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The night after being confronted by the Bloom for the first time, Mara found herself restless beneath the weight of her own skin, tossing and turning in tangled sheets that seemed to constrict tighter with every shift. Her sleep was fractured, a fragile thread constantly snapping under the pressure of fevered images, half-formed visions that bloomed and withered behind her eyelids in chaotic bursts. Her mind, usually quiet and orderly, had become a greenhouse of strange sensations: humid, overgrown, and pulsing with foreign life.

Heat gathered in the hollow of her spine and crept up her neck, a slow-burning fever that didn’t quite feel like illness. Her hands twitched where they lay beside her, fingers curling as though they could still feel the velvety texture of those unnatural leaves, as though craving contact. Beneath her ribs, her heart drummed with a slow, drugged rhythm. Less like a beat and more like something echoing, resonating, responding.

Even asleep, she could feel it: the uncanny aliveness of that flora, not just growing but knowing. And somehow, impossibly, she knew it remembered her too.

In her dream, Mara saw The Bloom's delicate, shimmering petals unfurling before her, revealing a glistening, pulsating center. She stood in front of it, wearing the familiar white lab coat she had been adorned with that very day. But suddenly, tendrils began to emerge from the plant's core, undulating and writhing with a hypnotic rhythm. Mara watched in a trance-like state as the tentacles crept closer to her, their forest-green surfaces leaving trails of dizzying stardust in their wake.

Mara's heart raced as the tendrils brushed against her skin, teasing the surface of her clothing and sending jolts of electric pleasure through her body. She knew she shouldn't enjoy it, her first instinct should be fear, but all she felt was a steady anticipation. She gasped as the first tentacle slid between her thighs, stroking along her most intimate of places with a feather-light touch. The plump flesh of her inner thighs, the soft line of her pussy hidden beneath her clothes.. Mara's hips lifted instinctively, craving more of the exquisite sensation.

In the dream, Mara felt her body being lifted, her legs spread wide as more and more tentacles coiled around her. They didn't hesitate to suspend her in place, keeping her in warm and secure clutches. They slipped beneath the fabric of her clothing. Slowly, the slick tendrils began to peel the clothing off of her skin with soft precision. She let it. She let it peel her clothes away, each article dropping to the floor until she was left bare and exposed in the ethereal glow of The Bloom. Mara's chest heaved with anticipation as the first tentacle probed at her dripping entrance, the blunt tip nudging insistently against her clit before plunging inside with a sudden, searing thrust.

Mara cried out in her sleep, her body writhing with pleasure as the tentacle pumped in and out of her, stretching her impossibly wide. She could feel them dragging and pressing against the soft flesh inside her, causing her to moan with each movement. More tentacles joined the first, filling Mara completely to the point she felt close to bursting. Their undulating motions triggered shockwaves of ecstasy through every nerve ending, sending her into a frenzy of sloppy moans and weak whines. Mara surrendered to the sensation, her mind hazing over as she became one with the rapturous tendrils of The Bloom.

Mara awoke with a sharp gasp, her back arching subtly off the damp sheets as though she were still caught in the tail-end of the dream’s embrace. Her body was drenched in a fine, sticky sheen of sweat, the cotton of her nightshirt clinging to the curves of her breasts and stomach, translucent in the dim light seeping through the curtains. Each breath came shallow and fast, as if the air itself had thickened, scented still with the phantom traces of something floral and forbidden.

Her skin tingled, every inch of it, as though the dream had been less imagined than experienced, as though invisible fingers had trailed along her limbs, her neck, the sensitive hollows beneath her thighs. A subtle hum of pleasure still vibrated in her bones, teasing and unspent. Her lips were parted, damp, trembling with the memory of sensations that had no clear source but felt deeply, intimately real.

She let her hand drift downward, almost unconsciously, the pads of her fingers skating across the soft rise of her belly. Her thighs were warm, slick, the heat between them pulsing like a heartbeat. When her fingers found the source, they came away glistening and wet with the undeniable proof of her arousal, still warm and sticky from what her body had surrendered to in sleep. She stared at the shimmering moisture on her fingertips, a flush blooming hot across her cheeks, her chest, her throat.

A low, involuntary breath escaped her lips, part shame, part wonder. There was no fear in her expression, only confusion tinged with a guilty, breathless curiosity. Whatever had happened in the dream, her body had welcomed it, wanted it, ached for it. The memory clung to her skin like pollen, impossible to wipe away, and deep inside. Something in her stirred. She wanted more.

Mara sat at her desk the next morning, determined to distract herself with routine. She had cleaned herself thoroughly, brushed out her hair, even opened the windows wide in hopes that fresh air might clear the haze still lingering at the edges of her thoughts. The faint scent of morning dew and petrichor wafted in, but beneath it, she swore the ghost of that other aroma: sweet, earthy, narcotic, still clung to her senses like a secret.

The stack of notes in front of her blurred for the third time. She blinked, frowned, and shook her head. Focus, she commanded herself. The sketches of the alien flora she'd gathered the day before lay before her: delicate petal structures, vine systems, the strange bioluminescent sacs pulsing beneath the leaves. She traced one line absently, her pen dragging, and paused.

Something brushed her ankle.

At first, she thought it was the soft wisp of a light breeze or the sweep of her lab coat against her but it didn’t seem to make sense, and nothing should have been near. She allowed herself to gather her thoughts and attempt to focus only to quickly experience the second touch that followed, firmer this time. Smooth. Cool. Slithering.

Mara jolted, glancing under the desk only to see nothing but the sight of her own thighs, legs and feet.

A slow breath escaped her lips, unsteady. Her skin prickled in recognition, not fear. It’s in my head, she thought. Just a lingering impression. Just a dream. She tried to ignore it, lifting her pen again, only for that phantom touch to return, curling around her left calf, the pressure deliberate, almost caressing. She gasped, her hand freezing mid-air.

The sensation crept upward in a slow, winding ascent, invisible tendrils sliding over her thighs, warm now, as if they had adapted to her body’s heat. They didn’t restrain, only explored, coiling languidly and pulsing ever so slightly against her skin, as if breathing with her.

She bit her lower lip, her breath growing shallow. Her chest rose and fell, and as she reached for her cup with trembling fingers, she felt another teasing contact, not below this time, but higher. Slithering shapes ghosted along the curve of her waist, up her sides, and around the swell of her breasts. There was no pressure at first, just the suggestion of touch, like a sigh brushing silk. Then, they firmed slightly, cupping her, lifting, stroking.

Mara let out a shaky exhale, her thighs pressing together. Her nipples tightened under her shirt, painfully aware of the phantom coils coiling around her bust, as if remembering their shape from the night before. Her pen dropped from her hand with a soft clatter.

Still, no physical evidence. No vines. No roots. Nothing but air and a tingling that filled her with heat. She knew that nothing was there, nothing physical was able to reach her within the confines of her study especially without her notice and she couldn't help but blame the recurring dreams that had rooted through her mind each night. They were messing with her head, her once-reliable train of thought.

Mara pressed her palm flat against her desk, grounding herself as her breath hitched. Whatever had followed her from that encounter, whatever presence the flora had imprinted on her, it wasn’t done with her yet.

And deep down, beneath the confusion and surprise, part of her didn’t want it to stop.

Mara’s breath caught again as the phantom tendrils slid higher, not in haste, but with maddening patience. They moved with a rhythm that felt learned, as if they were mapping the contours of her body for the second time, reaffirming some strange bond forged in the dream. Her blouse clung to her damp skin, and she could feel the imagined pressure cupping her breasts, faint, pulsing, then firming like a breath exhaled directly against her skin.

She reached for the edge of the desk, gripping it tightly, knuckles white, not out of fear but to anchor herself against the rising tide of sensation. The world outside her mind dulled: the rustle of papers, the soft hum of a distant vent, even the morning light pouring in through the window, it was all drowned beneath the low thrum now vibrating at the center of her being. Her thighs tensed as the coils tightened there, teasing the sensitive space where skin met fabric.

Was it just memory? A vivid hallucination from the lingering effect of the plant’s scent? Or something more? Something alive?

A soft moan escaped her lips before she could stop it, one that was quiet, shaky. Her body leaned forward involuntarily, into the caress of something that wasn’t there, yet was. It felt warm now, and oddly affectionate, like it knew her, like it responded to her reactions, adjusting, pulsing where her nerves lit up. It wasn’t harsh. It didn’t dominate. It played. It coaxed.

The research and information on the desk blurred again, smudged now by the tremble of her hand. Her chest rose in time with the undulating grip of the unseen tendrils, each breath slower, deeper. One slithered up her back, coiling like steam beneath her shirt, cool against her overheated skin. Her spine arched to meet it, a soft cry stifled behind her teeth.

And then, just as suddenly as they had come, the sensations began to fade. Unwinding, withdrawing, as if the presence had sensed her nearing the edge of something unspoken. Mara blinked, her heart thudding in her ears and her lips parted as she reached behind her, grasping at air that now felt heartbreakingly empty.

She was alone again.

But the warmth remained between her legs, across her chest, in the tingle of her skin where the phantom touches had danced. Her body ached, not with pain, but with absence. With longing.

On the desk, one of her well-written notes had shifted. The ink had bled slightly, forming a shape that hadn’t been there before. A delicate spiral, almost floral, like a tendril curling toward the margins. She stared at it, her pulse skipping.

Whatever had touched her wasn’t entirely gone.

And neither was her desire to feel it again.

Still trembling slightly from the encounter, Mara forced herself upright. Her legs were unsteady beneath her, and the muscles of her inner thighs still throbbed with residual heat. Her skin, flushed and oversensitized, itched as though fine silk still trailed over it. And in her chest, beneath her ribcage where logic once ruled, was a strange fullness, a lingering ache not born of pain but longing.

She had to get it out of her. Put it into words. Data. Logs. Reports. Anything to turn the surreal into the scientific.

She took a deep, barely comforting breath and crossed the narrow habitat to the comm terminal embedded in the far wall. She wiped her sweating palms on her thighs before her fingers hovered above the console, hesitating for a beat. A flicker of doubt slid through her. What exactly was she going to say?

Still, she activated the secure uplink, keying in the priority code for the botanical research division she had loyally worked with for years. The signal took a moment to ping off the orbiting relay satellite. The screen shimmered and came into focus with the familiar sterile blue of the research network.

Dr. Nathaniel Elison appeared a second later.

His greying beard was trimmed, his glasses perfectly clean, his expression already bored. Behind him, Mara glimpsed the hum of life at the headquarters lab: glass tanks filled with hydro samples, interns in white coats flitting like ghosts behind data stations.

“Mara,” Elison greeted, not bothering to look directly at the camera. “You’re checking in early. Is there a change in the Theta-9 sample viability?”

She wet her lips. “There’s… more than viability. I’ve experienced something I wasn’t trained for.”

That made him glance up.

“Go on.”

Mara took a breath, grounding herself in her training, her tone edging clinical despite the heat still low in her belly.

“The primary plant in quadrant seven, what I flagged earlier as Specimen Theta-9, has begun releasing airborne particulates. I suspect some form of psychotropic pollen or spores. When inhaled, it induces dream states of unusual clarity and depth. Not just visual or auditory hallucinations. Full sensory immersion. Tactile. Emotional. Repeated contact seems to intensify the effect.”

Elison's brow rose slightly. “Pollen-induced hallucination isn’t new. But full immersion? Are you recording neural scans?”

She shook her head. “There wasn’t time. I-It's hard to explain. Ever since I arrived here, before even seeing the plant in person there has been a notable effect. Dreams, constant ones. As if the plant itself had made contact with me somehow.. And I just experienced a sensation that wasn’t even there within my secure office!”

He leaned forward then, finally alert. “You think it has made contact?”

“Yes. Physical. Tactile. Responsive. It mimicked, no.. replicated touch. Skin pressure, temperature gradients, even... arousal patterns.” Her voice faltered slightly, but she pushed through. “It felt intentional. Directed.”

A long pause stretched across the channel.

Elison’s mouth twitched with professional caution. “You’re saying a plant seduced you?”

“No.” She bristled quickly. “I’m saying something acted through it. The plant isn’t passive. It’s not just reacting. It’s engaging. It… it remembers.”

“You’re implying sentience.” He leaned back. “Based on what? A few dreams and a… physiological response?”

Her knuckles whitened as her hands clenched. “I felt it while I was awake. My body still shows signs of stimulation, redness, elevated heart rate, lingering sensory feedback. I didn’t imagine this.”

Elison sighed. “Mara. You’ve been alone on that base for six weeks now. Extended solitude in unstructured environments leads to stress-related hallucinations. It’s well-documented. We’ve seen it before. Vivid dreams. Sensory misfires. The brain compensates.”

“Don’t reduce this to isolation symptoms,” she snapped. “I know the difference between a fantasy and a reaction. This thing didn’t just touch me. It explored me. Like it wanted to learn.”

He didn’t even blink. “You’re compromising your objectivity. No evidence, no samples, no logs, just your word.”

“I’ve got sketches,” she said. “Spore samples. A diary documenting each dream. Traces of mucosal residue on fabric. I can transmit the- ”

Elison raised a hand. “No. Not until you stabilize your perspective. We can’t afford another false alarm like on Vega-11.”

Her breath caught. “This isn’t Vega-11.”

“No,” he agreed coolly, “but it’s looking familiar. Look, Mara, we sent you there to study, not to speculate. Catalog. Test. Prove. Until there’s replicable data, you’ll file this under anomalous effects. Standard procedure.”

Her jaw tensed. “You’re dismissing a potential breakthrough. Something that communicates without language. That uses sensation to interface.”

“I’m dismissing conjecture. Log your findings, get some sleep, and increase filtration protocols. Until we see evidence, we’re not escalating this. Is that clear?”

The channel closed before she could reply.

Silence collapsed around her like an avalanche.

She stood motionless for a long time, staring at the empty screen. The hum of the habitat systems, the soft rustle of papers behind her, even the distant chirp of lunar winds outside, it all sounded muffled. As though the air around her had thickened.

They didn’t believe her. They wouldn’t listen. All she had now was her own mind, and that was quickly becoming a battlefield. She turned back to her desk with a defeated expression, her jaw clenching from the tension. Her notes sat in disarray on her desk. The air still carried a trace of that scent, the one that lingered like perfume after a long, illicit night. Sweet. Fungal. Alluring.

And on the edge of her open documents, she saw it again: the spiral.

It hadn’t been there before. A delicate curl, drawn not in pen, but in something darker. Glossier. It pulsed faintly, an action that lasted just a moment but was truly real.

Her stomach dropped.

It was here.

The contact hadn’t been a dream. Or a side effect. The plant, whatever it was, had left its mark. On her.

Mara crossed slowly walked toward the window, her hand pressing against the translucent glass of her seemingly secure base. A long, lush forest sat beyond her peripheral. She had only been out there once. Just once. Beyond the reinforced glass, she knew Theta-9 loomed in the soil bed deep within foliage and plants they had yet to understand. Evidence recorded that it was blooming wider now, its petals slightly parted, glowing faintly at the edges. According to the monitors, there were only the slightest, the most insignificant changes. Yet the way the tendrils now hung lazily, demonstrating barely perceptible twitches like sleeping muscles dreaming of touch made her breath hitch.

It was watching her.

Or waiting.

She should have been frightened.

But what she felt instead was far more dangerous.

She felt wanted.