#LIGHT BROWN SANDSTONE

[wolveria]

👀👀👀 can I ask about the wing AU??

Yesss!! The Wing AU! Which is really just a long document with the various clones and Jedi/Sith what their wings would look like.

I'm going to post it as it is because the bullet point works, and this is the "baseline" part of the winged universe. I might have several stories stem from it, because... I just really love wings and I feel like I could go in several directions. So here it is!

There are only two beings in the galaxy with wings: those who are Force-sensitive, and the clones engineered by the Kaminoans

The wings of a child will be drab until they molt in maturity, bringing in their true colors

Touching another person’s wings without permission is disrespectful and invasive, while trusting someone enough to allow them to preen their wings is a sign of trust and closeness

The clones were engineered with wings to keep up with the Jedi during the war, though this has brought its own controversy with senators questioning if engineering wings is a step too far in cloning technology, as wings are supposed to be sacred (but the Chancellor claims this is a sign they are on the side of righteousness, though in reality he wants the clone troopers to have wings to keep up with the Jedi when he orders their execution)

Yoda has grey wings, Dooku has elegant black wings, and Darth Sidious has no wings at all (he removed them at an early age to hide his affinity for the Force, and he almost abhors the idea of them), Maul’s wings are black with red tips, and Ventress has wings of white with black tips

Anakin has beautiful golden-brown wings, Obi-Wan has soft sandstone-colored wings, and Ahsoka has white wings with blue stripes

Cad Bane has wings of blue variation, light blue at the base and darker at the tips, though they are so ragged from being unpreened and kept in bindings against his back that they can only glide, not fly, until they are restored with care and practice (which is unlikely since he always keeps them hidden and no one knows he even has them)

Clones Wings:

Hunter has dark grey wings, the same color as his eyes, and the feathers are broader and longer than a typical clones’ (his brothers used to joke that his missing height went into his wingspan)

Crosshair has silvery white wings that match his hair, and they’re especially soft around the shoulders of the wings, almost downy, but if anyone tries to touch them, they’ll get pummeled for it. Not with his hands—Crosshair has learned how to “punch” with his wings with uncanny accuracy, and other troopers learned long ago to steer clear of them

Wrecker has reddish-brown wings that have golden highlights in the sun, though he had to have cybernetic feathers and muscles implanted into his left wing after the explosion that took his eye

Tech’s wings are golden-brown, and they are prone to being unkempt much like his living space, the clone too distracted with his work to care for them, and if it wasn’t for his brothers they would be nearly unusable (which would be a shame, because he flies like a mynock on fire)

Echo used to have grey speckled wings that complimented Fives’ grey and white wings, but once he was captured, the Separatists cut them off. After he was rescued, Rex and Cody made sure there were funds to build him advanced mechanical wings so he could fly again

Omega has golden-white wings, and the Batch had to teach her how to fly because the Kaminoans didn’t show her and probably never would have

Crosshair would be the one to preen Hunter’s wings after a battle, and Hunter would preen his (Crosshair would let Wrecker preen his wings but no matter how hard he tries, Crosshair’s too sensitive, and Hunter is the only one with a light enough touch to do it)

Tech doesn’t really care who preens his wings out of the Batch, just as long as they don’t screw up and pull out any feathers, and he’s more than happy to let Wrecker do it since the big clone loves preening his brother’s feathers

If a flyer goes through a traumatic event, their feathers will molt and grow back a different color: this is what happens to the clones after Order 66, they lose their individuality/feathers, and grow all white wings to match their bleached armor (Crosshair loses his silvery feathers and they grow back in a much darker shade, showing he’s not completely under their control and is suffering for it)

There are only a few Imperial clones that don’t grow plain white feathers, but instead, they grow in pure black. The ones with black wings are selected to be Death Troopers

Crosshair’s new wings are not technically black, they’re more of a dark grey, and coincidentally, the same shade as Hunter’s wings

For clones who start to fight their chips, or their chips start to fail, they gradually shed their feathers and start growing them back with color. Such as Howzer, who started to grow back his teal-tipped feathers, and he had to bleach his wings so his superiors wouldn’t find out

The new TK troopers are given mechanical wings, but they are far inferior to the natural wings that clones are engineered with, but mechanical wings are cheaper than biological ones, and the clone troopers that remain are taken to Tantiss for experimentation

[gogandmagog]

Someone perfectly lovely, called Paul Hendricks, put together this thoughtful map of the Four Winds community. His website, where this map was obtained, is HERE. What follows below the cut are Paul’s own words, detailing how he went about putting this together this map, complete with thorough book citations and explanations of inconsistencies!

“This is the rough map I've put together, based in the clues mentioned below, which are taken from various of the Anne books. (See note on the format of the references.)

The map uses a 'browser-safe' palette, so you should see roughly the same colours that I do. The orange/brown lines are roads. The dark-green areas are woods. The light blue is, of course, the sea.

Reconstructing the setting for the four books based on Four Winds and Ingleside has proved much more difficult than for Avonlea. Beginning with the premise that Four Winds is about 60 miles from Avonlea (AHoD, ch 1, 10th page), I tried a layout based on the area around Sturgeon, Gaspereaux and Georgetown, in the south-east part of the Island. Eventually it proved impossible to put together a consistent map on this basis. What is more, I realised that there was no evidence in LMM's diaries that she had ever been to that part of the Island.

I then tried a construction based on the area around New London, as there were many similarities of detail, and the area was well known to LMM. This fits in reasonably well with the descriptions of Four Winds in AHoD. There are some difficulties and inconsistencies noted below, but alternatives (such as putting the House of Dreams and the Lighthouse on the East side of the bay) have turned out to be unworkable. I have also managed to reconstruct the area around Ingleside, on the assumption that it is in the position occupied by Clifton/New London. Given the basic framework of roads that results, the result is more convincing than I had hoped, and seems to fit in quite well with the text of AoI, RV and RoI.

House of Dreams 'looks to the sunset and has harbour before it'. Dining room looks out on the harbour (AHoD, ch 2, 4th page). Living room windows and front door look towards the lighthouse (AHoD, ch 2, 5th page). There is a brook going through the corner of the garden.

The entrance of the harbour is between a bar of sand dunes and a sandstone cliff. The fishing village is where the sand bar meets the harbour shore (AHoD, ch 5, 1st page).

It is dusk, but there is no mention of seeing the setting sun. This suggests that going from Glen St Mary towards the house they are facing north or east. This is consistent if Glen St Mary is south, and the house is on the west side of the harbour (AHoD, ch 5, 1st page).

There is a chapel on the far side of the bay. The lighthouse is to the north, as they approach the house from the Glen. The house is 2 miles from the Glen, and 1 mile from the lighthouse. Miss Cornelia's house is between the House of Dreams and the Glen (AHoD, ch 5, 2nd page).

Poplars line the lane from road to house; fir trees between house and sea (confirms that the sea is to the 'back' of the house (AHoD, ch 5, 4th page).

Leslie's house is further up the brook, 'among the willows' (AHoD, ch 6, 4th page). The lane of Leslie's house opens onto the 'upper road' (AHoD, ch 9, 2nd page). Miss Cornelia's house is half a mile from the house of dreams (AHoD, ch 6, 5th page).

'From the deceit of the McAllisters...' (AHoD, ch 6, 5th page) is a paraphrase of an actual saying referring to LMM's relations, the Simpsons, the McNeils and the Clarkes, see also page xv of introduction to volume one of selected journals. Confirms the view that the families referred to in the 'over-harbour' area are modelled on LMM's own family in Clifton, Cavendish, etc.

As Anne and Gilbert are walking towards the lighthouse, the house 'up the brook' is to their right (AHoD, ch 9, 2nd page). There is some difficulty in fitting this in with my map. We might perhaps conceive an arrangement where the house by the brook was to the right hand side of the road to the lighthouse, though the road would have to be not so close to the shore as the modern road.

The distinction (AHoD, ch 10, 1st page) between the 'harbour shore', the 'sand shore' and the 'rock shore' is consistent with New London Bay - corresponding respectively to the shore inside the bay, the shore on the north side of the bar, and the shore to the north of the lighthouse.

'North shore' presumably means 'North shore of PEI' (AHoD, ch 14, 1st page). It was this which first alerted me to the possible inconsistency with my original presumption about the location of Four Winds.

'North-western sky' (AHoD, ch 18, 1st page), implies that the lighthouse is north-west of the house of dreams.

The Fishing Cove (AHoD, ch 27, 1st page) must be on the shore by the sand bar (therefore the same place as the fishing village). Anne and Gilbert go there via the lighthouse because intending to row over to avoid the long drive round by road which would otherwise be necessary.”

— Paul Hendricks

[twola]

Seven Deadly Sins - X [Finale]

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. Complete.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Redemption: the action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.

This is it, y’all! Thanks for coming along for the ride. Love hearing feedback.​

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous

Even as the sun set in the distance, the air was hot but dry. None of the sweltering humidity of Lemoyne, nor even the briskness of the northern reaches of New Hanover. No, this land was a land of sun-bleached sandstone and dusty brown earth. Of desert scrub and towering cactus, of coyotes and pronghorn and rattlesnakes.

Fitting, it seems, this inhospitable place is where he landed, the snake that he is.

Arthur Morgan heaves a bale of hay over his shoulder, walking it along the parched ground to an animal pen, where a few ewes linger in the shade of the passing shadows. Even they knew to wait until evening to start moving around - something he will never get through his thick head. Not when there was work to be done.

He should count himself lucky, he supposes. 

No, he doesn’t suppose. He knows.

He’s very lucky. 

Arthur places the bale within the wooden fence, turning back toward the sunset and clearing his throat. The wet cough that had so plagued him is almost gone - the sickness that had left him nearly dead passing with each day. 

He is lucky - and he certainly doesn’t deserve it, not with the life he’s lived. He should have been dead on a mountainside in Roanoke, drowning in his own blood, left by Micah and Dutch after the gang fell apart.

But that didn’t happen.

Somehow, someway, he ended up here, in New Austin, under the hot desert sun - ironic considering that is what the doctor in Saint Denis told him to do - get somewhere warm and dry. Convalescence in an abandoned cabin in Cholla Springs - weeks and weeks of rest before he was able to even leave the bed, much less work on what was slowly becoming a homestead.

He slowly plods back toward the cabin, where amongst the pink-purple light of the dusk settling in, an oil lamp shines through the window. He adjusts his hat on his head, wiping the dust from the back of his neck, and enters the door, closing it behind himself.

“You need to watch how hard you’re pushing yourself, Arthur.”

Arthur looks up to find you scrubbing at dishes in the sink. Your hair is messily tied into a bun on the top of your head, and you wear a light cotton dress, blue like the color of his work shirt. He loves that color on you.

“Ain’t that the pot callin’ the kettle black.”

“I am fine. Stop worrying your pretty little head off.”

He frowns, taking his hat from his head and placing it on the table.

“My head definitely ain’t pretty or little.”

He stops behind you, leaning over you to place a kiss on your cheek. His large hands find your hips and slowly inch forward, lightly pressing on the skin beneath your dress.

“Let’s hope this one is.” You laugh, leaning back against his frame, as Arthur’s hands continue their forward journey, finally resting on your stomach.

Your very swollen stomach.

“Let’s hope they look like you ‘nstead of having my ugly mug.” 

You roll your eyes, swatting playfully at one of his hands, “Hush, you. I don’t know who you’re talkin’ about with ugly mugs. All I see is my handsome cowboy.”

Arthur chuckles, spinning you around.

“How about I get the rest of this and you go lay down.”

Arthur shoos you off from your cleaning as the sun fully sets, telling you that he would finish and for you to get off your feet. You sigh, but agree to his request, rubbing at your back as you slowly walk toward the bedroom. He finishes cleaning up after dinner and puts out the oil lamp in the kitchen, slowly closing the door to your bedroom after he steps in. He takes you in, laying on the spacious bed in a chemise, absentmindedly stroking at your stomach while you look out the window into the night.

He marvels at the sight. Months ago, he held you in his small cot in Roanoke, weeping at the death sentence you both had been given - and now here you are, blooming in the dry desert on the other side of tuberculosis, somehow, someway, surviving the illness and being given a second chance.

And then your stomach slowly began to swell - it was always a possibility, but he never thought this would actually happen. 

“Feelin’ alright?” Arthur asks as he sits by the side of the bed, pulling his boots off and placing them on the floor.

You don’t answer, propping your head up on your elbow, your other hand circling your belly as you lay on your side.

Arthur looks over his shoulder, “Mm?”

You nod, reaching for him as you remove your hand from your belly. You grasp at the back of his shirt, pulling at him, “C’monnnn.”

Arthur turns completely around, facing you. He snorts with a knowing grin on his face. “I reckon you’re feelin’ mighty fine, my lady.”

“Arthur-” You narrow your eyes in annoyance before he laughs, shucking his shirt from his body and dropping it to the floor.

Laying on the bed next to you, he smirks as your eyes rake over his broad chest - he’s not looking nearly so gaunt these days, emerging stronger and stronger from his sickness.

He reaches for the buttons of his pants, watching your eyes flit down to his hips. 

“See somethin’ y’like?” He teases, pressing one of the buttons of his pants through its eyelet.

“I swear, you’re a no good-” 

He leans over and catches your lips in a bruising kiss. You gasp into his mouth, hands flying up to his chest. 

Arthur’s large hand cups a swollen breast through your chemise, and you moan into his mouth as he gently squeezes.

“Here, turn over, I’ve got you.” He whispers into your mouth, his hand moving to your ribcage. He gently turns you over to face away from him, pulling up your chemise to bare your skin to him. 

Arthur shimmies his pants down his hips, kicking his jeans off before rolling over to press his front against your back. You moan as you feel the long, hard line of him press up against your rear, and a low rumble echoes out from his chest as his arm rounds your belly, tracing down your skin to the apex of your thighs.

You gasp as he slides his middle finger against your core, groaning into your ear when he finds you wet.

“Christ,” he mutters, rubbing gently at the opening of your cunt, making you roll your hips urgently, whining as he refuses to press inside.

“P-please, oh god, please just-”

Your begging halts immediately as he tilts your hips and presses the blunt head of his cock into your core, sliding into your warmth slowly, gently, carefully.

“Look at you,” he drawls as he bottoms out, his hips pressed fully against your rear, and his hand spreads out over your belly, “Heavy with my child and you still can’t get enough.”

You can do nothing but whine as he pulls back and slowly pushes forward again. He presses his face against the curve of your neck, sucking at the skin gently.

The two of you move against each other in a cacophony of sound - skin meeting skin, the wet sounds of bodies tessellating, gasping, and moaning and pleasure.

You press your hips back at him with a gasp, body clenching around him, leading only moments later to him throwing his arm over your belly again, spreading his hand out over his child as he grunts, spilling his hot seed into your cunt.

He pants into your ear, satiated, as your breath slows, you place your hand over his as he gently, slowly circles your stomach.

“You’re gonna kill me one of these days.” Arthur laughs into your hair, rubbing at your belly as he softens inside you.

You smile, craning your head to make eye contact with him, “Least you’ll die an empty man.”

“Yer a minx, you hear that?”

-

Of course, it’s the middle of the night some weeks later when you push at his shoulder, jolting him awake. 

“Arthur.”

“Mmph?” He groans, wiping his hand down his face for a moment before his eyes adjust to the dark room.

He focuses on you, leaning over the bed, rubbing your stomach expectantly.

“Shit, shit, are you-”

“My waters broke a little bit ago. I think we’ve still got some time.” You say calmly, sitting on the side of the bed.

Arthur rockets out of the bed, stumbling around the room as if he were drunk, finding his pants on the floor and forcing his legs through them over his union suit.

“Christ, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I did wake you up, silly.” You deadpan, wincing slightly as a pain rolls through you.

“Damnit, damnit.” Arthur mutters to himself as he shoves his feet into his boots, “I’ll.. I’ll ride up to Armadillo and get the doctor. Y’just…” He trails off, looking at you sitting on the bed.

“I’ll stay right here. I’ll be fine, Arthur.”

He rolls out of the small house like a tornado, saddling his horse and riding through the New Austin desert at a speed he had not in months - the breakneck galloping days outrunning lawmen, those seemed to be behind him.

Ahead was something completely different.

He reaches Armadillo in record time, banging on the doctor’s door and nearly yanking the man out when he answers it. Arthur sits fuming as the doctor, an old bearded man, seems to take his time packing his bag and saddling his horse. After what seemed like forever, they were off again, riding hard for the cabin in the desert. Reaching it, Arthur barges through the door, the doctor following behind, looking somewhat bedraggled.

He finds you sitting in the rocking chair next to your bed, slowly rocking back and forth, hands framing your distended abdomen. You frown as you see Arthur’s frenzied state and the less-than-thrilled look on the doctor’s face.

“Oh - I’m sorry, I hope he wasn’t too difficult,” you say guiltily from the chair, hand over your swollen stomach. The doctor grumbles slightly, and you move to get out of the chair, wincing with difficulty before Arthur pulls you gently to your feet.

“How far apart are the pains?” The doctor asks matter of factly.

“A few minutes.” You grit your teeth slightly, letting a long breath loose after your comment.

“Alright. Let’s get you to bed.” The doctor turns around, pacing toward your bed, putting his bag down on the side table.

Arthur, for the life of him, cannot figure out why both you and the doctor are so calm. He helps you walk slowly over to the bed, and once you’ve reached it, he helps peel off the dress you shrugged on, leaving you only in a chemise as you lie down, breathing out heavily.

He looms over the bed, eyes darting between you and the doctor, who slowly unpacks instruments from his leather bag, placing them on the bedside table, each more terrifying in his eyes than the last.

“You know you aren’t helping.” You say crossly, clenching your teeth against another wave of pain.

Arthur gives you a withering expression before rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands.

The doctor, completely unperturbed or surprised, simply snorts under his breath, “He’s a new father. They tend to be like this.”

You roll your eyes, about to retort something sarcastic, but all that escapes as you moan loudly in pain, your abdomen seizing up.

Without fanfare or any regard for some sort of modesty, the doctor flips the hem of your chemise up, over your waist, and pulls your legs apart, propping them on either side of him, your heels flat against the mattress.

“Alright there, looks like you’re ready. Miss?” The doctor says, turning back toward his bag and 

You look up at Arthur expectantly, breathing in quickly through your nose to keep your mind off the pain.

He quickly moves to the side of the bed, falling to his knees and grasping your hand, which you take and immediately squeeze to get your way through the wave of constriction in your body.

Arthur looks down at you, trying to disguise the fear and trepidation in his eyes. Fear and trepidation that seem to compound when they are finally reflected back at him.

He leans over and places his lips on yours briefly, pulling back before sitting at the side of the bed. 

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

You shut your eyes, breathing in slowly, trying to calm yourself down. You grasp his hand tightly before your eyes open again, and you nod at the doctor.

The doctor’s mouth presses into a line, “Alright, ma’am. Let’s get this baby born.”

-  

If you were to ask Arthur, years from now, how long it was between the doctor making that comment and the high screech of a newborn cutting through the heavy air, he would have told you hours - hours, days maybe.

You, on the other hand, would laugh and say it was naught but a single hour before the doctor deposited the squalling newborn upon your breast, sticky with blood and the fluids of birth.

“A girl.”

The doctor’s words echo distantly in his head

But oh, that moment, that moment, as the doctor wiped at the child’s skin with clean linen, that Arthur gazed upon what you had created and the newborn takes a breath to stop her crying - her eyes open and Arthur sees his own reflected back at him…

“Oh… ” You whisper lightly, looking down at the baby, “Oh, she has your eyes, Arthur.”

You look back up at him, and the doctor at least has the sensibility to leave the confines of the bed, gathering up the dirty linens to deposit them on the floor.

The newborn wails against her mother’s skin, trying to find warmth as you pull the linen around her tighter, and Arthur is sure he’s never heard a sweeter sound in his nearly forty years of life.

The doctor returns, “We must finish the birth. If I may?”

Arthur watches, mesmerized, as the gruff older man gently removes the child, placing the baby on the bed next to you while picking up the cord that served as the last tie between your bodies.

He holds the pulsing white-blue cord taut, and with his other hand, he flicks the scalpel above the newborn’s stomach, severing the connection between the child and yourself. He blots at the blood that seeps from the stump of the cord before rewrapping the child in the linen blanket. He looks up to Arthur, who is still wide-eyed and incredulous.

“Here, take the child and step outside, I’ll finish the process with her.”

Arthur looks down at you and you nod, and he takes the bundle as the doctor gently lays the newborn in his arms. Her screaming has slowed, at the very least, into a whimper.

Arthur is shocked into stillness, in his broad arms is one of the smallest, most fragile things he’s ever held - he’s terrified and awestruck.

He never held Jack as a newborn. Hell, he never held Isaac when he was a newborn. 

“Go on, I’ll be alright.” You whisper, moving to slowly sit up as the doctor moves to your side.

Arthur nods, trepidatious, taking careful steps from the bedroom into the main area of the cabin, the door behind him closing.

He sits down at the table, slowly, and gently so as not to disturb the baby, finally quieting down as he gently moves his arms back and forth.

What strange dream was this? Was it a dream? Would he wake up dying on a mountain somewhere in Roanoke, drowning in his own blood?

God only knows that’s what he deserved: not to be rescued and thrown into the back of a wagon, taking a long, slow journey west, into the dry and arid desert, where his failing lungs did not feel as heavy in his chest.

His thoughts fly from his head as the baby’s brow furrows, a high wail emanating from her, so much louder than he’d ever imagined.

No, he thought as he stood up, rocking his arms gently as he circled the small kitchen of the cabin, he would not dwell on the past and what has been.

All he knows is the future. All he needs is this. All he will bleed and fight and die for, it exists in this little cabin in New Austin.

The baby cries, her small arms punching upward in discontent.

Arthur also cries, humming some off-beat tune as he rocks his child gently, whispering promises into her ear as he circles the room.

-

Some months later…

-

“She go down alrigh’?”

You nod, closing the door to the baby’s room quietly, and latching the door behind you. It was only a few days ago that you had moved the bassinet from your bedroom into the other one, now that she was sleeping through the night better.

Arthur sits at the table, fiddling with a rifle cartridge, whittling at it with his large knife.

You raise an eyebrow as you sit down opposite of him. He glances up and smiles before continuing his work. 

“Caught a coyote out by the henhouse the other day. Hadn’t made it in, but if I can shoot it and keep the pelt in good condition… Well, there’s two birds with one stone.”

“Ah.” You reply, interlacing your hands together.

He looks up again, his brow furrowing.

“What?” He asks, placing both the knife and the cartridge down, giving you his full attention.

“Wel, it’s uh-” you start, stumbling your way through your sentences, “It’s been… I mean, I’d like…”

“Darlin’. Stop your bellyachin’ and out with it.” Arthur says, the hint of a smirk on his face, his beard finally trimmed short after much complaining from you.

You blink, inhaling slowly. On your exhale, you breathe out a jumble of words so quickly that he doesn’t catch your meaning.

“Alrigh’. Come on now. What are you sayin’?”

You rub your eyes with the heels of your palm in exasperation.

“Christ, it shouldn’t be this hard.”

“Darlin’.”

He stoops down on one knee next to your chair, taking your hand from your lap and placing it between his own large ones.

“It’s just… I miss you.” You sigh.

“I’m right here, sweetheart.”

“No… it’s, I - ”

“You what?” He rubs his thumbs across your knuckles.

You sigh and squeeze his hand. “It’s been three months since she was born. I reckon I’m healed enough now to sleep with you again.”

He snorts, part of a smirk on his face, “Y’know you ain’t gotta do any of that to make me happy. I am perfectly fine wa-”

“But what about what I want?”

Arthur takes your hand and pulls it to his lips, kissing it gently.

“What do you want?”

“Arthur, I want you to take me into the bedroom and make love to me.”

He presses your knuckles to his lips again, “You think you’re ready? Healed?”

“Yes, Arthur, I know I’m ready, please-”

You yelp as he heaves you up into his arms as he stands to his full height. One arm below your knees, one behind your back, he carries you to your bedroom, softly nudging the door shut with the heel of his boot.

He makes his way across the room and gently deposits you on the bed, his hands moving to your feet, pulling your boots off before he sits on the edge of the bed to take his own boots off. He tosses them to the side of the bed, before turning back to you, placing a large, warm hand on your knee.

You sit up, placing your hand over his. Your eyes flit from his gaze down to his lips briefly before you lean further forward and catch him in a kiss. Your hands grasp at his shirt, pulling him closer to you, as he slides up the bed to lay out next to you.

You pull back, breathing heavily, and immediately start working at the buttons of his linen work shirt, as his hands move to the ties on your dress, feverish, as if you were teenagers falling into bed for the first time.

He’s stripped you and himself bare, laying you down in the bed before pressing his body against yours. You gasp as he slides his hand, big and warm, between your thighs, rubbing gently at the seam of your body before he slides two fingers inside you.

You mewl into his neck as he crooks his fingers in your cunt, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you, lest you dig scars into the poor man’s back again.

“Ar-Arthur… please-”

He lifts his head from the pillow, ceasing the nibbling on your earlobe.

“Yes, darlin’?” He rumbles, his low voice hoarse.

“Pl-please- I’m ready-” You gasp as he thrusts his fingers deeper.

“Think you should come for me, just to be sure.” He smirks into your mouth, pressing his tongue against the seam of your lips. A shift of his hand makes you gasp as his thumb presses on the small nub of your pleasure, slowly circling it. 

You keen, turning your body into him, trying not to cry out too loudly as he works you through a rolling orgasm, clenching hard against his fingers. He grunts in approval into your mouth, slowly pulling his fingers out of your body.

“You tell me if anything hurts, you hear?” Arthur says, panting slightly as he climbs over you, pressing your legs apart as he presses his lips to your jaw.

You nod desperately, wrapping your legs around his hips and chasing his lips with your own. He settles against you, and you feel the blunt head of his cock press at your opening. He slides in, the stretch nearly painful after so long, and you gasp as he stills, halfway buried.

“No, no - I’m fine, just… be gentle.” You plead into his warm neck, your ankles crossing over his hips to not let him out.

“You tell me if you need me to stop,” Arthur whispers into your ear, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“Plea-ohh-”

Your mouth goes slack as he presses forward, burying himself completely in your heat. He holds still, his arms bracketing your head as he lifts himself to his elbows.

“Y’okay?”

You nod, smiling, trying not to cry from the sheer feeling of him enveloped in your hips again, you’ve never missed something so much.

Arthur leans back down and kisses you, pressing open your lips with his tongue, groaning into your mouth as he retracts his hips, pressing forward again gently, waiting for any negative response from you.

All he gets is a soft mewl from your throat and your fingers making their way into his hair, to which he takes as permission to find a rhythm of lovemaking.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to be given this chance - after all of his sins, all of the crime and the blood and the wrong that he’s committed in his miserable life - how any benevolent deity could even think about giving him anything.

You moan his name into his ear as he gently rolls his hips into yours. A faint pang of desire settles in his gut - the desire to thrust into you like the early days of your relationship - rough and heady with the need to make you scream. But this isn’t the time. He is more than satisfied moving above you, slowly, gently, and with care.

He’s seen what you’ve been through - he saw how the birth of his daughter took a toll on you - the last thing he would ever want to do would be to hurt you.

You give a hushed cry, nails digging into his neck, as you clench around him. Arthur lowers himself to place his forehead on yours, smiling before pressing his lips against yours, urging entrance again with his tongue. He slows his hips, eventually coming to rest as you pant beneath him, taking in the sweet feeling of constriction on his shaft.

“There’s my girl.” He rasps between open-mouthed kisses, his lips curving upward in a smile.

“God,” you moan, “Ngh-, Arthur…” Coming down from your high, your hands sweep across his broad shoulder blades, the hard muscle returning after his long convalescence recovering from his sickness.

“Mm?” He presses his lips to the bridge of your nose as your breathing slows down.

“Lemme-” you try to push him off of you, hand under his shoulder, “- Lemme get you-”

“Darlin’. You ain’t gotta do nothin’.” He responds, brushing a stray lock of your hair from your forehead.

“I wanna-, I wanna hear the noise you make when you come.” You whine, continuing to push on his shoulder, completely unable to move him in your frustration.

Arthur smiles, and extricates himself from your hips, settling himself to lay at your side, one of his hands spread out on the expanse of skin at your hip, damp with a sheen of sweat. Finally out from under his frame, you lean over him, pressing his hip back so that he lies down on his back. You press kisses down his jaw, across his collarbones and chest, down his stomach to his hips. He grunts slightly as you grasp his shaft in your hand, splayed across his hips as you move to take him in your mouth.

Arthur moans needily as you bob downward.

You look up at him, mouth full of cock, and he’s immediately back in a fancy drawing room wearing a black suit, your eyes just as mischievous as those early days. Those early days when you and he would sneak off and pry orgasms from each other with greedy fingers.

He leans up slightly and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ears. Arthur smiles, his eyes fluttering as you gently suck. Your hands fondle him, and he does more than shutter his eyes when you lean over farther, taking the entirety of him in your mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

“Darl- god-” he pants, unable to keep his eyes on you as he stares at the ceiling, “I’m gonna -get off, gonna -” 

He looks back down to find you staring at him with that glint of mischief before you bob down again. Arthur grunts, one hand fisting the sheets. 

“Oh god, sweetheart-” his hips buck up once, uncontrolled, as you can taste the beginnings of his orgasm - salty and bitter and very much him. He babbles on as his cock twitches in your mouth, “ Jesus, woman - ngh - suckin’ me so good, -agh - it’s all for you -fuck-”

He bucks up once more and you press your head downward, and with a helpless groan, Arthur stutters his hot release down your throat, gasping in pleasure as you swallow each drip. 

You sit up, wiping your mouth as Arthur falls back on the pillow, utterly spent.

“Jesus, woman, you ain’t lost your touch.” He laughs, swiping at his sweaty forehead as he stares up at the bedroom ceiling.

You smile in return, gently rubbing his hip as he comes down from his high. After a few moments, he raises his head and takes you in with a satiated grin.

“Get over here-” he pulls at you and you happily acquiesce, draping yourself over him as you settle in at his side. Your head pillows on his collarbone, your hand placed firmly over his beating heart. With you securely wrapped in his arms, skin on skin, in this small house you share, your baby girl sleeping across the hall, Arthur marvels at the state of his life.

He doesn’t know how he’s been blessed with this ending. Lord knows he doesn’t deserve it.

But for you - for her - he will walk the narrow path that he has evaded the entirety of his life. You fall asleep quickly, as Arthur pulls the sheet over your nude bodies. Through the somewhat dusty window, the moonlight shines on the pale skin of your shoulder.

Arthur shuts his eyes, a wistful smile settling in on his face as he’s back on the shoreline of Flat Iron Lake, watching your bare form in the waters, bathing in the light of the full moon.

He’s thankful for whoever or whatever decided to have mercy on him. For all of his sinning, for all that he is - he is completely unworthy of the hand he’s been dealt.

One doesn’t choose whether or not they get considered for redemption, he figures. All he knows is that he’s gotten it.

[velidewrites]

Summary: Nesta is having the worst time on her vacation—until she spots a handsome stranger in a restaurant. Lucky for her, he's determined to show her a good time.

Pairing: Nesta x Cassian

Word Count: 7.3k

Warnings: Smut, mature language, Mrs Archeron

Read on AO3

The only source of light in the restaurant were the candles, laid atop each table and flickering whenever the evening breeze dared to gently whoosh inside. There were no windows in the space—the climate here was warm enough to not have to bother with such things—so instead, someone had opted to carve rounded, open archways into the sandstone walls. Every now and then, the wind would find its way in, prompting the small flames into a dance that threatened to smother their enthusiasm for good.

Such cruel fate had been suffered by the fire burning over at Nesta’s table, its only remnant the thin swirl of smoke that was now slowly trailing upwards. Nesta’s eyes, however, remained fixed on the blackened wick, as if she could still feel the soft flame casting shadows over her face.

It had only been seconds, and yet the wax had already begun freezing into place as it dripped down the candle’s ivory length. To Nesta, though, the moment had somehow managed to extend into eternity—a fate even more cruel than the flame’s unfortunate death. Right now, she would do just about anything to simply evaporate into the nightly air.

A light click sounded somewhere near her side, and time resumed in an instant. A symphony of voices poured into her ears—conversations in too many languages to discern, tangled between the music playing quietly from the speakers hung in the gap between the back wall and the ceiling. Everything became too loud, too rushed, like an impending wave of the sea, the same kind that was now crashing into the shore overlooked by the restaurant. With a will of their own, Nesta’s eyes squeezed shut, as though shutting off one of her senses could somehow ease the fervour of the other, and she quickly blinked, realising there were too many gazes on her to allow an escape into her own head.

When her eyes opened again, her candle was burning anew. The fire rose from from the spent wick, resuming its dance as if never interrupted at all.

Nesta blinked one more time before finally looking up.

The waiter stood over their table, a sleek, electric lighter in his hand. He flashed her a smile, his perfect set of white teeth nearly brighter than the flame itself.

“Are you ready to order?” he asked in a thick accent. Nesta thought it made his question sound like a song. Rich and lovely—each word enunciated, each syllable important.

She opened her mouth when another movement caught her eye—a glimpse of lustrous silk, reflecting the light softly. Pink.

Nesta’s mouth closed with a flat exhale. Elain always managed to select the perfect fabric for the occasion—as if she could somehow predict how the setting would best compliment her outfit. Indeed, her own pencil skirt and a sleeveless top were no match for her sister’s dress, which could probably challenge the very sun with its own gleam. Nesta’s all-black ensemble, on the other hand, seemed to suck in all the light.

Seated to her left, Elain’s brown eyes narrowed as she scanned the menu carefully. “Do you have any vegetarian options?” she asked, brows creasing in worry.

Another movement—opposite from Nesta, this time. Her eyes darted to its source, just in time to catch the wave of their mother’s dismissive hand.

“She’ll have the octopus,” she told the waiter, whose own frown mimicked Elain’s before he quickly jotted down the order. “We’re at the seaside, after all.”

Elain’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“My eldest will have the calamari,” their mother continued, gesturing to Nesta. “Grilled, not fried. And the mussels for me.” And with that, she returned her gaze to the menu.

Elain cleared her throat pointedly, though the sound was hardly acknowledged as the woman flipped onto the last page, already examining the restaurant’s wine selection. Their mother did not deign to look up as Feyre spoke.

“I’ll have the salmon, please,” she said quietly, something strained in the back of her throat.

All the numbness Nesta had carefully cultivated in her chest prior to this evening vanished at the sound, a fire much more angry than the candle’s filling her instead. A ruthless, icy flame.

Her fury must have been evident in her eyes, because before Nesta even managed to make her feelings about mother’s obvious dismissal perfectly clear, Feyre’s slender hand wrapped around her wrist.

Nesta’s head snapped toward her little sister.

It’s not worth it, blue-grey eyes told her, even as their mother continued to question the waiter about the bitterness of the local wine.

Nesta swallowed. Hard.

Then, she looked to Elain—who shook her head quickly, honey-brown curls shifting over her shoulder.

Fine, then.

Nesta let out a deep, deep breath, and did not stop until all the fire was out and that familiar numbness filled her again.

She never thought she’d say this, but Nesta missed New York. Missed her apartment, however small, and the peace and quiet it offered on days like these—days when she felt forced to exist in the moment, to flow with its relentless current. She would give just about anything right now to be able to curl up on the grey couch in her living room and disappear under her favourite, plush blanket. She’d left a book on the coffee table beside it—she meant to bring it along for the journey, but it seemed that her mind had been too preoccupied with the destination to remember. The story—four hundred pages of her favourite romance—would have been the perfect escape for this occasion.

Frankly, Nesta had wanted to turn back and go home the moment she’d stepped on the plane. Her mood had only darkened when she discovered a raging six-year old was seated right behind her. The child had been intent on making her life even more miserable, opting to spend over half of the ten-hour flight frantically kicking her seat until his legs finally gave out about two hours before landing. The insufferable kid had been carried out by his mother, sleeping soundly in her arms and no longer resembling the devil’s spawn that he was—until they’d reached baggage claim, of course, where he’d taken the carousel for his personal playground, jumping right over her suitcase before Nesta had managed to fish it out.

The air had been warm and humid from the minute she’d left the airport, and it had only grown heavier since then. Not even the occasional breeze seemed to lift it as it swept over her face—as if mocking the beads of sweat that had begun to gather under her hairline. The climate didn’t bother her that much, to be honest—the island was beautiful, after all. The golden sand sparkling in the beaches, the turquoise water surrounding it. The palm trees growing on both sides of every stone-clad alley. Perhaps, in different company, she’d even be able to appreciate this place.

But alas, this trip was not the case. She and her sisters had been putting off this trip for two months now, though none of them had ever voiced their lack of enthusiasm aloud. Feyre would always cite her classes as an excuse, Elain was quite literally elbows-deep in work, and Nesta…after her fifteenth job interview, she was practically losing her mind.

Now, though, with the semester over and summer quickly approaching, the three of them found themselves with a lot of free time and too many missed calls from their mother. And so, when Nesta suggested they get on the plane and get the whole thing over with, neither one of her sisters even tried to protest.

It wasn’t that Nesta didn’t love her mother—they all did, truly. But love was a complicated thing, almost as complicated as the woman herself, and sometimes…sometimes it overwhelmed her.

She did feel guilty, of course. Mother’s health had been deteriorating over the past few years until finally reaching its critical point in early January. Her doctors strongly recommended a change of climate—a place where chaos didn’t thrive as wildly as it did in New York. Somewhere warm—somewhere quiet, where she could live out the rest of her days undisturbed by other worldly afflictions.

All of it was merely delaying the inevitable—even their mother knew that too well. Still, Nesta supposed, a remote island far away from the rest of the world did not seem like the worst place to turn to for comfort. She would have probably done the same had she found herself in a smilier predicament.

Except that comfort seemed to elude Mrs Archeron no matter where she fled—in fact, Nesta was starting to believe there wasn’t a single place on Earth that the woman could truly be satisfied. Even here, surrounded by nature’s radiant beauty, there was something missing. Sometimes, it was her favourite boutique in New York. Other times, the friends she’d left behind there, the weekly card games they always held at the Plaza. And lately, it was her three daughters, who, after all had not visited her in six months.

She’d seemingly forgotten that it had been Feyre who’d helped her move all the way across the world—who’d taken care of all the planning and paperwork until their mother had set foot in her new, beachfront suite. Her youngest sister had missed an entire week of lectures because of that trip, and would later sacrifice her sleep to catch up on the material overnight.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Nesta blinked, the question snapping her focus back into the present. The waiter was long gone—instead, mother had now seemed to engage Elain in a conversation, from the exasperated flush on her sister’s cheeks.

“Nesta,” Feyre murmured.

God, she needed to get it together.

“I’m sorry,” Nesta said carefully. “I got distracted for a minute. You were saying?”

The woman let out a long-suffering sighed. “You spend too much time in your own head, Nesta, and I know very well why.” Nesta’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I’ve always told you should read less—or at least, read something more productive than those silly rom-coms I’ve seen on your shelf.”

Suddenly, Nesta regretted ever inviting her mother to her apartment. She’d only come over for tea once—and apparently, it had been enough for her to restock her ammunition for later.

Forcing a smile which came out a bit crooked, Nesta met the woman’s gaze. Blue-grey eyes, the same exact shade as hers and Feyre’s, stared back, adorned by wrinkles not yet smoothed out by botox. “What was your question, mother?” she asked.

Another sigh, aimed to make her disappointment clear. “I was saying you should perhaps speak to your boss about Elain,” she suggested.

Nesta angled her head slightly. “Whatever for?”

“Mother,” Elain cut in, “I told you it’s not—”

“A job, of course,” she said, dismissing her daughter completely. “You work for a high-profile company.” It was the closest to a compliment Nesta had ever heard fall from her lips. “Surely they could find something for Elain, too.”

“Elain already has a job,” Nesta reminded.

Her mouth twisted in distaste. “A different job.”

“There is nothing wrong with what I do now,” Elain spoke again, her tone sharper now, colder.

Their mother raised a hand, the golden rings on her fingers glistening under the candlelight. “Of course there isn’t, dear. You misunderstand me again.” She turned to Nesta. “I’m only saying you could ask your boss if there are any opportunities. I’m sure Elain could use the extra money.”

“I’m doing perfectly fine where I am, mother. But,” Elain added through gritted teeth, “thank you for your concern.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I take it business is going well, then?” She never called Elain’s bakery by what it was—as if the mere thought of her daughter spending her days dabbling in flour already filled her with some unimaginable horror.

“Yes,” Elain said tightly. “Perfectly well.”

Mother shrugged. “If you say so. Still,” she looked to Nesta again. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Elain’s face practically burned red.

“Fine, mother,” Nesta quickly said, making sure to squeeze Elain’s hand under the table. “I will.”

She sure as hell wasn’t asking Tomas Mandray for anything. As of Monday, she’d never have to see him again.

Her mother didn’t have to know about the resignation latter, saved on her laptop and waiting to be sent out the second she returned. If she found out Nesta was planning to quit her stable, corporate job…not even the island’s lovely climate would save her.

Mrs Archeron nodded. “Good. You should ask him about your promotion, too,” she added. “I keep hearing about it, and yet nothing ever happens.”

Nesta tried not to cringe at the displeasure in her voice.

“A fine man, that Mandray,” she mused innocently. “Good looks…good social standing.”

Dread began to build in her stomach. Please, don’t, she begged her silently. I hate him.

Something twinkled in her mother’s eyes, and she opened her mouth.

“Greysen and I broke up,” Elain announced loudly.

Mother’s face whipped to her middle daughter, and Nesta’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“Why?”

A one-shouldered shrug, so similar to the one mother had given her only a minute ago. Thank you, Nesta wanted to shout across the table, though she suspected Elain hardly needed her gratitude. She was clearly enjoying this—especially as she added, “He wasn’t good for me.”

Mother was practically seething. “Greysen Nolan is a good match,” she said, as though unaware they were living in the twenty-first century. “His father and I are friends.”

“Just how good of a friend is he?” Elain shot back.

Nesta stilled.

Beside her, Feyre’s eyes widened.

Slowly, their mother leaned back in her seat.

“Ladies,” a deep voice sounded. “Your drinks.”

The waiter appeared as if out of nowhere, leaning to set their wine atop the table. Nesta had never reached for her glass quicker, urging the crimson liquid to flush down the heart lodged in her throat. Feyre, it seemed, had opted to do the same.

Only when the man pulled back, moving to approach another table, did Elain finally sway the wine in her hand, her gaze still levelled on her opponent. While mother had taken Nesta under her wing from a very young age, and completely dismissed Feyre as anything other than a tiresome presence in her house, she’d never seen Elain as anything beyond her looks—it was no surprise that she’d quickly become their father’s daughter—calm and unyielding, unafraid to face her head on and risk her disapproval. Mother had always underestimated her.

She seemed to realise that at last, as lightning seemed to rage in her blue-grey eyes, just barely restrained—an ancient storm ready to ravage a blooming land.

Not good.

So Nesta spoke, “Mother, did you know Feyre passed all of her finals with an A this year?” Feyre’s head snapped to her at that, even the freckles on her face paling. “Tell her about your post-colonialism class, Feyre.” And when Feyre didn’t manage to utter a single word, Nesta turned back to their mother, explaining, “It was the most difficult one, and she got the best grade out of her entire cohort. At NYU.”

Feyre released a breath. “It’s nothing,” she murmured.

Those icy flames licked at Nesta’s chest again. Acknowledge her, she wanted to scream. Praise her.

“It’s not nothing,” she told her sister. “You’ve been brilliant, I—Mother?” Nesta frowned, realising the woman had already risen from her seat.

“Oh, please, keep going,” she waved a hand. “Don’t let me disturb you—I’m just going to go find the restroom. I need to freshen up.”

And with that, she was gone, the light click of her heels on the stone floor following her to the back of the restaurant.

Nesta eyed the movement, willing that inner fire to stifle its rage—until her eyes settled on something else entirely.

“You broke up with Greysen?” Feyre spoke beside her, but her voice was distant now, as if sounding from miles away. “When?”

“Last month,” Elain answered. “But he had it coming long before that, really,” she added quickly.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Feyre. You were dealing with your finals, I—I didn’t want to add more onto your plate.”

A sigh. “I get it. Just—please know you can always talk to me?”

“Of course. Besides, Nesta was—Nesta?”

But Nesta had long stopped participating in the conversation.

For sitting at the table a few away was the most ridiculously beautiful man she’d ever seen.

She would’ve spotted him right away had it not been for her mother’s seat shielding him from view the entire night. It was impossible not to take notice of him—and not simply due to his size, the broad chest, the strong, golden-brown arms, their muscles practically glistening under the soft light. He looked like he’d spent the entire day on the beach, his dark, windswept hair loosening a few strands over his forehead—over his hazel eyes, bright with amusement as he listened to his companion.

And his companion…of course he’d come with a date. A woman so beautiful she seemed as though the sun itself had crafted her, her golden hair cascading down the red silks of her dress, down her exposed back. What the hell did they put in the wine in this place?

From the corner of her eye, Nesta could just barely make out Elain following her gaze.

“Go talk to him,” she urged.

At that, Nesta turned, schooling her features into cool indifference. “Who?”

Elain’s brown eyes narrowed. “Don’t act stupid now, Nesta. You were practically drooling.”

“Is it a crime to appreciate a good looking man?” she asked innocently.

“It’s a crime not to do anything about it.”

Feyre huffed a laugh. Nesta shot her a glare.

“Just do it, Nesta,” she told her.

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. He’s clearly here with a date.”

“Could be his sister,” Elain supplied helpfully, though there was little confidence in her tone.

“They look nothing alike.”

Feyre sighed deeply. “Nesta, just go talk to the guy.”

“She’s right, you know.” Elain’s head tilted slightly to the side. “When was the last time you’ve been on a date?”

Nesta’s jaw clenched. “I’ve been busy.”

“Exactly,” Feyre said. “And now you’re on vacation—you deserve to…let off some steam.”

Elain chuckled.

“Is that so funny?” Nesta challenged. “Maybe you should go talk to him, Elain—a little rebound’s never hurt anybody.”

Elain sipped from her glass. “Normally, I would,” she started, a small twinkle appearing in her gaze. “But I don’t think Lucien would appreciate it.”

Feyre’s jaw practically hung open. “Lucien? NYU Engineering Lucien?” She shook her head. “No, scratch that—my friend Lucien?”

Pink bloomed on Elain’s cheeks, and Nesta suspected it had little to do with the wine. “He came by the bakery a few days after your party.” That’s right, Feyre’s end-of-exams party—the one she’d quite literally begged her to show up to. The one she’d told Tomas about when she requested a day off—and so naturally, he’d made her work overtime well into the early hours of the night. “We’re going on a date next week.”

Feyre’s arms folded over her chest. “I can’t believe that asshole didn’t tell me,” she grumbled. Lucien may have been two years above Feyre—but he was still a good friend. At least, that was Nesta’s understanding from the one time she’d met him.

“I know what would lift your mood right up, Feyre,” Nesta suggested, a sly smirk curling up the corner of her mouth. “Go talk to the guy.”

Her eyes gleamed with challenge. “I will if you don’t do it first.”

She gestured towards his table. “Be my guest.”

Feyre groaned loudly.

“Nesta, would you please stop being so stubborn?” Elain begged.

“I’m not going to make a fool of myself,” she huffed.

“We’re literally on the other side of the world,” Feyre argued. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

What indeed?

Nesta considered—they were leaving after the weekend. If the golden woman really was his date, and Nesta was about to face a blatant rejection—she’d never have to see him again. She would probably have to avoid every beach on this island for the next two days, but now that she thought of it, she’d always been more of a winter person, anyway. And then, she’d simply go home and never think of him again.

If he was single, on the other hand… 

Nesta sighed. “Fine.”

Elain squealed in delight.

“Ask him what he ordered—it’s good small talk,” Feyre advised.

“I can see what he ordered from here,” Nesta protested. “Besides, his plate looks horrible. Who orders steak in a place like this?”

“You’re starting to sound like mother,” Feyre cautioned.

Oh, god.

“Do it your way, then, Nesta,” Elain hurried. “Just go.”

Alright then.

Nesta set her glass, rising from the table carefully. She did not nearly have enough wine for this, she realised. Her body felt warm—but not warm enough to untangle the knots that had managed to form in her stomach. It wasn’t like her to put herself out there so…publicly. Honestly, she’d never had to work this hard to catch a man’s attention before.

“Have fun.” Feyre smirked. “We’ll be watching.”

Nesta hissed, “Don’t you dare.”

The sound of her sisters’ quiet giggles carried her through the space. She didn’t think she’d ever walked more slowly in her life, each step determined to drag this out for as long as possible. God, did she at least bother to check her hair beforehand? What if she’d smudged her mascara by accident?

Too late—she was so close now that she could make out just how perfectly the man’s stubble shaped his sharp jaw. Could see how large his hands were as he clasped them together, seemingly in excitement at whatever the woman had just told him.

She could see the perfect fullness of his lips as he leaned over the table and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Well, shit.

Nesta practically lunged for the bathroom, making a turn so sharp she almost slipped on the polished stone floor. Damn her and her stupid heels—everyone wore sandals in this place, anyway. What devilish forces pushed her to leave all of her flat shoes back home, she did not know. She could only pray no one saw her obvious escape—or the heat that was no doubt burning her face red.

The restaurant had been booming with conversation and music all night, and despite this, the only sound she was convinced everybody could hear now was her heels, loudly carrying her away as she disappeared into the corridor that led to the restrooms.

The door swung open before she’d even managed to reach for the handle.

“Ah, Nesta,” Mrs Archeron said, and Nesta almost stumbled back a step. Her mother reached for something in her handbag as she continued “Here, use this.” She fished out a small packet of tissues and pressed them into Nesta’s palm. “Public restrooms are an atrocity.”

And just like that, she left.

Nesta stared at the packet for a few seconds before finally entering the quiet room.

It was a cozy space, with golden-framed mirrors, hanging from an old mural of the sea, and marble sinks. She placed the tissues atop one of them and faced her reflection at last.

Well. She did not look half bad, at least.

Her makeup was still intact—by some miracle, even the dark wings of her eyeliner remained sharp. She’d braided her hair into an updo earlier, and though a few loose strands had fallen out to frame her face, the entire ensemble looked somewhat presentable. Nesta reached for one of the tissues, dabbing it lightly over her face in places where the heat of her embarrassment melted her foundation slightly, and sighed. What was she thinking?

She made herself count to ten before going back into the dining area, her mind already crafting a pathway back that did not involve walking past the guy’s table. There was a staircase on her left, in the corridor right by the bathroom door, that she hadn’t noticed before. The sign next to it had been written in a language she did not understand, though the message seemed pretty obvious—no entry. Shame. Nesta would have done just about anything to hide upstairs for the remainder of the night.

“I was wondering where you went,” a voice appeared beside her.

Nesta stilled. He sounded exactly as she’d imagined.

Please, let this be a dream, she begged silently. A hallucination from the humidity.

If only.

Slowly, she turned from the stairs and faced him.

Up close, he was almost criminally beautiful. He knew it, too, there was no doubt in her mind about that—not as he folded his golden-brown arms over a powerful chest, leaning against the wall with a smirk. He was so ridiculously large that he shielded most of the restaurant from view—barely, just barely, she could make out her sisters’ forms, sure to be watching them intently.

The idea made her thoughts sharpen, like a fog lifting from her gaze—pretty or not, he was still a man, and Nesta was hardly one to fall at their feet at first glance.

And so, schooling her features into what she hoped was cool indifference, she asked “Excuse me?

A chuckle.“When you left your table, I was hoping you were coming over the say hello,” he mused, his voice like a melody sang by the darkest night—low and smooth over her skin, penetrating every fibre of her being. Nesta nearly gritted her teeth as a new fire awoke inside her—hot, teasing and wet.

He’d sought her out.

“I don’t think your date would share the sentiment,” she said, careful to keep her tone aloof.

His brows knitted over hazel eyes—from up close, she could see the speckles of green dancing around his pupils. “My…” he paused, a shadow of confusion clouding his face as he took in her words. “Oh.” A smirk curled the corner of his lips. “Mor is a friend.”

“You have very pretty friends.”

He hummed. “Wouldn’t hurt to have one more.”

She couldn’t help it—couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her own lips. “You’re very cocky for a…” A what? With a face like that, she couldn’t really blame him.

He flashed her a grin, as if he knew exactly what was going on in her mind—and enjoyed every last bit of it. “What’s your name?” he asked. God, she liked his voice. She liked everything about him.“Nesta,” she said, extending a hand.

He lifted himself off the wall, stepping in close enough to take her hand into his. That delicious heat stirred in her again at the contact—at the warmth of his skin, the slightly calloused fingers. She began wondering what he did for a living—until all thoughts evaporated from her head as he leaned to brush his mouth over her knuckles in a light kiss.

“Cassian,” he said, and the liquid fire descended down to the deepest, most aching part of her.

“Cassian,” Nesta repeated, testing out the name on her tongue. It did not sound nearly as nice on her tongue as it did on his—though Cassian hardly seemed to agree, from the way his eyes darkened at the sound.

He released her hand much too soon for Nesta’s liking. “I was about to have some dessert. Would you like to join me, Nesta?” he asked, motioning to the stairs and up.

Nesta’s brows furrowed. “Upstairs?” she questioned. “Isn’t it a private area?”

Cassian smiled at her again, and suddenly, she stopped caring about signs altogether. “Oh, it is,” he said. “Lucky for us, my brother owns this place.”

Lucky indeed.

“What of your date?”

He snorted. “I told you—not a date.”

“You know what I mean.”

Cassian jerked his chin to his table, a secretive twinkle in his eyes. “She was waiting for somebody else.”

Nesta followed his gaze—to where the beautiful woman, Mor, now smiled openly as she took the hand of her new companion. The woman who had taken Cassian’s seat returned her expression, her dark eyes shining brightly.

“Oh,” Nesta simply noted.

“Yes,” Cassian agreed, something like amusement creeping into his tone. “What’s your final verdict, then?”

Nesta shot a quick glance at another table—where Feyre was now giving her what seemed like a thumbs up. 

“Lead the way,” she told him.

Cassian, it seemed, did not need to be told twice.

The room upstairs was a lovely studio, the interior similar to that of the restaurant. A small but well-equipped kitchen made up the corner on the left side of the entrance, divided from the rest of the space by a dining table of dark, polished wood. A couch stood by the windows toward the back wall, overlooking the village beneath. Nesta moved closer to the sight—it only took her a few steps to reach the other end of the apartment—as though unable to help herself, to admire the soft lights glinting from inside every household. The sea laid on the other side of the building, but she could still hear the gentle rustle of waves docking ashore. Now, with a peaceful view and a change in company, she felt her appreciation for this place grow.

“It’s beautiful.”

Somewhere behind her, Cassian hummed. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Nesta turned on her feet to meet his gaze—only to find it occupied. Cassian’s eyes surveyed her closely, sweeping over the curve of her hips, her waist, her breasts—until they finally settled on her mouth, something bobbing in his throat at the sight.

For some reason, Nesta’s mouth felt dry. “Do you stay here often?” she asked, but her words felt distant, absent even as she spoke them.

Cassian shook his head, his gaze reluctantly moving to meet hers again. “Only sometimes. My other brother usually watches the place.”

“You have two?”

He nodded.

“I have two sisters,” she said.

He took a step towards her. “I saw.”

“You were watching me?” she asked, the question no more than a breath. He was so close to her now—she could wrap her hands around his neck if she wanted to.

His voice was hoarse as he admitted, “I was.”

Nesta went molten, all the heat he’d rallied inside her fluttering in her belly and swirling down to her core. She needed him to touch her now—anywhere, everywhere, all at once. She wanted to know how those fingers would feel as they traced the curve of her breasts, how they’d stroke that aching place deep inside her that thrummed under his stare.

He saw her—had spotted a stranger in the sea of candlelight and decided to wait for her move. The thought sent a shiver down her spine—she fascinated him just as he did her. 

Perhaps this trip had not been such a bad idea after all.

Feeling bold, Nesta closed the distance between them and laid a hand on his broad chest. She tried not to gasp at the hard muscle she felt underneath—at the heartbeat that began to race under her touch. She couldn’t help but smirk.

A large palm covered her own. “So, Nesta,” Cassian said, the low rasp of his voice caressing that desperate tightness inside her. “Tell me what brought you here tonight.”

She had a feeling he didn’t mean the restaurant. “I wanted to have some fun.”

Something twinkled in his gaze as he asked, “Not enjoying your time on the island so far?”

She slid her hand up to his neck, her thumb reaching to brush the roughness of his stubble. She could’ve sworn he shuddered slightly at the touch. “Could be better,” Nesta teased.

His eyes darkened. “Let me show you, then,” he pleaded. “Let me show you a good time.”

“Yes,” Nesta breathed.

In a quick and definitely practiced move, Cassian grasped both her hands in one of his palms, lifting them above her head. A sharp gasp tore from her lips as he pinned them to the wall behind her, his grip on her deliciously firm. Nesta’s exposed shoulders brushed the stone, its cold touch instantly smothered by Cassian’s hot breath on her skin as he leaned down to crash his lips into hers.

He tasted like fire and the richest of wines, the feel of him nearly dizzying, consuming. His other hand rested heavily on her waist, trailing upward as if wanting to explore every last inch of her. Nesta’s lips parted slightly when he cupped the side of her breast, and his tongue slipped forward to meet her own like a hungry flame.

His body pressed in closer, and Nesta arched into him, desperate for more friction. Like a bolt of lightning, pleasure rocked through her she felt the hardness bulging under his trousers, digging into her stomach in repressed need.

“Take this off,” she commanded between breaths. Cassian chuckled.

As he pulled away, sliding his shirt off in one, swift motion, Nesta allowed herself a moment to admire the man before her. With his chest laid bare to her, he looked like one of the marble sculptures that decorated the space downstairs—like some kind of ancient warrior, crafted from iron and flame. He was intoxicating.

With her hands freed, she moved to trace the cords of carved muscle with her fingers, delighting in the sight of his chest falling in uneven rhythm. “I was right,” she mused, more to herself than him.

“About what?” Cassian asked, his question no more than a rasp.

Nesta flashed him a smile. “This is going to be fun.”

His lips found hers again at that, the kiss deeper now, more desperate, as if he wanted to ingrain the feel of her into his memory forever. A rustle of fabric signalled his hands on the hems of her shirt, and Nesta raised her hands, suddenly feeling very smug about her decision not to wear a bra for the evening.

A low, feral noise escaped Cassian’s throat as he took in the sight. Nesta shivered, and it had little to do with the breeze that made its way in through the open windows she was nestled between.

His hands slid down her body, and Nesta stopped breathing entirely as he circled the tip of a finger around her pebbled nipple. Her nails dug into his arms, the sensation of his touch on her sensitive skin tantalising. She needed more of him—and she needed it now.

Then, Cassian flicked her nipple, and a wretched moan ripped free from her throat. Cassian snickered in delight and flicked again, the touch drawing just enough pain this time to spur another, clawing ache that dripped between her thighs.

“Cassian,” Nesta pulled away, panting. “Wait.”

He stopped immediately, moving back an inch to meet her frantic stare. “What is it?”

“The windows.”

Cassian frowned slightly. “What about them?”

“They’re open,” Nesta said, her breath still uneven. “There are guests downstairs—”

A very satisfied smile curved his lips upwards. “Well,” he teased, his hand on her side moving to wrap under her thigh. “I guess you’ll just have to be very quiet, then.”

And with that, he lifted her up.

A thrill shot down Nesta’s spine as he pinned her to the wall again, and she hooked her legs around his waist, pulling him in to settle between them.

“Just like that,” he praised, his other hand sliding down to grip her ass. There was a feral edge to her smile as she looked up at him, and a low rumble reverberated through his chest. “Nesta—”

She let her name drown in his mouth as she brought her lips to his, her legs wrapping tighter around him. The core between her thighs throbbed with her need, her anticipation, begging to be filled—to be given what she so badly wished. Keeping one of her hands on his neck, she slid the other down to the buttons of his trousers, working them quickly until another, grey fabric appeared.

Cassian groaned into her mouth as she skimmed her hand down his length.

“Who’s quiet now,” she mocked, her fingers teasing him again.

“Bossy,” he panted, his own hand moving to spring himself free at last. Any smug retorts her mind began crafting died on her tongue as she took in his cock, the breath in her chest hitching at its size, at the velvety shaft promising to completely and utterly wreck her.

He pulled her own, black skirt up to her hips before she’d even realised, as desperate for her as she was for him. Cassian’s hand moved to cup her ass again, fingers digging into the pliant flesh deliciously, as the other reached down to guide himself to her entrance.

His cock brushed the thin layer of her underwear, practically soaked with the pleasure he’d coaxed from her. “You’re killing me,” Cassian breathed, feeling the wet heat welcoming him, urging him in. She could not longer endure it—the feel of the blunt tip of his cock so achingly close, and yet not nearly close enough.

He seemed incline to agree as the sound of a ripping fabric filled the space between them. Cassian discarded her underwear to the floor before Nesta managed to open her mouth in protest, the darkness in his eyes drowning out the hazel.

“You won’t be needing it anymore,” he told her simply, his hand returning between her legs.

Her gaze followed the movement. “Is that so?”

The asshole had the audacity to wink. “I promised you a good time, did I not?” he asked, another wide smirk blooming on his beautiful face as he lazily teased a finger at her entrance, her aching cunt coating him in her slick. “Seems to me like you are,” he hummed, crooning his digit inside her.

Nesta gasped, her walls immediately clenching around him, pulsing with need. He hissed at the sensation, his cock twitching impatiently beside his hand, begging to take its place. Nesta could not agree more—she needed more, needed to feel the fullness of him inside her, to find out just how deeply she could take him. Her vision glazed with lust as she watched him add another finger, stretching her with ease.

“Cassian,” she urged, her voice tight now, strained as those fingers retreated and dipped into her again, stroking in a slow, steady rhythm that threatened to push her over the edge. Too soon—she had to find out now, had to get her craving satisfied, had to have him fill her entirely before she exploded. “Cassian,” she said again, louder, this time as her thighs shook slightly around him. It felt so fucking good and he knew it, from the smile she felt on her neck as his mouth lowered to nip at the exposed skin.

“So impatient,” he purred, his breath hot beneath her ear and shooting that familiar lightning through her again, setting every nerve in her body on high alert, tingling. His pace quickened, pulling in and out of her increasingly tightening centre, and she rolled her hips into his hand, pushing him deeper, her efforts messy, needy. “I want you to come for me, Nesta,” he told her, his lips descending on her neck again as he added, “Before the real fun begins.”

Release crashed into her without warning, her inner muscles clenching him tight as she moaned loudly, unable to contain her the sweet, white-hot fire inside her any linger. Cassian’s mouth found her own again, the kiss muffling out the sounds of her pleasure from any unwanted spectators as his fingers continued to ride her through it. Nesta’s tongue darted into him, scraping over his teeth, not nearly satiated enough—she wasn’t sure she would ever get enough of him. 

He did not break apart from her as he wrapped both arms around her again, taking them to the couch a feet away. She straddled him the moment his back rested against the cushions, the feel of his hardness against her now dripping core rekindling that greedy fire inside her. She rolled her hips once, twice, relishing in the feel of him, in the guttural sounds he was making in return. His palms rested on her sides, lifting her slightly before flashing her a wicked smile.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he teased, the broad tip of his cock nudging at her entrance again.

God, she was in such deep shit.

Without another thought, Nesta slid her hands to his neck and drew him inside her.

All the air was sucked from her lungs at the stretch of him, of every aching inch as she lowered herself on his cock. Cassian hissed sharply, his grip on her hips tighter now, as though he needed to restrain himself from thrusting deep inside her, to give her a moment to adjust to the thickness of him.

But Nesta was done waiting.

She grasped a hand at his shoulder, urging him to move closer, deeper, to move with her until she could no longer see anything but stars. She could practically hear how wet she was as his strokes grew steadier and devastatingly precise, each one of them reaching further into her core, each one making her breaths go shorter and her legs grow weaker.

“Nesta,” Cassian panted, his head dipping to the crook of her neck, “You feel incredible.”

Maybe it was the way he spoke her name, low with a flash of possessiveness in his dark eyes, or the praise he’d thrown at her, but she shuddered with delight as she sunk fully onto his length, her walls gripping him tighter. Cassian swore loudly, the curse in that language she didn’t understand yet still shooting jolts of pleasure through her body. She looked down to where they joined, to where she was split open around his cock, where he dragged himself up and down the slick folds of her cunt.

Her pace quickened at the sight, something in it breaking the last shred of composure within her.

Nesta mewled as he pushed in deeper than ever before, his cock hitting the back of her cunt, stroking that sensitive spot inside her that made her melt entirely. She moaned his name, no longer caring for whoever might hear—there was only the fire erupting inside her as he filled her, the sound of his heavy breaths as he matched her pace, the wildness in his eyes as she moved on him, deeper and deeper.

She felt the inevitable tug of another climax, creeping in closer and closer with every thrust, every flutter of her cunt around him. Her legs trembled, threatening to give in the next time his cock found that secret spot inside her, her breasts bouncing with her movements.

“Cassian,” she choked, throwing her head back as his hands slid up to cup them.

Cassian’s mouth closed around one of her nipples, and she exploded.

Her walls clenched around him hard as she came, Cassian following swiftly after as his thrusts became messier, more chaotic until he finally gave in. His groan reverberated into her body, settling deep beneath her skin, caressing every shuddering inch of her as she rode them both through their joint release. They recovered together, their heaving breaths syncing into one, and it felt so good and so right that she never wanted to leave.

When Cassian’s eyes searched her own again, flickering brightly, Nesta couldn’t help but grin.

“I believe you promised me dessert,” she told him.

His gaze swept over her body, over the mess she’d made of him, and when it returned to hers at last, it was filled with a new hunger that sent heat into her once more. “Yes,” he hummed. “I believe I did.”

Taglist: @sv0430 @queercontrarian @asnowfern @helhjertet @isterofimias @octobers-veryown @fieldofdaisiies @teamazris @a-frog-with-a-laptop @jmoonjones

[inqorporeal]

I rescued an orchid from the grocery store last night. It looked small and pathetic, and next to the vibrant purples of the other plants, it was a subtle and lovely burgundy with interesting patterns on the petals. I have had very little luck with plants (other than the Christmas Rose I named Audrey III after it took over the kitchen) but I won't get better if I don't try.

Looked up orchid care instructions on the ride home, so the first thing I did was unpot it to inspect the roots. The poor things were tangled up in a dense brown spongelike thing that was definitely not any sort of potting medium designed to let it breathe and definitely way too damp. Some of the leaves were cold-burnt or broken, there was fuzzy mold on part of it, some of the roots were already browning and squishy from rot. I trimmed everything out carefully, cleaned as much of the brown sponge off as I could (it's adhered to some of the roots and I'm afraid to scrub too hard), and dug out the African violet pot that I got from a craft fair in my hometown years ago.

It's currently recovering wrapped around a little statuette of a shaman with a sandstone base soaked in water, on the windowsill in the bathroom to maximize indirect light, warmth, and humidity. No idea if it'll survive (I'm REALLY concerned about the root rot, which is why I'm letting the roots air out). But I ordered some potting medium and fertilizer which should arrive soon, so we'll see.

[pillowspace]

You had put very little thought into seeing new places before your adventures with the gods, but now, you had an preying need, a desire. The Celestial Realm had been beautiful, when you first saw it anyways, igniting a spark at all the wondrous landscapes. It made you wonder what you were missing out on back on Earth. Much as you loved your home, and were quite content to be there, sometimes you would venture out with one of the gods, whom had no trouble taking you places.

Today, your companion was Eclipse, the incredibly tall, crimson and coal faced god, head encircled by fiery rays, trailing behind you, staring out uncertainly with their many red eyes, dotted by yellow pupils containing black slits. They were just as unused to the travel after all their years imprisoned, the rocky, plateau-dotted desert stretching out on all sides. Passing under a massive light brown sandstone arch, Eclipse reaches up, stroking at the soft rock, laced with patterns and swirls while forming.

"It's pretty," you note, breaking the silence. The imposing being startles, glancing your way, tilting their head just the slightest bit. An awkward moment lingers before they hum, a more calm Meno side. "It is," they agree, moving past. A canyon swallows you both, following a straight line past prickly bushes and cacti. Dry dirt stirs at your feet, dust glimmering in mid-morning sunlight.

Soaking it all in, it takes a moment to realize your companion has stopped, currently staring intensely down at a rock a little ways off. Curious, you join them, your shadow unintentionally falling upon a long, spiky lizard that basks there, startling it from sunbathing. It blinks an eye at you and Eclipse, the god wide-eyed, watching it like a child that just found something particularly fascinating. They reach down towards it, but the movement disturbs the frilly creature, zipping from sight in an instant.

The god lowers their arm, disappointed. You offer a small pat along the appendage to try and cheer them up, smiling and gesturing to continue the walk when they look at you. They concede, gaze lingering for only a moment where the lizard had lain. How strange it must be for them, you think. From your understanding, neither Sunna nor Meno had held much care for the Earth before. Now, though, getting to see anything different was like a miracle, a fact that left you feeling crestfallen on their behalf. You knew things had been really hard for them, after their merge and the imprisonment, one of the reasons you'd forgiven them after the rough start to your friendship. Gods were strange beings, but they were also people, and neither deserved that.

You're yanked from your thoughts by Eclipse, stopping in front of you, examining you with a level of concern. "I'm alright," you swear. "Just thinking."

Curiosity brims once more, tilting their head. "About what?" they ask. You cringe at the idea of bringing up their past, knowing it's a sore subject, so instead throw on a smile, hands folding neatly behind your back, rocking forward on your tiptoes in a jovial motion. "About how lucky I am to have you all. You're all so amazing," you reply. Certainly not far from the truth. Despite everything that happened, the danger you faced, it is a constant thought in the back of your mind. You don't know where you would be without Eclipse, Sun, or Moon. Probably dead, or worse.

Eclipse preens at the praise, grin splitting wide, dripping obsidian liquid down their chin. Realizing, they turn away, trying to wipe it off, chattering between themselves, embarrassed. You smile, stepping up to tug gently at their sleeve. Looking back down at you, you guide their hands forward, laying their massive palms on top of yours. "You're okay, Eclipse. I've seen worse," you assure them. You think, for a moment, that they might cry. It passes, though, their hands lifting off yours to cup either side of your head. A few streaks of the thick black fluid that caught on their fingers ends up smearing a bit on your cheeks, but you don't mind. They lower, nuzzling their face to yours affectionately, eyes closed. You return the gesture, smile farther softening.

Eclipse is reluctant to pull away, but does, releasing you. Your eyes meet their largest pair of red orbs, a shared fondness between you. Taking a hand, your appendage is engulfed in theirs when they carefully fold their fingers down, and you both turn and walk, hand in hand, deeper into the desert, content to continue your exploration together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 3 of 3 complete! Happy birthday! Hope it's a fun one! ☺️

UAHHH I LOVE THESE, THANK YOU SO MUCH 😭😭 POST-CSD ECLIPSE WAHHHHHH. I made the happiest sound scrolling through my inbox and noticing this here, I am giving you the largest wettest eyes. I ADORE THIS, THANK YOU!!

It also is fun seeing Y/N's perspective having mentions of Sunna and Meno, because that is something that i actually want Y/N's thoughts to be like a lot later on. Even after they find out about Sunna and Meno, I want them to not really linger on it and just think of Eclipse solely as Eclipse until about the end of arc 3 when they start properly trying to understand it. And Eclipse would be so fascinated by the Earth, despite having never liked it prior.

I GIVE YOU A MASSIVE HUG, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU

[passivenovember]

West.

(For my darling @cuepickle , ILYSM!)

--

Washed in fire-cracker light from a pit in Steve Harrington’s backyard, Billy swallows an entire topaz ocean from a can and stops wishing for California.

Because he’s piss-drunk, crinkling aluminum in his fist to keep from reaching out, into the flame, to prove that it’s all a dream. A feeling that will pass. And Steve’s smoking through Billy’s pack of Marlboro reds, one right after the other, the little train that could.

It doesn’t make Billy angry. It used to. Because he wanted to be the lighter in Steve’s hand and the smoke in Steve’s lungs and the blood rushing, confident, through his veins, and he never knew it.

That’s the thing about Billy. If it’s not coming from a textbook, he’s slow on the uptake and eager to swing out of misplaced anger. But once he figured out what this was, catching butterflies in his hands, he settled for friendship and he’s happy about it. Thrilled and content to share his cigarettes until the stars stop spinning like they’re caught in a washing machine, and he hopes against hope, that. Steve’ll stay put.

That they’ll sit close enough to touch all night long.

That even though people keep trying to drag Harrington back into the house, where they’ve got a game of beer-pong going and the stereo thumping so loud Billy thinks the Earth might crack open–he hopes that Steve will stop searching for tomorrow’s bright spring rays, too.

So, Billy stops dreaming of California.

“This is nice,” Steve says. The wind tousles his hair, kicking up notes of leather, coffee grounds, and vanilla ice cream. Billy wants to bottle it and make a fortune.

“Yeah,” He determines, instead. There’ll be time for masterplans and grand crimes later when Harrington’s the first to fall asleep.

Steve leans to scratch his leg, staring out at his empty swimming pool. “You’re having a nice time?” He asks, and Billy thinks all the color is gone from his face. But maybe it’s just the shadow of the new year closing in. Maybe it’s the moon.

Billy wants to make him smile. “Yeah.”

“That all you can say, Hargrove?” Steve glances over, cheeks red from the cold.

And he's gorgeous.

Billy's never seen anything like him in all the world, so he keeps a textbook full of moments exactly like this one. He never loses track of them, leafing through their worn and well-loved pages whenever he's lost in seas of brown.

A smile plays at the corners of Steve's lips, "Me too," he says, soft and secret and so like an eclipsing planet even though beyond a scraggly line of ferns and balding oak trees, tripping all the way along a path of bronze sandstone, all of Hawkins is getting trashed on the sloppy seconds from the Harrington’s Christmas party.

Steve doesn’t mind it. He’s got the world in his hand, a wristwatch that’s stopped working, and all of Billy’s attention focused as a searchlight, on his pretty, pretty face.

The whole cheerleading team is probably wondering where they are.

Billy can’t get his legs to work, they’ve turned to vanilla pudding. “What’d you get for Christmas, richie-rich?”

Steve shrugs and turns back to the pool. “Pair of Nike’s, that new Queen record, a pack of cool-ranch sunflower seeds, some kettle corn-–”

“Wow, Momsie and Papa couldn’t roll the savings account for you? Aren’t you an only child?”

“I got a Playboy desk calendar, too,” Steve passes his-their-Billy’s cigarette without a second thought. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving.”

Suddenly the backdoor opens, and a pinpoint of yellow flashes in a sea of dark, dark winter.

Billy uses his free hand to shield his eyes.

Steve clicks his teeth, annoyed when he shouts, “I’m busy,” to the short, pissed-off figure that calls his name into the night.

“It’s fine,” Billy tells him, swinging his legs over the side of the pool chair so he can get his feet under him, “They’re probably lost in there without you.”

“No,” Steve snaps. The thick gold band he stole from Billy’s gym bag after training camp this summer taps a frantic tune on the metal chair beneath him.

And Billy gets the sense that this isn’t a casual conversation.

That Steve’s got speeches and roadmaps snaking like candy-land fields in his mind, a clear goal trapping them in this moment on the last Friday of winter break, two hours past midnight on the first day of a brand new year.

Steve looks at him. Studies him.

Says, after a long, weightless moment, “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” and Billy’s mind goes a hundred and one places. None of them good, all of them baring teeth and claws and spikey bones from years of rotting decay.

"Feeling brave, Harrington,"

Steve grins in spite of himself, "Maybe,"

And somewhere behind them, the pinpoint of light goes out.

Steve takes a deep, uneasy breath. “I’ve been thinking about graduation.” He starts, and the world tilts sideways.

Frosted blades of grass crunch underfoot of someone drawing closer and closer to whatever grenade Steve’s about to throw on their perfect, carefree night. A stranger, or friend, or–-

Neil, for all Billy knows, is set to get a front-row seat to Steve’s admission.

I know what you are, Billy imagines him saying, kind eyes finally slicing Billy open after so many months of liquid care, I know how you feel about me and what happens in your gym shorts when you see my ass in the showers. I’ve seen how you fuck yourself open on your fingers imagining that I’m pressing myself inside you because we’re in love with each other–-

Steve gulps down the rest of his beer and turns, so their knees knock.

It hurts, and it doesn’t. He swallows panic, anyway.

Billy gets like that at the first sign of trouble. Sensitive as an overripe peach. All those times they put their hands on each other and Billy doubts Harrington knows that he bruises easily. That he carried Steve’s fingerprints on his skin for weeks after--

“It’s just,” Steve says, eyes cast to the ground. To the crust of the Earth, knocking politely on the lid of Billy’s sneakers, “When I think about my future, it gets fuzzy.”

“Yeah, that’s normal, I think.” Billy turns, eyes straining through the darkness to find the owner of those clandestine footsteps. The yard is empty. He passes the unlit cigarette back to Steve and wonders, through a cloud of haze and terrifying anxiety, if he imagined the whole thing.

Maybe they’re alone, after all. Maybe Steve will go easy on him. Maybe—

Steve lets the cigarette fall to the ground.

“Wasteful,” Billy says, trying to cast light on the mood.

“I don’t care, I’ll buy more."

On the tip of Billy’s tongue, he feels red-hot jealousy inflate like blown glass. Typical, he wants to say, you rich bitches don’t give two shits about the resources you deplete or the mouths you take them from, and still–-

Call it a habit.

Billy’s trying to file his own edges down. Doesn’t want to be that guy to Steve anymore, the one who says those things and means it, because–-

Billy bites down until he tastes blood to stop from saying something stupid. But the thought comes an hour and four beers too late.

Steve won’t look at him and Billy’s trying to find the hole in their lifeboat before their friendship sinks. There’ve been a lot of parties this break. A lot of weed smoke, a lot of tequila shots, and stolen six packs exchanged for frozen pizza, and Billy thinks for an endless moment that maybe he said something, once.

Got shitfaced and lost in the pink feeling when Steve carried him home and put Billy to bed and crawled under the sheets with him, so close but not touching, until they both fell to dreams.

Maybe Billy got too comfortable in their safe, easy friendship, and ruined everything.

Maybe Steve knows.

“My future,” Steve tries again, eyebrows pinched in a way that’ll give him wrinkles before he turns thirty-five, “It only makes sense if I imagine–-”

“Jesus Christ, It's fucking freezing out here."

Billy cranes his neck and Robin appears, windswept and higher than a kite, balancing along the abandoned edge of the pool. Her cheeks are red from the cold despite the insulated overalls that still hold last month's mustard stains, and the leather jacket she stole from Billy’s room and never gave back is slung around her shoulders.

They stare at her for a long, breathless moment.

“Y’all scared me,” She says, rubbing her hands together, "Am I interrupting something?"

Billy turns back around, "Not really," He says, at the same time, Harrington snaps, "Kinda," All teeth and none of that sappy best-friends-who-can-read-each other's-minds bullshit that he keeps on tap.

“You knew we were out here,” Steve clarifies. He flicks a cluster of ash from his sun lounger. “You were standing at the door, calling my name.”

“I was calling both your names.”

“Bullshit,” Billy tells her, chuckling.

“Not shit,” Robin says, plopping down on the pool lounger next to him, “I called both your names and when I heard Steve’s voice I thought maybe you went into the woods together.”

“How much dope have you had tonight?” When Robin waggles her eyebrows, Steve frowns, “We wouldn't go into the woods. Don’t go into the woods, Bucks.”

“Too late, I already did,” Robin snatches their cigarette off the ground and takes the lighter that’s offered, pinching the filter between her front teeth, “It’s fucking freezing out here–-”

Billy grins. "You already said that."

“We were talking,” Steve bristles. His eyes are narrowed, pools of honey covered in bees and wasps and he doesn’t say what Billy so clearly sees between the lines. We were talking–-

And you interrupted us.

Robin frowns. “What could you possibly be doing out here that couldn’t happen inside?”

“You mean the very same inside that’s caught under the mind-numbing cadence of Wham! and the watchful eye of half the school?” Billy shrugs, “Wasn’t my bag.” Billy takes robins-his-Steve’s cigarette and tells the truth. “Harrington’s waxing poetic about the future.”

“My future,” Steve says.

“His future,” Billy clarifies.

“Jesus Christ. It’s the last Friday of winter break, can we please not do the college thing?”

“Quick, check her head for bumps,” Billy deadpans, stealing his cigarette back. It’s comical, coming from Mrs. SAT herself.

Robin knocks her shoulder into Billy. Hard. “I’m serious. You guys put too much pressure on yourselves.”

“I got into UC Berkeley and it was my first choice,” Billy teases, “Don’t worry about little Hargrove, he’ll be shouldering summer road trips and bags of dope in four years' time.”

“Four and a half years, let’s not jump the gun,” Steve says, He fiddles with the sanded edge of his beer can, a thousand and one thoughts racing by like taxi cabs behind the curtain of hair on his forehead. “I can do that, now,” He says like it means something.

“Steve,” Robin begins softly, “What’s wrong?”

“God, nothing,”

And Billy’s smart enough to know when a bomb’s set to explode. Harrington’s got fire in him, it burns on a simmer like the focused light from an oil lamp, high in a tower overlooking the sea. He’s good at steering conversations and batting his spindly shutters to get what he wants.

It’s what makes him the King.

And Billy has to physically swallow his own tongue to stop from saying that Robin’s efforts are pointless.

Steve’ll talk when he’s ready if he ever gets there at all, and to be honest, Billy hopes the train doesn’t arrive tonight.

Billy’s feeling selfish.

Wants so desperately to skip the big, emotional conversations and for the light to return to the sky. For the last Friday before the spring semester to lose twenty pounds so it can fit, cookie-cutter and all, into the mold of Billy’s senior year. He doesn’t want to think about the future, there’s plenty of time for that.

Mostly, he wants to go inside and get drunk.

“C’mon,” Robin tries, kicking the toe of her boot and Steve’s sneaker together until he grinds his molars, “You can talk to us,”

Billy groans.

“Just because Hargrove and I are going to the same school-–”

“Buckley, leave the kid alone.”

Steve is silent for so long that Billy grows a headful of gray.

"I don't care about Berkely, I just care about California," He says. He looks at Billy, peers right through him and Steve’s eyes are glittering like a million wayward stars. Like he might cry. “I wanted to-–”

Billy springs to his feet.

“Jesus, can we just go inside?” Billy’s fingers itch for the comforting cylinder of aluminum. He wants to dance, and he’d take Cher or Madonna. George Michael–-

He pats the seat of his pants, instead, so it looks like he’s searching for something to smoke.

He doesn’t miss the hurt that flashes, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, across Steve’s face.

“Alright,” Harrington crumples his beer can and tosses it, sharply, into the dark hollow of his swimming pool.

“C’mon, Steve, Bills is just being an asshole,” Robin’s nose wrinkles. She’s trying really hard to look serious and interested and sober. “What were you going to say?”

“It wasn’t important.”

“It was important enough for you to hold Billy hostage for the last hour and a half,” She takes the last puff from her cigarette, losing steam in this conversation, “You know Heather Duke was playing twenty questions, trying to figure out where Billy ran off to?”

“I don’t care about Heather Duke,” Steve says bluntly, “What makes you think I would ever give a shit about–-”

Robin is unphased, “Seems kinda like you give a shit about Heather Duke.”

And all at once, Steve snaps.

It’s like watching a tree fall in the woods. Silent, and then all hell breaks loose and the world ends.

“You didn’t have to come out here,” Steve says, about as even and gentle as the aftershocks of a hurricane, “You could’ve stayed inside with everyone else.”

“God, you’re such an asshole when you drink brown beer, it makes you delusional-–”

Billy sits back down.

“--Shoot me for wanting to make sure my best friends are okay,” Robin tells him, dry as an old desert bone.

“We were fine,” Steve snaps.

“You drank a bunch of beer and then fucking vanished.”

“If you think I’d ever let anything happen to him–-”

“--Harrington-–”

“--You’re out of your mind, Buckley.”

“Fuck you,” Robin throws her cigarette at Steve’s face. “Come find me when you’re done acting like you’re the only one who’s got feelings,” She says, and then she’s off. Stomping across the frosted lawn until the french doors slam shut behind her, harsh and final.

Steve kicks his sun lounger.

“Hey, easy, pretty boy.”

“We were having a private conversation,” Steve snaps. When he looks at Billy his eyes are glossed over, wet, huge, and afraid. “We were talking, and then–-”

“What the fuck has gotten into you?”

Steve frowns, spine going taught like the string of a bow, poised to kill.

Billy shrugs, confused to the very core of him. “In all the months I’ve known you and crashed on your couch and gotten piss-drunk in your shitty fucking car I’ve never seen you act like this. Robs mentions Heather Duke and-–”

“What, you care about Heather Duke, all of a sudden?” Steve scoffs like Billy’s the most irrational, irritating, piece-of-shit guy on the planet. “You know her dad bought her a nose job, like, two weeks before you moved here?”

“Oh my god, who gives a shit? I’m here with you. Right? I’m right here,” Billy shouts, uncaring for how his voice echoes against the bark of a million barren, dying trees, “Can we try and have a good night? It’s the–-”

“If you say it’s the last Friday of break one more fucking time–-”

Billy wonders what crashed Steve’s yacht into the rocks. What’s got his panties bunched up, and why Steve feels like he’s got any authority to stop Billy from getting a few good orgasms in before sunrise.

He doesn’t get the chance to ask.

Steve rubs the wet from his cheeks. “Forget it,” He says, “Let’s just. Let’s go back to the party, alright?”

“Steve-–”

But he’s gone.

Before Billy even has a chance to say that everything will be alright, Steve’s gone.

It’s another hour before Billy has the courage to chase after him.

—

In a room full of piss-drunk kids and aluminum barrels and honey-comb ashtrays that look like they’ve spit up all over Mrs. Harrington’s nice coffee table, Billy drinks the edge away.

Steve said he was going back to the party but he’s nowhere in sight. Robin’s missing, too, and Billy has no doubt they’ve hugged and made up. They’ve got a Care Bear cut to them, you know, can never go to bed angry.

Billy imagines that they’re in the mast bathroom right now. Swimming in Ma Harrington’s jet tub, or painting their toenails in the guest bedroom that overlooks the west-facing tree line. He wonders if they’re drunk enough to talk, hushed and trepid, about their fears.

Billy wonders if he’ll ever fully fit in with them. If he could ever belong anywhere else.

Eventually, the house starts to empty. Tommy H. says some dumb shit about being hung out to dry, all, if Harrington wanted to fuck the weird girl in a quiet house all he had to do was say something, but everyone else is too drunk to fake a laugh.

Billy tells him he should move the party to his. “Your parents are in Aspen, right?” Billy wonders, swallowing the last sip of his last beer for the ‘85 season.

“Yeah,” Tommy H. slurs, so he uses Billy’s head as a push lever to stand on the coffee table and knocks Mr. Harrington’s ashtray onto the carpet. Says, “Hey guys, afterparty at my house,”

No one in their right mind wants to go home plastered.

So the house clears.

Billy sinks into silence about as easily as a rock in the ocean. It swallows him, the distant drone of the heater is his only companion as he vacuums drifts of cigarette and marijuana ash from the carpet.

He runs the loud machine about the whole room to tidy up, imagining that with this invention Billy is cleaning up the last, terrible dregs of a very long year.

It’s freeing.

Billy’s weightless, so on cloud nine that when someone thumps on the floor upstairs he wonders who could be so high above him. Higher than his crown of mussy curls, taller than God himself.

Billy takes the stairs leisurely, focusing every free inch of brainpower on putting one foot in front of the other.

And the thing about Steve’s house is that there are a million long, winding corridors that Billy can’t navigate even when he’s operating at peak performance, you know. Drinking lots of water and eating root vegetables and laying off the cigarettes and following the thread of gold that trails after Steve like toilet paper stuck to his shoe.

Billy’s shitfaced and out of breath by the time he’s run out of guest rooms to investigate.

There’s no one here, Billy thinks.

No one but me, and the pipes–-

“Billy?”

Steve’s in his pajamas. He looks a little bit like Winnie the Pooh, in red flannel, rubbing at his eyes like maybe something woke him from a deep, dreamless sleep but Steve isn’t angry about it. Because he sat up all night waiting.

“Thought you left,” Steve mumbles, eyes squinted as if every bulb in the house is burning at once.

“Why would I leave?”

“I thought maybe I pissed you off and you went home with someone else,” Steve pads forward, voice soft and warm with curling tendrils of exhaustion.

Billy wants to touch him. Billy aches to run his fingers through Steve’s hair and pull and tug until the guilt is smoothed from his face.

Most of all, Billy wants to kiss him.

And he’s so used to that feeling sitting like a hot coal in the very center of him, heating words and emotions to boiling until they bubble up and spill over in ways Billy could never stifle, even with a lid to the flame.

Billy’s so used to it that he shrugs, instead. “I’m wasted,” He admits, because it takes the sting away from the thought that Harrington’s suspicious of him. That once the alcohol burned everything away, Billy whored himself out. Chose someone else. Abandoned ship even though–-

“I know,” Steve smiles softly, “Me too.”

“Where’s Robin?”

“Asleep,” Steve confesses. They stare at each other for a moment and Steve’s expression melts. His smile is washed away, happiness swallowed by grief. “Listen, Billy–-”

Billy pads toward the bedroom. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“But I–-”

Billy takes his shirt off, slipping out of his boots and trousers on autopilot. There have been so many nights exactly like this one, so many beer-filled memories of slipping under the covers and feeling Steve, warm and soft, curl up behind him.

But it’s almost like a switch has flipped and after their friendly spat by the pool, they’ve been sucked into an alternate dimension where the awkwardness that stuck like wet paint to their friendship and never really dried.

Steve stands next to the bed, now, teeth rattling from the cold.

Everything’s quiet.

“I was an asshole,” Steve tells him.

Billy’s exhausted. “Stevie, get in bed.”

“Things are changing so fast and I just-–”

Billy’s already half asleep. “I don’t give a shit about that, Steve, it’s alright,” Billy settles in with Robin. She snuffles, rolling over until she’s settled enough to begin drooling slick over Billy’s left nipple.

He lets his eyes slip closed, breath calm even as the mattress feels like it’s lost at sea.

Billy cracks open one eye, glaring up at Steve where he’s watching Robin and Billy with a small, sweet curl to his lips. “Come cuddle, you shithead,” Billy mutters, knowing he’ll be embarrassed about that tomorrow.

Steve looks afraid. Young and frightened and so uncertain.

It’s a strange, unusual look to see on Steve’s face.

Billy’s heart pinches, shuddering painfully in his chest. “C’mon, Harrington, I’m cold,” Billy tries again. He knows he won’t be able to fall asleep without Steve. It’s a dorky, pathetic development as ancient as the stars.

Even when he’s home, lounging in his own bed on Cherry lane; even when the days are decent with no fights and swinging fists because Billy did his chores and minded his tongue, when there’s nothing to cry about and nothing be up early for, Billy doesn’t dream as easy as he does here.

With Steve.

So Billy shuffles toward the edge of the bed, smirking when Robin flips over onto her stomach. “If you get in here with me you can tell me all about it, alright?”

“And you’ll listen?”

“And I’ll listen,” Billy swears.

Steve bites his lip. He shuffles for another few seconds and then gives in, laying on the other side of Billy.

And Billy is too drunk to notice the way their bodies naturally curl around each other. Like clinging vines and stone houses, soft greenery seeking warmth. Billy puts his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, pushing into the calloused fingertips that trace the curve of his spine.

He’s warm.

He’s already asleep, dreams lapping like warm ocean water against his toes.

“I was thinking,” Steve says, “About the future?”

Billy makes a noise, floating on Steve’s mattress.

“I just. I want you–” Someone’s snoring. “Goddammit, Robin.”

Billy curls away from the sound, slinging one leg over the waist of that soft, murmuring voice to stop it from disappearing. It blends in with the texture of the night. It slips away but that doesn’t matter.

“Billy?”

Billy dreams of the boy it’s attached to, and he falls asleep, succumbing to the mystery of the future.

–-

“This is your fault,” Robin says. She dips a green bean in tarter sauce and licks all of it off before chewing, “Well. Mostly it’s your fault.”

It’s fish-fry day. Reminds Billy, like a spot of paint on a big bright canvas, just the tiniest bit of home. He’s in a good mood, taking his time with his mashed potatoes, hasn’t even cracked open his Pepsi, and it’s like the afternoon catches on a low-hanging branch and pops open. Ripped at the seams.

Billy’s slow on the draw, mouth smeared with lazy ease. “What now?”

“Steve,” She says. Like duh. Like, “It’s your fault.”

Billy stabs his last fish stick. Imagines blood and guts, little water-logged voices screaming in pain, “You’re full of shit.”

“I’m full of astute observations,” Robin tells him, looking around and leaning forward like anyone in first lunch gives a damn about Steve or either of them, for that matter.

Billy’s cool died, right along with his heart, the first time Steve smiled at him.

“You really need to pay more attention to the people around you.” Robin continues loudly, “Just because we don’t have 20-pack abs-–”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Buckley?”

“You were there. You saw how Steve blew a fuse.”

“Wasn’t like he was running in tip-top shape anyhow,” Billy spots Heather Duke across the room, batting her lashes so hard it looks like she’s got something in her eye. "Are we really talking about this?"

She waves.

Billy doesn’t wave back.

“Stop making fuck-me eyes at your girlfriend,”

“Buckley,” Billy warns, eyes snapping, poised to kill, on Robin’s face, “You’re on thin ice.”

“I’m always on thin ice,”

“More than usual,” Billy clarifies. He leans forward, close enough that he hopes his tarter-sauce breath kills Robin on the spot. “I’m not taking the blame for the Princess’ shitty New Years' mood.”

Robin doesn’t plug her nose. “Well, you should.”

“Why, because I’m a reformed asshole and that makes me a scapegoat for everyone else’s neurosis?”

“No,” Robin says dryly, “You’re probably the only person on the entire planet who can let him know everything’s going to be okay.”

Billy flops back in his seat, scrubbing at his face and tugging at his hair like maybe if he buffs hard enough, he can be a new person. Shiny and clean. The type that does shit like this, who can open like a spring flower and not care about the bees.

Eventually, Billy inflates again. “Steve hasn’t said anything to me about anything.”

“He’s probably embarrassed.”

“--The guy who brags about being best friends with a Middle Schooler–-”

“Okay, then he’s worried you’ll reject him,” Robin says.

And.

The first boy who ever had a crush on Billy pulled his chair out from under him. Billy cracked his head on the desk and had to get four stitches. Billy’s mom drove him to Urgent Care and said boys only do that when they’re in love with you.

Because they can’t find the words, she’d told him.

In retrospect, it makes sense to Billy that his mother would say that. All she ever knew was love the color of fresh bruises.

But the thing about Steve is, he’s full of words.

He drips honeyed dad jokes and terrible made-up song lyrics about the cowlick that floats in Billy’s hair when he’s had too much to drink. Steve spins stories about the future and says things like when we’re at college together and when we’re roommates and I get to trap you forever by my side–-

He’s stuffed to bursting with sunlight and easy promises.

And the thing about Billy is, his whole life has been about death. Rebirth, too. Over and over and over again. He’s had to rework what love looks like from all sides, proving to himself time after time that nice boys don’t leave bruises when they hold you in their arms. They don’t crack skulls and split lips with anything but their teeth.

And when blood spills, it’s all by accident.

They clean it up with their mouth. They spit it out again, and it's golden healing.

Billy’s pretty sure he falls through the chair.

Or maybe, the legs break out from under him. And the Earth crawls away, nursing split crust and shattered plates. And the cosmos burns up, like. In one fell swoop.

That first crush times a million and Steve isn’t even here.

“What,” Billy rasps. He clears his throat. Chokes and tries again, climbing up a mountain of truth. “What does that mean?”

Robin won’t look at him.

Billy leans forward. “He’s worried that I’ll stop hanging out if he’s vulnerable with me?”

Robin’s cheeks are red. So pink Billy would chew a roll of HubbaBubba to color match with the fuzzy damp of her skin.

“Did Steve say Friday was my fault?”

She picks at her food.

“Robin,” Billy says.

Robin shakes her head. She won’t look at him.

Billy grinds his teeth, “Robin.”

“No, Billy.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“I’m not getting involved–-"

“You’re getting a head full of mashed potato if you don’t tell me what you’re talking about,” Billy scoops what’s left off his tray, gripping the handle of his spoon so hard he’s sure his palm starts bleeding.

“Billy,” Robin starts.

Billy raises his eyebrows in a venomous threat, leveraging the spoonful of mashed potatoes he’s got locked and loaded.

He’ll do it. He’ll fire the first shot and every blow that comes after and Robin knows he will.

She shifts in her chair, “I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

Robin shakes her head. “I was supposed to keep quiet.”

“Dammit Robin, why the fuck are you speaking in riddles? Why are you acting like you can point fingers and pin blame all from the comfort of your fucking high horse and not get your shit rocked for it?”

“I’m not on my high horse–-”

“Bullshit,” Billy slams his spoon on the table. “You can’t tell me that everything is my fault and not speak the fuck up.”

Billy won’t stand for it.

Robin frowns. “Maybe ‘everything,’ was a bit dramatic.”

“Ugh, Robin.”

“Maybe I should’ve chosen my words a little more carefully,” She dodges the mound of potatoes that goes flying, cheeks red as the sun. “I would’ve. If I could do it over again, I would.”

“Spare me.”

“You know I can’t control my mouth once it gets going, I get, like. Verbal diarrhea.”

Billy jerks into motion and starts gathering his lunch scraps.

Because he’s got a thing about blame, at the root of him. Being saddled with the weight of everything. Everyone’s shit mood and shit decisions and shit consequences, all smeared down the front of his heart just because he’s strong enough to hold it.

Robin stares at him as he slings his backpack over one shoulder. The calculus textbook he’s read twice cover to cover, sits like a familiar childhood blanket against his shoulder blades. His heart rate slows, everything grinds to a halt, and that’s when he realizes that Robin’s about three seconds away from crying.

At lunch.

In the lunchroom.

“Steve’s been such a good friend to me,” Robins says quietly. “He’s never aired my shit, you know? Or put himself in the middle of something that didn’t concern him.”

“Steve’s a good person, he wouldn’t do that.”

“But he could’ve,” Robin scrubs at her face just to make sure it stays dry. “I guess I'm still a little pissed off about Friday.”

Billy slides out of his backpack. “I don’t really blame you. Something’s bothering him, I’ve never seen him flip his lid like that.”

“I’m really worried about him, Bills.”

“And you think I’m not?”

“No, I know you are, it’s just,” Robin bites her lip again, so hard Billy worries that blood will trickle onto the Formica table top. “Have you talked to him about his acceptance letters?”

“His college acceptance letters?”

“Yes,”

Billy blinks, more confused than he’s ever been in his life.

He’s embarrassed to admit that it’s been the farthest thing from his mind. After Billy got into Berkeley and Robin followed close behind, like a toppling domino hellbent on majoring in Forestry, Billy just sort of assumed, that–

“Steve didn’t get in.”

Robin studies her picked-over lunch tray and the table beneath that, like maybe the wood grain will hold the key to the universe if she stares hard enough.

Billy slips into his backpack.

Robin jerks up at him, frowning, “Where are you–”

“Steve’s got free period next, right?”

“Yeah–”

“I’ll be back in time for Calc.” Billy kisses Robin’s cheek, immediately wiping the taste of nosey lesbian from his lips.

Chapter Management

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Chapter 2

: as long as you followChapter Text

Whatever Steve’s supposed to do with his life is a distant cloud on the horizon until it’s not.

And as his father would say, hardly glancing from the dotted line splayed on the desk in front of him, that Steve’s wrapped in a Molotov of distraction.

He’s never had to work a day in his life, really work, because Steve’s mother wanted him to have a bright and easy childhood. And because of the angelic grace given to him as the result of a long line of lovers who wanted better for their love, Steve won’t make anything of his life.

He digs his heels into that truth, ever his father’s son, making sure to take chunks out of it.

He wants to gather that harshness into a pile and create something else. Build a home or a treehouse or a getaway car.

So he drinks and smokes and fucks his way down the river. Past roiling clouds of semester finals and homecoming games , never really clocking that behemoth milestone in the distance.

Until Billy, who makes Steve so crazy he feels radioactive.

Billy talks about the future all the time. With a curl to his lips and a beer in his hand, ribs and knuckles bruised. When I’m finally out of here and I’m back home, standing in the summer waves—

He makes grand statements. He could sell Steve a plot of land at the edge of the world, his bare feet dangling in the cosmos because anywhere is a step up from here.

And at first, college is a welcome ticket out of Hawkins and away from Billy and all the confusing, fucked up things he makes Steve feel. But then, just as quickly, it becomes about doing everything in his power to stop the wedge of the future from coming between them.

It becomes about giving Billy something to hold onto. It becomes about all those gnarled things his father told him about failure and family names.

Steve’s future starts to look less and less like what he’d never fully imagined. It  doesn’t belong to himself, or to his father, but to Billy.

Just like everything else, it.

It becomes about mortaring a foundation and building a thatched roof to come home to when the stars grow cold.

But love doesn’t change his transcript.

And all the money Steve would rather die than take from his father to make every problem swallow itself doesn’t chip away at reality. For Billy, doors, and windows have opened into bright, golden pastures flanked by possibility as deep as the Pacific ocean, and Steve.

Steve will only hold him back.

–-

He chews on that for a while.

It grows thick and gummy from unsheathed worries and unshed tears and Steve wishes, into the empty well of his endless swimming pool on New Year's Eve, that things were different. That all the money he’s sitting on like a lucky dragon with a pocketful of coins could change the fork in the road.

Steve tries to ignore it.

Billy’s leaving in four months and he’s taking Robin with him and Steve wants that. Wind in Billy’s hair, you know.

Life.

It’s killing him. Robin knows, but only because Steve was wasting away.

She thinks he’s being a dumbass. “Just talk to him,” She says, “You never know what he might say, right? He could–”

What? Steve doesn’t tell her. Billy could give up his dream and stay here in Hawkins and rot and rot and hate me forever.

Billy asks him, “What the fuck has gotten into you,” That night and so many times before. Astute and scholarly and beautiful like an open flame when Steve can’t fake any more smiles.

Billy’s got to fly away. And Steve, regardless of whether he’s earned his wings, wants to jump after him.

–-

He’s parked at the quarry and the sun’s playing peek-a-boo.

On the hood of his car, Steve digs at his jean pockets and tires to imagine that the future could be like this. That maybe, without Robin’s big mouth and Billy’s fierce protection, Steve could find spots of sunlight to bask in so he won’t freeze to death.

But, really, every day is overcast.

He’s tired of pretending otherwise.

So it’s fitting that right as Steve considers walking ten extra feet to the lip of the rocky ground, Billy’s car pulls to a thundering halt and almost skids past the rope barrier, careening off the cliff and into the raging waters below. Steve imagines jumping after him. He would. He–

“You didn’t get into Berk,”

There are countless clouds on the horizon. “Nope,” Steve says, and he pop’s the P because it feels right. New Year New Steve–

Billy shoves him off the car hood. “You’re an asshole.”

Steve can’t fight anymore, “I know,”

“Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”

There’s so much he could’ve said then. And now. And always.

I love you, he tries, staring out at a distant line of trees, I want to give you the world.

Steve shrugs his shoulders. “Nothing will change it.”

“Your parents have money, Steve,” Billy tries, and that’s just like him. Steve’s biggest cheerleader.

But Steve lost, alright? The game. The guy.

“It’s not any kind of money I want.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Billy shoves him again. His eyes get caught on Steve’s collarbone, tracing the line of his sweater. “Why aren’t you wearing a jacket?”

“‘M not cold,”

“Your lips are almost blue.”

“So I’ll freeze to death,” Steve admits, like. Big whoop.

But then Billy’s shrugging out of his jacket, “Here,” He says. Pissed and venomous like it’s going against his personal code of ethics to keep Steve alive when all he’s ever been is a dumbass with a hazard sign taped to his ass.

When Steve doesn’t take the warmth that’s offered to him, Billy steps close–

So close Steve gets wind of the ylang-ylang oil Max got him for Christmas

–and drapes the jacket over Steve’s shoulders.

It’s sweet.

It’s exactly the kind of thing Steve would’ve done for Nancy, back when he thought he knew what love was supposed to taste like. It chokes him up, gets those huge, impossible words lodged in the back of his throat so when Billy lights a cigarette and hands it over, Steve nearly chokes to death.

He lives.

Billy sits on the hood of the Beemer. “What are you gonna do now?” He asks.

Steve puffs on the Marlboro, “Maybe I’ll work at my dad’s office.”

“You’re not doing that, Steve.”

“Okay, then I’ll go missing,” He passes the cigarette back over, trying to brush Billy’s skin with his fingertips one last time, “Maybe I’ll die if I’m–”

“What happened to Marine Biology?” Billy shifts on the hood of the car so his knees press, sharp as knives, into Steve’s hip bone.

He looks so open. Earnest and dead-set on solving all of Steve’s problems for him, making a way, and forging a path in fire when the road won’t yield its secrets. It’s so Billy, so exactly the reason Steve loves him, that. He can’t hold onto it anymore.

“That was a lie,” Steve admits, “I don’t know shit about biology or the ocean beyond what I’ve seen on the History channel, I just. Wanted to be with you.”

The truth lands like cold water on Billy’s lap.

Steve flicks ash from the end of the last cigarette he’ll ever share with Billy, and. Thinks this is what love tastes like. Truth and smoke and clear, bright wintery air.

“My whole life, nothing and no one ever really made sense. For so long I was avoiding every turn that brought the future because I didn’t know what it was supposed to look like, but then–”

“But then?” Billy asks, so quiet Steve almost misses it.

He takes a deep breath. “I met you,” He admits.

And it feels good.

It’s almost as good as flying, so Steve takes a deep breath and says, “I met you and everything made sense. You talk about the ocean so much that I really did want to learn more. I thought, if he loves it then I could, too. Because I love him and I would do anything, be anyone, if it would make him smile. I wanted to study its ways and become fluent in its language so when you spoke, I could talk back. I wanted to be good enough to make you love me, good enough to take you away from here, But I’m not.”

Steve scrubs a hand across his face.

“You don’t need me to take you away from here, though. I think I always knew that. You’re strong enough to do that yourself. I’m sorry I’m not good enough, Bill.”

The sun disappears behind a bank of thick, gray clouds, and Steve imagines freezing solid.

It’s fitting. A neon sign that proves Steve was right.

Billy takes the cigarette when it’s offered to him. He doesn’t say anything for so long that Steve starts the grieving process, truly dawning a black veil for the death of what was and what never will be.

Steve slides off the hood of the car.

“Do you want to see the West with me?”

He looks over his shoulder. The wind kicks Billy’s curls into his face, hiding his eyes so he looks like a mysterious figure, an ancient God, offering the world on a silver tray.

“I,” Steve mutters, “I don’t understand–”

“You can’t stay here.”

Steve stands his ground. “I can. I have to.”

“I’m not letting you go,” Billy determines. Because he’s beautiful and stubborn and when the wind flows into the east, his eyes bore holes into the cosmos.

Billy slips off the hood of the Beemer, heels cracking so even though they’re standing on even ground all of a sudden, Steve imagines toppling through the crater left behind and voyaging to the center of the Earth.

Billy must pick up on Steve’s master plan.

He sets his jaw in a cut line that has always and will always mean business. “You can’t offer me the world and then take it away because you’re scared,” Billy tells him. He steps close, fingers toying with the hair at the base of Steve’s skull. “I want to get out of this fucking town, Harrington,”

“You should,” Steve blubbers. He’s crying, when did he start– “You should run away and never look back, you know?”

“I plan to,” Billy says bluntly, “And you’re coming with me.”

“Billy–”

“Here’s the plan,” Billy wipes at Steve’s tears, his own eyes dry and resolute. “Over spring break, we’ll take that trip to California just like we said we would. We’ll smoke a lot of dope and I’ll teach you to surf and Robin and I will look around campus–”

“--That sounds great-–”

“--And we’ll find an apartment,” Billy insists, somehow eclipsing the sun and the entire vast, endless spread of the Earth behind him. “We’ll find an apartment, and you’ll go to community college and even if you decide to write terrible poetry and do nothing else for the rest of your fucking life, it won’t matter. Because we’re gonna grow old together, okay?”

He grips the ends of Steve’s hair and tugs, yanking until Steve finally cracks a smile.

“Okay,” Steve says.

When Billy kisses him, it’s like falling apart and fusing together, over and over again until Steve is made new.

Somewhere between the past and the future, the sun escapes the bank of clouds

They hardly notice.

[sungbeam]

𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐮

jacob bae x gn!reader

1.8k words, est. relationship au, low-key idol au?, long distance relationship, kissing/intimacy (cuddling, holding hands, the works), fluff, angst, me missing home, jacob bae brainrot is a disease and i've been thoroughly infected, i can't believe i didn't curse—

a/n: if u couldn't tell, this is inspired by jacob's latest instagram post :') for vibes, listen to malibu (miley cyrus), golden thing (cody simpson), and 17 (julia michaels)

When the soft stream of morning light hit Jacob Bae's eyes, they fluttered open, squinting and crinkling to adjust to the natural alarm clock waking him up. There was something so beautiful about early morning sunlight, the way its pale, buttery glow filtered through the window and seemed to shimmer against the dust particles in the air.

He sighed through his nose, arm tightening around your waist as he buried his face into your shoulder to hide himself from the waking world.

You barely stirred, but you had been awake for a while, lying still in an effort to give him the rest he deserved. Your phone was across the room on a table charging next to his; again, hiding from the world. "Cobie," you whispered, voice barely audible.

He had heard you loud and clear, though, only replying with a whimper of opposition. "Mm-mm," he refused, head shaking against you. "Darling, don't wanna," he replied lowly, his mouth moving right by your ear.

Your body was content to stay with him. Well, your whole being was content on staying with him, but the point of this trip was so you and him could frolic around California on his week off. Today you would be in Malibu, but the next day, you would probably end up somewhere in the Bay area or maybe even across the state in Tahoe. Time was of the essence, but…

It would have been nice to simply lay here in bed together, to waste the day away. Every day, it felt like the two of you had to fill it with something productive or else it felt like you'd wasted it. With so little time to see each other or spend time together usually, this was your chance to finally have each other to yourselves.

Your arm dove beneath the warm covers to find his hand locked around your stomach. "Come on, hon, there's a really good donut place nearby," you coaxed.

A beat. "Do they have cereal flavored ones?" For a moment, you thought he sounded almost childlike, and you smiled.

"The best," you promised.

As if you'd said the magic words to wake his body up, Jacob released a small groan like a set of creaking hinges on a door frame. He lifted himself up onto his elbow and hovered over you, nose nuzzling against your cheek as his lips grazed your own. "Good morning," he said, a whisper threaded with lingering drowsiness.

You smiled against his mouth, hand reaching up to cup his face gently in one hand. "Good morning."

One fruity pebbles donut and an iced americano later, you and Jacob found yourselves on the sandy shoreline of Point Dume, beneath the looming cliff sides painted in lush green and sandstone. The highest point of the cliffs speared high above your heads as if reaching up to touch the overcast skies themselves.

The both of you had slipped your sandals off at the precipice of sand and boardwalk earlier, opting to hold your shoes and feel the grains of sand between your toes. Jacob grabbed your hand, fingers curling with yours, entwined hands swinging between your bodies.

Seagulls screeched to the symphony of gently rolling waves. Jacob's gaze was turned toward the infinite horizon. "I always feel like the coast is so gray," he said to you, like a question.

Your eyes stared ahead, mentally trying to recall the walk from here to Paradise Cove. "Yeah, you'd think it'd be more sunny, huh?" You mused. "It's really overcast by the coast, most of the time, unless it's like deep summer. But it should clear up by the afternoon."

"It's kind of nice." It was then that he tipped his head back, his dark brown bangs sliding slightly out of his eyes and the hood of his navy jacket falling backward. A smile widened on his face. "Feels serene and warm. I like it."

You let out a small chuckle, eyes relishing in the serenity reflected in his face. He could breathe easy here. "I'm glad you like it. I was worried you'd be sad to not have the full beach experience I promised you."

Jacob's attention went to you then, his face in innocent disbelief. "Not the full beach experience? All I need to enjoy my time is to have you right here, next to me."

You beamed, eyes ducked toward the sand. "You're so cheesy, jeez," you teased and nudged him with your entwined hands.

He laughed then—the sound was bright and twinkling, louder than the surf itself. "It's true! I just… I'm glad I can be here with you. We've been talking about having a trip like this together for so long, and I…"

The two of you had stopped now, bodies angled toward and facing the other. Your hands sat linked together between you still. Jacob wet his lip with his tongue, the words having died upon it.

You could feel those words echo in you, too. All the words unsaid, the reality that neither of you wished to face. "Well, let's make the most of it and enjoy it while we can, o—okay?" You hated how your voice broke off at the end and quieted. You wanted to be strong; all of this angst was just going to ruin the mood of this trip, and he didn't deserve to have this cloud hanging over you for the remainder of the trip.

You knew he would be able to see right through you as soon as you made eye contact with him. So you didn't.

Instead, you tugged on his hand and shot a grin back at him. "Race you to the next lifeguard tower!"

Jacob yelled in playful outrage as you tore down the shoreline, kicking sand up in your wake. "Oh, you're gonna lose so badly just for that!"

Both yours and Jacob's laughter lit up the beach and for a moment, you could both pretend that this was forever.

Oftentimes when you were home, here in California, golden hour and sunset was one of the few times of day you looked forward to. However, as you and Jacob settled on the soft sandy bank with twin cones of soft serve ice cream in your hands, you couldn't help the distinct anchor of dread sinking to the pit of your gut.

The breeze was cooler, crisper than it was early in the day. The yolky sun sank beneath the horizon, until the last of its golden rays radiated against the sky in a hazy afterglow.

Jacob had his eyes on you for a while now. Though he idly lapped at his ice cream cone, he sensed that there were feelings you were harboring in your chest right now, bottling them up in an attempt not to upset him. Your quiet wasn't necessarily unusual, but there was a stiffness to your posture like you were curling your body in on itself.

He quickly finished off the rest of his ice cream, then shouldered his jacket off to drape over your shoulders. When you turned your head to look at him in question, he only shifted closer to you so your back was to his chest.

"Thank you for today," he murmured to you, his breath warm on the skin of your neck.

"Of course," you said back.

Jacob leaned his cheek against your back. "Tell me what's wrong, darling. What's going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?"

He felt your sigh. "I just don't want this to be over yet." You cleared your throat, "We don't have a lot of time left."

"We still have the rest of the week," he assured you softly, though, his heart beat became leaden in his own dread. Yes, the rest of the week laid ahead of you, but afterwards? What then? His hand gently smoothed up and down your arm in an attempt to calm you both down. "But I understand. I don't want this to be over either."

When you couldn't find the words to respond, he continued, "I want to be selfish—I wanna be so selfish, Yn," he confessed. "I love my job and I love what I do, but that means that I can't see you or be with you very often. And today… just proved to me how badly I've missed you. I haven't felt at peace in a very long time."

You finally leaned back against him so you could share your weights, share your burdens.

"I'm sorry," you croaked, "and I know it's not necessarily my fault, but it hurts to hear that you have to feel that way." You peered up and back at him, his eyes meeting yours with the same kind of sheen pooling at the precipices of his eyes. You tried for a sad smile, hand finding his amongst your tangled bodies on the cool sand. "I don't want to waste this time either, because you'll be leaving soon."

He nodded, head ducking slightly to tuck into the crook of your neck. "It'd be nice to be selfish for once," he murmured into your skin, lips trailing up slowly from your throat to the angle of your jawline.

Your free hand lifted, cupping the back of his head to hold him tight against you. "It would be," you agreed.

But it wasn't who he was. Jacob wasn't a selfish person, not someone who would go out of his way to get what he wanted, especially if there were other people in the mix. It was, of course, part of why you loved him so much. His heart was far too large for the world sometimes.

You shifted in his hold to turn around and face him then, your hands resting flat against his chest.

You met Jacob's eyes, his hair falling in his eyes and his jacket falling off the slopes of your shoulders. Your fingers delicately brushed his bangs away so you could see the last bits of pinkish daylight fade out to a bruised purple reflected in his irises. "Let's be selfish for a week," you told him. "Just you and me, okay? You deserve to be a little selfish, Jacob."

His tongue poked his cheek, head ducking then raising to be level with you once more. "We… we deserve to be selfish."

Then he braced his hand slightly behind you, his other coming up to cup the side of your face. Jacob crushed his lips against yours, the feeling of his chest flush against you, your matched heart beats—grounding you to reality. Your arms came around his neck to pull him to you like the waves to a shoreline, begging for just another touch.

And for just a moment in time, you could both believe that this could be your forever.

a/n: a tad bittersweet :') pls do remember to rb, comment, etc! <3 ty for reading!

tbz m.list

permanent taglist: @tayunji @im-a-big-mess @honeyhuii @y3jiishot @crazywittysassy @seomisaho @stopeatread @enhacolor @rnjfy @jaehunnyy @kpopjackie @spiderrenjunfics @soobin-chois @stayarmytinyzenmoa-l @ethereal-engene

[claybefree]

Tulip Poplar

Sorrow is my own yard

where the new grass

flames as it has flamed

often before but not

with the cold fire

that closes round me this year

William Carlos Williams- The Widow’s Lament in Springtime

Every spring I have to ask for the name again. Tulip poplar, Saucer Magnolia, something like that, you’d think I wouldn’t be surprised by her anymore. Whereas last week empty arms cast veins of silhouettes across a cold carpet of previous year's leaves, today I’m able to come home from a long day of work, and face her canopy of flowers, half open like teacups, and that is miraculous news. I take it as further evidence that after two years the sucking wound in my chest has finally closed.

Each March was a celebration, a maelstrom of pink hung beneath the blue, pinks so dark along thick shouldered leaves, almost purple, and then bleeding out rapidly to porcelain white, there was no ignoring it. I notched one end of an eight foot pallet we brought home into the main cluster of stems, six feet up and propped the other end with a door. Of course the kids never climbed into the blossoms, but we did.

Now everyone’s gone but me and the whole yard creeps more every year, abandoned gardens filled with weeds crawling out of their beds, privet’s relentless march choking everything in between. A cold wind brushes the tulip against the rafter tails outside my bedroom, waking me. Limbs resting on roof shingles, a stitch of yellow rope left from a swing I hung years ago cut deep into the bark like a tourniquet. Her blooms will turn brown and slimy and clog the already rusted gutters. Neither tree nor house belong to me but as far as I’m concerned, I’m the steward of both, for now.

So I spend sixty dollars that I do not have on a bright orange pole saw from Lowes which I run up into underbelly pierced with morning light, trying not to focus on saw teeth tearing past bark into white flesh, or sap raining onto my cheekbones. I’m grateful for the strength I have in my arms for this work today but I worry I got started too late in the season and the half dozen or more wounds I’ve left will become infected and kill her. Despite all this I work for the better part of a morning, and pile up branches tall as me in the burn pit in the middle of the yard. In the fall I’ll light it up and likely scare the new neighbors. The blossoms lining the crooked pile go for broke and open their white faces wide to the sun.

The days are consistently warm enough and the new tires on my motorcycle beg to be chewed up, but my heart’s not in it. Not yet. One morning soon I’ll blast out 64 sometime before eight thirty, get away from the Florida interlopers that keep trying to kill me and hit the Blue Ridge Parkway and adjacent counties on this side of the mountain- Nelson, Rockbridge and Amherst.

The best road out there is also the most dangerous, and yet with half a dozen ways up to the Parkway, I still find myself on route 56 more often than not. A million years ago I guess, before someone gave it a name, the Tye river cut a gorge out of the mountains, twisting impossibly through the rocks and at some point homesteaders ran a road alongside and named that 56. Highly technical, it’s not the curves that will dump me. Every rental cabin and vacation home has a driveway cut into the shale and sandstone hills which provide, after every good rain, an opportunity for gravel to spill out on the tarmac. If I’m not on top of my game that’s what will kill me.

But before all that, when it breaks off from the Rockfish Valley highway, 56 passes through a couple thousand acres of farmland on one side, and the Tye river on the other. For some reason I think a good bit about the people who work that land. Last year the fields appeared to be left fallow, two years previous, in the fall, thousands of pumpkins were left scattered and rotting on the vine, collapsing into orange pulp. All I could think was that the pumpkin patch contract fell through.

I want to find the old timers and see if anyone will talk to me about August 1969, when Hurricane Camille dumped two foot of water in three hours and drowned birds in trees. When the Tye jumped its banks, broke the back of every bridge that dared cross it and cut the census of Massies Mill nearly in half.

Sometimes I see the pictures they post and get jealous of my friends who travel abroad, but I’ve decided what I need is to ride a motorcycle entirely too fast through the middle of some fields in Nelson county every three months and do that in perpetuity. I’ve been in that valley headed home late in the day with the sun low under the clouds turning everything golden, worried that I’m too far out. I’ve encountered the Tye river in a spring flood, washing across 56 nearly to the point where I had to turn back and find another route. I’ve ridden it half frozen in a driving rain, tucked behind the fairing with a mother of three on the back seat holding onto me for warmth.

Back in 2022, at my lowest, whenever I talked about tulip flowers or graveyard moss carried home from a chapel where it crosses over the mountain and heads down toward Vesuvius, my closest friends would encourage me to move out. They’d point to the marks on the door casing in the kitchen chronicling each child’s growth, five years worth, both hers and mine, and yeah, I got it. My argument was I’d have to find something else just like it- a shed for my tools, a garage for my bikes, somewhere to write. I dunno, man, I would say, it just feels like I belong here.

One of these days, instead of waving to them on their harvesters, I’m gonna pull over and talk to one of these guys. Yeah me, a wild eyed weirdo biker from the city rambling on about something I don’t know if I could even put into words. The idea of the two of us having a shared language with a place, a connection, whether it be on a tractor or a motorcycle, bound by both sorrow and joy. The connection running deeper because you’ve seen it flood, seen it bake, seen it come alive every year in a blaze of green.

Clay Blancett, 2024

[jovianaquarium]

ok so my lovely mutual @icarrymany dared me to post proof of my rock/min collection so this is his fault >:)

im not gonna go into depth on all of the samples bc 1. i dont remember the details on all of them lol and 2. it would take. forever

so instead ill talk a little abt one or two of them per section :3

first up: tumbled minerals!

i have a bunch more of these but after becoming a geology student they kind of piss me off bc raw minerals often look way cooler and tumbling removes the crystal habit (and also makes them harder for me to identify hgjhfd)

first image, from left clockwise: (possibly) blue lace agate, chrysocolla. labradorite, snowflake obsidian, moss agate, brown agate, and two samples of tigers eye

2nd image: up close picture of one of the tigers eye crystals, showing its lighter banding

3rd image: up close picture of the labradorite from a different angle, showing its pale green luster

my absolute favorite mineral ever is labradorite also!! i think its luster is gorgeous and ive heard it represents transformation and change, and i first got this sample back when i had just come out as trans :)

i dont really have a lot to say abt these unfortunately lol

anyway. next is fossils!!

1st image, clockwise from bottom left: trilobite cast fossil, tumbled stromatolite, dinosaur bone (? got this one at a mineral stall and the dude said it was a dino bone, didnt think to ask details lol), plant fossil, coral fossil, assorted fossil molds (mold as in taking the shape of something, not spores) in wackestone, mosasaurus tooth, crocodile (?) tooth, 2 ammonites, a turtle scute, a crinoid stem, and a (broken) orthoceras

2nd image: up close pic of the assorted fossil molds, which include horn corals (circular with ridges toward center, hole in middle), crinoid stems (cylindrical with ridges perpendicular to long sides), and shells

3rd image: up close pic of larger ammonite, with iridescent luster due to aragonite (a polymorph of calcite) replacing the calcite of the shell

4th image: up close pic of dubious tooth. i found this on a field trip about a year ago while looking for shark teeth. this is not a shark tooth. idk what it is. i think it might be from a crocodile but i havent been able to fully identify it lol

now.... raw minerals!!!!!

1st image, clockwise from left: moss agate, talc, serpentinite (this one is a metamorphic rock but i accidentally put it with the minerals and dont want to retake the pics. other geologists you may come kill me), two calcite samples, and a tiny topaz @ramones2 gave me

2nd pic: close up on the topaz crystal, which is light orange (if u leave these in the sun they get bleached and lose their color </3)

3rd pic: close up on one of the calcites. its crystals are a bit more squared and close-knit than the next calcite, and appear more white in color. there are also some small purple fluorite crystals mixed in. i traded with a classmate for this one lol

4th pic: close up on the other calcite. this ones crystals are more rounded and transparent.

5th pic: close up on the serpentinite. serpentinite is metamorphosed from peridotite, which makes up the earth's mantle (if youve ever heard that the mantle is actually green, that is true!! the green comes from olivine mostly, but also some pyroxenes). when peridotite is lifted up to the surface and comes into contact with water, olivine gets very unhappy and serpentinizes, or hydrothermally metamorphoses (water + some heat + olivine = cool as fuck snakeskin rock)

6th pic: another close up on the serpentinite, this time wet. you can see the serpent-like pattern a bit better.

finally: rocks :3

1st image, clockwise from bottom left: amphibolite, sedimentary rock with calcite vein (i dont remember what this one is lmao), malachite-bornite ore, iron-stained sandstone(?) with chalcedony/agate, phyllite, sandstone trace fossil of a burrow, and meteoric rock possibly with iron

2nd pic: close up on the ore, showing the malachite vein. it's almost powdery, with a gradient of light blue on the edges to teal in the center

3rd pic: another close up on the ore, showing the bornite vein. it's iridescent like an oil slick, with the main color being purple. this one is often called peacock ore for its colors :)

4th pic: . im gonna be honest i have no fucking clue bro. i think the mineral in it is agate/chalcedony (the lighter gray/white areas) and the red parts are an iron-stained sedimentary rock, but i forget if its siltstone or sandstone or smth else. idk. it looks cool.

bonus: extra pic of my rocks for further proof of collection

hope u enjoyed o7

[script-a-world]

Submitted via Google Form:

So I found out that blue is apparently rare in nature but I want it to in fact be relatively abundant in my world. Honestly for no apparent reason than it's my favourite colour and I want it to work in it. What would I need to change from real life in order to do that? Preferably from blue pigments but reflected light would also be great.

Tex: Blue is rare in nature because in order to produce what we perceive as blue, the red wavelengths of light need to be absorbed and not refracted out, so physical structures are usually relied upon instead (The University of Adelaide, Live Science). A lot of the work for this to be naturally-occurring was also covered in a previous ask.

However, there can be a shortcut to this - shift the wavelength band a little to the left and use ultraviolet. Flowers communicate with insects in UV light as a form of coevolution (Wikipedia), and when colour-corrected to a wavelength we can see, it comes across as blue.

Some examples:

Photo by Debora Lombardi (My Modern Net)

Photo by Craig Burrows (CPBurrows.com)

Feral: As Tex points out, nothing is going to appear blue if the people of your world cannot perceive the wavelengths of blue light. Even without UV, this trick of light is a popular option. Bluejays (and all birds with blue plumage) actually have feathers that are pigmented brown where we perceive blue because of a specific way air gets trapped in them.

However, another way to manipulate the proliferation of blue in your world is through geology and mineralogy. Tweaking the abundance of certain elements and how they are incorporated into the biochemistry of your world will change certain colors found in nature.

You can make certain blue rocks and minerals more prevalent. Basalt, slate, limestone, and sandstone are all common rocks that can appear blue. The mineral glaucophane can be mixed with basalt to create the metamorphic rock blueschist. Thus, the earth itself can appear more blue, rather the generally brown color we tend to associate with dirt, rocks, and sand. 

But metals and minerals are also very important in biochemistry as cofactors, nutrient minerals, and trace elements. Most people will know that iron is an important metal for humans because it carries oxygen in our blood stream, and this is why our blood turns red when it’s oxygenated - that’s what iron does. But crustaceans have a greenish-blue blood because the oxygen-carrier is hemocyanin, containing copper. Cobalt, important to Vitamin B12, is a nutrient mineral that comes to mind when I think of blue.

So what about the flora of the world?

Flowers and fruits get their coloration from two types of molecules: carotene and anthocyanin. Carotene pretty exclusively produces reds, yellows, and oranges. Anthocyanin generally produces reds and purples, but in the rare occasions a blue flower is produced, it can be due to a chemical complex called metalloanthocyanin, which contains magnesium, aluminium, or iron (or a combination). 

For a more scientifically robust look at coloration in flowers, including options other than metalloanthocyanin, check out this article, “Natural Blues: Structure Meets Function in Anthocyanins,” in the National Library of Medicine’s Center for Biotechnology Information Journal.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Eighteen (Part 2)

There are no family photos on the walls of this house, which is entirely different to my home. My mother framed everything, because I was the only child, and therefore everything I did and every milestone I achieved was wonderful and amazing. There’s a photo of me, eight and smiling on the day of my first communion that has pride of place on the mantelpiece next to my parents wedding photos, as though my first reception of the body of Christ (a wafer) was as important as their vow to each other. I was cute back then, but it’s easy to track my progression from cute child to awkward teenager by simply following the path of photos on the wall above the television, where I am immortalised forever in my school uniform, picture day after picture day, year after year until they mercifully stopped taking them at the end of primary school and I was free to duck away and hide my braces and acne from any and all cameras.

There are no such records in the Turner house. There are no notches on the door frames that measured the growth of the children, no ancient crayon drawings still stuck to the fridge, or, for the extra special ones, framed on the wall where visitors can see them. There’s no sad, punctured football in the back garden, or Ribena stain on the carpet, and I can’t see what’s inside the cupboard under the stairs, but I guarantee there’s no outsized roller skates or fad toy from Christmas 2002 stuffed in there either. This house is like somebody opened an interior design magazine and bought everything on the page.

Jude climbs on a chair to reach a box, way up high on the very top of a bookcase.  He settles next to me on the sofa and lifts the lid without any of the reverence or intentionality I feel it deserves, and hauls out a handful of photographs. 

“There are before me.” He says, and I don’t care about those ones. His mother is very beautiful, and when she’s young even more so, but Collette Turner is of about as much interest to me as I am to her. When he hands them to me I just leave them on the coffee table and poke my fingers around in the box with him until we find the ones from November 1991. 

“There I am.” He says, and rightly so, there he is. A tiny baby screaming in his mother’s arms as she, looking like a child herself stares bemusedly down at the pink, squirming thing in her arms. “Apparently all I did was make noise.” He says. “Nothing has changed there. I also wasn’t cute.”

“You weren’t.” I agree, but I like the photo anyway. Even in these first minutes of his life there’s something furious and uncompromising about him, all clenched fists and red face. He’s so tiny. My heart swells for him. 

“I did get cute though.” He says, putting another photo into my hands of him at maybe two years old, wearing nothing but a nappy and a pair of cowboy boots. He’s standing on wobbly little legs on some dirt path, while sandstone pillars and jagged rock formations soar up into the sky behind him. It’s the kind of landscape that you only see in cartoons. 

“Did you see the road runner when you were there?” I deadpan. 

He smirks. “That’s Bryce Canyon. My great aunt brought me along on a trip with her kids. I think I was two.” He flips it over to where Sept. ‘93 is scrawled in blue biro. “Almost two. Her kids were in college at that point. I think there’s photos of us all.” He has a quick shuffle through the stack and withdraws several more from Utah, mostly of him being held, or cuddled or kissed on his chubby cheeks by four twenty somethings who look like extras from Seinfeld. Looking at their faces, their patterned jumpers, their floppy haircuts brings back a sense-memory of what it felt like to exist in the nineties. That pervasive smell of cigarettes and the old, brown plastic ashtray on my uncle’s table. The cuffs of light wash jeans and the creases in my cousin’s white sneakers as I tied and untied his shoelaces beneath the kitchen table, and Paul Simon’s Obvious Child, and our old TV that spit out white noise and wobbled until someone banged it with their fist to set it right again. I feel as affectionate towards those snippets of memory as I do about this tiny, cowboy boot wearing Jude, perched high on his cousin’s shoulders.

“Is that your great aunt?” I wonder, pointing to a ruddy cheeked woman in her early forties that crouches down with her arms around him at the base of a sandstone pillar. 

“Yes, Maureen.” he’s mentioned her before in passing. I know that her husband was in the military, and that they lived all over the world for years. When he retired they settled in New Mexico, and she and her family were in the picture a lot when Jude was a child.

“When’s the last time you saw her?” 

“When I was fifteen, but it’s not always easy to find the time anymore. She calls me every Christmas and on my birthday, and sometimes she sends me gifts.” He brushes his thumb thoughtfully over the photo. “You know, I miss her. She was kind of like my other-mother for a while.”

“Maybe you should go and visit again.”

“Yeah, I’d really like to.” He digs through the box and pulls out a more recent one of them both from 2007. They’re standing in her kitchen with their arms around each other, and she’s short and round, and he’s so tall and gangly with a wooden beaded necklace on, and they both have the biggest smiles. “Maybe I’ll go in the autumn.”

“Definitely! I think that’d be amazing.”

“It’s just weird because it’s hard to know where I’m going to be then, you know? Now that I’m graduating from college I’ll have to, like, look for a job.” He says it like it’s a dirty word, and there is the tiniest twinge of anxiety in my belly.

“Something will work out.” I say passively. I’ve tried not to think about what’s going to happen after college, and whether or not he’ll decide to move back to Ireland again once he finishes his final project. We’ve just avoided the conversation, even though sometimes during our long talks we bring us right up to the knife’s edge of it before we stealthily change the subject, but I soon have to acknowledge the elephant in the room, and it’s that we don’t know where he’ll be in six months. We don’t know what things might look like between us, and neither of us knows yet what he wants. 

“Yeah, definitely.” He says hopefully, and I take the photo of him and Maureen so that I can take a closer look. 

“2007.” I murmur. “You were so dreamy. I wish you’d seen what I looked like in 2007, it’d be like a jump scare.”

He chuckles. “No way, Evie.”

“I had cystic acne and braces,” I confess. “I was so ugly.”

“You haven’t even brushed up against ugly in your entire life. And I had braces once too, believe it or not.”

“Oh I’d believe it.” I feast myself on the view of his immaculate teeth. “Did your dad do that?”

“He did, and funny you should mention him, because he’ll probably be home soon. Do you want to endure an awkward, socially inept conversation with him or do you want me to take you home?”

“Oof, tough choice.” 

Jude takes all of the photos from my lap and from the table and taps them gently into formation before stacking them back into the box where they’ll no doubt sit there unbothered for another few months or years, dusty and forgotten atop the bookcase. 

“Let’s get moving.” 

Jude’s car idles outside my apartment for half an hour, because every time I try to get out I look over my shoulder at him and feel compelled to kiss him goodbye, just one more time. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re a great kisser.” I say as his lips slide from my mouth to the curve of my jaw, and his fingers caress the nape of my neck. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Back of my hand.” He murmurs. “Glad you’ve noticed, I’ve actually never kissed a girl before.”

“Oh shut up.” I snicker. 

“You know, if you think I’m good with my mouth you should see what else I can do with it.”

I breathe out a laugh, and my body shivers so intensely from head to toe that I have to twist out of his grip. This is full-on dirty talk. I don’t know how to do that. I should probably give him a slow, seductive smile and say something like “Well why don’t you come upstairs and show me?” But I obviously don’t. I say “Oh.” and then laugh way too loudly which completely dissolves the sexual vibe and he goes from looking flirtatious to amused. “What?”

“I mean, you can come in if you like, I know I owe you one but full disclosure I haven’t shaved in days.”

“Are you trying to lure me in with handjobs and hairy legs?”

“Feeling enticed?”

“You bet.”

I lean back against the passenger door and wrap my arms around myself. “Well, whatever you want to do is fine.”

His expression is funny as he takes me in, my body language, the metre of space I’ve managed to carve between us, and his eyebrow twitches sceptically. “I don’t want things that you don’t. You know that?”

I nod. 

“When you want me to come in, I’ll come in, but you don’t have to do things for me just because you think you owe me.”

“I will want to.” I say. “Just later.”

“Well lucky for you I’m busy the next while. I’m in the last weeks of my thesis and I really need to buckle down, so if we’re fooling around it will probably not do wonders for my concentration.”

I pout. “But I’ll still see you?”

“Of course, I’ll always make time for you.” He pulls me into him by my wrists and kisses me one last time, and I’m starting to  wonder how I’ll ever be expected to kiss another man again when he pulls away from me. “It’s time for you to get out of my car. I’m wasting diesel.” He teasingly shoves me away and I scramble for the handle and scurry out onto dark streets wet with rain as he springs forward to smack my arse.  

“Later, alligator.” He says, and I shut the door behind me with a thunk. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[velidewrites]

To get back what the Cauldron has taken from her, Elain Archeron makes a deal with Prythian’s most dangerous enemy.

Now, a servant of a cruel Death God, Elain must make sure her efforts are not discovered—especially not by someone tied to her darkening heart by a golden thread.

Someone like her mate.

Notes: My humble offering for @elucienweekofficial. This fic is a post-ACOSF story — and very close to my heart as it’s based on the very first one-shot I’ve ever written.

Tags: Post-ACOSF, Canon Compliant, NSFW

Read on AO3 || Chapter 1 || Masterlist

Chapter 5 - Leave My Body Glowing

Helion did not show up for breakfast the next morning. Elain ate in solitude, since Lucien had gone—well, only the Gods knew where. He’d been up before sunrise, the sudden absence of his heartbeat ripping her from sleep.

Strangely, no nightmares had plagued her last night. She’d woken up to the soft whoosh of the sea the palace overlooked, and the soft neighing of a pegasus somewhere above her bedchamber. She watched it roam happily in the sky as the sun had fully come into view, something like content settling in her chest as she snacked on the colourful pastries the maids had delivered earlier.

She’d asked for their help in dressing—there was no way Elain would ask Lucien for advice—and, to Elain’s utter delight, they absolutely delivered. She stood in front of her wall-length mirror now, her reflection almost unrecognisable as a new woman stared back.

Female, Elain reminded herself, though no bitterness accompanied the thought this time. Her mind seemed too occupied with the change to resort to its usual storm of regret and anger, instead soaking up the light beaming from her reflection.

Elain looked like she’d been born to live in the Day Court.

Her corseted gown had been replaced by a flowy dress of rich sapphire—a thread similar to that worn by the High Lord yesterday, the colour resembling the surface of Day’s quiet sea as it soaked up the afternoon sky. The fabrics fell just below her knees loosely, flowing like a gentle breeze as she moved and revealing her legs—the golden sandals adorning her feet. Their heels clicked lightly on the marble floor with every step, making her feel giddy—like a sudden surge of joy rushing through her despite such simple of an accessory. She’d even asked one of the maids to line her eyes with kohl, a thin, slightly curled line at her lashes, pigmented with a colour similar to that of the gown, bringing out the brown of her eyes and making them look like pools of honey. She looked so different to the female from yesterday—and yet, it was still Elain looking back at her in the mirror. She still had her full lips, though they were curled up in an open smile now instead of their usual tight expression, her whole body relaxed and seemingly flowing along with the morning breeze.

It carried her all the way to the library as Elain walked to the High Lord’s famed collection, praying Lucien had not yet managed to find his way there, giving her at least a few minutes to do some research of her own.

A Day Court scholar she’d bumped into on the way—an elderly male carrying what seemed like a mountain of scrolls and texts, their combined weight surely exceeding his own—directed her toward the tall door at the end of a corridor decorated with sandstone walls and ivory statues. This part of the palace seemed older, somehow, more ancient than the marbled floors and pillars of her own wing, as though the foundations of the library held as much important history as the knowledge they stored.

Elain was not entirely sure what to expect from the space, but not even in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the sight unravelled before her.

Helion’s grand library spanned across what seemed to be the full height of the palace, climbing at least seven floors upward until she could no longer see anything but the sunlight pouring in through the ceiling—or rather the lack of it, as Elain realised, with no glass dome shielding the circular space. Instead, the sun shone freely into the halls, Helion’s own magic no doubt shielding the parchments and tomes from the weather and any other outside disruptions. Somehow, Elain doubted it ever rained here, the land seemingly covered in perpetual light and guarded by bright, fluffy clouds.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the musky scent of heavy tomes and dried-up ink. There were so many books in here that she doubted even a lifetime of immortality would be enough to make her way through them all. Elain began making her way inside, through the endless walls of bookshelves and desks, with piles upon piles of documents stacked in every corner of the space, the overwhelming prospect of knowledge and information like a magnet pulling in her sight. Her eyes flickered from one shelf to another, growing wider and wider at the sheer amount, her heart quickening as she realised just how much there was to be learned about the world.

She hadn’t ever left the human lands beneath the Wall—and then, in this new life, she’d hidden deep in the Night Court, dreaming about the home she’d abandoned. She had no idea…

Her steps carried her to the second floor as thought with a mind of their own, and Elain did not realise she found herself in a secluded section of tomes shining a spectrum of vibrant greens and yellows, the texts practically calling out her name. She moved in closer, hands reaching for a heavy tome with an elegant, leathery cover of a grassy shade of green. A small gasp escaped her lips as she opened it, a hand-painted picture of tulips gleaming softly from the page.

The text beneath read, The Tulip Fields of Cordana—a small human kingdom bordering the faerie lands deep into the Continent. Elain’s heart quickened as her father’s words came back to life in her mind.

My dear Elain, I promise to take you there one day. The fields are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—other than my lovely daughters, of course, he’d added quickly, making Elain giggle.

Her mother died shortly after that, and then…well.

Her father was right, though. Elain didn’t need to stand in the fields to marvel at their beauty. The bright colours of yellow and pink and amethyst were vibrant even on the yellowed page, and Elain began reading through the fields’ history, nearly devouring the story of the young human queen who’d first planted them centuries ago.

She was just flipping the page when a smooth, quiet voice sounded behind her. “Tulips?”

Elain jolted—and winced as a sharp sting cut through her finger, the paper slicing her skin when she whined back.

“Shit!” she swore as droplets of blood began beading at the small wound, staining the old page with a fresh red.

Lucien chuckled. “I had no idea you were capable of such foul language,” he mocked.

She glared at him. “Helion is going to kill me—I hope you know I’m going to tell him whose fault this was.”

But Lucien did not seem to mind, his gaze elsewhere as he stepped back an inch, sweeping it over her form. Her own heartbeat picked up as she heard his breath catch in his throat, mouth parting slightly in surprise as he took her in—the long, exposed legs, the bare skin of her shoulders, the golden-brown hair framing her face in loose, cascading waves. The sapphire-lined eyes as she returned his gaze, waiting for him to say something—anything before her cheeks truly and openly heated under his stare.

“You…” he started, the word no more than a gasp on his lips.

“Yes?” she asked, her own question breathless.

Lucien’s throat bobbed as he opened his mouth—but then, his gaze slid down to her hand.

“You’re hurt,” he managed to say.

“What?” Elain followed his gaze. “Oh. Oh—it’s nothing.” She looked back to him again. “Where were you this morning?”

Lucien ignored the question. “Why don’t you heal it?” he asked tightly, his body growing rigid with the question. He was holding himself back, she realised, something—that beast—purring in her chest as her Fae instincts responded to his own. He’d scented her blood, the same way she’d scented his during the War—and Elain knew that, unreasonable as it was, everything inside him bellowed to protect.

Elain swallowed hard. “It’s fine—it’s just a cut.”

“Still.”

“I don’t—I mean, I simply don’t see the point—”

Lucien’s eyes flickered back to hers at that, something like surprise shining in his stare. “You don’t know how, do you?”

Anger simmered in her at last—finally, an emotion she was familiar with. She’d take it any day over this—over this hot breathlessness in her chest, one that would not stop burning until it got what it wanted. Touch him, smell him, taste him.

No, anger was good. “You have no right to speculate—”

Lucien laughed—actually laughed, a deep, throaty sound as though her frustration amused him. “Are you telling me they never taught you? It’s really quite simple, Elain.”

“I never asked,” Elain seethed now, “It’s not natural—”

She stopped herself before the sentence fully spilled from her tongue, as if some ancient magic was mercifully holding her back. 

Too late. Frowning, Lucien asked, “Not natural?” He stepped in closer, backing her into the sandstone wall. “Elain, magic is the most natural thing in the world. It’s part of you—“

“Stop,” Elain breathed.

“Why?”

“It’s not—it isn’t part of me,” she said, the words no more than a whisper—as that ancient magic could hear. “It can’t be. I didn’t—I didn’t ask for it.”

I didn’t ask for you.

Lucien said, his voice strangely quiet, “I know. But sometimes…sometimes we have to make do with what we’re given.”

There was something in his tone that made her pause—that made her want to ask him more. Had someone hurt him the way she’d been hurt? Had he lost, too, had it drowned him, pulled him into the same desperate darkness?

Elain couldn’t—could not do what he said. Could not simply accept it and move on—not when she was so close, so close to…to going back.

Lucien’s eyes softened. “Then allow me,” he said, and placed her hand in his palm.

He’d never touched her before.

Her hand was small against his, his broad warmth enveloping her, wrapping itself around the cut until she could no longer feel it stinging. Her veins pulsed as the golden thread began thrumming around her rib, pulling her closer toward him, begging her to move until their bodies became one.

Elain forced herself still, every nerve inside her fighting to keep from trembling.

Lucien strained against her, too, but his gaze remained focused on the bleeding finger, a soft glow starting to gleam from his hand. She watched, transfixed as the wound soaked up the light, waiting for it to close—except that, a few seconds after, nothing seemed to have changed.

Elain’s brow arched. “Quite simple, huh?” she teased, unable to help herself.

But Lucien’s attention remained fixed on the wound—the blood still thick at its hem. “It’s…not me.”

Elain froze. “What do you mean?”

A bead of sweat formed at his hairline. “I’m trying to heal it, but—it’s like your magic…there’s something in it that’s holding me back.”

Elain kept her face cool. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s like…” he continued, entirely focused on the feeling, “like a thorn in a rose. Like the stem will not smooth out until you remove it, but—” He frowned.

My magic is part of you now, little Seer, that silky voice slid into her mind with the memory. It will live in your veins, a symbol of our bargain, until you fulfil your end.

“—but it’s almost like healing is against its nature,” Lucien finished, stunned.

“That can’t be true,” Elain countered, her mind racing for an excuse. “I’ve been healed before—after…after Hybern—”

Lucien stilled for a moment. Then, “Hold on—just let me…” the words faded as he frowned again, his eyes closing as his palm emitted a new light—a golden light, like the the thread that connected their souls.

There was a tug—the tug—somewhere in her chest, and Koschei’s magic…it recoiled.

Elain tried not to gasp as the wound closed slowly, not even a thin scar creasing her skin—even the blood vanishing under the healing light.

A second later, and he was done.

“There,” he said quietly. “I know you asked me not to,” he added, knowing perfectly well she knew what he was referring to, “but I…I had to try.”

Elain swallowed. “Thank you.”

Lucien smiled, not entirely teasing as he said, “I think this is the first time you’ve ever said that to me.”

Elain huffed, making him chuckle.

“So, tulips?” he asked.

Elain blinked, the spell gone entirely as she stepped back, her cover still intact. “It doesn’t matter.” The tulips were part of her old life—unlike him. She’d see them when she was turned, and Lucien…And she wouldn’t see Lucien again.

She wasn’t sure why her heart clenched at the thought.

Lucien’s face fell an inch. “I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I found something.”

Elain thanked the Gods for the change in subject. “Oh?”

Lucien nodded. “Come.”

She followed him a floor up, to what had to have been the darkest corner of the library—as though even the sunlight wanted to shy away from the secrets it held. The sandstone was older here, a deeper shade of beige, scraped by the passing years. There were no scholars roaming this wing—strange, Elain thought, when the tomes seemed to almost sing of the knowledge they possessed. Their subtle hum slid beneath her skin, stirring her blood, as though compelling her to reach out for them as she and Lucien stopped in front the bookshelf standing farthest from the light.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered.

Lucien’s auburn brows knitted as he looked at her. “Hear…what?”

Oh.

“I must’ve imagined it,” Elain lied. “So what did you find?”

“Elain.” One word—not exactly a warning, but…a plea. As if it took everything inside him not to beg her to push him away.

She gave in—just this one time. “The books, they…” she hesitated, wondering how to best phrase the feeling without sounding like an utter lunatic. “I think they may be enchanted. It feels like they’re calling out to me.”

Lucien looked at her incredulously. “They know your name?”

She listened in—but the song seemed more of a melody than a language—and if it was a language indeed, it was not one Elain was in any way familiar with. “No,” she finally decided. “But…I think they can feel my magic, and it resonates with whatever the books had been spelled with.”

Lucien loosed a shaky breath. “That would make sense.”

Elain frowned. “How?”

He reached up for one of the brownish tomes, resting on a shelf far above Elain’s head—far out of reach. Elain’s eyes trailed the movement—focusing, to her exasperation, less on the book itself but on Lucien’s hand, the same one that had just been holding hers, his sun-warmed skin soft as it welcomed her touch.

She ran a hand through her curls nervously, Lucien’s own eyes darting towards them as he wordlessly handed her the book. “What is it?” she asked him.

Lucien did not look at her as he explained, “You’ve grown out your hair.”

That, Elain did not expect. “Oh. Yes, I—I suppose I did.”

There was a moment of silence, as if Lucien was weighing the risk of his words before he finally said, “It suits you.”

She could have sworn the thread glimmered in answer.

Elain swallowed the light, “So what’s in that book?”

Lucien hid it well—the disappointment. She tried not to let it affect her as he said, “Open it. Page two hundred forty-six.”

She did as instructed, carefully flipping through the nearly disintegrated pages—the books must have been centuries, if not millennia old, no doubt preserved by the library’s magic—until she found the one she was looking for.

“Is that…” she begun, unable to find the words. She’d never been there personally, but Feyre and Nesta’s stories had been painted vividly enough that she recognised the blurry image immediately.

“The Prison,” Lucien nodded. “And this,” he pointed to an old, wrinkled creature, its teeth sharp and exposed, “is the Bone Carver.”

Elain countered, “I thought he looked different.”

“He could appear as whatever he wished. This must be how the author saw him. From what this text says,” he added, pointing to the strange language Elain did not recognise, “the image haunted him until the end of his days.”

Elain asked, “How does this relate to the Trove?”

“Take a look at what he’s holding.”

She glanced at the page. “Well, obviously—a bone. But—” she looked in closer. “Oh.”

Lucien nodded. “This one is different. The bone is curved—like in the image I told you about.”

“The one Nesta’s friend found?”

“Yeah. That one was U-shaped, too. And, look—this one isn’t matted, or scraped, even. There are no old bloodstains, either. It’s too clean, too pristine to not be magical.”

“And it gleams, too,” Elain murmured.

Lucien looked at her weirdly. “It does?”

Elain shifted on her feet. “You don’t see it?”

He hummed. “No. This only confirms my theory—this bone is calling out to you, a Seer, even through the page. Like a pet to its master.”

Elain shivered. “I-I still don’t think we need the Bone,” she stuttered, repeating the same words she’d told him when he’d announced their sudden trip to Day. “We’ve been making progress—with Vassa, that is—I can do it, I can find out how—how to kill him, without it.”

“Elain,” Lucien pressed softly. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” she argued. She needed to be back at the house—needed to find the box Lucien must’ve hidden before her time was up.

“Aren’t you tired of being in the dark?” he asked her, making her limbs grow still. “Of not knowing? This Trove could hold all the answers—could help you navigate and understand your visions. Gwyneth even said…she said it could alleviate the pain, too.”

Elain whispered, “You know about the pain?”

He hesitated.

“Lucien,” she urged.

“I feel it,” he said quietly. “I feel it when you sleep. Every night—your visions, all of endless pain. Of fire—and of death.” He released a long, long breath. “Elain—”

“We need to return to the Night Court,” Elain cut in, her voice unrecognisable even to herself. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—speak to him about the bond. Not when…not when it threatened to consume her.

Not when the idea started to no longer fill her soul with dread.

Lucien looked at her until she began to worry he might not speak to her at all.

“We need to visit the Prison,” she pressed.

Lucien sighed, resignation rolling off of him in waves. “We’re going to need an escort.”

Elain nodded, a new plan already sprouting to life in her head. “Alright.”

His eyes dimming, Lucien turned away, his voice quiet as he said, “I will contact Feyre immediately.”

———

“No,” Nesta said immediately.

Lucien chuckled.

“I’m going,” Elain pressed, shooting him a glare.

“Elain,” her sister repeated. “It isn’t safe—”

“Lucien will be there with me,” she said, and thought the words had been meant to appease Nesta, Elain found that they brought her comfort, too.

Surprise flickered from across the room, quickly followed by something else—a deep, intoxicating heat, like the midday sun warming her skin. Elain didn’t have to turn to know its source—to feel Lucien’s gaze on her, his mouth no doubt twisted in a purely male, smug smile.

Lucien was not the only one her words seemed to have affected—Feyre watched, too, from where she and Rhysand sat on the couch, little Nyx babbling happily as she bounced him on her knees. Her younger sister angled her head curiously, Rhys’s lips twitching beside her—Elain had no doubt the two of them were already passing their comments mind-to-mind. She sighed, exasperated—there was nothing between her and Lucien—other than the very unfortunate fact that he seemed to be the key to her finally getting what she truly desired.

Which was not a mate. Especially not an infuriating, cocky, completely improper—

“Elain knows what she’s doing,” came his response. He shot her a wry smile. “And if she doesn’t, she’ll be safe with me.” Lucien looked at Nesta. “You have my word.”

Nesta’s jaw tightened as she turned to Elain. “And there is no changing your mind on this?”

Elain loosed a sigh of relief. “No.”

“Nesta,” Feyre interjected. “I will be there, too.” The Prison’s enchantments had always required the presence of Night’s High Lord—or Lady—to even enter the structure at all.

The eldest Archeron gritted her teeth. “I just—I don’t understand why you need to go there at all. The Bone Carver is dead—what good will going to his cell do?”

“Elain might find some answers there,” Rhysand supplied smoothly, “or clues, even. Revisiting his old…” he hesitate, “home—could potentially trigger a vision.”

“Potentially is not good enough for me,” Nesta barked.

“It is for me,” Elain said firmly. “We’re going.”

Her tone left no room for argument, and Nesta pinched the bridge of her nose—a habit she seemed to have picked up from Cassian, a fact that made Elain stir. She glanced at Lucien quickly, her gaze sweeping over his stance to see if it mirrored her own—but Lucien simply stood there, leaning against Feyre’s couch, his powerful arms crossed over his chest. He’d rolled up his sleeves, Elain noted, golden-brown muscles on display under the afternoon light.

Get it together, she scowled at the beast. It only smirked at her in return.

Feyre sighed, handing her son over to Rhys. Nyx cooed as his father’s arms wrapped around him, wings rising over his head as though preparing for flight.

Rhys chuckled, “Soon, buddy. I promise.”

Elain’s smile faded. Soon, Nyx’s aunt would be human again—when would she see him again? When would she see Feyre and Nesta? When would she see…?

“Are you alright?” Lucien’s voice sounded beside her. She didn’t even notice when he’d stepped in to her side.

Elain simply nodded, turning to Feyre. “We should go now. There’s no…there’s no time to waste.”

After all, she only had a few days.

Bring me the box, little Seer, and you will be human again.

Feyre rose, reaching out a hand. “When we cross the gates, we’re going to have some…company,” she said mysteriously. “Try not to listen to them. They’ll say anything to get you to try and free them.”

Elain nodded, swallowing the tightness in her throat.

Feyre’s blue-grey eyes softened. “Ready?”

“Wait,” Nesta stopped them. She took a step towards her, pulling something from the sheath strapped to her side.

Something long, and sharp. Gleaming.

“This is the dagger I Made,” Nesta explained, then looked at Lucien with a mocking smile. “Your brother had been quite displeased about it slipping from his grasp. I want you to take it,” she said to Elain, a quiet worry filling her gaze. “Just in case.”

Elain swallowed. She didn’t take well to knives.

“Please,” Nesta only said.

The word had never come easily to her sister—and perhaps that was why Elain silently accepted, Nesta’s shoulders loosening with relief.

Feyre nodded, slipping a tattooed hand into Elain’s. “You know where to winnow?” she asked Lucien, who nodded.

A thick, slithering cloud began forming around them—reality folding in on itself, leaving nothing but darkness in its wake. The living room blurred out, and the last thing she saw were Nyx’s eyes, the crushing blue twinkling curiously at his family.

“See you on the other side, Cursebreaker,” Lucien grinned.

Elain closed her eyes and did not open them until a hard wall of wind slammed into her.

The Prison waited beneath the cliff, its very foundations thrumming with the power it contained. Elain let her gaze adjust to the building storm above, the dark waves crashing furiously into the rock. Beside her, Feyre seemed tense, as though lost in the memory of her last time there—or perhaps anxious for what laid ahead.

Lucien looked at them both, his long, auburn hair swept back and floating with the angry wind. “Shall we?”

Elain shivered. “We shall.”

They walked the pebbled path, Elain nearly slipping on the wet rocks as the sea spilled over. Lucien graciously offered his arm, no sly remark falling from his tongue—only his steady presence as they reached the iron entrance. The gates cried heavily as Feyre waved a hand, the ancient metal bending under the will of its High Lady, and finally, darkness enveloped them at last.

The very first thing Elain realised was how silent it was, not even a whisper of an echo as they descended down to the pit of the mountain’s belly. The shadows seemed to swallow every move, every breath, every bead of sweat from Elain’s forehead as she moved, her breathing falling flat.

Elain was not sure how long they walked. She clung to Lucien’s arm as he led them down behind Feyre, his soul the only source of light in the darkness. She could not see the light, perhaps—warm and golden, even in the coldest, most wretched of places.

“The Bone Carver rested beneath the roots of the mountain,” Feyre said quietly, answering the silent question she hadn’t dared to ask out loud. 

Elain nodded, though she doubted her sister could somehow see the movement.

“Do you need some water?” Lucien’s soft voice brushed past her ear. “Thank you,” Elain whispered, the first words she’d spoken since they entered. She could almost feel his smile as he drank. Yet another thank you in one day, his soul teased playfully. I should consider myself a very lucky male.

Elain rolled her eyes, though the tension washed down her body all the same.

“We’re here,” Feyre announced after a few minutes, though all Elain could make out was a smooth wall of stone.

But then her sister pressed her palm to it, and the stone trembled beneath it, tattoos swirling atop her skin. Both Lucien and Elain watched with their mouths agape as the stone shifted and morphed into bone, the ivory gates revealing another space of darkness behind.

Elain did not have the time to study the old markings carved into the gates, a familiar voice penetrating her, smooth and deep.

“Hello, little traitor,” Lucien said.

Elain whirled back.

“What did you say?” she asked breathlessly.

Lucien frowned, the soft glow from Feyre’s palm illuminating his confusion. “I didn’t say anything.”

A low chuckle. “I’ve never known Seers to be so blind.”

Elain shook violently, Lucien’s confusion shifting into concern. “Elain, what’s wrong?” he asked, placing two, strong hands atop her shoulders, her body instinctively leaning into his chest.

“Good,” Lucien’s voice giggled. “Good, little traitor. Lean into your mate before you burn his bones to ash.”

Her breathing came short, her hands trembling as she placed them atop Lucien’s chest. “I don’t understand.”

Feyre angled her head. “Is someone speaking to you?”

“I—I thought it was Lucien,” Elain panted. “He sounds like Lucien.”

“What did he say?” Lucien asked carefully.

“Tell him, Elain Archeron. Tell your mate you’re only here to betray him.” Another giggle—an ugly sound, one she’d never heard fall from Lucien’s mouth, one that seemed to claw at her very bones.

“Who are you?” she breathed.

Lucien squeezed her shoulders. “Elain—”

“Why does your heart race at your mate’s touch, pretty Seer? Does it not still long for another?”

“It does,” Elain said immediately, Koschei’s magic purring in her veins at the words. “It does—”

“What does, Elain?” Feyre asked, urgency rushing into her tone. “Who are you talking to?”

“Very well, then. I suppose you could call me…a memory,” not-Lucien said, the sound coming from somewhere behind her now.

“Elain—”

“From the past?” Elain asked, turning away from Lucien’s warm chest.

The voice clicked its tongue in disappointment. “How truly helpless you are, little Seer. You should know by now that the lines between past, present and future are as blurred as they get.”

Elain breathed, “What does that mean?”

His next chuckle came from behind her back. “It means you should finally open your eyes.”

Elain whirled again, meeting a pair of gold and russet, shining with concern.

“Tell me how to help you,” Lucien begged, desperation creeping into his voice—his real voice, grounding her to reality.

Elain loosed a breath. “I…I think it was the Bone Carver.”

Feyre stepped in closer to them both. “The Bone Carver is dead, Elain,” she reminded her, the cell sounding with a quiet laugh at the words.

Elain shook her head. “No—a part of him—a part of him is still…” she trailed off, finally calm enough to look around the cave.

“Now you See,” the voice purred.

She could make out the gleam beneath the earth even without the ball of sunlight shining in Feyre’s hand. It rippled as she approached, glistening an almost blinding white.

“Come closer, little Seer,” it crooned. “Come closer to me.”

“Elain,” Feyre’s warning came distantly from somewhere behind her.

Elain stopped an inch from the gleam. “It’s here,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it.”

A warm presence enveloped her once more. “What is?”

But Elain didn’t respond, transfixed on the quiet hum coming from deep beneath, her mind once more being pulled into a daze.

“Touch me, pretty traitor. Take what you deserve.”

Elain crouched, reaching for the ground—

A strong hand wrapped around her wrist. “Elain.”

Elain blinked. “Lucien?”

He nodded, lacing their fingers together, her skin tingling at the touch. “What is it that you’re seeing?” he asked softly.

Clarity sucked her in once more. “Lucien,” she repeated. “We need to dig.”

“What do you see?” Feyre asked, parroting Lucien’s question.

“The Bone,” Elain answered. “It gleams beneath the earth.”

Feyre’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible.” She looked to the ground where Elain pointed, squinting as though trying to make out the supposed shine. “The Bone…but why wouldn’t he…?”

“We need to dig,” Elain said again. Lucien wasted no time.

His magic tore through the earth, the rock cracking beneath its weight, Elain directing its direction quietly. The Fourth Trove—all this time…It couldn’t have been.

And yet, with Lucien’s final surge of power into the rock, a curved, white bone was revealed, resting between the cracks of the earth. Unstained by as much as a droplet of blood.

“That bastard,” Feyre whispered. The voice chuckled again, the sound echoing off the stone.

Elain reached for it again.

“Wait,” Lucien said. “You shouldn’t—not yet. Not until we know it’s safe.”

Elain hesitated. “I think it has to be me.”

“We don’t risk it,” Feyre agreed. “We’ll take the Trove to the House—it’ll be safer without all those prisoners around us.”

That was enough for Elain to agree. If there was any chance the Bone’s powers could release the creatures that lurked in the Prison’s darkness, she was more than content to wait.

Feyre waved a hand, her magic making the Bone float upwards and into the High Lady’s palm.

“Bad call.”

The cave shook.

Elain started, “What is happening—”

“My purpose is complete. Good luck, little traitor.” A final, bone-shuddering laugh. “If you manage to get out of here alive, that is.”

The stone above their heads began to crack.

“Elain!” Lucien roared, and before she could blink, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her as they lunged forward. A second later, a rock the size of her head fell exactly to where she’d kneeled a moment ago.

Elain gaped at him. “Lucien—”

“No time,” Feyre panted beside them. “Let’s get out of there.”

Elain took Lucien’s hand as they ran out, the cave roaring behind them. Blood rushed in her ears, too hot and loud to hear Feyre’s shouted commands as she led them past the ivory gates, the same bones that had survived millennia now crumbling into dust, one by one. Elain looked back just in time to see the cave collapse.

The only thing Elain could see in the darkness was the faint gleam of the Bone in Feyre’s hand, the excited purring of the Prison’s captives leading them back upwards. There was no time to take breaks now, and even time seemed to pass by quicker as they ran, three heartbeats melting into one sound of pure, unrestrained terror.

The greyish light of the sky finally came into view, the Prison gates towering high above them as Feyre grasped at one of the iron bars.

“Feyre,” Lucien breathed. “What—”

Feyre shoved the Bone into Lucien’s hand. “I need to get Rhysand,” she panted. “Take her—take her to the manor. Take her to safety.” She looked him straight in the eyes, determination momentarily replacing her panic as the High Lady commanded, “Now.”

Lucien did not need to be told twice. His arms wrapped around her waist once more, and with that, the crumbling Prison vanished.

———

“We need to go back,” Elain told Lucien a second later.

Lucien ran a shaky hand through his hair. “We have a mission to complete, Elain.”

“Not yet,” Elain pressed, Koschei’s ticking clock no longer of importance. “Not until we make sure they’re okay.”

“Feyre gave me the Bone for a reason, Elain,” Lucien said, his expression pained. “We will go back as soon as we can.” He squeezed her hand, still placed safely in his own. “They have each other. They’ll be okay.”

Elain loosed a breath and closed her eyes. They would be okay—her sister and Rhysand both held a power she’d never been able to fully grasp, as though the very darkness coiled within their shared souls. If anyone could contain the magic ruining the Prison…it would be the High Lord and Lady of the Night. Together.

Elain opened her eyes. “Alright.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Jurian asked, a shivering Vassa following closely behind him. It only took one look for the General to understand, his brown eyes wide as he saw Lucien’s face. “Get inside.”

Elain had to physically keep from running as they navigated the corridor, its dim light welcoming her back—so different from the sunlit halls of Day. This morning seemed like forever ago.

They finally reached the living room, Jurian gently leading Vassa to the couch. The sun had only just set, Elain realised—Vassa must’ve turned back minutes ago, if not less. “Are you alright?” she asked the queen carefully.

Jurian glowered at her. “A side effect from the elixir.” He looked at Lucien. “She’s cold.”

Vassa waved a hand. “It’s nothing worth mentioning,” she said. Jurian looked inclined to protest, and she added with a sigh, “Not yet, at least.”

That seemed to appease him enough. The Mad General turned to the two Fae in front of him again, his gaze immediately darting to the Trove in Lucien’s hand. “Is that…”

Lucien nodded. “We got it.”

Vassa seemed a little breathless. “Have you used it?”

“We’re about to,” Elain said. “There…there is no time to waste.”

Vassa nodded. “Do you need me?” she asked, reaching out her palm without a second of hesitation. Jurian growled lowly.

“I think…It’s safer if I do it myself.” Jurian grunted his agreement.

Lucien looked into her eyes before handing her the Trove. “Elain,” he began. “I…I’m here if you need me.”

Elain swallowed. “I know.” And with that, she wrapped her fingers around the Bone.

Tell me how to get what I desire, she asked it silently.

What appeared before her made her chest clenched so tight all the air was knocked out from her lungs.

She was still at the manor—still veiled in that old, dusty dimness, still waiting on the mole-eaten couch, except…

“Are you alright, Elain?” Graysen asked her, blue eyes shining with concern.

Elain only stared.

“I’ve asked for some tea to be made for you,” he continued, the words strangely resembling one of the last conversations they’d ever had. “Chamomile, right?”

“Jasmine,” Elain choked out.

“Oh. Right.”

She was back—Elain was back home, with her fiancé less than a few feet away from her. Making her tea. 

So why did her chest still feel so tight?

Elain's gaze fell.

An iron ring glinted atop her finger.

A pale-skinned palm covered it as it took her hand into its own. “I’ve missed you,” Graysen said. “You’ve been away far too long.”

She wasn’t sure she was breathing anymore. “You did?”

“Of course,” Graysen said, as if the answer was obvious. “All I ever thought about was having my beautiful Elain back in my arms.”

Something flitted in the window behind him, Elain’s eyes darting toward the movement.

Her heart stopped entirely as a large, tawny owl winked back at her.

Elain’s gasp made her choke on air, like a drowning person being pulled out from underwater. She coughed into her hand, the Bone discarded on the cushion beside her, a soothing hand on her back.

“Breathe, Elain,” Lucien commanded softly. “Breathe.”

The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, but Elain couldn’t help but look past the window—and her shoulders fell as she realised that the only thing staring back at her was the starless night. “I think,” she breathed out, “I’m going to need some practice.”

“What did you see?” Jurian asked, wasting no time on letting her adjust.

What, indeed?

She’d asked the Trove to show her how to get what she desired—and the Trove, an object of a power so ancient had shown her her human life. Was that the future awaiting her? Had it meant…

Elain’s eyes burned.

Had it meant she had a chance?”

“Well?” Jurian urged.

But Elain looked at Lucien, his gaze still shining with concern—as though the Bone, the vision, mattered as little as the dust the Bone Carver’s legacy had turned into.

He was a good male, Elain realised—in some way, she had always known. He was cocky and infuriating, yes, but it was his presence that pulled her back when she needed it most. And if Graysen really was the future awaiting her, then Lucien…Lucien deserved happiness, too. Not a mate who’d been…who’d been thrown at him. Not a mate who was no more than a lie. A mistake.

The thought should have brought her peace. But all Elain felt was the suffocating dark as she told them all, “I know how to kill him. I know…I know how to kill Koschei.”

Vassa stifled a sob.

Jurian narrowed his gaze on her. “How?”

“Jurian,” Lucien cut in, his voice calm yet stern. “There’s no need to be so hostile anymore—Elain risked her life to find the Trove.” He looked at her with more certainty than anyone else ever had in her life as he added, “We can trust her.”

No, Elain thought, her heart rotting into mould her chest. You can’t.

She could no longer look into his eyes. She had gone too far now to even dare.

I’m sorry, Lucien.

“There is a box,” Elain told Jurian, her voice unable to keep from shaking. She could only hope they dismissed it for nervousness—not the cold, piercing guilt eating up the last of her aching heart. “Koschei’s soul is stored within it. The only way to kill him is to destroy it.”

Come on, the rot in her blood urged. Say you have it. Tell me where.

Elain was too weak to stop it.

Lucien, Jurian and Vassa exchanged one look before the decision was made.

“I stole it,” Vassa said thickly. “When your father struck a deal with Koschei—I took it from him and hid it, hoping that, one day, I could barter it back for what he took from me.”

Her humanity.

Elain would never atone for this.

Lucien waved a hand, a flicker of light appearing at his fingertips. A gasp tore from her as the onyx box came into view as though it had been crafted from thin air, floating downward until it rested atop the splintered, wooden table.

Well done, my sweet, the box seemed to purr.

Jurian simply said, “Tell us how.”

Bile rose in Elain’s throat with the lie, too quick to stop as she uttered, “You must place it atop Koschei’s lake. The magic beneath the water works against the laws of nature, crying out with the women he’d enslaved into swans. It will seek to punish him—it will weaken the box, allowing you to strike.”

The Band of Exiles looked at each other wordlessly.

“We must go to the Continent,” Elain managed before her throat gave out entirely.

Lucien only nodded, her command the only instruction he needed. “I will contact the Night Court immediately.”

———

“Rest, girl.”

Feyre shook her head, the movement alone making the world spin around her.

“Rest,” Amren pressed. “You and Rhysand have done enough.”

A warm hand rested at her back. “I will take her to bed.”

The female nodded, silver eyes sharp. “Cassian is on site. Nesta will join him shortly—for now, the wards are contained.”

Beside her, Rhysand loosed a shaky breath. “Good. Thank you, Amren.”

“Yes, well. You know how much you owe me.”

He managed a laugh, the sound strained even more than his depleted power. “Make sure to bill it to my office.”

Amren huffed. “You need to rest, too, you know.” And with that, she was gone.

Rhys sighed deeply. “Let’s go, Feyre,” he said, slipping his hand into hers. “There’s not much more we can do now.”

She began to protest, but Rhys’s warm lips on her temple were enough to stop her in her tracks. “I’m so tired,” Feyre admitted.

“Let’s go to bed. We can stay there forever, if you’d like.”

Feyre nodded, taking a swaying step forward.

Forever did not last long enough—did not even truly manage to begin as the study shook, the snapping sound of Rhysand’s wards being cleaved in two their only warning as a blinding light erupted at its centre.

Helion Spell-Cleaver’s booming presence was enough to sharpen every last one of her nerves as the High Lord of Day appeared in their study, sunlight scorching around him without mercy. “Tell me, Cursebreaker,” Helion began, his voice just barely restraining his anger, “When were you going to tell me about my son?”

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 @labellefleur-sauvage @bookeater34 @capbuckyfalcon @betterthaneveryword @tasha2627 @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune

[angelictyphoon]

@nothinglikegod

By now, the rumble of the Ark’s engines is nothing but a distant drone. If he were to close his eyes, that sound would immediately encapsulate him. Just like it had for the many months he spent in that holding cell in the belly of the ship. Unable to move, nothing so much as the twitch of a finger or wiggle of a toe. 

But he isn’t paying attention to any of those things. 

There are better places to stop, not quite so exposed to the elements nor the climbing keen of wind snaking its way around ridges of stone. The overhang of sandstone he has dragged them beneath offers some degree of protection. Atrophy never quite took hold, not with the constant strain and struggle under Legato’s hold for the past few months, but he is severely weakened all the same.

Not so weak as Wolfwood now, riddled with bullets and so much blood. 

Blood that gleams in the light of the fading sun. Red. Dark on dark, outlines of frayed fabric haloed in gold. Bright, too bright on white. Hair, matted with sweat. Dust and sand. Inescapable, here, on No Man’s Land. Sticking, coating, browning everything it touches with an embrace from the desert. 

Burial by sand. 

And he feels…

Fear and resignation, each vying for supremacy as he leans close, balancing against one knee while reaching out to hover his right hand just over the flared opening of Wolfwood’s shirt. The muscles in his thighs are twitching, quivering from the mere effort and his breathing escapes between parted lips in short, dry huffs.

Wolfwood hasn’t moved.

Down then, he drops his hand, turning Wolfwood’s arm to rest his fingers on the inside of his wrist.

This must be it…

[kmp-modernfurniture]

Entering the apartment by @kaviar.collaborative is like walking across a natural extension of the earth made from wood and stone.

It is precisely grey marble, sandstone and dark walls what form the pillars of this interior, extending from the complex marble floor, to decorative sculptures, vases and lamps, or even making up the #furniture and living room counter.

Of course, not only stone is fundamental for the decoration and construction of this home but also wood which provides balance and a sense of stability.

The organic furniture including cabinets, #nightstands, and #dressers establish a soft and welcoming and natural #design concept that is complemented by colors which reflect the earth’s unique hues.

Dark grey from volcanic rocks, a warm brown found in wood and amber, creamy seashell white, fiery red and a light blue bring both warmth and coolness to this #interiordesign.

[separatist-apologist]

Golden

I once believed love would be burning red. But it's golden

Summary: To save his people, Lucien Vanserra will marry his most hated enemy.

But to love her? Well, that's another thing entirely

My humble @elucienweek2022 submission

18k words

Chapter 1: Everyone Looks Worse In The Light

Read More: AO3

Lucien prowled forward, sword in hand. He held a bleeding palm against the stillness, stopping the warriors at his back. The city he’d come to defend lay in smoldering ruin, its defenses destroyed with ease. It was hardly a garrison and yet as Lucien stepped forward, it was a group of women who held the General of Ellesmere on his knees, their knives at his throat. Lucien studied the man—coward—who had chosen to abandon his front line and attack an unarmed city in the middle of the night, violating every treaty that had ever existed on their content. West, South and East all abided by an ancient document that governed their behavior. Only the North seemed content to break it as it suited them and Lucien was tired. 

Tired of endless war, of seeing the broken bodies of children laid to rest before their time while yet another treaty was drawn up. Broken, and broken again. King Archeron did not honor his promises, was content to pillage and rape and ruin his way to the southern tip. Rhysand to the East kept to his castle, protected by the mountains but Lucien knew if Naxos ever fell, Rhysand's starlit capital Velaris would be next. 

“Prince,” the lady murmured, inclining her head with respect. Lucien’s eyes swept behind her, towards once beautiful white sandstone marred with scorching heat. The smell of death burned his nostrils and yet Lucien did not dare look away. This was his home, his people, and his tragedy. “He came in the night with his men as beggars.”

Lucien’s eyes snapped to the brown eyed man staring murderous rage at his feet. It would have been so easy to remove his head. He wanted to. If Archeron did not honor his deals, why should Lucien be made to, either?

“And the rest?” he asked the weathered woman, treating her with the same respect he would have treated Jurian, his second in command standing a fraction behind him.

“Chained,” was all she said. Lucien nodded his head to his left, allowing a contingent of soldiers to sweep into the city. With Jurian’s help, the pair hauled the traitor to his feet. Lucien knew who he stared at. He had met Graysen Nolan on the battlefield, before and wore the scars to prove it etched on his very own face. 

“You will die today,” Lucien told him, his head bearing the phantom weight of his crown.

Graysen said nothing, a smile curling over his rugged features. As if he had some final card to play, some tantalizing offer Lucien’s father would not be able to resist. Lucien merely pushed him towards his jeering army, the point of his blade pressed against Graysen’s metal armored back. The North lived in a dying age when their people had been little more than animals. Naxos had shining cities built atop a gleaming hill, sprawling for miles in every direction, buttressed against the sea. They had libraries and universities and music and art while Ellesmere had trenches of muck knee deep and the belief they would one day restore their former glory, if it had ever existed at all.

Lucien let the cool air warm his thighs, visible beneath his leather pteruges and shin braces. He moved faster without the bulk, though he’d never tell Graysen that. Let him clank his way through battle—it made it far easier to track him.

Lucien deposited Graysen in a prisoner's tent, tying him to a wooden stake in the ground with no slack to move even an inch. It was meant to be painful and though Lucien had sworn an oath to treat prisoners like humans, he couldn’t help the satisfaction he felt when Graysen winced, his skin swelling from the pressure. Leaving him to the darkness, Lucien strode through the hardened war camp, glancing upwards at the sun overhead. He was tired of fighting. Lucien was ready to go home.

His father waited in his own tent, face grim. “How bad?” Helion asked, his mouth pulled in a tight line.

“A city all but destroyed,” Lucien replied hotly, looking at the map spread across the table. “Guerrilla warfare, false trues, slaughtering children and raping women…father, let me hang him.”

Helion paused. Lucien had never asked such a thing in his life, in his career as his fathers right hand man. No matter how many battles they fought or how aggressively they shoved the North back over the border, Lucien had been dedicated to peace. He knew he’d be asked to walk those ruined streets with his father, to attend the burials and offer blessings. How many more little boys could he retroactively make warriors and how many daughters could he send to the Goddess before it was all too much? Whole generations wiped from the face to the Earth while Ellesmeres women kissed the fussy brows of their children, safe in their beds from invading armies.

“You want to hang the General of their armies?” Helion questioned. 

“Yes.”

His father hesitated. “How long can you turn the other cheek before its mama they pull from her bed?” Lucien asked, knowing his father wondered the same. When they were out on the border, what prevented Archeron from sailing to the coast and raiding Naxos? 

“I’ll warn him,” Helion replied. “You can have your justice…if that is what this is.”

Lucien didn’t answer. It was vengeance in truth, and yet to Lucien, justice all the same. Graysen was cunning, ruthless and relentless. They kept freeing him with renewed promises of peace. Graysen knew nothing but war and Lucien wanted to send him to hell, if only to spend longer than a year in his own home, with the woman he was hoping to marry should he ever get ten minutes alone with her. 

“One week,” Lucien agreed, shoving open the flap to the tent where Jurian waited outside. Lucien wasn’t the only one with a woman waiting on him. Lady Vassa would be anxious for Jurian’s return. They all wanted to go home. Every man in their sprawling tent city just outside the golden gates of their most northern outpost wanted to go home. Lucien wanted to see them do so, wanted to see them reunite with wives and children. 

“Well?”

“He has to uphold that treaty,” Lucien said crisply, letting Jurian see his disappointment. “But in a week we’ll watch him hang from the gates.”

Jurian’s lips curled over his teeth. “I’ll lower him slowly so we can watch him dance.”

Lucien smiled too, relishing the cruelty of such a death. Archeron would choose another, of course, would appoint some new, sadistic monster to uphold his blackened urges and Lucien would hang them, too. And when his father finally passed on the mantle and Lucien was king, he meant to stride into that pigshit city and slaughter them all, to see their snaking river slither red with blood, staining the ocean in warning. His retribution would be merciless, his hatred absolute. He would salt the earth so it was unlivable, would wipe the memory of every man who’d ever lived in that wretched place until all there was South  and West and East—and peace. Lucien would achieve what his father could not because deep down, beneath his golden skin and his princely trappings, he knew he was no better than Graysen. The difference was the execution and desire. Lucien did not want more. He wanted to be done. 

Lucien had not expected to be called back by his father that same night. He’d expected to sit around a fire drinking himself stupid with Jurian before stumbling back to his own tent to imagine his reunion with Jes. Lucien had been away for too long—she would have had every right to forget about him, to pick another man, to start over. 

His thoughts were turbulent, made worse by his three cups of liquor, by the time he strode into his fathers tent. Graysen Nolan was on his knees, supremely clean for a prisoner of war or even a soldier in general. Who had been washing him, Lucien wondered?

Behind Graysen stood only his father. No advisors, no other generals. It meant whatever information Graysen was offering up was not worth sharing. Lucien withdrew his sword slowly, letting the metal drag against the scabbard and was pleased when Graysen flinched. “No hanging, then?”

“Put away your sword,” his father ordered softly, spreading his hands over the map that covered the table in the middle of the room. “The war is over.”

“For now,” Lucien replied, turning to look back at Graysen and his infuriatingly calm face. Lucien wished he’d beg or cry or plead, proof he was a coward. “Until they find some reason to break their own rules.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Graysen began and Lucien, filled with hatred, strode towards him. Fisting his hair, he yanked Graysens neck so far back he could see every tendon even in the torchlight.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “I could kill you now and never worry about you again.”

“Release him.”

Lucien snarled with fury but did as he was told. “What bargain does he wish to make this time?”

Gold and goods and trade agreements and shifting borders had all been promised in the past. What was left? More empty promises, more nothing.

“King Archeron has three unmarried daughters,” Graysen began, rolling his neck against his shoulders and tugging at the bindings on his hands. Lucien nearly kicked him in the dirt for those words.

“You’re married,” Lucien snapped at his father, even as the cold horror of what was coming started to spread through his limbs. 

“Each more beautiful than the last,” Graysen continued, having clearly intrigued his father with this little spiel before.

“No.”

“If we had one of Archeron’s daughters, he might think twice next time,” Helion began. Lucien shook his head even as his father continued. “A true alliance born of children—

“You cannot be serious!” Lucien all but roared. “You cannot ask this of me, I would rather die.”Lucien turned to Graysen, grabbing his head again. “Which one is yours, hm? Which of his daughters were you promised?”

Graysen’s smile was practically feline. “The most beautiful of the three.”

“I want her, then,” Lucien replied, well aware no man in his right mind would hand over his betrothed to the enemy. Lucien was calling Graysen’s bluff, was ending this whole charade before it went a second further. 

“Elain,” Graysen breathed, eyes sliding to Lucien’s to hold his gaze. “Is a virgin.”

Lucien thought he’d be sick. “Good. What else?”

“Exceptionally obedient.”

“And what else?”

Graysen grinned. “Eager to please. She would make a good wife to a…man such as yourself.” Lucien released him with a shove, enjoying how Graysen fell to his side. “This is foul,” Lucien breathed, using the table to brace his body weight. 

“We can say no,” Helion murmured, stepping over Graysen’s body to stand beside his son. “But I fear they’ll come at us harder if we hang him.”

“So the alternative is to take his wife as a prisoner and dangle her as bait every time they get too close to the border?”

“She’s not my wife,” Graysen wheezed. “I’ve never touched her.”

Lucien looked at his father, who only shook his head. As if Lucien cared at all. He wished the princess of Ellesmere had been touched, at least a little. He imagined her an icy, imperious thing, hardly the sort of woman he couldn’t bring back to Naxos. And Jes…Lucien looked up at the domed tent, miserable. 

“Three daughters mean nothing to animals like them,” Lucien tried desperately, his final attempt to make his father see reason. Graysen had managed to right himself, sitting on his ass just behind them.

“She is his favorite,” Graysen insisted. Lucien nearly kicked him again.

“Then why is she engaged to you?”

“He needs a successor to his throne. It was a gift to us both,” Graysen retorted, clearly irritated by the implication Elain Archeron could have done better. 

“Say the word and I’ll go forward with our original plan,” Helion murmured. “This is your choice. I won't force it on you.”

But it wasn’t a choice. Lucien knew his father was right, that Helion wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t think it was possible to achieve the kind of long lasting peace he’d always wanted. One woman, one marriage, and a brood of children to keep Archeron from marching over the border again. And Lucien would be bound to them, would be asked to lay down his life for her, to protect her and whatever children she gave him so that one day an Archeron might ascend to the ancient sunlit throne of his people. 

It was offensive and still Lucien knew had his father been unmarried, he would have taken the girl himself. His father wouldn’t have asked Lucien to do anything he himself was unwilling to do. He would have walked away from his mother, would have put aside his engagement if it meant peace. Lucien let himself imagine Jes’s face for just a moment, her bright, brown eyes sparkling with laughter and every secret hope he’d have to make her his wife. He could see her, confused and hurt and angry when he returned. Betrayed. 

“I’ll do it,” Lucien breathed, swallowing the image until he couldn’t see it anymore. “Only that girl.”

He was certain Graysen or Archeron would call his bluff. 

Lucien was wrong. 

ELAIN:

Curtains yanked earlier than usual, drawing Elain from a particularly fitful sleep. It wasn’t Berta who’d come to rouse her, but Nesta, already dressed in a silvery blue gown, the collar pressed against her jaw.

“Wake up,” she all but snapped, peering into the gloomy morning air. “You need to get dressed–and packed. Quickly.”

Elain flung the blankets off her bed, her feet foregoing the slippers just beneath the mattress for the cold stone floor. “They’re here?” she asked, her heart pounding. The south had breached their defenses—this was an evacuation.

Nesta whirled, the skirt of her modest dress twirling around her slim legs. “No. Father demands we dress and pack. He said it was urgent.”

Foreboding sluiced through Elain as she flung open her closet for a rose colored coat dress. She let Nesta help her into her corset, lacing the back just tight enough to preserve her modesty. While Elain’s fingers fumbled over the buttons of her dress, Nesta swept her hair off her face in a braid crowned around her head, identical to the one Nesta always wore. It was practical for riding and as time was of the essence, Elain did not bother to fuss with any of the nicer things she might have used to pull back her hair.

“Feyre, too?”

“Yes,” Nesta agreed. “The four of us and a guard. We are to meet Lord Graysen, I believe.”

“More talks of peace?” she asked, relief filling her as she slipped on riding boots. The south had broken the last treaty, and the one before that, beasts never satisfied with what they’d been given. Elain never understood why her father didn’t just kill King Helion and be done with it. Take the south and unite them under one banner. Surely that was preferable to the constant fighting? 

Nesta filled Elain’s leather traveling back with necessities, ignoring Elain’s pretty baubles and feather soft dresses. If they were to be on the front line she would need more coat dresses and other heavy fabrics. Men, especially those who had not seen a woman in a long time, could be capricious creatures. She did not want to tempt them.

Elain did not bother to tell Nesta how her insides writhed with joy at seeing Graysen. He was her betrothed, and would be her husband just as soon as the fighting ended and he was able to return home. She had been counting the days, looking forward to being his wife in all ways. She had been dreaming of this moment for the past two years, ever since he’d gotten on one knee and asked, his shining blue cape gleaming beneath a rare summer sun. He was practically a prince, so handsome it made her teeth ache. King, one day too, if Nesta never married. She sometimes let herself imagine what it would be like to be his consort, as Ellesmere did not have Queens, only wives who acted as consorts to their husbands. Nesta bristled at the very notion but Elain was content with it. What did she care about ruling?

She cared about love, about duty. She would produce heirs that would defend their kingdom and in return, Graysen would protect her. Nesta did not understand and Elain did not care to explain it. Some things defied logic, besides. 

Feyre was waiting in pants, the youngest of the three of them and utterly wild in every regard. Their father barely looked at her, eyes only for Elain. She was his prize, his jewel and they all knew it. Nesta stiffened when he stretched out his arms just outside the courtyard, his dark boots sinking in a patch of mud. “Beautiful girls,” he murmured as though he spoke to all of them, even though it was her cheek he ran his finger down. “You look just like your mama.”

Elain knew that wasn’t true. Nesta and Feyre had their mothers silvery blue eyes, her sharp cheekbones, her soft brown hair. Elain was her fathers creature, their eyes the same fawn brown, their hair the exact shade of chestnut, their skin just a shade tanner than that of her fair sisters. And Elain knew without looking at her beautiful sisters, that she was the loveliest of the three. He and her mother had treated her differently because of it, certain it would be her that was used to secure their future with marriage. Elain had never once resented this, understanding her duty. She’d fulfilled it, besides, with Graysen. She could have love. She could have both.

“Are you ready?” he asked, gesturing to the dapple gray horses already laden with supplies. Elain pulled her dark cloak around her face before rising in her saddle. Feyre glanced at Nesta who shrugged in response. If they were being asked to accompany their father, it meant there was no danger. This was diplomacy, was their father showing Helion he would trust the south with the lives of his daughters. 

He took off, his silver crown adorned against his full head of hair, and the girls trotted behind, two guards flanking their sides. Elain shivered against the cool, salty sea air, wishing for the brief months when Ellesmere became bathed in light and warmth. The rest of the year was wet and gloomy and cold but for two months the world seemed to come alive and so, too, did Elain. 

Between the capitol and the border were vast tracts of farmland, marred by the occasional pocket of ugly poverty. Elain hated canting through the dilapidated wooden structures, mere lean-to’s built from scrap while the people begged for coins she was forbidden from offering. As a girl, Elain had often pretended to just drop what lay in her pocket only to earn a switch against the bottom of her feet or the tops of her hands. No one had ever been able to beat that urge out of her and as they rode, Nesta turned sharply when she heard those bags of coins fall to the ground.

Elain had so much while others had so little. What did it matter if she wasted a little? It wasn’t as if she would somehow do without. She was princess, after all, and princesses were cared for by the very people she was supposed to shun.

Privately, Elain imagined a world in which her father was dead and Graysen left her mostly to her own devices on such matters. He was so obsessed with the south she thought he might not mind if she cajoled the ruling lords into lowering taxes so the rest of the realm could breathe, if only a little. War was costly and yet surely they didn’t mean to fight with the south forever? 

It wasn’t for her to consider, certainly not when they arrived at the stone wall that marked their land from the south. It remained intact, though the land just beyond was ruined, barren and ugly, smoldering from a very recent battle. They crossed over and Elain hid her face from the stench of something awful, something foul. In the distance, a woman screamed a wailing sob that wrenched at her heart. Elain almost slid from her saddle, wanting to comfort that grief but Nesta reached for her, closing a gloved hand around Elain’s wrist.

“Do not,” she whispered. Nesta always knew. Elain nodded, lips chapped despite the coolness of the day. Smoke curled upwards, blocking any sun there was to be had and hiding the sea of brown tents that dotted the hilly landscape. To her left, a ruined, golden city gate lay abandoned though Elain was certain that was where the screaming was coming from. It was certainly where the pluming smoke originated and too late, Elain realized it must be burials that were happening and the stench her eyes watered against were the dead moving onward, souls departing. 

The warriors of the south were crude. A tall, dark haired man stopped them, his bare bicep unclothed and unadorned. Her father, dressed finely in his white cape and purple tunic, slid from his horse. “I’ve come, just as promised.”

The warrior's eyes flicked to her and her sisters, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “All of you,” he said, his voice rough like gravel. Elain had never seen men like this, in leather skirts and sandals instead of full coats of armor. He had braces on his forearms and shins, his chest covered with leather plating with painted gold but he was otherwise bare. When he walked, she could see the shift of muscle beneath his bronzed skin. Elain was not the only one who looked—both Feyre and Nesta were staring, eyes focused on the sheer power of his body.

It was wholly improper and still Elain said nothing, sandwiched between her sisters as they walked behind their father and this man, towards the largest tent in the encampment. Not all men were as well-dressed as this one. Some were bare chested, leering as they passed, their eyes inviting. If the warrior noticed, he said nothing, further proof of his barbarism, in Elain’s opinion.

She wanted to know why they’d been made to come, to endure the humiliation of these half-naked men and their unabashed stares.

Inside the tent, the warrior king himself Helion stood, taller than her father by a good head. His skin was dark, sunkissed and smooth beneath his own white and gold leather armor, skirted just like the rest of his men. Onyx hair floated to his shoulders, wavy and impossibly lovely for a man. Amber eyes assessed them cooly from his carved, handsome features. Unlike their father, who very much looked his age, Helion seemed timeless somehow, as if he had been just as old as he was then for centuries. A golden, sunburst crown adorned his head, golden earrings in his ears, rings on his long fingers and a golden cuff snaking up his arm.

Beside him was the prince—Lucien, she knew. Graysen loathed him more than any other enemy. He was his fathers man, with that same golden skin a few shades lighter than his Helions, and his hair was longer and a vibrant shade of red. She wondered if it had been his fingers that braided it off his temples or if someone else managed that. He was, somehow, more handsome than his father, his eyes a russet brown, his mouth fuller, his cheekbones sharper, his jaw carefully carved. Just as tall, just as muscular, adorned in the same jewelry, the same crown, the same unreadable stare. 

He didn’t look at any of them—only their father. 

“Jurian. The prisoner,” Helion’s voice rumbled like thunder and the warrior who’d led them in vanished through the flaps.

“Unharmed?” her father asked, his brown eyes cool. He was staring down the prince, as if he would have liked to bury a sword in the man’s neck.

“Lucky him,” was all Lucien replied. Nesta stepped an inch closer, gripping Elain’s arm as if some terrible realization had just dawned on her. Elain didn’t dare look at either of her sisters, the three standing on the fringe of this strange meeting. They stepped back in unison when the flap opened and Graysen was shoved in, filthy, hands bound, but otherwise unharmed. There wasn’t a mark on him, odd given even Lucien bore three ugly scars down one side of his face, as if someone had tried to carve out his very eye and just barely missed. It was a testament to Graysen’s skill, she thought with pride, that he had avoided any injuries.

Her father looked Graysen over, expression inscrutable as Jurian held him tight. Helion’s expression was shifting from hatred to curiosity, watching this display between king and general.

“He is not your son?” Helion asked, brows knitting together. Beside him, his own son gripped the sword hanging from his hip so tightly Elain could see the white of his bones.

“In all ways that matter,” her father replied. Nesta sucked in a soft breath. Elain was staring at Graysen, who could not meet her eyes. She was so happy to see him, so excited to be bringing him home. She wanted to get out of this camp and make a fuss, to tend to him and, perhaps, remind him why he’d asked her to be his wife in the first place. He’d been pushing to consummate things early while Elain insisted on holding on to her virtue. Looking at what he’d endured, she wondered if it wasn’t time to make things right between them. 

“It is not everyday a warrior makes a trade like this,” Helion continued, walking around the large, wooden table that held a large map of their continent. “In my home, we would consider that cowardice.”

Graysen only scoffed, as if he doubted they adhered to concepts such as honor. 

“I would expect nothing less,” Lucien hissed, eyes snapping upwards, not to Graysen, but to her. Hatred burned like flame, licking over his features as if he might be consumed with it. He blinked, extinguishing that rage just as quickly as it had come, turning his head to the contract on the table. 

“Father,” Nesta whispered, earning a raised hand of silence. 

“This is how we will secure peace,” her father said, peering down at the document between them. “Come here, Elain.” She was suddenly rooted to the spot. All eyes turned to her, including Graysen. There was no apology in his gaze, only steely determination, his mouth all but saying you will do this for me.

Elain blinked, shaking her head slowly. “I…what for?”

Lucien’s eyes flicked back to her face with distaste. “You didn’t warn her?”

“He hoped there might be another way,” Helion all but laughed. “And there is. Graysen can hang–”

“No,” she whispered, hand pressed against her lips. 

“Hush!” Nesta demanded, but it was too late. They all knew, then, that she loved him. Lucien turned his head with disgust, snatching the pen from his fathers hand to sign his name quickly at the bottom. He tossed it to the table as if he could not bear this agreement though surely he must have had some part in it.

“Peace, Elain,” her father gently cajoled, prying her from Nesta’s grip to bring her to the table. “And an alliance through marriage.”

Elain looked at Graysen, waiting for him to protest. Surely he could not be okay with this, she reasoned. Graysen nodded his head once, forcing her to look at her father. “But–”

“Sign it,” he ordered, his voice edged with ice. Elain, who had never denied her father anything, waited only for a beat of heart. His face darkened, eyes terribly cold. Everyone was watching, waiting for her to make a fuss, to scream and sob and cry. Like the prince, she reached for that pen as though it were made of acid and just beside his name, signed her name with shaking fingers. 

“Congratulations,” Helion said after scrawling his own and giving her father the last spot on that terrible contract. “Newlyweds.”

Lucien strode out of the tent without looking at her, his feelings plain. In some ways, Elain was relieved he didn’t stop to linger or stare like so many of the other men did. Even Helion was regarding her curiously. Elain lowered her eyes while the warrior called Jurian cut the bindings around Graysen’s wrists. 

“You have ten minutes to say goodbye,” Helion informed them. “Jurian will be outside this tent counting the time. He will escort you to the border and you will leave her behind. If any of you turns back or draws your sword, I will kill your daughters first while the rest of you watch.”

There was no joy, no amusement in King Helion’s words. Only disgust. Elain had to swallow a hysterical sob as she watched the large man leave the room. 

No one spoke for a second, standing in the terrible silence of the tent. “You…” Nesta began, grabbing Feyre around the middle when she lunged for Graysen.

“They’ll kill her!” Feyre screamed, the words silenced by Nesta’s hand clapped over her mouth.

“Shut up,” their father ordered. “This is only temporary.”

Elain was still staring at Graysen, rubbing his wrists as he looked anywhere but her. “Did you know?” she asked. Graysen walked to her then, reaching for her face. Elain stumbled backwards, nearly collapsing to the floor. His eyes were cold, irritated she wasn’t just doing what he wanted without question. “Did you?”

“They would have hung me,” was his response. “I’ll come for you. Six months is all I require, but you must…you must fight him off. You must…”

She wanted to laugh. She must remain pure, somehow, must prevent this new man from doing anything he shouldn’t while Graysen decided how and when he’d return her. “Keep your eyes and ears open so when we come…”

“Time’s up,” Jurian snapped, stepping back into the room.

“It hasn’t been ten minutes!” Nesta protested but Elain knew why he was there. He’d heard Graysen’s threat and was ending things before they could plot further. Elain stepped around the general for her sisters, pulling both into a sharp hug.

“I will be fine,” she lied. “They…they can’t kill me.”

“They could do other things,” Feyre’s panicked voice insisted. “There are other ways, other things—”

“I’ll be fine.” Elain whispered the lie, kissing both sisters on the cheek. If she said it enough, maybe she’d believe it. 

“Now,” Jurian added, his brown eyes watching her curiously. She swore she saw glimmering respect mingled with the pity on his face. 

“Be brave,” her father murmured, caressing her face. “This is for the good of our people.”

They left her there with those words, those lies.

The good of their people?

Or the good of his crown? 

~*~

Lucien had to go out back to vomit. His father came with him, leaving Princess Elain Archeron to say whatever sobbing goodbyes she needed to without his interference. “I can’t stand it,”

Lucien gasped, wiping his mouth. “She all but told him no–”

“She never said the word no,” Helion reminded his son carefully, as if it weren’t merely semantics. 

“I doubt she’s ever been allowed,” Lucien snapped. “Graysen’s fiance, with her sad, pleading eyes and her love sick–”

“That’s enough,” Helion snarled. “You agreed.”

Lucien had agreed for only one reason. Archeron would have to think long and hard about the next time he crossed that border. Lucien didn’t have just any princess. He had Archeron’s prized daughter, his purported favorite and for all the King of the North knew, he would rip her to pieces if her father dared step another fucking foot in the south ever again.

Lucien had sworn to do so. As it stood, he was already considering where he could dump her short of a prison cell. It was dishonorable to treat a wife like trash, to lock her away, though it was also the height of cruelty to force a woman into marriage or any other act. He very much doubted Elain was going to come to his bed willingly. At some point he’d have to grit his teeth and push her face into a pillow in order to consummate the marriage, if only to keep that prick Graysen from trying to rescue the virtuous maiden. 

Not that night, though. Lucien meant to tie her to his bed, certainly, but only to keep her from escaping. He needed to pen a letter to Jesminda back home, to explain this whole wretched plot before she came to greet him at the gate only to realize he’d taken a northern princess for a wife. Not that he’d made Jes any promises and yet…and yet he’d wanted to, when he returned. He thought she knew it, too. 

“You will treat her like a cherished wife,” Helion continued, perhaps reading Lucien’s thoughts. 

“You have mother,” Lucien reminded his father, thinking of the shining, beautiful love that had always surrounded them. “And I have—”

“You have a woman who will need your protection,” Helion interrupted. “Who did not ask for this, who had no say at all. You could have said no. I would have supported you. Look at the coward she was supposed to marry, who traded his own life in exchange for hers? I would rather die than give up your mother.”

“You are trying to make me pity her,” Lucien all but growled. “I did this because my duty is to my people, to those mothers burying little boys a mere hundred yards away. Do not ask me to care for her, too.”

“The people still look to you. If they see your hatred, they will hate her too.”

“Maybe they should,” Lucien hissed. “If it is not her fault then she has benefited. She was going to marry that monster–”

“She spoke up for him when his life was threatened,” Helion replied smoothly, clearly looking for anything Lucien could begrudgingly respect. “She’s got your mothers spirit.”

“She’ll betray us,” Lucien spat. “Her father traded her like cattle and when he decides to invade again, he’s got two other daughters, doesn’t he?”

“We will not become them. Dig down deep, Lucien. You don’t have to love her, but you cannot abuse her, either.”

Lucien scoffed. He turned his back, not bothering to go to his new wife, or her angry family as he strode to his tent. Jurian fell into step beside him, eyes filled with pity. “Jes will understand.” Yes, Jes with her beautiful eyes and her loud laugher would understand Lucien had been forced by duty but what about him? He would have to watch her fall in love with another man, watch that man live the life Lucien had been so hopeful about. Dreaming about. His children, his wife, his everything while Lucien trotted about the snotty, trembling princess of the north and her pale, ugly children that would one day rule his home, assuming they didn’t all betray him. No love. No happiness.

Only duty.

“I’m going to take her to the seaside palace when we return,” Lucien said, making plans immediately. “She can have a staff that will report directly to me and guards at every door. No access to the city or a ship or anything but that wretched, miserable garden.”

Jurian nodded. “And when people ask where she is?”

“We will tell them she is ill,” Lucien declared with relish. “And recuperating in the quiet. I want Arina to watch her. I can trust her.”

“She’s more likely to put a knife in your new wife’s back than to be of any true help.”

“Tragedies befall people everyday. I can mourn for a year,” Lucien retorted, shoving open the flaps of his own tent. “I don’t want that bitch anywhere near Naxos. The minute her father decides this treaty no longer serves him, he’ll be writing to his daughter, pumping her for information. She learns nothing unless I say so, goes nowhere without me.”

Jurian nodded though Lucien could see it made him uneasy. Women were not treated so poorly in their realm and though she was a hated enemy, it didn’t sit right. It made Lucien’s gut churn, pacing the carpeted floor of his tent until Jurian left to retrieve Elain. He expected to hear wailing, screaming sobs begging to be let go. He kept his back to the flaps even when he heard Jurian return. 

“Sit,” Jurian murmured, gesturing towards the pallet Lucien had slept up on for nearly a year as he tried to push back her fucking fiánce. Graysen got to live another day, got to ride away and sleep in his bed while Lucien…Lucien was left in the mess he’d made. Elain sat on the pallet a mere four feet off the floor, hands flat on her knees covered in the wool of her dress. Waiting. 

When he turned, Elain’s eyes went wide. She was far from pretty—stunning would have been the right word for her. Graysen had not lied about that, at least. It had taken him aback when she walked in. He’d assumed he would have to guess which woman Graysen meant but Elain…Elain’s beauty was its own language. In another world, one where she walked the corridors of his golden palace, he would have wanted her. Might have dogged her steps, curious what lay beneath the fabric of her skirts. 

It was edged with ice, that beauty. She looked up at him through tear stained lashes, her bottom lip trembling and Lucien, unable to help himself, asked, “Well? Are you going to undress for me?”

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard as her fingers went to the button on her pretty blue coat dress. As if she’d resigned herself to this fate and would meet it, no matter how it pained her.

Lucien strode forward, dropping to one knee to grip her wrist. “Has any man touched you?”

Her lips trembled again. “No,” she whispered thickly. He turned his head in disgust. In the North, women were bought and sold like cattle. He always forgot the way their men covered the bodies of their women and guarded their virtue, obsessed with taking it in the crudest of ways. He pressed his fingertips against the sockets of his eyes.

“Keep that on.”

“Okay,” she agreed, carefully removing her hand from his grip. Lucien sat on the floor, studying this woman he was now married to. She didn’t look at him, choosing instead to take in his spartan tent, as if she might find some way to escape.

“I can only delay this coupling,” he finally told her, wanting to draw a reaction from her. Elain’s eyes were so impossibly sad and it bothered him. Where was her anger? The elder sister had it but Elain only had this wobbling fear that made it seem as if she would break apart like glass. “When we return to Naxos, you will have to submit.”

She didn’t flinch at the word. Jes would have lit him on fire for ever demanding such a thing. Any Southern woman would have. It was not in their nature—not in their vocabulary. Elain though, seemed to understand this.

“Okay,” she agreed again. He waited but as the moments passed, it was clear she wasn’t going to try and run, wasn’t going to grab a knife. She would just…sit. Perhaps taking her to the Seaside Palace was a mercy. He could leave her utterly alone and find her ten years later still wandering the halls like a little lost lamb.

“Well—”

“Lucien?” she whispered when he stood, intending to drink himself stupid in celebration of his farcical marriage. 

“Yes?”

Her eyes flicked to his face and he swore he saw something spark within them. “Did he truly offer me up in his stead?”

His lips curled over his teeth, prompting him to crouch in front of her and grasp her face in his hands. “When he learned he was to hang, he told the sweetest story of the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen. Princess Elain, he’d said. Her father would trade her for peace, this perfect daughter, in exchange for a man who rapes just as often as he kills. I did not believe it until you signed that contract.”

Lucien released her face, unable to bear the tears sliding down her cheeks. Her silent weeping unnerved him. Why didn’t she make noise? He’d once heard his mother sobbing when her sister died and yet Elain, by contrast, seemed as if she’d been trained not to wail her grief to the Gods. Who listened to this woman? 

“If it had been me,” he said, drawing her eyes back up to him. “I would have hung.”

Lucien strode from his tent, bitter and angry with them both.

ELAIN:

I’ll come for you, Graysen had whispered once Jurian had untied him and Lucien had fled, his face filled with revulsion. Six months is all I require. 

Pretty words, considering Elain was now sitting in another man’s saddle, his arm begrudgingly draped around her waist. She wore a new coat dress of blood red, drawing her new husband's disapproval when he saw her. He had swapped out his leather armor for a different sort of skirt, white and gold like before, his thighs still on display. A scrap cut across his otherwise naked chest and Elain had never been more uncomfortable pressed against him. He’d untied his long, red hair, letting it blow in the wind while she’d kept the same braid Nesta had done the day before. She hadn’t bathed, hadn’t eaten, had barely slept. At some point, he would demand her to fulfill the marriage and even if Graysen came, he wouldn’t want her. 

I would have hung.

She didn’t want Graysen to hang…and yet what about his chivalry? He would have slept in his bed that night, safe and warm while she’d slept under another man's blanket, breathing his scent, waiting for him to finally come and complete the marriage ritual. Elain knew the mechanics, understood from what her father had told her when she accepted Graysen’s proposal that it would hurt and she needed to endure it, as she’d endured other hurts. How much worse would it be with a man who didn’t care for her at all? Who didn’t love her? 

It didn't matter. It was Graysen’s fiánce they wanted, not just any princess, and her father had been clear. If she displeased Lucien in any way, men in the south were just as likely as the men in the north to take belts to their wives. She needed to keep her head down and do as she was told until they figured a way out of this. 

Still, he hadn’t done anything. He’d barely looked at her at all. He didn’t want this and some small part of her, the part that had been raised surrounded by political scheming, wondered if she couldn’t use that to her advantage. Maybe they could just pretend. She wanted to believe, deep down in Lucien’s vicious, barren soul was a gentleman. She’d endeavored not to cry when he stepped in that morning, every inch prince of Naxos, and asked her to please dress as he tossed her things at her feet. 

It did not take her long to understand why he disliked the dress she wore. The longer they walked the winding, pale stone road, the warmer it became. Both her and Lucien began to shift against the heavy fabric though there was nothing that could be done. She heard him sigh by high noon, pulling his chest as far from her as he could without tumbling off the onyx stallion they rode. 

“I didn’t know,” she whispered by apology. “I…I would have packed differently if I had.”

He only snorted in disgust. None of it mattered. She could have come in the finest southern fabric and he’d still hate her. To that end, she did not blame him though at least Elain could acknowledge neither of them had wanted this. As they plodded on, over hilly, empty grasslands in a long, seemingly unending line, Elain’s despair only worsened. Whatever was waiting for her at the end tortured her. Would he put her in a cell somewhere, bringing her out only to birth heirs before shoving her back into the damp and dark? Would he hit her, break her until she was nothing at all? She should have said no, she thought miserably. It was her fault she’d done as she was told. 

This was his fault, too. Men, making decisions on her behalf only to turn around and blame her for them. Elain pressed her back to his chest, noting how he stiffened against her. She was hot, and now he was too. He blamed her for her lack of foresight and Elain blamed him for his lack of action. Six months. She could endure six months of him, she decided.

Lucien tightened his hold as they approached Naxos. Elain saw the ocean first, bright and blue against the cheerful, hot sun overhead. It was never that hot in Ellesmere, even in the summer. She wanted to peel off her coat and feel the sun kiss her skin and without meaning to, Elain tilted her head towards the light, letting her bathe her face in heat. 

Naxos was lovely, she could begrudgingly admit. She hadn’t seen any of the tell-tale signs of poverty, at least, though she still had coins in her pockets. Would Lucien take a switch to the soles of her feet, too? Or would he simply go straight for his belt, or whatever equivalent his people seemed to wear? Elain took one look at his bulging biceps before deciding she didn’t want to find out. There was power in his body, the sort that could shred her skin to ribbons if he so chose. 

He relaxed the moment the heavy onyx gates cranked open, leading them towards a city built atop a hill, its road circling the steep incline towards the sprawling white palace set like a jewel at the top. The whole city had come out to celebrate, sending bright confetti into the air against a wash of music and jubilant cries of joy. Though Lucien never left his horse, some of the men around him slung off the saddles to scoop up laughing children or sobbing women. Elain was an oddity. Everyone who saw her paused to look, recognizing her immediately as other. 

A prize of war, she supposed, humiliation churning in her gut. Lucien got to parade her through the city, his trophy for winning and she could do nothing but endure it. Elain memorized what she saw, drinking in hanging vines and brightly colored plants, trees that bore fruit she’d never seen in her life and the rich, breezy garments both men and women wore. The houses were made of the same white material with blue rooftops, the material she could not place. It was far from the polite, somber celebration she knew her father had received when he’d returned. People had to work.

Not here, she supposed. Or at least, not for this. Elain didn’t know what to make of it–of any of it.

The army did not march with them to the top of the palace. That was reserved for a select few. Waiting in front of swaying trees and a moonstone path was the most beautiful woman Elain had ever seen in her life. Lucien’s mother, given that rich shade of copper hair and those russet eyes. She had her fingertips pressed to her lips and when the king slung from his horse, he went to her first, pulling her into his arms for a messy, hungry kiss. Elain watched even when Lucien withdrew and offered his hand to help her to the ground. Her own mother had died a decade before and yet she’d never witnessed that sort of affection between her parents. 

The Queen turned to look at Elain, her joy slipping to something else. Something guarded yet not entirely cold. Elain dropped into a practiced, smooth curtsey. She was the outsider, well aware that both Lucien and Helion were watching. She did not want to do anything to make her situation worse. 

“Princess Elain of Ellesmere, mama,” Lucien told her, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Princess of Naxos,” she corrected, taking a step towards Elain in a white dress held together by gold brooches at the shoulders. “Lady Elain. I met your mother once.”

Elain had never heard that story. She offered a tight smile, one the Queen returned, though hers was far more radiant. “She did not like me much.”

“Mama always had terrible taste,” Elain said without thinking. Helion burst into a loud laugh, hand on his wife’s shoulders, his amusement genuine and surprised. Elain didn’t know what possessed her to say it, only that it had been true. She nodded, taking Elain’s hand to press a kiss against her skin. “You may call me Lady Amera,” she said after a moment. “And no more bowing. Not in my home.”

Elain nodded. 

“We’ll need to get her clothes and–”

“Lucien!” a woman’s voice cut through his mothers musings. Elain watched a dark haired, dark eyed woman fling herself into his arms as if he were a regular man and not the Crown Prince. Had she ever done that to Graysen he would have punished her privately for such an embarrassment. Elain winced, terrified for the beautiful girl pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Jes,” he murmured, arms stiff at his side. “We ah…we should talk about some things.”

“Come,” Amera murmured to Elain, hand on her back though Elain didn’t want to walk the shaded path into the palace. She wanted to know who Jes was and what Lucien was going to say to her. He’d lost something, too. She felt no pity for him, not as she looked over her shoulder at his anguish face, trying to explain the wretched choice he’d made.

I would have hung.

Maybe not. 

LUCIEN:

“What do you mean, you married her?” Jes asked, taking a halting step away from him. “I thought…”

Lucien wished he could rip his heart from his chest and offer it up to her. “It was for peace, Jes. I…I am bound to this crown. I did not do it for love.”

“But you married her,” Jes repeated, as if she could still not believe him capable of such a betrayal. 

Lucien knew there was no fixing this between them. Taking a mistress was just not done and yet the woman he longed for was standing out of arm's reach in the loveliest blue dress he’d ever seen, and all he wanted was throw her over his shoulder and play the conquering hero before ravishing her for the rest of the day. “I married her,” Lucien agreed, his resentment hot in his mouth. She shook her head, fingertips pressed to her lips.

“I…trapped with that frigid…Lucien,” she murmured, her eyes wide with pity. “Beg your father to release you. Have you…did you…?”

“No,” he hastened to assure her, hating the traitorous way his body awakened, intrigued by the memory of Elain’s body pressed against his own. “Never.”

“Don’t,” she murmured. “Beg your father–”

“I won’t,” Lucien interrupted, swallowing his wish to tell her he would. “Jes, I…you know how I feel. You…You are…But she is my wife and as long as the north honors our alliance, I will not humiliate her.”

Not yet, anyway. 

Jes’s features hardened. “But you will humiliate me?”

“I made you no promises,” he reminded her miserably. “I hoped to…but you are free of me. Unattached. There have always been suitors lined at your door. You will forget me.”

“I won’t,” she replied, stepping closer to press her hand against his chest, “I’m in love with you.”

He sucked in a breath, closing his eyes. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Please, Jes…” He wasn’t strong enough, proof when he immediately slanted his mouth over hers for a furious, bruising kiss. Jes met him in the middle, surging upwards on her toes. Fingers tangled in his hair as she tugged him closer while Lucien swept his tongue behind her teeth for a familiar taste of citrus and salt.

He groaned, grinding his hips against her. “Jes–”

“Lucien?'' His fathers voice saved him from making a truly terrible decision. Too late, he realized, he’d gripped her arms and spun her, had been moments from pushing her against a pillar, from hiking up her skirt and burying himself inside her like he’d done so many times before.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his final words on the matter. Jes wrenched herself from his grasp, vanishing into the city behind him while Lucien plodded miserably towards his father. Helion did not ask if Lucien ended things with Jesminda. It was merely a given that he would, that he would honor the agreement and treat Elain like his wife in all ways. All ways. 

Lucien swallowed the thought. 

“I intend to take Elain to the Seaside Palace…get to ah…know her better,” Lucien informed father once he was inside the cool marble interior of their family home. Courtiers dipped and bowed as they passed and Lucien barely recognized them at all, his mind racing. “I’m going to bring Arina to keep watch for a time.”

“Fine,” his father agreed, leading him down long, wide halls with open windows towards his study. “Do not bring her back until she is with child.”

Lucien blanched. That had hardly been the plan.

“What?”

“I’m not a fool. Archeron will be looking to exploit his daughter and end this alliance. She needs roots, a reason to put you above her father. A baby will make her think twice about laying waste to her son's inheritance.”

“You assume a son,” Lucien snapped, burning at the thought. “I just married her–”

“And you act as if I am stupid. I know why you want to ship her off to that palace surrounded by water on all sides. You can leave for work, of course, forgetting your unwanted wife until the city has too. Hear me, son. You freely gave me your consent and I expect you to uphold that promise. I would have gladly hung Graysen.”

“So now she is to be my broodmare as well as my wife?” Lucien asked, slamming the door to his fathers study loudly. “As if that would stop her treacherous father. They would merely dash the boy against the rocks and send her back home as if nothing happened.”

“Are you not a warrior? Would you let a foreign invader kill your own son?” Helion asked, eyes sharp. Lucien ran a hand through his tangled hair. How had he gotten here?

“I agreed to marriage, not to a brood of wintry children.”

Helion dropped into his leather chair, pulling the crown from his head. “Perhaps, but this is what comes with marriage. The longer you wait, the longer people will wonder about her. Charm her, put a baby in her belly, and I will leave you be.”

“Just one?” Lucien asked, eyes narrowed.

“One son,” his father amended, eyes bright. As if Lucien could control such things. 

“And if I have a dozen daughters?”

“I would congratulate you on your fortune. I managed no daughters at all.” His fathers smile was borderline obscene, reflecting on how he’d tried to produce more children. As if Lucien ever wanted to consider such things. 

“I will punish you, if I hear rumors that you are mistreating her,” he added against Lucien’s retreating back. “I suspect she had had enough to fill a lifetime, besides. You might consider your wife’s loyalty far easier won with a little softness.”

“Of course,” Lucien bit back, slamming the door once again. He strode to his bedroom, flinging open the door to find the bane of his existence, his new wife half undressed and plucking at the knotted laces of her corset. Lucien closed the door behind him, repulsed by the seemingly endless, restrictive layers of clothing she wore. He could see another shift of sorts beneath the corset and imagined there was probably some thermal layer beneath that, too, along with a chastity belt for all he knew. 

Elain’s fingers stilled at the sight of him, her cheeks paling when she realized the bedroom she stood in belonged to him. How could she imagine otherwise? There was a knife laying casually on his desk at the far end of the room. Lucien rubbed his eyes and wished there was somewhere else he could put her. The north had no honor, did not abide by any code. Getting her pregnant only forced him to keep her safe, to protect her at the cost of his people if he wanted to see his own children survive. He did not believe she would act the way other mothers did, with instinct and love. When Graysen came, Lucien imagined Elain would hand herself over, swollen stomach or not, or worse. She’d give that babe to a man who relished the death of children and allow him to destroy the child if only to punish him.

He sprawled on the white and gold duvet atop his bed, licking chapped lips. Before he could open his mouth and inform her of his hatred, a knock on the door paused him. “Come in,” he called, well aware whoever was on the other end was not for him. Vassa’s curly red hair poked through the door, teal eyes narrowed at the sight of him. 

“These are for the princess,” she told Lucien, noting the pile of dresses against her arm. Elain was still tugging at the knot on her dress and when Vassa saw, she set them neatly atop a chair by the dresser to help.

“Have you seen Arina?” he asked. “I’m taking my…Elain…to Seaside and I want Arina to accompany me.”

Vassa’s head snapped in his direction, narrowing her eyes further. She knew, like Arina would and every other woman, why he wanted to take her out there. Surrounded on all sides by water and far enough from the mainland it would be impossible to swim to shore, Elain would be a prisoner for all practical purposes. 

“I’ll go, too,” she said. 

Vassa, defender of women.

 Lucien wanted to tell her not to waste her time. Whatever he did to Elain couldn’t be any worse than what she’d experienced at home. He was merely being culturally sensitive at that point. Making her feel welcome, even. 

“Here,” Vassa murmured once she got the corset off Elain’s torso. Lucien watched the tan piece of boning flop loudly to the floor and wondered if she’d be angry if he burned it. It pressed her breasts up to her neck, making her look odd in comparison to the women of home who allowed their bodies to just be. Artifice. “This will feel a lot better than all that wool.”

“It’s still cold at ho–up north,” Elain explained softly, reaching for the pink dress Vassa had pulled out for her. She was going to put it on over that shift, he realized with some delight. How amusing to see her walking around with the shapeless, off-white sleeves beneath a gorgeous pink and gold dress. Vassa shook her head, turning to look at Lucien who made a show of looking up at the ceiling.

“Take this off,” she murmured. “You don’t need it.”

“I…what about underthings?” Elain’s voice whispered, drawing Lucien’s attention back to her. Vassa had turned Elain so she faced the wall of windows overlooking the sea, her back only visible.

“It’s too hot,” Vassa explained gently. Elain let Vassa pull it off over her head, barring a slim, pale back. Lucien leaned forward, eyes narrowing on a series of thin scars marring her otherwise perfect skin.

“Lucien!” Vassa snapped when he stood. Elain immediately covered her chest but he had no interest in turning her around. He cocked his head, running a knuckle down the length of her spine, following the pale pink from her neck nearly to her waist. Her ass was on display, small and round and surprisingly tantalizing. Lucien ignored it, halting his hand at her lower back. Vassa, he knew, was wearing at least one knife and would be justified in plunging it in his gut for groping a terrified woman.

“Who did this?” he asked her. Vassa shoved at his chest.

“Don’t touch her,” Vassa hissed, eyes blazing. “Get out of here.”

Elain was shaking again, arms wrapped so tightly around her body it was as if she was physically holding herself together. Vassa, who had once been Elain, a refugee from the West fleeing a cruel man hellbent on marriage, saw too much of herself in Elain. Vassa hadn’t chosen that man but Elain had chosen Graysen. He couldn’t stop staring, wondering what mild, meek Elain could possibly have done to earn this badge, these nearly invisible marks. Ten, in total. Lucien counted them, noting the way they criss-crossed over her skin the way a whip might have done. Ten lashings…it was unthinkable. It filled him with a rage he just barely understood, to have his hand on this trembling woman who had endured something that even he had never been forced to undergo. 

“Do they…it does not please you?” Elain whispered, not daring to look over her shoulder. Vassa closed her eyes, stepping between Lucien and Elain so he could no longer see them. Lucien’s anger washed over him.

“Don’t,” Vassa whispered again but Lucien could not stop himself.

“Why would it possibly please me?” His words were a sneer

“It’s the mark of an obedient wife,” Vassa snapped and too late, Lucien remembered Jurian’s own ashen face one morning as he’d told Lucien of the cruelty of other realms, of places that beat women as girls to prepare them for marriage. 

“Your suffering does not please me,” Lucien forced himself to say it softly, to push the fury from his voice. Vassa glanced at him with disapproval, pulling the gown over Elain’s miserable head. “We do not hit our wives here.”

Elain looked to him, her eyes brimming with more silent tears. “What do you do, then?” she whispered with agony while Vassa fussed with the fabric, letting it cling against her soft curves. Her back was displayed to him again though Lucien wished it wasn’t, unable to look at anything but the scars. He wore his on his face like a badge of honor and too late, he wondered if the same man had not inflicted both. 

A golden ring held the dress around her neck, making her look almost right. It did little to settle him.

“Men are forbidden from striking their wives,” Vassa said instead, her every word punctuated as if Lucien needed the reminder. He plopped back to the bed while Vassa began plucking pins from Elain’s hair. “Or otherwise harming them. It’s a grave offense and depending on the severity, can be punished through death.”

“Is it enforced?” Elain whispered.

“Yes,” Lucien interrupted. “Without impunity.”

Vassa raked her fingers through Elain’s long, golden brown hair, making that beauty Graysen had spoken of suddenly apparent. Lucien was momentarily struck dumb by the sight of the waves tumbling around her heartshaped face. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He had to blink against that though, at the rising fascination in his chest. This had been Graysen’s plan, hadn’t it? Distract him with her beauty…how the fuck had Elain ended up with such a cruel, cold man? 

“It was a shock to me, too,” Vassa admitted. “It takes some adjustment. I ah…I will accompany you to the Seaside Palace, along with Arina. It will be good to have compaionship and I’m sure the prince would not want you to suffer a moment of loneliness when he is called away for business.”

“Of course not,” Lucien lied, his voice silky. Vassa wanted to monitor him, did she? Keep tabs on him, report back if he wasn’t nice? He wanted to snap at her, to tell her to mind her own impending marriage but if Vassa had taken an interest, it was obvious Jurian had warned her in some capacity of Lucien’s intentions. “And my name is Lucien, not prince, which you’re well aware of.”

“Sometimes you forget,” Vassa retorted, turning Elain fully so Lucien could look at her. Elain still looked too frightened for his liking, and exhausted from a night in the war camp. Beautiful, though. Some small, traitorous voice whispered that he’d liked to see her smile before he made any decisions and Lucien stuffed it deep, deep down. He was still raw over Jes, still aching to go see her. Jes, who threw herself into his arms the moment she saw him, who didn’t assume he’d ever hurt her, who kissed him freely. Jes, who laughed and danced and sang without a care in the world, who was loud and bright and beautiful and everything he’d wanted the princess of Naxos to be. 

Everything Elain was not. Vassa offered Lucien a reproachful look forcing him to get out of his bed. “You look nice,” he offered, his words half a lie. She was easily the most beautiful woman in court which would make her no friends. Who needed them, if she had Vassa? Lucien shook his head. “Get some rest, Elain.”

She glanced towards the large, four poster bed nervously. “Alone?”

“Yes, Elain. I’ll leave you,” he added with irritation, though in truth it was no great burden. Maybe he’d vent his anger on Jurian, who’d tattled to his almost wife and made Vassa thorn in his side. 

“I’ll see you for dinner tonight,” Vassa added softly, touching Elain’s arm. “And introduce you to Arina.”

At least Arina would not take Elain’s side, Lucien thought. She would understand his hesitations, his anger. After all, Arina had introduced him to Jes in the first place. Elain nodded, arms wrapped around her body again, holding her together. Lucien was the first to leave, well aware Elain was going to dissolve in silent tears the moment they closed the door. She could sob them right into his pillow for all he cared. 

He made it all of four steps down the glimmering hall before Vassa punched him hard in the shoulder. “You’re a fucking asshole,” she hissed, grabbing that same arm to drag him further from his bedroom, further from Elain’s listening ears. “That girl is scared and you’re only making it worse!”

“You’ve seen her,” Lucien replied coldly, his words flat. “She is hardly the right kind of wife–”

Vassa slapped him. Lucien looked at her, seeing the way her eyes widened, as if she couldn’t believe she’d done such a thing. He couldn’t believe she had. No one would dare strike him, not if they valued their life. 

“I’m going to pretend,” he murmured softly, “That you did not just do that.”

Vassa’s golden face paled, arms hanging limply at her side. “You deserve it. I’m sure you’re not what she had in mind and she’s still–”

“She has you wrapped around her finger,” Lucien retorted hotly. “I saved you, and you’ve chosen Graysen Nolen’s bride?”

Vassa’s hand whipped towards his face again. Lucien caught her wrist this time, eyes flashing  warning. “I’ll put you in the stocks.”

“I bet you will!” Vassa's anger condemned him. “I don’t owe you for letting me stay here, Lucien, or for pulling me from that raft–”

“Or shielding you when your lord demanded your return?” he asked furiously. “For risking open war with your king, for putting the safety of my home second to your life? You don’t owe me, Vassa? Is that it?”

“NO!” she all but screamed. “Lucien of Naxos, savior of women except his own fucking wife! You know what the north is like, they’re barbarians, they treat women worse than slaves and you’re punishing her anyway!”

“I DON’T WANT HER!” Lucien roared, so loudly he was sure she’d heard him. The whole palace had likely heard his outburst, for all he cared. Let them. Let them all know his marriage was a farce. “I don’t want her in my bed, I don’t want her children and I certainly don’t want you standing here telling me to get on my knees and be grateful when you got to choose your own marriage—”

“And she got stuck with you,” Vassa whispered as anger shimmered between them. “Maybe you’d feel better if I went back to Lord Koschington, then? Is that it, Lucien? Or maybe you should lock her up in the Seaside Palace until Graysen agrees to take her back. What do you think men like him to do to women like her when they think she’s been sullied?”

“Hardly my problem,” Lucien replied, his stomach shifting uncomfortably all the same. Vassa shook her head. 

“Of course not. How lucky, that Jesminda did not end up married to you.” Lucien would have preferred Vassa hit him in the face. He couldn’t speak, could barely stand as Vassa slipped around him.

Forcing him to consider that maybe Vassa was right.

ELAIN:

Elain sobbed into Lucien’s pillow until she fell asleep. She had some vague awareness of soft hands on her shoulders that tried to rouse her for dinner but Elain stayed, curled beneath his heavy blanket until night fell. She was in and out of sleep, forgetting where she was only to inhale the spicy, masculine scent of Lucien’s sheets and break down crying all over again. She was in Naxos and though both Amera and Vassa were kind, Elain wanted to go home. She wanted to see her sisters, wanted to walk the familiar halls of the fortress she’d always lived in, wanted to see her people…wanted to see Graysen.

I’ll come for you, he’d promised.

“I don’t want you!” she whispered angrily, punching Lucien’s pillow.

“No?” Lucien’s voice answered from the dark. Elain twisted, pressing her back flat against the headboard. When had he gotten here? Illuminated by one flickering candle, the prince sat contemplative in a chair, face tilted towards a window. “I suppose that makes two of us.”

“Let me go,” she breathed, crawling carefully to the end of the bed. Lucien didn’t turn his head, didn’t acknowledge her as she crept closer. Elain wrapped a hand around the carved, wooden bed post and finally Lucien turned to her.

“You weren’t the only one hoping to marry someone else,” he finally said, licking his lips as he stared towards the window. “I can’t release you.”

“Please?” she begged softly. “You could tell them I ran away—”

“I would find you,” he interrupted. “I would track you before you ever made it fifty miles.”

“Say I had help–”

“And risk a member of my court?”

“Maybe I’m better skilled than you thought!” she said desperately, ignoring the way he scoffed. “Maybe someone from the north helped and you didn’t know! Make up any lie, Lucien, I won’t refute it! Please,” she added, well aware her time was drawing to a close. He’d swallow his pride eventually and do what needed to be done, would bed her as he should have the night before and she’d have no choice but to comply. Lucien shook his head.

“I cannot decide if it is better to just get this over with or tell everyone you are infertile,” he mused, eyes still on the window. Elain exhaled a trembling breath. “They will be expecting…” his voice trailed, expression pained. 

“They expect too much, then,” she replied, hugging her arms to her chest. Lucien’s eyes cut to her for a moment, eyebrows raised.

“They expect you to create some beautiful alliance between our lands, one that your traitor father would respect.”

“He’s not a traitor,” she retorted.

“No?” Lucien finally turned the full weight of his gaze on her and oh, how Elain wished he hadn’t. He rose, every inch a king's son, and walked to her bag of things sitting against the far wall, dumping it unceremoniously to the floor. Lucien crouched, one arm braced against his muscular thigh as he picked through what Nesta had packed.

“Where is your jewelry, Elain?  Your little trinkets and baubles, your fine dresses, your shoes–”

“I didn’t know I’d be coming,” she explained desperately, hating the way he picked through warm dresses and underthings with such disdain. Lucien stood, stepping over the pile of clothes.

“Yes,” he agreed, dropping back to his chair with no small amount of exhaustion. “Because your traitor father did not see fit to warn you well enough that you could even make yourself look nice or have comfort from your own home in this new marriage.”

“He…he did not want to scare me–”

“He wanted your compliance,” Lucien all but snarled, his hatred apparent. “So you would not try and run away while he claimed his true prize.”

“Graysen is to replace him,” she whispered, remembering how advantageous it had been that she and Graysen had fallen in love to begin with. It was hardly an accident. Graysen had pursued her relentlessly, wooed her, courted her…would have slept with her, had she allowed things to go that far. Elain could feel Lucien’s eyes on her, mocking her, as if he knew what she was starting to suspect. Arranged. Her whole life, carefully and neatly arranged to serve the people around her. If Graysen had known, had been pushed towards her…maybe he could just as easily be pushed towards another. Could push her towards someone else, some new husband that suited him.

And so could Lucien. On and on until she died, always a pawn, never a player. “So Graysen becomes king and you his sweet queen–”

“Consort,” Elain interrupted, a strange spark of anger warming her stomach. “Ellesmere does not have queens like your mother.”

Lucien regarded her for a beat. “No queens, then. Only broodmares?”

Elain looked down at her fingers. “Nothing has changed, then. Is that not your expectation, too? A host of children you can parade about every time my father looks in your direction, a reminder that they are so easily killed—”

“I would rather hang,” Lucien hissed, an echo of his earlier words. “Then betray my own wife so shamelessly.”

“A wife you don’t want,” she reminded him. “Children who will only ever be half yours.” It was a cruel thing to say and yet it was her own bitterness that made the words tumble from her lips.

“Hardly a burden to be rid of them so you can start over with your preferred woman. Free of the reminder of your time with me.”

Lucien only shrugged, eyes back on the window. “I made my choices.”

“How lovely for you.”

“I thought you were supposed to be obedient,” he snapped. “I keep hearing stories of how your men demand silence and you have nothing but barbed words for me.”

“You are not my man,” Elain hissed. Lucien’s head whipped towards her, eyebrows raised skyward.

“I am your husband,” he retorted, as if daring her to say otherwise. “And I would like to hear some words of kindness fall from your lips.”

“I would rather hang,” she replied, daring him to do something. Lucien stared for a moment, lips curling as if her defiance amused him. Elain could not stop her trembling when he stood, aware of what came next. She’d defied him and he would bring her to heel. Lucien came to the edge of the bed, gripping her chin softly. He ran his thumb over her bottom lip before releasing her.

“Go to sleep, Elain. You have another long day tomorrow.”

And that was it. No belts, no switches, no screaming and hitting and whatever other tool he could have used. Elain scrambled backwards when he took another step to the bed, knowing he didn’t need any specific weapon when he could use his body, when he could pin her to the bed and do whatever he liked.

Lucien froze, his face ashen as he realized what had sent her scrambling backwards. He ran a hand through his red hair, scrubbing it over his face. “Not tonight,” was all he said, settling her fears as if he’d slammed a door. Elain couldn’t relax against the twisting in her gut. He was buying them both time, but he wasn’t trying to free her. He’d have to eventually, sooner rather than later and Elain just needed to know. Needed to prepare herself, to steel herself against him and his touch. 

“When?”

Lucien only shrugged helplessly. “When you want it.”

“I’ll never want you,” she whispered. His expression flattened. “Take the other woman, let her have your children. I don’t want you.”

If his feelings were hurt, he didn’t say. Lucien only shrugged. 

“See you in the morning, wife.”

He left her there alone with nothing but the dying light of his candle, and the strangest sensation she had done something unforgivably cruel.

LUCIEN:

If Vassa was over-protective, Arina was overly casual. He had the three women on a ship, Elain’s paltry things folded in a too-large trunk just beneath the things he thought he’d need to weather a week with her. He intended to just grit his teeth and get it over that night, despite how miserable that thought made him. He’d seen Jes that morning, bright and beautiful and wholly avoiding his gaze as she flitted about the palace. He needed more than a week to get over her and yet the ache of not seeing her for longer than that gnawed at him.

He was a bad husband in every way that mattered. Elain had been presented to court in a pretty, belted white dress, the golden crown of Naxos set against her beautiful hair, neatly curled by Vassa’s hands. She was a gem, a trophy standing just beside him, her beauty glowing. He’d seen the way the other men had looked just a little too closely, had noted their barely concealed jealousy, all with revulsion. No one would dare, wouldn’t have even without their laws. She was his, thoroughly claimed in the eyes of Naxos. Jes, too, had peered at Elain, cringing at whatever she saw. Lucien couldn’t stand the comparison he knew she was making, hated that she might have wondered how he’d touched Elain when all he wanted was to touch her.

Arina’s taunting voice drew him from his thoughts. Elain stood at the bow, peering at the water with big, curious eyes. She was like a kitten experiencing the world for the first time and he resented her for it. 

“Can you swim?” Arina asked, tossing a lock of blonde hair over her haughty shoulders.

“Yes,” Elain replied, hands gripping the railing. Lucien knew what Arina intended to do before it happened, lunged forward if only to keep himself out of the water. Arina shoved, hand hard on Elain’s back. Elain gasped, tumbling over the railing without preamble, legs flipping over her head as she careened to the water.

“Arina!” Lucien snarled, pulling off his shirt and kicking off his shoes.

“Whoops,” Arina replied, ignoring the anger on Vassa’s face. “It was an accident–” L

ucien did not stay to hear the rest, plunging into the crystal blue water to rescue his wife. Elain hadn’t lied. Her head popped above the waves, eyes wild as she gasped for air. Lucien swam to her, earning little more than a furious splash to the face.

“I hate you!” she screamed, thrashing as he tried to pull her against him. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

 Her fists beat against his chest, each blow worse than the last. Lucien waited for Jurian to lower the rope, refusing to speak at all. He merely weathered her furious words and her beating hands, ignoring when her palm smacked hard against his jaw or her knee crushed against his stomach. 

He dumped her, soaking wet in her now see-through white dress, back on the deck. Arina had the decency to at least look apologetic as Vassa rushed forward to help Elain. “If you do that again I’ll send you west as emissary,” Lucien threatened without amusement, catching how Arina’s face immediately paled. The king of the western islands wanted her as his wife, had made many, many offers. Helion had declined, putting Arina under Lucien’s care but if she wanted to undermine his authority and torture Elain, he’d punish her right back.

Elain rubbed saltwater from her eyes, curled against the railing. She was somehow prettier soaking wet and Lucien wished he wasn’t so attracted to her. It would make resistance easier. Arina sat beside Elain while Lucien watched. She was Jes’s friend, was Lucien’s friend. She was born of their home, their court and looked it, with her bronzed skin and bright, green eyes. Arina wasn’t like Vassa, still skittish and suspicious, but wild and free the way all their women were. Pushing Elain from the ship was merely par the course, he supposed, though Elain, with her finely bred manners likely considered it a grave offense. Both Juran and Lucien waited, curious if Arina would make nice or insult her further. 

Arina did neither. She reached into the slit of her orange dress and produced a small knife. “Next time, you stab someone.”

Elain stared at that blade as Lucien chided, “Arina!”

“What?!” she demanded. “Your wife isn’t allowed a weapon?”

Elain looked up at him, fingers curling around the golden hilt. More of the defiance from the night before shone in her eyes, hesitant and tentative and yet it was still here. Vassa, too, was staring him down, hands on her hips. It had been Jurian who had given Vassa her first knife on the very day he’d helped Lucien pull her from the piece of wreckage she’d clung to, weathering the sea between south and west to escape. 

You are no one’s slave, he’d told her, practically bowing as he’d offered his own blade. She could have pressed it into his gut if she’d wanted, given this strange man was touching her still bruised and bleeding body even as he knelt. 

What existed between them had always been strange to Lucien. Jurian had been all but promised to another and seemed ready to make good on it. One look from Vassa was all it took. Jurian just knew, threw away a finely made match on a stranger who could have cut his throat in his sleep. Two years later Lucien supposed it made sense, but at the time, well…he wouldn’t have made the same choice.

“My wife should not have a weapon,” Lucien agreed through a clenched jaw, watching Elain clutch it tighter to her chest. She wanted anything he thought she shouldn’t have.  

“No take backs,” Arina all but crooned, her pretty face split with a smile. Daring him to disrespect Elain a second time and remove the blade from her hands. After all, Elain didn’t seem to blame Arina for shoving her, only Lucien for bringing her here in the first place. He gritted his teeth and turned back to navigating the slow moving wooden ship, ignoring how it was the perfect day for swimming and reveling and all the things he might have done had he not had to cart his fragile wife across the sea so he could keep a better watch on her.

Lucien had once imagined she’d try to betray him and escape. The Seaside Palace was a necessity to avoid her slipping off on a horse or a boat and revealing his secrets to his father. When they docked, Elain merely moved between a chattering Vassa and Arina, eyes wide as she soaked up the small island. There was nowhere to go. She could hardly steal the ship, which required at best, two hands to navigate and to swim was to invite drowning. He could just see Naxos shimmering with gold on the horizon but knew it was practically a full day’s swim against the waves and current, and Elain was not likely to survive it no matter how well she swam.

The palace his ancestors had built was made of pretty sunstone. It seemed to shimmer iridescent beneath the sunlight. As a boy, Lucien had always cherished when his mother brought him because of all the open ceilings that let the natural world in, often at the expense of the nice marble and wood. It was a retreat from the stress of ruling, with its big pool and private beach but Lucien had always loved the garden and the artificial waterfall just at the end, had often jumped in that pool of sparkling water while his mother shouted at him for disturbing her fish. 

“Here,” Lucien told Elain, pulling her from Vassa and Arina and Jurian, their companions for the week. Arina would stay as long as Elain did, holing up in the library as she so often did while Vassa was free to come and go as she liked. He imagined Vassa would stay, too protective over a girl she perceived to be in her situation, at least once. Elain had chosen the method of her destruction while Vassa had fought, had screamed and clawed and swam, had risked death over an easy life. Elain had chosen belts and switches if it meant she could live in a palace and Lucien could not understand that for one moment.

“Where I live, men and women do not share a bedchamber,” Elain confessed when he pulled open the large door to a suite of rooms that would belong to the pair of them. One large bed, draped in cream and gold, just like always. A shared bathing chamber, a shared closet, shared sitting room and life and everything else men and women did when they married.

“No? I suppose it would be vulgar having to watch you sleep at night,” he half joked, dropping their things inside. 

“It’s considered impolite. Besides, men, they…”

“Have urges?” he responded, rounding on her before she could skitter away. A soft breath escaped her petal pink lips. “Can’t have a mistress in the same bed as your wife, can you?”

“Right,” she finally said, not stepping back despite how he invaded her space. “How does that work…?”

“It doesn’t,” Lucien replied, forcing himself back. “To take a mistress would be tantamount to…I don’t know…beating you in the city square. It’s not done and certainly not by me.”

Elain blinked. “Oh.”

Lucien sprawled out on the bed, drinking her in. She was half dried, her once perfect curls tangled around her face. The smallest prick of wanting slid through his stomach, just as it had done the day before on the horse. Elain was so blithely unaware of the effect she had, of how Graysen had offered her up with confidence, knowing no one could resist. Untouched, he’d all but purred. You’d be the first.

Lucien swallowed that bit of revulsion. Even his father hadn’t been able to hide his disgust. Still, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t a little intrigued. Would she enjoy it at all? Enjoy his touch, learn to take some measure of comfort in his body against her own? Lucien couldn’t admit how badly he needed someone to just…touch him, to comfort him in a physical way. He couldn’t ask anyone but her, not anymore. 

Elain’s eyes fell on his bare thighs, blinking before turning back to the room. “So it is just you and me until one of us dies.”

Lucien ignored that little jab. “Wedded bliss, as they say.”

Elain plopped on the bed, squaring her shoulders. “Who can I talk to about that?”

“Do you intend to file a complaint?” he questioned with amusement. “I haven’t touched you yet–”

“I mean…who can I ask about the finer points of ah…you know.”

“Me,” he said too quickly, sitting up so she wouldn’t notice the way he was lengthening in his clothes. Bastard, he thought angrily. “Or Vassa, or even Arina, if you must. I am sure they’d love to give you a long denied education while insulting me in the process.”

That seemed to brighten her. “And it…I mean…they won’t tell you what I ask?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you do know, so I at least have an inkling of where I fall short? Surely your princely, northern men are simply gods in comparison to my mortal abilities.”

She didn’t take the bait. “I was told nothing,” Elain finally said, eyes firm on the floor. “I understand the mechanics, I suppose.”

Lucien’s amusement faded. “Talk to Vassa,” he dismissed. “Or Arina, if you want a truly thorough education.”

“Neither are married, though,” she whispered, earning a barking laugh from Lucien. 

“We do not hold the same ideas about virtue, here. I imagine your lack of experience is going to be just as novel to them as their experience is to you.”

“How are things so different here?” Elain finally asked. “You do not…you don’t feel overcome when you look at me like this?”

Lucien did, though he could hardly admit it. “I’m a man, not an animal,” Lucien replied evenly. “I would much prefer to hear you laugh, just for the record.”

“Over what?” she replied, teeth sinking against her bottom lip. Lucien shifted again, resisting the urge to grind his palm against his cock. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“Crying,” he murmured. He almost went to her, almost proposed a half-baked plan where he could touch her without it having to mean anything. Fulfill his end of their marriage without forcing her. Pleasure and comfort, allies in this unusual marriage.

“I’ll see Arina,” she finally told him before darting behind the bathroom door. As if she knew what he thought and had to escape him.

Lucien was grateful to see her go.

ELAIN:

“Never?” Arina gasped, floating lazily in the pool. Elain tugged the sheer cover up tighter around her body. 

“It…no one would have married me if I had,” she explained, toes dipping in the bath warm water. Vassa waded down the glittering white mosaic steps, her bouncy red hair tied off her beautiful face with ribbon.

“It’s the opposite here. It took some adjusting for me, too.” 

Arina twisted, nearly baring her entire body beneath the strings of her blue swimsuit. Vassa, too, wore two tiny pieces of purple, unconcerned with the passing servants who only barely glanced. Elain had the same, as modest as she could get from Vassa which was hardly modest at all. Pink, which she preferred. At least her breasts and butt were covered, but…no one had ever seen so much of her. It was simply not done, she’d thought.

Only, it was. Arina had complained they had to wear one at all, betraying the nudity she clearly did not mind. This world left Elain feeling upside down, reeling after a lifetime of being told there were certain truths between men and women. Not so, she thought, thinking of how Lucien hadn’t touched her after four days of their troubled, tenuous marriage. Surely he should be so overcome with need he’d just…take her. 

“How do you manage it at all if no one wants a…?”

“You pick a man who also has no experience,” Arina laughed, her voice as pretty as she was. “And hope he isn’t quick.”

“Which is bad,” Elain clarified. Arina spun in a lazy circle on her green floaty, turning her head to look at Elain.

“Yes. I’m guessing, with all these questions, you’ve spurned our sweet prince?”

“He deserves it,” Vassa muttered, earning a relishing smile from Lucien.

“It is fun to see him squirm after what he did to Je–”

“His lover?” Elain couldn’t help but ask. She’d never had friends like this, if they could be considered friends at all. Spies more like, telling Lucien every little thing she’d said. She hadn’t forgotten that Arina had also shoved her off a boat that day, likely as punishment for some terrible crime committed by her family. Still, they were telling her things instead of shoving a needle into her hands and their gossip was at least useful.

“Yes,” Vassa finally said, her mouth pulled in a tight line. 

“He made her no promises,” Arina added, though it was clear the situation troubled her. “His duty is to Naxos but…”

Vassa and Arina exchanged a glance. “What?” 

“Between us,” Arina began, looking towards the same mosaic tile of the patio towards arching doors that led into the palace, “I think whatever he saw with the general made him want to bring you back.”

“He saw nothing,” Elain replied simply but Vassa was shaking her head.

“They’ve been fighting a long time,” she saw, running her thumb down her face. “Graysen is…”

Arina and Vassa exchanged another look.

“He’s a good man,” she whispered. Arina looked up at the sky, hands resting on her stomach.

“I grew up in the West, in the vast woodlands that are spread over those islands. We watch your wars with interest, the same as I imagine they do in the Eastern mountains. Hoping Helion can keep Archeron…your father, I mean, at bay. Hoping General Nolan never turns his gaze towards us. His reputation is…you agreed to marry him willingly?” Vassa asked, her curiosity blazing.

“He’s always been kind to me,” Elain tried to explain desperately, tugging the robe tighter around his body. Arina inclined forward, her face hard and Elain knew, before she spoke, that the words would hurt her.

“He sold you to another man to save his own life. It’s cowardice,” she spat, drawing a parallel with Lucien’s own ire. I would rather hang.  “He should have died with honor and instead we have you–”

Her words were a slap to Elain’s face. Elain stood even as Vassa rushed forward in the water.

“She didn’t mean…Elain, come back.”

Elain did not turn around, embarrassed and sad and so, so angry that she’d been allowed to live in her castle while the rest of the world watched her family with fear…that her fiance, her prince had betrayed the world.

Had betrayed her. That was the worst part, she supposed. He was supposed to care for her, if nothing else. If he was going to burn the world, at least he would come home to her. She supposed Graysen could not care for anything beyond his ambition and she had just been in the way. Perhaps he was engaged to Feyre, now. Or Nesta, even. If he came for her, it wouldn’t be out of love.

It would be possession. Elain’s chest tightened as she stumbled into the garden, walking through the neat hedges and cared for citrus trees. She wanted to love the beauty of the sprawling flowers, of the nearby hammock and a birdbath where bees buzzed cheerfully.

Elain wanted to drown. Wished she couldn’t swim, had slipped beneath the waves on the ship and had died before Lucien had ever reached her. It would be a mercy to just not feel, to be lost to peaceful darkness.

At the end of the garden lay a large, artificial waterfall that poured rushing water into another sparkling pool. Elain pulled off her coverup, leaving it at the end of the path. The pool seemed to go on for miles below, vanishing into blackness and buttressed on every side by a ledge she could wedge herself beneath.

She didn’t stop to think, stepping into it with a splash. It was cooler than the pool, and darker, too. Something smooth brushed her leg—a fish, perhaps? Elain propelled herself down down down until her feet reached the bottom and her lungs began to burn. She was all wrong, she told herself. Her life was wrong, her presence in this place was wrong. No one really wanted her—no one had ever wanted her. She was Lucien’s little trophy, his prize for fighting as long as he had. Pity, he’d married her out of pity—

Rough hands yanked at her from behind, their feet kicking hard against the bottom of the pool. She twisted but it was no good. Lucien held her pinned to his bare chest, his face livid when they broke the surface. “What is wrong with you?” he demanded, forcing her to face him, fingers practically bruising against her skin. 

“Everything,” she gasped, swallowing against her hurt. He wanted a fight but Elain just did not have it in her. Instead of shoving and slapping, Elain twined her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his broad, wet shoulder and sobbed. She tried to swallow the sounds, well aware of how ugly it sounded. Her father had always said no one wanted to hear a woman’s bleating but today, Elain could not swallow her pain. Lucien was stiff for only a moment before he wrapped his own arms carefully around her, exhaling what could only sound like relief. He pushed them towards the ledge, as if she cared, closer to the falls until her cries were drowned by the rushing water. 

He was her enemy and yet he held her all the same, one hand spanning her back over and over, fingers tracing the scars that had never quite healed despite all the best intentions. All girls were beaten the same, a reminder of the sin carried in their flesh and yet Elain had nearly died from it, had been so fragile there were talks she’d never been right afterwards. Too quick to smile, too happy to please, desperate to avoid that lashing whip again.

“Tell me,” Lucien whispered, his thumb on her spine. “Who did this to you?”

“Why?” she asked, looking at his face and seeing him for maybe the first time. Those scars, jagged and ugly, did little to diminish his beauty. She hadn’t even noticed them the first time she’d looked at him.

“You’re my wife,” he whispered, his voice strangely full of feeling. “Was it him?”

No, but Graysen had watched, had inquired afterwards, had been so scornful when she’d cried out instead of remaining silent. Nesta and Feyre had made no noise at all, had accepted five with almost vengeful determination but Elain had wept and for that, she’d gotten ten. “My father. It…it was his duty–”

“It is a crime,” Lucien interrupted, his fury rippling the peace shimmering around them. She was suddenly too aware of how her bare stomach was pressed against his own, how the slide of their slick skin felt good. He didn’t seem to notice, still tracing his fingers over the ten scars etched forever in her skin. A marring, her father had bemoaned. No amount of poultices or oils had ever made them truly fade. Graysen hadn’t cared, though, and she’d been grateful for that. Looking at Lucien, though, perhaps there was something Graysen liked about the violence. She didn’t have to ask who had done that to him.

Elain’s fingertips grazed his own wounds even as he twisted his head away from her grasp. “I’m sorry,” she said, wondering if perhaps she would have to be the one who made amends for her family. 

“It wasn’t your knife,” he told her, lips thinning. The peace between them was falling apart. He was remembering who she was, what he’d lost in order to have this merger. Elain, unsure what made her act, tightened her arms for only a moment before pressing her mouth to his cheek. Lucien went so utterly still he might have been made of stone, his hands flying to his sides. She’d made a mistake, though it was too late to take it back now. 

Enemy, this man is your enemy–

“I’m sorry, all the same,” was all she said, untangling herself quickly. Lucien rose from the water and offered her his hand, yanking her out as if he thought she might slip beneath its surface now that she was free of him. Lucien looked down at that sparkling pool and then back to her, his auburn hair pushed off his face. 

“I forgive you.”

LUCIEN:

Dinner was an odious affair he just barely made his way through. Vassa and Arina were clearly Elain’s, despite the promises Arina had made to spy. Lucien cornered her after dinner, all but shoving her against a wall. “Well?” he snarled, hating the amused smile curling against her face.

“Well what?”

Lucien ground his teeth together, remembering how Elain, broken and tired, had sobbed against his skin, had kissed his cheek…had apologized. “What did you learn?”

“That you should talk to your new wife,” Arina replied, eyes blazing. “Before the men of your court realize you are not doing right by her.”

“Not…not doing right?” he hissed furiously. “She’s alive, isn’t she?”

“She’s a virgin, Lucien. You should have bedded her the moment you signed that contract and the longer you wait, the more people are going to think you don’t want her.”

“I don’t want her,” he said automatically, though that wasn’t exactly true either, was it? She’d pressed the length of her body against his and he’d responded, had angled his hips away so she wouldn’t realize that there was an attraction simmering in his gut no matter how guilty it made him feel. Jes was still in Naxos…should have been here, her body pressed to his and yet when Elain was around, he found himself forgetting those things. Like a bastard, he thought.

“You’re stupid, then,” Arina snapped, shoving away from him.

“All that after one day?” he demanded, following after Arina as she walked down the hall.

“It doesn’t take a genius to realize she’s not her father or that terrible man she was married to. Fuck, Lucien, she’s like a trembling fawn. You could tell her to jump from the roof and she’d do it. You don’t feel bad for her? I do.”

“Maybe you should let her push you from a boat, then,” Lucien snarled at Arina's back. She spun and he thought she, like Vassa and Elain, might hit him too. 

“She never would,” Arina hissed softly. “Because you don’t want to show her how much better life could be if she felt safe…comfortable. How she might tell you everything her general whispered in her ear, what she knows of the north…how she might stand beside you when they inevitably march on us again.”

“You’re starting to sound like my political advisor,” Lucien crooned, a reminder that like so many other things, Arina constantly turned his offer of employment down.

“You’re being stupid,” she told him without a hint of malice. “Make her your ally. Give her a reason to care about us. Vassa and I are trying, but you are not.”

He shook his head but Arina was right. “Finish this,” she whispered. “So he can’t ever take her back.”

And for whatever reason, the thought of Graysen returning for Elain prompted him to move, to all but run down the now emptied, dim halls and fling open his bedroom. Elain was inside, dressed in a thin night dress, a brush in hand as she sat at the vanity, staring at herself as she pulled out the tangles. 

“Is Nolan coming for you?” Lucien asked, his breathing ragged as he locked the door. Elain twisted on the cushioned seat. 

“No,” she said, the pretty little liar. 

“Did he tell you to wait? To bide your time?” Lucien pressed, thinking of what he’d say to Jes if she’d been taken. He’d have told her to fight, to go down screaming and biting if she had to. 

“No,” Elain repeated, her voice breathless as he prowled towards her. Graysen would punish her no matter what Lucien did, would think her diminished if his hands never touched, if his lips never tasted. Arina was right. He needed to see this done before some other man came sniffing around.  

“What are you doing?” Elain asked when he sank to his knees in front of her. Kissing her felt too personal, felt strangely intimate. He thought if he tried she’d fight him, she’d cry and lock up and lay there waiting for him to finish. He needed to touch a different part of her, needed to show her what also lay humming just beneath her skin.

“I’m tasting my wife,” he whispered, letting his breath warm the skin of her calf. Elain didn’t pull away, even when his mouth pressed against her. She smelled sweet, like jasmine and honey. He licked up the skin, noting out her breath caught. 

“Lucien, I uh…” her voice trailed to quivering nothing when he reached her thigh, pushing her night dress up to her hips. Bare, he thought with a relish, grateful she had foregone the underthings of her homeland so he could see what lay just between her legs. There was no way to splay her out like this, not without sending her careening to the floor where she might come to her senses before he ever got his cock wet. 

Arousal spiraled through him as he hoisted her against him, kissing the curve of her jaw, teeth tugging on her ear. She gasped again, clinging to him as she’d done in the water. All he could think of was the heat from her cunt, pressed to his bare stomach. Lucien dropped her to the bed, reaching for her bare hips and dragging her to the edge so he could kneel again. It was too risky to get on the bed at all, not when he was suddenly so hungry, so touch starved he might forgo this and hope she was the sort that could get off on his ruinous cock alone. 

Do it right, make her your ally.

“Lucien,” she protested again, trying to close her knees when he drew his face against her. 

“Just like that,” he agreed, his words a purr. “If you want to see me come, you’ll say my name just like that.”

“I–” her words broke off in a gasping choke, hips bucking when he offered her what, in retrospect, seemed like a rather polite kiss between her legs. 

“Lucien,” she tried again, wiggling away. Lucien pulled her back, enjoying the game. He licked slow, indolent circles over her clit as he pressed his groan against her skin.

“Yes, Elain?” he whispered. She only whimpered an invitation to keep going. Gods damn him, but Lucien wanted to, so wholly lost in her exquisite taste, all salt and warm air and honeyed vanilla, poured between her thighs like a dangerous elixir. When he moaned again it wasn’t for show. He wanted to be buried inside her, wanted to finish what he’d started. Lucien had forgotten why he’d crawled between her legs to begin with, thrusting his tongue into her body, chasting that sweetness until he was practically dripping precome onto the floor. He wasn’t the only one—Elain was so torturously wet, her legs spreading obscenely as she gave in and let go, arching into his face with each new flick of his tongue. Lucien brushed his fingers against her, not to prepare her though he knew he ought to, but just to see how she would feel gripped around him. Elain moaned so loudly when he pushed two of his fingers inside her, the sound alone enough to empty him of any other thoughts but those of his baser urges. Lucien pumped, pulling his head back to look up at the darkened ceiling. “You are so tight,” he said, his words a strange mix of pleading and praying. 

“Don’t stop,” she asked, her voice high-pitched. “Lucien.”

His eyes snapped to her flushed face. One hand held her breast, had pulled it from her night dress to squeeze the soft flesh. Lucien exhaled, unwilling to admit he was desperate to hear her say his name again. He lowered his mouth, fucking her with his hands and tongue, nipping against the skin and sucking at her clit before lavishing wet praise over the little nub, over and over while Elain writhed, her legs pushed so far apart he was sure it must ache a little. 

Elain’s other hand found his hair, pulling just the way he liked. Rough and insistent, the pain pushing him closer to the knife’s edge that he was already hanging over. Lucien sucked, tongue swirling, fingers curled against the impossible softness of her body and Elain screamed. Screamed so loud he knew they’d all heard, that no one could deny what was happening, that she’d wanted him. Quiet, trembling Elain had her thighs clenched around his face, was riding his tongue and hand, utterly abandoning whatever ladylike teachings that had been beaten into her skin. 

And as she came down, Lucien pressed his mouth to her stomach, her breast, her neck and finally her parted mouth as he swore he’d one day kill Graysen for the offense. Lucien pulled her up the bed, coming with her as he kissed and kissed, his tongue stroking her own, his cock resting between her still shaking legs.

Lucien just pushed, swallowing her breathy little oh. He could wait no longer, slotting himself against her sopping wet entrance.

 “Tell me if I hurt you,” he ordered, moving inch by inch into her tight, trembling heat. He could still feel her orgasm spasming, the walls of her cunt clenching over and over in a rhythm that made him want to abandon reason. Elain didn’t stop him, her arms back around his neck, fingernails dragging up and down the skin until Lucien’s hips were bucking too, until he thrust the rest of himself into her hoping he didn’t hurt her, that he didn’t give her a reason to change her mind.

“It’s good,” she told him, her breath against his ear. “It doesn’t hurt. I thought it would but oh—”

“It’s not supposed to,” Lucien groaned, sliding himself out only to snap back in. Gods, but nothing had ever been half as divine as her wet cunt gripping him, suckling sweeter than any mouth. 

“Tell me what you need,” he begged, wanting to feel the full force of her unleashed. Lucien buried his face against her shoulder, angling his hips to slide in deeper, to find that little spot his fingers had and rub, over and over until Elain began to pant again, began to cant against him, her slickness making him wild, untethered. And Lucien didn’t know if it was her or the misery of the last few days or some kind of magic he’d forgotten existed, but fucking had never felt like this, so sensual, so raw. 

“Please,” he begged, unsure what he even asked for. It hardly mattered. She shattered, her back tugging upwards as if pulled by strings, her cunt clamping against him so tight Lucien couldn’t help but fall just behind like a wildfire made worse with a spray of gasoline. He was just as loud, the noise escaping him a broken thing, a prayer and a question all at once.

He kept thrusting until he was spent, until there was nothing left in his body, in his soul. He clung to her then, wrapping her up in his arms to bury his face in her hair.

 Wife, my wife—

“Are you okay?” she breathed, combing her fingers through his tangled, sweaty hair. Lucien could only kiss her.

He wasn’t okay.