[AN] Crepuscular
Oct. 6th, 2021 05:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Crepuscular
Universe: Apocalypse Nigh
Characters: Sinclair Dumont, Juniper Cupress
Rated: K+
Description: Sinclair is having the absolute worst day of her life until a ray of light in the form of a bookstore, and the mysterious fae who owns it, turns her evening around.
It’s raining.
Of course, it’s raining.
Why wouldn’t it be raining?
Sinclair is only having the absolute worst day of her life. It might as well be raining.
She’s exhausted, her stockings are torn, and her hair lost a valiant fight against a wind elemental. One of Xia’s errant Sleepers had needed taming, and she could only think to call Sinclair. Thus Sinclair had been forced to rise before dawn, trudge out to some dusty, filthy apartment, and quiet the raging deity who was not keen on discovering they’d been left to molder in an attic for half a century.
Sinclair wants to go home. Her stomach is growling, she’s filthy, and Xia had managed to both tempt and exasperate her while thanking Sinclair profusely and then traipsing off to her new girlfriend’s warm and cozy bed.
It’s raining, Sinclair wants to go home, but she’s all out of arcana until she’s had a proper rest, so all she has at her disposal is trying to call for a ride, or walking. The rain comes down in heavy sheets, splattering her even in the shelter of the eave she’s taken, and her toes are freezing because of course -- of course -- her favorite pair of boots have chosen today to inform her that they are in need of repair.
Her whole life is in need of repair for crying out loud.
No. She’s not going to cry.
Sinclair refuses on principle alone. She is a strong, independent wizard. One bad day is not enough to make her shed tears. She’s going to square her shoulders and fish around her purse for her cell phone and call an Uber to take her home.
It takes a minute.
Her purse is long overdue for a purge, and her phone is buried beneath the receipts, lipstick, loose change, gum wrappers, herb bits, and other odds and ends. She plucks it out successfully, stomping her feet to warm her toes, and presses her thumb to the screen.
It’s dark.
She tries again. Harder.
Briefly, an image of her battery flashes on screen, bright red and empty. Her phone is dead. Because why wouldn’t her phone be dead. She’s having a spectacularly shitty day, and while Sinclair knows she left her house with a charged phone, she blames Xia’s Sleeper and their penchant for electrically charged tantrums.
Sinclair closes her eyes. Breathes in and out. Shoves her phone into her purse and promises herself she’s not going to cry.
The sky rumbles ominously. The rain takes on the distinct flavor of petrichor. Because Xia’s Sleeper had been a weather deity, and they are expressing their displeasure in the form of a torrential downpour, to be immediately followed by a thunderstorm.
Is it alright to cry now?
No.
Sinclair squares her jaw, hitches her purse strap over her shoulder, and takes a deep breath. She has two good legs, and a fifteen minute walk ahead of her. The sooner she gets started, the sooner she can be home and then never leave her house again.
For the rest of the year at least.
Except.
Sinclair can’t bring herself to move. The sidewalks are empty as wiser pedestrians have taken shelter indoors. Eaves provide temporary shelter, but rain pours over their edges in soaking sheets. Ankle-deep puddles have already formed in the uneven dips and grooves of the sidewalk. Cars zoom by, throwing up huge, muddy splashes.
Sinclair’s mascara is running.
This is quite unfair. What has she done to deserve this?
A bell chimes behind her. A brief gust of warm air tickles at her legs.
Sinclair turns as a woman leans out of a nearby door, her smile warm and inviting, her silver hair tucked in an artful, loose bob at the nape of her neck. Not the silver of age, Sinclair guesses, but the silver of design.
“You can come inside, love. It’s warm and dry. I won’t even make you buy anything.”
Sinclair looks into the window behind her, cheerful script painted on the window advertising a bookstore and coffeeshop, lovingly named The Book and Brew. Oh, thank the stars.
“I appreciate it,” Sinclair says, wobbling only a little as she steps inside, the door politely held open for her. The smell of coffee and pastries and books immediately floats to her nose, and her stomach grumbles. “Though I think I will indulge in what you have to offer.”
The Book and Brew is warmly lit, golden-light cascading down from multiple chandeliers while a small fire burns in a nearby hearth, surrounded by comfortable chairs, only a few of which are occupied. To the right is the coffeeshop portion of the building, but straight ahead, two floors of bookshelves stretch toward the back of the building, a set of curved staircases leading to the second floor.
Soft music spills from an unknown source, and Sinclair draws in a deep breath, some of the tension ebbing out of her.
“Stay as long as you like,” the woman says as she lets the door swing closed. “There are multiple places for lounging on both floors. All of our pastries are locally made, and our coffee is sustainably sourced.”
Gods, she’s a walking advertisement.
Sinclair offers -- she glances at the name tag -- Juniper a thin smile. “Thanks. I’ll go check it out now.”
Juniper tucks a loose strand of hair behind a multiply-pierced ear. “Enjoy your stay,” she says, and walks off, presumably to do some work, though Sinclair can’t hazard a guess. Juniper’s wearing an apron like the other baristas, but she’s not heading toward the coffee kiosk.
Sinclair is only human, however, so she does take a peek at the jean-clad behind as Juniper leaves. Walking advertisement she may be, but her rump is something Sinclair’s teeth ache to nip.
Her stomach growls pointedly.
Sinclair sighs and investigates the coffee kiosk, well aware that she’s dripping small puddles everywhere she steps. A small cantrip would take care of that, of course, but she can’t draw any more attention to herself than she already has.
There’s a large chalkboard hanging behind the counter, and someone has painstakingly written out the various espresso based drinks by hand. There are a few uniquely named blends which Sinclair suspects are house specials. The Juniper White calls to her strongest -- self-described as a woodsy take on the better known flat-white, infused with lavender and sweetened with agave nectar.
Sinclair intends to order a small, but the rumbling thunder overhead, and the gray sheets of rain urge her to upgrade to a large. She peruses the pastry case, settling on a raspberry crumb bar and a triple-chocolate brownie. It’s been a chocolate kind of day.
The barista promises to bring it out to her when it’s ready, so Sinclair drops a ten into the tip jar and tries to find a place secluded enough she won’t be bothered, but still easy to find by the waitstaff. A small table tucked up in the corner near the hanging ‘Historical Fiction’ sign promises to be the perfect shelter, and Sinclair sinks into the padded chair with a quiet sigh.
She’s going to end up soaking the fabric, but it can’t be helped. Perhaps if she finds a moment, she can discreetly clean up after herself with none the wiser.
Sinclair strips out of her soaking jacket and dripping scarf and hangs both on a convenient coat rack nearby. She could have sworn it wasn’t there a moment ago, that it was a tall lamp with a magazine basket below, but then, she’s tired. She’s grumpy. She’s soaked to the bone.
Clearly, she’s mistaken.
A migraine starts to pulse at her temples. Sinclair digs in her bag for the travel tin she always has with her, but can’t find it in the mess. She pulls out fistfuls of receipts, and her lipstick, and the other odds and ends, but there’s no medicine tin.
Oh.
She’s left it on the bathroom sink, hasn’t she? All with the intention of refilling it, only to rush out the door when Xia called her.
It always comes back to Xia, doesn’t it?
Sinclair’s heart really needs to let go of that failure of a relationship.
She takes solace in the coffee and pastries delivered to her table, managing a friendly smile to the barista who delivers it. Sinclair knows she looks a fright, and not even the ache of her teeth is enough to get her to take a second-look at the woman. She might have been lovely, but Sinclair has no more energy for admiring views.
She wants to go home, to curl up on her settee in front of a roaring fire with a bottle of her finest A positive. She wants to turn off her phone so she can’t be tempted to answer if Xia calls, and rethink her life choices.
Clearly, she’s not making the best ones.
Sinclair rubs at her right temple, the pain building and building behind her eye. She cups her other hand around the warm coffee, a cheerful leaf drawn in the foam. It smells divine, and a small sip proves the taste matches. Sweet, but not overly so, and she can pick out the subtle lavender flavor, along with something else.
Sinclair contemplates the secondary spice.
Her shoulders relax as she sinks back into the chair, still cupping the mug. It’s nice and warm in here, enough to ebb much of the tension from her bones. The music is soothing without being overbearing.
She inhales the coffee’s aroma, trying to identify the other flavor once more. Woodsy. Unusual. Not a typical spice.
The coffee settles warm in her belly, pushing heat throughout the rest of her body, into her limbs and all the way down to her poor, frozen feet.
Sinclair draws in a slow, steadying breath, and for the first time today, feels the rage in her subside, the disappointment, the sadness, everything that being around Xia provokes in her, and all of the bad luck she’s had for today.
Hmm.
Sinclair’s eyes open -- when had she closed them? -- and she peers into the coffee. This isn’t quite right. A simple sip of coffee shouldn’t be so relaxing to her. It shouldn’t send this wave of relaxation through her body.
She glances throughout the coffeehouse but no one is paying her a bit of attention, so she spins her fingers in a simple cantrip over the coffee’s surface. It ripples like an impact tremor, sparks surging off her fingertips.
Arcana.
This coffee is riddled with arcana. Nothing too harmful, it seems. It is emotional magic, more empathic than physical, but still. Anyone without knowledge of arcana would not have noticed the subtle enchantment.
Sinclair is not fond of having her emotions calmed without her permission. She frowns.
“It’s nothing harmful. I promise.”
Juniper slides into the empty chair across from her, apron now gone, replaced by a purple blouse that highlights the black, silk choker at her throat. Her pale purple eyes glitter with a knowledge Sinclair should have recognized sooner, if she’d not been in such a state.
Sinclair rests the cup on the table. “You’re fae.” Only the fae have true mastery over emotional arcana, and it has long been a desire of Sinclair’s to learn. Fae, however, are notoriously protective of their secrets, and won’t share.
Juniper’s lips curve into a smile and she leans forward, elbow resting on the table as she props her chin on it. “What gave me away?”
Sinclair swirls her finger over the coffee, causing a small funnel of it to rise before she lets it splash back down into the mug. “I am something of an expert in arcana.”
“Expert?” Juniper -- if that even is her name -- arches an elegantly sculpted brow. “You’ve been studying for what, one maybe two hundred years. Though I wager you’re not a decade over two centuries.”
“It’s impolite to ask a lady her age.” Sinclair subtly nudges her fingers over the pastry, but both are clean of arcana. She lifts the brownie from the plate, careful of crumbs. “So I know what you are, and you’ve guessed what I am. Where does that leave us?”
It figures.
She chooses one place to take shelter, wooed by a pretty face, and she walks blindly into the lair of a fae. Who knows what Juniper truly desires. Fae are capricious creatures with selfish desires.
Then again, Sinclair hasn’t known a fae to freely offer their magic to soothe the stressful ignorants who wander into their coffeeshop either. That Juniper seems inclined to only ask for money in exchange for the emotional soothing is curious.
“Potential friends,” Juniper says. She presses one finger to the edge of Sinclair’s plate and drags it closer, her manicured fingernail glinting in the light. “It’s often difficult to meet Runicals on this side of it.” She lifts the raspberry crumb bar and gives it a delicate sniff.
“Friends,” Sinclair echoes. She contemplates her brownie before tearing off a small bite.
Rich chocolate melts on her tongue -- not too sweet, it’s relying more on the flavor of the chocolate itself rather than exorbitant amounts of sugar. Sinclair swallows down both the bite and an inappropriate moan.
“Yes. It seems to me you could use one. Your aura is, how do I say it…” Juniper pauses, looks up at the ceiling, her mouth curved. “Troubled. Yes. Troubled is the word I’m choosing right now.”
Sinclair snorts, as inelegant as she finds it. “It’s been a troubling day.” She picks out a chunk of chocolate and pops it into her mouth. “I don’t see how that would interest you.”
Juniper smiles and leans back, one hand waving through the air while she continues her slow nibbling on Sinclair’s crumb cake. “I admit, I was first drawn by a pretty face and an even prettier aura, but now I am curious. I would see a smile if it was within my power.”
Sinclair has not blushed in decades, and yet, there is a distinct heat over the bridge of her nose and at the tips of her ears. She should know better than to trust the pretty words of a fae, but there’s such sincerity in Juniper’s tone, it’s hard not to be swayed by her.
“I believe I have room in my life for a new friend,” Sinclair says carefully, trying not to offer too much lest Juniper extract a payment she can’t afford. She taps one finger on the table in front of her coffee. “Promise this is safe to drink?”
Juniper presses her free hand to her throat -- a gesture Sinclair well recognizes. “My word of honor,” she purrs. “The incantation encourages relaxation and soothes a troubled mind, nothing more.”
Word of honor at the throat, hm? Sinclair is well-versed in fae culture. This is as close to a blood oath as the fae have. To betray this promise would betray Juniper’s very existence.
Sinclair threads her fingers through the mug’s handle and lifts it to her lips, giving it a sip. It is still very hot, surprisingly, but by the curve of Juniper’s lips, she suspects a subtle cantrip is to blame.
“It should also help that headache of yours,” Juniper says before taking a bite of the cake, a few stray crumbs clinging to her lips before she thumbs them away.
“I appreciate it.” Sinclair savors the heat of the coffee, and the warmth it sends through her body. “And if we are going to be friends, it is only polite that we start from the beginning.”
“Of course.” Juniper’s smile is a playful curve that does interesting things to Sinclair’s pulse. She taps her name tag. “Juniper, but I’m sure you already knew that.”
Sinclair tilts her head. “Sinclair,” she offers. “And I’m known to be observant in special circumstances.”
Juniper chuckles. “Might I ask what those circumstances would be?” She steals another bite of Sinclair’s raspberry crumb bar.
She has yet to ask for it, or apologize for taking it. Instead, she eats as though she’s been invited to do so, or is claiming her due. There’s an arrogance about her, and Sinclair has to admit, she doesn’t find it as grating as she ought.
Certainly nowhere near the grating arrogance of Xia’s weather-born Sleeper.
“Curiosity,” Sinclair answers. Another careful sip of the coffee takes the edge off her migraine, and she breathes a sigh of relief.
Her toes may yet be freezing, and her clothes are soaked, and she’s thankful there’s no mirror nearby because she’s sure her makeup is a mess and her hair equally so, but at least the stress has gone enough to give her peace.
“This coffee is marvelous, by the way,” Sinclair says, watching Juniper over the rim as she takes another sip. “You wouldn’t be interested in taking on a student, would you?”
Juniper’s little hum of contemplation sends a pulse of radia through the air, tingling over Sinclair’s skin like the first wash of a summer day after stepping out of a climate controlled room. “Are you curious about fae arcana, Sinclair?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“Oh, many people are. We keep our secrets close, however.”
Sinclair nods slowly. “So I’ve learned. Which is a pity.” She sighs and carefully tucks a damp strand of hair behind her hair. “Perhaps we can negotiate an even exchange of knowledge.”
“Because you know how much we like deals?” Juniper asks with an arched eyebrow, as elegantly sculpted as the rest of her.
Juniper is a work of art, from head to toe, and honestly, Sinclair isn’t sure if she wants to pry Juniper open for all of those delicious fae-arcana secrets, or if she wants to undress Juniper slowly and see how well she takes instruction.
The answer, of course, is both.
She dearly hopes she doesn’t have to choose.
The hunger must show on her face, however, because Juniper’s smile turns coy. “Oh, you’re a greedy one, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”
“I do hate having to choose,” Sinclair says. She pries off another bite of the brownie, careful of crumbs as she pops it into her mouth. “I don’t see any reason why I can’t have everything I want, so long as someone is willing to give it to me.”
Juniper laughs -- husky and genuine -- and the sound sends tingles up and down Sinclair’s spine. “It’s not a complaint.” She leans forward, elbow back on the table, chin in her palm. “I’m greedy, too.”
Radia flashes in her eyes, turning them from silver-purple to a deep, royal wine.
Sinclair swallows thickly. She feels oddly naked, as though Juniper has peeled her out of her layers and laid her out bare, ripe for the taking.
It’s not wholly unwelcome.
“Then I think we can come to an arrangement, don’t you?” Sinclair says. The heat beneath her dress surely must be drying her clothes. She might have been cold, but now there is an inferno pulsing beneath her skin.
She’d worry it was because of the coffee, but Juniper had given her word of honor. No, this is all Sinclair and her terrible, terrible taste in women who are certain to ruin her.
Juniper hums, and Sinclair startles at the press of a foot against hers. A nudge, truly, not erotic in the slightest, save for the way it sends an electric burst of want through the subtle arcana cloaking Sinclair’s body.
“An equivalent exchange perhaps?” Juniper suggests.
Sinclair swallows through her surprise, contemplates terms and conditions through a longer swallow of the coffee, draining the mug to empty. “We’ll need a contract, of course,” she says as she gently rests the cup on the saucer. “I trust your word, but in the heat of the moment, we might be tempted to make promises we don’t intend to keep.”
She lingers on the word ‘heat’, holding Juniper’s gaze as she does so.
Juniper’s index fingers strokes over her bottom lip without smudging her lipstick. “I have yet to meet someone capable of loosening my self-control, but you make a very good point.”
It sounds like a challenge.
Sinclair lifts her chin. “Agree to discuss then?”
“Agreed.” Juniper smiles, slow and hungry, an apex predator evaluating her prey. She rises, fingertips trailing along the table. “My apartment is on the third floor, and has better privacy for such a negotiation. Join me?”
She offers her hand, palm up, fingers gently splayed.
This is a terrible, horrible, wonderful idea.
Sinclair takes her hand anyway, leaning forward to feather a kiss across the soft, inner skin of Juniper’s wrist. She looks up through her lashes. Coy and promising.
“I have nowhere else I’d rather be.”
***
a/n: I do hope to write more with these two in the future, perhaps even a nsfw follow-up with a little bdsm twist if you know what I mean. ;)
Feedback is greatly welcome and appreciated!
Universe: Apocalypse Nigh
Characters: Sinclair Dumont, Juniper Cupress
Rated: K+
Description: Sinclair is having the absolute worst day of her life until a ray of light in the form of a bookstore, and the mysterious fae who owns it, turns her evening around.
It’s raining.
Of course, it’s raining.
Why wouldn’t it be raining?
Sinclair is only having the absolute worst day of her life. It might as well be raining.
She’s exhausted, her stockings are torn, and her hair lost a valiant fight against a wind elemental. One of Xia’s errant Sleepers had needed taming, and she could only think to call Sinclair. Thus Sinclair had been forced to rise before dawn, trudge out to some dusty, filthy apartment, and quiet the raging deity who was not keen on discovering they’d been left to molder in an attic for half a century.
Sinclair wants to go home. Her stomach is growling, she’s filthy, and Xia had managed to both tempt and exasperate her while thanking Sinclair profusely and then traipsing off to her new girlfriend’s warm and cozy bed.
It’s raining, Sinclair wants to go home, but she’s all out of arcana until she’s had a proper rest, so all she has at her disposal is trying to call for a ride, or walking. The rain comes down in heavy sheets, splattering her even in the shelter of the eave she’s taken, and her toes are freezing because of course -- of course -- her favorite pair of boots have chosen today to inform her that they are in need of repair.
Her whole life is in need of repair for crying out loud.
No. She’s not going to cry.
Sinclair refuses on principle alone. She is a strong, independent wizard. One bad day is not enough to make her shed tears. She’s going to square her shoulders and fish around her purse for her cell phone and call an Uber to take her home.
It takes a minute.
Her purse is long overdue for a purge, and her phone is buried beneath the receipts, lipstick, loose change, gum wrappers, herb bits, and other odds and ends. She plucks it out successfully, stomping her feet to warm her toes, and presses her thumb to the screen.
It’s dark.
She tries again. Harder.
Briefly, an image of her battery flashes on screen, bright red and empty. Her phone is dead. Because why wouldn’t her phone be dead. She’s having a spectacularly shitty day, and while Sinclair knows she left her house with a charged phone, she blames Xia’s Sleeper and their penchant for electrically charged tantrums.
Sinclair closes her eyes. Breathes in and out. Shoves her phone into her purse and promises herself she’s not going to cry.
The sky rumbles ominously. The rain takes on the distinct flavor of petrichor. Because Xia’s Sleeper had been a weather deity, and they are expressing their displeasure in the form of a torrential downpour, to be immediately followed by a thunderstorm.
Is it alright to cry now?
No.
Sinclair squares her jaw, hitches her purse strap over her shoulder, and takes a deep breath. She has two good legs, and a fifteen minute walk ahead of her. The sooner she gets started, the sooner she can be home and then never leave her house again.
For the rest of the year at least.
Except.
Sinclair can’t bring herself to move. The sidewalks are empty as wiser pedestrians have taken shelter indoors. Eaves provide temporary shelter, but rain pours over their edges in soaking sheets. Ankle-deep puddles have already formed in the uneven dips and grooves of the sidewalk. Cars zoom by, throwing up huge, muddy splashes.
Sinclair’s mascara is running.
This is quite unfair. What has she done to deserve this?
A bell chimes behind her. A brief gust of warm air tickles at her legs.
Sinclair turns as a woman leans out of a nearby door, her smile warm and inviting, her silver hair tucked in an artful, loose bob at the nape of her neck. Not the silver of age, Sinclair guesses, but the silver of design.
“You can come inside, love. It’s warm and dry. I won’t even make you buy anything.”
Sinclair looks into the window behind her, cheerful script painted on the window advertising a bookstore and coffeeshop, lovingly named The Book and Brew. Oh, thank the stars.
“I appreciate it,” Sinclair says, wobbling only a little as she steps inside, the door politely held open for her. The smell of coffee and pastries and books immediately floats to her nose, and her stomach grumbles. “Though I think I will indulge in what you have to offer.”
The Book and Brew is warmly lit, golden-light cascading down from multiple chandeliers while a small fire burns in a nearby hearth, surrounded by comfortable chairs, only a few of which are occupied. To the right is the coffeeshop portion of the building, but straight ahead, two floors of bookshelves stretch toward the back of the building, a set of curved staircases leading to the second floor.
Soft music spills from an unknown source, and Sinclair draws in a deep breath, some of the tension ebbing out of her.
“Stay as long as you like,” the woman says as she lets the door swing closed. “There are multiple places for lounging on both floors. All of our pastries are locally made, and our coffee is sustainably sourced.”
Gods, she’s a walking advertisement.
Sinclair offers -- she glances at the name tag -- Juniper a thin smile. “Thanks. I’ll go check it out now.”
Juniper tucks a loose strand of hair behind a multiply-pierced ear. “Enjoy your stay,” she says, and walks off, presumably to do some work, though Sinclair can’t hazard a guess. Juniper’s wearing an apron like the other baristas, but she’s not heading toward the coffee kiosk.
Sinclair is only human, however, so she does take a peek at the jean-clad behind as Juniper leaves. Walking advertisement she may be, but her rump is something Sinclair’s teeth ache to nip.
Her stomach growls pointedly.
Sinclair sighs and investigates the coffee kiosk, well aware that she’s dripping small puddles everywhere she steps. A small cantrip would take care of that, of course, but she can’t draw any more attention to herself than she already has.
There’s a large chalkboard hanging behind the counter, and someone has painstakingly written out the various espresso based drinks by hand. There are a few uniquely named blends which Sinclair suspects are house specials. The Juniper White calls to her strongest -- self-described as a woodsy take on the better known flat-white, infused with lavender and sweetened with agave nectar.
Sinclair intends to order a small, but the rumbling thunder overhead, and the gray sheets of rain urge her to upgrade to a large. She peruses the pastry case, settling on a raspberry crumb bar and a triple-chocolate brownie. It’s been a chocolate kind of day.
The barista promises to bring it out to her when it’s ready, so Sinclair drops a ten into the tip jar and tries to find a place secluded enough she won’t be bothered, but still easy to find by the waitstaff. A small table tucked up in the corner near the hanging ‘Historical Fiction’ sign promises to be the perfect shelter, and Sinclair sinks into the padded chair with a quiet sigh.
She’s going to end up soaking the fabric, but it can’t be helped. Perhaps if she finds a moment, she can discreetly clean up after herself with none the wiser.
Sinclair strips out of her soaking jacket and dripping scarf and hangs both on a convenient coat rack nearby. She could have sworn it wasn’t there a moment ago, that it was a tall lamp with a magazine basket below, but then, she’s tired. She’s grumpy. She’s soaked to the bone.
Clearly, she’s mistaken.
A migraine starts to pulse at her temples. Sinclair digs in her bag for the travel tin she always has with her, but can’t find it in the mess. She pulls out fistfuls of receipts, and her lipstick, and the other odds and ends, but there’s no medicine tin.
Oh.
She’s left it on the bathroom sink, hasn’t she? All with the intention of refilling it, only to rush out the door when Xia called her.
It always comes back to Xia, doesn’t it?
Sinclair’s heart really needs to let go of that failure of a relationship.
She takes solace in the coffee and pastries delivered to her table, managing a friendly smile to the barista who delivers it. Sinclair knows she looks a fright, and not even the ache of her teeth is enough to get her to take a second-look at the woman. She might have been lovely, but Sinclair has no more energy for admiring views.
She wants to go home, to curl up on her settee in front of a roaring fire with a bottle of her finest A positive. She wants to turn off her phone so she can’t be tempted to answer if Xia calls, and rethink her life choices.
Clearly, she’s not making the best ones.
Sinclair rubs at her right temple, the pain building and building behind her eye. She cups her other hand around the warm coffee, a cheerful leaf drawn in the foam. It smells divine, and a small sip proves the taste matches. Sweet, but not overly so, and she can pick out the subtle lavender flavor, along with something else.
Sinclair contemplates the secondary spice.
Her shoulders relax as she sinks back into the chair, still cupping the mug. It’s nice and warm in here, enough to ebb much of the tension from her bones. The music is soothing without being overbearing.
She inhales the coffee’s aroma, trying to identify the other flavor once more. Woodsy. Unusual. Not a typical spice.
The coffee settles warm in her belly, pushing heat throughout the rest of her body, into her limbs and all the way down to her poor, frozen feet.
Sinclair draws in a slow, steadying breath, and for the first time today, feels the rage in her subside, the disappointment, the sadness, everything that being around Xia provokes in her, and all of the bad luck she’s had for today.
Hmm.
Sinclair’s eyes open -- when had she closed them? -- and she peers into the coffee. This isn’t quite right. A simple sip of coffee shouldn’t be so relaxing to her. It shouldn’t send this wave of relaxation through her body.
She glances throughout the coffeehouse but no one is paying her a bit of attention, so she spins her fingers in a simple cantrip over the coffee’s surface. It ripples like an impact tremor, sparks surging off her fingertips.
Arcana.
This coffee is riddled with arcana. Nothing too harmful, it seems. It is emotional magic, more empathic than physical, but still. Anyone without knowledge of arcana would not have noticed the subtle enchantment.
Sinclair is not fond of having her emotions calmed without her permission. She frowns.
“It’s nothing harmful. I promise.”
Juniper slides into the empty chair across from her, apron now gone, replaced by a purple blouse that highlights the black, silk choker at her throat. Her pale purple eyes glitter with a knowledge Sinclair should have recognized sooner, if she’d not been in such a state.
Sinclair rests the cup on the table. “You’re fae.” Only the fae have true mastery over emotional arcana, and it has long been a desire of Sinclair’s to learn. Fae, however, are notoriously protective of their secrets, and won’t share.
Juniper’s lips curve into a smile and she leans forward, elbow resting on the table as she props her chin on it. “What gave me away?”
Sinclair swirls her finger over the coffee, causing a small funnel of it to rise before she lets it splash back down into the mug. “I am something of an expert in arcana.”
“Expert?” Juniper -- if that even is her name -- arches an elegantly sculpted brow. “You’ve been studying for what, one maybe two hundred years. Though I wager you’re not a decade over two centuries.”
“It’s impolite to ask a lady her age.” Sinclair subtly nudges her fingers over the pastry, but both are clean of arcana. She lifts the brownie from the plate, careful of crumbs. “So I know what you are, and you’ve guessed what I am. Where does that leave us?”
It figures.
She chooses one place to take shelter, wooed by a pretty face, and she walks blindly into the lair of a fae. Who knows what Juniper truly desires. Fae are capricious creatures with selfish desires.
Then again, Sinclair hasn’t known a fae to freely offer their magic to soothe the stressful ignorants who wander into their coffeeshop either. That Juniper seems inclined to only ask for money in exchange for the emotional soothing is curious.
“Potential friends,” Juniper says. She presses one finger to the edge of Sinclair’s plate and drags it closer, her manicured fingernail glinting in the light. “It’s often difficult to meet Runicals on this side of it.” She lifts the raspberry crumb bar and gives it a delicate sniff.
“Friends,” Sinclair echoes. She contemplates her brownie before tearing off a small bite.
Rich chocolate melts on her tongue -- not too sweet, it’s relying more on the flavor of the chocolate itself rather than exorbitant amounts of sugar. Sinclair swallows down both the bite and an inappropriate moan.
“Yes. It seems to me you could use one. Your aura is, how do I say it…” Juniper pauses, looks up at the ceiling, her mouth curved. “Troubled. Yes. Troubled is the word I’m choosing right now.”
Sinclair snorts, as inelegant as she finds it. “It’s been a troubling day.” She picks out a chunk of chocolate and pops it into her mouth. “I don’t see how that would interest you.”
Juniper smiles and leans back, one hand waving through the air while she continues her slow nibbling on Sinclair’s crumb cake. “I admit, I was first drawn by a pretty face and an even prettier aura, but now I am curious. I would see a smile if it was within my power.”
Sinclair has not blushed in decades, and yet, there is a distinct heat over the bridge of her nose and at the tips of her ears. She should know better than to trust the pretty words of a fae, but there’s such sincerity in Juniper’s tone, it’s hard not to be swayed by her.
“I believe I have room in my life for a new friend,” Sinclair says carefully, trying not to offer too much lest Juniper extract a payment she can’t afford. She taps one finger on the table in front of her coffee. “Promise this is safe to drink?”
Juniper presses her free hand to her throat -- a gesture Sinclair well recognizes. “My word of honor,” she purrs. “The incantation encourages relaxation and soothes a troubled mind, nothing more.”
Word of honor at the throat, hm? Sinclair is well-versed in fae culture. This is as close to a blood oath as the fae have. To betray this promise would betray Juniper’s very existence.
Sinclair threads her fingers through the mug’s handle and lifts it to her lips, giving it a sip. It is still very hot, surprisingly, but by the curve of Juniper’s lips, she suspects a subtle cantrip is to blame.
“It should also help that headache of yours,” Juniper says before taking a bite of the cake, a few stray crumbs clinging to her lips before she thumbs them away.
“I appreciate it.” Sinclair savors the heat of the coffee, and the warmth it sends through her body. “And if we are going to be friends, it is only polite that we start from the beginning.”
“Of course.” Juniper’s smile is a playful curve that does interesting things to Sinclair’s pulse. She taps her name tag. “Juniper, but I’m sure you already knew that.”
Sinclair tilts her head. “Sinclair,” she offers. “And I’m known to be observant in special circumstances.”
Juniper chuckles. “Might I ask what those circumstances would be?” She steals another bite of Sinclair’s raspberry crumb bar.
She has yet to ask for it, or apologize for taking it. Instead, she eats as though she’s been invited to do so, or is claiming her due. There’s an arrogance about her, and Sinclair has to admit, she doesn’t find it as grating as she ought.
Certainly nowhere near the grating arrogance of Xia’s weather-born Sleeper.
“Curiosity,” Sinclair answers. Another careful sip of the coffee takes the edge off her migraine, and she breathes a sigh of relief.
Her toes may yet be freezing, and her clothes are soaked, and she’s thankful there’s no mirror nearby because she’s sure her makeup is a mess and her hair equally so, but at least the stress has gone enough to give her peace.
“This coffee is marvelous, by the way,” Sinclair says, watching Juniper over the rim as she takes another sip. “You wouldn’t be interested in taking on a student, would you?”
Juniper’s little hum of contemplation sends a pulse of radia through the air, tingling over Sinclair’s skin like the first wash of a summer day after stepping out of a climate controlled room. “Are you curious about fae arcana, Sinclair?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“Oh, many people are. We keep our secrets close, however.”
Sinclair nods slowly. “So I’ve learned. Which is a pity.” She sighs and carefully tucks a damp strand of hair behind her hair. “Perhaps we can negotiate an even exchange of knowledge.”
“Because you know how much we like deals?” Juniper asks with an arched eyebrow, as elegantly sculpted as the rest of her.
Juniper is a work of art, from head to toe, and honestly, Sinclair isn’t sure if she wants to pry Juniper open for all of those delicious fae-arcana secrets, or if she wants to undress Juniper slowly and see how well she takes instruction.
The answer, of course, is both.
She dearly hopes she doesn’t have to choose.
The hunger must show on her face, however, because Juniper’s smile turns coy. “Oh, you’re a greedy one, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”
“I do hate having to choose,” Sinclair says. She pries off another bite of the brownie, careful of crumbs as she pops it into her mouth. “I don’t see any reason why I can’t have everything I want, so long as someone is willing to give it to me.”
Juniper laughs -- husky and genuine -- and the sound sends tingles up and down Sinclair’s spine. “It’s not a complaint.” She leans forward, elbow back on the table, chin in her palm. “I’m greedy, too.”
Radia flashes in her eyes, turning them from silver-purple to a deep, royal wine.
Sinclair swallows thickly. She feels oddly naked, as though Juniper has peeled her out of her layers and laid her out bare, ripe for the taking.
It’s not wholly unwelcome.
“Then I think we can come to an arrangement, don’t you?” Sinclair says. The heat beneath her dress surely must be drying her clothes. She might have been cold, but now there is an inferno pulsing beneath her skin.
She’d worry it was because of the coffee, but Juniper had given her word of honor. No, this is all Sinclair and her terrible, terrible taste in women who are certain to ruin her.
Juniper hums, and Sinclair startles at the press of a foot against hers. A nudge, truly, not erotic in the slightest, save for the way it sends an electric burst of want through the subtle arcana cloaking Sinclair’s body.
“An equivalent exchange perhaps?” Juniper suggests.
Sinclair swallows through her surprise, contemplates terms and conditions through a longer swallow of the coffee, draining the mug to empty. “We’ll need a contract, of course,” she says as she gently rests the cup on the saucer. “I trust your word, but in the heat of the moment, we might be tempted to make promises we don’t intend to keep.”
She lingers on the word ‘heat’, holding Juniper’s gaze as she does so.
Juniper’s index fingers strokes over her bottom lip without smudging her lipstick. “I have yet to meet someone capable of loosening my self-control, but you make a very good point.”
It sounds like a challenge.
Sinclair lifts her chin. “Agree to discuss then?”
“Agreed.” Juniper smiles, slow and hungry, an apex predator evaluating her prey. She rises, fingertips trailing along the table. “My apartment is on the third floor, and has better privacy for such a negotiation. Join me?”
She offers her hand, palm up, fingers gently splayed.
This is a terrible, horrible, wonderful idea.
Sinclair takes her hand anyway, leaning forward to feather a kiss across the soft, inner skin of Juniper’s wrist. She looks up through her lashes. Coy and promising.
“I have nowhere else I’d rather be.”
a/n: I do hope to write more with these two in the future, perhaps even a nsfw follow-up with a little bdsm twist if you know what I mean. ;)
Feedback is greatly welcome and appreciated!
