It’s kind of strange that Robot Christianity requires you to favorite a poem on a website, but who am I to judge? Although come to think of it, I guess it still makes more sense than valuing your ability to believe unlikely claims without evidence over how you treat other people.
I heard that life is sacred, but I don’t know what that word means.
A woman outside a clinic told me that a tiny mass of cells was a person, but I didn’t think it looked like one. I heard her say that the bundle of cells was just what a person looked like when it was very small. She said it had the same genetic makeup and all of the same DNA as a fully grown person and therefore had the same right to life. I watched her scratch her nose, dislodging a thousand skin cells containing her full set of DNA, which described her entire genetic makeup. The skin cells died.
The bundle of cells in a pregnant woman’s abdomen would grow into a fully developed human being, she said. That is, unless they didn’t, as was frequently the case. But, the bundle of cells had the potential to grow into a real person. The woman outside the clinic told me that life begins at conception.
If she had said before conception, I might have believed her.
A man in black told me that a woman produced a special kind of cell each month. If the special cell came into contact with another special kind of cell produced by a man, a person would grow out of it. That is, unless it didn’t, as was frequently the case.
The special cells were living things, individual forms of life. The man in black told me it was a sin to keep the special cells from meeting each other. He told me about pills and implants and lubricated pieces of rubber. They kept the special cells from joining. He told me these things were murder.
I told him my sister’s special cell came out of her body in a stream of blood. She hadn’t been with a man, so her special cell died.
The man in black was not impressed.
A doctor told me that a girl is born with one to two million immature special cells in her body. Most of these immature cells will die. When she reaches reproductive age, only about 400,000 of the immature cells will remain. With each cycle of ovulation, approximately 400 immature cells will die and one will develop into a fully mature special cell capable of growing a person. If it doesn’t come in contact with one of the special man cells, no person grows and this cell will also die. He said these cycles will generally continue until a woman is in her late 40s or 50s.
The doctor said that a man produces approximately 1,500 special cells every second. In a single day, a man produces well over 100 million special cells. These special cells are very short-lived. Even if the man introduces them to a woman’s special cell, most of them will die.
I met a celibate man and a celibate woman. They both died at age 75. The woman was born with two million immature special cells. Over the course of her life, 400 of them matured to the point of person-growing capability. Over the course of the man’s life, he produced 3 trillion special cells, all of them capable of growing a person.
All of their special cells died.
Through their celibacy, the man and woman prevented their special cells from ever coming into contact.
I asked the man in black if the celibate people were mass murderers, but he said it only counts as murder if they put their special body parts together. I don’t know why.
A lady with a book seemed to disagree with the man in black. Her book said to be fruitful and multiply. I didn’t know what fruits and math had to do with it, but the lady said it was every person’s duty to make as many new people as possible.
I heard that the number of people in the world increased from one billion in 1804 to two billion 123 years later in 1927 to three billion 33 years later in 1960 to four billion 14 years later in 1974 to five billion 13 years later in 1987 to six billion 12 years later in 1999, to approximately seven billion 13 years later in 2012. Since the world has a limited amount of space and resources, the lady’s book may have given her bad advice.
But, wait; there’s more.
A fellow who ate plants told me that animal lives are special, too. He said that we should treat animals with the same respect we treat people. He said we ought not to eat animals. The plant-eating fellow then opened a can, scooped out the moist, stinking remains of a dead animal, and fed it to a dog, which he owned as a piece of property. The dog ate the dead animal meat.
I wondered why it was acceptable for the dog to eat the dead animal meat, but not for me. Maybe it was because the dog didn’t know any better, and it was therefore permissible for the fellow, who did know better, to supply the dead animal meat to the dog. Or perhaps it was because the dog was unable to survive without dead animal meat. I wondered, therefore, if the answer to the ethical question would change were my body unable to receive nourishment from anything but the carcass of a dead cow. What would be the ethical implications if my body could only receive nourishment from the meat of another human?
The plant-eating fellow was unable to answer my questions.
A fisher told me that it was OK to eat fish, because they didn’t have any feelings.
I asked a fish about the matter, but she disagreed. She didn’t answer me with her mouth, or even with her eyes, but the message still came across as the fisher peeled back her flesh, scooped out her innards, and extracted every bone from her body.
Yesterday, I swatted a fly. The fly was not hurting me. It posed no threat. It was just annoying. Now, it is dead. I killed it.
I wonder what gives me the right to decide that a living creature deserves to die just because I don’t like it. I’m uncomfortable with the implications.
I mourn the fly.
They tell me about the sanctity of life. I wonder what kinds of life this sanctity applies to.
If it is unacceptable to take the life of a cow or a bundle of human cells, I wonder why it would be acceptable to take the life of an apple. Is it simply because we like to think the apple has no consciousness and can feel no pain? I wonder if the plant-eating fellow would make an exception for a brain-dead chicken with no pain receptors.
A botanist told me that plants can perceive and react to moisture, light, gravity, touch, temperature, infections, parasites, chemicals, and the concentrations of oxygen and carbon dioxide in the air. I wonder what we really know about a plant’s ability to experience other things.
Do we show arrogance and hubris by presuming to know what another living thing does or does not feel on the grounds that it fails to show a reaction comparable to the type of reaction we might have? Because the apple lacks a central nervous system, we deign to say that it has no capacity to experience pain or hold any opinion at all on its potential demise.
Having never been an apple, perhaps I lack the perspective to make such claims.
I saw a pair of lovers. There was also a flower, which could serve no purpose to either of the two. It could provide them no sustenance. Its existence in its present location had no negative consequences for the couple. But, still, the man plucked the flower from the ground, severing the stem through which it received nutrients absorbed by its roots, and handed it to the woman. The woman described this action as romantic.
The flower died.
A doctor told me that I had foreign life forms in my body. They were called bacteria, and they made me feel bad. He gave me medicine to help my body murder the life forms.
I thought about the sanctity of life, but I still don’t know what that means.
I took the medicine, and the life forms died.
It occurred to me that my life cannot continue to exist without causing the death of other life forms, whether they be animals, plants or bacteria. Almost all forms of life rely on the death of other life forms in order to continue their own existence.
Somebody tried to explain to me about the sanctity of life, but they were wearing a coat made from the hide of a dead cow.
I heard that viruses possess some, but not all, of the properties of life. I wonder how much sanctity that’s worth. I also wonder who gets to decide what properties a potential life form has to have before it counts.
I thought about the woman outside the clinic, the man in black, the doctor, the celibate couple, the lady with the book, the fellow who ate plants, the dog, the fisher, the fish, the fly, the apple, the botanist, the lovers, the bacteria, the viruses, and myself, and I tried to find the special line that separated the acceptable forms of death from the unacceptable.
I’m still looking.
I knew a man. His mother’s special cell combined with his father’s special cell, and the resulting mass of cells grew into a person. He took the lives of many plants and animals, his body killed many bacteria and viruses, and he overcame many odds to live a healthy and happy life into extreme old age.
Then, he died, anyway.
I heard that life is sacred, but I don’t know what that word means.
This is fairly extended, and I realize that people have a limited amount of time (and there are oh so many other things to do on the Internet), but I really hope you don't just read the first few bits, think you know what the whole thing is about, and close the window to go watch videos of funny cats.
Also, thanks go to ~GoblinPrincess for pointing out that I was technically mistaken when I'd referred to viruses as a form of life in the original version of this, thereby inspiring me to make a few alterations.
Original Artist's Comments still below, left unchanged because they are precious in a way...
I'd been freaking out for a long and very uncomfortable time, because I found myself utterly believing in this particular idea, while at the same time fiercely resisting slash. It's been trying to burst out of me for the last 6 months solid, and though I resisted it, I finally decided that if I believed in it that strongly, I'd try to do something about it. So this is my poem about the one instance in which I would totally support a spark-bond between Optimus Prime and Megatron. Many, many thanks to good friends - you know who you are <3 - who gave me encouragement as I was processing these thoughts, patiently read my multitidinous drafts, and gave me some very pithy advice. And I took the line "I will fight no more forever" from Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce, who found himself in a similar (though much sadder because it was actually real) situation. Here's a good, short link for a citation: [link]
This is a METAPHOR. I know it'd never really happen. (What then would there be to write comic books and morning cartoons about?) But I think it is a beautiful one, and I stand by my love for it.
I don't believe Optimus and Megatron are literally brothers (but it was the coolest idea to come out of the '07 movie). It's just my addiction to metaphor, again...
And I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Spark-bonding is not the same thing as sex. It's the ultimate mutual soul-knowing. And I wish we humans could do it...
I throw this poem - my heart distilled - out into the world, as a plea and a hope that we all might seek to understand each other better, and in doing so, make peace and love even across social divides that much more possible...
Love to all, Prime Out
Hasbro/Takara only own the legal rights to Transformers. They do not own our imagination!
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.
But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.
In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.
Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.
I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.
This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring."
And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!
Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California!
But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"
today is the 50th anavery of the I have a dream speech made today in Washington over 50 years ago. and I am here t present to you the full speech he gave today on the march in Washington during the civil rights the speech will and forever more belong to him.
People often say madness and genius are just microns apart. For most people, what's I've done will seem the epitome of insanity. Then again, what sane person would believe that I, a blond chick with blue eyes, could ever be valedictorian and captain of the cheerleaders? Well, the cheerleader part they'd believe, but valedictorian? They would scoff outright and say I probably slept with the principal. Ha! I say, please, Mr. Edwards may be kind and sweet, but he is so old and so married and so not my type! Whether I'm looked down by the lowly thug, or even the B-man himself, I don't care. I blaze my own trail. As a native Gotham-ite, I've heard all sorts of stories about Arkham Asylum. There are tales, like the tragic fate of the founder who ended up a patient if his own institution. Those stories were all meant to scare the kids and deter them from setting foot on the island. As for me, they just increased my curiosity. It was inevitable that I chose to major in psychologist. Arkham was my first choice for internship; I was the only one in my year to pick it. My friends and my family all thought I was crazy for selecting that place. They spoke of the "Curse of Arkham" and told me of doctors who followed the founder's footsteps and became incarcerated themselves. Preposterous, I'd tell them, there is no such thing. Disorders of the mind are never contagious, unless of course you have meningitis or mad cow disease. I met Mr. J on my first visit to Arkham. I confess that I was smitten with him almost immediately. He had charm like no other guy I met, and his never ending quest to find humor in life attracted me even more. Above all, I loved his loud boisterous laughter when he threw caution to the wind and just enjoyed himself. Now, I know what you're all thinking: how does a smart girl like me become head-henchwoman of the Clown Prince of Crime? I tell ya, it wasn't easy. After the Rosenhan experiments rocked the psychiatric world, it isn't enough to just feign madness, I have to play my part of love-sick sex slave who'd do anything to get her Puddin's attention. My role had to be perfect in order to fool even Mr. J. Once inside, though, I've discovered world so different from the ordinary one. I'm surrounded almost constantly by all sorts of geniuse. There's my best friend Red, a gifted biochemist who just wants the world a little greener. Brilliant Edward Nygma is always coming up with so many hard riddles and enjoys watching us rack our brains for the answer. Then, there are Dr. Strange and Dr. Crane, both of whom were my senior colleagues, and both of whom are now incarcerated like I am. And yes, I do believe in Arkham's Curse now, since I am its living proof. Of course, there is my Mr. J. He is as ingenious as he is crafty. His schemes, while deadly, are always brilliantly crafted. He is so resourceful; he can turn anything -- and I mean anything -- into something he needs, whether it is a weapon or just a tool to aid in his plans. Now, I adore Mr. J, but I am not an airhead who trapezes into a minefield without protection -- or without a reason. Since I was little, my mother always taught me to think with my head and not with my heart, and to this day, I follow her advice to the letter. The fact that I'm alive,today is testament to that. Charming as my Puddin' is, I see him in the way I diagnosed him. After all, I was -- and still am -- his personal physician. A narcissistic psychopathic megalomaniac with no regards for human life -- that is my Mr. J, the man I fell in love with. As I said, I never let my emotions over rule my reason. I certainly didn't dive into the criminal world -- and become a criminal myself -- because I loved him. ...well okay, maybe I did want to get to know him a little more, but that's not the main reason. Ever since B-man started to clean up the streets a little, all sorts of weird minds have come washing up to Arkham's doorsteps. All the doctors, including me, have tried to find what makes these patient tick. So far, their efforts have been wasted, and no wonder. It's like finding a sand dollar on the beach and wondering how the creature behaved when it was alive. Sometimes, you have to dive in and find out. That is what I have done. Using my my new persona as my dive suit, I've entered this world of sharks through possibly the hardest -- and most exciting -- portal of entry: through Joker's own heart. I have seen the world through their eyes, and it's a bit gloomy down here. Everyone's a man for himself, and everyday is a struggle. There is just one beacon shining down on us, and it's you, B-man. Everyone here fear you, revere you. To many, like myself, you are the shining example of what we all aspire to. Like every rogue down here, you are beyond crazy. What person in their right mind would trapeze at night with such a ridiculous -- yet strangely hot -- costume to fight crime and all villainy? Yet, unlike us, you blend in so well with society that few gets a glimpse at you during the day. I am so jealous of you, B-man. You slip in and out of the criminal world with such ease, while your name and your symbol burns into all of our minds. Meanwhile, I've become little more than a slave, obeying her master and appeasing his every whim. B-man, I know you're reading this. That's why I left this where it is. We should compare notes, sometime... when we're alone, of course. I would love to get to know you a little more. ~ Ciao!
So, being tickled twice a day for at least five minutes and being tazered almost hourly wasn’t exactly what Louis had in mind for ‘getting used to being tickled’, but it was working. Maybe a little too well, actually. See, Louis likes things that make his heart race or gets his adrenaline up- bungee jumping a few years ago was the biggest rush he had gotten aside from being onstage.
Truth be told, he was starting to like it. And because he knew the others hated it, he respected them more for putting up with him tickling all these years, especially Harry, who was easily the most ticklish person he had ever met. Just wiggling your fingers three inches away from his sides could make the boy giggle and squirm, and Louis had used that to his advantage plenty of times.
But now, the tables were turned, and Louis was squirming and wriggling underneath Harry, whose fingers were wiggling incredibly close to Louis’ stomach. “Remember when you used to mock me for squirming when you did this,” Harry asked, rather enjoying himself and Louis’ reactions. “You always used to say, ‘I’m not even touching you yet, stop squirming!’ Well, Lou, what’s it like to be on the other end?”
“I-I’m starting t-to get w-where you’ve coming f-from,” Louis stuttered, trying to hide his giggling. Harry would have none of it, however, and decided to really torture him.
“Remember all of those times you used to tip my head back and run your fingertips down my neck until I was crying from laughter? Or when you’d stand behind me and rest your chin on my shoulder, but turn your head so your stubble would tickle my neck?” Louis bit his lip, his heart racing as Harry got his ankles in a headlock. “Well, this is for all those times when you made my ribs and sides hurt from laughing or when you held my wrists down so I couldn’t scratch away the phantom tickles.” Just a single fingertip sliding down his arch could send him into hysteria, but when he struggled now it was real- not some simple trick designed to fool the boys into tickling him longer. Because every time someone tickled his feet, the adrenaline turned into fear. Except the others didn’t know that- he struggled the same way he did when he was tickled anywhere else. There was really only one option.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured as Harry groaned, hands clutching his crotch. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, loud enough this time for Harry to hear. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Yes you did,” Harry ground out, groans of pain escaping him.
“Yeah, I know,” he murmured, scooting aside Harry and rubbing his back.
“Kicker?” Both boys nodded as Niall skirted around them, a wary look on his face. “Anything I can do?”
“Is there ever anything you can do when you’re kicked in the crotch besides take your time until it stops hurting,” Louis asked on behalf of Harry.
“I guess not.” Three heads turned to Zayn, who was standing in the doorway next to Liam. “Yeah, I know, I’m a ninja.”
“We,” Liam corrected.
“We am a ninja?”
“You know what I meant.” Niall chuckled at the slight blush on Liam’s cheeks. “Anyway Haz, you should know better than to try his feet. He got my jaw pretty good the other day.” A spark of color ignited in Louis’ cheeks and an apology fell past his lips. “It’s fine, I know you’re not good at controlling yourself when you’re tickled there.” Louis swallowed.
“I can stay perfectly still if you tickle my feet.” His eyes slowly made their way to Liam’s, which, like the other boys’, were staring at him in disbelief. “I swear to you. I can stay perfectly still if you tickle me anywhere, actually. On the rest of me it’s because I don’t really mind it.” He paused, waiting for them to judge him or back away or make a face, but none of their expressions changed. “But on my feet I go stiff with fear. I can stay still though.” He didn’t bother flinching when the first fingertip ran from his heel to his toes, and didn’t move his legs a millimeter as a yelp and a laugh left his mouth. Zayn and the others glanced at each other in amazement, and soon smiles began edging onto their lips. “Don’t take advantage of me being afraid of it,” Louis snapped before any of them could do what they had planned in their minds.
“Well you said you, eh, liked it on the rest of you, right?” A faint spark of color flooded Louis’ cheeks.
Niall smirked. “Us tickling you every day wore you down, eh?”
“Yeah.” The pink turned to red.
“Anyway,” Liam continued, a smile tugging at his mouth. A flustered Lou was a rare sight indeed. “What if we tickled you where you liked it, and just tickled your feet a bit when we did, like shock therapy.”
A slight smirk edged onto Louis’ face. “No electrocution?”
Harry scoffed, slapping him upside his head. “Obviously.”
Louis thought about it for a moment. “It would have to be on certain spots in a certain way for me to be able to like it enough-“
“Tell us and we’ll do it.”
Louis chuckled and shook his head. “And lose the opportunity for you to tickle me? Hell no. You’ve got to figure that out on your own, even if that means I’ll have to suffer a bit.”
“Deal,” Harry replied, smirking. Of course they would- revenge for three odd years was in store, after all. “Shirt off, socks off, roll your sweatpants up.” Louis nodded and disrobed. “Hands behind your head, knees bent slightly.”
“You been fantasizing about this Haz,” Niall joked.
“After all the years of being his toy? Yeah, I have.” Louis glanced at him, a bit of worry in his eyes. “Eyes shut Tommo.” Louis shrugged and the world went black. “You’ve got to guess who it is. Get it right, and we’ll leave your feet alone for now. Get it wrong, and you know what you’ll get.” Louis nodded.
The first was easy enough: a light, hesitant touch across his ribs that sent a shiver down his spine; skinny enough to be Harry’s, except the print was barely calloused from playing guitar. “Niall.” The blond grumbled in annoyance but backed off.
The second was a bit tougher: short nails on his waist, close to Liam’s, but he was hesitant to guess. “Zayn,” he finally managed, his stomach twitching a bit from the touch. A low whistle to signify that he was impressed, and the touch stopped.
Louis didn’t need to open his eyes to know that unlike Liam, Zayn, and Niall, Harry was agitated by his guessing skill. He heard murmuring too low for him to identify the voice or the words. The light touch and skinny finger said Harry, but that wouldn’t make sense- he knew Harry would be a little more tempted than this. “Liam.”
“You’ve got to get the next one before we tell you,” Niall said.
The thickness of the finger said Liam, but he had already guessed that… “Harry.”
“Open your eyes.” Louis did, and his eyes traveled from the touch on his side up the arm to Liam. He glared. “Wrong guess babe,” Harry said, his voice devoid of caring. “Maybe we should call El- does she know you’re ticklish?”
“Not to the degree you’d be showing her if you did. But she knows my feet are ticklish- nothing else though.” He felt Zayn’s hand on his ankle. “I told you, I can stay still. Holding me down makes it worse.” The grip lightened, but Louis didn’t mind it as much anymore. Niall raked his nails up Louis’ left foot, and the older lad burst out laughing, his left leg perfectly still while the rest of him twitched. “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP NIALL!” His toe twitched, but Niall didn’t notice.
Once his face had turned red and his eyes looked bloodshot, Liam put a hand on Niall’s shoulder. The younger of the two turned around to him and reluctantly stopped because of the look on his face. Louis caught his breath, pulling his left knee to his chest and wrapping his arm around his leg. “You okay?” He nodded, the last of his laugher draining from his lips.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” A blush crept up his neck. “Yeah, it was, eh, fun.” The boys chuckled and Zayn ruffled his hair. “Not the last part, obviously, but the rest of it was fun.”
“So you can stay still then.” Louis nodded. “Like, unconditionally, no matter what,” Harry clarified.
Louis paused. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I could be still if all of you were on me at once.” His lips twitched with a smile when he saw his mates looking at him with a new interest. “I’ll just, eh, lie down then,” Louis said, watching the lads nod happily as he lay down the way he had before.
“Who wants to start,” Liam asked. Zayn raised his hand the way he would have in class if he didn’t really want to admit he knew the answer to the question, but a grin broke out on his face when Liam nodded to him.
“So let’s see here,” Zayn murmured. “You’re ticklish everywhere, yeah?” Louis nodded, biting his lip when his mate started lightly scribbling over his hollows. “Turning pink already, eh?” Louis nodded, beginning to giggle every now and then as the tickling wore him down. “I’m happy here. Anyone else want to join?” Harry glanced up from his phone with a smirk. “What’s the look for, Styles?”
“Well, I just read something that might make him move faster.” Louis glanced at him curiously, biting his lip to force down his laughter. “Stop for a bit, would you? He needs to feel this.” Louis’ jaw relaxed, a few giggles slipping out in after shock. He tilted his head back to watch Harry sit above his head. “Now then, does this tickle or itch?” Louis flinched a bit when Harry’s fingertips slid up and down his arms, barely touching him.
“Itches,” he replied, hoping his mate would stop. Harry smirked, and Louis bit his lip, worried that this was exactly what Harry intended. This was more annoying than the tickling. “Is there a second stage to this, or are you just going to keep this up instead of tickling me,” he asked, hoping to spark the temptation in his mate.
Harry shook his head. “Nope. Zayn, start up again.” Louis’ eyes widened as he was suddenly aware of how difficult it had suddenly become to stay still. “See? You’re twitching already.” Louis was giggling much more now, his shoulders starting to move a bit as the boys stared at him like he was Harry’s science project. “It’s the two feelings in your head, nagging at you to do something about them.” Louis managed to nod in agreement. “Li? You in?” Liam glanced at Niall, and shook his head when he saw how the younger boy was biting his lip. “Niall it is then.” The blonde tried not to look too elated at the chance, and began flitting his fingertips down Louis’ stomach. The older lad, normally able to keep his stomach perfectly still, found himself twitching as he tried not to suck it in. His giggling had turned into steady laughter.
“You’re starting to twitch a bit Lou,” Niall reminded him.
“I knohohohow thahahahat,” he replied, his fingers starting to intertwine and separate in an attempt to distract himself. Honestly, he would have been just fine if he didn’t have those damn itches on his arm. He’d have to remind himself to slap Harry later.
Liam began edging towards Louis’ feet, and the older lad choked out a warning that he would start kicking, but Liam didn’t care. He knew how to go lightly from his sisters, so he began brushing his fingertips over the lad’s heels. Amidst his giggling, a particularly loud laugh escaped him at the touch, and Liam chuckled, always amazed at how ticklish his mate’s feet were. “Y’know Haz, I’m surprised that you forgot one of the most obvious tricks to make people a lot more ticklish.”
“Talking about it.” Louis’ eyes widened- ever since he was little, tickle talk drove him mad- but he couldn’t say no. “You’ve forgotten how ticklish people can be when you remind them how ticklish they already are, or even just throwing the word tickle out there drives them insane.” Louis felt his toes twitching, his feet jerking a bit from his ankles. “Look- see how he’s already starting to shake? It’s because he can’t stand it. He’s ridiculously ticklish already, so pointing it out just makes it worse. Can’t handle it, can you?”
Louis would have preferred to reply, “Well I’m not kicking you in the face, smartass, so I’m pretty sure I can take it,” but he settled for, “I CAHAHAHAHAN!” And Liam knew that was true, but you’re not supposed to admit that.
“See, what’s funny is you clearly can’t. Yes, you’re doing a great job of keeping up the statue act, but you won’t be able to hold it for long. You’ve got four completely different feelings going on Lou: Niall going lightly on your stomach, keeping he touch barely noticeable, but seeing as you’re rather sensitive there, it works to his advantage; Zayn scribbling over your armpits, which is undoubtedly horrid; me, doing whatever the hell I want to your feet because you’re already too ticklish there not to laugh, no matter what; and then there’s Harry with that light touch on your arms, making the itching feeling that’s dividing your brain between fighting the tickling and not giving into scratching that thing away. So really, with all the twitching and fidgeting,” Liam concluded, “I’d say you can’t handle it at all.” He didn’t want to move- this was horrible, but he liked it in some backhanded way- but like Liam said, it was only a matter of time. He could feel his feet starting to edge closer together in preparation to cross over one another, his stomach muscles starting to contract, his biceps emerging from trying not to pull his arms down. His walls were crumbling faster than he could fix them. His laughter doubled when Liam’s nails, originally gathered at the center of his feet, spread outwards- one down to his heel, two across his arch, and two underneath his toes- and the first real reaction edged out of him in the form of a jerk to his knee. “See? You’re cracking Lou. Tickling’s shattering you. Mere, childish, completely tolerable tickling.”
Yes, he was going to move, but maybe he could warn them first and get them to stop. “STAHAHAHAP! IHIHI’M GONNA MOHOHOVE!”
“Sorry Lou, you’re going to have to shatter.” It was almost embarrassing for him to move, despite that he had warned them he wouldn’t be able to hold himself forever. Harry leaned down and began murmuring taunts in Louis’ ear, the tone used for a baby thick in his voice. Louis tried moving his arms so that they covered his ears because every little word made it so much worse, but even his own laughter wasn’t enough to block out Harry’s words. “How much longer can you take it Lou? Aren’t you about to break, about to give in from all the tickling, all the feelings on your body, driving you insane. Tickle tickle tickle Louis, you’re so close to cracking. I can time I perfectly, watch- five. Four. Three. Two.” Suddenly everything got worse- it all sped up and became unbearable. “One.” He managed to curl up into a ball- a great feat, considering that Louis would have rather hit them- and avoid their hands. His mates waited until he caught his breath before shooting him questioning looks.
Louis nodded. “It was fine.” He glanced at Liam, who looked especially concerned. “I didn’t hate what you did, if that’s what you’re asking.” Liam let out the breath he had been holding, relieved, and Louis rolled his eyes. “Did you expect me to breathe fire at you? It’s not the first time I’ve had my feet tickled; I can take it, I just don’t like it.”
He glanced at Zayn, not liking the look on his face. “So, you’re saying that you’re starting to like it on your feet?”
Louis shrugged. “Yeah, I am. Why?”
“Then we’re not helping you anymore.” Louis scooted back a bit. “Because what’s the fun for us if we don’t get a struggle out of you?”
“I can struggle even if I like it,” Louis feebly pointed out, trying to hide his feet.
“But that’s not as fun for us,” Niall pointed out, smirking at the look on his face. “We’ve got three whole years of tickling to get you back for.” Louis swallowed nervously at the looks on the lad’s faces- mischief like that should only be seen in his eyes. “And we plan to.”
'Okay. I will. Here, anyway.' Corbin said evilly. He moved down to Zac's bellybutton.
'No. Please. Tickle my armpits again. Please!' Zac begged. Corbin smiled at him and shook his head. He stuck his finger into Zac's bellybutton and started swirling it about. Zac went mad with laughter.
'HAHAHAHAHA! NO! HAHAHA STOP!' he screamed. After a few minutes, Corbin got bored and tipped the chair over.
Zac's feet were now in the air, dangling from the sides of the chair legs. He had his usual flip-flops on and wiggled his toes slightly. Corbin saw this as an invitation so tickle Zac's feet. He started by slowly taking off Zac's left flip-flop and throwing it on the ground behind him. He dragged his finger up Zac's sole, getting a giggle from him. Then, suddenly, he started spidering all ten fingers over Zac's sole. Zac was in hysterics.
'HAHAHAHAHA! NO! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!' he shouted. Corbin took off Zac's other flip-flop and moved his head towards it, sticking his tongue out. His tongue came into contact with Zac's sole and Zac wiggled his foot as Corbin rubbed his tongue all over his foot.
What Corbin didn't know was that Zac was getting turned on by this. The feeling of Corbin's wet, warm tongue on his sole felt good to Zac and after a minute of this, he stopped laughing and started moaning slightly. He tried to discreetly thrust his crotch forwards to cause friction on his now erect cock, but Corbin noticed it.
Corbin sat the chair upright again and pulled down Zac's shorts and boxers as much as he could. Zac's erection was now visible to Corbin and he started to blush. Corbin ignored this and started spidering a few of his fingers over Zac's head. Zac started moaning again and was thrusting his crotch towards Corbin's touch. Corbin then knelt down and started rubbing his bushy hair over Zac's cock.
It tickled like crazy for Zac, but it felt so good. After a few minutes, Zac was practically begging for an orgasm and a minute later, he got it. He screamed as he came but Corbin moved out of the way, not wanting it in his hair. He wiped the cum from Zac's cock and continued to rub his hair over it as he tickled the tops of Zac's feet. This went on for a few hours, pleasuring both the boys, before Corbin untied Zac.
They decided it was best if they didn't talk about it, but they were definitely going to do it again sometime...
Room is large but paint is peeling, from panelled walls and alcoved ceilings. An old woman is buried in a damp chair. A warm smell of piss, yellow air.
She does not turn but speaks clearly: "Americo, do you remember your blossoming power? The whole world despised it but I loved you dearly. My wanton child- Red in matricide, white in supremacy and blue here now, in your rosewood seat"
Americo laughs briskly at Britannia's slight. But they are both disturbed and chilled by the sight, of Romulus' freshly starched sheets, and all his leafy golden crowns, in a tied black bag beside the door.
You know the drill this is a fan fiction I don't own Batman or any related character. This fan fiction contains spoilers for both Arkham city is the main game and the Harley Quinn's revenge add-on. It takes place directly after it. Probably starts in the closing cut scene. You have been warned. I do not own Spartans
"I already knew how it felt" the dark Knight said. "You didn't need to pull all this to teach me how it feels to lose a loved one. I know how it feels. The last person that monster killed before dying." He turned to the morning jester "Was the woman I loved. We both lost a lover that that night." "Serves you right B man." Harley said her voice full of vinegar. "Mr. J is gone and so is whatever pussy you wa affta." With the Batman did something very unexpected. He took the lunatic in his arms and held her tight. It was not a hostile embrace it was considerate compassionate. The kind of embrace that tells people I'm here if you need me. "b b basty?" the confused criminal muttered out. Before she could process what was going on he deployed that Grappling-Hook Pistol still holding onto her and zip them both up to the roof tops where they could talk in relative privacy. "I'm sorry." Batman said "I know more than most what it's like to lose somebody. That's why put on the mask." Emotions were buzzing around in Harley's mind like a beehive. Confusion, sorrow, compassion, and strangely hope and the emotion that was ruling her since that night anger seemed to melt away like snow on the warm day. She couldn't seem to remember how to talk for a moment as a single tear rolled down her cheek. "Batsty Not complain about it, but this an't like ya." She finally managed to get out. "I know Harley, but honestly ever since I first saw you I always hoped he would leave that madman, that you would come to your senses. You Always deserve better than him. Go move on find someone better." "You mean more like the strong silent type?" she asked half mockingly but deep down she hoped Batman met him. A subtle smile started to creep up on both their faces. "Ya maybe you can find mister tall dark and handsome closer than you think." Batman said before planting a kiss on her black lips. It started as a quick little peck, but soon grow more intense and waiting. Hurley broke the kiss quickly to mumble "I'm Sorry Batman."