#e-liquid review

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Delight in Humble Juice Co TFN E-Liquid – Berry Blow Doe Ice

At the heart of Berry Blow Doe Ice is a blend of ripe berries that dance on your palate with each inhale. Imagine a medley of juicy blueberries, tangy raspberries, and sweet strawberries harmonising to create a symphony of fruity goodness. This blend isn’t just about sweetness; it’s about balance, where each berry complements the others without overpowering the senses.

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Air Travel and Vaping Abroad: A Complete Guide on Vape Kits Abroad

We hope you all are aware of the rules and regulations regarding vaping in your country before starting your vaping abroad plan. But nothing goes to what it says about vaping when it comes to travelling abroad. There is a new set of whole information to avoid any uncertainties when it comes to vaping abroad process.

If you are having exiting abroad plans and expecting to enjoy vaping abroad, then this space is for you. Let’s prepare for your vaping abroad plan with these tips accordingly:

In this blog, Flawless Vape Shop outlined the vape recommendations, checklists, vape planner, safety tips and other necessities required to plan for your next abroad tip.

If you are worried about dos and don’ts regarding vaping abroad, don’t worry we prepared exclusive guide to enhance your vaping knowledge with our unique guide to air travel with vape kits and vape liquids:

Tips for Vaping Abroad:

Before booking your flight tickets to your designated area, it is essential to check whether vaping is permitted in the respective country or not. This helps you not to get in unwanted troubles where vaping is banned.

The vaping laws are consistently changing in several countries. So, it is advisable to be updated and cross check before planning your abroad trip.

Get through information carrying on vaping kit process in flight, vaping kit equipment requirements, packing tips, packing vape liquids, security advices, and other necessary preparations.

Preparation Process:

Vaping regulations various depending on the designated country, airlines you choose, and the accommodations.

As the respective country updates, modifies, and removes the vape kits regulations, it is utmost important for a keen study on the designated place and prepare according before your departure.

Travel Checklist:

It is necessary to prepare a vape kits and vape liquids checklist to avoid unnecessary hurdles. Here are the most important items list:

Vape Kits Coil

Wicks

Wire e-liquids or pods

Vape liquids

Batteries in protective case

Charger with storage

Care plug adaptor drip cloth

Packaging Tips:

Always make sure to empty your e-liquid or vape liquid tanks before packing in a sealed bag or storage case to avoid the risk of leakages.

Always secure e-liquid bottles tightly and take precautions to avoid any leakages.

If your batteries are external batteries then remove from the respective devices and store properly in a protective case or pack as per the convenience.

Preparing the packaging with precautions which can avoid accidental device activation, batteries creating short circuit by rubbing with opposite battery.

Always pack your vape kits and vape liquids in hand luggage, as there is a high risk of malfunction occurring in hold baggage.

Security Checkpoint Process:

The security checkpoint terms and conditions vary according to the country. Hence, always check the precautions for security checkpoint status.

Liquids: consult security team for the airline restriction for vape liquids which is generally 100ml per container and the maximum capacity is 1 litre. Pack your vape e-liquids in a transparent, resealable bag which is easily available at any airport. There is a high risk of liquid leakage due to change in airplane cabin pressure.

Carry-on Luggage: As mentioned earlier, plan your vape kits in carry-on bag. Batteries such as Li-Ion are not allowed in aircraft holds which have high chance of discarding and inspecting for safety reasons.

Batteries: Takeout all your batteries and place them in the checking trays available at the airport checkpoint for safety issues.

Boarding Pattern:

Once you crossed the boarding point, there is nothing to worry about vape kits or security issues anymore.

Vaping in airport terminals is prohibited, but if you are willing for a vaping time it is recommended to check with flight attendants.

Destination Format:

Once you reached the destination, there are few precautions to take when travelling in various transport modes to avoid certain circumstances.

Rental Cars: various rental companies charge if you smoke or vape in their cars. Check beforehand with the car drivers or companies to avoid extra fees or fines.

Buying Abroad: Depending on the destination you are in, there might be no guarantee about the quality of the e-liquid ingredient or devices. Prefer to carry your own e-liquid and devices.

List of the Countries where Vaping is Banned:

As the vaping laws constantly change globally as per the market trends and updates, it is best to check every often or at least before planning your abroad trip for up to date information.

Restricted Countries:

Australia

Chile

Japan

South Africa

Banned Countries:

Argentina

Brazil

Brunei Darussalam

Cambodia

Colombia

Egypt

Gambia

Hong Kong

India

Indonesia

Jordan

Lebanon

Malaysia

Mexico

Nicaragua

Panama

Philippines

Qatar

Singapore

Taiwan, Province Of China

Thailand

Timor-Leste

Turkey

Turkmenistan

Uganda

Uruguay

Venezuela

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Discover your ideal vaping experience with Cuttwood E-Liquids. Our comprehensive guide helps you choose the perfect flavor, nicotine strength, and VG/PG ratio. Elevate your vaping game today!

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Vaping is the process of inhaling vapor produced by an electronic cigarette or similar device. It is considered a safer alternative to smoking cigarettes and has gained popularity in recent years. That’s the reason why you came across many e cig brands with flavors online. However, not everyone knows how to vape properly, which can lead to health risks and unpleasant experiences. In this article, we will discuss the best way to vape and provide proper vaping techniques.

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Buy LSD Liquid Online For Sale - best pharma pills steroid online stores

Buy LSD Liquid Online diethylamide, also known as acid, is a psychedelic drug known for its psychological effects. LSD stands for lysergic acid diethylamide. It is an illegal street drug that comes as a white powder or clear colorless liquid. It is available in powder, liquid, tablet, or capsule form.  it is one of the most potent, mood-changing chemicals.

It is manufacture from lysergic acid, which is find in the ergot fungus that grows on rye and other grains.It is produce in crystal form in illegal laboratories, mainly in the United States. These crystals are convert to a liquid for distribution. It is odorless, colorless, and has a slightly bitter taste. Street names for LSD include acid, blotter, blotter acid, blue cheer, electric Kool-Aid, hits, Lucy in the sky with diamonds, mellow yellow, microdots, purple haze, sugar cubes, sunshine tabs, and window pane.

Harmful Effects of LSD

LSD can harm the body in different ways and lead to health problems such as:

Increased heart rate, blood pressure, breathing rate, and body temperature

Sleeplessness, loss of appetite, tremors, sweating

Mental problems, including anxiety, depression, schizophrenia

[crappymixtape]

sweet like summer

REQUEST → @palmtreesx3, SUMMER BLURB PARTY ❝ 💿 bff's to lovers maybe a little spicy – summer steve. summer steve! ( song x blurb with steve harrington x reader – this one is a lil fluffy, a lil flirty, a lil hot, roadtripping the west coast with stevie and stopping at a bar to dance after spending all day at the beach – recommended to listen to your song while reading! )

S W E E T L I K E S U M M E R SONG PICK -> 🎶 sunset girl, carpool tunnel

Your hair was still windswept, salt turned wavy and kissed by the sun and your sandals scratched in the sand under your feet on the dance floor. The west coast was unlike anything you’d ever seen, definitely nothing like Hawkins, and you wished you could bottle it up and bring it home with you.

It was all sunshine and surfer boys, shells and sea glass, gulls crying out over the crash of the waves and warm sand under your skin. California was your last stop, though Steve had teased about taking a detour through New Mexico on the way back, and you were trying to drink up every last little drop. You never wanted to leave.

You’d found the little hole in the wall taco joint on Trip Advisor and damn if the reviews weren’t right. It was some of the best food you’d ever had and Tuesdays had live music. There wasn’t a free table in the whole place and the dance floor was crowded, filled with people swaying along with the twangy riffs and reverbs coming from the surf rock band on stage.

Three margaritas deep, you could’ve sworn you were floating with the way your best friend held you close to his chest, Steve, Steve, Steve. One hand pressed wide and warm to your lower back and the other tangled up with yours. He hadn’t stopped grinning the second you got up from your table, but when the music slowed a bit it softened. Shifted smaller, unsure, a mixture of what if we mess this up and I've never wanted you more. He’d never looked at you like that before, but you found yourself lost in it as the lyrics wove through the space between you.

❝ WHAT D'YOU GOT GOING ON TONIGHT? I CAN TELL BY YOUR CURLY HAIR, WE'LL BE FADED OUT OF SIGHT.

Steve slowed, feet bumping into yours and a breathy laugh fell from your lips.

“Steve–”

He chuckled too, “Sorry.”

But then his eyes met yours, warm honey, burnt caramel, like swimming in a pool of liquid amber and it was like you couldn’t breathe. Your pulse fluttering against your neck and heart skipping in your chest.

Steve’s lips pulled up at the corner, shy, his fingers shifting over the thin fabric of your dress at your waist. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, tongue chasing over his lower lip. “I really want to kiss you,” he murmured and your skin buzzed where his fingers pressed to you. Singing under his touch, more, more, more.

❝ CAN'T PUSH IT, IF I DARE. OH, MY GIRL, MY GIRL.

The band didn’t exist anymore and everyone else faded away, blurring and swept away by the feeling of Steve. You heard gulls and the soft wash of waves on the sand, saw the way Steve smiled at you as he pulled you into the surf with him.

“Wanna kiss you too,” you whispered back and it was like you’d redefined time. Seconds more like minutes or hours, stretching out as Steve leaned closer and closer.

The soft sweep of his lashes over the apples of his cheeks, the strong line of his jaw and the moles chasing down his neck, the perfectly messy brown locks of hair falling over his forehead and lips so soft, pressed to yours.

Tentative, slow, langid, curious, wanting.

❝ A GEM, SO PERFECT YOU SEE. A DREAM, SO RARE.

It was a little shy at first, but as soon as you’d tasted each other you knew you were done for, would never have enough, would always be left wanting more, more, more.

“More Steve,” you said into him and he swallowed your words, pulled soft, sweet sounds from you and nestled them deep between his ribs to bloom like wildflowers, a bright, warm thing he would cherish forever.

His fingers squeezed at your waist, pressing into the plush of your hip and pulling you into him so close you could smell the faded scent of his coconut sunscreen, cedar and leather from his aftershave this morning and the sweet, heady musk of sweat – beading along the hollow of his collarbone, the swell of your chest, the press of your bodies in the heat.

He nosed at your neck and you gave him more access, head tilting back lazy, drugged, drowning in Steve as he dragged kisses across your skin and the sounds that had started out soft and sweet shifted needy. A low whine that blew his pupils wide and when you carded your hands through his hair, tugged on the ends and made him see stars, he squeezed at your hand.

❝ I'D GO THE EXTRA MILE TO SEE HER AT MY DOOR ONCE MORE – SUNSET GIRL.

“Take me back to the room,” you whispered, lips brushing against the shell of his ear and it melted any reservations he had left.

“Mmhm,” was all he could manage.

His fingers tangled up with yours as he led you out of the restaurant, both of you laughing low under your breaths at how ridiculous you felt, at how desperate it was. He’d turn to catch you in a kiss at the crosswalks and you’d tug at his bottom lip, drive him crazy, pushing yourselves to the point you were practically running back to the hotel.

And when you finally fell in through the door at your room, fingers scrambling to tug your dress up over your head, throwing his shirt off to the floor, Steve made you fall apart again and again until long after the ocean swallowed the sun.

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[ladylarynn]

Alleyway Affairs

Summary: The last you heard from Astarion, he told you to "die screaming." Months later, you find each other again. Only this time, deep in the city, in an alley under nightfall. Perhaps, he will bleed you dry. Or perhaps, he has other plans for you.

Rating: E

Word Count: 7.2k

Pairing: Astarion x you (fem!reader)

cw: 18+ REVIEW THE TAGS! established relationship pre breakup, post ending for BG3, blood drinking, exhibitionism, p in v, creampie, explicit consent, angst, additional tags posted on ao3

read on ao3

or keep reading below <3

It is in the end— after the blood had been shed, the world nearly ended. When you are once more alone, companions returning to their new obligations or new plights, when you are left with kind consolation and heavy goodbyes.

The city sleeps, yet often you do not. Residing at differing inns from night to night, you attempt to lead a life nameless once more. A lack of sleep, a predilection for forgetting. Perhaps that is also what led you here, entering a tavern prevalent in profound impropriety and bottomless drink.

The ale is a warm rush of current down your throat, a haze settling inside your mind. The scintillating fireplace of licking flames cast rhythms of shadow across unfamiliar faces.

You’re here on business… or rather, pursuing a whisper of opportunity. It isn’t unnatural to be stood up in this line of inquiry. Not many mages boast of wish spells, and even fewer know how to get their hands on one.

You had managed to not resort to needing Gale this long… so. Other avenues became necessary.

At least that is what you keep telling yourself as you keenly monitor the door.

One door close, and you pick lock it open, but your years in this line of work were hells bent on survival. Not miracles.

Yet, your miracles are not here. At least, one of them doesn’t show. The other you hope won’t.

You groan, cradling your head with your hands, then kneading balled fists against your eyes. The man eyeing you from across the bar coughs to conceal his sudden disinterest. Who can blame him? You’re pathetic.

“The deal is still on the table. You play your part just like you used to, and I help. The hero act wasn’t going to last, you know. Coming here is a testament to the matter.”

You grip the handle of your mug, your drink swishing to and fro. It all but topples over onto the front of your undershirt as you raise it to your lips. You take deep gulps, liquid dribbling down your chin. You smear it away.

You cannot get drunk quickly enough.

However, as the hour plays on, you begin to curse your tolerance of drink, as well as everything else gone wrong in the past months.

Fuck.

Gods, surely there is no use to this anymore—

A honeyed voice pollutes your buzz. It is a suave soliloquy, with syllables like rose petals. It wafts in the air, laughter silk soft with an undercut of severity. It prickles up your posture, and you are shrouded in thorns.

Fuck.

As sly as you may, you cast a glance over your shoulder, and there he is.

Without the tadpole's defiance of the sun, Astarion was thrust into the night once more, cavalierly caviling at the young man draped under his arm. The man is of noble build, with embroidered robes adorned in maroon and amethyst gems. The noble’s cheeks are a flush delight fueled by the splendor of Astarion’s charm.

The sight is the sea collapsing into you, wave after wave. Breath sealed in sinking lungs. You will drown if you don’t look away.

There are two awful realities to unfold before you.

One, how dismayingly odd the noble is for someone of Astarion’s taste. Just met his prime, early twenties, broad shoulders, and bright-eyed. These types were the kind Astarion would toy with until they bristled and cried. Not the kind he’d be involved with.

You swiftly shift to stare into your half-empty glass. A shiver stills your sigh.

Unless of course, the context of taste meant something entirely different.

Then it was most certainly his type.

You take a swig.

Second.

Astarion is philandering.

With your intended mark.

You shouldn’t look again. But you must be sure. On first inspection, the noble fits the bill all right; medium height, thin build, pale eyes, hair, and skin. The description checks out, everything but the—

A cacophony of swooning laughter manages to reach your side of the tavern.

“He laughs like a hyena.”

You turn, slow as if that will help conceal your gaze. It doesn’t.

Crimson eyes meet yours, and dread pollutes your surroundings, your thoughts, and your breath. Your stomach drops, the skin of your arms pebbling as a chill slinks its lips down your spine.

This is not how you planned the night to go.

There it is again, the clutch of your gut, the crater burrowing itself into the trenches of you.

You had not died— screaming, as he had last proclaimed. The reminder of those words, dripping in contempt, brazen in believed betrayal. They had marred your thoughts and sought to spoil the solace of your soul. The severance of your last encounter had sunk its teeth into you, chewed sinew, and spit out the scraps.

Astarion.

He whom you had given everything— anything— for. Gone. Never to be seen again.

But he is here— and you… you realize you really shouldn’t be.

You can’t be.

The mark can wait. There will be other nights.

Within a fluid movement, you set your mug aside, reach into your pouch, and spill gold coins across the counter. You make haste from the bar to the entrance. You slide behind shoulders and wade through strangers cackling and clinking cups unaware.

Even so, you feel him watching you.

The tavern bell chimes. You cringe with the acknowledgment it calls forth to you. The breath in your lungs constricts, the agony in the urgency to flee from his line of sight too much to endure.

Why is he here? Shouldn’t he be in the Underdark?

Did recognition pass across his countenance? He could have seen you but not see you.

This is the only comfort you can indulge in as you quicken your pace, the city lamp yellow hues sluicing and splaying across the street.

You’ve sobered up. Yet, everything is spinning. Swaying. Turning inside out.

You’re panicking.

A bell chimes and footfalls patter behind you. You don’t even need to look. The thought is nauseating. How well-versed you are in the sound of his steps.

“I hope you die screaming.”

It resounds in your mind just as he calls your name. It sounds foreign. It sounds like a memory. Like a dream, you never wake from.

You have half a mind to keep walking, roaming further into the city and into the surrounding, comforting dark.

He could want to make his past proclamation true.

Perhaps you’d let him if only to be rid of this ache.

This burden you bury beneath your smiles and behind your eyes, the loss of him you carry in your voice.

How it is known by all who know you.

“I didn’t think I would find you alone, in my time of the night. Where are your companions, darling?” His tone tinged in disdain; his darling laced with ridicule. There is a slow decline in breath. It staggers still in your lungs, like tangled strands caught in dragging dingers. Is it dread? Is it grief? Perhaps it is a touch of mourning.

You know now what you knew the last you spoke— you are the bearer for all that did not come to fruition. You are the reason he won’t say our companions. Our friends.

And though you loathe yourself for losing him, though you blame yourself for all the things you previously thought you were sheltering him from. You cannot endure this in silence any longer. Not when the chance to confront him is here.

Who are you to run away? You have spent your whole life running.

This isn’t imprisonment. This isn’t a life sentence.

Yet… isn’t it?

You can’t go on like this. You haven’t been.

You whip around, and Astarion stumbles into you. As you collide— his scarlet eyes widen, and a flash of recollection startling your pulse. The effect of being this close isn’t lost on you. You can see, even under the dim lanterns glow the crease of his brow, the wrinkle in his nose, the dip of his cupid’s bow. But just as sudden, he steels himself, stepping back and straightening, a glint in his glare, wrath warping his mouth and brandished on his tongue.

You muster the will to speak before he can.

“They were your companions as much as they were mine,” you bite back, though the spite of it makes you hesitate. Whatever you feel doesn’t matter.

“But…” you sigh, then start again, “that matters not…” you offer.

Your companions who watched you wither away the moment he left. Companions who offered you condolences yet spoke in passing of how things may have been different— for Astarion’s fate. It was blameless yet… how could they have not blamed you? And maybe that is why when it was over, you pushed them all away.

That is why you offered goodbyes in place of being a part of the next journey.

Karlach’s hand on your back, Shadowheart’s curt smile, La’zel’s tense jaw, Gale’s exasperation, Wyll’s sorry nod.

You’d never known family—let alone friends. So why grieve yourself over it?

Even if you gave all you could, even though you had killed yourself to keep the world.

It means nothing now.

All you can do is make him see sense. All you can do is convince him to listen, to hear you. You just didn’t think it would happen this soon when you are unready. When you are still angry— at yourself, at him, at everything.

“What matters is that I am sorry,” you plead, and Astarion teeters on his heel, bombarded by your insistence. But you can’t stop. Even if he thinks you are pathetic—distasteful or blunt.

Your hurt is too deep. You remember the vitriol in your supposed lover’s voice. You remember scrubbing your skin raw after the battle with Cazador. You remember numbly thinking if that was all you always were to him. A plot for protection. A ploy for power.

Hadn’t he said as much?

“I’m sorry how things ended. Now if that is all you wanted, let us be on our way,” you bitterly retort. You mean to turn your back on him, on all of this.

But just as sudden, the verses of carved intent burn at the inside of your wrist.

Dammit.

A contract is a contract.

Even if you walk away. Your past self has condemned you.

Abruptly, his cold, nimble fingers curl around your forearm. His filed nails nip into your skin— though the pain doesn’t end there. His touch burns through you fields of forlorn faith of anything different than the vile sure to leave his tongue.

He is incredulous.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry? That’s all you have to say to me? Are you sorry to be reminded of how you refused to help me despite stating you would? How you ruin any chance of me ascending, of being more than my captor? You’re sorry?!” He bellows out, the way he does when things are far too outrageous to constrain within a reasonable decibel.

The words stick like tar and taste of arsenic. He must have rehearsed a version of these lines before, as he always made sure to hone his skill of slights. They puncture the air with each consonant, every vowel, as he draws you in closer.

His presence encircles you, a predator playing with its prey. He could end you here and now, drain you of all you are.

As if he hadn’t already.

You yank your arm away and vociferate back.

“I ruined your chance at becoming Cazador. You couldn’t see it. You wouldn’t. The spawn aside, you would have been damned. I love—” a near concession you barely manage to conceal, “I loved you,” you finish.

Dammit! You love him. His mean proclivity. His budding vulnerability. His gentle rebuffs. The sly quips, the grandiose turn of phrase, the sharp smiles, the soft uncertainty of palms alleviating parts of you that were left derelict. When the others slept, you’d glide your fingers through his strands of hair, humming quiet, close, gentle. You never knew if he truly saw you in the same way— as if you were precious as if you were his new comprehension of eternity.

It is why you’d been willing to risk your reputation to pay repentance. To earn some semblance of forgiveness.

Even if you had to become what you once were…

He wouldn’t have to.

And that is enough. Yet—

Yet, you blink and blink it back.

You can’t cry- not like this. Not now.

“I was trying to…” it almost tumbles from your tongue. Save you. That is what you mean to say. But it feels wrong to say it— it felt wrong even then, even if that is what you meant to do, even if it was done with intent rife with compassion, with desperation to help him. You know, deep down, he will despise you further if you admit it. You hadn’t wanted to fix him, but in that moment, you knew love would never heal him. Nor power. Not vengeance.

It was through choice— a choice you seemingly made for him.

So, you halt yourself. Shake your head, and turn away.

“Love?!” He sputters at your confession in disbelief. You hadn’t told him that before. It was never the right moment, or perhaps you feared rejection. Even if you had said it countless times, like the mantra pounding in your heart, would he have ever believed you?

He grips your wrist this time, preventing you from even daring to leave.

“I needed you. And you went back on your promise.” He says indignant. “I should kill you for what you took from me.” He gestures towards the blade sheathed at his hip and for an instant you… you wouldn’t mind if he did.

You’ve been beaten, bloodied, beguiled, spurned. What is left of you after the fight for the city? Victories wrought with death, a closure that did not fulfill. All of it was done with a broken heart.

Deep within, you cave.

How did we become this?

Your features crumble, brows pinching together and tears beginning to burn, threatening to descend your cheeks. You’d never let him see you cry. He’d heard you before… held you as you shook beside him. But never would you show your face. It was too much. For anyone.

Except… the night he left. In front of the others— you wept.

You cannot retreat into the night, for he knows the dark better than you. You had thought he’d known you better.

In the thralls of morality, you finally had the chance to do right by the world. So, you tried. Always.

It’s why he disliked you once. It’s why he cared for you later. It’s why he detests you now.

“Then go ahead Astarion, kill me if you must. But I… I love you with all of me. I promised I’d help you defeat Cazador. I never said I’d aid you in ascending. And you know— you had known I wouldn’t.”

It is a dagger through your heart, the tears have come, yet you cannot hide.

You’d said it.

Love. Not loved. Not the past tense, but the current, the now, the always, the evermore.

For a moment you think he didn’t hear you, didn’t believe you, or thought it a lie. With his proficiency in deceit, shouldn’t he recognize the absence of it?

Astarion’s resolve begins to crack. His lips twitched downward, his jaw tense. The watery remorse seeping into your voice makes him shutter, makes him step back. He clenches his fists, his eyes shutting tight. It’s as though he’s fighting— against what you say— against what has become of you both.

He opens his eyes, on the verge of tears.

“You had no right to refuse me,” he jabs his finger toward your chest, his words are crumpled, falling apart, “you said you would do what I needed.”

“I thought I was doing what you needed,” you insist, hands puncturing your wavering intonation, “That I— I couldn’t do what you wanted. And for that— I am sorry… I am sorry.”

You begin to cradle yourself, backing up, treading away from this… demise of you.

You mutter while meeting his eyes again.

“I know what you want now. I promise you will never see me again.”

Just as the others.

As soon as it leaves your lips, his hands are on your arm, at your wrist. He drags you down the dim alleyway between the tavern and the inn. He seizes you against the opposing wall, your body caged by his, your spine straightening to the cool press of brick.

He is all-consuming, a tidal wave. The moonlight combs through the waves of his hair and coruscates in the gleam of crimson irises. You inhale the aroma of his skin, and it riddles you speechless, the notes of rosemary, the undercurrent of bergamot and cinnamon intoxicating.

Anchoring you to the spot, Astarion is seething.

“No,” he pauses, squeezes his eyes closed, and shakes his head in contention before clenching your wrists tighter, pale red ringlets sure to form. “You don’t get to cry… you betrayed me. Maybe I didn’t become Cazador, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t become much worse.” A mirthless smile snags at the corner of his lips. He scrunches his nose, as if in disgust.

“Don’t look at me like I’m the one who did that to you. Don’t tell me you love me now.”

You steel yourself. You know the game he is playing all too well. You can’t let him see the wound he’s prying wide open, even if your heart is plummeting to the abyss inside your chest, even if your stomach churns.

You step into his space, causing him to flinch, his sneer slipping from his smug face. You murmur quiet, kind.

“You were afraid. I know. But power would not have quilled your fear. No one would hurt you more than you would have hurt yourself. You would have become everything you despise, and I couldn’t watch it happen.”

His grip has lessened. He looks at you with timid uncertainty.

Your voice hardens.

“You can hate me for it. You can kill me for it. But I never wanted to hurt you.”

What you say lingers in the air for a long moment. He regards you with an inscrutable expression.

But it shifts. It morphs. It becomes impenetrable, unknowable. Astarion does what he does best. He withdraws within himself. He counters with defiance.

“The path to the hells is paved with good intentions, my dear.”

You gasp as he releases your wrist, then bring his deft fingers to glide over the underside of your jaw. You shiver, ensnared by the sensation of his sharp nails, his thumb pressing against the seam of your lips, parting them ever so slightly. He drags his thumb over the plush of your bottom lip, and the breath strangled in your lungs releases in a broken sigh, his touch igniting a memory, only known by your skin.

He surveys you with a raised brow, with prowling eyes. His eyes peruse your body as his other hand descends your forearm, nails tracing an aimless motif. Fingers flow from there to the bend of your waist, featherlight over the fabric of your blouse. He curls his palm snugly on your side, thumb positioned beneath the underside of your breast. He can feel your inhale beneath his splaying fingertips. You exhale shakily slow, clinging to the façade of indifference. He tilts his head with a tsk of disapproval, then gently grips your chin.

He flattens his palm over part of your cheek and jaw, slanting your head. He brushes your hair aside, unveiling your neck, then skims his lips over the shell of your ear. He is so close, so familiar. The sanctuary of this nostalgia overcomes you. His cashmere voice is a susurration for surrender.

“Say you’ll let me,” he coos, and the sweet redolence of his presence pervades your senses. Yet, you must try to resist, even when his fingers at your side wade up and down, soothing, and — tempting. When his lips press beneath your ear, then over your pulse, warmth cascades down inside your core, and your knees buckle. You feel the heat bloom between your thighs, your sanity yielding from this all-encompassing yearning.

He drags his fangs over the nape of your neck yet does not bite. Instead, he hallows his cheeks and begins to suck, a violet blossom blooming into your skin beneath his mouth.

You tremble against him, another gasp fumbling from your lips.

“Oh.”

You feel him smile as he hums against the hollow of your throat in approval. Your hips jolt toward his, and you inhale brokenly as his arousal presses to your stomach. It is straining against the fabric of his trousers, firm and full.

Your lust threatens to unravel all sense. Your mind is in the mist.

Latching onto your heavy gaze with his own, he repeats himself.

“Say you’ll let me.”

He says it with resolute intonation, yet an inkling of doubt tinges the end of his sentence. It is not a command, though not a question either. Perchance, he is not sure for which he implies. If he is struggling with who he has created himself to be, or if he is still the Astarion you knew.

Never treading too far, too close, without reassurance. Yet, here, and now, he treads the line of persistence in proving to you the error of your ways. The error in endeavoring to see him, to know him for all the beautiful, the soft, and the gentle. For forgetting who he was made to be. For thinking ascension would be the thing that would break him when he, himself, is too far gone.

You ache with the love you have for him.

“Show me the kind of man you’ve become,” you reply, calm, “Why ask for permission?”

He hesitates for a moment, doe-eyed and dazed.

Then, he decides.

He tilts his head, looking at your lips.

“I wasn’t.” Astarion states, with a cadence of wavering insistence, and with it, you sink lower into the surrounding night.

Your body tensing, your pulse quickening.

His fingers leave your side and weave into the strands of your hair. He pulls your head into a slant once again, causing the nape of your neck to become completely and utterly exposed. The markings of his kisses are scattered along the skin, like that of his own design.

The moonlight swims in his half-hooded gaze, glints off his fangs, and fills you to the brim with trepidation.

There is a sudden, stark stillness in your body.

He mutters, insouciant, “I’ll bleed you dry.”

His breath is a warm flush on your skin, and then his fangs delve deep.

“Ahh!” you hiss, sagging into the adjacent wall. His lips enclose, as he begins to suck a stream of your blood into his voracious mouth. He is harsh in his thirst, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every thick swallow of your blood he takes, the tug of your hair eliciting a dull pain.

Despite this— a sinful sense of pleasure saturates the pain, as it always does when he feeds. Your pulse, heightened, like an orchid in full bloom, beating a deafening rhythm. It is reverberating in your ears, in your temples. Your fear once formidable now fleeting, flowing away with each draw of your blood to his lips.

The euphoria of feeding envelops you in a lukewarm embrace, milky mind a mirage. His grip eases on your hair, and he steadies your jaw with caressing fingers, the rush of your blood now a slow, steady pull from your veins. The effect of drinking entrances him, and you feel the hum of his moan, the lulling of his languorous lips.

It is as though you are being anointed, touched by phantom palms in all the places you yearn— the heat building beneath your skin like a fever that will burn you alive. Your voice, a lilt of his name, shivery and silver. He hmmms against your neck, and your fingers find their way into his curls, trailing your nails through his strands and over his scalp.

He groans, deep in his throat. It is just like the way he used to, those many months ago.

It is like your head is floating, the fever a flavor you sought to forget— but there is no forgetting, not when it is etched into the marrow, into your soul. You want him. So much, you are distraught with want, the heat coalescing at your core, seeping down your inner thighs.

He unlatches his mouth, just to mutter, voice drenched in desire, “I can taste it. You’re so eager for me.”

“I— I don’t—” you whimper in response, biting your lip. But as you try to deny—

Astarion holsters your wilting body up and shifts his knee, pushing it between your thighs. The friction is not nearly enough, yet all too much. You try to resist, yet all sense has vanished. You succumb to him, rolling your hips against his knee, aching for relief. Astarion’s breath catches in his lungs, and though your eyes have fallen shut, you don’t know if it’s to solely focus on the chase of a teetering high or to escape the city’s midnight mussitations. Maybe it is to memorize the motion of hips, the silk of his sigh, the bend of his fingers clenching and unclenching on your waist. It’s building and building, a relentless sea in the mellow meringue of his dipping vowels, the thrumming of this heat enough to drown in.

His knee drops, and despite yourself, you let out a faint whine. You think it is on purpose, a cruel way to deter your relief, yet he grips your hips and pulls you flush against him.

He feels so good, heavy, and thick, snug against where you need him most.

He grinds into you with every sashaying sigh, his head drooping into the crook of your neck. His dulcet exhales tremor through you, showering your head from toe. Your toes curl inside your boots, and your hands clench in fistfuls of his hair.

You don’t know how far this will go— especially here, only concealed by nightfall.

If it remained like this, insatiable, yet… safe. Not crossing the line…

Just as the thought nips at you, Astarion is wedging down the sides of your trousers inch by inch, your mound of curls peeking out from your underwear. He means to feel you, to know the wetness between your thighs. You clench them together, suddenly shy, sheepish at him having evidence of how eager you truly are, how completely he’s undone you with only this continual grazing of his hips, a brush of his lips to the shell of your ear.

You part your thighs, just barely enough for him to flatten his palm and curl his knuckles around your cunt, fingers a touch away from delving between your folds. Yet— he doesn’t. He hovers his fingers there. He is waiting for something yet can’t quite admit.

You know.

You nod, ever so slightly, and give in, letting him set the pace, letting him ascertain what he needs from you.

“Please,” you say, trying to withstand shifting into his touch.

His chest rises and falls. His ring finger slides over the seam of your lower lips, thumb a featherlight swirl around your clit. He teases his middle finger between your folds, sinking slowly until he is knuckle-deep. Your hands leave his hair and find purchase on his shoulders. Your head sways and you bite your bottom lip, stifling a moan.

“Mmmn—“

“You like this?” He says, not unkind. He gently pumps his finger in and out, in and out. A leisurely tempo of sweet torture.

“Yes.”

He lifts his head to look at you, crimson irises a thin ring, his pupils blown wide.

“You want more, don’t you darling,” he encourages you in a sly teasing tone, with a lilt of consideration.

“Yes—“

His ring finger pushes in, and you adjust to the width of them both. Your heartbeat is like a crescendo, as his fingers glide, soaked in your arousal. Again, and again, they pump into you, increasing in pressure, in pace. His thumb twirls over your clit, lazy circles compared to his fingers.

Your nose scrunches, your nails dig into his shoulders. He coos into your ear, praises of you sound so insatiable, such a good girl.

It’s coming, you know it when your hips begin to jut forward sporadically, the coil tightening in your core about to snap. Sizzles of stars pepper behind your eyelids, and stream down your spine.

But can you be quiet enough? What if someone hears you? Sees you?

The inkling of worry must show on your face.

“Just focus on my fingers,” he soothes, “on my voice.”

His thumb massages over your clit, and you gasp out a fragmented version of Ah—starion.

“Let me make you cum, sweetheart,” he susurrates, “you’re so beautiful like this. Clenching on my fingers, whimpering my name.”

His reassurances are relentless, and you tip over the edge of oblivion, rashly muffling your moans into his shoulder, into the fabric of his shirt. Waves of white wash over you, pulse thrumming in your chest.

It is pooling in your core, soaking his fingers, and dripping down his wrist.

You hear him give a shaky breath, wrought with longing and saccharine anguish by your release.

“I want you… I… I can’t— I need you,” he admits on impulse, his fingers sliding out from you, drenched. You tremble at the loss of them, nearly delirious in your post-high. His words make your core clench, make you feverish once more.

Does he mean to take you? Right here? Right now?

A concoction of concern looms over you, and you lift your head from his shoulder. You glance at him, then dart your gaze from one side of the alley, a dead-end brick wall, to the other side. The street before you is devoid of life, no Flaming Fist patrollers, no drunkards huddled in dusk. The lanterns give a dim glow, swaying in the cool breeze. Nevertheless, the light cannot reach you here. Though, surely someone will leave the tavern once the hour’s shade dissipates, to flee home from a brawl, or to sluggishly crawl into bed.

You look to him once more, and again it is as though he reads your mind.

“I know,” he sounds pained, head drooping. By the tension of his trousers, the shut of his eyes, perhaps he is.

“I won’t… we don’t have to,” he quietly assures, and it is so unlike the bravado of before. It is delicate.

You see him, the Astarion you had once been devoted to. Ready to fight for, to die for. And although it may lead to disaster, to the unraveling of your very being, you have never been surer.

This evidently wasn’t only about lust. If it had been, he’d have left you by now for your mark in the tavern. He wouldn’t have followed; he wouldn’t have touched. To be this close had always been a rarity done out of a need to be cared for, adored, to be cherished. Though he may never love you, though he may be planning to hurt you in a way worse than death, you… if only for tonight…

Your palm caresses his cheek, and you meet his eyes.

“I want you,” you murmur, “I’ll be quiet.”

A breath and his eyelashes fall over his eyes as they watch your lips. He leans in close.

“Let me hear you,” he states, then his lips are on yours. The seal of his lips eases the weight of hesitation from your skin, his honeyed mouth in harmony against yours. His tongue slides over the seam and you part your lips, tangling your tongue with his. His needy palms are at your waist, gripping and pulling you nearer as he angles his head, deepening the kiss. You nip at his bottom lip, and he groans in his throat.

You briefly come up for air, panting with the metallic aftertaste of your blood lingering on your tongue. A chill hits your exposed skin as he anchors his fingers at your pants once more, tugging them down until they fall to your knees. You step out of them, a flourish of fear amalgamating with shameful escalating arousal. He pulls you in for another kiss, as his fingers begin to fumble with his waistband. You aid in his endeavor, dragging his pants down until his cock can spring free.

You taste his steadying inhale. He breaks the kiss, then hooks one of your legs over his arm, pushing your back further into the wall, deeper into the cocooning shadow.

You are vibrating with anticipation, dripping onto the floor. He presses the head of his cock to you, and you quiver. He nuzzles it over your folds, then glides it back and forth, until it’s slick, until it’s ready.

You look at him, and the array of emotions passing over his countenance is like deciphering a blur of seasons changing. Your chest is heaving. You are fully bare, fully vulnerable, in more ways than one.

You need him so fucking bad, your hips push forward instinctively, the head of his cock nearly dipping inside you. He responds in a low, guttural grunt, hiking your leg a bit higher, bumping the tip of his cock against your sex once more.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, half delirious, half desperate, rolling his hips into you.

His brows are furrowed, white lashes cast over closed eyes. The damask rose of his flushed cheeks, the pink tips of his pointed ears, pale skin incandescent under the moonlight.

He feels so good, so heavy, and thick sliding over your sex.

He looks so beautiful, the corner of his lips smudged with your blood, the scarlet trail disappearing down his jaw.

But it matters not— his body, his beauty. It is all of him, in every way. The meadows of his mind, the lilies of his laugh. The valleys of his voice, the lavenders of his language. The willows of his worries, the serene of sunrise in his smiles—

Your heart could burst outside your chest. Your vision is a stretch of liquid silhouette.

“I love you,” you say, as if it is as natural as breathing, as simple as the sun rising at dawn.

He reacts in a tremulous exhale, nostrils a flare and the arm anchoring your leg falling a little.

A flush of embarrassment flames in your cheeks.

He probably didn’t mean for you to say that again.

An apology is on the tip of your tongue when he repositions himself at your entrance and sinks in.

Inch by inch.

“Ah—!” You gasp, yet his palm is quick to soften the sound as he encloses it over your mouth. You whine into his hand; your eyes rolling back as he sheathes himself inside your wet, hot heat. You squirm slightly to adjust to the girth of him. He doesn’t stop pressing forward until you are full to the brim.

Astarion pulls out almost completely, before slamming back inside. His hand falls a bit from your lips, and as if by instinct you part your lips, sucking his index and middle finger into your mouth. You peek at him with low-lidded eyes, and he curses the gods beneath his breath.

You hum around his fingers as he sets a sinful rhythm of a gradual outward pull, a heavy plunge in. The slapping of skin echoes softly in the alleyway, and it is downright disgraceful, yet you become lost in its soliloquy. He is undoing the tethers of your mind, diluting all sense.

There is no doubt he feels it too, his agonizingly slow pace increasing in intensity, his quiet pants becoming drawn-out moans.

“Gods, you feel so fucking good,” he mutters, pumping himself in and out, over, and over. You think you may go insane. His fingers pop from your mouth, and he takes hold of your chin.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and you comply, though it makes you blush, makes you boil hot in your blood.

“Say it again,” Astarion commands, and you clench around him in astonishment, in a flare of pleasure. You whimper unintelligibly, glancing away, embarrassment steeping in your face as a surge of wetness coats his cock.

He nearly loses control.

“Say it,” he growls out as he slams deep into you again. His hand clasps your jaw, fingers a curve over part of your neck, urging you to look at him once more.

“I love you,” you confess. You feel tears beginning to prick your eyes, as an impending orgasm sears within you something fierce. Your cunt tightens over his cock, you feel him throb.

“Again.” He orders through clenched teeth, thrusts now sloppy, uneven.

“I love… I—” You try to speak, yet the words are a jumble from your mouth. It’s coming, oh fuck… it’s…

“I love you,” you profess, just as your orgasm consumes you in licks of flame, in rivers of euphoric relief, just as—

Fangs. Fangs delve deep into your neck, the shivery silk of your orgasmic high becoming static fuzz, as Astarion begins to drink your blood like he’d gone centuries without it.

You try to speak, but you are left speechless, as with each draw of your blood, you feel his cock pulse inside of you, his body shuttering, his groans vibrating into the hallow of your throat.

Astarion sucks hard, his hips slamming into yours as he reaches his climax. His cock spasms as he releases his seed inside you, droplets of his cum dripping to your feet. The rush of your blood being drained renders you weightless.

He is devouring you, mouthful, after mouthful.

“Astarion—” you plead, fingers clenching in his hair, tugging at his head. He won’t budge, won’t stop.

“Please,” you beg, tears beginning to cascade down your cheeks.

It is as though he can’t listen, as if set in a trance. Your heartbeat starts to slow, your sight fading.

Your grip loosens on his hair. You don’t pull— instead, you graze your fingernails over his scalp, like an ocean wave meeting the shore, trying to remind him, trying to—

BANG.

A door swings open, the sound emitting from the tavern. Astarion jolts, fangs yanking out of your flesh, blood spilling down his chin. His cock slips from you, and you sigh at the loss of him. Your consciousness ebbs in and out. You slump against the wall, almost unable to stand as he drops your leg to the floor.

You feel his frenzied hands at your ankles, yanking up your trousers. You numbly watch his flustered movements as he pries up his own pants.

Foreign voices ring out, an argument of sorts. You aren’t sure.

You aren’t sure of anything.

Astarion is mouthing words at you. His hair in disarray. His eyes glistening in the moonlight. He attempts to keep you standing, while scouring the floor for something.

“Please,” he suddenly sounds so frantic, so afraid. You feel something bump against your lips.

“Please drink. Darling, please,” he implores.

He tips the bottle and something familiar hits your tongue. You begin to gulp it down, the bottle trembling in his hold as you do.

A cool nourishment floods your body, and your senses and your surroundings return to you once more.

A potion of healing.

You drink until the bottle is empty. Though you feel rejuvenated, it is not enough to wholly quell the effects of blood loss. The skirmish down the street seizes your bones in realization, a welcome distraction from what just occurred.

You cannot get caught like this.

You hand the bottle back to Astarion wordlessly, avoiding his eyes. You double-check your body and find at least you are fully clothed. The sticky mess between your thighs and in the crook of your neck, however, brings anything but relief.

“We need to go.” You mutter emotionless, attempting to brush past him.

Could you still scale the wall in this state? It’s a miracle you’re even breathing right now.

Astarion grabs your wrist and says your name.

“You can’t,” he states, and again, he knows your thoughts. It does anything but endear you.

He continues, “Not like this. We need to wait for them to leave.”

“Why?” You bite back in a whisper. “So you can finish me off?”

He recoils with the stab of your words.

Good.

You yank your hand away.

It would have been one thing if he’d just had his meal, but instead, he made sure he had all of you.

You don’t know if it’s him you’re more upset with, or yourself. A sob claws at your throat. You turn away from him, approaching the wall. You begin to scope out a path for your hands and feet.

“It’s your fault.” He declares, and you stiffen, unmoving. You peer back at him.

“Yes. All my fault,” you move towards him, finger jabbing into his chest.

You take your wrist, and without forethought, smear it over the blood still wet at your neck.

You extend it out for him to see. A contract, made in blood, visible only in blood, illuminates in a yellow scrawl of initials on your skin.

“And I have done everything to make up for it.”

His eyes widen in shock. He grips your wrists, inspecting the golden glow of letters.

“Why—”

“A wish scroll,” you don’t let him finish, “I complete the contract, and I get a wish scroll. It could… it could cure you… or at least allow you to live in the sun.”

He drops your wrist, shaking his head in disbelief.

“How many?”

“Seventeen.”

He lets out a breath.

“Only seventeen?”

“Of noble birth,” you state, “though still far better than seven thousand.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration.

A voice rings out from down the street. Someone is calling the nightly patrollers.

You tense and then turn away once more.

“You’ll need me alive if you want that scroll. So, let’s part from here. I’m sure I can find you once I get it.”

“This isn’t you,” he argues, “the hero of the grove, the savior of Baldur’s gate, of the world. You can’t tell me your feelings for me are enough to inspire this.”

“Astarion.” You slide a palm down your face. This conversation is going nowhere, and you’re running out of time.

“There are things about me I never spoke of. That our friends could never know. I wanted to be something different, and I was. But this is more to me than that. You are more to me than that.”

He is silent. Your voice softens. You’re about to cry.

“I’ll see you when it’s over.”

Before he can respond, a CLANG clatters from the street. A rustle of feet, and voices rising. Someone is being arrested.

You don’t waste time to find out. You begin to scale the wall, ignoring the throb of your neck, and the exhaustion of your limbs. You force yourself to climb until you’ve reached the top.

You don’t look back at him. You slide over the other side, then hit the ground running.

You hear him call after you, yet you don’t stop. You won’t.

You run as far as you can, bitterly knowing that when morning comes, at least then you’ll be safe from him.

[fatehbaz]

---

Native American tribes from Michigan, Wisconsin and Ontario have come together to call for an end to the Line 5 pipeline.

The Enbridge Line 5 crude oil pipeline, first constructed in 1953, stretches from Wisconsin through 645 miles of Michigan and ends in Sarnia, Ontario. Part of the pipeline travels underwater through the Straits of Mackinac.

In recent years, the pipeline's continued operation has become a source of controversy. Many tribal nations and communities claim that the pipeline goes through their traditional territories. The Straits area in particular is considered a place of significant cultural and historical importance to many native groups, including the Anishinaabe. According to tribal leaders, the pipeline poses a major and direct threat to the ecosystems along its path.

“The Straits of Mackinac are [...] sacred from both a cultural and historical perspective in the formation of the Anishinaabe people,” said Austin Lowes, chairperson of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians, in a statement. “Protecting the Straits is also a matter of the utmost environmental and economic importance — both to our people and the state of Michigan.”

Tribal leaders and other environmental groups have publicly opposed the pipeline for many years and have called for the pipeline to be shut down.

Supporters of the pipeline point out that it transports 540,000 barrels of light crude oil and natural gas liquids through Line 5 on a daily basis. [...]

In an effort to address safety concerns, Enbridge has proposed an underwater tunnel to house the portion of Line 5 that runs under the Straits of Mackinac. [...] Critics of the tunnel project say no oil should be transported through the Straits at all, as a spill could have a devastating impact on more than 700 miles of Great Lakes shoreline. [...]

Previous attempts to shut down the pipeline have been stopped through various means, mostly the 1977 Transit Pipeline Treaty between Canada and the United States.

The latest attempt saw 51 tribal organizations from Wisconsin, Michigan and Ontario submit a report to the United Nations Human Rights Council. This report, dated April 4, claims that the Government of Canada is violating the human rights of Indigenous peoples through its continuous support for Line 5.

The report was submitted to be considered during Canada's upcoming Universal Periodic Review, conducted by the United Nations. As a United Nations member state, Canada is required to be evaluated for its human rights record on a regular basis.

Canada's Universal Periodic Review will take place this year on Nov. 6-17.

The 51 different tribal organizations that signed the report include: The Anishinabek Nation, which represents 39 First Nations throughout the province of Ontario, Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians, Bad River Band of the Lake Superior Tribe of Chippewa Indians, Bay Mills Indian Community, Grand Traverse Band of Ottawa & Chippewa Indians, Hannahville Indian Community, Lac Vieux Desert Band of Lake Superior Chippewa Indians, Little River Band of Ottawa Indians, Little Traverse Bay Bands of Odawa Indians, Match-e-be-nash-she-wish Band of Pottawatomi Indians, Nottawaseppi Huron Band of Potawatomi, Saginaw Chippewa Indian Tribe and Red Cliff Band of Lake Superior Chippewa.

---

Headline and text by: Brendan Wiesner. “Michigan, Wisconsin and Canadian tribes come together to fight Line 5.” Yahoo! News. 8 April 2023. Article originally appeared on The Sault News with the title “Great Lakes tribes send report to United Nations to fight Line 5.” [Some paragraph breaks and contractions added by me.]

Context:

Line 3 brings oil from Alberta to Lake Superior. Then, Line 5 brings the fossil fuel from the Duluth area to the Detroit/Windsor area in Ontario.

[bloodmoonmuses]

the weatherman's weathered heart | mark lee

genre: weatherman! mark lee x reader, enemies to lovers, slowburn

[series masterlist] [next chapter]

chapter one: coffee hit and run

This is the third time you’ve told yourself you’d stop drinking coffee, yet here you are again- preparing to do the literal opposite. Autumn has wrapped her fingers around summer’s waist, nippy morning air whistling through the crack of your bedroom window. Your cat, Luna, is napping on an armchair, making you jealous of her furnace-like warmth. You shrug on a denim jacket, a sturdy one passed down from your dad, then make your way down the block. Marnie’s, the ever beloved independent coffee shop in your hometown, is a seven minute walk from your house. 

The conveniency of such is where you place blame for your lack of a backbone. It’s also on your way to work, Jagerman Printing Co., making the practice of scooping up your double americano (with a hefty splash of half and half) a staple in your morning routine. 

A bell rings upon your entry and you shuffle into the short line. There’s three people in front of you: At the front of the line stands the town’s school bus driver. He gets a London fog, requesting half the amount of lavender syrup. Next is an artist type, struggling to hold a thick stack of photos in his hands as he orders his iced macchiato. You’ve seen him in your shop before, attempting to flirt with your coworker, Hongjoong, so he could get a discount on his prints. Finally, just in front of you, is a man in a suit. His hair is aggressively and artificially blonde, navy blue ensemble making it practically glimmer. He’s quite spiffy. Maybe he works at the bank, you think to yourself. 

The alleged banker gets an iced americano. Triple. With an extra shot of espresso. The cashier, Marnie’s eldest daughter named Minnie, jokes that he must be really tired. The blonde man scoffs, but in agreement says, “You have no idea.” He tips generously, 4 dollars and some change, then side steps to wait for his drink. 

Now it’s time to receive your poison. When she recognizes your face, Minnie says, “Your usual?” 

To which you say, “Yes, please.” You tip as well, walking over to the side counter to wait. You pull out your phone, opening it to see that Hongjoong has texted you.

HJ (derogatory): This newspaper intern is clueless. Typo on the order for this week’s batch. Need more prints.

You: omw soon. Chat her up, can’t afford any negative reviews. 

HJ (derogatory): No promises.

You rock back and forth on your feet, thinking about how many more newspapers the girl could possibly need. The most compelling news story you had read in the last year was about the town’s duck pond. This wasn’t exactly the New York Times. The error probably meant you’d be going into work a bit earlier tomorrow. Regardless, you liked your mundane job. Going into printing technology wasn’t the most glamourous, but where else does an affinity to paper and a concerning level of attention to detail lead you? 

The menial admin work, e-mails and scheduling brought you comfort. You liked managing your little team. Some projects were more fun than others: birthday invitations, wedding save-the-dates, highschool yearbooks… Disdain only arose in you when people didn’t know how to do their job. Like this intern. 

For some reason, the interns at the newspaper office across town were in and out like goldfish at a pet store. It felt like every other month you were having to explain to some poor kid how to properly put in a printing request for the coming week. Maybe you should do admin work over there. They’d probably think you were a genius. Or a magician. 

You’re snapped out of your internal dialogue by the feeling of being shoulder checked. Hard. A few seconds pass, during which you register the sensation of liquid soaking through your shirt. The scent of espresso enters your nostrils and you scoff at the situation. Did someone just… spill their coffee on you? 

You whip your head around, words caught in your throat, in an attempt to see who just ruined your morning. In a blur, you recognize the offender to be the blonde man who was in front of you in line. He’s running out of the door, half empty cup sloshing around in his frantic hand, while screaming into his phone. 

“What?! I didn’t approve that poor excuse of a fucking article!” he says. “…Already in print? I said no, that journalist, she-” 

“Hey!” You yell after him, looking at your chest in shock. “I think you spilled something!” 

The bell above the door rings, signaling the alleged banker’s exit. The man doesn’t even look back, too engrossed in his argument to care.

When the adrenaline begins to fade out, you make eye contact with Minnie, who you assume saw the entire exchange from her spot behind the counter. She places your double americano on the counter, the side of the cup with your name sprawled on it facing outward. You walk up to the counter and take the warm drink. 

While handing you some napkins, Minnie says, “At least his was an iced drink.” You look down at your cream colored top and the dark splotch that now adorns it. Fuck.

—

When you arrive at the printing shop, Hongjoong is beet red. The guy holds so much anger in that little body of his. He can be surprisingly intimidating, when the situation permits such.

“You do realize there’s a big difference between one hundred and one thousand, right?” Hongjoong says, voice laced with annoyance. 

The mousy intern shakes. “Yeah, but– I just figured, y’know… since this is a weekly order, you might’ve realized it was a typo on your own.”

Honjoong chortles. “Oh, so it’s my fault? Newspapers are an antiquated form of media to begin with, and I’m not really sure why we continue to deal with this bullsh-”

You interject, shooting the intern an apologetic smile. “Take it easy, big man. You’re not scaring anyone in that vest,” you say. The intern stifles a scoff. “We’ll just print the rest tomorrow. No biggie.”

“Um, ‘yes biggie��. I don’t wanna work overtime. Gotta finalize the design for those marathon flyers too,” Hongjoong retorts.

He gives you the up-down, taking note of your frazzled demeanor and adds, “What’s with the stain on your shirt?”

“I’ll do it then,” you sigh. “I’ve got nothing better to do. And the stain? Don’t wanna talk about it.” 

Hongjoong humphs. 

Sliding behind the front counter, you place your satchel and americano down at your desk. Then, you head to the back, grabbing the boxes of newspapers you do have printed. They’re still warm from the press, the scent of the ink calming you down- if only slightly. 

“Here’s a hundred copies. I’ll have the others by nine tomorrow morning. Just… be more careful next time,” you tell the intern.

“Got someone to help you carry these?” asks Hongjoong. The intern shakes her head. “I’ll carry them out. Which one’s your car?” The girl points and he promptly gathers the boxes. 

“Hey, by the way,” you say to the girl, “do you know why they need an extra three hundred? The order is usually seven hundred copies a week.”

“Something about an interview with a weatherman. The moms here really like him-”

The door to the shop opens again and you think it’s Hongjoong, but when you turn, it’s the man from the coffee shop. He’s still on the phone. Great. The offender of your coffee hit-and-run is here to add insult to injury. What are the odds of that?

“Speak of the devil…” the intern says under her breath. 

“I’m not exactly sure how the article got approved for print in the first place,” the man whisper-shouts into his phone. “I was told it was going to focus on my passion for meteorology or my down to earth persona. Not digging into my personal life. Whatever the intent, I want it scrapped. Entirely.”

Hongjoong now re-enters the shop, glancing at the suit-clad man, recognition flickering on his face. “Wow, we’ve got a small-town celebrity here in Jagerman’s? To what do we owe the honor?”

Finally, after hanging up the phone, the previously alleged banker says, “I’m here about the newspaper.”

“Just packed up the first batch of copies,” says Hongjoong. “Since when did you work for the newspaper?”

“I don’t work for the newspaper, I’m Mark… Mark Lee?” He says. Then, he looks at you expectantly.

Hongjoong simply laughs. 

“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” You ask, agitation rising in your chest.

“Channel 127 News? Beloved weatherman and meteorologist?” Mark continues. 

Hongjoong laughs again. “A real big shot,” he says.

You shake your head. “Not ringing a bell.” 

At this, the bank- weather…man scoffs incredulously. “Well if you crack open one of those newspapers, you’ll see my face all over it.”

“Ah. Popular with the moms. Well, as I told this young lady here,” you gesture to the intern, “we’ll have the rest of the copies tomorrow. There was a misunderstanding with the printing order.”

“That’s what I’m here about. I don’t want them printed.” Mark crosses his arms.

“Well, they already are,” you huff. You had cut the intern some slack, but this guy? He’s a grown man pouting over some paper. And he spilled coffee on you. Honestly, you were more upset about the latter- and the fact that Mark seemingly has no recollection of this. Are you that invisible? Forgettable? 

Nevertheless, the weatherman persists. “Then I don’t want them distributed,” he says.

You cross your arms, mirroring Mark. “You have no authority over that decision.”

Mark exhales dramatically, pinching his nose bridge in frustration. “Are you always this rude to your customers?”

“Do you always spill coffee on unassuming printing technicians?” At this, Mark pauses, finally placing your face. As recognition floods his features you add, “Four shots of watered down espresso on my new shirt. It’s a shame really.” Mark’s face flushes.

“What could possibly be in this article that would make you come all the way here? The news station is on the other side of town,” you inquire.

Mark stammers. “It’s nothing-”

“An affair? Tax fraud? Oh my god, I’m the first to hear about Weatherman-Gate,” says Hongjoong.

You chuckle. “‘Small-Town Weatherman Commits Tax Fraud”. What a headline. I’d actually read that.”

“I didn’t commit tax fraud. I just… didn’t approve of the article. So that’s illegal, right?”

The intern tuts. “You undergoing the interview was the approval. No take backs.”

“‘No take backs’? Are you a toddler?” asks Mark.

“I’m 21,” she responds, chipper as ever.

“So, you are a toddler,” you and Hongjoong say in unison. 

“Jinx!” exclaims Hongjoong. “Buy me a coke after my shift?” You wave off his question, returning to the issue at hand.

“I’m sorry, but this isn’t my problem,” you say.

“Look, I’m sorry I spilled coffee on you, I am, but this is my livelihood. I’d really appreciate it if-”

“You’re gonna have to go to the newspaper office,” you contend. “Like I said, this isn’t my problem.” 

Mark goes quiet. As you turn to walk back to your desk, he whispers out a plea. The quiver in his voice makes you stop in your tracks.

“Please.” You spin back around to see that his eyes are now glassy. For a moment, you think he’s about to cry. 

You look over to Hongjoong. He’s not having any of it. Knowing him, he probably thinks this Mark guy is full of shit. However, you (unfortunately) have empathy. Whatever’s in this article, he doesn’t want it to come out. You sigh. The admin at the newspaper isn't gonna like this one bit.

“We only have a portion of them printed,” you confess. “If you can get the editor to change the article by tonight-”

Mark erupts into a gleeful cheer, effectively cutting you off. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He engulfs you into an awkward embrace, jumping up and down like a little girl. 

Hongjoong snaps a picture. “A lot of Facebook moms are gonna be jealous of you,” he says.

While in Mark’s hold, you remember the stain on your shirt. “One more thing.”

Mark immediately concedes, finally freeing you from his death grip. “Yes. Anything. I’ll do anything,” he says.

“You owe me a new shirt.”

a/n: feedback is always appreciated! thx for reading! <3

[soracities]

Your liquid hair, your two eyes like the bulbous tips of branches—

Hasti, from "Gol-e Yakh" (after Kourosh Yaghmaei), pub. The White Review

[jeonjungkookenthusiast1997]

Bodyguard For Hire (1) - It's Going To Be a Bumpy Ride

Summary: Bang Chan, a famous body guard, has been hired to protect the daughter of a rice banker. She's a spoiled brat who likes to tease her new body guard endlessly and who's to say he can't flirt back?

This is my own work not a reblog! Please do not repost or translate.

Content Warnings- mafia/ gang au, mentions of violence, flirting, pet names, Y/N is a little brat, bang Chan is also a brat

Word Count - 1,698

Navigation

Chapter 2

The streets of Seoul had gotten more dangerous lately, the local gangs making their presence well known. Y/N's father, a rich investment banker, had growing concerns that his daughter would be targeted leading them to hire a well known bodyguard for her known as Bang Chan.

Y/N had been nervous when she got called into her father's study and frowned when she saw the man standing beside her father as he explained the situation "No refusal or your allowance for the month will be stopped" her father barked at her firmly as he tips his head back swallowing a suspicious looking brown liquid.

Anger started to burn into her heart as her face turns red "what?! This is ridiculous daddy! I don't need a fucking bodyguard" her delicate face scrunches up in distaste as she looks at the stranger, he had short and dyed platinum hair and a small cut across his cheek which looked oddly fresh. His clothes looked crisp and clean at least a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a black waist coat sucking in this waist deliciously. Y/N could admit in her head that he was drop dead gorgeous but that didn't stop her anger at the situation.

"Y/N! Language" her father bites out with a serious expression on his face. Bang Chan stays silent next to him as his dark eyes watch his new client, he takes this time to examine her frame. Her e/c eyes glimmer in the dark light of the room, her mid length hair flowing loosely at her back and a sleek looking black dress adorns her curves, he thinks to himself he might be kind of... Cute if she didn't look at him like he'd just shot her. Shaking his head of such futile thoughts he focuses back on the conversation happening in front of him, "I-" she goes to respond but bitterly realises silence in this instance may work out more in her favor so she simply looks away from her father with a scowl across her face.

"You will not question me again." Her father huffs and he pours himself another drink. "Now go upstairs. I have to speak to Mr. Bang Chan privately" she can't help but roll her eyes at this, "Fine" she grits out as she turns and slams the study door making her way up to her bedroom.

As soon as Y/N is upstairs Bang Chan relaxes, rolling his shoulder slightly as he moves to sit across from the older man.

Bang Chan clears his throat slightly before speaking "She seems... Difficult" the man before him chuckles slightly "Yes, she has a mean stubborn streak it's hard to get through to her once she's made her mind up" the patriarch stops his thought there with a frown before he continues "Do you think you'll be able to handle her?". Bang Chan hums to himself as he thinks "Of course. I have a lot of experience in dealing with people. Especially women like your daughter." he smiles "How much is the pay for this job and how long will I be here?" The older man pulls out a brief case full of cash and pushes it Infront of Bang Chan "This to start, more to follow which can be discussed at a later date, as for your duration..." A deep sigh leaves his mouth as he looks at some documents on his desk "Lets say a 30 days for now, I'll pay you the rest at the end of this month and we can review the contract then" the blonde haired man nods as he thinks the arrangement over "For now I'd like you to properly introduce yourself to my daughter, she may not be happy now but I can only imagine the longer it's left... The worse her temper will become" he ushers the bodyguard out of his study and towards the main staircase, Bang Chan takes a deep breath before climbing the stairs.

He rounds the top of the staircase and stops at Y/N's room, he can hear her inside mumbling angry to herself before he knocks "Y/N let me in, your father wants us to meet" he waits for a moment getting ready to knock again when he hears something soft hit her door and an angry "Go away!" Is shouted from behind the door.

A deep sigh leaves his chest at her antics before he announces he's coming in, turning the handle he opens the door walking in to see his client, Y/N, sat at a vanity table with her arms crossed much like a child he laments to himself "You realise this is part of why I'm here, yes? To keep you safe" she looks at him like he's got 2 heads for a moment before responding sarcastically "Why yes because I need protection from my fucking pillows" she stands up and shoves a pillow into his arms before she throws herself onto her bed.

He sets the pillow back back on her bed and sits down on a chair across from her "You're very stubborn aren't you?" A smirk flashes across her face at his words "one of my best traits" she flicks her hair over her shoulder while watching him carefully "Yeah that attitude is also why your parents hired me" he crosses his legs and looks at her, a frown creases her brow and she bows her head "I know and I know how bad Seoul has gotten recently but I don't need a babysitter" she huffs out "if you're aware of all that then why act like a spoiled princess?" he crosses his arms as his sharp eyes watch her reactions to his words "Because I can! Because it keeps freeloading dicks out of my life" she bites out before finally sitting up slightly resting her weight on her elbows "well news flash kid but I'm not a freeloader. I was hired by your father. I get paid good money dealing with princesses like you 24/7." Her eyes roll back into her skull at his cockiness "Good for you Mr... Whatever your name is" she sneers at him, "It's Bang Chan. Try to remember that." he says with an oddly cold expression "No I don't think I will actually, you see that would mean you'll be staying here which isn't happening" she rolls her eyes again before grabbing her phone from a unit near her bed.

He quickly jumps up and grabs the phone away from her placing it in his pocket "You won't need that." Her mouth opens and closes a few times as she stares at him with wide eyes "You can't do that!" She squeaks out at his actions "Give it back!" She shouts as she lifts her hands trying to grab her device back. He simply shrugs his rugged shoulder at her "If you are going to behave like a child, I'm going to treat you like one" He says in a stern tone "Understand?" His words make her blood boil underneath her skin "I am NOT a child we've been over this, you can't treat me like one I'm fucking 23 you dick" a laugh escapes his chest at her words "23 and still acting like a spoiled brat? Your parents need to teach you some manners... Oh wait..." he snaps his fingers together "that's right. I'm doing that now" he says as he stands up "You can try" she scoffs at him "what was your name again? Bam... Something" she folds her arms underneath her bust "Bang Chan. What was yours again, Princess?" He asks in a sarcastic tone, standing over her "You know fine well what my name is and don't call me princess!" She shouts with her cheeks dusted a faint pink "Alright, Princess" he chuckles. She can see that he's enjoying this, enjoys getting a reaction out of her.

He pushes her gently back onto her bed, but she just lays there in shock not sure how to actually respond to him completely man handling her, he leans over her as she lays down. He's inches away from her face, smirking as he looks her up and down "I'm sure my father didn't hire you to mock me now go away" she pushes him back and stomps to her wardrobe to get her night clothes out "No he did not. But he did hire me to protect you and make sure you're behaving. Even if that means getting up close and personal, you clearly need to learn to respect your elders" He chuckles making her throwing her head back slightly as she laughs "my elders? You can't be more than what... 24? Hardly my elder" he smirks and puts his hand on wardrobe door caging her in "I'm 25. Still your elder" He says while looking into her eyes.

Getting flustered at his close proximity she throws her bed clothes at him effectively pushing him back "You pervert! You just going to stand here while I change for bed now too?!" Bang Chan thinks at this and hums to himself "well... Your father did hire me to look out for you. And to make sure you're not getting into anything... naughty" He smirks as he watches her get all flustered, her face is bright red now "Get Out!" She starts pushing him out of her bedroom "You can come back and stalk me tomorrow, freak!" He lets her push him out of the room but before he leaves he turns to her and says "You're a very interesting person, you know that Princess?" He gives her one last wink and closes the door.

She hears his footsteps thud down the stairs but she remains stood at the door dumbfounded for a few moments before she slams her door shut and dresses for bed. She climbs into her plush bed but she can't sleep, her mind reels of thoughts on her new frustrating and admittedly sexy bodyguard "tomorrow's going to be a nightmare" she groans into her pillow as she rolls over in bed, letting sleep take her after an hour or two.

[seat-safety-switch]

The Mafia of Incompetence is out to get me, and not even for the first time this week. There’s all kinds of reasons these non-aligned dimbulb thugs wish me harm, but chief among them is my insistence that I must always receive my RockAuto magnets.

Perhaps you are unfamiliar. You see, RockAuto is a modern e-commerce corporation. It exists as sort of amorphous blob. Old-school parts warehouses, retail operations, and liquidators go out of business all the time. RockAuto scoops up those car parts and sells them over the internet. One of the things they include with every order is at least one small, rectangular refrigerator magnet, of another freak's car.

Time was, you could count on four things in life: gravity, death, taxes, and RockAuto magnets showing up with your order. Now, fewer than that many things are true. Border patrol has been getting increasingly sticky-fingered around my part of the world, and I'll often have a RockAuto package show up with different tape on it, missing all of its packing material and – critically – the magnet.

I've complained to my local political representative, using virtually the same words as I'm speaking to you now. They ignored me, because they have real problems to solve (what caviar to pair with which wine, how to give a larger tax break than 100% to oil companies.) I had to take matters into my own hands. Contrary to popular belief, a background check for the federal government is really easy to fake. Soon, I was the government's newest parcel snoop.

That's where I met my then-coworker, now-friend, Shaky Tim. You see, he was the one stealing the magnets. I caught him red handed my first day. When all the other border guards went to lunch, he stayed behind and hacked open a bunch of the RockAuto packages. His desk at work was laden with the things, a cascading pile many inches thick of gleaming hot-rods, warm-rods, and even cold-rods.

Ethically, I was in a bit of a pickle. Reporting him to my "superiors" would stop the flow of my magnets into his pockets, but it would result in no other benefit to myself. Ignoring him was out of the question: my refrigerator still had at least a few square inches of empty space on its fascia. When in doubt, make like King Solomon: we decided to split the booty. I wouldn't report him, and he'd punch my time card for me and come by with a shopping bag full of magnets every weekend.

We've been doing this for a few years now, and everything was going great. My boss had been giving me glowing performance reviews, based entirely on my ability to not embarrassingly fuck up at work. And my pension was fattening nicely. Unfortunately, Shaky Tim was the weak point in the whole apparatus. He had a crisis of conscience, and quit the government altogether rather than admit his horrible crime. Doing so backed up the entire works: all the remaining border guards were not nearly as motivated to process RockAuto packages quickly. I didn't get my new Mikuni carb floats for, like, a whole week.

[mindblowingscience]

A team of physicists and geologists at CEA DAM-DIF and Universit´e Paris-Saclay, working with a colleague from ESRF, BP220, F-38043 Grenoble Cedex and another from the European Synchrotron Radiation Facility, has succeeded in synthesizing a single-crystalline iron in a form that iron has in the Earth's core. In their paper published in the journal Physical Review Letters, the group describes how they used an experimental approach to synthesize pure single-crystalline ε-iron and possible uses for the material In trying to understand Earth's internal composition, scientists have had to rely mostly on seismological data. Such studies have led scientists to believe that the core is solid and that it is surrounded by liquid. But questions have remained. For example, back in the 1980s, studies revealed that seismic waves travel faster through the Earth when traveling pole to pole versed equator to equator, and no one could explain why. Most theories have suggested it is likely because of the way the iron in the core is structured. Most in the field agree that if the type of iron that exists in the core could be made and tested at the surface, such questions could be answered with a reasonable degree of certainty. But doing so has proven to be challenging due to fracturing during synthesis. In this new effort, the research team has found a way around such problems and in so doing have found a way to synthesize a type of iron that can be used for testing the properties of iron in Earth's core.

Continue Reading

[aeolianblues]

Se e vida é, the second single taken from Pet Shop Boys’ 1996 album Bilingual.

This was a promotional copy sent to our radio station in November 1996. It contained two single discs printed on bright yellow and neon green vinyl, with an instrumental version and a few dubs and remixes of the song.

It spent 8 weeks in the singles chart in the UK, one reviewer gushed that it was life-affirming and the best Pets single in years.

This release contains the original, the Deep Dish Dub, Deep Dish Liquid Remix, Pink Noise Mix, and a few remixes by Mark!

That's all I know about particular release, I was just surprised that they would send out a no doubt rarer (and costlier to make and ship??) coloured vinyl to campus (and other) radio stations, but I'm glad that 25 years later, we still have our copy and it's in pretty good and listenable condition!

[siberat]

*Slides Monopoly money*

Can I have some Fattytron drabble?

(T/fp, I/dw or E/S I don't mind) Im just thirsting for a fat Mega/tron who's too full yet keeps stuffing himself to get some bot's attention (SW, Rod/dy, Mags or Op im not really picky about ships kek). But yeah, Fattytron being very full-

Never really requested drabbles before so im sorry if it's weirdly worded aaaaaa-

-not Chunkytron ☆

this is a two parter, here is part 1 ! Little bit of a slow start.

Mega/tron x Sound/wave, feeding,

The only sound emanating from the empty room was his grumbling belly. Sure, the mission to retrieve the relic was a bust, but was it really wrong of him to be angry? How hard was it to foil those pesky Auto/bots and their child counterparts? The warlord growled as he busted open a fresh box of energon goodies. He had his supper, consisting of a generous portion of food, and now it was time for dessert.

At least the snacks had been replenished. By who? He didn’t know or care; he just unwrapped the light blue round cake and took a bite. The sweetness soothed his woes, even if just for a moment. Thankfully, he had the whole box to himself.

Cake after cake was devoured, each bite bringing a smile to his lips. His tongue eagerly licked up any cream that smeared over his lips. These treats hinted at vanilla and were ever so moist; it always put Mega/tron in his happy place.

Why?

It was simple. Being stuck working in the mines with next to no pay, one could not afford such snacks. Lunch consisted of liquid energon with metal additives; while it did the job, it wasn’t anything to write home about. However, one would occasionally magically appear in his dreary lunch pail. After admiring the pretty light pink color flecked with blue geode crunches, Mega/tronus would unwrap the surprise. It smelled so lovely- he swore the little round ball just reeked of sweetness! And that first bite lit his taste sensors ablaze.

He felt as if his whole frame was lifted out of those mines and into some kind of nirvana. Each bite brought him so much joy! Sadly, like with most things in life, all good things come to an end. After licking his claws clean, there was no more to consume, and he sat there looking at the empty wrapper.

Ok, he also licked the wrapper clean, but who could blame him?

Now, all these treats were gone, making him feel just the same: sad and nothing to look forward to. The evening would be much more productive if he reviewed his battle plans instead. His rumbling belly did not agree, but there were no more of his favorite treats in stock.

You know when you just want to be alone and not bothered by anyone or anything? Yeah, this is how Mega/tron felt. So, when the door opened in this tucked away room that not many mechs used, you could imagine the annoyed look washing over his face as he gave a death glare at whoever dared to enter.

Once the door fully opened, it revealed Sound/wave's long, spindly form.

Great. Just who the Decep/ticon leader wished to catch him pigging out on sweets- it was a super-duper family-size box nonetheless. And yes, he ate them all; their empty wrappers lying around him didn’t leave any doubt about who indulged in them all.

Primus, Sound/wave better not gripe about it!

Instead, the silent warrior respectfully tipped his helm, acknowledging his leader’s presence, then walked to the pantry.

And cue a loud belly grumble. Mega/tron bent forward and curled his arm over his swelled tummy. With brows furrowed, the gray and purple mech cursed himself for not retreating to his personal quarters.

Perhaps he could just get up and leave?

Well, the sound of the other walking back to the table squashed that idea. He tried to shimmy his midsection out of view. Out of the peripheral view of his optics, Mega/tron saw Sound/wave set a large box down and then take a seat.

Couldn’t Sound/wave take a hint? Indeed, he’d not be this oblivious…

Those thin fingers made quick work of ripping the seal from the box and opening it up. His visored helm took a peek, then rubbed his servos together in what can only be imagined as glee. Then, his servos reached into the box and gently lifted out its contents.

And yes, a stupid smiley face appeared on his visor as a large cake was lifted and set on the table.

Large cake.

It was light pink with blue geode crumbles.

And very, very large!

Mega/tron couldn’t help but stare at the gorgeous sight. This was the biggest of his favored treats he had ever seen! Before he knew it, he was licking his lips and reaching out a claw to help himself.

But Sound/wave slapped his hand away and wagged a finger.

How dare he! Mega/tron’s face scrunched as he growled, watching his subordinate grab a fork and stab into his favorite treat. Just how the slag could Sound/wave eat this? He had no freaking mouth!

But that fork traveled his way, and those furrowed optics grew wide in shock. What the slag was going on here? The treat stopped just short of his lips—so close that the warlord could practically taste the sweetness.

And Mega/tron just stared at the communication officer. Was he being serious? Was he wanting to feed him this cake? While the mech may have been unsure, his belly wanted the attention.

A loud, whining gurgle erupted, demanding to be fed.

And Mega/tron had a ferocious appetite!

And that chunk of cake pressed ever so teasingly against his lips. The spindly blue mech made some clicking noises and tilted his helm to the side.

Mega/tron was no dummy. He got the hint. Hearing the other’s engines purr, it was clear Sounwave wished to feed him. And the sound of the warlord's belly grumbling, he wanted to be fed.

Was there a downside to this?