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the-penguinspy · 1 year

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prompt: spidey bea and human torch ava I'm making you write it

The glow-in-the-dark hands of the alarm clock show the time to be just after midnight.

Illuminated by the lamp on her desk, Beatrice takes up the familiar rote of needle and thread to mend her suit from the various rips and tears. Tonight’s fight was quick, but brutal. She won the fight but not without her own casualties - the cuts and bruises on her body hurt, but they’ll heal by tomorrow.

The same can’t be said for her suit, unfortunately, which is why she’s sewing the rips and tears tonight.

Pinch, puncture; follow-through, tighten. Repeat. The repetitive motion of sewing is an oft-used exercise to ground herself after the dynamism of patrols and fights. Automatic, now, part of her nightly routine, but tonight she’s feeling more tired than she should be, and more than once she’s had to re-do her handiwork for how close or far it had been from the previous stitch.

A dog barking from a few doors down, muffled conversations from the couple next door. Sounds from the street below filter in through the window she left half-open; murmured chatter from pedestrians, the occasional static of tyres over wet asphalt.

Through the window and into the room, a small breeze wafts in, ruffling her hair and cooling the sweat on her face. It borders on cold; the weather seems unable to make up its mind between autumn and winter, but Beatrice is grateful that tonight it soothes instead of bites. The change in seasons however reminds her of the semester that she’s in the thick of, assignments and readings piling up and begging for her attention.

A sudden, sharp knock on the window and Beatrice startles, head snapping up, jumping off the chair and into a crouch, arm aimed halfway to the window to prep for a webshot, fingers poised over the trigger. When she sees who’s at the window though, her arm slackens, tense muscles relaxing.

Ava crouches outside her window on the fire escape. Her sneakers squeak on the grates, laces long and dragging over the black chucks that Beatrice knows she favours. Her hair is wind-ruffled from her flight over, and it doesn’t seem like she’s bothered by the chill in the air – always running hot, Ava’s opted for a crop top and light-wash skinny jeans. She grins at Beatrice through the glass and holds up a hand, fingers wiggling in greeting, her other hand on the strap of her tan backpack.

“Woah, Spidey! Good thing you’re against friendly fire, huh?”

The huff that leaves Beatrice is more relieved than annoyed. “Torch.” “‘Torch’? Bea! And here I thought we were friends.” Ava brings her hand to her chest and pretends to fall backwards, back almost hitting the railing behind her with how narrow the space is.

Beatrice, tired, doesn’t suppress her eye-roll, though she does stay her tongue from making a comment on friends.

She makes her way over to the window and jimmies it open. The fire escape is a commonly-used point of entry by necessity, and Beatrice knows from experience that it’s difficult to get it unstuck from the outside. Coupled with the rusty-looking railing, no building inhabitant is courageous enough to venture out, which more than guarantees that she gets in and out of her apartment without detection.

Beatrice barely opens the window wide enough before Ava moves forward, one leg over the ledge and ducking underneath the window to tumble in. The ancient landing of the fire escape grumbles with the shift in weight and the sound echoes to the stories below.

Ava makes her way across the room and lands heavily on the made bed, the mattress squeaking its disapproval underneath the sudden weight.

Now standing, Beatrice takes the opportunity to stretch her arms over her head. She bends to touch the floor with her palms and revels in the glorious stretch in her hamstrings and calves, ignoring the twinge in her muscles as she straightens and makes her way back to her desk, picking up her fallen suit from the ground. If she falls into her chair a little less gracefully than usual, Ava doesn’t remark on it.

The canvas flap of the bag is unlatched. Ava, brows furrowed, rummages in the pack with a focus like a hound on a scent trail, and Beatrice has to bite the inside of her cheek to tamp down her smile.

With a triumphant crow, she presents her spoils for the evening: a four-by-four Rubik's cube, coloured stickers worn and peeling, that she places on the quilt. A battered copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas thrown carelessly onto the bedspread, its heavily creased cover page making Beatrice wince internally.

Ava finally looks up and in her hand: a metal thermos, stainless steel silver and unassuming – extended towards Beatrice.

With a quiet thank you, Beatrice takes the thermos. Steam wafts up from the opening as she unscrews the lid, and the decadent aroma of coffee, expensive coffee, greets her tired senses. Her eyes flutter shut as she takes a sip, as the bitter flavour of it grounds her and rejuvenates her tired muscles in equal fervour, the warmth of it loosening the tightness in her shoulders and her back and returning them to their pseudo-limber forms.

She indulges herself with one more sip before once again taking up needle and fabric. A quick glance to her right shows Ava splayed out on the bed and entranced in the novel already, eyes roving over lines and thumb gently running transverse across the pages.

They exist in companionable silence. That is, until Ava pipes up, “Don’t you have an early class in the morning?”

Beatrice can feel the weight of Ava’s gaze on her. She must have swapped out her book for the Rubik's cube earlier; her hands don’t stop cede in their motion, the cube’s sides swivelling and clicking into place.

Beatrice hums noncommittally, backtracks on a stitch. “Something like that.”

The bed squeaks as Ava sits up and Beatrice hears the accompanying twin thumps as her elbows find purchase on the bedspread. “It’s that seminar with Vincent, right? Do you have to do this tonight?”

“Isn’t that why you brought me coffee?” Beatrice replies. She sees Ava scowl in the corner of her eye. Beatrice pauses her work and looks over at Ava fully. “Wait. How did you keep the flask and your other items from burning up? And your clothes, for that matter?” She’s certain that Ava flew over; the evidence of such may as well have been laid out on a platter for her.

“Were you eager for the alternative?” Ava husks.

Her voice is low; teasing. The change in tone is whiplash from the serenity of before, and all at once Beatrice feels the blood rush to her cheeks, and she ducks her head as her mouth works to stammer out a reply.

Thankfully, Ava seems to take pity on her. “My suit’s bulletproof and made of kevlar. I think Jillian also mentioned something about unstable molecules?” She can imagine the casual shrug that follows. “I’m not too sure, though I can ask her for you if you’d like.”

Beatrice’s hand jerks in her haste to answer, and she stifles the curse on her tongue as the needle pricks her finger. “Oh, no, that’s quite alright–”

“Bea,” Ava interrupts gently. Beatrice looks up, and she’s greeted with the sunny smile that Ava’s aimed her way. The Rubik's cube is stationary in her hands; half-done, colourful squares almost uniform.

“Jillian would love to pick your brain on material properties and other textile nerdiness,” Ava says. “You’re always welcome at Arqtech, and we’d love to have you there.” She picks at the worn edge of a red sticker and bites her bottom lip, before her teeth relinquish the flesh and she continues. Beatrice tries not to stare at the swell of it. “I’d love to have you there.”

There’s a sudden knot at Beatrice’s throat that makes itself known, the constriction of it tight like the ties she wore to the dinner parties where her parents rubbed elbows with political allies and blue bloods. Her presence then had been a tool for them, a way to form connections; a means to an end.

The pressure at her throat is present now, but in this space, it’s not nearly as unpleasant.

“Thank you, Ava. I’ll consider it,” Beatrice says, and she blames the gruffness in her voice to the late hour. To that, Ava only shoots her another warm grin, one that Beatrice mirrors a little shakily before going back to her mending. The rhythmic click-click-clack of the rubik’s cube soon starts up again, and they stay like that for a while.

It’s just past two in the morning when Beatrice finishes stitching the final rip. The needle pokes its head out of the fabric, and she winds the thread around it three times before pulling taut, careful to keep the knot flush to the cloth.

She snips the thread. Her hand goes out to reach for her lighter on her desk, but after fumbling for a few seconds and not feeling the familiar shape of it on the desk, she looks over, frowning when she doesn’t spot it. Dropping to her knees, Beatrice looks underneath the desk; maybe it fell off in her earlier shuffle.

“Here.”

A turn of her head and then suddenly she’s face-to-face with Ava, muscles tense and straining to avoid jerking back at the proximity.

Beatrice didn’t even hear her come near. Ava’s kneeling as well, the worn denim of her jeans meeting the rough of the carpet, body pitched forward slightly and leaning towards Beatrice.

Ava brings her hand up, fist half-formed. Beatrice is expecting to be presented with the vibrant yellow plastic of her disposable lighter, but among the slats of Ava’s fingers the lighter was not present.

Hand held equidistant between them both now, Ava brings her fingers together, thumb meeting middle finger. Her fingers snap, and Beatrice feels the friction of it run a mirrored course down her spine, although it’s hard to say if the heat that travels down each vertebrae surpasses that of the flame that now hangs suspended above Ava’s pinched fingers.

The light from her desk slants, edges; it doesn’t reach them here. The fire holds strong in an upwards laminar flow; a small handheld jet of flame, pale yellow and no bigger than a phalanx of a finger, and yet it still manages to bodily illuminate the space between them and bring to light the features of Ava’s face: elegant arches of eyebrows, gorgeous eyes, neat bow of her upper lip.

The flame is small, but Beatrice’s face warms, and she feels the heat of it caress her cheeks.

Ava extends her other hand, palm up. For a moment, Beatrice doesn’t understand why; she considers placing her own hand atop Ava’s before she shirks the thought off completely. The flame is small, it’s hot but bearable, but this close, if she were to touch Ava, she isn’t certain that she would be able to withstand the heat, isn’t convinced that the fire won’t spread from flame-tip and make its way down Ava’s hand and up her arm, traverse across shoulders and back to arm, to hand, to Beatrice, and set her ablaze.

(Would that be so bad? Ava’s always held a certain magnetism, an attraction that's counter-intuitive for one looking to avoid getting burned. She’s warm, always so warm; a quality intrinsic to her person that extends beyond the physical power that she yields. The heat of it bleeds into her smile, her humour, her kindness; it explodes in a nova blast when her ferocity shows in a fight, and radiates steady and protective like a hearth for the weary.

How can something with such destructive power simultaneously pose as an argument for healing and protection? Beatrice tells herself that this curious dichotomy is what brings her within range of Ava's gravitational pull: the itch to study and dissect, the thirst to understand.

Perhaps a closer examination will yield clearer answers. And so Beatrice longs to come close, to touch, and the desire to do so rips through her sternum almost violently, the suddenness and intensity of it surprising but no less welcome.)

She’s about to offer her hand in response to the invitation, but–

Both hands are occupied by the feel of smooth spandex. Beatrice realizes, belatedly, that to reach for Ava would mean to let go of the suit. She grips the fabric, feels the softness of it stretch and mold over her fists and, after a beat, relaxes. Looking down in the half-light, she squints to find the end of the thread, thumb smoothing over the cloth to find the knot that was made earlier. She pinches the spot to keep the place before handing it over to Ava, wordlessly, the flame still glowing radiant between them.

A small smile from Ava. The intensity of the flame must have increased by a fraction, because Beatrice feels the heat of it spread through her cheeks and down the back of her neck. Ava takes the suit from her and, carefully, she brings the flame closer until the tips of the thread shrink and melt.

With both of Ava’s hands occupied, Beatrice is the one that brings her fingers up to the stumped thread ends. One hand is placed underneath Ava’s to steady the hold while the other hovers over the melted polyester thread, and she presses the ends down firmly onto the fabric to seal the finished stitch onto the surface of the suit.

It’s done.

Beatrice inspects the workmanship under the glow of the flame; stretches the seam to test it and finds the strength of the mend to be satisfactory. It’ll hold.

The work is done, and yet –

The flame still burns.

She looks up to find Ava watching her, but Ava doesn’t shy away. The flame flickers, its body swaying back and forth between the two of them without rhythm, turbulence present, and the irregularity of its movements make shadows dance across Ava’s face. The fire moves in double-time as if making up for the rigidity from before, and it reveals and hides the dimensions of her face in a neat, net-zero sum.

The flame flickers. Closer to orange now, the hue of it is warmer and darker than the brightness of before. A little less luminous than previously, and it’s strange – it shouldn’t be hotter now than when it was bright-white, but somehow it is, it must be, because the heat against Beatrice’s cheeks is almost unbearable now, the cavern of her mouth dry like a desert storm, and when she swallows hard it doesn’t help at all, not even marginally, the scrape of it unforgiving against the roughness of her throat.

Beatrice leans in, sure that her face is flushing something fierce but unable to find the energy to withhold herself, and when her nose brushes against Ava’s, the small gasp that leaves her is a confession of sorts; when their lips meet, the admission is sealed between them like a secret.

A brief beat of separation. When they come together again, more sure this time, the sigh that escapes Beatrice is echoed in her mouth by Ava. She takes Ava’s bottom lip between her own and tastes the remnants of vanilla chapstick, and that familiar element alone makes the experience exponentially sweeter, sharper. Her hand foregoes fabric to rest on the nape of Ava’s neck, thumb brushing over the soft skin of her jaw and, with a slight nudge, she brings them closer together.

They break apart. Beatrice takes stock, with some difficulty, that all the air seems to have left her lungs, traded in for a roaring inferno that she now nurses inside her chest. Just as well, she thinks – fire can’t grow without a source of oxygen, and her body must have known that for it to cut off the supply.

Her lungs burn anyway. They crave for air.

(Beatrice wonders if it would be so detrimental to consume Ava, and to be consumed in turn. Surely, some kind of cosmic balance would be kept in their doing so.)

She takes one deep, shuddering breath. When that doesn't take her in a fit of combustion, she takes yet another, until her breathing comes in even-spaced intervals in an attempt to right the balance.

Her body’s doing its best to keep her alive but stil,l Beatrice leans forward, her grip on Ava’s neck tightening. Her impeccable balance is nowhere to be found.

One of her hands still cups Ava’s. It’s burning hot; not about to burst into flames, but the distinct fever-like body temperature is noticeable, almost like her control over her powers slips around Beatrice. Self-satisfaction is a rare indulgence for Beatrice; the feeling is almost foreign, but she’s not able to miss it with the way the heat licks at her belly, as it radiates from its epicenter on the left side of her chest.

“You’re heating up,” Beatrice says. The laugh that leaves Ava is breathless, disbelieving. “Can you blame me?” she replies. And then: “Is your suit – um. I held it a bit close to the flame. Sorry.”

Beatrice bends her head to examine the fabric: a small mark on the surface of the spandex near the thread-end. The dark blue of the material, combined with the waning light from the flame, makes it difficult to verify the extent of the damage. She runs a fingertip over it and tries to focus on the silkiness of the cloth instead of the tenderness of Ava’s skin.

Where the burn is, it still feels soft like the rest of the fabric – the damage is superficial.

She looks back up at Ava. “It’s fine. Thank you for helping.”

“Anytime,” Ava says, and Beatrice knows that the sentiment is truthful to the edges, buoyant in its honesty; it saturates the boundaries that define objects, and solidifies the parameters of subjects of a less physical nature, too.

Her throat tightens again in an imitation from earlier. Beatrice is flattered, but wholly unsatisfied. She feels greedy. She’s craving more; wants more.

She leans in and Ava does as well, and they’re about to meet at halfway but Beatrice's stomach growls and her body goes stiff as mortification freezes her in place. Ava only chuckles softly though, and she completes the circuit by kissing the corner of Beatrice’s mouth, then her chin, before resting their foreheads together.

“You’ve gotta be starving after tonight,” Ava says softly. “I think the Thai place down the street is still open at this time.” Her breath washes hot and damp over Beatrice’s lips, and Beatrice has to actively stop her body from succumbing to the intense urge to continue where they left off.

“I am.” Beatrice clears her throat, swallows once. “It is.” And it’s true – she’s been there so many times over the past few weeks that the owners have her order memorized.

Ava grins. “Alright then! My treat, let’s go.” The flame in her hand is extinguished with a flourish of folding fingers and she stands, extending a hand to Beatrice.

Even now, offers towards her are aplenty. (Beatrice tries not to think about being undeserving.) And now that Ava’s mentioned it, she realizes that yes, she’s hungry – inside her there’s an ache to soothe, a void to be filled; a hunger of a different kind, though not at all what Ava was making reference to.

(She tries not to think about that, either.)

Beatrice scoops up the suit from the floor as she takes Ava’s proffered hand. A quick jaunt of her limbs and she’s upright, and she folds her costume and places it on the desk in one smooth motion before reaching for her wallet and keys. Her phone, she holds in one hand. “Dr. Salvius won’t notice the missing funds from her pocket?”

There’s a particularly mischievous glint in Ava’s eyes. She doesn’t say anything, but she grins with teeth as her arm links through Beatrice’s before leading them out the door.

#warrior nun #warrior nun fic #ava silva #sister beatrice #avatrice #penguin writes #birgittesilverbae #thx for the prompt em :)#spideybea au

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amalgamationink · 28 days

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NAPOWRIMO24 #2: Come, Come to the Sunset Tree (dedicated to the album The Sunset Tree by The Mountain Goats.)

#prompt: write a platonic love poem about either a person or an object. shld be written directly to the subject + include 3 memories w/ them.#this is a love poem to the album the sunset tree by the mountain goats lmao. thx for keeping me alive thru my teens ur a real one for that.#napowrimo #napowrimo 2024 #poetry #poems on tumblr #poets on tumblr #poetry on tumblr #spilled ink #writeblr #survival poetry #dare i tag tmg? i think not. last thing i need is for tmg fans to compare my lyrical prowess to jd's. don't worry i know it isn't close #damien.txt #image description in alt

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padfootastic · 7 months

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James and Harry for the drabble thing? Please and thank you <3

i. i never realised how less 100 words was???? pls no one count this it was my first attempt. i promise i’ll do better w the next 😭

“Dad, I’ve been flying since I was a year old,” Harry deadpans, hands balled on his hips. “Literally.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t sign up for that, now, did I,” James Potter grumbles. His hair, an unruly mop on a good day, now resembles an electrified raccoon. He doesn’t seem to care as his hands reach up to pull at it again. “I still haven’t forgiven Sirius for it, you know.”

“Dad.”

“Baby, you’re only twelve,” his father pleads, hazel eyes beseeching. “It’s not safe for you to be so high up. Trust me, I’d know.”

“Yes, because you were on the team in your second year,” Harry hisses in return. His ears feel warm, and there’s a telltale stinging in his eyes. “It’s not fair.”

With that declaration, he stomps away to his room, realising he was being childish but not being able to help it.

James stares at his son’s retreating back helplessly, hands fluttering in a futile attempt to do something.

“You deserved that, you know.” An amused voice pops up behind him and he shoots a dark glare at his wife leaning against the wall. “Acting all holier-than-thou when all of us know about the stunts you’ve pulled on a broom.”

“Yes, well. Harry’s just a child,” he harrumphs; it’s a familiar refrain. Lily just hums in response.

“And I’d like you to remember what you were doing as a child, at his age,” she says casually before walking off.

James’ face drains of all color at her words. They’d discovered Remus’ secret in second year and after that—

Oh fuck.

Send me a drabble prompt!

#james potter #harry potter #lily evans #protective fussy parent james ftw!!!#bg: harry wants to try out and james is losing his mind #i fully believe he would be SUCH a helicopter parent for no reason #just terrified out of his mind lol #harry is also a justifiably frustrated preteenhere #don’t worry they reach a conclusion #after another fight where james tries to force him to wear a ridiculous fully body gear #and he’s just like?? no?? i’ll be bullied off the pitch??#sirius has to step in to manage j at that #just. neurotic parents james potter ykno? my baby <3 #godspeed to harry lol #thx for the prompt!!#i liked this hehe #pen’s asks #pen’s writing #ask game

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claw404 · 1 year

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How abt the 3 omnics again(Zen,Max and Ram), with a s/o that when they were away for like idk business for some hours and said s/o sends them a picture of themselves in lingeri but won't answer after that on any of the omnics texts? 🙇‍♀️

(All seperate)

Zenyatta, Maximilien & Ramattra x Reader [NSFW]

Prompt: You send a pic of yourself in lingerie while away and don't pick up your phone afterwards.

▸ z e n y a t t a

He would most likely open the message on the way back from the grocery store, bags in hand full of ingredients he would later use to cook you a welcome back meal. He swiped his phone open and with the instant shock of an unsuspecting nude -almost making him drop his bags- so came an instant boner.

Nervous that someone might notice, Zenyatta would run to a nearby public restroom and lock himself in one of the stalls to deal with his 'problem', all while trying desperately to call you back again and again, almost dropping his phone in the process.

One hand on his phone and the other in his pants, trying to stifle his whimpery moans. When calling you didnt work he turned to messy texting, spamming you with repeating "please answer" messages that never saw a response.

Maybe you couldn't talk at the moment, maybe you were busy he thought to himself, trying to hold onto hope of you answering very soon and giving him the satisfaction of hearing your voice.

During the desperate attempts at getting your attention Zenyatta continued rubbing his dick, his strokes becoming faster and faster as his impatience grew. His hips began shakily bucking into his hand, imagining that that was you riding him. The omnic was so close to climaxing but he didn't want to do it without you. He needed to hold you, to feel you or at least hear your voice but you were denying him both.

Defeated, realizing you weren't going to answer, Zenyatta clumsily shoved the phone in his pocket. His now free hand latched onto his member, circling his leaking tip with a robotic thumb while the other kept stroking harder now. His moans getting higher in pitch and breathier. Whoever sat in the stall next to his surely heard.

▸m a x i m i l i e n

Maximilien would attempt to call you non stop. He doesn't mind you having fun with other humans if that was the case. He views them more as additional sex accessories, or toys rather, for your personal pleasure which he of course doesn't have the heart to deny you but at that moment he needed you all to himself. He couldn't stand the idea of you looking this good and not be in his arms. Already, Max was imagining the sight of his hands between the lacy fabric and your skin, the feeling of your body on top of his, you grinding into him, the sound of the fabric tearing as he rips your lingerie apart while pounding into you. His mind was running stray with fantasies he couldn't control.

He had to remain collected about this, he didn't want you to think of him as some desperate, dirty old man. Maximilien composed himself and with a shaky hand texted you back "Let's talk when you get home" and with that he finally put his phone away, telling himself he wouldnt message you again until you answered him first but the omnic had a strong feeling that wasn't going to happen.

Feeling the nerves getting the best of him Max quickly took out a bottle of wine from a nearby cabinet together with a glass and poured himself one before slumping down in his chair. He sighed rubbing his temples.

▸ r a m a t t r a

He knows what you're doing. He isn't stupid. You sent him a flirty little picture and suddenly you stop answering? No texts? No callbacks? Tsk. You were very clearly and purposefully teasing the omnic, probably hoping for a reaction he thought to himself.

It was working on him though, however much he was trying to fight it and not succumb to your little tricks he couldn't help but get horny. Ramattra wont do anything about the 'issue' at the moment, instead he tests his self control and let's the feeling boil inside him, the frustration and anger at the idea of your sleazy little attempt at trying to manipulate him emotionally together with the aching need to have his way with you in that exact lingerie.

He will be all pent up and moody for the rest of the day, almost as if a dark cloud loomed over his robotic head, waiting for you to come back. Once you do return not a single word is uttered from the omnic. Upon seeing you he immediately pounces on you and gets what he wants. Once the chance to finally rip your clothes off comes he is content seeing you're still wearing that exact set, almost as if you knew this was going to happen. His hands latch onto every inch of your body and by the end you will have learned your lesson.

#MAN THIS WAS A GOOD PROMPT YUM #thx anon!!♡♡♡#anyway hope you enjoyed!#anon #request #prompt #zenyatta #maximilien #ramattra #reader #zenyatta x reader #maximilien x reader #ramattra x reader #nsft

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whump-queen · 1 year

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today’s objectification brainrot—

whumper bruising and biting every inch of whumpee’s exposed skin, and then poking and admiring each bruise and bloody bite mark, explaining slowly how each one formed while whumpee writhes under their fingertips

showing whumpee off to someone else and doing the same thing—explaining in excruciating detail what their did to make their captive so pretty and pliant

… making them explain each injury and why they deserved it

whumpee tied up and gagged and adorned in jewelry, and whumper just dragging them around a party by the chain on their collar. showing them off to all their friends—running possessive hands down their torso—pressing down on the deep bruises and the still bleeding bites—just to show off how pretty they sound when they’re in pain

more of this trope here and here if you need therapy like me

yeah @unorganisedalienrubbish we rly on some shiit rn

#whump scenario #objectification whump #dehumanization whump #humiliation whump #pretty whumpee #akia.txt #i’ve written about these tropes so many goddamn times and it NEVER FAILS to push all the fucken buttons in my brain at once ⚡️⚡️⚡️#whump prompts #objectification #dehumanization #hnfrienfjfrnrnrr #pls read this in the style of one of those galaxy brain memes ok thx #i’ll make it in the format later but we all can use our magination together :))#my post #my prompts #prompt list #tiny text for my tiny little violin that plays sad songs

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tickle-bugs · 7 months

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The Ol' Kentucky Welcome

Summary: Eggsy’s attitude gets him into trouble at Statesman HQ. Whiskey and Tequila show him how they handle mouthy recruits with too much pride.

Anon: Hey! Love your work. I was trying to think of something I haven't read. So, kingsman and golden circle. Maybe eggsy, whiskey, and Tatum s characters get real drunk one night, start teasing each other and a full out brawl of a tickle fight happens!!! You can do it!!! Thanks!

Loose handwaving at and spoilers for Kingsman: The Golden Circle.

Becoming a Kingsman had done wonders for Eggsy’s impulse control and sense of self. He’s got restraint now, and better judgement—he doesn’t blindly chase a whim without considering the consequences first.

This is what he tells himself as he poaches a bottle of premium Statesman Reserve whiskey from a supply closet rather ominously labeled ‘This Ain’t For Sharing, Friend’. He makes sure to shuffle the bottles to disguise the large gap left behind on the shelf.

He settles in at the Statesman briefing room table, loosening his tie and shirt collar. He unbuttons his jacket and, in a rare flash of bad manners, kicks his feet up onto one of the nearby chairs.

The thought of Harry scolding him for it tugs at chest.

“Now what do we have here?” Whiskey whistles lowly, ducking into the doorway. Tequila fits in beside him. Eggsy gives a mocking salute before popping the cork on the bottle. He grabs a polished crystal glass from a platter on the table and pours himself a hefty bit.

“Looks to me like we’ve got a thief, Whiskey.” Tequila arches his brow. “Y’ain’t learned your lesson yet, Galahad?”

“Gentlemen.” Eggsy smirks and lifts his glass. The sharp kiss of the liquor burns his tongue, but it washes back with a smoky smoothness unlike anything he'd ever tried. He smacks his lips loudly, enjoying the slight twitch of Whiskey’s eyebrow in response.

“Thought you fancy-types were supposed to be polite.” Whiskey puts his hands on his hips.

“And I thought you brutish types couldn’t make something so delicious.” Eggsy angles the glass in the light. The liquid seems to glow.

Tequila ducks past Whiskey and takes a seat at the table, helping himself to a glass. He clinks glasses with Eggsy and they share another sip. Both of them sigh in unison, sinking deeper into their chairs. Whiskey throws Eggsy’s feet off his chair and takes a seat.

“You’re lucky I ain’t reportin’ you to Ginger Ale for theft.” Whiskey fixes himself a glass. He takes off his hat and rests it on the table. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair.

“Report me for what?” Eggsy cocks his head. “You fine, upstanding gentlemen cracked open a bottle of your own reserve to share with your guest and I just had to say yes. Would hate to be impolite.”

Whiskey glares. Eggsy sips innocently.

“I like this motherfucker, Whiskey.” Tequila laughs, muffling himself in his fist. Whiskey shifts his glare.

“‘Course you do. You can’t keep your mug outta trouble to save your life.”

“Least my mug ain’t ugly,” Tequila grumbles. Eggsy snorts. Whiskey turns to fish for a pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket. As he leans forward, a silver shine peeks out of his pants pocket. Eggsy gently plucks a shiny lighter from Whiskey’s pocket and tucks it into his own.

“Champagne mentioned you’re a cheeky bugger.” Eggsy knocks shoulders with Tequila and winks.

“I dunno what that means.” Tequila frowns. They both watch Whiskey fumble around for the lost lighter and keep smooth, straight expressions.

“You get into shit. He’s fond of you?” Eggsy gestures at him. Tequila nods.

“Yeah, well…he wasn’t always. I’ve always been a bit of a firecracker. Didn’t make the best choices. Got people hurt. Built up a reputation for bein’ a problem, and Champagne started makin’ me own it.” Tequila watches his whiskey swirl in his glass. Eggsy hums thoughtfully.

“Sounds like Harry. He didn’t let me get away with shit. If I did something reckless, it was my arse on the line. But sometimes it paid off.” Eggsy smiles and thinks of stealing Harry’s cab on his way out of initiation.

“To good mentors.” Tequila inclines his head respectfully and raises his glass. Eggsy clinks their glasses together.

The three of them pass the time draining the bottle and looking out over the twinkling lights of the distillery buildings. A boyish mischief settles into Tequila, one that grows as the liquor in the bottle sinks. Whiskey starts to slur his words, but he maintains a hunter’s focus.

“Tell me somethin’, Eggsy. What brought you to Kingsman?” Whiskey watches him over the rim of his glass. His stare is piercing.

“Hm. Harry did. Not so different from Tequila, I reckon. I’d made a right fuckin’ mess and Harry saved me from it. Gave me a job. He saw something in me that no one else did.” Eggsy traces his fingers along the edge of his cup. He glances absently towards Harry’s cell and sighs quickly. Whiskey follows his gaze.

“Did your lepidopterist friend teach you to have sticky fingers, or do you just like causin’ problems?” Whiskey holds his hand out. Eggsy rolls his eyes and hands over the stolen lighter.

“I’ve always been good at nicking things. S’fun.” Eggsy grins and produces Whiskey’s wallet. Whiskey grumbles under his breath and snatches it.

“Feels like you’re the only one of your people that ain’t all hoity-toity. What other secrets are you hiding?” Tequila leans forward. The question grates against Eggsy’s better instincts. He searches Tequila’s face for the slightest bit of ill will. All that sticks is the way light catches softly on his eyes. Eggsy hums and turns his eyes to the ceiling to think.

“Well, my girlfriend bein’ a princess isn’t much of a secret anymore, so…I was a gymnast for a bit.” Eggsy grins. Tequila’s eyes light up and he starts snapping in Whiskey’s direction. For each snap, Whiskey gives a disgruntled hm until eventually they’re just swatting at each other.

“Whiskey, don’t we have them flippy bars down in the gym?” Tequila sniffs, blinking as the liquor hits his sinuses. Eggsy perks up. A spark of excitement picks up atop the warm flush of liquor in his stomach.

“We do. For Statesman agents. Y’know Rum and Cognac get real touchy ‘bout their stuff.” Whiskey raises an eyebrow.

“Well, we’re workin’ together now, ain’t we? ‘Sides, Rum and Cognac ain’t here. Let’s walk him down there. I wanna see what he can do.” Tequila claps Eggsy on the shoulder. Eggsy gives his best winning smile. Whiskey grumbles, then downs the rest of his glass.

“Fuck it. Fine. Five minutes.”

…

They stumble down to the Statesman training facility, passing by a very tired Ginger Ale who opts not to ask why Eggsy’s wearing Tequila’s hat (pretty simple, it’s ‘cause he nicked it). Whiskey puts his thumb to a scanner and the wall unfolds for them.

The lights click on in rows, lighting the industrial space. Eggsy gasps like a kid on Christmas morning.

Sophisticated weight training and combat equipment sit in neat rows. Eggsy locks in directly past that, drifting unconsciously towards a heaping pile of chalk bags. Pommel horses, beams, bars, and hanging rings sprawl out on a spring mat, all in pristine condition. A few launchpads and trampolines lay near the equipment. Eggsy laughs incredulously as he takes it in. Nostalgia flutters in his chest.

Eggsy immediately unbuttons his shirt, folding it cleanly and crisply. He shoves it and the cowboy hat into Tequila’s arms, adjusts his tank top, then works to unlace his shoes. The moment his feet are free, he sprints for one of the springboards. He hits it clean, just like he’d learned, and pushes off the vault, twisting through the air. His landing is a bit messy, but it’s functional, and he takes off to the parallel bars next.

The alcohol writhes in his system, but he doesn’t care. How can he? It’s been years. Coach’d told him he was good enough for the fucking Olympics and he hadn’t touched a set of bars since. The flex of the bars is a comfort to him. He flips and twirls, holding crisp handstands and tucks through muscle memory alone.

He dismounts beautifully from the parallel bars to the pleasant thrum of adrenaline and a smattering of applause.

“Hoowee, that was somethin’!” Tequila ruffles Eggsy’s hair, destroying the last hold of the gel on his head. Eggsy laughs and swats him away.

“Hats off to you, kid. Takes a lot of skill to pull that off.” Whiskey nods in respect. Eggsy returns it.

“I ain’t gonna lie, I thought you were gonna fall on your ass. I’m impressed.” Tequila slugs his shoulder with a brassy laugh.

“Thanks, Tequila.” Eggsy grins roguishly. “Mind givin’ me a boost?”

“Sure.” Tequila follows Eggsy over to the high bar. Whiskey loudly clears his throat.

“Boys, this has been…eye-openin’, but we really should get goin’. Early start tomorrow, I imagine. And this one’ll be fit to collapse when the time difference catches up.” Whiskey inclines his head towards Eggsy.

“Sorry, bruv? Can’t hear you all the way over there.” Eggsy gestures to his ear with a cheeky grin.

“I said—“

“No, no. If you have something to say, come whisper it in my fucking ear.” Eggsy snickers, hearing Merlin’s voice in his head. Whiskey rolls his eyes and saunters over.

“Look, I respect you ‘cause Champagne respects you. Other than that, you’re still a brat that oughta fall into line. Let’s turn in for the night. Both of you.” Whiskey raises his eyebrow. The honey tones of his voice make his annoyance all the more amusing.

“What’re you gonna do about it? Get me with your skipping rope?” Eggsy smirks. Tequila mutters a quiet aw hell and takes a step back.

“Maybe I will, you little shit.”

Eggsy comes to terms with a number of things about himself in that moment, and he puts them all away to process sober. Instead, he gestures for Tequila to give him a hand and reaches up for the bar.

Tequila picks him up by the waist, and it’s not the smooth, assisted lift he’s used to. It’s the clumsy grip of a drunk surprised by weight. Tequila does lift Eggsy up to the bar, but at the cost of his dignity— he spasms and makes a high-pitched noise when Tequila’s fingers press into his waist.

In hindsight, he should’ve seen the way Whiskey’s eyes narrowed at that.

“What the hell was that?” Tequila squints up at him.

“Nothin’. Thought you were gonna drop me. Bugger off.” Eggsy kicks weakly in Tequila’s direction. He backs up, hands raised. Whiskey steps in, hands on his belt.

“Get off the bar, Eggsy.” Whiskey sniffs authoritatively. The logical Kingsman agent buried in Eggsy’s brain sets off warning bells, but Drunk Eggsy, who is obviously of much sounder mind, ignores it.

“Make me, Whiskey.” Eggsy starts to swing in the space he has. Not enough to kick anyone, but enough to look like he will. He manages to rotate clumsily around the bar once, then hangs back down in front of Whiskey.

“You want me to embarrass you in front of your new friend? Okay.” Whiskey steps up to Eggsy and makes a show of sizing him up. Then, quicker than the draw of his pistols, his hands latch onto Eggsy’s sides and squeeze until he’s screaming and plummeting off the bar. Eggsy’s short life flashes before his eyes as he falls bodily into Tequila’s arms.

“Are you fucking mental?” Eggsy goes to shove Whiskey, but Tequila holds him back.

“Woah, watch that mouth of yours!” Whiskey laughs, eyes glittering. “You told me to make you. Your wish is my command, friend.”

Eggsy kicks, trying to break Tequila's hold, and he catches Whiskey right in the balls. He makes a noise like a wounded donkey and folds over. Eggsy snickers. Whiskey whips his reddening face up and glares.

“Now you’ve done it. Tequila!” Whiskey tosses something his way and he catches it. Eggsy barely has time to react before his arms are bound and hoisted in the air above his head. His toes brush the ground. The bar above him creaks in protest but does not give.

Whiskey puts his hands on his hips again. Eggsy wonders if that’s a cowboy thing or an American one.

“Skippin’ rope, bitch.” Whiskey grins, sharklike. “Now…you done with the whole insubordination routine or am I gonna have to give you the ol’ Kentucky Welcome?”

Eggsy snorts derisively. He tests his bindings. They hold steady. Fear starts to pierce through his liquid courage.

“I’m honored, bruv, but I’m in a committed relationship—“

Whiskey clicks his tongue and crowds into Eggsy’s space. He immediately steels himself for violence—what else would there be besides violence? He’s been jumped before. He’s no stranger to the predatory tilt of Whiskey’s head. He sets his jaw and glares.

“When Tequila first joined up, he carried a bit of them clownin’ instincts with him. That didn’t fly with Champagne. We had to figure out a way to take him down a few pegs without hurtin’ him. So, the Kentucky Welcome was born.”

“Aw, fuck you, Whiskey. Seriously, man.” Tequila pipes up from behind Eggsy.

“What does this have to do with me? I know you Americans love to hear yourself talk, but I’m not interested.” Eggsy tries to pull free. Nothing. Whiskey’s gaze gets softer, more mischievous. The change is deeply unnerving.

“Well, you remind me of Tequila. You’ve clearly got a good head on your shoulders, but you’re a little shit. So I’m gonna deal with you the same way we used to deal with him. Last chance, kid. You comin’ quietly or are we gonna have to drag you?”

Eggsy flinches when Whiskey reaches for him—years of habit die hard—and prepares himself for the hard crunch of knuckles into his ribs. Instead, he’s met with a gentle and persistent scritching.

A confused noise bubbles up at the back of Eggsy’s throat, quickly chased by a wobbly smile. He ducks his head and bites his lip.

Oh what the fuck?

Kingsman had taught him to resist the most painful and stressful of scenarios, but they’d never taught him what to do about this. Tilde’s maybe the only person who knows that he’s ticklish, and even then…he can convince her to let him go by kissing her senseless. Eggsy doubts that’ll work here.

“Uh oh, Galahad. Don’t tell me something’s botherin’ you?” Whiskey presses an insincere hand to his heart. Eggsy’s brain stutters for a moment as he realizes that Tequila’s the one scratching at his ribs.

“Fffffuck you.” Eggsy exhales sharply through his nose and closes his eyes--nope, that’s worse. So much worse.

Whiskey tickles under his arms and Eggsy yelps, bright laughter tumbling after. It shouldn’t be this bad—Tilde’s done far worse to him in jest, but somehow the teasing grin of his begrudging allies gets under his skin. His arms flex as he tries to pull himself up and away, but his strength collapses with every breath.

“Aw, y’all are twins.” Whiskey leans around Eggsy to smirk at Tequila.

“Whiskey.” Tequila’s languished tone being hilarious really doesn’t help things. Eggsy’s entire face scrunches as he tries to find his way back towards composure. A hiccup sneaks into his chest, and then he’s giggling incessantly. His chest feels like the sparklers he’d run around with as a kid, bright and fizzling and dissolving with every breath.

“Y’know, I wish I had tried this when I first caught y’all. Prolly woulda gone a hell of a lot faster.” Tequila’s voice floats past Eggsy’s ear. Eggsy manages a giggly growl and a halfhearted headbutt in his direction. Tequila tuts at him and folds his fingers into Eggsy’s waistline.

He makes a noise at a pitch that threatens to shatter every lightbulb in the room. Tequila’s calloused fingers strum Eggsy’s nerves like guitar strings and it tickles, fucking shit—

Tequila hooks his fingers just so and Eggsy kicks. Whiskey snags his ankle before a second devastating impact can occur. They make tortuous eye contact.

“Whiskey—“ Eggsy attempts to appeal to the cowboy’s humanity with what Merlin fondly calls his nuclear puppy eyes.

Grinning wickedly, Whiskey shakes his head and reaches for his trapped foot.

Eggsy’s eyes bug out of his head.

He wrenches his leg free, twists his hands, and flips upwards. Managing a gold-worthy handstand into a dismount, he frees his wrists and lands smoothly. Eggsy playfully curtsies. Tequila starts to clap. Whiskey smacks him upside the head.

“Alright, I’m done playin’ around. Grab him. If we’re caught down here at this hour it’ll be my hide.” Whiskey gestures for Tequila to step in. He does so, still a little off-kilter from the liquor.

Eggsy rushes in, expecting a clumsier rendition of the fighting style he’d been so painfully introduced to. Instead, Tequila smoothly blocks his blows and hoists Eggsy over his shoulder like a sack of fucking potatoes. One of his arms locks behind Eggsy’s thighs as they start to walk for the door. It takes him a moment to even process being upside-down. The sway of Tequila’s gait shakes some blood into his brain.

“Aw, y’all are twins.”

“—deal with you the same way we used to deal with him—“

A lightbulb clicks on in Eggsy’s head. He shouldn’t…but he could…but he shouldn’t—

He shoves his hands under Tequila’s arms. Before he can blink or breathe, they’re in a heap on the ground. Tequila’s cackling dead weight presses the air from Eggsy’s chest.

“Thought you’d put up more of a fight, bruv.” Eggsy’s eyebrows raise. Tequila shrieks at him in response. Eggsy manages to wiggle free and hop lightly to his feet as Tequila gathers his wits.

“There’s one of you and two of us. Be wise.” Whiskey cracks his neck. Eggsy looks over at Tequila and smirks devilishly. Tequila pales.

“I like those odds.”

The flurry of motion as they charge each other sets off the ‘fight’ center in his brain, but there is some comfort in knowing no harm is on the table. Eggsy flips and twists out of their grasp, taking advantage of his flexibility to pull off increasingly ridiculous dodges. He neatly sweeps both Whiskey and Tequila’s legs out from under them.

“Little help?” Whiskey gestures lamely at Tequila.

“Nah, I’m done. Y’all are nuts.” Tequila lays on his back, putting his hat down over his face. He folds his arms behind his head. Whiskey curses at him. Tequila gives him the finger.

Whiskey grabs Eggsy by the back of the shirt--really, he should know better--and Eggsy sweeps him again. Whiskey’s ready for it this time, though, and he manages a pin faster than Eggsy can roll away. Whiskey plants himself on Eggsy’s back like he’s settling on a bull.

“Aren’t you tired? Goddamn.” Whiskey sighs. Eggsy winces at the texture of the mat against his cheek.

It reminds him of Roxy and agonizing training sessions, of hours of sweat and bruising and his face stinging from being slammed into the mat. Even past the wave of grief, he remembers the shape of her smile when she would lecture him about letting her pin him on his stomach.

“Indefensible,” she’d say, prodding the back of his ribs. “You’re a sitting duck like this.”

And every time he’d roll his eyes, hooking his fingers behind her knees--

Oh. Hm.

As best as he can, he reaches back and latches onto Whiskey’s thigh, squeezing just above his knee. Whiskey hollers and tries to phase right through the floor. Eggsy rolls them over and pursues, squeezing and squeezing until Whiskey is a wheezing pile on the floor.

Eggsy flips onto his feet. He knows he’s imagining the fond, ghostly squeeze on his shoulder, but he puts his hand on the spot anyways.

“Now I’m tired. Goodnight, fellas.” Eggsy salutes with a wide grin, stepping over both cowboys. He gathers his belongings and saunters for the door, whistling pleasantly.

Whiskey rubs a hand over his face as he stares up at the ceiling.

“Kid’s fuckin’ lucky I like him,” Whiskey grumbles, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

“Might not wanna speak too soon. He took your hat.” Tequila puts his own ten-gallon back on his head and gestures towards the door with a whistle. Whiskey growls and shoots to his feet.

“Motherfucker! Eggsy!”

#my fics #this fic truly wrote itself. i blacked out and it just happened #and then i realized i didnt properly read the prompt and then rewrote it lol #is this good? *vague mumbling and shrugging*. did i have fun? absolutely #kingsman #ticklish!eggsy #eggsy unwin #ticklish!whiskey #agent whiskey #ticklish!tequila #agent tequila #<- contenders for some of my silliest tags #theres an au in my head where roxy merlin eggsy and harry play cowboy with the statesman agents for a while #mostly bc i want cowboy roxy...#anyways ive wanted to write kingsman forever! thx for the prompt hope you enjoy <3 #also anon 'you can do it!!! thanks!!!' has been in my head since you sent the prompt. like yea i CAN do it!!! thank YOU!!!!

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