#today is Black Awareness Day or Black Consciousness Day

[pin-k-ink]

for haikyuu thirsts, atsumu drunk and choking reader while overstimulating them, not caring if they ask him to stop or slow down (reader likes it, duh)

orrrr bokuto "just the tipping" but he can't help how good it feels and goes all the way

ardor // miya atsumu

tw ⇢ mention of alcohol consumption, needy!tsumu, praise kink, unprotected sex, asphyxiation, overstimulation, cunnilingus, fingering, squirting, mention of pregnancy

wc ⇢ 2.4k

a/n: i wanted to write for bo so bad but i felt like atsumu deserves his own fic since osamu got one too. i’ll write a longer one someday

Atsumu stumbled through the doorway, the apartment quiet except for the faint sounds of a TV playing in the living room. A lopsided grin spread across his face as he spotted you curled up on the couch, eyes glued to whatever show was on the screen.

He paused for a moment, drinking in the sight of you looking so cozy and at home in his space. Your hair was pulled up in a messy bun, a few stray strands falling around your face. The dim lighting from the TV cast flickering shadows that danced across your features as you nibbled absentmindedly on your lower lip, completely absorbed.

Atsumu's heart swelled with a fierce tenderness. After being surrounded by raucous teammates all night at the MSBY Black Jackals' end-of-season party, coming home to find you here waiting for him made everything feel right in his world again.

You jumped slightly when he finally shuffled further into the room, head swiveling towards the noise. "Atsumu? There you are." You blinked a few times, taking in his rumpled appearance and glazed eyes. "Geez, what time even is it? The team party must have been really fun if you're just getting back now."

"Not much fun without ya there," he slurred, kicking off his shoes in a haphazard trail towards the couch before flopping down beside you. He immediately nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your comfortingly familiar scent. "Couldn't stop thinkin' about ya all night, babe."

You laughed softly at his drunken antics, giving his disheveled blonde hair an affectionate ruffle. "Is that so? Well, I'm just glad you made it home safe."

Atsumu pulled back reluctantly, hands coming up to cradle your face as he studied your features with an intense yet unfocused gaze. His thumb stroked along the curve of your cheekbone as his eyes roamed hungrily over you.

"Have I told ya how gorgeous ya are today?" His voice was low and rough with longing. "Because ya are. Stunning."

You felt your cheeks warm at his unabashed admiration, suddenly very aware of your casual lounge wear and lack of makeup compared to how you'd been dolled up the last time he had seen you a few days ago.

"Once or twice," you murmured back, trying for a teasing tone to hide your self-consciousness. "But I don't mind hearing it again."

Atsumu's lips curved into a slow, heated smile at your words. He leaned in closer, movements heavy and intoxicated yet brimming with yearning. You shivered at the feeling of his warm breath fanning across your skin as he paused, just inches from your mouth.

"Then let me show ya how much I mean it..."

His lips finally met yours in a searing, hungry kiss that left you dizzy and aching for his touch. Months of long separations and lonely nights apart came pouring out as you clutched desperately at him. Your fingers threaded through his silky hair, pulling him even closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

What started soft and tender quickly grew more heated and frantic, like a dam finally bursting under the relentless pressure of long-restrained passion.

Their kisses deepened, growing hungrier and more desperate with each heated exchange. Atsumu's hands roamed reverently over your body, mapping out the curves he had committed to memory yet could never get enough of. You arched into his touch with a soft whimper, craving to be even closer.

He obliged by pulling you fully into his lap, the new position allowing no space between your bodies. One of his hands threaded into your hair to angle your head how he wanted while the other pressed firmly into the small of your back, keeping you flush against him.

You could feel the hard planes of his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, and yearned to rid yourself of the barriers between you both. Your fingers toyed with the hem of his top before slipping boldly underneath, seeking out the heated skin below.

Atsumu's breath hitched at the feeling of your fingertips gliding across his abs and he pulled away from the kiss, breathing ragged. His eyes were dark with arousal and his gaze was fixed firmly on your kiss-swollen lips.

"I wanna taste every part of ya," he growled, hands clenching involuntarily where they rested on your hips. "Every inch. Wanna hear ya moan my name over 'n over again until it's all ya can remember."

You loved the way he always seemed to know exactly what you craved, pushing boundaries while still treating you like something precious. A shuddering gasp escaped your lips when his tongue delved deeper, stoking the simmering fire between you both.

Atsumu growled low in his throat, the vibration sending sparks dancing along your nerves. Without breaking the searing kiss, he deftly maneuvered until you were stretched out beneath him on the couch. His solid weight pinned you deliciously in place as you arched shamelessly against him, desperate for friction.

"Babe..." he groaned when you nipped at his full lower lip. "Need you...so bad..."

You tugged impatiently at his shirt, wanting nothing more than to run your hands all over his bare skin. His mouth left yours briefly to allow the fabric to slip over his head, and then he was pressing feverish kisses down your jaw and neck, leaving no part untouched.

His large, calloused hands slipped under the hem of your loose tank top, caressing the sensitive skin of your stomach before slowly pushing the material up and exposing your torso to his hungry gaze. Your nipples hardened when they met the cool air, and you whimpered as his hot mouth began to make its way further south, stopping to lavish attention on the delicate curve of your breast.

"So gorgeous, babe," he breathed, the heat of his breath and the brush of his lips on your skin making you tremble.

One of his hands palmed the neglected mound while his mouth teased the nipple, teeth scraping lightly over the pebbled flesh before his tongue swirled and soothed. The contrast between sharp and soft had you panting and writhing, your fingers tangling in his hair.

Atsumu took his sweet time, working you over until your legs were quaking and you could barely stand it anymore. Just when you thought you couldn't take it anymore, he switched his attention to the other side, his free hand trailing fire over the sensitized skin his mouth had just left.

When he finally moved on, your nerves were singing with electricity, his every touch and whisper sending shockwaves rippling through you. The ache between your legs throbbed insistently, begging for attention. You whined in protest when he began moving away, your body craving the delicious pressure of his weight atop you.

Atsumu grinned up at you from where he had settled between your thighs, his face flushed with arousal and hair sticking up from where you had pulled and tugged on the strands.

"Don't worry, babe. Gonna give ya exactly what ya need..."

Your breath caught in your throat at the lustful promise in his tone, the anticipation only heightening the thrill. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and panties, slowly sliding the two pieces of clothing down your legs until you were completely exposed to him.

His gaze raked over your nude form with unabashed hunger, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "So fucking beautiful."

You felt your face flush at the raw desire in his voice, and shifted restlessly under the intensity of his gaze. He held your eyes as he lowered his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, his tongue flicking out to taste the soft skin.

"And ya taste so fuckin' good too," he groaned, licking his lips as if savoring the taste.

His hot mouth made its way higher, and higher, until he was nosing along the crease of your thigh, so close to where you desperately needed him yet maddeningly far.

"Atsumu, please," you whimpered, hips bucking slightly towards his mouth.

He chuckled at your obvious impatience, the puff of air sending sparks of pleasure dancing across your sensitive skin. "Always so eager for me, huh babe?"

Your only response was a wordless whine, and Atsumu finally took pity on you. He buried his face between your legs, tongue delving eagerly into the wet heat. A moan of pure relief tumbled from your lips as he began lapping greedily at your dripping core, like a man starved.

You writhed helplessly against his mouth, fingers scrabbling for purchase in his messy locks. The pressure inside was building, coiling tighter and tighter, and the only sounds in the room were your panting gasps and the wet noises of Atsumu's ministrations.

And then, suddenly, he stopped.

"N-no!" you cried, unable to stop the plaintive sound from escaping.

The bastard actually had the audacity to chuckle at your indignation, the sound dark and sinful as his eyes flashed up to meet yours.

"Shhhh, babe. Be a good girl and stay nice 'n still for me, alright?"

Before you could respond, he ducked his head once more. But instead of going back to work on your dripping center, Atsumu began to explore your folds.

"Gotta get ya ready for me, babe," he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. "Can't wait to fill ya up 'n fuck ya on the couch."

You whimpered at the dirty words, unable to form a coherent response as his mouth worked over you, alternating between soft kitten licks and broad strokes of his tongue. He traced every crease and dip, mapping out your most intimate parts with an almost reverent attention to detail.

When you felt a long finger slip inside, you could no longer hold back your moans. He pumped in and out, curling upwards with each thrust and stroking over that hidden bundle of nerves. Soon another finger joined, scissoring and stretching your tight entrance, preparing you for what was to come.

By the time a third finger slipped inside, you were a writhing, whimpering mess. Every muscle in your body was tensed in anticipation, hovering right on the edge.

"Please, Tsumu," you panted, hands scrabbling at the couch cushions, "I'm so close..."

Atsumu groaned and doubled his efforts, pumping and curling his fingers with purpose. His hot mouth sealed around your throbbing clit, tongue lashing relentlessly over the swollen bud until your entire world narrowed down to that single point of contact.

The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, spiraling higher and higher, until finally it snapped, sending you toppling over the edge. You threw your head back with a loud cry, eyes squeezed shut and toes curled in ecstasy. Wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, the intensity nearly overwhelming.

Atsumu kept working you through your orgasm, drawing it out until the pleasure was almost too much. When you finally came down from your high, body trembling and skin flushed, he slowly withdrew his fingers, giving one final lick to your dripping core.

You opened your eyes blearily, dazed and satiated, and watched him rise up from between your legs. He had a cocky grin on his face, clearly pleased with the effect he'd had on you.

"Enjoy yerself, babe?"

You could only manage a breathy laugh in response, still coming down from the intense high. Atsumu stood up from the couch and tried to shuck off his jeans and boxers, nearly stumbling over in his inebriated state.

Your eyes drank in the sight of his chiseled torso, broad shoulders, and toned arms, and followed the line of dark hair down his sculpted abs until your gaze landed on his straining erection. It was long and thick, curving upwards and already slick with pre-cum.

Atsumu noticed you staring and grinned, stroking a hand over his length. "Like what ya see, babe? Ya want it?"

You licked your lips, nodding eagerly.

"Ya gotta ask nicely, babe," he teased, eyes darkening with lust as he continued stroking himself. To goad you even further, he gently tapped your mound with the head of his cock, leaving a very prominent stain of his precum on your skin.

"Please, Tsumu," you murmured, voice low and sultry. "I need you inside me. Need to feel you stretching me open, filling me up..."

A low groan rumbled in his throat at your words, and he wasted no time positioning himself between your spread legs, rubbing the head of his cock along your soaked slit.

You gasped when the tip breached your entrance, the stretch already making you feel deliciously full. Atsumu gripped your hips tightly, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and began to slide slowly, torturously, inch by inch.

It was almost too much, the overwhelming sensation of his thick length stretching you open and filling you so perfectly. Your inner walls clenched down tightly, as if trying to draw him even deeper.

"Fuck, yer so tight, babe," Atsumu groaned, voice strained. "Feels so good, ya have no idea..."

Finally, he bottomed out, hips flush against yours and every inch of him sheathed inside. You moaned at the feeling of being completely filled, your walls fluttering around him.

Atsumu braced his hands on either side of your head, caging you in. The heat in his gaze was almost enough to burn you.

"Yer mine, babe. All mine."

"Yes, yes, I'm yours," you whimpered, arching against him and seeking more friction. "Now please, fuck me, Tsumu!"

He smirked at your breathless plea, fingers curling around your neck so he could kiss your mouth once again, tongue sweeping into your mouth and swallowing your moans as he pulled his hips back and snapped them forward.

Your cry was muffled against his lips as he set a relentless pace, pounding into you with deep, hard thrusts. The sound of skin slapping against skin mixed with your moans and his grunts, filling the room.

One of his hands slid down to grip your hip, fingers pressing bruises into the soft flesh, while the other kept its grip on your throat, just enough pressure to send sparks dancing across your skin. You couldn't move, couldn't do anything but take everything he gave you, and it was the most exhilarating experience.

The coil inside you was winding tight again, and Atsumu could tell from the way you clenched around him. He leaned down to growl in your ear, grip tightening around your neck until you were gasping for air. "You gonna cum for me, pretty? Go on. Cum for me…"

And that was all it took for the tension to snap, a tidal wave of pleasure washing over you. Your back arched off the couch, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a silent scream as the orgasm ripped through you.

Atsumu showed no signs of slowing down, and the sensation was almost too much. Each thrust sent jolts of pleasure-pain shooting up your spine.

"Too much, Tsumu," you pleaded, trembling from overstimulation.

He didn't answer, merely tightened his grip on your neck and increased his pace, the sloppy wet noises of his cock slamming into you even louder now.

"Tsumu!"

He released your throat suddenly, and the rush of oxygen sent your head spinning. Atsumu gripped both your hips in a bruising hold, lifting them slightly so he could hit a new angle, and then his rhythm was faltering, thrusts becoming erratic.

"Fuck, babe, gonna cum," he gasped, the veins in his arms straining as his grip tightened. "Gonna fill ya up so good, make ya all mine."

His words sent another spark of arousal through you, and you felt your walls clenching down on him. With a few more desperate thrusts, he slammed his hips forward one last time and emptied himself inside you, thick ropes of cum painting your insides.

You could feel his cock twitching and pulsing, the sensation sending you careening over the edge for a third time. Your body was shaking and trembling, every muscle quivering and the velvety walls of your pussy undulating around him as you gushed and sprayed your juices all over his abdomen.

As you came down from the high, the full realization of what had just transpired slowly dawned on you. Atsumu had been too intoxicated to think about protection, and his release had spilled deep inside you.

"What if you got me pregnant?" you asked worriedly, propping yourself up on an elbow.

"Would be the best day of my life," he replied instantly, a lazy smile curving his lips as he rolled onto his side and gathered you close.

[delulujuls]

saudade | as12

funny how you can miss someone you never met, right? my heart was aching today a lot and i cried even more while writing this so yes, it is long and it is sad, so you decide if you wanna read this or not. if you do, please enjoy if its even possible to enjoy bawling your eyes out lol

oh ayrton, you will always be missed

summary: during senna's funeral y/n has flashes of their shared past and what they could have together

warnings: for sure its intense, 5.6k words of pure sadness, thats it basically

pairing: fem!mclaren!driver x ayrton senna

It was a warm, pleasant day. The beginning of may didn't disappoint with the weather at all. A light, warm breeze swayed the flexible branches, on which fresh leaves were green. The sun was pleasantly warm, but it wasn't unbearable heat. Birdsong could be heard, but so could crying. On this day, mourners outnumbered the blossoming buds on the trees.

A crowd of people had gathered in front of the church, but it was nothing compared to the crowds still on their way. Everyone was dressed in black, and the only point of color in the black mass was a yellow dot, which from a bird's eye view resembled a sunflower petal, thrown onto the black, fertile soil. It was a helmet, a yellow racing helmet, which no one gathered there needed to be introduced to. In trembling hands, a young girl held it, never once moving it away from her chest. She held it against herself so tightly, as if she wanted to feel the warmth emanating from it, but it radiated coldness, like the inside of the church she was about to enter, barely able to keep herself on her feet.

Inside the chapel, it hadn't yet become crowded; the military made sure that the family and friends entered the church first. Inside, there was a grave silence, broken only by the occasional blowing of noses into tissues or a stifled sob.

The girl was aware of what was happening, she knew where she was and why she was there. However, her brain stubbornly avoided connecting the dots and completely pushed the facts out of her consciousness. If it had, she would probably have thrown the held helmet deep into the church, and it would have stopped only when it hit the wooden, solid coffin. The girl's gaze never once lifted towards her.

"Y/N, can you hear me?," the girl flinched when Ron's words reached her for the umpteenth time, "You know you don't have to be here, we can be outside."

The girl blinked several times, and at that very moment, her brain stopped pushing away the facts. Ron held her arm, his eyes swollen, his face even redder than usual. She herself pressed the helmet to her chest, so tightly that only when she moved it away from herself a little was she able to fully breathe. She raised her eyes and looked around. She stood in the front row of benches, where at the very top, just in front of the altar steps, stood the coffin. A large, carefully ironed Brazilian flag lay on it, its freely hanging ends touching the fresh flowers lying beneath it.

"Y/N…," the man began again, this time quieter. He saw tears in the girl's eyes, and he was about to continue, but she pressed the helmet tighter to her chest and started walking forward. She only moved the helmet away from herself when she placed it on the coffin. Y/N fell to her knees and began to sob, pressing her forehead against the hard lid. However, the lid of the coffin wasn't the only thing that separated her from her friend. The worst was death.

It was a brisk february morning. Silverstone Circuit had not yet woken up, there was no deafening roar of engines in the background, and the smell of burnt rubber didn't hang in the air.

Although it wasn't a race day and only a handful of people were milling around the facility, unlike the tens of thousands who usually flooded in for the weekend races, this day was expected to be exciting and full of emotions too.

Certainly, it was so for the 23-year-old Theodore Racing driver, who, sitting in the passenger seat on her way to the circuit, nervously picked at her nails. However, she should now be referred to as the "former Theodore Racing driver" because on this day, she had a test day at McLaren, with whom she signed a contract two weeks ago. In the past two months, the girl's life had changed dramatically. A few days after her birthday, she became the European Formula 3 World Champion, winning the title by just one point. One! The fact that she was so young and the only woman to rise so high meant that many people had their eyes on her and followed her every move. However, most people who hadn't seen her driving at over 200 kilometers per hour thought that being a woman automatically disqualified her from the sport. Ron Dennis, the head of McLaren, was familiar with her skills, though, and seeing how well she performed in the lower levels, he decided to take a risk and give her a chance. One of his proteges, however, wasn't so sure about this decision.

"Girl? You want to replace Prost with a girl?"

Senna, upon hearing the candidate to replace Alain, who, after five years of dealing with him, decided to quit and move away from McLaren, only shook his head.

"Yes, that's exactly what I plan to do," Ron lit a cigarette and shifted his gaze from the car to the disgusted face of the Brazilian, "Maybe she'll calm you down a bit. It's a miracle I found anyone to take Prost's place, no one wants to work with you!"

Ayrton snorted and shook his head again, unable to believe that his boss wanted to do something so idiotic. Silence fell in the garage, none of the mechanics intended to interrupt their conversation. Just like everyone else in the team agreed with Ron that it was a miracle to find anyone willing to take Prost's place, the same majority couldn't imagine a woman starting to race in Formula 1. Especially alongside a driver like Senna.

"A few races, and she'll quit on her own," the Brazilian muttered, "You'll see."

"Pray that she likes you and wants to race for us."

When the car stopped in the gravel parking lot, the girl got out and put on her sunglasses. Tom, her manager and a close friend of her father, just glanced at her and rubbed her back. He knew perfectly well how stressed she was. No one would be prepared for so much in such a short time.

"Everything will be fine."

"You don't have to say that."

He sighed and just pointed with his hand towards the entrance to the facility, letting her through the glass doors. He didn't convince himself too much. Shortly after, after receiving the appropriate instructions, they reached the paddock. Here, the sun didn't glare in her eyes, so the girl took off her glasses, looking around. An empty Silverstone was something unheard of.

"Good morning, welcome, good to see you,"

Ron, standing in front of the garage, as soon as he noticed the girl, broke off from the conversation with one of the mechanics and smiled at her, shaking her hand. She showed up for the tests, so he thought she deserved a shot. Maybe this would work.

The girl made an effort to smile and nodded at him. Fortunately, she didn't have to engage in a conversation with him because he was immediately engaged by her manager. She was glad that in moments like this, someone else could spare her from meaningless chatter.

"Good morning."

She greeted, approaching the car where a few men were working on the wheels, wing, and cockpit. Some of them spoke up, while the rest just nodded at her. She immediately felt unwelcome, and barely a minute had passed since she appeared in the garage. However, this was nothing new to her, she would lie if she said she was surprised. But the most important thing for her was that Ron treated her as an equal, or at least didn't make her feel like she didn't belong here. That gave her a sense of comfort. She didn't need a crowd standing behind her; she only needed two people who had her back.

The girl slowly walked around the car. The new, ready-for-the-season MP4/4 looked very good. Next to the car marked with her number stood another, practically identical, differing only in the number painted in red on the front.

However, the owner of the car was nowhere to be seen, at least not in sight. Y/N hadn't had the opportunity to meet Ayrton personally. The drivers' presentation with the car was scheduled for the end of the month, so it was quite likely that until then, she would have time to mentally prepare herself. She knew Ayrton from stories; she could watch his battles both on and off the track on television, the domestic war he waged with Alain Prost which ended with the Frenchman's departure to Ferrari.

Y/N knew she would have to face many things, one of which was Senna.

"Ready?"

Ron's voice snapped her out of her thoughts, he held a helmet and jumpsuit for her in his hand. She nodded and took the items from him, going to change. When she returned, she took her place in the cockpit, and after some time, when everything was ready, she followed the instructions and took her place on the track. She took a deep breath and clenched her hands on the steering wheel, staring at the start lights. When they went out, the girl sped off with squealing tires and the roar of the engine.

Ron and Tom stood next to each other, watching her movements on small monitors. After some time, the mechanics also began to glance at the monitors, seemingly more interested in whether she hadn't crashed yet than in her results. What surprised them was the sight on one of the displays showing her current lap time, which now stood at 1.38.412 seconds. Ron smiled and shook his head in amazement. The young girl was incredible.

The car itself wasn't handling badly. Besides feeling like a huge boat, to which she was definitely too small, it was actually a well-engineered machine. A few more laps, and she should be able to tame it completely. Although this fact was reassuring. When the girl spotted the checkered flag, she obediently pulled into the garage. She turned off the engine and unfastened her seatbelts, but she didn't get out of the car or take off her helmet because Ron was already beside her, hugging her tightly.

"Young lady, you flew in that car!" The man helped her out of the car, and she took off her helmet and balaclava, taking out the earplugs. "I told you, you did amazingly. Unbelievable lap time, great driving."

The girl wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and blew a strand of wet hair from her forehead.

"It's a really good car, sir."

"A good car without a good driver is just a good car, and a good car with a great driver is a masterful car," Ron shook her hand again, "Brilliant job."

The girl returned his smile, and when she glanced at Tom standing a few steps away, he was also smiling, his smile was the kind of "I told you so."

Y/N gave appropriate feedback to the mechanics and strategists, who now seemed to pay attention to her significantly more than when she first appeared in the garage that morning. Their faces still tried to remain impassive, but nevertheless, they noted everything she had to say. When it was all over, the girl went to change. She washed her face with cold water and looked at herself in the mirror, clenching her hands on the cold sink. She did it.

When she managed to cool down and calm herself down a bit, clutching her helmet under her arm and holding her jumpsuit in the other hand, shortly after she left the bathroom. Suddenly, she bumped into someone, and that someone turned out to be someone she sincerely didn't want to meet that day.

"Watch where you're going."

Senna muttered, holding a lit cigarette between his lips. He gave her a quick glance and disappeared through the doorway, his jumpsuit rustling as he walked away.

The girl squeezed her helmet tighter under her arm and returned to the garage, putting things back in place. After receiving the last praise and handshake from Ron, she said goodbye and left the paddock with Tom. Ayrton pretended to be too busy preparing for the start, so he didn't honor her with even a single glance. When he heard Ron praising her driving, he only snorted under his breath and shook his head. When the garage fell silent again, Ayrton took his place in the car, getting ready to drive.

"1.38.412"

Senna looked up when Ron spoke above his head.

"1.38.412," he repeated calmly, "The lap time of a twenty-three-year-old after her first drive in a Formula 1 car."

The Brazilian snorted and lowered his gaze, putting earplugs in his ears.

"I hope you'll be better than the girl."

Ayrton didn't hear his words anymore because he put on his balaclava and helmet. He didn't believe the girl had achieved such a lap time. And even if she did, it only spoke of the car's capabilities, not her skills. Senna hoped he would be faster by at least a few seconds. He had been racing in Formula 1 for almost five years; he was incredibly fast, and above all, he was a man!

When the tests ended, and he returned to the garage, satisfied with himself and his driving, the first thing he did was to look for Ron's reaction, wanting to see his expression when he rubbed his nose in it. However, the Brit looked at him indulgently, and Senna, not knowing what he meant, quickly tried to free himself from the seat belts. The Brit simply turned the monitor towards him and pointed with his finger at something that, according to Ayrton, was a big mistake.

Between him and the girl, there was a difference of a few seconds, indeed. But Ayrton was slower.

When Senna freed himself from the car, hastily took off his helmet and balaclava, and removed the earplugs, he was about to say something when Ron stopped him, pressing a cassette to his chest.

"Here, watch it tonight and see how the twenty-three-year-old beat you."

Ayrton squeezed the cassette in his hand and only watched him leave, unable to utter a word. It was some kind of absurdity!

Absurd or not, Senna spent the evening in front of the TV. He sat on the couch, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He frowned and carefully watched the recording from the camera placed in her cockpit. He saw how she aggressively entered corners, braking as late as possible, and how quickly she stepped on the gas when the centrifugal forces stopped working. He took a drag and blew smoke from his mouth, rewinding the tape from the beginning, just as it ended. The recording lasted twenty minutes, and he watched it for the seventh time, counting each lap on his stopwatch. Every time, the result was the same.

He couldn't wrap his head around what she had done, but he decided to consider it just a stroke of luck. She had a better day; he had a slightly worse one. Moreover, it wasn't the testing session or even the qualifying rounds that determined the winner, but the race itself. Driving on an empty track without rivals wanting to take your position was one thing, but racing in a competition where everyone wanted to beat you was a completely different matter. If someone had told Ayrton then that four years later, that girl would shed tears at his funeral, he would have told them to fuck themselves.

Y/N felt a strong arm around her waist, trying to lift her. Ron's heart broke seeing her in such a state. However, he couldn't help her even if he wanted to.

"Y/N, please…," he began, but she shook her head, overcome with tears. Wet stains of tears were visible on the flag covering the coffin. The girl was trembling all over, it was a miracle she could breathe. Since the accident, it seemed like Y/N was handling the tragedy very well, just being sad and quiet. No one had any idea what was yet to come. Everyone who saw Y/N by the coffin, this sight of a broken girl, felt nothing but sympathy. The bond she had formed with Ayrton seemed stronger and much richer in emotions than any he had with any of his partners. Ayrton wasn't just her teammate, he wasn't just a friend or sometimes her biggest enemy. From the very beginning, Y/N mattered to him, and if he said otherwise, he was simply lying.

The official skills assessment test for the girl was scheduled to take place less than three weeks after her first visit to the McLaren garage. Now, however, an official presentation awaited her at the reception hosted by the team. One evening at the company headquarters, a banquet was held, attended by far more people than initially anticipated. Most of them were journalists who had to announce to the world the phenomenon that was a woman at the top level of motor racing.

"It's more crowded here than I thought," the girl admitted when she entered the team headquarters with Tom by her side.

"Everyone is curious about you. There are even a couple of journalists from Australia, believe it or not," Tom said.

She looked at him in shock. "And they flew here specifically for this presentation?"

He smiled and nodded. "They'll be talking to kangaroos and kiwi birds about you," he joked, trying to lighten the mood. And it worked because she giggled at his words. However, her smile faded when she noticed Ron talking to Ayrton and two other men in suits.

"Everything will be fine. You did well on the tests, so you'll do well here too," he said softly, rubbing her arm when he noticed her expression.

"There weren't any sharks in suits and piranhas with cameras there," Tom was about to add some words of encouragement when Ron spotted them and raised his hand with a glass in it, trying to get their attention. They approached him, and he greeted them, introducing them to the directors. Ayrton, standing aside, was mindful of how many people were now watching him and wondering if his new teammate would share Prost's fate. However, the Brazilian had no intention of making an effort for gestures he didn't intend. Nevertheless, courtesy demanded it, so he extended his hand, which she hesitantly shook.

"Senna," he said, his Brazilian accent strongly evident in his last name. "Welcome to the team."

The girl introduced herself as well, but it was hard for her to maintain eye contact. Not because he was almost half a head taller, but because of the confidence emanating from him. It was his team, his place, and his time, and she was just a guest. There was no room for discussion.

Fortunately, the awkward situation was soon interrupted as the drivers and management were invited onstage. Ayrton gestured for the girl to go ahead, and she began to walk in front of him.

"I hope you don't grip the wheel as weakly as you do hands," he murmured behind her, quietly enough so no one else would hear, but loud enough for her to hear his words.

Y/N lowered her gaze, feeling a wave of heat wash over her. Even if she wanted to respond, she couldn't. He caught her completely off guard.

As they stepped onto the small stage, they stood behind one of the cars prepared for this season. The girl intertwined her fingers behind her back and straightened up, standing next to Ayrton. He might play his stupid games on her, but she had no intention of showing that she would easily give in. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and almost believed that his comment had gone unnoticed, but her cheeks were flushed. Normally, he would probably snort under his breath, but now he kept his composure.

After a few words from Ron and the board members, the floor was given to the drivers. The two of them remained on stage, each with a microphone in hand. Now it was time for the media, for their pressing questions and burning issues.

Ayrton sat relaxed, almost bored. His legs were bent at the knees, slightly apart. One hand was around his waist, resting his elbow on it, holding the microphone in the other hand. He answered questions briefly and to the point, not dwelling more than necessary. His attire alone indicated that today's banquet was just a formality; he wore a suit, but instead of a shirt, he had a white T-shirt, and on his feet were sports shoes.

Despite her best efforts not to stress out, Y/N was far from as calm as Ayrton. She sat up straight, one leg crossed over the other. Although her red dress practically touched the floor, she glanced occasionally to make sure nothing was out of place. She felt like every move, even the smallest one, was being watched and analyzed. She felt she wasn't focusing on the content of the questions but on how she appeared.

The girl blinked several times, trying to find a sensible answer to the question that had been directed at her a few seconds ago.

"Could you repeat that?" she asked, feeling a bit embarrassed about her inattention. Ayrton, however, heard the question well.

"I asked if you think you're good enough to compete with men or if you're just here for publicity? Racing is still a male-dominated sport, and it seems like you're just trying to prove something rather than compete," the man in glasses squeezed the voice recorder in his hand and looked at her expectantly. Seeing her confusion, he sighed, "I see you're not too bright, so let me ask directly - do you really think you belong here? Do you have what it takes to keep up with the boys on the track?"

The girl panicked a little; this question completely threw her off guard. Emotions overwhelmed her, and she couldn't utter a word. But there was someone who could speak and had an exceptionally sharp tongue.

"I see that, Mr. - again, for whom are you writing?" Ayrton spoke up, furrowing his brows.

"John Ruffleck, Guardian."

"Ah, of course, the Guardian," the man clicked his tongue indulgently. "Clearly, you are the one that didn't shine with intelligence, asking last year's Formula 3 world champion if she fits in here." Y/N was shocked to hear that Ayrton stood up for her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Despite still sitting calmly, the Brazilian was ready for a verbal battle. "If I fit in here, then the 23-year-old who set a better lap time than me during the tests also fits."

Ayrton bluntly silenced the journalist, who merely muttered a quiet "Thank you" and lowered his head.

Several more questions were thrown in by Ayrton, steering the conversation away from sexist undertones. By the end of the conference, there were no more questions about sexist issues. The drivers got up from their seats, and Y/N turned off her microphone, placing it on the sound table as Senna did the same.

"Thank you," she said, looking at him. He also looked at her, but this time his expression didn't express annoyance or boredom, as it did two times before when their eyes met.

"Don't thank me," he said, taking two glasses of champagne from the waitress. "You are allow to drink, right?" he asked before handing her one of them. She nodded and took the glass from him. "Don't thank me, just learn to counter such nonsense. If they're rude, we can be rude too."

Y/N took a big sip of champagne. Her mouth was dry from nerves.

"I don't want to be rude, it's not proper," she said.

"Not proper?" Senna scoffed. "Because you're a girl?"

"Because they'll think poorly of me"

"Do you really care what that bunch of idiots thinks?"

The girl lowered her gaze. Ayrton was right.

Did she really care? She was a driver; she was supposed to deliver good results. She wasn't supposed to please the audience.

She was about to reply when Ron approached them, cursing the Guardian journalist's stupidity. He was so caught up that he didn't even notice Ayrton sending the girl a final glance and then finishing his champagne, taking out cigarettes from his back pocket, and walking away towards the exit. Y/N only watched him go. At that moment, neither of them had any idea how much she would learn from Ayrton, or that he would gladly take on the role of a teacher himself. No one would have even thought of it then.

When Ron managed to lift the shaken girl, she reached for her helmet again and pressed it to her chest. When she looked up, across from her, on the other side of the coffin, she saw a man in a wheelchair. Frank Williams looked at her in silence, but his gaze was apologetic, his face sad, and his eyes looked like he hadn't slept for days.

"Why?" Y/N whispered, but she wasn't sure if anything managed to leave her lips. Williams didn't need to hear her; her eyes said it all. Even if he couldn't hear her question or look into her swollen, tear-filled eyes, he would know perfectly well that she blamed him for his death. "Why, Frank? Why?" Maybe even more than she blamed God.

"If you can hold on to me for longer than five seconds, I'll let you pass," Ayrton said, exhaling smoke. He sat on one of the crates outside McLaren's garage, wearing sunglasses. The weather for the upcoming race looked exceptionally good, but Senna wouldn't mind rain.

"Are you challenging me?" the girl asked, squinting and looking at him against the light. They were sitting outside, where it was quieter, as the mechanics worked inside the garage.

"Why would I?" the man chuckled, taking another drag. Seeing her uncertainty, he offered her a cigarette, trying to reassure her with his gesture.

Y/N took the cigarette and inhaled the smoke, which tickled her throat, making her cough. She wrinkled her nose and after a moment handed him back the cigarette.

"Don't you want to test my braking skills and eliminate me from the race?"

Ayrton laughed and shook his head. "So, I do have a bad reputation after all."

"Definitely not the best," the girl said softly, smiling uncertainly. Ayrton playfully nudged the crate she was sitting on with his foot. He genuinely liked this girl; in fact, he could and wanted to work with her. Now he was even willing to let her win the race if she showed that she could keep up with him. She had demonstrated many times that she could drive at an exceptionally high level, so Senna was willing to show some humanity and let her achieve her first victory, especially on home turf. He stubbed out the cigarette and stood up, taking off his cap and placing it on her head, pulling it down over her eyes.

"Five seconds," he repeated, walking away as she adjusted the cap on her head.

The girl decided to take up the challenge, realizing that such an opportunity might never come again. Ayrton and collaboration? They were complete opposites after all. Y/N, who started the next day from the last place on the podium, managed to fight her way up to second place at the beginning of the race. She spent the next forty laps chasing after Ayrton, wondering if there was any point in chasing him if she couldn't overtake him. Seeing his familiar helmet in the side mirror, Ayrton smiled. He added a bit more throttle and began counting to five, but the girl's car didn't seem to be falling back. When the agreed time was up, much to everyone's disbelief, both on the track and in front of the TVs, Senna slowed down and obediently let her pass. Unable to believe her own eyes, the girl pressed the gas and took the lead, crossing the finish line with him.

She only believed in her victory when Ayrton offered her his hand and helped her onto the podium.

"Five seconds," he said, smiling at her.

"Five seconds," she replied, returning the smile.

How much she would give to see Ayrton again, even for five seconds. To be able to hug him for five seconds, see his smile. Five seconds now would last like an eternity, for which she would pay any price.

The church was filled with people, mostly family and friends, individuals directly connected to Ayrton. The remaining people were outside, surrounding the church, also gathering along the main road. There were talks of crowds, thousands who came to bid farewell to their hero. They too would give much to see Ayrton even for five seconds. Whole, alive, before the Imola accident.

Y/N held the helmet on her knees, looking at it with vacant eyes. She ran her fingers along the edges, tracing the stickers and sponsor names. She squeezed the soft padding inside. She closed her eyelids. Five seconds.

"Necessity is the mother of invention," Ayrton said, loud enough to make the girl jump. She was barefoot, wearing shorts and a bikini top, with his helmet on her head, visor down. She waved a piece of cardboard towards the grill, trying to ignite it better and not wanting the smoke to get in her eyes, deciding to use whatever she had at hand. And hoping Ayrton wouldn't get mad that she used his helmet for this.

The man smiled and shook his head, placing the wood he held in his hands next to the grill. Standing next to the girl, he lifted the visor and looked into her eyes. She looked at him apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"It suits you," Senna interrupted, smiling. "Possibly even more than me."

"Do you think so?"

The man nodded. His hair, damp from swimming in the lake, fell onto his forehead, and his brown eyes sparkled. Ayrton had been looking at Y/N like this for some time, in a way that many would describe as tender. Certainly, the girl wasn't just a teammate to him, as who would invite a teammate to their hometown to meet their closest family. Certainly not Ayrton.

"I love you, Y/N,"

He confessed as he lay on the jetty, gazing at the starry sky, where there was no trace of the hot Brazilian sun anymore.

The girl laughed and took a sip of beer, lying next to him and leaning on his arm. Both were drunk, so she was sure Ayrton was joking. However, when his confession was met with silence and he turned to look at her, his face was deadly serious.

"I mean it, Y/N. I love you,"

"You can't love me, you have a girlfriend," she replied, still laughing. There was no way he was serious.

Ayrton got up and without a word, kissed her, wanting to prove his words. When he pulled away after a moment, there was no smile on the girl's face. He was about to say something again, but she touched his cheek and returned the kiss, and he pulled her closer, holding her tightly in his arms. That night, they would find out how much they meant to each other.

Senna meant a lot to the girl, there was no doubt about it. He also meant unimaginable things to all those who took part in the funeral ceremonies, not only in Brazil itself but worldwide. It might have seemed like the world had lost an incredible man, someone who in life had already become a legend. Who would have thought that this living, almost mystical legend was just a man? A man who is mortal. Surely no one looked at Senna that way. Certainly not Frank Williams, who eventually decided to agree and accept Ayrton into his team, bearing an incredible burden now. Senna was supposed to lift his team to great heights, and his tragic death dealt a blow, not so much personal as it was business-related. However, at that moment, that mattered least.

Y/N and Ayrton sat at the kitchen table, eating a late dinner in silence. They were in their shared home in Europe, but for the past few months, the walls of the house seemed to be becoming more alien with each passing day. The atmosphere was as thick as it is now, when none of the people sitting at the table even bothered to steal a glance.

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to go to Williams?"

The girl asked, stirring the contents of her plate with her fork. Ayrton tightened his grip on the glass and took a few sips from it.

"Ayrton-", "Why did I have to tell you?" he entered her words and looked at her, "Just to make you try to stop me?

Y/N blinked several times. She was shocked. She had the impression that the man sitting opposite was a complete stranger and someone she had never known before.

"To stop you? I'm your girlfriend, I should be the first to know about your plans, not hear from strangers."

"Did it change anything? Did something happen that you didn't find out from me?"

"Yes!" she shouted, slamming her hand on the table. She was so done with all of this. "I'm fed up with you treating me like an enemy for several weeks!"

"Don't you dare raise your voice at me!" he stood up, leaning over and pointing his finger at her. "You have no idea how much I had to do to get that offer, how much it cost me!"

"I have no idea, because you don't tell me anything!" she also stood up, pushing his hand away, which he was aiming at her face, "Fame has gone to your head, you're acting like a complete idi-" She didn't get to finish because Ayrton slapped her across the face. He didn't realize when his open hand met her cheek. Y/N grabbed her cheek and looked at him in shock. At the moment of the strike, he also seemed to snap out of it, as if he had been hit himself.

"Y/N, I'm sorry," he said calmly, trying to approach her, but she backed away a few steps, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that."

"But you did," she said with a trembling voice, tears welling up in her eyes, "I don't recognize you anymore, Ayrton".

As the funeral rites began, the last thing on Y/N's mind was their recent arguments, of which there had been plenty lately. Nonetheless, since the incident when he raised his hand to her, Senna understood he had crossed a line. The only upside of the whole situation was that they had started talking again, and Ayrton had come to realize that Y/N was not his enemy. Yes, on the track, the girl might be someone he now had to defeat even more than usual, but she was still his friend, his girlfriend, his partner. Speaking of partners, many women appeared at the funeral, but four of them spent exceptionally long periods by the coffin. They had a lot in common, yet none of them deigned to exchange glances. Each of Ayrton's partners, even today, on such a dramatic day, looked at her as if she were an enemy. Viviane made sure none of them sat on the bench where the family was seated. Y/N belonged to the family. She didn't intrude, Ayrton invited her himself.

"Maybe you should take a break?" Sid Watkins persistently tried to persuade Ayrton and Y/N to withdraw from the upcoming race. "Two weeks, you'll come back to Monaco in better shape, with lighter minds."

Senna sat on one of the crates behind the Williams garage, elbows resting on his knees. Y/N repeatedly wiped her tear-streaked cheeks, trembling hand holding a cigarette. An hour ago, the qualifying session for tomorrow's race was interrupted by Roland Ratzerberger's serious accident. The man was taken to the hospital, but many said he was taken from the track already dead.

"This shouldn't have happened, there shouldn't have been talk of such an accident," the girl repeated, almost hysterical. She was in tremendous shock, having witnessed the accident herself as she was the one who followed Ratzerberger's car.

"They need to cancel the race," Senna said dryly, his gaze fixed on a point in front of him. "We can't race here, not after something like this."

"And if they don't cancel?" Sid looked from Ayrton to Y/N. "Will you race in such a state? You won't sleep over this until tomorrow."

"If they don't cancel, we'll race for him. I'll drive the best I can to honor him with a victory," Ayrton decided, raising his gaze and looking the doctor in the eyes.

"You like fishing, right? Why don't you go back to Brazil, catch some fish, relax. If you want, I'll come with you, I could use it too."

Senna rubbed his face with his hands, intertwining his fingers and pressing them against his lips. Again, he fell silent. He knew they couldn't not race; he certainly couldn't afford to tell Frank after months of effort that he wouldn't start tomorrow. He couldn't do that.

"I don't want to race," Y/N admitted, shaking her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Ayrton, he, Roland-" the man rose without a word and hugged her tightly. He enveloped her in a strong embrace, stroking her hair. Watkins saw that Senna was thinking intensely. And no matter what he said or did to convince him to skip the race, he would do it his own way.

"Think about it, Ayrton. Just think about it," he said one last time. Senna looked him in the eyes and nodded in silence.

Late in the afternoon, Ayrton and Y/N returned to the hotel. They didn't talk much; Y/N occasionally wiped her eyes with a tissue. Ayrton held her hand a lot. When they lay in bed, Senna laid on her stomach, wrapping his arm around her waist. The girl began to run her fingers through his damp hair.

"I don't want to start tomorrow, Y/N," he said softly. He was facing away from her, she couldn't see that he was crying too. "I have a bad feeling."

"You know nobody can force you to do it," she said calmly, her other hand stroking his cheek. "Maybe Watkins is right? Let's fly to your parents, spend time with the kids. It's been two months since you've seen them."

"I can't," he said, wiping his face with his hand. "I can't, nobody needs a driver who doesn't race."

"Ayrton—" "Just hold me," he interrupted, sitting up. The girl obeyed his command, sitting between his legs and hugging him tightly. Both were silent; Y/N tenderly stroked his head and tense back.

"This will be my last season," he said, not moving an inch from her. "I've done enough; I don't need more. I want to focus on something else, on more important things."

"On what, my love?" she asked gently, still stroking his hair.

"I want to be a dad,"

Senna surprised her with this confession. The girl smiled.

"Would you like to have a son or a daughter?"

"A daughter, oh, how I'd love a daughter," he said, pulling away to look at her face. "Would you like to have a child with me? And become my wife?"

Y/N smiled and nodded. "You know I would."

Ayrton returned her smile and cupped her face in his hands, kissing her deeply.

"Te amo, querido,"

"I love you too, Ayrton. And i will always do."

"And i will always do," Y/N said qiuetly, watching as the coffin slowly descends into the ground. Nothing can destroy such love, certainly not death.

[wingedcat13]

Siren Call: 3

[We’ve had past and present Minerva, but what about future?]

One day, Minerva will be familiar with the island’s crags and shelves. She’ll know the way the shore slope becomes a drop off and where the sandbars are, the color and density of all the coral, the migratory patterns of the species who pass by.

Today, she knows enough to avoid triggering the sensors. Even pauses to adjust one that’s started sagging out of place.

Minerva chooses not to walk up the beach, not wanting to track sand into the - house? Facility? Building? - not wanting to get sand caked to her feet and legs. Jumping straight up to the roof in a waterspout is also unnecessarily dramatic when there isn’t a fight to get to. So she just gathers herself, waits for a wave, and urges it a little higher, placing herself at its apex.

It gets her high enough that she can reach the railing of the overlooking balcony, with enough momentum to curl and tuck her body, cartwheeling over the rail partially just for the joy of motion. Even the smooth tiles feel rough compared to the water, strangely unyielding, and she wobbles just a little as she catches her bearings. Belatedly, she realizes she almost kicked the crap out of one of the balcony’s chairs. The little swerve she does is automatic. At least there wasn’t an audience-

“Minerva.” Says Synovus, sitting on the table because they’re deranged. There’s a surprised tilt to the end of her name, like half a question answering itself. They’re wearing civilian clothes again, and some part of Minerva’s mind can’t help noting that their arms are bare. “Welcome - back.”

One day, Minerva won’t scowl at them on reflex.

Today, she demands immediately, “Were you waiting for me?”

“Y-es?” Synovus hedges, not moving. “But also no? I was - I thought you’d be coming up from the shore.”

They sound almost abashed. But that’s too close to ‘embarrassed’ and Minerva is well aware that Synovus has no shame. She may have genuinely surprised them - they’re perched on the edge of the table, and had leaned away slightly. Synovus wanting to be a problem would have chosen a much more… blatant posture. Or at least to sit further back in the shadows. The absence of either a gaudy attention grabber or deliberate stealth indicated this middle ground was not an act. Or perhaps that’s what she’s meant to think.

One day, Minerva will not have to consciously pick aside the paranoia to see what is in front of her.

Today, it takes effort - but she does it.

With a sigh, she closes her eyes, and focuses on each part of her body, bringing herself down from the mild surge of adrenaline. One hand draws back the wet strands of her hair. The other removes the mask that was a gift. She leaves her eyes closed while she rubs the red marks out of her skin.

With her eyes closed, it’s easier to skip past the defensive retort, and say instead, “You could’ve at least had a coffee waiting for me.”

“I don’t actually know your preferences in that regard.” Synovus admits, and for a heartbeat Minerva is worried this will turn into a far too blunt conversation about homecomings, but - “Do you take it black? Iced? Green?”

Minerva scoffs, but it might have just been a laugh. Even she’s not sure. “White chocolate mocha.” She answers. “One shot espresso, oat milk.”

“Ah,” Synovus says, as Minerva opens her eyes. They seem to have had a revelation. “So that’s why Alexandria likes those Unicorn frappes so much. Hm. And here I usually go for the cider.”

A smile tugs at one corner of her mouth at the thought - Synovus, dread assassin, going to a coffee shop and ordering hot apple juice with whipped cream.

Minerva sets her mask on the table. “Stand up a minute.” She tells Synovus quietly, her voice nearly lost in the sound of the waves below.

“I don’t take direction well.” Synovus replies, even as they slide off the table and to their feet, turning to face her. There’s a caution to their movements, but also curiosity, written far more liberally across the unobscured face Minerva once never thought to see.

If Minerva meets their eyes too long, she’ll lose her nerve, so she winds up staring somewhere around Synovus’s collarbone instead. There’s a scar there, hidden for now by a high-necked top, and Minerva knows that because she put it there. It had been a targeted move: Synovus had broken her collarbone the fight before.

She wants to be better at giving back things other than pain.

“Just - give me a moment. Don’t move, please.” She’s pretty sure it’s the ‘please’ that gets them. Synovus goes so statue-still that Minerva’s not sure they’re blinking. But they don’t protest. And they certainly don’t move as Minerva steps forward.

And in one of the most awkward movements of her life, slides her arms around Synovus’s ribcage, setting her chin gently on their shoulder.

This is instantly easier when she no longer has to look at Synovus’s face. Well. When she can’t look. Can’t fixate on finding and parsing the smallest of expressions, assigning meaning to the specific tilt of a chin or speed of a blink. She’s still bad at it - hugging - because she usually just lets other people hug her, and initiating it is weird, but she can’t imagine Synovus is particularly good at it either.

After all, they’re still standing stock-still, and if Minerva wasn’t currently very aware of their breathing, she might even think they were panicking.

“Not a trap.” She mutters, and feels as much as hears Synovus’s responding huff. But their arms slowly, cautiously, hesitantly come up to return the embrace, hands resting lightly on her back. The side of Synovus’s head tips gently into hers.

One day, Minerva might not feel awkward about body contact and physical affection. One day, she may find herself as familiar with Synovus’s scars as she is her own. And she just might reach a point, eventually, where one of them could make a joke about this just being an excuse to get Synovus wet and not immediately both perish from the agony of an accidental allusion to arousal.

For today, this awkward embrace is enough.

———————————————————

Minerva probably won’t ever see a crowd as something other than a threat to be monitored.

Large groups have always made her tense, and that instinct had only gotten worse over the years. Most villains respect the ad hoc agreement about making an entrance, but there are a distinct few who would kill from a crowd. And there are those who are not villains in the distinct, identity sense, but would wreak havoc nonetheless.

So she scans the mall’s sheltered internal colonnade from behind her sunglasses, and listens to her daughter tell her about her day.

“- I just told him that I’d come from further South, and he didn’t ask me any more questions after that, but then freaking Brad asked me if I was an ‘illegal’ and I know what you mean now, about temptation to cram people into lockers. He’s lucky he’s so tall; I couldn’t fold him up to fit without taking some limbs off.”

Alexandria huffs, taking an aggressive pull from her milkshake. The stress of her life is getting to her - no teenager should have worry lines, or bags under their eyes that deep - but she insists this is what she wants. Even if Minerva sometimes wonders whether Alexandria sees herself as a member of the school’s attendees, or just a spectator who sometimes catches a stray ball.

“Did you tell Brad that?” Minerva asks mildly, mostly curious.

Alexandria sighs again, “No.” She says sullenly, shoulders slumping. “I asked him if he thought the government should determine who gets to live where, and then when he started to argue with me I told him I hoped his yacht sank with him on it.”

“Alexandria.” Minerva was still learning to find the right tone. The right amount of reproach, without exasperation or accusation. She must’ve gotten close, because Alexandria just lifts one hand in a ‘not me’ gesture.

“Specifically so he’d wash up in Mexico or Hawaii and get to be illegal himself.” She clarifies. “I don’t think that convinced anyone I wasn’t an immigrant, though. Til Seanna pointed out my grades in Spanish would probably be better.”

Minerva’s sigh is more restrained, but she points out, “There are other languages in South America. Brazilian Portuguese, for example.”

She’s not sure why she’s entertaining this, really.

“That’s true.” Alexandria ponders that for a moment, drinking more of her milkshake. “I mostly just meant to imply I was from one of the towns that got fu- uhhhh, screwed up by the power grabs.”

Minerva briefly leaves the conversation, remembering that shell of a place. The layouts, the dressings of a town, not quite abandoned yet but with nothing else to bleed.

Judging by the nudge she receives under the table, Alexandria isn’t totally oblivious to her distraction. She’s also changed the subject.

“So.” Alexandria is saying, drawing one syllable into three, “How are you and my godparent getting along?”

‘Godparent’ has become Alexandria’s favored way of referring to Synovus in public. It’s a joke on multiple levels, some of which Synovus seems to appreciate. But Minerva thinks it also makes them slightly uncomfortable, in a way they refuse to express to Alexandria.

“It’s fine.” Minerva replies, on rote. Her eyes flick to Alexandria, then back to the crowds. “What is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘what is it,’?”

“You wouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want something in particular.”

Alexandria’s mouth twists down, “Can I just get an answer without fishing for it, for once?”

Startled, Minerva looks at her again. Takes a better assessment of her daughter’s body language, the tension there. She knows she’s also gone tense.

Anger creeps into Alexandria’s voice, replacing the annoyance. “I’m not going to lose control. I’m not-“

She cuts herself off, abruptly looking away. Her fingers relax around the plastic cup, deliberately demonstrating that her strength won’t get away from her.

Minerva has a suspicion of how that sentence might have ended. I’m not like you and dad.

Reaching out physically feels like the wrong move here. So does stiffening up further and refusing to talk about it. Be better, she thinks to herself desperately, her mind flicking back to an image of a person with one foot in the water, one on dry land.

“We still… disagree, on some things. Some major things.” Minerva makes herself say. She still doesn’t like that Synovus kills people. She doesn’t like that Synovus has ostensibly killed for her, or for Alexandria. But she also feels relief that Synovus did, and a sense of gratitude she can’t quite smother. It makes her feel dirty, oily, and she hasn’t found it’s root.

Taking a breath, Minerva continues, “But… I don’t think they mean either of us harm.”

Alexandria has relaxed a little, absorbed by what Minerva’s saying. And probably having to pick through it for what she isn’t saying either.

“Would you say that you, I don’t know, maybe, trust them?” Alexandria prompts.

Minerva’s grimace is answer enough.

Alexandria sighs, “Mom.”

“It’s complicated, Alexandria.” She says, but it’s not the abrupt conversation-closer it would have once been. More… beseeching.

“Do you trust anyone?” Alexandria asks, “And like, I don’t even really mean me, here, but like. Anyone?”

Minerva remains silent.

“Do you trust yourself?” Alexandria asks, sounding a little alarmed.

Minerva hesitates - but she can’t really answer that one either.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, just the background roar of the mall’s crowds between them. Minerva hates this. She hates feeling like she can’t actually control herself, can’t master the emotional impulses she’s forcibly crammed into a box for years. She hates that Alexandria is having to pick up the conversation, make the overtures, do the work.

But any time she tries to think of a way to do it herself, her mind shies away from it. The words wilt and die in her throat. Because what if she gets it wrong?

What if she has more to lose?

Eventually, Alexandria looks at the melted remnants of her milkshake, and asks, “Can we stop at the Hot Topic before we leave.”

One day.

———————————

A week later, Rosie pokes her head into the common room Minerva’s reading in. “Minerva?”

She’d finally been asked point blank by one of them what she wanted to be called, because Athena no longer seemed accurate. Committing to Naiad hadn’t felt right either, so she’d given up her civilian name. Synovus already knew it, what was the point?

(It had occurred to her, later, that the small thrill she felt at being addressed by it was possibly what Alexandria felt at being addressed by her chosen name.)

(Also, it would’ve made Albion furious.)

“What is it?” Minerva asks now, letting one finger hold her place in the book as she sits up.

“There’s a fight drifting our way - Zephyr and a few others against the Eye. He’s made another floating platform again.” Rosie rolled her eyes, providing her professional opinion.

Minerva tilted her head, hesitating. Zephyr was a hero she’d worked with before, though they had never gotten along. He’d offered to take her flying, she’d taken that as flirting and shut it down, they’d never really overcome the resulting awkwardness. She had no idea who he’d be working with.

Eye, in contrast, was Eye in the Sky - a villain obsessed mostly with surveillance, and not being observed himself. He was a center point of several conspiracy theories involving the NRA, CIA, and a number of international organizations. She’d never fought him before, just heard the stories.

“What’s the protocol?” Minerva asks, rather than offer any of that information. She was certain this group of people knew far more about everyone involved anyway.

Rosie smiles, “Not much of one, just a lower alert status. Doll and I will make the rounds and check on everyone, Synovus is going to suit up just in case, but we won’t get involved unless territory agreements are breached.” She added, “Alexandria’s still on the mainland, we’ve made sure she knows to be suited if she makes her own way home.”

Minerva taps at the cover of her book, thinking. She feels adrift, still. This isn’t an actual fight, unless she wants to go and be Athena, and the idea of that is physically uncomfortable. It would also invite too many questions. Naiad would-

Hm. “Does Synovus want me in uniform?” She asks, sardonic.

“I didn’t ask and don’t plan to.” Rosie replies flippantly. “If they want you to do something, I imagine you’ll hear about it directly.”

Somehow, that isn’t the response she wants. “I don’t-“

“They also haven’t given any orders that you’re to be stopped.” Rosie points out, cutting her off. “The rest of us will be either in the operations room or up on the roof to watch. Klaxon if there’s trouble.”

She gave Minerva another smile, twiddled her fingers, and withdrew. Minerva shifted, and opened her book again.

She made it through two more paragraphs, then left it unceremoniously on the floor.

———————————-

On the roof, Synovus was pacing.

In a way, that’s reassuring, because even Minerva knew by now that if there was imminent danger, Synovus would be stock-still. The sun glints off the dark helmet, and threw the matte black of the rest of the suit into stark relief against the sandy-colored rooftop. Wind off the sea ripples through the cape, keeping it blown back, perpendicular to the path Synovus is walking.

The sun is kinder to Minerva’s costume, and there is no cape to blow. The dark mask helps keep her from being blinded by the sun. Athena wouldn’t be of much use here; Naiad might be.

Doll - the larger, Russian man who Minerva thought of as Synovus’s second in command - stood up here too, a viewfinder raised to cover his face. He’s looking into the direction of the wind, angled out and up, and Minerva follows that direction.

There it is - flashes of distant, shimmering silver in a cloud bank that’s thinning. Some masking device, most likely, now disabled. There’s tiny flashes of what must be powers or weaponry at use, but she can’t make out more than that.

“How bad is it?” She asks anyway, brisk and businesslike.

“The wind isn’t in our favor.” Doll comments. He’s always answered her as if she’s a coworker, and she appreciates that. “I can’t tell how much of it is powered and how much of it drifts. If there’s been damage to it -“ He lowers the viewfinder to make a hand gesture. “It might not be able to control its direction anymore.”

“Sloppy.” The comment is out of Minerva’s mouth before she can stop it. It draws Doll’s attention, if not Synovus’s. At the slightly raised eyebrow, she sighs and continues, “Disabling propulsion or navigation creates unnecessary risk to everyone involved. The only time it becomes necessary is when there’s weaponry that absolutely must be disabled, and you don’t have either the training or the time to sort out different power systems.”

Doll nods, offering her the viewfinder. “It could be self-inflicted,” he points out.

“Possible, but suicidal. That would require an exit strategy. Do you think Eye has one?”

“He’ll have three, only two of them will work, and none of them will be enough to keep him from getting captured.” Synovus breaks into the conversation abruptly, annoyed. Or perhaps professionally offended. “They’ll be personal craft.”

Meaning the rest of the platform’s crew would be left to die. Incentive for the heroes to try and rescue them rather than pursue, but what a waste.

The viewfinder lets Minerva get a better sense of the platform’s size, and also an estimate of its height and distance. She can make out a glimpse of a gray-shaded costume, diving through the clouds: Zephyr.

“If you interfere,” She asks, while her view is disconnected from her surroundings, “What would that look like?”

There’s a hesitation. A gust of wind snaps at Synovus’s cape. The distant battle continues.

“If they cross the boundaries, there must be consequences.” Synovus says reluctantly. “I will destroy the platform. Survivors will become my prisoners. If the heroes protest, I’ll fight them.”

Minerva lowers the viewfinder, and returns it to Doll. Synovus has stopped pacing. “You don’t have the facilities for a mass casualty event.”

“No.” Synovus agrees. “I don’t.”

————————————

Rosie has come out to join them on the roof by the time there’s significant change. The wind has died down some - likely a marker of Zephyr changing it, finally reaching their shores. The air feels thick and dead without it.

They’ve mostly stood in silence, watching. It feels longer than it has been, and Minerva knows it’ll be worse for those actually fighting. She’s surprised she hasn’t felt more of an urge to intervene.

Though she has been keeping watch for anyone falling to the water below.

It’s hard to say which of them notices first - their attention is collectively on the sky platform, and not each other. But there’s a decided tilt to the mostly-exposed metal monstrosity now, and in very short order, it begins to fall.

“Catch it.” Minerva finds herself murmuring. “Catch it. At least slow it-“

But no one does.

The platform hits the water at the full speed gained from a several thousand foot drop, slamming into the ocean. Those watching know that the metal will crumple on impact, water at that height and velocity worse than slamming into concrete. The surface area only makes it worse; tilted in at a slight angle, it displaces the water in a specific direction.

Towards the island.

Minerva had studied the ocean as much as she could. She knows this phenomena, and can cite times in the past it’s occurred. Not caused by the shifting of the ocean floor or tectonic plates, but by a sudden mass displacement.

They call it a super-tsunami.

Synovus is a statue beside her from the moment the platform starts to fall. Doll catches on once the surface of the water rises - and then doesn’t fall again.

“Three minutes.” Minerva calculates, based on distance and the probable speed of the wave. As many miles to cross. Much taller. “Evacuation?”

“The Jet is under repair, we can’t get it into the air in time.” Rosie answers, grim.

“Seals on the inner portions of the facility might hold, but we don’t know how long we’d be underwater.” Doll says, hitting the klaxon anyway. “The fridges?”

“Only as good as long as the power lasts.” Rosie replies. “Alexandria?”

“Still on the mainland.” Doll growls, running a hand through his hair. “Even if she could reach us in time, we’d have to get everyone onto the plane-“

Synovus has, so far, said nothing. Minerva is the only one close enough to catch when they choke out a strangled, “-fucking submarine -“

Minerva had expected Synovus to have a plan. A power, a strength, a defense mechanism. The realization that they don’t is like a fire’s been lit at the base of her spine.

She doesn’t remember grabbing Synovus’s collar, or dragging them to face her. She does remember saying, “I can stop it.”

Synovus doesn’t hesitate. “What do you need?”

There is no questioning of if she’s sure, or recommendation that she go into the waves to ride it out. No suggestion of running.

“Get me in front of it.”

Immediately, Synovus has one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and they’re running. Off the edge of the roof, not quite flying, flickers of shadow beneath their feet. Minerva doesn’t have time to question it, because her attention is on the big damn wave.

When she had said she could stop it, she had spoken with a bone-deep certainty. But she’d never actually tried to divert a tsunami before, let alone one of this size. The largest amount of water she’s worked with has always been as much as she needs to accomplish her goal, and nothing more. Diverting some rain-induced flooding is nothing compared to the power of the tides.

But she can feel the ocean beneath them, as Synovus clears the island’s coast. She can sense the oncoming wave, so fast to them, but to the ocean like a flinch in slow motion. The ocean doesn’t know how to control a fall.

But Minerva does.

The trick is in grasping the majority of the wave without over extending. She doesn’t need every droplet, every molecule, but she does need the vast majority of them.

It’s like trying to get a grip on something flat with only the pads of her fingers. It’s like misjudging a stair and finding herself both plummeting and ramming into an outside force. It’s like taking the first breath of rain-rich air in the early morning, and feeling life enter her lungs again.

Minerva twists the top back over itself, breaking the wave in the wrong direction. She cuts it down the middle, diverting it off to the sides. She forbids it to go forward, as though it’s met a cliff. And as the water falls, the wave collapsing, so does she.

It takes a brief second to put together that the body that had been holding her aloft is now limp, twisted slightly as though to put itself between her and the wave. Synovus is unresponsive, the shadows gone, only the cape whipping around them as they fall. Minerva is able to catch them, now, grabbing on before they can drift away.

She reaches for the water below them, calling it up to catch them with less than bone-breaking force. It’s easier, somehow, but also harder, and she’s having trouble fixing a direction in her mind for where the wave was and where the shore should be. Hot air, harsh wind, cool water and the dimming depths as they’re both drawn down.

And she remembers, finally, that Synovus can’t swim.

—————

The disorientation has mostly worn off by the time Synovus wakes up.

Minerva had managed to follow the upset currents, but hadn’t wanted to risk trying to shape and change them. Or to fight them overmuch, with her cargo. So they’d wound up washed not to shore, but to a small opening into one of the partial lava tubes at the island’s base.

Outside, saltwater rain is still falling, though it will stop soon. The ocean’s roar sounds, to her ears, slightly confused. The sun is still shining, and the wind has picked up again. ‘Calm’ is a subjective definition, but they’re approaching it.

Minerva had been relieved to find that Synovus’s helmet was intact, even with the impact to the water. She’d managed to find its clasps, and to remove it, making sure the seals had also held and that Synovus wasn’t drowning in their own personal fishbowl. They’re propped up against her legs, which are folded beneath her, and she’s prepared for a violent awakening.

But Synovus’s eyes blink open, and Minerva is able to watch their facial muscles work as they come to terms with their surroundings.

“You fainted.” Minerva informs them.

Synovus squints at her, but doesn’t immediately protest. They also don’t try to move much, other than a slight squirm that Minerva recognizes as a full body check. Do I still have my appendages? Do my fingers and toes all work?

“Yeah.” Synovus concedes. Their voice is raspy with saltwater, even though they didn’t get much of a chance to drown. This time.

Minerva should probably start somewhere else - like making certain they’re okay, or assuring them about the conditions outside, that the wave had been averted. Instead, she all but demands, “If you’re so terrified of water, why in the hells did you build on an island?”

She can see the balk in Synovus’s expression: a furrowing of their brow, a twitch of the nose. Synovus lifts a hand to consider covering their face, eyes the sand on their glove, and lowers it again.

“I already know you can’t swim.” Minerva says flatly.

“I can swim.” Synovus shoots back, annoyed. “I cannot swim well, there’s a difference.”

They sigh, and move to sit up. Minerva doesn’t stop them. She doesn’t expect an answer, at least not without further prompting, but Synovus continues:

“It’s… easier. The isolation. Clearly defined borders. This is mine, everyone else fuck off. And it…” Synovus shakes their head. “It serves its purpose.”

Once, Minerva would’ve accused them of grandstanding. Of the island being a show of wealth and status. She knows better now - knows that while that is true, there’s other reasons, layered beneath.

And she thinks about everything Synovus has ever told her about self control.

“It contains you.”

Synovus hesitates, partially grimacing, but nods. “Serves its purpose.” They repeat quietly.

The two of them sit in silence, in the dark shadow of the cave. They listen to the water, and the waves as they return to normal.

“Thank you.” Synovus says, into the silence.

“I don’t require thanks.”

“But I feel you deserve it, and it’s mine to give.”

“And if I don’t want it?”

“Refuse it. I will survive the disappointment.”

Minerva has the uncomfortable feeling that they are not discussing only gratitude. Rather than address that, or continue the discussion, she says instead: “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

Synovus doesn’t reply. They tilt their head, studying her in the dark. Minerva’s dragged them into a cave and confronted them with truths after they passed out from fear doing something on her word, she should give them a break. She doesn’t.

“I should be out there looking for survivors, or recovering the dead. I don’t want to. I should’ve involved myself in the fight, reminded them to be careful of the platform’s vulnerabilities. I didn’t. I don’t feel guilt. I feel… annoyed. Angry. Because they should’ve known better.”

Synovus just turns a bit, to rest their back against a rock. “And that in turn makes you feel..?”

“Foolish. Arrogant. A bad hero, and a worse teacher. I should be patient. Forgiving.”

“They nearly killed you.” Synovus points out dryly. “You’re allowed to be angry about that.”

“And more would’ve died if the wave had reached the coast.” Minerva grits her teeth. “But that anger should be - I can’t control them. I cannot fix them. But I didn’t even try to intervene until it was almost too late.”

“But you did intervene.”

Minerva gestures, attempts to pinpoint the logic fruitless and frustrated. “Am I a hero or not?” She demands. “Do I act for others or only my own skin? I’ve spent years - decades - so sure of the answer but now -“

She raises her hands, half-fisting them in her hair. The sensation provides a little bit of grounding, enough of a distraction she doesn’t think about the words before she says them. “- now you make sense to me, and the things I thought I believed in enough to die for are - are hollow or gone or dead. And I let you kill them. I let you kill him.”

Abruptly, she draws her knees up, burying her face in them. “I let - I made - my child - our child -“

Minerva can’t tell if she’s crying or not. Her breath is coming in gasps, and her face feels hot, and this was always the part of weeping that she hated the most; the lack of control, the inability to communicate. Her eyes burn. So does the center of her chest, her stomach.

And Synovus is here, as her witness. Why not? They’ve seen every other ugly part of her, every other failure. She’s spent a good portion of her adult life fighting this person, exchanging scars, only for them to pick up the pieces and try to protect her. She’s finally had the upper hand, proven that she does have power, that Synovus now owes her in the brutal calculus of lives, and instead of reassuring her it’s broken her.

Because Synovus doesn’t trust themself either.

But Synovus trusts her.

“Do you wish I wouldn’t have killed Albion?” Synovus asks quietly.

The answer is as simple and certain as the water. “No.” She says honestly. “No I - I don’t.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Do you wish I would’ve killed you too?”

That answer isn’t as clear to find. “I - some days.” She says hoarsely. “I committed the same crimes.”

Synovus exhales, across from her, and it isn’t quite a sigh. “Alexandria feels differently.”

Minerva stops breathing.

Of all the answers Synovus could’ve given, that’s the one she can’t counter. She can’t afford to do this. To wallow in self recrimination. Her daughter is out there. And while maybe - maybe her morals are falling to pieces, and she doesn’t know who she is, but she knows that whoever she is loves Alexandria.

“Is it pathetic?” She asks Synovus, in the dark she can’t see through and Synovus can. “To need someone else to determine who I am. What I believe.”

She can hear the twist in Synovus’s expression as they reply, “That’s… inherently not a question I can answer. But, Minerva?” Synovus doesn’t hesitate, so much as pick their way across uncertain footing, “I don’t think you would’ve been able to turn back that wave if you weren’t… as much as you are.”

It’s clumsily phrased. Wavering and uncertain. But Minerva, whether because she’s reading what she wants to from it, or because it’s actually Synovus’s intention, understands.

She takes a deep breath. Then another. Then she stands, and offers a hand in Synovus’s general direction. Her voice is much more certain, calm, when she says, “I need to go organize a search party.”

——————

Minerva may not ever come to terms with her role in her ex-husband’s death, or the harm she caused her daughter. She might not ever find the rock-solid beliefs that she once thought she had.

But she might - just might - come to terms with that uncertainty. The ocean doesn’t have roots either.

She’ll have good days and bad days. She’ll need to make decisions about who she wants to become, and how she feels about who she is. But as both Naiad, and Minerva, she has that freedom.

She’ll never touch the Athena costume again.

And one day, while she’s working on a laptop in one of the common rooms, Synovus on one of the other couches and Alexandria sprawled on the floor, Minerva will say, “I have an idea. Something I’d like to do about the Pacific garbage patch.”

And Alexandria will roll over to look at her, and Synovus will glance up. And Minerva will add, “It’s not precisely legal.”

And Synovus will say, “I’m listening.”

——————————

[And so ends Siren Call! This took much longer than it’s other pieces, and there were things I debated including and things I wanted to cut, but in the end, this was the flow the story took. I’m not saying I’m *done* with Synovus and co, but I will say that I’m glad to have this chapter closed and tied off.]

[As per usual, a copy of this will go up on Ao3 soon, and I’ll find out how long it is, because I’ve once again written directly into tumblr drafts. It’s where the Synovus muse lives, apparently.]

[inneedofsupervision]

Sweet Tooth

When Eddie came to the park, he would have never guessed he would be home hours later and possibly have found a way to keep his alien symbiote co-inhabitant from needing to eat human brains. Did he find the solution for their rather unconventional diet, or was it just wishful thinking on his part? An idea of how else Venom could get his claws on his all-beloved phenethylamine (without Eddie having to use three cups of mouthwash the next day).

(Read on Ao3)

"Eddie?"

"Hm?"

"We want to eat the tiny humans."

"We've talked about this, V."

Eddie puts his dame on G6.

A good move.

Pleased with his choice, the journalist grabs for the steaming paper cup. A gust of wind blows colored leaves throughout the small park, covering the patches of green and the wet paths. It's rather chilly. A few meters next to him, a family is at a playground, and the three children are screaming and laughing as they run around.

"There is only so much chocolate can do to quell our hunger, Eddie."

"Guess you must stay hungry then, as I won't change my mind about this."

Eddie holds the coffee between both hands, trying to warm his fingers. A low growl rings in the deeper corners of his consciousness, but the man ignores the sounds inside his head. The sun breaks through the clouds, and strays of light fall onto the lithic chess table.

"They are mingy. Who would notice one or two of them missing?"

Eddie shakes his head while Venom's dusky voice speaks inside his mind. He raises the coffee towards his lips as an onyx-colored tentacle slithers from his sleeve. Like a snake, it creeps over the checkered table, its thinning end straightening up only to wind around the head of a pawn. It pulls until the figure has moved onto a black field.

Eddie frowns into his cup.

Checkmate.

"Please, Eddie. I can already feel their small, undeveloped brains melt on my tongue."

A spray of coffee bursts out over the chessboard, followed by violent coughing. Another tentacle emits from Eddie's body, this time out of his shoulder, knocking him on his back while the man is busy trying to get the hot liquid out of his trachea.

"Okay, that's it," Eddie says, still couching, face slowly regaining color.

"Enough fresh air for today. Time to bring you back under lock and key."

"You are a sore loser, Eddie. I won, and as a prize, I will get a snack of my choice~"

Venom almost purrs, his voice rumbling and sending shivers down his host's spine. Eddie shakes his head with a click of his tongue. Living with Venom was like getting a young dog who grew out of the puppy stage. Every rule gets questioned, sometimes several times a day. They have discussed when, where, and who Venom gets to eat. And even these rules have nuances. Lots of them, for the sake of Eddie not being brought behind bars after being linked a little too quickly with another headless body turning up in some dumpster near their neighborhood.

He tries to be understanding.

Eddie is aware of the alien and his needs, knowing there is no way around the Klyntar to consume brains sooner or later, sensing the growing hunger through their bond. But even he runs out of patience, discussing with a tantrum-throwing symbiote why the latter cannot eat children for the second time in thirty minutes.

"This isn't a Subway, Buddy. No snacks to choose from."

The man throws the tissue and empty cup into a garbage bin, shoveling his hands deep into his pockets. It is getting cold pretty fast now.

"Pussy."

"Yeah, yeah. See how you will like it when I freeze to death, and you're just a slimy little blob without a host," grumbles Eddie with a roll of his eyes.

"What did you just call us!?"

"For such a superior form of living, your hearing is quite bad, isn't it?"

"You will take this back, or I will devour your liver. You hear me, Eddie? Painfully and slow, and then I will crack open your head and feast on your brain while keeping you alive as long as possible."

Eddie hums without really paying attention.

"I believe it when I see it."

He wasn't sure when he stopped shaking in fear at the violent threats the alien liked to dish out whenever something didn't go his way. He twitches at the tentacle that pulls at his ear, swatting the offending appendage away.

"Why are you suddenly interested in eating children, anyway?"

Eddie halts in his steps. That sounds messed up. He begins walking again, quickening his pace, and leaves the playground and park behind, ignoring the dark rumble of protests from the alien, who moves restlessly under his skin. He blinks as his hood gets pulled over his head, furrowing his brows before the first raindrops hit the pavement. Venom flutters at the unspoken feeling of gratitude, drinking up the emotion before settling around his neck like a midnight-colored scarf. A small head pokes out from under his hood. Milky eyes stare up at the man. A tongue darts out, licking over the front row of razor-sharp teeth.

"Their brains smell delicious."

Eddie grimaces, not noticing how his expression causes Venom's grin to widen at his obvious distaste.

"Their brains smell delicious?"

He's whispering as he hurries up the stairs to his apartment, preventing his neighbors from thinking he's crazy, more than they already do.

"The quantity of some hormones they produce is beyond what I've experienced from grown humans."

"Maybe because they have more fun than adults?" throws Eddie his thought into the room, pulling his jacket off and dumping it over a chair.

"Aren't you after dopamine and stuff?"

"They certainly have more fun than you."

"Well, being an adult isn't all pleasure and enjoyment, V. We can't all be playing around and eating chocolate the whole day," counters Eddie lightheartedly as he opens his laptop. He rubs a hand over his face with a sigh, the half-finished article plopping out like a silent warning. How could Eddie possibly have fun running late on a deadline? Glancing at his notebook, he skims over the information he gathered before his eyes flick back to the screen. His fingers hover motionless over the keyboard, and the seconds pass while Eddie stares at the document. With a deep sigh, he pushes the chair back and stands up.

"You have never produced such an amount of tasty hormones, Eddie."

He shudders when the alien roams around inside of him, not even trying to be inconspicuous about it.

"What are you doing there, Buddy?"

Eddie gulps slightly, the hairs on his whole body straightening up. It feels like his organs are flipped over like stones on a beach to glance under them to see if something of interest hides under them. Venom seems to work his way from his legs upwards until Eddie panics. He can feel Venom coming straight toward his head, and although he is well aware that Venom is always in his head, the thought of the Symbiote searching for something in there leaves him a little panicked.

"V?"

His voice cracks, and he coughs to overplay his embarrassment, but his nervousness doesn't lessen as he doesn't receive an answer from the Symbiote.

"Venom?"

The movement doesn't stop, passing his lungs and working its way up his esophagus. When reaching past the Adam's apple, Eddie feels fear creeping up.

"Venom, stop!"

"What?"

Eddie jumps, the back of his knees hitting the couch and sending him falling onto it as Venom's head pops out of his chest to look at him.

"Christ, give a guy some warning next time. What are you even doing?"

"Checking you out, Eddie."

Eddie cannot hold back a laugh at that.

"I'm sure that's not what you mean. What exactly are you checking for?"

The serpent-like head tilts slightly.

"You don't produce as much hormones as the tiny humans. I had to check if your oranges are defective."

Eddie raises an eyebrow. He was pretty sure his organs were okay. Deciding to humor his friend, he folds his hands together and leans forward.

"And, what are your results, Doc?"

White eyes narrow at the title. The head wanders up and down, and Eddie feels the rest of Venom shifting under his skin, reaching out into every cell of his body. The feeling stops soon, and Venom licks his teeth again, reminding the human of a snake tasting the air.

"You are not dying."

Eddie huffs and lets himself fall back onto the couch.

"Thanks, pal. I haven't been worried about that until now. What hormones are we talking about, though?"

Venom's head bends down. His eyes scrutinize the human while searching for sarcasm. Seeing his host being serious about the question, he straightens up, hovering over the man.

"Adrenalin, dopamine, phenethylamine."

A sudden thought overcame him.

"Does that mean you scuff down brains for neurotransmitters inside?"

"And because they taste good."

The reporter scoots to the side to avoid getting hit by the to-the-ground-extending string of saliva running down from a corner of Venom's mouth. Eddie observes with a pinched expression how the string wanders until it hits the floor.

Great.

Now, he can mope the apartment. Eddie shakes his head. Now wasn't the time to think about salvia on the floor. Not after Venom revealed a particular detail of his rather unconventional diet.

"You mentioned feeding off my body before, right?"

The Symbiote's eyes narrow dangerously, and a low growl emits deep within his throat.

"I had no choice, Eddie. We were dying."

Eddie raises his arms in a placating and protective manner, not that it would be much use if Venom decided to jump him for the question. Their first meeting was still a touchy subject. Eddie smiles gently, his voice calm. If he had learned something, it was to not engage in Venom's open provocation if you like not getting your nose broken and healed, only to get it broken again. The handling of Venom called for more finesse as with any other human Eddie had contact with before in his life.

"That wasn't an accusation, V. Just a question."

The hollow snarling ebbs away, and Eddie feels a sigh of relief climbing up his throat. He could do without an angered Venom.

"If my brain produced more hormones, would that mean you need to eat less brains?"

Venom's serpentine head sways back and forth. Eddie watches, slightly fascinated and a little amused, how the tar-colored skin of the Klyntar tightens above the milky-white eyes, a grotesque imitation of a frown.

"It could."

"It could?"

Eddie had hoped for a more profound answer. The less brains he, or rather Venom, had to consume, the better. He really could do without their choice of midnight snacks, and even when the humans they chose were the worst of the worst, there were days Eddie couldn't cope with the thought of having devoured another human.

"You humans all produce different amounts of hormones. It depends on what your tiny brain can offer me, Eddie."

The smile on the reporter's face vanishes to be replaced by a scowl.

"My tiny brain? What does that mean? You know what, it's none of my business. Let's forget about the whole thing."

Eddie crosses his arms in front of his chest. He could not be bothered, continuing to talk about brains and hormones. Venom seems to pick up on his host's change of heart, the black head tilting to the side questioningly.

"Eddie, are you pouting?"

Not in the mood to answer, Eddie averts, hand reaching out of his smartphone to direct his attention to what his oh-so-small and silly brain could rather deal with. Before his fingers could touch the device, a thin tentacle curls around his wrist, successfully pulling his arm back.

The man rolls his eyes. With an exasperated sigh, he focuses on Venom.

"Let go of my arm, V."

The tentacle slithered back, and all hairs on his skin straightened as Venom moved. The Klyntar's head grows, and the part one could call a neck thickens rapidly. In less than a few seconds, Venom has almost entirely built up in front of the human, his massive upper body towering over him.

The pale pink tongue flicked out of his mouth, licking along the row of razor-sharp teeth, accompanied by a hiss.

"What crawled up your ass and died?" commented Eddie dryly. He was too pissed off to be impressed.

The Symbiote bends forward, their foreheads apart by a hair.

"You ever heard of personal space, big guy? Because you're stepping into mine. A little distance would be very much appreciated."

"I am inside you, Eddie. Your personal space belongs to me."

Eddie stares at Venom, and his lips move, but without a sound passing. For the first time today, the man was rendered speechless. Venom continues sizing his host up, tongue flicking through the air.

"Okay. That's a topic for another day," mumbles the man.

"Eddie."

"You like what you see?" jokes the reporter in an attempt to pass off his insecurity. Venom's white eyes lock on him, like a predator targeting its prey. A nervousness flickers somewhere in his stomach area. He had to break the eye contact with the alien manifesting out of his body. His gaze involuntarily moves downwards, Adam's apple setting in motion as they catch sight of the Symbiot's teeth.

One bite and everything would be over.

A hint of anxiety rolls over him as claws settle on either side of his shoulders against the couch, efficiently caging the man and robbing him of any way to escape. Not as if he had a chance, fleeing from an alien that nested inside every cell of his body.

“Good, but not quite what we wanted.”

Eddie's head snaps up, goosebumps spreading across his skin as Venom's voice rings in his head.

“Not the same as the little humans in the park. A certain something is missing.”

Eddie's face hardens as he finally catches on.

“You stupid bastard!” the reporter roars, any fear and panic he had felt replaced by anger and a pinch of shame.

“You scared me on purpose!"

He growls, pointing a finger at the Sybiote, anger burning in his eyes.

"I hope you had fun, 'cause that was the last time. You pull a stunt like this once more, and I swear to God, I'm going to march right up to our neighbor asking for a fucking private concert and turn the volume as high as possible. Then I'm going to collect your gooey alien ass in a jam jar and throw it out into the trash, you heard me?"

It takes a lot for Eddie Brock to lose his temper. His life had been turbulent ever since the thing with the Life Foundation began, and at some point, he began to grow blunt, not getting bothered as quickly as before. Few things get under the reporter's skin, having seen so much.

This time, Venom had pushed it too far.

Eddie tries hard to adjust to living with his Symbiote. He does his best catering to Venom's unusual needs, and how does that damned parasite thank him? Spooking Eddie out of his mind and causing his brain to kick into overdrive to feast on the adrenaline produced as the fear kicked in and, to put a cheery on top, making fun of him. Something in Eddie's voice or even inside his head must have shown how angry and betrayed he felt cause instead of retaliating with a biting remark or a threatening growl, Venom kept silent.

"What? Cat got your tongue? Nothing that the big bad alien wants to say?"

"I am sorry, Eddie."

"I hope you are."

The claws next to his shoulder retreat to offer his host some space. Eddie takes a deep breath, eyes averted from the Sybiote. He had to calm down. Getting angry isn't the solution. The blond already feels shame and guilt, not proud of how he has reacted.

With a sigh, he let a hand run over his face before glancing at Venom.

"I'm sorry too, Buddy."

The Symbiote tilts his head, white eyes narrow as he scrutinizes the human on the couch.

"I overreacted. I won't throw you into the trash."

"I doubt you would have managed. With your measly arms and puny muscles."

While speaking, a tentacle wraps around Eddie's upper body, slithering until it winds around his right arm and squeezing softly to undermine his words.

The corner of Eddie's mouth pulls upwards.

"Asshole."

He gives Venom's chest a playful shove.

Venom's teeth flash as his mouth pulls into an eerie smirk. A tentacle emanates out of his chest where Eddie had touched him and thrusts the human to the side, knocking him with his back onto the couch. Before he could sit up, Venom positioned himself over him, seizing his arms faster than Eddie could mouth "stop" and pushing them next to the side of his head.

"As I said. Puny."

A playful twinkle flickers in the milky white of Venom's eyes, and Eddie rolls his eyes at the smug tone.

"Hardy har. Just wait till I get out of here. I'm going to kick your gooey ass."

"Really? That I would like to witness."

Eddie narrows his eyes, provoked by the words. He tries hard, putting all his strength into his arms, and pushes to get off the couch. To his surprise, Eddie manages to gain space, almost having sat back up when the tentacle from before appears in front of his face. With a frown, the man observes the appendage hover as he pushes forward. Just before he was sitting straight, the tentacle came closer and gently shoved his forehead. Eddie stills, bemused at the action as the tentacle draws closer again, but this time, the push is much stronger. With a shout of surprise, he is back to stare at the ceiling.

"You didn't pay attention," purrs Venom, voice thick with amusement. The tentacle that had pushed him patted his cheek playfully.

"You cheated!" protests Eddie with a laugh, biting at the tentacle. The appendage raises and avoids his attack, only to pinch the tip of Eddie's nose. Venom grins down at the human.

"Even without holding you down, you would be at my mercy, Eddie. Give up."

"You can forget that."

His arms are released. Instead, Venom leans further down, threatening to bury Eddie under his black mass.

"Wait, you don't have to push it, V."

Despite his words of protest, Eddie laughed, knowing Venom wouldn't hurt him.

"Eddie?"

"What?"

Venom straightens and gazes down at the smiling human below. The Symbiote tilts his head, eying his host with growing interest. Eddie raises an eyebrow.

"What's wrong?"

A low purr fills the room from deep within Venom's chest. The Symbiote licks his teeth.

"I want more."

Eddie looks at him questioningly, hands still on Venom's body. The alien runs hotter than he had expected.

"More? More of what exactly?"

Venom bends down until his face hovers only inches apart from his host.

"Hormones, Eddie," Venom's tongue darts out, tasting the air. "You smell almost as tasty as the tiny humans."

Eddie blinks, not having expected that answer.

"Oh," was all he could bring out before a sudden thought occurred, causing warmth to build up inside him. The tips of his ears turn red.

"Eddie, you don't have to be embarrassed. You can admit to having fun."

"Shut your mouth," grumbles the human, red-faced. Gosh, he had fun playing around with Venom like a little kid. He coughs, embarrassed.

"Okay, it's time to stop. Come on, big guy. Let me up."

Venom didn't think about letting his human go. Especially not after Eddie's brain had just begun producing an exquisite cocktail of hormones.

"Explain to me, Eddie, what else is fun to you? Apart from being proven how frail you humans are?"

He looks down at Eddie, who still has being embarrassed written all over his features. Venom does not comprehend why his human felt the need to be ashamed for having fun, but there are many instances in which he doesn't understand Eddie. He might find out someday. But, at the moment, that doesn't interest Venom as he has more pressing matters to care for.

Eddie jumps as something slides under his sleeve. He glances at his arm. One of Venom's tentacles winds around his wrists. It was nothing unusual. Venom tends to appear at random times and slither over his skin. He never got an explanation why the alien did it, and Eddie had dismissed it as one of the Klyntar's quirks and left it at that. The tentacle wanders around but is not purposeful like the other times. It felt as if it was searching for something.

"Ehm, V? Care to explain?" asks the man, nodding towards his arm.

"I don't understand it, Eddie," growls Venom, eyes dangerously narrowed, his voice rumbling deep through Eddie's body. The Symbiote eyes him with his head tilted, face pulled into a scowl. Venom seems genuinely confused, and even if Eddie found it slightly amusing to see the other planless, he felt a little pity for the Klyntar.

"What's going on, Buddy? Come on, talk to me. Maybe we can figure it out together."

"I'm mimicking what the tiny humans did, but you are not reacting. Your body is fully functional, and your brain is not defective."

The reporter blinks, thrown off for a moment.

"Okay, about what exactly are we talking here?"

"The tiny humans in the park, they did something which spiked their hormones, but when I do it to you, you are not reacting."

It is Eddies turn to tilt his head in question. "I can't follow, Buddy. Maybe you can describe what the children did?"

Venom growls, a sign of him growing frustrated, but still describes what he had witnessed.

"They touched each other," the tentacle that had winded its way around Eddie Arm travels over his shirt towards the middle of his body before hovering over his stomach. "Here. And then they began laughing."

It takes a moment before it finally clicks.

"I see. Now I know what you are talking about, V," says Eddie with an amused laugh.

"They probably tickled each other."

"Tickled?"

The way Klyntar emphasized the word shows that he had never heard it before.

"The action itself is tickling, and someone who gets tickled and is affected is called ticklish."

"And if someone gets tickled, they laugh?"

Eddie nods, quite proud of how quickly Venom caught on. The Symbiote got quicker with how things on Earth worked every day.

"It's an involuntary reaction of our body towards a certain kind of touch," he continues explaining.

"There are only guesses why one has to laugh when being tickled. Most believe it to be a defensive reaction. Most people are ticklish at parts of the body that need the most protection, for example, the stomach, under the arms, and the neck, but there are more. Where and how ticklish someone is differs from person to person."

"It can't hurt you?"

"Not really. If one overdoes it, it can turn unpleasant quickly. It is still an involuntary reaction. Therefore, one must pay attention to the reaction of the opposite and slow down or stop, not to overwhelm."

"Are you ticklish, Eddie?"

Oh.

That went very wrong, very fast.

"Like you just saw, I'm not ticklish," explains Eddie slowly, praying Venom's previous failure to tickle his arm suffice to prevent the alien from trying again.

"You are not lying to me, are you, Eddie? I should try again, to be sure."

The man swallows nervously.

"Congratulations, Eddie. You just created a monster. Okay. There's no reason to panic. If you manage to stay quiet, he gets bored sooner or later. Hopefully sooner."

He barely conceals a squeak as something pulls at his wrist. With growing horror, he observes the man how a set of black tentacles wrung around his wrist and painfully slowly pulls them over his head.

"It's easier getting your underarms this way."

A single sentence is enough to make something in his stomach coil. His underarms are ticklish. Very much.

He won't withstand this.

"Why are you nervous, Eddie? You have no reason to unless you were lying."

Venom looks at him, teeth pulled into a giant grin. White eyes scan the human stretched out and open for him to test this newfound knowledge. A cold shiver runs down Eddie's spine. Hopefully, Venom does not pay this reaction to his body and mind. He didn't like the wolfish grin the Symbiote gave him, as if he had trouble choosing which part to begin with.

"Venom, I told you that doesn't work on me. Come on, leave me go, and we can get dinner, alright? We get some pizza, and afterward, you can eat the rest of the chocolate we got you yesterday. What do you say?"

Venom didn't even look like he considered the offer.

"I think I will begin with your stomach."

Eddie licks his chapped lips, franticly thinking about what else he could say to dissuade the Symbiote of his schemes. His eyes observe with growing dread how several tentacles arise out of Venom's chest. The midnight black appendages wind and crank as if possessed. They find their way over his upper body, and Eddie cannot keep his eyes off them.

A pull and prickle spread in his stomach region, and his jaw clenches as he tries to keep a straight face. A hardly noticeable flinch passes his body as the first tentacle reaches its goal. Without waiting, it begins to creep over his shirt from one side to the other.

Eddie shut his eyes tightly, preparing mentally not to let a single noise leave his mouth. One sound, and he wouldn't survive the evening. With bated breath, the man lets the wandering of the tentacles fare. The seconds tick by, and Eddie lies tensed up on the couch until a sudden thought crosses his mind while a tentacle glides over his collarbone.

Venom's touch doesn't tickle.

The reporter dares to open a single eye to peek at Venom. The alien's appendages slide over his body, sometimes adding little pressure. The careful movements remind him of a scan to check for injuries.

He was nearly about to laugh.

How in the world would an alien know how to tickle someone? Eddie wants to shake his head. He had worried for nothing. Of course, Venom could not understand he had to lessen his touch or get firmer with it. His pullover also protected him. He didn't want to know how bad those tentacles would feel on bare skin. Eddies muscles relax. With a relieved sigh, he melts into the couch.

"Bare skin and less pressure, you say?"

"Fuck!"

"Oh, Eddie."

Their eyes meet while a new tentacle grows off the Symbiote's chest. The appendage pats Eddie's cheek teasingly.

"Did you forget? Every single thought, every reaction of our body, everything that happens within you, Eddie, I know it. And now, let's see how good this "tickling" works on you, now that I know what to do, thanks to you."

Goosebumps spread over his skin as his pullover gets pushed upwards. The hold on his wrist loosens, and before he can react, the pullover is pulled over his head and dangles from Venom's claw.

"You don't need this now."

With those words, the Symbiote throws the article of clothing over his shoulder.

"Hey!" protests Eddie and moves his head to see where his clothes end up. He gets pulled out of his endeavors as the black extremities once again begin moving over his upper body. At no other moment did Eddie wish Venom didn't listen to his words and thoughts, as he did at this very moment. The tension that left his body moments before is back tenfold. With tightly shut eyes and lips, Eddie tries desperately, not paying attention to the feather-light touches all over his stomach.

This time, Venom's touch does tickle.

And how much it tickles.

The goosebump grows as the heads of the tentacles slide dangerously close along his belly button, over his waistline and hipbones. Eddie couldn't hold back a small whimper as one of the appendages moved further towards his left side than the others. The light touches between his lower rip and his hips are simply unbearable.

"Got you."

"Fuck!"

The tentacles retreat from the middle of his torso to simultaneously commit to tickling up and down his sides. Two of them on each side slide with silky touches over his skin, and Eddie can't hold back the gigantic grin that is about to split his face in half.

"You're smiling a lot for something that's not funny to you, Eddie."

Instead of answering, Eddie can only give a choked giggle, which he quickly tries overplaying by hiding his reddened face in the crook of his arm. Meanwhile, Venom's limbs are traveling. Two are still paying attention to his sides, which leaves every hair on his body standing straight, while the others are moving upwards.

Eddie could only pray that Venom would keep it at the light touches. If the Symbiote decides to tickle his rips earnestly, he will break like a dried-up stick.

"Breaking? I would like to see that."

Eddie, you dumb idiot!

"It's part of your charm, Eddie."

Venom grins down at him with a sly smirk. The tentacles have reached his ribs, and as one of them calculatedly pokes between the bones, Eddie cannot hold back. With a jump, a little shout of surprise leaves his mouth. Venom's eyes narrow, his monstrous grin fills his face from one side to the other, and Eddie knows there is no way out now.

Before he could protest, plead, or swear at the Klyntar, more than ten tentacles began poking into his rips from all sides at once. Eddie knows he won't be able to handle it anymore. Having lost the charge over his reactions, he cannot stop twisting and turning in the hold as if every poke seems to shoot an electric pulse through his body.

"V-Venom, stop it!"

But the alien doesn't even think about stopping now.

With growing amusement, he observes his host squirming under him. He had never seen the man show this kind of reaction before. Venom could manipulate Eddie if he wanted to, making him do whatever he deemed fit, but the Klyntar detests this kind of symbiosis. This "tickling", causing the man under him to lose control over his body without Venom needing to do anything but touch his skin, was fun. With fascination watches the alien, the crow's feet dancing around the corner of Eddie's eyes. But the Symbiote was not satisfied. As fun as Eddie's weird dance on the couch was, it isn't how the little humans have reacted to the "tickling." His host did make peculiar noises, but the laughing was still missing.

But the answer to archiving that reaction lies right inside Eddie's head. Like a sponge, Venom absorbs every tidbit of information. Every thought, every reaction, whatever gets him closer to achieving his goal is soaked up.

The Klyntar observes Eddie before he lets two of his tentacles change their form. Carefully, to avoid nipping the sensible skin, Venom puts his newly formed claws around Eddie's waist. The thumbs are pressing into the sides of the toned stomach, the rest of his fingers hovering in the small of Eddies back. He seems to do something right as Eddie's brain, after registering the new touch and the position of Venom's claws on his body, releases adrenaline, and his heart rate spikes.

"This is a good spot, right? Is it a place you are ticklish at, Eddie?"

Eddie opens his mouth, but to his horror, nothing but boisterous laughter comes out as Venom uses that exact moment to start squeezing.

The man's hips buck upwards, unable to withstand the urge to escape from the touch, and Eddie throws his body from left to right when Venom won't stop the rapid succession of squeezes. The asshole varies the strength behind each squeeze to keep him guessing, and it drives Eddie mad.

"You bastard! Stohohohop it, dahamn it!"

But Venom doesn't think about stopping. He finally did it.

Eddie squirms madly in the Symbiote's hold, Venom's thumbs massaging the sides of his stomach while his fingers dub into his back. Until now, Eddie didn't even know any part of his back was ticklish. What makes him the most nervous is how Venom gets better at tickling with every ongoing moment. The clumsy movements begin to gain precision, and simple pokes give way to kneading and squeezing at spots like his ribs and hip bones, leaving him squirming pathetically in the hold.

A few tentacles wander back towards where it all began, and instead of stroking over his stomach, they use a bit more pressure, which turns out to be very effective.

"Fuhuhuck, nohot there! Oh good, noho! Pl-please, Venom!"

"Your tummy is ticklish, after all. It's fascinating how such small touches can render you defenseless. You humans are so pathetically fragile that even touches as soft as this can defeat you."

"You reahahally knohow how toho strohoke a mahans ego, Venom."

"Your frail ego doesn't matter to me, Eddie. I'd rather stroke your sides. That's much more amusing."

An honest-to-god squeal escapes Eddie as Venom does, just as he said.

"Are all of you humans this ticklish, or is that just you, Eddie?" purrs Venom, licking his teeth hungrily as a flood of delicious hormones floods the man's brain. His human windes and writhes under Venom's tentacles, stroking up and down his sides.

"Shuhut up. St-stahap teahasing me, you asshole!"

"But your brain reacts so well to them, Eddie."

"I said to keep quiet!"

"Why, Eddie? Does it tickle more when I ask you how ticklish you are while searching for more of your most ticklish spots to tickle you? Does that make it tickle worse?"

He watches with amusement at Eddie's face and neck, reddening at his voice. The man tries hiding his face in his arm, clearly embarrassed but still laughing even when Venom lessens the tickling to teasing strokes.

Eddie finally regains his breath, glaring up at Venom as he fights the heat in his face. God, he cannot believe the damn alien could make him this flustered by tickling him.

"Fuck you, you sadistic parasite."

Venom's eyes narrow dangerously. The reporter's eyes open wide, and panic grows inside him as he watches with fear how a bunch of tentacles approach his defenseless armpits.

"Venom, buddy, let's talk about this, okay? I didn't mean that. It was a slip of the tongue."

Despite his fear of what lay ahead, Eddie couldn't discard the silly grin about to split his face. He looks like a madman trying to keep the corner of his mouth down, only for them to twitch back into a smile, anticipation coiling inside his chest.

With a playful growl, Venom let his appendages strike forward, attacking the open laying underarms.

A shout leaves Eddie's lips before the man shakes his head left and right, messing his short hair up even more while roaring with laughter. Venom had formed another pair of claws, thumbs digging into the muscle under the armpit while the rest teased the middle of both sides, driving the man up the wall. It tickles like mad, and Eddie is thoroughly helpless. He's unable to do anything but pull at his arms. Eddie arches his back and throws his body around, but Venom shows no mercy. While the man twists and turns, laughing his head off, several more tentacles manifest out of Venom's body to teach the human a lesson he wouldn't forget so soon. The tentacles grab him around the middle, turning into a wide belt-like construction that relentlessly massages his bottom rib, sides, stomach, and lower back. Single tentacles use every free patch of skin they can find to prod, poke, and scribble away. Two thicker appendages have wrapped around Eddie's thighs, keeping him from thrusting his hips as another pair of claws take care of his hip bones.

Every time Eddie jumps, shrieks, or squeals, several tentacles are determined to find the cause and make him repeat that reaction.

Eddie is in stitches.

His body moves constantly, winding from side to side. Whatever he tries, he cannot escape the maddening sensations.

The worst of it all, despite his body's desperate attempts to make it stop, a tiny part of Eddie's mind asks when it was the last time he had laughed this much and so heartily. Not a second later, Eddie nearly choked as he realized what he had just thought of, appalled by what would happen if Venom caught wind of him subconsciously having fun while being tickled to pieces by the Symbiote. He would die out of embarrassment.

"I DIHIHIND'T MEAHAN IHIT LIKE THAT! PLEASE STAHAHAP!"

"You are a terrible liar. I will make you pay for calling us a parasite!"

"PLEASEHE VENAHAM! YOU'RE KIHIHILLING MEHEH!"

"I would never let you die, Eddie."

"IHIHI SUHURE DOESOHON'T FEHEHELL LIKE THAHAT!"

Taking in the dark red of the man's face and the tears sparkling in Eddie's eyes, the Klyntar tunes it down. He keeps the human in place. He's still teasing him by letting appendages run up and down his armpits. He also pays special attention to the human's sensitive sides, as well as his neck, causing Eddie to giggle like a maniac.

"Lehet me go. Pl-pleahahse V. I'm tirehehed."

Reculantly, the Symbiote draws his appendages back. Still hovering over the man, Venom watches with a smirk how Eddie curls together, a few giggles escaping him as he tiredly wipes tears out of the corner of his eyes.

"That was tasty."

Eddie let his head fall back, glaring up at Venom but looking so out of it that the alien almost felt sorry for overdoing it. If Eddie hadn't called him a parasite, he might have let up sooner. Eddie had to stop provoking him. Silly human.

"You're telling me it worked?"

Eddie huffs and runs a hand through his messed-up hair.

Venom grins down at him, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"We should repeat that. Almost as good as eating brains."

"Torturing me? You can forget that right now."

"Don't be like that, Eddie. You had fun. I saw and felt it."

"Oh, leave me alone, you ass."

"There's no need to be embarrass-. You threw a pillow at me!?"

"I said leave it."

"I see. You are begging for a second round."

"Venom, stop it. Put your freaking tentacles away! Pleahase, Ve. Nohot agahahain!"

[holybibly]

I see that many bunnies are interested in the religious theme and the hierophilia kink, so I'm thinking of writing something in that style in the very near future.

One of my favourite sayings is "The devil is real. And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful. Because he's a fallen angel, and he used to be God's favourite" from American Horror Story, and I thought about it a lot today, and after watching the new MV, the plot for new fic itself took shape in my head.

I can also choose some of your ideas if you have them. You can leave a comment or send me a request in my inbox.

You are a novice sister in a convent, and the day must soon come when you will have to take your vows to God and become a nun. As this special day approaches, you are increasingly aware of a dark, demonic presence at your side. You have strange dreams; the nuns in the convent start disappearing one by one, and this black cat that suddenly appears out of nowhere follows you.

On the very night that you are supposed to take your vows in the monastery, the devil himself comes to you to corrupt your soul and defile your body.

"You can hear the rustle of his wings as the demon circles around you, looking for a hole in your unshakeable posture so that he can penetrate your consciousness and take possession of you. The Angel of Darkness himself came to you this night, and he won't leave until he gets what he wants.

The knot of fear that is slowly growing in the pit of your stomach only grows tighter as you feel the hot breath of the demon on the back of your neck. You whispered a prayer, squeezing the round beads of your rosary between your fingers, and kept your eyes fixed on the beautifully decorated altar above which hung a heavy crucifix. The small cross swayed faintly in the air. The silver glowed with an unearthly flame, catching the scattered glow of candles in the half-light.

"Just one glance, my love. Just one, and I will give you the paradise that you have dreamed of for so long." The words are sweet, but they are poisoned with the sagar of sin and vice. And your chest tingles with the dark, unbridled feeling of being tempted to give in to his will, but the demon is right—just one look and you'll belong to him. "

[regexkind]

The beach was desolate and frigid. A little trickle of water sluggishly ran from the marshes down to sea. It should have made a burbling sound but the fog that had rolled in seemed to stifle every noise but the rhythmic lull of the surf. Even that was dead; normally the ocean is animated by wild consciousness, but today it came down on the beach like the stroke of a rower who has been in their canoe for days, exhausted beyond all endurance.

As I traced the trickle of water I came upon the tragic form of a heron, broken and bent at an unnatural angle. Its feathers were frayed and muddy, and its eyes had been taken by some scavenger. It was ruined and impossibly delicate.

A sensible part of me, the part that pays bills and heeds stopsigns, urged me not to interfere with this shattered being. It told me that I would catch some hitherto unknown avian plague. But my hands moved under their own power, and reached out to scoop up the lifeless bird.

I remember holding it as the tide came in, unable to move from my position, the water coming in over my shoes. This doesn't seem possible, because I also don't remember becoming cramped or my feet pruning up, both of which should have happened. Instead, as the water flowed over my toes and the arches of my feet, I became aware of a trickle of awareness flowing away from my crouching form, and into the body I wrapped to my chest.

What started as a dribble became an unstoppable torrent. I plunged into the depths of lagoons and felt frogs, still struggling, course down my gullet—I flapped laboriously across taciturn skies and felt rain lash my beak and eyes—I saw in a flash the secret cove I made my nest of salt grass in, where any rare human interloper who walked by would be unable to recognize it as a bird's home.

As the torrent became a stream and then dried up entirely, I came back into my body. I looked down at the heron, only to discover that it was sloughing apart in my arms like a sandcastle tumbling into the sea. What had been the beak, was now a flaking piece of plastic detritus. What were once the quills of feathers became rusting wire. I began to weep, hot tears spilling out and scalding my chill cheeks, and woke in my unheated house.

I tried to put the dream out of my mind, but all day I found myself crying on and off, unable to control myself. Over the next week, I continued to suddenly find myself riveted by memories I had only had in my life as a heron. I would see a power line and remember perching on it, watching flickers dart to and fro, or else eat a wonton in the strip mall and suddenly have to push away a powerful memory of a minnow sliding down into my stomach.

I had begun to convince myself that this was all just a particularly vivid and arresting dream. About a month afterwards, I was walking at the saltwater park in my neighborhood when I saw a black passageway, off the boardwalk and into the thickets and weeds. I found myself drawn magnetically inwards, and realized with an intense shock that this was the place of the heron's nest.

I have no idea what to do with this second life I seem to have lived. I don't think I should ignore it. I don't know if I can.

[cowboyemeritus]

not sure what this is but have some Copia/witch reader because I’m already thinking abt Halloween :)

There’s a warm, pleasant pressure at the base of his skull as your consciousness slips into his mind, overlapping with his. Then, a tugging sensation, like he’s being pulled on an invisible string.

My love, you whisper, voice at once nowhere and everywhere. The sultry quality of it sends a delightful shiver down Copia’s spine. Already, his heart is beating faster. Come to me. Like a moth to a flame, he cannot possibly resist; you had bewitched him, completely and utterly, a long time ago. His joints protest as he rises from his chair, weary from sitting for so long, but he persists, drawn to you by forces he knows are far beyond his comprehension.

You remain seated firmly in his mind as he flees the stuffy isolation of his office. Once unsettling, your presence has become a comfort, a blanket over the raging fire of frustration and anxiety that comes with his new station. From the series of images that flashes behinds his eyes — twisted sheets, sweat-slicked skin, swollen lips — he knows exactly where you are and what your demands will be. A flash-flood of arousal washes over him and he balls his fists, fighting the urge to moan out loud as his cock twitches with interest, already filling out. Whether this is his own nature or another one of your tricks he can’t quite tell, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is getting to you. The pile of paperwork on his desk can wait; the call of his mistress is of paramount importance.

The hallways of the Ministry, lined with the tombs of former Congregants, seem to wind on forever. With each second that passes, each moment he’s away from you, he grows more agitated, his heart racing and palms sweating. Beneath the gooey, honeyed feeling of your influence is a buzzing, like a nest of angry hornets, and as the journey to your shared chambers drags on it only grows. He turns the corner and is immediately blinded by the light of the full moon, streaming in through the stained glass windows. Today has been far too long and somehow, its ending completely skipped his mind until now. Taking a moment to breathe, Copia lets the pull of your magick, your siren song, numb him to the day’s events. As the bliss creeps into his mind, he sighs with relief. This, to surrender and let you take control, is exactly what he needed.

In the blink of an eye he’s standing before the heavy wooden door of your suite. Your power is overwhelming; you’re so close he can practically taste you. He reaches for the knob but the door opens on its own, beckoning him in. Stepping inside, he is immediately met by the smell of burning incense, a scent that so often clings to your skin, and he throbs in his trousers. His feet seem to carry him to the bedroom, the edges of his vision fuzzy as he stumbles through the dark apartment. The door is already ajar, allowing a beacon of soft orange light to seep out. Through the haze of magick and arousal clouding his mind, Copia is vaguely aware of the anticipation bubbling up inside as he pushes it the rest of the way open and shuffles into the room.

In his peripheral, he can see that the windows are open, letting in cool night air that caresses his feverish skin. The full moon hangs right in frame, as if to observe the scene transpiring below. Scattered across the room are clusters of lit candles, red and black. Their flickering light casts shadows that seem to move on their own, morphing into shapes that appear remarkably creature-like.

You are the centerpiece of the room, splayed out on the bed like the concubine of some great king. The candlelight casts a glow across your naked skin, gleaming as if you were forged from gold itself. You smile at him gently, but there is a predatory, primal hunger in your eyes. When your gazes finally meet an electric spark runs down Copia’s spine, nearly bringing him to his knees. His hands start to move on their own, scrambling to undo his various buttons and zippers until he’s standing at the foot of the bed, completely nude before you. The heat of his arousal is like an iron against his stomach and every inch of him burns, craving your touch. Looking him up and down, you lick your lips.

“Darling,” you coo, extending a hand. “Won’t you come to bed?”

“Yes,” Copia mumbles, feeling wonderfully out of his body. Already, the weariness in his bones is ebbing away. “I think I will.” He takes your hand, kisses it, and then his mind goes completely blank.

[synnthamonsugar]

DESTINYTOBER: Day 22 - Flare

Read it on AO3

Continued from yesterday

. . .

Aunor Mahal waited from a place between worlds.

There was no sensory perception here, barely awareness of herself as a discrete unit of consciousness amidst the flow of everything else. She felt Bahaghari searching for her in the way all Ghosts separated by death from their Guardians do, and carefully suppressed the primordial urge to respond. Were she practicing thanatonautics, she would attempt to fly far enough away from the veil of the living world to connect to some higher truth. But today she rested on the membrane between life and death, singing.

From the other side, approaching Light, Darkness-tinged and tumultuous. 

She carried the notes of the sun's song to its spectacular crescendo. Solar Light welled within her, reconnecting soul and body. She awoke on fire, comfortable heat in the cask of her chest, the licks of flame pleasant through and on her skin. A moment of enjoyment ruined when the man standing above her turned away from his examination of the decoy ghost, revealing his identity.

Backdraft-quick she gripped Dredgen Hope by his thick, leather-clad ankle. He yowled hideously, doubling over reflexively before he regained control of himself, lifting his leg to stomp at her arm. Letting go she rolled away from him, dodging his boot and propelling herself to her feet, preparing a gout of flame in her hand as the Shadows poured out from hiding and bullets began to fly. 

With an entrance that blackened the floor and set the apartment's sparse furnishings smoldering, the Praxic Warlocks Taeko-3 and Lyra-4 blinked into the room, alight with radiance as they joined the brawl. 

Hot energy arced between Taeko's hands before she unleashed a volley of plasma upon the group who charged her, instantly dispatching both the attackers and a structural beam, the ceiling sagging threateningly where it gave out. Lyra meanwhile fought off a group with searing fists and feet, igniting her opponents wherever she struck and sending them staggering dazedly as their Ghosts fought to heal without being caught in the crossfire.

As her companions handled the others, Aunor focused on Hope. She threw a spray of flame from her hands, but he leapt behind an overturned table before it could hit. Peeking out, he fired several Thorn rounds. Two whizzed by her shoulder, but the third grazed with a sickening sting, breaking her candescent armor with a black-green bruise of hive corruption. In the split-second it took her to assess her injury, Hope had already scrambled to his feet — and toward a hive artifact piled unceremoniously among weapons and other loot in the corner of the room. 

Aunor recognized it instantly. An item of both academic significance and destructive potential, it was the object with which she and her squad had been tasked to recover.

She braced for him to pick it up and make for the exit. She didn't expect him to summon his own solar light and set it ablaze.

As she sprinted for it, he dashed away. She ripped down one of the dusty curtains that darkened the windows and dropped it on the object. Taking a glance over her shoulder, she saw that Hope was prying open the sash, shoulder wedged beneath it as he gauged whether he'd fit. 

"Stop him!" She cried to her fellow Praxics as she attempted to extinguish the artifact. They disengaged from their fights and turned toward the escaping Dredgen, but it was too late — he'd already snaked out the window. 

Throwing the artifact in her satchel, she sprinted over. Peering down several stories to the broken stone below, she found that he'd vanished. 

[b4ddprincess]

omg hi!! I recently have been focusing on nothing but myself and how im powerful and everything, so I don’t listen to subliminals or affirmations or anything nowadays to enter the void state/induce pure conciousness, but I have a question it’s been 2 days since I just go to sleep with the intention of waking up in pure conciousness and then today I had a dream I listened to a subliminal go enter the void state then went to sleep, after I did this in my dream I went to sleep but then irl I was like in pitch blackness, couldn’t feel hear or see anything im 99% sure it was the void state but I didn’t know I was in it but at the same time I was aware I was like thinking in that state, is that pure conciousness or not because the same thing was induced yesterday but without the dream like I just woke up in it aware but didn’t know where I was n I was jus thinking idk 😭😭 anyways thank uuu ilysm 💞

heyyy! and you were pure consciousness! 💗

[ultraviolet-cello]

Gooooood morning Trigun fandom, I'm up bright and early, ready to sink my teeth into today's analysis/detailed watchthrough episode - 11. To A New World.

I can't believe we're almost done with @tristampparty. These 12 days have been a blast and I'm very glad that I got to chat abt them!! I've been in a bout of artblock recently too, so I'm glad that I can just ramble instead!

Spoilers for Trigun Stampede and Trigun Maximum, and CWs for. okay this one is a Lot, but discussion of violation of bodily autonomy, sexual assault and trauma, pregnancy, transphobia, harm coming to children, Millions Knives in general, Vash's passive suicidal tendencies. If I think of any more I'll pop them up here but this episode is a heavy one!

If you wanna skip those first few CWs (Totally understandable <3), you can skip the paragraphs labelled with a [CW] at the front.

[CW] Okay so we're gonna tail off the end of Episode 10 for a second, but uh. Knives in this scene is using extremely Loaded Language to outright tell Vash that there is something wrong with him that needs to be fixed.

Just to be clear I do think Vash is very trans-coded (intentionally or not), and that very strongly influences how I interpret this scene - I myself am a trans man as well.

Cool, moving on! That's all really for the end of ep 10, I just needed to point out that Knives is using language that is commonly used to justify corrective sexual assault; which is pretty much what my reading of this scene is analogous to.

what in the fresh hell i got jumpscared by dub again. returning to subs hold on a moment. Like i've been checking dub occasionally to match up some dialogue and make sure I'm not being misled by Subtitle Jank but I'm one of those guys who can't listen to anything without subtitles lmao

But i also think i do get the funniest possible translation of this line - actually wait no i hate the double meaning (with Vash's body being used to kickstart the pregnancy imagery). was that intentional. who did this.

Anyway Meryl kicking Wolfwood is really funny but also like. Yeah. justified. She's having a no good awful time but like. She's so willing to believe in Vash, to chase after him even into Extremely Dangerous conditions (There's those hints of Trimax Meryl again....) and Wolfwood is being an ass here. (An understandable ass. But an ass nonetheless). Which is to say YEAHHH MERYL GET HIS ASS!!!

Knives' gay little like. bodysuit here. He and Vash have the same build but their respective clothes make them stand out very differently. Also that Knives' stuff seems to have more muscle definition (HYDRATE. You shouldn't have that Knives you need water :pensive:) which could be building towards his more intimidating appearance.

Also I'd be a fool to not show everyone my initial reaction to this

I've talked a little bit about how Vash uses his gun as a tonfa (thwacky baton) most of the time in melee combat, and I think that's a great way to show him utilizing something Knives gave him to Kill as a nonlethal weapon - in this, however, he doesn't have it and his normally very fluid very good form martial arts is flailing and panicked. Vash is pretty good at keeping his cool in most combat situations, and is a very skilled fighter. Seeing him lose that cool and just start struggling when Knives tries to grab him is :(

Once again the metal/organic dichotomy is coming into play - the creation of inorganic but the destruction that comes from the organic. Typically plant (as in flora) powers in media lend themselves to being creation powers, life, and healing. But Vash here has that plant (flora) theme but those are very much a force for destruction.

Also Knives with the angelic white, and Vash with the black.

I hate Conrad So Much (he's such a good character). Like we Know to some extent that dependent plants are self-aware enough to feel pain, to hold onto memories, to hatred, to love. They don't have consciousness the same way humans or Independents do, but they feel, they live, they understand what Vash tells them. Maybe it is a shallow form of themselves. But I think something a lot of people fail to realize is that (some, not all, because they are individuals even throughout a hivemind) plants appear to enjoy their purpose.

Once again the memory that is shared with Knives in Trimax of a woman and her child thanking the plant for her service and she smiles? After being fused, that plant held onto that memory. I've been given no reason to believe that plants in Tristamp are different, so Conrad is just,,, ignoring the subtleties of plants and taking away their agency to choose for themselves. Doubly so for Knives, who can communicate efficiently with them.

A very quick blink and you'll miss it detail is that Vash says "It was our fault humans crashed here!". The shifting blame and guilt between the two is something that is fighting the narrative allll the time, but Vash attributing to both of them as an appeal to Knives is interesting to relay how he feels.

I also don't think Vash is right, though, when he says the only reason humans abuse plants is because they crashed. Tesla was before, Chronica in Trimax has apparently seen independent fusions before (For what reason?). Like yeah to this extent it's a result of the big fall, but there'd still be problems without it. Nobody is right in this argument lmao

(except me. I'm always correct about everything ever)

[CW] Once again - violating Vash's consent and autonomy because he does not agree with or differs from Knives. Corrective violation, in this case. It's also important that it's Meryl who calls this out - she has to really really struggle for her autonomy to be important. She's small, carry-able, inexperienced, doesn't have any special powers or genetic modification. She's carrying a tiny gun from a man who can never back her up anymore. In fact, nobody is backing her up! She's out here alone! But she's sticking up for Vash. She cares about him,,,, so much

SURPRISE ROBERTO ATTACK [sobs]

Meryl pulled the nail out of him and placed his hands gently over the wound, as one might do in a casket. A memorial of cigarettes and his flask. All this will be destroyed soon, but Meryl did give him a funeral to the best of her ability.

Knives using Roberto's image is cruel as hell. Not to Vash but to ME. He's already dead you can't do this to meeee. "How do you think they'll react when they learn you caused the big fall" He will never learn it!! he never got the chance!!!

So fun fact you can actually eat geraniums. It's just that if Rem had said yes Vash probably would have eaten it right there and then. I've made that mistake before (told one of my class that nasturtiums were edible and he just ate one. right from the plant)

So; the Tesla scene. Something I do want to point out is that Rem finds them almost immediately, and Knives doesn't immediately pass out - Is he still catatonic enough to miss Rem's speech, or did he hear it? Because the reason that Vash turned out like he did is because he was awake to go through that with Rem - Knives was unconscious the entire time and didn't get to start that trauma recovery.

It's also important to recognize that these memories could be unreliable, especially as Knives tampers with them later.

I do want to know which version of the Bible Knives was reading. Because depending on translation/version, you can get Very different ideas out of that.

Anyway Knives is kind of beginning his spiral in that memory - "Humanity never learns" kinda shit, which seems to take place after Tesla. Who knows how long. But baby Vash calls that out and goes "yeah lets have faith"! Baby Knives looks a tad shocked and then Present Knives just. Cuts off the memory. What was the ensuing conversation!!! Hello???

Like he's clearly Having Thoughts (The Horror), we just don't get to know what those were.

So remember when I said it was interesting that Vash said it was "our" fault that the ships crashed, sharing the blame?

Yeah that gave Knives some ammo that just. Broke him. Shifts it allllll to Vash. Update Vash's description to running on 18 guilt complexes, CPTSD, and bisexuality.

[CW] There's so many different forms of assault, metaphorical and. Not. That is happening in this scene from mind violation to Knives literally using Vash's (specifically Vash's) body as a vessel to impregnate other plants which. Hey did you know that pregnancy is a massive fear of a lot of trans men. So many transphobes reduce trans men to their capability to have children, as if that's all they're good for (even if it would kill them.), and that often leads to corrective rape in order to "remind them of biological reality". In this case, Vash is a plant, he's meant to create, and yet he doesn't. But he's still being used to create anyway.

Again, Meryl also directly calls out Vash's lack of consent and gets shot down by Conrad. The whole scene is just. Hgnrhgnhrhnrnrn. It's So,,, everything to me, because it's a really good scene and shows you how far gone Knives is in Tristamp.

There are panels in Trimax that are,,, the imagery is there, but it's very overt in Tristamp.

Also hey yeah. Why is Conrad still alive?? Did he have access to cold sleep? or it's probably the robotics but did he not think of enhancing humans that way? It might just be a temporary solution, I guess, given that he is. Actively coughing up blood.

Alright! I have finished this part of the analysis that I always Feel Strongly about lmao - I have fun doing it but that's such an emotionally heavy episode.

[queenofcats17]

The Ink Demonth 2

Today's theme is tea.

Enjoy Audrey having a very normal time!

==============================================

"Ah, awake at last~"

Audrey slowly came back to consciousness to the sound of a woman's voice and the tinny music of a phonograph. She was vaguely aware of being seated on some sort of raised chair as she blinked blearily and looked around.

She was in some kind of... dining room? Or library? She wasn't sure. To her left and right were bookshelves and columns. The floor was the same tile as in Wilson's home, but it was chipped and broken here, with pieces of tile and pools of ink scattered about. The room was dim, lit only by the bare bulbs hanging on wires from the ceiling. Moths fluttered around them, further diminishing the light.

In front of her was a large banquet table, laden with cakes and donuts and pots of tea. Lost Ones were seated on both sides of the table, sipping from tea cups and eating the provided sweets.

And at the head of that table... was a woman. Audrey couldn't make out many details due to her blurry vision and the dull throbbing in the right side of her head, likely from where she'd hit it when she'd fallen. But even with her limited vision, she could tell the woman looked more humanoid than the Lost Ones. Audrey could make out yellow skin and a black dress. Sort of like Allison...

"I was almost afraid you'd miss my party," the strange woman cooed from where she lounged in her chair.

"What...? What's going on?" Audrey murmured, clutching her head.

"Ohh. Seems you're just a little overwhelmed." The woman's voice dripped with sickly sweetness, but Audrey found she didn't care. The woman's voice was... beautiful. Low and husky, like the sort you'd hear in a smoky nightclub.

"It's alright, honey. I understand," the woman continued, still in that faux-sweet tone. "It's not every day every day you get to bask in the glory of... an angel!" The woman's voice went up an octave on the last two words, sounding rather like the voice Audrey had heard used for Alice Angel.

Now that her vision was clearing... The woman did look like Alice Angel. She had the black dress, the horns, the halo. She looked more like Alice than Allison had at least. Come to think of it... Porter had mentioned there were two Alices. What had he said again? Something about one being fair of face and the other stopping at nothing to achieve perfection?

"An... angel?" Audrey echoed as the woman hopped off her chair and began to approach Audrey. Her movements were slow and languid, like a big cat stalking its prey.

"Alice Angel, to be exact," the woman said. "Sent from above. Impending perfection."

As she moved closer, Audrey could see that half of the woman's face was mutilated and deformed. She had no left eye, only a gaping socket that leaked ink down her face. The ink pooled in holes in her left cheek which revealed her blackened gums and ink-stained teeth.

Even with the mutilated face, though, the woman was... stunning. She had the same features as Allison, but on Alice, they seemed... sharper, more mature. Allison's eyes had been wide and alert, while Alice's were hooded and sultry.

Audrey instinctively swallowed as Alice reached the chair. "What... What do you want?" She asked, hoping her voice wasn't shaking too much.

Alice laughed, leaning on the back of the chair. "Ah, right to the chase. I like that. The truth is, honey..." She disappeared, walking around the back of the chair. "You're one of a kind. I have to say..." Her face appeared on the other side of the chair now. "I'm an instant fan."

"Well, I... I'm not from here," Audrey said, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.

"And yet, there's something so... familiar about you." Alice leaned in close. "Like I've met you somewhere before."

Audrey's heartbeat began to speed up. Her face was inches from Alice's. She was almost certain that Alice was supposed to be threatening her, but this also felt... strangely like flirting? She didn't know if she should be terrified or turned on. Maybe a little of both?

....God, was there something wrong with her?

"But I suppose we can get to that later." Suddenly Alice was moving away, heading back to her seat at the head of the table. "This is a party, after all. And you're the guest of honor, honey."

"Would you like some tea?" One of the Lost Ones asked, getting up from their seat.

"is it... actually tea?" Audrey tried not to cringe.

"It's the closest thing we have to tea down here," another Lost One piped up. "It's not that bad," they added quickly.

"It's not great either," a third muttered darkly, although they too took a sip of their tea.

"We take what we can get." Alice sighed dramatically, draping herself over the armchair as if it were a throne. "To think, this is what I've been reduced to. Stealing from that bastard's pantry like some common thief!" Her lip curled in a snarl and she slammed her fist into the arm of the chair before flopping back.

"You took this from... Wilson?" Audrey frowned slightly.

"He's the only one around here with any proper food," Alice replied, gesturing to one of the Lost Ones. Said Lost One immediately got up and began pouring a cup of tea. "And since I refuse to scavenge like the others, stealing is what I must do."

"Our angel is kind enough to share with us," the Lost One who had poured the tea said as they brought it to Audrey.

"So you... protect them?" Audrey asked slowly as she somewhat reluctantly accepted the offered tea cup. A brief sniff made her cringe. The tea smelled burnt and acrid, and vaguely of ink. But it was hard to tell whether the ink smell was coming from the tea or the room around her.

"An angel must protect her flock," Alice said before immediately making a face of disgust. "Ugh... I sound like Sammy."

"You know Sammy?" Audrey asked. Although she knew she was going to regret it, she took a tentative sip of the tea. Almost immediately she spat it out. The ink smell had been coming from the tea. It was the first thing she tasted.

"Told you it was bad," the pessimistic Lost One muttered.

"It would be harder not to know Sammy," Alice said derisively. "He just loves sticking his fingers into everything, pretending he's some kind of savior." She rolled her eyes. "As if that will absolve him of his sins."

"His sins?" Audrey echoed. A Lost One passed her a donut, which she was more than happy to take a bite of. It was stale and tasted vaguely of ink, but she wasn't going to be too picky.

Alice's expression grew dark. She sat up in her chair, folding her arms. "He betrayed me," she said, her gaze fixed on the table. "He said I had talent. He said I'd be as big as Bendy someday. And then he went and gave my role away! To that- That Allison!" She slammed her fists on the table, jostling the dishes. "It was my role! Mine! He didn't have the right to give it away!"

The Lost Ones chimed in with statements of agreement.

"He didn't have the right."

"You were perfect, my angel!"

"He never should have replaced you."

Audrey just chewed on her donut. It would probably be a bad idea to mention that she'd met Allison. She wondered if Allison was still looking for her. Back in the sewers, Allison had said she would come for her. Had she?

"But enough about him." Alice quickly composed herself, leaning forward towards Audrey. "I want to know about you, honey."

"Well, uh, what do you want to know?" Audrey asked, awkwardly clearing her throat.

Alice's smile widened. "What do you want to tell me?"

Audrey paused, leaning back in her chair as she thought. She had to be careful here. It was clear that Alice had a grudge against Sammy for replacing her. And given that decision likely came from Joey to begin with, Alice probably had a grudge against Joey too. Like everyone else in this place. So admitting she was Joey's daughter was definitely not a good idea.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to ground herself. She could do this. She could play this game.

Then, she opened her eyes and began to speak.

[thessalian]

Thess vs Having a Vocabulary

This one thing that came up in my queue recently got me thinking about the whole anti-intellectual ... I can't really call it a movement, since it's not organised in any obvious way, so more of a trend, I guess?

...And see, that's where I started thinking. Because, okay, hands up who among you got shit as a child, and maybe even gets shit today, for using a range of vocabulary beyond what the person giving said shit feels appropriate. Hands up who's ever been called "pretentious" when they were just trying to say a thing. Because I got it all the fucking time, and sometimes still do. I get, "Nobody talks like that!" and "Nobody uses those words!"

Except ... like ... I do? And I must have learned the word somewhere, so someone else does too? I didn't use the vocabulary tests at school, while we still had them, to learn big words to delberately fuck with you; I learned the word because it was a word I needed in my toolbox. But here are these people telling me that no one uses those words and "Why can't you talk normal?", and the words they think are appropriate aren't quite the right words. I can't use what they're calling synonyms, because while they may have the same base meaning, the nuance is wrong. It's like I'm decorating a room and I need a blue chair, and I went with a squishy armchair in a nice navy blue because it fits the room best, but they're saying, "Why don't you use an electric blue beanbag chair? That chair's so pretentious!" But the electric blue beanbag doesn't fit with the vibe of the room and I'm furnishing it for someone who might struggle to get up off the floor. It's what they consider a chair to be, but it's not the chair that works.

Which is where I get to the whole Orwellian concept of Newspeak. The literal whole point of Newspeak was to erase concepts from the public consciousness by erasing the words used to express them, to make things unthinkable in the truest and most literal sense. We think and speak the world into being around us every day, and we use vocabulary to do it. If we don't have the vocabulary, actually thinking about things is impossible.

We're seeing a lot of it now, both in terms of the far right's appropriation and outright redefinition of some words and in terms of the purity culture we've got going on at the moment. The first one's easy to exemplify - "woke". Woke is an interesting word, and I actually took the time to look up its history. It's been in use by Black people since the 1930s, but was picked up by other marginalised communities in the 2010s. Where it was originally used to describe being aware of the social, political, and economic injustices against Black people, it expanded to mean being aware of the social, political, and economic injustices against all POC, women, the LGBTQ+ community, and just ... social justice in general. It feelsl ike "woke" was adopted by those communities after the far right turned the term "social justice warrior" into a slur and a joke.

...At which point the far right turned the term "woke" into a slur and a joke. No one on the right will really identify "woke", probably because every time they try, it comes out sounding how it was intended to sound. For example, according to ABC News early this year, the DeSantis administration defined "woke" as, "The belief [that] there are systemic injustices in American society and the need to address them". Which ... sounds right to me, but when DeSantis follows that up with, "We reject woke ideology; we will never ever surrender to the woke agenda", he begins to sound like the bad guy. Which ... I mean, it's DeSantis; he is. But the far right doesn't want people to think of the phrase "For those who have always had privilege, equality looks like oppression". They're appealing to people who have enjoyed life on top without any kind of thought of ... well, partly of the people being exploited to allow their privilege to continue, but honestly they're appealing to people who enjoy privilege and don't want to think at all.

And "woke" makes them think. "Woke" denotes the fact that they're basically asleep at the wheel, driving through life without a thought as to who's using whom, and thus neglecting to consider who might be using them. We're back to 1984 again: "Orthodoxy is unconsciousness". The far right doesn't want people to wake up. It's hard to exploit someone who's actually awake and watching you do it. So they turn "woke" into a slur and people believe it because the first step to accepting "woke" as a concept is to become aware of the injustices baked into the society in which they're currently the Chosen Ones, and they don't want to lose that.

There's a whole lot more baggage surrounding that term, but that's a good introduction so I'll leave it there and move on to the purity culture thing. People are deliberately censoring themselves to appeal to puritanical corporations so that they won't be demonetised on various social media platforms, and that's leaking out into everyday life, and it's distressing as fuck. While things like using "unalive" for "death" and some stupid shit like "smex" for "sex" is just irritating and unbelievably immature, those aren't the ones that distress me. Self-censorship really terrifies me when it comes to two terms - "rape" and "paedophile" (regional spelling as appropriate). Shortening "sexual assault" to "SA" is a close third.

Look, I have been sexually assaulted. It wasn't full-on penetrative rape, but that was only because I made a compromise. I didn't talk about it at the time because in the most technical of senses, I consented to performing fellatio. The fact that he removed not only my underwear but my tampon in preparation for a penetrative rape attempt, and said he'd stop if I gave him something ... well, "coercive rape" wasn't in my vocabulary at the time. And there's the point laid out - if the correct term is not in your vocabulary, how the fuck are you supposed to understand what things mean? People avoid talking about rape and paedophilia because they're scared, and ashamed, and emotionally scarred - not by the word but because it happened to them. Should there be content warnings if there's going to be a strong focus on those words and actions in any piece of media? Yes. Should those words cease to exist and be replaced by "grape" and "pdf file"? FUCK NO. How is a victim supposed to talk about what was done to them, to name and shame and hopefully prosecute the perpetrator, if we're turning around and saying "We don't say that word; that word is bad"? Victims already have a hard enough time talking about it without us taking away the language they need to do so. Even if the word is never spoken aloud, a victim needs to have that word at their disposal as a maypole to dance around; or a directional marker when that fuck-awful inner voice starts echoing the apologist statements that come from both the perpetrator and a whole culture of rape apology (and, gods help us all, attempts to relabel paedophiles as "part of the LGBT community" ... again by attempting to rename and thus rebrand them, so helping to make my point for me).

Long story short: we need language to define our world. The smaller our vocabulary, the smaller our world. This fact is being weaponised by an anti-intellectual trend encouraged by the far right and a culture of self-censorship encouraged ... less by the far right and more by corporations hoping to appeal to as many people as possible by ensuring their product is as inoffensive as possible, and some people getting really easily offended. Either way, I'm not letting that happen. I have spent most of my life developing a really extensive vocabulary, and I refuse to stop using it because it makes some people feel inferior. They can buy a word of the day calendar, or do what I do and look up any word they don't know.

Actually, I think I might get myself a word of the day calendar next year. You can never have too many words.

[clove-pinks]

Is there anything about your new location (the terrain, the local culture, the physical sites, etc) that has given you a new perspective on regional events of the War of 1812?

This a wonderful ask, thank you! I have been mulling over how to answer it all day! This ended up getting so long I put it behind a cut (I HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS ABOUT THIS).

The Maumee River, as seen from Fort Meigs Historic Site.

One thing new in my life is a heightened awareness of important rivers facilitating the movement of trade, supplies, and settlement. Particularly in the Old Northwest/current Midwest of the USA: regions that I grew up perceiving as a land-locked "flyover country."

Like, to give one example, I had a vague idea that there was a city called Fort Wayne, Indiana, but I thought it was just in the middle of a cornfield for no reason(?). But actually it's at the confluence of the St. Joseph, St. Marys, and Maumee Rivers, leading to the Great Lakes! The strategically important location is why General Anthony Wayne—that guy again—built the original fortification in 1794. I am downriver of all of this, connected to many inland waterways.

I also have a keen sense of living in the Great Black Swamp, despite how dramatically the land has been transformed by deforestation and drainage. There are the terrifying drainage ditches everywhere (the locals seem less perturbed by them), and many other signs of the natural state of the terrain—the swamp is just barely at bay. My coworkers have said "Black Swamp" unprompted in our conversations; I've seen it mentioned in local Facebook groups talking about the need for back-up sump pumps. The idea that people of northwest Ohio have no sense of history and are unaware of the Great Black Swamp isn't true at all.

I look at the pools of water that form in every hollow and think of the words of Alfred Lorrain, marching to Fort Meigs:

We had frequently to pass through what was called, in the provincialism of the frontiers, "swales"—standing ponds—through which the troops and packhorses which had preceded us had made a trail of shattered ice. Those swales were often a quarter of a mile long. They were, moreover, very unequal in their soundings. In common they were not more than half-leg deep; but sometimes, at a moment when we were not expecting it, we suddenly sank down to our cartridge-boxes.

Swale is a new word in my vocabulary, and now I see them everywhere!

Culturally, I think there is a great appreciation of history here: a very positive difference from the Chicagoland area. Even if the average local is probably not deeply into it, they have a consciousness of major historical events that have shaped their region and take pride in it. It's a lot more like New England that way.

Because of my focus on the War of 1812, I notice the absence of Indigenous people and voices—absent from historical accounts and from the demographics of Perrysburg and its environs today. I can't single out Ohio as being a uniquely violent settler-colonial state when this is ALL of the United States; but it hits different when I have this much greater familiarity with who was forcibly removed from this land, and how. The same US military leaders who fought in the War of 1812 were behind the (very much related) campaign for the removal of Native Americans from newly acquired territories, including the infamous Trail of Tears.

Once again, it's probably hypocritical for me to notice this so much, when I literally grew up on Wampanoag land where King Philip's War was fought, but here I am. Suddenly aware of General Wayne's name on everything, etc.

General Wayne's spurs in the Fort Meigs Museum. Not pictured: the can of Maumee Bay Brewing Co. Fallen Timbers Ale that I am currently drinking.

I haven't had the chance to explore physical sites with historical significance beyond Fort Meigs and Fallen Timbers. I know I will get to the ruins of Fort Miamis soon, and I really want to explore a lot of wetlands in local parks and nature preserves (that will double as birdwatching excursions). I am always thinking about what this place looked like 200 years ago, and what I can see today that might still look familiar to a person from that time.

I had a great trip to the National Museum of the Great Lakes today, which is closer than I thought! Local maritime museums are also on my agenda, even if they're not specifically War of 1812-related.

[yourlocaldisneyvillain]

...the unholy flames of ♥kink!week♥ burn brightly...

(don't know what kink week is? click here!)

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

∼ the ice is broken, and we have stepped foot into the unholy week -- what sort of sin awaits us today? ∼

∼ day two brings us our beloved knight ♥ Brienne of Tarth ♥ ∼

∼ tags and the fic are under the cut ∼

♥ i've worked very hard on this series — it was a huge project to undertake and i would very much appreciate if you left me comments with your thoughts and impressions — you already know they make my heart sing ♥ (AO3 link — i prefer it to tumblr vastly)

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

tags: #lactation #lactation kink #erotic lactation #breastfeeding #hurt/comfort #lesbian sex #thigh riding #kissing #comfort #nightmares #feeding #veguely implied somnophilia but it's purposefully left unclear #kink!week

sweet dreams (clicking on the title will lead you to ao3)

Brienne manages to win the fight — but after she gives the last one of her attackers a final blow, making him fall onto the ground, blood seeping from his chest, she suddenly feels weak and dizzy. 

Nauseous, she collapses, falling onto her knees. She’s vaguely aware she’s wounded, but she can’t discern where or how much. She feels pain — a distant throbbing in her arm. There is something red in her peripheral vision. Blood? She can’t see. 

The world goes black.

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

When she regains consciousness, she isn’t in the woods anymore. The surface underneath her is soft and dry. She opens her eyes. Above her is a wooden roof with thick beams. 

“Ah, you’re finally awake,” a feminine voice says. Brienne startles — winces, and then immediately hisses in pain — but she manages to turn her head to the side. 

Next to her, sitting on a little wooden chair, is a young woman that seems to be around Brienne’s age — but that’s about where the similarities end. The girl is very pretty — she has beautiful glowing skin, big brown eyes, thick dark eyebrows and hair, her lips are rosy and plump, and she’s all soft, womanly curves. 

She smiles at Brienne, putting the sewing work— or perhaps leatherwork? — she’s been working on. “You should take it easy. It’ll take some time for the wounds to heal.”

“Wounds?” Brienne says stupidly.

“Your arm and your chest — but you’ll be alright. I took care of them and cleaned them. They’re healing just fine.”

“Who are you?” Brienne asks. “And where am I?”

“I’m Rosie,” she answers and smiles again. 

Brienne can’t help but notice how lovely the girl looks — her teeth are healthy and white, her cheeks are flushed a pretty pink and her eyes have the most charming glint in them — especially when she smiles. 

“And I know who you are, Brienne of Tarth.”

Brienne says nothing. She feels fuzzy again. She can’t tell if she’s about to lose consciousness or fall asleep. She fights it, trying to blink the drowsiness away. 

“You saved our village from those crooks. They dwelled in the surrounding forest and kept us living in fear — robbing us, attacking women from the village, preventing us from living normal lives. I wasn’t allowed to do anything for months. Not that I could do much, really. I had a child just recently — but I would’ve liked to take a walk.”

Brienne is only half-aware of what the girl is telling her. She has a lovely voice, Brienne thinks, drifting in an out of consciousness. 

“My father found you, and we brought you here. I’ve gotten the task of taking care of you. I took it very seriously, you know. I love taking care of people.”

Brienne mumbles a ‘thank you,’ tries to form a coherent sentence, but her eyes are too heavy. 

“Aw, you poor thing,” Rosie says. “Sleep now, sweet Brienne. I’ll be here when you wake.”

Brienne sleeps.

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

Rosie is there when Brienne wakes up from a nightmare. She remembers blood and pain and death, but not much else.

“How long have I slept?” she asks. “I must go.”

She knows she was in the woods for a reason, but she’s so drowsy, so sleepy — she can’t really remember the details. She’s still shaky from her nightmare.

“You can’t go anywhere, silly — not for another couple of days. You’ll lose consciousness on the road and hit your head somewhere.”

Brienne whines and protests, but she knows she couldn’t get up even if she wanted to. 

“We brought you here yesterday, and you slept most of the day. Today you woke up early in the morning. It’s afternoon now.”

Brienne nods in acknowledgement. “Thank you,” she says, finally letting herself relax into the bed, admitting to herself she can’t go anywhere just yet. “You’re very kind to me.”

“Oh, nonsense — you saved our village! Here, I have some porridge for you. Let me help you sit up.”

She sits Brienne up, and Brienne hisses and winces in pain. She notices she isn’t wearing her own clothes — instead she has a men’s undershirt on. 

“Your underthings were stained with blood. I washed them, but until they dry I don’t have anything else you’d fit in but my brother’s clothes. I hope you don’t mind,” Rosie says apologetically. She brushes Brienne’s hair from her forehead, and for some reason Brienne feels herself blush. Rosie’s touch is firm, but gentle. Brienne feels very safe with her.

“Here,” Rosie says, and Brienne realises the girl intends to feed her the porridge like a child. 

“I can eat by myself,” she says, but Rosie will have none of it.

“Nonsense. Open your mouth.”

Brienne doesn’t have it in her to argue, so she does as she’s told. 

“Good girl,” Rosie says, and Brienne blushes profusely. Nobody’s ever called her that. It feels… nice — like she’s done something good.

Rosie doesn’t comment on Brienne’s blushing cheeks, and instead feeds her porridge in silence. 

It’s rather nice to be taken care of, Brienne thinks as she swallows a spoonful of porridge, I shouldn’t get used to it. She can’t remember the last time somebody treated her with this much care — and a stranger, at that. 

“Did you have a nightmare?” Rosie asks as she feeds her.

“Why do you ask?”

Rosie brings the spoon to Brienne’s lips. “You were frowning in your sleep and saying things.”

“What did I say?” she asks and takes the spoon into her mouth.

“I didn’t get most of it. I just heard “no” and such. Do you have nightmares often?”

“Most nights,” Brienne says with her mouth full. “I’m used to it.”

Rosie says nothing further. 

After Brienne’s done eating, Rosie briefly disappears from the room to put away the empty bowl. Just as Brienne feels her limbs start to grow heavy with sleep, she returns. 

“Am I taking up someone’s bed? I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Nonsense,” says Rosie. “This is my bed.”

“And where is your husband?” Brienne asks, remembering Rosie has a child.

“Oh, he’s in the navy. He’s gone for months sometimes. I just take care of little Robbie, nurse him and such. I’ve little else to do. He’s such a good baby — he either feeds or sleeps. And my mother helps me when I need. Oh, and my father told me that he wants to speak to you — to thank you properly, when you feel better. But I don’t think you’re better quite yet — maybe tomorrow,” she muses.

Brienne has a feeling Rosie is the type of girl who knows how to get her way. She doesn’t mind — she fine doing as she’s told. She’s so very sleepy, anyway. 

“Here, have some water,” Rosie says and brings a cup sitting on the stool next to the bed to Brienne’s lips. Brienne realises she’s thirstier than she thought — she drinks most of the water from the cup. She feels a bit weird, being babied like this — but she doesn’t mind. It’s nice to be pampered for a change. 

“I really admire you, you know,” Rosie says, sitting down on the bed. “I think you’re so very brave. I could never do what you do.”

“You wouldn’t like what I do,” Brienne murmurs sleepily.

“No, I don’t think I would,” Rosie says, and shifts closer to Brienne. “You have really pretty eyes.”

“Yours are much prettier than mine,” Brienne replies. 

Rosie is right above her face, leaning over her. She looks at Rosie’s big, warm, brown eyes. Her stomach feels funny when Rosie’s this close to her — tingly somehow.

“Blue eyes are much rarer,” Rosie says. 

Brienne doesn’t have a response to that — Rosie won the argument. She smiles at Brienne, and Brienne feels fuzzy again, but… different fuzzy than before — she can’t quite place it. 

“When I first saw you, I thought you were a man,” Rosie says. Brienne isn’t surprised. “But I’m glad you aren’t.”

“Why?” 

Brienne softly gasps when their noses touch. She didn’t realise Rosie was that close.

“I don’t know,” Rosie says. She kisses Brienne’s cheek. Brienne’s skin tingles where Rosie’s soft lips touched it. She feels warm and fuzzy and sleepy. She wonders if she’s dreaming.

“I want to take care of you,” Rosie says. Brienne loves the feeling of Rosie’s warm breath on her cheek.

“People don’t take care of me,” she murmurs, her mind blurry with sleep. “Am I dreaming?” 

“Perhaps,” Rosie says and caresses her cheek and her neck. Her hands are soft and warm. Brienne wants her closer. “I don’t want you to have another nightmare.”

Brienne sleepily watches Rosie loosen her corset in the front and untie her shirt, pushing it aside. Her breasts spill out of the garment. They look soft and heavy — Brienne is mesmerised by them. She looks at the light pink nipples. They’re leaking milk. Her mouth waters.

Rosie pushes her breasts towards Brienne’s face. Brienne feels her cheeks grow hot. She’s in that delicious, not quite awake state — drifting on the edge of sleep. Her body and her mind feel heavy and fuzzy and warm. 

“This will calm you down,” Rosie says. “You won’t have nightmares anymore — not while I’m here.”

She takes her breast and gently presses it to Brienne’s lips. If Brienne were more awake, she’d question this more — but in her current state she only feels slight confusion which is quickly overridden by a pleasant, tingly feeling in her abdomen. 

She takes the rosy nipple into her mouth. “Suck,” Rosie says, and Brienne sucks. 

Rosie’s milk tastes sweet. Sweet, just like Rosie, is the only thought in Brienne’s mind. She loves the feeling of the soft, heavy breast pressing onto her face. She sucks, and her cheeks are hot, and she feels a bit embarrassed, but she doesn’t stop. She’s unsure whether she’s dreaming or awake.

Rosie cradles her head with one hand and with the other she caresses Brienne’s chest — gently, feather-light. Brienne’s skin tingles. She gets goosebumps all over her torso and arms.

Rosie’s hand ventures lower, slips underneath her shirt, traces patterns on Brienne’s stomach. Brienne softly whimpers when Rosie runs her fingers over her pubic hair. 

“Just suck,” Rosie says, her voice breathy, and Brienne feels hot all over. She does as she’s told, and continues to drink Rosie’s sweet, creamy milk. A coil starts building in her belly as Rosie runs her fingers over the wet folds between her legs, circles the hard bud there. She feels Rosie’s wetness on her thigh as Rosie starts grinding on it, hot and slick, and she hears Rosie’s soft, sweet moans of pleasure — or perhaps those are her own. She sucks on Rosie’s hard nipple, heavy breast pressing on her lips, and the coil in her belly grows tighter and tighter until it finally snaps and Brienne cries lets out a muffled cry. Rosie grinds harder on her thigh before crying out as well and falling forwards, pushing her breasts into Brienne’s face.  

Rosie gently removes her breast from Brienne’s mouth and then kisses Brienne’s wet lips — slowly and with curiosity. Brienne kisses back. She loves how soft and plump Rosie’s lips are. Rosie licks Brienne’s lower lip and places a chaste, soft kiss on the corner of her mouth, then her cheek. Brienne feels like she’s floating. 

“Sleep, my brave Brienne,” she whispers softly, and Brienne sleeps.

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

When she awakes once again, Rosie is next to her bed. She talks to her like nothing happened, and Brienne wonders if it was all a dream. 

“Did you have nightmares again?” Rosie asks as she brings a glass of water to Brienne’s mouth. Brienne remembers how soft Rosie’s lips were on her own, and her belly tingles.

“No,” she says. “I’m surprised. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have them.”

“Good,” Rosie says and smiles brightly. Her face glows and her eyes twinkle. Brienne’s heart flutters. “You should get some more rest. My father will want to speak to you today.”

Brienne nods.

“I have to go feed Robbie. Call for me if you can’t sleep,” she says and gives Brienne a kiss on the cheek. Brienne blushes. 

When she falls asleep, she dreams of Rosie leaning over her bed, kissing her. She awakes sweaty and hot, with a throbbing between her thighs. 

She ignores it.

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

Brienne recovers quickly — in the next couple of days she’s ready to leave and continue her quest. The village people wish her a lot of luck, and give her many gifts for her brave act. 

Rosie gives her a leather bracelet. “I made it while you were sleeping,” she says. 

Brienne thanks her and ignores the tug in her chest and the urge to kiss those pink, pretty lips. When she leaves, she doesn’t look back.

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

Years pass, and after a while Rosie feels like a distant dream. Brienne rarely remembers her during waking hours.

However, when she can’t sleep, or is awoken by a nightmare — which, thankfully, happens less often than before — she still clutches the leather bracelet to her chest and imagines the feeling of Rosie’s nipple in her mouth and the soft breast pressing into her face, recalls the sweet taste of Rosie’s milk on her tongue. She remembers the warmth, the tingling, and the softness of her lips. She feels fuzzy and sleepy and safe.

She always sleeps peacefully until morning.

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[aeferkssr]

established relationship, fluffyyy, 608 wrds

xiao has always been very aloof, his resting bitch face of full display for everyone to see. he keeps to himself and is seldom seen with other people. his behaviour may seem to be self-centered to some, hence why people tend to avoid him. others may admire these traits but admire him from a distance since they fear that he is too good for them. but even then, people seem to be approaching him more and trying to get friendly with him. xiao was very aware of his distant nature and was confused about the sudden attention. little did he realise, that love tends to change one’s lifestyle. after realising this, he started to think about how exactly he carries himself:

— he starts putting more thought into his appearance. xiao never really cared about other’s opinions about him, they were allowed to think what they wanted after all. but when you two got together, her started to think more and more about what he wore. his usual black hoodie and sweats started to seem too laid back for you. on dates he dresses more consciously depending on where your going: something with a lighter colour for picnics, darker colours pick up heat more, something more dressy for dinner dates, and the like. he even devides to sport a tanktop while at home just to feel your lingering stares on his laid back appearance.

— his music genre changes. originally, he listened to anything with a good beat regardless of the genre. his main spotify playlist was 8 hours long with songs that ranged from cutesy jpop songs to hard metal. if anyone ever asked, he would just say that the beat is nice. but now, he finds himself listeneing to sings that remind him of you. either he listens to his secret playlist that he would rather die than have you find out about (a four hour playlist named ‘my joy, [ name ]’) or your spotify blend. whether he listens to music more than you or not, your accounts are linked by a duo plan. a small commitment before he is ready to make an even bigger one.

— he keeps better track of the time. it has been 7 hours and 47 minutes since the tattoo parlour has opened, one more hour until closing. the ride home will take 15 minutes, 20 is he has to weave his motorcycle through the 5 o’clock traffic. since todays a tuesday, you come home from school/work at around 6:20pm. before you get home, he likes to cook dinner and prepare your breakfast and lunch for the next day. its his week to do the laundry too, since you weren’t feeling so well last week he will have an early start on it while you eat. what should he cook when he comes home? he knows that you really like his fried rice so maybe he sho— his thoughts get interrupted by his boss, who is curious to know why he’s glaring at the clock like that.

— he's become more *ahem* needy. hold on, not that kind of needy. its more like the 'you need to be with me at every waking hour every single day or else i will explode' kind of needy. hes addicted to your affection, the way you call his name with pire adoration and love makes his stomach fill eith an endless amount of butterflies, the lingering touches and gazes you make adorn his face with an endearing red colour. he doesn’t want to be with you, he needs to be with you. and, oh, is he so glad that he is yours.

© aeferkssr

[not-so-allegiant-general]

MEETING 2

"Good morning, General" Lucien put his cup of caff on the table and sat down glancing at Hux. Armitage was eyeing him carefully. He had some time to think, and he decided that there was something familiar in Lucien, something to his posture, to his moves. That specific tone of voice, that familiar accent, every time he addressed him as a general. As he was far too used to it than he wanted to admit. Yes, that was it. Hux could see him in the uniform. And he was quite damn sure that it wasn't a New Republic one.

"Good morning." Lucien pulled out his datapad, opened his notes, and tilted his head looking at Hux.

"How are you today ?"

"Excellent as always." Lucien smiled amused.

"You are going to point out my every mistake aren’t you, general?"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"Well of course. Let's play a game."

Hux snorted.

" I’m not a child."

"Yes. I’m aware. But games are useful, aren’t they? I am sure you know that, General. It's easy. I am going to tell you about my day and you are going to tell me about yours, in a similar manner. "

"And where’s the fun in that?" Lucien raised his brow " Games are supposed to be fun. If there is no fun it is merely an exercise. I am sure you know that, Lucien. "

"So clever and you are missing out that I am the one who can get out whenever he wants, if you are not playing by my rules." Hux pressed his lips together with disdain.

"Blackmailing your clients is a common practice of yours.?"

"No. It's just reserved for sneaky bastards like you. Playing by my rules or do I go home and see you next week.?" Hux snorted and glanced at him.

"Go on. Tell me about your exciting day, Lucien"

"Excellent. Well. I woke up. I felt quite tense and stressed. I had an important meeting. I felt afraid I must say. I went back to my quarters. I felt... "

"Stop." Lucien fell silent. When Hux didn't say anything else he put his datapad aside on the table.

"You caught the pattern, right? The fact. And the feeling. It shouldn't be very hard." Hux stayed silent. "Alright. Let's start with something smaller, shall we? We sit here and I feel concerned."

"I am not doing that."

"Refusing something because you are not good at it, is kinda below you, General. Just saying." He hummed.

"How can I feel sitting here all day and waiting for these idiots to decide if it's more beneficial for them to kill me or to put me here for the rest of my life ?!"

"Angry. From what I can see. "Hux froze "Humiliated. Helpless. Upset. Betrayed. Scared. Lost. Depressed. Defeated. Look I can sit here guessing all day but that's not the point. " he sighed when Hux didn't answer " Or I can go on and you say something when you get bored."

"Bored," Hux repeated, fixing his eyes on Lucien. "I am bored."

"That's something. Not a lot of things to do here, hm?"

"I asked for paper and a pen. They refused." And he was actually near tears when they did. Boredom was awfully painful. He could never stand being alone only with his thoughts. There was always work. There was always something to do, that required his attention. Always something more important. 

He closed his eyes feeling a little off.

“Boredom can be challenging for someone who was always on the move. You weren’t often bored, right?”

“No. I suppose I wasn’t. Not like that…” A sudden wave of nausea took over him. He took a deep breath trying to keep himself up but when he opened his eyes everything was covered in black dots. “I…” he forced out but his head fell.

"General?" Hux slid down the chair losing consciousness. "Guard!"

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Next part: coming soon! 👀👀