phân vùng có mô tả “Healthy (Recovery Partition)“, thì đó là phân vùng khôi phục của bạn. Windows hoặc nhà sản xuất máy tính của bạn (hoặc cả hai) đặt các phân vùng này ở đó để bạn có thể khôi phục hệ thống của mình về trạng thái ban đầu trong…

[pacicidal]

...I really need to start thinking before I enter sudo commands in Linux.

[belfrygargoyles]

fucking windows updates

[techdirectarchive]

KB5034439 Windows Update Error: Resize WinRE Partition

In this article, we shall discuss “KB5034439 Windows Update Error: Resize WinRE Partition”. Microsoft has revised the update process for Windows Recovery Environment (WinRE) on PCs receiving updates from Windows Update (WU) and Windows Server Update Services (WSUS). Please see What are System Partition and Boot Partition in Windows, How to create a BitLocker System Partition [Part 2], and How to…

[mbishiri]

Repair Your PC and Access Your Data with Active@ Data Studio

Active@ Data Studio provides you with a useful set of tools for accessing your data and repairing your PC in the event that Windows fails to start up and you cannot find any other way to access your data.

[boneapplet]

From Rust and Bone pt.13

Chronicles of the Lost Primarch

Relationship: Rogal Dorn x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: alluded to illness

Word Count: 1397

Requested tag:@noncon-photobomb @beckyninja @blukitty40k @runin64 @ilovewolvezz

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5 | pt 6 | pt 7 | pt 8 | pt 9 | pt 10 | pt 11 | pt 12 | pt 13 | pt 14 | pt 15 | pt 16 | pt 17 | pt 18

Days pass by within the agri-spire, not in peace exactly, but in a kind of uneasy calm neither of them have known in weeks. The structure groans in the wind like an old ship hull, and somewhere above, a broken vent fan clicks every ten seconds like a faulty metronome. Still, it is dry. The power systems are responding—barely. A trickle of energy keeps heat in the walls and gives the storage lights a dull amber glow.

Kessa spends much of the first day resting, her cough raspier than before. The medicine helping—some—but Dorn notices her reaching for the wall more than once, grounding herself like she might fall. She waves him off, always the same: “Not the worst it’s been.”

While she recovers, Dorn sets himself to work. Clearing old grow-trays, dismantling collapsed rail systems in the upper stairwell, and re-routing a pressure seal to close off two of the breached chambers. It isn’t his fortress, not even close—but the act of rebuilding, of doing, offers structure. Purpose.

Kessa eventually joins him. Together, they scavenge broken drones for parts and map the full spire. She shows him the collapsed lift shaft and a sealed armory she’s never been able to open. In turn, he shows her how to secure a barricade using counterweight and tension hooks. In the quiet moments—by the heat of a salvaged thermal coil, or while stitching a tear in her cloak, she talks more.

"Before I had this place, I used to sleep in old vat-pods. Some still hummed when the wind caught ‘em right. Sounded like breathing."

Dorn gives a low grunt of acknowledgement. “How long have you been doing this?”

She shrugs. “Long enough the seasons blur.”

He turns her words over slowly. “Why keep coming back?”

Kessa doesn’t answer immediately. She picks at the seam of her gloves.

Then, quietly: “Because something out here remembers. The land, the machines, even the things we buried. It’s like... if I leave it too long, it forgets me back.”

The agri-spire becomes a kind of limbo—too quiet to be danger, not quiet enough to be safety. A place of waiting. Recovery.

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

The days shorten quickly. By the end of the first week, the sun barely crests the ridgeline before slipping into a murky veil of ochre clouds. The air turns sharp, brittle. Every breath outside the spire stings faintly, like ash scraped across the lungs. It isn’t the worst of it—not yet—but both Dorn and Kessa can feel the shift. The world is tightening its grip.

Inside, the agri-spire becomes their shelter, their fort. They partition a section of the main chamber for sleeping, clearing the irrigation decks for water capture, and repurpose scavenged panels to reinforce the outer seals. It isn’t secure in the Imperial sense—no fortress walls, no void-hardened gates—but it is enough to hold out against the wind and most things that come with it.

Dorn adjusts to the space quickly. Working with steady, almost obsessive focus—repairing what he can, reinforcing old support struts, even building a crude training rig from a collapsed hydro-frame. He sharpens his blade daily, not because he expects an attack, but because of ritual matters.

Kessa, for her part, moves even slower. Her flare-up has passed with the medicine she’d traded for, but with the cold surrounding them, she never quite regained her full breath. Her voice remains slightly hoarse, and some days she coughs until she must sit down. She hides it when she can. Dorn doesn’t press her.

Instead, he starts doing little things—silently reinforcing the steps where she walks most, adjusting the ration layout to ease her reach, making sure the warmth is centered around their bedrolls even when he takes a colder corner for himself. Neither of them speak of it.

The first blizzard hits four days after they seal the western door. It comes in hard and fast, sweeping across the plains with choking particulate and a shriek in the vents that makes the walls shudder. The beasts below lowed uneasily, clustering in the lower feeding levels where the structure’s warmth holds out longest.

They stay inside for two days, wrapped in scavenged blankets and thick clothes. Kessa works slowly on her notes—old logbooks she keeps, detailing cave routes, collapsed vent maps, and places the earth has split during past seasons. Dorn sometimes watches her sketch with a quiet intensity, as if memorizing more than the maps. One night, she breaks the quiet.

“You ever think about staying here?” she asks, not looking up from her charcoal lines. “Through the whole season, I mean.”

Dorn is seated nearby, repairing the bracing on his scavenged vambrace. He looks up, considering her words.

“You said it wouldn’t hold.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve stayed here before. Not during a black gale, but close.”

He doesn’t answer at first. “If it holds, it holds.”

Her lips curl in a half-smile, tired but real. “Not exactly enthusiastic.”

“I’m still alive,” he retorts. “That’s enthusiasm enough.”

They fall back into the quiet again, but something has changed. Neither of them is racing anymore. No more forced marches or cliffside scrambles. Just the steady rhythm of survival, and the long silence of a world falling asleep under poisonous winds. In that stillness, something begins to settle between them—not comfort exactly, but the mutual tension of two people who know they might be the only living souls for miles, watching the world die a little more outside the walls.

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

When the storm passes, they fall back into rhythm. Each morning, Dorn wakes up first. Stoking the heat vents they’d coaxed into life, carefully rationing the fuel bricks they'd traded for. Kessa waking to the warmth and the faint metallic smell of recycled air, her coughing now less frequent, though never quite gone.

The work is quiet and constant. There is no luxury of idleness—only preparation. Dorn reinforces the storage lockers into makeshift barricades for the exposed entry points. Kessa overhauls the old nutrient processors on the upper tier, tapping into her years of wrangling broken machinery with stubborn hands and low expectations.

One afternoon, Dorn finds her with both arms buried in a pipe junction, grease streaked across her face.

“It’s all corroded,” she mutters. “Water flow won’t hold if a real freeze hits.”

He crouches beside her. “Show me.”

She blinks at him, surprised. “You don’t—”

“I do now.”

So, she shows him. Slowly, methodically. He doesn’t speak much, but he watches her hands, mirroring her movements. Once, her hand brushed his while reaching for a broken valve core. Neither pull away.

That night, they share heat packs and a hard-won meal of preserved root and broth. Dorn chews in silence, but his gaze keeps drifting to her scarf—threadbare, patched at the ends.

The next day, he leaves early without telling her. When he returns, he brings back a strip of weatherproof lining from one of the lower storerooms. Ugly thing—stiff, dark green, covered in old agri-tag stenciling—but it is warm and thick. He hands it to her without a word.

Raising an eyebrow. “For fashion?”

“For your neck.”

She smiles. “Romantic.”

He doesn’t answer, but his mouth twitches just slightly. That is enough. Later, she finds him shaping the length of a pipe into a better tool grip. Crouching beside him and holds out one of her old vent masks.

“The filters are dead,” she supplies. “But the seal’s still good. Could be useful for you if the spire vents turn.”

He accepts it without question. One evening, as dusk bruises the clouded sky, they stand at the spire’s viewing slit, watching the wind scatter ash across the cracked fields.

Leaning against the frame. “Still don’t like the quiet,” she softly says.

Dorn looks at her. “You think the storms have voices?”

“Not the storms,” she retorts. “The things inside them.”

He says nothing, but the way his jaw tightens says it all.

Kessa turns to him, her tone lighter. “Still think you were built for silence.”

Dorn gives a short breath—close to a laugh. “And you weren’t?”

She snorts. “I was built to curse at broken ducts and haul beasts uphill.”

They stand like that for a while, the storm sighing against the spire walls, their shared warmth stretching out like a tether.

[aflo]

lebron james has reportedly booted his windows recovery partition instead of his windows uefi partition

[thezombieprostitute]

Unwanted - Part 2

Summary: Your life is no longer yours. You've been forced into becoming a different species of human. Bought and paid for, what can you do but follow orders and obey your Alpha?

Warnings: Allusions to surgery, human trafficking, kidnapping; Angst; Depression; Suicidal thoughts. Let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Reader is described as big & tall, is female. No other descriptors required.

Part 1 -- Part 3

Levinson leads you to car but you pause for a few moments. You haven't seen outside in so long. Tears start streaming down your face as you look at the sky.

"Omega!" Levinson barks. You duck your head in fear and quickly climb into the car. He gets in on the other side and knocks the partition, signalling the driver he's ready to go. "Buckle up," he tells you.

You're quick to comply. You can't do anything else because you feel so dead inside. Kidnapped, tortured, and rejected. What was the point of all of it? Why did you have to suffer so much for someone who doesn't want you? Why did he ask for someone like you? It doesn't matter anymore. All you can do is follow orders and try to shut your brain down. Like post-surgery healing and recovery, the training they put you through. Just shut up, shut down and comply. You don't even bother looking out the window, it would only further remind you of what you missed. What you're never allowed to do again.

Levinson keeps working on his phone. You can only tell because of the sounds. You can't remember the last time you held a phone. But it's not your place to think about it, now is it? You take a breath and catch hints of the driver's scent. He also smells like fire, but more controlled. Like a large bonfire at the beach instead of the wildfire next to you.

You hear the partition roll down. The driver says, "we're far enough away, Ari."

"Thanks, Johnny." Levinson puts his phone in his pocket and turns to you. "I'm Ari Levinson, with the Department of Defense." He pulls out his wallet and puts it on your lap, making sure you see his badge and ID. "They weren't supposed to actually find a candidate. It was a ploy to buy us time until we could get more intelligence on the operation."

You blink, whispering, "I...I was mistake?"

"We're going to take you to a community of others of our kind where you can get proper care."

"I was a mistake?" you say louder. The tears start pouring. You can't hold them back any further. It was bad enough when you weren't wanted but have your entire existence upended for a mistake? It was too much. You collapse into a sobbing pile.

"Told you to be gentler on her, Alpha," you hear Johnny say.

"Not much that I could do to soften the blow," Ari retorts. "Let her cry it out, she definitely needs it. Might want to get some food, too. I can hear her stomach growling from here and I'm sure it's making things worse for her."

"Okay," Johnny shakes his head. He pulls out his own phone and calls someone telling them to have some food prepped for your arrival in a half hour or so.

You're all cried out by the time you reach the gate. It looks like you're entering an army base. That fits with the Department of Defense stuff Ari said. Both men show their credentials and the car is allowed inside.

"We're going to get you some food before we catch our flight," Ari tells you. "Do not speak until after the plane lands. Understand?"

You nod and he accepts that. What choice do you have?

"For what it's worth, I know the guy who works the commissary here," Johnny offers. "He's an amazing cook!" Again, all you can do is nod.

You're let out of the car and walk between the men towards what is labelled as the Mess Hall. Levinson gestures for you and Johnny to sit at one of the long tables. While you do, he goes to the kitchen and comes out with a few trays of food. The entire time you've sat, Johnny's kept a hand on your shoulder, likely as a way to try to comfort you while also keeping others away.

Every so often, as you're eating, someone either brave, stupid or dared into it, tries to approach your little group. But either Johnny or Levinson gives them a look that has them think twice and move along. You don't know if there's some special Alpha power or if they're just that intimidating. You also can't bring yourself to care. At least the food is good, best you've had in ages.

Levinson checks his phone, "time to get moving. Flight is ready for us." Johnny helps you off of the bench and you assume your position between the two men.

When you're seated on the plane between them, you try to buckle up. It's definitely not a commercial flight and you're unsure of all the straps. Ari sees you having trouble and helps you out. Before he buckles himself in he whispers in your ear, "when we land, you will be properly taken care of by a real community. I owe you at least that."

Part 1 -- Part 3

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly; @startcarvingdarling

[bitchiswild]

♡⟡˙⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆˙⟡♡

🍒: Smut | 🕯️: Angst | 🧸:Fluff

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Chaewon

Little Things 🧸

Aquatic Highs 🧸

The Christmas Mission 🧸🎄

Jeju Vacay🍒

Jealous Ex🍒

Distracted 🍒

∘•········ʚ ♡ ɞ ········•∘

Yunjin

On The Court 🍒

Rockstar 🧸

Tree Hugger 🕯️

Snowman 🧸🎄

Her Present 🍒🎄 (bonus)

While We’re Young 🧸

Needy Girl 🍒

Lesson Learned 🍒

Valentine Lovin 🍒💕

You’re Mine🍒

Distracted 🍒

Backstage 🍒

Cute Distraction🍒

Lookingforadom.com🍒

∘•········ʚ ♡ ɞ ········•∘

Kazuha

Sweet Confessions Confections 🧸

Skating Hearts 🧸🎄

Ghostin 🕯️

Brat🍒

Private Lessons 🍒

Baby Fever 🍒

Pull Of Desire 🍒

∘•········ʚ ♡ ɞ ········•∘

Karina

Ride 🍒🧸

No Harms List 🍒🧸🕯️

Wishful Snow 🧸🎄

New Year Anticipation 🧸🎆🎉

Valentine Disaster 💕

Pervert 🍒

∘•········ʚ ♡ ɞ ········•∘

Winter

Her Angel 🍒

Colors Of Love 🧸

Winter Ball 🧸🎄

Sweet Whimpers🍒

Sweet Whimpers : Dom minjeong ver.🍒

Partition 🍒

∘•········ʚ ♡ ɞ ········•∘

Yujin

Skater Girl 🧸🍒

Cookie Stealer 🧸🎄

Scooter Fate 🧸

President’s Daughter🍒

∘•········ʚ ♡ ɞ ········•∘

Wonyoung

The Queens Love 🧸

Secret Spouses 🧸

Gifts 🧸🎄

Your Sugar Baby 🍒

Possessive Desires 🍒

∘•········ʚ ♡ ɞ ········•∘

Requested

Blackpink

Tangled Hearts- Rosé 🕯️🧸

You and Me- Jennie🧸

Basement Scare- Blackpink🕯️

Short Problem- Rosé 🧸🕯️

20th Century Girl- Rosé 🧸🕯️

Right Where You Left Me - Jennie 🕯️

Clingy- Blackpink 🧸

About You- Jennie🕯️

Sweet Whimpers -Lisa Ver. On WP🍒

Safe Place - Rosé 🧸

Us Against The World - Rosé🧸

Partition- Rosé ver.🍒

Office Seduction - Lisa🍒

Twice

A Sweet Recovery- Mina🧸

A Sweet Love- part 2 of sweet recovery Mina🧸🍒

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

A/n: I’ll be focusing on 4th gen gg. Im also going to just write about the girls I want to writing about. No hate to the other girls I do love them but not as much as the people in the list🧍‍♀️🫶

Check out my rules then feel free to request, when requested I’ll get to it eventually…maybe, if I don’t then,

1 : i probably don’t want to write it

2: I want to focus on the main people in my masterlist

(request are just a little extra fun)

3: im lazy🤪

[transentiencestudios]

The incident

Event log Day: 349 Subject ID: A008 Status: Post-exposure to Archframe prototype Subject A008 displayed elevated aggression levels following prolonged exposure to the Archframe prototype. Blood tests performed at 16:22 revealed a significant spike in cortisol levels (245% above baseline), suggesting a heightened stress response. Despite verbal commands and remote detachment attempts, Subject A008 refused to disengage from the Archframe. At 19:34, the security team initiated a manual extraction protocol, forcibly removing A008 from the biosuit. The process resulted in minor lacerations along the interface points where the Archframe’s cables had integrated with the subject’s neuro-linkage nodes. Immediate medical intervention was provided. Post-extraction: Subject A008 exhibited no further aggressive behavior, with vitals returning to normal levels. The subject retired to sleep at 22:43. Event log Day: 350 Subject ID: A008 Incident: Aggression escalation, violent interaction with Subject A149 At 03:12, security cameras recorded Subject A008 engaging in a violent assault on Subject A149 within A149‘s cell. Subject A008 was observed repeatedly biting and masticating A149, displaying a complete dissociation from prior behavior. Security intervened at 03:15, but despite efforts, Subject A149 sustained critical injuries and entered a coma shortly after the incident due to Subject A008's venom. Blood tests taken from A008 immediately after the incident showed a continued elevation in cortisol and the presence of unidentified neurochemical markers. A008 was sedated and returned to isolation. An emergency partition was erected to prevent direct interaction between A008 and the research team. Medical and psychological evaluations are ongoing. A008 has not responded coherently to any stimuli or questioning. Further investigation into the Archframe’s potential neurological impacts is underway. Event log Day: 483 Subject IDs: A008, A149 Status Update: Post-recovery and continued isolation protocols Subject A149 has regained consciousness and is in stable condition following extensive rehabilitation. Neurological damage appears minimal, though further tests are required to assess long-term effects. Subject A008 remains under close observation and has been prohibited from interacting with the Archframe or any related exosuit technologies unless under direct surveillance by an armed medical team. Aggression monitoring continues via regular blood tests, though no significant incidents have been reported since Day 350.

[ravelsquadespresso]

WIP Title Ask Game: Emelina (yes).

@avas-poltergeist said:

Thanks for the ask :)). You may remember writing a post about how Emelina is sorry she’d forgotten merciful Heinrix, but no such thing for the ultra-dogmatic Heinrix? That post set me off to start writing on the game from the middle of the story and it’s fun 😊.  Added some additional cataclysmic activity (I mean, she pushed for the phase transition with all four limbs and the sun already is about to explode when we show up in our ship, so some ceiling crashing is the right thing to do). Also, I was a partition recovery software in my previous life, so I write in patches.

Finally, made her to become a warp ghost after she is dead. That allows her to recover her in-life memories and provide some dramatic commentary!

Some snippets here:

[[Possibly lengthy not yet written Phton stuff ending with in-game mercy killing]]

Above me the argument lingers.

“But why? I’d given her shelter, we could have saved…”

“And you know a few places that could use a new sun, isn’t that right?”

“What?!”

“I am sparing you the fate of Winterscale. He got lucky—thanks to the faithful sod in his retinue.”

“That’s not what I— You…” Her voice cracks and stumbles.

Holding back tears? Yes.

“She was your… friend. Your teacher. You said—”

“She was an unrepentant, stubborn heretic who defended her pact with the Ruinous Powers till the very end. Giving her shelter was never an option. Or did you want to take part in the interrogation, Lord Captain?”

A key player in the Expanse and still confused about who calls the shots. We never relinquish prisoners. We never consult anyone on what is to be done—be they the Emperor himself. But then, in the Imperium, delusional nobles are more of a rule than an exception. More so when they’re let loose on the fringes of civilization with an Emperor-signed leave note.

“All your Inquisition are just a bunch of sick blood-thirsty freaks. All of you.”

A brief charged stillness follows, broken only by the shuffling of the navis imperialis elder and the Drukhari dog he holds on the leash. The elder fears what the inquisitorial response to the insults might be. The dog is greedy for a bloodbath.

Instead of a rebuke, Heinrix laughs. Stifled and forced at first, but freer and freer as it builds—until nothing holds it back. He laughs and laughs, and the air around him grows leaden.

“You’re so very right, Lord Captain,” he says finally, catching his breath, wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s exactly who we are.”

Of course. Monsters make the best monster-hunters. That’s what it means to keep the Imperium safe from the curse of mutants, xenos, and heretics.  And who better to kill a witch… than another witch? What better instrument than one forged from the same filth?

“Well,” she says, voice brittle, turning away to hide her face, “if you’ve filled your murder quota for today, we’re leaving. Abelard—take Marazhai. Clear out the mandrakes. We’ll need the shuttle for survivors. Or do you want to incinerate them too, Heinrix?”

“These are technically your subjects, Lord Captain,” he pretends to ignore the barb. “I know you won’t let me incinerate them. I will have them watched.”

Meaning: they will mysteriously vanish when no one is looking.

“Word of advice,” he murmurs once the navis imperialis and the xenos are out of earshot, his voice like a hand around the throat. “Most inquisitors would not tolerate such speech. Even from a peer of the Imperium. You don’t get to call the Emperor’s servants monsters and freaks. Luckily for you, I am a very patient inquisitor. But you, you should control yourself, lest you commit the worst kind of heresy in public”.

“Of course,” she snaps, seizing the opportunity. “Because calling you what you really are—a bunch of murderous fanatics—is obviously the most horrible thing about this situation.”

“Amanar,” his voice softens, rife with fear now. “I… I want you to survive. I only want you to remain well.”

He steals a glance at what used to be my body. A crooked, broken husk—more metal inlays and cogitator interfaces than flesh. Disfigured by memory banks. A husk, a discarded cocoon.

He means:

I want you to remain. For me. With me.

Everything I was denied—I want to keep.

Obsessive devotion.

“Survival is not life,” Amanar says simply, and hits a pile of rubble in frustration. “Seems we’ll have to go back to the Webway if we want to live.”

Webway.

They’ve been places together. She may have once believed him human—seen the spark of sentimentality that hindered his career since the day he came to my tutelage, a broken youth of twenty-something. The same thing that stopped him from ripping out contents of my banks through Eighth’s action.

Whatever he wants to say, there is no time.

The avalanche is a small, quiet thing at first—microcracks running through the stones, the blocks, the carrier wires of the dome. It creeps into the caverns, the archeofactorums, the cemeteries—crashing into the planet’s warped crust.

Catastrophes are as sure as the universe itself.

The diviner witch feels it first. Noradrenaline surges on the crest of insight. Pupils eat up the irises. She looks up in awe, her gaze meeting the falling plinth and stone blocks—and she can’t even scream.

[[some not yet written action here, after which our somewhat stoned heroes and heroines manage to escape to some deep caverns where they need to take some rest and have an adult talk about wtf just happened. There is a cool campsite with an interesting cave bear-proof flaming food storages and wall graffiti by Chaos Banksy]]

“You’re afraid of me”, he says, resigned.

It was inevitable. Expected. Whatever she’d seen in him—a boy who loved riding with his sisters through the Guisornian fields of dandelions, a regicide dork, a battle-brother at her back—all of it would melt away, revealing the terror within, a cursed blade in the hand of the Ordo. A weapon, implacable against the Emperor’s enemies, be they the creatures of the Immaterium or the traitors within. Cold steel and stone, unmoved, unfeeling, striking with precision.

An acolyte of the Holy Ordos is not anyone’s friend, but a friend-shaped surgical tool.

I would know - after all I was the one who brainwashed him, broke him, rebuilt him and made him into this.

In saturnine silence, he dips his hand in the pale copper of her hair, letting the strands run between his fingers. The mind knows itself to be a monster, but the body refuses to surrender the memories of embrace and warmth and comfort. Of acceptance and recognition.

When she speaks into the stifled stillness, it’s but a hushed murmur.

“Of you. For you. For the choices that are dealt you, where mercy killing your mother is your best option.”

That is not fear, but anger she is describing, tired, barely smoldering. Wearing her down.

His mother. Sweet child of whatever pleasure resort for noble debutants you are, his mother was I not. More like his evil step-aunt—the kind that shows up at the door with veritas-laced apples and a warped loom of eternal data-dreams.

[and on, and on this continues, but ends happily (relatively speaking), I promise. All will be well.]

[bellasmumblingsandmusings]

Chapter 8: You're Mine

Previously: Prologue Tumblr Link for Prologue, Chapter One; Chapter Two, Chapter 3, Interlude Chapter 4 Chapter 5, Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. NSFW, Ethical and non Ethical BDSM, noncon, some allusions to sexual violence, flashbacks to sexual violence, discussions of sexual violence, dubious boundaries, attempted sexual violence, dubcon, blood licking/blood kink, reference to cheating behavior, emotional trauma, group sex, sex, smutt, anxiety, negative thinking, sexual trauma, recovery, healing, angst,

Word count: 59K total

Status: Ongoing

SAD SMUTT this chapter and Artwork by : https://www.instagram.com/loomiiy/

(Chapter 9: July 31st)

Song for this Chapter: Mine - Sleep Token

A03 Entire Story Link on AO3 Spotify Playlist

After the Jump!

Chapter 8:  You’re Mine

During their year apart...

The twisted alleys of Baldur's Gate, a labyrinth of shadow and sin, snaked their way to a brothel that oozed the decadent charm of distant Calimport. Its façade, garishly adorned with flaking gold paint, shed its skin like a serpent reveling in its own corruption. The air was pervaded with the thick, musky scent of cheap perfume and stale incense, mingling with the unmistakable tang of sweat—a potpourri of desperation and desire.

Lanterns dangled from the ceiling, their sallow light casting shadows that deepened into sultry secrets. Velvet curtains, once richly hued but now faded and frayed, partitioned the narrow spaces into alcoves of anonymity. The muffled cacophony of passion seeped through the thin walls, each note a testament to fleeting ecstasy and whispered lies. Gold-painted doors, their luster long lost to scratches and time, lined the dim corridor, each guarding its own saga of ephemeral pleasures.

Why does this place always feel like home now? The thought clawed at Astarion’s mind, a bitter reminder of how far he had fallen.

As Astarion stepped into the brothel, his crimson eyes scanned the haze, and a familiar surge welled within him—hunger, sharp and demanding. The dim lighting cast an ethereal glow on his alabaster skin, shadows playing across his face like old friends whispering dark secrets. The air was a heavy cloak of perfume and raw desire—intoxicating, suffocating, wrapping around him like a lover's desperate clutch.

The sounds of the brothel played their sordid symphony in his ears—moans of pleasure, gasps of pain, and the rhythmic creak of beds. Each sound was a note in a debauched orchestra, each vibration a string plucked in the harp of his predatory instincts.

He moved through the musk, his gaze sweeping the room, searching, always searching. Who would it be tonight?

A figure cut through the dim light—a woman, her skin a deep copper, glowing like the last ember of a dying sunset. Her almond-shaped eyes held a calm assurance, a serenity that seemed both an invitation and a challenge. Her hair, a cascade of midnight waves, moved with a rhythm that echoed the silent music of the night.

She was draped in silks that clung to her curves like a second skin, each movement a whisper of concealed promises. A bandeau top of silk and chiffon, audacious in its scantiness, billowed behind her like a banner in the wind. Her smile, knowing and confident, brushed aside the stares that followed her like shadows.

Is she the one?

Astarion felt a pull, an inexplicable draw to her presence. It wasn't just her beauty; it was the way she moved with an air of authority, her confidence mirroring the power he so craved, the dominance he once wielded without question. He approached, his voice smooth, coated in the honeyed tone of interest and desire. "Greetings, my beauty. May I buy you a drink?" he offered, each word dripping with an allure that was practised, perfected.

"Why waste time with drinks," she purred, her voice a melodic tease, "when there's so much more to enjoy?" Her smirk, playful yet knowing, pierced through the haze of his thoughts, a sharp reminder of what he sought—what he needed.

Walking into this place always felt like a descent, each step a further plunge into the depths of his own darkness. The walls seemed to close in, the air thickening with each breath, heavy with the scent of opium and the ghosts of his past. Every face a mirror of another, every whispered promise a shadow of a memory he couldn't escape.

As he took in her words, a flicker of recognition sparked within him. It wasn't just her Calimportese heritage or the richness of her skin; it was her spirit, the unyielding boldness that so vividly reminded him of Sima. Could it be? No, but the resemblance...

Her silken attire swayed with her movements, the fabric whispering secrets against her skin. The invitation in her eyes, so charged with a magnetic pull, drew him closer despite the haunting familiarity. His heart quickened, the room shrinking around him, the shadows deepening as if conspiring to entwine him further in her spell.

Her scent was a tantalizing near-match—jasmine tinged with citrus, so close to the rose that haunted his dreams of Sima. Her breasts pressed against his shoulder, a softness that sent shivers down his spine, her hands weaving through his hair, stirring a connection he desperately craved yet feared to acknowledge.

Astarion closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the rush of longing. Her audacity almost convinced him to let go of the torment that clung like a shadow. She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear, her words tinged with a playful edge, "Are you coming, or do you need a map?"

Just for tonight. The darkness embraced him, the familiar symphony of the brothel echoing in his ears, drowning out the voice that whispered of love and loss. Another night, another fleeting comfort. He followed her, mind slipping away into the shadows, driven by the desperate need to forget.

He allowed her to take his hand, leading him towards a shadowed room draped in the promises of the night. The air thickened, the flickering candles casting ghostly shadows, the scent of sex and opium weaving through the atmosphere—a tapestry of longing, desire, and haunting memories, pulling him ever deeper into the abyss. Time was lost, even as she poured wine bottle after wine bottle into his mouth, a balm that never soothed.

The woman's dark skin caressed his face; the texture a stark contrast to Sima's, and his hazy mind struggled to grasp the difference. Her nipples teased his wine-stained lips as she whispered a taunt into his pointed ear, "Is that the best you can do? And here I thought you looked... like a lord." She bit his earlobe, then discarded the small cloth hiding her glistening heat.

Is this what I've been reduced to? A crude jest? Her words, they burn. The flash of anger in his eyes flickered briefly before a smirk curled his lips, a mask of control slipping into place. He grabbed her hair, pulling hard, leaning in close.

"Careful, darling... If you keep teasing me, I might just have to teach you a lesson."

He pressed her hips to his, rolling them gently to tease her, the smirk never leaving his face. He needed to maintain control, to feel that power.

The woman ground her wet heat against his growing arousal, her copper skin sparking flashes of Sima before his eyes. The silkroot's haze intensified, transforming the woman into Sima. Her brown eyes, her wet heat on him... after a year. The vision of Sima whimpered in his ear, "Then what are you waiting for, my lord?"

The room spun. Is it her? His mind, clouded by silkroot, struggled to separate reality from desire. The woman's voice morphed into Sima's, her body beneath his a tantalizing illusion. His eyes darkened with possessive rage. For a moment, he saw double, like a hazy vision he had to blink away. Sinister and unhinged, he almost moved to strangle her for her teasing. Instead, he tightened his grip on her hair and pushed her down hard onto the bed by the back of her neck. Pinning her down, he quickly undid his slacks and pulled off his shirt, the vision below him mewling.

He groaned against her earlobe, whispering hotly, his voice rough and low, trying to keep the image of Sima intact. "You have no idea how badly I've wanted this... how many times I've imagined you like this. But my imagination could never come close. Your voice. Your body... so perfect in my hands. Even the sweetest music pales in comparison to you like this, my dearest love."

The woman below, aware of his state, responded, "And I have missed you... please..." She turned her face, pressing her rear against his front, grinding into his growing firmness, and moaning as she opened herself up.

His eyes shut tight, breath catching in a gasp of desire. "Gods... darling, you're incredible. My Sima."

He pressed into her like a man possessed, one hand pinning her by the neck, the other gripping the headboard as the thrusted full hilt into her dripping cunt. A low hiss escaped at the sensation, her moans sending shivers down his spine. His hips snapped as he lifted her deeper onto his cock, pressing her head deeper into the mattress. The pace was full and unforgiving, pleasure and visions of Sima flashing before his eyes, her scent rising in the silkroot haze.

Relentless, he didn't stop, his need overpowering. The rhythm was hard and rough, almost brutal. His breath came in gasps, hissing in pleasure as he growled, fingers pressing into her skin, teeth leaving marks down her back.

"You are mine. You've always been mine."

He moaned against her ear, her voice driving him into a frenzy, the image of Sima in his mind almost blinding.

Astarion's breathing quickened, a low sound of pleasure escaping as his hips slammed into her, the slap of skin on skin filling the air. She wasn't the same; he knew this in the back of his mind. But the taste of her sweat, the sound of her voice, the scent of her hair—it was enough to drive him almost mad, his heart racing.

The woman, her black wavy hair flying, her body tightening around him, moaned his name and her fingers gripped the sheets. Her deep velvet clutch gripped him as she got closer and closer, the fluttering he remembered so well when his touch brought Sima to bliss... Sima mewled again, this vision below him.

Astarion’s moans echoed through the room at the familiar, sweet sounds. One hand practically split the word of the headboard, the other held her hips as he rocked into her. Her moans were like music—music he had craved for months. Her body clenched and arched, and he reveled in the heat, the melody of her body singing for him.

His eyes closed, face buried in her neck, his body shuddering as he remembered how she felt. Just how her body felt. How she tasted. The sound of her voice, her sweet, sweet sounds of pleasure. He groaned against her skin, teeth and hands gripping her, her name falling from his mouth in a sharp, needy whisper, his arousal still firm and fast as he desperately thrust, hitting that spot within her, rewarded with her moans. It was her... it must be...

The woman beneath him cried out, tightening fast and hard, her need rushing forth, thighs shaking. Her tightness, warmth, and moans, so close yet so far, dragged his silkroot-induced arousal to a devastating peak.

Astarion’s breath hitched and a growl rolled out as he felt her tighten around him. His hand  came down and gripped her hair almost painfully while the other kept her body pressed close. He let out a shuddering groan, teeth sinking slowly into the crook of her neck. It was a needy bite, an animal craving to claim. As he spilled his seed into her, he bit down, drinking, tasting her release in her blood. 

As the blood hit his tongue, the illusion shattered. It wasn't her. She was still gone.

In the muddled chaos of the night, Astarion recoiled with a growl, pulling out abruptly and propelling himself to stand near the bed, his body tense, eyes wide with a raw surge of outrage. His breath came in sharp, rapid gasps, his mind a storm of horror and disbelief.

Why did it feel like this? Why did it always end this way?

The deed—crude, desperate—left him gasping, the air thick with the lingering scent of silkroot that clouded his senses. Yet, the acrid taste of the woman's blood shattered the delusion. It wasn't Sima. The realization crashed over him like a cold wave, dragging him from the sweet haze of escape he so desperately sought.

Staggering over to the discarded bed sheets, his fingers trembled as they brushed against the cheap, gaudy fabrics that seemed to mock his state. The woman lay there, a soft moan escaping her lips, oblivious to the storm raging within him. She was recovering from his bite, from their rough, empty encounter, her soft moans a cruel parody of the ecstasy he had once known with Sima.

His chest heaved, muscles knotted with a fierce tension as he struggled against the urge to lose himself in her again, to forget the stinging bite of reality. Yet, he resisted, his mind ablaze with a chilling blend of determination and cold fury.

He needed to move, to escape this place.

With heavy, purposeful strides, he distanced himself from the bed, each step echoing in the hollow chamber of his heart. Sadness gnawed at him, a deep, relentless ache that seemed to echo the unending hunger gnawing at his soul. This was the nadir of his existence—a night drowned in regret and unfulfilled longing. The effects of the silkroot swirled through his veins, casting his thoughts into a foggy abyss. Unbidden, memories of hands, touches from his past life as Cazador's concubine, surfaced with painful clarity. Flashes of twisted pleasure and chilling detachment flickered before his eyes, trapping him further in his own dark labyrinth.

Sitting on the edge of the divan, Astarion buried his head in his hands, haunted by the ghosts of what was and what could never be again. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening, the air thick with the palpable sense of his frustration and helplessness.

The past year had been a cruel jest, the worst of his cursed existence. Faces, countless and indistinct, floated before his eyes—a kaleidoscope of strangers and victims blending into a seamless parade of emptiness. Despite his ascent to power, his new reign as a vampire lord, the sea of faces blurred indistinguishably from those he had known as Cazador's toy.

Amidst this desolate carnival, only Sima's image burned bright, a lone beacon in his tempest-tossed world. Her kisses, soft and tender, her touch, a balm to his frayed edges—she had been his anchor, a rare glimpse of genuine affection in a life otherwise shrouded in darkness.

Her face, her voice, the essence of her presence haunted him. He remembered the last time they were together—the way her eyes had filled with a tumultuous mix of compassion, fear, and anger. Her voice had risen, sharp and clear, as she defied him, refusing to be drawn into the darkness of his world. Her rejection—her refusal to become his spawn—had sparked his fury, driving her away.

Now, as he sat there, the bed beside him holding just another faceless shape, he felt the true depth of his fall. The lingering effects of the silkroot blurred his vision, but not enough to shield him from the haunting visages of past and present that swirled around him. He was spiralling, caught in a vortex of his own making, acutely aware of the vast chasm between his desires and his stark reality.

The woman beside him moaned softly in her drug-induced slumber, her presence a mere echo of the countless others who had come and gone, leaving him nothing but deeper sorrow. Just another faceless entity in the endless gallery of his torments.

Numbness crept over him, the cold comfort of the silkroot failing him. Astarion reached for the bottle of laced wine, its contents swirling seductively. The promise of oblivion beckoned—an easy escape from the pain, the longing, the profound loneliness.

But then, her image flashed before him—Sima, her face a vision of warmth and life, pulling him back from the brink. With a growl of frustration, he hurled the bottle against the wall, shattering it into fragments.

The copper-skinned woman stirred, her eyes opening, reaching out to him in a tentative gesture of comfort. Her body was a canvas of their combined carnage—his spend, her blood—a sight that made him recoil. Her voice, soft and uncertain, was all wrong. As he stumbled back, he caught a glimpse of himself in the wash basin mirror.

Staring back at him was a man marred by anguish and despair. The charming, sarcastic facade had crumbled, revealing a soul irrevocably fractured. He plunged his face into the cold water, hoping to wash away the misery that clung to him. When he resurfaced, he felt the weight of all the lives he had drained—their hopes, their dreams, all extinguished as surely as their lives.

The woman tried to reach out again, but he turned away, unable to bear the sight of her. She could never fill the void left by Sima. No one could.

"Get out," he commanded, his voice icy, cutting through the stifling air. When she hesitated, he snapped, "Now."

She quickly gathered her clothes and fled, leaving him alone with his anguish.

As Astarion faced his own reflection, seeing not just the vampire but the shattered man beneath, he felt the last threads of his self-control unravel. Rock bottom was no longer a mere concept but a reality, an abyss into which he was swiftly drowning.

With a bitter twist of his lips, he rose from the basin, his face dripping, his resolve hardening. He looked into the mirror, his eyes ablaze with anguish and a chilling certainty.

"I want to die…" the words escaped him, a raw whisper in the quiet room. But within that declaration stirred a flicker of resolve, kindled by memories of Sima—the only light in his dark existence.

His thoughts raced, a tumult of emotions swirling within him—love, desire, desperation. All converged on her image, her touch, the sound of her voice. It was more than a yearning; it was a profound, all-consuming need. She was his anchor, his salvation, the only one who had ever truly seen him.

With a deep breath, his features set in grim determination, Astarion whispered to his reflection, a promise steeped in dark resolve, "I will have her back. No matter what it takes."

He stared at his reflection, and slowly, a smile began to curve his lips—not a warm or roguish smirk, but something more sinister, a twisted sneer that bore the marks of his unraveling psyche. "She is my eternity," he affirmed, his voice low and unyielding, tinged with an edge of madness. "And I will do whatever it takes to have her again—even if it means crossing every line, breaking every rule, challenging the gods themselves."

No price was too high. Astarion was ready to burn down the world to have Sima by his side once more.

"My love, I'm coming for you," he whispered, his voice a mix of longing and frantic hunger. The twisted smile lingered, a dark emblem of his descent into obsession and despair.

***

A week had passed since the confrontation at the docks with the Selûnites, Shadowheart, and Sima. Astarion lay ensnared in a cocoon of darkness and despair, barely leaving his bed. The oppressive silence of his chamber stood in stark contrast to the chaotic storm within his mind. His battle wounds throbbed with a relentless ache, sharp reminders of his failure. Red-rimmed eyes, devoid of life, stared up at the ceiling, lost in a labyrinth of rage and longing. His hunger grew, not just for blood but for the intimacy he had lost—a gnawing void that threatened to consume him.

She thinks she can escape me. Foolish girl, he thought, fury and obsession interweaving. Sima's eyes, once a sanctuary, now haunted him. The thought of her giving her love to another twisted his gut with rage and sorrow. His blood boiled, fangs itching with the visceral need to reclaim what he had lost. He rolled over, trying to escape his thoughts, but they clung to him like shadows, growing more insistent. Sweat slicked his skin, his body trembling with a feverish withdrawal. I will not be denied, he vowed, feeling adrift in a stormy sea without her.

Sima had been his anchor in chaos. Losing her was a wound deeper than any physical injury. The pain of that realization was so intense that even his ever-present hunger seemed to fade in comparison. She was my light in the darkness, and now... she's gone. Does she even understand the depth of my feelings? Her rejection felt like a dagger to his heart. She was mine, and now she’s gone. But not for long.

He shifted to face the wall, breath heaving, hands clenched into fists so tightly that his nails drew blood. The weakness and desperation felt like an insult to his very being. Yet a part of him clung to that vulnerability. Why am I so weak? he thought within his fraying mind and heart. He wanted to cry out, to scream and rage against the world, but he held back, his emotions coiled tightly inside him like a spring ready to snap.

A surge of hunger roared back to life, snapping his eyes open. The beast within demanded to be fed, to lash out and punish someone, anyone. He sat up, the room spinning violently, causing him to fall back onto the bed. The empty space beside him was a cold reminder of his solitude. Without her, I am nothing. Just the monster Cazador wanted me to be.

Astarion's hunger was a cruel mistress, intertwining his need for blood with his desire for Sima. Her scent, her taste, the feel of her skin under his fingertips haunted him, making his longing unbearable. He had never seen her as just a body; she was his everything. But now, his instincts warred with his love. He wanted to protect her, to cherish her, but the beast within him wanted to possess her, to make her his in the most primitive way.

"This is pointless. Lying here like a brooding statue," Astarion muttered, forcing himself up again as if resurrecting from the dead. His muscles screamed in protest, and the cold air of the chamber felt like shards of ice against his bare chest as he walked to the window and threw it open. Crisp, biting night air filled his lungs, his nostrils flaring as he took in the city's scent below.

Memories surged back like a tempest. He could almost smell her, that intoxicating blend of jasmine and rose. His fingers traced the window frame, recalling the feel of her skin beneath his touch, soft and warm. He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the way her body moved against his, the curve of her waist, the softness of her lips. It was torment, this blend of love and hunger.

The thought of her with someone else, another touching her, kissing her, making her cry out in pleasure, twisted his insides with violent, consuming rage. His need for her was beyond rational thought—it was feral, all-consuming. The idea of her whispering another’s name, her body arching for someone else, nearly broke him. His hands gripped the window frame tightly, nails splintering the wood. I will not lose her. She is mine, he vowed. The beast within him roared to life, hunger intertwining with love in a dangerous dance. He dressed swiftly, the cold determination in his eyes mirrored by the icy night outside. Sima, you will see. I am not the monster you fear. I am the man who loves you beyond reason.

He left his chamber, his mind set on one goal—reclaiming the woman who held his heart, body, and soul.

***

Meanwhile, Sima was healing, though her body remained fragile, a delicate wisp of her former strength. Her magical energy slowly returned, flickering like a candle in her turmoil. She knew Astarion still loved her—his restraint in not biting her was a silent confession. The pull towards him was unyielding, dragging her towards their unresolved tension. Memories, fresh and raw, clawed at her heart. One moment she sobbed, the next, she steeled herself for the battles to come.

Days passed in a haze of meditation and prayer within the Selunite Enclave. The rhythmic chants and soothing incantations washed over her like a gentle tide, offering balm but not a cure. Shadowheart’s group of female clerics, their voices a chorus of compassion, offered her sanctuary. Despite their kind words and moments of shared tea, she felt like an outsider, her warrior spirit at odds with their serene solace. Astarion haunted her thoughts. Misguided, twisted, yet she believed there was something salvageable in him. Shadowheart warned against such idealism, pointing out harsh realities. Each night, Sima defied her friend’s warnings, driven by reckless hope. She wondered if Astarion awaited her beyond the Enclave’s sacred ground.

Astarion was indeed there, a specter in the shadows, pacing with barely restrained fury. The burning sensation at the holy ground's edges was a bitter insult to his rage, which grew with each passing moment. He could sense Sima within the Enclave, and the inability to see her gnawed at his sanity.

Sima lied to Shadowheart about her nightly excursions, but her friend saw through the deception. Despite her better judgment, Sima clung to a sliver of hope. The glimpse of the real Astarion at the docks lingered in her mind. She donned her white leathers, at Shadowheart’s insistence, with a lavender tunic underneath. Silver blades sat at her hips, and her black ringlets were braided back, revealing her deep mahogany skin.

The path ahead was shrouded in a dense, unsettling fog, obscuring the moonlight and casting an eerie pall over the landscape. The soil squished beneath her boots, damp and treacherous. The cold air bit at her exposed skin, and the fog whispered cruel taunts, words like "failure" and "disgrace" carried on the chilling breeze. I won’t let fear control me, she thought, each step a defiant declaration against the oppressive darkness.

Leaning against a weathered tombstone, Sima let her gaze drop to the moon daggers gifted by Shadowheart. The blades gleamed under the ethereal light, symbols of protection and strength. She thought of the women in Shadowheart’s group, their faces etched with stories of suffering and resilience. Each bore scars, physical and emotional, mirroring her own. Their tales of enduring and overcoming reminded her of her own battles, her desire to change the person who was hurting her. Astarion was drowning in his darkness, and she couldn’t abandon him, even if it meant risking herself.

I have to see him, she resolved, stopping at the wrought-iron gate of the Enclave, still on holy ground. Why do I keep coming here? Because he let me go? Because I believe there's still something good in him?

She could feel his presence, a heavy, predatory aura that set her nerves on edge. The hunger emanating from him was palpable, a primal force that seemed to pulse in the air. She cast Light above her, the spell cutting through the mist and casting a harsh, revealing glow. Her daggers gleamed in the light, ready to defend her if necessary. As she crouched, her eyes scanned the darkness, waiting for Astarion to make his move.

As she approached the wrought-iron gate, Sima's breath caught in her throat. The graveyard stretched out before her like a somber shroud, tombstones jutting at odd angles, their inscriptions blurred by the mist. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, the chill seeping through her clothes and into her bones. Moonlight filtered through the fog, casting unearthly, shifting shadows that danced around her, making the landscape seem alive with whispers of the past.

Astarion emerged from the fog, his red eyes gleaming with a predatory intensity that pierced the mist like a hunter’s gaze. His presence was a tantalizing paradox, a blend of promise and threat that sent a shiver down Sima's spine. His black cloak flowed around him like liquid shadow, and even amidst the sanctity of this place, his allure was undeniable. She could feel his gaze on her, a tangible force that made her heart race and her blood sing with a volatile mix of fear and desire.

Her thoughts churned with conflicting emotions. He's here. Why did I come? Am I so foolish to think he could change? Or is there still a part of him that I can reach? Memories of their past flooded her mind—the tender moments and the brutal betrayals. She wanted to believe there was still good in him, that the man she loved was not entirely lost to the monster he had become. But the risk was immense, and the danger palpable.

Astarion's voice cut through her thoughts, low and almost gentle, yet dripping with dark promise. "Gods above, woman, I can almost taste the blood in your veins. That heartbeat... so strong, so vital. What would I have to do to get you to come through that gate?" His eyes never left her face, his fingers curling around the bars. He could almost feel the heat radiating from her skin, the tantalizing pulse of her veins calling out to him. So close, yet so far. I will have you, Sima. Every inch of you, he thought.

Sima's heart pounded, a symphony of fear and defiance. She raised her silver daggers defensively. "Swear on Selûne you won't try to turn me against my will. That would be a good start."

Her mind raced with thoughts of escape and survival. Stay calm, keep him talking. Don't show fear. Remember who he was, not what he's become. She watched his features, noting the glassy sheen in his crimson eyes, the barely controlled hunger radiating from him.

She's clinging to a ghost, Astarion thought, smirking. "Fine. I swear on Selûne, by her light, that should you come through this gate, I will not force you to join me as a vampire. I will not take any blood from you except what you give willingly. I will not force myself on you unless you consent. However..." His eyes narrowed, though the smile remained. His voice dropped to a whisper. "I reserve the right to persuade you. With words or otherwise. Is that agreeable?" I will make you crave me, Sima. I will make you beg for it, he thought.

Sima smirked, though her heart ached. "I think you would have been better served being honest. You and I clearly do not see eye to eye on what consent means. So I respectfully decline."

Astarion's face darkened, his features shifting with sudden anger. "And what will you do if I break open this gate and take what I want, you arrogant witch? You are in a rather unfortunate position..." Damn her defiance. Why can't she see this is for her own good? he thought.

She narrowed her eyes, her voice steady though her mind whirled with anger and sadness. "Remember... you let me go. There's a kernel of empathy in you, of who you were. Think of that. The only one driving this towards tragedy is you."

"I will not be threatened by you, you impudent little bitch," he hissed, his intensity bordering on hate. "But... you are correct. I am making this worse. Even if you won't change your mind willingly, there's always other means. I am not bound by silly things like morals or empathy. I have the power of a vampire lord. Understand that." She provokes me so effortlessly. Why does she make it so difficult? he thought.

Her heart ached with the loss of the man he once was. Where did he go? How did we come to this? She watched him, searching for any sign of the Astarion she loved. His anger was palpable, but so was his pain, etched in the lines of his face and the tension in his body.

"You think you can tempt me with nostalgia? You have so many more lessons to learn, Sima. I am not the same person I once was," Astarion said, stepping up to the gate, his breath hot against her skin, his eyes burning with intense hunger. "Kiss me or suffer." His voice was a dark caress, filled with both desire and menace.

Sima’s heart pounded, her breath quickening as she felt his nearness. "You've lost yourself! I speak of the past to remind you of who you are—who you once refused to be like. Cazador, Godey, the kennels, the horrible existence that was forced on you! See reason, please," she pleaded, her voice cracking with sorrow. Her eyes searched his face, desperate for a flicker of recognition.

Astarion's snarl was immediate, his features twisting in fury. "I am nothing like Cazador, you foolish girl. I made my own choices! I did it for both of us!" he snapped, gripping the bars of the gate, his knuckles white with anger. Why does she insist on dragging me back to that hell? I've moved beyond it. Haven't I? he thought.

"Gods damn you. I hate you for making me think of those things—the things I hated and wanted to escape. But then again..." His eyes narrowed, hate mingling with a shadow of doubt. His voice softened to a dangerous whisper. "You think you can control me with pretty words? Do you honestly believe your memories mean so much to me? That I would betray my hunger and desires for a mere reminder of my former self? You don't understand what has happened to me at all! This new me... he is everything I was meant to be," he whispered bitterly. "Do you honestly believe I would want to be that person?"

Sima stood up, flipping her daggers into a defensive stance, her eyes never leaving his. "I know better than most there is no road back. But you are rejecting the one principle that mattered most to you, the thing that was robbed from you, and that you now seek to rob from me: choice," she said firmly.

Astarion's eyes blazed with a mixture of anger and pain reflecting in their crimson depths. How dare she speak of choice? After everything I've endured? he thought, fists clenched, veins bulging with barely restrained fury. Despite his anger, she did not back down. She still believes she can appeal to me, to my compassion, he mused bitterly.

"Your pathetic attempt at manipulation is amusing. My choices now? My choices matter more than ever before," he sneered, leaning forward, his voice a dangerous whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "I'm not the same elf I was. I'm free. Free of weakness and the illusion of choice." His eyes narrowed, though the smile remained. Free to claim what is mine. Free to covet your beauty, your body, without shame or restraint, he thought hungrily.

Astarion's eyes blazed, seething with a mix of anger and regret, as he moved forward to tower over her, his breath hot and filled with the scent of blood. "I am not the same person. You can't even imagine what I've been through! I've transcended my past, risen above the likes of Cazador. So shut your mouth and listen. This is my choice, my will, and my desire. I've thought it through, considered the options. And this is the way it will be. Do you understand me?" he demanded.

"And this is mine! I choose to say no," Sima retorted, closing up her leathers and putting herself into a fighting stance, mirroring his stance, with the daggers held above and below, her muscles tensed and ready.

His jaw clenched tight, hesitation flickering in his eyes as he weighed his options. Damn it all, she’s not going to back down. I can’t let her defy me. Not now, he thought. With cold determination, he stepped forward, crossing the threshold into holy ground without hesitation, ready to confront the woman who dared to defy him.

"You're pushing me to the edge, Sima. If I can't have you willingly, then I will break your spirit and make you mine," he growled, his voice a dangerous whisper, every word dripping with dark promise. "One way or another, you will understand who I am now. Who I must be."

Sima’s eyes narrowed as she conjured a Globe of Invulnerability, the arcane energies swirling around her, creating a protective barrier that shimmered with otherworldly light. "I won’t let you break me," she said, her focus unwavering, her heart pounding with both fear and determination.

Astarion began weaving a spell of his own, his eyes flickering with arcane power. Flames erupted from his fingertips, aimed directly at her. "Watch her squirm. Feel her burn," he whispered, a sinister smile playing on his lips as the fire licked toward her.

Sima stood her ground, the Globe of Invulnerability absorbing the searing heat. She felt the intense warmth pressing against the barrier, her skin prickling with phantom burns. She cast Thunderwave, sending a powerful shockwave that rippled through the air, knocking Astarion off his feet and pushing him out of its radius.

Astarion was thrown back by the force of the spell, landing hard on the ground. He rolled and sprang to his feet with a growl, shaking off the holy ground's relentless gnawing at his strength. His eyes blazed with fury, his muscles tensing as pain and rage intertwined. "Pain is nothing. The prize is worth every burn," he snarled, pushing forward again, his determination etched in every line of his face.

"How is it that you think I wouldn't be so furious that I would ignore the discomfort and take a little pain?" he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "This pain is nothing compared to what I’ll make you feel, Sima. You’ll see. You’ll regret defying me."

"I’ll make you submit. You’ll see reason," he lunged towards her again, faster this time, his movements a blur of predatory grace.

Sima steeled herself, casting Fly and swiftly moving to the other side of the globe, eluding his grasp. Before Astarion could reach inside the Globe, she raised her hands to the sky and called down a bolt of lightning. The air crackled with energy as the lightning struck Astarion, lifting him into the air before throwing him aside. "STOP making me hurt you, you stubborn bastard!" she cried, her voice a mix of determination and desperation, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Astarion’s body convulsed as the electricity coursed through him. He hit the ground hard but forced himself back on his feet, his rage undiminished. His muscles twitched from the shock, but he barely noticed. "You’ll pay for this. You’ll see the error of your ways," he vowed, his eyes burning with fury, his voice a snarl that echoed through the night.

"You're right. These games we are playing are pointless. It's time for me to take what I want," he growled, frustration evident in his tone. Enough of this. Time to end her resistance, he thought, his eyes narrowing.

He cast Command, his voice dropping to a deep, commanding tone. "Kneel."

Sima felt the divine protection of Protection from Good and Evil envelop her, a shield against his command. She winced, feeling the power of his voice wash over her, but she managed to resist. The divine intervention saved her, but Astarion’s eyes narrowed with fury. The fire in his chest burned hotter as he cast Hold Person from a distance. "Divine protection? How quaint. I’ll break through. I’ll make you mine," he muttered, dark magic coiling around his fingers like serpents.

He stayed within the holy ground, enduring the corrosive pain for a chance to paralyze her. If she couldn’t move, she couldn’t maintain her spells or cast new ones. His eyes locked onto his prey, his voice a deadly whisper. "Stay still. Stay frozen. Let me in."

Sima felt the magical bonds tightening like iron chains, but she fought back, breaking her concentration on the Globe of Invulnerability. Vulnerable again, she saw Astarion’s smirk, his eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction. "So, her defenses aren't impenetrable after all. This just got interesting," he mused, his gaze locked onto her, his blood singing with the thrill of the hunt.

Desperation fueled Sima’s next move. She conjured Leomund's Tiny Hut, a dome of force encasing her, impenetrable by physical attacks or spells. But she knew mental spells could still reach her. "Just hold on, Sima. You can outlast him. You have to," she whispered, her heart pounding in her chest like a war drum.

Astarion’s eyes narrowed at this sudden trick. Watching her encase herself in a bubble he couldn’t penetrate physically, he glared, his mind racing with dark strategies. With his next spell, he decided to attack her mind instead. "If I can’t break your body, I’ll break your spirit," he muttered, his voice dripping with insidious charm.

He cast Charm Person, his voice a seductive caress as he focused on her mind. "Sima, my dear, come to me. You know you belong by my side," he whispered, each word a tantalizing promise. "Be mine, forever."

Sima felt the charm wash over her, the familiar dulcet tones pulling at her will. Her body reacted involuntarily, a burning arousal aching in her core, but she fought back, shaking her head. "Is this what you think love is? Manipulation and control?" she asked, her voice trembling with hurt and betrayal, her eyes wide with pain.

"Is this your love? To hurt me like those slavers in Calimport? Does my pain matter to you at all?!" she continued, her eyes burning with the raw trauma she had shared with Astarion, vivid and painful.

Astarion's honeyed tone turned sharp and cruel. "Your pain matters less than my desire. I will take you by any measure. I want you, and I won’t take no for an answer," he snarled, his eyes blazing with possessiveness. "Your body does not belong to you, nor can you hope to escape me, love."

Sima's eyes filled with grief, tears threatening to spill. "What has become of you? Is this it? Is this who you are now? A man who will brutalize the woman he loves like he was brutalized? Do you truly refuse to see reason here?!" she implored.

Astarion’s eyes showed nothing but rage now. Not only was she resisting his power, but she was resisting him. To him, there was no difference. He came to the edge of the hut and placed one hand on the sphere, squeezing it as if he could crush her body. "Reason? Do you think I care in the slightest what you want? I want you to be MINE and nothing else matters." His grip tightened, his voice a snarl of frustration and obsession, his nails digging into the barrier as if trying to tear it apart.

Sima's eyes filled with true grief. "Then you are truly lost to me. And... I've been a fool to think you'd see me as more than just a thing to be used. To think you loved me." She clung to the edge of the hut, the weight of reality crashing down on her like a relentless tide. He cannot change. He does not see reason, or perhaps he simply does not want to, she thought.

Astarion’s body trembled with fury. The mere thought of her resisting him, denying him, sent waves of rage coursing through his veins. His every instinct screamed to take her, to crush her in his hands for denying him, to break her for wounding his heart so deeply. Yet, buried beneath the rage, something in his heart ached, something that held him back. He stared at her, his gaze a storm of longing, rage, and heartbreak, ignoring the dome that protected her. She’s mine. She will always be mine. Why can’t she see that? he thought.

For a split second, Astarion's eyes betrayed something beyond anger—sadness, regret, a fleeting moment of pity and longing for what could have been. Then it vanished as swiftly as it came, replaced by his consuming rage and mania. "You belong to me, and you always will. I don't care if you understand or accept that." His grip tightened further on the sphere, his nails digging into the barrier, leaving shallow marks as if he could tear it apart with sheer will.

Sima looked at Astarion like he was a stranger. "Astarion... you're really gone, aren't you?" Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, laced with sorrow and disbelief.

Astarion felt something cold and heavy settle in his chest, a feeling of deep sorrow and loss. He stared at Sima, trying to summon some remnant of what she once meant to him. But as he looked into her eyes, seeing no hint of the former love he had known, a bitter chill set in. She’s slipping away. Why can’t she just understand? he wondered.

"I am no longer the Astarion you met. The one you loved is as dead as Cazador's victims. He's been replaced by a new Lord, who will not be denied." His voice was cold, final, each word a nail in the coffin of their past.

Sima took in his face, every feature burning into her memory. His eyes, crimson with a predatory gleam. His hair, white as snow. She imagined the devious but genuine smirk that once graced his lips, now replaced by a cruel, twisted line. She recalled everything they had shared, everything that was. And in her heart, she finally allowed herself to let go. "Goodbye, Astarion," she whispered, stepping one fraction out of the hut.

Astarion's eyes flickered with something that might have been recognition or even pain, but it was fleeting. His rage and obsession quickly overshadowed any softer emotion. "No," he snarled, lunging forward. "You don't get to say goodbye. You belong to me!"

His hand hit the barrier of the Tiny Hut with a force that reverberated through the air. The magical dome shimmered, absorbing the impact, but Sima felt the shockwave. She steadied herself, her heart pounding. She couldn't afford to let him break through her defenses, not now.

"Astarion, please," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "This isn't you. You're stronger than this. You don't have to be what Cazador made you."

His response was a guttural growl, his eyes burning with an unholy fire. "I am what I must be! I have embraced my true nature, and you will embrace it too, whether you want to or not!"

Sima's eyes filled with tears, but her resolve hardened. She knew what she had to do. With a deep breath, she focused her energy, feeling the familiar pull of the Recall spell. The world around her began to blur as the magic took hold.

"I won't let you take me," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "Goodbye, Astarion. I hope you find peace, even if it’s not with me."

As the words left her lips, the Recall spell activated, enveloping her in a cocoon of shimmering light.

The world around Astarion seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched Sima speak the words and then vanish. The bitter chill turned to an icy cold as all the emotions trapped deep inside exploded outward in that singular moment. He shouted her name, grabbing at the air, grasping at nothingness, trying to deny what had happened. But it was too late. Sima was gone.

Astarion stood alone on the holy ground of the Selûne Enclave, now cold in both body and spirit. His breath came in ragged gasps, his mind a whirlwind of rage, sorrow, and an all-consuming need to reclaim her. Gone. She thinks she can escape me. She underestimates what I will do to have her back, he thought, fury coursing through him. He fell to his knees, clutching at the ground as if he could pull her back from the void. The holy ground burned against his skin, a fitting punishment for his sins, but he welcomed the pain—it fueled his resolve.

All this power, and yet it feels like chains around my soul, he mused bitterly. I have more freedom now, but without her, it means nothing. His chest tightened with an unbearable ache, but he couldn't dwell on that. He had to focus on her. On bringing her back.

Her words echoed in his mind, searing him with their finality. “You’re truly lost to me.” The sting of those words was a wound deeper than any blade could cut. He had become the very thing he once feared, and in doing so, he had driven away the only person who mattered.

Astarion’s hands dug into the earth, his nails clawing at the dirt. I was a fool to think I could have it all. Power, control, and her love? I was deluding myself. His tears mixed with the soil, a rare and bitter testament to his internal torment.

But even in his despair, a new resolve took root. He would not give up on her. He would pursue her, find her, and make her see that they were destined to be together. Her scent lingered in his mind, the memory of her touch a phantom sensation on his skin. I will not be denied. I will have her back. She will understand that we are meant to be together.

His sobs grew quieter, the rawness of his grief settling into a cold, hard determination. He had lost Sima, but he would not lose himself again. He would embrace the darkness fully, let it consume him if that was the price of his choices. But he would also harness it to find her, to bring her back to him. You will see, Sima. You will understand.

The wind whispered through the graveyard, the fog curling around him like a shroud. Astarion stood, his eyes cold and hard, the last vestiges of his kinder self slipping away. He had made his choice, and now he would live with the consequences. But he would also fight for what he believed was his.

Goodbye for now, Sima. You were my last hope, and I shattered it with my own hands. But this is not the end. I will find you. I will bring you back. And I will make you mine, forever, he thought, his lips curling into a bitter smile as he walked away from the holy ground, each step a testament to his transformation and his unyielding obsession.

The man you loved is truly gone. And what remains... will stop at nothing to reclaim you.

[jaehwaniee]

250329 KEN • NEWS [ (1) — (2) — (3) — (4) — (5) — (6) — (7) ]

VIXX KEN donates 10 million won to forest fire victims

KEN, a member of the group VIXX, has added strength to the wildfire relief efforts.

Hope Bridge National Disaster Relief Association (Chairman Song Pil-ho) announced on the 29th that KEN donated 10 million won to help with the recovery of wildfire victims in Gyeongbuk, Gyeongnam, and Ulsan.

This donation will be used for emergency relief, provision of daily necessities, operation of temporary shelters, and support for recovery and daily life restoration for residents in wildfire-affected areas such as Ulsan, Gyeongbuk, and Gyeongnam.

KEN said, "I made this donation hoping it would be of some help to those affected by the wildfires. I also want to express my deep gratitude to the firefighters who are doing their best to extinguish the fires," and added, "I hope all the victims can return to their peaceful daily lives as soon as possible"

Hope Bridge Secretary General Shin Hoon said, "We are grateful for KEN's sincere donation" and "Hope Bridge will be with you until the end on the road to recovery of daily life so that the heart you sent can reach the affected neighbors and the site."

Meanwhile, Hope Bridge is providing relief supplies totaling 450,000 items, including relief kits, shelter partitions, blankets, daily necessities, bottled water, and food items, to the wildfire-affected areas, and is also continuing activities such as providing meals for firefighters and laundry support in shelters.

The Hope Bridge National Disaster Relief Association is a disaster relief fundraising organization established in 1961 by media outlets and social groups across the country. Its main activities include emergency disaster relief, fundraising and distribution of public donations, community recovery after disasters, and support for disaster-vulnerable groups. To date, it has provided 1.6 trillion won in donations and over 60 million relief items.

[hedgiwithapen]

dhd prompt - “i needed you and you weren’t there” hiro & tadashi bh6

(epilogue to my old Fic The Only Payoff. If you haven't read it, AU where Tadashi lives but everyone's still super traumatized about it)

"You're not sleeping," Tadashi said. He'd meant to bring it up over breakfast, over classwork, anything but late at night, in their partitioned bedroom. 

"Clearly you aren't either," Hiro said from across the room.

"That's not what I meant," Tadashi sighed. A stray glow in the dark star let off a dull yellow-green light above him, less bright than the streetlight outside. He used to keep the blinds down at night, but after so long in the dark, he took comfort in the dull orange light, the flicker of night-traffic going up the hill. "I'm just worried about you. You're not sleeping, you're quieter--"

"Maybe it's puberty. Just ask Baymax, since he knows everything."

Tadashi sighed again. Fixing Baymax was taking longer than anticipated. "Hiro," he started again.

"I said, I'm fine," Hiro snapped, cutting him off. 

"And I know you," Tadashi said. "I know when you're lying. Hiro, I don't understand why you won't talk to me."

"Because I needed you, and you weren't there!" Hiro burst out. "I needed you and you were dead! Ok? And sometimes I go to sleep and I think, when I wake up-- you'll have been in there. The fire. And we were wrong about the whole thing, and I have to do all this without you-- because you were in there. You could have died. You could have died in there, or, or you could have been so badly hurt you died after, or he could have killed you like he almost did the team."

"But I didn't." Tadashi said. His chest felt tight, a lung full of imagined smoke.  

"But you did. You ran in there. You left me.  You can't-- you make all these promises about not leaving but you did. We got--so, so lucky." Hiro's voice was louder, wavering. "And it was brave and it was stupid and I can't be mad at you because I got you back, and because it was his fault, but-- I am. You left us, you left me. What am I supposed to do about that?"

"Hiro," Tadashi threw back his coverlet, stumbling to his feet and across the room. His leg was still stiff from recovery. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." 

Hiro hugged him tight. "You're not allowed to do that. Not ever again, ok?"

"Ok," Tadashi agreed readily. "No more running into burning buildings.  And you don't go through any portals. deal?"

He extended his pinky. Hiro hooked his own around it. 

"Thank you," Tadashi said, though he didn't feel grateful. It hurt, to be reminded  how badly he'd messed up. How his disappearance had destroyed the people he loved, even if it wasn't his fault... It still was. He had gone in after Callaghan, with no thought, no plan, no safety equipment. Hiro was right.

But the worst of it was, he knew he couldn't promise not to leave again. He couldn't know the future, but everyone died someday. Like their parents.  Dying was one thing. Breaking a promise was another.

Long after he heard Hiro's light snoring, Tadashi stared at that single glowing star.   

[helooproto]

whoagh

in the time since switching to a linux system, including for gaming i have had to: wipe my drives 8 times reformat them 10 times create new partitions 6 times change steam settings 81 times thought my system was bricked 2 times had to enable gpt partition table recovery in the bios 1 time worth it ngl worth it for that 1 second boot time