The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

Lazy Days


“Let’s go train, turtles!” Rak announced to the occupants of Khun’s room, that is Bam and Khun.

Khun looked up from his lighthouse work (which he was doing from the comfort of his bed) and blinked. “No, today’s a lazy day.”

Rak scoffed.

Bam looked curious. “What do you mean?”

“Come here.” Khun made room and Bam curled up against him, then sighed softly as he relaxed his head against Khun’s shoulder.

Rak waxed eloquent on the merits of hard work. (Khun was quite familiar with those merits, having been obligated to train hard since his childhood every time another life and death contest loomed.)

Bam burrowed closer and tucked his face against Khun’s neck, clearly quite comfortable.

“Come on, Black Turtle. You and I will go train!”

Bam muttered something indecipherable. Khun smirked.

“What did he say?” Rak demanded.

“He sees the appeal.” Khun stayed on his lighthouse, enjoying Rak’s jaw agape, and plotted and schemed their next victory.

Death, Taxes, and Paperwork


Kunikida pushed up his glasses on his nose and went over another stack of reports, marking them up with a judicious (and vicious, in Domyouji’s opinion) eye. “Crayon again?” he demanded while Domyouji made an attempt to disappear into the floor.

It was bad enough when Fushimi got on his case, because Fushimi cared more about removing the offending annoyance than correcting the one instigating it. Kunikida’s sense of order and the rules of society was far more personal.

“I’ll fix it.”

Kunikida sighed when he’d dismissed yet another member of the sword squad to fix their mission report. Somehow he always started following a wonderful, sword-bearing leader of justice and high ideals and ended up buried in minions with an allergy to well-written paperwork.

“Kunikida-kun!” a terrible, no good, very bad voice suddenly sing-songed through the space as Dazai poked his head in Kunikida’s office. “We have a case!”

Kunikida didn’t have to go take one, but he was more than ready to get out of the office Munakata had given him. “You’re writing the mission report.”

Dazai blinked, then smiled in a most disturbing way. “Of course!”

Kunikida sighed. Death, taxes, and bad mission reports they would ever have with them.

A Small, Unwanted Intruder


“You’re too loud,” Accelerator grumbled at the unwanted intruder in his bed.

“‘Don’t be so mean!’ says Misaka Misaka, glaring at you.” Last Order was indeed glaring, but she only managed to look pouty and not at all intimidating from where she’d sprawled against his side over the blanket, her frog strangled in her arms.

“You should be in your own bed.” He didn’t bother to prod her away.

She burrowed in closer. “‘It’s nicer here,’ says Misaka Misaka, stifling a yawn.” It didn’t stay stifled.

Accelerator watched her yawn, head dropping, eyes closing… and sighed.

Last Order was asleep.

Let’s Go Home


“Let’s go home.”

It’s the end of a long day—longer. They’re all weary from battling the Guild, and there’s plenty of mop-up work for the Black Lizard dealing with those who would capitalize on anything left behind. The Port Mafia still rules the local underground and has no interest in letting others get a foothold in their territory.

But at home, they shed that. Ryuunosuke eases into their home with a sigh—perhaps relief, perhaps comfort. Gin makes tea and curls up in a chair, freed of the hard silence that guards her during work.

“Drink,” she suggests.

Her brother drinks.

You Have Magic


You’re always on the lookout for magical items, especially unusual ones. They’re the lifeblood of your small shop at the edge of the living mall where regular humans only wander by fate or by accident and magic-users congregate on any given weekend. So when you hear that mermaids have returned to the lake in the deep woods, you’re wrapped up in your invisibility cloak that protects against all weather almost before the words are out of your aunt’s mouth.


A Terrible Patient


“Isn’t he a terrible patient?” the Blue with the red hair and bright smile asked with a quizzical head tilt.


In Practice


Saruhiko still had access to his money but found himself easily drawn into Misaki’s way of life and all the moneysaving tricks his mother had taught him. Sharing shower water was certainly no hardship. Turning off lights when they didn’t need them was only annoying when Misaki started nagging. Leaving the heat off at night sounded good in theory, since they both had a pile of blankets.

It was not good in practice.

Saruhiko didn’t realize he was cold until after he was shivering. He hunched his shoulders and gritted his teeth and plotted in the back of his mind how to tell Misaki they were never doing this again in a way that would actually forestall Misaki’s numerous good reasons why he knew better than Saruhiko how to save money. (He did, in fact.)

All that fled Saruhiko’s mind when a sleepy, tousled Misaki pulled himself onto the top bunk and burrowed into Saruhiko’s covers like that made any kind of sense. His arms wrapped around Saruhiko, his warm breath suddenly heating the back of Saruhiko’s neck, and suddenly Saruhiko couldn’t even feel the cold—just every single place their bodies touched.

He swallowed and permanently retired his objections.

Inconvenient Evidence


“Exactly which part of you felt a need to cover me in bite marks?” (more…)



The beanie had never been decorative. It kept people from bothering him, just as the loose sweatshirt served its own purposes to hide some of Yata’s less common features. He’d never liked leaving his tail out in public where anyone could grab it and pull and he’d only ever let one person give him scritches behind his ears, and that was a long time ago.




Ostensibly, Mikoto knows what a pillow is. His personal definition, Kusanagi thinks with some chagrin as he tries to reach around a grumpy redhead’s hair and face to fill in the next problem on his math, seems to be the person I like’s lap.

Mikoto grunts a complaint and Kusanagi almost swats him on the side of the head. He refrains, but he can feel the corner of his mouth quirking up in a small smile.

“Your choice to sleep there,” he comments easily, laying blame for all the awkwardness squarely where it belongs.

Mikoto just huffs. “Yeah.”

He stays.

Petting the Tiger


Atsushi was ninety percent certain there was some ulterior motive in Dazai assigning him to stake out the office of a certain official to record his comings and goings with Akutagawa of all people. Not that Dazai was the kind of person to explain his motives, nor was it Akutagawa’s to explain what interest the Mafia had in this information that Fukuzawa could possibly go along with.




She’d scrupulously avoided the mistletoe. Seri was pleased with the Captain as her King and liked him well enough when he chose to mingle during holiday parties, such as at Christmas, but not well enough to let him kiss her for spirit or tradition. The one subordinate who’d suggested she’d yet to try the mistletoe had visibly wilted under her unamused stare.

It was well after HOMRA’s party by the time she went over, everyone cleared out or asleep except Kusanagi.

“Here for your free drink?”

“No.” She paused under the mistletoe.

He stared, surprised, but didn’t keep her waiting.

Eat Up


“What are you making?” Saruhiko suddenly asked, sounding highly alarmed and less than enthused.

“Shut up. You’ll like it.” Yata shot him a grin over his shoulder.

Saruhiko only looked more alarmed. Possibly because of Yata looking ever so slightly sniffly (he wasn’t crying, it was onions, okay?), possibly because the smell wasn’t the kind that was easy to mistake.

“I don’t like onions.” Saruhiko frowned as he pushed up his glasses and even ignored the pinging of his computer.

Yata waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ll survive one meal a week with vegetables.”

And like it too.

Change of Plans


He had a plan, a perfect plan even. All it required was Chuuya to cooperate.

Dazai considered that and changed the plan. The only part Chuuya would cooperate with was the one that ended with Chuuya’s fist or foot through the middle of Dazai’s chest, and he wouldn’t fake it, so Dazai would have to think of another way to leave the Mafia and take Chuuya with him.

He didn’t need to drug his partner’s drink, kidnap him, and blow up his car to cover their tracks.

On the plus side, death by Chuuya was still a very real possibility.

Like Raising a Kitten


Raising a little boy as rambunctious and eager as Cor was an exercise in the fine art of not screaming.

Zana took another deep breath. The four-year-old clung to the top of a teetering bookcase. Ijeve was a space station, occasionally subject to turbulence, and furniture was lashed to walls. Only that had saved Cor from crashing to the floor with the books.

“Little brother—”

“I’m sorry!” He whined as he scrabbled to maintain his grip.

She reached up and snatched him down, making him yelp, then held him tightly to her chest. “You are in so much trouble.”

Don’t Go Away


The tiny boy hit Zana like a missile, waking her out of a sound sleep.

“Cor?” she demanded. “Little brother, what’s wrong?”

He was trembling, clinging to her, arms around her waist tight enough to hurt. He shook his head but said nothing.

Zana thought about turning on the light but didn’t. Instead she settled one hand on his back, the other his hair and stroked through the soft strands. “I’m here,” she whispered softly.

Her shirt was damp from his face, and he shuddered at the words. “Promise you won’t go away?”

Their mother had.

“Yes, Cor. I promise.”

A Series of Firsts


Zuko was the first boy to dump her in a lake. He was trying to be helpful, and she knew that. He was trying to put out the flaming apple on her head, and she knew that too. But for a firebender, he sure picked the most embarrassing, awkward, inefficient way to do it.




No one would ever look at Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, who had ruthlessly killed any target of any age for years and think ‘tender.’ But there wasn’t any other word that quite felt right to Clint as he watched her cuddling his sleeping newborn, a small smile on her face, one finger delicately tracing over the soft fuzz of Lila’s hair.


Made to Dance

This entry is part 2 of 2 in the series Chica

Caitlin smiled as her very large husband tried to teach their very tiny five-year-old daughter how to dance. He was leaning over, holding her hands, as she stumbled one way then the other in the living room.

Finally, little Robin flopped down with a pout. “I’m just not made to dance.”

Caitlin knelt next to her. “Do you like to dance?”

Robin scrunched up her nose in evident distaste.

Suddenly, Monster scooped her up and swung her around in his arms. Robin’s delighted peals of laughter rang out as he danced with her in the air.

“Look, Mommy! I’m flying!”

Robin was now a slender, serious ten-year-old with creamy golden skin and shiny black hair. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as Caitlin went over the waltz with her over and over again.

Finally, Robin sat down with a sigh. “I’ll never get this.”

Caitlin smiled. “Do you like to dance?”

“I’d like to fly,” Robin answered wistfully. She set her face and got up to dance again.

Monster held Caitlin close as they watched their daughter glide down the staircase into her cotillion. She joined her tall, handsome boyfriend in a waltz. Stately, smooth, perfect.

“I think she likes to dance,” Monster whispered into Caitlin’s ear.

“I never got to tell her the rest.”

Robin smiled up into the eyes of her date. Monster smiled down into Caitlin’s.

“I think she knows.”