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velidewrites · 2 months

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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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witch-and-her-witcher · 5 months

Text

Silver Lining

azris | T | undercover, canonverse, no magic, one bed | 3.4k

A very happy @acotargiftexchange to @bubybubsters! Although we aren't your original secret santas, @octobers-veryown has created this dashing moodboard to accompany the gift fic below I have written. We hope these tick a few of your likes from your list: secretly good/High Lord Eris, a hint of Feysand and Elucien, and of course - The One Bed Trope.

Many thanks to the darlings @queercontrarian and @popjunkie42-blog for the quick and efficient beta reads!! <3

ao3

~*~

“So we’ve reached our decision?”

“All in favor say ‘aye’.”

The chorus of resounding confirmations come from around the table. Each one is like another hot coal added to fuel Azriel’s ire where he stands back, leaning against one of the House of Winds’ red walls.

Elain and Lucien, acting as the representatives of Day Court, are the last vote. Elain’s eyes flicker to Azriel, apologetic, before she nods towards Lucien.

“Aye,” Lucien enunciates, threading his fingers through his mate’s above the tabletop. There was a time it would have eaten Azriel alive to see such a display, but now he only cares about the fate all those gathered today have sealed for him.

Feyre clears her throat where she and Rhys stand tall at the head of the table of the gathered High Lords, High Ladies, and their representatives. “Then it’s decided. High Lord Eris will travel to his contact in the south of the mortal realms under cover … aided by the Night Court’s Shadowsinger. Both of you hold the fate of Prythian in the success of your mission, travel swiftly and with the grace of Mother on your side. We’ll prepare whatever you may need for your journey.”

Shadows writhe around him as Azriel fights to control the swell of conflicting emotions. Of all the fae to be forced to safeguard —

“Give us time to discuss details and we can present an itemized list to the Council?”

The Autumn lilt in Eris’s speech grates Az’s nerves for no reason other than the male’s tongue has no right to sound so pleasant.

“The Council grants two hours. Speed and secrecy are our only allies in this mission.”

“Understood.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

A muscle twitches in Azriel’s jaw. “What other choice was presented to me?”

Eris’s muscles bound together under the collar of his finely embroidered tunic as he shifts through paperwork, dips his quill in ink, and begins jotting down a list. He doesn’t look up as he answers, “I can find another spy’s service. You were readily available, that’s why your High Lady volunteered you. But considering …”

Azriel waits impatiently for Eris to collect or finish his thought — or to stop pausing for dramatic effect, whatever it is he’s trying to accomplish with this oddly cordial conversation.

Russet eyes flicker up to him. “Considering our history, I would understand if you wish to decline. The nature of this mission requires a complete trust in each other and if you still harbor ill will towards me because of a centuries old feud, I must insist you back out. I’m the High Lord now, my people require I return. They require this mission is a success.”

Reasonable.

So gods-damned reasonable.

Where is the arrogant prick he’d lunged across a table over a century ago to choke?

Azriel’s wings ruffle with annoyance. He’d heard Eris has changed with the relief of Beron’s death, has grown into himself as High Lord and no longer has the time to spend stirring up trouble for the sake of it.

He’s heard he’s a changed male. Living up to the words another had said to him about “being a good male under it all.”

But he hadn’t believed it.

Until now.

The shadows whisper of the sincerity the High Lord speaks with. They also whisper that no spy readily available in the Prythian network will be as good, as reliable, as seasoned, as Azriel.

Certain death, they whisper, unless it’s you, Master.

Something twists in his gut as he watches the proud male, his sharp jaw and freckle smattered cheek bones, assessing the documents in front of him once more. Writing down his list of supplies to request from the Council: cloaks of invisibility, lamas bread, a network of mounts prepared for them at predetermined way points.

It will be hard riding, hard living without the use of their own magic. Only their common sense, weapons knowledge, and a few enchanted items will be between them and death on foreign soil.

It’s for Prythian, he tells himself as Azriel moves close enough to feel the body heat pouring off of the High Lord of flames.

“I have contacts with a new enchanted shroud that has improved upon the cloak of invisibility's flaws. They’re expensive as hell … But let the Council dip into their coffers.”

Eris peers over his shoulder, cunning mouth twisting into a smirk as he watches Azriel’s flowing script as he adds to the request list.

“Let bygones be bygones?”

“A temporary amnesty, lets say.”

“Alright, Shadowsinger.”

“Some day, I would like to not be embroiled directly in life or death plots,” Eris mutters, stretching his legs as they dismount their exhausted mounts.

They’ve been riding hard for nearly twenty-four hours straight and have swapped horses thrice.

Azriel has never known such pain as the ache in his seat, in his knees, even in his shoulders from holding himself balanced on his horse while they have trotted most of those hours, sometimes breaking into full canters in stretches of path Eris deems too dangerous to linger on.

They’re now at their first rest spot since entering the southernmost duchy of the mortal realms. It’s a desolate mountain town, but Eris recollects from travels past that it's the safest.

Azriel dismounts and tries not to lose his balance, the glamor that has hidden his wings and other more fae features does nothing to assist with the odd balance he’s needing to learn quickly without their weight.

“That will be the day Eris Vanserra is found dead.”

“Touche.”

Azriel nearly smiles at the omission. He has to catch himself to remember despite the truce he doesn’t fully trust this male. It goes against what they agreed upon, but since it wasn’t an official bargain … Azriel watches the swagger Eris approaches the inn with, the soldier of his youth replacing the mighty High Lord as the glamor has rounded out his ears, dimmed the luster of his fiery locks so its merely enchanting rather than breathtaking to watch the curls of his longer pieces of hair along his neck —

Enchanting?

Azriel pinches the bridge of his nose.

Too long in the saddle. Too many days on lamas bread alone.

“I need a hot meal and bed,” Eris says to Azriel as he holds the door open, “If memory serves, this place serves a hearty stew and non-moldy bread.”

The tavern on the bottom floor of the inn is crowded with all types — mostly sellswords, likely half moonlighting as the bandits that haunt these routes, but there’s a few distinguishable merchants as well. The number of people overflowing from the bar, the tables, and even the dance floor where the band is playing a lively jig, makes Azriel’s skin crawl.

Without his shadows, he feels naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.

The only blessing is the Illyrian broadsword strapped to his back and Truth-Teller on his thigh.

“Get us food while I get our rooms?” Eris asks, surveying the crowd. Although he doesn’t appear outwardly nervous, there’s an obvious calculating edge to that russet gaze.

If there are no rooms left, it will be a hell of a night sleeping in the stable with the horses for their already aching bodies.

Azriel nods wordlessly and heads for the barmaid.

She smiles prettily at him as he approaches — flashing her gaping smile, several teeth missing. Azriel keeps his features carefully controlled. It isn’t his first time interacting with humans, but for his purposes milling about average folk hasn’t been as necessary …

“What’ll it be, sir?” she begins pouring a stein of ale before he can ask. “For you and your partner, yes?”

Azriel straightens. “He’s not my —”

“ — business partner? But you rode in together. You two are nicer dressed than most of the business types that stop through. Fancy those swords are more expensive than this whole shitty inn, eh?”

“Likely not,” Azriel says with a frown. “Two hot meals, please.”

“Alright, alright, the strong, silent type. Got it. Don’t you worry, Greta will take care of you. Here’s your ale, I’ll get you a meal that will fill both of your bellies to bursting and maybe you’ll share some of those pretty coppers I know you have with Greta.”

Azriel takes the steins and tries to avoid eye contact with anyone else in the tavern. Even with the glamors, they stand out.

When Eris drops into the booth beside him — one Azriel acquired by swooping in before another raggedy band of humans could beat him to it, cowed only by his size to move on — he’s grimacing into the pale brown reflection in his drink. There’s a fly floating on the surface he’s been debating removing.

“We should have had Lucien give us less teeth in the glamor,” Eris grumbles.

Azriel looks up and notes the flush on the male’s face, the obvious aggravation in the tense draw of his shoulders.

“Tried to swindle you, too?”

“The astronomical rate the innkeep charged me and for one bloody room, Mother above.”

Azriel freezes.

There’s only one key on the table between them.

Eris exhales into his drink before taking a strong pull of the weak alcohol. Azriel watches the bobbing of his throat as Eris swallows, the press of his lips as he removes the cup and the quick dart of his tongue to swipe any foam from his upper lip. It’s nearly distracting enough to pull his thoughts from the critical detail Eris seems to be brushing over.

“How many rooms?”

The High Lord looks at Azriel’s still full stein. “Why haven’t you — Cauldron, that’s disgusting. Go get a new one, why are you brooding over it instead?”

“Because Greta will shout to the tavern again that we are sizable targets to steal from and when I have to kick all of their asses, it’ll risk blowing our cover,” Azriel says through his teeth. “Eris. How. Many. Rooms.”

Eris clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth and shrugs, averting his gaze. “One. It’s all they had left.”

“How many beds?”

“Stop asking stupid questions.”

And just like that, the truce broken.

“It’s not stupid,” Azriel growls, and every overwrought nerve ending is screaming at him to reach across the table and strangle this good-for-nothing, spoiled High Lord with his nose in the air and complete disregard for —

“Grow up, Azriel. Haven’t you shared a bed before? You have brothers.”

“Not in centuries. I like my privacy.”

Eris shrugs. “You’re welcome to your privacy out with the horses then.”

“Prick.”

Their meals are set on the table in front of them. Eris smiles up at Greta and her lack of teeth and attempts to push her assets together in an enticing manner.

“My companion here needs a fresh ale, could you be a darling and get him one minus the fly?”

“Oh my! Oh no! Let me fix that right up!”

“No, it’s fine —”

Azriel and Eris lock stares across the table, all three of them grasping at the stein.

Greta fumbles, “Sir …Surely you don’t want to drink a fly?”

Eris’s russet eyes burn with repressed flames. “You’re not so uncivilized, right, Azriel?”

Damn him, of course Azriel doesn’t want a drink with a fly, but Eris has no right to make decisions for him. Anger burns through him, indignation at having his own problem solved for him, like Eris has any right with his handsome face and swaggering charm to just —

Greta laughs awkwardly. “I’ll just bring you a fresh one, let you two sort this out.”

At least he won’t have to worry about the barmaid flirting with either of them again. The stein falls to the table in a clatter and ale and the fly leaps over the sides … Right onto Eris’s slice of buttered bread.

The fly’s wings twitch as the ale soaks into the bread.

Eris bares his teeth at Azriel. “Do you feel satisfied now, you Illyrian —”

“ — here we go, I knew you were full of —”

“ — I’ve been nothing but decent, you’re the child that can’t —”

“Here’s that fresh ale! Oh … I’ll get you another slice of bread, sir … but it’ll cost you.”

Eris grimaces through a smile at the barmaid. “That will be amenable, Greta. Thank you.”

They brood over their dinners, silenced by the woman’s uncomfortable gaze. At least the food is as hearty as Eris claimed it would be, even if they’re searching for more surprise seasonings of bugs.

Lively music and the din of the crowd fills the space between them.

Exhaustion tugs at Azriel.

All he wants is to stretch out on a semi-decent mattress and rest his eyes and body for a few hours. But the best he’ll get is a sliver of that. If not for the logistical nightmare of the sheer size of both of them trying to fit in one bed without touching, the unpleasant —alright, occasionally pleasant— surge of feelings that close proximity to Eris causes in Azriel…

Sleep will be difficult, even as exhaustion settles into the very marrow of his bones.

It’s just like sleeping with his brothers, he tells himself. Not that his cheeks flush with heat or his skin feels too tight just at the thought of sleeping beside Cass or Rhys.

Gods, he’s screwed.

And now he’s been a complete idiot about the ale.

Azriel scoops the last of the meal into his mouth and dabs at his mouth politely. When Greta had promised their bellies would be bursting, she likely didn’t realize she was feeding an Illyrian sized appetite.

There’s still food on Eris’s plate.

He’s barely eaten the meat, sticking to the greens and potatoes. Azriel furrows his brow. Is Autumn Court largely vegetarian? Or is the High Lord just too snobby?

“What?” Eris asks, setting his fork down and sitting back.

Azriel looks between his plate and the male. “Are you … going to eat that?”

“I can’t stop thinking about that fly.”

“Haven’t you had worse out in the field?”

Eris looks around the tavern as he admits, “I haven’t been in the field in a while. My palette has become more refined.”

“Spoiled, you mean.”

“Fine. Spoiled.” Eris shoves the plate towards Azriel. “Have at it.”

Setting aside the flare of anger between them, Azriel accepts the plate with a polite dip of his chin. He needs to get control of himself before they’re in one bed, trying to navigate the small space.

Admittedly, the more food he inhales, the less slighted he feels over Eris trading out the ale anyway.

Eris’s eyelids are drooping by the time Azriel scrapes off the last bite of meat and gravy.

“I’ve ridden hard before, but it must be the lack of magic,” Eris says through a yawn. “I feel drained. Almost like —”

“ — faebane?”

“Exactly.”

At least there’s none of the stomach churning nausea to go along with this form of magicless exhaustion.

They pay Greta and Azriel slides a few extra coppers into her hand out of guilt for his display of emotion she had to bear witness to.

“Well. It’s a bed.”

Azriel sighs despondently.

A small bed compared to the one he has at home, that he’s used to winnowing to whenever he does rest. So, maybe Eris isn’t the only one spoiled by the passage of time and changes in positions and the luxuries those positions afford.

“At least I don’t have my wings,” Azriel says with a sigh. It would have been impossible with them.

Eris unbuckles his sword belt and sets it on the narrow table. He begins unfastening the buttons on his jacket, his boots next, until he’s standing in only an undershirt and his trousers. Freckles dot the pale skin exposed from his loose collar that bares his clavicles, the strong muscles of his neck and shoulders that are lined by the thin fabric the rest of the way down.

Strong. It’s not easy to forget this High Lord has earned his place.

“Don’t bring road dust into the bed,” Eris says absently, otherwise not commenting on Azriel’s hesitation to undress when they’re both standing so close in the small square footage of the room.

He climbs into the bed and shoves himself against the wall. There’s just enough space remaining for Azriel.

Suddenly self conscious, he blows the candle out before shucking his sword and jacket. At home, he sleeps in the buff, but of course on a mission, with Eris in his bed —

Why is he even thinking about that implausible scenario?

Azriel toes off his boots and slips under the covers.

Their shoulders touch if they both lay on their backs. The quick touch sparks a quick movement in both of them to readjust, surprising Azriel. Eris is just as jumpy, and this close he can pick up the High Lord’s elevated heart rate.

So, this isn’t straightforward for either of them.

Eris clears his throat once they’ve finished shifting and the bed no longer creaks beneath their substantial bulk.

“I don’t believe I properly thanked you yet for agreeing to accompany me on this mission. I know you understand how important it is to keep Prythian safe, but without you …”

“You’d be going into a suicide mission?”

The click of Eris swallowing is like a bell ringing. In the dark, neither of them can see the other’s face, read the vulnerability that opening up to a lifelong enemy entails, but there’s other tells.

“Why did you offer to do it then? If you knew I’d be justified to say no?”

“The truth is maudlin… and a little bit pathetic. But we’re getting close to seven hundred and I’ve heard that’s when the sentimentality starts to creep in for anyone other than my prick of a father.”

“Sentimentality or senility?” Azriel quips out of instinct, then corrects quickly, “Sorry. Go ahead.”

Eris chuckles low and warm.

It sends a shiver down Azriel’s spine, and the soft huff of air as the other male must have angled towards Azriel draws across the exposed skin of his arm in his short sleeve shirt. The fine hairs there prickle in response, drawing to attention in the same way every nerve ending seems to with the shift in their discussion.

“Everything Lucien has overcome, his spirit to impact change. It inspired me. And my mother is so proud of the male he’s grown into.”

Azriel thinks of his own mother. The worry creases along her lines when she asks after his well being, if he’s been taking care of himself … Does he make his mother proud? She says he does, but is that simply because he hasn’t remained as the little boy locked away? Has he actually accomplished anything to make her truly proud?

“It’s pathetic, I know.”

“It’s not,” Azriel says quickly. Too quickly. Heat rises from his chest, up his neck, and creeps across his cheeks.

Eris sighs. “It’s naive to assume I can accomplish anything through a grand gesture, but I know how everyone questions if I’ve really changed. They don’t understand what it took to survive Beron’s iron rule … But I would like to be an honorable male who can act in the light, like Lucien.”

Silence blankets them until Azriel wonders if Eris has drifted into sleep.

He knows his entire being is screaming for rest and he’s fighting the urge tooth and nail because … because those words mean something. Eris is sharing something significant and Azriel had agreed to join him because of the need to protect his own loved ones, but now.

Now he’s glad he’s here with Eris.

Eris shifts on the mattress and their arms brush. Azriel doesn’t jerk away this time. Eris has paused, but when Azriel doesn’t move, he relaxes his body into the position.

“Since I’m tied to your grand gesture, I guess maybe it will drag both of us into the light,” Azriel says, the words quiet like a secret.

“We can both look like fools together.”

“As long as we’re successful fools.”

Eris laughs through his nose and Az doesn’t stop the small smile from parting his lips as his eyelids slide shut.

“Lets focus on getting out of this alive and we’ll see about the rest.”

Azriel doesn’t respond. His stomach is alight with too many feelings, anticipation and excitement. Thankfully it's all drenched in his heavy meal and half of Eris’s and so his mind can’t race for too long.

Maybe he’s been fighting this undeniable draw between them for too long, holding on to an old feud solely to keep this distance wedged between them.

As Eris’s breath even out beside him, Azriel shifts ever so slightly to increase the span of their bodies that touch in the bed.

Maybe it’s time to remove the distance.

#azris #azriel x eris #azriel #eris vanserra #acotar winter gift exchange 2023 #acotar #acotar fanfic #my writing

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krem-has-a-mess · 11 months

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(a short version of the tag game. Original post here)

find out who you are: !!!!

create your look: !!!!

Thank you for the tag @fieldofdaisiies ! Turns out I'm a whore lol

Tagging: @octobers-veryown @ofduskanddreams @reverie-tales @asnowfern @wilde-knight

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erisweekofficial · 8 months

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Eris Week 2023: Day 2 Masterlist (High Lord | Heir)

FANFICTION

Bloodshed by @thelov3lybookworm

Coronation Day by @danikamariewrites

Coronation Day (Eris Vanserra x Reader) by @honeybeefae

Den of Foxes by @thevanserrras

Eris Week Day 2: High Lord by @bubybubsters

Eris' coronation by @fieldofdaisiies

In the shadow of the throne. by @darkphilosophies

Potions (Eris Vanserra x Reader) @honeybeefae

Publicly Pleasing, Silently Drowning by @acourtofladydeath

Relief by @readychilledwine

The Snake and The Wolf by @elliemarchetti

HEADCANONS / MISC

De-stressing head-canons by @i-am-a-lost-girl16

Eris Vanserra Week Day 2: High Lord | Heir Quote by @harperbrynne

Kerosene Scent Guide by @chunkypossum

Neris // Nesta Archeron + Eris Vanserra by @bloomingdarkgarden

ART

ACOWAR Eris by @b-astora; commissioned by @moonpatroclus

Day 02: High Lord / Heir by augusney_draw; commissioned by: @melphss

Eris and Beron by @copypastus

Eris Vanserra Art by @stickyelectrons

High Lord Eris by @starswhogaze

It's hard work being High Lord by @moonyandtoasts; commissioned by@separatist-apologist, @octobers-veryown, @moonpatroclus, @areyoudreaminof, @labellefleur-sauvage, @stickyelectrons, and @ofduskanddreams

Did we miss anything? Need us to update something? Please ping us and we can get this updated for you <;3

#new and improved masterlist #eris fanfic #eris acotar #pro eris vanserra #acotar #autumn court #high lord eris #eris vanserra #erisweek2023 #autumn court heir #eris #eris vanserra smut #eris vanserra x reader #eris x reader #if you read this far #know that STT is trying her best here #if you wanna change what your thing is called #bug her! directly

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asnowfern · 9 months

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Crimson Starlight

Summary: His fingers twitch before clenching into a fist at the side of his body. He wears a nostalgic smile as amethyst eyes take in every detail, lost in every smudge and swipe of water colours. A secret conversation between him and the long gone artist.

A lost history of the world's most iconic female impressionist artist and her first ever sale of an art piece.

~~~

OR Vampire Rhys and human Feyre falling in love in 1880s Paris.

Rating: M, some blood and violence

WC: 4.2k

Read on AO3

A/N: Happy Feysand Week everybody!

Written for day 2 of @officialfeysandweek2023 prompt: Hobbies Because she likes to paint🎨 and he likes blood🩸 (The link is tenuous I know)

Thank you so much to @octobers-veryown for helping me check on the art history stuff! Love you💜

THE FEYRE ARCHERON EXHIBIT

Defying English societal norms and her middle class background, Feyre Archeron propelled to notoriety at a private art gallery in 1889, rendering critics of the community speechless with her stunning use of colours and bold impressionistic still life paintings. Eventually, paving the way for the self-taught artist to win the gold medal at the 1900 Exposition Universelle in Paris.

Come celebrate with us one of the most prolific and trailblazing female artists in history.

***

She watches from her corner in the cool exhibition as the man enters the room. His tailored jacket clings to his broad frame, the first two opened buttons of crisp white shirt reveal whorling black ink and tantalisingly teases lean muscles underneath. His presence is commanding even as his steps hitched in the middle of the exhibit, sharp violet eyes zeroing in on a portrait hung at the opposite end of the room, almost hidden from view from the general public. As if, it's a portrait which only he knows the existence of.

The lights of the museum seemingly follows him as he strides towards the painting, an aureate glow reflecting off dark skin with every step. He looks up at the smeared bright colours tracing three distinct lifeforms, the brush strokes in a distinctly different style.

His fingers twitch before clenching into a fist at the side of his body. He wears a nostalgic smile as amethyst eyes take in every detail, lost in every smudge and swipe of water colours. A secret conversation between him and the long gone artist.

A lost history of the world's most iconic female impressionist artist and her first ever sale of an art piece.

===

A deafening crack of thunder over Hyde Park snaps Feyre out of focus, her hand twitches and sends dark shades of brown splashing over delicate painted hands. Ruining what was supposed to be portraits of her sisters. Matching storm in crystal blue eyes narrows as she swears, her mind races on how she could correct the misstep and salvage the painting.

Another clap of Zeus's lightning bolt sends rain down on the garden. It quickly soaks the canvas sitting and accumulates water on her precious paint. Dismayed, Feyre closes the easel and gathers her materials. Within the next minute, she ducks into a small stand and relies on the small red brick structure above her for shelter.

Assessing eyes surveys her now damp canvas and sculpted lips curl inwards in dismay. Canvas are expensive, paint all the more so. For them to be wasted and ruined by the rain. The number of meals she may have to skip out on to recuperate the losses.

She stares idly at the splotchy colours as her mind overlays new images of how the painting could look like. Her hand pauses in mid-air as she reaches for a new brush. It is something different, something new.

Leaving no further room for doubt, she lowers her brush to the canvas in a smooth decisive stroke. With a slight curve to the lips, her brushes levels swipe after swipe, adding more colours, more shapes, more shadows. More.

Suddenly, her hand stills. Feyre inhales sharply.

A chill runs down her spine and raises the hair at the back of her neck. Feyre shivers as she looks up, surprised that night has fallen in what had to be hours since she escaped to the shelter.

As fast as it came, the pressing fear lifts from her chest and returns her breath back to her. Her fingers tremble as she dumps the brushes into her cup, quickly rinsing out the paint.

"That's a beautiful painting," a low, silky voice says from behind her.

Despite instincts screaming at her to run, Feyre turns towards the source of the voice and her mouth goes dry.

The man is impossibly beautiful.

Sharp sensual lines trace his facial features, his mouth pulls into a smirk with a hint of white gleaming through. He draws himself closer, wrapping her in a sea of salt and citrus. She feels her back practically arching towards him in response - closer, closer.

He leans, not into her but towards the canvas, pausing for a stretched second. When he finally turns his gaze on her, the world quietens. For there are no colours that Feyre could mix to emulate the violet in his eyes. No, not just violet but the varying shades of blue and purple. It is like a galaxy, drawing you in until nothing else matters.

"Hello, darling," he purrs.

The words break the enchantment and Feyre steps away, her back colliding into a pillar. The stone cold surface spurs her into action, hands flying to keep her belongings.

Rough calloused fingers gently close around her wrist. He asks lightly, "What's the hurry?"

Feyre fights to keep her eyes open, fights to not lose herself in the smooth silk of his voice. She breathes out shakily, "I don't want any trouble. Just let me go and you'll never have to see me again."

"Why would I ever want that?" He returns sharply, her hand remains rigid in the air even as he releases it.

A tension locks in her jaw as she pushes down the primal fear. She lifts her chin slightly, "Well, then what do you want?"

"I want," he pauses as if to collect his thoughts, his eyes drifting back to the coarse board sitting on the easel, "I want to see the finished work."

"Why?"

"Because I might like to buy it."

The words sound genuine and takes her by surprise. She swallows the lump, her heartbeat kicking up a notch, "You're lying."

The man studies her for a moment, she resists the urge to squirm under the intensity of his stare. Finally, he asks, "Can you afford to let me go on the possibility that I might be telling the truth?"

Hot wells of embarrassment burn her cheeks as he touches on a sore subject. She has never sold a painting. Without the easy privilege that comes with wealth and titles, a female artist with no formal training or connections can never sell or exhibit.

Forever an amateur.

She straightens her back to raise steely blue eyes to vibrant violet, saying carefully, "I'd consider it if you're telling the truth."

The edges of his mouth flick upwards, "Let's set up a meet when you've completed," he hands her a card with a name and address in Grosvenor Square, "We can discuss over dinner."

He lifts her hand to brush his lips, spreading warmth over her frigid knuckles. Feyre swallows thickly, "This time, a week from now"

He glances up, his lips lingering a touch longer than what is probably appropriate before drawing himself back to full height, "Very well, bring the completed piece and a couple more of your favourite ones. I will send a carriage to you at seven pm next Tuesday."

She nods and gives her address down in Bayswater, her mouth set in a grim line. The man steps a respectful distance backward, giving her slight how, "I'll be counting down the minutes before I am able to see you again…"

"Feyre"

His eyes twinkled like stars in the night sky, "till then, Feyre darling."

Feyre looks up at the blanket of clouds as she walks home, her hands clutching tightly onto the easel. She hopes that she did not just invite a murderer into the home of her and her sisters.

===

Feyre stares at the intricate designs etched into the wooden door. She shifts slightly and readjusts her grip on the numerous covered paintings sandwiched between her arm and body. Taking a deep breath, she raises her hand to grab the knocker. Only for the door to swing open to reveal her mysterious buyer - Rhysand, from the card, her brain reminds her.

Her eyes unwittingly drags up and down the male. He, Rhysand, has shed his jacket today. The sheer white shirt hangs loosely on his body but does little to hide his muscular physique. With a teasing smirk and another caress of his lips against the back of her palm, he leads her down a tastefully decorated corridor.

The tight trousers, Feyre thinks, was definitely a conscious choice on his part.

"Is there no one else here?" She asks as they enter a dining room, her head swivelling around, noting the lack of people around.

"Why, Feyre," Rhysand teases, smiling widely to reveal sharp pearly white canines, "are you enquiring after my marital status?" Feyre is about to scoff when he croons, his eyes slightly darkened, "Fortunately, I remain a bachelor."

This time, Feyre does scoff, settling her paintings down with a huff, "It doesn't concern me if a potential art dealer is a married man or a bachelor. Although," she nods her head in gesture of her surroundings even as he bends at the waist to carefully study the pieces, "you don't seem like a very discerning collector."

Rhysand draws to his full height as he smiles wanely, "There hasn't been art that made me want to collect as much as yours."

She withholds a frown to mark his sincerity, announcing, "I have not yet decided if you're conman or a predator."

He lets out a barking laugh, "Darling, I am sincere in my offer, but," his voice drops into dark velvet and awakens a dangerous heat in her, "make no mistake about it. I am most definitely a predator."

With her hackles raised, she meets the darkened stare with her own, "And what makes you think that I'm a prey?"

"No, you're not," Amethyst eyes glint as he dips his chin in agreement. Then as fast as a switch, he drops the heat and speaks formally, "Fifty pounds for the painting from the park and a thirty percent commission on all future sales."

Though she is sure her eyes are round with disbelief, she forces the breathlessness out of her voice, "Let's talk terms over dinner."

Dinner goes smoothly, a simple yet elegant affair. Servants slip in and out only to bring in food. Gentle clanks of chinaware bounce around the room as they eat.

"Paris?" Feyre asks incredulously, her dessert fork hitting the plate loudly, "You want me to move to Paris? With you?"

He shrugs, the very picture of nonchalance, "Is there anywhere else better to be?"

Her jaw clamps down on the delicate pastry. He is right, of course. The city of light is the epicenter of Europe's art scene - the birthplace of the often condescended upon impressionism. A place she could flourish much better than stuffy London. The marginal freedom she could attain as a female artist.

Her sisters are comfortable with the small inheritance they've received with their mother's death. She could modestly live off the money Rhysand is offering for the painting for a couple of months. She could entrench herself in the landscape, learning and absorbing. She could actually be an artist. She could, she could, she could.

Her heart lifts ever so slightly in hope and excitement.

She could.

===

Feyre wrestles her hands behind her back as she observes the casual art dealers surrounding her. It's been a few weeks since her move to Paris and things have progressed well enough that when she heard about Helion Spell-cleaver's private art exhibition, she paid the small fee and signed up for entry.

"Look, Dagdan. It's the same distinctive wild brushstrokes as before. This must be Rhysand Night's artist then," a low voice sneers from a distance, "the new star."

Feyre releases the iron grip on her hands and forces them open and relaxed. Her back straightens with every stretched beat as she turns to the pair, schooling her expression into one of impassion.

Dagdan and Brannagh.

Hailing from the upper echelons of French government and strong familial ties to the leadership of the society of French artists, the sibling duo made their debut at the last Salon with a piece Feyre found to be derivative. A pale attempt to pander to the recent commercial success of mixing impressionism elements into classical art styles the Salon prefers. A view that is sometimes whispered clandestinely around the community but never to their faces.

"Yes," the brother tuts, his elbow tight around his sister's, "and the same obscene mix of colours. But the price that it fetched? They say it's avante garde but I don't get it. Perhaps the perception of the common," his eyes flick disdainfully at the slightly frayed material of her plain cotton dress and distinct lack of a corset and bustle, "just isn't something that we can understand."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Feyre forces on a polite barely passable smile, interjecting, "Perhaps, the perception of the common is more suited for the masses. I couldn't possibly begin to understand the, er, beauty from a trained eye."

"No," Brannagh curls a perfectly shaped lip in haughty contempt, "you really wouldn't." Her voice drops a decibel, "Mark my words, your name will be forgotten the day you stop offering extra services to your sponsor."

Her fists clenched into tight balls as they stalk away, the low rumble of their sniggers fuelling the burn in Feyre's cheeks.

The words still haunt Feyre days later. She growls in frustration as she lifts a charcoal to paper for the umpteenth time that day. Her mind draws a blank.

Obscene mix of colours.

The charcoal breaks into pieces as it collides against the hard floor. Feyre bends her knees to pick up the pieces and inadvertently collapses to the ground. The cool sting of marble permeates through the fabric to reach her skin.

She twists her body slightly to rest against the leg of the chair, her eyes falling shut. It's just to rest her eyes, she tells herself. The next time she opens them, she will be ready to face her canvas. She thinks as Brannagh and Dagdan's voices melt into a pot of derisive laughter.

"Feyre, wake up!"

Large hands envelope her, pressing her against a stiff jacket while gently shaking her awake. Feyre whines at the intrusion, "Five more minutes."

The pressure of fingertips on her lessens and a low chuckle reverberates pleasantly down her spine. "Wake up, darling."

Her lids flutter open and Rhys swims into vision, lines of concern carved into his face. The lines lessen as he takes in her waking form, gradually giving into tender amusement.

"Rhys?"

"You had me worried for a moment there"

She groans, sitting up. A warm palm lingers on her back, lending her support, "What time is it?"

"Nine," he answers, his brows pinched together.

Feyre rubs the bridge of her nose. She is more than two hours late for their appointment, no wonder he showed up. She gives a woeful look, "I'm really sorry about this. I was just really tired."

He doesn't say anything. Instead the arms which are still wrapped around her tighten and there is suddenly nothing else in her world but a salty sea of citrus.

"I was so afraid that something had happened to you." The confession comes out in the slightest of whispers.

"It's just an ill-timed nap," she murmurs into his chest, his confession prompting one of her own, "I've been having a block the past few days. Ever since the gallery."

They lock gazes, Rhys searching her expression. But for what, Feyre cannot say. Finally, a familiar smirk returns, "I think I have a solution for that."

Refusing to let her change out of her paint speckled dress, he ushers her into a carriage and sets them off with haste. The infuriating man refuses to let her sneak a peek out of the carriage window, even after they have arrived at their destination.

"Is this really necessary?" She huffs as he ties a scarf around her eyes.

"Yes, now hush."

With a last good natured hush, Feyre loops a shaky arm around her mysterious broker's elbow and follows. She relaxes after a couple of minutes.

"Hold tight, darling."

"What, why?"

Feyre stifles a gasp as the ground beneath her moves upwards, leaving her stomach behind. With reflexes faster than what the other probably expected, she whips the blindfold off her head.

Dark metallic structures whirl past her at impossible speed, bringing them higher and higher. She lurches forward as the contraception comes to a halt, only strong arms which are still circled around her shoulders keep her upright.

She gingerly steps forward to move towards the viewing balcony. Every inch of her body thinks of nothing but to lean against that edge, "How? This isn't open to the public yet "

He gives a mysterious smile of his, "I have my ways."

She sniffs at the non-answer. But it doesn't matter, she peers downwards at the small dots that littered the streets of Paris, the shimmering glow of the street lamps glinting at her like stars. It is suddenly obvious why Paris is known as the City of Light.

But to speak of stars.

She shifts her gaze upwards and reaches out a hand. She's so close to the stars, closer than she's ever been before.

Colours burst in her mind, a cacophony of swirls and lines. Her lips relax and pull upwards at the image. She turns back to Rhys, "Thank you"

The male remains silent, his eyes are shaped like the moon and reflected wonder, "Do that again"

"Do what?"

His lips trembled, "Smile"

Her face splits open as a warmth fills her chest.

"Welcome to Paris, Feyre darling."

===

Feyre races down the street, swerving through Parisians, earning herself disapproving glances and tuts. She ignores them in favour of the paper scrunched up in her palm and the bursting excitement in her chest.

Exposition Universelle, Exposition Universelle. They are actually going to showcase her art at the Exposition Universelle - the world's fair to show the progress and success of the French and they wanted to display her art. The art of a no-name, English female impressionist. Her entire being vibrates with excitement.

She barges through Rhys's door, her chest heaving as she tries to regain her breath. The brunette darts around before dashing up the stairs and into Rhys's study.

Never mind that she did not have an appointment. For what is an appointment in the face of such fantastic news?

Apparently, very important. She thinks as her eyes numbly take in the sight before her.

Her throat fills with pennies, her tongue becoming numb in her mouth. Blood roars in her ears.

Rhys is locked in a lover's embrace with another woman. Her head lolls back and her eyes are glazed. She sighs in pleasure as familiar large hands hold the back of her head in an iron grip, his full lips pressed to her neck.

She should be mortified. Maybe even betrayed. Yet, a tight, blooming heat erupts in her stomach. Feyre's back hits the shelf behind her with a thud. Rhysand snaps his head dangerously towards her. His hand loosens on the woman, who slides to the floor.

Twin streaks of blood flow from his mouth and dribble down his chin.

With her heart still pounding jungle beats, Feyre turns around and bolts. She barely makes it to the stairs before a flash of black snarls and sweeps her off the ground, launching them into the air.

They land roughly at the base of the steps, hard arms absorbing the crucial impact from the ground. His heavy body pins her down. A guttural growl vibrates the narrow space between them.

She should be terrified, horrified, petrified. And she is all of those things. Yet, her brain is still caught up in the way Rhys had embraced the woman, her moans and sighs of limp pleasure, the trail of blood running down his chin as he fixed her a feral, hungry glare.

Teeth, no, fangs scrape up the surface of her cotton dress and rips the high collar. His hot breath tickles the length of her exposed throat and raises goosebumps. Another low snarl escapes his throat.

His pupils are blown wide open, a black hole consumes the vibrant galaxy she is used to seeing. No, this is not the Rhys she knows. A paralysing fear seizes her body.

He lowers his head once more, sharp fangs join the soft wet tongue, poised at her jugular. Feyre squeezes her eyes shut, a choked sob escapes her as pain erupts, "Rhys"

Immediately, the hard pressure lifts and is replaced by a pliable heat. The pain lessens.

"I am so sorry, Feyre," she relaxes her eyes open to see sorrowful violet eyes staring back at her, "Sleep"

There is nothing left to do but to let the darkness pull her under.

===

Dear Feyre darling, There are no pretty words I can use to defend what happened, nor will I ply you with lies. The truth is I am an unholy creature, an undead monster of the night. I prey on humans and leech off them. So as much as it pains me, I understand if you never want to see me again. If it is agreeable to you, Helion Spell-cleaver has agreed to be your agent and will be awaiting your correspondence. My dear heart, in the short weeks that we have known each other, you have become everything. You brought beauty into the humdrum of my centuries of existence. A shining star in the endless dark sky. A brightness that I sully with my very presence. A fact I grew comfortable ignoring. But alas, reality has caught up and I can't pretend to be what I am not any longer. Instead, I wish you the very best - at the upcoming Exposition Universelle and all future endeavours. I know you will shine, as you always have, and always will. Yours eternally, Rhysand

The paper remains crumbled in Feyre's hand as she reads it for the umpteenth time. Her heart grows heavier with every read, her heart that has no business weighing her down.

An undead creature, an undead monster of the night.

Nothing about that statement is wrong. The image Rhysand drew in his letter is one that matches her memory. Yet, it is also completely different from the image of Rhys in her head.

That Rhys is teasing quips and arrogant smirks. That Rhys is encouraging words and a confidante. That Rhys is soft smiles against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower.

She can't quite reconcile the two but she knows without a doubt that she isn't changing agents, not yet. She gives the River Seine a last glance, appreciating the glitters of setting sun, and stands up. Her body twists towards the main street when she collides head first in a hard chest, gasping.

Obsidian hair and pitiless dark eyes.

"Congratulations on the exhibition, peasant."

Sharp pain explodes in her abdomen. Feyre opens her mouth to scream but it is covered by a cloth. The cruel glint in Dagdan's eyes stands out in an otherwise nonchalant face. White hot agony spreads along her body as he twists the blade. Metallic tang fills her mouth.

No, she's actually going to die here.

The exhibition. She's going to die before she succeeds. Her sisters. She is going to be abandoned in a foreign land without ever getting to see them again.

Rhys. She is going to die before she ever figures out how things could be resolved. A scream of pure terror and a primal growl tear her away from her thoughts. Air floods her nostrils.

Inky blue-black hair, bright violet eyes.

Rhys's face is dark with rage, his lips folded into a thin line. Blood splatters his cheeks and immaculate velvet jacket. Next to him, Dagdan sobs, clutching on to his severed arm. Brannagh kneels over her brother, her neck tilted up at the male, her face locked in fear.

He turns a fearsome glare on them, his deep baritone blends with a beast-like growl, "Jump into the river and remember, we were never here."

There might have been a splash but darkness edges her vision and her world is muffled, nothing but a rain of salt and citrus. It feels like she's falling deep into the vast ocean.

"Feyre," a devastated voice reaches out for her, shining a beacon of light, "I can't save you. Not without condemning you."

Warm liquid gurgles her mouth as she forces out the words, "I'm not ready to die."

She continues, sending the gentlest look she can muster into conflicted anguished shades of violet, "Do it."

===

She watches as the nostalgic smile wraps around the man like a fitted glove. Then the moment vanishes. Giving the dark frame and vibrant colours one last look, he straightens his jacket, flicking off a lint and leaves.

She emerges from her corner, her mouth widens into a predatory smile. It is time to move. She smoothly navigates her way through the quiet crowd, memorising every guard location, every exit and every camera.

Not that it matters much, so long as she does it right.

She carefully looks around her surroundings before fixing her attention on the painting. She remembers the shaky hands and skittish strokes. Her first time blending colours in that manner, the first of many to come. Well, they do say you never forget your first.

With a broad, catlike grin, Feyre grips tightly onto the painting and walks out of the doors and the museum goers' minds. Later, as the painting hangs proudly in their doorway, Feyre raises a crimson glass to Rhys, the galaxy eyes that she can never tire of sparkle at her. The glasses clink together lightly.

'Happy 120th anniversary, my love."

#feysandweek2023 #feysand #feysand fic #Feyre Archeron #Rhysand #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x Feyre #Vampire!Rhys need I say more?

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separatist-apologist · 5 months

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My Whole Life Is Ruined

Summary: When you hold me, it holds me together, and you kiss me in a way that's gonna screw me up forever

Surprise @talons-and-teeth! I'm sorry for the wait- I was not your original secret santa. I pulled this together based on what I know about you and I hope you like it! @acotargiftexchange

Big thanks to @octobers-veryown for making a moodboard with practically no instructions other than one Taylor Swift lyric and the description "Azriel has been hiding the fact he's Gwyn's mate and they have sex about it."

Insomnia was nothing new.

Gwyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d fully slept through the night. The past chased the present, running in circles as she ran after her tail, almost grasping it before she woke covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Sometimes, bathed in nothing but moonlight, Gwyn wondered if there would ever come a time when she didn’t dream of her sister, of a life long gone.

It didn’t rattle her as badly as it used to. Sitting in the bed Nesta had so graciously offered up, Gwyn pushed the blankets from her legs to let the cool, winter air caress her overheated skin. Leaving the library still felt like a picked over wound. She didn’t want to go back, cloistered away from her friends and the life she’d begun to enjoy living. That didn’t mean she wasn’t scared.

Anxiety seemed to thrum beside her heartbeat, a constant presence she could only just shake if she was otherwise occupied. Right then, in the dead of night, Gwyn felt it snake around her until it was wrapped tight around her throat, choking a scream that always seemed so close to escaping.

She didn’t bother changing out of her thin nightdress, certain neither Cassian or Nesta would be up this late. If they were even back—they’d gone to Hewn City that evening for some meeting with a Day Court prince, giving Gwyn full run of the House of Wind. Not that she did anything terribly interesting with all that power—Gwyn got a book and some hot chocolate and spent the night curled in a chair reading until she finally dragged herself into bed.

Maybe she should have trained on the roof first. Really worn herself down so her brain was too exhausted to conjure up memories of the past, all the while whispering of how she might have prevented it, if she’d only been stronger, smarter, cleverer. Forcing her to relive it, to pick it apart to see what could have been different.

That was exhausting, too.

Cold air hit her the moment she pushed open the door, howling a greeting that might have scared someone else off. Gwyn liked the biting cold, the raucous yelling, the silhouette of the mountains looming like shadows in the distance. A half moon poured light over the rooftop, causing sleeping weapons to glint beneath. Maybe, she thought ruefully, she should have put on socks. Hair caught against her lips, and as Gwyn worked to push it out of her face, wishing for a hair tie, too.

It wasn’t too late and yet she was already here, wasn’t she? Might as well just power through, ignoring her discomfort like she was so accustomed to. The bite of cold was a reminder she’d survived—she was alive. So what if it burned a little? Sometimes Gwyn thought she fought better when she was in pain.

And more often than not, she suspected she deserved to feel it. That the curling peace was a mistake and everyone was going to realize what an imposter she was. They’d tell her she didn’t belong with them and cast her back out. Gwyn was always just waiting for it, a hammer that might fall at any given moment.

A blade just against her neck, never quite striking.

Gwyn pulled out a dagger, her favored weapon, and held it for a moment in her hand. Nesta was all brute strength, and Emerie terrifying yet easy grace, but Gwyn liked to be the shadow in the dark. The knife at someone's side rather than a screaming sword coming for a person's throat. While Nesta and Emeries radiated the kind of beauty that made men cower, Gwyn liked to think she was sweeter, more unassuming. People looked at Nesta, at Emerie, and were taken by their perfection.

They looked at Gwyn and wondered why she was with them. So Gwyn trained harder, made herself someone that couldn’t be ignored. Not forever, anyway. She was good at hiding, besides, taking to trees, blending into the background so often that on more than one occasion, Cassian and Nesta didn’t realize Gwyn was in the room until she cleared her throat.

Unbalanced, Gwyn took a second dagger and for a moment, was the wind itself. Recalling the movements Azriel had been teaching her, Gwyn stepped like a dance, twisting her body and slashing her blades against invisible foes.

A real ones, too. A shadow moved from the edge of the ring, catching her by surprise. Gwyn darted, and just as Azriel had taught her, grabbed them, slamming their body to the ground. It was thunder the way that massive, familiar form crashed against the world, a mighty god dragged from the heavens themselves.

Azriel groaned, eyes closed even as his hands grabbed her waist, holding her knee painfully against his ribs. “That was good,” he gasped, fingers curling into her skin.

“I’m so sorry,” she replied, dropping the blade she’d pressed to his throat. A thin line of blood snaked over golden, tattooed skin, staining the rather lovely black jacket he was wearing. Why was he up here, she wondered? Shouldn’t he be enjoying himself with his friends and family?

Azriel swallowed hard, opening hazel eyes that cut through the otherwise oppressive dark to look at her.

“I’m not.”

And then he released her, letting her scramble backwards, heart thumping in her chest. Azriel didn’t move, wings spread wide around against the ground. He looked like a fallen angel and Gwyn was awed at the sight, the realization that it had been her who’d felled him. He was looking right back at her, his expression clouded by shadow. Was he angry? He said he wasn’t, but surely he didn’t appreciate being assaulted in his own home.

Not that she saw much of him since she’d moved in. Azriel, who maintained a bedroom in the House of Wind, was suddenly gone and when Gwyn was really down, she sometimes thought it was because he didn’t like being around her. Here he was, though, clambering to his feet, his eyes sliding down her body. She could feel the heat of them like he was touching her skin and was grateful for a sudden burst of wind hitting her like a bucket of ice water.

Careful, she warned herself.

It was hard, though. Anyone with eyes could see how beautiful Azriel was. She wasn’t stupid. It didn’t hurt that in her worst moment, Azriel’s had been the very first she’d seen. A savior—a dark angel, come to wreak bloody vengeance on her sister's behalf. It had been Morrigan who’d taken her away to safety, but when Gwyn thought about how she’d escaped, she always remembered Azriel’s curved, lethal blade, sliding cleanly through the bodies of the same males who had killed her sister.

She’d always been grateful to him for it, even if she’d never tell him. He’d never once looked at her like he remembered, had never betrayed an ounce of pity. She’d expected him to say something back when he’d first joined their training, wary and distant. And maybe he knew, because he kept his distance until it was safe, had held himself at an arm's length and let her decide how much or little of him she wanted.

The problem was Azriel himself. Outside of being the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, he was just nice. Not in the way Cassian was, with big smiles and silly jokes, but with serious eyes and a dagger in hand, forcing her to move again and again and again. Your steps are off, Gwyn—you’ll get yourself killed that way. Eyes on your opponent, don’t look away. Hold your breath, don’t let them know you’re there.

Because he knew it mattered to her. That she wouldn’t be caught off guard ever again, that Gwyn would never let someone hurt her. Often, she wondered if he didn’t understand that pain, if it didn’t mirror some tragedy of his own. They didn’t talk about it—they didn’t need to. It was an understanding between them, something so intimate she would never share it with another living soul.

She kept waiting for Azriel to step back, to tell her she’d done enough, that she should finish with Cassian. He never did. Even when he was gone, Gwyn practiced knowing he’d want to see the progress she’d made while he was gone. And when he returned, he’d wait on the roof even when she’d flippantly told him it would be easier to just send word via letter.

I don’t mind waiting.

Those words still felt so charged to her. Like he was trying to say something else, eyes glittering and bright like the stars overheard. Gwyn pulled herself from her thoughts to look up at Azriel looming overhead, his wings flared around him as if he was trying to make himself seem larger. It was working—he was massive, muscular and tall and just like before, half fallen angel, half terrifying god come to earth so he might reign.

“You look cold,” Azriel commented, caught looking at her.

Gwyn put her hands on her hips. So what if he was? “I’m not.”

“Bullshit.”

Smothering a smile, Gwyn asked with faux outrage, “Are you calling me a liar?”

She swore the corners of his lips twitched. “To your face, even.”

“The cold doesn’t bother me,” Gwyn said, shifting from one leg to another, a gesture he seemed to register with sharp-eyed interest. Proof, she realized as his fingers began making quick work of his jacket. “No, that’s not—”

“Suck it up,” was Azriel’s dark voiced response, draping the warm jacket against her shoulders, leaving himself only in a black shirt stretched over his muscular torso. His eyes slid back down to her legs, lips flattening as he realized she was without shoes, too. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

Gwyn could smell the heady, masculine scent of him coming from the fabric, her arms far too small for the large holes. Still, she didn’t protest, turning to look toward the outline of the mountains instead.

“Maybe. But what a way to go.”

“It’s hardly heroic to die from the cold,” Azriel murmured, turning to follow her gaze. Did he know what she was thinking? How they had nearly died in the blood rite, thrown in wearing only a thin night dress against well-armed warriors? She wondered if Azriel would have found that heroic, even if it had been the cold that had gotten them.

Gwyn blew out a breath, the steam of air curling between them as one of his shadows darted out, illuminated by starlight. It wasn’t the first time and she wondered if they thought she, too, had a shadow for them to interact with.

Or if it meant something else.

Something more.

“Inside,” Azriel finally said, a gust of wind ruffling his night dark hair.

“You’re fussy tonight,” she grumbled, not protesting when his fingers pressed against the small of her back, pushing her toward the door. Heat pulsated from the touch, settling low in her stomach. “Did something happen?”

Azriel pulled open the door with his free hand, his touch never quite leaving. “No. Hewn City is unchanging.”

She glanced up at him, the light softening the harsh lines of his face. “Is that a good thing?”

“It’s predictable.”

“I want to see it,” Gwyn declared, though in truth she wasn’t entirely sure that was true. Still, the corners of Azriel’s mouth twitched a bit, as if the whole thing amused him.

“You would devour them,” was his easy, good-natured response. “To their endless delight.”

“And yet I’ve been snubbed yet again,” she teased, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “Do I file my complaint with you…or…?”

“You were spared the grating presence of Vanserra,” Azriel said, cocking his head with a half smile. “But I will pass along your discontent to the High Lord.”

“Be sure that you do,” Gwyn replied, grinning by the time Azriel deposited her into a chair in the study. He didn’t go far, sitting on the arm, his wings draped behind them. She could see the flexing muscle of his thigh beneath his well-tailored pants. If she’d wanted, she could have touched him.

It was obscene how badly she wanted to. How she had to clench her fingers to fists to keep from reaching out, well aware that Azriel would withdraw entirely and, perhaps, never speak to her again. He’d been nothing if not unfailingly polite, besides…though…he had been looking at her in the clingy, short nightdress, hadn’t he?

Just because you were cold, her mind reminded her. After all, she was still wearing his jacket. Gwyn shrugged out of it, heat blooming over her cheeks as she shoved it into his lap. There. She’d gotten to touch him without him knowing and give him back his jacket before she convinced herself to keep it.

And possibly sleep in it.

Azriel arched a dark brow, hazel eyes staring at the rumpled fabric now balled in his lap. “What did the jacket do to offend you?” he asked, taking it in broad, callused hands. He’d removed his siphons, leaving the scarred skin wholly on display. She wondered what had happened to him—and why.

If he’d ever gotten his revenge for it.

“It’s yours—that’s enough,” she replied flippantly. Holding her gaze, Azriel picked up the jacket and brought it to his nose. Time seemed to stop, frozen entirely as she watched him do this.

And he watched her, daring her to say something. She opened her mouth, gaping, only to close it.

And Azriel smiled. Broad and unrestrained, as if he were so delighted he couldn’t help himself. Tilting his head toward the roof, he murmured, “House—some tea, if you don’t mind.”

Of course the house didn’t mind. Two cups of steaming tea rattled on the coffee table before them, complete with sugar and honey, if either of them wanted it.

Gwyn didn’t think she could pick up a cup without betraying the rattle of her hands. Why? Azriel had discarded the jacket casually, tossing it to another chair like it was uninteresting to him. And was he closer, now? His thigh was, she was certain, but had his arm always been behind her. If she moved a few inches, he could have slid into the seat to join her.

He could pull you into his lap if he wanted.

Which, of course, he didn’t

Didn’t he?

“Why are you here?” she asked, hating that breathless quality of her voice. Azriel heard it, too, head snapping to the side, nose flared as though searching for something she couldn’t place.

“I like to be near you,” he replied. He could have thrown her across the room and surprised her less. Once again, Gwyn opened her mouth only for no sound to leave her throat.

“You—you’re never here,” she finally managed. Azriel leaned forward, the faelights gilding the dark ink of his tattoos scrawled over his biceps. He took one of the cups and handed it to her, fingers brushing her own.

“I can’t stand being around you,” was his maddening, level response.

Gwyn’s stomach sank. “What?”

She couldn’t drink—not when such a strange admission hung between them. Azriel, so unused to verbosity, was now forced to explain himself. It occurred to her just as he turned fully to look at her, some of the color drained from his otherwise beautiful face, that perhaps he wanted this confrontation. She didn’t, though, and wished she could have told him so. Things were fine between them—distant, maybe, and filled with a lopsided yearning on her end, but that was better than whatever he was about to do.

Gwyn had the distinct feeling Azriel was about to crush her. Emotionally ruin her. Destroy her so recklessly there would be no coming back.

“You still don’t feel it?” he asked instead, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “After all this time?”

A new fear speared through her gut. There was only one thing Azriel could possibly feel—and one thing she could possibly not. Gwyn had to set the shaking cup of tea down before bolting from her chair, arms wrapped around her chest.

“You don’t feel anything,” she declared, deciding if she felt nothing, neither did Azriel.

Pain lanced across his expression, replaced by grim determination. As he stood, Gwyn knew Azriel wasn’t going to let it go until they both felt exactly as he did—until she felt the mating bond.

Gwyn shook her head, backing away as he advanced. “Don’t do this, Azriel—”

“Is it that terrible, then?” he asked her, his low words filled with a familiar emotion. One she recognized all too well—the loathing, the self-hatred, the expectation that of course she would reject him.

“It’s—” Gwyn couldn’t breathe for the closeness of him, for the wanting to touch him. And maybe she did feel it, in her way. Had felt it the moment he’d strode into that cursed, wrecked room looking like the god of vengeance. She’d merely been too hurt to know it, too broken, too emotionally devastated. He should have frightened her and he never had.

Even then, towering over her with his muscular frame, Gwyn didn’t flinch away. She merely met his gaze with blazing defiance.

“You’re wrong,” she told him, keeping her voice light as she pushed at his chest so she could slip around him. “Or mistaken. There is no bond and I’m certain if you saw a healer, they’d—” Azriel grabbed her wrist, spinning her so her back was pressed to the floral papered wall behind her. Dipping his head, Azriel ran his nose the length of her neck.

“You’re no mistake, Gwyn.”

“I am,” she whispered without meaning to. Azriel could do so much better. Surely…surely he wanted better. What had that been like for him, she wondered, and before she could stop herself, she added, “When did you feel it?”

Something primal flared in those bright eyes of his. “Dinner with Nesta and Cassian. You touched my hand and I…” Holding up the offending hand, Azriel flexed his fingers in memory. “I felt the snap.”

That had been almost a year. It had been the last time Azriel had dinner with all of them, and right after she’d formally moved into the House of Wind. Gwyn still remembered that night—Azriel had bolted before dessert, murmuring something about needed to talk to Rhys. Gwyn had thought nothing of it—might never have thought about it again had he not pinned her against a wall to declare that had been the moment he’d felt a mating bond snap.

“We’ve been training together for months,” she replied with no small amount of outrage. He’d been keeping this secret for that long?

“I thought you’d feel it,” Azriel all but growled, eyes bouncing over her face. “And when you didn’t…”

“Rhys knows?”

“And Cassian—”

“So Nesta, too?!”

Gwyn shoved him again, harder this time. Azriel let her, she suspected, stepping back so she could have some breathing space. “They all know but I don’t.”

“And you’re taking the knowledge so well,” Azriel replied with a bite of sarcasm.

She whirled, wishing she had a dagger in hand even has the dried blood from his healed wound still taunted her. “I think I deserved to know before Cassian.”

“I needed his help,” Azriel admitted, running a hand over his mouth. “I needed to know how he managed it.”

“How difficult could it be,” she asked flippantly, intending to leave him there so she could think. Foolish to turn her back on a predator. Azriel had her again, wrapped in one strong arm, the other holding her jaw so she had to look at him.

“Hell,” he rasped, his anguish plain. “Every minute of it has been hell.”

In Gwyn’s defense, she managed one, final, protest. “It’s just—”

His mouth covered hers before she could finish that statement, could say what they both knew she’d been thinking. As if he found the words so abhorrent he wouldn’t hear them, would swallow them until he’d snuffed them from their very existence.

Gwyn forgot what she’d been about to say at all. She’d thought about what it might be like to kiss him. If his mouth would be soft or rough, if he kissed like he fought or if there was passion bubbling beneath his icy exterior. She hadn’t been prepared for what it would feel like or how desire would overtake her so thoroughly she didn’t care about anything else. Were those her hands cupping his neck? Her lips hungrily kissing him back like a crazed, desperate creature?

Her tongue meeting his own, her legs moving until he had her back against the wall so he could press the length of his body against hers?

There was only one thought in her name, an echo repeated over and over. Mate. Mate. Mate.

Maybe he should have just kissed her at that dinner. Skipped the yearning, the anguish, the uncertainty. At least they would have been kissing, anyway. Gwyn forgot herself entirely, nails digging against his shoulder until Azriel helpfully hoisted her into the air so she could wrap her legs around his waist.

“Don’t talk about my mate like that,” he panted, dragging his teeth against her neck. “I love her.”

Gwyn whimpered. What did she say to that? As it turned out—nothing. Azriel kissed her again, sparing them both whatever incoherent nonsense might have tumbled from her lips. She might have sworn she loved him too, if only to convince him to keep kissing her like he was.

Gwyn was certain Azriel’s kiss had ruined her life. How was she supposed to go back to things as they were before? It wasn't knowing that he was her mate, but knowing the way his hands felt cupped against her face and the way wildfire sparked in her blood when his tongue slid into her mouth?

The worst of it was when his hands left her ass, letting her slide down the hard slab of his body before she was ready. He pulled away, lips swollen and eyes wild, to take a healthy step away from her, though it seemed to take an immense amount of effort. For her part, she kept herself pressed to the wall, unsure what was happening.

“You know now,” Azriel managed, his voice hoarse, “and that’s…that’s all I wanted. I ah…I should go before—”

“You’re leaving?” she asked, strangely hurt by this new rejection. Gwyn knew all about mating bonds. What fae didn’t? Before she’d come here, she’d once dreamt of her own mate, giggling with her sister in their bunks as they imagined what that person might be like. If they existed at all, given the rarity of such a thing. It was almost funny that he’d been right here all along, close enough she could literally touch.

And he was going to leave? He didn’t want to accept it? Did she? It was all happening so fast but of course you didn’t reject a mate. She could see the wariness on his face, could watch in real time as he pulled up his defenses as she realized that yes. That was exactly his expectation.

Why? She knew from Nesta’s stories that Azriel was well sought after. And she wasn’t blind. What female didn’t dream of a male with his bone structure? He was powerful and close to the High Lord, and beyond all that, Azriel was kind. A genuinely good person, the sort of male one could spend centuries with if they wanted.

What could she even offer him? Gwyn’s thoughts raced, listing all the reasons he ought to have stopped, why keeping this a secret made so much sense. She didn’t notice Azriel creeping closer and closer until his fingers were under her chin, lifting her face so she had to look at him.

“You’re doing it again,” he murmured, his voice dark and dangerous. “Thinking unkind thoughts about my mate.”

“You can’t tell me what to think,” she shot back, her own voice trembling a little. He was so certain, so unbothered and in her entire life, had anyone ever immediately felt that way about her?

Nesta and Emerie. Catrin.

Azriel.

“You have it all wrong,” Azriel murmured and she wondered if perhaps he could read her mind. “It is you who could do so much better.”

His words drew a gust of laughter from her lips. The mother had certainly chosen well, putting the two of them together. What a pair—she wondered who would relent first? Her, or Azriel? Who would believe they deserved a mating bond first? It occurred to Gwyn, as she reached for his arm to pull him closer, that she was a shade too competitive—she wanted it to be him who broke first. Who relented first, who believed he was worthy, was deserving.

And she could see, from that golden glint burning in his own gaze, that he was thinking the exact same thing.

“You’re stupid,” she whispered, surging up on her tiptoes to kiss him again. She could taste the smile spreading over his face, sweet against the warm heat of his mouth. It took her an embarrassing amount of time to realize he wasn’t smiling because she’d told him to stop talking, but because she was kissing him. Gwyn hadn’t even considered not kissing.

He was her mate, after all. He was hers. She felt that the way she felt her own heart, the possession, the desire, the heat. She didn’t feel the cord the way everyone spoke of, but perhaps that was mere metaphor. After all, Gwyn believed Azriel wouldn’t lie to her about something so life altering.

Besides. She liked kissing him, new as it was. Azriel was unhurried and thorough, just like every other task she’d ever seen him undertake. And for the first time in a long time, she wondered what it would be like if he paid her that sort of attention in the bedroom. They stood there like that, his arm keeping her on her toes, steady against his warm, solid body. Momentarily, Gwyn wondered what might happen if Nesta and Cassian were to come in and decided she didn’t care.

How many times had she walked in on them in far more compromising positions, besides?

Tiny steps had Gwyn flush against the wood wall, pressed against Azriel’s hard body and oh. He wanted her. Wanted her in a way that emptied her mind of all other thought beyond the desire to touch him.

And she was allowed, she realized with giddiness. He belonged to her. It was a possessive thought that overrode everything else, including all her good sense. He was hers.

“Mine,” she whispered into his mouth, not meaning to. Azriel groaned, tangling a hand in her hair to tilt back her head, his tongue delving back between her teeth to really taste her. Without the leathers he usually wore, it was surprisingly easy to find the golden buttons on his jacket, undoing them before Azriel’s own brain seemed to catch up with what was happening.

His wings flared, enveloping around them for a moment as he pulled back, his breathing heavy.

“Cassian will be home soon,” he whispered, holding her close against him as if he expected his friend to take her away. “Nesta too.” “You have a bedroom here, right?” Gwyn said with more daring than she felt. Azriel’s once half-lidded eyes flew open, those hazel eyes searching her own.

“I do,” he whispered, swallowing audibly. “There’s no rush—”

“Please?”

One moment she’d been standing there, her hand flat against the white, linen shirt Azriel wore beneath his jacket and the next her feet were in the air, her body cradled against him as he walked.

“I can’t think when you’re around,” Azriel was saying, his steps echoing against the wood. “Can’t think just looking at you. Sometimes I think I’ll wake up and this will have all been a dream.”

“It’s real,” she replied, pressing her lips to his neck. “I’m real. We’re real.”

He shuddered, all but running up a flight of stairs. There was no reaction when his wing clipped a door frame nor did he say a word when he had to use his nice shoe to slam his bedroom door shut. Gwyn wasn’t given the opportunity to really look around his space, either—though it seemed sparse and filled with dark, moody colors.

Azriel had her on the bed, his own body over top her own before she could exhale the breath she’d just taken.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, the maddening male. She would have told him she didn’t want him to, but he was kissing her again, his burning lips all but bruising her own. Drawing a leg up, Gwyn could line up their otherwise mismatched bodies so he was pressed exactly where she wanted him.

They were going to do this. She wanted to do this. When she managed to take a breath, the taste of blood faint against her tongue, she rasped, “Take this off.”

Azriel was on his knees in a moment, shucking off his jacket before all but ripping off his shirt, too. There in the dark with nothing but silvery moonlight to illuminate him, Gwyn was allowed to really look at him.

He didn’t move, a lock of dark hair half obscuring the intensity of his gaze. “All of it,” she decided before she lost her nerve.

Azriel cocked his head, his lips pursed as though he’d tell her no.

“Please,” she added.

Azriel groaned again, softer this time. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed closed and a mingling of male and female voices rose like music, a soothing hum in the background as Azriel slid off the bed entirely.

Wings tucked tightly against his toned back, he quietly locked his door before turning back to her. “We don’t have to,” he said, his fingers hovering over the laces of his pants. Gwyn had a suspicion Azriel would spend the next century saying this and she’d spend the next century reassuring him that she wanted all of it. All of him.

Maybe he’d realize in the morning when she snuck into the kitchen and begged the house for his favorite meal. She had no idea what it was, but surely the magic that governed this place did? Would he eat it from her hands? Or would he balk, certain this was just another dream?

“I know,” she said, leaning up on her elbows. “Take it all off, anyway.”

Gwyn knew what Azriel was wondering but her past was murky—forgotten in the dark, the ugly replaced with his easy, unassuming beauty. Still, she held her breath as he undressed entirely, drinking in the sight of him. This was the male she’d knocked to the ground, the very same that could kill another person without a second thought.

Underneath the thick, armored leathers and weapons lay just a male made of skin and bone. Gwyn’s eyes traced the tattoos adorning his shoulders and chest, the intricate swirls snaking up his neck and vanishing behind his back. Every inch of him was muscled, softer now that he was relaxed and still present just below the warm brown of his flesh.

And between his legs…

Gwyn giggled. She couldn’t help herself. It was so big—surely they weren’t supposed to be that large? That thick? There was an air of male pride shimmering around him, his legs spread a little wider as if to say, drink it all in.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asked, his voice a dark, teasing growl. Prowling forward, Gwyn’s heart spiked loud enough he must have heard.

“I wasn’t prepared for…” For what? For him? Azriel was so quiet, so unassuming…she just assumed if he had all that going on he’d brag a little more? Swagger about the way Cassian always was?

“I’d be a poor mate if I left you wanting,” he replied, his eyes glazed over once his knees hit the edge of the bed. Perhaps it was the sight of her, still dressed, scrambling on her hands and knees so she could crawl toward him. She just wanted to touch, to feel if his cock was as hard as it looked.

Azriel sucked in a breath when her fingers curled around the base of his shaft, just barely touching. Looking up, she murmured, “Is this what you like?”

“I like you,” he replied, scooping up her hair in his hands as Gwyn stroked him experimentally. He choked out a sound, his heartbeat thudding in her ears. She supposed that was her answer—he liked the way she touched him.

Pride filled her chest knowing she could please her mate, even with something as simple as touching him. Gwyn stroked again, letting her wrist twist at the end as her eyes refused to leave his face.

“Gods,” he whispered, his wings tightening against his back. “I’ve imagined…Gwyn…”

She was allowed a third pass before he pushed her back, her clothes pulled off her body so quickly all she managed was to lift her hips and raise her arms.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve laid in this exact bed and imagined you just like this?” Azriel began, his voice a dark, sultry whisper. “Splayed out…naked…undone?”

“No,” she squeaked out in response, half embarrassed to be undressed before him. Azriel’s gaze burned against her skin, warming a path from her collarbone to her thighs.

“Would you like to know what I dream about at night?” he questioned, sinking to his knees so he was eye level with the edge of the bed.

Arousal ribboned through her, making a fool out of her. “Yes,” she replied, strangely excited to be the object of this man’s fantasies.

Strong, scarred fingers curled around her thighs, pushing them wider before hooking them over his shoulders. He was staring at her cunt, now, studying her like she was some priceless piece of art.

“I dream of tasting you,” Azriel breathed, the warmth of his breath fanning against her. Gwyn squirmed when he kissed her inner thigh—the left, and then the right—before using his tongue to lightly take that first taste he’d been dreaming of. Gwyn might have asked him how he liked it had it not felt so good.

Besides, she knew he liked it—Azriel groaned loudly, spreading her apart wider with his fingers so he could taste her everywhere. Gone was his slow exploration, his desire to take his time. All of it had been replaced with the animal kneeling between her legs, licking and touching her cunt like his life depended on it.

All traces of her embarrassment evaporated, leaving only instinct behind. Gwyn surrendered to the urge, letting desire wash over her until it was all she knew. “Don’t stop,” she breathed, well aware he probably couldn’t.

Azriel pushed a finger into her gently, moaning at whatever he felt. Gwyn hadn’t considered what it would feel like to share space with him—to feel him inside her own body but now…

“Az,” she panted, her hips rolling against his mouth and hand. She wanted him to stop licking, to replace his fingers with his cock. Heat was building in her chest beyond simple arousal, heavy like a chain.

Unbreakable.

A bond. A real thread she could follow straight to the male between her legs. It reverberated and then snapped just as Azriel sucked her clit into his mouth, eliciting a scream that was half his name. Could he feel it too? No—his had snapped months ago and he’d just been living with it.

Gwyn couldn’t see how. If she didn’t have him right that second she might go insane. Reaching for his powerful biceps, Gwyn tried to pull him off her but the waves of pleasure made her hands shake.

“Az,” she tried again, his name a breathy moan against her lips. Her hips moved of their own accord, grinding against him in what must have seemed like encouragement to keep going. Maybe it was—she didn’t try very hard to get him off her.

Azriel managed a third finger, a whine slipping from his throat at the effort. Gwyn just barely registered any of it, her body jerking a second time from pleasure so bright and heady she could have died from it. It was too much—Gwyn was burning, was in free-fall with no one to catch her.

Digging her nails into his skin, she yanked at him. Azriel emerged, lips wet and eyes wild. “Please,” she heard herself saying, the magic words that, apparently, could convince him to do anything she wanted. “I need you.”

His fingers were wet as they skimmed the side of her body, palm grasping her breast before his lips found hers. He tasted sweet and she supposed it was herself, truly, she was tasting on his tongue. He was hurried, his desperation making him sloppy. When his teeth clashed with her own, nipping the sensitive skin of her bottom lip, Gwyn had enough.

“Az—”

“Don’t beg me,” he breathed, pressing his forehead against her own. Caressing her cheek, Azriel added, “I’ll do whatever you want. You don’t have to beg.”

“I feel it,” she replied, running her hand up and down his spine. “It’s a real thread.”

Azriel exhaled with relief, a smile ghosting his pretty face. Whispering something that sounded like gratitude toward the gods, he adjusted his body until she felt the blunt head of his cock pressed against her. How had he stood it? The waiting, the wanting, the utter need that Gwyn was all but drowning in. If they didn’t do this, she thought she might die from it.

“You’ll tell me if I hurt you.” It wasn’t a request, though Gwyn had no intention of telling him anything. She expected a little pain, expected little pleasure. Why else had he used his mouth first?

Gwyn had read enough books to know that there was blood and pain and so when Azriel slid himself an inch into her, she braced herself against him, her nails digging into his biceps. She could feel his eyes on her, searching for even a hint of discomfort. There was something reassuring about knowing he’d stop if she wanted. That he cared if she enjoyed herself.

Gwyn didn’t need a book to know not all males cared about such things.

Azriel took his time—like he knew he had eons of it, that he didn’t have to rush. Gwyn loved him for it, eyes burning with unshed tears at the thought. She’d tell him all this later, when they’d had a chance to breathe and eat and really talk about everything that had otherwise been left unsaid. Instead she dragged her lips down his neck and focused on the feeling of his cock in her body, pushing further and further without any of the accompanying pain she’d expected.

She was slick enough that he felt less like an intrusion and more like a welcomed guest, and once he’d seated himself entirely, it seemed as though they’d been made like two puzzle pieces destined to fit.

It took a moment to get used to the stretch, to breathe despite the feeling of fullness. Azriel gave it to her instinctively, as if he knew exactly what she both wanted and needed. There was that same sense of I have all the time in the world, despite her knowing he was desperate. A bead of sweat slid from his temple, rolling down his neck and his arms shook from restraint.

He didn’t move.

Not until her mouth made its way to his collarbone and she whispered, “Give me more.” He groaned loud enough to shatter the silence, pulling himself out with a slowness that bordered on madness.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered, burying his face into her neck. “I’m losing my mind.”

She couldn’t help the exhaled smile, raking her fingers through his hair. “Did you dream of this, too?”

“No,” he admitted with a grunt, sliding his cock back into her body. “I didn’t dare.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t,” he managed, thrusting again with a little more intensity. “Would have gone crazy from wanting you. Surprised you couldn’t smell it on me.”

As if she would have known what she was smelling. There was no point in telling him so—not as Azriel confessed the depths of his devotion, the lengths he’d gone to give her time, space, and whatever else she’d wanted. Would he have continued to do so forever?

Gwyn kissed his cheek. “I want you. I want this.”

He groaned again, sliding his hand between their otherwise flushed bodies to rub at her still swollen clit. She’d been half distracted by his words to pay attention to her body but right then, when his thumb began making tight circles, Gwyn was pulled back under the depths of shadowed darkness, half consumed by the male laying on top of her.

Their mouths met, messy and unrestrained. Strange how kissing merely heightened the pleasure coiling through her—Gwyn wouldn’t have guessed that. In her books, everything was so neat and clinical. They kissed, they touched, they fucked with nothing in between. In real life, sex was messier, more fluid. Or maybe she and Azriel merely had more passion than the people in her stories.

Those love stories had once brought her such joy. Now they seemed dimmed in comparison to what was happening to her and her own feelings.

“I need to feel you come,” he whispered, betraying how close he must have been. Gwyn felt the same way. She needed to feel him, needed to see him wholly unraveled. All because of her—no one else was allowed to know what he sounded like, what he looked like. They got control, they got the ice but she got the heat, the impulsivity—everything he was, everything he’d ever been.

Gwyn came to the thought of that future, tightening around him as her back arched her into his chest, offering very little give. Azriel kissed her, swallowing the sound of her moans greedily. They belonged to him, anyway.

He came mere seconds later, his own noise of pleasure delightfully loud for a male that was so often silent. Gwyn kept herself wrapped tight around him, arms winding against his neck, her teeth sinking into his shoulder. His pumping was erratic, uncontrolled and a little desperate. Gwyn was obsessed with this side of him—wanted more of it.

Azriel didn’t withdraw when he was done, his heart thudding against her breast. “It’s not enough, is it?” she whispered, thinking they both ought to feel sated. She didn’t. In her books, the heroine was always spent, the hero falling asleep not long after. The pair would wake in each other's arms, content and glowing from the night before.

Gwyn wanted to shove him to the floor and climb atop him. Wanted to hear him beg, too—wanted more of the whimpering, the groaning and everything in between.

“It was never going to be,” he panted, kissing her softly.

“How long will it last?” she wondered, brushing a damp lock of hair from his face.

“Eternity, I imagine,” he replied, his eyes burning with that same unflinching intensity. “For me, at least.”

Gwyn’s heart exploded, racing in her throat. “Are you hungry?” she whispered, deciding she couldn’t wait for the morning. She wanted to do this right now. Wanted him to know that this meant something to her, even if she was scared, too.

Azriel went still. “There’s no rush—”

“That’s yes or no, Azriel.”

A smile broke over his face. “Starving,” he admitted in that dark, sultry voice.

“You have to get up,” she reminded him, pushing half-heartedly at his shoulder. Azriel lowered his mouth for another kiss.

“In a minute.”

Strange how a minute could stretch.

Into lifetimes, even.

#gwynriel #I DID IT

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