this is a sideblog! so follows and likes would come from my main @sincerelyjordan.
i sometimes post/rb nsfw content, so out of respect for me and the other creators, this blog is 18+. minors please dni.
due to the massive influx of bots, i block all blank blogs.
you can expect to mostly see content about: percy jackson, a court of thorns and roses, the grishaverse, the raven cycle, the hunger games, contemporary romance novels, my hero academia, spy x family, and jujutsu kaisen
i do write a little! here is my ao3. but please note that in the wake of the site getting scraped to feed the ai monster, i have changed my settings so only registered users can see my fics. this will protect my work from being stolen, so i hope you understand. if you don’t already have an account, you can request one here.
if you want me to start tagging anything so you can filter it, please let me know!
tags: contemporary au, established relationship, slice of life, sfw
word count: 1.2k
author’s note: i have a folder with like 7 fic ideas AND a wip from two years ago, but i just… haven’t had any motivation to write in a loooooong time. but last night, i was making dinner and thought to myself “elain would make this pasta” — just in time for the last day of @elucienweekofficial.
and, i think it fits our dearly departed after the after party theme idea quite nicely (:
The screen door clicks into place behind Elain, but she leaves the glass one thrown wide, inviting the balmy night breeze into the kitchen. The bowl tucked into her elbow is brimming with cherry tomatoes so ripe they seem primed to burst under the gentle stream of water.
Yellow streetlight streams through the window above the sink, filtered through the gauzy curtain. Hazy and warm, it accentuates the tinge of pink on the tip of her nose and ridges of her cheekbones, the proof of a long afternoon outside. Rosy, soft, and so fucking beautiful.
Her dress is pink too, like peony petals, made of a delicate fabric that flutters every time she moves. The short sleeves look like butterfly wings, especially when she reaches up to pull the pins from the swoopy, braided knot at the nape of her neck. With every clink of a pin dropping to the counter, Elain’s hair gets messier — a looping, tangled snare that Lucien is dying to get caught in.
He nudges her hands out of the way, carefully pinches a pin between his fingers, and tugs. Once there’s a heap of pins and elastic bands on the counter, Lucien slips his hands into Elain’s hair and presses his fingertips into her scalp. He wonders if she can feel him shiver behind her when she sighs, loose and content.
The day’s humidity has rendered her curls frothy. Lucien sweeps it all over one shoulder. The sun left it’s mark here, too; her skin is especially warm against his lips. He kisses his way up the side of her neck as she swirls her hand in the bowl of water, tomatoes bobbing at the surface. He breathes in the last whisper of perfume, nuzzles closer when she tries to squirm away. Elain endures this for a moment longer before her hand darts out of the sink, flicking cold water in his face.
As she laughs with mischief and triumph, water drips into Lucien’s smile.
He gives in, stepping back and giving Elain the space to clatter around, withdrawing pots and skillets and her bright blue colander, but he doesn’t go far.
Lucien’s linen shirt is too new to be soft, stiff at the collar and a bit itchy after being worn through hours of mandated corporate socialization under the ruthless July sun. But instead of stripping it off and heading to the shower, as he’d been so eagerly anticipating in the car, Lucien settles for popping a few buttons. And, to justify lingering with her in the cramped kitchen while the water comes to a boil, rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and makes himself useful in one of the few ways he can: slicing an onion lengthwise, then peeling away the papery outer layer.
Despite how awkward it feels, he keeps his fingertips tucked in and out of the way of the sharp blade, having learned the hard way just how diligent Elain is about sharpening her knives. His movements are slow but result in with uneven pieces regardless. Elain, meanwhile, has already reduced the garlic cloves to pungent mush on her own cutting board, and is observing him with a bemused grin. “You’ve been practicing.”
She tips the onion into the waiting skillet, and they hiss and snap when they hit the hot metal. Instantly, the aromatics have Lucien’s stomach growling. The clock on the stove reads 10:22. It’s off by an hour, so it’s actually 9:22, which is still late for dinner, even by his standards.
Finger sandwiches and artfully cut fruit can only do so much.
When Elain passes him a bottle of white wine, Lucien yanks the cork free, but before handing it back, he brings the bottle to his mouth. Under any other circumstances, Elain’s reprimand would have him grinning. But his lips were too busy curling in distaste. “Tastes like grass.”
“It’s herbal,” she insists, snatching the bottle. “You know, your palette is surprisingly unrefined.”
He gives her a flat look. “We only produce reds.”
After a moment, Elain murmurs, “I can’t wait to try it.”
But the way she speaks, the warmth in her eyes, makes it sound more like I can’t wait to see more of you.
And Lucien can’t wait to show her. His childhood home overlooking the hills of south France, the endless rows of vines, and the bedroom where he’d dreamt of seeing what was beyond them. The cellars where he used to pretend he was Indiana Jones, scouring the catacombs for treasure. The kitchen his mother had used to make the best strawberry galette in the entire world.
His mother was possibly more excited than the both of them put together. Nevermind that Christmas is still months out, and they haven’t bought their tickets yet — the trip and seeing Elain again is all she’s been able to talk about. And, of course, the ring. She’s been over the moon since he had it priority shipped across the Atlantic.
Shit.
He shouldn’t be thinking about it. Because, with that in his head, he’s bound to get cagey if they keep talking about the trip.
Forcing himself to move casually, he reaches on top of the fridge and flicks on the old Emerson.
Once the static fizzles out, the smoky tones of the evening host fill the room, warning of the impending thunderstorm. Then, Etta James.
Lucien takes Elain’s hand and pulls her close. They fall into step effortlessly — something between a proper waltz and the most annoying couple at prom — while the pasta boils and the tomatoes bubble and burst in the pan.
The space is too cramped for a spin, but he attempts one anyway. Her hip bumps into the counter, and then she pinballs, laughing, back into him, her back pressed against his chest. He holds her like that, arms crossed in front of her, as they sway.
Despite the gentle quiet, he barely hears the chime of the timer next to the steaming pot.
Lucien tosses while Elain grates in the cheese until a glossy sauce starts to form, clinging to the noodles and making his mouth water.
Without ceremony, he stabs a fork into the tangle of noodles, and twirls an ambitious amount around his fork. One of the cherry tomatoes, bundled within the noodles and boiling hot, explodes between Lucien’s teeth.
His curse, while vehement, is garbled by his panting tongue. Elain grips his chin, and Lucien lets her turn his face.
“Oh dear,” she tuts, pretending to examine his tongue. “They might have to amputate.”
He laughs, nipping at her fingers. “You say that like you wouldn’t miss it more than I would.”
Elain splutters, a sound somewhere between a mortified squeak and an affronted gasp. It’s too dark now to see the color bloom on her cheeks, but he knows it’s there. When she swats his shoulder in playful reprimand, he snatches her hand.
The first kiss, to the back of her palm, is a loud, teasing smack. But when he gets to her knuckles, he can’t help but let his lips linger on her skin.
Elain threads her fingers between his for what must be the thousandth time, and Lucien pictures her doing it a thousand more. He imagines other nights ending just like this, and can’t decide if he’s disappointed or grateful that the ring is an ocean away.
this was a really fun challenge for me; i’m often so afraid of not having enough dialogue or lingering too long in a scene that i tend to under-describe. or, at least, that’s what people in my college writing workshops used to say. but i really like this and it has perhaps inspired me to write more fics about nothing in the future haha
also, for anyone who’s interested, i made a lil recipe card for the pasta. it’s super easy, and very light and fresh for summer!
I can’t wait for my favorite sunshine babes to get their happy ending in these upcoming books!!
I NEED them to be happy and thriving 💛
@arishatistic thank you so much for this absolutely radiant artwork of Elain and Lucien! You drew them so perfectly, and I love all the details! Elain’s flower crown and Lucien’s freckles are perfection 💛
They look so stunning together 🤌🏻
@arishatistic thank you for all your kindness during this commission! It’s been a pleasure to work with you! You did an amazing job as always 💛
yknow jane austen really wrote one of the most important sentences in romance ever when she pulled out "if i loved you less i might be able to talk about it more" cause that concept has been the overarching thesis of so many of the best romances in storytelling ever. it's so succinct it's so perfect.
"you only like her because shes a woman" yup "you let female characters get away with too much" yes "if a man did this you would hate him for it" indeed
