#tickle story time

[justa-pretty-boy]

I’LL NEVER FORGET THIS IS A MILLION YEARS LIKE AHSHGSHHDHS

little tickle story time from a while ago

So, me and my partner at the time(we’ll call them V for the sake of the story), we were in there house, V was sat behind me, chin on my shoulder, while i was looking through there vinyl collection and i don’t know if i flinched or something, but out of nowhere they just go “Are you ticklish?” WHAT!!! (keep in mind they knew nothing about me with community stuff)

So my lee brain short circuited, and all i could really do was shake my head, i was silent for a while before V suddenly went “Use your words.” with a big fucking grin like DO YOU KNOW YOUR KILLING ME RIGHT NOWW??? like if my face wasn’t bright red before, GOD it is now. so just to be a pain I was able to get out a “No i’m nottt.”

Suddenly V, again hit me with another killer “You’re not what?” …😵‍💫 and yes i did just keep going “no no im not, thats all you need to know.” for a little longer

Yeah so after that i got completely wrecked on the floor for about 10 minutes until i admitted fully that i was ticklish, in full like bshhshshgsgsggsgs😳😳😳‼️ how is the most non community person doing THIS GOOD???

[daisylovestickles]

Story Time With Daisy

Adding onto my post from yesterday about @abc321

Recently, he created this new game that I think the community should know about. He put so much time and effort into it, and we had such a good time playing it. Little did I know, he bought bondage specifically for this game so he could tie me down to his bed. He was ogling over the fact that it had handles on the straps so every time I'd squirm or move, he'd jokingly shout "HANDLE" and pull on it so my limbs would go back in the tight position they were once in.

So here's how it went:

For each round, he had me choose between multiple categories of cards that read out different tickle spots, tools, and how long he spent on each spot (up to five minutes). He also came up with punishment and reward cards, and break cards like “cuddles”, “stretching and water”, or “massages”. Not only that, but he also got some of our mutual friends involved where they chose a spot and technique and wrote out a little message for me.

I was tied to his bed for about two hours, some of the time laying on my back and some on my stomach. It was so sweet and so well put together and I had so much fun!

[see-arcane]

Faustus: "I've simply never been given a Sign that there are everlasting consequences for this decision"

Mephistopheles:

Mephistopheles, banging pots and pans together the second he appears: "I am a demon fresh out of Hell, and while all existence outside of Heaven is metaphorical Hell, I cannot express clearly or loudly enough that I am from the real literal not shitting you Actual Inferno and that if you make this soul-selling deal for magic party tricks you will regret it immensely!"

Faustus: "Mannn you're chatty for a figment of my imagination. Anyway, let's get that blood document signed, I want to do sorceries for fun and profit via the powers of Hell. Which is not real :)"

Mephistopheles, aside to Satan: "Hey I know it's ahead of schedule but can I conjure just. A fuckton of aspirin? Yes right now."

[bbcphile]

I heard what sounded like desperate screaming and loud thuds of storm doors and car doors from outside, so I opened my window to see if someone was in trouble and if I should figure out how to intervene—

—And heard a low, bass voice say, “tickle tickle,” and then a hysterical cackle from the recipient of said tickle. And then the car drove off.

So I closed my window before my unhinged laughing at the situation could make them self-conscious.

I guess everything’s fine? 🤣

[insufferabletickling]

hey friends. i’m a bit strapped for cash at the moment so thought i’d bring forward the idea of tickle story commissions again!

here are some examples of my writing/vibe.

x. x. x. But imagine it in 2-5k detailed stories of your specific tickle hell - customised by you. I happen to be quite good at explaining ticklish torture and non-con helplessness. I can bring your darkest fantasies to life <3

Dm me if you're interested.

[kanene-yaaay]

Lan Xichen and Wei Wuxian only started to get into tickle fights because one day, while he was teaching about music cultivation to Wangji’s class, since he had to go to shufu resolve a serious matter, Wei Wuxian confused him for Lan Zhan and, in an unfair attack from behind, locked his arms in a hug and tickled his ribs until a very (not familiar??) laughter was ringing in the air.

Of course, even after saying that he didn’t take the confusion to his heart and accept his brother in law’s apologies, his revenge was swift and merciless. Not one to be easily outdone, Wei Wuxian decided to compete to see who was the biggest tickle monster in Gusu Lan

Rip mah bro Lan Wangji. And the juniors. They will all be missed

[alackofghosts]

i decided to pull myself together to finish the enw alliance raid quests and in the light of uh. dropping it for well over a year. this knocked the wind out of me

yeah. yeah you could say that

[nikki-tine]

So it's come to my attention that despite the page I have set up within the desktop version of my blog, I don't have a mobile version of an introduction post here. Oops! This one's newly written, too, in a different format than the other.

So, that being said - Hello!

I am Nikki/Niko (Whichever you prefer!) and I am a 28-year old Genderfluid artist person (My birthday is on January 9th!). I don't think there's too much to be said here, but I can and will say with confidence that this blog has been, especially in the last few or so years built up to be a catch-all for whatever I deem good to reblog or post (All of which typically related to fluff stuff, feel-good vibes or something that I may feel strongly about).

This place is, and always will be a safe space for a) People with disabilities (I am autistic, have ADD and Bipolar as well as Anxiety) and b) LGBTQ+-identifying people (I am, as mentioned before Genderfluid, and I'm Pansexual Panromantic!).

If a reblog or post makes you uncomfortable, then I will happily delete it if asked.

I make it a point to keep these posts SFW especially nowadays - however, I can't quite vouch for possibly the oldest of my posts (as I've been here since the early 2010s along with some ol' dumb teen thoughts involved and it'd take forever to sort absolutely everything out from over a decade ago at this point). I'm pretty sure that I've removed most of the NSFW stuff already from those years ago, but if I missed something then I don't mind deleting it as long as you let me know first (I'm incredibly disorganized and would appreciate a nudge in the right direction).

With these details out of the way - I am an artist that dabbles in various fandoms with no real sense of rhyme or reason outside of either hyperfixated interest or otherwise with the intent to update old ideas and refresh them into new ones. Like most artists on the internet, I ask that you do not repost without credit, trace and/or copy my work. I'm quite literally living paycheck by paycheck with my family right now. You CAN however use my artwork as a reference or as inspiration for your own work - If you do, lemme know! I'd love to see the result!

Here's a vague list of fandoms I dabble in (though my post history doesn't quite show that as I tend to leave most of my stuff to posting on Discord instead):

Pokemon (I've been a part of this one almost my entire life lol)

Sonic the Hedgehog (Another fandom I've been in for a grand majority of my life! I'm more of a casual fan as I haven't made much art recently, but I still absolutely love looking at what others come up with for OCs and stuff.)

Undertale (ESPECIALLY AU-centric)

Digimon (Passionate about this one specifically - I have a project I've been working with under this fandom since 2014 on and off)

Cookie Run (Kingdom primarily with a minor Ovenbreak focus for AU concept ideas)

Dark Cloud/Dark Chronicle (This one's SO obscure, but if you know these games then I give you a virtual baked good of your liking! These two games hold a very special place in my heart.)

Dance Dance Revolution, NotITG, Friday Night Funkin (I'm a rhythm game nerd and love the creativity of the communities surrounding these three - I just haven't been able to piece together anything for it yet visually except for FNF stuff on and off)

A Dance of Fire and Ice (Same as the DDR fandom part, but I've made a couple fanart pieces before so this one I may have an easier time of conceptualizing later)

FNAF (Specifically Security Breach AU work! This one's not as frequent as others but I still have stuff in mind for it. Security Breach is how I finally caved with the FNAF series as a whole after watching how the fandom grew over the years.)

Warriors (Warrior Cats, in our year 2024? Eeyup. I just like the funny spiritual witties!)

Team Fortress 2 (This one's in and out but it's one that I come back to a lot as my boyfriend, regularly interacting and involved in the GMOD animation community reminds me of my own TF2 stuff with his presence alone lol. Love you James! &lt;3)

Persona 3, 4 and 5 (This one's a lil self-explanatory but I have AU ideas surrounding these games that I want to make more art for eventually)

If I have anything else not listed before, I'll add it to the list. C: Please keep in mind that although I dabble in these fandoms, AU versions of existing characters may be changed in terms of sexuality, personality etc to reflect the AU they are from (For example, I have a version of Cream Unicorn Cookie that uses he/they pronouns, and my Redeemed!Pomegranate Cookie from the same AU leans bisexual over lesbian for reasons relating to reflection of character and overall character development. I like to make characters more flexible while self-indulging, so keep this in mind). I note this because my own headcanons about certain characters have set off one or two people in the past unintentionally and they VERY much have pushed things in an effort to keep canon down my throat out of retaliation. Let's just say that this part in particular is a thing that taps a sore spot for me for personal reasons. :/

When it concerns making art of my characters - surprise or not, feel free to make art of them and mention me in post (and/or message me, either way works)! It makes me feel SO loved when I get art from others, and I appreciate every piece dearly. 💜💜💜 (I go so far as to hold onto an archive of art that was done for me - with artist names in-tact within the file name nowadays!)

A few things to consider when it concerns tickling-related matters with me:

MINORS - PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT WITH MY TICKLING CONTENT. Long overdue to add this one (as of 12/28/24) but I’m updating this now as I’m worried and anxious, and I want to be safe rather than sorry.

I am a Switch! I'm unsure how far Ler or Lee I am just yet, but I do enjoy tickling both ways. Unfortunately, however, I'm the kind of person that practically flies across a room when poked,, (if it comes down to tickling my sona - Niko Spirata - tie or hold 'em down if you want to wreck 'em with tickles lol)

My interest in tickling alone is purely SFW - It feels too weird looking at IRL photos/videos with very rare exception (a lot of the exception is the giggle the lee produces from ticklish contact). As a result, all the stuff I'll be reblogging and posting here is art or animation-related instead!

My favorite tickle trope is the one where a shrunken someone or a small something wiggles under the unwitting lee's clothing to tickle them! (Points at wormonastriing's Squirmles as an example of this trope :3) No, seriously. If I end up with art of any of my characters getting destroyed with tickles in this manner I will ASCEND BEYOND GALAXIES.

My favorite spots with tickling overall are belly, side and rib tickling - on rarer occasions, I enjoy tickling in other places (I prefer foot tickling if the lee has paws instead of normal feet!). This lines up with a particular enjoyment of characters being slightly chubby! I looove a good squeeze of the sides or belly, enough to get the lee blurting out giggles.

I have only a few tags I use now on a regular, but these are:

#nikki-tine (This is my user tag and I put it in with my art posts and other things I post sometimes. You may also see others' posts under this tag, primarily with stuff related to asks or when art's been posted for me in the past &lt;3)

#art, #tickle art, #tickling art (These are self-explanatory!)

#NJEGNJ (Something to that effect, lol. It's not exact but keyboard smash tag is typically wrote similarly or around the same for several posts, all of which ones that got me chuckling or giggling like a dork!)

~

My Commission Status is currently set to OPEN (paypal prioritized for now).

It's really complicated, however, and I don't have any other methods than Paypal and Robux right now so if you have questions about that then feel free to message me and I'll try to clear it up as best I can!

I only have two prices, both fully colored and shaded.

Chibies are $25 USD (+ 5 for an extra character)

My normal art style is $50 USD (+ 10 for an extra character)

I do best leaving the BG transparent, but if I HAVE to work on one then I can do nature-themed backgrounds pretty okay. It’s not a strong-suit of mine, however…

My Art Trade Status is Busted Wide Open™ to Mutuals, but I'm a little picky and choosy with random people.

If I decline an Art Trade, please don't take it personally!

In terms of Roleplay, It's Closed on-blog, BUT I'm Open to Roleplay in Discord servers (Provided there's a Tupperbot there for me to use).

I've been looking to find an RP server that has mutuals/friends and allows Undertale-related stuff (especially of the tickling-related kind!), so if you're a part of one please let me know!

DM Status overall is Open (As long as you are kind to me, I will return kindness back!).

My Asks are ALWAYS OPEN! I really like getting stuff in my inbox (and I unfortunately don't get asks often at all).

I'm most comfortable interacting with other adults and SFW blogs (this is more-so for safety than anything else on my end. I don't have the emotional or mental energy to handle potential drama involving context-disconnected words). I don't mind interacting with NSFW blogs here but only if in the context of specific interests of mine and not much else.

I don't really have much in the way of who can't interact with me as long as you are respectful/mindful of chat etiquette and are aware of the kind of impact you may make in messaging people like myself.

I do my best to look at blog descriptions and respect DNI's - If I end up poking at something I shouldn't by accident, as long as it's not met with aggression in DMs, I will happily fix whatever problem you may have related to that. I HATE making others uncomfortable/upset!

If you have questions, feel free to ask! I don't really use other forms of Social Media, but I do use some websites with a social aspect to them casually.

Links:

Flightrising (Funny dragon site)

Chicken Smoothie (This one's a fun lil adopt site from the late 2000s)

GPX Plus (This is literally Pokefarm Q before Pokefarm Q lol)

Gaia Online (Another old site with unfortunate currency inflation, but it's the site that's kept me going with character designing and such over the years! The blog part here is old, but the avatar is updated from time to time. This site is the reason I lean on Monochrome + a color as an aesthetic a lot lol)

Bluesky (mostly inactive - want activity there? nudge me here!)

DeviantArt (It's VERY rare I post here now. Also a warning for those under 18 - there's suggestive and nsfw art in my favorites dotted here and there so look with caution. my gallery itself is SFW however and all the works that would have been nsfw are archived.)

Artfight (Self-explanatory!)

[fisheito]

it was THIS face that made me so dangerously endeared

[queenlucythevaliant]

Clad in Justice and Worth

Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.

The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.

The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.

Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.

All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.

“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”

“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”

He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”

“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”

“Young Henry said much the same.”

Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”

Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”

She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.

*

When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.

Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.

A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”

The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”

The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”

But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.

“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”

“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”

*

They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.

Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.

His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.

The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.

“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”

Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”

*

Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.

There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.

In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.

“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”

“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”   

“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”

“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”

At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.

*

Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.

“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.

A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”

At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.

“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”

A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”

“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”  

“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”

“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”

The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.

“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”

Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night. 

“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”

Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Joan, your Highness.”

“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.

When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”

“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”

The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.

“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”

“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”

Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”

Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.

When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.

*

Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.

“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”

“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”

Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”

Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.

As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.

Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.

The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.

The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”

“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.

Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”

“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.

“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”

“Henry will lead.”

“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”

Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”

“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”

*

Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.

Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.  

By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.

An hour later, she fell asleep.

When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—

There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.

“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.” 

The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs. 

“How do you know me, mother?”

“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”

“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’

“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.

“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.

“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”

“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”

Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her. 

Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes.  “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”

Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.

“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”

“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”

Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”

“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”

“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”

“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”

“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”

Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.

“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”

“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.” 

If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.” 

Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun. 

“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”

Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud. 

“God has predestined His own

That they should be sons and heirs.

Drawn by gentle constraint

A zeal consuming is theirs.

They shall inherit the earth

Clad in justice and worth.”

“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”

“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.

Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”

As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too. 

She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in. 

*

She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke. 

“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.

Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”

When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes. 

[guppygiggles]

/////////////

[scene-tickles]

I told my partner about my love for t-word’s as a switch, and omg it turned out WAY better than I thought it would- 😭💕

They tease me with the fact I can’t say the t word out loud and it makes me flustered every single time!! (If we’re in public and it’s said, they give me a 😏 look and I just SCKFVKGBJGVK/pos)

This actually happened during our theater warm ups. We play this game called “Rhyme Time” and one of the words was “pickle” and of course, somebody responded with the t-word 💀

Apparently my face was red for about ten minutes afterwards and when we got to the car, I never heard the end of it- jgvjtbjgvjf

IT DIDN’T HELP THAT I ALSO HAD TO GET MY MEASUREMENTS FOR MY COSTUME DONE.

One of my theater directors was measuring me, and I swear I would’ve broke from the contact but we were joking about my height since I always wear platforms and they were seeing my original height, so it was a distraction-

They tickle me practically every time we see each other; either a few side squeezes or full-on. They’ll also just hover their hand above some of my spots, AND IM ALREADY GIGGLING LIKE AN IDIOT-

I’ll probably tell more stories later on, but to sum it up: JTFJUFHJTVKYFJIFBIFVJ (I’m very gay and I love them sm)

[in-tua-deep]

i have a star wars fic idea floating around my brain that is just a time travel fic centering around bodhi rook where part of the explanation for a suddenly-force-sensitive-bodhi is "the monster tore parts of me out and maybe that made more space for the force to fill in the gaps"

[no1ryomafan]

Me: Persona is like one of my more normal interests

Also me: *proceeds to do a replay of P3P on NG+ as the femc even though this is gonna take well over 50+ hours like last time even if I skip some dialogue*

[tls123]

Oh my god HOW DID YOU LIKE SVSSS!!!!!

i liked it more than i thought i would but overall less than i might have given the potential of the story, i think in general i really enjoyed the characters (mxtx never goes wrong with characters, she creates them in a way that makes me feel unhinged) and the world building but the pay off to the set up—which i really liked!—felt a bit........ i mean, just alright.

the dynamics too are pure mxtx, personally the bin/gqiu dynamic specifically really was the least interesting part of the whole story. to me!! but individually i loved both characters. my interest was just elsewhere because """elsewhere""" felt way more fascinating idk how to explain it

was very, very happy about the extra with airplane and the yue qingyuan / shen jiu one because that's exactly what i wanted more of in the story itself as well as just more shen yuan/qingqiu interacting with cang qiong mountain

maybe it's my orv brain but like i told jana a while back i think i would have enjoyed svsss way more if it was more about shen yuan (loner; hater; etc) suddenly finding himself among all of these people (disciples looking up to him; sect siblings relying on him one way or another; common folk admiring him; etc etc) and starting to.... live? again?

Shen Qingqiu hadn't noticed that, unconsciously, he no longer considered the disciples around him (...) to be mob characters the novel had described in a scant number of words.

^from volume one, he starts seeing them almost immediately because he's not actually that separate and he genuinely cares. all the time. about everything. even before that we get:

This was only a book, and all the people were constructs, imaginary characters. Logically, Shen Qingqiu was very clear on this fact...but when a character was actually being taunted and bullied right before his eyes, it was just flat-out unrealistic to expect him to be completely unmoved.

like why are you lying, shen yuan (<- svsss tagline if there ever was one)

just the idea of this really lonely detached guy finding a community, i know it's not the story mxtx was trying to tell but again, with the set up i really wanted to see it go in that direction.

there's one line from vol two where liu qingge goes "you fear becoming a burden to cang qiong mountain (...) but cang qiong mountain fears not your burden"

and basically what i'm saying is that i wish the story had been about THAT

(and also ning yingying's lines in that same chapter about shizun always taking on everything himself and why is it always you like that whole moment with the cang qiong mountain almost begging him to see that they care. idek what i'm saying but you know)

(also foaming at the mouth that we only got tiny tiny glimpses of shen yuan's life from before, those handful of times he mentioned his siblings i wanted to take a bite out of my kindle. tell me more!! dear fucking lord tell me more!! keep talking! elaborate!! he really felt very "kim dokja and his fourth wall" at times, sorry once more about the orv brain)

tldr: i guess i wanted a story about shen yuan/qingqiu but mxtx created svsss to be a story about bin/gqiu. and i just have to be okay with that.

[the-crimson]

Look ok I love that BBH and Etoiles are protectors of the server…. But… I miss evil BBH T_T

He was never treated seriously as a villian on the d/smp and I think the qsmp has the perfect set up for bbh to go bbeg and finally get to play the terrifying villain he wasn’t able to before.

Like… if Dapper and Pomme die, Etoiles and BBH could become such a horrifying force of vengeance and I’m just 😳 thinking about it

It’s probably not gonna happen and that’s okay but… I kinda want it to happen XD