#mignonepees

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+

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.