#eris vanserra

[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

[piperthorn]

Not Decoration

The Night Court assumes Eris Vanserra’s mate is nothing more than decoration at his side.

They learn very quickly that some females do not need to raise their voice to remind a room exactly where power sits.

Requested by @alexof90s — I hope this is close to what you were picturing! (Once again I didn't proof read this at all so feel free to let me know if there are any spelling errors!)

The first mistake the Night Court made was assuming you were decoration.

Not intentionally or obviously.

They were too polite for that.

But you saw it in the way their eyes moved over you when they entered the meeting room.

Briefly, if not dismissively.

A female beside Eris Vanserra.

Something ornamental, perhaps.

Something placed at his side to soften the image of Autumn’s new High Lord.

You did not correct them.

Eris noticed.

Of course he did.

The corner of his mouth shifted just barely. 

You didn’t look at him.

“Try not to look so pleased,” you murmured.

“I am not pleased.”

“You are nearly smiling.”

“That would be unbecoming.”

“Then by all means,” you said softly, folding your hands in your lap, “continue suffering.”

Across the table, Cassian’s brows rose.

Azriel’s shadows shifted once behind his shoulders.

Rhysand, to his credit, noticed the exchange for what it was.

A warning.

Mor noticed something else entirely.

Her gaze lingered on Eris with the same familiar disdain it always held.

Cold and sharp. Nothing if not practiced.

“You’ve redecorated,” she said, glancing around the council room. “How charming. I almost forgot where we were.”

Eris did not respond.

He only looked down at the treaty papers in front of him.

You watched the movement.

The restraint it took him not to bite at her.

Rhysand cleared his throat.

“We’re here to discuss the border villages.”

“Then let us discuss them,” Eris said.

His voice was smooth.

It always was in rooms like this.

The meeting began as most meetings did.

With maps and numbers. Along with men pretending history had not shaped every inch of land they were negotiating over.

Rhysand spoke well.

You would give him that.

Azriel said very little, but missed nothing.

Cassian shifted in his chair like diplomacy physically pained him.

And Mor…

Mor watched Eris like she was waiting for a monster to show its teeth.

You let it continue for twenty-three minutes.

Twenty-three minutes of clipped words. Quiet tension. Little glances that held nothing but daggers. Along with subtle jabs dressed up as moral certainty.

The last straw was when Mor finally said, “Forgive me if I find Autumn’s sudden interest in protecting vulnerable people difficult to believe.”

Eris’s fingers stilled on the paper.

Only for a moment.

You gently set down your tea.

The cup barely made a sound against the saucer.

But somehow, the room noticed.

Mor’s eyes flicked to you.

You smiled.

Not warmly. Not cruelly. Politely.

The sort of smile court ladies were taught to wear even if swallowing poison.

“Difficult to believe,” you repeated.

Mor lifted her chin.

“Yes.”

“How interesting.”

Cassian leaned back slightly.

Azriel’s shadows went still.

Eris did not move beside you.

He knew better.

Mor’s gaze narrowed. “Do you have something to say?”

You tilted your head.

“I was deciding whether it would be rude.”

“And?”

“Oh, it’s terribly rude I’m afraid.”

Rhysand’s attention sharpened.

You turned your cup once, slow and deliberate, before looking back at Mor.

“But since we are clearly past the point of pretending this room is governed by courtesy, I suppose I might as well.”

Eris exhaled once through his nose.

Almost amused.

You continued.

“You speak of Autumn’s cruelty as though anyone at this table intends to dispute it. We do not. Autumn has teeth. It has always had teeth.” Your gaze swept briefly toward Eris. “Some of us have spent years removing them one by one.”

Mor’s mouth tightened.

“But what fascinates me,” you went on, voice still calm, “is the Night Court’s remarkable talent for selective outrage.”

Cassian straightened.

Rhysand’s face went very still.

There it was.

The shift.

The moment they realized you were not decoration.

You smiled again.

Softer this time.

“You condemn Autumn for what it allowed to happen beneath Beron’s rule. Fair. You should. But I do find it curious how rarely that same scrutiny turns inward.”

Mor’s eyes flashed.

“Careful.”

You looked at her then.

Truly looked.

“I would advise caution, Morrigan,” you said softly. “Not because I fear what you might say, but because I know what you have chosen not to.”

The room went still. 

You leaned back slightly in your chair.

“Careless would be asking why the Court of Dreams feels entitled to sneer at every cruel tradition in Prythian while still ruling over the Hewn City.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed.

Azriel said nothing.

Rhysand did not look away from you.

Good.

At least one of them understood where this was going. 

Mor’s voice was low. “You know nothing about the Hewn City.”

“No,” you agreed. “I know what survived the retelling.”

You tilted your head slightly before continuing 

“Interesting that you speak so confidently for someone whose version of events requires several omissions to survive.” 

Mor stood slowly.

“You have no right to speak to me about what I survived.”

There it was.

The part you had been waiting for.

Your smile faded.

Not because you were afraid.

Because some things deserved seriousness.

“No,” you said. “I do not.”

The room stilled.

Even Eris glanced at you then.

You met Mor’s gaze without flinching.

“What was done to you was monstrous. No one in this room should deny that. I certainly will not.” Your voice lowered. “But your pain does not make every omission holy.”

Mor went utterly still.

“You have allowed them to believe one version of the story because it is easier than dragging the whole thing into the light,” you said. “And perhaps you had reason. Perhaps silence was all you had. I will not fault a girl for surviving the only way she could.”

A breath.

Then another.

“But I will fault a court for building policy around half a truth and calling it justice.”

Rhysand’s eyes flicked, briefly, toward Eris.

Eris remained expressionless.

But his hand had shifted closer to yours on the table.

Not to stop you.

Not to guide you.

Just there.

Mor’s voice was colder now.

“And what truth do you think you know?”

You folded your hands again.

“The kind men leave out when the facts are inconvenient.”

A sad smile played on your lips. 

“The kind women bury because being believed costs too much.”

For the first time, Mor had no immediate response.

Good.

You had not wanted to hurt her.

Not really.

But you were very tired of watching Eris bleed quietly under everyone else’s certainty.

“You may hate my mate,” you said, and only then did your tone sharpen. “That is your right. Hate him forever, if it comforts you.”

Eris’s gaze moved to you.

You did not look at him.

“But do not sit in his court, at his table, beneath laws he bled to change, and pretend your hatred is the same thing as truth.”

Silence pressed against the walls.

Cassian looked between you and Mor, unusually quiet.

Azriel’s shadows curled close to his shoulders.

Rhysand leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

You picked up your tea again.

It had gone cold.

Mor did not sit.

Not immediately.

Her face was pale with anger, but beneath it there was something else.

Something older. Something less certain.

Eris finally spoke. Calm and measured.

“My mate raises a wonderful point.”

Rhysand looked at him.

Eris’s eyes did not leave Mor.

“Do you intend to discuss the border villages,” he said, “or continue mistaking personal history for governance?”

Your mouth twitched.

Only slightly.

Mor saw it.

Cassian definitely saw it.

Rhysand looked as though he was reevaluating several decisions at once.

Good.

That meant they were listening.

You took one careful sip of cold tea and set it back down.

“Now,” you said pleasantly, as though you hadn’t just gutted the room and asked for the next topic. “Shall we return to the villages, or would anyone else like to confuse emotion with policy first?”

Cassian muttered something under his breath.

Azriel looked down.

Rhysand looked at you for a long moment.

Then, finally, he said, “The villages.”

You smiled.

“Excellent.”

Beside you, Eris reached for his wine.

Not to drink.

To hide the fact that he was smiling.

You leaned toward him just slightly.

“Poorly done,” you murmured.

His gaze slid to you.

“What was?”

“Hiding your amusement.”

Then, so quietly only you could hear:

“I wasn’t trying very hard.”

Taglist

@illyriassweetheart

@Sleepybesson

[2ndofapril2]

The lighting on this one was a lot of fun

[velarisdusk]

What Was Bought, What Was Taken

Eris Vanserra x Reader

summary: He asked for your hand like you were a favor to be traded. When the mating bond snaps in the Court of Nightmares, furious but powerless, you're taken to Autumn. word count: 5,310 content: [ coercion, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, mating bond, all warnings that come with Keir and the Hewn City, dead parents, mentions of abuse, keir is y/n's grandfather ] author's note: thanks anon for this request! sooo i didnt end up writing any smut for this. the tone it took on as i wrote just didnt have the vibe for that, and it wouldve felt really forced. also i felt a strange power imbalance when i tried; not something i’d usually shy away from writing but i think this was a really pretty piece and i didnt want to muddle it with dubcon yk ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

You walked fast—nearly jogged, if you were honest—through the narrow hallway that led to the Council Chamber, your heels catching against the smooth stone as you tried not to make too much noise. Your pulse was already high in your throat, pushed higher by the low, measured toll of the nearby bells. You were late. Again. 

He was going to skin you alive.

Keir hadn’t said much this morning—just that the heir of Autumn would be joining him for “a conversation of mutual interest,” whatever that meant. You hadn’t asked questions. You’d learned by now that curiosity only invited irritation.

But still. Eris Vanserra didn’t come to the Hewn City for polite formalities. No one did. And Keir had been in a mood ever since the messenger confirmed the High Lord had set the meeting. He’d spent the morning stalking the halls like a male preparing for war.

Which meant you were walking in late to something very, very important.

You swore softly and slipped inside.

You hesitated at the heavy double doors of the Council Chamber, the low murmur of voices inside fading the moment you stepped over the threshold. The scent of burning incense mixed with cold stone filled your lungs. Your footsteps echoed softly on the polished floor as you moved forward, eyes deliberately fixed on the ground. As you crossed the room, the tension prickled at your skin. 

“You’re late,” Keir’s voice was calm but sharp enough to cut through the hum of conversation. 

The room quieted around him.

You stopped just shy of your chair, spine straightening instinctively.

You’d expected the reprimand. The public humiliation. He rarely missed an opportunity to remind you who held the reins. 

Keir didn’t motion for you to sit. “Late,” he repeated, the word twisting with disdain. “As though your time is more valuable than mine. Than the court’s. Than our guest’s.”

You kept your gaze low, jaw tightening. 

Keir rose slowly from his seat, not to tower but to command. His voice stayed even, deliberate. “I give you responsibility, and this is how you meet it? I allow you opportunities I would grant no other female. Not even your mother.”

You flinched. 

“Do you think we can afford such carelessness?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer—there never was room for one. 

He turned slightly, gesturing toward Eris with an open palm. “Beron sends us his heir, a rare opportunity for diplomacy. And you walk in like a distracted servant girl, too absorbed in your own little errands to arrive on time.” 

You felt the heat creeping up your neck. 

“I bring you here to observe, to learn,” Keir continued, each word striking like a lash, “and instead, you’ve set an example I’d be ashamed to see from one of my lowest courtiers.” 

Still standing, still silent, you braced yourself for the worst of it. 

Keir waved a hand. “Apologize,” he said simply, resuming his seat. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself. You will not make one of me.” 

Only then did you finally allow yourself to move. 

You turned—slowly, deliberately—your movements stiff with the effort of keeping your expression blank. You didn’t rush, though your stomach twisted with the burn of humiliation. You kept your chin high anyway. You’d learned that from Keir: if you must be dragged, at least look like you walked of your own will.

You faced the heir of Autumn like you were stepping into a performance you hadn’t rehearsed.

Eris Vanserra.

He was exactly as you’d imagined—sharp angles and cool composure, seated like the chair belonged to him. His golden-red hair caught the torchlight, flickering like open flame, but his posture was still and unbothered. One ankle crossed over a knee, a single finger resting against the corner of his mouth. His gaze was unreadable. Not cold, but closed. Guarded.

He said nothing. Only watched.

And when your eyes met his—

Not gently. Not like the brushing of threads or a soft breath of recognition. It hit like a tether pulled taut all at once, yanked from the depths of your chest, snapping into place so violently it nearly knocked you back a step. Something inside you reeled, flinched—like a door long rusted shut had been forced open from the inside.

Your breath caught, too sharp, too sudden. 

The world narrowed.

You felt it everywhere—like heat blooming low in your stomach, like your lungs weren’t your own, like your pulse had been dragged into rhythm with someone else’s. It was not pain, not exactly. But it was overwhelming. Terrifying. Your heart scrambled to understand what your body already knew: something irreversible had just happened. Something ancient and final.

It was as if an unknown magic inside you had reared its head for the first time in your life and whispered, there you are.

And he was the answer.

You couldn’t look away.

Didn’t dare blink. Not yet.

Eris’ posture didn’t shift. Not even a flicker of recognition across his face. He sat still as stone, gaze steady, unreadable. A master of silence. If his eyes were a fortress, his control was the outer wall—built stone by stone over years, and just as immovable. 

But you—

Your face betrayed everything.

Your lips parted before you could stop them. Your breath stuttered once, then again, too shallow. The blood had drained from your fingertips and rushed to your throat. You felt your lashes flutter, a single blink too slow, too stunned.

And from the corner of your vision, you saw your grandfather’s head tilt—just slightly.

He had seen it.

And you knew, before you even looked at him, that he understood exactly what had happened.

The silence in the chamber stretched thinner than glass. A breath, then another. You could feel the air shift—not with magic, but with attention. Every gaze in the room was waiting. Watching.

Then Eris stood.

Not abruptly. Not with surprise. But like he had been planning to stand all along. Like your new bond had changed absolutely nothing.

You barely stopped yourself from stepping back. Your throat bobbed, dry.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He looked at Keir first, his expression unreadable. Not quite expectant—no, it was cooler than that. Measured. His eyes lingered a beat too long. Like he was assessing your grandfather, weighing something invisible.

Then he turned his gaze to you.

Slowly.

And for a moment—just a moment—you wondered what he saw.

Not the expression you’d failed to mask. Not the shock still ringing in your bones. But you. You. The girl your grandfather had hidden behind a hundred veils of courtly obedience. The girl who’d never, in all her fifty years, breathed real air or touched soil or seen the sun. Did he see that? Did he see a possession, or a person?

What does a male like that think when a bond snaps into place?

What does he do with it?

He turned back to Keir.

You braced yourself—he would speak now, you were sure of it. Would begin the negotiations, would play whatever game the two of them had arranged behind closed doors. You knew how this worked. You knew how your story was supposed to be told.

But he didn’t go to Keir.

He came to you.

You froze.

He crossed the room without hesitation, the distance vanishing beneath the sure, easy weight of his steps. And then he was before you—taller, closer than you’d ever expected.

His fingers found yours, gloved hand brushing bare skin. And without asking, without hesitating, he lifted your hand to his mouth.

And kissed it.

Slowly. Deliberately. His gaze never leaving yours.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

You couldn’t answer. Your voice stuck behind your teeth, behind the shock, behind the weight of everything unspoken. You weren’t sure your lungs had remembered how to pull air.

Then he turned, your hand still in his.

As if you had already agreed.

As if your silence meant yes.

As if you were already behind him.

“I’d like her hand,” he said, gaze returning to Keir. “Formally. As mate. As future lady of Autumn.”

The words didn’t seem real.

You heard them. You understood each one. But they landed out of order, scattered, like someone had tipped your mind sideways and let your thoughts spill into a pile.

Her hand. Mate. Lady of Autumn.

Was this—was this a proposal? A declaration? A transaction?

Your heart was still beating too fast. Your palm still burned faintly where his mouth had touched it. The bond hummed along your spine and through each rib like a second heartbeat, louder now, more insistent, as though it was pleased with itself for being named.

But your body hadn’t caught up with your brain. You felt removed from it—like you were standing in the wrong version of yourself. The version that would have looked to her grandfather for approval. That would have nodded, smiled, curtsied, spoken her lines.

You weren’t smiling now.

He had asked for you. Claimed you. Not in metaphor, not in theory, not in the slow-burn romantic sense you’d once imagined while reading contraband books in the dim corners of your room.

No—he had asked for you like you were an estate: measurable, ownable, transferable. 

You opened your mouth. You weren’t even sure what you meant to say. Maybe No, maybe What are you doing, maybe just your own name to remind the room you had one.

But whatever it was, it didn’t make it past your tongue.

“Vanserra,” your grandfather said smoothly, eyes narrowed just enough to reveal his doubt. “You expect me to believe you would bind yourself, your future court, to someone you’ve not yet had a full conversation with?”

His voice was amused. Skeptical. But not insulted.

Not dismissive.

And that, somehow, made the panic press tighter behind your ribs.

You’d thought—naively, maybe—that your grandfather would laugh. That he’d bristle with offense. That he’d dismiss Eris’s request outright, just for the insult of asking.

But instead, Keir was considering it.

That amusement in his tone wasn’t mockery—it was interest, cloaked in skepticism. Testing the weight of the offer. Looking for the angle.

Your fingers curled in on themselves slowly, like your body was trying to reclaim what had been taken, as if you could reverse it, undo it, pull back from the moment and make it a mistake someone else had made.

Eris didn’t flinch beneath Keir’s scrutiny. His stance remained relaxed—too relaxed. He finally released you in favor of clasping both hands behind his back, chin slightly lifted. 

“Curious choice,” Keir mused, voice light with false interest. “Hardly the most advantageous offer on the table.”

A pause. Your face heated. 

“I don’t make decisions I haven’t already considered in full,” Eris said. “And I don’t waste time asking for what I don’t intend to keep.”

A faint smirk touched his lips, but it wasn’t cruel. It was worse than cruel—it was calm. Certain.

“Let that be answer enough.”

Your knees nearly gave out.

That was the story, then. That was how they’d frame it. As strategy. As inevitability.

Your mouth parted again, and this time, words came. Shaky, quiet.

“I haven’t—”

“Be silent,” Keir said, without looking at you.

And just like that, your voice vanished again.

Not by magic. By command. 

By obedience. 

You looked at Eris then. You wanted to see something—anything—in his face. Doubt, maybe. Hesitation. Some flicker of recognition that this was wrong, or too much, or too fast.

But there was only stillness.

Keir leaned back in his chair with the ease of a male who had just found himself holding the sharpest blade in the room.

“And here I thought,” he said, almost idly, “you’d come to posture and circle, like every other male with a title to defend.” His fingers drummed once against the armrest. 

Eris didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Keir let the silence settle before continuing, voice shifting—cooler now, more precise. “She wasn’t part of the original arrangement. Not in any meaningful way.”

You flinched, barely, at the word meaningful.

“She’s young. Inexperienced. Untried in court or politics. I wouldn’t call her… an asset.”

Your stomach turned.

“But,” Keir went on, tone sharpening, “it seems the bond has given her value. At least to you.”

He smiled then, the kind that didn’t touch his eyes.

“So let’s discuss what her hand is worth.”

It was like being stripped bare in the center of the room—like the torchlight itself was meant to spotlight your stillness, your silence, your helplessness. You didn’t know if they saw you blush or pale or tremble. You didn’t think it mattered.

They weren’t looking at you anymore.

Only at what you could buy.

“What do you offer, Vanserra?” Keir asked, gaze gleaming. “Because I can promise you, I don’t sell cheaply.”

The faint flicker of torchlight caught the sharp angles of Eris’ face, casting shadows that made him look almost carved from stone. His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest curve touching his lips—not quite a smile, but close. He leaned forward, his voice low, measured.

“You won’t find a more valuable alliance, Keir.”

He let the words hang between them.

“I offer the full backing of Autumn once I am its High Lord—its armies, its resources, its influence. A bond with me is a bond with the power of my court.”

His gaze flicked briefly to you, cool and appraising, then back to Keir.

“This union will strengthen your hold on the Hewn City, and send a clear message to any who would challenge you.”

He paused, voice dipping with a quiet threat.

“Turn away from this offer, and you risk everything Autumn’s power can undo.”

The room grew heavier with unspoken implications.

Your grandfather’s smile was thin but sharp. “Bold words. But fitting for the Vanserra heir.”

Keir leaned forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he studied Eris for a long moment. Then, at last, he nodded slowly, the hint of a smile ghosting across his lips.

“Very well,” he said with deliberate finality. “The alliance is formed. The hand is promised.”

His gaze snapped to you, sharp and unyielding. “You have thirty minutes.”

The weight of his words fell like a stone in your chest.

There was no room for protest. No space to bargain or plead.

This was not a question.

This was command.

Keir rose from his chair, gathering his cloak with a casual authority that brooked no argument.

“Leave us.”

You swallowed hard, every nerve taut, as you turned on unsteady legs, the silent watch of Eris burning at your back.

The path ahead was certain. And terrifying.

You closed the heavy chamber door behind you with a muted click, but the weight of the moment pressed against your chest so hard it felt like stone. Your knees wobbled, breath shallow and uneven, as you leaned against the cold wall just outside the Council Chamber.

The words kept spinning through your mind, relentless: You have thirty minutes. You have thirty minutes. You have thirty minutes. 

Your mind scrambled to make sense of it all. You’d been dealt like a pawn, bargained over like a piece of trade—no voice, no choice, no say. And yet, beneath the shock and numbness, something deeper roiled. 

Not just because Eris had asked for your hand without so much as a conversation, but because your grandfather had agreed so easily, like you were a thing, not a person. Like your life, your future, was a token to be wagered.

You hated the quiet calm in the chamber, hated the way Eris had kissed your hand like it was a prize, hated the way you’d frozen when you wanted to scream.

You wanted to yell. To fight. To rip the whole arrangement apart.

But mostly, you hated the emptiness.

When you finally reached your chambers, the door swung open to reveal the room you had grown up in—familiar, but suddenly stripped bare of comfort.

You stared around at your belongings. A handful of dresses neatly hung or folded, books lined on a shelf, a worn cloak hanging by the door. Nothing worth packing.

What was there to take with you when everything you were about to leave behind was all you’d ever known?

You sank onto the edge of your bed, hands clenched in your lap. The silence screamed louder than the council ever had.

You forced yourself to stand, to move, to do what you had to do.

First, you found your friends. You avoided their eyes at first, unsure how to explain what was happening—or how to bear the pity you already saw lurking there. But they hugged you tight, whispered promises and farewells. 

Then, you made your way to the cremation grounds—an austere place carved into the stone, where your parents’ ashes rested beneath a polished granite marker.

You knelt, fingertips tracing the cool surface, and whispered a goodbye you hadn’t dared to say aloud until now. The names carved into the stone were tethers, memories heavy as iron. 

They had never seen the surface. Never felt true sun, never lived anywhere but in this damn mountain. Born, bound, and buried beneath it. Your chest ached at the thought.

You closed your eyes, let the silence stretch—let it echo with everything you couldn’t give them. Everything they should’ve had. The dust of their memory settled quietly around you as you rose, a small flame of resolve kindling in your chest.

“I’ll wait, if you need more time.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as turn to look at him. His voice didn’t startle so much as settle—low and composed, like the rest of him. But still unexpected. 

For a long moment, you just stared at the stone. At your parents’ names carved into it, slightly worn by time and your fingertips. 

“I can’t say I expected you to be here,” you said quietly. 

And then—because curiosity always got the better of you, and because something in you bristled at the fact that it was him standing there—you turned. 

He was standing a careful distance away. Hands clasped behind his back, gaze on the marker like he owed it something.

“I would have brought flowers,” Eris said after a beat. “If I’d known.”

“They weren’t the type.” Your voice cracked a little. “Anything sentimental would’ve embarrassed them.”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Practical, then. Like you.”

You bristled. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he conceded, meeting your eyes. “Not yet.”

Something in the way he said it—not with the arrogance you heard before, but something quieter, steadier—made your throat tighten.

“I’m still angry,” you admitted, folding your arms like you could hold the feeling in place. 

Eris nodded once, slowly. “You have every right to be.”

You didn’t respond. Just stared at the stone again, at the faint lichen creeping over the edge. It unsettled you, how easily he’d said that. How quickly he’d handed you that piece of ground to stand on. You weren’t used to your feelings being named, let alone validated. It felt like a trick. Like something sharp might be hidden beneath it. 

“It wasn’t what I wanted,” he said, voice low. “But it was the best way to get Keir to let you go.”

You glanced at him, wary. “You bought me.”

His jaw tensed. “No. I negotiated a release. From a court that would never stop holding this bond over our heads.”

Your silence stretched a little too long. 

“I know,” he went on, quieter now, “that Rhysand wouldn’t have allowed me to set foot in the Night Court again if it meant keeping me away from you. Not if Morrigan had anything to say about it.”

You blinked. 

And then—gods. Morrigan.

Your aunt Morrigan. Your father’s sister. 

This was the male she’d been promised to. The male she’d “sullied” herself to escape. Your whole life, your family had cursed her name. Called her tainted. Faithless. A disgrace to her bloodline. Whispers you’d grown up hearing, sharp as knives tucked behind closed doors. That she’d betrayed her own. That she’d been ungrateful for the match.

But now… after having to stand in silence as you were bartered… 

Now you finally understood.

What kind of cruelty had she been trying to avoid?

Surely not worse than what you’d seen in the Hewn City. Surely not worse than what you had endured under Keir’s thumb.

But the question clung like smoke, refusing to leave you.

“So this is it, then?” You gestured to the empty stone corridor. “This is how it starts?”

Eris didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he studied you, the weight of his gaze something you couldn’t quite avoid. And then, as if the weight of it had become too much, he said, “No. This is how it was forced to begin. What comes next… that’s something we decide.”

You believed him. And it infuriated you. Because believing him meant accepting that this—this loss of control—had been the cleanest option. That all the quiet fury in your chest had nowhere to go.

After a long pause, Eris stepped forward. “Take my hand,” he said quietly, extending his gloved fingertips toward you. His tone wasn’t gentle—merely firm, as if it carried the weight of inevitability. “It would be my pleasure to welcome you to Autumn.”

At those words, your heart lurched. You had never stepped beyond the Hewn City, never ventured to the surface where a world existed beyond cold stone and perpetual shadow. The thought alone made you shudder with both apprehension and a spark of fragile hope.

Before you could protest, Eris murmured, “Please. Trust me—even if you can’t fully do so right now.”

And then, his hand pressed to your arm. At his command, your surroundings began to shift. At first, it was subtle—a soft darkening of the edges of your vision, as though a veil were draped over the world. The corridor’s harsh, angular stone and the ever-present damp chill faded into a deeper gloom, the familiar replaced by an almost dreamlike dusk.

The subtle shift in sensation, like the brush of silk over your mind. The way color and texture pulled away from you slightly—not gone, not dulled, but… filtered.

Your stomach clenched.

“What did you do?” you demanded, already blinking hard against the strange dimness. “You glamoured me.”

“Yes.”

“Why—”

“I didn’t want it to overwhelm you,” Eris said, voice steady but not unkind. “You’ve never seen the sun. Not really. I thought easing you into it might be… gentler.”

It should’ve infuriated you. It did—for a breath. But even through the soft, unnatural dimness, you could feel something shifting in the air around you.

Your eyes dropped to the ground.

Leaves.

Thousands of them, scattered in every direction, mottled gold and rust-red and brown. Some crisp, curled in on themselves; others flattened by the damp, pressed into the dirt like forgotten pages.

The ground was dirt. Dirt.

And you were standing on it. Not stone. Not carved, cursed floors. Just—ground.

Your knees wobbled.

You tried to look up—to follow the drifting fall of a leaf—and froze again.

The glamour had begun to lift. Slowly, gradually, but it made all the difference. 

Light filtered through in ribbons. Warm and golden, but not the artificial flickering of faelights or the guttering orange of torches. It hit the edge of your face and you jerked away, blinking rapidly, hand lifting on instinct.

You turned, staring at the strange, living world around you. Everything moved. Not like it did in the Hewn City, where the only shifting things were people and shadows and smoke. Here, even the air moved. The trees swayed. The grass trembled. Light dappled and danced without ever once flickering out.

There were no books about this.

Why would there be? 

What need would any of you have to understand this, when you were never meant to leave? 

The surface was spoken of in fragments, in dismissals wrapped in soft smiles. Your parents had told you once—when you were young and asking too many questions—that they’d gone up, years ago. That it was nothing special. More stone. More dark. Just bigger. Emptier. That the Hewn City was safer, more efficient. Cleaner. The lie had worked for a while. You were a child who still believed adults wouldn’t lie for no reason. 

But you remembered their faces when they eventually admitted the truth: they’d never been above ground. 

Not once. 

But oh, how they’d wanted to. 

They didn’t know what waited for them up here. Didn’t know what the air felt like when it didn’t cling. Didn’t know that cold could come from something other than absence. They didn’t know what it was to hear the earth breathe. 

They never got to find out.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and uneven. The glamour loosened its hold over your sight like fingers unthreading from your hair, slow, gradual, calm. You were starting to see more, now—color edging its way in around the world. 

Something darted between two tree trunks ahead. You flinched. It flapped.

A bird. Not like the crows some kept in the Hewn City—those clever-eyed, miserable things bred for messages and menace. This one was bright. Red all over. Smaller, rounder. It seemed… unnecessary. Beautiful in a way that served no purpose at all.

And the air. You hadn’t realized before—it was scented. Not perfumed, not thick with the smell of candles and sweat and opium or whatever poison the courts were drinking. This was sharp. Crisp. Like snow, but not quite. Like spice, but not any kind you’d tasted. It filled your lungs, slid into your mouth and over your tongue. It was—

Alive.

So was the cold. Not the heavy, hollow kind that leached from stone walls and seeped into your bones while you sat still for too long. This cold had movement. It brushed your cheekbones, bit at your fingers, made your teeth press together—but the sunlight, wherever it touched you, answered it. Like they were playing. Like they were supposed to exist together.

The light was almost fully clear now.

You squinted up, following the glow that filtered through high branches, and—

“Ow—fuck,” you muttered, jerking back a step.

Eris shifted in front of you before you could blink. “Yeah,” he said, amused. “Don’t look straight at the sun. Even mortals know better than that.”

You rubbed your eyes, half-glaring at him. “Thanks for the tip.”

But even now, blinking past the blur, the world stayed. The trees. The grass. The slow roll of clouds, and the strange freedom of air that didn’t sit stale and pressed against a ceiling. It was too much. You didn’t know where to look. You didn’t know what to do with it all.

A whisper, so quiet you weren’t sure at first if you imagined it: “Turn around.”

You did. Slowly. The way he’d said it—low, reverent—it pinned you still.

“And don’t make a sound,” he added, barely audible. “Just look.”

You turned.

And the world opened again.

A small clearing spread before you, rimmed by trees. And in it—movement. Dozens of them. More. Creatures you couldn’t name. Slender, long-legged, soft-eyed. Some with antlers that curved like branches, others smaller, delicate, trailing behind.

Eris leaned in close, voice barely more than breath. “The ones with antlers? Those are bucks—the males.” You watched as they stepped, and grazed, and flicked their ears. 

“The others are does. And…” His smile warmed his words. “Looks like they’ve got fawns with them. Babies.”

They didn’t look real.

They looked like myths given flesh—gentle and silent and unreal in their serenity. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t remember how.

One of the younger ones looked up, ears twitching. It stared directly at you.

And for one impossibly long second, you felt seen in a way no one from the Hewn City had ever dared to look.

Not as something to be shaped. Not as a petulant granddaughter. Not as a tool.

Just… someone standing in the woods.

Alive. 

The fawn blinked. Its ears flicked once more. Then it turned, unafraid, and trotted after its mother through the trees.

You didn’t realize your fingers had curled into Eris’s sleeve until he shifted to glance down at them. You let go at once, heart lurching, but he said nothing.

The clearing quieted again, the herd melting into the underbrush as if they’d never been there at all. But the stillness they left behind was different. Settled. And full.

“I didn’t think anything like that could exist,” you whispered, like the words might scare the memory off too. You looked back to where the deer had vanished. “They weren’t afraid of us.”

“No,” he said. “They didn’t need to be.”

A breeze stirred the trees, and sunlight flickered between the leaves like rippling gold. Somewhere overhead, a bird you didn’t know the name of called out—sharp and clear and free.

You wrapped your arms around yourself. Not because you were cold.

There was moss, impossibly green, clinging to the north side of the trees. Clusters of wildflowers pushing up through soft earth, in shades too delicate to name. A squirrel—tiny, absurdly fast—scrambled up a trunk nearby and vanished into the leaves with a rustle. Even the rocks here didn’t seem lifeless. Sun-warmed and dappled in lichen, they felt like they belonged to the scene, not just cluttered it.

And when you turned back, Eris was looking at you.

His smile was soft. Crooked. Lit not by torchfire, but something gentler. And his eyes—amber, bright as honey in the sun—sparkled with it.

You blinked at him. “What?”

He tilted his head, just a bit. “You’re smiling.”

You were.

Big and bright and wide and completely unrestrained. Not the practiced curve you offered at court. Not the polite, tight-lipped expression your family had called pretty when appropriate.

This was something else. A whole-body kind of smile. A laugh trying to form even though nothing had been said. And you hadn’t even noticed.

Heat crept to your cheeks. “Oh.”

Eris didn’t tease you for it. Didn’t smirk or say something sharp. He only studied you, as if trying to memorize the exact shape of it. 

His voice was quiet when he spoke again. Not uncertain, exactly, but… careful. Like the words mattered more than they usually did.

“Would you…” He hesitated, just a beat. His gaze flicked away, then returned to yours. “Would you like to see more? Take a walk?”

He said it like he wasn’t sure if you’d want to go—with him, specifically. Because it hadn’t occurred to him, maybe, that someone might say yes to something like this. To him, like this.

The breeze rustled again, lifting strands of his hair where it had slipped loose from the ribbon at his nape. In the sunlight, it was all shades of flame—copper and gold, a glint of red. His coat had caught some of the forest too: a few leaves clung to the velvet near his shoulder, unnoticed. His collar was slightly askew.

He looked nothing like the High Lord’s heir here. Nothing like the snarling, coiled force you’d seen before.

He just looked… warm. And waiting. One arm extended in quiet offering, elbow bent like some chivalrous male out of an old tale. Like he meant to escort you, not lead.

You slipped your hand into the crook of his arm. 

He didn’t start walking right away—just stood there a moment, like he was letting you decide when to begin. And when you finally did, your steps slow and quiet beneath the trees, he matched them without question.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The woods did enough talking for you.

“There’s no rush,” Eris said, softly. “Take it as slowly as you like.”

You glanced up at him, but his gaze stayed ahead, following the winding path.

“We’ve got nothing but time.”

It sounded like he meant the walk.

But you knew better. 

[idkyetxoxo]

ACOTAR || Masterlist

All works are reader-insert and have warnings stated before but please read at your own risk!

Tag List instructions here :)

Welcome to the archive x

I do not take requests (unless I ask myself on @idkyetxoxorecs) <33

Azriel ->

Little Star - completed (15 parts, 37.2k words)

Shadow and Flame - completed (12 parts, 32.9k words)

Little Shadow - completed (8 parts, 18.6k words)

Afterglow - completed (5 parts, 11.5k words)

Seven Deadly Sins - completed (8 parts, 20.3k words)

Butterfly - completed (10 parts, 30k words)

Just Friends? - completed (5 parts, 12.1k words)

Undead - completed (10 parts, 26.4k words)

Constellations - completed (9 parts, 22.1k words)

A Fine Line - completed (9 parts, 25.9k words)

Fallen Angel - completed (6 parts, 15k words)

Fated - completed (6 parts, 14.7k words)

Invisible String - completed (8 parts, 17.1k words)

The Only Choice - completed (8 parts, 18.3k words)

Devil's Angel - completed (15 parts, 43.6k words)

Doomed - completed (8 parts, 21.8k words)

Fallin’ All in You - completed (6 parts, 15k words)

Woven - completed (8 parts, 20.2k words)

Crash Course in Love - completed (6 parts, 15.7k words)

Invisible - completed (6 parts, 16.3k words)

Legacies - completed (8 parts, 21.9k words)

Eternal Hunger - completed (6 parts, 14.8k words)

Fallow - completed (8 parts, 19.9k words)

Corrupt - ongoing

Rosy - masterlist posted

Rhysand ->

Daylight - completed (5 parts, 10.7k words)

The Ruin - completed (10 parts, 26.4k words)

Powerless - completed (6 parts, 14.9k words)

In Bloom - completed (8 parts, 20k words)

Starlight - completed (8 parts, 18.8k words)

A Secret Return - completed (8 parts, 20.8k words)

Scars Aligned - completed (5 parts, 11.6k words)

An Unwilling Match - completed (8 parts, 22.4k words)

Eris Vanserra ->

Fire and Ice - completed (6 parts, 15.2k words)

Burn For You - completed (5 parts, 13.2k words)

Little Flame - completed (8 parts, 19.1k words)

The Way Back - completed (6 parts, 14.8k words)

Cassian ->

Eclipsed - completed (8 parts, 19k words)

Chasing the Sun - completed (5 parts, 13.6k words)

Crossroads - completed (8 parts, 19.6k words)

Off Limits - completed (8 parts, 17.3k words)

Flutter - ongoing

Poly ->

Why Choose? - completed (9 parts, 23.8k words)

Entangled - completed (8 parts, 21.4k words)

Temptations - completed (8 parts, 22.7k words)

Offside Hearts - completed (8 parts, 17.8k words)

Unexpected - completed (5 parts, 11.8k words)

Catalyst - completed (8 parts, 19.1k words)

Circle of Us - completed (5 parts, 13.3k words)

In Sync - completed (8 parts, 20.2k words)

Terms and Conditions - completed (8 parts, 25.4k words)

A Found Family - completed (6 parts, 17.2k words)

All images from Pinterest, top left art by @dani_s_gallery

[copypastus]

Day 2 of @tamlinweek - Cursed

When everyone else is getting their happy endings but you're stuck in character purgatory forever coz you remind some readers of their exes >_>

Tammy being sad at individual ships under the cut.

[tunetales]

just binged your stories & am obsessed! 😍 could you write something with eris?

Moments (Eris x Reader)

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: Moments with Eris.

Authors Note: I had a few requests for Eris’s version so here it is. Pre-established relationship below. Scenes aren’t in any particular order, but are simply inspired by different moments. No warnings below.

The moment the mating bond snapped into place and you crossed the threshold of the Forest House as Eris’s mate, the smokehounds decided something very important.

You were theirs.

Not in the way Eris was theirs — commander, master, High Lord.

No.

You were precious.

The first time you knelt to greet them, expecting wary sniffs and territorial growls, you were instead nearly bowled over by a wall of smoke and muscle. Massive heads shoved beneath your hands. Warm, dark eyes blinking up at you with startling gentleness.

Eris had stood there, stunned.

“They don’t usually do that,” he murmured.

One hound had promptly leaned its entire weight against your legs as if proving a point.

From that day forward, you were never alone.

If you walked the corridors, at least two shadows followed.

If you read by the hearth, one enormous body would curl at your feet while another rested its heavy head in your lap, rumbling softly when you scratched behind its ears.

If you so much as sighed in your sleep, a head would pop up from its resting place to check you were at peace.

Eris loved it.

Truly.

When duty pulled him from you — border disputes, court politics, Beron’s lingering messes — he left knowing that nothing short of an army would reach you without going through fangs first.

“You’re safer than I am,” he once told you dryly, watching three hounds rearrange themselves around your chair like sentinels.

But there were…downsides.

Like the fact that they had very strong opinions about sleeping arrangements.

Eris would return late, exhausted, craving nothing more than to bury himself beside you — only to find every available inch of mattress occupied by smoke and smouldering fur.

“They are in my spot,” he would say flatly.

You, barely visible beneath a tangle of limbs and blankets, would shrug. “They were here first.”

One hound would open a single eye at him in a lazy challenge.

He refused to admit he sometimes lost that battle.

Then there were the incidents.

Two of the hounds had decided to race each other down the corridor the exact moment you stepped out of a room. You’d barely see the blur of movement before you were on the floor, wrist twisted painfully beneath you.

The howl that followed had shaken the rafters.

Not from you.

From them.

They’d circled you immediately, whining, pacing, nudging you gently with their noses as if trying to fix what they’d done. One had even pressed its forehead to your shoulder in apology.

Eris had arrived seconds later, fire already flaring, only to find you half-laughing through the sting while two enormous beasts looked ready to exile themselves in shame.

“They didn’t mean to,” you insisted while he inspected your swelling wrist.

“I know,” he sighed, though he shot them a pointed look. “You nearly injured my mate.”

They hadn’t left your side for three days after that, not even when you went to the bathroom.

And then there was the one time with the sentry.

A young, overzealous fool, who grabbed your wrist during an argument — not roughly, but enough.

The reaction has been instantaneous.

Ferocious snarls.

A flash of teeth.

The sentry was on the ground before he could even register the mistake, two smokehounds practically mauling him while another bolted from the room in a streak of shadow.

Eris had felt the alarm through the bond before the hound even reached him.

By the time he arrived, the message was clear to every other fae in the Autumn Court.

Do. Not. Touch.

You’d been more shaken than hurt, and Eris had gone frighteningly still in a way that made even the hounds obey the snap of his fingers instantly to allow their master to enact his own punishment.

Afterward, when everything was settled, he’d found you seated on the floor with all three beasts pressed against you like oversized guards.

“They protected me,” you’d murmured softly.

“Of course they did,” he’d replied. “They love you.”

And that was the thing.

For all his mild exasperation — for the stolen spaces, they way they followed you around like smouldering ducklings — he loved that you loved them.

Loved that when he wasn’t there, you weren’t alone.

Loved that you laughed when one nudged a book from your hands demanding attention.

Loved the sight of you framed in firelight, a hound’s head resting trustingly on your thighs.

Sometimes, late at night, when he finally managed to edge one aside and slide into bed beside you, he’d press a quiet kiss to your temple and murmur:

“I’m glad they love you, otherwise I’d have to ship you back to where you came from.”

There was a well timed growl before one shifted closer, half squeezing Eris half off the mattress.

You snorted.

“I’d like to see you try.”

He’d grumble.

But he’d relent and stay.

Because they weren’t just his hounds anymore.

They were yours too.

And the way your smile softened when they curled around you?

That alone made every inch of stolen mattress worth it.

The House of Wind feels different.

Quieter.

Warmer in a way that has nothing to do with the fire burning in the hearth.

You’re seated on one of the plush sofas, carefully cradling Nyx in your arms while Feyre sits nearby with that luminous, exhausted new-mother glow. The baby is still impossibly small, despite being a few months old now, wrapped in dark fabric, tiny wings twitching in his sleep.

You were besotted.

Across the room, Rhysand stands beside Eris, both of them pretending not to stare.

Eris has seen battlefields without blinking.

He has faced Beron’s cruelty without flinching.

But this?

This makes him unnervingly still.

You adjust Nyx gently, murmuring something soft and instinctive. The baby’s hand curls around your finger and you beam at Feyre’s praise at how natural you are with him.

And Eris’s breath catches.

He doesn’t miss the way your expression changes — how your features soften into something almost reverent. Protective. Fierce in a quiet way.

Rhys notices it too.

“Careful,” Rhys murmurs, arms crossed, violet eyes gleaming faintly. “It appears your wife may be thinking of hiding my son under her cloak before she leaves.”

Eris arches an eyebrow. “It appears that way.”

Rhys smirks. “Ever thought about having any of your own?”

“No.”

The sudden, almost harsh, reply from Eris catches Rhys by surprise. He doesn’t miss the underlying tension however as Eris continues to watch you — regret perhaps, longing, apprehension.

After a moment, Rhys says quietly. “You’d be surprised what you’re capable of. When it’s yours.”

Eris doesn’t look at him. “You presume much.”

“Do I?” Rhys’s tone is mild. “You’re not Beron.”

The name lands like a stone dropped into deep water.

Eris’s jaw tightens — but he doesn’t snap.

Instead, he keeps watching you.

Watching the way you instinctively shift Nyx into a more comfortable position when he stirs.

Watching the way you smile as you carefully brush your fingers through the dark hair on top of his head.

Watching the warmth in your eyes.

“I thought,” Eris says after a long pause, voice lower than usual, “that I would never want one.”

Rhys hums. “And now?”

Eris is silent.

Because now…he isn’t imagining a child raised in fear, as he was.

He’s imagining you in the Forest House, sunlight through the autumn leaves, smokehounds sprawled like loyal guardians by your feet.

He’s imagining small footsteps in those halls.

He’s imagining breaking a cycle instead of repeating it.

“I think,” Eris admits quietly, “it depends on who the mother is.”

Rhys’s smirk turns softer. “It usually does.”

—

Later, you reluctantly hand Nyx back to Feyre. Eris is quieter than usual as you say your goodbyes.

Back in your guest chambers, you shrug off your cloak, smiling faintly. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

Eris doesn’t answer immediately.

He’s watching you instead.

“Yes,” he says finally. “He is.”

You pause, noticing something different in his tone. “What is it?”

He steps closer, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear — a touch more thoughtful than teasing.

“I’ve been reconsidering something,” he says.

“Oh?” You reply lightly. “Should I be concerned?”

“Possibly.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Eris.”

He exhales once — steadying.

“For a long time,” he begins carefully, “I thought I would be a poor father.”

You blink.

That’s not how you expected this conversation to go.

“You wouldn’t,” you say immediately.

He huffs a quiet, humourless breath. “Beron made me believe otherwise.”

Your expression softens. “You are nothing like him.”

He searches your face, as if testing the truth of it.

“And if I were?” He asks.

“Then I wouldn’t be standing here with you if I believed that.”

The certainty in your voice stills him.

A beat passes.

Then, casually — far too casually — he says:

“Shall we make one?”

You choke.

“WHAT?”

Eris doesn’t have the decency to look apologetic. If anything, he looks amused at your spluttering.

For as long as you’d known him, you knew Eris had complicated feelings about children. It was something that you had never asked or pushed him about, content to spend the rest of your days just the two of you if that’s what he wanted.

“You’re insufferable,” you wheeze, coughing into your hand. “You cannot just — you cannot phrase it like that!”

He tilts his head. “How would you prefer I phrase it? Let’s fuck like bunnies until—“

“No!” You gasped, smothering the rest of his sentence with your hand. “Perhaps something less barbaric.”

His lips twitch as you pull your hand away.

He steps closer, hands settling at your waist, this time with unmistakable tenderness.

“I meant,” he says more softly, firelight dancing softly behind his amber eyes, “that I would like to try. With you. If you wished it.”

Your indignation melts into something breathless.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

“Terrifyingly.”

Emotion flickers across your face — surprise, warmth, hope.

“You’d be a wonderful father,” you murmur.

He brushes his forehead against yours. “Only if they inherit your patience.”

You laugh quietly. “I have no patience for you thinking less of yourself.”

He considers that.

Then smirks. “Very well. But if they start commanding smokehounds before they can walk, that’ll be your fault.”

You smile, heart full, hands sliding up to rest on his chest.

“I don’t know about that, their father is very bossy.”

Eris narrows his eyes at you in a playful glare. “Oh, yeah? Get on the bed then, Mrs Vanserra.”

You almost choked again.

“Now? Eris, we can’t, this is Rhys and Feyre’s home—“

“Of course we can,” he says, beginning to walk you back in the direction of the large bed. “I see no reason for us to delay.”

“Eris Vanserra,” you basically shriek as the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you fall down on the bed.

He leers over you, smug warmth curling around you both. “Are you concerned about the proximity of Rhysand’s bedroom?”

“Yes!”

He considers that, then murmurs, “I’m sure the High Lord of the Night Court has heard worse.”

You swat his chest. “You’re unbelievable.”

He catches your wrist gently, bringing your knuckles to his lips.

“I am serious,” he says again — softer this time. “About wanting this. About wanting it with you.”

The humour drains just enough to let hit truth shine through.

Your expression shifts.

“You’re really ready?” You whisper.

He brushes his nose against yours. “I’m ready to stop letting Beron dictate what I believe I’m capable of, especially if you believe in me.”

That steals your breath far more than his earlier boldness.

You slide your hands up his shoulders. “We’ll talk about it properly,” you say gently. “When we’re home. In our own court. In our own bed.”

His eyes darken slightly at the last part.

“Very well,” he concedes.

Then, after a beat, he adds lightly, “We need to think of an emergency to get us back to Autumn.”

You snort. “You’re so impatient.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth, “the Mother chose you for me.”

You can’t argue with that.

Though as he pulls you closer, you hiss under your breath, “If Rhys or Feyre hear so much as a creak—“

Eris smiles against your lips, nipping them playfully.

“Then perhaps they should invest in thicker walls.”

The dream always starts the same.

Cold stone. Smoke thick in the air. Beron’s voice — low, disappointed, venomous.

He’s younger in the dream. Smaller. Less lean. Forced to kneel.

The first blow lands.

He doesn’t make a sound.

The second, third and fourth one, he grits his teeth to keep the sounds at bay.

Fire lashes his back, across his shoulders. The smell of burning fabric and skin punctuates his nose.

Beron circles him slowly. “Weakness,” his father says. “You reek of it.”

Eris says nothing — it was always better to say nothing.

“Let me show you what weakness does to a man.”

The doors open.

The guards drag someone in.

You.

Your wrists are bound. Your face and mouth bloody where you’ve clearly fought them.

A wrecked sound slips past Eris’s lips before he can help it.

He tries to move — to stand, to reach you, to protect you — but he is powerless.

Beron’s smile shifts.

“So this,” his father murmurs, stepping towards you, “is what you thought you could hide from me.”

“No—“ Eris chokes out.

Beron lifts a hand.

Flame curls around his fingers.

“Love makes you weak.”

The fire strikes you.

You scream—

Eris bolts upright in bed.

Your scream is still ringing in his ears.

For one horrible second, he doesn’t know where he is. His skin is damp with sweat, chest heaving, power crackling dangerously close to the surface.

He turns—

The space beside him is empty.

Cold.

The world narrows.

“—No.”

He’s out of bed before the thought finishes forming, bare feet hitting the floor hard enough to rattle the side table. Panic roars through him, primal and violent.

The bond is there — but fear distorts everything. Makes it distant and wrong. It clouds clear thinking.

He strides out of the bedroom, fire flaring instinctively along his arms.

He finds you immediately.

Curled up on the sofa near the low-burning hearth, wrapped in a blanket, a book resting in your open lap, a cup of tea on the table beside you.

Very much alive.

Very much unharmed.

You look up, startled at the sudden rush of heat and movement. “Eris?”

He doesn’t answer.

He crosses the room in long strides and drops to his knees in front of you like a man who has just outrun death itself.

You blink, confused and also concerned — and his hands are on you.

Checking.

Your arms. Your face. Your shoulders.

“Eris—“ you say again, softer now. You see the wildness in his eyes, the terror, and you understand.

Without a word, he gathers you up.

He lifts you straight off the sofa and into his chest like you weigh nothing at all.

You gasp faintly at the sudden movement, arms automatically winding around his neck.

He sits back down with you in his lap, one hand firm at the back of your head, pressing you against him as if he needs to feel you as close as possible to believe it’s real.

His breathing is still uneven.

“Hey,” you murmur gently, fingers reaching to brush into his hair. “What happened?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just holds you tighter.

After a long moment, his voice comes — rougher than you’ve heard in a while.

“I couldn’t find you.”

Your heart squeezes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you explain softly, “I didn’t want to wake you, so I came out here.”

His jaw tightens at that —not in anger at you, but at the memory still clinging to him.

“I thought…” he swallows. “I thought he had you.”

You still.

“Beron?”

He nods once against your shoulder.

“It was him,” he says quietly. “It started how it always does, but this time they dragged you in. And he—“

His hand flexes involuntarily against your back.

You shift in his lap so you can see his face properly. There’s no mask right now. No court composure. Only lingering horror.

“It was just a dream,” you say gently.

“I know.”

His eyes avoid yours.

You cradle his face between your hands. “Look at me.”

He does.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “He will never touch me.”

His eyes flicker — some part of him wanting to argue that nothing is impossible.

So you press your forehead to his.

“And even if he tried,” you add softly, “you’re not that powerless boy anymore.”

Something in him eases at that.

Not fully.

But enough for now.

After a while, his breathing finally steadies and his fire dims back to a low warmth instead of a threat. He’s comforted by the feel of your heartbeat against his chest and the soft scratches your fingers make against his scalp.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

He nods.

Without a word, he stands again — still holding you — as if the thought of you walking alone for a few seconds is unacceptable.

You smile faintly against his shoulder as he carries you back into your bedroom.

When he lays you down this time, he doesn’t leave an inch of space. One arm under your neck. The other wrapped securely around your waist. Your leg hooked over his.

Protective.

Anchoring.

You press your hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

“I’m here,” you murmur sleepily.

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I know,” he replies.

And this time, when sleep takes him again, it’s quieter and peaceful.

Because you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Eris’s office in the Forest House is unusually quiet.

Which means one thing.

Eris is stressed.

You can tell by the why he’s hunched over his desk, papers scattered everywhere, quill scratching aggressively across parchment like the ink has personally offended him.

His advisors shoot you a look as they stand huddled by the door, clearly nervous to disturb him or face his wrath.

But you were his wife, his mate — and that’s why they had summoned you.

If there was anyone who could pry him from his mood, it was you.

So you did what you always do when the High Lord of Autumn looks like he might burn half the court down out of irritation.

You baked.

A chocolate cake, specifically. Rich, warm, slightly molten in the centre — easily one of your best yet.

You cut him a generous slice, place it carefully on a plate, and walk into his office with the kind of optimism only someone carrying cake possesses.

“Eris?” You say gently.

He doesn’t look up.

“Mm.”

“I brought you something.”

Still writing, he waves a distracted hand. “Leave it.”

You step closer and set the plate down near his elbow. “It’s cake, one of your favourites.”

That gets a reaction.

Just not the one you hoped for.

“I’m busy,” he says sharply, eyes still on the parchment. “Not now.”

The words snap through the room before he even realises how harsh they sounded.

Silence settles for a second.

You blink.

A single eyebrow raises.

You shrug, unwilling to let Eris’s temper dampen your spirits.

“Okay.”

You pick up the plate again, walk around his desk, and sit directly across from him.

Eris doesn’t notice at first.

He’s still scribbling furiously until—

A soft moan rings out.

“Mmm.”

He ignores it.

Then it happens again.

“Mmm—oh wow.”

His quill slows.

Across the desk, you take another bite of cake, closing your eyes dramatically.

“Oh gods,” you sigh happily, “that is so good.”

Eris’s eyes flick up.

You’re leaning back in your chair, savouring the bite like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.

“Mmm,” you hum again, licking some chocolate from your fork. “I outdid myself.”

His eyes narrow.

You ditch the fork, instead using your finger to gather some chocolate frosting from the edge of the plate and licking it off.

Slowly, sensually, your finger making a small popping noise as your lips enclose around it. Your head tips back slightly as you let out an entirely unnecessary, exaggerated sound of appreciation.

“Mmm—“

The quill snaps.

You look up innocently.

Eris is staring at you now.

Really staring.

“What,” he says slowly, “are you doing?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

You take another bite, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

“Mmm—oh, Eris,” you murmur. “—so good.”

His jaw tightens.

“Are you finished?” He asks.

“With the cake?” You say thoughtfully, “No, I’m savouring it.”

You drag your finger through the frosting again.

Eris watches the movement like it’s personally offending him.

“You’re making those sounds on purpose.”

You widen your eyes. “What sounds?”

Right on que, you lick your finger.

“Mmm.”

His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back, crossing his arms.

“You’re insufferable.”

You shrug slightly. “You said you didn’t want any.”

“I said not now.”

“Well,” you say, swirling your fork around the plate, “now it’s mine.”

Another bite.

Another pleased sound.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

Then the cake.

Then back again.

You can practically see the moment his patience snaps.

“Bring the cake to the bedroom.”

You pause mid-bite.

“…What?”

Eris stands slowly from his chair, expression dark with something far more dangerous than stress now.

“I believe,” he says calmly, “you were trying to get my attention.”

You swallow. “Maybe.”

“Congratulations,” he murmurs. “Now you’ve got it.”

You lean back in your chair. “Are you done being grumpy?”

“Oh, I’m very done.”

You glance at the cake. “What if I want to finish it here?”

Eris walks around the desk with slow, predatory steps.

When he stops in front of you, he gently takes the plate from your fingers and sets it aside.

Then he leans down, voice low near your ear.

“I don’t want to get chocolate all over my desk.”

Your breath catches.

“You can keep making those sounds, just not over cake.”

Your face warms instantly, your body automatically tensing.

He straightens, smirking at the flushed look on your face.

“Bedroom. Cake. Now,” he says.

Mission accomplished.

The balcony on the House of Wind glows with soft laternlight, the air humming with anticipation as guests gather for Starfall.

You stood near the railing, glass of wine in your hands, watching the sky deepen into a velvety blue that promises the first stars will be falling soon.

Somewhere behind you, Eris is trapped in a conversation with emissaries from the Winter Court — also invited alongside Autumn to the annual Night Court celebration.

Diplomacy, allies, and the sort of polite posturing that comes with being the mate of the newly appointed High Lord of Autumn Court, was not your scene.

So you slipped away for a moment of quiet.

A mistake, apparently.

“Enjoying the view?”

You turn to find a very tall, broad Illyrian warrior leaning casually against the railing next to you, wings folded behind him. His grin is charming, confident, and entirely too familiar for someone you’ve never met.

Cassian, you believe.

“Very much,” you reply politely.

He steps closer, glancing up at the sky and then back to you. “First Starfall?”

“Does it show?”

“Only a little,” he says with a laugh. “Most people here pretend they’ve seen it a hundred times.”

You smile despite yourself.

“And you?”

“Oh, I’ve seen it plenty,” Cassian says easily. “But I’d say the company tonight might improve the tradition.”

He holds out a large hand towards you, flashing a charming grin at you. “I’m Cassian. What’s your name gorgeous?”

Ah.

So that’s where this is going.

You’re amused — also slightly flustered — did he not know who you were?

“(Y/N).”

You reach out and shake his hand.

“Which court are you visiting from?”

“Autumn, if the colours didn’t make it too obvious,” you lightly joke.

The deep burgundy dress you wore tonight was stitched with flowing layers and leaves that shimmered in the light — a dress for a lady of Autumn whilst honouring aspects of Night.

His eyebrows lift slightly — he didn’t hide the fact his eyes lowered to appreciate your dress before fixing on your face once again.

“It’s nice to see Autumn sending someone so lovely — you’ll have to thank Eris for me.”

You laugh softly.

“I’ll be sure to pass the message along.”

He grins wider. “Or you could stay in the Night Court. We treat our guests very well.”

“Do you?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “In fact, the beds are very comfortable—“

A warm hand slides around your waist.

Not subtle, or gentle.

Possessive.

You don’t even need to turn your head to see who it is.

Eris appears beside you like a flame taking shape.

Cassian freezes before he can finish his sentence.

Eris’s arm settles firmly around you, drawing you tight into his side. His fingers press hard into your hip, searing your skin through the layers of tulle, thumb brushing once in a silent claim.

“General,” Eris greets smoothly.

Cassian blinks.

“…Eris.”

You feel the faint rumble of amusement in Eris’s chest.

Cassian’s eyes flick between the two of you — your proximity, Eris’s hands, the way you’re not pulling away and settle against his side as if you belong there.

The deathly glare Eris is currently pinning on him.

Realisation dawns.

“Shit,” Cassian says slowly.

Eris tilts his head. “Yes.”

Cassian drags a hand down his face. “Oh, that’s unfortunate.”

“For you,” Eris replies calmly.

You bite your lip to stop a laugh.

Cassian straightens, looking deeply embarrassed now. “I didn’t realise you were—“

“My mate,” Eris finishes.

Cassian winces.

Before the awkwardness can deepen, another voice drifts in.

“Well, this is interesting.”

You turn to see Rhysand approaching, violet eyes glinting with amusement.

He takes in the scene instantly.

“Cassian,” he says, “why are you trying to start a war with Autumn by flirting with their High Lady?”

“I didn’t know!” Cassian sputters.

Eris’s fingers tighten just slightly, and you knew his temper was beginning to simmer — the air around you started to swelter.

“No harm done, he was just introducing himself,” you say, trying to diffuse the situation. You press your hand to Eris’s chest, turning more into his hold. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

Eris’s eyes narrowed and you don’t miss the fiery undertone to his voice. “Yes, he was merely being…friendly.”

“Very friendly,” you add innocently.

Cassian points at you. “You didn’t tell me!”

“You didn’t ask,” you reply sweetly.

Rhys chuckles under his breath.

“Well,” he says, clapping Cassian on the shoulder, “Congratulations. Why don’t you go and flirt with Viviane now and start another diplomatic incident?”

Cassian looks like he might throw himself off the balcony as Rhys steers him away, laughing.

Cassian throws one last horrified look over his shoulder at you, “I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t know!”

The moment they disappear into the crowd, Eris exhales slowly through his nose.

You glance up at him, already smiling.

“Oh no,” you say lightly, “is the terrifying High Lord of Autumn pouting?”

“I do not pout.”

“You absolutely pout.”

His arms tighten around your waist in response, pulling you firmly into his chest.

“I let you step away for ten minutes,” he says, with mild irritation, “and an Illyrian general attempts to charm my mate.”

You laugh, resting your hands against his chest, adjusting the lapels of his jacket.

“Charm might be a generous description.”

Eris raises a brow. “You seemed entertained.”

“Well,” you say innocently, “it was amusing.”

His eyes narrow.

Your smile widens.

His hands slide from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you even closer — entirely unnecessary given how close you already are.

You tilt your head. “You’re being very territorial tonight.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

His thumb traces along your back.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs, “I’m reminding certain Night Court warriors who you belong to.”

You laugh, nudging him slightly. “He didn’t know who I was.”

“That doesn’t make it any less irritating.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, “you should be flattered.”

“Flattered?”

“That your mate is apparently so irresistible.”

His gaze drifts slowly over your face.

Down your chest.

Then back up again.

“I am already well aware of that,” he says.

You try to maintain your teasing expression, but it softens under the weight of his attention.

“And besides,” you add lightly. “You arrived just in time to make your little dramatic entrance.”

“Good.”

“You enjoyed that part, didn’t you?”

Eris doesn’t pretend otherwise.

“Immensely.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

His hand drifts again — this time settling at your waist with unmistakable familiarity as he leans down slightly to nip at your ear lobe.

“Though next time,” he murmurs near your ear, “I may simply throw him off the balcony.”

“You absolutely will not.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether he tries again.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say fondly.

His expression softens slightly, though the possessive warmth remains as this thumbs traces slow circles at your waist.

“Stay close for the rest of the night,” he murmurs.

“Because you’re worried someone else might flirt with me?”

“No,” he says smoothly. “I’d much rather keep my hands on you.”

You couldn’t help the involuntary squeak as both his hands reach down to grab your ass. You lightly slap his chest, biting your lip to keep your smirk at bay.

“Possessive male,” you mutter.

“Hopelessly,” he agrees.

You roll your eyes, but lean back into Eris’s hold as he turns you so your back is pressed against his chest. His arms wind around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder as a cascade of stars begins to fall overhead.

His hands refuse to leave your waist for the rest of the night.

Not that you’re complaining.

[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

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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.