#biodegradable to go containers

[biodegradablerestaurantpackaging]

The Top 6 Eco Friendly Packaging for Food to Try in Your Business | Eco-Pliant 

Eco-friendly packaging is crucial for businesses looking to reduce their environmental impact. Here are six popular eco friendly packaging for food that you might consider incorporating into your business:

Biodegradable Plastics:

Traditional plastics can take hundreds of years to break down, but biodegradable  clamshell are designed to decompose more quickly. They are made from plant-based materials like cornstarch or sugarcane and can be a suitable alternative to conventional plastics.

Compostable Packaging:

Compostable packaging is made from organic materials like cornstarch, sugarcane, or bamboo. These materials break down into nutri  

ent-rich compost when subjected to the right conditions. Make sure to check for certification standards like ASTM D6400 or EN 13432 to ensure the compostability of the packaging.

Recycled Cardboard:

Using recycled paper bags with handles is an effective way to reduce the demand for new raw materials. Look for packaging made from post-consumer recycled content. Additionally, cardboard is widely recyclable, making it a sustainable option.

Mushroom Packaging (Mycelium):

Mycelium, the root system of mushrooms, can be used to create a sustainable and biodegradable packaging material. It is grown in molds to create a lightweight, durable, and compostable packaging option.

Edible Packaging:

Edible packaging involves creating packaging materials that are safe for consumption or can be easily broken down in the environment. Examples include edible films made from seaweed or starch, providing a unique and sustainable solution.

Reusable Packaging:

Encouraging customers to return and reuse packaging is an excellent way to reduce waste. Consider using durable materials such as glass or metal containers that can be easily cleaned and reused. This approach aligns with the zero-waste movement and promotes a circular economy.

Before implementing any eco-friendly packaging solution, it's important to consider factors such as the specific needs of your products, local recycling or composting infrastructure, and any relevant regulations. Additionally, educating your customers about the eco-friendly choices you've made and how they can responsibly dispose of the packaging can further enhance the positive impact of your efforts.

Choose Eco-Pliant for all your eco-friendly packaging needs. Our commitment to providing sustainable, biodegradable restaurant packaging aligns with your values and contributes to a greener, healthier planet.

[bioleaderpack]

Soup, Sustainability, and Street Food: Why Eco-Friendly Bowls Matter More Than Ever

🌍 Soup Around the World, Served Sustainably

Let’s be honest—nothing hits the spot like a steaming bowl of soup. Whether it’s pho in Hanoi, laksa in Singapore, ramen in Tokyo, or tomato bisque in San Francisco, soup has become more than a comfort food. It’s a global favorite, a daily go-to, and for many people, a takeout staple.

But here’s something that’s often overlooked: what’s holding your soup?

As we order more meals to-go, especially hot and liquid-based ones, packaging waste has skyrocketed. The plastic, foam, or wax-lined containers we barely notice often end up harming oceans and clogging landfills.

Thankfully, a quiet revolution is brewing—and it starts with a humble switch: paper soup bowls.

🍲 The Takeout Dilemma

Modern life is fast. We grab soup on our lunch break, order curry for dinner, or stock up on stew during a winter walk. Takeout culture is growing—and soup is surprisingly high on the global delivery list.

But soup is messy. It's hot, often oily, and prone to leaking. That’s why most restaurants default to plastic-lined containers or foam bowls. They work—but at a high cost to the planet.

Most plastic containers take centuries to break down. Even "recyclable" ones often never get recycled due to food contamination or poor local sorting systems.

So what’s the solution?

🌿 Paper Soup Containers: The Eco Upgrade We All Need

Enter the new generation of paper soup containers. These aren’t flimsy paper cups. They’re thick, heat-resistant, leak-proof, and most importantly—compostable.

Here’s why they’re winning hearts (and stomachs):

Microwave safe for reheating leftovers

Plastic-free coatings (like PLA or water-based)

Sturdy enough to hold pho, curry, stew, or chowder

Break down naturally in compost within 60–90 days

Often made by certified paper soup containers manufacturers who follow strict eco-standards

They're practical for businesses and friendly for the planet. And yes—they still look really cute in a flat lay food photo on Tumblr 😉

✈️ Take a World Tour (One Bowl at a Time)

Let’s look at how soup and sustainability collide beautifully around the world:

🇻🇳 Vietnam

Street vendors serving hot bowls of pho are switching to biodegradable containers as plastic bans expand across cities like Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh.

🇯🇵 Japan

Takeaway ramen is booming—but so is awareness around PFAS (aka “forever chemicals”). That’s why paper soup bowls with certified PFAS-free coatings are gaining popularity.

🇺🇸 USA

From New York food trucks to LA vegan cafés, customers are requesting eco-friendly packaging. Paper soup containers are becoming the new norm for lentil stew, creamy chowders, and bone broth to-go.

🇮🇳 India

Spicy dals and rich curries are traditionally packed in plastic—but cities like Mumbai and Bangalore are moving fast toward compostable options. Local paper soup bowls manufacturers are answering the call.

🌟 Why This Switch Actually Matters

Changing one bowl might seem small—but multiplied across millions of meals a day, it adds up.

Imagine this: if just 1,000 restaurants switched to compostable paper soup containers, they'd eliminate tons of plastic waste every month. That’s fewer turtles swallowing lids. Fewer forests covered in takeout trash. And fewer regrets with every bite.

Bonus? Customers notice. In a world where people vote with their wallets, sustainable packaging is a statement. It says, “We care.”

🛍️ What to Look for in Eco Soup Packaging

Not all paper bowls are equal. Here’s what to check before buying or choosing a supplier:

Compostable certification (e.g., ASTM D6400 or EN13432)

PFAS-free (to avoid health risks)

Leak-proof and oil-resistant

Offered by a trusted paper soup bowls manufacturer

Available with lids for delivery or travel use

If you’re a café, food truck, or home chef with a side hustle, choosing the right container makes all the difference—for your soup and your brand.

💚 Shoutout to Bioleader®

One brand we’ve seen doing this well is Bioleader®—an experienced paper soup containers manufacturer offering compostable bowls in various sizes.

Their bowls are:

Durable, stylish, and stackable

Designed for both hot and cold soups

Perfect for delivery and takeaway

Available with matching compostable lids

Fully printable for customized branding

Whether you're serving miso or minestrone, they’ve got you covered—literally.

🧠 Final Thoughts (And a Warm Bowl of Insight)

Soup is ancient, universal, and full of culture. Packaging shouldn’t ruin that experience. With compostable, plastic-free options now widely available, there’s no reason to stick with the old toxic stuff.

So next time you order takeout or host a picnic, ask this simple question: What’s holding your soup?

Choose bowls that nourish the planet as much as they hold your food. Because when we start with one small switch, the ripple effect is real—and delicious.

[risquemargay]

call me a radical but actually i think that having a phone shouldn't be a requirement to get food at any university location

[rebeccathenaturalist]

Welcome to my Tuesday morning PSA about plastics!

So--I was walking along the Bolstadt beach approach sidewalk here in Long Beach, WA yesterday afternoon, and I started seeing these little orange pellets on the ground that looked a little bit like salmon roe (but probably weren't). So I picked one up, and it was most definitely rubber. I went around picking up every one I could find, and while I didn't keep exact count I probably amassed 50-60 of them. I took this picture before depositing them in the nearest trash can.

These are airsoft gun pellets, and you can buy them in big jars containing thousands of them. That means that someone who decided that the beach was a great place to shoot their airsoft guns could easily litter the place with countless little bits of plastic rubber in less than an hour. We already have a huge problem here with people leaving trash, including tiny bits of plastic, all over the beach (you should see the gigantic mess after 4th of July fireworks when thousands of people come in from out of town, blow things up, and then leave again without picking up after themselves.)

But these airsoft pellets have a particularly nasty side effect. You know how my first thought was "wow, those look kind of like salmon roe?" Well, we have a number of opportunistic omnivore birds like crows, ravens, and several species of gull that commonly scavenge on the beach, especially along the approaches because people often feed them there. If I can catch the resemblance of an orange airsoft pellet to a fish egg, then chances are there are wildlife that will assume they're edible.

Since birds don't chew their food, they probably won't notice that the taste or texture is wrong--it'll just go down the hatch. And since they can't digest the pellets, there's a good chance they might just build up in the bird's digestive system, especially if the bird eats a large number of them--say, fifty or sixty of them dropped on the ground along the same fifty foot stretch of sidewalk. The bird might die of starvation if there's not enough capacity for food in their stomach--or they might just die painfully of an impacted gut, and no way to get help for it. If the pellets end up washed into the ocean, you get the same issue with fish and other marine wildlife eating them, and then of course the pellets eventually breaking up into microplastic particles.

You can get biodegradable airsoft pellets; they appear to mainly be gray or white in color rather than bright screaming orange and green. But "biodegradable" doesn't mean "instantly dissolves the next time it rains." An Amazon listing for Aim Green biodegradable airsoft pellets advertise them as "Our biodegradable BBs are engineered to degrade only with long-term exposure to water and sun and will degrade 180 days after being used." That's half a year for them to be eaten by wildlife.

I don't know, y'all. That handful of carelessly dropped rubber pellets just encapsulates how much people don't factor in the rest of nature when making decisions, even on something that is purely for entertainment like an airsoft gun. We could have had a lot of the same technological advances we have today, but with much less environmental impact, if we had considered the long-term effects on both other people and other living beings, as well as our habitats. We could have found ways from the beginning to make these things in ways that benefited us but also mitigated any harm as much as possible. Instead we're now having to reverse-engineer things we've been using for decades, and sometimes--like the "biodegradable" airsoft pellets--they still have a significant negative impact.

But--at least there are people trying to do things better, thinking ahead instead of just on immediate profit. We're stuck in a heck of a mess here, figuratively and literally, and changing an entire system can't be done in a day. Maybe we can at least keep pushing for a cultural shift that emphasizes planning far into the future--if not the often-cited "seven generations ahead", then at least throughout the potential lifespan of a given product.

[snail-day]

TW: Yandere crack fic, slight gore, suggestive, Gojo murders people, mdni

Yandere Fruit Stand Worker! Gojo thinks this is the most romantic job he’s ever had. Not that he needs a job, he’s filthy rich and unhinged and saw you walk by once and decided this fruit cart was his destiny.

He sets up shop outside your workplace every day. Wearing sunglasses, an apron with a chibi banana on it, and absolutely nothing else on top.

Shirt? Gone.

Abs? Present.

Hair? Fluffy and windswept just for you, baby.

Every two minutes - exactly- he strikes a new pose. Arms behind his head, chest puffed, cheeky wink. Flexing like he’s making you your own personal thirst trap. Seriously, he’s tried making you record him for your “private collection.” Said you can think about him at midnight, but the fruit isn’t going to be on the table if you call him over.

“This one’s called the ‘Peach Cobbler Crusher 😘.’”

You: “What the fuck.”

Him: “Language! You’re in front of the baby melons 🍈🍈”

You stop for fruit exactly once, and now he thinks you’re soulmates. He gives you so much fruit. Cups overflowing with honeydew, watermelon, a carved rose-shaped mango, a pineapple slice with a heart poked out in the middle. You try to hand it back, “This is too much. I can’t eat all this.”

He gasps and throws you a wink, a little finger heart next to his pretty blue eyes. “But baby… if I don’t give you all my love in fruit form, how will you know how much I care?”

You blink. “I literally just wanted a $3 fruit cup. Not your love.”

He winks and croons. Loudly. “And now you have my heart in a biodegradable container!”

At least he cares about the environment; you’ll give him that. Doesn’t even give you a fork, but does offer you to eat the fruit off his abs. When you make a face, he sighs and says, “Fineee,” then feeds you with his fingers instead.

After that, you tried to avoid him. Like actually tried. But the fruit stand keeps popping up. New corner. New city. New country. You moved to Canada, and he opened up Gojo’s Melons across the street like, “Surprise! ✨ Want a smoothie?”

Also, every time you go on a date? That person disappears. Last guy said, “Isn’t that the weird fruit vendor who keeps doing bicep curls with papayas?” and vanished the next day. You got a fruit salad the morning after with a ring in it. Not your ring. Just… a ring. A huge-ass diamond.

So you called the cops. They were impressed with his bicep curls. Lunges. Squats.

And Gojo, who’s still posing:

“This one’s called the ‘Forbidden Fruit Fondle 😘.’”

You: “You’re going to jail.”

Gojo: “Only if it’s roleplay 😏 I'll let you pick top or bottom bunk.”

The cops didn’t arrest him. One of them is using that line on their Tinder profile now. Just what is wrong with this police force?

The worst part is that the fruit is incredible. Must be imported or something. You can’t stop going back. He started putting little love notes in your kiwi. One time, you found a picture of the two of you photoshopped in wedding attire. You never took that photo.

You sigh, holding your overflowing cup. “Do you have to pose every two minutes?”

He’s mid-handstand on the fruit cart. Apron flapping. Banana between his teeth. “Gotta keep the muscles juicy for you, angel 😚🍑”

You seriously need to stop blushing when he calls you “his little cantaloupe.” And possibly call the cops again, because you’re pretty sure you’re watching him clean his knife, and it still has your Tinder date’s eyeball stuck on it.

You are not surviving this. But you are hydrated.

Don't worry, your little fruit stand worker is going to make sure you have all that vitamin C before he gives you his vitamin D.

[clotheshorsepodcast]

Some real talk as someone who has managed the sweater category at several brands: most sweaters, scarves, gloves, hats, etc for sale in stores right now contain a blend of acrylic and other fibers. Often (but definitely not always) wool, cashmere, or alpaca are a part of those blends, but one thing I've learned the hard way is that consumers say they want sweaters made of natural fibers, but then won't buy them because they feel too rough, itchy, or heavy. Yes, believe it or not...many customers gravitate toward acrylic without even knowing it! Furthermore, acrylic and acrylic blends can be washed and brushed to make them super soft, cozy, and appealing.

That said, acrylic is not a good friend. It pills SO MUCH. If you wash it with other garments that are different colors, the lint from those will attach itself to the acrylic pills and make your sweater look really gross. Acrylic is highly flammable, so it MUST be treated with flame retardants in order to be safely sold. Yes, retailers really test the flammability of these items in order to avoid future lawsuits. And yes, I have worked on styles in the past that failed the flame test!

Acrylic is not biodegradable, it is virtually unrecyclable, and its production has a negative health impact on both the workers making it and the people living in the area around the factory.

Yet customers vote for it time and time again....because they just don't know! So...READ THOSE LABELS! You can't spot acrylic by hand feel. You can't identify it by price (yep, acrylic blends are being sold at a wide range of prices). And you can't assume that a garment is not acrylic and made of natural fibers just because you bought it at a specific store. Acrylic is everywhere and if you don't want it in your life, get ready to read some labels inside clothes!

That said...DON'T ABANDON YOUR ACRYLIC CLOTHING! It's going to be hanging out on this planet for centuries, so let's get the maximum use out of it. The same goes for any acrylic yarn you've got stashed away in your house. I used a bunch of thrifted acrylic yarn to create decorative tassels in my bedroom.

If you're enjoying this series, please like, share, save, and comment. 

[dept-of-monster-affairs]

The Hum

Tentacles x f!reader

Word Count: 3138

Contains: tentacle sex, ovipositor/egg laying, hypnosis/mind control, outdoor sex, religious language/imagery

While you are deep in the woods, you come across a strange phallic rock formation. Deciding to camp there, you are inducted into a new religion by the tentacle god itself and given the mission to spread its holy message.

Quarantine in Effect

Effective immediately, the Department of Monster Affairs has quarantined a ten-mile radius around the town of Holtston due to a tentacle demon infestation. All travel planned through the area should be rerouted until further notice. Anyone attempting to breach the quarantine zone will be charged to the fullest extent of the law. 

Living beings in the area are being examined for eggs, seeds, and other signs of propagation with the tentacle demon. Those infected with corruption will remain under examination. Those clean of corruption will be released outside of the quarantine zone. 

If you know anyone who has traveled to the Holtston area within the past month and is acting strangely, please contact the Department of Monster Affairs immediately, as they may be infected with tentacle demon spawn or otherwise corrupted.

The quarantine will be in effect until 30 days after all signs of the tentacle demon are eradicated.

Please visit the Department of Monster Affairs website or call our hotline for more information on quarantine zones, corruption, and tentacle beasts.

Two months prior…

Your muscles ached pleasantly as you hiked along the path following your GPS.

“Alright, there are the two bears,” you said to yourself as you came across an old sign of Smokey the Bear warning about fire safety and a more modern wood carving of a black bear with a request to report any sightings of them in the area. Park rangers were trying to track their numbers as the demons had found them fun sport during the Great Incursion, severely reducing their numbers in the region. And that was why you were here.

A hiker out geocaching had claimed to see a black bear near the cache he was after. Of course, it was one of those unmarked caches that was more of a treasure hunt with clues than a “fun day in the woods with your GPS,” so you didn’t have exact coordinates. The hiker had told the preserve the approximate location but the black bear had been seen at some distance past the geocache using binoculars. So, it was up to you to go out and search the area. 

You only hoped it was a bear and not anything else.

Ever since the Great Incursion, humans learned that many of the monsters their myths had been based upon were real. Many old myths and legends were inaccurate and distorted by time, but there were some that still rang true - who knew what was living in these tall mountains now? Maybe Bigfoot really was real. And you knew the old Native myths about creatures far more dangerous than a tall, hairy fellow.

Traveling for another mile, enjoying the spring air and blossoming forest around you. Eventually, you went off the trail as per the instructions. You used biodegradable flags to mark your path and easily find your way back. A couple of miles into the woods with a few more twists and turns, and you arrived at the spot of the geocache. Looking around, you spotted the water-tight steel box sitting within a crevice of exposed rock face. Perfect.

You took out your binoculars, checked your notes, and compared them to the landscape. “Okay, he was facing west and noticed the movement on the right-hand side. The black shape was walking between the trees toward the boulders that looked like a dick and balls…oh, yeah, nope, that’s an accurate description.”

Sitting on the side of the mountain were two large, fairly round boulders and a tall pillar of stone with a surprisingly round top. Usually, this sort of landform would be found in ancient river beds where the running water carved stone, but these rocks must have gotten lucky in a landslide. The spot wasn’t that far away, maybe an hour to an hour and a half, depending on how easy a path down you found. The issue was finding signs of the bear after that. It was already after two, so even if you found evidence immediately, it was safer to spend the night than risk the sun setting before you returned to your Jeep.

Luckily, you had planned for that. Your pack contained a hammock, sleeping bag, and enough food for a couple of days—just in case the search took longer than a single day.

Knowing you were losing daylight, you set off down the mountainside to reach rock-cock…or was rock-and-balls a better name? As you hiked, you mused about what to call the rock feature that could become a hidden secret of the park.

An hour and ten minutes later, you arrived at the relatively flat area where the unusual rock feature sat. Those rocks were an excellent marker to center your search around. You approached the cock-rocks and realized that they were far less natural than you believed. The rocks had seemed rather smooth from up on the ridge, but you had thought that was the distance. Now that you were closer, you realized they seemed purposively carved.

Approaching a bit closer, you saw tool marks on the rock, or what were probably tool marks you weren’t an expert. The stone wasn’t polished, but��something was strange about it. As you stood before it, the hairs on the back of your neck rose. It felt like you were being watched.

You took out the magical device in your bag to check for a Rift to the other world nearby. The color of the enchanted compass was a milky blue, the color of this dimension. No Rifts nearby. This was probably a prank or some weird art someone made then. Neat and still useful as a hidden landmark for the park. 

“The Mysterious Cock Rock, that has a ring to it.” With a chuckle, you began your search for any sign of a black bear.

Your search circled Cock Rock using the unusual feature as a starting and ending point. You looked for natural animal paths through the foliage and broken branches at hip height; there were several but only a few deer and coyote tracks. A small stream at the base of the mountain yielded nothing besides more tracks. You did not realize that all the tracks were pointing away from the phallic stone you started from.

You came across a patch of blackberries. The bottom ones had all been eaten, but the ones at the top, which black bears could reach by pulling the branches, were still there. That did it for you. There was no black bear around here. A black bear coming out of hibernation wouldn’t miss the chance to munch on one of their primary food sources.

“Gods damn it,” you swore. But this was a prime area for a black bear to find food and shelter. You would set up some trail cams in the area, and even if there wasn’t a black bear around, it would be good to know what animals were in the area. You’d also put one near Cock Rock. If it was a prankster or artist, there was a chance they weren’t done with the project yet. With a trail cam, you could catch them in the act.

By the time you finished your search and set up the trail cams, it was dinner time. You decided to set up your hammock in the clearing with Cock Rock. If nothing else came of this excursion, you would be able to tell your friends you slept with the biggest cock you’d ever seen.

The camp was pretty simple to set up. You made a small fire for warmth and to heat up some water for tea. Munching on a few blackberries you had picked and your rations, you smiled; even if there was no black bear, it was a good trip. You loved the National Parks. The sun disappeared behind you, leaving you to stare into the vast starry sky. The moon was full tonight, providing plenty of light for you to see.

The wind picked up. Through the mountains, a low hum began to resonate. It wasn’t common, but sometimes, they made music when the wind hit the cliffs just right. The hum continued a sonorous tone that wavered in frequency just enough to have a rhythm. It reminded you of that special hertz music you used for meditation.

It was just so relaxing…

You felt the tension in your shoulders release. You could feel yourself sinking into that mindless, meditative state.

Yet, a thought crossed your mind. Maybe this rock formation wasn’t recent. It was art, yes—ancient art.

You rocked back and forth on your feet before the pillar of stone. You didn’t remember moving at all.

The breeze caressed your skin. Your breath was shallow. Breathing in and out with the shift of the hum. Your hands moved without your intent yet without your resistance. You unbuckled your belt and slowly unbuttoned your khaki uniform top. Undressing. Baring yourself to the phallic monument.

You knew something was wrong, but you could not stop.

The hum grew louder. Drowning all worries. You sank to your knees, sitting on your heels, your legs in a V, torso still rocking back and forth with the droning hum.

The hum grew louder again. It resonated in your body. Your nipples tingled, half hardening. Your body was flushed with heat. The fluid of arousal from your swollen nethers dripped onto the ground.

The hum was tangible in the air. You could taste it as you moaned in the same pitch. It was moving forward towards your body, displayed in offering to the stone. The hum was not caused by the wind. From in between the two round boulders, from a hidden cave that you had not seen, the darkness moved.

The darkness slithered forward in slick tendrils. The hum ceased as it reached out towards you, yet the tone still rang in your mind. It had filled your brain like static, white noise that erased everything else. There was merely you, a supplicant, a waiting vessel. And the beautiful darkness of possibility before you.

Out of the crevice, the divine creature arose. It was beautiful.

Your hand rose as you longed to touch the magnificence before you, reaching for a perfection that you could never achieve. Yet, you were not worthy to make that choice. It had to accept you. One of the thick tendrils rose and slid into your hand. Like Adam being touched by Yahweh in the Sistine Chapel, you were filled with life, created anew to serve your god's will. 

“Master,” you moaned with awe.

The tendril spiraled down your arm, pulling it off to the side. Another wrapped around your other arm and pulled it out as well. Your chest was forced out, presenting your breasts and hardened nipples to your god. Even in its hold, your body still swayed to the hum in your head.

Its many unblinking eyes stared down at you like a multitude of pearlescent moons cast within the sparkling ink of night that was its body. It was examining you. Determining if you were truly worthy to serve.

“Please, use me as you will.” To be rejected by it now would break you.

Like a stray radio signal through the static, a thought, no, an impression of intent crossed your mind. Accepted.

That alone caused your body to shudder with pleasure. More of your dripping arousal fell upon the ground, soaking into the earth.

A third tendril stretched out, thicker than the others but with a rounder head shining wet in the moonlight. It dipped between your open legs, pressing against your slickened folds. You gasped with pleasure, but the rhythm of your swaying body continued. It rubbed against you in time with your swaying before easily slipping into your aching hole.

“Master,” you sighed with pleasure. The tentacle held still, but your body rocked upon it. Slow and steady. Constant pleasure. 

Your god’s blessed slime soaked into your inner walls, molding them to its will. Inside, you were stretching. Opening up. Changing to what you need to be to serve it. 

The tentacle sunk into you deeper and deeper. Your hips rolled in rhythm. Its blunt head pressed against that perfect spot inside of you. Again and again, as you fucked yourself upon your master. Then, your walls twitched around it as pleasure overcame you.

The rhythm broke. While that hum still filled your mind, it was enough to start raising your awareness. Wait. This creature. This was wrong. This was…

Another blip in the hum, so much louder than your thoughts, drowning them out. Submission. Pleasure.

Pleasure. You wanted pleasure. This was pleasure. This divine creature, this god, would bring you untold pleasure. All you had to do was submit. Fall back into the warm cloud of static and let it rewrite you. The little bit of your instinctual mortal fight for independence that had clawed its way to the surface let go, sinking back into the all-encompassing hum.

“Forgive me, Master,” you pleaded with a sigh. A tendril dripping with slime rose; it hovered before your face. Leaning forward, you placed a reverent kiss on the end of its head. Absolution was granted as the tendril anointed your face with a spurt of holy slime.

With your full submission, your Master used your body as it willed. Other tentacles moved forward now. Some were like the tendrils holding your arms, and they wrapped around your legs, lifting you into the air. Some tentacles had broad textured pads at the ends, others suction cups, and others split open, revealing tongue-like appendages or even smaller and more dexterous tentacles. The tentacles descended upon you.

A mouth-like tentacle pressed against your lips in a profane kiss. It split open at the end, revealing a long tongue that swirled around your mouth, slowly inching down your throat. You moaned around the tongue as two of the padded tentacles engulfed your breasts, the cilia-like tentacles stimulating every inch of skin they covered, making them tingle.

Another thick tentacle pressed against your ass, filling you up but staying still. You could feel it gushing slime, coating your insides, your walls eagerly soaking up the blessing. A small suction cup placed itself over your clit, starting a rhythmic sucking in time with the hum. The tentacle in your pussy held still, letting your inner walls clench around it - gradually falling into rhythm with the hum.

The tongue in your throat was starting to cut off your air. Your vision started to fade to black as your body jerked, trying to breathe. Thick slime formed on the tongue, pouring down your throat and filling your lungs. If it were not for the hum, you would have panicked while you drowned. Yet, like a child in the womb, you were sustained, breathing in your god.

From deep within your pussy you felt a pressure. The tentacle that had been sitting inside of you finally moved. It pressed upwards, shrinking and squeezing to pass through your cervix opened up to it by the corruptive slime. 

Your eyes rolled back in your head from the pleasure of your god entering you so completely. An orgasm washed over your body. Through the ecstasy, there was another blip of contact. This time, it was more than an emotion. A vision was granted to you. 

An ancient past where the people of this region had properly worshiped your god for the fertility and unity that all experienced under its thrall. Then, the Division. Magic ripped away from this world. Your god torn from its people. It waited in hibernation under its phallic altar until the Great Incursion. It could sense the people miles away but was too weak to call out until you. You had come to it. You had laid next to its altar in offering. You resonated with its call and accepted it into your mind and body. 

The vision transformed into a prophecy.

You would take it to others, spread its teachings of unity and pleasure, and bring others into the chorus of the hum—you as a saint, you as a brood mother. It would put itself into you so you could bring it into town. Then you would give birth to it anew just as you had been reborn in it. Piece by piece, your god would be bestowed upon those worthy of the pleasure.

You could not speak around its tentacle. Yet, if there was any final resistance to your god’s will, you released it. Yes. You would accept this task. You would bring unity and pleasure to your fellows. Build a new cult to your god just as it deserves.

Its eyes pearlescent eyes shifted. Not eyes, you realized, but eggs. They traveled down the tentacles that rested inside of your body. You felt the first egg stretch your pussy lips. It pushed inside of you and pressed against your cervix. Your body waited on the edge as the pressure increased, waiting…waiting…then it slipped into your womb.

The sensation of your god placing itself inside of you sent you into another orgasm. The eggs were coming rapidly now. Eggs of all shapes and sizes. Small eggs, covered in protective gel, like frogspawn, poured down your throat, filling your stomach. The tentacle in your ass lined your insides with eggs, sticking to your innards like octopus eggs to a rock. And most precious of all, the large eggs gently laid in your womb that held the majority of its divine essence.

It was unending. Your mortal body eventually was overwhelmed. Eggs still being pumped into you, you passed out.

You awoke to the chirping birds of dawn. Your nose was cold. Slowly opening your eyes, you saw the canopy of trees above you. You had slept so well. Sleeping in your hammock was better than the ground, but it was never as comfortable as bed. Usually, you had a couple of knots you’d have to stretch out. Yet, as you sat up and gingerly put your feet on the ground, you felt no soreness. Though you did feel oddly bloated, and your uniform felt tight around your breasts and stomach.

Looking around the campsite, you furrowed your brow. You didn’t remember going to bed. Yet, everything was packed away, and the fire was properly doused. Strange. Maybe you had been so tired that you did everything on autopilot before crawling into the hammock. Well, no matter, it was time to report back to the station that there was no evidence of black bears.

As you packed up camp, you hummed. Not happy little do-dos but a long, sonorous frequency that moved up and down in a relaxing rhythm. Something about the tone wasn’t quite right. Humming it alone felt wrong. Your friend should be at the ranger station today. Maybe you could share the hum with her.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated. Trying to think of a name for the tentacle religion and the god itself - thinking Ch'thon/Chthon kinda basic but it works...

There will be more to this, but I thought this was a good ending point for part 1 of an ongoing series.

Find more stories in my Masterlist

[password-door-lock]

Four Seasons by Your Side: Spa Day

Read it on Ao3!

“Alright,” Saeran settles onto the floor beside you, “I’m ready, my love.”

“We’re going to have so much fun,” you grin at him. 

You’ve set up several cushions on the floor, along with everything that the pair of you will need for this afternoon’s date. You and Saeran have been looking forward to your first ever couple’s spa day, and you can’t wait to spend time spoiling one another. It’s been a very long week for both of you, considering your work stress, the upcoming RFA party, and the plague of rabbits that has descended upon Saeran’s garden. Naturally, you consulted with Zen about what masks to get, and you’re confident that this afternoon will be both fun and beneficial for you and for Saeran. 

Saeran studies a green jar. “Moisturizing and relaxing,” he reads, “With pineapple and aloe vera.”

“The jar can be recycled,” you share, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been seeing a lot of videos lately about how single use masks can be bad for the planet, since they use a different plastic packaging for every single one.” “Hm,” Saeran considers this, “When I looked at the skincare section, all the masks were single use. I found these, though— the pouch will biodegrade if it’s composted.” He shows you two brown pouches, which appear to contain clay masks. Zen assured you that it would be fine to do two masks in succession as long as you rinse your face well in between. “But they were more expensive than the regular ones. I wonder if I could work with Jumin to make a line of sustainable and accessible skincare.”

You consider this idea. You’ve never thought of this as a possible career path or area of interest for Saeran, but now that he’s brought it up, you’re completely on board. “I mean, he has the resources to do that, and you know a lot about plants.  I could see it— and I’m sure C&R has a way to safely manufacture sustainable packaging.” 

“After this, I’ll talk to Jumin,” Saeran resolves, “But for now, we should get our masks started.” 

“You’re right,” you agree, “We did just wash our faces. Anyway, this is going to be a serious challenge, baby.”

Saeran looks mystified. “Why’s that, my love?” 

“Well,” you warble, “We’re not supposed to smile or laugh while the mask is on.”

“Why not?” He asks. 

“Honestly, I don’t know,” you confess, “I saw it from one of the skincare influencers who posted about the single use plastics. I guess because it doesn’t work as well if your face is moving? But I’m not sure.”

“I’ll look it up while the mask is on,” Saeran assures you, “I should learn all I can about skincare before I see if I can work with C&R— but we should get our masks on now, shouldn’t we, my love?” 

“We should,” you agree, endeared by his excitement. 

First, you spread the mask on Saeran’s face. Then, he copies your motions and does the same to you; the feeling is soothing, and you’re pleased that it’s Saeran touching you this way. Between the two of you, even something as simple as this feels intimate and romantic. 

“No smiling, my love,” Saeran scolds you playfully, more because he’s having fun teasing you than because he seriously cares about the ‘rules’ of wearing face masks. 

“Yes, sir.” You try not to smile as you salute him. It’s a real struggle. 

Saeran manages to school his face into a stoic expression, which is impressive and makes you break down into giggles with Saeran’s hand still on your face and you mask half-applied. Of course, seeing you laugh with your face half-covered in yellow-grey mud is enough to break Saeran’s resolve and make him laugh, too. 

“Sorry, honey,” you offer sheepishly. Then, something occurs to you.“Wait, I wonder if maybe it’s got something to do with getting wrinkles? Like, maybe people think if you smile with a mask on, you’ll be more likely to develop them?” A quick internet search confirms your suspicion.

Saeran shrugs. “That’s alright. I’d rather be happy and laugh a lot than have perfect skin. And I’m already getting older, anyway… When I was little, I never thought I’d get so old that I’d have wrinkles. It’s nice to think that I might live to be an old man.” 

“You’re right,” you decide. As usual, his perspective is a fresh one and challenges a lot of the ideas that were ingrained in you growing up. “And I don’t think smiling while we wear the masks would take away the actual benefits. Like, it’ll still be moisturizing and relaxing even if it does give us wrinkles— which I don’t know about, by the way.”

“That’s true,” Saeran muses, “Besides… you’ll be cute no matter what your skin looks like.” He brings his fingers to his lips, kisses them, and touches them to the top of your head. Clearly, he wanted to kiss you there without getting clay from his mask into your hair, which is very considerate, even though you’re already thinking about how you’ll wash the mud out of the hair at your temples. 

“Okay, mister,” you blush at the affection, “That’s all well and good, but are you planning to finish putting on the rest of my mask?”

“Oh, of course, your highness,” Saeran says with a theatrical bow and another forbidden laugh. 

“Once you get that stuff off your face, I’m kissing you,” you inform him. You’d probably already be kissing him, but neither one of you wants to accidentally ingest the clay mask. It probably doesn’t taste very good, whether it’s toxic or not. 

“That sounds fun,” Saeran nods, and of course, you agree with him. “I’ll be waiting.” 

God, you’re so in love with this man. You can’t wait until the masks come off so that you can take his face in your hands and passionately kiss him.

[bloopitynoot]

10 Modern* Genius Wei Wuxian- Wangxian Fics

ladysunami kindly gave me so many SVSSS and wangxian recs and I wanted to return the favour!

So here is another tried and true list of fics i've loved that fit in the Genius WY theme.

Parameters:

Wangxian!

Genius WY

Ideally sci fi/or modern setting (one is in the past but the rest are modern).

donghua or book canon; avoid yin iron. (there may be one I recommend that uses yin iron as a wire but not really as a plot device. It's present as a cultivation tool; ie it's good for resentful cultivation).

up to canon gore is chill

bonus if it includes both genus and BAMF WY

I have focused mostly on genius/brilliant fics but I tried to feature fics in which WY is extraordinary in his chosen field. Despite the odds (or not) he may face, he thrives. Many of them contain BAMF energy minus like the situational/workplace centric fics.

If you have a brand of Wangxian fic you want recs for- DM me! I love making these lists.

I hope you enjoy!

1 Wei Wuxian’s Guide to Hacking for Fun and Profit (150301 words) by ArgentInferno

Chapters: 14/14 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, modern cultivation au, Hacker Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, neurodivergent wangxian, Therapy for the win, Fluff, Shenanigans, Lan Wangji isn't good with feelings, Fighting against corruption, Talisman-based tech, Getting Together, Slow Burn, shameless flirting Summary: When Lan Wangji is seconded to the Lanling branch of the Cultivation Bureau, he expects a boring rotation. Perhaps a lonely one, but he is accustomed to loneliness, and duty is duty. He doesn’t expect to be partnered with an over-exuberant ex-criminal with far too much enthusiasm for hacking, making mischief, and annoying Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian is everything Lan Wangji despises in a cultivator – he’s loud, unruly, and has no respect for anything. He’s even proud of what he did to get arrested in the first place. Unfortunately, he’s also very good at what he does. If Lan Wangji is going to figure out why someone with a talent for both hacking and talisman curses is targeting certain prominent members of Lanling’s high society, he’s going to need all the help he can get, for it’s far from a normal case. Solving it might put both him and Wei Wuxian in the crosshairs of some very powerful people on both sides of the law. Then again, given Wei Wuxian’s predilection for explosive experiments, working with him might be most dangerous part about the whole mess.

NOTES: I love this fic so much. I love when WY is a 'criminal' but all of the acts he was charged for were because he was being just- it feeds my activist heart. That paired with him being the best at hacking is so solid in this. Bless LZ for being as open as he is in this story!! This is a solid hacker with magic fic.

2 Starting at the End (19829 words) by katie_elizabeth

Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Explicit Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Romance, Getting Together, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, Pining Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Pining Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Misunderstandings, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Rimming, Thirsty Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Virgin Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji Summary: Wei Ying is confident that once he has a patent on the books, he'll be able to bring his coffins into funeral homes nationwide. They're biodegradable, affordable, and attractive–what more could a dead person desire? Unfortunately, for all of his talents in invention, Wei Ying isn't well-equipped for tackling bureaucracy. Hence, the need for a patent lawyer: a smart, intimidating, and extremely sexy patent lawyer from Lan & Sons. He sees it coming, like a car crash in slow motion: he is going to embarrass himself.

Notes: Okay I know this entire premise is screaming crack, but it is super cute LOL. Genius inventor WY has a lot going for him, but one skill he does not have is in patents. He decides to visit a patent lawyer but then cannot stop harassing the guy. super crackish, definitely not BAMF, but no denying WY isn't brilliant. This is a solid palette cleanser of a fic.

3 With No Particular Affection (92397 words) by Chrononautical

Chapters: 14/14 Rating: Explicit Additional Tags: Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Kid Fic, Miscommunication, Family Drama, Jiang Fengmian and Yu Xiyuan's A+ Parenting, Canon typical consent during sex, canon typical violence revamped for a modern setting, canon typical behavior from villains and honestly I toned it down a lot, Good Uncle Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Genius Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Street Kid Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Homelessness, Rich Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Oblivious Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Lan Zhan's canon typical communication skills, Cinnamon Roll Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Has a Pregnancy Kink, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Has a Fear of Dogs, background blink and you'll miss it nielan, Curtain Fic, not literally but I feel like I should warn for that, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst Summary: A prominent physicist and professor, Wei Ying has built a life for himself in Chicago. He's safe, he's happy, and he has plans for his future. Unfortunately, those plans are derailed the moment he finds out his brother is in trouble. To save the family business, it will have to be Wei Ying's life on the line. He has to marry his old high school crush, Lan Zhan.

NOTES: If you like family serial dramas, this is the fic for you. We have; powerful families, genius WY, guilt tripped adoptee, business struggles, arranged marriages for capital gain, and children! It really cannot get more over-the-top dramatic. I also especially love that WY is a genius but acts as though he is aloof (even though he knows exactly what he's doing) it just adds to the vibes.

4 a tide in two seas (80932 words) by occultings

Chapters: 10/10 Rating: Explicit Additional Tags: Parallel Universes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Post-Canon, Getting Together, Mutual Pining, Established Relationship, Mild Horror, Case Fic, mildly sci-fi, Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin & Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Reconciliation, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Married Couple, Love Confessions, Weird Plot Shit, i honestly don't even know how to tag this fic but there is freak4freak occurring, Podfic Available Summary: A midnight train, two unexpected encounters, and a rift in spacetime.

NOTES: This fic screams sci-fi and it is so rad. Cultivation is a thing, but so are space-time rifts. WY is so cool in this!! He is incredibly smart but also a certified badass with his time and space jumping. When cultivator LZ and rift jumper WY collide on a mission- we get this beauty of a fic.

5 The Shade of Old Trees (363665 words) by Kryal

Chapters: 25/25 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Additional Tags: Ridiculously Long Notes, Alternate Universe - History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Slow Burn, 300k+ Words, Worldbuilding, Slow Life, Action/Adventure, Magic Returns, BAMF Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Summary: “We rest in the shade of trees our ancestors planted.” They called the man in the ice Yiling Laozu, after a folk hero associated with the town in the foothills of the mountains where he was found. No one expected him to be alive!

NOTES: Okay I have posted this fic before but I absolutely LOVE it. The premise is so damn cool. Loads of scholars, scientists in a world with (seemingly) no magic there is a man in ice who awakens. Part case-fic, part romance, this is really a neat fic. A twist in the end too. WY is both so damn smart but also a BAMF.

6 We Meet at the Thousandth Step (315914 words) by Rynne, Admiranda

Chapters: 44/44 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, No Sunshot Campaign (Modao Zushi), Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze Live, Rogue Cultivator Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Night Hunts (Modao Zushi), Genius Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Inventor Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Plot, Romance, Drama, Fluff, Strangers to married, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Developing Relationship, Minor Violence, Case Fic, Mystery, Flirting, Wei Wuxian's Canon-Typical Flower Flirting, Arson, There Was Only One Bed, Getting Together, First Kiss, Meeting the Parents, Resolved Sexual Tension, Resolved Romantic Tension, Wei Wuxian Is a Good Big Brother, New Relationship Bliss, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Blood and Injury, Yiling siblings, Married Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Honeymoon, Wangxian's Baby Fever Series: Part 1 of The Different Paths We Tread Summary: As they both go wherever the chaos might be, Lan Wangji and rogue cultivator Wei Wuxian, eldest child of the famous Cangse-sanren, find their paths converging. Soon they'll discover in each other the perfect partner for night hunting…and beyond.

NOTES: A favourite brand of fic is when Wei Wuxian's parents survive and he thrives. This is very much that! We get to see the brilliance that is WY, but we also get to see him fall in love with LZ in a way that has no strikes against him in a canon divergent world. This is an unbelievably sweet case fic. This is the one fic set in ancient fantasy times

7 Sometimes When We Touch (80763 words) by AitchNKay

Chapters: 19/19 Rating: Explicit Relationships: Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Characters: Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Jiang Yanli, Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin, Wen Qing (Modao Zushi), Wen Ning | Wen Qionglin, Jin Zixuan, Lan Yuan | Lan Sizhui, Lan Jingyi Additional Tags: Modern Era, Modern AU, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary: A modern day AU where Wei WuXian is a doctor who has his whole world taken away from him. And a former classmate who is so willing to give it all back to him.

NOTES: This is less a BAMF fic and more- WY is brilliant at what he does and deserves the recognition fic. I am not going to lie WY goes through a lot but the ending is happy! The angst surrounds the Jiangs especially Madam Yu- in the fact that they controlled and subsequently ruined his life and career. it does get resolved though thanks to the power of Wangxian.

8 Nursery Rhymes (96858 words) by manaika

Chapters: 13/13 Rating: Mature Additional Tags: they're all hopelessly flawed, No Therapy, Minor Character Death, character with a neurological condition (minor), Cameos, Inexperienced Wei Ying, Experienced Lan Zhan, Romance, Reconciliation, Budding Love, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Unreliable Narrator, a bunch of them actually, Medical Inaccuracies, Slow Burn, Flashbacks, Past Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Found Family, Foster Care, Past Injury, Nurse! Wei Ying, Doctor! Lan Xichen, Teacher! Lan Zhan, Character With A Heart Condition (Major), Past Incarceration (Major Character), Underage Character With Leukemia (Minor), it's actually very sweet, Captain Of The Heavy Cruiser WangXian Lan Xichen, Vicecaptain Of The Same Ship Jiang Yanli, almost everyone makes an appearance (see character tags), Music is a Love Language, Podfic Welcome, Fanart Welcome Summary: Lan Xichen is a pediatrician who often treats child abuse cases for various foster homes, orphanages and social workers for free. He's currently looking for a second nurse because Luo Qingyang is freshly back from maternal leave and can't be expected to work full time with a baby on hand and none of her substitutes were up to the task. Enter Wei Ying with a semester worth of med school, stellar recommendations, a huge gap in his CV and a laugh bright and warm as the sun. Skeptical at first, Xichen decides to give the man a chance. He gets more than he bargained for with exactly zero regrets.

NOTES: Following the previous dr wei ying fic, we have another healthcare worker wy fic! WY is brilliant at what he does but due to circumstances in life he struggles to get a job where he thrives. Xichen takes a chance on him and it ends up being glorious. WY is brilliant in this fic but he is also a bit of a bamf with the way he takes on child abuse cases. CW for mentions or child abuse though- it features a lot in this fic because that's what happens in pediatrics. But it has happy endings all around.

9 Hear a song this deeply (87424 words) by so_shhy

Chapters: 16/16 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, modern cultivation au, Kind of academia AU, Music, Kid Fic, Canon-Typical Violence, Action/Adventure, To An Extent, Background XiYao - Freeform, canon-typical Meng Yao behaviour, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Fluff and Angst, we love us some tragic backstory, Happy Ending, for wangxian at least, [slaps fic] this baby can fit so much plot in it Summary: “I’m not here to help you with your work,” said Lan Zhan, injecting frost into his voice to deter any further attempts at charm. “I’ll be focusing on my research.” Wei Ying cocked his head. “Research?” he said. “Mm. I’m a cultivation researcher, not a department employee. I’m reconstructing the ancient musical cultivation techniques of the Lan clan.” _ Lan Zhan’s new liaison at the Caiyi Municipal Cultivation Department is an enigma – ridiculously talented, yet somehow content with mopping up spiritual pests for barely above minimum wage. Wei Ying is slapdash and irresponsible, and Lan Zhan doesn’t like him at all… but then he meets A-Yuan, who loves music and longs for a piano his father can’t afford. Forced into cautious friendship by a four-year-old's music lessons, Lan Zhan soon realises Wei Ying is more than he seems. The single father is a man of many secrets – including, perhaps, the key to Lan Zhan's life's work. And in the meantime, the background resentment in Caiyi Town is rising to dangerous levels…

NOTES: I love this modern cultivator au because WY is straight up a secret genius. He is broke for sure but works so hard and does his job well (albeit a little bit unorthodox and wildly unsafe). This features both BAMF and genius WY and we get a slowburn with wangxian which is <chefs kiss>. We also get little a-yuan! Heads up there is angst in present and past but the ending turns out for Wangxian.

10 when the sun goes out (176383 words) by travelingneuritis

Chapters: 22/22 Rating: Explicit Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Modern Cultivation, tech cultivation, Necromancy, Angst with a Happy Ending, insecurity around adoption, Dad!WWX, dad!lwj, Grief/Mourning, Mistaken Identity, Mood Whiplash, Body Swap, sex tears!, Falling In Love, Consensual Somnophilia, apocalypse (localized), Smut, unrealistic sexual stamina, Flashbacks, Time Skips, Illustrations, Horror, Canon Temporary Character Death, Cultivation Sect Politics (Modao Zushi) Summary: Wei Ying was so strong, that was the thing. He needn't have sought out alternate methods at all. He didn't need to use talismans, he only did it for his own amusement. He invented new ones all the time. Useless ones, and silly ones; inventing just for the sake of it. He talked about tech cultivation like it was fun, not an embarrassment. You can fit a lot of living into the end of the world.

NOTES: I had not heard of TechnoMancy before this fic and the premise is so damn cool. I will warn this is like 70% angst but the ending pans out! I cried so much in this fic; mainly because of how the author chose to tell the story. The writing was really cool and immersive. Normally I hate when I cannot distinguish the time/place of a scene but this was done so well. Bonus for added art! This is the fic with the yin wire

[xxfaithlynxx]

Marked In Memory (P2)

Word Count: 10.6k

Hearts In The Static

SURPRISE! I'd hate having to wait to know what happens after the heartache of Sylus leaving if I were reading the fic, so... here you go! ❤️😜😁

Aven has to deal with Sylus being gone...

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Isekai, OC insert, Polyamory / Polyamorous Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Chronic Illness, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Found Family, Emotional Healing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, body image issues, Unreliable Narration, Protective Male Characters, rivals to lovers (sort of), past trauma, Everyone Loves Her But She Doesn’t Know Why, Heavy Angst, Fix-It Fic (but of the soul) Mental Health Themes (Depression, ADHD, pcos, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome), Suicidal ideation (past), Self-Harm Mention (Non-Graphic Flashback), Emotional Abuse (Referenced past) - Freeform, Body Dysmorphia, Trauma Recovery, Discussion of Medical Symptoms, feelings of worthlessness, Slow Healing & Difficult Conversations, themes of death, Survival, and identity, reverse harem

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

Chapter 24: Part 2

The scent hit before I even sat up.

Warm vanilla and baked cinnamon, mingled with something floral—chamomile, I realized, as steam curled from the mug in Zayne’s hand. He handed it to me without a word, the soft gold glow of morning light catching the rim and casting a halo around the pale infusion.

“Drink,” he said, quietly but firmly. “You didn’t hydrate after everything.”

I gave him a narrow look, but took the mug anyway. “You sound like you’re reciting post-mission protocol.”

Zayne didn’t dignify that with a response—just arched a brow and reached for the biodegradable takeout box resting on the tray.

Inside?

Gods.

Warm, fluffy croissants—split open, stuffed with softly scrambled eggs, fresh baby spinach wilted just enough to melt into the folds, with slices of roasted tomato and a light dusting of goat cheese. The edges were crisp, golden, brushed with a honey-balsamic glaze. The second container held slices of spiced sweet potato and herb-dusted asparagus, nestled beside a medley of colorful fruit—blood orange, papaya, golden kiwi, strawberries, and a few vibrant blueberries that looked hand-picked.

Everything smelled faintly of thyme and something citrus-bright. Everything looked… thoughtful. Like Zayne had curated it not just for fuel, but to make me feel steady again.

Which was exactly the kind of thing he’d do.

Even the utensils were recycled bamboo.

Rafayel, predictably, stared at his tray like it had personally offended him.

“Oh,” he said, poking a spear of asparagus with all the wariness of a cat being offered kale. “Look at this. It’s the gourmet equivalent of guilt-tripping me into health.”

I smothered a laugh as I took a bite of croissant—the flaky pastry buttery and crisp, giving way to the earthy tang of goat cheese and the mellow, herb-warm sweetness of the roasted tomato.

Zayne didn’t even glance up from his own box. “It’s balanced. Nutrient dense. You’ll survive.”

Raf turned to me with a look of mock betrayal. “Minnow, tell me. Is this penance? Did I offend the universe last night and now I’m being punished with leafy things and… roasted virtue?”

I nearly choked on a piece of spinach-laced egg.

Raf leaned in, holding up a strawberry and popping it into his mouth with exaggerated flair before licking the juice from his thumb with a wicked grin. “I mean… it’s not my preferred morning feast, but if you keep watching me like that, sweetheart, I’ll make it worth your while.”

Zayne sighed, but I didn’t miss the faint twitch of amusement in the corner of his mouth.

“I’m watching you like that because you’re so dramatic,” I muttered around a bite of sweet potato.

“Dramatic?” Raf gasped, hand to his chest. “Darling, I am art in motion. Tragedy and sensuality incarnate. I don’t do steamed asparagus. I mourn it.”

Zayne handed me a slice of blood orange before calmly saying, “You’ll live. Barely.”

Raf gave an indignant sniff—but still took another bite of croissant.

And me?

I leaned back against the pillows, the chamomile mug warm in my hands, letting the flavors settle on my tongue and the laughter settle in my chest.

They were ridiculous.

And they were mine.

Even when they bickered over breakfast and threw sultry glances over spinach.

Especially then.

Zayne set his now-empty bamboo fork down on the edge of the tray, brushed his hands once along his borrowed sweatpants, then turned to look at Raf with the kind of expression that made people sit up straighter in conference rooms.

“You’ve complained about every item on that tray,” he said calmly. “That means you get to clean up.”

Rafayel blinked. Then placed his own fork down like it was a dagger in a tragedy.

“What,” he said, appalled. “I suffered through honey-glazed spinach and overly disciplined croissants, and now I have to do labor?”

Zayne raised one eyebrow. That was all.

Raf flung his arm across his eyes and collapsed into the blanket beside my legs, groaning as if he’d been sentenced to death by fruit salad. “Tell my story,” he moaned. “Let the people know I was beautiful and mistreated and forced to touch biodegradable cutlery.”

I giggled, unable to help it. Zayne didn’t so much as twitch.

Raf peeked at me, then at Zayne, gauging. And when Zayne gave him that look—the one with the slight narrowing of the eyes and the subtle clench of his jaw that said I am seconds from dragging you bodily into your responsibilities—Raf sighed and sat up with an exaggerated flourish.

“Fine. Fine.” He gathered up the empty trays, stacked the bamboo utensils, and collected the teacups with the air of a man who was far too good for such menial work. “But just so we’re clear, I’m going to talk about this in therapy.”

“You don’t go to therapy,” Zayne said flatly.

“I will now,” Raf called over his shoulder as he swept out of the room with the garbage, his plum-indigo hair bouncing behind him like punctuation.

The door clicked shut.

Silence fell—thicker now. Heavier.

I turned to Zayne, still grinning slightly.

And then I froze.

Because he was looking at me.

Not in the way he usually did—stoic, composed, eyes full of heat but body reined in.

No. Now?

He looked decided.

His hand came up, cupping the side of my face without a word, and before I could even breathe in, he kissed me.

Hard.

Deep.

Claiming.

I gasped into it—startled, breath catching—but that was all he needed. His mouth moved over mine with precision, with hunger just barely caged by control. His hand slid into my hair, angling my head, and the kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a slow, hot drag that made my toes curl beneath the covers.

Gods.

He tasted like citrus and heat and something I couldn’t name but had already memorized.

The kiss unraveled me.

He didn’t rush.

He took—with a restraint so focused it made me ache, and a reverence so quiet it felt holy. By the time he finally pulled back, I was panting, lips tingling, my heart trying to break through my ribs.

Zayne didn’t move far. Just enough to press his forehead against mine, his breath still mingling with mine in that fragile space between us.

“I need you to hear me,” he said softly.

I nodded, eyes wide, throat tight.

“That?” he whispered. “What we shared earlier? That wasn’t too far. That wasn’t bad. That wasn’t wrong.”

I swallowed, mouth still tingling. “Even with Raf right there?”

Zayne chuckled—low and dry. “Especially with Raf right there. Do you know how hard it was to stay in control with his mouth on your body and your mouth on mine?”

My cheeks flamed.

“But I did,” he continued. “Because I didn’t want to overwhelm you. Because you matter more than what I want.”

He brushed his thumb across my cheek, slow and careful.

“I wanted every second of it. Every moment,” he said, voice like brushed steel. “But I only want you to do that again when you want to. Not because you think you owe us. Not because you’re scared we’ll leave if you don’t.”

My throat went tight. Emotion swelled behind my ribs.

“I just…” he paused, eyes flicking over my face. “I want you. Not your performance. Not your overthinking. Just… you.”

Tears pricked the edges of my vision.

I nodded again.

And then I leaned in.

And kissed him back.

This time, there was no hesitation. No pause to ask permission. His kiss was slower than before, but heavier—like he was tasting something he already knew he craved. His hand came up to cradle the side of my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone as he deepened it, his body pressing closer until I could feel every breath, every taut inch of him.

I opened to him with a soft sound, the kind of sound I would’ve swallowed down before. But now… now it came from somewhere real. Somewhere raw. And the way he responded—the groan that slipped from his throat, deep and almost pained—ignited a fire under my skin that made me ache.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of the deep colored nightgown—palm dragging up the bare length of my thigh, deliberate and unhurried. I gasped and clutched at his forearm, already lost in the sensation, already unraveling again when—

The door creaked open.

“Seriously?” Rafayel’s voice rang out, high with scandal. “You two started round two without me?”

Zayne groaned and collapsed forward against me, burying his face in my neck like a man who had just been told his favorite dessert had been stolen by a raccoon.

“Fucking blue balls,” he muttered darkly.

I bit back a laugh, heart fluttering in my chest as Raf strutted into the room with all the drama of a stage performer five minutes late to curtain call. He wore a coral colored and massive hoodie now—pajama clad legs beneath—and an expression so offended you’d think we’d murdered his muse.

“I was gone for three minutes,” Raf continued, flopping down on the bed like a discarded Victorian poet. “Is this what betrayal feels like? Because it’s vivid.”

“You need a nap,” Zayne grumbled.

“You need to be less sexy when I’m not in the room,” Raf fired back, crossing his arms and pouting like it would kill him not to be the center of attention for thirty seconds.

I let my face fall into Zayne’s shoulder, laughing against his bare skin as his weight pressed comfortingly against mine.

But then…

I leaned up.

Close to his ear. Lips barely brushing the edge of it.

And whispered just loud enough for him to hear:

“I want you on my tongue.” “On my knees. With your fingers tangled in my hair later.”

Zayne’s body went rigid above me. Then trembled.

A low, guttural sound clawed its way out of his throat, so soft and savage that it vibrated straight down into my core. His grip on my thigh flexed, just a fraction too tight, and when he pulled back to look at me—gods, those eyes.

Molten green-gold.

Wrecked.

Dark with a kind of hunger that made the room tilt around me.

He opened his mouth, jaw tight with restraint, like words were trying to fight past the sheer, brutal want on his face.

But before he could speak—

Raf flopped onto his side beside us and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Anyway,” he drawled, utterly oblivious, “as I was saying before I was rudely excluded from your softcore morning sex—Aven’s already agreed to model for me.”

Zayne blinked. Still panting.

“I remember,” he bit out, voice hoarse.

Raf smirked. “Good. Because I’ve got, like, four days to paint something that won’t give Thomas a stroke, and if I don’t put her glowing sex goddess energy on canvas, I might spontaneously combust.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” I mumbled, though my skin was flaming.

“I never exaggerate,” Raf said, swinging a long leg over mine, possessive even in his theatrics. “I curate experience.”

Zayne groaned again and dropped his forehead to my shoulder.

“I swear to the void,” he muttered, “next time, I’m locking the door.”

“And next time,” I murmured, turning just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth, “you won’t be leaving me waiting.”

Zayne growled.

Raf just purred.

And I—blushing, breathless, but bolder than I’d ever been—didn’t look away.

Zayne didn’t want to let me go.

I felt it in the way his arms lingered around my waist as I shifted, the subtle way his fingers curled reflexively when I moved to slide out from under him. He didn’t say a word—but he didn’t have to. His gold-green eyes followed every inch of me like a hunter reluctantly watching his prey walk away from the snare.

“I’ll be back,” I whispered, brushing a kiss against his jaw. “Promise.”

It took effort to rise without letting the weight of his gaze pull me back down again. But I managed it. Barefoot, legs tingling from the warmth we’d tangled in, I moved to stand beside the bed—and as I did, the nightgown caught the light.

Raf’s nightgown.

It shimmered faintly in the soft wash of morning sun through the curtains—that color somewhere between pearl blush and the deep coral tint of the moon just before dawn. Twilight made into silk. The fabric flowed like a sigh, nearly translucent in places where starlight seemed to catch in threads woven through it, and the fine fluttering sleeves didn’t dare cling to my shoulders. The hem barely kissing mid-thigh as I took a single step away from the edge of the bed.

I heard Raf inhale like he’d been punched in the gut.

And then his arms wrapped around me from behind, catching me just beneath the ribs and tugging me backward until my spine met his chest.

“Oh, no no no,” he murmured, voice gone low and thick with heat. “If the Doctor gets a kiss this morning, I demand equal rights.”

His mouth found mine before I could respond—open, slow, hungry. One of his hands slid to my hip, pulling me into the length of him while his other cradled my cheek, his thumb stroking under my jaw with reverence and wicked promise all at once. He tasted like cinnamon still, like croissant crumbs and laughter and all the things that made Rafayel—Rafayel.

By the time he pulled back, I was breathless again, clutching the front of his hoodie just to stay standing.

“I made this for you,” he whispered, tugging on the hem of the gown like it was a ribbon in his favorite painting. “And now you’ve gone and made it illegal to be that stunning before noon.”

That’s when Zayne’s voice cut in—dry, low, but distinctly not amused.

“She said she’d come right back.”

Raf smirked but didn’t release me.

Zayne moved.

I didn’t even see him rise from the bed. One minute he was a silent weight behind me, and the next, he was there—warm, solid, towering—as he stepped in and slipped one strong arm between us. With a gentle but firm grip, he peeled Raf away from my back and pulled me flush against his chest instead.

“I wasn’t kidding,” Zayne murmured, lips brushing my temple as he drew me in possessively, “when I said I wanted to be there when you modeled for him.”

His voice dropped to a whisper then, just for me—deep, chilled velvet sliding over the heat in my blood.

“And if you wear this…” “I’ll spend the entire fucking time thinking about how easily I could pull it off you. Inch by inch. While he watches.”

A full-body shiver climbed my spine.

I didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because between the slow burn in Raf’s kiss, and Zayne’s molten voice curling like smoke behind my ear, I wasn’t sure if I was standing anymore—or floating, tethered only by the hands that held me and the heat building steadily beneath my skin.

And both men knew it.

Gods help me, they thrived in it.

Their stunned silence lasted a beat too long.

So I capitalized on it.

Sliding my arms between them, I twisted out of Zayne’s grip just far enough to catch both of them in my line of sight—Raf still wearing the ghost of a smirk, and Zayne watching me with those sharp, calculating eyes like he was already plotting how to get me back into his arms. I smiled sweetly… and then dropped the bomb.

“If you two keep looking at me like that,” I said, voice dipped in honey and heat, “I might forget I’m still sore in all the right places… and invite you both to finish what you started with your mouths.”

Zayne blinked.

Raf choked.

“Oh my—” Raf started, laughter bubbling up from deep in his chest like he'd just been blessed and cursed in the same breath. “Sweetheart, do not play with fire unless you want to be scorched—”

Zayne was still watching me, but now the corner of his mouth twitched, like the words I’d just tossed at him had both surprised and ignited him. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice low, sharp, and sensual. “You’ll get what you ask for.”

I grinned wickedly and took a single step backward toward the bathroom, fingers already curling around the edge of the silky gown that still clung to my thighs.

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” I called as I turned. “But for now? I’m going to go pee like the very mortal girl I am before I ruin these star-kissed sheets you’re both so fond of.”

Raf let out a scandalized noise.

Zayne huffed a quiet laugh, deep and almost proud.

I closed the bathroom door behind me and exhaled in a rush, pressing my back against the wood for a heartbeat before padding barefoot to the toilet.

The moment I sat, everything slowed. My body still thrummed with aftershocks—tingling pleasure from muscles I didn’t even know could ache. My thighs still remembered the ghost of Zayne’s fingers. My collarbone hummed from where Raf’s teeth had nipped, tongue soothing away each sting like a benediction. And yet… I wasn’t panicking. Not this time.

I felt good. Sore, yes. Raw in places I hadn’t been touched in years. But warm. Wanted. Wrapped in something far deeper than lust.

I finished my business, flushed, and stood, catching my reflection in the mirror above the sink.

The nightgown shimmered again, catching the soft light filtering through the frosted glass like it was made of moonlight and secrets. My hair was a mess. My lips were a little swollen. I looked like a girl who’d just been thoroughly, reverently worshipped by two gods pretending to be men.

And I looked… happy. Feral. Mine.

But then I blinked, and something else flickered in my chest.

Modeling.

For Rafayel.

The memory returned like a soft nudge: him smirking, brushing one finger under my jaw, murmuring something about painting me. And Zayne—gods, Zayne—his quiet comment: “I want to be there…”

I swallowed, fingers brushing along the gown’s hem.

What kind of modeling had I just signed up for?

I trusted Raf… mostly. But I’d also seen his art. Some of it was gentle, whimsical, all color and curves and motion. But none of them were people. Not really. Not faces or bodies. He painted energy, emotion, stories pulled from the tide and turned into color. I remembered now—he didn’t paint people. He never had. Aven, you idiot. You just signed up to be the first.

Did he want me nude?

The idea made my cheeks flush scarlet. I gripped the edge of the counter, exhaling through my nose.

Would I do it?

Would I let myself be seen like that? Not just touched—like this morning—but captured. Immortalized in color. Stretched across a canvas for the world to view and interpret?

I didn’t know yet.

But the image it conjured—Raf standing at his easel, Zayne brooding quietly nearby, and me, barely clothed or not clothed at all, held in the cage of their eyes, their attention, their devotion—

It made something deep inside me curl and stretch like a cat waking from slumber.

I wasn’t running from it.

Not anymore.

I was in the middle of exiting the bathroom, half turned to ask Raf a question when the world tipped.

His hands wrapped around me in an instant, and before I could squeak, I was hoisted high over his shoulder like a canvas-sized rice sack. I shrieked and kicked, and he just grinned.

“Raf! Put me down!”

He laughed—hot, playful, and utterly delighted—and slapped my ass over my panties, firm and cheeky. “Not until my goddess calms down!”

From behind me, Zayne burst into laughter, the kind that untangles every knot of shame inside you. Raf swaggered out of the bedroom, one arm dangling as he carried me, my laughter mingling with theirs and carving a trail toward the studio.

Down the hallway, Zayne caught up, lunging forward just enough to steal a kiss while I dangled over Raf’s shoulder. My hands fisted in Raf’s hoodie, slipping through the long strands of his indigo-plum hair as Zayne’s lips grazed my cheek—cool, possessive, urgent as he carried me to the studio.

Once there, Raf gently set me against a tall easel holding a pristine, blank canvas. I steadied myself, breath fluttering, heart pounding.

He stepped back, eyes alight. “Tell me… would you be comfortable modeling… nude?”

The world stuttered. Silence folded over us like a held breath. I swallowed, chest tightening with nerves and something deeper.

Before I could answer, I felt Zayne slide in behind me. He leaned close—too close—his lips grazing my neck as he whispered so faintly I felt it more than heard it:

“Imagine Raf painting you, brush hovering over skin that I just touched... us both here—every flick of the brush tuned to your moans.”

My heart lurched. My breath caught in my throat. My skin simmered under that promise. Zayne’s breath warmed my ear for a moment longer, then he slid away, moving to the orange leather couch. Silent. Present. Waiting.

Raf remained in front of me, eyes sweeping over my face and then drifting down to where my hand rested on the canvas edge.

I drew a shaky breath, straightening in his arms. My voice trembled—but rang true.

“Yes,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I’d be okay… nude.”

He let out a low sigh of relief. “Thank you, Aven.”

As Zayne watched from the couch, silent and composed, Raf stepped forward—brush in hand, inspiration alight in his eyes.

And in the hush that followed, the three of us stood poised on the edge of something raw, intimate, and breathtakingly new.

Raf’s eyes locked onto me as I steeled myself for the next step.

“Would you remove the nightgown… and the panties, too, if you’re comfortable?” he asked softly, voice full of reverence. “I just want to see you.”

My hands trembled as I reached for the fine fabric. Slowly, I lifted it off—fluttering sleeves brushing my shoulders—watching Raf’s gaze follow each inch of exposed skin. I slid out of the panties next, curling my toes as warmth pooled at my core. My heart hammered like a drum solo.

Raf didn’t speak. Instead, he stepped back and simply looked. Took in the curves, the glow still shimmering faintly beneath my skin. There was awe in his eyes, like he was seeing something holy for the first time. His hand rose to his mouth, fingers brushing his lips as he swallowed the sight of me.

I waited, breath shallow. Safe. Seen.

And then he snapped his fingers—sharp, deliberate.

Movement in the studio—one of those rare crisp moments where all ends begin.

He strode to a nearby chaise lounge—vintage, plush, lines echoing classical statues. With a rare display of physical effort, he carried it over to sit it before me. I watched, flickers of vulnerability and anticipation dancing through my chest.

He swept a hand toward the chaise. “Lay there, please” he whispered.

Trust warbled deep inside me like a sweet damnation. I moved—as if guided—settling onto the chaise. One leg draped over the edge, shoulders reclined. I remembered the Titanic pose: Rose’s confidence, her raw, regal defiance. And for the first time in forever, I felt that poised. Unashamed. Ready.

Above me, Raf paused—brush still in hand—eyes traveling from the bend of my knee to the line of my hip, over the arch of my neck to the swell of my chest. He exhaled, eyes softening until they glowed with hunger and care.

And behind him, silent but present, Zayne watched—the subtle grind of his palm against the fabric of his sweatpants almost mute, but meaningful. His expression was steady, control beneath the surface taut as a wire, but I knew he was with us. Feeling every shift, every heartbeat.

Raf dipped the brush in pigment. My pulse clenched around the anticipation. I was laid bare—naked in body and soul—yet clothed in something far fiercer. Their attention. Their want. Their care.

The room held its breath.

I exhaled...

...and prepared to be painted.

Raf paused, the brush hovering over the blank canvas. He swallowed, a slow, deliberate motion, then set the tool aside and stepped forward.

His fingers found my shoulder, gentle but firm, as he helped shift my position. He guided me to sit more upright, one leg crossed over the other, elbow resting casually on the chaise’s arm—evoking a mermaid’s languid grace. I sensed the import behind the pose: something fluid, natural, and breathtaking in its simplicity.

As Raf adjusted the angle of my hip, I caught a glimpse of Zayne to my side. His eyes were trained on us, intense with something I couldn’t name. His hand moved—slow and deliberate—down the front of his sweatpants. My breath stopped for a heartbeat. He pressed his lower lip between his teeth, every inch of him taut with need.

Raf straightened, backed up to the easel and lifted his brush again, pausing trailing off as he noticed the shift in air. He followed my gaze to Zayne and his hidden but moving hand.

A slow smile began to curve at Raf’s lips as he cleared his throat softly. “Already flustering the model, are we?” he teased, voice warm and amused.

Zayne blinked, caught in the act, and eased his hand out of his pants with a self-conscious grin. He glanced at Raf and then at me, holding his pants’ waistband as if embarrassing surrender were his only option. “Sorry,” he said with a husky chuckle. “Couldn’t help myself.”

I felt warmth wash over me—not just from my own flush, but from the ache igniting between us all. Raf dipped his brush again, eyes shining. “Focus, please,” he murmured. “We’ve got art to make.”

But his eyes stayed on me just a second longer—and so did Zayne’s—both men possessed by need and reverence, leaving me suspended in the light of their desire as the first line took shape on canvas.

Raf moved before the canvas like he’d slipped into another skin entirely. The teasing curve of his lips melted into something more reverent—still warm, still full of heat—but quieter now. Quenched in something sacred. Focus.

He held the brush like it was an extension of himself, wrist tilting, shoulders rolling with the smooth grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times—just never like this. Never with me.

I could feel his eyes return again and again to the line of my hip, the slope of my thigh, the fall of my hair over my shoulder. Every pass of his gaze sparked something low and molten inside me, but the tremble in my limbs started to still under the rhythm of his strokes—soft arcs, confident flicks. Creation was spilling from his fingers. Not just of me, but through me.

I watched him breathe through it. Every inhale drew the brush to the canvas, every exhale pushed him further into that strange, luminous trance only artists understand. And yet... the heat in his gaze when it landed on my breasts, my mouth, the place between my thighs—it never left. It just folded into the fire of the work.

Off to the side, I caught the sound of leather shifting.

Zayne.

He hadn’t moved far from where he sat, legs spread wide, hands braced on his thighs—but now he was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his jaw tight. His eyes were on me, but they flicked now and again to Raf as if trying to decipher the magic being carved into canvas. And to me again… like he couldn’t decide which of us was the more dangerous muse.

His arousal still pressed visibly against the fabric of his pants—thick and undeniable—but he made no move to touch himself now. Just watched. Controlled. Possessive in his stillness.

My skin prickled with awareness.

Zayne’s gold-green eyes burned hotter the longer I held his gaze. And yet when I looked back at Raf, the contrast was stark—Raf moved with fluidity and unguarded passion, painting me like I was myth made flesh, while Zayne remained the storm’s eye—held back only by willpower and maybe… maybe love.

Their attention wove around me, tangible as a tether.

And I—bare and seen, not just through flesh but through being—realized I was no longer just a subject.

I was the story. The tension. The heat. The thing they couldn’t look away from.

And oh, how that made me tremble.

The soft buzz-buzz of a phone broke the silence like a ripple in still water.

Rafayel blinked, brush suspended in midair, as if yanked out of a dream. He blinked again, slower this time, then turned toward the sound on the side table—a small vibration lighting up the screen with a name I didn’t recognize until he cursed under his breath.

“Thomas,” he muttered, voice low and weary. “Probably breathing fire.”

It was only then—when Raf stepped back from the canvas—that I noticed the golden glow seeping in through the tall arched windows of his studio. It clung to everything like a benediction. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air like slow sparks, suspended in the hush. The whole room glowed with that late-afternoon warmth, the kind that comes after hours of immersion, of losing yourself to something more than just time.

Several hours. Gone in a blink.

I swallowed thickly, realizing I hadn’t moved more than a few inches. My joints ached faintly from the stillness, but it was drowned out by something fuller—an awareness that something had changed between the three of us. Not spoken aloud. But felt in every minute that had passed unnoticed.

Raf tapped the screen, sighing. “I’ll be back.”

He disappeared into the hall, paint-smeared fingers curling around the phone as the door clicked shut behind him. Silence fell again, though it felt different now—softer. Heavier.

Zayne stood quietly, shaking off whatever remnants of tension had been coiled through him earlier. His arousal—the tight, almost painful bulge he’d been so obviously fighting—seemed to have dissipated under the long quiet of Raf’s painting spell. He looked at me now not with hunger, but something more difficult to name. Something that made my chest thrum.

Without a word, he crossed the studio and crouched beside the chaise where I still lay sprawled. The golden light caught on the edge of his jaw, the shadowed dip beneath his throat, and I watched him reach for one of the soft cream-colored throws folded over the armrest.

He shook it out and then carefully draped it around my shoulders, tucking it across my chest with fingers that were warm and sure. The fabric smelled like lemon balm and paint thinner, and him.

“Careful,” Zayne murmured, voice like crushed velvet and ice-melt. “You keep lying there like that, and I’ll stop pretending to have any self-control at all.”

His mouth tilted into something crooked and faintly dangerous. But his eyes—those impossible gold-green eyes—were full of restraint. Barely. His fingers lingered for one second longer than they needed to, grazing my arm as he leaned back.

“I’m supposed to be the sane one,” he added, almost under his breath, “but you’re making it very difficult, sweetheart.”

I pulled the blanket a little closer, flushed, trembling under the weight of his affection and the fire still quietly simmering between us.

“I’ll try not to ruin your grip on reality too much,” I whispered, smiling softly, even as I felt the curve of something deeper rising in my throat.

Zayne didn’t answer—not with words. Just reached up and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear with a care that made me ache.

Outside the studio door, I could faintly hear Rafayel's voice beginning to rise, frustration leaking into each syllable.

But in that golden-lit room, with Zayne watching me like I was both temptation and salvation—I wasn’t thinking about anything except how warm I suddenly felt.

Zayne leaned in—just a whisper of a kiss, his lips brushing mine with a tenderness that made my heart stutter. There was nothing hurried in it. Just warmth. Just him. His breath still lingered on my mouth when—

BANG.

The front door slammed open, echoing into the studio like a gunshot. Heavy, confident steps pounded the floor.

“Pipsqueak! Tell me you missed me,” Caleb’s voice carried in, loud and soaked in flirtation, before he even rounded the corner.

Then he appeared in the doorway, all military swagger and boyish grin—and froze.

His gaze locked on me, curled up in the chaise, barely draped in the cream throw Zayne had wrapped around me. My shoulders, my thighs, the curve of my hip… All of it exposed in a way that left no illusion about what lay beneath.

I watched the grin collapse off his face.

Zayne moved just slightly in front of me, not possessive—protective. But Caleb’s gaze was already narrowing.

“She’s naked under that,” Caleb snapped, voice quieter now, edged in disbelief and… jealousy?

Zayne exhaled slowly, turning toward me. “Stay put,” he said, low and firm, before stepping away from my side.

He didn’t raise his voice, but the air shifted as he approached Caleb. Two slow steps forward, quiet but cutting. He stopped just shy of Caleb’s chest—close enough that tension bristled between them like wires pulled taut.

“And?” Zayne asked coolly, arms still relaxed at his sides. “She’s wrapped in a blanket. Not that it’s your business.”

“The hell it isn’t,” Caleb growled, stepping in now too. Their chests nearly touched. “I leave for a few hours and come back to find you—what? Eye-fucking her half-naked while the Sea Princess paints her?”

“Watch it,” Zayne snapped. That soft voice cracked now, sharp with ice and warning. “She’s not a fucking prop for your temper tantrum.”

Caleb scoffed. “No? Then why the hell are you playing bodyguard with a hard-on, Doctor?”

That hit. Zayne’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t look away.

I clutched the blanket tighter to my chest. My heart pounded so loud I swore they could hear it. The golden light from the windows made the moment feel surreal, like we were on some gilded battlefield made of canvas and heat and everything unsaid between them.

“She wanted to model,” Zayne said evenly. “Raf asked. She said yes. You’re the one who barged in without knocking.”

Caleb’s lip curled. “Yeah, and clearly I missed the invitation to the after party.”

I sat up before either of them said something they couldn’t take back. “Guys,” I croaked, my voice raw. “Stop.”

Zayne’s eyes flicked to me, softening just enough to let a breath back into my lungs.

Caleb didn’t look away. Not at first. But he eventually stepped back, dragging his hand through his hair, face thundercloud dark.

“I just didn’t expect this,” he muttered.

Zayne turned, shoulders still rigid. “Neither did we,” he murmured, quieter now. “But it wasn’t yours to expect.”

And with that, he returned to my side, kneeling again beside the chaise, hand brushing over the blanket on my leg as if to check—without asking—that I was okay.

But my pulse was still thudding like war drums.

Because that wasn’t just jealousy.

That had been territorial. From both of them.

And I was the line they’d both nearly crossed.

Caleb dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard like he was trying to wring the jealousy out of his own skin. His eyes flicked away from Zayne to me again, trying to mask the hunger behind his gaze with something cooler. Controlled. It didn’t work. Not entirely.

He stood near the chaise now, a few feet away, jaw tight and throat working as he swallowed whatever storm still rolled in him.

The blanket clung to me, but I felt the heat of his stare against every exposed inch beneath it.

His voice, when he finally spoke again, came quieter—strained in a way that cracked beneath the surface.

“You get my messages?” he asked.

The question hit me harder than it should have. Not because of the words—but because of what slammed into me behind them.

Caleb had said he’d text me last night. After everything. After we’d crashed in Raf’s bed, tangled in each other, and I’d drifted into sleep between kisses and warmth and far too many emotions I wasn’t equipped to sort through.

Xavier had said he’d text too.

And… Sylus.

Sylus, who had kissed me in front of Rafayel’s house. Who had held my face like I was worth unraveling for, then walked away to catch a plane to gods-know-where on the furthest sector. To retrieve what I could only imagine was a potential aether core, with how he’d described it. But that didn’t matter, because he said he’d text me when he landed.

I hadn’t checked my phone once.

Guilt slammed into my chest so hard I forgot I was naked.

“Shit,” I whispered, breath catching. “Shit—Caleb, I didn’t—I left it—”

And then I was moving. Fast.

The blanket slid from my body like silk, barely caught in time by Zayne, who gave a muffled grunt as it landed squarely over his head.

I could hear Caleb let out something between a sputtered “oh my God!” and a choked laugh behind me.

But I didn’t stop.

I dashed out of the studio, bare feet against cool wood as I all but sprinted down the stairs. My skin prickled with air and adrenaline and the electric aftershock of remembering everyone I’d left on read.

I rounded the corner toward Raf’s media room, heart thudding in my ears.

My phone was somewhere in there. Left behind, discarded like a half-written confession.

All I could think about was Sylus’s voice saying I’ll text you when I land, and my own silence in reply.

And the fact that somewhere upstairs, at least two of the men were probably staring at the doorway I’d vanished through—each with a different reason for wondering if I’d ever come back.

The moment I stepped into Rafayel’s media room, the energy of the upstairs tension peeled off my skin in waves. The space here felt darker, cooler—lit only by the subtle gleam of hidden LEDs behind the display shelves and the soft hum of the monitors still in standby. I spotted my phone almost instantly.

It sat nestled between two couch cushions, screen dark, abandoned like a forgotten thought. I snatched it up, heart already stuttering, stomach twisting into guilt.

The second the screen lit up, my breath caught.

7 new messages.

Three names stared back at me, stacked like a reckoning:

Caleb. Xavier. Sylus.

Each with missed texts, each a red flag I’d been too caught up in heat and haze to check.

Caleb’s were first—short, clipped, checking in after he’d left. Then another, after a few hours: “Made it home! He’ll be okay, honey, wanna grab breakfast tomorrow?” And finally: “Say something, pipsqueak.”

Xavier’s were quieter. “You’ll be okay, starlight, just breathe, he’ll be back before you know it. This is Sylus.” “You don’t have to talk. Just… let me know you’re okay.”

But it was Sylus’s name that made my hand tremble when I tapped it open.

His message log lit up the screen like a slow-burn fuse, each entry a breath from another world.

01:47 AM – "We landed." No punctuation. Just that. Simple. Still, it felt like it carried the weight of mountains.

03:12 AM – [AUDIO MESSAGE] The icon pulsed faintly, waiting.

I clicked play.

“Aven. We’re inside. The crystal was real—it’s humming with Evol resonance. It’s the closest thing I’ve ever felt to yours.”

“I don’t know what we’re going to find deeper in. Maybe nothing. Maybe something worse. But I just wanted to hear your voice. Just once. Even if it’s only a message in return.”

“…You have no idea how much space you take up in my head. Or how terrifying it is that you’re already part of every choice I make.”

“I don’t want to scare you. Just… I wanted you to know. That if something happens to me down here, the one thing I regret is not being there with you longer.”

“I’ll call again. If I can.”

05:32 AM – [IMAGE ATTACHED] A glowing, semi-clear crystal enclosed in a glass case. Its edges shimmered with a faint, bluish radiance. The background was dark, clinical. My heart thudded.

My eyes burned, throat tight as the silence after his voice felt louder than the message itself. The static at the end stretched on for nearly a second too long—like he hadn’t wanted to hang up.

My hand covered my mouth, phone still cradled in the other. I sat down slowly on the edge of the sectional, staring at the screen through the blur of guilt.

He’d gone out there, risking himself in that cursed facility.

And I’d been curled up in a nest of silken sheets and gasping mouths, forgetting his message, forgetting the ones who weren’t here.

The image still glowed on my screen.

That crystal.

Something about it felt alive. Like it vibrated with the same pulse that sometimes made my bones ache with Evol fire I didn’t understand. I remembered Sylus’ words again—

It’s the closest thing I’ve ever felt to yours.

And now I couldn’t tell if the tears threatening my vision were from the message or the crushing weight of being too late to say anything back.

“Seastar?” Raf’s voice cut into the silence before I even heard his footsteps. “Why the hell did you run off like that—naked, no less?”

I didn’t look up.

The phone was pressed against my forehead, as if that could press Sylus back into me. As if the glass could somehow carry the weight of his voice and his regrets into the space between my ribs and help me breathe.

I didn’t move. But the tears were already there—silent and steady, a quiet betrayal streaking down my cheeks. Not sobbing. Not shaking. Just… leaking. Slowly. Inevitably. Like something fractured deep inside me had given up trying to hold it all in.

I turned to him.

Rafayel froze in the doorway. He’d been in full dramatics—hand waving, mouth half open, ready to chide me for streaking through his house like an exhibitionist fae—but all of that drained from him the moment he saw my face.

The moment he saw the way I was clutching the phone. The way the tears just kept falling.

“Aven,” he said again, breath hollowing out.

The air cracked.

A sound like glass groaning filled the room—a faint, crystalline note that danced just beneath the frequency of human speech. A soft shuddering wave passed through the walls and floor as hairline fractures—delicate, pale lavender spiderwebs—began to shimmer into view along the plaster near the baseboards. The overhead lights flickered.

“Oh, fuck,” Raf whispered, and darted forward.

I barely moved as he maneuvered around the growing shatters—elegantly, instinctively. One might think he was used to dodging emotional landmines. Maybe he was.

He dropped down beside me on the couch without hesitation and peeled his hoodie over his head in one smooth movement, the fabric carrying the scent of salt and wood polish and whatever natural scented cologne he’d half-heartedly spritzed on this morning.

Wordlessly, he guided it over my arms and head, his fingers brushing my skin with careful reverence. He pulled the oversized fabric down until it swamped me, pooling over my thighs like armor made of care.

Then, gently, he tucked my hair back from my damp cheeks and looked at me with those ridiculous, sea-glass eyes—their usual sparkle dimmed to something fierce and protective.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low now. “We were good. We were laughing. Moaning, even. And then Caleb showed up and suddenly you’re crying and your Evol’s throwing a tantrum.”

I exhaled shakily, the crystal fractures shrinking in my peripheral vision.

“It’s not Caleb,” I whispered, though part of me still felt the sting of his reaction upstairs. “It’s not just him.”

Raf’s brow knit, fingers still lingering against the side of my face.

“Then what is it, sweetheart?”

I pulled the phone away from my forehead and turned it toward him, showing him the message log, the glowing crystal, the audio file I hadn’t had the nerve to replay yet.

“It’s Sylus,” I said. My voice cracked in the middle. “I forgot he said he’d text. I forgot they all said they would. He messaged me hours ago. Sent a picture of a crystal they found—he said it felt like me. Said…” I swallowed hard. “Said he regretted not being here longer.”

Rafayel's expression shifted—pain and understanding mingling like colors bleeding through wet canvas. His hand found mine under the hoodie, warm and steady.

I looked away. “I was too wrapped up in the warmth. In you and Zayne. I forgot the ones who aren’t here.”

“No,” Raf said, without hesitation, voice steel-wrapped silk. “No, baby, that’s not what happened.”

I blinked at him.

“You didn’t forget. You felt safe. For once.” His eyes searched mine, serious now, no sarcasm to hide behind. “That’s not guilt. That’s grief in disguise. It sneaks in like that. Waits for you to feel joy again just to remind you it still exists.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The fractures along the wall faded. The pressure in my chest ebbed.

Raf’s voice softened again. “You can love all of us, Aven. You’re not cheating on anyone just by letting yourself feel something real in the moment.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I nodded. Slowly. Fingers curling in the soft cotton of his hoodie like it could tether me back to calm.

The hush between Raf and me wasn’t silence. It was full—woven with breath and shared understanding, with the steady thud of his pulse beneath the warm press of his palm. But even that delicate peace broke like glass under the creak of the door as it cracked open again.

I stiffened. Raf tensed beside me.

Zayne entered first, cool and composed as ever, though his mouth was set in a blade-thin line of warning. Caleb trailed a pace behind him, his jaw tight, hands clenched into fists at his sides as if he was trying not to punch a wall—or maybe Zayne.

Zayne didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder as he muttered, dry and biting, “If I can learn to share, then I’d wager it’s not outside the realm of possibility for you.”

Caleb scoffed. “You mean if you can tolerate someone else breathing near her without having a coronary, then I’m supposed to follow your sainted example?”

Rafayel sighed next to me. “Boys…”

But then—both of them stopped. Words crumbled mid-breath. Their gazes finally landed on me.

I must’ve looked like something shattered and stitched. Perched on the couch with Raf’s hoodie swallowing me whole, my bare legs tucked up beneath me, the sleeves still wet with where I’d wiped my face. My phone was clutched to my chest like a relic—something sacred and desperate all at once.

Neither of them said anything right away.

Zayne’s entire body shifted, the steel in his spine melting as his brow furrowed. The sharp edge to him dulled instantly, replaced by something quiet and wounded—concern threading through every controlled breath.

Caleb, for once, looked… lost.

His anger flickered, then snuffed out completely as he took one step into the room and stopped cold, hands now open at his sides, the tension gone from his shoulders. His voice dropped, softer than I’d ever heard from him. “What happened…?”

I looked up at them both—too tired to explain everything, too raw to pretend nothing was wrong. My throat worked, but no words came.

“She’s okay,” Raf said beside me, his voice gentle, but full of meaning. “She just… needed a minute.”

Caleb’s eyes swept over me again, taking in the hoodie, the red around my eyes, the way I still gripped my phone like it would vanish if I let go.

Zayne moved first—crossing the room and sinking down onto the ottoman in front of me without hesitation. His hand didn’t reach for mine, not yet. He waited. Always reading the room, always letting me lead.

Caleb stood in the doorway still, something unreadable crossing his face.

I breathed. Just once. Shaky and full of everything I hadn’t said yet.

Zayne didn’t touch me right away. Just sat there, elbows on his knees, head tilted like he was reading me as carefully as any scan he might’ve done in surgery. His voice came softer than I expected, but with that same calm that always made something in my chest unravel a little.

“What happened, sweetheart?” he murmured, those gold-green eyes watching every flicker of my face. “You were smiling earlier.”

I blinked. Once. Twice. The weight in my chest cracked again, hairline fractures trembling beneath my ribs.

“I forgot,” I whispered. My voice barely made it across the room. “Sylus said he’d message me when he landed. He… he said he’d check in. So did Xavier. And Caleb.”

My gaze dropped to the phone clenched in my lap. The screen had long since gone dark, but I could still see it in my mind—Sylus’ message, the image, the voice note. “I didn’t check. I was so—wrapped up in everything else. I let go of him for a minute. And now he’s off infiltrating some goddamn facility with the twins, and I wasn’t even there to say goodbye properly. Just a handful of hours, and I forgot.”

Zayne exhaled, slow and deliberate. The way he looked at me then—it wasn’t disappointment. It was something closer to awe, tinged with a kind of aching understanding.

From beside me, Raf’s arm shifted across the back of the couch. “Play it,” he said, his voice low but certain. “Play the voice message.”

I hesitated.

Raf’s hand lightly brushed my shoulder. “Let us hear it, baby.”

With trembling fingers, I brought the phone to life and opened the message.

First came the image. That soft, glowing crystal—its interior pulsing like a heartbeat caught in glass. It shimmered a strange, bluish lavender, almost transparent, but there was depth to it. As if it held something living inside. The timestamp said he’d sent it nearly four hours ago.

I hit play.

Sylus’ voice filled the room, low and almost shy at first, like he wasn’t sure he should be recording anything at all.

“Aven. We’re inside. The crystal was real—it’s humming with Evol resonance. It’s the closest thing I’ve ever felt to yours.”

“I don’t know what we’re going to find deeper in. Maybe nothing. Maybe something worse. But I just wanted to hear your voice. Just once. Even if it’s only a message in return.”

“…You have no idea how much space you take up in my head. Or how terrifying it is that you’re already part of every choice I make.”

“I don’t want to scare you. Just… I wanted you to know. That if something happens to me down here, the one thing I regret is not being there with you longer.”

“I’ll call again. If I can.”

Silence.

And then the softest exhale—his breath catching at the end, just barely audible.

The message ended.

I didn’t realize I was crying again until Zayne’s thumb brushed under my eye, catching one of the tears before it could reach my cheek.

“He always was a reckless fuck,” Caleb snapped.

My head jerked up.

Caleb’s face had darkened, storm clouds gathering across it like thunder waiting to strike. “Who sends a voice message like that right before infiltrating a blacksite with two trigger-happy assassins? What if it’s the last thing she ever hears from him? That’s not comfort. That’s a fucking death letter.”

“Caleb,” Zayne warned, voice laced with ice.

But it was Raf who spoke louder, firmer, each word sharp as a chisel against marble. “Don’t you dare.”

Caleb’s eyes narrowed, lips parting for another retort, but Raf didn’t let him get there.

“She’s grieving. And all you can do is turn it into another fucking temper tantrum about your issues with Sylus?” He stood then, fully facing Caleb, protective fury crackling off him like waves against a seawall. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. You want to pick a fight, pick it with me later. But right now, shut your mouth and let her breathe.”

Caleb’s jaw clenched. His fists, too. But he backed down. For now.

I felt Zayne’s hand press warm against mine, grounding me as my chest cracked open wider and the tears spilled over again. He leaned in, voice low near my temple.

“He’ll come back,” Zayne said, quiet but unshakable. “He will. And you’ll tell him all of this in person, when you’re holding his ridiculous self against your chest. Just like you did with me. And Raf. You’ll get that moment again, sweetheart.”

My lip trembled. I let out a breath that sounded too much like a sob, and I nodded.

Because I had to believe that. I had to.

Caleb shifted beside the couch, like he wanted to step forward, like the anger hadn’t quite bled out of him yet—but something in my face must’ve stopped him. Maybe the way my eyes stayed red and glassy, maybe the way I was curled inward, hands still clenched around Raf’s hoodie like it was all that held me together.

He let out a breath. Dragged a hand through his hair, and for once, the usual smirk was absent from his face.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” he said, quieter now. “I just—I hate the way he does this. Like every mission could be his last and he doesn’t care enough to stay tethered. But I know… I know he does care. About you. More than I’ve ever seen him care for anyone, hell, anything.”

Raf didn’t move at first, but then, slowly, like the tide easing off the rocks, he stood. Without a word, he stepped over to where Caleb still hovered and gave him a gentle shove—not angry, not violent. Just a firm, exasperated nudge that sent Caleb collapsing backward onto the opposite end of the couch with a grunt.

“Go on, you melodramatic hyena,” Raf muttered, heading toward the little kitchen area at the back of the room. “She needs comfort, not chaos.”

Caleb blinked. Then looked at me.

I didn’t think—I just moved. My body made the choice before my brain could catch up. I shifted along the couch and leaned into him, curling into his side. He was warm. Solid. And his arms wrapped around me like instinct. One of his hands rested flat over my spine, and the other lifted to cradle the back of my head as I tucked myself beneath his chin.

He breathed in slowly, like my scent alone could ground him, and pressed his cheek against the crown of my head.

“You smell like lilacs and static,” he murmured, voice barely audible.

I let out a wet laugh that sounded more like a hiccup.

“You know…” he continued, tone tilting somewhere between fond and nostalgic, “Sylus has always had a thing for danger. Even when we were kids. He’d find the rusted-out fences in the back lots and climb them just to prove he could. Would get scrapes, cuts, hell—he broke his damn collarbone once. Didn’t stop him. He said he liked the risk. Said it made him feel real.” He sighed. “Probably the only thing Ever didn’t test out of him.”

I shifted just enough to glance up at him.

“But,” Caleb added, his eyes flickering with something harder now—something fierce, protective, unshakable, “if I know him at all, pipsqueak… Sylus would tear down every wall in that facility with his bare goddamn hands before he let anything keep him from you.”

His words hit like a balm over a burn. And maybe that was all I needed in the moment. Not promises. Not sugar-coated hope. Just certainty. From someone who knew him better than anyone.

I let my eyes close for just a moment and breathed him in. All gunpowder and cologne and something like apple that was uniquely Caleb.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He shook his head against my hair. “Don’t be. I’d rather you cry in my arms than bottle it up and explode later. Trust me—I’ve seen you explode. It’s terrifying and kind of hot, but mostly terrifying.”

I laughed—soft, but real. And he squeezed me tighter.

From the little kitchen, I heard Raf rattling dishes and probably muttering to himself. Zayne hadn’t spoken again, but I could feel his presence close by, watchful and steady.

And somehow… even with the space between us, I still felt Sylus. In the crystal. In the words. In the way these men—my men—wrapped around the ache he left behind.

Caleb’s arms stayed around me. Solid. Warm. Quiet.

But my thoughts… they were loud again. Whispers clawing at the walls of my chest, desperate to be heard. To mean something.

I let out a shaky breath and leaned more into him, but turned slightly so I could see Zayne, who sat nearby with his elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely knit. He met my gaze, and that was all it took.

That one flicker of quiet understanding. That subtle shift in his brow. Like he knew I was on the verge and was already bracing to catch me.

Raf returned from the kitchen, hands wiped clean on a dish towel as he slowed mid-step, his gaze flicking between the three of us before he dropped the towel and crossed the room—sinking down beside me on the other couch, not quite touching, but close. His usual snark was gone. All that remained was his eyes—sea glass and smoke, watching.

I swallowed. Hard. Then started.

“My whole life,” I said softly, “loss has been a constant.”

Caleb’s arms went still.

“I don’t mean just people. I mean everything. It started so early. When I was a kid—maybe six—I had a rabbit named Butterscotch. She was soft and sweet and mine. One day, my dog got into the cage. I didn’t see it happen. But the blood… I still remember the blood on the walls. They said it wasn’t my fault. But I knew. I forgot to lock the top latch.”

Zayne’s jaw ticked, and Raf didn’t blink. He just listened. Like he knew interrupting would shatter something sacred.

“Then there was Dandylion—my ginger cat with the crooked tail. He got out one night. Came back the next morning… but not moving. Someone hit him and left him in the driveway.” I blinked. “I was eleven.”

I felt Caleb’s hand stroke up and down my back, slow and reverent.

“My teenage years were worse, a year or so after I graduated from that awful school. Someone poisoned my dog. I still don’t know who. No one got caught. She died in my lap at the vet. They said her kidneys were liquifying. I’d only had her a year, but she was mine.”

A beat.

“Then there was Ragnar. My… my grey cat.” My voice cracked around his name. “He was all I had left for a while. I got him when I was in university. He was beautiful. Smart. Vocal. He had this ridiculous chirp when he wanted attention. He slept on my stomach. Followed me into the bathroom. And then—one day—he stopped eating. I took him in. They found a growth in his bladder. Nothing they could do. He was only six. I held him when they gave the injection. He looked at me… until he didn’t.”

Silence fell like ash across the room.

“I told myself I’d never get another pet. Not because I didn’t love them… but because I couldn’t survive losing them anymore. And then…” I took a breath, willing myself to continue. “Then the people started to go too.”

Caleb went still.

“I lost my dad to stage four lung cancer. Watched him fade until his voice wasn’t his anymore, and watched my mom scream at him. Then… my uncle, heart attack. My grandma—ninety-five—broke her hip and died from complications all within a year. A few years later, my cousin—Gods—my cousin jumped off a bridge. She’d been my everything growing up, even though we didn’t talk often later. She was fierce and wild and beautiful, and she jumped. Just like I did.”

The air left me all at once, like I’d exhaled something I hadn’t realized I was holding for years.

“I lost my aunt after that. My mom’s sister. She was my second mother. She battled every kind of cancer they could find in her. I don’t remember a lot of the last month. Just flashes. A hospital room. We were on the drive home when my uncle called, saying they lost her. That’s the last time I was with my whole family.”

I turned my head, eyes glossy, lips trembling.

“And then I downloaded a dumb mobile game,” I whispered. “It was a few weeks after. I didn’t even know why I picked that one. I just needed something. Anything. And it helped. It was stupid, but I felt seen for the first time in… so long. These beautiful men with their tragic pasts and space stations and galaxies… and then I jumped off the bridge, just like my cousin did. And I woke up here.”

My voice faltered. Broke. Fell into the gravity well of my own admission.

“I didn’t jump thinking I’d be dropped into a fictional world to fall in love,” I whispered. “I jumped to die.”

No one moved.

The silence lingered like a breath held too long, stretched taut between all four of us—suspended in the heaviness of everything I’d just said.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not all of it.

Because the truth, the real truth, burned just beneath the skin—under every wound I’d buried and every wall I thought I still had. It bubbled up in the quiet, and before I could stop myself, I gave it voice.

“I know I haven’t known any of you very long,” I whispered, words trembling on the edge of confession. “But… if anything happened to one of you—any of you—”

My throat closed.

I looked up, and their faces were turned toward me. Three expressions. Three reactions. But the same storm swirled in each of them.

“I wouldn’t be okay,” I said finally, voice barely audible. “I wouldn’t survive it. I know how that sounds, and I know it’s stupid and messy and fast—but I’m telling you… I feel it. In my chest. In my bones. Like… like this world wouldn’t hold shape anymore if I lost one of you.”

My lips trembled.

“I don’t think I could go through that again.”

The confession rang through the space, unflinching. Honest. It made my cheeks flush and my stomach twist. But it was real. It was me.

Caleb’s jaw ticked hard, like he was fighting to keep himself still. His grip around my shoulders grew tighter—protective in a way that left no room for misunderstanding.

“I’m not going anywhere, sunshine,” he murmured roughly, brushing a strand of hair away from my face. “Not without a damn fight.”

Rafayel, still quiet beside me, leaned in—his thumb reaching up to swipe a tear from my cheek. His voice, when it came, was low and hoarse. “You’re allowed to love us fast, sugar. Hell, we’re breaking speed limits just trying to keep up with you.”

Zayne’s hand tightened in mine. When I turned toward him, he looked almost angry with how much emotion rippled under his carefully kept surface. His voice was gravel-soft.

“You’re not stupid for feeling that way. You’re… brave, Aven. You’re letting yourself care. That’s more than most people ever do.”

He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss there, just against my fingers.

And that’s when I realized it.

That they were scared, too.

Scared of how much I was starting to mean to them. Scared of how fast it had all unraveled into something real. Something they couldn’t step back from even if they wanted to.

But none of them were running.

Not one.

╰──────༺♡༻──────╯

[mias4rt]

When one loses their shoes they've lost their right not to walk

Rays of sunlight gleamed over the city roofs, the cathedralesque windows of the train station lit up like the golden pavilion at dawn. The waxed floor, like an invisible conveyor belt carried each individual person towards their own personal horizon. Each human being conditioned with various substances and influences, glasses, deodorants, turbans, headphones, nicotine addictions, chronic bowel problems, each their own. The air meandered around, rhythmically filtered by brittle lungs. In and out, it wriggled through nostrils, throbbing with life, violent shocks, explosions of energy that made people spasm forwards. Cellular respiration kept going through its cycle, the cycle of life, the cycle of humanity, the cycle of life and death, and even the tiniest hands of the solar clockwork were cruelly, hopelessly, on time.

Human after human took and gave, came and went, and their shine like the stars lit up the world's structures even after death. The night sky of humanity flickered, it trembled and croaked, it lost and realized it had lost consciousness and soon lost its life. Someone picked at their fingernails and looked through the morning fog with longing. The woman with the rainbow hat was already gone, and would never return. Someone was always there, and there was never anyone there but someone, someone that would soon enough be someone else. The announcer's dry voice echoed a confession of teenage love, chewing on its transient bitterness, spreading it into structures and organs. That place was a primordial sea, a stew of base elements from which spawned strands of collective consciousness. They lived and died within seconds, but those people there weren't alive, they melted together and gave birth to some kind of new being.

Like a cell is a cell, a human being there is also a human being, like a cell it lives and dies, it is an independent being, and it's a part of something many millions of times more than itself, and like a cell it was there first, until the all consuming structure covered them all in nothingness. But a structure comes apart without its parts, and the human did not change for the sake of the structure, a human being and its role in the macrostructure are both compatible, inseparable, and at the same time completely independent of each other. And the cell must never know of its larger structure, it cannot live outside it lest it destroy itself and the structure along with it. But a structure outside structure, or two structures, or one multi-dimensional structure, the truth is, there is no structure, there is just human ignorance, insecurity, and endless thirst.

That central core, that skewer, that heart, that throbbing organ, concrete, oxygen, blood, iron, and desire, a squirming sizzling container that writhed with its contents. Like a stream of consciousness or a human's bloodstream, that energy, that living matter, gathered and packed together into that symbol of absolute being, virility, and immortality. Exposed backs and open trash cans, fat men in t-shirts, old tanned ladies on their retirement trips, humanity on all its sides was there to be seen, and it could tolerate itself only by not a single one of them being it alone. It, it, it, it is that which shines from the distance of the distant past, or was it actually on the second Tuesday of August? On today's, or on yesterday's tomorrow your soul falls from your chest like milk cartons from a biodegradable bag onto the street on your bad day.

You follow the train map like the bible with your finger, its rows and strings of holy scripture, that dare to say that humanity can map or even understand something larger than itself. What an assumption! What a blasphemy against your ignorance! How fascinating, how sacred, how daring, the work of an engineer, the one that knows that which a human being may never know, what great drama! There's power there, and you imbibe it into yourself, you forget time and place and are at the same time the track and the train, the road and the wagon, the dog and the owner, Vilnius and Vienna, Golan Heights and Brooklyn, the world and the underworld, consciousness and subconsciousness. You go through each place with your fingertips, you dance through the universe and the antiverse, each and every place and no place at all, like a noble ugly undead swan and the lack of.

You are being and lack of being, and the all-nothingness of non-non-existence, and you're not even awake anymore. That lack of existence was like a soft dark blanket that was always just about to disappear, on the edges of perception, despite everything it stayed just under the surface, there it was in true non-being. I suppose it was the best time of my life, that always makes me cry, I rarely cry, but when I cry, I cry for you. The all-seeing eye stared silently from the ceiling, dark and unblaming, it looked at us, it saw us, looking for something, any small infarction, that would never come, like it was challenging us to do something illegal. The landscape flowed past us, like watercolors haphazardly strewn across a smooth frictionless substrate.

I said it to you then, I did, and I said it so beautifully. You told me how you could smell the leaded gasoline from sixty years ago, and I gazed into the depths of your verdant eyes like distant galaxies. It was then that I told you how I wanted to live inside you, how I wanted to be a cosmonaut and carry the hope of humanity in the galaxies of your eyes, how I wanted to lay down in my spacesuit on your retinas and slowly drift to nothingness in that breathtakingly cold beauty. You said to me then, that's depraved, I love you. Outside the last days of summer were drifting by, I thought about leaving you there, to disappear into the dark and never return, but that would be too dramatic I suppose.

When was that point then, I still think about it through the nights, but it was true, even though I didn't know what was when. Words after words come through, in the end there's nothing left but stubs, we didn't burn out, we were burnt, scorched earth filled with bitter blackness. Poems after poems still, was there anything there, or was it just chaos and free association that ruled our lives. In our ignorance we were satisfied, and sometimes not, we didn't know how not to know, for we didn't know anything at all. We didn't know nothing about nothing, and I don't know what to say of it, for I know nothing. Having the knowledge of knowing one's not knowing, there is no worse knowledge, and it's the only kernel of truth we have.

If somewhere out there exists that mythical thing called truth, it most certainly doesn't exist inside a human being. If I knew it, that truth, if I knew it would I cease to be human, for a human being can't know the truth, would I burn to ash if I saw the truth? What truth, well, the truth I don't know, I don't know what it is, if I did know it, I would know something, but precisely, I do not know, I am ignorant. Truth can't be found in logic, the only so called truth we have, is our experience, our chemical soup that makes delusions to reality in our brains, there is no other reality for us humans. There is no other poetry but sequences of hormones, echoes of enzymes, but, is that not something, is it such a bad thing, if only we could find some truth-like product in there.

I looked down from my watchtower, the wound slashed onto nature's skin by the railroad spread out to infinity in both directions. I looked on as nothing once again came to pass, probably never. Sitting still, the railroad started to seem more natural than nature, and the screeching birds seemed more and more machine-like. Were they machines? The thought came to me and wouldn't let me go, I mulled it around in my head, I drew diagrams of mechanical joints and synthetic feathers, hidden motors and aerodynamic processes. Why, why would it be so, no, it no longer felt any stranger than the origins of that iron colossus.

I had left behind time, meetings, consultations, and other necessary contents of life. What I now waited for had no deadline, it was impossible to be late. As the guard of the old new world I spent my days, I waited for something, something that would surely disappear as soon as it was found. They had all been waiting for it, they waited for it every day, but that wait wouldn't die, it rotted the world, it conquered and starved the present with its inconceivable weight. Finally that world too had become history, but it was waiting, that glimmering hallucination still haunted those lands. That stillness, that atmosphere of death, it soothed my soul. It wafted in the air, you could hear it in the distant vibrations of the track, you could feel it when you looked at the sky, somewhere beyond the clouds you could almost make out something beautiful and sacred.

I remember when I left, I remember how I wandered the cities of foreign lands, always further into something. But I knew I had no homeland except in the future that would never come. From inn to another I dragged myself, I ate little and stretched my money. I stared at unknown walls, that after all were never all that different anywhere I went. In some way I enjoyed my poverty, the possibility of getting lost forever, I wanted, I don't know what. I enjoyed the long distances, aching feet, hours spent in train stations, losing control, chainsmoking long into the Warsaw night.

The walls were sweaty, the old building stood like a crooked old man, it heaved but it did not complain, it served its purpose with soldierly determination. Time flowed like thick sap, everything seemed to stop. But it didn't, the cruel claw of time eroded everything with horrifying inevitability. I too was sweating, the heat invaded my every cell. Unstable condition, that I had to hear again and again, and the support wasn't for the right cause, from state to state, they don't know the first thing about it. The right reasons, oh so important in this world, even when I was on the edge, they would push me, for they had nothing they could cure me into. From something to something, they could squeeze me, but I am of nothing, going nowhere. At the end of a rope, or another room in another building another year, a few hundred bucks and an official seal. I don't know what to do with no seal to chase.

We're all partisans, remnants in a hostile world, we continue our hopeless fight against an unrelenting foe. Hoping for a liberation that may never come, but every step towards it is a step only a partisan can take. The road of true humanity and justice, that is the only road I wish to walk. Every day alive is a victory. We fight and rage, we writhe and burn, but time kills us all anyway. For a few moments in life, we are truly alive, in a real place at the right time. Part of me tired of this life, they walked ever slower, they were slowly fading. I started to separate from that dying ghost inside me, they walked by my side, but not for long. I felt they didn't want to live with me anymore.

[bioleaderpack]

7 Powerful Ways Takeaway Food Containers Are Redefining the Future of Packaging

In today’s fast-paced, convenience-driven world, takeaway food containers have become an inseparable part of modern lifestyles. Whether you’re grabbing lunch from your favorite café or ordering dinner to your doorstep, these containers are silently facilitating the global food movement. Yet beneath their simplicity lies a complex narrative of health, environment, material science, and sustainable innovation. This blog explores how takeaway food containers are transforming industries, shaping consumer habits, and driving the future of eco-conscious food packaging.

1. The Hidden Influence of Takeaway Food Containers

Takeaway food containers are more than mere vessels; they are silent influencers in consumer choices, waste streams, and sustainability strategies. In 2023 alone, over 250 billion takeaway containers were used globally—a number projected to rise with the growth of online food delivery services. Restaurants, food trucks, and cloud kitchens now rely heavily on single-use packaging to ensure food quality and hygiene.

This unprecedented rise invites scrutiny into what these containers are made of, how they affect the planet, and what innovations are shaping their evolution.

2. From Plastic to Plant-Based: Material Evolution

For decades, traditional plastic dominated the takeaway packaging market due to its low cost and structural strength. However, as awareness of plastic pollution and its long-term ecological effects has surged, industries have been pivoting toward sustainable alternatives.

Key Sustainable Alternatives:

Bagasse (Sugarcane Fiber): A by-product of sugar production, bagasse is 100% biodegradable and compostable, offering superior heat resistance and sturdiness.

Cornstarch Bioplastics: Made from renewable resources, these containers mimic plastic’s functionality without its environmental cost.

Kraft Paper: Recyclable, durable, and visually appealing, kraft paper is commonly used for boxes and wraps.

Scientific research confirms that compostable containers made from bagasse and cornstarch degrade 80–90% faster than petroleum-based plastics, making them a critical step toward reducing landfill waste.

3. Health Risks: What’s in Your Food Container?

Many consumers don’t realize that traditional plastic takeaway containers can leach chemicals into food—especially when used for hot or greasy meals. BPA (Bisphenol-A), phthalates, and other toxic additives have been linked to endocrine disruption, reproductive issues, and even certain cancers.

Fortunately, most eco-friendly alternatives are naturally BPA-free. For instance, sugarcane bagasse and kraft paper contain no synthetic additives, making them safer choices for both hot and cold foods.

4. How Consumer Behavior Is Driving the Shift

As millennials and Gen Z consumers prioritize health, sustainability, and ethical brands, demand for environmentally responsible takeaway food containers is rising. According to surveys, 71% of customers say they’re more likely to return to a restaurant that uses eco-friendly packaging.

Restaurants and foodservice providers are catching on. Major brands have begun transitioning from plastic to compostable containers not only to reduce waste, but to meet consumer expectations and comply with new environmental regulations.

5. Case Studies: Real Impact in Real Kitchens

1. Urban Green Bistro (Los Angeles)

Switched from plastic to bagasse clamshell containers. Customer satisfaction scores increased by 18%, and waste pickup frequency dropped by 30%.

2. Bioleader’s Product Deployment

Bioleader’s sugarcane-based containers have been adopted by over 1,000 restaurants across Europe and Asia. Their certified compostable containers help businesses meet regulatory standards while strengthening eco-branding.

3. DeliveryHub (UK-based food delivery platform)

Launched a “Green Packaging Pledge,” requiring restaurant partners to transition to biodegradable or compostable containers. As a result, platform engagement grew by 12% in eco-conscious customer segments.

6. Economic Value vs. Environmental Cost

While sustainable takeaway food containers may initially appear costlier, their long-term benefits outweigh the expense. Businesses report:

Lower waste management costs

Improved brand loyalty

Compliance with regional plastic bans (increasing globally)

Furthermore, studies indicate that investing in sustainable packaging can lead to a 25% increase in net customer retention.

7. The Future: Smart and Circular Packaging

The future of takeaway food containers lies in smart, circular solutions. Researchers are developing edible packaging, self-decomposing containers, and blockchain-based traceability for packaging lifecycle tracking.

Meanwhile, governments are stepping in. More than 40 countries have announced policies banning or taxing non-recyclable food containers, further accelerating the transition to compostable alternatives.

Conclusion: Why It Matters More Than Ever

Takeaway food containers are no longer just a matter of convenience. They now reflect your brand’s values, environmental commitment, and consumer promise. By choosing compostable, plant-based materials like bagasse, cornstarch, and kraft paper, food businesses are making bold steps toward a cleaner, healthier future.

These containers are not just changing how we eat—they're changing the world. And that’s something worth packaging with purpose.

[thecglcatalog]

"Bye-Bye, Potty!" Party Supplies

Make reverse potty training a festive event with a special party for your little one’s age-reduced peers and their caregivers.  All of the following is sent straight to you in a glossy white cardboard trunk with the Bye-Bye, Potty! Party Supplies.  

Deciding that yellow party decor was too "on the nose," we’ve curated an elegant black and white theme accented in turquoise.

Decorations.  Rolls of crepe-paper streamers are white, black, and turquoise.  Four white enameled “toilet” centerpieces have a hinged “seat” and florist-foam inserts ready to go in both tank and bowl.  (We like to use a large flower like a gerbera or hydrangea in the bowl, plus tall narrow flowers or greenery in the tank – then repurpose them as orchid or strawberry planters later by planting in the bowl and watering through the tank.)  Set the centerpieces in the middle of frilly turquoise sparkle-tulle blossom chargers.  Ten reusable mylar balloons complement – three are shaped like diapers with turquoise tapes, one is a turquoise smiley face, and six letter balloons spell out “BYE BYE.”

Tableware.  A laxative-laced cake-and-punch menu would be perfect for this party, with sushi and ginger-ale cocktails for the grown-ups.  Serve from three smiley-face metal cookie trays.  Matte black Paper Luncheon Plates are punched up with glossy white Paper Dessert Plates.  White disposable Flatware (it’s made from biodegradable potato starch) has smiling faces punched out of the handle ends.  Furnish paper Diaper Cocktail Napkins layered on turquoise Meal Napkins, and accent each turquoise Paper Cup with a Diaper Charm Drinking Straw in turquoise and black with a white diaper accent.  

Party Favors.  Oversized coffee mugs shaped like vintage chamber pots are ready for duty on your “takeaway treats” table.  Supplement with baby’s favorite themes or just provide our cute selection:  Temporary tattoos in black and assorted pastel colors say “potty trained,” “not potty trained,” and “never potty trained.”  Little white paper boxes with clear lids contain chocolatey “poop emoji” truffles; white smiley-face purse tins contain laxative tablets; and tubes of dissolving diuretic powder are packaged in turquoise.  Black and white stick candy, little black bullet vibrators, and turquoise “bye-bye, potty!” sticker diaper seals make it complete.

Photo Booth Props.  Set up a photo op in the bathroom or bring little one’s cleaned potty chair out to the party space for little friends to pose on.  Perhaps you could raffle it to a slightly older adult baby slave’s caregiver!  We include fun accent props like a giant roll of toilet paper, a cardboard toilet seat, and cardboard arrows.

A 24-pack of plain white diapers in our most flexible fit is included so little guests can decorate them as a party activity.  Consider holding a fill-the-diaper contest where the heaviest diaper at party’s end wins a door prize, or hosting a diaper “fashion show” for owners to applaud!  

[ghettogardener]

So, as per American usual, this week has been gross. I doomscrolled for hours this week, then I made myself go outside and touch organic dirt.

BUT. I got my hands on some greenery, so that helped.

I used a bunch of trader joes' paper bags that I had been saving as biodegradable container filler.

I got pretty drunk today. It was nice. I listened to Viola Davis's autobiography and I soaked some seeds.

I refuse to be judged for day drinking in trump's hellscape of America.

So, I got 6 containers of Shade tolerant wildflower pots going, and I transplanted all of my mature aerogarden pod plants into dirt. Hallelujah.

Have a great week, everybody!

I love you guys

Ps, I decided to propogate 3 Basil. I dipped the ends of the stems into an Aloe cutting, and I tossed them all into some mini Family Dollar progating vases.

This will be my second time propagating Basil this way, and it is extremely successful. It turns out Basil is an excellent companion plant to peppers and tomatoes.

Stay safe out there!

[teawitch]

Candle substitutes

(This is to answer an ask but because I go on forever, I've made it its own post)

Because I've seen this become contentious in the past, I'm going to start with a little witchy secret - if you've been to a public ritual or event where there were candles burning on the altar and you didn't see them lit - they were probably battery operated and being used to adhere to the fire regulations. Sometimes witches are practical.

For me the answer to candle substitutes comes down to - why would I be using the candle? Because different reasons might have different answers.

Altar or Shrine

On an altar or shrine to represent fire or honor a deity, a battery operated candle or even small attractive lamp might be what you're looking for. Some witches do not want electrical cords or similar intruding into their magical space so lamps would be out. I figure at this point, with wifi and such flowing through air, nothing is really without interference. But if that is the case, you could even just hold up an unlit candle or a wand to signify air. (I've never had a deity object to a really cool lamp in their space.)

Cleansing

Incense and smoke cleansing substitutes. I don't think we give enough credit to the ability for sound to cleanse spaces. It could be a bell or, more popular than people realize - play really loud head-banger rock music to clear the space then something gentler to reset everything at a calmer tone.

If you want a scent-based solution, there are diffusers available but you can also just do a simmer pot of the stove. Or buy one of those mini-crockpots and use it. Or put a bit of scent in a spray bottle and spritz the space.

Fountain Foggers Misters - cheaper than you'd expect on Amazon or your local Halloween store. Put one in attractive bowl or container and add a bit of scent. It will create a wonderful mist that you can watch swirl above the bowl.

The Emergency Tea Solution. This is my hotel room trick when I check in only to find the room feels a bit off. It also works in any place that gets very restrictive about what you can do - no candles, no warmers, no diffuses, etc. Make a cup of hot water and drop a tea bag or your favorite loose herbs into it. Walk the space using your hand to waft the steam around the room. Repeat as needed. (I've used the free Earl Grey tea provided by the hotel for this and it works. Free hotel coffee is probably horrid enough to scare away anything.)

Spells

Rewrite the spell or write a different spell. The purpose of burning things in a spell is to send energy out (or up). If you burn something, you transform the energy in that thing into spell energy. You just need another way to do that.

Breath and speech are vibrations. So chanting or speaking the words of spell will send their energy out.

Write the words on something that will biodegrade and tie it to a tree. Or for something long-lasting, like protection, write it on a windchime and hanging it in the wind.

Write the words themselves in water or alcohol and let them evaporate into the air.

And there's nothing like speaking or chanting the words while pouring a libation (alcohol is good if available) on the ground. Most gods, guides and spirits appreciate a drink now and then.

(Oh, the whole candle colors thing is fairly modern because candles being easily obtainable in a wide variety of colors is fairly modern. So feel free to be creative in your color use.)

[astranite]

Edges of the Universe: Part 2

Scott and John :)

Part 1 // Ao3

The tags in summary: Hurt/Comfort, this is what it is fundamentally but we do dive into the angst and the fluff, Autistic John Tracy, Scott Tracy has ADHD, Scott Tracy Has PTSD, Autistic meltdowns, References to Depression, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Chronic Illness, that's how i'm treating John's space issues, this is all written from a disability and neurodiversity lens and lot of my own experience, there's alot going on but there's also alot of love here, and acceptance, its about hope its always about hope ultimately, things are hard and they wont just fix themselves but it does get better, we just have to keep hanging on. all of us you and me together, its not a straight line there are alot of up and downs and emotions in this fic, as in life and everything because thats whats its like but its not impossible

@idontknowreallywhy thank you for all.

---

“You alright?” Scott asked, “And I’ve brought takeaway if you’re feeling up to it.” 

“‘S only a headache,” John mumbled.

Scott’s hand gripped his shoulder more firmly. “Seems like some headache, Johnny.”

“Don’t.” 

John couldn't handle even the gentle ribbing right now. Or Scott needling him about what the hell was wrong with him to make him admit to it, which was pretty hypocritical coming from Commander ‘I’m actively bleeding out but I’m Fine.’

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. That wasn't fair on Scott. He was getting better at letting them in when it was needed. All the smothering came from a good place of looking out for little brothers prone to getting themselves into trouble, and John also had a history of being less than honest about exactly how ‘Fine’ he was.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard of the bed as the blurry dark crowded in at the corners of his vision at the rush of his blood pressure dropping. Because he, Thunderbird Five, head of communications for IR and an astronaut breaking records for space hours and expertise, had really pushed himself today. Went totally wild with it. He had, he checked his mental notes, landed on Tracy Island yesterday evening, sat in the passenger seat of Tracy One as Scott did all the flying to get here and immediately clocked out as soon as they got to the hotel. Then attempted to attend a meeting today. Wild, he bit out in sharp, sarcastic thoughts. Maybe that ignored the busy week he’d already pushed through. Even if he usually had to rest the day after the rough descent down from orbit because that was what his body needed and that was meant to be okay.

John reached over to flick on one of the bedside lamps to make it easier on Scott. He squinted in the brightness but it was better than the main light. In the background was the rustle of biodegradable bags and the distinctive snap of takeaway containers being opened: Chinese, from the place he and Scott had really liked the last time they were here, predictable so he wouldn't have to deal with trying something new.

Objectively, the food smelled good but John’s stomach turned. He spent several amusing minutes poking at his noodles, trying to figure out whether it was merely his usual space issues or he was coming down with something.

Scott bumped his shoulder ever so gently. “I got the not too spicy ones for you in case you weren’t feeling so good.”

“Thanks, Scott.” John’s voice came tiny and squeezed out. 

He picked up a mouthful and they were okay, it was him that was at the point of so hungry he was nauseous, and Scott had realised that he hadn't had lunch or dinner and made sure to bring back food John would like. Because he was thoughtful and he cared, and John had the best big brother so why did that make him want to cry?

They ate in silence. Companionable silence. It was kinda nice actually, just sharing space with Scott.

John did not cry all over his brother and his noodles. He would’ve gotten his tablet to read on and distract himself except he’d need his glasses which were in his bag, though he could turn up the font size, except the headache made staring into a bright screen currently unpalatable, so the entire point was moot.

He tipped his head back, resting it on the wall, then turned to Scott.

Scott had scoffed his entire meal far too quickly, shovelling noodles into his mouth with his set of chopsticks, whilst scrolling on his phone. Hair falling out of its careful gelling, top buttons of his blue business shirt undone, meeting out of the way and laughing at something inane, he seemed far more relaxed than this morning. Share space with Scott was nice because he too rarely got to.

John looked away. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping an arm around them, rocking slightly before it made him too dizzy. He stared off around the room, mostly to keep himself from giving in to the urge to worry at the numb, hollow wound in his thoughts. To map out its shape and form, going over it like the hole left by a pulled tooth. To not drag himself into a John classic overthinking spiral, and attempt to ground himself or whatever. 

The room. Too much beige. Carpet, curtains, walls, really what were they thinking? 

John liked colour. He’d chosen the stripes running throughout Thunderbirds Five and his bright orange baldric with the matching narrower lines through his uniform on purpose. They broke up the monotony of whites and greys space stations were far too prone to and he soaked it up, everything from the stickers and few books in his little room to the colour coded holotabs that displayed each of his siblings’ vitals. Bright and vivid, they reminded him of alive, alive, alive. 

Here, even the abstract painting was nearly monochrome. Virgil would have a lot to say but John could only muster a vague disgust towards it. Or maybe it was mostly his mood turning to harshly critical.The place was nice enough, clean and neat, nearest to TI. They didn't need fancy. 

Hints of the darkened evening view shone through the gaps between the curtains in the form of city lights. John had watched the sunset in hours previous briefly paint the dimness of the room through slitted eyelids. 

There had been the colour he wanted, but he’d ignored it instead of opening the curtains up to the light like he usually would in lieu of visible stars. He had stared at the wall, drifting in his thoughts amongst the achy pain and exhaustion instead of choosing to do literally anything else.

And here he was overthinking, doing exactly what he wasn't supposed to be doing. Fantastic job, John.

Doors to the hallway and bathroom, both shut, John listed. Lamp on Scott’s bedside table, dark grey, not black, switched off.

The blue blanket Scott brought everywhere lay as a bright splash on top of the covers of Scott’s bed, a familiar sight no matter where they were.

They didn't have to share a room, with the large beds on each side where John took the one nearest the window under claim it would be better for the stargazing he wouldn't do because of the light pollution but would make Scott edgy from feeling too exposed and too far from the exits. His brother’s face had crumpled in relief before he’d gleefully bounced on his bed like he was totally still five, as John laughed with him. 

With their money they could easily afford two, could get the frankly a waste of money whole penthouse suite of rooms, but they didn't need to. And it was nice to be close.

He and Scott hadn't regularly shared a room since before Alan had been born, and John was fully aware that as adults it would drive them both mad within a week, but on the occasional business trip or even rarer holiday, it was nice. Waking up disorientated and jet lagged in the middle of last night, he’d fallen back to sleep to big brother’s calm, even breathing. Plus Scott could look over and reassure himself at least John was here and okay, as substitute for checking in on all his little brothers before he turned in.

…it had actually been a bit after Alan had been born that the rooms had been shuffled. When it had been Mum and Dad and baby Allie he had to sneak past to go stargaze outside for a few months until Alan was big enough and got the cot, sharing a room with Gordon. Then it was him and Virgil so Scott as the eldest, encouraged by Dad, could have his own room. 

Virgil was a lot quieter and less prone to dragging him into crazy schemes, and John had loved sharing a room with him, of course he did, but something had still ached as he helped take Scott’s aeroplane posters down from between his glow in the dark stars to put them up on bare blue walls that smelt of new paint. Virgil had never woken up when John went to stargaze, no matter what he tripped over or how much he swore, so he never came with him on those forbidden midnight trips either. Scott had. 

But after Mum, because John was evidently all for following miserable trains of thought tonight, Scott technically had still shared a room with them. Just when no one, especially Dad, would notice. John had woken up to the door opening after everyone else was asleep each night to Scott tiptoeing in to curl up on the floor between his and Virgil’s beds, wrapped in the blue baby blanket that had been Allie’s until it was put away but had originally been knitted by Mum for Scott.

John had always shuffled over to make room for Scott beside him. Scott shouldn’t be alone, he wasn't meant to be alone but everyone had known that evidently except for Dad. He’d always woken up at dawn when Scott left too…

Scott’s hand back on his shoulder startled him, and between the flinch he barely processed the worried, “Earth to John?” 

A wave of dizziness hit and John buried his head in his knees. 

“Sorry,” John mumbled.

“No apologies needed.”

Scott gently took the container of noodles out of his hand which he was holding and had kinda forgotten about, even as the pointed edges dug into his palm. John’d only managed half of his before he had to put it aside. Maybe later, if he got over the nausea. 

Scott held out an arm, giving John the option of being pulled into a hug. He swallowed and shuffled closer, then leant against Scott.