#but i wrote it late and i think it's fun

[hastalavistabyebye]

Holos #3

Ao3 version

The four Marshals of the GAR were having a holo meeting with some of the High Generals, like they had regularly to coordinate the war efforts. Fox had sent his reports to one of the Jedi in advance, he very rarely could attend himself. General Mundi was stuck at the medbay, which meant Bacara was alone, this time. Neyo was only accompanied by General Allie. Ponds and Windu were currently leading a recon with their Lightning.

It was the perfect time to get back at his ori’vod for that last holocall they had with their training batch. It could also serve as a “thank you for not dying or something”. One blast, two clankers and all that. 

Neyo briefly looked down at his comm and sent the proper message, before concentrating back on what Bly was saying (and waiting for Bacara’s reaction). Ideas to fix their problems for coordinating clean-up after a big battle, very interesting. Bacara was giving him the slight frown of judgment. Not important, he still checked his comm. Koon was giving some good insight. 

There it is ! 

Bacara had frozen, just for a second, at the sight of the holovid Neyo sent him. When it finally reached his brain, he started coughing, trying as best he could to hide his reaction. And the slight blush shading his cheeks that was evident even through the holo’s blues. He promptly excused himself under the confused look of the five other people on the call and cut the sound of his comm while getting out of frame. Cody and Bly were exchanging very perplexed looks, while the three Jedi present were showing evident signs of worry. This was completely out of character for the marine. 

Neyo was gloating under his perfect sabacc face. It was an even better reaction than everything he had hoped for. 

Next to him, General Allie discreetly gave him a “what did you do ?” look, devoid of any judgment as always, just by simple curiosity. To which Neyo gave his best expression of “Nothing, sir”. It was a very good one, even for the high Vode standard. One of the best really. That only amused her, but she let the topic drop and started the conversation again. She knew better than to mingle into siblings’ maihem. 

Neyo couldn’t have used that one video better. He was so glad he recorded Bacara’s reaction.

-

[A holocam recording from a trooper’s helmet, shaky from the vod's movements. After a few seconds it stabilized, as if they had stopped running, hidden behind covers, and focused on a trooper with Commander Ponds’ markings. He’s standing on a droid tank, firing down on the clankers around him with one hand while throwing a grenade inside the tank with the other. Without waiting a second, he’s jumping away from the tank, still firing on the B1s to clear his path. He swiftly lands in a roll before getting back on his feet and starts running back into the conflict. An explosion lights up the horizon behind him. 

Out of frame, someone, Commander Neyo, is chuckling. He can be heard shouting “Show off !” before the recording cuts off.]

Inspired by the tags on some of my other ficlets for those two, from @whiskygoldwings (who reminded me that yes, Bacara would very much like Ponds' competency) and @clonemando (who gave me the idea for an inappropriately timed video message. Even if it was about Bacara sending Ponds a hilarious gif of a frog flopping down a hill in the middle of a meeting... Hope you don't mind the creative liberty I took xD)

Because I do in fact absolutely love all of you guys comments on my ficlets and will take inspiration from them (it's a threat). (So yes please don't hesitate to send ideas my way.)

[phonification]

ive been thinking about taco and balloon forming a little alliance post s1/ pre s2 where they'd (begrudgingly) work together planning on how to break into hotel OJ to steal stuff to take back to their makeshift camp like food, blankets, pillows, etc,,, anything that could be useful to them

[honeycreammilkshake]

i wonder if, in another world where sukuna had said yes and yuuji did take blobkuna back with him, they would watch movies together.

sukuna criticizes all of them and seems to be into only the mindless slasher or horror ones (the gorier the better) but one day yuuji puts on something more serious. sukuna complains the whole time as he sits in yuuji's cupped hands, but then the brat stops arguing with him suddenly and goes quiet during the sad part of the film.

it's not the film that moves sukuna. he didn't even bother to pay attention enough to really know what's going on. but for some reason, when yuuji starts crying, hot tears that drip right down on sukuna, the former king of curses can't look away and he doesn't realize until much later that his own eye is wet as well.

he denies it. he makes fun of yuuji for crying. maybe he even licks yuuji's tears off his wrist just to be gross and rile him up. but he can't stop thinking about how close he felt to yuuji in that one moment, almost like they were sharing bodies again, and maybe he would like to go back to living inside of yuuji. if only to make him cry instead of the movie doing it. or maybe he just likes feeling yuuji's emotions. maybe being inside of yuuji is the closest he can come to feeling those emotions for himself. because maybe it's not such a weakness after all.

[rowanisawriter]

wip wednesday (finally)

i found a snippet i can share without forty pages of accompanying context because of how obscure the AUs that haunt me are lol here is achilles being sad in troy from an upcoming chapter of glass slipper

.

He isn’t entirely sure how long they’ve been here, fighting and waiting for fighting. Sometimes it feels like he was born here on the sand, listening to the familiar crash of wave after wave on the shore. Here, the sounds of the water mix with the always chattering, running, cleaning, clamoring, drinking, laughing, crying soldiers in the camp. He can’t pull apart the sound of the waves from the sounds of the soldiers. Dimly, he knows Phthia’s waters sound the same, but the way the camp’s ambient noise has woven in with the ocean’s makes him feel as though he’s on an alien planet, that this isn’t a real ocean, that these aren’t real people.

[anghraine]

Aww, Ash admitted to me when we were discussing Star Wars opinions that she's not only thought about these things before, she's actually really feeling like using her advanced creative writing degree to write ...................... fanfiction, and has actually done so in the past.

me, shoving my 67 SW fanfics on AO3 under the bed: Oh hey, awesome! That sounds really interesting.

[mamamouches]

SAGAU except they're aware of what goes on when you go into the character menu???

Particularly when they pray as you hop onto the artifacts menu to raise em, whether is for for them, another character to which some might try to purposely mess the rolls up bc oops! looks like they can't use that now! :) guess they'll have to wait., or just to make space for more bc HOW IS YOUR ARTIFACT STORAGE FULL ARE YOU OKAY??? Σ(・∀・；)

Whenever you raise their artifacts they kinda feel bad if it rolled into the wrong subs when you raise it with them and would either apologize or say that it'll roll better on the next one, they know it will!! (it did not 😔)

That or they don't bc they felt silly and wanted to spite you so guess you gotta do a few more runs to try again teehee 😗👉👈 they eventually roll a ridiculously amazing artifact at some point, but just this once!

(or y'know the opposite where there's always this one character you always use to raise artifacts bc they always get the best rolls and best subs? yeah imagine them celebrating w you at how good the stats rolled too!!)

Kinda like how if you try to make gear in tkrb there's a chance of it shattering (therefore failing) instead of being able to create one and when that happens the character you brought with you for those will say things like "oh no, it broke! i'm so sorry :(" or "i-it's okay!! let's try again...!" or you just flat out hear sobbing noises bc your new feather low rolled all 5 into defense FLAT 😭 BASICALLY THAT YEAH

[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.

[stardestroyer81]

Did y'all see yesterday's Starfield strip? 💙🏳️‍⚧️✨

(Pssst... you can get this as a print or on a t-shirt over on my Redbubble store!)

[ruelpsen]

hhhhhhh i need someone in my fandom be into burps bc i neeeeeed burping headcannons for the guys i like😭😭😭😭 i cant make them myself and i know i’ll never get them:’)

Anon, I see you and feel this so much. It's hard being into something a bit more out there kink-wise or fandom-wise, but the intersection of both is even tougher. Believe me, I know how much it sucks for there to not be anything out there!

BUT while it might not be optimal, not all hope is lost. It never hurts to ask around in kink spaces if anyone else is into [x media]. Or alternately, simply try daydreaming. It might sound silly, but a good dose of fantasizing and seeing where your mind takes you can be a great way to come up with hcs. You don't have to do anything more with them or share them (though you always could)- sometimes there can be something enjoyable about finding kinky joy in daydreams all for yourself.

[zukkacore]

This is kinda stupid bc it’s not a cringefail excited gushing abt IYWD it’s honestly more like. Been feeling very insecure bc it’s just like SO earnest n raw n putting it out there was rly scary n like im proud of it I super am and everyone has been really kind

but also I feel so weird being so vulnerable I feel like maybe too easy on Porter bc me and my silly 8 Jaces Porter loves every Jace this is not to meant to be taken as like. That’s enough. That’s an excuse. In my mind it’s just as bad. I don’t know if that translates. That like. Yeah soft soft yearning longing yearning IYWD but there’s also something like unendingly cruel or tragic abt it too? Does that come across? It’s like. The memories are love to a degree, but tbe love didn’t change anything even if it existed. they’ve been dead since the beginning. There’s no changing what happens. Is it charitable to even assume love was there at all. Am I being too hard on myself. Am I too close to the project. It WAS very soft and that DOES feel like a strange project tho throw into our fun little mutual circle in which we love to watch these old men be awful to each other

[carcarrot]

well the poll hasnt ended yet but im sorry once again to those of you that wanted me to be more responsible. im seeing those bitches again as close as i possibly can

[dawnthefluffyduck]

Drawing of nobody in particular

[rabble-dabble]

and by the way i fucking deserved better. you came back with your hand held out and asked me to love you again like i was a fool, like you knew i wanted you to do but you forgot friendship is a two way street and i loved you deeper than you loved yourself. i heard myself in your words and i knew the answer before you asked the question because i spent a year grieving and a year growing and another two years healing and three more years forgetting and you sent me a message asking me to forgive you as if i already hadn't done so. you asked to try again and i almost became the fool that did it because once upon a time we were best friends then we weren't and i cried at night wishing you'd come crawling back to say those words to me again. and i thought of all the ways i could tear you apart with my teeth before carefully mending you back together with my sparkly glue and my shaky sowing needle.

but in reality i knew if i let you in again that i could forgive you but i'd never be able to forgive myself. i'd be looking into the past and spitting into the face of the kid who gave up everything he felt about you to become me and i needed to let you go like the sand between my cupped hands. the ocean cleans away the grit and leaves seashells in them. its a reminder that there are still things to find and cherish. i deserve to love the world and you will not be a part of it. i am not sorry for that.

[lesbianwithchainsaws]

First time making an edit of any kind, but they are everything to me <3

[lethalhoopla]

Okay so while everyone's making killer theories and observations about the teasers we have for Dreadwolf on top of piecing together more and more of the lore and imagery from Inquisition and 2 and even Origins, I just needed to put this observation of my own down as well.

So, the final, incomplete, Solas mural in the rotunda, right?

Clearly, the dragon slayed with the sword, and a.... beast, of some sort. I've seen it referred to as a wolf, a dragon in and of itself, and just some representation of the Inquisition itself.... maybe.

But that's always not quite fit for me. It seems odd that Solas, who is beyond skilled at painting and iconography/symbology, would make something so…. hard to parse. And granted- this was clearly roughed out in a rush, to put it lightly. He's left at this point, the mural forever unfinished.

But in Tevinter Nights, it's described specifically (as written by Lukas Kristjanson):

"The eighth and final panel of the fresco, meant to commemorate the battle against the blighted magister Corypheus, was unfinished. It showed only rough shapes, outlines...."

"... The story was well known- the Elder One, the false god Corypheus, had torn a hole in the sky to steal power from the heavens. He couldn't be killed until his blighted dragon was dead, and the Herald, the Inquisitor, had somehow countered with a dragon of their own. And there was a dragon on the panel, with an Inquisition blade in its neck. But according to the story, both creatures had fallen first, leaving the final victory to the Inquisitor.

But here, unfinished, was the outline of a beast that stood over both dragon and sword. This was not the battle, or the victory. This was after. And the beast was not a dragon. The outline alone might have allowed that assumption, but now, filling with black and red, it was something other. The creature was reptilian, but also canine. The snout was blunted and toothy, but edges came to a point in houndlike ears. [.....] revealing scales and tail, and paws with talons. It looked like two figures painted on either side of a pane of glass, then viewed together, their forms confused. A wolf that had absorbed a dragon, and now stood crooked over all."

Now, without getting too deep into spoilers for that short story (I really recommend it, and the rest of Tevinter Nights!), the depiction could be warped by what happens in the story (and is unfolding in that scene). But due to the reason it's warped, what 'colors' it, I think that the depiction is still accurate (it just becomes a bit more Spicy, let's say). I think that what Solas was starting was a creature like that - a wolf, that absorbed a dragon.

Of course, the question then is what that means.

As lore's revealed over the series, dragons aren't just associated with Archdemons, or even with the potential legends of qunari 'origins' (as dragonkin). Dragons are also specifically associated with the Evanuris - from the fact that only those as powerful as might-as-well-be-god mages could shapeshift into dragons, to their personal symbolism, to hints that different archdemons might be connected to each one (their numbers match, for one...)

Was it Solas leaving some hint as to who, what he was, then? The Dreadwolf, but also the Trickster God? Perhaps how despite simply attempting to free/help his people (he speaks of the loyal, steadfast wolf in the game more than once, wise and wonderful), he was elevated to the status of legend and god (dragonhood)? Was it symbolizing the blended might of the Inquisition, both protector Wolf and godlike Dragon? Some blend thereof, or extrapolation beyond?

Fuel for thought, for sure. But beyond that... the silhouette kept reminding me of something.

It took me a little too long to realize - it wasn't until I was idly staring at the Steam startup image for it while waiting for Origin to hurry up and connect that it hit me.

It's.... it's right there on the box/start screen.

It's... way, way closer to the creature Solas had begun to depict than what we've seen in dragon silhouettes in the past. And I get it- even as I write this, I hesitate, because I mean, the whole silhouette included has wings, right?

(sidenote, but major props to whoever designed this piece, the details are so good, including the fade/fireball/comets shooting off the 'wings' to look like support bones for wing webbing)

That's why I hadn't really thought about it before. But when that hit me, I went back to look at dragon silhouettes in previous games, and I mean-

That's the usual Origin one - and yeah, that's.... way more narrow a snout, though of course you're still getting that dragon spine spike along the neck. The neck itself is far more narrow, too, and its teeth more needlelike.

Okay, what about DA2?

Alright, now we've got some framing that is like DAI. (also, more props for the designers, and the silhouettes of Kirkwall friends/foes, hot damn).

But that face - the dragon's face. I keep catching on it. DA has a really great track record of being pretty specific about its silhouettes, symbols, and general representations, at least where it matters.

The dragon-made-by-silhouette in the Inquisition cover art is significantly blunted in its snout, the neck much broader, shortened in horn (or ear), and even the angle of horn (ear??) is different from past dragon iconography.

I dunno. I definitely don't think it's unreasonable to leave it at artistic representation/liberty, it just ended up a bit rounded, whatever. But where I get less inclined to leave it at that is when coming back to this final incomplete mural panel.

... It's all of it. The down-rounded snout, the way the teeth are depicted, the horn-ears, the spikes-that-could-be-fur, the obviously shorter and wider neck, the over-exaggerated sternum bone that strikes as dragon (/reptilian) before you think it could also be wolf rib cage-

It's.... close. Awfully, curiously close. At the very least, the Inquisition splash art feels like it could be the middle step between dragon and this. The splash is dragon, but wolflike - this is wolf, but dragonlike.

........... now, why the heck does this matter? Well, maybe it doesn't to most people, haha. But I'm an imagery and lore-reference obsessed nerd, and Dragon Age really does go hard with it's laid lore and hints of the future. So I can't help but ask-

Is the mural really depicting the Inquisition Defeating Corypheus?

... even the Tevinter Nights story, the way it's phrased casts some murkiness.

"The story was well known...." ".... This was not the battle, or the victory. This was after."

.... With dragons representing the Evanuris, perhaps.... is this instead a note, a hint, left depicting Solas' intent? To slay the dragon, the true dragons, what remains of the Evanuris after he tears down the Veil - because it would not only cause chaos, but also release them from the prison he'd made via the creation of the Veil?

Is the dragon-wolf not the Inquisition, but Solas, or rather - more importantly - Fen'Harel?

The shape of the maw, the way the ears point back, the trailing scruff/magic along the neck 'spine'....

Even the way the rips are traced, and the paw is drawn-

Hmmm.

Hmmmmmmmmm.

... I think it's depicting more than Corypheus' defeat.

But too, there's two other elements that keep rolling around in my mind with all this-

) "... On the mural, all Messere would say is, 'Skyhold is [their] fortress' (meaning of course the Inquisitor). 'These are [their] actions.' "

If these are their actions........ how does the potential for this image to be depicting the downfall of elven gods play into the picture (literally)...?

And thus, the second thought:

2. ) On that very same splash image for Inquisition, the silhouette of the dragon (with hints of wolf) is made via the energy of the Mark coming off the Inquisitor's hand. The dragon-ish creature is of the Inquisitor's making.

The creature is what the Inquisitor has made. Their actions. The mural, a depiction thereof; their choices, their efforts, their impact.

Their impact - a changed Solas... or, perhaps, one all the more committed to his cause. Fen'Harel, or a wolf-dragon hybrid, roaring at a slain dragon, sword of the Inquisition buried deep.

Trespasser, revealing just how much further Solas' network of spies and agents has expanded through the Inquisition. And whether through friendship/love or rivalry/antagonism, Solas coming away from it with his determination redoubled, his mission certain.

Whether it was intended to depict the effect of the Inquisitor on things they don't yet grasp, or their affect on him and his intent to bear out his mission........... I think this mural's about a lot, lot more than just the defeat of Corypheus.

[cherrylight]

hey question: if i go back to an old self insert, like one that was sort of the key reason i started this blog in the first place, would that be okay...

i ask because i cannot for the life of me use any self insert excitedly or anything, but with this old s/i i can! because she's so fun and she makes me so happy and i get excited, and then i think of selfship stuff with her and i get even MORE HAPPY wahhh i miss her >_<