#wip: follies

[lady-grace-pens]

It took a year to get here and I may have vanished from this site multiple times BUT FOD DRAFT 1 IS OFFICIALLY COMPLETE AHHH

121k words

I plan on taking a short break (about a week or so) before going back in to reread and edit. No idea how long that’ll take, but after that I should be open to betas!

Taglist: @flowerprose @serafyyn @wordwizards @isabellebissonrouthier

[lady-grace-pens]

Follies Excerpt [12]

110k words earns a Special Treat because we are quickly approaching the final 6 or so scenes!!!

Taglist: @isabellebissonrouthier @wordwizards @flowerprose @serafyyn

•••

As the last of the senators flock to the gaping doors, I down the remainder of my coffee. Cal knits herself to my hip, her eyes beady as a bat and wavering in the ferocity of her stance. I toss her a sideways glance as she rips the thermos from my grip and clamps it down on the table jutting into her side.

The others aren’t much better. Pierre sighs into his palms and Ilya bears the weight of his head. Their disapproval sharpens in the absence of speech, a dagger all the same. I can’t move without being speared.

Ghosts of the library brush against my skin. The desire to breathe evades me. Efforts to iron a cracking face become tumultuous by the second.

It’s almost a reflex to reach into my purse for an unmarked bottle of pills. It rattles in my hand, not only revealing the depleted content but the tremors fraying my nerves. Fumbling with the cap takes all my energy and it’s not even worth it. Cal yanks the damn thing out my grasp. With a clumsy flick of the wrist, the cap pops off and the pills are sent cascading around us. Bullet casings on a battlefield.

I fall to my knees. A beat passes and the only thing I can register are pebbles of white scattered everywhere they shouldn’t be.

Chaos.

Fingers rip through my hair. My heart beats itself to the hiss of the devil’s violin. I cower in my own skin. Pressing my palms to my ears isn’t enough to drown out the silence or the ringing that scorns me. Just as effortless as their grip, they wilt to my thighs.

“Seriously, Emmy?” Cal shrieks. “What even are those things?”

“Relax Bible-clutcher, it’s only caffeine.”

“As if that makes it any better!”

I scramble to my senses, pawing to gather my pills. The first two I find, I stuff in my mouth and swallow them dry—to which Cal has no issues voicing her repulsion. If it weren’t for the pill peeking behind the base of her heels, I might’ve missed the haughty scoff she spits at my face.

“God. Look at yourself.”

As if to emphasize her point, she joins me on the floor, though her knees never touch the ground. I shove the last of my pills in the pocket of my jeans. Before I can think to stand, she chains herself to my wrist. The weight of her grip tells me all I care to know. But if I know anything about my sister, it’s that she never holds her anger for very long. It doesn’t quite fit in her hands.

Her voice is lower than a whisper. “You look…”

“Like hell,” Ilya finishes.

“Thank you.” I take out a cigarette from my back pocket. “Anyone got a light?”

Ilya tosses me his lighter. Cal’s grip rots away. In the seconds that drip down her cheeks, I light my cigarette and revel in the first puff. Tension leaves my body with the the grace of a drunken flapper, and how the straps of her dress kiss her shoulder as they fall.

Vigor restored, I slump against the podium to my back. Observing my surroundings comes easy now that I have the mind to make sense of them.

Cal’s face poses an interesting sight. Accusations have rotted in her pores. Now that she’s plagued with the husks of them, it shows how clueless she is of what to do. Her eyes are gaunt and foggy. She brings herself to her feet, though she can only stare at the floor.

Helpless is the term dominant to the track of my heart. I can muster sympathy for her, but it’s muffled by the long stretch of highway to the ceiling—where cherubs giggle in their pastel haven.

“You can’t smoke here.” She wavers in her voice—more air than anything else. “Don’t you think she’s gonna see you? Or smell it?”

“Stoners do it all the time and they never get caught.”

“Yeah.” She crosses here arms. “Because they hide. The librarian is right around the corner.”

I crack a smile. “She smokes too. Why else do you think she’s stuck up in her office all day? Sometimes she even pays the stoners for a joint.”

Curiosity brings my eyes to hers. Shaking her head, her gaze darts from the ground, bookshelves, or any other miscellaneous items lying about. The whites of her eyes are so large, I nearly drown in them. She clings to herself like that’s her only defense. Her legs carry her backward in tired, mechanical movements that don’t end until she clashes with the chair beside Ilya.

I lift my brows at such a display.

“You worry too much. They expel me and MawMaw revokes her donations. It’s simple. Besides, it’s not like it’s a habit.” I flick ashes onto the floor. “Just once a day for my stress. Unlike present and absent company, I can tame my emotions.”

Her dainty features are sent writhing.

“Still. You didn’t have to do that to him.”

[lady-grace-pens]

OC Name Tag

Rules: Give the meaning of your characters’ names, then explain why you chose that name in particular

Tagging: @isabellebissonrouthier @flowerprose and open tag!!

Thanks to @alinacapellabooks for the tag!! This was fun! Honestly most of my character names are purely based off vibes honestly, I rarely have a reason why I choose one name in particular :p

—

Emily - rival, hard-worker, eager

I was drawn to the name at random, but in retrospect it suits her awfully well. Homegirl can and will work herself into a hospital bed if she isn’t careful.

Calanthia - beautiful flower

Chosen by vibes, again, painfully accurate! Cal wants to be a florist and she lives in pastels… wow. I swear this wasn’t intended

Pierre - rock

Vibes! Again! He IS a rock though, if it weren’t for him Emily would literally cave in on herself. The man is her entire emotional regulation system.

Arthur - bear, strong

Chosen as a nod to another character who inspired him! I find this ironic considering how cowardly the man is

Ilya - great, glorious

All I knew was I wanted something Slavic sounding for his ancestry

Matthieu - gift of God

Matthieu Miller is a curse. I can’t stop laughing. No I can’t explain why. There’s a masquerade ball in canon and he literally dresses up as the devil…

[lady-grace-pens]

Seven Snippets, Seven People

Tagged by @isabellebissonrouthier !! Thank you bestie <33

All of these are from my current wip FOD, narrated in Emily’s pov.

Tagging for funsies: @owilder @wildswrites @sparrow-orion-writes @macabremoons @wordwizards @pen-of-roses @alinacapellabooks and anyone else who sees this!!

•••

“And what about this?”

My tongue slips onto the open air. In the center of it rests a short gold barbell piercing with a top fashioned to resemble a rose. Without pause, his attention is stolen from my scars. Alarm fades into contemplative interest. He cups my head in his hands, posing me this way and that to savor all angles possible.

“You like?” I tease once he lets go. “It came free with the trauma.”

•••

Before I can think to stand, Cal chains herself to my wrist. The weight of her grip speaks miles for the heat of her gaze. But if I know anything about my sister, it’s that she never holds her anger for very long. It doesn’t quite fit in her hands.

Her voice is lower than a whisper. “You look…”

“Like hell,” Ilya finishes.

“Thank you.” I take out a cigarette from my back pocket. “Anyone got a light?”

•••

Some feet away and still in his chair, Pierre’s head is cradled between his arms. His notebook is open underneath, and his laptop has gone black.

“You’ve been mighty quiet over there, jester.”

He only sighs.

•••

I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to.

I bite my tongue at the sobs surging up my throat. This mask weighs heavy on my face. Tears and feathers make a mess of my vision. I glare through it all, jaded queen on her fucking throne, and face the man sitting next to Pierre.

He wears no costume. No mask. Only a gothic suit with a red carnation pinned to his lapel. His features are a blur as he turns to the other woman attached to his hip. She pokes his chest. He lends her his ear. She wants far more, stealing a kiss from his cheek. My heart falls silent.

She averts her gaze. He catches her chin. Eye contact. Eye contact.

Eyes.

•••

Ilya’s eyes haven’t left me all night. Every breath, every act is tied to his red eyes peering at me through the guise of his cards. I shut my eyes and he’s there across the table, domineering silhouette streaked by a neon sign to his back while the ongoing storm rattles the windowpanes.

Whiskey cries where I left it and hour ago: scantily held and straight from the bottle. I toss what remains over my shoulder with a sigh.

•••

Suppress something long enough and it becomes a religion.

“The act or the suppressant?” Arthur asks in my mind.

I can’t answer.

•••

“Finally got tired of wearing that mask haven’t you?”

My head snaps to the direction of the entrance. Upon seeing who it is, my face falls flat.

“I was wondering when it would slip,” he finishes when there’s only a foot separating us.

I spare him a glance. “What mask?”

He huffs in his side-mouthed grin. Shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he joins me in leaning against the wall.

“You know, little miss angel face. All bloody lips and kerosene doused in cherry and vanilla perfume. That whole getup. I was wonderin’ when you’d get tired.”

[lady-grace-pens]

Made a quiz about my story!! First uquiz ever 😬 If you take it lemme know who you got!

Taglist: @isabellebissonrouthier @wordwizards @serafyyn @flowerprose

[lady-grace-pens]

Follies Excerpt [11]

100k. Homegirl breaks a mirror + another bit from the Heads Up Seven Up snippet from this morning ;) I’m obsessed with these scenes

Taglist: @wordwizards @serafyyn @isabellebissonrouthier @flowerprose

•••

The devil fashions himself the epitome of casual. A lax European model with his hands stowed away in his pockets and his brows raised in layman’s sympathy, all but shrugging with a metaphorical cigar on his lips.

Much as I burn to cause a scene that would honor Cleopatra and the great actresses of long past… I flex my fists. Nothing more.

“So that’s it then?”

He goes to speak. I strike him twice, once per cheek. In the time it takes him to process my movements, I snatch the maroon blanket on his couch. Wrapping it around my body, I storm out the front door, not bothering to slam it behind me.

The street is nothing but a spotlight. A void of sun and the whites of eyes, with the concrete gradually baking my bare feet. Whispers fill my ears, the greatest proof that I’m making an utter spectacle of myself.

I sprint across the street and throw myself against the red door of home.

It doesn’t budge.

Fumbling with the knob yields me the same result, but it’s all I can think to do. Possessed by instincts, I drive myself into the damn thing again. And again. And again.

By a miracle, it opens. I stumble inside. It shuts behind me. I glance around but the place is soulless.

Cal. Where is she? My baby, she… Oh God. What of Pierre?

I whirl around. Ilya replaces my view of the door. Before he has room to interrogate me, I demand the whereabouts of my sister.

“She’s still with Pierre. Hospital decided to keep him and Matt a bit longer but they should be home soon.”

“She’s isn’t here? What do you mean she isn’t here? Where’s my sister? I—I need my… I need my…”

Ilya’s voice is a murmur to the titans groaning in my ears. The memory of Arthur pairs with insects skittering across my skin. I dash upstairs, to my room, and lock the door behind me. Fingers draw blood from my scalp as I slave over the empty stretch of floorboards.

In an onslaught of mania, I sweep the ornaments off my dresser. I tear down the lights and rip the tapestry from its hooks. The force of my screams sends me to my knees in the center of my room.

Dammit! Don’t I deserve more than this? Acting as if it never happened. Posing as if it’s anything lesser than what it is. Childish first love, the thrill of a summer fling, or the cool breeze.

Infatuation, at best.

I catch her snake eyes in the mirror above my dresser. For a moment I can’t register her as a fraction of myself. This rage can’t be my own. It can’t be human. It can only be a beast whose features are the envy of a snarling old olive tree.

My fingers coil around a candelabra laying at my hip. Heart raging, breath abandoned, I launch it at her with one fluid strike. Time crawls as glass rains down upon me. Laughter foams on my tongue, tickled by the crystalline shards glittering through the air. For something so dangerous, they carry themselves with the beauty and serenity of falling snow. My eyes flutter closed. I lift my head, even open my mouth for a taste.

Ilya’s feet thunder upstairs. Screaming my name, he sprints for my door and rams himself against it. The locks are old things, so they give way without much force, but for my life I can’t understand what possessed him. At the sight of me, his eyes bulge and his grip tightens around the doorframe, exclaiming, “Jesus! Fuck.”

Fractals of glass are splayed all around me. Each one is bonded to the other via streams of blood gushing from an unknown source. Perhaps multiple, considering the volume. They retain their function as a mirror, displaying my lazy smile and half-mooned eyes—though both are muddied by streaks of rust.

Turning over my limbs, I can’t resist a laugh. Crystals and crimson dress my body. Ilya gawks as if I were a circus freak, but I’ve never felt more divine. I could make an army of men worship me with my tongue of diamonds.

What good would that do when the one I love scorns me? What then? What now?

My coat of ecstasy slips. The head bows and the eyes grow fuzz, staring at nothing yet musing over everything. Silence rots my will to speak. Ideas stall and my joints lock.

Ilya scoops me into his arms. Caution bleeds through the cracks in his voice. Too many. Too obvious.

“Come on. Let’s go visit Pierre.”

•••

“Em.”

“What do you want from me?” I spring to my feet.

Arthur gapes through jaded lashes. Times skates on before he settles on the word, “Truth.”

I shake my head. My voice teeters off the edge of a rocky summit. My stomach has already taken the fall.

“I can’t be like you. I can’t.”

“But you can! You can.”

He floats to his feet, sweeping my hips into his palms before I have the mind to object. His face is centimeters from my own—acetone to our surroundings. The steam from our breath piles in the faint cracks of our smile lines. I part my lips. My hand finds it’s way to his stomach where I latch onto his belt. Our torsos collide, coaxing a moan from my lips. His grip tightens. Our foreheads touch.

I lick my lips, grazing his own. His mouth bursts with plums. Saccharine and tart create the exact impression I’d expect from our second first kiss.

“Last night melted your tongue so sweetly,” he utters, praise only fueling my acrid desire to suckle him dry. “You remembered our dream—”

Memory extracts the wool from my eyes. In a bout of agony, Arthur becomes my pillow and my punching bag. Think fraught caresses and impassioned pounding, lonely pleas versus touch-starved mangling. Each jerk of my head rubs my nose in my snot, spit, and tears as I wail into his chest.

“Please don’t make me say it. Not like this.”

He stopped holding me ages ago. I realize that only as my arms fall to my sides and my sobs begin dragging their tails. He scorns me with his arid pause, unchanging. My hope sticks to the morning grime costing my teeth.

His hand is a gavel clamping down on my shoulder. My sentence is proclaimed without having mentioned a word.

I wipe my nose with my sleeve. Upon the gathering of my wits, I straighten and look up to face the grave I’ve dug for myself.

[lady-grace-pens]

Heads Up Seven Up

Tagged by @isabellebissonrouthier <3

Finally getting off my lazy butt to do some tag games ;) Here! Have a Saucy Moment between Arthur and Emily. I’m obsessed with the scene this is from

Tagging: @indigowriting @sparrow-orion-writes @spuddlespud and whoever else sees this!

•••

Yearning tramples my womb with the bitter-hearted mercy of the ocean. I gag on my tears.

“Please,” I beg. “Don’t.”

Arthur melts in the slit between my knees. My legs part to make room for him. The heat of his breath climbs up my thighs, dousing the area between.

Throbbing aches mingle with the vision of his lips peppering my inner thighs with the most lovesick bruises I’ll ever taste.