#*noises of ensuing scuffle*

[fisheito]

oh, why no.... we shan't... wouldns't dareth...........

[yuuchama]

Sometime during the VDC training camp, when everyone on team Night Raven is sleeping over at Ramshackle Dorm:

Ramshackle Dorm has no shortage of spare rooms, but their condition is another story. You've managed to get enough of them decently clean. They're not as nice as your room, which has had far more time invested in it and is well lived in, but your groupmates should be able to spend a few days at the dorm without issue and are more than free to tidy up rooms as they please.

Yet on one of the first nights, you hear the door of your room creak open. It's dark and you can't see the intruder, though you know it's not one of the ghosts. The approaching footsteps aren't as heavy as Grim's, even after he's cleared out the entire fridge in one sitting. You're also pretty confident Grim is fast asleep beside you.

"Hello?" You groggily lift your head and call out to the intruder. If it's anything malicious, you hope the ensuing scuffle will cause enough noise to wake everyone else up.

A weight pushes the edge of your mattress down and there's a gentle touch at your shoulder. "Prefect, do you mind if I spend the rest of the night here?"

"Jamil?"

You almost don't recognize him in the dark with his hair down. You feel around for a bedside light. Grim groans in his sleep when it clicks on and turns over, shielding his eyes with tiny arms.

Jamil looks exhausted. "Please, I'd really appreciate if you could let me sleep here tonight."

"Yeah, sure. Of course." Maybe it's the sleep addling your brain or your trust in Jamil. You see no reason to turn down his request and didn't question why he was coming to you instead of Kalim. You nudge Grim over to make room for one more on the bed.

The vice housewarden does his best to fit in the cramped sleeping conditions, assuring "I'll pay you back for this. Thank you."

He's turned towards the wall, back touching your side so that he doesn't fall. You wait to make sure he's fully secure in bed before turning off the light. In the calm that follows, you notice he's almost imperceptibly shaking. Sure, the dorm is cold, but not that cold. Especially with three in one bed.

"Jamil, are you okay?" The longer you spend awake, the more concerning this whole situation feels.

"I'm fine. Goodnight, Prefect." Jamil already has his eyes shut and seems adamant about not discussing things further.

"Okay... Goodnight."

You lay down and silence settles over the room once more. It's really warm between your two friends. Sleep is quick to catch up to you, you find yourself nodding off within minutes of your head touching the pillow.

Before you fully drift off, Jamil turns to face you. His hair drapes over the side of the bed and he places a hand on your pillow, lightly grazing your cheek.

"Thanks again," he whispers. "I feel a lot better with you here. Your room doesn't have bugs on the wall."

[the-wintry-mizzenmast]

笛花 Dihua/Feihua prompt fill for @magicknightriderjellyfish02 Still riding that burst of inspiration in the groupchat from @lyselkatz's post-canon fanart of silver-haired Li Lianhua and bearded A-Fei.

[How the beard thing became permanent part of their life and llh's reaction towards it, esp when they are intimate with each other]

-----

“That tickles!” giggled Li Lianhua the first time that Di Feisheng scraped the unshaven stubble of his chin across the smooth surface of his husband’s thigh. 

He would have shaved earlier in the morning had it not been for Li Lianhua’s imperious demand that he come back to bed, and between those vigorous morning activities and everything else they’d done during the day, Di Feisheng had simply forgotten. From the way that Li Lianhua’s cock swelled in response to the new texture, it did not seem that it was unwelcome. So Di Feisheng rubbed his chin and jaw once more against his husband’s skin, before taking him into his mouth. 

“Growing your beard out, hm?” asked Li Lianhua the next day during breakfast, noting that his husband had eschewed shaving again. 

“Is that going to be a problem?” 

Li Lianhua reached out a hand, rubbing a thumb across his chin. “No,” he replied, the sunlight glinting off his silver hair lending his smirk a particularly mesmerizing glow. 

Di Feisheng leaned into his husband’s caress, turned his head to kiss his palm, and then breakfast was soon forgotten. 

Two weeks later, Fang Duobing positively yelped the moment he stepped past the threshold of Lotus Tower. 

“What is that thing on Lao Di’s face?”

“A beard,” Di Feisheng replied. “You’d know what it was if you could grow one.”

Fang Duobing made a strangled noise of protest and took a threatening step forward, forcing Li Lianhua to intervene. 

“You can’t possibly like that,” Fang Duobing accused, pointing at Di Feisheng’s face over Li Lianhua’s body, which was positioned squarely between the two of them. 

“Actually, I like how it feels,” said Li Lianhua with a saucy grin. 

Fang Duobing made a small noise of revulsion as the images of what the old fox meant rose unbidden in his mind. 

“It lends him quite a distinguished air, don’t you think?” 

“He looks like my father.”

“Which one?”

“Both.”

And then Li Lianhua had to try a lot harder to keep his husband and his disciple apart, lest another wall in Lotus Tower collapse in the ensuing scuffle. 

It was late into the night, after Fang Duobing had fallen asleep upstairs, his breaths becoming quiet and regular, before Li Lianhua clamped both hands around his husband’s face, and drew it down for a kiss. 

It was a long time before Di Feisheng was allowed to pull away enough to speak. “If I’d known you’d like it this much I would have grown it out ages ago.”

Li Lianhua smiled and shook his head. “You’ve changed, A-Fei,” he said softly. “I’ve changed too,” he added, holding up a lock of his own silver-white hair for emphasis, the result of the dissolution of the Bicha poison. “I don’t think it would have fit you then, as Jinyuan Alliance Chief, but now? Anonymous Jianghu Wandering Uncle? I think it looks perfect.”

“Anonymous Jianghu Wandering Uncle?”

“Xiaobao’s not entirely wrong about the look.”

Di Feisheng growled, his expression darkening. “Come here, you.”

Li Lianhua laughed, gave his husband’s goatee a tug, and then melted into his arms. 

[multipleoccupancy]

@governmentofficial continued from x

Mycroft was back at university - not to study, but to scout out potential new recruits for the secret service. His deductive abilities combined with his age made him an ideal candidate for the task, allowing him to blend in seamlessly and spot potential students that had not yet been noticed. Of course, while he was there, he had to visit his friend, Professor Moriarty. They had remained in touch since Mycroft's graduation, something that he was very grateful for because he had been worried that the man wouldn't keep in contact. That wasn't the case, though. They exchanged letters frequently, and Moriarty had seemed keen to meet up once again. While the Professor finished a lecture, Mycroft waited in his office. Or, at least, that had been the plan. When he arrived, there was already somebody else in there. On the surface, this was not unusual. Moriarty presumably got a lot of visitors - students, other academics, and so on. However, the other person appeared to be going through the man's desk drawers. That was definitely not allowed. "What are you doing?" Mycroft asked, confronting the intruder without a second thought. Considering who Moriarty was (that being, a mathematics professor), he had assumed that the man would not be a threat. That assumption was wrong. Instead of giving an answer, the man pulled out a knife and lunged for Mycroft. Instead of running, Mycroft stood his ground. His hand-to-hand combat training was recent, but he had always been a very fast learner. After successfully dodging, he tackled the man and began the try and disarm him. The ensuing fight was not an easy one. Whoever the intruder was, he clearly had his own combat experience. That was strange. Why would that be? Perhaps somebody had hired a professional of some kind to steal something? Or, perhaps this was someone that knew Moran? After all, he was ex-army, was he not? The intruder had traits of a military past himself, so perhaps this was a disgruntled former soldier that wanted to get back at Moran for a transgression of the past? Eventually, Mycroft found himself in control of the squabble. Getting there had not been easy, mind you. He'd successfully disarmed the other man, but he'd taken a few blows to the head in the process and everything on top of Moriarty's desk had been knocked to the floor, papers now lying across the room in a disorganised mess. Mycroft was not trying to kill the other man, but as the fight went on it became increasingly clear that he would need to be more forceful. In the end, what happened was an accident. Mycroft was just trying to knock the man out but, well, he'd always been a little heavy-handed. He slammed the man's head into the side of the desk and not only misjudged his strength, but also his aim - crashing it into the corner instead of the top. It was immediately obvious what he had done. If the way the man went limp wasn't enough, the blood would have made it clear. Shocked at what he had just done, Mycroft dropped the body - eyes wide as he stepped back. He had never killed anybody before. Of course, he knew that he was likely going to one day, but knowing it was a possibility and actually doing it were two completely different things. Then Mycroft heard movement. His head snapped to the side to view the office's door, where Moriarty stood. The noise of the fight must have covered up the sound of his arrival, so Mycroft had no idea how much the man had seen. One thing was for certain, though; he had just seen him kill a man. For once, Mycroft had no idea what to say or do. Seemingly frozen on the spot, he stared back at Moriarty, waiting to see how he would react.

Even has he was approaching his office after the lecture, he could hear something going on inside from down the corridor. There was some sort of scuffle happening which naturally made Moriarty spare a moment to check who was actually about in what was luckily an empty corridor before he trotted up to his office door to peek inside. He had expected to find Moran dealing with a problem but instead spotted none other than Mycroft Holmes just as he managed to crack the head of another man on his desk corner.

For a moment Moriarty watched to see what Mycroft would do, he was after all part of the intelligence services now and he had been mindful to be careful with him. He waited to see if he would try to look for something, any hint that he was onto him, even a glance around at his now very clean chalk board or bookshelves. Nothing. Just shock. It was not very often Moriarty got to witness a first kill, oh Mycroft looked pitifully shocked and of course he would have to take advantage of that.

So he took half a step back and then a regular step forward with a skidded pause under the doorway to gain his attention, at first putting on a smile in greeting before allowing his gaze to drift to the body on the floor and chose to purposely freeze on the spot, making his face drop before shooting a look between the body and Mycroft as if in some shock before he stepped into the room and immediately closed his office door and locked it. Leaning against it and taking the opportunity to sensibly listen for anyone else on the other side of it that might hear them. Satisfied they were alone, he rounded on Mycroft.

"What the hell happened?" He demanded in half of a whisper, moving over as if going to check the dead man's pulse but of course using the opportunity to see his face. Ah. The thief from the terrorist ring in Germany. Likely looking for the blackmail material on his boss, pathetic attempt if he thought he would find it in his office of all places. Moriarty abandoned his fake attempt at checking the clearly dead man, instead standing and looking at Mycroft seriously.

"You're hurt?" he checked having spotted there was a knife lying amongst the mess of his papers. He kept his eyes on him as if it was filled with concern and while he might not admit it to himself, it was partially very genuine. Moriarty had grown to admire the young man and had been truly disappointed in his decision to join the secret service, what a waste of all of his work and indeed a potential threat!

He absently corrected one of his desk chairs to put Mycroft into it, caringly of course before he pretended to fixate on the dead body in his office, inconveniently bleeding all over his work, even some student papers, which were much harder to replace with forgeries.

[robin-the-wanderer]

[ an audio recording dated back to a few weeks ago. the background noise is messy, but you can hear panicked panting and puffing, and a crowd of clamouring voices in the background, as if someone was being chased. ] “harper! use- use dark pulse-“

[ a terrified scream tears across the recording; and there’s a loud crash before silence ensues. loud panting and puffing is heard in the background. ]

“dispose of the girl. take the beast and go.”

“no-” [ there’s a sound of a scuffle, and another scream. ] “no, please, get that gun away from me, please don’t hurt me- DONT TAKE KONPEITŌ, NO!”

[ a desperate guttural shriek is heard, followed by the sound of a charging gun, before there’s a burst of a pokeball opening. ]

[ loud whirring sounds akin to roaring are heard; you can’t really tell if it’s of terror or of rage. the powerful boom of electricity is heard cutting through the air, followed by the cries of a panicked crowd of women and men. ]

[ there’s a faint “retreat! retreat!” in the background, and after a few more moments of chaos, silence returns once more. ]

“…”

[ another, sadder whirring around is heard this time, as if it was ashamed. ]

“konpeitō. please.”

“they’re gone. let’s go home.”

[ the sound of a pokémon being withdrawn into its ball, and the scuffle of boots against pavement, following shaky breaths that trailed off into the night. ]

…

Oh. Sorry. Arché did not mean to send recording. Arché no know how to delete recording, so Arché will just leave recording there and hope row-tum-blr no mind. Gratitude. Have good day.

[loopielupie]

Whumptober Day 6 - Recording

Passing through a GN barrier is something Lockon has mostly grown used to, but there is sometimes just a little bit strange or, maybe, miraculous, about seeing nothing but forest and then suddenly, out of nowhere, the threshold is crossed and his gundam is just there. Today, the sight of Dynames isn’t as alluring as the forest around him, but Lockon climbs its bent leg dutifully anyway and pops the cockpit open, a greeting for Haro dying on his lips when the little robot bounces in its spot, already speaking before Lockon’s even set foot inside:

“Lockon. Message. Lockon. Message.”

“Hello to you too, Haro buddy,” he chuckles, dropping into the seat and taking note of the flashing message icon on his loadout. “What’s-”

“Message. Hurry. Message. Hurry.” Haro interrupts him and he stops, something souring in his stomach. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Haro was…anxious. He clicks on the message and an audio file opens. Initially there’s nothing but steady breathing filling the cockpit and a quiet hiss, maybe…is it, wind? Rain?

That sourness in his stomach twists into a gut instinct and he knows who’s going to speak before he even says anything.

“Being followed…”

Setsuna.

“Two, maybe three. Going to try and lose them.”

Stomach dropping, Lockon yanks his phone from his pocket and calls him, swiping his bangs back from his face as it starts to ring. And then keeps ringing. The message has gone quiet again but Lockon keeps one ear on it while his other is occupied with the still unconnected call.

“C’mon, c’mon. Pick up the phone, Setsuna.”

Five rings. His knee starts bouncing agitatedly on the sixth; Setsuna never takes this long to answer.

You’ve reached Kamal Ma-”

Lockon hangs up with a frustrated noise and reaches for the comms panel. He hasn’t reached the end of the recording yet but he knows it’s not going to end well. He’s already late to this, he can’t afford any more wasted time. Compressing the recording, he attaches it alongside a quick coded message and asks Haro to send it off to the Ptolemy. He hits play on Setsuna’s message again; listening to the sounds of breathing and footsteps mixed with the occasional vehicle or bystander in the background.

“Definitely 3; all men. Average height, all HRL.”

He startles at Setsuna’s sudden interjection and how normal his tone is while Lockon can feel a lump constricting his own throat as the recording returns to background noise. He watches the time tick up on the screen for an agonising 6 minutes when suddenly there’s a quiet gasp and the footsteps get louder and faster: running, Setsuna must be running. That realisation sends fear through Lockon even before Setsuna speaks again:

“Got turned around. In an emptier part of town now, near the Industrial park by the river.”

Lockon’s heart drops. It’s not surprising that Setsuna might get lost in a place he’s never been to. He tries not to think about what that delay may have cost them, cost him.

“C’mon, Setsuna,” Lockon whispers, jaw clenched tightly as he fists the material of his civilian trousers. His heart is in his throat now but drops into his shoes at a sudden winded grunt.

“What do you want? Why are you chasing me?”

Lockon knows the fear in Setsuna’s voice is acting, he’s seen the kid lay it on to get out of situations before, but it doesn’t stop the rush of nausea. If his pursuers answer, Lockon doesn’t hear it and suddenly the recording explodes with crackles, shouts and curses overlaid with the telltale sounds of a scuffle. A harsh voice far too close to the comms unit spits something venomous about a “princess” that Lockon can’t make out but what does come through clearly is Setsuna’s sharp cry of pain and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

“Shit,” Lockon spits into the ensuing quiet, listening to the murmur of conversation before everything cuts off with an abrupt crack and a burst of static.

Lockon swallows thickly, his own breathing loud in the small space of his cockpit. He throws it open for air and slumps back in his seat, scrubbing aching, trembling fingers down his face.

“Shit.”

[cateringisalie]

Amaranth Cuttings - Chapter 4

Her double told Aeris to find the files she left in Wall Market. Curiosity is a hell of a thing and without Mom admitting anything, Aeris doesn't have many other options. Of course, getting to Wall Market is an ordeal in itself; unlike Sector Five, Sector Six is notorious for lurking monsters.

Aeris headed out a little earlier than normal the next morning. Already tired and the day barely begun; sleep had not come easily last night. Every time she was about to nod off, some distant part of the house conspired to creak.

With each shift of the structure, she tensed up. In the ensuing silence she lifted her head off the pillow and held her breath heart while her heart thundered and she waited for a follow-up noise. Could be a scuffling on the roof; like the monster that saw fit to loiter there three years ago. Or the previously purely hypothetical worse; an intruder - human or monster - moving around downstairs.

Silence. Nothing but the distant roar of the Mako reactor. She held on until at last she was forced to draw breath, the sound explosive in the stillness; too easy for it to conceal a more distant noise. She held her breath again. Nothing.

Aeris closed her eyes and dropped her head back onto the pillow.

Another distant creak; over and over the pattern continued until morning light crept under the upper plate.

"Are you okay?" said Mom as Aeris poured a rarely needed second cup of coffee with breakfast.

Aeris sipped at the coffee flavoured water and willed the caffeine to reduce the build-up of fuzz behind her eyes. "Fine. Just didn't sleep well."

Mom cocked her head to one side in contemplation. "I thought-"

She shook her head. "Just restless. Should sleep well tonight." After a longer than normal walk.

Once out of view of the house, Aeris turned towards the breach in the Sector Five wall. Around her the sector was already bustling, the crowds growing swiftly sparse as she headed sunwise.

Read the rest on Ao3

[adiabolikpastel]

Diabolik Lovers ~ Tormented Reverie ~ Yuuki's Prologue [part 1]

The more I love you,

the more I want to completely devour you.

If we were to become one,

will this thirst, this pain, be cured?

The closer I get, it feels as if

the distance to you keeps getting further.

It is as if you are a hazy mirage at the other end of the desert.

[Lord Ritchter]

☆+ ﾟ .+ .ﾟ.ﾟ｡ ﾟ ｡. +ﾟ ｡ﾟ.ﾟ｡☆｡｡ . ｡ o .｡ﾟ｡.o｡ ｡ .｡

A limousine slowly makes it's way up the graveled drive of a mansion, which looms against the night sky.

Yuuki emerges from the vehicle, it's driver and other occupant shrouded in the darkness. Thunder echoes in the distance, giving warning to an incoming storm.

Yuuki: (This is crazy... with all that just happened...

How can I be expected to stay here? And that man -)

Yuuki attempts to look back at the limo as she walks to the door, but it is no where to be seen.

(What is going on!?

Have I truly been abandoned here?)

Yuuki reluctantly knocks on the door.

Yuuki: ... Hello!!

Is anyone there-?

Yuuki knocks on the door again, after there is no answer.

Yuuki: Hello?

What is going on... it doesn't look like anyone is home.

I don't understand!

Why was I brought here!

-- flashback begins

Yuuki: Mother... who are they?

Mother: Yuuki, stay back!

You cannot take her!

A scuffle ensues with two large men, and Yuuki's mother. It's a blur, and ends abruptly with the sound of a gun firing.

Yuuki: Mom!

In the door way stands a single man, his face smudged out by the smoke of the gunshot.

Mysterious Man: Grab her - the final debt shall be settled tonight.

-- flashback ends

(What am I going to do...?

No one is going to come for me - but if I run...)

Rain starts to drizzle as Yuuki stands alone. She tries the door once more.

Yuuki: Excuse me!

I don't need to stay here but, if I could just get out of the rain.

Maybe there is another entrance?

Yuuki looks about and begins to walk away when the door creeps open.

Yuuki: -eep!

Startled, Yuuki stares at the door. When no one presents on the other side, she slowly opens it more. Welcoming herself into the seemingly deserted mansion.

Yuuki: U-Um...

I-I'm sorry for just coming in but... it started raining - and the door.

Hello...?

A man - I was brought here after my...

Is anyone home?

(Is there really no one here? But the door opened.

This is too creepy!)

Yuuki cautiously makes her way into, what appears to be, a sitting area.

Ahh... This is the worst...

(I wasn't able to grab anything before they took me.

Without a cell phone, I can't even call the police.

This is a kidnapping after all, right?

And what they did to mom too...)

Maybe I can find a phone in here-

Lightening strikes, illuminating the room. What was thought to be vacant, had one occupant. Laying on the far sofa, a body.

Yuuki: Kyaaaa!!

Yuuki screams, fleeing the room. Returning to the foyer, and attempts to leave. The door was closed once more, and bound shut.

Yuuki: No no no!

Let me out please!

I don't want to die!

This is a joke, right!?

I don't wanna be abandoned in a horror house!

???: Such an outburst!

Who is making all this noise?

A voice calls from atop the grand stair case. Yuuki turns, seeing a young man standing at the top. His face a soft glow from a candelabra.

Yuuki: I-I-I...!

???: Honestly, how did you enter this place?

???: What the hell-?

Who's making all that noise?

Can't a guy get any sleep around here?

Another voice nags from the other room. The body from before leans against the wall. As lighting flashes once more, all of the lighting in the mansion springs on as well.

Yuuki: KYAAAAA!

N-No no no no no

This is impossible! Insane!

Just let me go back out in the rain!

Yuuki crouches down, covering her ears and shutting her eyes.

???: Quit all that annoying whining.

Teddy and I just woke-up... Reiji make it stop.

???: Oh-ho~ I had thought that was a girls voice.

I wouldn't mind taking her back to my room, if no one wants to claim her.

As two new voices enter the room, a loud crashing sound echoes to through the sound of the rain. Yuuki looks around, seeing new faces with the other two.

???: This is no way to wake up - would all of you just shut up!

??? Oi!

Quit punching the walls!

I was the first to ask about this human, so I will be answered first.

???: Annoying... shut up both of you or I'll cut you into pieces.

???: So violent~

???: Huh!?

You just try it pipsqueak! You're no older brother of mine!

???: Enough all of you! Even my patients is wearing thin.

No one is 'taking her' until we find out why and how she came to be here.

Yuuki: (This is bad.

Like, really bad, right!?

Who are all of these guys?

What do they think they're going to do to me?)

???: In any case, tell us what brings you here.

-- To Be Continued --

[part two]

[pikaclan]

Moon 365

Season: Greenleaf

Overarching Events

Mass extinction is toggled on

Ceremonies

Wolfpaw sits beside their new mentor, Fogcrawl, as the meeting comes to a close. Their claws dig into the ground as they glare up at the sky, wondering why Whispering couldn't be there with them at such an important moment

Starlingpaw sits beside their new mentor, Zahra, as the meeting comes to a close. Their claws dig into the ground as they glare up at the sky, wondering why Whispering couldn't be there with them at such an important moment

Hazyseed sits in the crowd, chest puffed out in pride as they watch Scorchpaw be named Scorchbud, and honored for their boldness. They consider themself lucky to have been able to train such an amazing young cat, and look forward to seeing the warrior they become

Misc

Flitchest was seen loudly bickering with the medicine cat of FlightClan

Health

Tumblekick picks themself out of their nest and begins the day anew, a fresh conviction in their heart Shrewdusk overcomes their grief Treestar overcomes their grief Avalanchebeetle caught a cat from another Clan trespassing on their territory and their ear was torn in the ensuing scuffle Cobaltnose's sprain healed Frogcry found a patch of flowering catmint and got stung by a bee Garlicbeam's fleas are gone Riverfish's soreness is gone Galegrowl's soreness is gone Sparrowhollow got heat stroke Wisteriaflare recovered from heat stroke Beamdrizzle is flea-free and their pelt is healed Bluebellknoll is cured from heat stroke but saved Shalenibble from a fox and got hurt Oakstream recovered from heat exhaustion Limethorn fought a rogue and was barely even hurt, only bruised! Wolfpaw got heat exhaustion

Patrols

As the patrol is checking the border lines, they hear the traipse of pawsteps through the territory The patrol follows the noise and comes upon a kittypet. They turn and bristle, hissing at the patrol. Fogcrawl calls out a greeting and engages them into conversation, and ask if they'd like to join PikaClan

Lemon Boy (female) joins the Clan and is intact

The patrol comes across a SplinterClan apprentice, waiting quietly at the border, who begs to join PikaClan Fadedflake is eager to steal a SplinterClan apprentice and Shiveringpaw joins the Clan. He is intact and apprenticed to Frannie

[farmergilesofham]

...and then you fight this Farmboy Hero Type, who's been getting lessons from a retired soldier, on top of a hill in the middle of a storm.

You use the Magic Sword while he uses just a normal-ass walking staff, the same one he uses for hiking and sometimes slinging rocks to catch food. The battle is frustratingly even, until the cold earth beneath your feet becomes a slickened mud, and you both fall.

The Sword tumbles out of your hands, and lands between the two of you - the ensuing scuffle is mean, violent, slippery, and hard to discern. You both grab for the sword at once, and both reach it. You punch him, he punches you back.

Kicking and punching and biting your way down, you writhe on the ground, trying to gain supremacy, until the Sword catches on a rock and springs out of both your hands, twirling through the air before sticking, point-down, in the mud behind you.

Your mouth is full of mud, so instead you flip him off. A moment later, you're both on the ground again, and he's winning. No longer trying to fight you, the Farmboy Hero just struggles to get past you, dragging himself through the mired earth until, finally, panting for breath, he whirls to you with the Sword in hand, its clear gem now gently glowing.

"Fine. Fuck you, just kill me already," you spit, voice tinged with defeat, anger, and no small bit of loss, as the weapon you had been using for months seems to clearly prefer this upstart kid.

"No."

He turns away from you, the Sword still in hand, and lurches down the hill.

Sorry, what? This little shit thinks he's better than you - and he thinks it's just fine to leave someone as dangerous as you lying around? Fuck this kid, fuck that Sword, and especially fuck that stupid Chosen One-ass prophecy. It's your gods-damned Sword, and you're gonna get it back.

You run into him like a drunken bull, and he topples to the ground with an unpleasant squelching noise of splattering mud. You wrench the sword from his hands, whirl around, and as the rain drives down onto your shoulders, you scream defiance into the wind. It's YOUR goddamn Sword, and no Goody Two-Shoes, Farmboy-ass Moral Paragon is gonna take it from you.

The look of pity he gives almost makes you pop a vein.

Hell no, you're not gonna be turned aside just because some village prettyboy gave you the stink-eye. You turn back around, knowing you're going the wrong way, and climb up the hill again. The rain hides your tears, but at the peak of that hill you scream at the top of your lungs. The Sword falls uselessly to the ground. Who needs a fuckin' sword anyway? It slips along the mud and tumbles off the edge of the cliff, striking stone at the bottom with a clear ring.

"Good riddance" you whisper, and fall to your knees.

There's a hand on your shoulder. Before you can say anything, it becomes a warm, mud-slopped embrace.

You weep in his arms, because you have nothing left.

He just holds you tight, while the storm blows itself out, and the last rays of the sun streak crimson across the torn-up sky.

Being the reluctant Chosen One of some bullshit prophecy, except you're not actually sure if you even are the Chosen One. You weren't exactly chosen to wield this Cool Magic Sword or anything, you kind of stole it. You sort of killed a guy by accident once. You've been making shit up as you go along, screwing people over, but you don't regret most of it because those people were dicks anyway.

Then some Annoyingly Wholesome goody-two-shoes farmboy hero shows up and you kind of hate him on sight. Also he annoyingly looks just like you, except somehow prettier and better in every way. He's even got a birthmark on the same place you've got a big scar on, and you didn't even get that scar from doing anything cool, but getting punted down the stairs by some other asshole in a pub brawl that you weren't even involved in before you got tackled for standing in the wrong place.

And then this asshole Farmboy Hero Type sees you and goes "you are not the rightful heir of that sword, you are a false and a cheat and I will battle you for it", and then you realise you're the fucking Dark Foil Nemesis to this guy, the darker and edgier version who is only meant to contrast how fair and rightful this real hero is.

And you just go "You know what? Fuck you, fight me" because fuck this guy and the moral high horse he rode in on. Not everyone can get raised on a farm with loving adoptive parents who were tragically murdered. Your parents are tragically alive and you fucking wish they weren't.

[yr-obedt-cicero]

He was going to punch him?? 💀

According to the retelling events of the confrontation at the theater between Eacker, Price, and Hamilton; yes! It's said that Philip (Possibly Price too) was about to assault Eacker before some other folks in the theater lobby stepped between the three to stop them.

Page four of The Salem Gazette, dated; the 4th of December, 1801. Salem, Massachusetts. By Thomas C. Cushing, retells the event;

“He [George I. Eacker] determined to leave the box, and remonstrate with Mr. Hamilton privately in the lobby with his back towards Mister Hamilton and Price, overcome with agitation and shame to be thus treated, he exclaimed "It is too abominable to be publicly insulted by a set of Rascals."—"Who do you damn'd Rascals?" was the immediate enquiry repeated again and again. Mr. Eacker felt anxious to avoid a broil in the Theatre, and observed to the gentlemen, that he lived at No: 50 Wall-street, where he was always found—"Your place of residence has nothing to do with us!" was the reply. Upon this, some person's observing an intention as they supposed to as assault Mr. Eacker, and desires to prevent a disturbance to the Theatre, stepped before the gentlemen, and with difficulty prevented their approaching Mr. Eacker. Mr. Eacker then requested them to make less noise, and proposed retiring to some private place.”

(source)

You can read my transcription of the newspaper here.

Another newspaper, The Historical Magazine and Notes and Queries Concerning the Antiquities, even supports this by claiming;

“which were overheard by Eacker, who asked Hamilton to step into the lobby; Price followed—here the expression damned rascals was used by Eacker to one of them, and a little scuffle ensued;”

(source)

In Philip's defense, one source claims Eacker dragged him out of the box by the collar of his shirt, so I wouldn't blame him for getting infuriated or getting physical;

“This conduct Mr. Eacker resented in a very intemperate manner, collared Mr. Hamilton, called them damned rascals and villains, and said if he did not hear from them, he would treat them as such. Challenges were consequently sent to him by both.”

(source)

[mettywiththenotes]

Au where Bakugou is the JockTM and Izuku is the NerdTM, but Izuku secretly joins an underground fighting ring and has to hide that fact whenever he’s late for school or has to scrub off the blood on his shirt or smthg

Bakugou is the jock but he gets into scuffles and playful fights, not fucking bloody beaten-half-to-death fight clubs - which is why when he’s walking home alone one night and hears a bunch of noise, he walks toward it to find Izuku in his nerd clothes beating the absolute shit out of 3 older men, curb-stomping them, then getting out his All MightTM handkerchief to wipe the blood off his hands and saying “You’ll have to try again next time, guys! Seems like you’re still no match for me.”

Bakugou is horrified and actually kind of scared that he’s been kinda-sorta-teasing-and-making-fun of Izuku and all this time the nerd has had the power to kill him

They are more or less just rivals but only in terms of tests and grades! Not beat downs and broken legs and jaws!

Bakugou: DOES YOUR MOM KNOW ABOUT THIS??

Izuku, wiping the blood off his glasses: Obviously not, Kacchan, do you really think she’d let me do this?

Bakugou: But... I thought you were a goody-two-shoes! You’re super nice to everyone, even the teachers!!

Izuku: How else am I going to convince them to lay off me? If I didn’t get them on my good side, they’d totally be asking questions about where I was and stuff

Bakugou: 😨

Back when they were kids, Izuku was inspired when he and Katsuki would get bullied by the neighborhood kids and Katsuki would fight them and send them away, and Izuku would watch, in awe of his childhood friend’s strength. They eventually grew apart, not as close as they used to be and only just recently starting to repair what they had, but it still inspired Izuku to join his own fighting ring because he loved the pay-off when after a long hard day he’d get to take it out on people who WANTED to fight

Bakugou quit that shit in middle school and has since mostly grown away from that violent streak, and now he’s a jock but he’s one of those who only seems super scary but is actually quite nice in his own way. He’s quit the fighting scene, which is why when he finds out Izuku is doing this, he’s so shocked cause he never expected it

Bakugou, bandaging Izuku up: You gotta be more careful, stupid Deku!

Izuku: Kacchan, I’ve had worse than this, I’m fine

Bakugou:

Bakugou: WORSE?! WORSE THAN A BROKEN ARM??

Izuku: I mean YEAH! One time this woman with short hair brought an actual rifle to the fight, and-

Bakugou, already getting gray hairs: *head in hands*

-

Bonus, because I’m a sucker for Izuku and the League interacting:

The League are older teens who are the School Rivals that everybody hates and everyone just thinks they are super mean bullies, but they actually do join in with Izuku in the fighting rings and they used to patch Izuku up before Bakugou started doing it

The League have their own fighting ring but the guy who owns it is a creepy asshole, violent and manipulative with that wide grin stretching his face the entire goddamn time, and Izuku promised to get stronger and fuck this guy up for the League, so the League decided to come over every now and then and patch him up

Izuku went through an entire enemies-to-friends bonding character development arc without Bakugou ever even knowing lmao

So when one night, Bakugou comes over to heal Izuku’s wounds, he finds the League are already there taking care of him, and shenanigans ensue. Turns out, that Shigaraki guy is actually quite protective over that stupid nerd, like some sort of big brother, and the League do their own fair share of protective fussing, so Bakugou’s gotta learn to share it seems

[ahedderick]

Ok. The year was 2016.

My son was trying to do a junior-level woodworking project with some shelves. My father set him up with wood and a couple of tools in the greenhouse. While we were working, someone moved a small board that had been sitting on the greenhouse bench and

ruined a very small mouse nest that had been underneath. The normal thing to do would be try to replace the wood that was moved and wait for the mama mouse to come back and reclaim her (singular) baby. However, we weren't sure we could put that wood back at the exact correct angle so that the mousling wouldn't be squooshed and Grandpa's cat was Right There.

My daughter, who was ten, had some Strong Feelings about the situation and imparted them to me eloquently. Loudly. Unceasingly.

"All right," I conceded, "gather up the Mouse and we'll take her home."

The mouse barely had her eyes open, and would need to be "bottle" fed with an eyedropper.

Back at home K rushed about getting the cage ready, then I had her read the text from the Orphans book and mix the formula. We heated a minute quantity of formula and attempted to install it inside the mouse. No, nothing doing, there was furious whisker cleaning and sneezing and squinchy faces but no actual consumption of formula. Not a surprise, really. I washed the formula off the outside of the mouse, which wun’t easy, neither, and returned it to K for cuddling.

  I suggested the name ‘Maxine.’ Maxine is an inch and a quarter long, sans tail. Everybody with a boxer, bulldog, or pitbull seems to want to name it ‘Max.’ I find some sophomoric humor in owning a mini-Max.   Next morning Maxine had four dropper feedings, and started solid food. Thank heavens she already has her eyes open, this process won’t be very lengthy. K brought her into the kitchen just as I was sitting down to my bowl of oatmeal, so I set one (One!) milky, sweetened oat on my hand. Drama ensued. Maxine wanted the oat, but could not figure how to get it in her mouth. After a great deal of licking, small jumps, and some assistance from her left front paw, she managed to consume. One. Oat.

Whisker hygiene is very important. Oatmeal is not conducive to good whisker hygiene. A lot of post-oatmeal whisker maintenance is necessary. Do not interrupt someone who is cleaning her whiskers. You will get a Dirty Look.

So we settled into a routine. I had 'custody' of Max while the kids were in school. She was one of the most expressive animals I have ever met. It's not that animals can talk, but - some of them let you know so clearly what they want . . . ?

A Play in One Act with Cake:  

Maxine Mouse: A-hem

Me: Er,     what?

MM: It is 11:00, and I noticed that you have tea and cake while I am getting small drops of formula.

Me: Ahh, would . . you like some?

MM: Yes, please.

{small crumb of lemon cake is removed and placed on the table}

MM:  nibble nibble MMMMMMM!!!!  nibble nibble nibble nibble nibble nibble nibble !!

MM: Isn’t sharing nice?!

Me: yyyy-es, yes, very companionable.

MM: Time for a mousenap! I’ll just curl up right here!

Me: That’s my hand. I need my hand. You sleep in your nest.

MM: No! Your hand is warm and cozy! I’ll sleep better right here!

Me: But, I

MM: Wah! I need love and warmth!!

{dramatic scuffle ensues, ending with mouse in mouse nest}

A: Here are your crumbs and fruit. Enjoy!

M: I don’t WANT crumbs and fruit! I want chicken salad!

A: That’s MY lunch; you have appropriate mouse food.

M: (skitters down my arm and starts rapidly eating my sandwich)

A: Oy! You! Vermin! Chicken salad isn’t mouse food!

M: (with her mouth full) I am NOT vermin, I’m a guest. And I want chicken salad!!!

A: Sighs, breaks off a small bit of sandwich

A & M: {Busy munching noises}

Well, anyhow. Mice grow up very quickly. At a certain point, Maxine politely made it clear that she was a big girl, and it was time to say goodbye.

We took her to a field very far from any neighborhood cats, and created a safe 'house' for her. I removed a shovel-full of dirt from the ground underneath a tree, her nestbox went in there, then we set a large flat stone on top so she effectively had a mouse-sized fortress. A dried gourd with a small cache of food and two exits in different directions completed the structure.

When I set her at the opening, she darted inside, then came right back to the entrance. The kids and I watched silently as she darted in and out, learned her way around her 'front yard', and eventually settled in for a wash-up perched in a small shrub. I gave her one last little cheek-scritch, and we said goodbye.

Maximum

Reminder to myself, re-tell the story of Max Mouse later.

[undertaker1827]

Could you do 15 20 and 23 for Undertaker and their s/o finding out he is a grim reaper not being afraid of him bec she knew from the very moment they met, he was different and accepted that from the very start. [sorry for my english]

Of course! And your English is great! Also I kinda got carried away (there’s around 2k words) I just loved the prompt. Enjoy! 

Prompts in bold

❗️Warnings; Canon-typical violence, reader gets attacked/minorly injured (UT saves the day, tis all good), said attacker gets knocked unconscious and doubting & hurt/comfort-ing ensues, but there’s a fluffy end I promise

Masterlist

-

Your steps echoed through the dark, empty city streets, not a soul about apart from you. It was to be expected, you supposed; after all, it was midnight. You had been out with a few friends and the time had just slipped away from you all until you remembered that you had work in the morning and you needed to get home quickly. Having not intended to be so long, the only mode of transport was either walking or getting a taxi, and the latter seemed a little ridiculous to you given that your apartment was only just around the corner. That led to where you were now, taking a shortcut through a less than advisable area of town so you would get home quickly.

There was a sudden scuffle behind you and your whole body tensed, heart jumping and mind racing with possibilities. You risked taking a glance behind you, doing your best to slow your breathing when you realised nothing was there. Unnerved but determined, you carried on at a slightly faster pace and focused on getting to the door of your building, which was now only a few minutes away, less if you were to walk any more quickly. The second noise you heard behind you was closer than the first and enough to set your every nerve on edge.

Nausea crawled up the back of your throat when you distinctly sensed someone following you, heard their footfalls as they broke into a run and felt each limb start to tremble with the ensuing rush o adrenalin. You broke into a full sprint hardly daring to turn for long enough to make out any more than a figure dressed in black, face covered by fabric and holding something that glinted in the halo of light coming from the back window of someone’s workshop - - was that a knife? The thought spurred you on even more heart pounding and preparing to scream for help, but you just weren’t fast enough.

You let out a muffled yell as you were tripped up and landed unceremoniously on the concrete pavement, chin scraped and lip split as your face collided with it. You couldn’t care less about that now though, immediately twisting over and trying to haul yourself to your feet, ignoring the pain blossoming from the ankle you landed on. Again though, you were too slow; a hand pressed to your mouth and a steel blade to your throat prevented any escape attempts you were going to make. Your eyes widened in fear and you desperately tried to press yourself further back into the concrete, but it was no good.

“Stay still,” your attacker hissed out at you, digging the knife a little further into your neck, “and be quiet.”

You hands gripped his wrist automatically, fingers trembling, but both your attentions were drawn by the arrival of a second person. You looked over your shoulder to find a man silhouetted at the near end of the backstreet you were in, a large, familiar coat flaring out around him and one arm out to the side, holding a… stick? Whatever your attacker was going to say, be it a warning to leave or a lie that this wasn’t what it looked like, the other spoke before he had the chance.

“I will say this once, and once only,” he said in a cold, hard voice, so different from his normal joking tone and one you hadn’t ever heard him use before. “Let them go.” Each word was pronounced individually, as if being made clear to a child who was likely to misunderstand. He took a step forward to punctuate each one, now close enough that you could see the grey hair that draped over his shoulders and hung down his back. The stick was a sotoba, you realised, you had seen a few of them scattered around his parlour. You always thought they were there for the aesthetic.

Fear still coursed through you, but now it was for your long term partner as well as yourself. What did he hope to accomplish against a man who held a knife to your throat?

“Look, I don’t know who you are, but I suggest you go before you cause anymore bloodshed.” This was accompanied by a poignant press of the knife to your neck, a single, hot drop of blood trailing don your skin. And there was something else you never expected to see displayed by your beloved Undertaker. Pure, barely restrained rage.

You hardly managed to keep track of the events that unfolded, but one minute he was standing there a few paces away and the next he was right next to you. The knife dropped to the floor with a clatter and your attacker let out a cry of pain. If the angle of it was anything to go by, his wrist was both dislocated and broken. You couldn’t help the way your eyes widened as the mortician grabbed the man by his collar and held him as high into the air as possible, then threw him back against the brick wall of the building he had been holding you against just moments earlier. You floundered for a second or two before realising there was a massive blade held to the man’s throat, a polished silver that curved gracefully into a human skull and ribcage, the spine of which had been whittled down to a handle that was easily as long as you were tall. The sotoba was gone.

As your gaze trailed back up Undertaker’s form, you came to a second realisation. His bangs were shoved back away from his face and you could see his eyes. And they were glowing. He seemed utterly detached from the man’s frightened whimpering, as if his begging made no sound at all.

“You thought it would be fun, I believe,” he stated in confident mockery, “to pick on someone weaker than yourself. How does it feel now, hm?” The mortician let him drop down a few inches as his hand found purchase on his throat, grip tightening until you could see it was a physical struggle to breath. “How dare you.” The last had fallen to a threatening whisper, Undertaker’s face far too close to the other’s. You could see the man’s struggle was weakening, the lack of air starting to have its effect. “I won’t kill you,” Undertaker muttered at length, “you aren’t worth my time.”

With that, he let go entirely, disinterested gaze watching as the man crumpled to the floor. His eyes then flicked over to you, taking in the hand you were holding to your throat and the fear practically radiating off of you in waves. He fancied he could hear your heartbeat even as you stood several steps away. The mortician languidly held out a hand as he said your name, waiting until you moved towards him to pull you into his chest.

You thought you had only blinked once, but in that fraction of a second, all of your surroundings had changed. It was Undertaker’s parlour that you were standing in now, not some dingy side street with a man who had tried to kill you now laying unconscious against a wall. The mortician stepped away from you quickly, a little too quickly really, and moved to lay the scythe against a coffin. You stood still, unsure what to do after everything that had just taken place and unprepared with the intensity that would come from your partner’s gaze when he turned back around on his heel to face you.

“Are you alright?” It was still the same, serious voice from before, though now instead of being laced with anger, all you could hear was concern. Your fingertips drifted back to your throat as you contemplated whether you actually were alright or not, though you frowned when Undertaker went to reach towards you then stopped, almost as if catching himself from doing something he knew he shouldn’t. Your frown only deepened when he stayed an arm’s length away. Physical contact was always something he had loved, craved even, so why he was acting so strangely now when you could really do with the contact you didn’t know. You made the executive decision then that his bizarre reasoning didn’t matter, opting to close the distance between you and wrap your arms securely around his body, head tucked into his shoulder and eyes closed. You were still shaking and Undertaker ached with a deep, broken sadness so strong that he didn’t realise he was once again raising his arms to hold you. He dropped them immediately, but you were still just standing there and now it seemed like you were holding back tears as well and everything he did was just making things worse -

“Fox?” You whimpered out the name you had adopted for him past the obvious lump in your throat and he could have sworn that he had never felt so guilty for anything before.

“Yes?” His voice was hoarse too.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this, but please just hold me.” Your words were so small and frightened, something in the reaper just snapped. A hand on your side brought you impossibly closer to his and he hauled you up into his arms, one hand supporting your back and the other carding back through your hair as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He pressed his nose against your neck, avoiding the injured part, and left a series of gentle kisses there as sobs started to wrack your frame. You had no idea how long you stayed like that but over time, you became aware of the reaper murmuring the same set of words against your skin, over and over again.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

He was holding you so tightly that something in him was afraid he might hurt you, but you were holding him in return and he couldn’t bring himself to let go. Your tears having finally subsided, you tilted your head to leave a kiss on his jaw, halting his flow of words.

“Stop apologising, you have nothing to be sorry for.” The chartreuse eyes that met yours were full of so many different emotions that it was almost overwhelming. He moved a hand to cup your face, thumb carefully brushing over your lower lip.

“You’re not afraid of me?” Your stomach dropped at the fact that he thought you would be.

“You’ve given me no reason to be.” He looked for a moment like he didn’t want to believe you, so you took his face in your hands and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, relief flooding you when he kissed you back. “I knew you were different,” you continued, not breaking eye contact, “I’ve always known. I just didn’t know how.” The mortician gave a small nod.

“I’m a reaper,” he told you, “retired. It was my job among many others to collect the souls of the dead.” You just nodded, smiling a little. He let out a sigh as his eyes caught the crimson staining on your neck. “Let me do something with that.” Another smile.

“Thank you.”

-

Undertaker cleaned and covered your wound efficiently but with gentle hands, making sure he didn’t hurt you. From the angle your head was at to give him best access to your injury, you could just see the top of his grey hair, feel its weight over your legs as he leaned close to you. You started running your hands through it and playing with the ends almost subconsciously, missing the small glance he gave you out of the corner of his eye.

The mortician only moved back a fraction when he finished seeing to your neck, close enough that you could still play with his hair. Close enough that he could see you rather than sense you and do so without the need for corrective lenses. You looked straight back at him though, and stole the words he was going to speak before he had the chance.

“You’re so beautiful.” He tilted his head affectionately, a few strands of hair crossing his eyes and leading you to push them out of the way. The reaper leaned into your touch immediately and you buried your hand in his hair, fingertips trailing over the roots. His eyes were soft when he opened them again.

“You’re the beautiful one, love.”

[tickle-bugs]

12 for Arrow with Sara tickling Oliver?

12. “I didn’t mean it!”

Please don't send more--ficlet requests are CLOSED!

Cruel Canary

Spoilers for Arrow below!

“He’s ticklish?” Felicity looks between the two of them. “Why did I not know this?”

“I’m not--”

“He likes to pretend he’s tough.” Sara adjusts her position where she’s clamped on Oliver’s back and shoots Felicity a grin over his shoulder.

“No—Sara, get off.” He yanks on her arms and she doesn’t budge.

“Nah, I’ve got a point to prove. Stop lying to your beloved girlfriend—“ She gestures to Felicity— “and maybe then we can talk.”

“I didn’t mean it, alright?” He shoots a nervous glance in Felicity’s direction, and that tells her everything she needs to know.

Oliver lied to her face about being ticklish. Repeatedly. To make matters worse, he gloated about it.

“Yeah? Then why’re you running?” Sara risks falling to get a quick squeeze in in Oliver’s side. He doesn’t flinch, but somehow that reaction isn’t convincing anymore.

“I’m not. You’re heavy. Just trying to get rid of you.” He rolls his eyes. Felicity watches regret pass over Oliver’s face in real time. Sara growls, and, in one very impressive move that she’d really oughta share with the class, takes Oliver down to the ground with her legs.

A scuffle ensues, full of flailing limbs and precise strikes that would worry her if they weren’t highly-trained ninja assassin vigilantes, or whatever.

God, her life is weird.

Oliver comes toppling down to the mat with an oof, Sara perched atop his thighs. Felicity leans over his face with a grin.

“Hi.” She boops his nose.

“Hey.” He returns the gesture with a private smile, and that’s enough for her to completely forget her self-control. She leans down and kisses him, slow and tender, palms flat against his chest. He reaches up to cradle the back of her head, pulling her closer, and she mentally adds ‘upside down kiss’ to the list of strange wonders that Oliver’s brought into her life.

There’s an uncomfortable clacking of teeth, though, when Oliver unexpectedly laughs into her mouth—which, hot—before jerking away. She catches a glimpse of his smile before it dissolves, and it’s like witnessing a shooting star without a wish prepared.

“Oh my god,” Felicity breathes.

“Don’t—“ Oliver leans up on his elbows and stares Sara down. She smirks and spreads her fingers over his knee, scritching in gentle bursts, and Star City’s guardian melts into the floor.

“Y’know, I thought he’d put up more of a fight.” Felicity gives his shoulders a squeeze for emphasis. He makes a sort of offended, squeaky noise of protest.

“Normally, he does,” Sara grins, sliding to pin his calves under her legs, “But his knees have always been the crack in his armor.”

“Sara—“ he tries, grabbing at her hands, but blunt nails fluttering beneath his knee quickly derails his train of thought.

“I feel like I should be taking notes.” Felicity murmurs, shifting to better pillow Oliver’s head in her lap.

“You should,” Sara laughs.

“S-Sahahara!” Oliver holds out placating hands and looks between the two of them.

“Dude, the adults are talking.” Sara rolls her eyes and shoves her hands beneath his arms. He cackles for a moment, genuine and open-mouthed, and Felicity sneaks a picture, for memory’s sake.

“I love you so much.” Felicity pokes his ribs and he chokes on his next bout of laughter, jerking his legs up on instinct. Sara keeps them pinned.

“I lo—“ he breaks hard on another giggle fit— “I love y—“

He’s got a light, breathy sort of laugh—it gets stronger and quieter in waves and she’s really enjoying the tide there. She rarely gets to see Oliver smile—It’s only the private, tight-lipped grins that she’s learned to read during their time together. Now she’s watching him scrunch his whole pinkened face in concentration, so desperately trying to tell her through laughter that he loves her too, and her heart swells.

“I will never forget when we were together—“ Sara pauses so Oliver can finish groaning, because apparently he knows where this is going— “and I had to chase him through a movie theatre just to get a few pokes in.”

“Really?”

“Yeah! We were seeing a movie and I was trying to be cute, y’know. This dork up and ran after I tickled him. Jumped over seats and everything.” She grates her knuckles over his ribs in time with Oliver’s escape attempts.

99.9% of the time, Felicity’s pettier side would rear its ugly-yet-justified head at the mention of Oliver’s romantic past, but with Sara…it’s fine. They’re both happily with someone else. It’s a bonding thing, almost.

“You sound like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.” She pokes his stomach and another bubbly giggle slips out.

“Felicity,” he hisses, grabbing her hands—adorable, that he thinks he can stop her.

“You have no authority over me anymore—I mean, not that you ever did. I can get smiles from you on demand now.” She presses her thumbs into his waistline and he snickers into the heels of his hands.

“Where else is he ticklish?”

“Oh, literally everywhere. I’ll give you a guided tour of my favorite spots.” Sara flips him over easily enough that it’s scary.

“Sara, don’t you dare—“

“Number one,” She says with a flourish, before massaging her thumbs into his lower back, just into the dimples on either side of his spine. Oliver goes boneless, laughter muffled into the training mat, and Felicity can’t help but coo.

“So, no massages, huh?” She bites her lip on a grin. Oliver points a semi-threatening finger at her, but the mirth on his face isn’t helping his long-shattered persona. He makes a grab at Sara’s hands and misses horribly.

“Number twoooo,” Sara sing-songs, reaching back to squeeze at the back of his thigh, and his laughter drops startlingly into second gear. He curls in a little, cradling his torso, and another squeeze sends him slamming back down into the mat.

“Oh my god,” he squeaks—squeaks!—before hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. He tries to crawl away. Sara drags him back by the ankle.

“Number three—“ Sara cackles evilly— “C’mere.” She worms her fingers between his shoulder and his jaw, where he’s scrunching like his life depends on it. Oliver flings himself to the side and squeals, toppling Sara over entirely. She can see the wide-eyed moment of uh-oh cross over his face before he schools his expression into something more neutral.

Felicity’s pretty sure her pupils dilate.

He and Sara enter a staring contest of wills, both feinting at each other, and honestly, Felicity can’t be bothered to care. She yanks him down into her lap by the back of his shirt and immediately flutters her fingers beneath his chin. A flurry of choked laughter bursts from him with ease as he crumples in her arms, trying to avoid the nails avidly hunting for his smile.

Oh, she is so getting revenge for all the times he’s bullied her with his stubble.

He manages to snag her hands a little too quickly for her liking.

“You are going to kill me,” he chuckles, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones. His eyes dance with light and laughter and it makes him seem so much younger. So carefree.

“Yeah, but like, it’ll be in a sexy way. Have you heard yourself?” She accentuates her point with a kiss to his Adam’s Apple, scraping her teeth a bit, and he yelps into his next giggle fit, desperately scrunching away.

“Gross,” Sara gags, sliding off of her perch. Her work here is done, and she knows it.

“You are so cute,” Felicity groans, collapsing into his chest. It pains her, it really does.

“‘M not cute,” he mumbles, running fingers up and down her spine. She scoffs and tickles up his sides. When he makes another grab for her hands, she leans in to press fluttery kisses just beneath his jaw, and it’s sufficiently—and adorably—debilitating.

“O-Okay, okay—Felicity, c’mon,” he giggles quietly, obviously trying not to flail.

“He’ll snort if you get his hips. Just thought you should know.” Sara winks as she stands.

“Sara!” His face blossoms red.

“Oh, just wait until I tell Barry about this.” Felicity’s only half-joking, but the more she thinks about it, the more she loves the idea.

“No, nope, no you don’t.” Oliver locks an arm around her waist and pulls her to his chest. Whatever facet of him that was apparently only humoring their antics completely dissolves—his hands seek out her ribcage with deadly accuracy.

“S-Sara! Carry on my—ahaha, wait—legacy!” She reaches out a hand towards Sara, dramatic and trembling. Sara gives her a solemn, resolved nod, sticks her tongue out at Oliver, and bolts from the room.

There’s a comfort in watching Sara flee. Her message shall make it to their comrades in Central City. Her noble sacrifice will not be in vain—

Oliver clawing at Felicity’s stomach completely derails her train of dramatic thought. Her world goes upside down as Oliver hoists her onto his shoulder--dear lord--and strolls after Sara.

One of these days, she’ll learn not to get involved in ninja...assassin...vigilante...business. For now, she’ll settle for a free ride and a prime view of Oliver’s glorious backside.

[villagerain]

steeleidolon​:

Kunsel has always found listening easy–listening to what is said, how it is said, tenor and cadence, focusing in through a sea of discordant noise, either directly or indirectly. At the moment, all of this is in plain sight. No sense in trying to be surreptitious.

Curious as the tender is about the relation of the two questionable gentlemen seated at the bar, there are other patrons to attend. When she steps away, Kunsel arches a brow and looks right back to his attaché with a squint.

Measuring. Vaguely amused.

With a final yowl at the climax of his song, the drunk in the spotlight staggers over to the kiosk to choose another tune to butcher. Someone else ascends the stage to wrestle the microphone out of his hands, sparking a shrill of feedback, scuffle-thump-scuffle. Laughter erupts from the scattered parties at tables and booths at the possibility of violence (or embarrassment, there’s been plenty of that tonight).

“Hm. Nah, we’d find you a dumpster at the very least ‘cause you think I’m pretty,” Kunsel ventures with a smirk that just barely teases at a dimple.

Not that he believes that bit about the bugs.

It’s almost a game at this point. An arms race where the prize is a few spare scraps of privacy and dignity, humanity in a world stripped of it. Do the Turks often find themselves monitored within an inch of their lives?

“One hope, one prediction, one complaint. Could always get you some chamois knee pads so you’re dusting wherever you’re crawling around, eh?”

A sip of drink.

He holds it against his tongue, a bit of sublingual absorption. It burns, but that is all he feels.

There is no deadening of it. Of this. Of anything. Of his change of heart. Of course, he’s only just begun.

“Neh, wouldn’t be fun if it were easy. Any particular reason you’re gunning for shitfaced tonight, or is it just for fun?”

The overhead light strip reflects off the top rim of his glasses as Balto angles his head and glances sidelong at the ensuing chaos and microphone shriek on the stage with the barest grimace.

A positive development, no reserved opinions from him nor the crowd. 

The entirety of SOLDIER and its very foundations have imploded in the past few years. Whether to voice a complaint for the sake of it or merely to bolster his newfound standing, that hardly matters. Heidegger calls to replenish the armory. SOLDIER’s tenets, if they ever existed, are pushing daisies. SOLDIERs are still people at the end of the day. They have their various ideals, idiosyncrasies, inclinations. At times they are unstable. Something about the whole process, about the sort of person that can survive such an ordeal intact. Scouting mitigates risk, lowers the odds of breakage or death. Less time for that, now. Maybe instability is inescapable. 

His job is to figure out where exactly on that line Kunsel falls. Even if a bird can sing from its cage, there is nothing to stop it from plucking its own feathers.

“Those shafts are filthy, you know. I hate taking my suit in for dry cleaning. There’s complaint number two for you, since we’re keeping count.” Languid, lazy, Balto swirls the citrus-colorful contents of ethanol vice in its frosty vessel.  

Syrup soothes the bite as he sips. Balto smirks around the rim of his glass. “To lower your guard? To have a little fun? Why not both? I did just get upgraded from garbage can to dumpster.”

Time will do its work, one way or another. For euphoria and a mild slur to accompany his words, for human nature to take its course. It would be a lie to say Balto isn’t invested in the puzzle he has been tasked to solve.

“Karaoke nights are better with company.” An innocent remark. Maybe. He meets Kunsel’s eyes with latent curiosity. The last man standing. “Good company,” Balto clarifies, placing his drink down.