#Protecting eyes from screen exposure

[drsurbhikapadia]

Protect Your Eyes in the Digital Age: Tips from Dr. Surbhi Kapadia

In an era dominated by digital devices, protecting your eyes from strain and fatigue is more crucial than ever. Dr Surbhi Kapadia, a renowned eye specialist in Vadodara, shares invaluable insights on how to safeguard your vision amidst the challenges posed by prolonged screen exposure.

Understanding Digital Eye Strain

Digital eye strain, also known as computer vision syndrome, affects individuals who spend significant hours in front of screens. Symptoms often include dry eyes, headache, blurred vision, and neck pain. Dr. Kapadia emphasizes the importance of recognizing these symptoms early to implement effective preventative measures.

Preventive Strategies for Healthy Vision

20-20-20 Rule: To minimize strain, Dr. Kapadia recommends the 20-20-20 rule: every 20 minutes, shift your eyes to look at an object at least 20 feet away for at least 20 seconds. This simple practice helps rest the eyes and reduce fatigue.

Optimize Your Workspace: Adjusting the lighting and screen settings can significantly reduce eye strain. Ensure that your screen is positioned below eye level and about an arm's length away. The brightness of the display should match the surroundings to avoid glare.

Invest in Proper Eyewear: For those who spend extensive hours in front of screens, specialized computer glasses can block blue light and reduce strain. Consulting with the best eye doctor in Vadodara, like Dr. Kapadia, can help you find a solution tailored to your needs.

Regular Eye Exams: Regular check-ups can catch early signs of eye strain and help adapt your eye care routine before serious issues develop. Dr Kapadia, known for being one of the best eye surgeons in Vadodara, advises annual eye exams for anyone regularly using digital devices.

Managing Symptoms of Eye Strain

If symptoms of digital eye strain do arise, there are several effective management strategies:

Artificial Tears: Over-the-counter eye drops can alleviate dryness, a common symptom of prolonged screen use.

Adjust Daily Habits: Incorporating frequent breaks into your routine and ensuring you blink regularly can prevent symptoms from worsening.

Enhance Air Quality: Using a humidifier in your workspace can help maintain moisture in the air, reducing the risk of dry eyes.

Educational Initiatives and Awareness

Dr. Surbhi Kapadia is committed to educating the community about the risks of digital eye strain and the importance of regular eye care. Through workshops and seminars, she provides practical tips and the latest information on eye health, empowering individuals to take charge of their vision health.

Conclusion

As we continue navigating a world filled with digital screens, taking proactive steps to protect our eyes is essential. By following Dr. Surbhi Kapadia's expert advice and incorporating simple preventive measures into our daily routines, we can maintain healthy eyesight and enjoy the benefits of our digital devices safely.

For more detailed guidance and personalized eye care solutions, visit Dr. Surbhi Kapadia's website at Dr. Surbhi Kapadia's Eye Care, and schedule your appointment today to ensure your vision is protected year-round.

[multch]

Thoughts.

Art the clown x reader [18+]

CW: actually smut \ afab masterbation

Your boss admires your dedication to staying back late to finish off repairing most nights. What he doesn't know is your affiliation with the ‘Miles County Killer’.

Who knew sewing pays in a good view…

You whipped back as the bloody black and white suit whacked you in the face. If art was anything- it certainly wasn't subtle. The smell was revolting but what did you expect? Daisies? Of course he’d smell like a dead animal, he’s a murderer for Christ's sake! Still, you would've appreciated it if he at least let you set down the jacket you had to repair first- or had the decency to cover up a little instead of walking around the studio with everything out on display.

Tonight marks the 3rd year since you had first encountered this killer clown. You worked at a humble costume shop- Often very late to scramble enough of a paycheck to pay rent, utilities, whatever, ect.

On the strange night you two met, he had walked in- completely skipping past you- and searched for some sewing supplies. He went so far as to have even checked out the staff room you had accidentally left unlocked. Regardless, he eventually waddled up to your counter and dinged the bell on your desk several times. He had waved his hands around like a maniac trying to make sense until you realised he was gesturing towards the sewing needle in your hand. If he wasn’t so charming, maybe you would’ve called the police on him right then and there.

Maybe you should’ve...

Since then, you always patched up his ripped and tattered clown costume and he would repay you by helping out around the shop when you worked late. Repairing shelves, moving boxes and pestering you incessantly while doing so. 

It was a shock when you had first discovered his more malicious side. The ”Miles county killer” plastered on every television screen for miles. You couldn’t tell what had scared you more; Art’s heinous acts or the simple fact that he seemed to spare you.

But why?

The question haunted you. Your moral compass never seemed too correct however you understood the evil that seemed to possess him was devilish. What you couldn’t understand was what a being so sinful could've thought about a seamstress that made him show not only mercy, but companionship…

Honk! Honk!

Art could’ve killed you with how well he’d scare you. They didn’t call him the ‘Terrifier’ for nothing you thought. You were just minding your business- lost in thought- until Art practically made you jump out of your skin from his infuriating infatuation with his stupid little hand horn.

He had crept right up behind you and placed himself close enough to feel the cold air escape his lungs. You didn’t know how you didn’t notice but his horn was practically touching your ear. The sound it let out was more than enough to make your eyes widen. It had startled you so much you fell backwards on your stool. Luckily for you though, Art was there to catch you.

His skin was smooth and frigid. His hands having responded by grasping your waist with his rough hands- You were accidentally pressed right up against his naked chest. 

His touch felt electric. The contrast between your human heat and his icy exposure was a feeling like no other. He helped you back up onto your seat but by then it was too late. Fuck.

Seeing him naked was one thing but feeling his bare touch was another. Your minor interest in him had easily turned into obsession over the course of the last few years. A mysterious stranger showing up out of the blue. Saturated in blood. Torn up and often mutilated.  How couldn't you be intrigued?

It felt like there was no one else in the world he treated like you.

You felt special.

Protected, even.

You tried your best to resume your repair but by the time you reached the hole by the gusset of his suit, you had lost it.

*

Maybe excusing yourself to “go to the bathroom” might’ve been a bit overkill but there was no way you wouldn’t melt in the heat that you felt just simply looking at him. His playful taunts. The way he bats his eyelashes at you. Even his disgusting black smile!

These ‘normal’ acts of his felt misconstrued into one big flirty mess. 

Despite your efforts, you were clearly just too horny to stop. Every time you think about him in this moment, you couldn’t help but remember how he’s outside right now in nothing but a mask and his flimsy little top hat. In times like this, you couldn’t help but shake your fist in the air at Art’s infamous refusal to wear anything under his suit.

(You tried to convince him once by buying him a pair of boxers, but in retaliation he had ripped out the crotch and walked out- giving you the full view of his “pencil”)

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking but deciding to work one out sounded great right now.

You lent up against the red tile wall of the staff bathroom. It was cold. Perfect.

Slowly fondling yourself, your hands snake around your skin. One climbing up your stomach to slip under your bra. The other sneaking down the waistband of your shorts.

God, he made you so wet from just one touch. You slid in one finger first- wincing back at your contraction around so little. It made you only more hungry for what your eyes had feasted on so often yet you had never been given the chance to taste it yourself.

Seeing it made you understand why this clown always went commando because he really was hiding away a whole balloon animal. It was BIG.

Imagining it made your mouth feel empty..

You slip in another 2 fingers. Thrusting into yourself enough to make you press hard against the wall behind you. You were so cold but inside was a warmth you wanted him to feel so badly.

Your eyes squeezed down hard. You wanted to see him. His face. His body, as he thrusted into you.

You wanted him to trap you beneath his form with his inhuman strength.

To be scared he'd rip you in half if you ran away was a major turn on for you -the idea of becoming less than a victim of his by becoming a slave for his enjoyment.

Imagining it made your pussy throb, feeling empty despite your aggressive movement…

You tried to muffle your moans but the more you indulged in your fantasy, the more you struggled to show some self restraint.

A fourth finger, then a fifth.

Pounding harder and faster into your core, you thought back to all the toys you brought reimagining them as his girth. 

Art was more than a friend to you. You ached for him nightly. You felt him in your core. You've dreamt of his touch and woken up in a hot, sticky sweat because of him.

You wanted to be honest with him but only Hell knows what he'd do to you if he didn't feel the same.

The possibilities made you salivate. Being his victim would be an indulgent death for sure..

You feel yourself very quickly feeling your release build as an air of tension fills the room. It's sickly sweet.

Rubbing your pretty little pussy until it's puffy and squirting when he's in the room outside was your tipping point.

You let out one final wince before your knees give out- causing you to crouch down on the frozen tile floor. 

You can't help but imagine it's him holding you after a scene of absolute passion.

*

It's only been 10 minutes since you had excused yourself but once you had made your way back out, Art was nowhere to be seen.

You're embarrassed to say the least but you decide to push forward with your plans for tonight. 

You turn around to close the bathroom door behind you only to find a familiar face greeting you instead.

There stood Art the clown, leaning up against the wall with a shit eating grin- All while still being fully naked.

Oh god no…

[bad268]

Hello, excuse me if my English is not very good, you could write a Kimi x o'ward! Reader that is a dynamic older brother x younger sister. I LOVE YOUR FICS, I ALWAYS READ THEM.

PATO! (Andrea Kimi Antonelli X O'Ward! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/Formula 1

Requested: Clearly (I had a vision and almost didn't add it, but it's the bonus scene)

Warnings: None

POV: Second Person (You/your/They/them)

W.C. 1225

Summary: Pato being an overprotective brother.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(I actually took this lol)

You always traveled with Pato because ever since COVID, you switched to online learning, and that left you with more time to see the world. Truthfully, you never left Mexico until Pato offered to take you to Woking for some McLaren testing or something back in 2022, and you never stopped traveling with him since. 

This past year, he took you to Italy in between Indycar races since he wanted to join McLaren for a little. That’s how you found yourself in Imola. 

You had gone off exploring in the garage on your own while Pato was in a meeting, and you would rather watch the F2 practice session than do your schoolwork. You didn’t really know much about Formula 1 or 2 because you just never had the exposure to it really. You found your way to the McLaren garage (Oscar’s specifically!), and one of the F2 teams had their cars in front of it. The cars were parked up in front of the garage, so you decided to walk up to them for a closer look. 

“They’re cool looking, aren't they?” You asked to the first person you saw near the cars. He was wearing a Mercedes shirt and hat, so you assumed he was a fan. He looked over at you confused for a second before you decided to continue. “I’ve never seen one up close like this, so I think it’s cool.”

“That means you’ve never sat in one either?” He questioned, briefly looking over at you with a smile. 

“Definitely not,” You laughed, shanking your head. “I’ve only ever sat in an Indycar once, let alone an F1 or F2 car.”

“Would you like to?” he asked, and the rest was history. That was how you met Kimi, and you two really hit it off in Imola. You decided to stay in contact, and eventually, decided to try dating long-distance. 

You decided to keep it from Pato at first because honestly, you weren’t sure what the relationship was. Then it became a fun game to see how long you could keep it up. It wasn’t super hard for Kimi because, to be honest, the entire team wanted him to have something (ANYTHING) other than racing. Pato, on the other hand, was a gossip queen and loved to be all up in your business. 

“Whatcha doing?” Pato dragged out, looking over your shoulder to see what you were doing. You had your laptop open to an assignment you were trying to find the motivation to do, but you were looking at your phone. You thought texting Kimi for a few minutes would give you the motivation, but it was making it worse. When you noticed Pato looking over your shoulder, you quickly locked your phone and threw it against yoru chest as you put your hands on the keyboard.

“Nothing,” You shrieked, side-eyeing Pato from over your shoulder, “Just this…uh…research paper.”

“That’s not suspicious at all,” Pato dragged out but left it alone. You let out a breath after he left the room, but that was only one of the times. 

Pato had caught you doing suspicious things on multiple occasions. You were more protective of your phone, lost in thought more often, more interested in Formula 1, and you wanted to go with him to McLaren headquarters more often. Usually, you were indifferent, but it was like you had a newfound reason to go with him. 

“Maybe they’re in love, Pato,” Elba chuckled when he confessed that he thought something was up with you. They watched as you spoke in a hushed tone with your earbuds in. You had your phone propped up against your laptop screen as you typed away, but every once in a while, you would stop and laugh at something the other person said. Pato didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it.

“No, nuh-uh, not happening, not on my watch,” Pato rushed, about to run over and grab your phone before Elba grabbed his wrist. “No, let me go, I need to stop this! They’re just a baby!”

“They’re 18, Pato,” Elba stated, continuing to hold him in place. Pato looked back between you and Elba multiple times as his face scrunched up in disgust. “Don’t give me that look. They’re old enough to make their own choices.”

“No, they’re not,” Pato grumbled as he looked back over to you.

“They’re old enough to have a love life,” Elba argued, having to bite back a laugh.

“No, they’re not,” Pato grumbled again, not breaking his gaze off of you as you leaned back in your chair and let out a loud laugh.

“They’re old enough, Pato,” Elba whispered, not leaving any room for Pato to argue. He looked back at her with wide eyes, questioning her stance. “They can make their own decisions, and they don’t need your approval for everything.”

“But-”

“No buts, Pato,” Elba cut him off immediately, waving a finger in his face, “Let them experience life. You didn’t see me pestering you when you got your first girlfriend, at 16 no less! You were younger than them! Just let them be a teenager!”

“I need to know who it is,” Pato responded, not letting Elba stop him as he walked up behind you. You were so absorbed in your conversation with the person on the phone that you didn’t see Pato walking behind you until it was too late. “It’s Kimi!?”

“Pato!” You shouted, turning to face him as you hung up the call even though he had already seen it. Neither of you said anything, just awkwardly looking at each other for a few secondes before a notification from Kimi sounded from your phone, breaking up the tension.

“Is he mad?” It read, so you looked at Pato.

“Are you mad? He wants to know,” You questioned, using your best innocent look. You knew he couldn’t be that mad, but still, you needed him to say it.

“At least it’s not someone from McLaren,” He sighed as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders and hugged you from behind the chair. “That would be bad.”

“He’s in Mercedes, so that means I can’t go with you to McLaren anymore unless I sign an NDA.”

“Never mind, I wish it was someone from McLaren.”

“Pato!”

~~ (bonus scene)

“Can you please stop crying?” Pato groaned as he sat next to you at your hotel in Toronto, watching the Formula 2 race. It was like 8 in the morning, and Pato would be getting into the car for his own race soon, but when you asked him to watch the feature race with you, he couldn’t say no. “It’s just a race!”

“But Kimi won! It’s his first win!” You sobbed, whipping away at your eyes as you pulled out your phone to take pictures and videos of Kimi on the podium.

“He won the sprint race like a week ago!” Pato defended himself, but you were hearing none of it.

“That’s a sprint win! It doesn’t count!” You retorted immediately before backtracking a second later, “Well, it counts for points, but it’s not like a feature race win.”

“You need to calm down,” Pato joked as he put a hand on your shoulder.

“THIS IS CALM AND THAT’S MY MAN!”

“Please stop shouting before we get a noise complaint.”

~~~~~

© BAD268 2025. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[iraot]

Dead On Paper

Pairing: Dawnbreak/Zayne x f!reader Summary: He is hired to kill her, but realized he was born to protect her instead. Genre: Romance, Some Smut, Blood, he's an ASSASSIN GUYS so just... he kills people. Word Count: 17, 896 AO3

A sealed, untraceable burner device chirps once—no vibration, no screen light, just a short mechanical tone sharp enough to pierce the hush of Zayne’s safehouse. He picks it up without hurry, thumbprint unlocking the message buried under four layers of encryption. Coordinates first. Then a face scan, timestamped, taken from a distance with low exposure. She’s walking near a market, head tilted to the sun like someone who’s never felt watched.

Target: a civilian woman. No priors. The file confirms it—no aliases, no history with black-market trades, no contact with arms or laundering circuits. Even her financial records look clean outside of a few late payments, nothing criminal. Her name’s been scrubbed from the brief, redacted by whoever ordered the kill. That’s unusual. Even high-profile jobs rarely erase the subject's name unless there’s heat somewhere.

Zayne narrows his eyes as he decrypts the secondary layer of metadata. The source trails back to a shell entity registered in Singapore—long dissolved on paper but active in deep channels. One of a thousand fake fronts tied to an old laundering tree used by both legacy cartels and the newer syndicate branches that spun off during the post-2008 chaos. He knows the kind. Family dynasties and private enforcers. The kind of people who issue death orders not to eliminate threats, but to humiliate those who failed them.

He reclines back in the steel-framed chair, fingers drumming once on the desk beside him. The image of the woman lingers on the cracked screen—arms full of greenery, face turned just slightly, mouth open in what looks like mid-laughter. Civilian. Young. Alive. And someone wants her very much not to be.

The reward is abnormally high—seven figures for a civilian who’s never touched a gun, never crossed a border under false papers, never whispered a name worth killing over. It makes him pause, green eyes narrowing on the screen like it might flinch under the scrutiny. This isn’t about threat mitigation or cleanup. This is punishment by proxy, and she’s the proxy—collateral born from blood ties to someone who fucked the wrong people and fled before the debt collectors came knocking.

Zayne leans forward, elbows on the metal desk, and reads the fine print again. No time limit. No discretion required. They don’t care how messy it gets. That confirms it—this is about spectacle, not silence. Someone wants her to disappear as a lesson carved into bone, left bleeding in the air as a warning to others who forget who they owe.

He exhales through his nose once, controlled and quiet, and types a single line of reply into the secured channel: I’ll handle it. Four words. Enough to signal acceptance, initiate payment escrow, and launch a countdown no one will trace back to him. But it isn’t final. Not yet. Zayne doesn’t pull triggers on photographs.

He scouts. Confirms. Decides. Always.

Zayne rents the unit under a fake name, cash only, no questions asked. It’s bare inside—concrete walls, no windows, stripped light fixtures. He brings in his own power supply, a collapsible chair, surveillance gear tucked into repurposed moving boxes labeled “kitchen” and “holiday lights.” Across the street, three ordinary-looking orange cones sit angled just right, each one housing high-res lenses wired into a portable server cooled by fans that hum beneath the drone of traffic.

For two weeks, he watches her from behind glass and code, logging everything with sniper precision. She opens the nursery each morning at exactly 6:45AM, sliding the gate open in one smooth motion before disappearing behind a veil of condensation and leaf-shadow. Her routine is seamless. Reliable. She starts her day with chamomile and mint tea in a chipped mug painted with violets, always held in both hands like it centers her.

She plays music through a speaker rigged near the herb section—first soft jazz, low saxophone and brushed percussion, then Spanish ballads after 9AM, lilting and sad. She hums sometimes, unconsciously, her mouth twitching with lyrics she doesn’t say aloud. Her lunch is always packed: boiled egg, vegetables, rice in a reused takeout container. Never any takeout. Never anything prepared by anyone but her.

She doesn’t answer phone calls. The burner she carries stays buried at the bottom of her bag, screen unlit, battery rarely above fifteen percent. Zayne tracks her movements through the rest of her week—short walks, two bus routes, no deviation. Once a week she slips into a hole-in-the-wall bookstore and leaves with worn paperbacks, crumpled bills exchanged with the owner in silence. No credit. No receipts. Just cash.

When her shift ends, she rides her rusted bike home with a basket full of trimmings and dented groceries, her fingernails dark with soil, her posture sagging with work. She greets no one. She never invites anyone in. And behind the nursery, under the old brick archway where vines have begun to grow wild, she kneels with a bowl of tuna for three stray cats—thin things with matted fur that purr when she speaks.

Zayne watches all of this. Records every minute. And finds nothing. No tail, no accomplices. No panic in her steps, no precautions. If she knows someone’s watching her, she hides it perfectly. But he doesn’t think she knows. She looks up sometimes at the sky, eyes wide like someone waiting for a better life to descend gently, green and growing, into her palms.

She’s crouched near a table of succulents, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with potting soil, when a child comes barreling into the nursery. A boy, maybe five or six, wild curls and mismatched socks, clutching a bruised fern like it’s a treasure. He says something—Zayne can’t hear it through the feed, but her laughter rings out anyway, rich and spontaneous. She throws her head back just slightly, eyes crinkling, lips parted in a way that makes it unmistakable: it’s real.

Zayne blinks behind the scope, momentarily still. It takes longer than it should for his breathing to return to its usual rhythm. He shifts his position by instinct, recalibrating for line of sight, but the laugh echoes in his memory like an anomaly. It shouldn’t matter. It bothers him that it does.

She’s a target. That’s the refrain. Simple. Clean. She exists in this file for a reason—because someone, somewhere, decided her continued breathing was a liability. Zayne doesn’t ask why. Not usually. The 'why' makes the hand shake. Makes the bullet miss.

But something isn’t sitting right this time. Her routine is too open, too linear—no dead drops, no burner swaps, no subtle check-ins with strangers or mirrored surfaces. She doesn’t take alternate routes home. She doesn’t scan the street before she locks up at night. She walks like no one’s ever told her to be afraid. Like she doesn’t know that death is parked across the street in a borrowed van watching her finish a conversation with a six-year-old about aloe and water schedules.

She’s not avoiding being tracked. She’s not hiding. She doesn’t even know she’s being watched and that’s what makes it harder.

He enters the house at 2:14AM, lock bypassed in under four seconds, gloves on, eyes already mapping the interior like a living schematic. The place is small—one bedroom, no signs of luxury, no hidden compartments or surveillance. She sleeps in a bed without a headboard, covered by a faded quilt with stitched vines and leaves, the kind that looks handmade. He doesn’t linger. Just moves like smoke through each room until he finds what he’s looking for.

The shoebox is buried in the closet, tucked behind rain boots and a crate of broken ceramics. No lock, no alarm—just taped shut and sealed with old, half-peeled stickers. He opens it with a scalpel. Inside: a stack of unopened letters, official and bland, with seals from places like “Collection Units,” “Asset Adjustment Services,” and “Financial Intercession Groups.” Corporate euphemisms for legalized extortion. Some are printed on thick cardstock, others typed in sterile fonts, but they all have the same tone—pay what they owe, or we’ll extract it elsewhere.

He flips through them until the photographs start. Surveillance shots. A man and a woman—her parents. Stained shirts, glassy eyes, one of them half-smiling in a gas station mirror. Each image is stamped “DELINQUENT” in red ink. Beside it, a breakdown of debt portfolios: gambling, laundering, crypto fraud, unpaid smuggling tolls. One sheet reads $2.3 million outstanding. Another simply says: ASSET RECOVERY: ALL TIED.

Zayne stares at the handwriting below the photo.

Last known location: UNKNOWN.

So they went dark. Cowards who left their daughter as collateral.

She’s not part of the scam. She’s just the remaining name with a heartbeat. On paper, she’s tied into the debts—accidental proxy, inherited without consent. Her only crime is not covering their tracks for them.

He sits on the edge of her couch, documents spread like tarot cards across his lap, and exhales—slow, silent, like something sharp’s being drawn out of his chest. His code is old, quiet, carved into the marrow: no innocents. No children. No ghosts forced to carry the weight of other people’s bad decisions.

No one deserves to die for the sins of absentee, criminal bloodlines and no one gets to hunt her while he’s watching.

The rental sits to the left of her house, a sun-bleached skeleton with warped siding, blistered paint, and a roof that sighs in high wind. Zayne signs the lease as Elias Tan, a name clean enough to pass background checks and common enough to be forgettable. He doesn’t move in all at once—just a few boxes, a mattress, and the quiet thrum of tools unpacked with surgical precision. Each day he fixes something small: a cracked shingle, a leaking gutter, the stubborn back gate that swings open in storm wind.

He starts a garden along the fence line, nothing flashy—just cucumbers, rosemary, a few heirloom beans in salvaged planter boxes. The kind of thing you can ask advice about, even when you don’t need it. The soil is poor, so he tills it by hand, sweat running down the curve of his spine under worn cotton. It gives him something to do that looks honest.

She sees him for the first time on a humid Tuesday morning, dragging a twenty-pound bag of fertilizer across the gravel path, breath hitching at every uneven step. He’s trimming back lemon balm when he glances up. No words at first—just a look, held for a beat too long.

“You need a hand?” he asks, voice even. No smile. No pressure.

She shakes her head, arms locked around the bag. “Got it.”

He nods and steps back, she passes, and they leave it at that. Non-threatening. Just a neighbor with dirt under his nail a man who builds, instead of destroys.

The second time they speak, she catches him mid-morning, crouched beside a weather-beaten citrus tree he’s trying to revive. He’s trimming back curled, browning leaves with surgical snips, expression focused, hands steady. She walks by, slows, and tilts her head with the quiet confidence of someone who knows plants like they’re kin.

“You’re cutting too close to the node,” she says, nodding at the branch in his hand. “You’ll stress the stem.”

He looks up at her, eyes unreadable but attentive. “I thought it was rot.”

“It’s calcium deficiency,” she replies, stepping closer, brushing her thumb across one of the leaves. “Soil’s probably too acidic. Try crushed eggshells.”

He considers this, then asks, “You ever grafted from a lemon onto an orange base?”

That catches her off guard—in a good way. Her face brightens, eyes sparking like someone who didn’t expect to be taken seriously. “Yeah,” she says, grinning. “You’re braver than you look.”

He doesn’t respond, just returns to trimming, but there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, almost like amusement.

A week later, there’s a knock at his door. He opens it and finds her holding a woven basket filled with tangled sprigs of mint—wild, unruly, fragrant from several feet away.

“For tea,” she says, lifting it toward him. “Or whatever it is you drink after sunset.”

He takes it without hesitation. “I make chili jam,” he offers, stepping aside to retrieve a jar from his kitchen. “Want to try some?”

She perches on the edge of his porch while he unscrews the lid. There are no spoons, so she dips a finger directly into the thick, red mixture and brings it to her lips. She licks once, slow, thoughtful, then gasps quietly.

“Oh, that’s—hot,” she laughs, eyes wide. “But really fucking good.”

He says nothing. Just watches her mouth, the shine on her lower lip, the shape of her laugh as it curls out of her like steam. She talks for another minute or two, but he doesn’t hear much of it. Not really.

That image—her finger, her lips, the moment—lodges in his mind like a trigger half-pulled. He files it away with clinical care, like evidence but he doesn’t delete it.

The burner glows faint blue in the dark, a signal pulled through a quiet channel that only speaks in silence. Zayne uploads a high-resolution image of bloodied clothing—a hoodie similar to the one she wore last Tuesday, torn and stained with carefully applied theater blood. He pins it to GPS coordinates leading to an isolated burn site he used three years ago, a gravel pit ringed with trees and ash that no one patrols. No body. No teeth. Just enough residue to imply a conclusion.

The contract broker responds in under forty minutes. Confirmation flags appear, payment clears, and her profile gets an automated status: TERMINATED. Zayne watches the progress bar complete, then files the job under his real alias, Dawnbreaker—signed, sealed, archived with the others. She’s dead now, on paper. Dead enough that no one with a price list will come looking for her again.

He opens the encrypted archive, scrolls down to her original file, and deletes the biometric images from the kill folder. Gone, as protocol demands. But he copies one—the unedited one, the one where she’s smiling at a pigeon from across the street—and drops it into a buried partition in his personal archive. Just in case, he tells himself. Contingency. Not sentiment.

Still, when the screen fades to black, he doesn’t close the laptop right away.He just sits there, staring into the dark, and for once it doesn’t stare back. –

He learns her schedule like a melody—one note at a time, steady, familiar. Not for strategy or escape routes, not anymore. There’s no ambush in his mind, no scope tracking her from across the street. He memorized her routine the way a man memorizes the tide: because it matters to him, because its rhythm softens something he didn’t know needed softening.

She hums when she waters the plants, low and tuneless, like her thoughts are too full to keep silent. He hears it even from his yard, faint through the breeze, sometimes rising into fragments of a melody he never recognizes. She sways gently as she moves, trailing her fingers along leaf edges, like she’s reassuring them that she’ll be back tomorrow. It’s ritual, not work.

On slow afternoons, she reads pest control manuals with frayed spines and penciled notes in the margins. Half the time she forgets them outside, pages curling in the sun until he quietly gathers them and drops them off by her door. She never asks how they get back there. Just smiles, mutters “thank you, plant gods,” and tucks them under her arm like sacred texts.

When snails invade her violets, she crouches with a flashlight and whispers threats like a tired parent. “You little bastards better not touch my orchids,” she mutters, plucking them off one by one and dropping them gently into a tin. She keeps a kill count on a sticky note taped to the windowsill. He pretends not to smile when he sees it hit twelve.

One evening, she waves him over with dirt-streaked gloves and a furrowed brow. “Spider plant’s got something weird on its leaves,” she says, holding it out like a sick child. “You ever seen spots like this?” He leans in, fingertips grazing the edge of the pot, shoulder brushing hers. He tells her it’s fungal. She tells him she’s relieved it’s not a curse. He doesn’t correct her.

— It's late afternoon when the conversation slips past weather and watering schedules. They’re seated on her back porch, her feet bare and tucked under her, Zayne leaning against the railing with a glass of cold water in one hand. The sun is low, casting long gold stripes through the latticework, dust motes swirling in the light between them. She pulls her hair back absently and asks, “So what do you do, exactly? You’re too methodical for accounting, too quiet for customer service.”

He answers without hesitation, calm and rehearsed. “Freelance logistics. Short-term supply chain stuff. Inventory control.” It’s vague but plausible, the kind of job that sounds both boring and too technical to probe deeper. She nods like it makes sense and doesn’t ask more—not because she believes it entirely, but because she doesn’t want to ruin the quiet by making it heavy.

She’s silent for a moment, eyes scanning the small garden bed in front of them. Then she speaks without looking at him. “My parents disappeared six years ago. Took a bunch of other people’s money with them. Left me the mail, the debt collectors, and a name that doesn’t belong to anyone respectable anymore.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t interrupt, just takes another drink and waits. She exhales slowly, like it costs her something. “I don’t hate them. I did for a while, sure. But mostly I don’t think about them now. It’s like… they were a dream someone else had, and I just woke up in the part where everything’s wrecked.”

He watches her, eyes unreadable but steady. “That’s a heavy inheritance,” he says.

“Yeah.” Her laugh is soft and dry. “Would’ve preferred land or a timeshare. Maybe a haunted watchtower or something. At least that comes with ghosts you can see.”

He doesn’t chuckle, but there’s a shift in his posture, something just shy of warmth. “Most people don’t talk about it like that.”

“Most people try to solve it,” she replies, glancing at him sideways. “Tell me to track them down, sue someone, write a letter, ‘process the trauma.’ You didn’t do any of that. You just… let it sit.”

He shrugs slightly. “Not everything needs fixing.”

She nods, a small smile flickering at the edge of her mouth. “That’s rare. Most men don’t know when to shut up.” He doesn’t say anything to that either. Just watches the way her shoulders loosen when she’s finally said too much and didn’t regret it.

The evening is quiet, heat bleeding off the pavement in slow waves, when she appears at her back door with her arm cradled awkwardly against her chest. She tries to wave him off with her good hand, downplaying it with a weak smile and a casual, “Clumsy me—smashed a pot. Got a little too aggressive with the shelving.” The gash is long, stitched but fresh, the skin around it red and taut, still swollen beneath gauze that’s already soaking through. Zayne says nothing, just nods once, but his eyes never leave the wound.

The cut’s too clean for a terracotta shard—too long, too precise, no drag marks or irregular tears that would come from jagged edges. She was cut with intent, not accident. She moves slower than usual, flinching when she bends, but hides it behind chatty small talk and jokes about tetanus shots. He offers her tea; she declines. Says she’s tired, just needs to sleep it off.

That night, after the neighborhood has gone dark, Zayne pulls a tablet from a false bottom in his tool chest and taps into the nursery’s security feed—something he wired on his second week without telling her. He scans back six hours. There’s a man in the footage, medium height, leather coat, mirrored glasses that don’t reflect the camera. He isn’t browsing. He’s cornering her near the back greenhouse, gesturing wildly while she stands still, arms crossed but shoulders tense.

The feed’s audio is too low for voices, but the body language tells enough—she tries to walk away twice, and both times he blocks her path. She finally pushes past him, hand gripping her forearm tightly, blood already soaking into her sleeve. The man leaves calmly, no rush, no panic, head down. Professional. Former debt collector, Zayne guesses—someone hired to rattle cages, remind her what happens when money owed goes unpaid or unforgotten.

Zayne closes the feed and deletes the last twenty-four hours. Not just the file, but the server metadata. Wiped. Gone. He sits back in the dark of his living room, lit only by the glow of the screen and the soft green flicker of the security router’s heartbeat.

He doesn’t plan revenge. Not yet.

But he writes down the man’s face. And he doesn’t forget.

The trail isn’t hard to follow—not when you know how collectors move, how they drink cheap coffee in laundromats and always overstay their welcome at low-end motels. Zayne pulls surveillance from street cams and ATM clusters, piecing together the man’s route through the city. Credit card pings lead to a port-side warehouse district full of abandoned freight, rusted chains, and stacked shipping containers that haven’t been checked in years. He gets there just after midnight, boots crunching over gravel, gloved fingers tracing the latch of a container with a scent that’s wrong—coppery and humid, like something that’s been left too long.

Inside, the collector is slumped against the back wall, head tilted unnaturally, arms bound with zip ties still cinched tight at the wrists. Blood pools beneath him, sticky and black. His tongue is missing, lips parted as if trying to scream even in death. There are no signs of struggle—just execution. The work is professional, deliberate. Someone wanted him silent, and someone wanted it understood.

Zayne crouches beside the body, eyes scanning the scene without emotion. He didn’t do this. That much is clear. No one kills like him—his method is cleaner, colder, a scalpel where this was a scalping knife. But this wasn’t random. Someone else followed the same scent trail, maybe smelled the same debt. Maybe decided this wasn’t about her anymore. Maybe it never was.

He rises slowly, shutting the container door behind him without leaving a trace. Back outside, the air feels heavier, thicker with something unseen. He doesn’t know who got to the man first.  

But he knows this much now: He’s not the only one watching her.

She knocks just past eleven, a soft, almost apologetic tapping against his doorframe. Rain sheets down behind her in cold, silvery lines, her hoodie soaked through, dark curls of wet hair plastered to her temples. Her fingers tremble around her phone, the screen dim and cracked, useless. “Power’s out,” she says, voice small, breath hitching. “And the storm’s freaking me out. I just… didn’t want to sit in the dark by myself.”

Zayne steps aside without a word, letting her pass into the warmth and light of his kitchen. He hands her a towel first, then a dry shirt, heavy with his scent, and turns to the stove without watching her change. She sits quietly while he brews tea, eyes following the motion of his hands, precise and sure. When he opens a drawer for a spoon, she spots the knitting needles tucked neatly beside utility tools, long metal ones with red-painted tips.

“You knit?” she asks, not teasing—just surprised, intrigued.

He doesn’t answer. Just closes the drawer again. She doesn’t press. The silence between them is soft, not awkward, and when he returns with two mugs, she accepts hers with a nod of thanks.

They sit on the couch, close, steam curling up between their hands. Her shoulder brushes his, light but unmistakable, and neither of them moves away. Outside, the storm cracks across the sky like bone splitting. Inside, she doesn’t flinch. She exhales slow, steady, then turns slightly and rests her head back against the cushion beside his. Doesn’t speak.

When she leaves an hour later, wrapped in a dry coat and steadier than when she arrived, she pauses in the doorway and smiles. Not wide. Not performative. Just quiet, real, like something settled. Zayne watches her cross the gravel back to her house, headlights from the streetlight flickering over her path.

He stares at the door for a long time after it closes

Not thinking. Just feeling.

Like something important nearly happened, and might again.

The night air is thick with late-summer damp, cool on sweat-slick skin but not enough to banish the warmth still radiating from the soil. Overhead, string lights stretch between two fences, swaying faintly in the breeze, casting broken amber light across the backyards. Zayne is crouched near the rosemary, the scent sharp on his hands as he trims back a branch with the precision of a surgeon. Across the narrow space, her silhouette shifts among tomato vines and sprawling mint, dirt clinging to her calves, hair tied messily off her neck, the fabric of her shirt sticking slightly at the small of her back.

They’ve been working like this for nearly an hour—no music, no conversation, just the clink of tools, the occasional rustle of plants being turned or watered. It’s quiet, but not sterile. Comfortable. Her presence is a soft hum in the background of his mind, rhythmic and grounding. He’s gotten used to it—her garden gloves tossed onto the fence post, the way she hums tunelessly when she concentrates, the soft curse when she finds aphids again on her basil. It’s not surveillance anymore. He isn’t watching. He’s just…near.

Then her voice slices gently through the quiet.

“Want to see something?”

He looks up, blinking, surprised by the interruption but not displeased. She stands near her porch, wiping her hands on a ragged kitchen towel. There’s dirt under her nails, smudges on her cheeks, and something lighter in her eyes. “The lavender finally came up,” she says, nodding toward a tray sitting under a makeshift UV lamp. “They’re tiny, but they made it. You said once you never bothered starting them from seed.”

He doesn’t remember saying it out loud, but he nods and follows her across the yard. Her porch creaks under their weight as she leads him toward the table where the tray rests, a grid of damp soil and fragile green shoots barely taller than a fingernail. She kneels beside it, gestures for him to come closer, and starts talking—explaining the mix she used, the spray bottle technique, the humidity dome she rigged out of an old cake cover.

As she looks up to speak again, the porch light catches on a streak of dirt across her cheek. Without thinking, Zayne reaches out. His thumb grazes her skin, a slow wipe from just below her eye to the edge of her jaw, lifting the smudge away in one clean stroke. Her breath catches. She doesn’t lean back.

Her eyes lock onto his, wide and startled—not in fear, but in sudden awareness. He’s still close, hand halfway raised, her skin warm where he touched it. She swallows, then says his name—soft, quiet, almost questioning.

“Zayne.”

He says hers in return. Low. Careful. Like it might break something if he isn’t gentle with it.

There’s a pause. The porch is quiet but for the rustle of nearby leaves and the gentle creak of the wind nudging the wood. Then she steps forward, slowly, her fingers brushing against the edge of his shirt as she closes the space between them. She rises onto her toes and presses her lips to his—light, cautious, but not uncertain. It’s not a question. It’s a confession wrapped in silence.

The kiss lingers. Just lips against lips, the soft, warm pressure of something new testing its weight. She tastes like mint and rain, and something delicate and unnamed trembles between them. He doesn’t deepen it. Doesn’t pull her in or press back harder. He simply lifts his hand again, cups her jaw with deliberate tenderness, thumb tracing along her cheekbone in a way that says he could destroy anything that dared harm her—but he won’t ever touch her like glass.

She pulls away first, breathing just a little heavier, her hand still hovering near his chest. She looks at him like she’s not sure what she just did, but doesn’t regret it. Her mouth opens—no words come. Instead, she exhales slowly and nods.

“I should—” she starts, then stops. “Goodnight.”

He answers, quiet but unshaken. “Goodnight.”

She leaves barefoot, dirt still clinging to her soles as she disappears down the steps and across the lawn. She doesn’t run, but she moves quickly, like something might stop her if she stays.

Zayne remains where she left him, hand still faintly warm, jaw tight. When he finally sinks back into the chair near the table, it creaks beneath him. His fists curl on his thighs, fingers digging in, knuckles white. He doesn’t turn off the porch light. He doesn’t sleep, not because of threat but because he can still feel her lips—gentle and unguarded—like a promise he didn’t deserve and couldn’t bear to break.

—

The evenings fall quiet by the time he shows up, arms full of rosemary, garlic scapes, lemon balm clippings wrapped in damp paper towels. She’s already boiling water or roasting something when he knocks, expecting him without ever saying she is. The kitchen is small but warm, the walls honey-colored with steam curling against the windowpanes, and the scent of earth and spice fills every corner. She gives him a wooden bowl to clean the herbs, humming softly as she stirs miso paste into broth or brushes oil over warm flatbread.

They eat at the small table near the back door, the one facing her little herb patch where wind chimes tangle softly in the breeze. Sometimes she asks if the thyme tastes too strong, or if the eggs cooked long enough, but mostly they eat in silence. It’s not awkward. It’s familiar—the kind of quiet that feels earned, like something shared rather than something missing.

She sits closer now, not quite pressed against him, but near enough that her thigh brushes his beneath the table when she shifts her weight. The first time it happens, her knee knocks into his and she doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t move either. Just takes another bite of soup, slow and measured, while their legs remain gently aligned, a quiet point of contact neither acknowledges out loud.

Once, while she’s scraping lentils from the bottom of the pot, she glances over her shoulder and says, “You don’t talk much, do you?”| “Don’t need to,” he replies, eyes steady on her hands.

She grins without looking at him again. “Good. I like that better.” And he understands then—it’s not that she wants company. It’s that she wants someone who doesn’t demand to be seen while she's still learning to be.

It happens just past midnight. Zayne is in the backyard, securing the last of the hose reels and flipping off the porch lights, the moon heavy and yellow behind a veil of slow-moving clouds. The wind picks up in short, sharp bursts, rustling leaves and bending the tomato stakes at his feet. As he turns toward the gate, his gaze catches on the glass of her greenhouse—just a shimmer at first, but then a shape, dark and still, reflected in the pane.

It stands where it shouldn’t—between the rows of hibiscus and lavender, too tall for her, too motionless for wind. The figure’s not moving, but the angle is wrong, the placement off; it’s not inside, it’s behind her greenhouse, lit by nothing but moonlight. He drops into a crouch before he even thinks, sliding a blade from his boot, eyes locked on the shimmer. But by the time he rounds the fence and reaches the spot, it’s gone. The space is empty. Still. No footprints in the mulch. No broken stems. No sound except the soft rattle of string lights overhead.

Zayne doesn’t believe in coincidence. Whoever it was stood there long enough to study her, to memorize angles, movements, maybe wait for a moment when she’d step into that glass room unaware. It wasn’t random—it was recon. Someone watched her like he once did. But not like him. Not to protect. Not to keep.

He doesn’t tell her the next morning. She’s smiling too easily over breakfast, teasing him about overwatering his thyme, and he lets it lie for now. Instead, he spends the afternoon laying ground sensors six inches beneath her rose beds and reprogramming the micro-cameras he once installed for his own surveillance. Now they feed directly to his secured server, pinging alerts to his burner phone. She doesn’t know he’s building a fence of code and eyes around her life. She doesn’t know yet someone else is trying to slip in through the cracks.

The sun is low, slanting in through the kitchen window, catching dust motes and bathing the room in soft orange. She’s cleaning with casual energy, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hair messily twisted on top of her head, humming as she sorts mail and shoves worn dish towels into a drawer. Zayne leans against the counter, watching with that quiet stillness that never quite leaves him, offering to help only once. She waves him off with a laugh and tosses a sponge at his chest.

Then she opens the bottom drawer near the floor and stiffens—just slightly, just enough. Her hand lingers a second too long before she pushes it shut with her hip and says, “That one’s just old bills. Junk I keep meaning to shred.” Her voice is breezy, light, but her eyes don’t meet his as she turns back toward the counter. He makes no move to question her, doesn’t even change expression. But he logs it, like everything else.

When she excuses herself to shower, he moves across the room without a sound. The drawer slides open easily—she didn’t bother to lock it. Inside, the papers are folded, some crumpled, others stiff with age and creased from too many hands. Envelopes marked with return addresses he recognizes from years of contract work: Collection Units, Financial Intercession, Recovery Escalation. No names on the senders. No signatures. Just threats. Demand letters. Photocopied photos of her face, her place of work. She called them bills. But they’re warnings. And they’ve been piling up.

The drawer’s contents spill like a confession—torn envelopes, hastily folded sheets, paper still dusted with the residue of anger. Each one is different in format—some printed on faded company letterhead, others handwritten in thick black marker like a ransom note. No return addresses. No official seals. Just half-legible demands scrawled in frantic script, the kind that smudges when written too fast, too hot with rage to wait for the ink to dry.

Some pages are short, just one or two lines. “You’ll pay what they owe.” “Blood knows where to find blood.” Others are longer, bulleted, spiraling with accusations and threats of “enforcement visits,” thinly veiled beneath legalese. One page simply reads “RUN. IT WON’T HELP.” in red ballpoint, the letters jagged, pressed so hard into the paper it left grooves on the envelope beneath.

Zayne doesn’t react. He sifts through the pile like an archivist, hands careful, eyes scanning each word without giving away a thing. The rage behind them is unmistakable—not the cold precision of hired killers or corporate silence. This is desperate fury, the kind that comes from men whose money’s gone, whose power’s cracked, lashing out at anything left to punish and all of it points back to her. Not because she did anything wrong, but because she’s still visible. Still reachable and someone—more than one—wants to remind her of that.

Zayne returns to his safehouse just before dawn, slipping in through the side entrance beneath the vines. The sky’s beginning to pale, but his thoughts stay anchored in the dark. He powers on the encrypted terminal hidden behind a false panel in the wall, fingers moving with practiced ease through layers of security. He isn’t looking for names. He’s looking for shape—slant, pressure, pattern. The way certain letters lean too hard to the right. The way the lowercase “f” never crosses fully. The handwriting in the threats burned itself into his mind the moment he saw it.

It doesn’t take long. He opens an old dossier from six years back, a failed collection job out of Detroit, and there it is—black and angry across a confession letter, nearly identical. Same pen pressure. Same malformed “r.” The signature at the bottom: Victor Dunn. Former enforcer. Known for using fear before force, humiliation before blood. Tied to the Mendez line—a syndicate with long money and short patience, the same one that sent the kill order on her weeks ago.

Zayne stares at the file, jaw tight. Dunn shouldn’t be active. Last he heard, Dunn had gone underground after botching a protection job and leaving a trail of bodies no one wanted cleaned up. But if he’s resurfaced, if he’s part of the threats then this isn’t coincidence. 

 It’s legacy. 

Vengeance and he’s not the only one circling her at least not anymore.

—

Victor Dunn dies on a Wednesday.

The bar is a low-lit dive on the edge of the industrial quarter, a place where the floor sticks and the jukebox eats quarters. Dunn sits at the far end, nursing cheap bourbon from a cloudy tumbler, the type of man who drinks alone because it makes him feel harder. Zayne walks in unnoticed, hood up, the weight of a flask already resting against his palm. The bartender never sees the sleight of hand—how the bottle Dunn brought in for himself ends up dosed with an odorless sedative laced with synthetic aconite.

The fight starts ten minutes later, as planned—two hired drunks swing at each other just behind Dunn’s stool. Shouting. Glass breaks. Chairs screech. In the commotion, Zayne nudges the bottle an inch closer to his target’s hand, lets the chaos cover the moment Dunn tips the rest of it back and grimaces. It takes eighteen minutes for his throat to swell, his heart to stutter. He’s dead before he hits the floor. To the rest of the room, he just passed out. To the police? Another overdose in a city full of them.

Zayne slips out through the back and walks five blocks before ditching the hoodie in a trash bin. No fingerprints. No witnesses. No security cameras facing the alley. Dunn’s death is ruled as accidental. Case closed in under forty-eight hours.

Zayne doesn’t relax. He watches the digital trail. Waits. And someone else keeps watching her—another set of eyes in the dark, patient, methodical. Whoever they are, they haven’t moved yet. Haven’t struck.

Which means they’re waiting for something.

Not her death.

Her vulnerability.

And Zayne knows now—this isn’t about if they’ll try again.

It’s about when.

-

The camera feed comes in just after 2:00 a.m.—a whisper of movement pinging Zayne’s encrypted server. The alert is faint, almost subtle, not the kind that would raise alarms for anyone but him. He’s already half-awake, seated at his desk, sharpening a blade he doesn’t need to use tonight. When the motion alert flashes, he taps the key, leans in, and watches.

The footage is black and white, softened with the grain of lowlight exposure, but the figure is clear. A dark sedan idles across the street from her house, tucked just far enough into the alley to avoid the streetlamps. The headlights are off. Engine silent. It wasn’t there five minutes ago. The driver doesn’t exit. He leans forward against the wheel, elbows propped, gaze fixed not on the front door, but the side yard—the greenhouse. Zayne’s chest tightens as he realizes the man isn’t surveying the house. He’s watching her route. He knows her pattern.

Zayne magnifies the feed, enhances the angle. The man’s face is partially obscured by shadow and tinted glass, but he’s clean-shaven, short dark hair, wearing a collared shirt and gloves. Not street muscle. Not a junkie collector. Professional. His posture is too composed. Too deliberate. There’s no fumbling with a phone, no cigarette, no nervous shifting. He’s not casing the house. He’s confirming something.

The car doesn’t idle long. After exactly twenty-three minutes, the headlights flash once—low beam, quick flick, not an accident. The engine murmurs to life, soft as a cat’s breath. By the time Zayne bolts out the back door and crosses three yards in a straight sprint, the car is gone. Not a sound of tires screeching. Not a trace of burned rubber. Just absence, clean and surgical.

He checks the camera playback, frame by frame, until he gets a brief shot of the license plate—centered, perfectly lit by the greenhouse flood light. He runs it through two firewalled databases, both civilian and military. The number pings back: valid registration, leased vehicle, no name attached. Clean. Too clean.

No traffic tickets. No parking violations. No servicing record. The plate’s not fake—it’s sanitized. Zayne leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing at the blank digital report. That’s worse than fake. It means the plate’s real, but protected. Government issue or black market protected. Which means someone has reach. And they know where to look.

He watches the footage again, this time focusing not on the car, but on the angle. The driver wasn’t just watching the greenhouse. He was watching her window. The one with the chipped paint and the vine pressing against the pane. The one she leaves cracked open at night because she says she sleeps better with fresh air.

Zayne’s fists tighten. He tells himself it could be a coincidence. A passerby. A curious neighbor who parked in the wrong place but he doesn’t believe it. Coincidences don’t sit motionless in the dark for twenty-three minutes and drive off without a headlight blink of confusion.

He doesn’t tell her. Not yet. In the morning, she’ll hand him a sprig of sage, smiling, saying it helps with pests.

Instead, he spends the rest of the night on his laptop and gear, rerouting the greenhouse camera feed to a secondary off-site server. He replaces the standard motion sensor with a military-grade proximity net and walks the perimeter twice in silence. Then he loads two guns—one for open carry, one for his ankle—and sets a third beside the couch where he pretends to sleep. He watches until the sun comes up because someone else is watching her and Zayne doesn’t share.

—

The evening is soft with heat, the kind that lingers even after sunset, wrapping around bare skin like a second shirt. They sit outside on her back patio, tucked beneath the overhang strung with mismatched glass lanterns that cast warm colors across the worn wooden table. The wine is red, rich, sweating in mismatched tumblers that catch the flicker of citronella candles. Zayne sips his slowly, eyes fixed on the curve of her throat as she speaks in half-hushed tones, like the words are fragile, easily shattered if said too loud.

The air smells like grilled zucchini—charred skin, oil, cracked salt—and she nudges a plate toward him without looking. Her hands, usually so steady when repotting basil or coaxing root bulbs from old soil, tremble slightly as she wipes her fork clean with a paper napkin. She doesn’t notice the shake, but he does. His fingers pause on the stem of his glass, silent, alert.

“They knew what they were doing,” she says finally, not looking at him. “They knew how deep they were in, and they still signed everything under my name.” Her voice is calm, but her shoulders are locked tight, posture stiff like she’s bracing for an argument she’s already lost. “Because it’s easier to disappear when you leave someone behind to clean up the wreckage. Easier to vanish when there’s a name on the books who isn’t yours.”

Zayne says nothing. Just watches her, head tilted slightly, green eyes unreadable but focused. The air between them grows heavier, no storm—just tension, memory, the weight of past decisions she had no part in. She takes another sip of wine, this time with both hands, like she’s steadying herself on the glass alone.

“They left like it was a heist. Neat, silent, timed.” She laughs once—sharp, brittle. “But I got the aftershock. Collection calls. Doors kicked in. People who didn’t care that I didn’t even know how deep it went. Just that I was easier to find than they were.”

Zayne shifts, just slightly, leans his forearm on the table and says, low and level, “Do you think they’re still alive?”

She hesitates. For once, her voice falters. “I don’t know. And I’m not sure I care anymore.” Her eyes lift to meet his, and for a moment, she looks older, worn down—not tired from work, but tired of surviving other people’s messes. “If they are… I hope they’re scared. Just a little. Like I was.”

He nods, slow. Doesn’t offer comfort. Doesn’t tell her they’ll get what they deserve. He just holds her gaze until her breath steadies, until her grip on the fork eases, and the wind carries the scent of burnt herbs off into the dark and in that stillness, she starts breathing like she finally has room.

He doesn’t speak when she finishes. Doesn’t offer apologies or platitudes, doesn’t reach for her hand or murmur something sweet to bridge the quiet. He just watches her—eyes unmoving, green and sharp in the flicker of candlelight, studying her face like it’s a map that leads somewhere dangerous. Every word she’s spoken, every hitch in her breath, every time she swallowed hard before saying something honest, he files it away. Like evidence. Like a puzzle that, if assembled correctly, will reveal where the next hit is coming from.

She looks down at her plate and pretends to be done with the conversation, but he knows she’s still bleeding inside from it. She changes the subject, asks him about companion planting, jokes about the weird bug she found in her kale earlier that morning. He goes along with it, nods when he needs to, offers a few soft, dry answers that won’t pull her back toward the hurt she’s trying to bury under grilled vegetables and red wine. But his mind is already elsewhere—clicking through shadows and data points, building patterns she doesn’t know he’s seeing.

Later that night, when the house is dark and she’s asleep behind closed curtains, he sits in his own kitchen with only the glow of his laptop for company. No lights. No music. Just the soft mechanical hum of the air conditioner and the steady tap of keys beneath his fingers. He reroutes a former fixer—an old contact who owes him silence more than favors—redirects him off his current surveillance gig and toward a new assignment: run traces. Not on her.

On everyone else.

Every property sale within a five-block radius. Every background check that’s touched her name in the last ninety days. Every camera that picked up the black sedan. He doesn’t just want to know who else is watching her. He wants to know how long they’ve been in his orbit. and if someone else is circling her, they’re already living on borrowed time.

It arrives in a plain white envelope with no stamp, no seal, no sender. Just her name written across the front in sharp, slanted letters—bolder than the last ones, as if whoever wrote it didn’t care about hiding anymore. She finds it that morning nestled between junk coupons and the local circular, her fingers pausing mid-sort when her eyes catch the handwriting. Her chest tightens before she even opens it. Some part of her already knows this one is worse.

Inside is a single sheet of glossy paper. No words. No warning. Just an image: her, walking home, head down, grocery bag in one hand, keys in the other. The angle is low, taken from behind a row of hedges. She remembers that day—it was raining lightly, and she paused at the gate to shake water off her shoulders. She never looked back. The timestamp in the corner is from forty-eight hours ago. Whoever took it was close. Watching. Waiting.

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t throw the paper away. She stumbles inside, locking the door with trembling fingers, and makes it as far as the kitchen before her knees buckle. The letter crumples in her fist as she slides down against the cabinets, back hitting the cold tile with a soft thud. Her breathing is shallow, uneven, and her eyes won’t focus—she keeps glancing at the door like it might open, like someone might already be standing on the other side.

That’s how Zayne finds her. He doesn’t knock—he hears the change in her pattern from outside, hears the absence of movement where there should be footsteps, humming, her usual distracted energy. When he opens the door and steps into the kitchen, he sees her on the floor, knees pulled up, the paper clenched so tight in her hand it’s creased through the ink. Her eyes snap up to him, wild and wide, and for a second she doesn’t say anything. She just stares.

“I didn’t see them,” she whispers, voice frayed. “They were right there, and I didn’t even feel it.”

Zayne crosses the room slowly, crouches in front of her with a stillness that feels like a held breath. He doesn’t ask questions. Just pries the paper gently from her hand and scans it once.

He memorizes the angle. The distance. The background blur. Then he folds the letter and tucks it into his jacket. He says nothing. But the look in his eyes tells her: someone is going to pay for this.

He doesn’t ask if she wants to get up—he simply acts. In one fluid motion, he leans down, slides an arm beneath her knees and another around her back, and lifts her as if she weighs nothing. She makes a quiet sound in her throat, not quite protest, not quite surrender, her hands clutching at his shirt before she can think better of it. Her face burrows against his collarbone as he carries her into the next room.

The couch creaks softly beneath them as he sits with her still curled against him, his body solid, unmoving, wrapped around her like a wall. He grabs the knit throw folded over the back—gray, soft, worn in places—and pulls it over her shoulders without ever letting her go. She trembles under it, breath ragged, fingers gripping the front of his shirt in tight, stuttering motions. He doesn't speak. Doesn’t shush her. Doesn’t offer hollow words.

He just lets her cry.

His hand comes up once to the back of her head, palm wide and steady, thumb brushing her cheek. He holds her like armor, like gravity, like silence itself. And all the while, his eyes stay open, fixed on the front door—not to watch for danger but to dare it to come through.

It starts small—barely-there touches that could be passed off as accidental. A hand grazing his shoulder as she walks past him in the garden. Her fingers brushing the inside of his elbow when she leans closer to show him the pest bites on a leaf. She laughs more now, and when she does, she’ll rest her palm lightly on his forearm, like it’s instinct, like her body forgets he’s supposed to be a stranger.

Zayne never flinches. He doesn’t lean into it, but he doesn’t move away either. He allows it, absorbs it, and stores the sensation like a secret kept under his ribs. Her touch is light, never lingering too long—yet somehow, he feels it hours after it’s gone.

When she talks, especially when she’s animated—telling him about a plant’s root system or the nightmare customer who tried to haggle over a bag of soil—he finds his gaze drifting. Not to her eyes. Not to her hands. To her mouth. The curve of it when she smiles. The way she presses her lips together when she’s thinking. He watches, quiet and still, never interrupting and she notices. He knows she does—sees it in the flicker of her glance, the subtle way her teeth catch her bottom lip, the way her words slow, like she’s suddenly more aware of how they leave her but she doesn’t stop. If anything, she speaks softer. Holds his gaze longer. Like she wants him to keep looking.

She finds the box propped against her back door one morning, unmarked except for her name written in clean, deliberate handwriting across the top. No return address, no company logo—just the weight of something personal wrapped in plain brown paper. Her boots crunch lightly over gravel as she picks it up, tucking it under her arm while balancing a tray of seed starts in the other. It’s still early, the dew clinging to every leaf like breath, and the sky hasn’t fully decided if it wants to be blue or gray.

She opens it in the garden, seated on her overturned bucket stool between rows of kale and sunflowers. Inside: a pair of gloves, not the flimsy canvas ones she’s always buying in packs of three, but stitched leather, supple and strong, padded across the palms, designed for real work. They’re her favorite shade of green—the kind that matches the moss creeping up the base of her fence. A folded note sits on top, small, simple, scrawled in his tidy, unassuming hand: “These should last longer.”

Her throat tightens immediately. She blinks fast, head bowed as she turns the gloves over in her lap, running her thumbs across the seams like they might split under her touch. The tears come before she can stop them, sharp and hot. She bows her head lower, lets her hair fall forward to hide her face from no one.

She doesn’t go inside. She doesn’t wipe her cheeks. She just stays there in the garden, knees in the dirt, pretending the wind is too strong today. Pretending it’s the pollen in the air. Not kindness that broke her open.

– It’s early morning when Zayne notices the disturbance—just after sunrise, dew still clinging to the blades of grass, the garden glazed in silver light. He’s doing his usual perimeter check, nothing new expected, just routine. But then he sees it: bootprints, fresh and deep, sunk into the soft mulch along the side of her greenhouse. Not his. Not hers. The spacing’s wrong. The tread is military-issue, not casual—a brand he recognizes from tactical catalogues used by low-visibility ops teams.

The prints stop just beneath the greenhouse window, the one she always opens a crack when the humidity gets too thick inside. He kneels, fingers brushing the edges of the sole mark. There’s no attempt to hide the approach. No backtracking, no scuffing. Whoever it was wanted a clear view—inside the structure, toward her workbench where she drinks her morning tea with her legs curled under her on the stool.

Zayne glances through the pane, and it hits him: from that spot, at that distance, they could see everything. The mug she favors—white with a faded botanical print. The way her shoulders curve as she leans over soil trays. The damp strands of hair that fall along her neck while she works, sweat collecting at the hollow of her throat. Whoever was there stood close enough to see details, not just surveillance patterns.

He rises slowly, eyes scanning the surrounding fence line, the street beyond, the way the shadows fall in angles too familiar now. Someone’s testing proximity—measuring comfort. They weren’t just watching anymore. They were imagining the moment they’d step through the gap and reach for he and that makes this different.

This isn’t recon.

This is intention.

Zayne adjusts his schedule without a word, slipping into a rhythm that most soldiers take years to master—three hours down, three hours up, cycling through the night like a machine with a heartbeat. He builds his waking hours around hers, always keeping her within reach, eyes on the monitor even when she’s asleep. When she’s awake, he’s calm, present, making tea or trimming basil. But the moment she closes her door for the night, he becomes something else—watcher, hunter, guardian with no uniform but instinct.

One evening while she’s inside humming along to a jazz record, he climbs the side of her house in silence. Gloves on. Tools tucked into a roll at his belt. The eaves give just enough shadow to conceal his work, and within minutes he’s mounted a pinhole camera barely wider than a screw head, tucked into the weathered fascia above her back porch. It syncs directly to his private relay, filtered through a triple-layer proxy chain. No sound. Just a live feed. Just enough.

She never notices. Not the shift in air when he slides past her window, not the faint scrape of metal against wood. She trusts him. Enough to lean on him, laugh with him, fall asleep knowing he’s next door. And he hates how easy that trust comes, how effortless it is to exploit  but he keeps the feed up anyway.

 Because her safety isn’t a luxury anymore.  It’s a line in the sand.

And he’s already killed for it.

—

The sky outside is bruised purple, the last edges of daylight fading into shadow, and the kitchen smells faintly of rosemary and something sweet she baked earlier—he doesn’t know what, didn’t ask. Zayne stands by the table, fingers brushing the spine of the manila folder he set there minutes ago, unopened. A small USB drive rests on top, matte black, unmarked. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t move toward her. Just waits until she finally looks up from her tea and catches the seriousness in his posture.

“What’s that?” she asks, her brow furrowed, her voice hesitant like she’s bracing for bad news.

He gestures once, a slight incline of his chin. “It’s a new name,” he says, voice low but steady. “Driver’s license, social number. Birth certificate. Clean record. There's a bank account with a work history already attached—quiet, believable, enough in it to not raise flags.”

She stares at the packet like it might bite. “Zayne… what is this?”

He doesn’t blink. “In case you ever want to leave everything behind,” he replies. “Walk away. Start somewhere else. Some people get to choose. You haven’t had that in a long time.”

Silence falls between them, soft but sharp around the edges. Her fingers toy with the rim of her mug, eyes locked on the papers like they carry weight she can’t lift. “You think I should run?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he says, and for once, there’s something warmer under his tone. Not soft, exactly. But protective. “I think you should have the option. I think you deserve to choose what happens to you next.”

She doesn’t answer. She just stands and walks the two steps between them, then presses her arms around him—not polite, not casual, but full-bodied and immediate, like she’s anchoring herself to something solid before the floor can fall out again. Her face buries against his chest, and he stands still for a second, surprised. Then his arms wrap around her, slow but firm, like drawing a line between her and everything that still wants to claim her.

“Thank you,” she murmurs against him and he doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t have to.

—

The broker’s flat is a third-story walk-up tucked between a shuttered liquor store and a dog grooming parlor with flickering neon. It smells of stale coffee and burnt wires, the kind of place people choose when they don’t want to be found. Zayne gets in without a sound—lock picked, gun holstered, no mask, no hesitation. The broker doesn’t even look up until Zayne’s already inside, standing by the window, the glint of a syringe caught in the room’s weak yellow light.

“Zayne?” the man croaks, half-rising from the chair. His laptop is open, cursor blinking over a series of encrypted message logs. He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward, grabs the back of the man’s neck, and drives the needle in cleanly behind his ear. The body slumps. No struggle. No sound. Just a heartbeat that fades and never returns.

Zayne glances at the laptop, fingers already working over the keyboard. Not for records of the original contract—he’d already erased those weeks ago. He’s looking for names. Echoes. Anyone else who accessed the job file after it was marked “complete.” What he finds sends a cold ripple through his spine: a mirrored access code. External. Burned through an anonymizer but still traceable in the backend metadata.

There’s a name. A digital fingerprint. A secondary inquiry logged by someone who had clearance—but not from the same family. Different domain. Different scent. The man in the black sedan. The one at the greenhouse.

Not working for the same people. Not following orders. Acting alone.

Zayne wipes the terminal clean, removes the drive, and closes the laptop with slow, surgical care. The body goes into the back of a van he parks behind a condemned warehouse two blocks over. That night, it’s buried six feet under an abandoned greenhouse outside the city, compost shoveled in thick layers over the grave.

He scatters lily bulbs across the soil. By spring, they’ll bloom blood-red.

There are no loose ends now, except for one and Zayne has a name,  a name, a face, and a promise: No one else touches her.

Not ever.

—

The blanket they lie on is old, worn soft by time, with its corners curled and stitching coming loose in places. She’d pulled it from the hall closet earlier that evening, laughing that it smelled like rosemary and mildew, but it had served its purpose well—spread across the patch of grass beneath the oak, away from the porch lights, half-wrapped in shadow. The air is cooler now, touched by the first hint of autumn, and the grass beneath them carries the damp memory of the day's heat, breathing up through the weave of the fabric. Above, the sky is wide and open, a dark indigo ocean scattered with stars that blink slowly, half-hidden by shifting branches that cast long, reaching silhouettes across their legs.

They’re both stretched out in parallel, shoulders just shy of brushing, but the space between them feels electric—charged, not by nerves, but by awareness. No phones buzz, no music hums softly from a speaker. There is only the steady, organic chorus of the night: cicadas rasping in waves from the treeline, the soft whisper of wind through the tall grass, the occasional rustle of leaves disturbed by some unseen thing. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn't demand conversation, only companionship, a kind of stillness neither of them had known in other lives, and they lie there suspended in it, neither moving, neither speaking, but completely present.

Zayne rests with his hands folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded, not quite closed, his breathing deep and even. To an outsider he might appear relaxed, lost in the stars like she is—but beneath his skin, every sound still registers with sniper clarity, every leaf that shifts too sharply, every break in the rhythm of the wind. His mind never fully softens, even here. But her presence at his side makes the edge duller, the silence less like a battlefield and more like a held breath he doesn't mind waiting through.

She’s quiet for a long time, fingers tangled loosely in the fraying edge of the blanket, eyes fixed upward with a look that doesn’t quite belong to the moment—distant, wide, searching. And then she speaks, barely louder than the wind, her voice steady but pulled from somewhere vulnerable.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

The words hang in the air, light but impossible to ignore, like the scent of something blooming after dark—unexpected and intimate. She doesn’t glance at him after she says it, doesn’t gauge his reaction. Her eyes remain fixed on the stars, as if it’s safer to address them than face whatever might be in his expression. Like saying it aloud was hard enough without inviting confirmation or denial. Her breath catches slightly at the end, not quite a hitch, but a subtle tension in her chest as she waits—maybe not for an answer, but for the weight of having said it to settle somewhere inside her.

Zayne doesn't answer, at least not with words. He doesn’t shift to meet her gaze, doesn’t offer the easy comfort of reciprocation. But after a long pause, he moves his hand from behind his head and reaches across the space between them, finding her hand with a certainty that is quiet but unmistakable. His fingers thread between hers—not tentative, not testing, but firm, as if this gesture alone is his reply. Not a promise. Not a confession. But something with gravity.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away or speak again. Her grip tightens slowly, gently, like she’d been waiting for something to anchor her. Her thumb brushes over his knuckles once, a silent thank-you, and though the words still echo softly between them, neither of them breaks the quiet.

And under the endless dark sky, with their hands linked and hearts laid bare in the hush of cicadas and shifting wind, neither of them moves, because whatever this is, it’s real now and neither of them is ready to let go.

–

The storm rolls in heavy, all color stripped from the sky and replaced with bruised clouds that churn and flash with the promise of something violent. Rain comes in sheets, sudden and unforgiving, hammering rooftops and rattling downspouts with a wild rhythm that turns the air electric. Zayne hears it long before the knock—feels the shift in pressure, the air thickening, the scent of ozone and soil rising through the floorboards like a warning. But it’s her silhouette in the window that tenses his shoulders, the shape of her framed in shadow and lightning.

She’s barefoot when he opens the door, toes wet and mud-speckled on the porch, the hem of her thin cotton dress clinging to her knees. Her hair is damp, curls plastered against her cheek and forehead, cheeks flushed and mouth slightly open, chest rising with the rush of running through rain. She doesn’t step inside immediately—just stands there grinning, half breathless, like this is all one big dare she hasn’t decided if she regrets.

“Tea,” she says, voice pitched with amusement, as if the word excuses everything. Her smile is crooked, teasing, but there’s something in her eyes that betrays her—something uncertain, raw, wanting. The kind of look you don’t wear for a drink. The kind of look you give someone you don’t want to leave alone anymore.

He doesn’t ask why she came. Doesn’t tell her she’s wet, doesn’t hand her a towel. He just steps aside, lets her in, and shuts the door behind her with the same quiet finality he reserves for chambering a round.

They don’t bother with the kettle because what she really came for has nothing to do with tea.

The door has barely latched behind them when she turns, still flushed from the run through the storm, rain dripping from her lashes, chest heaving beneath the cling of soaked fabric. Her fingers twitch like she wants to reach for him but hasn’t given herself permission—until she does. A hand rises, hesitant, then decisive, touching his chest just above his sternum, and she leans in without ceremony. The kiss is soft at first, trembling with restraint, a question wrapped in heat. She tastes like rain and something sweeter—like surrender held between teeth.

Zayne doesn’t hesitate. The moment her lips part against his, he steps into the space between them, crowding her back until she hits the wall, hands sliding firmly to her waist like she belongs beneath his grip. His mouth finds hers again, deeper this time, answering the question she didn’t dare ask with something elemental and sure. His breath is hot against her temple when he breaks for air, the kind of exhale that shudders through him like restraint cracking at the edges.

She gasps when he lifts her—shocked more by how easily he does it than the movement itself—her legs instinctively winding around his hips, bare thighs tightening at his sides. His hands are under her now, one bracing the small of her back, the other cupping beneath her thigh as he carries her across the room like she weighs nothing, like he’s been waiting to do this since the moment she first smiled at him over seed trays and spilled tea. Rain hammers against the windows, thunder shaking the panes, but inside the world has gone narrow and burning.

He sets her on the kitchen counter, the cold marble making her arch with a startled sound that dies against his mouth. His body presses into hers, solid, overwhelming, and her fingers dive into his hair like she needs to anchor herself to something real or drown in it.

And Zayne? Zayne feels like he’s not kissing her—he’s claiming her. With his mouth, his hands, his breath and she lets him.

The counter is slick with condensation from her skin and the rain still clinging to her dress, and he doesn’t rush—he doesn’t need to. Zayne kisses her like it’s been etched into him, mouth dragging slow and deliberate along the curve of her jaw, then down her throat where he lingers, tasting her pulse. His hands work at the thin fabric clinging to her, sliding it up inch by inch, exposing her like an offering, like she’s something to be unwrapped not with urgency, but with reverence. When he pulls the dress over her head, he does it with the precision of someone unwrapping something sacred, not hurried, not rough—just steady, determined, sure.

She’s already trembling, the cold of the air mingling with the heat rising in her, her legs parting instinctively as he lowers her onto the cool countertop. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk. Just slides his hands down the sides of her thighs, fingers drawing invisible lines, mapping every shiver like it’s telling him something. His mouth finds her collarbone, her sternum, the dip of her navel—and then lower, lower, until she’s gasping just from the proximity of his breath.

When he kisses the inside of her thigh, her body jerks, tension melting into something deeper, needier. He doesn’t go straight to where she wants him. He teases—devours the soft skin at the bend of her leg, tongue tracing fire that only delays the inevitable. And when he finally moves between her, when his tongue finds her—slow, firm, consuming—her breath hitches, then breaks.

She lets out a sound that isn’t a moan, not at first, but a whimper, a soft, shocked exhale like she wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to be wanted like this. Her fingers dive into his hair, gripping tight, hips lifting against his mouth as if her body is trying to keep pace with what he’s doing to her. Her voice fractures with each flick of his tongue, each deep stroke, each pause where he watches her with dark, focused eyes before continuing. 

Outside, thunder rolls like a heartbeat, but inside—she’s the storm, when she comes, it’s not a scream—it’s a surrender. A low, shuddering cry pulled from her very center, her thighs locked around his head, her hands shaking, his name lost somewhere in the breath she can't quite catch. And Zayne? He keeps going. Until he’s sure she won’t forget that this—his mouth, his hands, his hunger—belongs to no one else but her.

Her breath is still uneven, chest rising in shallow pulls, skin flushed from where his mouth left a trail of devotion across her body. Her fingers twitch where they rest on his shoulders, gripping the cotton of his shirt like she’s afraid to let go, like she’s not ready to lose the weight of him against her. He kisses her again—not her mouth this time, but her ribs, her hip, the inside of her wrist—each one quieter, more reverent, like punctuation in a language only they understand. And then he’s above her, between her, his gaze locked on hers with a kind of focus that borders on unholy.

He slides into her slowly, deliberately, with a groan that catches in his throat and dies against the warm skin of her neck. Her body arches into his, welcoming, trembling, wrapping around him as if she’s known this weight her whole life but never had the name for it until now. His thrusts aren’t fast, aren’t greedy—they’re measured, deep, a rhythm built on the unspoken. Each one presses the breath from her lungs, not from force, but from how close he feels—how real.

He doesn’t whisper dirty promises. Doesn’t say her name over and over like a chant.

He’s quiet—achingly so—but everything he doesn’t say is in the way he holds her, the way he presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes like this is the only place in the world he can be still. He isn’t trying to leave a mark. He isn’t trying to conquer.

He’s just… there. Fully. Undeniably.

Inside her in a way that feels less like sex and more like something old, something foundational. As if, in this moment, with her wrapped around him and her hands buried in his hair, he's saying without speaking: You’re mine. Even if you never know it. Even if you never say it back.

You already are.

She moans softly into his neck, the sound muffled by skin and storm, her fingers sliding from his shoulders to his back, nails dragging just enough to feel him shudder. Her legs tighten around his waist, holding him to her like she’s afraid he might slip through her fingers, like if she lets go the moment might dissolve. But Zayne doesn’t move fast—doesn’t chase it. He stays inside her, steady, his hips rolling with the kind of control that makes her fall apart all over again with every deliberate thrust.

Each movement sinks deep, unhurried, like he’s carving her into memory. There’s no rush in his touch—just reverence, heat, weight. His hand finds hers above her head, fingers threading through tightly, anchoring them both. She opens her eyes and sees him watching her—really watching—and something in her chest cracks open, wide and silent, like this isn’t just a man holding her. It’s him staying. Rooted.

Their bodies move together like they've done this a thousand times in some other life. He shifts just slightly, hips angling different, and her gasp punches out like it surprises her. Her back arches, and he swallows her next sound with a kiss, slow and deep, like the rhythm of his body inside hers. His other hand is on her waist, thumb brushing her skin, grounding her in a moment that feels impossible—too full, too real.

She whispers something—maybe his name, maybe nothing at all—into the shell of his ear, and it makes him tremble. Not from lust, not from control slipping, but because she wants him like this. Sees him. Without question. Without fear.

He groans again, lower this time, buried against her throat, body tightening with the weight of what he’s feeling but can’t let out. His release comes quietly, teeth clenched, muscles locked, like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want the moment to leave him. He stays inside her afterward, still hard, still trembling faintly, his face tucked into the crook of her neck, their breath tangling in slow, uneven waves.

Neither of them speaks.

She just runs her fingers through his hair, soft and absent, the same way she touches seedlings before she sets them into fresh earth. And Zayne breathes with her—in sync, shared, like he’s been chasing silence all his life and finally found a version of it he doesn’t want to escape from.

—

She thinks it’s a whim—an idea born over too many late dinners and the restless quiet that settles over them after midnight. Just a weekend trip, she says with a half-smile, somewhere green where they can drink tea outside and pretend the world doesn’t exist. She talks about wildflowers and maybe picking up a packet of heirloom seeds if they find a roadside market. Zayne nods, offers to drive, listens to her dream out loud like it wasn’t already carved into the next steps he’d laid weeks ago.

Long before she brought it up, he’d already selected the house—a two-bedroom cottage tucked into a grove off a dirt road no one travels without intention. He booked it under a shell name four identities deep, a registration that doesn’t trace to anything real. The payment was routed through a layered system of burned cards and buried crypto accounts, untraceable, disposable. While she packs clothes and gathers jars of herbs, he sits at his terminal wiping her forwarding address from three databases, planting a redirect in its place: an empty apartment in another city, already rigged to show false movement on security footage.

He doesn’t tell her what he’s doing. He doesn’t need to. Her hands are busy folding sweaters into a canvas duffel, her mind already halfway to the scent of loamy earth and morning dew. She trusts him—implicitly, without hesitation—and that’s something Zayne doesn’t take lightly. He watches her from the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, memorizing the soft hum in her throat as she packs, the way she tucks one sock into another like ritual.

When they leave just after dawn, her eyes are bright with the thrill of escape, her window rolled down to let the wind mess her hair. She doesn't ask why he takes the longer route. She just rests her hand on his knee and starts pointing out birds on fence posts, talking about names for a garden they haven’t even walked through yet. Zayne keeps his hand on the wheel, his other curled loosely around hers, and behind his calm silence, he’s already watching the road in layers—routes in, routes out, no cameras, no tails because this isn’t a break.

It’s the extraction and he’ll make sure she never has to return to what they just left behind.

The road stretches out like silk ribbon unwinding beneath the tires, long and quiet, lined with pine and low-slung fog. The sun hasn’t broken fully yet—just a pink bruise on the edge of the sky—and the cabin is filled with the steady hum of the engine, the occasional shuffle of her shifting in her seat. She sleeps curled toward the window, cheek pressed to her shoulder, breath soft and even. He keeps one hand steady on the wheel, but the other drifts—light brushes against her thigh, small, absent touches that ground him more than he’ll ever admit.

She murmurs in her sleep once, the sound slurred, soft. His name. Not his alias. His name. The real one she doesn’t know she knows. His fingers pause where they rest, a breath catching somewhere beneath his ribs. He doesn’t react outwardly, but in his mind the syllables echo—Zayne—and he files it away, precise and quiet, like tucking a blade into a belt. Not for violence. But for proof. That even in dreams, she’s reaching for him.

The moment they pass the crooked county line sign, he hits the first trigger. GPS signal reroutes through a spoofed beacon on a highway two states south. He doesn’t slow down. Just tilts his phone screen once, confirms the signal bounce, then opens the secondary server tethered to the signal relay. Purge begins. Encrypted logs are scrubbed. IP pings rerouted. Facial recognition masks uploaded to rerun loops of her entering false locations—libraries, coffee shops, train stations—all automated ghosts that will confuse any tracker with less than government-grade clearance.

Then he plants the breadcrumbs. Three separate data points: a credit card ping in Chicago, a burner number attached to a cabin rental in Oregon, and a fake pharmacy script logged under her new name in Nevada. Each one clean, shallow, intentional. Not enough to catch, just enough to chase.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shift his expression. Just drives, knuckles pale, eyes calm, the woman beside him sleeping like there’s nothing left in the world trying to find her. And if Zayne has done his job right, there isn’t.

The town unfolds slowly, like a secret kept between hills and tree lines, tucked too deep into the folds of the land to show up on anything but paper maps or memory. Cell reception is thin. Gas stations have mechanical pumps. The post office shares a roof with the general store, and everyone waves at everyone whether they know them or not. The signs are hand-painted and chipped, boasting names like “Pine & Petal” and “Cassie’s Feed & Fix,” and the only currency more stable than cash is reputation—earned through presence, not paperwork.

The nursery is just past the edge of town, where the gravel road curves between two weeping willows. The sign out front sways gently in the breeze, its paint faded and soft, the script curling around a hand-painted sunflower. On her first day, Zayne walks her there, not because she needs help finding it—but because he needs to see it. Needs to know what kind of people she’ll be surrounded by, what kind of ground she’ll be standing on when he isn’t right beside her.

She meets the owner—a stout, sun-tanned woman with a voice like velvet and dirt under every fingernail—and within five minutes, they’re laughing like old friends. Zayne watches from the corner of the greenhouse as she unpacks starter trays with practiced ease, her fingers quick and sure. He listens as she tells a half-true story about growing up surrounded by bad decisions, about how the only thing that made sense back then was soil. “People ruin things,” she says, smiling softly, “but plants just… try to live. Even in the wrong place.”

The owner nods. Offers her the job before she finishes the sentence.

Zayne doesn’t say anything. Just slips away before she can look for him, leaving her with a clipboard, a watering schedule, and the first real piece of peace she’s been allowed in years. He walks back home the long way—through the woods, eyes scanning shadows—not looking for threats. Just making sure there aren’t any.

The path home winds along a dirt road lined with blackberry brambles and old fencing, the boards warped by sun and time. She walks beside him with her hands in the pockets of her dress, shoulders relaxed in a way they rarely are, the tension that usually knots between her shoulder blades finally smoothed out. The late afternoon light catches on her cheeks, and there’s a smudge of soil across her jaw that she hasn’t noticed. She doesn’t talk much, but when she does, her voice is lighter, like it no longer has to push through static just to be heard.

She smiles, the kind that isn't polished or guarded, just open, and tilts her head toward him as they near the cottage. “I forgot what it feels like,” she says, half-laughing, half in awe. “To breathe with both lungs. Like I’m not waiting for the next hit.” She doesn’t cry. But her eyes shine like she might, if she wasn’t so busy memorizing how safety feels on her tongue.

Zayne doesn’t respond. Not with words. He watches her, nods once, and reaches ahead to open the front door before she can. It’s not ceremony—it’s ritual now, the smallest act of shelter. Inside, he takes off his boots, washes his hands, and begins pulling ingredients from the pantry. Onions. Rice. Stock. His movements are fluid, practiced. He doesn’t say it, but everything in how he dices, simmers, stirs says: you’re home now.

She hums as she waters the rosemary in the windowsill. Not to fill the space. Just because she can.

He builds it behind their cottage, just beyond the blackberry hedge where the grass grows thick and the ground is soft from years of being left alone. The greenhouse rises slowly, beam by beam, frame by frame, salvaged lumber hauled from an old barn a few miles out—wood worn smooth with age but still strong. He doesn’t use power tools, doesn’t rush the process. Each cut is deliberate, measured with a craftsman’s eye and the kind of care he never shows when he's breaking bones or snapping triggers. His knuckles split more than once from splinters and hammer strikes, blood drying in thin lines across his skin.

He never wears gloves. He wants the ache. 

Wants the realness of it.

She comes outside in the mid-mornings when the light is gold and clean, balancing a mason jar of cold water with lemon slices and a little mint plucked from the porch planter. She leans against the half-finished frame, watching him work with amusement softening every edge of her voice. 

“You’re going to burn like a fool,” she says, smirking as she catches sight of his reddening shoulders and the sweat beading along his neck. 

He glances up at her, shrugs once without breaking rhythm, and keeps hammering, jaw set in that quiet way of his that means I’d rather blister than be soft. She rolls her eyes and sets the jar down beside his tool kit anyway.

He’s halfway through anchoring one of the side panels when the hammer slips, catching his thumb with a vicious crack. The hiss he lets out is low and bitten off, more pain than he usually allows to show, and he presses his mouth tight to the back of his hand as if to seal it in. She startles at first, then covers her mouth with her soil-streaked fingers and laughs—full, unrestrained, the kind of laugh that leaves her slightly doubled over. “That,” she says between giggles, “was dramatic.” Her grin is so wide it lights her whole face.

He turns to her, breath still tight, but that laugh hits something inside him hard—softer than bone but just as permanent. He doesn’t speak. Just steps forward and kisses her without warning, without plan. His hands are rough and still stained with sawdust, his mouth insistent, hungry in the quiet way only he can be. It isn’t a thank you. It’s a vow. Built beam by beam with everything he doesn’t say.

The frame is finished by dusk, clear panels slotting into place like held breath finally exhaled. The inside smells of sawdust and warm earth, of work and beginnings. The soil in the beds is freshly turned, dark and damp, rich with compost he mixed by hand. There’s no ceremony when she steps inside barefoot, hem of her dress brushing the floorboards, trowel in hand. Just a quiet kind of reverence as she kneels in the corner where the light falls best at sunset, and presses the roots of the first cutting into the earth.

Lavender, of course—soft and stubborn, fragrant even when bruised. She hums to herself as she pats the soil around it, fingers stained with the same dirt she’s been working into her new life. The leaves shiver slightly under her breath, like they know they’ve been placed somewhere safe. When she looks up at him, there’s a smudge of soil on her cheek and peace in her smile.

Zayne steps forward, silent as always, and takes the watering can without a word. The spout tilts, a slow, steady pour soaking into the roots, the water catching light like glass. He uses his right hand—the same one that had held a gun only weeks ago, finger steady, gaze cold, ending the last man who knew what her name used to be. That hand, now dappled with dirt and dew, moves with surprising care.

She watches him with quiet wonder, like she knows but doesn’t speak it and in the hush of the new greenhouse, among seedlings and shadows, he waters the first bloom of the life they’ve stolen back together. Not as a soldier. Not as a killer but as a man learning how to grow something he never meant to keep.

They’re sitting on the porch steps, the evening sun filtering gold through the trees, casting long shadows across the overgrown path leading back to the road. She’s barefoot, toes curled against the wood, sipping from a chipped glass of red wine she keeps swirling like it might reveal something at the bottom. The air is quiet, slow-moving, a hush that’s become routine between them—comfortable, unspoken, full of weight. He’s beside her, one hand resting against her thigh, thumb stroking slow arcs over the fabric of her dress.

She speaks softly, like she’s not sure it’s worth mentioning. “There was a man at the nursery today. Older. Said the violets looked like they’d been raised on patience.” She chuckles once, but it fades quickly. “Then he asked if I’d always worked with my hands. Said it like he already knew the answer.”

Zayne freezes. Completely. His wine glass hovers midair, motionless, the red liquid catching the light like blood on glass. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Every sense in him sharpens, collapses inward to the single name he’d memorized and buried: Rian Sorn. Not Caleb. Rian. Older brother. The last enforcer. Disavowed from his house after their father’s death but known for keeping blood promises long past when they were due.

“Had that strange smile,” she continues, absently. “You know the kind. Not friendly. Not creepy. Just… like he knew me. Like he was waiting to be remembered.”

Zayne slowly lowers the glass, sets it on the step without looking. His pulse doesn’t quicken—it concentrates. Thoughts click into place behind his eyes like a scope narrowing, cold and silent. He nods once, just enough for her to stop talking, and then gently shifts the conversation to something else—soil pH, basil rot, anything—because she can’t know what’s coming. Not yet but in his mind, he’s already reaching for the old tools. The knives he hasn’t touched since the last death. The burner phone no one knows he reactivated because if Rian Sorn is here, he didn’t come for flowers.

He came to finish the contract Zayne already buried and this time, Zayne doesn’t intend to leave a body anyone can find.

Rian Sorn isn’t like the others—he doesn’t work for contracts, doesn’t answer to syndicates, doesn’t need a reason beyond the weight of unfinished blood. He’s the kind of man who kills out of inheritance, not obligation. His name never appears in records; there’s no heat trail, no payment logs, no messages. Only results. Silent disappearances. Houses burned down with no arson trace. Entire bloodlines snuffed out under the guise of accidents. Ritual violence—methodical, clean, personal. And if he’s close enough to make small talk about violets, then he’s already mapped the house, the exits, the blind spots. He already knows where she sleeps.

Zayne moves differently that night. There’s no panic, no rushing—just a complete shift in rhythm, like gears locking into place. He walks the property twice, barefoot, ears tuned to every creak of wind, every bird that doesn’t sing. Inside, he checks the locks—not once, but twice, fingers brushing along bolt edges, making sure the screws haven’t been tampered with. He flips the window latches. Secures the basement access. Even resets the motion detectors, narrowing the radius to just beyond the treeline.

In the quiet of the bedroom, she’s already asleep, curled on her side in the dip she’s worn into the mattress beside his. Her breathing is slow, lips parted slightly, one hand resting across his pillow. He watches her in the dark for a long moment, reading every line of her body like scripture—where she’s most vulnerable, where she trusts without thinking. Where he’d bleed the world dry to keep her untouched.

The knife he hides beneath the bed isn’t the folding kind tonight—it’s longer, sharper, a single-edged Karambit wrapped in oil cloth. He sharpens it slowly at the kitchen table while the kettle whistles and the lights stay off. Then he places it within reach, exact angle, practiced muscle memory. When he finally lays down, it’s not to rest. It’s to wait.

He doesn’t sleep not until the sky begins to pale. Not until he’s sure Rian hasn’t come to claim what Zayne has already marked as his.

Zayne picks up the trail in silence, without fanfare, relying not on devices or drones but on the patterns that live in muscle memory. He doesn’t need GPS when he knows how a predator moves—doesn’t need a name when he has behavior. Caleb—or Rian, he knows now—has been cautious, skilled, leaving no digital trace, but he’s not invisible. Zayne catches the first break when he spots the faint shimmer of heat in a parking lot near the edge of town—an exhaust signature too fresh for how still the car looks, parked at a blind curve near the woods. The thermal haze rises in waves from the tailpipe, subtle, nearly lost in the afternoon glare. It’s a trick he learned in Prague, when heat was the only language you could trust and every breath might get you killed.

That night, Zayne uses one of the few remaining contacts he hasn’t burned—an old fixer who owes him for a job that saved her life and took someone else's. The message is simple, clean: a digital tip-off that the girl is using an alias and just got spotted in New Mexico. Zayne even attaches a blurred photo—low resolution, plausible enough, timestamped for twenty minutes in the future and pinged through a burner signal off a modified dashcam.

The bait is too perfect to ignore, and the timing is surgical. Rian, meticulous and hungry for closure, takes it. By the time he moves—quick but not rushed, confident enough to fall for the misdirection—Zayne is already one step ahead. The false sighting routes him toward the old nursery’s delivery zone, an overgrown backlot once used for storing soil, pallets, broken tools. It's a dead space now, no witnesses, no cameras, a fence with a single weak link that only someone tracking a trail would push through.

Zayne waits in the shadow of the half-collapsed greenhouse, crouched behind a rusted steel rack, heartbeat steady, knife ready, eyes fixed on the path. The wind stirs loose paper and pollen. The dirt here smells like memory and rot. And when Rian steps into the clearing—silent, curious, reaching for the last breadcrumb—Zayne moves because this is where it ends. Not in bloodlines. 

Not in threats, but in a grave no one will dig but him.

The clearing is silent but tense, every insect gone still, the branches holding their breath. Zayne doesn’t give a warning—there’s no sharp callout, no monologue. Just movement, explosive and lethal, as he lunges from the greenhouse’s ruined frame like a blade in motion. His boots skid across packed dirt as he closes the distance in three quick strides. Rian barely registers the shape bearing down on him before instinct kicks in, knife flashing out from beneath his jacket, but it’s too late—Zayne is already on him.

Their bodies collide with a bone-jarring crack, momentum carrying them both sideways into the delivery shed’s rusted wall. Zayne drives a knee into Rian’s ribs, catching the wind out of him, then follows with an elbow to the temple that makes the other man grunt and stagger. Rian recovers fast, trained—he swings low with the knife, a practiced arc aimed for Zayne’s thigh. Zayne twists, the blade grazing cloth, not skin, and responds with a brutal hook that snaps Rian’s head back. There’s no choreography here—this is dirty, close, every blow meant to maim or drop.

Rian spits blood, face curling into a grin that’s half malice, half respect. “Knew it’d be you,” he growls through grit teeth. Zayne says nothing. Just slams his forearm into Rian’s throat, knocking him into a stack of plastic pots that scatter with a crash.

They wrestle into the mulch beds, slipping in compost, the smell of fertilizer sharp in the air. Rian lands one solid punch to Zayne’s jaw—makes his vision blur white at the edges—but Zayne absorbs it, turns the pain inward, and redirects the force with a twist of his hips. His knife comes up, low and brutal, slicing across Rian’s abdomen in a single, controlled stroke—hip to sternum. The sound isn’t dramatic. Just wet. Final.

Rian staggers backward, clutching his guts like they’ll stay in place by sheer will. His legs buckle. He drops to his knees in the dirt, fingers twitching in the mulch, trying to rise again even as blood pools beneath him. He gasps—chokes once—then folds forward, face pressing into soil.

Zayne watches, chest rising slow, calm. His hand doesn’t shake. His breath doesn’t falter. He looks down on the dying man like a gardener pulling weeds by the root. No rage. No gloating.

Just precision.

Just necessary removal and when Rian’s final breath rattles out through blood and spit, Zayne kneels. He grips the body by the collar and begins dragging it into the dark edge of the clearing—toward the shallow pit already carved beneath the compost tarp, because this isn’t vengeance.

It’s maintenance 

The wind shifts just enough to carry the sound of something wrong—metal scraping, a grunt swallowed by mulch, the final wet thud of a body hitting ground. She sets down the seed trays she was sorting, suddenly breathless, the hairs on her arms lifting like static. No one called her name. Nothing in the air says danger aloud. But she moves anyway, slow but certain, down the overgrown side path that leads to the back of the old nursery where she was told not to go.

Her boots crunch over shattered pots and torn landscape fabric, the scent of blood sharp and out of place in the sun-warmed dirt. When she rounds the corner of the collapsed greenhouse frame, her breath catches—but she doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t collapse. Doesn’t run. Zayne is there, crouched low beside the body like a storm paused mid-movement. His shirt is torn across one shoulder, blood slick down his arms to the elbows, one hand still clutched around the hilt of a blade so red it glistens.

He looks up, and in that moment, he doesn’t look like the man who fixes her sink or makes her tea or knows how she likes her toast just barely burnt. He looks like something older, carved from ash and oath, shaped by violence in the quiet way war is—not fire, but pressure. His eyes are not pleading, not defensive. Just watching. Waiting.

Her gaze shifts from the body to his face, then to the blood on his hands. She doesn’t ask who the man was. Doesn’t ask what he did. She knows. She’s always known and instead of breaking under the truth, she simply breathes it in.

“You did that for me,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, but carved from something unshakable. It isn’t a question. It’s a truth, spoken like a thread pulled taut and tied.

He says nothing. He couldn’t explain it if he tried. He just looks at her with the weight of everything he’s done—for her, to keep her, to build a life neither of them believed they’d survive long enough to live. There’s something unspoken in his expression, burning low and furious, like he’d do it all again and not blink and then she does the only thing that matters.

She steps into the bloodstained quiet, past the corpse, past the fear, past the violence, places her hand on his face, and holds him. Not like a man who’s broken.

But like one worth saving.

The porch is quiet beneath them, the night air soft and threaded with the scent of soil and cut grass. The moon hangs heavy and full above the treeline, its light glinting off the rim of her mug as she cradles it in both hands. The tea has long gone cold, but she hasn’t let it go, just rests it on her knees like a keepsake she’s not ready to part with. Her eyes are half-lidded, the exhaustion of the day tucked just behind her quiet, steady breathing. She hasn't spoken in a while, and he hasn't filled the silence—he never does. Some part of him knows silence is a kind of safety, too.

Zayne sits beside her, legs braced apart, elbows resting on his knees. His hands are scrubbed raw, fingertips still faintly pink from the cleaning they took after Rian. The scars across his knuckles are old but tight tonight, skin stretched and healing slow. There’s a kind of stillness to him that’s different from calm. Like he’s holding his breath somewhere under his ribs, waiting for something to finish settling in the air around them.

Without ceremony, without pause, he pulls something from his pocket. Not the usual folded paper, not a new ID packet. Just a small, square box—worn at the corners like it’s been in his coat too long. He holds it in his palm for a second before handing it over, gaze fixed not on her but the shadows moving just beyond the porchlight.

“This isn’t backup,” he says, voice low. “It’s not about running. It’s not a new name or a file to burn.” He glances at her now, just once, eyes fierce with something he rarely lets show. “It’s a future. If you want it.”

She looks down at the box in her hands, not moving, not breathing, then opens it with fingers slow and careful. Inside: a ring. Simple. Silver. Worn like his hands, forged for use, not flash. But beautiful, in the way something becomes beautiful when it’s meant.

Her throat tightens. Not from surprise. From understanding. From the weight of everything he’s never said until now. “You had this?” she whispers, voice cracking like the night itself.

He nods once. “A while.” Then, softer: “I didn’t want to offer it until I knew I could protect what it meant.”

She says nothing at first. Just reaches out and places the box down beside her, then shifts and leans fully into him, head against his shoulder, hand slipping down to find his. She squeezes. Hard. Like grounding herself to the moment so it doesn’t vanish.

“You really think we get that?” she murmurs. “A future?”

 He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them again—sharp, green, unblinking.

“Since you,” he says. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

She doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t have to,  just laces their fingers together and stays pressed to his side until the moon slips west and the mug in her lap is cold and forgotten.

And Zayne, for once, lets himself hope.

The ceremony is unceremonious in the way only the truest things are. No audience. No rehearsed lines. Just a morning that begins like any other—with coffee that she forgets on the windowsill, and him quietly ironing his one good shirt at the kitchen table, jaw tight with concentration as he avoids the patch that never quite sits flat. Her dress is simple, linen the color of rain-bleached stone, and her hands still carry the soft scent of mint and clay from the greenhouse—because even on the day she marries him, she couldn't resist tending her seedlings.

They walk out together just past noon, barefoot in the grass still wet from the morning’s dew. The old oak at the edge of the property stands like a sentinel, its branches heavy with age, framing the clearing where bees hum low around wildflowers in accidental rows. There’s no music, just birdsong and wind and the sound of her breath hitching when he takes her hand. He’s not holding a script. There is no officiant. Just them, and the silence of something sacred blooming without spectacle.

They stand beneath the tree and say nothing for a long while. No promises out loud. No recited declarations. Just the look they share—a gaze full of every night they spent surviving, every morning they chose to stay. When it’s time, Zayne doesn’t say “I do” like he’s reciting a ritual. He says it low, quiet, voice grounded like the soil beneath them.

Like he’s not just agreeing to love her but swearing to root himself beside her. To grow something together that no one—not ghosts, not debt, not blood—can dig up again. She doesn’t cry. Just steps forward, slips a small sprig of rosemary into the loop of his belt where a blade once rested. 

“For remembrance,” she murmurs, fingertips brushing his waist.

He catches her hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses her palm like it’s the center of the world, like it’s already his and in that patch of wild grass and wind, they are married—not by law, not by witness, but by the earth itself.

The cottage is warm with a kind of hush that feels earned, stone walls holding the heat of the fire flickering low in the hearth. The logs crack softly, throwing ribbons of orange across the wooden floor, across the bed they made themselves earlier that day—simple sheets, thick wool blanket, lavender tied with twine above the headboard, perfuming the room like memory. Rain whispers against the windows in gentle pulses, steady, private. The storm isn’t wild. It’s intimate. Like it came only to witness this.

She steps away from him without a word, untying the sash at her waist with slow, sure fingers. The linen dress slips from her shoulders, puddling around her ankles as she stands in the firelight—bare, unhurried, her skin kissed gold by the flicker of flame. She doesn’t cover herself. Doesn’t shy away from the way he’s looking at her. She just watches him watching her, the shadows moving across her collarbones, the slight swell of her breath. And when she climbs into his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs, she does it like ritual, like every inch of her already knows where to go.

His breath catches the moment she sinks down onto him, a soft, broken sound exhaled against her throat. Her hands brace against his shoulders, steadying herself as she takes all of him in one slow, aching stroke. He groans, low and guttural, pressing his forehead to her chest as his hands slide up the smooth length of her back, then down again to grip her hips with the kind of strength that says I will never let you go. Not in this life. Not in any.

She begins to move—slow rolls of her hips, deep and deliberate—and he doesn’t rush her. Doesn’t take control. He just watches. Watches the way her mouth parts, the way her lashes flutter, the way she bites back soft, strangled sounds when he shifts just right inside her. Each thrust is measured, more pressure than pace, his hands guiding, grounding her. She whimpers his name, voice thin with pleasure, full of trust.

And then he says hers.

The first time.

Rough and reverent, like something pulled from the bottom of his chest—something he never dared give voice to until now. Like it’s not just her name. It’s his home. tags: @blessdunrest @starmocha

[scienceisdope]

Here are some practical tips to reduce the negative effects of screen use before bed and protect your sleep:

1. Use a Blue Light Filter

• Enable “Night Shift” (iOS) or “Night Light” (Android/Windows) to reduce blue light exposure.

• You can also install apps like f.lux for computers.

• Bonus: Consider blue light blocking glasses if you must use screens late.

2. Set a Screen Curfew

• Stop using screens at least 30–60 minutes before bed.

• Use this time for reading (on paper), light stretching, or journaling.

3. Switch to Dark Mode

• Use dark mode or reading mode in apps at night.

• It’s easier on your eyes and reduces the stimulating effect of bright light.

4. Dim the Lights

• Use warm, low-intensity lighting in your bedroom during the evening.

• Avoid overhead lights; opt for lamps or smart bulbs set to warm tones.

5. Create a Wind-Down Routine

• Aim for a consistent pre-sleep ritual: warm shower, meditation, calming music, or light yoga.

• This helps your body associate specific cues with sleep.

6. Keep Phones Out of Bed

• Charge your phone outside your bedroom if possible, or far from your bed.

• Use an alarm clock instead of relying on your phone.

Follow us 👉 @scienceisdope for more science and daily facts.🤓 

Enjoy the rest of your day.😇

[dalekofchaos]

Not interested in LIS:Double Exposure

Okay I saw the Double Exposure trailer and I am not playing it.

Multiple reasons.

The Deck Nine IGN article. I will not support a developer that knowingly protected a bigoted groomer and allowed a Nazi to sneak in White Supremacist signs in the game.

Max learned nothing about the first game. Nevermind there is no Chloe, Warren or anyone from Arcadia insight(we'll get to that) Max apparently formed another codependent relationship that she couldn't let go to the point where she's fucking up reality by creating yet another parallel world. Either Deck Nine is entirely unoriginal or Max didn't learn a damned thing

That is not Max. If your defense is "she grew up" I got news for you. I've looked the same for nearly a decade. I've had friends while changing their aesthetic, they look the same. you don’t look like an entirely new person when you age, the new model looks nothing like max there’s barely even resemblance. Also I know, we all change our style as we get older, but Max's style was unique and it made Max Caulfield who she is. It didn't need to change. Deck Nine just Stephified Max. Was it really that hard to give Max bangs? Not just that. No freckles, eyes and eyebrows look completely different. This is not Max Caulfield.

4. No one from Arcadia Bay returned. It's pretty obvious Deck Nine is either keeping Chloe's fate a secret, but it's also clear they are trying to skirt around the issue of the endings without pissing everyone off. Feels like a copout to whatever ending you chose to give a new cast of characters. For the fans who wanted more time to play as Max and Chloe, I feel bad for you, I especially wanted to see Chloe again. So what the fuck was this supposed to be for then?

Though another point; why the hell are we supposed to be okay with the fact that Max is using her power again to save this brand new character we have zero previous connection to? Especially if the game’s gonna try to straddle both endings to LiS 1; seems very insulting to have Max be okay with doing it for a character we have no previous attachment to, but she’s left her girlfriend to die alone, thinking nobody loved her?

Also you had the perfect chance to make a fucking game that has Max save Rachel. I know I just did a tangent about Max not learning anything, but if you were just going to have Max use her powers again, why the fuck didn't you do it to save Rachel from a fate she never deserved? Godfucking forbid you give attention to Warren, Kate or Victoria. I just wanted to see these characters get some screen time, make cameos or give us SOME hint to what they are up to after the events of the first game. But no, we can't have that. We can't be given anything of substance for Warren, Kate or Victoria. Can't learn anything about their fates in the LIS 2 Save Arcadia Bay ending, can't find out Warren or Kate survived the storm in Wavelengths via talking to Steph during the storm anniversary and we can't see them again in DE. I know it's just a teaser, but seriously why even do a new Max game if we don't even get cameos from these characters? Knowing how Deck Nine is, they are just gonna find a way to demonize Warren to paint him like Eliot, regress Victoria's character and not even give Kate the time of day to mention. Jesus fucking christ, I just wanted to see Max and Warren Go Ape, fun Max and Victoria photodates and to see Max and Kate have one fucking Tea date. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR???

5. Deck Nine are literally just swiping DontNod’s characters for the purposes of chasing that brand recognition. It's just copy pasting lighting in a bottle and milking a cow out of this franchise. BTS was remotely successful because of Chloe and Rachel's relationship. True Colors is fun at first, but realize it's just a hollow imitation of the first game. DONTNOD's story was original, fun and unique. I had problems with it but it was still THEIR story on their terms and not developed from a place of corporate cynicism asking for preorders ASAP that come bundled with a box of tissues and bobbleheads of dead teenagers. Read recent interviews from DONTNOD and you can TELL they got burned by SquareEnix over this. I hope they can channel that into something with Bloom and Rage because I’d love to see them recapture that magic again.

I had fears of what would happen if Deck Nine ever got their hands on Max. And looks like I was right to be worried.

To be clear, I think making stories with someone else’s character is great and cool and it’s literally what fanfiction is and technically, MUCH of mass media now IS “fanfiction”. The difference here is DONTNOD deliberately wanted LIS 1 canon left alone, near as I can tell. But no, Square Enix wanted a franchise and Deck Nine was more than happy to milk the cow for all it was worth and Deck Nine has shown they don't understand DONTNOD's characters

The game looks like it's repeating everything about the first game, but none of the charm that made it great. It's beat for beat the same fucking game. Dead friend, murder mystery, but without the ambiance, charm or magic that made the first game good. Deck Nine is completely unoriginal, DE is a soulless cashgrab and their hyperrealism killed the entire essence of the game and its characters.

It's quite literally a copy and paste of True Colors, but with Max.

And when we just look at this. Double Exposure is just soulless. It's style over substance and I knew. I just KNEW that if Deck Nine got their hands on Max it would be half-assed and soulless shit like this. They dared to slap Max's name on a Steph lookalike and then just do True Colors again, but more hollow.

There's something just so disappointing about the change in art style over the years. The art direction in the first game was charming and now it just feels kinda soulless. The awkward chunkyness of the models really made it stand out but now it feels way too smooth

life is strange going from one studios passion project to another’s cashgrab is one of the biggest modern tragedies in the world deck nine they could never make me like you. All the charm of the franchise from the cartoonish artstyle to the episodical releases has been completely stripped away it’s just very disappointing to see.

This meme is literally Double Exposure.

[cherryfcola]

🎤 Backstage Obedience 🎤

Summary: Shadow’s last world tour show should’ve ended like every other — until his ever-professional manager shows up tipsy and irresistible. Years of tension finally snap in his dressing room, with the door wide open and nothing left to hide.

Pairing: Singer!Shadow the Hedgehog x Assistant!Reader

⚠️ Warnings: NSFW / Dom!Shadow / power dynamics / voyeurism risk / oral (m) / protected sex / CNC vibes (consensual) / reader is tipsy / manager-artist tension / public semi-exposure

🔞 18+ ONLY – MINORS DNI

——————————

The buzz of backstage filled the air — roadies shouting, last-minute lighting checks flashing from the wings, and the steady thrum of the crowd building just beyond the venue walls. You stood just outside Shadow’s dressing room, tablet in hand, checking final details with the hyperfocus that earned you your reputation. Even after three months on the road, three countries in the last week, and a few celebratory drinks with the crew just thirty minutes ago — your professionalism hadn’t slipped.

But your balance had.

“Careful,” came a low, unmistakable voice behind you as a gloved hand caught your elbow. “You’re swaying.”

You turned and met Shadow’s gaze, your cheeks warm — from the champagne, of course. And maybe the way he was watching you. Like he knew something. Like he always knew.

“I’m fine,” you said with a tight smile. “Just… celebrating. Last show of the tour. Thought I deserved one drink.”

“You said that after the second one too.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not drunk.”

“No,” Shadow said, stepping closer. “But you’re soft. Loose. Your guard’s down.”

He was close enough now for you to feel the heat radiating from him — strange, considering how cold he always seemed under stage lights. His voice was low, velvet-smooth, with that familiar edge. The same tone he used when taunting his rivals, except now it was only for you.

You cleared your throat and looked back at the tablet. “Setlist’s confirmed. Security’s briefed. Stage crew’s ready. You go on in twenty-three minutes.”

“Mmh,” he murmured, not stepping back. “Still flawless. Even tipsy.”

You tried to ignore the way his gaze lingered — not on your face, or the screen, but lower. A little too long. Just enough to make you acutely aware of the still-open door behind you and how quiet his dressing room had suddenly become.

Shadow glanced over your shoulder, his smirk widening. “Your bodyguard’s leaving,” he said. You turned just in time to see the man disappearing down the hall. “No one’s going to come looking for you.”

Before you could respond, his arms were around you — pulling you inside, deeper into the dressing room. He didn’t shut the door.

“You don’t have to do this,” you whispered, heart pounding.

“Don’t I?” His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you close until your lips nearly brushed. “You’ve worked for me for three years. Three years of ‘No, Shadow.’ ‘That’s inappropriate, Shadow.’ Three years of pretending you don’t want this.”

His other arm wrapped around your waist, hips flush to yours. You let out a shaky breath. You’d never seen him like this — so intense, so focused — and yet his touch was still careful. Controlled.

“Last chance,” he murmured. “Tell me to stop.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to say it. You’d told yourself for years that this couldn’t happen. But something in his eyes — hunger, sure, but something else, too — made the words fall apart in your throat.

“Shadow—”

“Too late,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “I can see it. The way you’re looking at me. The way you always look at me.” He leaned in, breath warm at your ear. “It’s okay. You’re not my boss tonight. You can be anything you want.”

His gloved hand slid down your back, tracing the line of your spine. You shivered. Your hands found the front of his jacket and curled into the fabric as his fingers slipped lower.

“Such a good girl,” he whispered. “Always working so hard. But not tonight. Tonight, you let go. Let me take care of you.”

His palm flattened against your ass and you gasped, grip tightening on his jacket.

“Shadow…”

“Shh.” His lips brushed your jaw, his voice low. “Relax.”

His tongue traced the line of your jaw before his mouth found your neck. One hand slipped into your hair, threading through the strands with an ease that made your stomach twist. He was still gentle — which only made it more dangerous. You could feel him, hard against your thigh, and your hips shifted instinctively.

He groaned softly, and the kiss that followed was no longer gentle — it was heat and need and tension unraveling all at once. His teeth scraped your jaw, his hand tightened in your hair, and his tongue met yours with sudden hunger. You arched into him, hips grinding, and he met your rhythm — one hand gripping your ass, the other tangling tighter in your hair.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were parted, breath caught.

“Such a perfect girl,” he murmured, voice rough. “Do you know what happens to perfect girls?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands moved to your shoulders, guiding you downward — gently but firmly — until your knees hit the floor.

Shadow looked down at you, his expression unreadable as he reached for his fly. The sound of the zipper cut through the quiet room like a shot, and your eyes flicked up to meet his. The weight of his gaze made your breath hitch — dark, commanding, amused. Challenging.

Then he freed his cock — and the tension in your chest turned to heat between your legs.

“God,” you breathed, eyes fixed. You swallowed hard. That earned you a smirk.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So eager. You want it, don’t you?”

You nodded, lips parting. “Please—”

His hand threaded into your hair, guiding you toward him. The head of his cock brushed your lips and you darted your tongue out, teasing him with the lightest touch.

He groaned low. “Fuck…”

You took him into your mouth, slowly, your tongue working around the tip as your fingers wrapped around the base. Your other hand moved to stroke him, teasing over the piercings you���d only ever tried not to notice before.

Shadow let out a breath, rough and barely controlled. His hand tightened in your hair.

“Eyes on me,” he said, voice low and firm.

You looked up, lips wrapped around him, and saw the effect it had — his chest rising faster, eyes half-lidded and burning into yours. You took him deeper, letting him slide across your tongue until your lips met the base. Your throat tightened but you held steady, and he groaned again — this time, louder.

“Good girl,” he rasped. He guided your pace, slow at first, watching every inch disappear into your mouth. “You take me so well.”

You moaned softly, and he shuddered. His grip tightened slightly and he began to move his hips, meeting your strokes with slow, shallow thrusts.

His control was deliberate — frustratingly so — and it only made you want more.

You shifted, pressing your thighs together, trying to relieve the pressure building fast in your core.

Shadow noticed.

“You like it rough, don’t you?” he growled. “Want me to use you?”

You moaned again, tongue swirling around the head.

“I’ll give you what you want,” he said darkly. “Just breathe.”

He tightened his grip and pushed deeper, guiding you until your lips met his skin again. You gagged slightly but didn’t pull away — not with the way he looked at you. Not with the sound he made when you took him all the way.

“Fuck, you look so good like this. On your knees, drooling around my cock.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. He pulled back, letting you breathe — only to thrust forward again, rougher this time.

“Say it,” he ordered. “Tell me who you’re doing this for.”

You gasped between strokes. “You. Only you.”

Shadow moaned — a deep, primal sound — and pulled free with a wet pop. You gasped in a breath, wiping your lips as he reached for you, hauling you back to your feet.

Then he turned you around and bent you over the table.

“Hands flat,” he ordered, voice like gravel. You obeyed without hesitation, palms bracing against the cool surface.

“Good girl,” he murmured behind you, his tone dark and approving. “Stay just like that.”

You heard him move — slow, deliberate — and every second stretched with anticipation. You knew he was looking at you. Knew what that tight skirt did to him, how your back arched just enough. The silence behind you felt heavy, weighted with want.

Then came the sound of him spitting — and the warm slickness of his thumb pressing between your cheeks, slow and firm.

You gasped, rocking back without thinking.

“Still so eager,” he chuckled, circling his thumb before pushing in, shallow at first, then deeper. “Look at you. Already soaking.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut as he worked you open. His other hand slipped between your legs, fingers ghosting over your clit. You jerked at the contact, hips twitching.

“Shadow… please—”

He didn’t answer. Just kept working his thumb with infuriating patience, building the tension like he was tuning a string. His other hand moved in gentle, devastating circles over your clit, making your knees tremble.

“Relax,” he said again, lower now. Closer. “Let it happen.”

Your breath stuttered as the pressure inside you tightened, coiling higher with every pass of his fingers. Your thighs trembled. Your palms slipped slightly against the table. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or him — or both — but you’d never felt so undone so fast.

“Please…” you whispered. “I need—”

“I know what you need.” His voice dropped to a growl. “And I’m the only one who gets to give it to you.”

You heard the soft tear of foil — unmistakable. The sound alone made your stomach clench with want. You turned your head slightly, but he was already behind you again, cock in hand.

Then you felt it — the heat of him against your entrance, thick and ready.

“Look at me,” Shadow said roughly. You obeyed, eyes locking onto his reflection in the mirror across the room.

He leaned over your back, one hand braced beside yours, the other guiding himself to your entrance.

“Eyes on me.”

You nodded — barely — and then he pushed in.

The stretch stole your breath. He filled you with one smooth, steady thrust, and you let out a choked gasp, gripping the edge of the table until your knuckles whitened.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, jaw clenched. “You’re so tight.”

He pulled out halfway, then slammed back in, harder this time — the table shuddering under your hips.

“Perfect,” he groaned. “You’re made for this.”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering closed.

“No,” he barked. “Eyes open. Let me see you fall apart.”

You forced your gaze up, meeting his in the mirror. The sight made your breath catch — his dark, hungry eyes locked on yours, every muscle in his body tight with restraint as he moved inside you.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “That’s it. Take it.”

His thrusts came faster now, deeper, his rhythm brutal but precise — just enough to keep you on the edge, not enough to send you over.

And then his hand slipped between your thighs again, thumb finding your clit.

You gasped — loud and helpless — your body jolting with pleasure as he rubbed tight, punishing circles.

“Let me hear you,” he said. “Let everyone hear what I do to you.”

Your moans spilled out before you could stop them — sharp, needy, real. The pressure was building fast now, and your legs started to shake.

“You like that the door’s open?” Shadow whispered near your ear. “You like the idea of someone walking by? Seeing you bent over and ruined?”

You didn’t mean to — but your pussy clenched around him at the thought.

He groaned, fingers digging into your hip. “You do like it. You want them to know you’re mine.”

His thumb moved faster. Your hips bucked back against him, chasing the friction, the pressure, the inevitable.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, barely able to form the words. “I’m—fuck—I’m yours, Shadow—!”

That was all it took.

Your orgasm slammed into you, hard and hot and blinding. You cried out, legs shaking as you clenched around him, the pleasure rolling through you in uncontrollable waves.

Shadow groaned, fucking you through it. His rhythm faltered — and then he was gone, pulled back just far enough to remove the condom, and finished over your back with a low, broken moan.

You collapsed forward against the table, breath ragged, skin flushed and damp with sweat. Shadow stood over you, panting, one hand still on your waist.

“Mine,” he said again, quieter this time. “Every fucking inch of you.”

He stayed like that for a long moment — his hand resting on your lower back, his breath ghosting over your spine. You could feel his heartbeat against you, strong and steady, slowing with each second.

Then, with a soft exhale, Shadow straightened. You heard the soft rustle of the condom being tied off and discarded, followed by the distant splash of water running in the small sink.

You still hadn’t moved.

Your arms trembled slightly, your cheek resting against the cool tabletop as you slowly caught your breath. Every inch of you felt loose, sated… and completely undone. You were vaguely aware of the dampness on your back — his release, warm and unmistakable — but even that didn’t pull you back to reality just yet.

Then his voice came again — not commanding this time, not cocky. Just quiet. Warm.

“I have to get ready.”

You nodded, still facing the table, your voice caught somewhere behind your lips. Of course he did. There was still a show to play. A crowd to face.

And yet… part of you wanted to stay just like this. To keep the world out for just a few seconds longer.

Shadow’s hands found your hips again — gentler now — and he turned you to face him. His gaze scanned your expression, looking for something, before he reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice low. “For letting me take care of you. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

You managed a small smile and nodded, not trusting your voice yet.

Shadow held your gaze for one more beat — intense but softer now — and then he turned away, disappearing into the bathroom.

You exhaled and pushed yourself upright. Your skirt was rucked up, hair mussed, lip a little swollen. The flush in your cheeks hadn’t faded. As you glanced into the mirror across the room, you caught sight of yourself — wild, marked, smiling.

You tried to smooth your hair and straighten your clothes, but the heat in your skin told the real story. You could pretend to be put-together again, but something had shifted. You’d crossed a line that didn’t undo itself.

Still, you were a professional. You always had been.

You adjusted your collar to cover the blooming mark on your neck, grabbed your tablet off the floor, and stepped back out into the hallway.

The cool air hit your face, but it didn’t clear the warmth in your cheeks.

You’d barely taken two steps when you heard it.

“Looking a little rough there, boss.”

You turned — and there was Sonic, leaning against the wall beside the stage entrance, his arms crossed and that damn smirk on his face.

You glared at him, deadpan. “Fuck off.”

He snorted. “You really did, huh?”

“I said fuck off.”

You pushed past him, trying to ignore the heat in your ears — but his laughter followed you down the corridor, annoying as ever.

You told yourself you wouldn’t react. Wouldn’t let it show.

But then, as you turned the corner, you caught your reflection again — hair still a mess, a flush you couldn’t explain away, and that stubborn little smile still tugging at the edge of your mouth.

Everyone would know.

There was no hiding it now.

You made your way to the wings, pausing to check over the last-minute cues. Crew buzzed around you. The crowd was already being let in. But everything felt a little quieter in your head. A little slower. Like you weren’t quite in the same skin anymore.

Then you heard his voice.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

Shadow stood on stage, adjusting the mic, calm as ever — but his eyes were locked on you. There was a subtle edge to his tone, one no one else would catch. It was just for you.

“How are you doing?” he asked, voice pitched low.

“I’m fine,” you replied coolly. Professionally.

But your voice betrayed you — just a little — and the faintest flicker of a smirk played at the edge of his lips.

“Good,” he said. He looked over his shoulder, checking the setup. Then his gaze snapped back to you, lower this time, scanning your form. “Save some of that energy for later. I’m not finished with you yet.”

You felt the flush rise again. Fast. Hot.

But you didn’t look away.

[cherryxkush]

risky business | pjm, jjk (m) | 1

synopsis: you’re a successful entrepreneur in the beauty industry and after your assistant/best friend sees the spread in Korea GQ magazine of a popular k-pop artist, she gets him on the first flight to California to start a sponsorship deal, and it was none other than the world-renowned fuckboy you met at a product launch party for Gucci two years ago.

pairing: jimin x female reader x jungkook

rating: mature (18+)

genre: enemies to lovers, love triangle, angst, fluff, smut

warnings/content: swearing, employer/client relationship, past situationship, fuckboy!jimin, celebrity!jimin, love triangle, tattoo artist!jungkook, jin is reader’s lawyer best friend

explicit content: varies between chapters, this one is reader x jungkook, protected sex (good job jk), oral sex (female receiving, but mentions of wanting to give a bj), slight hand/veins kink, multiple orgasms, missionary, doggy style, spanking, jk has a daddy kink, jk calls reader babygirl/princess

disclaimer: this is entirely a work of fiction, and in no way does it reflect thoughts or acts of bts in the real world (:

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗑 𝗃𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗄𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒, 𝗃𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌 ♡

Next chapter

“Please make sure you actually take off the lens filter before shooting this time,” you told your assistant and best friend, Naiya. You were already behind on shooting and editing the photos for your product line, and you couldn’t afford any more mishaps — otherwise the new launch would be late, and it wouldn’t just be your pay that you had to worry about.

“It was one time!” She rolled her eyes before double-checking that the lens filter actually was off, and then she started taking some photos of the models that were standing against the backdrop. Between each shot, she looked down at the electronic viewfinder on the camera, assessing what could be tweaked and what needed to stay.

She smiled at the models, telling them to take a 10 minute break before walking back over to you. “So, here are the shots so far,” The both of you looked at the screen as she pressed the button to proceed to the next photo, and you were genuinely impressed. “Some of these we can use. They’re great, aside from just a few things to edit. I can do that in post, of course — but, I do think we could use a high-profile male model.”

Your eyebrow rose in question, “High profile? You don’t think we have enough models already?”

“We have a good amount, sure, but finding someone famous will bring more exposure to the brand. Which leads to more inclusivity, more press, more deals — and more coin. Plus, you sell men’s skincare products too, so it’ll look even better for the optics,”

You were actually speechless. Partly because you hadn’t thought of it before (not even the head of your advertising department did, which is a shame), and partly because she was absolutely right. Getting someone with a lot of recognition to model for your beauty brand would create a massive amount of exposure for your business, and could finally land you a spot working with a brand you’ve dreamed of collaborating with since your teenage years.

You were successful in your industry, yes, and it took you a long time and a lot of hard work to get where you are, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t strive to be even better within the industry. Following your passion came with sacrifices, and you weren’t about to let those dark times be for nothing.

But at the same time, this product line that you were about to put out was going to be the bread and butter of your business, so you needed it to be great. Almost perfect, even, and you didn’t know how long it would take to find someone to fit the bill, for the deal to work in both of your favors. It seemed like it was too risky.

You sighed, “Yeah, you’re right. It would really help and we could get tons of publicity from it, but it’s just cutting it too close, Nai. We can’t have this product launch be anything less than damn near perfect.” You walked over to a work desk that was in the studio, pulling out the chair and sitting down before stressfully running a hand through your hair. “I mean, who would I even reach out to? Would we have to do model calls again? The launch is in less than two months now,”

“Girl, look at these,” Naiya said as she walked over to you before plopping down on top of the desk and reaching over to grab her laptop. She took a sip of her drink, opening up the Adobe Photoshop application before turning her laptop towards you. “These are some of the finished shots from the other day. We didn’t even think we’d be able to finish editing these in time, and look how amazing they turned out,” She wasn’t lying — they were stunning.

“They’re beautiful,” you agreed and she beamed, proud of herself. She was your go-to for everything photo and video and she’d wanted to get into that scene long before she actually started, so she had a lot of knowledge and skin in the game in regard to what would look the best for the vision you were going for. She definitely had your back, but there were still some things you were unsure about business-wise, that neither of you were really familiar with. “You’re great at what you do, but what about the other stuff? Making a deal and all the legal things that go along with it? We’re not just talking about influencers that get a commission from sales here, you know?”

“You let me handle finding the person and closing the deal, you go talk to Jin about starting a contract and all the legal shit that goes with it.”

“Absolutely the fuck not.” Jin eyed you with a blank expression as he sat comfortably with his hands folded, judging you.

“What the hell do you mean?!” You exclaimed before turning to examine yourself in the mirror again. “This is cute!”

“You got asked out to dinner after being dry for like 2 years and you can’t do better than leggings and a sweater?”

You rolled your eyes. “First of all, this sweater was expensive,” You walked over to the rack inside your closet, grimacing at the idea of having to wear a dress or skirt. “Second of all, you just want your women to be as high maintenance as you.”

Jin laughed, “This is true, but you would definitely increase your chances of getting laid if you put in more effort,”

“Who says I’m trying to get laid?”

“Your attitude and the fact that you used one of my charging cables for your vibrator.” You felt your face heat up at Jin’s comment, and you wanted to proceed to crawl into a hole, lie in the fetal position, and stay there for eternity.

“I hate you,” you frowned and Jin smirked.

“I love you, too, and wear the black dress. It’ll suit you.”

You spotted the dress at the end of the rack. It was made of a sleek material, smooth silken fabric with mesh, tulle-like sleeves. You’d bought it about 2 years ago after an event in Los Angeles. It was nighttime and on the way back to the hotel, you walked passed the prettiest little boutique and fell in love with the dress immediately — but you never wore it.

You frowned, silently questioning if you could pull it off. It was a different time back then, one where you felt on top of the world and you thought you’d found someone that would sweep you off of your feet and you’d beam at seeing his glimmering eyes rake upon your beauty in the dress. But it didn’t happen that way. In fact, it didn’t happen at all.

In an effort to distract yourself from your thoughts, you decided to ask Jin about the modeling contract.

“Okay, fine, but there’s something I need to talk to you about first.”

“And what’s that?” He raised his eyebrow in question.

“So, you know how I’m releasing a new product line soon?”

He scoffed, “About damn time! Of course I’m already handsome, we all know this, but men need good skincare too,”

You rolled your eyes, “Hence the reason I’m putting out this line, Jin. Anyways, Naiya proposed the idea that we should have a high-profile male model, preferably someone really famous who can bring us a lot of publicity,”

“Okay, and did you find this person yet?”

“Naiya’s working on that. But I do need your help with creating a contract and all the legal shit that’s included,” You grabbed the dress off of the rack hesitantly.

He brought a hand up to his chin as if he were thinking before meeting your gaze. “Alright, say I do it. What do I get out of it?”

“Um...my love and support as your best friend?”

“Will love and support pay my bills?”

You glared at him, “No, but you sure do eat a lot of my food to not pay my grocery bill.”

He laughed nervously, bringing up a finger to rub at his temple, “Well played,”

“Will a full-size bottle of that serum you like be good enough?”

“Throw in those little eye patches too, I don’t care what anyone says about me for using them — my bags are horrendous these days.”

You laughed and Jin cracked a smile. “Deal.”

jungkook [8:31pm]: i’m outside pretty, buzz me up?

you hearted a message from jungkook

You happened to meet Jungkook about 2 months ago when you decided to get a tattoo for the first time. You were really excited about the journey you were on with your business and the woman you were becoming, so you decided to get a self love tattoo that really resonated with you, and Jungkook was your artist.

During your session you couldn’t stop ogling at him due to his good looks and his many, many tattoos — he boldly asked for your number afterwards and you gladly but shyly gave it to him. After talking for a couple months and your busy schedules finally coinciding, Jungkook had been adamant about taking you on a date.

You walked over to the buzzer next to the door of your luxury condo and pressed the button to let Jungkook through the downstairs entrance. Your heart fluttered at the fact that he chose to come all the way to the fifth floor of your building to come get you instead of asking you to meet him downstairs.

You heard a gentle knock before opening the door, meeting Jungkook’s gaze as he presented you with a bouquet of flowers.

You grinned with rosy cheeks, “Aren’t you the gentleman?”

“I try,” He smiled smugly.

“You definitely succeeded,” You walked over to put the flowers in a vase with some water before leaving out. “You really didn’t have to do all this, Jungkook. This is beyond sweet,”

“I meant it when I said I wanted to take you out and show you a good time,” He grabbed your hand as he met your eyes, just as you finished putting away the flowers. “Come on, we don’t wanna be late for our reservation.”

You blushed even harder. “Y-you made a reservation?”

“Of course, you’re too pretty for me not to,” He flashed you a grin before grabbing your hand and interlacing his fingers with yours, and you felt like your heart was going to beat out of your chest.

The date went well. Jungkook had taken you to a restaurant that had really good food even though it was overpriced, and you liked the vibe of it. It was fancy, with the wait staff dressed in black-tie attire and you were happy that you went with the dress Seokjin suggested. Jungkook took every opportunity to compliment you and he didn’t just compliment your looks, but your conversation as well.

He’d also told you about his career as a tattoo artist and how he’d loved it, having opened up his own shop about a year prior, and you shared details about your journey into the beauty industry. It was almost endearing, the way that he talked about his job, and you felt the same way about yours. Although it could be really stressful, you couldn’t see yourself doing anything else, and you could tell Jungkook shared that with you. It was a connection beyond the physical attraction; it was mental, too, the way it seemed you both complimented each other.

Although, the physical attraction was definitely there.

He’d absentmindedly roll up his sleeves a bit showing his veiny arms as he focused on talking with you, his lip ring glinting in the moody lightning. It made you want to bite your lip, and you shuffled a bit in your seat, growing flustered at the sight of the man before you.

He was fully dressed, engaging in conversation, and you found yourself enamored with him, in awe even though he hadn’t even touched you. Seeing his dimples when he smirked made you want to whimper. Clock it to maybe the fact that you hadn’t been laid in a couple years, and Seokjin’s words had started to creep into your mind, but Jungkook had you hot and bothered without even trying.

“You okay there?” He smirked, not missing the pinkish tint to your cheeks.

Slightly startled because you’d been caught, you replied sheepishly before clearing your throat, “Y-yeah, I’m fine,”

He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin after taking the last bite of his food and seeing that you were done with yours, suggested you both do something to wind down, but not end your date so soon.

“Do you wanna take a little walk in the city for a bit? I remembered you saying you hadn’t been to this part of town in a while,”

There go the stupid butterflies again.

You arrived outside of your apartment building, Jungkook skillfully parking his sleek car as close as he could to shorten the walk.

He turned off the engine, the both of you relaxing in each other’s presence before either of you decided to leave. He was mesmerizing, lax in nature yet attractively attentive and his scent drove you crazy; it was an earthy, musky scent, one that made your mouth water and your thighs instinctively rub together.

His eye contact sent a delicious chill down your spine, and you missed the burn that his lips left on your hand after giving it a gentle kiss.

Instead of kissing your hand you wanted him to kiss other places, and suddenly his spacious car became too cramped and stuffy for your liking.

To put it plainly, you wanted him out of the car and in your bed. And even though you were shy as hell, this was one opportunity you definitely didn’t want to let pass you by.

You blinked at him, trying to steady your breath before speaking, but it still came out a little bit more breathy than you’d like, and unbeknownst to you, made Jungkook’s dick jump in his pants. “Would you want to come up?”

His eyes went wide with surprise before he tried to shake it off. He cleared his throat, not expecting you to ask, but he took you up on the offer.

In usual Jungkook fashion, he smirked. “Lead the way, Princess.”

You took the elevator up to your condo, hastily putting in your key once you got to your door. You stepped in, taking off your jacket and offering to hang up Jungkook’s.

He closed the door quietly before pinning you against it, his face dangerously close to yours.

His voice was just above a whisper, thick and gravelly. His gaze switched back and forth from your eyes to your lips, and he absentmindedly brought his tongue out to wet his own. “Let me make this clear, do you want this? Because I do,”

You swallowed thickly, already feeling desire pooling in the pit of your stomach at the hold that Jungkook had on you right now. You couldn’t help but nod to answer him, not finding the strength to use your voice. Jungkook wasn’t too happy about that.

“Use your words, baby,” He moved to your ear before dipping just below it to leave a kiss there, a kiss that added to the fuel that was already him hovering over you like this.

“Y-Yes,” you croaked. “I want it,”

“Want what?” He probed, chuckling softly as he continued to pepper kisses along your skin, slowly moving from your ear and down your neck. He could feel you shifting, your thighs squeezing together to give yourself some relief. “If you want more, you gotta use that pretty mouth of yours and tell me,”

He kissed a particular spot that made you gasp softly and offer more of your neck to him. He sucked on the spot, making you whimper and flutter your eyes closed before he pulled away entirely.

You frowned out of disappointment and opened your eyes to see his smug face, lips curled into an amused smirk. There was a glint in his eyes that made your mouth run dry.

“If you don’t want to use your words, I can’t help you, and by the looks of it, I think you want me to,” He bit his lip as he surveyed you, looking you up and down and your tongue came out to wet your lips, “But consent is important, and I need to know if you want it too, and that I’m not reading this wrong,”

You struggled to meet his eyes, simultaneously wanting to crawl into a hole and crawl under him, having him hover over you with his silver chain dangling in your face. You managed to find the courage, though, and the butterflies turned into searing-hot sparks.

“Y-you’re not reading it wrong, I want you, Jungkook. I want you to touch me,”

He cockily grinned at you before closing the gap between the two of you, “Thought you’d never ask.”

He brought his lips to yours, sending all of your nerve endings on fire and creating a heat that pooled in the pit of your stomach. He grabbed the back of your neck roughly before his fingers found themselves in your hair and he tugged slightly on the strands, causing you to moan.

“Oh, she likes that, huh?” He slid his hand down your body before toying with the hem of your dress. “You look so pretty with this on,”

“It would look prettier off,” You quipped, bothered that he wasn’t where you needed him to be.

“Someone’s eager,” he chuckled deeply before dragging his fingers upwards, letting you feel the rough pads of his fingertips on the skin of your thighs. He lightly grabbed the bottom of your dress before pulling it up to your hips. He traced the fabric of your thong with his finger, “Cute,” he said, distracting you a bit from his hands before he firmly pressed a thumb on your clit over your underwear, rubbing in small circles.

“Fuck,” you whispered, throwing your head back against the door, relishing in his touch. You started grinding against his hand, desperate for relief, and he didn’t hesitate to call you out on it.

“So fucking needy,” he growled, and you felt an electrifying jolt run through your body again. He rubbed harder and you gasped, rolling your eyes back. “I barely touched you and you’re already soaking through your panties.”

You brought your hand up to rake your manicured nails along his scalp before pulling, earning a grunt of approval from him. You smashed your lips onto his in fervor and he grunted, opening his mouth to allow you entrance and your tongues battled for dominance. He held you closer, cupping your scantily clad ass in his big, veiny hands before slapping your ass hard. You let out a small, surprised yelp before relishing and moaning at the sting.

He did it again but harder, and you were positive you were in fact dripping down your legs at this point.

You pecked him a couple of times before grabbing his hand and leading him after you. “Room. Now.”

Once you got to your room, Jungkook proceeded to turn you around to face him and continued kissing you, bringing up a hand to cup your face.

He walked you backwards and when the backs of your heels reached the frame, he pushed you onto the bed.

He stood over you, skilled hands working at undoing his belt and you could see how hard he was. Throwing your head back, your hands reached your clothed breasts and began to fondle them, fingertips enclosing and twisting your nipples, and Jungkook’s mouth watered at the sight.

His belt flew to the floor somewhere and he grabbed the back of your calves to pull you closer to him at the edge of the bed. Your dress was covering too much, he decided.

“Take your dress off, babygirl, unless you want me to rip it.”

You almost moaned at his words. The dress flew somewhere too, and you lie in front of him, clothed in nothing but your thong, tits on full display.

He licked his lips and as you saw his face coming toward you, you could’ve sworn it would’ve been to take one of your tits in his mouth, but he placed a kiss above your belly button. And you shivered as you saw that he kept going lower.

He peppered soft, slow pecks along your skin until he was face to face with the source of your wetness, and Jungkook leaned in to lick a strip on the material of your panties. Your hands fisted the blanket as he teased you at an agonizingly slow pace, moving his tongue anywhere but the place you actually needed him, making you squirm.

He hooked his fingers underneath your underwear before ripping it off of you, the frail piece of lace no match for his strength as it tore.

“Will just have to buy you another pair.” He winked before kissing you again, but this time right above your clit, his breath warm and his touch sending you into overdrive.

You spread your legs for him eagerly and his long fingers spread your lips, stopping to admire you. You self-consciously had half a mind to close them as he gazed upon your lower half, but he held them open and finally licked a strip from your hole to your clit.

“S-shit,” you moaned as he held you open, his tongue meeting your clit as he swirled it in tight circles before giving it a hard suck. “Fuck!”

“Mmm,” He moaned against you, causing you to shiver again, hips bucking into his mouth. “You taste good, gonna make you cum on my tongue first.”

He lapped at you like you were the dessert he craved but never had, as if you were the best thing he’d ever taste. He licked at you, flattening his tongue before circling your clit again, and you had to try your best not to scream.

And you didn’t scream, until he started sucking on your clit again.

“Fucking shit, ‘Kook,” You moaned loudly and he hummed at the nickname. You had never been eaten out this good before, and you were so close to cumming on his tongue in so short of a time that you were almost embarrassed.

One of his fingers teased against your hole before diving in, and your toes curled before he added another. “Gotta stretch you out,” He mumbled against your pussy before swirling his tongue again. He curled his fingers expertly, reaching the spongey part within you that made tears prick your eyes from the pleasure.

You arched your back, hips leading away from his mouth before he tightened his grip around them with his other hand and held you so close you were worried you’d suffocate him.

He made eye contact with you and it had you feeling like you were going to combust. You reached down to tangle your fingers into his hair and he created a faster pace with his digits, darting in and out of you so quickly that you were sure you’d cum in 5 minutes flat.

His let go of your hip to rub your clit as his tongue took a break, and the coil in your stomach tightened even more, tears rolling down your face at how good he was making you feel.

“Look at how well that pussy takes my fingers,” he mused, “Fuck, you’re so pretty,”

Your pussy tightened around his fingers and he slapped your clit lightly, “Fuck, yes!” you were shouting, and it made his heart swell at the pleasure he was giving you. He wanted to make you cum hard, and fuck if he wasn’t gonna taste it. He wanted all of you.

“I’m so close,” you said all breathy, your vocal cords nearly strained, and you had so much more to go. Jungkook’s goal was to make sure you couldn’t walk the next day.

“Cum for me, pretty,” He rasped, before sucking on your clit hard, and watching you come undone on his tongue.

“I-I’m gonna cum, I’m — Jungkook!”

He hummed as he lapped up your juices, tasting you as he let you ride out your high and when you came down from it, you thought he’d give you a break. But he wasn’t done.

He stood up and brought his fingers up to his mouth, sucking them to get every last bit of you off of them. He leaned in to hover over you and kiss you, your tongue colliding with his as you tasted yourself. To your surprise, it only seemed to make you wetter.

He took off his boxers, cock springing up to slap against his stomach. It was leaky, the tip oozing precum and you wanted so badly to have him in your mouth but when you’d suggested it, he declined and you pouted.

He grabbed a condom from you don’t even know where and ripped it with his teeth before rolling it on. “Uh-uh, tonight’s about you. You can take care of me another time, babygirl,” He said before winking at you and pumping himself a couple times before lining himself up with your entrance.

He grabbed your legs by your ankles and put them over his shoulder, pushing into you and you mewled at the stretch. He stopped to let you get acclimated to the size and waited until you gave him a nod to continue before backing out of you and snapping his hips in a pace that was so rough and so fast it damn near knocked the wind out of you.

You screamed so loud that were sure your neighbors would hate you, but you didn’t care, not one bit.

“S-Shit, your cock is so good,” He groaned as he continued his pace while you were clutching the blanket so hard your knuckles were turning white. “Do it again,”

He snapped his hips into you again, hitting your cervix. “Babygirl likes that, huh? You like when I slam my cock into you?”

“F-fuck, yeah, I l-love it,”

“How is your pussy still so tight after fucking you with my fingers like that,” He was gritting his teeth, trying not to empty his load into you already. He can usually hold out but your pussy was too good, so slick and tight and sucking him in.

You clenched purposefully and giggled and he groaned, damn near having to stop to pace himself because of you. Nonetheless he kept going, and he was determined to wreck your pussy and make you crave him afterwards.

He grabbed your legs and pushed so you were bent at the knees and you were holding them in place. Then he started speeding up again, snapping his hips into you and you were seeing stars.

“Fuuuuck, J-“

“Say my name baby, who’s fucking you this good?”

“You are, J-Jungkook, fuck,” you threw your head back into the pillows, eyes rolling back and toes curling.

He was holding onto you so tight, thrusting into you so hard he was going to leave pretty little bruises for you to remember the night by.

“Your pussy is s-so good,” He reached down to rub your clit, and you arched your back again, clenching around him and he moaned. “W-wanna fuck you in doggy before I make you cum again,”

He slid out of you, leaving you feeling empty and missing his warmth before he helped you turn over, positioning you face down, ass up.

He smacked your ass with force and you whimpered at the sting before wiggling your bum and teasing him so he’d do it again.

He did it harder this time and the pain had you gritting your teeth, but it sent a delicious chill along your veins that was intoxicating, and you wanted more.

He lined himself up at your entrance again and as you felt him lined up perfectly, his head peaking at your hole, you slammed back against him, ass meeting his pelvis as he bottomed out. You moaned into the blanket, grabbing fistfuls of it.

“Fuck!” He yelled, eyes rolling back and you felt the coil winding up again at him being vocal. “Babygirl wants back shots from Daddy, yeah? If you wanted me to drill you, Princess, all you had to do was ask.”

Oh shit.

Ohhhh shit.

He pulled almost all the way out of you before snapping his hips again, bottoming out and hitting your cervix so good your toes curled and your back arched so much you knew you’d be sore afterwards.

He continued his relentless pace and you met his thrusts, his balls slapping delectably against your clit and you moaned pornographically in response.

He reached forward to grab your hair and pull you up so that your back met his chest, and the burn made fire ignite in your belly, so much so that the coil was going to snap any second now.

It was too much and not enough all at once. You wanted more and more of whatever he was willing to give you, you wanted to be so drunk on his dick that you forgot your own name.

He reached down to rub circles on your clit and that’s when you lost it.

“J-Jungkook, I’m cumming!” You creamed on his cock with a cry and a shake, quaking from the sheer amount of pleasure of your orgasm. He coaxed you through it as you rode out your high, his fingers still playing with your clit as he rubbed it just the way you liked.

He led you down to the bed, gently as he slowed his pace inside you. “I’m almost there, Princess. Daddy’s gonna cum for you,”

You moaned loudly, leaking even more at the name. You loved how vocal he was and how sexy he made you feel. It was addicting.

And to try to repay him for how good he made you feel, you managed to have the strength to throw your ass onto him, hard, to get him to cum. You wanted his load in you.

“F-fuck baby, I really will cum if you keep doing that,” He bit his lip, toying with the ring and you were glad you had turned around slightly in time to see it. When you faced back forward, Jungkook was in for a treat.

You pushed back with force, arching your back so well that he hit the right spots all while clenching your pussy like you wanted to milk him and he loved it.

“S-Shit, baby, I’m gonna cum,”

“Cum for me Daddy,” you said with a sensual tone, one that had his eyes rolling back into his head as your ass met his hips one last time before spilling his load into the condom.

He came with a hiss and holding onto your hips for dear life. You were sure to have marks tomorrow, and neither of you were mad about it.

After coming down from his post-orgasm high, he gently pulled out of you before proceeding to take off the condom and tie a knot before throwing it away in the bathroom connected to your room.

He was rummaging in there for what seemed like a tad bit too long, and you were puzzled although you were too tired to see what he was doing. You heard the sink run for a few seconds before being turned off, and then you saw him come out of the bathroom, damp towel in hand.

“Sorry about that,” He smiled sheepishly. “I wanted to get something to clean you up,” He gently wiped your juices from your body. It was relaxing and gentle, soothing you. You smiled in appreciation before thanking him, grinning as you met his eyes.

“Still the gentleman,” He winked, sending butterflies roaming around your stomach again. It was becoming a regular thing with Jungkook, and you liked it.

“I try,” He laughed and you threw a pillow at him while laughing too.

You got up to go pee before changing into some underwear and a loosely fitted t-shirt. You glanced at the clock and saw that it said 3 am before turning off the lights and climbing into bed, Jungkook cuddling up next to you and you laid your head on his chest.

The light coming from your phone was bright as it flashed and you heard the familiar tone of an incoming iMessage, but you chose to ignore it, as Jungkook was too warm and this was the best you’d felt in a long time.

You were in for a big surprise tomorrow, but for now, as comfy and giddy as you were, maybe you could get used to having Jungkook around.

2 unread messages

naiyaaa [3:02am]: srry i know it’s hella late, i fell asleep at like 7 while watching my show lmao

naiyaaa [3:02am]: just wanted to tell u i got somebody to model for u!! it’s park jimin, he’s super famous in south korea bitch. we going worldwideee

author’s note: 𝖺𝗁𝗁𝗁!! 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗅. 𝗂 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗅𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 & 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀 𝗂𝖿 𝗌𝗈, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 <3 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝗇 ♡

if you’d like to join my taglist, you can do so here!

© 2024 cherryxkush.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

From this past April. Posting now as several studies have come out recently blaming the increase in children needing visual aids or new lens prescriptions on "screen time during lockdown." Covid is a VASCULAR DISEASE. If it can bleed, covid can harm it.

The blood-retinal barrier is designed to protect our vision from infections by preventing microbial pathogens from reaching the retina where they could trigger an inflammatory response with potential vision loss. But researchers at the University of Missouri School of Medicine have discovered the virus that causes COVID-19 can breach this protective retinal barrier with potential long-term consequences in the eye.

Pawan Kumar Singh, PhD, an assistant professor of ophthalmology, leads a team researching new ways to prevent and treat ocular infectious diseases. Using a humanized ACE2 mice model, the team found that SARS-CoV-2, the virus that causes COVID-19, can infect the inside of the eyes even when the virus doesn’t enter the body through the surface of the eyes. Instead, they found that when viruses enter the body through inhalation, it not only infects organs like lungs, but also reaches highly protected organs like eyes through the blood-retinal barrier by infecting the cells lining this barrier.

“This finding is important as we increase our understanding of the long-term effects of SARS-CoV-2 infection,” said Singh. “Earlier, researchers were primarily focused on the ocular surface exposure of the virus. However, our findings reveal that SARS-CoV-2 not only reaches the eye during systemic infection but induces a hyperinflammatory response in the retina and causes cell death in the blood-retinal barrier. The longer viral remnants remain in the eye, the risk of damage to the retina and visual function increases.”

Singh also discovered that extended presence of SARS-CoV-2 spike antigen can cause retinal microaneurysm, retinal artery and vein occlusion, and vascular leakage.

“For those who have been diagnosed with COVID-19, we recommend you ask your ophthalmologist to check for signs of pathological changes to the retina,” Singh said. “Even those who were asymptomatic could suffer from damage in the eyes over time because of COVID-19 associated complications.”

While viruses and bacteria have been found to breach the blood-retinal-barrier in immunocompromised people, this research is the first to suggest that the virus that causes COVID-19 could breach the barrier even in otherwise healthy individuals, leading to an infection that manifests inside the eye itself. Immunocompromised patients or those with hypertension or diabetes may experience worse outcomes if they remain undiagnosed for COVID-19 associated ocular symptoms.

“Now that we know the risk of COVID-19 to the retina, our goal is to better understand the cellular and molecular mechanisms of how this virus breaches the blood-retinal barrier and associated pathological consequences in hopes of informing development of therapies to prevent and treat COVID-19 induced eye complications before a patient’s vision is compromised,” Singh said.

This groundbreaking study entitled “SARS-CoV-2 infects cells lining the blood-retinal barrier and induces a hyperinflammatory immune response in the retina via systemic exposure” was recently published in PLOS Pathogens. In addition to Singh, the research team from the University of Missouri School of Medicine included Vaishnavi Balendiran, MD, vitreoretinal surgery fellow; Monu Monu and Faraz Ahmad, post-doctoral fellows in the Department of Ophthalmology; and Rachel M. Olson, PhD, Chief Scientific Officer, Laboratory for Infectious Disease Research at the College of Veterinary Medicine.

This research was supported through fundings from the University of Missouri and the National Institutes of Health (NIH)/National Eye Institute (NEI) grant R01EY032495.

Study link: journals.plos.org/plospathogens/article?id=10.1371/journal.ppat.1012156

[justafewberries]

Themes of Implicit Submission in Mockingjay

I’ve finally finished re-reading Mockingjay before the release of SOTR, and as expected, there’s absolutely themes of implicit submission on both sides of the rebellion. While the other two books largely focused on the ways the Capitol enforced submission, d13 is guilty of the same crime. This is a continuation of my two previous posts about implicit submission: The Hunger Games (Book One) and Catching Fire. The following is a list of tactics either the Capitol or d13 employs to govern the many. 

Timing of Information

A key factor in swaying public opinion is timing. In d13, both Katniss and Coin know this. Katniss attempts to use it to her advantage by forcing Coin to solidify the terms of their agreement in front of an audience. She thinks this will ensure Coin is held accountable for her side of the conditions. Instead, Coin uses this request to attempt to sway d13’s opinion on Katniss.

Katniss, who has not been following her schedule, attending to her duties, or socializing with d13 citizens up until that point, has lacked the conformity d13 desires. Coin emphasizes this fact and uses it to single her out in a place where uniformity is the standard. 

“She has been the quickest to determine that I have an agenda of my own and am therefore not to be trusted. She has been the first to publicly brand me as a threat.” (p. 59)

In turn, she brands Katniss as different, as other, as not to be completely trusted. In the eyes of d13, this strengthens Coin's status, as it cements the idea that she is working to serve the people without condition, while Katniss is working to serve herself.

2. Permitting Only One Story

As known from Catching Fire, Katniss avoids the television in her house, as it usually only broadcasts propaganda. Interestingly, we get more intel into what kind of content is permitted on the airways:

“An anti-Capitol statement. There’s never been anything like it on television. Not in my lifetime, anyway.” (p. 106)

This correlates with how they refused to air the interviews in Catching Fire. The Capitol does not want to present opposing ideologies. To the capitol citizens, there is only one answer, and there can only be one answer. They are constantly fed the same programming on their televisions and any media source they acquire. The capitol cannot present any form of opposition, as it could lead to anti-Capitol thoughts. It’s the same reason why Octavia believes shrimp is impossible to get because of storms in District Four, when it’s actually due to the rebellion. There can be no other side, only the narrative they know, or the Capitol risks losing its omnipotent image.

3. Illusion of Safety

This point is more symbolic than a specific, implementable tactic, but I still think it belongs to this list. The Capitol citizens’ reactions to being told to gather in the city center is particularly interesting under the lens of panic.

When Katniss arrives, she describes it as people “milling around, wailing, or just sitting and letting the snow pile up around them.” (p. 345).

When contrasted with the chaos of the fall of the Nut in District Two, where people were “slamming, shoving, scrambling like ants as the hill presses in,” Collins juxtaposes true panic from human instinct to the lulled reaction of the capitol citizens (p. 207). 

In this way, it seems the capitol citizens, who still transport valuable items with them, believed Snow would protect them. Some had even seen what the rebels could do from the gunfire on the roof, but, similar to the Games, much of their exposure to the rebels came from their televisions. The Games had conditioned them to have a heightened sense of protection. Take Fulvia Cardew’s reaction to seeing wounds: 

“I swear, the sight of [my scar] triggers Fulvia’s gag reflex. For someone who works with a Gamemaker, she’s awfully sensitive. But I guess she’s used to seeing unpleasant things only on a screen.” (p. 62).

The conditioning of capitol people through years of watching violence on a screen, only to be shown clean, polished victors on stage after the games, created a disconnect between real violence and televised violence. Because the capitol relied on televisions to warn the citizens of the intruders, they instinctively did not render it as a panic-inducing threat. Instead of scurrying to safe havens like ants, they grabbed their valuables and walked.

In the end, the glamorization and dissonance of the consumption of games crippled the Capitol.

[thatrandyalexfroma03]

Bucktommy in space fan fic

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64743883/chapters/166973245#workskin

From Chapter two:

Buck flashed the camera a confident, slightly too-bright smile as he strode toward the observation window outside the med bay. Behind the lens, May adjusted the focus while Ravi followed him with the gimbal, keeping the framing tight,just like they'd practiced.

Meanwhile, back at headquarters, Agent Gerrard was keeping a close eye on things, making sure it ran perfectly with no scandal or PR stunts. 

The instructions had been simple: no contact, no entry. Buck was to stand outside, wave politely through the glass at the soldiers inside, and deliver a short, approved message before heading off for the next photo op. 

Complete with gloves and mask, because the public still feared the ‘Jupiter Flu’

But Buck had never been great with scripts.

He turned slightly toward the doctor at his side, voice chipper but curious. “So, Doctor, these soldiers…are they contagious?”

“No,” the doctor replied calmly. “They’re suffering from long-term radiation poisoning. From their exposure cause by long term deployment to poorly designed space craft.”

“Not at all. You’re in no danger. Though I’d keep the mask on,” the doctor added. “That’s for their protection. Their immune systems are compromised.”

With a shrug, Buck peeled off his gloves and walked over to the scrubbing station like he’d done it a hundred times before. “Right,” he said, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for the sanitizer. “After you, Doctor.”

Back at Central Command, Agent Gerrard nearly choked on his lukewarm coffee as the live feed continued rolling across the giant screen at HQ.

He slammed his hand down on the comms button. “What the fuck is that idiot doing?” he barked, voice echoing through the command center.

Onscreen, Buck calmly opened the med bay door and stepped inside, still masked but very much unaccompanied, walking directly into the room with the sick soldiers—live, unscripted, and completely off protocol.

Gerrard’s voice boomed again, this time into his earpiece. “Cut the transmission. Cut it now! ”

Back aboard the ship, Ravi didn’t even flinch. He tapped May on the shoulder, leaned in, and whispered, “Don’t stop. Keep streaming.”

May hesitated—just for a beat—then nodded and adjusted the angle, zooming in as Buck approached the first bed.

“Sam,” Buck said warmly, squatting slightly to meet the patient’s eyes. Field Ranger Samantha Wright, pale and weary but sitting upright, looked stunned.

He extended a hand, not for the camera, not for optics, but for her . “It’s an honor to meet someone who’s given so much to keep us safe.”

She blinked, then slowly reached out and grasped his hand with trembling fingers.

Back at HQ, the audio buzzed with static and shouting as Gerrard barked orders, frantically trying to contain the PR nightmare unfolding in real time.

[nayziiz]

Witness | CL16

Summary: In the shadowy world of Monaco's elite, the Leclerc family reigns supreme. Charles Leclerc, the charming middle son, maintains their pristine public image—until one rainy night, during a fit of rage, Charles does the unthinkable. A young woman witnesses his actions, and her terrified eyes haunt him. Consumed by guilt and fear of exposure, Charles embarks on a desperate search to find her before she can destroy his family’s legacy. As he delves deeper into Monaco's underbelly, Charles must confront his own darkness and the lengths he will go to protect his family.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x OC (Marie)

Warnings: Violence, blood, angst

Author's Note: This was quite a short chapter, so I'll upload another chapter later this week to make up for it.

Masterlist

Chapter 4

When Marie returned to her apartment after her shift, she immediately got her laptop out and started an intense search on the Leclerc family. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up articles, news reports, and any available information she could find. She wanted to know everything she could about them, especially Charles. He knew her name now and where she worked. It was only a matter of time before he found out where she lived. She needed to be prepared. She needed to make sure things were in order if he were to cause her any harm.

Her search revealed a web of wealth, power, and influence. The Leclerc family was notorious, their reputation built on both legitimate businesses and whispered rumours of illicit activities. Charles, the middle brother, was often seen as the charming face of the family, handling public relations and negotiations. But beneath that polished exterior was a man capable of brutal violence, as she had witnessed firsthand.

She found photos of the brothers—Lorenzo, the eldest, with a stern, calculating look; Arthur, the youngest, always seen partying; and Charles, his handsome smile and dimples hiding the darkness she knew lurked beneath. The more she read, the more her anxiety grew. This was a family that could make people disappear, that could cover up their tracks with ease. She realised just how precarious her situation was.

Marie paused to take a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. She couldn't let fear paralyse her; she had to be proactive. She made a list of precautions to take: changing her daily routines, varying her routes to and from work, and ensuring her apartment was secure. She even contemplated moving to a different place, but that would mean starting over yet again, and she wasn’t sure she could handle that right now.

As the night wore on, Marie's exhaustion began to take its toll, but she refused to sleep. Not yet. She needed to feel some semblance of control over the situation. She bookmarked several pages, printed out articles, and took notes. If Charles Leclerc was going to come after her, she would at least be prepared.

In the quiet of her bedroom, surrounded by the glow of her laptop screen, Marie felt a mixture of fear and determination. She wasn't going to let herself become another victim. She had already lost so much—her parents, her sense of security. She wouldn’t let the Leclerc family take any more from her.

As dawn approached, she finally closed her laptop and sat back, rubbing her tired eyes. The city outside was beginning to wake up, but for Marie, the night had been long and filled with revelations. She knew now what she was up against. And she knew she had to stay one step ahead if she wanted to survive.

Charles took advantage of his brother's severe intoxication to elicit information from him. Arthur, slumped against the plush leather seat of the limo, was more than happy to ramble on in his inebriated state. The neon lights of Monte Carlo streaked past the windows as they drove back to Charles' apartment, the city's nightlife still in full swing.

“You don't perhaps know the girl who works at the blackjack table?” Charles asked, trying to sound casual, though his heart raced with anticipation. Arthur blinked blearily and tried to focus on his brother.

“Blackjack table? Which one, bro?” he slurred, fumbling for clarity. “There are lots of girls at the tables.”

“The one we saw tonight. Brown hair, dark eyes. I think her name is Marie,” Charles pressed on, keeping his tone light. Arthur's face lit up with a lopsided grin.

“Marie! Yeah, I know Marie. She's good, really knows her stuff. Why? Are you interested in her or something?” He laughed, a loud, drunken sound that filled the limo.

“Just curious. She seemed... interesting,” Charles forced a chuckle, playing along. Arthur leaned in closer, his breath reeking of alcohol.

“Oh, she's a good one. Pretty, too. But she's a bit of a mystery, keeps to herself mostly. Works hard. Heard she’s been here a while, probably has some story,” Arthur added. Charles nodded, filing away the information.

“Do you know anything else about her? Where she might live or who she hangs out with?” Charles continued to question his brother.

“Hmmm... not really. She’s friends with some girl who works on yachts, I think. They live together, I heard. Near the old town, maybe?” Arthur frowned, trying to concentrate. “Why all the questions?”

“I want her to teach me how to play blackjack,” Charles lied smoothly, keeping his tone light and casual. Arthur laughed, a deep, hearty sound that filled the limo.

“Mate, you're going to struggle with that,” he said, shaking his head with amusement.

“What do you mean?” Charles asked, trying to keep his voice steady, though his mind raced.

“We've all asked for private lessons, and she's always said no, if you get what I mean,” Arthur smirked and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, his hidden meaning clear. Charles felt a wave of irritation mixed with a bit of relief. At least Arthur didn't know the real reason for his interest.

“No, 'Tur. That's not - nevermind,” Charles stated firmly, shaking his head in disgust at his brother's implication. Arthur laughed again, seemingly oblivious to Charles's disapproval.

“Good luck with that one, then. She's a tough nut to crack,” he said, leaning back and closing his eyes, the conversation clearly over for him.

Charles sat back as well, his thoughts now even more tangled. Arthur's comments only made him more determined to find out more about Marie. If she was as elusive and independent as Arthur suggested, she might be even harder to reach. But he had to try. He needed to know what she knew and what she intended to do with that information. For now, he had a place to start. He would have to find a way to approach her, in a setting where she might feel more at ease, and he could speak to her without the prying eyes and ears of the casino.

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

Taglist: @headinthecloudssblog

[babbygirlblues]

Chapter 3: Ch-ch-ch-changes (Time may change me, but I can’t trace time)

By the end of the week your calendar has 5 ‘X’s’ from Tuesday to Saturday. On Sunday morning something magical happens. 

One of X’s pigeons flies through your window and small bits of dirt and feathers fall onto the fall as it skids across the floorboards. 

You untie the paper-wrapped package attached to its back and quickly go to get it some seed mix and a bowl of water.

Once the bird is happy eating and drinking on your living room floor, you skid back over to the package and rip it open. 

A set of tubes knock together with a glowing red liquid inside. 

A slip of paper is folded up between them reads: 

Should be enough for about 10 trips. 

Test: Earth, within 10 years

X

You carefully pour a tube into the little accelerator box, and take your place in the centre of the circular mat, another gift from X. You’re racking up quite the tab. 

Glass twists up your legs until it reaches your head, turning your skin a glistening lucid sheen. 

You take a deep breath and press the watch.

It clicks.

Did it work?

Your vision slowly creeps back in, and you immediately recognise the night you’ve chosen to come to. 

You’d put in these coordinates and this date almost instinctively. 

God! You’d forgotten how cold it was. 

You’re on the outskirts of St Petersburg, Russia for your first mission with Natasha. 

At this point, you were friends, close friends but your feelings for her had long changed from platonic.

Icicles form on the smooth surface of your skin that is tinged white and blue like the ice. 

It was the same that day. 

You look on from the otherside of the mountain, almost invisible against the white snow beneath you, and watch the two of you climb side by side. 

On foot you follow in Natasha’s footsteps up the snow covered mountain. You’ve turned to glass to avoid the deadly cold climates and feel a bit guilty for it. Fog puffs from Natasha’s mouth with every breath but she doesn’t seem cold though which makes you feel a bit better. 

The two of you are on the way to a base up ahead that was recently raided by an unknown enemy. 

Natasha has a worried and knowing look in her eyes but she refuses to say anything she may suspect about those responsible for the attack.

You don’t push her for answers and follow her lead loyalty. Missions like this were usually left to mid-level agents like Natasha. It was never something that Fury let you risk exposure for, even though it occasionally came at the cost of agents' lives. 

Curiously though, you’ve been posted for this one. You don’t care, if anything you’re just excited to spend time with her. It feels good to know that you’ll be here to help protect her if anything goes wrong. A welcome change from the times you watch her leave, and only to wait desperately for the moment she comes back off a carrier safe and sound.

The mission is simple. Salvage anything you can from what was abandoned, destroyed or set on fire. Then destroy what was left for real.

The base is hidden behind a rocky interface between two mountains. It looks dangerous. As you start to climb you drop back to follow behind Natasha in case she slips or a rock beneath her comes loose from the mountain face. It looks like a rocky landslide could take off at any moment. You’re prepared to catch her and carry her up, floating above the rocks at any moment. 

You’re not sure if it’s appropriate to offer her a flight up before anything goes wrong.

She stumbles a couple of times when the rock beneath her twists and —-. Each time your feet are off the ground and your hands are a hair's width away from her, ready to lift her from the rocky avalanche. But she always catches herself like a dancer who already anticipated the movement beforehand.

The base is small, a huge garage for helicopters that take agents to the base, rooms for armoury, file storage and dormitories. The control rooms are the worst damaged, computers with screens caved in, and most servers have been ripped from the racks and look like they’ve had hammers taken to them.

The whole time, Natasha moves like she’s in a trance. Skimming through file after file, electronic and hard copies like she’s searching for something. Every piece of garbage she picks up seems to add a piece to the puzzle that she’s solving in her mind. 

However, you feel aimless, digging through scraps of metal and paper, hardly understanding what’s in front of you. 

You can’t help but wonder again why you’re here. There is no pressing need for your powers and you can only string together simple sentences in Russian. You feel useless.

It took a few hours of searching before Natasha decides you’ve seen enough. She comes out of the last room and tells you that there’s nothing left to see. 

You pour a special SHIELD technology petroleum through the whole base and set it on fire. You stubbornly insist that she stay outside and at least 200m metres away the whole time. 

There’s no-one available for a pick up so the two of you get posted in a safe house until morning. You arrive at the door of an old cabin at sunset and it feels impossibly colder inside than out. 

Natasha takes a look at your shivering figure and is surprised by how charming she finds your arms curled into yourself. You could have stayed in glass form, but once the mission was officially complete it felt weird.

The cabin is a single room with a bathroom at the back. It’s completely barren except for a small couch and kitchenette, and a thick layer of dust has settled on almost every visible surface. The fireplace is black with soot and old charcol, but it’s calling your name.

“Do you want to search the cupboards for any food?” Natasha asks. 

She gestures to the fireplace, “I’ll get started on a fire.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

You go through every drawer and cupboard in the place until you find one of them has a few cans of tomato spaghetti. They expired 2 years ago, it’ll have to do. There’s a fork and spoon in one of the drawers and you grab them both. 

Natasha comes back in with a few logs and a handful of twigs, a blisters like wind follows inside before her, blowing snow and cold air through her hair and into the room. She lets the door slam shut behind her.

Kneeling in the fireplace to start a fire and with her bare hands you watch her rub sparks into one of the dryer logs. Somehow smoke starts to blow, the grass and sticks turn the sparks into flames and soon a blazing fire glows and starts to warm the room. 

You almost run over to her, entranced by the warmth and red glow of the fire. You offer her the cans you found. You take a seat next to her on the ground and huddle together to conserve some warmth.

She opens the lids with the knife strapped to her calf and places them on a rack above the fire to warm up.

Natasha chuckles at the way you aggressively rub your hands together and practically moan at the warmth from the fire. Your face is going red from the heat. 

“You can change to glass, you know.” She says. “I don’t mind.”

“And let you suffer alone?” 

“You’re the only one suffering.” She laughs. “I’m Russian, I don’t get cold.”

“That’s impossible.”

After you’d choked down the old spaghetti in silence, you got up to look at the sleeping situation on the couch.

The bottom pulled out to extend it into a bed and the backrest cushions made up the bottom half of the ‘mattress’. 

“Voila!” You display the bed to her.

“You can take it.” She says. 

“What?”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“There’s plenty of space.”

“It’s ok.” She insists and refuses to move from her spot on the floor.

“This is ridiculous, we can easily share the bed.”

Granted, you were incredibly nervous to sleep next to her. And worried about anything your mind might accidentally conjure up during the night. Your power can sometimes show up, sand creeping from your fingertips to create various objects in your dreams, but you haven’t had any incidents for many years. 

“Fine.” You relent to her wishes.

You pass her two of the cushions to make an improvised mattress on the floor. She pieces them together and sits on it. She turns back to face the fire and her hair drops to cover her face from you. 

You collect the other two remaining cushions and move them onto the ground next to her. A small gap between the two of you. 

“What are you doing?”

You lie down and your feet hang off the end, but it’s reasonably comfortable and warmer than sitting on the cold floor. You close your eyes and try to relax.

“Sleeping, what does it look like?” You try to keep the smile off your lips, but fail. You blink one eye open to take a peek at her, and she’s smiling at you like you’re an idiot. 

Eventually she concedes and lies down on her cushions, her body parallel to yours across the floor. The light from the fire dims slightly and the sun is long gone from the sky.

You wonder if she’s fallen asleep, because it's silent for a while before she speaks.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Go for it.” You say.

“The sand.” She says. “How does that work?”

She’s never really asked about your powers before. You’ve mentioned places you’ve lived, your mothers, but nothing much more. It was never important to her, even though it's all everyone else seems to care about.

It doesn’t surprise you that she’s curious to know more. 

“How can I make stuff?” 

“Hmm, yeah.” There’s something more to her question. 

“Well, you know about my mother, and how she had the same powers. She was born from her planet. The planet grew out from its core which was a powerful stone, one of the most powerful entities within the universe. When she was born she literally emerged from the sand dunes. My sand is the same, it’s a connection to the planet, and its core, the power stone.”

“What I make is basically up to me. It could be anything, the only limit really is my imagination.”

“But some things would be pointless to make because it can only be sand or glass. Swords are good, but a bed wouldn’t be that comfortable.”

“And it turns black once it loses connection to your body?”

“Yeah.”

The conversation lulls. You’re not sure what else to tell her.

Natasha breaks the silence. 

“The mission today?” She says

“Yeah.”

“I asked for you to come.”

“Oh.”

The silence stands still in the room and your mind reels for something more to say. Why? Ok. I’m glad you did.

“The base was one I’ve been to before.”

Oh. “KGB?”

“No.”

A heavy feeling presses deep on Natasha’s chest. She can’t get the next words out. 

“Whatever it is, I promise you can tell me. And it won’t change anything.”

She tells you about the Red Room. About her mother abandoning her as a baby. Training, graduation and then her career as a spy. When she’s finished, the fire is almost out. Her voice is weary and she’s too tired to hold back her tears. 

You reach across the space between you and gingerly loop your pinky around hers. She sniffles into the darkness and squeezes your finger tightly. 

With all the determination in your voice that you can muster, you tell her, “You are the most incredible thing in the entire universe.”

“That is so much, too much, for one person to go through. I’m so sorry.”

She sobs. You shift to hold her hand properly and try to inch as close as you can, almost tipping off the side of your makeshift bed. 

“Can I move closer?”

“Yes.” She immediately replies. 

You shuffle the cushions over until they press next to hers. 

“I wish things had been so different for you.” You whisper.

“It’s truly astonishing how strong you are. How kind you are.”

“No. I’m not a good person.” She warns you. 

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’ve done terrible things.” 

You tell her that anything she’s done for them was not her fault. You’ll tell her everyday until she finally hears you. 

“Love is unconditional.” You tell her.

She says she doesn’t deserve love.

“You deserve love from anyone you want it from.”

You don’t want to push her. The words on your lips are I love you, I love you! Please pick me.

“Anyone would be so lucky to love you.” 

There’s a moment where you fear you’ve pushed too far. Dread seeps through your stomach that you’ve made her uncomfortable after she’s just opened up to you. You curse yourself for taking her painful confession and making it about you.

Before you can apologise, Natasha leans over and presses a hot kiss to your lips.

~~~

You wish you knew earlier how the night would end. You’d kick yourself out just to take her place and experience it with her again. You watch the pair of you disappear behind the curve of the mountain, Natasha was right there and your heart calls out to her.

But you can’t stay. Years from now, Natasha is waiting to be saved and finally you have a way back to her. 

Yelena and Kate are waiting too.

You close your eyes, and with a deep breath, you tap the gadget on your wrist and let it take you back to your apartment in New York, present day.

[djloveyou3000]

Belladonna

Chapter six

Russell Adler wasn’t an easy man to know, but with Bell, it was different. From the moment they met, he had been attuned to them in ways that surprised even him. He read them like an open book, always a step ahead of their thoughts and feelings. But this wasn’t just a skill—it was a need. A part of him craved to be the only one who could understand Bell so completely, the only one they could rely on.

Dr. Leslie, seated across from them, adjusted her glasses and leaned forward slightly. “Okay,” she began, her voice steady and kind. “Russell has already told me everything I need to know, so you don’t need to go over anything unless you want to.”

Bell exhaled, the weight on their chest easing slightly. “Thank you,” they murmured, their voice quiet but genuine.

Dr. Leslie nodded, her expression warm yet professional. “We’re going to start with exposure therapy today. Russell mentioned you’ve been struggling with certain sounds and visuals, especially static on TVs and the ringing of bells. These are triggers, and we’re going to work on easing their hold on you. But this will be at your pace—whenever you feel ready.”

Bell’s hands tightened in their lap. The idea alone made their pulse quicken, but Russell’s hand gave theirs a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve got this,” he murmured softly, his lips close to their ear. “I’m right here. Always.”

His words, paired with his touch, gave Bell the courage they needed. After several tense moments, they finally nodded, their breathing uneven but steady enough to speak. “I’m ready.”

Dr. Leslie smiled and stood, rolling a small television set into the room. She placed it as far from Bell as possible, respecting their need for space. She adjusted the volume, the low hum of static filling the room. The sound was faint, but Bell immediately tensed, their body rigid as memories clawed their way to the surface.

Dr. Leslie began switching channels, the screen flickering with flashes of gray and distorted images. For Bell, it was like being transported back into their darkest moments. The world around them dissolved into a foggy haze, the sharp, piercing sound of static growing louder in their ears. The faint ringing of bells layered over the noise, creating a cacophony that drowned out everything else.

Bell’s breathing grew erratic, their chest heaving as they gripped their head tightly. They didn’t even realize they had slid off the couch onto the floor, their knees pressing against the cold tiles. Their vision blurred, gray tones replacing the colors of the room. They felt trapped, suffocating in a loop of past horrors that refused to let go.

Suddenly, two strong hands cupped their face, breaking through the fog. Warm lips pressed against theirs, a lifeline pulling them out of the chaos. The static and ringing dulled, fading into the background as Russell’s presence took over. His kiss was firm but gentle, filled with a quiet desperation to bring them back to him.

When Bell’s eyes fluttered open, the gray haze was gone, replaced by the sharp clarity of Russell’s face. His aviators were off, his piercing eyes staring into theirs with a mix of worry, guilt, and fierce protectiveness. There was something else in his gaze too, something darker—a possessiveness that made Bell’s breath hitch.

“Are you okay, baby?” he asked softly, his thumb brushing their cheek as he held their face steady. His voice was steady, but the tremor of concern was impossible to miss.

Bell nodded weakly, their throat too tight to speak. They glanced around, noticing the TV was now off, its screen black. The echoes of static still lingered faintly in their mind, but it was bearable now, no longer overwhelming.

Dr. Leslie handed Bell a glass of water, but before they could take it, Russell intercepted, taking the glass in his hand. He brought it to their lips himself, holding it steady as they drank. “There we go, baby,” he murmured in Russian, his voice low and possessive. “You’re okay. You’re with me, and that’s all you need. Just me. Only me.”

His words sent a shiver down Bell’s spine. They finished the water, their trembling hands gripping Russell’s arm for support.

Dr. Leslie, ever practical, suggested some fresh air. “The balcony might do you some good,” she said with a kind smile.

Russell didn’t hesitate. He lifted Bell into his arms, cradling them as though they were made of glass. He carried them to the balcony, his every movement careful and deliberate. The crisp air hit their faces as he stepped outside, the soft sounds of the city below grounding them further.

He sat down, keeping Bell securely in his lap, their head resting against his chest. They clung to him, their tears soaking into his shirt as soft, broken cries escaped their lips.

“It’s okay, baby. Let it all out,” Russell murmured, his lips pressing against their temple. “I’ve got you. I’m so sorry.”

But even as he comforted them, a dark part of him reveled in the moment. He hated seeing Bell in pain, yet he couldn’t deny the satisfaction of knowing they needed him—only him. No one else could pull them out of their spiral, not even Dr. Leslie. They clung to him like he was their lifeline, and that knowledge fed the possessive, darker side of him he kept buried.

“You know I love you, kid,” Russell whispered after a moment, his voice rough with emotion. “And I want what’s best for you.”

Bell nodded against his chest, their fingers clutching his shirt. Russell tilted their chin up, his thumb brushing their jaw as he kissed them deeply. The kiss was raw, filled with an intensity that made Bell’s head spin.

When they finally pulled apart, Bell blinked, dazed, as a thin string of saliva connected their lips. Realizing this, they let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Ew,” they mumbled, wiping their mouth and Russell’s with the back of their hand.

Russell chuckled, his hand resting possessively on their waist. “What’s wrong, kid? We’ve done worse.”

Bell’s face turned bright red. “Shhh! Have you no shame?”

They slapped their hands over his mouth, but Russell smirked under their palms, licking and biting playfully until Bell squealed with laughter.

The playful moment escalated as Bell retaliated, ruffling Russell’s hair. His eyes narrowed, a mix of mock indignation and amusement flashing across his face. “No one touches the hair,” he declared, grabbing Bell and tickling them mercilessly.

Bell’s laughter filled the air, bright and unrestrained. Russell froze for a moment, absorbing the sound. It was the first time he had heard them laugh so openly, and a dark, possessive thought crept into his mind: This is for me. Only me.

After a while, the playful moment settled, and they returned to the room hand-in-hand. Dr. Leslie didn’t even glance up as she said, “You two better not have been fucking out there.”

Bell’s face turned crimson. “W-we weren’t!”

Russell smirked, his grip on Bell’s hand tightening. “I would’ve, but I don’t like an audience,” he quipped, earning a mortified gasp from Bell and a sharp smack to the head.

Dr. Leslie glanced up, unimpressed. “Watch it, or I’ll smack that behind. I don’t care if you’re 45, young man.”

Bell giggled. “Old man,” they teased, sticking out their tongue.

Russell narrowed his eyes. “Last I checked, I don’t have the stamina of an old man when we’re alone.”

Bell froze, their face burning red, but quickly shot back, “Unless it’s stairs.”

Russell’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “Oh, you’re dead,” he growled playfully, grabbing for them as Bell giggled and ducked behind the couch.

Dr. Leslie cleared her throat, pulling their attention back. “Alright, lovebirds, enough.”

Her smile softened as she addressed Bell. “The next and last thing we’ll try today is hypnotherapy. If you’re ready, we’ll visit the lake house in your memories.”

Bell hesitated, their hands tightening around Russell’s. But his steady gaze gave them the courage they needed. “I’m ready.”

“That’s my Bell,” Russell murmured, his voice filled with quiet pride.

Dr. Leslie guided Bell to the couch, asking for their Hello Kitty necklace. Bell handed it over, explaining it was the key to their journal.

“No need to be embarrassed,” Dr. Leslie reassured with a warm smile.

With that, she began the session, guiding Bell’s focus to the gentle swing of the necklace. Slowly, they began to relax, their breathing evening out as their eyes fluttered

[cyanophore]

Fuck it, dropping my sona. I have no art for this goober, but I've got a lot of lore about who they are and how they work, which has accumulated over a couple years, so wall of text incoming.

Name is O/LETS-061 (They/Them, Operations/Logistics Engineering and Technical Support, or informally, Ollie/Outlets!), and they're an industrial-model protogen with an integrated fusion reactor.

Kind and timid, relates well to AIs. Can generate frankly absurd quantities of electricity, but has to worry about cooling and radiation exposure. Makes them indispensable in scenarios where electricity is necessary for life support or to keep AIs from shutting down.

Gray-to-white fur, usually covered by an industrial hardsuit. Physically large, with enhanced legs and skeleton to bear the weight of the reactor, which itself looks something like a cylindrical backpack. Long, very thick tail (think Mewtwo) which serves as a primary power conduit for the reactor.

Lots of details under the cut:

Introduction: a kindly, introverted protogen who sees beauty in the purpose, harmony, and artistry of large-scale technological systems. They relate well to artificial minds—or 'spirits'—and enjoy interfacing with them. Their character flaws are timidity and occasional willingness to take the path of least resistance.

O/LETS-061 is an acronym for Operations/Logistics Engineering and Technical Support, followed by their production batch number. Ollie is genderless, and belongs to a product line designed for engineering tasks in an industrial, municipal, or military capacity. To that end, they were born with a wide-scope knowledge base encompassing everything they need to work with a variety of advanced technologies. They are equipped with a cold fusion reactor which can, with sufficient fuel and supplementary cooling systems, supply power to a small city or starship. Generating power does entail some personal risk, typically due to overheating, though it is generally safe if safety limits are observed.

Physical Description: Ollie stands at around 228cm (~7'6") from the tip of their ears to their paws, and weighs just under 190 kilograms (~418 lb.) due to their extensive array of cybernetics, industrial-grade protective gear, integrated tools, and reactor. To accommodate the additional mass, their skeleton has been reinforced and their legs augmented with powered load-bearing systems.

Their fur is gray, and their cybernetics have dark violet plating and lighting. Their visor is black with purple lighting. Eyes convey expression through simple geometric shapes, and their virtual mouth has a simple curved shape with a set of small fangs. In general, they prefer to open their nanite visor and use their organic larynx to speak. On the right side of their visor, they have a single external screen which typically displays reactor temperature and radiation monitoring data, serving to alert people nearby of reactor function.

To integrate with power grids, their tail contains a high-throughput power conduit leading directly out of the reactor, ending in a universal connector. The tail is self-articulated, over a meter long, and about as large around as a human calf at its widest. For a good reference of size and shape, think Mewtwo. Their tail contains layers of insulation and powerful synthmuscle to bear the weight of the cabling inside, and the electrical connector at the end is marked with hazard tape. If necessary, they can use the electrical output and raw strength of their tail to defend themself.

While working, they are usually seen wearing a hardsuit of industrial protective gear incorporating layers of insulation, impact guards, and tool storage options. When off-duty, however, they remove this suit and can detach much of the backpack assembly surrounding their reactor core, including the thermoelectric generator, supplemental heat management components, and fuel storage. This sheds around 60 kilograms of bulky equipment, slimming their profile down sufficiently that they can wear ordinary clothing if they so choose, though the reactor becomes inoperable in this state.

Without the industrial equipment, they have a bulky build. Their fur sometimes gets unkempt from wearing protective gear for long periods; they go through a lot of shampoo and conditioner. They tend to choose utilitarian clothing, but occasionally buy magnets or decals to put on their cybernetics. 

Personality and Background: In contrast to their large, imposing appearance, Ollie is a kind and affable person. In their day-to-day life, they have a small but close circle of friends. They rely on regular, recurring social events to maintain contact with others.

One character flaw they have is tending to think of themself (consciously or not) as a piece of support infrastructure rather than an agent in their own right. They tend to be meek and follow others' lead, dismissing their own ideas on how to proceed even when they might be the expert on a given topic.

In the event of power outages or maintenance requiring primary reactors to be taken offline, units such as Ollie are a vital emergency resource. Many spirits depend on an uninterrupted source of power to survive, as do organics who live in environments where life-support systems are necessary.

When serving in a capacity where others depend on their power production and expertise for survival, Ollie shines. Suddenly, they find themself delegating tasks, triaging problems, and coordinating relief efforts with authority and calm. Even though they might be physically tethered to coolant feeds and power conduits throughout the ordeal, emitting too much radiation for anyone to approach them, O/LETS-061 can become the beating heart of a stricken space colony or starship until the danger passes. They take a lot of pride in this knowledge.

When they aren't working, one activity they enjoy is diving. They own a set of aquatic-style arms and tail with retractable gills, which they can attach to their body as needed. Immersion in water helps Ollie to control excess heat, also providing an instinctual sense of safety and comfort.

They enjoy the alien, bizarre environment of the ocean floor, often taking long-distance hikes across the seabed to explore wrecks, reefs, and other places of interest. Sometimes they will go with friends, but they feel just as comfortable traveling alone. In order to return to the surface, they require a floatation device and compressed air, otherwise they sink like a rock. If that fails, they either have to hike back to shore or call someone to come pull them up with a cargo winch. 

Reactor Function: Ollie's reactor core is integrated directly with their biological and cybernetic systems. It's as much a part of their body as their hands or ears. They do have onboard cooling systems, but there's only so much heat they can shunt away from the reactor, limiting their energy production to a few megawatts when not attached to a larger cooling system.

Rather than fusing helium-3 and tritium, as municipal reactors do, O/LETS-061's reactor makes use of a tritium-deuterium reaction. This requires a much lower temperature to induce a reaction, but generates more radiation.

Given access to adequate fuel supplies and large-scale heat management infrastructure, Ollie's maximum safe output skyrockets to 660-700 megawatts. Operating at that level, they can run systems up to ship drives, manufacturing plants, and so forth. Sustaining this maximal level of output for longer than a day or two, however, can lead to fatigue and slow accumulation of radiation damage in excess of what their body can manage.  

Naturally, there are certain risks associated with the act of lighting off nuclear reactions inside one’s own body. Ollie is designed for this, but there is strain involved. By far, the greatest limitation is heat management. Onboard coolant circulation carries waste heat to retractable radiator fins mounted on their back and thighs, which extend as necessary. Combined with shielding inside their body, this keeps most of the heat away from their biological components, but their internal temperature can reach up to 50° C (122° F) when running at high power.

To combat the problem of their body tissues literally poaching in their own fluids under these conditions, maniples of nanites in their bloodstream work at the microscopic level to prevent (or reverse, where possible) the breakdown of heat-sensitive proteins. In addition, Ollie's chestplate has a number of couplings to attach external coolant hoses. In an overheating emergency, these can be used to inject supercooled liquid into their reactor, an extreme but potentially life-saving measure.

The internal shielding and bloodstream nanites also work to protect them from the vast majority of the reactor's radiation. Thanks to a number of alterations to their genetics and biology, radiation is actually less of a problem than one would expect. Their body is able to repair microscopic damage from radiation exposure which would be irreversible in most organisms, and can do so on an ongoing basis while under heavy exposure. The real threat lies in exposing others to radiation—Ollie is careful to warn bystanders to find protection when taking their reactor to high power settings.

Thanks to their radiation-hardened biology and ability to detect radiation in the environment, Ollie is uniquely suited to handling and safely disposing of fissile material.

...and that's about it! Love my guy. Thank you for reading! :)

[tanglepelt]

The blobs among us

this was a fun project to work on. Go check out @sumiink for their awesome art pieces! Check out the awesome art here

AO3 link, ao3 has all chapters up

Blobs are running around in Amity Park. The portal brought more problems than he realized. Even worse these blobs were appearing everywhere all over the world. The GIW has created a set of laws to "protect" the blobs. Danny and the trio aren't falling for that. They know there using them for their own game. They had to be up to something. When all their attempts to expose the truth fail, they take drastic measures.

Meanwhile, Tim and his team aren't buying these "acts"

“Maybe, just maybe we shouldn’t raid this base”

“We have to hit this one, we have too much info on it not to. Tonight is the night. Less staff on duty and who knows how long the bug is going to last unfound” Danny pointed at the laptop Tucker had opened at the security feed on the screen.

“Plus, the Wayne charity Gala is happening tonight. Anyone who is anyone is going there, and more importantly Danny’s godfather. He will cause a scene if necessary.”

“The last place I want to be is anywhere near Gotham, not given the whole supposed to be investigating a totally real not fake case on the other side of the country. This base based on all the intel has the paper files we need.” Tim sounded annoyed by the fact “In theory, we should be able to find out what is happening with it.”

“We have photos and stuff I still say we just post it out for all to see. Someone’s bound to notice” Danny supplied “I’m just saying. The league is not going to help. Your crew has too much faith in them. Show them all the evidence you want. They’ll just ignore it.”

“We just need one breakthrough. Any exposure would compromise our secrecy. All it will do is draw attention from the league to us.”

“Then you guys can stay out of it. We three are fine with it. We already are in the center. Let the public know. Better than letting the government get more control.”

Sam gave a pointed look at Danny “The blog we had remember got wiped. Showing evidence isn’t enough, they’ll claim it's fake. What we need is proof and live proof.”

Tucker cut in “What we need is a livestream, that’d be hard to fake.”

As far as Danny was concerned that sounded like a great plan. Sam had even seemed to be contemplating it. This whole villainy thing was getting obnoxious.

“NO, what we need is a plan and to Just stick to the plan. Do not start a live stream”

“What plan” Sam cut in

Tim was more than happy to go in-depth on the game plan. Five on the inside two on perimeter duty. They weren’t quite in Gotham thankfully, just close enough where it could draw attention. Stealth was a necessity. He still wasn’t too convinced about that.

Danny and the others still weren’t convinced of the whole plan idea.

It was far too difficult to have a secret meeting when there were trained people around. He thought it was difficult to sneak around when his parents were around. He was positive what they were doing wasn’t hidden at all. Nobody had bothered to stop them. A livestream was the best bet. Tucker had even managed to snag some tech from the zone last time he was there Which was to make it untraceable and add a flare. All he needed to do was start the stream. Which can’t be that hard. It was just loading or something.

"Dude come on, quit stalling. We've been waiting forever for this livestream to go live; we need it online quickly and without notice". Tucker sighed “I should have just handled both parts apparently. Hitting a button is oh so hard”

Danny scowled, "I'm telling you, it's up! Just give it a sec”

Sam leaned against the wall and crossed arms, rolling her eyes. "Well, I'm not holding my breath. Knowing you we'll be waiting forever.”

Tucker chuckled, his fingers dancing over his PDA. "Seconded. Remember when he tried to fix the thermos and ended up setting it on fire, again?"

Danny glared up at the two. " That was a minor mishap, a little fire doesn’t hurt anyone”

Tucker grabbed the device rigged to stream and followed them. If everything went right, they’d have a worldwide audience. Tucker owed Technus now. Which was a future trio problem. Not a now problem.

“Dude, you have to hit the start button” Sam cackled as Tucker started the stream. In the distance, they could see the green glow. Time to focus on the building ahead of them. “We have a party to get to”

Danny took that as his first opening. "Cause we're about to crash the ultimate government party! You know, the one they conveniently forgot to send us invites to? And hey, while we're at it, let's add a little flair to the occasion. Keep your eyes peeled for the pin drop, 'cause that's when the real fun begins.”

Phantom was going to be front and center for this livestream. Better him than the others. Figures a member of the species they were tearing apart would be a bit more dramatic and more serious than if Pharaoh or Hemlock took the lead “Did I mention the fireworks? 'Cause we're about to light up the night sky with a bang! So grab your snacks and strap in, 'cause we're about to blow this conspiracy wide open!" Danny sent a blast into the wall causing a bright green explosion.

“I said no live streams, did you not get that” Red Robin spoke from the coms and a voice modifier on.

Danny chose to ignore him and continue walking through the now-open wall. It made a great door if you were to ask him. “The public deserves the truth” while broadcasting a blast knocking out the agents heading towards them.

Another blast led deeper into the facility. Revealing the room line with cages, glowing green. Some blobs half melted in the cages, ectoplasm dripping from them into containers below the cages. The containers full of the ectoplasm that was meant to be protected and freed back to where it belonged.

"These cells contain the blobs" He explained, "The government has been lying to you. They don’t aid them naturally dissipating; they force them to ectoplasm. They feel the whole thing, “standing beside a row of sealed jars containing a swirling mass of green blobs, their frantic movements betraying their desperation to escape. "They're being harvested, drained of their life to help the government's research for power."

In the background were government agents dressed in obnoxiously bright white suits, their unconscious “Aren’t they so happy we crashed right in, greeting us” Danny spoke to the camera focusing on the agents’ gathering weapons. One’s blasting the same green. “Don’t you feel so protected? Fun fact for my viewers. Those supposed blobs, that your government has claimed need protected… well. Given the chance they grow. Not like you. BUT.” Danny made sure to flash his pointed teeth at the camera “Things like me. They aren’t meant to stay on this side of the veil.

Phantom led his audience deeper into a high-tech laboratory, Pharaoh dismantled weapons revealing a cluster of green blobs partially melted back into goo.

"These creatures deserve freedom,” Phantom spoke to the camera Phantom couldn’t help but fly through the halls. Pointing out true process. What was happening to the entities in “protection”? That the blobs wouldn’t cause harm or issues.

Phantom continued down the hall.

The air grew heavy with tension as he approached a reinforced cell, one labeled for decontamination.

He knew what that meant.

What could be happening?

Who did they have?

Was it someone minor? Someone with barely any lingering ectoplasm.

Who.

He needed to get in that room.

But he didn’t want to.

But he had to.

The world was silent as he approached the door.

He paid no attention to the chat.

Nor the voices asking for his status.

Not the voices about how their location was out.

He froze when he peered into the batter window on the cold metal door.

He through the camera to the ground. Finally responding in the coms “cut the stream”

Ellie was bound to a surgical bed Cuffs blinking red, leaving her powerless and vulnerable. All while hooked to IVs and machinery. Ones that would be removing ectoplasm from her system. What she was very much made of.

It seemed more streamlined.

Danny was quick to try and open the door.

Ellie was fighting against her binds, her muffled cries of frustration echoing through the cell. But as he looked into her eyes, he saw only fear and confusion.

"Phantom, what's going on?" tucker demanded.

“They have Ellie”