Warnings: Nothing really just a little bit of jealously and angst
SS: I’m so sorry i fell off with writing, I finally finished with this piece that was in my drafts for months
The first time you realized you were in love with Garrick Tavis, he didn’t even notice you.
You were younger then—still trailing after your brother like a shadow, still trying to prove you belonged with the group instead of being Xaden Riorson’s little sister. Garrick had laughed at something Xaden said, head tipped back, sunlight catching the sharp line of his jaw, and you’d felt it—sharp and sudden, like a blade slipping between your ribs.
Years later, nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
You weren’t a kid anymore. You had crossed the parapet. You bonded a dragon. You were a rider. You were strong. Capable. Deadly, even.
And still… Garrick didn’t see you.
—
You spot them across the courtyard.
Garrick and Imogen.
Again.
Your chest tightens before you can stop it, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve as you pretend to scan the training schedules posted along the stone wall. But your eyes keep drifting back—traitorous things.
Imogen leans casually against a pillar, arms crossed, that knowing smirk on her lips. Garrick stands close—too close—head dipped slightly like he’s saying something quieter, something meant just for her.
She laughs.
Your stomach drops.
Gods, of course she laughs.
Imogen is everything you’re not—confident, sharp-tongued, effortlessly magnetic. She doesn’t second-guess every word. She doesn’t stumble over her feelings or hide behind sarcasm and distance.
And Garrick…
Garrick looks comfortable with her.
Your throat tightens as you look away quickly, heat prickling behind your eyes.
“Don’t,” you mutter under your breath. “You’re not doing this again.”
But you are.
You always do.
—
You avoid him for the rest of the day.
Which isn’t hard—Basgiath is chaos, and you make sure to stay buried in it. Training. Drills. Anything to keep your mind from wandering back to the image of Garrick leaning in toward Imogen, that soft almost-smile he never seems to give anyone else.
By evening, your exhaustion feels earned.
But it doesn’t quiet the ache.
—
You’re halfway down a corridor near the riders’ quadrant when you hear your name.
“Hey—wait.”
Your steps falter.
You know that voice.
Of course you do.
You turn slowly, already bracing yourself.
Garrick jogs up behind you, slightly out of breath, like he’d had to chase you down. His dark hair is a little disheveled, his expression… tense?
“Been looking for you,” he says.
Your heart does something stupid.
You cross your arms, forcing your face into something neutral. “Why?”
He blinks at that, like it’s not the reaction he expected. “I—” He hesitates. “I just… haven’t seen you all day.”
You shrug, looking past him. “Busy.”
There’s a pause.
It stretches too long.
“…Right,” he says finally, quieter.
Something twists in your chest, but you ignore it.
You’re not doing this. Not tonight.
“Shouldn’t you be with Imogen?” you ask, the words slipping out sharper than you intended.
Silence.
You immediately regret it—but pride keeps you from taking it back.
Garrick frowns. “What?”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “I’ve seen you two. You don’t have to pretend.”
His confusion deepens. “Pretend—what are you talking about?”
“Oh, come on,” you snap, frustration finally cracking through. “You’re always with her. Talking. Laughing. You look at her like—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening. “It’s obvious.”
He stares at you.
Actually stares.
And then—completely unexpectedly—he runs a hand down his face and exhales something that almost sounds like a laugh.
“…You think I like Imogen?”
You freeze.
“Well, you clearly—”
“I don’t.”
The words land hard. Immediate. Certain.
You blink. “What?”
“I don’t like Imogen,” he repeats, softer now, but no less firm.
Your brain struggles to catch up. “But you’re always—”
“Talking to her,” he finishes. “Yeah. Because she’s been helping me.”
“Helping you with what?”
He hesitates.
And for the first time since you’ve known him, Garrick Tavis looks… nervous.
It throws you off more than anything else.
“With… this,” he says finally, gesturing vaguely between the two of you.
Your heart stutters.
“I don’t understand.”
Another breath. Slower this time.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you something,” he admits. “Without completely ruining whatever this is between us. Or making things weird with Xaden. Or—” he huffs a quiet laugh “—making a complete idiot out of myself.”
You stare at him.
Your pulse is loud in your ears now.
“…Tell me what?”
His gaze meets yours fully then, and whatever you see there makes your breath catch.
“I like you.”
The world goes very, very still.
“You—” Your voice falters. “No, you don’t.”
His brows knit together. “I do.”
“For how long?” you challenge, because this has to be a mistake. A misunderstanding. Something.
He exhales slowly. “Longer than I should have let it go without saying anything.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” you whisper. “You barely even look at me half the time.”
“That’s because every time I do, I forget how to act like a normal person,” he shoots back, a little exasperated. “You think I enjoy that?”
You blink, completely thrown.
“I thought you hated me for a while,” he adds, quieter now. “You kept avoiding me. Shutting me out.”
A hollow laugh escapes you. “I was avoiding you because I thought you were in love with someone else.”
“…Gods,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly. “Imogen is going to love how badly I screwed this up.”
Despite everything, a weak smile tugs at your lips.
It fades quickly.
“You really… don’t like her?” you ask again, softer this time.
He steps closer.
Not too close—but enough that your breath catches.
“No,” he says. “I like you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes something in your chest crack open.
Years of quiet longing. Of watching from the sidelines. Of convincing yourself you weren’t enough.
“…Why didn’t you just tell me?” you whisper.
His expression softens.
“Because you’re Xaden Riorson’s sister,” he says simply. “And one of the strongest riders here. And I didn’t want to be another person who complicated your life.”
Your throat tightens.
“You don’t,” you say. “You never did.”
There’s a moment, a fragile, uncertain pause where everything hangs in the balance.
Then, softly: “I’ve liked you for years, Garrick.”
His breath catches.
“Yeah?” he asks, almost disbelieving.
You nod.
And that’s all it takes. The tension between you shifts—something unspoken finally settling into place.
Not perfect. Not simple. But real.
And for the first time, when Garrick looks at you—
Being the smothered baby Archeron has led to quite the stifled life—until a meeting with a certain heir of Autumn sparks a desire long wondered about. Deadly curiosity leads you to proposition him with a bargain that he just can’t refuse.
Pairing: Eris Vanserra x f!reader
Word Count: 14.2k
Warnings: eventual smut, p in v, oral(f), slight fingering, Archeron sister reader, virgin reader, slightly realistic first time, overbearing Archeron sisters
A/N: So much gratitude goes to @harvest-bunny for all the help with this series—helping me brainstorm, proofread and so much more provided during the entire creation of this fic. ☺️
I don’t know why it took me so long to write an Archeron sister reader, but man this dynamic was fun. Prepare to go on a wild ride with these two. This is only part one of three. 😉
Eris Vanserra was a walking, talking danger.
At least, that’s all you’d ever been told.
You weren’t entirely sure what to believe, anymore. After all, perhaps danger was only a preconceived notion.
You lived amidst danger every day. The fae lands you’d once had no choice but to call home was filled with danger. The people who you now called friends were dangerous. Cauldron, even your sisters had become like living, breathing weapons in their own ways.
Which was probably why despite being grown, your three sisters still hovered over you, protected you, kept you from immediate danger—especially after being turned fae. It was even worse now than when you were mere humans.
Legend had it that before your mother died, it was Elain that was once the most protected one of the Archerons—at least by Nesta. You were so young when you’d lost your mother, you’d barely remembered her or what life had been like when she still lived.
Being a little more than a year younger than Feyre, you were just shy of your seventh birthday when your mother had passed. Somehow, at some point—you were never clear on how—your sisters had banded together to protect you, the baby.
As if they realized since you’d no longer had a mother to tend to you, they would be the mother you lacked.
Even if they always didn’t get along—Feyre and Nesta the most—they tried, for you. At some point, it was no longer Elain the one that was coddled, it became you. At a point so early in your life, you hardly remembered that either.
Even when your sisters bickered, they’d always rally around to make sure you were taken care of. Especially when your father had lost his fortune and your family fell into poverty. You were always the one your sisters made sure had enough food, had the warmest blanket, was always in the middle of the bed, cocooned by them.
But your lives now were so far removed from that dilapidated cottage. Just four of you remained from your original family, having lost your father in the war with Hybern—killed by the King, himself, in front of Nesta.
Life being protected by your sisters was all you’d known.
When your family was destitute, you’d let them. Back then, you were a mere girl who didn’t know how to take care of herself, didn’t have a need or desire to.
Everything had changed when you, Nesta and Elain were forcibly turned fae by the Cauldron. That was following Feyre becoming immortal herself after months spent in the faerie lands of Prythian, living and experiencing horrendous things that you’d once only could dream of.
But in the aftermath, after all of your sister’s trauma and healing journeys combined—plus yours, you supposed—they still continued to rally around you tighter, closing in ranks.
You weren’t the same person you were when you were human. You weren’t the same female as the one that had went into that Cauldron.
For now, you despised being smothered.
Their insistence to keep you from harm's way was inevitably what led you to noticing a specific male, after all.
The first time you’d met him—been allowed around him more like—was at the Winter Solstice ball in the Hewn City almost a year ago now. The only way you’d even been allowed to go was because you’d insisted your sisters take you.
Even if you’d despised having to beg to do something.
So you had accompanied the group to the Hewn City.
You, Nesta and Elain were all dressed in Night Court black—Nesta in more of a revealing dress, Elain more modest. You, on the other hand, had somehow fallen in the middle.
Though you’d had to argue just to wear the semi-loose black dress you’d donned.
It had shorter, ruffled sleeves—unlike Elain’s long sleeved dress—and a billowy skirt of sheer black gossamer. The fabric was layered over a black satin lining that lay underneath, fitting closer your body. Though more risqué in comparison to Elain’s dress, it was nowhere near as tight or revealing as Nesta’s or Feyre’s outfits. But what had caused the argument was the neckline that had plunged, just enough to show off a decent amount of your breasts.
You’d clearly won the argument.
You may have been their baby sister, but you were an Archeron—you didn’t come without bite.
You and your two eldest sisters had entered the throne room after the two Illyrians and Mor, but before Feyre and Rhys. The crowd murmured as the three of you approached the dais.
Which was when you’d first caught a glimpse of the male—one of two that stood at the dais, awaiting the arrival of everyone.
Tall, long red hair, dressed in Night Court black—seemingly coming with an air of arrogance and self importance.
Eris Vanserra, the heir of the Autumn Court.
You had been intrigued almost immediately.
Nesta was supposed to dance with him tonight—all for a plan you’d had little knowledge of. As per usual, your sisters kept you out of the loop when it came to most courtly matters.
It was only after Feyre and Rhys had been seated on their thrones—and dismissed the gathered court to their festivities—that the two males had finally approached the dais. One was a tall, blonde male that resembled Mor too much to not be her father. Keir, you’d taken it.
Your sisters may not have involved you in much, but your snooping and deduction skills were immaculate because of such behavior.
The other one—Eris—had been the one who’d kept your attention.
Feyre and Rhys had spoken to Keir, dismissing him, but you’d hardly heard them, as your eyes had kept wandering to the heir. Though he never once turned to you in that short amount of time, something told you that he had been aware of every peek and glance you’d sent his way.
You couldn’t help the way your stomach had swooped in reaction to how attractive he was.
Sure, you’d been surrounded by beautiful males from the moment you’d been turned fae, but he was different. Off limits. Dangerous in a way you’d never been allowed to touch.
You’d had a brief recollection of the first time you’d met his younger brother, Lucien. At how you were practically smitten with the handsome face and well mannered male—all to find out that this was the male that was your second eldest sister’s mate.
Clearly you’d been too traumatized after being turned to be able to remember that it was Lucien that was your sister’s mate—had hardly remembered the fact that he had whispered to Elain that she was his mate.
Perhaps it was fury that drove you to act out more. Disdain for the fact that even Elain—the one who was the most gentle sister and once even briefly coddled—could have a mate and spend a few years ignoring him with little repercussions.
But had you ever been allowed to experience anything like that? Of course not.
Which is why you’d allowed yourself to look at Eris Vanserra that night. Maybe out of sheer foolishness, maybe as a way to invite trouble.
Maybe out of something far deadlier.
His amber eyes had roamed the three of you—snagging on Elain, assessing. He’d known good and well his little brother’s mate was standing in front of him.
He was to dance with Nesta, but before he’d turned to your eldest sister, his eyes fell to you. Something sparked in them as his eyes raked over your form. The corners of his mouth curled upwards in a smirk.
“Now, who do we have here?”
It was the next to youngest Archeron who had spoken, your sister only a year older than you—your High Lady.
“She is none of your concern.”
You’d wanted to grimace at the dismissal. Wanted to argue against the statement—to say you could speak for yourself. But amber eyes still remained steady on you.
“Can you not speak for yourself, dove?”
You hadn’t shown your surprise, but you’d certainly felt it, hearing the heir voice the words you’d just been thinking.
“Eris.”
There was a warning growl in Rhys’s tone. You’d practically sighed dramatically. If there was anything worse than overprotective sisters, it was overprotective brothers.
Having mated sisters also meant you’d gained a small army of overprotective males—which wasn’t anything you weren’t used to from your own blood, the overprotectiveness, that was.
But Eris had turned from you, finally offering Nesta his arm.
You’d watched his retreating form all the way to the dance floor, something sparking in you by his mere existence.
Later, you had wandered from the dais under the pretense of getting refreshments. While that was partially true, you had been growing bored standing on the dais simply watching the festivities. You wanted to join, wanted to explore.
Your wandering had resulted in you running into Eris. You’d been slightly shocked he hadn’t still been glued to your eldest sister. They’d already danced three dances together—or more—by that point.
But his attention had snagged on you, borderline predatory as the corner of his mouth curled up. You’d almost run right into his strong build and one of his hands had hovered over your waist, so close to touching your body, but not. You’d felt the way his touch had skimmed the material of your dress though before he’d dropped his hand, finally speaking.
“Where have they been hiding you?”
You’d only tilted your chin up, in defiance, not in the slightest intimidated by the boldness of his direct question.
“Maybe I haven’t seen a need to trouble myself with such boring, courtly matters.”
It had been a flat out lie. You’d have done anything even for the monotony of a boring meeting or courtly discussions. Even Elain—a warrior in quieter ways than your other two sisters, preferring baking and gardening in her spare time—somehow managed to be more involved in the dealings of the Night Court.
She certainly seemed to have more of a life than you did.
Perhaps it was because like Feyre and Nesta, she too had extraordinary powers granted by the Cauldron or in Feyre’s case, gifted from the High Lords.
You’d never developed any sort of Cauldron blessed powers.
If the Cauldron seemed to think Nesta was a thief and hated her for stealing something from it—if the Cauldron seemed to love Elain and gave her something, it seemed to have been pretty apathetic towards you. Its indifference had left you with nothing more than the normal High Fae powers. Nothing grand. Like it, too, had conspired with your sisters and didn’t deem you trustworthy with something as powerful as your sisters’ powers.
It was one in a long list of things that infuriated you.
Not necessarily the lack of powers, but the fact you always seemed to live in the shadows of the other three Archeron females.
As for the matter of your life…there seemed little for you to do really, other than just exist for them to protect.
There had been only so many times you could go to the quarters to shop. Or help Elain prepare a meal. Or even do menial housework like you were a servant.
You’d helped Elain in her garden so often, you were sick of the sight of it. Not that it wasn’t lovely—your sister was amazing at growing and tending beautiful flowers.
You simply just yearned for…more.
You knew your sisters loved you, but you were tired. You were so incredibly tired of this life.
Which is exactly why you’d set your sights on him.
He’d only grinned fully—likely not a comforting thing to most. It had been a cunning and mischievous smile. But it still sent a thrill through you anyway.
“You appear akin to the type to leap at any chance of excitement.”
His voice had been cool, amused, as he studied you.
You’d studied him right back, eyes roaming over the pale, freckled face, amber eyes focused on nothing about you. You tilted your head casually, innocently—perhaps a touch flirtatiously.
“You sure you’re not thinking of yourself, Eris?”
If his name on your lips had any sort of affect on him, he sure hadn’t shown it outwardly. He’d simply slipped his hands into the pockets of his black pants, that grin only sharpening even more.
If your sisters had been anywhere nearby they’d have probably fainted at your carelessness with the male—or likely exploded into balls of fury. Either would’ve been possible knowing them.
“So you can speak for yourself,” he’d chuckled, clearly amused at your quip back to him.
“I don’t see anyone else that happens to be a part of this conversation, do you?” you’d snarked.
That deep chuckle had sounded again and you’d luxuriated in the sound. The rich smoothness of it, like velvet.
“I noticed you haven’t taken to the dance floor. Is there any reason why?”
You had just quirked a brow at him.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a tad too bold and brash?”
“Every day of my immortal life, dove.”
That smile still hadn’t left his face, eyes taking you in as you’d been conversing with him.
“Perhaps I have no interest in dancing,” you’d lied smoothly.
“Perhaps you’re kept on a leash. One that you seem to thrash against.”
It had been incredible how much the male seemed to observe about individuals. You’d barely met him and he’d already seemed to have an incredibly accurate read on you.
“I think you happen to be dramatic, on top of thinking highly of yourself—and your skill set,” you’d drawled.
He’d known you were evading the truth. You saw it in the way those burning amber eyes sparkled. He was very aware that there was much you weren’t voicing.
Whatever he’d assessed about you in the following beats of his silence had him humming, eyes raking over you in interest.
“What a shame. You seem to be the most entertaining thing I’ve encountered yet.”
You’d simply grabbed a goblet of wine, facing him. You’d given him a sharp smile of your own before inflicting your parting shot.
“You must’ve lived an incredibly boring life for an immortal then.”
You’d left him there, still smirking at your retreating form.
It was then that the bare bones of an idea started forming in your mind.
Now, in the present, nearly a year later, your sisters still tried to keep you from Eris. Though so far, you’d managed to finagle your way into going to some meetings he was involved with.
While you’d had your fair share of trauma like your sisters, you were also the most restless of them. Perhaps it was due to the fact you remembered nothing but being coddled, sheltered and overprotected.
So you’d managed to get them to loosen their hold—slowly, at first—but even just a little bit. Enough to let you be helpful in small matters. To attend meetings. Listen to conversations.
To be around a certain Autumn heir.
Though that was for pure selfish reasons as an idea had been weighing on your mind since last winter.
Due to your sister’s overprotectiveness, you’d never taken a male to your bed. No male had stood a chance, not with three Archerons circling you like a pack of wolves.
You’d hated that fact.
Feyre had been allowed to make mistakes, learn from them. Nesta had been allowed to lose her maidenhead to a random fae male and keep male company in her bed for months on end. Elain had been allowed time to heal, explore her own options, even ignore her own mate while she processed her own trauma.
Two of your sisters were now happily mated. Even Elain was getting to know her mate, not entirely open to completely rejecting the bond yet.
Meanwhile, you felt like you couldn’t do anything without being treated like the child they clearly still saw you as. Despite the fact that they’d started allowing you to do small things just to appease you, you were still far from being involved. The tighter they’d tried to hold you, the more you wanted to rebel.
Which is how the idea truly came to form.
You’d been watching the male for some time—granted, only in the times you were allowed to be around him. The word allow always made you want to roll your eyes into the back of your head in annoyance and frustration.
But you’d had an idea. A reckless one perhaps, but one nonetheless.
And Eris Vanserra was the perfect male for it.
•••
You’d been waiting for him in the hall outside of Rhys’s study—leaning against the wall—for about an hour.
You’d known he was in Velaris to meet with Rhys for some things they needed to discuss—not like you had any knowledge of what, though you were half tempted to peek through the crack of the wooden doors to eavesdrop.
But you were above that.
Sometimes.
You weren’t sure what possessed you to approach him today, but when you awoke this morning, you’d vowed the next time you saw the male, you’d take the chance.
It turned out that opportunity just happened to come a lot sooner than you’d expected.
You straightened the moment you heard approaching voices, signaling one—if not both of them—were approaching the door. Then the heavy wooden doors opened and he walked out.
Mercifully, alone.
You glimpsed Rhys still at his desk, dark head of hair bent over as he scribbled something on parchment. Then the doors closed behind Eris.
The corners of his lips curved upwards, delighted by your presence.
“Well, if this isn’t a surprise. Should I flatter myself by thinking you’re waiting for me or were you waiting for Rhysand?”
You didn’t beat around the bush, you just blurted what was on your mind.
“I have a proposition for you.”
He looked at you, intrigue shining in those amber eyes. He assessed you briefly—likely weighing your words, your body language, your demeanor.
“Walk with me,” he finally said.
You chewed on your lip nervously, following the tall redhead. You were already starting to have second thoughts about going through with this.
But it was something different—exciting. Hadn’t you craved that for so long?
His long legs took him a few strides down the hallway and away from Rhys’s study doors. You followed, suddenly wondering how the hell you were gonna manage to put this request into words and not sound like a complete fool.
You finally caught up with him, coming up at his side, displaying a lot more bravado than you certainly felt.
“Do you preoccupy all your spare time with dull court politics or attempting to thwart your father?”
He turned to look at you, lifting an amused brow.
“My duties never seem to cease, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s a mere observation,” you replied casually.
At this point, the two of you had sauntered down the hall far enough from Rhys’s study so when he finally paused—crossing his arms and leaning against the wall to look at you with curiosity—you weren’t worried about eavesdroppers.
“Quite the curious thing, aren’t you, dove?”
You shrugged, seemingly unruffled.
He studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing infinitesimally.
“If you have something to say, I would encourage you to just voice it.”
Truly you had no idea where the courage came from.
“You haven’t taken a lover in a while.”
His eyes sharpened, something flaring in them that you couldn’t put a finger on.
“Been utilizing that shadowsinger, haven’t you?”
It was true. Somehow, you’d managed to convince Azriel to do some snooping. You’d convinced him—and the others, when they’d found out—that it might be good information to have, to keep him in line if he ever acted out. To see if Eris had any lovers, anyone that could potentially be used as a pawn.
Though it was born out of purely selfish reasons and you had absolutely no intention of using any potential individual in such a way.
You’d been shocked when Azriel’s intel had come back with nothing. As far as he could sniff out, it had been some time since Eris had taken a lover.
That was the final push you’d needed, determined to proceed with your plan.
“I— What if we— If I said—”
So much for the bravado you’d just had. That all came tumbling down like a house of cards. You were now stumbling over your words, awkward and nervous.
You tried again.
“I wanted to know if— I thought perhaps—”
The smug smirk on his face was annoying—and annoyingly attractive—as he watched you fumble for what you were trying to say. He wasn’t even bothering to put you out of your misery, happy to allow you to continue to stutter.
“Dove, if you can’t use your words, I’ll be leaving now.”
You blurted it out before you even had any idea what was coming out of your mouth.
“Take me.”
Gods, the words that came out of your mouth made you internally groan and want the floor to swallow you whole, simultaneously.
Those lips twitched in amusement—he was practically vibrating with it.
“Take you where?” he quipped, smoothly, absolutely unbothered.
The bastard probably knew exactly what you meant, too.
You just gave him an exasperated look resulting in one of those deep, sensuous chuckles of his.
It was enough to give you goosebumps.
“What if we made a bargain?”
Now, he certainly looked intrigued.
The male, who usually appeared so cold, face like stone, looked genuinely interested. The arrogant amusement from earlier had banked a tad as he eyed you. He wasn’t mocking you, wasn’t dismissing you. He was clearly waiting a moment before speaking—either to give you an opportunity to continue or to gather his thoughts.
Clearly it was the latter for he dropped his arms, straightening from where he’d been leaning against the wall. His face was now serious, giving you nothing but his full attention.
“What would motivate the precious, youngest Archeron sister to want to make a bargain with me?”
He was a head taller than you, face bent down to look at you. Those intense amber eyes bore into you, face free of anything he could be potentially feeling or thinking.
Gods, no wonder some were terrified of him.
“You have not had a lover in some time,” you began after taking a breath, steadying your nerves, “And I have never had one.”
The speed of which his brows flicked up surprised you—certainly coming from a male that had mastered the art of keeping a blank face as to never give anything away.
You pushed on anyway.
“You end a drought and I…” you trailed off, straightening your shoulders, “I make a choice that is for myself, for once.”
Something flashed in his eyes, there and gone before you could hardly register it, let alone identify what it was. He looked to be choosing his words carefully, as if he had much to say, but was sifting through all the possibilities—careful to pick the best answer.
“That isn’t a bargain. That’s theft.”
You gritted your teeth. You should’ve anticipated that he wouldn’t take what you offered so easily. He was a male that thought through things thoroughly, assessed every situation from every angle, observed what would and would not benefit him the most.
Which is why, completely unplanned, you added what you did.
“Then if you agree to this, I will owe you a favor. Of any kind. You need to win favor with Rhys? I’ll argue your case.”
You weren’t about to back down as you stared up at him defiantly. Even if he refused or gave you a hard time, you would see this through to the end at least.
“A favor of any kind. Whatever you want.”
He finally leaned back a little—you hadn’t even realized he’d been hovering so close. He once again folded his arms over his chest, fingers curling on his biceps.
Biceps you tried not to focus on—even if they were displayed quite nicely in his courtly finery.
You tried not to fidget under his gaze. You remained calm outwardly, though, willing to see this through.
“That is a fool’s bargain. You have little to offer me. After all, you cannot offer me what I truly want anyway.”
Likely his father’s throne.
You may have been kept from much, but you weren’t stupid.
“Anything you want,” you pressed.
“Anything I want?”
“Yes.”
He eyed you curiously, eyes trailing your form lazily, even slower on the way back up. When he spoke, his voice was the icy cadence you’d heard from him in the past—more on par with the horrible male your own family and friends made him out to be.
“Didn’t Morrigan tell you I torture virgins?”
You had to restrain the urge to roll your eyes. Your sisters, Mor, everyone had spun tales about Eris Vanserra like he was a frightening bedtime story. Yet they all seemed to interact with him fine. For Cauldron’s sake your own sister was a sister-in-law to him—sorta.
You betrayed none of your irritation or whirling thoughts, just leveling him with a piercing gaze.
“Is it truly torture if one wants it?”
He just hummed, saying nothing more, though he kept that unwavering stare directed on you. Gods, he could be intimidating.
You weren’t about to let him scare you though.
“Do your sisters approve of this?”
Irritation flooded your senses at the mention of them.
“My sisters have nothing to do with this.”
He hummed once more, eyes continuing to take you in, likely turning everything about this situation over in his mind.
“I only ask because I’d prefer avoiding the wrath of three Archeron sisters.”
You bristled further.
“This is my choice. I chose to approach you. If you haven’t picked up on it, today’s theme is my choice.”
At some point your hands had planted on your hips, fingers digging into the material of the pants you’d stolen from Feyre’s wardrobe. Mercifully, they didn’t dictate what you wore, but it was an unspoken sentiment that they assumed you’d prefer being much more like Elain—prim and proper and clothed in dresses.
You never minded the more feminine clothing, often having bonded with the eldest of the two middle sisters over beautiful dresses. But you diverged from Elain, desiring to not always be clothed in them.
Even more so now that Nesta often lived in pants.
You could see the thoughts churning in his mind, the unsaid things swimming in his gaze. It was an insane thing to ask of him—of anyone, yet you were.
But you knew if anyone would, Eris Vanserra wouldn’t make it a big deal. You knew he had knowledge of navigating deals however he saw fit—mostly ones that could benefit him.
This would most definitely benefit him. He was a male, after all.
You didn’t know what you would do if he said no. Likely try to save face and not slink away with your tail between your legs—not give him the satisfaction of your humiliation and desperation.
Though you supposed you likely already permeated the scent of desperation—if the fae could actually scent that, that is.
But you were tired, so tired of the shackles you’d been forced into.
So it came as a surprise when he finally spoke.
“Fine. I’ll…assist you for a favor. Of any size I wish.”
“Then it’s a bargain?”
“It is indeed a bargain.”
You extended your hand for him to shake—to seal the bargain—though it was a bit preposterous in the scheme of things. You were bargaining for Eris to be the first male you laid with, shaking his hand now almost made you want to laugh.
His large hand slid into yours and shook it firmly.
Then something happened that you hadn’t anticipated.
The feeling of magic zapped between you and Eris, like a shock. A slight burn-like heat—like flames—briefly consumed the skin of your right wrist. The same hand that had just shaken his.
At the first sensations, you’d jerked back, hand falling from his at the unusual magical reaction. Lifting your hand, you saw a tattoo on your wrist.
You briefly recalled Feyre and Nesta mentioning that Night Court bargains often came with a physical marking too—in dark as night black ink.
Yours was wildly appropriate. It was a tiny tattoo, perhaps barely over an inch big, but like a beacon of light on your once smooth, unblemished skin. The outline was of a singular flame—the ink, the darkest black.
Gentle fingers circled your wrist as he turned it to study it. A thumb ran over the newly marked skin, gently, sensually. Your breath hitched slightly at the movement.
“How very appropriate—flames right over the pulse that I’ll soon have speeding…from my own sort of fire.”
For indeed, right where the tattoo had been inked into your skin was just over your pulse.
Something caught your eye as you noticed an identical tattoo on his pale wrist—on his right wrist as well. The same hand he’d used to shake your own.
He seemed to track your stare, his own eyes following. Gently releasing your own wrist, he held up his own to admire.
“Huh—can’t say I’ve ever received a tattoo from a Night Court bargain before.”
“Well, glad to be your first,” you quipped.
You didn’t know why you felt so shaken, all of a sudden. You didn’t regret it, but you were left uncertain. Now that the bargain was quite literally inked into yours and Eris’s skin, you didn’t know what to expect.
He seemed to read your thoughts and he finally stepped away again, ready to make his exit, likely back to Autumn.
“Don’t you worry dove, our bargain will be fufilled—eventually.”
With that, he gave you no further inclination on just when that would be.
No, Eris just winked before he winnowed away, disappearing right before your eyes.
Leaving you with the realization that you now had proof of a bargain you would somehow have to hide from your sisters.
•••
Months passed.
Months.
You’d grown rather crafty with hiding the flame tattoo from everyone. Lots of long sleeves were worn or—when you were in shorter sleeves—a stack of jeweled bracelets sat on your wrist.
Feyre never questioned why you seemed so intent on occasionally raiding her massive jewelry collection. Likely, she was pleased that it was an inane, innocent interest. One that kept you preoccupied and safe.
Little did she know.
You’d borrowed a small collection of beautiful bracelets yet you’d barely made a dent in her own collection of jewelry. She did have quite an array between Rhys spoiling her and what he already owned prior to meeting her.
You’d concluded the pieces you’d taken were some of the cheaper ones, since Feyre seemed to have no issue with you wearing them.
Besides, you didn’t want anyone discovering what you’d done. Especially not Feyre, Nesta or Elain, though the males were to likely be as insufferable about it if they found out. Not only about the bargain, but who you’d made a bargain with.
You were already treading on thin ice.
You’d continued to conveniently appear any time Eris was around. If he was in Velaris to discuss courtly matters, you’d happen to be in the same location—or happen to have an important question for Rhys that you just had to ask him, while he was meeting with Eris. Sometimes it was a tiny lie that someone needed Feyre. Once, you pretended to need a book that Cassian had asked you to fetch. In Rhys’s library. Just as your next to youngest sister and her mate were happening to expect Eris.
You’d even managed to worm your way into a meeting—something about reinforcing Autumn’s borders that his father had turned into a bigger problem than necessary.
“How am I supposed to learn anything if you don’t let me learn?” you’d asked Feyre earlier that day.
You’d felt smug when she couldn’t find an answer for that question and had reluctantly let you join.
Admittedly, you weren’t that enamored with the business that required discussing.
It was nice to be included though, especially since two of your three sisters were included, along with the two Illyrians, Rhys and even Amren, though how Rhys managed to pull her away from her apartment and Varian was beyond you. Mor—probably grateful to be—had left for the continent again this morning.
No, you weren’t there for business, but to feel out Eris.
Every time you’d run into the male, he always smirked like he knew a secret. But, of course, he actually did.
It was always in the knowing looks, the sly smirks, eyes dipping to your covered right wrist. It was like he was burning with the knowledge of what had occurred between the two of you.
But he’d yet to approach it. You would still owe him any favor, but he’d not even fulfilled his part of the bargain yet. It was like he found the utmost enjoyment in keeping you on your toes, extending the suspense for as long as possible.
During said meeting, you busied yourself trying to listen to the flow of conversation, even if you only understood half of it. You sat lazily, chin resting in your hand, attempting to keep your eyes from straying towards him.
Eris noticed every time, amber eyes flicking to you and catching you in the act. Even if his face remained neutral, his eyes danced with amusement, intrigue and a whole lot of mischief.
Later, when he stood, stretching slightly, the material of his shirt pulled taught across his chest—just enough to give you an idea of the toned physique underneath. Accompanied by a deep chuckle at something that was said, you found your body reacting before you could stop it.
You felt heat curl low in your belly, your thighs pressing together. When he turned, eyes falling to you, you swore you felt that desire deepening.
If he truly went through with the bargain, he would be the first male you’d take to your bed. What started out as something born of a desire to clear this milestone in life had suddenly—and sneakily—turned into actual attraction to the male.
You no longer wanted Eris for what he could do for you, you wanted him because it was him.
“Is it too warm in here?”
You blinked, realizing he was talking to you.
“I’m sorry?”
“You look rather flushed. Mere observation,” he shrugged.
He strolled past you towards the door with no further comment. But you still caught the sly flicker of his eyes as they slid to you, just as he passed you, intent and promise in them.
Soon, he seemed to say.
You didn’t know what to make of it, but you knew the day was rapidly approaching that Eris would come knocking.
And you’d be prepared for it.
•••
The night that Eris appeared at your door followed a really horrible day.
You were still tense, your mood sour from leftover anger and frustration following a horrible fight with your sisters. What had started as an innocent question had resulted in your defenses rising—thus turning it into a whole ordeal.
“Is there something going on between you and Eris?” Feyre had asked pointedly, earlier that afternoon.
For once, you, she, Nesta and Elain were all in the same place. Something that was rarer nowadays with Elain kept busy flitting across different courts, falling into a natural emissary role—a title Rhys thought was perfect for her with her bubbly, social personality.
Nesta was usually off with Cassian or the Valkyries and priestesses. In the last months, she’d started finally merging into a teaching role alongside Cassian and Azriel—at least teaching the beginners.
You were no warrior, but sometimes you’d wished you were even allowed to desire the option to train.
Feyre, of course, was kept busy between being High Lady, mate, friend and sister.
All to say it was a rare occurrence that the four of you were gathered at the same time.
Nesta had been reading a book by the fire, content to relax with a good story after a busy morning. Feyre had been at a small desk in the room, reviewing correspondence from another court—not that she was likely to fill you in on just what it entailed. Elain was at her back, sipping her cup of tea and reading over her shoulder. Perhaps it had to do with a court that Elain had just returned from visiting.
You? You’d been sitting in the window seat, staring out at the beautiful day, unable to focus on the book of Nesta’s she’d lent you. You weren’t sure if you’d even made it past the first chapter yet.
Restlessness had always plagued you, but more days than not, lately, you felt like you drowned in it from sunrise to sunset.
You’d snorted, finding the accusation utterly ridiculous, even if there was a hint of truth to it.
“That’s preposterous!”
“Is it?” Nesta peered up from her book, putting a finger between the pages—to mark her place—as she closed it, “Because any time that male is around, you somehow find a way to be involved. Or make an appearance. Or happen to be passing through.”
You’d recalled that maybe you had been a bit obvious.
“Well he’s certainly more exciting than you lot are,” you’d mumbled.
It had been the wrong thing to say.
“Exciting doesn’t mean throwing yourself into danger at every turn,” Feyre had reprimanded, “We are trying to spare you from such things.”
You could’ve laughed—purely out of exasperation and frustration. You almost had. Which was likely why you had downright exploded.
You’d hopped up from the window seat and flung your arms into the air.
“I am not like you three! I don’t have any powers!” you’d screeched, “So what are you trying to protect me from?!”
Though you weren’t proud of your tone thinking back now—further proving you were no better than the baby they’d always seen you as—it’d felt good in the moment to unleash the anger and frustration.
“There are many dangerous things in Prythian,” Nesta said, icily.
You’d leveled your glare on her.
“Oh? You mean like the ones that Feyre has faced? You have faced? Even Elain has been involved in more than I am!”
It was true—though Elain wasn’t the long babied one, Nesta had always had a desire to protect Elain just a bit too. Wisely—unlike you—Elain knew when to speak up for herself and demand space to breathe.
Maybe if you’d done that long ago, you wouldn’t have been in this position.
“That is different and you know it,” Feyre had snapped.
“Oh really? How so?” you’d challenged the three.
Elain—sweet, sweet Elain, who was always the most gentle, even if she did possess an occasional edge to her—had still been gentle when she’d finally piped up. Until this moment she’d been silent, monitoring the conversation. Her perception of things was excellent, you knew many underestimated your second oldest sister.
“Not everyone in this land is a friendly face. There are dangerous individuals—males—around.”
You’d nearly snorted in disbelief.
“I’m surrounded by dangerous males every day! I have four brothers—three which you lot are mated to, need I remind you?”
“They would never hurt you, either. They only want to protect you, too.”
It had been Elain with her soft tone that only further kindled your anger—the way they were treating you like a child expected to throw a tantrum. Even if you sort of had. But it had been the condescension that made the conflagration in you burn hotter.
“Is this truly about Eris or the fact you just want to control every aspect of my life?” you bit out.
“Eris is not good. He’s—” Feyre had begun.
“Dangerous. Cruel. Awful. An arrogant bastard. A snake. Bid for Nesta’s hand once over a year ago,” you listed off.
That last one had been an intriguing development, back when you weren’t as invested in your interest in him. Unsurprisingly, Nesta didn’t even entertain the offer. After all, she had a mate. One she very clearly loved. But she was powerful and for reasons still unknown to you, Eris had wanted her as his bride.
Little had they known that his attention had shifted to a different Archeron.
“I know all of this. You’ve been over it with me so many times,” you groused, “But has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re grossly underestimating him? If he was so awful, why do you continue to ally with him? And manage to interact with him just fine?”
“We know how to handle him. You do not,” Nesta had simply uttered.
That had almost made you laugh.
“He’s selfish. He will take advantage of anyone or anything if it will benefit him in some way. He’s cunning,” Feyre had tried to explain.
You hadn’t wanted to give anything else away, didn’t want to let on to the fact you were more closely connected to him than they were aware of. So, you’d pivoted to your next point. One that you knew would slice, one that you’d found wholly unfair for a long, long time.
“Why is it that Nesta was allowed to fuck strangers and drink as much as she wanted?”
They had actually flinched at your language and tone.
You were not the innocent baby sister they’d believed you were for so long—you hadn’t been her for a long time.
“Why is it that Feyre got to make the mistake of dying for a male that didn’t deserve her—one she thought she loved, almost married. Why did she—like Nesta—get time to process her trauma then get to fall in love and become High Lady?”
They’d all stared at you, an array of reactions on their faces. Elain had paled, eyes as wide as saucers. Nesta’s lips were set firmly, blue gray eyes blazing. Feyre looked pained—like she wanted to fix things for you, like she always used to.
“How come Elain was met with no arguments, no pushback when she spent years, years avoiding her mate. Never acknowledging the fact that she even had a mating bond. Was she not allowed to go about it the way she needed to?”
But it had been like once everything started pouring out of you, you couldn’t stop it.
“You all had the chance to go on your own journey of self discovery and make mistakes. That was fine. There were no issues. It was all: ‘Feyre’s healing. Nesta’s dealing with trauma. Elain just needs time’, well what the fuck about me?!”
You’d struggled plenty with your own trauma—even if in different ways than your sisters. Yes, you’d been chased from dreams many nights from the fear of being kidnapped from your bed, drowning in the Cauldron, the uncertain anxiety from the first weeks of feeling foreign in this new body.
But you’d found it easier than they first had with adapting to your new life. You’d gotten used to being fae—especially when you’d never felt like you’d fit anywhere else—never knew your own identity outside of being the youngest Archeron sister.
Which is why you’d been so desperate, so adamant for Eris’s help.
For once, you’d wanted to be allowed to do something for yourself—something you had control over.
No special powers. No mate. No journey of your own.
Earlier that afternoon, you’d finally reached your breaking point—a long time coming, too—and it hadn’t been pretty.
They’d had little to say to you after that, considering you’d stormed out of the room. You’d been locked in your room ever since, even skipping dinner.
You didn’t trust yourself to not say anything else hurtful to your sisters. There would be time to apologize, later when everyone had cooled off. You weren’t sorry for what you’d said, but you were sorry for the way it’d come out.
Despite the fact you’d wanted to get it all off your chest, you hated fighting with your sisters. All it did was dredge up bad memories of how tense the relationships between all four of you had been when you were destitute.
You sat in front of your vanity, in your room at the River House, running your brush through your long hair. Despite still being tense, you felt tinges of guilt creeping in. You still appreciated all your sisters had done for you, still loved them in what way you knew how.
You just wanted space, sometimes.
You were so caught up in your thoughts, you didn’t even hear a knock at your door. It wasn’t until you heard a more insistent, slightly louder knock that you’d realized someone must’ve just knocked and you’d completely missed it.
You stood, the hem of your satin nightgown brushing your thighs.
As ridiculous as it was, once you’d started rebelling against your sisters, you’d gone to the shop in Velaris and bought yourself comfortable—and more risqué—nightwear. Even if you wore them for yourself only, it gave you a sense of control.
You’d grown to love them, the silkiness of the satin, the straps that bared your arms and shoulders. Some were lacy and delicate, a tad more modest. Some were more scandalous, dipping low in the front and exposing what the other three would likely find to be an indecent amount of your breasts.
You thanked the Mother that you’d been in one of the latter when you opened the door and discovered who was on the other side.
Eris.
Calm, unruffled and looking positively delighted at the outfit you were currently clad in.
His eyes dipped and traveled, rather quickly, before he spoke.
“I do believe I have a bargain I still need to fulfill.”
His voice was deep, slightly raspy, enough to send a chill along your spine—not helped by the piercing gaze on you.
You managed to keep from gaping at the male though your hand tightened on the doorknob you still held.
“I didn’t realize you were in Velaris.”
“I’m a male of many surprises.”
The corner of his lips curled upwards, peering past your shoulder into your room.
“Oh, right,” you said, shuffling to the side awkwardly, inviting him in.
Despite wanting this—making a bargain surrounding this—you were suddenly unsteady at the fact that this was actually happening.
After you closed the door behind him, you turned to find him waiting in the middle of your room, intensity lining his features as he watched you approach him.
“Right. Okay. So we just do this then?”
You automatically reached upwards, going for his shirt, his face, something—to kiss him. To just launch yourself into this headfirst.
He halted you, a broad hand curving around your waist, the presence of it feeling heavy—like his touch seared through your thin nightgown. It was incredible how your body immediately reacted to him from a simple touch.
“Settle,” he murmured soothingly, not a hint of mocking in his tone, “I won’t bite.”
His other hand slid gently up your arm, over your shoulder and his palm caressed your neck, thumb barely brushing your jawline. His eyes stayed locked on your face as he continued.
“You’re not the little bird your sisters have diminished you to. But you still deserve to be treated with respect and care.”
Your breath came out in a whoosh, surprise filling your body at the unexpected comment from a male you’d been told was nothing but cold and cruel—even if you didn’t believe it.
“I know how to be more decent than those Illyrian brutes you’re used to,” his mouth curved in a grin.
“Watch it,” you glared.
Even if you were sick of your sisters, those Illyrian brutes were still your brothers and your friends.
He just chuckled, thumb brushing ever so lightly over your cheek before he bent his head, bringing his lips to yours.
You’d kissed plenty of men before—something you’d surprisingly managed to keep from your sisters, something you’d once thought was just for yourself, that your sisters couldn’t control.
Perhaps you’d never been able to lie with a man because the handful that you had kissed knew exactly what sort of protectors the other three Archeron sisters were.
But Eris…Eris kissed unlike any other before, though it could be likely due to the fact he wasn’t a man but was a fae male.
Whatever it was, you absolutely loved it.
His lips moved languidly against yours, savoring the glide, the press of them, the weight of yours against his pillowy soft ones. The hand on your waist slid further around to the dip in your lower back, pulling you closer to him.
You tilted your head, letting the kiss naturally deepen—letting his tongue brush effortlessly against the seam of your lips. Your lips parted, allowing it to sweep in and tangle with yours. As he kissed you, as the two of you shared breath, your hands found his chest, fingers finding the buttons of his shirt.
Your lips immediately moved against his faster, with more desperation and heat. He followed your lead with little issue, until he felt your hands scrambling over his clothes, trying to get him out of his clothes. You’d already managed to get his shirt halfway unbuttoned when he pulled away.
Your lips followed his, momentarily thrown off from his departure.
“Slow down,” he murmured, lips dropping a kiss on your jawline before moving back to look at you.
His hands rested on your hips, slightly bunching the fabric. His roaming eyes said he wanted to do anything but.
“As much as I want to enjoy you, it’ll be a lot better if we take our time. I’m free all night.”
He bent again, smirking against your jaw, where his lips had found purchase, sucking and nibbling. You gasped slightly, head falling back as he kissed a line forward, moving away from your ear.
You just wanted him to touch you.
Clearly, he wanted to as well for his hands slid up your sides, closing over your breasts, even through your nightgown.
“Mm,” you moaned, chest arching, strong hands kneading them, massaging them just right.
You pressed into his touch further, feeling the way your pebbled nipples pressed against the now irritating satin, how they felt against his palms, even through the fabric. You wanted—no needed his hands on your bare body.
All over your bare body.
The drumbeat increased in strength between your legs, arousal pooling in your underwear as his hands grasped and explored, as his lips traced over your neck, tongue coming out to lick over random spots of your skin. Growing impatient you pulled your arms out of the straps of your nightgown, connecting your lips to his again.
You pulled your other arm free, hand tangling in the lengths of his hair as your hand cupped his jaw, kissing him with more fervor. He grunted against your lips, reaching down to grab the backs of your thighs.
He lifted you in his arms, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as you continued to kiss him.
He stayed there for a moment, hands spread across your ass, mouth hot on yours, then he was moving. Before you knew what to expect, you were yelping and freefalling. You landed on the bed with a dramatic bounce, eyes wide as you stared up at the smirking pale face—one full of heat.
“I should’ve warned you to expect a bit of excitement with me, dove,” he smirked as he joined you on the bed, crawling over you.
You weren’t in any mood to complain as you raised onto your elbows, reaching for him. Just as your mouth met his, your fingers finished off the rest of the buttons of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders.
Despite your earlier nerves, you were slightly amazed at the fact that he put you at ease rather quickly, though you still felt like you were fumbling some.
When he broke the kiss to remove his shirt the rest of the way, you took the opportunity to take in the glorious sight of the pale muscled physique. Broad, strong shoulders, defined pectorals, biceps—and then your eyes dipped to the contours of his abdomen. The vee of his pelvis dipping into his pants.
You might’ve slightly been drooling.
He was…stunning. No other word could describe him.
“Keep looking at me like that. Does a male good,” he hummed, capturing your lips in a kiss again before his mouth was descending, long fingers coming to the neckline of your nightgown.
Hot presses of his mouth traced a path down your throat as his fingers hooked into the neckline and pulled it down, exposing your breasts. The cool air of the room hit them, making you shiver, but all you could focus on was the way his gaze fell to them.
You swore you heard him mumble something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a, “Mother above”. You didn’t have time to question him though because then his head was dipping, his tongue flicking over one of the nipples before taking it in his mouth.
The breathy inhale that came from you didn’t even sound like you. You’d had no idea you were even capable of such instantaneous reactions. Meanwhile, his other hand came to the opposite breast, fingers pinching the nipple.
As if the pulsing between your legs couldn’t get any worse, his teasing made it strengthen and you squirmed under his attention. His free hand pushed the rest of your nightgown up, bunching it at your stomach, revealing the matching underwear—made of the same fabric and the same color as the gown.
Of course, you’d bought these just for yourself but they sure came in handy now.
His eyes dropped to the item that hugged your hips, a devilish smirk barely gracing his lips as he peered up at you.
“It is too forward of me to say I hoped you weren’t wearing underwear?”
You snorted, but it wasn’t derisive. It was amused. You looked down at him, a smirk growing across your face.
“Maybe next time.”
He growled lowly in response and you saw his hips shift against the bed. If he was enduring anything like you were right now, he sure managed to allude to still managing to have some sort of control.
He certainly wasted no time in ridding you of both articles of clothing, leaving you bare to him.
You should’ve felt shy, but the way he was looking at you made the heat pool like molten lava in the pit of your stomach.
“So what, we just have sex now?”
The deep laughter that followed your comment made you want to scowl, but the reaction wasn’t at your expense, though he was genuinely amused.
“Dove, I’ve got much to teach you. I want to make sure you’re ready for me.”
“Ready for you?” you repeated dumbly.
His hand slid over the expanse of your stomach, painfully slow and sensual. Your eyes dropped to the movement, even as he spoke.
“Aching. Desperate. Slick with need,” he murmured, hand dipping between your legs, fingers brushing along your soaked slit. You whimpered, hips automatically bucking towards his hand.
“And even then…I’m not taking this lightly. You’ll take all that I give you.”
You blinked, unsure of what he meant, but nodded anyway. His tongue came out slowly, moistening his bottom lip, just as fingers began to explore. You felt the gentle push of a finger into you and you gasped, hand flying to one of his biceps.
“You’re okay,” he cooed.
You knew he was right. It was just…new.
But you felt how you were gushing, your arousal dampening your inner thighs—all of this in reaction to him before he’d even done anything. So much so that he had little resistance inserting a lone finger. He groaned at the way you clenched around the digit as he slid it in and out of you.
Despite you never having experienced the sensation before, you suddenly ached to be filled—preferably by more than just his fingers.
“Gods, already so eager for me,” he mumbled, more to himself than anything.
You nearly quipped back that you’d have to be blind to be wholly unaffected by him, until he added a second finger. It was tighter, but not unpleasant.
You moaned quietly, the pump of his fingers already making your vision spotty. You felt a brief sting as his digits spread and came together again then he repeated the action, over and over until that initial brief discomfort had faded.
“What— what are you doing?” you asked.
You’d let go of all fear of appearing foolish, earlier. Whatever happened in this room between you and Eris would clearly stay in this room. You were curious and you were going to ask.
“Just stretching you a bit,” he hummed, placing a kiss to your hip bone, “Preparing you for my cock.”
You swore your mouth went dry at the thought.
Apparently that wasn’t the only way your body reacted and he flashed you a wicked smile and provided you with another languid pump of his fingers.
“I felt that. Getting you all excited for my cock, hm?”
And there it was again, the way your cunt contracted, squeezing around his fingers. All he did was chuckle, scooting backwards—touch not leaving you as he did so. You watched him curiously and then he was leaning forward, some strands of his red hair pooling against your bare abdomen as he licked over your clit before taking it into his mouth.
“Ohh, fuck,” you moaned, arching.
Another wicked chuckle—this time against you—and you moaned again at the vibration. He pulled away just enough to comment.
“I never realized you had such a mouth on you, dove.”
“Shut up and do that again,” you hissed.
He just smirked up at you, fingers curling within you as his mouth lowered again, tongue coming out to press flat against your clit—all while his eyes still remained on you.
Gods, you could’ve come from the sight alone.
“Eris,” you whimpered.
His eyes flashed—a hint of fire sparking to life in them as he groaned against you, clearly pleased to hear his name fall from your lips.
He shifted against the bed again and your eyes fell to the movement. Though his bottom half was still clothed, you had the good enough sense to know he was extremely aroused, himself, by this point.
You nearly cried when he pulled his fingers free of you. But he moved so quickly you barely had time to process the fact that he’d licked just over your entrance, as if tasting you for the first and only time before he slid his tongue in you.
“Gods!” you gasped, back arching clear off the bed, one hand automatically threading into his hair.
Your mind—your body—felt like it was on overdrive. You had known pleasure before, but it had been at your hand alone and nothing like this.
“Oh gods— that’s— Eris—” you whimpered.
You pressed closer to him, body having a mind of its own as your hips moved, grinding against his mouth, pushing your hand into his hair.
You couldn’t help it, you were greedy and it felt so incredible. You wanted to come, wanted him to make you come.
“Yes, yes, please don’t stop,” you chanted, losing all control of your mouth, too, “Feels so— fuuuuck.”
You were moaning louder, unabashedly as his tongue thrust, licked, swirled, lips kissed and sucked. He was winding you tighter and tighter and you weren’t sure if you were going to last much longer.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, pushing his head down further against your cunt. He licked his way back towards the apex of your thighs, giving a gentle kiss to your clit before beginning to lap at it.
“You— are— delectable,” he murmured in between pauses, licking against your clit with each pause.
“Please,” you whined.
He groaned, more than affected now by your responsiveness to him.
“Don’t worry, dove. I’ll take care of you.”
As his lips closed around the bud, sucking gently, you felt the building pressure deep within you—that had seemed dormant and far away—grow suddenly hotter, stronger. Your legs kicked against the mattress weakly—involuntarily—unable to control your body and the incredible amount of pleasure that was building.
He slid the two fingers back into you—with much less resistance this time around, you were so soaked for him. You heard the grunt deep in his throat as he noted that observation too.
“Eris, Eris, I can’t— oh gods you’re—”
You were babbling without even meaning to, words bubbling up before you could stop them, being interrupted by gasps, moans and other small sounds of pleasure.
You weren’t too far away from falling and once again you ground with more determination against his face, adding a tad more friction.
You came apart with a cry, that tension finally snapping so abruptly and swiftly that it sent the sound up and out of your throat before you could stop it. The feeling of euphoria swept through you with such force, all you could do was arch into him, press closer and grip a combination of his hair and the sheets at your side.
Your chest was heaving when it finally ceased enough for you and your body to relax. He gave one last lick along your slit, tasting your release and you whimpered, sensitive from what he’d just pulled from you.
“Cauldron,” he breathed, when he finally sat back, mouth still slick from you.
He looked devastated—though maybe devastated wasn’t the word for it, but Eris did not look unaffected. You briefly wondered if any of his past lovers ever showed such enthusiasm or appreciation for the things he’d done for them—or if he even did those things for them.
You knew you felt pretty damn appreciative for what he’d just done for you.
“I do believe someone once said you had a sharp tongue…I may have to reevaluate just what they mean,” you muttered.
You were still blinking, dazed from what had just happened. But Eris only chuckled, though you could’ve sworn it sounded strained to your ears.
He looked ready to eat you alive.
When he was at your head again, you pulled him down by the shoulders, kissing him hard. It was a hot, open mouthed kiss, tongues tangling with one another and you groaned, tasting yourself on his mouth. Somehow, it made the kiss that much hotter.
His mouth moved with yours, as his hand slid up your bare leg, opening you wider for him to settle between your legs. He kissed you with nothing but pure intent and urgency, his own desire for you bleeding into the act.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, tongue sliding against his. His hips pressed forward, letting you feel just how much he wanted you.
His hardness pressed roughly against you and you moaned, breaking the connection of the kiss.
“Gods,” he groaned, head falling, looking down to where the arousal in his pants pressed against your bare cunt.
You whimpered, squirming, pressing closer, canting your hips to rub against him. His breathing deepened as his hips jerked forward, grinding against you. If this had your lashes fluttering at how good it felt, you had no idea what to expect when he was inside you.
His arms braced the sides of your head as he kept kissing you, kept grinding against you. It was as if you were two young lovers that’d been separated for too long. When he pulled away for a moment, your eyes fell to one of the toned biceps in your periphery.
Perhaps because you’d lost all control of your senses, you turned, kissing a line along the sculpted muscle—from shoulder to the crook of his arm. The feel of the taut muscle underneath your lips nearly drove you wild.
You simply grinned up at him mischievously as his heated gaze burned on you, desire written all over his features.
He’d had plenty of time to explore you, perhaps you’d wanted to explore him a bit.
He pushed away from you, leaving you entirely as he stood from the bed. You mourned his presence for half a second until you realized what he was doing.
Strong fingers worked at the button of his pants as he unbuttoned them, pushing them off his hips. Your eyes stayed locked on his, breathing becoming labored, caught in his intense stare like if he’d tied you to the bed, making you unable to move.
Motion snapped you out of your trance only for you to realize he was fully bare now.
Your eyes dropped only so, then slowly rose up that powerfully honed body, lean muscle everywhere you looked. Your eyes dropped again—further this time—your chest expanding in a slow inhale.
Oh gods…
You had not been prepared for the sight that greeted you—even to the point of being slightly overwhelmed by it.
Not only by the obvious cock that was on full display—hard, the tip flushed the prettiest shade of red and leaking—but the entire sight of him.
“What’s the matter? Never seen a naked male, dove?” he purred.
Normally you’d have a smart remark to match his swaggering arrogance, but you only swallowed hard, face warming a bit as you sat up against the pillows.
While no, you hadn’t, you hadn’t thought it was such a big deal. But here—in this moment at least—you felt off kilter, vulnerable in a way you’d never expected to feel. You said nothing, just pulled your bottom lip between your teeth in slight apprehension.
You watched the smugness quickly dissipate from his features as he took in your unnatural silence. Perhaps thinking he’d gone too far in his comment—especially when you didn’t rise to challenge him like you normally would’ve.
He grew more serious, perhaps a shade softer, though his voice became rougher around the edges, like he was undone from this entire situation.
“Despite what you may have heard, I would never force you to do anything you did not wish for.”
“I realize that,” you said plainly.
You didn’t want sympathy or pity for your inexperience, but at the same time you felt very out of your depth. Mercifully, he didn’t push the matter, said nothing more—didn’t continue to tease you either—and stepped closer to the bed again.
Your eyes dropped to the movement of his hand as he reached out for yours. He then led it to his cock, his hand staying over yours.
Your fingers wrapped around him and you just barely repressed the gasp that crawled up your throat.
You hadn’t known what to expect, but if you had been told it was like velvet warmth, you'd have thought the individual crazy. But, it was. Though he was hard as granite, the skin was so soft and warm—a part of you wondered if it came from the fire that was in his blood.
If anything, he was definitely way more well endowed than you could’ve anticipated. Perhaps that attributed to his arrogance—he certainly had good reason to where that was concerned.
He groaned at your first touch, involuntarily arching into you, as if he had no control over his body. Your eyes flicked up to his face, a shade hesitant. His eyes didn’t leave yours as his had guided yours upwards in a slow, gentle stroke.
His lashes fluttered, a deep grunt coming from his chest. Your own lashes lowered as you watched the way he guided your hand along him, showing you what to do—what he liked.
You weren’t sure why you suddenly craved to put your mouth on him. You wanted him everywhere—in your hand, mouth and cunt.
“Your hand feels amazing on me,” was all he could rasp out, breaking you out of your thoughts.
Heat curled tighter within you, hearing how affected he was by your touch. But you didn’t continue as he moved from your reach, climbing over you, your body once again falling back against the pillows.
He stared down at you momentarily and you found yourself a tad shaken—even more left in awe—at the look on his face. The face you’d once known as nothing but cold, devoid of any joy, was now more at ease—you could even go as far as to say it was almost soft.
In an attempt to distract from the intense moment, you spoke.
“Now’s likely not the time for an utterly inane comment about it not fitting, is it?” you uttered.
Though you truly were wondering if it would.
He just chuckled deeply, bending to brush his nose in a short line along your cheek.
“You’re adorable,” he purred.
“Not exactly an answer,” you huffed.
“Believe me, dove, it’ll fit.”
One of your hands braced his thigh—palm flat against the muscle—and you had to bite back a moan at the reminder of the strength of him.
While he was preoccupied elsewhere—lips peppering kisses over your jawline and neck—your hand slid inward. You figured you might as well get acquainted with the part that would soon be inside your body.
You weren’t afraid, nor were you nervous. You were…curious. Treading unfamiliar territory, yes, but eager to learn and explore, even if you’d already touched him once. But that had been with his help, you wanted to try on your own this time.
It wasn’t like one touch would ever be enough for you either.
Once more, your fingers wrapped around his cock, dragging your hand in a slow pull upwards. Your thumb brushed over the thick head and you swore you watched his control crumble before your eyes.
Oh, this held power. You bit back a smirk at that discovery.
“If you don’t want this to be over before it even starts, I highly suggest you stop that,” he gritted out.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you grinned widely up at him, dragging your hand back downwards again.
“You’ll have time to play later,” he grunted, removing your hand.
You just cocked a brow.
“Oh? I will?”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “If I have a say in it, you will.”
You repressed a snicker, though your mouth curved upwards. His face loomed closer before he dipped his head, kissing you.
If there was one thing you knew for sure, it was you wouldn’t ever get tired of the way his lips felt—or tasted. You took the brief moment to explore other places on him as well.
Even if your hands were hesitant, they slid over his chest, up to his shoulders and down to his upper back as he kissed you, just enjoying the feel of your mouths connected.
He pulled back, tongue flicking over your bottom lip, sitting back.
His fingers circled your calves, pushing your legs up until they were bent, the soles of your feet flat against the mattress. Then, with gentle care, he pushed your knees further apart, giving himself room.
“I need you to relax for me, dove,” he murmured, a hand sliding under your hips, lifting them slightly to position you better.
“You know saying something like that is only gonna make me do the opposite,” you quirked a brow.
He gave you a half smile.
“Just trying to make it less…intense for you.”
“Isn’t sex intense to begin with?”
He almost looked exasperated at your questioning and you couldn’t help but bite back a giggle—especially since he didn’t look truly annoyed. More like amazed at your rapid fire questions.
“I meant there can be some discomfort,” he supplied.
You…hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t known that, though you figured that made sense.
“It’s going to hurt?”
You hated how small your voice sounded. So much for being confident and in control.
His brows pinched together ever so slightly, face tightening. His voice was rough when he answered you.
“Not if I can help it.”
Then he turned back into the matter-of-fact Eris you knew him to be.
“I will leave right now if you no longer want this.”
“I am no coward,” you scowled.
“I didn’t say you were,” Eris’s gaze was steady on yours, serious, “I’m giving you choice.”
“Then I choose to stop you from leaving,” you said stubbornly.
He chuckled lowly, as if impressed.
“I always knew there was fire in you.”
“According to you, I haven’t had enough in me.”
He snorted.
“I never said that.”
“It was implied.”
You gasped feeling the head of his cock press at your sensitive, untouched center.
He’d been distracting you through the last few traded remarks, loosening you up further. You couldn’t explain why that made you warm towards the male further.
He didn’t ask, but his eyes questioned one more time and you gave a short nod. Then he was pushing in, slowly.
Even with the slight movement, you felt a deep sting—not exactly painful, but unusual. Slightly uncomfortable, the deep stretch, but nothing you couldn’t handle.
“You’re okay,” he murmured, repeating his words from earlier.
He retreated, the sting easing before he pressed a bit further in. The dull sting grew but instead of fighting in, you kept breathing—kept trusting him.
Assessing amber eyes never left your face.
He repeated the action over and over—retreating and pushing a tad further with each movement. He leaned closer, allowing you to wrap your arms around him and with every inch you gave, your arms tightened just slightly.
He took his time, didn’t rush, accommodating his movements depending on how hard your touch dug into his back.
You weren’t sure how long it’d been, if he’d already filled you fully, but on the latest press forward, the burning sting was sharper this time, more noticeable and you inadvertently tensed.
“Hey, eyes on me,” he mumbled, thumb brushing your hip soothingly.
Your eyes found his and once again instead of panicking you kept your focus on him.
The hand that had fallen earlier—subconsciously gripping the sheets from the deep discomfort—reached up, fingers trailing softly over the splatter of freckles on one cheek.
“Your freckles are pretty,” you mumbled.
Eris looked like you’d slapped him across the cheek instead of caressed it. You smiled at his stunned expression, your thumb brushing over the top of his cheek.
The comment wasn’t meant for pure distraction, you actually meant it.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmured his praise.
He pulled out again, pushing the furthest he had yet, causing you to squeak the tiniest bit at the feel of him bottoming out.
The discomfort was still very much present, accompanied by a strange, foreign sensation of feeling full. Almost overwhelmingly so. To the point it seemed to radiate outward a bit.
His hips pressed flush against yours, in as far as he could go, as close as he could possibly get to you.
“Still with me?”
You couldn’t recall ever seeing him look so concerned and caring.
His hand shifted, planting on the pillow next to your head, stabilizing himself. He’d yet to move an inch since fully entering you, staying still, letting you adjust to the size of him. You studied him, felt him grip the pillow next to your head, watched the way his eyes closed, watched his brows slightly scrunch.
As if he was in pain. Suddenly a wash of fear and concern filled you.
“I’m not hurting you am I?” you bit your lip, worried.
After all, you weren’t exactly…familiar with the logistics of this. You knew you were feeling quite the deep and momentarily uncomfortable stretch and burn, but what if you were somehow hurting him too?
His laugh was more of an exasperated, strained exhale of breath than anything.
“No. You’re not hurting me, sweetheart.”
Something funny twisted within you at his abnormal nickname.
Your arms fell from around him, hands coming to rest on his biceps.
“You promise you’re not lying to make me feel better?”
You studied his face as he finally opened his eyes, heat burning within them.
“I’m just trying real hard not to push you past your limits,” he gritted out, “And it’s a…struggle.”
Perhaps you were a touch naive, but you asked anyway.
“Why?”
Those flames came to life in his eyes.
“Because you feel so good all I want to do is fuck you for days—and you’re not ready for that yet.”
You may have blinked in surprise. But then you tilted your head in curiosity.
“What does it feel like?”
Instead of answering, he pulled one of your hands away from where it rested on his bicep, taking it in his hold.
His lips brushed across your knuckles briefly before drawing one fingertip past his lips. The sensation of a warm, slow and gentle pull of suction surrounded the digit, making you gasp. He released your finger just as slowly as he’d brought it to his lips, tongue lightly flicking across the pad of it as he did so.
“Like that.”
You were positive you’d gone utterly breathless.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” he smirked.
The discomfort had begun to ebb, your body adjusting to the new intrusion. You shifted slightly, impatience setting in.
“Okay,” you nodded, giving him the go ahead.
You were surprised at how gentle he was the first few times as he eased out and re-entered you. It was such an odd sensation, being so full in an area you’d never experienced such a thing—but it wasn’t unpleasant.
He groaned as he moved.
“Gods, you’re tight.”
The slow drag of his cock against your walls had you gasping, gripping his biceps harder. The discomfort had completely faded—had blossomed into something warmer and much more pleasant.
Then your next issue was you had no idea what to do.
Though he felt the way your body had relaxed, he also quite likely sensed what was running through your mind—the nature of your anxious, uncertain thoughts.
“Don’t overthink it,” he uttered against your mouth.
Which was easier said than done.
But as he kissed you, slow and gentle thrusts into you accompanying his kiss, you found your body taking care of that worry, taking over for you. As your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer to you to kiss him harder, your body shifted, clearly growing impatient.
The tiny movement provided extra friction as he moved, hips speeding up the slightest. You moaned against his mouth, fingers curling even tighter into his locks, hips experimenting again.
A small rock of them had him groaning, breaking the kiss.
“There you go,” he murmured around another groan.
His hips pulled back and thrust forward again, a little faster with a tad more power. You were still feeling the overpowering pressure, that fullness of him filling every inch of you, but your lashes fluttered, starting to enjoy it.
“Gods, you—”
He growled lowly, clearly trying to hold back as he moved forward again repeatedly, head dropping towards you, a strand of his hair falling along the side of his face.
But you didn’t want him to be careful with you.
“More.”
His head lifted, gauging if you truly meant the command. Your body felt warm, tingly, the sensations pleasurable. But despite whatever you tried to do, it didn’t seem to satiate you enough.
Since you were still so unfamiliar with the act, you were more than content to let him take the lead.
The hand not braced by your head slid down your side, sliding under your hips once again, hand splayed across your backside as he shifted you again.
The way it gripped your ass—quite cheekily, you might add—made you moan as his hips thrust forward again. He was deeper, the angle different from before and you were definitely beginning to see why people raved about the act.
His own moan of pleasure ignited the fire in you and your eyes fell closed as you did nothing but let the incredible feelings—ones you weren’t sure you could even describe—sweep you away. With your eyes shut, you didn’t see his approach, but you felt his lips close over yours, capturing them with his and you groaned, automatically kissing him back.
Your hands slid down the length of his back, feeling the way the muscles shifted and moved as he thrust repeatedly into you.
You felt his groan against your lips, the way strands of his hair fell to your bare skin, brushing it as he moved over you. Your body completely relented to him, giving over to the pleasure that was unlike anything you could’ve imagined.
Then his lips were moving beyond yours, attaching to every inch of skin in his reach he could. They left hot kisses against your jaw, down your throat, nipped harshly at your collarbone.
You were so close to him, hard muscles pressed against your soft skin and it was driving you wild. You needed more and more and more.
You had the sneaking suspicion that this was only a fraction of what he was capable of, but you swore you still saw stars as his pace sped up, cock hitting spots within you that you’d never imagined could exist.
If it could always feel this good, you never wanted it to end.
You heard a low grunt come from his deep in his throat as your body finally rejoined his movements, needing more of something—though you couldn’t pinpoint what. His head dipped, mouth coming to one of your breasts.
“Eris,” you gasped, arching into him.
He was slowly driving you mad with each and every movement. He timed every thrust of his cock perfectly to the flick of his tongue over your nipple. You felt your own body inadvertently react to him, inner walls tightening around him.
“Fuck,” he groaned, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled your hips to meet his.
You’d never heard him sound so utterly undone and it made you spiral, lose all sense of your mind as your fingers dug into his back. You felt the sensations of the pleasure and was clearly enjoying it, but thought it was odd that you weren’t feeling the building of it like you had earlier, when his tongue had been between your legs.
He was cursing again, the sentiments falling from his lips repeatedly. You could feel his body tensing underneath your touch, a low groan falling from his lips as he stilled.
Then you felt warmth, slick on your thighs and it was over.
You blinked, coming back to reality, not sure if you were disappointed or not. It hadn’t been awful but it hadn’t really been quite what you’d expected either.
Your heart was still racing though, breathless from exertion as he finally moved again, pulling out of you gingerly. Which was a blessing because suddenly it hit just how sore you were.
It was quiet as he sat back, detangling himself from you and you lay there, peering at him, unsure what you should even say. You watched as he stood, bending for his pants. As he pulled them on, he peered over his shoulder at you, as if assessing your state after such a life altering event. You had sat up by this point—sheets pooling at your waist—and those eyes roved every inch, as if just to make sure you were alright.
“Expect some soreness tomorrow,” Eris murmured, a cocky upturn of his lips accompanying his remark.
You rolled your eyes, mumbling under your breath.
“Cocky bastard.”
When it fell silent again you knew at the very least you should thank him. He had actually come through with his end of the bargain and helped you.
You had no idea what possessed you to do it when you stuck your hand out to him.
Eris turned around to face you fully, still shirtless—with said shirt dangling from one hand—brows high. You didn’t balk, even if you cringed internally at your action. But truly, what did one do in this situation anyway?
You pushed your hand out further, refusing to let him dismiss you.
“Thank you,” you said pointedly.
His lips twitched, amusement evident on his face.
“Can’t say I’ve ever had anyone thank me for fucking them with a handshake before.”
You were about ready to drop your hand when he reached out, sliding his own into yours, giving it a firm shake. But before he let go, his thumb brushed your wrist once and your eyes dropped to the black as night ink still present on your skin.
“Why is it still there?” you scowled.
“Because it’ll only disappear after I’ve called in my favor. Not a moment sooner.”
You huffed, pulling the covers up over your bare chest to chase away the chill, looking up at him as he finally pulled his shirt on, buttoning it up.
“And that will be when?”
“Soon, dove. When the moment’s right.”
He gave you a wink and winnowed away before you could even question what his vague, cryptic remark meant. In turn, you were left staring at the space where he'd just been standing, long after he’d left. Swirling thoughts and emotions warred within you, along with the knowledge of an unfulfilled bargain that would remain a secret.
Until whenever Eris Vanserra decided to call in his favor.
Warnings: Nothing crazy, reader is chronically ill but I didn’t go into too much depth on a diagnosis
SS: Thank you so much for requesting this!! As a chronically ill girly and made my heart warm to write this! Forever wishing for a man to treat me with this much care ahhh. Also it wont let me respond to the request so im so sorry
Basgiath never cared that your body betrayed you.
The stone steps were still unforgiving, the early mornings still bit with cold, and the Rider’s Quadrant still demanded everything you had—even on the days when everything was already gone.
You learned quickly how to hide it.
The tremor in your hands before mount, the way your vision blurred at the edges during drills, the bone-deep ache that no amount of sleep ever touched. You learned how to grit your teeth, straighten your spine, and tell yourself just one more hour until it became a mantra etched into your ribs.
Garrick noticed anyway.
He always did.
It was small things at first. The way his eyes lingered when you swayed slightly after dismounting. How he wordlessly shifted closer during formation, just enough that if you fell, you’d fall into him instead of the ground. The way he started walking on your bad side without ever mentioning it.
“You’re pushing too hard,” he murmured one night, falling into step beside you as you crossed the courtyard. His voice was gentle, but his jaw was tight.
“I’m a rider,” you said automatically. “That’s kind of the point.”
He huffed out a quiet breath. “You’re allowed to be a person too.”
You stopped walking.
The ache in your joints had been screaming all day, your head pounding like a drum, and suddenly the weight of pretending felt heavier than your flight gear. “Basgiath doesn’t allow that,” you said softly.
Garrick turned to face you fully then, blue eyes dark in the torchlight. “I do.”
Something in his expression—steady, certain—made your chest ache worse than the illness ever could.
The bad days didn’t announce themselves. They never did. One morning you woke up already exhausted, limbs heavy, magic sluggish beneath your skin. By midday, you were shaking, breath shallow, vision tunneling as you forced yourself through combat drills.
You didn’t hear Garrick shout your name until the ground rushed up to meet you.
When you came to, you were in the infirmary, sunlight slanting through the windows. Pain pulsed dully behind your eyes, but it was the weight on your hand that anchored you.
Garrick sat beside the bed, fingers curled tightly around yours like he was afraid you might disappear.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said quietly, voice rough.
You swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head immediately. “Don’t.” His grip tightened—warm, solid. “You don’t owe anyone apologies for surviving.”
Tears pricked your eyes despite your best efforts. “I hate this,” you whispered. “I hate that I’m weak.”
“You’re not weak,” he said, fierce now. “You’re fighting a war inside your own body and still showing up every damn day. That’s not weakness—that’s terrifying strength.”
You turned your head slightly, blinking hard. “What if one day I can’t?”
Garrick leaned forward, forehead resting against yours. “Then I’ll be there. If you stumble, I catch you. If you fall, I carry you. If Basgiath tries to break you—” His voice softened. “—it’ll have to go through me first.”
The illness didn’t disappear. Basgiath didn’t grow kinder.
But Garrick became your constant.
He learned the signs—the way your shoulders stiffened before the pain spiked, how you went quiet when the exhaustion hit hard. He brought you water without asking, shielded you from extra drills when he could, and reminded you—over and over—that rest wasn’t failure.
Some nights, when the ache kept you awake, he’d sit beside you on the barracks steps, shoulder pressed to yours, saying nothing at all. Just existing. Just staying.
And in a place that demanded you be unbreakable, Garrick Tavis loved you in all the places you weren’t.
reader likes xaden but so does violet and reader thinks violet and xaden look good together so reader pulls away from xaden to give them space. but obviously xaden likes reader so chases after her while she’s oblivious and thinks he likes her as a friend and wants violet instead
i adore your writing so much and i look forward to reading them all 💕💕
Chasing Shadows
Xaden Riorson x Reader
Warnings: Nothing really, just a little self doubt and some fluffy kissing and some teasing at the end
SS: Thank you for requesting this i had so much fun writing it, its not fully edited so if there are random spaces or something don’t come for me, your girl is going through it this month
You started pulling away quietly.
No dramatic confrontation. No tears. Just small things—standing a little farther back during briefings, choosing a different seat in the commons, leaving training early when Xaden lingered too long. You told yourself it was mature. Selfless. The right thing.
Because Violet Sorrengail fit him.
She challenged him. Matched his sharp tongue with sharper wit. When they stood together—her silver hair catching the sun, his shadows curling lazily at his heels—they looked like something out of a war ballad. Dangerous. Inevitable.
And you were… you.
So you stepped aside.
Xaden noticed immediately.
At first, he thought you were busy. Then irritated. Then avoiding him outright.
“Have I done something?” he asked one evening, falling into step beside you as you crossed the courtyard.
You blinked, genuinely surprised. “What? No. Why would you think that?”
Because you don’t look at me anymore, he didn’t say. Because you flinch when I touch you. Because you used to seek me out and now you disappear like smoke.
Instead, he shrugged. “You’ve been distant.”
You smiled—soft, careful. “Just giving you space.”
Space.
The word lodged in his chest like a blade.
From then on, Xaden started paying attention. To how your eyes followed Violet when she laughed with him. To how you gently nudged him toward her during group conversations. To how you always found a reason to leave when the three of you were alone.
And gods help him, the realization hit him all at once.
You thought he wanted her.
Meanwhile, you were oblivious to the way Xaden’s patience frayed.
He intercepted you outside the sparring ring days later, shadows snapping tight around his shoulders. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?” you asked, confused.
“Pushing me toward Violet.”
Your brows knit together. “I’m not pushing you. I just—” You hesitated, then offered a small, sad smile. “You two make sense.”
Silence.
Then, very quietly, “Is that what you think?”
You nodded. “She’s incredible. And you—well. Obviously.”
Obviously.
Xaden laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You think I’ve been chasing you all this time as a friend?”
Your heart stuttered. “Xaden, I know you care about me, but—”
He stepped closer, close enough that his shadows curled around your ankles, warm and familiar. “I don’t care about you like that.”
Your breath caught.
“I care about Violet as an ally,” he continued. “As someone I respect. But you?” His voice dropped. “You’re the one I look for in every room. You’re the one I lose sleep over.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“I don’t need space from you,” he said softly. “I need you to stop deciding what I want for me.”
The world felt unsteady beneath your feet.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Xaden’s mouth tilted—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “Yeah. Oh.”
⸻
The training hall was quiet, save for the soft echo of your boots against polished wood. Moonlight spilled through the high windows, cutting lines across the floor, and Xaden was already there—shadowed and leaning against a beam, waiting.
“You’re late,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he’d been expecting you.
“I’m not late,” you shot back, a grin tugging at your lips despite the tension coiling in your chest. “I’m… fashionably early. For myself.”
Xaden chuckled, stepping closer, shadows flicking over the floor as if they were mirroring his mood. “Right. That’s what the cool, collected, selfless type says when they’re running from me.”
You froze for a fraction of a second, then laughed, but it was tight. “Me? Running from you? Please, I’m not scared of you.”
“Oh, I know.” His tone was teasing, but there was heat behind it, and you felt it prick your skin. “You’re scared of yourself. Scared of what happens when you stop pretending Violet’s the one I want.”
You swallowed, heart thundering. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Xaden smirked, tilting his head, shadows rippling over his shoulders. “Don’t play dumb with me. You’ve been dodging me for weeks. And yet here you are, standing in front of me, sparring gear and all. Maybe you finally decided you can’t resist me either.”
You jabbed a punch his way—light, playful—but he caught it easily, just barely, letting his thumb brush against your wrist.
“You’re testing me,” he murmured. “Do you always pick fights with people who like you?”
“Maybe,” you said, feigning casual, but your chest was tight. “Maybe I like to annoy people who think they own my attention.”
Xaden’s laugh was low, dark, teasing—but there was a dangerous edge. “I think you mean people who actually own it.”
And just like that, all pretense shattered.
The fight escalated—hands brushing, jabs and kicks more real than before, each contact charged with something neither of you could—or wanted to—deny. Every time your shadow flicked against his, it was a reminder that you were both dancing around the same fire.
Then he lunged, faster than you expected, and you stumbled back, bumping into him. Breath caught. Eyes locked. And he leaned just close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, voice low, teasing, but his fingers curled around your wrist again. “Do you always fight like this, or is it only me?”
You smirked, trying to play it cool. “Only you. You’re special.”
His shadows flickered across the floor like they were laughing. “Special enough for me to not let you pull away again. Understand?”
Your pulse thundered. “Fine,” you whispered, voice almost lost in the space between you. “But only because you asked nicely.”
Then he leaned in—and finally, the kiss.
It started slow, testing, almost cautious, like he was making sure you wanted it as much as he did. But the fire didn’t take long to build. Shadows surged around you both, wrapping you in heat and secrecy as his hands moved from your wrists to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
You tangled your hands in his hair, tugging him closer, and the world outside the training hall ceased to exist. There were no other people, no obligations—just the two of you, every ounce of tension, longing, and unspoken words pouring into the kiss.
When he finally broke away, foreheads resting together, breath mingling, both of you were smiling—messy, stunned, and completely undone.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” you whispered.
He smirked, dark and satisfied. “You have no idea.”
⸻
The moonlight had shifted when you finally stepped back, both of you breathing hard, hearts hammering. Your hands still tingled where his had been, and you realized you were a little too aware of how close he was—how impossibly close he could get and make it feel like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.
“Wow,” you muttered, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. “That… uh… wasn’t awkward at all.”
Xaden raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Awkward? Really?” He tilted his head, dark shadows brushing the floor toward you like they were reaching out. “Because from where I’m standing, that was absolutely perfect.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to mask the shiver that ran through you. “Right. Perfect. Totally… not me melting into your chest like a complete fool.”
“Mm, I noticed,” he said, stepping closer, making the space between you almost unbearable. “And don’t think I didn’t enjoy the way you grabbed me like you were claiming me for yourself.”
You froze for half a second before smirking. “Claiming? Sounds dramatic. Maybe I just… like winning.”
Xaden laughed low, dark, a sound that made your stomach twist in all the right ways. “You always have to tease me, huh?”
“You always have to make me chase you,” you shot back, grinning despite yourself.
He leaned in, just close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath on your face. “Chasing me? Oh, no, I’ve been chasing you this whole time. You just didn’t notice.”
Your heart lurched, and you stepped back slightly—but not enough to escape. Your laughter was nervous, breathless. “Well, maybe I like being chased.”
His grin was maddening. “Good. Because I plan on making sure you never get away again.”
You couldn’t stop yourself from stepping closer, shadows wrapping around both of you like protective arms. “You sure about that?”
“I’m positive,” he said, eyes dark, fingers brushing the curve of your jaw. “Because the moment you even think about pulling away… I’m right here. Every time. And you know it.”
You let out a soft laugh, leaning your forehead against his. “I think I might start enjoying this… being claimed thing.”
He smirked, dark and slow. “Oh, trust me, you will.”
And even though the training hall was empty, the moonlight casting long, quiet shadows around you, it didn’t matter. You were tangled up in each other, teasing, laughing, almost touching again and again, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like you didn’t have to step aside for anyone—not Violet, not anyone—because Xaden had made it painfully, wonderfully clear: he wanted you.
Warning: Angst, feelings of neglect, past trauma coming up and the reader just being a sweet baby that doesn’t deserve pain
SS: I am currently going through a horrible break up so take this angst sad lil number as its all my brain can come up with, i tried to make it a lil fluffy at the end but nobody come a me, I will cry :(
Also i plan on turning this into a series cause i do love violet and Xaden, i just crave for Xaden to be loved without having a bond or a deal influencing it
Ophelia hears it on accident.
She isn’t meant to be lingering near the sparring mat, sweat still cooling on her skin, when a group of cadets passes too close—voices careless, loud in the way people get when they think no one important is listening.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” one of them says. “Once Sorrengail and Tairn bond grows stronger, Riorson won’t stick with her.”
Another laughs. “Please. She was always temporary. No one competes with a bond like that.”
Temporary.
The word hits harder than any blade ever has.
Ophelia doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. She just stands there while the sound of their footsteps fades, the world narrowing until all she can hear is the echo of that one word pounding against her ribs.
Because the worst part is that she knows how bonds work. She knows destiny doesn’t ask permission. And she knows how easily something good can be taken away when something stronger comes along.
She walks back to the barracks on instinct alone, posture perfect, expression neutral. No one notices the exact moment she starts to disappear.
⸻
That night, she lies awake staring at the ceiling, Xaden’s absence heavier than his presence ever is.
She thinks of the way his shadows always find her first.
The way his voice drops when he says her name.
The way he chose her when nothing—no prophecy, no dragon—forced his hand.
And still, fear coils tight in her chest.
Violet didn’t choose Tairn either.
And destiny has never cared about what Ophelia wants.
She presses her fist to her mouth to smother the sound that tries to escape.
If it’s inevitable, she thinks, then I should be ready.
So she makes herself small.
Not weak—never weak—but quieter. Careful.
She stops sitting with the Marked Ones. Stops lingering near Xaden during meals. When his hand brushes hers, she steps away before he can close the distance. When he looks at her, searching, she looks past him instead.
Every smile from him feels like something borrowed. Every moment like stolen time she’ll have to return.
The guilt is worse than the fear.
Because Xaden hasn’t done anything wrong.
And yet every time she looks at him, all she can think is: you’re already halfway gone.
⸻
By the second day, the exhaustion sets in.
Not physical—emotional. Bone-deep.
It takes effort to keep the walls up, to train like nothing is wrong while her chest aches with something close to grief. Isolation sinks its teeth in when the barracks quiet at night, and the thoughts spiral freely:
What if he already feels it?
What if I was just comfort until something stronger came along?
What if I was never meant to last?
That last thought hurts the most.
Because it feels familiar.
⸻
Xaden notices too late.
At first, he thinks she needs space. He gives it—because he respects her, because he trusts her. But by the third day, it gnaws at him. Ophelia doesn’t look at him the same way. There’s something guarded in her eyes, something resigned, like she’s already mourning something that hasn’t happened yet.
That night, he stops her outside the barracks.
“Ophelia,” he says quietly. “What’s wrong?”
She almost doesn’t turn around.
Almost.
When she does, the concern on his face fractures something inside her.
“I heard them,” she says, voice distant even to herself. “Talking about Violet. About Tairn. About how you’ll leave once the bond settles.”
She laughs once, hollow. “I figured they were probably right.”
Xaden goes still.
“So I thought I’d make it easier,” she continues, because stopping now would mean looking at him. “If I didn’t need you, it wouldn’t hurt when it happened.”
She finally meets his eyes.
There’s devastation there.
“You think I’d discard you?” he asks quietly.
She shrugs, small and defeated. “I think bonds don’t ask for permission. And I think people like me don’t usually win against them.”
That’s when he pulls her in—firm, grounding, arms wrapping around her like she might vanish if he doesn’t hold her tightly enough.
“You don’t get to decide my feelings for me,” he murmurs. “And you don’t get to erase yourself because other people are cruel.”
Her chest caves in.
“I was so tired,” she admits. “Of waiting to be replaced.”
His shadows curl around them, instinctive, protective.
“You weren’t waiting to be replaced,” he says. “You were waiting for me to notice you were hurting. And I should have sooner.”
She breaks then—quietly, completely—grief spilling out as he holds her together with steady hands and softer words.
“I only have eyes for you,” he repeats, until the words start to sink in. “No bond changes that. No dragon decides who I love.”
⸻
Later, they sit near the parapet, the wind sharp against their skin. Ophelia’s knees are pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Xaden says gently. “But this… it wasn’t just about Violet.”
Ophelia exhales slowly.
“I learned early,” she says, staring out into the dark, “that people don’t stay.”
Her mother died when she was young—no heroics, no meaning. Just gone. Everyone praised her strength for surviving it. No one asked if she wanted to be strong.
Her father remarried. And then learned how to forget her—not cruelly, just gradually. Like she took up less space each year until she was easy to overlook.
“So I learned,” Ophelia says softly. “How to be quiet. Useful. Easy to leave.”
She finally looks at him.
“And then there was you. You chose me without obligation. And that terrified me.”
Because if he chose her freely, he could leave her freely too.
“When I heard them talking,” she whispers, “it felt familiar. Like proof that I’d been foolish to believe I could keep something good.”
Xaden kneels in front of her, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“You were never easy to forget,” he says. “You don’t disappear because destiny gets loud. And you don’t have to make yourself smaller to deserve staying.”
He cups her face, reverent.
“I know what it’s like to expect loss,” he admits. “But I don’t love you the way the world loved you.”
His forehead rests against hers.
“I stay,” he says. “Even when it’s hard. Even when bonds complicate things. Even when fear tells you to run.”
For the first time, Ophelia doesn’t brace for the moment it will end.
She lets herself be held.
And for once, she believes she might be chosen—again and again.
ss: im hoping to get back in the swing of writing and who better to get it back then my favourite rider! ALSO why have i been spelling graycastle wrong and nobody called me out by it??
You didn’t mean to find out like this.
It was supposed to be another brutal afternoon of drills, Garrick barking orders, the squad half-dead on their feet. You were wiping sweat from your brow when Ridoc laughed too loudly, clapping Aaric on the shoulder.
“Careful, Prince Cam. Wouldn’t want you breaking a nail.”
The world tilted.
Silence followed. Heavy. Expectant.
Your gaze snapped to Aaric. He went still in a way you’d only ever seen before battle, jaw tightening, eyes hard. Around you, the squad shifted, awkward and guilty and very, very aware.
Prince.
Cam.
The room roared back to life all at once, but you couldn’t hear it anymore. You couldn’t hear anything past the pounding in your ears.
You left without a word.
—
He found you that night.
Of course he did.
Your door creaked open quietly, like he was afraid you’d shatter if he breathed too loud. You didn’t turn around. You sat on the edge of your bed, arms crossed tight over your chest, staring at the wall like it had personally betrayed you too.
“So,” you said flatly. “How long were you planning on letting me be the idiot?”
“Don’t,” Aaric said, voice rough. “Please don’t do that.”
You laughed, sharp and humorless. “Do what? React to finding out the man I’ve been sleeping with, bleeding beside, trusting with my life is actually a prince?”
He flinched.
“That everyone else knew,” you added, finally turning to face him. Your eyes burned. “Everyone except me.”
“I never wanted you to find out like that,” he said immediately. He stepped closer, then stopped, like he didn’t know if he was still allowed. “I was going to tell you.”
“When?” you snapped. “After I fell harder? After I couldn’t walk away?”
His mouth opened. Closed.
That silence hurt more than anything else.
“You let me believe I knew you,” you whispered. “You let me think what we have—whatever this is—was honest.”
“It is,” he said, desperation breaking through his controlled exterior. “Gods, it is. With you, it’s the only thing that’s ever felt real.”
You stood, shaking. “Real doesn’t come with secrets like that, Aaric.”
“Cam,” he corrected softly, then swallowed. “Cam when it matters.”
Your chest ached. “You didn’t think it mattered to me?”
He crossed the room then, unable to stay away anymore. “I didn’t tell you because I was terrified it would change the way you look at me.”
Tears stung your eyes, and you hated that he could still do this to you. “You took that choice from me.”
“I know,” he said hoarsely. “And I hate myself for it.”
He dropped to his knees in front of you.
Aaric Greycastle—Prince Cam—kneeling.
“I’ve spent my whole life being something people project onto,” he said, voice breaking. “A title. A future. A crown I never asked for. You were the first person who looked at me like I was just… me.”
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
“I didn’t want to lose that,” he continued. “I didn’t want to lose you.”
You looked down at him, anger and longing warring in your chest. “So you lied.”
“I withheld,” he said quietly. “And I know that doesn’t make it better.”
His hands hovered near your knees, not touching. “But everything else was real. Every laugh. Every night we spent tangled together. Every time I chose you in a fight. I’m in love with you.”
The words hit like a blade between your ribs.
“I didn’t plan it,” he rushed on, eyes shining. “I didn’t want it, because loving you means you have the power to destroy me. And right now? You’re doing a damn good
ss: i’m so sorry this was supposed to be out last thursday but i got so sick and didn’t have it in me to finish it.
Garrick Tavis prided himself on being observant.
Battle strategies. Enemy weaknesses. The exact second Ridoc was about to say something stupid. He noticed everything.
Except, apparently, you.
You lounged across the commons bench like you owned it, boots on the table, dagger spinning lazily between your fingers. “Gar,” you said sweetly, eyes flicking up to him, “you gonna keep brooding over there or come sit with the fun people?”
Ridoc snorted. “Careful. If you flirt with him any harder, he might short-circuit.”
You grinned, sharp and wicked. “Please. I flirt like this with everyone.”
That was Garrick’s problem.
You did flirt with everyone. Shamelessly. Casually. Like it was a sport and you were going for a record. You winked at first-years, threw innuendos at professors when they weren’t looking, and once told Bodhi his arms were “tragically distracting.”
So obviously, Garrick told himself, the way you leaned into his space was meaningless. The way your voice dropped when you said his name. The way you never actually touched anyone else but somehow always found excuses to grab his sleeve, his shoulder, his wrist.
Meaningless.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” he muttered, stacking reports with more force than necessary.
You leaned closer instead. “Wow. Kicking me out already? I thought we had something special.”
Ridoc’s eyebrows climbed. “You two are exhausting.”
“Leave,” Garrick and you said at the same time.
Ridoc pointed between you. “You’re both idiots.” Then he left, laughing.
Silence fell—thick, charged, buzzing like a drawn bowstring.
You tilted your head, studying Garrick like a puzzle you’d almost solved. “You know,” you said lightly, “for someone who thinks I flirt with everyone, you get real tense about it.”
“I don’t,” he replied instantly.
You hummed. “Liar.”
He finally looked at you then, really looked. The smirk was there, familiar and infuriating, but your eyes were sharper than usual. Focused. On him.
“You’ve never once told me to stop,” you said. “Not when I sit too close. Not when I tease you. Not when I make it painfully obvious I like you.”
His brain snagged on that last word.
“…You what?”
You sighed, dramatic. “Gods, you really are oblivious.”
Then you stood, closed the last inch between you, and did the one thing Garrick had never prepared for.
You grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.
Not gentle. Not hesitant. A confident, reckless kiss that stole his breath and all of his carefully built assumptions. His hands froze at his sides, mind blank, heart slamming.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Oh,” you said, amused. “That explains a lot.”
Garrick stared at you, wide-eyed.
“Oh,” he echoed faintly.
Then, louder, dawning. “OHH.”
You laughed, bright and delighted, and kissed him again—slower this time, like you knew exactly what you were doing.
When you finally stepped back, Garrick was still processing, cheeks flushed, expression stunned.
“So,” you said, rocking back on your heels. “Still think I flirt with everyone the same way?”
He swallowed. Hard.
“…No.”
You grinned. “Good. Because I don’t share.”
And for the first time, Garrick Tavis realized everyone else had been right all along.
Just wanted to say I really love your writing and I’m so excited to see more💕
I was also wondering if I could request a Garrick fic? Idiots to lovers? Maybe a flirtatious, crude and loveable fem reader (basically female ridoc) and a grumpy oblivious gar? Everyone can see the chemistry but Garrick assumes the reader is flirty with everyone (she is but not to the extent she is with Garrick). The maybe things get a bit heated and reader makes the the first move and gar is like ‘oh OHH’
I’m sorry if it doesnt make much sense but the ideas been floating through my head SO MUCH
All the love and good vibes to you 💙
Ahhhh im sorry i took so long to respond! i took a little break after the 12 days of smutmas but im currently working on this one! I hope it will be done in the next couple of days!!!
Warnings: mentions and allusions to sex and like a teeny tiny bit of angst
ss: Its the last day fo Smutmas!! Happy Smutmas Day 12! Though i will warn you this isn’t as Smutty as the other things i have written but I am so happy how this turned out and it was requested too!
Happy Holidays Yall! 🎄❤️
Basgiath’s New Year’s Eve party was loud. Too loud. Lanterns glowed warmly against the stone walls, cider flowed freely, and laughter ricocheted around every corner. Mira Sorrengail stood beside you, offering another cup of something potent with a smile that made your stomach twist.
“Just one more,” she said, fingers brushing yours as she handed it over.
You should’ve said no. Instead, you drank.
The alcohol loosened more than just your tongue. It pulled out months, maybe years, of feelings neither of you had admitted. Her arm rested casually on your shoulders, thumb brushing circles against your arm, and every spark of contact sent a jolt straight to your chest.
You’d never thought of yourself like this—never looked at women and wanted—but standing here, pressed to Mira’s side, her scent warm and intoxicating, you realized some truths couldn’t be ignored.
“Are you okay?” she asked, voice low and intimate, close enough for your breath to mingle.
“Yeah… just warm,” you admitted.
Her gaze lingered on your mouth, a heartbeat too long, before it fell to your eyes. “I’ve felt like this before,” she whispered. “Confused… wanting something I don’t know how to name.”
Your heart leapt. “I… I think I want you.”
Her eyes widened for the briefest moment, then her lips curved into a soft, nervous smile. “I’ve never—well, never wanted a woman before. But I want you.”
The truth landed like fire, and when you stepped closer, Mira didn’t hesitate. She took your hand. Not a friendly touch. Not casual. Intentional.
The first kiss was hesitant, exploratory, like both of you were learning a language you’d always known but never spoken. Then it deepened, urgent and hungry, spilling over with months of restraint and unsaid words. Her hands moved to your waist, steady and grounding, and when you responded, clutching her jacket, you realized neither of you wanted to stop.
“You’re shaking,” she murmured against your lips.
“So are you,” you admitted, and it made her laugh—soft, breathless, vulnerable.
She guided you down a quiet corridor, away from the party’s chaos, until you reached her room. The door closed softly behind you, and suddenly the air thickened with all the tension, longing, and discovery you’d been denying.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Her hands hovered uncertainly.
“You okay?” she asked, voice almost breaking.
“I just… don’t want this to feel rushed,” you whispered. “Or wrong.”
“Nothing about this feels wrong,” she replied. “But I want to do this right.”
Her fingers brushed your waist, tentative at first, then firmer, pulling you close. The kiss she gave you then was different—slow, deliberate, reverent. She explored every reaction, memorizing every soft sound and gasp, every shiver of your body.
When she guided you onto the bed, it felt like trust—like choosing something honest after years of silence. Her hands and lips remained patient, gentle but searching, discovering each other with the intensity of first-time desire. Each whispered confession, each laugh that melted into heat, each brush of skin against skin brought you closer to something neither of you could name yet: completeness.
Hours passed in a quiet, intimate rhythm, broken only by shared laughter, whispered reassurances, and the slow learning of each other’s boundaries. You fell asleep tangled together, Mira holding you like letting go wasn’t an option.
Morning came harsh and pale. Sunlight crept through the window, lifting the fog of alcohol and leaving clarity—and uncertainty.
You became aware of Mira beside you—warm, solid, undeniably real.
Gods… what does this mean?
She stirred, eyes opening and locking on yours. Her breath caught. “Oh.”
“I’m not drunk,” you said softly. “I just… I want you to know I mean everything from last night.”
“Me neither,” Mira admitted, sitting up and rubbing a hand over her face. “Which scares me… because it means it mattered.”
“And I don’t want to pretend it didn’t,” you said.
She exhaled, gaze searching yours. “I won’t pretend. But I don’t know what this changes—what it means for us.”
You swallowed. “We can take time. Figure it out.”
Her hand found yours, squeezing once. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” you whispered. “Even if we don’t have all the answers yet.”
Mira nodded, relief and fear mingling on her face. Outside, the new year had begun, filled with unknowns.
Inside, something quiet, irrevocable, and real had started.
SS: Happy Smutmas Day 11! sorry this one isn't very smutty! I'm on vacation and it’s been hard to make time to sit down and write! but here's our beloved liam!!
Basgiath at Christmas was dangerous.
Not because of the snow frosting the parapets or the cold that crept into stone bones—but because it softened people. Lowered guards. Made hearts louder than reason.
You should have known that standing beside Liam Mairi beneath enchanted lights and pine garlands would undo you.
The common room buzzed with laughter, music, and far too much spiked cider. Someone had convinced Ridoc to hang lights using his signet, and they flickered too brightly, bathing the room in gold. You were laughing—really laughing—at something Liam said when you felt it.
His hand on your waist.
Not brushing. Not accidental.
Just there.
Warm. Familiar. Dangerous.
Your breath caught. Liam felt it immediately. His thumb flexed once before he pulled his hand back like he’d crossed a line he’d sworn never to touch.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t—”
“It’s okay,” you interrupted, heart pounding. “I just… need some air.”
He nodded too fast. “Yeah. Me too.”
Outside, snow fell softly, the courtyard hushed and silvered. You leaned against the stone railing, exhaling, trying to calm the sudden storm inside you.
“You okay?” Liam asked gently.
You laughed under your breath. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “Have you ever felt like you’re standing on the edge of something,” he said slowly, “and one step would change everything?”
Your pulse thundered. “Yes.”
The word felt like a confession.
Snow drifted between you, quiet and endless, and suddenly the past rushed in—
Last winter, night watch together, your fingers numb from cold. Without a word, Liam had slipped his jacket over your shoulders.
“You’ll freeze,” you’d said.
He’d smiled. “Worth it.”
Or the countless nights studying in the archives, when you’d fallen asleep against his shoulder. You’d woken hours later to find him still there, unmoving, his hand hovering just above your arm like touching you might ruin everything.
The time he’d come back injured from sparring—blood at his brow, laughing until he saw you. Then he’d gone quiet, let you clean the wound with shaking hands.
“I hate when you get hurt,” he’d said softly.
You’d thought he meant himself.
Now, standing here, his eyes dark and honest, you realized he’d always meant you.
“I think about you all the time,” Liam said, voice low. “And I keep telling myself it’s just because you’re my best friend. But it’s not.” He swallowed. “It hasn’t been for a long time.”
Your chest ached. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because if I touched you the way I wanted to,” he admitted, thumb brushing your knuckles, “I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to stop. And losing you terrified me more than wanting you.”
You stepped closer, heart in your throat. “Then don’t stop.”
The first kiss was tentative—months of restraint trembling between you. Then something broke.
Liam kissed you like he’d been starving, like every almost had carved itself into him. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding himself as if holding you was the only thing keeping him steady.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers clutching his scarf, pulling him in until there was no space left for doubt.
When his mouth trailed to your jaw, your neck, you gasped—and he froze.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, breath uneven. “And I will.”
You tilted your head, offering more. “I don’t want you to.”
That was it.
He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you inside as if it was instinct, as if he’d imagined it a thousand times. The door shut softly behind you, muting the world. Warm light wrapped around you, shadows dancing across stone walls.
His forehead rested against yours. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”
“Then don’t hold back now,” you whispered.
Familiarity turned electric. Every touch carried history. Laughter tangled with want, whispered names filling the quiet. When he finally held you close, like letting go wasn’t an option anymore, the world felt smaller—and right.
Later, wrapped in warmth and soft light, Liam pressed a kiss to your temple, arm firm around you like a promise.
“I think I loved you long before I understood what it was,” he murmured.
You smiled, heart full. “Good. Because I think I’ve been waiting for you just as long.”
warnings: Use of a toy, garrick being a dom, teasing and praising!
ss: Happy Smutmas Day 10!!! we are almost done, im so glad i challenged myself to do this!
The common room at Basgiath buzzed with noise, warmth, and barely contained chaos. Someone had shoved the couches into a crooked circle, the fire crackling like it was enjoying the spectacle just as much as the riders were. Dragons lounged outside the windows, unimpressed, while inside laughter bounced off the stone walls.
“Secret Santa time!” Ridoc announced, far too pleased with himself.
You were wedged between Rhiannon and Garrick, close enough that your knee brushed his thigh whenever you shifted. He looked relaxed—arms folded, posture easy—but you knew better. Garrick Tavis never missed a thing.
When your name was called, you accepted the small box with a suspicious look. It was heavier than expected.
“If this is another joke—” you warned.
“Oh, it is,” Ridoc said brightly.
You lifted the lid.
For exactly half a second, the room fell silent.
Then it exploded.
Rhiannon gasped. Someone laughed too loudly. Ridoc nearly fell off the couch. Heat rushed to your face as you snapped the lid shut, heart pounding.
“I am going to end whoever—”
“Well,” Garrick said smoothly, dark eyes flicking from the box to your face, “that’s one way to make an impression.”
The laughter continued, but his didn’t sound like the others’. There was something sharper beneath it. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, gaze lingering—not on the gift, but on you.
You felt it then. The shift.
His knee angled closer. His voice dropped when he leaned in. “Didn’t know you were taking suggestions,” he murmured.
“I didn’t ask for that,” you muttered.
“No,” he agreed quietly. “You didn’t.”
The rest of the party passed in noise and chaos, but Garrick’s attention never left you. Every time someone glanced your way, you felt it—his watchfulness, his presence like a steady pressure at your side. By the time the room thinned and you slipped away, your nerves were humming.
You barely made it back to your room before the door closed behind you.
Locked.
The sound was soft. Final.
You turned to find Garrick leaning against it, all humor gone. His focus was unsettling—dark, intent, unwavering.
“You enjoyed that,” he said quietly.
Your pulse jumped. “Enjoyed what?”
“The attention.” He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until your back brushed the desk. “Everyone laughing. Everyone imagining.” His jaw flexed. “Didn’t realize how much I hated it until I couldn’t stop thinking about their eyes on you.”
Your thoughts scattered. “Garrick—”
His hand came up, thumb tilting your chin so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. The touch wasn’t rough—but it wasn’t gentle either. It was claiming.
“No,” he murmured. “You don’t get to pretend you don’t feel it too.”
The air shifted, heavy and charged. His presence crowded yours, making your knees weak and your breathing shallow.
“That gift,” he continued, voice dropping, “doesn’t belong to a joke. And it doesn’t belong to anyone else’s imagination.”
Your breath caught as his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“If you’re going to learn,” he said softly, fingers sliding down your arm—firm, grounding—“you learn with me. You listen to me.”
His mouth hovered near your ear. “You let me show you.”
Something in you gave at the certainty in his tone.
“Still with me?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Good.”
The word settled warm and heavy in your chest. His thumb brushed over your pulse, unhurried, like he was memorizing every reaction. You felt yourself soften—shoulders dropping, thoughts narrowing, awareness centering on him alone.
“You think too much,” Garrick murmured. “I can feel it.”
His other hand came to rest at your waist, anchoring. “I need you right here. Not worrying about what this means. Not about anyone else.”
His eyes darkened. “Just me.”
Your fingers curled into his shirt without thinking.
He smiled slowly, approval unmistakable. “There it is,” he said. “Honest.”
“Good girl.”
The praise sent a shiver through you, deep and unexpected. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, and Garrick noticed—he always noticed.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “You listen so well.”
He guided you back toward the bed, movements measured, controlled, like he had all the time in the world and every intention of using it. When you sat, he stayed close, watching, patient, letting the moment stretch.
He didn’t touch you at first.
Just watched.
“You feel that?” he asked quietly.
You swallowed and nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Means you’re paying attention.”
His hand came to rest on your knee—warm, steady, deliberate. The simple contact made your breath hitch.
“Still breathing,” he noted. “That’s good. I don’t want you rushing ahead of me.”
The words curled low in your stomach. You leaned into his presence without realizing it.
“You don’t have to move,” Garrick murmured. “I’ll take care of that.”
His hand shifted just enough to make anticipation bloom, controlled and maddening. Your thoughts scattered completely now—replaced by sensation, by want, by trust.
“There,” he said softly. “That’s exactly it.”
You gripped the edge of the bed, grounding yourself, feeling exposed and safe all at once.
“You’re doing so well for me,” he continued, voice low and approving. “Letting yourself feel it. Letting me see you.”
He leaned in then—close enough that you could feel his breath, close enough that stopping felt intentional.
“Good girl,” he whispered.
Your breath broke.
Garrick smiled against your skin, slow and satisfied. He pressed his forehead to yours, grounding you once more before guiding you back until the bed shifted beneath your weight.
“I’ve got you,” he said gently, firmly. “I’ll tell you what comes next.”
His hand squeezed once—steady, reassuring, claiming.
And then his voice dropped, promise threading through every word.
warnings: not any really, just more on allusions to smut, and like Brennan praising the reader
ss: Happy Smutmas Day 9! I haven’t written Brennan before so here a little of him, honestly I have no idea what to make of his character in whether he’s actually doing what he says he is or if Rebeca’s gonna make him a villain
Brennan Sorengail hasn’t moved from his desk in hours.
You can tell by the way the candle has burned low beside him, wax pooling thick and uneven, by the papers scattered beneath his hands where he’s rubbed at his eyes one too many times. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, dark hair slipping loose from its tie as the weight of command presses down on him—holiday season or not.
You pause in the doorway, watching him with quiet affection.
He carries so much.
And he never lets himself rest.
So you clear your throat softly.
“Brennan.”
He startles, then exhales when he sees you, the sharp edge of his focus dulling instantly. His gaze softens like it always does when it lands on you—relief threading through the exhaustion.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I know,” you say gently, stepping closer. “You’ve been somewhere else all evening.”
He stands as you approach—instinctive, respectful—and that’s when you let your cloak slip from your shoulders.
The red silk catches the candlelight, soft and sinful against your skin. Brennan freezes, breath hitching before he can stop it. His eyes drag over you slowly, reverently, like he’s afraid one wrong move will break the spell.
“Saints,” he breathes. “You’re… beautiful.”
You smile, pleased, turning just enough to let him really see. “I thought you could use a reminder,” you tease. “That the world isn’t only reports and responsibilities.”
His hands flex at his sides. “You’re very distracting when you want to be.”
“Good.”
You lift the mistletoe above your head, eyes bright. “Holiday rules.”
That earns a quiet laugh—low, breathless—as he steps closer, backing you toward his desk. Papers shift when your hips meet the edge, the solid wood grounding you as Brennan braces one hand beside you, the other settling firmly at your waist.
“Careful,” he murmurs, but there’s no warning in it—only approval. “You keep looking at me like that, and I won’t answer for my decisions.”
His thumbs brush bare skin, slow and intentional, and the heat in his gaze deepens when you inhale sharply.
“Good girl,” he says softly, like it slips out before he can stop himself.
He stills, watching you closely—but when you lean in and whisper, “Don’t stop,” something in him finally gives.
“Maker,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “You have no idea how perfect you are right now. Thoughtful. Patient. Wearing that just for me.”
His lips trail along your jaw, lingering, teasing. “You see how hard I push myself… and instead of asking for more, you give me this.”
He kisses you then—slow, deep, unhurried—but there’s need beneath it, like he’s been holding himself together by sheer will. One hand stays firm at your waist, grounding, while the other grips the desk beside you, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
“You make everything lighter,” he murmurs against your lips. “All the weight. All the noise.”
You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to draw that quiet sound from him again. Brennan groans softly, breath warm against your cheek.
“Saints,” he whispers. “You’re intoxicating.”
You lift the mistletoe once more, teasing. “Still holiday rules.”
His smile is brief—gone the moment he kisses you beneath it, slow and reverent, like he’s savoring something sacred. Praise follows every touch, every murmured word: how beautiful you are, how good you are to him, how he doesn’t need to be strong when you’re here.
When he finally pulls back, eyes dark but gentle, his thumb traces slow circles at your hip.
“Stay,” he says quietly—not a question, but not a command either. “Let me take care of you tonight.”
The candles burn lower. Snow presses against the windows. And inside his quarters, Brennan Sorengail finally lets himself rest—wrapped up in warmth, holly, silk, and you.
warnings: aggressive a little bit of taunting, p in v and getting caught
Word count
An: I couldn’t forget Garrick for the 12 days of smartness. I love this man almost as much as I love Aaric. Happy Smutmas day 8!
Basgiath wasn’t known for its holiday spirit, but apparently even riders had to put up garlands and ribbons when the commandant said so.
Snow dusted the windows of the courtyard, but inside the lower storage room, the air was anything but chilly.
You kicked at a box of wreaths, annoyed. “Why do we have to be the ones doing this?”
Across the room, Garrick dropped a crate of ornaments with a thud. “Because we were the last ones dumb enough to walk past the bulletin board, that’s why.”
You scowled. “I wasn’t dumb, I was hungry. I was going to the dining hall.”
“Well, now you’re going nowhere,” he muttered, tugging at the doorknob again. It didn’t budge. “Great. Fantastic. Locked.”
Your heartbeat jumped. Not because of being stuck. No—because it was him in here with you.
Broad shoulders, tight shirt, sleeves rolled, muscles shifting when he moved.
Annoyingly handsome.
Annoyingly smug.
Annoyingly… everything.
“Did you seriously break the lock?” you asked.
Garrick glared. “No. I closed the door. It locked itself. Some genius made this room spring-latch.”
You crossed your arms. “Guess your genius didn’t extend to checking that first.”
“Bossy?” His voice dropped. “You think I’m bossy?”
“You are.” Your breath hitched. “You’re controlling, Garrick.”
“And you’re driving me insane,” he shot back, eyes darkening. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk to me?”
You swallowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he said, tone low and rough, “every time you argue with me, every time you get in my face like this—”
He grabbed your hips, pulled you flush against him.
“—I have to remind myself not to pin you against the closest wall.”
Heat shot straight through you.
“Garrick—”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Say my name again.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but he kissed you first—hard, hungry, weeks of tension snapping all at once. Your back hit the shelves behind you as he pressed you into them, hands sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist like he’d been holding back far too long.
You tugged him closer, fingers in his hair. “You’re such an ass,” you breathed against his lips.
He laughed—a low, wicked sound. “And you love pushing me to it.”
His mouth trailed down your neck, biting just enough to make your knees weaken. His hands explored—slow at first, then greedier when you arched into him.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice shaking just slightly. “I knew you’d feel good.”
“Then stop talking,” you shot back.
That made him grin—feral, determined.
He spun you around, pinning your hands to the wall, his chest hot against your back.
“Careful what you ask for,” he breathed in your ear. “Because I’m done holding back.”
His hands slid down your hips, guiding you exactly where he wanted you. Your breath came out sharp when you felt him press against you, thick and hard, teasing through your clothes.
“Garrick—please—”
He groaned at the word.
“Say it again.”
“Please.”
He chuckled. “So polite now.”
His fingers worked at your waistband, tugging fabric down with impatient urgency. The cool air of the room hit your skin just before the heat of his hand replaced it.
“You’re already wet,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “You been wanting this?”
You pushed back against him. “Just get inside me.”
That was all it took.
He thrust into you hard enough to knock a box off the shelf. You cried out, gripping the wall for balance as he set a relentless pace—rough, needy, the kind of fucking that came from weeks of frustration and wanting.
“Gods,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew you’d have bruises later. “Look at you… taking me so well.”
Your moan echoed in the small room. He smirked, thrusting deeper.
“You like being fucked while you’re mad at me?” he rasped. “Or is this why you argue—you want me to lose control?”
“Sh-shut up—”
He grabbed your jaw, turning your head just enough for you to feel his breath on your lips. “You don’t get to tell me to shut up when you’re clenching around me like that.”
Your legs trembled.
“Garrick—”
“Come for me,” he ordered, voice rough silk. “Right now.”
And you did—hard, loud, shaking apart under him.
He groaned, thrusting through it until he came with a low, guttural sound against your shoulder.
For a long moment, the room was silent except for your breathing.
He finally pulled back, hands still on your hips, steadying you.
“So,” he said, chest still heaving, “decorations can wait.”
You turned to glare at him—though it was completely ruined by the fact you were still breathless.
“Shut up.”
He grinned. “Make me.”
You were still trying to catch your breath, still pressed against the shelf with your clothes half-straightened, when Garrick finally stepped back and tugged his shirt down. His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed, and he looked way too pleased with himself.
“Think anyone heard us?” you whispered, fixing your pants with still-shaking hands.
Garrick smirked. “Not if they’re deaf.”
Before you could smack him, the doorknob rattled sharply.
Your stomach dropped.
Garrick stiffened.
You both stared at the door like it was a hostile drake about to burst through.
A second later, it swung open.
And there, standing in the hallway, arms crossed, unimpressed as hell—
Rhiannon.
Her gaze flicked from your flushed face…
to Garrick’s swollen lips…
to your wrinkled clothes…
to the box of ornaments on the floor…
and then back to the two of you.
“Oh,” she said flatly. “So that’s why it took you twenty minutes to hang one garland.”
You wanted the Mother to strike you dead on the spot.
Garrick cleared his throat, trying and failing to look dignified. “The door locked.”
“Uh-huh.” Rhiannon’s eyebrow arched so high it was practically on her hairline. “And the only way to pass the time was to—what—reorganize each other’s internal organs?”
“Rhiannon—” you hissed, face burning.
“I mean,” she continued, completely unfazed, “if you two were going to sneak away for a quickie, at least use an upper-level room. These walls echo.”
Garrick groaned under his breath. “Fuck.”
“Oh, you already did,” she said sweetly. “I heard.”
You covered your face with both hands. “You did NOT.”
“Oh, I did,” she said. “Everyone within twenty feet did. I came down here to make sure you weren’t fighting.”
A pause.
“Turns out you were. Just… not with your fists.”
Garrick muttered something that sounded suspiciously like we’re never living this down.
Rhiannon stepped aside, gesturing gracefully toward the hallway. “Well. Lovers. If you’re done… decorating…”
You wanted to crawl into a storage crate and die.
Garrick placed a hand on the small of your back as he walked you out, trying to be subtle but failing miserably when Rhiannon snorted.
“You two owe me,” she said. “At least finish the tree.”
Garrick looked at you, eyes dark with a promise that made you clench all over again.
“Sure,” he said. “We’ll finish it.”
Rhiannon pointed at him. “With ornaments. Not each other.”
You elbowed him before he could say something cocky.
But his smirk told you exactly what he was thinking:
He fully intended to get you alone again.
And next time, he wasn’t planning on stopping just because someone knocked
