#apologies so being so late on this one

[doodle-do-wop]

Gallagher Girls Promptober Day 2: Drive In Movie

Warning!! Not really smut as it just fades to black but it's still very suggestive so MINORS DNI

Tina Walters was not nervous. She had no reason to be nervous! She was just at a nice drive-in theater with Mick(and it was not a date). So there. Perfectly normal roomie activities that didn’t require the infuriating rapid beating of Tina’s heart. She was fine, everything was fine!

UGH!! Expect this infuriating thump thump thump that Tina was sure was shaking the bed of Mick’s dad’s truck. It was driving(pun not intended)(okay maybe a little) Tina up the non-existent walls of the drive-in. Tina smoothed the blanket on her lap, fiddling with the unrelenting wrinkles and huffing withfurtation as they refused to bend to her will. Tina turned her attention and forkleing thoughts to the radio Mick had attached to the side and made sure(again) that it was tuned in correctly and that the sound would come out alright.

Seriously, Tina knew Mick hated it when movies were too quiet for her to pick up what was being said or done and since Tina highly doubted subtitles would be a thing tonight she wanted to make sure. Thought it was kind of annoying that subtitles wouldn't be a thing. You’d think they’d just have them on just in case someone’s radio decides to burst or the static crackles get too strong and block out an important sentence.Tina decided she would leave a good few strong emails asking for subtitles, accessibility was a simple necessity.

“Hey, I’ve got your butter.” A strong voice called out and Tina turned, her heart leaping into her throat as Mick Morrison appeached the bed of the truck and Tina sucked in a small breath. Sure, she already knew what Mick was wearing(they did share a college dorm after all) but nonetheless she managed to rob Tina of any other coherent thought.

Throughout their years at Gallagher Mick kept her wardrobe simple, t-shirts and pretty skirts, athletic shorts and plaid pajamas but god was Tina still not ready to watch as Mick climbed into the bed of the truck, smoothing her skirt and adjusting the sleeves of her turtleneck sweater(yeah! Mick Moriison in a turtleneck SWEATER).

Tina held the buttery popcorn in her hands and hoped for the love of all things good and holy that her grip was controlled and she didn’t have a chokehold on the poor bag. Mick turned to her with a bright smile and Tina bit her lip to stop the strange strangled noise that crawled up the pits of her expanding heart.

“Excited?” Mick asked, her brown eyes dancing with joy as the reflection of the bright screen before them played with the color. Tina could only nod and smile(please oh sweet merciful lord, please don’t let her be smiling too much because like normal smiling is fine but when-)

“T?” Mick asked and Tina snapped out of her mind.

“Yes?” She breathed out the word like they were suddenly stuck in a world of their own and not in a parking lot surrounded by smooching couples and cars. Mick blinked at her and then leaned forward and Tina’s eyes went WIDE.

OH MY GOD THIS WAS A DATE!

Oh how could Tina be so stupid! Of course this was a date they’re playing fucking 13 Going On 30. Mick knows Tina loves that movie! She knows Tina loves overly buttery popcorn that could put Cammie Morgan in a butter coma. She knows that the quilt they were currently sharing was Tina’s favorite fall blanket and that she loved corny, cheesy dates like drive-ins and movies.

Oh my god she’s leaning in. Okay breathebreathebreathbreathe-

Mick’s hand reached up and Tina wasn’t sure to close her eyes or not but she leaned in anyway and-

Mick’s finger flicked at her cheek and Tina froze, snapping open her eyes as Mick looked down at her index finger and then showed it to Tina.

“Eyelash, sorry.” She smiled and Tina wanted to eat the bag in her hands and forget she existed.

Maybe if she grabbed the next car’s radio cord and a pack of llamas she could-

“So I was thinking,” Mick’s voice whispered into Tina’s ear, the cool mint of her breath fanning on Tina’s cheek as the screen flickered and started playing the movie. “After this we could go grab some ice cream?”

Tina was going to scream. Seriously, she would! Mick Morrison was trying to kill her.

“Sure!” Tina answered quickly and Mick turned to look at her but Tina snapped her attention to the screen.

“Tina-” Mick tried to ask but Tina just shoveled some popcorn into her mouth and smiled like a mad woman as she tried not to choke on kernels.

“I love this movie!” She whispered and then whipped her head back around to look at the screen.

Three movies. THREE WHOLE MOVIES they stayed like that, listening to couples overcome the obstacles in their way and profess their love on the screen for all to see as romantic music swelled and filled the bed of the car and reverberated inside the ever rattling mind of Tina Walters.

Tina thought she was going to go ballistic. Every second or so she would catch one couple or even two sharing a kiss under the dark canopy of the night and whisper ‘i love you’s into the cold air. Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking and more than once she happily volentured to grab more snacks to fill the silence of the truck and to try and quiet the explosive thoughts in her mind.

“Hey Tina I-,” Mick began but Tina just smiled and took the empty soba from between them and winked.

“I’ve got you covered Micky.” She beamed and wiggled out of the truck as swiftly as she could and started to walk off to the concessions booth again.

“Wait Tina,” Mick softly called out but Tina just turned on her heel, smiled and shrugged.

“I gotta go to the bathroom anyway, it’s fine.” She was calm and cool and breezy like a summer wind. Or at least a spring gust. Tina kept the pep in her step as she walked away and then veered off from her path, dodging in between cars and making a beeline for the bathrooms(if she had to face the poor teenager running the concessions booth one more time she was going to bury herself alive out of embarrassment).

Thankfully there was no line this time so there wasn’t a soul around to question anything as Tina scooted around the small building and paced.

What on earth is she doing?! She should be out there enjoying rom coms like any other girl in the parking lot, eating Baby Ruths and Junior Mints until she regrets it in the morning. She shouldn’t be back here behind some smelly bathrooms thinking about how she leaned in, about kissing Mick Morrison. Since when has she ever thought about kissing Mick Morrison?! I mean sure she was smart and pretty and god when she’s going her morning yoga routine or exercising- OH MY GOD TINA WALTERS GET YOUR HEAD ON STRAIGHT!!

Tina paused her pacing and then let out a small string of cackles that led to giggles that led to leaning against the bathroom’s back walls and groaning in frustration. Tina buried her head between her knees, folding her hands behind her neck as she groaned for what felt like forever.

“Are you feeling okay?” Asked the last person on earth Tina wanted to see right now. She looked up and was met with the towering stature of the very girl who’s lips she kept staring at all night long.

Mick looked beautiful, her hair was teased and it framed her face in soft layers, the tight knit fabric of her sweater hugged her chest and arms, leaving almost nothing to Tina’s wild imagination. And with the seeping light of the moving screen shining upon her, bringing every feature Tina loved to light and laying it all out for the world to see. Tina couldn’t take it anymore, she stood up, walked right up to Mick Morrison even though every part of her screamed to turn back, say her stomach hurt and to go home. Forget about the night with a pint of ice cream and toss and turn in bed for forever. Ignore the warmth that burst into her chest as her eyes locked with Mick’s.

“Tina.” Mick started and when Tina opened her mouth Mick raised a hand to stop her….and Tina’s stomach filled with cold acid. Mick closed her eyes tight and Tina felt small, smaller than she had ever felt before in her life. She was no taller than the blades of grass beside her as Mick took a deep breath and squeezed her words out.

“Did I do something wrong?” She cracked one eye open and Tina was nothing but a pile of knocked over building blocks.

“What?!” She cried out and when Mick turned away she reached forward and put a hand on her arms. “No! No, no, no, no, no! Mick- Micky, no you- you haven’t done a thing what on earth-”

“It’s just you’ve been acting all weird and I-”

“-how could you even say that you’ve been perfect a evening if anything-”

“-and I don't know if it’s me or the movies or-”

“Mick!” Tina cried and she didn’t much care who heard her now as her hands trailed down Mick’s arms and held her hands.

“Micky?” She asked but Mick wouldn’t look at her, and it didn’t matter if Tina was never hit again in her life or if she was tortured for the rest of it. Nothing could compare to the absence of Mick’s gaze.

“Mick.” Tina pleaded and Mick finally looked at her, a requiem of warmth futtered it’s way out of the box Tina kept locked deep inside her chest and Tina knew that while it was a shot in the dark, humanity is nothing without a glimmer of hope on the horizon.

“I-...” the words started to fall and Tina was on a crumbling bride at the end of her tower and she had to decide to be buried or jump and see if she could fly. “I have had the most amazing time with you tonight and I just- I just…”

So Tina chose to spread her wings.

She leaned forward and kissed Mick Morrison, it wasn’t sweet or firework worthy. It was small, it was frail, and it was nothing more than a peck.

“I’m sorry.” Those two little words wobbled out from under Tina’s trembling lip as she pulled back, letting go of Mick’s hands as she stared down at the dirt, tears blurring her vision.

“Tina?” Mick’s voice cracked and Tina looked up at her, squaring her shoulders as much as she wanted to hug herself and be nothing more than a pebbing in the grass. But there wasn’t any more room for that as Mick’s lips captured her own. Kissing Tina so feverishly Tina’s few thoughts were how Hollywood could never do this right.

Tina’s hands started to tangle in Mick’s hair as she was pressed up against the wall of the bathroom behind her, Mick’s hands on her waist and trailing down to her hips. Tina only had a moment to suck in a sharp breath of air before Mick’s lips were upon hers again, sloppy and missing their mark on multiple occasions as her strong hands roamed cluelessly along Tina’s body before they found their way farther down than both of them had expected and Tina let out a yelp of surprise.

They both froze, Mick’s hand on her ass and Tina’s eyes wide and looking into hers before Mick stumped back, hands up by her head like Tina was ready to shoot.

“I’m so sorry I-I just that was- I hadn’t meant to,”

"Please don't stop." Tina whispered into the nook of Mick's neck and Tina felt her hand lift and her fingers gently cradles her chin as Mick tilted her head up to face her. Tears glittering in the corners of her eyes and Tina kissed her softly.

It was so at first but turned feverish as Mick returned the gesture, Tina warped her arms around Mick's neck as Mick's hand flew up her waist, taking the bottom of her shirt up with it and Tina closed her eyes and enjoyed what felt like the first and last kiss of forever.

She held onto the memory, cherishing it like something precious(which it was). She pulled closer, her hand tangled in Mick's hair as she sucked in a breath and continued the kiss. Letting soft noises slip into the night as Mick's hands roamed in places Tina only imagined she would in her dearest fantasies. Embracing her like an addiction and craving for her lips, her taste, like a song.

[yaralulu]

so glad i was reminded of this scene so i could be insufferable about it

[roomba-mangga]

Curry pt. i // Curry pt. ii

yeah alright okay. fine. cool. alright. yeah

[governmentmandatedryujinstan420]

I FORGOT TO THROW OUT AFTER THE EPISODE RELEASED NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

[zxal]

Dennis McField Apology Tour

Bonus:

[mitchellpete]

Kinktober Day 17 - Edging

pairing: ethan hunt x f!reader

cw: fwb to lovers?, mentions of drinking, drunk sex (kind of), brief description of injuries, imf agent!reader, edging, nipple licking, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), penetration, overstimulation, crying, cum marking

word count:��1613

kinktober masterlist here.

18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI

–

Ethan was not typically one to tease. It was nice sometimes, but for the most part, he just liked to please you. There was nothing more satisfying than to see you unravel for him from start to finish.

It was different tonight, however, after a few drinks with the team for a well-deserved post-mission celebration. Ethan’s body was aching; he’d taken the hardest hits, as he usually does. The difference about this particular mission, though, was that it was you by his side. Until the very end. You’d limped back to the safe house together, arms around one another, blood still dripping from the various cuts and lashes on your bodies. None of it mattered anymore, though. None of the cuts and bruises and aching pains could take away from the fondness between you and Ethan, the way your relationship—which had started as just a simple dancing among your feelings for one another—blossomed immediately after you helped him save the fucking world. 

You’d been sleeping with one another. Not frequently; the nature of your jobs did not allow that, but at any chance you both had. You kissed, too. Passionately, fervently, like lovers do. But there wasn’t any sort of label, nothing to go by in terms of what you were to one another. You guess you could still just call him your co-worker, who you substantially had feelings for and occasionally made love to. 

Tonight, though, as you fall into bed together, tipsy and giggly, there’s something very different. You’re not quite sure what it is. 

Ethan’s hands aren’t as gentle as usual, his touch eager and almost demanding. His mouth is sweet from the alcohol you’d been drinking, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. 

“Can I try something?” he husks in between kisses.

“Mhm,” is all you mumble against his lips, entranced by the alcohol in your system, his mouth on yours, and his warmth.

He pulls apart, grins, an excited little glint in his eyes. He momentarily looks around, and then visibly gets an idea.

“Can you hang onto the headboard?” he asks softly, guiding you up the mattress. 

You scoot up the best you can until your head hits the pillows, relaxing your body as Ethan settles above you. His hands immediately roam, reaching for your clothes. You aid him in taking them off, and then eagerly reach for his own when you’re completely stripped. He stops you, moves your hands away with a small smile, and takes them off himself. Slips off his jacket, his t-shirt, and then wriggles out of his jeans. 

You giggle, amused, and do your part in holding onto the headboard instead. You’re wondering what it is he’ll do, the uncertainty thrilling. Sex with Ethan was always the same stupor of hot, hungry passion. Lips numbing, tiring each other out. Usually not many words exchanged. It’s different tonight. Your connection to one another feels deeper, more trustful.

Ethan has always respected you. Even the first time you had sex, it was always about you and what you needed. It wasn’t just a need to blow off some steam, to finally give in to the tension; it was his infatuation with you. He was instantly obsessed with pleasing you, and it remained that way every time you had sex. He wasn’t gentle by any means, but he wasn’t rough, either. It was the perfect passionate pace every time. It was like making love. 

The way his arms wrap around your legs to pull you to him is not at all like the usual. You squeal in surprise at his strength, and watch as he brings your core to his middle. Your legs momentarily wrap around his waist as he leans down above you, mouth closing around one of your hardened nipples. He kisses and sucks, eliciting a high pitched moan out of you. One hand comes off the headboard to cup the back of his head as he sloppily kisses at your chest, moving onto your other breast, to your sternum, and back and forth.

You relish in the pleasure that courses through your body, eyes closed, a little smile on your face. Even more so when Ethan’s hand slips in between your bodies to touch your slick center. 

“Ethan,” you gasp out, the thickness of his fingers slipping through your folds.

The pleasure builds up quicker than you can process, your breathing getting heavier against the top of his head as his tongue swirls against your nipple. You squirm when his thumb swipes over your clit, body jerking at the sudden contact, eyes widening. 

It continues to build, your body tensing more and more, and you’re sure you’re seconds away from cumming when Ethan suddenly pulls back. Mouth off, hand off. 

“Fuck,” you whine breathlessly, lifting your head in surprise as he backs away just enough so that your legs untangle from his waist. “I was just about to—what’s wrong?”

He grins, hands still lingering on your legs. “What do you mean?” 

The pleasure floats around in your body, diminishing. Ethan settles on his stomach, spreading your legs apart to face your dripping cunt. You gasp as he places soft, tender kisses to your inner thighs, traveling as close to your center as he can and then trailing them the other way, teasing. 

You realize what he’s doing. 

It’s almost dizzying. Just the thought of getting to do this with him. 

When his mouth slots against you, your entire body goes slack. You try not to thrust against his face, but the orgasm you almost had just a minute ago is still lingering, still on the verge of spilling. Your grip on the headboard tightens. 

Ethan’s mouth is gentle, but you can feel the tip of his finger prodding at your hole. When it slips inside just a little, he pulls back, lips shiny and parted. “Can you hold it for me? Just a little?”

Fuck. 

“H-hold it?” you repeat, feeling him stretch you on his finger. “What do you mean?”

“Try not to cum. Can you do that?” he asks tenderly.

Just his request almost sends you over the edge, but you nod. You grimace when he leans in to swipe his tongue over your clit, the feeling almost too much to hold onto. 

The good thing about having had sex with Ethan multiple times before, is that he grew incredibly accustomed to your body, what reactions he could get out of you, when you were close to cumming. That’s why, when he feels your body tense, and you’re sure you’re really not gonna make it, he pulls back again. 

A frustrated cry comes out of you, loud and whiny. Your fingers slide into his hair, pulling slightly in impatience. 

“First time you do this to me,” you pant, your breathing erratic.

“Just wanted to try something new,” he murmurs against your inner thigh. He presses a firm kiss there, and then sits up. 

Your hand returns to the headboard again, and you watch with hungry eyes as Ethan grasps himself in his fist, cheeks flushed. It’s earth-shattering when he leans in and pushes inside of you. You feel your legs shake, your toes curl, as he sinks in with ease. 

Ethan doesn’t prolong it. He gets right to it; languid strokes at first, and then he increases his pace the more your expression calls for it. It’s still a challenge to hold on but you do it just because he asked. Above you, Ethan admires the pleasure painted on your face. He looks dazed, too, enthralled by how tight you feel around him. 

Your cries get louder as it gets harder and harder to hang on, mixed with the sharp sounds of skin on skin. Ethan suddenly pulls out the moment he feels you clench around him, getting a sob out of you.

Tears well in your eyes. “Ethan—fuck—please,” you plead, sniffling.

He cups your face, leans in to kiss you sweetly. He distracts you for a minute, mouth moving yours gently, and then slips inside of you again. 

It happens a few more times. You lose count after the second time, too intoxicated and overwhelmed with pleasure to even grasp anything but the sudden loss; how you get right to your breaking point and he knows exactly when to pull back. It’s so unlike him. It kind of makes this whole thing hotter, if you didn’t have the very sickening, very urgent need to cum once and for all. In the moment, you’re sure you’ve never needed anything more.

You nearly scream out when it finally tips over the edge. The pleasure crashes against you like a wave, wringing your body against the mattress. Ethan holds onto you, lets you thrash underneath him. He presses kisses to your face as you feel it, his thrusts momentarily slowing to let you breathe. He’s chasing his own high, however, and soon enough resumes his movement. He fucks you through your orgasm, sloppy and untamed, sensitivity immediately clouding your senses. Tears slip down your cheeks as his pace quickens, until it soon crashes for him too. 

He pulls out instantly, spilling his cum all over your abdomen, and his fist. 

Tired and sore, he immediately slumps beside you, trying to catch his breath. Your head rolls over onto his shoulder. 

He glances at you, floating in his high. His brows furrow; he touches your face. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

You wipe at your cheeks. Waves of pleasure continue to swim through you, your body glowing in ecstasy. “No.. that was great, actually.” 

He breathes out, smiling.

You lean your head back against him, sighing happily. “Where did that come from, though?”

[aroaceleovaldez]

the show chb logo was also ripped from fandom, like in the past decade all the official chb shirt had the logo without the circle and then the fandom started doing and the show went for it, sorry your tags reminded me of that

[Link to post/tags in question]

Yeah, I know Delphi Strawberry Service has done more circular-based CHB shirt designs for ages, and I've seen the more circular-based designs floating around for awhile. I think Magicbysab's circular-based CHB shirt designs also predate the show design? Those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head. I understand on a level that if they did base it off fandom designs, particularly if they're basing anything on widespread fanon or fandom-based concepts, it can be difficult to pin down credit or may even seen unnecessary. But if they're going to be doing that I feel like at least they could hire like, a fandom consultant of sorts? Instead of just ripping off from the fandom, hire someone from the community who produces that already so at least there's some recognition and acknowledgement of where it originated.

Heck, in some instances if you ask around in the fandom it's not hard to pinpoint who specifically popularized certain concepts! I could talk for ages about Cherryandsisters being a driving force behind photokinesis!Will, or Saberghatz with plague!Will (tbh between the two they spearheaded a ton of early Will/Solangelo fanon), and I swear Drksanctuary alone is behind like 50% of Alabaster fanon, etc etc etc. People in the fandom know these things! Heck, we know ReadRiordan company knows how to do that kind of thing! They commissioned Viria for the official art, and the UK Riordan newsletter reaches out to fans all the time to feature their work (with credit, they're one of the better ones)! Though in Rick's book tours he did showcase Viria's art (at least with credit) without asking before she got commissioned, and during the Tower of Nero book tours they actually straight up stole a solangelo edit from Pervysloth with completely zero credit (link is to my canon url readriordan parody blog).

I think it doesn't help as well that Rick and his editor allegedly use the fandom wiki in place of a series bible. The PJO wiki is notorious for putting inaccurate information or fanon onto pages at random and having no sources. (What I wouldn't give for the PJO wiki to have frequent book/page sources a la Warrior Cats wiki...) There are what, now almost 18 books in the main series alone? Of an extremely renowned best-selling series that's 20 years old and now being adapted for TV? And they STILL don't have a series bible? That's like, step 1 of writing a series. This kind of reliance of the fandom for resources and concepts definitely isn't new for them.

It just feels so bizarre as to what it says about how the ReadRiordan company views the fandom and the creatives within it. I understand that trying to figure out how to give credit to the concept of "CHB shirt design, but circular!" is difficult, if you even can find out who did that first or popularized it. But if you're going to rip things from fandom, at least find somebody to try and credit? Show that you put in even the tiniest amount of effort? And if you get it wrong and people know, they'll correct you and that's that! But ReadRiordan just keeps trying to actively obscure these kinds of things, even with their own media, not ripped from the fandom, which makes it feel all the worse when it gets pointed out. And a lot of the time the whole reason those concepts get popular is because they're filtered through big names in the fandom! The fandom is a community! We know these people! We can point to them and explain exactly what they popularized! Remember how Velinxi popularized long haired Piper with the heart-shaped flyaways? Goodness only knows how many fandom designs are heavily influenced by Viria and Minuiko and Burdge (and Indigonite and Fuocogo and Ikimaru and Thecottonproject and Joker-ace and Sixofclovers and Vikingmera and Saber and Cherry and and and-). If you are in the community this stuff is easy to find. But Rick and the ReadRiordan company clearly being ~5 years behind with fanon pretty obviously tells me that they're not in the community at all, and aren't bothering trying.

[lemurblog]

i saw this clearly the second i read the word "genre." aka the kind of influence clover and maurice wish they had over kj

[that-one-raccoon]

Owl House Magical Girl! AU, anyone?

[cowboy-kidd]

Comfort Moodboard - Gift

x - x - x

x - x - x

x - x - x

Okay! Like I said, a moodboard for @nothaljordan - this time based off of their blog aesthetic!!

Pt: do not interact: nsfw accounts

[confetti-cat]

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.

[melit0n]

I need to shout about Distraction for a minute, so bear with me.

First off, ouch. Big fucking ouch. That thing has been licking the wound it helped create ever since it came out.

Second of all, the repetition of "it's too late for me" always being the background noise to an otherwise quite quiet song, other than the breakdown, is absolutely diabolical. The breakdown feels like a panic attack. A complete and utter mental breakdown finished with a scream-sob of something that has permeated the whole song; it's too late for me. It's always been too late, even with the help of Her, She who is not like any other and is far more than one could ask for, it's too late.

It's always been too late. She found him in the cold waters, on the verge of drowning in self hatred and tried to pull him up, but he didn't want to get Her hand damp. He is not worthy of it all and he screams for the final time for Her to let go because it's too late.

And then everything stops. We are back to the beginning; the quiet, repeatative beat of an anxious heart.

What makes it worse? Distraction is a loop. Starts on the same chord and ends on the exact same one with the same beat. She comes back again and again but it's still too late.

Distraction is a loop of self hatred laced with the inner turmoil of a Thing that doesn't believe it can ever get better because it fears the help of others. It believes it's not worthy of touch, and so rots in falling further again as it warps into something it never wanted to be; broken into fractions and driven to distraction.

[umeminyan]

o mischievous one, bewitching me at the speed of light ノ your sunburst smile has stolen my heart — go on, keep me ablaze just like this

[tu-es-gegg]

i had a talk abt this yesterday but like its still funny to me people dont know that my baby pip died like one of the first few baby deaths where he didnt come back for a long time and he came back and is going to die/disappear again so basically all my of gaymers group family essentially are this:

[just-a-madrigal]

Do yourself a favor, find a small piece of earth that begs to be made perfect, and do whatever it asks of you. You will thank me

Shadow at the Water’s Edge

Nancy Drew Embroideries

This one’s for Yumi <3 I think this game mastered the scary factor so well. I remember playing this around Halloween and literally being so frightened any time I turned a corner or solved a puzzle (with good reason, @that end nongram 😭). This playthrough was just as fun and enticing, I love how the atmosphere changes between locations, and the music is so beautiful and engaging. Definitely a favorite!!

[lesbianwithchainsaws]

Lowkey once again having that feeling that I wish I would've successfully killed myself when I was younger... isn't that fun (/s). I just feel so scared and overwhelmed about the future, like I'm so uncertain of everything and I feel like a complete failure because nothing I tried before has worked out. And I know logically there's still time, but it feels like I should be better than this. I feel like I haven't really changed that much since being a teenager. I was scared and lonely then, and I'm scared and lonely now. What if I'm always like this and I never figure anything out, and I'm just always a failure. What if nothing ever works out. Fuck