#eris vandaddy

[erin-bo-berin]

The Proposition

ACOTAR Masterlist

Part 2: The Favor | Part 3: The Dove

Being the smothered baby Archeron has led to quite the stifled life—until a meeting with a certain heir of Autumn sparks a desire long wondered about. Deadly curiosity leads you to proposition him with a bargain that he just can’t refuse.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x f!reader

Word Count: 14.2k

Warnings: eventual smut, p in v, oral(f), slight fingering, Archeron sister reader, virgin reader, slightly realistic first time, overbearing Archeron sisters

A/N: So much gratitude goes to @harvest-bunny for all the help with this series—helping me brainstorm, proofread and so much more provided during the entire creation of this fic. ☺️

I don’t know why it took me so long to write an Archeron sister reader, but man this dynamic was fun. Prepare to go on a wild ride with these two. This is only part one of three. 😉

Eris Vanserra was a walking, talking danger.

At least, that’s all you’d ever been told.

You weren’t entirely sure what to believe, anymore. After all, perhaps danger was only a preconceived notion.

You lived amidst danger every day. The fae lands you’d once had no choice but to call home was filled with danger. The people who you now called friends were dangerous. Cauldron, even your sisters had become like living, breathing weapons in their own ways.

Which was probably why despite being grown, your three sisters still hovered over you, protected you, kept you from immediate danger—especially after being turned fae. It was even worse now than when you were mere humans.

Legend had it that before your mother died, it was Elain that was once the most protected one of the Archerons—at least by Nesta. You were so young when you’d lost your mother, you’d barely remembered her or what life had been like when she still lived.

Being a little more than a year younger than Feyre, you were just shy of your seventh birthday when your mother had passed. Somehow, at some point—you were never clear on how—your sisters had banded together to protect you, the baby.

As if they realized since you’d no longer had a mother to tend to you, they would be the mother you lacked.

Even if they always didn’t get along—Feyre and Nesta the most—they tried, for you. At some point, it was no longer Elain the one that was coddled, it became you. At a point so early in your life, you hardly remembered that either.

Even when your sisters bickered, they’d always rally around to make sure you were taken care of. Especially when your father had lost his fortune and your family fell into poverty. You were always the one your sisters made sure had enough food, had the warmest blanket, was always in the middle of the bed, cocooned by them.

But your lives now were so far removed from that dilapidated cottage. Just four of you remained from your original family, having lost your father in the war with Hybern—killed by the King, himself, in front of Nesta.

Life being protected by your sisters was all you’d known.

When your family was destitute, you’d let them. Back then, you were a mere girl who didn’t know how to take care of herself, didn’t have a need or desire to.

Everything had changed when you, Nesta and Elain were forcibly turned fae by the Cauldron. That was following Feyre becoming immortal herself after months spent in the faerie lands of Prythian, living and experiencing horrendous things that you’d once only could dream of.

But in the aftermath, after all of your sister’s trauma and healing journeys combined—plus yours, you supposed—they still continued to rally around you tighter, closing in ranks.

You weren’t the same person you were when you were human. You weren’t the same female as the one that had went into that Cauldron.

For now, you despised being smothered.

Their insistence to keep you from harm's way was inevitably what led you to noticing a specific male, after all.

The first time you’d met him—been allowed around him more like—was at the Winter Solstice ball in the Hewn City almost a year ago now. The only way you’d even been allowed to go was because you’d insisted your sisters take you.

Even if you’d despised having to beg to do something.

So you had accompanied the group to the Hewn City.

You, Nesta and Elain were all dressed in Night Court black—Nesta in more of a revealing dress, Elain more modest. You, on the other hand, had somehow fallen in the middle.

Though you’d had to argue just to wear the semi-loose black dress you’d donned.

It had shorter, ruffled sleeves—unlike Elain’s long sleeved dress—and a billowy skirt of sheer black gossamer. The fabric was layered over a black satin lining that lay underneath, fitting closer your body. Though more risqué in comparison to Elain’s dress, it was nowhere near as tight or revealing as Nesta’s or Feyre’s outfits. But what had caused the argument was the neckline that had plunged, just enough to show off a decent amount of your breasts.

You’d clearly won the argument.

You may have been their baby sister, but you were an Archeron—you didn’t come without bite.

You and your two eldest sisters had entered the throne room after the two Illyrians and Mor, but before Feyre and Rhys. The crowd murmured as the three of you approached the dais.

Which was when you’d first caught a glimpse of the male—one of two that stood at the dais, awaiting the arrival of everyone.

Tall, long red hair, dressed in Night Court black—seemingly coming with an air of arrogance and self importance.

Eris Vanserra, the heir of the Autumn Court.

You had been intrigued almost immediately.

Nesta was supposed to dance with him tonight—all for a plan you’d had little knowledge of. As per usual, your sisters kept you out of the loop when it came to most courtly matters.

It was only after Feyre and Rhys had been seated on their thrones—and dismissed the gathered court to their festivities—that the two males had finally approached the dais. One was a tall, blonde male that resembled Mor too much to not be her father. Keir, you’d taken it.

Your sisters may not have involved you in much, but your snooping and deduction skills were immaculate because of such behavior.

The other one—Eris—had been the one who’d kept your attention.

Feyre and Rhys had spoken to Keir, dismissing him, but you’d hardly heard them, as your eyes had kept wandering to the heir. Though he never once turned to you in that short amount of time, something told you that he had been aware of every peek and glance you’d sent his way.

You couldn’t help the way your stomach had swooped in reaction to how attractive he was.

Sure, you’d been surrounded by beautiful males from the moment you’d been turned fae, but he was different. Off limits. Dangerous in a way you’d never been allowed to touch.

You’d had a brief recollection of the first time you’d met his younger brother, Lucien. At how you were practically smitten with the handsome face and well mannered male—all to find out that this was the male that was your second eldest sister’s mate.

Clearly you’d been too traumatized after being turned to be able to remember that it was Lucien that was your sister’s mate—had hardly remembered the fact that he had whispered to Elain that she was his mate.

Perhaps it was fury that drove you to act out more. Disdain for the fact that even Elain—the one who was the most gentle sister and once even briefly coddled—could have a mate and spend a few years ignoring him with little repercussions.

But had you ever been allowed to experience anything like that? Of course not.

Which is why you’d allowed yourself to look at Eris Vanserra that night. Maybe out of sheer foolishness, maybe as a way to invite trouble.

Maybe out of something far deadlier.

His amber eyes had roamed the three of you—snagging on Elain, assessing. He’d known good and well his little brother’s mate was standing in front of him.

He was to dance with Nesta, but before he’d turned to your eldest sister, his eyes fell to you. Something sparked in them as his eyes raked over your form. The corners of his mouth curled upwards in a smirk.

“Now, who do we have here?”

It was the next to youngest Archeron who had spoken, your sister only a year older than you—your High Lady.

“She is none of your concern.”

You’d wanted to grimace at the dismissal. Wanted to argue against the statement—to say you could speak for yourself. But amber eyes still remained steady on you.

“Can you not speak for yourself, dove?”

You hadn’t shown your surprise, but you’d certainly felt it, hearing the heir voice the words you’d just been thinking.

“Eris.”

There was a warning growl in Rhys’s tone. You’d practically sighed dramatically. If there was anything worse than overprotective sisters, it was overprotective brothers.

Having mated sisters also meant you’d gained a small army of overprotective males—which wasn’t anything you weren’t used to from your own blood, the overprotectiveness, that was.

But Eris had turned from you, finally offering Nesta his arm.

You’d watched his retreating form all the way to the dance floor, something sparking in you by his mere existence.

Later, you had wandered from the dais under the pretense of getting refreshments. While that was partially true, you had been growing bored standing on the dais simply watching the festivities. You wanted to join, wanted to explore.

Your wandering had resulted in you running into Eris. You’d been slightly shocked he hadn’t still been glued to your eldest sister. They’d already danced three dances together—or more—by that point.

But his attention had snagged on you, borderline predatory as the corner of his mouth curled up. You’d almost run right into his strong build and one of his hands had hovered over your waist, so close to touching your body, but not. You’d felt the way his touch had skimmed the material of your dress though before he’d dropped his hand, finally speaking.

“Where have they been hiding you?”

You’d only tilted your chin up, in defiance, not in the slightest intimidated by the boldness of his direct question.

“Maybe I haven’t seen a need to trouble myself with such boring, courtly matters.”

It had been a flat out lie. You’d have done anything even for the monotony of a boring meeting or courtly discussions. Even Elain—a warrior in quieter ways than your other two sisters, preferring baking and gardening in her spare time—somehow managed to be more involved in the dealings of the Night Court.

She certainly seemed to have more of a life than you did.

Perhaps it was because like Feyre and Nesta, she too had extraordinary powers granted by the Cauldron or in Feyre’s case, gifted from the High Lords.

You’d never developed any sort of Cauldron blessed powers.

If the Cauldron seemed to think Nesta was a thief and hated her for stealing something from it—if the Cauldron seemed to love Elain and gave her something, it seemed to have been pretty apathetic towards you. Its indifference had left you with nothing more than the normal High Fae powers. Nothing grand. Like it, too, had conspired with your sisters and didn’t deem you trustworthy with something as powerful as your sisters’ powers.

It was one in a long list of things that infuriated you.

Not necessarily the lack of powers, but the fact you always seemed to live in the shadows of the other three Archeron females.

As for the matter of your life…there seemed little for you to do really, other than just exist for them to protect.

There had been only so many times you could go to the quarters to shop. Or help Elain prepare a meal. Or even do menial housework like you were a servant.

You’d helped Elain in her garden so often, you were sick of the sight of it. Not that it wasn’t lovely—your sister was amazing at growing and tending beautiful flowers.

You simply just yearned for…more.

You knew your sisters loved you, but you were tired. You were so incredibly tired of this life.

Which is exactly why you’d set your sights on him.

He’d only grinned fully—likely not a comforting thing to most. It had been a cunning and mischievous smile. But it still sent a thrill through you anyway.

“You appear akin to the type to leap at any chance of excitement.”

His voice had been cool, amused, as he studied you.

You’d studied him right back, eyes roaming over the pale, freckled face, amber eyes focused on nothing about you. You tilted your head casually, innocently—perhaps a touch flirtatiously.

“You sure you’re not thinking of yourself, Eris?”

If his name on your lips had any sort of affect on him, he sure hadn’t shown it outwardly. He’d simply slipped his hands into the pockets of his black pants, that grin only sharpening even more.

If your sisters had been anywhere nearby they’d have probably fainted at your carelessness with the male—or likely exploded into balls of fury. Either would’ve been possible knowing them.

“So you can speak for yourself,” he’d chuckled, clearly amused at your quip back to him.

“I don’t see anyone else that happens to be a part of this conversation, do you?” you’d snarked.

That deep chuckle had sounded again and you’d luxuriated in the sound. The rich smoothness of it, like velvet.

“I noticed you haven’t taken to the dance floor. Is there any reason why?”

You had just quirked a brow at him.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a tad too bold and brash?”

“Every day of my immortal life, dove.”

That smile still hadn’t left his face, eyes taking you in as you’d been conversing with him.

“Perhaps I have no interest in dancing,” you’d lied smoothly.

“Perhaps you’re kept on a leash. One that you seem to thrash against.”

It had been incredible how much the male seemed to observe about individuals. You’d barely met him and he’d already seemed to have an incredibly accurate read on you.

“I think you happen to be dramatic, on top of thinking highly of yourself—and your skill set,” you’d drawled.

He’d known you were evading the truth. You saw it in the way those burning amber eyes sparkled. He was very aware that there was much you weren’t voicing.

Whatever he’d assessed about you in the following beats of his silence had him humming, eyes raking over you in interest.

“What a shame. You seem to be the most entertaining thing I’ve encountered yet.”

You’d simply grabbed a goblet of wine, facing him. You’d given him a sharp smile of your own before inflicting your parting shot.

“You must’ve lived an incredibly boring life for an immortal then.”

You’d left him there, still smirking at your retreating form.

It was then that the bare bones of an idea started forming in your mind.

Now, in the present, nearly a year later, your sisters still tried to keep you from Eris. Though so far, you’d managed to finagle your way into going to some meetings he was involved with.

While you’d had your fair share of trauma like your sisters, you were also the most restless of them. Perhaps it was due to the fact you remembered nothing but being coddled, sheltered and overprotected.

So you’d managed to get them to loosen their hold—slowly, at first—but even just a little bit. Enough to let you be helpful in small matters. To attend meetings. Listen to conversations.

To be around a certain Autumn heir.

Though that was for pure selfish reasons as an idea had been weighing on your mind since last winter.

Due to your sister’s overprotectiveness, you’d never taken a male to your bed. No male had stood a chance, not with three Archerons circling you like a pack of wolves.

You’d hated that fact.

Feyre had been allowed to make mistakes, learn from them. Nesta had been allowed to lose her maidenhead to a random fae male and keep male company in her bed for months on end. Elain had been allowed time to heal, explore her own options, even ignore her own mate while she processed her own trauma.

Two of your sisters were now happily mated. Even Elain was getting to know her mate, not entirely open to completely rejecting the bond yet.

Meanwhile, you felt like you couldn’t do anything without being treated like the child they clearly still saw you as. Despite the fact that they’d started allowing you to do small things just to appease you, you were still far from being involved. The tighter they’d tried to hold you, the more you wanted to rebel.

Which is how the idea truly came to form.

You’d been watching the male for some time—granted, only in the times you were allowed to be around him. The word allow always made you want to roll your eyes into the back of your head in annoyance and frustration.

But you’d had an idea. A reckless one perhaps, but one nonetheless.

And Eris Vanserra was the perfect male for it.

•••

You’d been waiting for him in the hall outside of Rhys’s study—leaning against the wall—for about an hour.

You’d known he was in Velaris to meet with Rhys for some things they needed to discuss—not like you had any knowledge of what, though you were half tempted to peek through the crack of the wooden doors to eavesdrop.

But you were above that.

Sometimes.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to approach him today, but when you awoke this morning, you’d vowed the next time you saw the male, you’d take the chance.

It turned out that opportunity just happened to come a lot sooner than you’d expected.

You straightened the moment you heard approaching voices, signaling one—if not both of them—were approaching the door. Then the heavy wooden doors opened and he walked out.

Mercifully, alone.

You glimpsed Rhys still at his desk, dark head of hair bent over as he scribbled something on parchment. Then the doors closed behind Eris.

The corners of his lips curved upwards, delighted by your presence.

“Well, if this isn’t a surprise. Should I flatter myself by thinking you’re waiting for me or were you waiting for Rhysand?”

You didn’t beat around the bush, you just blurted what was on your mind.

“I have a proposition for you.”

He looked at you, intrigue shining in those amber eyes. He assessed you briefly—likely weighing your words, your body language, your demeanor.

“Walk with me,” he finally said.

You chewed on your lip nervously, following the tall redhead. You were already starting to have second thoughts about going through with this.

But it was something different—exciting. Hadn’t you craved that for so long?

His long legs took him a few strides down the hallway and away from Rhys’s study doors. You followed, suddenly wondering how the hell you were gonna manage to put this request into words and not sound like a complete fool.

You finally caught up with him, coming up at his side, displaying a lot more bravado than you certainly felt.

“Do you preoccupy all your spare time with dull court politics or attempting to thwart your father?”

He turned to look at you, lifting an amused brow.

“My duties never seem to cease, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It’s a mere observation,” you replied casually.

At this point, the two of you had sauntered down the hall far enough from Rhys’s study so when he finally paused—crossing his arms and leaning against the wall to look at you with curiosity—you weren’t worried about eavesdroppers.

“Quite the curious thing, aren’t you, dove?”

You shrugged, seemingly unruffled.

He studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing infinitesimally.

“If you have something to say, I would encourage you to just voice it.”

Truly you had no idea where the courage came from.

“You haven’t taken a lover in a while.”

His eyes sharpened, something flaring in them that you couldn’t put a finger on.

“Been utilizing that shadowsinger, haven’t you?”

It was true. Somehow, you’d managed to convince Azriel to do some snooping. You’d convinced him—and the others, when they’d found out—that it might be good information to have, to keep him in line if he ever acted out. To see if Eris had any lovers, anyone that could potentially be used as a pawn.

Though it was born out of purely selfish reasons and you had absolutely no intention of using any potential individual in such a way.

You’d been shocked when Azriel’s intel had come back with nothing. As far as he could sniff out, it had been some time since Eris had taken a lover.

That was the final push you’d needed, determined to proceed with your plan.

“I— What if we— If I said—”

So much for the bravado you’d just had. That all came tumbling down like a house of cards. You were now stumbling over your words, awkward and nervous.

You tried again.

“I wanted to know if— I thought perhaps—”

The smug smirk on his face was annoying—and annoyingly attractive—as he watched you fumble for what you were trying to say. He wasn’t even bothering to put you out of your misery, happy to allow you to continue to stutter.

“Dove, if you can’t use your words, I’ll be leaving now.”

You blurted it out before you even had any idea what was coming out of your mouth.

“Take me.”

Gods, the words that came out of your mouth made you internally groan and want the floor to swallow you whole, simultaneously.

Those lips twitched in amusement—he was practically vibrating with it.

“Take you where?” he quipped, smoothly, absolutely unbothered.

The bastard probably knew exactly what you meant, too.

You just gave him an exasperated look resulting in one of those deep, sensuous chuckles of his.

It was enough to give you goosebumps.

“What if we made a bargain?”

Now, he certainly looked intrigued.

The male, who usually appeared so cold, face like stone, looked genuinely interested. The arrogant amusement from earlier had banked a tad as he eyed you. He wasn’t mocking you, wasn’t dismissing you. He was clearly waiting a moment before speaking—either to give you an opportunity to continue or to gather his thoughts.

Clearly it was the latter for he dropped his arms, straightening from where he’d been leaning against the wall. His face was now serious, giving you nothing but his full attention.

“What would motivate the precious, youngest Archeron sister to want to make a bargain with me?”

He was a head taller than you, face bent down to look at you. Those intense amber eyes bore into you, face free of anything he could be potentially feeling or thinking.

Gods, no wonder some were terrified of him.

“You have not had a lover in some time,” you began after taking a breath, steadying your nerves, “And I have never had one.”

The speed of which his brows flicked up surprised you—certainly coming from a male that had mastered the art of keeping a blank face as to never give anything away.

You pushed on anyway.

“You end a drought and I…” you trailed off, straightening your shoulders, “I make a choice that is for myself, for once.”

Something flashed in his eyes, there and gone before you could hardly register it, let alone identify what it was. He looked to be choosing his words carefully, as if he had much to say, but was sifting through all the possibilities—careful to pick the best answer.

“That isn’t a bargain. That’s theft.”

You gritted your teeth. You should’ve anticipated that he wouldn’t take what you offered so easily. He was a male that thought through things thoroughly, assessed every situation from every angle, observed what would and would not benefit him the most.

Which is why, completely unplanned, you added what you did.

“Then if you agree to this, I will owe you a favor. Of any kind. You need to win favor with Rhys? I’ll argue your case.”

You weren’t about to back down as you stared up at him defiantly. Even if he refused or gave you a hard time, you would see this through to the end at least.

“A favor of any kind. Whatever you want.”

He finally leaned back a little—you hadn’t even realized he’d been hovering so close. He once again folded his arms over his chest, fingers curling on his biceps.

Biceps you tried not to focus on—even if they were displayed quite nicely in his courtly finery.

You tried not to fidget under his gaze. You remained calm outwardly, though, willing to see this through.

“That is a fool’s bargain. You have little to offer me. After all, you cannot offer me what I truly want anyway.”

Likely his father’s throne.

You may have been kept from much, but you weren’t stupid.

“Anything you want,” you pressed.

“Anything I want?”

“Yes.”

He eyed you curiously, eyes trailing your form lazily, even slower on the way back up. When he spoke, his voice was the icy cadence you’d heard from him in the past—more on par with the horrible male your own family and friends made him out to be.

“Didn’t Morrigan tell you I torture virgins?”

You had to restrain the urge to roll your eyes. Your sisters, Mor, everyone had spun tales about Eris Vanserra like he was a frightening bedtime story. Yet they all seemed to interact with him fine. For Cauldron’s sake your own sister was a sister-in-law to him—sorta.

You betrayed none of your irritation or whirling thoughts, just leveling him with a piercing gaze.

“Is it truly torture if one wants it?”

He just hummed, saying nothing more, though he kept that unwavering stare directed on you. Gods, he could be intimidating.

You weren’t about to let him scare you though.

“Do your sisters approve of this?”

Irritation flooded your senses at the mention of them.

“My sisters have nothing to do with this.”

He hummed once more, eyes continuing to take you in, likely turning everything about this situation over in his mind.

“I only ask because I’d prefer avoiding the wrath of three Archeron sisters.”

You bristled further.

“This is my choice. I chose to approach you. If you haven’t picked up on it, today’s theme is my choice.”

At some point your hands had planted on your hips, fingers digging into the material of the pants you’d stolen from Feyre’s wardrobe. Mercifully, they didn’t dictate what you wore, but it was an unspoken sentiment that they assumed you’d prefer being much more like Elain—prim and proper and clothed in dresses.

You never minded the more feminine clothing, often having bonded with the eldest of the two middle sisters over beautiful dresses. But you diverged from Elain, desiring to not always be clothed in them.

Even more so now that Nesta often lived in pants.

You could see the thoughts churning in his mind, the unsaid things swimming in his gaze. It was an insane thing to ask of him—of anyone, yet you were.

But you knew if anyone would, Eris Vanserra wouldn’t make it a big deal. You knew he had knowledge of navigating deals however he saw fit—mostly ones that could benefit him.

This would most definitely benefit him. He was a male, after all.

You didn’t know what you would do if he said no. Likely try to save face and not slink away with your tail between your legs—not give him the satisfaction of your humiliation and desperation.

Though you supposed you likely already permeated the scent of desperation—if the fae could actually scent that, that is.

But you were tired, so tired of the shackles you’d been forced into.

So it came as a surprise when he finally spoke.

“Fine. I’ll…assist you for a favor. Of any size I wish.”

“Then it’s a bargain?”

“It is indeed a bargain.”

You extended your hand for him to shake—to seal the bargain—though it was a bit preposterous in the scheme of things. You were bargaining for Eris to be the first male you laid with, shaking his hand now almost made you want to laugh.

His large hand slid into yours and shook it firmly.

Then something happened that you hadn’t anticipated.

The feeling of magic zapped between you and Eris, like a shock. A slight burn-like heat—like flames—briefly consumed the skin of your right wrist. The same hand that had just shaken his.

At the first sensations, you’d jerked back, hand falling from his at the unusual magical reaction. Lifting your hand, you saw a tattoo on your wrist.

You briefly recalled Feyre and Nesta mentioning that Night Court bargains often came with a physical marking too—in dark as night black ink.

Yours was wildly appropriate. It was a tiny tattoo, perhaps barely over an inch big, but like a beacon of light on your once smooth, unblemished skin. The outline was of a singular flame—the ink, the darkest black.

Gentle fingers circled your wrist as he turned it to study it. A thumb ran over the newly marked skin, gently, sensually. Your breath hitched slightly at the movement.

“How very appropriate—flames right over the pulse that I’ll soon have speeding…from my own sort of fire.”

For indeed, right where the tattoo had been inked into your skin was just over your pulse.

Something caught your eye as you noticed an identical tattoo on his pale wrist—on his right wrist as well. The same hand he’d used to shake your own.

He seemed to track your stare, his own eyes following. Gently releasing your own wrist, he held up his own to admire.

“Huh—can’t say I’ve ever received a tattoo from a Night Court bargain before.”

“Well, glad to be your first,” you quipped.

You didn’t know why you felt so shaken, all of a sudden. You didn’t regret it, but you were left uncertain. Now that the bargain was quite literally inked into yours and Eris’s skin, you didn’t know what to expect.

He seemed to read your thoughts and he finally stepped away again, ready to make his exit, likely back to Autumn.

“Don’t you worry dove, our bargain will be fufilled—eventually.”

With that, he gave you no further inclination on just when that would be.

No, Eris just winked before he winnowed away, disappearing right before your eyes.

Leaving you with the realization that you now had proof of a bargain you would somehow have to hide from your sisters.

•••

Months passed.

Months.

You’d grown rather crafty with hiding the flame tattoo from everyone. Lots of long sleeves were worn or—when you were in shorter sleeves—a stack of jeweled bracelets sat on your wrist.

Feyre never questioned why you seemed so intent on occasionally raiding her massive jewelry collection. Likely, she was pleased that it was an inane, innocent interest. One that kept you preoccupied and safe.

Little did she know.

You’d borrowed a small collection of beautiful bracelets yet you’d barely made a dent in her own collection of jewelry. She did have quite an array between Rhys spoiling her and what he already owned prior to meeting her.

You’d concluded the pieces you’d taken were some of the cheaper ones, since Feyre seemed to have no issue with you wearing them.

Besides, you didn’t want anyone discovering what you’d done. Especially not Feyre, Nesta or Elain, though the males were to likely be as insufferable about it if they found out. Not only about the bargain, but who you’d made a bargain with.

You were already treading on thin ice.

You’d continued to conveniently appear any time Eris was around. If he was in Velaris to discuss courtly matters, you’d happen to be in the same location—or happen to have an important question for Rhys that you just had to ask him, while he was meeting with Eris. Sometimes it was a tiny lie that someone needed Feyre. Once, you pretended to need a book that Cassian had asked you to fetch. In Rhys’s library. Just as your next to youngest sister and her mate were happening to expect Eris.

You’d even managed to worm your way into a meeting—something about reinforcing Autumn’s borders that his father had turned into a bigger problem than necessary.

“How am I supposed to learn anything if you don’t let me learn?” you’d asked Feyre earlier that day.

You’d felt smug when she couldn’t find an answer for that question and had reluctantly let you join.

Admittedly, you weren’t that enamored with the business that required discussing.

It was nice to be included though, especially since two of your three sisters were included, along with the two Illyrians, Rhys and even Amren, though how Rhys managed to pull her away from her apartment and Varian was beyond you. Mor—probably grateful to be—had left for the continent again this morning.

No, you weren’t there for business, but to feel out Eris.

Every time you’d run into the male, he always smirked like he knew a secret. But, of course, he actually did.

It was always in the knowing looks, the sly smirks, eyes dipping to your covered right wrist. It was like he was burning with the knowledge of what had occurred between the two of you.

But he’d yet to approach it. You would still owe him any favor, but he’d not even fulfilled his part of the bargain yet. It was like he found the utmost enjoyment in keeping you on your toes, extending the suspense for as long as possible.

During said meeting, you busied yourself trying to listen to the flow of conversation, even if you only understood half of it. You sat lazily, chin resting in your hand, attempting to keep your eyes from straying towards him.

Eris noticed every time, amber eyes flicking to you and catching you in the act. Even if his face remained neutral, his eyes danced with amusement, intrigue and a whole lot of mischief.

Later, when he stood, stretching slightly, the material of his shirt pulled taught across his chest—just enough to give you an idea of the toned physique underneath. Accompanied by a deep chuckle at something that was said, you found your body reacting before you could stop it.

You felt heat curl low in your belly, your thighs pressing together. When he turned, eyes falling to you, you swore you felt that desire deepening.

If he truly went through with the bargain, he would be the first male you’d take to your bed. What started out as something born of a desire to clear this milestone in life had suddenly—and sneakily—turned into actual attraction to the male.

You no longer wanted Eris for what he could do for you, you wanted him because it was him.

“Is it too warm in here?”

You blinked, realizing he was talking to you.

“I’m sorry?”

“You look rather flushed. Mere observation,” he shrugged.

He strolled past you towards the door with no further comment. But you still caught the sly flicker of his eyes as they slid to you, just as he passed you, intent and promise in them.

Soon, he seemed to say.

You didn’t know what to make of it, but you knew the day was rapidly approaching that Eris would come knocking.

And you’d be prepared for it.

•••

The night that Eris appeared at your door followed a really horrible day.

You were still tense, your mood sour from leftover anger and frustration following a horrible fight with your sisters. What had started as an innocent question had resulted in your defenses rising—thus turning it into a whole ordeal.

“Is there something going on between you and Eris?” Feyre had asked pointedly, earlier that afternoon.

For once, you, she, Nesta and Elain were all in the same place. Something that was rarer nowadays with Elain kept busy flitting across different courts, falling into a natural emissary role—a title Rhys thought was perfect for her with her bubbly, social personality.

Nesta was usually off with Cassian or the Valkyries and priestesses. In the last months, she’d started finally merging into a teaching role alongside Cassian and Azriel—at least teaching the beginners.

You were no warrior, but sometimes you’d wished you were even allowed to desire the option to train.

Feyre, of course, was kept busy between being High Lady, mate, friend and sister.

All to say it was a rare occurrence that the four of you were gathered at the same time.

Nesta had been reading a book by the fire, content to relax with a good story after a busy morning. Feyre had been at a small desk in the room, reviewing correspondence from another court—not that she was likely to fill you in on just what it entailed. Elain was at her back, sipping her cup of tea and reading over her shoulder. Perhaps it had to do with a court that Elain had just returned from visiting.

You? You’d been sitting in the window seat, staring out at the beautiful day, unable to focus on the book of Nesta’s she’d lent you. You weren’t sure if you’d even made it past the first chapter yet.

Restlessness had always plagued you, but more days than not, lately, you felt like you drowned in it from sunrise to sunset.

You’d snorted, finding the accusation utterly ridiculous, even if there was a hint of truth to it.

“That’s preposterous!”

“Is it?” Nesta peered up from her book, putting a finger between the pages—to mark her place—as she closed it, “Because any time that male is around, you somehow find a way to be involved. Or make an appearance. Or happen to be passing through.”

You’d recalled that maybe you had been a bit obvious.

“Well he’s certainly more exciting than you lot are,” you’d mumbled.

It had been the wrong thing to say.

“Exciting doesn’t mean throwing yourself into danger at every turn,” Feyre had reprimanded, “We are trying to spare you from such things.”

You could’ve laughed—purely out of exasperation and frustration. You almost had. Which was likely why you had downright exploded.

You’d hopped up from the window seat and flung your arms into the air.

“I am not like you three! I don’t have any powers!” you’d screeched, “So what are you trying to protect me from?!”

Though you weren’t proud of your tone thinking back now—further proving you were no better than the baby they’d always seen you as—it’d felt good in the moment to unleash the anger and frustration.

“There are many dangerous things in Prythian,” Nesta said, icily.

You’d leveled your glare on her.

“Oh? You mean like the ones that Feyre has faced? You have faced? Even Elain has been involved in more than I am!”

It was true—though Elain wasn’t the long babied one, Nesta had always had a desire to protect Elain just a bit too. Wisely—unlike you—Elain knew when to speak up for herself and demand space to breathe.

Maybe if you’d done that long ago, you wouldn’t have been in this position.

“That is different and you know it,” Feyre had snapped.

“Oh really? How so?” you’d challenged the three.

Elain—sweet, sweet Elain, who was always the most gentle, even if she did possess an occasional edge to her—had still been gentle when she’d finally piped up. Until this moment she’d been silent, monitoring the conversation. Her perception of things was excellent, you knew many underestimated your second oldest sister.

“Not everyone in this land is a friendly face. There are dangerous individuals—males—around.”

You’d nearly snorted in disbelief.

“I’m surrounded by dangerous males every day! I have four brothers—three which you lot are mated to, need I remind you?”

“They would never hurt you, either. They only want to protect you, too.”

It had been Elain with her soft tone that only further kindled your anger—the way they were treating you like a child expected to throw a tantrum. Even if you sort of had. But it had been the condescension that made the conflagration in you burn hotter.

“Is this truly about Eris or the fact you just want to control every aspect of my life?” you bit out.

“Eris is not good. He’s—” Feyre had begun.

“Dangerous. Cruel. Awful. An arrogant bastard. A snake. Bid for Nesta’s hand once over a year ago,” you listed off.

That last one had been an intriguing development, back when you weren’t as invested in your interest in him. Unsurprisingly, Nesta didn’t even entertain the offer. After all, she had a mate. One she very clearly loved. But she was powerful and for reasons still unknown to you, Eris had wanted her as his bride.

Little had they known that his attention had shifted to a different Archeron.

“I know all of this. You’ve been over it with me so many times,” you groused, “But has it ever occurred to you that maybe you’re grossly underestimating him? If he was so awful, why do you continue to ally with him? And manage to interact with him just fine?”

“We know how to handle him. You do not,” Nesta had simply uttered.

That had almost made you laugh.

“He’s selfish. He will take advantage of anyone or anything if it will benefit him in some way. He’s cunning,” Feyre had tried to explain.

You hadn’t wanted to give anything else away, didn’t want to let on to the fact you were more closely connected to him than they were aware of. So, you’d pivoted to your next point. One that you knew would slice, one that you’d found wholly unfair for a long, long time.

“Why is it that Nesta was allowed to fuck strangers and drink as much as she wanted?”

They had actually flinched at your language and tone.

You were not the innocent baby sister they’d believed you were for so long—you hadn’t been her for a long time.

“Why is it that Feyre got to make the mistake of dying for a male that didn’t deserve her—one she thought she loved, almost married. Why did she—like Nesta—get time to process her trauma then get to fall in love and become High Lady?”

They’d all stared at you, an array of reactions on their faces. Elain had paled, eyes as wide as saucers. Nesta’s lips were set firmly, blue gray eyes blazing. Feyre looked pained—like she wanted to fix things for you, like she always used to.

“How come Elain was met with no arguments, no pushback when she spent years, years avoiding her mate. Never acknowledging the fact that she even had a mating bond. Was she not allowed to go about it the way she needed to?”

But it had been like once everything started pouring out of you, you couldn’t stop it.

“You all had the chance to go on your own journey of self discovery and make mistakes. That was fine. There were no issues. It was all: ‘Feyre’s healing. Nesta’s dealing with trauma. Elain just needs time’, well what the fuck about me?!”

You’d struggled plenty with your own trauma—even if in different ways than your sisters. Yes, you’d been chased from dreams many nights from the fear of being kidnapped from your bed, drowning in the Cauldron, the uncertain anxiety from the first weeks of feeling foreign in this new body.

But you’d found it easier than they first had with adapting to your new life. You’d gotten used to being fae—especially when you’d never felt like you’d fit anywhere else—never knew your own identity outside of being the youngest Archeron sister.

Which is why you’d been so desperate, so adamant for Eris’s help.

For once, you’d wanted to be allowed to do something for yourself—something you had control over.

No special powers. No mate. No journey of your own.

Earlier that afternoon, you’d finally reached your breaking point—a long time coming, too—and it hadn’t been pretty.

They’d had little to say to you after that, considering you’d stormed out of the room. You’d been locked in your room ever since, even skipping dinner.

You didn’t trust yourself to not say anything else hurtful to your sisters. There would be time to apologize, later when everyone had cooled off. You weren’t sorry for what you’d said, but you were sorry for the way it’d come out.

Despite the fact you’d wanted to get it all off your chest, you hated fighting with your sisters. All it did was dredge up bad memories of how tense the relationships between all four of you had been when you were destitute.

You sat in front of your vanity, in your room at the River House, running your brush through your long hair. Despite still being tense, you felt tinges of guilt creeping in. You still appreciated all your sisters had done for you, still loved them in what way you knew how.

You just wanted space, sometimes.

You were so caught up in your thoughts, you didn’t even hear a knock at your door. It wasn’t until you heard a more insistent, slightly louder knock that you’d realized someone must’ve just knocked and you’d completely missed it.

You stood, the hem of your satin nightgown brushing your thighs.

As ridiculous as it was, once you’d started rebelling against your sisters, you’d gone to the shop in Velaris and bought yourself comfortable—and more risqué—nightwear. Even if you wore them for yourself only, it gave you a sense of control.

You’d grown to love them, the silkiness of the satin, the straps that bared your arms and shoulders. Some were lacy and delicate, a tad more modest. Some were more scandalous, dipping low in the front and exposing what the other three would likely find to be an indecent amount of your breasts.

You thanked the Mother that you’d been in one of the latter when you opened the door and discovered who was on the other side.

Eris.

Calm, unruffled and looking positively delighted at the outfit you were currently clad in.

His eyes dipped and traveled, rather quickly, before he spoke.

“I do believe I have a bargain I still need to fulfill.”

His voice was deep, slightly raspy, enough to send a chill along your spine—not helped by the piercing gaze on you.

You managed to keep from gaping at the male though your hand tightened on the doorknob you still held.

“I didn’t realize you were in Velaris.”

“I’m a male of many surprises.”

The corner of his lips curled upwards, peering past your shoulder into your room.

“Oh, right,” you said, shuffling to the side awkwardly, inviting him in.

Despite wanting this—making a bargain surrounding this—you were suddenly unsteady at the fact that this was actually happening.

After you closed the door behind him, you turned to find him waiting in the middle of your room, intensity lining his features as he watched you approach him.

“Right. Okay. So we just do this then?”

You automatically reached upwards, going for his shirt, his face, something—to kiss him. To just launch yourself into this headfirst.

He halted you, a broad hand curving around your waist, the presence of it feeling heavy—like his touch seared through your thin nightgown. It was incredible how your body immediately reacted to him from a simple touch.

“Settle,” he murmured soothingly, not a hint of mocking in his tone, “I won’t bite.”

His other hand slid gently up your arm, over your shoulder and his palm caressed your neck, thumb barely brushing your jawline. His eyes stayed locked on your face as he continued.

“You’re not the little bird your sisters have diminished you to. But you still deserve to be treated with respect and care.”

Your breath came out in a whoosh, surprise filling your body at the unexpected comment from a male you’d been told was nothing but cold and cruel—even if you didn’t believe it.

“I know how to be more decent than those Illyrian brutes you’re used to,” his mouth curved in a grin.

“Watch it,” you glared.

Even if you were sick of your sisters, those Illyrian brutes were still your brothers and your friends.

He just chuckled, thumb brushing ever so lightly over your cheek before he bent his head, bringing his lips to yours.

You’d kissed plenty of men before—something you’d surprisingly managed to keep from your sisters, something you’d once thought was just for yourself, that your sisters couldn’t control.

Perhaps you’d never been able to lie with a man because the handful that you had kissed knew exactly what sort of protectors the other three Archeron sisters were.

But Eris…Eris kissed unlike any other before, though it could be likely due to the fact he wasn’t a man but was a fae male.

Whatever it was, you absolutely loved it.

His lips moved languidly against yours, savoring the glide, the press of them, the weight of yours against his pillowy soft ones. The hand on your waist slid further around to the dip in your lower back, pulling you closer to him.

You tilted your head, letting the kiss naturally deepen—letting his tongue brush effortlessly against the seam of your lips. Your lips parted, allowing it to sweep in and tangle with yours. As he kissed you, as the two of you shared breath, your hands found his chest, fingers finding the buttons of his shirt.

Your lips immediately moved against his faster, with more desperation and heat. He followed your lead with little issue, until he felt your hands scrambling over his clothes, trying to get him out of his clothes. You’d already managed to get his shirt halfway unbuttoned when he pulled away.

Your lips followed his, momentarily thrown off from his departure.

“Slow down,” he murmured, lips dropping a kiss on your jawline before moving back to look at you.

His hands rested on your hips, slightly bunching the fabric. His roaming eyes said he wanted to do anything but.

“As much as I want to enjoy you, it’ll be a lot better if we take our time. I’m free all night.”

He bent again, smirking against your jaw, where his lips had found purchase, sucking and nibbling. You gasped slightly, head falling back as he kissed a line forward, moving away from your ear.

You just wanted him to touch you.

Clearly, he wanted to as well for his hands slid up your sides, closing over your breasts, even through your nightgown.

“Mm,” you moaned, chest arching, strong hands kneading them, massaging them just right.

You pressed into his touch further, feeling the way your pebbled nipples pressed against the now irritating satin, how they felt against his palms, even through the fabric. You wanted—no needed his hands on your bare body.

All over your bare body.

The drumbeat increased in strength between your legs, arousal pooling in your underwear as his hands grasped and explored, as his lips traced over your neck, tongue coming out to lick over random spots of your skin. Growing impatient you pulled your arms out of the straps of your nightgown, connecting your lips to his again.

You pulled your other arm free, hand tangling in the lengths of his hair as your hand cupped his jaw, kissing him with more fervor. He grunted against your lips, reaching down to grab the backs of your thighs.

He lifted you in his arms, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as you continued to kiss him.

He stayed there for a moment, hands spread across your ass, mouth hot on yours, then he was moving. Before you knew what to expect, you were yelping and freefalling. You landed on the bed with a dramatic bounce, eyes wide as you stared up at the smirking pale face—one full of heat.

“I should’ve warned you to expect a bit of excitement with me, dove,” he smirked as he joined you on the bed, crawling over you.

You weren’t in any mood to complain as you raised onto your elbows, reaching for him. Just as your mouth met his, your fingers finished off the rest of the buttons of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders.

Despite your earlier nerves, you were slightly amazed at the fact that he put you at ease rather quickly, though you still felt like you were fumbling some.

When he broke the kiss to remove his shirt the rest of the way, you took the opportunity to take in the glorious sight of the pale muscled physique. Broad, strong shoulders, defined pectorals, biceps—and then your eyes dipped to the contours of his abdomen. The vee of his pelvis dipping into his pants.

You might’ve slightly been drooling.

He was…stunning. No other word could describe him.

“Keep looking at me like that. Does a male good,” he hummed, capturing your lips in a kiss again before his mouth was descending, long fingers coming to the neckline of your nightgown.

Hot presses of his mouth traced a path down your throat as his fingers hooked into the neckline and pulled it down, exposing your breasts. The cool air of the room hit them, making you shiver, but all you could focus on was the way his gaze fell to them.

You swore you heard him mumble something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a, “Mother above”. You didn’t have time to question him though because then his head was dipping, his tongue flicking over one of the nipples before taking it in his mouth.

The breathy inhale that came from you didn’t even sound like you. You’d had no idea you were even capable of such instantaneous reactions. Meanwhile, his other hand came to the opposite breast, fingers pinching the nipple.

As if the pulsing between your legs couldn’t get any worse, his teasing made it strengthen and you squirmed under his attention. His free hand pushed the rest of your nightgown up, bunching it at your stomach, revealing the matching underwear—made of the same fabric and the same color as the gown.

Of course, you’d bought these just for yourself but they sure came in handy now.

His eyes dropped to the item that hugged your hips, a devilish smirk barely gracing his lips as he peered up at you.

“It is too forward of me to say I hoped you weren’t wearing underwear?”

You snorted, but it wasn’t derisive. It was amused. You looked down at him, a smirk growing across your face.

“Maybe next time.”

He growled lowly in response and you saw his hips shift against the bed. If he was enduring anything like you were right now, he sure managed to allude to still managing to have some sort of control.

He certainly wasted no time in ridding you of both articles of clothing, leaving you bare to him.

You should’ve felt shy, but the way he was looking at you made the heat pool like molten lava in the pit of your stomach.

“So what, we just have sex now?”

The deep laughter that followed your comment made you want to scowl, but the reaction wasn’t at your expense, though he was genuinely amused.

“Dove, I’ve got much to teach you. I want to make sure you’re ready for me.”

“Ready for you?” you repeated dumbly.

His hand slid over the expanse of your stomach, painfully slow and sensual. Your eyes dropped to the movement, even as he spoke.

“Aching. Desperate. Slick with need,” he murmured, hand dipping between your legs, fingers brushing along your soaked slit. You whimpered, hips automatically bucking towards his hand.

“And even then…I’m not taking this lightly. You’ll take all that I give you.”

You blinked, unsure of what he meant, but nodded anyway. His tongue came out slowly, moistening his bottom lip, just as fingers began to explore. You felt the gentle push of a finger into you and you gasped, hand flying to one of his biceps.

“You’re okay,” he cooed.

You knew he was right. It was just…new.

But you felt how you were gushing, your arousal dampening your inner thighs—all of this in reaction to him before he’d even done anything. So much so that he had little resistance inserting a lone finger. He groaned at the way you clenched around the digit as he slid it in and out of you.

Despite you never having experienced the sensation before, you suddenly ached to be filled—preferably by more than just his fingers.

“Gods, already so eager for me,” he mumbled, more to himself than anything.

You nearly quipped back that you’d have to be blind to be wholly unaffected by him, until he added a second finger. It was tighter, but not unpleasant.

You moaned quietly, the pump of his fingers already making your vision spotty. You felt a brief sting as his digits spread and came together again then he repeated the action, over and over until that initial brief discomfort had faded.

“What— what are you doing?” you asked.

You’d let go of all fear of appearing foolish, earlier. Whatever happened in this room between you and Eris would clearly stay in this room. You were curious and you were going to ask.

“Just stretching you a bit,” he hummed, placing a kiss to your hip bone, “Preparing you for my cock.”

You swore your mouth went dry at the thought.

Apparently that wasn’t the only way your body reacted and he flashed you a wicked smile and provided you with another languid pump of his fingers.

“I felt that. Getting you all excited for my cock, hm?”

And there it was again, the way your cunt contracted, squeezing around his fingers. All he did was chuckle, scooting backwards—touch not leaving you as he did so. You watched him curiously and then he was leaning forward, some strands of his red hair pooling against your bare abdomen as he licked over your clit before taking it into his mouth.

“Ohh, fuck,” you moaned, arching.

Another wicked chuckle—this time against you—and you moaned again at the vibration. He pulled away just enough to comment.

“I never realized you had such a mouth on you, dove.”

“Shut up and do that again,” you hissed.

He just smirked up at you, fingers curling within you as his mouth lowered again, tongue coming out to press flat against your clit—all while his eyes still remained on you.

Gods, you could’ve come from the sight alone.

“Eris,” you whimpered.

His eyes flashed—a hint of fire sparking to life in them as he groaned against you, clearly pleased to hear his name fall from your lips.

He shifted against the bed again and your eyes fell to the movement. Though his bottom half was still clothed, you had the good enough sense to know he was extremely aroused, himself, by this point.

You nearly cried when he pulled his fingers free of you. But he moved so quickly you barely had time to process the fact that he’d licked just over your entrance, as if tasting you for the first and only time before he slid his tongue in you.

“Gods!” you gasped, back arching clear off the bed, one hand automatically threading into his hair.

Your mind—your body—felt like it was on overdrive. You had known pleasure before, but it had been at your hand alone and nothing like this.

“Oh gods— that’s— Eris—” you whimpered.

You pressed closer to him, body having a mind of its own as your hips moved, grinding against his mouth, pushing your hand into his hair.

You couldn’t help it, you were greedy and it felt so incredible. You wanted to come, wanted him to make you come.

“Yes, yes, please don’t stop,” you chanted, losing all control of your mouth, too, “Feels so— fuuuuck.”

You were moaning louder, unabashedly as his tongue thrust, licked, swirled, lips kissed and sucked. He was winding you tighter and tighter and you weren’t sure if you were going to last much longer.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, pushing his head down further against your cunt. He licked his way back towards the apex of your thighs, giving a gentle kiss to your clit before beginning to lap at it.

“You— are— delectable,” he murmured in between pauses, licking against your clit with each pause.

“Please,” you whined.

He groaned, more than affected now by your responsiveness to him.

“Don’t worry, dove. I’ll take care of you.”

As his lips closed around the bud, sucking gently, you felt the building pressure deep within you—that had seemed dormant and far away—grow suddenly hotter, stronger. Your legs kicked against the mattress weakly—involuntarily—unable to control your body and the incredible amount of pleasure that was building.

He slid the two fingers back into you—with much less resistance this time around, you were so soaked for him. You heard the grunt deep in his throat as he noted that observation too.

“Eris, Eris, I can’t— oh gods you’re—”

You were babbling without even meaning to, words bubbling up before you could stop them, being interrupted by gasps, moans and other small sounds of pleasure.

You weren’t too far away from falling and once again you ground with more determination against his face, adding a tad more friction.

You came apart with a cry, that tension finally snapping so abruptly and swiftly that it sent the sound up and out of your throat before you could stop it. The feeling of euphoria swept through you with such force, all you could do was arch into him, press closer and grip a combination of his hair and the sheets at your side.

Your chest was heaving when it finally ceased enough for you and your body to relax. He gave one last lick along your slit, tasting your release and you whimpered, sensitive from what he’d just pulled from you.

“Cauldron,” he breathed, when he finally sat back, mouth still slick from you.

He looked devastated—though maybe devastated wasn’t the word for it, but Eris did not look unaffected. You briefly wondered if any of his past lovers ever showed such enthusiasm or appreciation for the things he’d done for them—or if he even did those things for them.

You knew you felt pretty damn appreciative for what he’d just done for you.

“I do believe someone once said you had a sharp tongue…I may have to reevaluate just what they mean,” you muttered.

You were still blinking, dazed from what had just happened. But Eris only chuckled, though you could’ve sworn it sounded strained to your ears.

He looked ready to eat you alive.

When he was at your head again, you pulled him down by the shoulders, kissing him hard. It was a hot, open mouthed kiss, tongues tangling with one another and you groaned, tasting yourself on his mouth. Somehow, it made the kiss that much hotter.

His mouth moved with yours, as his hand slid up your bare leg, opening you wider for him to settle between your legs. He kissed you with nothing but pure intent and urgency, his own desire for you bleeding into the act.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, tongue sliding against his. His hips pressed forward, letting you feel just how much he wanted you.

His hardness pressed roughly against you and you moaned, breaking the connection of the kiss.

“Gods,” he groaned, head falling, looking down to where the arousal in his pants pressed against your bare cunt.

You whimpered, squirming, pressing closer, canting your hips to rub against him. His breathing deepened as his hips jerked forward, grinding against you. If this had your lashes fluttering at how good it felt, you had no idea what to expect when he was inside you.

His arms braced the sides of your head as he kept kissing you, kept grinding against you. It was as if you were two young lovers that’d been separated for too long. When he pulled away for a moment, your eyes fell to one of the toned biceps in your periphery.

Perhaps because you’d lost all control of your senses, you turned, kissing a line along the sculpted muscle—from shoulder to the crook of his arm. The feel of the taut muscle underneath your lips nearly drove you wild.

You simply grinned up at him mischievously as his heated gaze burned on you, desire written all over his features.

He’d had plenty of time to explore you, perhaps you’d wanted to explore him a bit.

He pushed away from you, leaving you entirely as he stood from the bed. You mourned his presence for half a second until you realized what he was doing.

Strong fingers worked at the button of his pants as he unbuttoned them, pushing them off his hips. Your eyes stayed locked on his, breathing becoming labored, caught in his intense stare like if he’d tied you to the bed, making you unable to move.

Motion snapped you out of your trance only for you to realize he was fully bare now.

Your eyes dropped only so, then slowly rose up that powerfully honed body, lean muscle everywhere you looked. Your eyes dropped again—further this time—your chest expanding in a slow inhale.

Oh gods…

You had not been prepared for the sight that greeted you—even to the point of being slightly overwhelmed by it.

Not only by the obvious cock that was on full display—hard, the tip flushed the prettiest shade of red and leaking—but the entire sight of him.

“What’s the matter? Never seen a naked male, dove?” he purred.

Normally you’d have a smart remark to match his swaggering arrogance, but you only swallowed hard, face warming a bit as you sat up against the pillows.

While no, you hadn’t, you hadn’t thought it was such a big deal. But here—in this moment at least—you felt off kilter, vulnerable in a way you’d never expected to feel. You said nothing, just pulled your bottom lip between your teeth in slight apprehension.

You watched the smugness quickly dissipate from his features as he took in your unnatural silence. Perhaps thinking he’d gone too far in his comment—especially when you didn’t rise to challenge him like you normally would’ve.

He grew more serious, perhaps a shade softer, though his voice became rougher around the edges, like he was undone from this entire situation.

“Despite what you may have heard, I would never force you to do anything you did not wish for.”

“I realize that,” you said plainly.

You didn’t want sympathy or pity for your inexperience, but at the same time you felt very out of your depth. Mercifully, he didn’t push the matter, said nothing more—didn’t continue to tease you either—and stepped closer to the bed again.

Your eyes dropped to the movement of his hand as he reached out for yours. He then led it to his cock, his hand staying over yours.

Your fingers wrapped around him and you just barely repressed the gasp that crawled up your throat.

You hadn’t known what to expect, but if you had been told it was like velvet warmth, you'd have thought the individual crazy. But, it was. Though he was hard as granite, the skin was so soft and warm—a part of you wondered if it came from the fire that was in his blood.

If anything, he was definitely way more well endowed than you could’ve anticipated. Perhaps that attributed to his arrogance—he certainly had good reason to where that was concerned.

He groaned at your first touch, involuntarily arching into you, as if he had no control over his body. Your eyes flicked up to his face, a shade hesitant. His eyes didn’t leave yours as his had guided yours upwards in a slow, gentle stroke.

His lashes fluttered, a deep grunt coming from his chest. Your own lashes lowered as you watched the way he guided your hand along him, showing you what to do—what he liked.

You weren’t sure why you suddenly craved to put your mouth on him. You wanted him everywhere—in your hand, mouth and cunt.

“Your hand feels amazing on me,” was all he could rasp out, breaking you out of your thoughts.

Heat curled tighter within you, hearing how affected he was by your touch. But you didn’t continue as he moved from your reach, climbing over you, your body once again falling back against the pillows.

He stared down at you momentarily and you found yourself a tad shaken—even more left in awe—at the look on his face. The face you’d once known as nothing but cold, devoid of any joy, was now more at ease—you could even go as far as to say it was almost soft.

In an attempt to distract from the intense moment, you spoke.

“Now’s likely not the time for an utterly inane comment about it not fitting, is it?” you uttered.

Though you truly were wondering if it would.

He just chuckled deeply, bending to brush his nose in a short line along your cheek.

“You’re adorable,” he purred.

“Not exactly an answer,” you huffed.

“Believe me, dove, it’ll fit.”

One of your hands braced his thigh—palm flat against the muscle—and you had to bite back a moan at the reminder of the strength of him.

While he was preoccupied elsewhere—lips peppering kisses over your jawline and neck—your hand slid inward. You figured you might as well get acquainted with the part that would soon be inside your body.

You weren’t afraid, nor were you nervous. You were…curious. Treading unfamiliar territory, yes, but eager to learn and explore, even if you’d already touched him once. But that had been with his help, you wanted to try on your own this time.

It wasn’t like one touch would ever be enough for you either.

Once more, your fingers wrapped around his cock, dragging your hand in a slow pull upwards. Your thumb brushed over the thick head and you swore you watched his control crumble before your eyes.

Oh, this held power. You bit back a smirk at that discovery.

“If you don’t want this to be over before it even starts, I highly suggest you stop that,” he gritted out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you grinned widely up at him, dragging your hand back downwards again.

“You’ll have time to play later,” he grunted, removing your hand.

You just cocked a brow.

“Oh? I will?”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “If I have a say in it, you will.”

You repressed a snicker, though your mouth curved upwards. His face loomed closer before he dipped his head, kissing you.

If there was one thing you knew for sure, it was you wouldn’t ever get tired of the way his lips felt—or tasted. You took the brief moment to explore other places on him as well.

Even if your hands were hesitant, they slid over his chest, up to his shoulders and down to his upper back as he kissed you, just enjoying the feel of your mouths connected.

He pulled back, tongue flicking over your bottom lip, sitting back.

His fingers circled your calves, pushing your legs up until they were bent, the soles of your feet flat against the mattress. Then, with gentle care, he pushed your knees further apart, giving himself room.

“I need you to relax for me, dove,” he murmured, a hand sliding under your hips, lifting them slightly to position you better.

“You know saying something like that is only gonna make me do the opposite,” you quirked a brow.

He gave you a half smile.

“Just trying to make it less…intense for you.”

“Isn’t sex intense to begin with?”

He almost looked exasperated at your questioning and you couldn’t help but bite back a giggle—especially since he didn’t look truly annoyed. More like amazed at your rapid fire questions.

“I meant there can be some discomfort,” he supplied.

You…hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t known that, though you figured that made sense.

“It’s going to hurt?”

You hated how small your voice sounded. So much for being confident and in control.

His brows pinched together ever so slightly, face tightening. His voice was rough when he answered you.

“Not if I can help it.”

Then he turned back into the matter-of-fact Eris you knew him to be.

“I will leave right now if you no longer want this.”

“I am no coward,” you scowled.

“I didn’t say you were,” Eris’s gaze was steady on yours, serious, “I’m giving you choice.”

“Then I choose to stop you from leaving,” you said stubbornly.

He chuckled lowly, as if impressed.

“I always knew there was fire in you.”

“According to you, I haven’t had enough in me.”

He snorted.

“I never said that.”

“It was implied.”

You gasped feeling the head of his cock press at your sensitive, untouched center.

He’d been distracting you through the last few traded remarks, loosening you up further. You couldn’t explain why that made you warm towards the male further.

He didn’t ask, but his eyes questioned one more time and you gave a short nod. Then he was pushing in, slowly.

Even with the slight movement, you felt a deep sting—not exactly painful, but unusual. Slightly uncomfortable, the deep stretch, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, repeating his words from earlier.

He retreated, the sting easing before he pressed a bit further in. The dull sting grew but instead of fighting it, you kept breathing—kept trusting him.

Assessing amber eyes never left your face.

He repeated the action over and over—retreating and pushing a tad further with each movement. He leaned closer, allowing you to wrap your arms around him and with every inch you gave, your arms tightened just slightly.

He took his time, didn’t rush, accommodating his movements depending on how hard your touch dug into his back.

You weren’t sure how long it’d been, if he’d already filled you fully, but on the latest press forward, the burning sting was sharper this time, more noticeable and you inadvertently tensed.

“Hey, eyes on me,” he mumbled, thumb brushing your hip soothingly.

Your eyes found his and once again instead of panicking you kept your focus on him.

The hand that had fallen earlier—subconsciously gripping the sheets from the deep discomfort—reached up, fingers trailing softly over the splatter of freckles on one cheek.

“Your freckles are pretty,” you mumbled.

Eris looked like you’d slapped him across the cheek instead of caressed it. You smiled at his stunned expression, your thumb brushing over the top of his cheek.

The comment wasn’t meant for pure distraction, you actually meant it.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured his praise.

He pulled out again, pushing the furthest he had yet, causing you to squeak the tiniest bit at the feel of him bottoming out.

The discomfort was still very much present, accompanied by a strange, foreign sensation of feeling full. Almost overwhelmingly so. To the point it seemed to radiate outward a bit.

His hips pressed flush against yours, in as far as he could go, as close as he could possibly get to you.

“Still with me?”

You couldn’t recall ever seeing him look so concerned and caring.

His hand shifted, planting on the pillow next to your head, stabilizing himself. He’d yet to move an inch since fully entering you, staying still, letting you adjust to the size of him. You studied him, felt him grip the pillow next to your head, watched the way his eyes closed, watched his brows slightly scrunch.

As if he was in pain. Suddenly a wash of fear and concern filled you.

“I’m not hurting you am I?” you bit your lip, worried.

After all, you weren’t exactly…familiar with the logistics of this. You knew you were feeling quite the deep and momentarily uncomfortable stretch and burn, but what if you were somehow hurting him too?

His laugh was more of an exasperated, strained exhale of breath than anything.

“No. You’re not hurting me, sweetheart.”

Something funny twisted within you at his abnormal nickname.

Your arms fell from around him, hands coming to rest on his biceps.

“You promise you’re not lying to make me feel better?”

You studied his face as he finally opened his eyes, heat burning within them.

“I’m just trying real hard not to push you past your limits,” he gritted out, “And it’s a…struggle.”

Perhaps you were a touch naive, but you asked anyway.

“Why?”

Those flames came to life in his eyes.

“Because you feel so good all I want to do is fuck you for days—and you’re not ready for that yet.”

You may have blinked in surprise. But then you tilted your head in curiosity.

“What does it feel like?”

Instead of answering, he pulled one of your hands away from where it rested on his bicep, taking it in his hold.

His lips brushed across your knuckles briefly before drawing one fingertip past his lips. The sensation of a warm, slow and gentle pull of suction surrounded the digit, making you gasp. He released your finger just as slowly as he’d brought it to his lips, tongue lightly flicking across the pad of it as he did so.

“Like that.”

You were positive you’d gone utterly breathless.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he smirked.

The discomfort had begun to ebb, your body adjusting to the new intrusion. You shifted slightly, impatience setting in.

“Okay,” you nodded, giving him the go ahead.

You were surprised at how gentle he was the first few times as he eased out and re-entered you. It was such an odd sensation, being so full in an area you’d never experienced such a thing—but it wasn’t unpleasant.

He groaned as he moved.

“Gods, you’re tight.”

The slow drag of his cock against your walls had you gasping, gripping his biceps harder. The discomfort had completely faded—had blossomed into something warmer and much more pleasant.

Then your next issue was you had no idea what to do.

Though he felt the way your body had relaxed, he also quite likely sensed what was running through your mind—the nature of your anxious, uncertain thoughts.

“Don’t overthink it,” he uttered against your mouth.

Which was easier said than done.

But as he kissed you, slow and gentle thrusts into you accompanying his kiss, you found your body taking care of that worry, taking over for you. As your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer to you to kiss him harder, your body shifted, clearly growing impatient.

The tiny movement provided extra friction as he moved, hips speeding up the slightest. You moaned against his mouth, fingers curling even tighter into his locks, hips experimenting again.

A small rock of them had him groaning, breaking the kiss.

“There you go,” he murmured around another groan.

His hips pulled back and thrust forward again, a little faster with a tad more power. You were still feeling the overpowering pressure, that fullness of him filling every inch of you, but your lashes fluttered, starting to enjoy it.

“Gods, you—”

He growled lowly, clearly trying to hold back as he moved forward again repeatedly, head dropping towards you, a strand of his hair falling along the side of his face.

But you didn’t want him to be careful with you.

“More.”

His head lifted, gauging if you truly meant the command. Your body felt warm, tingly, the sensations pleasurable. But despite whatever you tried to do, it didn’t seem to satiate you enough.

Since you were still so unfamiliar with the act, you were more than content to let him take the lead.

The hand not braced by your head slid down your side, sliding under your hips once again, hand splayed across your backside as he shifted you again.

The way it gripped your ass—quite cheekily, you might add—made you moan as his hips thrust forward again. He was deeper, the angle different from before and you were definitely beginning to see why people raved about the act.

His own moan of pleasure ignited the fire in you and your eyes fell closed as you did nothing but let the incredible feelings—ones you weren’t sure you could even describe—sweep you away. With your eyes shut, you didn’t see his approach, but you felt his lips close over yours, capturing them with his and you groaned, automatically kissing him back.

Your hands slid down the length of his back, feeling the way the muscles shifted and moved as he thrust repeatedly into you.

You felt his groan against your lips, the way strands of his hair fell to your bare skin, brushing it as he moved over you. Your body completely relented to him, giving over to the pleasure that was unlike anything you could’ve imagined.

Then his lips were moving beyond yours, attaching to every inch of skin in his reach he could. They left hot kisses against your jaw, down your throat, nipped harshly at your collarbone.

You were so close to him, hard muscles pressed against your soft skin and it was driving you wild. You needed more and more and more.

You had the sneaking suspicion that this was only a fraction of what he was capable of, but you swore you still saw stars as his pace sped up, cock hitting spots within you that you’d never imagined could exist.

If it could always feel this good, you never wanted it to end.

You heard a low grunt come from his deep in his throat as your body finally rejoined his movements, needing more of something—though you couldn’t pinpoint what. His head dipped, mouth coming to one of your breasts.

“Eris,” you gasped, arching into him.

He was slowly driving you mad with each and every movement. He timed every thrust of his cock perfectly to the flick of his tongue over your nipple. You felt your own body inadvertently react to him, inner walls tightening around him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled your hips to meet his.

You’d never heard him sound so utterly undone and it made you spiral, lose all sense of your mind as your fingers dug into his back. You felt the sensations of the pleasure and was clearly enjoying it, but thought it was odd that you weren’t feeling the building of it like you had earlier, when his tongue had been between your legs.

He was cursing again, the sentiments falling from his lips repeatedly. You could feel his body tensing underneath your touch, a low groan falling from his lips as he stilled.

Then you felt warmth, slick on your thighs and it was over.

You blinked, coming back to reality, not sure if you were disappointed or not. It hadn’t been awful but it hadn’t really been quite what you’d expected either.

Your heart was still racing though, breathless from exertion as he finally moved again, pulling out of you gingerly. Which was a blessing because suddenly it hit just how sore you were.

It was quiet as he sat back, detangling himself from you and you lay there, peering at him, unsure what you should even say. You watched as he stood, bending for his pants. As he pulled them on, he peered over his shoulder at you, as if assessing your state after such a life altering event. You had sat up by this point—sheets pooling at your waist—and those eyes roved every inch, as if just to make sure you were alright.

“Expect some soreness tomorrow,” Eris murmured, a cocky upturn of his lips accompanying his remark.

You rolled your eyes, mumbling under your breath.

“Cocky bastard.”

When it fell silent again you knew at the very least you should thank him. He had actually come through with his end of the bargain and helped you.

You had no idea what possessed you to do it when you stuck your hand out to him.

Eris turned around to face you fully, still shirtless—with said shirt dangling from one hand—brows high. You didn’t balk, even if you cringed internally at your action. But truly, what did one do in this situation anyway?

You pushed your hand out further, refusing to let him dismiss you.

“Thank you,” you said pointedly.

His lips twitched, amusement evident on his face.

“Can’t say I’ve ever had anyone thank me for fucking them with a handshake before.”

You were about ready to drop your hand when he reached out, sliding his own into yours, giving it a firm shake. But before he let go, his thumb brushed your wrist once and your eyes dropped to the black as night ink still present on your skin.

“Why is it still there?” you scowled.

“Because it’ll only disappear after I’ve called in my favor. Not a moment sooner.”

You huffed, pulling the covers up over your bare chest to chase away the chill, looking up at him as he finally pulled his shirt on, buttoning it up.

“And that will be when?”

“Soon, dove. When the moment’s right.”

He gave you a wink and winnowed away before you could even question what his vague, cryptic remark meant. In turn, you were left staring at the space where he'd just been standing, long after he’d left. Swirling thoughts and emotions warred within you, along with the knowledge of an unfulfilled bargain that would remain a secret.

Until whenever Eris Vanserra decided to call in his favor.

Tag List: @lilaclichh @batboyslutt @lomahdu @alexof90s @smol-grandpa @achelliescomedown @harvest-bunny @less-spice @ravencharming @melsunshine @kittiness12 @she-reads768 @garricktavisfanclub @asteria33 @apenasandorinha @knoxic @kathren1sky-blog @talesofadragon @watermelomsuger @dakotali @frostystarlight @bxm-2121 @idk1027 @saltedcoffeescotch @slut4acotar @chasing-autumns-chill @bookwormysblog @div94 @seasonallyapril @lilah-asteria @lizzytish25 @quiettuba @psychiatry-and-poetry @usernamesarelies @wormonthesidewalk @hopalongsworld @potatoheartsyou @tayssauchiha @serenedinosaurdreadnought @somewhere-stuck-in-the-stars @niaixdrew @lokisjmw @potatoplace @frominsidethehouse

[hockeylover25]

Chosen

Eris Vanserra x mate!reader

Summary: A High Lord’s mate becomes pregnant, and their supernatural hounds sense it first, becoming fiercely protective. Their bond deepens through pregnancy, the birth of their daughter Anastasia, and future pregnancies they instinctively detect before anyone else.

Warnings: Pregnancy & childbirth, Emotional labor scene, Protective/possessive dynamics, Mild blood mention, Fantasy intensity.

Authors note: omg I love this story so much😭 I need to make more pregnant mates for these characters!! As always, hope yall enjoy 🫶🏻

Main Masterlist:

Taglist: @frominsidethehouse, @spookypersondinosaur, @lucia-valentinaa

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

At first, you brush it off.

The nausea, the strange cravings, the way you can't seem to get through a morning without needing to sit down and breathe through a wave of dizziness—all of it feels inconvenient, but not alarming. Not enough to sound the alarm. Not enough to pull Eris into concern.

You've lived in the Autumn Court long enough to know what real sickness feels like here, and this isn't that. There's no fever burning through your skin, no sharp pain warning you something is wrong. Just a quiet imbalance, like your body has shifted slightly out of sync with you and refuses to settle back into place.

Eris notices the changes before you ever name them, of course he does, but even he doesn't speak on it at first. He watches instead. Watches the way you pick at fruit in the middle of the night like your appetite can't decide what it wants.

Watches how you push away breakfast only to return to it minutes later, as if your body is negotiating with itself. Watches you fall asleep sitting upright in the library and wakes you later with a blanket already placed over your shoulders. He doesn't ask questions. Not yet. He simply observes, quiet and unreadable, as if gathering information only he can interpret.

It is only when the hounds change that everything begins to shift.

They were always his first—that was never in question. Massive, flame-eyed creatures of Autumn Court magic and ancient loyalty, they tolerated you at best, respected you when they chose to, but they belonged to Eris. Or so everyone thought. Until suddenly, they don't behave that way anymore.

It begins subtly. One of them lowers itself across your feet while you sit in the garden, as if deciding you are no longer something to be observed from a distance. Then another begins following you through the halls without waiting for Eris's command.

Then all of them start doing it. By the third day, you cannot move through the estate without at least one shadow at your side, pressed close enough that it feels like they are anchoring you to the world itself.

And then the growling starts.

Not at you. Never at you. At everyone else.

Servants who pass too quickly. Guards who linger too long. Courtiers who glance at you with polite curiosity. Even Eris, when he approaches you in the hallway one afternoon, is met with a wall of teeth and warning growls.

You freeze at the sudden shift, one hand instinctively resting against your stomach as another wave of nausea rolls through you. "They've never done that before," you whisper, unable to tear your eyes from them.

Eris stops so abruptly it feels like the air itself tightens around him. His gaze flicks between you and the hounds, something unreadable tightening in his expression—not anger, not fear, but something more unsettling. Calculation mixed with uncertainty. "That's enough," he says firmly.

The hounds do not move.

He tries again, softer this time, more controlled. "Move."

They shift—but not away. Closer to you. Protective in a way that feels almost instinctual, as though something older than obedience has taken over. As though you are no longer simply part of their court, but something they have claimed to guard.

Your fingers curl slightly at your side. "Eris... what is happening?"

He does not answer immediately. His attention remains locked on the hounds like he is seeing them for the first time in a way he does not understand. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual. "That is what I intend to find out."

That night, neither of you sleep properly.

You sit on the edge of the bed, exhaustion weighing heavily on your body, while Eris paces slowly near the window, his movements controlled but restless. The silence between you is thick with thoughts neither of you is willing to voice yet.

"They are responding to you," he says at last, breaking the quiet.

You frown slightly. "That doesn't make sense. They barely tolerate me most days."

Eris shakes his head once, correcting you without hesitation. "They do not tolerate you. They assess. They choose." He pauses, then adds more carefully, "And now they have chosen differently."

The words make your chest tighten for reasons you cannot quite place. You rub at your arms as another wave of nausea rolls through you. "Chosen me for what? I'm not injured. I'm not—"

You stop mid-sentence. Something about the thought that tries to form feels wrong, too large to say aloud.

Eris notices immediately. "What?"

You shake your head quickly. "No. It's ridiculous."

His eyes narrow slightly. "Say it."

You hesitate, then admit it reluctantly, as if speaking it might make it real. "It's just... they're acting like I'm fragile. Like something is wrong with me."

The word hangs in the air between you.

Wrong.

Eris stills completely.

For the first time, there is something like hesitation in him—something uncertain and uncharacteristically careful. His gaze shifts over you in a way that feels different now, more searching than assessing. "...Have you been sick?"

"No," you answer immediately.

"Fever?"

"No."

"Pain?"

You pause. "No pain. Just nausea. Tiredness. Cravings that don't make sense."

The silence that follows is heavy. Outside the room, one of the hounds lets out a low, uneasy sound, as if even they are waiting for something to be named.

Eris exhales slowly, controlled, but his gaze drops briefly—just briefly—to your middle before lifting again. Then away. Like he is refusing to assume anything too quickly. Or too hopeful.

"They have never reacted like this before," he says quietly. "Not for illness."

Your stomach tightens in a different way now. "You think I'm sick."

"I think something has changed," he corrects carefully.

Another pause.

Then, almost reluctantly, he adds, "And I think they know before we do."

After that, sleep becomes impossible.

By morning, nothing has changed. The hounds remain exactly where they were—one pressed against your side, another curled at your feet, all of them positioned like silent guardians watching the world beyond the door.

Eris stands across from you in the early light, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in a way that feels heavier than usual.

"I'm going to bring a healer," he says.

You nod slowly. "Good."

But neither of you moves.

Because neither of you truly believes this is simple. And for the first time in a long time within the Autumn Court, Eris looks like a man standing on the edge of knowing something that will change everything—and not knowing whether he is ready for it.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The week doesn't ease into anything normal. If anything, it gets worse.

The hounds stop leaving your side entirely, as if some silent agreement has been made without your consent or understanding. Wherever you go, they follow. When you sit down, they settle around you immediately—heavy bodies curling against your legs, pressing into your sides, their warmth grounding you in a way that feels almost intentional.

And one of them, without fail, always lowers itself carefully across your stomach, as though that specific place has become the most important thing in the entire world.

At night, the distinction between where you end and they begin disappears completely. They follow you to bed like quiet, watchful shadows given shape and weight. When you finally lie down, exhaustion settling into your bones in a way you still can't explain, they arrange themselves with unsettling precision.

One presses against your back, another settles at your feet, and always—always—one curls protectively against your middle, guarding you with a vigilance that feels older than instinct itself.

Eris tries to act normal about it.

He doesn't succeed.

Not really.

You catch him watching them more often than he watches you, his gaze narrowing slightly as if he is trying to decipher a language only they understand—something tied to bloodline and magic and ancient loyalties that predate even him. There's tension in the way he observes them now, quiet and controlled, like a man standing before a puzzle he doesn't like not having already solved.

When the healer is finally summoned, the estate shifts into controlled chaos. The moment the doors open, however, everything changes.

The hounds lose their composure entirely.

Not in aggression toward you. Never toward you. But toward everyone else.

They descend the staircase landing as one, planting themselves in a living barricade of fur, muscle, and ancient magic. Their eyes flash, their growls low and unyielding, every line of their bodies communicating the same message: nothing passes.

It takes Eris nearly two hours to break through it.

Two hours of steady commands, sharp authority, and finally something colder in his voice that makes even the hounds hesitate for the first time.

The air in the estate feels thick with resistance until, eventually, they give ground—not obediently, not willingly, but enough to allow passage. They do not retreat far. They simply... allow.

The healer arrives pale and slightly shaken, as if he already senses he has stepped into something far more complicated than a routine examination.

Eris does not leave your side after that. He locks the doors behind the healer and remains standing close, his presence firm and grounding while the questions begin.

You answer them absently, your mind still weighed down by fatigue and the strange fog that has been following you for weeks, unable to focus on anything that feels sharp enough to hold onto.

Then the question comes.

"When was your last cycle?"

Silence settles instantly.

You blink once. Then again.

"I... don't remember," you admit quietly, uncertainty threading through your voice.

Beside you, Eris goes completely still.

The healer exhales slowly, his expression shifting into something careful and resigned, as though he has already begun narrowing down possibilities he would rather not name aloud. "I will need to perform a pregnancy examination."

Your head snaps up sharply at the words.

Eris reacts at the exact same moment.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves or speaks. The room feels suspended in place, like even the air is waiting for permission to continue.

Then Eris reaches for your hand immediately, his grip steady and grounding without hesitation. He leans down and presses a slow, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his voice soft when he speaks. "I'll be right here."

The examination is quick, clinical, and quiet in a way that makes every passing second feel stretched and heavy. You barely register it until it is over.

When the healer straightens, everything in the room seems to shift at once.

He looks at you. Then at Eris.

A small, careful smile appears.

"Congratulations, High Lord and Lady," he says gently. "You have an heir."

The words do not land immediately. For a moment, they hang in the air without meaning, as though your mind refuses to accept their shape.

Then they settle.

At the same time.

Your breath catches. Your lips part slightly. Beside you, Eris goes utterly still, his expression frozen in a way you have never seen before.

Silence stretches between you both—heavy, stunned, disbelieving.

The healer bows quickly and retreats without another word, clearly recognizing he is no longer needed in the room.

The door closes softly behind him.

And suddenly, it is only the two of you.

Your hands begin to shake before you even notice. The realization breaks through you slowly, unevenly, and then all at once, spilling over in tears you cannot hold back.

"I don't..." Your voice cracks as you try to breathe through it. "I don't know if I should be happy or sad."

Eris's expression softens instantly.

He is at your side in an instant, both hands cupping your face gently, grounding you in place as if afraid you might slip away from him in the weight of the moment. "What is there to be sad about?" he asks quietly.

A shaky, broken laugh escapes you, turning into something heavier as tears continue to fall. "We've never talked about this. About any of it. About children. About what it would mean."

His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, wiping away a tear before it falls further. "And?" he murmurs.

You swallow hard. "And now it's real."

Eris exhales slowly, something like relief and certainty finally settling in his expression. He presses another kiss to your forehead, slower this time, deeper—like an anchor. "Do you not want this?"

Your breath catches immediately.

"No," you say quickly, then pause, your voice softening. "No, I do. I've... always dreamed of it. I just—Eris, we never spoke about it."

A faint, quiet smile touches his mouth.

"I want this," he says simply. "I want you. I want us. Everything else—" His gaze softens further. "—is yours to decide."

Something in your chest finally loosens.

You let out a trembling breath and pull him closer.

"We're having a baby," you whisper.

"Yes," he answers softly.

You kiss him then—imperfect, emotional, overwhelmed in a way neither of you tries to hide. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment, steadying you both in the aftermath of everything that has just shifted.

And then—

The sound of pounding paws erupts outside the door.

It bursts open before either of you can react.

The hounds flood in all at once, filling the room with movement and noise and overwhelming loyalty. One barrels straight into Eris, knocking him backward onto the bed with an undignified grunt as he curses under his breath, trying to push the massive creature off while it licks his face as if celebrating victory.

You laugh through your tears, watching him struggle for a moment before your attention shifts.

Smokey enters more slowly.

He always does.

The oldest, the quietest, the one who observes more than he acts. He does not rush or jostle or demand attention. He simply walks to you with steady certainty, as if he has already decided what matters most.

Gently, he lowers his head and presses his nose to your stomach.

Then stays there.

Completely still.

Guarding.

Your breath catches softly, and your hand instinctively comes to rest on his head, fingers threading gently through his fur.

Around you, the other hounds settle in as well, filling the room like a living circle finally at ease.

Eris pushes himself upright slightly, still partially pinned under one of them, and looks between you and Smokey with an expression you rarely see from him—soft, stunned, and almost disbelievingly fond.

"They knew," he murmurs quietly.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand, letting out a small laugh through the lingering tears. "Apparently before we did."

Smokey huffs softly against your stomach in response, and this time your laugh comes easier—lighter, real.

And for the first time since everything began to change...

it doesn't feel like uncertainty anymore.

Only the beginning of something neither of you are facing alone.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The months that follow do not soften the Autumn Court so much as reshape it around you. The estate itself seems to adjust its rhythms, as though it has learned a new center of gravity and decided, without question, that it is you. The hounds become constant shadows of devotion, no longer simply loyal to Eris but to the life you carry.

Wherever you walk, they walk. Wherever you sit, they settle. Wherever you sleep, they form a living circle around you—always one pressed carefully against your growing bump, as though they have decided long before anyone else that nothing in the world will reach you without first passing through them.

Eris is not much different.

Only quieter about it.

More controlled, more precise in the way his protectiveness manifests. If someone lingers too long in the hallway and glances at you with anything other than respect, his stare cuts across the room like a blade being drawn.

If someone smiles at you—politely, harmlessly, even courteously—his hand is already at your lower back, his presence shifting in a way that makes the entire room subtly realign itself.

And if anyone so much as looks at your stomach with anything less than reverence, a low, dangerous sound rolls from his chest before words are even necessary.

You begin to sigh at him more often than you'd like to admit.

Especially in court.

"Eris," you murmur one afternoon, catching his wrist just as he begins to turn toward yet another unfortunate noble who had simply existed too close to you. "They are not threats."

His gaze snaps to you immediately.

"They are too close," he replies without hesitation, as if that alone justifies everything.

A slow blink. "You are terrifying them."

"Good," he says flatly.

That earns him a look, one he feels immediately. His jaw tightens for a moment, like he is actively restraining something instinctive and older than reason.

After a beat, he exhales and lowers his hand—but even then, it does not truly leave you. It settles instead against your stomach, warm and steady, possessive in a way that has long since stopped being something he tries to hide.

It has become habit now.

Even his quiet moments betray him.

You wake some mornings to the sound of his voice against your skin, low and calm, as if he is speaking to a sovereign rather than an unborn child. His hand rests there as though it belongs, as though it has always belonged.

"You are giving your mother a difficult time," he murmurs once, tone almost conversational.

Later, as the evening settles and the court grows quieter, you hear him again.

"Be kind to her," he says softly. "She is already stronger than you."

You always pretend you don't hear it.

You always do.

The hounds, unsurprisingly, agree with him on every front. There is no debate, no division in their loyalty. They move with you as if you are the only truth worth acknowledging, forming a protective presence that makes your life feel both safer and significantly more crowded. It is an existence defined by watchfulness—soft in its devotion, overwhelming in its intensity.

Until the day everything shifts again.

The day the screams begin.

Labor does not arrive gently or with warning. It crashes into the estate like a breaking storm, sudden and absolute. The carefully maintained order dissolves in moments—healers rushing through corridors, servants calling for one another, doors opening and slamming as if the entire household has been thrown into motion at once.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Eris is already there, as if he has always been there, waiting for this exact moment.

But even he is not prepared for what comes next.

Not for the sound of you.

The first cry you release tears something loose inside him that he does not allow himself to show. The second changes the air entirely, his composure fracturing at the edges as raw instinct surges forward—magic tightening, temperature dropping, the room itself reacting to the violence of his control slipping. It is not rage at you, never at you, but at anything in existence that could bring you harm.

The healers feel it before they understand it.

Even the hounds outside fall silent.

You see him then, through the haze of pain and breathless focus—Eris standing too still, too rigid, his expression sharpened into something dangerous and unfiltered.

"Eris," you manage through it, reaching for him despite everything.

He is at your side instantly, taking your hand as though it is the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His grip is firm, grounding, deliberate.

"I'm here," he says, though it sounds less like comfort and more like a vow spoken into existence itself.

Time becomes fractured after that.

There is movement. Blood. Voices. Instructions you barely register. The world narrows to sensation and breath and his hand refusing to let go of yours. At one point, his voice cuts through everything—low, lethal, directed at a healer with a calm that is far more terrifying than shouting.

"If she suffers unnecessarily, I will end you."

And then, immediately after, softer—only for you.

"I'm here. I'm here. I'm here."

Eventually, everything stops.

The noise fades.

The chaos stills.

And then—

A cry.

Small. Sharp. Alive.

The entire world seems to pause around it.

Eris moves first.

Always Eris.

When they place the baby in his arms, he looks momentarily as though he has forgotten how to exist. She is so small it seems impossible that she could fill so much space, her face red, her expression furious in the way only newborns can manage. And then, just like that, she stops crying.

The moment her tiny hand curls around his finger.

Silence falls in a way that feels sacred.

Eris does not move.

"...Hello," he whispers.

Nothing more.

Just that.

And something in his expression shifts—something that looks like relief so deep it borders on reverence.

He holds her as if she might break, though she does not. She only grips him tighter, as if she recognizes him in a way words cannot explain.

Then, carefully, he brings her to you.

Your hands shake as you take her, the weight of her both fragile and absolute. The moment she is in your arms, something inside you finally releases, as though your body has been holding its breath for months without realizing it.

She is warm.

Real.

Here.

Tears spill freely as you look down at her face for the first time without distance between you.

"Oh my beautiful Anastasia," you whisper.

Eris stills behind you at the name, just for a heartbeat, as if hearing it aloud makes something inside him lock into place. Then his expression softens in a way few have ever seen—unguarded, overwhelmed, real.

He reaches forward and gently wipes your tears away with his thumb, careful as if you are the one who has just been brought into the world instead of her.

You had chosen the name together long before this moment, but saying it now makes it final in a way neither of you could have prepared for.

Anastasia.

Your daughter.

Your everything.

You lean back slightly, exhaustion settling into your bones in a way that no longer feels like breaking, but like completion. Turning your face toward Eris, you find him already there, bending instantly as if he has been waiting for you to look at him.

His kiss is soft. Unhurried. Full of everything neither of you are able to put into words.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment, steadying you both.

You whisper it before you can second-guess yourself.

"Everything is perfect."

Eris looks at you, then at the child in your arms, then back at you again.

For once, there is no war behind his eyes. No calculation. No distance.

Only certainty.

He nods once.

"Yes," he says quietly. "It is."

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

After Anastasia is born, the estate changes again—but this time, it doesn't feel like tension or fear settling into the walls. It feels like something gentler has taken root, something that softens even the sharp edges of the Autumn Court without ever weakening them.

The atmosphere becomes quieter in a way that is not empty, but full. Watchful, yes—but no longer tense. Like the entire court has learned a new rhythm and decided, unanimously, to follow it.

The hounds adore her.

It begins immediately, without hesitation or adjustment period. The moment she is old enough to be placed on a blanket instead of constantly held, they are there. Always there.

They approach her as if she is something delicate and sacred, made of sunlight and fragile glass, and every movement around her is measured with unnerving care.

One of them curls behind her like a living wall, unmoving and steadfast. Another settles at her feet so she can kick at their fur freely without consequence, without restriction, as though her smallest movements are worth more than anything else in the world.

Smokey becomes her favorite almost instantly.

It is never spoken, but it is obvious in the way he allows her to grab his ears without flinching, lets her tug his tail with clumsy hands that still haven't learned gentleness, and simply lies beneath her when she falls asleep, half draped over his side as though he is nothing more than the softest, safest place she could possibly choose.

And he never moves. Not once. Not even when she shifts in her sleep or presses her face into his fur with complete trust.

Eris watches all of it like a man trying very hard not to acknowledge what it is doing to him.

The first time he sees Anastasia giggling—bright, unrestrained laughter—as one of the younger hounds deliberately rolls onto its back so she can "win" whatever game she has invented, his jaw tightens instinctively. It is immediate, protective, ingrained.

"They're too close," he mutters under his breath.

You don't even look up from where you are carefully brushing your daughter's hair, fingers moving slowly through soft strands. "They're protecting her."

His eyes flick toward you. "They could hurt her."

That finally makes you pause. You glance at him properly now, expression flat in a way that has stopped him from arguing with you many times before.

"They could also level half the Court if they wanted to," you say evenly. "They're choosing not to. That's the point."

A low sound escapes him—frustration more than disagreement, something caught between instinct and reason. It sounds almost like a growl, but softer, controlled. Like he is arguing with something inside himself rather than with you.

Still, he doesn't intervene.

Not really.

He just steps closer. Always closer. As if proximity alone is enough to satisfy whatever instinct refuses to fully settle.

And when Anastasia eventually reaches for him with sticky hands and a grin full of missing teeth, something in him shifts so completely it is almost impossible to miss. The hesitation disappears. The tension falls away. He picks her up like she is the most valuable thing in existence.

Because to him, she is.

As she grows, nothing about that devotion changes.

The hounds age alongside her but never drift away, never lose their vigilance. They follow her through the gardens like silent guardians carved from shadow and flame.

They nap outside her room as if sleep itself is something to be shared in shifts. They escort her through the halls with a calm, unspoken authority, guiding her wherever she goes as though it is the most natural duty in the world to keep her safe.

And Eris—despite every warning, every instinctive concern he cannot seem to fully silence—eventually stops trying to resist it.

He simply watches.

Always watching.

Years later, one evening, you notice it before he does.

The change is subtle at first. Smokey, who rarely leaves your side unless called, suddenly refuses to move away from you at all. Another hound quietly positions itself in the doorway when you try to step through it, not aggressive, but firm. Certain. And then you realize what is happening.

They are circling you again.

Not Anastasia.

You.

Your steps slow, one hand instinctively lowering to rest against your stomach without thought, without decision. The motion is quiet—but Eris sees it at the exact same moment you do.

Silence falls between you instantly.

It is not heavy with fear this time. It is heavy with recognition.

"...Again," you whisper, almost disbelieving.

It is not a question.

The hounds press closer immediately, their movements subtle but absolute. Protective in the same way they were before—only now there is history behind it. Memory. Certainty.

Eris steps in behind you, his presence immediately grounding, one hand sliding over yours where it rests against your stomach. His touch is steady, familiar, his thumb brushing slowly as if confirming something he already knows without needing to be told.

"They're doing it again," he says quietly.

You glance up at him. "So we are not imagining this?"

A faint, knowing curve touches his mouth—not quite a smile, but something softer. Something that understands more than it says.

"No," he replies simply. "We are not."

There is a pause, brief but full of everything neither of you say out loud.

Then his voice softens further, almost fond now as he looks toward the hounds surrounding you both.

"They protect who they love," he murmurs.

His gaze lingers on them for a moment longer before returning to you.

"They love our children," he adds quietly.

A breath leaves you, half laugh, half disbelief, as you shake your head slightly. "Of course they do."

Eris hums under his breath, low and steady, and leans down to press a brief kiss to your temple. It is gentle, grounding—less reassurance now, and more acceptance. As if this, too, is simply part of the life you have built.

And just like before, and just like every time before that, you are not the first to know.

The hounds already did.

[chillinini]

blind - cassian x reader

one shot

🫶🏻 summary: your friends like to call you blind, which you don’t understand. you see perfectly fine. just not the General, and his feelings.

author’s note: i just needed myself a little cassian 😔✋🏻 love, nini🩷

People often call you blind. "People" being your friends. You never understood why. You saw everything: the green crowns of the trees, the shifting blue of the sky, and the sea of flowers adorning the Velaris earth. You saw yourself; you saw the way your friends laughed, cried, danced, or sang.

You even saw how packed Rita’s was the moment you arrived, earning a little irritated huff from your lips. 

“Can’t believe people have this much free time,” you murmured. Mor’s hand rested on your shoulder, guiding you through the throngs of Fae. 

“People being us?” she teased, throwing smiles and winks to the crowd like confetti. 

“Yeah, what are we even doing here?” You turned, seeking out her brown eyes, but they were already busy eye-fucking someone across the room.

Don’t get me wrong—you liked a good evening. You liked to get a little wasted, a little too drunk sometimes, enjoying the weight of glances from young men who seemed to melt from the way you smirked at them from the dance floor. But today had been a particularly long, grueling day. Getting hammered wasn't on your list of priorities.

“To let loose,” the blonde finally answered, catching your hand to pull you toward the bar. 

“I don’t feel like drinking, Mor.” 

“But you came all the way here.” 

“Because you said it was an emergency.” 

You really needed to be more careful when it came to Mor and her "emergencies" used to lure you out of the house.

“Yeah, because your sour face was begging for a drink,” she called over her shoulder. “Here. Drink this.”

She handed you one of the cups. You sniffed it—sweet, heady, and oddly familiar. “What is this?” 

“What we used to drink all those years ago.” Mor's smirk widened as your eyes bulged. 

“No way! They have it again?” 

“Mhm,” she winked. “Now, drink up and dance.”

As it turned out, you didn't mind letting loose. 

Your feet were begging for a stop, but your heart felt so warm and light that you couldn't bring yourself to quit. You danced for hours with Mor and a blur of strangers whose names vanished the moment they were spoken. You lost count of the trips to the bar, and how many times you were the one telling Mor to stay just a little longer.

However, when a familiar, warm hand slid onto your waist—secure and grounding—you stopped mid-step. You turned to face him. 

“My Lord and Savior,” you sang, throwing your arms around Cassian’s neck.

He looked exhausted. Dark circles underscored his hazel eyes, and for a second, a flicker of guilt pierced through your drunken haze. Why was he here if he looked like he might faceplant into the floor? But he smiled, so bright and beautiful that you simply grinned back.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, a playful eyebrow arched. You nodded enthusiastically. He laughed, the sound vibrating through your chest.

“Wanna join me?” you slurred, swaying as you shifted your weight. Cassian’s arms tightened, holding you upright. 

He shook his head. “It’s time to go, sweetheart.”

“Nooooo,” you pouted. A distant snort drew your attention to the shadows behind Cassian. You perked up. “Hi, Az!” 

“Hi, Y/N,” Azriel replied, though his eyes continued to scan the room. Right. Searching for Mor.

“C’mon, you’ve already danced a hole into the floor.” Cassian tucked you closer to his side. He sighed with relief when you didn’t resist. 

“But I love dancing!”

“I know.” 

“And I love singing.” 

“Of course you do.” 

“Do you like it when I sing?” You looked up at him through your lashes, the world spinning just a little. 

“You can’t sing, sweetheart,” he murmured, biting his lip to hide a grin. 

“But if I could? Would you like it then?” You pressed, eager to know his answer.

“I’d never get tired of listening to you.” 

“Do you get tired of me when I talk?” 

“Never.”

Azriel snorted again. Cassian shot him a warning glare. 

“Good. Because I like talking to you, you big winged man.” 

Even Azriel laughed at that.

Cassian guided you toward the exit, the crisp night air sending a violent shiver through your body.

“Oh, thank the Mother, you got her out,” Mor huffed, catching up to you. 

“It was your idea to get me drunk, you witch,” you muttered, playfully shoving her. 

“You’re the one who got excited for that specific wine,” Mor countered. “The word 'no' stopped existing for you three glasses ago.” 

“Oops.” You huddled into yourself, shaking from the cold.

Suddenly, Cassian’s cloak was wrapped around you. He was left in his leathers, but his expression softened as you nuzzled into the heavy, scent-drenched fabric. He resisted the urge to reach out—to run a rough thumb over the smooth skin of your cheek.

“Can we go now? I’m so tired,” you whispered, your voice small. 

Mor let out an amused laugh. “Now you want to go?” 

“I’m warm now,” you mumbled into the cloak. “And sleepy. And my feet ache.” 

“If I knew all you needed was a big warrior to whisk you home, I’d have called them earlier,” Mor added, casting a pointed look at Cassian.

Cassian flushed, his eyes lingering on you with a tenderness that could have melted lead. “Warriors,” you corrected, your eyelids fluttering shut. “Don’t forget Azriel dearest.” 

“You are so blind, dearest,” Azriel muttered, rolling his eyes. You were too far gone to notice the flash of disappointment on Cassian’s face as he lifted you into his arms and carried you home.

“Oh my gods, you look gorgeous!” Mor and Feyre were waiting in the kitchen when you finally emerged from your room. You were wearing a silky, dusty pink gown—the kind of fabric that felt like water against your skin. Lace traced the neckline and waist, and the back was entirely open, held together by nothing but two gossamer-thin straps.

You blushed, adjusting the silk. “Is it too much?” 

“No—” Feyre started. 

“Not at all—” Mor added. 

“Yes.”

You spun around at the deep rumble. Cassian was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chest. 

“What?” you asked, your voice faltering. 

“It’s too much,” he said, his voice clipped and strict. “You’re delusional if you think he won’t get the wrong idea.” 

“Cassian!” Mor hissed.

“He’s not important enough for you to dress like that,” he continued, ignoring Mor entirely.

“Why are you being such a prick?” You squinted, crossing your arms defensively over the lace. 

Cassian let out a harsh, dry laugh. “I’m a prick? I’m sorry for reminding you that first dates aren't usually spent in your lingerie.” He pointed a finger at the dress.

“You have no right to tell me how to dress!” 

“You asked if it was too much,” he shrugged, though his wings were tucked so tight they looked painful. “I responded.” 

“Yeah, like an asshole.” 

“Change.”

You squared your shoulders and stepped into his personal space, staring directly into his blown-out pupils. His chest was heaving. 

“No,” you whispered. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. I’m going out, I’m meeting him, and I’m going to have a wonderful time.” 

“You look like a hooker.”

The slap echoed through the kitchen. Your palm stung. The girls gasped. 

“Go to hell, Cassian.”

People call you blind. But as you walked away, you thought you finally saw his true colors. You were wrong, of course.

—

Cassian’s comments were still echoing in your head as you stepped out of the house with your chin held high—because you’re a stubborn woman, and you’ve never liked being told what to do. Still, you couldn't help but fidget with the strap of your dress, as if it would suddenly give in and let you pull it higher for a bit more coverage, which was ridiculous, considering the dress was practically a nightgown.

It didn't help that the guy you went on a date with spent the entire evening staring at your cleavage; if you had asked him what color your eyes were, he surely would have said pink—exactly the same shade as your dress.

You didn’t want to admit it, but Cassian was right. Somehow, that only made you angrier, so when your fist connected with Azriel’s jaw, you were just as surprised as he was.

“Shit!” you yelped, staring at him with wide eyes and your mouth agape as he shook his head from side to side and let out a small smile.

“Your right hook is good,” he said, a note of approval in his deep, rumbling voice.

A low whistle drifted from the entrance of the sparring ring. 

“That was satisfying to watch,” a voice called out, “Now, do tell—who did you imagine in his place?”

The air in the training ring suddenly felt ten degrees colder.

Cassian was leaning against the stone archway, his massive wings tucked tight against his back, his Siphons glowing a dull, rhythmic red. He didn't look angry anymore—he looked wrecked. His hair was a mess, like he’d spent the night running his hands through it, and his eyes were fixed on the reddening mark on Azriel’s jaw.

Azriel caught Cassian’s gaze, a silent communication passing between them, and with a subtle nod, the Shadowsinger stepped back, and like the silent creepy way he vanished, he left you alone with the one person you weren't ready to face just yet. 

You turned your back to him again, the reddening fist of yours throbbing from meeting the hard jaw of Azriel’s. 

The faint footsteps, the scrape of boots against the soft mat against the ground alarmed you should step away, but he was faster and stronger, his calloused fingers closing around your wrist. 

“Your form was off,” he said, “you could’ve taken him down if you put your shoulder into it.” 

“I didn’t want to take him down.” 

“Then why did you slip?” He asked, fingers tightening ever so slightly against your pulse point, his scent and his leathers pressing against you. 

This closeness scared you, because you contemplated leaning against him. His body was warm, seeping through his leathers, like a heavy blanket wrapped around you, preventing you from the cold. His barely gentle touch on your wrist sent an electric shock up your spine, your face grew hot and red. 

The way your body responded to him confused you even more, and before you’d cave more into him, you pulled away harshly. You had to remind yourself of Cassian's harsh words yesterday and the way he swept into your brain every time you looked up at your date and saw him eyeing your cleavage. Cassian was right, but a complete prick the way he chose his words. 

He sighed when you refused to answer him. “Spare me, then.” 

“What?” You asked, whipping around, seeing his hard facade, the way his strong jaw worked, his fists balled at his sides. 

“Use your strength on me. Fight me.” 

His words echoed away. 

You stood in the middle of the training ring, dumbfounded. 

He smirked without his eyes sparkling. 

“C’mon,” he urged. 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I don’t want to fight with you!” you exclaimed, your hands cutting through the air as if trying to push his temper away.

Cassian’s patience had finally snapped. He loomed over you, his wings flared wide and trembling with suppressed adrenaline. “Why not?” he roared, the sound vibrating in the small space between you.

“Because being angry with you doesn’t mean I want to hurt you!”

“You hurt Azriel just fine,” he countered, taking a heavy step forward, his chest heaving. He gestured wildly to his own jaw. “Why don’t you want to use that same right hook on me? Give me your worst!”

“Physical pain doesn't always equal mental pain, Cassian.” Your voice cracked, and you pulled your arms tight against your stomach, suddenly looking smaller.

“What does that even mean?” he demanded, though his voice dropped an octave, the first flicker of uncertainty crossing his face.

“It means,” you began, your fingers digging into the fabric of your sleeves, “that you hurt me more than I could ever hurt you physically.” You looked up at him then, your eyes bright with unshed tears that you refused to let fall. “I just wanted to enjoy yesterday. It’s been a long time since anyone asked me out, and I wanted to feel pretty. Just for once.”

Cassian opened his mouth to interrupt, but you surged forward, the words spilling out in a desperate rush.

“You called me a hooker. You told me no one was important enough to dress up for—especially not a first date. And the worst part?” You let out a harsh, wet laugh, your shoulders slouching. “You were right. He didn't even look at my face until I crossed my arms over my chest to force him to look me in the eye.”

You looked down at yourself, your hands hovering over the dark Illyrian leathers. You pinched the reinforced fabric at your thigh, tugging at it as if it were suddenly suffocating you.

“Now, I’m standing here overthinking whether these leathers are too tight. If they’re too revealing. If I’m just 'asking for it' again.” You stepped back, shaking your head slowly, the fire leaving your limbs and leaving only a cold, hollow ache. “So, no. I don’t want to fight you, Cassian. It’s not worth it.”

---

“Sometimes you’re the blindest person I’ve ever met.”

You’ve got this so many times you seriously cannot count it on both your hands. Up until this day, you don’t understand why people call you so willingly blind.

However, now it’s you who contemplates calling them blind.

Sitting at the dining table, most of your friends are here. Talking, sipping wine, chewing food so loud Amren smacks their head with grace and a menacing smile on her face.

You crack a smile at that.

But none of them notices your sour mood, which hasn’t vanished since the day you fought with Cassian.

You haven’t been to training, the only sanctuary you felt like you had was the library, where the priestesses worked silently, or tucked away in your room, in the safety of your blankets and the calm fire in the hearth.

Mor asked you numerous times if you want to go to Rita's, but you haven’t felt like it.

The last thing you need is to get drunk on faerie wine and spill your guts.

She still insisted tonight, though, while you busied yourself with a bite of food.

“Please, come with me,” she pouted, big brown eyes shining like she was about to shed theatratic tears to get you moving.

“I don’t feel like it, Mor,” you said for the hundredth time, brushing off her iron grip from your forearm.

“Are you sick?”

“No,” you furrowed your brows.

“Then why would you deny a night at Rita’s?”

You huffed.

“I’m going to scream if you don’t drop it, you pointed your fork at her.”

“Holy gods, are you on your period?” She looked horrified and sad at the same time.

You rolled your eyes.

“If it makes you drop it, then yes, I’m on my period.”

Mor squints at you, not an ounce of belief in her gaze. Then, she looks over to the two Illyrians, Feyre, and Rhys, because before Mor could look to Amren, she already vanished. Good for her, you thought.

“Well? Anyone else, who's not a party pooper?” she asked, while addressing you as the true disgrace.

You just rolled your eyes at her.

“I’ll go,” Cassian’s eyes cut to you, but nothing could be read from his dark eyes. Not a twitch of his lips, brows, nose. “I could use a drink or two.”

Mor clapped her hands excitedly.

“I’ll go too. Just to make sure you both aren’t face planting onto someone’s bush and choke on your own puke,” deadpanned Azriel.

“Ew. Oddly specific, don’t you think?” grimaced Feyre.

“It happened,” Rhys sent a knowing look towards Cassian.

“I was just getting familiar with whisky,” he said, mouth full with food, clearly not interested in the conversation about him.

With a sigh, you push yourself up from your seat, and wish them a good night.

—-

It’s nearly three in the morning, when the House echoes with distant shouts and groans. Half asleep, you debated not going down, but after a rather loud shout of your name alerted you.

“What?!” You asked with a frantic voice, dreams no longer existing behind your eyes.

Cassian laid haphazardly across the couch, wings splayed behind him, his black shirt buttoned down, his tattoos across his chest making you hard to focus on the task in hand.

Which is why Cassian groans and repeats your name like it would give him some sort of relief.

“You’re hereee,” his eyes lit up, drunkenly slurring his words and a loopy smile on his handsome face.

Azriel, who just now appeared from his shadows, only shrugged, a slight smirk tugged on his lips.

“He’s been crying for you for an hour now.”

“No I’m noooot,” Cassian pouted. “I’m not cryin’, I'm manifestinnn.”

“He’s been manifesting you for an hour now,” Azriel corrected himself with an audible roll of his eyes.

The nightgown you wore felt ten times hotter, your skin pulsing underneath the fine cloth. 

“Why?” You asked, suddenly out of breath. 

“He was off the whole week,” said Azriel, his eyes never leaving Cassian’s form laying on the couch, eyes closed and humming something off tune, “and out of nowhere he let loose, drinking Rita’s dry and whining for you.” 

Then, Azriel turned to you, his eyes now assessing you. “You’ve been off the whole week.” 

Oh, someone noticed? 

You snorted, feeling exposed. “I was just…” 

You just what? Azriel was right, and you couldn’t even deny it. You've never fought with Cassian ever, and now, out of blue, he has been calling you out and you coming for his neck was something you’d never have imagined in your immortal life. 

Cassian was always your someone. The one that was fierce and utterly charismatic and brave on the outside, but loyal and gentle on the inside. The one who knew when to reach out a hand when things became tough and heavy, because Cassian knew how to handle all the discomfort you felt. 

The one, who knew how to turn your frown into a smile, whether it’s stupid or thoughtful.

The cries into laughs. 

And now you two faced something that could change things forever. 

Azriel patiently waited for what you wanted to say, but when you got lost in words, he sighed. “Look, I know things have been… interesting between you two, but I think it’s best if you two have a talk.” 

“Now?” You pointed at Cass, who was half unconscious, half muffled words. 

“Not now, you idiot. Help him get to bed, and when he’s not making a bigger fool out of himself than he usually does, then you talk,” instructed Az, like it was some big task needed to supervise. 

“My beautiful, beautiful giiiirl,” sang Cassian with a high sighed following his off-tune voice, his large palm sliding down to his chest, over his heart, squeezing it. “My sweet girl is angry with me and my heart can’t handle it.” 

“And that’s my cue,” announced Azriel, and before you could mutter a single word of pleading, he was already whipped in his shadows, disappeared. 

Cassian, bless his drunken soul, didn't even acknowledge anything, only hummed under his nose, while still holding his hand over his heart. 

“Mother help me,” you whispered a prayer, and walked closer to his limp body. “Cass?” 

“Mhm?” 

“I need you to come to bed.” 

His nose scrunched. “I’on’t wanna go to bed, I wanna see my sweetheart.” 

Your heart did a funny thing. “Who’s your sweetheart?” 

“Mine,” that’s all he said. Mine. 

“Cassian,” you brushed his hair from his forehead, and tapped his head twice. “Open your eyes, you can’t sleep out here.” 

He will have a massive cramp in his neck, and he’d bitch about it. You knew, because it happened before. 

Then, so slowly, like he had all the time in the world, opened those hazel eyes, and upon seeing you for the first time in focus, his gaze turned excited. 

“My sweet giiiirl,” he sighed with a hint of relief in his voice. “What are you doing ‘ere?” 

“Azriel brought you home. You were shouting,” you explained, and tried not to squirm under his unbreakable stare. 

He pouted. Actually pouted. “You’re angry with me. And my heart is giving out.” 

“Don’t joke about that,” you hissed slightly. Afterwards, begging for Cassian to sit up and eventually get up the stairs to his bed took you nearly two hours. Now, standing at the edge of his large bed, you watched as he somehow got his huge body under the sheets, wings spreading wide around him, like his unbound hair. 

He looked like a painting Feyre could paint. 

“There’s a glass of water and some medicine for your headache tomorrow,” you pointed at his bedside table, and made your way out. 

“My sweetheart. I miss you. You’re mine, and I'm going to win your heart. I'm going to win,” he kept muttering even after you closed his door behind you. 

—-

The next morning, you are frantically searching for Azriel. Running out of your room the minute you changed out of your nightgown into a plain shirt and pants, barefoot you ran through the halls, until you reached the kitchen, and when you didn’t find him there, with a curse under your breath, you raced up the stairs until the training ring on the rooftop. 

Last night, with barely any sleep, you kept replaying the way Cassian slurred his words. The way he lit up upon seeing you, and the way he screamed for you, and the way he kept repeating that he’s going to win your heart made you overthink every single interaction with him, from start until the middle of the night. And the way you remembered him somehow changed, freaking you out. 

“You okay?” Azriel panted, chest glistening with sweat, but wariness took hold of his eyes at the frantic way you burst through the door. 

“N-no,” you could barely speak as you gulped air after air to fill your lungs. “I need to speak with you.” 

“I’m listening,” he walked closer after putting away the sword he trained with. 

“What…,” you paused, “Does Cassian like me?” 

Azriel stared at you for a good minute, before bursting out in a loud laugh, head thrown back, the rare sight surprised you to stumble a step back. 

“Are you seriously just catching up on that?” He asked between laughs. Then, he corrected himself, “Well, actually, he is way past like.” 

You gaped. “What?” 

“Do you understand now why we call you blind?” 

When you didn’t answer, he huffed. “Cassian’s been head over heels in love with you. Has been since that night during Solstice, when you gave him that lotion for his dry skin and that enchanted necklace with the amulet that helps his allergies whenever he’s in the Spring Court. He’s been subtly trying to get your attention, and while for us it’s ridiculously obvious he loves you, you’ve been painfully oblivious. You see now whenever you were training with me, he would take over, because he knows how to do the eight point star better?” he mocked him with a roll of his eyes. 

“But… but why be so rude to me about my…” 

Azriel slowly smiled, just as your face paled in realisation. 

Jealous. Cassian has been jealous, because you went on a date, and he was harsh, because he didn’t want you going out with someone else who’s not him. 

“Oh gods,” you breathed. 

“Good thing you caught up,” Azriel patted your shoulder, but you bolted again for the exit to run back inside the House, right through Cassian’s bedroom door. 

He was still sleeping on his back, his shirt abandoned somewhere on the floor, his hair a mess of locks. 

The water on his bedside table remained full, so you took a full swing, sending water all over his face.

“Holy fuck!” He gasped in shock, wiping the water from his face with his palm. “Mother's tits, what was that for?” 

“You love me?” 

Cassian barely opened his bloodshot eyes, his fingers wiping away the remains of the water from his naked chest and face. However, as soon as he recognised your voice, his blurry vision seemed to clear once and for all.

Cassian opened his mouth and closed, then again, but not an echo of voice left his mouth. He remained on his back, slightly raised on one elbow and looking absolutely dumbfounded.

“Say something!” You exclaimed, feeling embarrassed by the seconds he remained silent.

Cassian stared at you, the remaining droplets of water on his lashes catching the morning light. For a warrior who had faced down armies on battlefields for over five centuries, he had never felt his heart beat quite this frantically against his ribs. He slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, his massive wings flaring slightly behind him before settling into a tense, rigid line. He didn't look away from you. He couldn't.

"Azriel has a big mouth," Cassian muttered, his voice gravelly from sleep. He ran a hand through his damp hair, a nervous, uncharacteristic gesture that made him look completely stripped of his usual bravado.

"Don't blame Azriel," you said, your own voice trembling as you stood at the foot of his bed, your fingers knotting into the hem of your shirt. "Do you really love me, Cassian? Were you... were you actually jealous?"

Cassian let out a long, heavy breath, the sound whistling through his teeth. The defensive, arrogant mask he had worn in the kitchen two days ago was entirely gone. In its place was a vulnerability that made him look completely undone.

"Jealous?" He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh, finally looking up to meet your eyes dead-on.

"Sweetheart, I was losing my mind."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting on the edge, just a few feet away from where you stood. He rested his elbows on his knees, looking down at his hands before looking back up at you, his hazel eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

"I handled it like an asshole, and I am so, so sorry for what I said to you," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, earnest whisper. "I hated myself the second the words left my mouth, and I hated myself even more when you walked into the training ring looking so small, thinking that you weren't allowed to feel pretty. You are beautiful. You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes."

He paused, his jaw working as he swallowed hard, trying to find the words he had kept locked away for so long.

"But seeing you in that dress... knowing you were wearing it for him? For some guy who didn't know how you like your coffee, or how you bite your lip when you're concentrating, or the way you laugh so freely whenever Mor says something stupid? It ripped me apart."

You stood frozen, the words washing over you, melting the last remnants of the cold ache that had settled in your chest all week.

Cassian stood up, stepping into your space. He didn't reach out to touch you—not yet—respecting the distance you had kept between them. But he loomed over you, his warmth radiating off his bare skin, enveloping you in that familiar scent of wind, cedar, and entirely him.

"They call you blind, but it's my fault," Cassian whispered, his chest heaving. "I was too much of a coward to just tell you. I thought if I played it safe, if I just stayed your friend, your protector, the guy who guides you home when you're drunk, then I’d at least get to keep you in my life. But watching you walk out that door to meet another man made me realize that playing it safe is going to cost me the only thing I actually care about."

He reached out then, his large, calloused hand hovering for a fraction of a second before gently cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed over your skin, so soft, so incredibly careful for a man who knew only war.

"I don't just like you, Y/N. I am completely, utterly, and desperately in love with you. I have been for longer than I can remember. And if you give me the chance... I will spend the rest of my immortal life making sure you never doubt how important you are. To me. Only to me."

He looked down at you, his breath fanning across your face, waiting for your verdict with the posture of a man ready to accept whatever blow you chose to deal next.

A small smile spread across your face as you let yourself lean into his grounding touch.

“Take me out to dinner,” you whispered against his palm, planting a soft kiss on it, “Buy me flowers,” you kissed his thumb, “And don’t let the others blame me for being blind because of you.”

Cassian laughed, the sound sending goosebumps over your body.

“I’ll make sure to take every blame on me,” he grins, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek.

————————————————————————

taglist: @shadowdaddiesclub

[princessofvelaris]

NSFW Alphabet — Eris Vanserra

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A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Eris gets real cuddly after sex. He places kisses all over your body, runs his fingers through your hair and over your skin. He’s obsessed with giving you words of affirmation, each whisper a declaration of his love.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Eris is an abs guy. He’s lean, probably eats super healthy, and takes great pride in his appearance. However, he prefers females on the curvier side. Think wide hips (birthing hips), smooth edges, and full breasts.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He loooves to cum inside you. It’d make sense for him to have a breeding kink, given the nature of his role in the court. He’d be obsessed with seeing you pregnant.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He’s definitely jerking off to you when you’re not around. Even before you start dating, he finds himself tucked away in his living quarters constantly, daydreaming about what it’d be like to be touched by you.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Someone posted a theory once that Eris was a virgin, and I lowkey kinda love that. Not having a lot of experience ≠ necessarily mean bad. I think sex would come very natural to him, especially if it was with his mate, and they’d have a grand ole time.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He’s a missionary/mating press kinda guy. He wants to see your face, wants to talk to you and coax you through it, connect with you. I think some positions he would find a little too impersonal.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Hot take— I think sex would bring out a more fun side of Eris. If he feels safe enough to be vulnerable with you, I can imagine him relaxing into the experience. Not making a mockery of anything, but laughing when things go wrong or teasing you in public. The occasional ass grab when no one’s looking.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He gives me clean-shaven vibes. Not just in the private areas but everywhere.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He is suuuch a romantic. Long sunset walks together, candlelit dinners with wine, handwritten love letters. All of that bleeds into the bedroom, where he can’t help but worship and adore you, his focus on your pleasure and your pleasure only.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Again, I think he’s jerking it to you before he even confesses his feelings. You’re his favorite guilty pleasure. Once you’re finally together, I think he’s sniffing your clothes and pillows for scents of you.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Hear me out— he’s addicted to sniffing your underwear. He is obsessed with the way you smell, both your scent and your arousal alike, and he quite literally can’t help himself. It started out as a secret… but once you caught him, you started incorporating it into the bedroom. Stuffing his mouth with your panties, blindfolding him with them. He never gets sick of it.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Probably the bedroom, the throne room, and his office. He’s mostly private, but every now and then he gets restless, pawing at you in front of the inner court members and shooing them away. In his office, he likes to take you right there on the desk, forcing the sentries to stand outside on guard and listen to your desperate moans.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Your wit and passion probably turn him on the most. Watching how effortlessly you handle court politics and hold your own keeps him constantly intrigued, and he seems like the type to really value mental stimulation over physical.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Degradation— he’s had enough of it for one life time, and I don’t think he’d wanna subject you to it either.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Absolutely an eater. All day, everyday. Anytime, any place. He loves burying his face between your thighs, lapping up your arousal and driving you insane all hours of the day.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He starts out slow, sensual… controlled. The same way a fire begins as a single ember. But as time goes on, the longer you two thrust and brush up against one another, the bigger the flames get. It’s never something he would do straight out of the gate, but once you’re both settled, he lets go completely, desire taking over.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He’s not above a quickie in the name of efficiency. When things get crazy around the court and everyone seems to be asking him for everything, he loves nothing more than the moments you sneak into his office and distract him from working.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Eris is very much the type to take controlled risks. If he thinks he can get away with taking you against a tree or beside the lake one evening, he will. If you tell him you wanna try something new you heard about in the pleasure district, he’s happy to oblige. He’s open to trying most things once or twice.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He’s playing the long game. He’s built up his stamina by taking his time with you, making a point to foster intimacy and ensure you get to finish at least twice per interaction. He usually cums 2-3 times as well, only allowing himself to crumble once he knows his mate is taken care of.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

I don’t really know what toys would fit into the canon universe, but if vibrators existed, he’d absolutely be overstimming the fuck out of you.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Again, I think he’d be so focused on your pleasure that it would become almost unbearable at times. He’s ripping your 5th orgasm from you, and you’re begging him to let you breathe and recover for five minutes.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s quiet, you’re loud. But the longer you go, the more you start to hear that low whine and whimper in the back of his throat.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He considers himself a dignified male in all aspects of life except for you. You could ask him to drop anything and tend to your wants and needs, and he’d probably do it without question. He’s loyal to you in a way he’s never been to anyone.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Super lean physique. Favors length over girth but has MORE than enough to give. Clean shaven, lightly tanned skin. Sleeper build with surprisingly massive biceps.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He would have sex with you at any given moment, in any way, shape, or form. It’s not that he’s constantly thinking about sex, but that he’s constantly thinking about how much he loves you. He can’t help but feel the magnetic pull.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He’d be sooo sleepy afterwards, cuddling you and nestling his head in your neck, breathing in your skin. He’d fall asleep pretty easily, especially given how safe and comfortable he felt next to you.

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A/N: Lmk who you wanna see next ;)

[surielstea]

Embers Entwined

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader was one of the most affected by Beron’s rule, after his death Eris was crowned High Lord and Reader became his personal servant by extension, what happens when she begins to recognize Eris for his kindness and not his cruelty?

Warnings: Beron being a right asshole as usual, and some kissing (*gasp* the scandal!)

A.Note: Sorry it’s been forever!! This one took me awhile but I’m pretty happy with it. Hope you guys enjoy too! Some Azriel smut coming out in a few days also! 💋💋

Word count: 7.9k

The ball was decadent, far grander than in previous years, though I supposed tonight warranted the excess. A special occasion, one that carried far more meaning than the usual frivolous gatherings meant only to remind the rich of their own wealth.

Tonight, the Autumn Court celebrated the coronation of Eris Vanserra. More importantly to me, we celebrated Beron's death.

I would never say such a thing aloud, never give voice to the hatred that simmered in my veins. But I knew I was not alone in my sentiments. Most despised that wretched male—just not enough to ever act against him. Beron had been cruel, but only to those within his grasp. His wife. His sons. His staff. Me, in particular—his personal courtier.

It had been my duty to obey him without question, to smile and nod and endure, no matter what vile thing he asked of me. The words he'd spoken to me, the way he'd toyed with me, broken me, forced me into submission—I would never find peace after him. I knew that.

I stood against the wall of the ballroom, my hands clasped in front of me, a pleasant, vacant smile painted on my lips. The same as always. My black dress marked me as staff, distinguishing me from the nobles twirling beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers. It wasn't an ugly dress—not physically—but the symbolism it carried made my stomach churn.

I was meant to be invisible. To stand for hours, heels biting into my feet, lips aching from feigned delight, waiting. Always waiting for the High Lord's command. That was my place.

But tonight, for the first time at an event like this, someone spoke to me. Not just someone. The newly crowned High Lord.

"Do you not wish to dance?"

His voice was smoother than I expected, rich and effortless, as though the words required no thought. When I turned my head, Eris Vanserra stood before me, resplendent in his deep forest green attire, gold-threaded embroidery glinting beneath the chandeliers. Rings adorned his fingers, catching the light as he gestured vaguely toward the center of the ballroom.

I had known Eris Vanserra since I was a girl—back when my father served as Beron's personal courtier and I trained under him, shadowing his every move. In those early years, Eris and I spent countless hours in the kennels, where I had been sent to feed the hounds, and he had sought my company. Even then, I knew better than to refuse a Vanserra. But it hadn't felt like an order. Not when he spoke so passionately about his dogs, his amber eyes alight with something rare and unguarded.

I had listened, quietly captivated, as he ran his hands through thick fur, naming each hound like they were something precious, something his father could not tarnish. And though I rarely spoke, I knew he never minded.

But time had a way of reshaping things. Our duties grew heavier, our paths diverged, and whatever thread had once tied us together frayed beneath the weight of expectation. I often wondered if he remembered—the girl who once sat beside him in the straw-covered kennels, listening in rapt silence as he spoke of things he loved. Or if I had faded into nothing more than a ghost of his childhood, long forgotten.

I snapped back to the present when I realized my hesitation, startled by his presence, by his question. By him.

I glanced at him only briefly before averting my gaze. I had long since learned better than to expect kindness from the Vanserras, Eris or not. "I'm working, my lord," I answered smoothly, forcing the usual mask into place. "Besides, the late Lord Beron was always particular about the servantry enjoying themselves at these sorts of things."

A flicker of something crossed Eris's face at my words. Perhaps it was amusement, perhaps something else. I wasn't certain. Then, he did something I never would have expected. He extended his hand to me, palm up. A silent command. I stared at it, my heart stuttering.

Was this a trick? A test? Was he waiting for me to disobey so he could remind me of my place? "Well," he mused, tilting his head, "I'm not Beron, am I?"

I swallowed thickly, but I did not take his hand. His amber eyes gleamed as he studied me, something unreadable lurking beneath their molten depths. "You were my father's personal courtier, yes?"

"Correct, my lord."

"And now that he's gone, you're mine." A statement, not a question.

I nodded.

"And you're required to do as I say."

Another nod.

"Then take my hand." His voice was softer now, quieter. "Dance with me." My breath caught in my throat. I hesitated. Was he attempting to humiliate me?

I had seen what his brothers were capable of, how they had reveled in Beron's cruelty, how they had wielded it against others for their own entertainment. I had heard the stories about Eris—his ruthlessness, his ambition, his callous disregard for those beneath him. I had no reason to believe he was any different.

Yet something about the way he stood there, hand still outstretched, gaze unwavering, made my stomach tighten. He wasn't forcing me. He wasn't demanding. He was patient. I hated him for that. For making me doubt my own certainty.

But in the end, I had no choice. With a deep inhale, I placed my hand in his. His fingers curled around mine—warm, steady. Not gripping. But I knew better than to believe in illusions.

Eris Vanserra was his father's son. And I would never trust him.

The moment my hand settled in his, a hush seemed to fall over the space around us—not total silence, but a ripple in the atmosphere, a shift in attention that pressed against my skin like a physical thing.

They were watching. The nobles, the courtiers, the sycophants who had spent years learning to fear and obey Beron, and by extension, his eldest son. They watched, likely waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting to see what game Eris Vanserra was playing.

I was waiting, too. But if this was some cruel trick, he did not let it show.

Eris led me toward the dance floor with unhurried ease, his grip firm but not forceful. A reminder, perhaps, that I was following him willingly. I didn't know what unsettled me more—that he had given me a real choice, or that, despite knowing better, a part of me wanted to believe he truly meant no harm.

The moment we stepped onto the floor, the nearest dancers shifted subtly away, giving us space without making it obvious. No one wanted to be caught in the High Lord's wake, in whatever he was planning.

He turned to face me, releasing my hand only to settle one warm palm against my waist, the other clasping mine once more. I stiffened beneath his touch, the weight of it burning even through the fabric of my dress.

"Relax," he murmured, amusement curling through his tone. "It's a dance, not an execution."

I forced my muscles to remain neutral, my expression placid, though I could still feel the weight of a hundred gazes searing into me. "That remains to be seen."

His lips curved slightly. "If I wanted to make a spectacle of you, I'd have chosen something far more dramatic." He guided me into movement, a slow, fluid step that I had no choice but to follow. "But I much prefer this."

I nearly scoffed, but reeled in my tone, replacing it with a polite one. "Dancing?"

His gaze flickered down to mine, something unreadable within it. "Yes," he admitted, voice quieter now. "It's one of the few things I enjoy."

I arched a brow at him, skepticism bleeding into my tone. "Truly?"

"Truly." A small pause, then, "My mother taught me."

His hold on my waist remained steady, his movements effortless as he guided me through the waltz. "She used to say that knowing how to dance was just as important as knowing how to wield a blade. Both would assist me on a battle field."

I couldn't stop the flicker of surprise at his admission. Not because I doubted his mother's wisdom—if anything, I had always pitied the Lady of Autumn, the horrors she must have endured under Beron's rule—but because I had not expected Eris to share something so personal.

And yet, before I could decide how to respond, he added, "It was the one thing Beron couldn't take from me."

I swallowed, focusing on my movements, on the way his body angled just to keep me steady, to keep the dance seamless.

He was watching me closely, I could feel it. I hated that I could feel it.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my voice quieter than before, as if the words might shatter between us.

His lips twitched, though there was something different in his expression now. A quiet sort of challenge. "Because you're expecting me to be my father."

I stiffened.

"I'm not," he continued, tone smooth, unwavering. "And I think you already know that."

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing down the retort that sat at the edge of my tongue. I wanted to deny it.

Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I had no reason to believe him, that I had no reason to trust him. That, after what I had endured, I had no space left in me for blind hope. But I couldn't. Because, for the first time, I allowed myself to see him—not the heir of Beron Vanserra, not the male who had stood by and done nothing while his father ruled with malice, but the High Lord before me now.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous, cunning, and far too quick-witted for his own good. But he was not his father. And as much as I hated it, as much as it made something twist deep in my chest—

He was also undeniably beautiful.

His russet hair gleamed beneath the chandelier light, his sharp, angular features like something carved from fine marble. And those eyes—deep amber, filled with fire and calculation, but not cruelty. Never cruelty. It unnerved me.

I averted my gaze, the pressure in my throat tightening. "I don't know anything."

His fingers flexed slightly against my waist, the only indication that he had caught the tremor in my voice.

"You will," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. A promise.

I did not know whether it was a comfort or a threat. But I did know one thing—

The game, whatever it was, had only just begun.

As the waltz came to an end, Eris's grip on me loosened, but he did not immediately step away. His amber eyes remained locked onto mine, searching, calculating—always calculating.

I did not look away. I refused to.

Even as my heart pounded against my ribs, even as my throat tightened with the weight of memories that clawed at the back of my mind, I held his gaze.

He exhaled softly, something almost amused flickering in his expression before he lifted my hand, his touch lingering just enough to send a sharp jolt of awareness through me.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that sent heat curling in my gut, Eris pressed a kiss to the back of my hand.

A calculated move. A display of power.

And yet—his lips were warm. Gentle.

He let my hand slip from his grasp, stepping back with an air of ease, as though he had not just sent my already-frazzled mind into chaos.

"Thank you for the dance," he murmured, voice like silk and embers.

I said nothing. Because I couldn't. I simply bowed my head and turned away, ignoring the stares, the whispers that followed me as I slipped back into the shadows of the ballroom.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous. And not for the reasons I had always believed.

I had not been able to get him out of my head.

I hated it.

No matter how much I tried to shove the thoughts away—to remind myself of the horrors I had endured under Beron, of the way his sons had stood idly by for years, of the haunting whispers that surrounded Eris himself—I couldn't stop replaying that moment in my mind.

The warmth of his touch. The softness of his voice. The way he had looked at me, not with hatred, not with indifference, but with something else entirely.

It was a trick. Had to be. And yet, I found myself watching him more than I should have.

Every time he called for something, every time I had to be in his presence, I bowed low, just as I had always done for Beron. I kept my voice neutral, my head down, my routine unchanged.

As if nothing had changed at all. As if I had not danced with him. As if his hands had not burned against my skin. As if I had not spent the past few days wondering, against all reason, if perhaps he was not as evil as I had once believed.

I would not let myself believe it. Not when I had learned, time and time again, that kindness was a dangerous illusion.

So when one of the guards found me in the halls, stopping me with a clipped, "The High Lord is requesting you," a cold dread curled in my stomach.

Requesting me. Not a general summons for any courtiers. Not a task that could have been handled by anyone else. Me.

For a moment, I couldn't move. Memories crashed through me—memories of Beron's summons, of being called for with no warning, no explanation. Of standing before him, knowing what was coming but never being able to predict just how bad it would be.

My hands clenched at my sides. I swallowed hard, pushing down the panic, shoving it deep beneath layers of practiced control.

This was not Beron. I knew that. And yet, my body did not.

With carefully measured steps, I made my way to Eris's study, every inch of me wound tight.

My mind whispered warnings, my heart pounded against my ribs. I forced my hands to remain steady as I knocked once, then pushed the heavy wooden door open.

And there he was—seated behind a grand desk, amber eyes lifting to meet mine the second I entered.

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn.

And the male who, for reasons I could not begin to understand, had called for me.

I braced myself, preparing for whatever awaited me next. And prayed that I was not about to be proven a fool.

The door shut behind me with a soft thud, the sound too final, too reminiscent of a past I wanted to claw away from.

I stayed near the entrance, hands clasped in front of me, chin dipped ever so slightly—not meek, but neutral. Just as I had been trained to be.

Eris sat at his desk, one elbow braced on the armrest of his chair, fingers resting against his temple as he watched me. Not impatient. Not cruel. Just watching. Then, with that signature tilt of his head, he asked, "What's your name?"

I blinked. "My name?"

He arched a golden brow, the flickering candlelight making the sharp angles of his face seem all the more severe.

"I'd like to know who to call for to keep my company, so yes, your name."

Company. Was this a game? A test?

I studied him, searching for the trap, but found nothing except expectation.

I told him my name carefully, waiting for the moment his expression would shift, for him to sneer or mock or twist the knowledge into something mean.

But he only smiled slightly, a soft curve of his lips that felt almost out of place on a face like his.

Before I could think better of it, before I could convince myself to stay silent, I blurted, "Have you been lonely, my lord?"

Eris's head tilted further, amusement flashing in his amber eyes.

I stiffened immediately. "Forgive me for asking. That was incredibly impolite. I'm so—"

"I have." He cut me off smoothly, his voice quieter now, but no less firm.

I swallowed.

"I imagined being High Lord would be quite different," he mused, gaze flickering to the stacks of papers on his desk, the glowing hearth, the empty room around us. "Nevertheless, here we are." He nodded as if conceding something to himself.

My lips parted slightly, but I had nothing to say to that. Nothing that wouldn't cross a line I was still hesitant to even approach.

Instead, I dropped into another practiced bow. "Will that be all, my lord?"

His eyes snapped back to me, something unreadable stirring behind them.

"Eris," he corrected.

I hesitated.

"I am not my father," he said, voice quiet but edged with finality, as if he were daring me to argue. "Nor do I wish to become him. So please, call me Eris."

I nodded slowly. "...Well then, Lord Eris."

"Just Eris, my dear," he corrected again, leaning back slightly. "Like friends."

I didn't know what startled me more—that he wanted me to call him by his name, or that he had referred to me as a friend.

Still, I tried to ignore the warmth curling in my stomach as I forced myself to say, "Eris."

His lips twitched, something satisfied gleaming in his gaze. "Good girl."

The praise sent something unfamiliar down my spine, not in the way it had whenever Beron complimented me... this was different.

"Now come, get comfortable." He gestured toward the plush green chairs adjacent to his desk.

I stared at him. "You want me to sit?"

"Stand, lean, lay, I don't care." He waved a lazy hand. "Just relax."

"My lord—Eris," I corrected, still trying to wrap my mind around the strangeness of this entire interaction. "I don't get paid to... relax."

He smirked. "No, you get paid to follow my orders. And I am ordering you to get comfortable."

I stared at him for a long moment, my heart hammering in my chest as I tried to decipher the true meaning behind all of this.

But I saw no malice in his expression. No cruel intent. Just anticipation.

I swallowed and, slowly, I did as he said. I sat stiffly, hands clasped in my lap, my back straight as if Beron himself was still lurking behind me, waiting to scold me for stepping out of line.

Eris, however, did not acknowledge my rigid posture. He only let out a pleased hum, as if my mere presence was enough to meet whatever unspoken standard he had set for this moment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he returned his focus to the parchment before him.

The only sounds in the room were the quiet scratching of his quill and the faint crackling of the candlelight.

I should have been grateful for the silence. It was better than savage words, better than commands meant to humiliate me. But instead, an odd tension settled in my chest, as if I were waiting for the real reason he'd called me here to be revealed.

Minutes passed. Then—

"You're staring," Eris murmured without looking up.

I blinked, feeling heat creep up my neck. "I am not."

His lips curved slightly, and he flipped to another parchment. "You are."

"I was merely looking in your direction." It was wrong of me to talk back, but something about him let my tongue a little looser, he didn't seem displeased by it in the slightest.

He hummed, unconvinced, dipping his quill back into ink. "And why, pray tell, were you looking in my direction?"

I hesitated. "...I was thinking."

Amber eyes flicked up from the page. "Dangerous habit."

That small smirk still played on his lips, but something about it was softer than usual, teasing rather than taunting.

I frowned, not ready for this interaction to feel comfortable, for me to feel comfortable. "I don't find it particularly dangerous."

"That's because you've never played with fire." He twirled the quill between his fingers before dragging the tip across the parchment again. "Not the kind that burns."

I scoffed. "You forget who I served before you."

He paused at that, glancing at me fully and my heart rate spiked. Too far, I'd gone too far, just a few words and the walls I built were crumbling before my very eyes.

Something unreadable flickered in his expression, but it was gone before I could place it. Instead, he dipped his head slightly, understanding the point. "Then I imagine you know better than most that fire, when wielded incorrectly, only ever destroys."

I stiffened, his words striking something deep within me.

Is that what I was? A thing destroyed? Is that what he saw when looking at me, or himself?

Eris exhaled, shifting his focus back to his work. "For what it's worth," he murmured, quieter now, "I don't intend to wield it incorrectly."

I studied him carefully, as I had done many times before, searching for the game, for the cruel edge I knew so well from his father.

But there was no trick. Only a High Lord—no, a male—focused on his work, offering me something I had never once been granted in Beron's court.

Peace.

I swallowed, forcing myself to look away, to ignore the unfamiliar warmth creeping into my bones.

Minutes passed again in silence, but this time, it didn't feel quite so heavy.

"I was serious, you know," Eris mused, not bothering to look up as he broke the quiet.

I frowned. "About what?"

"Keeping my company." He flipped to another document, signing something at the bottom. "I'd prefer your presence over my advisors any day. They're old and dull. You, at least, have some spirit."

I scoffed. "I think you are confusing obedience for spirit."

"Oh no, my dear." His lips curved in a knowing smirk. "You and I both know you're anything but obedient."

I bristled, opening my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. "It's alright. I find it... refreshing."

I wasn't sure what unsettled me more—the implication, or the way my stomach twisted at his words. Beron preferred all the servantry to have a fiery spirit, which makes it more fun to break, but he never really could stomp my flames out, and now Eris was sparking the embers. It was dangerous, so dangerous.

Silence fell between us once more.

For a moment, I thought that would be the end of it. That I would sit there, a piece of furniture in this room while he worked, just as I had been in Beron's court.

But then, without looking away from his parchment, Eris murmured, "Tell me something, Fawn."

The way he said that nickname—so deliberate, like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue—sent something sharp down my spine.

"Tell you what?" I asked carefully.

He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled in thought. "Something real."

I hesitated. "That's vague."

"Intentionally so." He arched a brow. "Consider it a challenge."

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he only waited, watching me with that same expectant look, as if he truly wanted to hear something about me.

I exhaled. "I don't like the cold."

His lips twitched. "A courtier of Autumn who doesn't like the cold? Shocking, really." His voice was sarcastic, but something in his eyes told me he knew what I meant.

I shrugged, explaining anyway. "It reminds me of your father." The words left me before I could stop them, before I could think better of them.

Eris didn't flinch, but something in his expression shifted. "I hate the cold, too," he admitted after a beat.

I blinked, caught off guard by his honesty.

He returned his attention to the paper in front of him, but his next words were soft, almost contemplative.

"It's why I keep the fire going."

And despite everything I had come to know about Eris Vanserra—despite everything I feared—those words stayed with me long after I left his study that night.

It became routine.

Every evening, after the day's duties were done, I was summoned to Eris's study. At first, I had thought it was some kind of test, some trick to lull me into a false sense of security before he reminded me of my place. But the days passed, and the cruel words never came. The taunts never sharpened into something harsher.

Instead, I found myself sitting across from him as he worked, the fire crackling between us, filling the silence in ways neither of us felt the need to.

And I was learning things.

Not just about him—but about myself.

I learned that despite being raised under Beron's thumb, Eris did not rule with a hand of iron. He listened—to his advisors, to the reports of the court, to me, even. And when I spoke, he truly listened, as if my words meant something.

More recently I learned that he was—Gods help me—attractive.

That fact had been easy enough to ignore when I hated him, when I thought he was just another Beron in the making. But the more time I spent with him, the more I noticed things I shouldn't—like the sharp angles of his face, the golden hue of his eyes, the way his hands moved across parchment with effortless precision.

It was incredibly inappropriate.

He was a High Lord, for the Gods' sake. I was a mere servant. A courtier, yes, but still beneath him in every sense of the word.

But there were moments—subtle, fleeting—where I felt that he didn't see it that way.

Like when he'd catch me staring and smirk, as if he knew exactly where my thoughts had gone. Like when his fingers would brush against mine as he handed me a book, a touch so brief it might have been an accident, but my traitorous body knew better. Like when he said my name—not the way Beron used to, as if I were an object, a thing that existed for his whims, but as if I were someone worth hearing.

It was dangerous. He was dangerous. And yet, I kept returning to his study, night after night, drawn to him in ways I did not understand.

I was comfortable around him now. Too comfortable. And I wasn't sure if that terrified me or eased me more.

The fire crackled behind him, casting golden light over the room as I sat at his desk, scanning over the trade agreements he had asked me to review. Eris stood in front of the hearth, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the flames with a contemplative expression.

"They're bleeding the smaller villages dry," I murmured, flipping to the next page. "The tariffs are nearly double what they should be."

Eris hummed in response, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "And what do you suggest, fawn?" His voice was rich, edged with amusement.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, biting back a smile at the teasing lilt in his tone. "Lowering them would be a start."

He took a slow sip of whiskey, then turned, his gaze burning even hotter than the fire behind him. "Very well. Lower them."

I blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He smirked, as if amused by my surprise. "You have a sharp mind. It would be a waste not to use it."

A compliment. A genuine one.

I busied myself with the documents, ignoring the warmth that curled in my stomach. But before I could shift to the next matter, I felt it—him.

The space between us disappeared in a breath. Eris leaned over my shoulder, one hand bracing against the desk as he peered down at the papers with me.

His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, his scent—smoke, cedar, spice—curling around me, intoxicating. I stiffened, my fingers tightening around the quill.

"See?" His voice was softer now, smooth like velvet. "That wasn't so hard."

I swallowed, forcing my focus back to the parchment. "I assume the next set of reports won't be as easy."

His chuckle was low, deep. "Unfortunately, no."

We worked through the rest of it together, his proximity never wavering, his breath occasionally ghosting against my cheek as he murmured his thoughts. It should have been unbearable. It was unbearable. And yet, I didn't pull away.

Not even when he poured me a glass of whiskey.

I had refused at first, telling him I was technically working but he had simply raised an eyebrow and said, "I won't tell the high lord if you don't."

It burned going down, leaving warmth in its wake, emboldening me just enough to loosen the tight grip I always held on myself.

Perhaps that was why, when we finally leaned back in our chairs, the tension of duty momentarily relieved, I dared to meet his gaze with something close to ease.

"You're a better High Lord than I expected," I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty.

He turned his glass between his fingers, watching me over the rim. "High praise, coming from you."

I rolled my eyes, but the smallest of smiles played at my lips. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," he quipped, grinning.

I shook my head, but I wasn't fast enough to hide the way my lips twitched in amusement.

Eris noticed. Of course, he did. And he leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "Careful, fawn. Keep looking at me like that, and I'll think you actually enjoy my company."

I should have ignored the remark. Should have cut the moment short, should have reminded myself that this was Eris, that I was his courtier and nothing more.

But the whiskey hummed in my blood, and I found myself tilting my chin up slightly, arching a brow.

"Who said I don't?"

His gaze darkened, a flicker of something wicked dancing in those golden eyes.

The air between us tightened, the tension shifting into something heavier, something dangerous.

And for the first time, I wasn't entirely sure if I wanted to run from it.

The room was suffocating with heat—not just from the fire, but from him. From the way he looked at me, like he could see through every carefully placed wall I had built around myself.

I should have left. Should have bowed my head, murmured a polite good night, and returned to the servantry quarters where I belonged.

But I didn't.

Instead, I stayed, rooted in place, watching the way Eris's eyes flickered between my lips and my eyes. The tension stretched unbearably tight, wound so thin that one more word, one more breath, would surely snap it.

And then it did.

One moment, we were speaking, our words slow and softened by whiskey. The next—I was in his arms, and his mouth was on mine.

It was a collision, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

His lips were searing, his hands gripping my waist as if he couldn't bear to let go, pulling me flush against him. I gasped into the kiss, and he took full advantage, deepening it, his tongue sweeping over mine in a way that made my knees threaten to buckle.

He groaned, low and guttural, and something inside me snapped.

I met his fervor with my own, fingers tangling in his hair, feeling the silk of it between my fingertips as he backed me into the desk. The papers we had worked so hard on crumpled beneath us, utterly forgotten.

He exhaled a quiet curse against my lips as his hands gripped my hips tighter, and I—I didn't stop him. I arched into him, into the warmth, the danger of it.

And then—it happened.

A tether snapped into place.

Invisible, undeniable, unyielding.

My entire body locked up as a force stronger than anything I had ever known latched onto my very soul. The bond—a mating bond—solidified between us like molten steel cooling into iron, a force so absolute it stole the air from my lungs.

No, no, no.

I stumbled back so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet, my hand flying to my lips as if I could erase what had just happened.

Eris reached for me, eyes wide, something dangerously close to awe written across his sharp features. "Wait—"

But I didn't.

I turned and ran.

I ignored the way his voice followed me, calling my name, ignored the way my heart thundered in my chest, the way my mind screamed at me that this was impossible, that it couldn't be real, that it shouldn't be real.

Because if it was—if it was real—then it meant I was bound to him. To him.

Not just the male who had been slipping under my skin, infiltrating the cold emptiness I had built to protect myself. But Beron's son. Beron's heir. A Vanserra. A High Lord.

By the time I reached the servantry quarters, my breaths were ragged, my hands shaking as I shoved my door closed behind me, locking it with trembling fingers.

I pressed my back against the wood, squeezing my eyes shut.

This couldn't be happening. It was a mistake. A trick. A cruel, cruel joke.

I was nothing.

A courtier, a servant.

I did not get to have mates.

And certainly not him.

I curled onto my cot, my hands gripping the fabric of my dress as if I could anchor myself back to reality. I forced my breathing to slow, willed myself to forget the feeling of his lips, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the way his hands had fit so perfectly against my waist.

I did not sleep that night.

I had been avoiding him.

Days had passed, and I hadn't stepped foot in his study again. I hadn't so much as looked in his direction, even as the court whispered about me, about us, about the undeniable scent of a bond snapping into place.

They all knew.

I could feel their stares, the pity in some, the amusement in others. I knew what they thought—that it was only a matter of time before I bent, before I folded myself into the neat little role fate had carved out for me at Eris's side.

I refused.

I stayed tucked away, keeping to my duties, bowing as I always had when in his presence, keeping my head low, silent. I had done it for years under Beron. I could do it again.

Or at least, I thought I could.

The bond had other plans.

It had been clawing at me, a sick, twisting thing in my chest, gnawing at my ribs every time I kept my distance. The more I ignored it, the worse it became, a restless, aching pressure that built until my hands trembled with the need to do something—run to him, scream, sob. I didn't know which.

I was too caught up in my own mind, too focused on fighting the invisible thread tethering me to him, that I didn't notice the male approaching me until it was too late.

"You've been rather elusive, haven't you?"

I turned sharply, expecting him, expecting Eris—

But it wasn't him.

It was Kyden.

My stomach twisted.

Kyden Vanserra had always taken the most after Beron compared to the rest of his brothers, cruel for the sake of cruelty, sneering down at those he deemed beneath him. Which unfortunately included me.

His smirk was slow, predatory. "I almost mistook you for one of the nobility, standing there all stiff and proper. But then I remembered—you're just a servant, aren't you?"

I forced my body not to react, not to let the memories claw their way up my throat. He had that same look in his tawny eyes that Beron always had on one of the particularly hard days.

Kyden stepped closer, voice a lazy drawl. "And yet, despite your lowly position, you managed to ensnare a High Lord." His lips curled, eyes gleaming with something dark. "Or rather, the bond did. Funny, isn't it? How fate makes fools of us all."

I kept my chin high, my hands at my sides. I would not cower.

He leaned in, his breath brushing against my ear. "You reek of him."

I flinched. Kyden chuckled. "It's amusing, really. Eris, of all people, shackled to someone like you." His gaze flickered over me, assessing, and I knew that look—I had seen it before, a lifetime ago, picking apart my worth, deciding how best to use me.

"What do you think he'll do?" Kyden mused. "Surely, you don't believe he'll actually keep you. A High Lord's mate should be powerful, worthy." He tutted. "You are neither."

The words hit their mark, sinking into my skin like tiny blades, because deep down I knew he was right. This is why I've been avoiding Eris, avoiding having that confrontation that will only result in rejection and sorrow.

"I wonder," he continued, tilting his head, "how long it will take before he grows bored of you. Before he realizes you're nothing more than the same little courtier Beron used to—"

A deep, guttural snarl split the air.

And then Kyden was no longer in my space, no longer crowding me like a looming shadow.

Eris had him by the collar, dragging him back, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl beside his brother's throat.

"Say another word," Eris hissed, voice like fire crackling over dry wood, "and I will tear out your fucking tongue."

Kyden, to his credit, did not flinch. He only grinned. "Touched a nerve, did I?"

Eris's fingers tightened, the flames in the nearby sconces flaring wildly.

"Walk away, Kyden," Eris said, voice quieter now, deadlier. "I raised you better than this."

A beat of silence. Then Kyden huffed a laugh, shoving Eris off him with a roll of his shoulders.

"As you wish, brother." He turned to me, and there was something smug in his eyes, something knowing. "See you around, little courtier."

And then he was gone.

Eris exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair before turning to me.

"Are you—"

I shook my head, stepping back. "Don't."

His jaw tensed.

I couldn't do this. Not here. Not now.

The hallway was silent except for the distant clatter of pots and the hushed murmurs of servants slipping past us, their eyes darting away the moment they caught sight of Eris. I could still feel the ghost of Kyden's words slithering over my skin, the way he had looked at me, spoken to me. But more than that—I could feel the weight of Eris's gaze, burning into me as if he were unraveling every thought in my head.

I didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to feel the way I did when he looked at me.

His amber eyes flickered with something unreadable, something heavy and tense. He hadn't moved since Kyden left, his hands clenched at his sides, as if he was still fighting the urge to chase his brother down and finish what he started.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. We stood nearly a yard away from each other in the servants' passages, the house was so vast that to get from place to place quicker in the manor there were secret paths to take. It was odd for the High Lord to even know about them.

I swallowed hard, then whispered, "Why are you here?"

Eris blinked, as if startled by the question. And then, with the ghost of a smirk, he drawled, "It's my house, isn't it?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You know what I mean."

More silence.

His smirk faded.

"I was looking for you," he admitted finally.

I stared at him, heart hammering against my ribs. "You could've called for me."

His expression darkened, and he took a step closer. "Would you have come?"

I said nothing.

He huffed a bitter laugh. "That's what I thought."

I clenched my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms. "It's my job, Eris," I whispered.

His jaw flexed. His fingers twitched—like he wanted to reach for me, wanted to touch me—but he didn't. Instead, he just stood there, looking more defeated than I'd ever imagined a Vanserra could.

"Can we go somewhere more private?" I asked, my voice quieter now, because we were standing a distance apart with maids and cooks scuttling silently past us, pretending they weren't listening, pretending they couldn't see the invisible string between us.

Eris studied me for a long moment, then nodded. Without another word, he turned on his heel, leading the way.

I followed.

The room he brought me to was small, tucked away in one of the unused wings of the estate. A study, maybe, or a reading room—the kind of place someone could go to disappear.

He shut the door behind me, and then we were alone.

Eris exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Are you alright?"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I don't know."

His jaw tightened. "Kyden—"

"I don't want to talk about Kyden."

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. "Then talk to me about something else."

I let out a breath. "About what, Eris?"

He stepped closer, slow and careful, as if I were something fragile. "About why you've been avoiding me."

I scoffed. "You know why."

"I want to hear you say it."

I met his gaze, and the heat in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine. "Because this—" I gestured between us. "—isn't supposed to happen. Because you're a High Lord, and I'm a servant, and this bond—" I swallowed hard. "It's cruel."

Eris's expression was unreadable, but his fingers twitched again, and I wondered if he even realized he kept doing that—kept stopping himself from touching me. "You think the Mother is cruel?"

I hesitated. "I think fate is."

Eris exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Do you hate it that much?"

I didn't answer.

Did I?

Hate was easy. Hate was something I understood, something I could hold onto. Hate had kept me alive under Beron's rule, had hardened me, protected me.

But this? This tether between us, this thing that hummed in my chest, that made my body ache to close the distance between us—

I didn't have a name for it. And that scared me more than anything.

Eris watched me carefully, as if searching for something in my expression. He let out another sigh and retreated, taking a seat on the small leather couch adjacent to the popping fireplace. I watched him silently, still standing by the door.

"I never wanted this either," he admitted, voice softer now. "I spent years ensuring I would never be bound to someone who could be used against me. And yet..." His lips quirked into something bitter. "Yet here we are."

My throat felt tight. "Do you hate it?"

His amber eyes burned. "No."

The breath I took was unsteady.

"You never answered?" he looked up at me.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shook my head. "I don't know."

Eris nodded once, as if that answer was enough.

Silence stretched between us again.

Finally, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You don't have to accept it," he said. "Not now. Not ever, if that's what you choose." He met my gaze, something like resignation flickering in his eyes. "But I won't apologize for it."

He wanted to keep it? Wanted me to accept it?

I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

He tilted his head, considering me. "So what now?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. "That's twice now."

I scowled. "Shut up."

He chuckled. "I suppose I should be grateful I got anything out of you at all."

I rolled my eyes, but there was no bite to it.

Eris studied me again, quieter this time. "I meant what I said," he murmured. "I was looking for you."

I looked away. "I know."

Silence settled between us again, but it was different now. Less suffocating.

More dangerous.

Because I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep pretending I didn't want him to find me. I approached his side quietly and sat.

The leather couch was cool against my skin as I sank into it beside him, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. The bond thrummed like a second heartbeat, relentless and inescapable.

The son of the man I loathed most in this world was the one I was expected to love beyond reason.

Fate was a sick, twisted thing.

I sighed, tired of thinking, tired of fighting, tired of everything. Slowly, hesitantly, I tilted my head, letting it rest against his shoulder. His body stiffened for a fraction of a second before he relaxed, exhaling a breath I might've imagined.

It was enough for now.

"I'm High Lord," he said after a beat.

"Painfully aware," I murmured.

"Meaning—there are rules of the Autumn Court that I can... simply get rid of."

I huffed a soft, tired laugh. "You're a lord, not a king."

"Mm, true," he mused, tilting his head back against the couch, "but if Rhysand can bend the rules to marry his mate, so can I."

I hesitated. "His court is much more pliable. Autumn is notorious for its... old-fashioned ways."

"Well, the Autumn Court has a new High Lord." His voice was steady, sure. "Let's just hope I'm changing it for the better."

I smiled faintly, my eyes fluttering shut. "You are, 'Ris."

The name slipped out before I could think better of it, before I could remind myself that familiarity with him was dangerous.

His body went still beneath me.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he looked down at me, amber eyes burning with something I couldn't name.

We stared at each other for a long moment, really seeing each other.

And then, quietly, almost reverently, he murmured, "I'm going to kiss you now."

I nodded.

And then he did.

His lips pressed against mine, slow and deep, as if we had all the time in the world. As if the bond wasn't something to be feared but something to be savored. His hand lifted to my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone before sliding into my hair, tilting my face up, pressing deeper.

I sighed into him, gripping the front of his tunic as the bond pulsed between us, as the warmth of his body and the scent of campfire and rainy mornings wrapped around me like something familiar, something I could fall into.

It should have scared me.

But all I could do was kiss him back.

Eris pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my lips. My heart pounded, my thoughts a chaotic mess, but the bond hummed in quiet contentment—as if it had known all along that this was inevitable.

His fingers stayed tangled in my hair, his other hand still cupping my jaw, holding me there, keeping me grounded. "We'll figure this out," he murmured, voice low, steady. Sure.

I let out a slow breath, my hands still fisted in his tunic. "You make it sound so simple."

"It doesn't have to be complicated."

I swallowed hard, my mind already spinning with the realities of what this meant, what it could mean. But as I looked at him, at the quiet determination in his gaze, at the warmth that had nothing to do with the firelight flickering around us, I found myself wanting—just for a moment—to believe him.

So I nodded, just barely.

His lips brushed my temple, lingering there for a heartbeat before he leaned back, his hand finally slipping from my hair. "One step at a time, my dear."

I exhaled, my pulse still thrumming in my throat, and echoed, "One step at a time."

And maybe, just maybe, we'd find our way through this. Together.

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[dearestpoltergeist]

Eris with his brothers:

[alicenchanted]

Aftercare

Eris X Reader

summary: Eris helps you come down after an intense session, loving on you the way only he knows how

word count: 247

author's note: short one today, just a cute little drabble to break up the smut load. Will be on ao3 later, ran out of time this morning! Writing soft eris makes me <3

{Tags: fluff, mentions of bondage, slight sub drop vibes, he runs a bath}

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“Look at me,” Eris whispered, carefully undoing the dark silk binds around your wrists and ankles.

It was hard to look at him. Everything was hazy and white hot stars still prickled the edges of your vision.

“You’re fine baby, you’re fine…” he murmured, rubbing your wrists soothingly. “Are they sore?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Eris smiled a little. “Why don’t I believe you?… I’ll get a bath started, and I’ll fetch some cream. You stay here.”

“Mmm.”

His laugh echoed from the hall at your muffled noise. The pillows welcomed your crumpled form, pliantly cradling your body.

A few minutes later, Eris was back, sweeping your mostly limp figure into his arms with a content sigh.

“Let’s get you cleaned up. You need it.”

And wasn’t that the truth. Sweat, spit, cum. All of it stained your soft skin with the sign of your debauchery.

“Can you speak yet? Or are you going to be my quiet girl tonight?”

“Quiet,” you mumbled into his bare chest. Eris huffed with amusement, and simply lowered you into the porcelain bathtub. Hot water hit your skin, smelling of the bubbly tincture Eris had gifted you while shopping in the town square last week.

He breathed in that calming scent with you. “Great, I’ll smell like you now.”

“I smell good,” you whined, accusingly poking his chest.

Eris kissed your forehead, leaning over the clawfoot tub to clean you up. “I like smelling like you. Means I’m yours.”

[ser-matilda]

Short hair Eris this, long hair Eris that. How about we agree to just start depicting him with a mullet style instead?

Do you see my vision yet?