scrosciare | l.c.
pairing: lucien x m!reader
fandom: kill your darlings
request: Could I please request a “Kill Your Darlings” imagine with Lucien? (perhaps with a few Allen x reader or Allen x Lucien moments?)
warnings: smoking, drinking, mentioned drug use
words: 805
author’s note: on this blog we use fancy words. no one challenged me but i challenged myself. this is from this post and i will try to do all 30 of them!:) one, scrosciare (the action of rain pouring down or of waves hitting rocks and cliffs).
feedback is always appreciated xoxo
masterlist | buy me coffee☕
[…]
for i for you
my heart seized by the ocean’s
depths wild creatures
of my
desire
for you i
crash
into the waves
[…]
You finish reading with a slight quiver in the back of your throat, an action Lucien notices, raises a brow at. He sits bored in his room on wine spilled sheets with smoke spiralling out of the tip of his cigarette and you sit next to him, far enough to breathe easily yet close enough to feel almost naked under his inquisitive gaze. He is not impressed, naturally – he never is. Your paper crumbles in your hands.
“Say it.” You demand. He shrugs. A sly smile tugs o the corner of his lips.
“Well,” He draws out, taking a puff, purposely teasing, “--you’re better than Ginsberg.”
“That’s not saying much.” You scoff, leaning back, “He hasn’t even written anything.”
“That’s the point.” Lucien mutters, all too proud, all too smug. You despise him sometimes and he knows it, enjoys it even. Grinning at your misery had always been his favourite free time activity.
…And what of yours? You spend much time in his room, daydreaming or getting high, preferably both at the same time. That is, of course, because just like all lovers and sad people you are a poet, and poetry demands the most raw of experiences to express the most raw of emotions. You had written possibly a hundred lines, though none of them were good enough for you, good enough for him. Your last poem was composed whilst listening to vinyls at Lucien’s, while watching him read and dissatisfied rip pages out of expensive text books. There was thunder in your chest, unfathomable feelings boiling within almost ready to burst. Though you did nothing, said nothing, simply observed and scribbled while he cursed under his breath.
The picturesque view of the campus is blocked by a curtain of heavy rain. Lucien’s room is darker, gloomier, and he appears more tired, and suddenly a wild thought occurs to you that he might not have been sleeping well and you were too caught up with your thirst for knowledge and good liquor to notice. He finishes his cigarette and puts it out on the carpet, leaving yet another scar on its surface.
He notes you quiet by his bedside and regards you with a funny look, “What?”
You take a sip of your drink, the taste burning your tongue, the aroma hitting your head, “Nothing.”
His hand lands on the side of your jaw, strangely gentle, and he watches your reaction with glee, “With you,” He draws out, says your name, locks your eyes with his, “it’s always something.”
He is most strange in this way, hot and cold, like an ungrateful child, always wishing for what he cannot have. And he is most confusing in these moments of affection, as a part of you is sure that even a fraction, if not more, of them are fuelled by genuine need of closeness, though by selfishness and amusement as well. One of these days you will simply have to kiss him and stop this game once and for all. Now is not the time, however. You have a poem to finish.
You grab his wrist and pull it away and he laughs, “Not in the mood, Lu.” You utter, finishing your drink and setting it beside the scar on the carpet. His giggles die down when he sees you stand.
“Hey, where are you going?” He inquires, grasping onto the sleeve of your jacket, “Aww, come on, don’t leave. You’re not fucking fun!”
You swat his hand away, “I’ll see you later.”
You are met with a whine and waved off, and you think this is the only interaction of your day, though when you leave his room and close the door behind you you note Allen, first approaching with conviction, now falter in his step and wilt under you gaze.
“O-Oh, hello.” He greets you, religiously avoiding your eyes, appearing shy almost.
“Ginsberg.” Is all you say with a nod of your head before turning on your heel and being on your merry way to the nearest bar. Allen watches you go with a longing look. He can never get close to you, no matter how much he tries. Though, to be completely honest, even if he wished to terribly he would most likely not have enough courage.
Allen spends his afternoon listening to Lucien, as he always does. Though on his bed he finds a crumbled piece of paper, and reads the scribbles on it, and feels a wave of awe wash over him, soaking him to the bone. Lucien comments something about your lack of talent. Allen disagrees whole heartedly, though never voices it. He keeps the poem. The words speak to him too deeply.
fin. hope you liked it! xx
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