#Starfall: A song for the star | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

acourtofwhatthefuck · 1 year

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Strawberries and Cream - (Nesta x Reader)

Hiiii! @greeneyedivy and I collaborated and wrote this piece for @azsazz's and @writingsbychlo's Starfall Week! This was SO much fun to write and we really hope you enjoy it!

The prompt we used was "Character A and Character B meet at Starfall"

Summary: Nesta doesn't care for Starfall and just wants to get away from the Inner Circle...which subsequently leads to an encounter that changes her life.

Word count: 5006

Warnings: SMUT! 🌶️

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *

Starfall.

It was all anyone had been talking about for weeks, and Nesta was sick of it.

There was no escaping it. If she wasn’t being subjected to the Inner Circle’s excited preparations, then walking the streets of Velaris was a sure way of reminding her of the occasion. She couldn’t turn a corner without seeing posters of businesses offering promotional offers, or catching a glimpse of the storefront decorations that had been hung. The entire thing was giving her a headache.

No, she didn’t care to watch the stars crash into each other, and no, she didn’t care what everyone would be wearing while they did. Even Elain had been sucked into the allure of the whole thing, but Nesta — Nesta saw it for what it was.

Unnatural. Just as unnatural as going from human to fae. She felt such a visceral hatred for the entire situation that it ached her bones.

She may have had no choice but to live on the other side of the Wall, now, but that didn’t mean she had to partake in the foolish traditions that existed there.

You’re still welcome to join us, Feyre had said, dressed up to the nines alongside the others. They were all heading to the House of Wind — the best place, apparently, to witness what was about to happen.

No, was all Nesta had responded, and they didn’t push any further, even as her sisters left with disappointment on their faces.

Nesta would create her own plans, she’d decided. And that was how she’d ended up in quite possibly the seediest tavern she’d ever seen, far across the other side of Velaris.

Her shoes had stuck to the floor as she’d traipsed in, and the groups of punters dotted about the place all looked up, drinking in her appearance, the chatter lowering a little. She lifted her chin, ignoring them as she took a seat at the bar, aware of hungry gazes that studied the outline of her figure in her dress. She could just as easily leave and find somewhere more upbeat and alive, but this…this was what she wanted. A place that could be any dingy, old tavern in the human lands, if she ignored the fae features around her. A place where she could pretend, at least for one night, that her new life was just one big nightmare.

So she ordered herself a drink and focused on the sensuous strum of a lute across the room.

The notes were charming and beautiful, soon transporting her to another life, another world, entirely. Nesta loved music — it was one of the very few things she still could love, and the setting didn’t matter as the tune climbed and fell, one song trailing off into the next. Her plans to down drink after drink seemed to fall to the wayside as she instead became distracted by the music.

Time ran away with her like that. She found herself able to push her thoughts away for the first time in a long while, and she nursed her drink and focused on anything but reality, and the dull sounds of soaring stars outside. Perhaps that was why she didn’t catch the sound of approaching footsteps, nor the fact that the music had come to a stop. The male voice that spoke to her was an unwanted obtrusion.

“Can I buy you another drink?”

She glanced up, finding a mildly handsome face smiling at her. The mess of blonde hair on his head and the piercing blue eyes did nothing for her. She stared back at him blankly, forcing herself to be polite.

“No,” she responded. “Thank you.”

“Come on.” The male persisted, sidling up to her. “There’s no sense in sitting there with an empty glass. Same again?”

“She said no, Mallas. Piss off.”

Both Nesta and Mallas looked up upon the third voice that was injected into the conversation. A female voice, slightly smoky and raspy. The sound seemed to skitter over Nesta’s skin like chills.

Her eyes took in the female that stood there, holding a lute as she stared down the male. In the dim faelights that lit the tavern, she looked…ethereal. Like the music she’d been playing moments before. Nesta couldn’t help staring.

“I was only offering.” Mallas mumbled, pushing past her. “Bitch.”

“Kiss my ass.” Her eyes watched him closely, tracking him as he returned to the group of deadbeats he mingled with. Only once he was sat back down did she turn back to Nesta. “You shouldn’t be here, Nesta Archeron.”

Nesta blinked, caught off guard for once. And then frowned at her. “Do I know you?”

“No.” She leaned against the bar. “But everyone here knows you. The sister of our High Lady should not be keeping company such as the dregs of society that loiter in this dive. And I would know — my uncle owns the place.”

Nesta lifted her chin. “I’m not some silly little girl. I can choose, for myself, whose company I keep, thank you very much.”

The female’s lips twitched into what appeared to be amusement. “Well, then.” She said. “Have a good night. And happy Starfall to you.”

With that, she turned, sidling around the bar. Nesta couldn’t help watching every tiny movement as the female hung her lute over her shoulder, whistling a merry little tune as she headed towards the door at the back.

“Wait.” She found herself blurting, and the female turned curiously. “I—you play the lute.”

The musician stared back at her, that same look of teetering amusement seeming to pass across her face. Nesta thought she might die from humiliation — beg the ground to swallow her up, or something. You play the lute. As if that wasn’t already obvious.

She just…she felt intrigued. Maybe even a little awed. Her body and mind felt more alert than it had in months — and that was just from a few seconds of conversation. She…she wanted more of it.

“I do.” The female answered. She angled herself back around, studying the oldest Archeron. “…you like music?”

“I love it.”

Chewing her lip, the female seemed to consider that for a moment. What, exactly, she was thinking, Nesta wasn’t sure. But she liked the way she looked at her…assessing and curious. Not the contempt she’d become used to. It made her body feel hot and cold.

“…Okay.” The female eventually said. “Then I have something you might like — if you care to see it.”

Nesta didn’t even hesitate. She shrugged, forcing nonchalance that she didn’t feel. “Why not?”

“Indeed.” The female’s hand shot out in offering. “My name is Y/N.”

Nesta shook that hand, entirely aware of the lightning strike that, in that moment, seemed to bring her back to life.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“This is my home.” Y/N held a chipped, dented door open, stepping aside.

Nesta tried to school her expression as she wandered in. Not that she wasn’t used to small, modest houses, of course, but after months in Rhysand’s luxury, this place was…definitely not that.

A soft snort came from behind her, and Nesta glanced over her shoulder, kicking her shoes off. “What?”

“It’s no High Lord’s house, I grant you.” Y/N said, throwing her keys into a bowl beside the door. “But it’s home — my space.”

“I like it.” Nesta said, and she realised she was telling the truth.

With a smile, Y/N led her through to a small sitting room. The place was…colourful. Vibrant wall hangings and beaded curtains in doorways that led off to other places. Patchwork throws were draped over the sofas, and there were piles of books — titles that Nesta recognised, some she didn’t — and plants hanging from the ceiling and perched on shelves and standing in pots on the floor.

“You live here alone?” Nesta found herself asking, drinking in every detail.

“I do. My family is…complicated. I’d genuinely go insane if I didn’t have my own space.” Y/N hung her jacket up, and Nesta glimpsed the pretty, dark peplum blouse and tight breeches she wore. “Drink?”

She tore her gaze away. “Yes. Thank you.”

Y/N pushed through one of those beaded curtains, drifting into what Nesta assumed was a small kitchen. The sounds of cupboards opening and glasses clinking travelled through as Nesta slowly approached one of the sofas and perched down. She studied the coffee table before her — covered in pages and pages of parchment. And on them, she realised, music. Compositions.

The beads rustled again, and Y/N sat next to her, handing her a small glass of amber liquid. “I write it all myself — the music.”

“That’s incredible.” Nesta reached out, her fingers brushing over the indentations of ink on the pages. She couldn’t read any of it for the life of her, but…there was something beautiful about just studying the notes. Words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them. “Music is…an escape for me.”

“I get that.”

The two females had known each other barely an hour, and yet Nesta just knew — knew that Y/N did get it. That there was some sadness in the confession that she could relate to.

“Do you write just for yourself?” She asked, sipping her drink.

“For now.” Y/N nodded. “But I’d like to perform in the Rainbow one day — or at least hear my compositions being performed there. That’s my goal. To…to be different to what my family are. To break from that mould.”

“And what are they? Your family?”

With a soft laugh, Y/N placed her drink down and rose once more. “Well…that actually brings me to what I was going to show you.”

Nesta waited patiently, watching as the female strode over to a cabinet and rifled through. She was…beautiful, her hair flowing down her back, the cut of her figure through her clothes. For a moment, Nesta found her thoughts emptying, her mouth drying. She quickly looked away.

“This,” Y/N said, slumping back down with a small box in her palm, “is a Symphonia. Go ahead — take a look.”

Nesta stared at her for a moment, their gazes meeting. She cautiously outreached a hand, opening the box and peering inside. Her brow furrowed at the small, silver ball that sat within.

“You can take it out. I promise you’ll like it.”

Nesta’s long, slender fingers dipped into the box, carefully pulling the ball out. She set it down in her palm, realising that while the top was curved, the bottom had a smoother surface — to be set down without rolling, she supposed.

“What does it do?” She asked.

Y/N reached out, and Nesta jolted as she gently took her free hand. The two females stared at each other again, gazes not once faltering as Y/N guided her fingers to the top of the Symphonia.

“Just tap it.” She murmured, giving a light press. “Like this.”

Nesta jumped, her lips parting in pure astonishment as music suddenly filled the room, the small object breathing notes and symphonies into the air. She knew there was a whole wealth of magic that she was yet to encounter in Prythian — and had been hesitant to ever do so. But this…she never would have considered anything like this.

“How does it do that?” She breathed.

Y/N smiled. “It uses magic to trap the music inside so that it can be played back to you. Everything you hear is being played by me. I use it for music composition. It’s…a very rare object.

“Where did you get it?”

“…that’s where my family comes into it.” Y/N shifted a little uncomfortably, pulling her hand away. “I come from a family full to the brim with criminals. One of the things they deal in is rare magical objects. Usually, I try to distance myself from them and have nothing to do with them. I’d like to get away from them completely. But this…the Symphonia…it was the last thing my father gave me before he was killed.”

It was an effort for Nesta not to flinch, not to return to those harrowing thoughts of her own father. She swallowed, forcing herself to focus on the music.

“Stolen or not, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.” Y/N said. “Even if that makes me a terrible person.”

Nesta glanced up through her lashes, meeting her gaze. “It doesn’t.”

Again, the two females found themselves locked in their staring, the music floating around them. Unsaid words seemed to intertwine with it. Words that Nesta thought she might never have the courage to speak, but that made her skin tingle.

Eventually, Y/N smiled, prising the Symphonia from Nesta’s palm and placing it onto the coffee table. She held out a hand once more.

“Would you like to dance, Nesta Archeron?”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

They did dance. And danced and danced and danced until their feet hurt. Until Nesta felt like a different person. And even as the stars completed their journeys across the skies, the two females showed no signs of tiring.

Nesta was drunk – not really on alcohol, no, even with the glasses they’d knocked back. She was drunk on elation. On…happiness. She’d never felt so on top of the world.

The Symphonia had given them three run-throughs of every piece of music before they were slumping back onto the sofa side-by-side, their heads swimming and eyes smiling, lips laughing. Their arms brushed, that zipping energy that had been sparking between them all evening still very much present.

It was enough to slow the pace down, to ground Nesta.

Her head still tilted back against the sofa, she angled it to find Y/N already gazing at her. Studying her. There had been a lot of glances like that as the night had wore on, only seeming to grow more heated and honeyed with every passing touch and word.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” Nesta asked, not minding at all.

Y/N’s eyes traced the sharp, flawless lines of her face. A face that so many would deem cold and unfeeling, albeit beautiful. But there was more behind that facade…layers that Y/N wanted to peel back.

“I’m seeing you.” She replied.

The response wasn’t exactly what Nesta had been expecting; an odd, puzzling answer. She stared back at her, feeling strangely naked as she asked, “what are you seeing?”

“I’m seeing,” the female shifted, somehow inching closer. Their faces were mere centimetres apart, breaths mingling, “someone who is scared.”

Nesta didn’t react. Right – she was so damn right, it was painful. Nesta hated it, how vulnerable it made her. Still, Y/N went on.

“I’m seeing,” she continued, “someone who feels a huge volume of things, all at once. Someone who doesn’t know what the fuck to do with those feelings, but is expected to have it all figured out. Someone who desperately wants to let go and lose control, but is equally scared of doing so.”

The words were so accurate, hitting so close to home, that they robbed Nesta of breath. She’d spent months feeling isolated and alone and misunderstood, angry and hurt and like nobody fucking saw her.

And yet, she’d met a complete stranger who had managed to sum her up perfectly within hours of their first words.

It made her…made her want to keep feeling. No matter how terrifying that was.

She didn’t know what to say, how to respond. It seemed a bit strange to thank someone for accurately reading her, seeing her. There weren’t really any words–

So she gave in to the urge that had been building in her all night, as their bodies had danced closer and closer until they were moving in one, fluid unit. As their scents had mingled, and Nesta had got drunk on it.

She leaned forward, cupping Y/N’s cheek, and slanted her lips over hers.

It was like two puzzle pieces locking into place. Y/N didn’t hesitate to lean in to the kiss, reciprocating with as much enthusiasm. Her own hand moved up, tangling in Nesta’s hair.

They both tasted like the honey wine they’d been drinking, their tongues sweet as they began to explore each other. It was the first time Nesta had ever kissed another female, and it was different. Exciting. Right.

Their lips didn’t separate, even as their bodies began to move. Y/N was inching closer, angling herself over Nesta, and Nesta tentatively placed her hands on her waist, hoping it was the right thing to do, wondering if she was allowed to explore further.

Realising she wanted to.

Y/N nipped her lip gently, and then pulled back just slightly to study her face, their breaths hot and fast.

“I think that you’re probably used to being dominant, Nesta Archeron.” Her smoky voice caressed Nesta’s ears, her skin. “And I think you want to give up that control for once. That you’d like to know what it feels like to submit.”

A quick, short breath escaped Nesta’s lips. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm.” Lips coasted over her lips, her jaw, down to her neck. “Do you want to let go, Nesta?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Y/N smiled against her skin, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “Very well.”

Nesta didn’t know what to expect, but she knew her skin was deliciously on fire. Wetness was already pooling between her thighs, and the sure musk of arousal began to mingle with the sweeter scents in the air. Not just Nesta’s arousal, but Y/N’s too – and it only made Nesta wetter to know she was the cause.

“Relax.” Y/N whispered against the shell of her ear. “I’ll take care of you.”

It was only then that Nesta realised how rigid her body was – how she naturally tensed and threw her guard up to ward people off. But she didn’t want to do that. She wanted…wanted to let go, and experience everything that accompanied that bravery. To feel.

She forced her limbs to loosen into the sofa, the feeling in itself strangely pleasurable. Was this what it was like to experience pleasure for pleasure’s sake? Y/N was right – Nesta was used to being dominant. Every sexual encounter she’d engaged in had been about exacting control, feeling powerful. Having the command of things, as she did so rarely these days, in this new life.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t want to let go. And letting go was…euphoric.

“That’s it,” Y/N encouraged, as Nesta’s limbs loosened more. Her fingers began to skim over the buttons at the bodice of her dress. “Can I undo these?”

Nesta nodded once, quick. “Yes – please.”

If Nesta’s skin was fire, Y/N’s fingers were contrasting, delicious ice, as though one offset the other. Y/N didn’t fumble with the buttons like males always did. She undid them one by one, torturously slow, until the two halves of the dress were parting and exposing Nesta’s full, generous breasts to the cool air, her nipples immediately hardening.

And then Y/N was rocking back on her legs, hungrily drinking in the sight. She swallowed, glancing up to meet Nesta’s eyes. “You’re fucking exquisite.”

Nesta found herself blushing. But there was no time to feel coy as Y/N leaned in, capturing her lips once more.

The kiss was hungry, fierce, and even as Nesta’s body tried to take control, she gave over to the need to stop and feel. She cupped Y/N’s face in her hands, her thumbs stroking her cheeks as they kissed and kissed and kissed until they were both breathless. An ache was already building between her legs, and she pressed them together, moaning softly.

Y/N smiled, lips pulling away from hers to trail down and down, just as they had before. But they continued on further, brushing over the swells of Nesta’s breasts. One of her hands came up to knead one breast while her lips fastened on the nipple of the other.

The sensation was…unreal. Nothing like anything Nesta had felt before. Males had paid plenty of attention to her breasts, kissing and sucking and touching, but none of that came close to the feeling of Y/N’s tongue flicking over her nipple, her teeth grazing just slightly. Another, louder moan fell from Nesta’s lips, and her head fell back, her eyes screwing shut.

“Look at me.” Y/N hummed, moving to pay the same attention to the other breast. “I want to know that you’re enjoying this.”

Nesta’s chest heaved as her breath hitched. “I am. Gods, I am.”

Y/N smiled, and Nesta began to wonder if it was possible to come from the treatment her breasts were receiving alone. The sensations…every lick and suck, the bites and the subsequent kisses to the hurts they left behind…it was possible she might combust.

But then Y/N lips coasted further down, still. As far as they could go with Nesta’s gown still on. She pressed quick, gentle kisses to Nesta’s stomach, glancing up at her. “Can I take your dress off?”

“I think I may rip it off myself if you don’t.”

Y/N’s breathy laugh was music to her ears. A strange thought popped into her head that she’d happily trap the sound of that laugh within the Symphonia and listen to it over and over again. But all thoughts emptied from her mind as she lifted her body from the sofa, and deft hands and fingers were pulling the fabric away from her body, leaving her utterly exposed.

Nesta was a confident woman, well aware that she was beautiful, that her body was the envy of many. But as she slumped back down, her underwear the only thing left covering her, she found herself…worried. Worried that she wouldn’t be to Y/N’s liking.

She’d never once cared nor considered that with anyone before.

But the way Y/N stared at her put all those worries promptly to bed. That was fierce hunger in her eyes, her tongue swiping at her lip as her gaze trailed down and down, over Nesta’s breasts, her toned stomach, her sensuous hips and slender legs. And between those legs, the pulsing wet heat beneath her underwear. Her arousal drifted up to smother Y/N in its essence, and her eyes almost rolled back into her head.

“I repeat,” she said tightly, as though she was trying to hold herself back from devouring Nesta whole, “You’re fucking exquisite.”

Nesta swallowed, studying her just as fiercely. “Why don’t you show me what you look like under those clothes?”

“There’s plenty of time for that. But this is about you. All you.”

And Nesta couldn’t deny that she loved the sound of that. Even though she found herself strangely nervous, her body trembling slightly, her arousal only built and built as Y/N stepped closer again.

And dropped to her knees before her.

“Anything you don’t like,” Y/N said, her hands gently trailing up Nesta’s legs, “you tell me, okay?”

Nesta nodded. Swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good.” She leaned in, pressing a kiss to one of those long, luscious legs. Her lips coasted over the skin, smiling as Nesta seemed to gasp at the sensation. “Pretty as this underwear is, I’d much prefer it off.”

Nesta would much prefer it thrown out of the window, far out of sight. It was nothing but torturous friction rubbing against her. She gladly lifted her hips as Y/N’s hands climbed up, gripping the fabric with nothing but gentleness.

And then she was tugging them down, down until they were gone, discarded somewhere behind her.

The heady scent of Nesta’s arousal hit her like a wave; a wave she’d happily drown in. The scent was mouthwatering, and she had to steel herself, gather her thoughts before she unleashed herself on her entirely and drank in that wetness she so badly wanted a taste of.

“You smell incredible.” Y/N breathed, swallowing at the sight of her exposed, dripping centre. “I bet you taste even better.”

Nesta tracked every movement. “Are you going to find out?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Yes. Gods above, yes.”

“Then I will.”

The confirmation in itself had Nesta moaning – or perhaps it was the way Y/N hoisted one of those legs over her shoulder, her fingers gently dancing over her calf as her lips pressed small, quick kisses over the skin. Nobody had ever paid such attention to her like this. She wasn’t sure she’d ever let anyone do so.

But as Y/N lifted the other leg, allowing them both to rest on her shoulders, Nesta felt nothing but a potent mix of excitement and anticipation and bliss. She sank into the sofa, lifting her hips as Y/N kissed and nipped her way up to her thighs.

“You have such pretty thighs.” Y/N hummed, kissing the inside of one, and then the other. “Your skin reminds me of cream.”

Nesta released a breath, head falling back.

“And with every little mark I leave,” She nipped, nibbled, leaving trails of faint red marks that weaved a path right up to her centre. “It’s like strawberries and cream. Beautiful.”

Her lips, her tongue, were so close to where Nesta wanted them. To where Nesta wanted all of her. She was filled with new, frenzied thoughts, wondering what it might be like for them both to be naked, skin to skin, bodies moving in tandem with each other, Nesta’s sex rubbing against hers. She moaned, instinctively dragging a hand down her body, desperate for some sort of release.

“Pretty, pretty Nesta.” Y/N gently grasped that hand. Laced their fingers together. “Let me make you feel good.”

“Please,” Nesta begged softly, and Y/N struck.

Her face lowered to Nesta’s soaked sex, the grip on her hand immediately tightening as she breathed in her scent, her nose nudging her clit. She glanced up, drinking in the sight of flushed cheeks and parted lips and the firm, furrowed brow. And then she dipped, licking a stripe up the centre of her.

Nesta immediately gasped, her hips lifting off the couch. Again – that contrast of ice and fire. Y/N’s tongue was an inviting trail of coolness as she lapped at the damp heat of Nesta’s cunt. Nesta’s hand was clenching around hers, and her nails dug slightly in as Y/N’s tongue reached the apex of her thighs, swirling around the sensitive bud of her clit.

“Oh, gods,” Nesta moaned, throwing her head back. Every little lick and lap was like being touched for the first time. Attentive and giving and raw. Her heart moved at a thudding gallop inside her chest, seeming to jerk at every sensation.

“Is that good?” Y/N hummed against her, her teeth lightly grazing her clit.

“Yes. Fuck, Y/N, yes.”

Nesta could feel Y/N’s lips smiling against her. Her body trembled, fighting with the urges to both give and take as Y/N licked and nipped and sucked. But this was about giving over control – about taking. And as Y/N used her free hand to slowly slide a finger into her, she was happy to do just that.

“Doing so well for me.” Y/N breathed, pumping her finger in and out as Nesta’s juices coated her tongue. The taste had every one of her nerves alert and craving, and the moans she let out were certainly not for show as she fucking devoured. “Gods, you taste like sunlight.”

Never would Nesta have believed that anyone would describe her as sunlight. The praise felt just as pleasurable as the sensations as she reached out, threading her empty hand within Y/N’s hair. She gave a gentle tug, and Y/N grinned, sliding another finger into her.

She curled those two fingers inside of her, and the delicious ache that was beginning to build and pique, the feeling of those fingers and her tongue working inside her and against her–

“Fuck, I can’t–” Nesta’s hips lifted off the seat again, her head thrown back.

“You can let go.” Y/N lapped against her, pumping her fingers faster, harder. “Let go, Nesta. I’ve got you.”

Nesta did just that, a shout breaking from her throat as release overtook her body. She was nothing but pure, shaking, feverish pleasure as she came, hips bucking and legs trembling. She gripped onto Y/N’s hair, riding her release against her face.

Incredible, really, that Y/N didn’t falter once. Even as Nesta’s centre was grinding against her, practically smothering her, she seemed hungry for the whole thing, continuing the expert strokes of her fingers and tongue. And as Nesta’s trembling legs buckled and had her tumbling back onto the sofa, Y/N held her, kissing her thighs and stroking her hand still intertwined with hers.

Seconds or minutes or hours could have passed, and Nesta’s heart was still thudding, her ears ringing. When she’d regained enough sense to speak, she was weakly pulling on Y/N’s hand, tugging her up, up towards her. As soon as their faces were close enough, Nesta captured Y/N’s lips in a kiss, moaning at the taste of herself that lingered there.

“I want you.” Nesta breathed, pulling back just slightly. She stared at Y/N, swallowing, wondering – and knowing, deep down – what the fire was that had been lit inside of her. “I want — more.”

Y/N studied her face, the flushed cheeks and glazed eyes. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Nesta’s mouth, and then she was tugging her to her feet. “So stay.” She said.

Nesta didn’t need to respond – not as Y/N pulled her from the room on shaking legs.

She felt more alive than she had in months. Than she thought she might ever feel again.

And for the first time in years – perhaps for the first time in her life – she felt like she’d found home.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *

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caw-oticdork · 9 months

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Hiya! I started listening to the Lost Terminal because you mentioned it on here. I'm a few seasons in and really loving it. My friend is looking for some new narrative pods and I know you listen to a bunch. Got any suggestions? They can be finished or ongoing.

Oh do I! Have a couple, in alphabetical order:

Absolutely No Adventures - An outright pratchettesque fantasy parody about a (very) Chosen One who has studied the art of baking instead heeding the call to adventure and refuses to go on any quests.

Care and Feeding of Werewolves - A (in-universe) podcast addressing current events and issues in the (American) paranormal community, hosted by a witch and medical practitioner. Has very good plot and worldbuilding.

Folxlore - Queer horror podcast set in Glasgow. Excellent show. "This apartment complex is very haunted, extremely cursed, and it sometimes randomly shifts to an eldritch nightmare realm. Everyone here's queer though, including the building itself. 4 stars out of 5."

Gabriela & The Inn Between - A recent botany undergrad takes a job as Innkeeper at an inn with very strange and unusual guests. Cozy and low-stakes.

Gastronaut - Set a couple hundred years from now, a food journalist travels from Earth, then Mars, then a distant space colony. He's pathetic but in a good way. Excellent food descriptions, nice anti-capitalistic and anti-colonialist themes. Higher stakes and fewer steaks than expected.

Ghost Wax - I've always disagreed with the idea that necromancers are always evil. This show agrees - it's a horror podcast about an ancient necromancer solving supernatural murders by interviewing the victims. Very thrilling. Many feels.

Icarus Rising - Queer airship pirates! Stow-aways! Rebellion! Chases and Thrills! High-stakes drama and action among the clouds! An adorable ship cat!

Kalila Stormfire's Economical Magick Services - Very cool story about witches, fairies, werewolves, and more, a story about what makes a community, about modern-day working class neighborhoods, psychology, love, and of course magic.

Parkdale Haunt - This one I haven't listened to yet, but I've heard very good things about it. It's a horror show about a haunted house, set in Toronto, made with love for that city. Disregard this suggestion if you don't like Toronto, I've never been.

SCP: Find Us Alive - A podcast set in the SCP universe, about a site getting sucked into some sort of pocket dimension that keeps resetting in a sort of time loop. Very interesting cast of characters. Requires minimal knowledge about how the SCP Foundation works.

Starfall - Fantasy audio drama about the adventures of a theatre troupe that uses magical items and illusions in their work, and about a young warrior with mysterious powers who joins them.

Tell No Tales - Horror story about a company that specialises in removing ghosts from haunted places. The protagonist quickly becomes concerned about the ethics of that and tries to prove that they need to start treating spirits with the humanity they deserve.

The Antique Shop - Urban Fantasy drama about a student getting a job at the kind of antiques shop that you only find when you need to. Lots of cursed items. An excellent cat. Queerplatonic relationships.

The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality - An AI audio tour guide shows you various interesting exhibits and learns how to be a person. There's lots of feelings here.

The Strange Case of Starship Iris - Sci-Fi story set in the aftermath of a war between Earth and extraterrestrials. It's about outer space, survival, espionage, resistance, identity, friendship, found family, romance, and secrets. The intro song is excellent.

The Tower - A young woman climbs an ancient, unfathomably tall tower from a forgotten age. It stretches up into the sky, through the smog and the clouds. Very vibes.

The White Vault - Travel Is Not Advised. Very scary story about what's been hiding below the ice and the stone. What's been slumbering for ages. What's now beginning to wake anew.

I hope this selection helps! I have more, but I felt it would be better to keep the list short-ish.

#podcast recommendation

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azsazz · 1 year

Text

An Unquenchable Hunger

Rhysand x Feyre x Reader

Summary: Anon Request: Poly!feysand anon, back with a few ideas: Tied up and helpless on the dining room table and dripping, a feast for the High Lord while she rides your face.

Warnings: Smut! Nsfw, threesome.

Word Count: 2,461

_________________________________________

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you cry, trembling thighs clenching around Rhys’ head as he works you through a mind blowing orgasm.

Feyre’s nimble fingers keep plunging inside of you as the High Lord sucks on your sensitive clit, his hums sending shockwaves of pleasure throughout your body as you desperately try to push him off. Your fingers end up twisting in his silky onyx hair, each flick of his tongue causing your body to spasm on the table.

Guests would be arriving soon for the Starfall celebrations. You’d been standing up on a dining room chair hanging one of the last pieces of garland when you’d been grabbed from behind, Rhysand whispering sensually against your neck as he assaulted you with kisses, muttering something about how you’d been taunting them with your ass on display as you shimmied along to the song you were humming.

You’d caught Feyre’s equally hungry gaze from where she stood in the doorway, licking her frosting-covered hands lewdly, earning her a moan for her efforts. Her skilled fingers were for more than just painting, her creative abilities made it easy to decorate the sugar cookies the twin wraiths had baked earlier in the day, and now, as they worked you while her mate licked you, you were more than thankful for her talents.

Rhys had laid you on the set table, ready for the arrival of the Inner Circle, hastily shoving the delicate plates and cups away, clattering into each other and off the side of the table with a crash. You couldn’t seem to see reason through your lust fuelled haze, the table had been set perfectly for your friends, whom you’d all share supper with before the rest of the partygoers arrived for desserts, dancing, and the colorful display of stars shooting through the night sky.

Though you weren’t sure you’d be able to think about anything else other than what was happening at this very table for many weeks to come.

He made quick work of removing your clothes, violet eyes hungry for something other than the delicious dinner he knew was to come. Rhys was eager for dessert, the first taste of your sweet cunt spurring him on, his cock achingly hard and leaking at the tip, trapped against his leg in his trousers.

Feyre had crossed the room quickly, eager to join in, eyes locked on where her mate was tasting you. She wasted no time sinking her spit covered fingers around his mouth and into your soaking hole, her other hand palming your bare breast Rhys had left open for her.

Your chest heaves as you gasp for air, head dizzy from the orgasm they’d made last as long as they could.

“Please,” you pant, but you don’t even know what you’re asking for. Feyre’s fingers are still moving inside of you, curling and rubbing in all of the right places. Her gray eyes are dark with lust, and Rhy’s free hand snakes up the back of her skirts, caressing her through her undergarments as he watches her work you.

You grasp on to the bunched up cloth of Feyre’s dress, tugging her weakly to you.

“Kiss me High Lady,” you beg breathlessly. The way that she’s staring down at you like she owns you sends shivers up your spine. The end of your plea slips into a loud moan as she curls her fingers inside of you, “Please.”

Your High Lady obliges, leaning down right as Rhys slips his fingers inside of her. She falters, humming loudly in bliss before she continues on her path, latching onto your exposed breast and teasing your tight nipple with a swirl of her tongue, a graze of her teeth.

You whimper your frustration. That wasn’t what you meant, and by the smug look in her gleaming eyes as she slowly pulls off of you, blowing on the wet bud with amusement, she knows it too.

Your back arches beautifully off of the table at the sensation. Her cold breath is both torture and bliss.

“You didn’t specify where you wanted me to kiss you,” she puffs blissfully, grinding down onto Rhysand’s fingers. She’s just as wet as you are, loves the way your pretty little cunt convulses around her fingers as she works, loves that she makes you feel this way.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Rhys,” you pant, squirming as she slides her slick fingers out and up against your clit, playing with the sensitive bud. Your head hits the table harshly as you throw it back but you don’t care, the sharp pain feels as incredible as Feyre does right now, and you wonder for a moment how she got so good at this.

“Perhaps we need a night to ourselves,” she agrees, much to the dismay of her mate. Feyre ducks in for a kiss while she rides Rhys’ fingers, who’d thought of stopping to tease her when the two of you had agreed on a night without him, but he knew that doing so would only solidify her decision.

Your stomach coils at her suggestion.

“You’re going to get it for that one,” Rhys growls, though the image of you and his mate rolling around in the sheets together while he watches isn’t something he’d ever fucking turn down.

You and Feyre moan into each other's mouths at the picture Rhy’s places in your heads. The two of you as you are now, you fisting her hair in your hands while she fucks back into you with as many fingers as she can fit, all while Rhys fucks into her with his own.

He’s so achingly hard from the taste of you lingering on his tongue, from the way Feyre’s grinding his fingers like it’s his fucking cock, her delicious juices sliding down his wrist as she fucks down on him.

He considers himself the luckiest male in all of Prythian.

“Would you like me to finish you off with my tongue, Feyre darling?” he scissors his fingers and she keens against your mouth, drawing her attention to him. Gods, he nearly cums right there, seeing the both of your blown out pupils and bruised red lips.

“No,” she gasps at a particularly delicious twist of his fingers, “I want (Y/N) to.”

Holy fucking Gods. You have absolutely no problem with that.

Rhys releases an aroused curse at her request that sends shivers up your spine. Apparently the High Lord has no qualms about it either.

Feyre’s watching you as you take her hand gently in your own, tugging her that much closer to press a warm kiss to the palm of her hand.

“Come here, High Lady,” you drawl, eager to get a taste of her.

Rhys helps rid Feyre of her scandalous dress, the silky midnight fabric falling around her curvaceous body like water, pooling at her feet. Rhys helps her up onto the table where she straddles you, caging you in with one hand planted on either side of your head as he lowers down for another kiss.

There are hands everywhere, yours sliding down the smooth skin of her sides, skimming over her puckered nipples and she gasps into your mouth. Her hips grind down against yours, drawing an eager noise from the both of you. It’s so incredibly hot, so pleasurable just to be with her like this, bodies writhing together, you might cum again already.

She pulls away with a gasp that melts into a moan, your noses jutting together as she jumps, only for her forehead to press against yours as she pants into your mouth while Rhysand gets a taste of her cunt before you do.

He couldn’t help himself. He’s a greedy High Lord and with two beautiful females naked on his dining room table, ready for him to feast upon…he’d obliterate anyone who tried to stop him.

Rhys is lapping at her drenched cunt and you snake your way down her spine, grabbing a handful of her plump ass, spreading her wider for Rhysand.

Feyre’s hand slides between your bodies, threading through your folds and finding your clit, rubbing furious circles around the sensitive bud, causing you to cry out in pleasure.

Your hand slides closer to the crevice of her ass, tentatively circling her rim, a barely there brush of your fingers that has the arm propping her up gives out and she collapses on top of you.

“Please,” she’s begging in your ear, and you know she wants it, wants you to keep going, but she wants you to taste her more. There’s a promise in her plea, that there will be a next time and you both will get to explore so much more.

You urge her upwards with a pull to her hips and she follows, docile from the near orgasm she’d just experienced from you and her mate.

You kiss every inch of her body as she moves up, her collarbones, her breasts, her stomach, all the down until you’re met with her tight and dripping cunt.

You can’t help yourself, lifting your head. You take your first taste, only a flicker of the tip of your tongue against the slick walls of her inner thigh. You could’ve gone straight inside of her or suckled on her clit but you chose not to, reveling in the way that she shudders at the feeling and her sweet taste.

Rhy’s hands settle on your hips and you jolt as he slides his cock through your folds, wetting his cock with your slick. You moan, digging your nails into the soft skin of Feyre’s ass because of the warm and welcome weight against your cunt, your stomach coiling with need already. You urge your High Lady to turn around so that she can look at Rhys, maybe kiss a little if they want.

She does as you suggest, settling on her knees on either side of your head, your hands massaging the soft skin of her hips, gliding to the tops and settling there for now.

Her and Rhys must’ve had some sort of signal because she’s sinking down onto your face while he plunges his cock right into your tight cunt. You gasp against Feyre, losing your bearings for a moment before you quickly react, hooking a leg around Rhys’ waist while you suck your High Lady’s clit into your mouth, humming with pleasure.

Feyre wastes no time, riding your face like a true commander, taking what she wants. You can’t get enough of her intoxicating taste, like cherries and the first snow of the season, swirling your tongue and slurping up her slick.

Rhy’s is taking no prisoners, fucking into you with abandon. You hear his voice ring in your head, a strained grunt that the other members of the Inner Circle will be arriving soon, but you couldn’t give less of a fuck if they walked in right now with their High Lady sitting on your face and their High Lord jackknifing into you because this surely is heaven.

Feyre leans forward, reaching out to her mate for a sensual kiss. She kneads at one of your breasts while Rhy’s takes one of hers, tweaking her nipple. You’re forced to follow as she shifts forward, lifting your head from the table and following her delicious cunt, wrapping your arms around her waist so she doesn’t go far.

The noises the three of you are making are lewd. The table is shaking with all of the movement, dishes still set at the end of the long table clattering against each other like there’s an earthquake, and there might just be because you feel like you’re about to shatter.

With one arm still tucked across her waist you let your free hand round her ass, and you press your thumb against her hole while you thrust your tongue into her cunt, loving the way that she clenches down on you with a keen of pleasure.

Rhys latches onto her nipple, sucking and teething at the taut flesh greedily. His hands are a bruising grip at your waist and you moan at the fact that you’ll be donning his fingerprints beneath your dress.

Feyre’s nearing the edge, you can tell because she’s leaning back, rocking even faster against your face. You’re nearing your edge too, when Rhys flicks and twists at your swollen nipples, lathing over one with his hot tongue as his other hand slides down to your cunt, fingers slipping through your folds to rub furiously at your clit.

You couldn’t pull your walls up if you tried, and that’s how Rhysand gets into your head so quickly, a purr of pleasure because they’re everywhere, physically and mentally.

See how good the both of you look? He groans, and you know he’s in Feyre’s head too because the noise she makes rattles you to your bones.

He sends the image from his point of view, a live play-by-play of you and his mate. Feyre rutting against your mouth, her head thrown back in pleasure, mouth hanging open while she teases her breasts.

You can see the way your tits bounce with every single one of Rhysand’s thrusts, up past those to the column of your throat, face buried in your High Lady’s cunt, back arching up off of the table in bliss.

And fuck, with everything now combined, the feeling of them both on you, the sounds their making, Feyre’s taste, and the mental image…it’s nearly too much. You topple over the edge into oblivion, latching onto Feyre’s clit with a moan meant to rattle the entire house, pulling her over the edge with you.

She lets out a sharp cry and then she’s shaking on top of you. You let her take control, riding through her orgasm, grinding harshly on your face as you caress and grab at her soft skin, in a state of euphoria yourself.

You hear Rhys curse. His thrusts become frenzied and he holds you tighter, fucking into you harsher, enjoying the sight and feelings, your tight cunt wrapped around his cock, convulsing with your orgasm, and the blissful emotions Feyre’s sending down the bond.

He doesn’t last much longer, pulling out and getting a hand around himself, milking the cum from his cock as he spurts hot across your abdomen.

You enjoy every second of it, his seed sullying your skin like Feyre’s had your face. There’s no way you’ll make it to dinner on time, you’re going to have to bathe and have your hair redone before even thinking about meeting your friends for the meal, although right now you couldn’t care less, knowing they’ll probably scent it as soon as they enter the house anyway.

This is the best meal you’ve ever had.

#rhys x reader #feyre x reader #feysand x reader #rhys x feyre x reader #poly!feysand #acotar #acomaf #acowar #azsazz

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

Text

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 8: Starfall] [Series Finale]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: Hello all! At long last, here is the conclusion of this series. Thank you for all the love that this fic has received; I am truly thrilled beyond words to read each and every one of your thoughts, rants, outbursts, compliments, complaints, and analyses. My first idea for a story is always the ending, so I’ve had parts of this finale written in my Word Doc since before I published the first chapter. Still, it feels very surreal to have finally finished it. I hope it is worth the wait. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, violence, death and destruction, ANGST, dad!Aemond, Aegon-related chaos, prophesies for days, a tiny bit of sexual content, dragons, drama, lots of shouting, if you have not read Fire & Blood then you should know that there are SOME spoilers/allusions involving certain characters (but not that many).

Word count: 10.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @torchbearerkyle @sweetashoneyhoney @quartzs-posts @lauraneedstochill @nctma15 @queenofshinigamis @rapoficeandfire @hinata7346 @curiouser-an-curiouser @meadowofsinfulthoughts @imjustboredso @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @myspotofcraziness @bregarc @mikariell95 @doingfondue @justconfusedperiod @mommyslittlewarcriminal @graykageyama @elsolario

“Goodbye, Papa,” you whisper for your daughter who cannot yet speak, your cheek pressed to Laurel’s. You wave her tiny hand as Aemond and Vhagar vanish into a horizon that’s darkening like a bruise: gold, blue, violet, black, punctuated by rising stars. Encroaching thunder growls like a dragon. Lightning flashes as raindrops begin to fall from the sky. “Goodbye. Good luck. We’ll see you again soon.”

You retreat back inside the Red Keep and accompany Helaena and the children to Alicent’s rooms. As Jaehaera and Maelor play agreeably on the floor with woodcarvings of animals—and Jaehaerys mutilates a horse figurine with a toy mallet, targeting one leg at a time—you trade with the old queen: you give her a very drowsy Laurel, and she hands you her embroidery. The pattern is a simple white watchtower, but you’re so distracted thinking about Aemond and Storm’s End that you promptly botch it and tangle the threads beyond repair.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell Alicent, mortified, showing her the rubble. “I should have known better than to try…I’m afraid I lack Helaena’s talents…”

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” Alicent says. She beams down at Laurel as she rocks her. Helaena is absorbed with embroidering a strikingly lifelike water strider. Sir Criston is ostensibly polishing his sword at the table, but in truth listening to Alicent; he studies her words and moods and gestures the same way maesters study poisons and cures. “You must be terribly preoccupied this evening.”

“I am,” you admit. There’s no point in trying to hide it. Your hands are trembling and useless.

Still gazing at Laurel—her dreamy half-closed eyes, her silver lashes, her vulnerable smallness—Alicent speaks to you in a voice that is wistful and far away. “There was once a time when Rhaenyra suggested a match to resolve the question of succession. Jace would marry Helaena, and thus our bloodlines would be knitted back together and both branches of the family spared. I refused her. I’m not even entirely sure why I did. Now I wonder if I was wrong to reject her offer. Perhaps I could have stopped this.”

“You must not blame yourself. The realm has always balked at Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne. I don’t believe anything short of her surrender could prevent war.”

“You have no idea what it was like,” Alicent says. Now she looks at you with dark eyes that glint with deep, wounded bitterness. “Watching Rhaenyra indulge every whim, flout every tradition, taste every desire, while I…while I…” She pinches her eyes shut, trying to forget. “I have been standing on this precipice since I was eighteen years old, yet I have discovered that it is something else entirely to plunge headfirst into it.”

You place your hand lightly on her forearm. From across the room, Sir Criston lays down his sword and considers approaching. “You will not face this alone.”

“Aemond says you are a woman who admires ferocity. You must think that we can win if you’ve thrown your lot in with us. Perhaps that is why you support the Greens, why you came to King’s Landing to serve us to begin with. Because you have judged us to be the victors.”

That would be perfectly logical, but it’s wrong. “I support the Greens because I love you. All of you.”

Alicent’s face breaks into a sad smile. “I’m very glad that you are Aemond’s wife. Even though I was rather horrified at first.”

“I have been known to have that effect on people.”

“You don’t know what he was like before,” Alicent says. “The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence. I think you saved him from becoming a monster.” She returns Laurel to you. The baby is sound asleep. “You both saved him.”

Sir Criston, having sheathed his sword, wanders over to invent some pretext to converse with Alicent: something about Aegon’s new council, something about the terms sent to Rhaenyra. She is still mulling it over, this last chance at peace; yet even if she is inclined to accept the concessions—an unconditional pardon, Dragonstone for Rhaenyra and Jace, Driftmark for Luke, recognized legitimacy for Harwin Strong’s sons, places at court for Daemon’s—her husband will advise her against it. Aemond was right when he said that Rhaenyra isn’t suicidal. You aren’t so sure about Daemon.

As you depart to put Laurel to bed, you pause by Helaena and praise her embroidery. It is exactly what you have come to expect from her: intricate, gorgeous, and yet unnerving somehow. Her water strider is made of gold-and-ruby flames, and the wave it dances on is adorned with the reflection of a crescent moon. You recall what she said at King Viserys’ last dinner, so softly that hardly anyone noticed: Beware the beast beneath the boards. “Meleys in the Dragonpit,” you say. “You knew it was going to happen.”

Helaena’s reply is halting and dazed. “I can sometimes see what—pieces of it, anyway, fragments of it, like shards of glass left in the frame of a broken window—but not when or how.”

“That must be maddening.”

“Oh, it is,” she agrees, and resumes her stitching. On the floor, Jaehaerys starts dragging a screeching Maelor around by his white hair. Sir Criston separates them, then lectures Jaehaerys about the importance of princely behavior. Jaehaerys kicks him in the steel-plated shin.

“I suppose we could share grandchildren one day,” you tell Helaena. “Laurel might marry Maelor.” Otto Hightower has already suggested it, and you aren’t necessarily opposed, assuming the two grow up to be genuinely fond of each other. Maelor is a shy, benevolent sort of child, just like his mother; he’s no Jaehaerys, that’s for certain. Aemond always says the same thing about Laurel, without further explanation, without hesitation: She will be whatever she wants to be. This seems to be in blatant conflict with his self-sacrificial sense of duty, of advancement. Then again, so is his love for you.

But Helaena shakes her head, very slowly, her gaze still tangled in the threads of her embroidery. “No, she won’t,” the new queen murmurs.

You take Laurel back to her bedroom and lay her in the cradle, and you stand there for a long time with your hands on the railing. A mobile of cloth insects—a gift from Helaena—twirls lazily above your head. The room is hushed. The window looks out on Blackwater Bay, where rain falls and lightning splits the indigo sky like fractured bones; the island you and Aemond call Bearstone is visible only as an outline on the horizon that blacks out some of the stars. The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence, Alicent had said, and that’s true, isn’t it? You wonder what Borros Baratheon’s answer will be. You wonder what kind of man will return to you if Aemond spends weeks, months, years away at war.

Beside your sleeping daughter is the dragon egg Aemond chose for her: white, silver-flecked, as large and armored as Laurel is fragile and diminutive. She often reaches for it, marvels at it, beats her little fist against it as if trying to crack the shell. The egg came from Dreamfyre’s clutch, and the Greens have already begun referring to the one-day dragon by a name that honors both its Targaryen and Mormont affiliations: Frostfyre.

You leave Laurel in the care of her wetnurses and handmaidens and sit by the fireplace in the chambers you share with Aemond, trying to lose yourself in a book about the geography of Westeros. Flamelight dances across the pages as you turn them. Your mind keeps wandering: south to Storm’s End, north to Bear Island, into the future, into the past.

There is a knock against your doorframe. Aegon leans there in gold and green, smirking, pleasantly tipsy but far from drunk. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

He waltzes inside, flourishing the wine cup in his hand. “Are you utterly tormented? Are you inconsolable? Have you chewed your fingers down to the bone?”

“Not yet. But this book isn’t helping as much as I’d hoped.”

“That’s because it’s a book.”

“Perhaps I should try whores.”

Aegon cackles and throws himself down into the plush reading chair across from you. He props his boots on the footstool and crosses them one over the other. “Can you believe that this is my fourth cup of wine today? Not fourteenth. Fourth.”

“I’m very proud of you,” you say, and you mean it.

“It’s the strangest thing. I train with Sir Criston and I attend council meetings and I make my public appearances…and before I know it each day is gone. I set my cup down on tables or bannisters and then I forget all about it.” He glances to the bed, noting the dusty pale-pink remnants of the protection spells you’ve cast there. “What happens when all the bears relocate from the kingswood? What happens when Balerion runs out of teeth?”

“I’ll start pulling yours.”

He is amused, but there is something dismal about his expression as well. His face is less puffy, more serious. The reflections of flares and embers glow in his eyes. “I don’t know why you would want to protect me,” he says, remembering the night before his coronation. “If I die, Jaehaerys is next in line to the throne, but he’ll be a child for the next decade. Aemond could be regent. The task would suit him. It would please him, I believe. It is a role he was built for. The gods used entirely different bricks when they made me. Your life would be simpler without me in it.”

“Simpler, perhaps. But not better.”

He smiles; and this time it is shadowless and pure. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“Bear Island,” you reply; and you both burst into laughter as you sit together in the crackling firelight. Outside, rain drums against the windows and the wind howls as the storm intensifies. “Also, I think Jaehaerys might be deranged.”

“Yes, well you have to watch out for firstborns, you know. They are often incorrigible.”

“Personally, I have a weakness for second sons.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“What happens if Rhaenyra won’t accept the terms?” you ask quietly, looking at Aegon. “What happens if there is war?”

“There won’t be.”

“But if there is?”

Aegon shrugs, unconcerned. “Then we’ll win. We have the support of the Westerlands and the Reach, and probably Storm’s End too. We have Sir Criston, the best swordsman in Westeros. We have Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Tessarion, and Vhagar, who easily counts as two or three ordinary dragons put together. We have my supernaturally manipulative grandsire. We have you. And, of course, we have Aemond.”

“I fear losing him,” you confess. “I hate how much I fear it. It makes me feel pathetic. I didn’t used to be like this. But now I’m filled to the brim with dread.”

“Are you worried that he’ll march off to battle and fall into the soothing arms of some other enchanting, adulterous Northerner? That’s quite impossible, I assure you. He’s never been one inclined towards romance. What liaisons transpired before you—and there weren’t many, believe me, I judged him plenty for that—were…” He ponders how to phrase it. “More educational than impassioned.”

“No,” you say, smiling wanly. “I’m worried that he’ll come home a different man than he left. I’m worried that he’ll succumb to his blind hatred for the Blacks and be poisoned by it.”

“I don’t think that will happen. He won’t allow himself to lose his way. His love for you and the baby is too great.”

“Will you show me?” you ask, holding up your book. There is a map of Westeros on the page, mountains and rivers and borderlines carved like knife wounds in flesh. “If there is fighting, where it will happen?”

“Sure,” Aegon replies. He has attended enough council meetings to know their schemes by now. He gets up and rests his elbows on the back of your chair, hovering over you to point out the pertinent locations. He is very close; you can smell wine on him, and perfume scented like pomegranates, and soap and sun. There are ink stains on his hands. His silvery hair brushes against your cheek. “Control of the Riverlands would be essential. It is the closest thing Westeros has to a center point, and we would need it to have ready access to the surrounding regions. Its rivers carry trade goods. Its lords have many men and horses at their disposal. Its flat, fertile soil is good for feeding soldiers. And killing them.” He grins. “We would need a foothold there. Maidenpool or High Heart, perhaps. More likely Harrenhal. That’s Lord Larys Strong’s castle, conveniently.”

“It would be an uncommon sensation for him. Being useful, I mean.”

Aegon’s index finger travels around the map. “Battles would pepper the Riverlands and the parts of the Crownlands likely to support Rhaenyra. Duskendale, Rosby, Rook’s Rest. We’d stay out of the Vale. Men can’t fight on the sides of mountains. We aren’t goats.”

But your gaze has snagged somewhere else. In the belly of the Riverlands, there lies the largest lake in Westeros: vast and crystalline blue and with an island at the center known as the Isle of Faces, a legendary and unconquerable mystery that turns all sailors away with fierce winds and flocks of squawking ravens. “I’ve been there,” you say. “The God’s Eye. We stopped to swim and picnic on its shores when my family brought me south to marry Axel Hightower. It is a place of magic, of deep, ageless power. I’d like to go back someday. I’d like to try to visit the Isle of Faces.”

“Aemond can take you, when all this is over. He can land Vhagar right in the middle of that fabled, forbidden little island. And then burn it to ash if you’re unimpressed.” He plucks the book out of your hands and snaps it shut. “Now let’s desist with the geography lesson and do some gambling instead.”

You play cards for several hours—thunder booming, lightning striking ever-closer, Aegon unashamedly robbing you of your coins as you fumble along without much strategy, distracted and nervy—until you tell the king that you’re going to bed. You’re a liar. You bathe and slip into your nightgown and then sit and stare at the dying cinders in the hearth, pulsing like fireflies: garnet, jasper, carnelian, tiger’s eye. When you begin to nod off at last, your vision blurs and the pinprick infernos become distant and indistinct, like stars. They form constellations you can only decipher pieces of: a claw here, a wing there, eyes and blades and teeth. You jolt awake when you hear the bedroom door creak open. The fire rekindles with the gust of cool new air. You know exactly who it is. You recognize his footsteps.

“You’re back already—?”

His face stops you. Everything about him stops you. He’s drenched to the skin and shivering, staring at the wall. His hair is in disarray. Wet, silver twists hang loose and wild; his tie has come undone and he hasn’t even noticed. Water drips from his coat and forms reflective pools around his boots. You can see firelight dancing there. Helaena’s words whisper through your skull like cold wind: He comes home late, covered in rain.

“What?” you say, standing. “What happened?”

Aemond is silent. Lightning illuminates the room in stark, white-blue rage.

You take his hands, and he allows this but won’t look at you. Every angle of his body is wrong: his shoulders, his spine, his jaw. You’ve never seen him like this before. Perhaps nobody has. What could it be? What could it POSSIBLY be? “Did the Baratheons deny you?”

“No, they are with us. Daeron will marry Floris.”

“Then what…?”

At last, his gaze meets yours. His words are slow and heavy, so heavy. His eye—blue like clear skies, like the ocean, like veins beneath paper-thin skin—is more than just stunned. It is afraid. “Luke was there too.”

You don’t understand. “…At Storm’s End?”

“Yes.”

There’s blood on him, you realize now; not much, but enough. There’s a smudge on his right temple, a stain on his throat, flecks in his hair. “Alone?”

“Yes,” Aemond says again.

Just Luke. Not Jace, not Rhaenyra, not Rhaenys, not Daemon…just timid little Luke Strong. You take a step back, dropping his hands. Your stomach plummets; cold sweat slicks across your pores. You are suddenly terrified to know more. You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “What happened, Aemond?”

You call him by his name, and you never call him by his name. Your husband does not seem to have caught this. His fingers go unconsciously to the bear-hilt dagger he still wears at his belt. “Luke was sent to compel Lord Borros to honor his father’s long-past commitment to Rhaenyra. He was so pitiful, so weak, he brought nothing but his mother’s admonishment. Borros turned him away. And then, I…I…” Now his fingertips ghost over his scar. “I stopped him. I threw him your dagger. And I told him to put out his eye.”

Timid little Luke Strong, alone in Storm’s End…small and afraid and outmatched just like Aemond had been all those years ago on Driftmark when he was maimed. “You…?”

“As payment for mine.” He smirks, a ghoulish little half-smile with no humor at all. “I told him that I planned to make a gift of it to you.”

And there is something gut-wrenching about this, it hits you harder than you could have anticipated: that the same man who gave you tenderness and devotion and whispers and faith and a child was going to give you another child’s eye. A debt is still owed. A debt will always be owed. “But he didn’t do it.” If he had, Aemond would now be radiant, victorious. Instead, he is horrified.

“No,” Aemond says. “He refused. And when he left on Arrax…I followed him.”

Your voice is hoarse, brittle. “You killed that boy?”

“I did not give the order,” he insists fiercely. “I meant only to frighten him, to shame him, but Vhagar…she…she…” He shakes his head, like casting out bad dreams. “I tried to stop her.”

Surely there can be no greater betrayal than this: his dragon, his first conquest, his path to redemption. And he will never be able to admit it to anyone but you. Helaena’s warning is a specter hissing through fanged teeth from the shadows of this room: Be cautious with her. She will not always listen. “Vhagar against Arrax, that is no battle, that is murder. The realm will see this as murder.”

“I know.” His reply is helpless.

You reach for him. “Aemond…”

“Do not comfort me,” he flares. “I am not worthy of it. It is you and our daughter who I have endangered.”

“We can win,” you say quickly, desperately. “There will be war now but we can win it, the Greens have the Reach and the Westerlands and Storm’s End, and half of the Crownlands too, we have wealth and armies and dragons and magic, and we already hold the capital, we need only to defend it—”

“I have to send you away.”

Every frenzied thought in your mind falls silent. “What? Where?”

“Starfall.”

Dorne? Some remote, desert castle in a land I’ve never known? You watch each other in the firelight. “No,” you reply simply.

“This will destroy Rhaenyra. She will want me destroyed in return. And Daemon knows exactly how to do it.”

“No,” you repeat, furious. “I’m not going anywhere, we don’t run from battles, I don’t run from battles—!”

Aemond grabs your wrists and holds them against his chest, gently but stubbornly. “Listen,” he says. “I will have to leave King’s Landing to fight this war. And Daemon will come for you. He knows what you mean to me, what you are to me, he knows. He will do it himself, or he will send someone to do it for him, or he will do it if the Blacks sack the city, but no matter how it happens he will not stop until your blood is spilled. He will not honor your status as a noncombatant. And he won’t just kill you. He will do excruciating, unforgivable things to you, because that is how he can hurt me best. The way he looked at you…here, in the Red Keep, as Viserys lay dying…that was the first time I ever saw you as what you truly are.”

“A burden?” you fling at him like a blade.

“No, Moonstone.” He releases your wrists and clasps your face with his hands. “A weakness.”

The fight bleeds out of you. Not so long ago, it was not believed that Aemond One-Eye had any fears, any weaknesses at all. “I don’t want to leave you. Any of you.”

“It won’t be for long.”

“I can’t go to Dorne. They don’t have any heart trees there. The Old Gods won’t be able to hear me.”

“You cannot stay here,” he swears. “I cannot leave you in plain sight and undefended.”

“Then send me back to Bear Island instead,” you plead frantically.

“No. The North is likely to side with Rhaenyra, and Daemon would know to look for you there.” He strokes your hair, your cheek, the pendant that swings from your neck. “Dorne will remain neutral, and Starfall is on the Summer Sea. You can get there by ship, easily and inconspicuously. I cannot fly you. Vhagar could be sighted, and everyone knows who she belongs to. And I…I…” His eye goes vacant, haunted. “I don’t know if I can trust her.”

A shudder claws down your spine. I’ve ridden that dragon. My daughter has touched that dragon. “So you’ll ride off to battle against Syrax and Meleys and Caraxes and I’ll…just…what, stare out a window and wait for you to show up and rescue me? Wake up every day wondering if you’re still alive? If Aegon and Sir Criston and Otto are still alive? I’ll read books and play cards and embroider pillowcases and go on meaningless fucking strolls through the gardens? I’ll be useless, I’ll be worse than useless because I could have helped you if I had stayed, I will—”

“You will survive.” He smiles faintly. “The maesters of Starfall will offer you and Laurel shelter. They will keep you secret. They will keep you informed of how the war progresses. And if…somehow…the Greens are on the losing side…then they will help you start over someplace where you will never be found.”

You think of all the letters he’s exchanged with Dornish maesters over the past ten months, letters you’ve never pried much into, ravens loosed and received. “How long have you been considering this?”

“Since I met you. Just in case.”

You try to imagine it—hot blaring sun, bobbing ships, the ocean, castle walls—and perhaps Starfall won’t feel so very far from King’s Landing after all. Perhaps it will be a respite, not an exile. Perhaps you will be back in the Red Keep with every living soul you’ve ever loved before the year is finished. Even if I can’t bear to do it for me, I can do it for Laurel. I will have her. I can protect her.

Aemond touches his forehead to yours, and only now are you aware of the tears streaking down his flawless right cheek. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

“I’ll go to Starfall. If that’s what you need, if that’s what’s best for our daughter, I’ll do it.”

“There’s one last thing.” He takes your dagger from his belt and lays it in your outstretched palm. You think, without wanting to: If Luke had mutilated himself with this blade, he’d still be alive. Aemond lifts your chin to kiss you, an act so delicate and insurmountably heavy it could shatter. “Keep this with you.”

~~~~~~~~~

He introduces her to each type of blossom, skimming a kaleidoscope of petals across her miniature fingers: roses, wisteria, jasmine, calla lilies, orchids, chrysanthemums, red poppies. He is cautious not to let her get too firm a grip, lest she decides to eat one. He insists on doing everything. He never wants a break from her. Soon you’ll both be gone, sailing into the horizon on some nondescript ship bound for Dorne. He knows his time is running out. Laurel devours him with those enormous, knowing eyes. She clutches clumsily at the petals with great interest, perhaps in part because he’s the one offering them. She gets upset when he tries to carry her through the cool, dark trellis archway grown thick with greenery; she wonders where the sun has gone.

At last he returns to sit beside you on the edge of the fountain. A pair of white stone dragons exhale gushes of clear water like flames. The gardens are quiet and still. It is late-afternoon on a magnificently warm and golden day, but the Red Keep feels abandoned. Bees and butterflies and beetles wheel in the air. You can hear waves crashing against jagged black rocks, windchimes jangling in the breeze, the distant snarls of dragons.

“She might be walking by the time we see you again,” you tell Aemond. You smile, hoping to lift his spirits; but he doesn’t smile back.

He presses his lips to Laurel’s silver hair. Someday soon, it will be long enough to braid. “She might have a dragon waiting for her.” Frostfyre’s egg will remain in King’s Landing, of course; it will be left in the care of the Dragonkeepers in case the beast hatches during the war.

“You will get to teach her how to ride. How to speak High Valyrian.”

Now he does smile, with hope and optimism and pride. “And you will teach her magic.”

There is the sound of dainty heels clicking against the cobblestones. Helaena appears, carrying a praying mantis in her palm like a beacon. “You are required in the Great Hall,” she says.

You and Aemond look at each other, mystified. “Why?” he asks Helaena.

“Everyone is waiting.” And then she turns and leaves.

You and Aemond follow after Helaena, struggling to keep up. You lift the hem of your dress—black with accents of silver, your dagger secured by a belt patterned with silver bears—to avoid puddles and ascend steps; Aemond carries Laurel against his chest. She peers over his shoulder, eyes alert, cheeks chubby and with dimples like her father’s. You will have to be mindful in Dorne to ensure her skin isn’t burned by the sun. As you near the Great Hall, you can hear muffled music and voices and clanks of cups and silverware.

“Oh, gods,” Aemond groans, realizing too late.

You begin: “What—?”

The guards open the doors. Inside the Great Hall, there is a raucous feast in progress: dancing, drinking, gorging, whoring, wolfing down enough pleasures to last until the war is done. Everyone knows that time is disappearing like a starving crescent moon. Everyone knows the blood will soon begin flowing. The royal family has a table above all the chaos: Otto, Alicent, and Sir Criston are seated there with grim faces. Aegon is laughing hysterically about something that no one else seems to appreciate. Helaena scurries across the room to take her rightful place in the empty chair beside him.

“Ah, the guest of honor!” Aegon booms when he sees you and your husband, tottering to his feet and raising his cup of wine. He is grinning hugely beneath glazed, groggy eyes. He’s not just drunk. He’s ruined. “A toast to my brother, Aemond, the champion in the very first engagement of the war. To the prince, to Vhagar, and to a hasty victory!”

There are dutiful cheers, but when the nobles of Westeros turn to Aemond their faces are not congratulatory; they are wary, mistrustful, repulsed. Even the most fervent supporters of the Greens have trouble stomaching the murder of a child. Aemond’s own face is stone; he is seething, of course, but he hides it well. You take Laurel from him so he can meander through the hall accepting obligatory compliments from the guests: sword-wielding men, blanching women, reticent daughters who are for the first time relieved that it was not one of them he chose to wed. As you make your way to the royal family’s table, you swim in a sea of noxious whispers.

“…Nothing left, I heard…not a single piece…just a head of the other dragon…the boy must have been swallowed…”

“You saw Rhaenyra’s son when he was here, didn’t you? Nothing but a scared little runt…”

“…More like an execution than a battle…”

“Look, not even Aemond’s Mormont wife can summon up enthusiasm for this travesty. When was the last time she wore black to a feast? She’s always in that strange pearlescent color…”

“…Vhagar is five times the dragon Arrax was…”

“I have it on good authority that Rhaenyra was considering terms before what happened at Storm’s End, and now it will be a bloodbath…now all our sons will be expected to bleed…”

“…There is no decency in this…”

“Aemond One-Eye, they call him. Maybe they ought to change it to Aemond the Kinslayer.”

There was a moment—at Aegon’s coronation, at the beginning of the end—when there was a chance for the people to meet Aemond, to witness his gifts, to learn to love him. Now that chance is as dead as Lucerys Velaryon.

You greet Alicent and Otto, then tell them that you’ll return after you’ve put Laurel to bed. It is not customary for young children to attend feasts, nor do you wish to frighten her with all of the unfamiliar sights and scents and sounds…although, and perhaps you should have anticipated this, Laurel doesn’t seem frightened at all.

“Nonsense!” Alicent says, rather ferociously, and gleefully lifts the baby out of your arms. She and Otto pass Laurel back and forth: snuggling her, tickling her, showing her off to mostly-indifferent courtiers. Your adopted family knows that this is one of their last chances to see her before your departure to Dorne. They have been informed of Aemond’s plan—Alicent, Otto, and Sir Criston—and contrary to being outraged (as you had been) they are in agreement that it is a wise course of action. Helaena was not explicitly told, but seems aware of it nonetheless; this morning she was offering you advice about packing lots of light, breathable fabrics. No one has told Aegon yet. Aemond doesn’t want to be the one to do it. You aren’t sure how.

You pick at your food and sip your wine and try to keep your expression as neutral as possible. There is no winning here. If you appear joyful, you are celebrating the murder of a child; if you are morose, you are betraying your husband. In truth, you are neither, and you are both, and you are everything in between. As Aemond traverses the Great Hall, he keeps you on his good side as much as he can. He glances at you—over and over again like the cyclical phases of the moon— storing up visions to be conjured when he is on the field of battle and you are in Starfall, not even a whisper, not even words on a page. He will not be able to visit you until the war is over. He will not be able to send you letters that could be intercepted.

“Should we go see the Iron Throne?” Otto asks in a high, squeaky voice as he struts around with Laurel. “Yes, let’s go see the Iron Throne. Once upon a time, there was a man called Aegon the Conqueror, and you happen to have some of his blood in you. You have his hair too, but that’s a separate story. We can talk about the trials and tribulations of hair later. Now, Aegon was born in…”

A very different Aegon saunters over to you, wine cup in hand. You ignore him.

“You look tense,” he says, swaying. He begins ineptly massaging your shoulders.

“You look wasted.” You swat him away.

“Dance with me, Moonstone,” he begs, plopping down in Aemond’s chair, swigging the last of his wine and then refilling it. “I am soon to be sent off to war. I could be killed, or worse, mortally wounded and rendered incapable of debauchery at the level which I aspire to.”

“No thanks.”

“Why, do you have other plans? Will you be sneaking off to any dusty stairwells? Do you need someone to guard the doorway for you and protect what scraps remain of your honor?”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood tonight.”

“I’m always in the mood,” he says, grinning. “What do you think, did little Luke Strong go down smooth, or are there still bits of him caught in Vhagar’s teeth?”

You see it in a nauseating flash like lightning: that same boy who cowered beside his mother and attempted to defend Jace and loved Rhaena Targaryen reduced to a jumble of blood and bones. That’s really all we are. Beneath the names and the banners and the faiths and the magic, that’s all any of us are. “You’re being cruel.”

“I’m being supportive,” Aegon counters.

You glower at him, half-angry, half-disappointed. The disappointment feels worse. “Why did you have to do this?”

He is genuinely confused. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture to the feast, the crowds, the tentative praises offered to Aemond like girls climbing—numbly and obediently—into the beds of old men.

Aegon slurs as he speaks. “Look, whether it was the honorable thing to do or not, whether it was the wise thing to do, the Strong boy is dead and nothing can change that. We cannot apologize for it, we cannot disregard it. All that’s left to do is celebrate it.” He clangs his cup against yours. Wine splatters on the tablecloth. “There is one less Black. There is one less dragon for them to burn us alive with. And I have made Aemond a war hero.”

“You have made all of us profoundly uncomfortable.”

Pain rushes into his face like blood to flushed cheeks: true, repentant, defenseless pain. “That was not my intention,” he says softly.

“No, I see that now.” I don’t have much time left with Aegon. I don’t have much time left with any of them. “I’m sorry. And as my act of contrition I will dance with you.”

Aegon smiles again and leads you down into the crowd. You and the king are an island in a sea of depravity. To your right, some Lannister is practically undressing a more-than-enthusiastic Swyft girl. To your left, a Costayne lord has passed out on the floor; people step around him as they twirl and stumble. Aegon grasps your waist—chastely, careful not to offend—with his right hand and weaves his fingers through yours with his left. The music is quick and plucky, almost restless, almost perilous.

“I know I’ve been excessive tonight,” he admits, meaning the wine. “I hope you are not too angry with me. It’s just that I am acutely aware it will be my last chance for a while.”

This is true: there are armies massing, plans being drawn up, new weapons and armor being hammered into existence. Your ship leaves tomorrow. “I forgive you. Your brother will too, although it will take him longer.”

Aemond has at last arrived at the royal family’s table. He has somehow wrestled Laurel away from Otto and has her clutched to his chest as he confers with Sir Criston. Still, he is watching you. “So you remain opposed to the prospect of my untimely demise,” Aegon teases.

“Quite vehemently.”

“And I will continue to have the benefit of your gruesome, illicit spells until all the Blacks’ heads are secured on spikes outside the Red Keep.”

You hesitate. Aegon’s ungainly steps slow. The crowd around you is rowdy and oblivious.

“What’s the matter, witch? Have you embraced a non-heathen religion? Have you renounced the ways of your hairy, half-human, cave-dwelling forefathers?”

“It’s not that,” you say. “I would want nothing more than to help you…if I was able to. If I was staying in King’s Landing.”

He stops completely: a sudden lurch, an inebriated wobble. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll be going tomorrow.”

He rips his hands away from you. “Going where?” he demands. His eyes are sharp with betrayal.

“Aegon…”

“Going where?”

You answer in a whisper, pained and sorry. “Starfall.”

He whirls and storms out of the Great Hall, tripping occasionally, pushing himself off walls when he careens into them. In the chaos of lust and gluttony, few guests even notice. You chase Aegon out into the hallway. He is moving with truly impressive speed for a man in his condition.

“Aegon, wait!” you call after him.

“Whose idea was this?” he hurls back, still racing through empty corridors. “Aemond’s, right? It couldn’t have been yours. I can’t believe that. You wouldn’t run.”

“Please, just let me explain—”

“Explain what, that you’re abandoning me—?!”

Aemond comes soaring out of a hallway, grabs Aegon, pins him roughly to the wall.

“You can’t send her away!” Aegon pleads, struggling. There are tears spilling down his cheeks. He slaps clumsily at his brother’s face, inflicting no damage whatsoever.

“And who will protect her if she stays?” Aemond says, his voice low and serrated and dark like volcanic glass. “I will be needed in battle, you will be needed in battle, Sir Criston will be leading the infantry, so tell me, who will be here to stand between her and Daemon when he comes to King’s Landing with fire and blood?”

Aegon stops fighting. His white-blond hair shags over his eyes. He is savagely bitter, glaring, hateful. “This is all your fault.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Why did you do it then?!” Aegon shouts. “Nobody told you to kill the Strong boy, nobody told you to make this war inevitable and incur the eternal wrath of the Blacks, so why the fuck did you do it?!”

Aemond doesn’t reply, but the truth speaks through the collapsing lines of his face, his shoulders, his spirit. His hands fall away from the king. His rain-blue gaze drops to the floor.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Aegon realizes with hushed shock, with horror. And then, much louder: “It wasn’t on purpose?!”

“No one can know,” Aemond says.

“Oh gods, oh gods…” Aegon rubs his wet, ruddy face with both hands. “Seven hells, how does that happen?!”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“You’re telling me that you possess the largest, most lethal dragon on the planet and you can’t control her?! Someone explain to me how I’m still the family disappointment when I ride Sunfyre around the Crownlands all the time and I’ve never accidentally killed someone!”

Aemond says nothing, but he looks miserable, he looks broken.

“And now you send her away,” Aegon pitches at him. “You take her away from us, from me, not because of anything I did but because you made a mistake, because you fucked up—!”

“It’s not your decision to make.”

“I am the king, every decision is my decision to make—!”

You flee from them as they slice at each other with venomous accusations, blades aimed at hearts and jugulars. You run beneath the torchlight, beneath the fading sounds of music and shouts and the crumbling realities of the world. Nothing will ever be the same again. That thread of fate disappeared down Vhagar’s void-black, scorching throat. We’re not supposed to be attacking each other. We’re supposed to be winning the war.

You know that Laurel’s bedroom will be deserted. You take shelter there, supporting yourself with the railing of her crib, empty except for Frostfyre’s egg. Through forge-hot tears, you stare out the window at the starless blur where Bearstone must be. You have not been there in the three days since Aemond returned from Storm’s End. He doesn’t want you to ride Vhagar. He doesn’t want you anywhere near her. Everything’s falling apart. How can I stop this? How can I stitch us all back together?

You wish there was a way to turn back time. You wish you had known to cast a protection spell for Lucerys Velaryon.

In the window’s glass, you catch a reflection of movement behind you in the dimly-lit bedroom. You catch the flicker of moonlight on metal.

Someone is in here with me. Someone with a blade.

You spin. A man is stepping out of the shadows, broad and black-haired and bearded. For a second, you can only gape at him with slow, stupid bewilderment. This doesn’t feel possible. This doesn’t feel real.

How…?

And then you know. Aegon uses the hidden passageways that crisscross the Red Keep like arteries; and, once upon a time, so had Daemon Targaryen. And this is the man he’s sent to kill you.

Aemond was right, you think, and realize that until now you had never truly believed him.

“Where’s the baby?” the man rasps, only half-illuminated. His dagger glints in the moonshine. “You’re supposed to have a baby with you.”

You reach for your bear-hilt dagger. He lunges for you. The second intruder, the one you still hadn’t known was there, crawls out from under Laurel’s crib and grabs your ankles. You scream like clashing swords, like a gutted animal as they grapple with you and slam you to the floor. You pull your dagger free and stab half-blindly at the larger man’s face as hands clamp over your eyes, your lips. He shrieks when your blade pierces his cheek, nicks his tongue, fills his mouth with blood. He pins your wrist to the floor and coughs up scarlet globs, spits them on you, calls you a bitch and a whore. You bite the hands that cover your face. You try to scream through their murderous fingers and palms. One of them rips your moonstone pendant off your neck, snapping the chain. The men are tearing pieces of your dress away. They are cutting the laces with their daggers. They are talking about what they plan to do to you.

Daemon wants this. Daemon told them to do this.

In his distraction, the larger man’s grip around your wrist loosens: only for a second, but that’s enough. You wrench your hand free and bury your dagger in his eye, all the way to the hilt. He howls and rocks backward, blood and remnants of his eye gushing down his face.

“Just kill the bitch!” he roars at his companion. “Just fucking kill her—!”

The bedroom door bangs open, and through the smaller man’s fingers you can see Aemond and Aegon burst inside. You hear Aemond drawing his sword. You hear the men Daemon sent struggling with him. Aegon drags you to the other side of the room and crouches over you, steadying himself by pressing a hand to the wall, wine and sweat oozing from his pores.

“No no no no!” the smaller man screeches as Aemond’s sword comes whistling down. The man’s skull is suddenly no longer attached to spine; his head rolls away with thick, sickening thuds. His blade still dripping with blood, Aemond turns to the larger man and slits his throat before he can beg for mercy. The bedroom falls into an abrupt silence.

“That is why she has to leave King’s Landing,” Aemond says, pointing to the would-be assassins’ corpses, still breathing heavily. Aegon just gawks in blank, speechless horror. Then Aemond sheaths his sword and gathers you into his arms. You dissolve into tears of fear, exhaustion, pain, shock.

“They were asking about Laurel,” you sob. “They, they, they were sent to kill her too—”

“Shh, she is safe, my love, she is safe. She is with Mother and Otto.”

“I didn’t believe it,” Aegon exhales, sinking to the floor. “I really didn’t…I didn’t think…”

“Double the guard on Mother and Helaena. They go nowhere alone.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately.

“And my wife sets sail for Starfall tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Aegon says again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m so sorry.”

“Aegon.” You reach for him, and he comes to you and Aemond on his hands and knees. The three of you sit on the floor together in the bloodied, moonlit quiet. You tuck the king’s hair behind his ear, whisk a tear from his cheek with your thumb, smile with soft, kind sorrow. “I’ll miss you too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In Blackwater Bay, there is a ship with no destination.

It is small, inconspicuous, loaded with enough supplies for a handful of passengers and a skeleton crew. It is decorated with no banners. It carries no nets for fishing, no treasures for selling, no soldiers for transporting. In times of conflict, it is rare for such a seemingly available vessel to not be requisitioned for the war effort. Not even its captain knows where it is headed. When people—fisherman, traders, passersby—inquire about his purpose, he smirks slyly and replies: “I’m going wherever the wind blows me.”

Most accept this unfulfilling explanation with some mild bafflement, continue on with their business, and promptly let the exchange slip out of their mind like sand through the gaps between fingers. Some pester the captain with further questions until he waves them off. Some chatter innocuously with him about the weather or the sea or who he believes will triumph in the impending war for the Iron Throne. But when several Gold Cloaks from the City Watch happen by, something about this captain and his enigmatic ship catches in their minds like a thorn in flesh. Something about him reminds them of signs they’ve been told to look for.

And just as nearly a year before when Aemond Targaryen publicly announced his scandalous marriage to a willful, insignificant, already-wed daughter of House Mormont, a raven carrying this news finds its way from King’s Landing to the rocky, salt-lashed shores of Dragonstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Laurel is asleep in a crib in the corner of the bedroom you share with Aemond. Neither of you will allow her out of your sight. The feast has ended, the guests have been sent home to prepare for combat, the castle has been searched from top to bottom, from the godswood to the Great Hall to the weblike design of secret passageways. There are no other intruders. You are safe. There are guards stationed outside the bedroom door, guards beneath the windows, guards pacing the gardens. Aemond is sitting up in bed and mending your pendant with a pair of pliers and spare links of silver obtained from the maesters. His long hair falls over his bare shoulders and chest. His eyepatch hangs from a knob on the dresser. His forehead is wrinkled and determined.

You climb into bed beside him, candlelight painting you both with a brush made of heat, rage, lust, devastation, rebirth. “Can I ask you something, Silver?”

“Anything.”

You graze his face—you’re so fucking beautiful—with the backs of your fingers, first his good side, and then his ragged scar. “Why a sapphire?”

“Because of Symeon Star-Eyes.”

“I regret to remind you that you have married an uncultured Northerner.”

He smiles, still working on the damaged chain. “He was a knight during the Age of Heroes. He was blinded when he lost both of his eyes, so he replaced them with sapphires. That’s how the singers tell the story, anyway.”

You can picture it with aching clarity: Aemond as a small, lonely, tormented boy consuming book after book about ancient warriors and legendary beasts. He kept every piece of lore he learned about them like secrets, like jewels, like bricks to build himself with. “And he never stopped fighting.”

“And he never stopped fighting.” Aemond finishes the chain and lifts it over your head. The moonstone pendant returns to rest exactly where it belongs. Then your husband tilts your chin, turns your face one way and then the other, his gaze wandering over the bruises and crimson scrapes left by Daemon’s would-be assassins, troubled and pensive. And then he kisses you, his lips gentle.

“I don’t blame you,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “I want to make sure you know that. I don’t blame you for what happened to Luke, or what happened today, or what will happen tomorrow.”

“I just can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I was that stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid. You were hurt, you were angry.”

“When I was chasing him through the storm…when he was so weak and helpless and I was so powerful…” His eye goes vague and far away. About six years away, you believe. “It was like I was carving out every part of myself that had ever been afraid, ever been harmed: by Luke and Jace, by Rhaenyra, by the world, by my father. It was like I was destroying that child who was once so friendless and overlooked and unchosen.”

“You can’t destroy him, Aemond. He’s you.”

He stares into nothingness. “You would have been safer as Axel Hightower’s wife.”

“I would choose you again. And again, and again.”

“Would you?”

“Always.”

Your lips meet his, delectably slow at first and then faster, bolder, more hungry. He matches your fire with his own. His hands steal beneath your nightgown. Your fingers knot in his hair. His mouth smiles into yours as you straddle him, nip playfully at his lips and tongue, reach down to feel how hard he is.

“Now,” you murmur. “Give me one last good memory to take with me to Starfall.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the garden, Helaena braids daisies into your hair and introduces you to a walking stick that you pretend not to be repulsed by; you even let it creep up the downy-soft underside of your forearm. In her chambers, Alicent gives you a warm, rather desperate embrace that feels like it goes on forever…and then she offers you a package wrapped in green silk. It is a book she requested from the Citadel about the history of Bear Island. “I thought it might keep you occupied on the journey,” she explains, almost self-consciously. “Perhaps you could even read it to the baby if she is restless.” And in the shadow of the heart tree in the godswood, King Aegon—dreadfully hungover, more racoon-eyed than ever—lounges with you sipping wine and talking about anything except the fact that you’re leaving. At last, it can’t be avoided.

“I don’t feel bad for you, just so you know,” he quips.

You grin. “No?”

“No. You’re going to be sunning yourself on a beach in beautiful, debaucherous Dorne. What’s there to pity? You’ll probably have a dozen paramours by the time Aemond returns for you. You’ll have forgotten all about us. You’ll be clinging to the castle walls begging Aemond to leave you there. He’ll have to pry your fingers free one by one. Now Daeron, that’s someone deserving of sympathy. He’s being dragged out of Oldtown to help us burn cities and butcher men and his great reward, if he survives, will be marrying Floris Baratheon, the realm’s most eligible donkey. His children won’t get dragon eggs. They’ll get bits and bridles.”

You laugh, then peer up at the clouds. “Daeron. I can’t wait to finally meet him one day.”

“You’ll like him. He’s the best of us, clever and kind and unruined. He’s the good one.”

Now you look at Aegon. Both he and Aemond slept with the protection spells you cast for them under their beds last night. It is the last magic you will perform until the war is over. It is the last advantage you can give them. “You’re all the good one.”

It is not until after nightfall when Aemond walks you out to the waiting ship. He wants no witnesses, no rumors. He carries Laurel all the way there; he has to blink the tears from his eye when he surrenders her to the wetnurse. You will take two wetnurses and three handmaidens to Starfall. The ship is stocked with provisions for a trip of several weeks. The captain, an ardent Green, has not been told the destination in advance, nor of your identity; he has been told only that he will be abundantly rewarded, that he will never need to work a day in his life again, that his five children won’t either. Everyone else goes aboard. You and Aemond linger together on the dock under more stars than could ever be named. He is solemn; he is intensely quiet.

“Fear not, husband,” you say. “You cannot rid yourself of me. I am yours for life.”

“For life,” he echoes, kissing you, filling himself with you like you’re the air in his lungs, the marrow in his bones.

Your fingers brush the bear-hilt dagger at your belt, which you will take to Starfall at his insistence. “I wish I had something more to give you, a piece of me to carry through the war.”

“You have given me enough, Moonstone. You have given me everything.”

“Wait.” You lift off your pendant and stand on your tiptoes to hang it around his neck; you watch the gemstone, gleaming in the moonlight, settle on his chest by his heart. “I’m coming back,” you tell him, smiling, tears like constellations in your eyes.

Aemond admires the pendant with reverent incredulity, and then he kisses you again: one last time, his hands on your face, you tugging him closer by the collar of his coat, the wind whipping through you both. “Not soon enough. Tomorrow wouldn’t be soon enough.”

You board the ship. He returns alone to the Red Keep, his head down, his arms crossed, his mind presumably lost in the nebulous future.

The captain greets you warmly, and you give him the name of the location you are to be taken too. He nods and confers with the navigator before guiding the ship out into Blackwater Bay. You venture below deck to check on Laurel. She is sleeping peacefully in her cabin, loyally attended by her wetnurses and handmaidens. You study her for a long time—your skin, Aemond’s hair, one tiny balled fist propped against her cheek—before ascending the stairs to watch the firelight of King’s Landing fade into the past.

Sails crack in the wind above you, waves break against the hull below. The moon is obscured by indigo clouds; the night is dark and cool and placid. As you pass Bearstone—rendered nothing more than a murky, inconsequential pool of earth in an endless sea—you think of all the moments you shared there with Aemond, all those sun-drenched afternoons and whispered promises and swims in the sea, all those letters he scrawled to Dornish maesters as you laid dozing beside him, still naked, blissfully content, trusting and oblivious. You will have each other like that again, certainly. You and Laurel will survive the war, and Aemond will win it, and a night will come when the stars shine down on your reunion, flesh and words and soul.

Like knuckles, like a stone, Helaena’s words hit you. If they were solid, they could crack ribs. They are so loud you can hear them, her voice as clear as the lines on your own palms.

Because there is a great deal of fire in your future.

The wind tears viciously at your hair, your eyes, your cheeks. The flames of the ship’s lanterns bend and flicker, never extinguished but always imperiled.

The sea is calling for you.

You lean over the railing at the stern of the ship, contemplating the ocean: the eternal secrets below, the voyages above. This is the same sea that touches the Vale and Dragonstone and Storm’s End. This is the same water that Lucerys Velaryon was killed over.

Stay away from the fire.

You look at the lanterns again. No, that’s not what she meant. You pace frantically around the deck as the Red Keep becomes just a haze in the distance, searching for the source of Helaena’s prophesies. You pry open barrels and crates with your dagger, upturn buckets, study the weblike rigging. You hunt like a wolf, like a killer.

I want to help you.

Help why, Helaena? Help how?

He waits in the lagoon, coiled, red.

Your steps die. There is only one lagoon you know of in King’s Landing. You turn towards Bearstone. There is movement there, but indistinct in the darkness. There is a flapping, a shrill clicking. It grows louder. It approaches, it retreats, it vanishes. And suddenly, randomly, it occurs to you that despite all those protection spells you breathed to life under the heart tree, you never thought to cast one for yourself.

Moon on the water, fire in the sky, moon on the water…

The clouds are heaved away from the moon. Silvery light cascades down, dances on the waves, brightens the night. A shape passes high over the ship, blindingly swift and unreadable. Somewhere, there is a sound that could be laughter.

It comes from the sky.

You stare fixedly up into the night. It is a bottomless inky sea, one on top of the other. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Your fingernails bite wounds into your palms. You hear it again: wings, distant cackling, clicking shrieks. And—too late for it to matter—you understand.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond’s hand closes around your moonstone pendant as he watches from the window in Laurel’s bedroom. On the dresser hangs his eyepatch. On his face is a smile, just a hint of one. He has ensured your safety, your survival; he has secured his peace offering from the gods. He can envision himself arriving in Starfall in six months or nine months or a year, you barreling out of the castle to meet him, Laurel no longer an infant but a little girl; perhaps she will be walking, babbling, grinning with tiny white teeth. Perhaps she will recognize him.

The ship, its lanterns dots of captive light, is barely visible by the time it sails past the island he now calls Bearstone. It will soon drop over the horizon like a falling star. Aemond half-turns from the window when something wrenches him back: a flicker of motion, an interruption in the moonlight. He leans closer to the glass. Dimly, he can glimpse his own reflection in it.

It is only when Caraxes unleashes his flames that Aemond can see him in the night sky, wings outstretched, blood-red contorted body hovering above the ship. The vessel does not merely burn. It explodes, it is eviscerated, it ceases to exist entirely.

“No!” It is not a scream but a rupturing, a splitting open and hollowing out of the man he could have been in a different world. It is the end. It is the beginning. It is a fire that burns his humanity to ash.

Vhagar, he thinks, the first word he can discern from the clamoring inferno of wrath, grief, madness. Fire and blood. He is faintly aware of gasps and screams spreading like a plague through the Red Keep. Someone is wailing like they are being slaughtered, their organs dismantled piece by piece; his mother, he believes.

He bolts from the room. He is halfway down the hall when Aegon crashes into him, catches him around the waist, knocks him with great difficulty to the floor and fights to keep him there.

“No!” Aemond screams, pulling away. “Let me go, let me go—!”

“Stop it, Aemond, stop!”

And then Sir Criston appears, and Otto, and Alicent; they join the king in restraining Aemond. It takes all four of them to hold him down.

“Let me go!” His voice is raw and mindless, more animal than man. He struggles so forcefully they fear his bones will snap. Aegon grabs his face with both hands.

“Look at me, look, Aemond, look at me!” Aegon pleads. The king is sobbing, panting, frantic. Aemond’s right eye lands on him. His sapphire gleams with cold, soulless fire. “You cannot catch Daemon, he is already headed back to Dragonstone, he—”

Aemond screams again and tries to free himself. They manage to hold on to him. Helaena has materialized in the hallway like a ghost; she is shellshocked, almost catatonic. She says nothing. Her eyes leak constant, soundless tears.

“You cannot catch him,” Aegon repeats patiently, like he’s speaking to a child. “Vhagar cannot catch him, even if you had left the second it happened. Not even Sunfyre can catch him. If we go after him now, he will lead us into a trap on Dragonstone. He has surely planned for that. He is hoping for that. He—”

Aemond claws at the floor, trying to drag himself out of his family’s arms, but a part of him knows it is hopeless. His fingernails leave white lines on the wood, and then ruby ones when his nails tear out. Aemond is not aware of this. He howls and roars and finally collapses. Alicent, weeping freely, strokes his hair. Sir Criston watches her, longing with everything he’s made of to fix this. It cannot be fixed; it is not just shattered pieces, it is ash, it is dust. Otto’s face is a wasteland: desolate, brutal, a million years old.

“Look at me!” Aegon demands, still gripping Aemond’s face, still sobbing. “Aemond, you cannot kill him if you’re already dead. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want vengeance. You want fire and blood. You want to kill them.”

“Yes,” Aemond chokes out. That’s all he wants. Nothing else exists.

“And I will help you do it,” Aegon vows. “But we cannot do it now. We have to prepare. We have to do this right, or we will not live to see vengeance. Wait for me, Aemond, and I will help you. You can have Daemon, but I want Rhaenyra. And I swear to you in front of all the gods that we will burn them alive.”

Aemond is beyond words, but Aegon can read them in his eye: Yes, I understand, I yield. The last of Aemond’s ferocity vanishes. Sobs pour from his throat. Aegon embraces him. So do Alicent and Sir Criston and Otto and finally Helaena. They cling to each other, bound to the world by a multitude of glimmering strings like a spider’s thread and yet alone. The moonlight floods in. The future, dark, merciless, bathed in dragonfire, dawns like a sun.

And every second of every minute of every day for the next year—as Aemond wages war at Rook’s Rest and Harrenhal, as he burns the Riverlands, as he inspires immeasurable horror and agony and hatred, as he abandons strategy for blind revenge, as he flies to meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle above the God’s Eye—it is still there around his neck: the moonstone pendant, the silver chain.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond fic #aemond one eye #aemond x oc

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polyacotarweek · 15 days

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Day 5 Masterlist: Favorite Tropes

Fanfic:

"did something bad (why's it feel so good?)" by @thesistersarcheron (Eluzriel)

"The Fawn of Prythian, Ch 4-6" by @witch-and-her-witcher (Eluzriel)

"Star-kissed Night Beneath My Wings" by @starfall-spirit (Feyre X Bat Boys)

"A Dance Named Starlight" by @chunkypossum (Nerissian)

"The Siren's Song" by @nocasdatsgay (Nessriel)

"Wingspans" by @tsunami-of-tears (OC X Cazriel)

"Romance" by @littlestw01f (OC X Rhysand X Eris)

"Mister Grumpy Pantses" by @readychilledwine (Reader X Azris)

"Omega Ours: Part 1" by @mrs-illyrian-baby (Reader X Nessian)

"Just This Once...Right?" by @danikamariewrites (Reader X Rhyssian)

Fanart & Miscellaneous

"Amarantha/Tamlin/Rhysand" by @copypastus (Not CNM)

"Cold Feet, Autumn Fae, Only One Bed" headcanon with moodboard by @acourtofladydeath (BOE, Lucien X Vassa X Jurian)

If your creation is missing or you see an issue with the masterlist, please reach out to the blog so we can rectify it!

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bookshelf-in-progress · 4 months

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A Song of Starlight: A Starfall Story

For the 2023 Inklings Christmas Challenge at @inklings-challenge, he's a story set and posted on December 28th--the Feast of the Holy Innocents.

A Song of Starlight

Johannes had once considered Oskar Abel a friend. The bright young manager who ran the theater, concert hall, and opera house funded by the Diriks starfall had secured Johannes the audition with the symphony orchestra, where he'd risen to first chair and featured violinist in this Christmas season's concerts. Now, as the slim, balding young man sat stiff and stone-faced behind the paper-strewn desk in his wood-paneled office, he looked like nothing but a toadying, soulless businessman.

Through the cracked-open window, Johannes could hear the daily rumble of the city street--the rattle of carriages, the distant chime of church bells, the shouts of girls selling stardust and boys selling newspapers. An entire world unaware that this supposed friend had just sent Johannes' world crashing down.

In a low voice, Johannes asked, "What do you mean, dismissed?"

Abel straightened a stack of papers against the top of his desk. "Lady Diriks has ordered that your employment with the Diriks Symphony Orchestra come to an end."

"Now? Three days after Christmas? In the middle of concert season?"

"Our patroness saw no other alternative." Abel pushed up his wire-rimmed spectacles. "I'm certain you're aware of the theft of one of the stars from the chandelier."

"Aware? The entire orchestra's been talking about nothing else since Christmas Eve!"

"I'm afraid suspicion has fallen on you."

Johannes' blood ran cold.

The star chandelier had been planned as the crowning glory of the Diriks family's new concert hall. Their mountain starfall was the prime landing place for solara stars--the largest and brightest stars that gave off the purest white light--and the intricate silver chandelier would hold a thousand of them. Lady Diriks' own son had supervised the construction, cutting every facet of every star himself. The day before its grand unveiling, one whole star had gone missing. Lady Diriks was out for blood.

Johannes had never dreamed it would be his blood.

After the shock passed, Johannes' temper rose. "What does that have to do with me? I've never seen the star! I barely walk past the workroom!"

The manager polished his glasses. "I'm afraid the circumstantial evidence against you is strong."

"What circumstantial evidence?"

"Several witnesses maintain that you were the last one in the building before the star was stolen."

"I stay late every night. I'm the featured violinist! This could make my career! I can't practice at home when I've got two sleeping daughters."

"You have recently purchased notably more expensive clothing."

"One suit! That I've been saving up for since July! I can't play for an audience of starfall elites in my old Sunday clothes."

"Stardust has been found in your dressing room."

"Cufflinks!" As the manager's face twisted in confusion, Johannes explained, "I can't afford real star fragments. I bought glass beads filled with stardust. They look almost like the real thing, but they shattered the first time I fastened them."

None of his explanations had any effect on the manager's placid face. "Nevertheless," Abel said, putting his glasses back on his face, "until a more thorough investigation can determine the star's whereabouts, Lady Diriks has deemed it best that you not be allowed on the premises."

"And how do they plan to give the Christmas concerts? Who else is supposed to play my solos?"

"Lars Henning is quite familiar with the music."

"Henning!" Johannes spat. "He's the one who accused me, isn't he?"

The manager blinked and did not speak.

The delay, the hesitation--he might as well have said it aloud.

Henning had hated Johannes since the day he had been given first chair. Johannes had seen the contempt and envy in his eyes every moment of every day. Henning couldn't accept that a starcatcher's son could rise above a scion of one of the city's wealthiest houses.

Johannes snarled, "And he's believed because his father owns a starfall while mine only gathered the stars that fell on it!"

Abel straightened his spectacles. "I assure you that no individual witness had any effect on our patroness' decision."

It would have made all the difference in the world. Starfall stock held fast to their own.

Johannes felt like the floor was falling out from under him. His anger turned into desperation. He leaned over the desk looked into the manager's eyes. "Oskar," he said, man to man, friend to friend, "you have to help me. I've worked for years to get here. I have a wife at home. Children. They need me to bring in--"

The manager's face softened. "A man of your talent will find employment in another company."

Johannes barked a humorless laugh. "A suspected star thief? Accused by Lady Diriks herself? They won't let me near the footlights!"

The manager sighed, and for a moment, he looked almost human. "I'm very sorry, Vinter, but the decision is out of my hands."

If he were sorry, he would have done something. Instead he'd caved to their patroness' demands without question. The odious, spineless, toadying pencil-pusher. A man of business in a house of art. If Johannes shook him, his brains would probably clink like coins.

Johannes picked up his violin and stormed toward the office door. "That'll be a comfort to me when my children are in the poorhouse, I'm sure."

Johannes refused to slink out of the theater like a disgraced criminal, so he put on his hat, overcoat, scarf, and gloves with professional precision, took up his violin case, and strode through the main lobby of the Diriks Concert Hall. The silver chandelier sprawled overhead, its million arms curling like ocean waves. In the light of day, its thousand stars were shuttered in closed lanterns that could be opened with the turning of a single lever. The masterpiece of Lord Bastiaan Diriks himself. Johannes hoped he'd go blind from it.

A single star missing out of a thousand, and Johannes' life was destroyed--his dreams, his hopes, an entire lifetime of work. Johannes' father had nurtured his talent for music, working double shifts to pay for his music lessons and later, to cover the costs that came even to students who went to the music schools on a full scholarship.

You're made for more than the starfields, his father had said. Find a job where they don't search your pockets for stars at sunrise like you're a common thief.

Now here Johannes was, a rising violinist in a prestigious symphony orchestra, cast out for the theft of a star. He could have laughed at the irony if he'd had any heart for it.

Outside, the sky was bright but overcast, sending down a light shower of snowflakes. Carriages rattled past, horses' hooves clattering on the cobblestones. The sidewalks were crowded with the skirts of window-shopping ladies, their children gazing in awe upon the the beautiful theaters. Johannes had hoped to bring his children here someday to see him play. Clara was almost old enough to come. She and Dorit would stay home this year, but his wife Agathe had tickets for the front row on New Year's Eve.

He couldn't face them yet. Couldn't come home in the afternoon when they wouldn't expect him until after midnight. He couldn't go into a tavern or cafe. He didn't dare to waste money on dining or drinking, and had no wish for company who'd know his face and want his story.

So he walked. Up and down the streets of the cruel stone city that had once been the fulfillment of all his hopes. Past markets filled with the luxuries he'd never be able to buy his children. Past houses owned by people who didn't know what it was to struggle and scrimp and have all your dreams destroyed. Past towering churches that seemed to laugh at all his prayers.

Night came early this time of year, and soon the city was darkening to match his mood. The lampkeepers emerged to uncover the streetlamps and unveil the common yellow star fragments within. High above in the clear, cold sky, a million stars, white and distant, seemed to mock him. Johannes knew the old tales of stars falling down to make the fortune of the penniless, virtuous hero who stumbled upon the treasure. If those stories had ever had any truth to them, they were only fantasy now. Should the largest, brightest star in all the heavens fall at his feet, Lady Diriks and her like would see him thrown in prison for touching it.

Ragged urchins came out of the shadows to gather stardust that had fallen from the lamps, or to offer it as heat or light to passersby. Johannes took a pinch of warming dust offered by a dirty-faced girl, placed it in his gloves, and immediately regretted the eighth-krenin he tossed her. He was like her now--always had been, he supposed--living off whatever scraps the rich saw fit to spare him, and he could spare few coins now.

Children shouted as a carriage sped through the streets--large and glossy, with gilded scrollwork and four of its very own star lamps. Through an open curtain, Johannes glimpsed a woman in a red silk gown who wore a dozen colored star fragments as jewels in her hair. Late to the theater, no doubt.

Were Johannes still with the orchestra, he'd be tuning up now. About to play one of the finest symphonies ever written for a crowd of the city's elite--people who'd paid hundreds of krenins to hear him play.

Johannes' temper rose. Lady Diriks had money enough to keep the world's finest musicians as trained pets, and keep the music they played as a luxury for the rich. All these people in the streets around him--good-hearted housewives, grocers, seamstresses, lampkeepers, even dustgirls--could not dream of such wonders.

Johannes could give them the symphony--his part of it, at least. His violin was tuned, his fingers were trained. He could give these people music that the wealthy of the city spent hundreds to hear. If Lady Diriks didn't want him, he would give her music away.

Johannes strode into the pool of yellow light cast by the nearest star lamp. With brisk motions, he set down his case, removed his gloves, picked up his violin, and began to play.

Birgit rushed toward the shining pile of stardust near the lamp post. She knelt on the frozen walkway and tried to gather the glowing treasure into Mama's little clay jar. Mama said falling stardust was the cleanest--Birgit should have been here when the lampkeeper uncovered and cleaned the lamp--but maybe Birgit could wash it in the fountain near the church. She'd watched Mama do it a hundred times. Stardust floated, and she could skim it up with her cloak. Then she could take it to the glassmaker on 42nd Street. He was kindest and gave the most coins.

Birgit had to sell all the stardust she could. Stardust meant coins, which meant clothes and bread and maybe a bed. There was no Mama to get these things. Mama was cold and white and stiff, and Birgit was too afraid to go in the room with those open, frozen eyes.

The memory of this morning put tears in Birgit's eyes. She wasn't crying. She was too big to cry--nearly six years old. But with no Mama--there was no Mama--Birgit felt very small, and the world felt very big and dark and cold. The icy wind sent cold knives through Birgit's threadbare cloak. She huddled against the lamp post and felt too sad and afraid to move.

In the light of the next lamp, a man stopped. He wore a thick brown coat and had shiny black boots. The lamplight made him glow, like the angels holding stars in the big church. Birgit sat up and watched.

The man set a case on the ground and pulled out a fiddle. Then he began to play.

Birgit had heard fiddles before, in taverns and on street corners, but this fiddle sang as those fiddles never had. Its voice was sweet and soft, rich and pure, like angels or lullabies. It sang to the stars, its voice reaching, stretching, quavering, making Birgit think of being warm in Mama's arms.

The song became louder, faster, richer, warmer. It made Birgit think of dancing, of candles, of the big church on Copper Hill. The cold, dark world fell away. Birgit forgot who and where she was. She knew only the music, beautiful and bright, so real that everything else seemed like shadows. Her spirit swam, soared, and danced, following the song high and low, happy and sad, joy and sorrow and so many feelings that Birgit thought she might burst. Stars surrounded her, all sizes and colors, coming down from heaven to hear the music with her.

After eternity had come and gone, the song slowed and faded away, and Birgit was herself again--cold and alone, but no longer afraid.

The music was a warm and glowing treasure in her heart, a bright, beautiful secret that no one could take away from her. And on the ground, in the lamplight, was money. Big silver coins and little copper ones, sitting in and around the man's black case. The stars had brought it, Birgit knew. She knew the stories, had seen it herself. They had come to the call of the music and turned into money. Money that meant clothes and fire and bread for sad and lonely girls.

Birgit forgot to be tired and rushed toward the money. It had fallen from heaven, so it was free to take, just like stardust. She gathered handfuls of coins, holding them close against her dress.

And then a shadow blocked the starlamp, and Birgit remembered to be afraid again.

Johannes saw the stars surround him as he played. At Christmastime, everyone who owned anything with the faintest claim toward being a piece of star jewelry--whether it was a fragment in a necklace, a shard in a ring, or even just some stardust on a hair comb--would wear it on the street. The people that surrounded him wore stars in all colors and sizes, but he could barely do more than glance at them, because the music had him in its thrall.

When Johannes emerged from the song, he was surprised to see the coins at his feet. At first, he was ashamed--he, classically trained, being thrown coins like a common beggar. But that was what he was now, or would be. Once the story spread, respectable people might refuse to give him even coins.

A small, ragged form darted out of the shadows started swiping coins from his case. Johannes' blood rose. The dirty little urchin! Were the creatures everywhere? A plague, an infestation on this city, stealing food from his children's mouths.

Johannes lunged for the coins, prepared to fight off the thief.

The thief looked up, and they met, face-to-face. She was young. A child. As young as his little Clara--no, younger. With sunken cheeks, unbrushed brown hair, bony hands, fingers and nails blue from the cold. Her little gray cloak was thinner than his shirt. Her shoes, scuffed and tattered, barely fit on her feet.

She had nothing, this tiny girl, fighting for her life in the cold, hard city. And he, with a thick overcoat, new shoes, a warm house, and a violin worth a small fortune, had been prepared to fight her for a handful of krenin. Johannes was ashamed of himself.

As the child stared at him, frozen with terror, Johannes gathered a handful of coins and dumped them into the girl's lap. He placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder.

"Little girl," he asked. "Do you have somewhere to get out of the cold?"

Agathe, bless her, understood everything. She gave the child--Birgit--a warm bath and a clean set of clothes--Clara's smallest were still too large on her--while Johannes told her what he had gathered of the girl's history. Her mother dead just this morning--frozen to death, by the sound of it. She had no lice, thank goodness, nor signs of any catching disease, so they gave her a cot near the kitchen stove, after feeding her what they thought she could safely stomach of thin porridge and plain bread.

As Birgit curled up beneath a pink-and-white patchwork quilt, she looked something like a kitten snuggling before a fire, not so different from Clara at that age. She clutched the cloth bag full of coins--she insisted on calling it "star money"--to her chest like a rag doll

"We could take her to the sisters in the morning," Agathe said. "They'll know what to do with her."

"She may have family still living. I could make inquiries."

He'd have time to, now that he was not needed at the concert hall.

"I should have been playing onstage just then," Johannes said. "If I hadn't been there, what would have become of her?" He had a sudden vision of that little face, white and frozen in an alleyway, unseen by dozens of comfortably prosperous people passing by.

Agathe took his hand. "You had far more important places to play tonight."

Johannes looked down upon his wife, the lamplight giving her brown hair an angelic glow. He'd been so concerned for himself--his loss of status, the death of dreams--and so afraid of disappointing his wife and children. Yet his saintly little wife saw only the good this disaster had brought.

"What about tomorrow?" Johannes asked softly. "And all the days after? The story will spread. I may not get work with another orchestra."

"People know you," Agathe said firmly. "They ought to know that the man who'd take in a starving child would never steal a star. If they don't know it, you don't want to play for them."

"Who else can I play for?" Johannes asked. "We can't raise two girls off of coins from the street. I have no other trade."

"Talent like yours will find release. On another city's stage. As a teacher. Even if you only play at home, it will do some good in the world. Whatever happens, God will provide." She squeezed his hand. "It is nice to have you home at Christmastime for a change."

In the distance, church bells chimed the hour. Snowflakes fell softly outside the window. The white walls of the kitchen were bright and clean, the room warm and cozy. This was more pleasant than a practice room.

Boards creaked heavily in the hall, and two small, bleary-eyed girls in white nightdresses peered into the kitchen.

"Girls," Agathe cried, moving toward them. "What are you doing up?"

Clara and Dorit raced past her, their faces alight with joy. "Papa!" Clara shrieked, throwing her arms around his waist. Dorit pressed her face against his legs. Johannes crouched to gather them in his arms.

"You're home early!" Clara said as Johannes pressed a kiss into her hair.

"I couldn't spend another night away from my girls," Johannes said.

Birgit started awake, sitting upright and wide-eyed as she goggled at the riotous little intruders.

Dorit tugged at Johannes' sleeve. "Who's that?"

How to explain a dustgirl--unimaginable poverty and desperation--to such innocents? "She's a little friend who needed a place to sleep. I met her when I was playing my violin on the street."

Clara seized one of her Johannes' wrists and tried to drag him toward where his violin case sat on the kitchen table. "Can you play for us, Papa? We haven't had any Christmas music yet! You give it all to everyone else."

Johannes was startled. When was the last time he'd played for the girls? He'd spent so much time practicing at the concert hall lately, living deep within the symphony, that he hadn't considered how little music they had in their lives.

On the cot, little Birgit sat with tangled hair and dark circles under her eyes. Johannes told his daughters, "Maybe tomorrow. Our guest needs to sleep."

The girls broke into an outcry of, "No!" and "Please, Papa!"

To his surprise, one of the voices was a small, raspy one from the cot.

Johannes crouched beside the little dustgirl. "Would you like to hear some music?"

The little girl's eyes glowed with wonder, as if he'd just offered to do magic. "Please," she whispered.

Johannes clapped his hands against his knees. "Very well." He sprang to his feet and removed his violin from its case with a flourish. It glowed golden-brown in the lamplight, and seemed to be quivering--almost alive--beneath his fingers. He placed the rest between his chin and held the bow over the strings.

He basked in the glow of in his warm little kitchen, with snowflakes falling outside, surrounded by the shining eyes of his wife and daughters and one adoring little dustgirl. He was home with his family instead of hidden away in a practice room. A child who might not have survived the night was now warm and safe. What were concerts, accusations, and even Lars Henning's jealousy, compared to that? All troubles could wait until morning. For now, Johannes would be grateful.

With a smile, Johannes touched his bow to the strings and played a song about a Christmas star.

#the bookshelf progresses #starfall #inklingschallenge #inklingschristmaschallenge #inklings christmas challenge 2023

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areyoudreaminof · 1 year

Text

Masterlist of Stuff

ACOTAR Playlist Project

A Quiet Dreamer: An Elain Archeron Playlist

Master of Herself: A Nesta Archeron Playlist

Stars Eternal: A Feyre Archeron Playlist

Moon on a String: A Lucien Vanserra Playlist

Night Triumphant: A Rhysand Playlist

No Regrets in this Life: A Cassian Playlist

To Hell With a Reputation: A Mor Playlist

Whisper of Darkness: An Azriel Playlist

A Dreamer With No Stars: An Eris Vanserra Playlist

The Rock Against the Surf: A Gwyn Berdara Playlist

Nothing Can Break Me: An Emerie Playlist

Leave Out a Cup For Me: An Amren Playlist

Golden Hour: An Elucien Playlist

and we kissed as though nothing could fall: A Helion x LoA Playlist

Dreams That Answer: A Feysand Week Playlist

This Life and the Next: A Nessian Playlist

Every Second Counts: An Emorie Playlist

Storm Song: A Gwynriel Playlist

King Under Your Control: An Azris Playlist

Fics:

Elucien+BoE

Bed Without Dessert

Game Night

Unsupervised

Feysand

Dreaming in Color

Three Birds of a Feather

Elucien

Golden Hour: An Elucien Playlist

Hover Corte

This Must Be The Place

I’ll Take You To The Boba Shop

A Symphony of Crickets

Future Rust and Future Dust

Jurian/Vassa

Danse Macabre

Nesta & Nyx

Sleepover House Rules

Lady of Autumn/Helion

with my fingers burned, I start anew

Beyond: ACOTAR Gift Exchange 2023

Next Gen:

The First Annual Starfall Snipe Hunt

#masterpost #masterlist #fics #acotar playlists

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slytherhys · 2 years

Text

Secrets and Promises

An Elriel Starfall One Shot

Warning: NSFW | word count: 2,5k

The entire city of Velaris seemed to stand still in time.

The night breeze was warm against Elain’s skin, wrapping around her like a soft caress as she looked beyond the balcony, the familiar scent of jasmine and lemon a comforting reminder of her new home. The city was engulfed in darkness, the only sign of life the happy chatter and soft music that was heard throughout the streets of the city. Velaris had always seemed more alive come dusk, but during Starfall it was like the entire city breathed night – her friends included.

Elain watched as her family and friends chatted happily around the dinner room, the only light the two small candles on top of the table, whose flames danced softly with the night breeze.

Rhys and Feyre were sitting at the table, Feyre on Rhys’ lap as he stroked her hair and spoke to Mor and Emerie. Feyre looked two seconds away from falling asleep, but Elain couldn’t blame her. Nyx was a happy child – one that had no trouble tiring his parents throughout the day. Elain was sure they would stay for the migration of the spirits before retreating to their own room, where Nyx already rested peacefully. Nesta and Cassian were just a bit further away from the table, locked in a tight embrace as they swayed to the song that played softly. Her sister looked gorgeous in a red gown, one that Cassian enjoyed a lot, if his lingering touches were any indication.

No one seemed to pay her any mind. Elain couldn’t say she was bothered by it – not when she was just about to leave the party.

She was thankful for her satin slippers as she made her way out of the room, her lavender dress flowing around her body like a soft caress. She had chosen it specifically for the night: a periwinkle silk gown with a plunging neckline, a low-cut back and a belt that marked her silhouette before flowing into a pleated, empire skirt. The entire down was dotted with tiny crystals – like dawn personified. The first rays of morning light where the stars still flickered in the sky; or the night sky before it turned into something else. Darkness and light, meeting halfway. It had felt appropriate.

“Elain,” a familiar voice called out, stopping her dead in her tracks. Elain felt her heart drop inside her chest as she took a deep breath, willing her body to relax. She turned around, meeting Amren’s mischievous gaze. Even now that her eyes were nothing but human, Elain couldn’t help but notice they seemed to see too much. Know too much.

“Happy Starfall.” Elain managed, concealing her shaky hands behind her back. Amren smirked, as if knowing exactly what she was hiding.

“Leaving so soon?” Amren’s eyes glanced down the corridor Elain was about to walk, her smirk growing bigger as her eyes met Elain’s once again. Elain felt her cheeks heat and despite the dark corridor, it was almost as if she noticed that too.

“I fear I have a headache,” Elain smiled softly. “I was just heading to my room to see if I have any powder left.”

Amren raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of her glass of…God, Elain hoped that was red wine. “Interesting.” She simply said, turning in the dining room’s direction.

Interesting? There was nothing interesting about it at all. At least there was nothing interesting for Amren to know.

“Pardon me?” Elain chuckled nervously.

“Azriel,” Amren said simply, turning her head back to Elain. “He had a headache too. Left 30 minutes ago.” A smirk bloomed in her lips. “To look for some powder, as well.”

Elain felt the colour drain out of her face, her hands clammy and shaking. Her dress suddenly felt like lead against her body, her necklace just inches shy of choking her. That idiot.

“Worry not, girl. I am not one to reveal secrets.” Amren said simply, her face more serious that it had been all night. “But I advise you two to be smart about this.”

“What do you mean?” She hated herself for asking, hated herself for the curiosity she could hear in her own voice.

“What this entails…” Amren’s grey gaze burned into hers. “You’re not as oblivious as you try to seem.”

Elain stood straighter, her heart racing inside her chest. “I’m not going to leave him.”

“Not am I telling you to do it.” She raised a perfectly groomed brow. “But for the sake of us all, make sure it’s worth it.”

And then she turned swiftly, leaving Elain behind as darkness cloaked her once again. Elain felt restless, unsure on how to proceed.

She knew she eventually would have to talk to Rhys and Feyre and come clean, and despite knowing she would get Feyre’s full support, there was still something holding her back. Amren was right, too much was at stake. With Lucien, and Beron… Everything felt unstable, fragile. She didn’t want to taint what she had with Az - not when the whole world seemed set on breaking them apart.

So, Elain would keep him close, for as long as she could, if only to protect him. If only so she could have him one more night without worrying. She could worry come morning.

Every step further into the halls of the House of Wind threw her further into darkness, but she was used to it by then, unable to avoid the flutter in her stomach as she came closer to her destiny. Elain felt her heart settle as soon as she was met with a familiar scent – night-chilled mist and cedar. She couldn’t see him, but she was sure he could see her. Like he always had.

Elain followed the trail, smiling to herself as she spotted a single white rose on the floor by the half-closed door that led to an unfamiliar room. It was a big, yet plain, room, with only one king-sized bed with light sheets and a matching ottoman at its feet. The glass doors leading to the balcony were wide open, the light, mesh curtains moving slightly with the breeze. The sound of the celebration was more muted here considering they weren’t facing the city centre anymore.

Azriel was nowhere to be seen, but she knew he was there; could feel him standing close, his presence as comforting as it was exhilarating.

She circled the bed, making her way outside. The migration was bound to start any minute now and it wasn’t something she wanted to miss. Not even Azriel could tempt her to do that.

She was just about to lean over the rail when she felt him standing behind her; his scarred hand trailing up her arm, leaving goosebumps in its trail.

“What took you so long?” He muttered; his lips pressed against her neck. Elain tilted her head, allowing him to press wet kisses from her shoulder up to the soft spot behind her neck that always made her shiver. She could almost feel him smirk against her skin.

“It’s been 10 minutes.” Elain chuckled, but it came out breathless as Azriel nibbled her ear, his hand pushing her hair away.

“Felt like more.” He hummed, softly turning her around before cradling her cheek and kissing her tenderly. His lips were soft, teasing against hers as his other arm held her against his body. He was trying to be gentle, holding himself back, and that was the last thing Elain wanted, needed, in that moment. Her hands found his dark hair and pulled, just as she bit his bottom lip. Azriel groaned before pulling away, his eyes hooded as he watched her mouth draw back into a smirk. “Wicked little thing.” He purred, before he finally kissed her senseless, his tongue a steady force against her own.

It was always like this between them – pure, unrestricted loving. They were forced to spend their time hidden in the shadows, meeting in the dark, but when they came together it was as if there was no force stronger than them. Elain revelled in it, even if she longed to be with him without the secrecy of the night.

“Az,” she whined, trying to pull away and laughing when he wouldn’t let her. “Azriel.” She chuckled, pulling back just an inch. He was panting, his lips swollen and red, a greedy glint in his eyes.

“You look beautiful.” He murmured, his cheeks darkening slightly as he dropped his head to kiss her again. Elain giggled, turning her head away.

“I want to watch the stars.”

Azriel smirked and raised an eyebrow, the look on his face pure sin as he turned her body around. Elain barely had the time to hold herself against the rail of the balcony before feeling his hands make their way down her legs. “Azriel-”

He shushed her quietly, his hands softly pulling her dress up her legs. The feeling of the fabric and his hands against her exposed skin made her shiver, her own arms faltering as she closed her eyes.

“What are you doing?” She asked, breathless as she felt him press a kiss against the nape of her neck.

“My lady wants to see the stars,” he started, his fingers trailing the outline of her underwear. Elain felt her breathing falter, the anticipation of what was to come nearly enough to send her over the edge. “so I’ll help her.” And then he was pulling down her panties, exposing her need to his eyes only. “Now be a good girl for me and bend over.”

Elain happily obeyed, her entire body feeling entirely too tight as he pressed his hips against hers, just enough for Elain to feel the naked hardness of him press against her, teasing her with what was to come. She moaned, for more reasons than one, melting into him as he whispered her name. Elain’s hand blindly reached for his, Azriel swiftly interlacing their fingers just as he started easing in, meeting with little resistance. A stuttered gasp coming out of Elain’s lips as he pulled back and thrust back in, pushing deeper each time. Az cursed under his breath, his hands holding her hips steady as he filled her deliciously.

“Are you watching, Elain?” He hummed as his hand cradled her jaw gently, making her look up. She hadn’t even realised she had closed her eyes, snapping them open just in time to see one single star cross the sky, its light bright enough to illuminate the night around them. She gasped as Az thrust inside her again just as a shower of light crossed the skies of Velaris. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss against her shoulder, the soft words whispered against her skin branding her like oaths. Mine. Beautiful. Perfect.

It had never felt like this - they had never felt like this before. He liked to push her to her limit, teasing her until she was blinded with pleasure. He wasn’t afraid of showing her what he liked, and she wasn’t afraid of testing her own boundaries.

Yet nothing had ever felt as right as they did in that moment. A secret and a promise, made under the stars.

He felt impossibly deep inside of her, the drag of him slow and torturous enough that when his long fingers found her centre, swiping her wetness at a delirious pace, she knew she wouldn’t last much longer. Az cursed under his breath as he leaned into her, nibbling at her ear, the noises coming out of his mouth louder with each thrust. It was so easy to lose themselves to the pleasure until they could think of nothing else.

“So good,” he groaned against her neck where he was marking her with his mouth. “So right for me.”

“Azriel.” She whimpered, too overwhelmed to say anything else.

“I know, love.” He soothed, thrusting harder as he pressed his fingers against her centre. Elain felt heat coil inside her stomach, her breath catching in her lungs. Her entire world seemed to begin and end with him. “Let go, baby.” He bit her lip, his rhythm getting sloppier. “I got you. You can trust me.” He murmured. Elain felt her release course through her body, harder than ever before. She moaned out his name as her world shattered around them, her head tipping back as he kept kissing her neck, thrusting once more before he finally spilled inside of her.

The world around them seemed to stand still as they caught their breaths. Music could still be heard throughout Velaris as people celebrated, even if the stars had long faded into memories. She could only feel her heart race inside her chest; his heart beating in answer.

Azriel pressed a kiss to her cheek before stepping away, tucking himself in before retreating to the room. He returned only a few seconds later, an old rag in his hand and a sheepish smile on his face. She watched him fall to his knees and clean between her legs with as much care as possible. His lip turned up at her surprised gasp, before he pressed a kiss to her thigh, threw the rag away and got up again, pulling her to his arms.

Elain couldn’t help but smile up at him as she felt him sway them to the beat of a distant song, emotion swelling up in her chest as he pressed a kiss against her forehead.

How could anyone question this? How, when nothing had ever fitted her as right as Azriel did. How, when he held her like this, like he couldn’t possibly bear to be one second more apart from her. His love for her glowing in his eyes just as her love for him glowed inside her chest, a silent reminder that she was fighting for the right thing.

“Az?” She called, her head resting against his chest.

“Yes, love?”

“Do you trust me?” She glanced at him, smiling softly at the frown on his beautiful face.

“With my body and soul.” He answered without missing a beat.

Elain felt herself smile, heat rising to her cheeks. Azriel chuckled, kissing her blushing skin as he kept their gentle sway. She could hear people laugh, talk, and sing all over the city. The familiar voices of their friends sent a pang through her as she remembered all the reasons they couldn’t celebrate with them. Not yet, at least.

She wouldn’t tell Azriel what had happened earlier. She knew that if he found out about Amren, he would run himself to the ground trying to find a solution, a plan for them to keep going as they were. But Elain didn’t want that. She wanted lazy afternoons in the garden, wanted to sleep in his bed without having to worry someone would catch them, wanted to see her family grow with him by her side. She wanted him, unrestrictedly.

Elain wouldn’t let anyone choose for her. Not on this, not anymore. She had created something special for herself in Velaris; had found comfort in her friends and family. They were finally happy, thankfully. And now it was her time.

Elain pressed a kiss to Azriel’s chest as they slow-danced under the dark night sky.

It was her time to choose – and it was Azriel’s time to be chosen. And a day wouldn’t go by where she wouldn’t choose him, over and over again.

#elriel #elain x azriel #elriel fic #elriel oneshot #pro elriel #pro elain #acotar fanfiction #elriel fanfiction #secrets and promises #elriel starfall

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