#i may do that one another time though

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

💙❤️Happy Holidays!❤️💙

[mariyekos]

One of the things that makes me feel crazy on DMC5 replays is the way V phrases his request to Dante.

He doesn't say "we need your help to stop the demon." He says "A powerful demon is about to resurrect, and we need your help, Dante." The implication seems to be that V needs Dante's help to stop it...but if you've played it before, that's not what he's really asking. V needs Dante's help in order for the resurrection to take place. Because until Urizen is weakened V has no chance of rejoining him, so he needs Dante's help to weaken Urizen so he's primed for merging and bringing about Vergil's resurrection. The "we" V refers to could also absolutely be both V and Urizen in that case, instead of just some general "we" of humanity. So he's not really asking for help to stop the resurrection, but instead to bring it about, hiding the truth in plain sight and careful wording.

The DMC 5 localization can be wonky in some places, but in other places it just shines. "We need your help, Dante." Not to stop it. He never says that. It's to bring about the resurrection itself.

[electroniccollectiondonut]

I have not been in this fandom long enough to reasonably judge others' takes however. "EPIC fans are so silly to characterize odysseus as feeling guilty for his actions don't you know he's a war criminal" is definitely a wild one. like first of all to each their own so settle down and let people enjoy things ok. and secondly making choices with a bad outcome, even knowingly and deliberately, does not exclude the possibility of feeling bad about it later. in fact it makes for a much more in depth character because then you get to explore what he does or doesn't feel guilt over, and why, and if that guilt ever edges into regret or not.

[coriander-candlesticks]

I was pouring a promised libation out to Hermes, Apollo, Aphrodite, and Dionysus this afternoon (I'd asked them for help with a personal matter involving a sibling) and as I was looking up at the sky talking about the situation I saw three hawks start to circle something a little ways in the distance. Hawks aren't exactly uncommon here but it had been a while since I'd seen any, let alone three at once, so it caught my attention.

And while I was trying to figure out what type of bird they were (not an eagle, too short a neck to be a vulture, etc) one of them swooped down into a neighbor's backyard and back up along the tree in my backyard, close enough that, if a branch weren't in the way, I would have been able to see its feather markings. While hawks were somewhat usual, experiencing that certainly was not. So, of course, when I got inside I looked up if any Greek gods are associated with hawks.

And, of course, Apollo is.

I've been thinking a lot about the difference between "this is just a Thing That Happens" and a sign so it was nice to see a direct example of how something differs when it's coming from a god.

[affluent-havoc]

Ramble time about Makoto and a little mini headcanon I came up with cus why not B]

Sometimes, I like to believe that Makoto gets really deep into stuff. Basically him in his own little world, hyper-focused to the max such as him cleaning, research, planning. Stuff like that. In the peak level of him in this state, he'd go, burst into a room, rummage around for anything he might need, and leave all while anyone who was in the now ransacked room is just 100% ignored. Bursting into rooms with the determination of the Kool-Aid Man (def not the strength tho) Makoto doesn't even remember that there were people in the room either. He could have been in a room with 58 other people for instance and if you quizzed him on how many people were in that room he'd just blank out like "People? What people?" This applies to whoever he lives with as an adult as well as way back with his parent's and sister. I can see his parent's never getting why he'd zone out like this. Like, they've tried to get it cus they of course wanna understand this weird part about their oldest child. They never really succeeded with it though and just accepted it as one of his weird quirks. Meanwhile, Komaru teased the shit about it to him cus of course she would. After all, it's the little sister privilege to completely dunk on the older sibling. 'Tis the law. Plus, it's not like it's the biggest piece of ammo she has on her older brother. This is Makoto we're talking about after all. Also, cus why not, (might as well be a BIT self-serving hehehe) I'm slipping in my mini headcanon of Makoto, Kyoko, and Byakuya living together casually in the same apartment/small house. Plus, it's funny imagining these two experiencing Makoto's little moments like this. Feel Kyoko would be more used to Makoto basically forgetting her existence when he gets into these hyper-focusing grind moments. Even when she first learned about it, I doubt it'd affect her much. Like, what is she gonna do? Have a little grudge for a solid week and a half with her roommate and lowkey boyfriend? And, besides, what idiot would have a grudge going on for that lon- oh right... Byakuya exists. Yeah, unsurprisingly, the heir is the type to be petty as shit about something like this. Has 100% without fail been disappointed to some extent and bummed out whenever he gets ignored like this. Or ignored in general. At the end of the day, he's a bit of an attention whore (the bit taking it lightly) It's his tsundere way to act like a needy, bastard cat. He'd basically take it personally while Kyoko's shaking her head cus he's taking it personally and Byakuya's all like "Tch. Stop making the assumption I'm taking it personally" and they go back and forth about it during the week all while Byakuya side eyes Makoto who's very much not aware he's even done anything wrong. His little stunt only happened once that week and he doesn't even remember Byakuya being in the room with him while he was rushing about their living quarters looking for junk like some toothpaste and a hanger. And this goes on until the week ends until Byakuya's basically over it, Kyoko gives him the whole "I told you so" look which for her is just her regular expression but with one of her brows slightly raised which she may or may not be actively trying to raise it higher but can't cus that's as far as it goes. Also this is a common occurrence for them all at least once a month. Oh, and the week is the minimum amount of time for Byakuya to hold a petty grudge for and they've lasted way longer ^v^

[shewhoeatssand]

they are similar

[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.

[7fff00]

OH my god i just spent. literal HOURS cleaning out the fridge and dutifully emptying out even the extremely gross forgotten containers of things into the compost instead of just trashing them unopened. (i have adhd. i don't want to talk about the chicken. it was a bad time.)

anyway yes any other approach would have eaten at me so do i really deserve praise when ultimately i was just saving myself from the bitter reproaches of my own conscience. probably not. however i still want one gajillion neon star stickers because like. HOW conscientious of me. HOW viscerally gross a task. ugh. augh. etc.

AND then i changed the slipcovers on my armchair and started a load of laundry before flopping so. in conclusion i am positively WREATHED with the odor of sanctity atm and i'm making a post about it bc unfortunately due to the aforementioned faulty brain wiring i have a hard time accessing the appropriate Triumphantly Accomplished reward-feeling, so. public self-praise it is!

[brains-out-rn]

I don't like debating much(unless necessary for the sake of my own humanity) but sometimes it can be really Really fun specifically if it's about something that has absolutely no real weight to it(and yet if you were a spectator it might cause some concern for whatever reason)

for example: would you rather be threatened(physically mentally or emotionally take your pick) by a can of corn or a cob of corn?

Me personally I'd pick cob for a few reasons

1. I can outlast it(probably)

Fresh corn will eventually rot and decay but have you seen how long canned stuff can last unopened before it looks slightly different from new stuff??

2. Cans are made of metal not vegetable flesh

While a corn cob has its core that's not metal. Ever dropped a can? Might get a dent. If you have a good kick then you might survive but you will probably hurt your foot. Ever dropped corn? If it had it outer leaves and hair it might have stood a chance but if it didn't then bits of corn go everywhere

3. Actually fighting if needed

I feel like I could survive a fight with a sentient can but a sentient cob just seems less likely to hurt

However there are some things might change my decision

Like issue one which is how the corn moves because if the cob is fresh with hair and leaves and can move all the little hairs individually and can move the leaves then I'd probably choose the can because at that point I feel like it's less of "how would i survive with the least amount of bruising" and more of "how would I rather die but with a chance of surviving" and in my opinion i think blunt force trauma would be better then a slow death of strangulation via a sentient corns hair plus I do think I'd have a chance against a can of corn

Another issue is if it was mentally or emotionally I'd probably go with the can bc I feel like it would be easier for to rationalize it as ridiculous to be threatened by a can of corn then a cob for some reason

Like a cob is ridiculous to the point that I'd just accept it as making sense for that to happen?

a can is like "why am I listening to the can of corn. I literally own a can opener." But a cob is more like "if I were to try and deal with you in the traditional way of dealing with corn that would mean a pot and water and time and-"

Plus idk why but I feel like a cob would be less mean with its words. I can't explain it I just think cob would just go straight to physical threats instead of emotional ones but a can would stare at you menacingly making you question yourself and just judging you

[discoreptile]

Additional game card art!

[bendover-productions]

Yes hehe, I do have a follow-up, because I AGREE it's so good!!! I just rewatched it for the first time since it first came out (I think?) and I was so charmed by it all over again! I kind of think episode 5 of that season is objectively one of their best episodes ever… I looove the way the teams splitting up allows for interesting interactions between all four of them, and I like the strategizing over the phone parts, I find it really charming. But yes I remember the comments on reddit and youtube being kinda harsh on that season when it came out, ESPECIALLY about Sam and Scotty. And I think youtube and reddit are just generally harsher on Sam, more so than on tumblr, but I just think they're misreading him soooo unfairly in this specific context!!! People were mad at how "smug" they were when their tactic was getting in Ben and Adam's way instead of capturing flags, but I found it very funny and think most of those people would have too, if it was happening in the opposite direction… Also that season just has incredible Sam vibes imo. He literally seems thrilled just to be travelling Japan and to be getting some jogging done. He's having so much fun!!! And the Sam and Adam 5D train chess moment that leads to them hanging out in a picturesque little town… Obviously incredible. And then them watching Ben and Scotty's trackers next to each other on the train later. And also, importantly, Sam's bucket hat… Literally what's not to love??? And as far as I remember they all describe the season as having been a lot of fun to film as well… One criticism that I maybe do get is that it's very much a high intensity game with fewer chill moments for both them and the audience, especially in the first round, so I can understand that not being to everyone's taste….. But yes, I think that season is sooooo underrated and I'd love to see them bring the format back! And I had that take rattling around my head for many days, so I thought I'd free myself of it by giving it to you :) I'm glad you also liked it <3

me + u....

as i’ve been powering through seasons i have been a little worried like. what am i gonna do when i get to the end and have to WAIT but hearing this is good because i feel like it confirms there's so much re-watch potential!! don't threaten me with a good time (rewatching jet lag).

i also love the phone strategizing!! charming is the right word for it. can’t remember any quotes precisely because my brain is a sieve but i just remember them yapping for a majority of the episode and i liked being able to see them collaborating even though they were doing different things if that makes sense? they got to be their own decision-makers within the unit which is interesting To Me in terms of strategy. which! i have not been on reddit or the youtube comments but :/ don’t malign my boy sam!! he might’ve done all that (been very happy to have thwarted adam and ben) but he doesn’t deserve it…*

i think it is very common for all of them to do that and it’s not malicious? it is maybe a little smug but one of the unique things about this season was how much they got to SEE each other after making moves. usually they’re facetiming across countr(ies) for five minutes and even then they do gloat a little bit about particularly good or thwarting moves. we just get to see in person the joy of coming up with a strategy that was successful [and perhaps ties back into scotty. scotty just wants SO badly to do well and not let sam down that to me!! it’s really important that they celebrate this (not)victory!! let scotty have success even if it’s not conventional!!] the other team didn’t think of because they all fundamentally think different ways. ben and adam are always more high risk high reward and especially in this game sam and scotty played a lot more defense so it feels natural to me to extend that strategy to the fact that after obtaining a lead he wouldn’t risk it, he’d defend it (thwarted ben and adam). if you’re already winning you don’t need to pull the goalie!!

but yes sam has a GREAT time this season and every time he gets on a super fast train he’s so excited 🥺 AND THE 5D CHESS!! the sam/adam scenic getaway means sooo much to me i watched it heart in my throat and also pen in hand ✍️ ✍️ ✍️

let it be said i don't think this season was the one that stressed me out so bad that i HAD to keep watching it? for sure this one was very tense but i think i exist at such a high state of stress at all times watching jet lag that this didn't even register as more stressful than normal. or i simply repressed all the stress i felt idk. it was simultaneously not a chill season (them getting lost and on the wrong trains right off the bat) but also very chill because there’s a lot of downtime on the trains? and we got choo choo chew!!! which is so beloved to me!!! there’s a lot to love about this season i think.

[m0thlegs]

As much as purity culture IS penetrating fandom spaces and sanitising them beyond their core intent, I feel like some of you are overusing the phrase "don't like, don't read" (and others like it). Rather in response to people being nitpicky about certain themes merely existing in content (fan-made or otherwise), you guys keep using it as a way to shut down critical discussions of your favourite medias in a way that feels oddly anti-intellectual and ironically puritanical in and of itself.

[moe-broey]

Why did I start like three other projects when I was already working on a big project when I just got hit with the autism exhaustion beam (requires. At least One Full Day just dead in bed, and then some more Taking It Easy time after)

[zooblesbutchpuppygirl]

So crazy how I can go from having a great day to all of a sudden remembering an upsetting dream I had last night and it just. Instantly ruins my mood </3

[dying-suffering-french-stalkers]

god help me i'm going insane about dickson xenoblade again

[moe-broey]

OKAY OKAY I'M GONNA POST SOME OF MY RAMBLINGS FROM THE GROUP CHAT BC. I'm SO EXCITED about what I fucking scored (these are just snippets I Talked. A Lot LMFAOO)

Okay. Context. Just one pic that doesn't do it full justice bc it has cool little details too (ESP: little straps near the waist that button/unbutton, EXTREMELY USEFUL AND IDEAL to carry my noise cancelors with) (will hit image limit so just saying Dude Trust Me)

Okay. GO

LIKE. LIKE. I went on a whole ass journey about this. The vest I'm talking about in that last screenshot is this really gorgeous handmade green/beige blocked w flower print (it's like. Femme Masc. To me) that I got at a craft fair, for reference! Something I Barely wear/honestly save for special occasions bc 1) the Collar I did not factor in The Collar BUT. I FIXED THIS. WITH SAFETY PINS. Honestly I don't know why I didn't think to do that sooner. And 2) It's... incredibly difficult to pair w my usual jacket. If not impossible.

THIS... CAN CHANGE.... like something I said that I cut out here is The Potential. Of customizing this jacket Intentionally. So that I can layer it in both directions -- worn on top of things ofc but FOCALLY. Easy to wear Underneath something.

IDK IDK I'M JUST SOOOOOO PICKY ABOUT MATERIAL AND HOW THINGS FIT so it's like INSANELY COOL. That I scored something Like This that fits Perfectly to my preferences AND is really good material ESP when I've been wanting to start a new punk jacket For Forever...... again, with more intention this time! I don't have any clear plans or ideas. But I am thinking about The Purpose of it, what I Want from it, and exactly How I want it. And going from there!