#mignonepees

[elenafish3r]

mignonepees said: [ bUT STILL AW I’M SO HAPPY FOR YOU SASHA ]

THANK YOU SO MUCH OH GOSHH ❤❤❤

[elenafish3r]

mignonepees said: [ /screams aWWW W ]

SHES SO CUTE OMG IM SUCH A DORK TOO AND GET ALL BLUSHY AHHH

[elenafish3r]

[ okok i have a crush story for you sasha. so i was in like the 8th grade and had a crush on this boy who was a friend of a friend. i told no one not even my little sister. so months pass and its like the summer. i messaged him saying i liked him. he answered saying it didn't matter, so i was kinda hurt by it. enter sophomore year, my mom finds out from his mom that he had a crush on me too in the 8th grade. i cried when my mom told me ]

oh my god!! eighth grade crushes hurt the most omg. im so sorry you cried!! that seriously sucks, i hope you guys still talk? if not im sorry, but hes dumb bc you're really great.i tell you a crush story now, correct?okay so my crush knows who she is, and like when i first started liking her and stuff she said she liked this girl. so i just assumed it was someone else right? and i like gave her advice on how to ask her out and stuff, and then she was asking me if i liked anyone. i never admit feelings first so i just said no one! Im so dumb tho. eventually she said the girl she liked was me!! i just didnt get she was flirting with me!!needless to say we're dating now <3

[xnsaniam-archived]

[ ▼ ]

URL : mmm / wow / kawaii / flawless / perfect / ouch / ♔

Icon : uhh.. / who / wow / cool / flawless / perfect / CAN I LICK IT 

Music : okay / mm hm / cool / wao / me likes / ZZzz / No musicaaaa

Theme : okay / mmm / wow / kawaii / flawless / perfect / ouch / #1

Post : mmm / wow / kawaii / flawless / perfect / whoa / ♔

Overall : 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11+

Follow : Now / Yes / I’m sorry  / Forever  ❤ / i stalk u

[fillenoyade]

☁

Send me “☁” and I’ll write a drabble about our characters trapped in a raging fire.

Curse all things, it is hot. It is hot in a way she had never thought she would experience, hot in every way that it should not be. Distantly, in the recesses of her mind, rang a dim memory of a story told long ago, in the somber tones of her mother’s sweet voice. A story equally hot, with flames licking at the edges of it much as it licked at the walls. Annabel can’t remember whose story — some close relatives — but she remembers that, like most things in life, it did not have a happy ending.

Looking at the fires all around her, dark reds and raging oranges, eating everything in its wake, Annabel couldn’t help but feel that this would be that story’s sequel. She couldn’t find it within herself to scream, shout, call for help. The smoke of the flames seemed to have taken any words. She searches, searches as she’d never done before, but the fire has taken the words from their hiding spots. 

Familiar curls of lively blonde hair caught Annabel’s eyes, brighter than the blinding tongues of fire. She has never felt panic like this, a living entity that roared louder than the flames surrounding her.

At first sound of fire, of its endless hunger devouring her house and home, all Annabel had felt was a sot of relief. The end, for her, was near, and that had brought something of a smile to her face. She had trusted for her parents, for the servants, to escape — they somehow always did, always resilient where she was weak. She would burn within the walls she had so loved, with the books she had so cared for. She would burn alone. That was a gift.

This — this was not a gift, this sight of her mother’s curling, tumbling blonde hair flowing only just behind her, strands dancing with flames that should not be. It is too late. The flames have too far gone, too strong. What is she doing here? She should be down in safety, with her father, with the servants. But no, she is here, screaming something — doubtlessly her name. The sweet, sweet voice is drowned out by the screaming rage of hungry flames. 

Oh, dear Lord. Her mother’s end. This is it. No, oh dear Lord, no. Elizabeth Ethel Cordelia Midford Phantomhive could not end here. Angels were meant to die in the heated embrace of a furious inferno. Angels were not meant to die. Oh dear Lord.

Annabel is breathing far too fast, smoke entering her lungs far too quickly. Flames taste the edges of her skirts, but they don’t catch just yet. If they had, it’s doubtful Annabel would notice. She’s occupied, racing against her lungs full of smoke and ash, feet slapping against the weak wood. “M —” The word doesn’t come out, though she’s closer, and she hears her mother’s sweet voice, strained now, angry in her worry, fighting against the ash. It’s stuck in her throat, instead replaced by a scream as a foot falls through the weakened wood.

Mother, Mother, Mother, Mother, please.

It’s hotter now, and oh the burning is painful. She screams, she screams as loud as she can, but it’s not long before the flames have engulfed even her voice. She thinks she can hear her mother, still searching, except that the fire has probably gotten to her as well, and this is no longer a gift.

Somewhere near safety, Ciel Phantomhive demands to know where his wife and daughter are. Somewhere near safety, he holds back tears he hasn’t shed since he was a child, tears he refuses to shed now, in the eyes of his staff and that devil butler. But sometime later, alone and in the dark, he cries for the first time in decades.