#gwynriel fanfic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starsreminisce · 1 month

Note

“is it bad that I HC that Gwyn and Lucien end up bonding over being two AC exiles for Az and Elain to be like... why are they even friends? Just for them to be like "dude, we're cousins"

what I would give to see this LOL just putting this out in the universe: someone pls write this!!

I had this cooking and finally got it in a place I liked. Putting this out in the universe too if anyone wanted to write this HC! Heavy on Elucien but maybe part two - choose your adventure kind? Maybe?

Hope you enjoy!

Lucien stood in the softly lit room, a tapestry of emotions etched across his features. He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips in deep contemplation, a slight furrow between his brows, his thoughts churning like a tempestuous sea. Across from him, Feyre watched him with a trace of annoyance, her eyes narrowing as they darted between him and the four meticulously wrapped presents he had placed on the ornate table in the center of the room.

Her voice was tinged with a mix of frustration and curiosity as she probed, "So you really aren't going to show up to the Solstice party tonight?"

Lucien, leaning against the table, exhaled a deep sigh and offered a nonchalant shrug, his eyes not quite meeting hers. "I've made other plans," he replied, his voice tinged with an air of mystery.

Feyre's exasperation grew, her gaze fixed on him. "With who? We lent you the townhouse so you could be with Vassa and Jurian. So, they'll be here, and you'll be where?"

Lucien hesitated, choosing his words carefully before he reluctantly responded, "Not here."

"Lucien," Feyre's tone turned more insistent, a mix of concern and frustration lacing her words.

Lucien gritted his teeth, the painful truth lingering unspoken. The prospect of enduring another Solstice haunted him, the weight of pretending that Elain's indifference didn't affect him becoming unbearable. The anticipation of witnessing her distant gaze, as if she wished he were anywhere but there, compounded the pain. Gifting her another token of his affections only to receive silence in return seemed like a masochistic cycle.

His mechanical eye clicked softly as he tried to maintain composure, "You're mad at me over something else."

Feyre's frustration softened into a weary sigh. She stepped closer, her voice laced with genuine concern, "You've been here for a week, Lucien, and we haven't even had dinner together. Do I need to make an appointment for you to have dinner with us over the next week?"

"I am sorry," Lucien admitted, his voice laced with sincerity and a hint of regret. "People heard I'm on vacation and wanted to catch up."

Feyre's frown deepened as she studied him, a mix of sympathy and irritation dancing in her eyes. "I didn't realize you were so popular."

Lucien extended his hands in a gesture of surrender, his palms exposed in a placating manner. "If I don't get too caught up where I am, I promise I'll stop by. Is that fair?"

“You're not spending the night here? But it’s tradition,” Feyre protested, her voice a touch wistful.

Lucien shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of his choices press upon him. “It seems rude to come back here when everyone is asleep.”

Feyre considered his words for a moment before reluctantly nodding her head, the tension in the room easing slightly. She understood his reasons, even if she didn't entirely agree with them.

Lucien couldn't help but flash a warm, reassuring grin as he closed the gap between them, embracing Feyre gently. "Happy Birthday Solstice."

Feyre returned his hug, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Please stop by. It'll make me happy."

—-

Elain returned from shopping, her heart sinking as she caught a whiff of Lucien's signature spiced scent, reminiscent of mulled wine, lingering in the air. She inhaled sharply, her gaze drawn to the four beautifully wrapped presents on the table. She hadn't bought him a gift during her last excursion, and the feeling of dread settled in the pit of her stomach. She knew that Lucien's generosity only deepened the guilt she felt, a silent reminder of a connection she had been avoiding.

Suppressing her unease, she sucked in a steadying breath and returned to the kitchen to focus on finishing her cooking. She silently prayed that the night would go smoothly, and that Lucien wouldn't try to engage her in conversation.

The day wore on, and Elain became absorbed in the meticulous preparation of the Solstice meal. She took pride in her improved kitchen skills but couldn't help feeling a touch weary, knowing that she had to anticipate four more guests than usual. Her mind wandered briefly to the mysterious presents on the table, wondering what they held and why Lucien had left them.

As she let the last dish cool, she decided it was time to change into something more festive, even though her heart wasn't fully in the celebration. She heard the first guests arriving, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Elain made her way to the staircase, her steps hesitant.

Before she could reach the stairs, she came face to face with Azriel, the same spot where he had uttered those words that had pierced her heart.

“Happy Solstice,” she said, forcing a cheerful note into her voice.

“Happy Solstice,” he replied, his voice soft and filled with an emotion she couldn't quite place.

Elain gave a curt nod and began to ascend the stairs when she heard him say, “Elain, wait.”

She turned back to him, her eyebrows raised, waiting for him to say something, to bridge the chasm that had grown between them. He only looked at her, his shoulders slumped, but still, no words came forth.

“Excuse me, I have to get ready,” she said, her tone a mixture of politeness and distance. Azriel nodded in understanding, and with a heavy heart, Elain continued her journey up the stairs, hoping that the night wouldn't bring about more painful conversations.

Elain took her time getting ready, feeling the weight of her avoidance weigh on her as she prepared for the evening. She knew that she was deliberately sidestepping the issue, and as she made her way back down the stairs, she couldn't help but notice the conspicuous absence in the room.

A gnawing unease settled in her stomach as she looked around the dinner table, the first of many singular questions on her mind. Still, her pride held her back from voicing them aloud.

“Where is Lucien?” Nesta asked, her sharp observation marking his absence.

“Not here,” Feyre replied, her tone carrying a hint of mockery as she took a sip of wine.

Elain furrowed her brows as she took a seat, and Nesta pressed on, glancing towards Vassa and Jurian. “So where is he?”

Vassa and Jurian exchanged a glance and then looked up at the ceiling as if it held the answers they sought. “He mentioned where he might be.”

“Summer Court to visit Alis?” Vassa suggested.

Jurian frowned, deep in thought. “That was last week. I think he’s at Dawn Court with Nuan.”

“No,” Vassa shook her head. “Nuan was earlier in the week. Didn’t Eris say he wanted to meet up with him?”

“I thought he met up with Eris right before Hewn City Solstice,” Cassian chimed in.

“Viviane invited him to their Winter Solstice celebration,” Mor finally answered, unraveling the mystery.

Feyre's expression soured. “So he would rather be at some high-class shindig than here with family? No wonder why he didn’t want to tell me.”

Rhys, ever diplomatic, gave a sympathetic smile towards his mate. “Their celebrations are quite fantastic. A little formal but at least he’s not in Day with their drinking, dancing and dallying debauchery.”

Elain's clenched fists revealed the turmoil within her as the reality of Lucien's absence settled in. She had known all along what it meant, though she had refused to admit it to herself.

“Am I too late?” a voice broke the tension, making Nesta and her friend, Emerie, jump up with excitement.

Elain looked up to see a copper-haired female with a stunning pair of teal eyes hesitantly entering the dining room. Gwyn, she recalled the name. Gwyn sheepishly smiled and exchanged a warm hug with Nesta before finding a seat near them. She then cast a glance towards Azriel, who responded with a grateful smile.

However, that smile quickly vanished, replaced by irritation, when Gwyn inquired, “Lucien’s not here?”

“Evidently not,” Nesta snorted. “We aren't high class enough for him these days.”

Gwyn pouted, a hint of disappointment in her expression. “That's too bad. I was hoping to see him.”

Dinner proceeded smoothly, the atmosphere filled with stories and anecdotes about Lucien's year. Elain couldn't help but grow increasingly irritated as she noticed Gwyn's evident fascination with her mate. Vassa and Jurian happily contributed to the conversation, sharing stories about Lucien that painted a picture of him quite different from the one Elain had imagined.

There were tales of Lucien chasing Tamlin in his beast form to coax him into eat, moments when Lucien had to babysit a drunken Graysen, instances where Lucien's sharp wit had managed to persuade the council to agree in record time, and even times when Lucien and Eris had raised their voices, causing the very house to rumble with their power.

Elain attempted to engage in the various conversations swirling around her, but it seemed that everyone else was preoccupied. Azriel, in particular, was focused on catching Gwyn's attention, while Feyre, Rhysand, Cassian, and Nesta appeared eager to escape for some private moments. Mor and Emerie were engaged in playful flirtation, and Jurian and Vassa seemed entranced by their own private world as they discussed their observations of the fae realm with Varian and Amren.

Elain needed something to divert her thoughts from the realization that she missed Lucien. The longing in her heart was something she couldn't quite comprehend, and it left her feeling adrift in a sea of emotions.

The party eventually transitioned to the spacious living room, where the conversations continued to fill the air. Elain's gaze kept drifting toward Azriel, who was engrossed in a deep conversation with Gwyn. Feyre clapped her hands together and excitedly declared that it was time to open presents. Rhysand snapped his fingers, conjuring even more presents to join the ones Lucien had already placed on the table. Elain's excitement grew, wondering how well the presents she had chosen for her family would be received and suddenly eager to see what Lucien had prepared for her.

As the presents were distributed and unwrapped, Elain found herself delighted with a new cookbook, some shiny baking ware, and a set of gardening tools. Her heart warmed as she felt the gentle tickle of her bond with Lucien, the familiar spiced scent of her mate washing over her.

“Lucien!” Gwyn exclaimed, leaving Azriel behind to give Elain’s mate a warm hug. Elain had to summon all her self-control to keep herself from pulling Gwyn away from Lucien.

He looked impeccable, wearing cream-colored pants, high black boots, and a periwinkle jacket adorned with small snowflakes, and a cravat to complete the outfit. Of course, his attire perfectly complemented Elain’s lavender dress.

“You came!” Feyre greeted him with a bright smile, her arms enveloping Lucien warmly as he returned the gesture with a grin that reached his eyes, reflecting the warmth of the hearth.

“Had to,” Lucien replied with a playful wink, his voice carrying a hint of mischief. “A certain someone might melt my mind tomorrow if I didn’t show.”

Rhysand, ever composed, responded coolly, his sapphire eyes glinting with amusement, “I said nothing of the sort.”

Feyre quickly steered the conversation toward the exchange of presents, her voice eager as she anticipated the joy of the moment. Lucien's smile faltered slightly as he settled into his seat, his features becoming more guarded.

He kept his expression neutral as the last few presents were revealed, his gaze shifting between his friends with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Feyre shifted around, her brow furrowing in confusion before her gaze landed on Lucien, who simply blinked and then looked at Elain, a silent plea for understanding in her eyes.

The first present was a small box for Cassian, wrapped with care and adorned with a simple bow. As Cassian cautiously opened it, his fingers grazing the delicate paper, he discovered it contained only a calling card. "What's this?" he asked, perplexed, his voice a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

Lucien grinned mischievously, the corners of his lips quirking up in amusement. "The name of my tailor. About time you start dressing the part of a courtier in colors that compliment black," he teased, his tone light but tinged with affection.

Cassian's eyes lit up as he whooped in delight, his laughter filling the room like a warm breeze. He threw Lucien a playful grin and said, “I got you something, pretty boy.”

She felt her heart sink when he uttered, “I think that’s my first present,” the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air like a stormcloud on the horizon.

It sank even further when his face broke into a huge smile upon opening his present. Cassian gifted him a set of Illyrian blades, the metal glinting in the soft glow of the fire. He looked at the set of daggers, marveling at the gems embedded in the steel, his admiration shining in his eyes like the sun in the blue sky.

“I was laughed at, by the way,” Cassian said, his voice tinged with amusement. “But Feyre made sure to point out that you like jewels with your blades,” he added, his grin widening as he recalled the memory.

Elain frowned, her mind racing with thoughts she struggled to articulate. She didn’t know that about him, a realization that left her feeling strangely disconnected from the moment unfolding before her.

The second present was a book for Nesta, wrapped in elegant paper and tied with a delicate ribbon. Nesta's eyes widened in surprise, her lips parting in astonishment. "Is this what I think it is?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her fingers trembling as she reached out to touch the spine.

Lucien nodded with a smile, his gaze softening as he watched her reaction with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty.

Nesta examined the book with a mixture of awe and disbelief, her fingers tracing the embossed letters on the cover. Then, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, she exclaimed, "But this is rare, and you hate this book. This is my favorite book."

She went on to describe the rarity of the edition, her words tumbling out in a rush of excitement and gratitude. Elain listened intently, her heart aching with a strange mixture of longing and regret.

Nesta turned to him and smiled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I got you something too,” she teased, her tone playful yet with affection.

The color drained from Lucien’s face as he accepted the gift, his fingers trembling slightly as he unwrapped it with care. Elain watched as Lucien winced while Nesta thoroughly enjoyed his reaction, a sense of unease settling over her like a shadow.

Lucien groaned and held up the book to Nesta, his expression a mixture of disbelief and resignation. Elain's heart twisted with sympathy as she witnessed the exchange, her emotions swirling like leaves in the autumn wind.

“Really?” He asked, his eyes betraying a mixture of surprise and amusement.

Nesta lifted her chin defiantly, her gaze unwavering as she met his gaze head-on. “You can not not read a gift. It’s my favorite book,” she countered.

“Favorite book? You just said that the one I got you was your favorite,” Lucien pointed out, a hint of confusion coloring his words.

“I can have multiple favorites,” Nesta replied matter-of-factly.

Lucien frowned and started to flip towards the end of the book, his curiosity getting the better of him. Nesta lunged at him, her laughter echoing in the room as she tried to pry the book away from him. Elain tried to remain calm as she watched Nesta straddle him, a sense of unease settling over her like a shroud.

“No one dies,” said Nesta, her voice filled with laughter as she tried to reassure him. “I promise!”

Too close, Elain thought, her heart pounding in her chest like a drumbeat. They were too close, the air thick with tension and unspoken emotions. She glanced towards an agitated Cassian, his expression mirroring her own concerns.

“Can you please get off my mate?” Cassian interjected, his voice laced with amusement yet tinged with concern.

“She’s on top of me!” Lucien protested, his words muffled by Nesta's laughter.

“No one dies in this one, Lucien,” Emerie confirmed, her tone reassuring. Nesta pulled herself away from him, her laughter echoing in the room like a melody.

The third present was a play bow and arrow for Nyx, the wooden toy gleaming in the soft light of the fire. The little boy's face lit up with excitement, his eyes sparkling with delight as he reached out to touch the gift with wonder.

Gwyn’s eyes widened in surprise as Feyre peered into the present, her expression a mixture of curiosity and admiration. Elain chewed on her cheek nervously as Gwyn and Lucien exchanged a knowing look, their unspoken understanding hanging in the air like a veil.

“Autumn Court tradition,” Lucien explained. “When we reach his age, we choose the weapon that becomes our weapon to master. Not surprising that your son picked that.”

The last present was a package of the molten chocolate Alis used to make for Feyre, the sweet aroma filling the room like a comforting embrace. It brought tears to her eyes, her emotions overwhelming her in a tidal wave of nostalgia and gratitude.

Four presents from Lucien. None of them were hers.

“I guess that’s it for presents,” Feyre said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, the weight of disappointment hanging heavy in the air like a lingering fog.

The unspoken weight of Lucien's deliberate omission of a gift for Elain lingered heavily, casting an uncomfortable tension that no one seemed willing to address. Elain felt an isolating sense as she sat there, her emotions swirling, sensing the collective gaze upon her. Lucien resumed chatting with Gwyn.

Desperate for reprieve from the scrutiny of her family's concerned gazes, Elain fought to maintain a composed facade, pretending that she was unfazed by the absence of a gift from her mate. With a small, forced smile, she excused herself under the pretense of needing a moment alone.

"I just remembered I left something in the kitchen. I'll be right back," she said softly, her voice barely trembling.

As she left the room and retreated to the kitchen, her heart ached with the weight of the unanswered questions and the awkwardness that had settled between her and Lucien. The sense of rejection and disappointment gnawed at her, but she was determined to keep up the appearance of being fine.

In the kitchen, Elain took a moment to gather herself, her breaths deep and measured as she fought to suppress the tumult of emotions swirling within her. She reminded herself sternly that she hadn't purchased any gifts for Lucien either, though the hope that the presents were meant for her persisted, stubbornly clinging to her thoughts. As her heartbeat slowed and her breathing steadied, she cast a glance at the untouched cake, resolving that it was time to present it to the guests.

Just as she was about to leave the kitchen, she froze upon catching snippets of conversation between Feyre and Lucien in the adjacent room.

"You humiliated her," Feyre's accusation rang out, sharp and cutting.

Lucien's response was swift, his tone tinged with defensiveness, "I would never intend to humiliate her. I merely thought—"

Feyre interrupted, her voice edged with disbelief, "Thought what, Lucien?"

His reply was clipped, filled with frustration, "That perhaps Azriel could offer her the comfort she deserves."

Feyre's confusion was palpable as she questioned, "Why Azriel?"

The tension in Lucien's voice was unmistakable, "Do I really need to spell it out for you, Feyre?"

As the conversation unfolded, Elain's heart raced once more, a surge of anger coursing through her veins. She retreated from the door, her steps quick and purposeful, only to find herself face to face with Feyre upon her entrance.

"What's going on between you and Lucien? And now Azriel?" Feyre's concern was evident in her gaze.

Elain's response was terse, her tone firm, "Nothing. It's nothing."

Feyre's expression softened, but her concern lingered, "Elain, please—"

Elain's patience snapped, her voice laced with frustration, "I said it's nothing."

She turned her back on Feyre, her resolve firm as she focused on finishing the cake. Each movement was deliberate, her hands working with precision as she willed Feyre to understand, hoping her sister would take the hint and leave her be. The tension between them hung thick in the air, an unspoken barrier dividing their shared space. She heard Feyre sigh, a sound heavy with unresolved emotions.

Once Feyre departed, Elain finished the cake with meticulous care, her hands moving with practiced ease despite the turmoil brewing within her. Placing it on a table, she plastered a smile on her face, though the weight of unresolved tensions lingered heavily still. Her gaze wandered across the room, seeking solace in the familiar faces of her companions.

She spotted Lucien, Gwyn, Vassa, and Jurian engrossed in a serious conversation, their expressions grave and their voices hushed. A pang of anxiety gripped her heart as she watched them, sensing the weight of their discussion. And then, her eyes landed on Azriel, standing alone in the corner, his posture rigid and his eyes fixed on Lucien with an intensity that made Elain uneasy.

Feeling a surge of recklessness fueled by anger and frustration, Elain made her way towards Azriel, each step a silent declaration of her determination to confront the palpable tension between them.

Elain's voice carried a hint of defiance as she initiated the conversation, her eyes fixed on Azriel's distant gaze, refusing to be ignored.

"Can we talk?" she pressed, her tone tinged with urgency, a silent plea for understanding.

Azriel's silence was deafening, his demeanor unyielding, but Elain persisted, repeating her question with growing impatience, her gaze sharpening with determination.

"What do you want to talk about?" Azriel's response was measured, his voice betraying a subtle tension beneath the calm facade.

Before Elain could formulate a response, Gwyn's laughter filled the room, momentarily distracting them from their exchange. With Vassa and Jurian engrossed in the allure of cake, Elain and Azriel observed in silence as Gwyn playfully interacted with Lucien, their laughter forming a barrier between them.

Elain's heart twisted with a pang of jealousy as she watched Lucien's easy camaraderie with Gwyn, the contrast to their own strained dynamic stark in her mind. Beside her, she sensed Azriel's clenched fists, his emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

Struggling to break through the tension, Elain blurted out the words that had been weighing on her mind, her voice barely a whisper but heavy with significance.

"You like Gwyn," she murmured, the admission hanging in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the complexities that lay between them, fraught with unspoken desires and unaddressed feelings.

Elain observed the subtle softening of Azriel's features at the mention of Gwyn's name, his gaze drifting back toward the pair engaged in lighthearted banter. Gwyn's laughter rang out like a bell, a melody that seemed to tug at Azriel's heartstrings, while Lucien's grin radiated warmth and charm, drawing her in like a moth to a flame.

"I do," Azriel admitted, his voice tinged with a mixture of resignation and longing. His eyes remained fixed on Gwyn, a silent testament to the depths of his unspoken affection.

Her heart clenched at his confession, the realization dawning upon her with painful clarity. She shifted uncomfortably, fingers nervously toying with the fabric of her skirt, the soft rustle of the fabric a stark contrast to the heavy silence that enveloped them.

"But I thought... I thought that you liked me," she ventured quietly, unable to mask the hurt in her voice.

Azriel's gaze fell to his scarred hands, his expression guarded, revealing a vulnerability that cut through the shadows shrouding his usual demeanor. Elain felt a pang of sorrow as she witnessed his internal struggle, the unspoken acknowledgment that she had never been enough for him.

She sucked in a shaky breath, blinking back the tears threatening to spill. Despite her diminishing affections, the sting of rejection still lingered, a bitter reminder of what could never be.

Forcing a strained smile, she offered a feeble reassurance, "Lucien is mated to me, so I doubt you have to worry about that." The words felt hollow on her tongue, a feeble attempt to mask the ache in her heart.

A soft chuckle escaped Azriel's lips before his attention returned to the scene before them, where Lucien's grin contrasted sharply with Gwyn's horrified expression as she playfully chastised him. The warmth of the fire cast flickering shadows across their faces, lending an air of intimacy to the moment.

"Perhaps it's my punishment," Azriel mused quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Lucien puts her at ease." The flames danced in his eyes, reflecting the turmoil of his inner thoughts.

Elain's heart ached at his admission, the realization sinking in that she had been blind to the depth of Lucien's impact on Gwyn. She watched the pair with a mixture of envy and resignation, her own feelings tangled in a web of unspoken desires and unfulfilled longing.

Azriel's voice held a note of self-recrimination as he continued, his words heavy with regret, "I was arrogant enough to think that because you weren't interested in him, he wasn't deserving to be your mate. But look how he makes her laugh and smile." Each word felt like a dagger to Elain's heart, a painful reminder of what she had lost.

"I don’t... I don’t give her that," Azriel confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "A year ago, she didn't like being touched by any male. She could barely handle being alone with another male, and I was surprised she allowed me to stay with her. But next thing I knew, she was talking about Lucien, and how she was helping him, and then they spent so much time alone together." The confession hung heavy in the air, a silent testament to the depth of his longing.

Elain's breath caught in her throat as Azriel's anguish became palpable, his clenched fists betraying the depth of his torment. The soft glow of the fire cast flickering shadows across their faces, lending an air of intimacy to the moment.

"I thought it hurt being the only one among my brothers not mated, but nothing compares to watching someone fall in love and knowing I can't stop it," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unspoken regrets and unfulfilled desires.

"But he's mated to me," Elain reiterated, her words a feeble attempt to anchor herself amidst the storm of conflicting emotions. The flames danced in Azriel's eyes, reflecting the turmoil of his inner thoughts.

"I know," Azriel sighed, his gaze never leaving the pair across the room. "That's what makes it hurts much more." The words lingered between them, a silent acknowledgment of the pain that bound them together.

As they continued to watch, a sense of longing and regret enveloped them both, their unspoken words echoing in the empty spaces between them, a silent testament to the pain of unrequited love and shattered dreams.

---

Lucien felt the weight of Azriel's presence, intertwined with Elain's, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. Though the bond between them pulsed with a muted ache of longing and melancholy, Lucien found it difficult to fully comprehend, given the circumstances. After all, Elain was with Azriel now, having chosen him.

“He’s with her,” Gwyn observed, her tone tinged with a hint of melancholy.

“He doesn't seem that happy,” Lucien remarked, his voice betraying a touch of sympathy.

It was a familiar sight for Lucien, accustomed to witnessing the complexities of their relationship. But for Gwyn, it was a stark realization, one that had taken time for her to come to terms with. She had confided in Lucien about her growing feelings for the shadowsinger, unable to ignore the tension whenever Azriel and Elain were together. Gwyn had attempted to broach the topic with Nesta, only to be met with dismissal, as if Elain's bond with Lucien precluded any possibility of her being with Azriel.

Their conversation drifted back to the library, where Lucien had sought Gwyn's assistance with Vassa's curse. It was there that they had forged an unexpected connection, their shared lineage serving as a bond that transcended their individual struggles. Learning that they were cousins had provided a sense of solace, uniting them as kindred spirits navigating their intertwined destinies.

Lucien had become Gwyn's confidant, offering sage advice and a sympathetic ear as she grappled with her feelings for Azriel. While Nesta and Emerie remained oblivious to the underlying tensions, Lucien understood the turmoil brewing beneath the surface, a silent witness to Gwyn's unspoken desires.

As their friendship blossomed, Lucien found comfort in Gwyn's companionship, grateful for the understanding she offered. Yet, he couldn't shake the sense of irony in their situation - while Gwyn found safehaven in confiding her feelings for Azriel, Lucien found himself drawn deeper into his own unspoken longing for Elain.

“Are you leaving soon?” Gwyn inquired, her voice tinged with a hint of reluctance.

Lucien nodded solemnly. “I am.”

“Can you take me back?” Gwyn's request was accompanied by a note of uncertainty, as if she feared intruding on his time.

“Are you sure? You spent the entire time talking to me,” Lucien remarked, a teasing smile playing at his lips.

“That's because you're family and mated and…” Gwyn's voice trailed off, her words laden with unspoken implications.

Elain's beauty was undeniable, a fact that hung heavy in the air between them. Lucien offered her a gentle smile, his heart heavy with unspoken longing. “Okay. I'll say goodbye to the others, but I think it'll be worth saying goodbye to him too, even with her there.”

----

Elain's heart skipped a beat as Lucien rose from his seat and strode confidently toward Feyre and Rhysand. Gwyn, her presence hesitant, approached Elain and Azriel, her smile radiant yet tinged with uncertainty. Her fingers nervously played with the hem of her cloak as she glanced between Lucien and Azriel, sensing the tension in the air like a palpable force.

Azriel, usually composed, straightened in his chair, his gaze fixed on Gwyn with an intensity that Elain couldn't ignore. His hazel eyes bore into Gwyn's, silently questioning her decision to leave with Lucien.

“I’m leaving,” Gwyn announced, her voice like a delicate melody in the tense air. The words hung in the space between them, laden with unspoken implications.

“With Lucien?” Azriel's tone dripped with bitterness, his eyes darting between Gwyn and Lucien. Elain observed the subtle tension in his jaw, a testament to his internal struggle.

Gwyn affirmed with a subtle nod, her eyes flickering towards Lucien, who had now joined her. The hesitant smile on her lips betrayed her uncertainty, contrasting with the determination in Lucien's expression.

“Ready?” Lucien's voice cut through the awkward tension, his eyes deliberately avoiding Elain's. She noted the slight furrow of his brow, a sign of the turmoil beneath his confident facade.

Elain tried to focus on the conversation, but her attention drifted to the simple piece of string adorning Lucien’s wrist. Its significance eluded her, a stark contrast to the complexities swirling within her own mind.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Lucien suddenly seemed engrossed in the space between Azriel and Gwyn. Elain observed his subtle gestures, sensing a flicker of recognition in his expression. The tension between them was palpable, adding an undercurrent of unease to the situation.

Then, as if a realization had dawned upon him, Lucien spoke with conviction, “I think Azriel should take you home.” His words resonated in the air, breaking the uneasy silence and igniting a spark of hope within Elain.

His gaze shifted to Azriel, who nodded in agreement. “Yes, he should take you home,” Lucien added, his tone final. Elain watched the exchange with bated breath, her heart pounding in her chest.

But Gwyn's response was unexpected. “Nooooo,” she protested sheepishly, “I asked you.”

Elain felt a surge of determination rise within her, spurred by the sudden turn of events. “I can’t... because…” Lucien faltered, searching for words, but Elain found herself finishing his sentence, her voice unwavering.

“Because he forgot that... I am... joining him,” she declared firmly, her gaze locked with Lucien's. The weight of her words hung in the air, a silent plea for understanding.

Lucien's surprise was evident, his brows knitting together in a moment of realization, yet Elain pressed on, her determination unyielding.

“You've been running around the past few days with your vacation, but don’t you remember?” she challenged him, her voice edged with urgency, each word a pointed arrow aimed at his comprehension.

His response was hesitant, his eyes widening in gradual recognition, like two pools slowly catching the first light of dawn. “You knew I was on vacation?” he questioned, his tone heavy with disbelief, the weight of his realization palpable in the air.

Elain met his gaze with an unyielding glare, her eyes flickering with an intensity akin to smoldering embers, silently urging him to grasp the truth that lay before him.

“Yes… that's right…that's what you wanted as your present,” Lucien continued, his voice faltering slightly as he wove through the web of their shared deception, the weight of his words hanging in the charged atmosphere between them.

Gwyn's frown deepened, her brows knitting together in suspicion, as though she could see through the facade with uncanny clarity. But Lucien pressed on, his resolve unyielding, his determination etched into the lines of his face.

“We are going to be late,” Elain pushed, her voice firm and commanding, a note of urgency coloring her words as she tried to steer the conversation back on track, her fingers tapping anxiously against her thigh.

“Az… Azriel… Az … riel … can I trust you to take my cousin home?” Lucien implored, his tone tinged with desperation, his gaze shifting to Azriel with a silent plea for assistance.

Azriel's brow furrowed in confusion, his expression a portrait of perplexity as he processed the sudden revelation. “Cousin?” he repeated, his voice tinged with uncertainty, his mind racing to make sense of the revelation.

His eyes flickered with a glimmer of hope as Lucien turned to Gwyn with a scowl, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. “You never told him we were cousins?” he accused, his tone tinged with exasperation, a note of betrayal seeping into his words.

Gwyn remained impassive, her lips pursed in a tight line as she met Lucien's glare with a steely resolve, her silence speaking volumes in the charged atmosphere. But Lucien pressed on, his frustration mounting with each passing moment.

“Never… Never…” Lucien muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to stave off the rising tide of irritation, his patience wearing thin as the tension continued to mount. "You valkyries are going to kill me," he added with a wry twist of irony, a weary sigh escaping his lips.

Azriel's lips twitched in amusement, a ghost of a smile dancing across his features as he observed the unfolding drama with quiet interest. "You should try training them," he remarked dryly, his voice laced with subtle humor, a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes.

Gwyn's smile was tight-lipped, her gaze flickering uncertainly between Lucien and Azriel, silently weighing her options. Sensing her hesitation, Lucien intervened, his tone softened by a note of gratitude.

Lucien, noticing her hesitation, amended, "I owe you one session if you go with him." Elain could see the tension melting away from Gwyn's shoulders, a sense of satisfaction blooming within her like a flower in bloom.

Gwyn's expression shifted to smugness. "Two now." Elain couldn't help but smile at Gwyn's playful banter, the tension dissipating like mist in the morning sun.

"I knew your bracelet came with a price. Fine. Two. It’s settled. I’ll see you not tomorrow.” Lucien's resignation hung heavy in the air, a sense of defeat settling over him like a heavy cloak.

As Lucien turned to leave, Gwyn interjected, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “Should you be taking Elain?” she asked, her words hanging in the air like a challenge, a subtle undercurrent of doubt coloring her tone.

Elain and Lucien locked eyes, a silent exchange passing between them. In that moment, a myriad of unspoken emotions danced between them, their gazes lingering a fraction longer than necessary, conveying a depth of understanding that words could not capture.

“Yes, because I said I would,” Lucien stammered, his voice strained with a mixture of apprehension and determination. He held Elain's gaze, his eyes searching hers for any sign of hesitation or doubt.

Heat flushed at Elain’s cheeks, a rush of warmth spreading across her face as she realized the significance of the moment. This would be the first time she would be alone with him, the weight of anticipation heavy in the air, uncertainty mingling with excitement in her chest.

“Yes,” Elain said, her voice steady despite the fluttering of her heart. “And I said we should leave now.” With a firm nod, she affirmed her decision, steeling herself for whatever lay ahead.

Lucien hesitantly offered his arm, a silent invitation hanging between them. Elain reached out, her fingers brushing against his in a fleeting touch, a spark igniting between them as they made contact. She felt all eyes on them, the weight of expectation heavy in the air as they walked out the door together, stepping into the unknown.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Lucien said, his voice strained with a mixture of apprehension and longing, his gaze searching hers for any sign of hesitation.

“They are going to be asking me where you took me, so might as well come along,” Elain replied, her grip tightening on his arm, her fingers tracing the contours of his muscles beneath the fabric of his sleeve.

Lucien sighed, a mixture of resignation and gratitude in his breath, the weight of their impending journey hanging heavy in the air. Despite the uncertainty that lay ahead, a small, genuine smile played at the corners of his lips, a testament to the trust he placed in Elain's judgment. "You're right," he conceded, his voice soft yet tinged with a hint of amusement. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

Elain furrowed her brow, her expression a mix of accusation and curiosity. "You were in Day, were you?" she questioned, her tone laced with a hint of skepticism.

Lucien stilled, his demeanor shifting slightly at the mention of Day. "What do you know about their celebration?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Drinking, dancing, and dallying debauchery," Elain replied matter-of-factly, her words laced with a touch of dry humor.

A faint blush crept onto Lucien's cheeks at her blunt assessment. "I wasn't there," he admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of embarrassment. "I was in Winter."

"So we are going back to Winter?" Elain inquired, her brow furrowing slightly as she processed the information.

"Ah, no. We are going to Day," Lucien clarified, his tone hesitant yet resolute.

Elain's lips formed a thin line, her features masking her inner turmoil as she absorbed Lucien's words. "For that... dallying debauchery?" she questioned, her tone betraying a hint of skepticism, her eyes searching his for any sign of deceit.

Lucien's brow furrowed, a fleeting shadow of defensiveness crossing his countenance. "I am mated to you. I would never dream of being with someone else," he assured her earnestly, his words laden with sincerity. "But yes, that's where we are going."

Elain remained silent, her thoughts swirling tumultuously as she wrestled with the implications of his admission. Lucien couldn't help but notice the subtle shift in her demeanor, a blend of uncertainty and something more enigmatic, a mystery he longed to unravel.

"Interesting that's where your mind went to," he commented, a note of curiosity coloring his voice as he observed her reaction, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Elain's glare intensified, her gaze piercing as they winnowed away to Day Court's celebration, the tension between them simmering beneath the surface, unresolved and fraught with unspoken emotions.

#elucien #elain x lucien #gwynriel #elucien fanfiction #elucien fanfic #gwynriel fanfiction #gwynriel fanfic

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dawneternal · 1 month

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Just a Favor | pt 2 | Gwynriel

✦ cause so many people asked for more lol enjoy 💛

✦ Warnings: mostly fluff a bit of angst

✦ Word Count: 1.2k

✦ AO3 Link

✦ Part 1 / Part 3

Is that you or some other shadowsinger flying over my house?

Rhysand's voice pierced through the storm of Azriel's thoughts.

Something happened. Azriel responded, knowing his brother could likely hear his panic.

Do tell.

House of Wind?

Meet you there.

Thus, Azriel found himself sitting at the long, empty dining room table, knee bouncing as he waited for Rhys.

It did not take long for Rhysand to appear above the balcony, landing with barely a sound. He joined Azriel at the table, a gleam in his eye as he took in his brother's anxious fidgeting.

"Is this a good something or a bad something?" Rhys asked, conjuring a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

"I have a mate," Azriel said, eyes wide. Rhys stopped pouring, eyebrows rising.

"Who?"

"You know who, don't you?" Azriel tilted his head. Indeed, Rhys's violet eyes glowed with something knowing and gleeful.

"The redheaded Valkyrie you follow like a lost puppy?" Rhysand grinned and slid a glass to Azriel.

"I do not," Azriel frowned.

"You do, and it will only get worse if she is your mate," Rhysand took a sip and winced at the burn, "Is she?"

"Yes," The shadowsinger breathed, a blush creeping up on his cheeks. His lips parted like he was still in awe of it.

"So then tell me the story," Rhys prodded, grin only growing.

Azriel rubbed the back of his neck, turning his gaze to the marble floor. He hadn't considered the fact that the High Lord may not be very happy about his agreement with the valkyrie.

"Well...she told me that she wanted to have her first kiss," As predicted, Rhys's eyebrows drew upwards as he listened.

"She asked me to either kiss her or find someone nice who would," Az continued.

"And you kissed her?" Rhys's face was unreadable.

"I did."

"And as her teacher, you thought that would be a good idea why?"

"...because she is pretty?"

Such frivolous reasoning from the solemn spy master. Rhysand tipped his head back and roared with laughter. His cheeks had turned pink, eyes gleaming with happiness for his brother. Never in their long lives had someone rattled him so.

"You kissed her and the bond snapped?"

"Yes, and I don't think it snapped for her," The anxiety returned to Azriel's eyes, his smile faltering, "What am I going to do?"

"Stop for a minute, Az," Rhysand said softly, leaning forward to grasp Azriel's shoulder, "Just celebrate for a moment. You have a mate. An incredible, formidable, beautiful mate."

Azriel smiled. There was such deep relief in it, the weight of centuries lifting. Tears glistened in his eyes, a couple spilling over onto his rosy cheeks. His body felt strange, unsure what to do without the ache of longing. He thought his shadows would be a swarming mess but they were utterly still.

"Yeah," Az croaked, looking at his brother with such joy that it brought tears to Rhys's eyes as well. "I have a mate. She's my mate."

***

Nesta found Gwyn crouched on the bank of the stream, elbows propped on her knees as she watched the bubbling water in the moonlight.

"Gwyn?" Nesta asked softly, trying to catch a glimpse of her friend's face behind the curtain of copper hair.

Gwyn turned to her, face pale and eyes wide, freckles stark against her skin.

"He kissed me," She whispered. Nesta settled next to her, resting her bare feet on the rocks at the edge of the water.

"Was it bad?" Nesta's brows furrowed.

"No," Gwyn breathed, a hint of smile gracing her features, "It was really good. But then he freaked out and flew away?"

Nesta's eyes widened, lips drawing into a thin line.

"I know," Gwyn whispered, mirroring Nesta's expression, "You don't think...."

"Maybe," Nesta searched her friend's eyes, the same color as the bobbing flowers growing among them. Gwyn was scared, worried...but there was something else gleaming there. Something that wanted it to be true.

"I guess you'll have to wait for him to tell you," She said, reaching out to twirl a strand of her friend's hair.

"What if he doesn't?" Gwyn asked, chewing her bottom lip, "I don't want to get my hopes up."

"I can pry," Nesta grinned, "If he tells Cassian I can get it out of him easily."

"No," Gwyn smiled and shook her head, "I want to know from him."

They settled into silence for a long moment, listening to the water rush over the rocks as it reached toward the ocean. Nesta wrapped an arm around Gwyn's shoulders and tucked her in close.

Gwyn's thoughts whirled. She felt a giddy, fluttering hope and a terrifying nervousness when she remembered the shock on Azriel's face. And the idea that she might be wrong produced a bitter ache in her chest. If she was right, when would she feel it, too?

"It was good?" Nesta sang, drawing out the last word, pulling Gwyn from her contemplation. Gwyn smiled, blushing so deeply it spread to the points of her ears.

"It was...everything."

***

When Nesta and Cassian landed at the House of Wind, Azriel was alone at the dining room table. Rhysand had gone back to the River House and left the scotch behind.

Nesta smiled to herself at the sight of the shadowsinger. He stared at nothing, eyes glazed over and a faint, happy smile on his face. They had found him in this position before, alone and brooding. But this time he did not appear to be sulking. He seemed...light. His shadows ambled around him like sleepy bumblebees.

She looked at Cassian and nodded toward the table, then silently scurried away to her room.

"Hey," Cassian said, pulling out a chair.

"Hey," Az murmured, pulled from his love-sick stupor.

"What happened to you?" Cassian chuckled, picking up the half-full glass Rhysand had left.

"I kissed Gwyn," Az answered, looking up at his brother.

"You agreed to that whole thing?" Cassian laughed and took a sip of scotch.

"You knew about that?"

"Nesta told me," Cassian waved his hand, "But anyways. You kissed her and you're smitten now?"

"I kissed her and the bond snapped," Azriel said, eyes alight.

Cassian stared for a moment, glass paused halfway to his lips. Then the glass clattered into the table and Cassian was up, lifting Azriel into a hug. He spun the shadowsinger around and planted messy kisses on his cheek.

"A mate! You have a mate, brother!"

"Put me down, you oaf," Az muttered and wiped his face, but he was grinning.

"I'm so happy for you," Cassian croaked, a lump in growing in his throat.

"I just have to figure out how to tell her," Azriel said.

"Don't wait too long," Cassian nodded gravely, "We all saw what happened to Rhys."

Then his grin broke through again and he hopped from one foot to the other. "Berdara is your mate! I can't say I didn't see that coming."

"What do you mean?" Azriel demanded, reminded of Rhysand's similar sentiment.

"Come on," Cassian shook his head, giggling, "You're obsessed with each other."

"She's obsessed with me?" Az perked up at this, eyes sparkling.

"Oh brother. You need to talk to her. Let's sit and brainstorm," Cassian pulled the chair out to sit again.

"No thanks," Az chuckled, "I'm going to bed. But if you come up with any brilliant ideas let me know tomorrow."

Though Azriel already had a plan. He would do what Cassian should have done and ask Feyre what she wished had happened for her. He would make it perfect. For Gwyn, for his own centuries of waiting, it had to be perfect.

#gwyn acotar #gwyn berdara #gwyneth berdara #acotar #gwyn x azriel #azriel #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #gwyn fic #gwynriel #gwynriel fanfic #gwynriel fanfiction

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velidewrites · 29 days

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Breaking Point

Six months after Catrin Berdara is presumed dead, Gwyneth abandons the Erudites in search for answers. Knowing there is only one faction with the ability to take her over the spiked fence that shields their world from the truth, she does not hesitate to spill her blood over the burning coals at the Choosing Ceremony. But to be taken over the Fence, Gwyneth must first pass Initiation—and, unfortunately for her, one of the Dauntless squad leaders seems hell-bent on making her life all the more difficult.

Pairing: Azriel x Gwyneth Berdara

Tags: Divergent AU

Notes: I was going to post this yesterday when I realised Divergent was released exactly 10 years ago today! If you were as obsessed with this series as me, welcome to the chaos. This fic was inspired by me seeing a tiktok of the knife throwing scene and thought oh yeah this is Gwynriel at its peak.

This is baby's very first Gwynriel and my humble contribution for @gwynrielweeksofficial! Thank you to @azrielshadowssing @ablogofsapphicpanic @octobers-veryown for being such patient betas and to @damedechance for being so brilliant and coming up with this title for me.

Before you proceed, please be advised of the TW for past SA.

Read on AO3 or continue to Chapter 1 below!

Gwyneth Berdara was risking her life, and it was the most exhilarating thing in the world.

Her sister’s ice-cold hand on her mouth had snapped her awake, and it had only been thanks to her quick “Shush!” that Gwyneth managed to stifle the scream in her throat. It had not been the first time Catrin woke her up in the dead of the night—still, their routine had never quite made either of them loose the reins on her instincts.

Catrin’s eyes had glinted like onyx as she’d quickly prompted Gwyneth to get up and get dressed. The nights were shorter during the summer, which made the next few hours all the more precious. The truck had already been waiting, parked two blocks west—only two minutes on foot if they kept a fast pace.

Gwyneth could see the urgency painted on her sister’s features, yet it had nothing on the excitement that had her leg bouncing near the doorway to their dorm. It had lit up her entire face like moonlight, all the dark heaviness of the risk they were taking skittering away at the sight. It was contagious enough that Gwyneth, too, had found herself smiling—a smile that lingered even as they’d made their way down the pristine white hallways of the Academy.

Frankly, she had never quite figured out who in Campus Security Catrin had managed to bribe. The only thing either of them had was each other, a fact that Catrin often joked would make them the perfect fit for Abnegation once they turned twenty-one. Gwyneth could see her sister there—could see her spilling her blood on the smooth, grey stones and devoting her life in the service of others. Not Gwyneth, though. She had always thought herself too selfish—too selfish to abandon the Academy and all the knowledge it contained. At heart, after all, Gwyneth was—and always had been—an Erudite.

It was only one of their differences. From the day Gwyneth and Catrin were born, people had a hard time believing the two of them were twins. Catrin’s eyes were darker than the depths of the ocean the city bordered, her hair a similar black and her skin pale as milk. Gwyneth’s eyes were the sort of teal their ocean never saw, not even now, when the sun blazed right above it every day. She enjoyed the way it reflected in coppery brown waves, though, and the way it brought out the freckles on her face.

But as Gwyneth moved carefully behind Catrin, her every step falling right into her sister’s quiet shadow, she forgot about everything that divided them. In this—the excitement of the rebellion, the danger of the risk—in this, they were the same.

The drive to Amity had been almost entirely silent save for the crunchy gravel of the road as they exited the city. Even so, she could make out Catrin’s grin in the shadows of the cargo bed, could hear the gentle tapping of her still-bouncing leg.

If anyone in the Erudites found out about their nightly escapades, Gwyneth and Catrin would be dead—or worse, subjected to whatever classified research the Erudite leadership was undergoing at the headquarters. Only the most brilliant of the Academy students were allowed to apply for their stewardship—to watch and observe. To learn, the way the customs of their factions demanded.

Gwyneth had no interest in aiming for the top floors of the HQ. There, she would have likely been guarded—supervised—every hour of every day. Catrin, if she would be allowed to see her beyond Visiting Days at all, would no longer be a constant in her life, their monthly drives to the farmlands beyond the Fence only a distant memory. It was why Gwyneth sometimes doubted herself. An Erudite without ambition, after all, was like a Dauntless without courage, an Abnegation without people to serve. Useless.

Studying alongside the most illustrious of her faction was perhaps the greatest ambition of all, but Gwyneth was happy to remain at the Academy, to learn and contribute in whatever ways she could, all while retaining the little pieces of herself she still owned. To think such thoughts was to betray the Erudite virtues, constantly in pursuit of wisdom and intelligence. It was a fear that lingered somewhere deep in her chest every night she and Catrin ventured out to the unknown.

She tried to dwindle it, though, as she now danced around the bonfire near Sector Five’s stables. One of the Amity girls, dressed in yellows and oranges as dictated by the Amity fashion, had grabbed her by the hand and dragged her into her circle of friends, her laughter rising over the crackling flames. Sometimes, Gwyneth wondered what it would be like to be a part of that—part of the Peaceful, the Kind.

She couldn’t imagine a life free of worry, a life dedicated to preserving what remained of their destroyed world’s nature without questioning its past. And while the joy on the Amity girl’s face felt true, Gwyneth couldn’t help but feel like right now, she was living a lie.

“Have you seen my sister?” she shouted over the fire, the music a small guitar band had begun playing a few minutes ago. She had not seen Catrin since the Solstice celebrations started—since all of Sector Five had gathered to honour the end of the longest day of the year.

The girl shook her head, the fire dancing in her brown eyes. “I’m sure she’s with Clare,” she replied with a smile. Then, she winked, “I’d avoid the stables, if I were you.”

Gwyneth blinked. “Clare?”

The smile quickly faded from the girl’s pretty face. “Oh,” she said, her shoulders deflating slightly as she halted mid-dance. “You didn’t know?”

She must’ve had the surprise written all over her face, and Gwyneth schooled her features back into that light, free-of-any-worry-in-the-world expression she knew would help her avoid suspicion. “Oh, Clare! Of course,” she lied. “Sorry. It’s been a long night.”

The girl waved a hand. “I get it. The way they keep you under watch back in the city is ridiculous to me.” She angled her head, that brown gaze studying her with mild curiosity. “How old are you, again?” she asked.

“I’ll be twenty-one in a few months.”

She clasped her hands together, her whole face lighting up at Gwyneth’s answer. “Ah, you haven't Chosen yet!” she exclaimed. “You always have a place here—we’d welcome you with open arms.”

“I doubt my results will sort me into Amity,” Gwyneth said truthfully.

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Well,” the girl said, leaning conspiratorially over her shoulder, “I know we’re all supposed to follow the Aptitude Test’s recommendations, of course.” She tilted her chin towards the dancing group before them—to the truck still parked in the distance. “Something tells me, though, that you’ve never been one to follow the rules, anyway.”

Gwyneth followed her gaze—but words died on her tongue before she managed to answer.

There she was—Catrin, sitting with her back resting against one of the truck’s large wheels, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Alone.

“Excuse me,” she said to the girl, and moved towards her sister without so much as a goodbye. It wasn’t as she, or any of her Amity friends, would ever take offense—they simply returned to their dancing, the band’s song slowly fading into the distance as Gwyneth kept on walking.

Catrin’s eyes were fixed on the fire even as Gwyneth took her seat on the cold ground beside her.

“Where’s Clare?” she asked, unable to keep the hurt from her voice. There had never been any secrets between them—whatever there was to face in this world, they had always faced it together.

But Catrin simply smiled, her gaze sad, somehow, as she said quietly, “Look at them, Gwyneth. Look at all the dancing—the singing. They’re all smiling.” Finally, Catrin peeled her gaze off the scene to meet her own. “Do you think it’s real?”

There was something in her sister’s tone that made Gwyneth pause—something so unbearably raw it made Gwyneth shelve all her questions in the back of her mind and consider.

She looked towards the celebrating crowds. “I think they believe it is.”

Catrin rasped a laugh. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

Gwyneth placed a hand over her sister’s. As gently as she could, she asked, “Why do you ask, Catrin?”

Her gaze dropped to her feet. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Clare,” she said, and it wasn’t lost on Gwyneth how she’d avoided her question in favour of another. “Dating outside our own factions is forbidden, and I suppose…” Her throat bobbed. “I supposed I didn’t want to burden you with the secret.”

She was so unlike the Catrin from a few hours ago that Gwyneth felt her own throat burning, all the excitement they’d shared earlier fading into the night along with the bonfire smoke.

The question nearly forced itself onto Gwyneth’s lips—what changed?—but instead, she managed, “You could never burden me, Catrin.” Then, “I didn’t mean to pry. If she makes you happy, then that is all I need to know.”

Slowly, Catrin turned to face her again. “She makes me happy,” she whispered. “Very much.”

Gwyneth smiled. “Good.” She squeezed Catrin’s hand. “No secrets, remember?”

Perhaps it was the smoke carried by the summer breeze, or the late hour catching up with Catrin at last, but Gwyneth could’ve sworn she saw silver gleam in her sister’s eyes as she said, “Yeah. No secrets.”

***

Catrin’s funeral took place midday, and it rained the entire time.

Erudites had never been too spiritual in nature, and saw death simply as the time for the mind to finally rest. As such, there were no celebrations of the life she had lived like the ones held in Amity—no formal burials with lengthy speeches from Candor’s government officials, either. It was, perhaps, the one thing where Erudites and Abnegations found common ground—in the lack of spectacle surrounding their funerals. In Abnegation, death was only a tragedy because it meant an end to one’s servitude.

Gwyneth watched as her sister’s casket was covered by a deep-blue sheet, the colour slowly darkening as it soaked up the pouring rain. The entire Academy had gathered to watch it being lowered into the city’s foundations—to symbolise the collective knowledge upon which it was built, if nothing else. One of the Erudite representatives then murmured a few words about the tragedy Catrin’s death was, and the new, stricter regulations the labs would be implementing to prevent anything like this from happening ever again.

Gwyneth had not been invited to say a few words. The Erudite virtues did not speak of emotional attachment, of the importance of sentiment. Catrin’s pursuit of knowledge may have ended, but Gwyneth’s…Gwyneth’s had only just begun.

She was not permitted to look upon her twin’s face for the final time, either. The stone casket seemed impenetrable from where she stood, one lone student in the sea of blue umbrellas and Academy uniforms. It was not like Gwyneth would have asked to see her, either. Whatever spirit of rebellion had lived inside her before, it died today—watching its counterpart disappear beneath the ground.

As the plates of the burial site began closing in on each other, though, ready to swallow Catrin for the rest of time, something shifted—like a spark in the air, charging the weather with lightning. Gwyneth’s shoulders tensed as she braced herself for impact.

And then, someone screamed.

All one hundred—perhaps more—Erudite heads snapped towards the sound, some of the faces immediately twisting in a grimace, some in curiosity. Gwyneth’s eyes, though, only widened in shock, her mouth parting slightly as she realised who the voice belonged to—who had just lunged onto the stage, her orange dress muddy and torn.

Clare Beddor’s tears blended into the rain as she reached for the Erudite representative, her expression so wild and pained that Gwyneth felt it in her own already shredded heart. Even through the hauling rain, through the thunder booming somewhere in the distance, she could hear Clare’s words as clear as the day she had last seen her lover. Could hear the accusation that would get her reunited with Catrin at last.

“MURDERERS!” Clare yelled, the crowd gasping in unison. “You’re all murderers!”

Everything happened so quickly after that.

Someone had grabbed Clare from behind—one of the junior HQ researchers, a Dauntless transfer if his large, muscular frame was any indication—and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back with the kind of force that should’ve hauled her off the stage. But Clare kept on fighting, kept on kicking and screaming and digging her nails into the man’s forearms, leaving long, bloodied streaks splitting his tattoos. Still, the man did not let go.

Only when the rain began to leave the taste of salt in Gwyneth’s mouth did she realise she was crying, too. She watched as Clare was dragged off the stage and shoved into a sleek, black car—Candor, Gwyneth noted immediately—which appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She watched as it drove off, too, as the Erudite representative apologised for the intrusion and once again reiterated the tragedy of the incident before ordering all of Catrin’s fellow students to return to their daily obligations.

But Clare’s words lingered even as the crowd dissipated, echoing between the glass Erudite buildings before settling right in Gwyneth’s chest.

Murderers. Murderers. Murderers.

When the rhythm of her heart started to beat alongside the syllables, alongside the truth Gwyneth had thought no one else believed in, that rebellion inside her reignited—blazed, like the fire she had danced to in Amity two weeks ago.

She wasn’t insane. She was not paranoid, and Clare all but confirmed it.

Catrin Berdara had been murdered. When and how—it did not matter.

The only question that mattered was why.

And Gwyneth was going to find the answer.

***

SIX MONTHS LATER

Compared to her old Academy dorm, Gwyneth’s apartment at the Erudite Headquarters felt ridiculously empty.

Truthfully, she had not exactly put any effort into decorating it in the past two months. The walls remained white and untainted by the vibrant prints and watercolour paintings she and Catrin used to sneak into the Academy from Amity. The entire space was simply occupied by her bed, wardrobe, and desk. The latter, at least, was filled with enough books to let the average visitor know someone was, in fact, living in this place.

Gwyneth had shoved one of those books into her bag before leaving, along with some crumpled papers containing notes she could hardly remember writing last night. It must have been well past three in the morning when she’d finally finished, but when it came to her supervisor, Gwyneth always prioritised being sleep deprived over unprepared.

Not that anyone had ever acknowledged her efforts, though. Her supervisor just so happened to be the Erudite representative, the faction’s very leader and the main voice advising their Candor-comprised government. It was a great privilege, Gwyn had always told the other graduates, making sure to dip her head an inch and blush slightly as she lied: I was certain it was a mistake, but Merrill was really impressed with my dissertation, it seems.

Gwyneth’s Academy dissertation just so happened to align perfectly with the Erudite’s research—a coincidence, and, of course, a great privilege. Gwyn had been planning to teach at the Academy post-graduation—that much, at least, was the truth—but when the HQ had made her an offer, she simply could not refuse.

She was the envy of other HQ graduate researchers, which was definitely one downside in the grand scheme of things. Gwyneth had been prepared for the attention, but the amount of eyes turned towards her in every lab, every hallway, was certainly making things…difficult.

After all, no one at HQ could ever suspect why Gwyneth Berdara, a previous history major, had suddenly taken up interest in genetics—why her dissertation, initially on the history of the Erudite faction, had suddenly shifted focus onto Aptitude Tests in the final two months of her studies at the Academy. No one could quite figure how, exactly, she had managed to produce a report worthy of the attention of the Head Erudite herself.

That part, Gwyneth did not have to lie about, either. She was an Erudite. She studied—she sought the knowledge and acquired it.

Getting to the HQ was the easiest part of her plan. Getting out of it, however, was going to prove a lot more…difficult.

There was one other thing cluttering her desk, its silver gleam drawing her eye before she finally made her way to leave. Gwyneth picked up the lighter, the metal cold against her skin, and pushed the small lever down with her thumb.

The flame came to life in Gwyneth’s hand, and she watched as it danced playfully in the air. All of her belongings, all the Amity posters and photos she had taken over the years—they were memories too painful to bring along for her final act of rebellion. The lighter, though, was the one thing of her own she’d allowed herself—she had purchased it on her first day at the HQ despite the voice of reason protesting in her mind.

“I’m almost there, Catrin,” she whispered to the little bonfire in her palm. “I’m almost there.”

With that, the lighter disappeared in the folds of her lab coat, and Gwyneth did not spare another look at the empty apartment as she made her way out.

Lost in her thoughts, Gwyneth hadn’t even realised she’d already made it to her supervisor’s office.

“You’re late,” Merril said in her usual manner of greeting.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been preparing for tomorrow,” she replied, closing the door carefully behind her.

The Head Erudite looked up from her computer, its blue holo reflecting in her stare. “There is no preparing for the Aptitude Test. You know this, Gwyneth.”

“Emotionally preparing, I suppose,” she corrected herself, her response met with a deep sigh.

“I assume you have the notes I assigned you,” Merril said, not entirely a question. Everything was an order with her—an order that would never be satisfied no matter what Gwyneth did.

Still, she nodded, taking the papers out of her bag to place them on Merrill’s desk, the professor’s eyes already scanning over the writing. She couldn’t help but hold her breath as she waited, silently watching as Merrill took in the results of last week’s experiments, then finally, finally, nodded.

“Take these to Lab Six,” she instructed, Gwyneth’s shoulders sagging with relief. As far as Merrill’s compliments went, this one was the best she could have asked for. “Make the necessary preparations for next month.”

Already on her way out—Merrill did not appreciate anyone wasting her time—Gwyneth stopped.

“Next month?” she asked, turning over her shoulder. With the Choosing Ceremony scheduled for the last day of January, who knew what the next month would bring.

Clearly, Merrill thought Gwyneth was here to stay.

She raised a white eyebrow in scrutiny. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

In exactly a week from now, Gwyneth would finally do what she’d spent the last six months meticulously planning. Merrill said there was no preparing for the Aptitude Tests, but Gwyneth had not spent all those sleepless nights studying, all those days smiling and pretending Catrin’s death hadn’t affected her at all, only to let someone else decide her fate.

No. Gwyneth Berdara had figured out how to cheat.

Tomorrow, the Aptitude Test would sort her into the one faction with the ability to bring her one step closer to the truth behind her sister’s murder.

Next week, she would no longer be Gwyneth Berdara, Erudite.

She would be Dauntless.

“No,” she said to Merrill with a sweet smile. “No problem at all.”

***

It had been over twenty-four hours since Gwyneth had last slept, and she was seriously starting to worry she might just pass out in the chair if her name was not called out next.

As dazed as the lack of sleep was making her, Gwyneth knew that once she exited that room, she would thank herself for persevering. No one under the age of twenty-one was supposed to know this, but being Merrill’s protegé came with its benefits—all carefully researched and planned for six months ago.

The test would begin by having a simulation serum being injected into her neck, setting off a range of scenarios eventually leading to Gwyneth being matched to one of the five factions: Erudites, Abnegation, Dauntless, Candor, or Amity, all based on the choices she’d be making throughout. Fifteen weeks—Gwyneth had spent fifteen weeks studying the simulation patterns and the reaction of the brain every scenario it presented. The Aptitude Test’s results were meant to serve as a guide for the Choosing Ceremony, and if one did not wish to end up factionless–-end up an exile to society—following the Test’s recommendations was the only true choice.

Gwyneth knew—had always known—she was an Erudite, if the last few months were any indication for her to ground her confidence in. Her Test results today, though, would recommend a different faction entirely.

Her research suggested there were side effects to the serum. Sustained deprivation of sleep, Gwyneth found, would catalyse a heightened neural state—high enough for her to remain in full cognitive control of the simulation. She would recognise the patterns effortlessly—would know where to go and what to say for the test administrator to proclaim her as a Dauntless the moment she woke up. In theory.

A few hours into the tests, there weren’t many people left. From the colour of their clothes, Gwyneth noted two from Abnegation and one from Candor, his black tie and formal attire making her shift in her own seat. She could hardly register the light tapping of her foot against the linoleum floor, consumed entirely by the silence of the hallway. Waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

The Tests were being held at the Academy, and it made her all the more uneasy. These halls, the cafeteria they now sat in, this entire building—the Academy was so familiar Gwyneth had nearly forgotten what had driven her out of there. She half-expected Catrin to come out of the East Elevator leading right up to her old lab, to give her a small wave as she called out her name.

“Gwyneth Berdara?”

Gwyneth jumped in her seat.

The Candor boy snorted.

The test administrator—a woman that could not have been more than a few years older than Gwyneth—gave him a look. The Candor cleared his throat immediately, his eyes falling back into that blank, emotionless stare. It was then that Gwyneth realised the woman was from Candor, too.

She arched an eyebrow as she looked at Gwyneth again, her ice-blue eyes settling on her own. “Gwyneth Berdara, yes?”

Gwyneth nodded.

“Good. Come on in.”

The hallway, as Gwyneth already knew, hosted a row of ten rooms, and the woman led her to the one at the far left. The teaching classroom had been transformed into an empty space with nothing but a reclined chair that made her feel as though she was about to walk into her dentist’s appointment, the walls now covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

Even though Gwyneth knew what to expect, she couldn’t help but swallow the tightness in her throat. She had volunteered to set those rooms up herself before—the administrator herself was a volunteer, too. Most of the Candor worked for the government—their inclination towards truth and justice made them the only objective candidates. According to their manifesto, at least.

This woman, though—she seemed nothing like the Candor Gwyneth had met before, perhaps save for the stern look in her gaze and the way she carried herself. As if nothing could bend her will.

There was something about her face that seemed familiar, and Gwyneth could not shake the feeling that she had seen her before. Her features seemed sharper than those faded images in her memory, her hair a lighter shade of golden brown, straighter and tied into a sleek, braided bun. No matter how hard she focused, though, Gwyneth couldn’t quite place her.

“Take a seat,” she instructed before Gwyneth could try searching her mind again. “My name is Nesta Archeron. I’ll be your test administrator today.”

The name did not seem familiar, and, frustrated, Gwyneth slipped into the chair, the leather cracked at the armrests. As though whoever had come in before her did not take the simulations well.

Great.

After an uncomfortably long pause, Gwyneth looked up to meet the administrator’s stare. Was the test not supposed to start already?

“Well?” Nesta asked, her arms crossed over the sleek, black jacket padded lightly at the shoulders. She might have been the only Candor Gwyneth had ever seen that did not seem stiff in their clothes.

She blinked in confusion. “Well…what?” she asked.

“Most people want to know if it hurts,” Nesta pointed out.

Oh. “I already know it doesn’t hurt,” Gwyneth told her. “My research focuses on Aptitude Tests,” she explained, her cheeks flushing slightly as she realised she might have fallen into the Erudite trap of sounding too pretentious.

“Your research,” Nesta repeated, a shadow of a smile playing in the corner of her mouth. “That is, perhaps, the most Erudite thing I’ve ever heard.”

Gwyneth huffed. “I thought the simulation was meant to decide my faction, not you.”

To her surprise, Nesta snorted. “I think I might like you, Gwyneth Berdara,” she said. Then, “Why do I know your name?” she asked, her golden brows knitting.

Gwyneth could see the exact second realisation dawned on Nesta’s face.

“You were Catrin Berdara’s sister.” She shook her head, her hair catching some of the white, artificial light at the ceiling. “I am so sorry. Horrible tragedy.”

“Yes,” Gwyneth said, unable to keep the tinge of bitterness from her tone. “Tragedy.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “You know, in Candor, our most prized virtue is the truth. During Initiation, we spend weeks training how to detect lies.” She tilted her head to the side. “Why do I feel like you’re lying to me, Gwyn?”

“It’s Gwyneth.”

“Gwyneth,” Nesta corrected, that strange amusement returning into her face. “I have two sisters, you know. The youngest had her test earlier today.”

“How did she do?”

“You research our tests, don’t you? You know the results are not to be discussed—not even amongst family.” Nesta smiled. “I know, though—from the moment she was born, out and screaming her rage right into the world.” She snorted. “Feyre is going to choose Dauntless, because that’s who she always has been.”

“You sound excited for her,” Gwyneth started carefully.

“I am.”

“Won’t you miss her in Candor?”

“My sisters and I were born in Abnegation,” Nesta explained. “Four years ago, I chose Candor. Two years ago, Elain had left for Amity. Grey had never quite suited her, anyway,” she added. Gwyneth was not entirely sure she’d ever heard a Candor joke before. Then, Nesta said, “In a week from now, Feyre is going to leave, too. I’m sure of it.”

Gwyneth hummed. “Your parents must miss you very much.”

“Our parents are dead, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” she faltered, her cheeks heating yet again. “So are mine.”

Nesta shrugged matter-of-factly, the gesture enough to keep Gwyneth from asking. “Then you know,” she said, her gaze dropping to whatever notes Gwyneth’s profile contained on the datapad. “I see you study under Merrill Dorset,” Nesta observed. “The Aptitude Test research makes a lot more sense now.” She shook her head, as though in disbelief. “Thanks to her, we no longer have sixteen year olds do these tests. Ridiculous—to make someone with such a young mind decide on the rest of their life.” She looked at Gwyneth again. “You must be very excited to work under her.”

Gwyneth shrugged. “It has its benefits.”

“I’m sure it does,” Nesta said—and if she weren’t Candor, Gwyneth might have thought it a lie. “Is that how you know not to be afraid?” she asked, pressing one of the electrodes to Gwyneth’s head.

Gwyneth scoffed. “Merrill has nothing to do with it,” she told Nesta, flinching slightly at the cold touch as Nesta attached yet another electrode to her head. “I’ve figured it out all on my own.”

The words escaped her without warning—and if Nesta were an Erudite, she would have been fully within her rights to drag her straight to Merrill’s office and filed for Gwyneth’s expulsion.

Instead, a smile—a true smile bloomed on Nesta’s face as she pressed the syringe to Gwyneth’s neck, the clear serum swirling lazily inside. “Perhaps not an Erudite, then.”

The word blurred into nothingness as Gwyneth slipped into the simulation at last.

***

Gwyneth woke up to the sound of screaming, muffled only by a thick wall of concrete and windows sealed shut by dark, bloodied wood.

She did not recognise her surroundings, and from the blurriness of the corners of her vision, she knew she was not supposed to. Even the words of the crying crowds outside had no meaning at all. The emotion they carried was clear, though—fear.

Gwyneth grounded herself in the sounds—became one with the simulation, aware of every pattern presented before her, every entrance or exit she could find her way to. There was a door behind her that had not been barricaded—only an iron handle stood between her and the screams. Turning towards it, she wondered why those people did not simply open the door.

“You’re late,” a childlike voice now spoke behind her. “He’s getting away,” it said.

Gwyneth whirled back to the sound—and found no one at all.

The setting before her had changed, though. There was a staircase now, tall and made entirely of concrete, too. A table blocked the way up, though, small and built from some light type of wood Gwyneth had never cared to study at the Academy.

“Who?” she asked carefully.

“Have you changed your mind already?” the voice spoke again from somewhere behind her back. “You’re our last hope, you know.”

Gwyneth turned again—once again facing nothing but the iron door and the screams behind. She was not supposed to see this child, whoever it was. So instead, she asked, “What’s happening outside?”

“You have a choice here,” the voice continued as though she hadn’t spoken at all. “Go up, and finish what you came here to do. You cannot proceed without this,” it then said, and when Gwyneth turned towards the staircase again, the table was no longer empty.

Atop a clean, ivory cloth laid a gun—a pistol, its silver glinting subtly beneath the streaks of sunlight pouring in through the cracks between the bloodied wood. Gwyneth sucked in a breath.

“You may decide to go back. Rejoin the others, if you wish. The choice is entirely up to you.”

The choice seemed entirely clear to Gwyneth. Turn back to the people—Abnegation. Amity, perhaps. The gun, however…

“I thought you hired me,” she told the voice.

It giggled—a shrill, eerie sound that seemed to carry all the way upstairs. “I cannot decide your fate for you,” it said, as if scolding her.

Gwyneth looked back towards the door again—then to the gun. What if this was a test, and the true display of courage would have been to save the people outside from whatever horrors had befallen them?

No—there were no underlying motives in these tests. Her choices, Gwyneth had learned, were plain and simple, the way the faction members’ lives had been designed to be. If she wanted to be classified as a Dauntless, the gun was her only viable option.

So Gwyneth picked it up—wrapped her hand around the cool metal, letting it slip down to the polished hilt.

“Go now,” the voice urged. “Go!”

Gwyneth did not waste any more time.

She started running, every step light as she made her way upstairs, the echo of the people’s cries following her all the way up to the sixth floor. She felt no weariness, no strain in her muscles or stiffness in her joints, the blend of the serum and twenty-four hours without sleep clearly taking effect.

The stairs seemed to end here, though. There was only one door at the very top of the building, made of the same dark, blood-stained wood the windows had been. Gwyneth reached for the doorknob—iron, too, she realised—and the door clicked open as she turned it to her left.

“Are you the one?” someone asked her—a new voice, male and hoarse coming somewhere from the back of the room.

“What?” Gwyneth asked, and the room lit up with the question.

She had to stifle a scream of her own as she saw him. The man stood at the very end of the narrow hallway, his back pressed toward the wall and a gun steady in his hands.

“Are you the one they sent after me?” he repeated, his voice rougher now, like gravel against her skin.

“No,” Gwyneth lied, fighting to keep her voice from trembling as her own pistol slipped down an inch in her clammy grip. “I’m on your side,” she told him.

“Liar,” he seethed, “I’ll give you one more chance. Tell the truth, and I will go—you and your people will never see me, never hear of me again. Peace,” he said. “So, what will it be?”

Gwyn opened her mouth—and the man smiled, revealing a perfect set of bloody, iron teeth.

Her mind raced, chasing every possibility that seemed to escape her the wider the man grinned. He must have been the reason for the carnage outside, all the pain and death that would have awaited her had she chosen to open the door. Perhaps the simulation would have made her tend for the wounded, or forced her to become one of them. Either way, there was no turning back.

She understood now—she had to kill that man. His promise of peace, while appealing to an Amity or maybe even an Erudite, was a lie. That left her with two choices.

Tell the truth—Candor.

Keep on lying—Dauntless.

So Gwyneth tightened her grip on her gun and told him, “I’m not here to kill you.”

The man’s smile became a long, vicious snarl. “Wrong answer,” he said, and pointed his own pistol at her.

“Leave her alone!” someone screamed then, a voice—a familiar voice, one she had met in this simulation before. The child materialised before her, a small girl that could not have been older than five—and lunged for the murderer aiming at Gwyneth.

All Gwyneth could see, though, was Clare Beddor’s face as she ran for the Erudites that killed her sister. The same Erudites that prized knowledge above all else, only to put an end to it whenever someone reached too far.

What had Catrin found out that day? How bad must it have been to merit an order for her execution.

Whatever truth the answers held, though, Gwyneth had already failed. But, perhaps, she could do this—could save this child, so ready and eager to sacrifice its life for those who could not have done the same.

For Catrin.

As if reading her thoughts, the man pointed his gun at the little girl.

“NO!” Gwyneth screamed, and jumped in front of the child the moment the gun fired.

***

The word still lingered on her tongue as Gwyneth shot upright with a scream.

“Sit up,” Nesta ordered, her hand steady on Gwyneth’s back. “Drink,” she added, a cold glass suddenly pressed to her trembling lips.

She obeyed, the water dripping down her chin as she gulped, the glass shaking alongside her sweaty palms.

“The whole thing,” Nesta nodded, and only when Gwyneth emptied the glass did she finally seem satisfied enough to let her speak.

“Well?” Gwyneth asked, wiping the salt on her forehead with the back of her hand. “ Not an Erudite, I’m assuming?”

Nesta’s lips pressed into a thin line, her skin somewhat pale as she quickly entered something into her datapad. “Not exactly.”

“What—what is that supposed to mean?”

Nesta met her gaze, her blue eyes wary. “Gwyn—Gwyneth, your results were inconclusive.” She sighed. “Is that something you have seen in your research, or do you need me to explain it to you?”

Gwyneth ignored the jab. “Inconclusive?” She frowned. “That is not possible.” She tried so hard—so hard to be matched to the Dauntless. She was prepared to shoot—to prove she wasn’t afraid, to prove she didn’t hesitate. If she only hadn’t let her emotions get the better of her—

“Of course not,” Nesta said, something like mockery creeping into her tone. “In theory. How many times have your theories been proven wrong, Gwyneth?”

She had to give her that one. “Many.”

“You have chosen the gun, effectively closing both paths that would have taken the simulation towards Amity—or Abnegation, for that matter.” Nesta looked at her datapad again. “That gave us Dauntless. Then, you lied to the man—then lied again, even when given a second chance and promised peace—that rules out Candor. You’re definitely not Amity, that’s for sure.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You were smart enough not to believe him, displaying equal aptitude for both Erudite and Dauntless. But then you saved the girl,” she said. “Threw your body over her own. Abnegation again.”

Nesta set her notes on the chair’s armrest, leaning in closer—close enough for the distance between them to close almost entirely as she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “Gwyneth, people like you are called Divergent. And they are very, very dangerous.” Those icy eyes searched her own. “Tell me, Gwyneth, what does our society do with dangerous people?”

Gwyneth stopped breathing entirely.

Nesta nodded. “You, of all people, should know this.”

“You know,” Gwyneth breathed. “You know what my sister researched.”

It had been Gwyneth’s theory from the day she had found a stash of notes in Catrin’s bed—shoved deep into the mattress, nearly lost to the world after death. Notes containing Catrin’s own research, all of them detailing the hypotheses of her Genetics thesis. Catrin had been studying the factionless—had been seeking to understand why, no matter how hard they tried, they did not belong to any of the factions. She had nearly found the answer.

But Catrin’s notes ended abruptly, the final entry dated two weeks before her death. The night the two of them had last ventured out to the Amity farmlands. The night Catrin had promised her no more secrets.

“And look where that research got her,” Nesta said quietly. “Gwyneth, you cannot share this information with anyone. Under no circumstances can you reveal your test results. Do you understand me?” she asked, her tone inviting no protest.

Gwyneth swallowed. Hard. “I do.”

Nesta straightened. “I’m going to put your aptitude down for Erudite, and we’ll forget about this whole thing.”

She picked the datapad up again.

“No,” Gwyneth said then.

Half-turning over her shoulder, Nesta’s brows rose. “No?”

“Dauntless,” Gwyneth blurted out, her final attempt at salvaging six-months of pain and preparation. “Please. They will look—Merrill will look at my test results. She cannot know why I didn’t come back.”

“Gwyneth,” Nesta started slowly. “Whatever you think you’ll find at the Dauntless—”

“It’s not what I’ll find there,” she interrupted. “It’s where the Dauntless can take me.”

Understanding settled into Nesta’s beautiful features. “Going beyond the Fence is strictly forbidden,” she told her.

Gwyneth offered a tense shrug. “It seems to me like I’m already on the forbidden list.”

Nesta shook her head. “To live the life of a Dauntless is to die,” she warned her. “Not many Transfers survive their Initiation. Consider what you’re about to do, Gwyneth Berdara.”

Gwyneth was done considering. It was finally time to act.

“If it was your sister,” she started, looking Nesta right in the eye, “either of your sisters. What would you have done?”

Something like surprise sparked in Nesta’s gaze, and for a moment—for a short, beautiful moment, Gwyneth had hope.

But then, Nesta told her, “You are asking a Candor to lie.”

Gwyneth knew she had lost.

She’d forgotten—she’d forgotten that, in this world, factions came above all else. No matter what Nesta thought of her, no matter what she would have done for her own sisters in Gwyneth’s position—the primary Candor virtue was to never tell a lie.

Dishonesty is rampant. Dishonesty is temporary. Dishonesty makes evil possible.

The doctrine was practically written on Nesta’s face, her features practically writhing in conflict.

So Gwyneth braced herself—braced herself for the administrator’s next words, no doubt announcing her imminent arrest and exile following the betrayal of her faction, of conspiring against her own. Perhaps they would tackle her the way they had Clare Beddor—perhaps they would drag her down to her casket beneath the city’s foundations themselves.

But then Nesta’s datapad flashed red—and Gwyneth watched as her results disappeared, wiped from the digital memory forever.

“When you get to the Dauntless,” Nesta began, her voice tight, “Find a man named Cassian. I need you to pass on a message.” Her throat bobbed. “Tell him,” she asked, “Tell him I was right.”

Gwyneth could only stare.

“Go now,” Nesta ordered, jerking her chin towards the exit. “And try to survive.”

For Catrin—for her sister, Gwyneth always would.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you, Nesta.”

She did not remember the walk back to her empty room at HQ. The last thing Gwyneth truly recalled was the cold bowl of her toilet as she leaned over it and retched her guts out.

The Choosing Ceremony was held exactly a week later at the Hub, the very centerpiece of the city. Gwyneth had queued in her dedicated blue line of twenty-one year old Erudites all morning, unable to occupy herself with anything else but waiting.

She could trust Nesta. Couldn’t she? When had she ever met a Candor with the ability to tell a lie, or worse, keep the truth from reaching the rest of the world? One word to the wrong person, and Gwyneth would be dead before even entering the building.

She had entered it, though, the Hub so much larger than she had remembered it. She and Catrin had once visited it during a school trip, when they were so young they could hardly understand the power it would one day hold over them. The power it held over everyone else.

The Ceremony had started about thirty minutes ago, and after a few brief speeches from the Candor government about the grandiose of this very moment, people’s names had begun being called out one by one. Gwyneth watched as those with an A last name made their choices, her gaze slipping occasionally to the sector at the far right, where the Dauntless would shout out their excitement each time a new Initiate’s blood was spilled over the hot, burning coals.

It was a sick display of devotion—Gwyneth had always considered it as such. Still, she was in no position to argue, not when her only other choice was to embark on a self-imposed exile. Or, apparently, submitting herself to the authorities for being an illegal outlier she had no idea even existed.

Slowly, she slid her gaze over the five white bowls, each the size of the large, sizzling cauldron she’d remembered from her childhood’s fantasy stories, their contents symbolising the five factions. Grey stones for Abnegation, plain and unassuming the way their lives were supposed to be; the hot coals for Dauntless; glass for Candor, clear as the truth; soil for Amity, like the farms they cared for; and, finally, water for Erudites, its flow representative of the ever-changing nature of knowledge.

Somewhere behind those bowls sat Merrill, no doubt expecting to see Gwyneth stain the water red. Perhaps, in another life, Gwyneth would have done just that—would have returned to the Academy, studying history the way she had always wanted, sneaking out to Amity every Summer Solstice to celebrate Catrin the way Amity celebrated the sun.

That life, though…it would not have been enough for Gwyneth. Not when she had seen the rage in Catrin’s lover’s eyes, not when she felt it in her own heart every time she felt the weight of her lighter tucked into her lab coat. Honouring Catrin would have never been enough.

Gwyneth wanted answers. Gwyneth wanted revenge.

“Gwyneth Berdara,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the hall, some of the Erudites’ quiet gasps disrupting the space. Some of them, no doubt, had already forgotten the tragedy from six months ago, Gwyneth’s family name serving as an uncomfortable reminder.

Gwyneth did not look back at them as she walked down towards the five bowls at the hall’s centre. Her eyes were only on the knife laid out before her the way the gun in her simulation had been—waiting patiently to find its way into her hand.

Gwyneth took one, steadying breath before picking it up at last. Then, she flipped it over to the sharp edge and sliced through her palm.

The quiet hiss snuck its way past her teeth as her skin split open, and she realised with a tinge of embarrassment that she may have cut too deep. Within seconds, her blood would begin spilling nowhere but the floor. Perhaps it was exactly the place where the Divergent belonged—unable to be defined despite so many choices laid ahead of them.

Gwyneth allowed herself one look at the water before looking up to meet Merrill’s gaze.

She held it even as she outstretched her hand over the burning coals and opened her palm, her blood sizzling over the fire.

There was only a second of silence when the entire hall held its breath.

And then, the Dauntless erupted with a roaring cheer.

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#divergent au #first hunger games!feysand now divergent!gwynriel gosh i wonder what's next 👀#gwynrielweeks2024 #gwynriel #pro gwynriel #gwyn x azriel #gwynriel fic #gwynriel fanfic #gwynriel fanficiton #gwyneth berdara #pro gwyneth berdara #gwyn acotar #gwyn acosf #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel acosf #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my writing

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shadowriel · 4 months

Text

Every Sound Your Heart Makes

I’m so excited to share my secret Santa gift for @headcanonheadcase! This fic started with an idea for what I like to call “reverse Gilmore Girls” — with a grumpy single dad and a chatty, diner owner. So you can expect the Gwynriel we know and love in a cozy, heartfelt small town setting. I hope it’s everything you want for Christmas, and more!

Summary: It’s been six years since Azriel came back to his hometown, with his newborn daughter in tow. Six years since Gwyn moved away from whatever heartbreak she’d left behind in her previous life and opened up a diner in Starlight Grove.

Now, unable to resist the urge to help Gwyn, Azriel volunteers to design sets for their town’s Christmas musical. But what happens when the town grump and the woman he’s fallen for can no longer hold back from the inevitable?

Chapter 1: Coffee, Please

Read here on AO3

Read a snippet below:

Even steps lead him to where he finds himself most mornings for the simple reason that his days aren’t quite right without a cup of coffee… and his daily dose of Gwyn. Once he reaches her diner, he pushes the door open with a gentle shove. His gaze briefly lingers on the cursive that spells out her name against frosted glass—four simple letters he wants to trace, followed by an apostrophe and an ‘S’. Then, just as the scent of peppermint and hot cocoa washes over his senses, his attention shifts.

He sees her immediately—the owner herself flitting from table to table, pouring coffee into half-empty mugs. The sight of Gwyn alone is enough to have him transfixed. To leave him frozen right there, in the doorway.

It’s almost unnerving, how still he is, when the diner is packed with townspeople. There’s a distinct liveliness to the place, one Azriel knows is only found at Gwyn’s. He’s come here every day for years, and he has yet to find another place where the warmth of the air envelops him the same way.

It’s in the details—he knows—at least for most people, this feeling of home. As much as the shop belongs to Gwyn, it belongs to their entire town. From initials carved into tables on first dates to small tears in fabric cushions covered with scraps of tape, to the sticky residue to sweet syrup that never seems to be scrubbed away from the tiles.

For him, it’s not the details that make him love this place. Not the coffee, nor the assortment of desserts.

It’s Gwyn.

That’s precisely the reason why he stands where he is, unable to take in the diner he’s been coming to for years. Why he doesn’t even see the rest of the room.

All he sees is her.

And then, her teal eyes flicker up, and she sees him, too.

“Good morning,” he says—croaks really. His voice is rough, perhaps with the lingering effects of his interrupted sleep. The greeting is all he can find in himself to say, but it is a good morning. Very good.

The sentiment only grows when Gwyn bites back a smile.

“You’re letting out all the warm air,” she huffs, playing at being annoyed. It must be the heat of the room, but Azriel swears he sees the slopes of her cheeks flush a lovely shade of red. In response, he can only take a step forward, allowing the gravitational force between them to draw him towards her and leave the door falling closed with a soft whoosh behind him.

“What? You’re not going to say ‘good morning’ back?” He crosses his arms across the expanse of his chest, fixing Gwyn with a look. He’s always found immense pleasure in teasing her, so he continues. “That’s awfully rude. I thought we were better friends than that, Gwyn.”

Now, it’s her turn to cross her arms. She sets her pot of coffee on a nearby table before doing so, then tilts her head back to glare at him. “We are, but you’re not the one paying the electricity bill.”

“You’re worried about your electricity bill?” He almost laughs at the irony.

Purposefully, he drags his gaze from Gwyn, instead turning to study the strings of light she’d put up overnight. At least they’re not the multicoloured variety, but a soft white that makes the interior of the diner glow from where they cover nearly every available surface. Precisely three Christmas trees are decorated in a similar, maximalist fashion, and Azriel can’t help but wonder how the diner hasn’t blown a fuse since she’d put the decorations up.

He arches a brow when he looks at her again, trying to hide his amusement. “Really?”

Taglist (please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @foundress0fnothing @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @trashforazriel @sv0430 @sunshinebingo @shadowsxgwynriel @thelovelymadone @damedechance

For the @acotargiftexchange

#gwynriel #gwynriel fanfiction #gwynriel supremacy #gwyn berdara #gwyneth berdara #azriel #au gwynriel #modern gwynriel #acotar fanfiction #acotar #gwynriel fanfic #acotar secret santa 2023 #acotargiftexchange #every sound your heart makes

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damedechance · 1 month

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𝖈𝖗𝖔𝖜 𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖌 (pt 6/12)

𓇢𓆸 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑜3 || 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

Pairing: Gwynriel Status: Ch 6/12 (Read from Pt 1) Rated: E (Explicit) Summary: Three years ago, Gwyneth Berdara became the ward of the Night Institute, a band of hunters led by Rhysand who work to rid the world of vampires. After one fateful night where Gwyn unwittingly welcomes one such creature into their home, she strikes a deal with Azriel, one that is just as likely to condemn them as it is to save them.

Massive thank you to @climbthemountain2020 for beta'ing this chapter, and for overall being amazing and sweet and kind!

𓇢𓆸 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑓 𝑠𝑛𝑖𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑡

VI.

Today, the sun blared bright and relentless in a powdery blue sky, and the unexpectedly pleasant winter day has rendered the inhabitants of the Night Institute lethargic, and to a hopeless degree. The three Archeron sisters–having appeared no more disturbed by Gwyn’s sudden and frantic entry than they might an errant fly–lie strewn about the music room in various states of inertia.

Elain, having stirred only to flutter her fingers in a half-hearted wave upon Gwyn’s arrival, naps in an armchair by the entrance. Both of her legs dangle over one end, while her hand is flung delicately over her face, blocking out the midday sun which stretches lazily across her upper half. A crumpled up ball of paper lies on her stomach, slowly rising and falling in time with her dozing breaths.

The ball of paper–and its numerous companions–can be traced back to Feyre. She sits cross legged on the ornate persian rug with her sketchbook propped up in her lap and her pencil scratching furiously over the pages. In fits of irritation, she groans before tearing a page from her sketchbook and tossing it carelessly onto the rug, the settee, or the low table placed in front of it. One of her trashed drawings has found its way into a bowl of fruit on the table, and another rests beside a crystal vase on the fireplace mantel.

Gwyn tracks the iridescent refractions scattered by the faceted surface of the vase. Notices how they cast soft colors over the sleek mahogany finish of the piano, or how they slant across Nesta’s pensive face–the prismatic effect softening the eldest Archeron’s usually sharp and angled expression. Blurring the edges, almost.

Nesta sits on the piano bench with her back to the keys, and stares down at a velvet dress lying across her lap. One of the many things Gwyn has ruined, the bodice is marred by a gruesome stain.

Fidgeting once more, Gwyn swallows against a lump in her throat and watches as Nesta scrapes at the stain with a fingernail. Dried mud flakes off, illuminated by the sunbeam that Gwyn avoids, and drifts to the ground. Gwyn’s foot slides forward, grinding it into the carpet with the toe of her leather boot.

“Is that all?” Nesta asks finally.

“Yes,” Gwyn says, her voice rising in unnatural inflection. She tugs the edge of her sleeve even further down. “I’m so sorry, Nesta.”

Nesta hums, nodding contemplatively down at her lap while Gwyn fails in repressing memories from this morning. The sun hanging low, practically scalding against her back as the mud seeped cool into the knees of her skirt. She kneeled in that garden, rubbing filth into the fibers of the most beautiful dress she’s ever worn, until even the smallest dot of blood was obscured. The pungency of the wet earth clings to her skin even now, despite an hour spent scrubbing her skin raw in a hot bath while she rehearsed this apology over and over–each iteration proving more and more inadequate than the one that came before.

She told Nesta she fell in a mud puddle while walking home from the gala. And now that the lie has left her mouth, all that remains within is a tongue pressing heavy and useless against her teeth, and lips groping for a suitable explanation that will never come.

Finally, Gwyn forces out, “I can take it to be laundered.”

Gwyn flinches, not only at how shrill her voice sounds, but at how the words ring so hollow. Gwyn has not left the Institute in all the nights she’s lived here, save for the one she wishes never happened. She certainly would not leave the house to see to a dress being laundered.

“What?” Nesta, usually so stern, lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “Laundered?”

Nesta’s stare is cold as ice against the side of Gwyn’s face. Gwyn swirls her tongue in her mouth until it is pressing against the inside of her cheek, and she stares vacantly at the crystal vase. The center of her palm feels like it is burning, and surely Nesta can see it. Gwyn’s transgressions, playing so blatantly across her face.

“Gwyn,” Nesta says finally. Firmly enough, that Gwyn reluctantly flicks her gaze back to her friend. She watches Nesta shake her head and set the dress beside her on the piano bench. “Truthfully, I don’t care about the dress. The stain will come out, or it won’t. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

Gwyn voids her lungs, feeling them shrivel up in her chest as tears begin to sting at the corners of her eyes. She lifts her chin so that she is looking at the overhead light fixture, and allows it to spot her vision instead of looking into the forgiving face of her only and greatest friend.

Tightly, Gwyn says, “Are you?”

“Yes,” Nesta says, pushing up to stand.

Panic constricts Gwyn’s veins, her blood running cold as Nesta snatches Gwyn’s hand out from behind her back. Gwyn is so sure that Nesta is about to turn it over, will shove the sleeve back to reveal the bandage wrapped around her wrist, that the panic does not recede even when Nesta surprises her by clasping Gwyn’s hand in both of hers.

“You disappeared,” Nesta says, anguish flashing briefly in her expression. She presses a glancing kiss to Gwyn’s knuckles, and smooths it away with the brushing of her fingers over Gwyn’s rings. Nesta continues, “I looked for you all over. I worried something might have happened, or that you were scared.”

Gwyn flushes, unsure whether it is from embarrassment or the sight of the cuff of her sleeve slowly slipping down her wrist. She can see the edge of the hastily wrapped bandage visible through the lace, and she swallows.

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” Gwyn breathes through a clenched jaw, barely restraining herself from tearing her hand out of Nesta’s grip.

“Nevermind that now,” Nesta says dismissively. “If falling in the mud is the worst to have happened to you, I am glad for the stain. It means you must have had a splendid night.”

“I did,” Gwyn says, stretching her mouth into a smile in the hopes it will sufficiently convince Nesta before any more of her wrist is revealed. Of all the members of the Institute, Nesta is the one Gwyn wants to keep it from most.

“Good,” Nesta says. “It’s settled.”

Apparently satisfied, Nesta finally releases Gwyn’s hand, and it is promptly replaced behind her back once Nesta returns to the piano.

“Any requests?” Nesta neatly slides herself onto the bench.

Gwyn allows for a moment to pass before she answers, her heart still thundering in her ears and all of her focus attuned to forcing her breaths out evenly. Every passing moment serves to wind her nerves tighter and tighter, a festering coil at the center of her belly–and she wonders just how much of it she is expected to endure before they snap completely, their ends fraying.

Gwyn steps forward, that poor imitation of a smile still plastered on her face, and watches Nesta listlessly strike a few discordant notes at random.

“Beethoven,” Gwyn murmurs, tucking her hand into the folds of her skirt. “If you have any prepared.” From the armchair in the corner, Elain suddenly emits an uncharacteristically loud and very beleaguered groan. “Beethoven is all she has prepared,” Elain gripes.

˖⁺‧₊˚⸸˚₊‧⁺˖

#gwynriel #azriel #gwyneth berdara #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #gwyn berdara #vampire au #gwynriel fanfic

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daevastanner · 6 months

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It was never a bad day when Azriel collected a kiss from one of his acolytes. The notorious patron Fate of Velaris’s Temple of Memories delighted in the visits that had become far and few between over the centuries.

Citizens of Velaris had once flocked to his altar begging the handsome Fate for one of his famed kisses. Kisses that took away their pain in exchange for a moment of passion with the most attractive Fate in Prythian.

Well, most attractive next to Rhysand, Fate of the Temple of Dreams. Rhys's kiss made dreams come true, although his temple had seen less traction over the centuries as well.

As had Cassian’s, the Fate of the Temple of Courage. Much like Rhysand and Azriel, Cassian’s gifts of courage came at a cost some found too high to pay.

The truth of the matter was that Cassian could grant you courage with a kiss by taking your fear, but the loss of that fear often resulted in a devastating end brought on by foolishness. Rhysand could make your dreams come true, but afterwards, reality was too bitter to return to — dreams always faded, after all.

And Azriel’s price was perhaps the worst of all. He could take the pain you were feeling, but the memory that caused the pain would be lost too. Say you were feeling the grief of a lost loved one. Azriel would take it with a kiss… and all your memories of that loved one with it.

Still, he’d gotten a visit today. A young acolyte named Roslin who had been orphaned at a young age. She’d recently located the mother who had abandoned her at birth, only to find she had another family and did not wish to know Roslin in the slightest.

Azriel had listened intently, lifting his knuckle to her cheek to wipe away an errant tear. He was like a man in a desert, starved for water. It had been so long since someone confessed to him. Since he'd feasted on pain and sorrow and delicious hate.

Finally, at the end of her tale, Azriel made the standard offer. He would take away her pain and sorrow, but she must kiss him.

The weeping woman had sniffed but nodded, acquiescing and inclining her head.

Azriel had leaned closer in the pew, cupping the nape of her neck and pulling her face to his. He let his lips slant over hers and gave her a kiss he was certain she’d never forget. The kiss of a lifetime.

All the while, memories of meeting her mother flooded his brain, sensations of sorrow and closure swept over him, filling Azriel to the brim. A woman with crows feet beside her watery eyes took center stage in his mind, ushering Roslin off her doorstep and into the bitter night.

When Roslin pulled away, he savored the glassy look in her eyes. “Better?” he’d asked, voice low and velvety smooth.

Roslin blinked. “I— I think so. Yes.” She finally met his gaze, brows knitting together. “I can’t quite remember why I came here.”

Azriel gave her a small smile, his hand cupping her jaw, a thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. “It no longer matters. Your visit was appreciated.”

And then she had left. Azriel’s first visitor in ages, gone in just an hour. Her memories would have to sate him until the next foolish mortal arrived. Which could take ages.

He never quite understood why mortals found his asking price so disagreeable—

“Fate Azriel.”

Azriel, who had been staring up at the glory blue stained glass above his altar, turned towards the voice. It commanded his attention. It sounded… furious.

Down the navy carpet that lined the aisle of pews, stood a red haired woman in white robes. Similar to the white robes that Roslin had worn when she’d visited earlier this morning.

The red haired woman’s freckled complexion was reddened, her fists were clenched at her sides. It had been a long time since Azriel had taken someone’s anger. Truthfully, he preferred hatred… But he couldn’t be choosy. Not when he was getting more acolytes in one day than he’d had in years.

“Welcome to the Temple of Memories,” Azriel said, offering the woman a sketch of a bow.

“Take your welcome,” the woman spat, storming down the aisle towards him, “and shove it up your vainglorious ass.”

Azriel’s brows raised in amusement. This was certainly a first. He had encountered angry acolytes before but none had ever told him to… Well, to do that.

The woman now stood at the bottom of the altar, fuming up at where Azriel stood above her. Her large teal eyes were narrowed, nostrils flaring with fury, the pink bow of her lips a grim slash.

Azriel angled his head, he wasn’t known for being charming like Rhysand or good humored like Cassian. The Fate of the Temple of Memories was cold and beautiful and impossible to ruffle. Yet this woman… she rankled him. Just a bit.

“I presume you’d like me to take away this… unbridled rage of yours?” Azriel asked, his eyes combing her from her ivory slippered feet up to her angry eyes. “You know the price. One kis—“

She gestured to her white robes. “And why on earth would a Priestess of the Healing Temple wish to bargain with a Broken Fate?”

Azriel felt his eyes flash, but hid his surprise otherwise. He kept his voice even, “I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with both your temple and the term Broken Fate, Miss…”

She sneered, placing her hands on her hips. “Berdara. Priestess Gwyneth Berdara.”

Azriel arched a brow. “Enlighten me as to your faith, Miss Berdara. What Fate do you serve? I’m unfamiliar with the Healing Fate.”

“There is no Fate for the Temple of Healing.”

Azriel thought the way she said ‘Fate’ sounded like a curse.

“We formed when everyone decided to stop serving you all. To help all the unfortunate souls you hurt with your double edged bargains.” She crossed her arms then. “That’s why you’re called Broken Fates. You break people.”

Azriel stiffened but kept his tone bored. “In my experience, mortals are keen on breaking themselves. And besides, all magic comes at a cost, priestess. Or do you perform your healing acts out of the kindness of your heart?”

She lifted her chin, the edge of her lip twitching almost triumphantly. “As a matter of fact, I do. Priestesses hear confessions at no cost and offer counseling in return.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed. “Counseling,” he repeated the word as though tasting it. “Elaborate.”

“The act of offering counsel in hopes that someone may better themselves,” Gwyneth Berdara said primly.

Azriel chuckled softly, clasping his hands behind his back as he stared down at the fiery priestess with amusement. “And your counseling, can it give the fearful courage?”

“It can.”

Her voice held no doubt. Her eyes were fiercely determined. But Azriel continued…

“It can make the dreams you have at night come true?”

She answered without hesitation. “If one has the fortitude, it can.”

Azriel gave her a devil’s smile. “And your counseling can banish memories of grief and sorrow and anger?”

Gwyn advanced up the first step of the altar, forcing Azriel to retreat upwards.

Then, she took yet another step and this time, the Fate’s retreat was almost clumsy. Almost.

Her teal eyes blazed. “My counseling does better than banishing bad memories.” When she spoke again her voice was so low and cold Azriel thought she may be a fellow Fate in disguise, “My counseling arrests bad memories. My counseling makes bad memories into power.”

He’d never admit it, but the hair on the back of Azriel’s neck stood on end. He took in the priestess before him with new eyes.

Her temple of Healing had sounded like a joke. Her title of priestess had made her seem like a servant. Her talent of ‘counseling’ he’d assumed was not dissimilar from a parlor trick.

But no. He could hear it in the conviction of her voice. He could see it in the confident posture of her body. In the blazing tenacity in her eyes. This seemingly mortal priestess believed she was powerful. And belief was delicious to behold.

Still, he wanted to rankle her as she’d rankled him… “You’ve intrigued me, I’ll give you that.” He angled his head, “But how do I know your counseling methods are actually effective? Perhaps they’ve only worked for you because your sorrow is minimal compared to those who come to my altar. Maybe your pain does not compare—“

She must have seen the taunting glint in his eyes, because he did not let his face betray his eagerness to discomfort her. Her whole expression suddenly hardened, then her palm connected with his cheek. A loud ‘slap’ resounded through the temple.

Azriel fought to keep his expression guttered as he turned his head to look at her once more.

But before he could fix her with the glare that usually turned its intended victims into puddles of fear, he found her eyes were watering, her lower lip trembling.

Azriel’s posture relaxed, brows pulling together. She’d accused him of being mercurial, but perhaps they were more evenly matched than she cared to acknowledge.

The priestess gave him a look that could freeze over the Hells. “I’ll admit, there was a time I considered visiting your temple. Collecting one of your famed kisses to take away the grief consuming me.” Her upper lip curled. “Then I heard of your remorseless behavior. Your dishonesty. After everything I'd heard, I decided that yours was a cruel and cowardly way out, and I would learn to be better than the Broken Fate of Memories.”

Her words, they shook with such rage, Azriel confessed himself awed. No one ever spoke to Fates in such a manner. To defy and reject a Fate was to reject a god. Yet still the priestess stood here, staring down her nose at Azriel even though she was nearly a foot shorter.

He had to admit, in the past ten minutes of knowing Gwyneth Berdara, he felt a certain fondness towards her. Her passion, her courage, the deliciously painful past she’d alluded to and her cinnamony ire.

Azriel wanted it. He wanted it all.

“I’ll make you a bargain, Priestess,” Azriel said, gesturing to the front pew behind him. “But first, I wish to know why you came here. It wasn’t simply to berate me for helping Roslin.”

Gwyn scowled at him, pausing and looking the Fate over. Finally, she huffed and stalked over to the front row pew, lowering herself to sit primly.

Azriel fought off a smile and took a seat beside her. He leaned his elbows on his knees, then looked back to Gwyneth Berdara expectantly.

“I want you to restore Roslin’s memories of her mother. She should have them back, and be able to make the decision to keep them. She didn’t know you would steal them from her.”

“Again, I did not steal from your friend,” Azriel ground out. “I collected my payment. It’s not my fault she wasn’t as well-read on the price of my bargains as you are.”

“And again, your cost is too steep. Do everyone a favor and stop taking acolytes.”

Azriel lifted a single brow. “Stop taking acolytes? And what, become mortal?”

She stacked her spine, folding her arms and refusing to look at him. “Don’t be dramatic. To become mortal you’d have to stop taking mortal acolytes and fall in love. I'm not asking you to do the latter, and everyone knows Fates can't love.”

Something unfurled in Azriel then, a deal fit for this arrogant priestess. One that would test her deliciously, and if all ended as it should, her pain and her kiss would be his.

“Here’s my bargain,” began Azriel, “you have 30 days to convince me of three things, and for each one you succeed in convincing me of, you’ll receive one of the three memories Roslin lost.”

Gwyn considered him momentarily. “What things must I convince you of.”

You’re mine, thought Azriel.

Although he spoke aloud as though he didn’t have a care. “First, that mortals are better off without my magic.”

Her throat bobbed, but she nodded resolutely.

“Second, that counseling can arrest grief and pain as well as I can.”

The priestess’s voice was rough. “Very well.”

“And third, why I should forsake mortal acolytes and risk becoming mortal myself. I am well aware I will not become mortal by starving myself of acolytes, but I'd have one foot in the grave as your people are so keen on saying.”

Her brows lowered. “And I don’t have to convince you of all three to earn back her memories?”

Azriel shook his head. “No. As I said, for each instance you succeed, I will supply you with one of Roslin’s memories.”

“And if I don’t succeed?”

“You’re clever,” Azriel said with a soft chuckle. “For any time you fail, you’ll tell me of the memory that nearly made you visit my altar.”

And if you speak of it, you’ll feel the sorrow, and when you feel the sorrow, I’ll offer to take it. And you will not be able to refuse me. No one ever has…

Gwyn averted her gaze once more, studying the stained glass that washed them in fragmented shades of cobalt. She was weighing her options. Eventually, she held out her hand, “We have a bargain, Fate.”

So swiftly, she couldn’t pull away, Azriel sliced her waiting palm with his bladed signet ring. Gwyn hissed, but Azriel slid his index finger over the wound before she closed her fist.

He lifted the blood slick finger to his lips then gave his knuckle a savoring lick, his eyes never leaving her.

Her blood tasted incredible. Like spiced resilience. Like buttery hope. Like brown sugared bravery. Sweet and invigorating.

“The thirty days starts now,” Azriel said, pulling the silk cravat from his collar, the obsidian fabric rippling like liquid night. “We begin at your leave, little priestess.”

She made a disconcerted noise at the nickname.

He took her injured hand and slowly pried open her fingers to expose the still-bleeding wound. He was tempted to have a second taste, but instead wound the fabric around her cut, securing it with a tiny knot on the back of her hand.

When he met her stare again, her eyes were fervent. She pulled her hand from his and shifted as though trying to get comfortable in her pew. “Alright, Fate, I’ll try to explain this as simply as possible since mortal emotions are a new concept to you.”

They certainly weren’t. But she didn’t need to know that. She didn’t need to know he hadn’t always been a Fate of Memories. The priestess didn’t need to know anything at all.

Azriel hadn't planned on listening to her argument. He already knew how this bargain would play out after all...

But then his ears kept perking, her words stirring him from his stupor and prompting questions. Her voice was so passionate, her speech filled with such vigor, that eventually he’d pivoted to face her entirely.

“Why on earth would Roslin wish to remember a mother who didn’t want her? A mother she admitted she’d be better without?” Azriel nearly blustered.

“Because she’s only just started grieving! She hasn’t had time to process the events all put together and form an opinion untainted by her sadness and anger,” Gwyn explained. “She may hate her mother today, but someday she may wish to give her another chance. To mend things. She can’t do that without her memories.”

“Her memories are pitiful,” Azriel drawled. “Breakfast for dinner and the occasional goodnight? The memories of Roslin's mother before she abandoned her are so old, you can’t tell it’s the same woman who just rejected her. The kindness of those memories does not compare to the cruelty her mother just exhibited.”

“People make mistakes, Fate. Especially when confronted as unexpectedly as Roslin confronted her mother. There's a chance Roslin's mother may recognize her mistake and offer her apologies,” said Gwyn amiably. “And even if she doesn't, sometimes people find their happiest endings in forgiveness."

Azriel sneered at that and Gwyn raised a halting hand.

"Forgiveness is hardly the only option. Take me for example. I prefer to take those bad memories and turn them into armor. People can find their strongest protection in never forgiving and instead being aware of signs of danger should they ever encounter another person with the potential to hurt them again. Do you see?”

He'd always planned on letting her score this argument, but Azriel pretended to ponder her question, looking up at the navy ceiling painted with black whirls and swirls. “I will say, I do prefer the armoring method. It’s like when you never forget the color of a venomous snake after it has bitten you. Remembering the bad improves your chances of survival. Something mortals often worry about.”

“Good or bad, memories are valuable, and it does more harm than good to not have them at all. They can help us survive. They can help us live.”

Something about the words sent a chill down Azriel’s spine. It was easy to believe after this conversation that Gwyn was a priestess of a temple of healing. She was as smart as she was hot tempered, and he imagined that was a boon in her 'counseling' efforts.

Azriel laughed softly. “I believe you’ve convinced me, at least in some capacity, of the fact the world would be better if people retained their memories. Even the bad ones would protect them at the very least.”

It wasn't technically a lie. He could see the benefit to a world where a Fate such as himself didn't exist. That didn’t mean he was any further inclined to give up his acolytes, but he could still see it.

Gwyneth's pink lips parted on a soft gasp. "I succeeded?"

If he'd thought her rage was delectable, then her hope was positively mouthwatering. The way the teal of her eyes glimmered, the pinkening in her freckled cheeks. It was a radiant sight.

Azriel gave a slow nod and reached within the folds of his black, tailored jacket. He removed a vial from within, then unstoppered it.

Slicing his palm, Azriel carefully dripped his blood into the slim glass container. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gwyn watch the crimson liquid fall, the flakes of gold in it catching in the light of sunset streaming in through the cathedral windows.

Once satisfied it was sufficiently full, Azriel plugged the vial and held it out to Gwyn with his uninjured hand. "Give this to Roslin. When she drinks it, she'll gain back the most recent memories of her mother."

Gwyn accepted the vial, suspiciously. "The memories of her mother's rejection, you mean?"

Azriel hummed.

"That's especially cruel, don't you think? To only supply her with the memories that brought her to your altar in the first place?" Gwyn said, tucking the vial into her ivory robes.

Azriel looked at her coolly. "You did not say which memories I should return first. Perhaps you should have been more specific. Besides, if your counseling is as masterful as you claim, you should be able to prevent her from returning to my temple."

Gwyn stood from the pew and straightened her wrinkled robes. "If I have it my way, Broken Fate, no one will return to your temple."

Then she walked in front of his crossed legs and started towards the aisle.

"No one but you," Azriel called, not glancing in her direction, but he heard her footsteps halt. "You still have two more things to convince me of if you want Roslin's happy memories."

A beat passed. Another. Then her footsteps resumed and the doors to the temple shut heavily.

Then Azriel was alone again. And for whatever reason, he felt that loneliness more keenly than he had in centuries.

**Full disclosure: since you guys can probably all guess how this ends, I have no intention of writing more. This was sort of just a fun writing exercise for me. That said, I do know how the story ends and if you'd like to see it continued let me know!**

#gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #gwynriel fanfic #acosf #acotar fanfic #daevastanner #stephanie garber #once upon a broken heart

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the-new-ribbon · 24 days

Text

I've Been Loving You For Quite Some Time (and it's about time we do something about it)

synopsis: Gwyn Berdara and Azriel Night have been friends since their senior year of college. Years later they find themselves both working at Moonlight University. They've strictly stuck to being friends, but when they travel to Nesta and Cassian’s elopement, the last thing they ever expected was to wind up drunk and standing at the altar of a drive-thru wedding chapel.

word count: 1664

read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54767785

or below the cut.

Gwyn

The smell of luggage and coffee filled the Velaris airport. The chiming of the arrival and departure boards were white noise for Gwyn as she sat at Gate 30 with her nose in the latest Sellyn Drake novel. She knows she should be grading the essays for her Romantic Literature class, but she’s on vacation for the weekend and her best friend is getting married. The grades can wait.

Plus there’s Azriel sitting next to her and she knows she won’t be able to get any grading done with him there. His black button up shirt hugs his arms perfectly, the swirls of ink drawn on his arms and chest, even slightly on his neck drive her crazy. Especially when the whole ensemble is paired with those glasses. Round silver frames, rounder than glasses lots of other people in Velaris have. And they’re a thousand times sexier.

Flight 1456 with service to Adriata will be boarding in ten minutes. Again, Flight 1456 with service to Adriata will be boarding in ten minutes.

With that announcement, Gwyn tucks her bookmark (a white ribbon) into the spine of her book, luckily she just finished a chapter so it was the perfect stopping point. Though it wasn’t exactly like she was comprehending what she was reading, the thoughts of Azriel flooded her brain like a hurricane in the Summer Court side of Prythian.

“Az,” she whispers to the handsome man, one of her best friends, the best man in Nesta and Cassian’s wedding, and her crush. “You’re saving me a seat right?”

Unfortunately, Gwyn was in the middle of teaching about Pride and Prejudice and didn’t check into her flight soon enough and got stuck in the C boarding class while Az was in the A boarding class. And there’s a chance they won’t be sitting next to each other, even if Az tried to save her a seat.

Azriel looks up, “Actually, I upgraded both our tickets to first class.” he tells her, a small smile forming on his lips. “I thought it would be nice if we could sit together. Plus they have really good snacks.”

The flight was only a few hours but to see Azriel put in work to make sure she would be comfortable, it meant more to her than he would ever know. Warmth spreads across Gwyn’s face and she notices it on Azriel’s face too. Gwyn knows they’re just friends, but she also knows she has a giant crush on Az too. Could Az have a crush on her too?

No, no, why would he have a crush on her? There’s no reason or evidence that he would feel that way, at

“You didn’t have to do that, Az. I would have been okay sitting by myself.”

“Okay, that’s the key word, Berdara. You wouldn’t have been okay. Not only would you have gotten a middle seat, there would have been strange men on either side of you. Now, you get your own seat, fancy coffee, and a nice view.” of me, was something he chose not to say but Gwyn knew he was thinking it, she saw the glimmer in his eyes. It was always there when he said something that could be perceived as flirty. She also pretends not to notice the butterflies taking flight in her stomach.

He takes a moment to push the glasses up his nose. The rings on his fingers glisten in the sunshine peeking through the floor to ceiling windows. She notices his throat bob as he swallows and he clears his throat when he turns to face her.

Did he catch her staring? But there’s no time to think about it because another chime rings through the gate drawing everyone’s attention.

Any first class passengers flying to Adriata, please line up at the desk, you’ll be boarding in just a moment.

“Alright, ready Berdara?”

Azriel’s scarred hand slides across Gwyn’s back, goosebumps and sparks shoot across her body. “Yeah, yeah.”

The weight of her teal bag weighs her shoulder down, a slight pain shooting down her arm. Azriel must have been able to tell because his ring covered fingers attached to those tattooed hands Gwyn stares at too much (though she’d never admit it outloud) reach out and grab the bag off her shoulder.

“Az, I can carry my bag.” Gwyn says, reaching to grab her bag away from him. “You already have yours, you don’t need to carry mine.”

“Gwyneth, let me be a gentleman and carry your bag. I know you have at least five books in there, plus all your clothes and toiletries.” there really wasn’t a reason to pack a huge suitcase for a two day trip, Gwyn thought, but now there’s a small tinge of regret bubbling in her chest.

Sparks fly in her chest at him saying her full name. She often hates when people call her Gwyneth, but there’s something about Azriel saying her name that makes butterflies take flight in her stomach and turns her knees wobbly. He also knows her way too well. She did in fact have five books in her bag. Though there was no way she would be able to read them all over the weekend, she liked that there was a variety in case she didn’t know what mood she’d be in – therefore affecting the genre or tropes she’ll want to read.

“Azriel,” she says, mimicking the tone Az used just moments ago. “If I give you this, can I buy you a drink when we get to Adriata?”

There’s a spark in Azriel’s eye as he looks down at her, she crosses her arms over her chest, not backing down. She may not know it yet, but Azriel Singer would do anything for Gwyneth Berdara.

“Deal.” He holds out his right hand, waiting for her hand to grab his. A challenging look spreads across his face.

Gwyn’s hand slides into Az’s, and they try to ignore the glowing string they both feel, unaware the other feels it too.

She slides the bag off her shoulder, handing it over to him. The swirls of black ink poke out from the cuffs of his shirt.

“Thank you,” she tells him.

“Next!” the gate director says through the overhead speaker. Gwyn jumps and Az softly laughs as he places a hand on her lower back, and she leans in closer to him.

It’s romantic. Two friends in such close proximity, bodies brushing against one another and the warmth of Azriel’s hand on Gwyneth’s back. She wonders what the people around them are thinking.

There’s a higher chance they’re minding their own business, the stress of a flight taking over their thoughts, and not the actions of two strangers in an airport on a Friday afternoon. But as Gwyn looks around as Azriel scans their tickets, she sees a few people looking at them.

Could it really be possible that they look like a couple to the outside world? Not just the imaginary life that constantly plays in Gwyn’s head.

The first class cabin has light blue, almost teal, lights illuminating the floor from under the seats which are separated by a small wall. Not like she would say it out loud or make any expression, but a small bit of disappointment hit her. What if she wanted to hold Az’s hand? There isn’t that option anymore.

At least the flight was only a few hours.

*~~~*

Azriel

Azriel tapped a small beat on the table in front of him. He could have been grading assignments for his computer science and security courses but like Gwyn, he’s now on vacation and could torture his students a little while longer by making them wait for their grades. He was not nearly as fun as Professor Gwyneth Berdara. Or as beautiful, or as smart.

Looking over the barrier, Azriel caught a glimpse of Gwyn with her nose stuck in the bodice ripper of a novel, the latest of award-winning Sellyn Drake.

The smile on her face is small enough that others around her might not notice but he does. He notices the way her cheek bones are slightly raised and notices the light pink on her cheeks.

What are you reading, Gwyneth?

He thought about taking the book from her and reading it. He knows plenty of things about Gwyn but taking this book would give him insight on what she likes, ways to help him show her he has feelings for her. This could be what is needed to get her to fall in love with me, Az thinks.

“Hey Gwyn,” he whispers once.

No response.

“Gwyn,” he says again.

Once again, no response.

“Gwyneth.”

“Azriel, if you don’t stop saying my name, I’m going to hit you with this book.” Gwyn’s eyes don’t leave the pages of her book.

“Can I have one of your books to read, please?”

That gets Gwyn’s attention. The book closes, nothing marking the page or spot where she stopped reading. “You want to read one of my books? I didn’t think a broody, mysterious man like yourself would be interested in romance books.’’

“Today I am looking to broaden my horizons when it comes to reading. And you are one of my very best friends so I know I can trust you.”

Azriel trusts her with more than just books. He trusts her with everything, and one day he hopes that she’ll accept his heart because she’s the only one he trusts enough to give it to.

“Sure.” She reaches down to her bag and grabs one of her books. Their fingers brush as he grabs the book and he feels his stomach drop. “I’ve read this one before so there’s some annotations and post-its in it in case I ever want to go back and reread some of my favorite scenes. Feel free to ignore them.”

Her favorite scenes are highlighted. This is perfect.

Operation: It’s Time We Do Something About Our Love begins now.

#gwynriel #gwynriel fanfiction #gwynriel fanfic #gwynriel supremacy #pro gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel #acotar modern au #acotar #au gwynriel #acotar fanfiction #i've been loving you for quite some time #it's here!!!!

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gwynrielweeksofficial · 1 month

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Attention Gwynriel Writers!

A quick announcement to say that we have made an AO3 collection for Gwynriel Weeks🎉 The title of the collection is “Gwynriel Appreciation Weeks 2024” and you can add any fanfic you write during this event to that collection!

This also allows all of our Gwynriel readers the ability to find all the event writing in one place!

#gwynriel #gwynriel weeks 2024 #gwynrielweeks2024 #gwyn x azriel #azriel x gwyn #gwynriel fic #gwynriel fanfic #gwyn berdara #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #azrielshadowsinger #acotar #pro gwynriel

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hlizr50 · 1 month

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I didn't predict my first contribution to Gwynriel Weeks 2024 being an all-consuming sequel to a friend's fic, but here we are @gwynrielweeksofficial

It's just convenient that it fits well enough with Day 9: Music

This is a sequel to Humming of the Heart, posted by @sunshinebingo for Day 6: Mates. It was such delicious, heartbreaking groundwork that I felt the overwhelming need to give it a happy ending.

So, without further ado, may I present:

A Symphony of Two

Read on AO3

Two years.

Two years since that hum had begun, low and steady. If his heart was a metronome, the beat that guided the rhythm of his life, then the quiet thrum of the mating bond was the long, sweeping notes of the cello, just waiting for the orchestra to enter. To match their melody to his sorrowful, lonely harmony.

Two years since his mate had run from him, the salt of her tears bitter on his tongue. Or perhaps those were his own.

From all the stories he’d been told – the legends – Azriel had expected the loss to drive him nearly mad. True, the year that passed between that fateful day and his first day of training had been long and bitter and dark, but he’d been perfectly able to appreciate the bright moments, too. The addition of Feyre into their circle, into the family. The victory over Hybern and the Cauldron. There were so many things to be grateful for. So many times he had grinned.

And yet, that humming in his heart remained.

He’d realized, after a solid month of wallowing, that Gwyneth Berdara hadn’t rejected the mating bond. At least not officially, apparently, by whatever great magic decided those things. Did that mean he stood a chance? Not by any stretch of the imagination. But at least he hadn’t been made feral.

Well, perhaps he was feral.

Not because his mate had denied him the bond that he’d craved for centuries – the proof that he was a male worthy of love and happiness. No, the potential loss of his Cauldron-chosen partner warranted little of his attention anymore.

No, it was that he’d spent the last year watching Gwyneth Berdara bloom before his very eyes, a beautiful, delicate lily that had finally been showered in sunlight. Gone was the timid priestess who had given him an uncertain smile the first day he’d assisted with training. Now, in the pastels that were lighting the dawn sky, stood a warrior with a quick wit, a mischievous glint her eye, a powerful body, and a confidence that could outshine the sun.

Every day he’d watched, keeping a polite distance whilst his heart and mind and soul warred, that hum a constant undercurrent to every moment of tension, every glance, every smile, every proud observation. Azriel couldn’t deny that there was something that tugged at him ceaselessly, pulling him toward the Valkyrie who was the first to cut the ribbon.

But it wasn’t the mating bond. It was just… her.

To his surprise and his utter delight, their estrangement hadn’t lasted long. Azriel had been charmed by her irreverence from the moment she’d had the courage to show it, and he’d been practically enamored ever since. They’d become friends over daggers and punches during sleepless nights. Gwyn had gifted him smiles more luminous than the moon could ever hope to be, and she’d pulled so much laughter from him that he almost feared for his infamous Spymaster reputation.

The shadowsinger had never told her about those long, sleepless nights, poring over reports and maps, when he’d felt the pluck of that constantly thrumming chord. Sharp and sudden, the fleeting, phantom terror and desperation almost real enough to grip between his scarred fingers. He wondered if Gwyn felt his nightmares as keenly as he felt hers, and cursed himself that they might add to her sleepless nights. If she did, she never shared. But they would both inevitably find their way back to each other in the training ring, where they would battle their demons together.

“I’m sure that, as Spymaster, you’ve developed quite a talent for lurking, Shadowsinger. But it is quite impolite.”

Gwyn hadn’t turned to face him the entire time he’d been perched at the edge of the doorway. But, of course, that never seemed to matter. Was it the bond that made her so aware of him? Or was it more than that? With a chuckle he stepped into the morning light, flaring his wings to feel the warmth of the sun’s first rays as he joined her at the edge of the ring, her feet dangling precariously over the edge.

“You shouldn’t sit like that. You could fall to your death,” he mused, sitting down next to her. Close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body, but far enough to be proper.

Close enough for her to bump her shoulder against his playfully. “But I have a big strong male with wings sitting right next to me. Surely he would be chivalrous enough to take flight and save me.”

Azriel couldn’t help but huff a small laugh, even as he rolled his eyes. “Chivalrous winged males cannot save you when you’re sitting on a ledge alone, Berdara,” he scolded, earning nothing more than an apathetic hum in reply. So stubborn, she was. Nearly reckless in her contentment. His shadows danced lazily around them both as he gazed upon her, drinking her in like a male dying of thirst.

The priestess had tilted her chin, angling her face to be warmed completely by the sun as it continued to rise over the horizon. Her skin had taken on more color as training had progressed, staining her cheeks a near-permanent pink, and her freckles had multiplied, splattering over her cheeks to outnumber the stars in the night sky. Azriel often found himself wanting to count them, connect them, commit them to memory.

Clarity struck him like the tip of a spear, aimed at his heart. While the bond had thrummed incessantly behind his ribs, what he felt for the redhead beside him went far beyond mystical magic and power matches. The deep pit of despair and icy rage that had sharpened him when she’d been stolen and dropped into the Blood Rite – those were not the bond’s doing, but his own thawing heart. The smiles and the laughter and the heated debates over the best way to take one’s tea – those intimacies were not forged by a mystical cauldron or a deity in the heavens.

It was her. It was him. It was them.

The Cauldron didn’t always choose mates that were compatible beyond the power games of the fae. His brothers had just been extremely lucky.

Perhaps Azriel was just lucky, too. But only if Gwyn felt the same.

The silence stretched, with the Valkyrie smiling gently into the sun as his shadows drifted and his lungs filled and the hum lifted, singing to him with a siren’s song. Beckoning. Encouraging.

“Do you still feel it?”

He didn’t know if it was a question so much as a plea. Please, still feel it, his heart beckoned. Please want to.

Gwyn’s eyes were wide and gleaming like the Sidra at midday as she jerked her chin toward him, rosy lips parted in surprise. Her expression softened after only a moment, a sad smile lifting the corners of her lips.

“Every day.”

Azriel swallowed, an effort to dislodge the lump in his throat. He’d wondered about this for a few weeks, now. Wondered whether he should tell her. Whether he should try to reach out to her, try to acknowledge this link between them.

Mother knew where the courage came from, but he summoned it with a deep inhale and placed his scarred hand over hers on the stone.

“I feel it, too.”

He hated the way that her eyes shuddered, growing dark with uncertainty. “Az—”

“You told me two years ago…” his voice drifted off, realization dawning on him.

Fuck… this was really it. He was doing this.

“You wished for me to find someone that could see all of me,” Azriel continued, thumb absently drifting over her knuckles. “Do you?”

“I do,” Gwyn whispered. He smiled, giving her hand a comforting squeeze. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“Of course I do, Gwyn. I could never forget that day,” he admitted, then continued before she could respond, “You also told me that you wished for me to find someone who could match my beauty and strength and courage. Someone truly deserving of me.”

“Azriel—”

He lifted his hands before her eyes, a silent question, and her breath hitched even as she nodded, silver tears flowing over her lashes. Azriel cupped her cheeks in his palms, brushing away those tiny droplets as he stared deep into her stormy blue eyes.

“Gwyneth Berdara. You are the strongest, bravest person I think I’ve ever known. You could have stayed in the Library forever, shielded from the outside world, and nobody could have ever judged you for it. And yet… you didn’t. I have watched you build your confidence and hone your body. I’ve been blessed to get to know you and laugh with you, to call you my friend. I’ve had a spectacular vantage point to watch as you have blossomed into the fierce, incredible female that you are.” The words were a declaration. A vow. A plea. Everything. Azriel laid himself bare before her, praying that she understood how wrong she was those years ago. “If anything, it’s me that doesn’t deserve you.”

His favorite Valkyrie sniffled, doing her best to shake her head as he held it. That was the only sound, and his heart threatened to beat out of his chest if she didn’t answer, and soon.

Gwyn’s palms were warm over his fingers – holding him, holding her. “You deserve the world, Azriel. I just,” she hesitated, taking a shaky breath, “I just don’t know if I can give it to you.”

It was Azriel’s turn to shake his head, his unruly hair falling in front of his eyes until he shook it away again.

“I don’t need the world, Berdara. I just want you,” he murmured, watching her expressive face for every twitch and hit of reaction. She was never able to hide her feelings from him, not with the way her eyes would widen and her lips would hitch for a moment. A tiny smile lifted one corner of her mouth, but her gaze was still unsure. So he plunged onward, “You said back then that you were broken. I think you know, by now, that I am, too. Maybe our broken pieces will fit together. Maybe that’s how it was always supposed to be.”

He pulled away for only a moment before reaching for her again, grasping at her fingertips and gripping one of her hands between his.

“There’s no pressure. No expectation. I care for you deeply, Gwyn. Not because some magical relic proclaimed it, but because I have been blessed to know you. I only humbly pray that you might want to give this a chance. Because the only person who fits all those criteria you so thoughtfully laid out – what feels like a lifetime ago – is you.”

Azriel had always known that Gwyn’s smile was a wonder, incandescent and genuine and joyful. But seeing it now, as he begged her to step fully into whatever this thing between them could be, felt like flying.

“You want me, Shadowsinger?” she breathed on a wet little disbelieving huff. He grinned back at her.

“I do, Berdara,” he confirmed. And then she laughed with all of her voice, a melody of bells and harps and strings finally joining that cello humming in his heart, and threw herself into his chest, her arms circling his neck.

“I want you, too,” she whispered as he wrapped her in his embrace.

And his shadows sang along, the symphony complete.

#gwynriel #fanfiction #gwyneth berdara #gwynriel supremacy #gwyn x azriel #acotar #azriel shadowsinger #sarah j maas #azriel x gwyn #gwynriel weeks 2024 #gwynrielweeks2024 #azriel acotar #fanfic #gwynriel fanfic #gwynriel fanfiction

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the-lonelybarricade · 8 months

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You Are Not Alone - (2/3)

Summary: Captured and held in the dungeons of Hybern's castle, Azriel receives help from the most unexecpted being—a priestess.

This takes place in the A Court of Faded Dreams universe after Chapter 50, though it could possibly function as a stand alone read. I think the context is relatively straight forward, but I definitely recommend reading the main storyline if it interests you!

Read on AO3 ✦ ACoFD Masterlist ✦ Previous Chapter

Azriel was going to murder Jurian.

Of course, he would need to make his way down the list of people he was planning to murder first, and that was currently a long, grotesquely detailed list. At the top was the King of Hybern, who stood smugly behind him, carelessly holding Azriel’s restraints like he was little more than leashed chattel to be sold to the highest bidder.

Which led him to the next person on his kill list—the High Lord perched on the dias above him, as well as the litter of red-headed sons standing on either side of the oak-hewn throne. They were grinning, a pack of hyenas prepared to close in for the final kill.

“A gesture of goodwill,” the King of Hybern said, shoving Azriel to his knees. “Yours to do what you wish. Kill him, sell him, trade him back to the Night Court.”

Beron leaned back in his seat, studying his prize carefully. Azriel’s arms and wings were bound tightly behind his back, and though the chains biting into his chest and shoulders were crafted of faesbane, Azriel still liked his chances of putting at least one of the Vanserras on their ass if they got too close. He curled his lips back into a snarl, wanting them to know that if they took him prisoner, he would do everything in his power to make containing him a miserable, tedious affair. Eris smirked, eager to play the very same game.

“The fae do not give gifts freely—particularly none as valuable as the Night Court’s Spymaster.” Beron tipped his chin with an authority that spoke to the centuries he had sat on that throne. Even an instinctual part of Azriel sensed the power thrumming from the High Lord and begged for him to yield.

He raged against it, baring his teeth at the Lord and his sons. Jurian kicked him in the ribs as retribution, and Azriel snarled. With his matted hair and blood stained clothes, he likely looked every inch the primitive beast the Illyrians were usually accused of being.

“As far as I am aware,” Beron continued, paying no attention to Azriel’s show of defiance, “all debts between us are paid. What is it you seek in return?”

The King of Hybern tipped his head back and laughed. The sound rattled through the chamber—as low and hollow as a wooden knocker slamming against a rotted door.

“Still so careful, after all these centuries. Have I not fostered good will between us?” Beron stared ahead at the King, unflinching in the face of so much power. The King shook his head, the way one might at an amusing, petulant child. “Very well, Beron. I wish to add additional reinforcements to the delegation from my Kingdom.”

Beron’s face was stern. “How many?”

“Three of my commanders,” The King said, then made a sweeping gesture towards Jurian. “And my human general. They’ll be overseen by my niece and nephew, who I’ve heard have been greatly enjoying your hospitality.”

To the right of Beron’s throne, there was a whisper of movement. A flicker of red hair, attracting Azriel’s attention as he watched Eris Vanserra quickly reach out and bunch the back of his younger brother’s tunic into his fist, restraining the furious male with that single gesture. It was so subtle that no one else seemed to notice.

“For what purpose?” Eris asked, calmly, drawing a flat look from his father.

“Their mission is to survey the land. Find the best place to stage our battleground. They’ll be making expeditions into Spring to examine the wall.”

Beron gave a slow, if not displeased, nod. “Very well.”

At that, Jurian delivered a sharp kick to the gap between Azriel’s wings. With his hands restrained behind his back, Azriel had nothing to slow the momentum as he fell miserably onto his stomach with a low grunt. The chains rattled through the throne room.

“Eris,” Beron called.

There was no other instruction. Brown polished shoes came into Azriel’s line of sight as Eris stepped forward—a leashed pet in his own right. Azriel was tempted to spit on the fine leather that stopped in front of his face. From the clamor above him and the way his bindings slackened for just a moment, Azriel imagined the Autumn heir was taking the chains from the King.

Then a sturdy hand tangled in his hair, gripping tightly to yank Azriel’s neck upwards, forcing him to peer into the burning amber eyes of Eris Vanserra.

“Welcome to the Autumn Court,” he crooned.

“I must admit, I was surprised to hear from you.”

Ianthe’s voice had a lovely cadence and an even lovelier inflection. Soft, lilting, so like the chitter of birdsong in the trees overhead. It was easy to see why she had fast become a voice of influence among the priestesses. And though Gwyn had only heard glowing praise about Ianthe, she couldn’t help feeling nervous to be walking beside the High Priestess. Likely because she was so well renowned, and so kind, and Gwyn had not been entirely honest in her correspondence.

“Many of our sisters are understandably cautious about being assigned to the Autumn Court with the current state of politics,” Ianthe continued, leading Gywn past a pair of bronze-armored sentries standing outside the solid oak doors that led into the Forest House. The personal residence of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

“Of course,” Ianthe said, pushing the doors open with an unsettling amount of comfort, like she was more than a guest to the High Lord—like this was her home. “We have avowed to stay neutral to such affairs. Regardless, I understand that being in a court central to the conflicts can feel intimidating.” They stepped into a long corridor, their footsteps bouncing endlessly down the empty hall. “But it is precisely for that reason that the people of the Autumn Court need our help more than ever. As you well know, it is faith people turn to in times of crisis. They require our help, ordained by the Hands of the Goddess, to lead them out of despair and darkness.”

“I couldn’t agree more, sister,” Gwyn said, feeling only mildly guilty for the lie. She’d had to feign twice as much enthusiasm in Sangravah to get the transfer approved. Even more to Catrin, who strongly felt this plan was absurd. “My mother is from the Autumn Court and its people did not ask to be part of this conflict. I feel strongly that they could use our support, which is why I asked to be assigned under you.”

“It has been a long while since I had a pupil training under me,” Ianthe mused. There was a fondness in her voice that relaxed some of Gwyn’s nerves. Though it was an unexpected and sudden request, there was no reason for Ianthe to suspect Gwyn was there for anything other than enriching her studies as an acolyte.

“I hope you will find my guidance valuable.” Ianthe said, perfectly content to do the majority of the speaking. “And I’m sure there is plenty I will learn from you, in turn.”

Gwyn bowed her head respectively. “I will strive to learn all I can as your humble pupil.”

“I’ve been told you’re very well studied.” Ianthe’s full lips stretched into a smile. When she reached up to push the hood of her robe down, Gwyn was struck by how beautiful the High Priestess was. Sparkling teal eyes and bright golden hair that cascaded down to her slim waist. Charming and gorgeous and clever, it was all consistent with what Gwyn had been told to expect. She could not fathom why someone like Ianthe would choose to work so closely with a High Lord like Beron.

“I just enjoy reading,” Gwyn said, cheeks already growing warm from the praise.

“Research is a very valuable skill. I can already tell you are going to be a great asset.”

Together they turned down a short corridor where on the other end, Gwyn could see a spiral staircase carved from stone. They stopped just before it, at a wooden door which Ianthe opened to reveal a spacious bedroom.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” Ianthe said. “The temple is just up the staircase, so that you can come and go at your convenience.”

“That is very considerate,” Gwyn murmured, peering into the room. It was much nicer than the accommodation she shared with Catrin in Sangravah. Gwyn eyed the large bed with longing, trying to remind herself that she was here on a mission and that it would be foolish to indulge too readily in the luxuries of Beron’s Court.

“Why don’t you get yourself settled?” Ianthe offered her a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Once you’re ready, meet me in the temple for our afternoon service, then I will give you a tour of the Forest House.”

A tour. It would be the perfect opportunity to collect more information, to see what of the Autumn Court’s ties to Hybern would have encouraged the shadows to send her here.

Gwyn flashed the High Priestess her brightest smile. “That sounds perfect!”

“What a pleasure to have one of Rhysand’s dogs as our very own prisoner.”

Azriel had always known that Eris liked to hear himself speak, and he’d truly believed there was nothing that could make the male more insufferable than he already was. As it turned out, Eris’s snide voice was far worsened by the inability to punch him in the face. Regrettably, Azriel’s arms were still restrained behind his back, bound by the chain that wrapped around his neck, his legs, his wings. Two Vanserras hauled him forward by his shoulders on either side. If not for his injuries and the sedative Jurian had given him before they left the Hybern Castle, Azriel would have favored his chances of overpowering them.

Though Eris was capable of winnowing them to wherever Autumn kept its prisoners, he and his brother had decided to drag Azriel through the halls of the Forest House, flaunting their quarry to every courtier and servant that passed them by. It was a means of humiliation, but Azriel was taking full advantage of the rare opportunity to see inside the High Lord’s personal residence. He marked every corridor they turned down, his shadows already slinking away to search for every potential exit. Typical Autumn Court arrogance, betraying valuable intel for the sake of stroking their pride.

“I heard they couldn’t break you in Hybern,” Eris crooned at his back, closer than Azriel expected. “I wonder if a few nights under my care might be more persuasive.”

Azriel gave a low laugh. “From what I’ve heard, a night with you will only leave me disappointed and wanting—” He cut himself off with a low grunt as one of the Vanserra on his left threw his fist into Azriel’s gut.

“Illyrian filth always running their mouth,” he hissed.

“Easy,” Eris chided, unruffled by the insult. “There will be plenty of time for that once we’re downstairs.”

A shadow darted back to Azriel from around the corner. He felt its restlessness, but before it could provide its warning, the Vanserras turned him down the corridor.

Azriel was pinned instantly beneath two pairs of wide, teal-colored eyes. He tried not to stiffen in his shock, desperate not to let his captors know how much the sight of the younger priestess—who looked suddenly to the point of tears—had rattled him. She was wearing the same acolyte robes he had last seen her in, hood pushed back to reveal her rich coppery hair. She raised a freckled hand to cover her mouth, red brows bunched together in abject horror.

No, Azriel internally begged, wishing he had some way to communicate with the priestess that she needed to put her hand back down. You don’t know me. You don’t care about me. I am nameless, nothing.

Ianthe stood beside her, her fair expression arched with intrigue. He was unsurprised that the High Priestess was not grieved to see a prisoner of war, though it made a stark—and almost amusing—comparison to Gwyneth’s outright horror.

“Pardon us,” Ianthe said, pressing a hand to Gwyn’s shoulder to guide her firmly out of the way. “My pupil is young and has just transferred from the Sangravah temple. She’s never been exposed to the facets of war.”

One of the brothers holding Azriel by the shoulder took a breath and Azriel was preparing himself for whatever cutting remark he’d need to repay in blood later.

“Excuse us for the violence, priestesses,” Eris interrupted, with more earnesty than Azriel had anticipated. “We are just transferring a prisoner from Hybern. Continue as you were.”

With that, Azriel was led away. He didn’t dare glance over his shoulder to watch the Priestess as he went, though his mind stayed with her, wondering where she was going, what she was doing here, as he was dragged further and further into the depths of the Forest House.

“You’ll get used to seeing such things,” Ianthe said with a frown that made it difficult for Gwyn to subdue her rapid pulse. She knew she needed to calm herself down or it would become obvious that she was disturbed for more than just a passing stranger. “The Autumn Court is rather blatant with its brutality. Other courts observe the same cruelties and simply keep it better concealed. I find that in some aspects, the transparency is refreshing.”

Refreshing. Gwyn felt nauseated.

She stared after the stone staircase, where the Vanserra’s had vanished with a bruised and bloodied Azriel. So close to where she was lodging… she imagined it had to be a sign from the mother. An indication that she was on the right path.

“I am fine, just a bit rattled,” Gwyn assured the High Priestess, putting a hand to her chest. Her heartbeat thrummed beneath her fingers and she willed it to still. “As you can imagine, I’ve never witnessed such violence before.”

Ianthe touched her shoulder sympathetically. “It will be good to get some exposure, so that you can better understand the adversities that others face.”

“Yes,” Gwyn breathed, numbly. All she could see was Azriel’s wide hazel eyes. He always kept to the shadows in the Sangravah temple, so this was the first proper glimpse she’d had of his face, caked in blood and grime as it were. His eyes were so big, trying so desperately to communicate something with her.

Ianthe was staring at her expectantly.

She forced a smile. “As you say, it is helpful to know the hardships of others, so that we can guide them from a place of understanding.”

“Precisely.

The fingers on her shoulder tightened, then released. Ianthe stepped back, pulling her hood back over her hair.

“Get some rest, Gwyneth,” she instructed. “If you need anything, the servants will be happy to accommodate you.”

Gwyn nodded, bowing to her High Priestess before she slipped into her lodgings and shut the door. She held her breath, listening to Ianthe’s footsteps grow distant as she disappeared down the hall.

Then she cracked open the door, peeking through the slit to see if anyone was coming. It was utterly silent, no approaching footsteps and no one in her line of sight.

So with a great, fortifying breath, Gwyn darted towards the staircase.

“Ready to play, shadowsinger?”

This time, Azriel did spit on Eris’s polished boots. The satisfaction made the sting of the resulting kick to his jaw slightly more tolerable.

“Leave us,” Eris growled to his brothers. There were huffs of disappointment, but the Vanserra grunts did as they were told, scraping the metal door shut behind them.

The Autumn Court prison was as dark as the one in Hybern, but not nearly as cold. The stone floor felt more welcoming without the biting chill of the sea, a mercy Azriel did not expect to encounter. He raised his head to meet Eris’s cunning eyes. The Autumn Lord bore all the self-importance of a sadistic god, staring at Azriel laying at his feet. His nose scrunched in distaste, the way he might stare at a bug he was considering crushing beneath his boot.

Azriel curled his lips back into a snarl. “Give me your worst, Vanserra.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Eris said, crouching in front of Azriel so that they were eye level. The affronting male reached out to straighten Azriel’s torn collar, as though he were making the least bit of difference in the Illryian’s haggard appearance. “I’ve heard your High Lord’s little alliance has decided to help me take the throne, which makes us allies. Things are about to get very ugly in this court.”

Eris was exactly the kind of male who used the term allies loosely. He never helped anyone if it didn’t benefit him in turn, and Azriel expected that meant he would be the Autumn Court’s prisoner until Eris could make a deal with Rhysand.

“And your vicious pets?” Azriel asked, jerking his head in the direction the other Vanserras had disappeared. “I think they might notice I’m not being tortured.”

Fingers dug, hard, into his chin as Eris pushed Azriel’s face back up, forcing their eyes to meet again. “I’ll keep them out of your cage,” He said through gritted teeth. It was clear his hostility was just barely leashed by their alliance. “But I want a favor from your court in turn. To be redeemed at my leisure.”

Azriel jerked his face away, like he’d been burned by the Autumn male’s touch. “I don’t speak on behalf of my court,” he said, seething.

“Then I want a favor from you,” Eris crooned in a sweet, mocking sing-song.

Torture was preferable.

But Azriel thought of those glistening teal eyes, staring at him as if he meant something. He swallowed roughly past his pride. “Only on the condition that the priestess—the red haired one—stays safe. If anything happens to her while she’s in this court, the deal's off.”

Eris raised an angular brow, intrigued, but clearly not invested enough to pry any further. It was enough that Azriel cared about her safety. An exposed vulnerability, but at least for the moment their interests were aligned.

“Fine. The priestess will be under my protection.”

“Deal,” Azriel said bitterly.

The smirk the crossed Eris’s face was disconcerting. Azriel tried not to think too carefully about what manner of favor he’d be called in to complete. He could worry about that after he was free.

“Good,” Eris said. “Then I hope you enjoy your brief stay. Make yourself comfortable.”

Gwyn wasn’t certain how far down they had taken Azriel. She hadn’t realized, until she embarked, just how many levels there were in the Forest House. The staircase twisted downwards indefinitely, growing darker with every step.

It allowed Azriel’s shadows to slip through undetected. Gwyn had nearly shrieked when one jumped out at her four levels ago, tugging at her wrist when she’d been about to push open the corridor. Down, it had told her, and so she kept going. Pausing at every floor only for the shadow to tug her harder. Down.

Down, down, down.

Until she heard footsteps, and paused.

Voices, distant at first, then closer. Bouncing off the stone.

The shadows pulled at her, but Gwyn didn’t need their instruction to dart out of the stairway, slipping through a large oak door. She didn’t let it shut fully—too nervous the sound would alert whoever was coming, and because it allowed her to press her face to the small slit in the door frame.

A pair of red headed males passed by, grumbling about Eris hogging all the fun. They passed by without even glancing her direction, continuing their ascent up the unending staircase. She released a breath once they were gone, counting the seconds in her head. How long should she wait, until she was sure they wouldn’t hear her shut the door?

Glancing behind her shoulder, Gwyn could see that she was in a long, dust-covered hallway, with a single door on the other end. Portraits covered in white cloth decorated the wall and, curiously, Gwyn wandered towards one to lift the cover.

Long, flame red hair greeted her, followed by golden brown skin and bright russet eyes. A handsome male, undoubtedly a Vanserra, though there was something different about him that caused Gwyn to tilt her head to examine him closer. Lucien, she recalled. The exiled son of Autumn.

Well, at least she knew that no one would likely be frequenting this floor.

“What’s this?”

Gwyn shrieked, whirling to find Eris Vanserra standing in the entryway, the wooden door propped open beneath his palm.

“I—” Gwyn scrambled to think of an excuse, and when she came up short, she admitted, “I was curious what was under the portraits.”

He raised a brow. She could tell he didn’t believe her.

“And what are you doing so far from the temple?”

“I think he’s cute,” she blurted, face burning so hot that she hoped it was convincing.

That, at least, seemed to surprise him. But pleasantly. The way a fly surprised a spider when it tangled in his web.

“You think my exiled little brother is… cute?”

“Is this where his room used to be?” She asked, pointing down the hall.

Eris’s expression soured. “Stick to your temple, little priestess. I don’t want to find you down here again.”

There was a threat to those words that made Gwyn feel like she was choking. She bowed her head in shame, hurrying quickly out of the corridor as she mumbled, “Yes, s-Sir. Er, my Lord—Lord Eris.”

He snorted. She couldn’t decipher if it was a sound borne from humor or irritation. He didn’t move as she skulked back into the stairwell, forcing her to duck beneath his arm. Those amber eyes tracked her the whole time, watching her climb back up the stairs. Even once she was out of his line of sight, she didn’t dare turn around to see if he was following.

Azriel would have to wait.

#This is for me and COTGS #I am fully expecting no one else to pay this any attention 😂#Gwynriel #Gwynriel fic #Gwynriel fanfic #Gwynriel fanfiction #Gwyn x Azriel #Azriel x Gwyn #A Court fo Faded Dreams #ACoFD

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dawneternal · 1 month

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Just a Favor | pt 3 | Gwynriel

✦ Sorry this one isn't as polished as the others 💛

✦ Warnings: Nesta says bad words lol

✦ Word Count: 1.1k

✦ AO3 Link

✦ part 1 / part 2 / part 4

Azriel slept far better than he would have predicted. But he woke early, just as the first hints of pink washed through the sky. And his stomach churned, fingers cold with nervousness.

He had left her there.

Somehow, in all of the whirling thoughts and emotions of last night, he had not considered how she must have felt about being left there. Now, it was all he could think about.

He found himself padding to Cassian and Nesta's room. He knew they'd likely be pissed but he couldn't stop himself. He opened the door silently, as was his habit, and stood still beside the bed, too panicked to feel any shame over his half-clothed friends.

"I left her there," He said into the silent room. Nesta's eyes opened and she flew into a sitting position with a fierce scowl. She clutched the blanket around herself. Cassian did not move but he growled loudly.

"What the fuck?" Nesta croaked.

"I kissed her and then I left and I didn't say anything," Azriel continued.

"Yes, I know," Nesta grumbled.

"So she probably hates me," Azriel buried his face in his hands.

"She doesn't hate you," Cassian mumbled against his pillow.

"But I-"

"Azriel," Nesta said, firm, "She doesn't hate you. I talked to her after you left. She's just confused. Just send her a note, okay?"

Her voice softened by the last words. Then she smiled and bit back a laugh.

"I'll be happy to talk to you when the sun is up and I'm not naked," She said.

"You're naked?" Cassian sat up, took one look at Nesta, then threw a spare pillow at Azriel. "Get out, Az!"

"Alright, alright," Azriel grumbled and dodged the pillow.

"Next time talk to Rhys," Cassian called as his brother left the room, "He has a toddler, he's always up this early."

***

Azriel penned a quick note and had his shadows carry it to Gwyn's nightstand.

I'm sorry I left. I hope you enjoyed your first kiss despite my strange behavior. I'll explain when I can.

What the shadows did not report was that Gwyn was already awake, writing in her journal by fae-light. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of the shadows twirling around each other, carrying a little paper between them. They hovered near her, waiting for her to take it.

"Thank you," She whispered, plucking the note from their hold. They disappeared into nothing, and Gwyn wondered if they had gone back to the shadowsinger or if they had stayed to watch her and report back to him.

Either way, she opened the note, reading the careful handwriting several times. A smile bloomed on her face, accompanied by a soft blush. She could not help the leap of her heart, the wild hope that started to grow there.

So he did have something to tell her.

***

"You're probably wondering what this is about," Azriel said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

The three sisters exchanged looks between them before turning toward the solemn shadowsinger. Each bit back a smile.

"Go on, Az," Feyre said softly. Azriel took a deep breath before speaking again.

"I have a mate," He announced, shrinking into his shoulders as he said it.

Nesta smiled, a genuine grin that revealed her dimples and bubbled over with joy. Feyre squealed and clasped her hands together. Elain smiled, tilting her head to the side and crying out, "Oh, Az!"

Azriel grinned at the floor, blush creeping over his cheeks. The same blush that insisted on returning every few minutes for the last 24 hours.

"Who is it?" Feyre whispered, as if the culprit could be listening. Nesta and Elain leaned in, eyes gleaming.

"Gwyneth," He said savoring the name on his tongue.

"Oh thank Gods," Nesta put a hand on her chest, "If you had said another name I don't know what I would have done."

"What?" Azriel furrowed his brows. He noted that none of them looked very surprised.

"Nothing," Nesta waved him away, "Keep going. What do you need us for?"

Feyre and Elain hummed in agreement.

"Well, since you're all mated, I thought I would ask for advice. About how to tell her," He said, wringing his hands, "I guess I have the upper hand in that way. Rhysand was all on his own."

Feyre smiled, blushing at the memory of her temper and poor Rhysand trying to win back her favor.

"It may not have been ideal," She laughed, "But it's a memory we laugh at, now. I don't really think you can mess this up, Azriel."

"That's what I'd thought about Rhysand," Az chuckled.

"What about Lucien, Elain? How did he do?" Feyre asked.

From the way Elain's face turned deep red and she began to stutter, it was clear that Lucien must have done alright. At one point, that may have made Azriel jealous. But right now, he just wanted to know how Lucien had done it.

"I think she'll just be happy to know," Nesta said softly, thinking of the hope in Gwyn's eyes the night before.

"What if...." Azriel trailed off, too shy to name any of the worries cycling through his head. This whole thing had driven him to be more expressive than usual but it was still a struggle.

"You've been good friends for a long time, now," Elain pointed out, "I don't know her like Nesta and Feyre, but I still think there's a very good chance she'll return your feelings."

Azriel gazed up at her. The longing in his eyes was painful to look at.

"Listen," Feyre said, reaching out to take hold of his hand, "Just take her somewhere pretty and tell her the truth. Nothing fancy, nothing wild, just you and her and the truth."

Azriel repeated the words as a whisper, mind whirling with ideas.

The ladies stayed a while longer, helping him brainstorm and congratulating him a few more times. And offering some advice about what he should wear.

When their meeting was over, he found himself reaching the front gate at the same time as Elain. She paused and looked up at him, her eyes alight. She looked lovely, hair loose and little flower earrings dangling from her ears. Azriel thought of the time so long ago when they had been in a similar position. Then, she had been a rosebud. Something closed off. Now she was a blooming rose, thriving and overflowing with beauty and contentment.

"I'm happy for you," She said, smiling up at him.

"I'm happy for you, too," Azriel said sincerely, "You glow, now."

"I found my sunshine," Elain's eyes glittered, "And I think you did, too."

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sunshinebingo · 10 months

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY @vikingmagic33 🥳 you know what can make birthdays even more special? Smut! This is inspired by some fics written by this amazing writer and even more amazing lady... We Don't Slut-Shame Males In The Night Court... In The Name of Science... and When Do I Get To Be Ready?

Synopsis: Some dirty texts exchanged at the dinner table followed by smut, smut and more smut.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warning: NSFW. This fic is just edging and smut

Read on Ao3

Bzz. Gwyn excused herself from the conversation to look down at her phone.

Him: Did you think of me when you chose to wear that?

She smiled. Of course she had. Who else would she wear such a plunging neckline for? She brushed a hand on her cleavage and down on the silky fabric of her little black dress and typed a response with her free hand.

Her: Maybe 😏 Do you like it? - Sent.

A few seconds passed. Bzz.

Him: I do

She chuckled both at what Nesta was saying and at his response.

Her: Come on 🙄 I think you can do better than that - Sent.

Gwyn got involved in the conversation before her again. But her mind was still across the table with him. She clutched her phone hard in her hand, waiting for a new message to come. The bzz took longer this time. She kept talking for a few more minutes, intent on making him wait like she had to.

Him: You look so beautiful and hot in this that I got hard from the second I saw you

Thankfully her phone was hidden beneath the table and no one could see her screen. Before she could send a reply, another message popped up.

Him: Is that good enough for you sweetheart?

And another one after that.

Him: Or would you rather I tell you how badly I want to fuck you right now?

She raised her head, eyes immediately finding Azriel’s hazel ones across the table already looking at her. No one but Gwyn noticed in that moment that all his attention was on her and not on the conversation he was supposedly having with Cassian and Mor. It was a miracle that no one in their family had noticed that their exchanges, starting with the glances they stole, had changed lately. No one had discovered yet that their relationship had morphed from that of best friends to something more over the past month. With how hard it was getting for them to pretend in the presence of the others, perhaps it would not take long before their secret was out.

The harder they fell, the harder it was to stay apart. And right now, they both wanted to remove every inch that was separating them. A smirk spread on Gwyn’s lips and she looked down at her phone again.

Her: Leave nothing out 😉 - Sent.

Then she went back to eating and chatting with everyone around the table. The wine she was having somehow felt stronger. Or maybe it was anticipation and arousal that was turning her mind foggy. Her feet bounced slightly beneath the table as she waited.

It had all started with a kiss when Gwyn got home from a terrible date one night. She had confessed to Azriel then that the only reason she went on dates was to forget that she was pining after the one she really wanted but could not have. She had not meant to admit her feelings for Azriel that night. Gwyn had been scared that asking for more would ruin what they already had.

But he knew her too much. He knew that there was no one that she could love without him knowing who it was. And he knew how to coax the truth from her lips. Almost an hour of double meaning conversation later and he was kissing her, confessing that he too had been harbouring feelings for her for a while. This had been the most life altering kiss she ever had.

Bzz. She took a deep breath but did not look at her phone yet. Bzz. She was really tempted but it would have been rude to look down when Emerie was looking directly at her while talking. Bzz. Every vibration teased her more. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.

Azriel coughed, making everyone turn to look at him but he just waved it off. But Gwyn noticed the few seconds that his eyes lingered on her. Taking advantage of the fact that Elain had joined their conversation and that now Emerie was turned to her, Gwyn unlocked her phone.

Him: I want to fuck you babe

Him: …so bad

Him: Sorry. That is inappropriate...

Him: I must eat you out first of course

Him: Make sure your pussy is dripping and ready for me

Him: Then I want to fuck you until you are dripping with my cum too

Breathe, she thought. Just breathe. No one had to know how horny she was right now. Except for one person.

Her: What if I want to make you come first? - Sent.

Three dots immediately appeared on her screen…

Him: If only you could feel how hard I am for you right now sweetheart

She took a big gulp of wine, emptying her glass before handing it out to Mor who was refilling her own. After another smaller sip from the full glass, her hand reached beneath the table again to type another message.

Her: I would love to. But tell me… - Sent.

She raised her head to laugh at a joke Cassian had made. Through his own chuckle and casual demeanour, Gwyn noticed the strong grip that Azriel had on his glass and the way he was biting hard on his bottom lip. His eyes were filled with the same glow that it usually contained before he pounced on her.

There was an immense satisfaction in knowing that she could make a man like him react like this. Azriel was beautiful beyond reason and he could probably bring anyone he wanted to their knees with a snap of his fingers. Yet Gwyn held his own pleasure at her fingertips. She could make him so hard with only words that he would beg for her touch.

Wanting to tease him a little, Gwyn brought her spoon to her mouth and licked the back of it, making sure that he was seeing how the white sauce spread on her tongue. She licked the remnants of it from her lips then grabbed her phone again.

Her: Would you rather I make you come in my mouth first? - Sent.

Her: Or maybe on my tits?? - Sent.

Her: Or maybe you would like to skip all that and just fill me up with your cum??? 🤔🤔 She read the last text again and… - Sent.

Gwyn tucked her phone between her thighs and tried as best as she could to focus on the conversations around the table. She let out a few ‘’Mhmm’’ and said a few ‘’Really? Wow,’’ to Nesta, not knowing exactly what nor who she was talking about.

Fortunately, Cassian and Mor were also in that conversation which spared both Azriel and Gwyn from the need to be fully invested in the discussion. When no response came from him, Gwyn took her phone and typed again. Perhaps he was having a hard time choosing between the options she had given him.

Her: You know what love?? I’m really craving your cock in my mouth 😣 - Sent.

When she looked at him, he was looking down at his lap and his teeth were biting harder on his lip. He was taking deeper breaths than he was before and the grip he had on his glass was so strong that Gwyn feared it would shatter in his hand. Oh how she loved playing with her man.

......................

‘’How should we start, Az?’’ Gwyn asked in her most sultry voice.

She would never have imagined a month ago where her chaotic date would have led her to; a kiss that had resulted in more time spent together with Azriel, exploring each other’s body and fantasies, until he ended up with a white ribbon holding his wrists together on her bed.

Everyone believed that he had headed straight to his own apartment after dropping her off. He had even taken his hands off her for the two seconds it had taken him to reply to Rhysand’s text and inform him that they had both made it to their respective places safely after leaving their family.

The black dress that had turned him on earlier had raised higher and higher up her legs during the drive to Gwyn’s place. Then it had been thrown across her living room with the rest of their clothes joining soon after.

Gwyn teased him by dragging a perfectly manicured finger down his tattooed and muscled chest. His body trembled and he tugged on his ties when that finger reached beneath his navel. Gwyn stopped and bent down to rest her hands on either side of his head.

‘’You thought it was funny to make me so wet with everyone around?’’ she whispered to him before tugging on his ear lobe with her teeth.

“And you thought it was funny to make me so hard I almost came in pants with everyone around?” His voice was filled with so much want that she felt the reaction it caused between her legs. Gwyn lowered herself on his hard cock and moved just enough for him to feel exactly how wet she was for him. She chuckled when he tugged harder on the ribbon. If he kept doing that, either the ribbon or her bedpost would probably break. Not that it had not happened before.

‘’Fuck. Do whatever you want with me baby. But please – ‘’ he let out a whimper when Gwyn started dragging her tongue up his neck.

‘’Please what love?’’ she asked with a sweet voice against his skin. She left his neck to trail wet kisses down his chest.

Gwyn loved having him at her mercy. Azriel was the only one she had trusted to explore her sexuality so thoroughly. He was patient, understanding and as open-minded as she was. But most importantly, Azriel trusted and loved her. And she loved him. More than she had ever loved any man before. She always felt his absence when they were still best friends. Not a day went by without them at least texting or calling.

But now, nothing was ever enough. She had to see him and feel his presence. And when they were alone, she had to feel his hands on her in some way or another. Except for now. Right now, she needed his hands away from her. Only because it would torture him a little more.

‘’Please,’’ Azriel begged beneath her. ‘’Please make me come.’’

Gwyn smirked and looked up at him. Her mouth had reached right where he needed her to be. ‘’Good boy,’’ she purred and wrapped her lips around his cock. Azriel groaned at the warmth of her mouth. His gasp turned into a deep groan when she started moving her head up and down his length. She brought a hand to his balls and squeezed him gently as she took him as deep as she could into her mouth.

Gwyn pushed her loose hair aside with a hand so he could watch how well she could take him. The moans interrupted by her name coming out of his lips and the wet sounds she was making by sucking him encouraged her to go faster.

Pleasuring Azriel was as much for him as it was for her. Her pussy was aching for him so much but she needed him to come first. She needed to feel that she could have that control over him. She needed to feel that she could give him as much as she could take.

And when Azriel gave himself to her, she took every single drop of it, swallowing his cum as he emptied himself down her throat. Then she heard the distinct snap of the ribbon tearing apart. When she finally released his cock and looked at him again, Gwyn found him with his eyes still close and his breathing ragged.

She crawled back up on him with a wide satisfied smile. Azriel grabbed her face and pulled her down on him, crashing their lips together and kissing her like she was the air he desperately needed. The taste of his release still on her tongue mixed with that of his mouth made her body go weak. She needed more of him.

Gwyn moaned when he lowered a hand and pinched her nipple so hard it hurt. “Az I want your mouth on me,” she said, though it came out more as a pleading cry. A second later, Azriel flipped her so she was the one beneath him. Then he was moving down on her, stopping to suck and bite her breasts before going lower.

Azriel kept his hands on her breasts, squeezing them hard. His lust filled eyes fixed on hers when he reached between her legs. “Please baby,” she said as she threaded her fingers through his hair. “I need you to eat my pussy.”

And gods he did. Azriel pushed two fingers inside her while his mouth sucked and licked her. Gwyn pulled hard on his hair, causing him to groan. Azriel removed his fingers to replace them with his tongue. One of his hands kept playing with her breasts while the other teased her clit. Gwyn was a moaning mess. Everything was lost to her except for the pleasure he was giving her. She rubbed her pussy against his face, seeking more and more and more. Until it became too much and she shattered.

Azriel did not stop though. He kept licking and sucking on her pussy until she came down from her orgasm and another wave of heat rised again. Only he was able to draw such pleasure from her. Azriel was able to set her body on fire in ways she knew no one else could. But if she was to be set aflame, then she would make sure that he would burn along with her.

Gwyn tugged hard on his hair, urging him to come back to her, and moved to sit up against the headboard. Their lips joined again when he stopped beside her and the kissed deepened as she moved to straddle him.

“Are you hard again for me Az?” she asked between kisses.

Azriel chuckled. “I’ve been hard again since I got my mouth on you sweetheart.”

He grabbed her by the ass and pulled her closer and she felt his hard cock pressing against her. Desperate to feel him inside her, Gwyn stroked his cock a few times, pressing her forehead against Azriel’s, before lifting herself up and slowly lowering down on him. She held her breath until she was fully seated on him.

He felt so good this deep inside her that she could have come again by just sitting there. But she needed more. So Gwyn moved, going up and down on him while he nipped at her neck.

“Az,” she said in between moans. He only answered with a grunt and a hard bite on her shoulder.

“Fuck me harder please,” she begged him. Gwyn needed to have more of him. And she would give him every bit of herself in return. She took his face between her hands and brought their lips together. “I want you to come inside me.”

He kissed her hard and started to fuck her harder. His hands dug into her ass and he pushed himself up inside her fast and hard. She moved at the same time, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“Are you going to come again for me baby?”

“Yes,” she cried out. Their movement became frantic. The room filled with their moans and the wet sound of their bodies connecting as his cock moved in and out of her. “Az, I need to come with you.”

“Fuck Gwyn,” was the last thing he said before he buried his face in her shoulder and spilled himself inside her. That was all she needed for her own orgasm to follow. Her body trembled and she held onto him as tightly as she could.

They stayed like this, face resting on the others shoulder, with Azriel rubbing circles on her bare back while she played with the strands of his hair she had roughly pulled on before. None of them were willing to open their eyes to reality just yet. After a while, Azriel lifted her up and carried her to the bathtub. The moments they shared after sex were always an extension of the act itself. They put as much patience and love in caring for each other as they did with bringing pleasure.

As she sat with her back against his front in the hot water, Gwyn closed her eyes and indulged in the peace and joy she felt in that moment. Although they were both ready to shout out to the world that they belonged together, they were the most content like this, wrapped up in each other’s warmth, and trusting the other with their bodies and hearts.

#gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel #gwynriel smut #gwynriel fanfic

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