just binged your stories & am obsessed! 😍 could you write something with eris?
(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)
Summary: Moments with Eris.
Authors Note: I had a few requests for Eris’s version so here it is. Pre-established relationship below. Scenes aren’t in any particular order, but are simply inspired by different moments. No warnings below.
The moment the mating bond snapped into place and you crossed the threshold of the Forest House as Eris’s mate, the smokehounds decided something very important.
Not in the way Eris was theirs — commander, master, High Lord.
The first time you knelt to greet them, expecting wary sniffs and territorial growls, you were instead nearly bowled over by a wall of smoke and muscle. Massive heads shoved beneath your hands. Warm, dark eyes blinking up at you with startling gentleness.
Eris had stood there, stunned.
“They don’t usually do that,” he murmured.
One hound had promptly leaned its entire weight against your legs as if proving a point.
From that day forward, you were never alone.
If you walked the corridors, at least two shadows followed.
If you read by the hearth, one enormous body would curl at your feet while another rested its heavy head in your lap, rumbling softly when you scratched behind its ears.
If you so much as sighed in your sleep, a head would pop up from its resting place to check you were at peace.
When duty pulled him from you — border disputes, court politics, Beron’s lingering messes — he left knowing that nothing short of an army would reach you without going through fangs first.
“You’re safer than I am,” he once told you dryly, watching three hounds rearrange themselves around your chair like sentinels.
But there were…downsides.
Like the fact that they had very strong opinions about sleeping arrangements.
Eris would return late, exhausted, craving nothing more than to bury himself beside you — only to find every available inch of mattress occupied by smoke and smouldering fur.
“They are in my spot,” he would say flatly.
You, barely visible beneath a tangle of limbs and blankets, would shrug. “They were here first.”
One hound would open a single eye at him in a lazy challenge.
He refused to admit he sometimes lost that battle.
Then there were the incidents.
Two of the hounds had decided to race each other down the corridor the exact moment you stepped out of a room. You’d barely see the blur of movement before you were on the floor, wrist twisted painfully beneath you.
The howl that followed had shaken the rafters.
They’d circled you immediately, whining, pacing, nudging you gently with their noses as if trying to fix what they’d done. One had even pressed its forehead to your shoulder in apology.
Eris had arrived seconds later, fire already flaring, only to find you half-laughing through the sting while two enormous beasts looked ready to exile themselves in shame.
“They didn’t mean to,” you insisted while he inspected your swelling wrist.
“I know,” he sighed, though he shot them a pointed look. “You nearly injured my mate.”
They hadn’t left your side for three days after that, not even when you went to the bathroom.
And then there was the one time with the sentry.
A young, overzealous fool, who grabbed your wrist during an argument — not roughly, but enough.
The reaction has been instantaneous.
The sentry was on the ground before he could even register the mistake, two smokehounds practically mauling him while another bolted from the room in a streak of shadow.
Eris had felt the alarm through the bond before the hound even reached him.
By the time he arrived, the message was clear to every other fae in the Autumn Court.
You’d been more shaken than hurt, and Eris had gone frighteningly still in a way that made even the hounds obey the snap of his fingers instantly to allow their master to enact his own punishment.
Afterward, when everything was settled, he’d found you seated on the floor with all three beasts pressed against you like oversized guards.
“They protected me,” you’d murmured softly.
“Of course they did,” he’d replied. “They love you.”
For all his mild exasperation — for the stolen spaces, they way they followed you around like smouldering ducklings — he loved that you loved them.
Loved that when he wasn’t there, you weren’t alone.
Loved that you laughed when one nudged a book from your hands demanding attention.
Loved the sight of you framed in firelight, a hound’s head resting trustingly on your thighs.
Sometimes, late at night, when he finally managed to edge one aside and slide into bed beside you, he’d press a quiet kiss to your temple and murmur:
“I’m glad they love you, otherwise I’d have to ship you back to where you came from.”
There was a well timed growl before one shifted closer, half squeezing Eris half off the mattress.
“I’d like to see you try.”
But he’d relent and stay.
Because they weren’t just his hounds anymore.
And the way your smile softened when they curled around you?
That alone made every inch of stolen mattress worth it.
The House of Wind feels different.
Warmer in a way that has nothing to do with the fire burning in the hearth.
You’re seated on one of the plush sofas, carefully cradling Nyx in your arms while Feyre sits nearby with that luminous, exhausted new-mother glow. The baby is still impossibly small, despite being a few months old now, wrapped in dark fabric, tiny wings twitching in his sleep.
Across the room, Rhysand stands beside Eris, both of them pretending not to stare.
Eris has seen battlefields without blinking.
He has faced Beron’s cruelty without flinching.
This makes him unnervingly still.
You adjust Nyx gently, murmuring something soft and instinctive. The baby’s hand curls around your finger and you beam at Feyre’s praise at how natural you are with him.
And Eris’s breath catches.
He doesn’t miss the way your expression changes — how your features soften into something almost reverent. Protective. Fierce in a quiet way.
“Careful,” Rhys murmurs, arms crossed, violet eyes gleaming faintly. “It appears your wife may be thinking of hiding my son under her cloak before she leaves.”
Eris arches an eyebrow. “It appears that way.”
Rhys smirks. “Ever thought about having any of your own?”
The sudden, almost harsh, reply from Eris catches Rhys by surprise. He doesn’t miss the underlying tension however as Eris continues to watch you — regret perhaps, longing, apprehension.
After a moment, Rhys says quietly. “You’d be surprised what you’re capable of. When it’s yours.”
Eris doesn’t look at him. “You presume much.”
“Do I?” Rhys’s tone is mild. “You’re not Beron.”
The name lands like a stone dropped into deep water.
Eris’s jaw tightens — but he doesn’t snap.
Instead, he keeps watching you.
Watching the way you instinctively shift Nyx into a more comfortable position when he stirs.
Watching the way you smile as you carefully brush your fingers through the dark hair on top of his head.
Watching the warmth in your eyes.
“I thought,” Eris says after a long pause, voice lower than usual, “that I would never want one.”
Because now…he isn’t imagining a child raised in fear, as he was.
He’s imagining you in the Forest House, sunlight through the autumn leaves, smokehounds sprawled like loyal guardians by your feet.
He’s imagining small footsteps in those halls.
He’s imagining breaking a cycle instead of repeating it.
“I think,” Eris admits quietly, “it depends on who the mother is.”
Rhys’s smirk turns softer. “It usually does.”
Later, you reluctantly hand Nyx back to Feyre. Eris is quieter than usual as you say your goodbyes.
Back in your guest chambers, you shrug off your cloak, smiling faintly. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”
Eris doesn’t answer immediately.
He’s watching you instead.
“Yes,” he says finally. “He is.”
You pause, noticing something different in his tone. “What is it?”
He steps closer, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear — a touch more thoughtful than teasing.
“I’ve been reconsidering something,” he says.
“Oh?” You reply lightly. “Should I be concerned?”
You narrow your eyes playfully. “Eris.”
He exhales once — steadying.
“For a long time,” he begins carefully, “I thought I would be a poor father.”
That’s not how you expected this conversation to go.
“You wouldn’t,” you say immediately.
He huffs a quiet, humourless breath. “Beron made me believe otherwise.”
Your expression softens. “You are nothing like him.”
He searches your face, as if testing the truth of it.
“And if I were?” He asks.
“Then I wouldn’t be standing here with you if I believed that.”
The certainty in your voice stills him.
Then, casually — far too casually — he says:
Eris doesn’t have the decency to look apologetic. If anything, he looks amused at your spluttering.
For as long as you’d known him, you knew Eris had complicated feelings about children. It was something that you had never asked or pushed him about, content to spend the rest of your days just the two of you if that’s what he wanted.
“You’re insufferable,” you wheeze, coughing into your hand. “You cannot just — you cannot phrase it like that!”
He tilts his head. “How would you prefer I phrase it? Let’s fuck like bunnies until—“
“No!” You gasped, smothering the rest of his sentence with your hand. “Perhaps something less barbaric.”
His lips twitch as you pull your hand away.
He steps closer, hands settling at your waist, this time with unmistakable tenderness.
“I meant,” he says more softly, firelight dancing softly behind his amber eyes, “that I would like to try. With you. If you wished it.”
Your indignation melts into something breathless.
“You’re serious,” you whisper.
Emotion flickers across your face — surprise, warmth, hope.
“You’d be a wonderful father,” you murmur.
He brushes his forehead against yours. “Only if they inherit your patience.”
You laugh quietly. “I have no patience for you thinking less of yourself.”
Then smirks. “Very well. But if they start commanding smokehounds before they can walk, that’ll be your fault.”
You smile, heart full, hands sliding up to rest on his chest.
“I don’t know about that, their father is very bossy.”
Eris narrows his eyes at you in a playful glare. “Oh, yeah? Get on the bed then, Mrs Vanserra.”
“Now? Eris, we can’t, this is Rhys and Feyre’s home—“
“Of course we can,” he says, beginning to walk you back in the direction of the large bed. “I see no reason for us to delay.”
“Eris Vanserra,” you basically shriek as the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you fall down on the bed.
He leers over you, smug warmth curling around you both. “Are you concerned about the proximity of Rhysand’s bedroom?”
He considers that, then murmurs, “I’m sure the High Lord of the Night Court has heard worse.”
You swat his chest. “You’re unbelievable.”
He catches your wrist gently, bringing your knuckles to his lips.
“I am serious,” he says again — softer this time. “About wanting this. About wanting it with you.”
The humour drains just enough to let hit truth shine through.
“You’re really ready?” You whisper.
He brushes his nose against yours. “I’m ready to stop letting Beron dictate what I believe I’m capable of, especially if you believe in me.”
That steals your breath far more than his earlier boldness.
You slide your hands up his shoulders. “We’ll talk about it properly,” you say gently. “When we’re home. In our own court. In our own bed.”
His eyes darken slightly at the last part.
“Very well,” he concedes.
Then, after a beat, he adds lightly, “We need to think of an emergency to get us back to Autumn.”
You snort. “You’re so impatient.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth, “the Mother chose you for me.”
You can’t argue with that.
Though as he pulls you closer, you hiss under your breath, “If Rhys or Feyre hear so much as a creak—“
Eris smiles against your lips, nipping them playfully.
“Then perhaps they should invest in thicker walls.”
The dream always starts the same.
Cold stone. Smoke thick in the air. Beron’s voice — low, disappointed, venomous.
He’s younger in the dream. Smaller. Less lean. Forced to kneel.
The second, third and fourth one, he grits his teeth to keep the sounds at bay.
Fire lashes his back, across his shoulders. The smell of burning fabric and skin punctuates his nose.
Beron circles him slowly. “Weakness,” his father says. “You reek of it.”
Eris says nothing — it was always better to say nothing.
“Let me show you what weakness does to a man.”
The guards drag someone in.
Your wrists are bound. Your face and mouth bloody where you’ve clearly fought them.
A wrecked sound slips past Eris’s lips before he can help it.
He tries to move — to stand, to reach you, to protect you — but he is powerless.
“So this,” his father murmurs, stepping towards you, “is what you thought you could hide from me.”
Flame curls around his fingers.
Eris bolts upright in bed.
Your scream is still ringing in his ears.
For one horrible second, he doesn’t know where he is. His skin is damp with sweat, chest heaving, power crackling dangerously close to the surface.
The space beside him is empty.
He’s out of bed before the thought finishes forming, bare feet hitting the floor hard enough to rattle the side table. Panic roars through him, primal and violent.
The bond is there — but fear distorts everything. Makes it distant and wrong. It clouds clear thinking.
He strides out of the bedroom, fire flaring instinctively along his arms.
He finds you immediately.
Curled up on the sofa near the low-burning hearth, wrapped in a blanket, a book resting in your open lap, a cup of tea on the table beside you.
You look up, startled at the sudden rush of heat and movement. “Eris?”
He crosses the room in long strides and drops to his knees in front of you like a man who has just outrun death itself.
You blink, confused and also concerned — and his hands are on you.
Your arms. Your face. Your shoulders.
“Eris—“ you say again, softer now. You see the wildness in his eyes, the terror, and you understand.
Without a word, he gathers you up.
He lifts you straight off the sofa and into his chest like you weigh nothing at all.
You gasp faintly at the sudden movement, arms automatically winding around his neck.
He sits back down with you in his lap, one hand firm at the back of your head, pressing you against him as if he needs to feel you as close as possible to believe it’s real.
His breathing is still uneven.
“Hey,” you murmur gently, fingers reaching to brush into his hair. “What happened?”
He doesn’t answer at first.
After a long moment, his voice comes — rougher than you’ve heard in a while.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you explain softly, “I didn’t want to wake you, so I came out here.”
His jaw tightens at that —not in anger at you, but at the memory still clinging to him.
“I thought…” he swallows. “I thought he had you.”
He nods once against your shoulder.
“It was him,” he says quietly. “It started how it always does, but this time they dragged you in. And he—“
His hand flexes involuntarily against your back.
You shift in his lap so you can see his face properly. There’s no mask right now. No court composure. Only lingering horror.
“It was just a dream,” you say gently.
You cradle his face between your hands. “Look at me.”
“I’m here,” you whisper. “He will never touch me.”
His eyes flicker — some part of him wanting to argue that nothing is impossible.
So you press your forehead to his.
“And even if he tried,” you add softly, “you’re not that powerless boy anymore.”
Something in him eases at that.
After a while, his breathing finally steadies and his fire dims back to a low warmth instead of a threat. He’s comforted by the feel of your heartbeat against his chest and the soft scratches your fingers make against his scalp.
“Do you want to go back to bed?”
Without a word, he stands again — still holding you — as if the thought of you walking alone for a few seconds is unacceptable.
You smile faintly against his shoulder as he carries you back into your bedroom.
When he lays you down this time, he doesn’t leave an inch of space. One arm under your neck. The other wrapped securely around your waist. Your leg hooked over his.
You press your hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm.
“I’m here,” you murmur sleepily.
He presses a kiss to your forehead.
And this time, when sleep takes him again, it’s quieter and peaceful.
Because you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
Eris’s office in the Forest House is unusually quiet.
You can tell by the why he’s hunched over his desk, papers scattered everywhere, quill scratching aggressively across parchment like the ink has personally offended him.
His advisors shoot you a look as they stand huddled by the door, clearly nervous to disturb him or face his wrath.
But you were his wife, his mate — and that’s why they had summoned you.
If there was anyone who could pry him from his mood, it was you.
So you did what you always do when the High Lord of Autumn looks like he might burn half the court down out of irritation.
A chocolate cake, specifically. Rich, warm, slightly molten in the centre — easily one of your best yet.
You cut him a generous slice, place it carefully on a plate, and walk into his office with the kind of optimism only someone carrying cake possesses.
“I brought you something.”
Still writing, he waves a distracted hand. “Leave it.”
You step closer and set the plate down near his elbow. “It’s cake, one of your favourites.”
Just not the one you hoped for.
“I’m busy,” he says sharply, eyes still on the parchment. “Not now.”
The words snap through the room before he even realises how harsh they sounded.
Silence settles for a second.
You shrug, unwilling to let Eris’s temper dampen your spirits.
You pick up the plate again, walk around his desk, and sit directly across from him.
Eris doesn’t notice at first.
He’s still scribbling furiously until—
Across the desk, you take another bite of cake, closing your eyes dramatically.
“Oh gods,” you sigh happily, “that is so good.”
You’re leaning back in your chair, savouring the bite like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
“Mmm,” you hum again, licking some chocolate from your fork. “I outdid myself.”
You ditch the fork, instead using your finger to gather some chocolate frosting from the edge of the plate and licking it off.
Slowly, sensually, your finger making a small popping noise as your lips enclose around it. Your head tips back slightly as you let out an entirely unnecessary, exaggerated sound of appreciation.
Eris is staring at you now.
“What,” he says slowly, “are you doing?”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
“You know what you’re doing.”
You take another bite, maintaining eye contact the entire time.
“Mmm—oh, Eris,” you murmur. “—so good.”
“Are you finished?” He asks.
“With the cake?” You say thoughtfully, “No, I’m savouring it.”
You drag your finger through the frosting again.
Eris watches the movement like it’s personally offending him.
“You’re making those sounds on purpose.”
You widen your eyes. “What sounds?”
Right on que, you lick your finger.
His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back, crossing his arms.
You shrug slightly. “You said you didn’t want any.”
“Well,” you say, swirling your fork around the plate, “now it’s mine.”
His gaze drops to your mouth.
You can practically see the moment his patience snaps.
“Bring the cake to the bedroom.”
Eris stands slowly from his chair, expression dark with something far more dangerous than stress now.
“I believe,” he says calmly, “you were trying to get my attention.”
“Congratulations,” he murmurs. “Now you’ve got it.”
You lean back in your chair. “Are you done being grumpy?”
You glance at the cake. “What if I want to finish it here?”
Eris walks around the desk with slow, predatory steps.
When he stops in front of you, he gently takes the plate from your fingers and sets it aside.
Then he leans down, voice low near your ear.
“I don’t want to get chocolate all over my desk.”
“You can keep making those sounds, just not over cake.”
Your face warms instantly, your body automatically tensing.
He straightens, smirking at the flushed look on your face.
“Bedroom. Cake. Now,” he says.
The balcony on the House of Wind glows with soft laternlight, the air humming with anticipation as guests gather for Starfall.
You stood near the railing, glass of wine in your hands, watching the sky deepen into a velvety blue that promises the first stars will be falling soon.
Somewhere behind you, Eris is trapped in a conversation with emissaries from the Winter Court — also invited alongside Autumn to the annual Night Court celebration.
Diplomacy, allies, and the sort of polite posturing that comes with being the mate of the newly appointed High Lord of Autumn Court, was not your scene.
So you slipped away for a moment of quiet.
You turn to find a very tall, broad Illyrian warrior leaning casually against the railing next to you, wings folded behind him. His grin is charming, confident, and entirely too familiar for someone you’ve never met.
“Very much,” you reply politely.
He steps closer, glancing up at the sky and then back to you. “First Starfall?”
“Only a little,” he says with a laugh. “Most people here pretend they’ve seen it a hundred times.”
You smile despite yourself.
“Oh, I’ve seen it plenty,” Cassian says easily. “But I’d say the company tonight might improve the tradition.”
He holds out a large hand towards you, flashing a charming grin at you. “I’m Cassian. What’s your name gorgeous?”
So that’s where this is going.
You’re amused — also slightly flustered — did he not know who you were?
You reach out and shake his hand.
“Which court are you visiting from?”
“Autumn, if the colours didn’t make it too obvious,” you lightly joke.
The deep burgundy dress you wore tonight was stitched with flowing layers and leaves that shimmered in the light — a dress for a lady of Autumn whilst honouring aspects of Night.
His eyebrows lift slightly — he didn’t hide the fact his eyes lowered to appreciate your dress before fixing on your face once again.
“It’s nice to see Autumn sending someone so lovely — you’ll have to thank Eris for me.”
“I’ll be sure to pass the message along.”
He grins wider. “Or you could stay in the Night Court. We treat our guests very well.”
“Absolutely,” he says. “In fact, the beds are very comfortable—“
A warm hand slides around your waist.
You don’t even need to turn your head to see who it is.
Eris appears beside you like a flame taking shape.
Cassian freezes before he can finish his sentence.
Eris’s arm settles firmly around you, drawing you tight into his side. His fingers press hard into your hip, searing your skin through the layers of tulle, thumb brushing once in a silent claim.
“General,” Eris greets smoothly.
You feel the faint rumble of amusement in Eris’s chest.
Cassian’s eyes flick between the two of you — your proximity, Eris’s hands, the way you’re not pulling away and settle against his side as if you belong there.
The deathly glare Eris is currently pinning on him.
“Shit,” Cassian says slowly.
Eris tilts his head. “Yes.”
Cassian drags a hand down his face. “Oh, that’s unfortunate.”
“For you,” Eris replies calmly.
You bite your lip to stop a laugh.
Cassian straightens, looking deeply embarrassed now. “I didn’t realise you were—“
“My mate,” Eris finishes.
Before the awkwardness can deepen, another voice drifts in.
“Well, this is interesting.”
You turn to see Rhysand approaching, violet eyes glinting with amusement.
He takes in the scene instantly.
“Cassian,” he says, “why are you trying to start a war with Autumn by flirting with their High Lady?”
“I didn’t know!” Cassian sputters.
Eris’s fingers tighten just slightly, and you knew his temper was beginning to simmer — the air around you started to swelter.
“No harm done, he was just introducing himself,” you say, trying to diffuse the situation. You press your hand to Eris’s chest, turning more into his hold. “Isn’t that right, my love?”
Eris’s eyes narrowed and you don’t miss the fiery undertone to his voice. “Yes, he was merely being…friendly.”
“Very friendly,” you add innocently.
Cassian points at you. “You didn’t tell me!”
“You didn’t ask,” you reply sweetly.
Rhys chuckles under his breath.
“Well,” he says, clapping Cassian on the shoulder, “Congratulations. Why don’t you go and flirt with Viviane now and start another diplomatic incident?”
Cassian looks like he might throw himself off the balcony as Rhys steers him away, laughing.
Cassian throws one last horrified look over his shoulder at you, “I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t know!”
The moment they disappear into the crowd, Eris exhales slowly through his nose.
You glance up at him, already smiling.
“Oh no,” you say lightly, “is the terrifying High Lord of Autumn pouting?”
His arms tighten around your waist in response, pulling you firmly into his chest.
“I let you step away for ten minutes,” he says, with mild irritation, “and an Illyrian general attempts to charm my mate.”
You laugh, resting your hands against his chest, adjusting the lapels of his jacket.
“Charm might be a generous description.”
Eris raises a brow. “You seemed entertained.”
“Well,” you say innocently, “it was amusing.”
His hands slide from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you even closer — entirely unnecessary given how close you already are.
You tilt your head. “You’re being very territorial tonight.”
His thumb traces along your back.
“Perhaps,” he murmurs, “I’m reminding certain Night Court warriors who you belong to.”
You laugh, nudging him slightly. “He didn’t know who I was.”
“That doesn’t make it any less irritating.”
“Oh, come on,” you tease, “you should be flattered.”
“That your mate is apparently so irresistible.”
His gaze drifts slowly over your face.
“I am already well aware of that,” he says.
You try to maintain your teasing expression, but it softens under the weight of his attention.
“And besides,” you add lightly. “You arrived just in time to make your little dramatic entrance.”
“You enjoyed that part, didn’t you?”
Eris doesn’t pretend otherwise.
You shake your head, laughing under your breath.
His hand drifts again — this time settling at your waist with unmistakable familiarity as he leans down slightly to nip at your ear lobe.
“Though next time,” he murmurs near your ear, “I may simply throw him off the balcony.”
“You absolutely will not.”
“Whether he tries again.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say fondly.
His expression softens slightly, though the possessive warmth remains as this thumbs traces slow circles at your waist.
“Stay close for the rest of the night,” he murmurs.
“Because you’re worried someone else might flirt with me?”
“No,” he says smoothly. “I’d much rather keep my hands on you.”
You couldn’t help the involuntary squeak as both his hands reach down to grab your ass. You lightly slap his chest, biting your lip to keep your smirk at bay.
“Possessive male,” you mutter.
You roll your eyes, but lean back into Eris’s hold as he turns you so your back is pressed against his chest. His arms wind around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder as a cascade of stars begins to fall overhead.
His hands refuse to leave your waist for the rest of the night.
Not that you’re complaining.
stormborns
germansingergirl
