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screams-in-writing · 6 months ago

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FYI, this was inspired by all the Mr. Puzzles fanart where he has a tail, but this was written because I kept thinking that tail should be bitten at least once, if not more.

Hence this one shot that went a little off the rails as I wrote it.

Summary:

You want to bite that tail every time you see it. Mr. Puzzles decides to let you sate your curiosity.

Note 1:

Fyi, Suggestive content; implied things happen after this gremlin reader/mc bites the tail a bit too much and riles Mr. Puzzles up.

Note 2:

This’ll also go on ao3 too, but that one will be edited out more than this one is. (As such, beware of any typos here, as I hammered this out all on my phone and edited it here too). But I needed to get it out of my mind so I can work on other wips.

I would consider this crossing over from a T rating to an M on ao3, and kind of like that here, but maybe not quite. Ugh (tumblr messes with what is too far or not when being suggestive content)

You were excited to finally be sate your curiosity over Mr. Puzzles tail: a thin whip of a cord that ended with a cute two prong plug tail tip.

“Why are you looking at me like that, my dear?”

This was too good an opportunity to pass up.

“What are you thinking?”

“How did you get stuck in the window like that?” You asked, instead of answering the tv headed man’s questions. You eyed the way the window was closed down near Puzzles’ neck, the space on either side open. But not enough to allow him to shove his hands beneath to lever the window up enough to allow his boxy tv head back inside the house.

“My hands might have been taped to the wall, in a timeout sort of manner, to keep me from interrupting Smg4 recording his new episode.” Mr. Puzzles eventually grumbled sourly. His expression flickered to interest when you approached him and leaned over to plant a kiss directly to his screen. A flustered static followed when you reached up to toy with both his antenna, pinching and squeezing them at different intervals.

“Oh.” Puzzles uttered as he pressed his head into your touch. “Not that…that I mind this, but would you…free my hands first?” The tv headed man’s voice muffled itself as you pressed a few more kisses to his screen. His screen lost any expression at all when you promptly bit each antenna, causing the screen to dance with horizontal static before Puzzles was able to bring his face back. A blissful expression, as he moaned something softly before pleading nonsense when you suddenly went to petting the edge of his screen instead of his antenna.

“You know what I want right now?” You whispered close to the side of Mr. Puzzles’ head.

“Hm?”

“Your tail.”

“My-ah.” Puzzles’ whole frame jerked, from the way his head attempted to shove backward through the window, only to be stopped and held in place by the mainly closed window. Mr. Puzzles tilted his head a little, a shy expression on his screen, matching his tone. “You really do stare at my tail a lot. Do you…want to hold and pet it?”

“I would like to do that.” You agreed, sliding your hands to the underside of Mr. Puzzles’ tv head, gently scritching your fingertips on the metal, drawing a delightful shiver and bringing up a happy face on the man’s screen. “But do you know what I’d also like to do?”

“That would be-wait.” Mr. Puzzles’ dawning realization was cute, since you didn’t even say anything yet. The little scowl was funny when paired with the heartbeat lines and blush. “You want to bite it, don’t you?”

“Yes.” You don’t see any reason to lie; you wanted your boyfriend to be on board with the idea, and if he really wasn’t, you’d not press for it again.

“I don’t see what’s so interesting about biting someone’s tail like a gremlin.” Mr. Puzzles huffed out. “I really don’t see the appeal.”

It wasn’t exactly a no, but not quite a yes either.

You test the thought by letting go of Mr. Puzzles’ tv head and casually walking into the house, and entering the room the man had himself caught in the windowsill of.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Puzzles voice was muffled a tad, his hands and part of his forearms (duct taped to the wall) flexing in their temporary bonds. The man was kneeling in front of the window, though his shoulders were hunched lower, and the man’s thin cord tail could be seen loosely curled around one leg, the plug tail tip twitching back and forth.

“I wanted to hold and pet your tail.” You reach over to pat Mr. Puzzles between the shoulder blades. “If that’s all you can handle, then that’s all I’d like to do with you right now, before I help you get out of your window predicament.” You watched as the cord tail slowly unwound to hang down to the floor, where it slowly swished back and forth. You watched the motions raptly, fingers itching to seize the tail, but waited to hear what Mr. Puzzles had to say about your words.

“I-“ The tv headed man paused, quiet, before he spoke in a rather breathy way. “I would like you to start out with just petting my tail gently. I can see how that feels, and let you know if I can handle more.”

“I can do that.” You agreed, your main goal of being able to just touch the tail achieved. “I’ll be careful and not yank it. Unless you want me to.”

It was always interesting to hear Mr. Puzzles make a choked noise, considering his neck was mainly wires and bone-no throat to actually choke on anything.

When there were no other words, you stepped forward, loud enough to allow Mr. Puzzles to hear where you were. But instead of seizing the tail, you worked your fingers into Puzzles hunched shoulders until they relaxed a bit. Satisfied, you trailed your hands down his spine, then Puzzles’ sides, where you gave his ridiculously thin waist a playful squeeze.

Mr. Puzzles pressed backwards into the touch with a low growl over the way you were teasing him instead of petting his tail.

Feeling bold, you slapped his ass, drawing out a scandalized noise followed by a low growl with static.

“Be careful of the game you play, my dear, lest I find a way to turn it in my favor.”

You couldn’t help shiver in response to the promise of Mr. Puzzles freeing himself. To sweep you off your feet to lavish you with static kisses and touches to within the inch of your life, should you push a bit too far in your ‘game’ of teasing.

The tail lightly thwacked into your right shin before curling around the ankle with a light squeeze.

You grasped the tail near where it poked out of Mr. Puzzles’ trousers, then sat down close enough to the man so he didn’t have to let go of your ankle quite yet.

It was a thin, long and flexible tail.

Oddly enough, it was warm; its texture reminding you of a vacuum’s cord.

Sliding the gray-black tail through your fingers, you made your way down to your right ankle where the tail tip was twitching. You curiously ran a finger over the two-metal prong at the end while holding the middle of the tail.

Mr. Puzzles sucked in an unnecessary breath.

“Too much?” You asked, moving your finger to the tail tip just above the prongs.

“It’s fine.” Mr. Puzzles uttered, voice layered in static.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” A slow breath. “Keep going.”

You spent some time running your fingers along the tail, Mr. Puzzles’ body sagging into the wall and window the longer your touch continued. When he seemed relaxed enough, you wound your fingers around the tail and slid your other hand firmly down to the part looped around your ankle.

Mr. Puzzles’ let out a static moan this time, the end of the pronged tail-tip slowly wagging back and forth.

With a curious hum, you let your hand slide down the twined cord around your ankle harder, and then tweaked the prong plug.

Your tv headed boyfriend’s frame sagged even further than before but also attempted to hide the way he was attempting to grind himself against the wall. You reach up to slap that fine ass again, causing Mr. Puzzles to pause mid-hump with a distracted groan before he resumed his absent pressing into the wall.

“Hey Puzzles.” You carefully lean over to unwind the end of the man’s tail from around your ankle. Then, you dug your fingers into the last few inches of the tail to drag along to the tail-tip.

“Yes?” Strained, shaky voice.

“Need some help?” You asked, curling your fingers around the cord tail’s end, absently thumbing the metal of the tail-tip prongs.

“No.” Mr. Puzzles’ voice dropped to that low almost-growl, his arms flexing against the duct tape over his wrists and part of his forearms with more vigor. Then, a hint of excitement rose up, hidden behind a sigh of theatrical disinterest. “I thought you were going to do something…more than pet my tail?”

“I don’t recall now.” You sighed in return, giving the tail you’d further curled around your fingers a slight tug.

Puzzles muttered something.

“What was that?”

“Must I say it?” Mr. Puzzle’s dramatically sighed again.

“If you actually want me to, yes.” You said, toying with the tail-tip as you gave a firm rub to its end and metal prong. “Otherwise, I think I’m content petting and rubbing your tail like this with you squirming around while trying to hump a hole in the wall.”

“Bite my tail already!” Mr. Puzzles burst out, along with an exasperated sound as his fingertips dug into the wall. “Must you tease me so?”

“You didn’t sound so married to the idea before.” You felt obligated to point out as you slowly unwound Mr. Puzzles wiggling tail from your fingers.

A very low, static-squeak-sounded, along with tiny, bare whisper that almost sounded like ‘I’d marry you in a heartbeat, my dear’ covered up by Mr. Puzzles scoffing at you.

“You’ve been so curious that I felt I may as indulge you, so you can see that it isn’t all that interesting to-“ Puzzles cut himself off with a very strangled gasp when you hefted the slender tail and bit down experimentally on the cord texture of it.

“Puzzles?” You quickly let go and reach over to rest a hand on Mr. Puzzles’ nearest leg, as he’d begun to tremble. “Are you okay?” You felt a blush heat your face up at the filthy moan that dragged itself out of the tv headed man as his arm’s struggle against the duct tape increased.

“Do it again.” Mr. Puzzles pressed his palms flat to the wall, his tail curving to prod you in the shoulder. “Please.”

You think the man cracked some of the glass with a frequency you couldn’t hear when while you bit a line down the tail, then lingered to bite with your molars against the (luckily) sturdy cord. There was a faint static, but it was nothing compared to Mr. Puzzles’ static zaps when he kissed you.

When Mr. Puzzles began to scrabble his hands at the wall and succeeded in freeing his wrists and forearms, he didn’t reach back for you. The man lifted the window up enough to shove his arms through, and detached his head, from the sound of it.

Uh-oh.

Biting his tail apparently made Puzzles’ horniness quickly rise.

You proceeded to lightly bite Mr. Puzzles’ tail from where it poked out of his trousers and all the way down to the tail tip, but not the metal prongs. While you made your way down the thin tail, Mr. Puzzles body jerked in response to the different pressure from your bites and gnawing, and the way you squeezed and gripped the tail you’d already nipped.

Puzzles’ arms suddenly lifted back up as the man shuffled himself backward as he eased his shoulders away from the windowsill, and then his wired neck.

The head was missing as Mr. Puzzles’ body snapped around in an alarming motion as he lunged for you with aid from the end of his tail swiftly looping around your wrist.

One large hand pressed down on your shoulder as you were forced backward, the other large hand cupping the back of your head so you didn’t smack it against the floor. You felt the hand on your head trail through your hair while the other moved from your shoulder to beneath your upper back.

You were confused why Mr. Puzzles was lifting you up, to hold you in a firm hug to his chest while he carded his fingers through your hair a moment

A low, devious chuckle sounded from outside the window.

With a gasp, you were spun about and taken over to the window. You were none too subtly indicated to sit down while Mr. Puzzles’ body went over to the window. He was apparently impatient, and instead of just closing the window, Mr. Puzzles tore the flimsy window out (as well as the frame) and just tossed it aside, leaving behind a large hole in the wall.

That was kinda hot, if inconvenient.

You laughed anyway out of surprise, figuring out where this was going, when you were gently brought to your feet again, only to be shoved forward to rest your arms on the now-open space where the window used to be. Looking down, you see Mr. Puzzles’ tv head wearing an eager expression, one that allowed his digital eyes to appear as though they were gazing right into yours. The technicolor smilie flickered into a smug one.

“I believe you’ve had your fun with your little game of biting my tail.” Mr. Puzzles expression went to a slightly unhinged, if eager one, as his body dropped to kneel behind where you’d hunkered down, legs on either side of yours, boxing you further in.

Thankfully the wall the window frame had sat on, was low enough that it wasn’t hell on your arms to rest on it, careful of the splinters from the now-missing window.

“Let’s play one of my own, since you love your teasing so much.” Mr. Puzzles hands trailed down along your sides in the aforementioned teasing, his touch light and taunting until he was able to get you riled up as well.

Then, suddenly, Mr. Puzzles knee walked his body even closer to trap you snugly against the wall and the hole in the wall above. Puzzles rested his arms on either side of yours, and wrapped his hands around your wrists to absently pet along your fingers and wrist.

Wriggling uselessly in place didn’t do much, nor did the half-assed begging. It merely got Mr. Puzzles’ headless body nuzzling the side of your neck with his, while the man’s tv head reflected smugness at teasing you so.

You’d not told him to stop, because you were waiting to see if you’d get a chance to turn the tables, however briefly.

“Are you growing bored of the game, my dear?” Mr. Puzzles asked, mistaking your expression with one of boredom instead of calculation. “Would you like to end the teasing and move on to something more…fun?”

You kept your eyes on Puzzles face as you gave a nod, nuzzling into the man’s neck in return.

“I do so enjoy these little games, don’t get me wrong. But I very much would like to just hold you in my arms.” Mr. Puzzles’ screen briefly switched to a soft expression, before instantly snapping to playful, intent look. His tail just so happened to curve beneath your chin. “Perhaps after we wear one another first?”

You couldn’t resist; the moment that tail slid from chin to cheek to caress your skin, with Mr. Puzzles firmly holding your wrists, you had to. If he thought your hands were the problem, the man had forgotten you could lunge perfectly fine in this position. You don’t give Puzzles time to react as you suddenly lean your head forward and open your mouth to neatly bite down. You felt the convulsion of Mr. Puzzles’ body ad you lightly grind your teeth agaisnt the tail.

No matter how hard he tried, Mr. Puzzles couldn’t hide that having that kind of pressure on his tail was something especially sensitive.

“Oh, you’re not done playing?” Mr. Puzzles screen had breifly fizzed out before returning with a grin and a challenging look in those digital eyes. “You don’t think I can win when all you have is a little mouthful of my tail?”

Right before Mr puzzles could let go of your wrists to rub those large hands all over you again, you quickly shifted and, like it was spaghetti, managed to suck in the small bit of the tail poking out nearest your mouth.

The tail tip.

It gave you a nice little zap, but nothing that would hurt you.

Mr. Puzzles’ face briefly dissolved into bands of static, only for the screen to snap a closed eyed, pleasured one as he let out a soft, needy moan.

You curiously ran your tongue along the prongs, and then attempted to suck on the cord and tail-tip like it was a popsicle.

Mr. Puzzles made a sputter then a keening sound that had him plaster his body into yours as he convinced and shuddered in pleasure.

You snerked around the limp tail in your mouth in disbelief before opening it. The tail end dropped limply over one of Mr. Puzzles arms, only to slowly slide off to make a soft thump on the floor as Puzzles himself sagged heavily into you. A quick glance to Mr. Puzzles’ tv head showed his logo and a ‘please stand by’.

Okay then.

Tail biting and sucking on it like it was another body part equaled very sensitive (had that been an orgasm?)

Neat.

You squirmed out from under Mr. Puzzles’ sated body and hopped out the now-hole in the side of the house to kneel near your boyfriend’s tv head.

The screen flickered to test card patterns.

Wow.

You must’ve gotten him real good. You’d have to do that again sometime, if he liked it that much.

Mr. Puzzles’ face returned with a relaxed smile and calm eyes, before he noted where you were, smirking down at him in triumph. Immediately Puzzles showed off that unhinged smile with matching digital eyes, silently promising to return the favor, only for you to distract him. By planting rapid kisses on his screen with soft crackling static agaisnt your lips.

Mr. Puzzles’ expression went from mock anger to heart eyes with a blush and a heartbeat with an incredibly happy smile.

“You owe me a new window.” You said, matter of fact as you patted the side of Mr. Puzzles head. Your hand lingered, before you drew it away. In a good mood, you skipped off, as if pretending to leave Mr. Puzzles behind to sort himself out.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

You broke into a run from the sight (peeking over your shoulder) of Mr. Puzzles’ headless body crawling out of the hole in the house, feeling around for his tv head and then sticking head back when it belonged. When he broke into a long-legged run that was going to allow him to catch up quickly, you found yourself paying attention to where you were running instead of the man chasing you down.

“I do believe we have unfinished business, my dear!” Mr. Puzzles called out, sounding eager to catch up and get his hands on you.

“But it looks like you already finished your business.” You dare to call over your shoulder as you rush into your backyard, thinking to loop around and go through to the front door.

Mr. Puzzles caught up, however, dashing your half-assed plan. He easily tossed you over one of his shoulders, and with a low, eager chuckle (so as to not drag any attention from neighbors) opened up the storm hatch door that led into the house’s cellar basement. After stepping down the stairs, with you playfully trying to fight him to get off his shoulder, Mr. Puzzles reached up. He pointedly, and slowly, closed the hatch door while letting out some ‘evil’ laughter.

You were quite happy to be able to have another go at Mr. Puzzles tail, once you reached the basement bedroom. It wasn’t long before he ended up wearing the both of you with such careful attention to your body in particular, his tail sliding along your skin tauntingly.

The bedroom was quiet, apart from your breathing and Mr. Puzzles’ almost purr from the speakers in his tv head, while he sleepily held you close to him beneath the covers to cuddle.

tbh this was the gif I was thinking of when Mr. Puzzles closes the cellar/storm hatch door or whatever at the end of this

#screams in writing writes #a one shot with mr puzzles having a tail #tw suggestive #more than a few previous ones were #Ao3 one gonna be a bit more spicy #reader x

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hyperions-light · 3 months ago

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WIP Word Game

Rules: you will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word.

Thank you @muqington @basedonconjecture @biowaredisasterbisexual and @ofcrowsanddragons for the tags! I have a lot of words now, yay! Going to put them all in one post! Words are:

PEACH | GRASP | FATES | SPITE

Included WIPs: Fiori dell’anima (FD), Noli me Tangere (NMT), Weird Forks and Other Concerns of Modern Assassins (WF), Death Takes The Fool (DTTF)

P } "Probably not, no," they snort. "But you… if you wanted that, from someone. If I'd known, I'd have given it to you." (NMT)

E } “…Every piece of him. He just… needs you so much it scares him, sometimes. He’s kind of afraid he would give it up, for you, I think.” (WF)

A } “…And if you send something over to my apartment, I’ll wear whatever you ask me to.”

They know it’s a tempting offer; Teia loves dressing them up. They think it makes her feel… possessive, or something. (WF)

C } “Columbina,” she says, in her most indulgent tone, “he would never think that. How long have you known him? And you’ve always been capable, always done what he asked. There is nothing you could do that would convince him you are weak. He trusts you like he trusts air to be breathable.”

“So, almost all the time?” (NMT)

H } He clung to the safety, the sanctity of work, to be his guide, and narrowed his focus to that familiar occupation— death. (FD)

G } “Good," Teia says, satisfied. "Hopefully, next time—"

"Next time?" Leth and Viago say, almost on top of one another.

Teia raises her eyebrows.

"Do you not want to?"

Leth looks at Viago. He eyes them, warily.

They don't think he wants to. The thing they thought would happen, expected would happen, did. He saw them… like that, and now he thinks they can't protect him, that they're fragile and useless. They should have stayed away and dealt with it alone, like always. (NMT)

R } Rook is OURS. Spite concurs, fierce.

If he had his way, tomorrow, Solas would die—slowly— for all he has put them through. He will cede the matter of the Dread Wolf's fate to Rook, but they will not be anywhere near him, or Elgar'nan, without Lucanis. (DTTF)

A } All their life, they have been prepared to die— known it was their purpose, their destiny, to fall first— spear of House de Riva, and shield of its Talon— but they keep evading it. They wish it would take them— they, who belong to it, especially— in place of those with so much left to them. (DTTF)

S } Seasoned with grief, for Lace— brave, steadfast, and determinedly kind, despite the world's cruel vagaries— and Taash, who had lost so much; whose hurt had poured from them in rivers. (DTTF)

P } Politics,” they repeat, contemplatively. “Was Anna any more specific? Were the politics monarchical in nature? Regicidal? Personal?” (WF)

F } Faint, raised lines of scarring meander across Lethanavir's back. Viago remembers where most of them came from; he put them there, himself, or watched others do so. (NMT)

A } And Arlathan isn't like this, isn't unreal, like this; the air is filled with the uncomfortable static of possibility, prickling at skin and awareness ceaselessly. The instability of the Veil adds to unease— it does not soothe it. (DTTF)

T } They cannot touch the feeling thinking of him in that kind of danger inspires. (DTTF)

E } Everything she was has been washed away, to make way for Divinely appointed perfection. (DTTF)

S } She scowls.

“What’s to talk about? He’s as cold and inflexible as he always is. He never— he won’t even listen to me, Columbina. Sometimes I think he doesn’t even…” (WF)

S } Spite had known Rook was not dead, was trapped somewhere— it could taste them, in the Fade. But that place which had so long been its home and dominion betrayed him, then, by keeping Rook tucked away somewhere— in a place that had felt slippery, tricky and clever, in a way the Fade was not. (DTTF)

P } “…Promise me you will survive.”

“Can’t promise that,” they say, muffled by his shoulder. “You know better than to ask, Talon.” (DTTF)

I } It seemed his only consistent companion, in those early, gray days— besides the ever-beating pulse of the enduring pact of revenge. (FD)

T } They can't embarrass themself, or anyone else, with their weakness; that disgusting need.

Better to suffer, than to reveal vulnerability. (NMT)

E } Especially from Viago.

"Stop fucking looking at me like that," they grouse, when he's woken them around breakfast on the seventh day.

"I don't know what you mean," he insists, handing them a sandwich. They eat it while glaring at him.

"You do," they say, when they're finished. "You keep looking at me like I'm some… pitiful urchin, or something."

"You are one. I even found you on the street." (NMT)

This was so fun, omg! To the people who tagged me, feel free to play again, with my word, if you want! @uchidachi @dymme @taashyvashedan @pixiedurango @corvus-frugilegus @mythals-whore @mageofquandrix @bygonesigh @thedissonantverses @serensama @erin-unknown @lottiesnotebook @the-sparrohawk @mercars-musings @covertleathers @flowersforthemachines +anyone else who wants to play (I have already tagged so many ppl lol)! I have two options for you:

LETHARGY (Leth says hi =) )

VIPER (For people who have a lot of Viago sentences lol)

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galaxymagitech · 4 months ago

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I found a post where you were supposed to list all your works in progress with their previsionary titles...and then tag a number of people equal to the number of works you have in progress...and I realized that I have more WIPs than people I know on here. So...I'm posting this for accountability's sake, I guess. Because I have waaaay too many WIPs.

Feel free to ask about these if you want!

fool me twice

Reverse Robins Damian Discussion

Two Truths and a Lie

Tim saves the bats procedural

like fields of lavender swaying in the breeze

Hallucinatory Cellmate

Better Than Batman

Calling All the Monsters

Burden

it beckons me to stay

Pawn to D3

Shadows of the Past

Tim Befriends the Gremlin

Flood Sequel

Be My Robin Fic

Tornado

A Celebration of 84 Years

Static

Haunted House

Through the Twisted Mirror (half-posted)

(Bold = something I fully intend to finish and post Italics = something I have pretty much abandoned, but may cannibalize in the future small = something that has been consigned to the "unpublishable" part of my brain, probably due to being ridiculous or having too much projection. a fic has made it out of this pile before, though, so...it's not necessarily permanent Regular = I have no clue what I'm doing with this)

#fanfiction #my wips #batman #dc #dc comics #batman fanfiction #fanfic #dcu #batfamily #batfam #bruce wayne #dick grayson #tim drake #jason todd #damian wayne

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spnfanficpond · 4 months ago

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Weekly Pond Newsletter

The crud that's going around is now in the house. Actual video of Admin Michelle right now:

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Coming Soon - Ummm...the New Member Spotlight still hasn't gone up, has it? Yeah...we're gonna get on that. Promise. 😇

(Divider by @glygriffe!)

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Hope you have a great week! - From your Admins and Manta Rays, @mrswhozeewhatsis, @mariekoukie6661, @thoughtslikeaminefield, @heavenssexiestangel, @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes, and @manawhaat!

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leoisstillalive · 5 months ago

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hot and heavy- 1.9k word of a WIP. not part two of my ducati 2025 ranch fic, part 4 maybe??? i write out of order which is very bad but. alas! i need to fix this fuckass dialogue uughghh

Riding on dirt was different to asphalt in every conceivable way. Marc was reminded of this immediately as he slid onto the motocross bike and shifted the front tyre against the gritty track. It was like running up a rubber hill on roller skates, constantly vying for grip where there should be none, feet kicking the floor to knock the rear end off-balance for an inch more pace, and yet only in danger when he remembered to be afraid.

On asphalt, every twitch, each imperceptible nudge of weight counted. If one worried about such trivia on a dirt bike, they would be doomed to a sharp hug with the gravel.

The habit was hard to break for a MotoGP rider, but far from impossible.

Marc began to anticipate the ache in his wrists from clinging to the juddering bike as it threatened to slip on the corners; the quake of the seat as he opened the throttle sooner than he should and the vehicle tried to break free from under him.

Remarkably, it did not, and he hared past the start line, engine jack-rabbitting as he dove into the first corner again. It became an a-rhythm- its sequence entirely unpredictable, but not unexpected.

The laps were irreplicable with new hurdles at each sweeping curve- the scatter of Pecco's rear tyre as Marc gained on him, a slight crater on the inside line from where one of them had dug in too deep. He made up time in a different sector every round. It would have been marvellous to watch.

Sweat dampened the inside of his gloves, body peaking at the exertion, raring to push further. It was the wall to break down for any athlete, the concept of a limit. That cry to stop, to conserve energy, only came when the body believed there was no urgency, that its survival was not within the balance. Marc learned to anticipate it with some eagerness. He used the wall as a tightrope, where he teetered on the edge of self-destruction, where the slip of a foot or a hand could paste him against the circuit barrier. For a win, survival was always worth the risk.

He tore out of the tightest corner, dumping the clutch and feeling the front-end shudder- reminiscent of the lift on a GP bike. He threw himself down the "pit" straight (which was more of a large curve), blasting past the camera crew, who clapped him on from where they stood, hidden under the trackside shelter from the sun's glare.

When he wrestled past the finish line, he released the throttle and the bike's roar quietened to a meagre grumble, like a horse nickering for breath. He rolled off the track and onto the path leading up to the shelter. It was a small, concrete cottage that doubled as a garage- detached from the house.

As he withdrew from his pinpoint race focus, he suddenly became aware of all the places his leathers pinched, how his undershirt soaked through from September's last attempt at Summer heat and the motorbike's hot, worked engine. He felt the wind whip at the shaded goggles of his helmet, loosened a strap under his chin and let it clack against the plastic.

Once the bike was securely under the shelter, he dropped the kickstand and killed the engine. His head was buzzing still, body weightless with adrenaline, and the ground swayed as he hoisted off the bike.

"Awesome stuff, Marc," He thought he heard from somewhere behind him, voices muffled through the helmet.

He mindlessly followed his post-race routine, static nerves dulling in the process. He untucked the suit from between his legs, peeled the zip apart and fumbled with the straps of his gear. He tucked his chest padding and gloves into the empty helmet shell habitually, sliding the open leathers down to his hips.

"We got some good drone footage of that battle with Pecco," A man with a bushy moustache and blindingly red Ducati cap- Marc vaguely recalled somebody introducing him as Giuseppe- informed him in Italian.

Marc was unsure whether he would call it a battle- it was like Pecco had let him pass, "Yeah?"

The man nodded, "There are a few things you need to watch for us, though- just to see if you'd like to redo it. We lost you a bit coming into turn--"

Marc didn't mean to, but he found himself tuning out, flitting his eyes across the small crowd of 15 (or so): a handful of media officers, two or three journos, camera crew, and hospitality- probing for Valentino. There was no need for him to be present, he was not due to film his segment on Pecco until the next morning, but a part of Marc dreaded and hoped for him to poke his head out to watch.

He needed to keep an eye on him- stay vigilant and prevent an ambush like a wild animal. It was a bit of a horror film with his back always to the wall, eyes roving between every entrance and exit, every window and face, a desperate grasp for some control while trapped in Vale's territory.

There was no sight of him. It set a cold, heavy weight in Marc's chest and he bit his cheek hard to subdue it- not disappointment, definitely not, probably anxiety. He turned his gaze back to Giuseppe.

"--so would you be able to look over some of that later?"

His thick eyebrows lifted expectantly and Marc felt the man knew he was not listening.

Marc spread a smile across his cheeks- one that could not quite reach his eyes, "Of course, sí! Just let me know what and send it over to me."

It was apparent Giuseppe had not suspected a thing when he clapped a weathered hand upon Marc's shoulder and flashed him a thumbs up. He waddled back to his colleagues and ducked his head into a conversation over a dim laptop screen.

Marc turned his attention to the track, where Pecco still bore into the white dirt, bristling with youthful energy. And Marquez was not old for a man, just two years into his thirties, skin still elastic and clean-shaven. But for a rider, he was nearing retirement age- a thought that had nagged insistently for over a year, swelling each time he flew over the handlebars and wiped out in the gravel, the new aches and bruises that he never got when he was younger.

There was a bitterness there, he supposed as he watched Francesco fly across the circuit. In knowing he had the disadvantage. In knowing he was a dying breed.

A meek, young lady bustled up to him with an open red bull can, black hair folded into a bun atop her head. It was water, of course- just a sight for the sponsors if he got caught on camera. He smiled politely and accepted the can, dipping his head in thanks. She beamed, flushed pink, and hurried away. It was pleasing to know he still had fans, even deep behind enemy lines- both in Tavullia and Ducati.

The liquid graced the back of his throat, and he hummed at how it cooled his feverish skin. He turned his mind to the overtake he pulled on Pecco, how he had ducked into the gap hoping for some bite, a bit of fire from his teammate, but received no tug at the bit- just the sight of him pulling too wide out of the bend and watching Marc pass.

It was not alike Pecco to neglect a fight, particularly one that had no say in the championship standings, no cost if he lost. Marc believed him a sensible, thoughtful man, but it never halved his aggression on track- something the Spaniard deeply admired in a rider.

Perhaps he did not want to disrupt the synergy of the team, perhaps he wanted to maintain a neutral mood for the duration of the weekend.

Marc spotted Pecco abort a movement that seemed like dropping a knee as he skidded into turn six, and his lips peeled into a soft smile. Old habits die hard.

Pecco was a polished rider, movements calculated in the turns prior, easy on the throttle and braking, seeming like he valued his life as he carefully grabbed for speed entering the pit-straight.

The caution left him only at a disadvantage in time trials, however- something Marc had assimilated over two years of watching. He was a fierce fighter up close. Unrelenting, almost Spartan in his aggression.

And that was the VR46 Academy fighter dog mentality, Marc supposed, swallowing hard at the reminder of Pecco's connection to Vale. He was a Crown Prince cut and pressed by a god, filed at the dull edges into something deceptively sharp. It was why, for all Pecco's pretence at cordiality, Marc remained guarded.

A figure shifted in Marc's periphery and he plastered a smile onto his lips once more, prepared to see that same black-haired girl and sign a shirt or a cap, or acquiesce to a photo. He spun and met with high, wiry shoulders under a baggy shirt, a mass of thin, dark, curly hair tucked under a black hat, and a single, glinting horseshoe earring.

Marc's blood ran cold, heart dropped to his stomach, smile turned pursed and drawstring-tight.

"Ciao," Valentino drawled, voice smooth and casual.

Thick-framed sunglasses shielded his eyes, but Marc knew he was not looking at him, could tell by the tilt of his chin that he was talking past him, above him, sat atop a mighty steed and unwilling to grace the commoner with niceties. Marc gritted his teeth as to not bite his fucking tongue off.

"Ciao," He echoed, shuffling a step away to relieve the pressure that gathered between them, tender like an abscess.

"You were not bad out there," So Vale had been watching.

Marc was normal about that. He could be normal. But his gut curdled suspiciously and his hands itched to connect at his middle, fumble together. The shadow of a compliment cast projections of Marc, twenty-two years old and bashful, on the surface of his face. How desperate he had been for Valentino's attention, searching for each Italian phrase in his head- is this good? I learned this for you. Only for you.

A small part of that boy jolted awake in him and Marc slammed the pillow back over his head, reminding himself who Valentino truly was, how he had looked Marc in the eye and laughed with-- at him before dropping the guillotine.

No more rose goggles.

"Mm," Marc hummed, feigning disinterest as best he could, turning back to face the track only for Valentino to saunter up beside him.

"Not as good as you were, though," Vale bit with a cold smile, arms folded across his middle, "Your confidence went with your youth, eh?"

As if he had plucked the thoughts from Marc's very mind. It was all words, just words thrown about to-- Marc was unsure what for; they were meaningless. He was fast, everybody knew it.

But... there was that nagging feeling again- that doubt that Valentino could conjure so well.

Marc licked and bit his lip, conscious of the man beside him, his body rigid and anxious- braced to flee. He forced his shoulders into a shrug, willing his muscles loose.

"Not retired, though," It was a weak snap of his jaws, a pathetic dig to show he would not take it lying down, proof that he was no longer that naive fan Vale once knew.

Valentino huffed in his dangerous, sardonic way- Marc thought of the press conferences, everybody in the room seeming to know something Marc did not, Marc smiling obliviously, stupidly as Vale tore into him, sharp teeth flashing for the cameras.

#i wrote this like two months ago #it needed to ferment in my drafts for a while #i may end up posting every part of this 10k word wip before i finish it LMFAOO #okay im naming it uhhhh.#hot and heavy #this is hardly any rosquez but whatevah whatevah ido what i want!#my wips #rosquez #motogp

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anneapocalypse · 3 months ago

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WIP Wednesday!

Thank you @chocochipbiscuit, @myreia, and @lilbittymonster for tagging me recently! The past couple of weeks have been [static noises] and writing this week has been like pulling teeth, but here's some teeth.

Tagging: @farfromdaylight @orime-stories @plounce @ostentenacity @queenaeducan and anyone else who would like to share!

***

Tataru had already heard the news from Riol himself, as it happened. "But thank you for calling, Urianger! Still haven't a clue as to where they went… but I must believe they escaped… No word yet of Thancred or Minfilia, I take it."

How he wished he could say otherwise. "Nay, yet I too abide in hope, Mistress Tataru."

"But I've good news to share as well! You remember Krile, of the Students of Baldesion, yes?"

"Aye—though ne'er have I had the pleasure of meeting her face to face. Yet full many a time hath Lady Minfilia sought her counsel, and we have had occasion to speak by linkpearl. She was, as I recall, one of few survivors of that strange cataclysm which befell the Isle of Val? Lady Minfilia was quite concerned for her wellbeing."

"Indeed! I'm pleased to report that Krile's made a full recovery—and she'll be joining us soon! When she heard that Minfilia was missing, she insisted upon coming at once. Y'shtola and I are meet her ship when she docks in Limsa Lominsa on the morrow—after which they'll rendezvous with Alphinaud and Ariane in Dravania!"

"Dravania, thou sayest?"

"Oh, yes, perhaps I forgot to mention it! They've gone north again, into the Forelands, on a diplomatic mission."

A mote of unease troubled Urianger at that. To the Forelands—just where he had directed the Warriors of Darkness to turn their attention. Still, there were at present no rumors of a summoning… if they meant only to keep watch…

Yet his unease lingered.

"Should they have need of me…" Wherefore did even this half-formed thought fill him with ambivalence? In sooth, a part of him should greatly have liked to be asked… He should have liked to see Master Alphinaud, and the Warrior of Light, and especially Y'shtola, whom he had not seen in the flesh since her return and recovery. Yet he had reason to believe his new acquaintances might call upon his aid again in the coming days. Reticent as he was with regard to their methods, he could hardly deny his eagerness to know more.

"You'll be the first to know! I understand Krile has some sort of novel idea for tracking down Thancred and Minfilia. She'll be meeting up with others in Idyllshire."

"In—I beg thy pardon?"

"Oh—I suppose you don't know! I gather it was quite a surprise to Alphinaud and Y'shtola as well. Sharlayan—the colony, that is—has been resettled! It's become quite a lively little place, from what I'm told—adventurers, treasure hunters, goblins, all abiding together quite happily. 'Idyllshire' is its new name. It's there our friends are bound, once they've concluded their business at Anyx Trine."

"I see." Urianger's mind was rather awhirl at this. The colony… resettled? Treasure hunters and… goblins? He could scarce imagine it. The thought of strangers residing in his childhood home gave him a rather peculiar feeling in his stomach, foolish though it might be—as though that house, both those houses, had not lain abandoned for well over a decade. Or so he had thought. When had this resettlement occurred? In sooth, he had many more questions, but mayhap now was not the time.

"I'll be sure to let you know of anything they discover," Tataru went on. "Hopefully I'll have more news soon!"

"And I shall likewise apprise thee of any word of Yda and Papalymo." As though he could claim any credit for the recent findings… as though he had made any contributions at all of late to the search for their missing comrades, instead of consorting with Ascians, and visitors from another world.

#ffxiv stuff #wip wednesday #hlgd #tag meme #heavensward spoilers

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writeouswriter · 2 years ago

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Welcome to Zhang's Video, can I recommend you anything to rent?

Jack Lanelle in Zhang's Video from my WIP: Static House

Photo ID and Taglist Under Cut.

[ID: Digital drawing of my OC Jack Lanelle, a young, somewhat tanned skinned man with dark curly hair and heavy eyelids, wearing a long sleeved, wrinkled red button up shirt over a dark tee and jeans, standing behind a counter with a small TV set sitting on it with a multi-coloured, static-ridden no signal screen. On the wall behind him is a shelf stacked with VHS tapes and a large VHS tape shaped sign that reads "Zhang's Video Rental," as well as a few smaller signs that read: "New Horror! Rent Now!," "Support Your Local Businesses," and a circular smiley face, "Be Kind, Rewind!" End ID]

My taglist for this WIP is old because I've been kind of stagnant with it, but tagging it anyway: @after-nine-at-the-oasis, @quadraphonictypewriter, @mary-is-writing, @avian-writes, @writting-in-blood, @carminasolis, @odysseywritings, @aetherwrites, @muchtowriteabout-nuthin, @the-lighthouse-lit

#my art #oc art #wip: static house #oc: jack lanelle #digital art #writeblr art #1980s #tried my hand at him again for art fight #he doesn't quite look how i want 😭

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 years ago

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A Rose Without A Thorn (ao3)

Behold! Baby’s first Elucien fic. (For @elucienweekofficial day one)

Growing tired of all the barriers between them, Elain finally snaps during one of Lucien’s visits to the River House. Set post-acosf.

(The idea for this fic has been sitting in my wips folder since November, so it has been such a long time coming, but I'm a tad nervous because this is not my usual wheelhouse. It’s inspired by Sam Ryder’s song Tiny Riot, and the title was taken from and inspired by, of all things, Henry VIII. I’m a historian. What did you expect?)

The first Elain heard was his voice.

As warm as the sunlight that streamed through the kitchen window, and as soft as the butter she spooned into the mixing bowl, Lucien’s honeyed voice drifted down the hallway— so damned familiar and yet still so foreign. His voice was a song she ought to remember, a melody she thought she might once have heard in a dream— but still he was a stranger to her, no more solid to her than the wind, slipping through slack fingers.

Elain stood frozen, rooted to the spot, and as the string of polite words exchanged at the front door echoed, still she remained unmoving in the kitchen, static, trying to remember what it was to breathe.

In her dreams she heard that voice.

Every night when she closed her eyes she heard him speak, and in her dreams they spoke like friends, like lovers, like they had known one another forever. In her dreams he laughed, his tongue sharp and wicked, and in her dreams she blushed, smiling at the glint in his eye. Every night he spun her stories, weaving tales of romance and beauty whilst she slept— but every morning Elain woke alone, her heart sinking as if yearning for the beat of his.

Her dreams were pretty, but the reality…

The reality was this— the stark truth of it laid bare as Elain remained tucked away in the kitchen, up to her elbows in batter, unable to take a single step forward. He stood only in the hall, separated from her by just a handful of feet and a few wooden doors, but the distance felt like so much more, a stretch made impassable, uncrossable, by every awkward meeting and each stilted conversation, by all those times they’d sat politely across from one another, Elain quiet in her chair, knowing nothing but his name.

Every month he came, like clockwork, to meet with Rhys and Feyre and discuss whatever it was he’d been up to in his role as ambassador. Every month Feyre insisted Elain be present, and every month the four of them sat down to lunch at the river house. Elain always made cake, and she spent every single moment of every single luncheon trying not to notice the gleam in Feyre’s eyes, the way she looked at her as if she was wondering if this might be the month that Elain would offer Lucien more than just a perfunctory greeting and a small, subdued smile.

And every month all they shared was small talk, mild pleasantries exchanged with tight, straining smiles.

Elain might have been a seer, but she didn’t think her dreams were anything but figments of her imagination, the fractured pieces of a life she might once have had. She didn’t think they were any sort of glimpse into the future— how could they be? There was simply too much disconnect between them, like she and Lucien weren’t just on different pages— they were reading from different books altogether, and it hadn’t bothered her at first, back when she hadn’t really wanted to know more than his name.

But something had shifted lately, changed with the seasons, and with the deepening spring Elain found herself with every passing day growing… curious.

She heard the telltale sound of Feyre leading Lucien into the sitting room, the door closing behind them, and questions unasked and unanswered balanced on Elain’s tongue. She thought of him— how he’d spent so long in the Spring Court, surrounded by flowers and sunlight.

What was it like, she wondered?

What was he like, when the air smelled of roses and blossoms? In the bright light of day, in the summer heat— what was he like? What did that red hair look like beneath the midday sun, and who was he, outside these walls, beyond this court? Who was he really, the man that fate had bound her to?

He was an enigma, and as she cracked an egg against the side of the mixing bowl, Elain huffed. It sent a small cloud of flour rising from the countertop, and throughout the kitchen silence reigned.

All of those questions burned within her chest— but how could she ever ask, how did she even begin, when she was only ever forced to endure tea parties and elegant lunches when he visited, with Feyre always lingering? Or Rhys, or Nesta?

It was ludicrous. Suffocating— exhausting.

She was twenty-three years old, and her every move, every breath, every look was examined and analysed like she was a debutante at her first ball, barely cut from her governess’ apron strings. It was the weight of others’ expectations sinking them before they could hope to swim, and the most ironic thing - the most infuriating - was that Elain spent every luncheon trying not to study the lines of Lucien’s face. Trying not to notice the way his lips curved when he smiled, or how he tucked his hair behind his ear when he laughed. Trying, too, to pretend she didn’t see the way he looked at her, like she was a secret he was trying to figure out.

Slowly, she drew a breath, one made heavy by exhaustion and exasperation. Maybe, just maybe, Elain would like Lucien, if only she had to space to decide for herself.

Maybe.

She gritted her teeth now, that deep breath swelling in her lungs, coalescing with something bitter, and when she cracked another egg into the bowl, the shell shattered.

It was just… impossible.

Lucien was only ever polite, but every time Elain found herself in a room with him the conversation was forced— like neither of them quite knew where they were supposed to fit together. He looked at her like she was porcelain, breakable, afraid of saying the wrong thing, and though Feyre had broken the curse and freed him from the mask he’d worn for so long, Elain couldn’t help but feel he’d merely exchanged one mask for another when it came to her. He hid, now, behind those manners and that charming smile, that devastatingly polite exterior, and she couldn’t blame him, not really.

After all, her guileless smile was a mask of its own, wasn’t it?

One she had hidden behind for years— that demure and delicate little smile, the one Greysen had liked so much, so wholly appropriate for a woman of society, meant to be seen and not heard, to be looked at and admired. She had let that smile carry her through every social season, and though she’d once thought it as much of a weapon to her as Feyre’s bow and arrow…

It was different now.

It wasn’t a comfort or an asset— it had turned her into something fragile, something to be protected, like the smile on her face somehow made her weak. She hadn’t minded so much at first - Rhys and the others had always been so kind to her - but now… it was becoming an effort to curve her lips when they held their meetings behind closed doors, as though convinced she couldn’t handle it.

She plucked up her wooden spoon now, and as she began to mix the batter in the bowl she gripped the handle so hard her nails dug into her palm, tiny crescent moons marking the soft skin. She let out a single embittered huff - the last she would allow herself - glancing towards the doorway that separated them, the hall that stretched beyond.

Lucien was just as bad as the rest of them.

He looked at her like he didn’t know what to do with her, how to approach her, like she was a startled deer in the forest. In her dreams, he looked at her like he knew every inch of her, inside and out. Like he had committed every part of her to memory, knowing her as keenly, as acutely, as he knew himself. As the timbre of his voice resonated from the sitting room, for a moment Elain wished he would look at her that way now, in the bright light of day. She wished, too, that she knew what that voice sounded like in grand halls and marble ballrooms, in small spaces and quiet corners. For a moment she wished she had the courage to find out.

Furiously, she mixed that batter.

It was a mess— everything was a mess, and she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to fix it, how to make it better.

And then—

“Hello, Elain.”

Every nerve in Elain’s body stilled.

He’d come upon her silently— or had she just been so lost in her own thoughts that she’d stopped hearing his heartbeat through the walls?

Her hand went slack around the wooden spoon, her mind emptying as that voice filled the silence that stretched through the kitchen. It was a lilting voice, so elegant it was almost musical, with the hint of an accent softening his words, rounding out the edges of her name. Elain let her eyes slide closed for the briefest of seconds, feeling those smooth tones echo in her bones, warming her right the way through like a shaft of pure, brilliant sunlight. For just a moment - spare and singular - she let herself feel the bond in her chest, the warmth of it wrapping around her ribs, dancing as he spoke her name. It almost stole her breath, and Elain caught herself before it got stuck in her throat, righted herself before she could fall. She straightened her shoulders, plastered that stiff and stifling smile onto her face and lifted her eyes, catching sight of him in the doorway.

Gods, she almost wished she hadn’t.

Her dreams might have been wide of the mark when it came to their conversations, but even they had not exaggerated Lucien’s beauty. He stood, effortless and immaculate, in fawn coloured breeches and a loose white shirt, his long hair shining like burnished amber in the sunlight. His golden eye glinted as he clasped his hands behind his back, the golden hoop in his ear winking as the sun danced across his skin. He was lovely— lithe and graceful and elegant, and as Elain let the spoon fall with a clatter against the side of the bowl, she cursed herself for being so distracted.

As though only now remembering that she was supposed to be making a cake, she reached for the measuring cups as her mouth went dry, her tongue heavy. That feeling behind her ribs swelled, tugging the way it always did, and as Elain dunked the measuring cup into the sugar, she took a breath and somehow found the will to say,

“Hello, Lucien.”

Something flashed briefly in his eye when she spoke his name, a momentary spark, but she didn’t have time to study it. He buried it, hid it quickly as he dipped his chin in a courteous, practically genteel bow, a polite smile drifting across his lips.

Polite— he was always so damned polite, and though Elain didn’t doubt his manners for a second, sometimes she wished he would let his composure slip— let her see the sharp-tongued fae who had, by all accounts, suited the fox mask he’d been stuck in for half a century.

Silence crawled back into the kitchen, settling thick as Elain dumped the sugar into the mixing bowl. She was all too aware of his presence at the door as she added another cup, her eyes flicking up to find him watching her intently, following her every move.

“Do you need any help?” he asked.

She shook her head, biting her tongue as she filled another cup with sugar. She forced an easy smile on her face, accommodating and bland, the kind her mother had always told her worked well in high society. Lucien nodded, and Elain poured the sugar in the bowl, trying to remember how many cups she’d already added.

Was that the second cup? Or the third?

She couldn’t remember, his presence in the doorway a distraction so complete she couldn’t remember anything from the past five minutes.

Lucien cleared his throat. “Well, then,” he said, unlinking his hands from behind his back. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Elain nodded, wiping her hands on her apron as he gave her a long, searching look before turning on his heel and heading back to the sitting room. Once he was gone, Elain let out another disaffected sigh, one that was heavy in her lungs. She looked at the doorway, at the space absent of him now, and felt something like regret curling uncomfortably within.

Cursing softly under her breath, Elain huffed sharply and added another damned cup of sugar to the bowl.

***

Too much sugar.

She’d put too much sugar in the cake.

Elain’s hand tightened around the silver cake fork, one so dainty, so tiny, it was a wonder it didn’t snap. The cake wasn’t… bad. Not exactly. It was just…

The icing was too thick, the sponge far too dense from where she’d over-mixed it, and sweet, it was so, so sweet.

Lucien’s fault, she thought as her entire body recoiled from the sweetness on her tongue. It was his fault— him and that stupid smile of his, that stupidly lovely face that had seemed to glow in the sunlight. She’d lost count of the sugar she’d put into the bowl and just added another three cups anyway, and now there was a cloying taste clinging to the back of her throat, making her teeth ache and her gut twist, and as she did the maths… Oh gods— there were six cups of sugar in a recipe that called for three.

She glanced around the table, gritting her teeth as Feyre swallowed, pasting a smile on her face as she took another bite. The cake was terrible, and yet they wouldn’t tell her— too afraid of upsetting her, like they didn’t think she could handle it. Feyre practically winced as she closed her mouth around her second bite, and Elain glared down at her fork.

Lucien seemed more interested in his tea than in the cake that he had delicately taken only a small bite of, but Feyre smiled blandly as she forced a swallow, and at her side Rhys cleared his throat, silver fork cutting through the icing Elain had done an inch too thick— the glaze she had made whilst trying not to think of the look that had flashed in Lucien’s eye, wondering what it was and why he’d hidden it.

“Lovely as always, Elain,” Rhys said, masking a grimace as, with effort, he swallowed. “It’s sweet,” he added. “Just like you.”

He offered her a winning smile, but Elain couldn’t see the bright side. She half wanted to throw something. It was a joke, a comment made in jest to lighten the mood, but… she scowled. A Nesta scowl, an expression she’d seen on her sister’s face a thousand times and yet never once allowed to grace her own.

“A rose without a thorn,” Rhys finished.

And Elain… snapped.

“If it had no thorns it wouldn’t be a rose,” she countered flatly. “That’s not how roses work.”

Rhys paused, fork an inch from his mouth, and on the other side of the table, Lucien choked on his tea. Elain put down her own fork, hands lying flat on the table.

Wasn’t she allowed to have thorns, just for a day? To make a cake that wasn’t perfect and lovely? Why must she always be gentle and kind and sweet— why must she be coddled and cosseted?

Couldn’t she, just for once, make a mistake?

Vexed, she pushed away from the table.

Her chair scraped roughly against the polished floorboards, and Lucien’s teacup rattled against his saucer as he set it down, but Elain only tossed her napkin to the table, letting it lie in a pile of crumpled ivory fabric, half lying across her porcelain plate still laden with inedible cake. Honesty— it was all she had wanted, to be treated like a person instead of a child. She couldn’t bear it, and she didn’t look back at the table, at the cake half unfinished or the shock that cross her sister’s face as Elain made a beeline for the hall, for the kitchen, for the back door beyond that would take her out to the garden.

Feyre called out her name, but Elain didn’t stop.

She wanted her garden— wanted the peace and quiet of her garden, the only place she ever felt at home, but—

The breath sawed from her throat as she pushed open the door, gasping as the air kissed her cheeks.

It wasn’t hers, was it?

It was just a plot she tended in Feyre’s garden. In Rhys’ garden. It wasn’t hers, even though she’d cultivated every single bloom in every single bed. She could lay no real claim to it, no ownership, and as she breathed in the fresh air, drawing it deep into her lungs, Elain felt part of herself splintering, cracking beneath the pressure.

At the roses, she stopped.

She came to a halt, looking at the flowers - at the thorns - and reaching out, she traced one with her finger, feeling the sharp edge press against her fingertip, knowing it would take only the slightest bit of pressure to break the skin and bring blood blossoming.

Regret fluttered in her stomach.

The irritation she’d felt turned sour, and as her heartbeat calmed… Elain knew she ought to apologise to Rhys for snapping. To Feyre for ruining her lunch. To Lucien for… everything. For being so stand-offish, for closing herself off when all he’d ever done was try and get to know her.

But how could he ever succeed, Elain thought bitterly, when she didn’t even know who she was herself? She’d been lost— whoever she’d been before having vanished with the cauldron, dried up when she came out, dripping and freezing on the cold stone floor. Lucien had given her his jacket then, and ever since she’d plastered on that unassuming mask, only to find that, like poison ivy, it had burrowed its way beneath her skin and wound itself tight around her veins.

Who was she, without that bland little smile?

She didn’t know anymore— the answer always escaped her, snatched by the wind.

As if she’d conjured him, Elain heard footsteps on the gravel path behind her. Instinctually, she knew who it was. It wasn’t that she recognised the tread— no, it was the way the thread behind her ribs began to vibrate, to tremble, and she knew without needing to turn that Lucien had found her.

She turned, expecting to find a face lined with concern— but instead his expression was calm, like the afternoon sky after a morning storm, and he looked at her with a kind of ease Elain had never seen before. He stood with his hands so casually in his pockets, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. His head tilted an inch to the side, and Elain had never once seen him so… relaxed. He gave her a small smile, and for the first time it didn’t seem contrived. His eyes were alight - both the russet and the gleaming gold - a fire beneath the afternoon sun, and when that smile turned wider, showed teeth, for the very, very first time he wasn’t looking at her like she was some dainty, fragile little thing.

He didn’t look afraid that she’d break.

And for the first time he didn’t look like the kind of man who would buy her gardening gloves. No— he looked like he’d let her get her hands dirty, let her feel the earth, and sit right beside her as she did. His golden eye shone in the sun, and as Elain dragged her gaze over his face, the look he’d buried earlier in the kitchen flashed again, a flare in his single russet eye, and this time Lucien didn’t bother to hide it, to mask it. This time he let her see it, and Elain found… interest there, sharp and glinting, mingling with appreciation, with something that seemed an awful lot like attraction.

He looked at her like he wanted her, and Elain suppressed a shiver.

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning her gaze to the roses, to the thorns. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Lucien cut in, interrupting her. He’d never interrupted her before, always let her finish. Elain suddenly felt like some pretence was dropping away, both his mask and hers eroding at last. “Don’t apologise.”

“I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Lucien snorted, taking another step closer until he was there looking at her roses too. He reached out, brushing a finger along the petals, velvet soft. Elain wondered what that touch would feel like against her skin, the drag of his hands on her waist.

“For the record,” he said softly, his voice carrying the hint of smoke, like he knew where her mind had gone. “I like roses.”

There was something heated in his gaze, his eyes lowering as for the first time he let himself look at her, really look at her. He dragged his focus over her cheekbones, across her jaw, lingering on her lips, so blatant and brazen she almost couldn’t believe it. Oh, Lucien was a gentleman, of that she was sure— but not all the time. There was a streak of something else in him too, something a little bit rakish, a shade of daring, and here it was at last, coming out to play as they stood between the roses.

He gave her a knowing smile, a sidelong glance that had the bond between them thrumming, alive in a way it had never been before, and Elain didn’t pull away or put space between them, even though this was the closest they had been since she’d been tipped out of the cauldron, when he’d draped his jacket over her bare shoulders. He was so close now that his arm was brushing hers, and when she breathed she could smell him— could feel his scent being pulled into her lungs as though it were the only kind of air she needed. It was something sweet and warm with a sharp undertone, and in her rose garden it was delectable, all sugar and spice and crackling embers. He was so close, all she’d have to do was tilt her head and—

His hand fell away from the flower, and he canted his head to the side as Elain looked up at him, suddenly feeling the world narrow until it contained nothing but this little square of the garden. His eye sparked, and as she watched… Lucien winked.

There he is, Elain thought. There’s the man Feyre told me about.

“And I like my roses with thorns,” he added in a whisper, almost conspiratorial.

Elain let out a surprised laugh as her heart kicked in her chest, and with the way his eyes widened, it shocked him almost as much as it did her. His eyes glinted as his lips split into a bright smile, and it was… lovely. Gods, how had she not noticed before, how utterly lovely he was when he smiled?

“And did you like my cake?” she challenged, raising an eyebrow.

It was Lucien’s turn to laugh now, a shocked bark escaping him as he shook his head, auburn hair cascading over his shoulder.

“No,” he said, apologetic. “No, I didn’t.”

“At least you’re honest,” Elain sighed. “I didn’t like it either.”

Lucien laughed again, softer this time, and as he dipped his head his hair fell across his face, masking the scar and the golden eye.

“Apologies, my lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” she whispered.

Not now— not yet. She wanted him to call her my lady when his lips were against her skin, wanted him to whisper it against the crook of her neck as his hands roamed. In her dreams, the only time he called her my lady was when he made love to her. Now— now it was only another barrier between them, a formality she couldn’t stand.

And she’d had enough of formality.

Suddenly Elain wanted to push that hair back, wanted to see his face— the face of the only one who had given her honesty when she asked for it. She wanted to run her hands through that hair, burnished by the afternoon sun. Wanted to see how warm his skin was beneath her fingers, how soft, and something began to build inside her, some kind of desperate anticipation, and even though she knew she should probably keep her hands to herself…

Tentatively, she lifted her hand, eyes growing wider as her heart began to hammer in her chest. Lucien stilled, his smile falling away as slowly, agonisingly slowly, Elain curled her fingers and brushed the hair back behind his pointed ear, feeling the strands between her fingers. Both of his eyes widened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

It was silent, but this wasn’t the silence of all their other meetings, where they had nothing to say to one another.

No— now there was too much, and Elain didn’t know where to begin.

“Call me Elain,” she said at last.

“Elain,” Lucien whispered, his eyes shuttering as though her name on his tongue was an unexpected pleasure, a delicacy he’d just discovered and didn’t ever wish to be without. His lips parted, and when he murmured her name again, it was as though he found it to be a balm to every one of his burns, spoken with a kind of wonder that made her shiver, made her feel like the world was shaking.

And gods— Elain felt the tremble in her blood and smiled.

“Perhaps,” she said quietly, barely able to hear her voice beyond the pounding of her heart, “you could call again next week and I’ll have a better cake for you.”

Lucien didn’t mask his smile this time. He met her eyes, gaze boring into hers as he held her wine-eyed stare. It started small, a soft smirk playing at the corners of his lips, but as he scanned her face it spread— like a wildfire, catching. His fingers rose in the space between them, his eyes turning bold as he brushed the back of his knuckles across her cheek.

“I’d like that,” he said, his smile so easy Elain couldn’t understand why he’d ever hidden it, ever kept this part of himself back.

She leaned into his touch, feeling his fingers against her skin warm and light, like the first kiss of sunrise after a long, dark night.

“I’d like that too,” she said, before pausing and looking back towards the house, to the windows lining the kitchen where everything had gone so decidedly wrong earlier. “But you should probably stay out of the kitchen until it’s done,” she added.

Lucien frowned as confusion flitted across his russet eye, and Elain shrugged.

“It’s your fault I lost count of the sugar,” she explained.

Lucien laughed again, and with the sound something inside Elain began to unfurl, and for the first time… For the very first time, she felt like maybe this mating bond wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

#elucien #elucienweek2023

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stabbyfoxandrew · 3 months ago

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For WIPW--unusually, I think this week I'm feeling most desperate to see more of angel!Neil. The "Andrew and Neil realize they share murder as a love language" moments are my very favorite. The sheer "given the opportunity I will bring you the head of everyone that ever wronged you" of it is just, ooh. Chef's kiss.

WIP Wednesday (3/5) | Guardian Angel Neil AU (Part 283)

Andrew has been staring at this stupid sheet of paper for the past twenty minutes and he's beyond lost. He'd woken up half an hour ago and decided to finally attempt to write his letter to Aaron. He didn't really feel like doing that at nine o'clock in the morning on an empty stomach, but he needed to focus on something besides the residual shock of seeing Drake's body last night.

After all, it was too early for a crisis. Too early to summon Neil to talk him down. So Andrew grabbed a notebook instead of a blade and started off strong with 'Hey'. That is as far as he's gotten so far. After that, he lost steam and started to doodle little pictures all over the page. A turtle, a bunny, a cloud, a little house. Things he can manage with his non-existent art skills.

He hasn't taken his meds yet this morning, hoping he would be able to do this under his own power and knowing he wouldn't be able to do it if his brain were miles overhead. Andrew huffs and drops the notebook, leaving the pen sticking out of his mouth. He needs to do this soon. He's been putting it off for weeks.

The first time Bee asked after it, he claimed he'd forgotten about his therapy homework and she let it slide. Every Wednesday after that, he's come up with a new excuse. 'Bee, my dog ate it' went over as well as it would've in an actual class, Andrew thinks. But Bee was Bee and she didn't yell at him or anything, just gave him that knowing look and told that Kevin was not actually a dog. And that sparked another conversation about how Andrew takes care of Kevin. (Tries to.)(Someone has to.)

Andrew chews on the end of his pen and stares. The problem with the entire thing is... he does not know what to say.

There is nothing to say. Not really.

Betsy swears it would help things between them if he were to take a step and try to make Aaron see his point of view. But there's no way to explain anything without explaining everything and Andrew does not want that. He doesn't want Aaron to know—

What if he already knows? What if Nicky has told him?

Andrew sits with that thought for a couple of minutes, then books it downstairs. The others are all in the living room already, each of them with a bowl of cereal. Even Kevin is awake with a bowl of frosted flakes in his lap, which is a shock. Everyone turns to look at him when he enters and Andrew's skin feels like a sheet of static, buzzing. Everything is buzzing. Itchy.

"Nicky, come here." Andrew says, making Nicky bristle. But he obediently rises from his spot, sets his cereal down, and comes to follow Andrew up to the foot of the stairs. Andrew goes up three steps above Nicky, so he can look him in the eye. "What did they tell you last night?"

"What?"

#thank youuuu!!!! murder as a love language is just Them #andreil #aftg #WIP Wednesday #Guardian Angel Neil AU #🕊️#answered #anon

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dayfaresthenight · 6 months ago

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Emily's Bio

"I always knew I wouldn't have a happy ending. I just wish... I didn't drag him down with me..."

Name: Emily Bell Alt Names: Emily Hayes, [Forgotten] Username: AVessalForApurpose Nicknames: Emmy, Kiddo, Firefly. Chronological Age: 100. (13 At Death)

Age: 16 (In Vessal)

Pronouns: She/her

Sexuality: Bi-Curious

Gender: Cis Female.

Species: Stable Hybrid

Hybrid Info: Simulacra [70%] Spirit [30%]

Disorders: ADHD, C-PTSD, Autism

Physical Disabilities: None Normally! [REDACTED] In Spirit form.

Religion: Thesist

Grade: 10th

Lives in: Daisys House! [in The Treehouse!]

Languages: English, Runic. (Since... when did I know that...?)

Height: 5'4 (In Spirit Form) 5'9 (In Vessel Form)

Race: White

Ethnicity: American

Accent: Very Happy and Chirpy, can calm down to a more quiet and polite tone if needed. Occasionally glitches.

Monster Form: A towering mass of fire, wielding what appears to be a loose piece of metal.

Spirit Form: A pitch-black, vaguely charred girl. Her limbs look to be slightly out of place...

Spirit Level: Acceptance

Powers:

Known: Pyromancy, Teleporting, Generalized Spellcasting

Unknown: Glitching, Sense of Intentions, Radio Static, Memory Manipulation, Memory Deletion, Hallucinations, Cloning, Low-End Reality Alteration

Weaknesses: Paradoxes, Overstimulation, Her Dad

Weapons: Icey Greatsword (She named it herself), Fire Tome, Error Sword [Formerly Daisys, rarely used]

Alignment: Im a good person.

Text Color: Pink!

Main Animal: Cats

Main Hobbies: Radio Making, Tennis, Socializing, Dollmaking, Board Games

Favorite Foods: Strawberry Shortcake, Icecream, Penaut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches, Icebox Cake, Chicken Wings, Pepperoni Pizza, Ranch-Tossed Salad

Favorite Flower: Tulips

Scent: Vaguely Flower-Esque, Fabric Softener.

Handedness: Right-Handed

Blood Color: Red (Rarely Black)

Awareness: Suspicious, But Doesn't Care.

Birthday: May 23rd

Theme:

Playlist: WIP

Fun Facts: She considers arriving home 10 minutes late as "Rebellious!"

Special Interests: Old Dolls, Radios, Zoology, Sci-Fi

Stims: Jumping up And Down, Fidgeting With Objects, Rocking Back and Forth

Stimboard: Possibly

Moodboard: Possibly

Fashion Board: Possibly

Comfort Objects: An old Antique Radio. (The only thing that came with her, was made for her by her dad.)

Family:

-##### - [Biological Father. Forgotten.]

-##### - [Biological Mother. Forgotten.]

The Neighbor's [Uncle/Aunt Figures]

Radio [Adopted Father]

Daisy Bell [Adoptive Sister]

Friends:

[Forgotten] - ???

Romance: None that she can recall.

Enemies: N/A

Patrons: Aculia [VIA Techincality]

Brief Personality:

The best way to Describe Emily is "Upright." Always calling people by Miss or Mister, almost always being polite, and generally having been raised and taught to avoid most temptations and substances. She is what one could consider the stereotypical golden girl.

Emily is however very energetic, and a little bit mischievous. Trust this girl with a bomb, and she will use it for very silly purposes. She never means maliciously though, and is most likely just doing it to try to get a laugh out of one of the NPCs or members of her family.

Emily, however, is extremely hard-headed. When this girl has her mind set on something, it can be extremely difficult for her to budge on it. Much like her father, she tends to get caught in mental loops that go on for a long time.

Rarely, she'll act distant, likely because something reminded her of one of the two major tragedies in her life.

Brief Backstory:

Emily came from a rather unfortunate background, having had a less-than-stellar life before being adopted by Radio. She doesn't like to talk much about it, simply avoiding the question by saying "Radio has always been her dad."

When she was first found by Radio, she was a rather quiet, Jaded- slightly shy kid. It took a while for her to warm up to her father, especially with his... eccentricities, but overtime, she was able to see past that and quickly became inseparable with him.

Alongside that, Radio's Friends all had a different impact on her life. Getting her more interested in nature, teaching her it was okay to be mad, that you could enjoy the finer things in life without shame... So on, and so forth. Her favorite however was a man named Paul, and he was the one she was closest to, besides Radio himself.

Emily had friends too, she... thinks. Parts of her memory aren't quite intact, likely as a consequence of being in limbo for so long. She clutches onto what she does remember though greatly. She would never forget her dad, that's for sure.

The Crash impacted her deeply, although she doesn't remember much of it. For brief moments, she will however become lucid to it- blurting out facts and tidbits about it. Does she not remember, or does she just not want to talk about it?

She was stuck in limbo for a long time. For some reason, her soul refused to move on... almost as if it was still holding on, for some reason.. For someone.

Maybe one day... they'll meet again.

#radioposting #daisy daisy #Emily #Credit to Radios Creator For letting me have this girl-#Spotify

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dramioneasks · 1 year ago

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Hello! First of all, I LOVE your blog! ❤️ I hope everyone is well. Do you know any fics with more "adult themes"? Which mean, more serious stuff, war, etc. I love Manacled, Secrets & Masks and Perfectly in Pieces. I also love Hunted and LITOTZA. Maybe fics where Draco is on the other side of war and then changes? Or was faking all this time? Thanks so much!

Shadows of Ourselves By: InkFairy - T, 32 chapters - Draco Malfoy has played both sides of the war for years, but when Voldemort gives him an ultimatum—bring him Hermione Granger or die—she surprisingly agrees to be handed over to the Dark Lord. Together, they take pureblood society by storm as Master and Madam Malfoy, all while trying to help the Order find and destroy the last Horcruxes and defeat Voldemort forever.

Draco Takes a Mark - diamonddaydream - T, 53 chapters, Words: 184,204 - "The fact that Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were mad for each other was the worst kept secret at Hogwarts.“ Retelling of The Half-blood Prince as a Dramione story. Crookshanks brings Draco to Hermione after she’s brought back cursed from the Department of Mysteries. Knowing the relationship they’ve carried on in secret since the Yule Ball is about to be tested, she inscribes an ancient love charm onto his left arm with surprising consequences which may affect the course of the coming war. Continues the story “Dancing with Draco ” or reads fine on its own. Complete, HEA

Entanglement By: blankfish - M, WIP - “Your loyalties begin and end with me now, Granger, or have you forgotten?” he spat bitterly. At the request of the Order, Hermione Granger marries Draco Malfoy, a man she’d only ever known as her enemy. This decision leads her on a winding path of tumultuous consequences that even she could not have predicted. Dramione War AU.

The Gift of Joy by BiscuitsForPotter - E, 22 chapters, Words: 147,249 - After the murder of Albus Dumbledore, Draco never makes it out of Hogwarts. Instead, he is captured, interrogated, and placed in the temporary care of someone who can help him lie low until a more permanent solution can be found. His caretaker? None other than one Hermione Granger. Stripped of his status, his wand, and his dignity, can Draco Malfoy find solace in the company of the muggleborn he once tormented?

Divine Artifice By: jessiy - M, 25 chapters, Words: 162,391 - The story of how Draco Malfoy found redemption, his heart, and reclaimed his family’s honor. All thanks to a mislabeled bottle of Experimental Amortentia. Hermione/Draco

The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy - speechwriter - M, 33 chapters, Words: 296,116 - The night that Harry and Dumbledore return from the cave, the Death Eaters are delayed from reaching the top of the Astronomy Tower for one more minute. Draco Malfoy lowers his wand. A Deathly Hallows rewrite in which Draco accepts Dumbledore’s offer to fake his death and go into hiding with the Order of the Phoenix.

Turncoat By: elizaye - M, 101 chapters - Switching sides. “I have only one condition, and I trust it won’t be hard for you to meet. I want Granger.”

We Learned the Sea By: floorcoaster - T, 37 chapters - Draco Malfoy turns himself in after a very successful career as a Death Eater, then enlists Harry and Hermione to help him in a scheme to bring down the Dark Lord. DHr. A story of forgiveness.

Static By: galfoy - M, 21 chapters - The Order rescued Draco and Lucius Malfoy after Lord Voldemort turned on them. All the safe houses are full, and Hermione Granger is the only one who can take them in. Will she agree after having suffered a drastic nervous breakdown?

Stolen By: Elsie girl - T, 45 chapters - She pretends to love him for the Order. He pretends to love her for the Dark Lord. Have they deceived everyone, or only themselves? “Love unlocks doors and opens windows that weren’t even there before.” Mignon McLaughlin. Thank you so much for the support. Please read and review. Complete Dramione.

Crimson with a Silver Lining by Lady Cailan - M, 78 Chapters - It is six years since the fall of the Ministry to Voldemort. Those other than purebloods are deemed less than human. When Ginny’s daughter ends up in grave danger, Hermione sells herself to the Death Eaters to save her life. Draco/Hermione. Not fluffy

Family Ties by l.h. Zein - T, 33 chapters, Words: 163,935 - They would underestimate him. The strongest person he’d ever known had been underestimated, and she was his mother in all but blood. He molded himself, played the part he’d been cast to play, while he waited for his chance. Then Sirius Black had escaped. Twisted canon. AU picking up at the start of DH.

-Lisa

#anonymous #similar fics #manacled

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spnfanficpond · 2 months ago

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Weekly Pond Newsletter

We had a busy week this past week, so this is going to be short because tired. 🤣

Old Business:

SPNFanFicPond Fic Highlight - Cuckoos in Glass Houses by @ani-coolgirl! Dark Wincest, AU, and hopefully, a second part to come! Click here to read our review!

#FlashFicFriday prompts - I want to read a scene where Mr Fizzles says that dialogue prompt to Lilith. In that singsong voice of his. 🤣

March Writing Challenge, The Women of SPN - This is still ongoing, and you can sign up at any time! Click here for all the details!

New Business:

Competitive Writing Sprints - Admin MJ will be hosting another session of writing sprints next Saturday at 11am EDT. Add words to your WIP and win prizes!

Manta Ray Chat - Admin Michelle will be hanging out in the Discord server to chat with you later on Saturday, at 4pm EDT. Come by and say hi!

Angel Fish Awards - The deadline to be entered into the March drawing is Monday, the 31st, at midnight EDT. Get your nominations in before then to earn your entries into the raffle! Click here to read all about it!

(Divider by @glygriffe!)

Hope you have a great week! - From your Admins and Manta Rays, @mrswhozeewhatsis, @mariekoukie6661, @thoughtslikeaminefield, @heavenssexiestangel, @spn-fanfic-reblog-writes, and @manawhaat!

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kingedmundsroyalmurder · 1 year ago

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Blue Castle Book Club 2.0 - Chapter 1

I told myself I'd start the WIP Big Bang in June, and it is now June. So it's time to get Tamora Pierce's voice out of my head and bring Maud's back. And what better way to do that than to book club my way through the book a second time and bring you all with me?

Dunno if we'll go chapter by chapter this time, since a lot of the middle chapters are short and more interesting to talk about as a group than individually. But we'll play it by ear and see what the vibes are like.

So! Back to Deerwood we go!

We start out strong, with a delightful opening paragraph:

If it had not rained on a certain May morning Valancy Stirling’s whole life would have been entirely different. She would have gone, with the rest of her clan, to Aunt Wellington’s engagement picnic and Dr. Trent would have gone to Montreal. But it did rain and you shall hear what happened to her because of it.

Everyone quite rightly talks about the first sentence, but I like the second one even more, and the way it subtly misleads us by highlighting Dr. Trent. It makes it seem like he will be a primary character (perhaps even a love interest!) when in actuality he ends up being just a catalyst. A fun hint at the humor of this book.

We move into Valancy's room, and we are painted a picture of a place that is both ugly and static. Maud, of course, loves to draw connections between people and the places they inhabit, and what we are learning about Valancy through her room is bleak. Yes, it is ugly and yes none of it is hers, but even more than that everything is old and crumbling: the wallpaper is faded, the ceiling is cracked and discolored, the looking glass is cracked, the shell-covered box has a bust corner and the beaded pincushion has half its bead fringe gone. And yet none of these items are permitted the dignity of retirement. They are on display just as they always have been, and will be until they fully crumble to dust. They have not been cared for, so that they might age gracefully or be preserved longer, they have simply sat, unloved and untended, falling apart but forbidden from leaving even though no one wants them there.

A strong start to the embodied houses in this book.

We get a delightful turn of phrase with:

Nobody in the Stirling clan, or its ramifications

The Stirling clan is an Event, an Act of Nature more than simply a family. They Happen to you and you just have to deal with the fallout.

Our second embodied house is the Blue Castle itself, and it is beautiful and splendid and solidly fantastical. The Blue Castle is like that perfect novel you dream to yourself while going to bed, filled with sparkling dialog and emotional climaxes that hit with perfect devastation and none of the actual work needed to make those elements work in practice. The Blue Castle has no need for laundry or dusting or clothing made from actual fabrics. Its inhabitants are free to float gracefully down the staircase on an endless loop and parade before Valancy swooning gracefully at her beauty. It’s a daydream, written by someone who clearly knows her way around a good daydream and understands them from the inside. As the author states herself:

Things are very convenient in this respect in Blue Castles.

But today Valancy is twenty-nine and miserable and unmarried and daydreams can sustain her no longer. And, unless I’ve forgotten something, she never again finds the keys to her Blue Castle in the story. She talks about it, but I don’t believe she ever actually sets foot in the fantasy again. By the time she’s able to dream again, she’s escaped her Stirling life and doesn’t need airy fantasies to keep her going.

Valancy thinks of the canceled picnic and goes through the list of relatives she’s glad to not have to see, which is all of them. Put a pin in these descriptions, we’ll come back to them in a later chapter. This first round of descriptors makes them all seem rather formidable and dreadful, but Valancy duly does her best to think well of them even in the privacy of her own thoughts. She is in awe of Aunt Wellington, Aunt Alberta has an amiable habit, she dislikes but respects Uncle James. As I said, we’ll come back to these.

Meanwhile, we don’t have to go to the picnic! And so Valancy tentatively plans her day, including her great rebellion of perhaps going unattended to a doctor at the tender age of 29. As I said the first time I read this book, I can so deeply relate to Valancy’s desire to do things secretly because trying to tell anyone what she’s doing will turn it into a Whole Thing.

Colors mentioned:

Greying darkness

Red eyes

Yellow-painted floor

Dark-red paper

Brown-paper lambrequin

Yellow chair

Red brick box

Blue Castle

Blue loveliness

White urns

Golden curls

Heavenly blue eyes

Reddish, tawny hair

Not one single crimson or purple spot

Silver teaspoon

We're limiting ourselves to the css colors, so perhaps Valancy's life is slightly more vibrant than the screen gives it credit for being, but even still this is a limited color palette, especially compared to what we will see later. The only interesting color words are crimson, which is referring to something valancy lacks, and golden and tawny which are referring to someone fictional. Otherwise it's all just the standard names for colors with no nuance.

#blue castle book club #moonlight and mistawis #tracking colors for my own purposes but also out of genuine curiosity

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