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tropes-and-tales · 2 months ago

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Of Every Kinnë Tre

(Pero Tovar x F!Reader)

CW: Angst (death); smut (dubious consent, maybe, but I don't know if medieval times cared much for intoxicated sex acts; loss of virginity; oblique talk of sex; fingering, PiV, unprotected), 18+ only.

Word Count: 8370

AN: This was originally requested by @justreblogginfics!

AN2: The title of this is taken from an anonymous medieval love poem called, in modern English, "Of Every Kind of Tree."

AN3: Tropes is playing fast and loose with historical fact here (and geography, and linguistics, etc. etc).

Pero Tovar never counted marriage as something written into his fate.

Starvation? Possibly. Plague? There was a chance. Death in war or battle or in a misunderstanding on the road to China and back?

All too certain.

But marriage? Never.

Until it was foisted on him, quite unexpectedly, as he made his way back to Europa from his trials at the Great Wall.

-----

Tales from Pero Tovar’s time were largely passed down through the oral tradition: great speakers and orators stood in front of captive audiences, or ordinary men and women sat around fires and told stories to while away the dark hours, the cold hours. To brighten their lives.

These stories usually began like this:

Lo! We have heard of the glory of the Spear-Danes’ achievements!

Harken, my brethren, while I tell you the tale of Igor, son of Svyatoslav.

Pwyll Prince of Dyved was lord of the seven Cantrevs of Dyved; and once upon a time he was at Narberth his chief palace…

So we will begin our tale the same way, as the people of Pero’s time would have told it: around the fire, in the deep of winter’s cold—for it is a love story, and love is most appreciated when the days are short and the nights are long.

-----

Gather, friends, as I tell the tale of Pero Tovar, an orphan in want of a heel of bread, who became a sell-sword in want of coin, who became a lord who possessed the greatest treasure of all.

Pero was born in Galicia, and his entry into our world was what harried his dear mother into the next. Motherless, the babe Pero was given to a cousin to care for him, though she had her own children and gave Pero only the remainder of anything she had. Pero’s father, a brute of a blacksmith, was dispatched by a horse’s kick to the head when Pero was just a boy, and so he found himself an orphan.

The cousin’s house was meanly built, and the cousin’s husband was a miser who counted every peseta thrice before tucking it away in the pouch he always kept on his person. Pero was often cold, more often hungry, and when he reached the age of ten, he heard of a boy’s army that was forming to retake the Holy Land for the Christians.

Pero ran away from the cousin’s house, and while he never made it to Levant, he found that he had a talent for survival in the rough company of sell-swords, and it became his life for the next decades.

Unlike his fellow sell-swords, though, Pero had a talent for saving his coin. His compatriots caroused, whored, drank themselves stupid the moment a coin crossed their palm.

Pero? Perhaps he had learned a lesson from the cousin’s miserly husband. He held his coin, he spent little beyond the care of himself and his horse, and he saved. He had an idea to leave his life as a sell-sword before he lost it, to retire to some quiet green place and toil in the earth for whatever years remained to him.

To this end, he kept his coin safe with a certain prior in a certain priory. For a portion of what Pero earned, the prior tucked away the rest and guarded it, kept it protected in an iron box secured with a cunning lock that only he had the key to.

Pero saw much of God’s earth and beyond: into the Emirate of Mosul, the Buyid Emirate, where leagues of golden sand stretched beyond one’s vision, and where a lush green paradise could be found over the next rise. Then Sena, Bagan, the Kingdom of Bali—where he could not fathom the tongues in which they spoke, but where work could be found, as it seemed men across all lands always needed swords for coin. Then further east where the Song Dynasty ruled, and here Pero faced monsters from Revelation and survived.

With the coin he earned from fighting beasts, Pero calculated that he had enough now to retire from this life. He could find a patch of land and till it. He could hitch his warhorse to a plow and plant seeds that would sustain him, and when it was time for him to die, he could lay down in the furrows and pass with the blue firmament over his head.

-----

When Pero returned to the priory to collect his accumulated wealth, however, he found that disaster had struck.

The old prior, a gentle and pious man, had died, and his successor was the son of a bishop, a wastrel and spendthrift whose first order of business had been to set an inventory of the prior’s wealth. This inventory included the iron box where Pero's savings where stored.

The new prior's second order of business was to take that wealth and spend it on sinful pursuits.

Which meant Pero found himself with little beyond the payment from the Song people, a handful of treasures from his journeys, and a stretch of long years in front of him where he’d have to continue selling his sword to survive.

-----

Which was how Pero found himself outside of the Holy Roman Empire, to the east where the people spoke Latin but with a thick tongue, where many kept with the old gods and customs, and where the borders changed every fortnight as men grappled for land, consolidated their holding of scattered tribes and strongholds into what would pass for a kingdom or duchy further west.

Pero took work that winter, guarding the storehouse of a league of merchants who strove to protect their wares from both marauders and quarreling nobles alike. In this way, Pero came to understand the local tongue and customs, and he learned of the Princeling named Radomil, whose eldest half-brother had just died.

“They say Radomil murdered his kin as he slept,” spat one man in a tavern. “Just as he slayed his own father, years before.”

Another man lifted his hand, two fingers forked to ward off the Devil. “There will be hard times ahead, should he gain control.”

In this way, by keeping his head down and his ears open, Pero came to learn of the cowardly murderous Prince Radomil, now King. He came to learn that the people feared what this murderous king may do to his half-sister.

In some way that Pero would never learn, though, King Radomil came to learn of him in turn, and within a score of days, Pero found himself summoned to the squat stone fortress for an audience with the new King.

-----

The proposal was simple, once it was put to Pero in a tongue he could grasp better.

King Radomil wanted to see his half-sister wed. A kindness, it was said, in light of her recent loss. She was a widow with a small babe, and King Radomil in his infinite love and benevolence, saw fit to arrange such a match. Pero had been measured and found just such a match.

Pero, always blunt, asked, “why me?”

The King’s advisor talked at length, and though Pero was not especially versed in court intrigue, he knew enough of flattery and lies when he heard it.

“You are a noble man,” the advisor said, bowing his head at Pero. “We have it on good authority that you are descended from the family of Alfonso el Monje, King of León. Ancient blood proves out, despite your meager circumstances now.”

When Pero tried to argue and claim that he was from Galicia, son of a drunkard blacksmith, the advisor waved him away.

“We have priests who have studied your lineage and found it to not be so,” he said.

It was only later that evening that another advisor, an older man with a bald pate but a long beard set Pero straight in hushed tones and darting glances.

“The King cannot kill his sister,” he told Pero. “She is beloved by the people, and the killing of a woman would unravel his already tenuous hold on the region.”

“Why kill her at all?” Pero remembered that the sister was a widow, and he imagined an old woman, hunched back, white hair tucked under a veil. He could not fathom the risk she posed, but then again, he was in unfamiliar lands.

“She is a tool that others would use. Her father the King was beloved as well, and her mother had an ancient claim to royalty in her own right. The Princess could be snatched up by a rival for the throne, and her blood could bolster any claim. But if her brother the King could marry her off to a nobody, no one else could claim her.”

Pero remembered a certain game from his journey to the east, a way for the idle to while away the hours. It was war in miniature, a board with pieces, and while he watched it played many times, Pero never quite grasped how to win at shatranj. But he knew enough to recognize it now.

“Marrying her to me would remove her from the field,” Pero replied, understanding at last.

The old advisor nodded. “And it would keep her alive. Consider it seriously, Tovar. You would save not just her life but the life of her babe, and you would come out of it a wealthy man. You could claim her inheritance that her mother the Queen left her.”

“What inheritance?”

The old advisor glanced into the shadows, then said, “on her mother’s side, she is nobility. There is a handsome manor far from here, further north, that belongs to the Princess. It would be yours, should you marry her.”

In this way, Pero Tovar came to be married.

-----

The marriage took place on a rainy evening, and the ceremonies were doubled: one performed in the Latin rite by a priest in a grease-stained cassock, the other performed by a wise-man of the local custom. The latter, it must be said, was more boisterous—it involved winding a cord around the hand of the Princess and Pero’s, linking the two together in the eyes of the local gods. Then, to seal it, a feast where Pero and the Princess fed each other and gave each other drink. The drink was a local concoction, dark plum spirits that went down easier with each subsequent sip.

The Princess only took a mouthful when Pero held the cup to her mouth.

Pero took deep swallows and drained the cup when she held it to his.

Then there was dancing, and the dancing led to the great hall spinning, and from the spinning Pero found himself being carried away, up and floating away from the music, borne by the king’s men. When he turned his head, he saw the Princess - his wife - being borne away beside him, the newlyweds floating, and he did not realize—as she did—that this was the bedding ceremony.

How could Pero know? He had never laid with a woman before.

*****

You understood your circumstances.

You have always understood your circumstances.

Your mother died when you were young. Too young to make any memories of her beyond a general impression of loveliness, of gentleness before the fever took her and your unborn sister to the underworld. Your father remarried soon after, and he had a son with your stepmother, but she was a scheming woman, grasping, and your circumstances were clear forever after.

Your father, at least, lived long enough to marry you off to an ally. Your first husband had been much older, silver in his beard, but kind. Extraordinarily kind, in fact, and you wondered sometimes if your father knew he had given you to a man who made you a woman gently, who made you a mother to his daughter just as gently, and who died from an ague only last summer.

It was the only time he hurt you, dying as he did.

Your second husband? Well, you understood your circumstances. You knew it was a farce, a noble lineage hung on the shoulders of a sell-sword. You knew your brother’s motives when he and his advisors found you and informed you of your impending marriage. You knew it would keep you safe, being tucked away with some rough peasant, but as you observed this Tovar—his rough looks, his rougher manner—you wondered if death would perhaps be a kinder fate.

-----

Like your first marriage, you did not properly meet your intended until the ceremonies themselves.

Unlike your first marriage, this Tovar did not seem to understand the potency of the rakija. Unless he was a drunkard as well as a sell-sword.

Like your first marriage, you did not properly exchange a word beyond the ceremonies until you were locked in the chamber for the bedding ceremony.

Unlike your first marriage, this Tovar did not say, as your first husband had, “please trust in me, little princess. I will do you no harm.”

Instead, this Tovar stared at you, swayed on his feet, and mumbled, “fuck, how did this happen?”

Your first marriage, you left your bedding ceremony with far more pleasure than pain—the former a revelation that your body could produce such sensations, and the latter just a faint ache between your legs.

Your second marriage, you left your bedding ceremony with neither pleasure nor pain. You left it with confusion, at first, then understanding, then a bemusement that would one day cede to love.

This Tovar understood enough to undress himself. He shed the embroidered surcoat, the fine-woven shirt, the doe-skin trousers. The linen smallclothes. He stood before you unabashed, naked, swaying still on his feet. His manhood stood to proud attention, and you studied him. He was not unappealing, you thought, so long as he didn’t spew from the drink.

But he made no further move, and you lifted your hands to undress yourself too. You lifted away the headdress sewn with seed pearls and small gems. The outer robe, heavy with brocade. The inner dress, the woolen slippers, then the shift, and you stood as proudly as you could but felt a shyness overtake you, so you wrapped your arm around yourself and hid what you could.

Perhaps you misunderstood the sell-sword, though. A man, you thought, would take what was his, but this Tovar only stared at you—his cock twitching—and he made no further move.

“Perhaps,” you said, tentative. “We could lie down on the bed?”

He nodded and gestured for you to lead. You stretched out on the coverlet, but when he joined you, he only laid beside you, like two corpses in the tomb. The moment grew long, and there was no noise other than each of you breathing and the distant merriment of the wedding feast in the great hall.

“Tovar, we must…you must bed me for it to be legal,” you finally told him. Quietly, though. He was drunk, and you knew enough of men to know that drunkenness made them violent. And at your words, he shook his head and turned to face you, and his expression was dark.

“Pero,” he whispered harshly. “My given name is Pero.”

“P-Pero.” You didn’t mean to stammer, but his face was like a thundercloud, like the storm god that men worshiped here—

Saying his name made his expression soften in an instant, though. The thunderhead passed, and his face was like dawn’s light.

“My mother named me Pero,” he explained. “Tovar is what my father gave me.”

“Your mother…is she kind?”

“She is dead.”

“Oh.” You bit your lip and studied him; the darkness was edging back into his expression, so you added, “mine is dead too.”

“Mine died in my birthing.”

“Mine died when I was young, as she birthed my sister.” You paused, added, “she died too.”

Pero’s eyes had a glassy quality to them, whether it be the drink or the sorrow of his mother, so you reminded him, just as gently, that the bedding ceremony needed to be complete before your brother the Usurper would let you both leave. Before he returned your young daughter to you and let the three of you leave for your mother’s homeland.

To aid Pero, you reached out a hand to him, thinking you could lead him to you, but he misunderstood. He took your hand in his, much like at the wedding ceremony, and he raised it to his mouth. His mustache tickled against your skin as he pressed wet kisses to the back of it, to your wrist, to the inside of your forearm.

His kisses were sloppy, like a child playing at love. You thought it was the drink.

Little by little, you led him, or tried to. An hour passed, you judged from where the tall tapers burned in their pewter holders. Each moment saw the man get nowhere closer to consummating the thing; he only pressed his mouth to your hands and arms, and when he got breathless, which was often, he gazed over at you. Sometimes he touched your face with his calloused fingertips, and once he leaned forward and nuzzled his face in your unbound hair, but the time passed, and you felt your daughter—your freedom, your life—slipping away bit by bit.

“For the love of the gods, man,” you finally snapped. “Finish the thing!”

It made Pero rear back his head from where he nuzzled against you, and his expression was not thunderous so much as baleful.

“It is uncharted waters,” he muttered.

“The terrain from one woman to another is much the same, I imagine,” you retorted, then you reached for him in earnest, took him by his shoulder and urged him to climb onto you, which he did, clumsily. It felt so much the same, though, the warm touch of another’s body against yours, and the first real flower of desire bloomed in you.

“Perhaps,” you thought, “this may be a successful marriage.”

But Pero seemed confused still, still too addled by the strong plum brandy, and he moved awkwardly, muttered near your ear that he could map the hillocks and dales of this territory, but was unsure of the way home—

“Here,” you breathed into his ear, and your hand found where he strained, hot and heavy and ready to join to you. You took him by the root and tried to lead him to you, but your touch alone made him groan against your neck, made him mutter some word you didn’t know, and then you felt him go rigid above you.

Your second bedding ceremony, then: your new husband’s slack weight against you, his spend, hastily given from the mere touch of your palm, cooling against your hip.

Still, it was enough for your brother the Usurper and his flock of advisors in their dusty, moth-eaten robes. The usual inspection of the bedchamber come morning, the usual sly smiles and off-hand jokes…and then you were away, your daughter restored to your arms and your new husband—and his aching head—off to the lands of your mother.

-----

“What is her name?” Pero asked, startling you out of your thoughts. When you glanced at him, he nodded at your daughter dozing against your side.

“Vesna,” you replied. “It means ‘dawn.’”

He stared at you both for a long moment, this woman and her daughter that he got at a bargain.

“Her father…was he a good man?”

You nodded. “He was.”

“How did he die?”

You turned away and looked at the landscape from the narrow window of the carriage. “A fever took him.

“You cared for him?”

You nodded again. “I did.”

Pero made a noise at that, a grumble at the back of his throat that you couldn’t discern the meaning of. “Why did you care for him?”

“Why would you ask?” It was an impossible question to answer anyway, how you cared for your first husband and why. Because he was strong and wise, but gentle in equal measure. That he sat in council with your father, then your elder brother, his face stern and grave, then returned home and played with your daughter, pulled faces and allowed her to ride him as a pony, her small chubby fists tugging at his hair.

Pero must have heard the edge in your voice, because he answered softly, “I only hope to model my behavior on his own.” He paused. “I’ve never had a wife. I should like to do well by you.”

Vesna grumbled in her sleep and turned deeper in your side before she settled. “Will you do well by her too, Tovar?”

“Pero,” he corrected you gently. “And I would. I would be a father to her, and I would have her call me father as I would call her daughter.”

You laughed, the bitterness heavy in your mouth. “Sweet words, until you have a child of your own. Once you have your own blood, you’ll seek to cast her away.”

The man scowled but shook his head. “You have the wrong of it, wife.”

“I’ve yet to meet a person in a second marriage to do otherwise.”

“But you’ve met me,” he snapped. “And I am not your father’s second wife, nor her treacherous son.” His face softened, that ebb and flow of darkness that you recognized now from your wedding night. “I am just a blacksmith’s son, an orphan in my own right. I would not make an orphan of her, no matter what you think.”

He sounded so injured, stung from your accusation that you nodded at his words, then reached across the carriage and laid a soft hand on his arm.

“Peace, Pero,” you replied. “I meant no harm.”

“No one would blame you if you did. But I will prove you wrong, with both her—” Here, he jerked his chin in the direction of your sleeping daughter. “And with our own children. My hands may have slain many men, but I would cradle any child of yours, or any child of ours, as softly as a bird’s egg.”

You could not help the smile. “You have a gift of language, husband.”

He smiled back, though it looked uncertain, like he was unfamiliar with the motion of lifting his lips into the expression.

“Perhaps you already carry my child,” he said, a bit shyly. His gaze drifted to your belly under its thick woolen cloak. “Perhaps I bred you on our wedding night.”

You could not help the laugh this time. “I think not.”

At that, his smile fled. “Why not?”

“Because…” You watched him, uncertain. Perhaps he had been so drunk he didn’t realize. “Because you did not…complete the act.”

“I did!”

You shook your head. “Pero, you drank so much, I trust you must not remember, but you did not.”

“I…” He hesitated, glanced at Vesna to see that she was still fast asleep. He dropped his voice to a rough whisper. “Wife, I spilled my seed. I remember as much. The King’s advisors confirmed as much.”

“You did, but outside of me. Not inside.”

You realized it far too late, but you would be forgiven for never considering it. How many men had you ever known to enter their marriages as virgins? Especially a sell-sword who had traveled the world, who had likely been tempted by women of all shades and hues, of all sizes and temperaments.

You realized it when Pero, your husband, looked at you. Bewildered, he asked, “does not that count, wife?”

-----

“I do not understand how you could not know,” you told him that evening. You were lodged in a lord’s house, a friend of your late father, and Vesna had been tucked into her cot in an adjoining room.

“I did not.” Pero sat on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed. He looked much like a petulant child, not unlike Vesna when she was in a sulk.

“But you are a grown man, and you’ve kept rough company.”

“I have fought with rough company and traveled with rough company, but I’ve never fucked with rough company.”

You winced at the crude word for it. “You have never laid with even a woman for coin? Not once? Or some sweetheart, back in León?”

“Galicia,” he muttered. “And no. I fled home before I could grow hair on my balls, and I held my coin too dear to waste it on pretend love.”

“And you never traveled with a woman, perhaps? You were never tempted in the rough travel to curl up with a woman—”

“The only women that ever traveled with us were whores and wives. I would not waste my coin on the first and I would not waste my life on the second.”

You were unsure how to proceed. True, your marriage was not consummated, but that hardly registered with you. You did not know this Pero Tovar, in truth, beyond the handful of days you had spent together on the road. You knew little—just the few conversations, but it was more of his actions that spoke to who he was.

There was a moment early in the journey, just a half day’s ride out, that he had caught Vesna when her little boot caught in the carriage step. How Pero had swept her up, some fatherly instinct that made it a game for the little girl, a moment to pretend she was flying instead of stumbling.

When you fell asleep and woke to find his cloak tucked around you.

When you entered an unproven tavern for a late meal, how Pero had stood between you and Vesna and the rest of the room, like a loyal cur protecting its flock.

He was rough in his ways, but there was a gentleness to him, and it was as much what he didn’t do—he got drunk on your wedding night and had been as gentle as a lamb. And now, this line of questioning that frustrated him—he only sat and sulked with his arms crossed, when many men would strike you for being so blunt with his discomfort.

Pero Tovar, you wondered, could perhaps simply be a gentle man who fell into a rough life, and shouldn’t you foster that gentleness, now that he was yours?

“Husband, will you let me show you?” you asked quietly, and when his eyes found yours, you smiled at him. You held out your hands, and after a moment of hesitation, he took them in his own. His calloused hands, only recently washed of all the blood they had spilled.

“Please, wife,” he replied. “Please do.”

-----

The first time that night, it was much like the bedding ceremony: the moment your hand found Pero’s cock, he groaned, then erupted in your palm.

This time, though, he was sober enough to know what had happened.

“Shit!” he hissed, and he rolled away from you. You sensed that this was a defining moment in your marriage, the entire enterprise teetering on a knife’s edge. Fall one way, a life of stilted exchanges, closed-off conversations, miscommunications. Fall the other way?

“Pero, please.” You took a cloth from near the bed and wiped your hand, then reached for his deflated manhood. You wiped him off gently, and you smiled to feel the answering twitch to it, even so soon afterwards.

“The gods did not make us like dogs, rutting in the street, with only one chance in a while,” you whispered to him. “We can rest and try again, as many times as we like.”

“Did your other husband spill like a boy?” he asked, his voice an angry growl. You sensed better the way this may fall, how Pero seemed to compare himself to your first husband and found himself wanting.

“My other husband had been married before,” you replied. You set the soiled cloth aside, and you laid your hand on the side of Pero’s face so you could look him in the eyes. He avoided your gaze, so you sighed and stroked his hair back from his face, ran your thumb over his bristly cheek. And Pero, cur that he was, turned into your touch despite his low mood.

“I was not my husband’s first wife,” you explained. “He and his first wife had many years together, until she died from a wasting disease. But he was patient with me, and he taught me, just as I will be patient with you. Just as I will teach you.”

“It is a poor husband who must be taught by his wife.”

You hummed thoughtful at that, then leaned forward to press your lips to his. You let your breasts brush over his bare arm, and you took in the sharp inhale he made at the touch.

“Such a poor husband,” you chanced to tease. “Yet such fun in the teaching, hmm?”

“Did I marry a princess or a temptress?” he grumbled back, but there was a teasing tone to his voice.

“Perhaps you should take her counsel and decide for yourself.”

Pero turned onto his side and faced you, and his eyes finally sought yours. “I would be a good husband to you,” he said. “I would be a man who could give you pleasure.”

“Would you be humble enough for your wife to teach you then?”

He nodded, and his eyes grew darker with desire.

“Consider me humble. Consider me your pupil.” His voice fell to a lower register, and it sent a frisson of heat through you.

-----

Your lessons, as you came to call them, were strenuously applied and practiced until the pupil became a master in his own right.

You taught him the pleasure of simple touch: of feather-light strokes and firm grasping, of where to caress and where to lightly pinch, where to soothe and where to worry.

You taught him how to use his mouth—such a sulking, pouting mouth with such full lips, and with such a wicked tongue. You taught him how to suckle and lick, how to lap against which parts of you, and you taught him how to kiss with more skill and finesse than that first night together.

You taught him too how to receive the pleasure you could give him beyond the mating. You used your own hands and mouth in turn, and by the time he strained against you again, his cock ruddy and leaking from its broad tip, Pero was a panting, pleading mess.

“Please, wife,” he cried against your shoulder as you stroked him, then stopped, then stroked him again. “Please, show me—”

“Here.” You took his hand and led him to the place between your thighs, let him feel where he should seat himself. “Just here, husband.”

“It is slippery, your cunt,” he whispered, his voice wracked with awe. His blunt finger prodded at you, slipped inside, and his groan was a twin to your own.

“It m-makes the joining easier.”

Pero slid more of his finger inside you, then pulled it out, then sunk it back in. A preview, you supposed, from your eager pupil. You moaned again when he added a second finger, and you felt his eyes on you, peering down at you.

“Does that give you pleasure?” he asked without a bit of guile.

You nodded. It did.

He furrowed his brow. “I would mount you now, but I may spill too soon.”

“I would not care a whit, Pero. We have the time to master it together.”

He nodded, then pulled his fingers from you. He made to climb between your legs, and you parted them for him, spread yourself wide to fit him in the cradle of your hips. When he lowered himself, you felt his cock brush against you, and he reached down to grasp himself.

It only took him two tries. Just as you opened your mouth to guide him, he found your entrance, and then he pushed into you, the searing heat of him finally inside you. Pero groaned to feel you, but he did not spill—he stilled once he was buried in your depths, and he lifted his head to gaze down at you. The look on his face was somewhere between stupefaction and bliss, and you imagined you looked much the same.

“There,” you told him, brushing your fingertips over the planes of his handsome face. “Now we are wed, husband.”

*****

In this way, Pero Tovar became a man in love, who was loved in turn by his wife. Their journey to her mother’s homeland lost much of its earlier speed, and it took them far longer to arrive. Their servants—the carriage driver, the footman, the guards and lady’s maid, and child’s nurse—could guess the reason for their delay. After all, Pero and his wife were newlyweds, and they often stayed abed until late in the morning, though no one supposed they slept.

In this way, Pero Tovar came to be a father, the seed planted on that journey quickening in his wife’s belly months later. The daughter that followed thereafter, and the sons that came after that, and then a final daughter who looked so much like her father that despite the name her parents chose for her, she was forever known as Peročka.

True to his word, Pero never treated little Vesna as anything other than his own child. It had to be said that when the girl was grown and married off to a boy in a nearby city, Pero was the one who openly wept at the loss of her.

In the tales of this time, once the dragon is slain or the kingdom regained or the treasure earned, the tale ends. And so should ours, except to remind that Pero Tovar had traveled the known world only to end up with a treasure beyond compare in his wife and the family they created together. He never found the life he sought for himself—that spot of green land, dirt to furrow, plants to coax into life. Instead, he found a better life with a wife and children, with a community of people who came to value his wisdom…though he did end up with a garden where he tended to a grove of small plum trees and distilled their sweet fruits into a brandy that young men often toasted with on their wedding days.

If there is a lesson to Pero Tovar’s story, then, it’s this: sometimes the life we desire is not the life we need.

And to add that when his wife died from a wasting disease when only a bit of silver threaded through her hair, Pero spared no expense in building her the finest stone crypt to hold her bones. He had her dressed in the gown she wore to marry him so long ago. In her hair, he tucked the small jade and enamel comb that had somehow survived his journey from the Far East when he fought monsters in another life entirely. As was the custom in his adopted home, his children and grandchildren took hawthorn branches—in full bloom, as his beloved wife died in spring—and laid them in the crypt with her.

And to add too, when Pero himself died from a fever years later, his children and grandchildren dressed him in his finest tunic and opened the crypt so he could be laid beside his beloved. As was the custom, they took hawthorn branches —laden with red berries, as he died in the autumn—and laid them in the crypt with him.

And to add finally, Vesna, by then a mother in her own right, reached into the crypt and adjusted the two bodies so that their hands were clasped in their eternal rest. How could she do otherwise? They had loved each other fiercely in this life, and she prayed to the gods that they would do so in the next life too. Her mother and her father both, and she did not hide the tears that fell as her brothers and husband slid the heavy stone lid in place, sealing both Pero and his beloved in their shared tomb.

*****

He only has a single evening, and the surfeit of options in D.C. paralyzes him with choice. The Phillips Collection? The Renwick Gallery? Or the National Gallery of Art?

He mentions it to Ruiz, who laughs and says, “c’mon, man. The National Gallery, obviously.”

“I’d like something a little more off the beaten path,” Marcus replies.

Ruiz studies him, thinks on it. Finally says, “you know, I know a woman over there. She’s curating this huge exhibit that’s coming out next year. You want something unique, why don’t I set you up?”

“The exhibit isn’t even up yet?”

Ruiz waves him off. “Nah, but it might be fun to see how the sausage is made, right?”

-----

Which is how FBI Agent Marcus Pike comes to meet you. Ruiz is on your bar trivia team (he’s your ace in the hole on sports trivia), and when he calls with a favor, the call on speaker between Ruiz and Marcus, you happily agree to show him around your budding exhibit.

“It’s called ‘Stronger than Death,’” you tell him after you hold your hand out to shake. “After the Thomas Mann quote. ‘It is love, not reason, that is stronger than death.’ Which is cheesy, admittedly, but it’s my first big solo exhibit I’m pulling together, and it’s the culmination of years of research and work.”

Marcus smiles. “I don’t think it’s cheesy at all.”

“Tell Tony that.”

“Eh, Ruiz is just jaded.” Marcus follows you into the storage area where some crates have already been unloaded and unpacked. “Tell me about this exhibit. Ruiz said it already has a lot of buzz.”

If Marcus thought your smile was lovely when you introduced yourself, he finds it utterly beautiful now, because you are passionate about your exhibit. An intersection of art and architecture and history, across time and distance, focused on the two most human emotions, you explain: love and grief.

“No matter when or where, it’s the two constants, you know?” You gesture widely, taking in the breadth of the crates, but even further too: the breadth of human history across the globe. “If you’re talking about humans in fourteenth century Iran or Berber tribes in the twelfth century or a Lutheran and Catholic couple during the heart of reformation, the story is the same. The details change, but the love is the same, and the grief when death comes is the same.”

“So the exhibit is…” Marcus trails off, and you take a deep breath. You’ve gone breathless in your explanation, a fact that charms him. Then you continue. Your exhibit is everything that encompasses that central idea of grief when love is ended by death, and how grief is an outpouring of that endless love. You have everything from big pieces to ephemera. There’s Victorian memorial photography. There’s a gravestone from a Catholic cemetery that edged against a Protestant one, the stone bridging the two graves because neither church allowed the couple to be buried together. There’s a letter found in a grave from the 1500’s in Korea, where the woman pours out her grief and love for her husband who is buried there.

You show him the artifacts already unpacked and catalogued. You hand him a pair of cotton gloves and allow him to touch some of the sturdier pieces, and you’ve pulled him into your wavelength because as he touches each piece, he feels weak in the knees, heavy with kinship he feels with strangers separated from him by centuries and thousands of miles.

��Here’s an interesting piece,” you tell him, and you lead him to a smaller crate that’s been opened, its packing material piled in a small snowdrift around the box. On the table beside it, there’s a smaller box. You open it and pull out a delicate-looking piece, and Marcus holds out his palm, flat. You lay it there, and he studies it in the light.

“Jade?”

You hum in agreement. “And enamel. It’s consistent with craftsmanship from the Song Dynasty.”

Marcus reaches back through his memory to his eastern histories and civilizations course. “Is that…. eleven hundred A.D.?”

“In part. It lasted over three hundred years.”

Marcus peers at it closer. “It’s amazingly preserved.”

“It was found in a grave in Latvia last year.”

He looks at you in surprise. “Seriously? How?”

“Trade wasn’t unheard of then, east from west. It was far more popular in the Holy Roman Empire, though. This part of Latvia was rural in that period. A collection of city-states and loosely-stitched tribes.”

“The comb must have been buried later then.”

You shake your head and take the comb from him, lie it gently back in its box. “That’s the story. It was buried around the year one thousand A.D. Archeologists found the grave five years ago. A bunch of kids were riding dirt bikes around the countryside in Latvia. One kid hits something, goes flying. It turns out it was a stone, but when they look at it, it’s carved. Too square, right? Has markings on it. It turns out, it’s this perfectly preserved medieval town. The archeologists did all their digging and carbon testing. They are still digging, honestly. But it looks like through soil samples, the best theory is that a tributary to the Daugava flooded at some point in twelve-hundred A.D and buried the entire place.”

“I never heard about it.”

You snort. “Yeah, a rare well-preserved medieval village will never hit the front page when there’s war and political scandals.”

You reach for a large envelope on the table and open it. You pull out a sheaf of photos, high resolution, and Marcus sees the link between the delicate jade comb and the overall theme of your exhibit.

The photos show the grave, a carved stone tomb that the river mud preserved for nearly a thousand years. It is simple by today’s standards, but Marcus can guess the care and expense of it. There are flowers and trees carved into the lid of it, a flat-faced woman who was probably a saint or local goddess to the time.

Then the photos cede to shots inside the opened grave. Again, the river buried the village and preserved it for Marcus and you to stare at it now: the pair of skeletons, on their sides and facing each other, their empty eye sockets seeming to stare at each other, the tiny bones of their hands a jumble as they were clearly buried together.

“They died together,” Marcus muses. “Plague, maybe?”

You shrug. “Who can say? But if it’s plague, it was several years apart. That’s why I’m putting them in the eastern corner of my exhibit. The archeologists spent a lot of time on this tomb, since it’s such a rare find. The skeleton on the left was a woman, roughly forty years old when she died. She was buried with the comb, and the archeologists found hawthorn branches with her.”

You tap the other side of the photo. “This one was a man, died around his sixties. Also buried with hawthorn branches.”

“So, how do we know they were buried at different times?”

“That’s the punchline. Archeologists found flower petals on her branches, but berries on his. They were buried at different times of the year, at least. Which means that the tomb was reopened to put the latter one in, and they were turned to face each other. Their hands were clasped together. It’s significant, especially when records seem to indicate that many burials of that time and place were cremations.”

Marcus turns to the next photo, a closeup of the hands. Sure enough, he can see the dusty, dried remnants of blossoms, the wizened berries. His eyes drift to their hands, the delicate bones a jumble to where he could not tell who’s belonged to which skeleton.

“Can you imagine the love they must have had for each other? First to build such an elaborate tomb for such a rural area that likely lacked craftsmen of this caliber. To choose to bury instead of cremating. And then to reopen the tomb and place the second body in, to turn them towards each other instead of facing up to face heaven or down to face the underworld. The jade comb is only a device to open the story, but the real story is the most common one across time. It’s love, and grief when the love is ended by death.”

“It’s beautiful,” he says, his voice low. “Sad, but beautiful.”

“We’ll never know their names, you know? We’ll never know what they looked like, or even really what language they spoke. If they had children or what they did. But we know…” You pause, take a breath. “We know they loved each other, and they died but the proof of that love can be witnessed by us a millennium later. And here we are with smart phones and airplanes and dating apps, but if you boil us down, we are just the same as them. Exactly the same.”

What can Marcus say to that? He agrees with you completely. When your voice cracks on the word exactly, his own throat grows a lump in it. He’s always been a romantic anyway, but the scope and scale of this project makes him feel like he could easily be pushed into tearing up too.

“This exhibit is going to be amazing,” he finally tells you. “Honestly. People are going to love it.”

You grin at him, and your eyes are a little glazed with tears, but Marcus wonders what would push you to take such an interest in this topic. Many curators home in on a much narrower niche, but yours is universal, so broad it could be sloppy or unfocused. But you seem to be taking a broad cross-section of artifacts, an attentive lens at different times and places and cultures.

“Thanks, Marcus. I appreciate it.” You turn and slide the photographs back into their envelope. “Ruiz didn’t say much about why you wanted to check this out.”

Marcus follows you out of the storeroom. “I didn’t, really. I’m only in town for the evening. I fly out in the morning.”

“Where to?”

“Texas. I live there. I’m just in town for an interview.”

You lead him back to your office where his coat is stashed, and you hand it to him. You grab your own, grab your purse, and lock up. Together, you walk out of the building and into the evening. D.C. glitters: it must have rained while you were inside, and the lights sparkle on the wet pavement and buildings. You walk together for a few blocks, chatting amiably.

“Ruiz said you were FBI too?”

“Yeah, I’m in the Art Squad.”

You laugh. “Art Squad. I love it. You armed with an FBI-issued oil pastel?”

When Marcus starts to explain that he investigates stolen art and artifacts, you elbow him gently and cut him off. “I was teasing. I know what you do.”

He chuckles, shakes his head. He can feel his face flush a bit. “Anyway, there’s an open position here, and I thought it might be a good move, career-wise.” He pauses. “We’ll see how it goes.”

“Texas to D.C. It could be a fun move.”

He agrees, but before he can stop himself, he’s talking about Teresa, how he has fallen in love, how he has a ring picked out and an idea of proposing—and you listen to it, nodding sympathetically, cooing when he sings Teresa’s virtues. Agreeing when he says his life is finally shaping out the way he always wanted: career and love, both moving forward in wonderful ways.

“That’s really great,” you reply. “I’m happy for you.”

He feels slightly asshole-ish, rambling about his life. He asks, more charitably, “what about you? Married?”

You laugh, a dry single ‘ha.’ “No.”

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“No.” You glance at him. “Let’s just say I’m married to my work and leave it at that.”

He lifts his palms in surrender and in apology. “Fair. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be.” You pause. “But Teresa sounds great, and you’re lovely, so when the two of you come to D.C., look me up and you’ll give you both a private tour, okay?”

Marcus smiles at the thought of him and Teresa together in the capitol, hand in hand at your wonderful exhibit. “Deal.”

You stop in your tracks and point at the intersection. “I’m this way. It was really nice to meet you, Marcus.”

He holds out his hand and you take it. “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much I enjoyed it.”

“For one of Ruiz’s buddies? Anytime. And for real—you and your girl. Private tour, on me.”

The private tour, obviously, will never happen with Marcus and Teresa. Marcus will move to D.C. and Teresa will never follow. He’ll go through a dark period that he assumes will last the rest of his life, but it hardly lasts at all because by then, the city is plastered with advertisements for your exhibit, which is as big as Marcus predicted.

The private tour will happen with just Marcus, and it will hit different to see it laid out with the lighting, the flow, the signage.

It will hit different considering his recent breakup and recent heartache.

It will hit different when he shakes your hand again, when he takes in your soft, steady voice as you explain every artifact, as you offer him that lovely smile that turns beautiful as you talk about your work.

And it will hit different as you lead him through the history of love and grief, the history of what makes him no different from, say, a man who lived and loved and died a thousand years earlier. A man, perhaps, who thought his life would venture into one direction but instead went in another: how the life he desired was not the life he needed, but how it ended in love all the same.

In that way, Marcus and Pero, separated by a millennium are the same.

#kinktober2024 #clear the inbox 2024 #tropes and #tropes and tales #pero tovar #pero tovar imagine #pero tovar x reader #the great wall

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ereardon · 6 months ago

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Before I Knew [Jake Seresin x Reader] Chapter Eleven

A Jake Seresin unexpected pregnancy fic

Overview: On your first night after moving to San Diego to spend more time with your brother Bob, you unknowingly have a one night stand with his teammate Jake Seresin. For the first time in his whole life, Bob has a closely knit friend group and you’re desperate not to rock the boat. But an unexpected and unplanned pregnancy upends your world, forcing you and Jake closer together, against Bob’s wishes. What will happen when you find yourself actually falling for the father of your unborn child?

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader; Bob Floyd x Sister!Reader

Warnings: Pregnancy, cursing, eventual smut, angst

Chapter summary: Ducky deals with the fallout of Jake's bar kiss; Bob interrogates Jake and asks a big question

WC: 1.5K

Masterlist here; previous chapter here

You grabbed Natasha’s arm. “We have to go.”

She frowned. “What’s going on?”

You shook your head, trying not to alert anyone else. “I saw Jake in the hallway by the bathroom. Kissing some random girl.”

Natasha’s brown eyes went hard. “I’ll kill him.”

“Please, no,” you whispered. “Can I just stay at your place tonight?”

“Of course.”

“Also I’m going to piss my pants.”

“Come with me.” She took your hand and led you out toward the back of the bar onto the deck. Your eyes automatically flocked to the place where you had stood the night you first met Jake. Instead, Nat pointed to the edge of the deck. “Pee on the sand.”

You laughed. “You’re joking.”

“It’s that or go back and risk seeing him again.”

“I hate you,” you muttered, wobbling over to the edge of the deck and hiking up your dress, squatting down over the dunes. “This is a new low for me.”

The door swung open and your mouth dropped in shock as Bradley barreled outside. “What’s going on?”

“Oh my God!” you yelled, pee running down your leg.

Bradley’s eyes went wide. “What the?”

Natasha grabbed him and whirled him around until his back was to you. “Bradshaw, shut up. Y/N, finish your piss so we can get out of here.”

“I hate my life,” you muttered.

Bradley laughed. “So this is what girls do at bars? Pee outside.”

“Only when Seresin is making out with random bitches by the bathroom,” Nat said.

Bradley’s face pivoted into a frown. “What?”

You stood up, stepping over the wet sand. “Let’s just not talk about it,” you whispered. “Can we go home now?”

Natasha nodded. “Do you want to just leave?”

“I need to say goodbye to Bobby or he’ll worry.” She nodded and you eased the side door open, shoving through the crowd to get to where Bob and Sena were sitting in the corner. “Bobby,” you whispered in his ear and he turned. “I’m not feeling great. Nat is going to take me home.”

He frowned. “Do you want Jake to take you?”

“I really don’t.”

His eyes, ice blue, hardened. “What does that mean?”

You sighed. “I just need to go home, it’s been a long night. I love you.” You leaned in and kissed his cheek then smiled at Sena and gave her a hug around the shoulders. “It was lovely meeting you.”

“You too,” she said softly. The two of them watched as you walked out of the bar toward the front door.

A moment later, Jake reappeared at the table. “Hey. Where did Y/N go?”

Bob shook his head. “Home with Natasha.”

“Why?”

He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know, Hangman. Why?”

Jake gulped.

***

Natasha’s apartment was girlier than you had expected. Pink pillows on the guest bed, monogrammed towels in the bathroom, a gold french press in the kitchen.

In the morning, you wandered into the kitchen, wet hair hanging down your back. “I didn’t peg you for a gingham bedspread.”

She grimaced. “My mother decorated. Can you tell?”

“Just a little.” You looked around. “It’s very … pink.”

She sighed and sat down on the bar stool next to you. “Don’t remind me. Listen, about last night.”

You shook your head. “Going to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“And what about when he brings that girl home?”

“I told him he could date,” you whispered. “I told him that he should.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“Yes, I’m high as a kite while five months pregnant.”

Natasha took a sip of coffee. “I’m not saying it’s great but you might have to be the adult here.”

“He’s thirty years old,” you countered. “He knows what he’s doing and he knows what he wants.”

“What that man wants is you.” You turned to her, mouth hanging. Natasha nodded. “I mean it. I see the way he looks at you. He wants you, despite what he might do or say.”

“Only because he thinks he has to.”

“Jake Seresin has never listened to a word of advice that he didn’t want to,” she replied. “If he wants you, it’s because he really does, not because he thinks it’s the right thing to do.” Nat paused. “The only question is, do you want him, too?”

***

The doorbell rang. Jake rushed out of his room, no shirt, wet hair dripping onto his shoulders and frowned. You had a key. If it was you, and he hoped it was, you would have let yourself in.

Which could only mean it was someone else. And he didn’t want to see anyone else. He thought about ignoring it when there was a knock. Hard.

He flung the door open. “What?”

Bob stepped inside. “Hangman.”

Jake frowned. “Floyd.” He paused. “She’s not here.”

“I know she isn't. That’s why I’m here.”

Jake felt his heart speed up. You were leaving. A part of him had dreaded it from the first moment you stepped through the doorway of the new apartment. That you would decide to leave him before the baby arrived, or even after. That you would see he wasn’t fit to be a dad.

Bob paced in a tight circle before training his eyes on Jake. “I know you and I, we have a history. We don’t even really like each other. But you’re having a baby with my sister. My only sister. And she means more to me than anything.” Bob paused. “She means more to me than my own life. So trust me when I say, there’s nothing you could do that’s worse than hurting her in any way.”

“I’m not going to–”

“You already have.” Bob cut him off. “This cat and mouse game or whatever the two of you have going on? It stops today. She’s hurt and you’re hurt and you’re both fucking stupid.”

“I don’t know what your deal is Floyd, but–”

“Do you love her?”

Jake stopped in his tracks. His eyes lifted to meet Bob’s. The two men stood in the middle of the living room, squared off.

And then the door opened, and you appeared with Natasha right behind you. You frowned. “Bobby? What are you doing here?”

His eyes lingered on Jake before crossing the room and looping his arm over your shoulder. “Came to get you, Duck. Thought we could grab some lunch.”

“Um, sure.” You looked at Jake who had a pale sheen to his skin. Like he was going to be sick. “I’m going to change real quick. Wait for me by the car?”

Bob nodded and slipped through the door. But not before you saw the glance he shared with Natasha. “Y/N? I’m going to head out, too.”

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you said softly and she smiled, filing out behind Bob.

You closed the door to your room, emerging a few minutes later in a fresh dress, hair twisted up in a bun and a pair of sunglasses over your tired eyes. Jake sat on the couch, staring at his feet.

You walked past him, grabbing your bag off the table where Natasha had placed it. As you opened the door, Jake’s voice floated across the room.

“Are you coming back?”

It was quiet. Too quiet. Practically a thin whisper. You resisted the urge to turn around and look at him.

“Yeah,” you said after a moment, one hand on the door handle. “But it would be great if you weren’t here when I did.”

And with that, you pulled the door shut behind you, putting a wall up between you and Jake.

Please follow my library page @ereardonlibrary as that will largely serve as my tag list. Anyone I previous promised to tag is here:

@blue-aconite @withahappyrefrain @wkndwlff @mamachasesmayhem @djs8891 @clancycucumber230 @gigisimsonmars @xomrsalliej4787xo @myfaveficrecs @mycobrakai1972 @sio-ina-bottle @joaquinwhorres @justanothermagicalsara @je-suis-prest-rachel @shanimallina87

@rosiahills22 @buckysteveloki-me @kmc1989 @eloquentdreamer @mjisbby @seresinslady @seresinhangmanjake @blackwidownat2814 @bbyvanessaa @mrsjobarnes @midnightmagpiemama @ingoaliesitrust @rockbottomphilosophies-blog @iangiemae @boiolay @sometimesanalice @na-ta-sh-aa @bobfloydsbabe @kmc1989 @rosiahills22 @palepeanutponyshoe @onceupona-happilyeverafter-love @mel119g @daggerspare-standingby @grxcisxhy-wp @mrsjobarnes @csmt-m @rockbottompunk-blog @joaquinwhorres @xoxabs88xox @spinning-away

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mihai-florescu · 1 month ago

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Did you know Ensemble Stars spells out the characters' names?

Eichi Tenshouin of fine of course

Narukami Arashi

Subaru Akehoshi the ensemble star himself

Eichi Tenshouin again but this time of ex fine

Makoto Yuki

Boys

Love

Eichi Tenshouin again

Shu Itsuki

Tenshouin Eichi

Adonis Otogari

Rei Sakuma

Sena... Ever since I met you, every day's been amazing. Our youth together has been so bright, so dazzling, everything else pales in comparison.

If I were to take each and every memory and weave them all together into a song, even a single lifetime wouldn't be enough to finish it.

Your beauty, God-given and honed to perfection by you yourself, is the most exquisite work of art.

The mere glimpse of your profile is enough to get me composing nonstop. The ideas come flooding in one after another, until my mind is overflowing with potential masterpieces.

And y'know, that's all I need to be happy. Writing music is my whole life, after all.

Meeting you has made my dreams come true. So this time, it's my turn.

What do you wanna do? Tell me, and I'll help you achieve it together! What's the next step? Tell me, Sena!

Sena, always so sullen, always so unhappy! How can I get you to smile for me?

Should I just take anything you don't like, anybody you don't approve of, and destroy 'em all?

If that's your wish, then consider it granted! No—count me in the efforts to make your ambitions into reality!

So don't dodge the question, don't tell any lies—be honest with me!

What do you wanna do? Don't be shy about it! I won't laugh at you!

It's not fair that I'm the only one embarrassing myself, right? Show me all of you, too!

I don't care if it's some filthy inner desire— Show it to me! I'll spin it into the greatest art ever known and show the whole world—I'll get them all to admire your beauty!

If that's what it takes to fulfill you, then I'll give it my everything.

I don't care if I'll face hatred and resentment. I don't care if I shed every last drop of blood in my body. I don't even care if I have to cut away everything else in my life.

Even if I make the entire world my enemy, I'll be happy as long as I'm with you.

#enstars

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krizeros · 11 months ago

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More sena twintail art

#fxh art #procreate #procreate art #digital art #nintendo #xenoblade chronicles 3 #xenoblade #xenoblade chronicles #sena #Twin tail #god i love sena #shes so fucking cute #holy fuck

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bisexualenbyblueberry · 4 months ago

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My Favourite Details This Season

Callum pacing and tossing the cube in episode 1 he's just like me fr

"I heard you were up here losing your mind ;)"

"Lots of books, I like books :D"

"I HAVE AN IDEA" "So,,,, what's your idea-" *runs out of room*

"I HAVE A SECRET PLAN" with the most dramatic stage whisper I've ever heard

SNEEZLES IN CALLUM'S SCARF

Pyrrah stretching like a cat

Literally every interaction Soren and Corvus have. The party conversation. "Maybe it's edible" "NO, and PLEASE don't find out" and then Corvus having to tell him to spit it out. "You’re a man of mystery, Corvus ;)))" and "You clearly didn’t learn anything at camp 🙄🙄🙄" “It’s not great.” “Yeah I tried. “Okay” “It’s the effort”. Soren’s head falling onto Corvus’ chest

Janai being so damn tall. I swear to god this woman grows like a foot every season. What is happening to her. Why is she like that

"Wake up kids!" When they arrive at the frozen sea

"It’s literally frozen in time 😮" "it’s literally frozen in ice, it’s figuratively frozen in time"

"The frozen ship, so sad😔"

Rayla sitting on the table reading a book imagining the characters she’s so silly

“Is Rayla crying?? I’M COMING RAYLA 😡😡😡”

“Rayla! I’m here!” *door slams in his face*

"NO PUNCHING THE BOAT" and Callum's facial expression and pose afterwards 😭

Sneezles and Stella being buddies

“Your breath is warm” “Oh…sorry”

The way they SITTT (Karim in his throne, Janai after trying to burn the tree, Soren against the wall in the first meeting, Miyana on the rocks in the second episode, Ezran on his bed, Janai near the tree, Rayla lying on her bed and on the table)

RAYLLUM ON THE SIDE OF THE SHIP

“ARE YOU BEGGING FOR MERCY?” “NO” “GOOD, YOU DON'T DESERVE ANY” HOLYYYY SHIT

Terry's glasses making their heavily anticipated return

"And this is Rayla- wait, did you want to do your own intro?"

"Welcome to the starscraper 😌" "WELCOME?! YOU NEARLY KILLED US" "Nearly, but the fates seem to have another path in mind for you" "The FATES?! What does that even... is that even an apology?!"

"Okay, you both seem on the nice side, so not to be rude... as if somehow this is ruder than throwing people out from a great height🙄🙄🙄..."

“Wait, is everyone else wearing blindfolds too?” “That is a joke.” “Yeah it was funny 😡”

Astrid saying Callum has greasy hair

STELLA TRYING TO STEAL THE SKETCHBOOK

“Where’d you get that comically large block of ice”

Callum trying and failing to use Rayla’s blade and almost cutting his fingers off

“How do I insult a star spider? 😆 Ezran would know what to do- ow OW HEY”

Astrid’s little trans speech your honor I love her

"This orb.... is a giant peice of candy 😐"

Jack De Sena's voice acting in Kosmo's hallucination?? Hello?? Poured out his heart and soul all for a hypothetical

"A child will die 😠" I'M SORRY IT'S A FINE LINE BUT IT CATERS TOO MUCH TO MY SENSE OF HUMOUR FOR ME TO TAKE IT SERIOUSLY

Wind elk :)))))

The awkward giggles when they're about to kiss that first time

THE VOWS, THE WAY THEY LOOK AT EACH OTHER, THE CEREMONIES??? EVERYTHING ABOUT THE WEDDING IS PERFECT I’M CRYING

The entire “fiscal exercices” conversation

“HER DAD JUST DIED”

Leola. Just everything about Leola she's just like me fr

Feel free to add on because I certainly will. This list is like 50% unfinished

#Please I want to meet a wind elk so bad #tdp spoilers #the dragon prince #tdp #dragon prince #tdp callum #tdp terry #tdp claudia #tdp rayla #tdp s6 #tdp season 6 #tdp s6 spoilers #tdp season 6 spoilers #tdp viren #tdp ezran #tdp soren #tdp sorvus #tdp rayllum

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myunghology · 3 months ago

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NOWAY SO UM, i was thinking of a prompt and then i remembered i haven’t seen this theme on ritsu so…

maybe a fic of knight!ritsu and reader being a princess/prince :3?

i have like two ideas for the fic, you can choose the one you like; the first time they meet or being in a secret relationship

Or maybe mix both 👀… ( /j but if you want oke :3 )

and em that’s all, i like your fics and smau, I’m your biggest fan wuuuu :3

✦ — REWRITE, IGNITE, RESTART.

summary a normal day in a royal highschool, you find yourself seeking warmth of a young knight, despite meeting him for the „first” time.

pairings ritsu sakuma x gender neutral! reader, ft knights <3, prince/ss x knight au!

warnings none!! wee bit of an ever after high au but i just stole the 'royal and rebel' group things for inspo HAHHA

a/n if only.

Right. How cliché. A school that seperates students from their origins.. You would complain, but it's not like you could do anything about it. You've made friends here, anyways.

Students separated into two groups— one's with direct Royal status, and one's far from it— or one's who usually served for them. This sounds scandalous, but it really isn't.

Take your friends for example! Tsukasa Suou, the next heir to his family. Of course he was bound to be famous for it. You were also included in that group— the only child of a queen! Obviously, you were close with Suou.

Hmm, yes. Him and his friend group of Knights. And one princess. You'd be lying if you said you didn't have a small girl crush on Arashi.

— "I have never said that! What on earth are you babbling about?!" You snap out if your thoughts as you hear the young heirs voice from across the school's halls, he seems to be arguing with one of his friends again, your eye twitching from the sudden noise.

You approach the noise, seeing the short ex-king, now bound to be a knight. And the up and coming king, Ah. What an old sight. Tsukasa Suou and Leo Tsukinaga, as always.

"Suo~ I was just kidding! You always take jokes seriously.. You're such a killjoy!" Leo growls at him as Tsukasa closes his eyes, as if bracing for impact. My God, don't they get tired from bickering all day?

You feel fingers hands tap you on your shoulder, you turn around and see Arashi standing in front of you. And thus— you can't hold in your complaint anymore.

"Don't they get tired from arguing all day? I feel like I want to shit myself from how much they do it. It's the fifth time this week and it's Wednesday!" You whine, making the young princess in front of you giggle.

"You'll get used to it soon enough," She teases playfully, as the sight unfolds, Sena ironically joining the argument. You sigh, whilst Arashi shakes her head and changes the topic.

"Anyway, love, have you seen Ritsu?" She asks, as you try to hide the visible blush on your face. "No.. Didn't see him in alchemy classes today, actually." You answer, pouting.

"You miss your husband, don't you?" She laughs at your pout, but somehow still managing to tease you. "Don't even... My own parents don't even know that me and Ritsu know each other." You complain internally.

The princess tilts her head, "Seriously?" She asks in pity, your pout slowly getting more visible, as she takes that as a 'yes'.

The day passes by quickly, you find yourself seeking for the young Knight. As a response— you end up going to his favorite sleeping places.

Haaa..~ the young Sakuma. Always wandering around. No wonder why this guy was distantly related to the Cheshire Cat. He was almost exactly like him.

The sun is almost about to set, the school's yard still looking as beautiful as it's always been. You've usually found Ritsu here when he wasn't in classes, I mean.. Who wouldn't? It's gorgeous.

You feel a hand cover your eyes, a frown plastering your face before a voice perks up. "Guess who?"

What a familiar voice. Wow, who could it be?

"Ritsu. I'll kill you." You scowl at him as the male scoff, removing his hand. "Language," Ritsu warned, before ruffling your hair, messing it up slightly.

"I'm sorry, my prince/ss. Do you want me to give you my lap for your royal nap needs? Want a pillow? A blanket, too?"

Ritsu could not be more sarcastic and teasing if he tried.

"What do you mean, 'Language'? I didn't even swear." A tired groan comes out of your lips as you say that, making him laugh. "What's up? You wanted to find me, no?"

". . . . Nuh uh."

"Hah."

"I'm gonna go back home for summer break. You coming with me?" You ask, raising an eyebrow slightly. Ah. That's what it was.

"So.. To put it in words, you're leaving me?" Ritsu asks, cocking his head to the side, replicating your eyebrow raise. "I literally just asked you if you wanted to stay with me." You huff, turning away from him.

"Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah..." He whined, tugging on your hand before you got too far away. As if he already knew you were about to walk away.

"You'll get lost without me. And you'll get into trouble. Don't do that. You're mine, remember?" If anything, Ritsu couldn't stand boredom. He would rather spend his time with his prince/ss than lay around alone and have nothing to do.

"You're usually the one who gets me into trouble." You retort, trying to pull away from his grip, but it was already inevitable.

"... True... true..." He muses, a smirk spreading across his face as he kept his grip on you. "But you love me, remember?"

Ah yes. How could one forget Ritsu's insufferable teasing?

"Unfortunately." A pout plastered on your face, the knight letting out another scoff, shaking his head.

Ritsu gave you a teasing, slightly mocking gasp as he pretended to be offended at such a dry response. "You wound me. Here I am, trying to be a loving, supportive boyfriend, and you're giving me a unfortunately? Where's the 'I love you too?' or the I love you more?'" He groaned dramatically, putting his hand to his forehead.

"You aren't answering my question." Deadpanning, glaring at him as he sighs and caves in. "I can't.." He mutters unexpectedly, making your eyes widen.

That was a rare answer.

The male offers to take you back to your palace, a pout placed on your face the whole way there. Seeing this chance— Ritsu obviously teased you the whole way home.

The sun sets quickly and you're already back, your eye twitching once you hear from your mother to get changed into something proper, as something important came up.

You were now standing, right in the middle of the great hall with your parents, head tilted in confusion.

Until—

"Ah, yes! [Name], my darling," Your mother calls out, before continuing. "We've hired someone new for you— to keep you safe. After what happened before.. I wouldn't even dare to let you out our sight!" She exaggerates, making your head tilt.

"So.. Who's gonna be following me around this time?" You ask, sucking in a sharp breath through your teeth before a smooth voice interrupts you— your eyes widening.

"I'm sorry I'm late. Wouldn't be so much of a knight if I was late to meeting you, now would I?" You freeze as a familiar voice comes from behind you as you quickly turn around, seeing the same black haired male you once saw earlier.

Your dad smiles unknowingly, "Ritsu Sakuma, he's gonna be by your side 24/7, from now on!" You laugh sheepishly, before retorting. "Not in my sleep too, right?"

"Do you want me to?" He hums right next to your ear, making you shiver. "No- I just.."

"Relax, [Name]. Me and your mother will go out for just a short amount of time, so he'll be here to keep you safe for the time being." Your father says— in a rather calm voice. "I can take care of myself.."

"Sure you can."

myunghology: part 2 when hahahah idk bro

#jian’s works!#ensemble stars x reader #enstars x reader #ensemble stars #enstars smau #sakuma ritsu x reader #ritsu sakuma x reader

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bunnybird-afk · 4 days ago

Note

Questions about your Magister (now with +5 more questions🤣):

1. So what's his connection to the Maulers/ Dusk Lord anyway?

2. Does he have a love interest?

3. Is he a Mauler..?

4. If so what abilities or powers does he have?

5. Also like I'm 89% sure it's cannon, but what's his connection to Dura?

6. Does he have a specific magic he uses?

7. Who are his parents?

8. Where did he come from?

9. What's his opinion on holding the title "Merlin"?

10. What's personality?

11. Is he rich...?

12. What's his worst fear?

13. Does he hate any in-game characters?

14. Does he have hobbies?

15. What type of people does he get along with?

Thank you so much for this ask! I am so excited to ramble on about Sena! I have been cooking up his lore for almost a month now but haven't been able to put it together coherently so this really helps!

Warning: Long Post

Some brief background:

Sena is a former 'god' of Esperia, though he technically hasn't held an official place in the pantheon since long before the Divine War, having asked for his name to be struck from the records for certain reasons. While he retained much of his original power at first, his divine core was shattered by Ygdris during the Immortal War, leading to Sena being absorbed into the leylines to rest and heal until the war was over. Afterwards, he awakens with no memories, helps Esperia with its troubles and then returns to the leylines when his life force is depleted. This cycle repeats itself a total of three times so far, with the most recent being the in-game canon.

1) Sena's connection to the Dusk Lord/the Maulers?

While most Esperian's might consider it blasphemous, the Age of the Gods wasn't nearly as prosperous or perfect as one might think. Being a fledgling god who didn't yet have his own title, Sena was often looked down upon by some of the less benevolent deities in Esperia's pantheon (most of whom have been long forgotten).

The Dusk Lord was one of the few gods who viewed Sena as what he was at the time, a child in need of guidance. Thus the Dusk Lord took him under his wing, taught him about Esperia and what it meant to be a god. Even taught him how to fight should the need arise.

Through the Dusk Lord, Sena met the Maulers. The first mortals that Sena ever encountered. The first people Sena ever met. The Dusk Lord taught Sena about his people and about their cultures, telling the godling that his wish was for his people to be strong. To be tenacious so that they could handle the harsh realities of the world even without his guidance.

While the Dusk Lord tried to teach Sena how to be a god, Sena immersed himself in the culture and community around him and instead learnt something far more important. How to be a person.

2) Sena's love interest(s)?

While Sena has had partners over the eons, there where very few instances he could point to that he'd consider love. The first of these instances was a mage by the name of Merlin, the first mage to ever exist in Esperia. Merlin was gentle and compassionate and selfless, and Sena found himself inexplicably drawn to them. They were perfect. But they were mortal... After they passed, Sena took up the title of 'Merlin' as a way to remember them and to continue their mission of protecting and helping Esperia.

During the Immortal War, Sena fought side-by-side with the Celestials, wanting to safeguard Esperia's people from the threat of the Hypogeans. During this time, Sena grew close to Dionel, and while the two may have shared a few tender moments and had occasionally found comfort in each other's arms, they soon realized that their feelings for each other were more platonic than romantic. To this day, Sena considers Dionel his closest friend, and it would seem as though the feeling is mutual.

After losing his memories the second time, Sena wakes up near Holistone and soon meets Hogan who was still a young recruit in the Lightbearer army. Having no memory of his own past and believing himself a mortal, Sena ends up working closely with Hogan and eventually feelings start to bloom between the two (despite a rocky start). Over the next decade or so, Sena and Hogan grow closer and closer, and though they make their affections for each other obvious, the word 'love' remains unspoken. Things between the two 'end' when Hogan gets called to duty, asked to serve the Lightbearer Empire in some scuffles that had broken out with the Maulers near the border to the Ashen Wastes. Hogan asks Sena to come with him, using the excuse that they could use the help of a mage like him. Sena asks Hogan to stay, knowing that he might not make it back alive. They both decline out of a sense of duty, though those feelings continue to linger. To the point where Sena returns to Holistone after the war to wait for Hogan having heard news of his return, though Sena is resting in the leylines again before they can be reunited. (Though, Sena has accidentally acquired an adopted son during his time back at Holistone, one that would soon go on to cause Hogan no shortage of trouble).

3) Is Sena a Mauler?

Not in the traditional sense. Sena's divine form was an almagamation of the different factions, though he doesn't inherently belong to any given one. During his time wandering Esperia, he tends to try to fit in with the people around him, hence him taking on more Mauler like characteristics when in the Ashen Wastes and more Wilder characterstics when in the Dark Forest. Though considering the Dusk Lords words and Sena's own feelings about the Ashen Wastes, in his heart Sena is more of a Mauler than he is any other faction.

4) Sena's Abilities/Powers?

While Sena has the standard Merlin abilities we see in game, he also has a few innate abilities that stuck around from when he was still a god. This includes Sena coming across as very amicable and persuasive, and on rare occasions being able to tap into his Divine Authority. Overall, Sena also exudes an air of comfort, making others around him feel at ease even in the toughest of times.

5) Sena's connection with Dura?

Like the Dusk Lord, Dura was on of the few gods who didn't completely disregard Sena's existence. Though while the Dusk Lord viewed Sena's naivety as something he needed time and help growing out of, Dura viewed it as a reason why Sena needed to be protected and nurtured. In a sense she was another one of Sena's mentors growing up. While the Dusk Lord taught him to be strong, resilient and tenacious, Dura had taught him to be gentle, caring and compassionate. And unlike most of the other gods, Dura seemed to genuinely love her people, wanting to protect them and nurture them, ensuring that they thrived and prospered. And at the end of the day, Sena wanted to help her fulfill that desire though it would be centuries until he could actually be of any assistance to her.

6) Sena's Magic?

Sena's magic is derived directly from the leylines themselves, allowing him to use magic in its purest form, though without his divinity this tends to take an immense toll on him should he overexert himself. Apart from that, Sena has a form of charmspeak that allows him to compell the truth from others, and often persuade them into doing certain things, though he often forgets this ability in his amnesia only to remember it later, though even then he uses it sparingly, not liking the feeling of influencing others free will.

7/8) Who are his Parents/Where did he come from?

Being a former god, Sena doesn't really have parents. Like most gods, he simply awoke one day in the Realm of the Gods, born of a concept that had become prominent enough to warrant having its own deity. Though unlike most gods, Sena had no clue what he was the god of at first, not feeling any real affinity for anything present in the Realm of the Gods.

So in that sense, Sena didn't really have parents. In fact he didn't really understand the concept until almost a millenium later, watching as Mauler father excitedly scooped his cub into a hug after their first steps. Sen had found it heartwarming though still unrelatable.

Though if Sena were to think about it now (once he has his memories back atleast), if anyone had been a father to him, it would have been the Dusk Lord. And well, Dura had always called him her child, even if she hadn't really meant it in the familial sense (though Sena found himself secretly hoping that she did).

9) Sena's opinion on being Merlin?

While the title had started as a way for him to honour somone he cared for, it's since then grown to represent so much more to him. To Sena, being Merlin means shouldering the responsibility for Esperia's well-being. Not just dealing with big threats, but also caring for the Esperian people on a personal level. It represents the wishes of all those who loved him, and now his own wishes too. Afterall, it's his responsibility as Esperia's last living god.

10) Sena's personality?

Growing up Sena had been well-meaning and quiet sharp, though it was usually hidden behind his jovial demeanor. Even back then, however, Sena had a touch of recklessness and anarchy to him that caused Dura no shortage of concern (and the Dusk Lord no shortage of amusement). And though he eventually matured and grew more calm and measured, his charming personality and slight spark of chaos never quiet left him. And whenever Sena loses his memory, his personality reverts to being somewhere in the middle of those two states of being.

11) Is Sena Rich?

Pretty much, though that's more thanks to Dolly than anything else. After becoming Sena's retainer, she took her duties very seriously, handling just about everything that Sena may need help with (excluding magecraft). That included handling Sena and the Mystical House's finances, as well as updating Sena on any news that may pique his interest. She's also the one responsible for helping Sena to adjust to life in Esperia whenever he returns from the leylines, including making sure he has the correct currency and is dressed for the times (thank you, Dolly, for keeping Sena fashionable).

12) Sena's worst fear?

Losing sight of what it means to be a person. Sena has never cared much for his divinity, but he would cling to every last shred of humanity he has in his soul.

13) Does Sena hate any characters?

Berial and Reinier. Sena hates Berial because of the joy he takes in making mortals suffer. He's needlessly cruel, even by Hypogean standards and seems to genuinely enjoy the harm he causes (unlike Phraesto who Sena finds oddly amicable).

He also strongly dislikes Reinier due to his obsession with perfection. While in itself not abhorrent, the lengths Reinier goes to to achieve his idea of 'perfection' is disturbing to Sena who's seen the way his actions have hurt people. And on a more personal note, the way Reinier desecrates the monuments of the old gods, bastardizing their image and deceiving their followers never fails to have pure rage bubbling up in Sena's chest. Blasphemy doesn't really bother him, but seeing this hypogean spit on the legacy of those he knew and loved just crosses a line for Sena.

14) Sena's Hobbies?

Being Merlin doesn't really give Sena a lot of free time, though when he does get it, he's using it to completely immerse himself in the local culture. Talking to people, helping out around whatever town they're in, eating local delicacies, sampling signature drinks, listening to music, and reading their books and poems. In hindsight, being Merlin probably is the best job for Sena considering that it gives him an excuse to travel.

15) What type of people does Sena get along with?

Sena tends to get along with just about anyone so long as they aren't cruel or closed-minded, though he does have his favourites. Usually those who have the same type of well-meaning chaos and recklessness that he does.

#afk journey #afk merlin #merlin oc #headcanons #magister sena #long post #merlinverse #merlin lore #lore dump #afk dionel #afk hogan #afk valen #afk berial #afk reinier #afk hogan x merlin #hogan x sena

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tickleraptorss · 3 months ago

Text

Fluttery Feelings (Mio/Eunie)

There is nothing Eunie loves more than making Mio smile. And it flusters poor Mio to no end.

A/N: oh my god i wrote a thing!!! hello all 3 mioeunie enjoyers. i love these two so much... please play xenoblade 3. this is like.... suuuuper self-indulgent <3

warnings: tickling and tooth-rotting fluff ❤️

There’s nothing quite like an afternoon of quiet, Mio thinks as she runs her fingers through Eunie’s hair, occasionally brushing over one of her soft wings. Eunie looks just about ready to fall asleep; her eyes are struggling to stay open, and the way she nestles against Mio’s chest and her relaxed sighs tell Mio everything she needs to know that her girlfriend is beyond happy.

“Hey… Don’t fall asleep on me,” Mio chuckles. “You won't be able to sleep tonight if you nap now.”

“Mmn,” Eunie groans. “You're makin’ it very hard not to, bein’ so comfy ‘n warm.”

Mio leans down and presses a kiss against Eunie’s forehead, “I’ll have to stop cuddlin’ you, then,” she teases.

“Nooo! You can't leave poor ol’ Eunie by her lonesome!” The High Entian whines, lifting Mio from where she lay on the couch into her arms, pressing their cheeks together. “She needs her cuddles!”

Mio rolls her eyes fondly, “she also needs to be able to sleep at night.” Eunie huffs, before laying back down on the couch, taking Mio with her so that the Gormotti is laying on top of her. “I think this’ll just make it harder to stay awake.”

“Shhhh…” Eunie presses a finger to Mio’s lips and, because the opportunity presents itself (and because Mio likes to cause mischief), she bites the tip of Eunie’s finger. Her girlfriend yelps, even though Mio’s bites are more like nibbles. “Hey! No bitin’!”

“I barely bit you,” Mio grins. She leans forward to kiss the tip of Eunie’s nose, then she presses another kiss to her cheek, and then another, and another. Eunie’s giggling now, squirming from Mio’s affectionate onslaught as the Gormotti kisses all over her face. She can't help but notice how Eunie’s laughter sounds different—it's light and bubbly, more akin to Sena’s giggles. Mio loves Eunie’s laugh, she always has, and the many different variations it has. From the hysterical cackles whenever Taion reacts to her teasing, to the soft little giggle-snorts when something really tickles her, Mio adores all of it.

“Mio!” Eunie cries, not out of protest, Mio knows. Still, she can't help but chuckle as she leans back to smirk at her girlfriend.

“What? I thought you wanted my affection?”

Eunie seems to take that as a challenge, apparently. Still giggling, she wraps her arms around Mio’s torso and rolls on top of her, subjecting her to the same barrage of kisses Mio had just given her. The Gormotti squeaks, caught in her own giggle fit as Eunie peppers kisses all over her face, eventually moving down to her neck, and Mio whines.

“Eunie-!” Mio squirms. She feels Eunie’s lips curl into a smirk against her neck. Uh oh…

“What’s up, love?” A wing brushes against Mio’s cheek—as much as she tries to reel back her reactions, she can't help but snicker at the ticklish sensation. “Aww, are my wings ticklin’ you?” Mio nods. “Good, ‘cause that's what I was goin’ for.”

Eunie nuzzles into the crook between Mio’s neck and shoulders, while her wings brush against the sides of her neck. Mio squeaks, twisting this way and that, but nothing reprieves her of the tickling. Pressed between the couch and her evil, evil girlfriend, the Gormotti can do nothing but giggle up a storm, and she knows Eunie loves it.

It’s a well-known fact, to anyone close to her, that Eunie takes advantage of anyone’s ticklishness whenever she can. Even the day Noah introduced Mio to Eunie, she remembers how the High Entian would tease and poke Noah whenever she thought Mio wasn't looking. Noah had warned her, when she and Eunie began dating, to not let Eunie find her weakness, but not without giving her a knowing smile.

Mio didn't know why at the time, but found out later, he was the one who told Eunie about her ticklishness in the first place! And oh, did he suffer for that. A bold move on his part, for someone as ticklish as he is.

With or without justice served, though, Mio was still subjected to Eunie’s playful teasing, and truthfully, she didn't mind it. Maybe she even liked it… but no one had to know that. Least of all Eunie. Titans forbid she found out that Mio actually enjoyed being tickled by her… she’d never hear the end of it!

So, she keeps up her facade, as best she can.

“Eunie!! Nohoho!” Mio giggles, trying to push Eunie off of her. Eunie only tightens her grip, and now she’s nibbling her neck and sparks alive it tickles. So. Bad. “N-nNOHO nihihibbling!! Not thehere-!”

“Not where? Here?” Eunie lifts her head to look at Mio, hair messy and cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkle with fondness. She smiles, tracing her fingers over the spot she was just nibbling, wings twitching happily as she admires her work. “‘s funny how one little spot can be so ticklish,” she says, probably not meaning to tease, but Mio’s cheeks flush darker regardless.

“You’re one to talk,” Mio pouts. Eunie raises a brow.

“Sorry?” She isn't sorry, her tone speaks more of a challenge. Mio takes it.

“You’ve got plenty of sweet spots yourself! Don't act like you don't!”

“I’m not,” Eunie chuckles. “I’m well aware of my own ticklishness, thank you very much. I just don't melt into a puddle whenever I get tickled.”

“Unless you get teased,” Mio grins. Now Eunie’s pouting. “Isn't that right, my little dove?~”

Eunie’s face flushes in surprise, and for a moment, Mio thinks she has the upper hand. That is, until Eunie’s grabbing her wrists with one hand, hovering over her with a grin she’s come to recognize all too well.

“You’re just askin’ for it now, love,” The High Entian’s free hand hovers over Mio’s stomach, fingers wiggling in anticipation, and Mio averts her gaze, squeezing her eyes shut and biting her lip to stop the anticipatory giggles bubbling in her chest from escaping. “Aww, ain’t that cute? I haven't even touched you, yet you're all smiles and giggles already. It’s adorable how you try and hold back…”

Eunie’s index finger begins tracing shapes over Mio’s tummy. The Gormotti’s skin jumps underneath the touch, breaths uneven and staggering as she tries to stop herself from giggling. She makes the mistake of peeking at Eunie, who’s looking at her with a smile so wide, so pure, Mio swears she could've melted into the couch right there. A familiar rumble resonates from her chest before she can help herself, so enveloped in the feeling of butterflies fluttering in her stomach that she doesn't realize she’s-

“...Mio, are you purrin’?”

Mio’s eyes widen, realizing that, yes, she was purring, and that she’d totally given herself away. Eunie’s eyes soften as Mio tries to hide her blushing face in her shoulder, but really, she can't hide from her. Not when the purring gets louder the longer Eunie circles around her tummy.

“Oh, you looove this, don't you?~” Eunie coos, gently scribbling her fingers over Mio’s ribs. “You like it when I tickle you like this? All soft ‘n gentle? Yeah?” Unable to deny it, Mio just nods, and she swears Eunie swoons at that. “Ain’t that just the most precious thing~”

Mio can't reign back her reactions any longer, and the restrained snickers and flustered whimpers become bright, bubbly giggles. Eunie’s wiggling fingers are merely grazing her skin, yet somehow it tickles so much worse. Her girlfriend’s touch is so agonizingly gentle as her nails trace over the ticklish grooves of her ribs—Mio can't help but squeak at that—and the loving gaze that’s fixated upon her only makes Mio feel more sensitive, somehow.

“Your laugh is so cute…” Eunie swoons. “You’ve always had the best reactions. Your cheeks get all red ‘n you try and hide it, but tryin’ to hide leaves all your tickle spots unprotected. Not to mention your lil’ squeaks and squeals are, like, the cutest things ever.”

“Nooohoho… ‘s nohot!”

“Is too! Don't you go tryin’ to deny it!” As if to prove her point, Eunie’s fingers drift over to Mio’s right side. She slowly traces her nails up and down the Gormotti’s side, and despite how soft the touch is, Mio’s giggling up a storm. She tries twisting away, but Eunie’s got her thoroughly pinned. Her sides are especially ticklish, and of course, Eunie is all too familiar with that.

“EunieehehEE-! DoHOHON’T— s-stohOHAP!!” Mio squeals. Her girlfriend only snickers at her ticklish plight.

“‘Don’t stop?’ Wasn't plannin’ to~” The High Entia teases. She lets go of Mio’s wrists so she can use her left hand to claw Mio’s left side. The Gormotti lets out another squeal, twisting away from the digits attacking her from the left, but Eunie's one step ahead. As Mio twists away, nails begin scribbling at her right side, which causes her to squirm to the left, only to be met with more tickles. Eunie has her trapped in a cruel cycle, and she falls for her trick every single time.

“Tickle tiiickle~” Eunie coos, watching as Mio continues to wiggle underneath her. Her fingers drag down Mio’s sides, only to worm their way underneath the Gormotti’s shirt. The gentle scribbling of Eunie’s nails against her bare skin only makes Mio’s laughter jump up an octave.

“EuniehEHEHEEEE!!” She shrieks. “ThAHAT—AHAH! Th-thahat’s not fahAHAIR!!”

“Oh, you think this isn't fair?” Eunie raises a brow. A mischievous smile creeps its way across her features, slowing down her ministrations so Mio can breathe. “Wait ‘til you see what I’ve got planned!” She pauses the tickling, but her hands still have a firm grip on her girlfriend’s sides.

“Sparks…” Mio pants, face flushed down to her neck.

“You alright, love?” Eunie asks. She gently brushes Mio’s hair from her face.

Somehow, Eunie checking on her makes her face flush even more. The genuine love and kindness she shows for her only makes Mio feel even warmer.

“Yeah… ‘m good,” she manages through deep breaths.

“You never told me how much you like this,” says Eunie. “I mean, you’ve never purred like that before when I tickled you.”

“It's… Ah… The soft… T-Tickles…” Mio looks away, flustered beyond belief. “I, um, like… the—ehehem! Hehey!” Before she can finish speaking, Eunie’s nails are ever-so-softly tracing slow little circles on the sides of her bare belly. Before long, Mio begins to purr in between giggles, her squirming more restrained like she's trying to keep still. It’s unfair, Eunie thinks, that Mio is this cute.

“Juuust like this, eh?” Eunie coos, and when Mio nods, the High Entia swears her heart explodes. “Sparks, you're adorable.”

Mio herself feels seconds away from bursting at the seams. The way Eunie’s touching her, her mischievous smile, her nails merely ghosting along her skin and sparks she's moving to the sides! It makes the relentless fluttering in her stomach so much more intense, her face flushing darker than it probably ever has. She can't help but try to roll onto her side, it tickles so much.

And then she feels Eunie’s fingers scribbling on her lower back, and all hell breaks loose.

“NohO—NonononOHOHAHAHA—! EEEHEHEHAHA!!” Mio shrieks, her squirming increasing tenfold. It's a useless endeavour, though, because it seems this is exactly what Eunie was waiting for. She wraps her arms around Mio in a tight hug, buries her face in her girlfriend’s neck, and both hands snake under her shirt to tickle her back. As Mio arches her back on instinct, it only gives Eunie more access to her worst spot. “NohOT THEHE—AHAHAHAA! P-PleheHEHEASE!”

“Please what?” Eunie asks, giving a gentle kiss to Mio’s neck. “Please do… this?” She blows a raspberry against Mio’s neck, delighted at the squeal Mio lets out. Getting an idea, Eunie briefly stops tickling so she can scooch back a little, straddling Mio’s thighs. Her head hovers above Mio’s belly, wings twitching excitedly and Mio’s already giggling again! She brings her hands to Mio’s sides to keep her in place, and grins as the realization of Mio’s fate creeps across her girlfriend’s face.

Eunie's lips meet Mio’s stomach, and she starts blowing raspberries, and Mio screams.

The Gormotti absolutely loses it. For the next few torturous, wondrous minutes, the world is nothing but the tickling. Eunie's wings come forward to brush along her sides as she continues to blow raspberry after raspberry until Mio’s laughter’s gone silent. She taps Eunie's head twice, and hesitantly, she pulls away, removing her hands from Mio’s sides.

She watches as Mio catches her breath, face still completely flushed and smile still wide. Yawning, Eunie lays her head on Mio’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of her chest and the beating of her heart.

“Eunie,” Mio says. “It's still too late to take a nap.” She shoots a glance at her girlfriend, who just snuggles in closer, pretending to ignore her. Mio rolls her eyes, smiling fondly, before an idea pops into her head. One that’ll keep Eunie awake, and will let her get her revenge.

Her fingers graze the sides of Eunie’s ribs, before she claws at the ticklish crevices between the bones, and once again, the room is filled with laughter. And Mio's heart is full.

#tickling #tickles #tickle community #tickle fic #dumbass sword game #raptor writes #xenoblade 3 #i love these two so fucking much.....#there is SO little content of them

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