hornybeach1

if you ask, i’ll send what i can do :)

[pennylanefics]

Apologies | D.D.L

A/N: i finally wrote something!!! i apologize for my lack of fics, i've been so unmotivated and unable to write anything, it's so bad. i've been reading a lot more and have spent most of my time doing that, but i put the books down and got this out!

summary: everyone asked for a part 2 to overheard, so here it is! i'm tagging everyone that commented and asked for a second part

word count: ~1.6k

warnings: recalling of asshole friends, mentions of issues with intimacy and sex

“I can’t fucking believe you guys! Do you know she was in tears last night?!”

What you thought was going to be a peaceful, relaxing morning with your lover turned out to be a whole lot more than you were hoping for. True to his word, Dean wasn’t beside you in bed, but he was instead downstairs shouting at his friends for the events that transpired when he was gone last night.

You could faintly hear the other voices of his three friends and teammates attempting to explain their side of things. Which he wasn’t having. Quietly, you trek out of his bedroom and take a seat at the top of the stairs, the same spot that you sat in the previous night when you heard his friends shitting on you.

“Listen, I don’t know what the fuck you guys were on last night and I don’t know all of what was said, or how things were said, but she was going to walk out on our relationship to save my friendship with you dickheads.”

“We were just saying she’s always around, and-”

“She’s my girlfriend! Of course she’s going to be around. And she said you guys brought up Allie, which is a while new level of fucked up. What were you fucking thinking?”

“We weren’t,” you hear Tucker state flatly, clearly the only one who appears to be remorseful of what happened. “It was stupid.”

“It was far from stupid! It’s uncalled for! For fuck sake, you made her believe that she’s not worthy of being with me simply because my ex and I fucked all the time. People can change, I love her for her. Sure, things with Allie were fun, but they started out as strictly sex so I fell for her in a different way. With (Y/N), I fell in love with her organically, in a way that allowed me to see her in a deeper sense than just sex. So if you think that’s dumb of me, fine. Take it out on me, mess with me about it, but do not ever bring her into this shit ever again.”

After some more shouting and talk back from the guys, you decide to make your appearance, pretending that you just woke up. Slowly, you descend the stairs and rub your eyes just to keep the act up.

“Oh, hi,” you awkwardly murmur, stepping over to the cupboard to get a mug for some coffee. Dean steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, his lips dropping to your ear.

“You were listening, weren’t you?” He whispers, biting the shell of your ear teasingly.

“Maybe,” you keep your voice the same decibel as his, not wanting his friends to hear. Suddenly, Dean’s body draws away from you, his back straightening and his eyes glaring at his friends.

“Isn’t there something you guys would like to say to (Y/N)?” Dean’s voice booms, arms crossing over his chest. You turn around to face the guys, suddenly feeling small under their apologetic gazes.

“We really shouldn’t have spoken about you like that,” Tucker is the first to bite the bullet. “It was incredibly wrong and rude, and yeah, we had been drinking so we didn’t have a filter, but that’s not an excuse. I’m sorry, (Y.N).”

“It’s not, and we are incredibly sorry,” Garrett steps in. “We can see how happy Dean makes you and we should not have commented on your relationship when we know nothing about it.”

“Yeah, what we said was disgusting, honestly. We didn’t have any right to say what we did, and sure, we were drinking, but like Tucker said, it’s still not okay. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you guys. I know Dean and I are different, and I’m very unlike his last girlfriend, but I love him a lot. Hearing what you guys said made me feel like…I don’t know. Like I wasn’t exactly welcome into his friend group.”

The three men groan upon hearing your response, realizing just how much they fucked up, hearing it from your side instead of a passionate and angry Dean.

“Listening as my boyfriend’s friends shit on me really hurt,” you continue on. “And I know that I can’t compare to his ex, but I don’t want you guys not liking me for things you see on the surface level. Because I don’t know what Dean tells you in terms of our relationship and sex life, but I’ve struggled in the past with sex and intimacy. It’s been difficult for me, and I don’t expect you to know that, but all I ask is that you don’t make assumptions on things you see.”

Your confession silences the whole room. Of course Dean knew this, but seeing his friend’s expressions, you have good authority that he said nothing about that aspect of your life; which you deeply, deeply appreciate.

“We will keep that in mind,” Garrett nods awkwardly, the remorse and guilt clear on his face. Dean still stands to your right, the same firm expression on his features, green eyes shining with both adoration and frustration.

“You guys are going to have to make it up to her,” Dean finally barks. “One by one. Sorry isn’t going to cut it. I’ll figure something out, but for now, never talk shit on her or us ever. Again. Or I will punch the shit out of every one of you. Friends or not.”

This admission frightens you. Sure, Dean can get aggressive on the ice and cause some unnecessary fights, but to threaten his friends seems…a step too far. He’s never one to resort to violence, so to be saying this to his good friends and teammates makes your heart race and head spin.

The rest of the afternoon is spent watching movies on the couch with Dean, his friends out and about for the day. Nothing else was said after you two disappeared upstairs, the house as quiet as ever after what went down this morning. 

Unknown to you, Dean had sent the guys out on a shopping trip with a list as a way to apologize even more than just a simple ‘I’m sorry’. If they really regretted their mistake, they were going to have to prove it. 

“The guys should be back soon,” Dean says after checking his phone, throwing it onto the couch beside him. Your second movie of the day just ended, and it was getting close to dinner.

“What are we having for dinner?”

“They have it handled.” Your eyebrows raise in curiosity and Dean says nothing, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Don’t worry about it, darling.”

“You worry me, Di Laurentis.”

Although you shouldn’t have been as worried. because sure enough, ten minutes later, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker come strolling into their shared house, bags upon bags in their hands.

“We have dinner and presents,” Garrett announces, him and the other two setting half of the bags in the living room and the other half on the counter. Standing and heading to the kitchen, the bags emit a delicious smelling aroma, one that you immediately recognize.

“We’re having Ollie’s?” You excitedly ask, seeing the familiar logo on the outside of the bags.

“Not just Ollie’s. We have the main course from there, appetizers from The Fox’s Burrow, and dessert from the best, The Cheesecake Factory,” Tucker goes through the bags filled with takeout from all of your favorite restaurants. 

Your eyes flutter over to Dean, who is grabbing plates for everyone, sending you a sly wink that silently says this was all his doing.

“Alright, we have the philly cheesesteak for (Y/N),” Dean hands you the takeout box filled with your favorite dish, “bacon cheeseburger for me, cajun chicken pasta for Tucker, club sandwich for Garrett, and…” Dean’s voice trails off as he pulls the last box from the second bag, “lemon and herb encrusted chicken parmesan for Logan.”

“And everyone is welcome to the appetizers, we have mozzarella sticks, extra fries, fried mac and cheese balls, nachos, and of course, fried green beans,” Logan empties the bag from the second restaurant.

Once everyone’s plates were piled with enough food for two days, the five of you return to the couch, preparing for the next movie to start playing. Dean drops beside you, knocking his knee against yours and winking over at you once more.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “I don’t know what you did, but thank you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he smugly replies, digging into his burger, mustard smearing across his cheek a little. You reach over and wipe it off, licking the condiment off your thumb.

“Alright, you big softie.”

The rest of the night, no words are spoken about what Dean had said to his friends for them to get all of your favorite foods from your favorite places, not to mention all the gifts they surprised you with when the cheesecake was brought out.

A slew of your favorite books, a new tote bag, a couple new hoodies, one of which had the Briar U written across the chest and the hockey team crest on the back, and, to your surprise, a Lego set you’ve been wanting for months.

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker all end the night with a friendly hug, whispering their last apologies into your ear before turning in to their rooms. When it’s finally you and Dean alone again, you crush into him with a bear hug, your face buried in his chest, arms wrapped around his waist and trailing up underneath the grey hoodie adorning his body.

“I still don’t know what you did, but I love you. Thank you for everything.”

“And I still don’t know what you’re talking about, baby. I love you too. So much. And no one says shit about my girl and gets away with it. I’ve got your back, always.”

“Enough to send your friends out for hours getting my favorite things to make it up to me?” Dean mimics zipping his lips and throwing the key away.

“I plead the fifth.”

tags: @justme2042 @behindmygreyeyes @prettylittlewrites @zuzzu1301 @babygirl-4986 @c-a-b3002 @sisterslytherinog @hbuhhiumij @chaotichurricaneoffandoms @mariahoedt @kateelizabeth111 @jchameleon

[pennylanefics]

Overheard | D.D.L.

A/N: another fic i've had written for months! so excited to finally be sharing these and to have a growing audience for them! thanks to everyone who has been liking and sharing my dean fics, it means so much and it's great to have a little motivation to get back into writing. more off-campus content to come! <3

summary: you overhear a conversation from dean's friend's that you weren't exactly meant to hear

word count: ~2.8k

warnings: MDNI 18+ talks of sex, descriptions of sexual acts (not full on smut but describing past experiences), insecure reader, asshole friends, comparing new relationship to past ex

Dean was out late since he had a game with the Hurricanes, but he told you that you could stay in his room at the guys’ place until he got back. You had dinner by yourself, deciding on McDonald’s since the rest of the guys were out of the house, though once you settle in bed, two hours before Dean is expected to be home, you hear the door open.

Loud voices fill the downstairs space, and you partly want to venture down there to see what the guys are up to, but also don’t want to intrude on their boys night. However, eventually, when your glass of water runs dry, you decide to head down for some more, but before you can even get to the second stair and descend, you hear your name.

“Is (Y/N) here?” You can tell it’s Logan by the teasing tone in the question, he is always messing with you and Dean about how much you’re over here.

“I dunno,” Tucker responds, his speech slurred due to the amount of drinks he’s had. You knew they were going to Malone’s to celebrate a friend’s birthday, but you didn’t expect them back this early.

“She’s always here,” Logan replies matter-of-factly. “It’s like she’s…monitoring him.” That phrase throws you off, your body freezing in fear. What could he possibly mean?

“Yeah, I can see it,” Garrett cuts into the conversation. “Like she doesn’t trust him or something. She must think him being alone tempts him too much so she’s always with him.”

“But she also doesn’t give him anything in return,” Tucker adds. “He told me they haven’t fucked in like, two weeks. I don’t know how the guy does it.”

You are very aware of the fact that your libidios don’t exactly match, and it’s not something you’ve brought up just yet. He’s assured you that it’s no hurry, he’s got a hand and a toy for a reason, but it still makes you feel guilty. And this whole conversation makes you wonder what he tells them.

“Dude yeah,” Logan agrees. “He told me the same. I’m like…are we talking about the same Dean that was fucking every night? I mean him and Allie would go at it like rabbits whenever they’d see each other.”

Upon hearing that name, your entire body tenses up. They brought up his ex-girlfriend in comparison to you. Your worst fear in a relationship.

“i miss Allie, she was so good for him,” Garrett says, a reminiscent tone to his voice. Your chin rests on your knees, tears welling up in your eyes, the phrase repeating over and over in your head. 

“She so was. Their personalities fit so well together.”

“Uh huh, they could match each other’s energies. Now, it’s like (Y/N) is an energy vampire, sucking the life out of him.”

“I mean she’s not doing much sucking.” A chorus of laughter stings your ears as they continue to poke fun and question your ability to make their friend happy.

Unfortunately for you, your mind starts to wander. Does Dean think that way as well? Does he miss his ex because she was able to match his sexual desires? Were they more compatible than you and him? Insecurities rise in your body, and suddenly, you forget about the fact that you needed water.

Instead, you quietly trudge back to your boyfriend’s room and gather everything you’ve kept in here over the past few months into your duffle bag, prepared to leave the second he gets back from the game.

Although when he returns, finding his roommates passed out drunk on the couches, he also finds you asleep on his bed, above the covers, slightly shivering due to the chill in the air. He notices that you’re no longer wearing his hoodie, which is neatly folded on the chair at his desk.

His eyebrows furrow in confusion and his green eyes follow the duffle bag sitting open, containing some articles of clothing he has seen placed neatly in the drawer of his dresser that he designated as yours.

“Baby?” He shakes you awake a little, but you don’t budge one bit. He decides to then take a quick moment to check all the places he knew you kept your stuff; your drawer is empty, your toiletries including your toothbrush and toothpaste are gone, and your t-shirts that were hanging up in a small section of his closet were missing.

A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he takes a seat on the bed, though something catches his eye. A neatly folded piece of paper on his desk. Standing back up, he takes a couple steps and picks it up, carefully unfolding it with his calloused fingers.

His green eyes scan over the words that were written in your handwriting, and he can’t help the scoff that escapes him.

“Oh, hi Dean,” you finally awake, having been rattled from the force that he rose off the bed from. Slowly, he turns towards you, holding the note between his fingers.

“You wanna explain this?” He questions, a hurtful and almost betrayed bite to his voice. Swallowing thickly, you remember what you had written in your emotional flurry, and instantly regret it instead of talking to him. “You’re not seriously wanting to break up, are you?”

Silence hangs between the two of you and it’s horrifically awkward. You aren’t sure what to say or do, the damage already having been done.

“I…I don’t want to, but I was…”

“You were what? All of a sudden unhappy in this relationship and decided to make that decision without me?” Your heart aches in your chest, realizing the severity of what you had done. “What the fuck is going on, (Y/N)?”

Dean takes a seat with you again, the note fluttering beside him, quickly forgotten once his eyes set on you. He doesn’t want to hear it from a handwritten note, he wants to hear it from your mouth.

“I was just thinking that maybe we aren’t right for each other,” you shrug. “I mean, you have girls still fawning over you, waiting to have their moment with you, I hate to think I’m holding you back because I have issues.”

“You think you’re holding me back?” He appears hurt by your assumption, and because of that, you’re unable to properly form a response. “Holding me back from what exactly?”

“Sex. I hate to think that you fuck me every couple weeks when I’m in the mood and get stuck with your hand the rest of the time because I have little to no libido. You don’t deserve that, you deserve someone like Al-”

Dean’s eyes immediately widen upon your slip-up, even though you stopped before you could say the whole name. He knows exactly what you mean. A scoff escapes his lips, completely flabbergasted that you would even say such a thing.

“You’re really comparing yourself to my ex? I thought I told you many times, we’re nothing anymore.”

“You did, and I trust you, b-”

“So then why are you so worried about what you’re like and comparing to what she’s like, hm?” When you don’t respond, he pushes for an answer. “What’s got you worried, (Y/N)?”

“Your friends,” you choke out, averting your eyes away from him. You hate to be the person to throw his friends under the bus to him, but he wants the truth, so he’s going to get it.

“What makes you say that?”

“I overheard them talking about me. Saying that the only sucking I’m doing is sucking your energy, also saying how they liked her better than me, how you were better with her, how I’m over here all the time because I have to monitor you so you don’t get tempted to sleep with someone else because we don’t have sex that much.”

Confusion and anger flash in his eyes, and he has to stop himself from racing downstairs and pounding his friends’ faces in.

“They said all that?” You nod to his question, too afraid of your voice breaking to speak. Dean is so outraged, wondering what led his friends to say such awful things about you, that he doesn’t even notice the tears silently streaming down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to leave before you got back, but they were still up and I-I didn’t want to face them, but then I-”

“Hey, hey, shhh,” he coos, immediately bringing you into his arms, holding you close to his strong chest. You choke back a sob as your tears soak his grey long sleeve shirt, though you barely register what’s even happening. “I’ll have a talk with them in the morning. I’m not gonna stand by and let them say shit like that about you. Did they know you could hear them?”

“No, I was getting ready to head downstairs, but then I heard my name, so I stopped.”

“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, holding you even tighter in his grip. “I’m so sorry, baby. But please, don’t let their words get between us, okay? I need you to talk to me instead of running away.”

His request holds nothing but admiration and reassurance, no judgement whatsoever. He knows things haven’t been easy for you, and that communication has been a weak aspect on your side of things. 

“Does it really bother you that we don’t…have sex very often?”

“Of course it doesn’t. I’ve told you that so many times.”

“But they said you and Allie-“

“Fuck what they said! They know nothing! Yeah, I used to have a very active sex life, but your safety and wellness is more important to me than anything. I may not understand what it’s like to just…not want to have sex but I respect it. Like I’ve told you, I have a hand and I have a toy. I would never, ever, cheat on you because of something like that.”

His words are spoken with a strong and confident tone, leaving no space for you to even interpret his words wrong. He’s told you the same thing previous times, there’s nothing that would change his mind or lead him to doing something that he would regret.

Even when he gets drunk now, the last thing he thinks about is sex. It’s you. How he wants to be cradled in your arms, his friends have stated how he never shuts up about you when he’s hammered. So much so, that they keep a framed photo of you to appease him; which makes their confessions earlier tonight even more confusing to you.

Overall, these factors have confirmed to you that Dean isn’t that type of guy anymore, and he’s adapted to your own personal way of things.

The Life of Dean has changed because of you.

“I know your mind is still going crazy, baby, but I promise you. Our relationship is different, but it’s a good different. I like that when you are finally in the mood, it’s like…mind-blowing.” You chuckle softly at his words and hide your face in your hands.

“Hey, no hiding on me,” he adds. “I mean it. When I first tasted your pussy, I-“

“Okay, Dean!” You giggle, your face now bright red and blushing, the smile on Dean’s face as wide as ever.

“Trust me, every time it happens, I just…black out afterwards. Most intense orgasms ever,” he adds on. “Plus, that one day that you let me go down on you when you weren’t up for it. I’ll never forget that.”

Your face now feels like it’s on fire from the way he’s talking. He’s right, one day, he begged and begged to go down on you, and despite you telling him that you weren’t in the mood for sex or to come, he insisted that he wanted to do so for his own pleasure.

Eventually, after setting some ground rules and such, you let him eat you out while you played around on your phone, the sounds of his moans turning you on, but your mind too clouded to reach an orgasm.

But he didn’t care, he was paying no attention to you. He was in his own little world, mouth covered in your arousal, eyes shut, occasionally fluttering open to meet your smiling face. Not once did he stop to take a breath, drowning in the smell and taste of you, both things that you had been highly insecure about leading up to that point.

He was down there for about thirty minutes before he finally exploded in his shorts, grinding against the bed and making a mess of himself. You hadn’t even realized he had done so until he lays there between your legs, spent, and awkwardly adjusts himself.

That’s when he sits up, revealing the large amount of cum seeping through the grey shorts of his, since he had forgone boxers. That sight alone was enough for you to pull him back down to your pussy and make you orgasm three times in a row.

“I need you to understand that sex isn’t just about fucking. It’s about sharing a moment with one another in each other’s pleasure. And to me, that means all the times that you give me a handjob or blowjob even when you want nothing in return, it’s me fingering you because that’s all you have the energy for, it’s dry humping one another when we’re too lazy to get undressed, the thigh riding, all of it. I don’t need penatrative sex every single night, despite what my friends say. I did it because it was fun, sure, but I’m in a committed relationship now. Priorities change, and that means adapting and making compromises.”

His little speech has brought tears to your eyes, and yet another blush to your cheek. All of a sudden, his friends words and your insecurities that had risen from them disappear, and Dean is the only one that matters.

“I’m sorry I doubted you on that,” you murmur, feeling upset with yourself for writing such an impulsive letter and not talking to him about all of this. He grins softly and presses a kiss to your cheek.

“It’s alright, baby girl. I can’t imagine how tough it was hearing that. And trust me, I’m still going to give them shit for it in the morning. Maybe a good punch or two as well.” You share a short laugh, knowing full well that he’s not going to hurt his friends.

However there’s an inkling in your mind that says that he’s not kidding at all.

“Just know that they’re wrong. They can think they know what’s best for me, but I’m the only one who can judge that. You and her are very different, and that’s what I like. I don’t want the same that I had with her, there’s a reason we split up. With you, things have been so beautiful and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’ve learned so much from you and it’s made me see things in a different light. You’ve opened up a more domestic side to me and I love it.”

“Domesticated Dean, huh? That wasn’t a thing before?”

He smiles widely and pulls you into his arms, adjusting your bodies so you now lay under the covers, seeing as it was nearing ten o’clock and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with you after a long day.

“It wasn’t, but I like who I am when I’m with you.” For some reason that single comment makes your heart soar in your chest. The fact that he’s admitting that you make him a better person, a better version of himself, is one of the highest compliments to ever receive, and it definitely doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I love you,” you whisper into his neck, placing a couple kisses there to seal the words.

“I love you too, sweetheart. I wouldn’t trade you for the world, you’re mine and I’m yours. No one can break that apart.” He kisses you sweetly, cradling your face with his rather large hand. After he breaks away, he sits up to reach across the covers, grabbing the note that you had written in the heat of the moment.

“And this?” he says as he rips the note to shreds, tossing the pieces into the trash can near his bed, “is not happening. I’m not letting my friends rip you away from me over this, got it?”

“Yeah,” you grin up at him, glad that he isn’t too hurt or upset over the fact that you had even written such a thing.

“It’s behind us, alright? Next time, I want you to come straight to me if something happens, especially if something happens with them.”

“Will do, Mr. Di Laurentis.” A blush takes over his features and he kisses you passionately once more. The two of you get comfortable in his bed, a heavy sigh escaping him as his muscles finally start to relax.

“Get some rest, okay? I’m not going anywhere. Unless I wake up before you, then I’ll be downstairs kicking my roommates asses.”

[abbotly]

please

Jack Abbot x senior resident!reader

Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.

Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong

Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!

—

It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.

Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.

It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.

What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.

“Dr. Abbot?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”

“Will it be a while before handoff?”

Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”

“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”

“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”

Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”

Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.

“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”

“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”

“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”

Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.

“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”

Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”

You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”

Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.

He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.

“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”

Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.

Then he scoffs.

“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.

“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”

“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.

“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”

“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”

Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”

“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”

“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”

Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”

“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”

Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”

—

A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.

You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.

The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.

“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.

“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.

“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.

“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.

“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”

“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.

“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.

“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.

He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.

“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”

“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”

Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”

Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”

“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.

You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.

“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.

“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.

“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”

Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.

“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”

“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”

“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.

You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.

“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.

“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.

“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”

You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”

“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.

But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.

“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.

“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.

A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.

Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.

Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.

“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”

“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”

A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.

“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”

“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.

“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.

“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”

“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”

The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.

“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”

“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”

June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”

“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”

Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.

“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.

“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”

But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.

Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.

“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”

“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”

“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”

“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.

“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.

“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”

“S’there a problem here?”

Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.

Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”

Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”

“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”

That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.

“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.

“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”

But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”

“I didn’t consent to that.”

“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”

Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.

Jack nods at you.

“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”

“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”

You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”

—

After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.

Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.

Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.

Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.

“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.

“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”

When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.

“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”

“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”

He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”

“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”

But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”

You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.

You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.

Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.

Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.

That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.

That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.

That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.

That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.

And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.

And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.

“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”

“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”

—

Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.

“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.

“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.

He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”

“Penny?”

“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”

“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”

Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”

You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.

“You handled that really well earlier.”

Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.

“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”

“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”

Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.

It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.

“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”

“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”

“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”

You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.

But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”

“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”

He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.

But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”

“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.

“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”

“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.

You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.

“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.

But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.

“Oh, that was painful to watch.”

Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.

Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.

“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”

—

The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.

“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”

“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.

Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”

Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.

“Jack,” Robby says.

“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?

“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.

Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.

Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.

Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”

Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.

“We don’t have any of those here.”

“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”

Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?

Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”

Robby shakes his head.

“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.

Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.

Not Pittsburgh at all.

“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.

“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”

Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”

As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.

But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.

His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.

Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”

“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.

The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.

“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”

Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.

“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”

Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.

“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”

“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”

Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.

Jack breathes.

“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”

Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.

He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.

“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.

“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.

When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.

He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.

“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”

—

“You’ll definitely get in.”

“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.

You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.

“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”

You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”

“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.

“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”

“So not peds, then?” he presses.

“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”

“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.

“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”

“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.

“I learned that from you.”

“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.

You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.

“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”

You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”

“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.

There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.

You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.

“I would miss this place, too,” you say.

“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.

You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.

“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”

He winks.

“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”

You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”

Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.

“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”

You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.

You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.

“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”

The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.

His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.

“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”

Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.

“What’d he say?” he asks.

“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.

“Yeah? How’s that going?”

“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”

“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”

“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.

“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.

Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”

“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”

You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.

It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.

“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”

If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”

Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.

—

Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.

He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.

“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.

Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”

“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.

“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”

Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”

Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.

“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”

“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”

“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”

Jack’s stomach sinks.

You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”

Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”

“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.

“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.

“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”

Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.

He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.

Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.

Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.

But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.

So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.

Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.

—

Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.

“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.

“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”

“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.

“Mhm.”

“Did it help?” you ask.

He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”

“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”

Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.

“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.

The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.

“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.

“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.

“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.

But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”

“How’d you know?”

“I have eyes.”

His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”

You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”

“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.

“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”

He nods seriously. “Got it.”

“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.

“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”

You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”

Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”

Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.

“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.

You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.

“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”

“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”

“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”

Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”

“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”

But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.

“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”

You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”

“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”

“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”

“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.

—

You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.

It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.

When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.

“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”

You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”

“Dr. Abbot—”

“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”

You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”

“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”

“But I—”

“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”

It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.

“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”

He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.

“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”

He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”

“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.

“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”

“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.

You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.

“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”

You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.

“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”

Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.

But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.

“Y/n,” he says slowly.

“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”

“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”

“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”

“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”

“What?”

“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”

“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”

He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.

“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”

You nod.

“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”

His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.

“Please,” you say anyway.

Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.

And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.

“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”

“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”

—

“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”

Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.

“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.

He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”

“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.

“Talk me through it,” he says.

You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.

“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.

“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.

He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.

“What is that?”

“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”

He’s silent for a moment.

“What? You said—”

“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”

He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”

“Go.”

You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”

“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”

“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”

“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.

“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”

“What’d he say?”

“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.

Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”

You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”

A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.

“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”

“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”

Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”

“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”

He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”

“You mean me?”

You nod.

“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”

“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.

“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.

“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.

He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.

“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.

“No?”

You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.

“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”

—

A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.

The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.

And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.

The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.

You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.

You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.

Both in Pittsburgh.

But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.

“Is that something I need to know about?”

Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.

Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.

“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.

He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.

He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.

You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.

Because it’s still coming home to him.

“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”

[girthgrudgefear]

craig's "friend" | craig cody x reader x andrew 'pope' cody

plot summary?: pope walks in on craig and craig's "friend" (you) going at it. what is supposed to be a one-off thing turns into a regular occurrence; and much to craig's chagrin, you couldn't be less bothered by it.

contains?: pope cody, craig cody, reader-insert, shameless smut, creeper pope, mentions of deran, smurf, j, baz, and lena.

warnings?: 18+/minors dni; accidental voyeurism turned not so accidental; healthy amount of cuss words; p in v sex; no protection mentioned; nudity; squirting.

notes?: takes place between s2-3. no beta we die like [airhorn]. no clue how long this is but i think it’s like 2k words

“friends” wasn’t the word that you and craig should use for what you are to each other. but if either of you had to describe it, both parties would concede to the term with no contest.

and it drives pope crazy.

because if pope even had half of what you had with him, if pope even had the chance to touch you the way craig did, you would be his. instantly and infinitely.

but, no, you were craig’s "friend." and he didn’t care, because you were too young for him anyway. and you were too bright. and too soft.

he decided this one night when he turned up at the house.

smurf was out, as were deran and j. but you were on the couch, watching craig play call of duty. for once there were no white lines cut on the coffee table's glass tray, no joint, half-lit, hanging haphazardly from one of smurf's decorative bowls.

no, it was just you and him.

craig, bigger than most, took up an entire cushion in the center of the sofa. he leant forward, both legs spread wide, elbows on the tops of his knees as he essentially button-mashed his way through a campaign. you were curled up next to him, taking up less than a quarter of the cushion beside his. you hugged your knees as you quietly watched him play.

pope, having let himself in through the garage door, walked over from the kitchen when he heard craig seemingly curse to himself.

“shit.” craig sank back into the couch just as captain reyes succumbed to his wounds. the screen doesn’t even have time to reset at his last checkpoint before he pauses the game and tosses his controller to the side.

the tall brunet turns to you in an instant, one of his big hands settled on your left thigh and the other toying with the strap of your bikini top.

“welp.” he says to you, popping the ‘p’. he wastes no time, closing the space between you both to press a chaste kiss to your chest and then another to your neck. when he begins to lightly suckle the skin there, you pull away. making a face, he chases after you until he’s able to lay claim to a patch of skin on your collarbone. this time, with a knowing sigh, you settle.

“i’m not having sex on your mother’s couch, craig. i told you that you need to find a new apartment.”

craig hummed, not paying you any mind. “c’mon, babe.” he sighs wistfully, smoothing his palm down your inner thigh as a means of forcing your knees apart.

“it’s gonna take me forever to find a new one. i can't wait that long.” he said.

you had no time to reply. by the time you turned your head, smart quip on your tongue, craig slipped his into your mouth.

your feigned disinterest is wicked away under his ministrations. secretly, you were waiting for him to touch you, to give you attention, and he knew it. a glutton for pleasure, you would never turn down craig - whatever he gave, you received happily.

craig’s hand crept lower and lower until his fingers hooked on a belt loop on your shorts. reaching down, your knuckles brushed his for a moment as you undid the button and zipper. you barely have time to shuck your bottoms down your thighs when you feel him force his hand past the waistband of your bikini thong.

“fuck. you’re so fucking wet.” he pants against your mouth, a thin trail of spit connecting his bottom lip to yours.

“i’ve been waiting for you to get off of that game for hours.” craig seals his mouth over yours again and any other complaints you have are inconsequential.

you feel two of his fingers nudging against you and you’re damn near vibrating with excitement. you begin to lean away from him once you feel that stretch, finally breaking the kiss once he gives up on being gentle and pushes in to the first knuckle. you reward him with a moan, once breathy, all but punched out of you as he begins to piston his middle and ring finger in and out of you.

and you don’t last long. it’s impossible with the way craig touches you and how ridiculously easy it is for him to get you worked up in the first place. somewhere in the way that he jostled you the thin strap of your bikini, once tied at the nape of your neck, comes loose. you don’t care even when you feel the dainty cups slipping down your chest until one of your breasts is exposed to the air completely. craig, enraptured now by the way you look coming undone, doesn’t miss a beat. you whimper when you feel him latch on to your pebbled nipple.

“m'gonna come.” you ignore the feel of craig’s beard moving against your skin, no doubt in your mind that he’s smirking up at you from where his head is pressed against your chest. you feel hot all over, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. you push yourself up off of the cushion just slightly, leaning into him, opening your legs wider as he keeps his strokes at the same steady pace. and then it washes over you at once, body taut, knees wobbling, your hand wrapped around his wrist as he helps you through your high like an obedient soldier.

"fuck me."

would have been the next thing to come out of your mouth, naturally. but when you opened your eyes as best as you could past the haze threatening to put you under, you noticed something beyond craig staring at you, taking you in in your blissed-out state. standing between the couch and the far wall right at the entrance of the living room was none other than pope cody.

you've heard of him the same way you've heard of ghost stories. the boogeyman of oceanside. but to see him like this, staring at you with his brows set and his hands laying stiffly at his sides, does something to you.

because he isn't just handsome, he's cody handsome, definitely craig's brother in the sharp angle of his cheekbones and jaw. and you've never seen eyes so dark yet so clear. he's not missing anything that craig is doing to you and somewhere through the fog you wonder how long he's been standing there, anyway.

the thought excites you enough that when craig keeps going, you do little to deter him, deter either one of them in fact. grip still tight on his wrist, you hold craig there even though the stimulation is bordering on torture. his fingers keep the same pace that got you off the first time and that steadiness, mixed with the sound of your wetness as he fucks you a second time, is a feedback loop for your arousal.

pope didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this. most girls would have yelled. covered themselves up, maybe thrown something at him half-heartedly in their shock or terror. but there was something so intriguing in the way you watched him watch you. how you widen your legs, as if to present yourself to him. how you reach down to keep craig where he is. your pupils are nearly blown and your eyelids half-mast from the pleasure, your hair in disarray where it falls down your sides of your neck and down your back. the part of your chest that's exposed is flushed and it heaves with every breath you take.

pope is about as aware of how close you are as craig is. he watches as you lift yourself up off the couch just slightly, how craig sits up with you. your legs are shaking now and craig has the hand that isn't toying with your pussy trained at your waist, trying in vain to keep you from squirming under his stimulation. slowly, you begin to roll your hips against his fingers.

and andrew isn't sure for a moment if you're looking at him or through him the moment you come, heavy eyelids going wide for a second before closing to slits. "craig- ah! ah~!" is the only thing you can let out as craig begins to press kisses to your slack jaw.

and if you weren't looking at pope before, you sure were now. holding his gaze, you card your hands through craig's curls then grip him by the base of his neck and pull him in. you all but shove your tongue down his throat and he moans into your mouth, still blissfully unaware of your spectator.

then you pull away, yanking craig's hands out of your pants all the while. you shove your shorts back up your thighs, paying no mind to the way the fabric of your swimsuit bottoms bunch up underneath the denim. with the fly of your zipper still down and your shorts still unbuttoned, you work on fixing your bikini top, pulling the triangle over your exposed breast and securing the spaghetti straps around your neck.

"wait! where are you going?" craig asks.

"um. i forgot i have some errands i need to run." you offer lamely. your legs are still shaking when you stand.

craig sits back, still turned toward you, and watches as you gather your bag and hoist it over your shoulder. and it is only when he watches you walk toward the shelves leading to the hallway that he notices pope there.

"dude, what the hell?" he regards his brother with his hands thrown up in the air.

pope, however, pays him no mind, watching you as you approach. he's still standing stock-still in the same position though his head turns stiffly to watch as you squeeze past him.

"nice meeting you." you offer as your shoulder brushes his bicep. other than his intense gaze he offers no form of acknowledgement. though as you make your way down the hall, you feel his eyes burning holes into your back. it adds to your humiliation in a way; you can't help but wonder as you turn the key in your ignition and drive away what kind of pervert he must think you are.

"pope."

andrew turns to his brother, who is still staring at him with that stupid look of confusion, and maybe a little fear. "dude, that is not cool."

a beat of silence and then pope says,

"she's right. you do need your own place."

and walks away.

~~

craig gets his own place, eventually, and that place is baz's place. technically.

still sore from the loss of his best friend and subsequently his niece, pope despises the way his little brother quickly turned the homey two-bedroom into a total pigsty. clothes are everywhere. there are crumbs on the counter. someone has only just begun to make a dent in the dishes and there is a pot set on the stove with soap and water to soak.

so, that's the first clue he gets that craig isn't alone, because craig doesn't cook. doesn't know how and even in his mid-thirties that fact doesn't bother him one bit.

the shower is on. it's a good place to start. the only thing that draws him out is the sound of an unfamiliar voice; he can just barely make out a hum over the falling water.

the bathroom door is ajar and pope is never one to deny himself easy access. he had half an idea of who may be in there and he prays it isn't actually his brother, because he doesn't want to see craig's nads or find out that he likes to sing the little mermaid when he's alone.

but he is pleasantly rewarded when he sees you through the crack in the shower curtain. back towards him, you had your head buried under the stream, letting the soap run down your back.

he was obsessed with the way your skin looked. soft, from the stretch marks on your round butt to the large scar on your shoulder blade. his hindbrain took over for a moment and he felt overwhelmed with the urge to touch you, to feel the way the muscles of your thigh would ripple and give if he were to grab you there, pull you close to him.

it wasn't often that pope dwelled like this, let his depravity take over him. so he has the sense to at least look a little surprised, a little embarrassed when you turned around and reared back when you noticed you were no longer alone.

again, you were one of the strangest people pope had ever met. rather than admonish him for walking in on you like this, you simply continued your motions. both hands in your hair, you worked at the tangles you got from running on the beach and playing in the waves earlier.

the only indication that you were aware of pope's presence was the way you held his gaze. you took a step back until half of your body was underneath the water, closed your eyes and tilted your head back.

it was only when you broke eye contact that pope allowed his eyes to wander. from the strawberry skin on your arms to your tits. he took his time admiring most of all, however, how your soft tummy gave way to the tuft of hair covering your pussy.

fuck you were perfect.

this continued until you turned back towards the downpour, stood under it for a moment longer before turning the dial and shutting it off.

you turned back and pope was still standing there, hands hooked in either of his pants pockets, still taking in your frame. you lingered for a moment as you wrung your hair out.

"knock much?" is all you said to him once you were done.

he blinked at that.

funny. craig didn't mention that you were funny.

there was no reply, and you honestly weren't expecting one. craig told you that pope doesn't talk much to people he doesn't know. and it's a funny thought - he saw you cum, twice, but, no, he didn't know you. not one bit.

but if you didn't know it before, you definitely knew now that he wanted to know you.

reaching up, you pulled your towel down from where it hung haphazardly over the shower rod. pulling it over your body, you stepped out of the shower and down onto the bath mat you purchased for craig not too long ago.

"if you're looking for craig, he's at deran's bar. he said he'd be back soon, so. i'm sure he wouldn't mind if you waited."

wordlessly, he turned away from you and went to lena's old room.

~

pope hated it. hated the way he could see craig's shit strewn about what was once lena's room. he hated that baz was gone, hated that nobody else showed interest in lena but him and smurf. between the both of them, the kid was a lost cause.

he wondered absently if you liked kids.

speak of the devil, you walked past the open bedroom door in pursuit of the kitchen. when he heard you approach, he turned to watch you pass by and ambled after you.

you moved quickly, flitting about the main space in little other than one of craig's t-shirts and a pair of boyshorts. if the curve of your ass wasn't enough of a sight, he could make out the outline of your pussy lips through the thin material.

he felt like a teenage boy again, praying that you couldn't see that he was half-hard in his own pants.

you turned around and it was like god had no mercy on him, the way your nipples were hard through the loose-fitting shirt.

"i made pasta if you're hungry." you said.

though he didn't verbalize his assent, you took pope taking up one of the barstools by the counter as acceptance enough. with one of the clean plates you loaded into the dishwasher last night, you got him a healthy serving, heated it up, and then served it to him. you then turned to finish the dishes you began washing before your trip to the beach.

"thanks." says pope, almost as an afterthought, as he begins to eat. it was delicious. he was in distress.

"he does talk!" you say aloud in feigned awe, though your back remained turn to him. a single corner of his lips curled upward for a moment as he scowled at your back.

smart-ass.

silence lulled between you both; you cleaned, he ate. but soon enough the front door unlocked and in came the bumbling oaf he came to see.

neither of you noticed but he quickly deflated at the thought of no longer being alone with you.

"hey, man." though he's talking to pope craig is shameless in the way he checks you out on his approach. you're oblivious to both men, drying each dish one by one and reaching up on your tippy toes to put them in the cabinet.

"you looking for me?"

craig knows that his question is a dud, because who else would he be looking for?

though seeing how easily you and pope exist around each other, he sure has his suspicions. pope doesn't take easily to being around strangers, and, to pope, you were a stranger. or at the very least, in craig's mind, you'd better be.

jealousy is a new emotion for craig and he hates it. not even renn has had such an effect on him but fuck if you weren't like his own personal form of catnip.

"we need to talk." is all pope says once craig closes in on the space between them. as both men wander out to the patio, pope turns around long enough to see you lean over the counter, grab his empty plate, and wash it at the sink.

~~

he has to stop seeing you like this.

no, seriously, for his own health, he has to stop.

the next time pope saw you was at a party thrown at smurf's house in her absence. every other cody attended but the matriarch was nowhere to be found, not that pope could find it in him to mind.

there were people everywhere. j sat poolside with his feet in the water, watching deran and adrian play chicken with some of their other surf buddies in the deep end of the water.

the only one missing from their brood was craig. and it was important that the party ended relatively soon and the four found a way to meet; after casing the joint all afternoon their newest prospective job may not be as easy as they once thought.

pope made his way inside, pushing past drunk partygoers as he did so.

aside from alcohol, the kitchen and living room looked surprisingly kosher. no white powder, no glass pipes. no rolled up dollar-bills or straws, which was great, because craig turned into a whiney bitch when he got high.

between deran and craig's old rooms was a jack-and-jill bathroom. entering from deran's side was easy enough after he kicked out two drunk losers petting each other down on the bed.

he locked the bathroom door from deran's side and made his way over to the toilet bowl to relieve himself. but before he could so much as let down the fly to his zipper, he heard it. he heard you.

slowly, he made his way across the narrow path, past the double-sink embedded in the counter, and to the door on the other side of the room.

same as last time, the door is ajar. slowly, he steps up and peers into the crack. sees you sitting on the edge of the bed with your legs open, wide, and a brown head of hair occupying the space between your thighs.

craig is virtually always in some stage of undress so pope pays no mind to his butt cheeks but the sight you is enough to almost make him pop off in his pants. you're naked, your face flushed. your nipples are hard. craig slaps your bare clit once, twice, and you flinch at the sensation both times, breasts bouncing as you jerk your hips.

then his mouth is over the tender flesh, as if to soothe the sting of his harsh actions, and you throw your head back at the contact. as quickly as he's over you, he's inside of you, two fingers deep down to the knuckle.

"fuck, baby." your voice is husky and pope isn't sure if it's from the liquor that’s undoubtedly in your system or your arousal. he can see how wet you are even from where he's standing; you're glistening from your inner thighs, to your lips, and all the way around craig's fingers.

squelching and the occasional whimper is the only noise that fills the room. craig is precise as always, already nudging against that spot inside of you that makes your jaw go slack. he notices immediately and keeps the same pace, watching through his long eyelashes as he plucks you apart.

simultaneously, his mouth can't stop moving against you, devouring you much like a man starved. you taste so fucking good, you remember him moaning against your pussy one night, all but rubbing his erection against the bed as he licked you from your hole to your clit.

"i'm so close." you whine. and he believed it, because not long after craig set his steady, bruising pace, you were there. legs shaking from where they sought purchase on craig's shoulders, you let out a cry that sounded almost pained. pope watched as your spend trickled out of you and down craig’s beard in short, quick spurts. your hips shook with the effort it took to grind down on craig’s fingers, one of your hands coming down on his wrist to hold him in place as you work yourself through your orgasm.

“you’re so fucking pretty.” craig all but coos up at you when you finally stop. he kisses your clit once and you jump away before settling down on the mattress again.

chest heaving, you card your hand through his hair, stopping when you reach the base of his neck and grab at the tendrils caught between your fingers. when you tug at them he rises to his feet, licks into your open mouth so that you can taste your arousal on him.

“a-ah!”

your voice rises another octave when craig’s hand is replaced by his dick, the swap so quick you barely have time to register what’s happening until his hips press against yours.

“so. fucking. tight.” he accentuates every word with a thrust, relishing in the way your head falls back. when you’re upright again, head midline, he presses a hot kiss to your mouth.

somewhere in between you squirting and craig breaching you, pope found himself undoing his belt buckle, shoving his hand down the waistband of his boxers.

and, no, pope can’t find it in him to be ashamed, to read into the deeper meaning of him only coveting things that belong to his brothers. craig is the last thing on his mind, far from it, when he grabs his dick and smears the pre-cum pebbling from the head all over his tip. it’s easy to forget that craig is there when he’s so busy imagining himself between your legs, imagining himself tasting you, imagining himself fucking you until you soak his boxers.

no, craig is inconsequential.

dry masturbation is always shitty but it isn’t about that. it’s about thinking about how you’d feel squeezing him like that, how you’d open your legs wider to accommodate him when he’s moving inside of you.

his hand passes over his dick in time with the way your body jumps with every thrust, his chest heaving to the same tempo as your shallow breaths. and when your moans morph into short gasps, he’s there with you too.

pope has to reach out and grip the edge of the counter next to him, knuckles white, when he finally cums. breathing heavy through his nose, he’s thankful that you aren’t shy about using your voice, your cries easily drowning out the sound of his pants.

“f-u-uck.” craig pulls out of you as he cums, watching as your orgasm leaks out of you and dribbles to the floor in a weak spurt. you’re too busy sitting there, hands gripping the sheets, mouth agape and eyes clouded with the haze of your afterglow.

pope is zipping his pants now, watching in disgust as he notices craig’s spend painting the patch of hair dusted over your pussy lips. his button is done, belt nearly secured around his hips when he catches sight of your face and does a double-take.

somehow, through the fog, you managed to catch his eye in the crack of the doorway.

and like the little minx you were, you waited a beat so that he knew that you knew that he was there.

then your tongue darted out to lave over your swollen bottom lip.

and you smiled at him, a full-on, shit-eating grin.

you recover by the time craig finishes admiring his work (he once told you that you looked hottest with his cum on you), drawing him closer to you by hooking one leg around his hip. he closes the space between you both, pressing his forehead to yours. your noses rub against each other for a moment as he brings you in for a kiss; short, sweet. it’s almost too intimate for a delicate situation such as this but then again you’re also washing his dishes and buying bath mats for his place, so. maybe that boundary has long been diminished.

craig opens his eyes to look at you mid-way into the kiss and notices that your eyes have wandered towards the door. pulling back, he turns to follow your gaze. he notices a gap in the doorway and immediately pulls away from your grabbing hands, more than a little pissed.

“yo, who’s there?” he asks. the usual neutrality in his tone is long gone now, replaced by something sharper. something aggressive.

“did you see someone there?” he asks when he turns back to you. the remaining post-coital bliss is washed away as if someone snatched a wool blanket from over your head.

you blink owlishly at him once, twice. shake your head hesitantly at first and then firmly after. but craig won’t be deterred. he feels the heat on his neck now.

his mind immediately goes to pope; how you told him that night that pope came visiting you both that the older man had caught you in the shower. how his confusion and then annoyance had been kissed away when you straddled him, assuring him that it was only for a moment before pope went to the living room to wait for him to arrive.

“who the fuck,” craig backs away from you and turns. his fist comes down on the dresser pushed up against the wall in the room, hard. you jump, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. “is in here, huh?”

craig is in front of the door in two long, quick strides, grabbing it by the edge of the wood and yanking it open. “pope, i swear to god—”

but he opens the door to find the bathroom empty despite the light being on.

he is thorough when he checks the room; even opens the shower door and peers into it twice. he takes a spare rag from the linen closet, runs it under the faucet, and returns to you. you’re still at the end of the bed, stock-still after watching his little rampage.

yeah, somewhere along the way the carefully-laid bricks of your “friendship” began to crumble. this is a simple fix, you thought to yourself half-heartedly, jumping as he runs the cool cloth over your sore clit.

~

pope made it all the way back to his car without stopping that night. then he proceeded to drive himself home in funeral silence, gripping the steering wheel like a vice the entire way home.

when he got to his house, he immediately locked the door, walked to the bed.

shoved his pants halfway down his thigh and let the image of you play behind his closed eyelids again and again. came twice, one after the other, at the thought of you beneath him, on top of him, on your knees in front of him.

he slept four hours that night.

fin

[groovyangelkisses]

sweet girl who slept with craig once and waddles out of his room at smurf's wearing a random t-shirt she found in a clean clothes bin (popes) and a random pair of boxers (also popes).

stumbles out all wide-eyed into the living room where all of the boys are meeting and softly asks craig "do you wanna get breakfast with me?" :)

craig is so tempted to say yes, something he has absolutely never wanted to do before. but he's annoying and has an image to keep up, so he denies you. biting your lip all shy, a small mumble of "oh okay" as you ring your hands together. You sneak a quick peek at craig's handsome, unsettling older brother and give a tiny, embarrassed smile as you shuffle a bit, your scrunched socks (also popes) falling down a bit.

pope doesn't even know what possesses him when he stands.

"i'll-i'll go with you." outstretched hand and awkward tight lipped smile as he nods and walks toward you, jingling his truck keys in his pocket; not looking back.

[flowersforbucky]

break me down and i’ll call you mine

pope cody x reader ~ word count: 18.7k+

other than the men he brings home on occasion, you’re the only person who knows that deran cody is gay. when your best friend becomes anxious that people are growing suspicious of his sexuality, you suggest telling people that the two of you are dating. everything is going perfectly…until his brother is released from prison and you start feeling things that you haven’t felt in years.

warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, smut, oral (f receiving), reader is afab, no use of y/n, cheating but not really bc it’s a fake relationship, male masturbation, mentions of an abusive ex, mentions of alcohol, deran struggling with his sexuality, deran buys the bar a little earlier than he does in the show in this fic, description of canon level injuries, fluff, baz and smurf erasure, hurt/comfort, pov switches but mostly reader’s pov, happily ever afters for everyone!

memories are in italics!!

{ 3 months before Pope’s release from prison }

“I think Craig is onto me.”

Blue eyes meet yours in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Deran stands in the doorway behind you, leaning against the frame with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“Onto you?” You repeat, voice garbled around the head of your toothbrush.

“Yeah,” he huffs, looking down at the floor. “You know…onto me.”

You freeze for a moment before you resume brushing, your eyes still glued to him. He doesn’t need to elaborate. There’s only one thing he could be talking about - only one thing that Deran doesn’t want his brother to know. Something that only you know about him.

Well, you and the men he brings home on occasion.

You spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What makes you think that?”

Deran shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was just talking to Adrian on the beach this afternoon and I noticed Craig looking at us like…I don’t even know. Just feel like he suspects something.”

You sigh, turning around to lean against the bathroom counter and crossing your arms over your chest. “Were you giving Adrian a handjob on the beach?”

“What the fuck?” He exclaims, face distorting in indignant horror. “No. Of course not. We were just talking.”

“Then Craig doesn’t know shit.” You shrug, bumping him with your shoulder as you move past him out of the small bathroom. “You’re being paranoid. Again.”

This is the third time he’s claimed that Craig is growing suspicious of his sexuality in the last month. Normally, you would have realized what he meant by Craig is onto me right away, but you’re practically brain dead after working back to back double shifts at the bar.

That’s the only logical explanation for why the following words leave your mouth.

“You should just tell Craig that we’re dating.”

You hear footsteps and laughter follow you down the hallway. “Us? Dating?” Deran snorts. “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”

“Why not?” You shrug, plopping down on the couch in the living room of your shared house to turn on the television. “We live together. Spend the vast majority of our free time together. We even work together, since you bought the bar. You’re single. I’m single. A lot of people already assume we’re together. It makes sense.”

“Well, yeah, but—” He comes to an abrupt pause, like he’s racking his brain for a reason why your idea might not work. He sits down on the ottoman in front of you, forearms braced on his thighs. “Huh,” he hums, clarity blooming across his face. “Maybe it isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Thanks.”

You definitely had not given it any real thought before making the suggestion, but he’s right - maybe it isn’t the worst idea. At least now you’ll have a somewhat kinda true excuse when rejecting the advances of all of your bar regulars that just can’t get the hint that you aren’t interested in them.

Deran clasps his hands together in front of him. “Okay, but seriously. How would this even work? What are the rules or whatever?”

You stare at him and try not to laugh. “You’re overthinking it. There doesn’t need to be rules. We just keep doing what we’re already doing. We go out to eat sometimes, yeah? Go to the beach and the movies? Run errands together? Friends do those things, but so do couples.” You shrug. “So we just keep doing those things, and when anyone asks, we call it dating.”

“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” he clarifies.

You nod. “Boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He squints, shaking his head. “We don’t really act like boyfriend and girlfriend, though. We would need to make it believable. At least around Craig and our other friends. You know, hold hands, cuddle, maybe kiss—”

You cut him off with an exaggerated gagging nose.

“That’s a little harsh.”

You toss a throw pillow at his head that he catches just in time. “I’m fucking with you,” you laugh. “You’re right. There does need to be a little physical affection to make it believable. There’s no reason to stick our tongues down each other’s throats in front of your brothers and our friends, though.” It’s his turn to grimace dramatically at the mental image of that. “Just keep it casual. Holding hands is good, an arm around my shoulder every now and then won’t hurt, and the occasional kiss on the cheek should suffice.”

He tilts his head in consideration. Your words seem to appease some of his uncertainty, though you still get the feeling that he isn’t completely sold on the idea.

“Look, if you aren’t on board, just say so. It was just a suggestion. You won’t hurt my feelings at all if—”

“No, no,” he interjects. “It isn’t that. It’s just…” He trails off, pursing his lips in contemplation. You wait for him to continue with raised brows. “What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

You don’t have a quick-witted response for that.

That hasn’t crossed your mind in ages. You’ve been single for so long that you don’t even remember how it feels to truly want to date someone. Your last boyfriend left you with quite the sour taste in your mouth for relationships that still lingers more than two years later.

You’ve gone on the occasional first date here and there, and had a few mostly unsatisfactory hook-ups over the last couple of years, but nothing has ever come from any of them. The thought of a real relationship is at the very bottom of your list of priorities, and you can’t see that changing anytime soon.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

Deran considers that for a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. If you’re good with it, I’m good with it.” His words try to play off how much it means that you’d be willing to do something like this, but you know him. His smile and his eyes say what his mouth won’t.

You nudge his thigh with your foot. “Then congratulations, dude. You officially have a girlfriend.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope doesn’t know all that much about romantic relationships.

Not healthy ones, anyway.

He can’t say that he’s ever even been in one. At least not anything serious - nothing that didn’t fizzle out after a couple months or end in some argument that he can’t remember now.

Everything he really knows about romantic relationships comes from movies and books and the toxicity that he’s witnessed in his personal life. His mother and her goddamn three baby daddies. Baz and Cath. Craig and his ever changing girls of the month.

He can admit that these aren’t the best examples of romantic love, and maybe that’s why he’s having a hard time understanding the dynamic between Deran and his girlfriend.

There’s no screaming. No cursing each other out on a regular basis. As far as Pope can tell, the two of you never even get into minor disagreements.

And there’s no cheating.

One morning, just a few days after Pope gets out of prison, he’s making himself breakfast when he overhears Craig trying to convince Deran to go with him to a party later that night.

“Come on, man,” Craig whines. “Just swing by for a couple hours. Renn’s cousin is going to be there. You know she has a thing for you.”

Pope looks up in time to catch the disgusted grimace on Deran’s face.

“I have a fucking girlfriend, dude. You know that.”

“I keep forgetting you two are serious now,” Craig sighs. “Bring her too, then.”

When Pope meets you the very next day, he understands why Deran had seemed so repulsed at the mere suggestion of going to a party to hang out with some girl who isn’t you.

He stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the backyard and finds you laying by the pool. Strappy bikini a size too small, perfectly polished toenails, and skin glistening in the sun - he can’t help but stare at you until you realize he is standing still as a statue just feet away, watching wordlessly. You didn’t even hear him come out, your eyes closed and music pouring softly from a Bluetooth speaker.

“Shit,” you hiss as soon as you notice his presence, taken off guard. “Uhm - hey,” you laugh awkwardly, sitting up from your position on the foldable lounge chair and pausing whatever upbeat song you’re listening to. “I take it that you’re Pope? Deran told me you might be around today.”

Pope is silent for a moment as he pieces together who you are. His gaze trails over your bare shoulders and down to your thighs before looking you in the eye again.

“You’re Deran’s girlfriend?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but he can’t hide the incredulity that slips through.

“That’s me.” Another awkward laugh, though you don’t seem offended by the question. You offer a soft smile, but he thinks something about it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Deran should be here pretty soon, but I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you…want a sandwich or something?”

He isn’t hungry. He already ate. But for some reason, he says yes anyway.

You yank on a pair of blue jean shorts over your bikini bottoms and he follows you into the house where you insist on making him a sandwich while he tries not to ogle you too hard.

(At the time, he told himself that he would have taken the opportunity to hang around any pretty girl because he had just spent three fucking years in prison. But that wasn’t it. It was you. He wanted to be around you, even after just meeting you).

“So,” you start, spreading mustard across a piece of bread with a butter knife, “Would you prefer if I called you Andrew or Pope? Deran always calls you Pope, but I guess that’s kind of a family nickname, right?”

The question takes him by surprise. He hasn’t heard anyone call him Pope much in years. It still sounds weird to hear the nickname again. It feels like it’s been forever since anyone has even called him Andrew, too - it’s mostly been “Cody” or “Inmate 87286-923” for the last three years.

He’d forgotten how his name - government name or otherwise - sounds when it isn’t being barked at him. Coming from you, both names sound like music.

You glance up when he doesn’t answer right away, your expression hesitant as if worried you said something wrong.

“Either is fine,” he answers when he remembers how to string two words together. “Call me whatever you want.”

And he meant that. He doesn’t really have a preference. He would be fine with you calling him anything, as long as you call him something - but he got the best of both worlds when you decided that you would call him Pope in the presence of his family but Andrew anytime the two of you find yourselves alone.

It isn’t the lack of fighting or infidelity that perplexes him the most, though. It’s the fact that in the now six months since he’s been back home, he’s never once seen Deran kiss you.

Only ever a peck on the cheek here and there. He’s seen his arm slung around your shoulder, and your feet propped up in his lap when the two of you lounge on the couch at Smurf’s. He’s seen you rub sunscreen on Deran’s shoulders and watched him swim around the pool with you on his back plenty of times.

But in the last half year, he’s never seen either of you kiss the other on the lips.

Not that Pope is complaining. The last thing he wants is to watch you kiss his brother. He experiences more than enough unwelcome thoughts anytime he sees the two of you so much as hold hands.

He just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how Deran doesn’t kiss you every chance he gets. You’re over at Smurf’s often enough that he should have witnessed it at least once by now.

He hates that he even pays attention to such a thing. It’s really not any of his business how you two choose to show your affection, but he can’t help the way he feels the slightest jolt of jealousy when you kiss Deran on the forehead anytime you’re leaving Smurf’s - and then relief that’s all it is. A kiss on the forehead and nothing more.

Because if you were his - and he’s painfully aware of the fact that you’re very much not - he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you as easily as Deran does.

It takes everything in him to stop himself as is.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“You look like you’re having a blast.”

The familiar voice pulls you out of your trance over the roar of rap music. You glance up from where you sit on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling over and into the lukewarm water. Pope stares down at you, his expression as neutral as ever and beer bottle in hand.

“And you look like you’re going to church instead of a pool party,” you snort. You aren’t surprised in the slightest that he’s wearing one of his typical short sleeve button-ups instead of swim trunks, but you are a little surprised that he’s here right now. Parties with dozens of half-naked shit-faced drunks aren’t really Pope’s thing.

Then again, they aren’t really your thing either, yet here you are - nursing the same piss flavored beer Deran had handed you over an hour ago as you watch him and Craig shotgun beers across the yard.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, patting the concrete beside you in invitation for him to sit down. “Where’s Lena? I thought she was with you tonight.”

“She’s at home. With the sitter.” He crouches down, albeit a little awkwardly due to the fact he’s wearing pants and shoes and can’t dip his feet into the pool like you. Even with his legs bent at the knees and his arms resting across them, he seems stiff. Uncomfortable. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. “I had a few things I needed to take care of before the job tomorrow.”

Ah, yes. The job. The job that you definitely don’t know anything about - as far as Smurf and the others are concerned, anyway.

You may not get involved, but you aren’t oblivious to what Pope and his family do to make money. Piecing it together hadn’t exactly been rocket science. Every time a major robbery, heist, or hit-and-run occurs within a fifty mile radius of Oceanside, Deran suddenly seems to have an abundance of cash.

What really made the pieces click into place was the time he asked you to cover his half of the rent and then mysteriously had the funds to completely pay your car off for you less than forty-eight hours later.

“Do I even wanna know where you got this money?” You ask when he hands you a thick envelope with over six thousand dollars in it. The exact amount you need to pay your car loan off.

Deran sighs. “No. You really don’t.”

The following morning, you turned on the news at work and watched coverage of a casino that got hit for over a half million just two towns over.

You aren’t a fucking idiot. His flesh and blood brother was in prison for a bank robbery at the time. Two plus two is four.

Pope’s not an idiot, either. He knows that you know. But you don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, and he doesn’t volunteer any information that could potentially put you in danger.

“And?” You ask, leaning back on the palms of your hands. You turn your head to look at him and find that he seems particularly interested in the beer bottle in his hand. “Did you get everything taken care of?”

A curt nod. “Everything should be good to go.”

And that’s that. You don’t pry any further.

“I would’ve watched Lena tonight if I had known,” you say lightly.

That gets him to look at you. “It’s your first night off in five days,” he says lowly, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips. “Didn’t wanna ask that of you.”

“I wouldn't mind,” you murmur, looking away to play off the heat rising on the back of your neck at the realization that he knew it was your first night off this week. “I like spending time with Lena.”

Pope hums, the corners of his lips quirking. “Yeah. She likes spending time with you, too.”

“And I’d much rather be hanging out with her than be…here right now,” you grumble as Deran and Craig emerge from the house with another keg.

“What?” Pope chirps. “You don’t think holding your boyfriend’s hair back as he pukes into Smurf’s three hundred dollar orchid is fun?”

You snort a laugh, but you can’t help the way your fingers clench around the neck of your beer bottle at the word boyfriend. “You saw that, huh?”

“At least a dozen people saw that.”

“Good,” you huff. “That’s what he gets for thinking he can drink all of that on an empty stomach.”

At that exact moment, one of Deran and Craig’s surfer buddies yells “CANNONBALL!” from the roof of the house a second before you and Pope both get drenched in pool water. You’re in a bathing suit, so no big deal - annoying, but not a big deal. Pope, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds away from jumping in the pool and drowning the guy for soaking his jeans and button-up.

“Jesus,” you grunt. “I’m over this. Wanna get out of here?”

Pope’s expression morphs from annoyance to surprise. He glances around like he isn’t one hundred percent sure you’re talking to him. Then, you stand and offer him a hand up. He hesitates a second longer, staring in Deran’s direction before accepting your hand and getting up.

“Where’re we going?” He asks, a step behind you.

“It’s a surprise.”

It’s not a surprise. You just didn’t think that far ahead before making the proposition - you just know that you want to be somewhere else. Somewhere that you aren’t surrounded by drunk, obnoxious assholes. Somewhere that you don’t look up and see a girl practically humping some douchebag’s leg. Somewhere that you can actually relax on your first Friday off in two months.

And, for reasons that you won’t let yourself dwell on right now, somewhere that you and Pope can be alone.

Somewhere you don’t have to worry that people are looking at you and wondering why is she spending so much time with her boyfriend’s brother while her boyfriend gets plastered twenty feet away?

The answer to that is quite simple, actually. Deran isn’t really your boyfriend. But no one knows that except for you and him. Not even Pope.

As far as he and everyone else knows, you and Deran have been in a committed relationship for well over half a year now.

“Don’t you want to let Deran know that you’re leaving?” He murmurs low enough that only you hear as the two of you make your way through a throng of people near the back door to the house. Deran stands several yards away with his back to you, talking animatedly with Craig and a few of their friends. “I’m sure he’ll worry if you dip without saying anything.”

You have to refrain from laughing at that. You stop to grab your tank top and shorts off the table by the back entrance, quickly cramming your feet into your sandals. “He looks a little occupied at the moment. I’ll send him a text and let him know I decided to head out early.”

You have no real intention of doing so, but Pope doesn’t need to worry about that.

He follows you to your car, gets in the passenger seat, and doesn’t question you any further until you park your car at the first somewhat calm, quiet place that comes to mind.

A quaint cliffside pull-off overlooking the ocean on the outskirts of town. It’s no more than a ten minute drive from the Cody house, but it’s so serene that it feels hundreds of miles away. You roll down both the driver and passenger side windows before turning your car off, and for a moment the only thing you can hear is the crashing of waves against the rocks below.

“Do you come up here often?” Pope murmurs, voice filling the silence.

You shake your head, not taking your eyes off of the moonlight that dances across the water. “I used to. A long time ago. Before Deran.”

From your peripheral vision, you can tell that he’s turned his head to look at you. “How did you two meet, anyway?” He asks after an extended silence.

You huff a humorless laugh. “It’s not exactly a cute story.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face you more fully. “Well, now I’m really curious.”

You finally look at him. He’s staring at you with that same look that you’ve been trying and failing to get a read on since the first time you met him six months ago. He looks at you now exactly how he looked at you then, that day by Smurf’s pool.

You exhale, looking back to the black horizon so you might stand a chance of regaining the ability to think clearly. “We met about three years ago. I was still dating my ex boyfriend at the time. I was working the bar one evening when my ex stumbled in drunk and decided to pick a fight with some poor guy he thought was hitting on me. I tried to intervene, and my ex shoved me so hard I fell backwards and hit my head on the counter…” You trail off, shaking your head at the memory. Pope waits silently for you to continue.

“And Deran,” you continue with a soft laugh, “was sitting just two stools down. He didn’t even hesitate. Just grabbed my ex and started beating the ever-loving fuck out of him right in the middle of the bar until he was unconscious. That wasn’t the first time my ex put hands on me but it was the last.”

You look back to Pope to find he’s still staring at you, his jaw clenched and hazel eyes sharp even in the dimly lit car. For once, you’re able to tell exactly what he’s thinking and it sends a shiver up your spine. Without even saying a word, you know that if Deran hadn’t already pulverized your ex, you’d have to stop Pope from going and doing the same.

“Anyway,” you shrug, trying to break the tension brewing in your passenger seat. “That’s how we met. Deran stayed even after the cops showed up to make sure I was okay, walked me to my car when I was leaving…and just kinda stuck around after that, I guess. Been best friends ever since.”

The last words slip out before you can stop them. Best friends. It isn’t a lie. You are best friends - have been ever since that night. But sitting here now, alone with his brother, it’s too easy for you to forget that you’re supposed to be more than just best friends.

If Pope thinks anything of your choice of words, he doesn’t point it out. “Sounds like it was a good thing he was there that night,” he says lowly, his voice clipped. “I’m glad you got away from that.”

You give a small nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And Deran…” He starts, trailing off until you glance at him. “He’s good to you?”

You blink, taken off guard by the question. “Deran?” You snort. “Yeah, he’s…I mean, he’s Deran.” You shrug. “He doesn’t show up shit-faced at my job and pick fights with random men, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You laugh, but Pope doesn’t. “No,” he says slowly. “I’m asking if he makes you happy.”

You swallow. The space inside your car suddenly seems infinitely smaller. Even with the windows rolled down, it feels suffocating.

It’s a simple question. It should have a simple answer.

“Yeah,” you breathe. You force a tightlipped smile that feels completely unnatural. “Of course. Like I said, he’s my best friend.”

Those fucking words again. It’s as if you physically can’t stop yourself from saying them. Best friend, best friend, best friend. Not partner, not boyfriend, not lover. Just best friend.

The most fucked up part is that if it were anyone else sitting here beside you, you know you could force yourself to spew some fabricated bullshit about how in love you are. About how Deran makes you the happiest girl in the world and you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together.

But not Pope. Pope, who you most wish you could blurt out the truth to. Pope, who looks at you so intensely that you have to wonder if he can read your mind and already knows.

“Best friend,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound like a question. “That’s sweet.”

The silence that follows is brief but heavy. Then, your phone chimes with a text message, and you’ve never felt more grateful for an interruption in your life.

“It’s Deran,” you mumble, typing back a quick reply. “Just making sure I’m alright.” You press send, then place your phone back in an empty cup holder. “I should probably get home,” you sigh before Pope has the chance to press the subject of you and Deran any further. “I’ve gotta open the bar in the morning.”

He nods, but there’s something about the look on his face that makes you hesitate. You squint at him. “What?”

Pope shakes his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nothing.”

It doesn’t hit you until later - when you’re lying in bed and failing miserably to keep your thoughts from wandering to Pope Cody - that Deran wouldn’t have texted to ask if you were alright if you had messaged him to let him know that you were leaving the party like you had told Pope you were going to.

That peculiar look on Pope’s face that you hadn’t understood at the time suddenly makes sense to you. He had realized, in that moment, that you never bothered to text Deran and tell him you were leaving.

And what kind of girlfriend doesn’t even take two seconds to let her boyfriend know she’s leaving a party they’re both at?

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope barely slept a wink last night.

He spent half the night going over the details for today’s heist, and the other half replaying and overanalyzing everything you had said during the short time spent together in your car.

One question. Pope had asked you one fucking question. How did you two meet, anyway?

And you had answered him - somehow leaving him with even more questions than before you whisked him away from the party and took him to some remote cliffside pull-off on the outskirts of town.

Questions he can’t ask quite so casually.

Why didn’t you say goodbye to Deran when we were leaving the party? Why do you seem so reluctant to call him your boyfriend? Why didn’t you text him like you said you were going to?

Add those to the list of questions he already had - the biggest of which being why doesn’t he ever kiss you like I fucking want to kiss you?

He may not have the answers to those questions, but he knows one thing: he’s not crazy.

Well, he supposes that’s debatable. A lot of people would argue otherwise. But he’s not imagining things. Not this time. It’s not just wishful thinking on his part. There’s more than meets the eye to your and Deran’s relationship.

Maybe you don’t feel for Pope what he feels for you. But he doesn’t think you feel it for Deran, either.

But he can’t dwell on that anymore right now. Not when Lena’s babysitter is texting him one hour before he’s supposed to leave for a huge job to tell him that she had something unexpected come up and can’t watch Lena tonight.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s got less than an hour to figure out somewhere safe for Lena to stay tonight.

The last thing he wants is to leave her with Smurf and give her the satisfaction of being needed for anything, and he wouldn’t trust Nicky or Renn either one to watch a fucking dog - so he packs Lena an overnight bag and heads to find one of the only people on the planet that he truly trusts with her.

He breathes a small sigh of relief when he pulls into the parking lot of the bar and sees your car.

“What are we doing here?” Lena asks from the backseat.

“I have to go to work,” he explains gently. “Allison is busy tonight so we’re here to see if you can hang out with uncle Deran’s girlfriend for a while.” He turns around to look at Lena - she’s staring at him with those wide doe eyes that Pope has gotten used to seeing filled with disappointment. “Is that okay with you?”

Lena nods, her face perking up a bit.

Pope had figured she wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t been lying when he told you that Lena enjoys spending time with you. Really, he’d far rather Lena spend time with you than her regular babysitter, but he knows that for whatever reason, you enjoy your job.

(He would be more than willing to pay you significantly more than what you make as a bartender, but that’s besides the point).

Lena practically runs towards you the second that she sees you wiping down a corner booth in the nearly empty bar. Pope trails a few feet behind, carrying her overnight bag on his shoulder. He watches as you glance up when Lena calls your name. You instantly open your arms to her, letting her jump into your embrace. The smile on your face when you realize it’s her lights up the whole damn dingy room, Pope thinks.

You and Pope lock eyes with Lena still in your arms. Your gaze lands on the bright pink bag hanging off of his shoulder, and he looks at you apologetically. Without him even saying a word, he can tell that you already know exactly why he and Lena are here.

“Hey, are you hungry?” You ask Lena, placing her back down on the floor. “You want some cheesy fries?” She nods, a somewhat shy but excited smile growing on her face. “I’ll get you cheesy fries and a lemonade. Just go sit in that little booth while I talk to your uncle Pope for a minute, okay?”

Pope waits until Lena is out of earshot before speaking lowly. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but you’re already shaking your head. “Her sitter canceled at the very last second. I’ve gotta meet Deran and Craig in less than an hour. I just don’t wanna leave her with Smurf—”

“Andrew,” you interrupt him, effectively ending his rambling by simply saying his first name. “It’s okay. Really. I’m only working opening shift today, so I get off soon. It isn’t a big deal.”

Pope glances to where Lena sits in the corner booth, watching something on her iPad, and then back to you. “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” you say, soft but sure. You hold out a hand to take Lena’s bag. “Do what you need to do. Me and Lena will find something fun to do this evening.”

He hesitates a second longer, then hands you the bag. “There’s some money in the side pocket for you two to get dinner.” Then, lowly so the few people sitting at the bar can’t hear, “I should be back no later than eleven o’clock, max. Her bedtime is usually eight but it’s Saturday, so she can stay up a little bit later, if she wants. It’s up to you.”

You smirk. “I’ll try not to keep her up too late.”

He can’t help but think that you look so fucking pretty right now. Even in a simple black t-shirt with the bar’s logo and a server’s apron on. He wonders if Deran has told you how pretty you look today.

Or if Deran has even seen you today. Knowing him, he likely crashed at Smurf’s after the party or stayed out until the sun came up and was too hungover to wake up when you left for work.

“She’ll be fine,” you assure him delicately, seemingly taking his silence for hesitation. “Take your time and just…be safe, okay?” You look like you want to say more, but you bite your bottom lip, crossing your arms over your chest.

Pope gives a brief nod. “I will.”

He starts to walk past you to say goodbye to Lena when you grab him by the forearm. His gaze drops to where your hand grips him and then back up to your worried eyes.

“Promise me,” you whisper. “You won’t take any unnecessary risks. You won’t do anything to get yourself locked back up. Or worse.”

There’s a small, petty part of him that wants to ask if you made Deran make you a similar promise. But he knows how mean that would sound, and he knows he would regret it as soon as the words left his lips.

He settles for a simple I promise instead.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Spending time with Lena doesn’t feel like spending time with a child. It’s more like spending time with an adult trapped in a child’s body.

She’s more reserved and guarded than any seven year old should ever have to be. Hesitant to get close to anyone for fear that they’ll be the next person that she loses.

It never takes you too long to bring her out of her shell, though. All you had to do was ask if she wanted to go get her nails done, and glimpses of the bright little girl beneath the trauma began to peek through.

Any color she wants, you had told her. Multiple colors. A different color for each finger and toenail. She had said that would look silly - ultimately choosing a bright yellow for her toes and a baby pink for her fingernails.

When you asked if she wanted to come back for another manicure in a few weeks, she looked like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be excited. She hesitated, asking “really?” in a tiny voice that broke your heart.

You had assured her you were confident that her uncle Pope wouldn’t mind.

Afterwards, it started to rain, so your original plan to take her to the beach got scrapped. You had been driving down the road, trying to brainstorm something else to do to pass the time for a couple hours, when you drove past an arcade that you hadn’t been to in years.

Lena hadn’t, either.

Air hockey, skee ball, Whac-A-Mole, pinball, and every claw machine in the building. With all of her tickets (and yours), she picked out a small stuffed bunny that she is now cuddling in your bed - fast asleep, with a belly full of the pizza that you picked up on your way home.

You tucked her into your bed hours ago and she fell asleep within minutes. You wish you could say the same for yourself.

Right now, it’s a quarter til midnight and you’re trying your hardest not to spiral - and the fact that Pope had said he would be back no later than eleven o'clock and you’ve yet to hear a word from him, Deran, or anyone else is only the second half of the reason why.

The first half is an innocent observation made by a seven year old.

“Why are you uncle Deran’s girlfriend and not uncle Pope’s girlfriend?”

You nearly spit out your drink at the question. It’s so random that at first, you think you must have heard her wrong. The two of you are sitting on your living room couch, eating dinner and watching some cute animated movie on Netflix that Lena chose.

“What - why do you ask that?” You laugh.

She isn’t even looking at you, her attention on the screen in front of her. She gives a small shrug and glances at you. “I don’t know,” she says in a small voice. “Sometimes I just wish you were uncle Pope’s girlfriend instead. Is that bad?”

What the hell are you supposed to say to that? Yeah kid, I wish that, too. All the time, actually. But your uncle Deran is actually gay and if I break up with him to get with his fucking brother then people are going to assume that Pope stole his girl and that I cheated on him. But I can’t say that I didn’t actually cheat on him, because then we’d have to admit to the fact that our relationship has been fake this entire time, and Deran would have to come out before he’s ready, and and and—-

Lena is staring at you.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think that’s bad. Sometimes we can’t help what we want. But…you don’t have to wish for your uncle Pope and I to be boyfriend and girlfriend. If you want the three of us to spend more time together, or if you want you and I to spend more time together, we can try to make that happen.”

“It’s not that,” she says meekly, looking down at her hands in her lap.

You tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Then what is it, kiddo?”

She hesitates for a moment. You’re going to drop the subject, because ultimately, it doesn’t really matter - what she wants or what you want - but then she opens her mouth.

“Uncle Deran doesn’t look at you the way uncle Pope does.” She looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes. It’s at this moment that you have to remind yourself that she has no true blood relation to Pope - because just like him, you think she can see right through you. “And you don’t look at uncle Deran the way you look at uncle Pope.”

“Wow,” you laugh, a little too quickly. “Remind me to never play poker with you.” She scrunches her brows together in confusion. Then, you scoot a bit closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Grown-ups are complicated sometimes. But I promise you don’t need to worry about me, or Uncle Pope, or uncle Deran. That’s between us. All that matters is that we all love you. Okay?”

She nods, accepting that answer far more easily than you expect. She doesn’t press, doesn’t question, just leans into your embrace and goes back to watching her movie.

But her words continue to echo in your mind hours after she has fallen asleep and the small house has gone quiet.

Are you really so transparent that a fucking seven year old can read you like that? And if she’s right about the way you look at Pope…could she be right about the way he looks at you, too?

You’ve never let yourself think about it long enough for it to matter. Pope has never been a possibility.

Even if you wish he was.

And then there’s the more obvious and pressing matter at hand - it’s nearly midnight and you have no idea if the boys are okay.

None of them are answering their phones. After Pope and Deran, you even try to call Craig. All go straight to voicemail. You even send Nicky a short, inconspicuous text - simply asking if she’s heard from J. She has not.

You force yourself to put your phone down after that. If their phones are turned off, there’s nothing else you can do for the time being except wait.

You don’t even realize you’ve dozed off until the sound of a car door slamming shut jolts you awake.

You practically sprint to the door, unlocking and opening it before they have a chance to wake Lena up. Your knees almost give out in relief when you see both Deran and Pope standing upright, walking up the front porch steps.

Then you see a cut across Deran’s cheekbone.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping outside. You reach out on instinct, your fingers hovering over the dried blood smeared across his skin. It’s not deep, but it’s ugly. “Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, brushing it off but letting you inspect the wound. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”

You can’t help but glance past him to where Pope still stands at the top of the porch steps a few feet away. Your eyes are instantly drawn to a large stain on the side of his shirt, just under his ribcage. Dark red and wet looking. Undeniably blood.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, already stepping past Deran without thinking. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

Before you can think twice, your hands are on him, tugging his shirt up. Your stomach drops when you see the bloody gash across his ribs.

“You got shot,” you hiss.

“I got grazed,” he corrects gently, watching you with an unreadable expression. “I promised you I wouldn’t do anything to get locked up or worse, right? I didn’t break that promise. This is just a flesh wound.”

Behind you, Deran clears his throat. “Don’t worry about me, babe. I’m totally fine. In case you were concerned.”

“I know you’re fine, Deran. You’re not the one bleeding onto our porch.”

Deran is silent for a moment as you crouch down to get a better look at the still-oozing wound on Pope’s side. Then, he sighs, muttering something about going to take a shower.

“Don’t wake Lena up,” you call over your shoulder in a whisper-shout as he disappears into the house without another word.

And then it’s just you and Pope. Pope, with his abdomen still halfway exposed and blood dripping down his side.

“Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s get you patched up.”

He follows you into the house without any protest.

“Shirt off,” you command without looking at him as you gather whatever you can find from around the kitchen and small hallway bathroom.

You’re a bartender - not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not even a CNA. But you have been best friends with Deran Cody for a couple years now, so this isn’t your first time having to patch up a gaping, bloody wound.

It is, however, your first time patching up Pope.

Urgent care or the ER is out of the question, so you have to make do with what you have. A clean washcloth, hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, gauze pads and tape.

Pope takes a silent seat on the couch and lets you examine the wound up close when you sit down beside him. You hear Deran turn on the shower from the master bathroom down the hallway as you begin wiping the mostly dried blood off of his skin with a damp washcloth.

“So,” you start, your face warming under his stare, “other than the obvious, did everything go okay? Are Craig and J alright?”

“Yeah,” Pope grunts. “They’re fine. Me and Deran got the worst of it.”

“Clearly,” you grumble. “Should’ve made you promise specifically to not get shot.” You glance up at him. “I’ll remember that next time.”

He looks down to where you carefully clean the skin of his abdomen. “How was Lena?” He murmurs. “Did she behave for you?”

“Of course,” you snort. “She always does. We had fun. Got our nails done, went to the arcade, got pizza for dinner, watched a movie about a fox and a bunny who are cops…”

“Wow. Sounds like your evening was far more relaxing than mine.” He pauses. “Did you use the money I put in Lena’s bag?”

You roll your eyes but don’t look away from the task at hand. “Yeah. Five hundred dollars was more than enough for dinner, you know.”

He lets out a low, rough laugh at that. You feel it more than you hear it. It rumbles through his chest beneath your hands, the muscles there jumping with the motion of it. Your eyes drift without meaning to, suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting to him and the steady rise and fall of his bare, bulky chest only inches away. You force your attention away from the thick muscles, grabbing the hydrogen peroxide.

“This will probably sting,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods, just visible enough to confirm he heard you before you carefully squirt the clear liquid over the gash.

“So, where’s she sleeping?” He asks, barely even wincing.

Your brows scrunch together. “In my bedroom?”

A pause. “And where were you sleeping?” You’re too distracted, and too tired, to pick up on the subtle, curious shift in his tone. With one hand, he pats one of your pillows that you had brought from your room along with a large throw blanket to assemble a makeshift bed on the couch. “Here?”

“Yeah?” You snort. “I let Lena sleep in my bedroom and I took the couch…”

“I thought this place had two bedrooms.”

You shake your head, still not entirely sure what he’s getting at. “It does. My room and Der…”

The words die in your throat. You completely freeze as you blot the clean wound dry with a paper towel.

Shit.

Your room…and Deran’s room.

“I mean—” You clear your throat, tossing the paper towel aside and grabbing the tube of Neosporin and a gauze pad to avoid looking him in the eye while your brain is scrambling to think of some excuse as to why a happy couple would be sleeping in separate bedrooms. You say the very first thing that comes to mind. “Deran snores. Like, really loud. And I’m a light sleeper, so…sometimes I crash in the guest room. It was my bedroom before we started dating.”

It’s a shit excuse. It doesn’t at all address why you didn’t just sleep in your and Deran’s shared bedroom tonight, but it’s the best you can come up with on the spot - with him staring at you like he can read your mind.

Pope doesn’t respond right away. You can practically feel his eyes on you, daring you to look up.

“I didn’t know that Deran snores,” he muses lowly.

Does Deran actually snore? Maybe? Sometimes?

You tear off a piece of cheap medical tape you found in the first aid kit. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one who shares a bed with him.”

The room feels impossibly small and suffocating. You hold the gauze pad up to the wound, your hands trembling more than you’d like as you try to make quick work of securing the bandage to his side.

You start to pull away, to tell him that should be good enough for now, to leave the room and attempt to regain your composure after all but blatantly admitting that your relationship is a sham, when Pope grabs your wrist.

At first, he says nothing. Just stares at you, as intense and unyielding as ever. His hand dwarfs your own, his skin like wildfire against yours.

You know you should pull away - should try your hardest to convince him that yes, of course your brother and I sleep in the same bed. Why wouldn’t we? We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. That’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do when they live together—

But all the words catch and pile up in your throat, making you feel like you’re going into anaphylactic shock.

“No, I don’t share a bed with him,” Pope drawls. “But you don’t share a bed with him, either. Do you?”

Your mouth goes dry. There’s no point in even trying to deny it. The truth may as well be written across your forehead.

Pope releases your wrist. You almost think he’s going to let it go - that he isn’t going to press this subject right here, right now, where Deran could so easily overhear. Instead, his hand settles on the exposed skin of your thigh, just above your knee. His calloused thumb applies just enough pressure to the flesh of your inner thigh to make your stomach knot.

“Not only do I think you don’t share a bed,” he murmurs, voice rough, “but I also think you don’t like calling him your boyfriend very much either, for some reason.”

Your heart is beating so hard you’re sure he can feel it through your skin. His hand slides the slightest bit higher.

“And I don’t think he kisses you,” he continues, leaning closer. “At least not the way I think about kissing you.”

Air leaves your lungs in a shaky breath. Your eyes drop to his lips before you can stop yourself.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.

Your hand moves before your brain can catch up, coming up to cup his jaw. The rough scrape of stubble against your palm sends a shiver down your spine as your lips hover no more than an inch away from his.

He’s shirtless and wounded. Lena’s sleeping in the next room and Deran is showering just down the hall. You’re supposed to be in a relationship with his brother, but right now you can’t remember why you ever thought that was a good idea.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about any of that because Pope is right. He’s right about it all. You and Deran don’t share a bed. You do struggle calling him your boyfriend. He doesn’t kiss you, and you don’t kiss him.

Never have. Not in the way that every fiber of your being screams to kiss Pope right now.

“No.”

You aren’t quite sure whether he kisses you or you kiss him. You just know within seconds of your lips touching his, the restraint that you’ve been fighting to maintain for months crumbles. His mouth moves against yours with the kind of urgency that both shows and tells just how much he’s been holding himself back all this time, too.

He exhales against your lips, one hand coming up instinctively to grip your waist while the other tightens on your thigh. The pull of it drags you closer to him on the couch and before you know it, you’re straddling his lap, your hands braced on his broad, freckled shoulders for balance. He fists the hem of your t-shirt, bunching the fabric at your waist just enough for his knuckles to graze the exposed skin of your sides.

The unmistakable flavor of menthol on his tongue from a cigarette he undoubtedly smoked on the drive home with Deran tells you that he couldn’t have predicted this happening right now anymore than you could have.

Your fingers glide over the planes of his shoulders and up the sides of his neck until they weave through his short brunet curls that you’ve longed to run your hands through for longer than you care to admit. You give a gentle tug to the hair at the base of his skull and the sound that vibrates from deep within his chest shoots straight to your core.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that your brain is somehow able to register that Deran has turned the shower off.

As much as it equally physically and emotionally pains you to do so, you scramble off of Pope’s lap, adjusting your t-shirt back into a proper position and wiping any evidence of his kiss from your mouth with the back of your hand. As you scoot to the opposite end of the couch from him, you can’t help but take in the current state of him - lips kiss swollen, chest and neck flushed pink, and clad only in the pair of jeans that he attempts to adjust to conceal the bulge you were able to feel through your sleep pants.

If it weren’t for the fact that you can hear Deran exiting the bathroom at this precise moment, you don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from taking him right here on this couch.

And that’s a very dangerous thought.

Deran enters the living room wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, sandy blond hair still dripping and his own skin flushed pink for reasons entirely different from Pope. Luckily, he barely spares a glance in your direction, walking past you and Pope to get to the kitchen.

“Bleed out on my couch yet? Or are you gonna make it?” Deran calls from where he rummages through an open fridge. You look to Pope, mentally urging him to play off what had just transpired not even ten seconds before Deran walked in the room.

He doesn’t. He stares at the back of Deran’s head, his jaw clenched so tight that you’re surprised he doesn’t break a tooth.

You answer before the silence can turn (more) weird.

“He’s patched up well enough for now,” you say, voice unnaturally high. Then, as casually as you can manage, “there’s leftover pizza from dinner in there, if you’re hungry.”

“Sick,” Deran grunts. “What about you, man? You hungry?”

You raise your brows at him, shooting him a look that clearly says fucking answer him, act normal, I swear to God if you don’t eat that leftover pizza—

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you when he answers with a singular, emotionless word. “Starving.”

Deran has no reaction, but something about the way he says it while looking at you makes it feel like the back of your neck is on fire.

You clear your throat. “Well, I have to open in the morning, so I should probably get some sleep…” You turn to Pope, trying not to completely melt under his stare. “Um - Lena can just sleep here tonight, if you don’t wanna wake her up this late. You can come back and get her in the morning, or you sleep here on the couch if you want—”

It won’t kill you to actually share a bed with Deran for one night. He is your best friend, after all.

“No, that’s okay.” He shakes his head and reaches for the blood soaked shirt on the coffee table. “It’s probably best if I come back in the morning.” He doesn’t elaborate as he starts to put the stained button-up back on.

“At least let me give you one of Deran’s t-shirts to wear for the time being. That thing is covered in blood.” You don’t wait for a response before you’re rising from the couch and walking down the hallway to Deran’s bedroom.

The second the door shuts behind you, you lean against it - fingertips touching your bottom lip that still tingles from where his mouth had moved so desperately with yours. You take a few deep, steadying breaths before you’re able to force yourself to look for a clean t-shirt in the absolute shit show that is Deran’s bedroom.

Part of you feels relieved that Pope is insisting on coming back to get Lena in the morning so that you won’t have to actually sleep in this mess. As much as you love Deran, you can’t say with confidence that he’s changed his bedsheets anytime in the last six months.

Another part of you is glad that Pope won’t be occupying your couch tonight because you know you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting a decent night’s sleep if he were a mere short walk down the hallway.

At least when Pope leaves you can take the couch and try to process the fact that you straddled his lap, stuck your tongue in his mouth and felt the very obvious evidence of his arousal with only walls separating the two of you from Deran and Lena.

You rummage through Deran’s closet until you find the first t-shirt that passes a sniff test while trying not to spiral until you’re fully alone.

“Here’s a t-shirt. If you want to leave your shirt I can try to get the blood out of it—”

You look around the small living room and kitchen to find that Pope is nowhere to be found. Deran leans against the counter, taking a bite of a slice of leftover pizza.

“Where’s Pope?”

Deran shrugs. “I heated a piece of pizza up for him but he muttered something about going home and dipped.”

“He’s the one wearing a bloody shirt, not me,” you sigh, tossing the t-shirt onto the couch and trying to play off the disappointment you feel at his sudden departure.

“Do you think he was acting kinda strange?”

Your stomach flip flops at the question. You can’t bring yourself to look Deran in the eye, so you take your place on the couch once more, your back turned to him. “I mean, he did technically get shot. I guess anyone would be a little on edge after that.”

The excuse feels sour on your tongue, but it’s all you’ve got.

“I guess,” he agrees with a mouthful of pizza. An awkward pause. “Seemed fine enough on the drive here, though.”

You shrug, grateful that Deran can’t see your face at the moment. “Probably just a combination of blood loss and an adrenaline crash after the job. How did that go, by the way?”

Much to your relief, Deran doesn’t press the subject of Pope any further before telling you he’s going to bed after he’s finished eating.

Unfortunately, that does very little to quiet the chaos in your mind.

When you finally turn off the lights and curl up under your blanket on the couch, you know that sleep won’t come easily. Not with the ghost of Pope’s hands still burning against the skin of your waist, not with the taste of a menthol cigarette still lingering on your tongue, and definitely not with the impossible to ignore realization that you have no earthly idea what the fuck you’re supposed to do now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has no issue being celibate. He got used to it during his three years in prison.

Then, almost immediately upon being released, his brothers all but forced him to go to a strip club for his birthday, where he ended up having the most unsatisfactory hook-up of his life. He’s sure the woman - whose name he doesn’t even remember - would say the same of the experience.

All it took was that one brief and underwhelming sexual encounter for him to decide that he would rather remain celibate than have sex that feels so…meaningless and unfulfilling.

Coincidentally or not, he had just met you when he came to that decision.

You, his baby brother’s girlfriend, who patched up his wound as if he’s made of glass one moment and then climbed onto his lap and kissed him breathless the next. You, whose lips taste so honey sweet that you got him hard with just one kiss. You, who whimpered as you broke away from him just seconds before Deran entered the room, leaving him desperate to do whatever necessary to keep drawing sounds like that from you.

It all replayed on a loop the entire drive back to his place.

The way you tasted, the feeling of your skin, and how it took every bit of his self restraint to resist laying you down just so he could feel you squirm beneath him.

He wishes he could say this is the first time that he’s thought of you as he gets himself off in the shower, but that would be a lie. It’s far from it, but it is the first time doing so knowing how it feels to have your hands in his hair and the weight of you grinding down right where he most wants you.

Tonight, it takes him no time at all - all he has to do is think of the sweet smell of your perfume and how good it felt to have your fingers in his hair while your lips moved in synchronicity with his own, and he’s finishing with a groan of your name as warm, white liquid follows the water down the drain.

When he lays down in his bed, he finds it difficult to feel guilty about any of it.

He knows that he should. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother. But he felt every ounce of how you had kissed him. There’s no doubt in his mind that you want him as bad as he wants you. That’s not something a person can fake.

Not you, anyway. Pope knows you. You aren’t a good liar.

If he believed that he was intruding on a happy, healthy relationship, he may feel a shred of remorse. But there’s no part of him that believes that to be the case.

You may care about Deran, but no part of Pope believes that you’ve ever kissed Deran the way you kissed him. You may spend most of your time with him, but Pope knows who’s really on your mind the whole time. And you may have love for his brother, but Pope is more sure than ever you aren’t in love with him.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

That morning, you wake far earlier than you need to.

Lena likes to sleep in on days she doesn’t have school, and you don’t have to be at the bar until eleven, but you still find yourself awake at the crack of dawn.

Busying yourself does little to keep your brain from wandering to Pope. You bake blueberry muffins for when Lena wakes up, start a load of laundry, and clean the kitchen and living room all while thinking about what the hell you’re going to say and do whenever he comes to get Lena.

Should you tell him that last night was a mistake and that it can’t happen again? Probably. That would make everything a lot fucking simpler. Nip it in the bud, before either of you get too invested, someone finds out, and people get hurt.

But you’re already invested. Your heart has been invested in Pope Cody since the day you met him by Smurf’s pool. Kissing him last night was just the dam finally breaking.

So what do you tell him, then? The truth? And completely betray Deran’s trust?

Other than Adrian, and a couple nameless men before him, you’re the only person he’s ever told the truth to. You are the only person he’s ever told who he hasn’t also slept with.

You’re the only person he’s ever told simply out of trust, and you won’t blatantly betray that.

You’re drinking coffee on the front porch when Pope parks in front of your house. Equal parts excitement and anticipation bloom in your gut the second that he gets out of his truck and begins walking in your direction.

He pauses when he reaches the top step. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to do anything other than look at you.

“Good morning,” you hum, coffee mug pressed against your lips. “How’s your side?”

“Sore. Fine,” he murmurs, hesitantly taking the seat on the opposite side of the small patio table. “I changed the bandage this morning. Lena sleep okay?”

“She’s still snoring,” you say fondly.

“She does that,” he sighs, looking around like he’s expecting to see someone else. “Where’s your boyfriend at?”

You roll your eyes. “Your brother,” you correct, placing your mug on the table but not taking your hands off the sides just so you have something to occupy them, “is out surfing. About that, though…” You trail off, going silent. Pope waits, patient but as expressionless as ever.

Not even ten minutes ago, you swore to yourself that you’d only kiss him again if you also give him some kind of explanation that assures him you’re not actually committing infidelity by doing so.

And fuck, you really want to kiss him again, so it’s now or never.

You nod your head in the direction of the front door. “Let’s go inside.”

He quirks a brow, but doesn’t question or object as he stands to follow you into the house. When he enters, you close the door quietly so as to not wake Lena - she’s a deep sleeper, but you really need her to stay asleep for a little bit longer. Just long enough for you to get this off your chest before you chicken out.

You hesitate in the kitchen. You consider sitting down on the couch, but one vivid flashback of what happened last time the two of you sat on that couch together makes you think twice about that, and you settle for leaning against the counter with your arms crossed over your chest instead.

You’re both silent for a moment, but Pope is the first to break.

“Look, I don’t regret last night,” he says, low. He takes a tentative step towards you. “Not at all. But if you do, it’s okay. We can pretend it never happened, if that’s what you—”

“You were right.”

He freezes. Then, takes another small step, leaving only a few inches of space between you. “About which part?”

You lift your shoulders in a half shrug. “All of it. Me and Deran. We don’t share a bed. We don’t kiss. Never have. Not like you and I did. Not even close.”

He doesn’t look surprised. You didn’t expect him to. He had already said it all himself. You’re only confirming what he already believes to be true.

“I’m not in love with Dean. And he isn’t in love with me, either.”

No, he doesn’t look surprised, but you can’t help but think he does look a little bit relieved - even just to hear you say it out loud. But that tiny smidge of relief written in his features is quickly replaced with confusion.

“Then why the hell are you guys together? What am I missing?”

You look down at the floor, your stare locking onto a blueberry you had dropped while making muffins. This is the part that you know you can’t answer honestly. At least not in a way that will make sense to him. He’s going to have questions…ones that you can’t answer in complete honesty without outing Deran.

“Hey,” Pope says, voice uncharacteristically soft. He closes the remaining bit of distance between you and places a tentative hand on your waist, causing you to look up at him. He braces his other hand against the ledge of the counter that you lean against, caging you between it and his body. His hazel eyes bore into yours, searching for whatever it is that you aren’t saying. “You can talk to me. I’m just…trying to understand.”

“I know,” you whisper. You uncross your arms, placing your palms against his chest. Your gaze drops to the chipped polish on one of your fingernails.

“I do love Deran. A lot. And he loves me, too. But we aren’t in love.” You take a breath. “Our relationship is fake.”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Fake.” He repeats the word, his voice unreadable.

“Mm-hm.” You nod, even though you can tell it wasn’t really a question. “Fake.”

“Why?”

You can’t help but snort a laugh at the bewilderment in his tone. You sigh, rubbing your thumb absentmindedly against the front of his shirt where your hand rests on his chest.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you admit. “But it made sense at the time.” Pope waits, silently giving you the opportunity to keep going. “It was my idea. As you know, I work at a busy bar. Men hit on me…pretty much constantly. Some don’t take no for an answer the first time. Or the second time.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“So being able to say that I have a boyfriend helps,” you continue with a shrug. “Most guys back off quicker if they believe there’s another man involved. And at the time…I wasn’t interested in being with anyone for real anyway. A lot of people already assumed me and Deran were together. I mean, we hang out all the time, we live together…it didn’t really come as a shock to most people.”

You pause, then add more firmly, “As for Deran…he has his own reasons for agreeing to the arrangement. But that’s for him to share, when and if he ever feels ready.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then a slow look of realization settles over his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Oh.”

He doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t push the boundary. But Pope’s smarter than most people give him credit for. You can see the gears turning behind those hazel eyes and you have no doubt he can read between the lines of what you are saying, and what you aren’t.

His grip on your waist tightens and his gaze intensifies. The air in the kitchen seems to grow heavier. “And what about now?”

Your words come out as a breathy whisper. “What do you mean?”

“You said you weren’t interested in being with anyone. What about now?”

You swallow. “Now…”

Now, you see the pretty hazel eyes that are staring at you in your dreams every night. Now, when the boys go out on jobs, you’re a mess until you know that not only Deran is okay, but Pope, too. Now, you struggle to call Deran your boyfriend when people ask, because you’re secretly wishing it was Pope you were calling your boyfriend instead. Now, you know how Pope tastes and you aren’t really sure how you managed to go so long not knowing how he tastes. Now, you’re staring at his lips and can’t remember how to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence.

So instead of answering him with words, you grab his face in your hands and pull his face to yours.

For a fraction of a second, he freezes. Then, when your tongue sweeps his bottom lip, a sound releases from deep in his chest and he’s kissing you back. He’s kissing you back like Deran won’t be home any given moment and Lena won’t be waking up any minute now.

His hands rub up and down your sides and yours go to his hair, subconsciously remembering how much he seemed to like your fingers tugging on his curls last night. His lips part for you, his tongue quick to dance with yours. He brings one hand to cup your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

Everything that follows happens fast. One second, you’re leaning against the counter kissing, and the next, he’s easing your sleep shorts and panties down your thighs and lifting you onto the edge of the counter before kneeling in front of you.

“Andrew,” you breathe. He takes a calf in each calloused hand, parting your legs just far enough to plant kisses on your inner thighs, the light stubble on his jaw tickling the sensitive skin. “We can’t—Lena’s right down the hallway—”

“It’s gonna be fine,” He murmurs the words against your skin in between trailing kisses up your thighs. He stops when his face is only a few inches from your exposed cunt, looking up at you in a way that makes you fight against the urge to clench your thighs around his head.

“Just stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

You nod. You nod because you know if you speak, you’ll sound every bit as eager and desperate as you are. Three damn years that you’ve been single, and the last time you even had so much as a disappointing one night stand was months before you and Deran began your fake relationship, so it goes without saying that…touch-starved is a bit of an understatement.

You could have fucked someone at any point if you had wanted to. God knows Deran has. But the truth is, you haven’t wanted to. The last few hook-ups you had prior to you and Deran getting “together” had been so underwhelming that you’ve been repulsed at the thought of sex for the longest time.

Then you met Pope. And now here you are, with his head between your legs in the middle of your kitchen.

He all but moans into you when his lips settle over the bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. You fight the urge to surge forward, bracing yourself on the countertop with one hand as the other shoots to his hair. You have to purse your lips tightly to keep from releasing the noises that threaten to pour from your throat as he tentatively explores you with his mouth.

Strong arms wrap around your thighs, supporting you from below. His fingers dig into the flesh with just enough pressure that you know you’ll later be able to feel tiny, tender bruises in the exact spots where his fingertips press into your skin.

You glance down at him. It’s the kind of sight that would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already perched on the edge of the countertop - the kind of sight that makes you grateful that he’s helping support your weight right now because it turns your legs to jelly.

His eyes are closed and he’s lost in you - alternating between soft strokes of his tongue up your center and sucking your clit between his pretty lips that are wet with you.

Heat rapidly pools low in your belly and your thighs flex around the sides of his head as you inch closer and closer to release. You croon his name, instantly slapping your own hand over your mouth as soon as the word slips out. He chuckles low against you, the vibration of it shooting through you.

The familiar feeling of a hot coil dangerously close to snapping begins to overtake your senses. Your eyes snap shut and your head rolls back, bracing for the climax that is seconds away from washing over you—

Deran’s voice. Craig’s obnoxious fucking laugh. Both coming from directly outside the house.

“Fuck,” you hiss, ignoring the screaming ache between your legs and practically pushing Pope off you. “Fuck, where’s my—”

Pope reacts even quicker than you. He’s grabbing your sleep shorts and panties from where they lay on the floor, shoving your feet into the holes of both at the same time. He stands, face flushed pink and glistening with your slick, and then darts down the hallway without a word, leaving you to pull your clothing into place just moments before Deran and Craig enter the house in their wetsuits.

You turn in the opposite direction of them, unable to look either one in the eye. You grab the hand towel in front of you and pretend to busy yourself with an imaginary spill on the counter.

“Morning,” Deran calls as he makes a beeline for the fridge. “Smells good in here.”

You clear your throat. “Oh, yeah. I made blueberry muffins. They’re on the dining table. Help yourselves.” Your voice comes out too high-pitched and you mentally recoil.

“Where’s Pope?” Craig asks. “I saw his truck out front.”

“Yeah, he’s here,” you say, forcefully casual. You turn to face them, leaning against the counter and hoping your face looks neutral. “He’s in the bathroom. Or…waking Lena up, maybe. Not sure.”

Really smooth, idiot.

Craig nods in response, seemingly oblivious as he grabs a muffin from the tin on the dining room table.

“What are you guys doing back so early?” Then, fearing the questions sounds more accusatory than curious, you add, “I figured you’d be in the water until lunch time.”

A…curious? Suspicious? Look comes over Deran’s face as he takes a step toward you, leaning in to place a hand on your waist and a kiss on your cheek. “We’re gonna go back out. Just wanted to grab a quick bite to eat.” He retreats, joining Craig at the table. “That okay with you?”

Your cheeks warm and you force a laugh. “Yeah, of course.”

For the next few minutes, you attempt to keep yourself busy by unloading clean dishes from the dishwasher. And by attempt to keep yourself busy, you actually mean try to ignore how uncomfortably sticky wet your underwear are.

After what feels like forever but in actuality was likely no more than ten minutes, Pope and Lena appear from the hallway.

“Hey Lena,” Craig greets her with a smile. Then, eyes trailing over Pope he adds, “How you feeling, man? Heard that bullet grazed you pretty damn good last night.”

Pope shrugs, face giving nothing away. “Never been better.”

The three of them converse while eating, but you can’t help but notice the way that Pope barely says a word to Deran. Hardly even looks at him, really. You try to tell yourself that he’s just being…well, Pope, but deep down you know it’s the fact that he had his fucking tongue buried inside you seconds before Deran got home.

And even though Pope knows that Deran isn’t actually your boyfriend, they’re still brothers. He’s still lying to his brother, and that can’t come easily.

It doesn’t come easily to you, either. Even just being here in this room with all of them right now, you feel like if you open your mouth, you’re surely going to blurt out the truth.

“Everything okay with you?” Deran asks, pulling you out of a trancelike state.

You had been staring at Pope’s side profile.

“Me? I’m fine,” you answer a bit too quickly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Not looking forward to this shift today.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, which Pope is the first to break. “Lena? Isn’t there something you wanted to ask?”

You glance from Pope to Lena. She’s staring at Pope with a shy smile on her face, like she isn’t totally sure if she wants to speak or not.

“Go on,” Pope encourages. “You can ask her.”

She looks at you…and then briefly at Deran before back to you once more. “Do you and uncle Deran want to come to my house for dinner tonight?”

You can’t stop your eyes from going wide at the question. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, but Pope encouraging Lena to ask you and Deran over for dinner wasn’t anywhere on the list of possibilities.

Your foot twitches with the urge to kick Pope from beneath the table.

“Oh—”

“Ah, I’m sorry, Lena,” Deran interrupts you. “I’d love to come over but I have to cover a shift at the bar tonight because we’re short staffed.” Deran looks at you, brows slightly raised. “But you’re more than welcome to go, if you want.”

Lena’s looking at you hopefully. “Uncle Pope’s going to make spaghetti.”

“Oh, is he?” You quip, glancing at Pope, who has been staring at you the whole time with an impassive expression. “Well, I do love spaghetti. Of course I’ll come.”

That earns a toothy grin from Lena, and something like a smirk from Pope.

Dinner. It’s just dinner. Lena will be there. And Deran knows about it, too. Even gave you his blessing to go, so it’s not like you’re being secretive.

Dinner is good. Dinner is fine. So why is your heart racing at the thought of it?

When Pope and Lena say their goodbyes and head out to his truck, you spot the small purple bunny that Lena had won at the arcade last night on the kitchen counter. You could just bring it with you to dinner tonight and give it back to her then, but you’re going to take this as an opportunity to interrogate Pope.

By the time you slip on your flip flops and run outside, Lena is already buckled into the backseat and Pope is opening the driver’s door.

“Wait a sec!” You call. He freezes, looking back over his shoulder. “She forgot this.” You toss him the bunny and he catches it. You wait for him to shut the door before you speak again. “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” He starts to take a step closer to you, but stops himself after a quick glance in the direction of the house.

“That,” you whisper-hiss. “Inviting me and Deran to dinner after eating me ou—” Now it’s your turn to stop yourself. You shake your head. “You’re lucky he’s busy at the bar tonight.”

Pope smirks, the apples of his cheeks turning pink as he appears to be fighting off laughter. “I already knew that Deran is busy tonight. He was complaining last night about being understaffed and having to work tonight.”

“Oh. That’s…oh. That makes sense.”

He shrugs. “Just figured it would be less weird if Lena invited both of you.”

You cock a brow. “So you put her up to that, then?”

“I needed an excuse to see you tonight,” he says simply, opening the door to his truck again. “Do you…actually like spaghetti?”

You laugh, your face warming at the hopefulness in his voice. “Yeah. Spaghetti’s good.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

The question Deran asked in response to you proposing a fake relationship nine months ago has echoed in your mind all day long. From the moment that Pope and Lena pulled out of your driveway this morning, throughout your shift at the bar, the entire time you’re getting ready to go over to their place for dinner, and with every bite of spaghetti, the question rings louder and louder.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

At the time, it did sound good. It sounded so simple. But you never could have predicted that the person you would meet, the person you would want to be with for real, would be his damn brother.

What kind of luck is that? To genuinely fall for someone for the first time in years and it happens to be your best friend’s brother?

No harm done. You can only fucking hope - hope that Deran doesn’t feel betrayed, hope that he still wants to be your friend, and hope that he isn’t angry with Pope whenever you tell him.

Because you are going to tell him. Soon. You’re just still trying to figure out exactly what it is you’re going to tell him.

Pope’s mouth is on your throat.

Dinner was over a while ago, followed by several games of Connect 4 at Lena’s request. Then, you insisted on cleaning the kitchen while Pope helped her get ready for bed. Now, the house is quiet. The curtains are drawn, the doors are locked, the lights are low, and his mouth is on your throat.

An Animal Planet documentary playing on the TV illuminates the otherwise dark living room. You’re flat on your back on the couch with Pope above you, one arm braced next to your head and his other hand resting just under the hem of your shirt, fingers splayed across the skin of your stomach. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, keeping him pressed as closed as possible while still wearing clothes.

He alternates between peppering wet kisses and sucking tiny love bites along the column of your throat. You feel the hard press of him between your legs, unable to resist arching upwards in an attempt to relieve the rapidly growing ache in your core. He lets out a low, throaty groan at the movement, grinding down with enough pressure to make you gasp out in longing.

“Andrew,” you whisper, voice strained with arousal. Your hands shoot to the sides of his head, delicately urging him back. He pulls away instantly, just enough for his face to hover inches above yours.

“What is it?” He murmurs, worry on his face. He removes his hand from beneath your shirt, smoothing the fabric back into place. The simple gesture makes your stomach flutter. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, really. I love this. Being here with you. Spending time with you and Lena. This…” You trail off, breathless, glancing down at the very limited amount of space between his chest and yours. “I just can’t help but feel bad about keeping it from Deran. I know I’m not actually cheating on him…but he’s still my best friend. And your brother. I want to be honest with him before this…goes any further.”

His expression is soft as he nods. He maneuvers off of you, sitting up and helping you into a sitting position beside him, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as he pulls you into his side. “What are you gonna tell him, exactly?” He places a tentative hand on your thigh. “What is…this?”

A shaky laugh slips out. “I was hoping we could figure that out together,” you say, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your leg. “All I know is I don’t want it to end. I just want to tell him first.”

“There’s nothing for me to figure out. You’re it for me.”

Your eyes shoot back up to his. His thumb brushes over your skin in slow circles. He tilts his head, a faint smirk appearing on his lips. “But I’m not going anywhere. So you do whatever you need to do.”

You start to lean in, to kiss him once more, when the front door rattles sharply from a few feet away. The handle twists back and forth, like whoever is on the other side is fully expecting it to open. Pope goes rigid beside you. There’s a brief pause, then the handle jiggles again, followed by a light knock.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Deran’s voice calls from beyond the door. “You guys in there?”

You’re pulling out of Pope’s embrace in an instant, standing to open the door. “Just act casual,” you murmur low, too quiet for Deran to hear.

You unlock the knob and deadbolt with shaky hands, trying your hardest to erase any signs of unease from your face. You’re going to talk to Deran about all of this, and soon - but not in front of Pope.

Tonight. Once the two of you are back at your place, alone.

“Hey,” you greet him cheerfully when you open the door. “How’d you get off work so early? Thought we were short staffed tonight.” It’s only 8:30 - the bar doesn’t normally close until ten o’clock on Sunday nights.

“We were,” Deran huffs, walking past you to enter the house as you hold the door open for him. “But we were also dead tonight, so I decided to close. Let everyone go home a little early. I was driving home and saw that your car’s still here so I thought I’d stop by.”

Deran pauses next to the recliner, hesitating before sitting down - he glances around the room, seemingly noticing how it’s dark except for the muted under the cabinet lights in the kitchen and the TV playing in the small living room. His gaze lingers on the two half empty beer bottles on the coffee table, one directly in front of Pope and the other in front of where you had been sitting moments prior.

Deran gives an awkward clear of his throat when Pope only stares at him wordlessly. “So, where’s Lena?” He asks, looking around for any sign of the girl.

“Asleep,” Pope answers shortly. “She has school in the morning.”

“Right,” Deran says with a click of his tongue, though there’s something in his voice that makes your stomach twist.

You hover awkwardly by the recliner, not eager to reclaim your original seat next to Pope. “She just laid down a few minutes ago,” you add. “We had been playing Connect 4 and watching a show on Animal Planet.” You gesture vaguely to the television and the red and yellow checkers scattered across the coffee table, evidence of your post-dinner activities. “I was uh - I was just getting ready to leave, actually.”

Deran’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Pope before he responds. “Ah. I see.” He pushes himself off the arms of the recliner with his palms, standing back up. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at home then.”

And whether due it’s the look on his face or the tone of his voice, you have no doubt that he knows something is off.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Deran mumbles an emotionless see ya later to Pope, not waiting for a response before he’s opening the front door and stepping back outside. When the door closes behind him, it echoes in the otherwise quiet room.

“Shit,” you grumble under your breath, looking around for where you had put your shoes. “Well, if he wasn’t already suspicious, he definitely fucking is now. I’ve gotta get home and try to explain—”

You don’t even notice that Pope stands up and walks over to you until he’s taking your face in his hands, tilting your head to look at him.

“He may be upset at first,” he says with a half-shrug and sympathetic look. “Probably will be. I know I don’t know all of the details, but I know you love him. He loves you, too. Everything will be okay.”

You nod meekly, trying to believe his words, but your brain is spiraling with worst-case scenarios. You won’t actually believe that things will be okay until they are okay.

And you know there’s only one way to make that happen.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Deran’s not an idiot, and he sure as hell isn’t blind.

Pope may be a near decade older than him, and he may have spent a good portion of Deran’s twenties in prison, but Deran still knows his brother well.

And he knows you very well.

Well enough to know that in the three years that the two of you have been friends, he’s never seen you look at someone the way that you do Pope.

He doesn’t really understand why you look at Pope the way that you do, but then again, he doesn’t really understand why you’re best friends with him, either. He supposes you see the best in people, even if you could do better.

Whatever the hell is going on between you and his older brother, isn’t a new and shocking revelation to him. He’s noticed Pope staring at you on too many different occasions to count at this point, and he knows you’ve always had a soft spot for Pope.

But he’s noticed a shift over the last few days. Normally, he can ignore Pope’s staring, but it’s more than that now. It’s more than just stolen, longing looks when he thinks you aren’t watching.

Because now, you’re staring back. Maybe not in the exact same creepy, intense way that Pope does, but that’s besides the point.

He accepted that he can no longer play it off as a soft spot when he and Pope got home from their most recent job and you looked like you had seen a ghost when you realized that Pope was bleeding. The second that you noticed the red stain on Pope’s shirt, Deran was suddenly chopped liver.

Maybe he should feel relieved. If you’re going to fall for one of his brothers, at least it isn’t Craig. He loves the guy to death, but he doesn’t exactly have the best track record with women. He’d just cheat on you, or give you some unheard of and incurable STD, or pull a move like he did with Renn and leave you for dead the first chance he gets.

Still. He never expected it to be Pope.

But Deran knows better than most that the heart wants it wants. He can’t fault you for that. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.

He’s told you everything. Everything. Things he’s never told anyone else. You know about the family business - well, more or less. He doesn’t exactly try to hide it. You know the truth of what a monster Smurf is. You were the first person he told about his plans to buy the bar you’d been working at for years - the exact place the two of you met. You know he’s gay. He trusts you implicitly, but you’ve kept the fact that you’re seeing his brother from him?

He isn’t angry (he’s trying not to be, anyway) but more than anything else, he’s hurt.

His best friend. His brother. And neither told him.

When you get home less than five minutes after him, he’s nursing a beer on the couch, waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything at first. You enter the house, slowly, leaning against the door and not meeting his eye for a long moment before taking a deep breath in.

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Deran snorts a sarcastic laugh. “I’d say so.”

You look up. If you’re surprised by his response, you don’t let it show. You purse your lips, making your way to the living room the two of you have shared for the last few years now, taking a seat on the loveseat directly across from him.

“Listen,” you start, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I should’ve told you. I know that. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I had some perfect reason, because I didn’t. I was just scared. I didn’t know what this was, or where it was going, and I didn’t want you caught in the middle if it didn’t work out.” You pause, your voice softening. “But still. I’m sorry for not telling you from the start.”

Deran’s silent for a moment, letting your words sink in. The tension in his shoulders eases the slightest bit at the sincerity in your voice.

The two of you never fight. Bicker like children sometimes, sure. Like when he doesn’t rinse his dishes off before putting them in the sink or waits too long to switch the laundry over so it starts to smell musty and you have to restart the load, or when you eat his last protein bar or forget to put the trash on the curb on garbage day.

But you never fight. You’re the one person he never has to fight with. Even now, he doesn’t want to fight with you.

He nods, staring down at the amber colored glass in his hands instead of you. “How long has this been going on?”

You let out a quiet snort of a laugh. “Depends. If you’re asking when the first time we kissed was…not even twenty-four hours ago. If you’re asking how long I’ve had feelings for him, then…I don’t know, really. A while.”

“Not even twenty-four — last night? As in after we got back from the job last night? You mean you guys were sucking face while I was in the shower?”

“Yes,” you moan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my god, don’t call it that—”

“I knew it.” Deran shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “I fucking knew he was acting even more off putting than usual last night.”

You spread your fingers apart, peeking out from the cracks. “He is not off putting—”

“Holy shit. You are in love with him.”

You groan dramatically, throwing your head back and staring up at the ceiling. Deran tries not to laugh, but he can’t help it.

You sit up a little, expression completely serious now. “Just so you know, I didn’t…tell Pope. About you. He knows that our relationship is fake, but I only told him my reasons for agreeing to it. Not yours.”

He should feel relieved to hear that, but he doesn’t. He just feels guilt - guilt that you felt you couldn’t confide in him. Guilt that you’ve been in this fake relationship for him all this time while harboring feelings for his brother for “a while.” Guilt that you were willing to prioritize him over your own happiness. Guilt that you and Pope wouldn’t have had to sneak around at all if it weren’t for him.

“Well.” He lifts the beer bottle to his lips, taking one last sip before setting it down. “Guess there’s only one thing left to do.”

Your brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

You blink, and then your eyes go wide in surprise. “What? You’re…breaking up with me?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Consider yourself dumped.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t dump me. We weren’t really even together.”

He waves a hand at you in dismissal. “I think what you’re actually trying to say is thank you, Deran.”

“But—”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Will you just let me give you my blessing? You’re off the hook. We’re good. Go suck face with Pope or whatever nasty shit you two were probably doing before I showed up.”

You roll your eyes, but your expression softens. Then, you stand, walking over to where Deran sits on the couch to take the empty space beside him.

“You’re really not mad?” You ask in a small voice.

He exhales through his nose, grabbing your hand in his and giving it a firm squeeze. “No,” he says simply. “How could I be? I mean, I’m not thrilled that it’s Pope, but…” He shrugs. “You committed to a fake relationship for nearly a fucking year for me. You deserve to be happy. Even if it is with my brother,” he adds, a tad more dryly.

You nod slowly, your gaze locked on where his hand still holds yours. “People are gonna talk, you know.” You turn your head slightly to look at him. “About why we broke up. About how I’m with Pope now. They’ll think that I left you for him, or that he stole your girl, or that—”

“So?” He cuts you off. “If I hear anyone say anything about you, I’ll knock their teeth out. Pope would do worse than that.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you say gently. “I don’t care what people say about me. I know the truth. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to…explain. You know, admit that it was a fake relationship or come out before you’re ready to…”

He shakes his head, shushing you. He wraps his free arm around your shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m a big boy. You don’t need to worry about protecting me from rumors anymore. Let people think and say whatever they want. I’ll come out when I’m ready. Not because people are being nosey assholes.”

You seem to relax a bit at his reassurance. You lean into his embrace, resting your head against his shoulder.

“And not because you’re doing my brother, either.”

That gets a laugh from you. The kind of laugh that lets him know that nothing has really changed between the two of you.

Deran gives your hand another squeeze before letting go. “Go on,” he mutters, nodding towards the front door. “He’s probably pacing holes in the floor right now.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has typed and erased an embarrassing number of text messages in your chat thread since the moment that you pulled out of his driveway.

Let me know how it goes.

You can come back here for the night, if you need to. You can sleep in the bedroom and I’ll take the couch.

How pissed is he?

He doesn’t send any of them. Instead, he sits on the couch, stares at his phone, and hopes that you’ll text or call or magically reappear beside him.

It’s a good thing that he’s accustomed to running off of very little sleep, because he doubts he’ll be getting much at all tonight. He already knows that his mind will race with thoughts of you until he eventually collapses from exhaustion, and that it’ll probably finally happen just hours before he has to take Lena to school.

Pope tries to pay attention to the documentary about killer whales playing on the screen in front of him, but he can’t control how his thoughts keep drifting to you. He thinks of how badly he wishes to sleep with you curled into his chest.

Sleep. That’s all. You said you wanted to talk to Deran before things went any further between the two of you, and Pope doesn’t mind. He’d be content to hold you all night and nothing more. To be close to you, in any capacity, puts him at ease like nothing else. That’s been true since he first met you by Smurf’s pool the day after he got out of prison.

When you pull back into the driveway no more than an hour after leaving, he’s so zoned out that he doesn’t even hear you until you’re knocking softly on the door.

“Hey,” he greets you lowly, instantly relieved and a little taken aback by the cheeky smile on your face when he opens the door. “Is everything oh—”

But you’re stepping across the threshold and cutting him off by pressing your lips to his before he can get the question out.

He freezes for a split-second and then he’s kissing you back.

It feels familiar and new all at once. Familiar because Pope has already committed the taste and feel of you to memory in less than a full day’s time, and new because the way you’re moving your lips with his is unrestrained in a way that all of the previous kisses have not been. The truth of you and him is out there, now. There’s no second-guessing, no weight on your shoulders, no reason to hesitate, and he can feel the difference.

You urge him backwards with your hands planted on his waist. Without ever breaking the kiss, he pushes the door closed behind you and takes your face in his hands. You guide him backwards until his legs make contact with the couch and gently push him down. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands ghosting down your back as you settle over his thighs.

“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips, breathless as you caress his face in your hands. “Everything’s more than okay.”

“You sure?” He murmurs, looking up at you in the dim blue light of the television. You nod, your nose brushing against his and corners of your lips perking into a soft smile. “What did Deran say?”

“He’s thoroughly repulsed by the thought of us kissing,” you snort. A laugh rumbles deep in Pope’s chest. Your hands drop to his chest, where you smooth the fabric of his button-up before your fingers find the top button. “So we should probably do a lot of that in front of him. Just maybe not right away,” you hum, smirking.

You pop the button, and then move onto the next, and then the next, until each one is undone and you’re pushing the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms.

“He didn’t love the way that he found out,” you answer, more serious now. “But he understands. Just wants me to be happy. And you make me happy.”

His entire body goes warm at the sentiment. He pulls you flush against his chest, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to tease the skin of your back. He holds you, gazes up at you, like you’re worth more than gold to him.

And you are. You, and the little girl asleep in the other room, who will be tickled to wake up and learn that you’re still here. That you aren’t going anywhere, if Pope has any say in it.

He smiles at the thought before capturing your lips in his once more.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

{ Epilogue ~ 2 years later }

“This tie is too tight. It’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain.”

“Oh, come here,” you groan playfully. Pope leans in, letting you adjust the green tie that matches your dress (and complements his eyes) perfectly.

“You didn’t have to wear this, you know.” You give the length of the tie a gentle tug after loosening it. “The dress code is semi-formal. You could have gotten away with just a button-up.”

“I know,” he grumbles. “But I wanted to match you and Lena at least a little bit. And I figured I should probably get used to wearing one before our wedding.”

The response warms you as much as the Southern California summer sun.

A beachfront wedding. Small and intimate, with a total guest count of less than thirty people…you can’t think of anything more perfectly Deran and Adrian.

“You don’t have to wear one at our wedding either,” you snort, raising an arm to play with the curls at the base of his skull in the way that he likes. “If you don’t want to.”

He grabs your other hand in his, glancing down at the ring that glimmers in the midday sun. He’d put it on your finger only a few months ago, and in the general chaos of life - Lena’s spring soccer season and ballet recital, helping Deran plan his wedding, you and Pope closing on your new house and getting settled in - the two of you haven’t had much time to begin planning your own special day yet.

“Thought you said it looks good on me,” he hums low, unserious.

“Oh, it does,” you laugh. “Very much so. But I care that you’re comfortable at our wedding. You’d look good in anything.”

Soft instrumental music begins to pour from speakers at the edges of the makeshift ceremony setup and everyone goes quiet, turning to look down the aisle. Lena appears moments later, wearing a frilly flower girl dress that matches yours in color. She smiles nervously the entire time she walks down the aisle, small wicker basket in hand. Every few steps, she grabs a handful of pink and white petals, scattering them across the sandy path. As soon as she reaches the end of the aisle, she runs to where you and Pope sit in the front row and climbs onto his lap.

And then Deran and Adrian appear. Hand in hand, they walk down the aisle together until they come to where Craig - who became legally ordained in the state of California solely for this occasion - stands beneath the driftwood arch you helped decorate with flowers earlier.

They take turns exchanging handwritten vows. They cry, you cry, even Craig gets misty-eyed. And then they’re pronounced husbands in what you can only think to describe as the most endearingly Craig way possible, and everyone on the beach cheers.

Afterwards, everyone helps themselves to unlimited beer and the taco bar set up back at the bar, which Deran has closed to the public for the day. You’d done what you could to spruce the place up - miniature floral arrangements and tea lights candles on the tables - but it’s still a bar. Deran’s bar, broken surfboards and all.

Low music fills the room as guests mingle and drink into the evening. Pope surprises you when he offers you his hand and guides you to the very small, cramped space carved out in the middle of the room for a makeshift dance floor.

It’s more swaying than slow dancing, but you enjoy it all the same.

“I know you said that I don’t have to wear a tie to our wedding,” Pope murmurs low, “but what about dancing? Do we have to dance in front of everyone at our wedding?”

“We’re dancing in front of everyone right now,” you snort. “What’s the difference?”

He glances around the room. “Yeah, but no one is paying any attention to us right now. Everyone is too drunk and paying attention to Deran and Adrian. At our wedding, all eyes will be on us.”

“As they should be,” you hum. You bring a hand to the side of his face, steering his gaze back to you. “Yes, we’re going to dance at our wedding. But I’ll let you pick the song.”

He smirks, his grip on your waist tightening. “I guess I should take some lessons, then.”

The clinking of silverware against glass draws everyone’s attention to where Deran and Adrian stand side by side. You and Pope pause your swaying as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side.

“Alright,” Deran says, clearing his throat. “I’m supposed to say some heartfelt shit now, so bear with me.” Adrian laughs beside him, bumping their shoulders together.

“Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them. I probably would have tried to fight them.” That earns a few laughs, but you know better than anyone that he isn’t joking.

“I’m sure most of you know that I haven’t always been the easiest person to deal with,” he continues. “But Adrian—” Deran glances at his now husband with a kind of softness that he reserves only for him, “—Adrian never gave up on me. He stuck around when a lot of people would’ve dipped. And I can’t tell you all how glad I am for that.”

Then, his eyes find you. “And speaking of people who stick around…this one right here.” He points to you with his beer bottle. You suddenly feel every eye in the building on you. Pope gives your arm a comforting squeeze. “Best girlfriend I ever had.”

The small crowd laughs, and you cover your face with your hands, but he presses on. “I’m serious. She was the first person to ever tell me that it’s okay to be who I am. That there’s nothing wrong with me. And there’s no way that I would have gotten to this point without her. And now…I get a front row seat to watch her marry my brother.”

By the time he finishes, you’ve dropped your hands from your face. Now, you’re actively blinking back happy tears. You can’t find the words, so you hold up your hands to form a small heart and hope the simple gesture is worth a thousand words.

Later, after the crowd has thinned and the sun is setting, you and Pope head back down to the beach with a handful of others to gather the remaining chairs and decorations. Lena is supposed to be helping, but she has wandered to the shoreline, happily dipping her toes in the water.

You both pause at the same moment to watch her - her feet bare, her hair and flower girl dress both blowing in the slight breeze. You can only hope that feels as at peace as she looks right now.

“Seeing Deran and Adrian today…” Pope starts, then trails off like he’s searching for the right words.

You turn towards him. “What about it?” You ask gently.

He’s still staring out towards Lena. “Makes me excited for ours.”

“Yeah?” You hum. “Even if I make you slow dance in front of everyone?”

“Yeah.” He meets your eye, his normal intensity fully present. “Whenever you’re ready. Doesn’t matter when or where. I just want that with you.”

Deran’s toast echoes in your mind. Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them.

The words could have been taken from your own mouth. After everything the two of you have been through as individuals, and everything you’ve been through together, you’re marrying the love of your life and raising a beautiful little girl together. You’ve made the most of a tragic situation; turned it into something safe and secure for her - a forever home for the three of you. Maybe more, someday. You can’t help but picture Pope with a tiny baby all his own, soft curls and hazel eyes.

Only time will tell. And you have all the time in the world, now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

and that’s how the show ended….right?? RIGHT???

thank you so much if you read all 18.7k+ words of this. this fic is my baby. i worked on it for well over a month, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.

if you reblog/comment i love you forever <3

[cherrywineisawaltz]

can you imagine being the girl baz is obsessed with but you like pope. baz doesn’t even know how to handle that. girls always choose him over pope but not you. you just love how freaked out pope is 🤭

Nearly hit my head on the wall jumping onto my bed when I saw this oh god

No one is blind to the torch Baz holds for you, at your beckon and call no matter the time, no matter the place, always doing things he assumes will earn your favor over his brothers. He’s paid your rent, bought you a new car with money from their latest run when your battered truck keeled over, flushing his account dry at your mercy. Spent nights being the shoulder you cried on, listening to each sob without even so much as a kiss goodnight, much less a well deserved fuck for treating your meanial problems like the terrible misfortunes you were convinced they were. But none of it matters. It genuinely perplexes him how you dote on the oldest Cody brother. Perking up the moment Pope comes into the room, lips spread into a wide grin as you sit up to greet him, utterly joyful when he pulls you to take the seat on his lap. It makes him sick watching Pope's hands run up and down your plush thighs, head tucked into the crook of your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your perfume mixed with your sweat clinging to your skin, all while you giggle and press back into him, egging him on as his hands drifts up your tummy, disappearing under your shirt to grope your tits, “Andrew!” you’d squeal, but it’s hardly badgering.

Baz is irritatingly aware of how much you prefer Pope to him, as much as it pained him to admit to himself, you seemed to like the sick shit Pope did. Smiling bright when Pope just sits and watches you, unnervingly still, just keeping on as you were while he just stares. You’re disgustingly affectionate. Kissing the bandaged cuts on Pope's face from his fights, nipping his bruised knuckles with the blunt of your front teeth, sucking on his thumb when he pushes it past your lips, uncaring to his family being so near, completely and solely focused on Pope. When he crashes at Smurfs he has to listen to the sounds of your heinous drunk fucking while urgently urging his own hangover to will itself from his aching body. The harsh slapping of skin through the walls, your drunken cries, “Oh—fuck—Andrew,” echoing through the walls. “My sweet girl—sweetest fuckin’ pussy. Just for me, all for me,” he can hear the repeated sounds of Pope murmuring ‘mine’, obsessively affirming all while you whine and moan, “All yours—only yours—fuck!”  Baz feels like purging.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

paying up | jack abbot

jack abbot x nurse!reader ⋆˚꩜｡

summary: you like to give abbot an extra grey hair with your flirting and barely suppressed sex jokes, and he likes to put a little extra in your swear jar. it's a win-win shift.

warnings: grumpy!abbot x sunshine!reader, also lowkey sugar!daddy!abbot, suggestive jokes, tension, flirting, one swear word, abbot trying to pretend sooo hard he’s not in love w reader ᝰ.ᐟ

wc: 2.4k (alina finally learnt how to stfu!! yay!)

You’d have the absolute audacity—and likely the entirety of your medical license—smacked clean out of you if you ever said the next thought out loud, but…it’s 4 a.m., and the night shift has settled into something almost resembling quiet.

Well, as quiet as it can get between drunk driving accidents and chest pains that turn out to be something worse than indigestion. It's like the ER is easing up on you, just for a second. Which is exactly why your brain has decided to fixate on something entirely unhelpful.

Why has Abbot been in a grump.

He’s had that small scowl all night, not quite fully formed, like it’s still deciding where to land and how hard. You’ve been watching it develop with a level of focus you would absolutely deny under oath.

In fact…you kind of hope it lands on you. 

Not for any good reason. Not even a logical one. Just the same instinct that makes people watch storms roll in from too close, curious about the exact moment it tips from interesting into dangerous. 

“I’m telling you,” you murmur, not looking away from your screen as you type, “it’s going to be something stupid. Like the printer.”

Diaz glances over his shoulder, checking if the subject of discussion is still there, then turns back, scribbling something down. “Nah, too easy. He’d fix the printer before he’d let it piss him off that much.”

You hum, lips pursing as you click through another tab, the system lagging enough to irritate you. “Okay, fine. Then a person. But not a big thing. Something small.”

“You, then.”

“Uh—” You pause, looking up at him, mildly offended. “Rude. He’d never snap on me.”

“No, but he gets all stiff and weird whenever you flirt with him like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so it’s close enough.”

You cock your head to the side, narrowing your eyes at him. “I do not flirt with him.”

Diaz just raises his brows. 

You glance back at your screen, suddenly very interested in whatever half-finished note is sitting there. “I’m just…friendly.”

“Sure,” he drags out smugly. 

“I am.”

“Right.” He nods, entirely unconvinced, tapping his pen against the paper. “That thing you did earlier? With the ‘thank you, doctor’ and the smile?”

You frown. “That was polite.”

“That was not polite.”

“It was,” you insist, even as your fingers hover uselessly over the keyboard again. “It’s called good bedside manner.”

“Yeah,” Diaz mutters, “for the patients.”

You open your mouth to argue—fully prepared, actually—but it dies halfway out when you catch sight of Abbot heading towards the nurses’ station.

The scowl is still there. 

Diaz follows your line of sight, takes one look, and immediately exhales like he’s just remembered somewhere else he absolutely needs to be. He shakes his head, already gathering his things.

“You coward,” you scoff.

“I’m not doing this.” He holds his hands up, backing away like this is a hazardous situation. 

“Huh. You would if Javadi was here,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, but when Diaz pauses, you can’t help the slick little grin that melts onto your face.

“What was that?” 

You don’t look at him. Just mime zipping your mouth shut, tossing the invisible key over your shoulder. 

“You’re annoying.”

“I’m not annoying,” you argue easily. “Right, Dr Abbot?” you add,  just as Abbot comes to a stop at the counter in front of you, earning a very clear middle finger from Diaz on his way out.

You have to tilt your head up a little to see him properly, his scowl edging into view above your monitor.

“…Am I?” you press, because apparently self-preservation is optional, ignoring the small, bright fizz of something that bubbles up every time you decide to push him just to see where the line actually is.

“Annoying?” he repeats, flipping through paperwork in his hands.

You nod once. He glances at you long enough to catch it.

"Jury's still out,” he mumbles, turning the page.

“I know you don’t mean that,” you whisper, leaning in. “It’s okay, Mateo’s gone—you don’t have to hide that I’m your favourite nurse now. No witnesses, no morale casualties.” You wave a hand airily, then reach for your hand sanitiser, squeezing a few pumps.

“Morale casualties?”

“Yup,” you reply, tilting your head like you’re weighing the gravity of the situation. “Could bring the whole floor down if they found out I’m your favourite. Women swoon for you, Doctor.” You smear the sanitiser into your hands. “Men too, I’m sure.”

He snorts, shaking his head as he walks over to the printer, feeding the documents in. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But not annoying.” You point at him, arching a brow. 

“How many times have you written the same sentence?” he asks, fussing with the printer, hands gripping the edges as he looks to one side of the machine then the other.

You roll your eyes and glance back at your screen, skimming your notes, only for your stomach to dip when you realise you have, in fact, written patient’s BP is normal three separate times.

“Okay, well, in my defense—”

“You don’t have one.”

“I was just making it very clear that the patient's BP was normal,” you shrug. “Robby likes details.”

Abbot gives the printer a light smack when the paper still doesn’t budge. “Robby’s not here, and I like legible charting.” 

You blink up at him slowly. “So you’re saying I should put your preferences and needs over everyone else's?" You do your very best to lace the question with something sultry, though at four in the morning you’re fairly sure the effect is somewhat dampened by the fact your concealer has absolutely creased beneath your eyes and your hair could probably be redone. You commit anyway. 

Abbot chooses to ignore your attempt, his hands hovering over the printer. “Do you know how to work this fucking thing?”

“Of course I know how to work a printer, Doctor. I’m not incompetent.” You swivel in your chair to face him fully, smile widening. “...Just admit I’m your favourite.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Well, in that case, I think my charting could do with a little improving,” you say, turning back to your computer, smacking your gum a little louder as your finger clicks on the mouse repeatedly. “Might rewrite that blood pressure note a fourth time. Maybe fifth. Really flesh it out.”

There’s a moment of silence behind you, followed by an exhale long enough to extinguish a line of candles. 

“Okay. Fine.”

You freeze mid-click, slowly pivoting your chair back to him, the gum between your teeth suddenly tasting a little too sweet. 

Abbot is staring at you with an exhausted expression. The one of a man who knows exactly how negotiations should go, having probably run more tense situations than you can imagine, but who also knows he’ll cave if it comes to the right thing. Maybe he’s just good at giving in when he wants to, like a soldier choosing his battles.

“Please. You little terrorist. You’re my favourite and I need these scanned to radiology. Now.”

You grin at him, pushing yourself up from your chair with a spring in your step as you approach the printer. “Fine, fine. Scanning, coming right up.” 

He moves to the side, letting you take over. 

“So all you have to do is give them a little push,” you murmur, dragging out the syllables, “just enough so they fit snug. And then you make sure the frames are squeezed tight…tight enough to keep everything in place, so nothing slips out.”

He clears his throat, eyes darting around like you’ve said something scandalous, and not just given him a briefing on how to use the scanning function of the printer. 

“The paper, Doctor. Get your mind out of the gutter,” you chirp, nudging the papers in and watching the machine whirl to life.

“My mind’s not in the gutter.”

“No?” You glance up at him prettily. “Oh, then you must just be deeply impressed by my ability to handle old things with such ease and efficiency.”

He shakes his head, already looking tired of you in a way that suggests he is not nearly tired enough. “You are unbelievably committed to making HR a recurring issue for me.”

“Thank you for showing me how to use a simple piece of equipment is a sufficient enough reply.”

His mouth twitches before he reins it in. “Radiology. Now. You can shred the original once it’s saved on the system.” He taps the printer once before backing away.

“Aht, aht,” you call after him, snatching the documents and setting them on the counter before rounding it and dropping back into your chair. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you with immediate suspicion. “What now?”

You stare at him expectantly. He stares back. Then scoffs like he cannot believe he is indulging this.

“Thank you for showing me how to use a simple piece of equipment,” he repeats flatly.

“That’s very cute. I’m glad you can follow instructions. But—” You hold up one finger before bending beneath the desk and emerging with a very sparkly jar covered in rhinestones, the label aggressively pink and handwritten in looping glitter pen. “You need to pay for the f-bomb you dropped earlier.”

“We have a swear jar?”

“I have a swear jar,” you correct, giving it a proud little shake so the coins inside rattle merrily, loud and obnoxious, “and everyone in my presence has to contribute when they slip up.”

He scoffs again, folding his arms. “And who decided that?”

“Me, obviously.”

“Of course.” He nods once, like that answer somehow tells him everything he needs to know. “Lena know you’re scamming the entire ER?”

“She helped me decorate the jar,” you beam, unscrewing the cap.  “Pay up, Doctor.”

He just stares at you. Then at the jar. Then back at you again like he is genuinely trying to work out whether sleep deprivation has finally pushed him into a hallucination.

“This is insane.”

“No,” you say sweetly, wiggling the jar in his direction, “this is discipline. We cannot have you running around the ER with a foul mouth, dropping f-bombs in front of vulnerable patients.” You lower your voice like you’re explaining something terribly serious to a child. “Honestly, I’m doing you a favour. Driving patient satisfaction rates up one dollar at a time.”

“Stop talking.”

“Well either pay up or give me something better to do with my mouth.”

The silence that follows is almost impressive. 

Abbot looks like every thought in his head has cartoonishly slammed into the wall. His face doesn’t change, not really, but his whole body seems to lock for half a second like his brain is still trying to peel every single thought back off the surface where they’ve all just splattered at once.  

You blink at him. 

Then your own words catch up to you. 

You like to flirt, yes—lightly, strategically, with plausible deniability. Not…whatever the hell that was. Not the sort of thing that sounds like you are actively trying to plant deeply inappropriate mental images in the mind of a man you have to see professionally every single day.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, eyes widening in horror. “I totally did not mean to say that out loud.”

His eyes are still on you, and your mouth has still not gotten the memo.

“Delete it. Delete the last ten seconds from your memory.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Well try harder. Please. I am literally begging.”

His mouth twitches. Not enough to count as a smile, but enough to let you know he is finding your humiliation far more entertaining than is medically ethical. “You’re assuming that I want to forget it.”

“Oh, that is not the correct thing to say to me right now.”

His jaw tightens imperceptibly, and it seems to hit him a fraction too late what exactly he has implied. “That came out wrong.”

“Did it?” you ask, already grinning despite your mortification, because embarrassment is temporary but the opportunity to harass him is forever. “Interesting. Because from where I’m sitting, it came out kind of perfect.”

“It didn’t.”

“It really did.” You stand back up and lean forward over the desk, placing the jar next to you. “So just to clarify, you’d actually like to keep thinking about my mouth?”

“You seem very committed,” he mutters, reaching into the pocket of his scrubs, “to seeing exactly how far you can push this before it becomes a problem for you.”

Oh. 

Oh. 

That shuts you up entirely. 

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound. Not one single clever thing. Your brain, usually so eager to produce nonsense at record speed, has apparently packed its bags and fled the premises.

He watches the whole thing happen with far too much satisfaction before pulling out his wallet and flipping it open. “There,” he says, smug enough to make your eye twitch. “Peace at last.” Then he pulls out two fifty-dollar bills, folds them, and places them into your jar. 

You’re silenced once again as you try to process exactly what he’s done. 

“What the hell?” you blurt. “A hundred dollars? Really? Are you insane?”

His brow lifts. “You want more?”

“No. Absolutely not. I want less, actually.”

“Thank you for overpaying my swear jar after I’ve spent ten minutes sexually harassing you beside a printer is a sufficient enough answer,” he mocks dryly. 

“I don’t see you complaining to HR. Matter of fact, this—“ you nod to the jar, “—looks a lot like you rewarding my behaviour.”

“Trust me, if I were rewarding your behaviour, you’d know.”

Your stomach does a humiliating somersault so violent it should probably be documented in your own chart.

He watches your face change and immediately looks far too pleased with himself. “That shut you up quicker than the money did.”

You scramble to recover, cocking your head to the side. “And what kind of behaviour would you lean towards rewarding? You know…for research purposes.”

“Getting those documents to radiology. Ensuring charting is done to the proper standard. No scheming during work hours.”

You roll your eyes and stick a finger in your mouth, mock-gagging. “Ugh, boring!”

“You asked.”

“True,” you concede, plopping back in your chair. “But I have a feeling there’s probably a much less professional answer rattling around in there that you’re not sharing.”

“I’m going to go now, okay?” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Enjoy your earnings.”

“Don’t act like you won’t be back later,” you call after him, twisting your lips as your eyes follow his retreating figure.

Of course you're not wrong, because he's back exactly thirty minutes later.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡

......fancy fussing over a different old man?

[earthlydevotions]

— i’ll crawl home to her.

pairing: azriel x reader

wc: 1k8

genre: fluff

a/n: this was inspired by hozier’s “work song” and can also be considered a part 2 of this!

azriel has always protected the ones he loves.

he has always gotten hurt, bled, and given himself up for them. it isn’t about his warrior training, it’s simply who he is. he wants to protect, defend, and help those he trusts. but everyone who is protected by him knows how little he cares about himself.

he doesn’t care about not being able to sleep at night because of the screaming pain of his wounds. he doesn’t care about tending to himself alone; sitting by the fire while he wraps his own injuries as the healers take care of the weaker ones. his jaw clenched when one of his wounds aches and the blood starts to seep through again. his face is unreadable, no one can decipher what he’s feeling or thinking, but a few strands of hair stuck to his sweaty forehead and the faint tremble in his hands give everything away.

he can control his pain, his fear. but he can’t control his soul.

he doesn't think twice before giving his all, body and soul, on the battlefield. but he never complained, he only keeps going. because he isn’t afraid of dying. he isn’t afraid of being tortured and taken away as long as it leaves the people he loves in peace, safe. he believes his death is inevitable; he isn’t afraid; he invites it to dance. after so many years defending, protecting, he knows his death will give him meaning again; turn him into a legend, a martyr.

he lived by the sword and he would die by the sword. until he met you.

now, he lives for you and he would die for you.

every training session, every fight, every drop of sweat, every bruise, every cut, every bit of blood, every ounce of pain; it’s all for you.

he closes his eyes for a few brief seconds, seeing you beneath his eyelids; you smiling, you cupping his face, you sleeping, you reading, you cooking, you. then he goes back into the fight. you give him strength, courage, will. now he’s afraid of dying, afraid of leaving you alone. but his fear doesn’t stop him from throwing himself into pain if it means protecting you.

since he met you, he started training harder. spending hours and hours pushing himself, until his feet ached, his muscles screaming in pain. until he felt like he was burning from the inside out. then he would go home, where he knew you would be waiting to take care of him. you would wrap his wounds, kissing them delicately even as you scolded him. you would prepare hot baths where he could finally relax his muscles. you would make tea, warm food that made him want to cry from gratitude.

and at night he holds you like it’s the last time; his grip firm, secure. he kisses your temple, your forehead, your hair while you sleep deeply. he doesn’t fall asleep easily, but he melts beside you in bed, and that alone is enough for him.

cassian and rhysand — and honestly the entire illyrian camp — don’t know what happened to him. he’s training more, sure. but why? there’s no enemy threat happening. he already beats everyone in training… so what it is happening?

he never said. he just keeps fighting until the sun says goodbye to velaris, giving way to a full moon, bright and surrounded by stars.

that was azriel’s last sight before he passed out from pain; the moon.

everything happened so fast. an attack no one was expecting. as always, he fought with you on his mind; he needs to win, he needs to come back to you, he needs to make this place safe for you, for your future together. he didn’t stop for a single second; his enemies fell without even knowing what hit them - his shadows were sharper, more dangerous. other people’s blood soaked his clothes and his sword, as if he were collecting it.

he fought. fell, got back up. got hurt, but didn’t care. he tried to be strong, because in everything he saw, he saw you.

but an attack from behind wounded him badly. his wings were severely damaged, his legs gave out; his face was covered in small cuts, but one deep gash split his cheek. he stared up at the sky, disoriented and too dizzy to stand. his consciousness was slipping; the pain in his wings, his leg, and his face was screaming. cassian ran to him and shielded him like a wall.

he heard someone shouting for him - rhys, probably. but he mumbled nonsense as he tried to keep his eyes open. cassian, after taking down everyone around them, crouched and held his brother’s face.

“azriel… it’s going to be okay. we’re getting you out of here,” he was panting, sweaty, and smeared with blood. he looked around, searching for help or trying to locate more enemies.

azriel kept murmuring something.

“what is it, brother?” cassian leaned closer to azriel’s mouth, and that’s when he understood that he was whispering your name. like a prayer, like it was the only thing keeping him alive while he stared at the moon in the sky. your face was the last thing he saw before he passed out.

he wakes up hours later. the pain still excruciating in his entire body; he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. he opens his eyes slowly when he hears murmurs.

“az… it’s okay, brother… what are you doing?” rhys moves closer as azriel tries to move his hands, his arms.

“hey, it’s okay. stay calm,” cassian, on the other side of the bed, looks at him with a worried expression.

rhys and cassian exchange a curious look when azriel swallows hard and opens his eyes fully.

“y/n…” he says, so low and hoarse his brothers don’t hear him.

“azriel…” rhys says, holding his hand. “calm down, my brother. you’re badly hurt. but the healers are taking care of you, it’s going to be okay.”

azriel looks at him; a mix of anger, fear, and terror in his dark eyes. his shadows are restless.

“y/n… i need her,” he tries to sit up, but he groans in pain. a guttural, agonized sound.

“no, no don’t do that!” cassian says, placing his hands on his shoulders and gently pushing him back down onto the bed. “we’ll bring her, okay? just stay here.”

azriel waits a few seconds. closes his eyes again and sees you. his heart is racing, terror filling every pore of his being.

“now,” his voice is frightening.

“azriel.” rhys starts, his voice just as frightening. “you need to stay here. you don’t have the strength to move. cassian will get her, just stay still.” but azriel doesn’t listen again - he sits up on the bed with a grimace of pain. his leg starts bleeding again and he groans.

“fuck, azriel. are you trying to die, brother?” cassian says, worried.

azriel laughs, dryly, terrified.

“no grave can hold my body down, i’ll crawl home to her.”

cassian and rhysand fall silent and look at each other.

“go get her,” rhys orders, and cassian nods quickly. he looks one more time at azriel, at rhysand, and then he goes after you.

“can you hear me now?”

“what do you want?” azriel says, coldly. he has never been cruel to his brothers or said anything harsh to rhysand, his high lord. but he couldn’t bear the pain of not seeing you anymore.

“lie down, azriel.” rhysand doesn’t seem to care about his sharp tone.

azriel lets out a deep, trembling breath. with rhysand’s help, he lies back down. he closes his eyes and starts thinking about you. you’ll be here any moment now. it’s fine. he’ll be fine. his shadows whisper to him as he tries not to fall apart.

rhysand stares at him as he lies there; his shadows shifting near his ear, whispering. his eyes are closed, his breathing faint and heavy, his lips dry. he’s covered in dust, dried blood - his and others’ - but none of that matters. his expression of pain blends with moments of calm from time to time, as if he’s remembering something soft, something like a balm to his soul, but his pain screams louder; like a competition over which side of his mind is winning over his body.

rhysand wants to say something. he looks at his brother, at his shadows, at the window, at the door. but no words come to his mind, to his lips. so he simply waits.

azriel feels you arrive. he hears your quick footsteps - and cassian’s - before you open the door. he opens his eyes and waits for you, desperate. his eyes are watering when you step inside and let out a relieved breath; the fear on your face dissolves, giving way to concern.

“az… my love,” you whisper. your voice completely unravels him. you stroke his forehead and then his hair. your other hand rests over his heart, feeling its erratic beats.

he places his hand beneath yours and gently caresses the back of it with his thumb. he looks at you with shining eyes; from tears, from longing. his lip trembles slightly.

“hi,” he says, like he hasn’t seen you in years. he tries to smile, but it hurts too much.

“hi, my darling,” you say, your voice breaking. seeing him like this was the worst sight of your life.

cassian and rhysand exchange a look.

“we’ll leave you two alone. if you need anything, call us,” rhysand says, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder. you turn to look at him and he looks back at you with gratitude before leaving the room.

you look at azriel again and realize he hasn’t stopped looking at you for a single second; as if, if he looked at anything else, you would disappear.

“are you in too much pain?” you ask after a moment, taking him in completely; his injuries, his trembling body.

“a little,” he manages to answer, his voice fractured.

you let out a deep breath. you don’t want him to see you cry, but you can’t hold it in. so you lean down and kiss his forehead, his temple, his cheek, and then, gently, his lips.

“…thank you,” azriel says, like a plea. like a prayer finally coming to an end.

you look at him for a little longer. your hand still hasn’t left his, his eyes still haven’t left yours, his lips form a small, grateful smile just for having you there beside him.

“lie down with me,” he says. his voice is still hoarse, low.

“love… i don’t want to hurt you,” you say. azriel is big, and his injured wings are taking up most of the space. there’s no way you could lie beside him without touching him.

“please,” he begs. his expression is sorrow, pain.

his shadows, which had been wrapped around your waist, your neck, your arms, nudge you gently toward him. they know he needs you.

you take a deep breath and nod. he smiles.

you lie down slowly, carefully, afraid of hurting him. you glance at him now and then, as if asking with your eyes if it’s okay as you settle in beside him. he looks at you the entire time; your care, your love for him makes his heart ache in his chest. everything was worth it, for you.

for a moment, you just look at him in silence. you see not only his wounds, his injuries, but the boy inside him. you see the fear, the panic, the terror in his eyes, but you also see the love and kindness on his face when he slowly lifts a hand to caress your cheek. his eyes shine and he shivers from the cold wind coming through the window.

you try to get up to close it, but he places a hand on your waist, as if asking you to stay. he doesn’t care about the cold, the night, the pain. he cares about you.

and it’s in that moment that you realize: no matter what happens, as long as you’re with him, the world makes sense, his life makes sense.

[moosesarecute]

Sleepy mates

Masterlist

Feyre was breathing, shaking and crying in Tamlin’s arms. She was alive, and Amarantha was dead. Finally dead…

You looked at the scene in front of you and distantly you could hear the chaos behind you. The High Lords were speaking, whispering, to each other. They were almost glowing in a way you hadn’t seen them do in 50 years.

Because magic was back. Amarantha was dead, her curse was broken. Which meant-

A tight grip on your arm pulled you out of your thoughts. In front of you was your brother. He was covered in blood, but so were you. His concerned eyes told you everything. You dropped the knife you were holding and threw your arms around him.

“Winnow home, little one,” he whispered and squeezed you a little tighter. “Go home and tell them we’re safe.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay a couple of days to make sure all the people get home safely.” You opened your mouth and drew a breath, but you were stopped before you could even start. “No, you’re going home right now. Okay? Go home to your mate.”

He gave you another small squeeze before he stepped back. It was obvious he was going to stand there until he saw you winnow.

***************

Winnowing to Velaris was tough. Using such a big amount of magic for the first time in fifty years was exhausting, however the goal made it all worth it.

The magic that now thrummed throughout your entire body felt almost foreign. It felt deep and hidden. It was almost as if it was asleep.

It was also another part of you, a golden thread of hope, love and comfort, that was hidden deep within you. You had longed for it for fifty years, but you didn’t dare to pull the bond until you were home.

That’s why you winnowed with all the energy you had. You didn’t know how long time it took, it didn’t matter. All you cared about was Azriel.

Even thinking his name made you shiver.

Your Azriel. Your mate. Your person.

Who was he now? Had he changed? Was his hair longer? Was his voice deeper? Was he thinner? Or did he have more muscles?

It had been twenty years under the mountain when the last memory of his smell left you.

After 15 years you had forgotten the amount of freckles on his face.

After ten years you had started to realize you were losing the ability to hear his voice.

You were coming home to your mate, but you knew he wouldn’t be the same. You certainly weren’t.

“Azriel,” you spoke as the exhaustion spread through your body. “Azriel, Azriel, Azriel.”

You landed in front of the house, the cottage, you and Azriel owned. It only took the sight of it and you were on your knees.

You could breathe. You were breathing fresh air. A deep breath in and a sob-filled breath out.

You scrambled to your feet and looked around. Flowers, trees and birds. The wind and some rain. It all belonged to Velaris. It was all the sort of comfort you could only find in Velaris.

The cottage was…something. The paint on the walls were almost completely gone, there was broken windows and plants growing up the walls. However, it was still standing. Deep down it was still the same.

You knew he wasn’t there. You realized your mate probably hadn’t been there since you had been there. Or maybe, he had been the one responsible for the broken windows.

With a couple of heavy steps you walked up to the door. Memories of your first time walking through it flooded you with even more tears.

Was this real? Were you actually home?

Opening the door was both a relief and a terror. Coming home to an empty, forgotten, house wasn’t easy. But at the same time, nothing had changed.

A sob tore through your body at the sight of books on the coffee table and clothes hanging to dry by the window. It was still your home. The cute round table was there. The bookcase you had forced Azriel to carry. Your piano. His desk. Your yarn. Countless puzzles, games and workout equipment.

But no Azriel.

You laid your hand on your chest and took a deep breath. A deep breath that filled so much of your lungs it almost felt overwhelming. And then you dug deep. So deep you almost didn’t recognize the way, so deep you were scared it was nothing there, so deep you-

So deep that a gasp left you as you found the mating bond. The bond that was thrumming and beating and breathing. The bond that held you together for 50 years without you being able to feel it.

It was there. It was real. It was whole. And on the other side was your mate. Was he already feeling this? Did he know you were back? Or weren’t you pulling hard enough? You gave another tug and felt even more of him.

It was overwhelming for sure, but at the same time it was everything it should be.

The feeling was almost addictive and you soon tugged again.

“Come on, Az,” you whispered aloud, tugging a third time. “Please.”

The third time did it. It lead you to him, lead your magic to his mind. You softly touched his solid shields and immediately felt them ramble into nothing.

I entered his mind and felt the adrenaline, the fear and the hope he was experiencing. But even his extreme feelings couldn’t prevent what you were feeling.

The mating bond was thriving in your chest and your mind was quiet. Complete quiet for the first time in 50 years. Because you were finally home. Your knees buckled at the thought, the feeling, and you had to grab on to the table to made sure you didn’t fall to the ground.

“You could at least have cleaned the place,” you spoke into his mind. Your voice was different from how you remembered it, but it didn’t matter.

You soon felt the total panic and adrenaline in Azriel’s mind amplify. You realized you were probably only 47 seconds away from seeing your mate.

32 seconds was his record time in flying from the House to your shared home. Since he hadn’t been there in a while, you guessed he would use 37 seconds flying. He would then hesitate for 6 seconds, and then he’d use the last four walking to the door.

You could feel him getting closer. You were holding onto the bond for dear life, you were holding onto him. You couldn’t explain the feeling other than total comfort.

Azriel landed outside after 36 seconds, but he hesitated for 7. You could almost feel him looking at the open door you looked at from the other side.

You wouldn’t say you were attacked, because it was a lot more comforting than that, but soon shadows were swirling by and touching all of your skin. Your face, your hands, your ankles. The tip of your nose, your forehead, the back of your ear, your neck.

And as those magnificent hazel eyes looked deep into yours for the first time in forever, total relief filled your entire body. A body that had been running on borrowed fuel for way too many years.

Azriel was a second too late to catch you before your knees hit the ground. However he fell to his knees before you and held you tighter than ever before.

And his chest was beating. His heart was pounding so quickly. A sob left you at you finally got confirmation that your mate was alive.

“You’re home,” he spoke softly and you could hear the relief in his voice.

“I’m home,” you answered and buried your face deeper into his chest.

Azriel made sure to not let you go at all as he changed positions and lifted you into his lap. He wrapped his wings around you as well and his breath instantly calmed.

You couldn’t tell how long you stayed in that position. The shadows swirled around. Some of them were frantic, but most of them lazily clung onto you.

The mating bond had never sung stronger. It thrummed in your chests and you were almost surprised as you opened your eyes and there wasn’t a threat trying you to his chest.

Even though there shadows swirled and the mating bond sung, your mind was totally quiet. It was no longer desperate to get home. It wasn’t longing after anything. It wasn’t screaming after your mate. It was content.

Azriel knew it the second you opened your eyes. He carefully unraveled the cocoon he had made with his wings. The second his hand touched your face you sobbed again and leaned into it. He let you stay there for a while before he started to guide your head up, to guide your eyes to meet his.

You did look into his hazel eyes and broke down once more. You were so fucking scared that it was all a dream.

“Breath,” Azriel told you softly, his fingers drying your tears. “You’re home.”

You carefully lifted your hand to dry his tears as well, and even though touching his face felt wonderful, it also came with a feeling of sadness. Sadness that you didn’t remember if the scar he had under his right eye was new or something he had carried when you last saw him.

Azriel’s hand tightened on you face and he gave you a small smile.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispered.

“Please,” you answered.

He leaned in and held you even closer than before as he kissed your lips softly. It was a short kiss, but it was all you could ever wish for.

He pulled away, but you kissed him again and again and again. Because you could. You could finally kiss his whenever you wanted to.

“My mate,” you whispered and his breath hitched.

Azriel then kissed your forehead.

“My mate,” he answered hand lifted his hand of my face. He curled his fingers, so that only his little finger was straight. You smiled as best as you could without sobbing and wrapped your little finger around his.

After a moment, you leaned back into his chest and curled up even further into his lap. He smiled softly and wrapped his wings around you again.

“Azzy,” you whispered after a while. “I should probably let the others know I’m home.”

Azriel’s embrace tightened, but he eventually agreed.

You took a deep breath and dug to find your daemati-powers. You reached out to all three of them at once. Mor, Cass and Amren. You also entered Azriel’s mind, to let him know what you were saying.

“No welcome home party?” You asked and then pulled out of their minds before they could answer. You looked up into your mate’s eyes and saw his soft smile. “I say we have about 40 seconds before Cass and Mor are here.”

“Don’t underestimate them,” Azriel answered and engulfed you in his comforting cocoon once more. You leaned into him, catching as much of his smell as possible. You felt overwhelmed, but so ready to see your brother and cousin.

It didn’t take long before you heard their hurried footsteps towards your home. Azriel reacted by tightening his embrace even more. It was obvious that he really did not want to let you go, not yet, not ever.

“Brother?” Cassian asked so utterly softly, you didn’t even recognize his voice.

Azriel hesitated for a second before he unwrapped you from his embrace. You didn’t even have time to move before Cassian had fallen to his knees and crushed you in his strong hug.

“Careful,” Azriel hissed, but allowed his brother to hold you.

Mor moved slower, but joined the hug as well. She sat down slowly and brushed a hand through your hair.

All of you stayed quiet for ages, before Amren arrived, just as quietly as usual.

“I can’t even see the girl,” she spoke, but everyone could see the relief in her eyes. Mor and Cass moved so that Amren could see you and so that you could look at her. “Where’s your brother?”

“He’s staying behind a couple of days to make sure everybody gets home safely,” you answered. “But he’s alive.”

“What about the other High Lords?” she continued to ask. It was her way of showing she cared. She wanted to know what you had gone through.

“Tamlin, Beron and Thesan are alive. Helion, Tarquin and Kallias are High Lords.”

“And what-”

“No more interrogations,” your mate spoke calmly. He then turned to you once more. “When was the last time you ate? And had some water? Or a bath? The shadows didn’t find any injuries, but are you in pain?” He stopped himself to take a deep breath. “What do you need?”

He looked almost nervous, but just as cute as you remembered.

“Some food would be nice.”

***************

Azriel though he was experiencing a fever dream. A dream where his mate was back in his arms, laughing with her family, eating and drinking wine. He expected to wake up. He expected to take a deeper breath and suddenly be back in his boring and cold bedroom, alone.

However, it wasn’t a dream. It was all real. You were in his arms. You were almost sitting in his lap. He had carried you in his arms as he flew to the House of Wind. You had cried from both the flying and seeing the House again. He had found you some food, forced Cassian to find your favourite chocolate and he had watched every bite you took. He had watch you getting more colour in your face, because even though he didn’t say anything, you had looked deadly pale.

When you had finished your food and he had asked twice if you didn’t want more, you had calmly sat down next to him in the couch. He hadn’t hesitated before he wrapped his arms and wings around you once again. It felt like you could disappear at any given moment, like holding on to you was the most important thing in the world. And it was.

Your smell was a little different from what he remembered, but just as comforting. Your hair was a look shorter than the length you usually would prefer, but you looked just as magnificent.

Even after 50 years, your eyes were just as he remembered. He had been thinking about them every second of every day for 50 years, and he finally didn’t have to imagine them.

“Tired”, his shadows whispered to him. He didn’t hesitate to look down and saw your eyes blinking lazily. He couldn’t explain the feeling. Relief didn’t even cover half of it. You were safe and, in his arms, finally. He made sure to carefully help the wine glass out of your hand and on to the table, before he kissed your forehead softly. “Sleep.”

I didn’t even take seconds before you slumped a little more against him and your breath evened out. Azriel made sure to move slowly, carefully not to wake you, as he laid down on the couch and moved you to lay on top of him. He didn’t even have time to look at his brother and Mor to tell them to keep it quiet before he fell asleep himself.

***************

Cassian didn’t know what he expected to find as he walked into the living room of the House the morning after. Maybe a couple of used plates and empty wine bottles.

He did not expect to find you and Azriel still fast asleep on the couch. He smiled at the sight but knew for sure that Azriel would be in pain from sleeping with his wings in such a weird position. A lot of weight lifted off his shoulders. They had all worried a lot about Azriel the last decades. Worried he wouldn’t make it, however, the battle was finally over. Cauldron, he hoped they would have time to go for a vacation just the two of them.  

Cassian decided to try to wake the two of you, but he would make sure to have food ready. He was sure you were hungry, or at least he hoped you were. From what he had understood, yesterday had been a long day and you had only eaten a small dinner.

He made two big plates of pancakes and sat them down on the living room table.

“Breakfast,” he spoke, not too loud, but definitely loud enough to wake two sleeping mates…or so he had thought. Neither one of you moved. “Y/n, Azriel, I made pancakes.”

Your sleeping responses made Cassian throw his hands out to his sides.

“What’s going on? You’re spies! I have never seen you sleep this soundly!”

“Leave them alone, Cass,” Mor suddenly spoke from behind him. “It’s obvious they need it.”

***************

It was nine pm…NINE PM, and you and Azriel were still sleeping. Cassian had checked on the two of you three times throughout the day, but it didn’t look like you had moved at all.

“Maybe something is wrong…” Mor finally admitted.

They had both been sitting in the living room, watching if they could notice something off about the two of you.

“I’m getting Madja,” Cassian spoke and moved before Mor could protest.

Madja was as relaxed as always, but agreed she should probably do a small check-up. Cassian flew her to the House. Even Madja couldn’t help but show signs of relief seeing you home.

“It’s perfectly normal,” Madja spoke as she poked Azriel and Y/n in various spots.

“Normal? They’ve slept for over 24 hours,” Cassian argued, feeling rather worried.

“Y/n and Azriel are mates, Cassian. Mates that have spent an unimaginable amount of time apart. It’s likely that their bodies and minds are able to relax for the first time in 50 years. Taking a long nap together then seems valid,” Madja spoke softly and moved away from the two of them. “If they’re not awake within two more days, call for me.”

***************

You woke up with a big yawn. You blinked softly but stayed calm and didn’t move. You were laying on something hard, but warm. Someone hard and warm.

You almost let out a small giggle as you buried your head deeper into Azriel’s chest and smelled him deeply.

You heard him yawn, a sound you had to admit was one of the cutest in the world.

“Hello, love,” you spoke and felt your throat being unexpectedly dry.  

Azriel grunted tiredly back, before he spoke.

“I really need to move, my wings are squeezed,” he spoke, surprisingly calm.

You didn’t even hesitate to move away from him and allow him to move. However, your body felt so heavy to move. It took a little longer than you expected, but you eventually stood up on your feet. You looked back at your mate and noticed he also looked a little unsteady on his feet. What was going on?

“Finally,” a voice spoke from behind you.

You didn’t hesitate to use all of the little energy you had to embrace your brother.

“You’re home,” you spoke deep into his chest. However, after just a couple of seconds you felt the need to move away and back into your mate’s embrace instead.

“You’re awake,” he spoke with an amused smile.

“What?” Azriel asked, confused at why it would be funny that they slept in the living room.

“Y/n came home over three days ago,” Cassian spoke.

You felt your jaw drop, and were seconds  away from acusing Cassian of lying, when you realized your brother was home. Rhys had told you he would stay back a couple of days, so why would he be home, if it hadn’t been…

You turned and looked into your mate’s eyes, he looked as confused as you did.

“Well,” you spoke and turned back to your brothers. “It was the best nap of my life.”  

[zarteyaz]

Trial By Fire - 7

❥ Pairing: Reader x Eris Vanserra

❥ Summary: Eris Vanserra has perfected the art of being hated — sharp, cruel, untouchable — and you’re the noble he’s always publicly despised. But when Beron discovers the mating bond between you and moves to have you killed, Eris doesn’t beg. He doesn’t break. He calls in his debt with the Night Court—and decides Beron won’t just die—he’ll be dismantled for daring to touch what’s his.

❥ Warnings: depictions of violence, mentions of past trauma

A/N: i leave tumblr for a bit and i miss so much, there's two new books coming???? but anyhoo after over a month here we are at last, i PROMISE i wasn't planning on such a big break after the cliffhanger esp but life just hit me hard all at once, forgive me if this one is a bit rusty its been a while ahhh, but ty tysm for sticking with me <3 this one nearly hit 12k words lol, plz enjoy!!

<- Part 6 | masterlist

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Eris is warm when she wakes.

That is the first thing, before the pale bleed of dawn through the curtains, before the low tick and settle of the banked fire. Before thought. Before names.

Just warmth.

His arm heavy across her waist. The slow press of his breath against the nape of her neck, each exhale a small, unconscious confession. For one heartbeat she cannot place herself in any room, any court, any world at all. There is only weight. Only heat. Only the devastating, impossible shape of a man who has no earthly business being this gentle.

She has seen him sleeping before. That is not it.

It is that Eris does not sleep the way other people sleep. He takes it in slivers, in stolen mouthfuls, the way a starving thing eats. Even then he wakes the instant the air around him shifts, as though rest is a territory he enters illegally and expects, always, to be caught.

But now his face is half-lost in the tangle of her hair, and his brow is smooth, and the whole careful architecture of him—the court-built indifference, the silk-and-razor ease—has come undone in the night.

He does not look innocent. He will never look innocent.

Only unsharpened.

As if sleep crept in while he wasn't paying attention and gently, gently pried the blade from his hand.

She turns on the pillow. Just enough.

Copper hair in disarray. Dark lashes against skin the light has not yet reached. The faintest ghost of a line at the corner of his mouth, like even unconscious he is composing something terrible to say.

And there it is. That ache.

The kind, the deep, bone-deep, kind that comes from holding something you were never supposed to be trusted with. Something the world it belongs to would break on sight if it knew where to look.

His hand rests open against her waist.

Slack with sleep.

Trusting.

That is the word that cracks her open.

Because Eris Vanserra does not trust by accident. He does not fall asleep in rooms that are not his own. He does not leave his hands open where someone could read them.

And yet.

Her gaze falls to his wrist. To where his cuff has ridden back in the night and bared the thing beneath: a burn scar, old and ugly, slashed pale across the inside of his wrist like a word in a language she wishes she did not speak.

Her throat closes.

Carefully she lifts one finger and touches the edge of the mark.

Eris wakes.

There is no transition. One heartbeat he is sleeping and the next his eyes are open, gold and clear and lethally alert beneath the soft gauze of dawn, and his hand tightens at her waist like a reflex he has never learned to unclench.

Neither of them breathes.

Then his voice, roughened with sleep, dropped low by the strange, shared quiet of a room that belongs to morning and no one else, curls through the stillness between them.

"If you wanted to touch me, Wildfire," he murmurs, "you might have chosen somewhere more flattering."

She exhales. It almost becomes a laugh. She doesn't let it.

"You were asleep."

"I was resting my eyes."

"Naturally."

His gaze drops. To her hand still resting on his wrist. To the place where her fingertip has not moved from the scar.

Something crosses his face then—not shame, exactly. Something older than shame. Colder. A door he learned to close before he learned to walk through one.

He begins to pull his wrist away.

She catches it.

The room contracts around that single point of pressure, until there is nothing else. The fire goes quiet. The light holds still. Even the dawn seems to lean in.

"Don't," she says. Softly.

His mouth curves, but it is the wrong kind of smile. Thin at the edges.

"You've become very authoritative before breakfast."

"And you are insufferable before breakfast."

"I'm insufferable regardless of the hour," he says. "Precision matters."

But he does not pull away again.

The fire gives one soft crack. Light is gathering now at the edges of the room, turning the air first to silver, then to something close to gold.

She looks at the scar. Then at him.

"You always cover these before anyone can see."

His brows lift. Elegant. Deflective. "How devastating. And here I thought inscrutability was among my finer qualities."

"Vanserra."

It lands.

Only a fraction, but enough. His eyes go sharp, because she almost never uses his surname unless she means it like a knife—held carefully, aimed well.

She traces the scar again with the pad of her finger. Lighter than breath. No tenderness in the way he would recognize it, because he would recoil from tenderness the way a burned hand recoils from a stove. Just presence. Just I see this, and I am not looking away.

He searches her face with that terrible golden stillness of his, looking for what the world has taught him to expect: the flinch, the pity, the soft, instinctive recoil of someone confronted with what Beron does to the things he owns.

He finds none of it.

Only her.

Only the fury she has never once thought to gentle on his behalf.

His gaze drops to her mouth. Stays. Returns.

"You are making an extraordinary production out of an old scar."

She lifts a brow. "You call me dramatic at least once a week."

"And I have yet to be wrong."

Her mouth twitches despite itself.

She shifts beneath the blankets then, turning fully toward him, and his arm slips from her waist as he turns too, and suddenly they are face to face in the pale hush of the room, close enough that she can see the flecks of darker amber in his eyes, can count the places where sleep has pressed the pillow's crease into his cheek.

Too close.

Never enough.

He watches her the way he watches everything, like the answer to something lethal is written just beneath the surface, and he is deciding whether knowing it is worth the cost.

She lifts his wrist again. Slowly. Giving him room.

He does not take it.

She bows her head and presses her mouth to the scar.

A small and furious thing—that kiss. A declaration of war against every hand that ever taught him his pain was not his own to grieve.

Eris inhales. Sharp. Involuntary.

When she looks up, something in his face has come unlatched.

His free hand rises and finds the side of her face. Warm. Rough-palmed.

"Wildfire," he says, and for once the word carries no barb, no clever cruelty. It sounds almost like a warning. Almost like the first syllable of a prayer he doesn't know the rest of.

She lifts her chin. "What."

His thumb traces once across her cheekbone.

Then his hand moves lower, down the line of her throat, unhurried, deliberate,until his palm comes to rest flat over the center of her chest.

Right above the bond.

It is still new enough to feel like a miracle when he touches there. Still startling, the way something invisible and enormous can narrow itself to a single point beneath skin and answer, like a second pulse learning to keep time with the pressure of his hand.

His gaze follows his fingers.

Then lifts to her face.

"Can you feel it," he asks, and his voice has gone very low, stripped down to something almost raw, almost afraid of its own asking.

The bond answers before she can. A warm, bright swell beneath his palm—embers remembering, suddenly, what they were made for.

"Yes," she whispers.

Something crosses his face then that she has to look away from and look back. Wonder sharpened to a blade's edge by fear. Reverence burdened by the knowledge that in this house, reverence has only ever been another word for vulnerability—the thing they find first when they come for you.

He shifts closer. Their foreheads touch.

His hand stays over the bond, steady, warm.

"If it ever hurts," he says, barely above a breath. "If anything in this house so much as turns its gaze wrong in your direction—"

She smiles against his mouth. She cannot help it. If she does not laugh she will come apart beneath the tenderness of this male.

"What," she whispers. "You'll feel it through the bond and come running?"

His lashes lower.

And for one bare, ruinous heartbeat, she sees how completely he means it.

Then his eyes open, and the old wickedness is there again, but worn quiet at the edges by something too deep and too true to mock.

"Something like that," he says.

"You are unbearably smug for someone who fell asleep in my bed by accident."

"I did not fall asleep."

She laughs. Real and low and startled out of her, and the sound hits him somewhere badly guarded—she can see it, the way his eyes close for half a second, the way his breath changes, as though her laughter has found an old wound he'd forgotten to cover and laid its hand there, gently, without asking.

When he opens his eyes he is looking at her with that same unbearable attention, as if every small thing she does is rearranging him in places he cannot afford to let move.

And then he kisses her.

Not suddenly. Not like a man who has decided something.

Like a man who has surrendered something, and is calling the wreckage holy.

Slowly. His mouth warm and deliberate against hers, and there is nothing uncertain in it, nothing practiced. Only hunger held so carefully it has become its own kind of worship. Only the quiet, catastrophic gentleness of a man who has hoarded softness his whole life like a sin, now spending it—recklessly, deliberately—as though he has finally found the one thing worth going bankrupt for.

His hand stays over the bond.

His thumb moves once across the fabric at her sternum.

The kiss tastes like sleep. Like woodsmoke. Like the kind of tenderness that should not exist inside a house that was built to burn it out of people.

She lets herself fall into it.

Lets herself believe—just for this one impossible, paper-thin moment—that as long as his hand is there, over the bond, over the place that belongs as much to him now as it does to her, nothing in the world can reach her. Nothing would dare.

He kisses her like he knows exactly how borrowed this is.

Like he means to make it permanent in her memory anyway.

His mouth lingers at hers, then draws back just far enough that his breath warms the skin it has left. His forehead stays pressed to hers. His hand does not move.

And when he speaks, the word is not possession.

Not command.

Not the way his father would say it—like a fist closing.

It is wonder. Made audible. A prayer spoken by a man who has never believed in prayer, who has knelt for nothing and no one, and who is kneeling now with a word the size of a world held open on his tongue.

"Mine," he whispers, against her mouth.

And means: the first thing I have ever held without being taught to break it.

⸻

"Again," Beron says mildly.

The rune flares.

Pain detonates through her.

One heartbeat ago she had his hand over the bond, his mouth warm on hers, mine still echoing like something sacred.

Now her fingers claw at the slate beneath her. Her back arches before she can stop it, breath splitting in her throat, and for one horrible, blinding instant she cannot tell whether it is her own body being unmade or the bond itself—only that somewhere, wherever he is, Eris will feel this too.

That knowledge is worse than the pain.

No.

No, no, no.

The pain comes again—sharper this time, a vicious wrench deep in the center of her chest—and she bites down hard on the sound that claws its way up her throat.

Beron steps closer.

"Remarkable thing," he murmurs. "Love."

She lifts her head.

Hatred steadies her faster than courage ever could.

Beron's smile widens by a hair. "Men spend their whole lives pretending they are not ruled by it," he says. "And then the right female screams, and suddenly they become very easy to understand."

Her fingers tighten against the slate.

"You bastard," she spits.

Beron tilts his head, studying her like something pinned and interesting.

"Tell me," he says pleasantly. "Do you think he knows yet?"

She closes her eyes.

Not in surrender.

In refusal.

Don't, she thinks.

Don't come.

⸻

Azriel was getting very tired of shadowing Eris Vanserra like a problem no one else wanted to touch.

He had been doing it since this entire cursed alliance began, and tonight was no different - trailing the male since the message about Lucien came through.

Not openly. Not foolishly. Eris had requested the meeting through the kind of channels designed to suggest discretion and urgency in equal measure. Rhys had wanted confirmation before committing anything more than bare courtesy. Cassian had called it a trap outright. Mor had gone still in that way she did when stillness was angrier than speech.

And Azriel—Azriel had trusted Eris least of all.

So he had followed.

Through Autumn's outskirts and across the scarred road toward Spring, keeping far enough back that even Eris's paranoid instincts would find nothing but trees and weather and the ordinary shape of the night. He had watched the male ride like someone trying very hard to look unhurried.

None of that had surprised him.

This did.

Eris Vanserra was on his knees in the dirt, half out of his mind, Lucien at his side, and whatever was tearing through the bond in his chest was real enough that even Azriel's shadows had gone still.

Which was deeply, catastrophically inconvenient.

Because Azriel had very much preferred the version of the evening in which Eris was lying.

The clearing was washed in thin moonlight and the taut, strained quiet that came just before weather broke. Lucien crouched beside his brother, one hand locked around Eris's arm as if brute force alone might keep him from bolting headlong into whatever stupidity waited on the other side of panic. Eris's other hand was clamped over his own chest, fingers twisted in his coat like he meant to tear the pain out at its root. His breathing came ragged and wrong. Not theatrical. Not performative. Animal and involuntary and edged so close to terror it planted something cold beneath Azriel's ribs.

His shadows hated it.

They had gone still the moment Eris said it—my mate—the words ripped out of him so raw that Azriel knew, instantly and unwillingly, that this was truth. No performance. No careful manipulation. Eris had said it like a male being flayed alive by the admission. Like naming her had cost him more than silence would have.

A mating bond.

On Eris.

That, perhaps, was the most irritating part.

Not because Eris did not deserve one—Azriel was not sentimental enough to think fate cared about deserving. But because the existence of it complicated everything. Eris had always seemed built for harder currency: calculation, survival, saying exactly enough to tilt a room and never enough to hand anyone a blade he could not survive being cut with. Azriel knew that version of him. Mistrusted that version of him. A male like that was not supposed to end up on his knees in the dirt because one invisible thread had gone taut and stripped every lie clean off his face.

And yet.

Azriel's gaze narrowed.

A fresh wave hit.

He saw it before Eris made a sound—the way his spine went rigid, the way his head snapped back like something unseen had driven claws into his sternum and dragged. Lucien caught him before he could pitch forward, swearing under his breath.

Not lying, then.

Not performance.

And worse than that—not random, either.

Because this had timing.

Azriel's shadows slid down his arms in one cold, whispering wave.

Rhys's voice brushed the edge of his mind, sharp with distance and impatience. Well?

Azriel kept his eyes on Eris in the dirt, on Lucien braced beside him, on the shape of a panic no male could counterfeit for long.

Beron's prisoner in Emberward, he said across the bond. She's Eris's mate.

Silence.

Not a pause. A full, stunned blankness, as if even Rhys's mind had stopped moving for half a heartbeat.

Then, at last:

What?

Azriel set Rhys aside for the moment as he was beginning to understand the full scope of the veritable shitshow they were now in.

Eris had not asked for Lucien because he was desperate for reconciliation. He had asked because he needed a bridge to the smallfolk, a name they would trust more readily than his own. That had already been irritatingly plausible. But this—this changed the scale of the problem entirely.

Beron had found the lever.

And Eris, who had made an art of appearing untouchable, had somehow and grown a mate, exposing the single vulnerability Beron's court was best designed to weaponize.

Azriel exhaled once through his nose.

Brilliant.

Absolutely brilliant.

He watched Eris drag in another fractured breath, watched Lucien's face sharpen with horror as the implications caught up to him, watched the whole ugly geometry of the thing settle into place.

This was not a random punishment.

This was bait.

And unless someone intervened quickly, Eris Vanserra was about to do something catastrophic in answer.

⸻

Lucien had seen Eris angry before. He had just never seen him undone.

He had seen him cold, elegant, cruel in that polished way that made other people mistake calculation for ease. Had seen him with blood on his hands and silk on his shoulders and boredom painted across his face while the court around them rotted in plain sight.

He had never seen him like this.

Never seen his eldest brother on his knees in the dirt, one hand clawed so hard into his own coat it looked like he meant to crack his ribs open and drag the pain out by force. Never seen his face stripped so bare that terror could stand there undisguised and breathing. Never seen him reach for something invisible with the kind of desperation Lucien remembered from only one place in his life.

For one ugly heartbeat, Lucien hated him for that too.

Because Eris was not supposed to be allowed this shape of suffering. Not in Lucien's head. Not after everything. Not after a lifetime of silences and half-truths and cruelties worn so well they had ceased to look like masks at all.

And yet here he was.

Shaking.

"Cauldron boil me," Lucien muttered, voice rough with disbelief. "You really do have a mate."

It came out harsher than he meant it to. More stunned than mocking.

Eris didn't laugh.

Didn't even snarl.

His head was bowed, shoulders rigid, breath sawing in and out of him like the air itself had turned hostile. Another shudder ran through him—not wholly physical, not wholly magical, something stranger and worse. Lucien could feel it only by its aftermath, by the way Eris's entire body locked around it like a fist closing on something too hot to hold.

"Eris." Lucien tightened his grip on his arm. "Look at me."

No answer.

Just that same awful, distant stare fixed on something Lucien could not see.

The bond.

The word still felt wrong in his head when attached to Eris. Like hearing a wolf described as gentle. Like being told winter has a heartbeat.

Mate.

It should be absurd.

"Mother above," Lucien breathed.

He had never seen Eris beg for anything.

Not forgiveness. Not mercy. Not affection. Not once in all the years of their shared, misshapen childhood.

But he had heard the last word Eris spoke before the bond hit again. Heard it dragged out of him ragged and raw, like a confession to a god he despised.

Please.

Something cold moved through Lucien's chest.

It was not pity.

He did not know what to call it.

"Who is she?" he asked, because the question was ridiculous and beside the point and yet suddenly the only thing in the world that seemed capable of anchoring any of this to something real. "Eris—who is she?"

Eris's laugh was broken in half before it fully existed.

"What," he got out, voice shredded, "exactly do you plan to do with that information?"

"Work with it, preferably," Lucien snapped, because anger was easier than fear, because his brother's panic was beginning to infect the air between them and Lucien refused to drown in it. "Unless your plan is to kneel here until your heart gives out."

That landed.

Not much. Not cleanly. But enough.

Eris dragged in a breath that sounded like punishment and lifted his head a fraction. His face had gone bloodless beneath the moonlight, eyes too bright, pupils blown wide. He looked fevered. Hunted. Nothing like the male who had strolled into this meeting wearing arrogance like plate armor.

Lucien hated that he could not stop seeing the resemblance anyway.

The bones were the same.

The mouth.

The Vanserra face, built for cruelty and beauty in equal measure.

It was simply missing the mask.

"She's in Emberward," Eris said at last, each word bitten off like it cost him to let them exist. "That is all you need."

Lucien swore under his breath.

Emberward.

A polite word for a cage.

He had not thought Beron capable of surprising him anymore. That had been optimism, apparently. A reckless one.

"And he is doing this through the bond," Lucien said, trying to force his own thoughts into lines that made sense. "How."

Eris's mouth twisted. "Would you like a full scholarly analysis while he tears her apart?"

The old instinct rose quick and hot, the one that always lived under Lucien's skin with Eris, the reflexive urge to bare teeth and answer every barb with two of his own. But it died before it fully formed.

Because Eris was trying to stand.

Lucien felt the shift in him before he saw it. The wild, dangerous gathering of motion. A male pulling himself together on nothing but rage and terror, already turning toward the tree line as if distance could be devoured by force of will alone.

Lucien caught him hard by the shoulder.

"No."

Eris jerked against the grip with sudden violence, nearly taking them both down. "Let go."

"No."

"Lucien—"

There was no familiarity in the way he said it. No plea. Just warning edged with something feral enough to make Lucien's pulse jump.

He held on anyway.

"You run into Autumn like this," Lucien said, low and vicious, "and Beron will have exactly what he wants."

Eris went still.

Not calm.

Still in the way a blade goes still when it is deciding where to cut.

Lucien leaned closer, forcing him to hear every word through whatever screaming was happening inside the bond.

"She could die if you do this wrong," he said.

Eris's head snapped up.

The expression on his face was so nakedly violent that Lucien almost stepped back. Not because he thought Eris would hurt him. Because for a split second he understood with perfect clarity that if anything in this clearing—any god or male or court—stood between Eris and that cell, Eris would burn through it without pausing to remember its name.

It was not menace.

It was devotion in its ugliest, purest form.

"Don't talk to me about what she could be," Eris snarled. "She already is."

The words came out wrecked and feral, torn raw from somewhere below speech. Not argument. Not fear. Something worse—certainty. As if every pulse of the bond was another proof carved into his ribs, as if he could feel her being dragged toward the edge in real time and Lucien's warning was an insult only because it was late.

Lucien's pulse kicked harder.

Jesminda flashed across his mind so fast it was barely an image at all. Dark hair. Laughing mouth. A hand slipping from his. Blood where there should never have been blood.

His stomach twisted.

No.

Not this again. Not another woman turned into a lesson while the males who love her choke on helplessness and timing and all the things they should have done sooner.

Something moved in the shadows beyond the clearing.

Lucien was on his feet in an instant, sword half-drawn before his mind caught up. Eris twisted too, faster than he should have been able to in his condition,fire flickering wild and unsteady along his knuckles.

A figure stepped out of the dark.

Azriel.

"Well," Azriel said softly, and there was no humor in it. "This is… inconvenient."

Lucien's laugh came out thin and incredulous. "You have got to be kidding me."

Azriel's shadows coiled close to his shoulders, too still to be calm. His gaze flicked once over Lucien, then settled on Eris with a cold, measuring sharpness that carried no comfort whatsoever.

Eris did not waste a breath on surprise.

Of course he didn't.

Lucien barely had time to register the shadowsinger's face before Eris was already moving—if what he was doing could still be called moving, and not simply obeying the violent pull of panic. He lurched upright on sheer fury, half-stumbling, half-launching himself toward the tree line like the whole clearing had narrowed to one direction and one purpose only:

Her.

"I do not have time for this," Eris snarled.

His voice was wrecked. Raw enough that Lucien felt it land in his own ribs.

He took one step. Two.

Azriel's shadows lashed outward.

They did not strike him, not exactly. They swept low and fast across the ground like spilled ink given purpose, curling around Eris's boots, his calves, not binding but tangling just enough to check his momentum. Just enough to buy a breath.

Eris whirled.

It was the fastest Lucien had ever seen him move without a weapon already drawn.

For one terrible heartbeat, Lucien thought Eris was actually going to set the clearing ablaze and damn whoever was standing in it.

Azriel stepped directly into his path.

Not aggressive. Not defensive.

Just there.

A wall made of stillness and bad decisions.

Eris looked like he might kill him.

His face had gone bloodless beneath the moon. Sweat shone cold at his temples. One hand was still clamped over his chest as though the bond were something he could physically hold together if he pressed hard enough, and the other had gone bright with a wavering, savage flame that guttered harder each time another invisible shock tore through him.

He looked less like a prince than a wound given legs.

"What do you want, Shadowsinger," Eris said, and Lucien had heard death threats delivered with less conviction.

Azriel's shadows tightened, but he did not move.

"I wanted to know whether you were lying."

Eris laughed.

The sound was ugly enough to make Lucien's skin prickle.

"And?"

Azriel's gaze dragged over him, the tremor in his shoulders, the way his jaw kept locking each time the bond hit, the way his attention split between the clearing and something far away and horrifying, the way his eyes had gone feral with a terror no amount of court training could mask.

Azriel's expression did not soften.

It did, however, change.

By a fraction.

Not sympathy.

Something colder. Clearer.

Recognition.

Because whatever else Eris was—liar, manipulator, opportunist, bastard—this was not performance. No male alive could counterfeit this for long. Not the panic. Not the desperation. Not the way he kept reaching, reaching toward something no one else could see.

"You aren't lying," Azriel said.

Lucien's jaw tightened. "No," he said, before he could stop himself. "He isn't."

Azriel's gaze flicked to Lucien, then returned to Eris.

"You can't go back to the Forest House like this," he said flatly.

Eris's eyes blazed.

"Watch me."

He tried to move again.

Lucien was not prepared for how ugly it was to witness.

Not because Eris was clumsy—he wasn't. Even half out of his mind, there was grace in him, some leftover court-bred precision in the way he shifted his weight and drove forward.

But the bond caught him mid-step.

Lucien saw it happen.

The full-body jolt. The violent, involuntary lock of muscle. The sharp intake of breath that never became enough air. Fire flashed at Eris's hand, guttering wild and unstable. His face twisted—not elegantly, not subtly, but openly, like the pain had stopped caring whether it humiliated him.

His knees almost buckled.

He caught himself with pure spite.

"Cauldron," Lucien muttered.

Eris made a sound low in his throat, more animal than speech, and pressed harder over his chest.

Lucien could see what he was trying not to do.

Run. Winnow. Tear through anyone standing between him and her. Anything but remain here while someone else hurt her.

Azriel's voice stayed infuriatingly level.

"If you winnow into whatever kill-box Beron has prepared," Azriel said, "you'll get her killed and hand him your throat with a ribbon on it."

"I am not taking strategic advice," Eris said, each word stripped down to something sharp and barely controlled, "from a male who has been skulking through the trees eavesdropping on me like a particularly self-righteous fungus."

Lucien would have laughed, in another life.

Azriel only folded his arms. "And I am not particularly interested in your opinion tonight."

That did it.

Eris moved.

Not with the polished precision he wore at court. Not with that measured, poisonous elegance that made every threat sound like wit. This was faster. He shoved Azriel hard in the chest—hard enough to drive him back half a step, hard enough that shadows lashed outward in warning.

"Do not stand there and tell me to wait," Eris snarled.

There was nothing refined in him now. No careful phrasing. No princely veneer. Just a male flayed down to nerve and devotion, shaking with the force of the bond tearing through him.

Azriel caught his wrist before Eris could surge forward again.

Eris jerked against the hold, flame flashing bright and unstable over his knuckles.

"She is alive," Azriel said.

Eris's head snapped toward him, eyes burning so bright Lucien almost looked away.

"You don't know that."

The words came out wrecked. Raw enough to scrape.

Another pulse hit.

Lucien saw it in full this time—the violent seize of Eris's body, the way his breath cut short, the way his free hand flew back to his sternum as though he could physically hold her to this world if he pressed hard enough. The sight sent something cold and old down Lucien's spine.

Jesminda rose first in his mind, as she always did when Beron's cruelty turned intimate: dark hair, warm hands, blood where blood should never have been.

Then, treacherously, another face followed.

Elain.

Soft-eyed and impossible. The female the Cauldron had tied to him whether either of them asked for it or not. Lucien had spent so long trying not to look too closely at that thread between them, trying not to examine what it might become if either of them ever stopped running, that the thought arrived like a quiet knife sliding between ribs he'd thought were guarded.

He imagined feeling this through a bond.

Imagined not knowing if the female on the other end was still breathing.

His stomach turned.

Azriel shoved Eris back—not cruelly, but with enough force to make him stop trying to barrel through sheer panic.

"If Beron meant to kill her tonight," Azriel said flatly, "he would have done it already."

Eris stilled.

Not calm. But still enough to listen through the wreckage.

Azriel pressed on.

"He had days," he said. "He had privacy. He had her in Emberward with no audience to satisfy. If death were the point, you would not be standing here feeling pulses. You'd be on your knees with a severed bond and no question left to ask."

The words landed like stones dropped one by one into deep water.

Lucien watched Eris absorb them and hate them and understand them anyway.

Azriel's grip tightened once on Eris's wrist, then released.

"He is hurting her to pull you into the open," he said. "To see what shape of stupidity love makes you choose. To turn the bond into a leash and watch whether you come when he yanks."

Eris's face changed.

Not much. Not enough for anyone who didn't know what he looked like beneath the mask.

But Lucien saw it—that awful split-second where relief and horror arrived together and neither left room for breath.

Lucien reached for him before he thought better of it.

This time Eris did not shake him off.

Lucien exhaled slowly through his nose. "He wants you to make it worse."

Eris's hand curled into a fist so tight the fire guttered white at the edges.

Lucien's grip tightened on his arm.

"I know what this looks like," he said quietly, and hated how true the words sounded even to himself. "I know what it is to think that if you move fast enough, if you get there hard enough, you can still crack the world open and take back what it's trying to steal."

Jesminda.

Elain.

A future he had never dared name.

Lucien swallowed once.

"But Beron wants you running blind," he said. "So don't."

The clearing went very still.

Eris lifted his head at last.

His face was wrecked. Bloodless. Eyes too bright. Every line of him drawn so taut he looked one hard breath from flying apart entirely.

But beneath all of it, the fury and the terror and the grief wearing panic's face, Lucien saw the thing he had spent his whole life trying not to credit in his eldest brother:

Discipline.

Ugly, brutal, hard-won discipline.

The kind you forge in a house where breaking in front of the wrong person costs you something you don't get back.

It was the only thing keeping him standing.

It was also the only thing that might get her out alive.

Lucien looked at his brother.

At the sweat at his temple. The bloodless mouth. The fingers that kept twitching toward his sternum as though some buried part of him still believed he could hold the bond together by force.

This was real.

That thought should not have felt like grief.

And yet.

"When did it happen," Lucien asked quietly.

Eris looked at him as if the question were an insult.

"The bond," Lucien said, sharper. "When."

Eris's face shuttered.

For a second Lucien thought he would refuse outright.

"A while ago," Eris said.

Lucien stared.

Azriel's brows lifted by the smallest degree.

"A while," Lucien repeated. "That's the answer you're giving me."

Eris's gaze went murderous. "Would you prefer a date? A written statement? An annotated timeline of my personal humiliations?"

"Who is she, exactly?" Azriel cut in.

Eris's gaze snapped to him, lethal.

"No," Eris said, and it was a command.

Azriel's jaw tightened. "Beron already knows enough to hurt her. I need to know what I'm protecting."

Eris's eyes blazed. "You don't."

Azriel's shadows stirred, impatient. "If she is your mate, she is a pressure point. That makes her my concern too, if this plan collapses and Autumn fractures."

Eris's laugh was sharp and ugly. "How generous."

Azriel's gaze went colder. "Don't mistake practicality for kindness."

Eris's nostrils flared.

Lucien's voice cut through. "Stop."

Both of them looked at him.

It landed harder than it should have, perhaps because neither was accustomed to hearing that tone from him.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Eris breathing too fast. Azriel's shadows gone sharp and restless around his shoulders. The clearing one wrong word from violence.

Lucien dragged a hand over his mouth and said, more tightly, "You can hate each other later. Preferably after she isn't being used as a knife."

That did it.

Not cleanly. Not all at once. But Lucien saw the shift happen in Eris like watching a door slam shut somewhere deep inside him.

The panic did not leave.

The terror did not ease.

But something colder rose through it—older, sharper, familiar. The part of Eris that survived things. The part that could still think while drowning.

When he spoke again, his voice was still hoarse. But it was no longer wild.

"We do not go in blind," he said.

Azriel said nothing.

Eris turned to him fully, all that fire and ruin narrowing into something dangerously precise.

"You're coming with me."

It was not a request.

Azriel's mouth went flat with mild disdain. "Am I."

"Yes." Eris took one step toward him, and Lucien saw how much effort it cost to make the movement look deliberate instead of desperate. "You wanted to know whether I was lying. Congratulations. You have your answer. Now make yourself useful."

Eris kept going.

"I want eyes on Emberward before I put a single boot over that threshold," he said. "I want the wards mapped. The guards counted. I want to know who Beron brought in tonight, what changed, what he thinks he's hidden, and whether he's foolish enough to believe nullstone and a rune-circle make him subtle."

Azriel unfolded his arms. "My shadows can get closer than we can."

"Then send them," Eris said. "And if your spies in Autumn are still worth the trouble you swear they are, I want every whisper they've heard in the last two hours."

Azriel studied him for a long moment. Then, because apparently because hell had frozen over and impossible things were simply happening tonight, he gave a single curt nod.

"They're already moving."

Of course they were.

Eris closed his eyes once—briefly—then opened them again.

"Good," he said. "Then we move now. We scout first. If Beron wants to pull me into the open, I'd like to know exactly where he intends to plant the knife before I oblige him."

Eris looked toward the tree line, toward Autumn, toward whatever invisible thread was still sawing him open from the inside. For one terrible second Lucien thought he would bolt anyway—strategy be damned, shadows be damned, the whole clever plan consumed by the one unbearable fact that she was still there and hurting.

Instead, Eris dragged in a breath and said, "We go to the eastern rise first. It gives sight on Emberward's outer wall if the cloud cover breaks, and there's an old servant road Beron never bothered to seal because he thought no one remembered it."

The forest shifted around them, wind moving through the branches with a sound like something ancient waking.

Lucien looked at him.

At the sweat still drying cold at his temples. At the strain carved into the corners of his mouth. At the terrible effort it was costing him not to abandon sense altogether and run straight for Emberward like a blade thrown badly.

Not again.

The thought came hard enough to bruise.

Not another woman. Not another pyre. Not another male dragged to his knees too late while Beron turned love into a lesson and called it law.

Lucien dragged in a breath and said, before he could think too hard about what it cost him, "I'm coming."

Eris's head snapped toward him, eyes bright and raw and dangerous.

Lucien held his gaze.

Then he heard himself say, flatter than he meant to, because if he let too much into his voice the whole thing would split open: "You said you refused. With Jesminda."

Her name landed between them like a struck match.

Eris went very still.

Lucien pressed on, the words awkward in his mouth, half disbelief and half memory. "You said Beron trapped you. That you got word to Tamlin. That you got me out before they could kill me too."

A pulse of pain flickered across Eris's face, but this one had nothing to do with the bond.

Lucien looked at him and hated how much his own chest tightened.

Because some part of him had always known.

Not cleanly. Not in a way he ever wanted to examine. But the knowledge had lived beneath all the bitterness anyway, buried under years of rage and exile and the much easier story in which all his brothers were one pack, one cruelty, one wound with too many faces.

And yet.

Tamlin had come too fast.

Something had gone wrong in Beron's careful ending.

Some part of Lucien had always known there had been one hand in that house—hidden, filthy, compromised, but still reaching—that had not let the final knife fall.

He had simply hated Eris too much to call it mercy.

Too much to call it care.

Too much to call it what it was.

Lucien swallowed once.

Then, because there was no graceful way to say it and grace had never belonged to either of them, he said quietly, "I believe you."

Silence.

Eris did not speak.

But something in him shifted.

His face stayed hard, his breathing still rough, his body still tight with the effort of not turning and vanishing into the dark toward her.

Yet his eyes—

His eyes flicked once to Lucien's face as if he did not quite know what to do with the words now that they existed in the air between them.

Lucien almost wished he could take them back.

Almost.

"I'm coming," he said instead, rougher now. "And I'll speak to the smallfolk. The outposts. The toll houses. The estate workers. I'll get their support, whatever it takes."

Eris's expression said nothing for one beat.

Then it changed.

So slightly Lucien almost thought he'd imagined it.

But there, beneath the strain and the fury and the raw edge of fear, something flickered—something startled, stripped down, and painfully unpracticed.

Not gratitude, exactly.

Not trust.

Something older than either and stranger too.

Recognition, perhaps. Of blood choosing, for once, not to make itself another weapon.

Lucien hated how much it unsettled him.

He hated more that he kept speaking anyway.

"Do not make me regret it."

Eris's voice, when it came, was low and frayed and nothing like court. "Lucien—"

"Don't," Lucien cut in. "Don't say thank you. It would ruin the moment."

The corner of Eris's mouth twitched. Not a smile. Nothing so clean. But something dangerously close.

And for one impossible, flickering second, something passed between them that was not hatred.

Not forgiveness. Not absolution. Nothing nearly so tidy.

Just history.

Just blood.

Just two sons of the same monster standing in the same dark and choosing, however badly, to point themselves in the same direction.

⸻

They stopped short of Emberward on the eastern rise.

It was less a hill than an old wound in the land, a lift of earth and stone overlooking the back edge of the Forest House where the prettier walls ended and the practical cruelty began. From here, through breaks in the canopy and the thin, shifting wash of moonlight, Eris could see the dark sweep of the outer wall. The sharper line where Beron's masons had reinforced the older wing generations ago. The faint suggestion of Emberward's roof through the black lacework of branches, if he narrowed his eyes and held still enough.

Close.

Not close enough.

The bond throbbed low and wrong beneath his ribs.

Not the catastrophic ripping from the clearing. That had eased into something quieter now. Crueler for its persistence. A pulse of hurt that was not his and yet threaded through him so intimately his body no longer bothered pretending it could tell the difference.

Alive.

Still alive.

He clung to that with a violence that felt beneath him and beyond him and entirely, humiliatingly necessary.

The others spread out without speaking.

He didn't.

Not because there was nothing to say.

Because there was too much.

I believe you.

The words kept circling back like a blade that had not yet decided whether it meant to defend or cut.

Eris had not expected them.

Not from Lucien. Not from anyone, perhaps, but certainly not from the brother he had spent years allowing to hate him because hatred was easier to survive than explanation. Easier than trying to build anything honest inside a house where honesty got skinned alive and hung out to dry.

He had always known there would be no glorious moment of revelation. No scene in which truth, once spoken, rearranged the past into something cleaner. Jesminda was still dead. Lucien was still scarred in all the places that mattered. Eris was still Beron's eldest son in a court where eldest meant first to bleed. Nothing undid itself simply because someone finally looked at the right piece of the board.

And yet.

I believe you.

It landed in him like grief. Like relief. Like some ancient locked room in his chest had cracked open just enough to let in the cold.

He hated that it mattered.

He hated more that it did.

A male should not be able to spend years teaching himself not to need tenderness and then be brought so low by a few flat words from a brother in a clearing. It felt like weakness. It felt like something his father would sneer at and know exactly how to use.

Perhaps that was why the gratitude came barbed.

Not warm. Never warm.

Just bitter and startled and strangely old, the shape of something that should have existed between them years ago, before Beron got his hands around all of their throats and taught them to call it upbringing.

Eris stared at the distant roofline of Emberward and did not let himself look toward Lucien again.

Because if he did, he might say something he could not take back.

Because if he did, he might remember too vividly that there was a time when Lucien was small enough to trail after him with more stubbornness than sense, looking for scraps of approval in the places Eris was least capable of giving them.

Because if he did, the whole night might begin to feel too much like mourning, and he had no time for mourning.

She was still in there.

The thought hit him so hard his vision blurred.

She was still in there.

Still in that engineered cold. Still with Beron's hands all over the edges of something that belonged to Eris in a way nothing had ever belonged to him before and nothing ever would again. The knowledge sat inside him like a nail driven slowly through bone.

He should have told her.

The thought arrived with all the useless fury of a wound reopening.

He should have said it when he had the chance. In her room, with dawn at the curtains and his hand over the bond and the whole world suspended for one impossible breath. He should have said it every time it rose in him and lodged against his teeth like prayer strangled before it became sound. He should have given her the words before Beron could give them a battlefield.

Now all he had was the certainty of it and no guarantee she would live long enough to hear him stop being afraid.

A shadow peeled away from the trees below.

One of Azriel's spies. Lesser fae by the look of him, wrapped in the dark anonymity of someone who had lived long enough under other people's power to make invisibility into a craft. He climbed the rise without wasted motion and knelt near Azriel, murmuring too low for anyone but the shadowsinger to hear.

Azriel listened, expression blank.

Then his gaze cut to Eris.

"There's a wardmaster in Emberward."

Eris went still.

"What kind."

"The useful kind," Azriel said dryly. "Old. Court-trained. Brought in less than an hour before sunset."

Eris's hands curled at his sides.

Azriel continued, because apparently that was the sort of night it was. "They're not using the nullstone only to suppress her power."

Eris already knew what the answer would be. He heard himself ask anyway.

"Explain."

Azriel's shadows stirred at his shoulders, one slipping down his wrist like black smoke before vanishing into the grass. "Nullstone dampens magic," he said. "Most of the time. But if someone knows what they're doing—if they have the right runes and enough time—they can turn suppression into pressure. Force the magic downward, inward, into whatever tether is carrying the most strain."

The bond.

The words did not need saying.

Eris's stomach turned.

"He's not hurting the bond itself," Azriel added. "Not directly. He's creating conditions that force it to carry more than it should. Pain. Interference. Magical compression." His gaze sharpened. "Enough to make you feel it. Enough to make you move."

Enough to make a male lose his mind in a clearing and nearly run into a trap so obvious it would be insulting if it were not working.

Eris's laugh came out low and awful. "So my father found a wardmaster clever enough to weaponize architecture."

Lucien's mouth hardened. "Can he kill her this way?"

Azriel glanced at the spy. Then back to them.

"No," he said. "Not quickly. Not unless he pushes far past testing and into outright damage, and that would defeat the point." A pause. "This is controlled. Deliberate. He's measuring the response."

Alive.

Again.

Still alive.

For one treacherous instant, relief loosened something in Eris's chest.

Then self-hatred slammed over it hard enough to make him dizzy.

Because she was alive and still hurting. Alive and still being used. Alive and still paying the price for his father's curiosity and Eris's own inability to become fully unlovable.

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and tasted blood where he had bitten the inside of his cheek without realizing it.

Tomorrow.

The word arrived fully formed.

Not the trial. Not Beron's drawn-out spectacle of procedure and punishment. Not another day of pressure and bait and whispered testimonies and the whole court gathering like crows over some lovely thing they were prepared to call a lesson.

Tomorrow.

The structure of the plan rearranged itself in his head. Not abandoned. Tightened. Accelerated. A line of dominoes no longer afforded the luxury of falling one at a time.

Beron was escalating.

So they would too.

He looked at Azriel. "The trial is dead."

Lucien turned sharply. "Eris—"

"The trial was a stage," Eris said. "A pretty excuse for time. He's done pretending he needs it." He looked back toward Emberward, toward the roofline he could not burn down yet. "If he's willing to bring in a wardmaster and start pulling on the bond before the hearing, then he's bored of his own script."

Azriel's attention sharpened visibly.

Eris kept going.

"We move tomorrow," he said. "Everything."

Azriel's shadows slid in restless circuits around his wrists. "Beron's inner circle isn't fully cracked yet."

"No," Eris said. "But they're frightened, which is close enough if pressed correctly."

He began pacing the edge of the rise, because movement gave the thoughts somewhere to go besides his throat. Strategy reassembled itself around the panic, not because the panic had lessened, but because there was no other way to remain standing.

The nobles had seen the ledgers, the exemptions. The guild liaisons had begun doing their own arithmetic, which meant by dawn there would be whispers moving through Beron's loyalists like mold through wet grain. Hallen and Soryn and Ralwyn had already started pulling Beron's countryside hands out of position. Lucien would carry Jesminda's name back through the outposts and toll roads, and grief was a language smallfolk trusted when they trusted nothing else.

The machine was already slipping.

Now he only needed to ensure that when Beron reached for it, nothing obeyed.

Tomorrow meant the corrupted lords who had begun sniffing rot in the ledgers would be forced to choose sides before Beron could reassure them with violence.

Tomorrow meant the smallfolk had to hold the line long enough for truth to stop sounding like rumor.

Tomorrow meant his mother came out.

That thought landed with its own clean brutality.

His mother.

Beron's last and oldest leash. The one he had kept polished for decades because it never failed to cut.

He turned fully to Azriel.

"I want my mother out before dawn."

Lucien inhaled sharply but said nothing.

Azriel folded his arms. "If Beron notices her missing too early, he'll accelerate."

"He's already accelerating."

"That doesn't mean we hand him another excuse."

Eris stepped toward him, and even now Azriel's shadows tightened, wary.

"I am not leaving her there for him to use when the rest of this turns loud," Eris said. "If he loses the court tomorrow, he'll reach for whatever still belongs wholly to him." His voice dropped. "My mother comes out."

For once, Azriel did not argue immediately.

Perhaps because he could hear that this was not negotiable. Perhaps because even he was not fool enough to misunderstand what Beron did when cornered.

At last he nodded. Once. "I can do it."

"Good."

Eris had spent years planning for this moment in so many different forms that his mother's extraction sat in his head like a second skeleton. Routes. Staff rotations. Which attendants were loyal to Beron, which were merely frightened, which could be bribed, which had children and therefore predictable thresholds of fear.

"The new lady-in-waiting in her rooms is ours," Eris said. "She'll be waiting. There's a linen passage behind the south chamber that feeds into the old storage tunnels. It comes out below the orchard steps if the secondary latch still works."

Azriel nodded once. "It will."

Eris almost asked how he knew.

He almost did not want to know.

"Take two shadows and no more," he said.

Lucien shifted, the leather at his belt creaking softly. When Eris glanced toward him, his brother was already looking at the forest beyond the rise, toward the outposts scattered like fading embers through the countryside.

"The smallfolk will move faster if I start at East Hollow," Lucien said. "The old orchard district still remembers Jesminda best. Word runs quickly from grief."

Eris said nothing for a beat.

Lucien continued, more briskly now, perhaps because he, too, would like to survive this conversation without anything in him breaking. "From there I can push through the toll road and the Sanford line. If Hallen and Soryn are already repositioning Beron's clerks and paid mouths, I can reach the workers before his men do."

He paused. Looked at Eris.

"The farther the message gets before dawn, the harder it'll be for Beron to buy silence back by morning," he said. "They won't trust your face. They may trust mine long enough to hold position."

Eris inclined his head once.

A small thing. Almost nothing.

He could not seem to make it any bigger.

"Don't die before I get back," Lucien said.

The line was sharp enough to pass for wit.

The look in his eye was not.

For one thin heartbeat in the dark, Eris could almost see the outline of what this might have meant in a less monstrous house. A brother standing beside him not because Beron commanded it, not because cruelty had arranged the room that way, but because blood had chosen—just this once—not to be a weapon.

Something in his chest gave once. Hard.

He said, because anything else would be unbearable, "Try not to get sentimental in front of the farmers. It will damage your reputation."

Lucien actually huffed a laugh at that. Brief. Bitter. Real.

Then he turned and disappeared into the trees.

Eris stared after him longer than he should have.

Azriel watched the space Lucien had vacated for only a moment before looking back. "And you."

The words were flat. Not a question. A challenge in plainer clothes.

Eris knew exactly what he meant.

The inner circle.

The lords who had begun reading too closely, asking the wrong questions, realizing too late that Beron's protection looked suspiciously like theft with better branding.

He would have to finish that tonight.

He would have to make certain that when Beron reached for them tomorrow, they were already too suspicious, too frightened, too resentful to form a clean wall at his back.

He would have to turn years of accumulated disgust into one final, useful night of politics.

The thought filled him with a weariness so profound it felt almost holy.

"I know what I'm doing," he said.

Azriel's brows lifted a fraction. "Do you."

Eris turned to look at him fully.

"I have spent decades," he said, "building this court toward the edge of a blade so that when the time came I could choose exactly where to press. My father's allies are already turning. His ledgers have started eating him alive. The outposts are being quietly hollowed out beneath him. The smallfolk will have a voice by dawn. And now my mate is being used as a live wire in his experiment." He stepped closer. "So unless you have suddenly mistaken me for a fool, do not ask me whether I know what I am doing."

Azriel did not move.

"That," he said coolly, "was not what I asked."

Of course it wasn't.

Eris's temper, already ground thin by pain and exhaustion and the sightline to Emberward just beyond the trees, went bright and ugly.

"What, then."

Azriel's gaze was steady. Merciless in the way only very disciplined males could manage, only the hard, old dislike he had carried toward Eris for years, polished almost as carefully as Eris had polished his own masks.

"I'm asking," Azriel said, "whether you intend to let what he's doing to her break the plan you've spent decades building."

Eris went very still.

The rage that rose in him was almost a relief. Cleaner than fear. More familiar than grief.

"You astonishing bastard."

Azriel's expression didn't change. "That isn't an answer."

"It is the only one you deserve."

Eris took one step toward him.

"Be very careful, Shadowsinger."

Azriel's jaw hardened. "Why? Because I said what no one else will?"

"Because," Eris said softly, "you are one sentence away from making me forget that I need your help."

Something flashed in Azriel's eyes.

Old anger. Old contempt.

And then, inevitably, because the night was not yet finished inventing ways to test him, Azriel said, "You expect me to believe this is different. That she matters more to you than the last female whose life became a convenience."

The words landed like a slap.

For one beat, the whole rise went silent except for the wind in the branches and the ugly, living throb of the bond beneath Eris's ribs.

"You do not," Eris said quietly, "get to speak of her like she is my latest cruelty."

Azriel's face hardened. "And you don't get to pretend you haven't earned the suspicion."

"You hate me," Eris said. "Fine. Hate me later. If you say one more thing about her in that tone, you stop being useful."

Azriel's eyes narrowed.

"I've seen what happens when you decide a female is tolerable collateral."

And there it was.

The old rot.

Mor.

Of course.

Even now. Even with Beron playing his mate's agony through runes and nullstone and whatever abomination of a wardmaster's craft he had paid for. Even now, Azriel still carried that story around like a blade with Eris's name on it, still reached for it the instant he wanted blood.

Eris went absolutely still.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough to cut.

"Have you."

Azriel's jaw tightened. "You left her."

"And you," Eris said, fury sharpening every word until they sounded almost calm, "have spent centuries admiring your own outrage without once stopping to ask what, exactly, was avoided."

Azriel's shadows lashed once.

"You thought leaving her at the border was monstrous." His smile was all teeth now, all ruin. "Do you know what would have happened if I had touched her? If I had claimed her? If I had brought her into Autumn under my father's roof after she arrived with another male's scent on her and no use left except scandal?"

Azriel said nothing.

Good.

Let him shut up for half a second and hear a truth he had avoided because outrage was so much easier to carry than complexity.

"My father would have made a lesson of her that your precious indignation would not have survived hearing described."

The bond pulsed again. Hard.

He barely felt it beneath the surge of old hatred rising hot in his throat.

"I gave her a story she could live with," he said. "A wound and a border and enough disgust to keep Beron's hands off the rest." Another step. "But by all means—keep telling yourself I was the villain. It must be so much easier than admitting you never understood the shape of the cage you were judging."

Azriel's mouth went hard.

For a moment Eris thought he might actually strike him.

Instead the shadowsinger only said, colder than before, "If that were true, why wouldn't you have said something earlier."

Eris laughed.

The sound was brief and vicious and exhausted all at once.

"When this is over," Eris said, "ask her what she was spared. Then decide what to hate me for."

Azriel's gaze flickered.

Not understanding. Not acceptance.

But uncertainty.

Small. Almost nothing.

Also the first crack Eris had seen in years of stone.

He closed his eyes for half a breath.

When he opened them, the fire in him had changed shape. Narrowed. Aimed.

"This plan," he said, "exists because of her as much as because of me. The countryside turning against Beron is turning because she fed it when he starved it. Because she built loyalties without ever calling them that. Because she believed Autumn could be dragged into something better with both hands if no one else would do it." His voice went low. "Do not insult either of us by implying I would ruin that for sentiment."

Azriel held his gaze for a long moment.

Then, finally: "Fine."

He went on as if the last five minutes had not happened, and Eris found himself almost grateful for the efficiency of it. "Get your lords in line. I'll get your mother out and send word once she clears the orchard road." He glanced once toward Emberward. "And if the wardmaster changes technique, my shadows will know."

"Get my mother out," Eris answered.

Azriel inclined his head.

Then his shadows gathered. The dark around him deepened, folded, swallowed.

He was gone almost before the leaves finished stirring in his wake.

Eris stood alone on the rise.

Below him, through the dark tangle of trees and the thin wash of moonlight that kept catching on things it shouldn't—the edge of a wall, the glint of a ward-stone, the distant pale line of a path Beron had forgotten to close—Emberward waited.

He could feel her.

Not clearly. This was muddied. Strained. The bond thrumming through layers of nullstone and rune-work, each pulse arriving muffled and wrong, like a voice calling through water.

But there.

Still there.

He pressed his palm flat over his own chest, the way he had pressed it over hers that morning, and let himself feel the distance between the two.

It was the worst thing he had ever measured.

He turned toward the Forest House.

There was still work left to do. Lords to bend. Loyalties to fracture. A court to hollow from the inside until the throne sat on nothing but rot and silence and his father's own name turned poison in every mouth that spoke it.

He had been building this for years.

He had never expected to build it while breaking.

The wind moved through the branches above him, carrying the smell of smoke and wet bark and the first faint suggestion of a dawn that was still hours away.

And somewhere inside Emberward, behind stone and ward and the cold, meticulous architecture of his father's cruelty, she was still breathing.

He did not pray.

He had never seen the point.

But he thought of her face in the dawn light. The way she had lifted his wrist and kissed the scar there without pity, without flinching, without any of the practiced gentleness he had been taught to expect from a world that only touched wounded things in order to assess how deeply they could still be cut. He thought of the way the bond had surged under his hand when she whispered yes. He thought of the word he had given her—mine—and the way it had felt leaving his mouth.

He was going to get her out.

Not because he was brave. Not because he was good. Not because the plan demanded it or the alliance required it or the court would benefit from her survival.

Because she had kissed the ugliest part of him and called it hers.

And Eris Vanserra—liar, prince, monster's eldest son—was not going to let the world take the one person who had ever made that word sound like it meant something worth surviving for.

He descended the rise.

The Forest House waited below, lit faintly from within, patient and sprawling and rotten at its roots.

He walked toward it the way he had always walked toward it—straight-backed, unhurried, with the easy, poisoned grace of a male who had learned long ago that the safest way through a burning house was to look like you were the one who set the fire.

Only now, for the first time, the fire was real.

And it was not his father's.

A/N: this part was a bit more setup-py but we getting real close to the big showdown soon, and finally I have much more time to write so no more month long wait btwn parts, thank you to you all for being patient and waiting and all the kind words 🥹

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[erin-bo-berin]

Deadly Deal

ACOTAR Masterlist

Part 2: Deadly Devotion

Trapped Under the Mountain, the rules are different. Your only chance of survival? A deadly deal with Eris Vanserra.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x f!reader

Word Count: 13.3k

Warnings: eventual smut, p in v, oral(m), rough sex, slight choking, some degradation, spanking, a bit of darker Eris, sexual tension, enemies to lovers of sort, teasing, thigh riding, this is sort of filthy

A/N: Thank you @harvest-bunny for the tremendous amount of help with and inspiration for this. So, this was heavily inspired by Body Says by Demi Lovato and I knew I had to write some sort of deadly attraction to Eris fic. Also, this isn’t to be confused with/is not related to Deadly Distractions as I didn’t think it through when I titled this. 😅

Survival sometimes came with deadly costs.

Life under Amarantha led many to do desperate things, perhaps even foolish things. Lines blurred, bargains were made and if one was lucky, they’d live to see another day.

You were no different.

Your eyes roamed the space, boredom plastered on your face.

Music swelled about you, people enjoying the festivities with dance, wine and food. At least as much as one could when living a life of such depravity as Under the Mountain provided.

You were in another skimpy dress—not as bad as some the other females wore, but it was bad enough. It was practically a shift of sheer fabric, though it became opaque enough to barely conceal the areas it needed to. Low cut neckline plunging nearly to your stomach and slitted high on both thighs, you didn’t exactly see a need for the more modest panels.

Tonight’s dress was almost an iridescent orange—the fabric a burnished orange of a sparking flame, sparkling under the faelights of the throne room.

Seemed appropriate, considering.

Though your attire was the least awful in the sea of similar outfits the females donned, it still gave too many males the idea that they could do what they pleased with you. You sure weren’t above kneeing one in the gut—or groin—and you’d done it a few times, too. Discreetly, of course, as to not disrupt Amarantha’s enjoyment of the festivities.

Knowing the bitch, she’d have likely delighted in some of the males taking advantage of you—willing to watch it for sport. So, you took care of yourself while also keeping your head down. Merely in attempts to survive.

Which was how you found yourself in this situation—for survival purposes, of course.

So there you stood, amidst the usual nightly festivity that always took place, bracing yourself for the inevitable. For the attention you knew would come—from a male that was only slightly less awful than the other litany of males with cruel intentions.

Not that he was any better.

Your eyes caught amber ones across the room and your body reacted before you even fully processed the pale face and long red hair.

You hated the cold faced, arrogant heir to Autumn. Hated him with a passion.

But you’d made a deal with him. One that had ended up being in your best interest, but you still despised that you’d had to.

The bargain had gone something like this:

You were to be his personal, nightly entertainment at these parties. In turn, he would ensure no male touched you.

Still, making a deal with Eris Vanserra was no better than making a deal with the devil.

You’d known of his cruelty, the reputation that preceded him. You’d seen some of it here trapped under this godsforsaken mountain.

You gulped your wine as you watched the male approach you, slowly, languidly, like he had not a care in the world. He carried himself with grace, but that grace was laced with arrogance—infuriating, teeth grinding arrogance.

The male had a silver tongue and that courtier’s mind knew no bounds. Especially not with the way he could manipulate, needle and verbally cut down any individual without breaking a sweat. He was always so slick and clever, always making one feel like he was five steps ahead. It was almost predatory the way he operated, his twisted games, as if awaiting his prey to catch up before he snapped the trap shut on them with devastating results.

He did the same thing to you, nightly.

You’d seen him maneuver through the environment here with those finely honed skills plenty of times.

Unfortunately for you, you’d also become a target of his.

When he reached you, long pale fingers brushed yours as they wrapped around the stem of the goblet you held and took it from your grasp. You ignored the way your body buzzed at the smallest contact.

He brought it to his lips, taking a long pull, swallowing the liquid slowly, eyes intent on you. Your breathing deepened, anger blazing in your eyes as you glared at him.

Even despite living under Amarantha’s thumb, he was still dressed as immaculately as you were sure he did back in the Autumn Court.

Despite the fact you’d seemed to drift from court to court—doing work where you could find it—you’d still managed to find yourself imprisoned under here almost fifty years ago. You’d been at the Summer Court, working for the former High Lord and had been at the party the night Amarantha entrapped all the High Lords and most of the High Fae of the courts.

Which is how, in a twisted sense, Under the Mountain had seemed to become more of a home to you than you’d ever known.

He finally lowered the goblet from his lips, amber eyes never having left yours. Though he’d yet to speak, his look alone conveyed enough.

“Can't have you getting too drunk now can we? Wouldn’t want you to miss any of the fun.”

His voice was smooth, low and full of courtly arrogance—basically the embodiment of a Vanserra. Or at least, Eris.

“Wine makes it bearable,” you scoffed, trying to reach for your drink.

He held it out of your reach with a smirk. You scowled and moved closer, reaching higher to try to grab it back. You were close enough to see the freckles that splattered across his face—ones you’d become familiar with due to numerous nights of finding yourself in the same situation with him as now.

His free hand curved around your waist making you bare your teeth at him. He only smirked in response.

“You ready for some fun tonight?”

He set the goblet aside and you eyed it, longingly, as he slipped his arm around you fully and led you back to where he’d been lounging. His arm slid from around you, sliding down your arm to grasp your hand as he sat. He pulled you in front of him, in between his open legs.

“Kneel,” he commanded.

You bit back the rising urge to spit in his face—or curse him out, for that matter—and obeyed. You lowered your knees to the cool floor. You didn’t kneel though, you sat back on your heels.

Instead of how most females would, you didn’t lower your gaze to the floor. Instead, you leveled your gaze up at him, eyes searing into him, displaying all the hatred you felt for him.

He reached out, fingertip brushing just under your chin as he studied you.

“Hm. Obedience suits you better than defiance, sweetheart.”

Your eyes narrowed at the nickname but he only chuckled. You rose from your heels onto your knees, palms spreading over his muscled thighs as you did so. You felt him settle back in his chair, a slow lazy smile creeping across his face.

“Entertain me, pet,” he practically purred.

Amber eyes lit with challenge—with actual fire—as he watched you, as if he knew what you were fighting mentally. Which was the fact that you hated this with every iota of your being.

But you had made a deal.

Clenching your teeth, your hands slid upwards to his hips, grasping them as you stood in one slow, languid and precise way. In a way to seduce and entice. His eyes followed you as you stood, purposely sticking your ass out as you did—you knew the lecherous audience he seemed to keep would be focused on you too.

You let the music sweep you away, take you from this nightmare to somewhere far more pleasant. Your hips fell into a sensual sway like you were light as a feather and the music was the wind to carry you away. You watched as his eyes dropped, watching every single movement.

Your hips circled slowly, almost painfully slow, like you were trying to hypnotize him. If the way he was watching you was any indicator, that might not be too far off from the truth.

In a coordinated movement, your chest arched upwards, followed by your ribcage, then your hips before you released your tensed, arched body in one fluid slow roll. You let your body take over, becoming as languid as the notes of the music that was being performed.

Your fingers brushed through the lengths of your hair as you bit your lip suggestively and broke eye contact with him. You arched your neck, your hair falling to the side as you tilted just the slightest, exposing your neck to him.

When he spoke, it was with the usual amount of contempt, but his voice was low, loud enough for you alone to hear.

“Look at you—dancing because you were ordered to—and pretending you chose this.”

Your eyes snapped back to his and you contemplated hissing at him. The sentiment must’ve been received though because his brow lifted, corners of his lips quirking in amusement.

You said nothing though as you continued your performance for the aggravating male. Even though every look of his you caught made your heart rate increase.

You were trying to stay alive. Trying to live to see another day down here. That’s all this was.

That’s all that reaction was.

One didn’t let their guard down, trapped here.

Once more, you lowered yourself to the floor—this time instead of in obedience it was part of the performance. You peered up at him through lowered lashes and you could’ve swore you saw his jaw clench.

If Eris had a problem with the way you saw fit to entertain him, that certainly wasn’t your fault. Your hands spread over his knees as you came up fully, making sure he got a full view down the scandalous neckline of the outfit you donned.

Eyes traced your every movement as you stood again, hips circling like you were grinding against the air. Fingers brushed your throat and you gave a lazy smile as your hands traced the curves of your body, sliding downwards.

You bent, hands sliding up his chest as your body continued the slow, sensual movements meant to entice. Your mouth dipped to his ear.

“This good enough, Princeling?” you murmured next to his ear.

“I’ve seen better,” he snarked.

You bit back your growl and instead answered rather snappily.

“You’ll take what you get.”

His hand gripped your chin—though instead of in anger, he made it appear like an intimate moment. You bit your lip, selling the performance.

“You straighten up or I’ll throw you to the wolves.”

As if he wasn’t a wolf, himself.

You said nothing as his hand dropped from your face, settling on your hip. You turned in his grasp, hips rolling in his view, tossing your hair playfully as you sent a sultry look over your shoulder towards him.

You were met with a gaze of blazing amber.

“Watch,” you ordered.

You may have been obedient in form, but you were defiant in spirit.

As per usual—like they had done every other night you did this—his hands never left you the entire time.

They gripped your hips and slid up your sides as you danced for him.

Still turned away from him, your hands lifted above your head with effortless grace, as if you were performing for anyone but him. Wrists curved like smoke over your head as your body rolled in tantalizing movements.

You felt Eris pull you back between his legs and you turned again to him.

“Better. You put on quite the show,” he whispered to you, hand curling around your hip as you leaned into his touch.

Purely for show of course.

You made sure your eyes stayed lidded—either drunk or heavy with lust—whatever any onlooker cared to take it as.

You leaned forward, hand slipping past the curtain of red hair to slide along the back of his neck, cupping it. A smirk made his lips twitch.

You had half a mind to slap the smirk right off his face.

But, instead, you danced.

He hadn’t made this deal to help you in the slightest. He’d just seen it as a grand opportunity to exploit your attention. Especially since you’d felt his eyes on you for months.

Frankly, he likely didn’t want to share you with anyone else.

“You’re quite a lovely thing, aren’t you? Even if you’ve got a mouth on you that serves no purpose but to get you in trouble.”

You tried not to snarl, kept the pleasant and dazed look on your face. Though he sat, you circled his chair, hands never leaving his body—fingertips brushing his shoulder and across his back. You paused behind him, bending as your hands roamed his chest, sliding as low as you could reach.

You kept dancing though, kept up the illusion that you were more than content to do nothing but amuse the future high Lord. Kept up the lie that you were nothing more than his plaything.

It was the smartest and safest thing to do.

“That’s enough,” he rumbled, when you’d returned to the front of the chair, pulling you down onto his leg, “You bore me.”

Truly, it was a testament to your strength that you bit back any retort.

“Should I do something else for you then?” you asked, sounding mildly pleasant, like a female willing to please.

Your hand smoothed over his chest, contemplative.

“Dance here. After all, might as well make yourself useful,” he retorted.

He didn’t miss the way your jaw clenched at the insult. A fingertip brushed along your jawline as he tsked, mockingly.

“This isn’t punishment. It’s survival. Why not have fun with it?”

You kept your face removed of any of the anger you felt, as to not give away your true feelings, even though you hissed through clenched teeth.

“Because you’re an insufferable asshole.”

As you sat on his lap, his fingertips skimmed over the swell of your breasts appreciatively.

“You seem to tolerate me just fine, princess.”

His nicknames were never terms of endearment, but demeaning. This one was no different.

You felt warmth along your bare skin and you gasped, glancing down. A small spark of fire from his fingers skittered across your exposed breasts.

He looked entranced as a finger traced the path the spark of fire had just taken. You fought a shiver at the touch.

“I’ve been tempted to do that for quite some time now. Did it feel good?”

You scoffed.

“As if anything you do could feel good.”

He didn’t have to know that you were lying through your teeth—or that his fire had unleashed some warmth of your own, burning low in your belly for unknown reasons.

You couldn’t tell if he picked up on your lie or not as he studied you intently, but he moved on, turning your body to where it was fully facing him.

“Enough talk—dance.”

You were now straddling his thigh and you looked at him, unamused.

“I’m sure you can make it work,” he smirked as if reading your thoughts.

You let out a frustrated huff, body becoming like silk on water again. You lifted yourself off his thigh just enough to roll your body, arch it and sway—your slow movements matching the slower music that filled the room.

You tilted your head back, baring your throat as your hair fell like a curtain down your back. You peered at him under lidded eyes. Your hips rolled back and forth in the air, just above his thigh.

Though with one pass, he lifted his thigh causing you to brush it as your hips moved. Your breath startled out of you at the shock of sensation when your core brushed against his muscled thigh, the brief friction sparking something in you.

You hadn’t expected the zap of pleasure that shot through your body at the movement.

Trying to remain impassive and cool, you kept dancing, purposely lowering your hips just the slightest so you accidentally brush his clothed thigh again.

But Eris Vanserra wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what you were doing.

“You like how that feels, pet?” he taunted.

You didn’t deign him an answer.

All you could focus on was the way you’d managed to somehow ignore the way your body was reacting to him—at least until now.

“Do it again.”

It was no mere suggestion, but an order.

“No.”

Even though your body screamed for the opposite.

“I can always tell Amarantha you’ve been a troublemaker lately. You know how she likes to handle her troublemakers.”

You swallowed hard.

The female had very creative and very cruel ways of dealing with anyone who gave her trouble.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“It’d take less than a day to convince her you’re attempting to gather a group to rebel against her,” Eris said, almost sounding bored.

You would be positively foolish if you didn’t take the male’s threat seriously.

So, despite your burning hatred, your burning body, you repeated your motion, a slow roll of your hips resulting in a longer drag of your clothed cunt against his thigh.

You couldn’t help the way your lashes fluttered, if you’d tried.

Gods, it really did feel good.

“That’s what I thought.”

He hummed, satisfied.

“Give me a show, sweetheart,” he commanded.

You obliged.

It was less about elegance and seduction now, though your hands wandered as your hips moved again, another long drag against his leg.

You let out a low hum at the feeling.

“You gonna be a good little slut for me? Get yourself off on my thigh? I know these nights get you wound tight,” he purred.

“Shut up,” you practically growled.

“No,” he said with an infuriating grin, “This is the best entertainment I’ve had in decades. I plan to enjoy it thoroughly.”

You tried to tune him out and focus on the music on the feeling of your incredibly wound tight body finding a little bit of relief. With the next pass of your core, he flexed his thigh and you let out a moan.

Eris just smirked, paying no mind to any companions nearby who definitely peered over in interest. You knew they were watching, knew they probably thought themselves lucky for receiving such a show, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care right now.

You were being swept up in the sweet sensation of how good it felt.

Between your pounding heart, the swell of the music and the chatter about, you almost could’ve sworn you heard him groan lowly.

His hands found your hips as you ground against him with more fervor.

“Does it make it easier to swallow to pretend that you actually enjoy it? It’s a shame. I find a great deal entertaining about you.”

Your hands landed on his shoulders, fingers curling, grip digging into them.

You didn’t even pretend to comprehend what he’d just said. All you could focus on was how each grind made your body react in ways you weren’t in your right mind to process.

The harder you pressed—the faster you rode his thigh—the tighter the ball of tension deep within you, wound. One of his hands stroked down your back and the moment your head tipped back just the slightest, Eris was there, leaning forward, tongue licking a tantalizing path upwards.

You felt overheated, like you could burst into flames. His thigh tensed underneath you and you gasped again, the action adding even more friction.

You’d lost all sense of your mind, unabashedly grinding on him in public, making a spectacle of yourself. But everyone else seemed so far away right now. All you could focus on was the release that had started gathering—a mist on the edge of your senses that was solidifying quicker and quicker.

“You gonna come all over my thigh, darling?”

His tone might’ve sounded a hair more gravelly, but you couldn’t be sure. Not with the way your mind was clouded, focusing on finishing what you’d started.

Both his hands pressed flat against your back as you ground with more determination, that sensation building quicker and quicker—it was almost within reach.

Eris leaned forward, lips nuzzling the shell of your arched ear as he bit the lobe gently.

Apparently he could tell what your body was giving away.

He just laughed sensually, low in your ear.

That’s all it took.

Just as the music of the current piece crescendoed, so did your orgasm. It crashed over you and you let out a startled cry—the music muffling most of it.

But Eris—and anyone nearby for that matter—was definitely privy to the moment, knowing just exactly what had happened. Or at least was able to assume what had happened.

For that moment though, you couldn’t register anything as your body convulsed, waves of pleasure rippling through you after just having ground yourself against his thigh to orgasm. Even still as it rocked your body, your hips still moved, wringing every last bit of your release from you as you gripped his shoulders.

For the briefest of seconds, the unbidden thought of what it would be like to come on other parts of him, flashed through your mind.

Your vision was still spotty when it ebbed away leaving your chest heaving and reality slowly setting back in.

Eris was watching you so intently, his face so cold and neutral, you had no idea what he could possibly be thinking. But then you registered the fact there were a good number of males in the surrounding area staring—gaping—at you.

Some sneered at you like you were nothing more than filth, some gazes were filled with nothing but lechery, while others almost looked envious of Eris.

Reality slammed back into you when you realized what you’d done—what he’d made you do—and despite just having an orgasm because of him, you turned blazing, hateful eyes on the male. You were absolutely mortified and furious.

“I always said you put on the best show in the place,” he murmured, thumb coming out to pull your lower lip down.

It was a mocking, cold gesture—as cold as the male performing it.

“But I think you just topped even my expectations.”

It wasn’t a compliment, not really.

He was smirking like he was proud of what his little slave could do for him.

“You’re a sanctimonious prick,” you gritted out, breath still uneven.

It didn’t matter that you’d just had an orgasm from merely just rubbing up against him. He was the most horrible male you’d ever met.

“You’re dismissed for the night, I’m bored now,” he drawled.

You practically leaped from his lap, adrenaline from your fury replacing the kind from your release. He’d humiliated you and found nothing but delight and entertainment from it.

As you gave him one last withering glare—probably more carelessly than you should’ve—an idea formed.

From tonight on, you knew what you were going to do.

You would make him sweat, leave him burning, leave him aching. Every dance you entertained him with, every touch, every whisper was going to be with the intent of making him want, making him yearn for the kind of release you’d just had.

But he’d never get it from you.

If he could humiliate you for sport, you would repay the favor.

And he would never see it coming, either.

•••

Weeks passed.

More times than not, Amarantha held a nightly party, as per usual. It was a rare instance when she didn’t.

You supposed the denizens Under the Mountain had to find some way to entertain themselves, after all.

You’d estimated it’d been about a month as there was chatter of it being the next full moon—it was so incredibly easy to lose track of time down here in perpetual darkness, being a slave for eternity to the monster that ruled over you and your kind alike.

You kept your end of the deal with Eris as expected.

You also used each and every opportunity to torment him.

It became like a game to you—challenging yourself to push a bit further each and every time. You became riskier, pushed his limits.

Some nights, you tried new dance moves.

There were more slow and sensual ones. There were also quicker, sharper movements—ones meant to capture Eris’s attention and keep it on you.

You delighted in the way one night—with your back turned to him—you bent forward, ass purposely pushed out in his line of sight. Your barely covered ass, at that.

That night’s sheer fabric was a golden green. Though seeming fit more for the Spring Court, it was still deep and earthy enough to represent Autumn.

It was a message of sorts—to let the entire population down here know who you truly belonged to.

Eris had staked his claim long ago and you had no choice but to comply.

At least people mostly left you alone.

Your spine arched as you dragged your hands up your legs in a slow, fluid movement to straighten again. Before you did though, you felt a hand smooth over the curve of your ass.

Dangerously close to where your body was naturally reacting to the sensuality of the dance—the dance of course, not Eris.

Fingertips were a hairs breadth away from skimming your seam, so incredibly close to the tiny pair of underwear that barely kept you decent under the dress.

You weren’t sure how you managed to hear his low hum—even with your fae hearing—over the noise and music that surrounded the both of you, but you did.

You’d peered over your shoulder and his gaze instantly snapped to yours. The heat in his eyes nearly sent your knees wobbling, made the matching heat curling within you flare hotter.

His hand still remained on your backside, it still lifted in his line of vision.

You could only imagine what he was thinking in that moment. Especially when his gaze flicked down again—to the barely concealed core that was slick and dripping. Though you’d never admit to that.

It was downright filthy, in the middle of the nightly festivities, in front of onlookers.

But this was Amarantha’s court. Any sort of depravity was welcome down here, so you and Eris truly weren’t that out of place.

That night, Eris seemed to have trouble when it was time to dismiss you. Like he didn’t want to stop touching you, didn’t want to let you go—nor let you move from his lap.

He kept you there longer that night, arm around your waist, fingertips just barely brushing the underside of one breast.

You didn’t comment, didn’t bring attention to it, but you noted the arousal—the shift in his scent, the tightening in the front of his trousers.

After that specific night, the stakes seemed to get higher and you pushed just a bit more.

It was no longer a secret that every night when he dismissed you, you left him figuratively panting, craving something he may never have once considered. He sure was now, though.

It was a wine colored fabric you donned on the night in question—the night everything came to a head.

Ironically, it was your favorite shade you’d worn in all the time you’d spent doing this. Something about the way it made your eyes sparkle, your skin glow, how it played off the hue of your hair beautifully.

Sometimes, you wondered if Eris picked these out himself.

You’d never once asked where the outfits had come from—they always just seemed to appear in your room prior to the night’s festivities. You’d simply put it on and go about your duties that the bargain called of you.

Eris seemed tense from the beginning.

You chalked it up to him feeling the full effects of your own personal revenge.

It started like any other night.

“What would the little princeling like to see tonight?”

You breathed the taunt casually as your hips circled once and stopped. His eyes dropped to them, likely wondering what you were up to.

Though his face remained neutral, still cold and cruel, his voice was amused—a lazy, intrigued drawl.

“Pet, if you have to ask, you’re already behind.”

You were incredibly tempted to roll your eyes. But, lately, despite your hatred, you found yourself more intrigued and preoccupied with getting a rise from him.

It was like you’d used up all your allotted energy on hating him on trying to seduce him. It had somehow become addicting.

The problem was you couldn’t help the way your body seemed to come alive under his attention, despite you hating the male. It was as if your body protested against every hateful thought you’d had about him—turning all that energy into attraction, into arousal.

It drove you crazy.

Instead of dancing, you settled in his lap, perching on his leg. If it surprised him, he didn’t let on. An arm immediately came around you, hand resting against your stomach.

“Notice how no one ever dares to approach you?” he asked against your ear easily, as if it was all of no consequence.

You had, in fact.

“It’s because I’ve made it known I don’t appreciate anyone touching what’s mine.”

His thumb stroked your stomach methodically, slow strokes over the thin fabric. He might as well have been touching bare skin with the way it felt like his touch burned through the dress. Your heart rate quickened at the leisurely touch.

You stiffened at the ownership in his words, the way his touch felt possessive—even if it drove you to distraction.

“I do not belong to you,” you hissed.

“For the foreseeable future, you do.”

You were sitting sideways on his leg, facing him, but you moved closer into his space, breath brushing his jaw. One hand pressed against his chest and you paused there, enough to make him tense further, making him wait in anticipation.

He was definitely on edge tonight.

You had no way of realizing it wasn’t only because of your actions.

“Really? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like your control slips a little more every day.”

You could feel the tension in his body and you were almost smirking with satisfaction until you noticed his gaze flicker behind you. Something changed in his expression—momentarily—and in such a minuscule way that you couldn’t decipher it. Before you could even process what you’d seen, his voice turned into that cold, bored tone of past nights.

You hadn’t even realized how you had heard it less and less here lately until he gave you your next order.

“You bore me tonight. Fetch me wine will you?”

He flicked his fingers, lazily, dismissing you from his lap.

You couldn’t understand why it unnerved you that you couldn’t figure him out—especially tonight. Something, somewhere was off and you couldn’t put your finger on it.

“I’m not your servant,” you glared.

His eyes flashed—flames or fire flickering to life in those amber eyes.

You’d seen them make an appearance occasionally, but it was usually when there was heat in his eyes of another sort. Arousal, intrigue and desire making the golden flames come to life.

But tonight, it was anger that made the twin flames appear.

“My hounds behave better than you,” he spat, almost disgusted.

Your eyes narrowed, picking up his drastic change in demeanor. Yeah, something was incredibly wrong with him tonight.

It was probably unwise, but you fought back anyway.

“Well here’s another thing we have in common—I can bite too,” you glared.

That anger of his flared, masking something else you truly couldn’t pinpoint, as his gaze flicked briefly away from you again—behind you, once more.

When he spoke, none of that anger was in his voice though. Just the usual cool boredom.

“It’s adorable how you think you have any control here,” he drawled, a slight sigh to the words as if exasperated and even amused with your behavior.

He pushed you to stand from his lap, uttering his next sentence lowly—almost like there was a warning behind the statement.

“Do not forget your place.”

He reclined back in the seat lazily, staring up at you with that infuriating half smile again.

“Now fetch me that wine, pet.”

You obeyed, off to get the wine. Your mind spun, trying to piece together his abnormal behavior.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be snarky, have some sort of quip on the tip of his tongue and have the air of casual arrogance. Tonight though, everything seemed much sharper.

Almost like a boiling point was about to be reached.

It was no secret that to exist in some twisted sort of safety, one had to play dangerous games down here. You were sure Eris was no different.

You pondered it as you poured the goblet and carried it back to the male. He wasn’t where you’d left him though. He’d abandoned his seat and was now off to the side of the room talking to a male you instantly recognized.

You were quiet, knowing better than to interrupt what seemed to be a tense conversation between Eris and Beron Vanserra—the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

Eris’s father.

You simply sidled up to Eris, silently holding out the goblet to him so you could slink off and wait for him to finish his discussion.

It was Beron who turned first, obvious distaste flooding his face as he took you in. His lip curled upward in a sneer, his disapproval of you, evident. Those cold eyes—worse than the iciness of his eldest son’s—did a quick scan of you from head to toe. He huffed through his nose, dismissing you as quickly as he’d assessed you.

But it was Eris that spoke to you—far brasher than you’d heard from before.

“You dare approach me when I’m talking to my father? The High Lord of the Autumn Court?”

His eyes raked over you in distaste as if he’d trained you to behave better than this. He didn’t say another word to you though, just turned back to his father.

“My apologies. Some belongings struggle to know their place.”

You seethed, your anger coming more from the fact that Eris wouldn’t even bother to speak directly to you, but only to Beron. You had half a mind to throw the goblet of wine in Eris’s face, but you reined in your temper. Uncontrolled anger would get you in trouble far faster than you were likely prepared for.

Knowing it would be foolish and quite unwise to argue or make a scene, you kept your mouth shut and left. You returned to the chair he’d vacated while you’d been busy fetching the wine.

Eris returned only a short amount of time later, plucking the goblet from your hand. With a motion, he wordlessly commanded you out of his chair—where you had plopped down to wait earlier.

He settled back in, his face back to the normal, calm but cool demeanor. He took a long sip, studying you.

“Dance,” he ordered simply.

So you did.

•••

After Eris had guzzled his wine, watching your hips circle, body move languidly, he pulled you back into his lap. Surprisingly, he hadn’t let you dance long.

He was a tad more relaxed than he had been before, but he was more touchy than normal, it seemed. One hand was possessively somewhere on you at all times—your waist, your stomach, your thigh.

For some reason, you were desperate to bring that heat back between the two of you. Especially if it meant erasing the unusual behavior he’d been displaying tonight. Somehow that heat felt less dangerous than anything else. You couldn’t deny that you’d much rather deal with that than whatever else was clearly bothering him.

Though Eris hadn’t let you dance long tonight, you still had tricks up your sleeve.

You leaned back against him as he held you in his lap, reclining against him. Your free hand rested on his thigh, nails gently gliding up and down it, over the material of his pants. When he spoke next to your ear, it was low enough to send a chill down your spine.

“Some of us are playing dangerous games tonight, pet.”

You hummed noncommittally, wondering if he truly meant you or him. Maybe both of you were. His hand—currently resting on your thigh—slid higher.

“Maybe you should entertain me in a different way tonight.”

His voice was casual—like he could be talking about anything. You turned, seeing his eyes scan the room, though you weren’t entirely sure why.

“I hate to think of what you have in mind, Princeling,” you replied flippantly.

Fingers of his free hand brushed down your bare arm before rising and sweeping your hair to the side. He trailed one lone finger down the side of your neck and over your also bare shoulder. You couldn’t help the shudder, couldn’t help how you were suddenly so much more aware of his presence.

How you were perched on his lap—despite you having done this night after night.

How his chest pressed against your back—even if this wasn’t unusual.

How close your hand was to his groin, to the cock that strained in his pants.

That—that definitely was unusual.

Not the arousal, but your touch being in dangerous proximity to it. You couldn’t help the shallow breath that rasped from you as you imagined that cock fully revealed, in your hand, in your body.

His voice broke through your thoughts.

“I’m in the mood for something…different.”

A fingertip traced the length of your thigh, much closer to the inside of it than it had been before. Every brush of his touch against you left your skin burning yet somehow, begging for more.

“I do believe you’ve said that.”

Your statement came out breathier, softer, way more seductive than you initially meant it to.

Eris only hummed, hand leaving your thigh—much to your disappointment. He brought his hand up, trailing his fingers through the silky strands of your hair. You reclined even further back against him, his other arm that was snug around your waist tightening just the slightest.

Moving on, his fingertips brushed the hollow of your throat and down between your breasts, skimming a path down your stomach to where his other arm rested. It was as if he delighted in exploring you like a new found and undiscovered territory.

His lips were by your ear once more when he murmured his next comment.

“Maybe you’d delight in showing me how and where you want me.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t let that cause you to stumble. Nor did you look back at him—you remained facing forward, kept your eyes on the milling crowd. His voice, low and deep in your ear sent images flashing in your mind of one low chuckle in your ear—sensual and familiar—and how it had caused you to climax instantly.

Your breathing deepened, your body reacting instantaneously to the traitorous memory. Even if the act still infuriated you, made you burn because of how Eris had humiliated you—the moment still haunted you for just how erotic and utterly intoxicating it had been.

Any current onlookers would have no idea that you were anything more than a warm body for Eris, his own personal plaything meant to amuse, entertain and keep his lap filled. None of them would be any wiser from the dazed, lust blown look in your eyes, on your face. The way your eyes stayed lidded, your body compliant and loose, molded to his perfectly.

They would have no clue that it was no longer just an act. Or that your body rebelled against the hatred you thought you felt for him.

They had no idea the danger you treaded when it came to the Autumn male.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you said neutrally.

Eris just hummed, reaching up to grab your chin, turning your face towards him. Your eyes met challenging amber ones. Ones laced with nothing but pure mischief and intent.

“Don’t mistake me for stupid. You think I haven’t caught on to your little games night after night?”

You said nothing.

“Then I shall show you.”

His lips curved upwards in a small smirk.

“Come, pet.”

He lifted you off his lap with ease, standing behind you. Fingers encircled your wrist as he led you through the throng of people.

No one paid you nor Eris much mind—people came and went from the festivities all the time. Whether it was arriving late or leaving early to find other sorts of fun elsewhere, it wasn’t unusual.

Your heart rate picked up as his grip on your wrist tightened. You knew what he likely had in mind—knew what you hoped would happen—but you weren’t holding your breath. For all you knew, it would be an excuse to ditch you and find another female for the night, perhaps even order you to give him more entertainment of the kind you usually gave him, just privately.

You could no longer deny how much you wanted the male though. Wanted to writhe underneath him while he gave you exorbitant amounts of pleasure.

You still hated him though—that wasn’t changing.

He led you out of the throne room and down the hall to a shadowy corner, away from prying eyes.

Suddenly, your back was slammed against the wall, head hitting it roughly. You winced for only a moment at the sharp movement for Eris’s hand held you by the neck, holding you against the wall, his broad hand stretching across the expanse of your throat. He didn’t squeeze—yet—but he held you with enough authority to let you know who was truly in charge tonight.

His eyes were dark with desire, gaze burning on you as he took you in.

Instead of being frightened, you were aroused.

In fact, a small moan escaped your throat as you arched slightly off the wall, into his touch. You could feel your nipples pebbling under the shift of the thin fabric of your dress. The ache that’d been growing deep within you started to turn into a throbbing, growing needier and more insistent.

A cruel smile tilted his lips upwards.

“You’ve always loved being handled roughly, haven’t you?”

Your teeth scraped over your bottom lip as you brought it between your teeth. His eyes flicked down to the motion, catching the small, wicked smile you gave him. Your eyes roamed his form before returning to his face.

“Only by you.”

His eyes shuttered at your proclamation and he surged forward, lips finally meeting yours in a rough, hasty kiss.

You had no idea how much you’d craved something you’d never had, but the moment his lips were on yours, your body lit up like the fire that ran through his veins. Your lips moved with his, hands instantly coming up to tangle in the lengths of his red hair.

His body pressed against yours and you groaned lowly, feeling the contact of his strong body perfectly lined up and touching yours. His hands roamed your form, bunching fabric, shifting it, pushing it away to grab, rub and feel anything and everything he could.

It only resulted in you arching further into him as you kissed him with more urgency, more heat.

You’d just opened your mouth, welcoming the sweeping tongue to dominate yours when you heard the distinct sound of a throat clearing.

You jerked away from Eris’s mouth, hands instantly falling from his hair. You tried to put distance between the two of you—tried to step away—but Eris’s hands held your hips firmly. Kept you tucked into him so you couldn’t go anywhere.

A few steps away, off to the side, stood the High Lord of the Night Court.

Rhysand.

The male that might as well be Amarantha’s right hand.

Not only did he warm her bed, but he did her dirty work, as well. He was her most trusted associate. He also reported directly to the female.

Eris was terrifying and cruel. But Rhysand? Rhysand was a whole different beast.

It was whispered he was the most powerful High Lord in the history of the lands—proven relentlessly when he could still manage to shatter minds with half a thought. Even with only the scrap of power Amarantha let any of the fae residing down here, keep.

You’d seen some of the horrors Rhysand was capable of over the decades yet had managed to avoid any run-ins with Amarantha’s second in command. Until now, that was.

Violet eyes took in the sight in front of him.

You glanced down and grimaced, pulling the fabric of the dress up a little bit. It had been close to leaving you completely bare from where Eris had just been pawing at you earlier.

Eyes assessed slowly, a smirk forming on his lips. It was slightly chilling how much the action—the assessing, the smugness—reminded you of the male whose arms you were currently in.

“Rhysand,” Eris said, stiffly.

Those all encompassing eyes cut from you, to the male in your company.

“Leaving the festivities so soon?” Rhysand drawled.

Eris didn’t look the least bit ruffled, but you felt your heart pounding.

“I didn’t realize it was suddenly frowned upon to take some nightly entertainment back to one’s quarters, High Lord. After all, you’re quite familiar with the activity.”

Rhysand stiffened, a look of cold fury blazing from him.

You braced yourself, silently begging Eris not to push it. Not to bring any more attention to you—or himself for that matter.

It was something you’d learned the quickest from life down here. Life was a lot easier if you never drew Amarantha’s attention. At least, it was a lot better than it could be.

“I was simply running an errand for Amarantha when I came upon you and your…entertainment.”

Rhysand’s eyes cut to you again and though instinct made you want to shrink back, you held his gaze defiantly.

“Quite the lovely temptress you have there, Eris,” Rhys mused, eyes raking down your form.

Eris turned back to you, raising one hand to your face, the backside of his fingers caressing along your cheek.

“She is delightful, isn’t she?”

Your eyes cut up to Eris’s face, but he refused to look at you. Instead, he turned back to Rhysand as he spoke again, his hand falling back down to hold your hip.

“Will I need to mention this discovery to Amarantha?” Rhysand asked.

You swore Eris’s grip tightened ever so slightly on your hips.

“I don’t see a need to inconvenience her with such mundane information,” Eris said coolly.

Rhysand just hummed, inclining his head, taking a step away, but not before uttering a parting sentiment.

“Enjoy your evening, heir.”

When the sound of Rhysand’s boots had rounded the corner and faded from the corridor, Eris gripped your forearm, ready to lead you back to his room.

“Come on,” he said.

He led you down a maze of hallways you hadn’t traversed before and practically pushed you in when you got there.

“What was that about?” you questioned, still slightly shaken from the confrontation.

“Nothing.”

He gave no further instruction as his hands gripped your face harshly and dove for your mouth again.

The heat that had cooled so quickly, earlier, due to the interruption, quickly came to life again. All concerns about the encounter with Rhysand quickly dissolved from your mind.

He groaned into your mouth and you felt your blood heat at the sound. His lips moved expertly against yours making you lightheaded. It was no surprise when his tongue pushed into your mouth as soon as your lips parted, but you welcomed it. It stroked, teased and claimed as smoothly as any of the remarks that fell from his lips.

You were already panting, mouth chasing his in a series of heated kisses. Your lips slid along his, mouth opening when his did, retreating when he did.

Every kiss carried what hadn’t been spoken outloud—frustration, hunger, want.

Your moan slipped out before you even had a chance to think about holding it back. You were met with an answering grunt as his teeth caught your lower lip, sinking in with just enough pressure to make you gasp. The sting was sharp and quick before he was soothing the hurt with a swipe of his tongue. The heat flared even more prominently in your belly at the action.

He’d still yet to pull his mouth from yours and truthfully, you didn’t want him to.

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the solid strength of it beneath your touch. You’d felt it so many times prior to tonight, but only tonight did you let yourself actually focus on it. Let your mind wander to what that powerful body could do to you as your fingers worked the buttons of his shirt.

His hands grabbed your wrists, jerking them away from his chest at the same moment he broke from your lips as if you were no longer deserving of his mouth. His mouth traversed your jawline instead, a series of unhurried and possessive kisses trailed along it, like he was making sure to take his time marking you in every way he could in your time together.

He still held your wrists, pressing them against your chest to keep you from moving them as his mouth lowered to your neck.

Your pulse fluttered wildly underneath his lips and you felt his smug satisfaction, felt his lips curve in a smirk against your skin. You felt his teeth graze your skin only resulting in you gasping, head tilting to the side just the slightest.

It also made your pulse pick up—which Eris didn’t miss in the slightest. His grip on your wrists flexed just the slightest as he murmured against your neck.

“Admit it, you’ve wanted this since the minute you came on my thigh like a dirty whore.”

His voice was low, raspy—thick with desire—clearly affected by your reaction to him just as much as you were affected by him.

“Yes,” you gasped, unable to deny it, “Gods, yes.”

You weren’t lying either. Your body had always seemed to come alive under his touch, his attention, even when you hadn’t wanted it to. Ever since you’d come on his thigh weeks ago, all you had been able to think about was doing it again.

Or grinding against the hardened cock in his pants—the one you knew good and well you’d left aching time and time again. Even before you’d vowed to leave him aching.

It seemed impossible for you and he to have done the things you did nightly and him not be affected.

What preoccupied your thoughts the most was what it would be like to have that cock buried in you—to have him unleashed like you knew he was capable of. You’d seen the sparks of fire in him enough to know Eris had the potential to be positively deadly in the bedroom.

Such thoughts kept you company at night when your hand was between your legs.

You despised him, yet your thoughts were consumed with him. Even then, you still came time after time to thoughts of him.

You’d tried not to think too much about it—at how disgusted you’d been with your sex drive. After all, it had been a long while since you’d had any sort of sexual encounters. You blamed it on that.

Even if it barely made up half the reason why the heir to Autumn haunted your thoughts.

Eris seemed to sense each and every one of these thoughts as his teeth scraped your neck once more. As he kissed your neck, his hands dropped your wrists and his fingers tangled in your hair, tightening around the strands in his grasp.

He pulled his mouth from you, other hand on your shoulder as he pushed you to your knees.

“Kneel, pet. You’re good at that, remember?”

Most times, you hated his cruel tone, the amusement and indifference that laced each command to you. Hated being forced to be subservient.

Clearly, you’d lost all sense of your good mind tonight because you obeyed—not without retort. You watched as his fingers went to the button of his pants, unfastening them.

“We could’ve saved a lot of time, Princeling, if you’d let me do this anytime I was on my knees for you.”

A spark lit his eyes—one that should’ve sent all your senses on edge. He was still a dangerous male after all, slippery and deadly in his own sense. But it only sent a thrill down your spine.

You pressed your luck, taunting him further, despite the fact you’d normally think better of the sort when dealing with a male like Eris.

After all, under here, everyone was a different version of themselves.

“I know it’s all that sharp mind probably thought about when I was on my knees for you. Is that why your control slipped so easily, heir? All it took was a few provocative movements and I had you in my clutches.”

His hand gripped your hair again, yanking your head back roughly—not only to make you look up at him, but to make an example of you, to prove his control and dominance.

“Make no mistake that you are in charge here. You have absolutely no control here. You only do if I allow you to,” he growled.

You just gave him a slow, wolfish smile—just as predatory and calculating as the male that stood above you could be.

You’d learned from the best, after all.

You batted your lashes with faux innocence, voice filled with sardonic sweetness.

“Tell me what to do, my Lord.”

His eyes narrowed as his hands pushed his pants down far enough to free his cock. One hand curled around the base of it, giving it a slow stroke while the other grabbed you by the hair again, pulling your face directly to his cock.

“Be a good little whore and suck my cock.”

Your eyes dropped to the cock on display The mere sight alone had you throbbing so badly that you were half tempted to beg for him to just rip off your clothes and fuck you then and there. You hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this.

You had no idea where the hatred for the male had gone for this time, the burning gaze you leveled on him wasn’t in anger or defiance, it was in pure desire. For all you wanted was to have the weight of his cock on your tongue, wanted to taste him.

You stuck your tongue out, circling the head and his low controlled groan from above only spurred you on further. You wrapped your lips around him fully and felt his hand grip your hair tighter.

You peered up through your lashes at him, finding his gaze already on you.

“I knew you belonged on your knees for me,” he voiced on a low exhale that sounded more like a growl.

You kept eye contact as your mouth moved over his length, wasting no time and swallowing him down as far as he could go. Despite the fact you were only able to fit about half of him in your mouth, you greedily took him in, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as you moved.

“Well this certainly is one way to keep that mouth of yours quiet,” he uttered, seeming to sound more composed than he looked.

His breath came sharp and uneven though, his jaw tightening as if he was holding back any sounds he was tempted to make.

That wouldn’t do.

You moaned around him as he hit the back of your throat and that’s what did it—what caused him to no longer hold back.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, pushing your head down further.

Your eyes watered, but you didn’t stop. His other hand came up to grip your head as his hips began thrusting, pushing his cock in and out of your mouth.

“Gods.”

His groan was deep and helpless, the broken sound rough and unguarded. He’d finally snapped and could no longer control himself, much to your delight. One peek upwards had you witnessing as his head dropped back, his long strands falling behind his shoulders. Your eyes fell to the long creamy throat on display and you so badly wanted to be up there to bite it.

You moaned louder, eyes fluttering closed in reaction to his unabashed sounds. You squirmed, your arousal at a fever pitch just listening to him.

Hands gripped your hair harder, his breathing becoming more ragged, his chest heaving with it. He lifted his head to watch the way his cock fucked your mouth. He laughed lowly, under his breath, despite unraveling from your ministrations.

“Don’t be gentle, pet, I didn’t ask for gentle.”

Your eyes—still on him—sparked at his challenge.

Your hands wandered, smoothing over the hard planes of his stomach, wishing he was already fully naked so you could truly feel the muscles under your touch. Your nails still scraped over the fabric anyway.

His hips stuttered the closer he got to release and your mouth moved with even more determination. You would take every last drop he gave you and take it greedily, too.

“Holy— Fuck— That’s— Gods, yes—”

Your thighs pressed together, eyes squeezing shut at his incoherent babbling, the low timbre of his voice making you imagine all the filthy things he could whisper to you as he fucked you into oblivion. You wanted him undone and he was rapidly approaching that point.

A low curse left him and he stilled abruptly, hands holding your head tightly as he spilled into your mouth. Like the good little servant you knew how to be, you took it all without complaint, but this time instead of in defiance, you took it in enjoyment.

Something Eris quickly noted.

He still looked half dazed when his eyes finally opened again, stare finding yours as his lips curved upwards in his signature smirk. He removed you from his cock with a satisfied hum.

“I always knew you were good for something.”

You couldn’t even be bothered to be angry at the insult. You just wanted that cock inside of you.

But instead of pulling you up, he backed away, pants still down low enough to leave his cock exposed. He backed up until he reached the edge of the bed, sitting on it. You remained where he’d left you, sitting on your heels, hands resting on your thighs.

You had no idea what he was planning, but your eyes dropped to his cock as again his hand wrapped around himself. His eyes took you in as he pumped himself slowly and you nearly groaned watching him harden again instantly.

“Crawl to me,” he ordered.

You immediately obeyed.

You bit your lip, eyes intent on him. You crawled to where he awaited at the bed, but not with the eagerness you felt. You approached him slowly, methodically, with nothing but pure intent to seduce. His eyes followed your every movement, his hand continuing to stroke himself as you approached.

When you were in front of him, you sat back on your heels, awaiting your next order.

Somehow, it had become a game between the two of you. No different than ones you’d played with him most nights, but this was also new territory and it excited you. You wanted more, wanted him at his most brutal, most lethal.

After all, when it came to Eris Vanserra, your head might’ve said no, but your body was saying yes.

His thumb brushed your bottom lip and you opened your mouth, tongue flicking over the pad of his thumb before bringing it into your mouth—very similar to how you’d just taken his cock.

Eris watched you with lidded eyes, watched the way your teeth sank gently into the pad of it, making him hiss. He finally pulled it from your mouth and you tried to wait patiently, but your thighs inadvertently shifted closer together, trying to give yourself friction to ease the ache you were feeling.

His gaze flickered down, noticing it. You were sure even through the flimsy thin fabric of this dress, he’d be able to see the way your nipples had pebbled from arousal.

His voice, when he spoke, was gravelly and rough around the edges, as if even he—the elusive and controlled Eris Vanserra—could no longer control his desires.

“You want this cock?”

You nodded eagerly.

His expression—while at face value appeared to be filled with nothing but cool amusement—betrayed him. The hunger slipped through the cracks of his normally perfectly contained mask, each of your actions seeming to affect him.

He could deny it all he wanted, but he wanted you as much as you wanted him.

“Beg for it, sweetheart.”

He’d barely gotten the statement out before you were responding in kind.

“Please, I want it.”

Your tone came out a hair whiny and he tilted his head, eyes taking you in. He tsked, scolding you.

“You can do better than that, pet.”

“Please,” you whimpered with more desperation, “Please fuck me.”

His eyes trailed the length of your body where you knelt—still dressed. Something told you he was preparing to change that. A hand came out stroking down your jaw before he gripped your chin in his grasp.

“Nothing would make me happier,” he growled.

In one motion, he yanked you to your feet, bringing you to stand between his legs. You could feel his hard length pressing against your stomach as he tilted his head up to where your face hovered over his, connecting his lips to yours.

You let yourself be swept away in the kiss, let your breath mingle with his. You felt him move, fingers working the line of buttons down his torso, removing his shirt.

Another kiss followed. A breath of separation. Another followed—deeper. The moment you felt him shift, shedding his shirt, your hands were everywhere on his bare skin.

Your touch glided over the broad shoulders, skimmed down over his sculpted pecs, pressing against them with urgency and desperation to feel every inch. Then, your hands jumped to his biceps. His body had been forged over centuries of discipline and power, strength woven into every muscle.

You could’ve spent hours exploring it.

His kiss was urgent, bordering on unhinged with desire as his fingers curled into the fabric of your dress. It was rough and punishing, teeth grazing and lips tugging, breaths ragged as if neither you or he wanted to give an inch.

Suddenly you felt a flash of warmth, a burnt smell filling the air briefly—then, a chill on your skin as the material that’d barely covered your body disintegrated into ash.

You jerked away from his mouth, head bending to find yourself in nothing but the tiny, thin underwear you typically wore underneath such ensembles.

You scowled.

“That was my clothes, asshole.”

He hummed, hands ready to explore your nearly naked body now. His eyes were dark as he took you in, a low rumble coming from deep within him as his eyes roamed your bare self.

His mouth dropped to the swell of your breast, leaving heated presses of his lips across both.

“You’ll look better wearing me, anyway.”

While his attention was fully on your body, mouth and hands exploring, you did some exploration of your own. Fingertips and nails just barely scraped down the expanse of his abdomen and you nearly moaned at the feel of the dips and ridges of the sculpted stomach muscles.

Gods, his body was nearly as beautiful as he, as an individual, was.

But then you reached further south for your actual destination, hand curling around his cock. Your eyes nearly rolled at the feel of him in your hand alone, the velvet sensation of the thick and hard length that weighed heavy in your hand. You gave one long, experimental stroke, waiting smugly for the reaction that was sure to come from him at your touch.

Instead, you yelped, jerking, when a palm came down roughly against your ass. In your shock, your hand fell away from his cock, landing on his shoulder to steady yourself after the abrupt motion.

“Naughty little thing can’t get enough of me, can she?”

You just gaped at him, the combination of his action and words sending heat pooling between your thighs even more. Instead of focusing his attention on your face, one hand came up to your breast, two fingers pinching and rolling a nipple as he spoke.

“Don’t expect me not to punish you when you misbehave, pet.”

You could only moan, back arching into his teasing touch. You wanted his hands, his mouth, all over you and even if you weren’t above pleading, you still had a tiny shred of dignity left.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less of you, future High Lord,” you breathed, moaning again as his fingers tweaked your nipple once more.

His eyes shot up instantaneously and you bit your lip, peering down at him through pleasure heavy lids. His lips curled up in a wicked grin.

“Look at you, all blissed out like the eager whore you are.”

Fingers snapped the band of your underwear before he yanked them down with preternatural speed. You were quick to step out of them, kicking them to the side. You didn’t even have a chance to speak before fingers were reaching between your legs, dragging his touch along your soaked folds.

He cursed lowly, seemingly shocked at just how aroused you truly were.

“Have you been wet like this, for me, every night?”

He didn’t sound cruel, nor was he asking in a teasing manner. His stunned awe sounded genuine. When you didn’t answer, he slid his fingers along your slick folds again, thumb flicking your clit making your hips buck.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” you gasped.

You wanted to reach down, hold his hand there, grind against it, ride it, until he sent you into sweet oblivion. You were wound tight and desperate—something Eris didn’t miss in the slightest.

“You’re my pretty little mess, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed again.

Hands reached for his pants, to discard them, wanting him deep inside you already, but you were met with another reprimand—vocally and physically.

His other hand came down on your ass in a rough slap, on the opposite side of where he’d spanked you previously.

A ragged moan fell from your lips as you staggered forward, fingers digging into his shoulders to keep from losing your balance completely. The area stung briefly, but his palm soothed the hurt, rubbing over it.

“Not yet,” he scolded.

Hands pushed you away—not in rejection, but enough so he could stand, pushing the remainder of his clothes off his body.

He towered over you, still a head taller than you and your eyes raked down the body that had been hidden for so long under those immaculate and courtly clothes. You’d had no idea he’d looked this glorious.

Clearly, your staring stroked his ego as he smirked, returning to the bed, scooting back against the headboard. His hands rested behind his head a moment before he patted his bare thigh, your cue and invitation.

“You once got yourself off on my thigh, darling. Now do it again—on my cock.”

You were not proud of the way you nearly scrambled to him. It definitely delighted him though and his smirk only grew as that warm hued gaze watched your every movement.

“Look at you so eager for my cock. Does a male good,” he cooed, a sharpness to his voice.

The second you situated yourself over him, straddling his waist, his hands gripped your waist, before pulling you roughly down to his face. Your eyes slipped closed for a brief beat, fully expecting his lips to meet yours. Instead, you felt his warm breath fanning over your face.

“Don’t expect gentle.”

Your hands braced on his chest and in defiance, you dragged your dripping cunt against his cock, grinding against it. A rough sound slipped from his throat, seemingly before he could stop it.

You grinned, just as sharp as some of the ones he’d thrown you in your time acquainted. You reached down, positioning his cock at your entrance before you bent down just a tad further in his face, just to whisper your next statement.

“I never do with you.”

Foolishly, you came down hard, sinking onto his cock in one abrupt and rough movement—hard enough that it stole your breath.

You would regret that split second decision come morning, but right now, you were too impatient to care. Eris grunted in surprise, fingers digging into your skin, no doubt both from the abrupt movement and the way he felt inside of you.

He released your body, folding his arms behind his head once again with a lazy sort of arrogance as he eyed your naked body, eyes dropping to where the two of you were connected. A smirk graced his full mouth, those flames sparking to life in his eyes again.

“Time to give me your best performance yet, kitten.”

A part of you was amazed he hadn’t ran out of nicknames for you yet. The rest of you was too focused on how his cock stretched you, filled you. Despite the rough entrance, you’d stilled, needing to take a moment to get used to him inside you.

You rolled your hips experimentally, hissing at the slight sting—though it was nothing you couldn’t handle. You whimpered as you rocked your hips again, rising and falling, the rubbing of his cock against your inner walls nearly mouth watering good.

“Gods, fuck,” you groaned, completely being swept away by the feel of him.

You heard his answering groan and your eyes opened to find him reclining, happy to watch you fuck yourself on his cock like you were his own personal show.

The more you moved, the more you craved—faster, harder, deeper. But Eris wasn’t going to give it to you, you had to do it yourself. You leaned forward, hips rolling with you.

Old frustrations and hatred for the male reared its head briefly at his smug expression. You halfway wanted to wring his neck and your eyes flashed as your hands braced his neck.

You had no idea what you were trying to accomplish, especially since you didn’t bear down, didn’t add any pressure. But his eyes flashed in turn, more arousal than anger at the action. Clearly, he liked your hands rough on him as much as you liked his rough on you. You bent to his mouth, lips almost brushing his as you whispered.

“Do you always let others do all the work? Such a princely thing to do.”

One hand flew to your hair, wrenching your head backwards roughly enough that your eyes watered just the slightest. But where you’d assumed it would hurt, it only added to the pleasure and you tightened around his cock.

He felt every second of it, chuckling darkly at your reaction. His gaze pierced yours.

“The only one that’s getting you off is yourself—work for it, pet.”

He dropped your hair and you sat back, hands falling from his neck as you discovered your newfound determination. If anyone was going to make you feel good at this rate, it was going to be you.

Your thighs burned as you continuously moved, rising and falling with such speed and force, sweat forming on your forehead as you quickly tired, but you weren’t anywhere near release. You whimpered at the way your body seemed to give out on you before you could even reach climax.

Eris just watched with a lazy smirk, groaning at appropriate times—like the way you gripped your breasts, rubbing them, the way your head tilted back as you moved on him. You thought you heard a growl of approval once when your hands braced on his thighs as you leaned back, hips rolling enough to give him the best show he’d likely had yet.

But the insufferable bastard had yet to move or do anything, though that shouldn’t have surprised you.

Even without that, he still felt so incredible, so deep in you. You half wished you could, in theory, separate him from his cock because only one of the two were useful—and it certainly wasn’t the one who was watching you like his personal entertainment.

“You’re such a beautiful sight. My perfect slut.”

His hands slid up your thighs as he took you in. Your body betrayed you horrendously though as you tightened around his cock at his words.

“Fuck,” he groaned, a sharp snap of his hips upwards making you cry out.

Then with preternatural speed, he was sitting up, shifting his cock deeper within you. You keened, moving faster, more desperately. That was all combined with his hand coming down in a rough smack once again on your ass.

You nearly sobbed, overwhelmed with pleasure. You sat forward, simultaneously giving him more access to your ass and to grind against his pelvis, the stimulation against your clit sending your mind reeling. You babbled incoherently, unable to even form a proper thought.

“Gods, oh gods—”

His voice was hot by your ear, though he no longer sounded as in control as he had been. His words were rough, formed around a deep groan as your body took over, desperate for the relief it’d been begging for, for months—but at his hands and his hands only.

“You can try to deny it all you want, but your body never lies to me.”

You could only moan in response.

His hands gripped your ass, moving you harder on him and you were momentarily relieved by the extra help. Your chest was heaving from exertion, sweat beading your brow, your limbs absolutely aching—but pleasure was cresting. You didn’t want to stop now, couldn’t stop now.

His mouth met yours harshly. Tongue. Teeth. Absolutely no mercy as shared breaths momentarily became one.

“Tell me how good it feels,” he ordered when he parted from the kiss, panting himself.

“G-Good— so good— I can’t— fuck, please—”

He swore, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass with so much strength you knew you’d have fingertip shaped bruises come tomorrow.

“Gods, got you nearly drooling ‘cause of my cock,” he gritted out.

You went harder, faster, refusing to interrupt the slowly building release you could feel. Your breath came rapidly, interspersed with gasps and moans as you rode him.

“You gonna make me come?”

You nodded, barely even registering his words. But he only gripped your face in his hand, making you look at him properly. You could barely hold your eyes open from the sheer bliss you felt, but you looked at him.

“Make yourself come first.”

The emphasis in his command left no room for argument.

You reached down between your connected bodies, fingers finding the neglected bundle of nerves. You rubbed circles, wanting that release that’d taken too long to build. Your back arched and you cried out, the pleasure almost too much.

Even without looking, you knew Eris watched every single second.

“Fuck!” you cried just as the pleasure crested.

You let go, fully submitting to it, your inner muscles squeezing his cock so hard it made him audibly moan in response. You kept moving on him, chasing every last ounce of that pleasure, your body trembling as the ecstasy filled your veins, clouded your mind.

You had no idea how the sly bastard did it, but suddenly you found yourself on your hands and knees, fists clenching the sheets. He’d masterfully lifted you off his cock, thrown you to the bed and now was behind you, thrusting into you roughly—all before your head could clear from your orgasm.

You were a moaning mess. You couldn’t do anything else but that as your body rocked and he pounded into you, clearly chasing his release.

And he was going to take it how he wanted it.

All you could hear was his grunts and groans as he pistoned into you, hand gripping your hair firmly—as if he held the reins to his own pleasure in his hand.

Yanking your head to the side, he growled, “Open.”

You obeyed, tongue out, panting. You were no better than his hounds, most likely.

His mouth closed over yours, capturing it as he kissed you again, his hips and pace brutal as he moved efficiently. You moaned into the heated kiss with far more abandon than was probably wise. If it wouldn’t throw you off balance, you’d reach up and grab his hair, his neck—something—to pull him closer.

Ripping his mouth from yours so suddenly it left you breathless, he pulled back from you, pulling out of you completely. A broken groan came from behind you, rough and unguarded as you felt warmth hit your back.

Your jaw slackened around a moan, feeling his release paint your back.

Your head bent forward as your breath sawed from you—from the intensity of your orgasm, the intense sex, everything at once. You struggled to get your bearings as a result. Your head lifted and you peered back at him.

Eris looked as wrecked as you felt—sweaty and breathless, still kneeling where he’d been as he came all over your back. You felt it dripping and sliding down your skin as you took in the male that had just given you pleasure you once only dreamed of.

“Did you truly think I’d come inside you and breed you like the little bitch in heat you are?”

His words were cruel, cold, but the tone, even the words didn’t match the look on his face. Perhaps from the stunned realization you were simultaneously having—at how amazing the sex had been. More so than you’d ever expected.

You lowered yourself to the bed, turning, not even caring if the mess on your back smeared against his sheets—it’d be an easy clean for him with a simple wave of his hand, anyway. When you sat up, you chanced one more peek at him, trying to determine where he stood, what was to happen after this.

Instead of finding answers, you only found more questions as your breath caught, your body automatically tensing. His eyes had just lifted to yours, brows beginning to crease at whatever was on your face, but you turned quickly, searching the ground for your underwear.

He said nothing as you located them and stood, pulling them on. Instead, Eris only sat where you’d left him on the bed, watching silently as you dressed. You sighed, trying to figure out what you were going to do for clothes since the outfit you’d arrived in had been burnt to ashes by the fire blooded male in front of you.

“You can borrow one of my shirts.”

He motioned to the armoire and you walked over, opening it and grabbing the first you saw—a loose and flowy white shirt that buttoned. You pulled it on, large enough to hit mid thigh.

By the time you’d turned back to him, the cool boredom was now back on his face. Eris took in your appearance appreciatively, humming at you in his shirt, clearly pleased.

“I expect to see you tomorrow night. Same time, same place?”

Your bargain, your deal with the devil. The one that you’d subjected yourself to when you’d agreed to this—without considering the possibility you’d be doing this night after night for the rest of your immortal life.

You lifted your chin, looking straight at him, ignoring everything your senses were screaming at you. Your voice was even, betraying none of the storm that raged within you.

“As always, Princeling.”

But even as you slipped from his room, traveling the halls back towards your quarters, your head ignored what your body was trying to tell you. How things were different now, how one night had changed everything.

You pushed the nagging knowledge away, tried to shut it out and ignore it. It changed nothing. It didn't even change the fact that your body called to him in more ways than one.

Even with that knowledge, you knew only one thing to be true.

This was to never happen, ever again.

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[knoxic]

Courting Eris Vanserra

All of a sudden, Eris Vansserra doesn't seem so bad, unfortunately for you, your family still hates him.

Summary: The first encounter, when it all started.

Warnings: None? a brief mentions of Mor almost dying that one time

WC: 1,6k

As a child, when someone tells you a scary story about a monster, you imagine it as a horrifying, disgusting beast. With sharp teeth and gleaming eyes. Smelling like dirty socks. Claws for nails and voice so eery that made you shiver, that left you in a cold sweat from the mere thought of it.

If all the stories were true—or at least some of them—this was somewhat of a punishment. 

Growing up listening to the hate-filled conversations about him, your family barking insults, hissing at the mere mention of his name, it did something to you. You were taught to hate him, even without having a clue what he looked like.

It didn't help that his father actually looked disgusting. With dark circles under his eyes, pale skin and eyes so hollow you almost mistook him for a ghost. But then his wife was nothing like him. She looked like a princess, dressed so properly and behaved so delicately. 

It was confusing, you didn't really know what a couple should look like, your parents were rarely seen together, and it's not like you left the house much to know any other families. Your brother and his friends laughed when you first mentioned it, and so you kept to yourself. Until you were old enough to understand on your own.

Being curious took you many places before. You had been across the continent, flying and racing the birds—showing off the wings many times their size, and when you got tired, you rested on a giant ship whose captain wore the coolest eyepatch ever. You have been a tiny fairy living underneath a mushroom at the borders of spring. And a powerful Goddess whose shine could blind any fae that looked her way.

Well, that was until your mother grew worried and came to retrieve you from the library, claiming you were still too young to be out so late on your own. 

But you weren't young anymore, and the monster under your bed wasn't so scary now. 

He was… pretty. His amber eyes should've been threatening, but they weren't. He carried this warmth with him, that perhaps would still leave you sweating, but it was inviting. His scent wasn't of blood and rot, it was smoke and a cozy night by the fireplace, it was a nice walk through the forest, and some kind of spice you could become addicted to.

Of all the stories you heard, none of them prepared you for his captivating presence. 

“You…” 

Gods, his voice. At least that bit was right, it did make you shiver, but only because it was almost a siren song. With such a voice, he could be reciting a report's paper and you would think it a beautiful song. You couldn't speak, didn't know what to say even if you could.

“It's you…” 

It is me, it's always been me. You wanted to say, but what were you exactly? A thing of habit came forward before you could truly question yourself.

With all the nonchalance you could muster, you said, “It’s you.” Because even if he wasn’t the way you expected, this was still Eris. The male you had been taught to hate and resent. Though, there was no hatred in your voice, you were simply… stating a fact.

A half smile curled on his lips, his teeth were perfectly lined–although his canines did seem pretty sharp. “Ah, I see.” He nodded, one of his hands smoothing down his vest, “I'm assuming your dear family has saved me the trouble of introducing myself. What did they tell you about me? If I may ask.” 

“Many things.” If you were to tell him every word they'd called him over the centuries, you would be stuck in this room all night. “That you're a ruthless, selfish bastard.”

Then he chuckled, shaking his head as if that was the stupidest joke he ever heard. “I'm not a bastard.” 

You almost laughed then, because in a way it was stupid. He wasn't a bastard, but apparently ruthless and selfish was okay. “They also said you're a viper. A sadistic male.” Then your mood went down, he is just a male. “You left her there to die.” 

A part of you thought he'd snap. The part of you that was still scared of that monster they painted him to be. But Eris nodded again, his gaze left your eyes in favor of the tiled floor of the empty ballroom. You weren't supposed to be out here, Rhys had sent you to your room long ago, claiming there wasn't a place for you in their meeting room. He didn't mean it physically, he just couldn't handle you trying to voice your ideas. You doubted any of them did anymore. But there was, for sure, a space for Eris there. 

You hadn't seen him during the party, and his father stopped coming to these kinds of gatherings long ago. So it didn't make sense he'd be here now and not in the meeting room. And you'd rather not think about how long he'd been watching you dance, if he heard you humming a song you didn't get to dance earlier, for how long he stood there with that little smile on his face, before your eyes met.

“I was selfish.” His face turned as cold as his voice, the serious tone he carried snapping you back into the conversation you were having. “I left her there, to die or be found… I did it thinking of my freedom, of releasing both of us of the torment it would be being shackled to one another.” 

Your voice shook when you spoke, “And the nail in her womb?” 

“I know nothing about that.” His eyes finally slipped to yours again, some emotion you couldn't identify coating his irises. 

Even if you wanted to fight it, you knew deep down you believed him. But there wasn't any tangible reason for you to do so. “So… am I supposed to believe you're innocent? Is the idea of marriage that bad?” In truth you didn't know, it was a genuine question. 

There was a range of emotions on his face, then he started stalking towards you, “I was a boy! Far too tainted to be innocent, but a boy nonetheless.” Closer now you could see silver lines on his burning eyes, “Forgive me, if not wanting to marry at such a young age was so wrong of me. Yes, I left her there. If I took her back it would've been a death sentence itself, for both of us. I was young and still afraid, that was all I could do.”

You couldn't breathe when he was so close, when his scent blurred your mind from any coherent thought. And from the looks of it, he couldn't either, his heaving chest a mirror to your own. Eris looked disheveled, but he had not a single strand of hair out of place. 

“Why tell me this? Why go all these years in silence? Why are you here?” Once a question slipped, the rest just followed.

Eris shrugged, “My father is the worst male I know, and his expectations were high. If I had to play a monster, might as well be the worst of them all.”

At your lack of response, Eris walked past you to a nearby table, lowering himself into a chair like he carried the world on his shoulders. You didn't even realize you were walking after him until you had to pull a chair to sit near him. His eyes followed your movements.

“I'm not a good male, and I don't know what they told you… but I'm not like that.” He spoke quietly, like a whisper, it would've easily been carried away by the wind if the windows were open. 

You didn't know what to say. Engaging in a conversation with a male without your family knowing was an–unspoken–forbidden thing. When that male was Eris Vanserra, you would be grounded for decades if Rhys found out. 

So you wouldn't let him know. 

Ever since you were born, you have craved a deep conversation. An intimate exchange that didn't include sexual matters. And being the High Lord's daughter, then High Lord's sister, no one seemed to really see you. You had to thank your father for all those tiring preparing lessons he made you take, because you never fully trusted anyone to fully open up.

But that was then, now you had a male who seemed just as eager to open up. And you would be a fool not to listen and engage. Rhys would understand…

You sighed, feeling his eyes burning the side of your head, “For so long, I hated you. I hated the monster they talked about, because for just as long I was afraid of you. Of what you did to Mor and how it seemed it would be my fate once father decided to give out my hand.” And now you almost hated yourself for opening up so easily, “Then he died, and I was locked in here… and suddenly marriage didn't seem so bad.”

Eris was silent for a long moment, absorbing your words, “Marriage is a contract. A bargain with one-sided benefits.” He pulled out a tiny box from his pocket, “I never thought I'd marry—never wanted to. I never indulged in the idea of a mate... But things are changing.” 

He played with the box for a moment, brushing his thumb over the velvety lid, where a golden “V” was branded. Then he placed it on the table, took a few seconds to watch you and your reaction, then stood and straightened his vest again.

“This is for you. You don't have to accept it. But if you would give me the honor of courting you, Helion is hosting a party in three days, wear it.” Eris didn't stay to hear your answer, not that you'd have one to give him anyway, walking away like he hadn't just changed your whole life perspective.

a/n: uuuhhhh I might have 3 other parts already finished... ok? so let me know... if you'd like to be... tagged... ok?🙂

[zarteyaz]

Trial By Fire - 6

❥ Pairing: Reader x Eris Vanserra

❥ Summary: Eris Vanserra has perfected the art of being hated — sharp, cruel, untouchable — and you’re the noble he’s always publicly despised. But when Beron discovers the mating bond between you and moves to have you killed, Eris doesn’t beg. He doesn’t break. He calls in his debt with the Night Court—and decides Beron won’t just die—he’ll be dismantled for daring to touch what’s his.

❥ Warnings: depictions of violence, mentions of past trauma

A/N: hello hello, get ready for some good ol' cunning Eris time, and 🦊 appearance

<- Part 5 | masterlist

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Eris sat at the long table where Autumn’s “necessary things” were discussed—tariffs and repairs, guild dues and patrol allocations—the kind of meeting that happened whether war waited on the horizon or it was simply another week of Beron’s temper to anticipate.

Routine. Predictable. Safe.

The table had been polished so carefully it shone like wet amber. Candlelight skated across its surface, catching on the edges of ledgers and seal-stamped packets, making bureaucracy look like wealth. The room filled the way it always filled: slow, deliberate, each arrival a small performance of importance.

Beron’s people did not rush unless Beron demanded it. They arrived in measured drifts, high-fae courtiers with rings heavy enough to bruise knuckles, stewards with clean hands and cleaner lies, minor lords whose estates were fattened on tariffs and “routine corrections.”

They carried themselves like they were invincible, because Beron’s favor made them feel that way.

Beron relied on them. Not for love. Not for loyalty. For structure. The quiet machinery that made his rule look inevitable. For the chorus of corrupt voices that repeated his will until the court mistook obedience for stability.

Eris watched them take their places around the table as if it were a hearth and Beron was the only fire worth warming their hands at.

He wore his mask the way he wore his skin—effortless, practiced, an extension of bone. His posture was bored elegance, his expression a faint, cruel amusement, as if all of this were mildly irritating entertainment.

Inside, everything in him was a blade held too tight.

Eris’s fingers tapped once against the table—light, careless, perfectly in character.

The scribe at the far end dipped her quill.

Lord Varic—smug, soft-lipped, greedy—settled into a chair and offered Eris a smile that tried to look like confidence rather than hunger. “Prince,” he murmured, inclining his head.

Eris’s gaze flicked over him like a horse appraising a fly. “Varic,” Eris said, making the name sound like an indulgence.

Lady Maylis arrived next, perfumed and sharp-eyed, jewels flashing as she pulled her chair out with a practiced flick of her wrist. She didn’t look at Eris so much as she assessed him, measured the weather of him. She’d never trusted him, and that made her sharper than most.

Two more came. Then three. Then the steward of the eastern tariffs, the guild liaison from the merchant quarter, a thin-faced male with ink-stained fingers who had the look of someone who would sell his own mother if the coin was right.

All of them: the people who made Beron’s rule feel inevitable.

All of them: the ones Eris needed to begin doubting the floor beneath their feet.

The doors shut.

The room hushed.

A guard at the far wall moved like a shadow and placed the usual stack of ledgers at the center of the table—too many books, too many stamped packets, enough paper to bury a body in. Routine. Boring. Safe.

That was why it worked.

Eris didn’t touch the stack. He didn’t have to.

He had touched it earlier—briefly, precisely, in a corridor where servants flowed like water and no one looked twice at the High Lord’s heir. A ledger swapped beneath a seal packet. A “duplicate” book slid into place. A small substitution that would look like clerical chaos rather than intention.

That was the trick.

Because he hadn’t slipped in a forgery.

He’d slipped in the truth.

A ledger Beron’s people kept locked away from routine meetings: the real book, the one that tracked what actually moved and where it ended up. The one that didn’t bother dressing the numbers in polite language, because it was never meant to be read aloud.

He’d traded it beneath an identical cover—same leather, same crest stamp, same binding—so it would pass as one more “duplicate” in a mountain of bureaucracy. So the discovery would look like an accident, not a blade.

And the best part was that if anyone asked, it wouldn’t be Eris accusing Beron of theft.

It would be Beron’s own ink, Beron’s own arithmetic, telling a room of wolves exactly who had been feeding on them.

So Eris let the scribe do what scribes did.

He let the room think it was finding something on its own.

“This is ridiculous,” Lord Varic said, glancing at the ledgers as if they offended him by existing. “I had merchants waiting.”

Lady Maylis' smile was thin. “We all did.”

Eris leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over its carved back, the picture of lazy superiority. “Then you should tell them to learn patience,” he drawled. “It’s a virtue.”

A few faces tightened at that. A few hands curled around chair arms.

Good.

Let them remember the monster they expected. Let them assume he was bored, not hunting. Let them forget to watch his eyes.

The scribe opened the first ledger and began reading the usual lines aloud—tariff intake, redistribution, patrol allocations. The steward of tariffs watched with the glazed acceptance of a man who’d learned long ago that numbers were less dangerous than names.

For a handful of minutes, it was exactly what it was supposed to be.

Then the scribe paused.

Not dramatically. Not enough to be theatrical. Just long enough for a room of predators to notice a hesitation in prey.

Her quill hovered.

Lady Maylis' gaze sharpened. Her ringed fingers stilled on the table.

Lord Varic didn’t lift his head, but his attention leaned forward like a knife. “Continue,” he said, too casual.

The scribe swallowed. “There’s… a margin note.”

The steward of tariffs made a sound of irritation. “Scribes make notes constantly.”

Lady Maylis didn’t look at him. “Read it.”

The scribe’s eyes flicked down again. Her throat bobbed. “ ‘Adjusted per discretionary authority.’ ”

Silence.

Not the polite kind.

The kind that gathers weight.

“Whose authority,” Varic asked softly.

The steward’s gaze snapped to the page. “That could refer to—”

Eris leaned in a fraction, brows lifting with what looked like faint irritation, faint surprise. “If you’re implying it’s mine,” he said dryly, “I assure you my indulgences are far more expensive than ledger ink.”

A few of them huffed a laugh—sharp, nervous.

But Lady Maylis' eyes didn’t leave the page. “Turn it,” she ordered.

The scribe hesitated. Then flipped.

More columns. More red ink. More neat, official lines.

And then the second hairline crack appeared.

The scribe’s voice slowed. “Estate revenue—House Varic.” She read a set of figures, then another. Then paused again, her eyes narrowing as if the numbers had insulted her.

Lord Varic's smile thinned. “What.”

The scribe read, careful now. “The recorded intake is consistent with last quarter. But the payment line is… reduced.”

Varic's gaze sharpened. “Reduced by how much.”

The scribe hesitated, then said it anyway. “Enough that it isn’t a rounding error.”

A faint pulse moved through the room, attention snapping awake.

Maylis leaned forward and reached for the ledger without asking permission. Her fingers—ringed, elegant—were suddenly very steady. She skimmed, lips moving silently as she tracked the lines herself.

Varic snatched for it next, too fast to keep grace in the motion. His thumb dragged down the column. Stopped. Dragged again.

His knuckles went pale.

“That’s wrong,” he said.

The steward of tariffs cleared his throat. “My lord, perhaps there was a correction, a delay—”

Eris let his expression sharpen into shared outrage. “A delay?” he repeated, as if offended on Varic's behalf. “Do you know what happens when a lord’s payments ‘delay’ in Autumn?”

A few eyes flicked to him.

Eris’s mouth curved into a cold approximation of humor. “He looks weak.”

He made it sound like a simple truth. The kind men protected with blood.

Varic's eyes flashed, the insult landing exactly where Eris wanted it.

Maylis didn’t look up from the page. “There’s a corresponding increase elsewhere,” she murmured.

The guild liaison stiffened. “Where.”

Maylis' finger tapped a line item. “Discretionary security.”

The ink-stained male let out a small sound, half disbelief. “That’s court security.”

Maylis' eyes lifted at last. “Is it,” she asked softly, and the question was a blade.

Eris kept his face bored, kept his posture loose, but inside he watched the doubt bloom, petal by petal. Not planted as accusation. Grown as conclusion.

The scribe turned another page as if trying to escape the tension.

The third crack appeared.

“A tariff adjustment,” she read, voice tighter. “Guild levy—merchant quarter.”

The guild liaison straightened, pleased to return to familiar ground. “That should be—”

The scribe paused again.

Eris felt the room tighten, the way hunters smelled blood before it spilled.

The scribe said slowly, “The levy is… revised. Lowered.”

The guild liaison blinked. “Lowered? For whom.”

The scribe’s eyes tracked down the line. “For shipments routed through—” She hesitated. “Forest House lanes.”

A sharp inhale.

Not outrage yet. Just the first flicker of alarm.

The liaison’s mouth opened, then closed. “That doesn’t—those lanes aren’t exempt.”

Maylis leaned back, eyes half-lidded, calculating. “Unless someone wrote them as exempt.”

Varic's voice went low. “That benefits—”

He stopped himself before he could say Beron.

Eris lifted his brows in mild disinterest, as if he’d heard nothing worth remembering. “Benefits whom,” he prompted lightly, the way a bored prince might coax a pet into doing a trick.

The liaison swallowed. “It benefits… the crown.”

Eris nodded, satisfied. “How charitable.”

The words were nothing. A flick. A harmless remark.

And yet it landed.

Because the room did the math.

Lower guild levy meant less paid out. Less paid out meant more retained. More retained meant someone deciding where that excess went, quietly, legally, on paper.

And in Autumn, “legally” meant “whatever Beron signed.”

The scribe shifted, uncomfortable now, but she kept reading—because in this court you did not stop a train once it began moving.

The fourth crack arrived disguised as a misfile.

The scribe frowned at a loose customs note tucked between pages like it had been shoved there in haste. “This… shouldn’t be here.”

Lady Maelis’s gaze snapped. “Read it.”

The scribe hesitated. “It’s a tax exemption note.”

Varric leaned forward. “For what.”

The scribe’s eyes skimmed. “For House Maylis.”

Maylis went very still.

The room went too quiet.

The scribe continued, voice careful. “It indicates an exemption granted on ashwood shipments at the western checkpoint.”

Lady Maylis' eyes flicked once—sharp, disbelieving. “I don’t have ashwood shipments through the western checkpoint.”

Varic's mouth curled. “So someone used your name.”

Maelis’s gaze didn’t leave the paper. “And someone else paid for it.”

Eris let the room fill in the rest:

We assumed it was us paying the cost of the court.

We didn’t consider the court was choosing who paid more, and who paid nothing at all.

The scribe set the note down like it might burn her fingers.

Varric snatched it up, scanning with quick, angry precision. “This isn’t a mistake,” he said.

The steward of tariffs looked ill. “My lords, these ledgers—these packets—there are many hands, clerks—”

“Hands,” Maylis repeated, voice soft as silk. “Yes. Many hands.”

Her eyes slid, almost casually, to Eris.

Not suspicion. Not yet.

Assessment.

Eris gave her exactly what she wanted to see: irritation, displeasure. The expression of a prince inconvenienced by other people’s incompetence.

He let his gaze flick to the steward with cool distaste. “If my father’s clerks can’t keep one set of books clean,” he said, “then someone should start cutting fingers.”

A few of the lords made low sounds of agreement.

Because that was the language they spoke.

Because cruelty felt like control.

Because if Eris sounded outraged, it made him familiar—a fellow victim of “mismanagement,” not the architect of the discovery.

Another Lord's fingers curled on the table. “I want audits.”

The steward flinched. “Audits require—”

“Approval,” Varric snapped. “Which is the problem, isn’t it?”

Maylis' smile sharpened. “If you request an audit, you announce you’ve noticed. And then you become… inconvenient.”

The ink-stained male whispered, almost to himself, “He’ll make examples.”

And there it was.

Fear, no longer abstract. No longer for someone else.

Fear with teeth.

Eris let his expression darken, as if thinking the same, as if offended by it.

He leaned forward slightly, voice low, conspiratorial without being intimate. “You’re all very quick to panic,” he drawled. “It could be nothing.”

Maylis' eyes narrowed. “Could it.”

Eris shrugged. “Autumn’s bureaucracy is a beast,” he said lightly. “Sometimes it bites the wrong hand.”

A plausible line.

But it planted something worse:

If it can bite the wrong hand, it can bite yours.

Varric stared at the note, then at the ledger, then at Maylis'. “If he’s been diverting, then he’s been—”

“Lying,” Maelis murmured, the word soft as silk and twice as lethal.

The guild liaison went pale. “Diverting it to where?”

No one answered at first—because saying it out loud made it accusation, not arithmetic.

Eris tipped his head, as if bored by how obvious it all was. “To himself,” he said lightly. “To whatever suits him this week.”

Maelis’s eyes narrowed. “He told us—”

“He told you,” Eris cut in, tone edged with mild amusement, “that your interests and his were the same thing. Convenient, isn’t it? You fund his preferences, and he calls it stability.”

Varric’s jaw tightened. “He acted like he was protecting our houses.”

Eris’s mouth curved, nothing like a smile. “He was,” he drawled. From the consequences of his own greed. He kept you just comfortable enough to keep cheering, and just uncertain enough to keep obeying.”

The room held its breath.

Because it wasn’t a dramatic revelation. It was worse.

It was recognizable. A pattern they’d lived inside and called normal, until the numbers named it.

And then Maylis did something Eris hadn’t even had to prompt.

She reached out and pulled the second ledger closer. Not waiting for the scribe. Not asking permission. Just taking. She flipped pages with quick, controlled motions.

Varric followed suit, yanking a packet toward himself.

Another lord grabbed the customs note and began tracing the stamp, the date, the signature.

The guild liaison snatched a tariff schedule, scanning for revisions.

The room turned into exactly what Eris needed it to become: a nest of vipers discovering that the hand feeding them had been holding them by the throat.

Eris sat back and watched them shred their own certainty.

He let his face reflect the right emotion at the right moments: irritation at incompetence, disgust at sloppiness, a flicker of anger that looked like shared offense.

He became a mirror for their outrage.

“Look at this,” Varic hissed suddenly, voice sharp. “This withdrawal—my estate revenues—this was never approved.”

Maylis snapped, “Of course it wasn’t approved. If it were approved, it would be recorded properly.”

Someone else's voice went raw. “I paid extra because someone used your name.”

Maelis’s smile was razor-thin. “How flattering.”

Maelis’s gaze found Eris again, sharper now. “You didn’t notice this before.”

Eris met her look blandly. “I don’t run these offices,” he said. “I’m merely forced to attend meetings that make me want to stab myself for sport.”

Varric barked a short laugh. “If this is real, then someone is rewriting distribution schedules.”

Maelis’s voice went low. “Someone has been doing it for a long time.”

The steward’s face was damp with sweat now. “My lords, I swear—”

Eris’s eyes flicked to him, bored and bright. “Swearing is for priests,” he said. “Bring evidence.”

And the beautiful thing was, they would.

Because now they were looking.

Now they would pull their own books. Compare their own numbers. Quietly, carefully, like men checking the locks on their doors after hearing the first scream in the night.

Eris rose at last, smoothing his sleeve as if the room hadn’t just shifted on its axis.

Lady Maylis' head snapped up. “Leaving?”

Eris’s mouth curved faintly. Not a smile. A suggestion. “You’re all capable of reading without me,” he drawled. “Try not to choke on the ink.”

He didn’t have to say: He’s been using you.

They said it to themselves.

He didn’t have to say: He will sacrifice you the moment you stop being useful.

They’d seen it.

He didn’t have to say: Stand with him and you’ll drown with him.

They were already tasting the water.

Eris left the room with the same unhurried pace he used at dinners, at councils, at executions—anywhere people watched him like they were waiting for proof he was exactly what his name implied.

Behind him, it began.

Suspicion blooming, not because Eris planted it, but because it had been waiting in them, dormant, and all he had done was scrape away the covering.

Good.

Let them rot from the inside.

Let them turn on each other.

Let Beron feel his own house becoming less obedient, less certain, less eager to light themselves on fire to keep him warm.

⸻

Hallen’s conservatory smelled like damp earth and bitter green.

Plants climbed trellises near the glass panes, their leaves skeletal in winter’s grasp but still alive—stubborn things that refused to die even when the world made it inconvenient. Eris understood that kind of life. It was the sort that survived on spite.

Lord Hallen waited near the central table, hands clasped behind his back, posture too still. Lady Soryn stood by the window, gaze fixed on the forest beyond as if she expected Beron’s guards to emerge from the trees any moment. Lord Ralwyn—younger than the other two and sharper in his ambition—leaned against a pillar with the restlessness of a blade not yet used.

They looked at Eris when he entered.

Not with respect.

With calculation.

They had come because of what had been said in their last meeting, the same quiet, ugly arithmetic Eris had laid on the table then: Beron’s “proof” wouldn’t be made by one hand. It would be a chain. Outposts. Intermediaries. People whose names never reached the palace, but whose ink could ruin a life.

They’d listened, not because Eris asked, but because she had.

Because she had already been doing the work in their territories, quietly, stubbornly, without demanding gratitude.

And now there were rumors.

Rumors that she’d been “questioned.”

Rumors that Beron’s patience had finally curdled into flame.

That was why Hallen’s hands were clasped so tightly behind his back. Why Soryn’s gaze kept cutting to the trees. Why Ralwyn’s restless energy felt like a match struck and held too long.

Hallen inclined his head. “Prince.”

Eris offered a shallow nod. “Lord Hallen.”

Lady Soryn’s gaze flicked to him, cool, assessing. “You look… unchanged.”

Eris’s mouth curved. “Disappointing, I’m sure.”

Ralwyn snorted softly. “We expected more blood.”

Eris’s eyes sharpened. “If I wanted blood, I wouldn’t have come alone.”

A beat of silence. The tension didn’t ease. It never did with people who’d learned that trust was a luxury Beron punished.

Hallen gestured to the table where a map lay unfurled—Autumn’s territories, marked with pins and ink notes, careful circles around toll roads and outposts. The same map as last time, but altered now. Cleaner. Straighter. Less cluttered by Beron’s reach.

Ralwyn tapped a pin near the eastern ridge. “We’ve done what you asked.”

Eris stepped closer, gaze sweeping the map. “Restationing.”

Lady Soryn nodded once. “Quietly.”

Hallen’s voice was low. “The ones who stamp. The ones who copy seals. The ones who ‘audit’ and collect payments that never reach the crown books. We’ve begun moving them out of their posts.”

Eris’s gaze flicked to him. “And replacing them with—”

“With people who don’t answer to Beron,” Ralwyn finished. “Or at least not directly.”

Eris’s fingers hovered over the map, tracing the routes Beron’s influence used like arteries: guild offices, border keeps, toll gates. It was working. Slowly. Carefully. A cutting without a scream.

He should have felt satisfaction.

Instead, something twisted, tight and sharp behind his ribs—because he could see the pattern in the places that had shifted fastest. Villages that had been fed in lean winters because someone had quietly redirected grain. Outposts spared the worst “routine audits” because someone had made auditors afraid of consequences.

Her territories. Her influence. Her work.

Even locked behind nullstone, she was still moving pieces, because she’d built trust that didn’t die just because Beron wanted it to.

Eris’s jaw tightened.

Hallen watched him closely. “We’re doing it,” the old lord said, “because we’ve seen what she did.”

There it was.

Not because Eris demanded it.

Not because Beron could be toppled.

Because she had been good to them, and they’d learned that goodness came at a price, and they were unwilling to pay it with her life.

Lady Soryn’s voice softened by a hair. “Word reached my steward this morning,” she said, gaze still on the trees. “That Emberward was… active.”

Eris didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to. But the bond, faint and muffled, seemed to tighten like a thread pulled too suddenly.

Ralwyn’s mouth went hard. “They’re saying she didn’t scream.”

Eris’s fingers curled at his sides, hidden by his sleeves. He forced his voice to remain smooth. “She’s always been stubborn.”

Soryn’s eyes flicked to him. “Stubborn doesn’t stop flame.”

“No,” Eris agreed quietly. “It only decides what it will not give him.”

A pause. Then Hallen’s hand landed on the map, firm, decisive. “Our territories are cleaner than they’ve been in years,” he said. “His men are being reassigned. His intermediaries are finding doors shut. We’ve made it difficult for his coin to travel without someone noticing.”

Eris lifted his gaze. “And when the time comes?”

Ralwyn’s expression sharpened into something like grim anticipation. “We’ll back you,” he said. Not warmly. Not loyally. Like a man placing a blade into a hand and accepting that it might cut. “Not because you’re Beron’s son. Because you’re the only one close enough to kill him without burning the court down first.”

Soryn added, softer, “And because she believed the countryside could be more than a graveyard with pretty leaves.”

He forced himself to speak, voice controlled. “Keep moving them,” he said. “If Beron’s chain is cut at the outposts, his forged proof becomes… sluggish.”

Hallen nodded. “We know.”

Lady Soryn’s gaze narrowed. “The accelerated timeline complicates things.”

Eris’s eyes sharpened. “Yes.”

Ralwyn leaned forward slightly. “Three days.”

Eris’s mouth curved into something cold. “He’s proud of himself.”

Hallen’s voice was quiet. “And you.”

Eris looked at him.

Hallen didn’t blink. “Where do you stand in that spectacle, Prince.”

The question wasn’t curiosity. It was a test.

Are you complicit.

Are you the blade.

Are you Beron in different clothing.

Eris forced his expression into bored contempt. “Where my father tells me,” he said lightly. “As always.”

Soryn’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not an answer.”

Eris’s smile sharpened. “It’s the only one you’ll get.”

Ralwyn’s mouth curled. “We’ll keep moving pieces. Quietly.”

Hallen’s gaze held Eris’s. “Don’t waste what she built,” he said simply.

The words hit Eris harder than a threat.

Don’t waste what she built, as if her work belonged to the court now, a thing to be inherited, not a thing she was bleeding for in a frozen room.

Eris inclined his head once, slow. “I won’t,” he said, voice low enough that it almost sounded like truth rather than promise.

He left the conservatory without looking back.

⸻

The road toward Spring cut through Autumn like an old scar—half-healed, still tender if you pressed too hard.

And because the gods had a particular sense of cruelty, his mind kept returning to Jesminda.

Eris didn’t like thinking about her.

Not because she had been insignificant.

Because she had been… too significant.

Jesminda had been one of the few things Autumn’s smallfolk had ever loved without reservation—because she had loved them back. Because she had been one of them and still dared to want something more. Because she had laughed like hunger couldn’t touch her. Because she’d looked at the world and refused to accept that suffering was the natural order.

And because Beron had killed her for it.

Her name had become a prayer and a bitter curse in the same breath, whispered over seed sacks and graves. Years later, it still lingered in the countryside like smoke after a fire: sharp, stubborn, impossible to scrub out of the air.

And Lucien—

Lucien had been the only Vanserra the smallfolk had ever looked at and believed might have been different.

Even now, stories clung to him. Not gentle ones. Jagged ones. How he had run. How he had been chased. How he had wept. How he had crossed borders with grief still wet on his face.

Some blamed him. Of course they did. Blame was easier than helplessness. Easier than admitting Beron’s cruelty was a weather system, and they were all just trying not to drown in it.

But even the ones who spat Lucien’s name did it with something complicated behind their eyes, because they had seen love in him once. And love, in Autumn, was so rare it looked like a miracle.

That was why Eris needed him.

Not because Eris wanted reconciliation. Not because he wanted forgiveness.

Because Eris was poison to the smallfolk.

And Lucien… Lucien was a wound.

A wound people remembered.

A wound people believed.

Because everyone would assume Lucien would rather choke than lend Eris anything. Because Lucien’s grief was the only Vanserra story the countryside had ever carried like truth.

Eris hated that he needed it.

He hated that the only way to reach the people Beron had been starving for decades was to drag an old ghost out of his brother’s chest and ask it to stand in the light.

But he did not have room for pride.

He’d reached out to Night the previous day.

Not openly, never that. A message slipped along the quiet channels that didn’t leave ink trails, carried by someone who knew how to be invisible and still be heard.

They hadn’t liked it. He’d felt the hesitation in every clipped reply, the way the Night Court’s patience thinned at the words Autumn and Vanserra and Lucien. But Eris had made it plain: the timeline had accelerated—three days, not a week—and if they truly wanted Beron gone, then Lucien wasn’t optional. Lucien was the bridge. The one voice the smallfolk might actually listen to, the one name that could lend weight to Eris’s moves without exposing everything else.

So they relented.

Not happily. Not warmly.

But enough.

Enough to put Eris on a road toward Spring with a meeting waiting somewhere ahead, and the sick certainty that if Lucien walked away, this entire plan would bleed out in the mud before it ever reached Beron’s throat.

⸻

The clearing waited, moonlit and silent. The wind smelled of dry leaves and distant rain.

Lucien was already there.

He stood with his back to a tree, posture loose but ready, as if he expected an attack and had prepared to die angrily. His red hair was longer than Eris remembered, his face leaner, his metal eye catching moonlight like a warning.

He stared at Eris like Eris was a ghost he’d refused to mourn.

“You have nerve,” Lucien said.

It had been a while since Eris had last seen his younger brother close enough to count the new lines carved into him.

Lucien looked older. Not in years, but in the way the world sat on his shoulders now, like he’d been wearing its weight for too long and had stopped expecting anyone to help him carry it. Leaner, too. Less court-fed. Less softness in the face, less shine to the hair. As if Spring’s sun and Night’s darkness and whatever hell he’d stitched himself into had scraped him down to the essentials and left him there.

He stood like a male who slept with one ear open.

Eris hated that his eyes did the accounting anyway—habit as much as instinct. The way he always catalogued injury and advantage and weakness. Lucien’s shoulders were set right, but there was tension in the left, a fraction too high, the kind that came from favoring an old wound.

A small, infuriating part of Eris noticed that Lucien looked healthy enough to stand tall. That he wasn’t trembling. That he wasn’t starving.

As if that mattered.

As if Eris was allowed to care.

He smothered it, let the familiar mask settle back into place—lazy, cruel, untouchable—and only then did his mouth curve.

“I’ve always had nerve.”

Moonlight caught on Lucien’s metal eye, gold flashing. “And you’ve always had excuses,” he said, voice low. “So let’s hear today’s.”

Eris gave a quiet huff that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so sharp. He let his gaze rake over Lucien, cloak, sword, the careful way he carried himself now, as if he’d learned to live without any court’s permission.

“Well,” Eris drawled, “look at you.”

Lucien didn’t smile. “Don’t.”

Eris tipped his head, feigning mild curiosity. “No entourage. No little gaggle of misfits hovering in the trees to leap out and die dramatically on your behalf.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Say what you’re trying to say.”

Eris’s eyes glinted. “I’m saying you’ve either gotten braver… or you’ve finally realized your band of exiles is less an army and more a traveling tragedy.”

Lucien’s lips pulled back, not quite a snarl. “Careful.”

Eris’s smile sharpened. “Oh, I am. I just didn’t think you were capable of it.”

Lucien’s gaze went flint-hard. “Why am I here.”

Eris leaned back against the tower step again, posture lazy as sin. “You always were impatient.”

Lucien’s eyes flashed. “You sent for me.”

“I sent for you,” Eris corrected, “because I’m in a charitable mood.”

Lucien let out a short laugh that held no humor. “Eris.”

Eris’s expression sharpened. “Fine,” he said, letting boredom peel away enough to show the edge beneath. “I need something.”

Lucien’s shoulders went still. “Of course you do.”

Eris’s gaze flicked to Lucien’s metal eye, then back to the living one. “I’m finally making my move,” he said.

Lucien’s mouth tightened. “Against Beron.”

Eris didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Lucien’s laugh was sharper. “Now.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “Timing is everything.”

“Timing is suspicious,” Lucien snapped. “Timing is you realizing the wind is changing and wanting to be on the side that doesn’t drown.”

Eris’s mouth curved. “You think I drown easily.”

Lucien stepped closer, just enough to press the space between them. “I think you do what you have to do,” he said, voice low. “And I think you call it duty so you can sleep.”

Eris’s smile faltered for half a heartbeat, so fast it was almost nothing.

Then it returned, crueler. “Sleep,” he echoed. “What a charming concept. Tell me how it feels.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Why reach out to me.”

“Beron is moving,” Eris said.

Lucien barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Beron always moves.”

“He’s moving faster,” Eris corrected.

Lucien’s mouth tightened. “And you want me to come back. To stand in that court again. To breathe his air.”

“I want you to help me,” Eris said simply.

Lucien stared.

Then his mouth twisted. “Help you do what? Polish your crown? Collect another favor from Rhysand? Tell me brother, " he spat as a curse, "what are you trying to buy this time?”

Eris’s expression stayed mild. “Trust,” he said.

Lucien went still.

Eris continued, voice calm, controlled, deadly. “The countryfolk don’t trust me. They know my reputation. They know the mask. They know what I’ve let the court believe.”

Lucien’s laugh came again, bitter. “Oh, the poor heir. No one trusts him. Must be unbearable.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed, a flash of real annoyance. “You think I’m asking because I care about being liked?” Eris drawled. “I’m asking because Beron’s case is built on desperate mouths saying whatever coin teaches them to say.”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened.

“I need farmers who won’t fold,” Eris said. “I need witnesses who won’t sell their stories for a warm winter coat. And I need someone they might listen to.”

Eris watched him, then added, too casually, “They look at me and see Beron.”

Lucien’s lips parted slightly—surprise, maybe. Then his expression hardened. “And they’re wrong?”

Eris’s gaze sharpened. “They’re not wrong to fear me.”

“You’re asking me,” Lucien said slowly, “to stand in that court and vouch for you.”

Eris didn’t correct him.

Lucien’s eye flicked, furious. “And why would I do that?”

“Because you still hate him,” Eris said.

Eris leaned in a fraction, voice lowering. “Because you still remember what he did. And because if you don’t help me now, he’ll keep doing it. To farmers. To minor houses. To any woman who doesn’t bow deeply enough.”

Lucien’s expression twisted. “And what makes you think you’re different? What makes you think you’ll actually end him?”

Eris held his gaze.

He could tell him. He could say: Because she is in a cell built to starve her flame. Because he threatened Mother. Because my mate is being broken in front of my eyes and I’m swallowing it like poison.

He didn’t.

“Because I’m tired,” he said simply. “And because I have leverage he doesn’t see coming.”

Lucien’s face went hard. “You always talk in riddles.”

Eris exhaled, slow. “I want you to speak to them,” he said. “The toll clerks. The outpost workers. The farmers.”

Lucien’s laughter burst out, bitter and disbelieving. “No.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I don’t need to,” Lucien snapped. “You want me to go back to Autumn and tell people to trust you.”

Eris’s voice stayed mild. “Yes.”

Lucien stepped forward sharply, anger flaring like flame. “No.”

Eris’s smile remained in place, but his eyes went colder. “You don’t understand what’s happening.”

Lucien’s laugh was sharp. “I understand exactly what’s happening. You’re finally tired of Beron’s leash and you want me to hand you a new one.”

Eris’s jaw ticked. “That’s not—”

Lucien cut him off. “Don’t. Don’t stand there and pretend you’ve suddenly grown a conscience.”

Eris’s throat tightened once. He forced it down.

“Do you know why I need you?” Eris asked, letting the question cut.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “To make you look better.”

Eris’s smile was thin. “Partly.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched. “And the rest.”

Eris let his gaze drift toward the trees, to the shadowy figures listening without listening. He lowered his voice, not for secrecy, but because some truths tasted wrong when spoken too loudly.

“Because no one believes me,” Eris said. “And they might believe you.”

Lucien stared at him.

Eris forced the next sentence out with a carelessness that did not match the way it scraped him raw. “And because you loved her.”

Lucien froze.

The world went very quiet.

Lucien’s voice, when it came, was soft. “Don’t.”

Eris’s smile tightened. “Don’t what.”

Lucien’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare say her name.” he said viciously.

Eris’s jaw clenched. He forced it loose. “Why,” he asked lightly, “does it still hurt, little brother.”

Lucien's moved—not to his sword.

Fast.

A fist curling like it had been waiting years for permission, shoulder rolling forward with the clean, brutal intent of a punch meant to shut a mouth forever. He took one step into Eris’s space, the motion all heat and old grief.

Then Lucien’s fingers flexed once, hard, as if he were crushing the urge in his own palm.

He lowered his fist.

Slow.

Like it cost him.

Lucien’s voice went cold. “You don’t get to use her.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not using her.”

Lucien laughed, bitter. “Yes, you are.”

Eris’s mouth curved. “You think everything is about you.”

Lucien stepped closer, anger snapping. “Don’t think I don’t remember,” he hissed. “You and your brothers chasing me, chasing Feyre, through Autumn like we were prey. You may not have been the one to hold me down when she—”

His voice caught, just a fracture, quickly repaired into rage.

“But it doesn’t excuse you,” Lucien finished, eyes burning. “And after all of that you expect me to believe you have pure intentions.”

Eris went still.

Not because the accusation was new.

Because the word excuse clawed at something in him that had never healed.

Lucien didn’t waver. “You want me to go back,” he said, voice sharp. “You want me to stand in front of the smallfolk and tell them to trust you. You want me to walk back into the place that killed her, and you expect me to do it because you asked.”

Eris’s mouth tightened into something that could have been a smile if it weren’t so sharp. “I never ask nicely.”

Lucien’s laugh was harsh. “No. You don’t.”

Eris inhaled slowly.

He did not want to say it.

Because it sounded like defense. Because it sounded like pleading.

But he needed Lucien.

Eris’s voice went low. “I wasn’t there.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

Eris’s gaze hardened. “I said I wasn’t there.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched. “You were in the court.”

Eris’s fingers curled. “I refused.”

Silence slammed down like a door.

Lucien blinked once. “What.”

Eris’s mouth curved, bitter. “You heard me. When they demanded I participate, I refused.”

Lucien stared at him, disbelief flickering sharp. “You’re lying.”

Eris’s smile turned crueler. “Why would I lie about that. It makes me look weak.”

Lucien’s metal eye whirred softly, as if recalibrating.

Eris’s voice remained flat. “It was the first and only time I denied Beron anything.”

Lucien’s breath caught.

Eris didn’t soften. He couldn’t, not here, not with witnesses, not with a lifetime of knives between them.

“He... punished me,” Eris continued, like he was discussing weather. “Kept me caged. By the time I was free, it was… done.”

Lucien’s face went pale. “You expect me to believe you were punished.”

Eris’s eyes sharpened. “Do you think Beron enjoys disobedience.”

Lucien’s mouth tightened. “And Tamlin.”

Eris’s jaw ticked. “They were going to kill you too,” he said, voice low. “I made sure they didn’t.”

Lucien’s gaze snapped, fierce. “How.”

Eris exhaled, slow. “I sent word,” he said. “Anonymously. Told Tamlin to get to his border before there was nothing left to retrieve.”

Lucien stared at him like he was seeing a stranger.

Eris’s smile was thin and ugly. “I’ve never liked you much,” he added, because sincerity tasted wrong. “But I didn’t want you dead.”

Lucien’s eyes shimmered with something that wasn’t quite tears and wasn’t quite rage. “Why tell me now.”

Eris’s gaze went cold. “Because I need you to stop being a romantic tragedy and start being useful.”

Lucien’s laugh broke out, sharp, disbelieving, wounded. “You’re unbelievable.”

Eris’s smile held. “Yes.”

Lucien’s voice turned harsh. “Even if that’s true—even if you refused—what am I supposed to do with that.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “Believe me.”

Lucien shook his head once, hard. “You don’t get to ask that.”

Eris’s jaw clenched.

He could feel the bridge collapsing again.

He could feel time slipping.

Lucien’s face hardened. “I’m not going back,” he said. “I’m not walking into Autumn to be used as your shield.”

Eris’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t about shielding me.”

Lucien’s eyes flashed. “It’s always about shielding you. You always survive. You always land on your feet.”

Eris’s laugh was quiet and ugly. “Do I.”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t.”

Eris stepped closer, voice low. “You think I survive because I’m lucky,” he murmured. “I survive because I learned early that the only way to keep breathing in that house is to become something he enjoys.”

Lucien flinched, just once, small, involuntary.

Eris saw it.

Hated himself for wanting it to matter.

Lucien’s voice went quiet. “And you want me to trust that.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “I want you to understand that if Beron remains, there will be no safe border. No exile far enough. No court untouched. He will keep starving the countryside until desperation is currency and obedience is the only meal.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Then let the High Lords handle it.”

Eris smiled, cold. “They won’t. Not fast enough. Not clean enough. And not before three days.”

Lucien stilled. “Three days.”

Eris’s throat tightened.

He hadn’t meant to say it.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in three days.”

Eris’s mouth curved faintly. “An execution.”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “Whose.”

Eris’s pulse stuttered. A careless mistake.

Eris swallowed hard. “A noblewoman,” he said lightly, too lightly. “One my father has decided will make a useful lesson.”

The instant it left his mouth, he regretted it.

Because Eris never volunteered details unless they mattered. And Lucien had always been annoyingly good at hearing what Eris didn’t say.

Lucien’s eye flashed. “Who?”

Eris’s jaw ticked. He made his expression bored. Made his voice dismissive. “It doesn’t matter.”

Lucien’s mouth tightened, weighing the lie and finding it wanting. “So this is why.”

Eris’s gaze sharpened, a warning. “It’s part of why.”

Lucien laughed once, harsh. “You’re trying to save her.”

Eris felt heat crawl up his spine—rage, yes, and that sharp flare of panic at being seen too clearly. He forced it down, forced his mouth into something colder.

“I’m trying to topple Beron,” Eris said.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “And she’s collateral.”

Eris’s smile sharpened. “No.”

Lucien took a step closer, anger flaring fast. “Then what is she to you?”

Eris held his gaze.

Idiot, he thought, at himself. At his own mouth. At the way one careless phrase had opened a door.

Lucien didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

He just watched Eris the way you watched a liar decide which lie to choose, already certain there was something underneath worth dragging into the light.

Eris chose silence.

Lucien’s eyes widened slightly, something dawning.

Then, before Eris could clamp down on it, before he could say anything but the truth, the bond struck.

Not a gentle pulse.

Not a steady, quiet hold.

Pain.

A sharp, sudden lance drove straight through Eris’s chest like a blade pushed between ribs and twisted.

His breath hitched.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t let himself move.

He forced his face into blankness. Forced his spine upright. Forced the first dull swell of panic down the back of his throat and swallowed it like poison.

A flicker, too sharp to be his own. Too foreign.

Lucien’s gaze sharpened instantly. “Eris.”

Eris’s mouth curved, brittle. “Don’t.”

Lucien took a step closer. “What was that.”

“Nothing,” Eris said, and put a clean edge on it—dismissal as armor, as if he hadn’t gone pale.

But his pulse had already turned traitor.

Because the pain wasn’t simply pain.

It had temperature.

It had that engineered, nullstone-cold bite that lived in Emberward’s walls and nowhere else.

Eris straightened a fraction more, the movement stiff, controlled. “We’re done,” he said, voice smooth as steel. He turned on his heel like the conversation bored him, like his chest hadn’t just been cored out by something that didn’t belong to him.

Lucien’s hand shot out and caught his arm.

Not hard.

Not gentle either.

Just firm enough to stop him.

Eris froze at the contact, because touch was dangerous right now. Touch made things real. Touch made it easier to crack.

Lucien’s eye narrowed. “You don’t get to say what you said and walk away mid-sentence.”

Eris’s laugh was thin, nearly soundless. “Watch me.”

He tried to wrench free.

The bond snapped taut.

Not a flicker this time. A full, brutal surge, hot and wrong, like someone had hooked a chain under Eris’s ribs and yanked.

Pain detonated through him so bright it stole his vision.

Eris’s knees hit the ground before he realized he’d fallen.

Stone bit into his kneecaps. Cold seeped through fabric. He barely felt it.

His hand flew to his chest, clawing at his coat, fingers curling hard enough to bruise, as if he could hold the tether in place through sheer force. As if he could anchor her with his hands.

Air refused to enter his lungs.

The world narrowed to white.

To fire.

To her.

He tasted copper. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. A sound tore out of him—sharp, broken, nothing he would ever admit to making.

Lucien dropped into a crouch. “Eris?” Shock sliced straight through his anger. “What is wrong with you?”

Eris tried to answer. Tried to breathe.

Another wave hit, longer, sustained, cruel in its patience. Like flame held to skin. Like someone taking their time because they knew she wouldn’t give them a sound.

Eris’s fingers spasmed. He dug them into the earth, trying to make himself solid. Trying to keep his body from shattering into instinct.

He shoved his will across the bond like slamming his palm against a locked door.

Hold. Look at me. Breathe.

Nothing coherent came back.

Only sensation: cold, then heat; pain, then worse; a twist of magic that wasn’t hers.

Eris’s stomach rolled. He gagged on air that wouldn’t fill his lungs.

“Stop,” he rasped, whether to the bond, to Beron, to fate itself. “Stop—”

Lucien’s hands hovered, uncertain now. “Eris—”

Eris’s teeth clicked once.

He’d been so careful. So meticulous. Moving pieces like a patient man, counting days like they were his to spend.

And she was there.

In Emberward.

While he was here.

Playing politics with a brother he hadn’t spoken to properly in years.

Self-loathing poured through him, thick and vicious. He’d been proud of his distance, proud of how cleanly he could compartmentalize.

Now the distance felt like a crime.

Lucien’s voice sharpened. “You’re hurt.”

Eris managed a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been scraped raw. “If I were hurt,” he breathed, “you’d already be bored.”

He tried to push up.

A third spike hit, sudden and violent, like something hooked under his ribs and yanked again.

Eris lurched, breath breaking. His forehead nearly struck the stone. His hand stayed locked to his chest like a man trying to keep his heart from being ripped out.

“Beron,” he got out, the name harsh as blood in his mouth.

Lucien went still. “Beron did this?”

Eris couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think.

He reached again across the bond, frantic now, shoving, clawing, searching.

Answer me.

Just give me something.

But there was no flicker. No reassuring pulse. No quiet press of her steadiness.

Only the relentless truth of pain and the dulling smother of dampeners, like something thick shoved between them, choking the tether until even her presence felt muffled.

Not gone.

Not clear.

Just blurred, fading at the edges like smoke in rain.

Eris’s throat closed.

“Don’t,” he breathed, and hated the tremor in it.

Another wrench hit, and this one wasn’t pain, not exactly.

Strain.

Like the bond itself was being stretched thin and held there, pulled taut between two fists. Like someone was testing how far they could drag her away from him before something snapped.

Eris convulsed. His fist tightened in his coat so hard the seam popped under his fingers.

He shoved his will across the tether with everything he had, dragging at that thin thread like pulling someone from a riptide.

I’m here. I’m here.

Nothing.

No word. No steady warmth. Not even anger.

Just a suffocating blankness pressed over her side of the bond, as if the very air around her had been turned into stone.

Eris’s eyes flew open, wild.

Lucien’s gaze flicked over Eris’s face, catching every fracture he could no longer plaster shut. Then, like a blade being drawn slow and sure, understanding slid into place.

“That’s not your pain,” Lucien said quietly.

Eris didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Lucien’s voice tightened. “Whose is it?”

Eris’s lips peeled back from his teeth. He should have lied. He should have cut Lucien down with some pretty cruelty and left.

But the tether shuddered again—thin, strained, wrong—and something inside him went feral.

He lifted his head, eyes bright with something he would have rather died than let Lucien see.

“My mate,” Eris rasped. The words tore out of him like confession and curse. “It’s my—”

Lucien froze.

Even the forest seemed to still.

“What,” Lucien said, as if the word hurt.

Eris swallowed hard, throat raw. “Don’t look so surprised,” he forced out, voice shaking around rage that had nowhere to go. “Fate has always had a sick sense of humor.”

Lucien’s mouth parted, then tightened. “Where is she.”

Eris’s laugh was ruined. “In his hands.”

Lucien went pale. “Beron.”

Eris’s gaze went distant again—not from strategy, not from calculation, but because the bond shifted.

Not a clean ebb. Not the familiar muffling of wards.

This was a drop.

Like the floor falling out beneath him.

A cold, sliding pressure swept down the tether—stone settling, iron shutting, the sensation of something being forced deeper into Emberward’s nullstone-dark throat. As if Beron had found the seam between their souls and wedged his fingers into it.

Eris’s breath stuttered. His hand tightened over his chest, fingers trembling.

He couldn’t tell if she’d lost consciousness.

Couldn’t tell if Beron had dragged her behind thicker dampeners.

Couldn’t tell—

The tether shuddered.

Once.

Twice.

Eris’s spine locked.

Because the bond did not do that.

Not unless—

A hit slammed into him so violently his vision burst white.

Eris made a sound that wasn’t human, torn out of him, and his body pitched forward as if the force had grabbed him by the sternum and yanked. His palm slapped the ground to keep himself from folding entirely, but his arm shook like it couldn’t hold the weight of what he was feeling.

It wasn’t just pain anymore.

It was collapse.

The sudden, horrifying sensation of her presence faltering.

Not dimming like distance.

Flickering like a candle starving for air.

Lucien’s voice cut through, alarm jagged. “Eris—”

Eris didn’t hear him.

Couldn’t.

Panic detonated in him—pure, feral, unfiltered.

Time. He’d had time. Beron liked spectacle, liked the slow grind, liked his victims polished and paraded.

So why was he doing this now?

Why would he—

Unless he’d sensed the plan tightening.

Unless he’d decided to cut out the heart of it early.

Unless—

His whole body went rigid, as if stillness could keep the universe from deciding.

Lucien’s voice came from far away. “Eris, what—”

Eris didn’t look at him.

Didn’t blink.

He gathered himself like a man gathering fire with shaking hands, like he could weld his will into the fraying thread and keep it from snapping.

He reached, hard, across the tether, slamming himself into it until his vision sparked and his teeth ached with the force of it.

Not polite.

Not careful.

Desperate.

Stay.

Another shudder, violent and catastrophic, ran down the bond like a rope snapping strand by strand.

Eris’s throat broke open on the words, raw and ruthless:

“Don’t you dare,” he rasped, voice tearing. “Don’t you dare leave me—”

He shoved again, harder, pouring everything into that thinning thread as if sheer fury could hold a soul in place.

Please.

A/N: 🫢, i've got a fluffy prequel ch coming for you guys tomorrow never fear 😊, thanks for reading as always!

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[utterlyazriel]

featherlight touch

a/n: and what if i said surprise smut. what then :) my soft launch of the fact i can and do write smut... <3 word count: easy peasy barely over 1k-squeezy synopsis: Given particular knowledge, you try something new. wing!fic

Your knees sink into the black satin sheets of Azriel’s bed and you sigh contently.

Across the room at the window, the curtain is haphazardly drawn, letting in a curious ray of moonlight. A dim glow lights the room.

You’re thankful for it now—the moonlight allowing you to drink in the sight beneath you with a ravenous gaze. Thighs straddling across his hips, you take in Azriel under you with, what can only be described as, ardent hunger.

But, well, it’s not often enough you get to be on top, after all.

Azriel’s wings splay out on the bed, gloriously on display. His scarred hands rest easily on your waist. His hazel eyes, narrowed in a suspicious way, are focused entirely on you. He, as always, looks devastatingly handsome.

“I’m not sure if I like the look of that look.” He comments slyly, shifting his head to flick a stray curl back from his eyes.

His hands on your waist give a gentle squeeze, as if to reassure you that he’s only teasing. His shadows lurk, traversing the rumpled bedsheets with a lazy designation, unbothered.

“Oh, hush,” you respond. “As if I haven’t been on the receiving end of this before.”

At the mere mention of your reversed positions, Azriel grins, even as a hot glow takes to his cheeks. The dusty rose colour sets a warm spark off in your chest and the heat wastes no time heading south, between your thighs.

Your relationship with Azriel is of the newer side, despite how long you've actually known each other. Long time friends, eventually, finally turned lovers.

But these new steps forward together, getting to know each other in an entirely new way—it's still enough to make Azriel fluster. Centuries old he is but a bashful shyness still remains, if only you can coax it out.

Bringing you back to the moment, Azriel squeezes your waist again, one hand shifting across your skin, his thumb dipping closer to your waistband.

“I don’t know what you mean,” He says, even as his satisfied smile gives him away. He watches closely as you pluck up his large hand and move it back to your waist, the message clear. He's not in charge tonight.

“Y’know,” you say, voice softer suddenly.

You haven’t let go on his hand. As you speak, you let your fingers travel down his veined and chiseled forearm slowly. “I learnt something today. From Feyre.”

Azriel watches you intently, the very feel of your skin across his enough to make him shudder in muted pleasure. No one touches him like you do.

Goosebumps break out along his arm as your hand reaches his bulging bicep and you drag your nails across it lightly.

“Is that so?”

Despite all his body betrays him, Azriel is a master at keeping his face and voice cool and calm. You smile at the sight of it, goaded on by his unwavering voice, and let your hand linger, resting on his collarbone.

“What did she tell you?” Azriel asks, his dark brows raising.

Purposefully, you shift your hips an inch, grinding against his own. Azriel barely manages to hide the grunt it pulls from him, his fingers flexing against your waist as if he’s resisting something more.

“She told me,” You say, dragging out the words, sultry and low.

Your hand begins to move, tracing the line of his defined chest and feeling it heave slightly beneath your touch. Tantalisingly slow, you let it trail down, skimming across his toned stomach where you pause.

“That if I ask you nicely, there’s a certain spot—”

Your teasing, trailing touch moves sideways, dipping down his ribcage and nearing his wings. They rustle against the sheets, a minuscule motion, that you hope is in what’s anticipation.

If what Feyre said is true...

Moving slow, so there’s time for him to interrupt you, you reach down and hover your hand over the delicate membrane of his wings.

Intentions clear, your eyes dart to Azriel’s to check.

Pupils blow wide, the ring of hazel you love so much barely visible, Azriel looks debauched before you've even begun. His hands are stilled on your waist and his cheeks are that same glowing scarlet. After a beat it becomes clear he’s waiting, not stopping you.

Grinning, you take your cue.

Brushing your fingers gently across a section of his wings, the reaction is instantaneous.

Azriel shudders, his whole body shivering as a strangled breath passes through his clenched jaw, his eyes fluttering closed. The hands on your waist constrict, tightening his grip, and beneath you his hips shift up, into you.

The shape of him, pulsating and hot, suddenly feels much firmer than before.

“She’s—right.” The words come out in two stilted breaths, Azriel’s chest rising and falling a little faster now as he fights to compose himself. His eyes open, heavier lidded than they were a moment ago. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"Is she?" Your voice is lilted in mock uncertainty, given away by your mischievous grin. "I think I better check again."

This time, instead of a small brush, you try something bolder. Two fingers on either side of a prominent vein, you draw a delicate stripe up his wing.

Azriel whines— a soft, pitiful noise that leaks out through his clenched teeth. It melts into a soft groan as his whole body shifts, his hips shoving up, seemingly out of his control. His hands pull you down at the time, dragging you forward against his hardness.

Something fiercely hot simmers in your gut, both at the friction and his glorious reaction. He's been fucking holding out on you.

"I don't know, I'm still not sure..." You continue, far too delighted to abuse your newfound knowledge.

Stroking another soft line up his wing, this time you're rewarded with a needy whimper. His chest arches up, his head thrown back lightly—nearly writhing in pleasure from just a few touches.

"Oh, Az," You murmur, half consoling and half wicked. His screwed up eyes take a moment to find yours and you relish the panting of his chest. The rosiness of his cheeks has spread, crawling down his neck and beginning along his toned chest.

"This your plan?" He says, but it's nowhere near that unwavering voice from earlier, raspy and on the way to ruined. "To—" He takes a sharp inhale as your nail scrapes the membrane again. "—to tease me all night?"

You're impressed he's got the words out, given the sight of him. His hair looks messier now. Paired with his heaving chest and eyes bright with lust, he looks downright sinful.

"Doesn't sound too bad a plan to me." You say, letting your hips draw forward, then back, the smallest rocking motion against him.

Azriel hisses, his large, scarred hands threatening to bruise your hips with how tight they grip them. He makes no attempt to stop you though.

"What do you think?"

You purposefully retract your hand, hovering it over his wing, and watch his face. Wings are very personal to Fae and Azriel letting you touch his own, in such an intimate way, was not lost on you.

You don't want to overstep, even if you do desperately want to see what happens if you stroke once, twice, three times in a row. Gods do you want to watch him fall apart beneath you, whimpering and whining through it all.

"I think you're a temptress," Azriel says, breathless. His eyes, heavy with desire, give away his answer. A grin spreads across your face, devious and enamoured all at once.

"A temptress you'll let have her way with you?"

"Depen—ah," His voice shudders into another whimper as you touch your fingertip back to his velvety wing, drawing a small circle.

Eyes crushing closed, it takes another moment for him to catch his breath before he speaks again, breath ragged. "Mother above..."

His wing, the one you've been taunting, rustles against the bed. It lifts up an inch before flapping down in an almost impatient motion. Like a cat, wagging its tail. Azriel wets his lips again, their skin cherried and plush.

"Alright," He says, faux begrudgingly. His eagerness is given away by another impatient rustle of his wing and the throbbing length of him, pressing firmly up against you.

His gives your waist another squeeze and then lets go, letting his arms fall lax to his side. Trusting you completely.

"Have your way with me."

[zarteyaz]

Trial By Fire - 6

❥ Pairing: Reader x Eris Vanserra

❥ Summary: Eris Vanserra has perfected the art of being hated — sharp, cruel, untouchable — and you’re the noble he’s always publicly despised. But when Beron discovers the mating bond between you and moves to have you killed, Eris doesn’t beg. He doesn’t break. He calls in his debt with the Night Court—and decides Beron won’t just die—he’ll be dismantled for daring to touch what’s his.

❥ Warnings: depictions of violence, mentions of past trauma

A/N: hello hello, get ready for some good ol' cunning Eris time, and 🦊 appearance

<- Part 5 | masterlist

────────♢♦✶⋆✶♦♢────────

Eris sat at the long table where Autumn’s “necessary things” were discussed—tariffs and repairs, guild dues and patrol allocations—the kind of meeting that happened whether war waited on the horizon or it was simply another week of Beron’s temper to anticipate.

Routine. Predictable. Safe.

The table had been polished so carefully it shone like wet amber. Candlelight skated across its surface, catching on the edges of ledgers and seal-stamped packets, making bureaucracy look like wealth. The room filled the way it always filled: slow, deliberate, each arrival a small performance of importance.

Beron’s people did not rush unless Beron demanded it. They arrived in measured drifts, high-fae courtiers with rings heavy enough to bruise knuckles, stewards with clean hands and cleaner lies, minor lords whose estates were fattened on tariffs and “routine corrections.”

They carried themselves like they were invincible, because Beron’s favor made them feel that way.

Beron relied on them. Not for love. Not for loyalty. For structure. The quiet machinery that made his rule look inevitable. For the chorus of corrupt voices that repeated his will until the court mistook obedience for stability.

Eris watched them take their places around the table as if it were a hearth and Beron was the only fire worth warming their hands at.

He wore his mask the way he wore his skin—effortless, practiced, an extension of bone. His posture was bored elegance, his expression a faint, cruel amusement, as if all of this were mildly irritating entertainment.

Inside, everything in him was a blade held too tight.

Eris’s fingers tapped once against the table—light, careless, perfectly in character.

The scribe at the far end dipped her quill.

Lord Varic—smug, soft-lipped, greedy—settled into a chair and offered Eris a smile that tried to look like confidence rather than hunger. “Prince,” he murmured, inclining his head.

Eris’s gaze flicked over him like a horse appraising a fly. “Varic,” Eris said, making the name sound like an indulgence.

Lady Maylis arrived next, perfumed and sharp-eyed, jewels flashing as she pulled her chair out with a practiced flick of her wrist. She didn’t look at Eris so much as she assessed him, measured the weather of him. She’d never trusted him, and that made her sharper than most.

Two more came. Then three. Then the steward of the eastern tariffs, the guild liaison from the merchant quarter, a thin-faced male with ink-stained fingers who had the look of someone who would sell his own mother if the coin was right.

All of them: the people who made Beron’s rule feel inevitable.

All of them: the ones Eris needed to begin doubting the floor beneath their feet.

The doors shut.

The room hushed.

A guard at the far wall moved like a shadow and placed the usual stack of ledgers at the center of the table—too many books, too many stamped packets, enough paper to bury a body in. Routine. Boring. Safe.

That was why it worked.

Eris didn’t touch the stack. He didn’t have to.

He had touched it earlier—briefly, precisely, in a corridor where servants flowed like water and no one looked twice at the High Lord’s heir. A ledger swapped beneath a seal packet. A “duplicate” book slid into place. A small substitution that would look like clerical chaos rather than intention.

That was the trick.

Because he hadn’t slipped in a forgery.

He’d slipped in the truth.

A ledger Beron’s people kept locked away from routine meetings: the real book, the one that tracked what actually moved and where it ended up. The one that didn’t bother dressing the numbers in polite language, because it was never meant to be read aloud.

He’d traded it beneath an identical cover—same leather, same crest stamp, same binding—so it would pass as one more “duplicate” in a mountain of bureaucracy. So the discovery would look like an accident, not a blade.

And the best part was that if anyone asked, it wouldn’t be Eris accusing Beron of theft.

It would be Beron’s own ink, Beron’s own arithmetic, telling a room of wolves exactly who had been feeding on them.

So Eris let the scribe do what scribes did.

He let the room think it was finding something on its own.

“This is ridiculous,” Lord Varic said, glancing at the ledgers as if they offended him by existing. “I had merchants waiting.”

Lady Maylis' smile was thin. “We all did.”

Eris leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over its carved back, the picture of lazy superiority. “Then you should tell them to learn patience,” he drawled. “It’s a virtue.”

A few faces tightened at that. A few hands curled around chair arms.

Good.

Let them remember the monster they expected. Let them assume he was bored, not hunting. Let them forget to watch his eyes.

The scribe opened the first ledger and began reading the usual lines aloud—tariff intake, redistribution, patrol allocations. The steward of tariffs watched with the glazed acceptance of a man who’d learned long ago that numbers were less dangerous than names.

For a handful of minutes, it was exactly what it was supposed to be.

Then the scribe paused.

Not dramatically. Not enough to be theatrical. Just long enough for a room of predators to notice a hesitation in prey.

Her quill hovered.

Lady Maylis' gaze sharpened. Her ringed fingers stilled on the table.

Lord Varic didn’t lift his head, but his attention leaned forward like a knife. “Continue,” he said, too casual.

The scribe swallowed. “There’s… a margin note.”

The steward of tariffs made a sound of irritation. “Scribes make notes constantly.”

Lady Maylis didn’t look at him. “Read it.”

The scribe’s eyes flicked down again. Her throat bobbed. “ ‘Adjusted per discretionary authority.’ ”

Silence.

Not the polite kind.

The kind that gathers weight.

“Whose authority,” Varic asked softly.

The steward’s gaze snapped to the page. “That could refer to—”

Eris leaned in a fraction, brows lifting with what looked like faint irritation, faint surprise. “If you’re implying it’s mine,” he said dryly, “I assure you my indulgences are far more expensive than ledger ink.”

A few of them huffed a laugh—sharp, nervous.

But Lady Maylis' eyes didn’t leave the page. “Turn it,” she ordered.

The scribe hesitated. Then flipped.

More columns. More red ink. More neat, official lines.

And then the second hairline crack appeared.

The scribe’s voice slowed. “Estate revenue—House Varic.” She read a set of figures, then another. Then paused again, her eyes narrowing as if the numbers had insulted her.

Lord Varic's smile thinned. “What.”

The scribe read, careful now. “The recorded intake is consistent with last quarter. But the payment line is… reduced.”

Varic's gaze sharpened. “Reduced by how much.”

The scribe hesitated, then said it anyway. “Enough that it isn’t a rounding error.”

A faint pulse moved through the room, attention snapping awake.

Maylis leaned forward and reached for the ledger without asking permission. Her fingers—ringed, elegant—were suddenly very steady. She skimmed, lips moving silently as she tracked the lines herself.

Varic snatched for it next, too fast to keep grace in the motion. His thumb dragged down the column. Stopped. Dragged again.

His knuckles went pale.

“That’s wrong,” he said.

The steward of tariffs cleared his throat. “My lord, perhaps there was a correction, a delay—”

Eris let his expression sharpen into shared outrage. “A delay?” he repeated, as if offended on Varic's behalf. “Do you know what happens when a lord’s payments ‘delay’ in Autumn?”

A few eyes flicked to him.

Eris’s mouth curved into a cold approximation of humor. “He looks weak.”

He made it sound like a simple truth. The kind men protected with blood.

Varic's eyes flashed, the insult landing exactly where Eris wanted it.

Maylis didn’t look up from the page. “There’s a corresponding increase elsewhere,” she murmured.

The guild liaison stiffened. “Where.”

Maylis' finger tapped a line item. “Discretionary security.”

The ink-stained male let out a small sound, half disbelief. “That’s court security.”

Maylis' eyes lifted at last. “Is it,” she asked softly, and the question was a blade.

Eris kept his face bored, kept his posture loose, but inside he watched the doubt bloom, petal by petal. Not planted as accusation. Grown as conclusion.

The scribe turned another page as if trying to escape the tension.

The third crack appeared.

“A tariff adjustment,” she read, voice tighter. “Guild levy—merchant quarter.”

The guild liaison straightened, pleased to return to familiar ground. “That should be—”

The scribe paused again.

Eris felt the room tighten, the way hunters smelled blood before it spilled.

The scribe said slowly, “The levy is… revised. Lowered.”

The guild liaison blinked. “Lowered? For whom.”

The scribe’s eyes tracked down the line. “For shipments routed through—” She hesitated. “Forest House lanes.”

A sharp inhale.

Not outrage yet. Just the first flicker of alarm.

The liaison’s mouth opened, then closed. “That doesn’t—those lanes aren’t exempt.”

Maylis leaned back, eyes half-lidded, calculating. “Unless someone wrote them as exempt.”

Varic's voice went low. “That benefits—”

He stopped himself before he could say Beron.

Eris lifted his brows in mild disinterest, as if he’d heard nothing worth remembering. “Benefits whom,” he prompted lightly, the way a bored prince might coax a pet into doing a trick.

The liaison swallowed. “It benefits… the crown.”

Eris nodded, satisfied. “How charitable.”

The words were nothing. A flick. A harmless remark.

And yet it landed.

Because the room did the math.

Lower guild levy meant less paid out. Less paid out meant more retained. More retained meant someone deciding where that excess went, quietly, legally, on paper.

And in Autumn, “legally” meant “whatever Beron signed.”

The scribe shifted, uncomfortable now, but she kept reading—because in this court you did not stop a train once it began moving.

The fourth crack arrived disguised as a misfile.

The scribe frowned at a loose customs note tucked between pages like it had been shoved there in haste. “This… shouldn’t be here.”

Lady Maelis’s gaze snapped. “Read it.”

The scribe hesitated. “It’s a tax exemption note.”

Varric leaned forward. “For what.”

The scribe’s eyes skimmed. “For House Maylis.”

Maylis went very still.

The room went too quiet.

The scribe continued, voice careful. “It indicates an exemption granted on ashwood shipments at the western checkpoint.”

Lady Maylis' eyes flicked once—sharp, disbelieving. “I don’t have ashwood shipments through the western checkpoint.”

Varic's mouth curled. “So someone used your name.”

Maelis’s gaze didn’t leave the paper. “And someone else paid for it.”

Eris let the room fill in the rest:

We assumed it was us paying the cost of the court.

We didn’t consider the court was choosing who paid more, and who paid nothing at all.

The scribe set the note down like it might burn her fingers.

Varric snatched it up, scanning with quick, angry precision. “This isn’t a mistake,” he said.

The steward of tariffs looked ill. “My lords, these ledgers—these packets—there are many hands, clerks—”

“Hands,” Maylis repeated, voice soft as silk. “Yes. Many hands.”

Her eyes slid, almost casually, to Eris.

Not suspicion. Not yet.

Assessment.

Eris gave her exactly what she wanted to see: irritation, displeasure. The expression of a prince inconvenienced by other people’s incompetence.

He let his gaze flick to the steward with cool distaste. “If my father’s clerks can’t keep one set of books clean,” he said, “then someone should start cutting fingers.”

A few of the lords made low sounds of agreement.

Because that was the language they spoke.

Because cruelty felt like control.

Because if Eris sounded outraged, it made him familiar—a fellow victim of “mismanagement,” not the architect of the discovery.

Another Lord's fingers curled on the table. “I want audits.”

The steward flinched. “Audits require—”

“Approval,” Varric snapped. “Which is the problem, isn’t it?”

Maylis' smile sharpened. “If you request an audit, you announce you’ve noticed. And then you become… inconvenient.”

The ink-stained male whispered, almost to himself, “He’ll make examples.”

And there it was.

Fear, no longer abstract. No longer for someone else.

Fear with teeth.

Eris let his expression darken, as if thinking the same, as if offended by it.

He leaned forward slightly, voice low, conspiratorial without being intimate. “You’re all very quick to panic,” he drawled. “It could be nothing.”

Maylis' eyes narrowed. “Could it.”

Eris shrugged. “Autumn’s bureaucracy is a beast,” he said lightly. “Sometimes it bites the wrong hand.”

A plausible line.

But it planted something worse:

If it can bite the wrong hand, it can bite yours.

Varric stared at the note, then at the ledger, then at Maylis'. “If he’s been diverting, then he’s been—”

“Lying,” Maelis murmured, the word soft as silk and twice as lethal.

The guild liaison went pale. “Diverting it to where?”

No one answered at first—because saying it out loud made it accusation, not arithmetic.

Eris tipped his head, as if bored by how obvious it all was. “To himself,” he said lightly. “To whatever suits him this week.”

Maelis’s eyes narrowed. “He told us—”

“He told you,” Eris cut in, tone edged with mild amusement, “that your interests and his were the same thing. Convenient, isn’t it? You fund his preferences, and he calls it stability.”

Varric’s jaw tightened. “He acted like he was protecting our houses.”

Eris’s mouth curved, nothing like a smile. “He was,” he drawled. From the consequences of his own greed. He kept you just comfortable enough to keep cheering, and just uncertain enough to keep obeying.”

The room held its breath.

Because it wasn’t a dramatic revelation. It was worse.

It was recognizable. A pattern they’d lived inside and called normal, until the numbers named it.

And then Maylis did something Eris hadn’t even had to prompt.

She reached out and pulled the second ledger closer. Not waiting for the scribe. Not asking permission. Just taking. She flipped pages with quick, controlled motions.

Varric followed suit, yanking a packet toward himself.

Another lord grabbed the customs note and began tracing the stamp, the date, the signature.

The guild liaison snatched a tariff schedule, scanning for revisions.

The room turned into exactly what Eris needed it to become: a nest of vipers discovering that the hand feeding them had been holding them by the throat.

Eris sat back and watched them shred their own certainty.

He let his face reflect the right emotion at the right moments: irritation at incompetence, disgust at sloppiness, a flicker of anger that looked like shared offense.

He became a mirror for their outrage.

“Look at this,” Varic hissed suddenly, voice sharp. “This withdrawal—my estate revenues—this was never approved.”

Maylis snapped, “Of course it wasn’t approved. If it were approved, it would be recorded properly.”

Someone else's voice went raw. “I paid extra because someone used your name.”

Maelis’s smile was razor-thin. “How flattering.”

Maelis’s gaze found Eris again, sharper now. “You didn’t notice this before.”

Eris met her look blandly. “I don’t run these offices,” he said. “I’m merely forced to attend meetings that make me want to stab myself for sport.”

Varric barked a short laugh. “If this is real, then someone is rewriting distribution schedules.”

Maelis’s voice went low. “Someone has been doing it for a long time.”

The steward’s face was damp with sweat now. “My lords, I swear—”

Eris’s eyes flicked to him, bored and bright. “Swearing is for priests,” he said. “Bring evidence.”

And the beautiful thing was, they would.

Because now they were looking.

Now they would pull their own books. Compare their own numbers. Quietly, carefully, like men checking the locks on their doors after hearing the first scream in the night.

Eris rose at last, smoothing his sleeve as if the room hadn’t just shifted on its axis.

Lady Maylis' head snapped up. “Leaving?”

Eris’s mouth curved faintly. Not a smile. A suggestion. “You’re all capable of reading without me,” he drawled. “Try not to choke on the ink.”

He didn’t have to say: He’s been using you.

They said it to themselves.

He didn’t have to say: He will sacrifice you the moment you stop being useful.

They’d seen it.

He didn’t have to say: Stand with him and you’ll drown with him.

They were already tasting the water.

Eris left the room with the same unhurried pace he used at dinners, at councils, at executions—anywhere people watched him like they were waiting for proof he was exactly what his name implied.

Behind him, it began.

Suspicion blooming, not because Eris planted it, but because it had been waiting in them, dormant, and all he had done was scrape away the covering.

Good.

Let them rot from the inside.

Let them turn on each other.

Let Beron feel his own house becoming less obedient, less certain, less eager to light themselves on fire to keep him warm.

⸻

Hallen’s conservatory smelled like damp earth and bitter green.

Plants climbed trellises near the glass panes, their leaves skeletal in winter’s grasp but still alive—stubborn things that refused to die even when the world made it inconvenient. Eris understood that kind of life. It was the sort that survived on spite.

Lord Hallen waited near the central table, hands clasped behind his back, posture too still. Lady Soryn stood by the window, gaze fixed on the forest beyond as if she expected Beron’s guards to emerge from the trees any moment. Lord Ralwyn—younger than the other two and sharper in his ambition—leaned against a pillar with the restlessness of a blade not yet used.

They looked at Eris when he entered.

Not with respect.

With calculation.

They had come because of what had been said in their last meeting, the same quiet, ugly arithmetic Eris had laid on the table then: Beron’s “proof” wouldn’t be made by one hand. It would be a chain. Outposts. Intermediaries. People whose names never reached the palace, but whose ink could ruin a life.

They’d listened, not because Eris asked, but because she had.

Because she had already been doing the work in their territories, quietly, stubbornly, without demanding gratitude.

And now there were rumors.

Rumors that she’d been “questioned.”

Rumors that Beron’s patience had finally curdled into flame.

That was why Hallen’s hands were clasped so tightly behind his back. Why Soryn’s gaze kept cutting to the trees. Why Ralwyn’s restless energy felt like a match struck and held too long.

Hallen inclined his head. “Prince.”

Eris offered a shallow nod. “Lord Hallen.”

Lady Soryn’s gaze flicked to him, cool, assessing. “You look… unchanged.”

Eris’s mouth curved. “Disappointing, I’m sure.”

Ralwyn snorted softly. “We expected more blood.”

Eris’s eyes sharpened. “If I wanted blood, I wouldn’t have come alone.”

A beat of silence. The tension didn’t ease. It never did with people who’d learned that trust was a luxury Beron punished.

Hallen gestured to the table where a map lay unfurled—Autumn’s territories, marked with pins and ink notes, careful circles around toll roads and outposts. The same map as last time, but altered now. Cleaner. Straighter. Less cluttered by Beron’s reach.

Ralwyn tapped a pin near the eastern ridge. “We’ve done what you asked.”

Eris stepped closer, gaze sweeping the map. “Restationing.”

Lady Soryn nodded once. “Quietly.”

Hallen’s voice was low. “The ones who stamp. The ones who copy seals. The ones who ‘audit’ and collect payments that never reach the crown books. We’ve begun moving them out of their posts.”

Eris’s gaze flicked to him. “And replacing them with—”

“With people who don’t answer to Beron,” Ralwyn finished. “Or at least not directly.”

Eris’s fingers hovered over the map, tracing the routes Beron’s influence used like arteries: guild offices, border keeps, toll gates. It was working. Slowly. Carefully. A cutting without a scream.

He should have felt satisfaction.

Instead, something twisted, tight and sharp behind his ribs—because he could see the pattern in the places that had shifted fastest. Villages that had been fed in lean winters because someone had quietly redirected grain. Outposts spared the worst “routine audits” because someone had made auditors afraid of consequences.

Her territories. Her influence. Her work.

Even locked behind nullstone, she was still moving pieces, because she’d built trust that didn’t die just because Beron wanted it to.

Eris’s jaw tightened.

Hallen watched him closely. “We’re doing it,” the old lord said, “because we’ve seen what she did.”

There it was.

Not because Eris demanded it.

Not because Beron could be toppled.

Because she had been good to them, and they’d learned that goodness came at a price, and they were unwilling to pay it with her life.

Lady Soryn’s voice softened by a hair. “Word reached my steward this morning,” she said, gaze still on the trees. “That Emberward was… active.”

Eris didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to. But the bond, faint and muffled, seemed to tighten like a thread pulled too suddenly.

Ralwyn’s mouth went hard. “They’re saying she didn’t scream.”

Eris’s fingers curled at his sides, hidden by his sleeves. He forced his voice to remain smooth. “She’s always been stubborn.”

Soryn’s eyes flicked to him. “Stubborn doesn’t stop flame.”

“No,” Eris agreed quietly. “It only decides what it will not give him.”

A pause. Then Hallen’s hand landed on the map, firm, decisive. “Our territories are cleaner than they’ve been in years,” he said. “His men are being reassigned. His intermediaries are finding doors shut. We’ve made it difficult for his coin to travel without someone noticing.”

Eris lifted his gaze. “And when the time comes?”

Ralwyn’s expression sharpened into something like grim anticipation. “We’ll back you,” he said. Not warmly. Not loyally. Like a man placing a blade into a hand and accepting that it might cut. “Not because you’re Beron’s son. Because you’re the only one close enough to kill him without burning the court down first.”

Soryn added, softer, “And because she believed the countryside could be more than a graveyard with pretty leaves.”

He forced himself to speak, voice controlled. “Keep moving them,” he said. “If Beron’s chain is cut at the outposts, his forged proof becomes… sluggish.”

Hallen nodded. “We know.”

Lady Soryn’s gaze narrowed. “The accelerated timeline complicates things.”

Eris’s eyes sharpened. “Yes.”

Ralwyn leaned forward slightly. “Three days.”

Eris’s mouth curved into something cold. “He’s proud of himself.”

Hallen’s voice was quiet. “And you.”

Eris looked at him.

Hallen didn’t blink. “Where do you stand in that spectacle, Prince.”

The question wasn’t curiosity. It was a test.

Are you complicit.

Are you the blade.

Are you Beron in different clothing.

Eris forced his expression into bored contempt. “Where my father tells me,” he said lightly. “As always.”

Soryn’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not an answer.”

Eris’s smile sharpened. “It’s the only one you’ll get.”

Ralwyn’s mouth curled. “We’ll keep moving pieces. Quietly.”

Hallen’s gaze held Eris’s. “Don’t waste what she built,” he said simply.

The words hit Eris harder than a threat.

Don’t waste what she built, as if her work belonged to the court now, a thing to be inherited, not a thing she was bleeding for in a frozen room.

Eris inclined his head once, slow. “I won’t,” he said, voice low enough that it almost sounded like truth rather than promise.

He left the conservatory without looking back.

⸻

The road toward Spring cut through Autumn like an old scar—half-healed, still tender if you pressed too hard.

And because the gods had a particular sense of cruelty, his mind kept returning to Jesminda.

Eris didn’t like thinking about her.

Not because she had been insignificant.

Because she had been… too significant.

Jesminda had been one of the few things Autumn’s smallfolk had ever loved without reservation—because she had loved them back. Because she had been one of them and still dared to want something more. Because she had laughed like hunger couldn’t touch her. Because she’d looked at the world and refused to accept that suffering was the natural order.

And because Beron had killed her for it.

Her name had become a prayer and a bitter curse in the same breath, whispered over seed sacks and graves. Years later, it still lingered in the countryside like smoke after a fire: sharp, stubborn, impossible to scrub out of the air.

And Lucien—

Lucien had been the only Vanserra the smallfolk had ever looked at and believed might have been different.

Even now, stories clung to him. Not gentle ones. Jagged ones. How he had run. How he had been chased. How he had wept. How he had crossed borders with grief still wet on his face.

Some blamed him. Of course they did. Blame was easier than helplessness. Easier than admitting Beron’s cruelty was a weather system, and they were all just trying not to drown in it.

But even the ones who spat Lucien’s name did it with something complicated behind their eyes, because they had seen love in him once. And love, in Autumn, was so rare it looked like a miracle.

That was why Eris needed him.

Not because Eris wanted reconciliation. Not because he wanted forgiveness.

Because Eris was poison to the smallfolk.

And Lucien… Lucien was a wound.

A wound people remembered.

A wound people believed.

Because everyone would assume Lucien would rather choke than lend Eris anything. Because Lucien’s grief was the only Vanserra story the countryside had ever carried like truth.

Eris hated that he needed it.

He hated that the only way to reach the people Beron had been starving for decades was to drag an old ghost out of his brother’s chest and ask it to stand in the light.

But he did not have room for pride.

He’d reached out to Night the previous day.

Not openly, never that. A message slipped along the quiet channels that didn’t leave ink trails, carried by someone who knew how to be invisible and still be heard.

They hadn’t liked it. He’d felt the hesitation in every clipped reply, the way the Night Court’s patience thinned at the words Autumn and Vanserra and Lucien. But Eris had made it plain: the timeline had accelerated—three days, not a week—and if they truly wanted Beron gone, then Lucien wasn’t optional. Lucien was the bridge. The one voice the smallfolk might actually listen to, the one name that could lend weight to Eris’s moves without exposing everything else.

So they relented.

Not happily. Not warmly.

But enough.

Enough to put Eris on a road toward Spring with a meeting waiting somewhere ahead, and the sick certainty that if Lucien walked away, this entire plan would bleed out in the mud before it ever reached Beron’s throat.

⸻

The clearing waited, moonlit and silent. The wind smelled of dry leaves and distant rain.

Lucien was already there.

He stood with his back to a tree, posture loose but ready, as if he expected an attack and had prepared to die angrily. His red hair was longer than Eris remembered, his face leaner, his metal eye catching moonlight like a warning.

He stared at Eris like Eris was a ghost he’d refused to mourn.

“You have nerve,” Lucien said.

It had been a while since Eris had last seen his younger brother close enough to count the new lines carved into him.

Lucien looked older. Not in years, but in the way the world sat on his shoulders now, like he’d been wearing its weight for too long and had stopped expecting anyone to help him carry it. Leaner, too. Less court-fed. Less softness in the face, less shine to the hair. As if Spring’s sun and Night’s darkness and whatever hell he’d stitched himself into had scraped him down to the essentials and left him there.

He stood like a male who slept with one ear open.

Eris hated that his eyes did the accounting anyway—habit as much as instinct. The way he always catalogued injury and advantage and weakness. Lucien’s shoulders were set right, but there was tension in the left, a fraction too high, the kind that came from favoring an old wound.

A small, infuriating part of Eris noticed that Lucien looked healthy enough to stand tall. That he wasn’t trembling. That he wasn’t starving.

As if that mattered.

As if Eris was allowed to care.

He smothered it, let the familiar mask settle back into place—lazy, cruel, untouchable—and only then did his mouth curve.

“I’ve always had nerve.”

Moonlight caught on Lucien’s metal eye, gold flashing. “And you’ve always had excuses,” he said, voice low. “So let’s hear today’s.”

Eris gave a quiet huff that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so sharp. He let his gaze rake over Lucien, cloak, sword, the careful way he carried himself now, as if he’d learned to live without any court’s permission.

“Well,” Eris drawled, “look at you.”

Lucien didn’t smile. “Don’t.”

Eris tipped his head, feigning mild curiosity. “No entourage. No little gaggle of misfits hovering in the trees to leap out and die dramatically on your behalf.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Say what you’re trying to say.”

Eris’s eyes glinted. “I’m saying you’ve either gotten braver… or you’ve finally realized your band of exiles is less an army and more a traveling tragedy.”

Lucien’s lips pulled back, not quite a snarl. “Careful.”

Eris’s smile sharpened. “Oh, I am. I just didn’t think you were capable of it.”

Lucien’s gaze went flint-hard. “Why am I here.”

Eris leaned back against the tower step again, posture lazy as sin. “You always were impatient.”

Lucien’s eyes flashed. “You sent for me.”

“I sent for you,” Eris corrected, “because I’m in a charitable mood.”

Lucien let out a short laugh that held no humor. “Eris.”

Eris’s expression sharpened. “Fine,” he said, letting boredom peel away enough to show the edge beneath. “I need something.”

Lucien’s shoulders went still. “Of course you do.”

Eris’s gaze flicked to Lucien’s metal eye, then back to the living one. “I’m finally making my move,” he said.

Lucien’s mouth tightened. “Against Beron.”

Eris didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

Lucien’s laugh was sharper. “Now.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “Timing is everything.”

“Timing is suspicious,” Lucien snapped. “Timing is you realizing the wind is changing and wanting to be on the side that doesn’t drown.”

Eris’s mouth curved. “You think I drown easily.”

Lucien stepped closer, just enough to press the space between them. “I think you do what you have to do,” he said, voice low. “And I think you call it duty so you can sleep.”

Eris’s smile faltered for half a heartbeat, so fast it was almost nothing.

Then it returned, crueler. “Sleep,” he echoed. “What a charming concept. Tell me how it feels.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Why reach out to me.”

“Beron is moving,” Eris said.

Lucien barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Beron always moves.”

“He’s moving faster,” Eris corrected.

Lucien’s mouth tightened. “And you want me to come back. To stand in that court again. To breathe his air.”

“I want you to help me,” Eris said simply.

Lucien stared.

Then his mouth twisted. “Help you do what? Polish your crown? Collect another favor from Rhysand? Tell me brother, " he spat as a curse, "what are you trying to buy this time?”

Eris’s expression stayed mild. “Trust,” he said.

Lucien went still.

Eris continued, voice calm, controlled, deadly. “The countryfolk don’t trust me. They know my reputation. They know the mask. They know what I’ve let the court believe.”

Lucien’s laugh came again, bitter. “Oh, the poor heir. No one trusts him. Must be unbearable.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed, a flash of real annoyance. “You think I’m asking because I care about being liked?” Eris drawled. “I’m asking because Beron’s case is built on desperate mouths saying whatever coin teaches them to say.”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened.

“I need farmers who won’t fold,” Eris said. “I need witnesses who won’t sell their stories for a warm winter coat. And I need someone they might listen to.”

Eris watched him, then added, too casually, “They look at me and see Beron.”

Lucien’s lips parted slightly—surprise, maybe. Then his expression hardened. “And they’re wrong?”

Eris’s gaze sharpened. “They’re not wrong to fear me.”

“You’re asking me,” Lucien said slowly, “to stand in that court and vouch for you.”

Eris didn’t correct him.

Lucien’s eye flicked, furious. “And why would I do that?”

“Because you still hate him,” Eris said.

Eris leaned in a fraction, voice lowering. “Because you still remember what he did. And because if you don’t help me now, he’ll keep doing it. To farmers. To minor houses. To any woman who doesn’t bow deeply enough.”

Lucien’s expression twisted. “And what makes you think you’re different? What makes you think you’ll actually end him?”

Eris held his gaze.

He could tell him. He could say: Because she is in a cell built to starve her flame. Because he threatened Mother. Because my mate is being broken in front of my eyes and I’m swallowing it like poison.

He didn’t.

“Because I’m tired,” he said simply. “And because I have leverage he doesn’t see coming.”

Lucien’s face went hard. “You always talk in riddles.”

Eris exhaled, slow. “I want you to speak to them,” he said. “The toll clerks. The outpost workers. The farmers.”

Lucien’s laughter burst out, bitter and disbelieving. “No.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I don’t need to,” Lucien snapped. “You want me to go back to Autumn and tell people to trust you.”

Eris’s voice stayed mild. “Yes.”

Lucien stepped forward sharply, anger flaring like flame. “No.”

Eris’s smile remained in place, but his eyes went colder. “You don’t understand what’s happening.”

Lucien’s laugh was sharp. “I understand exactly what’s happening. You’re finally tired of Beron’s leash and you want me to hand you a new one.”

Eris’s jaw ticked. “That’s not—”

Lucien cut him off. “Don’t. Don’t stand there and pretend you’ve suddenly grown a conscience.”

Eris’s throat tightened once. He forced it down.

“Do you know why I need you?” Eris asked, letting the question cut.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “To make you look better.”

Eris’s smile was thin. “Partly.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched. “And the rest.”

Eris let his gaze drift toward the trees, to the shadowy figures listening without listening. He lowered his voice, not for secrecy, but because some truths tasted wrong when spoken too loudly.

“Because no one believes me,” Eris said. “And they might believe you.”

Lucien stared at him.

Eris forced the next sentence out with a carelessness that did not match the way it scraped him raw. “And because you loved her.”

Lucien froze.

The world went very quiet.

Lucien’s voice, when it came, was soft. “Don’t.”

Eris’s smile tightened. “Don’t what.”

Lucien’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare say her name.” he said viciously.

Eris’s jaw clenched. He forced it loose. “Why,” he asked lightly, “does it still hurt, little brother.”

Lucien's moved—not to his sword.

Fast.

A fist curling like it had been waiting years for permission, shoulder rolling forward with the clean, brutal intent of a punch meant to shut a mouth forever. He took one step into Eris’s space, the motion all heat and old grief.

Then Lucien’s fingers flexed once, hard, as if he were crushing the urge in his own palm.

He lowered his fist.

Slow.

Like it cost him.

Lucien’s voice went cold. “You don’t get to use her.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not using her.”

Lucien laughed, bitter. “Yes, you are.”

Eris’s mouth curved. “You think everything is about you.”

Lucien stepped closer, anger snapping. “Don’t think I don’t remember,” he hissed. “You and your brothers chasing me, chasing Feyre, through Autumn like we were prey. You may not have been the one to hold me down when she—”

His voice caught, just a fracture, quickly repaired into rage.

“But it doesn’t excuse you,” Lucien finished, eyes burning. “And after all of that you expect me to believe you have pure intentions.”

Eris went still.

Not because the accusation was new.

Because the word excuse clawed at something in him that had never healed.

Lucien didn’t waver. “You want me to go back,” he said, voice sharp. “You want me to stand in front of the smallfolk and tell them to trust you. You want me to walk back into the place that killed her, and you expect me to do it because you asked.”

Eris’s mouth tightened into something that could have been a smile if it weren’t so sharp. “I never ask nicely.”

Lucien’s laugh was harsh. “No. You don’t.”

Eris inhaled slowly.

He did not want to say it.

Because it sounded like defense. Because it sounded like pleading.

But he needed Lucien.

Eris’s voice went low. “I wasn’t there.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

Eris’s gaze hardened. “I said I wasn’t there.”

Lucien’s jaw clenched. “You were in the court.”

Eris’s fingers curled. “I refused.”

Silence slammed down like a door.

Lucien blinked once. “What.”

Eris’s mouth curved, bitter. “You heard me. When they demanded I participate, I refused.”

Lucien stared at him, disbelief flickering sharp. “You’re lying.”

Eris’s smile turned crueler. “Why would I lie about that. It makes me look weak.”

Lucien’s metal eye whirred softly, as if recalibrating.

Eris’s voice remained flat. “It was the first and only time I denied Beron anything.”

Lucien’s breath caught.

Eris didn’t soften. He couldn’t, not here, not with witnesses, not with a lifetime of knives between them.

“He... punished me,” Eris continued, like he was discussing weather. “Kept me caged. By the time I was free, it was… done.”

Lucien’s face went pale. “You expect me to believe you were punished.”

Eris’s eyes sharpened. “Do you think Beron enjoys disobedience.”

Lucien’s mouth tightened. “And Tamlin.”

Eris’s jaw ticked. “They were going to kill you too,” he said, voice low. “I made sure they didn’t.”

Lucien’s gaze snapped, fierce. “How.”

Eris exhaled, slow. “I sent word,” he said. “Anonymously. Told Tamlin to get to his border before there was nothing left to retrieve.”

Lucien stared at him like he was seeing a stranger.

Eris’s smile was thin and ugly. “I’ve never liked you much,” he added, because sincerity tasted wrong. “But I didn’t want you dead.”

Lucien’s eyes shimmered with something that wasn’t quite tears and wasn’t quite rage. “Why tell me now.”

Eris’s gaze went cold. “Because I need you to stop being a romantic tragedy and start being useful.”

Lucien’s laugh broke out, sharp, disbelieving, wounded. “You’re unbelievable.”

Eris’s smile held. “Yes.”

Lucien’s voice turned harsh. “Even if that’s true—even if you refused—what am I supposed to do with that.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “Believe me.”

Lucien shook his head once, hard. “You don’t get to ask that.”

Eris’s jaw clenched.

He could feel the bridge collapsing again.

He could feel time slipping.

Lucien’s face hardened. “I’m not going back,” he said. “I’m not walking into Autumn to be used as your shield.”

Eris’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t about shielding me.”

Lucien’s eyes flashed. “It’s always about shielding you. You always survive. You always land on your feet.”

Eris’s laugh was quiet and ugly. “Do I.”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t.”

Eris stepped closer, voice low. “You think I survive because I’m lucky,” he murmured. “I survive because I learned early that the only way to keep breathing in that house is to become something he enjoys.”

Lucien flinched, just once, small, involuntary.

Eris saw it.

Hated himself for wanting it to matter.

Lucien’s voice went quiet. “And you want me to trust that.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed. “I want you to understand that if Beron remains, there will be no safe border. No exile far enough. No court untouched. He will keep starving the countryside until desperation is currency and obedience is the only meal.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Then let the High Lords handle it.”

Eris smiled, cold. “They won’t. Not fast enough. Not clean enough. And not before three days.”

Lucien stilled. “Three days.”

Eris’s throat tightened.

He hadn’t meant to say it.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in three days.”

Eris’s mouth curved faintly. “An execution.”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “Whose.”

Eris’s pulse stuttered. A careless mistake.

Eris swallowed hard. “A noblewoman,” he said lightly, too lightly. “One my father has decided will make a useful lesson.”

The instant it left his mouth, he regretted it.

Because Eris never volunteered details unless they mattered. And Lucien had always been annoyingly good at hearing what Eris didn’t say.

Lucien’s eye flashed. “Who?”

Eris’s jaw ticked. He made his expression bored. Made his voice dismissive. “It doesn’t matter.”

Lucien’s mouth tightened, weighing the lie and finding it wanting. “So this is why.”

Eris’s gaze sharpened, a warning. “It’s part of why.”

Lucien laughed once, harsh. “You’re trying to save her.”

Eris felt heat crawl up his spine—rage, yes, and that sharp flare of panic at being seen too clearly. He forced it down, forced his mouth into something colder.

“I’m trying to topple Beron,” Eris said.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “And she’s collateral.”

Eris’s smile sharpened. “No.”

Lucien took a step closer, anger flaring fast. “Then what is she to you?”

Eris held his gaze.

Idiot, he thought, at himself. At his own mouth. At the way one careless phrase had opened a door.

Lucien didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

He just watched Eris the way you watched a liar decide which lie to choose, already certain there was something underneath worth dragging into the light.

Eris chose silence.

Lucien’s eyes widened slightly, something dawning.

Then, before Eris could clamp down on it, before he could say anything but the truth, the bond struck.

Not a gentle pulse.

Not a steady, quiet hold.

Pain.

A sharp, sudden lance drove straight through Eris’s chest like a blade pushed between ribs and twisted.

His breath hitched.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t let himself move.

He forced his face into blankness. Forced his spine upright. Forced the first dull swell of panic down the back of his throat and swallowed it like poison.

A flicker, too sharp to be his own. Too foreign.

Lucien’s gaze sharpened instantly. “Eris.”

Eris’s mouth curved, brittle. “Don’t.”

Lucien took a step closer. “What was that.”

“Nothing,” Eris said, and put a clean edge on it—dismissal as armor, as if he hadn’t gone pale.

But his pulse had already turned traitor.

Because the pain wasn’t simply pain.

It had temperature.

It had that engineered, nullstone-cold bite that lived in Emberward’s walls and nowhere else.

Eris straightened a fraction more, the movement stiff, controlled. “We’re done,” he said, voice smooth as steel. He turned on his heel like the conversation bored him, like his chest hadn’t just been cored out by something that didn’t belong to him.

Lucien’s hand shot out and caught his arm.

Not hard.

Not gentle either.

Just firm enough to stop him.

Eris froze at the contact, because touch was dangerous right now. Touch made things real. Touch made it easier to crack.

Lucien’s eye narrowed. “You don’t get to say what you said and walk away mid-sentence.”

Eris’s laugh was thin, nearly soundless. “Watch me.”

He tried to wrench free.

The bond snapped taut.

Not a flicker this time. A full, brutal surge, hot and wrong, like someone had hooked a chain under Eris’s ribs and yanked.

Pain detonated through him so bright it stole his vision.

Eris’s knees hit the ground before he realized he’d fallen.

Stone bit into his kneecaps. Cold seeped through fabric. He barely felt it.

His hand flew to his chest, clawing at his coat, fingers curling hard enough to bruise, as if he could hold the tether in place through sheer force. As if he could anchor her with his hands.

Air refused to enter his lungs.

The world narrowed to white.

To fire.

To her.

He tasted copper. His jaw clenched so hard it ached. A sound tore out of him—sharp, broken, nothing he would ever admit to making.

Lucien dropped into a crouch. “Eris?” Shock sliced straight through his anger. “What is wrong with you?”

Eris tried to answer. Tried to breathe.

Another wave hit, longer, sustained, cruel in its patience. Like flame held to skin. Like someone taking their time because they knew she wouldn’t give them a sound.

Eris’s fingers spasmed. He dug them into the earth, trying to make himself solid. Trying to keep his body from shattering into instinct.

He shoved his will across the bond like slamming his palm against a locked door.

Hold. Look at me. Breathe.

Nothing coherent came back.

Only sensation: cold, then heat; pain, then worse; a twist of magic that wasn’t hers.

Eris’s stomach rolled. He gagged on air that wouldn’t fill his lungs.

“Stop,” he rasped, whether to the bond, to Beron, to fate itself. “Stop—”

Lucien’s hands hovered, uncertain now. “Eris—”

Eris’s teeth clicked once.

He’d been so careful. So meticulous. Moving pieces like a patient man, counting days like they were his to spend.

And she was there.

In Emberward.

While he was here.

Playing politics with a brother he hadn’t spoken to properly in years.

Self-loathing poured through him, thick and vicious. He’d been proud of his distance, proud of how cleanly he could compartmentalize.

Now the distance felt like a crime.

Lucien’s voice sharpened. “You’re hurt.”

Eris managed a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been scraped raw. “If I were hurt,” he breathed, “you’d already be bored.”

He tried to push up.

A third spike hit, sudden and violent, like something hooked under his ribs and yanked again.

Eris lurched, breath breaking. His forehead nearly struck the stone. His hand stayed locked to his chest like a man trying to keep his heart from being ripped out.

“Beron,” he got out, the name harsh as blood in his mouth.

Lucien went still. “Beron did this?”

Eris couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think.

He reached again across the bond, frantic now, shoving, clawing, searching.

Answer me.

Just give me something.

But there was no flicker. No reassuring pulse. No quiet press of her steadiness.

Only the relentless truth of pain and the dulling smother of dampeners, like something thick shoved between them, choking the tether until even her presence felt muffled.

Not gone.

Not clear.

Just blurred, fading at the edges like smoke in rain.

Eris’s throat closed.

“Don’t,” he breathed, and hated the tremor in it.

Another wrench hit, and this one wasn’t pain, not exactly.

Strain.

Like the bond itself was being stretched thin and held there, pulled taut between two fists. Like someone was testing how far they could drag her away from him before something snapped.

Eris convulsed. His fist tightened in his coat so hard the seam popped under his fingers.

He shoved his will across the tether with everything he had, dragging at that thin thread like pulling someone from a riptide.

I’m here. I’m here.

Nothing.

No word. No steady warmth. Not even anger.

Just a suffocating blankness pressed over her side of the bond, as if the very air around her had been turned into stone.

Eris’s eyes flew open, wild.

Lucien’s gaze flicked over Eris’s face, catching every fracture he could no longer plaster shut. Then, like a blade being drawn slow and sure, understanding slid into place.

“That’s not your pain,” Lucien said quietly.

Eris didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Lucien’s voice tightened. “Whose is it?”

Eris’s lips peeled back from his teeth. He should have lied. He should have cut Lucien down with some pretty cruelty and left.

But the tether shuddered again—thin, strained, wrong—and something inside him went feral.

He lifted his head, eyes bright with something he would have rather died than let Lucien see.

“My mate,” Eris rasped. The words tore out of him like confession and curse. “It’s my—”

Lucien froze.

Even the forest seemed to still.

“What,” Lucien said, as if the word hurt.

Eris swallowed hard, throat raw. “Don’t look so surprised,” he forced out, voice shaking around rage that had nowhere to go. “Fate has always had a sick sense of humor.”

Lucien’s mouth parted, then tightened. “Where is she.”

Eris’s laugh was ruined. “In his hands.”

Lucien went pale. “Beron.”

Eris’s gaze went distant again—not from strategy, not from calculation, but because the bond shifted.

Not a clean ebb. Not the familiar muffling of wards.

This was a drop.

Like the floor falling out beneath him.

A cold, sliding pressure swept down the tether—stone settling, iron shutting, the sensation of something being forced deeper into Emberward’s nullstone-dark throat. As if Beron had found the seam between their souls and wedged his fingers into it.

Eris’s breath stuttered. His hand tightened over his chest, fingers trembling.

He couldn’t tell if she’d lost consciousness.

Couldn’t tell if Beron had dragged her behind thicker dampeners.

Couldn’t tell—

The tether shuddered.

Once.

Twice.

Eris’s spine locked.

Because the bond did not do that.

Not unless—

A hit slammed into him so violently his vision burst white.

Eris made a sound that wasn’t human, torn out of him, and his body pitched forward as if the force had grabbed him by the sternum and yanked. His palm slapped the ground to keep himself from folding entirely, but his arm shook like it couldn’t hold the weight of what he was feeling.

It wasn’t just pain anymore.

It was collapse.

The sudden, horrifying sensation of her presence faltering.

Not dimming like distance.

Flickering like a candle starving for air.

Lucien’s voice cut through, alarm jagged. “Eris—”

Eris didn’t hear him.

Couldn’t.

Panic detonated in him—pure, feral, unfiltered.

Time. He’d had time. Beron liked spectacle, liked the slow grind, liked his victims polished and paraded.

So why was he doing this now?

Why would he—

Unless he’d sensed the plan tightening.

Unless he’d decided to cut out the heart of it early.

Unless—

His whole body went rigid, as if stillness could keep the universe from deciding.

Lucien’s voice came from far away. “Eris, what—”

Eris didn’t look at him.

Didn’t blink.

He gathered himself like a man gathering fire with shaking hands, like he could weld his will into the fraying thread and keep it from snapping.

He reached, hard, across the tether, slamming himself into it until his vision sparked and his teeth ached with the force of it.

Not polite.

Not careful.

Desperate.

Stay.

Another shudder, violent and catastrophic, ran down the bond like a rope snapping strand by strand.

Eris’s throat broke open on the words, raw and ruthless:

“Don’t you dare,” he rasped, voice tearing. “Don’t you dare leave me—”

He shoved again, harder, pouring everything into that thinning thread as if sheer fury could hold a soul in place.

Please.

A/N: 🫢, i've got a fluffy prequel ch coming for you guys tomorrow never fear 😊, thanks for reading as always!

⌘ Taglist ⌘

@bookwormysblog @zoleea-exultant @kittiness12 @the-silent-thunder @bxm-2121 @rosewood-cafe @sizzlingstarlightsky @ultimatebigbootyjudy @hextech-bros @famousprincesscollector @madeofeverythingjuice @thestartitaness @coeurdeveea @-izzy-rose- @hopalongsworld @taechvita @slut4acotar @mooncalfed @i-know-i-can @bahahaimsad @all-user-error @ladyescapism @96jnie @lazypostfandomer @chesirecat000 @br1ght-bell @alexof90s @unfortunately-a-dazai-kinnie @visionofhope04 @roseodelle @booksstarryskies @wllms @winchesterslullaby

[planetbucky-deactivated20260321]

MY WIFE

18+ | MDNI

pairing: ceo!bucky barnes x female!reader

summary: three times in which the new intern tries to impress her hot grumpy boss, mr. barnes. or, three times in which bucky can’t stop talking about his lovely wife.

warnings: third person & second person (she/her pronouns for reader); pictures don't reflect reader's appearance; reader wears a dress; swearing; original characters; ceo!bucky (who is a little mean, tbh); whipped!bucky (he’s pathetically obsessed); mention of pregnancy; ovulation; fluff; smut; slight daddy & mommy kink; use of slut once; mention of cockwarming; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); breeding kink; office sex (so... kind of sex in public?).

word count: 5k

a/n: I just... I blame those pictures. unfortunately I have important stuff to do next week + stranger things 5 comes out, so I had to "rush" this and post it now. it’s almost 2am where I live so I promise I’ll come back for any typos, my eyes are burning right now lol

hope you’ll enjoy it 🌼

ps: I know nothing about ceos and investment companies, I based everything on my own researches and good ol' wattpad fanfics I've read in the past. so I apologize if there is any mistake.

The little ding from an elevator has never felt so ominous. Wanda, Darcy and Carol scurry away like thieves from a crime scene, abandoning their morning gossip by the copier. Scott almost drops his freshly brewed coffee, fatigue melting off his features and shoulders tensing up automatically. Monica literally throws her phone in her bag, pretending she’s been working all along on an already strategically open Excel sheet.

Once the elevator doors part, the whole floor falls into a silent distress. Mr. Barnes steps out with the same expression he wears every single morning: lips pressed in a thin line, jaw clenched, and a faint, permanent scowl, as if the world has already personally disappointed him the moment he opened his eyes. His suit is always impeccably ironed, not a single crease on his white, crisp shirt. His cologne– Tom Ford’s Beau de Jour– is not too strong, but it's a reminder of his authority that lingers in the air. Ever his employees can remember, his left wrist has never been bare: a prized watch, very simple yet tasteful, that can’t strangely be associated with any expensive brand, rests there. He’s very protective of it, and nobody has ever dared to comment on its simplicity, especially after an unpleasant episode involving one of the company's previous clients, Mr. Pierce. The older man attempted to touch it with a grimace, as a joke, he kept insisting after. Nobody ever believed Mr. Barnes’ blue eyes could turn even icier. His voice was tinted with a subtle growl as he intimated the man to not touch his watch. Ever again. Scott almost fainted when he noticed that the CFO, Mr. Wilson, was rather amused as he pressed his lips together so tightly to avoid bursting out laughing.

Needless to say Mr. Pierce’s company lost all its deals with Barnes Investments.

Mr. Barnes walks with clipped, purposeful steps, black coat perfectly pressed and tie mathematically aligned. He doesn’t even glance at his visibly fidgety employees. He doesn’t need to. His blue eyes are always hidden behind a pair of Ami Paris black sunglasses that he only removes once he enters his office at the very end of the open space. 

He also doesn’t greet anyone. His presence alone is a daily roll call.

The CEO doesn’t talk much in general— not unless he absolutely has to. But when he does, one either ends up walking away with pride in their chest, or crying and shaking in the restroom. His words are sharp and efficient. A simple ‘fix this.’ could ruin an entire afternoon. A ‘this is unacceptable.’, a week.

The worst thing is that he doesn’t even need to raise his voice, because his perpetual glacial calm is enough to make a grown man in his fifties tremble like a fawn taking its first steps. His disappointed silence, punctuated only by the tapping of his pen against the sleek desk, could send any adult into an existential crisis.

He doesn’t need to walk past the desks to know what happens inside his company. If someone tries to impress him, he ignores it. If someone tries to joke, he blinks slowly, as if they’ve just offended his entire bloodline.

Even if the nickname ‘demanding asshole’ has spread around the office with alarming speed, Mr. Barnes puts equal attention in rewarding and commending his employees when credit is due. It still feels like talking with someone who has been constipated for a month, but coming from the boss himself, the praise is always very welcomed. 

Every morning, he follows the same meticulous routine: he checks his schedule with his trusted assistant, Natasha; retreats into his office to scan the reports left on his desk, flagging all the things he disapproves of, and then closes the door behind him with a resounding bang that feels like a final sentence. An order to not be disturbed.

He is habit wrapped in a suit and polished shoes; an ongoing source of heart palpitations for the entire staff.

And this is the environment Madison Carrell, freshly graduated from NYU, walks into two days later, with her smug smile and high heels, blissfully unaware of what lies ahead.

Wanda makes sure to show her everything: from the multiple desks lined up on the wood flooring, to the big glass-walled meeting room. The two stop momentarily in the grey break room, where the analyst takes her time explaining how the kitchenette works. 

A dull knock on the open door pauses their conversation. There, Mr. Barnes slightly leans forward, eyeing Wanda with his usual blank expression.

“I need the volatility report yesterday, Miss Maximoff.” 

“I– yes sir, I’m so sorry. I’ll bring it to your office right now–” He raises a palm, stopping her nervous ranting.

“No need, leave it to Natasha and she’ll bring it to me.” Mr. Barnes has already turned away when the red-head remembers the girl beside her.

“Um s–sir, this is one of the new interns, Madison Carrell.” His head turns enough to marginally eye the girl, giving her a curt nod before he’s returning to his cavern.

“Was that… James Barnes?” Wanda’s eyes flit on the intern, grimacing at her wide, sparkling eyes.

“Yeah, that’s him. A real gentleman, as you can see.”

Madison quietly gasps, patting her skirt as if to ensure she looks presentable. “I didn’t think I would meet him today. I’ve been a fan ever since he was invited to speak at a conference at my university two years ago.”

Wanda blinks once, then twice, still processing her excitement. “A… Fan?”

“Of course!” The blonde wheezes. “He’s a brilliant, successful man who has built this company with his own blood, sweat and tears from the ground up.” She stares at the vacant spot previously occupied by the CEO, trying to fruitlessly contain a grin. “And a very handsome one, at that.” 

“You know he’s married, right?” Madison’s head twists toward the analyst, her smile suddenly replaced by a scowl of frustration.

“What?”

It’s impossible, she knows his Wikipedia page by heart and there isn't a single mention of a marriage, nor of his personal life in general.

“Yeah, and also very much in love with his wife.” The red-head nods, quite amused by the fact that this freshly-graduated girl has the hots for her terse boss. She almost regrets telling her he is married, nothing exciting ever happens in this office, after all.

Madison’s mouth curves up, looking almost sympathetic. “Oh Wanda, everything ends, even marriages.”

The analyst simply smirks knowingly, walking to the door. “Hm, good luck with that.” She then eyes the blonde, nodding towards the open space. “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk. It’s right next to mine and Darcy’s.”

The break room is unusually quiet for a mid-morning. Madison stands by the kitchenette, pretending to tidy a stack of colorful mugs while her ear is tuned to the hallway. 

“Move Stark’s call to Wednesday, and if he dares to complain, remind him we received an equally convincing offer from his competitor.” The moment she hears Mr. Barnes’ deep, commanding voice, she straightens, a toothy smile brightening her face as his measured footsteps get louder and louder, until he crosses the threshold of the break room.

He steps inside without noticing her at first, heading straight for the coffee machine with his red ceramic cup in hand— it’s his third refill already. He presses the button, then crosses his arms with a rigid posture, then his left foot starts tapping rhythmically. Impatiently.

Madison takes a second to adjust her hair, before she turns toward the man. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes!”  

He gives her a brief glance, nothing more than a flicker of acknowledgement, and a curt nod, before returning his frown to the humming appliance.

She clears her throat, refusing to let his disregard deter her. “I, um… I baked something. Thought I’d bring some in for the team.”

Mr. Barnes looks bored at this point, still not moving his icy eyes from the cup. So she swallows, continuing.

“They’re chocolate chip cookies, fresh from this morning. I figured you might like to try one.” As the CEO turns with his steaming coffee in hand, he almost bumps into the extended tray of sweets. He grunts, clearly annoyed at this intern’s insistence, but in that moment his wife’s words echo clearly through his mind.

“They’re your employees, Jamie. Just… Try to be a little nicer?”

With a sigh, Mr. Barnes places the cup back on the counter, before taking a cookie under Madison’s incredulous eyes. But her enthusiasm is abruptly torn to shreds as she watches him break the tiniest piece off, almost a crumb, then taste it with the air of someone reluctantly performing a mandatory task.

A low hum escapes him, thoughtful. He eyes the rest of the cookie distracted as he starts mumbling. “I need to tell my wife to bake cookies next time, but she already baked me a pie two days ago.” 

Madison blinks. Why does he need his wife to bake him cookies? She's literally in front of him right now, with a tray full of them that she specifically baked just for him! Does he know how hard it was to keep the team away from them, then try to find a good hiding place in the break room so they would go unnoticed? She had to wait here for hours, pretending to clean and look for stuff every time a passing co-worker eyed her with suspicion.

Madison forces a chuckle, an idea quickly forming in her mind to not let the conversation die. “Oh! What kind of pie?”

His fingers lightly scratch the stubble on his chin, still pensive. “Apple. It’s my favorite.”

Her eyes lit up. “I can make it for you! Next time I—” 

“It was excellent. The crust was neither too flaky nor too hard. And the flavors were perfectly balanced.” He shakes his head, still impressed. Madison winces as he literally cuts her off, but by the look in his eyes, she doubts he even noticed her talking at all. “She’s a baker, so she knows her deal. Always testing new recipes on me.”

Is he pouting? “I finished the whole thing in two days.” 

Madison stands there frozen, the paper tray cradled awkwardly in her hands as she watches Mr. Barnes set the cookie down on the counter. 

“I need to text her,” He murmurs, not even glancing at his cup as he moves hastily toward the door. “tell her to make another one for tonight.”

And just like that, he disappears, leaving the untouched tray and Madison’s crushed expectations behind.

It’s not until Scott pokes his head in that her vacant stare finally moves. “Can we eat them now?” 

Alright, so the first attempt to impress her boss didn’t go as well as she predicted. That’s okay! Madison wasn’t elected student body president by throwing the towel at the first obstacle.

The next occasion presents itself the following week. Wanda was tasked with drafting a counter proposal to Mr. Stark’s new project, which meant Madison could not only be present during the presentation, but also prove she ‘knows her deal’ too to Mr. Barnes, by outlining a section of the submission. 

Right now, they are on a small break after four boring hours spent discussing the billionaire's proposal. From her peripheral vision, Madison catches Mr. Barnes coming back in the room, along with Mr. Wilson, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark. Her chest slightly puffs out, finally ready to spring into action.

“So I told him I didn’t give a fuck about fishing, and then he spent all night crying over his ex wife–”

“Ask me about my lunch.” Darcy balks at Madison, tilting her head.

“Excuse me?”

“Ask me about my lunch. Ask me where I bought those nice tomatoes!” She whispers, leaning sideways against the long table. Darcy stares at her appalled, until their boss’ booming voice reaches her ears. That’s when she rolls her eyes to the sky, exhaling loudly. Of course it’s one of the new intern’s weird plans to catch Mr. Barnes’ attention. She can't believe Madison is still at it after ‘The Cookie Failure’, as Scott named it. 

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” She mutters reluctantly.

“Louder.”

“Where did you find those nice tomatoes?” This time she yells, attracting the attention of the four men and other nearby employees minding their own business.

Madison gives her a little coquettish giggle. “You mean the ones in the salad I had for lunch? I grow them in my garden!”

Last week, Mr. Wilson teased Mr. Barnes about his prettily packed lunch– no, she was not eavesdropping, she was simply passing by his office. At some point he mentioned that the lettuce came straight from his garden, so she concluded he must have a green thumb. 

Of course she didn't have the time, nor the patient, to grow fucking vegetables. Therefore she just went grocery shopping, but no one actually noticed the difference.

“My wife has a beautiful garden.” Madison’s face falls.

“Does she now?” Mr. Stark amusedly encourages him.

“Last year she grew tomatoes so perfect the neighbors thought they were made of wax.” He pats the pocket of his black pants. “Hold on— I have pictures.” And everyone gathers around him. Like fucking bees around a flower. Even Darcy! 

“Look at the color! Isn’t she amazing?” Some murmur amongst them with a smile, no doubt praising her and her damn tomatoes.

“And these are her cucumbers. And her lettuce. And— oh! Here she is mulching. I took this one, she didn’t know I was there.” Madison almost has an aneurysm as the corners of his mouth softly lift up. “She’s cute, isn’t she?”

Coughing, Madison raises her voice in a pathetic last attempt. “I, uh… planted some basil.”

And without missing a beat, Mr. Barnes destroys her while still swiping through the pictures. “My wife grows five varieties of basil.”

Then, he stops short, his finger hovering over the screen as his lips press together to hide a grin. That's when Mr. Rogers clears his throat, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. Mr. Barnes's head jerks up, blinking as if he just woke up from a dream.

“Alright.” His frown returns. “Break’s over. Miss Maximoff, it’s your turn.”

That’s when real life finally dawns on Madison. 

“Shit.” She whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. She was so focused on looking up gardening tips these past few days that she completely forgot she had to help Wanda present her counter proposal. Which entails talking in front of twelve people about things she only read on her university books until now.

Suddenly, those stupid tomatoes seem to make their way up her esophagus as sweat coats her back. Her hands are shaking by the time she gets to the analyst by the huge screen. That's when Mr. Barnes decides to approach them, while the others take their previous seats at the table. 

“Maximoff, I read the counter proposal last night. Good job. The section about forecasted performance–”

Madison perks up. “I drafted that section—”

“My wife caught five mistakes there. Be careful.” He concludes, not sparing her a single glance as he turns to make his way back to the head of the table. Still, she catches his breathy comment. “Such a brilliant woman.”

Her fiasco at Mr. Stark’s deal sets Madison back a few steps. Well, did she even move forward at all? After a week of reflection, the intern decides to take a new approach. It’s a Friday when she stays back at the office on purpose, knowing Mr. Barnes always finishes late on Fridays since the company is closed on the weekends and he doesn’t want to be bothered. This time, she stakes everything on showing her commitment to the job. 

Silence hangs heavy in the building as soon as the team leaves, so it’s easy to catch the sound of rustling papers and the creaking of his chair around nine, meaning he’s finally done. Her coat is already on as she stands close to her desk, deliberately pretending to check she has everything in her bag. When he finally opens the door, she gives an over-the-top sigh, raising her eyes as she puts on her best surprised expression. 

“Oh! Mr. Barnes! I didn’t think there was anyone left at this hour.” Bucky stops abruptly in his quick advance toward the elevator, turning to face her. “Had to finish a few things for Wanda and I didn’t notice the time. I’m just so passionate and happy about being here, you surely get that?”

He stares at her, deadpan. “Who are you, again?”

Her eyes bulge out. “I–” She gapes at him for a second. “Madison Carrell! The new intern!” She rushes out, almost shrieking.

“Oh.” He utters, resuming his steps as she quickly jogs to reach him. “No, I don't actually get that. If it were for me, I would stay at home, or help my wife run her bakery.” After pressing the button to call the elevator, he stares ahead, still looking so put together after twelve hours of work.  

James Buchanan Barnes– one of the richest, most hard-working people in the whole continent, two-time #1 on Forbes’ Top 100 CEO, and major partner at Stark Industries– longs to be a househusband just so he can stay with his wife!? And run a fucking bakery?

“She’s always telling me I need to come home earlier.” He sighs, and to her shock, his mouth twists into something akin to a fond smile. “She worries so much about me. She sent me a selfie an hour ago and now I can’t wait to see her.”

Madison simply nods along, face frozen in polite agony while her bag takes the worst of it, her knuckles turning white as she crumples the poor handle. She just wasted three hours of her night doing nothing here only to hear her crush sing praises about a woman she’s never met, yet knows entirely too much about.

The ride in the elevator is excruciating. Mr. Barnes is too lost grinning down at his phone to entertain her, and Madison’s slumped shoulders are a testament of her crushed hopes. Once they’re outside, she notices a couple of people gathered in front of the window of a clothing store right across the street. They look like they are decorating for Christmas, strings of lights already up and various boxes blocking half of the sidewalk. Mr. Barnes shakes his head slightly at the sight, Madison immediately catches it from her peripheral vision. And that’s when she sees an opportunity.

Of course a cranky and curt man like Mr. Barnes would be a grinch!

Such a shame she completely missed his soft smile.

“Can’t believe some people are already decorating for Christmas.” She scoffs. “C’mon, it’s still November! Who is the idiot that does that?” Turning her head toward him, her chuckle dies in her throat at his stern expression. 

“My wife.”

Madison’s heart drops to her stomach. “W–What–”

“My wife is the idiot who decorates for Christmas in November.” His caustic reply sends shivers down her back. Madison's jaw falls to the ground, and for a moment she just stands there, toes curling in shame and cheeks completely red— and not only because of the cold. Her mouth opens a few times, not really knowing what to say or do in front of a man eyeing her with so much vitriol. Maybe the ground should open right this instant and swallow her whole. It would hurt less.

“I—”

“Goodnight, Miss Carroll.”

“What—” She whispers, completely caught off guard. “It’s Carrell!” She shouts, but he’s already halfway to his black Jaguar.

“FUCK!”

Wanda is engrossed in her conversation with Darcy about the umpteenth date with a loser she met on Tinder, when a loud thump on her right makes both women jolt.

It's Madison and she is... A mess. 

Her ponytail is barely hanging on, a few blonde hair sticking in the air as if she didn’t even try to brush it. Her makeup consists of some smudged gloss, a rough contrast to the full face she displayed every single morning since she sets foot here at Barnes Investments. Darcy and Wanda exchange a look of worry as they spot the big brown stain on her light blue shirt– probably coffee. 

They’ve never seen Madison look so distraught in the two months she’s been here. 

“Honey, are you okay?” The redhead tentatively asks. 

“Okay? Why yeah sure! Why shouldn’t I be okay?” She grits out with a fake, entirely too big smile, while literally throwing her things on her desk. 

“You sure?” Darcy raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, of course! I mean, my crush is happily married to a woman who apparently has a pussy made of gold, because he can’t stop talking about her for one.” Her pencil case almost flies to the ground. “Damn.” The desk shakes under the heavy laptop mindlessly tossed on its surface. “Second!”

Her little outburst makes a few heads turn, prompting the two analysts to shoot on their feet.

“Hey, lower your voice!” Wanda whisper shouts. “I understand you’re disappointed, but did you forget said crush is also your fucking boss?”

“No, Wanda. You don’t understand.” She growls out, looking like a feral dog. “Two days ago I had to bribe his fucking assistant with a fucking thirty-five-dollar chocolate bar just to find out his coffee order! Do you know where Mr. Barnes buys his coffee from every. Damn. Morning?” Wanda shakes her head, mildly scared as Madison leans forward. “From a fucking café on the other side of New York! It took me fifty minutes just to get there, only for him to tell me he doesn’t drink that shit anymore because that fucking wife of his says it makes him too jittery.” She says in a whiny voice, mocking said wife's voice. Or at least, what she thinks her voice sounds like.

“He switched to fucking herbal tea. Last week!”

“Stand back, she’s gonna blow.” Darcy whispers horrified.

“It’s been two months and I know more about this alleged wife of his than about the fucking company!” At this point, Madison is having a genuine outburst, screaming and hitting the slamming her bag on the desk under her co-workers’ bewildered gaze. “He describes her as she is some sort of goddess who knows everything! And who the fuck keeps two hundred pictures of fucking vegetables in their phone!?” 

“For God’s sake, is she even real!?”

As if by magic, the ding of the elevator pauses everything. The doors open, revealing a woman she’s never seen before tentatively taking a step forward. Her A-line mini dress has a soft plaid pattern; the sleeves are sheer, long, and flowy, giving off a romantic, almost ethereal feel. The skirt flares out with a gentle, flowy silhouette, half hidden under a long black coat.

The entire floor gapes, always taken aback by her random visits. There’s only one person who doesn’t seem fazed at all, and that’s Mr. Barnes, who abruptly opens the door of his office as soon as the elevator door shut close. 

“Sweetheart.” 

Your eyes immediately finds Bucky's as he quickly makes his way to you at the end of the room. 

“Jamie.” His own lips twist into a bright smile when he finally reaches you, circling your waist with his muscular arms. 

“What are you doing here, doll? It’s your day off.” He mumbles, leaving a small kiss on your forehead. His blue eyes carefully take you in, poorly concealing his appreciation for your cute outfit, until they land on your bare legs.

“Where are your tights?” He frowns, gently tugging you forward. “C'mere, let's sit in my office so you can warm up.”

“Wanted to see you.” You hum, keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground as your fingers pull at his suit jacket, so you can drag his face closer to yours. Once your lips are brushing against his ear, you whisper as quietly as you can, hoping nobody catches your words except your husband.

“They're not the only thing I’m not wearing right now.” 

Bucky’s eyes widen, before his saliva goes down the wrong pipe and he starts coughing under your pleased gaze. His employees try to not stare at the scene, but it’s so endearingly rare witnessing their glacial boss turn into this blushing, pliant mess in front of a pretty girl. 

“Shit.” He swallows, awkwardly clearing his throat as he quickly recomposes himself. “Let’s go, sweetheart.” 

Everyone knows that at his core, Mr. Barnes is just a man pathetically in love with his wife, still they can't stop watching as he hastily guides you to his office with a hand on your back, his eyes not steering away once from your face as giggles unusually fill the open space.

“Thank God she came by.” Scott leans in, addressing the three women. “He’s always more lenient after her visits.” He elaborates, mainly for a flustered Madison, who releases her expensive bag, letting it fall on the floor with a dull thud, before storming off to the restroom. Wanda sighs, slightly shaking her head in exhaustion.

The man just stares at the two analysts with knitted eyebrows, completely confused. “What?”

“My pretty little slut, coming to daddy’s office without wearing any panties.” Bucky grunts against the skin of your bare chest, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as they keep you nice and still on his desk.

It’s been six months since you and Bucky have agreed to try for a baby. Six months of pure, unhinged, hot sex in his office. It just so happens that your husband has been at work during your fertile window for the past few months, meaning that he could use that as an excuse to have you bare and whimpering in his office for a few days a month. 

Never in his career has Bucky dreamt of actually having sex here, of all places. Sure, he fantasized about you being by his side during those hard nights spent in his office amongst mountains of documents– he, Steve and Sam worked overtime almost every day at the beginning; his company was too small and new to afford the luxury of going home at a decent time.

And you supported him through it all, his pretty doll. 

So imagine his face when you showed up at his workplace one day, locking the door behind you before literally throwing yourself at him, your voice hot against his ear as you breathed out how badly you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Honestly, it wasn’t his proudest moment. He ended up coming before you after only a few thrusts, too aroused as he stared at you eagerly riding him on his chair, a hand on your mouth to prevent any loud noise from spilling out as his employees kept working, not having the faintest idea about what was happening inside their boss’ office.

From that moment on, your little visits meant only one thing. 

“Fuck, daddy you’re so big.” You whine, keeping a tight grip on his shirt. 

He lets out an animalistic groan as he squeezes your hips once. “Fuck, say it again.” He growls, grinding his hips harder against you. “You know I love it when you call me that, baby.” 

“Daddy please.” He slams his lips against yours, moaning as his tongue invades your mouth. When he pulls away, he goes straight for your chest, sucking on your nipple. Bucky loves to play with your tits, you always get so responsive when his fingers tug and flicker your pretty nipples– sometimes he just palms them for comfort during particularly frustrating calls he gets on the weekends from bratty assholes who refuse to go through his assistant first. Or out of boredom, while watching a movie. Until you get all worked up and end up cockwarming him until the movie ends.

“Can’t wait for these to swell up, gonna take care of you when they get too heavy and sensitive.” His head moves, tongue already out to give some attention to the other nipple. “Wanna taste your milk so bad– bet it's as sweet as your pussy.”

“Bucky!” Your head falls back as his teeth gently graze your erect nub, pulling a little pathetic whimper that echoes loudly in the room.

“Shh-shh.” Your husband soothes, his voice back at your ear, his hot breath tickling your skin. “Look at you, so pretty while I fuck my baby in your belly.”

Bucky sounds a little dazed, his voice hoarse with something primal as one of his hands travels from your hip to your abdomen. “You’ll look so beautiful with your belly all big and round and full. All because of me.” 

“Please.” You cry out, trembling as tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes. It’s too much. Everything is too much. Your hot skin against his soft clothes, his filthy words, the way he looks at you with so much affection, his big cock stretching you open for him to move as he pleases. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby.” Bucky marvels, staring in awe as his girth disappears inside you. The sudden shift of focus on the squelching sounds of you two coming together makes your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. You’ve done this so many times, yet that sense of danger, of suddenly being caught doing something so debauched in such a professional environment, never fails to make your stomach flip with thrill.

“Everyone will know how good I fuck you, how good I take care of my wife.” He growls out against your lips. “My gorgeous mommy.”

That damn name makes your whole body shudder and your pussy clench; the sensation of his thick cock plunging deep inside you makes your head spin, leaving you completely speechless as Bucky's hips speed up. 

“Fuck, Daddy!” A whimper involuntarily falls from your parted lips, and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, it's... too big…” You gasp out the last word, his hips giving a particular brutal thrust that allows him to reach impossibly deeper.

“I know, baby. I know. So big you can’t even talk properly.” He smirks. “Still, you take it so good, such a good mommy.”

He covers your cheeks with sweet kisses, tracing a slow path down to the side of your neck, where he makes sure to bite hard enough to elicit a surprised squeal from you.

“‘M gonna make you a mommy.” He pants harshly into your damp skin, his orgasm gradually approaching when you clench again. “The prettiest.” Thrust. “Sweetest.” Thrust. “Mommy.”

“Yes yes yes daddy please–”  

Bucky’s low grunts and moans fill the otherwise silent office. He’s pumping into you so good your eyes roll back and your nails almost tear through the fabric of his half-open shirt.

“You’re so tight. Shit, you’re coming baby, aren’t you?” He moans, watching you nod quickly, and his voice drops a little. “Yeah? You finally gonna milk daddy’s cock?” 

Your palm slaps on your parted mouth to stifle your lewd sounds. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips, and as he keeps thrusting faster and faster, your vision goes blurry and the knot in your belly finally snaps. 

“Daddy…” You whimper behind your hand, toes curling at the overwhelming bliss quickly hitting you. “I'm– coming!”  Your back arches as your hole clenches down, squeezing him so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. Bucky quickly brings his fingers down, stroking your throbbing clit until your hips buckle up in overstimulation. You feel that hot pleasure everywhere– the base of your spine, deep in your gut, in your walls keeping him nice and warm. It’s always this intense with your husband: he knows what to say and where to put his hands so your orgasm hits you like a freight train, leaving your exhausted body quivering for more. 

“Fuck– Daddy’s coming too.” He grits out, giving you one last cruel thrust before spilling his warm, hot seed deep inside you. “Shit— that’s it… Take it all, beautiful.”

Your chest is still heaving when you flop against him, forehead falling on his shoulder as your trembling hands stay anchored to his shirt. His hands move to your asscheeks, thumbs lazily stroking small circles into your skin as Bucky himself tries to regain his breath. Yet you can feel the smugness dripping off his voice. 

“Gave it to you so good you can’t even sit up straight, hm?”

You don’t have the energy to clap back, mewling with oversensitivity as he continues to thrust his softening dick lightly in and out of you, the mix of your juices trickling down and soiling the inner part of your thighs. Your lips part anyway to say something, but everything dissolves into an incoherent squeak when he gives your ass a light spank.

Bucky chuckles, proud of himself. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” His arms move around your waist, hugging your body closer to his. “So gorgeous.” He coos, his eyelids slowly shutting close as the tip of his nose nuzzles the skin of your neck, breathing in your perfume, by now impeccably mixed with the scent of your favorite body cream.

“So fucking good for me. Fuck baby, I love you. I love you so much.” His hands gently cradle your cheeks, coaxing you out of your hiding spot as the strong urge to kiss you takes over his whole body. “Gonna have my baby and be the best mommy in the world.” He utters between kisses.

“Love you too, Jamie.” Bucky's lips curve softly at the way your eyelids barely stay open, letting you cuddle against his chest. His heartbeat never fails to speed up a little when hearing those three magic words.

“Think we did it this time?” You yawn tiredly, trying to keep your voice neutral. Still, your husband knows you too well after all these years spent together, instantly recognizing that hint of fragile hope in your question, and the faint change in your body, gone a little rigid.

His arms squeeze your waist once, before he drops a kiss on the top of your head, hoping it conveyed all his uncontrollable tenderness for your small family. That gesture, although little, instantly warms your heart, melting the tension out of your limbs as you tighten your hold around his torso.

“I have a hunch we did, my love.”

She just wanted to gather more information about your marriage from Natasha. She is Mr. Barnes’ personal assistant, the only one who gets more than a single austere sentence out of him; the only one he calls by her first name. She must know something about his personal life.

But Natasha was not at her desk by Mr. Barnes’ office. As a matter of fact, the small hallway was completely desert, she noticed with a frown.

And unfortunately, she had to find out the reason the hard way.

It's impossible to not notice the intern's pale face as she makes her way back to her cubicle, slow and stiff as her eyes stay fixed on nothing in particular.

With a gentle voice, Wanda tries to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you okay?”

Madison simply retrieves her bag, then turns away, and Wanda barely catches her mumbled words as she starts walking toward the elevator.

“I’m resigning.” 

[watahmelohn]

The urge to snap her neck is so—

Anyways, im OBSESSED with how love struck bucky is like hes too focused on y/n to even notice anybody else and i find it too loveable i just adore fics that portray bucky as a truly whipped man😌