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confetti-cat · 2 months

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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

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cadavercowboy · 1 year

Text

Baked

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Eddie has good intentions...just bad execution.

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: Mentions of period & period symptoms. Drug use (marijuana).

You’ve been together long enough that Eddie knows — more or less — when it’s that time of the month. He hadn’t marked it on the calendar or anything because he’d been too worried you’d think that was a little creepy. But he has definitely made a mental note of it. Even if he hadn’t, there are sure signs to let him know when it’s imminent and warn him to prepare for what’s to come.

The first indication is the increase in your appetite, something he combats by tossing a few extra snacks in the cart during his shopping trip. Then there’s the excessive naps. He often finds you snuggled up in your favorite fuzzy blanket, asleep on the couch like a sweet little kitten; sometimes you’ll burrow into his side or ask to rest your head on his chest, then outright refuse to let go of him and the unusual neediness is just another sign. Most notably though, the over-abundance of sensitivity — both physical and emotional.

So when Eddie finds you standing alone in front of the television, in tears over a documentary about cows, he knows exactly what is happening. And he’d been ready for it. The red sun, as he describes it, will soon be rising.

Eddie gathers you into his arms, lovingly sweeping away the salty moisture that stains your cheeks. His fingers hook your chin and he forces your shiny eyes to meet his, his heart clenching then immediately melting at the abundant sadness he finds there.

“What’s wrong, my angel?” he prods gently.

You sniffle and swallow thickly, knowing how silly Eddie is going to think you are.

“They took him away from his mom,” you hiccup, directing Eddie’s attention to the little black and white calf splashed across the television screen. “He’s only a baby.”

He tries not to laugh at your over-the-top blubbering, he knows better than to poke fun at you when you’re like this. Instead, he hugs you closer and rests his chin on top of your head; joining you in watching the program while the distressed cries of the baby cow spill from the speakers as a farmer marks his floppy ear with a numbered tag and sends him on his way.

“Aw…look,” Eddie coos as he rubs your back in soothing circles. “He’s back with his mama now, see? Look how happy he is!”

Extracting your arm from between your body and Eddie’s, you reach up to scrub your sleeve across your wet cheek. The calf frolics happily around his mother as she grazes, but that doesn’t seem to stop the flow of tears. You make a sound — half sob, half laugh — and Eddie pulls away to observe your swollen, dripping eyes.

“Now what is it?” he wonders, his amused chuckle edged slightly with concern as your face crumples.

“He’s just so cute!”

Eddie cups your head and pulls you into his chest, shushing you quietly as he rocks back and forth. You cry into his chest, unable to control your irrational response to the adorable little bovine. When you mumble an apology to Eddie for how ridiculous you feel, he only reassures you, as is his way.

“Oh, honey,” he tsks. “You’re not ridiculous at all. My girl’s just a little sensitive is all.”

He knows why you’re so sensitive, but he’d never directly acknowledge it. Seeing as he’s a man, Eddie isn’t quite sure it’s his place to bring it up; he’d hate to offend or embarrass you. Regardless, he has his subtle ways of accommodating you. If you’ve ever noticed his amplified tenderness, you’ve yet to let on. Maybe you know and maybe you don’t; either way, Eddie is more than happy for any opportunity to take extra special care of you.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you stretch languidly beneath the overly warm sheets; one leg poking out from under the fabric in an attempt to cool your body somewhat. A sharp pain above your hip makes you wince and you’re reminded that you’ll need to stock up on tampons before this weekend. You yawn and sigh, feeling admittedly refreshed from the nap Eddie had insisted you take after this morning's episode. He’s always so sweet and doting, you have no idea what you’ve done to deserve him.

With your angelic boyfriend in mind, you drag your pliant body from your cozy bed and roll the tightness out of your shoulders before you set off in search of his company. You’ve only just stood up when suddenly you’re hit with an awful odor. The smell is acrid and pungent, undeniably familiar too, though you can’t quite put your finger on why you recognize it. When the ear-splitting chime of the smoke detector reaches your ears, your stomach drops and you race towards the door.

You whip the bedroom door open, instantly met with a smoggy, gray haze. The offensive scent is much stronger now, burning sharply in your nostrils.

“Eddie?!” you shriek, but his rapid footfalls are already on the move.

He’s coughing amid a slew of hissed and frenzied curses and you slowly make your way towards the kitchen, eyes squinted and face covered with the collar of your soft tee. You can barely make out his silhouette when you round the corner, peering through the smokey cloud to watch Eddie frantically waving an oven mitt around. He clears his way to the oven, slamming the controls with a beep so that it turns off.

“Open a window!” he calls to you.

You spring into action, striding to the nearest window and yanking it open. Grabbing a magazine from the scattered stack on the counter, you begin to waft the gathering smoke towards the window. Eddie joins you, utilizing his oven mitt to do the same.

When you’ve got the room somewhat clear, Eddie stands beneath the still-chirping alarm and jabs a long finger upwards to silence the annoyingly loud device. He crouches in front of the oven, eyeing it skeptically before carefully easing the door open. Almost immediately, a thick plume of nearly black smoke billows towards the ceiling and Eddie hacks violently as his arms wave wildly in front of his face.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he mutters to himself as he opens the oven door all the way, moving aside to let the smoke drift towards the open window.

With his discarded oven mitt back in hand, Eddie reaches in and extracts a square tray. He drops it with a clatter on the countertop, small columns of gray still rising from the contents within.

“What the hell is that?” you wonder, leaning around Eddie to get a better look at the blackened object.

“Well,” he begins with a sigh. “They were supposed to be brownies. But they ended up being blackies.”

You laugh, both at Eddie’s stupid joke and the perfectly disgruntled, defeated tone of his voice. He turns to face you then and you notice what he’s wearing. It becomes increasingly hard to take him seriously when you see the black apron tied around his neck, nothing else on his body save for a pair of dark red boxers. The lower portion is decorated with dancing flames and the middle boasts an image of four spectacularly-clad men with their faces painted in a variety of black and white patterns, standing above the orange and yellow gradient text that reads ‘KISS The Cook!’

Eddie studies your face carefully and you know precisely what he’s looking for. The shininess in your eyes or perhaps an imperceptible quiver in your lower lip. He thinks you’re going to be upset about the massacred brownies because he knows your hormones are a little crazy right now. No, he hadn’t admitted that he knows, but after the third month in a row of being served PMS brownies, you’d made the connection. Thankfully for Eddie, you’ve got yourself in check at the moment.

As you observe the brownies more closely, you cringe at the state of them. Eddie is so clearly disappointed and you had hoped perhaps you could reassure him and at least manage to eat some part of his brownies, but the charred tray of goo is indicating otherwise. The treat is utterly unsalvageable.

“What happened?” you ask, placing a supportive palm on the small of Eddie’s bare back.

He huffs and drags a hand through his messy curls, then places a fist on his cocked hip.

“I dunno,” he laments dramatically. “I set a timer and everything.”

While Eddie explains, you glance over your shoulder and look at the oven. Your lips twist into a wry smile. Sure, Eddie had set the timer; he just forgot to start it. The red digits blink almost tauntingly, the glowing ‘0:45’ seeming to ask ‘forgetting something?’ with each flash.

He whips the comical apron up and over his head, mussing up his already disheveled hair as he folds it over his arm and pouts weakly. You take note of Eddie’s glassy, reddened eyes and you suspect you may know just why he had forgotten to start the timer. He glances your way, suspicious of the accusatory way you raise your eyebrows at him. Your knowing smirk only seals the deal.

“Okay, so I smoked a bowl and burned your brownies,” he admits with exasperation, sassily crossing his arms across his tattooed chest. “I got distracted.”

Giggling loudly, you lean in and smack playfully at Eddie’s entwined arms. You drag your fingers over the flexing muscle in his left forearm, then wrap them around his wrist and pull his hand free to entwine his fingers with yours.

“Distracted by what exactly?”

The guilt that flashes in Eddie’s eyes is undeniable and adorably comedic all the same. His irises flick restlessly from side to side and he flounders, lips opening and closing as he debates whether or not to tell you. He begins to blush and glances down at the floor — or towards his feet, rather — and you find your answer without Eddie even giving it.

“Aw, shit,” Eddie laments, releasing your hand and childishly stomping his feet as the forgotten apron falls to the ground. “They’re ruined!”

He raises his leg, bent at the knee so he can grab his own foot and present it to you, offering you five purple-tipped toes. He drops the appendage then does the same with the other, showing you the remaining five toes; two void of color and three painted but regrettably smudged.

You recognize the lavender shade, the same one you’d used on your own nails last night. Evidently, you’d left the bottle of polish out and Eddie had gotten ahold of it. Clicking your tongue, your heart twists at Eddie’s forlorn expression; brown eyes like giant saucers and a frown so deep it’d make even the best clown envious.

“Wanted us to match,” Eddie utters churlishly.

He scooches closer to you, bracketing his much larger feet on either side of yours and wiggling his colorful toes.

“We can fix ‘em,” you offer.

Eddie lights up, his grin unimaginably wide. He clutches your upper arms in his long fingers and jostles you a bit in his excitement. You turn under the pressure of Eddie’s hands which spin you in the direction of the living room then proceed to march you forward ahead of him. He collapses into the carpet then drags you down with him.

Seated at his side, you watch Eddie shake the tiny bottle of polish with much more vigor than necessary. He twirls the cap and extracts the brush without wiping the excess off, you don’t even have a chance to advise him otherwise before Eddie has his foot propped up on the edge of the low coffee table, toes pointed skyward and his body curled over itself like a feral animal.

Eddie slathers the small nail with far too much polish and you have no doubt he’s likely to smudge it before it ever has a chance to dry. You admire his dogged determination; dark brows furrowed in concentration while the pink tip of his tongue peeks out between the prison of his plush lips. He makes several attempts to fix his previously smeared toenails before you step in and offer to help him. Eddie is quick to agree, promising to make you a consolation batch of brownies in return for the favor.

Joseph Quinn Masterlist ✦ Writing Masterpost

#another fic where eddie gets high and bakes for u and SO WHAT #a rare occurrence where i write something under 5k !!!#fun fact: the cow part is based on RL one time i knew my period was coming bc i sobbed over a video of a tiny cow #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x reader fanfiction #eddie munson x reader fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn fanfic #joseph quinn x reader #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic

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sunshinediaz · 4 months

Text

fuck it friday 🎄

what a day. WHAT A DAY.

have a lil snip of deck the family. it'll be finished tonight or tomorrow, so this might be the last lil thing i share before i post it in full, how exciting!!!

He finds Margaret sitting at the island drinking a mug of tea in the dark, with only the light from the miniature Christmas tree illuminating the space between them. He says nothing as he flicks on the light above the sink and swallows back four pills, gripping the countertop after he finishes his glass and sets it aside. “Why are you still awake?” “I was making sure you were going to come back,” she answers. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to.” He’s sure it isn’t meant as a slight, but it feels like one and he scoffs, anyway. “I was always going to come back,” he says, turning around to face her. “This is my home. My husband and our son are here. I was never going to stay away for long.” She doesn’t say anything for a moment, holding the mug between her hands and watching the liquid ripple as Eddie walks nearer. If he’s going to have a conversation with her, he wants to be on even terms. “Do you love him?” “Yes,” he replies without hesitation. “I love him more than you’ll ever know.” “He deserves that.” Eddie nods. “He does. He deserves to have anything he wants.” He grips the edge of the counter separating them. “And there’s nobody in the world who can give it to him better than me.” “I believe you.” She smiles, lets go of the mug, and reaches both hands out toward him. He gathers them between his because if she’s offering to meet him halfway he thinks he should meet her in the middle. “Thank you for loving him.” “I don’t need anything from you.” Her smile widens. “I know, Eddie,” she says, quietly. “Neither of you do. Take it anyway, please.”

tagged by @exhuastedpigeon, @callmenewbie, @hippolotamus, @try-set-me-on-fire, @devirnis, @daffi-990, @thewolvesof1998, @jamespearce9-1-1, @theotherbuckley, and @wikiangela, mwah

tagging @jeeyuns and @spagheddiediaz <3

#sorry for being mia lately i wrote 15k in 5 days and have to write another 5k between now and christmas even #and i'm very nearly there but it's weighing on me lmao #but it's fun! and it's cool! and i hope when i post this monster of a fic everybody enjoys!#tag games

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quinloki · 10 months

Text

Birthday Request Event

"It's my birthday and I'll write what I want to \o/"

Gift Details ♥ Reader: Cis-fem!sub Reader Character: Donquixote Doflamingo Kink: #15 Bratty Reader #17 Degradation/Humiliation Prompt: #20 "Kiss me like you missed me." Gift Giver: @thus-spoke-lo

Summary: Doflamingo up and left you without and word, and upon his return home expects you to kiss him like you missed him. Instead, you snub him, and storm off to your room. Only to have the king of the castle storm in behind you.

Content Notes: degradation, dirty pet names, attitude from the reader and Doffy, string bondage, rough oral sex, edging

This birthday party is 18+, consensual unless explicitly stated otherwise, and BYOB

The large hand almost engulfs your face, forcing you to look at him. You can see the vein in his forehead throbbing, despite the wide grin on his face. He’s not amused at all, and frankly, you didn’t want him to be. You were mad.

He had left without a word. For days. You didn’t even get a single word from him over transponder snail and had to find out he was gone on business from fucking Trebol of all people. Which meant you didn’t just get a simple report, you had to humor him for nearly an hour, and he would not stop talking.

Nothing against Trebol, but you hadn’t been in any sort of humoring mood when you’d learned your one and only had just up and ghosted without a single word.

Upon his return Doffy had explained to you that the business at hand had been severely urgent, and that he had been well and truly indisposed during the time he was gone. He wasn’t one who was overly interested in explaining himself, in any capacity, so the fact that he went that far should have been enough.

Normally, it would be.

But normally he didn’t leave you for days at a time without so much as an assurance that he wasn’t dead somewhere.

Implying that someone could take him down had been the wrong choice of words on your part, and now here you were. Face held, and an angry lover in front of you.

Your brows knit, anger welling up in you in return, and you pull your face away, batting his hand aside. You’re painfully aware of the fact that he allowed both actions. He’s always allowed you a level of bodily autonomy he didn’t have to, given his strength and position.

“I was worried. You’re dealing with all manner of people and who knows what lucky bastard fate’s set against you?” You grumble, crossing your arms and turning away. “I did miss you, but – ah!” You feel the strings over take you, binding your body, and forcing your arms behind your back in practice movements.

“Doffy! Let me-aaahhhhmm-shit.” You struggle at first, but his tongue against your neck, and his hand down your pants was too much all at once. He’s persistent, but gentle, and the gentleness is raising your temperature and addling your brain as he deftly teases your clit.

You can hear his laugh flutter against your skin as his voice threads through your ear. “My, my, you’re already soaking wet. My little whore wants to talk back to me? After I already gave her more than she deserved by explaining myself?

“It seems my favorite brat needs a lesson in manners.” He growls, a thick finger sliding into your mouth and pressing against your tongue before you can say anything in protest.

One of the biggest reasons that Doflamingo was able to manipulate you, had almost nothing to do with the fact that he was incredibly good at manipulating people. It was because you were weak to being bound, used, and pump full of either pleasure or pain. Your connection ran deeper than merely shared twisted carnal desires, but you were certain his reaction to your sass was because he had missed you too.

In more ways than one.

And this would handle two issues at once.

You could hear the sloppy wet sounds from your mouth and your thighs, the heat building in your core as you couldn’t hope to squirm away. Your breath was hot and coming out in huffs around his finger and you shiver in the threads around you as the pleasure was making your legs shake.

“ ‘Offy, ‘lease.” You mumble around his finger.

“Mmm, no.” He answers, finger leaving your clit just as you were certain you were going to cum. He cleans his finger off by wiping it on your shirt before he rips the garment away from you. Threads slip between you and the rest of your clothes, ripping them to pieces and leaving the tattered bits to hang from the other threads that held you.

“Not a word.” He growls, taking his finger out of your mouth and walking away. You can hear the shift of cloth from behind you. You aren’t surprised when his strings move you, to see him seated on the edge of your bed, nothing on except his feather coat.

He brings you between his knees, his hand pushing your head to his semi-hard cock. “Welcome me home.” He commands.

You’re already on thin ice, but you’re also still irritated with him, so you give his shaft a few licks and a kiss before you look up at him and stick your tongue out. The devilish grin on his face doesn’t have the throbbing vein to go with it and he laughs.

“I do love that about you,” he admits, grabbing your hair roughly and shoving himself into your mouth. “But it was not a request, my love.”

You do your best to adjust quickly to the assault. His dry cock stuck to your lips a few times until you were able to get everything nice and wet. The discomfort gave way to a more comfortable set up, and Doffy let go of his grip on your hair as you began to suck and lick him properly on your own.

“Much better.” He muses, shifting his hips every now and then to drive himself a little deeper into your throat. “That’s how you greet me properly, slut. I was too kind to request a simple kiss, it seems.”

You lean back to say something, but before you can even squeak, his hand is in your hair again, pushing you back down.

“I said, ‘not a word’, and I meant it, my sweet bird.” He hums, shoving his hard cock down your throat until you’re gagging and crying from the actions. He moves in long enough strokes to allow you to breathe, even giving you a moment to cough and sputter a few times before continuing. He never allows you enough time to speak, and after a few moments he pushes almost painfully deep, forcing your nose into his pubes and forcing stars across your vision.

He pulls out to you sputtering and coughing, tears and snot and drool sliding down your face before he adds his cum to the mess. He smears the mess around your face and down to your chest, pinching your nipples roughly and forcing a yelp from you before he stops.

“Speak, brat, what do you say?” He asks, leaning back and glaring down at you.

“Th-thank you, sir.” You gasp, coughing once more to clear your throat. “Wel… welcome home.” You add quietly, heat flushing through your body.

Strings lift you up, forcing you to straddle his large waist, spreading your legs wide. You can feel his dick twitching against your slit.

“Better,” he muses, pulling a larger scrap of your ruined clothes free and using it to clean up your face. “Now, my sweet little bird, prove you missed me and kiss me accordingly.” He commands.

You can feel some of the threads go slack and you’re able to move your arms again. You reach out, cupping his face in your hands and bringing the two of you together.

“I missed you, Doffy, you bastard.” You say with a genuine smile, closing the small distance between you and kissing him. Softly at first, peppering him with a few brief kisses before parting your lips and urging him to devour you in return.

He held you in place, kissing you sweetly, as you felt the tip of his hard cock prodding your slick folds, pushing slowly into your pussy. You gasped and moaned into the kiss, welcoming the dangerously thick intrusion that promised to properly apologize to you for his extended absence.

Check out the event - requests are accepted until 7/31/2023 EST

#birthday request event #donquixote doflamingo #x reader #reader insert #doflamingo x reader #one piece drabble #THUS SPOKE LO and so I did my best to deliver!#thank you for this gift my lovely friend \o/#I could've gone on for another 5k words - but I am have been trying to limit myself.#I usually struggle to write a bratty reader but I think I did good enough ^_^

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