pablopascal - Tumblr blog

pablopascal · 2 days ago

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“Reader who decided to go to like a free use club pretty much, the only thing showing was her ass/legs/pussy the rest of her was hidden behind a wall Met 4 people anonymously online and they agreed to play out that fantasy so she wasn't fucked by a whole bunch of random people, had the explicit request that they write those cheese things on her in sharpie yk like "cum slut" "cock whore" just all that, so even when she washes it off for a few days those will be lingering Back at work she bends down to grab something, her shirt hikes up and Johnny very clearly sees their captain's hand writing on her Ohoho they found their little anonymous minx”

um sorry not sorry

cw: f!reader, free use, degradation, spanking

Your calves burned from the strain of your high heels, legs straight and stretched and precariously balanced. They made your legs look miles long, smooth and soft, every curve begging to be touched - just like you'd planned. But now, you cursed them. The arch of your feet screamed in protest with every subtle shift in your stance, the balls of your feet aching under your weight, throbbing with the relentless pressure.

Your ankles wobbled every now and then, fighting to keep your balance, your toes cramping in their confines. This wasn’t part of the fantasy you’d imagined, this strain, this dull, incessant pain that throbbed in sync with your racing heartbeat. Tears burned your eyes.

You’d surely made a mistake. Nobody was coming, you’d been lied to. Made to stand, exposed, like a gullible fool. The cold air against your bare skin felt cruel, mocking, the chill biting at your flesh as if the room itself knew you'd been abandoned.

How could you have fallen for it? They’d seemed so genuine online, so convincing, playing into every fantasy. Too good to be true, and now you were paying for it.

The hole in the wall felt like a pillory, an embarrassing punishment you’d walked yourself into. The first tear slid down your cheek, bitter and hot, when the door creaked open behind you.

A presence filled the air, thick and heavy, making your heart lurch. Your breath hitched in your throat, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. Footsteps echoed faintly on the floor, each one slow, deliberate, purposeful. Someone was there. You could feel their eyes on you, their gaze grazing your exposed body like a physical touch, and your skin prickled with the awareness of it.

Closer. The footsteps drew nearer, the weight of their approach filling the room, pressing against you from all sides. You were trapped, your heart pounding in your ears, your body trembling - not from the cold anymore, but from the anticipation, the fear of what came next.

The footsteps stopped just behind you, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of their presence against your bare skin. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding as the silence thickened, tension coiling tighter around you with each second that dragged by. You couldn't see them, couldn't move, your body frozen in place as you waited, nerves crackling like electricity beneath your skin.

The bench under your chest was slick with sweat as you wriggled in place, brimming with a nervous, anticipatory energy with no way to expel it, the wall chafing around your waist.

It started when a single finger brushed the small of your back, the touch light as a feather, yet sending shockwaves through your entire body. It lingered, tracing slow, delicate patterns against your skin, feather-light, teasing. You bit your lip to stifle a moan, your breath coming in ragged pants as the anticipation built to an unbearable peak.

They had to hurry, hurry up, or you’d combust. They’d already left you waiting so long. But you had no say in this, did you? You’d signed it away, the ball no longer in your court, and you loved it. If just a fingertip felt electric, what would their hands feel like, their mouths, their cocks?

Then, without warning, a hand cupped your ass cheek, a firm grip that left no doubt who was in control. The touch was exhilarating, jolting through you, and you gasped, body arching reflexively, hips pressing backward into the touch, heels arching and shoes scrambling against the floor. A deep, gravelly chuckle rumbled in the room, a sound that sent chills down your spine.

“What a convenient little hole,” the stranger purred, their voice a low, husky growl, dripping with hunger. “Just what we need, hm?” Their words washed over you, heat blooming in your belly as they squeezed your ass, each touch igniting you further. “Waited so patiently, didn’t you?” A pause, deliberate, as the grip tightened. “Already so needy.”

A second set of hands, just as large and firm as the first, ghosted over your other cheek, squeezing, kneading, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. You moaned, unable to control the sound that spilled from your lips.

"That's what I thought," came a second voice, low and pleased, dripping with satisfaction. “Now, relax,” it commanded, the edge of authority sharp and undeniable.

Without warning, they spread you apart, exposing every inch of you in the most humiliating way, a wet squelch echoing as your body responded, slick and desperate. And then you felt it - hot, hard, the head of a cock pressing insistently against your entrance, seeking its way in.

Please, please, pleasepleaseplease-

The words swirled in your mind, a mantra of pure desperation, but the only sound that left your lips was a pathetic, needy whine. Your knees shook, weak under the weight of your need as those hands pulled away, leaving you trembling, exposed, wanting.

“No, no, please-” you hiccuped into your arms, folded beneath your head, the words breaking as a sob slipped through. Your hips twitched, pressing helplessly against the bench beneath you, desperate for more, the burn of their touch still scorching your skin.

"You look just like I imagined," one of them murmured, deep and smooth, tinged with dark amusement. New hands trailed up your thighs, teasing, maddeningly close to where you needed them most, only to pull away, leaving you gasping. “You’ll take what we give you," they chuckled, revelling in your frustration. “No more, no less.”

"You’re already soaked," the first voice purred, thick with approval, the smug satisfaction dripping from every word. It made your cheeks burn, the heat crawling down your neck, flushing your skin as much as the desperate ache between your legs. You were on fire, burning with the humiliation of your own need, the way your body betrayed you with every twitch, every quiver.

A shameless moan wrenched its way from your throat as a finger slid inside you, cool and deliberate, parting your slick folds and delving deep. It scraped against your insides, slow and unhurried, dragging out the sensation until your toes curled and your back arched. You couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop yourself, the sheer intensity of the intrusion sending shockwaves of pleasure rocketing through you, making you gasp, shudder, pressing back into the touch.

You could feel their eyes on you, could hear the amusement in their chuckles as they watched you squirm, watched you fall apart with just a finger.

“Look at you,” the second voice murmured, closer now, a whisper against your skin that sent shivers racing down your spine. “Already falling apart, and we’ve barely touched you.”

A whimper slipped past your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily as that finger curled inside you, hitting just the right spot, sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your already overwhelmed senses. Your mind was a haze, lost in the sensation, every nerve on fire, every touch igniting something raw and primal within you.

"More," you whispered, though the word came out broken, ragged. It was barely more than a breath, a plea that hung in the air between you.

But the fingers stilled, pulling back just enough to leave you aching, empty, desperate.

A strong hand came down hard against your ass cheek, the sharp sting radiating through your body like lightning. You gasped, more from shock than pain, though the heat spread quickly, leaving your skin tingling.

"Good holes don’t talk," one of them growled, firm and commanding, the words biting into you like a warning.

The authority in his tone left no room for argument, no space for anything but submission. You bit your lip, swallowing down any protest, your heart racing as the stinging warmth from the slap settled into a dull, aching throb. Your whole body tensed, bracing for more, every muscle coiled tight as you fought to suppress the need rising inside you, the urge to beg.

Another hand slid across your other cheek, soothing where the other had struck, a dark contrast between punishment and comfort. They knew what they were doing, playing with you, keeping you on the edge. The air around you felt charged, thick with the scent of your arousal and the oppressive weight of their presence.

Another hand, rough and confident, settled firmly on your hip, pulling you back just slightly, aligning your body with their demands. The head of a cock pressed against your entrance again, the heat radiating from it a stark reminder of what was to come.

“You asked for more,” the voice purred, satisfied. “So be a good hole and take what you’re given.”

The command was clear, the tone brooking no argument. Your body, trembling and desperate, responded instinctively, hips arching back, seeking that elusive pleasure that seemed just out of reach. Each touch, each command, was a reminder of the power dynamics at play, of the role you’d willingly accepted and now had no choice but to fulfil.

And just like that, one of them was inside you, one thrust, hard and deep, claiming you with a dominance that left you breathless, gasping. They didn’t stop, didn’t slow, another thrust and another, each one driving you deeper into the bench, the world around you falling away as you clung to the burning sensation that seared through your every nerve.

“Tight, so damn tight,” he panted, a mixture of awe and lust in his voice as he continued to pound into you, relentless and merciless. The rhythm was all-consuming, the sound of skin slapping against skin the only thing that broke the silence, punctuated by your strangled moans and their low groans of pleasure.

The bench creaked below you, cheap wood protesting under the onslaught of their hips, of your desperate grinding as they fucked you, each thrust driving you further and further from reality, from the world you thought you knew.

“You like that, don’t you, you dirty little whore?” another voice hissed, words punctuated by the wet slick of skin on skin. “Bet you’re clenching so tight on him.”

And it was true, your muscles were clenching, contracting around the invading cock, gripping and twisting as if to hold onto the pleasure, to extend the moment indefinitely. You were a hot, wet cavern around their length, taking them in, welcoming the intrusion with a slickness that spoke volumes.

"Fuck, you're so tight," the man inside you groans, his words a low, deep growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your world narrowed to this, to the cock inside you, to the feeling of raw, primal lust, the faceless man ravishing your body, reducing you to nothing more than a hole for their pleasure. The humiliation only fueled the fire in you, stoking the flames of your arousal as they brought you closer to the brink.

"Cum for us, whore," one growled, their voices melding together, hands gripping you, pinching you, touching you until you saw stars.

Their words sent you over the edge, the humiliation and the need and the overwhelming sensation of being so thoroughly used combining into a white-hot ball of ecstasy that exploded through your veins, your entire body convulsing around the invading cock.

“Look at you,” the first voice chuckled, triumphant, as your pussy spasmed around him, milking every last drop of his climax from him, his hot seed filling you, “Dirty slut.”

Their words echoed in your mind, even as the world around you blurred into a sea of colour and sensation, even as you lay there, panting, spent, and utterly broken in the best way.

You almost missed the feeling of a dull point against your skin, dragging and looping against the surface, lifting and then pressing. Writing.

More, you wanted them to touch you again, needed something to replace the emptiness. More, more, more. You wiggled in place against the drag of the marker. It only earned you another swat to the smarting skin of your cheeks.

—

‘Dirty slut,’

‘Dick here →’

‘Cumdump,’

Every time they came, they’d write on you - a brand, a claim, proud and stark against your slick skin. It only ended when the marker stopped running, clogged by all manner of fluids - cum, sweat, spit.

The four men watched, satisfied and sated, as your holes twitched and leaked, your legs slumped and weak and quivering, toes barely scraping the floor.

Kyle had gone first, as agreed. Johnny too eager, Simon too big, the captain too rough.

They took their turns, in order of largest to smallest, longest to shortest, in all the ways possible until it devolved to whoever was ready to go again, until your body was nothing but a mess of aching muscles and abused orifices and marker streaks and red cheeks.

“Fuck,” Johnny groaned from where he had slumped in the corner, hands twitching against the ground and his pants half-heartedly tugged back over his thighs. “Do we hafta leave?”

One of your legs twitched out and kicked, and the captain huffed a laugh, “Poor thing has nothin’ left in them.”

Price’s hand skated along the mess of cum and sweat and ink, collecting it on his fingers, and you flinched against the touch, still so sensitive, overstimulated.

“Might have broken them,” Simon snipped, flat, but not even he could act unaffected, his chest visibly rising and falling, sweat coating his visible skin.

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed, strained, sliding a hand down your back, “But it was bloody worth it.”

“Not going again, are ya?” Johnny guffawed from the floor.

“Much as I would love to see that,” Price drawled, but his tone was fond, “we gotta go. Time’s up.”

“Fuck, man,” Kyle groaned, parting with one last pat on your cheeks.

“I know.” Johnny helpfully added, voice wistful. “I’ll miss this ass.”

“Then next time, don’t come so fast,” Simon muttered, and it was the exact wrong thing to say, because they all laughed.

“Next time?” Johnny repeated, incredulous. “Fuck LT., I’m not sure there’s going to be a next time, I have nothin’ left in me.”

—

"Hoooo-lyyyy shit," Kyle blurted, gripping Johnny’s arm as if to steady himself, though his gaze remained glued to the phone in his hand. His voice trembled with disbelief, excitement, and a tinge of something more. He was practically buzzing with the revelation, his eyes wide in awe as he absorbed the image.

"Jee Sus, Mary, and Joseph..." Johnny muttered under his breath, his Scottish accent thickening with astonishment. The look of disbelief on his face mirrored Kyle’s as he leaned in closer, trying to process what he was seeing.

“What are the two of you lookin’ at-” Simon started, only to cut himself off as he swiped the phone out of Kyle’s hand with a swift, almost aggressive motion. Kyle staggered slightly but didn’t bother protesting. His mind was too occupied with the image burned into his retinas.

Simon’s eyes flicked over the screen, his expression shifting from irritation to something far more intrigued. His gaze lingered on the photo: Price’s assistant, the shy little thing that hardly said more than a few words at a time, stretching to grab something from a high shelf. Her shirt had lifted just enough to reveal faded, smeared ink scrawled across the smooth skin of her back, just above the waistband of her slacks.

The words, though blurry, were unmistakable.

The realization hit Simon hard, his grip tightening around the phone. He shifted his gaze to Kyle and Johnny, who both stood there, jaws slack, equally stunned.

"Fuck me," Johnny breathed out, breaking the silence, still staring at the screen like it was some sort of hallucination. "The assistant? Who would've thought she had it in her?"

Simon finally exhaled, passing the phone back to Kyle with a grunt. "Price has a way of... managing things, doesn’t he?" His voice was low, filled with a dark suggestion that hung heavy in the air.

Kyle glanced down at the phone again, his lips twitching into a half-smile. "Never would’ve pegged her for that type. Quiet little thing, but..." He gestured vaguely at the phone, at the faded writing that told an entirely different story.

Johnny laughed, the sound sharp with disbelief. "Looks like there’s more to that lass than we thought." He shook his head, still trying to reconcile the image of the shy assistant with the evidence on her skin.

"Wonder if she knows who got her marked up like that," Johnny mused, puffing out his chest with a wide smirk.

Kyle’s phone pinged with another photo from their captain, and Simon raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh, she knows."

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pablopascal · 8 days ago

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Omgg imagine a reader who is obsessed with simons arms. Like veins and biceps and everything. I feel like he would try to be humble but loves teasing her with flexing them

husband!simon x wife!reader ~ you love simon's biceps, and simon loves the way you love them. a/n: as someone who has an unhealthy obsession with biceps this is so me HAHA (also to 🌊, i saw ur request too and am working on it!! ♥︎)

You are obsessed with Simon's body.

Being in the army, you know your husband's body is built for it. You were astonished at how much muscle he gained over the time you've been with him. Currently, he stands at 6'4 and weighs in at a mean 250 pounds. He trains well and you make sure you feed him even better whenever he gets off deployment because you know he has a habit of missing meals when he's away for work. His legs are strong, every muscle prominent and his thighs are thick. His torso is so wide it covers you up whenever he's lying on top of you or hugging you. You make sure to compliment his body whenever you can. You love complimenting your man just as much as he loves to act humble about his build.

Sometimes it's like...

"Simon, you're so huge. I love it." You say as you massage your husband's sore shoulders, straddling the back of his legs while he lies on his stomach on the couch. "It's nothing, lovie. Just comes with the job." He dismisses your praise, but hides his blush by looking away from you and hiding his face into the crease of his inner elbow.

Or sometimes it's...

"Baby, did you get more buff over deployment?" Your hands move up and down his torso, and you can most definitely feel the change in the definition of his abs because you can feel them through his shirt. "I guess so, doll?" He gives you a shy smile, "It's nothing, though, really. Probably some extra muscle because of the missions." He takes the hands that were roaming around his torso and places them up to his lips, kissing your wrists. "I missed you, sweet girl."

Albeit, your most favorite part about your man is his arms.

Specifically his biceps. You catch yourself staring at the way his veins start from his hands and end up at his biceps. When he's away for deployment, you manage doing the heavy lifting like moving the coffee table while cleaning or carrying multiple grocery bags in each hand. But when Simon is off deployment, you make sure to put those arms to use every single time you can. Simon doesn't mind either. If anything, he loves it and wants to be of help for you. He vacuums with one hand and lifts the coffee table with the other, he takes in all the grocery bags in one trip, and chops the wood for the fireplace without you ever asking to do it.

Simon caught on very early in your relationship that you had some sort of obsession with his arms, and he makes sure to act upon it. He may act all humble, but he loves the way you vocalize your love for his body and the way you look at him too. He loves to use his arms whenever he can, always looking for an opportunity to show himself off to his sweetheart of a wife.

One day, you ordered two bags of soil for your garden. Before you could carry them inside, Simon stopped you at the doorway, "I got you, lovie." He rolled up the sleeves to his already short-sleeved shirt, pushing them up to his shoulders. He took one bag in each of his arms. All you could do in the moment was stare at the way his arms flexed dangerously. Even with one of his arms tattooed fully, you could still see the curve of his bicep and the veins that adorned it. You were caught out of your daze when you heard him ask sweetly, "Do you want these in the backyard?" You nodded with your mouth open, still focusing on the bulge of his arms. Before heading over to the backyard, he passes you a cheeky wink. He knows as much as you do how good his biceps look, and he loves you for it. "You know, if you take a picture it'll last longer."

He walks over to you, bags still in his hold, and places a kiss to your lips before heading over to the backyard.

Tease.

The next day, when you ask him to grab your phone, he checks out your change of wallpaper: Asleep on the couch shirtless is Simon lying on his back, tattooed bicep and gorgeous torso visible in the frame with your cat on his lap.*

*i specifically thought of this gorgeous drawing by @bitterrfruit for reference. if you're seeing this arabella, i love your writing and art you are so, in the best way possible, disgustingly talented.

~ yours truly, rani ♥︎

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pablopascal · 8 days ago

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Omgg imagine a reader who is obsessed with simons arms. Like veins and biceps and everything. I feel like he would try to be humble but loves teasing her with flexing them

You are obsessed with Simon's body.

Sometimes it's like...

Or sometimes it's...

Albeit, your most favorite part about your man is his arms.

He walks over to you, bags still in his hold, and places a kiss to your lips before heading over to the backyard.

Tease.

~ yours truly, rani ♥︎

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pablopascal · 9 days ago

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Your Royal Highness, could I please request the 141 boys and how they would react if Reader pulled the “Is it okay if I touch?” Clock App trend on them 😌

Peasant, you may have what you've requested. Remember, in real life, we don't touch people without their consent. But this is fiction...and I can do whatever the fuck I want. :)

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, dirty thoughts, pranks, humor, flirting, western au (Soap)

Word Count: 800

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

There are children everywhere. There are also helicopters and Humvees. It’s controlled chaos. John is trying hard not to stress.

Whose idea was it to have the local school visit base?

Price stands next to the open Humvee door. There’s a young boy in the driver’s seat, hands on the steering wheel, making car noises like he’s an F1 driver. Gaz sits in the passenger seat, grinning, pretending to cling to the interior of the Humvee like they’re in a race.

Price snorts and shakes his head. As he glances away, his attention catches on the woman approaching him. You’re pretty. There’s a softness about you that he’d like to understand. Price thinks you’re walking by, but you pause, smiling at him with a flirty smirk.

Bloody hell.

You’d look gorgeous bent over the backseat of the Humvee.

“May I touch it?”

“Course you can,” replies Price, expecting you to place your hand on the hood. You touch him instead, resting your hand on his bicep. That smirk widens, and Price nearly groans under that look.

You drop your hand, backing up. Retreating.

No. Not happening. You’re staying here. With him.

“You can put that hand back, love,” he purrs.

John "Soap" MacTavish

The dust kicks up as Johnny brings his horse to a stop. This town doesn’t even have a name. It’s just a dot on the map.

“Good girl,” he purrs, lightly rubbing the horse’s neck.

The few people about frown in his direction, clearly a bit fearful of a stranger. It’s a normal reaction every time he arrives somewhere new. But he won’t be here for long. Johnny needs a stiff drink and a willing woman.

“Is it safe to touch?”

Johnny turns, glancing down at the beautiful woman staring up at him. Your voice is a sweet song, one that Johnny wants to hear all night. Preferably with you under him.

“Pretty thing like you can touch whatever she wants,” replies Johnny with a flirty smirk.

Johnny knows you’re talking about the horse, and when you reach out, he expects you to pet its hide. But you touch him instead, caressing his thigh with a teasing smile.

A willing woman. And a stiff drink.

You quickly drop your hand, clasping them in front of you. Johnny slides off his horse. He leans against the saddle and you match his movement.

A willing woman.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“Is it safe to pet?”

Simon glances up from his phone. You stand in front of the small outdoor table, an eagerness in your eye. You’re an adorable thing. Bright. A spot of sunshine. Simon sees an opportunity here.

Most people avoid Bravo. The all-black German Shepherd is imposing when he’s not wagging his tail.

Simon quickly checks Bravo’s demeanor. The German Shepherd has his head up, ears alert with interest, and his tail smack smack smacks against the concrete.

“He’s safe,” replies Simon with a smile.

You step forward, going down on your knees beside Simon. He reaches for the leash, just to make sure Bravo doesn’t jump on you in his excitement. But your hand passes over his, pausing there. You bat your eyelashes at Simon, and he melts into a fucking puddle.

It’s a deliberate but brief touch. Then you’re scratching behind Bravo’s ears, your focus on the dog.

“Who’s a good boy?” you coo. “You are. You’re a good boy.”

Bravo’s tail thumps harder, tongue lolling with happiness.

You can call me a good boy, sweetheart.

“He likes you,” muses Simon.

You smile warmly. “I like him.”

An opportunity. Blooming.

“Can I buy you a coffee?”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Nice bike.”

Kyle’s head turns. A beautiful woman stands before him, giving him a look that’s irresistible. The bike always attracts stares, but very few actually approach him to talk.

“Thank you,” he replies, sitting up a bit straighter.

Your smile widens, and Kyle melts. You’re a sweet thing. He can tell. This is an opportunity for him, a chance to make a move. He’s always flirting with strangers on his socials, but there’s the buffer of the screen. This is an actual woman standing before him showing interest.

“Can I touch?” you ask, not looking away from his visor.

Goddamn. The eye contact if you were beneath him would be intense.

Kyle nods. “Yeah,” he laughs. “You can touch.”

As you reach out, Kyle believes that you’re aiming for his bike. But your hand skirts the bike, landing on his thigh. You lightly squeeze. Rub. Then your hand falls away. Blood rushes to Kyle’s dick.

Shit. Fucking hell.

There’s no way you’re escaping. He’s keeping you.

“Can I go for a ride?”

On the bike or on my dick, love?

Before Kyle can answer, Johnny, his riding buddy, leans forward. “He’s got two things you can ride on, lass.”

taglist:

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@youre-a-wallflower-charlie @tiredmetalenthusiast @sporadicpizzainternet

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pablopascal · 10 days ago

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CHAPTER EIGHT | TSOFAS.

pairing: azriel x reader.

word count: 5,763

author’s note: this chapter was so fun to write! the lady of the autumn court has always intrigued me so diving into her backstory really challenged me creatively. there will definitely be more of her in this series, but for now, I hope you like my characterization of her as much as I do.

♫ how villains are made - madalen duke. nav. series. moodboard.

The Golden Garden was packed by the time you arrived. In true Autumn Court fashion, no expense had been spared for the grand luncheon. The lush rooftop garden was lined with tables decorated in deep warm tones and gilded ivy. Each seat was marked by a placard written in elegant golden script, the names scrawled upon the parchment growing more and more prominent as you neared the dais.

In the center of it all sat an ornate rosewood table that stretched across an elevated platform. The seats contained no names, but there was no mistaking who they were reserved for. A high back chair positioned at the head displayed the Vanserra family crest — a snarling fox with a tail of fire. As if the crowd needed a reminder of the wretched male that would soon occupy the seat.

The nobility milled about below the dais, discussing this season’s harvest or whatever business venture they were currently pursuing that would place even more gold into their greedy little hands. Their words were pleasant enough, but their smiles were as sharp as the twin blades sheathed underneath your dress.

Beside you, the shadowsinger fussed over his doublet for the millionth time. “Absolutely ridiculous,” he muttered to the velvet material.

The shadowsinger grimaced as you pinched the inside of his arm. The insufferable male had spent the entire carriage ride complaining about his clothing and if you had to hear about the tightness of his trousers one more time, you might strangle the irritating Illyrian right then and there.

“You look fine,” you hissed in response before plastering on a smile for the benefit of the crowd. “I’m the one in the rib-crushing corset. If you knew the agony every breath brought, you would surely thank the Mother for those godsdamned trousers.”

Azriel scowled, examining your attire. The skirts of your golden cape whispered against the cement as he guided you through the archway and the large sapphire ring on your finger caught the sunlight as you clasped onto the shadowsinger for support. You silently cursed whoever invented the torture device that were corsets in the first place.

“This shirt is so uncomfortable,” the shadowsinger had the audacity to say.

With a false smile, you dug your nails into Azriel’s arm and lowered your voice into a hiss. “My tits are quite literally being crushed by whale bone. Your discomfort is the last thing on my mind.”

Before the shadowsinger could retort, Eris stepped directly into your path. A welcome interruption, even if it was provided by the devil himself.

“You two make quite the handsome couple,” your cousin teased with a grin. As usual, Eris was dressed in reds and golds, bringing out the copper shade of his hair. His sharp amber gaze danced over Azriel’s stiff posture. “Glad to see you in Autumn Court attire. I wasn’t quite sure of the measurements, but it looks like Alinta worked her magic.”

Indeed, the old witch had included hidden panels on the back of Azriel’s shirts, but one would have thought she’d put barbs in them instead with the way the shadowsinger frowned. Despite his displeasure, Azriel leveled a cool, hard gaze at Eris. Gone was the annoying whiny male from earlier, replaced now by the lethal mask of the spymaster.

“My betrothed was kind enough to educate me on the customs of your court.” Hazel eyes raked over you, mild amusement dancing in that gaze of liquid honey. “It seems that velvet conveys a far friendlier message than leathers.”

But I’m still every bit as lethal, Azriel seemed to convey with a sharp smile.

No amount of finery could mask the warrior hidden beneath. Eris seemed to realize this as well.

“A well crafted message, shadowsinger. One that this court and its ruler will no doubt receive with caution.”

At the mention of Beron, the male appeared at the edge of the garden. The High Lord strolled through the path of the beating sun as a hush of silence fell amongst the nobles. His loyal subjects bowed one by one, but you kept utterly still, meeting those cruel, dark eyes as his gaze fell upon you. You held his stare for as long as you could to the point of insolence before bowing with the rest of the room.

As you explained to Azriel earlier, the court herald announced the High Lord first, followed by Eris, and then Flint, Roux, and Wren. Your godsawful cousins.

After they took their place up on the dais, you and Azriel were up next. You swallowed thickly before dropping the cape around your shoulders. As you sauntered up to the dais, spears of sunlight licked at your skin like flames and you glowed in your golden dress like fire given form. The intricate wings tattooed on your back came to life, fluttering between your shoulder blades and spreading until they proudly unfurled for all to see. Whispers swept through the room like wildfire and the blatant stares of the High Fae burned holes into you, but it was Azriel’s gaze that you couldn’t seem to shake.

There was something burning in his hazel gaze. Something like awe and surprise and admiration rolled up into one.

You tried not to dwell on it as he fell into step beside you, gracefully placing a hand on the small of your back as though it was the most natural thing in the world. The shadowsinger’s fingers curved protectively around your hip as you ascended the dais, his wings tucked tightly behind him to mirror your tattoo.

The message itself was clear — you may have once called this place home, but you didn’t belong here any more. The Night Court, Velaris, the Inner Circle; they were your home. The only family you had as far as you were concerned. The High Lord would do well to remember that.

Beron’s calculated glare simmered with rage. You schooled your features into neutrality even though the sight brought you an exorbitant amount of satisfaction. The anger in his eyes dissipated far too quickly for your liking as he directed his gaze behind you. A smirk tugged at his cruel mouth before you came face to face with your aunt.

The Lady of Autumn was the spitting image of your mother. Your aunt may have been a Vanserra in name, but she was a Thorne through and through. The olive coloring, the signature maroon head of hair, even the dimples that were ever present on your own face, felt like a punch to the gut.

You couldn’t breathe and it had nothing to do with the corset. In the darkest pits of your heart, you felt the restless churning of wrath wrap around you like a torrential wind gathering momentum. All the anger and rage and grief spiraling faster and faster, threatening to destroy anything and everything in its path.

A cold, but calming sensation swirled through your wrist. You blinked as shadows knocked you out of your stupor, staring at the inky tendril caressing your arm. Slowly but surely, you felt the storm within you break.

Beside you, Azriel dared to glance over. His face was unreadable, but his scarred hand found yours and his grip seemed to anchor you back to the present. You were here. You were fine. This was your aunt, not the ghost of your mother.

And you both had appearances to maintain.

The small curtsy you offered your aunt might have been the only genuine act you’ve committed since stepping foot in this place. The skirts of her burgundy gown swept against your feet and you inclined your head slowly to meet those familiar amber eyes.

“Dearest niece,” she greeted softly. Your aunt didn’t dare embrace you or project any more warmth than necessary. Not under the watchful eyes of her husband. “The High Lord and I welcome you and your betrothed to the Autumn Court. “

With all the grace of a noble prince, Azriel bowed low. “It’s an honor to be welcomed into your home, Lady.”

Your aunt smiled gracefully until her gaze flitted behind you. As you’ve witnessed a thousand times before, the joy faltered from her expression as soon as she met her husband’s gaze.

“Enough pleasantries,” Beron declared in a bored tone. The High Lord rose from his seat as you and Azriel took your place beside Eris.

Beron clapped his hands together, garnering the attention of his court.

“Friends, family, and honored guests, today we celebrate the engagement of my niece and the shadowsinger.” Hateful black eyes surveyed you with a cold, calculated gaze. “Let this unconventional union signify that unlikely alliances are most necessary in these ever changing times.”

You narrowed your eyes, catching the double meaning within his words. Beron was indeed making unlikely alliances with death gods and Cauldron knew who else. As though sensing your suspicions, the High Lord raised his glass in your direction.

“A word from our honored guests?”

There was a challenge behind your uncle’s invitation, but you only smiled, twining your fingers through Azriel’s as you both stood.

“Azriel and I are grateful to be welcomed into the Autumn Court with such open arms. I have missed these lands in my absence, but a fox always returns to its den. If only to parade my handsome fiance in front of the fine ladies of this court.”

A chuckle swept through the crowd as numerous gazes landed on the shadowsinger. Azriel chuckled, pulling you closer by the waist. The action was full of certainty and possessiveness, making your cheeks bloom with heat.

“Don’t tease, my lady. You know I only have eyes for you.” You could’ve sworn you heard a sigh to your right, but you kept looking at Azriel as he addressed the audience. “Y/N and I look forward to our stay with you. We greatly appreciate the hospitality of the High Lord and Lady.”

The courtiers clapped, seemingly enthralled by Azriel’s charm. It almost made you do a double take of the male before you. Sometimes you forgot that the shadowsinger was just as skilled in standing out as he was in blending in. A skill he no doubt honed to perfection over his years of service as the spymaster. You had to give it to Azriel. He was a damned good actor.

The flash of annoyance crossing over Beron’s features almost brought a smile to your face. The High Lord bristled as he addressed his subjects once more, raising a golden goblet in his hand.

“Let the feast begin.”

At his declaration, streams of servants weaved through the spacious rooftop, bringing with them an array of decadent dishes. Fine cuts of meat, freshly baked bread, and a colorful assortment of fruits and vegetables were laid out on the table before you. The excess left a vile taste in your mouth, knowing the poverty and starvation that many members of this court suffered from under Beron’s egregious policies.

The High Fae seemed oblivious to the exorbitant display of overindulgence. As far as they were concerned, it didn’t matter if those in the countryside were barely scraping by on stale bread and rotten produce as long as they could drink their fill of faerie wine and turn a blind eye to those in need. Even before your exile, the obvious disparity between the nobility and the working class had always disgusted you.

While you were aware of the privilege your station provided you, your mother had always taught you that the farmers, workers, and tillers of this court were just as important as any of the nobles. Even more so because they were responsible for ensuring that there was a steady supply of food in these lands. During your childhood, you’d often visit the vineyards in the countryside and learned of the hard work and toil it took to produce the wine that brought your family fortune.

Back then, your grandparents taught you the importance of valuing those who worked under them. It didn’t matter if the nobles snubbed their noses up at what they called lesser faeries — a term that has always struck you as extremely offensive and unbelievably tone deaf — these workers were the lifeblood of the Autumn Court and they deserved to be treated with respect.

It was a sentiment that the High Lord vehemently opposed. Beron only valued individuals who could offer him something in return, be it money, power, or influence. Being faced with it now made your stomach curdle. Having experienced hardship and starvation before Rhys and Serena took you in, this whole charade seemed even more unbearable now than you recalled.

You clenched the silks of your skirts in one hand as an older dryad poured faerie wine into the goblet in front of you.

“Thank you.” You declared in gratitude, nearly startling the female. Judging from her reaction, she probably wasn’t used to having her presence acknowledged.

“It’s a pleasure to serve you, my lady. It is good to have you home.”

“Enid, isn’t it?” you asked softly, recalling the dryad from your childhood. She had served Beron’s court when you were first brought to the Forest House. “How is your son?”

The dryad’s eyes lit up. “He’s doing well, my lady. By the grace of the Mother, Arun is serving in the Westerlands. Lord Bronwyn personally chose him to be a member of his personal guard. ”

“I am pleased to hear that. The Briars are an honorable family and their estate is quite beautiful. Do you and your husband get to visit often?”

Enid’s smile faltered. “My husband passed away some years ago. It is only Arun and I now.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Enid. Drakkar was a good male. I offer you my deepest condolences. Please let me know where he’s laid to rest so I may pay my respects.”

“Drakkar is in the country, my lady. I have been told his grave is quite beautiful.”

“You haven’t seen it?” you asked incredulously.

The dryad wrung her hands. “I was given a day to mourn at the temple, but I was not present when he was laid to rest. I’m afraid my duties at the Forest House would not allow for much leave.” Her sad eyes filled with apprehension before sharpening into fear. “Please do not construe that as anything but gratefulness for the High Lord and Lady. It is a privilege to serve them.”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but there was nothing you could offer her. What worth would meaningless words of comfort hold against an ocean of grief?

“I am sure the Vanserrras are glad to have you and your son in their employ,” Azriel said gently, flashing her a soft smile. “I do hope to meet Arun at the tourney. Perhaps he can teach me a thing or two about swordsmanship.”

Enid brightened at that. “My Arun would be honored. Thank you, my lord.”

“Please, call me Azriel.”

The dryad blushed before curtsying and returning to her duties. You turned your attention upon the shadowsinger, carefully examining the male. Despite his earlier complaints, Azriel seemed to be faring well with the people of this court. And what he said to Enid…you weren’t quite sure what to make of it.

Before you could ponder it any longer, Eris was gesturing at your side. “Stay alert, lovebirds. Here comes the sharks,” You looked up to find a small gathering approaching the table. “And they’re out for blood.”

Everyone from the youngest maidens of the court right down to the married courtesans approached under the guise of congratulating your engagement, but you weren’t fooled. More than half of them were nearly drooling at the sight of Azriel.

The shadowsinger seemed to take the female attention in stride, donning his charming smile and slinging smooth compliments here and there that made the ladies swoon. You locked eyes with Azriel across the table and he briefly touched his brows to show that they were free of any trace of judgment. You couldn’t help but snort.

The amusement was short-lived as soon as Beron came into view. He occupied the seat that Azriel had vacated, flashing you a false smile to appease the clever eyes of his court.

“A fine parlor trick,” the High Lord commented in a tone devoid of humor.

He rested his arm over your chair, his rough, calloused fingers briefly brushing against your tattoo. You stiffened as he made contact with the raised bumps of the half-healed scars upon your back. The skin had been burned over and over again in a way that even your healing abilities could not erase. The marks were as ugly and hateful and brutal as the male that inflicted them.

“Perhaps this court will adopt the barbaric customs of Rhysand’s people,” Beron mused as his gaze fell upon two figures in the midst of the crowd. Fallon and Astor. “I shall think to add my own flair, of course. I’d rather enjoy gifting the twins with marks that rival your own.”

The scars on your back began to burn. “No,” you breathed. Panic rose in your chest as you took in the fair haired sisters, laughing and jesting with those around them. Oblivious to Beron’s threats.

“Then cover these up, niece.” The High Lord said with a tap between your shoulders. Though it was barely a touch, you flinched all the same. “Or I shall make good on my promise.”

Without another word, Beron was gone, but the phantom burn of his touch lingered on your skin like a brand.

Sorrel Vanserra had always loved the sunset.

The Lady of Autumn watched as the golden rays cast pink and orange hues across the horizon and basked in its light before it escaped her once more. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes and soaked in the sun before fixing her gaze across the courtyard. A fist took hold of her heart and squeezed once she laid eyes on a familiar streak of scarlet. There, in the glow of the Golden Garden, stood the ghost of her sister.

Out of the three Thorne sisters, Laurel had always burned the brightest. Where Annalise was the silent and stoic second born and Sorrel the cunning and clever youngest, Laurel was known to be bold and fearless, challenging authority and testing boundaries whenever she could. As the eldest of the family, Sorrel had looked up to Laurel her whole life. She admired the fact that her sister refused to fit into the mold of a proper noble lady.

“When I grow up,” Sorrel recalled herself telling Laurel. “I want to be just like you, Lo.”

“You’re not going to be like me, sœurette.” Laurel leaned down and brushed her hair back, golden eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’ll be better in every way.”

Somehow Sorrel doubted that. Even at a young age, Laurel exhibited a natural talent for magic, but her power had been as wild and unruly as she was, which is how the old witch came to serve the Thornes. Their parents had brought in Alinta to hone Laurel’s magic, but her older sister insisted on including Annalise and Sorrel for every lesson.

During these sessions, Sorrel learned the truth about her home. The Autumn Court had not always been the den of lies and deceit that it was now infamous for. There was a time when the court prospered under different leadership. When the High King fell, Fionn’s death caused a power vacuum in Prythian. The High Fae were in disarray, fighting and bickering amongst themselves. One by one, each court broke off and created their own territory.

Though her name had been wiped from history, the land still remembered its founder, a powerful witch named Serafina — their ancestor. Sorrel remembered tales of a better court, led by a fair leader, told to her and her sisters by the old witch. The Autumn Court flourished during this time, but eventually the power and influence Serafina amassed caused the people to question her.

Rumors swirled throughout the court that Serafina was a dark witch capable of horrors beyond their imagination. It was said that she possessed a power that defied the natural order of things. The power of death, strife, and chaos. An abomination.

Eventually, the witch hunt had been successful in sowing suspicion against Serafina. In the end, Sorrel’s ancestor had been burned at the heart of the very land she created by the hand of Casimir Vanserra. The man that would then become the first High Lord of the Autumn Court.

For centuries, the Autumn Court had been suffering under the rule of the Vanserras. Corruption became the currency at court and power was wielded without mercy, often at the expense of those who found themselves without. The legacy of Serafina was forgotten, but the land remembered.

The Thornes remembered.

Once the sisters learned the truth, they worked tirelessly to restore the Autumn Court back to its former glory. Laurel learned about the magic of the land, its strange power still calling to Serafina. Annalise trained as a warrior and amassed allies and armies for the inevitable civil war. Despite their efforts, they knew that none of their plans would come to fruition unless they had access to the inner court.

“It has to be me,” Sorrel declared to her sisters.

Laurel and Annalise had looked at her in horror, shaking their heads vehemently. “No,” Annalise said firmly. “There has to be another way.”

“The only way that the court will fall is from the inside,” Sorrel explained. “I must marry the High Lord.”

“I will take your place,” Annalise pleaded desperately.

“You are a warrior, Annie. You have never desired to be a wife. I will not condemn you to a life at the royal court. Besides, you are our main contact for our allies and armies. We cannot risk it.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Laurel said as she clasped her younger sister’s hand. “Please, sister.”

“It is the only way.”

“But you do not love this High Lord.”

Sorrel smiled sadly. “Helion will understand. I am doing this for love. Not for the love of another lord, but for the love of my land. The Autumn Court cannot continue to go on like this. I want a better court for myself and my people.” She squeezed Laurel’s hand. “For my niece.”

At twenty years old, Sorrel married the High Lord and became the Lady of Autumn. The title stripped away her identity. She was no longer a Thorne, but a Vanserra. It pained her to bind herself to someone as abhorrent as Beron, but her plight was nothing compared to those that suffered under his rule.

Beron Vanserra had to die.

Slowly but surely, Sorrel gained power and influence in the court. Nothing occurred in the Forest House without her knowing about it. She used the knowledge and information to plot and scheme against her husband and worked with her sisters to undermine his rule and prepare for the seizing of the throne. Everything was going to plan until the day Hybern attacked.

They were supposed to be safe at Thorne Manor. Despite her reluctance, Beron had dispersed their children throughout the different properties and estates that the Vanserras owned. Since her ancestral home was under her parent’s ownership, Beron convinced Sorrel and her sisters that the King of Hybern wouldn’t bother searching the estate. Sadly, he was wrong.

Sorrel still remembered the day the beasts attacked. The Godswood were ablaze as Hybern’s men set fire to the sacred forest. The wind whipped through the weirwood trees as Sorrell and her sisters ran, the howl of the beasts echoing in the night. With every second that passed, the enemy sounded closer and closer.

“Lo,” Annalised called out as she swung her sword. “They’re almost here.”

Panic rose within Sorrel as her sisters prepared to face off with the beasts. While Annalise and Laurel were both respectively warrior and witch, all Sorrel possessed was her wit. Both of her sisters insisted that her cunning was just as important as their abilities, but as Sorrel cowered in fear, she couldn’t help but think that they were wrong. There were no rulers to influence, no lords to manipulate, no emissaries to exploit. Her mind would not save her now.

“Listen to me,” Laurel spoke in a calm and even tone. “I need you to run.”

“No!” Sorrel rasped as tears streaked down her cheeks. “I won’t leave you and Annie.”

Annalise turned, a sad smile on her lovely face. “You have no choice, sœurette.” Her voice never wavered despite the tears in her eyes. “Lo is the oldest. If she tells you to run, then you have to run.” She tightened her grip on her sword as she stared at her little sister. “You have to survive.”

“Why me?” Sorrel asked desperately. “You’re both stronger than I am. It’s you who should survive.”

Laurel shook her head. “You’re wrong, baby sister.” She assured Sorrel with a melancholy smile. “You are stronger than both Annalise and I combined. You have sacrificed your life to serve our cause. You have survived Beron, which is something neither of us would have ever been able to do.”

Sorrel sobbed as those familiar golden eyes bore into her. “Remember what I told you? You’re not like me. You’re better in every way.” Laurel touched Sorrel’s temples. Your mind is a weapon. Don’t forget that.” Sorrel heaved as her sister placed her hand on her chest. “But most importantly, listen to your heart. You have the one thing that Beron will never possess. The one thing that will doom him because he underestimates the power of it — love.”

“We love you, Sorrel.” Annie said fiercely as she placed a kiss upon her sister’s head. “Live for us. Laugh for us. Love for us.”

The sisters shared one last embrace as sobs racked their bodies. Sorrel felt like her heart was breaking in two, cleaved in half by grief and sadness and anger. Laurel squeezed her youngest sister’s arm, her golden eyes full of sorrow.

“My daughter — “

“I will get her out,” Sorrel promised. “I will care for her as though she were my own. I will protect her even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Laurel smiled. “Thank you, sister. Now go. Run.”

Sorrel blinked, looking into those same golden eyes. It pained her how much her niece looked like Laurel, but in many ways, it also brought her joy. Her niece was the remnant of the fire of her beloved eldest sister.

The promise that Sorell made to Laurel echoed in her mind. After the death of her sisters, Sorell did everything in her power to orchestrate her niece’s escape. She took advantage of Beron’s obsession with retaliation and paid a chamberlain to smuggle her out of the Forest House. Losing her niece had been excruciating especially after losing her sisters, but Sorrel knew it was for the best. The Lady of Autumn reminded herself that she was better off living in exile rather than being subjected to her husband’s cruelty.

Last she heard, her niece had found a family of her own in the Night Court. Though Sorrel was glad to hear of it, she couldn’t help but feel guilty that she wasn’t able to be there for her like she wanted. Still, as she watched the shadowsinger elicit a smile out of her niece, Sorrel thought that perhaps a silver lining could be found even in exile.

It was that smile that reminded her of the promise she once made to her sisters. Now that her niece was back, Sorrel vowed once more to end things once and for all.

For Lo.

For Annie.

For herself.

Azriel didn’t know what to make of the Autumn Court.

And he certainly didn’t know what to make of the Autumn Court female standing beside him now, a vivid flash of scarlet against the twinkling backdrop of the cool, mild evening. Though the shadowsinger supposed he shouldn’t categorize her with the rest of this court seeing how vehemently she opposed everything it stood for.

The shadowsinger dared a glance and found her squinting up at the stars. The assassin was quiet, pensive, and while Azriel usually found comfort in silence, the absence of her fiery wit and scathing remarks felt stifling. For all his spymaster skills, he couldn’t seem to decipher the frustrating puzzle of her mind.

“What did Beron say to you?”

He watched as she clenched the railing, her knuckles turning as white as the pale moon shining overhead. Despite the bruised dusky evening, the assassin glowed like a living flame in her golden dress. She hadn’t lied when she told Azriel that clothes were capable of making a statement.

Daughter of fire.

The witch of smoke and ash.

The talons of her winged tattoo peeked out from underneath her shawl, but she only drew it tighter around her body. To shield from the cold or something else, Azriel could not tell.

“Nothing that I have not already heard a thousand times over,” she said absentmindedly.

It was obvious that the assassin was withholding information, but Azriel decided to table it for a later time. The afternoon had been tense enough. All the pomp and circumstance had certainly exhausted both sides and he was determined to uphold the refuge of the balcony as long as he could. Up here, away from the crowd, the shadowsinger could finally breathe. Even if it was only for a moment.

“Do you think we’ve convinced them?” Azriel asked as he surveyed the nobility milling about on the grounds.

In his opinion, the charade had held for the most part. The ladies of the court were indeed relentless and the shadowsinger had regaled them with the best version of lovestruck fool that he could muster, showering the assassin with furtive glances and lingering touches. Azriel thought he had done a decent enough job, but evaluating his performance after every mission was something he usually discussed with Rhys or Cassian. It helped hone his thoughts and improve his skills.

“Are you asking me for a performance evaluation, shadowsinger?” The assassin asked in an amused tone. Azriel sighed exasperatedly. He should have known better than to expect anything other than sarcasm. The shadowsinger was about to say so, but paused when her expression hardened. “You were very convincing. The court seems satisfied for now.”

Azriel did not miss the assassin’s side glance. She seemed to be weighing something. The rare show of indecisiveness unnerved him. “Out with it,” he said impatiently.

The assassin squinted at him as though it would allow her to read his thoughts. “The conversation with Enid. You offered to spar with her son. She holds no sway in this court, yet you treated her with kindness. Why is that?”

The shadowsinger startled. He did not expect the question, nor did he understand it. “I do not dole out kindness on the merit of what someone can give me. It is not something to be earned, but something to be freely given.”

She stared at him with unyielding focus. Azriel bristled and averted her gaze. “Surely I’m not so wretched in your eyes that an act of decency has rendered you speechless. A person can show kindness without ulterior motives, Thorne.”

The assassin shook her head. “Not in this court.”

Perhaps it was the influence of the sweetwine or the haunted look in her eyes, but Azriel found himself glancing up at the stars and sighing. “She reminds me of my mother,” he said softly.

Azriel didn’t know why he said it. The shadowsinger rarely spoke about his mother, even Rhys and Cassian had only heard a handful of stories about her, so he wasn’t entirely sure why he was bringing it up now.

“Thank you,” she said hoarsely. “For being kind to her.”

The air was rife with uncertainty. Neither one of them seemed equipped to deal with an actual moment of sincerity. “You know, I’ve heard you say thank you more today than in the past three centuries. I wasn’t even sure you were capable of showing such gratitude.”

The assassin rolled her eyes. “Tell any of our friends and I’ll hang you by your wings.”

The shadowsinger would have chuckled in response, but just then one of his shadows informed him that they were not alone. Azriel turned just as the Lady of the Autumn Court breezed through the double doors. He felt, rather than saw, the assassin stiffen beside him. The playfulness had all but gone and in its place was an immovable mask as she curtsied. Azriel followed suit and bowed.

“I am sorry to interrupt,” the Lady of the Autumn Court said. “I won’t keep you long. I came to bid you two good night and to congratulate you again on your betrothal.”

“Thank you,” the assassin said softly. “Azriel and I are honored to be welcomed as warmly as we were today.”

The Lady smiled. Mischief was alight in her eyes, and suddenly the resemblance between aunt and niece became as clear as day. “Some welcomes were warmer than others, were they not, shadowsinger?”

Azriel flushed. “The ladies of this court have been most gracious, but none more than you, my lady.”

There was a hint of amusement in her elegant features until she turned her attention back to the assassin. Azriel thought he saw a mixture of grief and apprehension, but the expression did not linger long enough for him to analyze it.

To the assassin’s surprise, the Lady of the Autumn Court grasped her gloved hands, turning it over to examine the sapphire ring glittering in the moonlight. “A lovely ring for a lovely lady,” she whispered softly, her eyes glossy. “Your mother would have been proud.”

The raw, pained expression on the assassin’s face made the shadowsinger feel like an unwelcome intruder. Aunt and niece stared at each other for a brief moment before breaking away. Azriel fought the urge to look away, his unease settling over his nerves like molasses.

The shadowsinger was glad he didn’t, because in the split second before the Lady of the Autumn Court collected herself, Azriel saw her slip something into the assassin’s gloved hand. If he hadn’t been watching so closely, he might have missed the entire exchange. But Azriel was the spymaster and it was his job to notice these things.

Just like it was the assassin’s job to keep secrets.

₊˚⊹♡ thank you for reading. as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated. feel free to drop an ask too — i’d love to yap & chat with you all.

taglist: @fuckingsimp4azriel@onebadassunicorn-blog@acourtofbatboydreams@marina468@ly–canthrope

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pablopascal · 10 days ago

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Falling in Love on the Fourth Floor (Azriel x reader) Masterlist

Summary: Out of an act of desperation, you move in with a guy you kind of know who happens to have a really hot brother who lives next door.

Author’s note: this is an Azriel x reader fic, however there will be a ton of Cassian and Rhys interaction because found family! Besides they’re so fun to write for.

*banner by @milswrites

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14.1, 14.2

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

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pablopascal · 12 days ago

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pablopascal · 13 days ago

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Part 7: The Night He Wept

Warning: This chapter contains emotional trauma, grief, and one (1) deeply depressed shadowsinger who is Not Doing Well.

Reader discretion advised for intense emotional moments, ambiguous consent regarding mating bonds, rejection fallout, and scenes of vulnerability that may be triggering for those sensitive to abandonment, entrapment, or quiet men crying silently in the garden.

Azriel is having a time. You might, too.

Please take care of your heart. And maybe keep tissues, and a therapist nearby. 💔🕯

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

Winnowing was a strange sensation at the best of times.

The world folding around you, compressing to a single point before expanding again.

But this was wrong.

The darkness stretched too long. Your body felt too light, then impossibly heavy.

The pain in your shoulder flared so violently that a scream tore from your throat, though you couldn't hear it through the roaring in your ears.

When reality finally reassembled itself, you were sprawled on unfamiliar ground, Lucien's arms still around you. Rain pelted your face, mingling with the blood that seemed to be everywhere now.

"Stay with me," Lucien commanded, his voice tight with panic. He shifted you in his arms, his face swimming in and out of focus above you.

The trees overhead blurred into a canopy of indistinct shapes.

Not the Dawn Court.

This was still Autumn territory, though not anywhere you recognized.

"Something went wrong," Lucien muttered, more to himself than to you. "Winnowing wounded... shouldn't have risked it."

You tried to answer, to tell him you were fine, but your mouth filled with a metallic taste.

Blood. Your blood.

"Nerissa's cottage is close," Lucien said, his pace quickening as he carried you through the rain. "Just hold on."

The world tilted sickeningly, darkness encroaching at the edges of your vision. The bond in your chest pulsed weakly, like the fluttering of a bird's wings.

The ash tea still burned through your system, keeping the full force of the bond at bay, but doing something else too. Something worse.

"Lucien," you managed, your voice a thread of sound beneath the rain.

He looked down, his mismatched eyes wild with fear. "Don't talk. Save your strength."

But you needed to say it, needed him to understand. "It's stopping me from healing."

His jaw tightened, a flash of understanding and horror crossing his face. "The ash," he whispered. "It suppresses magic."

Including the magic that might have kept you alive.

The cottage appeared ahead, a small structure nestled among ancient oaks. Smoke curled from its chimney despite the rain, lamplight glowing in the windows. Lucien kicked at the door, not bothering with courtesy.

"Nerissa!" he shouted. "I need help!"

The door swung open to reveal an elderly faerie with skin like autumn leaves and eyes of deep, shifting amber. She took one look at you and stepped back, gesturing them inside.

"Put her on the table," she instructed, already moving to gather supplies.

Lucien laid you down gently. You could feel the blood pooling beneath you, soaking into the rough wood. Too much blood.

Nerissa worked quickly, cutting away your sodden clothing to reveal the arrow wound. It had gone straight through, leaving entry and exit wounds that should have been survivable. But the arrow had been tipped with something. You'd seen it glinting green on the arrowhead before it struck you.

"Poison?" Lucien asked, hovering anxiously.

"Yes." Nerissa's voice was grim. "But that's not the worst of it." Her fingers traced the veins spreading outward from the wound. "What has she taken?"

"Ashwood tea," Lucien admitted. "To dampen a mating bond."

Nerissa's hands stilled. "Foolish girl," she breathed. "The ashwood neutralizes all magic, including healing magic."

"Can you help her?" Lucien's voice cracked on the question.

The healer pressed her palms to your wound, closing her eyes in concentration. You felt a warmth trying to penetrate the cold that had settled into your bones, but it was like water sliding off oiled cloth. Nothing took hold.

"The ash wood is blocking me," Nerissa said, frustration evident in her voice. "I can't reach her system to purge the poison."

"There must be something," Lucien insisted. "Some way to counteract it."

"Perhaps..." Nerissa hesitated, then moved to a chest in the corner of the cottage. She rummaged inside, pulling out a small box inlaid with bone. "This is old magic. Before High Lords, before courts."

Your heartbeat stuttered in your chest, each pulse weaker than the last. The pain was receding now, replaced by a spreading numbness that should have terrified you but instead felt like relief.

"Hurry," Lucien urged, his hands pressed to your wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.

Nerissa returned with something cupped in her gnarled hands. "Blood magic," she said softly. "It works outside the normal channels."

"Whatever it takes," Lucien replied without hesitation.

The healer nodded, sprinkled a mixture of herbs and dark powder around your body, forming a circle on the table. "But it requires payment."

"Name it."

"A memory," Nerissa said, her amber eyes fixed on Lucien. "One you value."

Lucien didn't hesitate. "Take it."

She nodded once, then placed her hands on either side of your face. "And from her, we take the poison."

The world started to fade around you, consciousness slipping away. As Nerissa began to chant in a language older than Prythian, your mind drifted free from your body.

And suddenly, you were elsewhere.

A hospital room. Sterile. Bright.

The rhythmic beeping of machines, the soft whoosh of mechanical breathing. And there. A body in a bed. Your body. Tubes and wires connected to machines that kept it alive.

"...no change in brain activity, though the patterns are unusual," a male voice was saying. A doctor. Human.

"What does that mean?" Another voice, your aunt's, thick with tears. "Is she in pain?"

"We don't believe so," the doctor replied gently. "But I'm afraid there's been no improvement since the accident. The coma is stable, but deep."

Coma.

The word registered with a jolt of understanding. Your human body had been in a coma all this time, while your consciousness wandered in Prythian.

"It's been three months," your aunt said, voice breaking. "You said if there was going to be improvement..."

"I know this is difficult to hear," the doctor said, "but at this point, we've done everything medically possible. The rest is up to her. She has to find her way back."

A sob escaped your aunt. You tried to scream, to move, to give any sign that you were there, that you could hear them. But nothing happened.

I'm here! you shouted inside your mind. I'm right here!

But she couldn't hear you. No one could.

Her hand closed around yours, warm and achingly familiar. "Baby, if you can hear me," she whispered, "please come back to us. Please don't go."

And you couldn't. You were trapped between worlds, neither fully in Prythian nor fully in your human body. You wept without tears, screamed without sound, as your aunt's fingers gently stroked your unresponsive hand.

"I'll be back tomorrow," she promised, her voice thick with grief. "I love you. Always."

As she moved away, your awareness began to fade, the hospital room growing distant. The beeping of the heart monitor receded, replaced by a different sound. Nerissa's chanting, Lucien's desperate pleas.

You were being pulled back, drawn inexorably toward the body dying on that wooden table.

Back to Prythian.

Part of you wanted to resist, to stay with your aunt, in your world. But your human body was beyond your reach now, your consciousness tethered to this new existence whether you wanted it or not.

The cottage materialized around you, time seemingly frozen in the moment of your almost-death. Lucien's hands pressed against your wound, his face contorted with grief and determination. Nerissa stood with palms outstretched, her blood magic pulsing in crimson waves that fought against the ashwood in your system.

As your consciousness settled back into your dying body, the cottage snapped into focus, time resuming its normal flow.

Pain flooded back, the poison and blood loss and failing heart. But something else came with it. Nerissa's magic, dark and ancient, finding pathways the ash tea couldn't block.

"There," she whispered, triumph in her voice. "The blood accepts blood."

Your back arched off the table as your heart lurched painfully in your chest, giving one strong beat, then another. Blood that had been sluggishly seeping from your wound slowed, then stopped entirely as the wound began to close under Nerissa's touch.

"She's returning," Nerissa said, watching as color crept back into your cheeks. "But changed."

Lucien sagged with relief, his hand finding yours and squeezing tight. "Thank the Cauldron."

"Don't thank anything yet," the healer warned. "The poison is gone, but the ashwood remains. It will be days before it leaves her system entirely."

"And the bond?" Lucien asked quietly.

"Muted, still. But present." Nerissa's amber eyes fixed on your face with uncomfortable intensity. "Though I sense there is more to this bond than meets the eye. It stretches... elsewhere."

You wanted to weep, to tell them about the other world, about your aunt sitting by a hospital bed, about the life you might never return to. But exhaustion pulled you under, the trauma and magic and sheer weight of your double existence too much to bear.

As consciousness faded once more, one terrible certainty remained.

You weren't going home.

Not to your aunt. Not to your real body.

The bond had claimed you for Prythian.

And somewhere far to the north, a shadowsinger flew through rain and darkness, driven by a golden thread he couldn't ignore and didn't understand coming to find what belonged to him, whether either of you wanted it or not.

You drifted in and out of consciousness, the bitter taste of Nerissa's medicine lingering on your tongue. The cottage was quiet save for the steady patter of rain on the thatched roof and the occasional crackling of the hearth fire. Night had fallen, turning the windows into black mirrors that reflected the warm glow within.

Voices pulled you from the edge of sleep hushed, tense, just beyond your door.

"You should have taken her straight to Dawn," came Eris's voice, pitched low but sharp with anger. "Not stopped at this hovel."

"She was dying," Lucien replied, his tone equally tense. "The arrow had pierced clean through, and she was losing too much blood. I made the call I had to make."

"And now five fae are dead."

Your breath caught. You kept your eyes closed, feigning sleep while straining to hear.

"What are you talking about?" Lucien asked.

"Your little escape from the estate didn't go unnoticed," Eris said. "Word travels, even in rain and darkness. The shadowsinger found the burning ruins."

The bond in your chest gave a sudden, sharp tug at the mention of Azriel. You ignored it, focusing on the conversation.

"Impossible," Lucien breathed. "He couldn't have tracked us that quickly."

"He didn't need to track you," Eris replied, disgust evident in his voice. "He simply followed the chaos you left behind. And when he found your little mess, he found the hunters who survived the fire."

A pause. Then, "He killed them all, Lucien. One by one."

"They tried to kill her," Lucien said, but there was uncertainty in his voice. "They deserved-"

"That's not the point," Eris cut in. "The point is the way he did it. Cold. Calculated. My source said he was completely composed."

"Bond-sickness should have driven him to madness by now," Lucien said, confusion evident in his voice. "Especially after her injury. He should be feral, uncontrolled."

"But he's not," Eris replied, something like reluctant respect in his tone. "It's as if the bond has given him clarity rather than chaos. He's more focused, more deadly than ever."

The bond pulsed again, stronger this time, sending a wave of heat through your veins despite the ash tea still lingering in your system. You pressed your hand to your chest, willing it to be quiet, to let you hear.

"You sound almost impressed," Lucien said with disbelief.

"I can recognize a dangerous opponent without liking him," Eris replied. "And the shadowsinger has become something… formidable. The bond hasn't weakened him as it should have. It's strengthened him, focused him."

"What does that mean for her?" Lucien's voice had an edge of concern now.

"It means he won't stop," Eris said simply. "Not for borders or laws or High Lords. Not until he finds her. And he will find her with a determination that even Rhysand might find disturbing."

"She's not some possession to be claimed," Lucien said.

"I don't think that's what he sees anymore," Eris replied thoughtfully. "My source said he moved differently, spoke differently. Not like a male hunting a possession, but like one seeking his other half. There was purpose there, not just obsession."

You shivered despite yourself, remembering the cold precision of Azriel's rejection. The harsh words. The shadows that nevertheless had caressed your cheek with strange tenderness.

"We need to move her to Dawn Court as soon as we can," Eris continued, his voice urgent now. "We leave at first light."

"And when she's healed?" Lucien asked. "We can't keep her hidden forever, even in Dawn Court."

A longer silence fell. When Eris spoke again, his voice was softer, almost resigned.

"No. Eventually, she'll have to face him. But on her terms, not his. When she's strong enough to make her own choice."

"And if she chooses him?"

"Then we respect her decision," Eris said. "But it will be her choice. Not the bond's. Not his. Not even ours."

The bond gave another insistent tug, as if in agreement with their words. This time, you couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped your lips as golden light briefly pulsed beneath your skin.

The conversation outside your door immediately ceased. Footsteps approached, and you quickly closed your eyes, forcing your breathing to even out.

The door creaked open. You could sense them both standing there, watching you.

"She shouldn't be moved tomorrow," Lucien said quietly. "She's still too weak."

"The alternative is waiting for the shadowsinger to find her," Eris replied. "And I promise you, brother, he's already hunting."

You expected to hear the door close, but instead, footsteps approached your bedside. The mattress dipped slightly as someone sat beside you. A warm hand gently brushed the hair from your forehead a touch so unexpectedly tender that you nearly gave yourself away by opening your eyes.

"I'll check the perimeter again," Lucien said softly from the doorway. "Make sure Nerissa's wards are holding."

The door closed with a quiet click, leaving you alone with Eris. His hand remained on your forehead, a comforting weight that felt strangely familiar, as if your body remembered a touch your mind did not.

"I know you're awake," Eris said quietly, no anger in his voice, just weary resignation.

You opened your eyes, meeting his amber gaze. In the dim light of the single candle, his normally harsh features seemed softer, more human.

"How much did you hear?" he asked.

"Enough," you whispered. "Five dead."

Eris nodded, his hand still resting on your forehead. "The shadowsinger is… not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"A rabid animal," he said frankly. "Bond-sickness usually breaks a male, especially one who has rejected the bond initially. It should have driven him mad."

"But it didn't," you said, the words a question more than a statement.

Eris studied your face, his expression unreadable. "No. It changed him, but not in the way I anticipated. It's as if…" He paused, seeming to search for the right words. "As if he's found his purpose."

The bond hummed quietly in your chest, neither painful nor insistent, just… present.

"Are you afraid of him?" Eris asked, surprising you with his directness.

You considered the question, truly considered it. "I don't know," you admitted. "I should be. But…"

"But the bond tells you differently," he finished for you.

You nodded, unable to deny it. "Does that make me a fool?"

A ghost of a smile touched Eris's lips. "No more than any of us who have been touched by the Cauldron's whims."

His hand moved from your forehead to take one of yours, his grip firm but gentle. It was such an unexpectedly brotherly gesture that tears sprang to your eyes. "Why are you trying to protect me."

"You're still my sister," he replied, as if that explained everything. And perhaps it did.

He squeezed your hand once before releasing it. "Rest. Tomorrow will be challenging enough without you exhausting yourself eavesdropping. The journey to Dawn Court will test your strength."

As he rose to leave, you caught his sleeve. "Eris."

He paused, looking down at you.

"Thank you."

He didn't smile you weren't sure Eris truly knew how but his expression softened slightly. He placed his hand briefly on top of your head in a gesture so familial, so protective, that it made your heart ache. Then, in a movement so quick and gentle you might have imagined it, he bent down and pressed a kiss to your head.

"Sleep, little flame," he said quietly, using what must have been a childhood nickname. "Your brothers are watching over you."

It lingered like a blessing, so unexpected from the cold, calculating male you'd come to know. It spoke of a past you couldn't remember, of a bond deeper than politics or court alliances.

Then he was gone, the door closing silently behind him, leaving only the faint scent of cinnamon and smoke to prove he'd been there at all.

You turned your face to the pillow, confused tears slipping down your cheeks. The bond sang its golden song in your blood, but now another bond one of family, of blood and choice and unexpected protection wrapped around you as well.

Tomorrow you would leave with your newfound brothers, flee to Dawn Court, continue fighting against the bond that tried to claim you.

But tonight, in the darkness where no one could see, you allowed yourself to wonder about the male who had found clarity rather than madness in your connection. Who sought you not as a possession, but as his missing piece.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, there might be a choice that didn't require you to run from one bond to preserve another.

You were barely conscious when you arrived at the Dawn Court. The journey had taken what remained of your strength, Lucien and Eris winnowing you through multiple points to throw off any trackers. Your vision had tunneled to pinpricks of light, voices coming to you as if through water.

“She needs immediate attention,” someone said, their voice musical yet commanding. “Bring her to the eastern chambers.”

Hands lifted you onto something soft that floated beneath you, carrying you through corridors scented with jasmine and morning light. You tried to focus, to thank whoever was helping you, but consciousness slipped away again. Replaced by a different scene entirely.

The hospital room. The beeping monitors. Your aunt’s voice, thick with tears.

“It’s been over three months now, and the doctors say… they say we should consider…” Her voice broke. “I can’t give up on you. I won’t.”

You tried to reach for her, to tell her you were there, that you could hear her, but an invisible barrier held you back.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only watch as she pressed her forehead against your unresponsive hand.

“Come back to us,” she whispered. “Please come back.”

The scene dissolved, replaced by a Dawn Court ceiling painted with a perpetual sunrise. Healers moved around you, their hands stirring gentle currents of air that smelled of herbs and magic. You let yourself drift, caught between worlds, belonging to neither.

Days passed this way. Sometimes you were in Prythian, vaguely aware of people tending to you, speaking about you as if you couldn’t hear.

Other times you were in the hospital room, a prisoner in your own unresponsive body, watching your family grieve.

You never fully woke. Never fully slept.

You simply existed in a gray space between, the mating bond a dull ache in your chest. A tether to a world you hadn’t chosen but couldn’t escape.

On the fourth day. Or maybe the fifth; time had become fluid, unreliable, you heard Eris’s voice.

“Is there improvement?” he asked someone you couldn’t see.

“Her physical wounds are healing,” came the reply, a female voice, likely a healer. “But she remains unconscious.”

“And the bond?” Eris’s voice was carefully neutral, revealing nothing.

“Stable, but stressed. The separation isn’t helping.”

“It’s necessary,” Eris said firmly. “Beron has every tracker in Autumn searching for her. He’s even approached the Spring Court for assistance, claiming she was abducted.”

“Lord Thesan understands the situation,” the healer assured him. “Our wards will hold.”

Their voices faded as you slipped back into the liminal space, pulled toward your human body once more. The hospital room seemed dimmer this time, night having fallen. A different family member. Your cousin, sat beside your bed, reading aloud from your favorite book as if you might hear and find your way back through the words.

You drifted again, caught in the riptide between worlds.

When awareness returned, Lucien sat beside your Dawn Court bed, his metal eye whirring softly as he studied your face.

“You need to wake up properly,” he said quietly, as if sensing you could hear him even in your half‑conscious state. “Ember and Sizzle are terrorizing the servants. Yesterday they set fire to Thesan’s favorite tapestry, and the day before that they somehow got into the kitchens and charbroiled an entire week’s worth of pastries.”

As if summoned by their names, you felt two small, warm weights settle on either side of your pillow, your flame‑bunnies, who had apparently appointed themselves your guardians in this strange, suspended state.

“Troublemakers,” Lucien continued, his voice fond despite his words.

You wanted to respond, to reach out, but the pull of the other world was too strong. Back in the hospital, a doctor was speaking to your aunt, using words like persistent vegetative state and difficult decisions ahead. You tried to scream, to let them know you were there, trapped between lives, unable to fully claim either.

Fragments of conversation drifted through the fog of days.

“Beron grows more desperate. He’s threatened the Summer Court with retaliation if they don’t assist in the search.”

“Why is he so fixated on finding her? He never showed such concern before.”

Eris sighed, after a long pause, “Because she defied him. Beron doesn’t care about her, only about making an example of her. He intends to show what happens to those who defy the High Lord of Autumn.”

The words pierced the haze. Rage and wounded pride, nothing more. The bond flared at the thought, golden light flickering beneath your skin.

Your eyes opened properly for the first time since arriving at Dawn Court. The chamber around you was beautiful in a way the Autumn Court could never manage. Soft light and gentle curves, crystals catching and amplifying the eternal dawn.

Ember and Sizzle, dozing on your pillow, perked up, their tiny flame forms brightening with excitement. They hopped around your head, chirping happily and leaving small scorch marks on the luxurious bedding.

“Look who’s finally decided to join the land of the living,” Lucien said from the doorway, arms crossed yet visibly relieved. “Just in time, too. Your little fire hazards were about to be banished to the fountain for their own good.”

Ember looked deeply offended. Sizzle, indifferent, continued exploring, leaving paw‑prints of ash on silken sheets.

“How long?” you croaked.

“Nine days,” Lucien replied, pouring water from a crystal carafe. “You’ve been… elsewhere.”

You drank gratefully, but kept your secrets close. “It feels like I’ve been dreaming. Strange dreams.”

Lucien’s metal eye whirred faster. “Trauma often sends the mind searching for escape.”

“And the bond?” You pressed a hand to the golden thread pulsing in your chest.

“Still there,” he said. “What it means… we’ll see.”

Eris appeared, amber eyes widening at the sight of you upright. “Just in time for the latest crisis.”

“What crisis?” you asked, reaching for Ember, who hopped into your palm with a contented chirp.

“Beron has discovered your location or suspects it,” Eris replied grimly. “He’s petitioning Thesan for a formal search of Dawn Court grounds.”

“Will Thesan agree?”

“No,” Eris said, confident. “Thesan’s no friend to Autumn. But we must strengthen your protection and plan for a swift departure.”

“Why is Beron so determined? Is it really just because I defied him?”

“He’s furious,” Eris said. “When you ran, you humiliated him. Our father sees you as property, not a daughter.”

“But we won’t let that happen,” Lucien added. “Get your strength back. We may need to move soon.”

Exhaustion washed over you as they left to make arrangements. Ember and Sizzle curled against your side, warm and comforting.

“What am I doing?” you whispered to them. “Caught between worlds while my human body lies dying in a hospital? I can’t tell them. They’d never understand.”

Ember shrugged—a strangely human gesture—and you laughed despite everything.

You slept properly for the first time since arriving at Dawn Court. When you woke, actual sunlight. Not the court’s perpetual glow—streamed through your windows. You’d slept through an entire day and night.

A tray waited. Fruit glowing from within, bread still warm, tea perfectly steeped. You ate ravenously, surprised by your appetite.

Feeling stronger, you explored your chamber. Elegant furniture seemed to grow from the floor; crystal windows refracted light into rainbows; a bathing pool steamed with jasmine‑scented springs.

A knock interrupted. A Dawn Court servant bowed. “Lady, Lord Thesan requests your presence in the eastern garden when you feel strong enough. Your brothers await you there.”

Brothers. The word still felt wrong. They shared blood with this body, but were strangers to the consciousness within.

“Thank you,” you said. “I’ll come now.”

She left a simple, beautiful gown of pale gold that captured dawn‑light. You dressed quickly, surprised by your regained strength. Ember and Sizzle followed as you walked the corridors; servants stared at your flame‑pets as tiny scorch marks dotted the polished floors.

The garden embodied Dawn Court restraint: pale‑barked trees with glowing blossoms, crushed‑white‑stone paths, fountains singing as water leapt from tier to tier.

Thesan waited by one fountain, his copper skin glinting under the gleaming light.

“Lady of Autumn,” He greeted, kindness warming his ancient eyes. “I’m pleased to see you recovered. Your unconscious state caused us concern.”

“Thank you for your hospitality and protection, Lord Thesan,” you replied, bowing your head. “I’m sorry for any trouble my presence has caused.”

“No trouble,” Thesan assured. “Dawn Court is a place of healing and transition.” His gaze flicked to Ember and Sizzle, currently scaling the fountain with disastrous enthusiasm. “Though your companions have provided some… unexpected excitement.”

“They’re impossible,” you said, stifling a smile as Sizzle slipped into the water with a hiss of steam. “But they mean well.”

“Indeed.” Thesan’s expression sobered. “I hope your stay, however brief, brings peace. Dawn Court lives in the moment of transition between night and day. A reminder that no state is permanent, only change.”

You wondered if he sensed your divided nature, but his face revealed only polite welcome.

“Thank you, Lord Thesan,” you said. “I hope to enjoy what Dawn Court offers for as long as I may stay.”

As talk turned to mundane matters of accommodation and security, the hospital surfaced in your mind, distant now, faint. Your human family still kept vigil, but their voices reached you as though from a deep well.

The bond tugged you toward this world, this reality. Answers about Beron, the bond, and yourself, waited beyond Dawn Court’s perpetual sunrise.

For now, you would gather strength and keep your secrets close, navigating this strange existence between two worlds.

The Dawn Court's borders shimmered in the perpetual half light, a gossamer veil of magic that separated Thesan's realm from the rest of Prythian.

Azriel stood before it, unmoving as he had been for days now, his shadows writhing around him in agitated tendrils that reflected the turmoil within.

The sentries watched him warily from their posts.

The shadowsinger of the Night Court had arrived five days ago, taking position at the eastern border where the magic was thinnest. He'd made no move to cross, no attempt to infiltrate.

He simply... waited. Watching. Sometimes pacing, but mostly standing in silent vigil, his haggard appearance growing more concerning with each passing day.

"He hasn't eaten since yesterday," one sentry murmured to another as they changed shifts. "Barely sleeps either. Just stands there, staring."

"Should we report to Lord Thesan again?"

"Already did. He said to continue observation only."

Azriel heard them, of course.

His Illyrian hearing could pick up a whisper from across a battlefield. But he gave no indication, his focus turned inward to the golden thread that pulsed in his chest sometimes painfully bright, sometimes a dull ache, but always pulling him toward the heart of Dawn Court.

Toward you.

His wings, normally immaculate, showed signs of neglect the leathery membranes dull rather than gleaming. Dark stubble shadowed his usually clean shaven jaw, while circles beneath his eyes gave his already severe features a haunted quality.

The shadows themselves had changed.

Those who knew Azriel well would have noticed immediately they no longer moved with calculated precision, no longer seemed like tools under his absolute control. Instead, they reached, they yearned, stretching toward the border before being pulled back to coil around their master like protective serpents.

When the Dawn Court emissary finally approached, Azriel's eyes sharpened with predatory focus, though he made no move toward the slender fae who approached with hands raised in peaceful gesture.

"Shadowsinger," the emissary greeted formally. "Lord Thesan acknowledges your presence at our borders and invites you to an audience."

Azriel's voice, when he finally spoke, was rough from disuse. "When?"

"Now, if you're willing."

Azriel gave a single, sharp nod.

The emissary gestured toward the border, which parted like silk curtains to admit him. The moment he crossed, he felt the weight of Dawn Court wards settle around him not hostile, but watchful, ready to neutralize any threat.

As they walked through forests bathed in perpetual sunrise, Azriel's shadows retreated closer to his body, as if uncomfortable in the gentle light. His hand drifted occasionally to the hilt of Truth Teller at his hip not in threat, but from habit, seeking comfort in the familiar weight.

The golden thread in his chest pulled harder with each step toward the palace, almost painfully tight now.

Somewhere ahead, you waited.

Somewhere ahead, the other half of his soul lived and breathed, perhaps hating him for the cruel words he'd spat at you when the bond had first snapped into place.

"I reject you," he had told you weeks ago, the memory flashing unbidden through his mind.

Your face had crumpled at his coldness, the bond between you shuddering with your pain. He had turned away then, unable to face what he'd done.

The Dawn Court palace rose before them, its crystalline spires capturing the eternal sunrise and fracturing it into rainbows that danced across polished facades.

Even in his state of agitation, Azriel could appreciate its beauty so different from the shadowed grandeur of the Night Court, yet magnificent in its own way.

They led him not to the grand audience chamber, but to a smaller, more intimate garden terrace where Thesan waited alone. The High Lord of Dawn studied Azriel with ancient eyes that held no hostility, only careful assessment.

"Shadowsinger," Thesan greeted. "You've caused quite a stir, maintaining your vigil at my borders."

Azriel inclined his head slightly, the closest he could manage to courtly manners in his current state. "I meant no disrespect."

"None was taken." Thesan gestured to a seat across from him, but Azriel remained standing. The High Lord didn't press the issue. "Your appearance suggests you have not been caring for yourself."

Azriel made no reply.

His state was obvious enough the weight he'd lost, the gauntness in his face, the shadows under his eyes that had nothing to do with his power.

"Why have you come, Shadowsinger?" Thesan asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

Azriel's gaze lifted to meet the High Lord's, and something in that gaze the raw emotion, the quiet desperation seemed to soften Thesan's expression.

"I don't demand to see her," Azriel said, the words clearly difficult. "I don't demand anything."

"A refreshing approach," Thesan noted. "Most males in your position would be tearing apart my court stone by stone."

Azriel's jaw tightened beneath the dark stubble. "Is she well?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The simple question, asked with such carefully restrained concern, seemed to surprise Thesan, who studied the shadowsinger with renewed interest.

"She is recovering," the High Lord finally replied. "Both physically and... otherwise."

"The arrow wound?" Azriel's shadows twisted anxiously.

"Healed, for the most part. Though there were complications."

Azriel nodded once, his gloved hands clenching. "Has she been able to rest? To eat properly?"

"She's regaining her strength," Thesan answered, watching Azriel carefully.

"And her flame creatures? They're with her?"

A slight smile touched Thesan's lips. "They've caused quite a stir among my household staff. Very protective of her."

Relief flickered across Azriel's face. "Good. That's... good." He paused, then asked, "Is she safe here?"

"As safe as anyone can be in these turbulent times," Thesan replied. "Though Beron's interest in her whereabouts grows more aggressive by the day."

"Has Beron threatened her directly?" Azriel asked, shadows darkening. "Are his agents watching the borders?"

"Your concern is noted, Shadowsinger," Thesan said evenly. "Though I assure you, Dawn Court is quite capable of protecting its guests."

"I don't question your capabilities," Azriel said quietly. "I only wish to know if there's anything I can do to help ensure her safety."

Thesan's eyebrows rose slightly. "You offer assistance to Dawn Court?"

"I offer whatever is needed to ensure she's protected," Azriel replied, the words a quiet vow. "I only ask permission to remain here... at a distance. To help ensure her safety without intruding on her peace."

"And if she doesn't wish you to stay?" Thesan asked, watching him carefully.

"Then I'll go," Azriel said immediately. "But I would station myself at your borders, with your permission."

Thesan studied him for a long moment. "The bond has changed you."

"She has changed me," Azriel corrected softly, then fell silent, as if he'd already said too much about himself.

Thesan's expression showed genuine surprise, then approval. "That is a rare understanding, even among those far older than yourself."

Azriel looked toward the eastern wing of the palace, where the golden thread in his chest pulled insistently. "I don't ask to see her. I don't deserve it."

"And if she chooses to never see you again?" Thesan asked, his tone gentle but probing.

"Then I will protect her from afar," Azriel replied without hesitation. "Whether she claims me or not, she has my dagger, my shadows, my life if needed."

Thesan was silent for a long moment. Then, "You speak of choice, yet you've been at my borders for five days, barely eating, barely sleeping. The bond drives you still."

"The bond drives me to ensure her safety and happiness," Azriel corrected quietly. "Not to possess her."

Something in his words seemed to satisfy Thesan, who nodded slowly. "Rest here tonight, Shadowsinger. Food and quarters will be provided."

Azriel stiffened. "I don't wish to impose-"

"It is not," Thesan interrupted gently. "It is a High Lord's hospitality to a warrior who has clearly reached his limits."

Before Azriel could respond, a flicker of movement caught his attention a flash of fire from a nearby corridor, there and gone in an instant. His shadows surged in that direction, sensing rather than seeing, and Azriel went completely still.

You were near.

So close that the bond sang between you, golden light briefly visible beneath his skin. His wings twitched with the instinct to move toward you, but he held himself rigidly in place, refusing to push, to intrude.

Thesan rose, "A room will be prepared for you. Food brought. I suggest you accept both, Shadowsinger, before you collapse."

As if his body had been waiting for permission, a wave of exhaustion swept through Azriel. He inclined his head in acceptance, shadows swirling tiredly around him.

"Thank you," Azriel replied, the words raw with genuine gratitude.

As a Dawn Court attendant led him to guest quarters, Azriel felt the golden thread in his chest ease slightly, as if knowing he was under the same roof even floors and corridors away was enough to soothe its constant pull. He followed quietly, each step taking enormous effort now that the adrenaline of meeting with Thesan had faded.

In his room, food had already been laid out fruits that seemed to glow from within, bread still warm from the oven, and a carafe of wine that caught the light like liquid rubies.

Azriel could barely remember the last time he'd eaten properly. The days at the border had blurred together, hunger and thirst secondary to the need to be near you, to know you were safe.

He ate mechanically, his body demanding sustenance even as his mind remained focused on the bond connecting him to you. It felt different here less painful, more... anticipatory. As if the bond itself knew that separation couldn't last forever, one way or another.

After eating, he moved to the balcony that overlooked gardens awash in perpetual dawn light. He breathed deeply, letting his shadows expand and contract with each breath. Somewhere in this palace, you were making your own choice. Whether that choice included him or not, he would honor it.

His gloved fingers absently rubbed at the stubble on his jaw as he stared out at the Dawn Court's eternal sunrise. He didn't care about his haggard appearance, his exhaustion, or his hunger. He cared only about one thing.

That you were safe. That you were healing. That you had everything you needed.

The rest including whether you ever forgave him was entirely your choice.

And for the first time in his long life, the shadowsinger surrendered completely to a power greater than his formidable will.

The choice was yours.

The healing chambers of the Dawn Court became your sanctuary.

After weeks of recovery, you found yourself drawn to the eastern wing of Thesan's palace where injured fae came seeking help.

At first, you simply observed, fascinated by the Dawn healers' methods so different from Autumn Court magic, which focused on destruction rather than restoration.

"You have a natural aptitude," remarked Alis, the chief healer, as you handed her crushed herbs for a poultice.

Her amber eyes studied you with interest. "Your touch calms the patients."

You shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "I'm just trying to be useful."

"Nonsense," she replied briskly. "Your energy has healing properties. I suspect it's always been there, just... misdirected in Autumn."

The work gave you purpose, a reason to rise each morning despite the persistent ache of the bond in your chest.

The ash tea's effects had finally worn off completely, leaving you with the full strength of the mating bond, a golden thread that tugged constantly toward the western edge of the palace grounds.

You ignored it. Deliberately. Fiercely.

Instead, you threw yourself into learning. Into living. Into rebuilding a life that was wholly your own.

"The lavender infusion needs straining," you told one of the younger healers as you moved through the sunlit chamber, checking on patients.

The Dawn Court's perpetual sunrise streamed through crystal windows, bathing everything in a golden glow that enhanced healing magic.

As you reached for fresh bandages on a high shelf, you felt it again the sensation of being watched.

It had been happening for days now, a prickling awareness that raised the fine hairs on your neck. You turned sharply, scanning the room, the doorway, the windows.

Nothing. No one.

Just as there had been nothing the day before, or the day before that.

You pushed the feeling aside. Dawn Court was full of secrets and hidden watchers perimeter guards, palace attendants, the Peregryn warriors who served as Thesan's elite force. Any of them might have reason to observe an Autumn Court refugee with unusual healing abilities.

It meant nothing.

"You look tired," Lucien commented that evening as you joined him for a simple dinner in your private quarters.

Eris had already departed another brief visit concluded. His position in Autumn Court required maintaining appearances, which meant he couldn't stay long in Dawn without raising suspicions. "The healing work is draining you."

"I'm fine," you replied, helping yourself to roasted quail and honeyed vegetables. "It's good to be useful."

Lucien studied you for a moment. "You've settled in quickly."

"The Dawn Court suits me," you admitted.

The constant sunrise felt like hope made manifest neither trapped in darkness nor exposed to harsh daylight. Just endless possibility.

Later that night, as you prepared for bed, you noticed something on your balcony a small parcel wrapped in midnight-blue silk, secured with a silver ribbon.

Your heart beat faster as you approached it warily. It hadn't been there earlier. Someone had placed it there while you dined.

With cautious fingers, you untied the ribbon.

Inside lay a delicate silver bracelet, each link shaped like a tiny flame that somehow captured the dawn light and reflected it in golden hues. It was beautiful understated yet distinctive, nothing like the ostentatious Autumn Court jewelry you'd seen.

A small note accompanied it, written in an elegant, angular hand.

For protection and healing.

No signature. None needed.

You knew instantly who had left it, just as you knew who had been watching from the shadows.

Azriel.

Anger flared hot and sudden. You stormed from your room, bracelet clutched in your fist. The bond pulsed wildly as you marched through the Dawn Court halls, following its pull like a compass.

You found Lucien in the library, browsing ancient texts by lamplight.

"You knew," you accused, throwing the bracelet onto the table before him. It clattered against the polished wood. "You knew he was here."

Lucien didn't feign ignorance. "Thesan granted him sanctuary three days ago."

"Why wasn't I told?" The flames in the nearby hearth flickered higher, responding to your anger.

"Because you're still healing," Lucien said carefully. "And because he specifically asked not to disturb your peace."

"That's not your decision to make," you snapped. "Or his. Or Thesan's."

"No," Lucien agreed quietly. "It's not. But the damage he did to you when the bond first appeared-"

"Is between him and me."

Lucien studied you. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Why is he here? What does he want? How long has Thesan been sheltering him?"

"Let's find Thesan," Lucien suggested. "He can explain better than I can."

The High Lord received you in his private study despite the late hour. His golden-brown skin seemed to glow with the same light as the perpetual dawn outside, his eyes keen as he gestured for you to sit.

"I expected this visit sooner," Thesan said, pouring three glasses of pale wine. "The shadowsinger arrived at our borders five days ago and simply waited. No demands, no threats."

"Unlike most males in his position," Lucien added.

"Why is he here?" you demanded.

"For you," Thesan said simply. "Though he claims he expects nothing in return. He stood at our borders for days, barely eating, barely sleeping."

"The bond drives him," Lucien explained.

"No," Thesan corrected. "He believes the bond drives him to ensure your safety and happiness, not to possess you. His words, not mine. He offered his services to Dawn Court as additional protection against Beron's growing interest in your whereabouts."

You scoffed. "How convenient."

"I'm not asking you to forgive him," Thesan said. "But I thought his approach unusual. Most fae males, especially warriors of his caliber, would have demanded access to you, claimed ancient rights. He asked only to know that you were healing well."

"The gifts?" you asked.

Thesan's expression softened. "Those were not my idea, nor did I explicitly permit them. But I saw no harm."

"He's a shadowsinger," you said flatly. "Of course you didn't catch him."

"I see more than you might think," Thesan replied, unruffled. "The question is, what do you want done? I can send him away if that's your wish."

The question caught you off guard. You'd been so focused on your anger at being kept in the dark that you hadn't considered what you actually wanted.

Your chair scraped harshly as you stood. "He's not welcome anywhere near me."

"Very well," Thesan began. "I'll inform-"

"No." You cut him off, walking toward the door. "You don't get to play matchmaker, Thesan. Neither of you do. You had no right to keep this from me."

"That wasn't our intent," Lucien said.

You paused at the doorway, not looking back. "I'm not a piece in whatever game you're playing."

You left without waiting for a response, your anger a living thing inside you. But beneath it, the bond hummed, carrying an emotion that wasn't entirely your own, relief, perhaps, that you now knew he was here. That there was no more need for shadows and secrets.

You hated how your body responded to that knowledge, how the pain in your chest had eased slightly despite your fury.

"What is this, Medieval Instagram?" you muttered to yourself later, staring at the bracelet.

You set the bracelet aside, ignoring the insistent tug of the bond in your chest.

After a moment's hesitation, you didn't throw it away, but placed it in a drawer instead.

Out of sight, if not entirely out of mind.

The gifts continued over the following days.

A small pot of healing salve appeared on your balcony, its properties more potent than anything in the Dawn Court's extensive collection. Alis marveled at its efficacy, asking where you'd obtained it.

You couldn't bring yourself to tell her.

Then came a set of delicate crystal vials for holding medicinal tinctures, each stopper carved in the shape of a different healing herb. Next, a rare book on ancient healing techniques, its pages clearly carefully selected to align with your growing interests.

You placed each gift in the drawer with the bracelet, refusing to use them, refusing to acknowledge them in any way.

Yet you found yourself opening that drawer each night, running your fingers over the items, wondering what might appear next. The gifts felt like messages, each one saying. I see you. I know you. I'm sorry. Words the shadowsinger wouldn't couldn't say to your face.

One evening, you discovered a small wooden carving of a flame bunny on your balcony, so detailed it captured Ember's mischievous expression perfectly.

You ran your fingers over the intricate workmanship despite yourself. You placed the carving with the other gifts, trying to ignore how perfectly it fit in your palm, how the weight of it felt oddly comforting.

The next day, as you walked from the healing chambers to your rooms, you felt the familiar prickling sensation of being watched. This time, rather than ignoring it, you stopped abruptly in the middle of the corridor.

"I know you're there," you said quietly, not turning around. "Following me like a shadow. Very original, by the way. So this is the Fae version of sliding into my DMs?"

No response came, but the air seemed to thicken, darkness gathering in the corners despite the eternal dawn light streaming through the windows.

Did the shadows just... ripple? As if caught off-guard by your strange reference?

"This is childish," you continued, still facing forward.

The shadows stirred, a whisper of movement that might have been mistaken for a draft if you hadn't been listening for it.

"Nothing to say for yourself?" You finally turned, scanning the seemingly empty corridor. "Fine. Keep hiding."

As you continued to your rooms, the sensation of being watched gradually faded.

By the time you reached your door, you felt alone again the bond still tugging insistently, but the immediate presence gone.

That night, no gift appeared on your balcony.

Nor the next night. Nor the one after that.

You told yourself you were relieved.

That the game, whatever it had been, was finally over. Yet each evening, you found yourself glancing toward the balcony, expecting perhaps even hoping to find another small token.

"This is why we can't have nice things," you muttered to yourself, annoyed at your own disappointment.

Ember and Sizzle seemed agitated, pacing the balcony each evening, their tiny forms of rosy-pink flame flickering with what seemed like disappointment when they found nothing new. They'd grown oddly attached to investigating each gift, sniffing and circling the items with inexplicable interest.

On the fourth night without a gift, Ember hopped onto your vanity table as you prepared for bed. His pink flame form flickered restlessly as he pawed at the drawer where you'd stored the shadowsinger's gifts.

"Stop that," you said, shooing him away. "It's nothing. My own personal Edward Cullen with wings sends his regards," you said with an eye roll that would have confused any purebred Fae.

Ember made a soft, crackling sound not words, but clearly displeasure. He continued pawing at the drawer until you relented and opened it, if only to prevent him from scorching the wood.

"There. See? Just trinkets," you told him firmly.

A soft chirp from the balcony drew your attention. Sizzle stood at the doors, her pink flame form brightening as she squeezed through the small gap you always left open for their nocturnal explorations.

"Sizzle! Get back here," you called, alarmed. She'd never ventured outside alone at night before.

Ember seized the opportunity created by your distraction to grab the wooden carving of himself, following his sister through the gap before you could stop him.

Moving to the balcony doors, you hesitated, then pushed them open fully, stepping out into the cool night air. The balcony was empty.

They must have scrambled down the ivy that covered this section of the palace wall. You leaned over the railing, trying to spot two tiny points of pink flame in the gardens below.

Nothing.

Without thinking, you grabbed a shawl and hurried from your rooms, making your way through the quiet palace corridors toward the gardens.

The bond in your chest seemed to pulse more insistently with each step, as if approving your destination even as you remained ignorant of it.

The night air carried the scent of Dawn Court roses as you entered the gardens, their blooms glowing faintly in the perpetual twilight. You called softly for your companions, listening for the distinctive crackle of their flame-steps on the gravel paths.

A flicker of movement caught your eye not the pink of your flame bunnies, but a deeper shadow among shadows near a secluded bench beneath a flowering tree.

Your steps slowed as you recognized the silhouette seated there, two tiny points of pink flame dancing around his feet.

The traitors had found exactly who they were looking for.

Azriel sat perfectly still as Ember and Sizzle circled him, emitting excited little crackles of flame. In the shadowsinger's gloved hands lay the wooden carving of Ember, which he appeared to be showing to the real thing.

His wings were folded tightly against his back, his expression hidden in shadow. The leather gloves he always wore seemed particularly dark against the pale wood of the carving.

You could have retreated should have retreated.

He hadn't noticed you yet, focused entirely on your flame companions. But your feet carried you forward instead, drawn by equal parts irritation at your pets' betrayal and the insistent pull of the bond.

You approached silently, eyes fixed only on your flame bunnies, deliberately avoiding looking at the shadowsinger.

"Ember. Sizzle. Come," you commanded, your voice neutral, as if speaking to empty air.

The flame bunnies looked up, their pink forms brightening at your approach, but neither moved to obey.

Sizzle even had the audacity to hop closer to Azriel's boot.

You continued as if speaking into a void, still not acknowledging the male's presence. "We're leaving now."

Azriel's shadows swirled around him in agitation, clearly sensing your deliberate dismissal. His head lifted, hazel eyes finding yours, but you looked right through him, focusing on a point beyond his shoulder.

"They see me," he said, his voice a broken whisper. "Why can't you? Or is it that you won't?"

You continued as if you hadn't heard him, as if the words had been merely the rustling of leaves. "Ember, Sizzle. Now."

The flame bunnies remained stubbornly in place. Ember even hopped onto Azriel's knee, pink flame brightening as he settled in like he belonged there.

Something inside you snapped.

A cold anger washed through you, and without thinking, you summoned the magic that tied these creatures to you. Fire blossomed in your palm not the gentle warmth you typically used with them, but a sharp, commanding heat.

"Come," you said one final time, infusing the word with power.

The flame bunnies froze, their pink forms flickering uncertainly. Then, as one, they vanished with twin pops of displaced air.

Azriel visibly flinched at the display of power, at the finality of it. His shadows recoiled around him as if struck.

"Please," he breathed, the word ragged with desperation. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. I know my words cut deeper than any blade. But this silence," his voice cracked, "is worse than any torture I've endured."

You turned without a word, without a glance, and began walking away.

"I dream of you," he called after you, voice raw with emotion. "Every night, I dream of a world where I didn't fail you."

You didn't slow, didn't turn.

"It doesn't change what happened," Azriel's voice followed you, breaking on each word. "But please... just look at me once. Just once. So I know there's still a path back to you, however long it might be."

You didn't slow, didn't turn, didn't acknowledge the words in any way.

But as you reached the edge of the garden, your peripheral vision caught his expression a flash of such raw pain that it momentarily stole your breath.

His face, usually so carefully controlled, had crumbled into naked hurt, shadows writhing around him like physical manifestations of his agony. A single tear escaped, sliding down his cheek, glinting silver in the eternal dawn light before dropping to the ground.

The shadowsinger of the Night Court feared, revered, impenetrable wept for what he had lost.

You kept walking, spine straight, eyes forward, pretending you hadn't seen. Pretending the image of his devastated face wouldn't haunt your dreams.

The walk back to your chambers felt endless. Each step required focus, determination not to falter, not to let your mask slip.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, nearly drowning out the persistent hum of the bond that seemed to vibrate with the shared pain between you.

When you finally reached your door, your hand trembled slightly as you pushed it open. The moment it closed behind you, your carefully constructed composure shattered.

You slid to the floor, back against the door, as the first sob tore from your throat. The tears you'd been holding back rushed forth in a torrent, hot and unstoppable. Your shoulders shook with the force of your grief, grief for what might have been, grief for his pain, grief for your own.

"Why did you have to look at me like that?" you gasped between sobs, your voice breaking on each word. "Why did you have to cry? You don't get to cry after what you did."

You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to block out the image that refused to leave you.

Azriel's face, that single silver tear tracking down his cheek. The shadowsinger of the Night Court, powerful and feared across Prythian, brought to tears by your rejection.

"I hate you," you whispered, but the bond flared painfully in your chest, as if sensing the lie. "I hate that I can't hate you."

The bond pulsed in your chest, a golden thread connecting you to him even now, carrying echoes of his anguish alongside your own. You wanted to sever it, to cut it away, but the harder you tried to ignore it, the more insistently it tugged.

"It's not fair," your voice cracked, barely audible through your tears. "It's not fair that I can feel you breaking when all I want is to be free of you."

You curled into yourself, arms wrapped around your knees as if physically holding yourself together. The sobs that wracked your body felt endless, each one torn from somewhere deeper than the last.

"You don't get to haunt me," you choked out. "You don't get to make me care after you threw me away."

You didn't know how long you sat there, tears flowing freely as you mourned something you'd never actually had. Something you'd rejected before fully understanding what it meant. The bond had been a violation, an intrusion but the male himself...

"I could have loved you," you whispered, the confession torn from your very soul. "That's what hurts the most. I could have loved you so easily."

Eventually, the tears subsided, leaving you hollow and exhausted.

You dragged yourself to the washbasin, splashing cold water on your face. In the mirror, your reflection stared back eyes reddened, face blotchy. You barely recognized yourself.

"Get it together," you told your reflection. "Tears doesn't erase what he did."

But even as you spoke the words, you knew they were a lie.

Because the pain you'd glimpsed in Azriel wasn't manipulation or self-pity.

It was raw, genuine agony the pain of someone watching their last hope walk away.

Your fingers slipped into your pocket, touching the silver bracelet you'd taken from the drawer earlier that day. Its weight felt both lighter and heavier than you remembered.

The metal caught the eternal dawn light streaming through your windows, reflecting it in golden hues that matched the bond pulsing in your chest.

"It doesn't change anything," you whispered, echoing his words.

But as your fingers closed around the bracelet rather than putting it back in the drawer, you wondered if that was truly still the case.

Azriel carefully eased the small leather bound journal from his pocket, unable to suppress the hiss of pain as the movement pulled at the wound in his side.

Fresh blood seeped through the hasty bandage he'd applied before leaving the battlefield at the Autumn Court border, the metallic scent mingling with the perpetual dawn sweetness of Thesan's realm.

Three more of Beron's assassins would never report back to their master.

Three more threats to you eliminated.

He'd have done it a thousand times over. Would bleed out a thousand times if it meant keeping you safe.

The journal's pages were worn from constant handling, the first half already filled with his neat, precise handwriting. This small book had become his most treasured possession over the weeks in Dawn Court an archive of you.

Or rather, the strange, fascinating things you said that no one in Prythian seemed to understand.

Today's entry made him smile despite the fire burning through his veins.

"That's about as useful as a screen door on a submarine." [Sketch of what appears to be a metal tube with a door made of crossed lines] Note: What is a submarine? Some kind of underwater house? Why would anyone put a door with holes in it underwater? Filed under: Makes no sense but I understand completely.

He'd overheard you muttering it to yourself when a haughty Dawn Court healer suggested an ineffective treatment for one of your patients.

The sunlight had caught in your hair as you'd said it, turning the strands to living flame. Even in your irritation, you'd been beautiful.

Azriel had no idea what a "submarine" was, but the imagery was somehow perfectly clear something meant to keep water out being rendered useless.

The phrase was so distinctly you.

The journal contained dozens of these oddities.

"Well that escalated quickly." Note: Usually said when Thesan's fussy assistant starts crying after simple criticism. "Not my circus, not my monkeys." [Small sketch of what might be monkeys with question marks] Note: No actual circus observed in Dawn Court. Does she have a secret circus? Must investigate. "Plot twist!" Note: Shouted when discovering her patient had been faking symptoms to stay longer. "Houston, we have a problem." [Sketch of a star with a question mark] Note: Who is Houston? Some kind of authority on problems? Have checked all records of Prythian nobility. No Houston found. "This is giving me major déjà vu." Note: Correct pronunciation: day zhah voo. Sounds Continent based but she has no accent. Used when entering Dawn Court's west wing. Why? What happened there? "Sweet baby Jesus, that hurts!" Note: Unfamiliar deity? No known religion in Prythian worships infant gods. "That's what she said." Note: Said after completely innocent comment about "it's too big to fit." Makes everyone uncomfortable for reasons unclear. "I'm going to need coffee for this." [Sketch of a steaming cup] Note: Unknown beverage. When I asked kitchen staff, they were confused. Apparent withdrawal symptoms observed in mornings. Addictive substance?

Azriel traced a gloved finger over today's entry. Someday, perhaps, he would ask you about them.

Someday, when you finally acknowledged his existence again, he would show you this collection of linguistic curiosities and watch your face as you explained their origins.

If that day ever came.

The thought sent a fresh wave of anguish through him, sharper than the poisoned blade that had caught him in the skirmish hours earlier.

His shadows recoiled as if physically struck, curling protectively around him before lashing out at nothing, responding to his pain in ways his face never would.

He carefully returned the journal to his inner pocket, close to his heart, where it always remained.

Dawn was approaching as Azriel made his way to Lucien's quarters with his latest intel. Blood dripped steadily down his side, each step leaving faint scarlet drops on the polished marble, the trail quickly dissolving into shadow behind him.

What was physical pain compared to the hollow ache of being unseen by the one person whose gaze he craved?

"You look terrible," Lucien said by way of greeting, his metal eye whirring as it took in Azriel's pallor and the blood soaked leathers.

"Beron has deployed his elite guard," Azriel reported, ignoring the comment as he handed over maps marked with troop positions. His voice remained steady despite the room tilting sideways. "They're converging from three directions. The attack will come within two days, possibly when Thesan's power ebbs slightly."

"And his objective?"

"Extraction," Azriel said flatly. "He wants her alive."

Lucien studied the maps with a frown. "How reliable is this intel?"

"I extracted it personally." The words were emotionless, but the shadows around Azriel churned with remembered violence, briefly taking the shapes of the assassins he'd interrogated before ending their lives.

Lucien's gaze flickered to the steadily spreading bloodstain on Azriel's side. "You need a healer."

"It's nothing."

"It's poisoned," Lucien countered. "I can smell it from here."

Azriel's expression remained impassive. "I'll handle it."

"She's on duty in the east wing healing chambers," Lucien said carefully. "The best healer we have for poison."

The shadows around Azriel contracted violently, betraying the control he maintained over his face. One shadow tendril reached briefly toward the east wing before he brutally reined it back. "She doesn't see me, remember?"

"Perhaps if-"

"No." The word was final, though it cost him dearly to say it. "I'm not asking for her help when she's made her position clear."

Lucien sighed, running a hand through his russet hair. "Your pride will kill you."

"It's not pride," Azriel said quietly, shadows writhing. "It's respect for her choice."

He left the maps with Lucien and retreated to his small quarters at the edge of the Dawn Court grounds.

Today's gift for you was already prepared a small vial of rare Night Court starlight distilled into liquid form. When applied to wounds, it accelerated healing without scarring. Rhys had sent it at Azriel's request, no questions asked, though his High Lord surely wondered at the urgency.

Azriel wrapped the vial in midnight blue silk and penned a simple note.

For the burn patient in the east wing. Three drops in her evening tea will ease her pain. -A

He would leave it where Alis would find it. The head healer had become his unwitting accomplice in these deliveries, recognizing the value of his gifts even if she didn't understand their source.

Before that, though, he needed to tend to his wound.

The small chamber he'd been assigned was spartan, but he'd added one indulgence. A carved wooden stand beside the bed, displaying each of the gifts you had returned.

The silver flame bracelet. The healing salve. The rare book of ancient techniques. The carved flame bunnies.

Each one delivered back to his doorstep, sometimes within hours of your receiving them.

Each rejection a fresh wound, deeper than any blade could reach.

Yet still he created new gifts, still he left them where you would find them.

What was insanity, after all, but doing the same thing repeatedly while expecting different results?

Azriel removed his armor with careful movements, a strangled sound escaping him as dried blood made the leather stick to his wound. The gash along his ribs was ugly, the edges tinged with a greenish black that spoke of powerful toxins.

The vile magic of Autumn Court assassins designed to kill slowly, painfully. He cleaned it as best he could, applied what healing salves he had, and wrapped it in fresh bandages.

It would have to do.

His shadows whispered of your movements through the palace a benefit of the bond that remained even when you refused to acknowledge it.

You were finishing your shift in the healing chambers, tired after treating a particularly difficult case. Even exhausted, you moved with a grace that mesmerized him. The way your hands worked, sure and steady. The slight furrow between your brows when you concentrated. The scent of you healing herbs, dawn light and something uniquely, perfectly you.

Foolishly, pathetically, he wondered if you ever asked about the source of the mysterious gifts that continued to appear.

If you ever suspected they came from the same male who hunted in the night to keep Beron's assassins from your door. If you ever felt the bond tugging you toward him, as it constantly pulled him toward you.

The mating bond pulsed in his chest, a golden thread that stretched across the palace to where you worked. Once, he had feared it. He had rejected it with cruel words that he would spend eternity regretting.

Now, it was his only comfort, his only connection to you, even as it tore him apart from within.

When darkness fell, Azriel slipped through the palace to leave the vial where Alis would find it. His wound protested every movement, sending waves of agony through him with each heartbeat.

The shadows helped hold him upright when his own strength began to fail, weaving a cocoon of darkness around him that hid the worst of his deterioration.

The healing chambers were quiet this late, only a skeletal staff remaining for emergencies. Azriel's shadows guided him through blind spots in the guards' rotations, past dozing attendants, to the small office where Alis kept her records and supplies. The familiar scent of healing herbs surrounded him, but underneath was a trace of you you had been here recently.

He was placing the silk wrapped vial on her desk when a voice behind him froze him in place.

"Still leaving your little presents?" The words were sharp as winter frost.

Your voice.

For a moment, Azriel couldn't breathe, couldn't move. His shadows contracted around him in shock, then flared outward in response to the sudden hammering of his heart. Several tendrils reached instinctively toward you before he yanked them back.

Slowly, he turned.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed over your chest like a shield. Your face was carefully blank, but your scent betrayed you. A volatile mix of anger, sorrow, and something sweeter, something that matched the golden bond still pulsing between you.

Even now, even refusing to look directly at him, you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The way the eternal dawn light caught in your hair. The stubborn set of your jaw. The slight tremor in your hands that you tried to hide by gripping your own arms tighter.

"I told Thesan to send you away," you said, your tone clipped and final. "Yet you linger like a ghost."

Azriel remained perfectly still, afraid any movement might shatter this moment the first time you'd spoken directly to him since that night in the garden.

"I know they're from you," you continued, your voice flat and empty of emotion. "All of them."

His shadows curled inward, as if trying to shield him from the blow. "They help your patients," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

"I don't need your charity." You picked up the vial from the desk and tossed it back at him. He caught it instinctively, though the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his side. "I don't need anything from you."

"Beron has dispatched his elite guard," Azriel said, unable to keep the urgency from his voice. "Three strike teams converging on Dawn Court."

For a moment, something flickered in your expression annoyance, perhaps even contempt.

But your scent shifted, betraying a flash of genuine fear quickly suppressed. "I don't need your protection either."

"I already informed Lucien," he added quietly, even as the room began to tilt alarmingly. His shadows condensed around him, helping him remain upright.

"Then your usefulness has ended." You stepped aside, a clear dismissal. "You should go. Permanently."

Azriel didn't move. His side throbbed viciously, the poison working deeper with every heartbeat.

"Why do you say things no one understands?" The question escaped before he could stop it.

Your eyes narrowed, briefly flicking to his face before returning to the wall.

In that split second of eye contact, the bond flared painfully between you, and Azriel couldn't quite suppress his slight intake of breath.

"I don't owe you explanations."

"Screen doors on submarines," he said quietly. "Not your circus, not your monkeys. Houston having problems."

Your jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath your skin. Your scent changed again surprise mingled with something almost like embarrassment. "You've been spying on me."

"Protecting you," he corrected.

A shadow tendril escaped his control, reaching toward you before he could stop it. It brushed against your ankle for the briefest moment before he yanked it back, a silent apology in his eyes.

You tensed at the contact, the first crack appearing in your mask a flash of something that might have been recognition, might have been longing. It disappeared so quickly he thought he might have imagined it.

"I never asked for that." Your voice was ice, but your scent had warmed slightly. "I never asked for any of this."

Your gaze dropped momentarily to his side, where blood was now seeping through his leathers despite the fresh bandage. Something that might have been concern flashed across your face, quickly replaced by calculated indifference. But your fingers twitched slightly at your sides, a healer's instinct to help warring with your determination to remain distant.

"You're bleeding on Thesan's floor," you observed.

"It's nothing." The room spun again, and Azriel leaned imperceptibly against the desk.

"It's poisoned," you said flatly. "The servants will have to clean up after you. Again."

Those words cut deeper than the physical wound.

Azriel's face remained impassive, centuries of discipline keeping his pain from showing.

But his shadows betrayed him, contracting violently before lashing out at nothing, leaving frost patterns on the nearby window. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"Don't apologize. Just leave." Your voice was final, brooking no argument. But your eyes darted again to his wound, lingering longer this time.

Azriel inclined his head slightly, accepting the dismissal.

He moved to leave, his shadows wrapped tightly around him like a shield. As he passed you in the doorway, careful not to let even his shadows brush against you again, a wave of dizziness struck. The poison reached his heart in that moment, sending a surge of burning agony through his entire body. He stumbled, one hand bracing against the wall.

For a heartbeat, your hand lifted slightly, an aborted gesture to help him. But you caught yourself, forcing your arm back to your side. Your scent shifted again concern fighting with resolve.

"The book of healing techniques," he said quietly, fighting to remain upright. "The section on poison extraction. Page ninety four."

"I don't need your advice on how to do my job," you replied coolly. But beneath the ice, there was a note of something else a question unasked.

Then he was gone, slipping into the darkness of the corridor, his shadows barely concealing his increasingly unsteady gait. As he rounded the corner, a small leather object dropped, landing silently on the floor. His journal, dislodged when he stumbled.

You watched him go, your expression never changing, your posture rigid and unyielding. Only when he had disappeared completely did you let your shoulders slump slightly, one hand rising to press against your chest where the mating bond pulsed. Only then did your mask slip, pain and conflict washing across your features.

You moved to follow the trail of his blood, something in you unable to let him die, no matter what he'd done. But as you stepped into the hallway, your foot caught on something. Looking down, you saw the small leather bound journal.

You picked it up, intending to leave it on the desk for him to find later.

But it fell open in your hands, revealing page after page of your strange sayings, carefully documented in his precise handwriting. Not just the words themselves, but observations the way your eyes lit up when you said certain phrases, the musical quality of your laugh, the exact pattern of your movements.

It wasn't the journal of a spy. It was the journal of someone who saw you really saw you in a way no one ever had before.

You slipped it into your pocket, your face returning to its mask of indifference as you made a choice. Not forgiveness not yet. But something close to understanding.

Back in his quarters, Azriel collapsed onto his bed, the toll of the night's injuries finally claiming their due. The missing journal was a distant concern as darkness closed in.

His skin burned from within, the poison reaching every extremity now. His shadows swirled helplessly around him, unable to fight an enemy they couldn't touch.

He wondered, as consciousness slipped away, if you would ever look at him truly look at him again. If you would ever ask him about submarines and Houston and all the other mysteries he'd collected like precious gems. If there would be a next gift at all, given the poison now burning through his veins.

The door to his quarters opened, letting in a shaft of perpetual dawn light.

A figure stood silhouetted there, familiar and beloved.

"You're an idiot," came your voice, still cold but now threaded with something else. "And this doesn't mean I forgive you."

His shadows swirled toward you, reaching, yearning, before he could stop them.

"But I won't let you die," you continued, approaching the bed with your healer's kit. "Not like this. Not before you find out what a submarine actually is."

His shadows curled protectively around him as he surrendered to unconsciousness, carrying his final thought like a prayer.

The cruelest part of immortality, he breathed, is knowing I might spend eternity remembering the moment I lost her.

we’ve got trauma, blood, reluctant healing, repressed feelings, and one journal full of submarine-related confusion. no one is okay. especially not me.

Author’s Note:

hi besties! :) welcome back to the emotional battlefield 💕 in this chapter: azriel cries (again), your flame bunnies commit light treason, and the bond is out here acting like a clingy ex with GPS.

please hydrate. scream into a pillow. tell azriel to stop bleeding on things. and remember: just because he’s broody and poetic doesn’t mean you have to forgive him. yet.

do I regret writing this chapter?

yes.

will I do it again?

also yes.

see you next chapter for more romantic pain and possibly an accidental kiss or full emotional collapse. who’s to say. 🫶💀🖤

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

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pablopascal · 15 days ago

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Between Two Fires - Masterlist

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader (gentle, kind, soft)

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Part 1: The Lady of Autumn

Part 2: The Reluctant Villain

Part 3: Goodbye, Shadowsinger

Part 4: The Thread That Would Not Break

Part 5: The Sound of Her Silence

Part 6: The Cost of Rejection

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pablopascal · 15 days ago

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The Mark You Left Behind | Eris Masterlist

Eris x Reader ft. Azriel | Eris breaks your heart, unaware that you’re carrying his child. Now, both of you are left to grapple with the consequences of his actions, as your lives spiral in unexpected directions.

warnings: angst, hidden pregnancy, Eris being an asshole sometimes (other warnings will be specified by part)

a/n: I decided to make a masterlist for this to keep things organized. The title is inspired by the song Que No Quede Huella (a classic), which is why the banner has the spanish lyrics.

(I will say this will most likely be a set of fics/drabbles that center around a story but not necessarily a plot? Idk if this makes sense. Basically me writing a series but without the full detailed commitment? I'm just happy that after dealing with a rough writer's block, I'm actually getting the inspo/urge to write something.)

I. Stuck | After breaking your heart, Eris thinks you have moved on.

II. Think of You | Eris is unaware of how wrong he was. You're still picking up the pieces of your shattered heart. You find that it does not matter how far you distance yourself from Eris, a part of him will always be with you.

III. Something I Wait For | You're still overridden with stress over your unexpected pregnancy when an unexpected guest turns up at Day Court.

IV. Silver Soul | Azriel finds himself meddling in your business.

V. Lost in the Dark | Eris wants you back in Autumn. Meanwhile, you find yourself confiding in Azriel.

VI. TBD

Sneak peak (to a future part)

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227 @paleidiot @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand , @slut4acotar @awkardnerd

@blueroseava , @lovetia , @historygeekqueen , @idk1027 ,@naturakaashi

@blightyblinders , @wolvesnravens

if you asked to be on the tag list & don't see your name here or on my general one, pls let me know! I'll keep track of them here.

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pablopascal · 15 days ago

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Outlast

John Price x wife!reader OC

Summary: John Price and his long time girlfriend find themselves refusing to put out over a bet.

Warnings: NSFW, smut, p in v, oral, slight dom! Price, established relationship, not edited.

——————

“There’s always a slag in the relationship.” John’s oldest brother, Harrison, muttered over his tea.

Your long time boyfriend, John Price, didn’t pay the statement any mind but you stared at Harrison confused. You, John, Harrison, and Amy were out for an early breakfast together. Amy was Harrison’s wife who was a gorgeous woman with caramel skin, pale green eyes, and long jet black hair. She too gave Harrison a funny look and then glanced back at you.

Harrison and John looked eerily similar. Only, Harrison was softer around the edges, let his hair grow out and never allowed even a stubble to form on his face. His face was also longer and nose crooked from breaking it as a young boy. The brothers differed the most in personality. John was quiet and reserved, never the one to be the center of attention. Meanwhile, Harrison was the life of every party and tended to say outlandish things that made his loved ones roll their eyes.

“What does that even mean?” Amy laughed and lightly shoved Harrison’s shoulder.

“That there’s the one who peruses and then one that puts out.” Harrison started chuckling as Amy poked at his side for being obnoxious.

“So you’re the slag? That checks out.” John sniped and then stole the toast off your plate.

“Actually, Amy is.” Harrison then hollered a second later because Amy pinched and twisted his nipple.

“Don’t call me a slag.” Amy insisted with a light chuckle. You weren’t sure if she was joking around or annoyed at her husband; you could never tell with her.

“There’s nothing wrong with it! Means you want me all the time and I happily go along with it.” Batting his wife away Harrison scooted his chair farther away so she would stop pinching and poking him.

“Harrison, if you don’t shut up you’ll never get laid again.” You warned him with a sweet smile.

“So who’s the slag out of you two then? Right, be honest.” Amy went along with her husband’s crass conversation.

You and John stilled at the question. John had stopped mid chew and glanced at you while you did the same with your cup of coffee to your lips.

“He is.”

“She is.”

“No I’m not!” You both protested in unison.

“God, you two are so in synch. It’s kinda scary.” Harrison looked between you two with a mock disturbed look while Amy was laughing.

——————

It had been a day since your breakfast with John’s brother Harrison and wife Amy. The two of you were currently grocery shopping and chatting lightly about nothing in particular. The conversation from the day prior had been playing in your head and you weren’t too happy Harrison’s words were stuck in your head.

“You really think I’m the slag out of the two of us?” It was as if John could read your mind and it made you pause for a second.

Slowly looking over to him, John was leaning over with his forearms resting in the handle bar of the shopping cart and chewing on something. You assumed he was eating the grapes from the bag you had grabbed. John was dressed in dark blue jeans, white trainers, and a deep green jumper with a white t-shirt peaking through the collar underneath.

He was incredibly handsome and you had to admit to yourself he made it hard keeping your hands to yourself. John had light stubble on his ruggedly handsome face, it was slightly hiding his sharp jawline. The once short cropped haircut had grown long enough the front portion was begining to hang over his forehead, if only slightly. It made your mind wander to how nice it had been being able to tug on it when intertwined in your beds soft white sheets.

“Yeah, I do.” A sweet smile slowly graced your lips and John started shaking his head in disapproval.

“No. You’re wrong on this one.” Picking another grape from the bunch John used it to point at you before eating it.

“You really think I’m the one who pursues you more than you pursue me?” You were in disbelief that John saw this differently than you.

“Absolutely. When I get home you can’t keep your hands off me.” With a cheeky wink and confident smile John pushed the cart forward to lightly bump into you.

You started to giggle and then full on laugh when he wouldn’t stop lightly bumping you with the cart to get you to move down the aisle.

“You know, that’s not fair. Of course I’m all over you when you first get home. I’ve missed you.” Finally moving out of John’s way you walked side by side and continued your shopping.

“But when that first week is up, you’re the one who keeps it going. Plus, when you’re first home you’re all over me just as much as I’m all over you.” You hip checked John into a display of cleaning supplies that you were walking by. He stumbled into it, knocking a few bars of soap loose from the giant pyramid someone made out of them.

“Disagree. It’s all you.” John protested as he picked up the fallen items.

You watched him try and place them back neatly only for more to come tumbling down. He grunted and tried again.

“Care to make a bet?” You asked.

Looking away from the mountain of soap bars John saw you go to lean against the shopping cart with your bottom lip between your teeth. In typical you fashion, you forgot the cart had wheels and wasn’t a stable thing to lean on. It slipped out from under you and you caught yourself before you fell to the ground. Only it bumped into the display forcefully and caused the soap pyramid to dismantle and fall to the floor and into your cart.

“Shit, sorry.” You scrambled to start picking up the mess you made while John was belly laughing at you.

“Yeah, first one to break getsss. . .” John trailed off as he thought about a proper reward. He was weighing his options while holding bars of soap in each hand.

“Bragging rights?” You asked, now haphazardly piling bars of soap onto the display table.

“Bragging rights.” John agreed and continued to help.

“Jesus! Thomas! I told you someone would knock over the display!” One of the workers at the grocery store screamed for Thomas.

“Well, he’s unlucky.” John whispered to you.

“Poor Thomas. Had no idea my clumsy ass would come in today.”

——————

John and you had just gotten home after apologizing to Thomas for ruining his soap display. You were unpacking the groceries one bag at a time while John fixed the leaking faucet of the kitchen sink.

The flat you lived in was old and falling apart. It had been your residence much longer than John’s. He’d moved in about a little over a year ago when his lease was up. John was deployed and his landlord was going to chuck his thing out if they weren’t out by the following week. So you packed up everything you could and brought it to your place for the time being. Then John never left, never looked for a new flat, and you never complained. Thus how you two moved in together and never had the conversation and John simply gave you half the rent every month and split groceries with you.

Your flat was tiny, which meant you and John were consistently in each other’s way. The kitchen was essentially a hallway with a fridge, stove, and sink on either side. When walking through the front door the kitchen was to the left and lead to the end of the hall where the bathroom was. To the right of the bathroom door was your tiny bedroom. You shoved a queen sized bed in there, along with a treadmill, dresser, and all yours and John’s clothes in the small closet.

The round kitchen table with three chairs was located to the right of the front door. It was crammed next to an old china cabinet that was your late mother’s. The large window against the wall brought in obscured light due to the fire escape. That was where John smoked most of the time.

Directly in front of the front door was a doorway that led into your dingy living room. You were able to fit a couch, tv stand, coffee table, desk, and bookcase. There were boxes stacked against the wall with John’s belongings that you didn’t have space for.

It was crappy but it was yours.

Bouncing between the pantry and fridge you had to step over John countless times as you unloaded the groceries. John was lying on his back, fiddling with something under the sink and cursing repeatedly. You were about to complain that he could do this any other time but stopped.

Cocking your head to the side your eyes were transfixed on John’s toned abdomen. He’d chucked off his jumper once you got home and was now in a white t-shirt. It had ridden up to the middle of his stomach and revealed the thick wiry hair that ran down his chest, over his naval, and disappeared under his jeans. Blinking a few times you realized you couldn’t see the wasted band of his boxers.

“Are you not wearing underwear?” You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“Why? You checking me out?” John peaked his head out from under the sink and gave you a cocky smile.

“No!” You spoke so forcefully it was obvious you were lying.

“Just asking to see if you need to do laundry.” You doubled down with your lie and stepped over John again to go put the loaf of bread away.

“You offering?” You could hear the smile in John’s voice as he got back to clanging away under the sink.

“No, but I need to do mine so I was planning on going to the laundromat tomorrow.” Trying to change the subject you continued to glance over at John’s exposed skin.

He wasn’t even doing anything purposefully and you felt him winning this playful bet. It was making you realize that just the sight of his hairy abs was enough to get your head in the gutter. Maybe him fixing the sink did it for you too; because his lap did look very inviting right now. Tapping your foot impatiently you shook the unwanted thoughts from your head and headed for the bathroom.

“I’m gonna take a shower.” You called over your shoulder.

“A cold one?” John teased.

He heard the door shut with more force than you normally used and he knew he was getting to you.

“Who knew some missing pants would do her in.” John was chuckling to himself.

——————

John had grown bored waiting for you to get out of the shower. There was nothing he really wanted to do around the flat beside spend time with you. It was the weekend and that meant you two spent almost every minute with one another. It was also strange to John not showering with you. It had become normal practice that you two showered together under the guise of ‘saving water.’

“I mean it’s just a shower. Not like we go at it every time.” John mumbled to himself while rolling a football around in the living room. He was lying on his back on the couch with his head propped on a pillow. His right leg was bent and he had a football under his foot as a way to occupy himself.

“Fuck it.” John got up from the couch, juggled the football a few times and then went straight to the bathroom.

You’d propped the door open to let the steam out since the bathroom fan wasn’t the best. Slipping in John undressed and then slid the shower curtain back far enough that he could get in.

“What are you doing?” You spun around with a giddy expression on your face.

Internally you were jumping for joy that John was about to crack and put the moves on you. You bounced on your heels not realizing how it made your breasts bounce.

“Saving water.” John shrugged.

Your eyes flickered to his broad chest and shoulders. The defined muscles of his pecks looked amazing decorated in thick wiry auburn hair. There was a bruise healing on his right shoulder, it had turned an ugly shade of yellow with green splotches. The stitches from John’s wound a month ago had dissolved and left behind a jagged pink scar on the side of his left ribcage. There was something sad about when he was bartered and bruised yet so delectable. It showed how strong, brave, and capable he was to always come home to you. You didn’t allow your eyes to drift lower or you knew his massive manhood would be too distracting for you.

John found it so cute how you rolled your eyes so hard your entire head followed the motion. Turning your back to him you went back to washing your face. John was ready to start chatting with you but then you bent down to grab your wash cloth that had fallen. John’s eyes were dead locked on your round ass and then he was blessed with a glimpse of your pretty pussy. John’s eyes snapped up and he focused on the shower head. It took all his will power not to stare at your tits when he stepped in and now here he was avoiding looking at one of his favorite parts of you.

You hadn’t done anything other than pick something up and John’s body was betraying him. This was his attempt to assuage boredom not lose the bet you two were mere hours into. Why was it so much harder to act normal around you when he knew he couldn’t have sex with you? Normally showers were spent chatting with wandering hands but it didn’t mean you were going to have a shag. John just liked touching you and jiggling your boobs when he was fidgety.

“Um, you sure you’re not trying something?” The little giggle you let out as you pointed to John’s rock hard cock standing at attention made it twitch. It was so thick and heavy it had trouble smacking against his abdomen but instead hung at a 90 degree angle.

“No, that just happens sometimes.” John played dumb and then motioned for you to get out of the way so he could get under the warm stream of water.

With a mischievous smiles you squeezed by John making sure your ass knocked against his cock. John audibly groaned at the light one second of contact. Before you could tease him the shower temperature rocketed down to ice cold.

“AH~” You shrieked and practically fell out of the shower as the cold mist bouncing off of John hit you.

“What? I love cold showers.” John lied through chattering teeth.

You were now standing in the middle of your tiny bathroom dripping water all over the floor.

“You’re an ass.” You hissed before grabbing your towel and walking off.

You left a trail of water as you were drying off on your way to your bedroom. Before, you were excited for John to join you in the shower and end your misery. Now, you were pissed off to have your shower hijacked by your boyfriend whose pride was growing too big.

Toweling off your hair you picked through your mostly empty drawers and groaned in frustration. You needed to do laundry, leaving you with almost nothing clean to wear. Opening up John’s drawer you stole a pair of his sweatpants and then decided a sports bra would do for a top. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for you to steal John’s clothes and pair it with underwear. Whether that be like your outfit now or the reserve where it was one of his shirts and your panties as bottoms.

You heard the shower shut off and felt the annoyance flair up again. Grumbling to yourself you went to go make yourself a snack and ran straight into John’s hairy chest as you exited the bedroom and he came out of the bathroom. You collided so forcefully you slipped on the trail of water you left behind. John caught you but he too slipped and you both crashed into the floor.

“Ow.” You groaned.

John’s body weight had you firmly pressed into the floor. He too was groaning from falling on to you and practically crushing you. He was smart enough to slip his hand behind your head so you didn’t wack it off the floor when you fell.

“Sorry. You okay, darling.” John finally got his hands under him and pushed off you slightly so you were nose to nose.

“Yeah.” You breathed.

Staring up into John’s icy eye you were beginning to get lost in them. You weren’t sure who moved first, you or him. But a second later your lips crashed together and you two were locked in a heavy make out session. John’s hand wandered from under your sports bra to your waist. You had pulled John’s towel off and tossed it aside while he was pushing down the sweat pants you were wearing.

The bet was off.

Sweatpants went flying and so did your legs as John hoisted them over his shoulders and pushed you until he had you folded in half like a piece of paper. The stretch of your thighs bending back like this made you gasp and hold on to

John’s bulging biceps for dear life. The floor was uncomfortable against your back and your skin was sticking to the hardwood.

The blunt tip of John’s fat cock pushed at your entrance before he slid in with one fluid thrust of his hips. The stretch was everything you wanted and it knocked the wind out of you. The sensation of being so full and stuffed to the point you could feel John rearranging your guts made you moan so loud it rang through the entire flat.

“Yes, darling. Fucking scream.” John grunted in your ear.

Soon he was balancing with one hand by your head and the other was under your sports bra and roughly pinching and tugging at your nipple. Between the uncomfortable floor against your back and John’s body weight you felt crushed, suffocated, smothered; and you fucking loved it.

John didn’t wait for you to say a word and began fucking you at a brutal pace that made you scream his name. It was rough and needy. John was going at it like a man possessed and he couldn’t get himself to slow down or be gentler. He was putting all his weight into each slam of his hips as he chased after his climax. The floor made his knees ache so he swiftly pushed his legs back and seamlessly got into a push up position as he fucker you ruthlessly.

“I-“ you could barely choke the words out but John knew you well enough.

Taking his rough hand from under your bra John snaked it between your bodies and started to play with you pretty little bundle of nerves. He wasn’t going in rhythm or doing it how he knew you liked. Instead he was teasing you with sloppy loose circles.

“D-don’t be a dick.” The words came out slurred and choked around moans.

Through his ragged breath John deeply chuckled. The floor boards beneath you were creaking rhythmically and joined by the sound of skin meeting skin. John took pity on you and moved his fingers in tight confident circles the way he knew you loved. It was embarrassing to you because you two hadn’t even been going at it five minutes and you were about to cum.

The familiar sensation of pleasure about to tear you to pieces was building and building. John’s arm holding him up began to shake and he was holding out with every fiber of his being to not cum until you had. This would be the quickest you both got off in quite some time.

It only took a few more rough thrust that punched the air out of your lungs for you to tumble over the edge and take John with you. Your nails dug into John’s back and he practically growled in your ear as you squeezed him so perfectly he spilled inside of you.

The two of you laid there panting with muscles relaxing. John moved slightly so your legs could slide off of his shoulders and fall limply back where they belonged. John’s chest began to rumble with soft laughter that you joined in on. There was a twinge of embarrassment for John for finishing so fast but with the way your bright eyes stared up at him, crinkled from the warm smile you wore, it disappeared.

“That doesn’t count!” John told you with a smug smirk and you were already nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, you fell into me. We couldn’t just waist the opportunity. Plus, it was under five minutes so it doesn’t count.” You joked which made John start to laugh even harder.

“You have to admit. Fucking on the kitchen floor is a new low.” John muttered agaisnt your neck as he laid kisses on your skin.

“Nothing beats the bathroom at your brother’s holiday party.” You started to laugh at the memory and John joined in after lightly bitting your shoulder.

“Not my fault you tied the mistletoe to my trousers. I don’t make the rules and by law that meant you had to go down on me.” That was one of the funniest things you had done in John’s opinion.

“It’s your fault the shower curtain was ripped off.” You volleyed back.

John began to get up and helped you back to your feet. In the shuffle you smacked his ass and he returned the favor. You stopped and hugged each other and whispered ‘I love you’s.’

“I’m still going to win.” John meant what he was saying and was filled with a new found determination.

That was until he watched his spend drip down your leg and his cock was stirring back to life again. Giving you a wink John picked up his towel, tossed it at you and confidently walked into your shared room. You took the opportunity to admire his perky ass and muscular back.

“Yeah right.” You teased before walking back into the bathroom with John’s towel to shower again.

——————

You and John had been able to function around each other a lot better now that you two had gotten that shag out of your systems. It was game time and you weren’t going to lose and neither was John. Although to you it was obvious John was struggling. He was a man of multiple rounds and about half the time he needed to go one more time to be utterly satisfied.

John could overindulge in multiple ways in life. Whether it to smoking, sweets, or sex, you always knew when he was getting that way by the look in his eye. You’d seen him eye a strawberry short cake the same way he had been eyeing you today. And ever since your little floor escapade you watched his eyes linger on you. You didn’t help him with your innocent flirting that he was oblivious to.

Batting your pretty eyes at him, biting your lip, or caressing your fingers along his back when you passed by were doing him in. Even when you made lunch you asked John to open a jar for you and squeezed his biceps after. You swore his eyes fluttered at the compliment.

After your rough sex session on the floor you two had gone back to normal besides your subtle flirting. John let you shower in peace, you didn’t bother him when you found him reading on the couch. You two had lunch together and chatted about nothing and everything. Then you swapped rooms and you watched tv while John smoked on the fire escape and then sorted your and his laundry to make doing it tomorrow easier.

“Want to go out for dinner?” John walked into the living room where you were sprawled out on the couch watching tv.

John had appeared in the doorway dressed in the same outfit as that morning. It was hard for John to not immediately stare at your ass. You were lying on your stomach in athletic shorts and a t-shirt while relaxing. The shorts were on the tighter side and John knew if you two didn’t have this bet going he would be fucking you on the couch in the same position you were in now; only he would have those little shorts pulled to the side.

“We just bought groceries. Can we afford it?” Looking away from the tv John frowned at you.

John faltered for a moment with you looking back at him from over your shoulder. He swore you were giving him that cock drunk look you did when he took you from behind. You were, but you’d deny if John asked.

“You know I hate that question.” John told you for the millionth time.

“I know. But it’s not like we can or at least I know I can’t. Isn’t the goal to buy some big fancy house that we’ll never be able to pay off.” You joked.

“Yeah, it is. One dinner won’t set up back too much. Go get dressed and let me take you on a date. I’ve got the money, don’t worry.” John smiled at you warmly and you nodded and got up to go change.

As you got up you pretend to stretch so you pushed off the couch with your hands and arched your back, leaving your ass in the air. One fake content sigh later and you were getting up. John was staring at the ceiling to get himself to not look at your perfectly round ass or he would break.

John had realized through the day that you being yourself was what made him hard. It wasn’t the sexy lingerie, flirty comments, or simply bending over. It was your pure existence that got his blood pumping faster and inhibition slipping away. Of course those things only influenced an already inevitable outcome to happen faster. So if John wanted to win this bet then he needed you to break before he did; because he knew he couldn’t outlast you under normal circumstances.

While you were getting ready John checked his wallet. He swore he saw dust puff out of it with how flat and empty it was. He’d spent all his pocket money for the month on half the groceries.

“Shouldn’t have bought that fuckin’ cake.” John cursed under his breath and glanced over at the strawberry shortcake sitting on the counter.

He blamed you for that, you saw how he stared at it a second too long and grabbed it when he wasn’t looking. John caught you at the bakery counter asking for them to write ‘Welcome Home’ on the top of it. It did make him swoon how sweet and observant you were.

Looking around John dashed for one of his packed boxes and dug around until he found the cigar box he shoved all his spare money into. Staring at it for a second John grabbed some of it and promised himself he’d put it back on his next pay day. That hidden money was to buy you an engagement ring so John didn’t feel guilty using some of it on you. Especially since he’d doubled his original savings goal two months ago.

Putting the cigar box back into its hiding spot John shoved the notes into his wallet and went to check on you. The bedroom door was shut which was odd since you never closed it when you were getting ready. John peaked in and nearly passed out at the sight of you.

You were slightly bent over your dresser and putting lipgloss on in the sexiest set of lingerie John had ever seen. You had on a lacy black bra that pushed your tits together deliciously, matching lace panties and stocking that fastened to a garter belt. All you needed was a whip and John would be on his knees begging you to put him in his place.

Shutting the door quietly John stared down at his feet. It was setting in and he didn’t like the confronting truth.

“Fuck. I’m gonna lose.” He whispered to himself.

“Gotta pull out all the stops.” John rolled his shoulders back and prepared himself for the war he was about to wage.

Seducing you was never a tall task. The only hurtle was this bet, it would bring out your stubbornness. That was always a difficultly, once you had your mind made up it was close to impossible to change it. So, the plan was for you to change your mind on your own and give in to John because you wanted to; not because he was trying to make you. Submission was not your style under normal circumstance. As for submission in the bedroom, that was another story.

“Ready!” Your sugary voice had John standing at attention from the kitchen table.

John gulped down the rock that formed in his throat and his knees started to feel weak. John was expecting you to wear a tight little dress or something that showed a lot of skin. Instead you stepped out of the bedroom in leggings and a Liverpool jersey. You knew him too well and it was proving to be John’s downfall.

“That’s cheating.” John pointed at your outfit with a mean look on his face. Part of him would prefer the skimpy outfit to this.

“What?” You looked down at the jersey and then back to John.

Normally lying was hard for you but this was a game about bluffing. Being as good as you were at poker was making you quite the successful liar.

“I have nothing to wear. I can go put on one of my slutty sundresses instead, if you like.” You spoke so naturally John actually believed your lie.

“Uh, sorry. No. No, you look beautiful.” John back pedaled fast and motioned to the door for you to follow.

Hook. Line. And Sinker.

“Better.” You smiled and made your way out with John right behind.

The two of you chatted normally only you noticed John’s eyes lingering on you more often than usual. You had noticed, about a year ago that John could not keep his hands to himself when you wore his favorite football clubs jersey. It didn’t make sense to you why but you also weren’t going to argue about it. It usually resulted in a rough fuck before the match started and another if they won after.

John took you out to a casual dinner at one of your local spots. It wasn’t fancy but it was perfect. You kept wondering when he was going to pull something to try and get you all riled up but he wasn’t. In fact he was being his completely normal self, which was a true gentleman. Holding doors, getting the appetizer he knew you wanted, listening attentively, and offering to take you out for ice cream after dinner. John held your hand in the car, sang along to your music, and had amazing banter with you.

By the time you were pulling up to the ice cream shop you wanted to jump his bones. He was being so chivalrous and charming it was intoxicating. It was as if his lack of sexual intentions only intensified yours. John hadn’t even flirted with you, only treated you with kindness and a soft gentle kind of love. It was driving you crazy and you wanted him to rip your clothes off and fuck you in the backseat in the most disrespectful way possible. To stop being a gentleman and take what he wanted.

“John?” You asked before he got out of the car.

You were ready to throw in the towel. Your pride wasn’t worth it. Screw the ice cream, you wanted to go home. Well, ice cream first then you could go home.

“Hm?” John smiled at you warmly waiting to hear what you had to say.

“I’ll take the loss.” You told him simply.

You expected teasing. A loud laugh and a declaration that he was victorious and you were the slag in the relationship. But that didn’t happen.

“Oh thank god. I was just about to crack.” John blurted out and slumped back in his seat in pure relief. He was staring up at the ceiling, finally allowing the nice guy facade to fall when all he wanted was to take you home and have his way with you.

“Wait, seriously!?” You asked.

“Darling, you look so fucking hot in that.” John motioned to your shirt before he continued.

“And you always get vanilla soft serve, I think I’d bust in my pants watching you lick it.” John told you before putting the car in drive and peeling out of the parking lot.

“Wait! What about the ice cream!?” You turned in your seat to watch the ice cream shop fade away in the distance.

“I’ll take you after I fuck you.” John brushed you off.

You watched as he grabbed at himself through his trousers. He was trying to readjust himself for comfort. With a sly smile you swatted his hand away and unfastened his belt and then his jeans.

“Fuck, suck my cock.” John growled.

It was so hot having him so desperate for you. Without a word you pulled John’s large cock from his trousers and had your mouth on him. The taste of salt was a disappoint compared to the sugary sweet dessert you had your mind set on.

“Fuuuuck~” John moaned while stepping on the gas.

You hummed like he was the most delicious thing you had ever tasted just to boost John’s ego. And it did. With a quick thrust up into your mouth absolute filth poured from your boyfriend’s lips.

“Like the taste that much, huh? Wait until I’ve had your cunt dripping all over it. Bet you’ll love the taste then.” John’s smirk was evident in the way he spoke and how me stroked the back of your head.

Pulling off with a pop, you gave John the sexiest looked he’d ever seen. Your eyes were hooded and you had this devilish smile that gave away just how turned on you were. The way you licked your lips had John craving for your mouth to be back on him.

“Better hurry home then. Cuz I have every intention of making you cum down my throat before then.” You purred and went back to vigorously sucking John off.

The first full bob of your head you accidentally gagged yourself. The noise of you struggling made John twitch in your mouth and moan gutturally. With tears in your eyes you pushed yourself to fight through the burning in your throat because you had just made such an audacious claim. It didn’t matter that your jaw hurt or the angle was uncomfortable, you were determined.

“Little minx.” John groaned.

Reaching over your body that was bent over the center console John smacked your ass. He continued to roughly grope the fatty flesh. Deep moans were uncontrollably filling the car and John’s balls were tightening and cock throbbing.

With your honed expertise in giving John head you knew exactly how to get him off quickly. If memory served you could get him off in two minutes flat if you wanted to. It was all about the perfectly timed swirl of your tongue.

“Fuck. Pull off I’m not gonna make it.” John half begged but you didn’t stop. In fact you doubled your effort.

Tongue swirling around the base of his shaft, then up around his head and back down again. It burned your throat in an amazing way that made you never want to stop. If you were honest you loved giving John head. Loved hearing how vocal it made him and loved the salty taste that coated your tongue when it was over.

John moaned long and loud, you knew what that meant. Prepared to take his load down your throat you felt a sharp tug at the roots of your hair on the back of your head. With a gasp you were tugged off John’s angry red swollen cock. The way John had his hand firmly tangled in your hair and then pulled you back into your seat was bordering painful in an erotic way.

“Sit there and behave. I’ve made up my mind, I’m cumming in that tight cunt of yours.” John’s eyebrows were furrowed and he looked mean. If he had let you continue that mean look wouldn’t be there, so you giggled at his misery.

“Yeah? What are you gonna do if I don’t behave?” The way you spoke had John’s head slowly turning to look at you.

He knew by the sugar in your voice you were up to something again; and he was right. There you were, facing him, staring back at him with big bright innocent eyes. You had one leg bent, foot resting against the center console and your hand down your leggings, rubbing away. You in that jersey made John’s cock twitch and lose his train of thought. What you were doing felt good but it didn’t compare to the gratification of John’s pupils expanding and swallowing up the pretty blue of his iris.

“No idea.” John whispered, reaching over and placing his hand on your knee. His gaze was flickering from the road to you spread out for him.

“Let me see?” John purred, nodded at you to take your leggings off.

“No. We’re home.” A sweet giggle left you after you spoke. You noticed John was on autopilot driving home and hadn’t realized he just drove past your building.

John was frantically looking for a parking spot. By the time he was parked you were out of the car and fast walking for your apartment building. The look of betrayal on his face that you left so quickly while he fumbled to get his trousered fastened was priceless. John’s heavy footsteps rang out behind you. Squeaking in delight you dashed into the building and up the stairs with John hot on your heels. It felt like he was chasing you which only added to the heat building in your belly.

As soon as you were through the front door John was on you. Kicking the door shut bending him, his mouth was on yours and devouring you. He was kissing you with such fever you stumbled back into the kitchen table. Strong hands gripped your thighs and picked you up and sat you on the old wobbly table.

Pulling off his jumper and shirt, John kicked off his shoes and so did you. John tore your clothes off to reveal your lingerie set. Taking a moment he admired your curves, smacking one of your breasts lightly, then paused. Reaching over to the counter where your Polaroid camera sat John snapped a picture of you. He then fell to his knees. John kneeled there, shirtless in only jeans, with his head between your parted thighs. In return you snapped a picture of him in the absolutely delectable position. You couldn’t wait to see those desperate blue eyes staring up at the camera.

“There’s an opening.” John looked from your pretty glistening pussy to your eyes with pupils blown wide.

“Crotchless.” You purred.

“I’m buying you more.” And with that John dove right in.

Tongue rolling over the tiny pearl sent shockwaves up your spine. As well as you knew John he knew you. He knew the pressure to suck with, when to plunge his fingers in, and how to curl them just right to make you squirm; and John did just that. With his tongue fucking into your dripping cunt he moved his thumb over your clit with expert pressure. It was making you so dizzy you couldn’t hear yourself begging for him to make you cum.

“I’m gonna-“

John stood abruptly, keeping his thumb firmly pressed to your clit and rubbing tight circles. With his other hand he lined himself up and pushed in to your soaking cunt. You hadn’t realized he was stroking himself to the sound of your pleas and taste of your sweet cunt.

“Go on. Cum on my cock.” John cooed.

You did as he said. It only took two sharp thrusts to have you free falling into bliss. It actually felt like you were falling as your leg shook and that’s because you were. The tables leg snapped under John’s forceful thrusts. The obscene crack of wood halting his movement.

“AH~” You shrieked but your strong burly man had you secured in his arms.

John was chuckling at the broken kitchen table now awkwardly lying on the floor. One end was flat against the floor while the other two intact legs had it propped up at an angle. You had your legs wrapped around John’s waist as you stared at the broken table. It was a piece of junk, you really weren’t that surprised.

“Oops.” John said as he continued to chuckle and then kicked off his trousers and boxers. Tossing you up slightly to get a better grip John’s hands were holding you up by your ass instead of your thighs like before.

“Let’s break the bed next.” You joined in with your own giggles and John was happily carrying you to your shared bedroom.

“Roger that.” Throwing you on to the bed you laughed and then gasped when John’s finger wrapped around your ankles and pulled you toward him.

Before you could say a word you were flipped over so quickly you had trouble getting your hands under you. John placed one hand on your belly from between your thighs while the other held your lower back. With ease he then man handled you to be face down ass up on the edge of the bed.

After three searing smacks to your plump bottom you expected John to fuck you. Staring at the sheets your were clutching to you felt John’s warmth disappear. Before you could look over your shoulder you felt a sharp sting to your right cheek and yelped. Letting out a surprised huff you realized John had bitten you hard enough that he absolutely left teeth marks. In the next few second as you were about to complain about the bite John was sinking into to you.

“Perfect fit, love.” John sighed almost as if it were a relief to be inside you.

The thrusts were slow and deep. John loved watching the way your cunt hugged him and didn’t want to let go when he pulled back. For you it felt euphoric. John was perfect. In size, shape, curve, and that thick vein that ran up his shaft. With each push where his pelvis pressed against your ass and balls lightly tapped against your clit you felt light. It was intoxicating the way your lover moved. Earnestly trying to get as deep as possible and molding you to him.

The stretch was just what you needed and the slow pace felt blissful. Lying your face against the comfort your moans were soft, eyes fluttered shut, as you enjoyed the sensation. It was soft, slow, and then it wasn’t. In a split second, from one thrust to the next John went from soft and sweet to throwing all his strength into each thrust. A yelp and unabashed moan tore from your throat as the sound of skin slapping enveloped the room.

You went from lying on your bed with your ass in the air feeling absolutely content to now gripping the sheets for dear life. The pace was fast, thrusts deliberate and earth shattering. John was grunting behind you as he made the bed shake. It felt all consuming the way he was taking you. Feeling a tug on your shoulder John hoisted you up. With one hand John held you up with it placed in the center of your chest, while the other tilted your head back. Your back arched more and more until you physically could not bend any further. It was as if John was ready to snap you in half all so he could look in your eyes.

“So pretty.” John whispered.

His eyes bore into yours while his pace never faltered. Soon enough John’s lips were on yours and he devoured each moan that fell from your lips. The hand on your chin slid down to cup your throat and keep you bent backward. The other snaked down your body, stopping to pinch your nipple and tug, then continue down between your thighs. Your own hands laced into John’s hair and kept his lips pressed to yours.

Lying a firm smack to your clit a moan ripped from your throat causing you to break free from the passionate kiss. Giving you some room, if only a little John wrapped his other arm around your shoulder and kept you tight to his chest while playing with your clit. The stubble on his handsome face scratched against your cheek. Hot breath in your ear and rugged breathing sent a wave of pleasure through your bones.

“So perfect. Everything I’ve ever wanted.” The whispered words were misplaced compared to the brutal way John was fucking you.

“I-fuck, John. Fuck, I love you. I love the way you feel.” You slurred, body beginning to quake. John let out the deepest grunt you had heard and you felt him cum hard in your quivering cunt. His hand vigorously rubbed circles over your clit and finally sent you over the edge a few seconds after him.

“Fuck! Ah~” John moaned over your gasps of pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is why I can’t have you cum after me.” John hissed feeling you choke the life out of his overly sensitive cock. It didn’t even feel pleasurable just painful and had him pulling out a second later. His pearly white spend came flowing out of you and on to the sheets in a beautiful display, if you asked John.

“Hmm?” You hummed a wordless question to what John had just said.

John didn’t bother answering. Instead he lifted you up and flopped down on to the bed with you. The two of you laid there and caught your breath. Cuddling into his hairy chest, John wrapped you up in his burly arms and you both rested. In the stillness of your room you started to wonder how the hell John seduced you by doing absolutely nothing.

“How’d you know that would work on me?” You panted out. Your question made John chuckle and smirk.

“C’mon. You’d rather set yourself on fire than give in to someone trying to make you do something. . . So I had to make it feel like it was your idea, not mine.” With a shrug, John rolled onto his back and then fished out a cigar from the bedside table and lit it.

“That’s so manipulative.” You chuckled and waved him off when he offered you a drag.

“Oh and the Liverpool jersey and lingerie weren’t?” John volleyed back, his hairy chest puffing out as he took a particularly long drag of his cigar.

“Fine, you like that whole innocent flirting, like your mere presence is enough to get me dropping to my knees.” You retorted.

“Well you like unavailable men.” John’s response made your jaw drop and he started laughing. He cranked it up to a 10 with that comment and you weren’t going to take it lying down.

“And you’re a control freak because everyone screams at you at work and you have to break the rules to get your way. It’s why you can’t stand me trying to take charge in bed.” You hissed back.

“Oi, enough. I’m only joking.” John was laughing so loud you swore the room was shaking. Your tried to roll away but he had you by the hips and dragged you back across the bed to him. You started to squeal in uncontrollable laughter as John tickled you and wouldn’t let you run away from his wiggling fingers.

“Uncle!” You shrieked and John let up, your laughter sounding like a joyous chorus.

“I like you. I’d even go as far to say that I love you. Every part. Now get dressed so we can go get you that ice cream I promised.”

——————

It was the following weekend and you and John had jokingly pretend to try and outlast the other in sex. It ended rather quickly and resulted in you two going at it twice as much compared to normal. After being subjected to eating every meal on the couch you two decided you needed a new kitchen table. To your delight Amy and Harrison were getting rid of their old table and gifting it to you and John. John was currently loading it into his truck with Harrison while you and Amy watched.

You were leaning against the truck admiring your boyfriend. You were distracting to John in that Liverpool jersey and leggings. Laundry day was tomorrow so he knew you weren’t playing at anything, but still, you looked beautiful in red.

Standing on the bed of the truck John stared down at you with a loving gaze. He was wearing beige cargo pants and a grey t-shirt that hugged his chest and arms perfectly. It showed off his muscles and the shirt looked to be fighting back against them with how they stretched the fabric to its limits. It was hard for Amy and Harrison to ignore the bedroom eyes you and John were sharing from a simple task of loading a table in the back of the truck.

“So, you ever figure out who’s the slag?” Harrison asked with a shit eating grin.

You and John shared a look while Amy seemed curious about the answer.

“We both are.” You said in unison.

~~~~~tag list~~~~~

@exhaustedpotat0 @glitterypirateduck @ivymarquis @crazymela @what-0-life @boredfairy4 @hihhasotherfixations @stephanswhxre @shanjisan @k4es @luvleywrites @kita03-0 @midwesternwitchery @aleynaleia @suckerforbassist @misshoneypaper @theaonlax @blackstar9005 @tooterbutt @havoc973 @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @freshlemontea @cosmoscoffeee @sae1kie @ohworm-writes @ghostslittlegf @fanficwriterlover @arminarlertssword @faceache111 @azu21 @thirstyb-ches @nini-11-08 @sgtgarricks @kiki-is-hyperfixating @mayflysdie @aliceinwonderland-5678 @blue096 @rip-cod-brainrot @saturnghost93 @somehopeatlast @thepowers-kat-be @tenko-nii @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @thraxpatty @mnsnp @faeriedust17 @livstablers @luvr4miya @phoenixhalliwell @maissalov3u @ellerdod @tizzywoowoo @himboelover @yehsehneeah @r0vena

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pablopascal · 16 days ago

Text

Binding Lies- Eris Vanserra x fem!reader (mini-series) part 8

Summary: When Y/N, Azriel's secret half-sister who lives far away, and Eris Vanserra form a strategic contractual marriage to further their own agendas, what begins as a carefully crafted arrangement soon becomes more complicated. As they pretend to be a perfect couple, the lines between duty and desire blur, and neither is prepared for the consequences.

See masterlist

Previous part

A/N: Aaand I'm back with another long awaited part!! We got a lot of mystery going on over here in this part and I wonder what was Eris truly up to?🤔I guess you guys will have to handle my cliffhanger and have patience for now lol😆

Warnings: violence, angst

The world had narrowed to this.

To the heat of his mouth on hers, the rough grip of his hands on her waist, the water swirling around them as they pressed together in the grand fountain. Y/N could still feel the way he had growled against her lips, the way his hands had tightened when she pulled him closer, as if he needed this just as much as she did.

And gods help her—she had let him.

For the first time since she had stepped into this wretched court, she wasn’t thinking. She wasn’t calculating her next move, wasn’t keeping her walls up.

She was feeling.

Feeling the way Eris’s body pressed against hers, the way his wet clothes clung to his frame, how his sharp inhale seemed to shudder through her bones. She had felt the hesitation, the warring conflict within him—but he hadn’t stopped. Hadn’t pulled away.

Neither had she.

Her fingers curled tighter in his damp hair, the other hand splaying across his firm chest as he pulled her impossibly closer, his lips moving against hers in a way that sent heat curling low in her stomach. Her body was weightless in the water, but his grip anchored her, as if he needed her there.

And then—

“Eris!”

The world slammed back into focus.

A voice, sharp and impatient, rang out in the distance.

“Eris, father is looking for you!”

A bucket of ice could not have chilled her more.

Y/N froze—and so did he.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The water rippled around them, their breaths still uneven, mingling in the heavy silence. She could feel the thundering of her own pulse, the way her heart clawed at her ribs.

And then she felt it.

The moment Eris registered what had just happened.

The shift was instantaneous.

The warmth in his eyes—the fire, the hunger—vanished. His golden gaze went distant, his entire body rigid. His hands, which had just moments ago been gripping her like she was something precious, let go.

And then he was gone.

Not physically—he was still right there, still standing in the water with her. But emotionally? Mentally?

A wall slammed into place between them, colder and more unyielding than the mountain ranges.

He stepped back, retreating from her touch like it disgusted him. The space between them grew, the swirling water filling the absence where his body had just been.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as she stared at him, still reeling.

Still feeling his touch burning into her skin.

And yet—his expression was blank. Cold. Impassive.

Like she was nothing.

Her lips parted, her breath uneven as she tried to find something—anything—to say. But Eris spoke first.

“This never happened.”

The words were quiet. Final.

Y/N blinked, her stomach lurching.

He wasn’t looking at her. Wouldn’t look at her.

It felt like a slap, like someone had ripped her from that intoxicating moment and thrown her onto the cold, hard ground.

The ache in her chest was immediate.

But before she could say anything, before she could even process what had just happened, Eris turned and started striding toward the edge of the fountain.

“Eris—” she choked out.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t pause.

“Come out a little later after me,” he ordered flatly, voice devoid of anything—anything at all. And then, just as he reached the fountain’s edge, pulling himself up with effortless grace, he added, “I’ll make sure no one is on the path when you go to your chambers.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Y/N stood frozen in the water, her wet dress clinging to her skin, her hands trembling as she touched her own lips—as if trying to convince herself that the kiss had actually happened.

As if she hadn’t just imagined it.

But the taste of him was still there. The ghost of his touch still lingered.

Yet now—instead of warmth, all she felt was ice.

Her breathing was uneven, her mind spinning in a thousand directions.

Eris had kissed her. He had kissed her. Had pulled her into him like he needed her, like he couldn’t stop himself—

And then he had shut her out completely.

Had thrown up his walls, had erased the moment with a few cold words.

Had discarded her as if it meant nothing.

Her hands clenched into fists beneath the water, anger curling in her gut—but beneath that anger, beneath the irritation, the humiliation—was hurt.

She shouldn’t be hurt. She had known this would happen. Had expected it.

But it still stung.

Biting down hard on her lip, she sucked in a sharp breath and forced herself to move. She waded toward the edge of the fountain, her limbs feeling heavier with each step.

And as she pulled herself out—dripping, cold, and empty—only one thought rang in her mind.

She had just made a mistake.

And she would be regretting it very, very soon.

The corridors were empty. Not a single soul in sight.

Y/N stalked forward, her feet squelching with every step, water dripping from her clothes and hair, leaving a trail in her wake. It was as if the entire manor had been cleared out just for her passage—no servants bustling about, no courtiers whispering behind their hands, no guards stationed at their usual posts.

Her breath came sharp, ragged. How the hell had he done it?

Eris had ensured that no one would see her like this. That she would make it back to her chambers unseen.

And for what?

Because he’s ashamed? Because the thought of someone catching us, drenched and disheveled, would disgust him?

The idea burned through her, hot and ugly.

Of course he’s embarrassed, she seethed. Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court, would never allow himself to be seen like this—with me.

Her hands curled into fists.

Did he wipe his mouth after? Did he regret it the moment it ended?

She could still feel it—the press of his lips, the way he had devoured her, how the tension between them had finally snapped and sent them crashing into something inevitable. And then—

Coldness. Distance.

That mask of his had slammed back into place, like it had never dropped at all. Like she had imagined the way his hands had trembled against her skin, the way his body had pressed closer, desperate, needing.

She bit down hard on her lip, forcing the ache away.

This wasn’t about feelings. This wasn’t about them.

This was a transaction. A means to an end.

And still—

Still, it infuriated her.

Y/N reached the chamber door and shoved it open with more force than necessary. The wooden door smacked against the wall before she kicked it shut behind her, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

Her room was dark, save for the faint glow of embers in the fireplace. Silent.

Yet her mind was screaming.

She turned, caught sight of the delicate glass decanter on the table, and before she could think better of it—

She threw it.

The shatter echoed like a thunderclap, shards flying, a pool of amber liquid spilling across the floorboards.

And for a moment, all she could do was stare.

At the mess she had made. At her own reflection in the broken glass.

Her breathing slowed. Her pulse steadied.

And that was when it truly hit her.

What the hell am I doing?

She had made a grave mistake. Not just tonight. Not just the kiss.

The whole damn thing.

Agreeing to this charade. Playing his game. Thinking, even for a second, that she could walk away from this unscathed.

Fool.

He had used her. And she had let him.

And gods help her, she had liked it. Had melted into it, had craved it like something vital.

But never again.

The next time Eris tried to toy with her, to manipulate her, to pull her into his tangled web—

She would remind herself of this moment.

Of the cold finality in his voice.

Of the way he had pushed her away like she was nothing.

Of the disgust curling in her gut—not for him, but for herself.

This was war.

And she would not lose.

When morning came, the first thing she became aware of was the silence. No sounds of movement, no rustling of sheets, no shifting of weight beside her. Just stillness.

For a brief, blissful moment, she didn’t remember. Didn’t remember the kiss. Didn’t remember the way his hands had burned against her skin, the way she had melted into him, drowned in him. Didn’t remember the sharp, cruel withdrawal, the ice in his voice when he told her this never happened.

But then it came rushing back, slamming into her with the force of a tidal wave.

Her eyes snapped open, staring blankly at the canopy above. The events of last night played over and over in her mind like a cruel joke. How easily she had fallen, how stupid she had been. She had let him pull her under, let herself believe—for just a fraction of a second—that there had been something there. That it had been real.

And then he had torn it away.

The anger from last night still simmered beneath her skin, though it felt different now. Less like fire, more like something heavy and cold settling in her bones. She turned onto her side, exhaling sharply as she tried to shake the thoughts away.

And that was when she noticed it.

His side of the bed.

Untouched.

Her brows furrowed as she sat up, throwing the blankets off. The sheets were still perfectly in place, not a wrinkle or crease in sight. The pillows remained undisturbed. When she pressed her fingers against the fabric, it was cold.

He never came back.

Her jaw clenched as she stared at the empty space, at the undeniable proof of his absence. Maybe he had left early? Maybe he had only just gotten up before her? But no—there was no sign that he had ever even been there after last night.

He had chosen not to return.

She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care.

And yet, something dark and sharp twisted in her stomach.

Was he avoiding her? Embarrassed, maybe? Disgusted?

The thought made her fists curl around the sheets. Was that it? Was he so ashamed of what had happened that he couldn’t even bring himself to look at her? That he had rather spent the night—where? In his study? Another room entirely? Maybe even with one of his hundreds of mistresses? Does he even have a mistress? Of course he does, he is a male-

Why do you care, Y/N?

Right, I shouldn’t. I don’t.

A bitter laugh escaped her. How predictable. How typical. She had been a fool to think for even a second that he was anything more than what he had always shown her.

She should be grateful, really. This was exactly what she needed. A brutal, undeniable reminder of what this was. A game. A contract. A carefully calculated arrangement.

And she would not make the mistake of forgetting that again.

With a deep breath, she threw off the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, forcing the last remnants of weakness from her body.

If Eris wanted to pretend nothing had happened, then fine. She would play the part just as well as he did.

But as she stood, as she steeled herself for the day ahead, one single, infuriating question still lingered in the back of her mind—

Where the hell had he gone?

The soft click of the door opening startled Y/N, her mind sluggish from the night’s whirlwind of thoughts.

Samira stepped inside quietly, as always. There was no visible trace of anything unusual on her face, her features carefully controlled, but Y/N could tell something was off. The kind of subtle tension that only Samira could hide under a perfectly polite demeanor.

“You’re awake,” Samira noted with a light smile, though the question in her voice was clear. She crossed the room to the wardrobe without waiting for a response, her movements smooth and efficient. “How are you feeling?”

Y/N blinked, still processing the remnants of last night’s strange and unsettling emotions. She sat up slowly, letting the covers fall off her legs. “Fine,” she muttered, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. She wasn’t fine—not by a long shot—but she wasn’t about to admit that to Samira.

Samira wasted no time, immediately walking over to the bed, the task of dressing Y/N clearly at the forefront of her mind. As she gently pulled out a silk dress, she glanced back at Y/N with a light frown. “You disappeared last night. What happened?” she asked casually, as if it were a normal question to ask after a ball. But Y/N could tell that Samira was keeping her tone soft, as though trying not to pry too much, though the concern in her eyes was evident.

“I just… needed a moment,” Y/N said quickly, her voice coming out too sharp for her liking. She looked away, not meeting Samira’s gaze. She couldn’t tell her what happened last night—not yet. “What about Eris?” Y/N continued, hoping to change the subject. “Did he go back into the ball?”

Samira’s expression shifted slightly, as if she was trying to gather her thoughts. “Yes, but he came back in different clothes,” Samira said, her tone almost cautious. “He said you weren’t feeling well, that’s why you left early.”

“What else?” she asked, trying to keep her tone casual, though her curiosity was getting the best of her. “Was everyone upset? Did they notice me missing?”

Samira shifted uncomfortably as she fastened the silk buttons down Y/N’s back, but her voice remained steady. “No. They were busy with the festivities. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Except… well, you know, your absence.”

“Good,” Y/N muttered. She had no desire to deal with the guests or any of their judgment. But as she glanced at Samira, something nagged at her. “And the high lords? Did they say anything? About me, I mean.”

Samira froze slightly, her hands pausing in mid-air as she adjusted the dress. Y/N caught the subtle shift in her posture, but Samira quickly recovered. “No,” she said, the word coming out too quickly, though it was followed by an easy smile. “They were just… busy. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“Well, forget about me for a second,” Y/N said with an exaggerated sigh. She turned her gaze to Samira, trying to deflect. “How was your night? Did you have fun at least?”

Samira’s hands paused, just for a beat, and Y/N noticed a subtle tremble in her fingers as she tightened the dress’s bodice. It was barely noticeable, but Y/N’s sharp eyes caught it.

“Samira?” she asked quietly, her voice a little softer than intended. “Are you alright?”

Samira straightened up and offered a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes, of course,” she replied quickly, her voice a little too smooth. “It was fine. Nothing to worry about.”

But Y/N was already suspicious. That tremble. Something was off. Samira had never shown any weakness before, but now… Y/N didn’t press. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Samira could be a fortress, after all.

As Samira finished dressing Y/N, she began combing through her hair, her fingers working quickly, but still with a certain gentleness. Y/N’s mind continued to race, but she couldn’t hold back the question that had been plaguing her. “Eris didn’t come into our bedroom last night,” she said, her voice cool and neutral. “Did he?”

Samira’s hands faltered for the briefest moment, and a flicker of something unreadable passed across her face. But she was quick to recover. “Well, I don’t know about that but if you’re asking me, then I believe not.” she said, her voice steady.

“Why?” Y/N asked, her brow furrowing as her mind ticked over the possibilities. But Samira didn’t seem inclined to answer more.

“Maybe he was busy,” Samira replied smoothly, brushing aside Y/N’s concerns. “Now, let’s get you out there. The day is waiting.”

With a final tug on Y/N’s dress, Samira finished styling her hair and moved toward the door. As they both made their way out, Y/N’s eyes caught something on the floor—her wet ball gown from the previous night. It lay in a crumpled heap by the doorway, a stark reminder of everything she’d tried to forget.

Samira didn’t miss it. “What’s this?” she asked, her tone curious.

Y/N’s heart raced as she froze, unsure how to explain. “Uh,” she stammered, “I… I spilled some wine. Got wet, I guess.”

Samira raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further, simply nodding and turning toward the hallway. But the look in her eyes said it all. She didn’t buy it. And neither did Y/N.

But Y/N didn’t have time to dwell on that. She was already pushing past Samira, moving down the hall, her thoughts a whirlwind.

The hallway was quieter than usual, sunlight filtering in through the arched windows, casting long streaks of gold against the polished floors. Y/N walked with practiced ease, keeping her steps light despite the lingering heaviness in her chest.

Samira followed beside her, ever the picture of grace, though Y/N could feel the subtle tension in her. Whether it was from their conversation earlier or something else entirely, she wasn’t sure.

“You’re walking suspiciously fast,” Samira noted, her tone dry. “Avoiding someone?”

“No,” Y/N lied, though the thought of running into Eris sent a flicker of unease through her. She wasn’t ready to face him yet.

Samira made a hum of disbelief, adjusting the silver bracelet on her wrist. “You do realize that if you rush to breakfast, you’ll only end up having to actually interact with people instead of sneaking in late and avoiding them?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes at her. “I’m not sneaking anywhere.”

“No, of course not,” Samira said with mock solemnity. “You just happen to be walking like someone who committed a crime and is trying to act normal.”

“I did not commit a crime.”

“Then why do you look like you got away with something?”

Y/N sighed. “Samira.”

“Yes, dearest?”

“Shut up.”

Samira chuckled but said nothing more, though Y/N could feel her amused gaze flickering toward her every now and then. They turned the corner, the distant hum of conversation growing louder as they neared the dining hall.

Despite the easy banter, Y/N’s mind kept slipping back to last night. To the fountain, to the kiss, to the way Eris had looked at her—like he was trying to unravel something he didn’t quite understand. And then his disappearance. The change of clothes. Something wasn’t adding up, and she hated not knowing what.

“Alright, be honest,” Samira said, cutting into her thoughts. “How bad was the damage?”

Y/N blinked, looking over at her. “What?”

“You disappeared last night, and now you’re acting cagey. That usually means something either disastrous or incredibly entertaining happened.” She paused, then added, “Or both.”

Y/N hesitated. She could lie. She could brush it off. But Samira was too perceptive, and frankly, Y/N didn’t have the energy for an elaborate cover story.

“…It was a mess,” she admitted.

Samira lit up. “A real mess or just a mildly inconvenient one?”

Y/N sighed. “A real one.”

Samira grinned. “Good. Those are the best kinds.”

“You are a terrible person.”

“I never claimed otherwise.”

Y/N shook her head, but a small smile played at her lips despite herself. They were nearing the entrance to the private dining room now, the scent of fresh bread and roasted meat filling the air.

Y/N slowed her steps, scanning the room quickly. Eris wasn’t there—thank the gods—but the servants were. She caught a few curious glances in her direction, whispers already forming before she even sat down.

Samira leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “And here comes the morning gossip. Ready?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

With that, they stepped inside.

Trays of fresh fruit, warm bread, and spiced meats covered the polished wood—plenty of food, yet one thing was unmistakably missing.

Eris’ place.

His usual seat at the end of the table was bare. No plates, no goblet, not even a single piece of fruit placed before it.

He wasn’t coming.

Y/N stopped mid-step, her stomach twisting. Was he avoiding her? Did he leave early? Or—worse—had he never even planned to see her at all?

Beside her, Samira took in the nearly empty room and exhaled, already turning on her heel.

“No.”

Samira stopped. Blinked. Turned back. “What?”

Y/N didn’t answer immediately. She inhaled through her nose, ignoring the sting of something she refused to name, and looked toward one of the waiting servants. “Bring another setting,” she instructed, pointing to the empty chair beside her. “Plates, silver, everything.”

The servant hesitated. “My princess, but Prince Eris—”

“It’s not for my husband.” Y/N cut in smoothly, expression unreadable. “It’s for Lady Samira.”

The room stilled for a heartbeat.

Samira’s hand, which had been resting lightly on Y/N’s shoulder, froze. “No—Highness, that’s not necessary.”

Y/N turned to her with a look that left no room for argument. Whatever Samira saw in her face—whatever emotion Y/N wasn’t voicing—made her exhale sharply, rubbing a hand down her face before muttering, “You’re impossible.”

Yet she sat down.

The servants moved efficiently, setting the extra place with no further protest. Samira, for all her bravado, wasn’t fooling anyone. The faint heat of her cheek was visible even through her cool, composed mask.

Y/N knew exactly what that meant.

She wouldn’t be able to avoid the interrogation much longer.

As soon as the servants were gone, Samira was going to wring every last detail out of her.

Once their plates were filled and the drinks were served, Y/N said one last prayer to the cauldron to save her from Samira’s death stare before she ordered all the servants to leave.

The door had barely clicked shut when Samira whirled around, eyes sharp and glinting with suspicion.

“All right. Enough with the games.” She leaned forward, hands braced against the table. “I know something happened last night. You disappeared. He disappeared. And don’t you dare lie to me, Y/N, because I will get the truth out of you one way or another.”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples. “Do I even have a choice in this interrogation?”

“No,” Samira said flatly. “None. Start talking.”

Y/N exhaled, slumping slightly in her chair. She knew there was no avoiding this. Samira already knew about the plan, about the games she and Eris were playing with the court. There was no point in making excuses. So, she just said it.

“We kissed. And before you ask, no. It was not a fake kiss done for show, it was a real one. In private. Just us two.”

Silence.

Samira blinked. Once. Twice. Then she sucked in a sharp breath, her entire body going still. “You what?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You heard me.”

“I—you—he—” Samira looked like her brain had short-circuited. Then, all at once, she let out a strangled sound, half gasp, half laugh, and grabbed Y/N’s wrist. “No. No. No way. I refuse to believe it. You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not,” Y/N muttered, already regretting this conversation.

“You—you kissed Eris Vanserra?”

Y/N groaned. “I just said that, didn’t I?”

Samira gaped at her, eyes wide with the kind of delight that was going to be so insufferable. “Details. Now. All of them.”

Y/N rubbed a hand down her face. “Fine. I felt bad, so I left the ball.”

Samira frowned, concern flickering in her gaze. “Felt bad? Bad how?”

Y/N waved a hand dismissively. “Just… suffocated. Too many people. Too much noise.” She couldn’t exactly say, Oh, you know, I saw my half-brother, Azriel, who doesn’t even know I exist, and it sent me into a spiral of emotions I wasn’t prepared for. “So I left and went to the maze. I found the fountain and just… sat there for a while. And then he found me.”

Samira’s brows shot up. “Oh? And what happened then?”

“We fought. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Samira echoed, smirking. “Then what?”

“Then… he got into the fountain.”

Samira’s jaw dropped. “He—what?”

Y/N crossed her arms. “You heard me. Fully clothed. Just walked in.”

Samira cackled. “Why?”

“I have no idea. But then he pulled me in.”

“What?”

“And then we… played around a bit.”

Samira stared. “You played? With Eris?”

“I shoved him under the water.”

“Still, Y/N. That’s basically foreplay with a male like him.”

Y/N groaned, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Samira.”

“Fine, fine. Continue.”

Y/N shifted in her seat, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable. “It just… happened. One second we were fighting, and then suddenly… we kissed.”

Samira was practically vibrating in her chair. “Who started it?”

“Uh.” Y/N swallowed. “He did.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

Samira looked half ready to faint. “And? And?!”

“And the second someone called his name, he just—pushed me away. Like I was a mistake. He turned completely cold and just left.”

Samira’s excitement dimmed slightly. “Oh.”

Y/N leaned back, staring at the empty seat where Eris should’ve been. “And now he’s avoiding me. He wasn’t in bed when I woke up, and now he didn’t even show up for breakfast. I mean, it’s not like we normally talk much, but still. He usually exists in the same space as me at least once in the morning.”

Samira hummed, tilting her head. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Do you care?”

Y/N snapped her gaze to her. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“No.” She scoffed. “Absolutely not. Are you kidding? Why would I care?”

Samira propped her chin on her hand. “Mmm. You sound defensive.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound like you’re in denial.”

“I am in denial because there is nothing to not be in denial about,” Y/N snapped. “I do not care.”

Samira just raised an eyebrow.

“It was a mistake,” Y/N continued. “A slip-up. It will never happen again.”

Samira smirked. “Uh-huh.”

“It won’t.”

“Of course, of course. Just a mistake. A little moment of weakness.”

“Exactly.”

“A little fountain rendezvous with the husband you claim to hate.”

Y/N scowled. “Samira.”

Samira just grinned, reaching for a piece of fruit. “I’m just saying, Y/N, if this happens again—”

“It won’t.”

“—you should at least try to win whatever game he’s playing.”

Y/N exhaled heavily. “I’m not playing a game.”

Samira hummed, unconvinced. “Mm-hmm. Sure.” She popped a grape into her mouth. “So. When’s the next kiss happening?”

Y/N groaned and dropped her head onto the table.

This was going to be insufferable.

The rest of the morning passed with Samira interrogating her mercilessly, asking her to repeat the events of the night over and over again, as if hearing it one more time would somehow make it more believable.

“You’re lying,” Samira said for the third time.

“Why would I lie about something like this?” Y/N shot back, exasperated.

“Because it makes no sense!” Samira nearly shouted. “You—him—the fountain—playful splashing?! Are you sure it was Eris you were with and not some long-lost identical twin who knows how to have fun?”

Y/N groaned, dropping her head onto the table. “Yes, Samira, I’m sure it was him. I don’t think I could hallucinate that well.”

Samira shook her head in pure disbelief. “I still don’t buy it. Maybe he was possessed. Maybe some old spirit of mirth and joy took over his body.”

Y/N kicked her under the table, making Samira yelp. “Focus, you menace. The real issue is that he’s been avoiding me ever since.”

Samira smirked. “Are you upset about that, my lady?”

Y/N scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

“Mm-hmm,” Samira hummed, dragging out the sound, her grin widening.

“Shut up.”

The two of them went back and forth like this, Samira throwing out theories about why Eris had kissed her only to push her away, some of them ridiculous—“maybe he thought you were drowning”—and others, though she hated to admit it, a little too insightful. “Or maybe he didn’t expect to like it.”

Y/N had not responded to that one.

By the time Samira finally let up, the afternoon was creeping in, and Y/N found herself retreating to the library, needing some space to breathe. She needed quiet, needed books, needed something to drown out her thoughts and the lingering heat on her skin when she remembered the way Eris’s hands had felt on her.

The library was nearly empty, save for a few servants and bookkeepers organizing the towering shelves. She picked a secluded corner, running her fingers along the spines of the books, letting the cool leather calm her.

She was so lost in thought that she barely noticed the soft sound of the door opening and closing in the distance. She barely registered the presence of someone moving closer, not bothering to look up as she assumed it was one of the keepers shifting past.

But then the presence lingered, and a voice—warm, elegant, and unmistakably regal—broke the quiet.

“Deep in thought, I see.”

Y/N stiffened, her fingers pausing over a book as she lifted her head.

Standing beside her, watching her with sharp, knowing eyes, was the High Lady of the Autumn Court.

Y/N swallowed before quickly stepping back and bowing. “High Lady.”

The female smiled, a small, graceful thing. “Sit, child, please.”

Y/N hesitated only for a breath before sinking back into her chair, keeping her posture straight despite the sudden weight of the High Lady’s presence. There was something about the way the female held herself—an effortless sort of grace that reminded Y/N of queens from old stories, the kind who ruled from the shadows while kings thought they held the power.

For a moment, the High Lady merely studied her, as if committing her to memory. Then, with a quiet, knowing smile, she said, “I imagine it must be difficult, being so far from your family.”

Y/N kept her expression carefully neutral. She had been playing this role long enough that the lie came easily. “The Montesere court has always been home,” she answered smoothly. “But it’s been… an interesting experience, being here.”

The High Lady hummed. “I have visited Montesere before. It is a court of fine culture, rich history.” She tilted her head slightly. “Though I must admit, I would not have expected one of its princesses to be so drawn to the forests of the Autumn Court.”

Y/N let out a small laugh, as if unbothered by the implication. “Perhaps it’s the change of scenery,” she replied lightly. “Montesere is all golden palaces and sprawling cities. There is something about the wildness of this land that calls to me.”

The High Lady’s lips quirked at that. “You are not the first to say such things. But the wildness of Autumn does not come without its dangers.”

Y/N met her gaze evenly. “I’ve noticed.”

The High Lady exhaled a quiet chuckle, though something sharper flickered in her eyes. “Yes, I imagine you have.” She paused, as if choosing her next words carefully. “And how do you find our people? Have they been kind?”

Y/N knew a test when she saw one.

“The court has been… welcoming,” she said carefully. “In their own way.”

The High Lady gave a knowing nod. “Yes. Autumn’s warmth does not always show itself in the most obvious ways. It takes time to understand it.”

Y/N inclined her head. “And yet, I suspect you understood it long before you ever became its High Lady.”

The woman across from her let out a soft, almost wistful sigh. “Perhaps. Though understanding does not always mean acceptance.”

There was something in her tone—something deep and heavy beneath the surface. Y/N didn’t pry, but she filed it away.

The High Lady studied her once more before continuing. “And tell me, child—how do you find my son?”

Y/N stiffened, though only for a fraction of a second. She masked it well, but not well enough, it seemed.

The High Lady’s gaze flickered with quiet amusement. “That reaction tells me enough.”

Y/N exhaled, settling back in her chair. “I find him… difficult to understand.” It wasn’t a lie.

A small smile played on the High Lady’s lips. “Yes, he is that, isn’t he?”

Y/N hesitated before adding, “But he isn’t quite what I expected.”

That caught the female’s attention. “And what did you expect?”

Y/N thought back to every whispered rumor she’d heard about Eris Vanserra before stepping foot in this court. A monster, some had said. A prince as cruel as his father. And for a time, she had believed it. But then came the moments that contradicted those whispers. The flashes of something else beneath the surface.

“I expected him to be colder,” she admitted, choosing her words carefully.

The older female nodded, as if she had heard that answer before. “That is what most think, isn’t it? That he is fire without warmth.”

Y/N didn’t respond, unsure of what to say.

The High Lady leaned back in her seat, folding her hands in her lap. “My son is not an easy man. He does not trust easily, nor does he give freely. But that is not because he is incapable of such things.”

Y/N watched her closely. “Then why?”

The High Lady held her gaze. “Because the cost of trusting the wrong person in this court is far too high.”

There was something in her voice that sent a chill down Y/N’s spine.

“I do not say this as a warning against Eris,” she continued, her tone measured. “But as a warning against those who would wish to see him—and anyone close to him—fall.”

Y/N’s fingers curled slightly against the armrest. She understood the meaning behind those words well enough.

The High Lady regarded her in silence before offering a small, almost gentle smile. “Be careful, child. The fire in this court is not only in the hearths.”

Y/N swallowed. “I understand.”

The High Lady nodded once, then rose gracefully to her feet.

She turned to leave, but just as she reached the door, she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Whatever you think you know about my son,” she murmured, “know that there is always more beneath the surface.”

And with that, she disappeared into the halls, leaving Y/N alone in the library, heart pounding and thoughts racing.

Hours had passed.

Still, there was no sign of Eris.

The day had dragged on in an exhausting blur of interrogation and expectations. The high lady had made her feel more stressed than relaxed with her words in the library. And when that interrogation had finally come to an end, she’d been pulled into yet another long meal with the courtiers—hollow pleasantries, veiled threats disguised as conversation, and an ever-present weight pressing down on her.

But no Eris. Not a word, not a message, not even a passing shadow in the halls.

Now, alone in their chambers, Y/N paced in slow, restless circles, her mind twisting itself into endless knots.

Where the hell was he?

It wasn’t that she cared—obviously she didn’t care—it was the principle of it. He had dragged her into this world, into his world, and now he had the audacity to disappear into thin air? Did he expect her to sit here like some obedient little wife, waiting for him to grace her with his presence?

Her jaw tightened as her steps grew sharper against the floor. This palace was suffocating, its walls feeling more and more like a gilded cage. She had come here, agreed to this whole ridiculous arrangement, and yet—not a single damn person had shown her what lay beyond these castle walls.

Not even her so-called husband.

Fine. If he could vanish, then so could she.

Y/N turned sharply toward her wardrobe, yanking the doors open with more force than necessary. Her fingers worked quickly, searching for something less stifling than the finely embroidered gown she had been forced to wear all day. Something she could move in. Her pulse thrummed with growing determination as she stripped down and pulled on a dark tunic, fastening a belt around her waist before slipping into boots that wouldn’t slow her down.

Then, she reached for her cloak.

The fabric was soft beneath her fingers as she swung it over her shoulders, pulling the hood up to conceal her face. In the mirror’s reflection, she barely recognized herself—not the princess of Montesere, not the false bride of Eris Vanserra, but something else entirely. Something untethered.

A sharp exhale left her lips.

If they would not show her the world of Autumn, she would take it for herself.

With that final thought, Y/N turned on her heel and slipped out the door, vanishing into the night.

Slipping past the palace guards had been laughably easy.

Not that she was surprised.

Montesere had trained her well.

Here, no one looked twice at a hooded figure moving swiftly through the streets. No one questioned the way she maneuvered, silent and swift, like a ghost slipping between realms. It was almost laughable how little security there had been to stop her. Not that anyone would suspect the crown prince’s new wife of sneaking off into the city’s underbelly.

It was no surprise, really, considering who she had been in Montesere.

Dressed in dark colors, with her hood drawn low over her face, she had moved like a whisper through the corridors, slipping through narrow passageways and lesser-used exits until she was past the towering walls of the palace, beyond its suffocating grip. And now—

Now, she was in the heart of the Autumn Court.

The air smelled different here, thick with spice and burning wood, the crisp scent of fallen leaves mixing with the smoke curling from dozens of chimneys. The streets were alive despite the late hour, the flickering light of lanterns casting long shadows over the cobblestone roads. It was different from Montesere—not better, not worse, just… different.

Montesere had been all sun-warmed stone and open-air plazas, its colors bright, its people louder. But Autumn was darker, the buildings taller, their facades carved with intricate designs of curling flames and twisting branches. Here, the fae moved in sharp, elegant strides, their amber-colored eyes flickering with suspicion or amusement, as if always in on some unspoken joke.

She pulled her cloak tighter around herself, weaving through the crowds with ease.

The night markets sprawled before her, a riot of movement and sound. Stalls lined the streets, offering goods ranging from deep crimson silks to daggers with handles carved from emberstone. The scent of roasted chestnuts filled the air, mingling with the sharper aroma of spiced cider. Vendors called out in rough, lilting voices, their words rolling like embers across their tongues.

In the center of it all, a small performance was unfolding.

A group of musicians played with feverish intensity, their stringed instruments creating a wild, untamed melody that matched the beat of the dancers’ feet. The performers moved with an effortless sort of grace, their bodies twisting in fluid, deliberate motion, cloaks billowing like flickering flames.

Something about it stirred something deep in her chest.

Not quite homesickness. Not quite longing. But… something.

She had seen something like this before, in Montesere. Not exactly the same, but close enough that a distant memory whispered at the edges of her mind. The music, the way the crowd leaned in, the way laughter carried through the air.

It was strange.

For the first time since arriving in Autumn, she didn’t feel like a stranger.

As she weaved between merchants and onlookers, something unexpected caught her eye.

A small, dimly lit stall sat tucked away between two towering stone buildings, nearly hidden in the shadows. It was nothing remarkable—no elaborate banners, no enthusiastic vendor calling out to passing customers. Just a simple wooden table draped in black velvet, cluttered with trinkets and charms that gleamed under the low candlelight.

Y/N might have walked past it entirely if not for one thing.

Among the clutter of objects, nestled between rusted rings and strange talismans, sat a dagger.

Not just any dagger.

Her dagger.

Her breath stilled.

It wasn’t possible. She had lost that blade months ago, buried it in the frozen ground long before crossing into the Autumn Court, leaving behind that last piece of herself. Yet there it was, the silver handle worn but unmistakable, the faint etching of Monteserian runes catching the light.

Slowly, she reached out.

A withered hand shot out, closing around her wrist before she could touch it.

Y/N jerked her head up, meeting the gaze of an ancient-looking woman. She had the kind of ageless face that made it impossible to determine whether she was fifty or five hundred, her eyes clouded with something almost unnatural.

“She’s been waiting for you,” the woman murmured.

A chill licked down Y/N’s spine.

She pulled her wrist free, but the woman didn’t try to stop her again. Instead, she inclined her head toward a narrow alley behind the stall, where a darkened doorway barely peeked through the mist curling off the ground.

No signs marked its entrance. No banners or symbols.

And yet, Y/N knew.

This was where she was meant to go.

She shouldn’t have gone. Should have turned back, walked away, left whatever this was behind.

And yet—

Her feet carried her forward.

The doorway led to a set of stone steps descending into darkness, the only illumination a dim, flickering candle at the bottom. The air grew thick, heavy with incense and something deeper, something old.

She pushed through the heavy curtain hanging at the base of the stairs and stepped inside.

The tent—or cabin, or whatever this strange place was—was smaller than she expected, its walls draped in deep crimson fabric, the air thick with the scent of sage and something metallic. In the center sat a round wooden table, its surface covered in intricate carvings, and behind it, cloaked in shadow, the fortune teller.

Not the woman from the stall.

Someone else.

This one was younger—at least in appearance—her dark hair falling in thick, curling waves around her shoulders. She wore rings on every finger, silver and gold glinting in the candlelight as she shuffled a deck of cards with long, practiced motions.

“Sit.”

Y/N hesitated.

“You already walked in, girl. Sit.”

The chair creaked slightly as Y/N lowered herself into it, her every muscle coiled tight.

The woman studied her, those sharp, knowing eyes lingering on the shadows beneath Y/N’s hood.

“You’re hiding more than your face,” she mused, shuffling the cards lazily.

Y/N said nothing.

“Do you believe in fate?”

A trap of a question.

“I believe in choices,” Y/N said coolly.

The woman only smiled. “Ah, but sometimes, choices are merely illusions. You’ll see soon enough.”

The cards stopped moving.

With slow, deliberate care, the fortune teller spread the deck across the table. The backs were adorned with swirling patterns of gold and black, shifting in the candlelight as if alive.

“Pick one.”

Y/N hesitated.

A trick. A game. A manipulation.

And yet—her fingers moved before she could think, plucking a single card from the center.

The fortune teller flipped it over.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

“The Unmaker.”

Y/N frowned. The illustration was stark, almost violent—a figure wreathed in shadow standing over a crumbling kingdom, their hands outstretched as cities collapsed into ruin at their feet.

“You will bring to ruin what others have built,” the woman murmured, eyes gleaming. “Tear down the pillars of power, unravel the world as they know it.”

A slow, sick feeling curled in Y/N’s gut.

“Who?” she demanded. “Who will I bring to ruin?”

The woman only chuckled, gathering the rest of the cards into her hands. “You ask the wrong question, girl.”

Y/N’s nails dug into the wooden table. “Then tell me the right one.”

The fortune teller leaned forward, her breath warm against Y/N’s face as she whispered:

“Will you be the one to build something new?”

A shiver ran down Y/N’s spine.

She didn’t have an answer.

Didn’t even know what she was supposed to say.

But she didn’t have time to think.

Because just as she moved to stand, to leave, to shake off this nonsense—

The fortune teller’s hand snapped out, gripping her wrist like a vise.

“You don’t get to walk away from fate.”

The walls seemed to shift, the air growing thick, suffocating.

Y/N’s heart pounded as shadows curled around the edges of the room, as the candlelight flickered—no, dimmed—as if something unseen was closing in.

Something ancient.

Something waiting.

The woman’s eyes glowed like embers in the dark.

And Y/N—who had walked these streets as a predator, who had learned to fear nothing—felt, for the first time in a long, long time…

Like prey.

The moment the fortune teller’s hand clamped around her wrist, Y/N knew something was wrong. The room seemed to pulse, the shadows thickening as if they had a life of their own, crawling toward her, creeping into her lungs, suffocating her.

Her heart raced. A dark, eerie laughter bubbled from the fortune teller’s throat, her grip tightening.

“You cannot escape fate,” the woman whispered again, her voice low, reverberating like an ancient echo.

Y/N yanked her arm, pulling with all her strength, but the fortune teller didn’t budge. Instead, the shadows gathered, wrapping around her wrist, binding her as if they were alive. A strange force pressed against her chest, like the weight of the entire world bearing down on her.

Her breathing came in sharp, desperate gasps. The walls of the cabin seemed to close in, the air thick with magic, suffocating and oppressive. She needed to get free.

Without thinking, her other hand snapped forward, drawing a dagger from the sheath hidden beneath her cloak. She lunged, slashing at the fortune teller’s face, aiming for her throat.

But the woman’s lips curled into a sickening smile, her eyes glinting with amusement as the dagger slid harmlessly through her skin.

“You think a blade will stop me?”

The fortune teller’s voice slithered through the air, the words dripping with mockery. She let go of Y/N’s wrist, pushing her back with a wave of her hand.

Y/N staggered, stumbling, but her feet regained their balance. She was fast—faster than anyone would expect from someone in her position, her instincts sharp from a life of hiding, of fighting, of surviving.

Before she could make another move, the air around her shifted, swirling, a vortex of shadows and darkness that seemed to breathe with her every movement. Y/N’s eyes darted around the cabin, trying to find something—anything—she could use against this creature.

The fortune teller’s form shimmered, flickering like a dying flame.

And then, she changed.

Y/N froze, her stomach lurching, bile rising in her throat. The woman’s skin stretched and morphed, the once delicate features now distorting, twisting into something grotesque. The fortune teller’s eyes widened, glowing with unnatural intensity, her lips curling into a wicked, mocking smile as her appearance blurred like smoke, taking on something altogether more horrific.

Her face melted away, replaced with a vision Y/N would never forget.

Her face.

A grotesque, twisted version of her own face stared back at her, but the eyes were hollow, devoid of humanity, and the smile stretched too wide—unnaturally wide—as though the skin was being pulled apart. The skin was pale, almost corpse-like, her lips cracked and bleeding as if something more sinister lay beneath.

A wave of nausea hit Y/N, her stomach twisting violently as her pulse pounded in her ears. She staggered back, instinctively raising her arms to shield herself.

“No—”

The fortune teller’s voice was now a haunting echo of her own, layered with malice. “How long until you break, Y/N? How long until you realize there is no escape? You are me, and I am you. What you fear… you will become.”

Without warning, the creature lunged.

Y/N barely had time to react before a cold, clawed hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing with inhuman strength. She gasped for air, her nails digging into the hand, trying to pry it loose. Her vision blurred at the edges, the shadows closing in tighter, the suffocating pressure building.

Her heart pounded as her hand moved instinctively to her belt, grabbing another knife—this time smaller, sharper. She drove it into the creature’s side, twisting, hoping for a break.

But the thing laughed, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her bones. “Is that all?”

With a cruel snarl, it shoved her backward, sending her crashing into the wooden wall of the cabin. The force rattled her bones, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Pain exploded in her chest, but she knew she had no choice. She had to keep fighting.

Y/N gritted her teeth, pushing herself to her feet. Blood dripped from the gash on her arm, but she was alive. For now.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. The room had become a blur of shadows, swirling and suffocating, as the creature—no, the fortune teller—moved toward her, a sickening grin playing across its features.

“You were always meant for this,” it hissed, each word a poisoned arrow aimed at her resolve. “You have no control. You never have.”

Y/N felt a flicker of doubt. Could it be true? Had she been playing a role for so long that she had forgotten who she really was? Her own breath stilled, caught in her throat. For a heartbeat, everything seemed to slow.

And then, with a growl, the creature lunged again, this time slashing at her with claws that gleamed in the dim candlelight.

Y/N barely had time to dodge. She twisted to the side, the claws grazing her ribs, a sharp searing pain flaring through her body. The blood soaked her tunic, dripping onto the floor in heavy, wet drops.

She wasn’t going to win this.

The thought slipped into her mind, and she shoved it away with a force of will. She couldn’t give up. Not yet.

But the creature’s laughter echoed in her ears, relentless.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her limbs growing heavy with exhaustion. She could feel her energy slipping away, the magic around her tightening its grip, pressing in from all sides, slowly draining her will. She swung her knife again, slashing at the air in front of her, but the creature danced away with ease, its smile widening as Y/N’s movements slowed.

“Fate is inevitable.”

The words rang in her ears, and for the first time since she’d entered the cabin, Y/N felt the weight of them.

Her vision swam.

She was losing.

The world spun, the shadows creeping ever closer. Her legs felt weak, her breaths shallow. It was as if the room itself was closing in around her, the walls pressing against her with a crushing force.

And then, just when she thought she couldn’t stand any longer, the creature—the fortune teller—stopped.

It tilted its head, eyes narrowed, as though contemplating something.

“You are strong… but not strong enough,” it said, the voice cold and final.

Y/N’s knees buckled beneath her. Her grip on the knife loosened, the metal slipping from her fingers and clattering to the floor. The shadows swirled faster now, wrapping around her, suffocating her.

And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt the weight of defeat press down on her.

Her mind fogged, her muscles screaming in protest, and she knew—she knew—there was no escaping this.

This battle was over.

And she had lost.

Y/N’s world blurred as the shadows pressed in on her. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her entire body screaming for respite that would never come. Pain lanced through her, and yet it was nothing compared to the gnawing, suffocating weight of the creature’s presence. She could feel her energy fading, her limbs turning to lead as the darkness closed around her.

Who is this? she thought desperately. What is this thing? What does it want from me?

The words, the answers—everything blurred in her mind, slipping through her like water. She could no longer hold onto her thoughts. The suffocating feeling in her chest grew heavier. The creature’s mocking voice filled her ears again, but its words had become background noise to the dull throb in her skull.

“You were always meant for this…”

She was about to slump against the ground, the weight of defeat pulling her down, when she saw it—fire.

At first, her vision was too blurry to make sense of it, but then she realized—it wasn’t the creature.

Her eyes, weak and unfocused, barely registered the movement. But something about the flames… it was different. It was real.

Her gaze, clouded with exhaustion, flickered to the side—no… no, it’s not the creature…

Through the haze, she saw a figure. A tall, imposing figure surrounded by the flames that seemed to curl and burn with unnatural ferocity. The fire was radiating from him, wrapping around him like an extension of his very being. She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision, and saw the unmistakable flash of auburn hair—Eris.

Her heart skipped a beat, disbelief seizing her. Eris.

But she couldn’t process the sight properly, her mind too clouded with the darkness the fortune teller had placed on her. The flames danced around him like living things, as though they obeyed his every command, swirling and spinning in the air. His expression was a blend of determination and something else—something feral, something otherworldly.

The creature, still hovering above her, hissed in fury, its form flickering as it turned to face Eris. The two were suddenly locked in a brutal dance—flames clashing with shadows, light battling darkness.

Eris was relentless. With a slash of his arm, fire erupted from his fingertips, sending the creature back. It screeched, a horrible, shrieking sound that tore through her bones, but Eris didn’t stop. He moved with a grace and power that made her dizzy, his strikes swift, burning with the heat of the sun itself.

Y/N watched in a daze, her body still trembling, her limbs heavy with the exhaustion of the fight. But as Eris’s flames raged, she realized something. The creature had loosened its grip on her—the suffocating weight lifting just slightly. She could breathe again, shallowly at first, but it was enough.

She managed to push herself onto her hands and knees, barely able to lift her head. Her vision swam, her body protesting every movement, but she wasn’t done yet. She couldn’t just lie there. Not while Eris fought—fought for her.

Despite the overwhelming fatigue, despite the pain and fear coursing through her veins, Y/N found the strength to rise. Her hand shakily gripped the hilt of her dagger, still lying at her side, though she had no idea how she would even wield it properly in her state.

But she wasn’t going to back down. Not now.

Her steps were slow, uncertain, but she pushed forward, trying to stay out of the fire’s reach. She had to help him. She had to do something.

She noticed then, in the midst of the chaos, that a barrier had formed around her—a shimmering, transparent shield. She could still feel the heat of the flames, but they didn’t touch her. Eris had placed a protective wall around her, keeping her safe from the inferno raging in the room.

What is happening? she thought, her mind spinning, confused by his actions. Why was he helping her?

Her dagger, though heavy in her hand, was still in her grasp. She stumbled toward the fight, each step an effort. The creature, now struggling against the fury of Eris’s flames, was weakening, but it was still a deadly opponent.

Eris didn’t falter. His movements were sharp, calculated, as he used the fire to force the creature back. But then, with an agonizing screech, the creature lunged, and Eris barely managed to dodge. His body twisted in the air, a blur of flame and fury.

For a fleeting moment, Y/N saw him—Eris, standing in the middle of the storm, his flames dancing around him like an eternal fire, his face set in a fierce expression. His power was breathtaking, terrifying in its intensity.

The fortune teller screamed in rage, its body seizing in a final attempt to retaliate, but it was too late. With one last cry of defiance, the creature was engulfed by the flames, its form disintegrating into nothingness, consumed by the fire that seemed to be a part of Eris himself.

The air grew still. The flames began to die down, the last remnants of the creature’s presence burning away. The cabin was nothing but a charred shell now, the wood smoldering in the remnants of the heat.

Y/N collapsed to her knees, breathless, her body trembling as the reality of the battle set in. She could barely process what had just happened. Her head was spinning, her limbs weak and unsteady. But she couldn’t stay on the ground—not now.

And then, before she could even think, Eris was there. His arms were around her, lifting her effortlessly, pulling her close in a swift, controlled motion. She gasped, surprised, but the world was spinning too much for her to react.

Without a word, without hesitation, Eris moved. He carried her swiftly out of the burning cabin, his steps confident and sure.

The moment they reached the open air, Eris set her down gently. He didn’t speak. He simply turned, flicked his fingers, and the flames rose up--higher than before--once more. His eyes stayed focused on the inferno that consumed the cabin behind them.

The flames rose higher and higher, crackling and twisting as the building collapsed, consumed by the fire.

Y/N stood in the shadow of Eris, her heart still racing, her mind trying to catch up with everything that had just transpired. She was confused—so much had happened in such a short time. Why had Eris been there? Why had he saved her? Where in the cauldron's name was he the whole day to begin with?

And what did this mean for her?

The flames continued to roar higher and higher, an unrelenting force that consumed the fortune teller’s cabin in a fiery spiral, its heat pulsing in the air. The inferno seemed to burn through the very fabric of the world, its intensity mocking the quiet devastation in Y/N’s body. Her ribs throbbed, blood staining her tunic, but her pride refused to let her close her eyes. She stood there, the last threads of her strength tethered to the anger and confusion that churned within her.

Turning slowly to Eris, she felt a rush of emotion spill over her. She didn’t care about the pain anymore. She wasn’t going to go quietly. With a sudden movement, she slapped him across the face.

Eris staggered back, his usual calm shattered by the force of her strike. “What—?” he started, eyes wide in confusion.

But Y/N cut him off with a snarl, the words flowing out of her before she could stop them. “A coward,” she spat, the words sharp, like knives. “You’ve been avoiding me, disappearing, and now you show up out of nowhere. Where were you, huh? Off with one of your mistresses? Having your fun while I’m left to fend for myself?”

Her ribs felt like they were on fire, each breath a painful reminder of her body’s betrayal, but she refused to shut up. She glared at him, her voice growing louder, more furious. “How did you even know I was here? Why did you come now? Where were you the whole day? Who the hell was that creature, and what is going on, Eris?”

Eris’s face twisted into a mask of frustration, his eyes narrowing in irritation. Before he could speak, Y/N jabbed her finger toward him. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You’re always too busy to notice anything when I need you, but now you’re here, shouting at me for getting myself involved. Don’t you dare blame me!”

His voice grew louder, more forceful. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? Do you know who that was?” His words cut into her, but she refused to back down, her fury now mixing with the pain in her chest.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he snapped, his words low, almost a growl. “I had something to take care of, but of course, you had to mess it all up.” His tone was harsh, but there was an undercurrent of frustration, of something he was trying desperately to keep contained.

Y/N scoffed, her laughter bitter and sharp. “Oh, sure. Blame me for everything, as usual. An inconvenience strikes, and I’m the one to blame, right? Typical Eris.”

He was about to shout back, his anger palpable, but then, as if he finally noticed the subtle way she was swaying on her feet, his face went still. His eyes flicked down to her, and the expression that crossed his face made her blood run cold.

Her vision blurred at the edges, her body threatening to give way beneath her. She felt her knees buckle, but she didn’t fall. She stayed upright, barely. The dizziness was growing stronger, her energy draining with every passing second, but she refused to close her eyes. Not yet. Not until she got her answers.

“Y/N,” Eris said, his voice suddenly softer, urgent. “Do you realize what you’ve—”

But she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore. The world tilted dangerously, and she felt her body begin to fall into the abyss, as though all the darkness of the night had swallowed her whole.

Her vision faded to black.

The last thing she heard was his voice, panicked and full of something she hadn’t expected—concern. “Y/N—”

And then, nothing.

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pablopascal · 18 days ago

Text

how to disappear. (opla!zoro x fem!reader)

synopsis: joining luffy’s crew made you believe that you’d finally escaped your former pirate crew and nightmare of a captain for good. that is, until a certain butler starts looking a little too familiar. good thing zoro’s keeping a close eye on you.

warnings: opla spoilers (ep 3), some direct dialogue from opla, mentions of verbal/physical abuse, kuro is just a weirdo tbh, reader is called a bitch, protective zoro, for the sake of the story sham and buchie joined the black cat pirates after reader left

word count: 4.7k

“this guy is full of shit.”

you knock your shoulder into zoro’s wider one. “be nice. and so what if he is?”

zoro gives you a pointed glare. “then we should turn around and look for someone who can actually help us find a ship.”

“all business, as per usual,” you reply, with a purposefully dramatic sigh. “why can’t you have a little fun?”

“what about this is supposed to be fun?” zoro spits out the word like it’s poisonous. “this is the blandest village i’ve ever seen.”

you scoff. “now you’re the one that’s full of shit. nothing’s ever bland with us and you know it.”

the us in question was your newly formed pirate crew… if you and luffy could even be considered that. having left the ship you’d been on a few years ago, you were in search of a new crew. luffy was persistent and charming — when you’d crossed paths in shells town, it took little to no time for him to convince you to join his hunt for the one piece. zoro and nami, on the other hand, had yet to follow in your footsteps.

“well, considering that we’ve only been traveling together for a day and a half and i’ve already escaped a marine base, defeated a marine captain, and fought a clown with devil fruit powers… i’d actually have to agree.”

you can’t help but giggle at his sarcastic delivery. “be grateful, zoro. not many pirate crews are this fun to be on, trust me. oh wait, that’s right, you still haven’t officially joined—”

“tell me about your old pirate crew,” interjects zoro, your comment having piqued his interest.

you notice that the playful atmosphere dissipates. “god, where do i even start?”

zoro answers that for you. “why did you leave?”

“starting with the hard hitting questions, huh?” you joke, mostly to stall. you clear your throat before you answer. “well, it was different. nothing like what luffy has going on. he actually cares about his crew… and even those who aren’t technically on it.”

at that, a smile tugs at the corner of zoro’s lips. even you crack a small grin. although as you continue speaking, it fades.

“on my old crew, we were dispensable. anytime something went wrong, our own captain would threaten to kill us. it was… scary, to be completely honest. there were so many times when i thought i’d die with that filthy crew. and i never wanted that. so as soon as we docked at shells town, i left.”

zoro’s jaw clenches as imagines the things you’d seen and been subjected to. “this old captain of yours sounds like a real—”

“he was a nightmare,” you tell him. “he didn’t care that i was the only woman on board, he treated me just as horribly, if not worse.”

zoro stops so suddenly that it takes you a second to realize he’s not walking alongside you.

“what do you mean by that.” the way zoro phrases the inquiry doesn’t even make it sound like a question. more like a demand. his narrowed eyes are fixed solely on you. holding his gaze feels… intense.

you can’t help but glance away as you answer him. “he was just a bit of a creep.”

before zoro has the chance to try and extract more information out of you, a familiar voice calls both your names. you’re not really sure when you and zoro had fallen behind but from where you currently stand, the rest of your group looks miniature. or perhaps it’s just the massive size of the mansion behind them that makes luffy, nami, and usopp look pocket-sized in comparison.

“why’d you stop walking?!” your captain shouts, hands pressed on each side of his mouth to amplify his voice. “get over here, we’re about to go in through the top secret entrance!”

you vaguely make out usopp gesturing for luffy to keep his voice down. you’re sure that would warrant another comment from zoro about his reliability but he’s too busy staring at you with that expectant look in his eyes.

“we better catch up,” you tell him, heading in the direction of the deluxe home.

he allows you to dodge the subject and sighs, walking in long strides to catch up to you.

“i’ve never seen a house this big before,” luffy admits, admiring the mansion along with the wellkept greenery surrounding it.

“awesome, right?” usopp gloats, walking around like he owned the place. “kaya’s given me an open invitation to drop by anytime i want.”

“wow.” you’re not sure if luffy was just going along with usopp’s act or if he really believed him. knowing the devil fruit user, it was more than likely the latter. “all this for just one person?”

“well, she lives here with her butler and a few other staff,” usopp replies, leaning against the stone well that sat in the middle of the lawn.

“money really shows you who people truly are,” nami mutters, eyes scanning the property. “most people only care about themselves and what’s theirs.”

zoro is quick to throw the insult back at her. “sounds like someone i know.”

you roll your eyes at his comment, though you make no effort to disagree with him. nami was a little on the materialistic side.

“and a small staff makes for easy pickings,” she continues, proving your point.

“we just got here and you’re already planning on robbing the place blind?” you ask though you already know the answer.

“at least a little blurry,” she smirks, following behind luffy and usopp who walk toward the entrance.

you and zoro share a look. one that says disappointed but not surprised.

going under a shrub shaped as an arch, you’re met with a beautiful pond. you admire the pink lilies that float at the top and the bushes that were intricately trimmed into the shape of various animals. even if the people that lived here were filthy rich, at least they had good decorative taste.

“so if you have an invitation, why are we going around the back way?” luffy ponders.

usopp’s answer is nonchalant. “oh, i never use the front entrance. like i said, this is the vip entrance reserved for special guests.”

zoro scoffs. “this guy’s definitely–”

“don’t start,” you groan, cutting him off.

abruptly, usopp freezes and spins around, attempting to usher your crew back. “you know what, there’s actually a more exclusive entrance this way–”

the sharp swoosh of a knife cutting through the air and burying itself in the ground between usopp’s feet cuts him off. from the direction the kitchen utensil was thrown stands a heavyset gentleman with his face wrinkled in anger. his demanding voice booms through the garden, “the hell are you doing here, usopp?”

the dark-skinned boy fumbles over his word. “buchi, buddy, uh, kaya’s expecting me.”

“another one of your lies,” the man – seemingly named buchi – seethes, grabbing him by the collar. “you ain’t welcome here and you know it.”

“i know nothing of the sort,” usopp retorts, keeping his cool even when he was practically being lifted off the ground by his shirt. “i’m here to give kaya an extra special gift.”

before buchi can get another word out, a feminine voice calls out for your companion. coming down the steps is a frail looking girl in a pink dress. on her arm is a man dressed in a crisp suit, presumably the butler usopp had mentioned earlier. though, from where you stand you can’t see either of their faces too clearly.

“what a wonderful surprise,” she exclaims, breathlessly.

“kaya!” usopp exclaims, returning her enthusiasm. buchi has no choice but to let him go, begrudgingly. usopp makes sure to shoot him a smug look before walking towards the young girl. “happy birthday.”

the butler clears his throat, not afraid to intrude on their special moment. “usopp, we’ve discussed this before. you mustn’t show up unannounced.”

“nonsense, klahadore.” kaya smiles warmly. “have you come to tell me another story? i do love hearing about your adventures.”

“i’ll do you one better,” usopp smirks with such confidence that even you’re left wondering what kind of surprise he has up his sleeve. “i brought some of my crew!” he gestures back towards the four of you, proudly.

your excitement vanishes. “oh. the surprise is… us.”

“well, that’s boring,” luffy agrees, just as disappointed as you are.

kaya, on the other hand, is none the wiser. “it’s so nice to meet you. you must all stay for dinner.”

klahadore lowers his voice. “miss kaya, it is a bit last minute. i’m afraid the kitchen hasn’t prepared for any extra guests.”

“please,” begs kaya, softly. “it’s my birthday. can’t be too much trouble can it?”

giving in, klahadore purses his lips. “anything for you, miss kaya.”

luffy claps his hands together. “alright! when do we eat?”

“you don’t. not dressed like that, at least.” the butler directs himself to a staff member with teal colored hair. “sham, kindly show usopp and his friends to the guest suites. you will bathe and change before dinner.”

she follows his orders and leads the way. luffy, usopp, nami, and zoro trail behind her and you go to do the same. however, all it takes is a quick glance to stop you dead in your tracks. usually, you weren’t one to stare but klahadore’s face. that stare. so dark and depraved.

“yes, miss?” he asks, holding your gaze. “can i help you?”

“n-no, i…” your throat goes dry as you attempt to recover smoothly. “i just wanted to, um, thank you for being so hospitable.”

his lips curve upwards into a sinister grin. “the pleasure’s all mine.” as if to confirm your worst fear, klahadore uses his palm to readjust his glasses. his beady eyes gauge your reaction closely.

the familiar gesture sends chills down your spine. appearance-wise, he had changed drastically but his aura was still just as menacing as you remember it. he was still the corrupt pirate captain you used to serve under. you feel like a weak and helpless subordinate all over again.

“klahadore!” giggles kaya. “you’re smiling! that’s certainly a rarity.”

he hums. “i’ve simply come to the realization that having guests once in a while can truly be a delight.”

his sickeningly sweet tone makes your stomach turn. just the fact that you were standing in front of him – captain kuro – again after all these years was nauseating in itself. last you’d heard he had died at the hands of captain morgan. how was this even possible? then again, he wasn’t dubbed kuro of a hundred plans for no reason. he always had a trick or two up his sleeve. you assumed this was no different.

“hey, you comin’?”

you turn around to see zoro waiting for you. he meets your gaze for a moment. the softness of his eyes is a stark contrast to kuro’s. it’s a breath of fresh air. he then shifts his attention to your former captain and you swear his eyes darken.

“yeah, sorry,” you mumble, trying not to look shaken as you walk up the steps.

zoro follows behind you, this time closer than before.

“why would anybody even need this many clothes?”

“it’s not about need with these people, luffy. it’s about want,” nami spits, thumbing through the various fabrics on the wall.

“at least she’s rich and nice,” luffy replies, innocently.

nami rolls her eyes. “yeah, letting us stay for dinner must be her idea of charity work.”

“what are we even supposed to wear?” luffy continues, uninterested in nami’s criticism of the rich.

“anything you want. when are you ever going to get the opportunity to wear things this nice?”

you step out from behind the changing board where you’d swapped out your old tee and cargo skirt for an elegant satin dress. it was a stunning shade of olive green and frilly lace decorated the edges. not to mention, it hugged your curves in all the right ways.

nami’s eyes widen. “see, she’s got the right idea. you look amazing.”

you smile, bashfully. “honestly, i feel amazing.”

“you look the same to me,” your captain shrugs.

nami shoots him a death glare but you intervene before she can scold him.

“way to keep me humble, luffy.”

“no problem!”

at that exact moment, a freshly showered zoro arrives donning a silk robe. he eyes the multitude of garments that cover every inch of the room, not particularly impressed.

“there you are. don’t you think she looks nice?” nami asks him, gesturing towards you. she doesn’t notice how you shrink under zoro’s gaze. neither does he, as his eyes take their time raking over you, from top to bottom.

he hums. “suits you.” with that, he sets off towards a chair in the corner of the room.

“seriously?” sighs nami, exasperated. “are you two physically unable to give compliments or something?”

“hey, doesn’t that butler seem familiar to you guys?” zoro asks, promptly ignoring nami’s complaint.

his question causes your breath to hitch. you’d pushed the kuro problem to the back of your mind while you were in search of a suitable dinner outfit. you figured that as long as your crew was by your side, he wouldn’t dare try anything. and even if he did… well, you’d seen what had happened to axe-hand morgan and buggy.

“yeah, i think he was at the last dinner party i attended,” nami replies sarcastically, taking a handful of dresses behind the changing board.

as he takes a seat, zoro grumbles, “i swear i’ve seen him before.”

“where?” you can’t help but ask, fiddling with the lace on the neckline of your dress.

“so far, i’ve got two suspicions. a wanted poster or funky bar on mirrorball island. you ever been?”

you know zoro’s teasing you, judging by the grin on his face. after all, funky bar was known to get insanely rowdy; never would he imagine finding someone as gentle as you there. but what he didn’t know is that it happened to be one of kuro’s favorite bars. per his request, you and the rest of the black cat pirates frequented it often, so he was more than likely right about having seen kuro there. he’d probably even seen you in passing, once or twice. thankfully, he doesn’t seem to have any recollection of that.

the thought of zoro knowing about your past forms a knot in the pit of your stomach. would he think less of you for having joined such a ruthless crew at one point in your life? what if it put a strain on the friendship you’d worked so hard to form?

“i’ve, uh, heard of it,” you decide to reply, pushing down your worries for the time being.

he tilts his head slightly, thinking out loud. “then again, i have seen a lot of wanted posters and bars in my time as a pirate hunter.”

you feel a grin creep onto your face. “probably more bars than posters, huh?”

zoro mirrors your smile. “shut up.”

by the time dinner rolls around, the entire crew is doing what they do best.

luffy is stuffing his face, nami is attempting to swindle one of the staff, zoro is hanging by the drinks, and you’re hanging by zoro.

“hey zoro, you gotta try this!” luffy calls through a mouthful of food.

“i’ve got all i need right here,” he mutters, taking a swig out of his champagne flute.

“you know, i don’t think i’ve ever seen you choke down something that isn’t alcohol,” you comment, watching the way he downs the glass in one go.

dryly, he replies, “that’s because i haven’t.”

“very on brand.”

“ladies and gentlemen,” calls out that voice from the top of the stairs. “may i present… miss kaya.”

arm in arm, kuro and kaya walk down the steps, all eyes on the birthday girl and her stunning gown. well, except you. your eyes never leave the so-called butler by her side. your jaw clenches when he has the audacity to meet your gaze and hold it. shameless bastard.

once they reach the bottom, merry leads kaya to the guests while kuro takes his post at the bottom of the stairs… right next to the drink table. before you can think about steering yourself and zoro away, kuro speaks.

“forgive me if i am speaking out of line, madam, but i must inform you. you look positively radiant,” he purrs, soaking in your appearance. he looks ready to pounce.

you can’t stop your eyes from rolling. good to know he’s the same pervert he used to be.

looking between you both and sensing your discomfort, zoro steps in. “and you look familiar.”

kuro’s head stiffly turns to face him, eyes peeling away from you. “highly doubtful, sir.”

“funky bar? mirror ball island?”

“funky bar?” kuro repeats, disgusted. “well, i can assure you i’ve never patronized that type of establishment.”

while it was amusing to see your highly esteemed former captain lie through his teeth, the tension between him and zoro was unbearable.

“well then.” zoro continues with his little interrogation. “ever been on a wanted poster?”

you cringe at his bluntness. sometimes it seemed like he had less of a filter than luffy.

kuro puts on a scandalized face at the question. “sir! such an accusation is highly offensive.” tugging on his collar, he goes to remove himself from zoro’s probing. “now, if you’ll excuse me, i’m going to help prepare the dinner table.”

he leaves, en route to the dining room. zoro’s eyes follow his figure until he disappears, squinting as he racks his brain for any further recollection of this suspicious butler.

you sigh. if zoro was going to continue being so relentless, you were sure the night would end in bloodshed and uncovered secrets.

“keep this coming,” zoro demands, handing the empty wine bottle to sham. she takes it with a glare.

“would it kill you to say please?” you ask, slicing the slab of fish on your plate into smaller pieces.

“the service here is shitty. why should i have to be polite?”

you scowl. “remind me to never have dinner with you again.”

zoro turns to you with that cocky grin of his. “what if i asked nicely?”

his quip makes your heart flutter but you manage to keep your composure. “you can try your luck.”

before he can respond, usopp speaks up. “luffy, isn’t there something that you wanted to talk to kaya about?”

luffy gesticulates enthusiastically with his fork. “oh, yes! usopp told me that you own the whole shipyard.”

“well, actually, my parents founded the shipyard and merry’s been running the business since they… passed. but all that’s about to change. tonight, at midnight, i will become the sole owner.” she smiles somberly.

“well, that’s great,” luffy says, raising his drink at her. “because we want to buy a ship from you.”

“ah, i see. usopp mentioned that you’re sailors.”

“nope, not sailors. we’re pirates!”

you’re certain at least three people at the table choke on their food, yourself included.

“this ought to be good,” zoro mumbles behind his glass.

you’re too busy coughing into your napkin to chastise him for finding this entertaining.

“pirates?” kaya repeats, unsure of how to react.

“yup! we haven’t sailed together for very long but we’ve already defeated an evil clown, raided a marine base, and taken down a captain with an axe! for a hand!” luffy holds up a fist, presumably to impersonate axe-hand morgan.

“sounds a lot like your adventures, usopp,” kaya says, turning to the brunette.

all he can do is laugh dryly. “yeah, that’s… that’s crazy.”

“and we’re just getting started!” luffy continues, climbing up onto the table.

“someone put me out of my misery,” you mumble, looking down at your plate to ignore the secondhand embarrassment.

a tap on your shoulder answers your plea.

turning around, you find yourself face to face with kuro once again. “madam, a word please?”

“might i ask what for?” zoro cuts in before you can so much as think of a response.

kuro offers him the most forced grin you’ve ever had the displeasure of seeing. “i’m afraid that is between the lady and i.”

the swordsman turns to you, scanning your face for any ounce of discomfort. “you okay with that?”

you inhale, figuring it was finally time for you to confront the darkest part of your past. it was silly to assume you would be able to ignore him throughout your entire stay here. besides, you were sure zoro, just like the rest of your crew, would be on standby if kuro got brave enough to try anything. “sure. just… keep an eye out.”

zoro understands completely. truthfully, you didn’t even need to ask – he always looked after you. “got it.”

you push yourself out of your seat and smooth out your dress. you allow kuro to lead you to the doorway – he was smart enough to know that was the farthest you’d let him take you.

“what do you want, klahadore?” you seethe, folding your arms.

he arches a brow. “why must you call me that? it’s ridiculous.”

you tilt your head with faux innocence. “oh? is that not your name? must have misheard.”

he gives you an irritated look, dark eyes drilling into you.

“i remember that look,” you mutter, your memory serving you well. “it’s the same one you’d give me before you’d threaten to slice me to bits with your claws.”

kuro has the audacity to chuckle dryly. “but i never did, did i? although there were certainly times times where i should’ve.”

“what you should be is dead,” you hiss bitterly. “when i heard the news, i knew it was too good to be true.”

“you wound me, kitten,” he drawls, reaching up to fix his glasses.

the condescending nickname makes your skin crawl. it carried so many awful memories of your time spent with the black cat pirates. it reminded you of just how weak kuro viewed you — nothing but a helpless, pitiful kitten in his eyes. typical of the man that abused his authority and treated you with not a single ounce of respect.

he continues, putting on a sweet tone. “after all these years, stuck waiting hand and foot on that spoiled brat, there’s nothing i’d love more than to hear my favorite crew mate say my real name.”

you snap at him. “i’m no crew mate of yours.”

he sighs, dramatically. “sadly, you’re correct. after all, you did slip off the ship the moment we docked in shells town. locating you on an island crawling with marines proved to be nearly impossible. we had no choice but to leave without you.”

“that’s exactly why i chose to escape there.”

“and to this day i can’t for the life of me figure out why you would ever do that. why would you want to leave us? leave me?”

you actually laugh right in his face. “is it really that hard to figure out? you were evil. you threatened and harassed me on a daily basis.”

“so your solution was to join that ragtag crew?” he glances at the table. “it’s pathetic, even for you.”

you lean into his face, lowering your voice down. “i’m happier than i ever was on your shitty crew. every day i wake up grateful that i managed to escape you.”

you see that vein on his forehead bulge before he’s gripping you by the chin. “listen here, you little bitch–”

the shiny silver of a sword slides between you and kuro, coming to rest against his neck. his adam’s apple bobs as he gulps anxiously, releasing you. thanks to zoro’s sword, it seemed as if he finally remembered where he was. you were no longer on his ship, he was no longer allowed to treat you like the dirt he walked on. not without someone noticing, that is.

“why don’t you step away?” zoro offers simply.

that much was a kindness. usually those who found themselves on the end of zoro’s blade(s) weren’t lucky enough to receive a warning. however, the swordsman didn’t wish to cause a scene. at least not when you were right there and everyone was watching with shock from the dinner table.

kuro obliges, stumbling back. he meets kaya’s horrified eyes, feeling ashamed that he allowed his act to slip. surely this would cause some setbacks in his plan. with no excuse for his uncharacteristic behavior, the raven haired man scurries away and up the stairs.

zoro turns and locks eyes with luffy, giving him one singular nod. luffy returns it, jumping out of his seat and going after the butler. quiet murmuring breaks out at the dinner table, everyone surely confused.

sheathing his sword, zoro directs his attention to you once more. “are you alright?” a calloused hand comes up to grip your chin, much like kuro had. however, this time, the touch is gentle. loving, almost. you welcome it.

“yeah, i’m… fine.” your heart is beating out of your chest and it has everything to do with your close proximity to zoro.

he tilts your face around, inspecting every inch of it. once he finishes, he pulls back. his demeanor goes serious once more. “we need to have a talk.”

you nod. “i know. i’ve been keeping some things from you guys and–”

“just tell me what’s been going on,” he demands. “and don’t overcomplicate it. you can be straightforward with me.”

his sincerity makes you start over, this time far more candidly. “klahadore used to be a pirate. i was part of his crew. he was my… captain.”

the shame in your voice pulls at zoro’s heartstrings. didn’t you know there was no reason to feel guilty with him? “is that it?”

you open your mouth to speak but come up empty. all you can do is furrow your eyebrows at his unexpectedly dismissive reaction.

“i knew it,” zoro continues, annoyed. “i knew i’d seen him on a wanted poster before. just didn’t have any proof.”

“wait, so you don’t– you really don’t care?” you ask, still avoiding eye contact. “me being a former black cat pirate doesn’t bother you?”

he shrugs. “you said it yourself. ‘former.’ all that matters is that you got the hell out of there. and away from that creep. would he always put his hands on you like that?”

you blink a couple times, sighing. “his temper was really bad so–”

that seemed to be enough for zoro. “i’ll kill the bastard,” he hisses. “wanted to slice him to bits the moment i saw him grab you.”

though it’s a violent threat, you can’t help but smile. the idea of zoro being so protective that he’d kill a man just for touching you made you blush. pirate love language, you suppose.

“well, i wouldn’t have stopped you,” you tell him, more than ready to see your former captain go.

zoro clicks his tongue. “nah. could’ve stained your new dress with his blood. i never would have been able to forgive myself.”

“so you do have a soft spot,” you tease.

“only for pretty things.”

“do you mean me or the dress?”

now it’s zoro’s turn to become bashful. though, his lack of response is an answer in itself. you can’t help but giggle.

a loud bang from upstairs interrupts your moment with the green-haired man. you assume luffy had gotten his hands on kuro… or vice versa. zoro must be thinking the same thing judging by the way he instinctively rests a hand on the handle of his blade.

“you should go up there,” you tell him. “i’ll stay with kaya.”

he gives you a nod, though he doesn’t make any effort to leave. he stands there like he wants to say something… or do something. before you can think about it too much, you pull him in by the collar and crash your lips onto his. they’re slightly chapped and taste like the wine that’d come from the cellar – it’s pleasant. his large palms come to rest on your lower back; his hold feels tight and secure.

when you finally allow yourself to pull away, you’re biting back a smile. “kick his ass for me.”

“will i get more of that if i do?” asks zoro, wetting his lips. they now taste like the cherry lip gloss you’d borrowed from kaya. he takes a step forward, attempting to close the gap between you two once more.

you shrug, pushing him away by the chest. “go help luffy and we’ll see.”

you both know that means yes.

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