fanged-beast33 - Tumblr blog

fanged-beast33 · 4 days ago

Text

Surrender | Masters of pretense, part 1

An Elriel two-part fic (dual POV)

Because Azriel is avoiding the Riverhouse, Elain comes to dinner at House of Wind with Nessian and Azriel for quiet, seductive, devastating revenge. Here’s my take on Elriel-coded ‘banter’. Subtle, alluring, quiet.

Because I like to play with stereotypes, here’s a little glimpse of Azriel believing he’s in control—until Elain proves, without question, that he never was. He is but a puppy on a leash whenever Elain is around.

Also, the potatoes make a re-appearance (the gravy too).

Content warning: sexual fantasies.

----

The fire was crackling softly in the hearth, sending shadows dancing along the stone walls of the dining room like living things. Dinner at House of Wind had long since ended, at least for everyone except Cassian, who was still shoveling food onto his place with the same enthusiasm he had at the start of the meal. The rest of them lingered in the quiet aftermath. Nesta was absorbed in her book, preternaturally still save for the occasional flick of a page. Elain gently swirled the wine in her glass, watching the dark liquid as if absorbed in thought.

Azriel sat there, pretending to brood. In reality, he was absorbed by her.

Elain.

She looked ethereal, beautiful as ever. Serene, even, with the soft glow of the fire kissing her impeccable features. But Azriel knew better. He knew that glint sparkling in her eye was not mere contentment. That delicate flush dusting her cheeks was not from the warmth of the fire. It was because of him. For him, if he allowed himself to wish. The way she quietly toyed with him, sweetly and mercilessly, whenever he had dared to show up at dinners after last Solstice had him wishing all kinds of things, despite himself.

Dangerous and foolish things.

And—Mother above—Elain was enjoying this far too much.

Sipping from her wine, Elain swallowed slowly. Azriel’s eyes—traitorous things that they were whenever she graced them with her visage—followed the movement of her throat. The slow bob, that delicate tensing of muscle, made his fingers flex against his knees and his jaw tighten. He wanted to trace the velvet-soft skin of that immaculate throat with his fingers, to follow its graceful line with his mouth, but that would be a sacrilege if there ever was one.

Her lips, soft and rosy and far too lovely for his sanity, parted slightly as she took another small sip of that crimson wine that stained those lips the colour of sin. Azriel let out a slow exhale and felt heat replace the ice in his veins.

He wanted to trace those delicate lips with his fingers too.

Feel their softness yield beneath his touch.

Before he put his teeth to them.

Then—Mother save him—her foot.

The faintest touch, just a whisper of contact, brushing against the exposed skin of his ankle. He stiffened, his entire body locking down with the precision of a Spymaster, every muscle going taut. She didn’t press or push. She was just… there. The faintest graze.

It was the kind of thing that drew him mad. Madder than if she would have flipped the table and straddled him right then and there. At least something like that, he could have handled. He liked to think so, anyway. After all, restraint in the midst of chaos was second nature to the Spymaster of the Night Court.

But this? This was calculated. Precise.

The Spymaster of the Night Court had met his match.

In a female so lovely and ethereal she could have been spun from moonlight. A female who feigned innocence with the same deadly skill that he feigned indifference. Two masters of pretense, locked in a dance that could only end one way.

Surrender.

And Azriel was losing.

He was losing his damn mind.

She wouldn’t even meet his gaze. It made him want to flip the table and beg on his knees for her to just look at him.

But no.

Elain just tilted her head, the firelight catching in her curls and painting her in gold and honey. That maddeningly sweet smile danced across her delicate features as her eyes remained fixed on the wine she kept swirling with slow, measured grace.

She was ruthless. Gentle torment wrapped in honey and light and everything holy in the world. And that feigned innocence just made Azriel burn even hotter.

It made him burn to see what it would take to have her drop all pretense.

He burned to get his hands on her and finally find out how long it would take before those sweet smiles turned into breathless moans, into ragged, needy pleas that were everything holy in this world but had nothing to do with innocence.

He wanted her undone.

By his hand, sacrilege be damned.

“Az?” Cassian’s voice pierced the haze that was Azriel’s mind, distant and wholly unimportant. Because Elain’s foot was tracing a lazy, featherlight path higher up his calf, just enough to remind Azriel who was sitting in front of him.

Not that he needed reminding.

His entire body was wound too tight, like a string pulled so taut it was ready to snap. His breathing was shallow, every inhale a battle of control and every exhale threatening surrender. He felt his pulse throb in places he had no business thinking about at the dinner table.

He was too damn hot. Warmth curled through him like the shadows swirling frantically at his feet. It was as if his need for her had replaced the blood in his veins, pulsing through him with the promise of life itself—as vital as breath. Every beat of his heart carried her name through his bloodstream.

Elain. Elain. Elain.

His whole world had narrowed to nothing but her.

One single moment of her attention, and he’d practically be wagging his tail like some goddamn puppy on a leash, desperate and eager for more.

Never had there been a more useful time to be a shadowsinger.

To be able to conceal.

Spying and stealth be damned—without his shadows to hide behind, every secret, every dark desire and aching need would have been laid bare for all to see the second Elain Archeron stepped into any space he occupied. The shift in his scent would have revealed it all.

He gritted his teeth at Cassian’s interruption, trying to find his way back to the present moment through the maze of his desire.

“What?” he managed, without tearing his gaze from Elain. The word came out sharper and more impatient than intended, rougher than it should have been.

That was… slightly concerning.

Concealing his emotions had never been an issue. Neither through war nor centuries of calculated deception and carefully measured restraint.

Not until her.

Not until he met his match.

Elain Archeron had him beat for more than just secret-keeping. She had him beat at his own fucking game, and she knew it. In fact, she was looking far too pleased with herself. And that quiet boldness, on a face so innocent and sweet, had Azriel utterly leashed.

He wanted her.

Cassian raised his eyebrows. “Pass the potatoes, will you?”

Not the potatoes.

Even goddamn potatoes had him obsessing over her. Because of that first Solstice when he had been unable to stay away from her. When he had first started to fully realize how utterly fucked he was.

Azriel’s gaze drifted to the bowl of potatoes. They weren’t Elain’s this time, of course. They were courtesy of the House and, naturally, nowhere near as divine. But still, they reminded him. Of her.

Of how she had struggled with that heavy bowl, brows adorably furrowed in quiet determination. Of how he had walked up to her, his pulse hammering in his ears, shadows coiling nervously at his feet. Wingbeats had fluttered in his stomach—as if he was some foolish and inexperienced boy instead of a centuries-old, and certainly not inexperienced, spymaster.

It had taken every last drop of courage honed over all those centuries for him to, shamelessly and despicably, make damn sure their fingers brushed when he reached for the dish. But he had done it, even as he struggled to breathe as longing pulsed through his veins and his heartbeat quickened.

She had blushed.

Seemed stunned, even. More beautiful than he'd ever seen her, dusted with flour and all the gentleness of her caring heart.

Those foolish winged creatures in his stomach had taken flight again. Restraint stretched thin as he fought the urge to grin like a lovesick fool when he got to the table and let his lethal gaze sweep across the room, daring anyone to eat before Elain was seated.

Elain.

His gaze drifted back to her. Without tearing it from her, Azriel grabbed the heavy dish of potatoes a little more forcefully than he intended. Without blinking—or thinking—he dumped the entire bowl on top of Cassian’s plate with a dull thunk that echoed through the quiet room.

Elain’s lips twitched. Just barely. Of course, Azriel noticed it.

He noticed everything when it came to her, even without his shadows.

He could map every freckle on her face in his sleep, should he ever get any. He could track the smallest shift in her expression, every twitch of every muscle, every glint in her eye. Every strand of that thick, honey-brown hair out of place. He knew every wayward curl. Nothing in the world could have had that small, knowing smile escape his notice.

“Dude?” Cassian’s brows shot up as he stared at the heavy dish of potatoes now balancing precariously on top of his plate.

Still unable to look away from Elain, Azriel’s voice came out low. Rough. “You want gravy too?”

Those beautiful lips twitched again, and wingbeats fluttered anew in Azriel’s abdomen.

But he really shouldn’t have said it.

He really shouldn’t still be holding a grudge against Cassian for daring to eat before Elain was seated at Solstice more than a year ago. He definitely shouldn’t have let his voice drop or his emotions slip through the cracks of his dissolving composure. And he most certainly shouldn’t have let his gaze drop to Elain’s lips. To that small, knowing smirk still teasing the corners of her mouth and Azriel’s control just the same.

But he was out of his mind.

Elain’s foot retreated slowly, with a timing too damn perfect to not be calculated. Azriel let out a faint, shuddering sigh as the absence of her on him left him desperate for her to return. And—Cauldron damn him—he found himself leaning towards her, drawn to her like a celestial body helplessly caught in the unrelenting pull of its sun.

She had him dancing to her tune like a goddamn puppet on a string.

Elain—sweet, ruthless Elain—just tilted her head to the other side, still swirling her wine. Those wide and deceptively innocent eyes of molten chocolate remained locked on the dark liquid in her glass. As if she hadn’t just caught him in her gravity.

“I’d love some…” her sweet voice, all silk and secrets, pierced through the tension like a blade.

Then came the pause.

Long.

Lethal.

Almost casually, she let the air thicken around them once more before she delivered another blow.

“… Azriel.”

His name on those lovely lips nearly had him actually flip the damn table and throw himself on the floor before her.

But then, finally, she met his gaze. Warm brown eyes focused entirely on him.

Cauldron have mercy on his soul.

Azriel nearly groaned. He wasn’t sure if he actually did. He swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to collect his dissolving composure. He tightened his jaw and tilted his head slightly, gritting his teeth. Without a word, he leaned forward to slowly push the gravy boat towards her.

Cassian glanced between them before his gaze landed on Azriel, brows still raised. “Someone woke up on the wrong side.”

Azriel ignored him.

Because Elain was smiling at him now, sweet and demure as ever. Her quiet devastation and that soft curve of her lips had him enthralled. And when her foot ghosted over his ankle again, Azriel nearly knocked over his drink from relief and need.

Like a goddamn puppy on a leash.

“He always wakes up on the wrong side,” Nesta muttered, not bothering to look up from her book. She flipped a page, her tone dry, “Do you even have a right side, Az?”

Azriel barely heard her. His focus was locked on the female sitting across from him, the one who haunted his every waking moment. Including the ones he should have been asleep.

“I didn’t wake up,” he muttered right back, his voice once again lower than intended. “I didn’t sleep.”

Cassian huffed, lifting the heavy dish of potatoes from his plate.

“You should try it sometime,” he said briskly. “Might help with the chronic brooding.”

Azriel didn’t answer. He was getting cranky now. Restless. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone. He wanted to be free of this dining room, of the laughter and pointless conversation, of eyes that might see too much.

He wanted Elain. Alone.

“Why didn’t you sleep…” Elain murmured, her attention still focused on the wine glass she now gently rolled back and forth by the stem between her slender fingers.

Slow. Effortless. Merciless.

She paused again, just enough to let the tension coil thick in the air between them before delivering another devastating blow.

“… Azriel?”

His name on those lips.

Heat licked down his spine, like a barely-there caress, soft and slow and dangerously intoxicating.

It set him ablaze more thoroughly than his fist around his cock did during the sleepless hours he spent stroking himself to the thought of her unravelling. To the thought of those perfect lips, soft and swollen, parting around breathless moans as he filled her. As she arched against his naked skin—equally bare and needy—her breath hot and sweet against him.

He could almost hear it.

The desperate little sounds she’d make as he reveled in her pleasure. The way she’d gasp his name, not teasing or coy, but pleading in breathless surrender.

He wanted to be so damn good to her.

He’d take his time. Taste every inch of her until she was gasping and trembling on his tongue. He’d lap up every moan, let every breathless whimper guide him like a treasure map to every hidden secret behind that feigned innocence. Then he’d bury himself in her, over and over and over, wringing every last drop of pleasure from her until it was him playing her body like an instrument and they moved to the same rhythm. He’d learn every tune by heart until he had nothing left in him to give and she had learned the true meaning of satisfaction.

Azriel exhaled through his nose and clenched his fists under the table as if willing himself to stay composed.

It wasn’t working. At all.

Because his pulse was throbbing even harder, in all the wrong places.

“I’ve been…” He looked up at her, hopeful—pathetic really—like some lovesick fool. But Elain wouldn’t meet his gaze. He’d tear down mountains to have those chestnut eyes on him again, to feel the featherlight weight of her gaze tracing over his face like the touch of a lover.

“…distracted, lately.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and they felt like a confession.

Elain’s lips curled. Not quite a smile, but something more dangerous. Knowing.

And Azriel knew there was more of that sweet torture to come. And those wingbeats in his stomach were entirely overpowered by pure, ravenous heat.

“Distracted?” Elain echoed softly.

She put her wine glass down on the table. Her thumb began gliding in slow, measured strokes along the stem of the glass.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

She bit her lip lightly, her teeth grazing the soft curve of those rosy lips as her large, chestnut eyes followed the languid rhythm of her thumb.

That slow, deliberate rhythm made Azriel’s lips part involuntarily. His shadows slipped beneath the table, curling tighter around his feet as if they, too, were as desperate to reach for her as he was.

At least he still had enough sense left to not groan aloud.

“By what, I wonder?” Elain spun that silken voice between them like a web, and Azriel was caught like a helpless prey.

Was she really going to make him say it? Here? In front of Nesta and Cassian? His pulse thundered so wildly he thought surely, they must all hear it.

Perhaps he should actually say it.

Perhaps he shouldn’t be such a coward.

Perhaps he should just flip the damn table.

He cleared his throat, trying—failing, really—to mentally push back the desire licking at the edges of his control. “I’ve had… things on my mind.”

“Mmm,” Elain hummed sweetly, the sound dripping over him like warm honey, and Azriel felt it everywhere. Thick, slow, seeping into the marrow of his bones. Goosebumps rose in its wake, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head. But Elain’s thumb—that slender, delicate thing capable of such ruthless, seductive intent—just continued that slow, sinful path up and down the stem of her wineglass.

Azriel couldn’t tear his eyes from it.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

He wanted this. All of it. Unleashed. On him. This beautiful predator hidden beneath the timid, delicate guise others didn’t bother to look past.

“Things?” she asked, her voice light and effortless. Her beautiful eyes, still torturously turned away from him, refused to meet his.

Mother, please.

Azriel swallowed thickly, feeling his throat go dry. “Only one, actually.”

Elain blinked. Azriel noted with a satisfied smirk how, for a fleeting moment, her eyes flicked to his before she looked away again, back to the dark liquid in her wine glass.

“I hope it’s something...” she murmured in that voice like warm honey. She paused, and her fingers moved to trace a lazy circle along the rim of her wine glass. “… worth losing sleep over.”

Azriel’s traitorous pulse hammered even harder in his throat. “It is.”

Elain’s lips parted just slightly in a soft intake of breath that had Azriel’s shadows singing in his ears, that puppy desperate for her approval running victory laps in his dazed mind.

And then—Cauldron damn him—Cassian’s voice shattered the moment.

“Yeah, he loves his reports,” he said through a mouthful of potatoes. “I never got the appeal.”

Nesta snorted softly, peering up from her book at last. “Brooding and mysterious as always,” she mused, but a knowing smirk was ghosting her features as her sharp gaze moved between Azriel and Elain.

Azriel braced himself.

“Maybe we should get him a hobby,” Cassian said, shoveling another forkful of potatoes into his mouth. “Might help get his mind off things”.

“Good luck,” Nesta laughed under her breath. “Have you tried knitting, Az?”

Azriel clenched his jaw. Hard.

“Knitting?” Cassian chuckled in between bites. He barely swallowed before grinning wide. “And what would our dear spymaster knit?”

Azriel didn’t take the bait.

Nesta smirked, glancing between Azriel and Elain once more before returning to her book with that knowing look still sparkling in her eye. “A leash, maybe.”

Cassian raised his brows in confusion.

Azriel pointedly ignored them. In fact, he barely heard them.

Because Elain’s foot was back. Sliding up his calf with that same sensual slowness that was driving him mad and making every muscle in his body tense. He swallowed thickly, fingers tightening around the fragile stem of his own glass until he thought it might snap.

He didn’t dare move an inch. Didn’t dare so much as breathe.

“Elain,” he said, his voice dangerously low, both a warning and a plea all at once.

Elain finally looked at him again and Azriel’s head stilled. His shadows paused their restless dance at his feet.

“Azriel?” she replied, her honey-sweet voice wrapping around his name, soft and lethal in equal measure. Her wide, innocent eyes held his. That beautiful, sweet deception.

He could think of an infinite number of things to say, all of them equally dangerous. All of them leading to the same inevitable, reckless end.

Surrender.

Instead, for now, he settled on the one that wouldn’t end with him exposing his every secret and begging on his knees, pleading with her to let him put his hands, his mouth, his tongue on her like the desperate male he was.

“Pass the gravy,” he rasped, his voice too rough. Needy even. “Please.”

Elain’s eyebrows lifted, her lips pursing slightly before she shifted towards him. She reached for the gravy boat, her fingers curling around the handle in a way that made his breath hitch. A wayward golden curl slipped free to fall in her face as she leaned forward.

Azriel froze.

He had never seen anything more beautiful.

The wicked gleam in her eye defying the shy blush warming her cheeks. The honeyed glow of her as the firelight danced over her features. How the wine clung to her lovely lips, the deep crimson a dark, sultry promise against the delicate fairness of her skin. Like temptation itself. And that wild curl—it had him spellbound. He ached to reach across the table, to brush it back and slide his hand into the thick, silken curls of her hair. To fist it, pull her against him, and claim those crimson lips the way he should have when he had the chance.

For the life of him, Azriel couldn’t breathe. He knew she must see the pure desperation in his eyes.

“Of course…” she murmured softly, and then—Mother save him—she slid the gravy boat toward him with torturous patience, those chocolate brown eyes never leaving his. When it reached him, she made damn sure their fingers brushed. Azriel swallowed every curse he knew, biting down another groan.

But she wasn’t done with him yet.

Because then, Elain—sweet, ruthless Elain—brushed that wild curl behind her ear. And when she looked up at him through her lashes, those doe-brown eyes shimmering with quiet victory, Azriel was utterly undone.

She had him exactly where she wanted him, and they both knew it.

Her lips parted. In a whisper, she delivered the final, lethal blow.

“… Azriel.”

His name. On those perfect, wine-stained lips.

Azriel groaned aloud. A deep, guttural sound that tore from the depths of him, carrying every ounce of need, every obscene fantasy, every shred of longing he fought so damn hard to contain.

The room went completely silent.

Nesta lowered her book. Cassian stopped mid-bite. Azriel’s shadows froze.

Even the crackling fire seemed to still.

“Well, fuck me,” Azriel breathed, every syllable slipping free in surrender.

And then—damn the Cauldron—he let go.

Dropped every pretense.

As Elain’s lips curled in quiet triumph, he finally flipped the damn table and fell to his knees.

Surrender.

#elriel fanfic

112 notes · View notes