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#prince of adriata
therealmissmagoo2 · 2 months
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Varian & Cresseida - Prince & Princess of Adriata - ACOTAR series by Sarah J. Maas
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Varian
Skin N20 Darker Colors Fantasy Lip/Eyes Preset 5m/4m Teeth Vampire Eyes OddEye Hair Eyebrows Eyelashes
Look 1: Tunic Pants Boots Look 2: Outfit Look 3: Armor
Cresseida
Skin N24 Extra Colors Eyes OddEye Eyelashes Mouth Crease Teeth Vampire Hair Base Hair Extras Hair 1 Hair 2 Eyebrows 39
Look 1: Top Skirt Shoes Lipstick Look 2: Outfit Shoes - same as above Lipstick Look 3: Dress Shoes Lipstick - same as #2
Optional: Fairies vs. Witches Mod for "Fae" powers
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velidewrites · 3 months
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Get In The Water
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To bargain with an ancient death-lord, Captain Elain Archeron must acquire the rare, magical scales of a siren. Little does she know her target is no ordinary Mer—but the Prince of the Undersea himself.
Pairing: Elucien
Tags: Pirate!Elain x Merman!Lucien
Notes: For the beautiful talented stunning @areyoudreaminof for the @acotargiftexchange! I wasn't your original Secret Santa, but I tried to include some of your favourites here (this is your official warning for Jurian being a canon-typical little shit). Sending you so many smooches!
Thank you @ablogofsapphicpanic for being my beta<3
Read on AO3
“With all due respect, Captain Archeron, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
Elain’s answering sigh was deep enough to rustle the waves ahead. She tossed them a final look before turning back to her quartermaster. “You know exactly where you can shove your respect, Jurian.”
He bounced off the mast with a grin. “Up my arse, no doubt,” he mused, a large, tanned hand stroking his much overgrown stubble. They’d been out at sea for weeks—for good reason, too, though Elain realised it was a sentiment less and less of her crew continued to share.
Still, she nodded with a smile of her own. “Same as last time.”
“Then I’m sure I don’t have to tell you it would have been wise to dock in Adriata two weeks ago.” He crossed his arms. “We’re not exactly welcome on Day Court waters.”
That was certainly one way to put it. Elain was half-expecting the High Lord’s army, ready at arms and lined up on the shores of Port Denera to arrest her and her crew. It would hardly be the first time.
Elain’s smile only grew wider. “There’s nothing quite like coming home.”
Jurian rolled his eyes, no doubt remembering their latest excursion himself, and leaned over the bulwark. “It’s been a while,” he remarked, his brown gaze drifting off to the azure sea. In the waning hours of the afternoon, the golden sunlight reflected off its surface, shimmering quietly as though unaware of the chaos to come. Where she came from—a little town bordering the Eastern Coast—the fishermen used to say the future was carried in with the waves. Elain was never much a practitioner of such belief—after all, if it were true, her ship would surely be on the verge of utter collapse right now, sinking underwater with the crashing force of the raging sea.
Instead, they continued to peacefully make their way northeast, the sun warming their skin as though in greeting. The irony wasn’t lost on her, but she supposed it was much easier to enjoy the bliss while it lasted. The silver blade strapped to her side flashed at the thought, undeniably in protest—she’d had it dipped in the Cauldron a few decades ago (before her sister, the High Lady herself, had somehow lost the whole damn thing), and since then, the sword had seemed to develop a mind of its own. Elain didn’t mind. It was bloody useful in battle, and she was smarter than to argue with a deadly, magical artifact. Even if it was a real fucking smartass.
The sword flashed again—and a lot brighter this time, too bright to mistake it with a random glimpse of the sunlight.
“Sorry,” Elain muttered.
Jurian—she’d nearly forgotted he was still here—glanced down at her belt. “You need to stop talking to the damn thing.”
She could have sworn she felt something sharp twitch against her hip.
“Would you like to talk to it instead?” she asked sweetly.
Jurian’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
“I thought so.”
“Seriously, Elain,” he sighed, apparently foregoing her usual title. “I would have gone to the ends of the earth with you to get those scales. Hell, I will go to the ends of the earth, and you know I won’t so much as hesitate.”
Elain did know. The stakes were too high—too personal, especially for her second-in-command.
“But the crew needs a break,” Jurian continued. “Adriata was supposed to be our goldmine, and we found nothing—nothing, Elain, not even one of those gods-damned—”
“I know what happened in Adriata, Jurian,” Elain cut in. “I was there.”
“I only mean—”
“I know what you mean. And I agree, even if I do not show it sometimes. Jurian, I…” She closed her eyes, letting the salty mist pearl on her skin, her lashes. “I miss her too. Every day.”
For a moment, there was only silence—silence and the quiet whoosh of the deep blue waves.
“I know you do,” Jurian whispered beside her.
“She’s out there, somewhere—somewhere on the Continent. With that monster to do with her as he likes.” She could practically hear Jurian grit his teeth beside her. “I won’t give up, and we’ve been out here together long enough for me to know you won’t give up, either.”
“The Death God is persistent,” Jurian seethed. “He demands too high a price.”
Indeed he did. Koschei, a being so ancient even the fishermen in her small Day Court village had no legends singing of his name, had been magically bound to his lair on the Continent millennia ago—and, apparently, had been trying to find a way out of his chains ever since. The only thing in the world able to release him, though, was—of course—the Cauldron, the creator of the world itself.
And, up until sixty years ago, Elain would see it in her sister’s dining room every Solstice. It was ridiculous, really, the power the Night Court used to have in its grasp. That wasn’t to say it had not been deserved—the Cauldron had been won in a war full of blood and sacrifice, one her sister and his mate had nearly lost their life in, but…well. Surely they could have found a more secure place to display it than their townhouse in Velaris. A place where it could not have gotten stolen by only the Mother knew whom, or better yet—a place where no one, not even Feyre and Rhysand, could ever find it again.
It was too late for such semantics. Despite an entire Valkyrie region searching the skies for a sign of it, the Cauldron was simply…gone.
Nesta believed it to have been an inside job. After all, there were only a handful of people outside of Velaris aware of the city’s existence at all, let alone the High Lord and Lady’s private residence. But the Head Valkyrie had questioned them all—and found nothing at all.
For the first twenty years, Elain searched for it, too—anything to get out of her village, really, and the ghosts of a life she longed to leave behind. An engagement to a local lord’s son might have been the dream of many females back home, but it was, and never would be, Elain’s
The missing Cauldron had given her the opportunity she’d been searching for, and Elain did not look back when Feyre asked for her help. In her travels, though…she discovered a beauty to the seas, to the vast world they opened up for her taking—and so, after too many hopeless clues and tearful conversations with her sister, Elain had let the waves consume her entirely.
She did not think she would ever have to worry about the Cauldron again. She’d hoped, perhaps foolishly, that it had lost itself to the world just as she wished it would. But then Elain had met Vassa, and then Vassa had been taken by Koschei, and, well…
Her fate belonged to the Cauldron once again.
This time, though, it was hardly a chore, or a favour she was doing her little sister. It was a matter of life or death, of the family she’d found sailing the seas of Prythian. Vassa was a sister, too, a sister she loved dearly enough that when Koschei’s demands began to invade her visions, Elain did not hesitate.
She and Jurian had devised a plan—it wasn’t exactly foolproof, so to say, but she hoped it would be enough. It had to be.
“Do you know how much just one of the Mer scales runs for on the black market, Jurian?” Elain asked, more to prove a point than to get an actual answer. He knew—they’d been chasing them for the past two years. Still, she said, “Ten thousand gold marks. You could buy a manor in Spring for that kind of money.”
“I have allergies,” Jurian murmured.
“I know I didn’t just hear that.”
Jurian sighed. “It just seems…I don’t know, Elain. The Mer people are folktale. If your so-called Undersea were to exist, we would have found it in Adriata.”
“The High Lord’s libraries clearly point to the seas of Day,” Elain pressed.
Jurian snorted. “Are you sure you read that right? We didn’t exactly have a lot of time in that library, you know.”
She cut him a look sharper than the sword at her side. “I’m sure. I got the information we needed with a few minutes to spare.”
“I think your posters are still hanging at the entrance.”
Elain wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like the way my hair looks in those ones.” When it came to painting, the Day Court forces were no Feyre.
“They put quite the bounty on your head, you know,” Jurian added. “If that isn’t flattering, then I don’t know what is.”
Elain grinned. “Well, I stole some really valuable books.”
“I’ll bet.” He looked out to the sea again, that rugged face turning more solemn as he studied the horizon—and the shore stretching far ahead. “How do you know the scales will be enough to get Vassa back?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know. But, if we can find the Mer here and get the scales we need…perhaps we can bargain with Koschei to take them instead. Their magic is forgotten, just as he is. He might find them to be enough.”
“That’s a big if, Elain.”
She shrugged. “At the very least, we might be able to use them to trace the Cauldron. I’ve sent a letter to Velaris—Amren volunteered her assistance.”
Jurian shuddered.
“Don’t be a baby,” Elain rolled her eyes. “She’s useful. Ancient.”
“Precisely.”
“I just…” He shook his head, his brown curls catching the sunlight. “Things are weird enough as they are. You Fae are hardly accepting of pirates, let alone humans.”
Elain tucked a loose strand of hair behind an arched ear. “I’m a pirate,�� she declared, letting some of the pride she’d buried deep in her chest creep into her tone. “I am happy to share at least half of the burden with you.”
Jurian’s warm hand covered her own. “You’re a good friend, Elain,” he said. “You could have left—could have sailed off after that whole fiasco with Koschei.” He gave her a light squeeze. “But you chose to stay.”
She could not meet his stare—not when the salt in her eyes had begun to burn too much, blurring her own gaze as she turned to face the shallowing water. “I’ve run away before,” she told him quietly. “No more.”
“No more,” Jurian agreed. He had a past of his own—and, when the time was right…he would tell her. And she would embrace it without question.
“I’ll tell you what,” Elain started, her throat suddenly tight. “It’s a big day we’ve got tomorrow. Tell the crew we’ll be dining at the local tavern tonight?”
Slowly, Jurian turned to her—and smiled. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
***
The Pearl was a small ship—small enough not to raise suspicions when they’d docked in Port Denera. The flag—a Mer tail with a pearl resting between its fins—had been carefully folded away prior to their arrival, the sigil of Elain’s crew all but too recognisable in those parts of Prythian.
It wasn’t that Elain had no moral compass whatsoever, but, over the years, she had learned that sometimes, taking her life into her own hands had a tendency to pay off a whole lot more than simply letting it run its course. Had she lived by a different set of rules, she would have long been married to the new Lord Nolan, never having left her hometown and spending her days at the beach, looking out to the sea and wishing for a life never to be.
It could have been a good life, perhaps—but it would never be the life she wanted, the life she craved. Besides, it wasn’t like Elain had ever been given a good example to follow. Feyre, after all, had escaped her own arranged marriage and ran right to the deepest, darkest corners of Night, Nesta following shortly after. It was only fair that Elain followed the family tradition.
Father had been devastated—Elain’s engagement, after all, had been his final, desperate attempt at seeing his daughters well off before his passing. After Feyre and Nesta’s disobedience, as he’d called it, Father had assumed his daughters had simply rebelled because they wished to remain home. Perhaps that was why, after having tried marrying Feyre off to Spring and Nesta to Hybern, he’d settled for seeing Elain with a small, local nobleman.
Elain did not care for riches—well, she hadn’t cared then. Now, having seen all that the world had to offer, she supposed she did enjoy having a few pearls and gold around her neck at times. But it hadn’t been the match itself that bothered her—she was sure Greysen Nolan was perfectly nice and well-mannered—but the fact that Father hadn’t even asked if he was who Elain wanted, if he’d even cared if she could ever love Greysen at all.
As cliché as it sounded, love was exactly what Elain craved so viciously. And now, decades later, she had finally found that love—here, out at sea, with the waves embracing her wholly and eternally. This—the Pearl—was her home.
She sure hoped home wouldn’t mind seeing her stumble back aboard in a few hours, when she was well and thoroughly drunk out of her mind.
Aside from pearls and jewellery, Elain had developed a taste for ale, and it just so happened that the Port Denera tavern was famous for the golden drink. It tasted like liquid gold in her cup, leaving a tinge on her tongue that sent her senses spiralling and flushed her cheeks with bright-pink heat.
The crew seemed to be enjoying themselves, too, and it was only for that reason that she’d allowed her instincts to abandon ship for a moment or two. Well, perhaps three. She hadn’t seen Jurian this happy and relaxed since Vassa had been taken—a sign of how truly tired he must have been these past few weeks, of how badly he needed an evening to forget.
The thought sobered her up just a little, and Elain remembered the true reason she’d allowed this unusual night out in a town where the entire army was on the lookout for Captain Archeron. She did feel slightly guilty for misleading Jurian into thinking it was simply out of the goodness of her own heart—into omitting the one, small ulterior motive that had lately seemed to be driving nearly every decision of hers.
Information.
While the fishermen in the East of the Day Court had no knowledge of the Mer, the folk of Port Denera no doubt sang of the old creatures lurking beneath the sea. She’d already picked up on a few shanties on the way to the tavern, humming the words quietly to herself as she searched the lyrics for anything valuable. The Mer’s magic appeared to be as sharp as their teeth, capable of stirring the waves and calling upon storms. The strongest of them could lure the innocent, hungry wanderers into their traps with a lulling voice and mesmerising eyes, ones that reflected the soul’s deepest desires just as the surface of the sea reflected the sun above. Once captured, they’d sink those teeth into the flesh of their prey, and drag them under—never to be seen again.
Elain hummed the tune again cheerfully, excitement bubbling up in her chest—well, she supposed the bubbles might have had to do with some of the barrels of alcohol she’d consumed. Still, this was promising. All she needed was a name—a lagoon, or a hidden grotto, perhaps, where she could locate a lair. Her Cauldron-blessed sword would do the rest of the job.
Somewhere far beyond her peripheral vision, she heard the silver hum happily, already summoned by the rather bloodthirsty thought.
It was not that Elain wanted to murder the Mer in cold blood. She did not enjoy killing (she could have sworn her blade huffed at the sentiment), but if there was no other way to acquire the scales, she would do it. She loved Vassa enough to do whatever it took—the exiled, Firebird queen would do the exact same for her.
For what had to have been the hundredth time, Elain looked around the tavern, her somewhat blurry gaze scanning the bustling area. It was a lot more crowded than she’d expected—which proved a good thing all the same. It was a lot harder to get spotted in a sea of creatures of all shapes and sizes, and it sure helped that they all seemed piss-drunk, too.
The local shanty found its way onto her lips once more, and she sang it absently, her attention entirely focused on some old wraith somehow downing two bottles of wine at once. Her sharp nails scraped against the glass as she drank, and Elain watched, completely entranced at what she’d never thought could be accomplished before.
In the morning sun so bright, the sailors set to sea,
Their hearts as bold as brass, their spirits ever-free.
But careful, sailor, please, beware the waves that dance and play,
Beneath this sunny surface, a wicked mermaid lay.
“Sounds terrifying.”
Elain jumped.
The ale in her hand fell to the ground with a loud clunk, the sound immediately drowned out by a rumbling laughter of the crows. The golden liquid spilled over her, sticking to the skin of her neck, her collarbones, the curves of her exposed breasts—until finally sinking into the white fabric of her corset. Elain swore under her breath, cursing her choice of garment for tonight, before finally looking up.
“Shit,” she swore again, for the lack of a better word—or, perhaps, because there was no word to describe the male standing before her.
The most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
A pair of shining eyes of molten gold looked her up and down, an auburn eyebrow quirking up in amusement. “Now, don’t tell me you’re disappointed,” he drawled, his voice rich and deep and smoother than the liquid she’d swallowed down her throat. “I spent a lot of time on my hair earlier tonight.”
Elain blinked—then blinked again. “Are you…hitting on me?”
His mouth—full and plush and gods she needed to get it together—twitched. “And here I was, thinking I was all too obvious,” he quipped.
She peeled her gaze off the soft waves of his hair, glistening under the tavern’s candlelight. “Perhaps you’re just not very good at it,” she remarked, thanking the Mother for keeping her tongue sharp when her mind bordered on insanity.
The stranger smiled openly now. “What’s your name?” he asked.
Elain angled her head an inch. “Why?”
Did she really just ask him that?
Perhaps it was time to order some water.
The male seemed entirely unbothered. “It’s not often you meet a beautiful female singing old folktales in the middle of a tavern,” he said, offering a one-shouldered shrug. “I find myself somewhat…intrigued.”
“Intrigued,” Elain repeated blankly.
His smile grew wider. “Quite,” he agreed. “Those are old, you know.”
Elain straightened—straightened and blinked again, her thoughts somehow collecting into one, singular stream as she remembered what, exactly, she had come to this tavern for. “Are they?” she asked, “I’ve just picked up on them an hour ago.”
“An hour?”
She offered a smile of her own. “I have an excellent memory.”
Those golden eyes glistened. “Is that so?” the male asked, his gaze sweeping down her body as though he had all the time in the world. “If I tell you my name, will you sing it for me, too?”
Focus, Elain. He’d mentioned the Mer shanties, did he not? “I doubt anyone will hear it,” she remarked. “I never see Port Denera this busy.”
“You’ve been here before?”
Elain waved a dismissive hand. “Once or twice,”
The male hummed. “Then you know today is an important day,” he said, that strange shade of amusement playing over his features once more. “The High Lord is mourning the loss of his dear wife and son, and we are drinking in a show of, ah…solidarity,” he finished, a passing faun raising his glass at them, as though emphasising his agreement.
Elain waited for him to get out of earshot. “Wife and son?” she questioned, searching the corners of her mind that stored everything she knew about her Court.. “Didn’t that happen three hundred years ago?”
Those eyes narrowed at her slightly, and the stranger tilted his head. “Do you think he should have moved on instead?” he asked, the question so quiet it may as well have been a breath—and yet, she’d heard it perfectly over the bustling crowd.
Elain considered. “I think it must have been a beautiful kind of love, if he’s mourning it so many centuries later.”
His auburn brow arched in surprise. “What did you say your name was, lady…?”
Elain snorted. “Oh, I’m no lady.” She set her glass on a nearby table. “Haven’t been for a while.”
“You certainly look like one,” he remarked, that smile once again creeping back onto his ridiculously handsome features.
She couldn’t resist. “Do I, now?”
He chuckled, the sound low and honeyed. “Oh, absolutely.”
“And are you in the habit of flirting with all the ladies you pick up in a tavern?” Elain teased.
“No, no. I usually let them come to me.” He winked. “I can be a good singer too, you know.”
Elain smiled.
“I’ll take your word for it,” she laughed. “So, you know those shanties, too?”
His eyes glittered.
There it was.
“Some of them,” he agreed.
“Do they hold any truth?” she pressed. Come on, come on, come on…
“Sometimes,” he nodded. “Does it matter?”
You have no idea, Elain thought. “It does. I’m looking for…” she hesitated. “Information.”
“Oh?”
“The books in Day’s library state I might find it here,” she added carefully.
Something like realisation crept onto his features. “You wish to know about the Merpeople,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. Elain’s gaze flickered to the movement. “How did you get access to those books?” he asked.
“It’s not important,” she told him, eyeing the golden-brown muscles flexing under the candlelight.
“I disagree,” the male said, “those books are extremely well-guarded.” Was that admiration she’d heard in his tone?
“What was your name, again?” Elain asked him.
The male smiled. “Would you like to come outside with me?”
As if. “I’m not exactly in a hook-up mood right now, sorry,” she told him, though uncertain if the words rang entirely true.
He smiled��as though he knew. “What about information?” She felt her brows flick up. “I thought so. Now, shall we? It’s more quiet out back,” he added, gesturing to the tavern’s back door.
“I like it loud,” Elain countered. The more people drowning their conversation, the better.
“So do I,” he winked. “Another time, baby, I promise.”
Elain rolled her eyes. “Very funny,” she said, then dared a quick glance around the space again. Come to think of it, the couple at the table near where the two of them stood were awfully close—close enough that Elain decided not to risk it. She nodded to the stranger. “Let’s go.”
“Just so that we’re clear,” he started as they made their way through the crowd, “once you get those scales, we’re splitting the profits.”
“We can discuss the money later,” Elain countered. Like hell she was going to share anything with him.
“If that is what you wish,” he nodded, and opened the door.
The fresh air hit her almost unexpectedly, but it was a welcome change from the stuffy tavern in the back. She breathed in the salt carried in by the sea, her thoughts clearing up enough that she could finally focus on the matter at hand without unnecessary…distractions.
The distraction flashed her a smile, the beach behind him illuminated by the dying sunlight. “So, Mer scales, hmm? What do you need those for?”
“That,” Elain said firmly, “is none of your business.”
He chuckled again, the sound different this time—less than that deep, raspy sound she’d heard before, but more…fluid, like tea stirring in a cup. Warm. Inviting. “Oh, you have no idea,” he said quietly—and reached out his hand.
“Come with me,” the stranger told her.
Elain frowned. “I’m already here,” she pointed out. “You wanted to leave the tavern,” she reminded him.
He hummed—and she could have sworn it was like a melody pouring from his chest. “Yes,” he told her, stepping back until his feet—bare, she now noticed—reached the sand. “Let’s go a little further, alright?”
Elain stepped forward. “I…don’t understand,” she said. Still, she moved in closer.
He offered her a gentle smile. “Just one more step for me, gorgeous, please,” he tried again, his hand still outstretched.
“Okay.” She reached the sand now, too—but he had somehow moved back a few steps again, inches away from the waves’ embrace.
“Good girl,” he purred, the water now kissing his skin. Elain stepped in closer. “You’re very beautiful, you know,” he told her, angling his head slightly. She watched as his long hair spilled down his back in waves softer than the very sea—and met his gaze again, only to find it dark. “Almost beautiful enough to hide that rotten soul of yours.”
That gold had tarnished—enough to hide that bright, enticing gleam.
“Yes,” Elain agreed.
“Mmm, I thought so,” he mused. “I just need you to take a few more steps, alright? We’re almost at the shore,” he added, his voice like a lullaby, reassuring.
“Yes, I’ll follow you,” she agreed again.
“You’re doing so well for me,” he praised. “I might even consider making your death painless,” he whispered, watching her closely as she, too, neared the edge of the water. “Though that wasn’t the kind of death you had planned for my kind, was it?” he asked, a certain sharpness to his tone that made her open her mouth. “Oh, no need to answer that, baby,” he interrupted, “but I do appreciate your eagerness.”
Elain nodded. “Whatever you wish.”
He smiled, flashing his teeth. A perfect, pearly set of sharp blades—sharp enough to tear her flesh apart. “That’s a good girl,” he hummed, and she could have sworn she heard her soul sing in answer. “Now, step into the sea.”
Elain stopped inches from the seafoam. “Will you give me your hand?” she asked him shyly.
His features softened—though the sharp, predatory smile remained. “Of course, my rotten, terrible lady,” he purred. “Come with me.”
Elain slid her hand in his—and waited.
His skin, surprisingly, was warm—sun-kissed, as if he hadn’t spent an entire lifetime in the dark depths of the Undersea. He felt smooth, too, with some coarseness here and there that let her know his palm was no stranger to holding a weapon—a trident, perhaps, if the songs of the fishermen had, indeed, held any truth to them. 
The leaves behind her rustled—and Elain finally, finally released a breath.
“No,” she told him, her voice still feigning that blissful softness. “No, I don’t think I will.”
The merman blinked. “What?”
Elain gave him a smile that was purely Fae—one that let him know she was a monster, too. “It was a nice try, really,” she said, her free hand reaching back to her belt. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”
A pair of iron cuffs appeared in her grip—and, in a flash of a second, found its way onto the merman’s wrists.
His skin sizzled, and he hissed sharply, those dark eyes wide and not leaving hers for one second—but Elain held on, murmuring the spell she’d memorised under her breath.
She could never come to the land of the Mer unprepared.
“Duck!” Jurian yelled behind her.
She only had a fraction of a moment to see the bow in his hands—to stop him before he released the arrow.
Elain didn’t stop him, though.
She ducked.
***
“I can’t believe you caught one of them,” Jurian said in disbelief. “Good work, really, Elain, but did you have to bring him onto the ship?”
From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement behind the bars. The merman rose to his full height—he seemed taller in the constrained space of the brig, somehow—and met her gaze directly.
“Your name,” he said as though in a daze. “Elain.”
Elain cut her friend a look. “Thank you, Jurian.”
Jurian bounced off the wall. “Sorry,” he shrugged, his tone suggesting he wasn’t sorry at all.
“It didn’t work,” their prisoner said, more to himself now than his jailors.
“What didn’t work?” Jurian asked him sharply.
The merman looked at him—and Elain knew it took everything in her quartermaster not to flinch under his scrutiny. “My spell,” he explained slowly, then turned toward her again. “It didn’t work on you,” he repeated.
“Perhaps you’re not as good as you thought,” Jurian said.
He scoffed, as though the remark pulled him out of whatever fog had clouded his thoughts. “My name is Lucien Spell Cleaver,” he declared, his voice louder now, stronger. “Firstborn son of Helion Spell Cleaver, Prince of the Undersea—and heir to the High Lord of the Day Court.”
Beside her, Jurian went entirely still. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she was moving at all, either.
She may have been a pirate, but kidnapping a High Lord’s son—nay, his heir—was an act of treason, and Elain really wished to see one hundred before eventually dying a horrible, undoubtedly painful death. Quite common in her profession, really. 
“Impossible,” she whispered. “Helion’s son is dead—as is his wife.”
“Clearly not,” Jurian murmured.
The male—Lucien—narrowed his gaze at the two of them. “We have been in hiding for the moment I was born. There was no denying what I was, not until I learned how to glamour myself, and my mother—she took me back to her people to protect me,” he explained.
“Does the High Lord know?” Elain breathed. He was lying. He had to have been.
Still, it was nice to at least know his name. Fake or not, it pleased her, for some reason. Lucien.
“Of course,” he scoffed. “The ‘Summer Estate’ he leaves for six months every year is Undersea.”
The answer was detailed enough that Elain’s heart quickened. “You really are Lucien Spell Cleaver?” she asked.
“And you,” Lucien nodded, “are Elain Archeron. Pirate…and Mer killer, apparently.”
“I haven’t killed anyone,” Elain protested.
“Yet,” he finished for her. “You were going to kill me,” he said, those golden eyes—back to normal now that he was at their mercy—settling on her as he added, “You still are.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she scrambled. Some pirate she was—some of her rivals back East would have made her walk the plank for her hesitation.
Still, Elain could not bring herself to remember why…
“Why do you want my scales?” Lucien asked, interrupting her trail of thought—completing it, really.
“I told you, that is none of your business,” she told him, though her voice lacked her previous conviction this time.
“It is, if you still want them,” he countered.
“Why on earth would you give us your scales?” Jurian demanded.
“Well, I wouldn’t,” Lucien shrugged, then lifted his iron-bound hands into view. “As you can see, I am not in my Mer form, and will not be until you release me back into the sea,” he argued. “So, why don’t you just let me go, I give you my scales, and everyone wins?”
“Because you’re very obviously lying,” Elain cut in. “And you and your little Undersea army are going to sink my ship the moment it sails.”
The corner of his lip ticked upwards. “Is the word of a Prince not credible enough for you, Elain Archeron?”
“Not particularly,” she replied calmly. Princes, Lords—she’d heard their promises before, and ran to the sea to escape them.
“You are unlike any Mer hunter I’ve ever met before,” Lucien hummed, as though in thought.
Elain frowned. “There are hunters?”
“Of course,” he told her. “My father has disposed of as many of them as he could, but some still emerge every few years, hoping to see if the songs are true.” His expressions sombered. “Our scales are very valuable.”
“So we’ve heard,” Jurian said.
Lucien’s gaze flickered up. “It is money, then,” he said matter-of-factly, though something like anger lingered in the back of his throat.. “You wish to kill my people for a few gold marks?”
Elain swallowed.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, princeling,” Jurian seethed.
Elain placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Take a breath, Jurian,” she told him quietly. “Why don’t you leave us alone for a moment?”
Jurian looked at her—then back at Lucien again. “Let me know if you need help killing him,” he said darkly. Then, “For the record, I don’t care what you are,” he told Lucien. “You’re just annoying the shit out of me.”
And with that, he was gone, the wooden stairs carrying the echo of his steps. Only when they faded did Lucien finally say, “I like him.”
“He shot you,” Elain reminded him.
Lucien shrugged. “It wasn’t an ash arrow, now, was it? We live to forgive. Besides, I’m healed now.” Indeed, the wound in his shoulder had now closed almost entirely. “Well, almost,” he said, pointedly raising his wrists back into the light.
Elain had hoped the iron would work—it was an old superstition the humans thought could harm the Fae, but it had to have stemmed from somewhere. With Day’s libraries proclaiming the Merpeople as millenia older than the Fae, Elain figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.
“Sorry about the iron bars,” she said, nodding to Lucien’s cell. “Precautions.”
“I would have expected nothing less,” Lucien said—then leaned back, letting the back of his head rest against the wood. “So.”
Elain released a breath.
“Alright,” she braced herself. He was her future High Lord, apparently—if she lied, she was already dead. “What do you know of Koschei?”
“Who?”
“Nothing, then,” Elain sighed. “He is a death-lord—a god-like being trapped somewhere deep in the Continent. His magic is even more ancient than yours.”
Lucien’s brows furrowed. “And you seek to…take his magic for yourself?”
“I want nothing to do with his magic,” Elain told him hotly, earning an arched eyebrow in response. “It is revolting. But, it also currently binds my friend’s soul to Koschei himself, and he will not give her up unless we offer him something in exchange.”
“Mer scales?”
“He wants the Cauldron,” she explained. “We are hoping the scales will do for now.” She fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. Was the plan truly that hopeless? Was Vassa going to be trapped…forever?
In her misery, she hardly noticed Lucien had gone strangely quiet.
“Our scales do not even compare to the sheer power of the Cauldron,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.
Elain laughed bitterly. “If this is your way of talking me out of it, you should know I’m pretty desperate,” she told him. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get my friend back.”
At that, Lucien said nothing. He only stared at her in thought, his eyes shimmering despite the darkness she and Jurian had shoved him into.
Then, “I see.” He stepped forward then—and halted an inch from the iron bars. “I was wrong about you.”
That, Elain did not expect.
“I told you, your spells do not work on me.”
“I’m well aware,” Lucien hummed. “I speak the truth. What is your friend’s name?”
Her throat threatening to close up, Elain managed, “Vassa.” She shook her head. “She’s like a sister to me. She’s Jurian’s…”
Understanding dawned on his features.
“That makes a lot of sense,” Lucien said.
“Yes,” Elain whispered. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
Lucien studied her closely. “And do you have a…?”
Elain almost laughed—though she supposed it was better than breaking down in front of the man she’d imprisoned aboard her own ship. “Don’t tell me you’re back to your flirting strategy now,” she told him.
Lucien smiled—a true smile this time, though Elain wasn’t sure how she knew. “Was I truly that obvious?”
“I knew what you were,” she gestured over him as if it was enough of an explanation. “No one else has eyes like that.” Like the morning sun itself.
“Now who’s the shameless flirt, Elain?”
Elain chuckled. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She met his gaze again. “The song summoned you, did it not?” she asked. “You weren’t at the tavern when I arrived.”
Lucien nodded. “I heard it from beneath the waves.”
“I’m not that good a singer.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, his smile fading with the words. She found herself wanting to see it again. “It was for another reason that I heard you. I recognise that now.”
“Recognise what?”
Lucien hesitated. “I need to…” He shook his head. “I—I can’t be sure, it doesn’t…” He locked his eyes with her own again, and she watched him patiently as he searched her gaze. “Elain,” Lucien tried again, and she could have sworn his voice trembled with the word. He loosed a breath. “Come with me.”
Elain looked at his outstretched hand—careful not to let the bars graze his skin. “I told you—”
“I’m not using my magic,” Lucien interrupted. “Just…come with me. Undersea.”
“Like hell I will,” she crossed her arms. “I don’t trust you.”
Lucien just stared at her—started as if some internal battle was playing out deep inside him, one she could almost feel in her own chest.
Then, his hand pulled back, and he laid his palm flat over his chest. His heart, Elain realised, her gaze dipping toward it.
She heard it, then—a quiet, yet powerful sound, like a wave crashing over the shore. The steady beating of his heart.
It couldn’t have been—and yet…
And yet, somehow, Elain heard it. Continued to hear it even now, even stronger as Lucien proclaimed, “With my life,” he began, “I promise to do you no harm.” There was an urgency in his gaze as he pleaded, “Just get in the water with me, and I will be yours.”
Elain paused. “Your scales, you mean,” she corrected, suddenly finding herself entirely out of breath.
“Yes,” Lucien agreed. “That.”
Elain studied the bars keeping him away—then the iron key strapped beside her Cauldron-blessed sword. She swore on the Mother herself she could hear it whisper: Do it.
Perhaps she was simply losing her mind.
“Are you going to make me regret this, Lucien?” she asked him.
He simply stared back. “Are you?”
She supposed the question was reasonable enough. “Don’t tell Jurian I’m doing this,” she warned Lucien. “He’s going to kill me.”
Two minutes later, Lucien was free.
It was a blessing that they’d somehow missed Jurian, really—that she’d guided Lucien through the narrow space upstairs until they arrived at the starboard hand in hand, the sea soft and patient. Waiting.
What the hell was she doing? The only thing Elain knew for certain right now was that she was almost certainly going insane, and that Lucien’s hand in hers was warm and steadying in the buoying ship—and that those steps she was hearing somewhere behind them were, without a shadow of a doubt, Jurian’s.
Whatever Lucien was trying to prove, he had to do it now.
“Do we…jump?” she asked him.
“ELAIN!” Jurian yelled.
“I guess so,” Elain answered for him—and, together, they jumped.
The water, surprisingly, was warm despite the middle of the night. Helion liked to keep his Court warm at all times, but she supposed the sea, at least, would have carried some chill to it. It was then that she realised she’d never swam in those waters before—that she’d spent her lifetime admiring their every corner, but had never actually felt their beauty herself.
Everything happened so quickly.
The moonlight shimmered atop the sea, then sank deep beneath its surface, illuminating the space between them. Illuminating Lucien as his glamour faded and revealed the Prince of the Undersea in his true, unmasked form.
Elain could have drowned there and then.
The scales dotting his body glimmered under the light in a symphony of golds, bronzes and maroons, glowing even underwater as they formed a long, finned tail that floated gently with the current. He was sunlight come to life, the forest on a warm, autumn morning, the golden thread coming to life as it wrapped itself around her ribs, and Elain knew—knew this was the true beauty the sea had meant to show her from the very first moment she’d set sail.
“You…” She struggled for a breath. “You’re so beautiful.”
Lucien smiled, a webbed hand reaching for her own. “So are you, he said, placing her palm over his bare chest—just as he did aboard her ship moments ago. This time, though—this time, Elain could hear as their two heartbeats blended into one, a melody that made her own soul sing as Lucien whispered, “I am yours.”
The thread around her ribs tightened, forever to remain.
“You…” Elain blinked. “Oh.” She covered their joined hands with another, as if to make sure. “Lucien.”
“I needed to make sure,” he breathed, pulling her in. “You are my mate.”
There was reverence in the way he’d spoken the words—like some sacred spell only Elain was privy to hear from his lips.
She wanted to try them too.
“You are mine.”
“Yes,” he assured her.
“And I am yours.”
“Yes,” Lucien whispered again.
“Your scale—”
He squeezed her hands tighter. “Everything I am belongs to you now, Elain,” he interrupted. “But you will not need them.”
Elain blinked once more. “I don’t understand, I—”
Lucien smiled. “We have the Cauldron,” he told her. “My father took it—from Velaris.”
Elain wasn’t sure she was breathing.
“No.”
“Its wards protect us—have been keeping us safe for decades,” Lucien explained. “I think it is time we take our safety into our own hands,” he added, his thumb brushing over her palm.
Did he mean—?
Elain shook her head. “I couldn’t—”
“Where you go, I go,” Lucien said. “I am yours, Elain, and you are mine. Together, we’ll get your family back. And,” he hesitated, “If—if you still wish to have me around then—”
Her mate.
“Kiss me,” Elain demanded.
Lucien stilled. “What—”
“Now, Lucien.”
And he did.
Her eyes fluttered shut as Lucien’s mouth clashed into her own, and the world around then exploded—he tasted of salt and the sun-warmed breeze. He tasted like the rest of her gods-damned life, though she supposed eternity could never be enough to satiate the hunger one kiss had instilled deep inside her. Lucien kissed her as if she was the world, as if she was the light illuminating the sea embracing them, his lips hot and soft and all-consuming.
They had a war to face—but, as long as they faced it together…
Elain pulled back, their hearts pounding as one. She smiled at the sound.
“Let’s do this.”
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lorcandidlucienwill · 5 months
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“Who is to say that Rhysand and his cronies are not agents of Hybern, all of this a ruse to get you to yield without realizing it?” Nesta murmured, “You can’t be serious.” Mor gave my sister a look as if to say that he certainly was. “If we need to ally against Hybern,” Thesan said, “you are doing a good job of convincing us not to band together, Tamlin.” “I am simply warning you that they might present the guise of honesty and friendship, but the fact remains that he warmed Amarantha’s bed for fifty years, and only worked against her when it seemed the tide was turning. I’m warning you that while he claims his own city was attacked by Hybern, they made off remarkably well—as if they’d been anticipating it. Don’t think he wouldn’t sacrifice a few buildings and lesser faeries to lure you into an alliance, into thinking you had a common enemy. Why is it that only the Night Court got word about the attack on Adriata—and were the only ones to arrive in time to play savior?” “They received word,” Varian cut in coolly, “because I warned them of it.” Tarquin whipped his head to his cousin, brows high with surprise. “Perhaps you’re working with them, too,” Tamlin said to the Prince of Adriata. “You’re next in line, after all.” “You’re insane,” I breathed to Tamlin as Varian bared his teeth. “Do you hear what you’re saying?” I pointed toward Nesta. “Hybern turned my sisters into Fae—after your bitch of a priestess sold them out!” “Perhaps Ianthe’s mind was already in Rhysand’s thrall. And what a tragedy to remain young and beautiful. You’re a good actress—I’m sure the trait runs in the family.”
Somebody said Tamlin had the rawest lines at the High Lord meeting, and god fucking damn I'm inclined to agree. I heard him spitting nothing but pure facts, cool as you like. I've said it once and I'll say it again: Love or hate the character, you can't deny that he is absolutely fucking right.
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theostrophywife · 1 year
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nonsense.
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i don't want no one else, baby i'm in too deep.
here's a lil song i wrote, it's about you and me.
masterlist a/n: i heard this song and immediately thought about meeting az for the first time at rita's and being absolutely stunned at how pretty he is and instantly forming a crush. summary: during a wild girl's night out, mor introduces you to a certain shadowsinger.
mor had been begging to take you on one of her infamous wild night out for weeks. it was her remedy for a breakup: go out, get drunk, and party until you could no longer remember your ex boyfriend's name.
it wasn't a bad plan and after you took the time to truly get over your last relationship, you finally obliged your friend. mor was elated. as a new resident of velaris, she couldn't wait for you to meet her friends—her family as she called them, and you were equally as excited. you'd heard a lot about rhys, feyre, amren, cassian, nesta, elain, and lucien, but not nearly as much as azriel, who mor seemed to think would be a great match for you.
while you had gotten over the heartbreak of your breakup, you weren't sure you were ready to put yourself out there again. a fact that you reminded mor of as the two of you got ready in your apartment.
the blonde only nodded, piling on dark kohl on your eyes and swiping a bright shade of red on your lips. with mor being mor, you knew that she was probably only half-listening, already forming a plan to push you headfirst into the city of starlight's dating pool. you didn't mind. it'd been a while since you'd gone out with mor and you knew you'd have fun. you always did with her. you'd drink those fruity little cocktails and probably end up dancing on tables by the end of the night. you could hardly wait.
rita's was absolutely packed, which made sense since it was a saturday night. but you and mor skipped over the line winding around the street and came in through the back entrance. perks of being close friends with the high lord's third-in-command, she'd said with a wink.
you laughed as she led you inside, the music and lights and dancing making your body come alive. mor wasted no time and had gotten you shots of something strong. you didn't ask what it was as the two of you clinked your glasses together and downed the alcohol. it set your body buzzing and your lips tingling.
it was three shots in when mor's friends finally found you in the packed crowd. rhys and feyre arrived first, followed by nesta and cassian. rhys made pleasant conversation and asked how you were adjusting to velaris, to which feyre fondly referred to as rhys activating his 'high lord' mode. it made you chuckle. by the way they teased each other, you could tell that the mated couple was deeply in love.
you' instantly got along with cassian after you chugged a tall glass of ale without spilling a single drop. nesta had rolled her eyes as he tried and failed to mimic your actions, but thanked you after you asked if she'd like a water or seltzer since you remembered mor mentioning that nesta didn't drink.
elain and lucien arrived just as rhys was telling you about the time that he had to pay for the damages cassian caused to the bar countertop when he decided to do a strip tease in the middle of happy hour. the redhaired male and the pretty brunette were pleasant and welcoming, but you could tell this wasn't their scene. they only joined you for about an hour or so before bowing out.
amren was terrifying, but she'd brought varian with her and she seemed to soften with him by her side. the prince was charming and an old acquaintance of yours when you used to visit adriata with your family as a child. you'd asked after cresseida and tarquin, glad to hear that the two were doing well and making significant changes within the summer court.
the shadowsinger came last. caught up in official spymaster duties, cassian had told you with a wink. honestly, he was just as bad as mor. he even asked if mysterious, broody males were your type. you'd laughed it off, but the answer would've been a resounding yes.
and then azriel walked through the door.
your jaw actually dropped. because are you fucking kidding? the dark hair and sharp cheekbones and carved jawline and utterly imposing figure that was headed straight towards you couldn't be a real, actual male. he looked like something carved by the gods.
shadows swirled around him like smoke, enveloping the enormous wings at his back. he looked like darkness personified.
you could hardly meet that burning gaze, swirls of the deepest greens and browns flecked with golden rings that blazed like the heart of a forge. and gods, you weren't even breathing, couldn't even hear what mor was saying as she introduced you to this gorgeous male.
"it's nice to finally meet the infamous y/n. mor's told me a lot about you." a hint of mischief, a touch of teasing as he took your hand in his.
you smiled, trying to ignore the warmth of his skin against yours or the way his large hand enveloped over yours. "only the good bits, i hope."
"nothing but the best, my lady."
that voice...cool and smoky and downright seductive. you could've listened to him talk for ages.
now that the whole party had arrived, mor called for a celebratory shot. a round of the strongest liquor, passed around through the group with a hint of salt and lime to ease the burn. azriel had settled by your side and it was his glass that clinked against yours as you all downed your drinks. he chuckled as cassian winced at the taste, but kept his eyes on you as you threw the liquor back with a straight face. a lick of salt and a drop of lime and you couldn't even feel the burn. if anything, the liquor made everything warm and delicious and pleasantly hazy.
as the nerves of first impressions dissipated, you found that you actually really liked mor's friends. they were funny and nice and overall welcoming. none more than azriel.
you talked a bit about your home in the winter court and your new role as principal at the velaris ballet.
"so, what exactly does a shadowsinger do?" you asked, leaning against the marble countertop. "i don't suppose you'd grace us with your angelic voice tonight?"
azriel chuckled and the sound skittered over you like a torrential wind, cooling your overheated skin. "wrong type of singer," he'd teased. "a shadowsinger is just who i am. though angelic is probably the last word anyone would use to describe me."
"oh?" you'd retorted with a raised brow. "with a pretty face like yours, i seriously doubt it."
he leaned in and that delicious combination of night chilled mist and cedar enveloped you on all sides. he smelled delicious. you wanted to drown in it. "i'm not the one that people travel across prythian to watch."
"damn right they do," mor announces proudly, draping an arm across your shoulders. "you should see her up on that stage. she kills it every time." a mischevious smirk curves across the pretty blonde's face. "in fact, why wait? come on, y/n. let's show them how it's done."
with that, your friend dragged you over to the dance floor. the music blared and the faelights flashed and the dancer within you emerged. morrigan was a great partner, moving with the beat as the two of you did what you do best. you were graceful, twirling and turning effortlessly as mor spun you around. azriel couldn't keep his eyes off of you.
"told you i'd make you forget all about that sorry ex of yours!" mor exclaimed as you gyrated to the pounding beat.
"who?" you joked. mor threw her head back in laughter and you joined her, grateful that you'd agreed to come out tonight.
"you were great out there," azriel said an hour later as you slipped out into the quiet street. he hadn't joined the rest of his friends out on the dance floor, preferring to sit back and watch, wreathed by his shadows. but you could feel his gaze on you the entire time.
the chattering of the rest of your group hummed through the balmy night, but the two of you stayed behind, lingering on the outskirts as you walked side by side.
"you should've joined us, shadowsinger."
he smirked and just when you thought he couldn't be more attractive, azriel proved you wrong. "perhaps i will the next time you come out with us."
"always leave them wanting more," you said with a chuckle. "a smart strategy."
"i can't very well show all my cards at once, can i?" was he flirting? azriel knocked his shoulder against yours, his wing briefly brushing against your back. "perhaps we can make a deal. i'll show you mine if you show me yours." oh, he was most definitely flirting.
you laughed, the sound of it deeper and huskier than you've ever heard yourself. "i bet you say that to all the ladies."
"only the exceptionally beautiful ones and i've only come across one of those, so far." his gaze danced over the flush spreading through your cheeks. "save me a seat at your next performance and i promise i'll show you all the dance moves in my arsenal. even the embarrassing ones."
"are you trying to bribe me, azriel?"
"only if it's working."
"friday night. front row."
he smiled. "i'll be there, my lady."
the rest of your group parted ways, some winnowing, some flying. the shadowsinger stayed behind, pressing a kiss onto your knuckles. he bid you goodnight before launching into the sky in a dark blur.
mor smirked, draping an arm over your shoulder. "aren't you glad i convinced you to come out with me tonight?"
you chuckled, bumping your hip against hers as you tore your gaze away from the starry sky. "i think i'm going to like it here."
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queercontrarian · 2 months
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summary: rhysand and tamlin meet in the summer court. obviously they are just friends and neither of them wants anything more. they are totally normal about having feelings.
(that's it that's all you get. i suck at summaries)
cw: none but rhysand isn't very kind to himself
for @sjmromanceweek
It wasn’t hard to find Tamlin. It never was these days and it left Rhys wondering if he’d really become so familiar with him that he was somehow impossible to miss. It was already getting dark when he arrived on the beach and still it took only five minutes to locate the other prince.
To be fair, there weren’t a lot of people on the dunes near the shore of Adriata. They were just outside of city limits so there was no way the guard would know they were there, but Rhys still reached for his wrist and the band of pearls twisted around it. Just in case. He didn’t know how Tamlin had gotten them - a favor, maybe, from the princess - but they would get him out of all the trouble he could potentially get into tonight. A carte blanche.
He didn't get a greeting as he walked up to Tamlin, his friend only moved to the side to make space for him on the blanket, throwing his own jacket and bag into the sand next to him. There were some couples around, some families in small groups along the beach. It seemed like no one was paying attention to them but that didn't mean much. Rhys sighed and turned around to face the sea while his friend brushed the dust and dirt off of the blanket.
“Is anyone we know out here?” he asked, a bit louder than necessary to clear his throat.
“Haven't been recognized yet,” Tamlin replied, kicking his legs out again and leaning back. “Sit.”
Rhys cracked his knuckles, trying to distract himself from the way his heart skipped a beat or two. It was ridiculous to get this worked up over spending time with a friend, over hearing his voice, over a thing so small as a night out on the beach or a stupid charming accent. It wasn't normal - Rhysand would know; he had spent his entire life chasing “normal”. Tamlin was ruining years of hard work with a smile and Rhysand couldn't even hate him for it.
“I'll put a glamour up anyway,” he said, his voice steady as always as he got to work.
“I already did.”
“I know, and it's not good.” He could practically feel Tamlin rolling his eyes through the silence. It was true though. Tamlin had never been good with glamours, or any kind of learned magic in general. He could do the basics, and he was incredible with the magic he pulled from within but his hands were not made for the intricate work of spellweaving or any of the tricks Rhys had spent years of his life studying.
“You could always teach me how to do it better.” His heart stuttered again.
“Sure. I will, eventually,” he replied, the last threads of magic melting into the glamour. He threw it out around them like a net in the air and it shimmered against the night sky for a moment before becoming invisible to their eyes.
When Rhys finally turned around, Tamlin smiled. “Beautiful,” he said.
“Someone warn the ladies, the poet is out tonight,” Rhysand answered mockingly, glad that the sun was long gone so the blush creeping up his neck was hidden in the shadows. Tamlin ignored his comment.
“Maybe after the meetings end you can teach me, yes?”
Rhys sighed, unbuttoning his coat so he could sit. “If the meetings ever end. We've been at it for days; Dawn keeps blocking the vote.” He could feel how warm the sand still was under the blanket and for a moment he felt the urge to lay down, to take off his shoes and bury his feet in the sand. It wouldn’t be proper. It wasn't a normal thing to do for a prince.
“Well, Thesan isn't stupid,” Tamlin said easily.
“How would you know? You don't even show up to the meetings,” Rhys snapped, the frustration of the day bubbling out of him so suddenly it surprised both of them. He tried to soften his tone when he added, “I haven't seen you in a month. I’ve been here all week, you didn’t feel like coming over?” It was meant to sound playful but the hurt behind the joke stuck. Tamlin had been in Adriata for months, just a few miles across the delta from its sister city Apri. It would have been easy for Tamlin to winnow or to cross over by boat, hell, he could have shifted into a whale to swim the distance. But Tamlin only shook his head.
“With both Meilyr and Father in town? Not a chance.”
“So what, you just keep making me come to see you? That’s how it works?” Tamlin shrugged.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” he said, his sharp teeth gleaming for just a second under the moonlight as his lips twisted into a crooked grin.
“Oh fuck off,” Rhys groaned, leaning back on his hands just as Tamlin bumped his shoulder against his. The truth was that he didn't want Tamlin anywhere near his family. Here, he was warm and alive and happy, and Rhysand had missed him more than he cared to admit. He balled his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching out. Be normal.
“Don't take it so hard. Besides, it's easier to hide here where there are less people than in Apri. After all, we've already established that I suck at glamours,” Tamlin teased, brushing his long hair out of his face.
“I didn't mean it like that,” Rhys said, struggling to find a middle ground between apologetic and defensive.
“I know what you meant.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while. Tamlin seemed to be deep in thought and Rhys didn't quite know what to say without interrupting him or letting his heart jump off his tongue, so he just watched the crowd forming on the beach from their place high up on the dune. If this was fewer people than in Apri he didn't want to know what the streets there looked like. It was getting very dark now but he could still make out the colorful costumes the faeries were wearing, each one a hand-crafted, endlessly detailed masterpiece. Carnaval started tonight and he'd fully forgotten about it over setting up this meeting with Tamlin. He wondered if Tamlin had any plans to go into the city later to celebrate with his hosts. If he did he hadn't dressed for it, which Rhys hoped meant that he could keep him all night.
"Have you seen fireworks before?" Tamlin asked finally. Rhys cleared his throat, then nodded.
"Yes," he said quietly, "In Dawn. But it was only a small demonstration. As I understand, the spectacle tonight will be far more grand." Tamlin had never seen fireworks. His father did not care for them, and that was enough explanation. There were so many things the Spring Court missed out on because of the High Lord, and Rhys was set on introducing Tamlin to all of them.
Before he could dump everything he knew about the fireworks on Tamlin though his stomach rumbled. He'd skipped dinner to make it to Adriata in time and he was starting to feel it, even though he would never say. He didn't need to.
Tamlin wordlessly grabbed the bag he'd brought and carelessly tossed aside earlier. He opened it up with one hand and offered Rhys half a dozen small pastries wrapped in paper. His mind and his heart were racing as he accepted the food. Accepting food from a loved one - Rhys shook himself out of his stupor. Normal, he reminded himself. Just be normal.
"The one with spinach is mine, but you can have the rest."
"Are you serious?" Rhys asked, his voice measured as he carefully unfolded the paper. The smell alone made his mouth water: sweet and sugary and so, so delicious. Tamlin nodded.
“I know you like these and you never get to have them because your father doesn't eat them. So I thought I'd bring some,” he explained, finding the spinach pastry easily amongst the others and eating it all in one bite. Fighting down the fluttering in his chest, the feeling of all kinds of abnormal hunger, Rhys reached into his own pocket and dropped a small bag of dried fruit into the other male's lap.
"I brought these for you from Day." Tamlin swallowed so quickly Rhys feared for a second he'd choke.
"Candied lemon peel?" His friend ripped into the bag faster than Rhys could answer.
"Yes, and some other stuff. Figured you were running out again." He couldn't suppress his smile as he watched Tamlin pick through the sweets. He grabbed one of the pastries at random - blackberry, his favorite.
“I love you,” Tamlin said seriously, holding up a piece of candied fruit to the moon. “You're the best person that has ever happened to me.”
His heart stuttered again and Rhys tried not to choke on his pastry. It didn't mean anything. It never meant anything. The Spring Court was just like that. Tamlin used words like these all the time and it wasn't his fault that it meant more to Rhys than to him. He couldn't know the degree to which praise was earned in his family, how much love was based on conditions - presenting him with his preferred sweets was the very least Rhys was willing to do to hear those words from Tamlin's lips.
They both flinched when the first fireworks exploded over Apri, light and color bursting across the sky. Down by the water people were clapping and screaming, pointing at the display, the art unfolding high up in the air.
Rhysand blinked away the bright explosions, gaze slipping away to land on Tamlin instead. His friend was still staring at the sky, head tilted to the side.
"Do you like them?" he asked. Tamlin tilted his head to the side. Rhysand liked that Tamlin took the time to think things like these through. He liked a lot of things about Tamlin - too many things.
"I do," he said finally, "I just don't like how loud they are"
“Our stars are quiet,” Rhys said, “And twice as beautiful too.” Tamlin only looked up at him and smiled.
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” Rhys replied emphatically before lowering his voice into a forced casual drawl again. “You should come see them and convince yourself of it. It's nothing like this muted, tired sky.”
If he were honest he'd admit that he was dying to see Tamlin in his Court, under his sky. He wanted to show him the mountains, the Illyrian Steppes and the Rainbow in Velaris. Maybe Tamlin could write a poem about the beauty of the Night Court too. Maybe he'd learn to love it just as much. Maybe he could keep him there, make him a star next to his own on the firmament.
They were silent again, listening to the crowd shrieking with joy as the fireworks kept coming, the wind picking up the music played in Adriata and carrying it to the shore.
"I think there's a special kind of beauty in things that aren't made to be beautiful," Tamlin said finally. Rhys groaned.
"Oh, leave the poet at home for just one night will you,” he muttered, nudging his friend until he slipped off the blanket under them.
Tamlin chuckled but his expression turned earnest again when he said, "I would like to see them one day though, the stars you describe. They sound beautiful."
“I'll take you,” Rhys promised. He'd take him anywhere as long as he could be with him.
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kristeristerin · 11 months
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There’s not enough Tarquin content here so I was wondering if I could send in Tarquin x reader to Mary’s Song (Oh My My My) by Taylor Swift as a prompt for the drabbles you’re planning on writing? Thanks!
AN: Thank you so much for the ask! Tarquin is a character that I may not have chosen to do on my own, but after writing him I feel like I need to explore more with him! I hope you feel like I did him justice!
As Always my asks are open for more Taylor Swift song and ACOTAR pairings! (I'll take other requests too of course!)
Song: Mary’s Song (Oh My My My)
Pairing: Reader X Tarquin
Content Warning: None
Words: 860
Your hands were shaking as you looked around the Summer Palace. This was your first time returning to Adriata in over 50 years and while coming back home should feel like a happy occurrence, you can’t help but worry about seeing him again. 
When you last saw Tarquin he’d just been the prince of Udrin, and the man you’d loved since you were children. Now though, you supposed, things would be different. While you could convince yourself that love would have been enough for the two of you when he was a prince, High Lords have a duty to uphold and marriage to a lesser fae was not part of that. 
Varian gave you a tight smile as he held out an arm to you, “He’s been asking for you. Are you ready?” 
“I’m not certain I’ll ever be ready to face him if I’m being honest,” you looked away from the Prince’s eyes as he led you through the palace hallways. Your eyebrows draw together when Varian turns not toward the High Lord’s study, but instead toward the doors leading to the back garden. 
“He’s out there waiting for you,” Varian drops your arm and gives you a gentle push toward the doors. 
When you step outside he’s facing away from you, instead choosing to look out at the ocean beyond the city. You are several feet away from him when you stop and drop into a low curtsy. “You wanted to see me, High Lord?” 
You hear him turn, but you don’t dare look up. 
“Y/N,” Tarquin laughs, “Surely you know we are far past these formalities. We’ve known each other since childhood after all.” 
You rise but still don’t look him in the eyes. “I’ve never known you as High Lord, though.” 
He steps forward and runs his hand through your hair, using it to gently raise your gaze to his, “I’d like you to.” He whispers before his lips brush yours in a gentle kiss. He steps away but grabs your hand before you can mourn the loss of his touch. “Come with me, I wish to show you something.” 
He led you further into the garden to the all too familiar tree. 
“Do you remember when we first met?” He asked as he pulled you closer and wrapped an arm around you. 
You laugh at the memory. “I wanted Cressida and Varian to like me so bad. I followed them out here to meet their cousin, and you hated me. I believe you even threatened to throw me into the ocean that day.” 
He looked away, biting his lip to contain his own laughter. “To be fair that wasn’t until after you had threatened to tell my mother that I wouldn’t be the Prince in your game of make-believe.” 
“Mmm, yes, and fitting punishment for my crime,” you pull away from his grip and approach the largest tree in the corner of the garden. You touch the small carving in the tree and turn to him. “Do you remember this?” you ask in a small voice. 
When he approaches you, Tarquin turns you toward the tree and wraps both of his arms around you. “Of course, I do,” his breath tickles the shell of your ear as he speaks. “This was the carving I made into the tree 9 years later when I finally agreed to be your prince. Nostrus was very cross with me for carving our initials into the tree.” 
Smiling at the memory you turn in his arms so you’re face to face. “I always hoped I’d be your princess.” You murmur looking at him through your lashes. 
Tarquin cupped your jaw and returned your smile, “Now I’m hoping you’ll agree to be the High Lord’s Lady. Perhaps not right away, but if you’ll let me court you again I know I can prove to you that we can have everything we once had, and so much more.” 
His smile falters as you begin to cry, “Have I said something wrong, my love?” 
“No,” you sniffle and then laugh at the horrid sound you made, “this is just unexpected. I thought you had asked me to join you here so you could tell me that we were through because a High Lord could never spend his life with a lesser fae.” 
“Y/N,” his voice cracked as he looked into your eyes, “There is nothing lesser about you. It’s the thought of you and the life that we could have together that got me through every day under that mountain. I’d be honored to be able to one day call you my wife, and our people would be better off with you at my side. Please, don’t think for a moment you're unworthy of anything, least of all me. I have loved you with all that I am since I was 18 years old, Y/N, and I will continue to do so for centuries more.” 
You lift a hand to his cheek and lean up to press a quick kiss to his lips. “I love you too, Tarquin, and I can’t wait to see what the future holds for us.” 
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ae-neon · 5 months
Note
Still interested in writing something for Eris/Cresseida? What about a scene when they decide to get married? Or just anything with them
💚
"You're serious?" Cresseida cocked a white haired brow, bangled arms crossed as she angled slightly towards Eris.
He leaned against a marble pillar, tall, pale skinned, bright haired, tightly wrapped in burgundy clothing. A contrast to her own dark skin, white hair and vibrant cerulean slip of a silk dress.
She half expected him to shrug, he always played close enough to the edge to back out of the game. But he turned to her, golden eyed and...earnest.
Cresseida shifted on her feet, "You really are serious." The repercussions were immense, both in their appeal and in their risk.
A marriage between them would cross a line drawn as much in blood as it was on a map. Amarantha had forbade inter-court marriages for just this reason. And before her, the families had found themselves too much at odds, locked in unending power struggles.
But now Rhysand, with three Made Fae at his back, moved to impose his will over all of Prythian. And Lucien wrestled with Day and Autumn in his blood.
Everything had changed, an alliance between the seasonal courts might save them but Winter-
"Don't."
Cresseida pulled herself from the board in her mind and met the Autumn Prince's golden gaze, finding again that strange sincerity. "This isn't something to be taken lightly, Eris."
"No, it's not." He agreed, taking his hand from his pocket and closed the gap between them; reaching for her, the calloused pad of this thumb ghosted over the wrinkled space between her brows. "Marriage is more than an alliance. I already know what the Princess of Adriata thinks, I want to know what you think."
Her walls were a second skin, existing without thought. They protected her heart as much as they did her people. Cresseida had been untrusting of even Tarquin at first. And then when her brother had left, abandoned his duty...and her, for them...
So how now had she come to trust Eris Vanserra, to let her muscles ease and her eyes reflect the uncertainty and hope she felt inside?
"Where would we even live?" Her own words surprised her and she saw his face quirk, an almost laugh.
"I'd build you a palace on the border if you like. A west wing in Summer and east in Autumn."
"Realistically, we'd need to establish an integrated household for that, including an army and while I trust your experience-"
The brush of his lips against hers stole the breath from her lungs, killed the words on her lips and ignited a fire in her gut.
They'd tiptoed around this. Flirted and fought with their words, danced so close they shared breath but never...
She tilted her face, angled for another kiss and almost moaned when he pulled her close and gave her everything she'd wanted and so much more.
She pulled back with a grin tugging at her lips as he chased her mouth, "I thought you wanted to know what I think."
"I do," his eyes still lingered on her mouth for a second before they met hers. She fought a smirk and signalled for him to continue.
"You think a palace on the border is perfect for centralising power and that consolidating our armies will help to secure Spring's border too." A frown tugged at her lips and his gaze dipped to them once more before he continued, "You think that because you can't help it. You're the Princess. You can't escape that part of yourself anymore than I can. Which is why you trust me to think the same. To work with you for the benefits. And you're right... But you also know that's not the only reason I asked."
She did know. She felt it as well as he did. Saw her chance at something more with him. Cresseida once again put away the armour of the Princess, let her heart be vulnerable and trusted Eris Vanserra, "Then you already know my answer."
Eris smiled and kissed her again.
*
CRESSERIS!!!!!
Thank you for this ask ☺️
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sunshinebingo · 4 months
Text
Even Lovers Drown -
Chapter 17
Synopsis: Sirens are known to be merciless creatures who lure their prey with their ethereal voices.
But what happens when Gwyneth, a half Fae half siren, meets someone who is immune to her song? Maybe she doesn’t need it for him to want her.
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Read on Ao3
Warning: Blood and violence
Snippet:
It was all happening so fast. One minute, Azriel was sitting in Rhysand’s office with his brothers, giving his latest report and gathering his courage to tell them about Gwyn, and the next, Varian was barging in with an urgent message from Tarquin. Summer was under attack. Autumn soldiers had crossed the border at sunset and were already at the village closest to it. The second after having delivered the news, The Prince of Adriata, who had thought that he could afford a single quiet evening with Amren in Night, was out of the door and winnowing to his court.
Autumn had fooled them all. This attack had either been a rushed decision Beron had made because he had an advantage over them, or one out of desperation after hearing that the other courts had learned of his plans. Perhaps the High Lord of Autumn had decided to launch an attack before the defence against him got too strong. Whichever had prompted this decision, Azriel did not care. Summer, the border, Gwyn, his siren… The whole office started to darken from his shadows expanding around the space. Their frantic whispers mixed with his own thoughts and filled him with a sense of dread.
Tag list (let me of you want to be added/removed): @shadowsxgwynriel @iambutmortal @trashforazriel @hlizr50 @headcanonheadcase @hiimheresworld @freyjas-musings @starfall-spirit @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @sv0430 @wrotethestars
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saphirered · 1 year
Note
hi, a request about a winter ball with Rhysand x f!reader, where she has a amazin dress with de details os stars and Rhys admiring her from far as she talks to people, and they dance in the ball, have some kisses as well and finish in their room with some spicy moment, thanks
Love this concept! Spicy went a lil' smutty in the end but if you're not comfortable with that, you can skip the bit below the dotted line. Happy reading! 😘
Ever the lover of grand displays of lavish dramatics Rhysand feels perfectly at home among the dancers and chattering courtiers. He may love a lack of decorum equally but it’s no secret he’ll take expensive silks and marble floors opposed to being knee deep in the mud and freezing. A winter’s ball is the perfect place for a break from the chaos of his brothers, or so he’d claim because at the end of the night he’ll likely be negotiating peace for the conflict Cassian undoubtedly will have caused, and be given a full report of all ongoings from Azriel, if he manages to shake the Shadowsinger in the first place. One day he’ll learn to tell them to stay home. At least Morrigan and Amren know how to behave, Mor taking a particular interest in some of the guests and they in her, and Amren getting a little closer for comfort to the prince of Adriata but for his sake, Rhys will ignore what he saw and picked up on. Instead when he turns his attention away from his family, he feels chills running down his spine, suddenly eerily aware of the cold season, as if he were standing among the Illyrian mountains this very moment. When he sees an ice queen personified not in heart but certainly in appearance he is certainly caught off guard. 
You wear a gown more of crystals and beads than fabric, sheer where these precious and precise designs do not weave together. It must be worth its weight in gold for it certainly looks heavy even if you do not show it in your posture. Never once do you wane. You remain ever impeccable and move with a grace and relentlessness that suits the element you’ve chosen to represent. You put the entirety of the winter court to shame with your beauty. You hold your head high, the crown of crystals like icicles on the verge of melting woven into your hair befitting of your entire visage. Anyone assuming you to be a queen would be entirely in their right. You’d taken the seasonal theme quite serious and Rhysand suddenly feels a little underdressed in comparison. Of course he donned his usual black but opted for some silver work, beading and the appearance of a frosted texture to his jacket. He should have opted for that platinum crown, the one with the brightest diamonds because suddenly if he imagines standing even remotely within your radius, he’d feel like a shadow as opposed to your radiance. Never had he felt discontent with being a shadow others thought twice to approach. 
Of course the courtiers swarm to you, vying for your attention. You smile through, you make pleasant conversation with them and you clearly know what you’re doing and he won’t deny the smile it’s brought to his face when he may or may not have picked up on some parts of conversation where some rather desperate flirtations are ever so skilfully dismissed. While you are certainly the centre of attention, Rhysand is stuck conversing with those of his own court, and putting up the usual facade of the cocky and cruel high lord. He has a reputation to keep and never has he felt the desire to just be himself more. He’d resigned himself to admiring the ice queen of the ball from a distance but then he realised, he’s the High Lord of the Night Court. People get out of his way. All it takes is invoking that dreadful presence to scare away these desperate idiots, if only just to speak to you before he returns to his usual life, his usual thoughts. He just wants to know, has to know and so he strides over. 
The male draped in dark fineries, his eyes have wandered to you several times now, or at least that’s how often you’ve caught him staring. You’d expected him to approach you at some point, like so many others have. You’d have humoured him, out of curiosity. Would he come offer you the moon on a string? Or would he resort to simple flattery? But then you noticed, those violet eyes. You know this male. You’ve let him before, long ago. You doubt he remembers you, but that look makes you suspicious, maybe he does. From what you hear, he’s not just any simple male, he’s the High Lord of the Night Court. Leave it to you to have… history with one of the most powerful beings in all of Prythian. He’s grown more handsome but what softness he held, or what you remember, has been replaced by a shield of darkness. Still he carries that cocky smirk that promises no good. You wonder, will he approach? Does he remember you? Will he save you from all these fools trying to charm you into their good graces at best, their beds at worst? He always did have a bit of a hero complex but the more stories of him you hear, the more you begin doubt he is the knight in shiny armour, and the more you see he might have turned the evil overlord, just like his father. You hope it’s but gossip, but lies. 
Then he begins to approach, people know better than to stand in his way, some might make a show of attempted bravery, by allowing the darkness to overcast just a second before they rush aside, choosing life over the ire of the terrifying high lord of night. He smirks, puts on a display of arrogant confidence, and that’s when you see it; he puts on a display. The attention keeping you busy this night, scatters and leaves only the genuine conversationalists, until you excuse yourself, turn your attention to him. You decide to play the part you were dressed for, become a face of neutrality covered by a shield of freezing cold indifference. you clasp your hands together and tilt your head to the side just ever so lightly, awaiting an introduction, or anything really because you don’t know what to expect. He bows his head in greeting, never once does that cocky smirk drop, and never once do his eyes leave yours. They stare right through your soul. He does not speak but offers you his hand. And then you feel a brush against your mind, gently and never intrusively, akin to a knock on a door. You decide to open it. 
“It has been far too long.” Those are the first words he chose to speak, or rather think to you? Perhaps not his smoothes moment but at least you humour him with mental laughter, and the faint up turning off the corner of your lips. He can’t believe it took him this long to figure it out, to realise who you are, or rather who you are to him. It must have been centuries at this point and you’ve changed much, but so has he. He’d found himself wondering sometimes over the years, wondering what became of you, where you might be. He expected you to live the quiet life you’d talked about, a life of freedom. Perhaps you have gotten it. You certainly know how to make an entrance and certainly gained attention of plenty of important and powerful people, but that hardly ever is a quiet life. 
“So it has been. It’s good to see you, Rhys.” Despite your appearance, you radiate a warm embrace on a cold night, one he’s longed for far too often be that in the Illyrian camps or in simple loneliness when it came to haunt him. 
You take a step forward, towards his outstretched hand, still offered. Without much of a doubt in your mind, but simply one for show, you place it in his, watch the courtier watching this whole interaction for their responses are quite pleasing; varied from confusion to bewilderment, jealousy and envy. In his eyes you can see he enjoys this just as much. It’s a mutual understanding when he Brings your knuckles to his lips, placing a tender kiss atop and holds on, guides you along to the dance floor where another song comes to an end and couples leave or step in for the next dance about to start. When you step through, with the High Lord of Night on your side, it makes pairs think twice about joining, and instead they opt for staying clear. 
“Looks like we’ll have an audience.” Words spoken out loud. The first ones you truly heard from him all night. You repress the urge to snort. Of course that’s what he’d say.
“Every the drama queen.” You retort under your breath and that grin of his grows as he faces you at the centre of the floor, one hand on your waist, the other behind his back. You place one hand on his shoulder and use the other to lift your heavily embellished skirts so they drape beautifully. 
“I’m not the one wearing the crown.” He dips to whisper in your ear and you feel goosebumps scatter across your skin, much to Rhysand’s satisfaction because he doesn’t need to be a mindreader to see your response. Your eyes narrow after you recover and the dance starts. 
“I assume you forgot yours at home, high lord?” Against the proper movements you rise your fingers to rest under his chin, brush along his jaw until they stroke along his cheek, to what some might describe as seductively. The look you give him certainly does not help. 
“I couldn’t decide which one to wear. Perhaps your keen eye could help me choose my attire sometime? You seem to be quite the expert.” He lets his eyes wander suggestively. Such a shame the dance requires to your turn, though feeling your back pressed against him, as his arm rests around your waist, makes up for it and the way you tilt your head up to look at him as you sway together almost makes him forget you’re not the only ones in this room. You might look like ice but Cauldron be damned you certainly spark a fire within him. 
“Since you seem so desperately in need of my touch, I will gladly offer my assistance.” You breathe, smile turning somewhat wicked. He threw a ball, and you simply hit it out of the park. No need to be shy about it. Not that you have any intentions of being so. It became clear that your previous interactions, some dalliances in younger years have not gone forgotten, and the attraction still remains. Wether it will be longterm or just another fling, who knows? For now you’ll indulge in the time you have. You’ll live in the moment and this moment is a good one. 
“Are we still talking about apparel?” Rhys knows very well the intent behind your words, just as well as he knows the meaning behind his own. You made him feel like he belonged somewhere all those years ago. You make him feel so now too. That hasn’t changed. You look gorgeous but equally beautiful is your mind. Attraction is only partially physical and right now he’d desire nothing more than to bask in your comforts, the ones you offer aplenty. Though, with the way you look at him now, he’d love to take that heavy dress off you should you desire it so. 
“Do you truly care about appearances?” You spin, the beads and crystals at the hem hitting the floor, and swaying across it as you continue the dance. Every step is precise, within rhythm, and perfectly executed. You’d expect nothing less from a noble raised, and you’d certainly learned too, if these are the events you’re attending. They come with certain rules, certain expectations and you’d always been one to defy expectations. That’s exactly why many of the males look at Rhysand wishing to be in his place now, staring daggers at him, or simply crestfallen they are not holding you in their arms but they could never satisfy you, not truly. You’d want more. You’d want truth without decorum but the ability to act. You need change and adventure, you need chaos and not just some prim and proper lapdog seeing to your every whim, or worse someone who would try to shape you into the perfect little trophy. Rhysand offers you adventure and freedom and maybe that’s why you agreed to him, indulged him and are quite satisfied with where this evening is going. 
Centuries ago you met a young male with a bright mind, strong opinions and a dream for a better life, a better future, and the willingness to sacrifice what he had to to make that come true, yet never at the cost of what he holds dear. Now you see a high lord with many secrets, and far more on his plate than he should carry but someone with a love for what he does, even if he hates the bad parts, even if he hates being who he is here in the public eye, but you know what he holds close to his heart, what he protects and preserves. He would not exchange this for the world. You share his dreams, his ideals and his hopes and that lets you know, this is right. These choices are right. 
“Only when I have to. Which right now, I suppose I don’t care about appearances.” The music comes to an end and you are face to face. You take a step back, step out of his arms and suddenly feel yourself cold without him there. You curtsey. He bows. You take a sep back, and another and another, staring into those violet eyes daring him to follow until you reach the edge of the crowd and then you turn on your heels, cast one final look over your shoulder and leave the ballroom. Rhysand, slowly follows behind, grins and watches you move through the people. Couples start filling the dance floor once more as he leaves, and plenty of eyes are on him, just as plenty are on yours. Rhysand scans the crowd for his companions, and finds he better should have stayed ignorant so he pushes those thoughts aside, sends a warning and informs them he’ll be elsewhere and they better behave themselves. He knows it’s useless but he couldn’t care less right now, not when he follows you, not when he connects with you as you tap your temple when you look over your shoulder once more to see him still following. 
“Come on then. Don’t leave a girl waiting.” You humour and he laughs. 
Weaving through the people and leaving the grounds of the event you lead the high lord of the night court up the stairs, the path to your chambers feeling far too long. Once you’ve reached the fourth floor you wait at the top of the stairs. Rhysand tentatively covers the distance, standing but two steps below you when you drop your hands on his shoulders, brushing along the silver work of his jacket. He dares bring his hands to your hips as he steps up one more step, as you stand on the edge of the top of the stairs; hair’s breath apart. 
“May I?” He asks, eyes cast down towards your lips, slightly parted before they return to your eyes. You don’t reply in words but instead press your lips to his. You kiss him like there’s no tomorrow and Rhysand shares your sentiment, his hands wandering over your hips, along your waist, around your back pulling you closer to him, against him before one wanders to the underside of your breast, where between the beads and crystals that cover what’s expected to be covered but leave just enough skin exposed for you to moan into his mouth at that touch and given you weave your fingers into his hair, pull lightly at the roots and press closer into him, he repeats the motion. 
“Sixth door on the right. Now” You instruct between kisses and you feel his lips curl upwards against yours. Rhysand sweeps you off your legs and lifts you in his arms, not once breaking contact with you and follows the hall without as much as a stumble. You drape one of your arms around his shoulders for support but let the other come to play with the closures of his jacket, undoing the ones you can read already. 
“So eager.” He chuckles, allowing you to open the door. 
“Not like you mind it but keep being cocky and you can stay out here.” You retort as he steps past the threshold. At your silent request he puts you back down, onto your feet. with a snap of your fingers lights spark to life in the interior, not too bright, but enough to reflect off your dress and basking you in a silver blue glow, one that reminds Rhys of real ice but also the stars he so admires. Leave it to you to charm him wholly. A dangerous thing, but he likes a little risk every so often. He certainly won’t back down from this one, especially not when that risk looks ravishing. 
“Once upon a time you called it one of my more redeemable qualities.” He jokes and comes up behind you and discarding his jacket on the way. He brushes his fingers along your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You cross your arms and snort. 
“How ignorant I must have been.” You roll your eyes but then your attitude dies down when Rhys’ lips trail along the column of your neck and you feel his fingers trail down the buttons down the back of your dress. Slowly he undoes the first and when you make no protests, instead moan when you feel his teeth graze along the dip of your shoulder, he moves on to the next, and the next and the next. With it he kisses lower and lower, with each button undone until he reaches the last one, right above your tailbone. You hold the dress to your chest, and turns as the high lord of the night court sits kneeled before you, looking up to you.
“You look like a queen.” He comments. 
“So I’ve been told.” You let one of the straps drop from your shoulders. 
“You’ll look equally regal without it.” You urge him to rise, and when he does, ever so gently removes your hands from where they hold the dress in place, he pushes the final strap off your shoulder and so the fitted garment slides from your body. Rhysand admires your form, even curve, every dip, every mark, freckle, scar and spot. He admires every inch of your body. 
“And you are entirely overdressed.” You take a step towards him, letting your fingers trace along the waistband of his fine trousers, pull free the shirt he wore underneath that jacket, and begin to lift it over his head. Rhysand watches as you trail along the markings on  his torso, from the tattoos to the scars he’s collected over the years. You don’t shy away, you let your hands roam, and behind them follow your lips. He can’t do anything but watch you, as you trail down, slowly but surely make your way to the closures of the fabric he wants to get rid of but he’ll let you play the game now. Plenty of games he’ll have the opportunity to play later. 
————
You run your fingers over his length, still covered and feel him tense, feel him twitch and you tut. You’ve pushed your luck because next you feel his hand brush along your breast, ever so lightly along your nipple, enough to tease but never enough to give you the true satisfaction. Rhysand laughs at your frustration. You suppose it’s payback and you get the message. You pull him free, make quick work of his final garments, and guide him along to your bed. When you push him to sit, he moves back on the bed, lets you crawl over him, lets your hands wander as you are face to face, crown still atop your head and he’s never seen anything more arousing than the image of you above him, looking like a true queen, in nothing but that crown. His hands fall to your hips, stroking around the roundness of your behind, as you kiss him deeply, tongue clashing with his and you ground your hips downward, along his aching length. He just raises his hips to meet yours, before he lets his fingers sink between your lower lips. He moans when he feels your own arousal. Perhaps he might have made a comment about how so little has gotten you so wet but now does not seem the right time and instead he moans your name when he feels your fingers wrap around him and give a tentative stroke up and down in retort. 
“Enough games?” Rhys mutters against your lips as he presses his forehead against yours. 
“Yeah. Enough games.” You moan as you feel him line himself up and you simply let yourself sink down. You drape your arms across his shoulders and rock your hips as his paced thrusts meet your movement. He relishes in the way your breath catches, in the little sounds you make, when you whisper his name, ask for more and he is happy to give it to you. The ice queen melts in his embrace and neither of you would have it any other way, not when you find sweet release time and time again. You’ll deal with the aftermath of your not so inconspicuous escapade some other time. For now you’ll enjoy each other’s intimate company. 
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achaotichuman · 4 months
Note
Angsty thought but like imagine Rhysand and Tamlin got into one of their fights during a ballroom, Tamlin storming out with rhysand following him.
Both of them angry and sad because of what happened, Rhysand angry at Tamlin's nonchalance and how "stone-faced" he was about the whole debacle. Tamlin angry at Rhys when he made a comment that maybe Tamlin really was like his father.
So Tamlin pissed off and was so hurt by this male who was his first best friend whirls around Rhysand and instead of Tamlin's face, Rhysand was looking directly at His sisters face and Rhysand's sister (Tam who shapeshifted) sneered and said "Maybe you really are like your father, considering you couldn't even save your own mother and sister"
A bit more angsty and dramatic then my usual asks but I was watching Scandal and I thought of this prompt to my two toxic love-birds :3
My first reaction to this was a violent gasp, because yes, this is very good. Very dramatic, very angsty, all things I love. Here's how I think that scene would go.
It was supposed to be a routine get-together, the Courts of Prythian coming together for one night. The Courts were far to separate and to maintain peace two things would take place every decade on a solstice. One, the High lords would gather for a meeting, it was a rare occasion that didn't end in someone storming out, and something getting thrown. Tamlin had to admit he found them amusing. Second, the people of each Court would gather for a large celebration, one Court was chosen each year, there they would open their borders to all who wished to attend, and a large celebration would be thrown.
No one admitted it, but everyone knew, these celebrations had simply turned into a way for the High lords to one up each other. Who had to most money to spend? Who had the most lavish taste?
It was a dick measuring contest, and Tamlin hated it. But had to go anyway, next decade would be his turn to host. That was going to be a nightmare and a half, Andras and Alis were somehow already excited for it, those two loved a good celebration. They especially loved the drama it would cause.
The meeting had gone as smoothly as one could hope for. Poor Nostrus was the one to host this year, the meeting and the celebration were to take place in Adriata. The office Nostrus had led the High lords too once they arrived was perfectly decorated, but quite empty. Only the table and chairs. the edges of the room were gilded with gems and gold, and a large balcony overlooked the sea. Nothing else though. Nostrus had most likely been thinking off the last meeting, that one Tamlin had attended as Prince. Someone had thrown something made of glass, it had shattered all over the floor, a shard nicking Tamlin in the arm.
Even still, the lack of anything to throw did not stop the arguments from pouring out. Tamlin didn't have enough fingers to count how many times he rolled his eyes, or loosened a sigh.
All entertainment from watching six grown men snapping at each other's throats was drowned the second he walked in.
Rhysand was fashionably late, as he always is. He waltzed in, the doors slamming open to reveal his clouds of darkness. His two Illyrian dogs prowling behind him. Rhysand gave some half-assed excuse as to why he was late that everyone had to suppress the urge to roll their eyes at. Rhysand had only been in power a few years, as had Tamlin. Yet he acted as though he had been ruling for centuries.
When they sat down, Rhysand scanned the room, watching everyone like a predator waiting for the perfect time to bite. Finally, he looked over at Tamlin, and that natural predator's glare turned hungry, like he'd spotted a lone deer in a clearing. Tamlin fought the urge to curl into himself, he held Rhysand's gaze with what he hoped was a similar intensity. Those his eyes could only muster hatred, Rhysand's was filled with loathing and lust. When Cassian and Azriel turned their eyes to lock into Tamlin, the Spring Lord slowly and pointedly looked at the Shadowsinger, then the General and back to Rhysand. Tamlin then huffed a laugh and threw them a smirk before turning away.
Tamlin could feel the seething rage coming off of Rhysand in waves even if he was looking away. Tamlin was his chosen target of the night, and damn him to terrors in Hell, but the part of Tamlin that still belonged to his past couldn't wait to see what the Night Lord had in stall for him.
Soon night fell and the Summer Court was in a buzz. Tamlin was led into a large ballroom. Covered in gold and splendor. The sounds of the ocean crashing outside seemed to blend into the music, creating a symphony of nature and man-made creation. The second the notes hit his ears Tamlin closed his eyes for a moment, almost beginning to sway to it. A pinch from Andras had him snapping back to the present. His sentry shot him a look and Tamlin just raised an eyebrow, discreetly flipping him off before striding away from his friend.
Tamlin found a nice corner, where he was away from everybody, and could simply lean against the wall, close his eyes and tap his fingers in time to the music.
His peace lasted for a total of thirty seconds. Then a cold chill spread across his skin, a chill he wanted to forget but his body remembered. Tamlin didn't have to open his eyes to know Rhysand was standing close to him. Rhysand didn't need to speak to know Tamlin knew he was there. Still, Tamlin refused to be the first to talk.
They stayed standing there for a half hour, some secret challenge between them. Who would break the silence first? Tamlin tried to ignore Rhysand's lingering presence, but he couldn't enjoy the music knowing that darkness was swirling so close to him.
Tamlin had never been made to play these games. Finally, he opened his eyes and turned to face Rhysand, lip pulled back into a snarl, "What do you want?"
Rhysand's face split into a grin. Ecstatic that Tamlin had been the first to break.
"I wanted to know why the High lord of Spring, is not enjoying the festivities with his people, I thought you of all people would not consider yourself above the commoners?" Rhysand emphasized 'High lord' he knew Tamlin did not want this crown. He loved picking at that, making him feel even more unworthy than what he already was, but never letting him forget that he could never be normal like he so desperately wanted to be.
Tamlin didn't entertain his outright ridiculas question. He simply looked back towards the people of Prythian, mingling, dancing and talking to one another.
Rhysand hated when Tamlin could be more carefree and silent than him. It showed when Rhysand stepped closer, invading his space, crowding around him that forced Tamlin to remember how Rhysand, despite only being a few inches taller than Tamlin, could seem like he was twice his size.
"I've heard the little fox has been prancing around your Court, have you found another so quickly my love?" Rhysand snarled in his ear. Tamlin hated those even more than the comment before it. He hated thinking about what they were. What had happened.
"Answer me, darling." Rhysand hissed.
"Lucien is my friend, Rhysand." Tamlin said, his voice calm and level, unlike Rhysand's.
The bat opened and closed his mouth, face confused, then turning to anger. Hatred reeling in his eyes, Rhysand had always hated when Tamlin could be level and cool. Hated when his venomous words didn't drive him up the wall.
"Friend, lover, whore, who draws the lines." Rhysand shrugged, those damning smirk adorning his face.
"I do, and we have no relations beyond friendship." He was friends with Lucien, had been for a long time now. Since taking on the crown, Lucien along with Jesminda had shown up for him more than ever. He was his friend, a better friend than Rhysand had ever been, it had taken Tamlin far too long to realize that.
"The bounds of friendship stretch, Little Lord of Spring, we would know that wouldn't we?" Rhysand trailed a finger down Tamlin's arm. If Tamlin didn't know Rhysand as well as he did, he would've snapped, perhaps hurt the male horribly. But as it were, Tamlin could have laughed, Rhysand was getting desperate for a reaction.
"We wouldn't know that." Tamlin murmured.
Rhysand went predatorially still, a wolf sitting back on its hunches, preparing to strike. Tamlin remembered the power that had filled Rosehall as two High lords came into power. And the way Rhysand had gone so still. Tamlin couldn't help the fear that leapt up into his throat.
"We would, our... friendship, it stretched a quite a bit." Rhysand said, a growl pressing into his voice.
Tamlin couldn't help it, he huffed a laugh. Rhysand took a hold of his arm, "Don't deny it Spring."
"Deny what, bat?" Tamlin quipped.
Rhysand just grinned, instead of answering he asked, "Do you think about me when you fuck him?" Rhysand jutted his head towards where a group of Autumn males were socializing. Tamlin didn't doubt Lucien was among them.
Tamlin finally laughed, a full, genuine laugh. He laughed even harder when Rhysand's face fell from smugness to simmering hatred.
"Lucien is happy in his own relationships." Tamlin said, he would never tell Rhysand about Jesminda, but it made him feel good to know how false Rhysand's little theory was.
Tamlin leaned in close, stepping up onto his tiptoes to be Rhysand's level, like he used to do before he kissed him, "And you and your little wings, are the last things I'm thinking about when I'm fucking somebody."
That 'little wings' comment made Rhysand step forward, pressing his body fully against Tamlin. His eyes full of anger, making the violet a deep purple, "Liar." Rhysand hissed. "You are too much like the dogs to be on a throne such as Spring. You deserve less than a feral animal. We used to call you that, you know, Cassian, Az and I. The feral kid from Spring. You were like a dog when we fucked too. A desperate bitch in heat."
Tamlin had heard enough. Here was the male he had been friends with for decades. Who had taught him to wield daggers and swords. Who had taken him in when his brothers left him bloodied, bruised and broken. Who had brought him up so high when he had felt so low. Who had assured him he wasn't the dog, the beast, everyone accused him of being.
His brothers called him a beast, a dog, a feral animal. Rhysand knew all that, because Tamlin had told him. Rhysand had been the one to tell him he was never that. Had told him he was worthy of being treated like person, had told him that was the bare minimum.
Now, he threw it all back in his face like he never meant it. And it hurt. It hurt so much.
If Tamlin stayed any longer, he was going to lose it. So he turned away from Rhysand headed for the exit, people stared at him. Andras tried to wave him down and even Lucien looked over, but Tamlin passed them all.
He practically ran out the entrance. Down the stairs, going and going until he found an empty esplanade, a road that overlooked the glittering sea. The moon hung in the deep night sky, stars stared down at him as if they were accusing him. Accusing him of the same crime Rhysand was. A crime he didn't fucking commit.
It didn't matter though; Rhysand couldn't be swayed. And oh, how Tamlin had tried to sway him. Had sent him letter after letter after letter. Begging and pleading for Rhysand to listen to him. His brothers had drugged him, he didn't even remember telling them. The whole thing had been a haze, a blur of nothing.
But Rhysand didn't care what he had to say. Just wanted someone to blame.
Rhysand now appeared beside him, had followed him from the party.
The darkness curled around Tamlin's wrists like chains. Would he ever be free of the clutches of Night? Or had becoming friends with Rhysand in the first place trapped him in a cage he could never escape?
"You're a coward," Rhysand hissed, "A good for nothing, waste of space. You're a coward and you're nothing."
"I am worth something-," Tamlin tried to argue.
Rhysand laughed, "Oh you think I was serious when I told you that? I lie Tamlin, and I lied to you. Without me, you aren't worth a drop of anything anyone gives you. Give it time, that fox you love so much will leave. In time everyone will leave you."
Tamlin sucked in a breath, and finally chose to turn away from him. Tears were beginning to form in the Spring Lords eyes, and he wouldn't let Rhysand see them.
As Tamlin turned around, Rhysand delivered the final blow, "Going to run away from this too? Going to pretend none of this affects you at all? Why did I expect anything more? You're just like your father. I hope you never have children, hate for what happened to you to happen to them."
Tamlin's entire world came to crashing halt. He stopped walking as everything he had convinced of himself shattered.
Rhysand's footsteps were the only sound he could hear as the Night Lord came closer.
"Hate that its true Tamlin?"
Tamlin felt his shoulders begin to shake, then his heart racing, and finally his face contorting, his skin changing as anger overrode every rational thought in his mind.
"Come now, little Tamlin, tell me how right I am." Rhysand was right behind him now, so close Tamlin could feel his breath on his neck.
Tamlin then whirled around. He stared right up in Rhysand's eyes and watched as those lustful, selfish eyes turned to horror.
Instead of Tamlin's face, it was Rhysand's sister, Branon, who glowered up at him. And it was in Branon's voice that Tamlin said, "Perhaps you are truly like your father, considering you couldn't even save your own mother and sister's lives."
Rhysand paled, his whole body beginning to shake. Tears formed in his eyes, and he stumbled back. Tamlin, still wearing Branon's face, sneered, "You have become exactly what you swore you would never be. Selfish! Vindictive! and cruel! I have never deserved your hatred! You know what happened that night! I needed saving too! You let us all drown! I may have never been worth anything to you, but you were worth something to me and now," Tamlin let out a cold, humorless laugh, "Now I feel nothing for you. Your face, your eyes, your voice and your words, mean absolutely nothing to me."
Tears spilled down Rhysand's cheeks, and true to his words, Tamlin felt nothing for him. No remorse, no anger, no hatred. Just plain nothing. Everything emptied out from his words, words that were a long time coming.
Rhysand looked down to the floor. Tamlin wondered if he was remembering his dear sister. A woman who had loved with fire and passion. Who had smiled through flames. Who had fought with power like no other.
Tamlin only felt a little guilty for using her face to put Rhysand in his place. But the guilt was only for her, never for Rhysand.
Tamlin refused to ever feel guilty for Rhysand, for what the Night Lord had brought upon himself by refusing to move on, by refusing to listen to the true story. Instead making up his own and flaunting it to everyone.
Tamlin would be free of him. That he swore. He was worth something. The people in his life would not leave him. Rhysand was wrong.
************************************
Rhysand had been right.
Tamlin laid in the ruins of his Court. He looked up at the stars. Tears spilling down his cheeks, his whole-body trembling as he struggled to keep his cries contained.
Everyone had left him, like Rhysand had said they would. He had succumbed to his own rage, like his father, like Rhysand had accused him of being.
Rhysand was right.
He wasn't worth anything.
I loved this prompt so much! Thank you so much for sharing, I hope I did this one justice!
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separatist-apologist · 11 months
Text
Still A Sunbeam
Summary: As a child, Elain Archeron is pushed into a pond by the heir to the Day Courts throne, Lucien Spell-Cleaver, and vows she'll never forgive him for it. But as an adult, Elain finds that if she wants out of an arranged marriage to a Spring Court prince, she will need Day Court's help. More is at stake than a decades-old rivalry, and when their home is threatened, Elain and Lucien will have to set aside old differences and work together
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 Chapter 7 | Read on AO3
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Elain had never been more bored in her life, listening to a room filled with men talk. Lucien had warned her, hadn’t he? When he offered to bring her to Winter, he’d warned her it was going to be talks of dam construction before launching into a deconstruction of all the major players and families of the Winter Court. 
Elain had been so excited to go anywhere as an official emissary that she hadn’t considered just how uninteresting it would all be. Lucien sat beside Elain, the picture of engaged nobility as he spoke. In truth, he was far more interesting to study than anyone else in the room, simply because Lucien was good at saying so many words without saying anything at all.
He’d made no promises regarding his fathers willingness to see this project completed, and Elain didn’t think anyone had realized it. Lucien looked good, seated among the Winter Court nobles in his long, cream colored tunic embroidered in silver and blue. He’d tied his hair neatly off his face, still braided at the sides before tucked just at the collar of his clothes. Lucien seemed to glow like a summer sun and somehow seemed warm despite the heavy layer of frost covering the windows surrounding them. 
They had two whole nights here, in rooms just across the hall from the other. Elain was looking forward to exploring and meeting people. Everyone rushed to greet Lucien with smiles and handshakes. Lucien knew about their lives, he knew their names, had little jokes with them. Elain wanted that sort of relationship, too. It was different for him, she supposed, given he would one day be High Lord and making nice with the nobility across territories only benefited him. 
He’d need an emissary one day, and Elain was starting to think it should be her. Not that she’d dared to say so, of course. Lucien was being nice but she wouldn’t go so far to call them friends. He’d merely realized it served him far better to work with her than against her. And to his credit, he wasn’t entirely wrong. Their lessons were far better now that she wasn’t drowning in her resentment and he wasn’t insulting her through passive aggressive barbs. 
Elain still thought of the party Arina had brought her to and how Lucien had been prepared to take her into the city. How strange the whole thing felt…and how disappointed she’d been when he’d stayed behind with Aayla. If she was being perfectly honest, Elain didn’t like Aayla at all, though Aayla had done nothing besides having a flawless face and the prince's attention.
Which Elain didn’t want. Sure, Lucien was handsome in a cruel, almost unfair sort of way. Who wasn’t? Elain had been studying the Summer Court royals in preparation for their visit in the next week and heard Prince Tarquin of Adriata was so beautiful people on the street sometimes broke down weeping at the sight.
And Kallias, High Lord of Winter, was certainly lovely in a cold, sharp sort of way. Lucien was merely another beautiful face in a sea of them. Hardly anything special at all, Elain thought. She looked over at him, surprised to find his eyes already on her. He leaned closer, braced against the arm of his chair. Elain brought her face closer, drinking in the warm scent of him.
“I’m so fucking hungry I could die,” he whispered, his face utterly impassive. Elain smothered a smile. 
“I told you not to rush breakfast.”
Lucien arched a brow, dipping his chin in agreement before turning back to the dry conversation still unfolding. A map had been brought out of the large, expansive lake they’d seen on the horizon. Lucien had joked they ought to have a footrace across, to which Elain politely declined. She didn’t need Lucien Spell-Cleavers mocking her for not being as sure-footed as he was. 
What Elain was learning was how Winter Court generated their energy—far beneath the ice, with a mechanism that turned water into energy. Lucien clearly already knew this, given how disinterested he’d seemed when the diagrams were brought out. 
“I think we’ve beaten this thoroughly to death,” Lucien’s deep voice cut in. “
Kallias surveyed Lucien frankly. “Will your father agree?”
It was a yes or no question. Lucien smiled, reclined in his chair. “I think he could be persuaded—if prices for ice remained steady.”
Kallias’s blue eyes flashed, only for a moment before he offered Lucien a grim smile. “One day your court will pay fair prices.”
“When I’m dead, I’m sure,” Lucien replied smoothly. “Surely my future sons can’t have my same charm and way with words.”
“Let us hope,” Kallias muttered before turning his attention to Elain. The members of his court rifled papers and pushed out chairs, leaving the three of them to talk as they murmured among themselves. Luciwn could have left, too, given Kallias had so clearly dismissed the prince.
“I heard a rumor about you,” he began, ignoring Lucien entirely. That didn’t stop Lucien from stiffening in his chair.
Elain didn’t dare look at him—only Kallias. Channeling Lucien’s ability to give nothing away, she offered a polite, if not bland smile. “Oh? And what rumor did you hear, High Lord?”
“That the Archeron sisters are looking for husbands.”
Elain burst out laughing—genuine laughter she hadn’t expected. Kallias offered her a warm smile as he ran a pale hand through icy blonde hair. “Are you offering?”
Lucien was practically rigid beside her, his face a mask of cold indifference. She wished he’d leave—if Kallias was making an offer, Elain thought she might entertain it. He was relatively young in his seventies, and handsome in a cold sort of way. If Arina had been there, she thought her friend would have playfully suggested there was something warm just beneath his skin.
Elain shifted in her chair. 
Kallias offered up a smirk in exchange. “Perhaps. I met with your lovely mother last week and she seemed very sure you were all but engaged to a different High Lord’s son. Is that not true any longer?”
Those wintry eyes slid to Lucien, who was still far too stiff to seem relaxed. What was his problem? 
“A High Lord is always preferable to a second born son,” she said, hoping she sounded appropriately teasing. Kallias smiled, his eyes wholly on her.
“What mother could argue that—”
“How is Viviane?” Lucien cut in, his voice a little too strained for the playful conversation unfolding between them. All at once, Kallias became frosty.
“At the border,” he said, rising from his chair. Lucien had clearly touched a nerve, one Elain knew better than to comment on. Kallias, too, was done teasing. “Will I see the pair of you this evening?”
“You will,” Lucien confirmed, still sitting. Elain stood, offering the High Lord a polite bow. Some of Kallias’s smile returned, though none of his manners extended to Lucien. Elain met him at the door, delighted when he took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. 
“If you’re trying to escape territorial males, know Day isn’t the only territory open to you…and give Feyre my best.”
“You saw Feyre?” she asked, wondering when and how that had happened.
Kallias only winked before leaving, sweeping out with a straight spine. Elain wanted to follow behind him, wanted to pester him with every question she had. She might have, too, had she not felt Lucien’s warm fingers just at her elbow.
“Let's eat something,” he said, the words punctuated with a heavy sigh. Surprised by his proximity, Elain didn’t say anything when he gently nudged her into the brightly lit hall. Silvery sunlight poured through frosted glass, throwing iridescent rainbows over the white walls.
“Who is Viviane?” Elain asked immediately. Why bring her up?
“A rather good politician when the High Lord utilizes her. A good warrior, too, which I suppose is why he keeps her on the border.”
There was something Lucien wasn’t saying. “Did you sleep with her?”
Lucien stumbled—actually stumbled—when her question registered. “What?”
With heat burning her cheeks, Elain considered it had been far too bold a question to ask. Clearing her throat, she clarified. “It ah…just seemed like the sort of thing you’d do—”
“No, I—” he scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “No. She is only a friend.”
“Then why bring her up?” 
Lucien took a breath. “I told you. She’s a good politician.”
Lucien hadn’t told her anything, though. That was his skill, talking and talking without providing any information that was helpful or useful. Viviane was obviously more than a good politician or even a good friend, and Elain decided if Lucien was being cagey it was for personal reasons. What had he said to her? Fighting over females was practically the birthright of High Lords?
And Kallias had been so irritated…Elain looked back at Lucien as he guided her through the castle halls. 
He liked her. Unbothered, casual Lucien liked a female beyond just an evening and she just so happened to be in Winter Court. Elain slid her hand through Lucien’s elbow when he pulled her into a bustling grand hall filled with tables much like Day Court. 
“You know, maybe you could trade me for Viviane,” she began, only to steady Lucien as he stumbled again. “Are you drunk?”
“What? No, I’m not—why would I trade you for Viviane?”
Lucien yanked her onto a bench beside him, sporting the most bewildered expression she’d ever seen grace his features. “You like her.”
“I like her,” he repeated, as though needing to say the words a second time in order to make sense of them. “Of course I don’t. Kallias does.”
“Then why—”
“Just a friendly reminder I know his secrets,” Lucien interrupted smoothly, though there was a tightness to his eyes that made his words unbelievable. “There will be no trades.”
That…that made no sense. “What if I want to go to Winter?”
Lucien went stiff for a moment before reaching for a decanter of wine. “Then go. Free me of my obligations.”
“You don’t mean that—”
“I do. If you want to come to Winter instead, no one will stop you. Least of all me.”
Elain could feel her hackles raised. “Fine. Maybe I’ll ask the High Lord, then.”
“Do it,” he all but dared. And Elain might have shot back something mean, or called his bluff had he not stood abruptly and left her there, feeling strange and off center. She’d had the last word and chased him off.
So why didn’t it feel more like winning? 
LUCIEN:
“Tell me truthfully. How is it, having the Spring Court so firmly rooted in your court?” Kallias asked Lucien, eyes sweeping over a laughing Elain.
“She’s not spying, so it’s fine,” Lucien replied, unable to look away. Elain was dressed in a blue gown trimmed in white and silver—a match for his own long tunic, not that he cared. Nor did he care that Nikolai, right hand to the High Lord, had spun her through two grinning dances. 
Better the Winter Courtier than him. 
“You don’t worry she’ll tell her betrothed everything she learns as soon as he puts her to bed?” Kallias pushed.
Lucien’s stomach tightened. “Assuming she marries him at all.”
“Her sister seemed to think it was a sure thing.”
Yeah, well, what did Feyre Archeron know, anyway? Lucien took a breath. “If you’re thinking of inviting one of the Archeron sisters, it’s not that terrible. Even if Spring did manage a foothold in the other courts, they’d squander it. There is no finesse to their politics.”
Kallias smiled at that. “No, I suppose not. She is working for your father, then?”
Lucien nodded. “For the year, and then if you want her, she might gladly accept.”
Kallias’s eyes slid to Lucien, drawing an unwitting snarl from his throat. “It’s not like that.”
“Of course it’s not,” Kallias replied with a slow, infuriating smile. Lucien might have said something that he’d have to apologize for had his salvation not walked through the doors of the ballroom. Viviane—beautiful, radiant, stunning Viviane strolled in wearing a gown of deep, pine green and a scowl. 
Kallias wanted to comment on Lucien and Elain? Well, maybe Lucien wanted to comment on the High Lord and his friend Viviane. 
“Lucien—” Kallias hissed, but Lucien was sauntering toward the pretty female with a shit eating grin. He could see she wanted to talk to the High Lord.
She’d wait. “Look who it is. I thought you were on the border,” Lucien said, snaking his hand around her waist. Viviane looked up at him, glowing like sunlight against frigid snow.
“Even I get a reprieve now and then,” she replied, allowing Lucien to sweep her into a dance. “What kind of trouble are you in now?”
“The usual,” he said, holding her as close as he dared. Kallias was still High Lord and could still make Lucien’s life difficult, though for the life of him, Lucien didn’t understand why. Kallias maintained Viviane was only his friend, and yet couldn’t stand the thought of another male touching her.
If it were Lucien, he’d have claimed her before another High Lord’s son swooped in and stole her away. Needling Kallias never stopped being funny…at least, right until the High Lord beckoned for Elain Archeron to join him at the far end of the room. 
“Did you hear me?” Viviane asked with no small amount of impatience. No, Lucien hadn’t heard a word. He barely saw Viviane, too, despite being so beautiful it made his teeth ache. Lucien didn’t want to acknowledge what was happening, didn’t want to admit that seeing Elain flirt with Kallias bothered him. 
“Fuck,” he whispered, drawing Viviane’s pale brows skyward.
“Are you offering?” she teased. Lucien was half tempted to see if she meant it, though in the past Viviane had never shown him much interest beyond friendship. She’d drink with him, but the one time he’d made sexual overtures toward her, she’d politely, but firmly, shut him down. 
This was Aayla all over again. What was wrong with him? There was no shortage of beautiful females in the world and certainly a surplus of ones who found him interesting and charming. 
“Maybe,” he replied.
“I don’t think so,” Viviane trilled, moving like snow on a silky winter breeze. “I for one am quite excited for the downfall of Lucien Spell-Cleaver.”
That right there—those words, that smirk, the way everyone kept hinting that he was obsessed with Elain—it was all too much. She was still as spoiled as ever, still all but engaged to Killian, untouched and so green that the thought of having to teach her everything made his skin crawl.
Lucien dropped Viviane like she’d burned him.
“Kallias can have her,” he said dismissively, knowing it would wound Viviane, too. Lucien didn’t bother looking back as he strolled out of the ballroom, intending to just put himself to bed.
Clearly he needed sleep, given how fucked in the head he felt. And it might have worked, had he not heard a familiar voice calling, “Lucien!” just behind him.
When he looked over his shoulder, he saw Viviane first, grinning in that you dumb asshole sort of way. He saw Elain second, floating toward him with a pinched, worried expression. “Are you leaving?”
“For bed,” he said sharply, for all the good it did.
“Oh, good. Take me with you.”
He spluttered. “To bed?”
Elain, unaware of his newly racing blood, nodded her head as her teeth sank against her bottom lip. “You’re tired? Well, so am I. And I feel…” Elain rubbed a palm just above her breast as though to alleviate some foreign, unknown ache. The tragedy of the act was, of course, that now all Lucien could think about was that same hand rubbing her actual breast and fuck him, he was getting hard.
“Great,” he said, his voice strained. “You’re supposed to be learning something.”
“Isn’t learning when to bow out an art form? That’s what your father told me,” Elain, ever cheerful and unaware of how tight Lucien’s body was and what the fuck was wrong with him? 
He nearly turned around, nearly went straight back to the ballroom, picked the first willing body he could find, and dragged them back to his bedroom for aggressive, punishing sex.
But there they were, in that moonstone hall, facing the other in front of their respective doors.
“I’ll see you in—” Lucien slammed the door in her face before she could finish.
“Asshole,” she whispered from the other side, unaware his back was pressed to the wood as he tried to calm his frantic heart. 
Another second, and Elain would have scented him. Maybe she would have attributed it to some other female and maybe he might have played it off. Or maybe she’d have looked up at him with those big, kiss me eyes and guessed. Maybe she would have come closer and he—
Lucien snarled, pushing off the door to pace the small room. He ripped at his tunic, and the belted sash holding it together, and then his boots, his socks—everything until he was standing there wholly naked, facing down the dark, four poster bed. Behind him, the fire warmed his ass, crackling merrily as though to mock him. 
His cock was hard. Weeping, even, with precome stuck against the hair of his thigh. Mother fuck him, he swore softly. Take a breath. You’re not coming to her face again. 
And yet, he did think about her even as he padded toward the bed, running his hands up and down his stomach, all but teasing his erection. What was she doing across the hall, he wondered. Likely not this. No, Elain was probably reading poetry or writing some thoughtful letter to her family back home, to Killian—
Another snarl slipped from him unbidden. 
Fine, he told himself. To get her out of his system just this once, and go home free of Elain fucking Archeron. That had always worked before. Even with Ayla, merely imagining what she’d be like was enough to temper his lust and make him rational again. He still wanted Ayla…or, he thought he did.
And maybe he’d still want Elain, too. Maybe some animalistic, territorial part of him was fascinated by her lack of experience. He wanted to claim and nothing more. 
“Nothing more,” he whispered to himself, curling his hand around the shaft of his cock. Pleasure raced through him, tightening his muscles as he began to stroke. Lucien closed his eyes and let himself imagine. 
She was on her back, wholly naked. Flushed, pupils blown out and writhing beneath him. Elain gripped his arms, pulling him closer and closer until his cock was notched against her soaking wet pussy—he needed to taste it, he decided. Right now, before he lost his fucking mind. Lucien licked a path down her throat, ignoring her breasts with his mouth in favor of touching the soft, bouncy flesh with his hands. 
“Lucien,” Elain panted, her thighs falling wider apart for him. Yes, he thought to himself, grinding his naked body against the sheets. This was what he needed. Just one taste of her, he told himself, spreading her cunt apart so he could look at her, could—
“What the fuck,” Lucien panted, his hand covered in his own come. He’d finished so quickly, had come so hard his eyes had rolled back in his skull and his back had arched off the bed. The pounding pulse of his heart raced in the base of his cock, drawing another spurt of fluid all over his stomach. 
Far from settling him, it only wound Lucien up. He didn’t release his hold, nor did he stop stroking. Lucien merely continued the fantasy in his mind, licking at Elain until she came—and he did, too. 
And then he came again to the image of Elain riding his cock. It was then that Lucien suspected he might be in trouble. Chafed raw and balls emptied, Lucien dragged himself to the bathing chamber to clean himself up.
Three times. He’d come to her fucking face three cauldron-damned times.
“We’re done, now,” Lucien informed his body, wiping off the mess before plunking into a bath of frigid water. 
In the end, it did little for him. Lucien slept like shit, and when he woke it was to Elain breezing into his bedroom and yanking back the curtains. 
“Are you ready to leave?” she asked, already bundled in her cobalt coat, a bag in one hand. Lucien let the blanket slide down to his hips, still naked as he rubbed at his eyes. He’d nearly forgotten how he’d spent his night until he saw her eyes widen…saw how they became rounder, trailing over a chest he knew she’d seen many times before.
“See something you like?” he couldn’t help but ask, his voice still rough from sleep. 
Elain’s cheeks darkened. “Your hair is ah…your hair is nice.”
His fucking hair? Like an idiot, he reached for the strands, raking out several tangles between his fingers. He felt like a boy in that moment, learning the female he was crushing on liked him. Though, Elain had said nothing of the sort. She’d merely said his hair was nice. 
Lucien blinked. He was naked and she was in his bedroom. He needed to keep himself together. The easiest way to do that was to remind himself he didn’t like her. Maybe he liked her body, and maybe he was interested in what her lips felt like wrapped around his cock. Lucien felt that way about a lot of females.
That didn’t mean anything. “Is there a reason you’re in my bedroom?”
Elain’s embarrassment faded into irritation. “I don’t like the cold,” she snapped, hands on her hips. “And you slept through breakfast.” Had he? Whoops. “Am I allowed to dress? Or would you like to watch?”
Gods, how he hoped she took the bait. Let her see all of him, let her have the memory when she took Killian for the first time. Elain scoffed, pulling him from yet another daydream.
“Male arrogance,” she hissed, striding for the door. “Five minutes or I’m coming back…and I’ll tell all the ladies at court how inadequate you are.”
Lucien laughed at that, a booming sound that trailed after her. “They have experience to contradict you, princess.”
She merely flipped her hair and vanished, leaving him laughing and bright—and wide awake. Lucien grinned.
Fucking Elain Archeron.
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vulpes-fennec · 1 year
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Happy Day 1 of @sjmromanceweek !!!
Move out of the way, Lady Whistledown. Prythian's most notorious busybody, the Suriel, is here to stay. Can you spot the little details about all the other ACOTAR characters?
Pairings mentioned: Helion/LOA, Bryce/Hunt, Hypaxia/Celestina, Day/Night
SPOILER ALERT: I’ve included Throne of Glass and Crescent City content. You can read the regular text below the cut!
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Bounty hunters have pursued me for millenia, thirsting for the knowledge I possess. While I am flattered by the chase, I have found taking my observations to the pen to be far more fulfilling. You have never seen me, and rest assured, you never will. But be forewarned, dear reader, I certainly see you.  
Dearest reader, think of how the seconds and minutes of life’s events can add up to the precise moment where two strangers cross paths! I have been advised that the latest vernacular for such “serendipitous encounters” is the “meet cute.” It is not enough to simply meet. Rather, it is terribly important that it be cute. If you still do not know what this author means, perhaps some meet cutes from the Autumn Court’s Equinox Ball may enlighten you. 
Nostrus, the gallant prince of Adriata caught Selene, darling of the Night Court when she tripped down the stairs. The pair danced not once, not twice, but three waltzes by the night’s end. And Mariposa, Dawn Court’s dazzling courtier and apparent bird whisperer, rescued Tamlin of Spring from a chickadee brazenly yanking at his silky golden locks. The two were later spotted emerging from a closet, both breathlessly rumpled.  
But this author is more interested in a particular bond forged at the banquet table, over the plate of olveni (an appetizer made of goat cheese and strawberries, drizzled with tongue-numbing chili sauce). Helion of Day and Daphne of Autumn both reached for the last piece! This was the resulting conversation that transpired:
Helion: Well, well, well. A lady who can handle the heat! 
Daphne [lifting a flaming hand]: I don’t know what kind of ladies you’ve been talking to, but this lady certainly can. Shouldn’t a proper male be offering the last bite to the lady?
Helion: I’ve watched you eat all the olvenis the entire night…what happened to a little consideration for starving males like me?
Daphne [smiling]: Watching me the entire night?
Helion: Criminal, really, to not admire your fiery hair and bewitching smiles. 
Daphne [blushing]: Thank you, but you know it is not flattery that I want. 
Helion: Then I shall give you the last olveni, if you’ll dance with me. 
Daphne: Resorting to bribery now, are we? I didn’t realize that was the only way Helion Spellcleaver could get a female to dance with him. 
Helion [dazed]: Sweet Cauldron, she knows who I am…
[Daphne turns to leave]
Helion: No…wait! My lady, I meant no disrespect. I was too nervous to approach you before, you see, and it came out wrong. If you must go…at least tell me your name. Please. 
Daphne [turning back, extending a hand, palm up]: Well, my name is Daphne Ballentine. And you should eat the last olveni, if you want to keep up with me during the waltz.   
Helion [taking and kissing the back of her hand]: Well played, well played, Lady Daphne. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.   
Perhaps this author may find a new passion in play-writing…
Those wondering what it is like to tumble over flirtatious remarks, to be so attuned to each other that time and troubles melt away should ask Daphne and Helion, who certainly experienced the magic of young love that night. While Prythian’s nobility wound down their festivities, this author kept its eyes on another equinox ball taking place in Midgard. 
As Day and Night are equal during the equinox, it is fitting they arranged for a clandestine meeting at this celebration! And at a masquerade ball, where a simple mask effectively creates an aura of mystery. The temptation to remove one’s mask for an alluring stranger is strong, making the time ripe for drawing back the veils of golden flames and starry indigo sky.  
This author would have expected Day and Night to meet at dawn or dusk, kissing at the horizon and melting into each other as the earth spins round, but I suppose meeting at midnight is more romantic. Expectations, suspicions, and anticipation crescendo as the clock’s hands peak! Unfortunately this encounter was more akin to transiting celestial bodies—so close, yet so far—than a meet cute. Unironically, one party remains in the dark while the other spies their lover, as clear as day, from a higher vantage point. With such high stakes involved, what happens when duty to one’s role is in conflict with the heart’s true desire?   
For some, the answer is made clear. Bryce Quinlan, Autumn’s princess, has declared Hunt Athalar as her mate, making the Umbra Mortis the Prince of Fae! It is impossible to say how Miss Quinlan’s fiancé, Cormac Donnall, felt about this surprise announcement. The crown prince of the Avallen Fae disappeared shortly after, to the disappointment of Lunathion’s scheming mothers and eligible females. 
Of course, no scandalous evening would be complete if Miss Quinlan and Mr. Donnall’s engagement was the only betrothal broken before the night’s end. Two powerful ladies, both matched to other males, were found in a cloakroom in the throes of a passionate affair! Unions, made in name only. Relationships, harbored behind closed doors. Titles, bearing great responsibility. For these gentle souls, the answer to “love or duty” is more muddled. 
Tread carefully, gentle reader. For love can be a sensual dance, or a dangerous game. What does fate hold for these young lovers? Only time, and this author, will tell. 
Abraxos Wildflower Arts | Grand Opening | Location: Witch Kingdom, Erilea | Wildflower crowns, seed kits, perfumes, potion ingredients for your witchy needs and more!
Dear Suriel, My (non-biological) brothers and I have been fucking (different) females in the same room, and sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be on the receiving end…is that strange? What should I do? Regards, A Concerned Bat 
Dear A Concerned Bat, only strange if you were biological brothers. If all parties are enthusiastically consenting to be fucked in the same room, then is it not just an orgy? But I do not know the exact nature of your relationship with these males. My two cents: reflect on your feelings. Have a heart-to-heart. And, if all goes well, perhaps pay a visit to the Day Court with them. Remember to practice safe sex!
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velidewrites · 9 months
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When diplomacy fails, Prythian courtiers Elain and Lucien like to resort to a steamier kind of negotiation.
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 8.3k
Notes: This is my contribution for Day 4: Courtiers of @elucienweekofficial! Beta'd by @areyoudreaminof <3
Read on AO3
Ironically, the Day Court felt like home.
It would have made sense for Elain to revel in the darkness, or under the silvery light of the stars draped over Velaris, but growing up in the Night Court seemingly ended up having the opposite effect. The City of Starlight suffocated her like a thick, shadowy veil, like the cold river pulling her under. It wasn’t that her home was not beautiful—it was, perhaps, one of the most beautiful places in all of Prythian, and Elain should have counted herself lucky to have been part of it.
She tried to enjoy it for the sake of her father, always alone in the family manor with no one but servants to entertain him. Mother, after all, had spent most of her time in the Summer Court, basking in the scorching sand until her very death. Father would have joined her, Elain had no doubt of that, had her Mother only asked—but she never had. And so, Lord Archeron surrounded himself by the comforting darkness, and whichever one of his three daughters was currently available. Most of the time, it had been Elain.
Even from Adriata, though, Mother had somehow managed to weasel her way into her daughters’ life, and, just a year before her death, things had moved very quickly. A letter had arrived at the Archeron manor on the longest day of winter, announcing the engagement of Lady Archeron’s youngest to the third son of Spring—a young prince called Tamlin, whom Feyre, of course, despised.
It was a surprise to perhaps everyone but Elain, then, when, on Feyre’s wedding day, their High Lord winnowed right onto the altar, darkness slithering around him like a venomous snake ready to strike. Rumour had it Rhysand looked incredibly smug as he announced his mating bond with the bride-to-be to a stunned Tamlin and his father, red-faced with surprise and rage. But even the ancient laws of Spring couldn’t stop Rhysand from claiming his mate, and so, minutes later, Feyre was back home and tucked safely into Rhysand’s arms.
Mother had been livid, of course, though she no longer had the authority to scold her daughter, who Rhysand, to the outrage of nearly every other court, had made his High Lady—not a consort, but an equal in every way. Lady Archeron had opted to take out her anger on Elain, then, with Nesta long gone and married off to the Autumn firstborn. You knew about this, she’d seethed, You knew about their mating bond and did not tell me. Do you know how this makes me look like, Elain? A fool. A mother whose own daughter did not deign to confide in.
Elain, naturally, had lied and told her she knew nothing of the mating bond. She felt somewhat guilty about it to this day—that the very last thing she’d told her mother was a lie—though most of that guilt had been absolved when she had snooped through Mother’s desk back in Summer. A bunch of documents confirmed the arrangement between Lady Archeron and Summer’s High Lord, who had promised her quite the sum in exchange for Elain’s hand in marriage to his cousin. The Prince of Adriata was beautiful, yes, but the only thing Elain had known about him was his name—and it was not nearly enough for her to be thrown into marriage without warning.
Some cruel part of her purred that perhaps the Cauldron had done her a mercy by taking Mother so soon. Feyre had managed to be saved in time, but Elain, as far as she was aware, had no mate to   rescue her from Mother’s matchmaking efforts. Father, at the very least, did not care enough to bother with it. It was one of the reasons Elain did not mind being around him as much.
She did mind the Night Court, though, dark and lonely and without prospects for someone like Elain. Nesta had offered quarters and a role within her court, but Elain had known better than to step foot into Autumn while Beron Vanserra was still High Lord. His games were made for someone like Nesta, sharp and refined like the deadliest steel, but Elain had no interest in plotting—especially since, to her understanding, said plotting seemed to involve an impending change in power in the Autumn Court.
Feyre had stepped in, then, graciously offering a place within her and Rhysand’s Inner Circle for keeping her secret from the world for so many years. Rhysand had offered the House of Wind and riches so outrageous that, even coming from a wealthy family, Elain could not help but gasp. She’d declined politely and asked for a regular position within her sister’s court as emissary—that way, she could escape the Night Court at least temporarily before having to worry about the future. As Fae, after all, Elain had centuries laid out before her.
Centuries she didn’t exactly want to think about right now.
Distraction and fun—that was Elain needed, at least for the foreseeable future. She would throw herself into politics, meet strangers and perhaps even fuck them if she wanted, free from the Night Court, free from her family and free from the darkness.
Which was exactly what Elain had been doing for the past four years. The past six months, especially, had been nothing but pure bliss—she’d been stationed in Scythia as an emissary to the human kingdoms at the Continent, assuring the mortal queens Hybern was decidedly not a threat and absolutely under Prythian’s control. Which it was. For now.
The War, after all, had only ended a decade ago, and with the King of Hybern dead and buried a few feet underground, there was little chance he would find a way to crawl his way back up. His son, though, was somewhat of a concern, his frequent—and private—visits to the forest-clad middle of the Continent alarming to say the least. Rhysand’s shadowsinger had tracked him to a dark, murky lake last time, the spymaster’s shadows whispering of the prince hunched over the water and whispering.
Yes, concerning was the right word.
As much as Elain had enjoyed her time in Scythia—especially having befriended its young queen—the other courts’ unease had called her back to the island, with an emergency meeting taking place to discuss the threat. To Elain’s delight, the Day Court had been chosen as the host.
Delight which had dimmed the moment she’d realised who, exactly, would be waiting at Helion Spell Cleaver’s golden gates.
They were as magnificent as she’d remembered—Elain hadn’t visited the Day Court since she’d left for Scythia, and admittedly, she missed the sun-kissed breeze and azure-painted sky. Helion’s winged stallions roamed in the clouds above her, casting their powerful shadows over the opalescent stone of their High Lord’s palace. They were his pride and joy, and Elain was yet to see one up close—let alone touch its glistening coat. Perhaps one day.
“I see your head’s up in the clouds as always,” an amused voice greeted somewhere before her.
Elain’s gaze darted toward the sound before she beamed at its source. “Viviane!”
The Winter General returned Elain’s grin, her long, white braids shimmering like ice under the morning sunlight. Pulling her into an embrace, Viviane pressed a kiss to Elain’s cheek, the touch surprisingly warm considering where the female had just winnowed from. “Glad to have you back,” she said, which made Elain’s eyes narrow.
“Just how much do you know?” she asked.
Her friend shrugged innocently. “Not much,” Viviane said, “but I do hear Scythia is lovely this time of year.”
“This was supposed to be a low-profile assignment,” Elain pointed out, though unable to keep from smiling.
Viviane looped her arm through Elain’s, her ice-blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know how it is here. Males like to talk.”
Elain hummed, “I’ll bet.”
The words made Viviane laugh, and the two women made her way inside. Not bad for her first few minutes here, Elain thought a tad bitterly—her supposedly discreet mission had already been uncovered, and she was pretty sure even Helion’s horses were neighing their laughter from above.
As they walked through the bright, open hallways of the palace, Viviane chatted about the usual—the courtly gossip Elain had missed in her absence (Tamlin, it seemed, had managed to frighten a few visiting Autumn ladies as he accidentally greeted them in his beast form), and just how insufferable the Winter Court heir was, thinking he could call on Viviane whenever he pleased for the most ridiculous issues he could’ve very well solved himself. Elain did not have the heart to tell her his reasons for seeking the General out so often were more than unlikely to do with Kallias’s incompetence.
It was nice to be back, Elain had to admit. The open, hillside landscape of Scythia had been lovely, but there was something freeing about watching the gentle pull of the sea from the mountains of the Solar Courts. Helion’s palace had a particularly impressive view of the Great Sea, with its salty waves whooshing softly beneath the balconies. Everything in the Day Court was soft—even the sun here seemed to caress, so different from the scorching heat Elain had come to know over her brief stays in Adriata. The golden light poured in through the open archways, illuminating her every step as though in a playful welcome. Without thinking how silly she might look, Elain smiled right back at the light.
“I know right?” Viviane huffed, seemingly taking Elain’s expression for an answer to her ramble. “He is insufferable. He was even planning to come here with me, can you believe—”
“Ladies,” a tall, lean figure appeared before them, flashing a pearl-white smile. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
Elain hadn’t even realised they’d reached the meeting room before she almost bumped into Tarquin. Though apprehensive at first, she’d quickly come to like the male—he was kind, easy to talk to and, most importantly, he had not been aware of the late Lady Archeron’s meddling until Elain had tried to start a fight with Adriata’s prince.
Viviane angled her head. “With Adriata’s new trade agreement, I can’t imagine why your eyes would be sore, Tarquin.” The Summer Court, Elain quickly remembered, had recently become the first to re-establish the old maritime routes to Hybern after the War, beating the Winter Court’s attempts at securing a less-costly access to the land.
Tarquin’s smile did not falter, though it no longer reached his turquoise eyes. “It wasn’t as easy an agreement as you’d think.”
“Hmmm,” was Viviane’s only response as she looked around the room, slowly filling with the other courts’ delegates.
“Well, I, for one, think it’s lovely to see you, Tarquin,” Elain teased, trying to alleviate some of the heaviness already building in the air. She seemed to have succeeded as the male chuckled, some of the usual light returning to his gaze.
“Of course you do,” he purred. “Has the Continent been as lonely as I hear, my sweet Elain?”
Elain rolled her eyes. “That’s not—”
“Elain Archeron,” a voice sounded behind her, rich and smooth like honey over her skin. Elain stilled, shoulders rolling back as if on instinct—she’d recognise that voice anywhere.
Perhaps it had been foolish to hope he wouldn’t show up at his own home, but when it came to Lucien Spell-Cleaver, Elain was hardly ever prone to listen to reason. As Helion’s only heir and emissary, it did make sense for him to turn up—and it made things a lot more complicated than she’d hoped.
Stifling a groan, Elain turned to face the bane of her existence—and, perhaps, the most beautiful male on earth. “Lucien,” she greeted, making a point to omit his title. Petty, but worth the satisfaction nonetheless.
His auburn brows shot up in amusement. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said, crossing those strong, bare arms over his chest. The snake-like cuff wrapped around a particularly impressive muscle glistened with the movement, a flash of gold that could challenge even the sun itself.
Damn him.
“My job here is the same as yours,” Elain told him, mirroring his stance subconsciously before realising she’d fallen right into his trap.
Lucien’s mouth ticked up. “Apologies, lady—how very preposterous of me.”
What was preposterous of him was the ivory toga draped over his shoulder before falling loosely down his powerful thighs. Even in a single piece of cloth, Lucien had somehow managed to dress immaculately—he looked like one of the statues adorning the palace’s great entrance, carefully crafted without even a single flaw. Over the past four years, Elain had seen him in many ensembles—a fitted, green jacket in Spring, a semi-transparent, sapphire tunic in Summer that revealed his ridiculously hard stomach, a tight pair of hunting pants in Autumn that did nothing to hide the curve of his ass. She’d nearly lost her mind when she saw him in Dawn’s traditional crimson robe, the low cut of the silk revealing his broad, golden-brown chest.
The toga, though, was the worst fashion choice of all. There was something about seeing Lucien in his full Day Court regalia that made Elain’s heart pick up and her body heat with want. Elain was not blind, and, more importantly, she was not stupid—she would have to have been both to look upon Lucien Spell-Cleaver and not desire him in some way.
It was purely physical, of course. The prick made it easy not to fall in love with him when she realised his pretty looks hid an infuriating, cocky personality.
“If everyone’s ready, then, we may begin,” Lucien’s voice boomed across the circular hall, his feet already carrying him towards the large, round table at the centre. Elain gritted her teeth at the obvious dismissal, silently promising the Cauldron, the Mother, and all the forgotten Gods, that she would get back at him at some point during this damned meeting.
A meeting which, to Elain’s horror, Lucien was going to preside over, taking his father’s usual seat with a sly smile.
“Something wrong?” Lucien asked loudly, causing the rest of the emissaries to turn to Elain, a questioning look on their faces.
Clever.
Elain eased into a casual smile. “Your father will not be joining us today, then?” she asked, taking her seat with the others quickly following suit.
“The High Lord,” Lucien began, and Elain’s smile widened triumphantly, knowing she’d hit a nerve, “is otherwise occupied, I’m afraid.” His lip curled once more. “I’d stated as much in your invitation, though the writing had been small, I suppose.”
Somewhere beside him, the emissary from Autumn coughed.
“An omission on your part, Lady Archeron, I’m sure,” Lucien continued, smirking. She opened her mouth, a retort ready on the back of her tongue, but Lucien had already moved on to his right, picking up a conversation with the delegate from Dawn as though she’d never spoken at all.
Elain huffed.
Too loud, perhaps, because Viviane leaned over her ear, an incredulous look on her pretty face. “What’s wrong with you?” she whispered.
Elain glanced at the opposite end of the table again—at the male she was going to curse to the Gods the minute this debate was over.
Lucien, the bastard, had caught her glance—and flashed her a winning smile.
Elain turned to Viviane again. “Allergies,” she grumbled.
Viviane only chuckled.
“…more than uneasy,” Lucien’s voice reached her again, and Elain forced her thoughts back into focus. “We know as much about him as we did about his father, and look how that turned out.”
The emissary from Dawn—a new face among the crowd, Elain realised—grimly nodded his agreement.
“Securing the trade routes did little to help,” Tarquin chimed in, earning a look of surprise from Viviane. Elain had suspected this whole ordeal was more than a competition for the Summer Court, who had suffered the most damage during Hybern’s relentless attacks during the War. It made sense that they’d try to get closer to the kingdom’s new ruler—even under the guise of an economic relationship.
“Surely you’d managed to gather some insight, Tarquin,” the Autumn emissary drawled, yet another delegate Elain was not familiar with—she’d make sure to ask Nesta about him later. If he was Beron’s elected envoy rather than Eris’s, Elain was planning to stay far, far away from him.
Tarquin’s mouth tightened. “I’m afraid the new king was not even present for our negotiations.” The room gasped out in shock. “All our discussions were facilitated by his second. Truth be told, I can’t be entirely sure the king even was in Hybern throughout my entire stay.”
Beside her, the Spring emissary, a lovely female named Briar, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “This can’t be good,” she murmured, and Elain levelled a flat breath.
Her family had been fortunate enough to survive the War, a fact Elain thanked the Cauldron for every single day. There were too many, though—like Rhysand’s own family, for example—who had not found fate to be so kind. For a long time, the High Lord’s sister had been a good friend to Elain—she, too, longed for the world beyond Night’s borders, a world far too dangerous at the time. It pained Elain to know she never got to see it.
If Hybern’s son turned out to be as vile as his father had been, there would be more—more creatures, humans and Fae alike, who’d never get to live the life they deserved. Every last person in the room seemed to realise that now, with Tarquin’s somber words hovering above them like an inescapable rain cloud.
“The solution seems obvious then, does it not?” Autumn’s emissary asked, something like satisfaction painted on his pale face. All eyes turned to him as he explained, “We must resume our research into the Wall, and finally put it in place.”
Definitely Beron’s, then.
“The Wall is out of the question,” Lucien said tightly. “We’ve been over this enough times—the High Lord no longer wishes to continue the discussion.”
“My High Lord believes the discussion needs to be had,” the Autumn male countered, his voice slick with displeasure. “The Wall would protect your precious little humans, would it not?”
“Our,” Elain corrected, not even trying to hide the disdain in her tone. “The alliance between the humans and the Fae is still far too fragile to drive a rift between us again.”
The emissary shrugged. “All the more reason to cut the stem before it blooms.”
Anger simmered through her, sending lightning into her stare. “We benefit from their lands, their cultures and knowledge, as much as they do from ours. Or do I need to remind you who continues to reap the profits from Scythia’s lumber imports, Lord…?”
“Sorgen,” the male gritted out.
“That’s right,” Elain waved a hand. “Apologies.”
She could have sworn a flicker of pride reached her from somewhere across the table as she leaned back in her chair, though she had no time to look for its source as Viviane mumbled, “Take that, greedy bastard.”
Elain bit back a smile.
She may have been new to the role of emissary, but Elain had been a courtier for as long as she’d remembered. She knew exactly how to fight battles with her words, how to select them carefully for the blow to land right where she wanted it. This was about more than just freedom for her—she felt useful, and to Elain, that was more important than anything.
It seemed like she was doing a good enough job—aside, of course, from a few unwelcome distractions she’d have to deal with…later.
“Perhaps,” the Dawn emissary started slowly, “this matter ought to be raised with the High Lords again.”
“There is nothing to raise,” Lucien replied. “We will not hide from the humans again, as much as we will not give them reason to hide from us.”
“Nobody’s speaking of hiding, Lord Lucien,” the male countered, “but of safety. Should the threat of another war emerge once more, we may not be able to protect the humans this time.”
“Not as well as the Wall could, anyway,” Briar chimed in, earning a disapproving glance from Viviane. Elain gaped at the Spring emissary, who offered a one-shouldered shrug. “The High Lord has expressed such sentiment, and I’m afraid he feels quite adamant about it.”
“If I may,” Tarquin interjected, his smooth baritone like a calming wave over a stirring current, “Whatever the new king appears to be so secretly doing, his objectives may very well differ from his late father’s.”
“We may be getting ahead of ourselves,” Viviane agreed. “The War has left scars on many of us.”
“Seems like it’s blinded some of us, too.” Lord Sorgen muttered, Lucien’s russet gaze narrowing on him as a result.
“All I’m saying,” Tarquin continued, cutting Sorgen a sharp look himself, “Is that there is a chance Hybern’s research on the Continent has little to do with preparing for yet another war.”
“Especially when the first one depleted their resources so gravely,” Viviane added.
Tarquin’s turquoise eyes fixed on Elain. “Are you aware if he’s made any contact with the human queens during your stay in Scythia?”
That seemed to catch someone’s attention.
“Scythia?” Lucien looked at Elain, then Tarquin, who nodded in confirmation. The Day prince stiffened. “I wasn’t aware you’d spent time on the Continent, lady.”
A smile tugged on the corner of Elain’s mouth. “I have—the past six months, in fact.” She cocked her head to the side. “An omission on your part, Lord Lucien?”
Viviane cleared her throat, doing an exceptionally poor job at masking her laugh.
Something flickered in Lucien’s eyes. “It appears so.”
Elain smothered a grin before turning back to Tarquin. “No contact, as far as I’m aware. But the mortal queens are aware of his presence, and, from what I’ve observed, it has made them more than uneasy.”
The Dawn emissary hummed. “I daresay the High Lords should know of all this before we resume our deliberations,” he said, and some of the other emissaries nodded their agreement.
Lucien sighed. “Very well, then. We shall reconvene tomorrow morning—until then, you are all guests of the High Lord if you do wish to stay overnight.”
The invitation was quickly followed by the sound of chairs scraping the stone, the Autumn and Dawn delegates winnowing almost immediately to report back to their High Lords. Tarquin moved to a tight-faced Briar, Elain observing the female so intently that she didn’t notice Viviane moving to her side until her friend spoke.
“I take it you’re staying, then?” she asked quietly.
Peeling her gaze off the Spring emissary, Elain turned to Viviane. “Are you not?”
She let out a long-suffering sigh. “I wish I could, but Kallias will want to hear this, and there is absolutely no way I’m inviting him to join our little party.”
Elain snickered, and it made Viviane roll her eyes.
“Don’t get into any mischief while I’m gone,” she warned, blue eyes sparkling.
Elain leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll make sure to wait for you, Viviane.”
The Winter female laughed again, and with that, she was gone.
It was only then that Elain realised Lucien had already left, the room seemingly dimmer, somehow, even with all the sun pouring in through the open archways. A surge of excitement rushed through her as she understood the clue he’d left behind.
Follow the light.
It was barely visible—nobody else seemed to notice, anyway—but the thin beam of sunlight stretched beyond the open door, like a golden thread leaving a subtle trail. Elain stepped towards it before she heard someone call her name again.
“Elain!” Tarquin’s voice reached her from across the room. “Join us for an early lunch?” he asked, a nervous-looking Briar waiting a few steps behind him. Elain had a feeling Tarquin would use the seemingly innocent excuse as an opportunity to pull the female back to their side.
It wasn’t that Elain didn’t think the humans needed protection from Hybern—especially after everything its evil king had done in his attempts to enslave the mortals to the Fae. But with the king out of the picture, the humans and the Fae were allies—reluctant as they may have been, but allies all the same—and a magical Wall separating their worlds would only undo the sacrifice both sides had suffered throughout the War. Together, they could all eventually build a new world—a peaceful world, even if some of Prythian’s courts did not seem to agree with such sentiment.
“I’m afraid I must contact my sister,” she apologised, then added, not missing the disappointment in Tarquin’s gaze, “but I’ll join you for dinner later, if you’re available?”
Tarquin sighed. “Of course. I’ll see you then.”
The light click of her heels echoed off the polished walls as she moved out of the meeting room and towards the grand staircase. The palace was large—unsurprising for a High Lord’s main residence—but with the shimmering thread, Elain somehow knew exactly which way to go. The gentle seaside breeze from outside seemed to have found its way to every corner of the building, playfully ruffling the skirts pooling at her feet as she climbed upstairs, teasing her already sun-warmed skin. Scythia had been windy most of the time she was there, with grey clouds hovering above her nearly every day. Elain welcomed the change the Day Court offered.
She also appreciated its fashion a lot more than the stiff corsets human royalty annoyingly preferred. She’d always opted for flowy pants and tunics back home at the Night Court, with the occasional sparkly gowns at the more official events. Here, though, comfort and elegance seemed to have been crafted from the same cloth—a silky, shimmering fabric that seemed to move with the wind itself.
The pearl-beaded straps of Elain’s alabaster dress curled around her neck before draping over breasts in sheer, fluffy layers. She liked the way the Day Court fashion exposed her skin, with a V-like cut just below revealing her stomach, the fabric then gathering at her hips. The skirts fell to the floor with two slits on each side of her thighs, making every step light an airy as though Elain had just stepped off one of the clouds. She’d adorned her golden-brown hair with two pearly pins, keeping the curls in place apart from a few loose strands who’d found their way out, framing her face. It wasn’t difficult to feel beautiful in a place like this, when every last detail seemed to invite her to become part of it.
Perhaps it was foolish of her not to dress in her court’s fashion as the others did, or even in the traditional Night Court colours, but Elain did not care for making a statement in such a way. Especially since, for the part of two years or so, she’d learned just how good of an effect her dressing in a Day Court fashion appeared to have.
The golden thread led her to the library—and not just any library, like the one back in the Archeron Manor or even Feyre and Rhysand’s Moonstone Palace. No, this was Helion Spell Cleaver’s private collection of ancient scrolls and texts, hosting knowledge from a time most of the immortal Fae did not even remember. Scholars from all over the world visited the High Lord’s prized thousand libraries, but this one was open to the select, trusted few—and Elain herself, it seemed.
She navigated her way through the corridors, taking in the sights. The grand library was the only hall at the palace with windows instead of carved-in arches, supposedly to keep the books from any outside damage, though Elain suspected Helion had put enough spells in place to ensure their state remained immaculate and unscathed. Elain wondered if she’d even be able to so much as touch one.
Not that she would really want to. She was here, after all, for an entirely different purpose.
The trail ended just as she pivoted to her left, right into a corridor of bookshelves just around a secluded corner of the large space. Her hand smoothed over the sandstone wall as she kept walking forward, her curiosity getting the better of her as her gaze drifted toward the impressive collection on the Day Court’s most recent history.
She should’ve paid more attention, or she might have noticed the tall, magnetic presence that appeared only inches behind her.
“Tell me, gorgeous,” Lucien murmured, his lips hot over the shell of her ear, “Did you dress like that for me?”
Elain’s eyes remained glued to the bookshelves, though her lips curled into a smile.
There you are.
She didn’t even have to turn to feel the fire simmering behind his gaze—his mother’s gift, and one she’d been thoroughly enjoying these past few years—his scent was enough for Elain’s breath to catch and set every nerve in her body alight. Lucien’s chest was strong and warm behind her, drawing her closed toward him. Her hand twitched at her side, and it took every ounce of will inside her to refrain from whirling back—especially when everything inside her begged to touch, to smell, to taste.
Get it together, get it together, get it together—
“I don't know what you mean,” Elain protested, her mind already spewing silent curses at the breathlessness in her tone.
Lucien laughed, a low, throaty sound grazing her neck, the hot blood thrumming underneath. “Of course not,” he agreed, though his knuckles skimmed the bare skin along her spine all the same. Elain shivered. “Some other dignitary then, I'm sure. Someone handsome—”
“Lucien—” she started, the sound more of a plea than a warning. It made him chuckle.
“Yes, my lady?”
“You know damn well—”  she tried again, her traitorous back arching into his touch, “There is no one in this palace more handsome than you.”
His appreciative hum made her heart race. “And here I was, worried you might run off to another male's waiting arms.”
She turned to him at that—just in time to meet his full, infuriating smirk. Cauldron damn him for making him so ridiculously attractive, but seeing his face so close to hers at last made her entire body heat.
“You were not worried one bit,” Elain accused, hands gripping his powerful shoulders.
Lucien moved so quickly her eyes barely registered the movement—she could only gasp out in surprise as those arms wrapped tighter around her and lifted her up, pressing her against the cool, sandstone wall. “No,” he said, his hands sliding beneath her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his middle. Urging him closer. “I was not.”
She slid her hands around his neck, angling her head slightly so that her hair spilled over her shoulder, brushing his own, bare skin. Lucien’s gaze flickered toward the curls before returning to meet her eyes again, that fire blazing even brighter now. Hungrier.
“You bested me today,” he purred lowly, burying his nose in her hair, his mouth teasing her exposed neck.
Her legs tightened around him, closing the distance between them until she felt his hardness press into her stomach, her scent heaving with arousal at the promising touch. “I always do,” she breathed, Lucien’s chest rumbling in answer.
“I’ve been going mindless in your absence,” he told her, placing a hot kiss just above her collarbone, lighting another flame beneath her skin. Elain sighed, her thoughts already a dizzying blur as she rolled her hips once, then twice against him, the spilled fabric of her dress between her legs frustrating her to no end. “You weren’t supposed to be gone this long.”
“Plans change,” she managed to say, her hand moving down his bicep to run a thumb over the golden, snake-like cuff. “Are you saying you missed me, Lord Lucien?”
Another kiss—a whisper of it, just below her arched ear, enough to send a tingle up her spine. Even leaning down, Lucien’s body towered over her, shielding her from view. “Like a fish misses water,” he sighed deeply, and Elain watched her hairs stand on end at the feel of his hot breath. “You didn’t tell me where you were going.”
“It was…” Cauldron damn her, did he have to smell like that? Sunlight, bright and warming the morning breeze before it whooshed past the smoky woods, and a hint of…honey, something she strangely only scented on him whenever the two of them got close enough to share a breath. “It was supposed to be low-profile,” she finished, Lucien's touch drawing a quiet gasp out of her as his hand moved beneath her skirts to cup the pliant flesh of her ass.
Lucien hummed. “Tarquin seemed to be well-informed of our whereabouts.”
With all the heat running through her, Elain still had half a mind to be smug. “Ah, so you are jealous.”
His hand squeezed lightly, and Elain jolted, legs buckling around his waist in delight as desire began to pool impatiently at her core. “That is entirely besides the point.”
“Mm-hmm,” Elain began, the hum melting into a low, needy sound as Lucien’s mouth descended down her neck again, her chin angling invitingly for his possessive touch. As much as she enjoyed teasing him, Elain did miss him, too—missed the stolen, fiery moments between them, the dance they challenged each other to on assignments. She opened her mouth to tell him, her voice more of a groan as she spoke, “Lucien—”
His breathy chuckle tickled her slightly. “Yes, my lady?” he asked, his palms under her thighs again, spreading them a bit wider.
Elain frowned slightly, an entirely different topic rushing to the front of her mind. “You never call me that in public,” she complained, certain she’d be feeling stupid about it later. Her thoughts were too lust-glazed to care now. “It’s always just…lady.”
Lucien pulled away an inch at that, his russet eyes twinkling as they met her own. “Would you rather I claim you in front of everybody else?”
She smacked his arm playfully, and Lucien’s grin widened. “I would be more than happy to give them all a show, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, his hand moving to throw the silky length of her dress over her thigh. He was painfully close now, settled between her bare legs, the thick, hard reminder of his desire now mere inches from where she ached the most.
She was practically ready to beg him to take her, right against the wall he’d pinned her to, but something about his words made Elain pause. “There are people here,” she pointed out, looking over his shoulder, though the only thing she saw was the tall bookshelves and the fading beam of light lurking around the corner. 
Lucien’s mouth twitched. “Was that not what you wanted, my lady?”
She pulled the hem of his toga upward, skimming her fingers over the golden-brown skin. “I doubt this is the kind of show your father’s scholars came all this way for.”
Lucien’s gaze fell to her lips. “Well then,” he said, his tone a low thrum sinking deep into her veins, “I suppose you’re going to have to be very, very quiet."
A thrill of excitement shot through her, and, feeling bold, Elain reached both of her hands down to grip his backside, drawing him toward her until she felt his cock dig into her lower belly. He was decidedly not wearing anything under his Day Court garments, then, which was just as well since Elain had conveniently opted to forgo hers.
Lucien growled, the sound hoarse and needy and loud enough to echo through the corridor, making Elain’s eyes dart toward its end. They were alone.
“Something’s telling me it’s you who’ll have trouble keeping quiet,” she teased, earning another rumble from Lucien’s chest.
“Elain,” Lucien urged, and it was enough. She closed the space between them and captured his mouth with her own.
Kissing Lucien was like playing with fire, a dance dangerous enough to consume her whole if she dared to lose herself in it. He was soft and rough at the same time, purely with a mind to taste her, to sweep his tongue over her lower lip in a way that made Elain melt against him entirely. There was nothing featherlight about the way he kissed her—it had been far too long since they’d last played this game, finding each other in hidden gardens and corridors and closets, letting off the steam and hunger they’d built in ballrooms or studies. Lucien kissed her like he longed for her, for the touch and passion she offered, and Elain reciprocated with just as much fervour.
He was an even better kisser than he was emissary, which had to amount to something from the way he managed to rile her up every time. He was like aged faerie wine, like the spice they’d sold far over at the Continent—he was an addiction Elain vehemently refused to let go of, not when he tasted so ridiculously good.
She almost didn’t notice, too busy revelling in his soft mouth, when Lucien’s hand smoothed over her inner thigh, the other still holding her up effortlessly as though she weighed no more than a piece of parchment from the pile scattered on the desk in the far corner. But then his fingers travelled further up until they finally dipped between her legs—right to her cunt, coated in her slick.
Elain sucked in a breath, breaking their kiss as her body arched into him, rocking into the two digits teasing her entrance—a silent plea for more. Lucien swore, the filthy sound on his lips spurring something wild inside her.
“Look at you,” he praised. “You’re practically dripping.”
She didn’t even try to deny it. “I’ve been waiting months for this,” she told him, hands sliding back up his broad chest.
A low hum. “No males for you in Scythia?” Lucien purred, though she couldn’t help but feel like there was a genuine question hiding in his tone, one desperate enough that made her honestly say, “No.” How could any of them compare when it was Lucien waiting for her back home? Lucien, whose Cauldron-damned fingers lazily continued to stroke her sopping folds, so tantalisingly close and yet not exactly where she needed him.
“Perhaps I should make you wait, then,” he mused, earning Elain’s breathy sound of protest. “Give you some time to ah…savour the moment.”
“Lucien,” Elain warned, time slipping past her as his digit moved to trace a circle along her swelling clit. Her head lulled back, resting against the cool stone as she lost herself to Lucien’s slow rhythm.
“Yes, my lady?”
Elain knew what he wanted—and right now, she was not above giving it to him. She would get back at him later—preferably at this evening’s meeting, when he couldn’t use his fingers to keep her distracted.
A hot volt of pleasure shot through her again at the thought, though—at the image of Lucien’s hand dipping beneath her skirts under the table, grazing her clit in those lazy circles, invisible to those seated above.
Gods.
“Please,” Elain choked out, curling a loose strand of his auburn hair around her finger. Knowing it would get her whatever she wanted, Elain tugged—a new sense of triumph rising through her as Lucien groaned deeply at the sensation.
“Elain,” he breathed, then pushed into her, his finger crooning inside her. Elain moaned, unable to form any words of approval, any praise, not when it felt so good to finally feel the sweet friction she’d been craving. His lips fell on her jawline again, her neck, across her collarbone, this time faster, somehow, messier, as though the feel of him stretching her thrust by thrust gave him as much pleasure as it did Elain. Lucien was relentless, as though there was nothing more important in the world right now than seeing her wracked with lust for him, gasping out his name as his finger moved in and out of her, one, then two, then three—until Elain swore all shapes blurred hazily and her body became a living, burning flame.
“Lucien,” she warned again, the sound all but a rasp now as she ground into his hand, her legs squeezing around him as her inner walls clenched, chasing that fiery pleasure. Lucien hissed at her tightness, something darkening in his russet gaze as she caught a glimpse of his eyes when he moved to kiss her again.
“Gods, Elain,” he cursed against her mouth, and that was enough.
She came with a strangled cry and his name on her lips. All the delicious tension he’d built up in her body melted as release rushed through her, coating his fingers in her slick. Lucien’s pace slowed, though he did not pull out of her, coaxing her through her climax instead as his mouth found her own once more.
She felt him smiling against her, that sly grin she’d been picturing in her mind every night she’d spent apart from him in Scythia, her own hand between her legs far too often than she’d care to admit.
Not that she’d ever dare to tell him. Especially now, when she was so mindless with pleasure and overcome with the need to feel him, all of him, as part of her again. She deepened the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck yet again, her teeth nipping slightly at his bottom lip.
Lucien pulled away, his shaky sigh tickling her skin, as if he, too, was at his wit’s end with the honeyed scents of their shared need blurring into one. “You are captivating,” he muttered, and with that, he lifted her off the wall and spun them around.
Elain yelped in delight, her body pressing tighter into him as he carried them further down the corridor—right to the desk she could only hope was sturdy enough. The scribbled parchments fell to the floor, whooshed away by her skirts as Lucien set her down, taking a half-step back to admire the sight. Elain tried not to think about just how big of a mess he’d made her, running a hand down her ruffled curls as she met his gaze. Lucien’s breath caught, kiss-bitten lips parting slightly as his eyes trailed the movement, like a fox watchfully readying for finally catching his prey.
“Six months,” he murmured, more to himself than Elain. “It must have been some cruel punishment from the Gods.” Elain chuckled, but Lucien’s gaze darkened as it fixed on her mouth. “I shall let them know I have no intention of ever letting you leave like that again.”
“You only have me for a few hours,” Elain reminded him, though the very idea filled her with dread now more than the usual excitement.
Lucien seemed to share the sentiment. “Then I will cancel the meeting,” he said, taking a step to stand over her, making Elain lean back on her elbows with a wry smile. “Damn the deliberations, damn the High Lords and damn the War,” he told her, determination blazing through that fire in his stare.
“You know you can’t do that,” Elain said, though the prospect had sounded more appealing than she’d dare to admit.
Lucien ran his knuckles down her bare arm. “For you, I would do anything.”
It was more than they’d ever given each other—more than the usual teasing, the bickering. It felt like more, at least—but for some reason, Elain did not shy away. This—he—was what she wanted, and not just the pleasure he offered. For the past six months, Lucien consumed her every thought, every waking moment that she hadn’t spent worrying about war or her place in the world that seemed too dark to be part of on her own. Somehow, through all of it, it was Lucien who’d become her freedom, the one thing she looked forward to the most in her travels, like the gentle light pulling the ship ashore.
He must’ve seen it in her eyes—that light reflecting his own, because he cradled her face in her hands and kissed her hard and deep, a new warmth joining the usual hunger, bright and golden and sinking into her very soul. It only spurred that need inside her, the aching absence of him filling her like torture as she broke their kiss with a pant.
“I need you,” she whispered, reaching for the ivory silks draped over him again in an almost frenzied pull. “Lucien.”
His thumb swept over the crest of her bottom lip, the touch so gentle and soft she couldn’t help but shiver in response. She didn’t think she ever needed anything more in her life, her body arching toward him in greed, her legs opening invitingly.
Lucien’s gaze fell, his cock straining against the toga hovering just barely above his hard shaft. “Say it again,” he demanded, his voice dipping into a low command.
Elain did not need to be told twice. “Lucien, I need—”
It was enough.
She was laid bare before him before she could blink, her dress gathered to the side to reveal her gleaming cunt. Lucien braced his palm beside her hip, his other hand reaching to guide himself toward her entrance. A gasp tore from Elain’s lips as she felt the thick tip of him prod at her entrance, his arousal already beading at its end. Flutter stirred in her belly, and every last thought evaporated from her mind as Lucien sank his length into her at last.
A string of curses fell from Lucien’s lips as she clenched around him, the feel of him intoxicating as he began rocking into her in a slow, unbearable pace, inch by inch as Elain moaned out his name again. Her head rolled back, golden-brown hair spilling over the dark wood, and, as though with a mind of their own, her legs hitched around his waist again, hurrying him closer, deeper to satisfy that need clawing at her desperately.
The feel of his cock inside her became lightning in her veins as Lucien bottomed out, finding that sweet spot deep inside of her that made her stomach flip and her eyes flutter shut. She wiggled her hips against him, needing that friction, needing for him to start moving, but before she could even plead, Lucien leaned down and pressed a hot, wet kiss to the column of her throat.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, and began a new, hard pace.
The moan that ripped free from Elain was a low, depraved sound that she was sure echoed throughout the library loud enough to be heard. His hand slipped to her side, fingers moving to grip her ass as he pulled in and out, his cock firm and thick inside her. She was blooming wet around him, the sounds of flesh against flesh nearly obscene as Lucien sank in deeper, grazing the spongy roof of her walls in a way that made her see stars and her core run molten.
Elain gripped his wrist, then, still braced at her side, sharp fingernails digging into his muscled forearm as she moaned out his name again. Lucien stumbled for only a moment, a low, feral sound  rumbling from some primal place inside him that would not rest until satiated. His movements grew quicker, messier, stretching her wider as he eased in and out of her, stroking that spot that threatened the heavens to collide.
Her breaths grew shorter, and Elain looked at him through half-lidded eyes, the sight of him thrusting hard into her nearly making her lose her entire mind. Her hold on him tightened, earning another rough, breathy curse from Lucien that made her back arch off the desk as she chased her precipice. His strokes became raw, devastating as he rutted into her over and over, filling her deliciously, in and out of her tight core.
Release thundered through her, seconds from sending her over the edge, and her walls clenched impossibly tight around him, readying to let go.
Lucien grit his teeth. “Elain.”
Her climax shot through her, her cunt pulsing around him wildly as her body trembled with pleasure, all the tension he’d built up melting into heat. She was gone—had lost herself to the feel of him entirely, to the sound of her name on his lips. She could hardly breathe as his thrusts grew fast and shallow, fingers digging into her ass as Lucien neared his peak.
“Elain—” he warned again, and she nodded frantically.
“Yes.”
Lucien groaned hoarsely, driving deep into her as he came, coating her core in thick ropes of his release. His body shook against her, and Elain moved up slightly, the desk scraping quietly against the stone floor. With her hand dipping beneath his chin, she brought his mouth to hers again, revelling in the taste of him now that the two of them were whole again.
She could’ve sworn his skin shimmered a slight, golden gleam as their gazes locked and held. “Still intent on not cancelling that meeting?” Lucien asked breathlessly, and Elain’s eyes narrowed.
“Hmmm.”
There would be no cancelling in the end, although Lucien and Elain—through wholly uncoordinated efforts, of course—somehow turned up to the gathering room the next morning almost an hour late. Much to Lord Sorgen’s dismay and Viviane’s knowing smile, but, for some reason, Elain found herself entirely unbothered as she moved to take her seat.
Presiding over the meeting once more, Lucien’s gaze swept over the room before settling on Elain, that golden light shining from him again. “Ready to begin, my lady?” he asked.
Elain smiled.
She was more than ready.
Elucien Week Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @melting-houses-of-gold @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies @kingofsummer93 @witchlingsandwyverns @gracie-rosee @stickyelectrons @selesera @sv0430 @vulpes-fennec @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @screaming-opossum @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @spell-cleavers @starfall-spirit @lectoradefics @this-is-rochelle @goldenmagnolias @bookeater34 @capbuckyfalcon @betterthaneveryword @tasha2627 @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune
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foxcort · 8 months
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acotar & asoiaf au collection || The Princess and Prince of Adriata as House Velaryon.
"The Old, the True, the Brave." // Cresseida Velaryon of Driftmark, Lady of the Tides and Princess of Driftmark.
ft. Varian Velaryon of Driftmark, Prince of Driftmark and Heir of House Velaryon, Master of Ships (formerly, while Nostrus Targaryen ruled the Iron Throne.)
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queercontrarian · 1 year
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finished my summer court drawing
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high lord tarquin of the summer court
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princess cresseida of adriata
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prince varian of adriata
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my vastly underrated faves
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feyresdaughter · 11 months
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A Court of Wings and Ruin, chapter 38:
We're out of Rhys's head again, back to Feyre
“Feyre,” Mor was saying, fingers digging into my shoulders through my leathers. “Feyre.”
Idk what to say, it's just a mother Feymor moment and I love them
“This way,” Mor said, and looped her arm around my waist as she led me into a dusty, empty alley. [...] I made it to a pile of fallen stones from the half-wrecked building beside us when I vomited again. And again. Mor put a hand on my back, rubbing soothing circles as I retched. “I did the same after my first battle. We all did.”
Mor reassuring Feyre and calming her down 😭❤️
Blood and sweat still coated me. I tried to remember the usual fit of my soul in my body, the priority of things, my way of looking at the world. What to do with my limbs in the stillness. How did I usually position my hands without a blade between them? How did I stop moving? Mor squeezed my shoulder, as if she understood the racing thoughts, the foreignness of my body.
No words, just them
War would linger with me long after it had ended, some invisible scar that would perhaps fade, but never wholly vanish. But for my home, for Prythian and the human territory and so many others … I would clean my blades, and wash the blood from my skin. And I would do it again and again and again.
AND THIS IS why Feyre is the best character in this whole damn series (and my whole world)
The Prince of Adriata rose to his feet. I did not have any magic left in me to shield. After seeing Rhys with the king, there was only an empty pit where my fear had been a wild sea within me. But I felt Mor’s power slide into place between us.
MOR IS SHIELDING HER
“Why?” Tarquin demanded, “Our dreams are the same,” was all I could think to say. [...] I spared him from the choice. “Tend to your wounded, Tarquin.” - “Don’t give me orders.” - “We are at your disposal,” I said to him, and walked out.
Please just give me a Feyre and Tarquin friendship.
“Take your mate and leave. And I’d suggest warning her not to give High Lords orders.” [...] Rhys said, “She is High Lady of the Night Court. She may do as she wishes.”
YESSSSS
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