dreaming-in-prose

[dreaming-in-prose]

a court of flame and fervor

Summary: On the night of Calanmai, Tamlin refuses to fulfill his roles in the Great Rite, and Lucien must, once again, clean up his mess.

Read on AO3

Lucien heard the door slam on the second floor of the manor. The whole building seemed to shudder at the implications of the slam. It was a refusal to participate.

Shit, he thought to himself, looking around at the shocked faces of all the lesser fae, who had stopped their fervent scurrying for the first time in hours to take in the fight they had just witnessed.

Tamlin had been inconsolable for days leading up to the rite, but this was the final straw. He would have been a fool not to consider the possibility that Tamlin might back out, and yet the reality of hearing the door slam was enough to send a tremor of fear into his knees. He would be responsible for coming up with an alternative solution, and he realized as he looked down at his timepiece that he had two more hours to do it.

Lucien had tried every angle he could think of to try to get him to go through with it. Reminding him that Calanmai was necessary for the crops and that presenting a united front after Tamlin’s betrothed had been abducted was necessary to maintain their image as a powerful court. He tried reminding his High Lord that during the rite, he wouldn’t be himself, so it would be a reprieve from the intense grief he had been feeling. He tried being a friend and faithful companion; he offered him space to share his feelings, and then when that didn’t work, he tried to goad and remind him of the importance of the role and what he was to his people: what he was turning his back on.

“I was under the impression that your role as High Lord was more important than your role as someone's boyfriend,” he had said, the hostility in his voice barely concealing the uncertainty in his words.

That earned him the sore shoulder he now rubbed while looking up the stairs. Each of the knuckles behind the punch left behind their own little divet where a claw had been exposed in anger.

Despite the days of exhaustive convincing and scheming, Lucien hadn’t let himself consider the possibility that Tamlin would actually refuse to participate in Calanmai this year. Doing so would put all of their crops and their people at risk. He had never known his High Lord to be so self-serving before.

He turned on his heels to leave and began scheming once again. If Tamlin would not lead the Great Rite and allow the powers of the earth to overtake his body to produce the growing magic necessary for the season, then someone would have to. And Lucien knew it was his job to find the fae who could do it.

“If I had known emissary meant cleaning up after an adult male’s temper tantrum, I would have asked for a pay raise,” he mumbled to himself. Extending his two hands out in front of him, anger still buzzing in his fingers, he pushed the front doors of the mansion open and began walking towards the temple.

He didn’t have to venture far to find Ianthe, in her typical regalia, directing the lesser fae who were doing the grunt work of setting up the rite. Fae lights and candles were being cast into the air and placed along the ground. Beautiful fabrics were being hung from trees and around the entrance of the cave, beyond which Lucien twisted his neck see a water nymph, unsteady on her legs, placing pillows and blankets on the center shrine, creating a comfortable environment so Tamlin - or whoever would lead the rite, he corrected himself - could completed the ritual comfortably. An entire evening of revelry with pebbles grating one's skin would, in fact, leave a different kind of mark than what most wanted from their participation.

“Lucien, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Ianthe said. Lucien couldn’t help but notice the quick flick of her teal eyes over him, greedily sizing him up.

“I will keep it direct, Ianthe: Tamlin has refused to participate in the rite. I need to know how we can complete it without him.”

A slight furrow in her brow was the only indication of her worry. But, well practiced as Ianthe was, her face returned to the neutral beauty it seemed to often stay in in a blink.

“Well, we would need to find a powerful fae male to take his place, of course. The rite must be completed.” Her full lips curved into a smirk. The unspoken implication hung between them for a moment.

Lucien refused to jump to the conclusion that Ianthe was suggesting. He could almost convince himself that his disbelief might have been genuine confusion. His brain knew that Ianthe was suggesting he lead the rite, but the implications of that were too overwhelming, so instead he found himself deflecting. He asked, “You can’t be suggesting we invite another high lord into this court to reinvigorate the life energy of the spring court’s land?”

A baulk of laughter left Ianthe, “Oh no, we don’t need to go so far as the treason you’re suggesting, Lucien, any powerful fae male will do. One related to a high lord would certainly capture the attention of the cauldron. But ideally, for the good of the spring court, one who is a friend of the court, perhaps even a resident of it.”

Lucien was surprised Ianthe managed to maintain any subtlety as she laid out the statement. Clenching his teeth so hard he felt the blood pounding in his head, Lucien said, despite his desire to run and hide, “You mean me.”

“I think you would be a good choice, Lucien. You’re incredibly powerful. And virile.” She said, her eyes raking over him with the subtlety of a half-drunk Illyrian warband, “During the rite, you will be overcome with magical life force that will motivate your choices. I suspect it will be quite easy for you, if not enjoyable, since the Cauldron’s magic will cut out any additional decision making for choosing a partner outside of who is the most powerful.” She paused before adding, “I’m looking forward to it.”

Returning to her task of ordering the lesser fae around, Lucien started the walk back to the manor with his fate sealed.

Ianthe was certainly confident; no one could deny her that. And even for all of his loathing for her, Lucien couldn’t ignore her power. In her dedication to the Cauldron, she had honed her magical abilities, learned to harness them, and then asked the Cauldron for more. And the Cauldron provided. She was one of its chosen children, which was both incredibly frightening and incredibly meritorious.

Fulfilling the rite meant being okay with being with Ianthe; he knew that, but the gut-churning feeling of repulsion wasn’t disarmed by obligation. He would rather it be nearly anyone but her.

Lucien had had many lovers over the years, but the only sexual connections that he had sought were those that felt intimate, exposed. A kiss on the neck sent shivers down his spine because it was antithetical to everything he believed he should do as a fae male: it was the first rule of his training growing up that he shouldn’t show his vital arteries, those pulsing veins so easy to pierce with teeth or nails. And when his heart braces for the tearing, bloody end and is instead met by a loving kiss, it’s freedom. It’s trust, even if momentary. A leveling.

He would never be able to expose his neck figuratively or literally with someone like Ianthe. She would kiss it until she no longer needed him, and then she would bask in the spurt of his blood when she ripped at his flesh.

If he were going to do the rite, the sexual connection he would be experiencing would have to be different than what he typically found most pleasurable. It would be embracing and luxuriating in power, not hoping to be free of it. It required placing yourself in a vulnerable state with the complete trust that you had your own back, rather than trusting in your partner. It sounded like the last thing he wanted.

But what choice did he have? Silly preferences like wanting to make love and not fuck were a joke so funny he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his own blathering. People in his position don’t get preferences; they don’t get to be reluctant to take on the position of power that no one else can step into. They do not get to put their desires before the health of their land.

As he walked back to the manor, he felt himself rolling back in his shoulders. Maybe he couldn’t be reckless by running away today, but that didn’t mean he had to give Ianthe any power. He could take pleasure in her powerlessness. She could, too.

[dreaming-in-prose]

WRITE IT ANYWAY!!! EVEN IF YOU DONT THINK YOURE GOOD ENOUGH!!! WRITE!!! IT!!!! ANYWAY!!!!!!!

[dreaming-in-prose]

[dreaming-in-prose]

I think the thing that's been bothering me about the "is it okay to use ChatGPT to plot/make characters/etc" is that at the end of the day, these are not tools that are helping your writing, they are shortcuts that are undercutting it.

These things are supposed to be hard, because you need to learn how to do them.

And listen, I know this sucks. I've got to knock off 4k of words from my current novel to make it more sellable, which seems like a completely arbitrary thing to do, but things like printing costs absolutely do factor into traditional publishing. It took me five drafts to figure out a completely obvious in hindsight plot point that explains why a character does what he does. It takes a few tries to pull together a detailed outline into a workable story, and it always will.

I would have loved to figure this all out way earlier, but I had to learn how to spot the gaps in my writing before I could fix them. Generative AI isn't ever going to bridge the gap between sitting down and learning how to work things out, because if you don't do that, you never will become a more competent writer. If that wasn't part of the point, none of us would be doing this in the first place.

[dreaming-in-prose]

How I learned to write smarter, not harder

(aka, how to write when you're hella ADHD lol)

A reader commented on my current long fic asking how I write so well. I replied with an essay of my honestly pretty non-standard writing advice (that they probably didn't actually want lol) Now I'm gonna share it with you guys and hopefully there's a few of you out there who will benefit from my past mistakes and find some useful advice in here. XD Since I started doing this stuff, which are all pretty easy changes to absorb into your process if you want to try them, I now almost never get writer's block.

The text of the original reply is indented, and I've added some additional commentary to expand upon and clarify some of the concepts.

As for writing well, I usually attribute it to the fact that I spent roughly four years in my late teens/early 20s writing text roleplay with a friend for hours every single day. Aside from the constant practice that provided, having a live audience immediately reacting to everything I wrote made me think a lot about how to make as many sentences as possible have maximum impact so that I could get that kind of fun reaction. (Which is another reason why comments like yours are so valuable to fanfic writers! <3) The other factors that have improved my writing are thus: 1. Writing nonlinearly. I used to write a whole story in order, from the first sentence onward. If there was a part I was excited to write, I slogged through everything to get there, thinking that it would be my reward once I finished everything that led up to that. It never worked. XD It was miserable. By the time I got to the part I wanted to write, I had beaten the scene to death in my head imagining all the ways I could write it, and it a) no longer interested me and b) could not live up to my expectations because I couldn't remember all my ideas I'd had for writing it. The scene came out mediocre and so did everything leading up to it. Since then, I learned through working on VN writing (I co-own a game studio and we have some visual novels that I write for) that I don't have to write linearly. If I'm inspired to write a scene, I just write it immediately. It usually comes out pretty good even in a first draft! But then I also have it for if I get more ideas for that scene later, and I can just edit them in. The scenes come out MUCH stronger because of this. And you know what else I discovered? Those scenes I slogged through before weren't scenes I had no inspiration for, I just didn't have any inspiration for them in that moment! I can't tell you how many times there was a scene I had no interest in writing, and then a week later I'd get struck by the perfect inspiration for it! Those are scenes I would have done a very mediocre job on, and now they can be some of the most powerful scenes because I gave them time to marinate. Inspiration isn't always linear, so writing doesn't have to be either!

Some people are the type that joyfully write linearly. I have a friend like this--she picks up the characters and just continues playing out the next scene. Her story progresses through the entire day-by-day lives of the characters; it never timeskips more than a few hours. She started writing and posting just eight months ago, she's about an eighth of the way through her planned fic timeline, and the content she has so far posted to AO3 for it is already 450,000 words long. But most of us are normal humans. We're not, for the most part, wired to create linearly. We consume linearly, we experience linearly, so we assume we must also create linearly. But actually, a lot of us really suffer from trying to force ourselves to create this way, and we might not even realize it. If you're the kind of person who thinks you need to carrot-on-a-stick yourself into writing by saving the fun part for when you finally write everything that happens before it: Stop. You're probably not a linear writer. You're making yourself suffer for no reason and your writing is probably suffering for it. At least give nonlinear writing a try before you assume you can't write if you're not baiting or forcing yourself into it!! Remember: Writing is fun. You do this because it's fun, because it's your hobby. If you're miserable 80% of the time you're doing it, you're probably doing it wrong!

2. Rereading my own work. I used to hate reading my own work. I wouldn't even edit it usually. I would write it and slap it online and try not to look at it again. XD Writing nonlinearly forced me to start rereading because I needed to make sure scenes connected together naturally and it also made it easier to get into the headspace of the story to keep writing and fill in the blanks and get new inspiration. Doing this built the editing process into my writing process--I would read a scene to get back in the headspace, dislike what I had written, and just clean it up on the fly. I still never ever sit down to 'edit' my work. I just reread it to prep for writing and it ends up editing itself. Many many scenes in this fic I have read probably a dozen times or more! (And now, I can actually reread my own work for enjoyment!) Another thing I found from doing this that it became easy to see patterns and themes in my work and strengthen them. Foreshadowing became easy. Setting up for jokes or plot points became easy. I didn't have to plan out my story in advance or write an outline, because the scenes themselves because a sort of living outline on their own. (Yes, despite all the foreshadowing and recurring thematic elements and secret hidden meanings sprinkled throughout this story, it actually never had an outline or a plan for any of that. It's all a natural byproduct of writing nonlinearly and rereading.)

Unpopular writing opinion time: You don't need to make a detailed outline.

Some people thrive on having an outline and planning out every detail before they sit down to write. But I know for a lot of us, we don't know how to write an outline or how to use it once we've written it. The idea of making one is daunting, and the advice that it's the only way to write or beat writer's block is demoralizing. So let me explain how I approach "outlining" which isn't really outlining at all.

I write in a Notion table, where every scene is a separate table entry and the scene is written in the page inside that entry. I do this because it makes writing nonlinearly VASTLY more intuitive and straightforward than writing in a single document. (If you're familiar with Notion, this probably makes perfect sense to you. If you're not, imagine something a little like a more contained Google Sheets, but every row has a title cell that opens into a unique Google Doc when you click on it. And it's not as slow and clunky as the Google suite lol) (Edit from the future: I answered an ask with more explanation on how I use Notion for non-linear writing here.) When I sit down to begin a new fic idea, I make a quick entry in the table for every scene I already know I'll want or need, with the entries titled with a couple words or a sentence that describes what will be in that scene so I'll remember it later. Basically, it's the most absolute bare-bones skeleton of what I vaguely know will probably happen in the story.

Then I start writing, wherever I want in the list. As I write, ideas for new scenes and new connections and themes will emerge over time, and I'll just slot them in between the original entries wherever they naturally fit, rearranging as necessary, so that I won't forget about them later when I'm ready to write them. As an example, my current long fic started with a list of roughly 35 scenes that I knew I wanted or needed, for a fic that will probably be around 100k words (which I didn't know at the time haha). As of this writing, it has expanded to 129 scenes. And since I write them directly in the page entries for the table, the fic is actually its own outline, without any additional effort on my part. As I said in the comment reply--a living outline!

This also made it easier to let go of the notion that I had to write something exactly right the first time. (People always say you should do this, but how many of us do? It's harder than it sounds! I didn't want to commit to editing later! I didn't want to reread my work! XD) I know I'm going to edit it naturally anyway, so I can feel okay giving myself permission to just write it approximately right and I can fix it later. And what I found from that was that sometimes what I believed was kind of meh when I wrote it was actually totally fine when I read it later! Sometimes the internal critic is actually wrong. 3. Marinating in the headspace of the story. For the first two months I worked on [fic], I did not consume any media other than [fandom the fic is in]. I didn't watch, read, or play anything else. Not even mobile games. (And there wasn't really much fan content for [fandom] to consume either. Still isn't, really. XD) This basically forced me to treat writing my story as my only source of entertainment, and kept me from getting distracted or inspired to write other ideas and abandon this one.

As an aside, I don't think this is a necessary step for writing, but if you really want to be productive in a short burst, I do highly recommend going on a media consumption hiatus. Not forever, obviously! Consuming media is a valuable tool for new inspiration, and reading other's work (both good and bad, as long as you think critically to identify the differences!) is an invaluable resource for improving your writing.

When I write, I usually lay down, close my eyes, and play the scene I'm interested in writing in my head. I even take a ten-minute nap now and then during this process. (I find being in a state of partial drowsiness, but not outright sleepiness, makes writing easier and better. Sleep helps the brain process and make connections!) Then I roll over to the laptop next to me and type up whatever I felt like worked for the scene. This may mean I write half a sentence at a time between intervals of closed-eye-time XD

People always say if you're stuck, you need to outline.

What they actually mean by that (whether they realize it or not) is that if you're stuck, you need to brainstorm. You need to marinate. You don't need to plan what you're doing, you just need to give yourself time to think about it!

What's another framing for brainstorming for your fic? Fantasizing about it! Planning is work, but fantasizing isn't.

You're already fantasizing about it, right? That's why you're writing it. Just direct that effort toward the scenes you're trying to write next! Close your eyes, lay back, and fantasize what the characters do and how they react.

And then quickly note down your inspirations so you don't forget, haha.

And if a scene is so boring to you that even fantasizing about it sucks--it's probably a bad scene.

If it's boring to write, it's going to be boring to read. Ask yourself why you wanted that scene. Is it even necessary? Can you cut it? Can you replace it with a different scene that serves the same purpose but approaches the problem from a different angle? If you can't remove the troublesome scene, what can you change about it that would make it interesting or exciting for you to write?

And I can't write sitting up to save my damn life. It's like my brain just stops working if I have to sit in a chair and stare at a computer screen. I need to be able to lie down, even if I don't use it! Talking walks and swinging in a hammock are also fantastic places to get scene ideas worked out, because the rhythmic motion also helps our brain process. It's just a little harder to work on a laptop in those scenarios. XD

In conclusion: Writing nonlinearly is an amazing tool for kicking writer's block to the curb. There's almost always some scene you'll want to write. If there isn't, you need to re-read or marinate.

Or you need to use the bathroom, eat something, or sleep. XD Seriously, if you're that stuck, assess your current physical condition. You might just be unable to focus because you're uncomfortable and you haven't realized it yet.

Anyway! I hope that was helpful, or at least interesting! XD Sorry again for the text wall. (I think this is the longest comment reply I've ever written!)

And same to you guys on tumblr--I hope this was helpful or at least interesting. XD Reblogs appreciated if so! (Maybe it'll help someone else!)

[dreaming-in-prose]

WHO NEEDS MIDDLE BITS WHEN YOU CAN HAVE ✨ 𝒔 𝒄 𝒆 𝒏 𝒆 𝒔 ✨

[dreaming-in-prose]

be still my foolish heart

Summary: Penelope needs an answer to a burning question, so she goes to her betrothed's home the day before their wedding.

Read on AO3

The hem of her chemise felt heavy with dew as she walked across the cobblestone street to Bridgerton House. The unseasonably warm spring day had brought on an unseasonably warm spring night, and the cloak she had thrown on to conceal her identity, the very same one she would wear to the dressmakers to deliver the latest Whistedown in the dead of night, felt stifling. But she had to see him.

Penelope Featherington weaved behind their grand estate as she had so many times before, previously to meet her long-time best friend Eloise, but tonight she was meeting someone different.

My betrothed, she thought to herself with a mix of joy and disbelief. The very thought sent a swarm of butterflies through her stomach. She was engaged to Colin Bridgerton, the man her heart had yearned for all her life. She had spent years convincing herself that a life that included a romantic marriage was beyond her reach, that she would be content with a pragmatic match. But now, the reality of her engagement was a dream come true, a reality that was a stark contrast to the nights she had spent in bed, after a failed ball, after another season out, trying to convince herself that she would be okay with good enough. That she could accept pragmatism. A marriage where there may not be love, but there would be security. And maybe that could be enough. Perhaps we could even learn to love each other, she would say, unconvinced by her own acting.

For three seasons now, she had hidden in the shadows, her dance card empty and her prospects minimal, holding out hope that she might get the fairytale ending she had read about countless times, sitting at that window overlooking the Bridgerton house, by all accounts containing a happier family than her own. Idealistic in every way. The Bridgertons had no money troubles and did not struggle to find their place in polite society. In fact, after spending so much time with them, Penelope had even begun to believe a family could enjoy spending time with each other in earnest. So different was her own experience, with a social-climbing mother and two sisters who had the wits of half a woman shared between them, she had all but resigned to a life of partial happiness that always felt like it could be more. If she hadn't seen a family like the Bridgertons laughing and enjoying each other with her own two eyes, she may have convinced herself that partial happiness was all that there was.

And then there was him. Colin. Sweet Colin. He was curious and kind and clever. On his travels, he wrote to her, and in his script, he gave himself away as far more observant, far more clever than his family seemed to know. As he wrote to her about his travels, Colin painted a picture of a world outside London. One of a romantic life full of art, meeting strangers, and becoming worldly. She had caught herself sighing blissfully while reading his recounts of the days. Paris, Rome, Milan. Colin may not have intended it, but as she read his words, she got a glimpse into him: a romantic who could find beauty in every moment. She hardly ever allowed herself to dream that those romantic sentiments would be allowed to be directed towards her.

But in the dead of night, when she was truly truly alone with her thoughts, then Penelope would dream of him. Of his dark hair and light eyes looking at her full of love. Asking her for commitment. Craving her the way she had craved him for so long: completely, and in every way and every moment. But she never believed the fantasies that kept her company through the lonesome nights would ever make their way into reality.

Tomorrow, they were to be wed. She and Colin would say their vows and then be off to live together in bliss. Free to express their love both verbally and physically. The only problem was Penelope still could not fully grasp what would be expected of them on their wedding night. She could recall discussing the processes of conception, that when two people were wed, they could perform a particular act that would not only help to bring them closer together mentally but also create an heir. But what was that specific act?

Penelope found herself under Colin's window. Now, here, she realized how she had failed to consider this plan thoroughly. How could she get the attention of her betrothed without warning the entire house of her presence? With only the love stories she read to back her thinking, she began to search the garden for stones that she might throw at his window. How else was one to get their lover’s attention? As romantic as the act had been in all of the novels she had read that featured it, she found the actual act of throwing stones to be a strenuous task. She had never thrown very much at all in her life and never when precision mattered as much as it did now. To throw a stone amiss would mean exposing her.

Her first throw landed accurately enough, just to the right of his window on the wood siding. The stone made a satisfying "thump" before returning back down to the ground. Penelope leaned down again to find another stone, this one slightly smaller, thinking she would rather not press her luck with a broken window, and she pulled her arm back to throw it again. She released it, and it landed slightly lower, hopefully still audible but much closer to the siding of the home than to his window.

And again she began the process anew: finding a stone, preparing to throw and - Just as she set to release it, Colin's face appeared in the window, searching the yard for the cause of the interruption. The shock of seeing him threw off her aim, she noted, as the pebble left her hand, and a grimace passed over her face as she realized the stone was set to land directly at the window.

With a high-pitched thunk, the pebble made contact with the glass. Colin recoiled at the sound. Pulling from the diligent searching of the yard, he caught a glimpse of her. She pulled the hood of her cloak down, exposing her blushing face. She now felt herself become sheepish. It was foolish of her to come here and even more foolish to throw rocks at Colin Bridgerton's window like some romance heroine she knew she was not.

His eyes lit up as he saw her, and a grin graced his beautiful face. Her betrothed. She could not believe it.

Penelope wondered, in the moments after he had signaled to her that he would come down to her, whether it was truly real that she felt the way she did. Did his heart stutter just thinking about her? And threaten to stop in her presence entirely? Did she inhabit his dreams the way he did hers? Where they talked for hours, enjoyed each other’s company? And on occasion, shared a passionate kiss that always seemed to want to go somewhere further, to become more? Did he know what more there was to explore with each other?

She only stood there in the garden for a few moments, waiting for the door to unlatch. But in that time, she had enough room to think to let herself spiral, losing her grip on the shameless confidence and recklessness that had brought her here. To the Bridgerton estate. In the dead of night.

Colin's shock was the first thing she saw on his face. His eyes met hers in disbelief, seemingly prepared for the worst but optimistic that perhaps this was exactly what he thought it was: a late night call. With all the reckless abandon that entailed.

"Pen? Is everything alright? What's the matter?" His voice was low and gravelly as he kept it slightly above a whisper. And her eyes drifted down, seeing him in his sleep clothes. The thin fabric of the shirt and pants intended exclusively for the comfort of sleep displayed his sturdiness, indeed. His chest hair poked out the top of the low-cut shirt, and his breeches showed off his sturdy, well-formed thighs. Evidence of an athletic capacity she had never seen him display. She feared that if she did, she would be unable to hide her appreciation for his form and dexterity.

"All is well; I just can't sleep," she said through the sand in her mouth.

"Looking for something to occupy your mind from wandering? I can understand that. I am feeling anxious, too. But we must not be caught." He said, pulling her deeper into the yard

They walked together in the moonlight, the garden bathed in a silvery glow. The familiar surroundings of the Bridgerton house backyard provided a comforting backdrop to their conversation. Colin led the way to a set of swings hanging from an old, sturdy tree. Penelope followed, her heart beating faster with each step.

Taking a seat on one of the swings, Colin looked up at the sky, his expression thoughtful. Penelope sat beside him, the gentle sway of the swing soothing her nerves. After a moment of silence, she could not wait any longer. The anticipation of future embarrassment was eating away at her as she sat. She turned to him, her eyes searching for answers in his.

“I have not been entirely candid, actually. I need to know something. Before tomorrow.”

He looked back at her, curiosity flickering over his eyes. “Yes, Pen, anything. What would you like to know?”

"I ask not as your lover, but as your friend Colin," she says, her eyes searching for answers in his. Perhaps in those expressive, familiar blue eyes, she would find a hint of his feelings. “What is the marital act we will be expected to perform tomorrow?”

Colin's mouth fell agape. Indeed, he knew the answer to her question. His time abroad had been clarifying in many ways, including matters of the flesh, she suspected, but in his eyes, she could see his question: was she genuinely ignorant of it? And if so, how does one begin to explain something so impolite with any grace or poise?

The words caught in his throat, and he swallowed deeply to free them. "Well, Pen, your question is a rather valuable one. However, is it not customary for one's mama to address such matters? Thus, sparing one's future husband the potential embarrassment of the discussion?”

Confusion transformed into curiosity on Penelope's face. A smirk pulled at her lips as she took in his frazzled state. She stood from where she sat on the swing next to him. "Do I see confoundedness on your face, Colin Bridgerton? Do you also not know the details of the very act you and I will be expected to perform tomorrow?"

Her smirk transformed into a smile: he was frazzled and completely adorable.

Colin finally closed his mouth to set his jaw, clenching his teeth as he analyzed his betrothed before him. His eyes searched.

"Pen, I know well the answer to your question, but the presentation of the answer is what I am grappling with."

He seemed almost frustrated as he said it; Pen noticed, as children do when they are pretending to be more knowledgeable than they indeed are, perhaps. She let this idea carry into a gentle laugh.

"I would let you have more time to prepare, but I believe we have very little until the act must be done, Lord Birdgerton, and I would very well like to be informed."

Dismounting from the swing, Colin placed his feet on the ground and closed the distance between them. With his movement, she stood to meet him, him towering over her small stature. Every fiber of her body swelled in response to his proximity, to his scent. His mouth opened to speak, but again, no words came out. Penelope stepped forward, allowing her instincts to guide her as she putt her hands against his belly, feeling the warmth of his skin under his nightshirt.

"If it helps in your framing, how does it relate to what we did in the carriage together?" She whispered, carefully scanning the garden to ensure none of his many siblings had made their way out to spy. Just the contact of her hands on his stomach was enough to make it hard for her to breathe, and her acting was put to the test as she tried to hide her breathlessness as she scanned.

"Uh, yes, the carriage, right," his breath shuddered as her hands began tracing down as if to trail under his shirt. "Well, in the carriage..."

Her hand breached his shirt slowly, fingers touching warmly against his abdomen, eliciting a hitch from him.

"I quite liked what you did in the carriage. When I am alone in my chambers, I find it rewarding to recreate your techniques on myself while reminiscing. Does that relate?" She whispered mischievously, willing her heart to slow as she said it. His abdomen tensed under her touch as she spoke, and his tense jaw shifted into a smirk, his eyes glazed over in some hungry kind of admiration. Like he would devour her if he could.

Suddenly, she began to feel her heart beating in her ears, and the once familiar and comforting feeling of dew-kissed grass beneath her feet faded around her. No longer could she hear the chirping of the crickets, but instead, her thoughts were raptured by the memory of their time together that night and what her confession had elicited from him tonight.

Colin licked his lips, bringing one hand to cradle her face gently. Without thought, she found herself leaning into his touch.

Under his breath, he said, "Yes, that does relate, very closely, hopefully, to the act. I It is my earnest hope, um, that in such intimate moments, I shall always endeavor to bring you to, uh, satisfaction. Though it may not be traditionally taught as an essential aspect of the experience…" She let her hands wander downward as he spoke, a thumb grazing under the waistband of his trousers, feeling coarse hair there and a shudder from him. "Pen, I cannot think while you're touching me like that," he sighed.

"Like this?" She goaded, pressing her body to his, feeling an unfamiliar hardness pressing into her belly from his trousers.

"Pen, I-"

Her eyes gazed up at him deviously, her original interrogation gone from her mind in favor of discovering the rules of whatever the game was they were currently playing with each other. Colin let out a sigh, part frustration, part enjoyment. With a free hand, Penelope undid the bind on her cloak, releasing the stifling garment to the ground and letting her night rail be exposed. The cool breeze of the evening welcomed on her too-hot skin.

"I am beginning to believe you never cared to learn the answer to your question in the first place, Pen." He goaded, "In fact, I believe you came here not to ask an innocent question of me but to seduce me.”

Penelope opened her mouth to retort, to deny the accusation, but before she could, he continued, “But if you are allowed your fun, then I suppose it is only fair that I indulge in mine.”

Grabbing her by the waist, Colin gently and carefully spun Penelope a quarter turn, landing with her back against the tree from which the swings hung. With barely time for a breath, he pressed her body into the thick body of the tree with a kiss to her neck. The sound that escaped her lips shocked even her, as the warm pleasure of his lips on her spread through her body.

His lips felt hungry against her, with a tongue flicking out to taste her soft skin, where her neck met her shoulder, and she contained a moan. The feeling, the contact, with him, it threatened to turn her brain off entirely.

Caught in the bliss of their joining, Penelope reached her hand out to once again touch him. Her fingers craved to card through the hair on his chest and stomach, to explore the wanting she discovered even lower than his abdomen. She needed to have her hands on him as he put his lips to her pulse point, inspiring her to groan and tense against his touch.

As her fingers slipped again under the thin cotton of his shirt, finding a familiar purchase. Her hands trembled slightly at the contact, at the dizziness that came with the rush of lust she was feeling. Through the fog, she could hear a tsk from him, almost invisible.

The hands that had previously taken her waist, Colin's large, broad hands, so quickly found and enveloped both her wrists; pulling her hands away from his body, further from the satisfying heat of him, he pinned her hands gently but firmly against the bark of the tree they were leaned against.

But her body craved him. Deep in her stomach, a coil of heat had formed, a knot that formed from the same heat that gathered when he kissed her neck, when his hands brushed her waist, when his mouth was on her chest. Between her legs pooled a longing that was difficult to satisfy. She needed to touch him.

Penelope pushed against his grasp, her hips moving of their volition in search of contact, of satisfaction like what she had in the carriage, like what she experienced in her bed chambers, with a hand under the covers trying to quell the same drive that motivated her now. His hand stayed firm against her wrists, holding her still against the bark of the tree, keeping her from satisfying her needs. She could see the idea enter his mind before he acted:

Colin's smile was devious as he extended his knee out, slotting it gently between her legs, allowing her to press against him. Immediately, Penelope could feel her eyes fall to half-lids as the decadent electricity of the impact fed that fire inside her.

A rumble came from him as her eyes fell. Low and gruff, Colin leaned to her ear and, under his breath, whispered, "The act you and I are to perform tomorrow - It will feel like this, but so much closer. And as you reach your peak, I will be there with you, wringing it out of you. Once you're done, I will begin the process anew, bringing you to the edge again and again until you are spent. That is how I look forward to spending the rest of my years with you: making you so satisfied you cannot even dream of teasing me with your countless, persistent queries."

His words constricted her heart so much she felt she could burst. Her hands above her head, grinding against his leg, being whispered promises of a life of love and diligent pleasure, it threatened to cause her undoing. And when she looked up to him to see the glisten of arousal in his blue eyes, the smirk of mutual attraction as he watched her use him to seek her end, something grew in her. A need to both hold tighter and let go, that dichotomy of breathless need that threatened to push her over an invisible ledge.

Her hips quickened against him, her breath short and needy. She was nearly there, one step from walking over that edge. She just needed more. “Colin, please, I need you to touch me.”

As if he had been waiting for her to say it, he lowered his face to hers, and in one fluid motion, he locked his lips around hers hungrily. Their kiss was fierce and demanding. His soft lips against hers were the kind she had dreamed about.

His free hand lowered to take one of her breasts into his hand, with fewer layers between them than ever before. She could feel the heat radiating from his touch and imagined it was similar to the very same heat that was radiating through her body. The one driving her to press her hips into his thigh in pursuit of the release she imagined was nearly hers. She could feel it, just out in front of her.

His thumb began tracing over the sensitive peak of her breast; her breath quivered at the contact. His hand on her like this felt so good, almost too good. A moan managed to escape her lips as his thumb continued its circle, his index finger joining to gently pinch her nipple. The increase in sensation was delicious, combined with the feeling of his mouth on hers, his soft lips pressed to hers in a frenzy of excitement and pursuit; The liquid heat in her belly seemed to grow warmer, and her hips began to stutter in their motion as pleasure ripped through her.

"Colin," she moaned against his mouth, trying to keep her voice down.

“That’s it, Pen. Keep going." He mumbled against her skin.

She reclaimed his lips with hers, kissing him with the same urgency she felt between her legs. The world faded away in that moment, as the sensation kept building and building, until finally, the knot of attraction and lust and connection that had been steadily forming in her abdomen uncoiled in one abrupt motion, causing her body to tremble and a moan to escape her lips.

Penelope let her eyes flutter back open, connecting with Colin's stare. Blue, like the ocean, stared at her, luminous and shameless and hers.

His smile curved wickedly. Sudden awareness of their location, of her appearance, flooded into her. Colin's grip had loosened, and Penelope used her free hand to smooth her hair, clawing her fingers through her fiery mane in an effort to hide any evidence of their debauchery. "I'm a mess," she muttered, more to herself than Colin. A reminder of who and where she was before she had let herself be lost to the pleasure she had found in the wonderful friction between herself and Colin's muscular thigh.

"I could get quite used to seeing you this way, Pen." He said, her heart skipping at the raw lust behind his eyes as he said it, "If this is a mess, then I prefer you messy and reeling. When I see you amongst the ton, in polite society, I will cherish in the knowing that I have seen you undone, with words failing you, and so, so beautiful."

The way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her, the feeling of his leg still pressed between hers, it fueled an idea in her. A demand from her body. One to share the completely mindless, overpowering, demanding pleasure she had felt. Before she could think twice, she slipped her hand between them, finding the evidence of his pleasure straining against the material of his sleep pants. Thick and hard under her hand, she could suddenly vividly imagine where she wanted to feel that part of him. Suddenly, she ached, feeling the emptiness of not having him inside of her.

Colin's body flinched against the touch, in a combination of pleasure and a knowing that this was too far, even for two betrothed people.

"Pen, I cannot threaten anyone finding us this way. If you continue to touch me like that, I do not know if I will be able to restrain myself from this becoming more than stolen moments before our wedding night." His voice sounded velvety, luscious. It made her dizzy to merely consider it.

"I do suppose I have the answer to my question, and though you were no help in telling me, you have done well to show me, Colin." Unsteady, her hand applied pressure to the hardness she felt there, and he groaned.

Lowering his head, Colin brushed his lips against hers. Penelope tried to savor the places where they connected, the taste of him, the feel of his warmth, but mostly, her mind was preoccupied with talking herself down from the impulsive, reckless thoughts that begged for her attention. She wasn't ready for this moment to end yet.

"I will make it up to you tomorrow. And then again and again and again for the remainder of our lives."

They connected once more, lips meeting and expressing wordlessly the need they were both resisting.

When he pulled away from her, her mind was a haze. Before her body had time to chime in, her mind spoke, "I did not expect to linger this long, Colin. I should go."

"Yes, one should be well rested for their wedding day."

Neither made to move, their eyes connected, lips hovering not far from each other.

"Thank you for tonight."

"Of course. It was my pleasure."

She scanned his face, committing the details to memory of the curve of his chin, the dark lashes of his eyes, the color of his lips. And she could feel his stare on her, scanning her nose, seemingly counting the freckles that smattered across her face, memorizing the curve of her lip.

"It was nice... speaking with you." She said, pulling herself from the magnetic stare and finding herself moving away from him quickly, looking over her shoulder to steal one final glance.

And as she did, she noticed once again the chirping of crickets and the sound the breeze made through the leaves of the trees, all things that had faded from her as she was caught in the moment with him, suspended in time.

She couldn't wait for tomorrow.

[dreaming-in-prose]

Writing advice from my uni teachers:

If your dialog feels flat, rewrite the scene pretending the characters cannot at any cost say exactly what they mean. No one says “I’m mad” but they can say it in 100 other ways.

Wrote a chapter but you dislike it? Rewrite it again from memory. That way you’re only remembering the main parts and can fill in extra details. My teacher who was a playwright literally writes every single script twice because of this.

Don’t overuse metaphors, or they lose their potency. Limit yourself.

Before you write your novel, write a page of anything from your characters POV so you can get their voice right. Do this for every main character introduced.

[dreaming-in-prose]

I've had this little idea in my head for a while now, so I decided to sit down and plot it out.

Disclaimer: This isn't meant to be some sort of One-Worksheet-Fits-All situation. This is meant to be a visual representation of some type of story planning you could be doing in order to develop a plot!

Lay down groundwork! (Backstory integral to the beginning of your story.) Build hinges. (Events that hinge on other events and fall down like dominoes) Suspend structures. (Withhold just enough information to make the reader curious, and keep them guessing.)

And hey, is this helps... maybe sit down and write a story! :)

[dreaming-in-prose]

Tips for writing those gala scenes, from someone who goes to them occasionally:

Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.

You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.

When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.

A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)

Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)

The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.

Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.

Members of the press generally aren’t allowed to freely circulate at nicer galas/events without a very good reason. When they do, they need to identify themselves before talking with someone.

[dreaming-in-prose]

Writing Tips Master Post

Character writing/development:

Character Arcs

Making Character Profiles

Character Development

Comic Relief Arc

Internal Conflict

Creating Distinct Characters

Suicidal Urges/Martyr Complex

Creating Likeable Characters

Writing Strong Female Characters

Writing POC Characters

Character Voices

Plot devices/development:

Intrigue in Storytelling

Enemies to Lovers

Alternatives to Killing Characters

Worldbuilding

Misdirection

Consider Before Killing Characters

Foreshadowing

Narrative:

Emphasising the Stakes

Avoid Info-Dumping

Writing Without Dialogue

1st vs. 2nd vs. 3rd Perspective

Fight Scenes (More)

Transitions

Pacing

Book writing:

Connected vs. Stand-Alone Series

A & B Stories

Miscellaneous:

Overcoming Writer's Block

1000 Follower Special

Writing Fantasy

Character Ask Game

[dreaming-in-prose]

The reason none of my wips get finished

[dreaming-in-prose]

So... I found this and now it keeps coming to mind. You hear about "life-changing writing advice" all the time and usually its really not—but honestly this is it man.

I'm going to try it.

[dreaming-in-prose]

[dreaming-in-prose]

Another worldbuilding application of the "two layer rule": To create a culture while avoiding The Planet Of Hats (the thing where a people only have one thing going for them, like "everyone wears a silly hat"): You only need two hats.

Try picking two random flat culture ideas and combine them, see how they interact. Let's say taking the Proud Warrior Race - people who are all about glory in battle and feats of strength, whose songs and ballads are about heroes in battle and whose education consists of combat and military tactics. Throw in another element: Living in diaspora. Suddenly you've got a whole more interesting dynamic going on - how did a people like this end up cast out of their old native land? How do they feel about it? How do they make a living now - as guards, mercenaries? How do their non-combatants live? Were they always warrior people, or did they become fighters out of necessity to fend for themselves in the lands of strangers? How do the peoples of these lands regard them?

Like I'm not shitting, it's literally that easy. You can avoid writing an one-dimensional culture just by adding another equally flat element, and the third dimension appears on its own just like that. And while one of the features can be location/climate, you can also combine two of those with each other.

Let's take a pretty standard Fantasy Race Biome: The forest people. Their job is the forest. They live there, hunt there, forage there, they have an obnoxious amount of sayings that somehow refer to trees, woods, or forests. Very high chance of being elves. And then a second common stock Fantasy Biome People: The Grim Cold North. Everything is bleak and grim up there. People are hardy and harsh, "frostbite because the climate hates you" and "being stabbed because your neighbour hates you" are the most common causes of death. People are either completely humourless or have a horrifyingly dark, morbid sense of humour. They might find it funny that you genuinely can't tell which one.

Now combine them: Grim Cold Bleak Forest People. The summer lasts about 15 minutes and these people know every single type of berry, mushroom and herb that's edible in any fathomable way. You're not sure if they're joking about occasionally resorting to eating tree bark to survive the long dark winter. Not a warrior people, but very skilled in disappearing into the forest and picking off would-be invaders one by one. Once they fuck off into the woods you won't find them unless they want to be found.

You know, Finland.

[dreaming-in-prose]

“Before the writers started working on the first season, I wrote a list of six things on the wall that every episode had to do.” - Mike Schur (x)

[dreaming-in-prose]

our favorite acotar men + “i could fix him” text posts