#5k challenge | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

laylajeffany · 4 months

Text

Their Own Kind of Pride | Wenclair Microfic

Sitting in an airport experiencing an act of homophobia because Delta has delayed my flight FIVE TIMES and it's the only thing keeping me from kissing my girlfriend for the first time in seven weeks. DURING PRIDE MONTH? Actually - I've got really complicated feelings on that - so here's a 2.5k microfic that is set in the Murder, She Woe universe about six months into Wednesday and Enid's move to Grisly Cove. How I wrote this in the most overstimulating environment after an hour at the airport bar - I don't know. A pride miracle I guess.

Rated: G TW: Talk about complicated feelings surrounding pride

“Should we order a rainbow flag?”

Wednesday stared at her wife with unblinking eyes, trying to determine if she was serious or not. Enid cringed, glancing to the side. “I mean…it’s fine, we don’t have to do that!”

One – the clashing colors, two the display of pride…oh. Was that more of the problem, other than the colors? Wednesday took a brief look inward as she tried to determine which was more of a reflection of her feeling about such a flag. Generally – she was against any sort of show of patriotism or allegiance. She didn’t need anyone to know where she stood on anything by looks alone.

Wednesday tilted her head, wanting more information before outright rejecting Enid. “Tell me what your thoughts are in wanting to hang a flag that represents the LGBTQIA+ community in front of our home.”

“Um…we’re gay?” Enid offered, then let out a giggle. “And June is like – somehow, only three days away. This year is slipping between my fingers, I swear – if I had like, fully realized summer was this close, I would have been making very different choices in my workout routine -”

“Say a negative comment about your body and I’m going to take you to the bedroom and write poetry over every part. And not in the kinky way you want,” Wednesday said, pulling a dip pen out of seemingly nowhere. Enid pouted. “You have a body, and you’re going to put a bikini on it – therefore, you have a bikini body. I want to see you in your little triangles, barely covering you with your little silly strings holding them together. Don’t you dare take that away from me.”

Enid flushed.

“Back to the topic at hand,” Wednesday glanced up from the piece of steak she had been neatly slicing into which she’d seared to rare perfection for her wife – medium-well for herself. “Why would you want to display a pride flag?”

“It feels like the right thing to do,” Enid replied as she looked to the side. “I mean…we’ve never…done any pride stuff, together. I obviously never dated any girls before you – so, it’s not like I did any on my own. Now that we finally have our own place, I thought maybe…but we don’t have to. For real, I just – was…putting it into the universe.”

Wednesday bit her lip. Pride in the strange, touristy-town they’d moved into six months prior was about to be A Big Deal. She had seen the advertisements, on her occasional trip into town – and Enid was already working overtime at the establishment she’d secured a gig in, which was absolutely rainbow-inspired. Sighing, she wondered, “Are you anticipating participating in any of the downtown events?”

“I mean…I don’t know – when I say that I just realized it was about to be June, I’m totally not just saying that.” Enid sighed, trying not to inhale her food as she spoke. Wednesday twitched – she always waited too long to eat…especially so close to a full moon…she wished her wife would take better care of herself –

“Are you expected to participate in the parade, of all things, with your workplace?” Wednesday wondered, unable to keep a disgusted sort of grimace off her face.

Enid rolled her eyes. “We’re not required to…but…” She bit her lip. “I kind of…I kind of want to.”

“You already work at a gay bar, Enid.” Wednesday could barely comprehend what was going on during their dinner hour (four o’clock in the afternoon, that Thursday – Enid had to work). “Do you want to be made a spectacle of?”

“Well – that’s…kind of what I’m hoping, generally, Wednesday – you know I love it there, you know I want to…maybe be in the show someday, I don’t know how, I mean…it’s not like I have an act, but…yeah, I’d like to be in the parade with my work friends.”

Friends…right. Enid had made a host of those.

“Okay,” Wednesday said and then could’ve practically gulped as she wondered, “Do you…want me to…watch?”

Enid managed to smile again and shook her head. “No, you don’t have to take yourself to a parade, Wednesday. Though it does feel like the optimal time for someone to be unsuspectingly pick-pocketed. Maybe you could go and observe petty crime and get some inspiration for your novel.”

“I have plenty of inspiration,” She said, somehow – avoiding a massive subject.

“So, I’ll take it – that’s a ‘you do you’ on the parade, and a hard ‘no’ on the flag?” Enid asked after a full minute of quiet.

“Enid,” Wednesday placed her knife and fork down, deciding she was going to make a very bold decision in that moment. “I have never felt like I belonged in any community. This community – you and I…maybe with the addition of some of our old outcast friends from school…that’s all the community I’ve ever needed.” Enid nodded her head – going along with whatever Wednesday wanted…

…but that was not what Wednesday wanted.

“I said I…not we,” She cautioned, leaning forward a little bit, wishing she hadn’t tossed her hair in braids that morning – so she’d have looked more…mature, when delivering such an assured monologue. “You have always enjoyed belonging. It’s always been important to you to be a part of something that is bigger than yourself.” Enid swallowed and looked to the side – her eyes were visibly misting over. Hardly able to stand it, Wednesday reached for her hand. “That is not a bad thing. That is a normal thing. That is what people are supposed to want – to be part of life with other people.” Wednesday rolled her eyes a little, squeezing her hand instead of withdrawing her own like she wanted to. “I wish I wanted to be part of life with other people,” She said in almost a whisper. “Just because I need to hide in the shadows doesn’t mean you shouldn’t let the sun shine on you. If you want to order a rainbow flag, we will hang it on the front porch. Perhaps we should get two – to hang one from the back for the boats that enjoy riding around the cape to see as well.”

Enid blinked out twin tears that she could clearly not avoid. Wednesday’s internal guilt meter (that only ever activated when Enid was involved) intensified. “Enid,” She sternly called for her to explain when a full minute of silence passed. Her wife almost never stopped talking – and she was going to choose then to be quiet? “What are you thinking?”

“Just…that…I’m…really happy, that you think it would be okay to hang that flag.”

Defying her body’s urge to drop her shoulders in a most dramatic sigh, Wednesday gave a curt nod. She waited, for more…and when none came, she decided to finish cutting her steak.

They ate in not uncomfortable quiet, but…there was obviously more to say. As Wednesday took Enid’s plate upon finishing, she felt her grip her wrist. “Um…I’m going to…I need…” Enid let out a near whimper. “Can we go talk, for a minute?”

Wednesday swallowed a lump in her throat that was far from unexpected, though that didn’t mean she could tolerate it. She made sure her face didn’t betray her and stiffly followed Enid to the living room, where their new-ish sofa looked way too comfortable for the discomfort that Wednesday had swirling in her gut.

She sat on the edge of an ottoman and Enid paced for a bit in front of her, clearly working up nerve and courage. After so much time passed that Wednesday thought she was going to get motion sick from watching her turn and pace and turn and pace, Wednesday gripped her wrist, forcing Enid to suck in a breath. “Don’t be afraid to tell me what’s on your mind. I want to hear it. Even if I disagree – I’m not going to rebuke you, Enid.”

Enid collapsed into a puddle of tears beside her. Fully unsure why, Wednesday tapped into the part of her brain that was responsible for demonstrating her very limited scope of affection, almost all of which was reserved for her wife. Curling an arm around her and tucking her close, she let Enid get her shirt collar all wet as she unexpectedly heaved another sob. Wednesday almost felt a flutter of fear in her chest as she waited for Enid to clam enough to express what the tears were all about.

It was some time – a long time. Whatever Enid had been holding in, related to that damn rainbow flag…she’d been holding it in for a long time.

Finally, after her heart was about to hammer right out of her chest in anticipation of what her wife would say, Wednesday tried not to look relieved when she started speaking.

“When my mother rejected me…” Enid sniffed. “I knew – it wasn’t…just because of this. It was just…maybe…” She shivered – her face so blotchy and red, Wednesday really…just – surprisingly, almost wanted to take her to bed and…cuddle and hug her until it cleared.

Enid tried talking again, but her words got stuck in her throat. She practically choked as she tried to speak. “Enid, come here,” Wednesday insisted, scooting back into the corner of the sofa and opening her arms. Enid nodded, crawling onto the cushions and into them, the sigh she released like a deflating balloon. Wednesday rubbed a hand up and down her back, kissing her temple three times. Enid let out a near coo, then, nuzzling her face into Wednesday’s neck. “Do you want me to call your jerk of a boss?” She whispered, “Tell him you’re not well?”

“No,” She muttered. “I want to go to work. I like work. I just…want to tell you about why this is so important to me, first, okay? And – we can totally cuddle until then, I’ll find a drag queen to coverup any hives left on my face when I get there.”

Rubbing her back again, Wednesday nodded, kissing her one last time. Enid shifted, so she could look up at her, practically cradled in her hug. “Finding out that I loved you was the nail in the coffin, for my relationship with my mom, for my standing in my old pack. You know that.” Wednesday tried not to think about it – that she was the ultimate reason that Enid’s mother had cast her only daughter aside… “For so long…I felt like…this part of me, the…interested in girls part of me was…was…like a curse, almost. There wasn’t a single thing I’d ever done to meet my mom’s expectations – and then…I went and defied gender norms and expectations, too.”

Wanting to rebuttal, but holding her tongue, Wednesday let Enid finish. “And…I don’t know – I never felt, like…ashamed or anything, because I am attracted to women, because I love you – I literally would tell anyone that we’re married. Sometimes against your will,” Enid giggled a little, obviously thinking back to their honeymoon when she managed to get them free drinks everywhere they went for her inability to keep the news to herself. “But…I’ve also never celebrated it. I’ve never taken the time to think about the fact that – hey, a lot of people struggled for us to be able to legally do this – to be together, to be in love – that…so many people worked for so long to make marriages like ours legal. And there’s so much more to it – I’m learning so much at my new job…but – Wednesday, I think…I think I’m just…I’m proud of myself, for the first time, in this way.”

Nodding, Wednesday was proud of her for being proud of herself. She might not share the sentiment - but, she could celebrate her wife.

“I want to walk in the parade, because I’m not ashamed of who I am and who I love. But I also don’t want you to feel like – you are, because you’re not interested in participating? I don’t know, now this all feels complicated and kind of icky…”

Cupping her cheek, Wednesday tilted her own head. “Look at me, dead in the eye. Not for one single second do I feel…icky,” She parroted her own word back to her, “Because you want to march in a gay pride parade. I don’t feel embarrassed, and I don’t feel shame.”

Enid bit her lip, looking conflicted. “But…I know it’s hard – can you tell me what do you feel about it, Wednesday?”

She gave a genuine shrug. “I don’t feel anything about it. If it will make you happy, if this is how you want to express yourself, then I want you to do it!” She almost shouted the ending and Enid blinked a few times in apparent surprise at the tone she was using. “I just…I just…”

Enid took a turn to put a hand on her face, clearly making sure her eyes didn’t wander to the side, but stayed locked on hers. “Tell me.”

“I…don’t know, Enid. You know that rainbows are never going to be my thing. There is just not a universe where I can put a rainbow flag in my fist and go walking down the street with it. That’s not me. I don’t experience pride in that way.”

“But…you are proud, aren’t you?”

“I’m proud of myself,” Wednesday declared, “For opening myself up to love, to the person who deserves love more than anyone else I have ever known.”

At that, Enid’s eyes welled up again.

“I’m not interested in a parade. I’m indifferent to a flag on the house. But I am proud, every time I walk out of the door with you – Enid,” She almost smiled. “I’m proud of being behind these doors with you. I’m proud of everything that happens on this couch – I’m proud of being able to snuggle with you like this, and all the things that I’ve allowed myself to engage in in our bedroom…Enid,” She did smile then. “I do have pride. It might not be the corporate, parade-going, deals-at-the-bar while Lady BlahBlah or whoever plays way too loud kind of pride. But – I’m proud of myself, for being open to love with you.”

Enid attacked her in a kiss as she straddled her suddenly, then held onto her so tight – it was almost difficult to breathe. Wednesday gripped her just as tightly back, hoping that she’d successfully conveyed what she needed to.

When Enid pulled back for another kiss, much sweeter that time, and rubbed a hand along her collar bone, she let out a breath of relief. They’d both understood one another, keenly. They both had pride, in their own way. “Enid, I will come to the parade to watch you. So long as you don’t expect me to wave a flag or dance. But when it’s over, I’ll be there to kiss you, and tell you about how I disassociated a vivid scene for my book about a horrible act taking place at such a function.”

Giving a full laugh and a very proud smile, Enid kissed the side of her cheek. “Maybe we just hang one flag on the house instead of two. That might be overkill.”

“One flag sounds acceptable,” Wednesday agreed, squeezing her hip – thinking…if Enid really worked her over – perhaps she’d even show up for a single night in June at her club…a Tuesday though - not a weekend, and not during that ridiculous show. The only way she’d ever drag herself to such an event would be if Enid were the shining star of it – and since she didn’t even have an act, Wednesday was sure, she’d never find herself spending more time at the club than she wanted to.

#wednesday 2022 #wenclair #pride #one-shot #the plane literally just arrived as I finished reading this #it looks like it's only a hate crime because I hated it #layla's >5k challenge #murder she woe #needless to say barely edited #enjoy this is the only sort of pride stuff I can manage bc I feel like Wednesday :)

79 notes · View notes

goldenachilles · 5 months

Text

in my head, Tashi and Art talk it out, go to a couple dozen sessions of therapy and finally, finally realise that the next step is to invite Patrick into whatever is going with them

#brb gonna write 5k words of these idiots getting together before thirteen years go by #tbh i do think they'd balance each other out in many ways #tashi duncan #art donaldson #patrick zweig #challengers #film #.txt post

88 notes · View notes

lizardkingeliot · 10 days

Text

as it turns out i cannot, in fact, fill a ficlet prompt in just a couple hundred words 💀

uhhhh fingers crossed i can do it in under 1k at least?

#smacking my hand every time i have the thought to let them bang at the end #it'll be like 5k if i do & this is supposed to be a fun lil brain exercise nothing more i have a wip to focus on HOLLY CALM DOWN CHALLENGE #anyway i haven't filled a fic prompt in so long so i'm having fun at least lol #writing tag

25 notes · View notes

wormdebut · 1 year

Text

Tell Eddie He Looks Sexy With His Hair Pushed Back

Read Here! Rated E Word Count: 9260

Written For @thefreakandthehair spicy six summer challenge using the prompt:

“His hair is up. Oh my god.”

This one got wild boys. Please read your tags and most importantly Enjoy. 🖤

#spicy six summer fanworks challenge #worm brain #steddie #steddie fanfic #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve harrington x eddie munson #eddie munson x steve harrington #st fanfic #I’m so excited for this one yall.#the goal for this was 5k #I failed #Also eddie speaks French so there’s that #lexssummerfanworkschallenge

153 notes · View notes

c13ar · 30 days

Text

Tamamori for COOL-B 2024 Vol. 113

#featuring my magazine's bashed corner and a speck of dust on his wrist. sorry :(#take 2 of showing up in the tag challenge #hashihime of the old book town #koshotengai no hashihime #u can repost him if you want idc #the full size is like 4k by 5k and killed my laptop twice <3 #im going to scan the rest of the feature too bc it has ooe and uuultrac in it too!!#scans

32 notes · View notes

missathlete31 · 5 months

Text

Personal Post-

But I did it! 22.4 miles in 36 hours!!! Now it’s time to lay down and relax!!!

And maybe read some top gun fanfiction! 😉

#running season #5k #10k #half marathon #i did it #22.4 challenge #personal post #thank you to everyone that reached out #and thank you Glen Powell’s abs

34 notes · View notes

clxckwork-sun-n-moon · 1 year

Note

PLEASE. PLEASE I NEED ECLIPSE TO CARVE A PUMPKIN IDC HOW IT HAPPENS JUST GET THEM A PUMPKIN PLEASE

Pumpkins - 969 words

“I need your biggest pumpkin.”

The pumpkin seller gave you the flat look of a woman who had been told the same statement at least five times before you’d shown up and she fully expected to keep hearing the same thing after you left. Letting out a long sigh, she gestured to the broad spread of pumpkin patch ahead of you.

“It’s self-service, you take what you can find,” she intoned. “Have a spooky blast finding your perfect pumpkin. The weighing scales are up by the entrance, we do not provide trolleys to transport from the harvest patch to your vehicle.”

“That’s okay, we came on foot! And we have plenty of hands.”

Her eyes went from you to the dog by your side, unassuming. And then her gaze tracked slowly up and up behind you, and garnered that expression of surprise you were quickly getting used to. Even after putting him in your biggest hoodie, thick overcoat, and wrangling an extra long pair of cargos from an online shopping site, he still caught eyes wherever he went with you.

“He’s shy,” you said quietly as Sun raised a hand and waved. The seller waved back, stepping aside for the three of you to shuffle onto the pumpkin patch proper.

It took about an hour for the three of you to find four good pumpkins. Sun was extremely excited for this, and you let him go running off freely to find his own personal pumpkin. Moon had already talked to you the night before about what sort of pumpkin he wanted, and you obliged to his wants, picking out a smaller one that easily fit into both of your hands. Montague would hop across the trails, sniffing around the pumpkins for any possible smell of rot, but otherwise keeping his distance - you two would share, as was the easiest way when one friend didn’t have opposable thumbs.

But you also had another to pick a pumpkin out for, and Eclipse specifically had asked to be surprised. Easy enough to do, since this was his first Halloween and not only was he excited but they had been decorating after finding your old stash from three years ago.

It was nice, being genuinely excited about this holiday for the first time in a while.

Montague’s low whuff caught your attention. Hurrying around the end of one of the plots, you saw what he’d found and the glee in your chest warmed up into a bright grin.

“Oh. Oh yes,” you said softly. “He’s going to love this one.”

Three hours later, involving having Sun carry all your goods back to the train station, wobbling your quad bike back to the cabin, and an obscene amount of pumpkin disembowelment: it was time.

“So, what did you guys carve?” You leaned over to glance at Sun and Eclipse’s pumpkins, sat proudly hollow on the newspaper-covered table. You’d done this outdoors just in case, but you didn’t know the extent of the splattering that would occur (and since you were going to be cleaning juice out of your hair tonight, the preparations had been underwhelming).

“I did a crescent moon!” Sun said proudly. “I don’t think the clouds were that good, I kept breaking pieces off.”

“Hey, it’s good for your first attempt.” Sure the moon was a bit wonky and, yes, bits of the clouds were more jagged than smooth. But you hadn’t expected masterpieces anyway, so the fact it was recognisable was all good.

“Is that a moon on your’s too?” Sun asked, leaning his head over to peek.

“Full moon! And a werewolf, kind of.”

“I modelled,” Montague chimed in from below, his tail thudding on the dirt ground at an ever increasing rate.

“And what about you?” You turned now to Eclipse, still licking bits of pumpkin scraps and juice from his claws. Smacking their feathery lips, they crouched down fully to grin alongside the pumpkin.

“Me,” they chirped. Sure enough, there were two pairs of eyes and a very wide, very jagged grin stretching right across the pumpkin that was at least twice the size of his head. Lots of surface area to work on, and they’d shredded most of it as snack food.

Laughing softly, you ruffled through Eclipse’s feather ruff, his head nuzzling hard into your hand as he hummed and they purred and you half expected them to bowl you over in their enthusiasm.

“Okay, okay. Help me clean up the insides, this will make at least a week’s worth of curry, maybe some muffins too,” you said, gesturing to the plastic bowls dotted around. You’d made sure to rig a few bowls with bucket handles for Montague to lift through too, but after carrying everything inside, you need to box it all for refrigeration. Thankfully many hands made light work, and you had many hands to help you out.

An hour in and Moon was out, and the pair of you ducked outside with Moon’s pumpkin in his hands. Fireflies began to flit around the edge of the clearing as he carved away, with you sharing stories of the day and him sharing stories of Halloween at the Pizzaplex. No peace was yet left, as eventually Eclipse came bounding after you, full of energy and pumpkin seeds and intent on peppering you with the latter. Dew soaked into your jumper but nothing would drown the mood as the pair of you rolled over on the grass, Montague sitting next to Moon and the pair exchanging a quiet look.

Soon, four pumpkins sat in the window of your cabin, while four figures bustled around your kitchen in the constant process of boxing and weighing crushed pumpkins and seeds. One a werewolf, one a demon, one a moon, and one a lonely blackbird in a night sky.

#clockwork doodles #clockwork writings #so cries the wolf au #today was a challenge for me to write something small and not overwhelm myself and I managed to succeed~#as much as I miss being able to drop 5k words on a good day I do like just. fluff and pumpkins~#an evening snack for u luce

88 notes · View notes

youchangedmedestiel · 5 months

Link

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Words: 4,159

Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Season/Series 12, Attempt at Humor, Fluff, Getting Together, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, First Kiss, Second Kiss, and then more kisses, Smut, they are so gone for each other, and they obviously look at each other a lot hence the title

Summary:

Team free will is in the car driving back from a hunt when Sam mentions Cassie, Dean's ex from at least 10 years ago. After Cas mistaking it was about him, the conversation evolves into describing how Dean is when he is in love. It all clicks in Sam’s head as he tells Cas how Dean was behaving around Cassie. 10 years replaying in his mind all of a sudden. Cas asks him what he understood and Sam tells him Dean is in love with him. From there, nothing is stopping Cas anymore. This fic was written for the 5K by 5 May event.

24 notes · View notes

confetti-cat · 7 months

Text

Twelve, Thirteen, and One

Words: 6k

Rating: G

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling Challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A Cinderella retelling feat. curious critters and a lot of friendship.)

When the clock chimes midnight on that third evening, thirteen creatures look to the girl who showed them all kindness.

—

It’s hours after dark, again, and the human girl still sleeps in the ashes.

The mice notice this—though it happens so often that they’ve ceased to pay attention to her. She smells like everything else in the hearth: ashy and overworked, tinged with the faint smell of herbs from the kitchen.

When she moves or shifts in her sleep (uncomfortable sleep—even they can sense the exhaustion in her posture as she sits slumped against the wall, more willing to seep up warmth from the stone than lie cold elsewhere this time of year), they simply scurry around her and continue combing for crumbs and seeds. They’d found a feast of lentils scattered about once, and many other times, the girl had beckoned them softly to her hand, where she’d held a little chunk of brown bread.

Tonight, she has nothing. They don’t mind—though three of them still come to sniff her limp hand where it lies drooped against the side of her tattered dress.

A fourth one places a little clawed hand on the side of her finger, leaning over it to investigate her palm for any sign of food.

When she stirs, it’s to the sensation of a furry brown mouse sitting in her palm.

It can feel the flickering of her muscles as she wakes—feeling slowly returning to her body. To her credit, she cracks her eyes open and merely observes it.

They’re all but tame by now. The Harsh-Mistress and the Shrieking-Girl and the Angry-Girl are to be avoided like the plague never was, but this girl—the Cinder-Girl, they think of her—is gentle and kind.

Even as she shifts a bit and they hear the dull crack of her joints, they’re too busy to mind. Some finding a few buried peas (there were always some peas or lentils still hidden here, if they looked carefully), some giving themselves an impromptu bath to wash off the dust. The one sitting on her hand is doing the latter, fur fluffed up as it scratches one ear and then scrubs tirelessly over its face with both paws.

One looks up from where it’s discovered a stray pea to check her expression.

A warm little smile has crept up her face, weary and dirty and sore as she seems to be. She stays very still in her awkward half-curl against stone, watching the mouse in her hand groom itself. The tender look about her far overwhelms—melts, even—the traces of tension in her tired limbs.

Very slowly, so much so that they really aren’t bothered by it, she raises her spare hand and begins lightly smearing the soot away from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

The mouse in her palm gives her an odd look for the movement, but has discovered her skin is warmer than the cold stone floor or the ash around the dying fire. It pads around in a circle once, then nudges its nose against her calloused skin, settling down for a moment.

The Cinder-Girl has closed her eyes again, and drops her other hand into her lap, slumping further against the wall. Her smile has grown even warmer, if sadder.

They decide she’s quite safe. Very friendly.

—

The old rat makes his rounds at the usual times of night, shuffling through a passage that leads from the ground all the way up to the attic.

When both gold sticks on the clocks’ moonlike faces point upward, there’s a faint chime from the tower-clock downstairs. He used to worry that the sound would rouse the humans. Now, he ignores it and goes about his business.

There’s a great treasury of old straw in the attic. It’s inside a large sack—and while this one doesn’t have corn or wheat like the ones near the kitchen sometimes do, he knows how to chew it open all the same.

The girl sleeps on this sack of straw, though she doesn’t seem to mind what he takes from it. There’s enough more of it to fill a hundred rat’s nests, so he supposes she doesn’t feel the difference.

Tonight, though—perhaps he’s a bit too loud in his chewing and tearing. The girl sits up slowly in bed, and he stiffens, teeth still sunk into a bit of the fabric.

“Oh.” says the girl. She smiles—and though the expression should seem threatening, all pulled mouth-corners and teeth, he feels the gentleness in her posture and wonders at novel thoughts of differing body languages. “Hello again. Do you need more straw?”

He isn’t sure what the sounds mean, but they remind him of the soft whuffles and squeaks of his siblings when they were small. Inquisitive, unafraid. Not direct or confrontational.

She’s seemed safe enough so far—almost like the woman in white and silver-gold he’s seen here sometimes, marveling at his own confidence in her safeness—so he does what signals not-afraid the best to his kind. He glances her over, twitches his whiskers briefly, and goes back to what he was doing.

Some of the straw is too big and rough, some too small and fine. He scratches a bundle out into a pile so he can shuffle through it. It’s true he doesn’t need much, but the chill of winter hasn’t left the world yet.

The girl laughs. The sound is soft and small. It reminds him again of young, friendly, peaceable.

“Take as much as you need,” she whispers. Her movements are unassuming when she reaches for something on the old wooden crate she uses as a bedside table. With something in hand, she leans against the wall her bed is a tunnel’s-width from, and offers him what she holds. “Would you like this?”

He peers at it in the dark, whiskers twitching. His eyesight isn’t the best, so he finds himself drawing closer to sniff at what she has.

It’s a feather. White and curled a bit, like the goose-down he’d once pulled out the corner of a spare pillow long ago. Soft and long, fluffy and warm.

He touches his nose to it—then, with a glance upward at her softly-smiling face, takes it in his teeth.

It makes him look like he has a mustache, and is a bit too big to fit through his hole easily. The girl giggles behind him as he leaves.

—

There’s a human out in the gardens again. Which is strange—this is a place for lizards, maybe birds and certainly bugs. Not for people, in his opinion. She’s not dressed in venomous bright colors like the other humans often are, but neither does she stay to the manicured garden path the way they do.

She doesn’t smell like unnatural rotten roses, either. A welcome change from having to dart for cover at not just the motions, but the stenches that accompany the others that appear from time to time.

This human is behind the border-shubs, beating an ornate rug that hangs over the fence with a home-tied broom. Huge clouds of dust shake from it with each hit, settling in a thin film on the leaves and grass around her.

She stops for a moment to press her palm to her forehead, then turns over her shoulder and coughs into her arm.

When she begins again, it’s with a sharp WHOP.

He jumps a bit, but only on instinct. However—

A few feet from where he settles back atop the sunning-rock, there’s a scuffle and a sharp splash. Then thrashing—waster swashing about with little churns and splishes.

It’s not the way of lizards to think of doing anything when one falls into the water. There were several basins for fish and to catch water off the roof for the garden—they simply had to not fall into them, not drown. There was little recourse for if they did. What could another lizard do, really? Fall in after them? Best to let them try to climb out if they could.

The girl hears the splashing. She stares at the water pot for a moment.

Then, she places her broom carefully on the ground and comes closer.

Closer. His heart speeds up. He skitters to the safety of a plant with low-hanging leaves—

—and then watches as she walks past his hiding place, peers into the basin, and reaches in.

Her hand comes up dripping wet, a very startled lizard still as a statue clinging to her fingers.

“Are you the same one I always find here?” she asks with a chiding little smile. “Or do all of you enjoy swimming?”

When she places her hand on the soft spring grass, the lizard darts off of it and into the underbrush. It doesn’t go as far as it could, though—something about this girl makes both of them want to stand still and wait for what she’ll do next.

The girl just watches it go. She lets out a strange sound—a weary laugh, perhaps—and turns back to her peculiar chore.

—

A song trails through the old house—under the floorboards—through the walls—into the garden, beneath the undergrowth—and lures them out of hiding.

It isn’t an audible song, not like that of the birds in the summer trees or the ashen-girl murmuring beautiful sounds to herself in the lonely hours. This one was silent. Yet, it reached deep down into their souls and said come out, please—the one who helped you needs your help.

It didn’t require any thought, no more than eat or sleep or run did.

In chains of silver and grey, all the mice who hear it converge, twenty-four tiny feet pattering along the wood in the walls. The rat joins them, but they are not afraid.

When they emerge from a hole out into the open air, the soft slip-slap of more feet surround them. Six lizards scurry from the bushes, some gleaming wet as if they’d just escaped the water trough or run through the birdbath themselves.

As a strange little hoard, they approach the kind girl. Beside her is a tall woman wearing white and silver and gold.

The girl—holding a large, round pumpkin—looks surprised to see them here. The woman is smiling.

“Set the pumpkin on the drive,” the woman says, a soft gleam in her eye. “The rest of you, line up, please.”

Bemused, but with a heartbeat fast enough for them to notice, the girl gingerly places the pumpkin on the stone of the drive. It’s natural for them, somehow, to follow—the mice line in pairs in front of it, the rat hops on top of it, and the lizards all stand beside.

“What are they doing?” asks the girl—and there’s curiosity and gingerness in her tone, like she doesn’t believe such a sight is wrong, but is worried it might be.

The older woman laughs kindly, and a feeling like blinking hard comes over the world.

It’s then—then, in that flash of darkness that turns to dazzling light, that something about them changes.

“Oh!” exclaims the girl, and they open their eyes. “Oh! They’re—“

They’re different.

The mice aren’t mice at all—and suddenly they wonder if they ever were, or if it was an odd dream.

They’re horses, steel grey and sleek-haired with with silky brown manes and tails. Their harnesses are ornate and stylish, their hooves polished and dark.

Instead of a rat, there’s a stout man in fine livery, with whiskers dark and smart as ever. He wears a fine cap with a familiar white feather, and the gleam in his eye is surprised.

“Well,” he says, examining his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves, “I suppose I won’t be wanting for adventure now.”

Instead of six lizards, six footmen stand at attention, their ivory jackets shining in the late afternoon sun.

The girl herself is different, though she’s still human—her hair is done up beautifully in the latest fashion, and instead of tattered grey she wears a shimmering dress of lovely pale green, inlaid with a design that only on close inspection is flowers.

“They are under your charge, now,” says the woman in white, stepping back and folding her hands together. “It is your responsibility to return before the clock strikes midnight—when that happens, the magic will be undone. Understood?”

“Yes,” says the girl breathlessly. She stares at them as if she’s been given the most priceless gift in all the world. “Oh, thank you.”

—

The castle is decorated brilliantly. Flowery garlands hang from every parapet, beautiful vines sprawling against walls and over archways as they climb. Dozens of picturesque lanterns hang from the walls, ready to be lit once the sky grows dark.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the castle,” the girl says, standing one step out of the carriage and looking so awed she seems happy not to go any further. “Father and I used to drive by it sometimes. But it never looked so lovely as this.”

“Shall we accompany you in, milady?” asks one of the footmen. They’re all nearly identical, though this one has freckles where he once had dark flecks in his scales.

She hesitates for only a moment, looking up at the pinnacles of the castle towers. Then, she shakes her head, and turns to look at them all with a smile like the sun.

“I think I’ll go in myself,” she says. “I’m not sure what is custom. But thank you—thank you so very much.”

And so they watch her go—stepping carefully in her radiant dress that looked lovelier than any queen’s.

Though she was not royal, it seemed there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that she was. The guards posted at the door opened it for her without question.

With a last smile over her shoulder, she stepped inside.

—

He's straightening the horses' trappings for the fifth time when the doors to the castle open, and out hurries a figure. It takes him a moment to recognize her, garbed in rich fabrics and cloaked in shadows, but it's the girl, rushing out to the gilded carriage. A footman steps forward and offers her a hand, which she accepts gratefully as she steps up into the seat.

“Enjoyable evening, milady?” asks the coachman. His whiskers are raised above the corners of his mouth, and his twinkling eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Yes, quite, thank you!” she breathes in a single huff. She smooths her dress the best she can before looking at him with some urgency. “The clock just struck quarter till—will you be able to get us home?”

The gentle woman in white had said they only would remain in such states until midnight. How long was it until the middle of night? What was a quarter? Surely darkness would last for far more hours than it had already—it couldn’t be close. Yet it seemed as though it must be; the princesslike girl in the carriage sounded worried it would catch them at any moment.

“I will do all I can,” he promises, and with a sharp rap of the reins, they’re off at a swift pace.

They arrive with minutes to spare. He knows this because after she helps him down from the carriage (...wait. That should have been the other way around! He makes mental note for next time: it should be him helping her down. If he can manage it. She’s fast), she takes one of those minutes to show him how his new pocketwatch works.

He’s fascinated already. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’ll remember how to tell time when he’s a rat again—or will this, all of this, be forgotten?

The woman in white is there beside the drive, and she’s already smiling. A knowing gleam lights her eye.

“Well, how was the ball?” she asks, as Cinder-Girl turns to face her with the most elated expression. “I hear the prince is looking for fair maidens. Did he speak with you?”

The girl rushes to grasp the woman’s hands in hers, clasping them gratefully and beaming up at her.

“It was lovely! I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she all but gushes, her smile brighter and broader than they’d ever seen it. “The castle is beautiful; it feels so alive and warm. And yes, I met the Prince—although hush, he certainly isn’t looking for me—he’s so kind. I very much enjoyed speaking with him. He asked me to dance, too; I had as wonderful a time as he seemed to. Thank you! Thank you dearly.”

The woman laughs gently. It isn’t a laugh one would describe as warm, but neither is it cold in the sense some laughs can be—it's soft and beautiful, almost crystalline.

“That’s wonderful. Now, up to bed! You’ve made it before midnight, but your sisters will be returning soon.”

“Yes! Of course,” she replies eagerly—turning to smile gratefully at coachman and stroke the nearest horses on their noses and shoulders, then curtsy to the footmen. “Thank you all, very much. I could not ask for a more lovely company.”

It’s a strange moment when all of their new hearts swell with warmth and affection for this girl—and then the world darkens and lightens so quickly they feel as though they’ve fallen asleep and woken up.

They’re them again—six mice, six lizards, a rat, and a pumpkin. And a tattered gray dress.

“Please, would you let me go again tomorrow? The ball will last three days. I had such a wonderful time.”

“Come,” the woman said simply, “and place the pumpkin beneath the bushes.”

The woman in white led the way back to the house, followed by an air-footed girl and a train of tiny critters. There was another silent song in the air, and they thought perhaps the girl could hear it too: one that said yes—but get to bed!

—

The second evening, when the door of the house thuds shut and the hoofsteps of the family’s carriage fade out of hearing, the rat peeks out of a hole in the kitchen corner to see the Cinder-Girl leap to her feet.

She leans close to the window and watched for more minutes than he quite understands—or maybe he does; it was good to be sure all cats had left before coming out into the open—and then runs with a spring in her step to the back door near the kitchen.

Ever so faintly, like music, the woman’s laughter echoes faintly from outside. Drawn to it like he had been drawn to the silent song, the rat scurries back through the labyrinth of the walls.

When he hurries out onto the lawn, the mice and lizards are already there, looking up at the two humans expectantly. This time, the Cinder-Girl looks at them and smiles broadly.

“Hello, all. So—how do you do it?” she asks the woman. Her eyes shine with eager curiosity. “I had no idea you could do such a thing. How does it work?”

The woman fixes her with a look of fond mock-sternness. “If I were to explain to you the details of how, I’d have to tell you why and whom, and you’d be here long enough to miss the royal ball.” She waves her hands she speaks. “And then you’d be very much in trouble for knowing far more than you ought.”

The rat misses the girl’s response, because the world blinks again—and now all of them once again are different. Limbs are long and slender, paws are hooves with silver shoes or feet in polished boots.

The mouse-horses mouth at their bits as they glance back at the carriage and the assortment of humans now standing by it. The footmen are dressed in deep navy this time, and the girl wears a dress as blue as the summer sky, adorned with brilliant silver stars.

“Remember—“ says the woman, watching fondly as the Cinder-Girl steps into the carriage in a whorl of beautiful silk. “Return before midnight, before the magic disappears.”

“Yes, Godmother,” she calls, voice even more joyful than the previous night. “Thank you!”

—

The castle is just as glorious as before—and the crowd within it has grown. Noblemen and women, royals and servants, and the prince himself all mill about in the grand ballroom.

He’s unsure of the etiquette, but it seems best for her not to enter alone. Once he escorts her in, the coachman bows and watches for a moment—the crowd is hushed again, taken by her beauty and how important they think her to be—and then returns to the carriage outside.

He isn’t required in the ballroom for much of the night—but he tends to the horses and checks his pocketwatch studiously, everything in him wishing to be the best coachman that ever once was a rat.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be hard. He’d raise the bar, then. The best coachman that ever drove for a princess.

Because that was what she was—or, that was what he heard dozens of hushed whispers about once she’d entered the ball. Every noble and royal and servant saw her and deemed her a grand princess nobody knew from a land far away. The prince himself stared at her in a marveling way that indicated he thought no differently.

It was a thing more wondrous than he had practice thinking. If a mouse could become a horse or a rat could become a coachman, couldn’t a kitchen-girl become a princess?

The answer was yes, it seemed—perhaps in more ways than one.

She had rushed out with surprising grace just before midnight. They took off quickly, and she kept looking back toward the castle door, as if worried—but she was smiling.

“Did you know the Prince is very nice?” she asks once they’re safely home, and she’s stepped down (drat) without help again. The woman in white stands on her same place beside the drive, and when Cinder-Girl sees her, she waves with dainty grace that clearly holds a vibrant energy and sheer thankfulness behind it. “I’ve never known what it felt like to be understood. He thinks like I do.”

“How is that?” asks the woman, quirking an amused brow. “And if I might ask, how do you know?”

“Because he mentions things first.” The girl tries to smother some of the wideness of her smile, but can’t quite do so. “And I've shared his thoughts for a long time. That he loves his father, and thinks oranges and citrons are nice for festivities especially, and that he’s always wanted to go out someday and do something new.”

—

The third evening, the clouds were dense and a few droplets of rain splattered the carriage as they arrived.

“Looks like rain, milady,” said the coachman as she disembarked to stand on water-spotted stone. “If it doesn’t blow by, we’ll come for ye at the steps, if it pleases you.”

“Certainly—thank you,” she replies, all gleaming eyes and barely-smothered smiles. How her excitement to come can increase is beyond them—but she seems more so with each night that passes.

She has hardly turned to head for the door when a smattering of rain drizzles heavily on them all. She flinches slightly, already running her palms over the skirt of her dress to rub out the spots of water.

Her golden dress glisters even in the cloudy light, and doesn’t seem to show the spots much. Still, it’s hardy an ideal thing.

“One of you hold the parasol—quick about it, now—and escort her inside,” the coachman says quickly. The nearest footman jumps into action, hop-reaching into the carriage and falling back down with the umbrella in hand, unfolding it as he lands. “Wait about in case she needs anything.”

The parasol is small and not meant for this sort of weather, but it's enough for the moment. The pair of them dash for the door, the horses chomping and stamping behind them until they’re driven beneath the bows of a huge tree.

The footman knows his duty the way a lizard knows to run from danger. He achieves it the same way—by slipping off to become invisible, melting into the many people who stood against the golden walls.

From there, he watches.

It’s so strange to see the way the prince and their princess gravitate to each other. The prince’s attention seems impossible to drag away from her, though not for many’s lack of trying.

Likewise—more so than he would have thought, though perhaps he’s a bit slow in noticing—her focus is wholly on the prince for long minutes at a time.

Her attention is always divided a bit whenever she admires the interior of the castle, the many people and glamorous dresses in the crowd, the vibrant tables of food. It’s all very new to her, and he’s not certain it doesn’t show. But the Prince seems enamored by her delight in everything—if he thinks it odd, he certainly doesn’t let on.

They talk and laugh and sample fine foods and talk to other guests together, then they turn their heads toward where the musicians are starting up and smile softly when they meet each other’s eyes. The Prince offers a hand, which is accepted and clasped gleefully.

Then, they dance.

Their motions are so smooth and light-footed that many of the crowd forgo dancing, because admiring them is more enjoyable. They’re in-sync, back and forth like slow ripples on a pond. They sometimes look around them—but not often, especially compared to how long they gaze at each other with poorly-veiled, elated smiles.

The night whirls on in flares of gold tulle and maroon velvet, ivory, carnelian, and emerald silks, the crowd a nonstop blur of color.

(Color. New to him, that. Improved vision was wonderful.)

The clock strikes eleven, but there’s still time, and he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to convince the girl to leave anytime before midnight draws near.

He was a lizard until very recently. He’s not the best at judging time, yet. Midnight does draw near, but he’s not sure he understands how near.

The clock doesn’t quite say up-up. So he still has time. When the rain drums ceaselessly outside, he darts out and runs in a well-practiced way to find their carriage.

—

Another of the footmen comes in quickly, having been sent in a rush by the coachman, who had tried to keep his pocketwatch dry just a bit too long. He’s soaking wet from the downpour when he steps close enough to get her attention.

She sees him, notices this, and—with a glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eyes—laughs softly into her hand.

ONE—TWO— the clock starts. His heart speeds up terribly, and his skin feels cold. He suddenly craves a sunny rock.

“Um,” he begins awkwardly. Lizards didn’t have much in the way of a vocal language. He bows quickly, and water drips off his face and hat and onto the floor. “The chimes, milady.”

THREE—FOUR—

Perhaps she thought it was only eleven. Her face pales. “Oh.”

FIVE—SIX—

Like a deer, she leaps from the prince’s side and only manages a stumbling, backward stride as she curtsies in an attempt at a polite goodbye.

“Thank you, I must go—“ she says, and then she’s racing alongside the footman as fast as they both can go. The crowd parts for them just enough, amidst loud murmurs of surprise.

SEVEN—EIGHT—

“Wait!” calls the prince, but they don’t. Which hopefully isn’t grounds for arrest, the footman idly thinks.

They burst through the door and out into the open air.

NINE—TEN—

It has been storming. The rain is crashing down in torrents—the walkways and steps are flooded with a firm rush of water.

She steps in a crevice she couldn’t see, the water washes over her feet, and she stumbles, slipping right out of one shoe. There’s noise at the door behind them, so she doesn’t stop or even hesitate. She runs at a hobble and all but dives through the open carriage door. The awaiting footman quickly closes it, and they’re all grasping quickly to their riding-places at the corners of the vehicle.

ELEVEN—

A flash of lightning coats the horses in white, despite the dark water that’s soaked into their coats, and with a crack of the rains and thunder they take off at a swift run.

There’s shouting behind them—the prince—as people run out and call to the departing princess.

TWELVE.

Mist swallows them up, so thick they can’t hear or see the castle, but the horses know the way.

The castle’s clock tower must have been ever-so-slightly fast. (Does magic tell truer time?) Their escape works for a few thundering strides down the invisible, cloud-drenched road—until true midnight strikes a few moments later.

—

She walks home in the rain and fog, following a white pinprick of light she can guess the source of—all the while carrying a hollow pumpkin full of lizards, with an apron pocket full of mice and a rat perched on her shoulder.

It’s quite the walk.

—

The prince makes a declaration so grand that the mice do not understand it. The rat—a bit different now—tells them most things are that way to mice, but he’s glad to explain.

The prince wants to find the girl who wore the golden slipper left on the steps, he relates. He doesn’t want to ask any other to marry him, he loved her company so.

The mice think that’s a bit silly. Concerning, even. What if he does find her? There won’t be anyone to secretly leave seeds in the ashes or sneak them bread crusts when no humans are looking.

The rat thinks they’re being silly and that they’ve become too dependent on handouts. Back in his day, rodents worked for their food. Chewing open a bag of seed was an honest day’s work for its wages.

Besides, he confides, as he looks again out the peep-hole they’ve discovered in the floor trim of the parlor. You’re being self-interested, if you ask me. Don’t you want our princess to find a good mate, and live somewhere spacious and comfortable, free of human-cats, where she’d finally have plenty to eat?

It’s hard to make a mouse look appropriately chastised, but that question comes close. They shuffle back a bit to let him look out at the strange proceedings in the parlor again.

There are many humans there. The Harsh-Mistress stands tall and rigid at the back of one of the parlor chairs, exchanging curt words with a strange man in fine clothes with a funny hat. Shrieking-Girl and Angry-Girl stand close, scoffing and laughing, looking appalled.

Cinder-Girl sits on the chair that’s been pulled to the middle of the room. She extends her foot toward a strange golden object on a large cushion.

The shoe, the rat notes so the mice can follow. They can’t quite see it from here—poor eyesight and all.

Of course, the girl’s foot fits perfectly well into her own shoe. They all saw that coming.

Evidently, the humans did not. There’s absolute uproar.

“There is no possible way she’s the princess you’re looking for!” declares Harsh-Mistress, her voice full of rage. “She’s a kitchen maid. Nothing royal about her.”

“How dare you!” Angry-Girl rages. “Why does it fit you? Why not us?”

“You sneak!” shrieks none other than Shrieking-Girl. “Mother, she snuck to the ball! She must have used magic, somehow! Princes won’t marry sneaks, will they?”

“I think they might,” says a calm voice from the doorway, and the uproar stops immediately.

The Prince steps in. He stares at Cinder-Girl.

She stares back. Her face is still smudged with soot, and her dress is her old one, gray and tattered. The golden slipper gleams on her foot, having fit as only something molded or magic could.

A blush colors her face beneath the ash and she leaps up to do courtesy. “Your Highness.”

The Prince glances at the messenger-man with the slipper-pillow and the funny hat. The man nods seriously.

The Prince blinks at this, as if he wasn’t really asking anything with his look—it’s already clear he recognizes her—and meets Cinder-Girl’s gaze with a smile. It’s the same half-nervous, half-attemptingly-charming smile as he kept giving her at the ball.

He bows to her and offers a hand. (The rat has to push three mice out of the way to maintain his view.)

“It’s my honor,” he assures her. “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the castle? I’d had a question in mind, but it seems there are—“ he glances at Harsh-Mistress, who looks like a very upset rat in a mousetrap. “—situations we might discuss remedying. You’d be a most welcome guest in my father’s house, if you’d be amenable to it?”

It’s all so much more strange and unusual than anything the creatures of the house are used to seeing. They almost don’t hear it, at first—that silent song.

It grows stronger, though, and they turn their heads toward it with an odd hope in their hearts.

—

The ride to the castle is almost as strange as that prior walk back. The reasons for this are such:

One—their princess is riding in their golden carriage alongside the prince, and their chatter and awkward laughter fills the surrounding spring air. They have a good feeling about the prince, now, if they didn’t already. He can certainly take things in stride, and he is no respecter of persons. He seems just as elated to be by her side as he was at the ball, even with the added surprise of where she'd come from.

Two—they have been transformed again, and the woman in white has asked them a single question: Would you choose to stay this way?

The coachman said yes without a second thought. He’d always wanted life to be more fulfilling, he confided—and this seemed a certain path to achieving that.

The footmen might not have said yes, but there was something to be said for recently-acquired cognition. It seemed—strange, to be human, but the thought of turning back into lizards had the odd feeling of being a poor choice. Baffled by this new instinct, they said yes.

The horses, of course, said things like whuff and nyiiiehuhum, grumph. The woman seemed to understand, though. She touched one horse on the nose and told it it would be the castle’s happiest mouse once the carriage reached its destination. The others, it seemed, enjoyed their new stature.

And three—they are heading toward a castle, where they have all been offered a fine place to live. The Prince explains that he doesn’t wish for such a kind girl to live in such conditions anymore. There’s no talk of anyone marrying—just discussions of rooms and favorite foods and of course, you’ll have the finest chicken pie anytime you’d like and I can’t have others make it for me! Lend me the kitchens and I’ll make some for you; I have a very dear recipe. Perhaps you can help. (Followed in short order by a ...Certainly, but I’d—um, I’d embarrass myself trying to cook. You would teach me? and a gentle laugh that brightened the souls of all who could hear it.)

“If you’d be amenable to it,” she replies—and in clear, if surprised, agreement, the Prince truly, warmly laughs.

“Milady,” the coachman calls down to them. “Your Highness. We’re here.”

The castle stands shining amber-gold in the light of the setting sun. It will be the fourth night they’ve come here—the thirteen of them and the one of her—but midnight, they realize, will not break the spell ever again.

One by one, they disembark from the carriage. If it will stay as it is or turn back into a pumpkin, they hadn't thought to ask. There’s so much warmth swelling in their hearts that they don’t think it matters.

The girl, their princess, smiles—a dear, true smile, tentative in the face of a brand new world, but bright with hope—and suddenly, they’re all smiling too.

She steps forward, and they follow. The prince falls into step with her and offers an arm, and their glances at each other are brimming with light as she accepts.

With her arm in the arm of the prince, a small crowd of footmen and the coachman trailing behind, and a single grey mouse on her shoulder, the once-Cinder-Girl walks once again toward the palace door.

#Well this wasn't my first Cinderella retelling idea that I was excited about BUT -#since that one was turning into a tangle of Too Much Going On (though it's currently at 5k and maybe 70% done; I still plan to finish it)#I tried this one instead!#pros: I think I actually wrote myself out of writer's block? Which is AWESOME #And I feel like I'm starting to notice what needs fixed and mended about my writing; which is very helpful!#cons: due to having the additional pro of a very socially growth-filled few weeks IRL; I did not do much about that fact #please excuse the general lack of editing thus far #I have also learned that I may want to be at least a Level 5 Fairy Tale Reteller #before I tackle stories with hundreds of years of popular retellings and versions?#Although this one came much more easily than my first idea; it still felt more difficult to write than my Nix Nought Nothing story.#So another pro - I learned that I enjoy writing about lesser-known tales the most! Next time I might try a fun obscure one.#All in all this was a ton of fun!! Thanks for running the challenge! Apologies for being nearly late - I had a wonderful time!#I hope you all enjoy! <3 #inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale retelling challenge #love: philia #love: agape #Cinderella #story: complete #basil writes #salt and light

40 notes · View notes

jamietarttsnorthernattitude · 2 months

Note

Ooooh that coal snippet was amazing!!! Do you have anything else to share? I must have missed that one previously

<333333333333 This one is relatively new I've only posted a bit once. Full title is how the hell am i still coal. I've been trying to think of an AU for the @ficwip August AU challenge, where the fic has to be under 5k words. That is my struggle. This is my third attempt, lmao. The general idea is canon divergent, where James and friends visit Jamie after Wembley, and James breaks Jamie's hand (double-dipping with my hand stomp square for @badthingshappenbingo). He takes himself to A&E.

Roy, meanwhile, can't sleep, so he shows up at A&E under the guise of bringing food to his sister. Jamie tries to play off he hurt his hand punching his Dad, but Roy knows his hand didn't look like that when he dropped Jamie off. Another clip under the cut:

Jamie made eye contact with Roy, and he awkwardly signed the piece of paper the kid’s mom offered to him with his left hand. Roy rushed to him like he was heading for an opposing player on the pitch: head down, determined. Furious. “Jamie, what the fuck are you doing here?” “Oh. Um–thought I should get this checked out,” Jamie nodded at his ice-pack-covered hand. “I fucked it up when I–” He trailed off, but Roy didn’t need him to finish as he sat beside him. “Why the fuck didn’t you say anything? I would’ve brought you.” “Jamie Tartt?” the nurse interrupted. “This way.” “Didn’t think it was that bad,” Jamie shrugged as he followed. “Then I couldn’t sleep, started hurting once the adrenaline wore off, I guess.” “You should’ve fucking called me.” “What’re you doing here anyway? I didn’t ask anyone to call you or nothing.” Jamie trailed after the nurse as Roy followed him, and Jamie inwardly sighed when Roy continued after him into the exam room.

#thank you my anon friend :)#my hope is to both keep it under 5k and post it on aug 1 #to also coincide with the august au challenge #staying under 5k is really really hard for me #i just want to let these two talk for 10k words #roy is getting to use fuck a lot less than usual #jamie too #budget cuts #jamie tartt #roy kent #fuck jamie’s dad #cw abuse #fic: coal

12 notes · View notes

laylajeffany · 5 months

Text

Crying at the Texas Roadhouse | Wenclair One-Shot for @cruciokilljoy

Rating: G WC: 4,500 Summary: Enid’s feelings are hurt and Wednesday tries to resolve them, requiring her to find her soft spot (in public) when Enid starts sobbing in the middle of a chain restaurant in Jericho. Enid's POV, established relationship, unrelated to any of my multi-chapter work TW: Esther Sinclair being herself

@cruciokilljoy You were probably looking for more physical hurt/comfort but both my multi-chap fics have explored that pretty throughly and I am tired of writing the girls in physical pain so I put them through emotional pain instead. Certainly not based on actual, recent conversations with my own hateful mother not at all ☠️

“You were crying.”

Duh.

“Like, an hour ago,” Enid clarified, looking at Wednesday as she stepped into their room with her jacket draped over her arm, sleeves rolled up, hands filthy. She could only imagine what her girlfriend had gotten into (literally, looking at the caked-on mud on her Oxfords that ran up to her stocking-covered knees). “I hardly think that’s the most pressing thing we need to talk about. Why are you covered in dirt?”

“Mud wrestling,” Wednesday replied dryly.

“Not enough on you for that.” Enid rolled her eyes and crossed her sweater-covered arms. She almost didn’t want to know but would certainly rather discuss Wednesday's potentially illegal antics than herself after the challenging evening that she’d already had.

She wasn’t in the mood for bickering, either way - so maybe quiet time would be best.

“Why were you upset?” Clearly, she wasn't going to drop it with her own deflection. Wednesday draped her jacket over the side of her desk chair and toed off her muddy shoes, forcing her to lose the small boost of lift they gave her, putting her squarely two inches beneath Enid. She stood directly in front of her, a kiss away – bearing into Enid with her eyes and forcing truth out of her.

Knowing her lower lip trembled a little, hating her tells and trying to frown the feelings away, Enid looked at her own feet. There was no use lying to Wednesday about an actually serious subject when the evidence was still in the bloodshot veins of her eyes. “My mother called. It was…it’s just always upsetting,” She glanced back up with a forced, sad smile. Wednesday’s eyes lost their intensity from curiosity, but gained something that was largely new for her – sympathy.

How Enid hated it. Deciding to dangle a tantalizing offer in front of her, she forced her pitch to remain neutral as she stated, “I don’t want to dwell on it. Can we skip the part where I rehash how my mom is a miserable person and…just go to dinner? You could edit my lycan paper after, I could use the help…”

Wednesday’s stare continued to be gentle and Enid was about ready to march out of the room if she didn’t quit. She couldn’t stand that. “Stop, please? Wednesday, honestly. I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want you to pacify me this evening. My mother always manages to upset me. And even if I stand up to her on the phone, I sometimes need to cry it out after. It’s like…” Deciding to use a weapon analogy, Enid expressed, “Like a fuse. She lit it, I detonated on her, and now there’s some debris to clean up, but I’m actually fine. I want to move on.”

Obviously a little put out by the way her jaw shifted just slightly, Wednesday disappeared wordlessly, returning from the community washroom down the hall with clean hands and sans her stockings, which Enid assumed she’d tossed rather than get any more flak from the on-site laundry service about soiling other people’s clothing.

She disappeared into her closet, coming out in a pair of wide-legged pants and an oversized black sweatshirt that fell nearly to her knees. If Enid could hide her emotions, she supposed she couldn’t comment on Wednesday hiding her body.

To her surprise, Wednesday actually let her not speak about her feelings and folded a hand into hers as she waved to Thing, nonverbally communicating that she wanted to be alone with Enid. Thing had been quite helpful to the whole affair – had heard her mother’s hurtful words, passed her tissues after she finished crying into her pillow, patted her back sweetly…

Wednesday led her to the foyer but didn’t turn to the right to take them to the cafeteria. Enid blinked a few times when Wednesday tugged her right out the front door and down the front steps. Confused, and really not in the mood to go investigating anything, particularly to discover whatever had Wednesday so dirty, Enid whined a little, “Can’t we just eat?”

“It’s Monday,” Her voice was just a touch darker than it had been in their room. “Nevermore’s infamous attempt at cowering to the vegetarians is tonight, and I don’t think their imitation beef is going to help you feel any better. We’re heading into town – I’m getting you a steak.” Well, that certainly perked her up just a little bit. “Withdrawing red meat once a week in an effort to be more environmentally friendly when ten percent of the student campus requires it as part of their metabolic diet is cruel, performative activism and we don’t need to be part of it. It makes as much sense as banning plastic straws. You don’t create systems change by following trends. Meatless Monday is going to meet my full-meat fist one of these days. But tonight, we’re going to crush peanut shells underfoot at a chain restaurant instead.”

More than okay with getting that salty coating in between the grooves of her furry, pink boots, Enid pulled Wednesday to her in a hug when they arrived to the edge of the forest trail that would take them into Jericho. Wednesday sucked in a breath of surprise at being forced into her hold but returned it after just a second of processing what was happening to her. “I don’t mean to take my bad mood out on you,” Enid apologized.

“I do it to you all the time,” Wednesday mumbled into her shoulder, sighing as she hooked her arms around her middle, hanging on just as tightly. “Usually for far-less valid reasons.” She pulled away to put her palms on Enid’s shoulders and met her eyes without that sympathy…instead…

Wednesday’s brown gaze in the setting sun was highly empathetic and made Enid drop half the tension in her shoulders. “I might also be a little hangry,” She confessed as her stomach roared suddenly between them.

There was a flirtation of a smirk on Wednesday’s lips at the noise and she said nothing, merely took her hand again, leading them boldly through the woods for a twenty-minute walk into town.

Enid swore she felt better just at the sight of the neon lights outlining the state of Texas with a cowboy hat perched on top of it when the restaurant was in view. Inside promised at least a feeling of satisfaction for the wolf within her, and that could often soften the meltdown of her personhood, too.

“Two, please,” Wednesday politely replied when the hostess, a too-cool Jericho High student with rapidly growing roots sticking out of her bleach blonde hair snapped her gum and looked irritated to have to ask how many were in their party.

Holding back her own growl of irritation, Enid would admit, she was relatively surprised by how well-behaved Wednesday could be in spaces like public restaurants. She often claimed that staff were simply victims of the State or something about labor rights, and generally tipped far more than Enid would’ve thought that they had earned.

Enid watched a basket of rolls be taken into a waitress’ hands and swallowed the saliva that threatened to slip out of her lips, thinking Wednesday was about to drop her hand as she often did in public – but not that day. She must’ve sensed some of her mother’s conversation had been about, willing to take on any bigot that might’ve had something to say about the two of them in a relationship. Vermont might’ve been one of the more progressive states in the country, but – certainly, so was California, and her mother had a whole lot to say from there that evening…

Once they were seated, Enid took a roll without waiting even a beat for the young woman who would be taking care of them to go through her required spiel, while Wednesday simply gave a curt nod at her before giving all of her attention to Enid as she went to return with water. (Enid could hardly wait for the day she could down one of those massive margaritas in the advertisements all over the establishment.)

She was halfway through with her first roll when Wednesday’s harsh stare asked the question before she needed to confirm, “You missed lunch with that extra dance practice today.”

“I’m sorry,” Enid said, just about ready to own up to anything – even things she hadn’t done, in an effort to just keep everyone from blowing up at her anymore that day. She really couldn’t handle Wednesday being frustrated with her, too -

“Next time, tell me,” Wednesday ordered, her voice clipped; Enid stared hard at the rings on the wooden, lacquered tabletop, willing her next round of sadness to stay internal. “I’ll bring you something to class. Don’t apologize to me.”

About to say ‘sorry’ again, Enid just bit her lip, seeing the tears that were threatening to well up in her gaze. She tried to blink them away, and was grateful when the waitress asked if they needed more time with the menu when she brought their water over. Enid just shook her head, while Wednesday started, then said her name in a very gentle tone – and all the up and down of soft and hard was really –

“Um, the twelve-ounce New York strip, please – rare.”

“You know that means pink, possibly bloo-”

Wednesday was quick to defend her. “She knows what her body requires.”

Enid let out a shuddered breath, quietly asking for her sides before the waitress left. Wednesday reached across the table and took both of Enid’s hands, clearly needing to understand more about what was making her act so small and miserable. “Tell me what your mother said.”

“I don’t want to think about it,” Enid argued, feeling her tone rising as hysteria was pouring out of each vein, flooding her body.

“You obviously already are. It’s weighing on you. Release the burden, and you’ll feel relief.”

As the first tear fell, Wednesday’s face contorted from intensity and certainty to overwhelmed and near helplessness as she obviously hadn't thought through the fact that Enid was going to cry in public. She squeezed Enid’s hands, but the gesture only caused the second one to dribble, then the third, and the fourth, and Enid brought her sweater up over her face to keep from letting out an audible sob in the restaurant.

Thankfully, Wednesday had some sort of awareness about what to do – they’d been dating for months and friends for so long, she’d seen her fair share of Enid’s breakdowns and generally knew what did and didn’t help. When the preventative measures clearly weren’t working that Monday, she stood up and rounded to the space beside her, putting an arm around her and letting Enid fold herself into her chest. The unexpected display of affection was actually bringing out even more of her release. God – that hug to soothe her emotions into was exactly what Enid needed, and the fact that Wednesday had it in her to be soft enough around her to let her break down, in a half-full restaurant, into her arms? She loved her more than anything, and Enid knew that, she just wished, maybe – well, Wednesday was probably right. She did just need to talk about it to work through it.

When she met the black strings of her hoodie, Enid knew she let out a cry of a sniffly sound. It was embarrassing, devastating, really, to be having a full breakdown at the Texas Roadhouse. But Wednesday had been determined to try and make her feel better that evening and was going to have to finish what she started, even if that meant snuggling her in a vinyl-covered booth while the waitress awkwardly put their salads down on the same side of the table a few minutes after the crying began.

Wednesday unrolled one of the fabric napkins, shaking out a knife and the forks. For a brief, split-second, Enid thought she really might eat one-handed while she continued to snivel all over her chest, but Wednesday instead used the square to dab Enid’s cheeks, soaking up the tears that hadn’t been absorbed into her sweatshirt. She adjusted her hold on her girlfriend and looked at her with something new –

Sincerity.

Almost blubbering again, Enid just nodded, knowing it would do well to admit what Esther had said to her on the phone. “My…mother – she was …on her weekly rampage, about…everything. Nevermore, administration refusing to split us up – you not receiving any consequences from last semester…the usual. Then…it shifted,” She sniffed. “She brought up my late blooming, how I’d been so privileged to have been even have parents who cared enough to offer to send me to lycanthropy conversion camp…”

Wednesday’s hand curled on her upper thigh at that.

“And when she wasn’t getting a rise out of me for that, she dug deeper – the normal line of inane ramblings of how she couldn’t believe after all that time, ‘that Addams girl’ was what got me to shift for the first time…and, when I reminded her, ‘that Addams girl’ is Wednesday, my girlfriend, she…she…just said, ‘we don’t talk about that,’ and started bitching about the value of a Nevermore education not matching up to the price tag, not that it mattered – since none of her pack were scoring above a 3.5 on the ‘mediocre’ grading system, moved on to my scar tissue and wanting me to come home to have a consultation with a plastic surgeon for a revision procedure, and I said that wasn’t going to happen and hung up on her. Then I cried.”

Watching Wednesday respond to the entirety of the call was like discovering something new hidden in a sensory tube every other second. While she was short for words, Wednesday’s eyes always spoke volumes about what she would say if she dared to put her thoughts out verbally. Mr. Addams had described her tongue as that of a viper to Enid more than once when telling stories about her, so she was pretty sure it was often for the best that Wednesday focused on taking in all the information before reacting. She knew that Wednesday tended to get into it with administrators and authority, but at least with Enid – she was far more even-tempered in how she responded to hearing words she didn’t like.

Enid let out a long breath and picked up one of the forks that Wednesday had shaken out of the napkin, needing to channel her energy into anything but crying again. She speared leafy greens onto the tines, trying not to visualize doing the same to any of her mother’s more vulnerable body parts, for that matter – wondering which Wednesday would fantasize about ripping out first in her defense.

“I’m sorry, Enid,” Wednesday spoke through a near whisper of a tone.

Hearing those words come out of Wednesday was like hearing foreign language that she needed to interpret. Her fork fell out of her hand. Not wanting to startle her anymore, Enid brought her longing, hopeful sort of gaze to Wednesday’s. “Why are you apologizing now?”

Wednesday drew her hands into her lap, staring straight ahead. It took her some time to form her response, likely, if Enid had to guess, because of the emotion that was pooling in her own eyes. She knew her damn well enough that she wouldn’t shed anything close to a tear in public, but Wednesday was very much on the edge. It didn’t make sense – she’d done nothing wrong, aside from maybe push her into talking about it when Enid knew what that would unleash, but even then – it’s not like she had been the one to say all those hurtful things…

“I suppose I am not apologizing with my sorry. But I am sorry that I contributed to enough of your mother’s ire that she took it out on you. I’m sorry that she continues to refuse to acknowledge that you are in a non-traditional relationship, let alone demonstrate any sort of positive feeling about it. I’m sorry that she continues to bring up painful events of the past, and attempt to shame you for them, or think you should have been grateful for her wanting to send you to an abusive situation. I’m sorry that she thinks your grades aren’t good enough – you’ve got a 3.87 right now, which is Magna cum laude and I’m really proud of you for working diligently at increasing your grade point average. I’m sorry that she thinks you need plastic surgery. If you wanted to, that would be your choice. But I love your scars, and I think they’re beautiful.”

Enid could barely breathe. She wasn’t sure if Wednesday had ever said so many words consecutively, let alone that indicated her true feelings on any subject matter…that she was harboring so many about her, in particular. Trying not to let herself curl up into the faux-wooden logs that made up the side wall of their booth, Enid finally found the ability to expand her lungs and release the last of the tension she’d been harboring. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“It’s not in pity,” Wednesday clarified. “It’s not. It’s…perhaps a feeling that I don’t have a schema for.” She gave a rare blink as she seemed to be trying to find the emotional vocabulary within her to better explain herself, staring at Enid, who was pretty sure she was going to need an inhaler by the end of dinner at the rate Wednesday was taking her breath away. Finally, she gave a nearly-invisible shrug as she further clarified, “I just know, that I love you. And I despise that anyone would attempt to make you feel small, or anything else negative, especially someone who is also supposed to love you unconditionally. And I am sorry, that you were forced to endure that. All your life. So…I’m sorry, and I hope to make it up to you.”

Tilting her head, sniffing just a little, finding the shiest hint of a smile, Enid promised in a watery whisper, “You are. Right now. You…knew that I needed to take care of myself, and that school wasn’t going to cut it, and you brought me to the Texas Roadhouse,” She let out a small bubble of a laugh. “Here, I’ll get what I need to sustain me, but while we’re waiting,” She paused, reaching over for one of Wednesday’s clasped hands, forcing them apart so they could squeeze one another’s. “You’re giving me the opportunity to release what doesn’t. Thank you, Wednesday.”

There was a new wave on Wednesday’s features – a distinct mark of relief in her gaze as she swept it, unblinking onto Enid again. “It is hardly my forte to make someone who was sad return to baseline, let alone anything akin to happiness…”

“You’ve done a pretty remarkable job for me,” Enid assured her when the waitress brought out their main courses, looking a little awkward as she put them near their still-full salad plates.

“Uh…anything else I can bring you girls?”

“A total end to the heteronormative, compulsory, traditional society we continue to find ourselves existing in,” Wednesday said without hesitating.

The waitress blinked.

Enid shook her head. “I think we’ve got anything we need, right here.”

The woman left with wide, confused eyes and Enid sighed, cutting into her steak without thinking twice, watching the red ooze out onto her plate. The sight grossed her out, but she knew it would do her body good.

Sure enough – halfway into the steak, she was feeling remarkably better already. “Try to finish it,” Wednesday prompted her. “The full moon is on Thursday, you should be nearly doubling your caloric intake.”

Kissing her cheek, earning the slightest twinge of red to her cheeks, Enid thanked her and followed through, polishing off the meat, picking at her vegetables while Wednesday ate with a distinct sort of raised-higher-class slowness that she usually did.

After finishing and watching Wednesday tip the waitress almost double what the bill had been, Enid took her hand and made it her turn to lead them – the yellow glow of a Dollar General sign across the street tempting her. “I feel like properly finishing up my breakdown by making a frivolous, five-dollar purchase.”

Wednesday’s eyes rolled but she didn’t fight her. Mid 2000s soft-pop radio was playing as they stepped into the nearly desolate discount store, one that Enid liked because of the deadstock that featured some of her favorite comfort characters from her childhood. Knowing exactly what she wanted, she led Wednesday through precariously stacked makeshift aisles of cardboard boxes filled with inventory that would be put out by the one employee working there over the course of several weeks. She hummed along to the music, singing along softly with Colbie Caillat, feeling a little bubbly herself as Wednesday refrained from spewing out comments on late-stage capitalism or some such true, but nonsensical arguing that would accomplish nothing between them. “Here they are,” She said, gesturing to a host of children’s coloring books. Wondering if Wednesday's limited access to traditional children's media would kick in, Enid playfully wondered, “Anybody look familiar to you?”

“Even someone who spent a significant portion of her childhood exploring the caves below the house like myself can recognize the ultimate example of corporate greed, the mouse that is Mickey.”

“Yikes,” Enid commented, “I’ll steer clear of the Disney characters.” Mentally retracting her statement to herself about Wednesday being able to hold back full-punch societal comments, she smirked, spotting what she wanted pretty much right away, taking a pink, Strawberry Shortcake book into her hold. “Will you color with me?”

“I cannot promise that I won’t be giving the fruitcake a makeover. And a knife.”

Giggling, then singing along a little more as she took Wednesday’s hand and wove her through the maze of mess before checking out – spending a whopping two dollars and twelve cents to achieve the final release in neurotransmitters that would complete her night.

After a walk back to Ophelia Hall that included a great production of sneaking back into the campus as they’d left without permission, Enid and Wednesday both found themselves in their pajamas and ready for bed before Enid took her art supplies out from a basket, revealing about three hundred colored pencils in different shades.

Wednesday flipped through the coloring book with a touch of a nose wrinkle, staring at the smiley, fruit-themed girls. She was going out of her way, clearly setting every intention of getting through the moment to make her girlfriend happy as she'd claimed. Finally letting out a real, whole laugh, Enid earned her perplexed stare. “You did it,” She promised. Wednesday waited and Enid winked. “You didn’t just reset me to factory settings, but you made me happy. I promise. You totally do not have to color with me. You can read or edit papers or whatever else is going to make you happy, too. So long as you’re not out solving mysteries, but here with me.”

There was a beat of relief as Wednesday took out a book she’d been reading through, curling up beside Enid, who took some creative liberties as Wednesday would have, forcing a picture of Lemon Meringue, the pigtailed character, and Strawberry Shortcake to look as close to herself and Wednesday as possible, even adding a little knife into Lemon’s hand. Wednesday let Enid pick the music, but she went with one of her playlists of cello covers as a compromise for both of them.

When she finished and flashed the coloring sheet to her girlfriend, Wednesday almost smiled, amusement evident in her eyes as she took a knife out of her pajama pocket (naturally – everyone needed a bedtime knife), evenly slicing it out of the book. She tacked it up on Enid’s bulletin board before putting all the coloring supplies away while Enid watched. Finally, she turned off all the lights except the strand of twinkling ones she’d magically learned to tolerate once they started dating.

She brought Enid to the floor-bed they’d made with a roll-away mattress that was more comfortable than cramming into either of their twin beds, lying on her back as usual, and inviting Enid to curl up with her with silence, just vague gestures – a pat of her own chest, a small nod…

“Wednesday, I love you. Thank you, for making me feel one hundred percent better. I feel even better than before my mom called,” Enid said softly, nuzzling into her.

Wednesday’s fingers instinctively wove into her hair. “I’m tempted to block her number on your phone so she can’t get a hold of you. I can’t promise that if I’m in the room the next time she calls, I won’t make her feel something about herself that is more than true.”

“Good,” Enid encouraged with a contented huff. “She deserves that.”

“You didn’t deserve what she said or attempted to do to you in the past. And I hope that…her comments about…us, don’t make you second guess things. I am always here – to repair and comfort what she has hurt or damaged, as long as you want me to.”

Enid squeezed her affectionately. “You are excellent at comforting my hurts.”

There was a small breath of alleviation she felt from Wednesday. Wanting her to really understand that, she added, “You went out of your way for me tonight. You could’ve just given me a hug, taken me down to the dining hall, and come up to edit my paper. But you didn’t. You knew what very specific things would make me physically feel better, then opened yourself up emotionally for me, too. You’re the best. I love you.”

Wednesday clutched her tightly with one palm wrapped around her back, the other gently tracing the skin near Enid’s scars. Her words felt a little surprising when she added, “I would like to apologize for forcing you to talk about what happened before you were ready. I’m sure you would have liked to not cry in public at the Texas Roadhouse.”

“I think it’s a perfectly lovely public place to have a breakdown,” Enid said with a giggle at her own expense.

Wednesday said nothing other than a quiet, “I love you. Go to sleep.”

Closing her eyes so she could follow the direction, Enid sighed very contently, reflecting on the evening as she drifted off to have the chance to start over in a new day.

Layla is working through prompts and determined to write the Black Menagerie epilogue for the weekend - stay tuned for more ✌🏼

#Wednesday 2022 #Fanfic #Wenclair #One-Shot #visual for my non-american readers of what a Texas Roadhouse looks like 🫶🏻#who among us hasn't cried in a chain restaurant?#unbeta’d #the collection of one-shots I write mostly in a closet at work is bringing me great joy #thank you for all the prompts I struggle to do any kind of one-shot on my own #layla's >5k challenge

95 notes · View notes