#gwyneth writes

[dickwheelie]

here have the first few paragraphs of my retired holmes/watson fic that is currently at 13k and counting. hoping putting some of it out there will force me to finish it in a timely manner lol.

this is sort of a combo of canon and granada holmes, based on whatever vibes were necessary in the moment. enjoyyyy if ya nasty

____________

It was I who came to him, a few months before the end.

He had written me several times from his lodgings in the Sussex Downs, and so I had his address on hand for a visit I took in late June of that year. It was, I admit, a bit of a whim on my part, otherwise I would have sent a letter ahead, but then again I did not expect to be turned away and had only intended to stay for a few days, perhaps a week at the most. The fact of the matter was that year the summertime ennui had struck me with more strength than I could ever before recall, and with my practice closed for the season and my bachelor's apartments lonelier than ever, I felt I had no choice but to pay a visit to my old friend and colleague.

Holmes had retired to a rather modest cottage in the countryside, with a sizable bee farm, as he had so often spoken about in our younger days. I knew of this from his letters, of course--apparently the honey business was doing remarkably well--but it was another thing entirely to wander up the long drive and hear the incessant buzzing and humming crescendo as one approached the lines of wooden hives that dotted the back yard of the house.

I knocked at the front door with the head of my cane, which by then I was using full-time, but when no staff nor retired detectives arrived to greet me, I wandered round to the side of the house and through the back gate, which was latched but not locked. It was then that I caught sight of him, sitting smartly upon a metal bench at the apex of a small flower garden, a thin silhouette with a proud posture overlooking the lines of the beehives. His back was to the house and thereby also to me, but the bench sat a little off to the right from the gate so that I could see the outline of his profile. That proud, hooked nose, that pointed brow, the thin lips; in silhouette against the late afternoon sky he looked just as he might have back in our rooms at 221b, staring down at Baker Street from that upper window which at one time or another saw the entire world passing by underneath.

It was not my intention to surprise the man any further than my unexpected visit would undoubtedly do already, but taking a few steps across the grass towards him I realized that my footfalls were entirely silent, hidden beneath the unending buzzing of the bees. I might have called out to him, or made my presence known in some less startling way, but I did neither of these as I approached, silent as an Indian tiger in the underbrush.

At least, I had thought so. I was not a meter behind him when a sharp, clear voice cut through the breezy afternoon air.

"My dear Dr. Watson, you might have phoned ahead. I believe that is what the younger set call courtesy these days."

I could not help the bark of incredulous laughter that emerged from my throat as Holmes turned on the bench to face me, his eyes shining with mirth. Up close, with the full light upon him, I could see that he had changed considerably since our last farewell; his face, lined as mine now was, was even more angular than it had been, and indeed it was only those keen, grey eyes that had remained untouched in our decade apart. His hair was entirely silver, a quite distinguished look for his brunette, in my opinion, than the pale grey I had been left with.

He held a cane now, too, which rested now between his knees as he sat. His fashion, I observed, had not changed an iota; not in style, nor in color, nor in cut.

An almost unbearable fondness rose in my throat then, looking upon him in that moment, so familiar and yet so strikingly new. Perhaps if I had more of my wits about me I could have put all that he had taught me to some use and gleaned some clue as to his recent dealings, where he had been that day, what he had eaten . . . but I confess all my faculties faded away in the face of that wry smile, identical to that I had seen countless times across the breakfast table, in the armchair by the fireplace, facing me in a train car, next to me in a cab or in a concert hall. I had not realized, until that very moment, what a drought I had been in.

"Holmes," I said before any hellos, for they could hardly be of any use between us now, "you must tell me how you knew."

Read the rest on ao3!

[azrielslittleslut]

"The Lost Queen"- Chapter 13

Azriel x F!Reader

Summary: A magical incident causes Azriel to unexpectedly tumble through a portal into modern-day Earth. Confused and injured, he is discovered by a compassionate human woman with a hidden past. She takes care of him and helps him discover the complexities of the modern world, completely unaware of who she truly is. Meanwhile, Azriel struggles with his conflicting desires: his duty to the Night Court and his growing love for the woman who saved him.

Their journey unfolds amidst ancient prophecies and the looming threat in Prythian. As they uncover the truth about forces conspiring against them, they must confront their deepest fears and make choices that will change their lives and the world forever.

Warnings: language, violence, angst

Word Count: 7k

series masterlist

Azriel felt warm, feminine hands running along his body, coaxing him out of his silence. As he opened his eyes, he saw the face of his beloved mother. Her expression was one of love and concern, the small scar along her cheek gleaming like silver in the dim light. 

In her hazel eyes, he could see his reflection. It wasn’t one of him as a grown male, with his sharp face and curly black hair. Instead, he was met with the sight of him as a young boy, as he had been when he was locked away in that dungeon. 

Pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones. Cracked lips. Shaggy and tangled black hair falling over his brow. But his eyes were the same, though now they looked to be too big for his small face.  

“My boy,” she whispered, cupping his tiny face in her hands. “The end is not yet. This is just the beginning.” 

Young Azriel blinked at her. “What is just the beginning?” he asked, his voice hoarse from lack of use. That was strange- he had barely been able to speak during his childhood due to a lack of social interaction and access to basic necessities. 

His mother smiled, her eyes bright. “Look for the flames, bright and red they will be,” she said, her voice almost… giddy. “They will lead you home. To the place you are meant to be.” 

He shook his head, his heart hammering in his chest. For as long as he had known her, his mother had been speaking in cryptic riddles and phrases. He wasn’t even sure if she was aware of what she was saying but trying to argue with her had only upset her, so he gave up. 

The only time she seemed to be in her right mind, though, was when she would sing to him, her soft voice lulling him to sleep as she spoke in a foreign, ancient tongue. 

“Okay,” he muttered, his head hanging low, “I will look for the flames.” 

She smiled softly at him, her black hair hanging over her shoulders as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. It was an effort not to look at the mangled wings on her back. 

“Sleep now, Azriel,” she whispered, “And when you wake, it is time to fight.” 

Her soft voice echoed in his dream, his eyes closing as he fell back into a deep slumber. It was a lullaby she had sung to him during his childhood when he had been released from that prison for that precious hour every week. 

Now, those ancient words washed over him, easing his mind, though he didn’t understand any of it. 

“Voryn tal’an isen dremar, Shen’vel teyran isen khael, Variel eiran marir’san, Eshar velan trevar shan’ael.”

“Daeryn velar athaen esor, Revar syriyn anath daron, Shalen morvyn trelan thar, Venaris’kae maelith a’mar.”

Azriel’s eyes snapped open. The faint echoes of his mother’s voice still filled his ears. His head was aching as he blinked against the darkness surrounding him. He gasped for breath, his back and wings screaming in pain as he moved. Each movement sent a fresh wave of burning pain through his body, unlike anything he had ever experienced. With a groan and a prayer to the Mother, he leaned forward, letting his crushed wings fall behind him to the ground. 

“Fuck,” he bit out, his face twisting in pain as he tried to stand. “Fucking Mother’s tits, this shit hurts.” 

It was strange how, when you were in agonizing pain, you could go from praying to a religious deity in one breath to cursing them in the next. 

With his palms against the ground, Az forced himself to stand, ignoring the sharp pain shooting down his legs as he moved. He could feel himself healing, albeit slowly, so he pressed on, willing his mind to clear as he tried to remember what had happened. 

He remembered telling you about the bond, only to be followed by your soft lips on his. He would never forget the look of love on your face after, your lips open as you were about to say the words that his cold, dead heart had desired for the last five and a half centuries. 

But then, everything had gone horribly wrong. He could still hear the echoes of the screams in his mind as children and families were slain. Even now, he could still taste the rot and decay of whatever dark power had hit him, sending his body flying against the building. 

Where had that power come from? He remembered seeing wings, dark hair, a male face- 

“Fuck!” Azriel roared, slamming his hand against the brick wall, sending a spray of dust into the air. The darkness was still around, still covering Velaris. “Mathias! I swear to all the gods above and below, if you don’t let my mate go-“ 

The thought of Mathias holding you, touching you, made Azriel want to sob and tear the world apart at the same time. He leaned over, his hands on his chest as he felt a painful tug on that precious bond. He could hear the echoes of your screams on the walls, and that was all he needed to be forced into action. 

Without Truth-Teller, Azriel had no weapon, but he had never minded killing a male with his bare hands. 

Azriel plunged into that darkness, his face twisted into frozen rage, only to be stopped as he watched a piece of star-flecked night flicker across his peripheral. This darkness was soothing and calming, searching and mending- the total opposite of the evil that was surrounding Velaris. 

This darkness belonged to his High Lord. 

“Rhys!” Azriel called out, his voice akin to a frightened child. He scrambled through the darkness, calling on his shadows to surround him, their dark tendrils a comfort as he moved forward. “Rhysand! Where are you, you bastard?” 

The darkness flickered, a sign that Rhys’s power was giving out. At once, the darkness vanished, as if a mighty wind had swept through the city, taking the remnants of Rhys’s power with it. 

Rhys was standing before Azriel, his face pale, his chest rising and falling with harsh breaths. Beads of sweat poured from his forehead, and his eyes were full of exhaustion and… pain. 

Rhys winced, reaching a hand out to steady himself on a nearby wall. “What happened, Az?” he asked, his voice a harsh whisper. “One minute, all of us are enjoying our dinner, and then before we know it, the entire city is swallowed up by this... this…” He flailed his arms around, completely unable to describe the power that had swallowed the city. 

“I don’t know.” Azriel sighed, his body still aching even though he was healing. His siphons were empty, though he could see swells of blue rolling in them as his power returned. “Everything was fine.” Until it wasn’t. “My shadows didn’t alert me of anything out of the ordinary, so I was unprepared.” 

Azriel wanted to roar at the skies at his admission. He was always on alert, always searching for any sign of trouble. He never let his guard down. He slept with a dagger, for fuck’s sake. How could he have let this happen? 

“Who.” It wasn’t a question. The command came from Nesta as she stepped around Rhys, her sharp face twisted in undiluted rage. She was wielding Ataraxia, the glowing steel reflecting the horrors of the city. 

Azriel felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders as he said, “Mathias. He just… showed up. Before, I could feel his power, but it was nothing compared to that.” He shook his head, his mind full of disbelief. “He had wings, Rhys.” 

Rhys only raised his brows, his mind clearly distracted as he surveyed Velaris. The city appeared to be mostly intact, save for the street they were on. The buildings in the distance looked untouched, but the buildings around the three of them… 

A black, oily substance- like ink- oozed from the ground, staining everything around it. It covered every surface like a dark canopy, filling the air with its rancid smell. Azriel’s eyes widened in horror as he looked, his gaze finally landing on the bodies lying in the street. 

Bodies was not the right word, as these piles of flesh resembled nothing that had once lived or breathed. A mangled arm here. An exploded stomach there. All around, there was nothing but shattered pieces of bone and sprays of blood. Az could see the tiny strips of clothing scattered along the ground, some of them so small he thought they could be pieces of paper. 

Azriel stopped breathing entirely as he looked down at his boots. The flower crown, now covered in his blood and the black substance, was lying on the ground. His memory of you gently placing that crown on his head hit him like a tidal wave, causing him to step back. 

“These were children,” Azriel hissed, falling to his knees as his failure was evident before him. 

At that, Rhys came to life. His face became a thing of nightmares, his mouth twisted into a snarl. “Mathias did this?” he asked lowly, his eyes scanning the destruction of his city. 

Azriel could only manage a nod.

“Then he will die,” Nesta said, her voice full of rage. Her head snapped from side to side, her eyes scanning the street. “Where is Y/N, Azriel?” 

Azriel felt a chill run down his spine. He remembered you screaming at him, begging him to let you up to help the children… 

“He took her,” Azriel bit out, the words like venom on Azriel’s tongue. “I couldn’t- I tried-“ His wings drooped as he tried to explain, but his mind was too frazzled to come up with anything. Even his shadows were restless, swirling around him as they both tried to comfort their master and search for their lost mate. 

Thankfully, Az was saved from explaining as Cassian landed next to Nesta, his wings tucked in tight. “Whatever darkness was here is gone now,” he said, his eyes on Rhys. “But the city… The outer edges are fine, but what happened here is growing. Moving closer to the untouched places.” 

“What do you mean, Cassian?” Rhys asked, putting his hands in his pockets. Once again, as he moved, Az noticed the tremble in them. 

Cassian pointed to the sky. “From an aerial view, you can see it better. It’s like a blight on the land, and you can see this inky shit moving, like it’s reaching for those places that are good-“ He trailed off, shaking his head. “Velaris will be covered in it come morning. It appears to be moving fast.” 

Azriel looked, and indeed, he saw the dark substance branching out, eating away at the ground and the buildings. 

“What the hell is happening here?” The voice came from the right, and it belonged to a very pissed-off Amren. She was wearing a black dress made of silk, and her short hair swayed as she surveyed the dying Velaris around. Her silver eyes landed on Azriel. “Care to explain, shadowsinger?” 

Her grating tone snapped Az out of his anguish-ridden stupor. He bolted upright, his wings flaring as he lunged forward. “Where the fuck have you been?” he snarled, his face mere inches away from Amren. 

Amren only smiled, her eyes moving up and down Azriel’s body as if he were nothing more than an annoying pest. “At the Summer Court with Varian,” she explained, shrugging her shoulders as if being on vacation during this shit was acceptable. 

“Oh, I see. You ran off with your lover while the rest of us were trying to keep Prythian from being swallowed by this darkness,” he roared, flailing his hands out, gesturing to the black substance. “I guess I see where your loyalties lie.” 

Those were dangerous words, and he knew it. He had never trusted Amren, but he knew she wouldn’t go against the Night Court. He had seen and felt her power. He had borne witness to what she could do and how much havoc she could cause. 

But Azriel’s anger and pain had taken over any common sense he had at the moment. 

Amren’s eyes flared. “First, don’t you dare question my loyalties, Azriel,” she growled, her finger pressed against his chest. “The Summer Court is in no better shape than the rest of them, and I was helping Varian and Tarquin with trying to figure this shit out. And second…” She stepped forward, her head tipped up, and Azriel fought the urge to shiver as he felt the power radiating off her small form. “You can’t blame me for taking a vacation. Rhys sent word to me about your little visit to another world. It seems you even brought back a little something with you. A little something that we know nothing about.” 

Azriel’s body was shaking with rage, his shadows poised around him, ready to strike. But he remained silent, knowing that if he spoke right now, he would surely be sent to the grave. 

Amren smiled at him as she continued, “So it seems that I’m not the one who has questionable loyalties. For all we know that little mate of yours could be the reason for all of this.”

Azriel exploded. He saw red as he lashed out, his fingers reaching for Amren’s jewel-clad throat. His fingers had barely touched her cold skin when a large hand grabbed him by the shoulder and ripped him away. 

“Get a handle on yourself, Az,” Cassian hissed, baring his teeth and flaring his wings as he blocked Azriel’s view of Amren. “This is not the time to be controlled by that frozen rage of yours.” 

Over the tip of Cassian’s wings, Az could still see Amren smiling softly at him. If she was upset at his outburst, she showed no sign of it. In fact, she almost looked pleased with herself, as if she had planned this. 

“Feel better now, Azriel?” she drawled, daring a step forward. With a small hand, she pushed Cassian away as if he were nothing more than a bug, her gaze locked on Azriel’s face. “Did you get all of that rage out? Or do I need to keep going?” 

Azriel blinked. This was not the first time Amren had intentionally pissed him off, always knowing where to strike him to make him lash out. Usually, she did it before battles or important Night Court meetings. The little beast had always made sure he was calm and collected, not wanting to risk his anger becoming a problem. 

The only time Amren had not done this was before the High Lord meeting, and they all knew how that had turned out. 

“I’m sorry,” Azriel breathed out. “I never would have hurt you.” 

“Oh, you would have tried,” Amren said with a grin, “but you wouldn’t have gotten away with it.” She placed a hand on Azriel’s shoulder, her body so small compared to his. “Cassian is right. I saw you when I arrived. I saw you breaking from the inside out, knowing that your mate is gone. You cannot let that rage consume you, Az. Let it fuel you, but do not be controlled by it.” 

Azriel nodded, his words of gratitude for what Amren had done catching in his throat. Thankfully, Nesta filled the silence. 

“Since that’s settled, can we please focus on where Y/N went?” she asked. “Az, where would Mathias have taken her?” 

Azriel shook his head. “I don’t know. He didn’t exactly tell me where he was going before he launched me into a wall.” He felt so hopeless and useless right now. 

Rhys cocked his head to the side, his brows furrowed. “Do you think he took her back to her world? If he doesn’t want you to find her-“ 

“No,” Azriel said, cutting his brother off. “He wants her here for some reason. I don’t know why. But I can feel her.” He placed his hand on his chest, right over his heart. “She’s here. I know it.” 

Cassian looked at Rhys. “Do you think the map has anything to do with this?” His voice was low and full of anxiety, which was strange for him. 

“What map?” Azriel asked, his wings twitching in frustration. It was a rare occurrence that he was the one who didn’t know anything, and it pissed him off even more. 

Nesta smiled. “The one that Mor showed you. You know, the one that you said was covered in ink.” She crossed her arms. “The black spot has been growing, almost like the map is changing.” 

“Not an ink stain, then,” Azriel mumbled, mostly to himself. At the time, he had been so focused on you that he hadn’t thought twice about the map. There was nothing in the middle of the Illyrian mountains, so he figured there was nothing to it. 

He should have been more careful, especially considering everything that is going on. 

Amren turned to Rhys, her silver eyes calculating. “Let me see the map, Rhysand.” 

She held her hand out expectantly, her foot tapping with impatience as she waited for the map. Once Rhys pulled it from his pocket and placed it in her hand, she snatched it away, holding it up to her face as her eyes scanned it. 

After a few moments, Amren raised her face, her skin pale. Her eyes were side with shock, her mouth open and closing, as if she were suddenly unable to form words. “Impossible,” she murmured, her eyes once again glancing down at the map. 

“What is it?” Nesta asked, stepping forward, her head lowered as she tried to look at whatever it was that shocked Amren. “What do you see?” 

“Nesta! Cassian!” Gwyn’s voice was breathless as he approached, her red hair coming out of her neat braid. “I’ve been looking for the two of you for ages!” 

Azriel felt his heart warm at the sight of the priestess, her hand holding a dagger, her body dressed in leathers. Over the last few months, Gwyn had slowly started to leave the library more and more, whether it was to spend the night with Nesta and Emerie, or even go out into Velaris to get more books. 

He was proud of her, and he was thankful for the friendship the two of them had formed during those late-night training sessions. She was a warrior now, her teal eyes full of calculating precision as she ran up to the group. He was glad he had played a part, though it had been small, in helping her heal from her horrible past. 

Nesta threw her arms around Gwyn, Ataraxia clanging awkwardly on her back. “If you ever run away from me like that, Gwyneth Berdara, I swear I will beat your ass,” she mumbled, but her tone was warm, full of affection for her friend. 

Gwyn pulled away, raising her dagger to hold it up to Nesta. “If you ever run away from me, heading straight into encroaching darkness, I will throw you off the highest balcony at the House,” she snapped back, but there was a kind smile on her face. 

“Gwyn,” Rhys said, turning around to face her, “where is Feyre? Nyx? Are they alright?” His voice was full of anxiety over his mate and son. 

Gwyn nodded, pushing stray strands of her hair away from her face. “That’s why I was trying to find you. As soon as the darkness hit, I stayed at the River House with them. I can assure you, Feyre and Nyx are fine, so is the River House. Although,” she murmured, glancing down at the darkness moving along the streets, “it seems it’s only a matter of time before it’s not.” 

Rhys released a breath, his shoulders sagging. “Thank you for staying there. I suppose I should get back. Try to make sense of whatever the fuck is going on right now.” He looked at Cassian, then over to Azriel, his expression blank. There was a silent question in his eyes, his normally guarded thoughts written all over his face. 

What do I do? 

Cassian stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “We’re with you, brother,” he murmured, his black hair forming a curtain over his face as he lowered his head. 

It was only a small shock for Azriel as he realized Cassian, who always had the answers to things like this, had no idea what the fuck to do. It should have scared him, terrified him, even. But he only felt numb. 

“Az,” Gwyn said, stepping away from Nesta to stand in front of him. “I came here to tell you something, too. Elain is at the River House with Lucien, and when the darkness hit, she saw something. It’s truly terrifying to see her like that, isn’t it? The way her eyes go white and her face-“ 

“Berdara,” Azriel murmured, forcing his voice to remain steady as he stopped her babbling. He normally found it endearing, but he wasn’t in the mood for it now. “What did Elain see?”

Gwyn’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh, right. Sorry. She wanted me to tell you that she saw Y/N in some woods. She heard whispers and a male with wings, although she didn’t get a good look at his face.” 

Azriel’s body went cold. There was only one place that he knew of that could fit that description, and it was a place he had hoped he would never be returning to. “The Whispering Woods? Why the hell would she be there?” 

Amren, who was still studying the map, murmured, “The Whispering Woods. No way. There’s absolutely no way.” 

“I have to go get her,” Azriel said, unfurling his wings, preparing to take flight. “If he hurts her-“ 

Nesta held Ataraxia out, her wrist angled so that the blade would surely slice through Azriel’s stomach as soon as he took off. “Cassian and I are going with you,” she commanded, her eyes blazing with silver flame. “The last time you went, you didn’t come back for days, and we all thought you were dead. You’re not doing this alone.” 

Cassian nodded his agreement. “If that’s where this bastard has her, you need backup.” He cracked his knuckles, his siphons guttering as he prepared for battle. 

Azriel nodded, forcing down his worry for his family. He didn’t have a good feeling about this, and he didn’t want to bring them into whatever this was. But he saw the look of rage on both Cassian and Nesta’s face, and he knew better than to argue with them. 

“One more thing,” Gwyn said, her eyes on Nesta as Cassian lifted her into his arms. “Elain said something about a collar.” 

“Gods, will this shit ever end?” Rhys asked, tilting his head back as he closed his eyes. “How can it keep getting worse?” 

Gwyn continued on, “She said the collar needs to come off. She mumbled something about obsidian destroying obsidian.” She sighed and shook her head, her freckles standing out in the dim light of the moon. “I hope you can figure out whatever that means because none of us could.” 

Azriel didn’t have a clue about any of it, but he supposed it was better than nothing. He squeezed Gwyn’s hand, forcing a smile onto his face. “Thank you, Berdara. Go back to the River House with Rhys.” He pulled her close, his lips close to her ear. “Keep them safe while we’re gone. Remember what I taught you? Anything that comes through that door is your ribbon.” 

Gwyn smiled brightly, her eyes gleaming with predatory intent. “You got it, shadowsinger,” she responded, winking at him as she stepped back. 

“You probably need these,” Rhys said, snapping his fingers. In a wave of night, various weapons appeared at his feet, gleaming and freshly oiled. 

Azriel grabbed two Illyrian swords, quickly sheathing them at his back. He also took two daggers, putting them in the weapons belt he kept around his waist. He longed for Truth-Teller, but as far as he knew, his beloved blade was lost forever. 

Cassian also armed himself to the teeth with swords and daggers, managing to place them along his body while keeping Nesta in his arms. Nesta, claiming that she could do enough damage with Ataraxia, grabbed nothing. 

Once they were armed and ready, Azriel took a breath, willing his nerves to calm. “Ready?” he asked, although he felt far from ready himself. 

Cassian and Nesta nodded once. “Ready,” they responded in unison. 

Azriel and Cassian spread their wings, shifting their stance as they prepared for flight, but Amren’s voice stopped them. 

As she finally lowered the map, she kept her eyes on Rhys as she said, “This map shouldn’t exist.” Her hands trembled as she lowered it to her side, her fingers crinkling the ancient paper. “But yet here it is. I never thought I would see anything like this again.” 

“What’s so special about it?” Gwyn asked, her voice quiet. 

Amren’s face was shadowed as she raked her gaze across them, her eyes landing on Azriel. “You better find your mate and bring her back. Because if what I am seeing on this map is real,” she hissed, raising the map slightly, “we’re in deep shit.” 

---

The world was nothing, only splinters of black and cracks of shadows. A dark void consumed your mind and body, dulling everything to a barely noticeable thrum. Your mind was silent, all of your senses numb. Your body felt weightless as the world splintered and fell apart around you, only to be reformed into a darkness that was full of whispers, shadows, and… trees. 

Yes, those were trees around you-great, tall trees, so ancient-looking that your silent mind still managed to wonder if they had been here since before Prythian. 

How did you get here? What the fuck happened?

You blinked rapidly, your eyes straining to see in the darkness. You could tell that you were lying on the cold ground, the feeling of dead leaves tickling your fingers as you dug them into the earth. The collar around your neck was so painfully cold, burning your skin with freezing intensity. You tried to move your head, your body, anything, but the collar prevented that, locking your limbs up as if you were paralyzed. 

The worst part of it all… your magic was gone. Not a flicker of a flame, or even a whisper of smoke, for that matter. You felt human again, almost like the strange power that you possessed had never existed in the first place. 

A low male chuckle to your right made your heartbeat quicken further. “Good. You’re awake. Now we can begin.”

The sound of that horrid voice brought back a wave of memories. The dancing, the flower crown, Azriel being flung into a wall. As you closed your eyes, you could still see his lifeless body lying there, the image of his crooked wings implanted onto the back of your eyelids. 

Mathias was here, and Azriel wasn’t. You didn’t even know if he was alive. You figured you could survive the death of your parents, although their loss was like a hole had been ripped out of your heart, and you doubted it would ever be filled again. 

But to lose Azriel, your mate… That wouldn’t be survivable. The thought of your time with him being cut short before it even began made your numb mind and body ache with a pain that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. 

Well, other than Mathias, of course. 

Mathias’s boots crunched on the leaves as he walked toward you, crouching down so his knee was right above your head. If you were able to move, this would be such a vulnerable position for him to be in. All of his vital organs were basically presented to you on a silver platter, but thanks to this fucking collar, you could do nothing about it. 

“Where is it?” he asked, his voice dripping with annoyed impatience. The planes of his face were mostly shadowed, but you could see the piercing in his nose gleaming in the moonlight from above as he tilted his face down. His wings gleamed, so strangely similar to Azriel’s that you felt a pang in your heart. “I know it’s here, and you’re going to tell me where it is.” 

You had assumed that Mathias had taken you away from Velaris to get you away from Azriel, so he could kill you with no interruptions. You had anticipated that he would raise that massive sword of his, only to bring it down to deal the killing blow. You were vulnerable in the worst of ways, and you couldn’t fight back, even though you desperately wanted to. 

What you didn’t expect, though, was to be brought here to go on a fucking scavenger hunt. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whispered, your voice strained as the collar pressed into your vocal cords. 

Mathias rolled his eyes. “Oh, so you’re going to play stupid with me. Guess I’ll have to give you a little incentive then.” 

With an unnatural quickness, he brought his fist down, slamming it with full force into your stomach. You grunted as the breath was forced from your body, your legs twitching as he hit you, over and over and over. 

The collar, it seemed, had its limitations. It numbed your mind and power, but you could still feel pain. 

“I don’t- I don’t know what you want! I really don’t!” you gasped between punches. 

“TELL ME!” he roared, his face twisted into cold rage. He reached for his sword, unsheathing it with the practice of a seasoned warrior, and lowered it so the blade was centimeters from your chest. “I know you can feel it, you little bitch. I don’t care what my queen wants. I will kill you right now if you don’t give me the information I need.”

His queen. He worked for the queen that Elain had mentioned, the one that wanted you in Prythian. The one that you were convinced was behind everything happening here, even though everyone in Azriel’s family wasn’t fully convinced. You didn’t know how you knew it- you just did- as if there was some inner part of you that was connected to all of it. 

There was still one question, though. What the hell did this queen want with you?

“Your queen wants me to go on a scavenger hunt for something,” you rasped, your eyes locked onto Mathias’s face. You ignored the weapon that was currently pointed at your heart. “Says a lot about how highly she thinks of you, considering she doesn’t trust you to find it.” 

Mathias bared his teeth, a low snarl escaping him. “She has trusted me to find it, which is why I’ve brought you here, to the Whispering Woods. So don’t talk to me about how highly she thinks of me.” He smiled, then, his white teeth gleaming. “I’m the lead of the Queen’s Guard, after all. I didn’t get here by pure luck.” 

The Whispering Woods. You remembered Azriel mentioning something about this place, but in your pain-riddled haze, you couldn’t remember what it was. 

“Or you just fuck really well.” Dangerous words considering the circumstances, but right now, you didn’t care about using common sense. If he was going to take your life, you sure as hell wouldn’t be going down without a fight. 

Mathias’s rage was palpable as he pushed on the sword, the tip of the blade pressing into your skin. You felt hot liquid, no doubt blood, pour down your side. You fought back a scream as searing pain shot through your chest, not wanting to show any sign of weakness. 

But as you looked at him, you saw how much your words had affected his emotions. Your father had always told you that men tended to be controlled by rage and that if you played your cards right, you could control them by using that against them. You could make them so angry that they got sloppy, their feelings taking over any common sense. 

Mathias was a living example of your father’s wisdom. You didn’t know anything about swordsmanship, but even you could see how loose he was holding the sword, how his angle was wrong. His stance had become slack, his body loose as he was solely focused on causing you pain. 

You had caused a crack to form in his armor, and you had every intention of using that against him. 

“Some queen she must be,” you said with a wince, “if she can’t even find whatever it is she is looking for by herself.” 

Mathias pressed the sword in more, far enough that you knew he was dangerously close to puncturing a lung. He twisted the blade, sending a wave of blinding pain through your body. 

You arched against it, the collar rubbing painfully against the raw skin of your neck. Suddenly, you remembered watching survival documentaries about people getting lost in the woods, only to be found by a bear. You could recall hearing them tell their stories of how they survived by pretending to be dead.

At the time, you had never paid much attention to that, knowing that you would likely never find yourself in a similar situation. But now… that course of action seemed as good as any. You couldn’t play dead, knowing that Mathias could probably hear your rapid heartbeat. But pretending to be unconscious… 

Yeah. You could do that. 

With a cry of pain, you slumped, your body lying like a dead weight against the ground. The movement caused Mathias’s sword to pull out slightly, but you still had to bite back another cry as the metal cut through your flesh. 

Mathias scoffed, his stance shifting ever so slightly. “You’re so weak you can’t even handle a little bit of pain without passing out.” Pure sadistic enjoyment laced his words. “Come on. Wake up, now. Find the Amulet for me.” 

His tone of voice reminded you of how people would speak to their pets, as if you were nothing more than an animal yourself.  

You tried to slow your breathing, knowing that if you were going to pull this off, you needed to calm down. Breathe. In. Out. Repeat. To distract yourself, you started counting the seconds, trying desperately to think of anything that could be done in this situation. 

One, two, three-

You counted the seconds as Mathias talked, his voice rising with each sentence. “She’s going to kill me. I failed her again.” 

Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven- 

“Wake up, little bitch! Wake up!”

One minute. 

As the seconds and minutes dragged on, you struggled to focus, your foggy mind wandering to happier times. You could hear your mother’s laughter and your father’s gentle instruction as he taught you about changing the oil in your car. The echoes of your friend’s laughter, the ones from back home, filled your ears. You could feel the ghost of your patient’s fingers as they gripped your hand in thanks after you had saved their life. You saw Azriel, his handsome face shrouded by shadows. You heard his deep laughter as he danced in the street, wearing that glowing flower crown. 

Two minutes. 

Was this what death was like? Did you truly see your life flash before your eyes, seeing all of the happy moments before your soul left your body and went to wherever souls went? 

Two and a half minutes. 

“Find the Moonstone Amulet!” Mathias roared, and if your eyes were open, you would surely see tears streaming down his face. 

Three minutes. 

Your body was throbbing, your heartbeat slowing. You sent out a silent plea to whatever god reigned here. The Mother, the Cauldron, the fucking stars- you didn’t care. Help me, help me, help me- 

“Ah, the Moonstone Amulet he seeks.” The strange whisper filled your mind, full of dark laughter and ancient wisdom, both young and old at the same time. “It is not here. Hasn’t been for thousands of years. But you know that, don’t you, little one?” 

You were dead. You had to be. There was no other explanation as to why you would be hearing this strange voice. 

“The Amulet has been close to him this whole time,” the voice said with childlike laughter. “But you can find it. It’s in your blood. In your bones. In the very power you wield.” 

The fight to continue pretending to be unconscious was a struggle as you tried to make sense of what this whispery voice was saying. It seemed to know who you were and what power you had. You wanted to ask it, but you didn’t know how to answer back. 

The voice laughed, closer now, filling your mind with nothing but its velvety whispers. “I can hear you, sweetling. The Woods are linked to you. We are yours, and you are ours. Just ask of us what you want, and your wish is our command.” 

You paused for a moment, your body rigid. To your left, you could hear Mathias, still rambling on about his failure and how his queen would have his head if he didn’t manage to wake you up. From the sound of his voice, you could tell that he was facing away from you, his mind completely distracted. 

You didn’t know what surprised you more- the fact that this warrior had managed to get so caught off guard, or the fact that your shitty plan had worked. 

“Help me,” you pleaded, speaking to the voice with your mind. “Help me out of here.” 

A feeling of satisfaction filled your mind, though it wasn’t yours. The voice spoke again, but this time, it sounded powerful and ancient, the opposite of the childlike voice from earlier. “The collar you’re wearing… It is meant to control you and numb you. Goes back to a different race of Fae from long ago, though they are lost to this world now. But you are a flame, one that cannot be put out or controlled.” 

You kept your body still as you dug down deep into that well of power that lived in your belly, searching for that flame. You could feel the remnants of it, but the strength was gone. “I can’t even feel my power. I can’t use it.” 

The voice clicked its tongue. “You cannot use all of it. But I believe you can manage to use enough to get yourself out of this situation. You are the rightful queen, after all. It would be a shame if you died before your reign even had a chance to begin.” 

Rightful queen? This wasn’t real. This was a dream. Yes, you were just having one of your strange dreams, and soon, you would wake up in Azriel’s arms and-

“Think of the ones back in Velaris. Think of your mate. I cannot tell you the story, little one, but he needs you. All of Prythian needs you. Dig down deep. Go on,” the voice encouraged, sounding more like a child again. “Find it. Use it. Wield it.” 

You had no other option, so you obeyed. You did think of Azriel- his kindness, his wittiness, his gentleness. You remembered seeing him in the bayou, so lost and confused in your world. You could hear the music of a ball and feel his lips on yours, his gentle hands lighting a fire in your body that you didn’t know was possible. 

Suddenly, those happy memories were ripped away as a vision of Nesta, Elain, and everyone back in Velaris ran across your eyelids. You saw them bloody and broken, their dead bodies left on a battlefield, their weapons shattered, their faces pale. 

“That is what will happen if you do not get out of this,” the voice whispered, so low and dark you thought you imagined it. 

A thousand memories from a thousand different lifetimes washed over you. You were no longer in the Whispering Woods, no longer in your own body, as you were carried through the past. 

You saw a small fire and a tiny cabin in the forest, and you heard the sound of a soft, lilting female voice that you had never heard before. You could smell smoke and see the flames as the cabin was burning. You felt warm arms around you, and the sound of rapid breathing filled your ears. 

You saw a small female with dark hair and something that looked like wings, her strong arms taking you from the female. I will keep her safe, she said. Until the time is right. 

You trembled as memories from your once normal life assaulted you, reminding you of everything you had lost and all the things you had gained. 

Finally, you heard your mother’s dying wish as her life had left her broken body. Stay with Azriel. He can protect you. 

As the voices and whispers and memories filled your mind, you reached down into that well of power, only to be met with a small flicker of flame. It was weak, but it was there. You reached for it, coaxing it to life. 

“What do I do now?” you asked the voice, your mind focused on the flame. 

A pause, then a feeling of great pleasure and power. “Rise up, our queen. Rise up.” 

You grasped that tiny flame, holding onto it for dear life. Mathias was still distracted as you raised your trembling arm, hand outstretched to the sky. With every ounce of energy you could muster, you channeled that power, willing it to obey, forcing it through your arm and out of your fingers. 

Through your closed eyelids, you could see the light as the power shot from your body, piercing the darkness of the Whispering Woods. Your body shook as wave after weak wave of your power was released, continuing on until that small flame died out again. 

Mathias gasped. “What the-“ 

The voice chuckled. “Flames bright and red. Not a bad start. Now, the fun will begin.” 

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[trappedoutside124]

acotar au where gwyn is a model in the victoria’s secret fashion show and azriel is working security for the event

[stargirlfeyre]

The problem I have with the Valkyries friendship. PT 1

I wasn’t going to write this because I usually can’t be bothered to care about the friendship among these three but if their fans are so obsessed with over analyzing Feyre’s relationships…why can’t we?

One of the main reasons people love to say that the Valkyries are better than than IC is because they would never choose anyone over Nesta but the problems lies in the fact that…they have no one to choose over her.

Let’s break it down.

Gwyn has no one in her life right now. No family and no close friends outside of the Valkyries. I mean you can say that she’s friends with some of the priestesses but close friends? The same can be said for Emerie. She has a family but an abusive one. She is an outcast in her community, runs her shop alone, and like Gwyn has no friends outside of the Valkyries.

Their friendship with one another isn’t even treated as important as their friendship with Nesta. Because of this they look less like a trio and more like Nesta and Gwyn//Nesta and Emerie.If one of them is mad at Nesta who are they going to go to? The other person in their group who also is friends with Nesta and has loyalty towards her? Y’all say that Gwyn and Emerie would never put anyone over Nesta and does that include one another? Is their loyalty and friendship towards Nesta more important than the one they have with each other? In canon it sure is treated as such.

Praising the Valkyries because they would never put anyone above Nesta is not only a void point because they have no one to put above her, but it’s also reinforces the toxic view a lot of Nesta fans have when it comes to her relationships. They don’t want her to have friends, they want her to have followers. They want undying loyalty and turn a blind eye to the obvious shitty writing when it comes to Gwyn’s and Emerie’s relationships outside of Nesta because them lacking those relationships means that Nesta will always have that undying loyalty.

A problem that people have with the Valkyries is they aren’t their own characters when you really think about it. A lot of their characterization surrounds Nesta. And that’s why Nesta’s fans have zero problem with them. Whereas when it comes to the Inner Circle they are their own people before they are Feyre or Rhys’ friends. They have multiple people who are important to them instead of their lives just revolving around this one person. Their relationships with one another is equally as important as their relationships with Feysand.

Gwyn and Emerie are less characters and more like tools for Nesta’s healing journey. All confirmed when, after hearing about how Nesta abused her sister, Emerie of all people went on to say she’s absolved of any fault. Emerie, who is a victim of familial abuse herself, thought it was her place to forgive Nesta’s abuse towards other people. You genuinely want me to believe that some of the things these girls do weren’t written with the sole intention of healing Nesta?

They are not their own people. That’s why it’s easy for this fandom to self-insert onto Gwyn and blatantly ignore Emerie. They don’t have a big enough presence in these books to force you to pay attention to who they actually are. Without Nesta they kind of just fade into the background. You can hate or love members of the IC but at the end of the day you see them.

There’s also a lot to be said about their relationship from Nesta’s end and why she latched onto them…

[nessiandefenseattorney]

Nessian, Gwynriel, Emorie

three brothers three sisters who? more like The Valkyries bringing half of the Inner Circle to their knees by just existing.

Good for them I too would have gone down to my knees for my favorite girls

[sserrafeim]

Gwynriel moments I think about a lot:

- When Gwyn asked Azriel for dagger lessons. Was she shy? Did he ask why she wanted to learn that specific weapon? Did he accept immediately or was he skeptical? How did their lessons go afterwards? Were they an every day thing or not? Did they stop or are they still going on after the Blood Rite? Has Azriel given her her first pair of daggers yet?

- The moment Azriel left the present for Gwyn. Did he think about it afterwards? Did he keep thinking about Gwyn’s reaction to the present for the rest of the day? Did it make him feel more relaxed that day?

- The Solstice night. Did Azriel sleep well after he spent that time with Gwyn? Did Gwyn sleep well after that?

- Did Azriel subconsciously make notes of Gwyn’s progress in training? Was he proud with how much she’s learned?

- Was Gwyn stealing glances at Azriel when he was training the priestesses?

- What was Azriel’s first thought when he learned that the girls had been taken to the Blood Rite? What was his reaction when she and Emerie were transported to the River House after winning? What did he think when she recounted her experience? Was he proud of her smart thinking and the spying skills she showcased?

Now into more headcanon-type scenarios:

- Nesta, Gwyn, Cassian and Azriel enjoying a slow afternoon in the House of Wind. Nesta and Cassian in typical mate behaviour are all over each other, leaving Azriel and Gwyn to talk to each other. They are talking for a long while about various topics. Both are relaxed, Gwyn is sitting on the soft couch drinking her tea and Azriel is sitting next to her, his wings relaxed and the shadows floating slowly around them. They are so absorbed in their conversation that they don’t notice Nesta and Cassian smiling at them.

- Azriel needing help with his research for a mission and asking Gwyn. Them sitting at a desk in the library surrounded by books. Gwyn talking animatedly about a topic she likes and Azriel is marvelling at how her teal eyes are shining in the candlelight and reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, making Gwyn stop immediately and blush. They are sitting there looking at each other in silence. Gwyn can’t take her eyes off of Azriel’s face and how the candlelight makes his eyes look as if they’re dipped in gold, Azriel is mesmerised by her round, teal eyes and the freckles that decorate her face. Later, Azriel is helping Gwyn shelve all the books, carrying them for her, and Gwyn is happy she’s walking in front of him because that way she can hide her blushing mess of a face better. Azriel starts visiting the library more often after that day.

- Cassian and Azriel are training shirtless and Gwyn has a great time staring at Azriel. No, she definitely wasn’t staring at him, you’re mistaken! She totally gets teased by her friends for it.

- Azriel overhears Gwyn saying that she wants to visit the city sometime and later he volunteers to fly her down.

“I happen to be an excellent tour guide.”

“Ah… let me guess, your side job?”

“Unfortunately, being a spymaster doesn’t pay well.”

“You’ll have to file a complaint to the High Lord.”

“I’m afraid so.”

I might add more later.

[thevalkyriesshadow]

I have a naughty Gwynriel fic idea I'm planning for October 😈

Claim Me by TheValkyriesShadow

Priestess Gwyn works as a healer in a small village. One day, a stranger appears - terribly wounded. Gwyn takes him in and cares for him, but slowly begins to realize there may be something more to the stranger she's welcomed into her home. Something more...sinister.

Read a sexy little snippet under the break!

Please note, this snippet contains acts of voyeurism and mentions of breeding kinks.

I've been watching this quaint cottage in the middle of the woods for three days. I was first drawn in by the enticing smells that wafted from it; the rosemary and lavender that hung drying in the windows, a hearty stew cooking on the stove, and something else, something…salacious.

No one came out the first night. Just a figure drifting past the windows, their shadow illuminated by an array of candles inside.

They must be a healer, for the next day many people came to the cottage; an elderly woman, a young boy, a pregnant couple…

I grow ravenous as the smell of the fetus yet born met my senses.

Soon. I tell myself. Soon.

Despite half the village coming and going, whoever lived in the cottage never came out. Until the third day of my watch. I was diligent and patient. I knew what I wanted - what I needed - was in that cottage.

Good things come to those who wait. Very, very good things.

The sun was just setting on another busy day for the healer. Gathering herbs is what brought them, brought her, out from the cottage.

My heart all but stopped. She was perfect. Beautiful. I couldn't stop staring at the way her copper hair glowed like molten metal in the low light. The way her eyes - bright like the twinkling sea water - glowed as she hummed a tune. Her voice as she sang, was like a beacon, drawing me near. Her hips, swaying side to side as she bustled around her garden…

The perfect hips. Sat just wide enough to hold my heir in her womb.

I breathed in deeply, my chest rumbling. That scent. The scent I'd been trying to place…it was her. She had that wonderful, lustful scent that had invaded my senses and mingled with the herbs and food she made. 

I stilled. She was standing straight like a rod, like she'd heard something. Heard me. Crouching in the trees. Watching…waiting….

She turned around, perhaps deciding that the low growl she heard was not the rumble from deep in my chest, but something else, a bear or badger…but not me. 

Whoever she was, she didn't know I was out here. Had no idea what lurked in the woods surrounding her cottage. If she did…she wouldn't have left her curtains open. 

Nor would she be undressing.

My cock, already hard from her scent on the wind, strained against the restricting pants I wore. I watched as she let her light blue dress fall to the floor revealing a white silken slip underneath. Her nipples hardened against the cool, autumn breeze that blew through the trees and into her window. I wanted to taste them. Touch them. Suckle them. 

She let one strap fall, then the other and by the gods, good and evil…She was perfect.

Her milky, white skin scattered with rust colored freckles glowed in the dim light. The shadows played with the curves and lines of her body. I was jealous of the natural shadows of the world, feeling her - touching her.

I could. If I wanted to. I could send my shadows out and caress her skin and she wouldn’t know. Would think it is just a string of fabric or a bit of hair.

But - no, this female…this female would know. She’d sense the strange touch of my magic. 

I couldn't place why or how I came to this conclusion. It was this new, inherent feeling I had....perhaps it was the way she diligently checked each and every herb she plucked from the garden earlier. Making sure every piece she took was meticulously inspected. Or how she was currently meandering her room, book in hand, and completely naked. She was an enigma to me. Studious, yet free-spirited. Self-aware, yet careless - leaving her curtains open at night when anyone could peer in.

So for now, I hold them back and enjoy her figure from afar.

Soon.

Soon I’d get to feel her pert breasts, her silky hair, and thighs carved of muscle beneath my hands. Soon I’d get to mark her, claim her, fill her…make her scream my name into the night.

Soon.

Soon she would be mine.

[sunshinebingo]

Gwynriel - 600 words - Just fluff

Inspired by the picture used in the title card, and a conversation with some friends on discord. I wish I remembered who was in that discussion so I could tag them specifically. Sorry guys 🥺

"It was a beautiful mystery, she thought as she gazed at him, how some people came together as intuitively as the laws of nature. Were such people born already belonging to each other, or..."

Gwyn pauses. She lifts the hand that isn't holding her book to cover her mouth as a yawn break from her lips. She turns the page and continues to read aloud, her hand going back to playing with the silky hair of the male who is holding one of her legs hostage.

"...or was it some gods who, after much observation, placed them on the same path? She had never truly unders..."

Her voice starts to come out a little slurred. Her eyelids droop. The words on the page start to merge, the c blending into the e, the same e that looks no different from an a. She yawns again.

Gwyn picks up the blue ribbon she uses as a bookmark from her lap and places it in between the pages before closing the book.

Her arms rise above her head as she stretches her body to get rid of the stiffness that has settled in after hours of sitting on this couch.

Azriel grumbles. He hugs her left leg tighter, preventing Gwyn from straightening it properly. She huffs and brings both of her hands to his head to push him away. But all pretence of annoyance is erased from her face when she looks down at him.

Gwyn can't stop herself from smiling at the sight of one of the scariest looking and broodiest male that she has ever known holding onto her leg like a child would their comfort blanket. His large body is turned on his side with one of his feet dangling off the end of the couch. His bare chest rises and fall with each slow breath he takes. There is a slight furrow to his brows, no doubt from Gwyn having apparently so rudely dared to interrupt his sleep.

She brushes away the few curls of his obsidian hair that have fallen on his forehead. The sound that rumbles out of him when her nails gently scrapes along his scalp is akin to the purr of a contented cat. Gwyn's whole body shake from her giggle despite her attempt to stifle it. Azriel grumbles again and tightens his hold on her. Any tighter and he will cut off the blood circulation in this leg.

"Can I move?" she asks with a light tug on his hair.

"No," Azriel mumbles, his deep voice barely audible. "You're stuck with me."

He nuzzles his face against her leg. One of his hands glides higher and stops at the seam of her sleeping shorts where his thumb starts caressing her skin.

She shakes her head. Of course she is stuck with him. She smiles. But there is no one else she would rather be stuck with.

Very slowly so as not to awake the grumbling sleeping beauty, she slides herself lower on the couch until she is mostly lying down and she can place her head on the armrest. She adjusts the few cushions she can reach beneath her head and at her sides. Gwyn sighs when she finally manages to get somewhat comfortable.

Unable to properly kiss him goodnight, she kisses her own fingers instead and lightly slaps them on the small part of his face that isn't buried between her leg and the cushion beneath it.

She picks her book back up and opens it again, intent on reading incomprehensible words until they put her to sleep. Her other hand returns to its rightful place in Azriel's hair. Tomorrow she will need to find a way to remind him that he is also stuck with her. She hopes that eternity won't be too much for him.

[inkywhisp]

after reading the Azriel's BC for the first time today, there is one i have to get out (even if it is nothing new):

it would have been SO EASY to make it a good chapter about eIriel. make az say he likes being around elain, she makes him comfortable or calm or anything.

but NO

he only has sex-fantasies about her? wants her because he thinks he "deserves" her? cmon its not that difficult to say something nice about why you want to kiss/be with Elain.

and one of the few things we know about Elain is that she wants a partner who sees her. and if anything, that just proves that Az doesn't. he only likes the idea of her (and that she is pretty)

it would've been easy for sjm to write them in a way that makes us excited to see more of their dynamic.

because she managed exactly that with gwyn. they were comfortable with each other, joking around and showed that they had a good dynamic between them.

now that was a set up for a love story. not the trainwreck that was eIriel.

[clockwork-ashes]

@sjmromanceweek

Summary: Gwyn and Az go on their first date.

Gwyn had been feeling remarkably brave lately.

Just a couple of months ago, Gwyn had started going on weekly outings with Nesta and Emerie in the city, simply because she felt like it. Just last week, she’d spent several days in Dawn studying some ancient scrolls with no one but Merrill and Ananke as company. Just yesterday, Gwyn had gone with Azriel, Nesta, and Cassian to a new bookshop-cafe overlooking the Sidra.

And just that morning, when Azriel had suggested they go for dessert – only the two of them – Gwyn had said yes without a moment’s hesitation.

Gwyn had, of course, run to Nesta with the news. Gwyn had found her friend curled up on the comfortable couch by one of the library windows, reading a new book. She had thrown herself at the seat, speaking quickly and without a care about having interrupted Nesta’s quiet reading.

“I have to tell Cassian,” Nesta had said, triumph in her blue-grey eyes, her book forgotten at her side. “I knew it, I’ve been telling Cass all week that Az was going to ask you on a date.”

Gwyn had hoped that was what Azriel had been intending, but she had not been entirely sure. All the same, when Nesta had offered to braid her hair and help her find a pretty dress, Gwyn had been quick to take her up on the offer.

Az had come to her dressed in all-black, looking as lovely as ever, and acting as though there was nothing happening that was out of the ordinary.

When Az had taken her hand in his much larger one to winnow them from the House of Wind onto the still-sunny streets of Velaris, Gwyn had brushed it off as a friendly gesture. When Az had not immediately let go, and then had proceeded to interlock their fingers as he led her down the busy, pedestrian-filled walkways, Gwyn still wondered if perhaps she was overthinking and simply assuming Azriel had any sort of romantic intentions.

Perhaps Nesta’s enthusiastic claim that Cassian now owed her for always being right about everything had given Gwyn the wrong impression and had unnecessarily raised her hopes.

Two slices of cake and three cups of coffee later, Gwyn could state with great confidence that Azriel had, in fact, asked her out on a date.

Azriel was holding her hand again as they left the quiet cafe, and Gwyn’s cheeks hurt from how much she’d been smiling. His shadows were trailing lazily behind them, more coming to follow now that the sun had gone down. Azriel held her hand as they walked along the city streets, undeniably so much lovelier at night, all the way back to the House of Wind.

“I don’t believe you.”

“And yet,” Azriel said, a smile in the tone of his voice.

“Black can’t be your favourite colour,” Gwyn shook her head, a few copper strands of hair freeing themselves from her intricate braid, “Too predictable.”

“I also like very, very dark shades of blue,” he replied, amusement lacing the words.

Gwyn’s laughter was loud, unguarded, as Azriel winnowed them right to her room, just outside her door.

“I had a really nice time,” Gwyn told him, hoping he felt the same. She placed her hand on the doorknob just in case Azriel had had an awful night and she needed to escape to her room and not have to face him until training.

“That’s a relief,” Az smiled, and Gwyn thought she had never seen anything lovelier. “Nesta threatened to gut me with a soup spoon if you came home unhappy.”

Gwyn laughed and one of Azriel’s shadows darted towards the fingers she still had lingering by the door.

“Goodnight, Gwyn.”

Gwyn was planning to wish Azriel a goodnight, maybe even be forward enough to suggest they do something like this again sometime soon.

The Gwyn of a few months ago would have done just that, but she was feeling a small pull, ever so gentle, towards Azriel. And, as Gwyn had noticed, she was feeling remarkably brave lately.

Azriel was standing so close, his wings making it seem as though only the space between them existed. Holding his wrist, careful to make it quick so she would not lose her courage, Gwyn got on the tips of her toes and kissed Azriel, only for a brief moment, on the lips. She felt her cheeks burning, her heart beating thunderously in her ears.

“Good night,” Gwyn breathed, rushing into her room to rather rudely slam the door shut. Despite her best efforts not to give Azriel one last look, she still managed to catch the surprised smile on his face.

[sadiegirl2021]

Azriel looking at a knocked out guy on the ground

Azriel: Gwyn! Did you do this?

Gwyn (looking pleased with herself): Yes...

Azriel (smiling): Good job!

[velidewrites]

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.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @azrielshadowssing @damedechance @talons-and-teeth @octobers-veryown @foreverinelysian @sunshinebingo @aldbooks @climbthemountain2020 @trashforazriel @bibliophiliaxvignette

[kiwi-muses]

Part One Here

It was only a couple of days before his shadow zoomed into his room to alert him that Gwyn was speaking with Bryaxis. It was the middle of the night, and Azriel grumbled as he pulled on his leathers. One of the rare instances where he’d been dead asleep, and Gwyn had to inadvertently ruin it. He made his way into the library, and weaved through the stacks, Gwyn’s voice becoming louder and louder. Azriel silently hid in the shadows, wondering what was so important that it must be spoken of in the middle of the night. 

“Do you sleep at all?” he heard her ask. After a moment in which Bryaxis must have responded, he heard her say, “Well, I suppose in some ways that’s lucky. You get to avoid the issues I have.” She was silent for a moment. “What you said… about my… mate… how did you know?”

Azriel felt his eyebrows raise. Gwyn had a mate? Since when? If Bryaxis spoke of it, perhaps that’s what surprised her the last time. There was an uncomfortable feeling in Azriel’s chest as he thought of Gwyn having a mate, though he couldn’t explain why, exactly. 

“I think I knew when I first saw him, though there was… a lot happening,” she was saying. “But I’ve never told anyone before. I thought maybe I was mistaken.” Her voice was soft. “No, I don’t wish it weren’t so. He’s a good male. Strong and kind.” She paused, listening, and chuckled. “Well, maybe you don’t think so, and I could certainly see why.” The longer Azriel stood there, eavesdropping, the more bizarre the conversation became. And the longer he stood there, the more that uncomfortable feeling in his chest grew. And a piece of him was almost offended for the unknown male. A mating bond was sacred. Why wouldn’t Gwyn tell this male? He became more agitated before deciding he was done for the night. He stepped from the shadows, and saw Gwyn whirl around to see him. She turned back to the pit. “Looks like our visit is over tonight.” She softly laughed again. “I’ll make sure to sing louder for you next time.” She walked towards Azriel, eyes sparkling. He crossed his arms over his chest, cutting an imposing figure. 

“We talked about this, Gwyn.” His voice was low. 

“You mean you talked, Shadowsinger. No one said I agreed.” He let out his breath in a huff. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough,” he said. 

She tilted her head at him. “You seem… vexed with me, Shadowsinger. Moreso than usual.” Azriel said nothing, turning to escort her back to the dormitories. “You can tell me, you know. Honesty is the best policy and all that.”

Damn him, Azriel couldn’t control it. The words were going to fly out of his mouth whether he wished them to or not. He stopped in the middle of the aisle and turned to her, seeing her waiting face. “You have a mate. Why won’t you tell him? Those bonds… those bonds are rare, and sacred. Don’t you think he deserves to know?”

He felt Gwyn’s eyes on him, studying him. He could almost feel her weighing her words carefully. “There are many reasons I haven’t chosen to divulge the information yet, Azriel.” The use of his given name struck him. She hadn’t used it before. It sounded less like a curse, and more like a caress coming from her. “Some reasons are mine, and mine alone, and maybe I will tell him one day. But I can say,” she took a deep breath, “I have it on good authority that he cares for another. I respect him enough to allow his choices, and I refuse to be chosen solely because of a bond. I’d rather be loved.” Her words struck him in the heart. It was everything he wanted, needed Elain to say and to practice. He needed Elain to want to choose to be loved, to choose him. Gwyn cracked a small smile. “Besides, I’ve met him and he is otherworldly. And I’m just me. He needs someone who he can be proud of.” Gwyn started walking past him, leaving him speechless. This female… he couldn’t figure her out. People were easy to unravel. They were easy to manipulate, to discover inner motives. But not Gwyn. She was a puzzle to him and with each new piece he handed her, he found something new to wonder over. 

“Gwyn,” he called, striding to catch up to her. She looked up at him. “Any male would be lucky to have you as his mate. And if they aren’t proud to have you, they’re not worth your time.” The dazzling smile Azriel received lit something in his heart. 

“Thank you, Shadowsinger.” She smiled, and something in him softened to know he put that smile on her face. 

“Now will you please stop talking to Bryaxis? I don’t trust that it won’t betray you and try to take you.” Gwyn laughed, though what was so funny he had no idea. 

“Bryaxis and I came to an agreement. If I sing while I work, Bryaxis will be content. I won’t have to go near the pit, Shadowsinger.” He felt a weight lift off his shoulders. He had wrestled Bryaxis back into the pit; he knew what Bryaxis could do, the harm it could cause, if provoked. And he wanted Gwyn nowhere near that sort of danger. “I can make my way from here, Shadowsinger. I need to shelve a few books anyways,” Gwyn said.

“Alright,” Azriel said softly. “Goodnight, Gwyneth.” 

“Goodnight, Shadowsinger,” she replied, making her way through the stacks to her books, leaving Azriel to make his way out of the library, pondering the strange feeling Gwyn left him with. A few words and she could coax a smile from him without his notice, or cause his heart to stop in his chest just by having a conversation with a creature. Azriel wasn’t an outwardly emotive male. Inwardly, he felt everything, but a childhood of torture had taught him to effectively wear a mask. One that, somehow, Gwyn made him feel was unnecessary.

[verifiefangirl]

Do you have any spicy Az thoughts

This is probably my third time writing Spice, ever! I hope you enjoy it!

Azriel eyes dripped with desire as he recalled how Gywn had executed a roundhouse kick and nimbly bent over backward in training this morning.

The move had sent wicked thoughts echoing through his mind. He tried to stop himself but his iron-clad self-control was not enough and he became flustered.

His mind had drifted to the different positions in which he could bend the Priestess over. How the more difficult poses would be easy for them with his strength propping her and the way she could contort so easily.

As his eyes shuttered he could visualise it. His arms held her legs, securing them around his hips while she balanced on her forearms. He entered her from behind...

He could feel himself swell underneath his leathers. His cock pushed against its lacing, demanding his attention.

He let his hands drift over his bare chest as he lay there fantasizing about it, not wanting to succumb to the sweet relief just yet.

Gwyn moaned from his sheer size. He was big, he could see the determination set over her features to take all of him. He freed one of his hands to caress her back as she arched into him as he tunneled further into her.

"Azriel, it's too much."

She writhed around him, panting. He was only halfway in.

"I know you can take it, love." He bent over and kissed the base of her spine.

Azriel's hips stuttered as his fingers ghosted further down and he worked quickly at unfastening his pants. The cool night air hit him as he ran his palm over his slit. He grunted at the moisture he already felt gathering there. He wouldn't last very long today.

He eased out and gave her a shallow thrust back in, not going further than he already was, until she was ready.

Her fingers gripped the sheets tightly. Her cries were muffled into the pillows.

He could feel beads of sweat gather at his temples and down his chest. His abs flexed and contracted as he went deeper, holding her closer to him.

She felt like a vice around him, one he couldn't get enough of.

"More, Azriel. I want all of you."

His breath puffed out of him, sliding all the way in and picking up his pace.

She sobbed and he twisted her burning locks around his fist.

"Good girl." He rasped as the sound of their body colliding created a filthy symphony around the room. She arched all the up, her back meeting his chest, and hooked her arm around his neck.

Azriel's grip tightened on his shaft as his hand moved faster over his cock. His stuttered moans slipped into the dead of night as his cock jumped and twitched in his palm. He was burning up.

"No sassy retort." He gasped in her ear, hand drifting over her breast, circling her nipple gently. Gone was the mischief that danced behind those teal eyes, only pleasure flitted across them. Her pupils were blown wide.

She made a sound of protest as he slipped out of her and flipped her on her back so he was facing him. He wanted to see her face when she came.

She clutched him tightly when he eased back inside, and both of them made a sound of relief. Her fingers tangled in his hair as her leg snaked over his thigh.

"I wouldn't get so cocky, Shadowsinger." She groaned and trailed those hands down his chest. His head threw back at the sensation. He could feel his release climbing up his spine. He'd be damned if he didn't get her there first.

Gywn's peppered hot, open-mouthed kisses along his neck. She knew how crazy that drove him. He buried his face in her crook, his hips losing rhythm. He fisted the pillow above her head as she whimpered. She was close to. He could feel her inner walls fluttering.

"Yesss." She dragged out and he watched as her face screwed up and the rosy flush started at her neck, covering her cheeks as she came with a whimper and a drawn-out moan.

"Azriel!"

Her face was so pretty when she was in the peak throes of pleasure.

Azriel grunted helplessly as white-hot europhia hit him.

"Ugh, fuck." He erupted, spilling endlessly on his chest and neck, rope after rope. His member was red and weeping from how hard he'd gripped himself.

His chest heaved up and down violently as he came down from his high. If his fantasy ever became a reality, he'd be a mess. He'd spilled like a young Illyrian with little grace and finesse. It had to be a record of how fast he got off.

He could hear how his brothers would snicker about his stamina and a growl released from his chest as he slammed his head back on the pillow over and over again.

Thank you for listening to my ted talk and joining my filth fest.

Goodbye!

[thevalkyriesshadow]

Chapter 13 of Break Bones, Not Hearts is 🔥🥵

Restraints + praise k!ink = Dommy Mommy Gwyn

NSFW sneak peek under the cut. 😈

Yeah...it's that hot.

The bed shifted, and Azriel glanced down, watching as Gwyn undid his pants. His cock sprung free as she shimmied them down to his knees, leaving his legs restrained.

His hips bucked up at the sudden warmth of her mouth along the side of his cock, her tongue lapping at his hardened length.

“Oh fuck….Gwyn – Priestess –” he corrected himself immediately, hoping his slip up didn't trigger benevolence from his dominant mistress.

He felt Gwyn smile against his cock, her breath tickling the tip as she said, “I love how you call me Priestess. Say it again.” She licked one long stroke up his member. His cock twitched, his hips tilting up for her.

Like a command, he obliged her. “Priestess….fuck you make me feel so good.” Gods he sounded so desperate, so needy for her touch.

“Again.”

His hips jerked up as her lips wrapped around the tip of his cock. Her tongue swirled against the tip.

“Priestess…Oh fuuuckk,” he moaned out as her mouth slid down over his leaking head and she took him into her mouth, deep.

Gwyn wasn't shy when her mouth was around his cock. The sounds she made had his head spinning, the coil of heat threatening to explode at any moment.

But he couldn't, shouldn't, cum so soon.

Gwyn would never let him forget how quick off the mark he was when she was moaning and sucking and licking…

She moved up and down. The tip of her tongue made slow patterns around his shaft. Her teeth scraped his skin just enough to make him shiver with nerves and exhilaration.

“Priestess,” he begged. He was going to cum. “Priestess, I'm going to cum…please, ah!”

Gwyn popped off the head of his cock with a wet, slick sound. “Already? I've barely begun,” she cooed, her lips curled in a playful smile. “Does your cock need a break?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

She crawled over his body, advancing on him like a predatory stalking its prey. “Good. Because while I love hearing you call me Priestess, it's time for you to put your mouth to use in other ways.”

His heart raced as she came to straddle his head, her knees by his ears. Then she lowered herself, her pussy inches from his mouth. He couldn't tear his eyes from her slick folds. Couldn't wait to taste her.

“Look at me, Shadowsinger.” His eyes flicked to hers. Her form was like a statuesque goddess above him. “Good boy. Now eat me out.”

[sunshinebingo]

Gwyn and Azriel stumble across Rhys as they leave for their date.

Gwynriel with a dash of Gwynsand - 700 words

For @lulling-night-sky who is a sucker for fluff and anything that has to do with Rhysand (except my fics where he gets beaten up)

***

“Ready?” Azriel asked Gwyn after having gaped at her in awe for a while.

Gwyn beamed, her heart fluttering at how flustered she had – not for the first time – rendered the usually stoic Spymaster, and nodded excitedly.

She had been looking forward to this moment for the entire day. Even as she had fed and played with Nyx, her thoughts had kept going back to Azriel and their upcoming evening together.

Having happily agreed to spend the day looking after the little lord with Nesta at the River House so that his parents could focus on their duties, Gwyn had decided to bring everything that she would need and get ready for her date with Azriel here instead of asking someone to winnow or fly her back to the House of Wind. Besides, Emerie and her had spent so much time here with the inner circle that the High Lord and Lady always had a guest room reserved for them.

She took the hand that Azriel offered and followed him from the bottom of the staircase to the foyer. From the living area, she heard the voices of Nesta and Cassian who was enthusiastically responding to the prattling of Nyx, as well as Feyre who had returned while Gwyn was stressing out over whether to put her hair up or leave it down.

She had gone with the third option proposed by Nesta to tie the top half up with a pretty silver hair stick gifted to her by Emerie for Solstice. The best thing about it was the thin dagger hidden inside that could potentially come in handy. She might be going out with one of deadliest – and most handsome – male alive, but she was still a Valkyrie who loved daggers, especially when they were disguised as pretty accessories.

“You are breathtaking.”

Gwyn blushed from his compliment. Emerie and Nesta were right about the fact that her little black dress was the ideal choice. It was also a perfect match to Azriel’s entirely black attire.

“So are you, Shadowsinger.”

His answering smile almost made her trip on her own feet. He brought their intertwined hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

Azriel opened the door and started to leave when another set of footsteps was heard coming their way. Looking to her left, Gwyn saw Rhysand strolling towards them with his hands in his pockets, no doubt having completed his work for the day and ready to reunite with his mate and son.

“Bye Rhys.” She waved a hand at him.

Gwyn still couldn’t believe how close they have become over the past few years. Sometimes they were a High Lord and a Valkyrie who worked together for the well-being of those they cared for, other times they were confidants who listened and offered support. Sometimes they were like protective siblings who looked out for each other, oftentimes they were the type of siblings who teased and pestered the other. But at the core of all these versions of them were mutual respect and care. The kind of bond that Gwyn never thought that she would ever have. None of the relationships that she had forged so far had been expected, yet they were all precious in their own way.

“Be home by midnight,” he ordered, pursing his lips to stop the smile that was threatening to break on his lips. His violet eyes sparkled like the first stars that had started to appear in the sky. Azriel snorted at the curfew that his brother was imposing on Gwyn.

“Fuck off.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re not my father.”

Rhys crossed his arms and puffed his chest. The arrogant asshole, she thought.

“I’m old enough to be.”

Gwyn laughed. She squeezed Azriel’s hand and dragged him out of the door, eager to finally be alone with him.

“You’re old enough to be the cauldron’s father,” she shouted at Rhys before slamming his own door shut in his face.

The sound of Rhys’ gasp on the other side of the door was covered by the chuckle that Azriel let out beside her. What a lovely way to start their evening!