#''I don't write fics anymore.'' [starts raining / launches this into the internet]

[animezinglife]

What's in the Rain

Lucien finds Elain alone watching the rain.

Genre: Romance/Fluff/Mild Angst Post-canon Elucien ficlet. Read below or on AO3.

Author's Note: I want to give a special shout-out to @lucienarcheron for her unyielding support of my Elucien headcanons (and who's probably laughing at me right now since I told her I wouldn't write a fic). This one's for you!

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At first, Lucien thinks she's forgotten to close the window. He takes in the stream of water pouring from the awning over the glass; the sound of distant thunder as it fills the home. The breeze that floods into the room carries with it the scent of rain and dampened earth–and the honey and jasmine he’s come to know well. 

Her scent. 

Elain.

He finds her perched on the cushioned banquette of their nook where he often reads, her legs pulled against her chest and skirt draping over the side and brushing the floor. At first, he wonders if she’s having one of her visions, though he hasn’t felt any sign of it through the bond: nothing of that confusion, fear, or turmoil. Instead, she looks completely at ease, and he takes one quiet step into the room before she glances over her shoulder at him, a faint flush of color on her cheeks as she takes him in.

Their mating bond is still new, but Lucien wonders if there will ever come a day when his heart doesn’t jolt at the sight of that flush; quicken at her fawn-brown eyes lingering on him. 

He doubts it.

A small smile crosses her lips in quiet understanding, and she extends a hand.

“Join me?” she asks, and he doesn’t give it a second thought. He crosses the room slowly and takes her hand in his. He gives it a light squeeze–one he tells himself is merely an acknowledgement to her and an understanding. Though it’s every bit as much for him: to feel her touch and to ground himself–the two of them–here together. 

That this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from, even if there are still times he feels like it. 

“I know,” she says, and he wonders if he’d sent that feeling down the bond. He opens his mouth to ask–Mother, his words still evade him sometimes when they’re alone–and she shakes her head. “You didn’t…tell me, if that’s what you’re wondering. I felt it too, and I’ve wondered the same thing.”

He takes a seat near her feet and doesn’t release her hand. His eyes stay on her even as he’s met with a cool, misty breeze; one that blends the scents of those beautiful, blooming flowers with that rain and his mate. Not one of those blooms compares, he thinks, as he takes in those warm eyes, that delicate, full mouth, those small, golden freckles the warmer weather has gifted her. Subtly–and almost shyly–she sends a caress down the bond, one that sends warmth through his core and that he sends back to her in response. She smiles again and turns to the window. 

“I’ve always loved the sun,” she says, her voice growing quieter. “Long, sunny days out in the garden or letting the light stream in while I baked. I didn’t like rainy days so much back when I was…” her voice trails, the unspoken “human” lingering in the air between them. 

“What changed?” 

She seems to consider his question for a moment, letting another breeze and distant roll of thunder wash over them. “I remembered rain was necessary,” she says finally. “For the flowers to grow and for their roots to take hold. It…” she pauses for a moment, and he swears her blush deepens ever so slightly. He feels the shift in her, too–between them. She takes a small breath and turns to face him, lacing her fingers through his. That subtle smile crosses her face again. “It makes us appreciate the light more. Makes me appreciate it more.” 

His breath catches then as her meaning sinks in–that they’re no longer just talking about the rain.

“I could hear yours too, you know. Back then,” he tells her, and her eyes flicker with something he’s still learning to read. “When you told me you could hear my heart beating through the stone, I could hear yours, too. Feel it whether I was in the same room or on the other side of the city.” 

“I sensed as much,” she says, that flicker turning into a curious gleam. “And I think I know why you didn’t say it. I wasn’t ready to hear it then.” She tugs on his hand and shifts, letting her legs fall over the side of the nook. Leaning forward, she extends her other hand, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. The touch is delicate, but sends a wave of heat through him from where her fingertips touched his skin. “I didn’t know what to make of you.” 

“First impressions haven’t always been my strong suit,” he says, and to his surprise, she snorts. 

“Oh, I doubt even the most charming emissaries fare much better when they’re greeted with captives being dunked into the Cauldron.” She doesn’t miss his shudder at that, and rests a hand gently on his face. Her thumb traces where his scar lines his cheekbone. 

It isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. Elain has told him of how Rhys reacted when he’d realized Feyre was his mate, and he’d witnessed too much of Cassian and Nesta’s bond to know the realization didn’t always go over smoothly. Even still, he wonders how things might’ve played out had he and Elain met differently; had time to be properly acquainted before the mating bond had snapped.

Had she not had her former life taken from her.

We’re still here, he reminds himself. It’s a reminder he’s made a habit every time his mind starts to wander down that path, and not even the Cauldron could take her from him now.

He still remembers the first time they discussed it; the surprise he’d felt when Elain had brought it up and let him know she was ready to face that day in her memory. Yet even now, her words that echo in his mind sound like something more out of a fantasy; the type of knights-and-gallantry tale parents tell their children before they go to sleep. 

I saw you, she had said.

From what she’d sent down the bond to him then, he’d understood. I saw you. Felt you. In ways I couldn’t understand and couldn’t ignore even when I’d wanted to.

Instinctively, he presses a kiss to her inner wrist, and she releases his hand to slide her own to the back of his neck. She pulls him close, resting her forehead against his before her lips find his own. They’re soft; coaxing. He matches her kiss, gently tracing her lower lip with his tongue as she responds. Her arms snake around him as she pulls him against her then, and she lowers them both onto the cushions. They separate briefly, and Lucien uses the moment to take her in.

This incredible female; the most beautiful he’s ever seen, and all the warmth and fire and thorns she possesses. He’d seen all of those traits even in the brief, terrible moments he’d known her as a human. Traits that had only been amplified into something both ethereal and formidable; familiar, kind, strong, and gentle.

His mate. And he was hers, in every way, in every world, and every life.

She pulls him close again, placing small kisses on his forehead, his cheek, and the corners of his mouth. When his mouth finds hers again, he senses it; feels it: that rising heat and question in her kiss that calls to every heartbeat, every breath, every fiber of his being.

She murmurs something against his mouth, and he lowers to her neck, relishing the sweetness of her scent and softness.

“Stay,” she says again, her voice slightly breathless and barely above a whisper. He leaves a long, lingering kiss at the base of her throat before resting over her and meeting her gaze.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

#elucien #elain x lucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #acotar #ficlet #wyseinkworks #elain archeron x lucien vanserra #a court of thorns and roses #post-canon #''I don't write fics anymore.'' [starts raining / launches this into the internet]