Tinkerbell Quotes

Sometimes I think that maybe we are just stories. Like we may as well just be words on a page, because we're only what we've done and what we are going to do.

Tink was not all bad: or, rather, she was all bad just now, but, on the other hand, sometimes she was all good. Fairies have to be one thing or the other, because being so small they unfortunately have room for one feeling only at a time. They are, however, allowed to change, only it must be a complete change.

You just think lovely wonderful thoughts," Peter explained, "and they lift you up in the air.

Tell them, Gabrielle,” Adam urged impatiently. Blinking, Gabby nodded. “I have one of the, er… fairies here with me –” “Tuatha Dé,” Adam corrected irritably. “You’re bloody well making me sound like Tinkerbell.

A faerie heart is different from a human heart. Human hearts are elastic. They have room for all sorts of passions, and they can break and heal and love again and again. Faerie hearts are evolutionarily less sophisticated. They are small and hard, like tiny grains of sand. Our hearts are too small to love more than one person in a lifetime.

It feels sort of euphoric, like we're in some sort of fairytale. Like she's Tinkerbell and I'm Peter Pan. No, wait. I don't want to be Peter Pan. Maybe she can be like Cinderella and I'll be her Prince Charming. Yeah, I like that fantasy better. Cinderella's hot when she's all poor and sweaty and slaving over the stove.

How can I describe Peter's face, the pieces of him that stick to my heart? Peter sometimes looked aloof and distant; sometimes his face was open and soft as a bruise. Sometimes he looked completely at Tiger Lily, as if she were the point on which all the universe revolved, as if she were the biggest mystery of life, or as if she were a flame and he couldn't not look even though he was scared. And sometimes it would all disappear into carelessness, confidence, amusement, as if he didn't need anyone or anything on this earth to feel happy and alive.

I like to think that nothing's final, and that everyone gets to be together even when it looks like they don't, that it all works out even when all the evidence seems to say something else, that you and I are always young in the woods, and that I'll see you sometime again, even if it's not with any kind of eyes I know of or understand. I wouldn't be surprised if that is the way things go after all - that all things end happy.

You get a good review, and it’s like crack. You need another hit. And another. And another. I know authors are like Tinkerbell and generally need applause to survive, but it’s a slippery slope.

Civilisation’s like the economy or Tinkerbell: If people stop believing it’s real, it dies.

It was like this sometimes, and I felt I should look away, but I couldn't. I wanted to be there, having my face touched, defeating a heart like Peter's, but the next best thing was seeing it for Tiger Lily.

It feels sort of euphoric, like we’re in some sort of fairytale. Like she’s Tinkerbell and I’m Peter Pan. No, wait. I don’t want to be Peter Pan. Maybe she can be like Cinderella and I’ll be her Prince Charming

Well, I’ve been a musician my whole life. When I was two, I would sing the theme from Star Wars in my crib; my mom taped it for proof. Then, when I was five, I asked for a violin. No one knew why I would want one, but my wish was granted and I ended up a classically trained fiddler by age 12. The only problem with that was, when you’re a classical violinist, everybody expects you to be satisfied with playing Tchaikovsky for the rest of your life, and saying you want to play jazz, rock, write songs, sing your songs, hook up your fiddle to a guitar amp, sleep with your 4-track recorder, mess around with synths, dress like Tinkerbell in combat boots, AND play Tchaikovsky is equivalent to spitting on the Pope.

Damon knew the truth. Stefan was dead all right - but he had been dead for hundreds of years. And it was true that he was a vampire, but calling him a demon was like calling Tinkerbell armed and dangerous.

Why does this faerie follow you everywhere?" he asked. "Do you think she's plotting to murder you in your sleep?" he teased. My wings and the tips of my feet tingled with anger. But then he reached a finger toward me gently, and the anger melted. "Let's name her Tinker Bell," he said, like I was their child. He swooped his hand underneath me. "Hi, little Tink." Hearing him say it thrilled me-a name Peter had invented, just for me.

People named Tinkerbell name their daughters Susan.

How easily Neverland is corrupted into the deserted island of Lord of the Flies. How quickly Tinkerbell regresses to being one of the flies pestering the gouged eye sockets of the pig that the lost boys butcher.

She says she glories in being abandoned

Oh, drop the act, Tinkerbell, and get rid of my problem. Then we’ll talk.

Any last words?” “Go to hell, you freaking…filthy…godforsaken…” Our noses almost touch as he dips his head and brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Angel, the word you’re looking for is pirate.

Civilization’s like the economy, or Tinkerbell: If people stop believing it’s real, it dies.

Across the room, Nia said with a smirk, “Look at Tinkerbell going all mama-bear.” Hope snapped, “Oh, shove the Tinkerbell crap up your ass.” For about two seconds, Nia just stared at her. Then she started to laugh.

She stands on the cliffs, near the old crumbling stone house. There's nothing left in the house but an upturned table, a ladle, and a clay bowl. She stands for more than an hour, goose-bumped and shivering. At these times, she won't confide in me. She runs her hands over her body, as if checking that it's still there, her heart pulsing and beating. The limbs are smooth and strong, thin and sinewy, her hair long and black and messy and gleaming despite her age. You wouldn't know it to look at her, that she's lived long enough to look for what's across the water. Eighty years later, and she is still fifteen.

Yeah, well, Tinkerbell comes near me; she's gettin' both barrels and no clapping!

I hate to break it to you, Egozilla, but God isn’t like Tinkerbell. He doesn’t need you to believe in him to exist. Now get your cantankerous behind out of this car and follow me.

There were letters on the bottom, letters he'd seen before, on the ship that had carried him from London, the ship that had broken up on the reef that guarded the island. The letters said: NEVER LAND. Peter looked at it. And then he looked around him--at the lagoon; at the rock where the mermaids (Mermaids!) lounged; at the palm-fringed beach; at the tinkling fairy flitting over his head; at his new friends the Mollusks; at the jungle-covered, pirate-infested mountains looming over it all. Then he looked at the board again, and he laughed out loud. 'That's exactly where I am,' he said.

You may think my jealousy would have been enormous during those days after Peter gave Tiger Lily the smallest kiss on the neck. And you would be right. But these moments were swallowed by a bigger emotion, my tenderness for Tiger Lily, which had grown to take up most of the space in my body, without me knowing it. I can't say I didn't dream that this was a passing moment of infatuation, and that eventually Peter would notice and pick me-as impossible as that might have seemed considering my size. But I felt protective of Tiger Lily. I felt that just by watching over her, I could somehow keep her safe. And I wanted to keep Peter safe too.

Love, Trust & Pixie Dust !

It was 1976. It was one of the darkest days of my life when that nurse, Mrs. Shimmer, pulled out a maxi pad that measured the width and depth of a mattress and showed us how to use it. It had a belt with it that looked like a slingshot that possessed the jaw-dropping potential to pop a man's head like a gourd. As she stretched the belt between the fingers of her two hands, Mrs. Shimmer told us becoming a woman was a magical and beautiful experience. I remember thinking to myself, You're damn right it had better be magic, because that's what it's going to take to get me to wear something like that, Tinkerbell! It looked like a saddle. Weighed as much as one, too. Some girls even cried. I didn't. I raised my hand. "Mrs. Shimmer," I asked the cautiously, "so what kind of security napkins do boys wear when their flower pollinates? Does it have a belt, too?" The room got quiet except for a bubbling round of giggles. "You haven't been paying attention, have you?" Mrs. Shimmer accused sharply. "Boys have stamens, and stamens do not require sanitary napkins. They require self control, but you'll learn that soon enough." I was certainly hoping my naughty bits (what Mrs. Shimmer explained to us was like the pistil of a flower) didn't get out of control, because I had no idea what to do if they did.

Faeries can be unfailingly loyal, even, apparently, to someone who doesn't seem to notice them. And I felt loyal to the girl with the crow feather in her hair.

The rabbit is already in the hat. Do not clap for fucking Tinkerbell. Believe nothing.

Zoe laughs like Tinkerbell, the air whistling between the gaps in her teeth. She’s definitely not a dog.

Evil Tinkerbell has come to kill me because I didn't clap. I'm a bad person and I deserve to die.

It feels sort of euphoric, like we're in some sort of fairytale. Like she's Tinkerbell and I'm her Peter Pan. No,wait. I don't want to be Peter Pan. Maybe she can be like Cinderella and I'll be here Prince Charming.

Somehow, this pirate had managed to steal something she never planned to lose - her heart.

Don't you understand? You mean more to me that anything in this entire world.

How funny would it be if we left a trail of Faerie dust in our wake?” “That would be hilarious.” I laughed. “It’s a shame we don’t produce any.” Do we? I idiotically shook my hand as I tried to brandish Faerie dust like Tinkerbell. It didn’t work.

It makes no difference whether you believe all this or you don’t. It not only makes no difference to me, but to anything. Things don’t wait for you to believe them. They happen. God is not Tinkerbell. He does what he does whether you clap your hands or hide behind the comfort of your disbelief.

And when she surfaces from her dream, she calls me by my old name, though no one uses it anymore. And she turns to me, her eyelashes fluttering in the glare that surrounds me, and whispers to me in one short syllable. Tink.

If you thought to leave me now, I might tie you to the bed again. Filthy pirate. Aye, but you love me anyway.

Jensen spun, coming face to face with a life size version of Tinkerbell.

Civilization's like the economy, or Tinkerbell: If people stop believing it's real, it dies.

Anytime you wanna see my big blue ox, Tinkerbell, you just let me know.

I’m a lot of things, Tinkerbell. Sweet ain’t one of them.

But when have I ever needed saving? "Are you a Wendy?" I whisper to myself, scanning the low rooftops on the surrounding buildings. It's a long drop to every one of them. But is it too long? How would a person know unless they tried? I take several steps back from the edge, bouncing on the balls of my feet. Then I crouch. "Or are you a motherfucking Tinkerbell?

The fiery heat of love by now had cooled, For from the time he kissed her hinder parts He didn't give a tinker's curse for tarts; His malady was cured by this endeavor And he defied all paramours whatever.

It feels sort of euphoric, like we're in some sort of fairytale. Like she's Tinkerbell and I'm Peter Pan. No, wait. I don't want to be Peter Pan. Maybe she can be like Cinderella and I'll be her Prince Charming.

In the ring Tink." Lance points at me. I sigh, "Lance…uhm…sir. My name is Sarah." He waves me off, "We all have nicknames here. I'll never remember Sarah. But with your hair in that bun, you look like Tinkerbell.

In the immortal children's Christmas pantomime Peter Pan, there comes a climactic moment when the little angel Tinkerbell seems to be dying. The glowing light that represents her on the stage begins to dim, and there is only one possible way to save the dire situation. An actor steps up to the front of the house and asks all the children, "Do you believe in fairies?" If they keep confidently answering "YES!" then the tiny light will start to brighten again. Who can object to this ? One wants not to spoil children's belief in magic—there will be plenty of time later for disillusionment—and nobody is waiting at the exit asking them hoarsely to contribute their piggy banks to the Tinkerbell Salvation Church.

THE WOMAN seemed to spend forever staring into the patrol car’s side mirror. When she finally straightened back up to look at him, her posture drooped. The Colt dangled from her arm like a burdensome weight. Tinkerbell had run out of pixie dust.

Their meal was illuminated by torches, which Gwen found were utterly without fire. What the children called torches were really just small platforms on tall, wooden poles. The reason they radiated light was because fairies had flown up to them to waltz and glow on the tiny dance floors.

Where do fairies come from?" she asked, thinking it was the simplest entry into a complicated subject. The first laugh of a baby. A special baby. So they say. Tinker Bell smiled wryly. We are here, we appear, sometimes there are more of us. I awoke under a leaf, curled up like a drop of dew, complete. Tinker Bell!

From above, the world looks orderly. That is one of the primary benefits of having wings. Being high shapes everything below into peaceful patterns. And even though you know there is chaos below, messiness everywhere, it is reassuring to sometimes think that it all eventually sorts itself out into something that looks elegant.

P.S Please give my love to Tink. She was always such a funny little bug.

Aren’t faeries supposed to be, like, really tiny? With wings and a wand and faerie dust?” “I’m not Tinker Bell!

But when have I ever needed saving? "Are you a Wendy?" I whisper to myself, scanning the low rooftops on the surrounding buildings. It's a long drop to every one of them. But is it too long? How would a person know unless they tried? I take several steps back from the edge, bouncing on the balls of my feet. Then I crouch. "Or are you a motherfucking Tinkerbell?

A man who invents himself needs someone to believe in him, to prove he’s managed it. Playing God again, you could say. Or you could come down a few notches, and think of Tinkerbell; fairies don’t exist if children don’t clap their hands. Or you might simply say: it’s just like being a man. Not only the need to be believed in, but to believe in another. You’ve got it: Love.

The fiery heat of love by now had cooled, for from the time he kissed her hinder parts, he didn't give a tinker's curse for tarts, his malady was cured by his endeavor, and he defied all paramours whatever.

The fairy was flying in loops and swirls around her, shedding fairy dust as she went. Throwing it at Wendy. Delighted, the human girl raised her arms up to fully experience what was happening. Delicate golden sparkles floated down and kissed her skin. Where they touched, Wendy felt lighter. Tiny pains she hadn't even realized she felt entirely disappeared, and any weariness vanished. She felt rested, energetic, and- airy.

Nobody looks good in their darkest hour. But it’s those hours that make us what we are. We stand strong, or we cower. We emerge victorious, tempered by our trials, or fractured by a permanent, damning fault line. <***> It’s not fiction, and there’s no escape. The walls between the human world and Faery are coming down—and I hate to break it to you, but these fairies are so not Tinkerbells. <***> I’ve seen things that would make your skin crawl. I’ve done things that make my skin crawl.

And so," he went on good-naturedly, "there ought to be one fairy for every boy and girl." "Ought to be? Isn't there?" "No. You see children know such a lot now, they soon don't believe in fairies, and every time a child says, 'I don't believe in fairies,' there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead.

Tinker Bell hesitantly leaned over. She kissed him ever so gently on the lower lip. A fairy kiss, invisible and seemingly ephemeral, whose effects and existence would last as long as pixie dust. Perhaps his breathing eased. Perhaps he looked a trifle more peaceful, despite his eyes rolling beneath their lids. She wondered what it meant, the touch of human lips on her own- if it left any trace on her.

What Wendy felt was a spray of something that could only be described as golden. Light, effervescent, slightly dry. Fuzzy, like the horrible mineral waters Mother sometimes made Father take to aid his digestion. But not with the terrible metallic taste. For the brief moment she could taste anything at all, it was sweet- or no, maybe sour like lemons. No, not that, either- more like sparks from a fire.

The fairy let her go and pulled aside a piece of bright gold-and-pink silk hanging on the wall. Behind it was the fairy's own private room. She had a soft bed of bright green moss with several iridescent feathers for a counterpane. A shelf mushroom served as an actual shelf displaying an assortment of dried flowers and pretty gewgaws the fairy had collected. There was a charming little dining table, somewhat bold in irony: It was the cheery but deadly red-and-white amanita. The wide top was set with an acorn cap bowl and jingle shell charger. In the corner, a beautifully curved, bright green leaf collected drops from somewhere in the celling much like the water barrel did, but this was obviously for discreet fairy bathing. An assortment of tiny buds, rough seeds, and spongy moss were arranged neatly on a piece of gray driftwood nearby to aid in cleansing.

The one who answered his questions certainly had pointed ears, though the same observer might be hard pressed to make out any ears- or actual answers at all. The boy spoke to what appeared to be little more than a golden light that bobbled and sparkled and tinkled like bells. In fact, the whole scene resembled a mesmerist quizzing a pendulum held from a long golden chain, glittering in the sunlight, whose vague swings returned meanings known only to the occultist himself. But upon looking more closely, one would see that inside the golden bauble was a tiny woman with very pointed ears, a serious face, a green dress, and sparkling wings. Her body was like a series of energetic globes, from her golden hair in its messy bun to her hips to the round silver bells that decorated her shoes. Throughout the conversation every part of her was as animated as her friend's face.

The fairy- again, Wendy assumed- was an angry tinkling ball of light with the prettiest girl imaginable inside. Diminutive but... solid, with a scandalous lack of decorous dress. All she wore was a ragged green shift which barely covered her hips and thighs and breasts and was gathered dangerously over only one shoulder. This was both shocking and delightful; it made the tiny creature resemble statues of ancient nymphs and nereids Wendy had seen. Her hair was even done up in classical style, a goddess-like bun of hair so golden it glowed. Tiny pointed ears curved their way through the few dangling tresses. Her eyes were enormous and not even remotely human: they were far apart and glaring. The crowning glory was, of course, a pair of delicate iridescent wings sprouting from her back. Their shape was somewhere between butterfly and dragonfly. They were clear as glass and thin as onion skin.

I know the call, sister. I am fairy. Really? I haven't seen you at any of the midseason fetes, or the blossom gatherings, or the acorn hunts, or... I don't like crowds. You don't seem to like much of what it means to be fairy. More and more was revealed about Wendy's temperamental little friend! Fairies were apparently gregarious- social creatures, like people. Or horses. Not the lonely solitary haunters of hills and isolated groves Wendy had imagined, who came together for the rare dance around a ring of mushrooms. But Tinker Bell obviously shunned the company of others like herself, preferring the company of a few giant humans like Peter Pan.

Tinker Bell, meanwhile, was drifting with purpose up to the highest leafy branches of the jungle. Her light glowed warmly off the leaves below, the droplets seeping off their thick veins, the sweet sap running down the trunks of the trees. It made the whole clearing look... Well, like it was touched by fairies, Wendy thought with a smile. All her life she had looked for fairies in more mundane places, experiencing a rush of hope and warmth whenever a scene even palely imitated the one before here now. Candles at Christmas, fireflies in the park, flickering lamps in teahouses. The sparkling leaded glass windows of a sweets shop on winter afternoons when dusk came at four. A febrile, glowing crisscross of threads on a rotten log her cousin had once shown her out in the country: fox fire, magical mushrooms. And here it was, for real! Tinker Bell was performing what appeared to be a slow and majestic dance. First, she moved to specific points in the air around her, perhaps north, south, east, and west, twirling a little at each stop. Then she flew back to the center and made a strange bowing motion, keeping her tiny feet daintily together and putting her arms out gracefully like a swan. As she completed each movement, fairy dust fell from her wings in glittering, languorous trails, hanging in the air just long enough to form shapes. She started the dance over again, faster this time. And again even faster. Her trail of sparkles almost resolved into a picture, crisscrossed lines constantly flowing slowly down like drips of luminous paint. Wendy felt a bit like John, overwhelmed with a desire to try to reduce and explain and thereby translate the magic. But she also felt a lot like Michael, with an almost overwhelming urge to break free from her hiding place and see it up close, to feel the sparkles on her nose, to run a hand through the sigils not for the purpose of destruction but form a hapless, joyful desire to be part of it all.

It feels sort of euphoric, like we're in some sort of fairytale. Like she's Tinkerbell and I'm Peter Pan. No, wait. I don't want to be Peter Pan. Maybe she can be like Cinderella and I'll be her Prince Charming. Yeah, I like that fantasy better. Cinderella's hot when she's all poor and sweaty and slaving over the stove. She also looks good in her ball gown. It also doesn't hurt that we're meeting in a broom closet. Very fitting.

Call me Tinker-bell one more time. I dare you, Ryder Grimm.

Stella, Tinkerbell, and Emmet. Why on earth would a woman want three cats?

Things don’t wait for you to believe them. They happen. God is not Tinkerbell. He does what he does whether you clap your hands or hide behind the comfort of your disbelief. Besides, you know all this. You just forgot.

A lesser-known spot from which to watch the nightly fireworks display is by the planters that surround King Arthur's Carousel. Not only does the edge of the planter provide a rare place to sit, but Tinkerbell's flight path takes her directly above you.

Tinkerbells Lemon cupcakes with raspberry buttercream frosting rolled in pink sugar. 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened 2 cups granulated sugar, divided 4 extra large eggs, at room temperature ⅓ cup grated lemon zest (6 to 8 large lemons) 3 cups flour ½ teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon salt ¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice ¾ cup buttermilk, at room temperature 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Cream the butter and 2 cups granulated sugar until fluffy, about 5 minutes. With the mixer on medium speed, add the eggs, one at a time, and the lemon zest. Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a bowl. In another bowl, combine the lemon juice, buttermilk, and vanilla. Add the flour and buttermilk mixtures alternately to the batter, beginning and ending with the flour. Use an ice cream scoop to fill paper-lined cupcake pan. Bake 20 minutes. Makes 24. Raspberry Buttercream Use previous buttercream recipe, but instead of milk and vanilla, use a half cup of fresh raspberries. Be sure to wash and dry raspberries thoroughly before mixing them in. Roll the cupcakes in pink decorating sugar before the buttercream has set.

I wondered if I was leaving a trail of body glitter behind me like I was a Questionable Life Choices Tinkerbell.

Tinkerbell was once my best friend. Murdering her left a void. Vane filled it, but there was always a glare of impermanence to it.

No," said James with a smile. "But I am the pirate from my story.

A man who sets out to make himself up is taking on the Creator's role, according to one way of seeing things; he's unnatural, a blasphemer, an abomination of abominations. From another angle, you could see pathos in him, heroism in his struggle, in his willingness to risk: not all mutants survive. Or, consider him sociopolitically: most migrants learn, and can become disguises. Our own false descriptions to counter the falsehoods invented about us, concealing for reasons of security our secret selves. A man who invents himself needs someone to believe in him, to proves he's managed it. Playing God again, you could say. Or you could come down a few notches, and think of Tinkerbell; fairies don't exist if children don't clap their hands. Or you might simply say" it's just like being a man. Not only the need to be believed in, but to believe in another. You've got it: Love.

One look and she'd hooked Hook. [...] Before he lowered his drink, Tink twisted around back to her mug warming on the bar. Warm ale and filthy pirates. Every girl's dream night.

Your once upon a time is up Prince Charming’s been abducted Tinkerbell’s on angel dust The Matterhorn’s erupted Your once upon a time is up Tammy’s talking dirty, Dumbo has a PhD Leia’s age is 2 x 30

Len retrieved their weapons and shoved them in the Tinkerbell pack, zipping up from both sides so that the rifles wouldn’t fall out.

I stared at him, not knowing what to do or say as he quietly watched me. And then I started laughing. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the situation. I’d thought I was going to die. Then I was kissing the hottest guy I’d ever seen. The guy I wanted more than anything, who was slowly becoming everything to me. It was absurd, but I would’ve kept kissing him if not for the creepy little Tinkerbell hitting me. Yes.

all democratic societies based on the rule of law, on the Tinkerbell Principle: it functioned only so long as its participants believed in it.48

I’m Opal," said the petite Australian over her shoulder as she marched them down a corridor. Her posture was as uncompromising as her pace. Jayne tried to stand a little straighter, but couldn't help feeling like a geriatric ox lumbering after Tinkerbell.

Tinkerbell was not her true name,” Wisp replied seriously, before I could say anything. “But yes, she was a very accomplished assassin.

Before they could decide what to do, the witches were upon them. Leona cackled even louder. Just look over there. You’ll see something scary. It’s Tinkerbell Mona Dressed up like a fairy! The witches squealed and guffawed. They snorted and wheezed and rolled on the ground. Mona waited until the laughter died down. Then her eyes flashed, and suddenly so did her magic wand. “Now I’ve got a poem for you,” she said, and pointed her wand straight at them. Ibbity bibbity, bobbity boad. Leona Fleebish, you’re a toad! Instantly, a bolt of white light shot out from the wand, Followed by a clap of thunder and a great puff of smoke! The next thing they knew, Wendell, Floyd, Mona, and Alice landed right back on the corner where their evening had begun. There wasn’t a witch in sight, and their bags were filled with wonderful, ordinary candy. Wendell stared at Mona’s wand. “How did you do that?” She just shrugged. “You said anything can happen on Halloween.” Later, they sat in Floyd’s living room, sorting their candy and sipping cocoa. “You know, Floyd,” said Wendell. “You make a pretty good pirate.” “Thanks. You’re a good mad scientist too, even if you are pink. But Mona was the best of all.” She smiled. “I guess being a fairy princess was okay. Still, I’m sort of glad it’s over. Now we can all get back to normal.” After a while, Leona Fleebish even stopped being a toad.

God is not Tinkerbell. He does what he does whether you clap your hands or hide behind the comfort of your disbelief. Besides, you know all this. You just forgot.

Tink?” Her voice goes even louder. I wave a hand over her. “Yeah, you’ve got this whole angry little Tinkerbell vibe happening. I dig it.” I let my gaze trace her body for only a moment, not wanting to border on leering. But hey, fair is fair after the way she gawked at the gas station.

As with the djinn and the fairies, modern American culture has largely defanged the meaning of being a witch and practicing witchcraft. The Leannán Sídhe became Tinkerbell; the Ifrit became Aladdin’s singing genie; so, too, the witch has been sanitized. There were very good reasons to fear the witch. It was after all the ultimate “other”: part wild, dangerous, with fire in the blood. Equally the witch served a purpose as an intermediary between the otherworld forces that butted up against the rural communities. The witch could remove fairy maleficence but equally could be the vehicle for its delivery

I feel like Peter Pan getting reamed by Tinkerbell. “Easy, Tink.

Hey. It’s tingling.” I open my eyes, blinking through the lust hazing my brain. “Huh?” “It’s definitely tingling,” he says, staring intently at my neck. “Shit. That’s so cute.” “What’s tingling? Your dick?” I buck my hips, feeling the hardening bulge between his legs. “Not tingling. Tin-gel-ing.” He strokes a finger behind my ear, making me shiver, and I realise he’s brushing his fingertip over my tattoo. “You mean Tinkerbell? I got her after I went to Disney a couple years back.” “Tinkerbell. She’s called Tingeling in Swedish. Hm. It’s fitting. You’re both about the same size.

Hey Tinkerbell, wanna go on a date with me later?!” I called across the room at him. He turned to me with a smirk while his Beta, Tabitha, ordered the wolves about to lay out a spread of food for him. “Only if you plan on putting out,” he called back. “Otherwise I’ve got another offer from a Captain who said he’ll put his hook up my ass.

I've been many different people throughout my life. From Veruca Salt to Tinkerbell, I know that the moment the lights come up on stage that I am no longer Morgan Hathaway.

He smiled again, and I felt the smile in my fingers and in the soles of my feet; it invaded me like a bad spirit, and Tiger Lily shivered

It’s like being verbally abused by Tinkerbell.

Look at him, back to being his flying sexy Tinkerbell self," said Charon gleefully as he came and stood beside Selene. "I definitely think we need to get him some winged booties just for the hell of it.

No preamble. Just comes out swinging. She’s tiny and ferocious. I feel like Peter Pan getting reamed by Tinkerbell.

It's always one's passion that ends up one's undoing." He leaned toward her. "Remember that, my tempestuous fairy." Tinker Bell gestured at his hook. Really, Captain? Is it I who needs to remember?

At last, Tink realized, she did have a mission. One born of her own passion. It would involve magic--- fiery, perhaps more concentrated, more ripened than the standard fairy fare. Not dark, as such. But tinted, stained, perhaps. She'd have to find a way to persuade the elders that the moment required such measures. She found herself more than up to the task.

All at once the fairies burst from their corner, lit brighter than a galaxy. The elders darted straight to the captives. But the younger pixies, led by Tinker Bell, zipped and darted around the pirates, sprinkling enough pixie dust to spark. Enough pixie dust, that was, to burn. "We're on fire!" Smee shouted. "Run for the water!" "The boy will escape!" Hook snarled. "You'll all be staying right here!" The pirate crew wanted to obey their captain, of course--- but the fairies were relentless. And their dust rained down like acid. Tink found that the unease that came from always trying to contain her outsized feelings was greatly alleviated with this opportunity to expend some of that wild, raw emotion. It was thrilling. She threw her head back, laughing as the crew retreated. Then it was just Tink, Hook, and Peter. The Darlings and Lost Boys had been released by the elders. Peter was still strung up, bobbing in his restraints like a kite. Amid the chaos he looked at Tinker Bell with amusement. "Came back for us, did ya?" His eyes twinkled. I came back... for me.