#batch skip tracing

[meiplays]

Sweetest Recipe

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Flirty teasing, thigh riding, grinding, neck kisses, playful biting, SFW

Word count: ~1,010 words

The bunker kitchen had never looked quite so tempting before. You stood side by side, flour dusting your hands and countertops as you tried to focus on the simple task of baking a batch of chocolate chip cookies. But Dean’s eyes never left you, watching like you were the only dessert in the room.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a slow smile playing on his lips. "You know, I think we’re missing one ingredient."

You raised an eyebrow, smirking back. "Oh yeah? What’s that?"

He took a slow step forward, voice dropping just a little. "You."

Before you could tease him back, Dean’s hand slid to your waist, pulling you gently toward him. His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, full of that dangerous, playful heat you loved.

Without breaking eye contact, he sank onto a kitchen stool and pulled you close. You felt the press of his thigh against yours, firm and steady. "You’re way sweeter than any cookie we could bake," he murmured.

Your heart skipped, and a bold idea struck. You shifted, straddling his thigh lightly, hips brushing over his denim-covered leg, grinding just a little to the slow grin on his face. The warmth of his body beneath you was intoxicating, mixing with the rich smell of chocolate and vanilla in the air.

Dean caught your jaw gently between his fingers, tilting your face up. His lips brushed your neck, soft but deliberate, sending shivers down your spine. "You taste even better," he whispered.

Your hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in lightly as you leaned in to press a long, teasing kiss to his mouth. His arms wrapped around your hips, holding you close, steady, as you moved slowly, grinding just enough to make you both forget the cookies waiting to bake.

The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, hotter. Every sound—your breaths, the scrape of his jeans—filled the space like a secret song.

Dean’s lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, then down to your collarbone, each kiss a promise of more. You pulled his face back up to yours with a sly smile, brushing your nose against his, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

He chuckled low, voice husky. "Guess we don’t need cookies to sweeten the night."

You grinned, feeling the heat of his body, the rough stubble against your cheek, and the undeniable spark that always made everything better than any recipe ever could.

"Maybe you are the dessert," you said softly, tracing lazy circles on his shoulder.

Dean’s grin grew wider. “Oh, I’m gonna savor every bite.”

Then, without warning, his teeth lightly sank into your hip through your jeans—just a playful, teasing bite. You gasped, heat rushing straight to your core.

He smirked against your skin, voice low and teasing. “Didn’t say I’d be gentle.”

His teeth grazed your skin again, harder this time, tracing slow, deliberate nips along your waist. You felt the fire burning hotter now, your breath catching with every bite.

Dean’s hands tightened on your hips as he looked up at you with that wicked gleam in his eyes. “You like that?” he whispered, biting another spot just below your ribs.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding, the delicious mix of pain and pleasure making your skin tingle.

“’Cause I’m just getting started.”

You shivered, tangled in Dean’s arms and his teasing mouth, feeling more alive than any cookie or dessert ever made you feel.

A loud beep from the oven broke the spell. You pulled back, laughing breathlessly.

Dean smirked, running his thumb over your flushed cheek. "Timer’s up. Cookies or me—which one’s gonna win?"

You grinned, wiping flour from his cheek. "Both. But I’m definitely sweeter."

He laughed and pulled you in for one last lingering kiss before turning to pull the tray from the oven.

Flour suddenly flew—his hand flicking some at you playfully—and before you knew it, a full-blown flour fight was on, laughter echoing through the bunker kitchen.

And maybe the cookies would burn, but the night? That was already perfect.

[pinkberrytea]

If you could breathe, he would be the air in your lungs; if your heart could beat, he would be the lifeblood coursing through your veins.

O, Fitcher’s bird, how com’st thou here? And what may the young bride be doing?

Vanitas—Life is vain. As the true nature of their bond is revealed, the Vampire Ascendant’s Dark Consort is reminded of the futility of swimming against the currents of fate, and must decide whether she shall drown in its river of blood, or let herself be gently carried to the shore.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 12.8k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! i decided to attempt something a little more plot heavy this time, hopefully it is an interesting read! again i would like to dedicate this work to @locallegume and hismostbelovedspawn. thank y’all for being always so kind and supportive!

( part 1 here ) ( part 3 here )

tags: blood drinking; non-con blood drinking; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; creampie; hurt & comfort; emotional sex; dry humping; possessive behavior; intercrural sex; frottage; mind control; aftercare; choking; piv sex

He will notice. He will know.

The metal surface of the key on your hand feels cool against your skin; lifeless and cold, not unlike yourself. As you look down at it, the world dissolves into darkness, a sickening surge of dread welling up from your stomach and running down your spine. Its serrated edge is stained with red—your red. Even if you wipe it, wash it with soap and water, rub it vigorously until all traces of blood are gone, remnants of your scent will linger on it still. Maybe not to the untrained nose, no; but to a vampire, it would most definitely be noticeable, of that you are certain. Your darling is, however, no mere vampire, but the Ascendant, whose consort’s distinctive bouquet he would undoubtedly be able to recognize anywhere, even more so while it is still fresh. There is no escaping your fate, and as that merciless truth dawns on you, you curse yourself for your own foolishness, for your vain stubbornness. Was it worth it? Whatever did you gain from this? Knowledge? For what purpose? To what end? You find answers to none of these questions, and yet another plagues your mind—once the truth is uncovered, what will happen then?

“My lady. The master is home.”

If your inert heart was capable of skipping a beat, it would have done so just now. You turn around in a swift movement, only to be met with a pair of ruby red eyes staring back into your own, their gaze ever so apathetic, unemotional, yet you see a spark of something in them that worries you greatly: cognizance. She knows; the one your darling calls your “lady-in-waiting”, who you are nonetheless very well aware is loyal not to you, but to him, and him alone. She is the only one who remained from the very first batch of spawn he sired, other than you. Shortly after you both moved into what would come to be known as the crimson palace, now his by right following his triumph over his old master, he decided that all the mortal servants who survived were to be turned, for he aspired to make an army of spawn, and where better to start than by turning those who would willingly surrender themselves to him? 

She was one such servant, of course; a human, whose short lifespan would be made inconsequential by the gift of immortality. And yet, as he would soon come to learn, not even the Vampire Ascendant is immune to the dangers of siring those who have yet to prove themselves worthy. One fateful evening, upon walking into one of your fellow spawn trying to force himself on you, he would kill them all in a fit of rage, taking back the gift he had so generously offered only to be repaid with such vile betrayal—all except your lady-in-waiting, whom he had grown to trust, for she was hauntingly fascinated with his eternal adoration of you. As it were, she was the one who warned him of what had been about to happen that night; not out of fondness for you, naturally, but rather as a desperate measure to protect from corruption what she worshiped as the purest form of love, one so raw and so relentless that not even the gods themselves would dare quell its vicious, unforgiving flames. She would not allow anyone to rob you from him, nor anything to stand between you—not even yourself.

“Ah, yes. I’ll be there in a moment,” you say, trying to sound as collected as you possibly can, yet failing miserably at it. The situation you’ve been caught in looks incredibly suspicious as there would otherwise be no reason for you to be in your lover’s study, crouching behind his desk, and both you and your lady-in-waiting are fully aware of this. She can probably smell the scent of your blood, too, as the papercut on your thumb leaks still, a thin red trail running down your hand, smudged on the spot where it came into contact with the object that is now evidence of your misdeed. Neither of you acknowledge this, yet the oppressive silence lingers, perhaps even more unnerving than it would have been if she said something, anything about it. But she doesn’t—in fact, she remains completely still, standing in the doorway and watching you quietly, knowingly, her sharp eyes boring into your jittery self. She doesn’t intend to leave, not without you at least. 

You look at the documents scattered over the desk, and then back at her, almost as if to ask for permission; she doesn’t react to this, which is as good an answer as any. With trembling fingers, you awkwardly gather the papers and put them back inside the open drawer as discreetly as you can, praying that she hasn’t noticed which drawer it is, yet knowing full well she likely has. One paper remains—the one whose rugged edge cut into your flesh, and that which you’d been reading before it spilled your blood and stained the drawer’s key. It is the sole reason why you are even here, stuck in this predicament. 

Earlier in the day, one of the maids had brought a letter that had arrived that morning to your darling while you were both sitting at the breakfast table—a letter addressed to you. You questioned him about it, asked him if you could read it, yet as he’d done with the many others that had arrived before it, he’d lay it aside and tell you, “Dearest, let me spare you the trouble of worrying your pretty little head about such trifling matters.” And as always you’d comply, because you trusted him. Still and all, when hours later he’d inform you he had some urgent business to attend to in the upper city and that he wouldn’t be back for supper, your mind would sneakily wander to thoughts of stealing into his study while he was gone. Could those letters have been sent by your old companions? Those who had once traveled alongside you—those who you had once called friends? It would be easy, so easy to just grab the key to the drawer where he’d toss your correspondence, for you knew he kept it in the pocket of his overcoat, yet you trusted him, did you not? You’d tell yourself you did, and then let the matter rest; for a few minutes at least, before your wandering thoughts would inevitably circle back to the tantalizing prospect of seizing that golden opportunity. You managed to suppress the ever growing temptation for the rest of the day, but when the clock struck nine, that fading last chance became too hard to resist, and curiosity emerged victorious in the fierce battle raging within you.

Your prize now lies before you, for better or for worse, although as you’ve come to find out, and to your utter disappointment, the sender is in fact not any of your old companions. As for the contents—too much information, too little time to process, and you’ve yet to make sense of it all. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, you take one last look before tucking the letter back inside the envelope, eyes lingering on the sender’s initials: 

To the bride of the Vampire Ascendant,

I hope this letter finds you well. As with my others, I don’t expect a response, yet ever so often I feel compelled to write to you on the off chance that the information I share may somehow be of use. I suppose I may have something of a soft spot for you, for I have once been in a position I consider very similar to yours. I would even go so far as to call you kin. Yet as I have done in the past, I would remind you that there will always be a way out. You are not trapped, regardless of what your sire would have you believe. 

Observations I’ve made over the past few years have all but confirmed my thesis that you are indeed no spawn—not of the common variety, anyway—and while I empathize with your unwillingness to put that theory to the test, the evidence leaves little room for interpretation. I understand my… surveillance of you may be unsettling, but I cannot ignore what is to me now clear as day: you do bear three bite marks, do you not? One on your neck, the other on your shoulder, and the last one on your wrist. 

I implore that you think back to your turning: was there pain? Was it agonizing? Terrifying? A spawn’s turning is a terrible, terrible thing. Do you remember the gruesome feeling of all life being drained from your body? Because if not—well, that would be most unusual. Did you partake of your sire’s blood? Not that you’d be able to remember that, of course. The usual turning rite is nothing like what you probably experienced. Three bites, delirious pleasure, drinking from your sire: all hallmarks of a vampiric bride’s creation. The dark kiss, they call it. Has your sire ever compelled you? Surely not. You retain your free will, after all, unlike common spawn. And that is my point: the connection needs not be severed for you to leave. 

If you ever reconsider my offer, our small settlement in Gillian’s Hill would welcome you with open arms. Some of us are also runaway brides, although none are sunwalkers like yourself, of course. Our community would benefit greatly from your presence. Should you decide to join us, just say the word—I will come to you. 

Your friend,

L.I.

The hour of reckoning is upon you.

There he stands, near the entranceway, surrounded by the servants who have come to greet him. He is giving instructions to one of them—you will be hosting another of his infamous soirees soon it seems. Some patriar’s niece has apparently taken a liking to him, puppy love no doubt, an excellent opportunity to make yet another powerful ally. You watch him silently from your position a few feet away, your lady-in-waiting close beside you, and the pit of your stomach tightens every time it seems he is about to turn in your direction. It takes but a few minutes for him to finally acknowledge your presence—his stern gaze immediately softens once he lays eyes on you, the hint of a smile appearing on his lips, and for a moment you almost lose yourself in the gentleness of his expression.

“...Astarion,” you softly say his name, your voice quiet, uncertain. His smile widens as he turns away from the servant and approaches you; the closer he is, the better you can see him, and you can’t help but think of how very handsome he looks in his black waistcoat, embroidered with red spinel gemstones. The overflowing love you feel impossibly warms your chest and causes tears to well up in your eyes at the mere sight of him, yet the creeping guilt haunts you still, impossible to ignore.

“My love,” he coos, bringing his hand to your face and lovingly brushing his fingers against your cheek. You lean into his touch, yet the tenderness is short-lived; with that same hand, he then grabs your neck—his grip firm, but not tight—and leans down to press his mouth to yours while holding you in place. His lips are soft, warm—you close your eyes and try to revel in the comforting feeling of your skin against his, but that too doesn’t last long. He lets you go, smiling still, and tucks a few strands of stray hair that have come undone from your hairdo behind your ear. You look up at him from under thick lashes, trying your best not to lose your composure, yet something in your gaze apparently gives you away. As his eyes meet yours, his smile slowly fades and he raises a brow ever so slightly, puzzled countenance inconspicuous to all but you. 

“My lord, would you have the maids prepare the—oof,” you hear your lady-in-waiting start to say, only to be abruptly cut off as she trips over her own feet and bumps into you. Your body sways with the impact, not enough for you to fall, but with just about the force required for your torso to slightly bend over.

Clang.

All those present turn to the source of the metallic sound in the otherwise quiet room, you included, and upon seeing the object that now lays on the floor, so close it almost comes into contact with the tip of your shoe, the already cold blood in your veins congeals into ice—the key. You had hurriedly cleaned it and stuffed it under your petticoat before leaving the study with your lady-in-waiting in tow so you could later get rid of it while no one was watching, yet it seems that plan is now no longer an option. You press your lips together and slowly turn your head to the side, tentatively glancing at your lover, and what you see causes any remnants of color to drain from your already pale face. Any semblance of joy in his expression has completely vanished as his now darkened eyes glare fixedly at the unassuming piece of metal by your feet. Without uttering a word, he leans down and picks it up. The atmosphere is so thick you could cut it with a knife; no one dares break the foreboding silence, and all you can hear is the now painfully loud ticking of the grandfather clock adorning the grand foyer.

“How… curious,” he finally says, voice low, seemingly calm, yet your trained ear can discern the underlying anger. You gulp uncomfortably and wipe your sweaty hands on the skirt of your house dress, eyes never leaving his face, studying every twitch of his muscles. “Has the key to my drawer created a life of its own, I wonder? There can surely be no other explanation. How else would it have made its way here? Unless of course…” he raises his head to meet your stare, and you instinctively recoil at the seething ire building up underneath his otherwise impassive visage, “it had some help.”

“I…” you stutter, your throat completely dry, causing your voice to crack and come out raspy, so hushed it is barely above a whisper. You turn to your lady-in-waiting, brows knitting together in your desperation, but she doesn’t look back at you, coldly avoiding your gaze. All the other servants watch you silently, apprehensively, exchanging knowing glances. “The—the laundry basket. It could have been thrown in there. Transferred from one pocket to the other…” You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, and as a surge of blind panic rises within you, wild and unruly, you start feeling nauseous and light-headed, your trembling knees threatening to give out. “If not that, then—I don’t know… I can’t think of any other reason why I’d have it…”

“Oh?” His fury becoming increasingly more difficult to subdue, the flames of anger now lick through Astarion’s eyes; you can see yourself reflected in them, one of the boons he so lovingly extended to you, and despite knowing how lucky you are for having never been required to let go of your own image, staring back at your pathetic, quivering frame makes you wish for a moment you were like the other spawn, with whom he would refuse to share his ascended blessings—yet as soon as the thought crosses your mind, you shun your own petty egotism, for you know how much he has sacrificed—how much you have both sacrificed—to ensure neither you nor him would have to hide in the shadows ever again. “Is that right? I suppose that could be possible. Except,” he scowls, and you feel all hairs on your body stand on end in anticipation for what you predict will come next, “that doesn’t explain why it smells of your blood, of all things. Does it, darling?”

This is it. You always knew it was pointless to come up with excuses, yet you tried to deceive him anyway, foolishly both underestimating and defying the person whom you were supposed to trust the most. Your eyes ashamedly leave his face and you lower your gaze, not bothering to answer—at this point, there is nothing you could say that would avert or deescalate the situation. You’ve made your bed, and now must lie in it. After all this time, after all you’ve been through, to think you’d still betray him, lie to him; it is despicable, indefensible. 

“To the boudoir. Now.” Each word he articulates drips with contempt, the hostility in his voice now undeniable. Your eyes sting as the tears start to form and bead your lashes, blurring your vision. Shame, guilt, fear, regret—the unsightly commingling of emotions comes to a head, making you feel unworthy of even being in his presence.

“I—”

“I was not asking, darling.” He grabs your wrist as he says this, his grasp so strong you’re afraid he may dislocate it. You let out a yelp, and he turns your hand around, exposing the bright red papercut at the base of your thumb, maculating the thin, sensitive skin between it and your palm. It no longer bleeds, but even your enhanced vampiric healing talents have not been enough to allow the still fresh wound to close in the short time that has transpired since it was inflicted upon your flesh. As you anxiously raise your eyes to meet his gaze, your heart sinks at the realization that he is not only furious—he is hurt. He is scared. He is heartbroken. 

“Astarion, please—” you try to say, but he doesn’t let you finish, closing his fingers around your upper arm and forcefully dragging you across the foyer. The servants know well not to follow; they say nothing as you both make your way down the main hall, Astarion’s feet heavily striking the ground with every step, and you treading close behind, stumbling and trying to keep pace with him. You’re unsure what to think, unsure what to feel. While he was always prone to outbursts of anger, you have never before seen him react so viscerally to anything—not like this, not even in his most vulnerable moments. You know him better than you know yourself, maybe even better than he knows himself; in the many years you’ve spent in each other’s arms, you have always been able to read his every expression, decipher his every thought—but this, this you don’t understand. It’s novel, foreign, terrifying. 

“Astarion…” As the two of you turn a corner, finally no longer within the servants’ line of sight, you try to speak once more, fighting back the tears. “Please…” you whimper, your forlorn supplications going unanswered, unheeded, as if never uttered at all. “Please… you’re hurting me…”

As soon as the words leave your lips, he abruptly stops, and you feel his grip on your arm tighten. When he turns around to face you, you cower at the wrath you had never before seen manifest with such intensity in his eyes, and mixed with it, although less discernible, fear—raw, violent and hellacious. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched, and the loud thumping of his heart sounds like an accusation, a condemnation of your wretched selfishness. It now only beats once more because of you; because of your complacence, your foolishness, your blithering, pitiful neediness. You wanted him to love you, feared that he’d leave you, and while telling yourself it was because you wanted him to be happy, you sentenced him to eternal guilt. All the sacrifice, all the hurt… and now you’d turn your back on him? You’d make light of the bond of trust you had so earnestly forged and nourished throughout the years—the only reason why you both live still?

“I am hurting you?” Astarion hisses through his teeth, letting go of your arm only to use that same hand to fiercely grab your throat and shove you onto the sill of a nearby window, forcing you to lean against it in a half-seated position, yet at the same time cradling the back of your head with his other hand to cushion the impact. “You come uninvited into my study, rummage through my things, lie to me about it—yet I’m the one hurting you? Do you even hear yourself?” He straddles you and brings his face close to yours, his nails digging into your neck, squeezing it to the point of slightly choking you. 

“...You—you’re the one who’s lying…” you manage to say between pants and squeaks, for despite having no need to breathe, it is difficult for you to talk or emit any sounds at all with your windpipes crushed under his grasp. “You’ve been lying to me… all this time…” He buries his fingers deeper into your skin, but that doesn’t stop you from finishing, it doesn’t prevent the impending disaster about to strike. “I’m not your spawn… I never was.”

You don’t know what has come over you, but the words are spoken before you can swallow them. Astarion seems as taken aback as you are at your defiance—he looks stunned for a few seconds, yet as soon as he recovers, his eyes narrow and glow with sanguineous intent, a darkness so ghoulish and vile festering deep within them that for a moment, you become genuinely frightened. His hand lets go of your neck to then aggressively pull at the hair on top of your scalp, forcibly tilting your head upwards, and he slams the other on the wall next to the window, entrapping you against it.

“No, darling, you are my spawn. My spawn. Mine. Your body, your mind, your soul, they all belong to me. I’ve made you. You are mine to use however I please,” he growls, spitting each word with viperous malice.

Before you can react to this, or even begin to process what is happening, shock waves are sent through your body in the wake of the lancinating pain that suddenly shoots up your throat as he violently sinks his fangs into the hollow at its base. You let out a soundless gasp and your eyes widen in shock, the tears that had been threatening to fall finally streaming down your cheeks. Him feeding on you is a daily occurrence, something you were supposed to already be entirely used to, but never before had he been so forceful, never before had it hurt this much. He sucks with such vigor and so sloppily that the blood spills from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto the white fabric of your clothes, speckling them red. His fingers remain tangled in your hair, keeping your head in place as he drinks, and your hairdo partly unravels. You are unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think, even, but not unable to feel: you feel shame, you feel guilt, you feel remorse, for betraying him when trust was the only thing you could ever offer, the only thing that was even left.

“I’m sorry…” you lament, your voice so quiet you are unsure if he is even able to hear you, so you say it one more time. And then another. And you keep repeating it, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much effort it takes to voice each word, you apologize again and again hoping your feelings will somehow reach him, hoping he will somehow understand how ashamed you are of yourself, how regretful you feel, how deeply you love him—and you do, you love him, so profoundly that life to you has no meaning without him by your side. If you could breathe, he would be the air in your lungs; if your heart could beat, he would be the lifeblood coursing through your veins. He is your sire, your darling, your master—he is your everything. In hurting him, you hurt yourself, and in breaking his trust, you destroy the very foundation of your existence. 

I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you.

As your crimson runs down his throat, Astarion can feel it. Your anguish. Your sorrow. All of it. He can feel them so intensely, that it’s as if your feelings are his own—and they are, for he too feels scared, he too feels ashamed, he too loves you, just as desperately, just as ardently. He is scared of losing you, ashamed of hurting you, and the love you share has ascended to such heights that it needs not be voiced, it needs not be reaffirmed. Nothing terrifies him as much as the idea of being apart from you, and he’d do anything to keep you close; if that implies lying to you, inflicting pain on you, then he’ll gladly embrace the shame, for he never thought himself worthy of your love to begin with. And despite it all, you’d still have him—you’d still join him in immortality, trust him beyond reason, bow down and accept your position below him, for power is all he has ever known, all that has ever mattered, and wielding power over you is his only way of ensuring you will never be taken from him. 

I want you. I need you. Don’t leave me.

The tears you shed fall from your eyes and drip onto Astarion’s face as if wept by him; the sensation brings him back to reality, and as the fog clears, he is relentlessly assailed by the regret welling up within his heart. Finally unlatching his mouth from your neck, he slowly lifts his head up to look into your eyes, releasing his grip on your hair and using the newly freed hand to wipe his lips and chin, which are now smeared with blood—with that same hand, he then cups your cheek, gently brushing his thumb against your skin, and in doing so, painting a red streak across it.

“Forgive me… please forgive me…” you plead between soft sobs, the teardrops uncontrollably pouring and mixing with your crimson. Cupping your cheek still, he uses his other hand to dry the now ruby-colored beads, his caresses ever so tender, ever so gentle. Although the darkness has not entirely faded from his eyes, it is eclipsed by the genuine warmth blooming on their dewy surface. He rests his forehead against yours, sliding his fingers which are now wet from the bloody droplets down your shoulders, gliding them across your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist, your hip. His touches are so incredibly delicate, tentative almost, that it’s as if you were made out of porcelain and applying the slightest amount of pressure would cause you to break into a thousand pieces.

“Shh. It’s over, my love. It’s over.” He is so close to you that his breath tickles your face and his lips graze yours as he speaks, the soothing tone of his voice lulling your frenzied mind. After hesitating for a split second, his wandering digits venture further down, toying with the hemline of your dress, hiking the bloodstained fabric up just enough to expose the waxen skin of your thigh, only to then slip under it. A shiver of anticipation runs down your spine, and still unsure what to make of his advances, you let your eyes fall shut, savoring the moment as if waiting for the spell to break, as if the illusion is about to shatter, yet it doesn’t—instead, he finally closes the distance between you, covering your mouth with his and spreading your crimson that still trickles down his jaw all over you both. As you kiss, some of it makes its way onto your tongue, the coppery flavor so very familiar, for your blood is one and the same, and tasting yourself is as if tasting him.

“That's what you want, isn't it? To be mine? Forever?”

His lips never leaving yours, Astarion moves his hand on your cheek to the side of your head so he can run his fingers through your hair, brushing it out of your face, now damp from your blood only as the tears slowly dry. The hand under your dress finds its way to your backside, splaying across its soft curve and slightly lifting you up from the windowsill, supporting your weight as he leans his body into yours to pin you against the glass. You hold onto his shoulders with both of your hands and wrap your legs around his waist to keep yourself from slipping, bringing him closer and pushing his crotch flush against your stomach; doing so allows you to feel the obvious erection under his pants, which you hadn’t yet noticed was there. While this would be a common effect of feeding under other circumstances, it startles you at first, flusters you almost, yet the reason for his sudden wantonness notwithstanding, even if you can’t fully understand it, what you do know is that the two of you may need this just as urgently—to lose yourselves in lust and hunger, feel each other, be reassured that you are both still here, that you are both still real. 

Letting out a low groan, he starts leisurely rolling his hips, burying the fully hardened bulge between your thighs. No less eager to touch him, you rock your own in rhythm with his movements, to which your body responds more willingly than what either of you would have anticipated, heat pooling in your abdomen and wetness collecting between your folds, some of which soaks through your underpants—the sweet scent of your budding arousal encourages him to keep going, and the fingers of his hand propping up your behind reach for their waistband, slipping under the lacy fabric and pulling at it. With some effort he is able to get them to slide down a little, but not enough to expose your aching sex; deciding to try a different approach instead, he untangles his other hand from your hair and uses it to pull his own pants down, freeing his already leaking cock. Were this any other day, he would have taken his time teasing you, building you both up to the edge only to pull away at the last minute and start all over again, but not this time. Never before had Astarion’s urgency to take you been this great; never before had he felt like he must make you his as quickly as possible, lest you are forever lost to him.

Lifting up your petticoat to gain access to your still clothed core, he slides his cock under it, your underpants now the only layer separating your flesh from his. You moan against his lips at the sensation, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, slipping his warm tongue inside your partially open mouth. As the petticoat falls back down, he has his freed hand join the other, using both to cradle your ass, his long digits groping and fondling the soft skin. While rolling his tongue over yours, he resumes his hip movements, massaging your dripping slit with his length and squeezing even more slick out of you, drenching the fabric that envelops it in your juices; due to the friction and the wetness, the flimsy piece of cloth starts wrinkling and sliding to the side, revealing more of your swollen folds with each thrust. Noticing this, he tilts his pelvis, angling himself to help push it out of the way, and it doesn’t take long before your skin finally comes into contact with his—once it does, you jerk your hands away from his shoulders to then wrap your arms tightly around his neck, and he avidly sucks on your bottom lip, fighting off the urge to sink his fangs into it, drawing even more of your blood.

Wet as you are, he glides effortlessly along your now partially naked mound, gently nudging your twitching entrance with the velvety tip of his cock, only to then back away slowly, spreading your folds apart and massaging the engorged bud atop them as he moves. Although his pace is languid, you can tell by his small grunts that he is growing more desperate, more impatient; once your mouths unweave, a thin string of saliva forming between your bruised, reddened lips, you are unwittingly sucked into the endless vortex of passion and yearning lurking within his crimson irises, his feelings flooding into your own heart as you lock eyes with him. Without you, there is nothing—without you, he is nothing. He offered you eternal life, and in return, you promised him eternal love; you cannot, you will not back away now. Only by feeling you, tasting you, ruining you can he convince himself that you remain within his reach, that you belong to him still. The intensity of his gaze overwhelms you, yet as you turn your head to the side to avoid it, he brings one of his hands up from under your dress and grasps your chin, forcing it back into its previous position.

“Eyes on me, darling,” Astarion says, his voice soft, but his tone firm, commanding; as if under a spell, you obey unquestioningly, staring back at him as intently as you can manage while he grinds against the raw, sensitive skin of your center, sliding along the wetness between your puffed folds and coating his cock in your sticky essence, the lewd squelching noises that ensue echoing in the empty hallway. Now increasing the tempo of his thrusts, he presses his throbbing cockhead harder and harder against your cunt with every jerk of his hips, threatening to stretch its tight borders open only to then pull back, the agonizing anticipation of it setting your nerves on fire. The coiling tension in your abdomen grows tauter by the minute, begging for release, and you can no longer feel the searing pain of the gaping wound on your neck, your mind shamelessly burdened with naught but thoughts of him—of how much you love him, how much you want him, how desperately you need him inside you, buried soul-deep, filling you to the brim. 

His appetites mirror your own, for he too craves nothing more than to have you wrapped around him, ready and primed for him to use however he wishes, for you are his, and that is his prerogative—but first, he would have you come undone, watch as you crumble into nothing at his behest. Without ever breaking eye contact, not wanting to miss a second of your unraveling, he pounds into the outer edges of your entrance with ever increasing furor, dipping his cockhead deeper within it each time, while simultaneously holding back the overwhelming urge to stuff you full in a single thrust. He can tell you are close, so close; as you have not fed since morning, the color of your flushed cheeks is not nearly as bright as it would have otherwise been, but he can still hear it—what little remains of your cold blood rushing through your veins, frantically flowing to your face and cunt, puffing up your skin and painting it a pale pink. 

You’re a vision like this, parted lips reddened with dried blood, half-lidded eyes curtained by long wet lashes, nipples pebbling under the thin chiffon of your bodice; his pretty consort, his sweet spawn, his good girl, so foolishly trusting, so naively kind. When did he lose sight of you? When did your blind devotion turn into treacherous cynicism? When did the desire to bring you to heel consume him, when did the darkness within start to take hold? As these thoughts sweep through his mind, Astarion forfeits all self-control—he needs to feel you, deeper, closer; conquer your soul, dominate your body, devour you whole. He plunges into you without warning, reveling in the feeling of your tight cunt fluttering and contracting around his cock, creaming and coating him in your sweet come, as having him finally buried deep inside you pushes you over the edge of your release. You shut your eyes close and let your head fall back, only for him to firmly grab your jaw and force it up again, intent on having you face him as you dissolve into pleasure.

“Beautiful,” he purrs, the look in his eyes expressing adoration and subjugation in equal measure. “My sweet girl. My good girl.” Holding your jaw still, he slides in and out of your spasming slit without giving you time to recover from your orgasm, and the pain from the overstimulation overlaps with the high of the afterglow—rather than shun the sensation, you welcome it, for its paradoxical nature at once grounds and comforts you; the greater the pain, the more intensely you can feel him, the more entangled your souls become. The fingers of the hand still holding your ass tighten their grip, pushing your hips against his, tilting them to allow his cock to sink as deeply within you as possible. Although he refuses to avert his gaze, looking upon you with bone-chilling fierceness, the sweat beading his forehead and the growing fervor of his lust-ridden expression give away his ascent to his own rapture. To him, there is no greater bliss than feeling you clench around him as he massages your slickened walls, his velvety tip ever so slightly brushing against the spongy skin of your cervix with every thrust. He belongs inside you, and you belong to him; your body is more his than yours, your heart less yours than his.

“All mine,” he grunts between ragged breaths, the thought of you completely submitting to him, letting yourself be ravaged and debauched for his pleasure alone racing through Astarion’s mind as he reaches his climax, spilling himself all over your walls and flooding you with his warm seed. His hand that had been keeping your jaw in place lets go of it to then splay across the side of your face, affectionately caressing your cheek, and he finally lets his eyes wander away from yours, lowering his head to nuzzle into the crook of your neck while basking in his release; yet the moment is short-lived, for once he catches sight of the still bleeding mess right below his nose, two crimson gashes carved on the pale skin of your throat, his mind suddenly freezes and his gorge rises. All his—but at what cost? Was this what you wished for? Was this what he wished for? You agreed to eternity, accepted your share of the burden, became his of your own volition; but doesn’t a toy become useless once it’s broken? Doesn’t love turn into hate once it’s ruined? He knew the time would come when you’d finally see him for who he truly is, when the pathetic, repulsive rot festering under the husk of shallow charm would be laid bare before you, but why now, when he had gathered enough power to offer you the world and everything in it? Was not even that enough to keep you by his side? Feeling you squirm under him, hearing your pained whimpers and tearful pleas—he was not supposed to take joy in any of it, yet his body would betray his mind as he drained you dry. The more you pull away, the more his obsession grows; the more you try to escape, the less you are likely to get away. So why would you reject a fate you had once embraced? Were you his obedient girl no longer? Would you doom yourself, doom your love, let the dam in his living heart burst and the murky waters within consume you, him, and all in their wake?

“I already have everything. Except you by my side.”

You wince as Astarion pulls out of you, the sensitive flesh of your core now red and tender, slathered with his thick come, which runs down your entrance and onto your thighs. Raising his head back up, he brings his face close to yours, tenderly pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth, his hand on your cheek lingering for a moment before making its way downwards, sliding under your petticoat and reaching for the space between your legs. Once his fingers come into contact with your still exposed wetness, you instinctively roll your hips into the long digits, eliciting a faint smile from him; however, rather than indulging you, he grasps the wrinkled fabric of your underpants, so drenched they have stayed put on your groin ever since being pushed there, and smoothens it as best as he can to cover your dripping sex. Planting another kiss on your bloodstained skin and lovingly rubbing his forehead and nose against yours, he uses that same hand to tuck his softening cock back inside his pants; with one last peck on your temple, he then moves his other hand away from its place on your rear to wrap both of his arms around your waist, hoisting you up. No longer pinned against the glass, legs still around his midriff and arms around his neck, you tighten your grip on him to keep yourself from falling, leaning your upper body forward and resting your chin on his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he coos, bringing one of his hands up to cradle your head and affectionately run his fingers through your hair. Backing away from the window, he then turns around and sets off towards the living quarters, all the while carrying you as if you were unable to walk on your own. Not bothering to question his reasons, you close your eyes, intent on enjoying his uncharacteristic gentleness while it lasts and surrendering to the overwhelming allure of his warmth, his scent, his soothing touch and the soft thumping of his heart, which you can feel with your chest flush against his, as if it beats for the two of you. The familiar aegis of his embrace offers solace and protection in equal measure, and for however long he holds you, you feel safe, you feel loved, and nothing else matters—not the guilt, not his darkness, not your selfishness.

“Astarion…” 

You whisper his name as if chanting a mantra, not really for any other purpose than to comfort yourself. The throbbing pain on your neck, the unpleasant sensation of your fluids and his drying on your thighs, the blood all over your face, hair and clothes; somehow, you care about none of it while in his arms, feeling your body rock gently as he moves, the world an endless void behind your shut eyelids. Before the moment ends, it’s just you and him, him and you—no souls weighing down on either of you other than your own, no phantoms from the past lingering in your memory, no outside voices joining in the chorus and challenging your undying love. The voices within remain, however, loud as ever, questioning if you’ve been forgiven, pondering if you’d even deserve it; while he has yet to let go, they have no power over you, but you’re no stranger to the ephemeral nature of his tenderness. Be that as it may, what scares you more than anything are not the loud accusations echoing on the surface, but rather the quiet murmurs rousing in the depths of your heart—those suggesting that time will erode his essence, stripping him off everything but the desire to consume you.

“I’m willing to share all of this with you. What’s that, if not love?”

“Bring me clean towels and lukewarm water. Make it quick.” His voice sounds muffled as you drift in and out of consciousness, and for the first time you notice you can’t feel the tips of your fingers, the blood loss clearly too great a challenge for even your undead body to overcome. The servant whom he is addressing answers something you can’t quite make out, and with a reverent nod, turns away and takes her leave. You slightly open your eyes to get your bearings, and the first thing you see once they adjust to the sudden brightness is the ornately hand-carved frame surrounding the door to your private chambers, its gilded accents glinting in the light of the candelabra, left behind you as Astarion makes his way further inside the room. Upon reaching the grand canopy bed, draped with opulent velvet curtains, he gently lays you down onto the soft mattress, using the hand still tangled in your hair to support your head. The instant you part with his warm touch, the ever constant coldness of death seeps through your skin, its icy tendrils grazing the fringes of your soul; the sudden loss is, however, somewhat subdued when he then circles the bed and sits down by your side, bringing his fingers to your face to glide their soft pads across your brow, studying your features in reflective silence.

“My lord.” No sooner has she left than the servant is back with a pile of plush cotton towels in her arms, one of your handmaidens following close behind, carrying a wooden wash tub that looks far too heavy for her scrawny frame. You prick up your ears at the sound of the familiar voice, and upon discreetly raising your eyes to take a better look at her, you recognize said servant as none other than your lady-in-waiting; it strikes you as no mere coincidence that she’d been waiting for your arrival with the necessary provisions ready, but you decide not to dwell on it. Likewise, there is no effort on her part to acknowledge you as she sets the towels on the eiderdown duvet, gesturing to the handmaiden to put the wash tub down near the bed.

“Leave us,” Astarion says, addressing them both yet not for a moment letting his eyes drift away from yours. Each gives a brief curtsy before doing as told, carefully closing the door behind them on their way out. Once they’re gone, he reaches out for the towel on top of the pile and dips one of its edges in the clear water inside the tub, letting it soak for a few seconds before pulling it back out. Remaining silent and with his gaze fixed upon you, he then brings the now drenched cloth to his own face and rubs it against his mouth and chin, removing the crimson still spattered over his skin with relative ease. You timidly meet his stare from under thick lashes, feeling a bit faint, your limbs heavy and numb from the lack of blood within your veins.

“...Astarion,” you tentatively call for him, your voice so low you wonder for a moment if he is even able to hear you at all; rather than answering you, he places a finger on your lips, hushing you gently. His jaw now rid of stains, he lays the bloodied towel aside and grabs another, soaking it as he did the first, only this time, he presses it to your cheek instead. The damp fabric feels soft and warm against your gelid complexion, and he dabs at it so delicately, so soothingly, that you find yourself leaning into his touch. Your eyelids start threatening to fall shut again, your mind bereft of all thought, but just as you are about to nod off, he starts speaking, snapping you out of your torpor.  

“I never lied to you. Not really.” As the words leave his lips, Astarion’s eyes darken with an intensity you can’t quite make sense of. Deeming your face to be satisfactorily clean, he lowers the towel to massage the pale skin of your throat, letting his gaze wander away from yours to rest upon the grisly puncture marks left by his own fangs. “You are my spawn. My creation. Born from my blood,” he says, the softness in his voice contrasting with the sobriety of his words and the somberness of his expression. After pausing for a moment, not so much out of hesitation as to stall the inevitable, he continues, finally unearthing that which had been hidden for so long with confounding casualness, the revelation likely to have gone by unnoticed if meant for slightly less attentive ears. “My consort—my bride.”

Neither of you utter another word in the minutes that follow. He remains focused on your neck, undoing the top buttons of your bodice to gain better access to it, thus baring your shoulders and collarbone, carefully patting the towel around the ruptured flesh and wiping the encrusted blood off its swollen borders. You, on the other hand, can do anything but focus, unable to process what has just been exposed or the significance of it. Your body is like a doll’s under his; you do not blink, muscles stiffened and chest unmoving, an inanimate object with no will of its own—but you do have a will of your own, do you not? If the letter is to be given any credence to, then wouldn’t the implication be that he let you believe that he could control you when he in fact could not? And if so—what were you to call it then, if not a lie? Did he not trust you to stay? (Had he no trust in your bond?) Was that the source of his fear? (Were you the source of his fear?)

“Is it true, then?” you hear yourself ask, your mouth moving on its own as you let the surge of emotion guide your actions in the absence of coherent thought. “Can you really not compel me? Am I free to do as I please?” Despite the quiet pitch of your voice, and although it trembles ever so faintly, there is a hint of what Astarion can only discern as resentment laced with it. He suddenly stops moving, the now red towel in his hands still pressed against your skin, remaining motionless for a moment before slowly raising his head to lock eyes with you—and there it is again, that raw, visceral dread, only this time masked with a thin veil of arrogance.  

“Oh, sweet thing. Shouldn’t you know it by now?” His lips slightly curl into a humorless smile, voice smooth as silk, yet the words are spoken with deliberate inflection, eerily measured and dangerously sharp. He discards the towel, having it join the other, and casts a predatory gaze upon you, leaning down until the tip of his nose is only inches apart from yours. Bringing both of his hands to your face, he then gently cups your cheeks, fondly caressing them with his thumbs. “I’m the Vampire Ascendant, bound by no such petty rules. That some meddling busybody would underestimate me is not surprising, but I expected more from my good girl.” To your disconcert, although he says this, glimmers of affection peek through the shadows lurking within his eyes. “I’ve spoiled you.” 

You look up at him in confusion, brows lowered and drawn together, trying and yet failing to read his expression. The smile stays on his lips for a moment, but before long, any warmth in his countenance suddenly vanishes. Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach in anticipation, your body’s primal response signaling the imminent threat, but like a mouse caught in a trap, you are helpless, pinned under him in more ways than one. As you lose yourself in the ruby red pools of his irises, the subtle scent of his cologne, that intoxicating brew of bergamot, rosemary and brandy, grows stronger and more concentrated, filling your nose and wafting down your throat. And then, you feel it—a tingling sensation in your fingers, climbing up your arms, spreading to your ribs and chest. It builds up, intensifies, until it is no longer tingling, but shooting pain, radiating outwards in searing waves. Your every muscle screams in protest, throbbing and burning and aching, but when you try to move your limbs, you find them unresponsive; neither can you open your mouth when you try to scream, not even close your eyes once you feel them brim with tears, which then roll down your temples.

“Ah—ah…!”

“Shh. Don’t fight it, my love. It’ll be over soon.” Astarion says as he softly dries the falling droplets with his thumbs, the words slipping from his pretty lips in dulcet whispers. Once you heed his advice and stop struggling, the pain subsides—you remain, however, a passenger in your own body, unable to do anything but stare into his eyes. Within them, the fear still lingers, but it no longer muddies its bloody waters, suppressed by the confidence now sprouting in their depths; and that’s when you notice that this is to him as much of a novelty as it is to you. Despite his haughtiness, he couldn’t have been sure that it would work, for he had never attempted such a feat before. But alas, any concerns prove now unfounded—you are, and were always his thrall. His puppet bride, subject to his every whim.

“My dark consort. My right hand. My most beloved spawn.”

The compulsion persists for no more than a few minutes, but once he finally loosens his hold on you, it feels as if it’s been hours since last your body was yours to command. With a loud gasp, sucking in the air desperately as if your undead lungs would have any use for it, you are back in control, for what that’s even worth now. Pressing his forehead to yours, he hushes you tenderly, breathing words of comfort as if soothing your unrest after a bad dream. Tears continue pouring from your eyes even as they fall shut, yet the source of your grief is unclear; your mind is, however, in too great a turmoil to allow you to sort out your feelings, so you try to focus on his touch instead, yielding to it as he moves one of his hands from its place on your cheek to lovingly brush your hair away from your face. Regardless, the moment lasts only for so long—once you are no longer as agitated, he pulls away, his expression undecipherable, an uncanny blend of darkness and placidity, dolefulness and sobriety.

“Pay attention, my dear, for this is an offer I will make but once,” he says, the danger in his voice underlying its velvety slickness, reflecting the ambiguous glint in his eyes. As you open your own, you see him take and soak another towel from the pile, which he then brings to your neck to continue removing the dried blood, by now almost completely gone from your skin, yet staining your clothes still. “Freedom. That’s what you wish for, isn’t it?” Smiling bitterly, he undoes the remaining buttons of your bodice, exposing the narrow valley between your breasts, yet his gaze remains drawn to the fresh set of bite marks on your throat; he seems distracted for a moment, but soon enough, his lips continue moving, the tone with which he speaks taking on a deceptively poised quality. “Say the word and I shall unmake our bond. Refuse, and resign to your fate as my eternal spawn.”

Astarion doesn’t look your way even as he tells you this, focusing on the wound still—a manifestation of his inner demons, the sigil of a man who chose to fully embrace the shadows, and whose only remaining light he now tries to dim. Oh, how he wishes the illusion would have lasted forever; you in his arms, eternally his, a bird singing beautifully in its gilded cage. Not clipping your wings was his biggest mistake, for he had always feared that sooner or later, you’d give into the desire to soar high, leave him to waste away, consumed by power and shame. So now he opens the cage himself, before you lose your voice, before the song is silenced. He wants to see it, he needs to see it—hear your denial, feel your rejection, taste your betrayal. Whether he means what he says is inconsequential, for he himself knows not the answer to that; his wish is but to have you confirm what he already understands to be true, so that he may finally snuff out that trembling flame and surrender to lonesome oblivion.

Your answer to him is, however, nothing but silence; having by now wiped most of the stains off your neck area, he straightens his torso, and his eyes finally make their way back to yours—which, to his astonishment, are not only misty and glistening with the tears still pooling in their corners and flowing down your cheeks, but wide and unblinking, unrelenting terror etched across your face. Terror? Why terror? No, no, this makes no sense. Is he to believe you’re crying tears of happiness? Could these be complicated feelings surfacing now that you’ve finally been given that which you’d always wished for? Freedom—that is what you wish for, surely? He never doubted your love, for he could feel it just as you could feel his, but he did question whether just love would be enough to keep you by his side, whether even a love as real as yours would stand the test of time. Never had he been able to understand your love for him, but he knew it to be true, and he would protect it in whatever way he could; as the Ascendant, there was very little he could not do, thus taking away your freedom was the obvious course of action. And yet, now that he offers it back, you react not with relief or gratitude, but terror?

“I would sooner die again,” you finally say, voice quiet and strained, raw emotion pouring from your every word. Astarion stares at you in complete shock, frozen in place, and time seems to come to a standstill while each of you wait for the other to break the silence. As he disconcertedly studies your face, trying to make sense of your unexpected fretfulness, a realization dawns on him—are you perhaps afraid of spending eternity by yourself? Is it not his promise of making you into a full vampire, independent of its creator, but rather the prospect of total separation that upsets you so? That must be it, that has to be it—why else would the offer of freedom, that which has always driven him, the ultimate goal, sound so appalling to your ears? Although it is no less surprising that you wouldn’t use your newfound autonomy to turn your back on him at the first opportunity, as far as his proposal is concerned, this is but a misunderstanding; he should clarify, then.

“You—”

Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

Your words ring in Astarion’s ears as if spoken by you, yet your quivering lips remain sealed. Hah! How quaint, that such an ability would manifest now. As your thoughts flow from you to him, he notices you don’t seem to be aware that you are speaking into his mind. Of course not, why would you? He had kept the nature of your bond a secret, and thus, your mental connection was too concealed. Oftentime you’d unwittingly let your inner voice seep into his head, but never had you noticed, and never had he brought it to your attention. It feels invasive, peeking into your heart when you haven’t let him in, but he can’t help himself, for he needs to know; he needs to be certain that this is what you want, that this is the fate you’ve chosen, no matter how grim, no matter how hopeless.  

I promise I’ll be good. I need you. Please.

Raising your upper body into a seated position, you reach for his arm, and your fingers tentatively grasp at the sleeve of his shirt. You can’t bring yourself to voice your feelings, yet you hope that the earnestness in your tear-filled eyes somehow is enough to convince him of your sincerity, for the thought alone of having your souls ripped asunder horrifies you. You had accepted your circumstances once, and you’d do so again—bearing the guilt and remaining his spawn for the rest of your days is too low a price to pay for his freedom, for his life, for him. All for him. It always was, it always will be. You failed him once; not again. Never again. For however long he’ll have you, you’ll remain by his side, pay your penance, atone for your sins, love him with all of you, body, mind and soul, until there’s nothing left but dust and blood. 

As the confusion in his eyes gives way to gentle warmth, Astarion brings one of his hands to your face, tenderly cradling it and brushing his long fingers against the damp skin. After letting go of the towel which he had been holding still, he leans forward, pausing for a moment to meet your weepy gaze before pressing his pillowy lips to yours, and relief washes over you like a balm. You relax your muscles which you hadn’t noticed were tensed until now, and although you have yet to stop crying, the salty droplets are no longer an expression of fear and regret, but of succor and deliverance. Timidly starting with a sequence of soft, chaste pecks, the kiss gradually becomes more sensual, more passionate, and soon you feel his tongue flick at your bottom lip, asking for passage. Once you comply, he begins eagerly exploring the inside of your mouth, the digits of his other hand running through your hair as he tastes you, unweaving what still remains of your hairdo and letting the tresses fall over your shoulders. Longing to be as close to him as physically possible, you tighten your grip on his sleeve, lovingly nuzzling your nose and cheeks against his, and in doing so, making them wet with your tears. 

Kissing you still, he untangles his fingers from your now freed locks and splays his hand across the small of your back, using his body weight to gently pin you down until you are both lying on the mattress, him on top of you. The hand on your cheek leaves it to reach for the last towel in the pile, which he then blindly soaks in the water remaining within the wash tub; your skin now completely rid of bloodstains, he sticks it under your petticoat instead, bringing it to your groin and tugging at your underpants with one of his digits. This time successfully managing to get them to slide down enough to gain access to your wetness, he delicately presses the soaked cloth to it, eliciting a soft mewl from you. All the while massaging your mouth with his, he rubs the towel up and down the still tender flesh of your sex, thus removing the remnants of earlier activities, yet at the same time nudging your slowly swelling clit with every stroke. Feeling the familiar tautness building up low in your belly, you roll your hips into his hand, squeezing your thighs together and clenching them around his arm, any pretenses of playing coy completely discarded as you helplessly plead for his touch.

Rather than mess around with you like he would on any other occasion, Astarion yields, and as two of his fingers feel up and circle the now twitching bundle of nerves through the wet fabric, another slides further down and rims your slickened entrance. You wantonly whimper against his lips, wrapping both of your arms around his neck, and his hand on your back makes its way to the front of your torso to unfasten the lacing keeping your unbuttoned bodice in place, thus revealing your breasts and stomach. As soon as they come into view, his skilled digits quickly find one of your hardened nipples, pinching and playing with the swollen nub as his tongue continues hungrily swirling around yours and his hand between your legs fondles your aching arousal, coaxing pants and all sorts of cute noises out of you.

“Sing for me, little bird,” he breaks the kiss to purr the words in your ear, fangs gently grazing your earlobe. You readily do as told, moaning and whining with your drying eyes closed, teardrops no longer escaping through your long lashes, and his face creases into a smuggish smile as he watches you writhe and squirm. Once he withdraws both of his hands, you let out a displeased sigh, in response to which his smile widens; finally tossing aside the towel, he then leans back to finish undressing you, and as you help him peel off both your dress and undergarments, you suddenly notice neither of you are wearing shoes, though you can’t recall at which point they were lost. Tucking a hand inside his own pants, he pulls out his cock, still partially soft but rapidly hardening again, yet there seems to be no intention on his part of removing the rest of his clothes, a fact which neither of you seem to mind—if he would rather have you naked and exposed before him, then so be it; if he finds strength in your vulnerability, then you won’t deny it to him, for his comfort is your atonement, even if it costs you your dignity.

“You wouldn't just be some spawn—you’re far more than that to me.”

“Come, pretty vampling,” Astarion beckons, intertwining his fingers with yours and helping you rise to his level. Once you are both sitting up and facing each other, he tenderly kisses the back of your hand, letting go of it to then wrap his strong arms around your waist and pull your chest flush against his, squishing your soft breasts between your bodies. After planting a loving peck on your brow and affectionately rubbing your noses together, he then slightly cocks his head to the side, exposing the smooth skin of his neck, marked only by two shallow indentations, so similar, yet so different from your own. It takes you no more than that to realize what he means, and you gingerly press your mouth to a blue artery pulsating right under his jawline, looking up at him demurely with lamblike eyes, as if waiting for his approval. With an affable simper, he brings one of his hands up to cradle the back of your scalp, which you understand as an assent; parting your rosy lips, you thus brush your fangs against the throbbing vein, only to then sink them into the sensitive flesh, as gently and carefully as possible. He groans at the sensation, not from pain, but pleasure, and you feel him lightly tug at your hair.

His blood tastes rich and angular on your tongue, and your hazy mind slowly clears as the thick crimson starts spreading to your extremities. You suck so delicately that he can barely feel your fangs piercing his neck—instead, he feels the plushness of your lips, the softness of your curves, the heat irradiating from your cold pale skin as it turns warm and flushed. He hugs you tighter, yearning to have you pressed even closer against him, letting out low grunts and quiet moans as you drink, his cock now fully hardened into an angry, painful erection. Bringing both of his hands down to your ass, he firmly squeezes your buttocks and slightly lifts up your body to sit you on his lap; following his lead, you position yourself while feeding still, bending your knees to support your weight on them and lining up your entrance with his leaking tip. However, instead of immediately lowering your hips, you start languidly rocking them back and forth, burying the engorged cockhead between your folds and coating it in your juices.

“Oh, you cheeky brat…” he says, yet the playful tone of his voice encourages you to keep going, even if from your position you can’t see the matching expression on his face, eyes closed and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Gods, you feel good…” His fingers press down harder on the supple skin of your behind, and his crimson takes on a sweeter flavor the more aroused he becomes; as it flows to your center, your rouged clit too grows tumescent with desire, slick dripping from your needy cunt. Setting an agonizingly sensual pace to your rhythmic movements, you bring your hands up to rest on his shoulders, a trail of red escaping from your lips and running down your chin. You can feel his cockhead twitching madly as you engulf it in your wet heat, hungering for the tightness of your walls, but the blood high emboldens you, and you continue stubbornly refusing to give in, even if you want nothing more than to have him stuff you full.

Astarion has, however, only so much patience, and being on the receiving end of teasing doesn’t sit well with him; once he feels the tip of his cock nudge the borders of your slit, he tightens his grip on your ass and yanks your body down, stretching your entrance open and sinking you to about half of his length. You unlatch your mouth from his neck and yelp in surprise, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, but before you can say anything, he crashes his lips into yours, lapping at the blood staining them red. While you kiss, he gives you time to adjust, and his hands move up to your waist, his touch at once firm and gentle. Despite the pain of the sudden intrusion, being filled with him is pure bliss, and as your walls accommodate his size, you start almost imperceptibly undulating your hips, although the slight friction serves only to fan the flames of your desire. Upon taking notice of your shy grinding, he eggs you on, pulling you downwards with only about enough force to encourage you to follow suit. Not willing to hold back any longer, you eagerly comply, lowering your rear until you are fully seated on him, buttocks pressed against his thighs. Stifling a groan, he nips at your bottom lip and sucks on the ruby droplets seeping from the small lesion, your taste indistinguishable from his own. If you’d give yourself to him, then he shall unapologetically take that which he is owed; from the marrow in your bones to the crimson flowing through your veins, you are wholly his to consume.

“You're the one that I want—the one that I love.”

“Hnng—Astarion…” you moan his name as your mouths come apart, so sweetly that it stirs up in him the urge to again sink his fangs into your flesh. Yet he doesn’t; instead, he bucks his hips upwards, prodding your cervix with his cockhead, and an amused glint appears in his eyes as you react with a high-pitched squeal. Trying to hide the blush spreading across your face, you lean forward, resting your chin on the curve between his neck and shoulder, warm cheek pressed to his, and biting back a whimper, you timidly start sliding yourself up and down his cock. With your ear so close to his mouth, you can hear the soft grunts and shallow pants slipping from his lips whenever he disappears into you, the lewdness of it setting ablaze the waves of fire seething under your skin. Your leisure gait doesn’t last long, and you ride him more energetically with each bob of your body, which he reciprocates by burying his fingers deeper into your waist and pulling you down harder, feeling the pert nubs of your plump breasts brush against his chest as they bounce.

“You’re doing so well, little love,” Astarion says while peppering kisses across the delicate skin of your neck, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. You can feel him pulsing inside you, bulging veins vibrating against your gummy walls as they are distended to their limit the stiffer he becomes. “Such a good pup for me, taking me so nicely,” he coos, bringing one of his hands to your navel, gliding the pads of his digits along the soft curve of your stomach and towards the ache throbbing in your crotch, where he then grasps your flushed clit between two deft fingers, massaging the tender knot with seasoned adroitness. The sound of smacking flesh grows louder as he pushes against your hips with his own, and you sink down his cock with greater abandon the more you approach the peak of ecstasy, your body glistening with sweat and burning red with his crimson. 

“Ah! I’m—close…” you stutter, your voice trembling as you work your thigh muscles with even greater ardor, letting go of his shoulders to lean back on your outstretched palms. With the fingers of his hand wedged between your legs, he continues stroking the rose-pink bud crowning your mound, moving the other from its place on your waist to gently squeeze one of your breasts, teasing the puckered nipple with his thumb. While watching you lose yourself in the rising crescendo of your release, he accidentally lets his gaze wander to the wound on your throat; promptly averting it, he chooses to focus instead on the luscious expression etched on your pretty face, his lifeblood blooming under your cheeks and nose—the moment you lock eyes with him, the tension finally snaps, and you buckle your elbows as your arms go limp, walls spasming around him and creamy pearls of come leaking from your stretched entrance.  

Spellbound by your cock-drunk image, Astarion pushes you down on the bed without warning, and cradling your face with both of his hands, pulls you into a lustful kiss, forcing your mouth open with his tongue. Still high off your climax, you don’t resist, obediently parting your lips, arms wrapped around his neck and legs around his waist. Shoving his thighs against the back of yours, he bends them into a mating press, and wasting no time, starts ferociously thrusting deep into you, setting a brutal pace; your walls contract and twitch around his enlarged girth, the ripples of your orgasm yet to peter out, making vulgar sucking noises as you swallow him whole. He moans into the kiss with every roll of his hips, blood buzzing in his ears and heart pounding violently inside his chest, fucking you greedily, indulgently, minding his own pleasure and naught else. Your body sways weightlessly like a ragdoll’s each time the base of his cock strikes your groin, but you care not about his rough treatment of you, for nothing brings you greater elation than knowing you can make him feel this way.

“So tight…” he growls with his mouth still pressed against yours, his voice muffled and breathy. Propping his torso up with one of his arms, he brings the hand of the other to your throat, squeezing it firmly, and pulls away to admire his handiwork, a dark intensity blazing within his eyes. “Oh, darling, you look so precious with my fingers around your neck.” His silvery curls fall over his brow as he says this, tousled and dripping with sweat, his appearance at once statuesque and animalistic. He ruts into you in a disorderly fray, his movements messy and sloppy as they usually are in the short moments preceding the culmination of his desire, and with one last powerful thrust, he empties himself inside your fucked out cunt, feeling your fluttering walls clench around him, milking him to the last drop.

“Sweet gods…” Slumping down on top of you, he embraces your sore body and buries his face in your hair, taking in your scent as his cock continues convulsing inside your raw, tender slit, hardened still. Filled with him and his seed, nestled in his arms, you feel comfortably full, warm, safe. Your eyes fall shut, tiredness suddenly overtaking your weary mind, and although erratic thoughts run through it, you hold onto none of them, deciding to just for today, just for this night, turn a blind eye to all implications, all the ill omens, and let yourself be; be by his side, be his spawn, be his bride forever more. 

As you drift off into a dreamless sleep, lulled by the gentle sound of his heartbeat, oblivion tenderly cradles you against its merciful bosom, and the clarity of the precipice of unconsciousness rips your burdens from your soul and makes your every worry seem so futile, so meaningless. Your fate is inevitable, as certain as death itself, and following the precepts of life is a vain undertaking, for they are not the same as those ruling over undeath. Astarion knows this; so should you. Existence is transient, but his dark love is everlasting.

There is a light in every living thing.  It’s crawling t’wards the surface to survive. And in its wake, it tramples everything. We’ll kill the rest, so that the one can thrive.

[peanut-butter-parkerxx]

Summary: A baking adventure which includes a hot make-out sesh, a food fight and a whole lotta fluff and banter Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Fem!reader Prompt(s): Friends to lovers, "i can't believe you talked me into this.", "Stop moving and let me braid your hair." Warning: food fight, kissing, making out, sensual touching 

REQUEST FORM II NAVIGATION

The kitchen is suffused with the delightful aroma of freshly baked cookies, and warmth  from the oven as Y/n bustles about humming a tune whilst preparing batches of chocolate chip cookies. 

Elijah grins mischievously as he spots Y/n carefully measuring out the ingredients for the cookies. With a playful twinkle in his eyes, he reaches for the bag of chocolate chips, skillfully snagging it from the counter.

Y/n's attire exudes a cozy charm, with a white long-sleeved cropped top complementing her figure. Paired with grey shorts, her outfit strikes the perfect balance between comfort and style. A cute bow adorns her cascading hair, which is styled in a playful half-up, half-down fashion, framing her face with effortless grace. 

Elijah: "Need these, Y/n?" Y/n looks up, surprised, but a smile spreads across her face at Elijah's playful antics.

"Hey, those are for the cookies!" 

Elijah chuckles, winking at her before handing over the bag of chocolate chips. He's clad in black pants and a cuffed white shirt, which he rolls up the sleeves to his elbows. Y/n can't help but feel a warm flutter in her chest as she watches him, appreciating the subtle gesture of charm.

"You look good with your sleeves rolled up like that, Elijah." Y/n remarks as Elijah grins, his eyes sparkling with amusement at her comment. He then adds with a playful smirk, stepping closer to her.

"Need me to carry you over there so you can reach the ingredients?"

Y/n rolls her eyes, laughing softly at his teasing. "Very funny, Elijah. I think I can manage on my own, thank you." 

As Y/n reaches for the baking soda on the highest shelf, her fingertips barely brush against it, and she sighs in frustration.

Before she can react, Elijah scoops her up into his arms effortlessly, surprising her. Y/n's heart skips a beat as she finds herself being carried, her feet leaving the ground.

Y/n: "Elijah, I—"

But her words trail off as she realizes the close proximity, feeling the warmth of his touch against her bare skin. The cropped top she's wearing allows Elijah's to use the opportunity to touch and caress her in a way that makes the moment feel intimate and sensual. His hand grazing her stomach and sending shivers down her spine. 

Elijah chuckles softly, his warm breath tickling her ear as he carries her closer to the shelf.

"Just helping you out, Y/n. Thought you could use a lift." He speaks as if carrying an entire person was child's play. 

After retrieving the baking soda with Elijah's help, Y/n holds onto the item as he gently sets her down on the kitchen counter. She watches him with a mixture of surprise and affection as he positions himself between her legs, a playful glint in his eyes.

"What are you up to now?"

"I thought I'd surprise you," he whispers, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down her spine. His fingers start to trace delicate patterns on her inner thighs, slowly inching closer to where she craves his touch the most.

Y/n's heart races as anticipation builds within her, her body instinctively arching towards him. His hands, both gentle and possessive, cradle her face as he leans in, his gaze ablaze with unwavering intensity, conveying both reverence and longing. With a delicate touch, he traces the contours of her jawline and collarbone, savoring the warmth of her skin against his fingertips. his expertise leaving her breathless. There's a softness to his expression, a tenderness that belies the intensity of his desire.  As their breaths mingle in the intimate space between them, Elijah's voice, a low, husky murmur, whispers words of adoration and desire, punctuated by the confession, 

"I crave the taste of your lips, the feel of your skin against mine, the sound of your breath mingling with mine." With a gentle yet purposeful motion, Elijah leans closer, time seems to slow to a standstill as he hovers just inches away, his lips tantalizingly close to hers, teasing and tempting with the promise of sweet surrender. In that moment, there's nothing else in the world but the pull of their connection, the longing that pulses between them, as Elijah leans closer still, closing the gap between them until their lips finally meet in a tender, passionate kiss.

Elijah holds Y/N tightly by the waist, pulling her closer to him with an unwavering determination. Y/N responds to his touch with a soft gasp of pleasure, her body instinctively leaning into his embrace, seeking warmth and security in his arms. his embrace is both protective and possessive, drawing her closer to him with a strength that leaves no room for doubt about the depth of his desire. Their chests rise and fall in unison, each breath mingling with the other's in a rhythm that echoes the pounding of their hearts. 

Y/N's fingers thread through Elijah's hair, a low rumbling sound escapes his throat, a mixture of pleasure and desire, as he instinctively leans into her touch, savoring the sensation of her fingertips against his scalp. His own breath catches in his throat as he draws her closer, his senses overwhelmed by the heady scent of her skin and the taste of her lips lingering on his own.

The moment is suddenly interrupted as Kol and Rebekah enter the room, catching them in their intimate embrace. There's a fleeting moment of surprise before Elijah, ever the epitome of composure, swiftly composes himself, though the flicker of desire still lingers in his eyes. 

As Kol saunters into the room, his eyes twinkling mischievously, he can't resist adding his signature flair, "Well, well, what do we have simmering here, lovebirds?" His teasing remark punctuates the moment, eliciting a chuckle from Elijah and a playful roll of the eyes from Y/n

Rebekah arches an amused eyebrow and offers a sly smile, her tone teasing yet affectionate, "Seems like we've interrupted quite the cozy scene here. Do I even want to know what you two have been up to?" She winks.

Elijah's lips quirk into a subtle smile, amusement dancing in his eyes as he adds, "Y/n was just indulging in her latest culinary experiment." 

Y/n, feeling a blush creeping up her cheeks at being caught in such a moment with Elijah by her friends, chuckles nervously, "Yeah, I thought I'd give baking a try. Turns out, it's a bit more eventful than I anticipated." She shoots Elijah a playful look.

"Well, I must say, Y/n, your baking skills certainly have the power to surprise." Elijah gently gripped Y/N's waist as they stood together, his touch tender yet firm. With a subtle squeeze, he conveyed a sense of intimacy and affection, his fingers lightly embracing Y/N's form.

But out of nowhere, from the corner of Rebekah's eye, Rebekah spots the bowl of flour on the counter, calling her name.

"I call dibs on the flour!" With a grin, she grabs a handful and throws it at Kol, who retaliates with a handful of chocolate chips. In the chaos that ensues, flour fills the air like a soft snowfall, and chocolate smears decorate their faces and clothes. 

Elijah steps in front of Y/n, shielding her from the impending mess. His stance protective as he creates a barrier between Y/N and the flurry of flour as Y/N continues with her baking, unfazed by the flour flying past them.

Y/N lets out a playful laugh, nudging Elijah's side with a grin. "Well, that was a close call, wasn't it? Almost got caught in the crossfire there," she jokes, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Elijah turns to her, his expression softening as he leans in closer, his hand finding its place gently on her waist. With a subtle smile, he murmurs, "Indeed, my dear, but I believe we have some unfinished business," his voice laced with a hint of playful mischief as he draws her into another tender kiss, their surroundings fading into the background as they savor the moment together.

Kol, in the midst of the flour fight frenzy, accidentally flings a dollop of food that lands squarely on the back of Elijah's shirt. The unexpected impact catches Elijah's attention, causing him to turn around with a bemused expression, only to find himself face to face with the mischievous grins of Kol and Rebekah.

With a chuckle, Elijah shakes his head in mock exasperation, but his gaze quickly returns to Y/N, a fond smile gracing his lips. "Seems you’re not the only one in need of protection," he teases, his hand still resting on her waist as he leans in closer.

Kol seizes the opportunity to launch a handful of flour in Y/N's direction. The powdery substance catches her by surprise, dusting her shoulders and hair with a fine white layer.

Y/N lets out a surprised laugh, brushing off the flour with a playful swat at Kol. "Oh, you're asking for it now, Kol!" she warns, her eyes dancing with mischief.

As the flour fight reaches its peak, Elijah can't help but chuckle as he watches Y/N fully immersed in the playful chaos, her laughter contagious. 

"Alright, that's enough, children," Elijah calls out with mock sternness, his tone laced with amusement. "Let's save some flour for the actual baking, shall we?"

Rebekah and Kol exchange knowing glances, their laughter still bubbling just beneath the surface. Kol chuckles, wiping flour off his face. "Aw, come on, Elijah! Where's your sense of fun?" 

"I thought you enjoyed a little messiness now and then." Rebekah quipped, eyeing him and y/n as if to mock the intimate moment they've had a few minutes prior.

Elijah rolls his eyes in mock exasperation, a fond smile playing on his lips. "There's fun, and then there's flour all over the kitchen," he retorts, unable to hide his amusement at his siblings antics. 

"Look what you've done, you two!" Elijah add as he gestures toward Y/N, who is now adorned in a cloud of flour. "Y/N's covered in flour!"

"Well, it seems Elijah's gone all soft when it comes to you, Y/N. Watch out, he might try to put you in bubble wrap next!" Y/n blushes, feeling a warmth spreading through her cheeks at Kol's teasing. 

Rolling his eyes at their teasing once again, Elijah adopts a mock stern expression. "Enough with the teasing, you two," he chides, "If you're quite finished turning my kitchen into a battleground, I suggest you clean up this mess."

Turning his attention back to Y/N, his expression softening as he gazes at her amidst the floury chaos. "Come, love," he says gently, offering her a hand. "Let's leave these two to clean up while we wash up upstairs. You can return to a clean kitchen to finish your culinary pursuits." Y/N's eyes light up with gratitude as she takes Elijah's hand, a smile playing on her lips. 

[cnnmairoll]

Sunday Mornings and Cookies

Pairing : Sampo Koski x Reader Genre : Fluff, Domestic Summary : On a lazy Sunday filled with flour-dusted laughter and affectionate banter, you and Sampo create a batch of imperfectly perfect cookies, turning a simple baking session into a cherished memory of sweet delights and tender love. a/n : this fic is part of The Domestic Things They Do With You so feel free to check out what other character will be there!

The morning sun painted a canvas of warmth across your room, coaxing you from the embrace of sleep. You stirred beneath the soft sheets, your senses slowly coming to life as you stretched languidly. As your eyelids fluttered open, your gaze fell upon the sight that never failed to make your heart skip a beat.

Sampo Koski, with his emerald eyes that held the secrets of a thousand tales, and his dark blue hair adorned with white stripes that seemed to capture the essence of a starlit night, was lying beside you. His lips curled into a soft smile as he sensed your awakening.

"Good morning, my treasure," he purred, his voice like honey with a hint of playfulness. "Did you dream about me all night?"

You chuckled and nuzzled your nose against his chest. "Maybe I did. Maybe you were charming your way into my dreams again."

Sampo chuckled, his fingers now dancing up and down your spine. "Well, I can't help it if I'm unforgettable, can I?"

The two of you shared a quiet laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. The apartment felt warm and inviting, a cocoon where the outside world couldn't reach you. The soft hum of a distant city mingled with the sound of your steady breathing. 

"You know, lazy Sundays like these are precious. No clients, no schemes, just you and me."

You hummed in agreement, your eyes fluttering closed "I could get used to this. Just being here with you."

His lips brushed against your forehead in a sweet, lingering kiss. "I hope you do get used to it, because I plan on having many more lazy Sundays with you."

The two of you shifted, and suddenly you were draped across Sampo's chest, his arms securely around you. His fingers traced invisible patterns on your back, sending shivers down your spine.

"You know, I was thinking," he began, his tone contemplative. "Maybe we could try our hand at baking today. I've heard rumors that I'm quite the pastry chef."

You lifted your head and looked at him skeptically. "Rumors? From who? Your overinflated ego?"

Sampo gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "My ego is hurt! My dear, sweet companion betrays me!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Alright, alright. We can bake something. But just remember, I have my doubts."

Sampo's grin widened, and he pressed a quick kiss to your lips. "Doubt all you want, my love. You'll see the masterpiece that is my baking skills soon enough."

—----

Sampo's mischievous grin never left his face as he reached for the flour, his fingers dancing playfully through the white powder. "Are you ready to witness the culinary masterpiece that is about to unfold?"

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "I can't wait to see this masterpiece of yours, Mr. Pastry Chef."

With an exaggerated flourish, Sampo grabbed a mixing bowl and started combining the ingredients. "First, a cup of sugar, for sweetness as radiant as your smile."

You chuckled as he winked at you, his words a charming serenade that wrapped around your heart. "And next, a dash of salt, because life needs a little flavor."

As he continued to recite his poetic instructions, you couldn't help but be captivated by his playful spirit. The room seemed to brighten as he moved around with an easy grace, his fingers measuring and mixing with practiced confidence.

"Now, my love," he announced with a flourish, "we add the vanilla extract, for that touch of sophistication that only you can bring."

"You're quite the wordsmith, aren't you?" You snickered

Sampo winked again, his emerald eyes sparkling. "Only when it comes to describing my muse."

As the batter came together, you took over the mixing duties, your hands moving with gentle precision. Sampo leaned against the counter, his gaze never leaving you as he admired your skills.

"You know," he mused, "there's a certain elegance in the way you handle things. It's as if every movement you make is a dance."

You laughed softly, feeling your cheeks grow warmer. "You really know how to turn a simple baking session into a romantic affair."

Sampo strolled over, his arms wrapping around you from behind as he rested his chin on your shoulder. "Why settle for anything less when I have the most enchanting partner by my side?"

With his presence surrounding you, you felt a sense of warmth and belonging that was unmatched. You leaned into his embrace, feeling his heartbeat against your back.

"Alright, Chef Sampo," you teased, "what's the next step in this culinary journey?"

He chuckled and reached for the chocolate chips, his fingers dancing through the mound of goodness. "Ah, the pièce de résistance! These chocolate chips, my dear, are like the moments we share – sweet, irresistible, and sprinkled throughout our lives."

You couldn't help but be charmed by his words, a mixture of humor and genuine affection that was uniquely Sampo. Together, you folded the chocolate chips into the batter, the mixture taking on a deliciously tempting appearance.

As you spooned the batter onto the baking sheet, Sampo grabbed another spoon and playfully swiped a dollop of batter, smearing it on your cheek. "A dash of playfulness, just to keep things interesting."

You gasped in mock surprise, pretending to be scandalized. "You're incorrigible!"

He grinned unapologetically, his fingers reaching up to wipe the batter off your cheek. "Guilty as charged, my love."

With the baking sheet ready, you placed it in the oven, the anticipation of the sweet treats to come filling the air. Sampo wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a gentle embrace.

15 minutes later, the cookie was done, Sampo carefully pulled out the tray from the oven and set it down on the counter. "See? I told you I had a hidden talent," Sampo declared triumphantly, holding up a misshapen heart-shaped cookie as if it were a prized possession.

You rolled your eyes, a fond smile tugging at your lips. "You're impossible."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a tender kiss that spoke of lazy mornings and shared moments. "But I'm your impossible, aren't I?"

As the day stretched on, you found yourselves lounging on the couch, a soft blanket draped over your legs as a movie played on the television. Sampo's fingers idly drew patterns on your thigh, his eyes half-lidded as he absorbed the plot.

"Hey, sleepyhead," you teased, poking his side. "Are you actually paying attention to the movie?"

Sampo feigned innocence, blinking up at you with those emerald eyes. "Of course! It's a... uh... a story about... well, something riveting, I'm sure."

You laughed and shook your head, snuggling closer to him. "You're hopeless."

He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you against his side. "But I'm your hopeless."

And in that moment, surrounded by the comfort of your shared space and the warmth of your love, you realized that lazy Sundays with Sampo were your favorite days in the world. No grand adventures or elaborate schemes were necessary when you had each other.

As the movie played on, you let yourself drift into a contented slumber, secure in the knowledge that you were exactly where you belonged – in the arms of the silver-tongued merchant who had stolen your heart.

[alilbatflies]

Just Cake

There's not enough time to bake. Usually. Sometimes it’s possible to sneak a batch of somethings here and there, with the inevitable threat of getting summoned—oven shut down for safety measures in a rush and the thing inside going bad to be thrown out, unfinished, sad, later. 

There's not enough time to bake. Usually. 

Sometimes, there is an occasion. During which it’s expected to bake, no matter the inconvenience or time pressure. Carefully balancing the scales of sleep, work and baking within the last two days had probably caused a huge sleep deficit, although by far not the worst henchman ever went through. 

It was tough. They made it though.

There was something oddly uplifting about coming to work with a cake in a paper box. They felt like skipping. Nobody was around to see them skip, so it couldn’t damage their reputation, but the cake would still be in danger and so they didn’t.

There was this nagging feeling and–

Excited. They were excited. Properly, clearly, excited to the core. Gods they couldn't properly remember the last time that happened.

They wondered what the villain would say. The villain didn't talk much. They didn't praise much. There was simply not enough space within the scheming and execution of plans to indulge. In cake no less. They simply didn't have time for that. Neither of them.

The henchman hoped they'd at least eat a slice. 

They'd even checked for allergies and all! Possibly seeming completely maniac when they ensured themselves the villain was not allergic to anything for the zillionth time that week. 

They arrived to the villain's door, eventually. The villain was in the office—they always were at that time. 

The henchman was usually coming back from the gym, the very session which they'd skipped that day in favour of finishing the topping. 

Writing H-pp B-day on top was all they managed before the icing ran out. Inconvenient, but they were proud for spotting the lack of resources beforehand and adjusting the letters. Having just Happy B would possibly be quite awkward. 

They adjusted the box to hold on one hand. The balance was unsure but it was still there, at least a small trace. Their stable-unstable stance lasted long enough to reach out with their other hand. 

Knock your pattern, you're alright. They exhaled deeply. Just say your happy birthday. You'll do great.

They reached out. Hesitated. What exactly were they going to say anyway?

I've got a gift for you. Happy birthday.

Alright, that checked out with the general ethics surrounding bringing someone birthday cake. To their boss, no less. 

The mental preparation was complete. They exhaled deeply again.

Now the only thing remaining was–

The door burst open. A thundering “HENCHMAN!” snapped through the air.

The henchman flinched. The door hit them as it flew open and they stumbled, trying to catch both their body and the stupid box and–

It opened. It flipped as it fell.

The cake flopped to the ground with a splatter. 

Should have put a rope on the box, flashed through henchman’s mind first. Reality slammed into them right after that, the notion of a ruined effort and wasted resources echoing distantly. 

“Shit.”

The villain stood in the doorway, startled. 

Heavy silence settled over them. 

Henchman stared blankly at the heap of ex-cake. The box sat over it sadly, a ridicule of what a hat could possibly be. That much for the topping.

The villain gestured down at the unhappy crumpled pile. “What's that?”

“That's...” a gift. For you. Happy birthday.

The henchman gestured down as well, trying to regain focus and control over the situation. 

“That was...” a gift. For you. Happy birthday.

They felt ridiculous. The world felt ridiculous, laughing at them for attempting anything. 

It was. It isn't now. No happy birthday.

The henchman felt a strange painful pressure in their nose, eyes prickling. They curled their gesturing hand into a fist, nodding to themselves. 

“I should probably clean that up.” 

They villain looked like they were about to say something, but they stopped themselves. 

The henchman left through the corridor. They could feel villain's look in their back. There was a storage with brooms and the like somewhere. Brooms and... dustpans and... 

It's just cake. 

They felt something hot and salty run down their face, the pain in their nose overflowing.

It's just some stupid pastry.

It might have been. 

It didn't feel like it.

...

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

[littlepinkbirdie]

Touch the Sky

Pairing: Natasha "Phoenix" Trace × Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff, slow-burn romance, pilot!reader Setting: Top Gun training base, post-Maverick mission

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧✧⋄⋆

The desert sun spilled golden light over the base, casting long shadows as jets cut across the sky in sharp, practiced precision. You were leaning against the hangar, arms crossed, watching the newest batch of Top Gun pilots run drills. Your helmet was tucked under your arm, but your mind wasn’t on flying.

It was on her.

Natasha Trace—call sign Phoenix. She had a presence that felt like jet fuel and lightning in one breath. Unshakable in the air. Impossible not to fall for on the ground.

“Staring’s not a tactic they teach at Top Gun,” a familiar voice teased from behind you.

You didn’t have to turn to know it was her.

“Neither is sneaking up on people,” you shot back, grinning as you turned around. “Phoenix.”

She stepped closer, flight suit half unzipped to reveal her sweat-damp tank top. “I wasn’t sneaking. You’re just distracted.”

You opened your mouth to deny it but stopped. No point pretending. Natasha could always see right through you.

“I guess I was,” you admitted.

Her smirk softened into something quieter. “You looked good up there today,” she said, nodding toward the tarmac. “Clean break, fast turns. Smooth landing.”

You blinked. “Was that... a compliment? From Phoenix?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart skipped. “Well then, thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”

There was a pause. A tension—not the dangerous kind, the kind that hangs between people who almost touch but haven’t yet. The kind that lives in side glances and almosts.

Finally, she broke the silence. “Hey... there’s a beach bonfire tonight. Dagger Squad, a few others. You coming?”

You hesitated, but she added softly, “I’d like it if you did.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Natasha smiled—really smiled—and bumped your shoulder lightly. “Good. I’ll save you a spot next to me.”

And just like that, she walked off—cool, confident, the fire of the sun behind her making her look like she was the sky.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were just flying toward danger.

You were flying toward something real.

[jackdanielsripper]

ART SUMMARY 2024

I figured why not, because I want to show off how I've improved. It should be prefaced that this first batch from January aside from the first image was mostly me tracing for practice as I was extremely novice at the craft and needed to learn how to properly use the tools for digital art. Take those pieces' quality with a grain of salt. Also keep in mind I am mostly a horror artist and my artstyles aren't "pretty" or clean by normal standards. January looks the worst so bear with me.

JANUARY

January was interesting, I rarely went outside of the one artstyle I was doing, rarely experimented, likely because I was still learning at the time. The one time I did was that not-so-great portrait of Jonathan Banks. In a year's hindsight I don't really know why I kept the border around his features, but I didn't know what I was doing back then so oh well.

MARCH

We skipped February because of personal reasons. If you've been following me since before then you might have figured out some stuff is missing. That's because of said personal reasons.

March sort of marks a bit of a mental decline for me and a bit of a decline in productivity along side it. A few months might be missing.

I'm isolating this one to talk about it. This is one of the first appearances of my OC "Deathwish". Edgy name aside, this post has sort of marked a cornerstone in creativity for me, this is possibly my favorite piece I've done and the one I'm most proud of.

That's really the only notable thing about march.

APRIL

Shit hit the fan for me hard in April. I didn't really do any digital drawing in April, pretty much all of the art I did was with pens on a sketchbook. Most of it is too personal to show, but there's some I can. Namely some art of my OC Mr. NastyBags and some celebrity caricatures.

MAY

I seriously lament the fact that I wasn't able to really continue working on Project Pinhead, I wanted to keep going but developing a game while having issues with committing to long term projects sucks bad, frankly. Here's some promotional art. I'll pick it back up eventually.

JULY

I don't think I did anything in June, so here's what I will show from July:

Welcome Atymede!!! An OC from a failed project called Tower of Revelations. I was really sleep deprived one morning because of insomnia and I got really weirdly inspired to make a fucked up medieval fantasy universe. As I'm writing this I realized that this dude later became another oc that I made last month by the nickname of Fundead, with the medieval fantasy being replaced by a more grounded wild west comic book feel.

AUGUST

July into August and onwards for a time I was dealing with some stress related hand cramping I mistook for carpal tunnel. So productivity slowed down a lot more. I made One (1) drawing in August. Mina from hit game Noita. I was pretty into that game for a bit, it was fun!

Something weird happened in September

I also got my wisdom teeth removed in November, nothing noteworthy in October.

DECEMBER

Here's the most recent stuff!!!! Plus a sneak peek at a new comic thing I'm working on with Fundead, it's a rough sketch and improvements should be made. Note that the stuff I made with Fundead already are largely not going to reflect his final design fully, The comic version will probably be more accurate to what I want him to look like.

Thank you, everyone, and have a wonderful 2025!!!!!!!!!!

[etherealvoidechoes]

An Unlikely Bond - Pt. 2 of 3

Parts: 1||2(You are here)||3 - Links will be updated as the chapters are posted. Currently in the queue.

May be posted on Ao3 and FF.net later.

Content warnings for the usual language. Accidental mental invasion. Part three is where they're violence via memories which includes murder(and faked suicide(it's more murder.)

Approx. 2k.

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

Days had passed since the incident. Zhang had pushed it to the back of his mind but was still actively avoiding interacting with Geist, though he knew he needed to apologize for his outburst.

Seemed like it was just his psionics acting up and not Geist pulling some psionic trickery to guilt trip him for the psionic training sessions he had been skipping out of spite.

But he still wanted to stew on what had happened. It all just felt off in a way he couldn’t describe. He was sure he felt Geist’s touch on his mind when the voices started, but there was barely a trace of his touch when searched. Maybe it was just another odd quirk of psionics, or Geist had learned a new trick he wasn’t sharing. No. Geist had his quirks but believed the man wouldn’t tempt his luck with the Commander, keeping something like that secret with how some soldiers and staff were weary with the psions at the base.

————

The Hazard Course. The favorite place for all Gene-modded soldiers to put their more physical mods to the test.

Zhang was assisting Training Officer Conrad, per Commander Reeves’ request to put the new round of Gene Modded soldiers through their paces. Specifically, the ones with the “Muscle Fiber Density” leg mod. Zhang didn’t mind assisting, as it gave him something to do around the base and kept his mind occupied. It was time to scale some cliffs. 

“Come on y’all! Y’all can’t keep up with the old man?” Conrad heckled the soldiers that were falling behind Zhang, who was close to the top of the cliff face and was about ready to step off, completing another circuit. He had barely broken a sweat.

A few shot back that they were still disoriented as they were either freshly out of the Gene Labs or were still getting used to the new sensations coursing through their bodies.

“Tch! Tch! EXCUSES!” Conrad wasn’t having it. “And he was leaping bounds like a jack rabbit right out of the tube with 3 other mods in his newly tweaked SYSTEM! What’s y’all’s excuse?”

Zhang was back on the ground floor before he jogged over and leaped up to the platform Conrad was barking his remarks from. He let out a few chuckles and shook his head.

“Go easy on them. It took me some time to warm up before I was ‘leaping like a jackrabbit.’” He said.

Conrad silenced his mic quickly. He smirked. “They don’ need to know that. Besides, when those pheromones and adrenaline kicked in, you were hopping all a‘bout. And you were still movin’ faster than them with two of those mods conflictin’ for a bit.”

Zhang tilted his head back and forth, trying to remember the day. Some details were faint since so much had happened since then. “True… Still, it’ll take them a bit before they’re running circles around me.”

“Tch, heh, heh. I’ll think about it.” He wouldn’t. “Now get back in there!” He unmuted his mic. “Do I need to get Corvo to whip y’all slugs up to speed?”

A collective groan could be heard, but that made everyone pick up the pace.

Zhang just rolled his eyes. What a character the old instructor could be. 

He leaped off the platform and headed back over to that wall. With a coach and spring, he was already at the 8-meter marker and assisting whoever was failing to clear their first jump fully.

It took a few more rounds before most of the fresh batch could clear their first jump without missing it by a few inches or botching the landing, but as the training continued, all were growing confident in their new abilities. 

Another set of rounds was done and Zhang no longer had to assist anyone and just kept a careful watch as the soldiers made their ascent and helped or playfully sabotaged each other. 

Zhang had parked himself on the second-highest overhang and was watching a few soldiers make a race out of their latest round of climbing.

“Heh, youth.” He chuckled to himself as he watched them.

Taking a moment, he had his fingers around this neck, checking his psi-dampening collar. His eyes flashed purple for a moment. “Hm.” Everything felt in order. The collar was sitting just right. No new dings with how training was going today. And that faint, barely irritating disruption was sitting at the back of his mind. Good. Nothing to worry about. 

He smiled to himself. Digging his fingers into the rocky soil. Legs kicked back and forth as he took in the fresh, hot canyon air. He was content.

He watched the soldiers go on, making mental notes here and there. He would pass on to Conrad what each one had to work on. Some were still hesitating, stepping off the ledge, which was causing them to fumble their landings.

“Have to get over the fear of heights.” He noted.

As he made these observations, he didn’t notice a faint static sensation grow in the back of his mind that was slowly shifting to a more familiar psionic tug. One tug, two, three, he finally noticed as it shifted into a skull-splitting series of thumps, causing him to hiss in pain. A hand flew to his head and the other quickly dug into the ground.

The blood between his ears was pulsing with a near-deafening ring. “What… the?” His collar was fine. What was going on?

Concentrating, he searched for the source, only to find a blur of sensations shifting within his mind and psionics. 

Another sharp piercing sensation hit his mind, making him hiss again. He felt a shift in the sensations. A connection began to form and so did a voice. One all too familiar to him.

“Geist.” He growled. “Not this again.”

Just as he had finally pushed the incident to the back of his mind, all the rage from that day came rushing back. 

Grinding his teeth, he worked to still himself and his infuriated thoughts. “Calm, calm. Don’t need an outburst.” He was glad no one noticed his hissing. “Let’s see what he wants.” 

It took a moment to steady his mind and refocus his psionics, as this connection was still causing him pain.

“Strings, patterns, weaves…. Hm.” Geist was muttering under his breath. “Just when I think I figure it out, it proves me wrong. A new leaf emerges. A new petal unfolds. The tides wash away the sands, erasing my expeditions but revealing something new. Something exciting.”

Zhang continued to focus on the connection. So far, he was only picking up Geist and no one else like last time. He was having difficulty making sense of the cryptic words Geist was speaking but could figure out it didn’t deal with him or training.

As quick as that anger came, it was disappearing. Maybe it was his psionics messing up again and not Geist forcing a connection to him.

He let out a disgruntled sigh. Was this a sign of his psionics becoming unstable again? How were they going to get this fixed? 

“I yearn for the days I was not given this curse.” One of the few times he lamented this psionic potential being found in him. 

But no time to lament. He wanted to see if he could close off this connection before it caused him more problems. He still had training he needed to assist with before he could pay Geist a visit. 

As he focused on the connection to sever it, Geist’s voice grew louder in his mind.

“More weaves and patterns across the Earth. A mass expanse. Everything is connected to, flowing into and out of a Void. One flourishing with life and another devoid of it. A gap. And…” Geist passed. As he did so, Zhang felt a surge of power in the connection. “Hm… hm?” Seemed Geist did too.

There was a pause before Zhang felt a tentative touch, Geist’s touch, reach out and flow through the connection. It quickly overpowered Zhang’s attempts to close it off, causing some psionic feedback, much to his frustration.

Dammit. Zhang mentally recoiled, but did his best to keep the pain under control. For the moment, he held back his power to avoid any more feedback.

“What is this? I’m in the isolation chamber. There should be no connections to anyone but the Earth and Void.” Geist almost sounded confused, if not concerned, as he searched out this connection to its source.

  But as Geist reached the source, he paused again. “Wait…” He weaved his way through the connection again, carefully picking the familiarity of the strings to this mind. “Z-Zhang?”

Just ask Geist made the discovery, their connection was abruptly cut.

A whirl of psionic swirled inside Zhang’s mind before it all finally snapped. 

“Gah!” He gasped, lurching forward. He barely stopped himself from tumbling forward. “What the hell?” There was always something strange going on with psionics.

“Hey!” Someone called out. “You alright up there?”

Figures I’d slip with those growing backlashes. He shook his head a few times before letting out a gruff snort. “I’m fine. Feedback from the adrenal glands.” A little lie.  

Zhang craned his neck back and forth as he gave it a good rub. He could feel his mind and psionics slowly ordering itself back in place after the spontaneous psionic connection again. His mind lingered on Geist’s connection. The man seemed just as surprised as him as he had discovered the connection.

“Hm.” He chewed on his tongue. Why was there always something wrong with psionics? He needed to find Geist. This couldn’t wait. 

Pushing himself off the ledge, one last rush of adrenaline ran through his system before he touched the ground. He made his way over to Conrad first.

“Something just came up.” Zhang made a simple gesture towards his head. “Have to go.”

“Ah, gotcha. Go on and get!” Conrad simply nodded. 

————

Zhang was halfway through the base before he felt a familiar psionic ping in his mind before a more audible ping rang out around the corner. The next second Geist came around the corner. The man looked a little frazzled as his eyes twinkled with purple energy. There was no dampening collar in sight.

“There you are!” He exclaimed, quickly hushing himself in order to avoid drawing too much attention.

“I was heading to you.” Zhang paused in his tracks. A brow was raised. He was half waiting for the Bases A.I. to go off, mentioning the psionic activity. “Did you..?” He felt like he didn’t have to explain.

Geist swiftly nodded, like his head was going to fall off. “Is this what happened days ago? Collar on?” 

“Yes.” He nodded. “Though this was somewhat different. More painful on my end.”

Geist paced around him, finger tapping away at his chin and mumbling under his breath. “What could this be? What could this be?” 

So far, nothing was ringing a bell in Geist’s mind. This just made him worry more, which increased his pacing. He turned his attention back to Zhang. The man’s puzzled look didn’t help ease his mind. He reached his hand out towards his hand, psionic energy jumping between his fingers. Wait, no. Not here. Not safe for the others. He cut his psionic energy for a moment and just let his hand fall on Zhang’s shoulder.

“I feel I need to explore your psionics. See if They are planting seeds of madness. Isolation room. No time to tell the Commander and Psi Division.” Geist said.

At the mention of Them, Zhang grimaced. It had been some time since those Elders had touched his mind again with Their bids to make him betray XCOM. Did They have new tricks up Their sleeves? Better to find out now than before, he was an unknowing thrall. “Teleport away.”

Geist tightened his fingers on his shoulder. Psionics energy flowed from him to Zhang before faint wisps appeared around the two. 

The next second, they disappeared with a ping. 

[squickmons]

CNC Press Brake Troubleshooting: 7 Missteps to Watch Out For

Precision isn’t a luxury—it’s a necessity on the fabrication floor. Whether you're using an affordable CNC press brake or a premium hydraulic model, the smallest error can lead to big problems: flawed bends, damaged tooling, safety risks, and profit loss.

Here are 7 common CNC press brake mistakes every shop should avoid:

Tool Setup Slip-ups Misaligned punches and dies cause inconsistent bends and machine wear. Regular inspection and alignment tools are key.

Wrong Tooling Choices Tooling must match material type and thickness. Using the wrong die risks tearing and poor angles. Keep a quick-reference chart handy!

Ignoring Material Differences No two batches are the same. Always test new material, adjust for grain direction, and tweak bend allowances as needed.

Overlooking CNC Programming Faulty sequences or offsets? They’ll wreck your output. Use simulation software and save proven programs to reduce rework.

Skipping Maintenance Hydraulic hiccups and unexpected downtime often trace back to poor upkeep. Stick to a daily/weekly/monthly checklist.

Undertraining Operators Automation doesn’t replace skill. Well-trained staff cut errors, improve safety, and know how to respond when things go off-script.

Neglecting Safety Protocols This machine bends metal—and it can harm people too. Use guards, PPE, and frequent audits to keep the shop secure.

Bottom Line: Mastering CNC press brake work means respecting the process. From programming to people, precision lies in the details. Review your practices, train your team, and maintain your machines. That’s how you bend with confidence—and without compromise.

Read also : https://squickmons.com/common-mistakes-avoid-cnc-press-brake-machine/

[original-consumer-complaints]

seeds rejected by multiple labs cutting line identity in question quarantine breach discovered warning issued by lab partners security vulnerability in checkout unauthorized sales sources traced use of fake lab name in reports clone giveaway scam traced state-flagged cannabis retailer clone reseller scam exposed illegal payment method accepted review system abuse uncovered manipulated feedback scores exposed seedline failed registration process shipping violations found in audit official state warning published clones failed PM detection test official warning issued to vendor spoofed company profile live bot review inflation detected missing batch traceability records consumer fraud case filed complaints logged in public record no lab history found on file lab documents never verified Google safety flag on listings health department notice posted

outbreak of PM linked to clone order feminized claim lacks verification inspection skip documented internally product reviews deemed fraudulent customer health warning issued labs refuse to test sample genetics faked breeder biography exposed vendor denies refunds on faulty stock fake pedigree line shown in catalog genetics sold under false alias mother plant condition unknown diseased cuttings shipped to buyers seed certification not verified by lab shipping complaints continue rising reseller misuse report filed poor response to safety complaints low survival rate of shipped clones blacklisted clones resold under new name buyers posting about refund issues cutting batch traceability lost unsafe batch sold without clearance noncompliant shipments logged no lab affiliation for published COAs cannabinoid results found inflated cultivation warning issued state audit pending investigation seed bank under federal investigation anonymous strain submissions unchecked product mislabeling case opened contaminated grow reported by customers expired batch exposed in forums seller refused to release COA phenotype claim disputed by lab sale of sick cannabis seedlings toxic residue found on clone leaves genotype errors in seed batches missing batch ID tags found delays in internal quality check unapproved reseller listings discovered product safety score lowered covert payment methods detected

[siltrace]

An Offer to Consider

September 15, 2023

𝐈𝐓 had been a while since his group had been this lively. The chat, once filled with constant updates, playful banter, and late-night rants about deadlines, had gone quiet over the years.

Life had inevitably pulled them in different directions—careers, relationships, responsibilities. Everyone had become too busy to check in as often as they used to.

But this week, the group chat flickered back to life.

David watched the flood of messages roll in, a rare spark of nostalgia warming his chest. This wasn’t just any group—this was his group. The very first batch of students he had guided through their final projects and theses. His first real experience as a mentor.

A decade had passed, yet somehow, they had remained connected.

All except one.

One name remained absent from the conversation, just as she had been absent from their lives. She had always been a little different—distant yet unforgettable. After graduation, she had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only whispers and half-baked rumors. No one knew where she was, what she was doing, or if she even cared to remember them.

David leaned back in his chair, fingers hovering over his phone. It was early this morning when his phone lit up with a message. Vanessa. One of his former students. Her texts in the group were brief but carried a weight that instantly pulled David out of his morning haze.

Before he could even type a reply, another message popped up—a photo.

David squinted at the screen, his brows furrowing in concentration. The supermarket shelves in the background were unremarkable, but it was the two women that caught his full attention.

Vanessa, smiling brightly as always. And beside her—

𝗖𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗮.

His heart skipped a beat. He wondered, not for the first time— 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦? And more importantly… 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬? She did.

Clarissa, the one who had vanished without a word after graduation. The student who had once been the brightest spark in the room, only to disappear into whispers and unanswered questions.

For years, all they had were rumors—some said she had moved overseas, others claimed she had changed her name, cutting ties with everyone. No one knew the truth. Until now. David enlarged the photo, his eyes scanning every detail. She looked different—matured, refined, yet undeniably her.

The long hair, the sharp eyes that had always carried an unspoken story, the same half-smile that never quite reached her eyes.

It was her. It was 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘺’𝘴 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘢.

David knew one thing for certain—if Harvey found out about this, he would be stunned. Shocked, even. For years, Harvey had been asking about her, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.

𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘢? 𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴? It was never a desperate inquiry, never anything too obvious, but David could tell. He could hear it in his tone, see it in the way his expression softened whenever her name was brought up. Clarissa was a name that lingered.

David had noticed how, even after all these years, Harvey still found ways to slip her into conversations. Maybe it was just curiosity. Maybe it was something more. Either way, David wasn’t about to interfere.

This—this wasn’t his place. If she wanted to return, if she wanted to face the people she had left behind, it had to be on her terms. Not through a secondhand revelation, not through a casual chat over coffee. So for now, he chose silence. He would keep this to himself.

Rather than dwelling on past stories, David found himself far more intrigued by what Vanessa had just revealed to the group: 𝙄𝙗𝙪 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙛𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙧. Clarissa. Her sudden reappearance wasn’t just a nostalgic shock—it was an opportunity. But not for gossip, not to run off and tell Harvey the news. No, David had something else in mind.

A job.

He had been searching for the right candidate to fill a key position on campus, and now, hearing that Clarissa was back, he couldn’t ignore the possibility. She had the skills, the experience—at least, from what he remembered—and if she was even slightly open to the idea, he had to at least try. The chances were slim, but what did he have to lose?

With that thought, he decided to reach out. He sent her a message. And to his surprise, she replied within seconds. David blinked at his screen, taken aback. He had fully expected to be left on read—or worse, ignored entirely, like she had done for years.

Whether she had been busy or just deliberately distancing herself from her past, no one really knew. But now, she was responding. Not just responding—agreeing. She was free for coffee.

Without wasting time, David grabbed his bag and prepared to leave campus.

“Where are you off to?” asked Leon, the lecturer sitting beside him. “SMS. Meeting a potential new lecturer,” David said, standing up.

“A new lecturer?”

Martha, another lecturer, perked up from across the room, momentarily distracted from her anime discussion with Leon.

“Who? You didn’t tell us we had a candidate already.” David smirked slightly. “An alumni. Someone I haven’t heard from in a while. I think she’s got what it takes, so I want to hear her out first. If it works, I’ll scout her properly.”

Martha raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you tell Sam too?” David glanced around and spotted Sam standing nearby. “Sam! 𝘎𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘪 𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘶 𝘬𝘦 𝘚𝘔𝘚!” he called out across the room. Sam turned. “𝘒𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘭𝘶? 𝘑𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘳 𝘨𝘪𝘵𝘶 𝘢𝘫𝘢. 𝘒𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘬 𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘬𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘴?” David grinned.

“𝘔𝘢𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯 𝘒𝘢𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘪 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘶!”

That got everyone’s attention. The room went silent for a split second before murmurs of curiosity filled the air. Eyes turned to him, questioning, intrigued. “What? We already have a candidate? And you’re not telling us who?” Sam called back. David chuckled, shaking his head. “𝘎𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘶! 𝘌𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘬𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘩 𝘶𝘱𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦.”

With that, he grabbed his wallet and phone, heading for the elevator. As the doors closed, he quickly booked a taxi. Ten minutes. That was all it would take. Ten minutes before he came face-to-face with Clarissa after all these years.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen—Clarissa had messaged him, asking for the meeting point. Without hesitation, he quickly typed back: 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘚𝘔𝘚 𝟣.

Simple. Direct. Now it was all set.

Yet, for some reason, a faint nervousness settled in his chest. Why? This was Clarissa, after all. There was no reason to be uneasy. And yet, the weight of time—years of distance, the unknown stories of where she had been and what had changed—lingered in his mind. Perhaps it was the fact that he was the one bringing her back into this world, reconnecting her with the past she had seemingly left behind.

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of the mall. David quickly paid the fare and stepped out, weaving his way inside.

The scent of roasted coffee beans filled the air as he entered Starbucks, his eyes instinctively scanning the café. Fifteen minutes early. But then, just as he reached the counter to place his order, he saw her.

Clarissa.

Standing right beside him. She looked up at him, recognition flashing across her face.

“Clarissa!” “Bapak!”

A smile broke across her lips—one that felt both familiar and slightly different. Time had passed, but the essence of her remained the same. She wasn’t the young student he once knew, yet her features, her expressions… they hadn’t changed much. David chuckled, shaking his head slightly.

“I’ll order mine real quick. Want anything?” Before she could protest, he added, “My treat.”

Clarissa tilted her head slightly before nodding. “Apple juice will do. Thanks.”

David paid for their drinks and moved to the pick-up counter, grabbing his coffee and the chilled glass bottle of juice. With practiced ease, he loosened the cap slightly before heading to the seating area by the window, where Clarissa was already waiting. As he sat down, he slid the bottle toward her.

“How are you?” he asked.

Clarissa picked up the juice, immediately noticing that the cap had already been loosened for her. A small, knowing smile formed on her lips. 𝘛𝘺𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘉𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘬.

“I’m good,” she replied, meeting his gaze. “You can see for yourself, right?”

David let out a short laugh.

“Fair enough. What about you, Pak? It’s been a while.”

“Yeah… it has.” He nodded, pausing briefly before answering. “I’m good. Still at the campus, still a lecturer.”

Clarissa nodded, her smile turning slightly shy, maybe even awkward. There was a moment of silence between them—not uncomfortable, but filled with the unspoken weight of time.

Then David smirked. “𝘑𝘢𝘥𝘪 𝘴𝘦𝘬𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘶 𝘶𝘥𝘢𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯 𝘐𝘣𝘶 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘳, 𝘺𝘢? SNU?”Her lips parted in mild surprise before she let out a soft chuckle. “Vanessa?”

David shrugged.

“Word travels fast. Or in this case—Vanessa does.” Chuckles escaped their lips, the initial awkwardness melting away as the conversation picked up. Clarissa nodded, leaning back slightly. “Nine years. I moved to Seoul for nine years, got my master’s and doctoral degree,” she explained, finally shedding light on where she had been all this time. It wasn’t just a disappearance—it was a journey, a climb up the academic and professional ladder that had kept her far from familiar faces.

David raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. “Nine years, huh? What did you take, Clar?” He leaned forward slightly, intrigued. “And did you work there too? I mean, considering your almamater, I’d assume you landed a pretty solid job.”

A small smile played on Clarissa’s lips as she listed her credentials. “M.A. in Design History and Cultural Studies. Then I got my D.D.—Doctor of Design in Visual Communication Design.” She paused for a beat before continuing, “As for work, yeah, I kept myself busy. I was Head of Marketing at Cheil Worldwide, worked as a Graphic Designer for Ogilvy Korea, and even had a stint as a part-time lecturer at SNU.”

David let out a low whistle. “Damn, that’s quite the resume.”

Clarissa chuckled. “Well, I guess. But right now, I’m focusing on building my own design studio here in Indonesia. Just launched it this year.”

David tilted his head, taking a sip of his coffee. “So, after all that, you decided to come back home and start fresh?”

Clarissa nodded, fingers lightly tapping the cold glass bottle of her juice. “Yeah… something like that.”

There was a weight to her words, something unspoken, but she left it at that.

“How about you, Pak?” Clarissa asked, tilting her head slightly as she sipped her juice. “Are you still at 𝘜𝘕𝘛𝘈𝘙, or are you just at 𝘜𝘔𝘕 now?”

She figured she had answered enough of his curiosity, giving him a clear picture of where life had taken her. If nothing else, she wanted to assure him that she was doing well—thriving, even. There had been no downward spiral, no tragic twist to her story. If anything, she had grown, achieved things she never thought possible back in her undergraduate days.

And deep down, she knew that if it weren’t for his guidance during her final project, she might not have made it this far.

David exhaled, shaking his head with a small chuckle. “I’m just here now. I finally let go of 𝘜𝘕𝘛𝘈𝘙.”

Clarissa raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Why?”

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms slightly before settling again. “It got exhausting, you know? Going back and forth between two places all the time. I used to manage it as a part-time lecturer, but now I’m full-time here at 𝘜𝘔𝘕.”

He took a sip of his coffee before adding with a grin, “At least now I have a little more sanity left.” Clarissa chuckled at that. “I get that. The workload must’ve been crazy.” David nodded. “Yeah, it was. But I can’t complain—I like it here. The students keep things interesting.”

She smirked. “Oh? New batch of students keeping you on your toes?”

“Something like that,” David laughed, shaking his head. “Though none of them have disappeared overseas for nearly a decade like you did.”

Clarissa rolled her eyes playfully. “Well, someone had to set the record.”

They both burst into laughter, the warmth of nostalgia settling between them like an old, familiar friend. David couldn’t help but be impressed by how much Clarissa had accomplished in the years she had been away. Nearly a decade had passed, and yet she had kept everything—her achievements, her journey, even her whereabouts—under wraps until now.

“The campus is currently looking for a new 𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘪,” David said, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more serious yet still casual enough to keep the conversation light. He watched her expression carefully before continuing, “And I think you’d be a perfect fit.”

Clarissa raised an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious.

“With your background—both in education and industry experience—you check all the right boxes,” he explained. “The faculty could really use someone like you, someone with fresh insight but also an understanding of how things work here. The students would benefit a lot from someone with your expertise.” Clarissa leaned back slightly, tapping her fingers against the glass of her apple juice.

She wasn’t expecting this. A part of her had returned to Indonesia to explore new opportunities, but she hadn’t considered returning 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦—to where it all started.

“So, what do you think?” David asked, leaning forward slightly. “Would you be interested in coming back to your first almamater?”

There was a moment of silence as Clarissa processed his words. Was she ready for this? Would she even consider it?

Clarissa tilted her head slightly, contemplating his words. “Wouldn’t it be more fun to just let one of the existing lecturers get promoted to 𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘪?” she asked, half-curious, half-teasing.

David chuckled, nodding in agreement. “Ideally, yeah. But the problem is, we’re short on people. Some lecturers have left for better opportunities—either at more prestigious universities or to pursue further studies. Those we once considered capable? Well, they’re no longer here.”

He sighed, leaning back in his seat. “And the younger lecturers? Most of them aren’t interested. A lot of them are part-time, just passing through while working on other projects or teaching elsewhere. Nobody really wants to take on the responsibility.”

Clarissa took a sip of her drink, her mind now swirling with thoughts. She hadn’t expected the faculty to be in such a state.

Nine years away, and things had shifted more than she imagined.

“So, what you’re saying is…” she trailed off, looking at him with an amused smirk. “You guys are desperate?”

David let out a dry laugh. “Basically, yeah.”

Clarissa raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious. “Hasn’t this campus become one of the leading institutions in film and design? I thought you’d have more than enough lecturers to handle all the students.”

David exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It’s not that bad, really. But the demand has grown. More students are applying to our faculty, and we simply don’t have enough lecturers to keep up. The senior lecturers? Most of them are off pursuing their doctoral degrees—either overseas or in different cities. That’s part of the reason we’re looking for strong candidates.”

He leaned forward slightly, his expression turning a bit more serious. “Honestly, Clarissa, having you as the head of the study program would be a huge win for us. You’re more than qualified. Your academic background, your work experience—everything fits. I know you’d do an amazing job.”

Clarissa pursed her lips, taking a moment to think before responding.

“I…” she hesitated, tapping her fingers lightly on the table. “I wouldn’t mind becoming a lecturer again, but stepping in as 𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘪? I don’t know, Pak. I’ve been away for almost a decade. I don’t know the curriculum, the internal situation, the administrative side of things… I’d be walking into unfamiliar territory.”

David was about to say something, but she raised a hand slightly to stop him. “I mean, I can try. I can contribute as a lecturer, but if there’s an existing faculty member who’s more familiar with the system, I think they should have the first chance at the position.”

She exhaled softly, looking at him with sincerity. “It just doesn’t feel right for me to suddenly step in and take over when, in a way, I’m still an outsider.” David nodded, taking in her hesitation with understanding.

“What if you start as a lecturer next term? Just to get a feel of things—see how you like it. Then, if you think you’re ready, you can step into the 𝘬𝘢𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘪 role when the time comes?” His tone was serious, sincere. “No one’s stepping up for the position right now, and I haven’t mentioned you to anyone yet. I wanted to talk to you first, to see if this is even something you’d consider.”

Clarissa, still processing the conversation, leaned back slightly. She had never expected to be discussing a possible return to academia, let alone taking on a leadership role.

It wasn’t something she had even remotely planned for.

“I… I think I need some time to think about it,” she admitted, her voice uncertain. “I might be interested, but there are some things I need to consider first.”

David immediately caught the shift in her tone, the unspoken weight behind her words. His expression changed, a flicker of realization passing through his eyes. He knew exactly what she meant—who she was referring to.

With a sigh, he leaned back and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah…” he said, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of resignation. “𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.”

Clarissa offered him a small, reassuring smile.

"I'm... good," she said, though the weight of the past still lingered in her voice. "That was a long time ago. Right now, we're talking about something professional." She exhaled softly, as if pushing away the remnants of old wounds. "It’s just… back then, it was a lot. A traumatic situation."

David listened, his expression calm and understanding. He didn’t need her to elaborate—he already knew.

"Would you mind if I take a few days to think about it?" she continued. "I really want to consider this properly. It’s a big decision, and I don’t want to rush it."

She hesitated for a moment before adding, "And before I make any decisions… please don’t tell—"

"I know," David cut in gently, offering her a reassuring smile of his own. "You're good. I won’t say anything. Take your time."

Clarissa nodded, appreciating David’s understanding. She wrapped her hands around her bottle of apple juice, staring at the condensation forming on the glass as her mind wandered.

“I’ll let you know soon,” she promised.

David leaned back in his chair, studying her for a moment. He could see the hesitation in her eyes—the internal battle of whether stepping back into her past was the right move. But he also saw something else. A spark. The same determination she had always carried as a student, now matured and sharpened by years of experience.

"Whatever you decide, just know that the door is open," he said. "And honestly? It would be great to have you back, even if just as a lecturer."

Clarissa smiled, this time a little more at ease. "We’ll see. Maybe I’ll surprise you."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching as the city outside bustled with life. The morning light streamed through the café windows, illuminating the space between them. It was strange—how time had passed, how things had changed, yet somehow, the connections remained.

Checking her watch, Clarissa sighed. "I should get going. But thank you, Pak. For reaching out, for thinking of me."

David chuckled. "Well, what can I say? I have a good eye for talent."

As they both stood up, Clarissa extended her hand. David shook it firmly. No longer as a professor to his student, but as two professionals standing at a crossroads—one offering a path back, the other deciding if she was ready to walk it.

With a final nod, they parted ways. And as Clarissa stepped out, she felt it—something shifting. The past was still there, lingering at the edges.

But maybe, just maybe, it was time to face it.

END.

[sudheervanguri]

Alembic Pharmaceuticals Limited, a leading name in the pharmaceutical industry, is conducting a walk-in drive for various roles in Production, Packing, Quality Control (QC), and Quality Assurance (QA). This is a unique opportunity for qualified professionals to join one of the most reputable pharma companies at our Formulations and API sites near Vadodara, Gujarat. If you hold a degree in M Pharmacy, B Pharmacy, Diploma/ITI and have 2 to 8 years of experience, we encourage you to attend the drive in Hyderabad or Pune. Available Positions and Qualifications 1. Production Roles: Technical Officer/Junior Executive/Executive (OSD) Qualification: M Pharmacy, B Pharmacy, Diploma/ITI Experience: 2 to 8 years Job Responsibilities: Manage granulation, compression, coating, pelletization, and capsule filling areas. Ensure efficient operation of production equipment and adherence to production schedules. Oversee the preparation and completion of production documentation. 2. Packing Roles: Technical Officer/Junior Executive/Executive (OSD) Qualification: M Pharmacy, B Pharmacy, Diploma/ITI Experience: 2 to 8 years Job Responsibilities: Manage bulk bottle/blister packing, Track and Trace, serialization, and documentation. Operate and maintain packing machines like CVC, Servo, Countec, CAM, BQS, HONGA & UHLMANN. Ensure packing activities comply with regulatory standards and company SOPs. 3. Quality Control (QC) Roles: Executive (OSD/Injectable/API) Qualification: M Pharmacy, B Pharmacy, MSc Experience: 2 to 7 years Job Responsibilities: Handle QC instruments such as HPLC, LCMS, GC, UV-spectrophotometer, dissolution apparatus, and more. Maintain lab records, ensure QC compliance, and manage GLP activities. Conduct testing and analysis of pharmaceutical products to ensure quality standards are met. 4. Quality Assurance (QA) Roles: Executive (OSD/Injectable/API) Qualification: M Pharmacy, B Pharmacy, MSc Experience: 2 to 7 years Job Responsibilities: Perform area and equipment line clearance, process validation, and cleaning validation. Review Batch Manufacturing Records (BMR) & Batch Packing Records (BPR) and manage shop floor QMS documents. Oversee shop floor compliance, handle investigations, and manage quality-related documentation including CAPA, deviations, and OOS. [caption id="attachment_68256" align="aligncenter" width="930"] Alembic Pharma Walk-in Drive for Production, Packing, Quality Control, and Quality Assurance Roles[/caption] Walk-in Drive Details Venue 1: Hyderabad Location: Hotel Sitara Grand, GHMC No. 8-2-696 & 697, Road No. 12, Banjara Hills, Hyderabad Date: Sunday, September 1, 2024 Time: 9:30 AM to 3:30 PM Venue 2: Pune Location: Pride Hotel, Office: 5, University Road, Shivajinagar, Pune Date: Sunday, September 1, 2024 Time: 9:30 AM to 3:30 PM Pre-Registration: To skip the queue, pre-book your slot by scanning the QR code provided on our website. Contact Information: Production & Packing: Email: prodform@alembic.co.in Quality Control & Quality Assurance: Email: quality@alembic.co.in

[realestateskiptracing]

Batch Skip Tracing Or Conventional Search- Which Is More Worthy?

Two popular methods for gathering property information are batch skip tracing and conventional search. In this blog post, let’s find out the differences between these two methods and determine which one is more worthy for real estate and property search. Click Here:- https://www.atoallinks.com/2024/batch-skip-tracing-or-conventional-search-which-is-more-worthy/

[jargonautical]

A guided tour

“AND THIS IS where the magic happens! Not my personal area of expertise, but I’m pleased to say that my little team of technicians here has everything well in hand.”

Patterson’s air of smug ownership is very much beginning to grate by the time they reach the little office at the back of the museum. Their arrival doesn’t even turn any heads until Patterson pointedly clears his throat and a young man rises to greet them.

Lanky and pale, thick dark brown hair pulled back off his face and into a ponytail hanging down his back, his faded red T-shirt proudly proclaims ‘HAIL SAGAN’. Patterson introduces him with studied vagueness as ‘ah, Chris looks after the technicians here.’, and Mainder doesn’t miss the faux-casual skipping over surnames and specifics. The security pass on the bright orange lanyard around his neck clearly identifies the boy as one Dr Christian Taylor, Technical Director, Non-Invasive Archaeology Unit, which sounds considerably more senior and more qualified than Patterson made it out to be.

“Mr Mainder, isn’t it? Sorry we weren’t at the briefing; Aaron had a batch script just about to complete.”

Aaron is presumably the young man hunched over the next desk who mumbles something vaguely like welcome without looking away from his array of screens. A dozen coloured traces blip across one of them in sync with rapidly scrolling numbers on another, and periodically he types something into an open tab on the third.

The next two desks in the row are currently unoccupied, but sheets of paper and bright sticky notes cover every inch of available flat surface and extend up the walls on either side.

“Janice sits here, she’s our project manager. I wouldn't ask for details unless you really, really like Gantt charts. Viktor spends all his time knee deep in mud so Janice uses his desk as overflow. Um, kitchen through there, help yourself to tea and coffee … oh, will you need a desk? We can probably shuffle up and make room somewhere. Did they issue you a laptop yet?”

Mainder searches his memory and comes up blank. There wasn’t anything in the document he signed, that’s for sure. It could have been mentioned while he wasn’t paying attention, but either way it doesn’t matter. There’s no way another desk is going to fit anywhere in here unless they sacrifice the little couch and coffee table in the bay window, and if they did decide to give him any kind of computer he wouldn’t even know how to turn it on.

Patterson, still talking, has carried on down to the far end of the room, arranged like a lab with worktop running the length of one wall and an array of tall metal cupboards on the other. Shallow trays laid out along the worktop display finds from the work so far; beads, bones and pottery shards, nothing momentous. Much more interesting, to Mainder at least, is the brief glimpse of scarlet beyond the open door of one of the cupboards; if he’s not mistaken, this could be the invisible secretary from the meeting. He covertly stares as they pass, trying to commit her to memory this time. Oval face, high forehead, mousy hair cut in a chin-length bob that falls over her face no matter how often she tries to tuck it behind her ear. Lightish grey eyes - oddly familiar somehow, that’s going to bug him. No wedding ring, no engagement ring, not that that means anything these days; no other jewellery that he can see, and either no makeup at all or an incredibly understated and undetectable no-makeup look.

On balance he’s inclined to think it’s the former. If she had any interest at all in making herself more attractive she’d do something with her hair, dress in colours that suited her better - literally anything would be an improvement on her current outfit, especially that eye-draggingly awful cardigan, leeching attention away from her until her own features are reduced to mere background noise.

“Of course I’d expect you to recognise most of this.” Patterson says, gesturing at the trays. “Lovely little mix, fantastic extraction and cataloguing experience for the interns. All the evidence points to some kind of rubbish pit beside a relatively high-status settlement.”

Mainder pretends to inspect the lacklustre collection of archaeological scraps; trash, just as the professor suspects. No surprises there.

“You’ll recall of course that we could be looking at a late Bronze Age tomb complex extending to under the barrow to the east, your so-called ‘fairy hill’.”. The quote marks clip into place as clearly as if he’d raised his index fingers to sign them. “In fact we all got very excited when this was uncovered.” On the wall, a grainy black and white photo of a severely plain bronze torc has been stuck up along with a terse red-pen annotation of ‘OUT OF CONTEXT!! :(‘. He taps the photo with a stubby finger and continues, “But as you can see it was quickly discovered to be a hoax. One of the previous residents of the vicarage apparently fancied himself as an amateur archaeologist. Had, ah, a naughty habit of burying artefacts wherever the fancy took him to be discovered later.”

“How very frustrating.” Mainder soothes, bending his head quickly over the trays to hide the rogue grin quirking the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure he meant no harm.”

“Possibly, possibly,” Patterson acknowledges judiciously, “but still - it was quite the red herring.”

“And is this all you’ve brought up so far?”

“Ah, you should see our star find.” Patterson taps his nose in a faintly creepy display of confidentiality and gestures for Mainder to back up. “Some of the more unusual artefacts require slightly more specialised treatment, as I’m sure you’ll understand. Evie, would you mind pulling the chieftain’s brooch for Mr Mainder to see?”

Evie. Mainder tastes the name silently. It doesn’t suit her. A childish diminutive, surely short for something more imposing. Evangeline? Evelyn? He boggles momentarily at the unbidden vision of her responding to either of those names - something similar to his reaction if somebody tried to call him ‘Elias’, notwithstanding that it’s the name on his official documentation. Evie it is then.

“I must have missed you in the introductions, Evie. What’s your role here?”

She barely manages to open her mouth before Patterson answers for her. “Evie is our asset management specialist.”

An awkward silence spins out while Patterson waits expectantly for the girl to pick up her cue and fill in the gaps. Somehow though, without moving a muscle or making a sound, she couldn’t have signaled more clearly if she’d written it on one of those sickly-coloured sticky notes and slapped it on his forehead that since Patterson had started answering for her, he could feel free to carry on and supply the missing details. Mainder hadn’t expected to feel sorry for Patterson, today or any other day, but honestly it’s like watching someone dispatch a wasp with a rocket launcher. He can’t help but smile, safely behind Patterson’s back, and comes to the rescue.

“Asset management, right. What does that involve?”

“Spreadsheets, mostly.” she answers, so blandly that he feels almost like he ceased to exist too, vapourised in Patterson’s blast radius. No, this won’t do. She’s too interesting to be allowed to fade into the background again.

“What happens if someone tries to make off with an asset? I hope for your sake you’re stronger than you look!”

It turns out he was mistaken. Her expression before wasn’t bland, it was simply polite-shading-to-neutral. At his ill-chosen attempt at humour it transforms to total, absolute stillness, a null, as if invisible shutters had slammed up between her and everyone else. He could swear the tacky lino under his feet trembles faintly, so physical is the frisson of uncertainty that runs through him. He retreats to safer ground, turning with relief to the item under the magnifier.

“Beautiful.” he murmurs after a frozen pause.

He’s absolutely sincere. It’s one of Smidur’s, one of his best at that, and has to have been for someone high up in one of the old Fire houses. Maybe even at the very top. Shaped like a stylised sword, the blunt tapering blade and the pommel both heavily inlaid with precious stones, polished cabochons of garnet and deep-hued amber reflecting the bright ring of the magnifier light back up at him. Around them red-gold and silver wire inlays chase each other around the borders and up over the arch in a leaping flame pattern.

Homesickness washes over him, a sickening wave that curls his fingers around the edge of the bench for support. He has one of these, not nearly so fine of course, tucked away safely somewhere until it might be safe to use it again. He can feel the potential still stored in this one, a journey unfinished, hidden under mud and stone for so long waiting to shine again. The scribe was right; this beautiful piece has never crossed the Divide.

Glancing up he finds the girl watching him again, and again with that faint hint of concern she showed in the meeting. It unsettles him, far more so than if she’d been openly hostile. He won’t deny he’s off balance - but what’s it to her?

“Well, thank you for the viewing.” he says lightly. “What else should I see while I’m here, Professor?”

The dig supervisor is waiting for them at the far corner of the house, a gaggle of young interns clustered around him like imprinted ducklings.

It’s not hard to see why. Viktor is an impressive specimen whatever your personal preference - tall and tanned, he’s blessed with the face of a young Valentino and the physique of a gym rat. People always fail to guess correctly what he does for a living, to hear him tell it; they go for fitness instructor, rugby player, even Navy SEAL, long before they get anywhere close to his real specialism. It’s netted him many free drinks on a Saturday night from giggling young women who’ve failed to guess correctly, not to mention getting him laid more times than he can count. He has no interest whatsoever in seducing Mainder, obviously. In fact he has strong opinions about old farts posing about the place dressed all in black like they think they’re cool or something, but he prides himself on remaining professional. If there’s one thing he cares about more than his image, it’s his career prospects.

“I was just taking everyone through the dig schedule.” he hails them as they catch up to the group. “As I was saying - our scans show some very strong signals towards the back of the house, but we’ll be warming up with a look at the anomaly over by the hedge first. Depending on what we find there we’ll decide where to dig next, and of course we have to have an eye on the structural integrity of the building. Any questions so far?”

This is pointedly aimed only at the students, so Mainder fades to the back of the group to let them raise their points. The young woman next to him doesn’t appear to have anything to ask, not related to the dig anyway. She watches the magnificent Viktor with shining eyes and murmurs confidentially, “This is so exciting! Have you done projects like this before? Oh, you must have done hundreds. This is the first one I’ve done. I can’t wait to get started! I wonder what we’ll find?”

Mainder accurately gauges that she’s not looking for a meaningful dialogue, rather chattering from a combination of exhilaration and nerves, and confines himself to encouraging nods and murmurs of assent at appropriate intervals. He can’t remember the last time he was that excited about something; it would have been so long ago that now he can’t even remember how it would have felt, that’s how long.

“What happens if we don’t find anything?” one of the students near the front asks. “Maybe the same person who buried the torc buried the stuff from the hoard as well, and it’s all just a big joke.”

“It’s possible, but of course we hope not.” Viktor says stiffly. “There’s more than enough evidence of the site being worth investigating, even without the hoard so close by, and whatever we find will tell us more about how it was used. Does anyone else have a question?”

Since nobody does, they move on to the next part of their briefing leaving Mainder and Patterson staring expectantly at each other. A moment of awkward silence descends, as if Patterson was hoping Mainder would simply disappear of his own accord at this point, and when that fails to happen he glances at his watch.

“My goodness.” he murmurs vaguely. “Well, ah, I do have other appointments this afternoon. Just let the team know if you need anything.”

[inextures]

Gain Proficiency in Batch Processing with Spring Batch

In the ever-evolving landscape of enterprise applications, efficiently handling large-scale data processing tasks is a common challenge. Spring Batch, is a robust batch application development framework that is lightweight and all-inclusive, facilitating the creation of batch applications essential to enterprise system everyday operations.

Spring Batch provides reusable functions essential in processing large volumes of records, including logging/tracing, transaction management, job processing statistics, job restart, skip, and resource management.

Spring Batch Architecture

A typical batch application is roughly as follows.

Read a large number of records from a database, file, or queue.

Process the data in some way.

Write back the data in a modified form.

The corresponding schematic is as follows.

The general architecture of the spring batch is as follows.

In the spring batch, a job can define many steps, in each step you can define its own ItemReader for reading data, ItemProcesseor for processing data, and ItemWriter for writing data, and each defined job is in the JobRepository Inside, we can start a job through the JobLauncher.

Core Concepts

Job: In Spring Batch, a job is an executable task that can be divided into smaller, more manageable jobs.

Step: Within a job, a step is a self-contained, executable unit. It performs a certain function, like reading, processing, and writing data.

Item: An item is a data point that has undergone step processing. It could be any kind of data, such as a line from a file or a record from a database.

Building Blocks of Spring Batch

Readers, Processors, and Writers

ItemWriter

An ItemProcessor is used to process the data. When the given item is not valid it returns null, else it processes the given item and returns the processed result.

Tasklet

When no reader and writer are given, a tasklet acts as a processor for SpringBatch. It processes only a single task.

Chunks and Transactions

Spring Batch uses chunks to process data, which enables efficient handling of large datasets.

The process of transactions ensures either all items in a chunk are processed successfully or none.

Job Execution Flow

A job is usually composed of one or more steps, and the execution process can be customized to meet specific requirements.

XML or Java-based configuration can be used to configure and orchestrate jobs and steps.

JobRepository

A Job repository in Spring Batch provides Create, Retrieve, Update, and Delete (CRUD) operations for the JobLauncher, Job, and Step implementations.

Real-World Applications

Data Migration 

The efficiency of transferring large amounts of data from one system to another is demonstrated by Spring Batch, which proves to be instrumental in data migration scenarios.

ETL Mastery

The extraction, transformation, and loading of data is a fundamental use case for Spring Batch. Developers are empowered to create jobs that collect data from diverse sources, apply transformations, and archive the refined results.

Report Generation

Batch processing has a specialization in producing complicated reports that involve complex calculations or aggregations.

Features of Spring Batch

Maintainability

Transaction management

Flexibility

Retry and Skip Mechanisms

Chunk based processing

Implementation of Spring Batch

Step 1: Project Setup

To begin your Spring Batch project, establish a new Spring Boot project. You have the option to use either the Spring Initializer, which is a web-based tool or manually configure your project through your preferred IDE.

Method 1: Using Spring Initializr

Go to Spring Initializr and select the project settings you want, which include project type, language, and packaging.

Include the dependency for “Spring Batch” in your project.

To download the project structure as a ZIP file, click on “Generate”.

Method 2: Manual Configuration

Create a new Spring Boot project in your preferred IDE, ensuring that you have included the necessary Spring Batch dependencies.

Set up your project with the right directory structure to make batch-related components easy to find and organize.

Step 2: Define Job and Steps

Once your project is set up, define a job and its steps. Batch processing can be divided into phases with one or more steps per job. The steps can be configured using ItemReader, ItemProcessor, and ItemWriter implementations.

Step 3: Implement ItemReader, ItemProcessor, and ItemWriter

Develop customized implementations for ItemReader, ItemProcessor, and ItemWriter adapted to your specific use case. Spring Batch includes several preinstalled implementations, like JdbcCursorItemReader and JpaItemWriter, that can be modified to suit your requirements.

Step 4: Configure Batch Properties

Adjust your batch job by configuring batch-related properties. Modify settings including chunk size, retry policies, and transaction management to improve the performance and reliability of your batch jobs.

To make it clear, let’s define each property:

spring.batch.job.names

Specifies the names of the batch jobs to be executed. Multiple job names can be provided as a comma-separated list.

spring.batch.initialize-schema

Controls the initialization of the batch schema in the underlying database. Setting it to ‘always’ ensures that the schema is created every time the application starts.

spring.batch.job.enabled

Indicates whether the execution of batch jobs is enabled or disabled. When set to ‘true’, jobs will run as usual. Conversely, setting it to ‘false’ prevents the execution of any configured batch jobs.

Step 5: Run the Batch Job

Run your batch job either programmatically or with Spring Boot’s built-in command line support. Check the status of the job execution by monitoring it through the JobRepository.

Key-Takeaway

With Spring Batch, developers can easily handle complex batch processing scenarios. The framework’s flexibility and scalability make it a top choice in the Java ecosystem for handling large datasets or orchestrating ETL workflows. By mastering Spring Batch’s core concepts and building blocks, developers can unleash their full potential for efficient and reliable batch processing.

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Originally published by: Gain Proficiency in Batch Processing with Spring Batch

[lightwise]

Well, I don’t have links quite yet, but I have two WIPs that will be out very soon:

1. Compass Pointing North. My take on the behind the scenes of TBB season 2, following Rex and Echo’s attempts to free the clones. It will start out sounding like @dystopicjumpsuit and I shared the same brain cell when we saw the Marauder pulling away from Trace and Rafa’s garage 😆 and then take a very different turn from there. DJ made me these absolutely lovely dividers based on my vision of Rex as the North Star for all the clones. 🥹🙏🏻 favorite part is simply that we didn’t get to see any of what they were up to for the rest of season 2, and I have a lot of emotional scenes and conversations that I want to see happen between Rex, echo and the rest of the batch.

And 2. I have a short Hunter x Reader fic that will probably be split into two parts so that those who want to skip the smut can still enjoy the story. I am close to finished on part one but ran out of steam over the holidays, but I should have it up soon. It will be titled This Is It For Me. 💀 my favorite part is just exploring Hunter as he starts to care for someone, and also I ended up developing a really complex backstory for the Reader that I think is really fun (and would make a good longer story although I doubt that I will ever flesh it out).

Am I gonna start something for every day of the week? Not that I'm aware of, LOL. But let's give this a try? Maybe I'll alternate fanfic and fanart... Or make a separate day. Who knows.

Fanfic Authors: What are you CURRENTLY working on (choose ONE, haha) and what's your favorite part about it?

Don't be shy, share a link! 🤓