#Clinical Coding Jobs

[muhdanas]

Australian Medical Coding: Comprehensive Training for Global Certification

[saeedmohammed025]

Unlock Your Potential: Exploring the Top-Rated Medical Coding Institutes for Aspiring Coders

In today’s healthcare industry, precision, accuracy, and compliance are non-negotiable. Medical coding has become the linchpin of healthcare administration, ensuring that medical procedures and diagnoses are translated into universal codes for billing, insurance, and record-keeping. As the demand for skilled coders grows, so does the importance of quality training. If you're based in Kerala and dreaming of a career in this ever-expanding field, exploring a Top-rated Medical Coding Institute in Kozhikode could be your first step toward a stable and lucrative profession.

Why Medical Coding is a Career Worth Pursuing

Medical coding is not just about data entry — it’s a specialised skill that requires a deep understanding of medical terminology, anatomy, and coding systems like ICD-10-CM, CPT, and HCPCS. Certified coders are in high demand across hospitals, insurance companies, and healthcare BPOs, making this a recession-resistant career path.

With global healthcare outsourcing on the rise, particularly in countries like the US and UAE, Indian coders have a massive opportunity to work with international clients from the comfort of their hometowns. Hence, choosing a Top-rated Medical Coding Institute in Kozhikode can set the foundation for international employment opportunities.

What Makes an Institute "Top-Rated"?

The phrase Top-rated Medical Coding Institute in Kozhikode isn't just about flashy websites or advertisements. It represents an institution that consistently delivers quality education, produces competent professionals, and maintains a curriculum aligned with global industry standards. Here's what typically distinguishes these top-rated institutes:

Accredited Curriculum: A good institute offers a syllabus that matches the international certification exams like CPC (Certified Professional Coder) or CCS (Certified Coding Specialist).

Experienced Faculty: Trainers with real-world experience in healthcare coding and auditing are essential for hands-on learning.

Certification Support: The best institutes not only teach but also help students prepare for and clear globally recognised certifications.

Placement Assistance: Tie-ups with medical billing and healthcare BPO companies give students a better chance at job placement.

Interactive Learning: A top-rated institute often provides interactive tools, workshops, mock exams, and case-study-based learning.

Why Choose a Medical Coding Institute in Kozhikode?

Kozhikode, known for its rich educational heritage, is fast becoming a hub for healthcare-related vocational training. Opting for a Top-rated Medical Coding Institute in Kozhikode offers multiple advantages:

Affordability: Training in Kozhikode is cost-effective compared to metro cities, without compromising on quality.

Accessibility: For students from Malabar and surrounding regions, Kozhikode is well-connected by rail, road, and air, making it a convenient choice.

Community and Networking: With a growing student community focused on healthcare careers, there are numerous networking opportunities through seminars, local events, and forums.

What You Will Learn

Joining a top-rated institute typically involves comprehensive training that spans several months. You can expect to learn:

Medical Terminology

Human Anatomy and Physiology

ICD-10-CM, CPT, and HCPCS Level II coding

Coding for inpatient and outpatient procedures

HIPAA Compliance and Ethics

Software Tools Used in Medical Billing

Students often undergo practical sessions using simulated software to mimic real-world scenarios, enhancing both speed and accuracy.

Career Prospects After Training

Graduates from a Top-rated Medical Coding Institute in Kozhikode are qualified to work in diverse roles such as:

Medical Coder

Coding Auditor

Medical Records Analyst

Billing Specialist

Insurance Claims Analyst

The job market spans hospitals, healthcare IT companies, insurance firms, and third-party billing organisations. Many professionals also find remote and freelance opportunities after gaining experience.

Preparing for Certification Exams

Global certifications like AAPC’s CPC and AHIMA’s CCS are often essential for landing high-paying jobs. The top institutes in Kozhikode provide extensive support for these exams through:

Mock Tests and Practice Exams

Study Materials Aligned with Exam Format

Doubt-Clearing Sessions with Experts

Post-Course Mentorship

The high success rate of students from these institutes in clearing international certifications further enhances their reputation.

Testimonials and Success Stories

While we won't name any specific institution, numerous students who trained at Top-rated Medical Coding Institutes in Kozhikode have gone on to secure placements in major multinational companies. Their success underscores the quality of training and the potential of medical coding as a sustainable career.

Final Thoughts

In a world where job security and growth are becoming increasingly uncertain, medical coding offers a pathway to a stable, respected, and rewarding career. By enrolling in a Top-rated Medical Coding Institute in Kozhikode, aspiring coders gain not just knowledge but also the confidence and credentials required to thrive in the healthcare industry.

Whether you're a recent graduate, a healthcare professional looking to switch careers, or someone looking for work-from-home opportunities, now is the time to invest in your future. Choose the right institute, put in the work, and unlock your full potential in the world of medical coding.

[anandhu-transorze]

Is Australian Medical Coding a stable career?

Australian Medical Coding offers a stable career path, with insights from Transorze Solutions highlighting its reliability in the healthcare industry.

Medical coding plays a vital role in healthcare documentation and billing, ensuring accuracy and compliance with regulations. As the healthcare sector continues to expand, the demand for skilled medical coders remains consistently high.

Transorze Solutions offers specialized training programs that equip individuals with the skills and certification necessary to excel in Australian Medical Coding. With their comprehensive curriculum and industry-focused approach, Transorze ensures that graduates are well-prepared to meet the demands of the job market.

Moreover, medical coding offers job security and stability, with opportunities for career advancement and competitive salaries. By choosing Australian Medical Coding as a career path with Transorze Solutions, individuals can enjoy long-term stability and success in the dynamic field of healthcare administration.

[problogsposts]

Why Should You Consider a Career in Medical Coding?

Introduction

Are you looking for a rewarding career in the healthcare industry that doesn't require years of medical school? If so, medical coding might be the perfect choice for you. In this blog, we'll explore the exciting world of medical coding, its importance in clinical research, and why you should seriously consider it as a career option. Let's dive in!

What is Medical Coding?

Medical coding is like the language of healthcare. It involves transforming medical information such as diagnoses, procedures, and treatments into universal codes. These codes are used for various purposes, including billing, insurance claims, and clinical research. Essentially, medical coders are responsible for ensuring that the healthcare system runs smoothly by accurately documenting patient records.

Why Choose a Career in Medical Coding?

1. In-Demand Career: The healthcare industry is constantly growing, and with it, the demand for skilled medical coders. Hospitals, clinics, insurance companies, and research institutions are always in need of qualified professionals to handle their coding needs.

2. Short Training Period: Unlike many other healthcare careers that require years of education, you can become a medical coder relatively quickly. Numerous institutes offer courses and training programs in medical coding that can be completed in a matter of months.

3. Diverse Opportunities: Medical coding isn't limited to just one type of job. You can find opportunities in various settings, including hospitals, private practices, pharmaceutical companies, and research organizations. If you want to explore related fields, you can also transition into areas like pharmacovigilance, drug regulatory affairs, or clinical data management.

4. Stability and Job Security: The healthcare industry is known for its stability, and medical coding is no exception. As long as there are healthcare services, there will be a need for medical coders. This translates to job security and peace of mind in your career.

5. Work-Life Balance: Many medical coding jobs offer excellent work-life balance. You'll typically work regular hours in a comfortable office setting, allowing you to maintain a healthy work-life balance.

6. Good Earning Potential: While salaries can vary based on location and experience, medical coders generally earn a competitive wage. With experience and additional certifications, you can increase your earning potential even further.

7. Contributing to Healthcare: By ensuring accurate coding, you help maintain the integrity of patient records, improve patient care, and support clinical research, pharmacovigilance, drug regulatory affairs, and clinical data management.

The Role of Medical Coding in Clinical Research

Now, let's delve into the connection between medical coding and clinical research. Clinical research plays a vital role in advancing healthcare treatments and therapies. It involves testing new drugs, medical devices, and treatment protocols to ensure their safety and effectiveness. Medical coding is an essential part of this process for several reasons:

1. Data Accuracy: Accurate coding ensures that the data collected during clinical trials is reliable. Researchers rely on this data to make informed decisions about the safety and efficacy of new treatments.

2. Regulatory Compliance: Regulatory agencies, such as the FDA, require precise documentation of clinical trial data. Medical coding helps maintain compliance with these regulations, which is critical for getting new drugs and treatments approved.

3. Patient Safety: Proper coding helps identify any adverse events or side effects experienced by patients during clinical trials. This information is crucial for patient safety and determining the risks and benefits of a new treatment.

4. Data Analysis: Medical coding simplifies the process of data analysis by categorizing information into standardized codes. This makes it easier for researchers to identify trends and draw conclusions from the data.

How to Start Your Career in Medical Coding?

1. Take a course: Look for reputable institutes or online courses that offer medical coding training. These courses cover topics like anatomy, medical terminology, and coding systems such as ICD-10 and CPT.

2. Get Certified: While certification isn’t always required, it can significantly boost your job prospects. Consider obtaining certifications like Certified Professional Coder (CPC) or Certified Coding Specialist (CCS) through recognized organizations.

3. Gain Experience: Entry-level positions may require some on-the-job experience. Look for internships or entry-level coding jobs to build your skills and resume.

4. Stay Updated: Medical coding guidelines and regulations can change, so it’s essential to stay current. Attend workshops, and seminars, and continue your education to remain competitive in the field.

5. Network: Join professional organizations such as the American Health Information Management Association (AHIMA) or the American Academy of Professional Coders (AAPC) to connect with other professionals in the industry.

Conclusion

In conclusion, a career in medical coding offers stability, good earning potential, and diverse opportunities within the healthcare industry. Moreover, it plays a crucial role in clinical research, contributing to the development of new and better treatments for various medical conditions. If you're interested in healthcare, have an eye for detail, and enjoy working in a structured environment, medical coding could be the perfect career choice for you. Consider enrolling in a reputable training program or course to kickstart your journey into this rewarding field. Your future as a medical coder awaits!

[tourturestarradio]

𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍

"𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐈 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬?"

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Mutant reader

Prompt: He knew not to get attached, he knew better than that but he couldn't help himself, it always ended the same.

Warnings: typical violence stuff, blood, angst/ slight (???) comfort, character death, code name for reader is Venus (it won't be used a lot)

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮

Staring at the flower Bucky reached out to touch the petal, it was a Cyclamen flower. The petals were soft to the touch, taking in a deep breath he pulled his eyes away from the flower hearing Steve call out to him "Buck! come on" taking one last look at the flower he walked away a heavy feeling in his chest that didn't go unnoticed by Steve.

After that Bucky seemed off, like something was wrong. Overall he just seemed preoccupied, but he needed to clear his head asap seeing as it was putting the mission in jeopardy.

By the end of it they had just barely gotten the job done. Now Steve wasn't going to get all up and angry at him Bucky already seemed upset so he'll speak to him later when he feels more relaxed.

Upon getting back to Avengers headquarters, Steve glanced at Bucky "Buck" he called out, he looked back at his friend, a look of sadness still lingering on his face.

"Are you alright? You seemed distracted" he asked, Bucky paused thinking for a moment "yeah i'm fine" he answered, Steve looked at him "Bucky i've known you a long time, I know when you're lying" he pressed, Bucky let out a sigh "just seen something that reminded me of someone" he explained.

Steve focused his attention onto Bucky hoping he'd explain further but he didn't, "it was that flower wasn't it?" he asked, Bucky snapped his head over "thought I didn't notice" Steve said raising a brow, Bucky clicked his tongue "what type of flower was it?" he asked.

Bucky looked away but still answered "cyclamen flower" he muttered, "it was a flower someone I used to know used to grow" he explained, Steve tilted his head hoping he would explain further, "it was while I was under HYDRA's control" he added.

Steve nodded "do you want to talk about it?" he said crossing his arms, shaking his head Bucky walked away.

Entering his room Bucky sat running his hands through his hair memories of his days with HYDRA washing over him, well not HYDRA but his memories of you.

Venus, well that was your code name due to your mutation, you could grow and manipulate any life form that had a plant cell in it. That wasn't quite it though, that isn't where you got that name from though, it was an add on to your mutation.

You could split your face open, revealing a row of sharp teeth just waiting for the right person to stick their nose where it didn't belong and snap your jaw, well face shut like a Venus flytrap would.

Despite the brutal nature of your ability, you were the nicest agent among HYDRA, now don't be mistaken you weren't working for them willingly, you had no choice.

You'd destroy that place from the inside out if you could, but they quite literally had your heart in their hands. And the other soldiers liked you. So they'd let you patch up or heal the other super soldiers due to your ability.

After no matter if it was the tiniest cut or a bullet wound the winter soldier, would be back in your clinic. He just wanted a reason to be around you, which was a case for a lot of the other super soldiers. He wouldn't speak, but he'd still listen to what you told him, as you worked on him like it was a normal conversation.

You wouldn't pester him about his mission, and if he completed it or not, you'd do your job and take care of him. You didn't ever seem frightened or nervous to be around him like everyone else, you didn't hold your breath every time he moved.

Now you were nice but that didn't mean you were an idiot. You had encounters where a soldier tried to kill you more than once, so if a soldier got a little too rowdy you puff a decent amount of lavender powder into their face to keep them calm while you worked.

You always keep your guard up around everyone...except Bucky. You trusted him. No matter how many times he asked you the answer was always the same "you've given me no reason to distrust you." to you it was a simple answer.

But to him it meant the world, you knew all the wrong doings he did and yet you still trusted him. And it showed. If he was okay with it you'd stand close to him and go about your regular work.

If he'd asked to stay in the room with you for a little while longer you'd let him without question. There was so many times he could have killed you all the perfect opportunities and yet you'd still let him go close to you.

But you trusted him.

You cared for him.

He remembered it like it was yesterday, he'd returned from a tough mission limping into your clinic weakly calling out to you.

You grew out some tree vines to help him stay up, you cursed under your breath "I told them not to send you on another mission." you muttered, a few aconites growing out of your head as you tried to calm yourself.

Placing him down, you glanced up at his eyes "I'm taking this off okay?" you muttered, carefully you tugged off his tactical gear he muttered a small pained "okay" you cut off his blood stained shirt, Bucky groaned in pain you looked over the few bullet holes he had scattered across his torso.

To distract himself from the pain he glanced up at you "talk, please" he groaned, you thought to yourself for a moment before speaking "there's a plant called the corpse flower, it's the largest flower in the world it's about 10 feet tall and 3 feet wide if I remember correctly." you explain, taking out the bullets placing them aside.

"Why's...it called a corpse flower?" he asked, you took the last bullet out. You began cleaning the wound "well because when it blooms it smells like a corpse" you chuckled, grabbing a needle and thread you grew a lavender flower out of your palm "this'll hurt a bit, wanna go under for a bit?" you asked, Bucky shook his head "no, just keep talking" he stated.

You nodded placing the flower aside, "okay" you started patching him up "ya'know when I grow things I get a little connection to them, I can feel what they feel for a moment" you hummed, Bucky glanced at you for a second but he didn't say anything.

"You got a favorite flower?" you asked, he shook his head he could barely remember the flowers you'd talk about but he remembered what they looked like, you'd grow them and tell him what each flower symbolized. There was one and only one flower he'd remembered.

"Hellebores" He muttered, it was a flower that could bloom even in the winter time.

You looked a little shocked for a moment muttering "you remembered..." a small smile gracing your face. It was very rare for any of the soldiers to remember any of your previous conversations, so to you, you wanted to jump for joy but you'd have to keep calm for now.

You walked away for a moment, grabbing some bandages "okay snowflake sit up for me please" you commanded, Bucky never understood why you called him that so he finally mustered up the courage to ask "why do you call me that?" he asked, slowly sitting up.

Standing in between his legs you started wrapping a bandage around his torso, letting him smell the faint scent of dirt and flowers coming off of you."Well um, I don't like calling you a soldier or winter soldier. It feels dehumanizing, like you're nothing but a weapon." you explain.

Looking at his tense blue eyes before looking back down "ya'know? I know it sounds stupid, but I just think it's wrong, and I like snowflake better" you finished, a smile gracing your face.

Your smile was so soft, welcoming, you were standing so close to him. He could observe you, he could see the faint light in your eye the way you lightly bit your lip as you focused on wrapping him up. He was so close he could just-

"hm-um Snowflake?" you blinked, feeling his flesh hand touching your face, his fingertips running over cheek. Once he realized what he was doing he yanked his hand away as if you'd burned him.

He muttered a small "sorry" to which you replied "it's okay" simply. Though you made a note of how comfortable he was enough to touch you.

He stared at you his heart thumping faster, you were about to move backwards when he grabbed onto you, not want you to move away just yet.

"Oh!...do you need something?" you asked, blinking he let go "grow me a flower." he commanded, you tilted your head "that's now how you ask" you say, putting away your things, the soldier sighed.

This is what he means, you treat him like he was just a regular person like a...friend. He was a super soldier, and you were making him say 'please' like he was a child.

You crossed your arms waiting for him to say it, it got to a point where you were both having a stare down before he inevitably gave up "grow me a flower...please." he mumbled, you smiled "there you go sweetpea." you hummed, holding out both your hands Bucky saw a misty glow come from your palms a large flower growing before blooming into a pink camellia.

"What does this one mean" he asked, running his hand over the petals, you plucked the flower from your hands "it...means to live a good life" you lied through your teeth placing the flower aside.

Bucky stood up "why'd you pick that flower?" he asked, You gulped trying to subvert the conversation "well you're a lot more talkative today" you hummed, you knew it was wrong, you shouldn't grow so attached but you couldn't help yourself.

Bucky made a face but before he could press further, before the door to your clinic burst open "Soldier on your feet" one of the men said, Bucky turned his attention towards the handlers, standing up without hesitation.

"You'll be flying out tomorrow, prepare yourself" he spoke loud and clear, you snapped your attention towards the group of men.

Before Bucky could leave thorn vines shot out to block his path "no he will not." you stated, the men looked over "and what position do you think you have to stop him?" he stated, cocking his head to the side.

"He needs time to heal. He barely made it out of his last mission before sending him on another one. He may be a super soldier but he's still a fucking human" you state a disgusted look on your face. The thorns growing sharper.

Orange lilies and tansy flowers growing around you the more irritated you got. The men knew not to push you too far you were friendly but were still a mutant, and you weren't very fond of the handlers, scientist, and agents that worked for HYDRA. You only gave a form of sympathy to the soldiers.

Who knows what horrors you would do when you were angry. The main man clenched his fists "he gets a week to recover." he stated before turning his heel and leaving "damn mutant" he spat.

You relaxed your posture, your thorn vines disappearing "sorry bout that Snowflake" you stated, Bucky didn't pay attention still thinking back to what you'd said earlier.

He's still a human?

He's still just a human.

You placed your hand on his arm snapping him out of his state "are you alright? You can stay here for the night if you want" you offer, Bucky shook his head "no." he stated, "are you sure..." you asked, concerned about how he seemed so stern again.

'We were just starting to make progress...' you thought to yourself, Bucky grabbed his things "i'll be going" he stated silently, you looked at him with a worried expression watching him go so suddenly.

Bucky knew he shouldn't get close to you, it would only cause trouble. He knew better, but he felt human around you, he could forget his troubles just for a moment. Just for a second.

But he knew it was wrong, it always ends the same...

And as much as he would like to be proven wrong, he knew he'd never know peace, or tranquility.

Not after the sins he faced, the lives he's taken, the lives he's ruined.

He couldn't taint you too, you were the last piece of hope he had at feeling whole, but he knew it would all come crashing down even if he wanted it to or not.

You were a lush green forest that thrived so well, and he was a forest fire waiting to turn you into ash.

And he proved himself right.

Soldiers had been going missing left and right, and the scientist that tortured them suddenly going missing as well.

While the soldiers weren't seen again the scientist bodies being found as an obvious warning. Someone was threatening them, and it was all too obvious who it was behind this.

Bursting into your office your head looked up a smile that graced your face upon seeing Bucky but disappearing as you realized he was brainwashed again, you'd been found out.

'Shit.'

Getting up quickly you grew enough thorn vines to wrap around him stopping him in his tracks.

Throwing him out of your office you quickly escaped out using your ability you created a wall of sturdy tree branches blocking the soldiers and Bucky from getting to you.

But it was futile as the wall was set aflame, you could feel the prickling heat burn your skin, but you kept moving despite the agony you felt.

Through the burning you felt something shoot through your abdomen, making you tumble into the ground. The pain almost made you vomit as you looked up seeing Bucky.

No, no that wasn't Bucky, nor Snowflake. That was the winter soldier staring you in the face, you created a wall surrounding you.

Bucky ripped the wall apart, you could have put up a fight if this was anyone else, but it wasn't anyone else.

You didn't want to hurt him.

The trust you built between each other slowly crumbled as he grabbed you by the throat squeezing hard "c-come on...Snowflake...it's me" you muttered through strained breaths.

He only tightened his grip, his cold blue eyes stared into your watery ones "please don't make me do this..." you whispered, that look in his eyes faltered for just a moment.

You were slowly getting through to him but your vision was growing blurry, you didn't have time to talk him down, so without missing a beat you spit a powdery substance into his face before kicking him sternly in the chest.

He dropped you trying to wipe the powder off but it started to burn. Catching your breath you scrambled up on your feet running for the exit, you could hear him yelled out in pain as the gimpy gimpy powder started to set in.

You felt horrible but you had to escape, you did all you could by setting those new super soldiers free, that was your only goal and if you hadn't been discovered you'd continue on. You'd tell them where to go and who to find for help.

Before you could make it out you heard another gun shot ring out. this time closer to your heart making you collapse onto the ground, another super soldier grabbed you slamming you through a wall making you land outside.

The soldier pointed their gun at you muttering "traitor" but before they could pull the trigger a tree branch stabbed through their chest. You dropped your hand making the tree branch fall under your command.

Releasing a shaky breath you crawled further into the forest dragging yourself away, you could feel yourself getting weaker by the second.

Pulling yourself against a tree you tried healing yourself but your powers were unstable, you were unstable, gulping you felt a pit form in your stomach. Was this how you die? Shot by a man you wished to call your lover?

You were pulled out of your thoughts as you heard a twig snap, your tired eyes were wide open now seeing Bucky standing in front of you. You trembled in your place "please Snowflake..." you whimpered.

Holding his gun up you squeezed your eyes shut, and a gun shot rang out into the forest. But you didn't feel anything, looking beside you, you saw the tree had a bullet hole in it. Looking back you only heard Bucky mutter "don't move." you listened and made your body as limp as possible.

"Did you kill the traitor?" on the other soldiers asked, "yes." he said coldly, you dared not make a peep listening as the soldier walked away "mission complete" he stated.

Leaving only Bucky and you, slowly opening your eyes you looked at him "why did you-" "Go. Go and never come back" he stated, you gave him a small but tired smile "I couldn't even if I wanted to Snowflake" you say, lifting your shirt enough to show him the bullet wounds.

His eyes went wide.

No, this can't be happening...

You shuffle to sip up "this is the end of the line for me" you mutter, watching Bucky walk closer to you "Venus-" "Y/n....just call me Y/n" you sighed, Bucky tried to pick you up but your used your tree vines to pull him back "stop it, it's a waste I've lost too much blood" you explain.

He shakes his head "help. I'll get you help" he stated, he ignored your words guilt washing over him as he tried to suppress the heavy feeling in his chest.

You waved him off "Bucky it's fine, i'm right where I want to be, if I die I get to die where I belong, not in that horrid place." you hummed, running your hands over the dirt.

Bucky grabbed you again trying to move you "s-stop, stop! It'll be okay Snowflake, just know I lied about what the pink camellia meant" you chuckled.

This was no time to be laughing, Bucky cradled your face in his hands "...Y/n...I'm-I'm sorry" he muttered, you shook your head feeling how his hands trembled.

"that wasn't you, it's okay, just never forget no matter how hard they try to make it seem... you're not just a soldier, you aren't a weapon, you aren't a monster, you are your own person" you said, blood spilling from your lips.

The light in your eye that Bucky grew to love was slowly fading, mimicking his and there was nothing he could do. His eyes were glossed over "...please don't..." Bucky whispered, a hammering feeling in his heart.

He dropped his head not wanting to face this harsh reality. But you carefully raised his head, your once warm hands now cold and clasping his. "Snowflake please, please look at me" you called out.

He slowly lifted his head up "it'll be okay...you know my favorite flower is a cyclamen flower, I don't think I ever told you that" you muttered, cyclamens started to grow up and out of you covering you're body as Bucky tried to swat them away.

"Snowflake...come here" you muttered your grip on him growing weaker he leaned closer, you used the last bit of your ability to push yourself forward pressing a small kiss to his forehead.

"I love you...please don't forget me..."

And just like that.

You were gone.

The one person who made him feel safe, was gone. That cold feeling washing over him again, laying you backwards against the tree he noticed your smiled stayed in place while your body became one with the earth around you.

-★-

Peeling his eyes open he could feel something wet touching his face, quickly wiping his face he realized a few tears had fallen, with a sigh he looked to the potted flower that was on his nightstand touching the petals he wished you could see how far he's come.

He looked at the pink camellia, knowing you'd be happy to see him taking care of one of your favorite flowers.

Getting up he walked out missing the way the flower subtly moved to feel his touch again.

.

.

.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮

A/n: Expect more Bucky stories, the amount of research I had to do to figure out what different flowers meant, ughhh anyway I have plans that I cannot share with you right now *insert that one freaky sonic meme* anyway thanks for reading!!!! Have a good day/night!

[wosospacegirl]

https://x.com/barcacomio/status/1916523453164785667

omg this is soooo kika and r coded omg even during all the chaos there's only one person they want to be with

The final whistle had barely blown before the pitch dissolved into chaos.

Blue and red flags waved from the stands, players sprinted in every direction, and the small crowd roared with the kind of electricity only a Champions League semifinal win could summon.

But even in the flood of movement and noise, Y/n’s eyes searched for only one person.

Kika.

She spotted her near the sideline, propped up on crutches, her right leg still in a brace.

She was laughing–of course she was–cheeks flushed, clutching a tiny Barça flag like she hadn’t just watched the game from the bench. Like she hadn’t spent the past weeks in physio, forcing a smile through the frustration.

Y/n groaned under her breath. She could already feel her blood pressure rising.

Unbelievable.

Without thinking, she cut across the pitch, dodging teammates and cameras until she was in front of her. Arms crossed.

Frown locked in place.

“Kika,” she said, firm and unimpressed.

Kika’s head snapped up, and for a second, her entire face lit up. Like Y/n was the only person she'd been waiting to see.

“Y/n!” she chirped. “Did we just make it to the final or what?”

Y/n didn’t respond. She was already reaching out, steadying her by the elbow. “You’re not supposed to be on the pitch.”

Kika blinked. “But--”

“You promised you would rest,” Y/n continued, narrowing her eyes at the brace. “You should be sitting down.”

“I was sitting,” Kika said sweetly. “But then you guys started winning--I got excited.”

Y/n sighed and pulled her into a careful hug, muttering, “You’re the most stubborn person I have ever met.”

Behind them, chaos spun on–flags, hugs, victory cries–but for Y/n, everything else faded away. 

Kika was here. And for now, that was all she cared about.

“You’re the one that carried us today,” Kika whispered, her voice soft, nose brushing Y/n’s cheek.

“I just did my job,” Y/n muttered, cheeks pink.

“You did a very good job, then.”

Y/n was about to grumble something sarcastic when she caught the way Kika’s expression shifted. Her lips trembled slightly. The shine in her eyes wasn’t just excitement anymore.

“Hey,” Y/n said gently. “What’s wrong?”

Kika blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “It’s nothing. I just... I didn’t think I would get to see this. Not like this.”

Y/n’s chest tightened. She pulled her in closer.

“You should be playing,” she said quietly. “I'm sorry you can't, meu bem.”

Kika shook her head. “Don’t get mad. I’m still here. I got to see the team, you--it's just a lot to take in, I'm still very proud of you guys.”

Y/n's arms never loosened. She held her like she was afraid to let Kika go.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” Y/n said softly, then paused, realising how stiff and clinical it sounded coming out of her mouth. Her face warmed. “I mean--crying’s allowed. Like, you have full permission. From me... I mean, you can cry, and I’ll comfort you. No panic. Totally normal.”

Kika let out a wet little laugh into her shoulder, her fingers curling tighter into the fabric of Y/n’s kit. “You’re such a robot sometimes.”

“Yeah, well,” Y/n grumbled, shifting slightly to shield herself better from the press of cameras. “But I just made it to the final of the Champions League, so I think it’s ok..”

And just like that, Kika laughed again, brighter this time–but still tucked into her shoulder.

It wasn’t dramatic–it was the kind of crying that came from relief, from months of holding it all in.

“I love you,” Kika whispered.

Y/n closed her eyes, her voice barely above the noise of the crowd. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I know. Me too.”

They stood there in it, in the mess of joy and exhaustion and all the things they weren’t quite saying.

And then–

“KIKINHA!”

Y/n flinched as a familiar voice pierced the air. Her head turned slowly, almost like she already knew what was coming.

Alexia came charging toward them at full speed, eyes wide and sparkling with victory. She didn’t stop before she reached them, launching herself into a full-body hug like crutches weren’t a thing that existed.

“We did it!” Alexia shouted, practically bouncing. “I told you we would win this one for you, Kika!”

Y/n stood there, stone-faced. “Yes, of course. Ruin our moment. Thank you, Alexia.”

Alexia just grinned wider. “You’re welcome,” she said cheerfully, still latched onto both of them.

Kika laughed, still breathless, her eyes rimmed pink from crying, but so full of light. She was taking it all in.

And even Y/n, grumpy, overprotective, completely in love, couldn’t help but smile, just a little.

“This is the worst day of my life,” she muttered, hopelessly squished between a beaming Alexia and a teary, laughing Kika.

But she didn’t let go.

Not of Kika. Not for a second.

..

Sorry, this is small, I got like zero energy to write anything remotely worth reading.

[sicutpuella]

Sweet Like Honey | Simon Riley x Reader

A honey trap—such a sterile phrase his superiors used, as if it could sanitize the rot festering in his conscience. Unethical? Yes; but that single syllable barely scratched the surface of his transgression. They needed information, they said, and Simon—God help him—had orchestrated every tender moment, every breathless laugh, every trembling touch with surgical precision. His superiors, those faceless men in their stark offices, had pushed the proposal forward; they wanted him closer to her father, that suspected architect of labyrinthine offshore accounts.

He remembers that exact moment. Her eyes had sparkled with tears of joy when he dropped to one knee—tears that now haunted his dreams, crystalline drops of his betrayal. In quiet moments, when she lay sleeping beside him, her trust radiating like warmth against his skin, the question would claw at his throat: When she discovers the truth—not if, but when—will those same tears fall in rivers of rage? Will her love calcify into hatred, sharp enough to pierce the armor he'd built around his guilt?

"Three years of marriage." Her words floated like seafoam in the Mykonos twilight; wine-hazed eyes drinking in the pastel sky as if it were a gift he'd arranged specially for their anniversary.

Simon's jaw tightened—a muscle working beneath the skin—as waves lapped at their bare feet with metronome precision. The word 'marriage' sat like bile in his throat; every anniversary a fresh reminder of his calculated lies. He fixed his gaze on the bleeding horizon—anywhere but at her—letting the salt wind strip away the taste of guilt that had become his constant companion.

"Yeah... three bloody years." The words scraped past his lips, his British accent thick and coarse as Mediterranean sand. A bitter laugh threatened to escape—three years of this charade, three years of her soft touches that felt like brands against his skin. "Can't believe it's been that long."

She reached for his hand; he let her take it.

"I'm so happy you married me..." Her words hung in the salt air—fragile as soap bubbles, painful in their innocence. Those eyes, sparkling with a love he could never return, cut deeper than any interrogation he'd endured in the field.

Simon's muscles coiled beneath his skin; her declaration struck like a precisely aimed blade. His jaw worked silently—grinding truth to dust—as guilt wrapped its familiar fingers around his throat. The sensation lasted only moments before training kicked in; sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had a job to do—always the job.

"Yeah..." The word emerged like gravel. His expression hardened into the mask he'd worn for three years. "Me too."

A heartbeat of hesitation—then, striving for conviction: "It was the right thing to do..."

She wound herself around his arm like morning glory seeking sunlight. "Do you love me?" The question dripped with need for reassurance; every syllable another weight added to the anchor of his deception.

A muscle betrayed him—twitching in his jaw like Morse code airing out his lies.

"Course I do..." The words tasted of ashes as he forced himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes—God, those trusting eyes—gleamed up at him like searchlights through his carefully constructed shadows, sending fresh waves of guilt crashing against his ribs.

Mission parameters flashed through his mind like a lifeline: just a mission, a means to an end—nothing more. Clinical words that did nothing to dull the edge of her next question.

"Have I made you happy?"

The question hung between them like a loaded gun; he wondered which of them it would wound more deeply.

Simon's jaw ticked—a mechanical tell he couldn't control—as her voice spilled sweetness and light into the darkening air. His fists clenched; knuckles white with the effort of containing truths that would shatter her world.

"Yeah... you have." The words scraped past gritted teeth; his tone harsh enough to wound—though whether himself or her, he wasn't certain.

He forced himself to look at her—God help him—and found trust swimming in those eyes; love so pure it sent guilt cascading through his veins like ice water. Training kicked in like muscle memory: compartmentalize, distance, remember the mission parameters. This was all theater—a carefully orchestrated performance where he played the doting husband.

"If I make you uncomfortable or unhappy—" her voice trembled with an eagerness that flayed him alive—"tell me what to do and I'll change whatever it is you don't like about me."

Simon's shoulders sagged beneath the weight of her devotion; each word of self-doubt another stone added to the cairn of his shame. Her willingness to reshape herself for a man who didn't exist—it was obscene in its innocence.

"You don't need to change anything." His voice emerged gruff, carefully modulated to hide the storm beneath. "You're perfect the way you are." Perfect—and that made it infinitely worse.

As they walked further along the shore, his boss's voice slithered through his memory like an oil slick: "Give her a baby, Riley. Solidify that you're a family man to her and her family... that'll make them trust you more..."

The waves crashed against the shore; Simon wondered if they could wash away the taste of bile rising in his throat. A baby—the ultimate collateral damage in this game of shadows and lies. His handler's words echoed like bullets in an empty chamber; each one designed to kill whatever conscience he had left.

Simon's gut twisted into knots as his handler's words burrowed deeper—parasitic thoughts breeding shame. Using her love, her body, their marriage had been one thing; but this—creating life as a prop in their charade—made bile rise bitter in his throat.

He swallowed against the acid guilt. "Baby..." The endearment scraped past his lips like broken glass; his voice rough with self-loathing. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Yeah, baby?" Her response came wrapped in a smile—always that damned smile on her gorgeous face; each curve of her lips another twist of the knife he'd planted in his own conscience.

Simon guided her toward a secluded stretch of beach—away from witnesses to his latest betrayal. His muscles coiled tight as she called him 'baby'; the war in his mind reached fever pitch—duty and disgust grappling in the shadows of his skull. Professional distance crumbled beneath the weight of what he was about to propose.

He drew in a breath that tasted of salt and lies; tried to fortify himself against the magnitude of this new deception. Speaking had never been his strong suit—now words felt like weapons turned inward.

"...I've been thinking about something." His voice dropped low; serious—as if gravity itself could lend legitimacy to this fresh hell.

"I've been thinking..." Another breath—sharp enough to cut—"that maybe we should start trying for a baby..."

The words fell like stones into the space between them; he couldn't bear to meet her eyes. Instead, his gaze fixed on the sand—watching darkness creep across it like the stain he felt spreading through his soul. This was more than a mission parameter now; this was crossing a line he hadn't known existed until he stood at its edge—about to take a step that could never be untaken.

Her eyes widened—galaxies of hope expanding in those innocent depths.

The squeal that erupted from her lips pierced the evening air: "Yes! Yes!"

Simon's face contracted like a wound being stitched; her unbridled joy a fresh kind of torture. The guilt gnawed at his bones—a familiar parasite he'd learned to live with—but he buried it beneath layers of practiced indifference. Just the job, just the bloody job.

"Yeah... yeah..." The words tasted of ash in his mouth as he attempted enthusiasm—a poor actor playing at happiness. "I thought it was time." Time for what? Another layer of betrayal; another innocent drawn into his lies?

Her face glowed with such pure delight—Christ, if she only knew the truth behind his proposal, would that radiance transform into something that could burn him alive?

"I'm so happy... I'm so happy..." She bounced on her toes like an excited child; her eyes swimming with naked affection as she gazed up at him. "Can we try tonight?"

The question hit him like a body blow—air evacuating his lungs in a silent gasp. His jaw clenched; muscle memory of contained revulsion. "Tonight?" His voice emerged rough as sandpaper. "Uhh... tonight?"

The speed of her agreement caught him off-guard; reality crashed over him like a cold wave. The physical act loomed before him—another performance in his repertoire of deception. But sex is sex—a mantra he'd repeated through three years of marriage; a thin comfort that grew thinner with each repetition.

"Sure baby... sure." The agreement slipped past his defenses before he could stop it.

Sex is still sex—the lie tasted bitter this time.

"Yeah... alright... tonight." Each word dragged like shrapnel from a wound.

Simon forced the syllables past the knot of self-loathing in his gut. Conflict churned inside him—desire warring with disgust, duty grappling with decency. But there was no extraction plan for this mission; no way to abort without destroying everything.

He drew in a breath that felt sharp as glass. "We'll head back to the room then, yeah?"

His extended hand seemed to belong to someone else—a stranger playing at being a loving husband. His mind raced through a labyrinth of regrets; each thought a new dead end. The fraud of it all pressed against his chest—this performance of love, this pantomime of family planning.

"Come on." The words scraped past his lips, gruff with barely contained turmoil. "Let's go."

Each step toward their room felt like moving through quicksand—every movement drawing him deeper into a lie he might never escape.

That evening, as she lay beneath him—trusting, eager, loving—his guilt manifested in the most primal betrayal of all. The little blue pill dissolved on his tongue earlier was his shameful secret; another lie to add to his collection. His body rebelled against his deception—even chemistry couldn't fully overcome the weight of his conscience.

It should have been paradise, shouldn't it? Being buried in the warm sanctuary of her body—her beauty undeniable, her desire genuine. But paradise, he'd learned, couldn't be built on foundations of sand and shadows. Each tender touch felt like judgment; each passionate kiss a sentence passed. His pleasure came tainted with self-loathing—mechanical responses to artificial stimulation.

The truth burned in his throat like acid: he couldn't maintain arousal—not with guilt wrapped around his throat like a garrote; not with his handler's voice echoing in his mind. This secret he'd take to his grave—another shard of shame embedded too deep to ever extract. The warmth of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; heaven transformed into a special kind of hell, designed just for him.

She lay beneath him—all warmth and trust and love—while his heart turned to ice in his chest. The dim light caught the gold of her wedding ring; it flickered like an accusation with every movement. His own ring felt like a brand against his skin, burning with each tender touch she offered.

The chemistry coursed through his veins—artificial desire fighting against the tide of his guilt. Her fingers traced patterns of affection across his shoulders; each caress felt like judgment carved into his flesh. Paradise turned to purgatory; pleasure transformed into punishment.

"I love you," she whispered against his neck—words that should have been salvation became damnation instead.

His body responded while his mind recoiled; training and tablets working in tandem to maintain this cruelest deception. She arched beneath him—so trusting, so eager to create life with a man who was more shadow than substance. Her skin flushed with genuine desire; his grew cold with calculated performance.

The sounds she made—soft sighs of pleasure, whispered endearments—echoed in his skull like accusations. Each thrust felt mechanical; each kiss a fresh betrayal. His handler's voice mingled with her moans: "family man... make them trust you more..." Until he couldn't tell where the mission ended and the madness began.

Her hands cupped his face—so gentle, so loving—and he wanted to weep at the cruel irony. Here she was, trying to create life with a man who died a little more with each tender touch. The heat of her body only emphasized the cold calculation of it all; intimacy perverted into intelligence gathering.

He buried his face in her neck—not from passion, but to hide the war raging behind his eyes. She mistook his shuddering for pleasure; it was revulsion at himself. Even as his body chased its chemical conclusion, his mind splintered into fragments of guilt and duty and shame—pieces too sharp to ever fit back together.

Mediterranean sunlight crept through the curtains like liquid gold.

"Did you have fun?" Her question floated up from the tangled sheets; innocent as morning dew.

Guilt lanced through him—sharp and familiar now. Her eagerness to please him felt like needles under his skin; every effort she made to earn love he couldn't give was another weight added to his conscience.

He forced out a grunt—another performance in his endless repertoire. "Yeah... yeah I did. You've gotten better." The words tasted of copper and shame.

"Why do you ask?" He aimed for casual; missed by miles—tension threading through his voice like steel wire.

"I just want to make sure I'm making you happy," she murmured against his chest, fingers tracing abstract patterns on his skin. "I read some articles about... you know... trying for a baby. Making it more likely to happen." A soft laugh escaped her—pure, unguarded. "I want to do everything right."

Her head rested on his shoulder—soft hair brushing his skin like whispered accusations. Any other man would thank whatever god they believed in for a woman like her; Simon could only hate himself more with each gentle breath she took.

He wrapped an arm around her—another act in this elaborate charade—pulling her closer even as his soul recoiled. The weight of her trust pressed against him harder than her body ever could. She felt like silk against his skin; he felt like sandpaper against hers—rough with deception, coarse with lies.

The urge to push her away clawed at his chest—to end this facade, to confess every sin he'd committed in the name of duty. But the mission bound him like chains forged from his own choices. His mind waged its endless war: duty versus decency, mission versus morality. An innocent woman lay in the crossfire, and he'd loaded every bullet himself.

Her warmth seeped into his side; he wondered if it would ever wash away the cold calculation that had become his core.

Simon slouched in the corner, half-hidden by a wall of pastel balloons and garlands, the sound of laughter and soft coos grating against him like nails on glass. She was radiant, glowing in that way all the books and articles had promised, a woman basking in the warmth of her impending motherhood. Friends and family surrounded her, hands touching her belly as though it held some sacred truth he could never understand. She laughed—a sweet, unguarded sound that should have brought him joy. Instead, it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He couldn’t bring himself to join the celebration; every time he looked at her, every time she glanced over and smiled at him, something twisted deep in his gut—a sharp, relentless reminder that he was a fraud. She deserved a man who’d be a father in more than name alone, someone who’d be wrapped up in this new life with her, but all he could feel was the weight of his shame and pathetic self pressing down on him.

That evening, Simon spun a quick excuse for her—something about a problem at the office, a sudden emergency requiring his immediate attention. She barely questioned him, simply nodded with that gentle trust he’d come to dread. But his destination wasn’t the office; it was a dimly lit bar, a familiar back corner where his superior waited, nursing a drink and an expression Simon could only describe as smug satisfaction.

“So… successfully knocked an heiress up, eh?” The words rolled off his boss’s tongue as if they were discussing the weather.

Simon ground his teeth, feeling a spike of anger flare in his chest. “Yeah.” The response was clipped, his jaw clenched so tight he could barely force the words out. “I did what you asked.”

“Head over heels for you, is she?” His boss laughed, a low, contemptuous sound. “God, the poor thing.”

Each word felt like a blade twisting deeper. Yes, she loved him; she loved him with a sincerity he’d never known he could inspire. But the way his boss spoke of it—as if her affection was some cheap victory, as if her trust was a trophy to be tossed aside—made his blood run cold.

He balled his fists beneath the table, his knuckles turning white. “I know,” he said through gritted teeth, barely able to keep his voice steady.

“We didn’t think you’d pull it off this well.” The amusement in his boss’s voice was unmistakable. “We knew you could manipulate—use people; that’s what you do best, after all. But to get her so… blindly devoted? Impressive, even for you.”

Simon bit down hard, jaw aching as he fought to keep the bile from rising. He didn’t want to hear it; he didn’t want to hear about how flawlessly he’d betrayed her, how thoroughly he’d convinced her of a love that was nothing but smoke and mirrors.

“She trusts me,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel, hoping to deflect, to shut down this sickening praise.

His boss let out a chuckle, cold and mocking. “Just trust, is it? Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. But come on—no credit for yourself? I think you deserve a bonus for this one, Riley. You’ve put in the work, pulled all the strings. Hell, even I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Simon felt himself go still, every muscle in his body wound tight, like a coiled spring about to snap. The monster his boss saw in him—was that all he’d ever be? He forced himself to nod, his voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… sure. Send some extra cash my way if it makes you feel better.”

“Good,” his boss replied, that smug satisfaction radiating from him like poison. “I’m proud of you, Riley. You’ve secured an influential family, locked down the daughter. And soon enough, there’ll be a little Riley running around, further cementing our foothold.”

A wave of nausea rolled through him at that. His boss spoke as though this were just another operation, another mission ticked off the list. Not a woman’s life, not a child’s future—just another step in their endless game of leverage and control.

Simon gave a curt nod, jaw so tight it felt like it might shatter. He kept his silence, swallowing the urge to spit some scathing retort, to lash out and tear down every vile word his boss had spoken.

“Good,” his boss said again, with a finality that felt like chains tightening around Simon’s throat. “Keep it up… and, of course, gather all the intel you can on her father.”

Simon didn’t respond. He simply sat there, silent and still, the weight of his choices pressing down like iron shackles. The mission bound him—bound him tighter than any oath he’d ever sworn—and he couldn’t escape the feeling that, somewhere along the line, he’d traded his soul for it.

All photos sourced through Pinterest

Headers made by @rookthornesartistry

[superbat-lmao]

A Jayroy fic where Jade drops off baby Lian and they just.. retire.

There’s a really difficult conversation they have about dating and raising a kid and vigilante work and they decide screw it. It’s not safe to raise a kid around.

And by retire, I mean they disappear. Go to ground.

(Talia knows what it is to want the best for your child even if they have different opinions on what best is. She gets them off the grid and funded in some sort of suburban hellscape that takes the both of them a while to adjust to. They say they have a deep space mission and just, don’t come back.)

Roy works in a rehab clinic and Jason gets a degree in Literature. He becomes a professor at a small college, taking on graduate students and falling into academia.

They go to therapy, the make friends with other parents, they become normal people. And they have an insane security system for their house, and AI that scrapes cameras of their faces, and a modified basement that Roy compares to the Batcave exactly once that has a gym and space to work on equipment and a method of escape should it be necessary to uproot their lives again.

Because they want to be civilians, but that doesn’t mean that if their past lives come knocking, they’ll be caught unaware and too out of the game to defend themselves. In fact, because they don’t go on patrol, they’re at peak performance at all times and rarely injured more than a sprained wrist or paper cut. Gone are the days of concussions, GSWs, and stab wounds.

The superhero community doesn’t know what to do, what to think. Because all of their resources are expended elsewhere. And because space is a big place, and trying to find two humans in its vastness is an exercise in futility.

So Lian grows up normally. She’s a girl whose parents love her. And her problems are ordinary, like homework and sleepovers and playing soccer.

And when she’s in middle school, the same age as Roy and Jason were when they started superhero training, they tell her about their past lives. About the danger it will bring if they’re found. Because they promised never to lie to her, and to never let her get wrapped up in the vigilante scene.

They’re well adjusted people raising a normal daughter.

And they explain to Lian that they came from very large and complicated families. Families that did dangerous work, work that put anyone who knew about it at risk. And that Lian was a baby, and that all of that risk of their jobs, was not worth her life. That they loved her more than their families, their jobs, their previous lives. But that it meant they could be discovered, and that those old lives would be dragged back up again and she could get hurt.

Lian thinks of it like witness protection.

So Lian memorizes code names and pictures of people that may try and approach her. She learns the differences between friendlies and uglies. Between ex-family, and rogues. And she doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t look into things when her parents ask her not to. Because she trusts them to protect her. She trusts them like a well adjusted young girl who could very well ask her parents for more information, but doesn’t care about the answers because she trusts they’re not important. That it doesn’t change how much they love her or what their lives are.

There are a couple of versions of this:

1. Jason, Roy and Lian live out their lives happily and away from their families. They are never again vigilantes or found out by them.

A) Alfred dies and that is the only thing that almost breaks Jason, that he didn’t get to see the man again before he died.

2. The Bats track them down, ask them what they hell they were thinking, that they thought they were dead. To come home, be part of the family again. They’re told no - and the three of them disappear again to somewhere they’ll never be found.

3. Alfred finds them, says nothing to anyone and once a year, on Lian’s birthday, goes to visit. None of the Bats ever figure it out.

4. Alfred knows where they’re going from the beginning, he keeps them updated on their families and helps hide them from everyone. He never once tells a soul that Jason and Roy are alive. He is allowed to visit Lian sometimes and they are all happier for it.

A) When Alfred gets old enough, he tells Bruce he will be retiring. He asks that he is not followed, that no one from the super hero community is allowed to keep tabs on him. He tells him he’s sorry, but that it has to be this way. Alfred goes and lives the end of his life with Jason, they speak about literature every day, about Alfred’s parents about anything he wants to. Jason buries Alfred in England and Bruce Wayne gets an unmarked alert to its location.

5. The Bats find them, and never approach them. Each Bat basically figures out that Jason is alive, doesn’t say anything to the rest of the family, and keeps tabs on him and Roy. Once they realize that Lian exists, none of them ever breach that level of trust, even as they all grow into old age and move on with their lives.

6. Bruce finds them.

A) He waits for Jason in a cafe, watches him realize who he is and turn to look at the Roy Harper, who nods once and walks away. Jason approaches him and sits down. He asks how he found them. Bruce doesn’t say anything, just looks at his son, alive, seemingly happy. Tells him it was an accident, he had genuinely still thought they were in space, maybe dead, until someone plagiarized Jason’s work, submitted it through a Wayne Enterprises competition of some sort, and it flagged the system. It had been entirely work related, pure coincidence. No capes.

B) And Jason laughs and it’s lighter than Bruce has heard it in years. Jason asks how much Bruce knows about him now, how much intel he gathered before approaching him. Bruce says he knows about their marriage, their daughter, their jobs and habits. Jason nods and he’s smiling. Bruce doesn’t know what to do. He had checked the area, and there were no reports of anything approaching vigilantism, no anonymous casework, no decrease in crime, nothing to suggest the presence of the Red Hood and Arsenal. He hasn’t spoken to Jason outside of business in years, isn’t sure he knows how to anymore. And he looks happy, he’s alive, he’s a civilian.

C) He wants to ask him everything, ask him to come home, wants to know the man his son became. He asks Jason why. Why they disappeared. And Jason is still smiling and it’s honest and Bruce can’t stand to look at him and can’t help it either. So Jason tells him that they will never let their daughter into vigilantism. That they quit, and needed it to be absolute. That he and Roy couldn’t do this halfway, that if they loved their daughter they had to do only what was best for her, and that meant burning their old lives entirely, becoming civilians.

D) Their lives had been too complicated, too many people, too much history. So many ways for things to go badly, to leave Lian without parents or get her killed as leverage against them. And for as much as he and Roy had cared about the people in their lives, couldn’t stop caring about them, they knew that they would just drag Lian into all of the emotional problems that come with being a vigilante. That it wasn’t healthy, for any of them. That trying to do so would kill them. So they disappeared. And Bruce thinks of the pain he and his family had gone through over Jason, wondering how he was doing, if he was dead, hearing nothing and trying not to let it eat at them. But right now, his son is in front of him smiling, something he can’t seem to stop doing. Something Bruce never thought he’d see again.

E) And he has a son in law, a granddaughter. His son has a family, one he built himself. He looks healthy, he’s not closed off, he’s more open than Bruce thinks he’s ever seen him. It’s jarring, like Bruce is wrong footed. He doesn’t know what to say. Wants to tell him about everything that’s happened, to his brothers to their family, to Gotham and old contacts. Wants him back in the loop. Wants to ask about their lives, and college, and his wedding and his daughter. Bruce wants to know all of it. And he wants to know how he did it, how he hid himself so well in plain view.

F) And the detective in him will always prioritize the how over everything else. He wouldn’t be Bruce if he didn’t. So Bruce asks how. And Jason laughs, says he’s not going to tell him.

G) You know I can’t tell you that, old man.

H) He can’t let it go, Bruce can never let anything go, that’s his burden to bear. He tries to push old buttons, doesn’t notice he’s doing it. But Jason won’t stop smiling, won’t switch from civilian to vigilante. There is no trace of anger, of the Red Hood. He doesn’t look surprised and Bruce’s arguments, about flaws in his code, software, he’s just smiling. Won’t rise to the bait. And for once, Bruce has a feeling he’s only felt around Clark. A feeling of being outmatched. Jason knows all of his buttons, isn’t pushing a damn one. Isn’t letting Bruce push his either. It’s not even a stalemate. Bruce has no openings.

I) He starts telling him about his brothers, about missions and life developments. He tries to tell Jason everything. And Jason listens, hears everything he has to say. And Bruce asks him about himself, his life, his husband, his daughter. And he hears about NA and AA meetings, about therapy and raising an infant, and being a professor and his students about their friends and neighbors, about Lian’s friends at school. All of it. Except the how. And at some point, it’s been a couple of hours, but not very long at all, Jason gets a text. He doesn’t look at his phone. And Bruce knows that whatever spell had been cast over the cafe, whatever bubble of another universe he had crossed into, he was about to watch it close. Implode on itself with only him inside. Because Jason was about to leave. All of it, the cafe, the conversation, the smiling and the laughter, it was the one distraction that Bruce was liable to. And Jason has him right where he wanted him. It was something that wouldn’t work twice, and they both knew it.

J) And Jason says, I can’t stop you from telling anyone. I can’t stop any of you from looking for us, but this was the third life of mine that you ended. Of the two of us, I would go to greater lengths to protect my daughter. I am asking you not to make me do something you’ll regret. I am asking you not to look for us, not to tell anyone, not to put it in a report. I did not want to hurt you, any of you. And you have made that unavoidable. I know you, Bruce, and I have spent time healing from everything I’ve been through. I cannot allow you to pull me back into it, to pull the three of us back into your world. I know that this conversation won’t stop you, now that you know. So I’m sorry, I didn’t want to have to say this. I know who you are, who all of you are. It was never a question before, that I would keep your secrets. If you look for us, I will go public. It’s not just your life I’ll be placing at risk, it will be the entire league. I will burn every bridge, every alias. I have redundancies in place, you send a super my way you better be sure to send them all. You better be sure you’ve caught all my backups, all of Roy’s backups, everything. We have avoided you for years without triggering any of your, or the league’s, systems. I can’t predict another accident, but if you know what is best for you and everything you’ve built, you will prevent even that from happening. Do not force my hand.

K) Bruce stands, trying to memorize his son’s face. And then Jason is gone. Disappearing down a street and out of sight. And Roy is waiting for him, their house had been cleared of all traces, Talia has new lives set up for them and Lian is asleep in the backseat.

L) Their lives are busy for the next few weeks, traveling and covering their tracks and looking for new methods of being traced. And they change their names, change their lives, are prepared for the upheaval of being new people again. This time, it sticks. They watch Lian graduate school, college, get married, have children of her own. And the media is inescapable - they learn very little about their old families lives, but not nothing. There are funerals and weddings and probably so much more in private, things they will never know, never be part of again. And then they’re just old and together. Their grandkids visit, Lian visits, life is good and long and they are happy.

• Or, it sticks until one day, a spell is cast in Gotham and he’s standing on a rooftop, no mask, identity on full display, surrounded by other vigilantes in mixed states of gear and civilian status. Some being or other from another universe required all hands on deck in this universe and had used a spell to summon them all here.

• Jason spotted Roy appearing near him on the rooftop, both of them stunned. No one had noticed them yet, but their moment of indecisiveness and a moment of pure awareness on the Batfam’s part, meant there would be an inescapable confrontation. Batman seemed to notice them first and looked to Jason, who shook his head. It appeared Batman was trying to talk to the person who had summoned them all here, to argue they should be sent back or ask if it was possible.

• Jason moved himself and Roy towards Batman, doing their best to avoid looking at any of the other vigilantes at all, including but especially family. They walked into a tense conversation.

• You must send them back, they are civilians.

• Batman, you of all people understand the threat we are up against, if the spell believes they are necessary to combat X then they were brought here.

• I understand perfectly well, I am telling you to send them back. Having them here is a security risk, not during the fight, but after. This is not your universe, things are different in ways you can’t know of, this is one of those circumstances.

• Jason and Roy approach, Roy tapping his shoulder in a way that means he’ll follow his lead.

• He announces, You are in violation of the Hempstead agreement. You have one hour to return us to our previous location before we are a security risk.

• They can hear intakes of breath around them, some of the arrow clan and bat clan have approached, uncertain of what exactly is happening, but not comforted by the fact that Batman seems to understand the situation without telling any of them. The argument continues, Jason standing just behind Roy, separating him from the group slowly forming around them, people pushing their way to the center to see their son or brother again. Their friends.

• A decision is reached, It will take me 10 minutes to establish a connection strong enough to send them both through. Do not interrupt me while I prepare, follow me.

• And Jason and Roy are walking away, backs turned to their families. To their friends. There are shouts behind them, their names, other things they choose not to hear. It is all held at bay by Batman.

• They are speaking with the universe hopper, giving him a location to send them while clearly stating that he is not to give out that location to any of the vigilantes here, that violation of these terms will risk the hero community at large. The closer it gets to the ten minute mark, the more the riot behind them frays between silent understanding and desperation. Neither of them turns around, they can’t allow themselves to look. It is excruciating.

• Roy looks Jason in the eye and neither of them are fully able to stand it, but the fact that they’re not alone has to be enough. Jason can see the itch start, the overwhelming feeling that can’t be tolerated, the one that motivates people to seek out something that will just stop. He reaches out his hand, taps it against Roy’s and is met with one of the worst smiles he’s ever seen. It threatens to bring Jason to his knees, but Roy threads their hands together. The portal opens before them and without turning around, they step through.

• There is a shared panic attack, a moment of grief and regret where both of them realize just how greatly they hurt all of the people they used to care about. They break apart together and rebuild each other enough to pick up Lian from school and begin the process of torching their home. Whatever fight they had been summoned for had not happened yet, so they had a larger lead time than they had when Bruce had stumbled across them. But now, the entire hero community, many more points of being able to be convinced, was now aware they were both alive and on Earth.

[muhdanas]

International Diploma in Healthcare Documentation: A Pathway to a Successful Healthcare Career

[enoiocean]

𝓳𝓮 𝓿𝓮𝓾𝔁 franklin saint x black!reader

૮ ․ ․ ྀིა 12k words — set in LA Beverly hills in 09, rich!business man!franklin saint x black!fem!reader , age gap - ( reader is 21 , Franklin is 30 ) porn with plot , Rough Sex , Daddy kink, veryyyy long read , multiple parts coming , this is for a mature audience , please read with caution !

This job didn't really feel like a...job.

You didn't have to abide by a certain dress code, you didn't work around only women , the building was beautiful, and the first day you arrived for the interview, you wore a black skirt with matching stockings and heels and a white long-sleeve top to balance it out—nothing too revealing, nothing too vulnerable, just a blank slate. Your hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail , so taut it made your temples throb, but there was something satisfying about the control of it. and The black-framed glasses weren't prescription, but they made people trust you. Smile wide. Lip gloss is subtle. You'd rehearsed it in the mirror. Professional. Approachable. Just enough. You couldn't help but be excited.

The building was enormous—a towering monolith of glass and steel. Inside, it was a time capsule sealed in style. The decor hadn't been updated since the 1970s, but not in the way of disrepair—more like reverence. Golden-hued lighting bathed everything in a soft, cinematic glow. Velvet chairs in jewel tones sat beneath smoked glass tables. Brass fixtures caught the light like secrets. The air smelled faintly of aged leather and expensive cologne, like the ghosts of men who once closed deals with handshakes and half-truths still lingered in the wallpaper. It was retro, yes, but effortlessly, arrestingly beautiful. Like stepping into a beautiful memory .

The woman who greeted you was tall, alabaster-pale, and sculpted into her perfectly pressed ivory suit like she'd been born in it. Her hair was lacquered into place, not a single strand out of line, and her heels clicked with surgical precision as she walked—sharp, efficient, utterly devoid of hesitation. She didn't smile. She didn't need to.

She guided you past the front lobby, a space so unnervingly quiet it bordered on the sacred. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was pressurized. The hum of office phones rang out in soft, rhythmic pulses, like a heartbeat barely holding on. Somewhere behind frosted glass, voices murmured—thin, bloodless conversations spoken in fragments, too hushed to decode. No laughter. No interruptions. Just the mechanical whisper of a machine well-oiled and too proud to acknowledge its own humanity.

Her eyes—those eyes—slid over you like she was appraising livestock. No warmth. No welcome. Just a quick inventory. Your shoes. Your posture. The way you held your purse like it was armor. Her gaze was clinical, transactional, the kind of look someone gives a thing they're considering purchasing—not a person, a product. She didn't bother with a smile. She nodded. Once. Like she'd already met ten versions of you and decided you were just another mold from the same batch.

18th floor.

The elevator ride was long. Too long. The silence felt oppressive, like the air was thick with something unseen, something waiting. It binged like the pulse of a dying animal. When the doors opened, you were hit with the sharp, cold sting of perfection. Marble floors. 70s walls. A decor that screamed luxury, A hallway extended in four directions, each path ending in a sealed door—identical, marked with a gold nameplate. Outside every door sat a single desk, and behind each desk, a woman. Perfect posture. Impeccable grooming. Typing with the precision of gunfire. Their fingers danced across the keys in exact, rhythmic motion, inhuman in their steadiness, like they'd rehearsed this moment to death.

They didn't look up. Not really.

One of them glanced at you—brief, slicing, surgical. Eyes like frosted glass.

Your stomach flipped. Not a flutter. A full inversion. That sick, hot tumble of instinct trying to speak before your brain can form words. But you kept walking, heels clicking across the marble like you belonged here. Because you needed the job. Because "figuring it out" doesn't pay rent, and retail was starting to feel like a punchline to a joke you'd already heard too many times.

Your landlord was hiking the rent again—like your building had suddenly earned the right to call itself luxury just because they painted over the mold and installed a broken security camera in the stairwell. Going back home wasn't an option. You couldn't stomach your mother's passive-aggressive sighs or your father's not-so-subtle lectures about "readiness" and "real-world responsibility." They still talked about you like you were a kid who wandered too far from the sandbox. Moving back would only make them right.

You heard about the job from Vince. Your sister's boyfriend. The guy who drank straight from the bottle and always smelled like car grease and weed. He said his friend needed a secretary. Some executive downtown. Something vague and high-paying. You didn't ask questions. You just said, "Tell him I'm interested."

Next morning: bing. Inbox. One new message. An email dressed up like an invitation to a secret club. Subject line: "Thank you for your interest in FS Enterprises."

No job description. No bullet points or salary range. No qualifications or application portal. Just a single line dripping with urgency: "Show up here Friday."

No signature. Just an address. Downtown, where all the high-profile politicians and businessmen are.

You Googled. Nothing.

You searched and searched. Still nothing.

No company website. No mission statement. No reviews. Just a trail of digital dust—like the whole thing had been scrubbed clean or had never existed to begin with.

And still, you got dressed. Still, you showed up. Because your sister trusted Vince, and Vince didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd sell you into something.

Not on purpose, anyway.

Right?

Your fingers gripped the folder tighter in your hands as you walked toward the door at the end of the hall. Heavy wood, dark-stained and polished to a mirror shine. A gold nameplate sat flush in its center, gleaming like it had just been cleaned, though no one ever seemed to touch it. The letters engraved were too clean, Franklin Saint.

You knocked. Three short, quick taps. The sound of someone pretending they weren't terrified.

The silence that followed was too thick, too heavy. You almost felt like the sound of your knuckles hitting the door had been swallowed by the walls. You didn't know what you were walking into. Not really. It was all so surreal—the smell of cologne mixing with the faint undertone of something artificial, like the air had been scrubbed clean of any trace of humanity. The hallway behind you felt a lifetime away, everything shrinking into the space just in front of the door, everything focusing down to that very moment.

You could hear your heart beating in your ears.

And then, the door creaked open, slow, deliberate.

You'd imagined Franklin a hundred different ways, but now that you were here, staring at him, all those versions faded. He was tall, maybe too tall, with a suit that swallowed him whole, sharp and tailored to perfection. His skin was beautifully dark with no imperfections, and his eyes—those eyes— they lit up when they saw you, squinting a little. His smile was bright, white, and straight.

You couldn't help yourself. You smiled back. It was the only thing you could do in that moment, the only thing your body would let you do. Your hands got sweaty, your breath shallow. You were a thousand miles away from the girl you thought you were before you stepped into this room. Now, you were something else—something in-between, trapped in the tension of his gaze. And you couldn't look away. Couldn't stop.

His voice came soft, almost too soft for the size of his frame, "You must be... (❀), right?" His eyes flickered over you, a quick scan that felt like a full-body examination. He smiled more.

You nodded, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Your mouth was dry. You couldn't even remember the last time you’ve been this nervous.

He stepped back, letting the door swing open further, a silent invitation that felt more like a command.

"Come in. We have a lot to discuss."

The door clicked shut behind you, and for that moment, it was just the two of you.

He didn't ask you about your work history. He didn't ask why he should hire you. He didn't even look at the paper you clutched in your hands, the one you had memorized the night before. He didn't care about any of that. Instead, he asked about you about who you were, not what you did. His voice was soft and polite, the words cutting through the air with a precision you could almost feel on your skin. He asked if you were still in school, if you liked it, where you grew up, and if you were from California.

It felt almost casual, like he wasn't trying to dissect you. Like he wasn't testing you. But you could tell that, couldn't you? You could tell he was watching. He was listening not to your answers but to the way you gave them. He wanted to know how you thought and how you felt. What you cared about.

And each time you answered, you found yourself talking longer than you intended, telling him more than you meant to. You rambled about things you loved, about places you'd been, and about the little things that made you feel like you were truly alive. The way the ocean smelled after a rainstorm. The way the sun felt on your skin when you woke up before anyone else did. Why you loved photography. Why you loved fashion. You couldn't stop yourself. You couldn't even try. You were unraveling, piece by piece, and you didn't know how to stitch yourself back together.

He didn't write anything down. He didn't interrupt you. He didn't glance at the clock for the time and didn't look anywhere else but at you. And every time you spoke, every word you let slip, he leaned in a little more. Not physically, no. But emotionally. His eyes locked onto yours, absorbing you. He wasn't just listening. He was consuming.

And all the while, you felt like you were in the middle of a dream—a dream that was beginning to twist, beginning to become something dangerous. You couldn't name it, couldn't put your finger on it, but you knew that in this room, in this space with him, you weren't in control anymore.

And you didn't want to be. Not really.

The interview lasted an hour, but it felt like a reunion with a long-lost friend—someone you'd forgotten you needed, someone you hadn't realized you missed until they walked into the room. You didn't remember exactly when it happened, but somewhere between your rambling answers and his unblinking stare, the clock seemed to disappear.

You stood up to shake his hand, your legs slightly unsteady under you, like you were waking from a dream you hadn't wanted to end. Your mind raced in that final moment—was that enough? Did you say the right things? Did he see through your act? Did he see you as just another ditzy, young girl, spinning in circles, thinking she could handle belonging in a place like this?

But before the doubts could claw their way up your throat—before logic or fear or that sick little voice in the back of your mind could poison the moment—he shattered them. Just like that. His hand found yours, firm and warm, grounding, pulling you back into the room, into your body, like a lifeline tied to something you couldn't quite name.

"Sign these," he said. His voice was smooth in that dangerous way—like silk hiding the blade. He slid three pristine sheets of paper across the desk. Blank. No headers. No legal jargon. Just space. Space waiting for your name.

"Bring them back to me Monday. You'll start then."

And that smile—God, that smile. It didn't sell a job. It sold something else. A promise, maybe. Or a secret you weren't ready to be trusted with. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Your pulse was sprinting. You were vibrating with questions—about the papers, about the man, about what this was.

You didn't know if you wanted to bolt from the room, heart hammering like a warning, or stay and crawl deeper into whatever rabbit hole he was offering.

But your mouth moved before your mind could catch up.

"Mister Saint, are you sure you don't want to look at my resumé—"

He cut you off, clean. Didn't even glance up. just opened a drawer and pulled out a pen and a leather-bound book. The kind that smells expensive. The kind that's meant to hold things you're not supposed to share.

"Here," he said, eyes still bright. "This is all you'll need; go over it and remember everything in it."

You barely heard the next words, not with the way your blood was rushing in your ears.

"What type of computer do you prefer?"

It was the kind of question that made no sense in that moment. You blinked at him, thrown off, suddenly aware of how little you truly knew about this man, about this space, about what was even happening here.

You glanced at the pen in your hand. It was small, silver, and engraved with what looked like a symbol, a logo, but it was so tiny, so simple, you couldn't make out the detail. The book, thick and bound with care, felt heavier in your hand than it should have, like it had weight beyond its pages. But all you could do was stare at him, waiting, trying to process what just happened, trying to figure out how the hell you were supposed to answer that question.

Your voice stuttered out, softer than it had any right to be. "I... usually work with Macs. But I'm flexible."

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

He nodded, like that was the answer he expected.

"Beautiful," he said. Slowly. Like the words were designed to be unwrapped one syllable at a time. "That's why I chose you."

Your breath caught.

"I'll have something set up for you by Monday," he said, casually. Almost like a favor. Like he was offering you a seat at a table you didn't know existed.

Then his eyes flicked back to yours, and something in his voice curled, slow and deliberate:

"You'll be fine."

Just like that, you were here. three months in. Sitting in front of his door every day, behind a desk that you could do anything with. A blank canvas waiting for you to carve out something real, something personal. You looked at the MacBook Air; you couldn't believe he got it for you, like it was some cheap thing to play with. You placed your small trinkets on the desk. A small plant with deep green leaves, hopeful and stubborn, clinging to the light that never seemed to be enough. A picture of you and your friends, their laughter forever frozen in a frame that suddenly felt like a memory you didn't want to forget. A cup holder, silver star-shaped, And the small stuffed bunny—like an Easter relic.

You liked the space. The lighting. The way the windows let in just enough natural light to make everything feel alive, like it wasn't all just polished steel and glass. The small details grounded you in a way you hadn't expected. The world outside might've been spinning out of control, but this little corner was yours. And that was enough, for now.

The four women sat in front of you; beautiful older figures leaned over their own desks. They didn't speak much to you. No casual introductions, no offers of friendship. They just murmured the occasional "Good morning" as you walked past them every morning to your desk; they'd talk to each other, laughing and gossiping. Your heel clicks a little heavier, a little more uncertain. You were always a few minutes late. Never much of a punctual person. And every time you passed them, you felt their eyes on you, their glances lingering longer than necessary. But they never said anything, and you never asked.

You sat at your desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, your mind a little too distracted to focus on anything "important." You thought you'd be dealing with endless emails—replying in that perfect, overly polite tone that corporate types love. Or maybe scheduling meetings for Saint, organizing his calendar like you'd seen secretaries do in the movies. But nope. None of that.

Instead, your day started off with coffee and a doughnut. His coffee, just the way he liked it: black, no frills. And the doughnut—glazed and sweet, the kind that makes you feel like you're doing something right. You gave it to him with a smile, like a ritual offering, and he took it from your hands like it meant something.

His fingers brushed yours—accidental, probably. But they lingered. His eyes met yours. They didn't just see you. They read you.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Simple question. Too simple. But the way he said it—it unzipped something in your chest.

"I'm okay," you said, soft, almost shy. Your smile slipped out on instinct, like it had been waiting for permission.

He watched you smile. Really watched. And then he nodded, slow, like he already knew the answer before you gave it.

You let him in at ten o'clock. A man in a charcoal suit, cologne too expensive, nerves twitching in the corners of his mouth. Mister Saint didn't rush. Didn't bark orders. He just stood when he was ready, nodded once, and disappeared behind the door with the man trailing behind him like a child being summoned by his father.

It was quiet. Peaceful, almost. You took a moment, enjoying the stillness, the calmness of the space. You didn't have to fake it. It wasn't a rush of anxiety or pressure. Just... you. And a desk.

You tapped the keys, barely noticing the rhythm. A soft click-click that soothed your nerves more than it should. Instead of working, you found yourself scrolling through clothing websites. You didn't need anything, but hey, it was fun to look. So many pretty dresses and shoes that made you feel all sorts of ways—cute, fun, alive. You had the money for what you were scrolling past now, the way Franklin was paying you. You're imagining what you'd look like in them. A little daydream, a little fantasy.

Maybe he'd like this skirt.

Maybe he'd hate it.

But notice? Oh, he'd notice.

Your lips curled. Just a little.

You didn't ask how old he was. Didn't need to. Thirty-something. Close enough to know better. Far enough to ruin you.

And you?

You were starving.

You drooled.

Not in the cute, girly way either. No, you thirsted. Hard. Quiet. Secret. Like an addiction that made your palms sweat and your stomach tighten. Every time he walked into the room, your spine snapped straight like you'd been caught doing something wrong. Because you were. At least in your head.

I mean, who wouldn't?

Franklin Saint was perfect. Not in the glossy, magazine way. No, this wasn't boy-band pretty. This was grown-man, carved-from-concrete perfection. Big. Broad shoulders under tailored suits. Thick forearms veined like tree roots. Biceps you wanted to lay your head against after he ruined you.

He looked like he could pick you up without effort—over the shoulder, into his car, across state lines—and no one would stop him.

But it was his hands that really did it. Those hands.

You found your eyes drifting to them mid-conversation like gravity had a preference. Watching the way his fingers flexed when he gripped a glass. Watching how he rolled a blunt—slow, neat, precise. Watching the calluses catch the light when he touched his jaw or rubbed the back of his neck

You stared like a fool.

You tried to stop. Tried to keep eye contact like a grown woman. But then his thumb would stroke the rim of his glass, or he'd drum those thick knuckles against the table, and it was over. Your mouth would go dry. Your thighs would clench. And your brain? Gone. Just static and heat and the thought of how those hands would feel between your legs.

That's all it ever was—just fiction you played in your head.

Smutty little flickers of a world that didn't exist while you clicked through YouTube videos, watching tutorials on makeup, how to get the perfect glow, and how to do a bouncy, fun curl without frying your hair. You smiled at the thought of trying those things at home later. Maybe a new look for the weekend? Who knows? You liked how it felt to just zone out and let the hours pass by. You weren't thinking about deadlines or pressure. Just... being. The soft buzz of the computer felt like a constant hum that kept you company.

You read over that book he gave you over and over; it didn't consist of anything top secret like you thought it would. The pages were lined in his handwriting—tight, clean, no wasted motion. Like him.

"Monday: Pick up suit from dry cleaners in Beverly Hills. Dark navy, double vent, Brioni."

"Coffee: black, hot, touch of honey if I'm pissed. No cream, never sugar."

"Call Mama on Thursdays. Remind her I'm breathing.”

"Jerome likes the good cigars. Louie, don't. Don't bring 'em to the club."

His blood's in these pages. His rhythm. His rituals. Shoe sizes—11.5, Italian cut only. Suit sizes, jacket preferences. Pocket square colors.

And then the numbers. Phone numbers are like pressure points.

His mother's. His aunt and uncle. a lawyer. The second lawyer. A name you don't recognize—Twanda (DON'T ANSWER UNLESS BLEEDING).

You read that part twice. Maybe three times.

You didn't know who she was.

But now you want to.

"You like the job?" A smooth voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked up, slightly startled. One of the women from the desk across from you was smiling. She wasn't typing anything, just turned toward you, her posture confident, arms casually crossed, legs crossed in that effortless way people do when they're just... comfortable.

For a moment, you couldn't help but take her in. She was beautiful. Like, really beautiful. Reminded you of someone—a little like Vanessa Williams, if you had to put a name to it. Her skin glowed, rich and smooth, her hair slicked back in a professional yet somehow effortless way. She had that vibe, that calm, controlled energy. Like she knew something you didn't. There was a nameplate at the edge of her desk, half-blocked by a stack of blank papers and a glass of water that hadn't been touched.

Gina Camplee. You tucked the name into your mind.

You blinked, trying to focus. "I-I like it," you said with a smile, your voice a little higher than you wanted it to be. Your nerves were still making themselves known, even though you were happy. You were always happy. That was just who you were. "It's... quite a bit easier than I expected." You chuckled a little, hoping it sounded natural. It did to you, but who knew what it sounded like to someone else?

She raised an eyebrow, her smile turning a little more knowing. "Easier than you expected, huh?" Her voice was smooth, almost teasing, but not in a mean way. She seemed genuinely curious, like she was giving you a chance to explain.

You nodded, giving a shy smile, trying to ease into the conversation. "Yeah, I thought there'd be more... pressure? Or a lot more to do, but... I don't know. It's been calm." You shrugged, not really sure why it felt so strange. It was just a job. But it wasn't just a job, not really. There was something else, something off about it that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

She studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing just a little. It felt like she was measuring you, seeing if you were hiding something or if you were just really that... naive. Maybe it was the way she sat, the way she carried herself. It was the kind of confidence that only came with experience, with knowing exactly how much to reveal and how much to hold back.

"I'm sure it's calm now," she said, breaking your trance. "But things have a way of getting... interesting around here." She uncrossed her arms, leaning back just a little. "Franklin likes to keep things unpredictable."

You nodded, smiling brightly. "I'm up for interesting!" You couldn't help it. The optimism just bubbled out of you, no matter what. You weren't about to let any of the unknowns get to you, not yet. You hadn't even been here long enough to feel any of that "pressure" everyone seemed to talk about. Right now, you were just... here, and that was enough.

She smiled again, this time a little softer, but there was something behind it that made you pause. It wasn't a judgmental smile, but a knowing one. Like she had seen this story before, maybe more times than you'd ever know.

"You'll find your rhythm," she said, her voice lighter, almost reassuring. "just show up and do what he says, easy."

You nodded, trying to let the words sink in, but your thoughts were already drifting somewhere else. Somewhere that was just a little too far ahead. "I will," you said, smiling again, because that's what you always did.

You couldn't help but wonder, though, if she knew more. If she knew what he did outside of this perfect, pristine office. She had to, right? She must have seen something, heard something. Franklin Saint wasn't the type of man to just be... normal. You knew his name, his age, and that he hated smoking. That was it. Nothing else. Not a single glimpse of what lay beneath the tailored suits, the sharp eyes, and the polite smiles.

You glanced up at her again, catching her eye. "Hey, uh..." you said, your voice softer this time, tentative. "Can you tell me more about him?" You weren't sure why you asked. Maybe it was the curiosity. Maybe it was the way he made you feel—like you were just a little out of place, but in the best way possible.

She turned toward you again, this time raising an eyebrow, her expression almost teasing. "You want to know if he's married?" she asked, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

Your face heated up, the flush creeping up your neck. "I—" you stammered, embarrassed that she'd caught you so off guard. Of course, that wasn't what you meant. You just... wanted to know more. But she could probably tell the real question before it even left your mouth.

"If he was," she said, her voice almost a whisper, "the wife wouldn't appreciate the way he looks at you." She said it matter-of-factly, like she had seen it a hundred times before, like it was just an obvious truth in the office.

Her words hung in the air like a sharp breath. You stared at her, stunned, trying to figure out what exactly she meant. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and you quickly forced your gaze back to your desk, your fingers playing nervously with a pen. You couldn't dwell on it—couldn't let yourself get lost in that thought, not now, not when the office was so... quiet and unpredictable.

Just as Gina's words began to settle—curling around your ribs like smoke you couldn't exhale—the call box on your desk crackled to life, that familiar static popping like a nerve firing too close to the surface.

"Sweetheart, I need you."

Franklin's voice oozed through the speaker, thick and smooth like honey sliding over a blade. That word—sweetheart—again. Always, sweetheart.

He never used your name. Never "Miss," never the clipped professionalism he reserved for everyone else in his orbit. With you, it was different. There was always a softness laced with something heavier. Darling. Honey. Sweetheart. Like you weren't on his payroll but his tongue. Like you were meant to come undone just from the sound of him.

You told yourself it didn't mean anything. Just a generational thing. Men like him always spoke like that—charming, old-school, slightly patronizing. You told yourself not to linger on it. Not to romanticize the way his voice dipped when he said it. Not to ache when he lingered on the word like it tasted good.

But gosh, you ached.

You wanted it to mean something so bad it stung.

You rolled your chair back and rose slowly, smoothing your skirt with trembling fingers before you walked to his door. You opened it just in time to see the older man he'd been meeting with step past you, cologne thick and sour in the air as he muttered something under his breath. He didn't look at you. He just nodded stiffly and shut the door behind him with a soft click, like punctuation.

Then it was just you and Franklin.

He stood by the window, backlit by late-afternoon gold, arms folded across his chest, the fabric of his suit hugging him like it was tailored by God himself. Still. Regal. A statue made of heat and ego.

His gaze landed on you—so pretty. he thought

From your hair, pulled tight and neat, to the subtle gloss on your lips. Down the curve of your chest, the gentle dip of your waist. The way you chose a light pink blouse today that matched with your brown pleated skirt, tight enough to make him wonder how long you'd stood in the mirror, smoothing it, adjusting it, planning it.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

The shape of your thighs. The way your knees knocked ever so slightly inward, like your body didn't quite know what to do under his gaze. The heels were modest, office-appropriate, but the way your toes pointed—nervous, uncertain—lit something in him. Something interesting.

"Hi, Mr. Saint... How did the meeting go?" You asked, soft and stammering, your voice slipping out too gentle, too exposed.

The smile you offered was all surface—mirror-polished, practiced to hell. It was the smile you wore when you needed to pretend your hands weren't twitching, that your pulse wasn't sprinting behind your ears. But Franklin saw right through it. Saw how your fingers danced at the hem of your blouse, tugging, fiddling, betraying you in real time.

He tilted his head, just slightly. That look of his—half amused, half predatory. Like he knew exactly how to unravel you and was only deciding how long he wanted to take.

He didn't speak. Not yet.

He let the silence bloom.

It stretched long and thin between you, a thread pulled tight. The kind that holds breath hostage. The kind that says, Don't move.

Then, one step.

Just one.

He moved closer to his desk, dragging his fingers across the edge—mahogany catching the gold of his watch, glinting like a threat. Every gesture precise. Controlled. Like even his silence was curated.

"The meeting went..." He paused, like he was choosing his words for effect, "...very well...Did that guy look trustworthy to you?" He asked, like it was a genuine question.

"I... I'm not sure," you said, truthfully. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, a light barrier, your smile thinning. "He didn't say much."

Franklin hummed, a low, amused sound that vibrated more in your chest than your ears. He kept his eyes on you, like you were the one under investigation.

"Exactly," he murmured, jaw tightening for just a flicker of a second. "and people who don't talk much? They're either hiding something, or they think they're smarter than everyone else."

He leaned back on the desk now, hands gripping the edge behind him, legs slightly spread, relaxed like a panther in the sun—gorgeous and deadly. Watching you. Reading you.

"Which do you think he is, sweetheart?"

Your throat went dry. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, like that'd help you dodge the heat crawling up your spine. Franklin had a way of making a question sound like a test, like the answer mattered more than you realized.

"... I think he just doesn't say much, like he... he lets his business do the talking," you said, finally. The words came gently but whole, carried by a thread of courage you barely felt. Your eyes held his—just enough to show you weren't scared, but not enough to drown in him. Not yet.

And then—he smiled.

Not soft. Not kind. Not the sort of smile you earn. This one was sharper. Like he'd already solved the riddle and just wanted to hear what shape your mouth would make trying to solve it, too.

It wasn't approval.

It was interest.

"Good girl," he said, and the sound of it coiled straight through you. Low. Warm. A little too pleased.

Your body lit up before your brain could catch up. That phrase—good girl—you'd only ever heard it in those private little daydreams. The ones you had no business entertaining. The ones that made your thighs clench under your desk while you chewed your lip and tried to remember how to breathe.

Now it was real.

And it wrecked you.

You didn't know what to say. Didn't trust your voice not to give you away. All you could do was stand there and feel the heat rise from your chest to your cheeks to the place between your legs that tightened, traitorous and alive.

"I like that," he murmured, the edges of his voice rougher now, velvet fraying at the seams. "That you pay attention."

He moved, slow and sure, circling the desk like it wasn't furniture but a piece of terrain. Like you were the destination. Each step quiet, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world to close the space between you.

Your spine straightened, like instinct, like prey spotting the slow approach of something much larger than itself.

"Thank you, Mr. Saint—" you started, breath catching on the edge of your words.

"Just call me Saint, lovely," he cut in, flashing a grin that was all sin dressed in silk. Teeth barely visible. Heat behind the charm. A joke with a blade tucked in its belly.

"I'm only thirty."

"Okay..." you said, hesitating for the briefest second before letting it fall from your mouth, "Saint." The word felt strange on your tongue—too casual, too intimate—but it came out anyway, soft and unsure, like you were tasting it for the first time. And maybe you were.

He heard it.

Felt it.

Watched it settle in the space between you.

He leaned back in his chair like he owned gravity. Legs spread, one hand lazily draped over the armrest, the other toying with a gold pen like it was a cigar. His smile was a smirk now, slow and knowing. Like he'd just slipped a key into a lock and was waiting to see if the door would open.

"How lovely does that sound?" he said, voice dipped in molasses, eyes trained on yours. "You should use it more often."

And fuck, your face burned.

The heat crept down your neck, across your chest, blooming in your belly. You blinked hard, trying to keep still. To hide how your body betrayed you. But it didn't matter. Franklin saw it. He always did. You shifted just slightly on your feet, and that was enough.

He clocked everything.

"You like working for me so far?" He asked, tone light, but there was nothing innocent about it.

The way he looked at you made the air feel thicker. Like if you breathed too deeply, you might swallow more than oxygen.

"I... I do," you said finally, the words barely above a whisper. "It's different here. Quiet. Clean."

You looked around, pretending to study the office like that was what had your attention, not the way Saint was watching you like he could read the heat under your skin.

"...And you're not like the other bosses I've had."

He chuckled, low and amused, like you'd just handed him a compliment wrapped in a secret.

"No, I'm not," he said. "And I don't plan to be."

There was a pause. Heavy. Lingering. Then—

"Come here for a second," he said.

Not a request. A command, soft-wrapped in charm.

Your legs moved before you could even think about it. You stepped around his desk, your heels clicking against the marble floor like a metronome marking time, every beat louder in your chest.

He watched as you approached—like he was measuring your steps, your breath, and the way your skirt moved when you walked.

When you were close enough to smell his cologne—sharp, woodsy, expensive—he slid papers over to you.

"Read the small paper to me first, out loud," he said, his voice even, casual. Then added, "Then the two others—go over them for errors."

You blinked, thrown for half a second by how mundane the request sounded. That's it? Just read?

"Read it?" you asked, like maybe you hadn't heard him right.

"Mhm," he hummed, settling deeper into the leather, thighs parting just slightly. Just enough. And you knew it wasn't for comfort—it was deliberate. Calculated. The kind of move meant to short-circuit whatever train of thought you were clinging to.

"Out loud."

Your fingers reached for the paper with a shake you hoped he couldn't see. It felt like silk against your skin—thick, creamy, clearly expensive. Not something that got printed on an office copier. It looked like it belonged in a gilded envelope, carried by hand, maybe with a wax seal to match the weight of his name.

You cleared your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. "Please join us—"

"Skip that part," he said, with that same low firmness, like velvet wrapped around command. "Start from my name."

You swallowed. Nodded. Your fingers tightened just slightly on the edge of the paper. "Franklin Saint, you are invited to the 40th birthday celebration of Weston Port. RSVP at the number provided at the bottom of the invitation. We would love to have you here”—

He cut you off with a soft laugh. "Love to have you here," he repeated, his voice rich with something mocking. His mouth curled into that half-smirk, the one that always felt like he was letting you in on a joke with teeth.

Then he tilted his head, eyes still locked on yours.

"That guy hates me, by the way."

You lowered the paper slowly, pulse skipping, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or choke on the heat rising up your chest. "Why does he hate you?"

His smile stretched—wider this time, not kinder.

A quiet kind of cruelty in the corners of his mouth.

"Because his wife prefers me."

It wasn't a boast. It wasn't flirtation, either.

The way he said it—it was fact. Cold. Solid. Undeniable.

The air shifted.

The words didn't hit like a joke. They landed like a dropped match on gasoline, sharp and sudden, making something ignite deep in your gut. You froze—lips parted, breath caught halfway to your lungs.

Jealousy came quickly. Hot and ugly.

Possessive in a way that made no sense.

You had no claim on him. You weren't his. He wasn't yours.

But still—it burned. Low in your belly, a molten thing curled around your spine and made your fists clench just slightly around the paper.

Franklin watched you with that maddening calm, the kind that said he'd already dissected every inch of your reaction before you even had the chance to hide it. Like he could smell the jealousy on you. Like it pleased him.

You looked down at the papers again, tried to focus, tried to pretend the tightness in your chest wasn't there—but your hands were trembling now. Barely, but enough. Enough to betray you.

He waited a beat, letting the silence press in again like a thumb to your throat.

"Now," he said, slow and sure, voice thick with authority. "go over the other two. I want clean copies. No spelling errors. No missed details."

You nodded, eyes flicking back up to meet his.

You knew. But he was studying you again, reading every twitch in your face, every slight shift in breath.

You could feel it. The way his gaze followed your pupils as they darted from side to side, trying to keep up, trying to look like you knew exactly what you were reading—even though you didn't. Not really. Just enough to fake it. Just enough to please him.

and again, your mouth moved before your brain could stop it.

"Is his wife's name... Twanda?" You asked, voice low, almost ashamed of how badly you needed to know.

You risked a glance. And there it was. That smirk again. That wicked amusement curling at the edge of his lips like smoke.

He chuckled, soft and dangerous. "I'm glad you're remembering the book," he said, leaning back.

You could feel it radiating off him now—the satisfaction. Not just that you remembered. But what you remembered. He saw the jealousy in your question, bleeding through every syllable, and it lit something in him.

His baby. Jealous.

He liked it. He liked it too much. You didn't know it, but he did—every damn night he pictured you. His girl on her knees. Obedient. Beautiful. Unguarded. The thought kept him up, aching.

"You told me to, so I did," you murmured back, still focused on the pages in front of you.

You were done.

You’ve been done.

But flipping through them gave you something to do with your hands. Something to hide behind, because eye contact now would wreck you.

He huffed a little, leaning forward just enough to make you feel it in your chest. Then his voice dropped, close and quiet:

"Twanda is a close friend of my mother's," he said finally, his voice easy now, like he wasn't aware of the war he'd started in your chest. "She used to call a lot. And I mean a lot. Trivial things."

He shrugged, all casual indifference, like it didn't matter—but something in the way his jaw flexed said maybe it did.

"She got the hint, maybe," he added, more to himself than to you. "The last time I spoke to her was Christmas."

That landed in the air with a soft finality. No bitterness.

No regrets. Just a fact. And yet you couldn't stop the flicker of relief that bloomed inside you, wild and warm.

You nodded like it was nothing. Like you didn't just unclench your jaw.

"Got it," you murmured, going back to the papers with renewed focus, though the words on the page were a blur now, your mind far from ink and margins.

"Got a boyfriend?" he asked, his voice casual but dipped in something more—curiosity, maybe. Or calculation. Like he already knew and was asking for the sake of watching how you'd react.

Your fingers paused at the corner of the page, still touching the paper but no longer moving. You looked up slowly, caught between surprise and uncertainty, eyes just a shade too wide. The kind of look that wasn't rehearsed.

He caught it.

"Oh—sorry. A girlfriend?" His tone softened, a half-correction, eyebrow lifting like he was opening the door wider.

You laughed, quick and quiet, covering your mouth out of instinct. "No, no. Neither," you said, voice light, but the air around it felt heavier. "Ended something last year, around July. Since then it's just been... me."

You didn't mean to trail off like that, but the words sat strange in your mouth—familiar, but tired. He didn't speak, just nodded once, slow, like he was letting it settle. Like he understood more than he let on.

"Long one?" he asked after a pause, eyes still on you, but softer now. Less study, more presence.

You hesitated, your thumb brushing the edge of the paper. "Yeah. Long enough to feel like a part of me went with it. We were together for a while. Thought it was going to be... I don't know. Everything....He cheated, so”

Who the hell could cheat on someone like you? Franklin couldn't wrap his head around it. The way you walked into a room like sunlight—soft but impossible to ignore. Smart, sweet, with a voice that made even silence feel intimate. You weren't just beautiful; you were rare. The kind of woman a man should get on his knees for. And some idiot threw that away.

Good. That meant you were free now. That meant he could have you.

And Saint wanted you. Not later. Not in some slow-burn fantasy he dragged out over months. Now.

He watched you from his seat, jaw tight, chest heavy with it. Your smile. The curve of your throat when you laughed. The way your fingers curled around the edge of your chair like you needed to hold onto something. He wanted to be that something.

Fuck waiting.

He'd be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed his mind—sweeping everything off his desk, your gasp swallowed in his mouth, his hands gripping your wrists as your back met the cold wood. Him, between your thighs, desperate and rough, finally tasting the thing he'd been circling for weeks.

And you'd let him. He saw it in the way your gaze lingered too long, in the way your thighs shifted when the room got quiet. You wanted it too. Maybe you didn't know how to say it yet. Maybe you were still telling yourself you shouldn't. But Franklin Saint didn't deal in shouldn't.

Just one word from you—one look—and he'd show you exactly what it means to be wanted.

When you finally put the paper down, ready to tell him you'd found no errors, something small thudded against the carpet. You looked down—pencils, a lots of them, scattered and rolling across the floor like tiny messengers of clumsiness. Your breath caught. You realized they'd slipped off the edge of the desk on your side. Your fault.

"I'm so sorry," you said quickly, already half-bending down.

What you didn't see was the flicker of a smirk slicing across his face behind you. It came and went like lightning—quick, precise, almost cruel.

"It's alright," Franklin said, smooth as velvet. "Could you get those for me, lovely?"

His voice was calm, but there was something heavier sitting beneath the surface. Like thunder building behind a polite sky. He wore that look again—the one that made your stomach dip. Gentle mouth, shadowed eyes. A man pretending at softness, while something darker simmered behind his gaze.

You nodded without thinking.

"Yes, sir," you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

Then your knees hit the floor, bare against the plush rug, and you bent to gather the pencils in your hands. One by one. Delicate. Careful. His silence stretched above you, a humid thing.

He watched, eyes hooded, as you reached further under his desk—watched the way your hand went instinctively to the hem of your skirt, trying to hold it down. Modest. Careful. But it was no use. The skirt was too short, and you'd worn nothing beneath it. No tights. No shorts. Just skin and nerve endings and a poor little excuse for a barrier.

His gaze didn't flinch.

The air in the room shifted, heavy and slow like molasses in the summer. Tension swelled, thick enough to chew. On the surface, you were just picking up pencils—a harmless task.

He turned everything into intention.

You could feel it, the weight of his stare glued to your body, and suddenly your own heartbeat was deafening. Slamming through your chest, echoing in your ears. You stayed on your knees, breath shallow, fingers curling around pencil after pencil, each one slower than the last. One by one. Deliberate.

It wasn't just tension anymore. It was anticipation.

Then—you felt it.

something you didn't think he would be so bold to do.

As you had been picking up the lines of graphite, he had tucked his leather shoe underneath your skirt and lifted it up, making your eyes widen. Your heartbeat falls into the depths of your innards as cold sweat starts to rear its existence after the catalyst of Saint's actions. You felt the tip of his shoe rub against the fat of your ass, and hearing his shallow breath added a hotter tension into the room that made you feel suffocated. All you did was look back as your body shook, feeling the nerves reverberate through you.

"... What are you-"

"Shh... You're so pretty like this... on your knees." He lifted your skirt even higher to expose the lacy pink thong and your exposed ass. "So sexy," he continued to whisper his seductive praises.

He sat back in his chair, letting the tip of his shoe press into the fat that made a plushy indentation that made his cock twitch within his trousers; you were so vulnerable, so unknowing, and he just wanted to take you right then and there as he felt your shuddering body to his touch. His smirk only widened when he witnessed you weren't doing anything.

But that was the point. You were simply there—kneeling, soft, unguarded. And that made it even better.

He saw the way your lip caught between your teeth, trying to quiet the sound building in your throat.

And gosh, that little motion? That was his favorite part.

"Oh, do you like this, sweetheart?" He wasn't going to make you answer; he liked you all nervous and too embarrassed to admit that you liked having your own boss appreciate and want to use your body. He felt like he had won the lottery with how willing your body was for him.

"Hm, I love having you around... It's so sexy when you walk around the place... But I want more than you just playing secretary." He watched as your pupils swallowed the color of your eyes as you looked at him through a shuddering chest from broken breaths.

"Turn around for me; I want to see that pretty face more clearly." At your own volition, you quickly obeyed without hesitancy, watching as he opened his legs and the growing bulge that was starting to develop underneath his navy trousers, imminently making you blush as you watched how your body affected him, how just the sight of your panties was making him rock hard underneath the cloth.

"You're a good girl , aren't you?"

"Mmhmm," you nodded in your timid response as you looked up at him with those 'fuck me' eyes.

"Yeah, you are," he said, his voice warm now, praising like a reward. He leaned forward, his hand finding your face with startling gentleness. Big, firm fingers cradling your cheek like it belonged there. Your body responded before your mind caught up—cheek nuzzling into his palm, chasing that heat, that gravity. Subconscious. Instinctive. You fit against him like you were made for it.

Whatever doubts you'd carried—those silly thoughts that he'd never even notice you, that someone like Franklin Saint couldn't possibly see you that way—they melted under the weight of his touch. Under the closeness. The heat that poured off his body like static before a storm.

"How about you take care of me... I've been feeling so stressed... I'm sure you can help me out with that, can't you?" His voice was just like whiskey, smooth in its feeling but also a sensation of burning with how warmth pooled around your core and started to soak around your slit as your clit throbbed under the desire to be touched and to touch him.

"What do... What do you want me to do?" You whispered, almost pathetically, as your pillowy and glossy lips parted as if you knew exactly where this was going; you weren't completely stupid.

"I want to use that pretty mouth of yours for something good," he said, voice low and heavy with intent, fingers moving to unbuckle his belt. The metallic clink cut through the thick air like a warning—or a promise—and your breath hitched on instinct. The sound made your thighs press tighter together, your pussy throbbing against the now-soaked lace barrier that barely held your arousal in check.

He lifted his hips just enough to slide his trousers and boxers down in one fluid motion, and there—his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, proud in its demand. The sheer size of it made your breath catch in your throat. It was flushed, already hard, with the tip glistening like it had been waiting just for you. He didn't need to say another word. That clock spoke volumes.

"Be a good girl and suck it..." he murmured, one hand resting lazily on the armrest as he stared down at you like you were his reward. "You wouldn't want your boss stressed, would you?"

You shook your head quickly, your voice trembling with need. "No. No, I wouldn't."

Your hands rose to wrap around the base, fingers struggling to meet on the underside as you pumped him slowly, reverently. The vein along the length of his shaft throbbed against your soft palms, your thumb swiping over the bead of pre-drip dripping from the swollen head. His breath stuttered—a sharp inhale through gritted teeth.

You looked up at him, locking eyes with that dark, unreadable gaze, and then leaned in. Your tongue dragged a long, slow stripe up from the base to the tip, savoring the heat and weight of him, the way his cock twitched under your attention. His hand tightened on the armrest.

Then you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, wet and warm, lips stretched around his thickness. The taste of him, salty and heavy with want, coated your tongue as you moaned around him—soft, muffled, sinful.

Franklin's head fell back, his jaw tightening.

"Oh, fuck, yes, you're so good at that." His fingers started to tangle in your previously neat hair, causing frizzy strands to strike up as he smoothed his palms over your scalp, gently bucking his hips to guide his cock further into the warm and soaking valley of your mouth and throat.

You softly gagged at the feeling of his fat cock pressing against the back of your throat; you loved this, feeling your glossy lips stretch around him and tasting his salty length as you continued to suck and feel him.

"A-aah, yeah, you're taking me so well," he whispered another praise before he started to feel a little greedy. "Why don't you take that blouse off... I want to see those pretty tits."

You took your mouth off of him in a loud, wet popping sound that made him shudder as the cold air pressed against his cock, continuing to palm and pump his throbbing length as he watched you unbutton the silk blouse until it became discarded cloth on the floor, soon accompanied by your black lace bra.

You felt that pleasurable tingling feeling within your walls and a heated coil that was heating up as it tied together tightly when you squeezed the mounds of your chest for him, letting soft whimpers protrude from your lips as you squeezed onto the sensitive buds when looking into his darkened gaze.

Franklin leaned forward, slow and deliberate, like a shadow swallowing light. His hands peeled away from the armrests, the tension in his shoulders rippling as he shifted over you, dominant and calm, like he had all the time in the world to savor this.

Then—his palms landed on your chest, warm and heavy, cupping the weight of your bare breasts. No hesitation. No apology. Just need to meet with ownership.

He kneaded them slowly, thumbs rolling over your sensitive nipples, dragging them into stiffness. You gasped around his cock, the sensation electric, like he was rewiring your nerves. He never broke eye contact. He just stared down at you like you were his sweetest sin, his most beautiful disaster.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice thick with pride and lust. "Such a mess."

Spit trailed down your cheek, the slick sheen around your lips catching the light, your eyes glassy with pleasure and overwhelming need. Your thighs squeezed together as you moaned to him again.

You were flustered, ruined—his good girl brought to the edge.

His presence was demanding, yet arousing at the same time; a superior shouldn't be doing this to their secretary, but let's be honest, the fantasy has been around for as long as can be remembered; it wasn't like you were complaining that an attractive older man wanted to use you as a cocksleeve. Of course, there was the little voice in the back of your mind telling you that this power dynamic was wrong; you were his employee, and it was highly inappropriate for him to be treating you like this, but the libido soon squelched the rational down as your heated core was wanting to take him on further.

You made his head fall back onto the headrest of his office chair again when you continued to leave swirls from your tongue on the tip of his dribbling cock, tasting that salty and creamy precum as you watched his chest fall up and down in broken tandem to his labored breaths. You could feel your panties become completely soaked when a slow, gushing release came down in your finish as you wrapped your breasts around his large cock and heard his sensual moans fill his office room up.

"Fuck, aaah, keep going, don't stop, making me feel so good," he kept caressing your cheek as he watched you leave kitten licks on the tip of your warm, plushy breasts hugged around his shaft. "Such a perfect, sexy girl."

You sucked on the tip of his fat cock, watching him bite his lip.

"I'm so close... Stop for a moment."

The command was sharp but hushed, laced with restraint—his voice strained from holding himself back. You obeyed instantly, lips releasing him with a soft pop, breath catching as your mouth ached and your chin glistened with the evidence of just how good you'd been.

"Stand up," he said.

You didn't think twice. Your legs were trembling, barely holding your weight, but you stood—still buzzing from the heat of his hands, the ache of his cock in your mouth, and the denial that left you soaked and desperate. Your fingers ghosted over the hem of your skirt, trying to fix it, even though the fabric clung to your thighs, damp with your own arousal. You felt exposed. Ruined. Beautiful.

Your eyes never left him.

He moved with a smooth, unbothered calm, reaching into the drawer beside him like he'd done this a hundred times before. No urgency. No shame. Just pure, collected dominance. You watched him pull out his wallet, the soft leather creasing in his palm, and then—between two fingers—he slipped out a small, gold package.

Your breath caught.

"Get on the desk," he said, his voice low and rich, thick with the promise of everything he'd been holding back. "Spread your legs so I can see."

Your body moved before your brain could catch up.

You turned, the edge of the desk cold against your thighs as you climbed up, palms pressing into the wood for balance. Slowly, you leaned back, your knees parting inch by inch, the cool air meeting the heat between your legs as you revealed everything to him—lace soaked through, clinging to swollen lips, proof of your need written into every curve and shiver.

Franklin stood there, gold wrapper in hand, eyes locked between your thighs like a man staring at salvation.

"Fuck, baby..." he groaned, the sound raw, almost a whimper. There was nothing controlled about it anymore—just want. Heavy. Undeniable. His composure cracked in real time, and it only made your core throb harder, slick gathering with every second he looked at you like that.

He stepped closer, his hands finding the waistband of your panties, fingers curling into the lace.

One sharp tug.

The soaked fabric peeled from your skin like second nature, dragging across your sensitive folds and stealing a gasp from your lips. He didn't move slowly. He didn't ask. He took. The lace hit the floor in an instant, forgotten.

And there you were—open, glistening, your plump, wet cunt exposed to the thick air and his starving gaze.

you lean back a little more, and slowly spread your thighs more, opening up more so the ball of nerves would be exposed as well as your dripping hole. Your heels were gone, kicked off in the heat of it all. Now your soft, pretty white toes gripped the desk's edge, barely holding you in place as you arched slightly,

Your pussy sat there in the light, bare and soaked and ready, a perfect picture of surrender and need.

Franklin He stood frozen for a heartbeat—mouth parted, jaw slack. The raw hunger in his face wasn't subtle. It was worship. It was claiming.

"Shit ..." he breathed, more to himself than to you, like he wasn't sure how he'd held back this long.

The gold wrapper crinkled in his fist as he fought with it, hands no longer slow or calculated—now frantic, desperate to be inside you. He tore it open, pulled the rubber free, and with one long stroke, slid it over his thick, leaking cock. The sight of him standing there, hard and ready, made your hips twitch off the desk in anticipation.

He wrapped his fingers around the base, gave himself one firm pump, eyes never leaving your dripping cunt.

And then—he stepped closer to your legs.

Your legs instinctively slid closer together, thighs brushing, nerves creeping in like a shadow. For a moment, you let the reality of his size sink in—the sheer weight of it, the way it curved in his grip, thick and pulsing. You tilted your chin up, eyes wide and uncertain, a soft breath catching in your throat.

"Franklin... It's so big, I— I haven't had that big before—"

Your words came out like a whisper, stammered and laced with equal parts awe and fear.

But he didn't soothe you. He didn't stroke your hair or offer gentle words.

No.

His voice cut through the air like a blade—rough, commanding, dripping with authority and hunger.

"Spread them," he growled, stepping closer, the tip of his cock brushing your inner thigh. "Or I'll spread them for you."

That tone—it flipped a switch inside you. Something primal. Something submissive and aching to obey.

You weren't used to it. Not from him. Not from anyone.

Which is why your thighs flew open , trembling as you obeyed instantly, wide and dripping and ready. Your pussy glistened under the light again, exposed and aching, your core fluttering with anticipation and the sharp thrill of giving up control.

Franklin's hand wrapped around the base of his cock, thick and pulsing with heat as he dragged it slowly through your folds, letting your slick coat every inch of him. He moved deliberately, smearing himself in your arousal, the swollen head brushing over your clit just enough to make your back arch and a broken whimper slip from your lips.

Your hands lifted—finally—like your body couldn't stay passive any longer. They found his arms, fingers curling into his firm biceps, grounding yourself in him as he bit down on his bottom lip, gaze locked between your thighs. His cock slid up and down again, gliding with ease now, teasing your entrance as he groaned low and deep in his chest.

One hand gripped your knee and held, keeping you wide open. You tried to close your thighs reflexively, overwhelmed, but he didn't let you—not even for a second. His fingers dug in, possessive, commanding, holding you in place as his cockhead smeared your wetness across your folds again and again, each stroke making the tension coil tighter in your gut.

"You're so wet, baby..." he muttered, voice distant, lost. Like he forgot where he was—forgot about the office, the company, the windows overlooking downtown. None of it mattered now. Just your cunt, open and ready. His temple dropped back, jaw slack with a sigh that sounded like worship.

"Ahh, f-fuck." Your eyes couldn't leave his face. He was beautiful like this—undone, needy, lost in you. You were soaked, ruined, panting—his.

A mess.

Then, with one greedy, careless push—he found your entrance. You gasped. Bite your tongue. He slipped in too easily, too naturally, as if your body had been made for him.

He moaned under his breath, hips rolling as he fed more of himself into you, slow and relentless, until he bottomed out. His hips pressed flush to yours, his balls snug against the curve of your ass, and you let out a fragile little sound, something between a gasp and a moan, helpless to the fullness.

"You okay, baby?" He murmured, breath unsteady. One of his hands moved to your waist, his thumb stroking your side. "How does that feel?"

Your walls clenched around him involuntarily, sucking him deeper, as if your body didn't want to let him go. He shuddered from the feeling, his eyes softening, something dangerously close to adoration swimming there.

You could barely breathe. You were floating.

And then it came out of you—raw, unplanned, honest.

"Daddy... it feels so good," you whimpered, your voice all breath and silk, breaking apart under the weight of him inside you. Eyes wide, glassy, cheeks flushed—the picture of soft surrender. You looked like the sweetest kind of mess, like the type of girl who gets what she wants just by pouting pretty and parting her thighs. A spoiled little pillow princess laid out and ruined just right.

Franklin looked down at you, heat licking through his chest at the sight. His jaw tightened, but that smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—slow, knowing, cruel.

"I know baby," he murmurs in a taunting way. "I know."

"Don't s-stop, i–i'm almost there—" you gasp, the words tumbling out in pieces, each syllable cracked open by the rhythm of his thrusts. You're begging now—for air, for mercy, for him to never stop. Because you're right on the edge, teetering on the brink of something too good, too deep. Bliss, heaven, him.

Franklin's grip tightens on your waist, and he leans in until his forehead presses to yours, eyes blazing.

"I won't," he pants, breath ragged, voice rough with focus and fire. "I won't. I promise, princess."

His words hit you like a vow, low and serious, each one chased by the sound of skin against skin and the heat of his body overwhelming yours. He doesn't stop—not even for a second. His hips stay steady, relentless, chasing your high like it's the only thing that matters.

And the way he's looking at you—like you're the only girl in the world, like nothing else exists but your shaking body under his—makes you fall apart just that much faster.

You were a dirty girl, and you knew it. You knew it the second you opened your legs and let him see how wet you already were, how easily your body betrayed every little game you thought you could play. You thought you'd last, thought you could take it and keep some kind of control—but Franklin Saint stripped that away from you with nothing but a look and a few deep, unrelenting strokes.

Now you were here—writhing beneath him, back arched and breath catching in your throat. You were moaning into his ear, the words filthy, soft, and broken. almost slipping, "I love you, I love you," like he was the last man you'll ever be with. It was just the way he filled you so deep it felt like he lived inside your bones.

You were so close.

"I can't, baby... Uh, fuck daddy." Your brain is already melting, and with it, your pussy starts to melt more. You wonder if he even notices such a thing from how he's basically fucking you now like his life depended on it.

"You want to cum pretty?" He pants on your face for a second, seeing how your eyes were starting to roll.

Your fingers find his shirt, skimming the side seam of the cotton separating you from his skin. He grabs onto you tighter, like he's afraid you might slip away. His thrusts turn rougher, deeper, and more desperate—driven by something primal and possessive. You can feel the muscles in his back shift under your hands, feel the heat radiating off him, and see the way his shirt sticks to his skin with the sweat he's working up just for you.

"Touching' me like that," he growls near your ear, voice thick with heat, "is going to make me lose my fucking' mind."

You can feel the tremble in his arms, the shake in his breath, and the way he fucks you like he needs it. Like you're the only thing keeping him grounded.

"cum for me, baby. I'll give you everything you want, princess ... whatever you need," he coos into your ear while fucking you hard, his voice so soft.

The cries tearing through the room are yours—but they barely sound like you anymore. They're ragged and raw, wrecked beyond recognition. So pathetic, so desperate, like a girl who's never known anything like this. Like a girl who's unraveling with him buried so deep inside, it feels like he's splitting your soul wide open just to claim it.

Your body jerks beneath him, hips twitching with every thrust like you're chasing the end, like you need to take him with you. And he matches it—his hips punching into you with purpose, power, like he's determined to finish with you, in you, no matter what it takes.

He expected this from you. Expected you to be needy, expected your sweet cunt to be this wet, this messy, this perfect.

And still, the way you clamp around him with every pulse of your orgasm nearly undoes him. It's a miracle he's still inside, thick and hard, when you're so slippery, so drenched, his cock sliding through the heat of you like velvet wrapped in wet silk.

He thrusts into you like he's got something to prove—like every brutal thrust is a punishment and a prayer. His rhythm is ruthless, unrelenting, the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked flesh echoing off the office walls like filth wrapped in rhythm. There's nothing sweet about it now—this is pure possession, raw and animal, like he's been saving this part of himself just for you.

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave pulling you under, leaving you limp, trembling, a boneless mess. But he doesn't stop. Not even a little. He uses your body like it's his right, his reward, barely coherent with the things he's saying—gritted praise, ragged groans, something about how tight you are, how good you feel, how his you are.

Then his muscles snap taut.

He throws his head back, curses low and feral, and pulls out of you so fast it makes your breath hitch. The condom's off in a blink. His jaw clenched, his hand jerks his cock once, twice—and then hot, thick release spills from him, shooting across your stomach, your cunt, painting you in sticky ribbons of lust. He groans through it.

And when he's emptied himself, when the haze finally lifts, he collapses into his chair, chest rising and falling fast. He's still facing you—still watching.

You're frozen in place, arched and open, breath coming in frantic little stutters. Your thighs twitch. Your body's ruined. Your mind Gone.

beautiful.

[yandere-daydreams]

Please please please I need to know your dog hc for the other jjk boys.......

overly specific dog hc lets GO. adding in yuuta and yuuji just to make sure everyone's caught up.

yuuta: border collie baby!!! i just thing he's a very affectionate boy with a solid black and white aesthetic and very pretty hair.

yuuji: pitbull and you can FIGHT ME ON THAT. he's strong and sweet and not once has a single thought ever graced that empty head. godbless.

gojo: borzoi. i was swayed briefly by the idea of gojo as a dachshund but i think this is ultimately a better fit. unserious ass dog.

geto: one of those tiny pitch-black havanese dogs. specifically one who thinks he's better than me. this will be a contentious pick but i must speak my truth.

nanami: doberman. is it an aesthetic match? no not really. am i right? undeniably.

megumi: belgian sheepdog. i fear that he has gotten to the point that, if he was a dog, he'd have to be a dog with a job.

choso: in my heart i know he's pomeranian but i fear that they are simply too happy for him. a pomeranian but, like, a pomeranian with clinical depression.

toji: irish woflhound. there are very few dogs who i think have dilf energy but. this is one of them. they're also disproportionately massive compared to literally every other dog which i think is very toji-coded.

sukuna: a wolf but EXCLUSIVELY one of the wolves on those godawful t-shirts. it's true but, even more importantly, it's what he deserves.

[saeedmohammed025]

Top Benefits of Enrolling in a Medical Coding Course: What You Need to Know

In recent years, the healthcare industry has undergone a transformative shift, driven by advancements in technology and the growing need for administrative efficiency. Among the many career paths within this field, medical coding stands out as one of the most promising and in-demand professions. If you're based in Kerala and are considering entering this field, enrolling in the best medical coding course in Calicut could be your gateway to a rewarding and secure career.

This blog explores the key benefits of pursuing medical coding and why choosing a reputable course in Calicut can be a strategic move for your future.

What Is Medical Coding?

Medical coding involves translating healthcare diagnoses, procedures, services, and equipment into universal medical alphanumeric codes. These codes are essential for billing, insurance claims, record-keeping, and statistical analysis in healthcare settings. By assigning standardised codes, medical coders help maintain consistency and accuracy in patient records and streamline administrative tasks.

Why Medical Coding Is a Growing Career

The demand for skilled medical coders is on the rise, not only in India but also globally. Healthcare providers increasingly rely on accurate documentation and coding for insurance reimbursements and compliance with legal requirements. This surge in demand has led to a spike in training programs across the country, with many students now opting for the best medical coding course in Calicut to secure a stable and fulfilling career.

Advantages of Joining the Top Medical Coding Program in Calicut

1. High Demand and Job Security

One of the most compelling reasons to pursue a career in medical coding is job security. With the healthcare industry expanding rapidly, there is a consistent demand for professionals who can manage and code medical data accurately. Completing a reputable course in Calicut increases your chances of employment, as well as career advancement.

2. Attractive Salary Packages

Qualified medical coders are well-compensated for their skills. Entry-level salaries are competitive, and with experience and additional certifications, your earning potential can increase significantly. By choosing the best medical coding course in Calicut, you gain access to in-depth training that enhances your expertise and employability.

3. Flexible Work Options

Medical coding is one of the few healthcare-related careers that offer remote work opportunities. Many healthcare providers and outsourcing firms allow coders to work from home, offering flexibility and a better work-life balance. A strong foundation through a top-rated course in Calicut can prepare you for both on-site and remote job roles.

4. Global Career Opportunities

Medical coding follows internationally recognised coding systems like ICD (International Classification of Diseases) and CPT (Current Procedural Terminology). This global standardisation means that coders trained in India can find work opportunities in countries like the USA, UAE, Australia, and the UK. The best medical coding course in Calicut equips you with the skills necessary to meet international requirements.

5. Quick Entry Into the Workforce

Unlike other healthcare professions that require years of study, medical coding courses are relatively short. Most training programs can be completed within 6 to 12 months, making it a great option for those who want to start earning sooner. A reputed course in Calicut ensures that you are job-ready upon completion.

6. A Non-Clinical Role in the Healthcare Sector

If you’re interested in the healthcare field but prefer to stay away from clinical roles that involve direct patient care, medical coding is ideal. It allows you to contribute meaningfully to the industry while working in an administrative capacity. Choosing the best medical coding course in Calicut ensures you receive the right theoretical and practical knowledge to thrive in this role.

7. Opportunities for Specialisation

As you gain experience in the field, you can specialise in specific areas such as inpatient coding, outpatient coding, or risk adjustment coding. Specialised coders are often in higher demand and can command better salaries. A comprehensive training course in Calicut lays the groundwork for further specialisation and certification.

What to Look for in a Medical Coding Course in Calicut

If you’re ready to begin your journey, selecting the right course is crucial. Here are a few things to consider when searching for the best medical coding course in Calicut:

Comprehensive Curriculum: Ensure the course covers all major coding systems, including ICD-10-CM, CPT, and HCPCS.

Experienced Trainers: Look for programs taught by certified instructors with hands-on industry experience.

Practical Training: Real-world practice through internships, case studies, or coding simulations is essential for skill development.

Certification Readiness: This course is designed to equip you for certification tests such as the CPC (Certified Professional Coder) or CCS (Certified Coding Specialist).

Placement Support: Opt for institutions that offer career guidance, interview preparation, and job placement assistance.

Conclusion

Enrolling in the best medical coding course in Calicut can be a game-changer for your career. The healthcare industry’s continued growth ensures a steady demand for skilled coders, while the flexible and rewarding nature of the job makes it an attractive option for many. Whether you're a fresh graduate or someone looking to switch careers, medical coding offers a promising path with abundant opportunities.

By choosing a top-tier training program in Calicut, you position yourself to succeed in this high-demand profession. Invest in your future today—start your journey toward becoming a certified medical coder and contribute to the ever-evolving world of healthcare.

[anandhu-transorze]

What are the merits of being a Australian Medical Coder?

Becoming an Australian Medical Coder offers numerous merits, with insights from Transorze Solutions shedding light on the benefits of pursuing this career path.

Firstly, medical coding provides job stability and security in the ever-expanding healthcare industry. As the demand for accurate documentation and billing continues to rise, skilled medical coders remain in high demand.

Moreover, being a medical coder offers competitive salaries and opportunities for career advancement. With the right training from Transorze Solutions, individuals can enter this field with confidence, knowing they possess the skills and certification necessary to excel.

Additionally, medical coding allows for flexibility, with opportunities for remote work and part-time positions. This flexibility enables individuals to achieve a work-life balance that suits their needs.

By choosing to become an Australian Medical Coder with Transorze Solutions, individuals can enjoy job stability, competitive salaries, career advancement opportunities, and flexibility, making it a rewarding and fulfilling career choice in the healthcare industry.

[problogsposts]

Balancing Benefit and Risk in Clinical Research

Introduction

The fields of medicine and healthcare are rapidly developing. Companies and research institutes play a vital role in advancing medical knowledge through clinical research. Clinical research surrounds various aspects, including medical coding, pharmacovigilance, drug regulatory affairs, and clinical data management. These fields are essential in ensuring the safety and effectiveness of new medical treatments. However, conducting clinical research comes with its own set of challenges, particularly when it comes to balancing the benefits and risks involved.

The Role of Clinical Research

Clinical research is the backbone of medical progress. It involves the systematic study of new drugs, medical devices, treatments, and procedures to determine their safety and efficacy. Companies and research institutes conduct clinical trials to gather data and evidence before these medical interventions are approved for widespread use.

Key Areas of Clinical Research

1. Medical Coding: Medical coding is like the language of healthcare. It involves translating medical records, diagnoses, and procedures into standardized codes. Accurate coding is crucial for proper billing and maintaining patient records.

2. Pharmacovigilance: This field focuses on monitoring the safety of drugs and vaccines post-approval. It helps identify and prevent adverse effects and ensures that patients receive safe medications.

3. Drug Regulatory Affairs: Drug regulatory affairs professionals work with regulatory agencies to ensure that new drugs meet safety and efficacy standards before they reach the market. They help companies navigate complex regulations.

4. Clinical Data Management: Managing clinical trial data is essential for maintaining the integrity of research. Data managers organize and validate information collected during trials.

Balancing Benefit and Risk

While clinical research is definitely important for medical progress, it also involves risks. Here are some ways in which companies and research institutes can strike a balance:

1. Ethical Considerations: Ethical guidelines and standards are the foundation of clinical research. Researchers must prioritize the well-being of participants and ensure that their rights and privacy are protected.

2. Informed Consent: Participants must provide informed consent before participating in a clinical trial. They should be fully aware of the potential risks and benefits, enabling them to make an informed decision.

3. Safety Monitoring: Continuous monitoring of participants' safety is essential. Any adverse events should be immediately reported and addressed.

4. Transparency: Transparency in reporting research findings is crucial. This includes disclosing both positive and negative results, helping to avoid biased information.

5. Regulatory Compliance: Companies and institutes must adhere to regulatory requirements in their respective fields, ensuring that the research meets high standards of safety and quality.

The Importance of Training

To ensure that clinical research is conducted responsibly, professionals in the field require acceptable training. Courses and training programs are available for medical coding, pharmacovigilance, drug regulatory affairs, and clinical data management. Proper training equips individuals with the knowledge and skills needed to conduct research while minimizing risks.

Job Placement in Clinical Research

For those interested in pursuing a career in clinical research, the job placement aspect is essential. Companies and institutes often offer placement opportunities for trained professionals, ensuring that they can apply their skills in real-world settings.

Conclusion

Balancing benefit and risk in clinical research is a complex but essential endeavor. Companies and research institutes play a critical role in advancing medical knowledge, but they must do so responsibly. Ethical considerations, informed consent, safety monitoring, transparency, and regulatory compliance are key factors in achieving this balance. Moreover, individuals interested in clinical research can benefit from training and job placement opportunities, enabling them to contribute to the field while ensuring the safety and well-being of patients. In this way, we can continue to make significant strides in healthcare while upholding the highest standards of ethics and safety.

[aziraphales-library]

Hi there! This feels like a tricky one to search for so i thought i'd throw it over to the experts: Do you have any fics where A/C are both involved in any of the common Human AU professions (rival professors, florist, hairstylist, etc) but are NOT in an AU, they are still themselves, just both undercover for heaven/hell reasons, or just getting up to their own shenanigans? Any rating, any length would be great. Thank you!

Hey. We have some non-AU professors fics here. I've got a mixed bag of non-AU jobs for you now...

Rate My Professor Reviews for Dr. A.Z. Fell and Dr. A.J. Crowley by yetrop (G)

“Decent class, but Dr. Fell has a weird sense of humour. Sometimes, he’d joke about how he knew some of the authors of the classics we were reading (all at least a century old) or how he was around back when they were being written. I’m assuming the jokes were his way of poking fun of his age, but his delivery made them seem serious, which made it less funny and more weird. Also, he showed us his card tricks in class once. They weren’t good. A few people acted impressed out of sympathy. This guy has too much time on his hands, and he’s not as funny as he thinks he is.” — Aziraphale and Crowley have too much spare time after saving the world again, so they decide to teach some uni courses (told from the perspective of some online student reviews.)

heraldry, and other omens by astrhae (G)

Two days ago, the shop was called SLICE OF HEAVEN, in bold, yellow neon letters above the window’s tartan awning. Yesterday morning, the letters had read out ARSE OF HEAVEN, but by evening, residents reported it had changed to a more subdued BAKED BADS. It shouldn’t be possible to change neon signs so quickly, but today, upon entry, the bakery had been called DEVIL’S ADVOCAKES. ---------------- Or, there’s a new bakery in the South Downs area, that’s also maybe a flowershop, a coffeeshop, and an animal clinic. There's a chocolate scone that costs six thousand pounds. For orders, kindly contact ajcrngkwhoooe@myspace.com.

Speaking in Code by Wosprig (T)

She’d thought about this long and hard. There was no other logical conclusion. Alex inhaled, steepled her hands, and deadpanned, ‘I think Professor Crowley is a demon.’ Marcia sighed a long-suffering sigh.   Aziraphale and Crowley spend their retirement continuing what they started back in Eden: providing humanity with the knowledge and tools to make their way in the world. That, and bewildering the occasional curious student.

Making the Most of it All by ColorMeHappy (T)

When Aziraphale receives a job offer relating to one of his dearest interests on this earth, literature, how can he resist trying something new? So what if a certain demon begins to follow him around on campus, and so what if he finds he rather likes the company, and so what if it changes their relationship forever? Aka: The time Aziraphale was a University Professor for 5 years

I've never encountered something like this before by Tedster33 (NR)

Aziraphale and Crowley never met before the beginning, or in the beginning, or any of the other times after that. Now, Crowley owns a blossoming plant shop just across the road from A. Z. Fell's bookshop. They had never really spoke, but then Aziraphale decides to go to the Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Street Traders Association Meeting that month, and finally meets this mystery plant-seller.

Soho Gods by Jackie Thomas (G)

Crowley leaves London when Aziraphale is appointed Supreme Archangel but his plans to sleep and drink the century away are soon scuppered. Jesus has returned, Heaven and Hell are gearing up for a fight and Adam Young is taking a gap year. Crowley and Aziraphale have work to do, but can they face each other after their falling out?

- Mod D

[g0nta-g0kuhara]

Ultimate Neurosurgeon - Miu Iruma!

Ive been absolutely obsessed with this concept for a few days now. Please indulge me in ranting about it gdhsjkfs

This talentswapped Miu has the same general backstory as canon Miu- she had an accident and fell into a coma, and when she woke up she had acquired her neurosience talent. Now Miu is completely uncertified and refuses to get any certification. Her genius is innate and the world should recognize her for it! But she also doesn't follow protocol to a horrifying degree- She doesn't follow dress code, she wears minimal PPE, her tools are gold coloured and not standard, and she operates without any licence.

Miu's status as an Ultimate protects her from legal action, and her 100% surgical success rate despite her refusal to partake in standard procedure keeps her reputation from completely tanking. However, she still can't work as a surgeon at any normal hospital, so she operates out of her own private clinic. Wealthy patients will often go out of their way to have her as their doctor. The nurses working under her are deeply uncomfortable with her behaviour, but she does get the job done... regardless, her overall reputation is kind of sketchy, but seemingly reliable.

In the killing game, I think this version of Miu could have a similar role to what she has in the actual game, but with a twist. Rather than working on inventions to help discover the truth of the game and escape, Miu focuses on discovering the mechanism behind the flashback lights. I think with enough work, (especially with the chapter 2 motive videos) she'd discover that the flashback lights were not bringing up forgotten memories, but inserting fake ones. Maybe this would cause a mental break that would lead to a similar outcome in canon ch4...