#the fanfics are keeping me alive

[boacrow]

Crying when I saw the spoilers.

SOBBING when I watched that scene. I had to pause multiple times because of the heartbreak.

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (pt. 2)

—

Tw: N/A

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1 here) - (Pt. 3 here)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

It was a beautiful morning. Somehow, against all odds, the sun was shining through the thick smog perpetually covering Gotham.

And Danny hated it.

He was in pain, he was exhausted, he was grieving, and all he wanted to do was sleep for at least a week.

In an act of celestial mockery, the sun shone regardless.

After around twenty minutes of tossing and turning in bed, trying to get back to sleep, Danny gave up and pried himself out of bed.

He stumbled through the hallway and into the living room, staring openly at every splash of color he saw in the small apartment. He hadn’t forgotten what color looked like in the time he was in the lab, but it was comforting to see.

Someone cleared their throat. Danny whipped his head around, eyes falling on a scrawny, gangly man sitting down in a worn armchair, hunched over a laptop. He was looking at him with a dull, bored expression.

Right. Scarecrow.

His escape.

The chase.

His mom.

“You look a lot less terrifying without the mask,” Danny blurted out, slapping his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t call my normal appearance frightening,” Scarecrow hummed, focusing his attention back onto the laptop, “that’s what the costume is for, after all.”

“Oh.”

After a brief moment of excruciating silence, Scarecrow spoke.

“You any good with computers, Danny? Hacking, and all that?”

Danny jolted. Scarecrow needed his help with something! This was great! Now, he’d have more of a reason not to get rid of him!

“Oh, uh, yeah! Not as good as my friend Tucker, but I think I’m pretty good.”

“And you’re familiar with the GiW’s systems specifically,” Scarecrow continued, beckoning him over. Danny complied, shuffling over awkwardly. “Right?”

“Well, I guess? My friends and I got into their stuff a couple of times before they…”

“Wonderful,” Scarecrow said, standing up with a stretch. He shoved the laptop into Danny’s hands and gestured for him to sit down on the couch. “Then you can hack into their system and extract whatever files you can find.”

Danny stared at the man like he’d lost his mind. He looked back at him expectantly.

Danny sat down.

“Yeah, I-I can do that. Tuck and I built a back door into their system ages ago,” he said, checking the screen. It was clear that for all the skills that Scarecrow had, hacking was definitely not one of them. “But, uh, don’t you have someone else that usually does this sort of thing for you? Not that I’m complaining!”

Scarecrow scowled, and Danny felt his heart fall into his ass.

“Usually, I do,” Scarecrow huffed, “but I chose to leave my most recent job with the Penguin early, so now there’s no way that he or Eddie will help me with anything until I make it up to them somehow.”

“Oh,” Danny said.

He had no clue whatsoever who Eddie was.

Danny got to work quickly, hoping that if he ignored the gangly man, he would leave him be. Luckily, he did just that, leaving to go work on something in another room.

Danny checked the laptop’s security before continuing Scarecrow’s progress, making sure that the GiW wouldn’t be able to grab their location.

It was…threateningly good. Whoever Eddie was, he had somehow crammed the functionality of a top-of-the-line PC into a tiny, beat-up old laptop. It almost reminded Danny of Tucker and his terrifying competence with his PDA.

Tucker.

Amity park.

Home.

Danny snapped himself out of his thoughts, tabbing back into the application Scarecrow had up and began to work his magic.

He had near full access to the entire GiW database within half an hour.

Mumbling out a quick thank-you to Tucker, he called Scarecrow over to appraise his work.

“Fixed up some food for you while you worked,” the rogue said, handing him a bowl of oatmeal, taking the laptop into his lap as he did so, “didn’t know how well you could eat, considering you’re recovering from… surgery, so I decided to stay on the safe side.”

Danny had no clue what this guy’s deal was.

He definitely did not tear up at the first genuine thoughtfulness he encountered in weeks, and he did not look away as he ate so that Scarecrow couldn’t see his face.

At least Scarecrow was too focused on the laptop to notice or care.

Or, maybe, he was just mercifully ignoring him.

Either way, Danny ate slowly, not wanting to make himself sick. He allowed himself to absentmindedly look around the room for the first time, taking everything in.

It was strangely homey. The space was filled with warm browns and yellows, a few splashes of color on the wall in the form of (obviously gifted) paintings. There was a beat-up bookshelf against the wall, clearly second-hand, filled to the brim with psychology books. On every available surface there was a different colored candle, all at different stages of use, clearly collected over the course of years.

Danny knew that the man next to him was a crazed, murderous criminal, but his home was oddly reminiscent of Jazz.

He was not about to cry.

“Danny,” Scarecrow hummed, snapping him out of his spiraling, “can you explain this to me?”

He looked over. The rogue was pointing to a new report, seemingly posted only a few hours ago.

Nodding, he took the computer into his lap, pouring over the contents.

He read the report again.

And again.

And again.

Danny swore loudly, crumpling like a wet paper bag, head in his hands.

“What?”

“It’s…” he swore again, glancing back at the laptop, “they…since you became liminal from synthetic ectoplasm, when we’re within about 500 meters of one another, our ectoplasm signatures resonate, and they can’t track us with any of their technology.”

“How is that a bad thing?”

“If we’re not that close to each other, they can track us down from anywhere in the world.”

Scarecrow went dead quiet. After what felt like the single longest minute of Danny’s life, he let out a truly exasperated sigh, slumping over in his seat.

“Yeah, me too,” Danny mumbled, utterly miserable.

“…I’ll have to move my plans back a little,” Scarecrow sighed, “I can’t drag an injured child with me when I attack the Gotham GiW base, you’ll just get in the way.”

“Oh come on,” Danny whined, “I can take care of myself just fine. Besides, Batman brings kids with him to do dangerous stuff all the time, and he’s fine!”

“Might I remind you that the second Robin died violently,” Scarecrow snapped, “and that Batman most likely has more traumatic brain injuries than all of the Gotham rogues combined. That really isn’t the winning argument you think it is.”

Danny paused, trying to think up some way to win the argument. Then, he realized what he had ignored before.

“Wait, Scarecrow, you’re gonna attack the GiW?”

“That’s the plan,” he nodded, “and call me Dr. Crane. I’m only Scarecrow when I’m in the mask.”

But,” Danny sputtered, “Sca—uh, Dr. Crane—that’s insane! The weapons they’ve got- they’ll rip you apart!”

“Not my first time,” Crane said, making Danny wince. “Besides, I have plenty of experience avoiding gunfire. I’ll live.”

“You…” Danny was silent for a while, trying to think of something to say, “fine, but you have to take me with you wherever you go. As soon as they see either of us on their radars, they’ll hunt us down.”

Dr. Crane sighed.

“…Fine. I need some time to plan anyways. Now, you’re going to help me download these files, properly format them, and send them out.”

“…Why?”

“Well, some of the other rogues might appreciate the heads up, and I’d quite like them to be indebted to me. Besides, I still need to pay back the Penguin for ditching him, and he loves knowing things that other people don’t.”

Danny paused.

“That’s an awful idea, no offense. If any of the rogues know our weaknesses, they—”

“Danny, we’re censoring everything. The only things they need to know about are the GiW specifically, and any sort of laws surrounding them.”

Danny snorted.

“You care about laws now?”

“Yes, because if we get taken to Arkham, they’ll hand us off to the GiW the moment they ask, and it’ll be completely legal.”

Oh. Danny had honestly forgotten that Arkham was an option.

“…Ok. I’ll help you. Who are we telling?”

“I don’t think you really need to know,” Dr. Crane said, the faintest shadow of an amused look on his face, “but I’ll humor you for now. We’re sending the files out to the Penguin, Riddler, Poison Ivy via Harley Quinn, Two-Face, and Red Hood.”

Danny nodded. He could live with that.

“Alright, then let’s get to work.”

—

[insane-hag]

fanfic so good i have to pull up tumblr and shitpost about the character

[kitswag]

A little art about a headcanon of mine for Dragon and Sabo, and a little fanfic about it under the cut

"Dragon-san," a familiar voice, Sabo's voice came knocking from the door of the cluttered office. Dragon perked up, putting down the pen he's writing with- just a follow up rough plan for the revolutionary's next strike.

The door was opened and there was Sabo with a bleeding arm. Instinctively, Dragon reached for the cabinet on his desk, pulling it open to grab for a roll of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic.

Sabo sat in front of Dragon, reaching out his roughed-up arm, his face not showing a trace of pain. (Dragon always knew the surges beneath his mask anyways.)

Dragon sighed as he saw the gnarly wound on Sabo's arm. The boy had a knack on being risky, sometimes even too keen on self sacrifice. Even though being a revolutionary always costed a price, Dragon couldn't help but worry about Sabo's knacks.

"I got a little reckless with my plans, " Sabo offered a little charming smile to Dragon (cut out the reprimands just this time?)

"I always told you to be careful. You're too good to lose, " Dragon said (again, Sabo?).

Sabo offered another cheeky smile, "Next time," he said, as if Dragon never feared for his name written on the list of fallen revolutionaries in a mission report.

When Sabo first arrived in Baltigo, still wrapped with bandages all over, not even able to move his wounded limbs freely, he would only turn to Dragon to replace his bandages, any nurses who tried to replace it would only make him flinch violently.

Dragon tapped a cotton smeared with antiseptic liquid on his arm, following it up with the roll of bandages. Soon, after falling into the familiar act of wrapping Sabo's wounds, Dragon couldn't resist the nostalgia that went flying right to his head.

But of course, they understood (despite being concerned) , that Sabo was a child, a child that had no one familiar except for Dragon in an unfamiliar, new building far far away from his home island.

When his burns healed, and when he finally got to trust the nurses, it still became a habit. He would knock on Dragon's door or tug at his coat, show his wounds, and Dragon would pull out his cabinet and fish out a bottle of antiseptic liquid and some bandages. And there it was, a repeating pattern of tapping a cotton smeared with the antiseptic against Sabo's wounds and wrapping it up with soft bandages.

Dragon always thought of it as a comforting habit.

It was not rare that he would receive reports about his fallen men, people that had died for his own cause. And being here, bandaging Sabo, feeling the warmth of his skin, reminded Dragon that his Chief of Staff, his son, was still here, still alive. Still able to go knock on Dragon's office and offer a smile and a wound.

Sabo's small hiss of pain suddenly brought Dragon abruptly out of his daze. He softened his pace and grip, finishing wrapping Sabo's arm with tying the end, cutting the excess bandage with a small pair of scissors.

"Thank you, Dragon-san, " Sabo smiled, softly.

Dragon couldn't resist reaching his hand out and ruffling Sabo's hair, "Be careful next time," he warned.

Sabo's smile turned into a grin, "This time is just a slip up. "

Dragon couldn't help but smile back. Thin, but soft with fondness for his son sitting in front of him. He pulled his hand out of Sabo's locks of blonde and hope that tomorrow, his name wouldn't be written on the list of the fallen.

[nevertheless-moving]

Angsty Continuation of this Crack Szeth/Kaladin Time Travel AU:

"Sir, may I speak with you? It's a matter of some importance."

Dalinar looked up sharply, locking eyes with his Captain of the Guard.

Some of the clerks he had been meeting with had bristled, affronted as ever by what many saw as the unreasonably jumped up dark eyes. His intrusion into the room with barely a knock probably hadn't helped their opinion.

Dalinar ignored them for the moment, choosing instead to maintain eye contact. A chill ran down his spine.

Stormfather. When had the Captain started looking so…worn out? The man's gaze had always been strikingly intense, tired shadows kept at bay by a fiery rage. But now… Dalinar had perhaps seen that expression before, in a dying Chasmfiend. Embers of an unfathomably immense blaze, finally burning itself out. The heat it gave off still enough to scorch a man, but dying nevertheless.

He felt a twinge of guilt. Surely… he hadn't done that? Almight knows he asked a lot of the young man, too much perhaps. But storms… no, something must have happened. He had just seen the man, what, yesterday? Perhaps it had been a week since they had spoken more than in passing, but still. A week of overwork didn't burn through a person like that.

The Highprince cleared his throat. "I assume this has something to do with security?"

Captain Kaladin nodded firmly.

"Very well. Zaninel, Sherath, you're dismissed."

They left without a word, and barely a glare. Perhaps they had also caught something in the Captain's expression.

Kaladin closed the door behind him as he entered. He proceeded to the table, then all but collapsed into the chair across from the Highprince.

Dalinar raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.

The darkeyed man rubbed a hand across his forehead, palm seeming to linger across the brands there. He started, sitting up.

"Sorry sir," he said hoarsely. "I forgot myself."

He pushed his weight forward as if to stand, but Dalinar waved him back.

"Its alright," he said. "I'm not one to make a soldier stand when hes clearly on his last chip."

The Captain sagged back.

"I apologize for the breach in decorum, I… last night…" He sighed, squaring his shoulder's and seeming to steel himself. "Well, sir, there's been vital matters I've been debating how to best present to your attention, but now one aspect has come to a head. Bridge four had… a visitor to our fire last night, scared the light out of my men. I've been trying to figure out what to do with him all night."

"A visitor?" Dalinar frowned. "This man is a security concern?"

Kaladin barked a humorless laugh. "It would be fair to say that, yes."

Dalinar waited for more of an explanation.

Kaladin sighed heavily. "I'd like to make a request sir."

"A request."

"That you not immediately put this man to death."

"Not…immediately?" Dalinar felt like an idiotic river spren, only able to mimic words/ But for the life of him, he had no idea where this conversation was going.

The captain nodded, drumming his fingers on the table. "I think he's of more value alive than dead, sir. And… I swore to try and help him regain some measure of his sanity. I can't do that if you kill him on sight."

"Kelek's Breath!" Dalinar said with some disbelief. "This madman if yours, he's truly so alarming, that you think I would do such a thing?"

Kaladin nodded, and Dalinar felt dread pool in his stomach.

"Who is this man?" he whispered.

"His name is Szeth."

"Szeth."

"Yes sir."

"That sounds like a Shin name."

"It is sir."

Dalanir stared down at the Captain, uncertain at what point he had stood up.

"Captain Stormblessed," he said with calm he didnt feel. "I can think of only one Shin man that I would desire to kill on sight."

Kaladin winced, then looked up locking those exhausted, burning eyes with his. "Yes."

"The assassin in white is here." Dalinar stated flatly.

"Yes."

The Highprince took a deep breath to steady himself. "The assassin who killed my brother?"

"Yes."

"The assassin who has been killing world leaders, throwing kingdoms into chaos."

"Yes."

Dalinar grabbed the lapels of Kaladin's jacket, towing him up with an enraged growl. He breathed heavily for a moment , attempting to restrain himself as he stared at that tired, dark expression.

"I trusted you," he hissed. "I trusted you with everything I had, everyone I loved, and you've been working with the Assassin in White."

Storms, did he feel tears in his eyes? Surely this betrayal couldn't hurt worse than Sadeas, but the dagger sharp pain in his sternum said otherwise. Had it all been a ruse? The tower, the retreat, Oathbringer…all one large, intricate lie to trick an old fool?

"No." The captain said firmly, meeting his unsaid questions with a steady, inarguable honesty.

"No, your maj — Sir. No, I have not been working with him. No, I had nothing to do with your brothers death — I was a child at the time, and Szeth and I hadn't even met. When we did first meet, I fought him. Then we fought again. I thought I killed him. I… I actually did kill him, from what i understand."

Kaladin Stormblessed's expression went very far away, but his words continued with that discordant lighteyed crispness he had had from that start.

"He was brought back by… a higher power. I'll explain what I can, but honestly, there's a lot a don't understand. He still very disturbed, but he is trying. He's taking another step along the journey, each day. Szeth is only a danger to himself now."

Stormblessed paused, then looked pained anew.

"Well…mostly. He's prepared to serve you, including as a killer. And…he's indicated that he's similarly willing to listen to my commands. He trusts me, sir. It…I realize this puts you in an uncomfortable position."

Dalinar felt his fingers unclench, and he lowered Stormblessed gently to his seat. There was no question in his mind if he could accept the Captain's word on this, he knew as instinctively as ever that this mans could be trusted.

Knew it more now than ever, seeing in those eyes a man who would rather break himself than break his oaths.

The pain of betrayal ebbed away, leaving a mess of emotions and thoughts in their wake.

Dalinar sat back heavily, rattling the maps and folios on the table.

"Storms!" He scrubbed a hand across his face. "You realize how mad this is, right?"

Kaladin laughed humorlessly. "Very much so."

"I —" Dalinar didn't know where to begin. "Where is he right now?"

"My office — my quarters in the Bridge Four Barrack."

"And he's under guard?"

"I have the Lopen and Rock switching off with him, but like I said, hes rather not a threat to anyone right."

"The Lop— wait, isn't Rock your cook's name?"

"Yessir. And you’ve probably seen Lopen before, he's hard to miss —small, loud, Herdassian."

"The one with one arm? You have a cook and a one armed man guarding the most dangerous man alive? Guarding a known shardbarer?" Dalinar found himself standing again, voice close to a shout. He forced himself back down.

Kaladin smiled weakly for some reason. "He gave me his shardblade, actually. As part of his surrender."

Dalinar glanced at Kaladin's hands, as if to find a shardblade he hadn't noticed.

The Captain opened his mouth, but Dalinar raised a hand. "…I'm not going to enjoy your answer on the location of that either, am I."

"Probably not, no."

Stormlight AU Masterlist

[miss-meichu]

Ok lovely people of Tumblr help me out here.

I love fics where Stiles gets fed up with all the shit and leaves, just takes off without telling anyone and they all have to get back in his good graces in some way.

Preferably Sterek or no ship. Only fics with happy endings, however that may be.

Thank y'all

[bubblegumflavor]

-And then I knew. Johnny was the only thing Dally ever loved.-

(and they lived happily ever after <3)

[itsalmostavengers]

I checked my ao3 stats for the first time in like two years the other day and it fucking blew me away. 2.6 million people have read my stuff over the years. And I’m not saying this to brag I’m saying this because at my most quote-unquote-famous or whatever I was like 17. And so unwell. my confidence was completely non-existent and I truly deeply believed I had nothing worthwhile to provide the world whatsoever. And then I’d post a fic and it would always be this one shining beacon of happiness where for a few days I’d read you guys’ comments and I’d feel like I was worth something. And seeing that figure now - once again at a very very difficult time in my life - is just insane. 2.6 million. That’s an insane number. What. It’s a crazy thing to see with such startling clarity the depths of my mental illness and like. Self-worth issues I guess because to this day when I proof my own works I simply cannot fathom why anyone would be compelled by it. And then that figure is just there giving me some side-eye and I’m like. Huh. So it really IS all in your head then lol.

[scroofy-was-here]

very late byler fanfiction for byler week coming soon :3

help

i live off pretzel sticks and air

[meimeiherokitten]

Hey folks, I wrote a fanfic that ISN'T Our Flag Means Death! I know, right! Before you go searching my room for a pod, I found a file with some of my oldest writing on it. Most of it deserved the junk heap, but this one wasn't bad. So I cleaned it up and voila!

This is the only way I thought we would ever get a kiss on TV between House and Wilson! Eat up, duckies!

[missriyochuchi]

Our love is here to stay

Summary: The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer take a walk along the Seine, skipping stones before entertaining the late-night crowd with an intimate dance number from a classical Hollywood musical.

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: FLUFF. Implied sexual content. Established relationship. References to An American in Paris (1951).

Notes: I didn't intend to write another fic for these two, but this scene from An American in Paris (1951) has been haunting me since the Opening Ceremony. I couldn’t figure out how to write them dancing until I remembered the song that accompanied the scene, and then I couldn't stop writing! The lyrics fit them perfectly! This follows The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer. I strongly recommend reading it first, but if not (it's your time), only a few details carry over: the two exist only during the Olympic Games, so they die and are reborn every two years; interaction between them and humans is strictly limited; and the Flagbearer's horse is named Zeus. As with the aforementioned fic, I use gendered pronouns only to distinguish between the two; physical descriptions are not gendered. For now, I have no plans to write another fic for them, but the Olympics are just beginning, and who knows if the Muses will blow in my direction again lol

Read on AO3

Darkness floats above the Seine like mist, its shroud kept at bay by the namesake luminescence of the City of Lights. Boats bobbing on the river and open restaurants on the bank animate the otherwise dreary waterway. Beneath bulbs of varying hues, businesses bustle with the chorus of tinkling tableware, multilingual conversations, and idle music of Paris past and present. 

Sunrise approaches in an hour, but beneath one of the city’s many bridges, the Torchbearer and the Flagbearer find a sliver of solitude. 

Splash, splash, splash, splash.

“See?” The Torchbearer spins on his heel at the river’s edge, a few flat stones left in hand, to face the Flagbearer leaning against the wall. “There is nothing to it.” He extends an upturned palm in her direction, but she shakes her head.

“I do not possess the skill,” she announces to her echoes.

He cocks his head to the side and closes the distance between them. “Skills can be taught, ma chère.” He takes her hand and pulls her to the riverside, her cape billowing lightly in the breeze. He places a stone in her glove and positions her index finger along its jagged edge. “You must give it a little spin so that it does not sink upon impact on the surface of the water.”

The Torchbearer turns to face his rippling reflection. He flicks his wrist and sends a stone skipping once, twice, three, four times across the river before sinking below the surface with a light plop.

The Flagbearer mimics his motions, swinging her arm and sending her stone on a long arc to a wide splash into the water’s darkness. The Torchbearer stifles a giggle.

She shakes her head and grumbles, “Oh! I do not understand why you find this activity so amusing.”

He releases his chuckles and grabs her wrist before she can walk away with a huff. “Practice makes perfect, non? Give it one more try.”

The Flagbearer runs her hands along her partner’s biceps and strokes his ego. “You are the one gifted with physical prowess,” she says fondly, “a lightness of touch and dexterity.” She steps closer to ghost her breath over his. “If ever I need to raise an army of stone throwers, you shall be my first in command.”

The Torchbearer tilts his head back and sends his laughs to the underside of the bridge. His voice reverberates across the masonry. “Your flattery will not excuse you from this lesson, général.”

“Then I shall receive a failing grade, professeur,” she teases. “Or do you have some other, more favored form of punishment?” She sneaks a knee between his legs and presses up.

He groans and chuckles low at the contact. “Have I not satisfied your appetite for tonight, my love? I am sure the few players who heard us at the Olympic Village would—”

She silences him with a swift squeeze of his buttocks. Her gloved hands slip slowly up to the back of his waist. “Several lifetimes of nights could never quell my hunger for you and your prowess.” She presses her front to his and guides them away from the river’s edge and into the shadows.

The stones in the Torchbearer’s hand land on the pavement, their echoes filling the underpass. His hands smooth over the cool expanse of the Flagbearer’s backplate underneath her cape. “Not here, my sweet,” he whispers into the darkness beneath her hood.

“I know.”

Giggles from an approaching group of tourists break the moment. The lovers’ hands fall to each other’s elbows, their gazes fixed downward. The group grows silent as they pass the hooded figures. A woman bringing up the rear stops to turn around and hold up a smartphone.

“Excuse me, can we— oh!”

A man grabs her elbow and roughly turns her back around towards their group. “Je suis désolé,” he offers quickly. “Elle ne savait pas.” He bows low at the hip in consternation.

The Torchbearer nods in his direction. He watches and waits for the group’s footsteps to fade before turning back to the Flagbearer. Flush with embarrassment beneath her metallic hood, she looks up and crashes her chest to his, tightening her arms around his shoulders for a long embrace. His hands find the opposite sides of her waist, and his chin rests on her tiered spaulder. For a moment, the movement of their chests with every inhalation and exhalation is one and the same.

Displays of affection are not uncommon on the streets of the City of Love, and neither the gods nor any event organizers in the past expressly forbade their affair, but for the Olympic guardians damned to the global spotlight every two years, privacy is a luxury they steal at every opportunity. To be caught alone in each other’s arms felt like an insult to the few precious moments they shared outside their eternal duties.

“Come,” the Flagbearer says softly as she pushes her palms against the Torchbearer’s biceps for enough breathing room to speak. “I do not wish to spend the remainder of the night adding debris to the Seine.” She curls her hand beneath his upper arm and guides him along the riverbank.

The low sounds of whispers and camera shutters accompany the two as they gain distance from their secluded underpass. They keep their gaze forward, accustomed to the attention after years of technological advancements in photography. The few who begin to approach the hooded figures are quickly pulled back by fellow onlookers.

“Why not?”

“They’ll just ignore you and won’t say a word.”

“They were fine during the Opening Ceremony.”

“It’s forbidden.”

The crowd grows in size and sound. They congregate parallel to the riverbank, giving the mysterious duo a wide berth. Over the rising cacophony, the Torchbearer catches a familiar tune floating from somewhere above the embankment. He slows their walk and listens for the words. 

It’s very clear, our love is here to stay

Not for a year, but ever and a day

“They are playing our song, chérie.”

“Darling, not now. Daylight approaches. We must be on our way.”

The Torchbearer stops their progress and presses his palm to the Flagbearer’s fingers nestled lightly in the crook of his arm. “When was the last time we danced?” He takes her hands in both of his and swings her in a circle before positioning her left hand on his right shoulder and her right hand in his left. Their hips and foreheads meet as they start a slow circle on the open pathway.

In time, the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble

They’re only made of clay

But our love is here to stay

“Do you remember the film?” The Torchbearer keeps his voice low enough for only the Flagbearer to hear.

She follows suit, though her breath is clipped. “I know exactly which you speak.”

“Shall we give them a show?” He squeezes her hand and quickens their turns.

“Only if you remember the steps as well as I.”

He huffs, mildly offended. “Do you doubt your partner?”

She smiles and giggles. “Never.”

They drop their arms and sway to the music, mirroring each other’s movements as they widen the space between them. The crowd on the riverbank backs away towards the wall and opens a space large enough for the two to continue. The closest onlookers move to accommodate the Flagbearer’s cape as it soars and intermittently kisses the border between performer and audience.

The dance is both timid and intimate. Their touches are perfunctory, punctuating passing sweeps across the pavement. Yet they lean their hands and heads on the other without hesitation, as if years of muscle memory and not conscious decisions dictate their proximity. Their movements tell the story of two lovers beginning to blossom in a romance they know will last for “ever and a day.” Slow and distanced steps give way to increasingly closer encounters.

“Despite this cumbersome armor, my dove,” the Torchbearer whispers during a moment when they resume the closed position and their faces are centimeters apart, “you dance beautifully. You have not lost your touch.”

“Nor you, my sweetest.”

They continue with their hands folded behind their lower backs, stepping like disparate planets inextricably circling the same center of gravity, and finish with an approximation of a kiss. They lean forward over an arm’s length of distance and bring the shadows beneath their hoods to meet for a breath of eternity. Their shoulders turn to bring an arm each around the other’s waist. They walk intertwined in their original direction as the orchestral music from above the embankment gives way to silence.

Applause and cheers chase after the duo. After a few steps, they turn around and bow to the crowd silhouetted by the embankments’ lights. They resume their promenade hand in hand.

When the murmur of surprise and adoration disappears and the Flagbearer spies no nosy onlookers within earshot, she brings the Torchbearer’s hand to her lips and kisses his knuckles. “Thank you, my love,” she breathes softly into his rough skin. She brushes the corners of her mouth across the backs of his exposed fingertips.

He turns his hand to rub her chin and catches her smile. “For what am I owed your gratitude, mon ange?”

“This world has weighed heavy on my mind since we were summoned,” she folds his hand in both of hers, “and I have forgotten what it means to remain light in such dark times. Thank you for reminding me of the power of simple pleasures.”

The Torchbearer hums to convey his contentment and, for a moment, ponders the gods’ plans in pairing them together. They had discovered, very early in their tenure, the opposing duality of their natures. He carried the torch, and she carried the flag, symbols of an event meant to unite humanity in friendly competition. While the object of his guardianship is most visible during the night, hers is most visible during the day. Together, they provide and protect constant reminders of the Olympic Spirit. Now, he realizes that such duties benefit not just the players and the spectators, but each other. He is her light, and she is his standard. He keeps them afloat, and she keeps them rooted to the Earth.

From the shadows of the bridge fast approaching their path, Zeus appears, both his coat and hoofbeat as light as snow. He advances towards his rider and nudges her cuirass with his muzzle.

The Flagbearer sighs and glides a gloved hand along the horse’s nose. “These nights pass far too quickly.”

The Torchbearer finds his opening to remain true to his duty and nature. “Tempus fugit when you are having fun — is that not what the humans say?” He takes her free hand and bows deeply, bringing his head to the level of her hips and swinging his other arm out to the side. “A testament to the quality of your company. I thank you for the compliment.” He straightens back up and presses her palm to the center of his chest, her gentle warmth meeting his steady heartbeat — his version of a kiss.

She shakes her head and laughs low in her chest, careful not to attract more attention as she hears hushed voices lingering on the embankment above them. He releases her hand and shares a knowing nod. He helps her mount Zeus, his hand trailing after the lower edge of her cape.

“Until tonight,” the Flagbearer whispers as she reaches for one more squeeze of her eternal flame’s hand.

The Torchbearer cradles her hand in both of his and tightens his grasp on her being. “Until tonight.”

Footnotes:

Translations: ma chère/chérie - my dear général - general professer - professor Je suis désolé. Elle ne savait pas. - I am sorry. She did not know. mon ange - my angel Tempus fugit (Latin) - Time flies

Is it corny af to have them reenact a scene from a movie? Sure. But are they not performers? Would they not perform to a love song in the City of Love? We've seen the Torchbearer sort of dance on that drag show catwalk - would they not be an amazing dancer!? And do the distances in the choreography not reflect the distances the two need to keep in the performance of their duties? Are you not entertained!? lolol

[kisaraslover]

DO U HAVE ANY BLUESHIPPING FIC REC?????PLEASENIMSTARVINGKSKSKKS

anon kskkasak ITS FINE ILL SAVE YOU OK? here goes:

Scenes from a Kaiba Marriage and Temptation by my blueshipping queen @kisara-kaiba as the opening. the peak of modern life blueshipping fluff, very lovesick, when im reading them its heart full, head empty. youre gonna be lucky to start them now cuz ill be rereading and drawing scenes from them this week👀. itll be like premium fanfic reading.

Enjambment -> this fic might be the single best written blueshipping fic by the virtue of MIRRORING their encounter in ancient Egypt beat by beat, including BOTH of their character arcs and the netflix show vibe of suspense and the sharp, cold and bleak setting is chefs kiss. changed my brain chemistry. still one of my favorite portrayals of Kisara.

Maiden with Eyes of Blue -> Sometimes time needs to slow down and a single scene should be a character study/ hashing out of things you needed acknowledged by canon, the situation is ESPECIALLY dire for Seto Kaiba as ive made my feelings on his writing known many times. This is it. Kisara isnt reincarnated in this one though, but her love for him can be felt in the air. Ngl you could just incorporate this into post canon and it would be fine. canon compliant+ canon enriching.

Shades of Water, Ice, and Sky -> I'm skimming through each fic to see what they were about and i just gotta say: why so heart-wrenching if so short?? theyre in love your honor.

Their Promise: Book I -> ok gonna be honest w you i havent finished this one and the main reason is that i cant go past the SPECTACULAR first chapter. ive started and failed to draw it in its entirety. i open it, i chew on the first chapter like a rabid dog, i close it more often than not. the second reason is it has a lot more angst and heartbreak than most blueship fics do and im weak to that sort of thing. still, if we follow their ancient egypt encounter beat by beat, which is a fantastic way of following and enriching the canon, their first meeting needs to be as kids with him saving her from a cage. chefs kiss.

who are you? -> JUST the right amount of Seto Kaiba immediate fixation obsession on Kisara (which means insanely obsessed)

You Will Crave Your Ancient Roots -> this is so good and so heartbreaking man. Seto and Atem are shot back into ancient Egypt and Seto is only able to slightly alter the events around Kisara. hes fated to fall for that woman every single time and *starts sobbing*

Ancient Rules -> all i gotta say is this Seto Kaiba gives me brainworms. hes chuck full of Passion and Cockiness and Insanity. blueshippers sometimes take out his insanity. he is very unsettling here i love it. Kisara is truly at his mercy..

never forget your first dream -> fem!Set and Kisara in ancient Egypt, this story twists more than just Seto's gender. im a yuri seto truther so its great to have written proof of it. jokes aside, very well characterized Set and Kisara, rich writing.

One in Forty -> pretty short but this one fundamentally changed how i viewed Kisara's canon influence over BEWD cards and her constant and unbendable favor around Seto. canon compliant + canon enriching.

ok so these are the cream of the crop for ME personally, might have forgotten some in my other folders, i might have missed reading some, its probably not all encompassing. but frankly ive liked and saved fics for a single resounding line, single funny joke, one interesting implication about the story or the characters the author wrote up so in my heart theyre all worth checking out, always. fanfic writers are carrying this ship on their backs and theyre all 9 ft tall and im just walking around them, clearing the path, giving them a sip of water and snacks etc. so THANK YOU BLUESHIPPING AUTHORS I LOVE YOUUUUUU

[mossycereustea]

do y’all ever just read a super amazing heart wrenching wonderful show-stopping breathtaking fantastic unbelievable soul shattering fanfic that is so horribly under-appreciated? (I’m sure the answer will probably be yes for many people)

because I found this fanfic that made me physically hurt- (honestly that might be because I’m a sucker for slow-burn and love watching the characters ache for one another as the anticipation tears apart my soul) and I’ve tried giving kudos at least ten times per chapter.

PLEASE AO3 TELEPATHICALLY SEND MY KUDOS

THIS FIC IS NOW MY LIFE TAKE MY KUDOS

TAKE MY SOUL

CAN THAT LITTLE SMILEY FACE FEEL MY PAIN

if there was a function that let the author see how many times i tried to give kudos to this fic after the first time they would be flooded with re-kudos

i need this fic injected into my veins

i’ll pay you

anyways we should have a re-kudos function

(i understand that spamming is likely a reason why this function does not exist along with the fact that usually that is now how “likes” and such on these type of platforms work, but this is just me expressing my love for this fic and devotion to the author- don’t take my proposal too seriously)

thank you fanfic authors you are doing the work of god.

[kanene-yaaay]

Focus (Or: The Unfortunate Destiny of Not Running Laps)

(Don't forget to read the warnings, they are v important!)

Kanene's notes: I am here to call out RUOYE!! BECAUSE THIS ENTIRE FIC IS FRUIT OF ITS SMUGNESS WHILE CAPTURING LANG QIANQIU IN THE FOREST. Like for REAL it just stopped, looked at him all :] and then captured him like jhgfdfgh pls stop being so silly it's killing me.

Warnings: This is a tickle fic and is basically an AU based in the idea I had in this post. Long short story with no spoilers: Xie Lian decided to tell the truth sooner to Lang Qianqiu and the boy had time to deal with his feelings and their relationship didn't become too strained, even if they parted ways. Another modification here is that the nameless boy that is always by LQQ side is called Xiao Mengyou, like I've seen he be called in the fandom. Besides that, nothing more! There's brief light bondage (thank u Ruoye) and some feet tickling during lqq's revenge, in case u don't like that. But it's the famous fluff with light angst, tickle fights and lot of silliness. Around 6.500 words.

[~*~]

Lang Quianqui discreetly managed to take in a deep breath, eyes glued on his preceptor, body unconsciously falling into the defensive stance that has been taught to him for years. It was hard to keep himself still. His entire being was thrilling with energy, an adrenaline that had not dissipated since he woke up and realized what day was today. The energy had fed his mind and body constantly as he fell along the main forms and drills they’ve been covering since the start of the day, over and over, each correction of Fang Xin over his posture and handle of sword only serving to make him buzz even more with nerves and the wish to impress him, trying harder and harder to focus until his movements went from stiff and tense to fluid and natural, striving for perfection.

Attentive eyes watched him like a hawk, more staring than normal, looking for something that Lang Qianqiu didn’t know if he was hiding well. It made him grip the handle of his sword more firmly and his movements quicker. The prince didn’t know if it was just his imagination, and the mask didn’t really help in his analyzes, but he could swear that he saw his mentor’s face glimpse into a confused frown as he accidentally kept stammering clumsily through the stances that he had already mastered a few months ago, even being on his best today barely reached the excellency he had every other good day. Still, he continued to strive for perfection.

Training with Fang Xin was… incredible. In the last year exactly, for the first time since he was only a kid receiving his first wooden sword, Lang Quianqui felt excited to go train, never once getting bored during the lectures, never going through his lessons unchallenged, each and every teaching pushing him to through his limits in a way that left him thoughtful and expectant to expand them even further, see how far he could get. His Guoshi had a different method of teaching and after his parents saw his improvement after a few months into his classes, together with his clear joy in having them, they gave the adult free reign of his studies, changing his routine as much as he needed, as long as it didn’t harm his other responsibilities. They supported them with materials and rooms as necessary and always listened with proud smiles when Lang Quianqui went to ramble to them all they had done and accomplished that day.

Fang Xin valued both the training of his mind and body, much to Lang Quianqui chagrin, especially as he kept dishing out writing punishments and calligraphy exercises that would leave him grumbling about missing the better days with old teachers who would simply have him running laps for slipping into quick naps during their lessons. Usually such commentaries only resulted in more writing and longer punishments, when Fang Xin listened to it. In the end, it was fine. After the initial glooming and pouting, he got to realize how the books that he had to copy always proved to be interesting, challenging his mind with stories and theories he hadn’t thought about before and giving him even more ideas to share with his teacher later, who always listened to him carefully, - even with an ever-lasting air of satisfaction that brought a smug glint in his eyes and a pleased hum in his words - no matter how long he spent in his musings, prodding him with questions and small lectures until he arrived to conclusions that would make the adult nod in a hidden pride, or at least, he hoped so.  

It was no surprise to him to find excitement and anticipation in his mind for each class,  wondering what would be the main skill trained today. If they would focus in his flexibility and quick thinking to get the upper hand into surprise attacks and uneven grounds (his mother almost had an heart attack when he fell out of the roof and broke her window with an accidental kick) or his ability to coordinate planned attacks with strong strategies that would exploit his opponent’s weakness and entice his own strengths.

For today, as it seems, they were going to stick with spars and practical learning. It was probably good, with how many mistakes he had already made just during the warming up and how distracted he was today, waiting impatiently for the end of the class. Having a close range exercise that would force him to focus unless he wanted to explain to his preceptor why his mind was flying away, a dangerous but not impossible possibility, was very good, especially because he wouldn’t be able to respond his teacher if he asked and Fang Xin would immediately catch his lies or any attempt to stir the topic away and he really, really couldn’t risk to get any punishments today. 

Afterall, Fag Xin Guoshi probably was already extremely displeased with his performance. Even if he was too polite to show. Lang Qianqiu gritted his teeth and embraced himself. 

There will be no more mistakes from now on. He will do his best!

They circled each other for a few seconds before the buzzing energy became stronger than him and Lang Quianqui jumped in his direction, starting the fight. He feinted an attack on the teacher’s right, jumping away from his defense and immediately falling into another attack. Just like the first blow, this one was quickly blocked and the crown prince was pushed to the side, Fang Xin’s blade pressing against his sword with such a strength that Lang Quianqui had no other option but to start backing up before the sword was pushed to his throat, trying to at least stabilize himself.

“Concentrate on your footwork.” Fang Xin chided, his voice even and calm as always, showing no hint of strain. The arm that was not holding his weapon was curled on his back and he didn’t move a single step in his direction. Lang Qianqiu was sure that if he glanced at his forehead, there would be no sweat. He, on the other side, could feel his breath already beginning to speed, arms trembling as he tried to not be overpowered. “There is always going to be someone stronger and taller than you during war and you can’t afford to lose. Don’t try to outstrength them because you won’t. Prioritize your speed and versatility.”

“Right!” Lang Qianqiu agreed, immediately dropping himself to the ground, the preceptor's sword passing with a quick gush of wind just inches from his face as he tried to trip the other, rolling around and quickly jumping to straight himself again when more attacks went in his direction.

Fang Xin pivoted around the same spot as the young prince sprinted and threw himself at him in a mix of misleading attacks that attempted to both pull his attention elsewhere and open his guard. Extra, even if rare, punches and kicks tried to make him lose his balance. It’s been exactly one year, yet Qianqiu hasn't been able to make him move around the arena one bit.

A sudden kick going to his face made the boy yelp and twirl to his left, only to almost get a sword going right to his flank, but blocking it with his blade at the last moment. 

“Focus.” His teacher remarked, starting a series of strikes aiming for his torso. “Pull your sword closer to your body. You’re paying too much attention in protecting your face and not losing your stance that it leaves your entire flank unprotected.” 

As if to prove his own words, his blade quickly aimed to his face, only to be immediately pushed away in a move that wobbled the other’s grip on the handle. Before the prince could explore that, however, Fang Xin speedly twisted and turned his attack back to his sides. Again, Qianqiu almost didn’t manage to rotate his long blade enough to catch it, being pushed away as the sound of metal scraping metal filled the training grounds. “Keep on rolling and jumping, if you must, just do not lose your balance and attention to your surroundings.” 

He striked again and, following his words, the young one threw himself on the ground and rolled away. Panting as he straightened himself, he watched his preceptor, reading his sword.

Before he decided to attack, Lang Qianqiu went first, deciding to just make his moves up as he goes. He jumped and twisted, aiming for the neck. He watched as the adult glided aside with an effortless grace and turned to block the blow, pushing the blades upwards, weakening his grip on the sword at an alarming speed. The thought of using their closeness to kick him away had just crossed his mind when a purple and white blur appeared right by his sides and-

He jumped away with a squeal, his lips being pulled in an unexpected smile, hand running to cover his ribs, skin still tingling.

What was that! 

He turned around, pulling his sword even closer, face red from the embarrassing sound that just escaped from his mouth without his permission. 

Someone had just tickled him! 

Still reeling with the sudden bust of energy and tickly sensation, his eyes immediately stopped at Guoshi, staring at him warily, but being only answered with the same calmness and collectedness that always filled his every action and words.

Maybe was it him who…?

“Do not charge right back in without correcting your mistakes and very much less without a plan.” Fang Xin went back to his initial stance, one hand holding his sword and the other resting calmly on his back. His posture had no flaws, his lips held no grinning smiles and his voice got no playful cadence that betrayed his serious tune. “Remember what I said, use your speed and versatility. Ready?”

…No, it couldn’t be him. The imperial preceptor would never step down to do something as silly and childish as tickling. He probably imagined it? 

Once more, he watched his surroundings with narrowed, attentive eyes. Maybe it was…

There he was.

Behind him, on the other side of the arena, his friend smiled at him. Lang Quianqiu shuddered in alarm. 

Since a couple weeks ago, when Qianqiu had used the other’s distraction to unleash a playful surprise tickle attack on him, Xiao Mengyou had been using his every opportunity to tickle him senseless back, going even further as to wait the end of his last martial class - when he usually laid on the cold ground to get his breath back - to immediately attack him with pokes and wiggling fingers the very moment Fang Xin Guoshi turned his back and pretended to not hear them fooling around, leaving the prince giggling and squirming until he was tired enough to not immediately get him back as revenge. 

(Too lost in their own game, none of them noticed the initial moment, when the adult turned back promptly at the squeal of the prince, ready to defend, only to stop and smile amusedly at the joyful friends in front of him, leaving them be and enjoy their own playfulness. There was a deep melancholy pooling in his eyes in that evening.)

Seeing that the attention was still on him, Mengyou made a walking motion with his fingers on his palm and then a thumbs up. Lang Qianqiu felt his eyes wide and he took a wobbly step backwards.

Did he just… confirm that he was the one who tickled him?

Watching his face, Xiao Mengyou smiled a tiny grin and nodded.

Lang Qianqiu bristled and started to head into his direction with firm steps. Mengyou frowned and tilted his head to the side, in apparent confusion.

“Lang Qianqiu.” The crown prince automatically froze with the clear commanding tune on the other’s voice, posture straight as he turned around to his teacher, suddenly remembering that they weren’t alone in the arena. 

“Your lesson is not over, yet. Focus.” His Guoshi seemed more amused than annoyed, though. Lang Qianqiu internally exhaled in relief. How embarrassing, his mind was really all over the place today. “Let’s start again.”

Nodding, the younger one went back to his stance, eying his opponent before charging straight in. He swore he listened to Fang Xin huff in exasperation, but the sound of blades colliding resonated louder and quickly pulled his attention back to the spar.

This time it took longer before he got distracted and another poke attacked his armpit as he tried to push his teacher’s hand out of his sword’s handle. He squeaked and jumped backwards, quickly scurrying away as Guoshi’s blade followed him without a rest.

And so, the onslaught of brief, equally light and impossible to ignore, tickly touches kept following him.

A prodding on his side and a loud yelp.

Another poke on his belly and a wheezy snort.

A tickle across his entire spine that made him jump and almost lost track of his teacher.

A scribbling on the back of his neck that pulled a couple of giggles out of his throat and sealed that silly, wobbly smile forever in his face.

All through this, he kept his fight. The adrenaline of waiting for another tickle attack and the wish of stop being so childish, giggling and squirming in front of the person he looked up the most, made him the most focused he has been the entire day, falling and rolling and charging blow after blow, fuelled by the bolts of electricity that ran across his meridians every time he saw a blur of white and purple in his peripheral vision and felt titters bouncing in his throat long before the ticklish feeling even touched him, descending in chuckles and huffs of laughter as he managed to escape another playful attack.

He had just managed to run right behind Fang Xin in an attempt for a surprise attack, when he felt something latch on the back of his robes, scurrying across his neck and jumping in between his articles of clothes. There was no escaping from the loud, surprised shriek that ran from his throat the moment he felt the tickles dig in his armpits, making both of his hands lock on the handle of his sword and his arms to clue to his sides, the attempt of protection being too late to stop the soft - so extremely, absurdly soft - sensation that ran up and down his pits, prodding and drumming and pulling hysterical giggle after hysterical giggle from him. His legs stumbled and his shoulders bounced with the energy and need to squirm away, but he kept his stance. 

The tickling traveled to his back, scribbling freely on his ribs and poking incessantly his spine until the young prince gave up from his form and turned around in pursue of his attacker, eyes closed from laughter, trying to push whoever was targeting his shoulderblades with so much wiggling and scratching away. His cheeks were in flames with the way squeaky hiccups began appearing in between his crackles.

He tried to open his eyes to better escape and fight his revenge, but there was already tears blurring his vision and, the moment he felt that soft touch worming its way to his sides, all he could do was sheath his sword and swing it around blindly, ignoring how silly he must been looking (he would never forgive himself if he cut Xiao Mengyou by mistake). 

Strings of “no, no, no, let go!” fell in waterfalls from his mouth, yet they did nothing to stop his sides from being lavished in tiny pinches and a playful spidering. His head was thrown backwards with the force of his laughter as he hugged himself, unsuccessful to himself from being tickled to pieces.

A strong, warm hand was laid on his shoulder and, lost in his laughing fit, Lang Qianqiu almost couldn’t catch when Guoshi said to let him go and the tickling feeling magically disappeared.

The prince couldn’t help the way he wobbled on the same place, tittering snickers and wheezy chuckles still filling the air, and leaned on Fang Xin, his Guoshi rubbing his shoulder while keeping his other arm tightly close to his body. His face had that expression he always carried when he was about to lecture him and leave another writing assignment, but it disappeared as quick as it came when he noticed Lang Qianqiu watching, his eyes instead twinkling with a suave amusement.

The crown prince had just gotten his breath back when his eyes traveled the rest of the arena and he saw his friend just a few steps of them, looking strangely uncomposed with a red hue painting his face. Lang Quianqiu squinted warily as he noticed his gaze and jumped on the same spot, getting closer.

As he opened his mouth to say something, the prince beated him to it, quickly straightening himself and turning around to bow politely at Fang Xin.

“I request a small break, please, Guoshi!”

Also looking a tad restless, but never losing his posture, Fang Xin nodded, getting his sword and walking away, probably to read some poem book as he always did during their moments of rest. Lang Qianqiu paid him no mind and instead swiftly turned back to his friend, who still looked flushed and confused.

“Your Highness, are you alright? I saw-”

His words morphed to a shriek when the crown prince jumped on him, no other word exchanged or mercy in sight as he energetically clawed his belly, chasing his loud squeaks until a high pitched laughter began to fill the entire arena, promptly making Xiao Mengyou immediately try to muffle it all behind his hands.

“Wait! Why!!”

With the flourish of someone who had done this plenty of times before and would continue to do so for plenty times more, Lang Qianqiu simply huffed - half amused and half annoyed - and  turned around, successfully sitting on his legs and trapping him in a very tickly destiny. Mengyou, with the same ease of someone who had been in this situation plenty of times before and knew very well about his future fate, started to squirm and trash much before he felt his shoes being pulled out, pleas falling from his lips like raindrops during the summer.

“You Highness, no! Not my feet, please, please! You know, you know I am the most ticklish there. Your Highness, just leave them alonEHEHE! NOHO!”

Lang Qianqiu did not, in fact, leave them alone. Instead, he dodge a kick - not before leaving a few scribbles on that sole for his trouble - and grabbed his other feet, holding his ankle down in a firm but gentle grip and spidering his fingers from the lowest point of his heel to his toes in a way that he knew it would leave his childhood friend crazy, watching with a smirk as he clamped his hands even harder over his mouth. Still, he was unsuccessful to muffle the uncontrollable crackles and squeals at each tiny scribble that escaped from his lungs. For this he blushed even more, kicks getting more energetic. 

Mengyou tried to roll away and escape, but, since the attack that hit Lang Qianqiu a couple of moments ago had been unrelenting, following his every move and tickling him everywhere, so was his comeback. His blunt nails chased his squirming no matter where, delivering scratches across his entire sole and focusing his pokes and scribbles on the sensitive spots he already knew it tickled the most.

The crown prince huffed with no heat when another strings of pleas and a few protests mingled together with the stray screeches that he managed to fish every time he concentrated his tickling right in the middle of his arch, changing from soft touches, full of circles being drawn slowly on the sensitive skin, to scratching it with no mercy, hysterical giggles and bubbly laughter dancing mingled in the air. Finally, when another squeaky “Your Highness” escaped his friend, Lang Qianqiu declared enough. He turned around fiercely and crossed his arms, staring directly at his friend, who barely watched him back with how much squinting in a big smile his eyes were.

“You were the first one to start it! Even attacking me in front of Fang Xin Guoshi.” Just the reminder of how he completely lost his composure and giggled like a kid in the middle of the fight made his cheeks burn hot. The fact that the other simply kept watching him with gleaming eyes and restless titters also didn’t help. “Don’t you think I am being fair?”

Xiao Mengyou kept snickering and snickering, head turning around in an attempt to hide his silly, disheveled state. Lang Qianqiu almost pouted with how even the most ruthless attack to his most ticklish spot couldn’t make him stop hiding his face.

When more moments flew away with him staring at his friend and the other being lost in a mess of giddy giggles, he reached skillfully behind him for his toes, burying his wiggling fingers right under them and spidering energetically, a joyful smirk appearing easily in his face at how this finally made Mengyou low his arms and sit up, trying to push him off his legs without any real force.

Seemingly as his words finally sank on the other’s mind, Mengyou answered. “You t- attacked me first that day! I was only getting revenge.” A snort flew from his lips and his face got even redder. “It’s been such a long time, too, Your Highness. Why tickle me back now?!” 

Lang Qianqiu was speechless. “Such a long time? That is it!”

He got out of the other’s legs, waiting as he took his breath back.

His childhood friend looked at the crown prince with a mix of surprise and wariness. Lang Qianqiu took the opportunity to turn around and run his gaze across the arena, noticing that Fang Xin Guoshi was nowhere to be seen. Uh. Maybe he got hungry and went to grab a snack? Well, since he still had some business to complete, Lang Qianqiu didn’t care to think too much about it.

His golden eyes glinted with mischief when they turned back to stare at Mengyou, who jolted on the same place and braced himself.

“Let’s have a tickle fight.” Lang Qianqiu copied him, also preparing himself, determination clear in every trace of his expression. Mengyou felt slightly amused with how serious he was taking this. “The first one to surrender wins and the loser can’t get revenge anytime soon.”

Mengyou looked thoughtfully at him and the crown prince was sure that his friend haven’t made his mind, and yet wasted no time in looking for the perfect place to strike, somewhere that would make him boneless and closer to surrender, that would make him forget everything besides how much it tickled and swapped his energy quickly. He found himself doing just the same, eyes locking on his knees before they widened in realization.

“Wait!” He scrambled to take off his own boots. “Now we are even.”

“Your feet aren’t as ticklish as mine, Your Highness.” As it always did, his voice stumbled just the tiniest bit over the word ‘ticklish’, but it still maintained a grumbling tone. Lang Qianqiu held his chin pensitive. “And the imperial preceptor will be back soon, there is no need.”

He was right. 

“My sides are my most ticklish spot.” As he conceded, the crown prince began pulling the string that kept his stash together, robes starting to loose up as well. “That is fine, I will just take off my upper robes.”

“Do not!” In a flash, there were hands pulling his away and quickly tying his stash firmly back. Mengyou’s voice stumbled again, tune equally serious and a tad hysterical. “What are you thinking, Your Highness?! What if Fang Xin Guoshi comes back or your parents decide to oversee your lessons today? How will we explain if they see you in that state? It would be irresponsible of you at least and shameless at worst!” 

Properly admonished, Qianqiu let out an awkward laugh, scratching the back of his head. “I didn’t think about that.” Then he shook himself and focused on the matter at hand, gold, intense eyes watching Xiao Mengyou again. “We must have a fair tickle fight, still. I can’t have it any other way!”

Sigh. “It’s easier to worm my hands on your robes than for you to do the same with my boots during a ti… our fight. I will just put my shoes back.”

Lang Qianqiu gaped at him. “How is that fair? You’re hiding your ticklish spot while you just said it’s easier to get mine!”

“Well, you already got me there!”

“You’re making excuses, you tickle me on my sides all the time!”

“Yes, just like now.”

“Exact- wait, wh-” But before he could finish, Xiao Mengyou was already jumping on him, skilled fingers working their way to his sides and squeezing in a much more energetically determined way than his attack during his lessons, making his muscles lock up in place as squeaking laughter immediately escaped from his lips. Before he could lose all his force to the laughter, the crown prince attacked back, and soon two sets of giggles, squeals and crackling laughter were filling the air.

Until the sighing mentor came and declared the break over, even if there was still a different kind of gleam in his eyes.

The same gleam that stared now right back at him, in the middle of that forest, centuries later, with the former king of Yong’An alone and Fang Xin, no, Xie Lian being accompanied by the very own Ghost King, his friend.

Lang Qianqiu tried to escape the white silk that had so suddenly wrapped itself around him and rendered the younger martial god immobile on the floor. It was futile.

“What is this!” He tried to wiggle and squirm, but the fabric kept a firm, yet non bruising, hold on him. Like this, there was no way he could show his former Guoshi how he had grown his combating skills and how he probably could, if not take him in an equal fight, at least be a worthy opponent. An explosive indignation at the unfairness of Xie Lian’s tactic began flaring on him. “Let me go, this is not fair!”

“You didn’t specify that we should only use swords in our fight. Ruoye is my weapon, afterall.” If Lang Qianqiu had ever doubted that Xie Lian was indeed his old mentor, all of it would be gone now. The scolding, teaching tone was just the same, even after all the time. Although, it felt more tired, now. Older. “Besides, you should always be prepared for your opponent using unhanded tactics and surprise ambushes. If this was a real combat, you'd be dead already.”

Hua Cheng chuckled and for a moment Lang Qianqiu felt a wave of deja-vu wash over him, reminding the younger one about a similar situation when he had been rendered immobile in the past. 

(That is right, Qianqiu realized, with shame beginning to fight against him and prickle his skin, his Guoshi had been there too, hadn’t he?)

After such a true, yet unforgiving point, his lips pressed into a thin line, displeased. It was all just the same and infinitely different from those days when he was a teenager. 

For one, even with everything, Xie Lian seemed much more carefree. It was in the teasing tilt of his smile as he kneeled closer, in the slight slouch of his form, in the way he chatted and displayed emotions that had never been present in his in the imperial preceptor’s face before. Fondness, insecurity and, especially, indecision. Fang Xin Guoshi seemed sure in every step he took. When he lied to him and when decided to tell the truth, when he saved his life (again and again and again) and refused his invitation to a duel right after Lang Qianqiu discovered his identity. His Guoshi had been giant, indestructible, bigger than anything that crossed his way. Sometimes, Qianqiu still saw him that way, in his dreams and nightmares. 

Overlapping the image of his teacher and the kind god that ascended thrice seemed impossible.

Then he remembers him rescuing him in the Ghost City. He remembers being equally saved when he was twelve. He remembers his resolute composure when he confronted him about being his former Guoshi and the warm hand on his shoulder when Xie Lian woke him up after the heavenly conference. The way that he looked at him now. Serious. Admonishing. Somehow still soft. 

Suddenly piercing together those two images wasn’t really difficult at all.

Very different and yet the very same.

“Let us fight seriously this time! Only swords, no other weapons, until one of us surrenders or blood is drawn. Let me go, Guoshi.”

Xie Lian sighed in the same way he did centuries ago, when Lang Qianqiu kept pestering him to teach him said foolish maneuver that saved his life. The young one trashed more energetically in protest. “I told you once, didn’t I? ‘Do not charge right back in without correcting your mistakes and very much less without a plan’. Tell me, how could you have prevented me from winning the fight?”

Immediately his mind blanked with both the nostalgia and surprised feeling that ran through him and the former king stopped trashing, looking at his Guoshi with wide eyes. Xie Lian, then, looked horribly unsure for a moment, but in his next blink that expression was gone and he watched him in expectation, not taking his words back. 

Lang Qianqiu could understand.

There was anger and indignation bristling in his chest. He wasn’t that kid anymore, looking for the approval of his mentor, the person that he looked up to the most, the person that deceived him, who left a young boy, alone, scared, betrayed to rule an entire angered kingdom. 

As soon as the anger came, however, it soon went away, leaving only tiredness and nostalgia behind. Lang Qianqiu didn’t feel as furious as he had been when he discovered the entire truth, a long, long time ago. He wasn’t as single focused on it as he once had been. 

It’s been so many years. So many centuries.

(Sometimes he still felt like that kid.)

As time passed in his silence, Xie Lian looked awkward, perhaps sad, and he recomposed himself, preparing to leave.

As usual, Qianqiu’s mouth moved first than his brain.

“I could’ve dodged Ruoye!”

Xie Lian froze on his way up, searching his face for something. He must have found it, since he went back to his kneeling position and Hua Cheng stopped looking at the younger with something dangerous in his glare. Lang Qianqiu itched to finish their previous fight. Before he could think too much about that, though, his former guoshi’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“It would follow you no matter your move, which was already hindered by your surprise and slow reaction. It’s a spiritual weapon with long range. You’d still lose.”

He wanted to protest the use of ‘losing’ on this occasion, since his victory truly couldn’t hold any honor or weight after using such an improper ambush. However, before he could get a single word in, something white appeared in his vision field.

Lang Qianqiu blinked and turned to Ruoye, who seemed to shake in what seemed like an… attempt to a wave… or maybe it was a threat? The martial god would answer it in kind, even if just for the curiosity of seeing what the apparent sentient weapon would do, but his arms continued to be glued to his torso. 

Something in his face must have answered it, since the silk twirled happily.

And then immediately proceeded to attack his defenseless neck and ears in a soft, light kind of tickle that made shivers run across his spine and his lips turn into a gigantic smile.

An old memory tried to resurface.

“Whahat is this?!” He protested in between his teeth. Tiny, high pitched giggles made his shoulders shake, Qianqiu did his best to both hold them in and try to escape the tickly attack. He scrunched up his shoulders, except this only encouraged the soft weapon to scritch excitedly behind his ears until he turned to hide them, leaving his neck open once more. He tried to shake his head, still the maddening, gentle scratching sensation followed him with no problems, dancing across his skin without a single worry. “Dohon’t! Let me go!”

An amused huff cut his silence. “My, had I known about this, his capture at my kingdom would’ve been much smoother and quicker. Maybe I could even have given a different, more exciting show to my subjects, raise his price a little.”

For a moment Lang Qianqiu imagined it and the scenario was so alarming that he immediately shook his head to expel it, throwing the embarrassing thought away. His giggles suddenly became much more difficult to keep at bay and, were it not for that, he would have some good words to share about Crimson Rain Sought Flower’s clearly childish provocations!

“San Lang, don’t tease.” But Xie Lian’s tune was much more amused than chiding, hiding something in the depths of his words.

Lang Qianqiu turned around to demand he take his weapon away, but, just as he opened his mouth, Rouye decided to run across his spine and unleash an onslaught of unrelenting pokes and prodding on his sides, which made him arch his back and freed laughter to pour in waves from him, hysterical giggles twirling around every squeak and snort and suddenly the memory that had been itching in the back of his mind resurfaced.

The afternoon that Fang Xin Guoshi completed one year teaching him. Xie Lian never shared with the royal family the date of his birthday, so they decided to begin the tradition of celebrating this accomplishment instead. Lang Qianqiu couldn’t stay still during the entire day, excitedly waiting for the end of his lesson, when he would be free to drag the imperial preceptor to his surprise gathering. His focus had been completely impossible to hold and he only managed to get distracted from the commissioned gift he had asked for Xiao Mengyou to bring him when, out of nowhere, during their spar…

He then gasped in realization, turning his gaze at Xie Lian, narrowing eyes glistening in accusation, even if he was still unable to stop his uncontrollable loud laughter, especially as the prodding traveled to his ribs, spidering on them while getting dangerously closer and closer to his armpits, making him involuntarily squirm and snicker even more in anticipation. 

Even so, he obligated his laughing mind to concentrate on his former mentor's silly shiny gaze.

“It was you!” And, as if reading his mind and acting in protest, Ruoye drummed in that awful space where his pits and ribs connected, pulling a high pitched squeal out of his throat together with, of course, more crackles. “And Ruoye! You were the ones tickling me that day, not Mengyou!”

Xie Lian looked to the side with a way too innocent face to be genuine, a tiny, closed lip grin resting in his face, an almost silently amused, bigger smile escaping him. He didn’t say nor deny anything. It was all the confirmation the former king needed.

As he continued to snicker, giggle and squeal, Qianqiu remembered about his “revenge” taken on his actually innocent childhood friend…Xiao Mengyou definitely was going to kill him when he went to apologize that night. He could only hope it was not by the same way that Ruoye had decided to kill him that moment.

(Lang Qianqiu knew it was all a false hope, though.)

Xie Lian’s voice cut his thoughts.

“Now, again. Give me at least three ways you could have avoided this and Ruoye will let you go.”

Qianqiu felt the urge to grumble at this, but he snorted instead, starting to kick and protest when the soft silk gave the underside of his knee a curious poke. 

It was all futile, though, his mentor was known for using different methods of teaching and centuries didn’t change any of that, as it seems. 

Lang Qianqiu could relate, he also had at least one feeling that truly didn’t change after all this time, as well.

He would rather be running laps.

[it-meant-nothing]

The (multiverse) Maximoff twins kicking the ass of the big bad villain but getting defeated afterward

Back when Wanda was still very nice… and Peter had a lot of scenes 🤧

[newtmasficlist]

oh hi i'm back

i'm pondering the idea of possibly recruiting help with this blog as i believe it is only me (@ssangster) back again attempting to keep this up n running! if you think this is something you'd be interesting in send me a message (@ssangster) for details :) happy reading!