Chosen
Eris Vanserra x mate!reader
Summary: A High Lord’s mate becomes pregnant, and their supernatural hounds sense it first, becoming fiercely protective. Their bond deepens through pregnancy, the birth of their daughter Anastasia, and future pregnancies they instinctively detect before anyone else.
Warnings: Pregnancy & childbirth, Emotional labor scene, Protective/possessive dynamics, Mild blood mention, Fantasy intensity.
Authors note: omg I love this story so much😭 I need to make more pregnant mates for these characters!! As always, hope yall enjoy 🫶🏻
Main Masterlist:
Taglist: @frominsidethehouse, @spookypersondinosaur, @lucia-valentinaa
⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
At first, you brush it off.
The nausea, the strange cravings, the way you can't seem to get through a morning without needing to sit down and breathe through a wave of dizziness—all of it feels inconvenient, but not alarming. Not enough to sound the alarm. Not enough to pull Eris into concern.
You've lived in the Autumn Court long enough to know what real sickness feels like here, and this isn't that. There's no fever burning through your skin, no sharp pain warning you something is wrong. Just a quiet imbalance, like your body has shifted slightly out of sync with you and refuses to settle back into place.
Eris notices the changes before you ever name them, of course he does, but even he doesn't speak on it at first. He watches instead. Watches the way you pick at fruit in the middle of the night like your appetite can't decide what it wants.
Watches how you push away breakfast only to return to it minutes later, as if your body is negotiating with itself. Watches you fall asleep sitting upright in the library and wakes you later with a blanket already placed over your shoulders. He doesn't ask questions. Not yet. He simply observes, quiet and unreadable, as if gathering information only he can interpret.
It is only when the hounds change that everything begins to shift.
They were always his first—that was never in question. Massive, flame-eyed creatures of Autumn Court magic and ancient loyalty, they tolerated you at best, respected you when they chose to, but they belonged to Eris. Or so everyone thought. Until suddenly, they don't behave that way anymore.
It begins subtly. One of them lowers itself across your feet while you sit in the garden, as if deciding you are no longer something to be observed from a distance. Then another begins following you through the halls without waiting for Eris's command.
Then all of them start doing it. By the third day, you cannot move through the estate without at least one shadow at your side, pressed close enough that it feels like they are anchoring you to the world itself.
And then the growling starts.
Not at you. Never at you. At everyone else.
Servants who pass too quickly. Guards who linger too long. Courtiers who glance at you with polite curiosity. Even Eris, when he approaches you in the hallway one afternoon, is met with a wall of teeth and warning growls.
You freeze at the sudden shift, one hand instinctively resting against your stomach as another wave of nausea rolls through you. "They've never done that before," you whisper, unable to tear your eyes from them.
Eris stops so abruptly it feels like the air itself tightens around him. His gaze flicks between you and the hounds, something unreadable tightening in his expression—not anger, not fear, but something more unsettling. Calculation mixed with uncertainty. "That's enough," he says firmly.
The hounds do not move.
He tries again, softer this time, more controlled. "Move."
They shift—but not away. Closer to you. Protective in a way that feels almost instinctual, as though something older than obedience has taken over. As though you are no longer simply part of their court, but something they have claimed to guard.
Your fingers curl slightly at your side. "Eris... what is happening?"
He does not answer immediately. His attention remains locked on the hounds like he is seeing them for the first time in a way he does not understand. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual. "That is what I intend to find out."
That night, neither of you sleep properly.
You sit on the edge of the bed, exhaustion weighing heavily on your body, while Eris paces slowly near the window, his movements controlled but restless. The silence between you is thick with thoughts neither of you is willing to voice yet.
"They are responding to you," he says at last, breaking the quiet.
You frown slightly. "That doesn't make sense. They barely tolerate me most days."
Eris shakes his head once, correcting you without hesitation. "They do not tolerate you. They assess. They choose." He pauses, then adds more carefully, "And now they have chosen differently."
The words make your chest tighten for reasons you cannot quite place. You rub at your arms as another wave of nausea rolls through you. "Chosen me for what? I'm not injured. I'm not—"
You stop mid-sentence. Something about the thought that tries to form feels wrong, too large to say aloud.
Eris notices immediately. "What?"
You shake your head quickly. "No. It's ridiculous."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Say it."
You hesitate, then admit it reluctantly, as if speaking it might make it real. "It's just... they're acting like I'm fragile. Like something is wrong with me."
The word hangs in the air between you.
Wrong.
Eris stills completely.
For the first time, there is something like hesitation in him—something uncertain and uncharacteristically careful. His gaze shifts over you in a way that feels different now, more searching than assessing. "...Have you been sick?"
"No," you answer immediately.
"Fever?"
"No."
"Pain?"
You pause. "No pain. Just nausea. Tiredness. Cravings that don't make sense."
The silence that follows is heavy. Outside the room, one of the hounds lets out a low, uneasy sound, as if even they are waiting for something to be named.
Eris exhales slowly, controlled, but his gaze drops briefly—just briefly—to your middle before lifting again. Then away. Like he is refusing to assume anything too quickly. Or too hopeful.
"They have never reacted like this before," he says quietly. "Not for illness."
Your stomach tightens in a different way now. "You think I'm sick."
"I think something has changed," he corrects carefully.
Another pause.
Then, almost reluctantly, he adds, "And I think they know before we do."
After that, sleep becomes impossible.
By morning, nothing has changed. The hounds remain exactly where they were—one pressed against your side, another curled at your feet, all of them positioned like silent guardians watching the world beyond the door.
Eris stands across from you in the early light, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in a way that feels heavier than usual.
"I'm going to bring a healer," he says.
You nod slowly. "Good."
But neither of you moves.
Because neither of you truly believes this is simple. And for the first time in a long time within the Autumn Court, Eris looks like a man standing on the edge of knowing something that will change everything—and not knowing whether he is ready for it.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
The week doesn't ease into anything normal. If anything, it gets worse.
The hounds stop leaving your side entirely, as if some silent agreement has been made without your consent or understanding. Wherever you go, they follow. When you sit down, they settle around you immediately—heavy bodies curling against your legs, pressing into your sides, their warmth grounding you in a way that feels almost intentional.
And one of them, without fail, always lowers itself carefully across your stomach, as though that specific place has become the most important thing in the entire world.
At night, the distinction between where you end and they begin disappears completely. They follow you to bed like quiet, watchful shadows given shape and weight. When you finally lie down, exhaustion settling into your bones in a way you still can't explain, they arrange themselves with unsettling precision.
One presses against your back, another settles at your feet, and always—always—one curls protectively against your middle, guarding you with a vigilance that feels older than instinct itself.
Eris tries to act normal about it.
He doesn't succeed.
Not really.
You catch him watching them more often than he watches you, his gaze narrowing slightly as if he is trying to decipher a language only they understand—something tied to bloodline and magic and ancient loyalties that predate even him. There's tension in the way he observes them now, quiet and controlled, like a man standing before a puzzle he doesn't like not having already solved.
When the healer is finally summoned, the estate shifts into controlled chaos. The moment the doors open, however, everything changes.
The hounds lose their composure entirely.
Not in aggression toward you. Never toward you. But toward everyone else.
They descend the staircase landing as one, planting themselves in a living barricade of fur, muscle, and ancient magic. Their eyes flash, their growls low and unyielding, every line of their bodies communicating the same message: nothing passes.
It takes Eris nearly two hours to break through it.
Two hours of steady commands, sharp authority, and finally something colder in his voice that makes even the hounds hesitate for the first time.
The air in the estate feels thick with resistance until, eventually, they give ground—not obediently, not willingly, but enough to allow passage. They do not retreat far. They simply... allow.
The healer arrives pale and slightly shaken, as if he already senses he has stepped into something far more complicated than a routine examination.
Eris does not leave your side after that. He locks the doors behind the healer and remains standing close, his presence firm and grounding while the questions begin.
You answer them absently, your mind still weighed down by fatigue and the strange fog that has been following you for weeks, unable to focus on anything that feels sharp enough to hold onto.
Then the question comes.
"When was your last cycle?"
Silence settles instantly.
You blink once. Then again.
"I... don't remember," you admit quietly, uncertainty threading through your voice.
Beside you, Eris goes completely still.
The healer exhales slowly, his expression shifting into something careful and resigned, as though he has already begun narrowing down possibilities he would rather not name aloud. "I will need to perform a pregnancy examination."
Your head snaps up sharply at the words.
Eris reacts at the exact same moment.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves or speaks. The room feels suspended in place, like even the air is waiting for permission to continue.
Then Eris reaches for your hand immediately, his grip steady and grounding without hesitation. He leans down and presses a slow, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his voice soft when he speaks. "I'll be right here."
The examination is quick, clinical, and quiet in a way that makes every passing second feel stretched and heavy. You barely register it until it is over.
When the healer straightens, everything in the room seems to shift at once.
He looks at you. Then at Eris.
A small, careful smile appears.
"Congratulations, High Lord and Lady," he says gently. "You have an heir."
The words do not land immediately. For a moment, they hang in the air without meaning, as though your mind refuses to accept their shape.
Then they settle.
At the same time.
Your breath catches. Your lips part slightly. Beside you, Eris goes utterly still, his expression frozen in a way you have never seen before.
Silence stretches between you both—heavy, stunned, disbelieving.
The healer bows quickly and retreats without another word, clearly recognizing he is no longer needed in the room.
The door closes softly behind him.
And suddenly, it is only the two of you.
Your hands begin to shake before you even notice. The realization breaks through you slowly, unevenly, and then all at once, spilling over in tears you cannot hold back.
"I don't..." Your voice cracks as you try to breathe through it. "I don't know if I should be happy or sad."
Eris's expression softens instantly.
He is at your side in an instant, both hands cupping your face gently, grounding you in place as if afraid you might slip away from him in the weight of the moment. "What is there to be sad about?" he asks quietly.
A shaky, broken laugh escapes you, turning into something heavier as tears continue to fall. "We've never talked about this. About any of it. About children. About what it would mean."
His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, wiping away a tear before it falls further. "And?" he murmurs.
You swallow hard. "And now it's real."
Eris exhales slowly, something like relief and certainty finally settling in his expression. He presses another kiss to your forehead, slower this time, deeper—like an anchor. "Do you not want this?"
Your breath catches immediately.
"No," you say quickly, then pause, your voice softening. "No, I do. I've... always dreamed of it. I just—Eris, we never spoke about it."
A faint, quiet smile touches his mouth.
"I want this," he says simply. "I want you. I want us. Everything else—" His gaze softens further. "—is yours to decide."
Something in your chest finally loosens.
You let out a trembling breath and pull him closer.
"We're having a baby," you whisper.
"Yes," he answers softly.
You kiss him then—imperfect, emotional, overwhelmed in a way neither of you tries to hide. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment, steadying you both in the aftermath of everything that has just shifted.
And then—
The sound of pounding paws erupts outside the door.
It bursts open before either of you can react.
The hounds flood in all at once, filling the room with movement and noise and overwhelming loyalty. One barrels straight into Eris, knocking him backward onto the bed with an undignified grunt as he curses under his breath, trying to push the massive creature off while it licks his face as if celebrating victory.
You laugh through your tears, watching him struggle for a moment before your attention shifts.
Smokey enters more slowly.
He always does.
The oldest, the quietest, the one who observes more than he acts. He does not rush or jostle or demand attention. He simply walks to you with steady certainty, as if he has already decided what matters most.
Gently, he lowers his head and presses his nose to your stomach.
Then stays there.
Completely still.
Guarding.
Your breath catches softly, and your hand instinctively comes to rest on his head, fingers threading gently through his fur.
Around you, the other hounds settle in as well, filling the room like a living circle finally at ease.
Eris pushes himself upright slightly, still partially pinned under one of them, and looks between you and Smokey with an expression you rarely see from him—soft, stunned, and almost disbelievingly fond.
"They knew," he murmurs quietly.
You wipe your face with the back of your hand, letting out a small laugh through the lingering tears. "Apparently before we did."
Smokey huffs softly against your stomach in response, and this time your laugh comes easier—lighter, real.
And for the first time since everything began to change...
it doesn't feel like uncertainty anymore.
Only the beginning of something neither of you are facing alone.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
The months that follow do not soften the Autumn Court so much as reshape it around you. The estate itself seems to adjust its rhythms, as though it has learned a new center of gravity and decided, without question, that it is you. The hounds become constant shadows of devotion, no longer simply loyal to Eris but to the life you carry.
Wherever you walk, they walk. Wherever you sit, they settle. Wherever you sleep, they form a living circle around you—always one pressed carefully against your growing bump, as though they have decided long before anyone else that nothing in the world will reach you without first passing through them.
Eris is not much different.
Only quieter about it.
More controlled, more precise in the way his protectiveness manifests. If someone lingers too long in the hallway and glances at you with anything other than respect, his stare cuts across the room like a blade being drawn.
If someone smiles at you—politely, harmlessly, even courteously—his hand is already at your lower back, his presence shifting in a way that makes the entire room subtly realign itself.
And if anyone so much as looks at your stomach with anything less than reverence, a low, dangerous sound rolls from his chest before words are even necessary.
You begin to sigh at him more often than you'd like to admit.
Especially in court.
"Eris," you murmur one afternoon, catching his wrist just as he begins to turn toward yet another unfortunate noble who had simply existed too close to you. "They are not threats."
His gaze snaps to you immediately.
"They are too close," he replies without hesitation, as if that alone justifies everything.
A slow blink. "You are terrifying them."
"Good," he says flatly.
That earns him a look, one he feels immediately. His jaw tightens for a moment, like he is actively restraining something instinctive and older than reason.
After a beat, he exhales and lowers his hand—but even then, it does not truly leave you. It settles instead against your stomach, warm and steady, possessive in a way that has long since stopped being something he tries to hide.
It has become habit now.
Even his quiet moments betray him.
You wake some mornings to the sound of his voice against your skin, low and calm, as if he is speaking to a sovereign rather than an unborn child. His hand rests there as though it belongs, as though it has always belonged.
"You are giving your mother a difficult time," he murmurs once, tone almost conversational.
Later, as the evening settles and the court grows quieter, you hear him again.
"Be kind to her," he says softly. "She is already stronger than you."
You always pretend you don't hear it.
You always do.
The hounds, unsurprisingly, agree with him on every front. There is no debate, no division in their loyalty. They move with you as if you are the only truth worth acknowledging, forming a protective presence that makes your life feel both safer and significantly more crowded. It is an existence defined by watchfulness—soft in its devotion, overwhelming in its intensity.
Until the day everything shifts again.
The day the screams begin.
Labor does not arrive gently or with warning. It crashes into the estate like a breaking storm, sudden and absolute. The carefully maintained order dissolves in moments—healers rushing through corridors, servants calling for one another, doors opening and slamming as if the entire household has been thrown into motion at once.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Eris is already there, as if he has always been there, waiting for this exact moment.
But even he is not prepared for what comes next.
Not for the sound of you.
The first cry you release tears something loose inside him that he does not allow himself to show. The second changes the air entirely, his composure fracturing at the edges as raw instinct surges forward—magic tightening, temperature dropping, the room itself reacting to the violence of his control slipping. It is not rage at you, never at you, but at anything in existence that could bring you harm.
The healers feel it before they understand it.
Even the hounds outside fall silent.
You see him then, through the haze of pain and breathless focus—Eris standing too still, too rigid, his expression sharpened into something dangerous and unfiltered.
"Eris," you manage through it, reaching for him despite everything.
He is at your side instantly, taking your hand as though it is the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His grip is firm, grounding, deliberate.
"I'm here," he says, though it sounds less like comfort and more like a vow spoken into existence itself.
Time becomes fractured after that.
There is movement. Blood. Voices. Instructions you barely register. The world narrows to sensation and breath and his hand refusing to let go of yours. At one point, his voice cuts through everything—low, lethal, directed at a healer with a calm that is far more terrifying than shouting.
"If she suffers unnecessarily, I will end you."
And then, immediately after, softer—only for you.
"I'm here. I'm here. I'm here."
Eventually, everything stops.
The noise fades.
The chaos stills.
And then—
A cry.
Small. Sharp. Alive.
The entire world seems to pause around it.
Eris moves first.
Always Eris.
When they place the baby in his arms, he looks momentarily as though he has forgotten how to exist. She is so small it seems impossible that she could fill so much space, her face red, her expression furious in the way only newborns can manage. And then, just like that, she stops crying.
The moment her tiny hand curls around his finger.
Silence falls in a way that feels sacred.
Eris does not move.
"...Hello," he whispers.
Nothing more.
Just that.
And something in his expression shifts—something that looks like relief so deep it borders on reverence.
He holds her as if she might break, though she does not. She only grips him tighter, as if she recognizes him in a way words cannot explain.
Then, carefully, he brings her to you.
Your hands shake as you take her, the weight of her both fragile and absolute. The moment she is in your arms, something inside you finally releases, as though your body has been holding its breath for months without realizing it.
She is warm.
Real.
Here.
Tears spill freely as you look down at her face for the first time without distance between you.
"Oh my beautiful Anastasia," you whisper.
Eris stills behind you at the name, just for a heartbeat, as if hearing it aloud makes something inside him lock into place. Then his expression softens in a way few have ever seen—unguarded, overwhelmed, real.
He reaches forward and gently wipes your tears away with his thumb, careful as if you are the one who has just been brought into the world instead of her.
You had chosen the name together long before this moment, but saying it now makes it final in a way neither of you could have prepared for.
Anastasia.
Your daughter.
Your everything.
You lean back slightly, exhaustion settling into your bones in a way that no longer feels like breaking, but like completion. Turning your face toward Eris, you find him already there, bending instantly as if he has been waiting for you to look at him.
His kiss is soft. Unhurried. Full of everything neither of you are able to put into words.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment, steadying you both.
You whisper it before you can second-guess yourself.
"Everything is perfect."
Eris looks at you, then at the child in your arms, then back at you again.
For once, there is no war behind his eyes. No calculation. No distance.
Only certainty.
He nods once.
"Yes," he says quietly. "It is."
⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆
After Anastasia is born, the estate changes again—but this time, it doesn't feel like tension or fear settling into the walls. It feels like something gentler has taken root, something that softens even the sharp edges of the Autumn Court without ever weakening them.
The atmosphere becomes quieter in a way that is not empty, but full. Watchful, yes—but no longer tense. Like the entire court has learned a new rhythm and decided, unanimously, to follow it.
The hounds adore her.
It begins immediately, without hesitation or adjustment period. The moment she is old enough to be placed on a blanket instead of constantly held, they are there. Always there.
They approach her as if she is something delicate and sacred, made of sunlight and fragile glass, and every movement around her is measured with unnerving care.
One of them curls behind her like a living wall, unmoving and steadfast. Another settles at her feet so she can kick at their fur freely without consequence, without restriction, as though her smallest movements are worth more than anything else in the world.
Smokey becomes her favorite almost instantly.
It is never spoken, but it is obvious in the way he allows her to grab his ears without flinching, lets her tug his tail with clumsy hands that still haven't learned gentleness, and simply lies beneath her when she falls asleep, half draped over his side as though he is nothing more than the softest, safest place she could possibly choose.
And he never moves. Not once. Not even when she shifts in her sleep or presses her face into his fur with complete trust.
Eris watches all of it like a man trying very hard not to acknowledge what it is doing to him.
The first time he sees Anastasia giggling—bright, unrestrained laughter—as one of the younger hounds deliberately rolls onto its back so she can "win" whatever game she has invented, his jaw tightens instinctively. It is immediate, protective, ingrained.
"They're too close," he mutters under his breath.
You don't even look up from where you are carefully brushing your daughter's hair, fingers moving slowly through soft strands. "They're protecting her."
His eyes flick toward you. "They could hurt her."
That finally makes you pause. You glance at him properly now, expression flat in a way that has stopped him from arguing with you many times before.
"They could also level half the Court if they wanted to," you say evenly. "They're choosing not to. That's the point."
A low sound escapes him—frustration more than disagreement, something caught between instinct and reason. It sounds almost like a growl, but softer, controlled. Like he is arguing with something inside himself rather than with you.
Still, he doesn't intervene.
Not really.
He just steps closer. Always closer. As if proximity alone is enough to satisfy whatever instinct refuses to fully settle.
And when Anastasia eventually reaches for him with sticky hands and a grin full of missing teeth, something in him shifts so completely it is almost impossible to miss. The hesitation disappears. The tension falls away. He picks her up like she is the most valuable thing in existence.
Because to him, she is.
As she grows, nothing about that devotion changes.
The hounds age alongside her but never drift away, never lose their vigilance. They follow her through the gardens like silent guardians carved from shadow and flame.
They nap outside her room as if sleep itself is something to be shared in shifts. They escort her through the halls with a calm, unspoken authority, guiding her wherever she goes as though it is the most natural duty in the world to keep her safe.
And Eris—despite every warning, every instinctive concern he cannot seem to fully silence—eventually stops trying to resist it.
He simply watches.
Always watching.
Years later, one evening, you notice it before he does.
The change is subtle at first. Smokey, who rarely leaves your side unless called, suddenly refuses to move away from you at all. Another hound quietly positions itself in the doorway when you try to step through it, not aggressive, but firm. Certain. And then you realize what is happening.
They are circling you again.
Not Anastasia.
You.
Your steps slow, one hand instinctively lowering to rest against your stomach without thought, without decision. The motion is quiet—but Eris sees it at the exact same moment you do.
Silence falls between you instantly.
It is not heavy with fear this time. It is heavy with recognition.
"...Again," you whisper, almost disbelieving.
It is not a question.
The hounds press closer immediately, their movements subtle but absolute. Protective in the same way they were before—only now there is history behind it. Memory. Certainty.
Eris steps in behind you, his presence immediately grounding, one hand sliding over yours where it rests against your stomach. His touch is steady, familiar, his thumb brushing slowly as if confirming something he already knows without needing to be told.
"They're doing it again," he says quietly.
You glance up at him. "So we are not imagining this?"
A faint, knowing curve touches his mouth—not quite a smile, but something softer. Something that understands more than it says.
"No," he replies simply. "We are not."
There is a pause, brief but full of everything neither of you say out loud.
Then his voice softens further, almost fond now as he looks toward the hounds surrounding you both.
"They protect who they love," he murmurs.
His gaze lingers on them for a moment longer before returning to you.
"They love our children," he adds quietly.
A breath leaves you, half laugh, half disbelief, as you shake your head slightly. "Of course they do."
Eris hums under his breath, low and steady, and leans down to press a brief kiss to your temple. It is gentle, grounding—less reassurance now, and more acceptance. As if this, too, is simply part of the life you have built.
And just like before, and just like every time before that, you are not the first to know.
The hounds already did.