When@gracie-roseeand I Were Discussing The Vibes For This Piece, I Said I Wanted It To Feel Like, "Something

When @gracie-rosee and I were discussing the vibes for this piece, I said I wanted it to feel like, "Something sacred, between two people who know each other better than anyone else in the entire world. This place is holy BECAUSE we're here, and not the other way around."

Or, you know- right there where we stood was holy ground.

And oh, did she deliver

@elucienweekofficial

Look, I posted something similar previously. And I am someone who has NEVER published anything that I’ve written, even on here or AO3, because I’m not brave enough to be that vulnerable, but after seeing this and the predicament @separatist-apologist is dealing with and goodness knows HOW many others, plus it’s the freaking WGA strike—

But people, fanfic authors, are providing you with free, and I mean FREE whole length books. They have and continue to work so hard to create content, both for themselves and us. They are vulnerable with their writing, sharing pieces of themselves in their work. And can you be sad that someone didn’t finish or is taking a while to update that work? Absolutely! That’s valid to be sad. But authors are PEOPLE, and they have created something wonderful that you enjoy. It is SO disrespectful for readers to feel entitled to that work. You are not owed an ending, and you certainly aren’t owed the ability to take someone else’s work to submit to AI devices that in turn SAVE AND STORE all of that information to regurgitate to others without the author’s explicit permission and encouragement. Do not steal someone’s work and upload it as your own anywhere—to AI, to AO3, ANYWHERE. You can headcanon it to your heart’s content, and that’s fine! Change the endings in your brain as many times as you want (which is so magical in and of itself). But remember one thing the next time you think about stealing someone else’s work—

You are not entitled to anyone’s labor or items. End of story.

Did I just get back to service and wifi after months of work travel with sporadic cell signal at best (after being LIED to that there was both cell signal and wifi available)?

Yes.

Did I plan for it to happen right before Elucien Week and Speak Now (Taylor’s Version)? (And also missed half of the Rise of the Pink Ladies that’s now apparently just gone?)

No, but I’m certainly not complaining (except for ROTPL. I am complaining about that. Bitterly). Let’s goooooooo!

Also, I missed this and everyone here and all the people I follow. 💖💖

Get ready for a bunch of reblogs.

when ao3 is back up i want all of you to leave comments on the fics you were interrupted from reading, the fics you were looking to find, the fics you were thinking about re-reading, and the fics left open in your tabs for months now.

when ao3 is back up, i want you all to show some love to your favourite writers, favourite fics, or even just the 600 word one-shot that brought a smile to your face that tuesday three weeks ago.

when ao3 is back up i want you all to remember that comments and explicitly voiced appreciation are what keep writers going.

YES! This made me go listen to “So Close” from the movie on repeat for like an hour.

Is it too cheesy to say that I find this fic enchanting? Probably.

I Was Enchanted To Meet You: Part Five

A/N: Happy Day Six of @elucienweekofficial! Will Elain travel back to Andalasia in this chapter? 😉 Do you see what I did there? It's me pretending I'm somewhat sticking to the prompts. Anywho! The final part after this is the epilogue so this is basically the end. I hope everyone enjoys! :)

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Elain

The sun creeping along the walls and crashing across the hardwood happens almost in slow motion as the minutes tick by. Elain can do nothing but stare at the wall, watching as the apartment swirls and shifts from shades of blue to pinks and purples. As the shadows are cast away and morning truly sneaks up on her.

She had barely gotten any sleep the previous night. The whole time she had laid there, her argument with Lucien and the subsequent moment that followed played over and over in her mind. The way they had laughed so easily, so comfortably together. The way he had looked at her, that flame flaring in his gaze. The way her breath had hitched and her heart had skipped and squeezed. The way that, for a single moment, Elain really had thought the space between them was going to vanish. It all plays like an endless loop for her, taunting her, jumbling up all her feelings until there’s a giant knot digging into her chest.

Elain sighs softly and rolls over onto her back until she’s staring up at the ceiling instead. Her lip finds home between her teeth, and she nibbles at it nervously as she squeezes her eyes shut. Her attention finally flits away from the previous night, but it lands firmly on where Lucien is still sleeping just down the hallway. So close and so far away at the same time.

She doesn’t know why she feels this way, why her chest feels so tight and so full at the same time. Why she feels this way every time she thinks of him. She knows she shouldn’t. She’s sure that Lucien is focused on Nesta, as he should be. She should be focused on Cassian. On getting back to him and to Andalasia. She shouldn't be focused on soft strands of bright red hair that she wants to run her fingers through, on swirling russet eyes and a teasing smirk that she could get lost in.

And yet…

And yet.

With a huff, Elain finally kicks off the blankets and pulls herself up and off the couch. She pads into the kitchen, starting a fresh pot of tea for the morning. She’s stirring her cup of tea when she realizes she’s not the only one having a bright and early morning, the sound of bare feet on the hardwood echoing behind her.

“Morning,” Lucien’s deep, sleep-addled voice speaks behind her.

“Good morning,” Elain echoes quietly, taking her cup of tea and settling at the kitchen table.

She tucks her legs up underneath her, watching as Lucien walks over to the kitchen counter. He reaches up and pulls a mug down from the cabinet, taking the time to prepare his tea how he likes it. Elain is sure that he can probably feel her eyes on him, but she can’t quite look away from the way his shoulders and back stretch and move beneath his tee with the movement. When Lucien finally turns back around, Elain ducks her head and focuses on her own mug, praying that the heat she can feel spilling across her cheeks isn’t too obvious.

“Elain, I—”

Before Lucien can finish speaking, a knock on the front door cuts him off. Elain practically jumps out of her skin in surprise at the sound reverberating around the apartment. Lucien looks just as confused by the knock, his eyebrows furrowing as he slowly sets down his tea. He heads out of the kitchen and toward the front door, the sound clearly having woken up Willow as the little girl yanks open her bedroom door and comes running out into the hallway. Elain follows behind Lucien, standing just over his shoulder, and she finds herself holding her breath as he unlocks the door and pulls it open.

“Elain!”

Elain blinks a bit dumbly, her mind not quite catching up to the fact that Cassian is standing there in the doorway, in front of her. His smile is wide, dark curls tousled around his face and shoulders, hazel eyes practically bright and shining. Elain tries to will her heart, will her emotions, to match his energy, but there’s just a hollowness clanging between her ribs.

She’s forced into action, though, when Cassian’s attention dances to Lucien, that easy smile falling away. Before Elain can even blink, the prince is pulling his sword free, the blade pointed threateningly at Lucien’s chest.

“Cassian, don’t!” Elain jumps in as Cassian slowly backs Lucien up inside the apartment, Lucien’s eyes wide and his hands raised in surrender.

“So, you’ve been the one who’s been holding my bride captive,” Cassian accuses, ignoring Elain’s protests. “Any last words before I dispatch you?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lucien mutters, shaking his head.

“Strange words…”

“Cassian, don’t,” Elain repeats, her words more firm this time as she steps between Lucien and him. “Lucien is my friend. He’s been helping me.”

“Oh,” Cassian says simply, sliding his sword back into the scabbard at his waist. He hops up onto the coffee table and spreads his arms, starting to sing. “I’ve been dreaming of a true love’s kiss.”

“Great, he sings too,” Lucien remarks sarcastically.

“And a miss I have begun to miss. Pure and sweet waiting to complete my love song. Yes, somewhere there’s a maid I’ve never met, who was made…”

The silence hangs in the living room like a weight as Cassian trails off. He looks at Elain expectantly, raising his eyebrows in waiting, but Elain merely blinks back at him, unsurety twisting and roiling in her gut. She chances a glance back toward Lucien, but meeting that gaze certainly does the opposite of helping.

“Elain,” Cassian calls beneath his breath and drawing her attention back to him before raising his voice to a higher pitch, almost mimicking her. “To finish… To… you’re not singing.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been thinking, and there’s something I want to do before we leave,” Elain explains, eyes dancing once more toward Lucien who nods encouragingly. “I want to go on a date.”

“A date! What’s a date?”

“Well, we do an activity, like dinner, and we talk about ourselves.”

“Then a date we shall have,” Cassian agrees with a flourish of his hands, already hopping down from the coffee table and heading back toward the front door.

“Okay,” Elain offers with a small smile. She turns properly to Lucien and Willow, crouching down to pull the little girl into a hug. “Thank you both so much for your kindness these past few days.”

“I’ll miss you, Elain,” Willow tells her, squeezing her arms tightly.

“You can come visit in Andalasia any time you’d like,” Elain assures her, pulling back and standing back up.

“And if you’re ever in town again, be sure to hit us up. We can go for dinner or something,” Lucien adds, offering Elain a small smile of his own.

Elain swears that that smile is tinged with sadness, mirroring the ache that seems set on gnawing away until ice crystalizes through Elain’s chest. She swallows hard, around the feelings threatening to clog up her throat, around the heaviness pressing in at her chest, and forces a smile of her own as she nods. A throat clear behind her has Elain finally turning around, taking the arm that Cassian holds out for her. It takes everything in her, all her willpower, not to look back as her prince leads her away, back to everything she swore she wanted.

~ * * * ~

Elain sighs softly, staring out at the churning water of the river. She watches the gulls that fly above the ripples caused by the wind, watches the way the water glints golden in certain places where the droplets catch the sun. When she turns her head to the right, she finds Cassian’s hazel gaze. He tries to smile around his mouth full of food, and Elain can’t help but grimace slightly at the ketchup that’s caught at the corner of his lips.

“Are you enjoying your hotdog?” Elain asks, reaching her hand up to brush away the red droplet. “It’s not really a dog. They just call it that here.”

“It’s delicious,” Cassian tells her after a moment. “We should bring them back to Andalasia with us.”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

“Speaking of… how long do these ‘dates’ usually last? We should get back to Andalasia, to be married and live happily ever after forever and ever.”

“Well,” Elain begins, turning away from him again and nibbling at her bottom lip. “They can go on as long as we’d like. As long as we keep thinking of activities. Like, there’s this ball.”

“A ball?”

“There’s music and dancing. You’d like it. We should go.”

“Alright…” Cassian agrees slowly, but when Elain takes his hand and starts to lead him away from the riverfront, he tugs both of them to a stop. “But after this ball, we’ll finally go back to Andalasia?”

“Of course.”

And if the words are a blatant lie tumbling past Elain’s lips, well then, Cassian doesn’t really need to know. At least, that’s what Elain tells herself as she leads them back to the bustling streets. As she sends Cassian on his way to get ready for the ball with instructions of where to meet. As she makes her way back to the apartment building the Vanserras call home.

When she knocks on the door, the babysitter lets her in, and Elain makes her way down the hallway toward Willow’s room. She watches the exact moment that the little girl sees her in her mirror, her eyes widening and smile pulling so big it practically splits her face in two.

“Elain! Elain!” Willow squeals excitedly, spinning around and running toward her. “You came back!”

Willow jumps right into Elain’s arms, and Elain catches her with ease, laughing into her red hair while she squeezes her close. “Oh, Willow. I need your help. I’m going to the ball, and I have absolutely no idea what I should wear.”

Willow pulls back from the hug with a determination lining her face that’s adorable. Her hands settle on her hips as she thinks, mouth pinching slightly to the side. Whatever idea strikes her, has the little girl’s face lighting up, and she gives a decided nod before leading the way out of her bedroom, Elain hot on her heels. They step into Lucien’s office, Willow going over to the desk and rooting around in one of the drawers until she finds what she’s looking for.

“Daddy says this is only for emergencies, and this is definitely an emergency.”

~ * * * ~

Lucien

Music swirls and floats around Lucien, the various bodies, all decked out in costume dresses and suits, moving around him in a blur. He tries to focus on the steps, on the melody as it flows through him. He tries to focus on the feel of Nesta’s waist beneath his palm, on her face as they spin around and around. But it’s easier said than done, and Lucien finds his mind drifting off yet again, attention still ensnared with Elain and her too sweet, soft smile as she said goodbye.

Thankfully, Lucien’s feet remember the steps, moving with practiced ease until the music crescendos and swells. When the song comes to an end, applause echoes around the ballroom, and Lucien steps back enough from Nesta that he can join in. She peers up at him with a bright smile, and Lucien tries to match it, praying she won’t be able to see through the forced quality of it.

Nesta’s smile starts to slip, and Lucien knows that he’s been caught. He knows that his thoughts and where they’ve strayed have finally betrayed him and must show on his face. But Nesta’s attention isn’t on his face anymore. Instead, her eyes have strayed over his shoulder, toward the large, oak doors that lead in and out of the ballroom.

Slowly, Lucien turns, and as if she’s been conjured right from his thoughts, right from his dreams, is Elain. She has on a purple dress, the fabric hugging her every curve and draping around her legs. Her honeyed hair hangs in soft curls down around her face and shoulders, and with the glow of the chandeliers like a spotlight, she looks breathtakingly beautiful.

Lucien’s heart starts to thunder away in his chest, air stolen straight from his lungs, when Elain turns her head and meets his gaze. It’s with such surety, such ease, as if she knows exactly where in the room he is. And when that small, private smile of hers tugs up her lips, Lucien finds himself fully caught in her trap. He can do nothing but gape and stare as Elain gracefully walks down the steps and onto the ballroom floor, as the distance shrinks and shrinks between them until Elain is standing right in front of him. Close enough that her brown eyes flood his vision, enough that the sweet floral scent of her perfume fills his senses.

“Elain,” Lucien breathes before catching himself and clearing his throat. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“I’m surprised to be here,” Elain tells him, tucking her hair back behind her ear. She shares another smile with Lucien before seeming to jolt back to herself and turning toward Nesta. “Oh. This is Cassian. He’s my… um… my prince.”

“And this is Nesta,” Lucien introduces to Cassian. “She’s my… um, we’re…”

“Together,” Nesta finishes, shooting Lucien a look. “We’re together.”

“And this beautiful woman, Elain, is the love of my life, my heart’s one true desire” Cassian declares, clearly not understanding how introductions work, not an ounce of irony in his tone.

“Wow,” Nesta sighs almost longingly. “That was so romantic.”

“Thank you.”

“Alright, folks,” the conductor of the band announces, putting an end to any small talk. “It's that time of the night. I'd like to ask each gentleman to invite a lady he did not accompany to dance the King and Queen's waltz.”

“May I have the pleasure?” Cassian asks Nesta, holding his hand out toward her.

Nesta nods and places her hand in his, allowing him to guide them away toward the center of the ballroom floor. Elain watches them go, but Lucien only has eyes for her. His entire being seems to call out for her, that golden thread urging him forward still. His fingers twitch with the desire to reach out and touch, to slide his knuckles down the apple of her cheek, to skate his fingertips across the constellation of freckles.

“Shall we?” Lucien somehow chokes out, drawing Elain’s attention back to him.

He holds his hand out to her in silent offering, and he tries not to let it sting too much when he sees hesitation flicker across her face. But then Elain is sliding her palm against his, and they’re moving to join the fray on the ballroom floor. Elain turns to face him, and Lucien swears his hand is trembling as he slowly places it on her waist, sparks ricocheting up his arm at the contact.

They start to move to the music, and in that moment, everything else fades away. All the other people in the ballroom. Hell, even the music fades to nothing. In that moment, it’s just him and Elain, their hearts beating as one. He swears he can hear it, swears it’s that rhythm his feet move to, and he half wonders if she can hear his too.

Not that he particularly cares either way. All he cares about is keeping Elain’s gaze on his own, her body pressed against his as they spin and twirl across the floor. Her brown eyes are bright, practically sparkling, and Lucien knows that he could get lost in them. This close, he can see the pretty pink that’s started to dust her cheeks, almost the exact shade of her lips. As if sensing where his thoughts have drifted to, her lips part. It wouldn’t take much to close what little distance remains between them. All he’d have to do is lean down and—

“Mind if I cut in?”

Lucien and Elain turn to find Nesta and Cassian standing there, an awkward and stifling air settling between the four of them. Elain shakes her head and steps back as though she’s been burned, offering Lucien one last look before quickly skirting back to Cassian’s side. Words tangle up in Lucien’s mind and weigh heavy on his tongue, especially as he watches Cassian begin to lead Elain away, back toward the stairs and the exit, but he can’t quite seem to unjumble them fast enough. Can’t string together the right ones. Can’t encapsulate every feeling thrumming deep in his chest and rattling at the bars to be released. They clog the back of his throat until only a choked sound escapes.

“Lucien.”

Lucien snaps his attention back to Nesta, her eyebrows raised as she peers up at him expectantly, almost exasperatedly. He shakes his head of all thoughts of Elain and takes Nesta’s hand back in his, his other hand sliding easily to her waist as they finish out the dance. He twirls Nesta around as the music comes to a close, and then they step apart, applauding politely for the band.

The band starts up another song, and Lucien steps closer to Nesta again, ready to fall into the next dance, but something knocks against his foot. He pauses in confusion, glancing down and blinking a few times to ensure he’s seeing correctly. Slowly, he reaches down, picking up the object.

“Is that… an apple?” Nesta asks, the same confusion Lucien feels coloring her tone.

“With a bite taken out of it,” Lucien confirms, frowning.

“What kind of person—”

“Someone help me! Please!”

Lucien’s hackles rise at the alarmed shout echoing through the ballroom. His every nerve ending feels on edge, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with anticipation and dread. Some part of him already knows what he’ll find when he turns, but the sight still makes his stomach drop. Cassian has Elain cradled in his arms, head lolled back and eyes closed. She looks almost lifeless, and Lucien’s feet are moving before he knows it, rushing forward.

“Call 9-1-1,” Lucien calls back to Nesta, hurrying to Elain’s side as Cassian lays her down gently.

Lucien’s hands scramble for Elain’s wrist, pressing his fingers there and silently praying to the Mother. He can feel her pulse, but it’s fluttering, and when he presses his other hand to Elain’s cheek, her skin is concerningly clammy.

“Elain,” Lucien speaks quietly, brushing his hand over her hair.

“You murderous wretch,” Cassian shouts, producing a sword and holding it to a woman Lucien doesn’t think he’s ever seen before, who’s dressed as though she’s stepped straight out of a Disney movie where she played the evil queen. “What have you done to her?”

“Come on, Cassian,” the woman croons with a roll of her eyes. “Don’t you think you’re being melodramatic?”

“I don’t know what melodramatic means, but I do know that your days as queen are over. Now, fix whatever it is you’ve done to Elain.”

“Sorry, darling, but there’s nothing powerful enough in the world to break that curse.”

“Powerful…” Lucien mutters, the word snagging on a memory. “True love’s kiss. It’s the most powerful thing in the world.”

Lucien feels a bit silly for a moment, especially when everyone merely stares at him after his outburst, but then Cassian is nodding in agreement. He rushes around to where Lucien is kneeling, so Lucien is quick to move out of his way. He swallows hard as Cassian brushes a hand down Elain’s cheek, has to look away as Cassian slowly dips his head down to kiss her. He waits for the gasps of relief, for the applause, but it never comes, and when he finally dares to look again, Elain looks the same.

“It’s not working. Why isn’t it working?” Cassian asks, leaning down and pressing another kiss to Elain’s lips almost frantically. “Unless…”

Cassian looks over his shoulder at Lucien, and Lucien’s blood runs cold, his entire body freezing up at the knowing look on the prince’s face. Lucien tries to laugh it off, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck and glancing around, but no one else seems to think it’s a joke. In fact, no one even seems to be on his side, each gaze more expectant than the next.

“It can’t be me,” Lucien splutters, shaking his head. “I’ve only known Elain for a few days, and it’s not like—”

“Just kiss her, Lucien,” Nesta snaps, cutting him off.

Lucien winces slightly at that, but he takes back the spot kneeling beside Elain. He takes a deep breath and tries to ignore all the eyes he can feel on them. When he thought about potentially kissing Elain, this certainly wasn’t how he thought it would go. With another silent prayer to the Mother that this works, Lucien slowly leans down, slotting his lips against hers and kissing her sweetly.

For a horrifying moment, Lucien doesn’t think that it worked. Elain continues to lie unmoving in his arms, and every millisecond feels like a year, but then she lets out a soft gasp, her eyes fluttering open. Lucien can’t help it, he laughs, a soft chuckle of relief that tumbles past his lips, spurred on by Elain’s soft, answering smile.

“I knew it was you,” Elain tells him before sitting up and kissing him properly.

It’s everything Lucien imagined and more. Elain’s body pressed against his. The sweet taste of her on his tongue. The soft slide of their lips together. His head is swimming with it all, warmth bursting between his ribs enough that his chest practically aches with it.

“Oh, how touching.” Lucien and Elain pull apart only to find that the woman from before has used the distraction to slip away, moving to the center of the ballroom, her hands beginning to glow green. “I’ll show you what the real most powerful thing in the world looks like.”

Green fire erupts around the woman, the flames climbing higher and higher toward the ceiling until out of them steps a dragon. An actual dragon. Lucien knows he’s witnessed and dealt with a lot this week, but this definitely takes the cake. His heart pounds away, but instinctually, he steps in front of Elain, blocking her from the dragon.

“How cute,” the dragon drawls sarcastically, the same voice as the woman.

“If you want to get to Elain, you have to go through me,” Lucien tells her, thankful his voice doesn’t shake too much despite facing down a literal dragon.

“Alright.”

The dragon shrugs and one of its hands swings forward, scooping Lucien up into its clawed grip. Lucien tries to push at the claws, tries to wiggle free, but the dragon’s hold on him is too tight. His alarm only grows when the dragon bursts through the windows and begins to scale the building they’re in. Up and up they climb, until Lucien feels nauseous after he makes the mistake of looking down.

“Amarantha! Let him go!” Elain’s voice rings out, and Lucien dares to look down just in time to see Elain climbing after them, Cassian’s sword clutched in her hand.

“Well, if you insist,” the dragon, Amarantha, says before opening her hand.

Lucien cries out in surprise as he starts to fall, his hands reaching out and scrabbling for anything. His fingers just barely catch on some sort of metal piece sticking out from the roof, his momentum coming to a harsh stop. He tries to readjust his grip, tries to pull himself up properly, but with the rain falling in streaks around them, the metal is too slippery.

Lucien can still hear Amarantha taunting Elain, can hear Elain shouting things back, and most concerningly, he hears what sounds like a sword hitting metal, so after taking a few heaving breaths to try and calm his erratic heart and fraying nerves, he frantically looks around, trying to find something, anything to help him. He needs to get to Elain. He spies a ledge that he can probably get his footing on, so Lucien starts to inch his hands along the metal to get him closer.

Lucien stretches out one of his legs, his toes just barely scraping against the ledge. He lets out a huff of frustration, looking back toward Amarantha and Elain, trying to gauge how much time he has to get there in time, to help. He watches, almost in slow motion, as Elain takes the sword in her hand and throws it. The blade embeds itself right into Amarantha’s dragon underside. It sends her toppling backwards, going right over the edge of the roof. Her screams echo as she falls down and down before vanishing into an eruption of green flames and smoke.

“Lucien, hold on!” Elain calls out to him, clambering across the roof closer to him.

With the dragon now defeated, Lucien focuses again on stretching out his leg toward the ledge. “Don’t worry. I’ve got—”

Lucien’s foot misses the ledge again, but this time, his fingers slip with it. He goes sliding down the roof, crashing right into Elain and taking her with him. They both shout in alarm as they go tumbling, Lucien wrapping his arms tightly around her and desperately trying to find purchase with his legs to stop their descent. They slide down and down before finally, blessedly, coming to a stop.

Lucien swears he’s not breathing, swears that everything that’s just happened might just be the craziest thing he’s ever witnessed, ever been a part of. And then Elain laughs. She laughs, the sound sweet and melodic, as she clutches at Lucien’s shirt. She laughs even as the rain streaks through her hair, all over her now ruined dress. She laughs, and it fills Lucien with a lightness he never thought was possible, with a love he never thought was possible.

“Is this a habit of yours?” Elain asks him teasingly. “Falling off of things.”

Lucien shakes his head, and does the only logical thing he can think of. He kisses her.

—

Updated Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld​ @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @unlikelypersonalknight1 @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes

WAIT WHAT! This sounds SO good. LB, you’ve done it again. I can already tell!!

A Blaze in the Dark - (1/7)

Chapter Title: A Faith Forgotten Land

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

A contribution to @elucienweekofficial Day 1: Mates. This chapter gets very spicy 🌶️🌶️

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist

-

Elain, I’m afraid I have a favor I must ask you. Do you recall the magic spell I told you about, the night I tried to run away? The one where you place a butterfly wing beneath your tongue so that you will meet your true love in your dreams? I’m afraid the context has become too complex and confusing to divulge to you in its entirety over letter, but I suspect that my husband is, in a strange turn of events, my true love. I know it is a gruesome task, but I desperately need you to send me a butterfly wing so that I can confirm it. Once you have a butterfly wing, I believe you will be able to send it to me by folding it into this letter. Add a lock of your hair and a trinket that reminds you of me, then burn them all, and this letter, after sundown. Don’t give up on true love, Elain. It’s still there, waiting for you. -Feyre

Elain twisted an aster stem between her thumb and forefinger, watching the petals blur into a circle as they twirled. It had arrived with the letter from Feyre—the trinket, presumably, that had reminded Feyre of Elain. An aster flower, a symbol of afterthought, or the wish that things had ended differently.

It was a fitting gift, Elain supposed, though she doubted Feyre was aware of its meaning.

She was happy for her sister, truly. After spending so many days in grief, fearing for what was to become of her sister after Prince Rhysand stole her away to the cruel and oppressive North, it was a relief to discover her sister had potentially found a life with her true love, after all.

It was also difficult not to be consumed with envy.

The lone butterfly wing taunted her from where she’d left it, hastily discarded, atop the drawing table. She’d gagged through the entire ordeal of ripping it from the poor insect, and now that she’d sent one of the wings to Feyre, Elain was uncertain what to do with the second one. It seemed cruel to rip them from a living creature only to discard them, but the prospect of putting it beneath her tongue… Elain’s skin pimpled with disgust at just the thought.

It wouldn’t be practical, besides. Tomorrow, Elain would be marrying the youngest son of the Eastern Kingdom’s royal family. So really, she had no use for the folly of magic and supposed true loves. Even if she met her true love in her dreams, there would be no backing out of tomorrow’s ceremony. It was for the best to leave her fated other half unknown—it would be less painful that way.

Still, the wing rested on that table, just to the side of Feyre’s letter and the words that jumped out towards Elain.

Don’t give up on true love.

It was an easy assurance for someone to make once they had found themselves conveniently married to their true love. But Elain knew, with decided certainty, that such a fate would not apply to her own marriage. Not that she had ever met her soon to be husband.

From what she had heard, Lucien Vanserra was as cruel and miserable as the six brothers before him. Elain hadn’t yet decided what to make of the rumors surrounding the Vanserra men, but what she did find offensive was that Lucien hadn’t had the decency to so much as write her a letter since their engagement was announced. And given he’d made no effort to know her before their marriage, Elain had the sinking suspicion that she was merely the byproduct of a far more interesting transaction.

“You’ll be marrying a prince,” her father had told her proudly. “Just like Feyre. I wouldn’t expect anything less for my beautiful Elain.”

It hadn’t occurred to him to ask if she wanted to marry a prince, but why would it? Before Prince Rhysand had stormed into the manor, the best their father had hoped for was a Duke from their own Kingdom. Now he had letters spanning not just the Kingdoms of Prythian, but even from the distant shores of the continent. And with the abundance of interest in the unwedded Archeron sisters, it had become rapidly clear that their father had no intention of seeking his daughter’s input on their potential matches.

Nesta continued to rage against it, but Elain had been resigned to their father’s will. Despite his less than complimentary reputation, Elain hadn’t exactly loathed the idea of being married to a prince. But when she asked her father when Lucien would be visiting the manor to begin their courtship and he had frowned in response, Elain realized Lucien Vanserra had no interest in romancing his betrothed.

On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, the butterfly wing was inviting in ways Elain shouldn’t allow. She was not Feyre. She would never be brave enough to pack a bag and run away in the pursuit of true love. She was good, obedient Elain, who only ever stirred trouble for the sake of gardening. But this... this was not being scolded for “forgetting” to wear gardening gloves, this was magic. Magic that would only cause her heartache. It would only make tomorrow that much more unbearable.

Except the butterfly wing would go to waste otherwise. And it was easier to pretend she was a victim of her empathy than her curiosity.

When she went to bed that night, she did so with the butterfly wing placed under her tongue. And when she woke up, it was to darkness.

She sat up, feeling the slide of silk sheets and blankets that certainly did not belong to the bed she’d fallen asleep in. It was too dark to see anything. Even when she held her hand in front of her face, Elain could not distinguish her fingers from the gaps between. She frowned, thinking it was odd that Feyre had not mentioned this part of the spell. Had she done something wrong?

After a bout of blindly patting the mattress, she determined there was no one else in the bed with her. A relief, she supposed, though she was crestfallen to think her true love had decided he wanted nothing to do with her, too.

Then, the sound of footsteps. Light. Curious.

“Who’s there?” she called.

The footsteps paused.

“Who are you?” he answered, with an accent that was certainly not from the Southern Kingdom.

She wished she’d encountered more people beyond the walls of the manor, if only so she was better equipped to place where he was from. Even so, she could admire the richness of his voice. Warm, honeyed, but with a rasp that made her skin feel heated.

“I’m your true love,” she said.

He took a single step forward. Cautious. “Is that so?”

“Do you know anything of magic?”

“Yes, lady.” There was a lightness to his tone. A humor. “One could say I’m familiar.”

“I placed a butterfly wing under my tongue,” she said. “Apparently doing so will cause you to dream of your true love, and here you are.”

“Here I am,” he echoed.

“And you are?”

He hesitated. Which Elain could not blame him, seeing as she had no intention of providing her own name.

“Are you married?” she asked, seeing no other reason for his reluctance to tell her.

“Betrothed.”

Her heart sank, despite knowing that even if he wasn’t, it would not change the fact that she was to be married tomorrow.

“It is not the sort of engagement I can easily break,” he added.

Elain mulled that over. “But you want to?”

It was a dangerous question. She could tell by the way he laughed. There was an edge to it that sliced through the dark space between them. “It’s not often I encounter a lady so direct,” he commented. “What’s your name?”

Direct was not how she would usually be described—that was for Nesta. Elain was the sister who was always polite, always poised. Always swallowing her tongue, so that every would-be sharp word cut its way down her throat instead. She imagined each bladed thought was slowly slicing away the undesirable pieces of herself and, one day, she would fit effortlessly into the mold of perfect Elain Archeron without needing to swallow anything at all.

Evidently, today would not be good practice.

If governess could see her, she would surely have a fit. Elain had already broken convention by simply being present. She’d used magic to be in the lone company of a man when she was to be wed tomorrow. What was being a little more direct, for an evening? Being someone other than perfect Elain.

“My name?” She asked innocently. “When you won’t tell me yours? That hardly seems equitable.”

He was getting closer to the bed, and she felt her pulse echo each step as the distance closed between them.

“Names are meaningless, anyhow,” he said, with a sort of wry amusement that she would hardly encounter in the stiff social circles of the Southern Kingdom. She found a smile drawing to her lips, leaning towards the open darkness like if she concentrated hard enough, his face would suddenly appear. “They describe nothing of ourselves, besides the people we are related to. A name carries too much prejudice. Instead, tell me about the person your name belongs to.”

Elain could agree on that much. Being an Archeron was wearisome on the best of days, and it was not helped by their father’s insistence of keeping his daughters shut inside the walls of the manor. It left the rest of society much too curious—a fact which Elain had only truly discovered on their societal debut, the night of the Solstice Ball, which had been spent seeking potential suitors just as much as it had been dodging a slew of prying questions. It didn’t help that a foreign Prince had stormed into the ballroom, magic aflare, demanding that he dance with Feyre. Nor did it help that King Beron of the East had taken an interest in the remaining two sisters once word of Feyre’s marriage had spread.

Regardless of where he was from, the name Archeron would be recognizable to her true love. And then he would know not only that she was to be married, but precisely who she was to be married to. If he was spiteful, he could inform her betrothed of their clandestine meeting and disrupt the ceremony, ruining her family’s name in the process. Elain could practically hear Nesta whispering in her ear, reminding her that was dangerous information to hand over to a man, even one that was allegedly her true love.

So she lied.

“I’m from a poor village,” she said. “The only daughter of a farmer—”

“That’s not who you are.”

Elain reeled back from the interruption. It was firm, though not unkind. She tightened her grip on the bed sheets, thumb absently working over the wrinkles to smooth them out, trying to decide what about her lie had given her away. “Wh—what do you mean?”

“Those things don’t define a person, not really.” She could hear a frown in his voice. “What I’m asking is, what drives you? What makes you happy?”

In polite society, one’s occupation and financial status seemed to be all that defined a person. She blinked into the darkness, wishing she could glimpse his expression. If only so she could measure how much space she was permitted to take up in her answer. Should she answer like a lady ought to, the way she had been primed by her governess, so that she sounded desirable and interesting? She could feign an affinity for playing the harpsichord, or something quieter, like sewing.

But his interest sounded sincere.

“Gardening,” she said. “I like feeling the sun on my face and the earth beneath my fingers.”

“Gardening,” he repeated, softly. Elain listened carefully, searching for the usual traces of disapproval. “Is that something you do in your leisure? Or do you help your father plant crops?”

Of course. Elain smothered a laugh at the mental image of her father lowering himself on his cane to plant crops into the dirt. He wasn’t a man well suited to manual labor.

“In my leisure,” she answered, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her lips. “I like to plant flowers.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

Elain gave the question more consideration than it was likely owed. The Archeron manor was nestled in a region of the Southern Kingdom where spring bloomed eternal, and she was cautious not to choose a flower that grew exclusively in their lands. In reality, she had many favorites, depending on the quality she was using to assess them. Did she select a flower for its appearance, its meaning, or the ease with which she could care for it?

Don’t overcomplicate things, she chided herself. He was asking to be polite, and though she sensed the question was genuine, his interest in the answer would be surface level at best. Flowers did little to serve men outside of being a pretty, quiet object they could cast their eyes upon. Perhaps that’s why Elain felt such a kinship in them.

Perhaps that’s why she answered, “sweet alyssum.”

Worth beyond beauty. He wouldn’t recognise the flower’s meaning, she was certain, but he made a noise like he was familiar with the name.

“And why’s that one your favorite?” He asked, voice so close now that Elain was certain he was standing just in front of her. She couldn’t quite summon the courage to reach her hand out to confirm.

“Wherever they grow, the garden looks like it’s been covered in lace,” she said. “They’re also thought to preserve the sweetness of the soul. The ladies in our family are known for a wicked temper, so I used to dry the blossoms to brew them into a calming tea.”

“Is that so?” He must have leaned in, because the next words were so close to her ear that she jumped. “So which do you have then, a wicked temper or a sweet soul?”

“Can I not have both?”

She asked for the sake of the game, because she could tell that it intrigued him, but deep down Elain knew that the wicked temper belonged only to her sisters. The Archeron spirit must have skipped over her entirely, because she lacked the wildness of Feyre and the unbreakable rage of Nesta. Maybe she’d been spending too much time tending the sweet alyssum and the flowers had cured her of a temper—as well as any courage it provides.

“Certainly,” he said. She felt the softest tug at her scalp and thought he must have snagged a lock of her hair. “In fact, for a lady who enjoys gardening, I would expect nothing less.”

Elain cocked her head. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” he murmured thoughtfully, “plants often have hidden dangers, don’t they? Thorns and thistles and poisons. A foolish man gets cut by a rose for choosing to only see its beauty.”

For a moment, Elain was stunned into silence. Then she asked, “and do you consider yourself a foolish man?”

“Not often,” he said wryly. “Though I have been cut by a rose or two. In the nature of learning.”

She found herself laughing at the unexpected candor. “It’s a hard lesson learned.”

“An important one,” he agreed. The hand at her hair dropped. She felt the lock fall back to her shoulder, a moment before warm fingers found her jaw. It was a light, barely there touch that raised her chin until her neck angled upwards, giving her the impression that her true love was tall. She wondered how far away he was from her face, if in the light she would be able to count his number of eyelashes.

In a low voice, he murmured, “Now I know how to handle a rose, should I ever come across one again.”

Elain was so caught off guard by the slight touch, that the implication of his words hardly registered until several heartbeats later, leaving her floundering for a response as she realized that he was flirting with her. It was an effort to smother the fluttering in her chest, reminding herself that he was betrothed and so was she.

“How fortunate for your wife to be,” she said primly.

He dropped his hand like she’d scalded him.

It should have been enough to leave it there, but the accusation fled from her lips before she could clamp down her anger, “Does she know that she’s marrying a rake?”

Elain knew it was unfair. She had summoned him, despite being betrothed herself.

He laughed. Dryly. “Wicked temper, indeed.”

“Tell me more about her,” she pressed.

A heavy sigh, strong enough that she felt it ghost over her scalp.

“It’s an arranged marriage. A means for my father to punish and control his unruly son.”

The bitterness in his voice surprised her. Elain straightened. “What did you do to warrant such a punishment?”

A sudden dip in the bed caused Elain’s weight to lurch sideways, pulling a gasp from her as their shoulders brushed and the entire side of her body prickled with heat. Painfully aware that she was in nothing but a nightgown, Elain quickly scrambled to the side, grateful to the dark for obscuring her reddening cheeks.

“Nothing heinous,” he soothed. “I became too comfortable in my liberties, set my sights on a lover that he didn’t approve of, and now he’s stepped in to remind me that he’s the one in control.”

Elain’s stomach dropped. She could relate all too well to the pain of having her liberties suddenly striped away.

In a quiet voice, she asked, “is your betrothed kind, at least?”

“So I’m told.” His voice was flat. “I’ll be amicable with her, of course, but I’m not certain I could ever love her. Doing so would mean submitting to my father’s will, and I’ll never allow him to have that control over my heart.”

Just as much as Elain was envious of his betrothed, she found herself pitying the woman, as well. How painful would it be to have a husband so disinterested in their life together? It was the very thing she feared, and she wouldn’t wish it on anyone—not even the woman marrying the love of her life.

“What about you?” he prompted, once silence had fallen in the space of her melancholy. “Any plans for marriage?”

After he had been so honest with her, it seemed unfair not to return the favor.

“I’m betrothed as well,” she answered, tangling her hands together in her lap. “My wedding is tomorrow, in fact.”

Another dry laugh, like the sound of cracking branches. “You’re kidding.”

“I also don’t want to marry him. It was all my father’s arrangement, and I’m expected to simply be grateful that I’m marrying so high above my station.”

“Ah.” There was scathing judgment cast in that sound. “A poor farmer using his pretty, weddable daughter to pay off debts?”

Elain squeezed her fingers tightly together, trying to contrast the sensation to the tension building in her chest, behind her eyes. But when worded like that… it was too late. She was rapidly blinking back tears as she sniffled, “Exactly that.”

A hand fell to her back, zapping her again with his heat as he traced a slow circle through the thin fabric of her nightgown. “Is he kind, at least?”

She shrugged. “I know nothing about him, besides that he is older than me. I am… I am terrified, really. Of who he is, and how he might treat a wife that he purchased as if her opinion—as if she—didn’t matter at all.”

The fingers at her back flexed. “Do you know the nature of your father’s debt? I could arrange for—“

“No.” Elain shook her head, though he couldn’t see. “No, that’s not—that’s not why I called you here. I don’t expect you to pay my fathers debts. Nor do I want you to.”

“So then… why did you call me here?”

A question she should be asking herself, really. What was there to take from this meeting besides hopelessness, besides misery? Besides his hand against the back of her nightgown, warm and soothing and much too indecent for a woman about to be married.

“I don’t know why,” she admitted. “I guess I just… wanted to see what the alternative could have been. All my life I’d fantasized about marrying for love. Now I fear that—” she could hear her voice shaking. She forced herself to swallow. Tried not to let it break, but the words crumbled anyway. “Now I fear that is no longer possible.”

The hand at her back slid to her shoulder, coaxing her into his side. Elain took a sharp breath as she leaned in, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke and warmed apples. It was comforting to her, in addition to the circles he smoothed against her bare shoulder, down her arm.

He took a deep breath, and she was relieved to hear it was shaky, too. “That is precisely how I feel.”

“I suppose I can see how we’re compatible,” she said, a touch dryly.

He snorted. “I’ve never known fate to deal its hand kindly.”

Elain wondered what hidden pain lived beneath such a statement, but thought better of prying. Instead, she murmured, “Curious how in a world filled with butterflies, so many love stories are plagued by tragedy.”

He said, softly, “Your story doesn’t have to be a tragedy.”

It was echo enough to the pacifications made by her father and governess that Elain turned her head away. They had asserted that love matches were rare, that she should make the most out of the arrangement and be grateful to have obtained a match so favorable. Perhaps even to her true love, she sounded like a horrid pessimist in assuming her married life would be miserable.

When she said nothing, her true love added, “What I mean to say is, I could help you, if it came to it. If he is unkind, you do not have to suffer through life with him.”

But he didn’t know. In his mind, she was a poor farmer’s daughter, marrying a Lord’s son at best, someone he clearly expected he was capable of buying off. In reality, her husband was a prince and whatever resources her true love possessed, she doubted they exceeded Lucien Vanserra’s.

“Thank you.”

It was all she could think to say. It must not have been a convincing show of gratitude, because he sighed like he was hollowing all the air in his chest.

“Of course,” he said, a gentleman resigned to her polite rejection. “If you need anything, anything at all, you know how to find me.”

Elain had the sense that it bothered him, the inability to help both himself and his true love out of their unfortunate circumstances. Guilt stirred in her chest, feeling like she had added to both their emotional burdens by summoning him here.

In the interest of searching for something to offer him, one request did cross her mind. An impropriety that was Feyre levels of bold and reckless. Elain faltered, uncertain if she was willing to risk offending him by asking. Or worse, that she would find the courage to ask and he might lack the sense to deny her.

“What is it?” he asked, picking up on the tension underlying her silence.

Elain played through all the possible variations in her head and only once she was certain that the choice to not ask him would be the most painful of, she murmured, coyly, “When you say anything at all, do you mean it?”

There was an allure to her voice that belonged to another woman, one Elain had never met until this moment, when his hand stilled midway down her arm and he asked, too carefully to be casual, “Are you insinuating that I am not a man of my word?”

A dangerous question. A promise that whatever she asked would be fulfilled.

“Certainly not,” she breathed.

“Then tell me, lady.” He moved closer, so that the next time he spoke, each of his words brushed the shell of her ear. “What is it that you’re after?”

His hand was searing where he still held it against her arm, unmoving. And as he waited for her response, she could feel every breath skitter over her neck, prickling her skin in its wake.

It was all a trick of some kind, to convince her to screw her eyes shut and blurt, “I want you to kiss me.”

Likely not the most sensual invitation he’d ever received. But her voice didn’t waver, and she counted that a victory. Again, Elain cursed the dark for preventing her from seeing his expression. Her sight could have prepared her for the hand that raised to her jaw, so startling in its heat that she gasped.

His fingers guided her gently, tilting her face to the side, then up.

She could feel him lean in, voice low and lovely, “Tell me what this means to you, and I’ll oblige.”

“I’ve never been kissed before,” she said, resolute. “I want the first time to be with someone of my choosing.”

She thought she heard him swallow.

“I can understand that,” he said. Then, “It’s a shame it wasn’t my irresistible charms that persuaded you.”

If he was trying to ease her nerves, it only worked so far as to coax a curve at the corner of her lips. “Was this you being irresistibly charming?”

“Well, I’m in the company of a betrothed woman, so I’ve been more restrained than usual.”

“Than usual?” She hummed, feeling the warmth of each spoken word, her lips tingling with the promise of their proximity. “Do you use your irresistible charms on every woman?”

“Only those with sweet souls and wicked tempers,” he said with a small, tantalizing laugh that made her long to seize the game entirely so she could savor the sound against her mouth. “Tell me, lady, which will you taste like?”

“Find out,” she challenged, breathy and utterly unrecognizable to her ears.

Just as he promised, her true love obliged. His lips were soft and plush, warmed like he’d been lounging beside a fire before coming here. Or conversely, as if the fire lived beneath his skin, and now seeped into her body as the kiss deepened.

She tasted the smoke on his tongue, but it was countered by a sweetness that reminded her of burnt sugar. The taste made her feel dizzy, just as she had felt at the ball after one too many glasses of sparkling wine. Like the world was spinning, threatening that she might topple over or bubble right up to the sky if she didn’t grab hold of something.

His hair seemed like a good choice.

It was long, spun silk at his back, parting easily for her fingers to grab hold. She wondered absently what color it was, but the thought was abandoned once he groaned into her mouth in response to a curious tug.

Elain tugged again, to see what would happen.

He broke away, murmuring, “Is a kiss all that you seek this evening, lady?”

If her entire body hadn’t already been set aflame, the implication would have been enough to color her cheeks. Was a kiss all she sought?

“I—I—”

“I’ll pass no judgment on my part,” her true love was quick to say. “The Mother knows I haven’t saved myself for marriage. I expect regardless of what your future husband expects of you, he has not paid you that courtesy either.”

The idea of being touched for the first time here, where it was safe and lovely and tranquil… It had not occurred to her to betray her husband this way, but now the thought of seizing that small piece of control for herself felt comforting.

“Will—will he be able to tell?”

“Certainly not. I doubt a dream will leave any physical evidence. So long as you play the part of a timid, blushing bride on your wedding night, he will be nonethewiser.”

It would not be hard to play that role, since she was certain to be cowering beneath her husband’s touch. And that was precisely why she found she couldn’t turn her true love’s offer away, when his touch was so gentle, so inviting.

“Will it hurt?”

His mouth found hers again, and his tongue parted her lips open for an obscene taste that kindled a moan in the back of her throat, before he broke away. “You have my word, lady, that it will be nothing but pleasurable to you. And should my advances prove me wrong, you’ll have license to ensure I never receive a peaceful night’s rest again.”

“What about—what about your wife?”

He seemed to falter at that. She could feel him searching for an answer that was honest, but would still please her.

“I am not married yet,” he said finally. “And once I am, I’ll be discussing with my wife my intention to live separate lives. She’ll be well looked after and encouraged to take on lovers, and I think that will be agreeable for both of us.”

Elain, once again, was struck with sorrow for his soon-to-be wife, even as she agreed that his plan was considerate—generous, even, given that most men took mistresses while expecting their wives to continue to be faithful. She supposed she should be envious. No such consideration would be extended towards her. But then again, it wasn’t his wife that her true love grabbed at the hips and settled into his lap. This connection to him—this dreamworld—was something that would only ever belong to Elain.

It was perhaps the only thing in the world that was uniquely hers. The only thing that she had full dominion over. Not even her body was fully hers. It belonged partially to another man, but she still used it to slide her hands over her true love’s chest, feeling the strong, solid muscle obscured beneath his clothes.

“Tell me what to do,” she said. “I know the mechanics, vaguely. I’m to lie on my back and you’re to put—“

He chuckled.

Elain’s cheeks burned. Her voice came out sharper as she asked, “Am I wrong?”

“That’s one way it can be done, certainly.”

“And I’ve amused you because?”

“Because of course that’s all they’d tell you.” One of his broad hands found her hip, his steady fingers curling intimately towards her backside. The other hand reached up, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Lie on your back. Be still. Try not to cry. Sound familiar?”

Elain flinched. Her governess hadn’t told her not to cry—but Nesta had. She wished she could deny it, but the silence was condemning, and her true love clicked his tongue in response.

“It’s shameful to tell you that there’s pleasure to be had in it. You’re meant to be afraid, to discourage you from seeking it elsewhere. They don’t want you seizing that control for yourself.”

His fingers brushed over the curve of her ear, sliding forward into her hair at the base of her skull, where he gathered the loose curls into a fist and gave it a deliciously slow tug. Elain allowed him to arch her head backwards, exposing her throat so he could leave an open mouthed kiss at her hammering pulse.

He said roughly against her skin, “But I want you to take that control. I want you writhing in pleasure. I want you desperate for it.”

Already, she was trembling. And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

“Tell me what to do,” she said again.

“You’re doing it. You stay exactly as you are. Well—”

Using the hand at her hip, he tugged her forward until their torsos were completely flush. He was so solid, so shockingly warm. But what was worse than the heat seeping insistently through her flimsy nightgown was what she felt herself sitting on top of, pressing insistently against her cotton underthings. She could guess what it was and tried her best not to squirm in response as she shifted through all the new emotions that washed over her. Some she recognized—like shame and uncertainty and exhilaration—and others were harder to decipher, like the strange ache that was slowly coursing through her.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now you stay as you are.”

Elain knew if she opened her mouth, only stuttered nonsense would escape, so she elected to nod. With the fist in her hair, her true love would be able to feel it.

“I can’t see your expression,” he said to her. “So while we do this, I’m going to need you to use your words. Okay?”

Her mouth had gone so dry that her tongue was stuck to the roof. She had to swallow before she managed, “Okay.”

“I’m going to touch you. I need you to tell me if you don’t like it, or if you want me to stop. And if you’re enjoying it—” she could imagine the smug smile that crossed his face— “then I want you to tell me that, too. Loudly.”

“W-wait.” He completely froze, his touch on her relaxing, though he did not withdraw. Elain trusted that if she asked him to, he would, and that comforted her enough to ask, “What should I call you?”

The silence turned considerate. “Whatever you want,” he said. “Love, my lord, sir.”

His voice lowered on the last word, and Elain filed that information away for a later time. There would no names, then. It was for the best, truly, though Elain still wished selfishly to know who he was.

“Okay,” she said, steadying herself. “Then please, touch me, my lord.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Elain expected it all to happen suddenly. For him to pull her hair and crash their lips together as he ravished her with his body. Instead, it was slow as dripping honey. He kept his hands tangled in her hair, with just enough tension to keep her arched against him while the other settled back in its place at her hips, creeping ever-so-slowly downwards.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, once his fingers slipped past the nightgown and found the bare skin of her thigh. He stroked his palm in rhythmic circles, the breadth of his fingers spanning the entire width of her thigh, and then some. “How does this feel?”

It was nice. Soothing, even.

Elain released her breath in one short burst. “It feels good.”

“Yeah?” He leaned in, nose skimming across the slant of her shoulder. “I could feel you tense, but you’ve seemed to relax now.”

“It’s... I suppose I thought you would be doing more all at once.”

He released a small, breathy laugh. Like that was exactly what he’d expected her to say.

“The anticipation is half the fun.”

Actually, the anticipation was driving her mad. His hands were creeping up, pulling the hem of her nightgown with it, but it was far from where she felt all the ache and tension building, where she was beginning to realize she needed him to touch her.

“I feel…” she hesitated, not certain how to describe the sensation. The fluttering heat concentrated between her thighs.

“Go on.”

She settled on, “Flushed. Like I have a fever.”

“Feverish for me. Hmm.” His hands curved into her inner thigh, still leaving those idle strokes as they crept painfully higher. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”

“What did you expect me to say?”

Then his fingers stopped, just as his thumb brushed the seem where her underthings met her thigh. Then, he hooked his thumb beneath the fabric and slipped two of his fingers beneath the cotton.

She gasped at the same time he hissed, “This.” He swore under his breath. “I was expecting you to tell me how wet you feel.”

Elain hadn’t realized it, until he said it. Until he had his fingers there, slipping against more lubrication than she was ever used to feeling. Before she’d even gotten a chance to relish being touched so intimately, he withdrew his hand.

“Have I done something wrong?” She asked into the dark, feeling the way his chest had begun rising and falling more rapidly.

“Wrong?” he echoed. “You’re soaked and I haven’t even touched you yet. Believe me, lady, I am insufferably pleased.”

“Then—” she paused when his thumb found her jaw, tracing its shape until it arrived at the peak of her chin.

“Open your mouth.”

His voice was low, heated, and it made her feel as though someone had placed a glowing ember deep in her stomach. She obeyed with a breathless, “Yes, my lord.”

Fingertips brushed against her lips, slick with the arousal he’d found between her thighs. Elain’s eyes widened as she realized his intentions, but she kept herself still—and her mouth open—as he slipped those two fingers into her mouth.

“Close,” he said, resting them against her tongue. She did as she was told, and was rewarded with an exhaled, “Good girl.”

The words surprised her. How they made her body feel tight and hot at the same time, how she instinctively swallowed against his fingers and slanted her hips forward to writhe against the erection straining in his trousers. The relief was almost instant—and addictive. She rolled her hips forward again, shutting her eyes as the ache ebbed into pleasure.

His laugh was rasped. “I’ll remember that you enjoy being praised. Now suck on my fingers, sweet soul. Taste how wet you are for me.”

Elain lapped her tongue against his fingers curiously, finding that the taste of her own arousal wasn’t offensive—not nearly so much as the action itself, of having his fingers in her mouth at all. Just the thought of what they were doing, how lewd it was to be tasting her own arousal as drool collected at the corners of her lips, caused a moan to build in the back of her throat. Was this what it felt like to be bold, to be reckless?

“Do you taste good?” he prompted.

She nodded.

“Am I allowed to have a taste, too?”

Thinking it would mean he’d put his fingers back between her legs—where she was physically aching for him to touch—Elain nodded again. Slowly, he pulled his fingers out of her mouth, and she smothered the urge to apologize for the string of saliva that fell against her chin.

If he noticed, he was far too occupied with the task of lowering himself onto his back. His hands settled on her hips, keeping her steady as she balanced on his lap, where his erection continued to press into her. The urge to grind against it was quickly becoming insurmountable.

She was stopped by the hands at her hips tightening. “Come here,” he said, nudging her forward. “Crawl up my body.”

When her governess, who functioned more as a surrogate for their mother than Elain would have cared for, had given her a brief and nondescript overview of what she could expect on her wedding night, she had not mentioned anything about the man lying on his back. Nesta had attempted to fill in the gaps, afterwards, but even her explanations had lacked anything resembling crawling up the bed until Elain was half sitting on a man’s chest.

She paused uncertainly when the tops of her knees brushed the underside of his arms. His broad hands were still encouraging her forward, but Elain had nowhere else to go—unless she was to crawl over his head.

“You’re almost there,” he said, lifting her hips to guide her the rest of the way. Until she was kneeling over his face, trembling slightly at the anticipation of what he might do. “Good,” he murmured. His fingers teased under the lace at her hip bone. ”Stay exactly where you are.”

“W-when you said taste…”

He was tugging the lace down, now, working it slowly down her thigh. “Yeah?”

“Did… did you mean—”

His next laugh cut through the darkness, scraping her raw. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

“I didn’t,” she protested.

Now that he was wearing her underthings like a necklace, and she could feel him ducking his head beneath her nightgown, his jaw scratching along her inner thigh, she had a better idea. When the heat of his breath caressed her, it was all Elain could do to keep her knees from collapsing on top of him.

“But you’re a clever girl, aren’t you?” He crooned. “What do you think I’m about to do now?”

Elain thought of his tongue slipping into her mouth, the way he’d stroked her like a promise for this moment. She fought a shiver. “You’re going to—” she struggled for a way to phrase it, all of the verbiage of polite society suddenly failing her.

“I’m going to pleasure you with my tongue,” he said. “And if that doesn’t sound agreeable, tell me to stop now.”

She couldn’t. Not as he angled his head up and, slowly, took that first lick of her.

Elain felt like she was on fire. Her hands flew into his hair, gripping tightly out of fear that she would come untethered right then and there.

His tongue explored her leisurely, parting her folds like he truly was doing so out of enjoyment of the taste. She wished she could see his expression to gauge how much of this he was doing for her pleasure—all of it, she would have expected, but from the way his hands flew to her hips to rock her body against his mouth, she thought better of it.

Maybe he did enjoy this.

And so did Elain. She had been warned to expect pain, but there wasn’t an ounce of it to be found here. It was only pleasure—pure, hot pleasure—building with every stroke of his tongue. Her fingers wound in his hair, yanking him closer as she was overcome with the sudden, unbridled impulse to chase it, to demand more.

His responding grunt was gargled by her arousal, but from the way he squeezed her thighs tighter and sucked her clit into his mouth, she thought that maybe he was telling her what his words couldn’t: Good girl.

“I—my lord—”

She wished, desperately, that she had the words to communicate how he was making her feel. What she wanted him to do.

A broken moan erupted past her lips. She settled with, “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Stomach tightening, Elain felt distinctly like a candle lit from within, her body slowly warming, slowly melting from the center, while the threat of collapsing became more and more imminent.

The motions of his tongue became hurried. He kissed her with urgent, open-mouthed strokes against her clit, before he sucked on her with such abandon that she keened, falling forward onto her hands.

His grip remained iron tight, sealing her bottom half to his mouth, even as she began panting, a hot flush spreading through body. She gasped, “I—I—” she didn’t know what she wanted. Her entire body was trembling and still he kept fucking her with his tongue. An embarrassing whimper built in her throat.

She managed a splintered, “Please.”

Blinding, white hot pleasure overtook her. Elain cried out as she half collapsed into the bed, fingers grappling aimlessly in the blankets like it might do anything to counteract the wave after wave of soul-shattering euphoria that crashed over her.

Ignoring the way her body twitched, now oversensitive, he continued licking her through the release. Sweat broke out on her body, now foreignly too-hot, and with her face buried in the mattress she pleaded, “My lord. It’s too much. It’s—”

He slowed, then stopped altogether. Briefly, she wondered what would have happened if she’d let him keep going. Would he have licked her to delirium, until she was sobbing beneath him? Though the idea wasn’t unwelcome to her, it seemed a curiosity for another day. Reality felt frayed enough as it was.

He lowered her gently off his face, allowing her to collapse on her stomach atop the bed. A moment later, a weight settled beside her, and a warm hand fell against her back.

“How did you find that?”

Beyond description. Beyond, certainly, any words that she could muster in that moment. She mumbled something unintelligible against the blankets.

“Was it too much?” He asked, and she could hear the frown—the doubt—in his voice.

Elain lifted her head. “No! Not at all. I’m just—” her breathing was still ragged. She needed to take a moment to catch her breath before she said, “I’m just recovering.”

That must have been the right thing to say, because he hummed, climbing over her to lavish kisses along the path of her spine.

“This worn out from just my tongue?” His laughter brushed against her back. The lightest, most decadent touch. “We can stop for now, then. I’ll let you rest before your wedding.”

Despite the promise of leaving her, his lips continue their path, now between her shoulder blades. Elain, having grown up in a house full of women, was well versed in the meaning disguised behind words. She recognized the question, as well as the challenge.

Do you want to leave? Are you brave enough to keep going?

His lips were at her neck now. She could feel his erection pressing into her backside. Elain wasn’t quite yet brave enough to tell him that she wanted to stay and find out what happens next, but she did find the courage to lift her hips, pressing into his with a stunted breath at how hard he was.

“Show me,” she breathed. “I want you to… to…”

“Fuck you?” He whispered in her ear, grinding his hips against her ass for emphasis.

Elain’s mouth went dry.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“I want you to fuck me, my lord. Please.”

He groaned. “How am I to deny a lady with such nice manners?” He said, before pushing her nightgown up her back, exposing her backside to the cool air.

Buttons whispered against fabric as he quickly scrambled to free himself from his trousers. Elain thought it was likely for the better that she couldn’t see it. Better not to be intimidated before he’d even had a chance to touch her with it.

She knew when he’d finished unlacing his trousers because the next moment, something hard and smooth and warm was resting against her bare ass.

“Fuck.” He used a hand to direct himself between her thighs, thrusting forward so the length of him could slide through her arousal. His forehead fell against her shoulder. She could hear him breathing heavily in her ear. “Though you have the loveliest ass I’ve ever had the pleasure of grinding my cock against, maybe it is for the better that you lie on your back.”

In response, Elain raised her hips higher, begging, “Why?”

He must not have expected the movement, because the head of his cock nudged against her entrance and he swore. “Because if I’m going to steal the honor from your husband, I should at least do it like a gentleman.”

Elain couldn’t help laughing. “Do you often fuck other men’s wives like a gentleman?”

She yelped at the resulting swat he laid against her ass, though it wasn't remotely hard enough to sting.

“Is this the famed wicked temper, then? What happened to my stuttering sweet soul?”

Truthfully, Elain didn’t know where that girl had gone, but she had certainly left far before the dream began. She would never have ended up here, in bed with another man on the eve of her wedding. She ought to be ashamed, but then her true love thrust his hips forward until his cock bumped against her clit, and she didn’t at all mind not being that girl for a night.

“If you’ve abandoned your modesty, then why don’t you ask me to give you my cock?”

Elain had never once uttered that word out loud. Indignantly, she said, “I’ve already asked you to fuck me.”

“Very well.” He slipped a hand between her thighs and teased her entrance with his forefinger. “I’ll fuck you on my fingers then. Or better yet, I’ll put you back on my tongue.”

“My lord—”

“Ask me.”

With a small, exasperated huff, she said, “Please give me your cock.”

“Good girl.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

Elain’s heart fluttered. She lifted her hips higher, grinding back against his fingers in the hope that he would hurry with whatever preparation he needed. But just as she felt him adjust his body over hers, like he might proceed in earnest, the edges of the dream began splitting into fragments.

“W—what’s happening?”

“I think one of us is waking up,” he said.

“No.” No, no, no. She wasn’t ready. It couldn’t possibly be morning. “No, please—”

“Hey.” A hand smoothed down the back of her head. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. No matter what happens, you can find me here, and I’ll help you. Okay? No matter who he is. I promise.”

Elain pressed a hand to her mouth to smother a sob.

“Sweetheart, please. I can’t leave you like this. Please tell me your—”

Even if she had decided to reveal herself to him, it was too late.

Dawn had come. And the morning of Elain’s wedding had arrived.