Haven’t felt inspired to write fic in quite a while. But I was looking over the prompts for Elucien Week and one of my old fragments stood out…the Feral prompt is speaking to me, haha. Maybe I can make it into something in time for the event.
Here’s a taste for anyone interested:
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Elain wrapped the jacket around herself, threading her arms through the sleeves. She pulled the lapels up against the cold and buttoned the front; it was much too big for her, and she had to roll up the cuffs, but it was soft and gloriously warm. And then, as she pushed the sleeves back to uncover her chilled hands, she caught it.
The scent. Smoky, sweet, tart. It lived in the lining, in the stitches, the buttonholes, the worn elbows…there was no stiffness in this garment, it had lived on his back and embraced him, soaking in the essence of him. It was him. He had worn it on countless occasions, obviously. She had imagined it so many times, even seen it on occasion as she dreamwalked helplessly through the aethyr: him, beneath a cold spring moon. Bringing down monsters in the inky night. Huddling around bonfires. Tense with the thrill of chase, of pursuit. Sweet but acid, the depth of pomegranate and the smoke of whiskey, just like the wit that rolled off his tongue: the honeyed words that spilled so easily between those indecently full lips, but stung with backhanded humor. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, he might say, and then the gold gleam of that eye would narrow in mischief, but I haven’t yet seen everything, have I? You’ll have to show me more…just so I can make a proper assessment, of course.
It twisted around her heart like fingers, and squeezed, tight. Her throat, as firm as if it were his hand. Her belly, spiraling downward and inflaming her with want. With need. Lucien, her brain screamed. She couldn’t even wait to see him in her dreams; she wanted him now, now, now, a surge of feeling as heady as panic but so, so acidly, decadently sweet. She could feel it on her skin in delicate waves, trickling along her nerve endings. His breath, the soft drag of his lips, the saucy dart of his tongue.
Thank the mother he wasn’t close by. She clutched the jacket to her neck and breathed, his scent filling her head like a cloud. I’d push him against a tree and…and…
But even her mind was treacherous, because now she was thinking of what she’d do…climb him like a young sapling, tear at the buttons on his shirt, claw through his braids with her fingers, use her tongue to trace his muscles under the skin. Bite. Taste him fully on her tongue. Nip along the scratches she’d raise with her nails, pull at his scar with her incisors. Kneel over his face and let him lick her until pleasure overwhelmed her and she could barely breathe.
She swallowed hard; and as she did, she felt a hesitant tug between her ribs.
The bond.
She was instantly consumed by shame as though falling into water. Had he felt her desire swamp her like a wave? Feyre had said Rhysand could feel almost everything she thought. Her sister’s face had been rapturous with joy as she’d said that, but Elain had stirred with discomfort at the thought. She found it frightening that there was no corner of her mind that was her own. No private place, nothing that was safe. Not even her wild desire was safe.
But you didn’t want safe, did you?
The voice in her head threaded down to her heart, pulling the gold thread at her fourth rib, threatening to reveal all…
Safe is your past. It is not your future.
Would you like to see your future?
She swallowed hard against her fear, against her own reluctance, the need for comfort and the insane urge to be swept away…
If ACOTAR 6 doesn’t include this one specific thing for Elain and Lucien, I’ll crash out. Tell us what it is.
Ooooh OK... so I answered this one earlier with my no. 1 choice (outdoor sex ofc) BUT I also really want answers to the Elucien questions we've all been asking 😅 such as...
- Did Elain keep the jacket?
- What did Lucien see at the end of the bond?
- What happened between them after the battle of Hybern?
- Does Lucien know about the almost-kiss from the bc?
- What did Elain really think of the earrings/gloves?
And the most important of all...
- WHAT DOES IT MEAN THAT AUTUMN COURT MALES HAVE FIRE IN THEIR BLOOD AND FUCK LIKE IT TOO??
Just kind of evidence that SJM reread the books and got as obsessed with these two as we all did 🤣
Hello!! What comes to mind when I say Pumpkin Spice?
Thanks so much for the bracelet!!
I always think of pumpkin-spiced lattes and Lucien bringing Elain to a quaint little cafe in Autumn, of which even the High Lord isn't aware. He coaxes Elain to try the drink. When she lowers the cup, eyes bright as she realises she actually likes this - albeit strange - concoction, Lucien notices that she has some foam around her mouth.
Lucien points it out to her, and Elain, ever the lady, tries to dab at it with her napkin. But it doesn't come off.
Lucien, now unable to hold back, kisses her and Elain responds just as enthusiastically. When they break apart, the first words Lucien says to her are: "well, at least the foam around your mouth is gone."
This was so fun to think about!! Thank you @starsreminisce <3
Who is more likely to plan everything for a vacation and who is more than happy to come along for the ride?
Aww tysm for the ask 🥰
Lucien is the planner. He’s raced around from court to court enough…plus it’s part of why he’s such a good courtier. He’d be an excellent concierge-service travel agent, able to source anything from a bouquet of mirror orchids (magical flowers that reflect light to attract pollinators), to extravagant dyes for cloth, to exquisite little sweets. Elain would find new little gifts everywhere they went on their mating trip.
But Elain would consider it a point of pride how easily she could distract him from going on a day trip, or convince him to go back to the hotel with the promise of just a kiss…
Here’s a bracelet for you and an Elucien newlywed question!
Who apologized first after their first real argument? Elain or Lucien
@elucienweekofficial
Hi!! Thanks so much for this bracelet!!
I absolutely love this question because in my mind, Lucien would 100% apologise first. He's such a polite gentleman, and he'd HATE to leave Elain feeling like they have unresolved things between them. He'd definitely be more upset about an argument, too.
I can totally imagine him grovelling to Elain full regency style with a heartfelt confession and enough yearning in his eyes to make us all sick.
Ofc darling! I’m glad you don’t mind whenever I slide into your DMs with bracelets!
[image of the sandwiches friendship bracelet]
Lucien secretly loves it whenever Elain calls him ______
I’m stealing from my favorite ACOTAR fanfic of all time for this answer: Blaze. 🔥
He gets a bit gruff when she says it, feeling undeserving of the tenderness it takes for her to give him terms of endearment…but his heart just swells in his chest every time.
(Tysm for the bracelet, I’m sorry it took so long to reply!)
I've never actually participated in an ACOTAR week of any kind, so I'm very excited to be trying this out! Thanks @elucienweekofficial for setting this up every year.
Summary: A series of chance interactions between Elain and Lucien, and one where they meet by choice.
Word Count: 3k
I
“Mama!” Nyx sang over the dull cacophony of Velaris’ Rainbow, twisting from Elain’s gentle grip to point excitedly at his mother’s studio, the windows decorated with paintings from her students and light catchers that cast rainbows across the walls. “Mama, Mama, Mama!”
She chuckled softly, indulgently down at the toddler before setting him down and taking his hand. Better to let him lead before he jumped right from her arms and crashed down to the cobblestone. Flying lessons were to come soon, Rhys and Cassian had promised, but the muscles in the joints of his wings were yet to fully develop, not quite strong enough to keep him from crashing.
“Mama’s teaching a class,” she said softly, careful to grab his shoulders before he ran over the threshold of the studio and inevitably crashed into a bucket of paint or a wet canvas.
Nyx whipped around with wide, disbelieving eyes. Betrayal shone, deep as any wound. “Mama.”
“We’ll wait outside. She’ll just be a moment.”
Truthfully, she wasn’t quite sure she could stand entering the studio right now – never before had she felt out of place by how she dressed, by the flowing skirts of her pale pink dress or the lace hem, nor by the pearls around her neck and hanging from her ears. But to enter a place of such freedom, where the children inside knew war and where Feyre no doubt looked radiant in a paint-splattered shirt belonging to her mate and faded pants. . . perhaps she was no better than a liar to enter and act as if she was so composed when she was only a mess where it mattered.
A soft chuckle sounded behind her.
It was the sort of sound that haunted her dreams.
Elain stiffened, straightening and hauling Nyx up into her arms as she turned to face Lucien Vanserra.
It’d been some months since last they spoke, Lucien quietly hopeful and Elain rather adrift. But Azriel had gone his own way, suddenly rather distant, and. . . once again, she found herself alone.
The shame of it colored her cheeks.
Dreading every second of it, she raised her head to meet his eyes.
Time in the mortal lands served him well. The bronze of his skin deepened, glowed as if the very sun reflected him, the fiery waves of his hair longer, softer. Feyre would have liked to paint them, but Elain, having no such form of self-expression, could only stare and tuck the image into the very back of her mind – right where the memory of what his coat had smelled like, the first thing she’d ever smelled with that new Fae nose.
An easy smile touched his sinful mouth at the sight of her staring, but he allowed her to save face, bowing his head to her and saying with a touch of mirth, “I would imagine he inherited that from his father.”
Nyx still wriggled in her arms, unaware of her plight as he called for his mother. Her smile wavered when she offered it. Perhaps in another life, she would have laughed as heartily as she wanted to. “I think you may be right, Lucien.”
Despite the years to soften the shock of it, she could have sworn he shuddered at the sound of her name on his tongue. But he supplied, “I was just looking for Rhysand. I thought Feyre might know where he is.”
Oh. She nodded, more to herself than him, and said with a nod back towards the River House so far down the road even her Fae sight could not catch it, “He’s just working on a surprise for Feyre. Their anniversary’s tomorrow.”
Quiet joy softened his face. “Thank you, Lady.”
The scent of him, that burning, crackling scent that longed to roll over on her tongue like the finest bourbon wrapped around her, and he was gone.
II
They were out of flour.
Flour.
She’d trudged down into the kitchen at around four in the morning, long before the sun rose, to set about preparing the pie crust for tonight’s dessert after a long night of tossing and turning and waking up with the reek of bourbon in her nose until ultimately deciding sleep would not be finding her, and had quite made up her mind to make it right up until she opened the pantry and was greeted by a glaring lack of flour.
She’d checked the entire pantry. Then the entire kitchen. Checked again. But they were out.
So, still half asleep, she’d ambled up the stairs and fished around in her closet for a dress, done up her hair, and trudged out into the cool, dark street.
The nearest market would open in ten minutes or so, and she knew exactly who to see about flour, knew the male would already be setting up his stall by the time she arrived and more than glad to do business with a loyal patron, so it didn’t exactly occur to her that perhaps it was not wise to be walking around in the dark.
Velaris was the safest city she’d ever known – though, in fairness, she’d not known many cities, and knew only that Rhys worked tirelessly to protect the hidden city from threats inside and out. Still, he might have his concerns when she returned.
But if anyone would understand fitful sleep, it would be Rhys. She doubted the dark bags beneath his eyes were due exclusively to long nights with Nyx. A haunted male, her brother-in-law.
Her dreams had been flighty tonight. No trace of them remained beyond vague feelings and emotions, the idea that perhaps, somewhere, there should have been the color red, or a flash of shimmering silk like flames that danced beneath the sun’s warm rays. A feeling low in her gut, a tug.
Just as she’d hoped, the handsome, open-faced male was at the same little corner his stall always inhabited, halfway through unfolding a small table upon which he’d set his wares. He glanced up, a gentle smile touching his face just before he sketched a bow.
“Lady Elain,” he greeted, his voice low and rough, not as smooth or as musical as the voice that tore her from sleep. She didn’t bother to correct him, to remind him that she was no lady, that her sister had married the High Lord but she remained a Made thing with no place in the vastness of the immortal and mortal world. “Good morning.”
She bobbed a curtsy in turn. “Good morning. Just – just a bag of flour, please.”
He grinned as if he knew she’d been thwarted in her attempts to bake and turned, searching through the crates behind him. Content to wait, Elain turned towards the shimmering Sidra as it lapped gently against the bank. As endless as her life, but free. Weighed down by nothing but the shifting winds.
This time, she smelled him first.
Bourbon, crackling. A remnant of her dream, for certain. Sniffing and only spreading the burn down to her lungs, she huffed, kicking a loose pebble with her shoe—
Her toe knocked right into a gleaming boot.
Elain staggered back, peering up at none other than Lucien. The bourbon grew stronger, wrapping around her, warm and comforting, and before she could help herself, she reached for that golden thread.
He jerked forward, towards her. That russet eye glinted dangerously.
“Even in Velaris,” he murmured, eye boring into hers with an intensity that set her very bones ablaze, “it is not safe to wander in the dark, Lady. Are you all right?”
No doubt she looked a right disaster. She’d been pale and sweating when she woke, but now, heat rising to color her breasts, her cheeks, no doubt he thought her ill. Swaying a bit, she nodded as she stepped back. Lucien followed.
“Elain,” he murmured. His hand hovered near her elbow as if she might faint. She very well might if he kept saying her name like that. “You seem rather flushed; may I take you home?”
“I’m fine,” she broke out right as the male returned with her flour. Pressing a gold coin into his hand, far more than he was owed, she backed away. Lucien did not follow now, but watched her still, his false eye whirring and spinning in the socket. “Thank you, Lucien. I’ll be on my way now.”
“Please allow me to escort you home, Lady.”
And in that lovely russet eye, she could have sworn it was true desperation simmering deep within it. As if the very idea of her walking alone in the dark would plague him. So she nodded, surprising herself by returning to his side. She did not touch him, did not wait for him to offer his arm.
But she let him take her home.
III
Restlessness held her heart in a python’s grip.
Elain was not still for longer than the time it took to bathe and sleep, filling the mornings with making breakfast and gardening, the afternoons with Nyx and reading, and the evenings with dinner and family. She explored the libraries of Velaris, the plant nurseries and green houses, sought out new hobbies – learned to knit, to crochet, and finally, eventually, took up Cassian’s offer to train.
She’d finally decided to take him up on the offer after a long day of everything and nothing – a day when wandering Velaris and trying her hand at a thousand different things did not exhaust her enough that she spent dinner dreaming of her bed. No, she picked at her meal and wondered how she might content herself.
So Elain set down her fork and knife and quietly asked Cassian, sitting across from her with Nyx climbing over his shoulders, “Would you still consider training me?”
Her question was quiet as the shadows that trailed across Azriel, yet silence fell.
Cassian gently pried Nyx away from his hair and set the toddler down in his lap. He and Nesta, she knew, were trying for one of their own and had been for months. She’d been sitting in the garden when Nesta sat down beside her with a shimmering light in her eyes and said softly, as if afraid confessing it would make it not so, that she was ready for a family of her own.
Nesta leaned forward, blinking. “Would you like to join the Valkyries?”
Not pushing her; Nesta would not. Elain shook her head. “Just. . . I only wish to defend myself.”
To drain herself, she did not say. From the way Cassian’s expression sobered, she hadn’t hidden the desire as well as she hoped, or perhaps he had at one point shared that particular desire. After the war, he’d been up at all hours, exerting himself.
“We’ll start tomorrow. Dawn.”
Dawn was no hard task.
Sleep found her less than it ever had before, that eye that burned and raged seared into memory. It followed her through her dreamscapes, watched her as if looking away might spell her ruin. The intensity behind it tore her from sleep while the stars were shining, and she was dressed long before Cassian had promised to fly down and bring her to the rooftop at the House of Wind for training.
Not to become a warrior, not to fight as Cassian and Rhys and Azriel did, not as Feyre and Nesta did, not even as Lucien did, but to find in it a peace which was lacking. Her mind would not stop moving, and thus neither could her body.
Rain from last night still pattered off the edge of the canopy stretching out from the River House’s exterior over the door, off the bird feeder still on the branch from which it hung.
A puddle no larger than her palm rippled at the toe of her boot. She stared down at herself, at the paleness of her skin and the bags beneath her eyes. The black of borrowed Illyrian leathers gobbled any light, any beauty from her face, until she was a hollow shell of herself, just a—
Bourbon.
Not a memory this time, certainly, it had to be real; he was here, here to quell the whatever-it-was in her heart that wanted him here. No, not want; she did not want him, could not want him, for her own sake.
There, across the street, a flash of that russet eye and a bow of the head.
Elain opened her mouth to call to him, to invite him to breakfast at the River House when Cassian returned her, but then he was gone, and with him, the smell of bourbon, leaving only the crackling taste of it in her tongue and a gentle pull on the thread around her rib.
IV
The spring months were good to her.
Not to Cassian, who eventually caved and saw Madja about the allergies plaguing him so terribly he couldn’t breathe when he woke, but Elain was glowing.
Color and life flooded her cheeks, made her fuller. Toned muscle limned her arms now and peace found her in the evenings and early mornings when she sat out beneath the rising and setting sun to bask in the warmth it offered.
In the mornings, Cassian swept down into the street to fly her up to the rooftop to train, and brought her back down again some hours later. If she looked and lingered at the shadows, searching for a flash of russet, she only played off the tug in the pit of her stomach as relief.
The afternoons, she did whatever she pleased, visiting the market for eggs and seeds and flour and fabrics, and now and again, when someone’s birthday drew near, she might visit in the wee hours of the morning, before the sun rose, and looked out to the Sidra in wonder.
Again, she brought Nyx to his mother’s studio, and this time did not hesitate to enter, to sit with Nyx on her lap in the corner of the room while Feyre finished up. Her sister’s eyes had glittered at the sight, at the pale pink sundress flowing around her feet and the pearls around her neck, hanging from her ears.
Feyre walked over at length, when her hands were cleaned of paint and the children were filing out to meet their parents, and asked as she took an overexcited Nyx, “Was he well-behaved today? I’m sorry; I feel like I’m relying—”
“Where is Lucien?”
Feyre blinked. Not bothering to stop him or simply not noticing that Nyx was now chewing on the ends of her hair, she adjusted the toddler on her hip as her mouth opened and closed. Confusion furrowed her brow. “I - is everything all right? Did you feel something down the bond?”
Oh. Oh, no doubt Feyre thought she’d felt distress from Lucien, or that Lucien was seeking her out through it. Elain shook her head, casting a hurried glance to the gathered crowd outside of the studio. Parents wishing to greet their High Lady. “No. It’s nothing, Feyre; I’ll just head home.”
She turned to leave. An iron grip hauled her back.
Feyre’s blue eyes were hard as stone. “I will always have time for you, Elain. As for where Lucien is, I believe he’s returning from the mortal lands today. He’s got an apartment a street over from the Sidra; I can get you the address.”
It took two minutes for Feyre to pass Nyx back over, locate a small pad of paper, and jot down Lucien’s address with a paint-stained pen.
This time, when Elain left, Feyre didn’t stop her.
The apartment complex was short, stout, its exterior painted a dark, faded green. She paid no heed to the empty lobby beyond a small sign directing her to the staircase that would lead up to floor three. Didn’t pay any heed to anything beyond the ever-increasing scent of bourbon as she reached for the golden thread between them.
323
Gold numbers nailed to the door suddenly seemed a thousand times more important. She didn’t knock, just gripped the bond and tugged. Once, twice.
The green door swung open.
And there was Lucien, the ties at the top of his shirt undone to reveal a bronze chest heaving for air, that fiery silk she’d dreamed of spilling across his shoulders as he leaned down to catch her wandering eyes with a soft sound of utter befuddlement.
“Elain?”
Her swallow was audible. “Hello, Lucien.”
His mouth parted to reveal glinting canines, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as his head fell against the doorframe. Bourbon and dying leaves flooded her senses. “Gods.” He watched her in disbelief for a moment longer, scanning her body with a wide eye. The eye of gold didn’t cease its movement for even a second. “Are you all right? Is someone hurt?”
Shaking her head, she dared a step forward, near enough to cross the threshold if only she rocked forward into his chest. Tilting her head up to meet his stare, to meet the burning intensity that had haunted her for months, she said, “You haven’t found me.”
Blinking once, then twice, then thrice, he seemed to understand, nodding slowly. “Well, you’ve certainly found me.” Stepping aside, he waved a hand to his apartment, to the burnt orange couch and matching armchairs, to the apartment lit only by natural sunlight flooding in from the high windows. “Come in.”
His breath shuddered against her when she brushed against his chest to enter, the warmth of him shooting from where her shoulder had touched him to fill her body. The door shut behind them, Lucien towering over her back as he offered, “Make yourself at home.”
Elain shook her head. She turned to speak to him, regret shooting through her at the way the confusion and cautious hope in his eyes shuttered at the motion. “I - I would like to see Velaris with you. I would like to see you. . . intentionally.”
The gentle smile that graced his beautiful mouth set her knees wobbling. “It would be my honor, my lady.”
