#suspended fish | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

uhohdad · 2 years ago

Text

Meine Perle

Octo!Konig x Reader Fic

Summary: Reader is tasked with feeding enemy prisoner Octo!Konig

“Just don’t step over the tape, don’t talk to it, and try not to spend too much time in there. Oh, and don’t forget the bucket.” AO3

Inspired by this fanart by @numelu that I have not been able to stop thinking about since I laid my sinful little eyes on it.

Word Count: 25.7k

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, porn with plot, tentacles, restraints, bondage, orgasm torture, tentacle fucking, light anal, light spanking, dw he uses all of his tentacles, corked like you got the suds, dom!konig, hood stays on, choking, injury, holy trinity of fluff angst and smut, no use of y/n, story and smut kinda read like two different stories, that’s my bad, i’ve never seen the shape of water but i’m assuming this is the exact plot, reader gender is obscured but afab during the sex bits for sure, women in stem

Biowarefare has made incredible strides in the last few decades, unbeknownst to the public. Experimental creatures of nightmarish horrors engineered to inflict both psychological and physical damage to enemies live in the darker shadows of war. You’d been sworn to secrecy, but remain haunted by these creatures. You’d rather not get close to them - you were just a biologist. A consultant really, meant to answer questions about organic matter and DNA. You were to assist in the designing process, but this was not a part of the job description.

“It still needs to eat in the meantime,” Your supervisor had delivered around a cheeky smile, as if he was telling a joke. Your face, however, had not shown amusement.

“Just don’t step over the tape, don’t talk to it, and try not to spend too much time in there. Oh, and don’t forget the bucket.”

With only two hours to prepare yourself before dinnertime, you weren’t able to accomplish much work. Nerves escape through bouncing legs and fidgeting fingers.

The fridge smelled putrid. A cesspool of meats and seafood, all untreated and unprocessed, some on the brink of expiration, others completely rotten. You try not to breathe as you remove the top of a crate of fish, your fingers surviving any splinters and unpleasant scents with the protection of thick rubber gloves. The mackerel are large, four to five pounds, you’d guess, just shorter than the length of your arm. You grab two, placing them in the large yellow bucket your supervisor reminded you about. Seawater and fish guts drip from your rubber gloves as you step through the empty sterile hallways.

The involuntary shake of your hands causes the handle of the bucket to rattle against the plastic as you step up to the creature’s holding cell. In front of the large metal door you take a moment to steady yourself with a few deep breaths, but the stench of dead mackerel does little to ease your nerves.

You reach to the lanyard around your neck that secured your badge, trembling fingers hesitant to place it against the reader. The usually stagnant red light flicks green, and a grating alarm sounds followed by the sturdy clunk of the lock. You’re forced to use both hands, setting the bucket down before you grip the heavy metal door. You’re lean your entire weight against it, teeth grit as your heels dig into the tile. Your foot holds the door in place as you reach for the bucket. Once in the containment unit, the big metal door slams closed behind you with a mechanical clunk. The alarm buzzes again, making you flinch, shifting hesitantly in your spot by the door as you take in the sight before you.

It’s huge, bigger than any man you’ve ever seen. It looked like a man. Seven feet tall, you think. Muscles engineered for the purpose of destroying, the purpose of killing. Its arms are bent at the elbows and positioned behind its head, restrained by ropes. The restraints looped thoroughly around massive biceps and forearms, secured to the walls on either of his sides. Another rope had suspended from a mount on the ceiling, securing his wrists in place.

Glowing eyes stare menacingly at you from under a hood that cover its face. The black hood spilled from under a tactical helmet and down his chest, hem brushing up against exposed collarbones.

Slick black tentacles protrude from underneath the hood that hangs over its face, each slithering and curling in their own direction.

Eight larger tentacles resembled that of an octopus. As thick as tree trunks at the bases and gradually thinning towards the ends, four on each side of his spine and spread from its back like wings. Each one moves independently, spread and primed as they writhe in the air.

Mesmerized by the creature before you, you find yourself frozen under its gaze. Taking in such a miraculous sight. Sure, you assist in the design, but you’ve never seen one in person before. Pondering its capabilities, knowing full well without the restraints in place you wouldn’t stand a chance against such a well engineered design. Wondering what horror the hood hides, something so awful it had to be covered. Or perhaps the creature was designed that way, the hood itself intended to further off put its victims.

When you finally break eye contact with it, your eyes find the floor. A red line of tape separates you from the creature, signifying its reach within the cell. Its got a large radius, you’re surprised by how much distance he’s capable of covering even while restrained in place.

You swallow hesitantly, taking a couple steps closer, still leaving a healthy distance between you and the glossy red tape.

“Fresh meat?” It asks, in a harsh and gravely voice that sends a chill up your spine. You weren’t sure if he had been referring to you or the fish.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you.” Your voice is broken and hesitant as you eye the tentacles writhing and twisting alluringly in the air.

You carefully get down on one knee and set the bucket on the ground, your hands shaking. With a calculated push you slide the bucket across the concrete floor and into the creature’s reach. The bucket slides over the boundary a few feet before it skids and tips over, rolling in a semi circle on its side as the fish spill out of the rim one after another.

The creature laughs, a loud and wicked laugh that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Your expression is seeped in worry as you stand, watching it eye the mess before it, cruel laugh still echoing in your ears.

“The new ones always forget the bucket.” It says, low and sinful with eyes half-lidded in menace. It coils a larger tentacle around the middle of the container and whips it back in your direction without warning.

You let out a yelp and dive to the floor, just barely missing the bucket that crashed into the cell door behind you. It bounces back, pieces of the plastic rim snapping off and scattering to the ground.

You scramble for the container, your other hand desperately clawing for your badge before slamming it against the receiver and exiting the cell in a panicked scramble.

The creature’s depraved laugh could be heard up until the door slammed shut behind you, the lock securing into place with the grating alarm. Your breaths are shallow, fishy rubber gloves pressed to your beating heart as you quickly distance yourself from the cell.

———————————————————

You had tried to convince your supervisor to give the task to someone else, anyone else, but to no avail.

“It’s your fault for forgetting the bucket!”

You mocked your supervisor’s inflection once out of earshot before burying your face into your palms with a groan.

You thought about putting in your two weeks. No! No two weeks. You’ll just leave and never look back.

You remember that the government doesn’t look very kindly upon disgruntled ex-employees holding classified information, and opt to run a hand through your hair with a huff instead.

You’ll be quick today, in and out, and then it’s done. Once a day for thirty seconds, until they find a replacement. That’s not so bad.

The second time was easier. You knew what to expect, and the spite against your supervisor, against the creature, only fueled your confidence. Features stone cold as you open the door, the grating alarm having stirred the creature. You step into the room assuredly, returning the creature’s harsh stare with one of your own.

You close more of the gap between you and the tape this time, holding the handle of the bucket with one hand and securing the bottom with your other. You wind it up behind you before using your arms to propel it forward with a huff, grip still steady on the bucket as the fish fly. The creature’s eyes follow the trajectory of the fish until they land at its feet. You had wasted no time turning on your heels and leaving, bucket still in hand.

“Someone learned their lesson.” You hear, and you grit your teeth as you let the door slam harshly behind you.

The creature left a lasting impression in your memory. Its taunts echo in your mind, and you can tell he was designed to get under the victim’s skin. To haunt them, inflicting emotional warfare in addition to physical, torturing them without even being in the same room as them.

You dreamt of it last night. You wondered if that was something that it had done to you. If he had the ability to inflict nightmares, or if he was just intimidating enough to let your subconscious run wild after only a few seconds of exposure.

In the dream, you had been caught in a sea of black tentacles, suffocating you as they wrapped around your mouth, robbing you of air while restraining your limbs from fighting back. The tentacles had wriggled until they transformed into the shape of the creature’s hood, glowing eyes staring tauntingly, but your dream had equipped him with a horrific mouth that laid over its hood, filled with sharp carnivorous teeth spread into a sickening smile. With his wicked laugh, blood spilled from the gaps of his endless rows of teeth.

You had woke up covered in sweat, gasping for air as you kicked free from the hold of your blankets.

The dream had stuck with you, the residual unease not allowing you to fall back asleep. You decided to start research on the creature although you weren’t instructed to - your way of controlling the fear of the unknown by making it known.

Detailed sketches and logs of your encounters with him quickly buried your work assignments. You were recording every detail from the number of visual abdominal muscles to his bluff behavior when encountering a threat, branching its tentacles out just like animals to in the wild do to appear bigger.

You couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on it during feedings. To gather data, you told yourself, to understand the creature’s physiology. You’re a biologist, after all. Research is the foundation of your beliefs.

You had been able to refrain from speaking with it, even if he was rather chatty. Arrogant, he loved to push your buttons.

You didn’t let him get to you, at least as far as he was concerned. You never let your irritation show when under his watchful gaze, but grit your teeth once you turned your back.

It’s about a week and a half into your new duty when he finally makes you falter.

“You’re starving me, you know.”

Your stride stills, not yet turning towards him as your hand grips your badge. You consider his words, shed of his usually cocky tone.

He could be lying, who knows what his true intentions actually are. On the other hand, you’ve only been feeding him what you’ve been tasked to.

You slowly turn towards him, your eyes squinted as you stare at him. You’re trying to deduce his weight, but it’s hard since you’re not used to estimating in terms of seven foot creatures with tentacles. He looks like he’s made of pure muscle, and those tentacles look heavy. 300 pounds? 400? You’re trying to decide if you should be feeding him in terms of his body weight percentage in regards to a human, an octopus, or a monster.

You should have kept walking, you think. He has your attention now, and not only that, you’ve revealed from hesitation alone that you possess a moral standard to uphold a basic level of decency for a prisoner of war. Now he knows you’re soft.

He can tell you’re trying to figure out if he’s deceiving you.

“If I had food to spare, I’d have used it as a weapon by now.” His low voice drips off arrogance again, and a tentacle reaches down to grab a mackerel, curling as he brings it to the appendages pouring from beneath his hood. You watch carefully as the fish disappears, and wonder if your dream was accurate about the mouth he hides under his hood.

You take a deep breath and turn from him, gripping your badge tighter and exiting the cell as you latch the door shut with a loud clunk.

The next time you’re in that awful fridge that reeks of postmortem and cheap seafood, you add two extra mackerel into the yellow bucket with the jagged broken edges.

When he counts the fish that land at his feet during your next feeding, his tone is still gruff, but softer, “Thank you.”

He leaves it without a witty remark. He caught you off guard again, shown by the slowing in your steps. You didn’t turn back to him this time, but you wanted to believe that he was genuinely appreciative of your kindness. Even if it was just enough not to make an attempt to get under your skin this time.

Your dreams have only become more vivid. You can hear the clunk of the lock on the heavy metal door, the alarm that blares identical to reality. You’ll be having a typical day at work, fully immersed in dry research and black tentacles will emerge from every entrance, every crevice. Holding you still and swallowing you up.

It’s getting difficult to differentiate the events in the dreams to those in real life. It takes hours to reorient yourself enough to fall back asleep.

Circles develop around your eyes from the lack of rest. Your productivity had come to a halt, your thoughts and research now surrounding the creature you feed.

He refrains from making comments at you, now that you’re feeding him enough. The next few visits he doesn’t say anything, the two of you sharing the silence. You’re not sure, but you think you have come to an understanding. You feed him a little extra, and in return he doesn’t say anything about the long stares. Not even a snide remark as you leave.

“What are you?” You finally ask during a feeding, curiously eyeing the tentacles delivering a fish to his obscured mouth.

He takes a moment to consider it, or maybe he takes a moment to swallow the mackerel.

“I am what I am, same as you.”

You look down, a little ashamed at your question. Maybe you have been too judgmental. He’s displayed his intelligence from the start, he’s obviously much more than just an it or a creature.

He was just a being who never asked to be created, same as you. His potential locked away in enemy care, his conscious trapped between these four walls, restricted from moving.

“I’m sorry.” You say, standing tall with your brows pinched and eyes looking up to meet his intimidating gaze.

“For what?” He asks after considering it for a moment, voice holding a slight edge.

“That you’re here.”

You pause before continuing, “That you were made for what you were made for. That you never got a chance to just be.”

His eyes watch you carefully, narrowing underneath his hood. A tentacle curls in your direction while your eyes are trained carefully on him, and you can’t help the shake of your hands as you get a closer look at his slick tentacle.

“I’m sorry you’re here too.” He says, and you’re not sure how to take it. You nod your head anyway, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Me too.” Your voice is strained with remorse, as if you’re personally responsible for holding him hostage. “I’m not like them.” You say, desperate for him to believe you, “I’m just a biologist, I’m meant to answer questions about DNA and nature. I didn’t- it just got out of hand.”

He studies you carefully, his muscles tensing underneath his restraints. “But you help them.” He says, dangerously and definitive.

“No! I- well, yes.” You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you did, “This is just a job.”

You look back to him. Could you even say it’s just a job anymore? When you’re assisting and encouraging the creation of beings like him? Forced into this world without regard of their wants, made for a purpose to kill and destroy and equipped with consciousness, without given the chance to discover themselves. Destined to a fate of being slain, captured, terrorized, experimented on, or worse.

You close your eyes again, “No, I didn’t mean-“ Your moral compass is spinning now, and you don’t feel capable enough to articulate your feelings on the matter. So instead you just look at him, eyes begging for him to give you a little grace.

He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but watch his chest rise and fall, tentacles wriggling idly behind him. He doesn’t speak, just studies you, those intense eyes boring into you.

“Do you have a name?” You ask gently.

The tentacles on his back curl, his menacing frame shrinking a bit.

He hesitates before speaking.

“Konig.”

“Konig,” You repeat. You give him your name before asking, “Do you need anything?”

He looks down his hood at you, tentacles itching with curiosity. “Water.”

You give a slow nod and gesture to the cell door behind you, “Yeah, I can, yeah.”

You go through the process of opening his cell door, sneaking the bucket into the nearest bathroom and filling it as high as you can with water, but it’s awkward with the sink’s base in the way. The bucket is a lot heavier when it’s filled and you have to waddle on your way back.

Back in the cell, water sloshes out of the bucket as you use your body to hold open the heavy cell door. You hover the bucket a few inches from the ground, the handle straining under the weight as you waddle it up just before the red tape and set it down. You look at him, slightly out of breath with your hands on your hips.

“Now - you can have this, but-“ You take a hand off your hip to point at him, pausing to take a tired breath, “You have to promise me you won’t throw it at me.”

His tentacles curl again, his hood tilting down. “I promise.”

You look hesitantly down at the red tape, kneeling behind the bucket and using your weight to slide it across the floor and over the boundary. He watches you carefully, studying the way your body moved as you kneel before him. As you work for him.

Once the bucket is over the barrier you stand and hesitantly take a step back, bracing yourself in case he launches this one at your head.

Instead he wraps a large tentacle around the jagged edge of the bucket, dragging it closer in order to get a better grip. You watch as two appendages work to bring it to his feet with ease. He takes turns eagerly soaking his tentacles in the water.

You’re not sure if he’s cleaning, drinking, or moisturizing, but you don’t ask. You watch as his tentacles smoothly work, picking up what remains in the bucket and dumping it over himself, letting it drip over his front and staining his pants a shade darker. He heaves a sigh of relief, his eyes closing and his glistening muscles relaxing against the restraints.

“Thank you.” He says, low and quiet. A tentacle grips the empty bucket and extends to its full reach, placing it carefully at the boundary.

After his tentacle retracts you reach for the jagged rim, scraping the bottom of the bucket along the concrete as you pull it back into the safe zone with two fingers. “Thank you.” You give a weak smile and gesture to the empty container in your hands. “I can keep bringing you water, if you continue to refrain from throwing?”

He nods, voice bordering on patronizing as his tentacles curl, “I promise.”

When you return the next day, you’ve got a new bucket and a small hose curled up and hanging off your shoulder.

You figured if he was being held prisoner, he at least deserved a full bucket of water and one that didn’t reek of dead mackerel. Konig watched as your struggle to manage to drag in both buckets while holding the heavy door open. When the door closes behind you with its noisy thud and grating alarm, you toss the fish over first, doubling back to haul the water closer. After getting it near the tape, you have to use your back and dig the heels of your feet against the concrete to slide it the rest of the way across the tape. The water sloshes onto your hair and down the back of your shirt as the bucket slides out from under your weight. You nearly fall back into his radius, but catch yourself with a nervous laugh.

You turn to get a glimpse of his tentacle as it pulls the water bucket closer. From here you get a peek at the suckers on his tentacles, each working independently as it grips around the rim and drags the bucket closer with ease. Just one of his larger appendages was stronger than your whole body. It gave you an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, but you continued to sit on the ground inches from the boundary, your legs crossed as you watch him eat and bathe.

“Thank you.” He says, and you’re unable to decipher his tone over his harsh voice.

“It’s uh, it’s no problem.” You’re memorized by the way his tentacles move, each working independently. It’s a lot of multi-tasking, you think, but it looks like it’s second nature for him, as natural to you as walking and talking at the same time.

“I’m sorry.” He says, in between bites.

“For what?” You ask, head tilting to the side.

“For throwing the bucket at you.” He keeps his gaze to his meal, “Your first day.”

You’re caught off guard by his apology. You hadn’t expected to see self-reflection and regret from him.

You shrug, “I get it. I mean, imprisoned by enemies of war? Restrained against your will? I think everyone has a right to be a little feisty in that situation.” You give another weak smile, fingers absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on your lab coat.

He huffs, wrapping around another mackerel and letting it disappear under his hood.

He lets the silence sit, but the biologist in you can’t help but analyze his diet, “You gettin’ tired of eating the same thing everyday?”

A tentacle reaches up to pick a fish bone from his teeth before flicking it casually to the floor. He considers your question carefully, a habit of his you’ve already logged.

“I’m tired of everything,” he says, and the exhaustion in his voice makes you look to the floor in shame.

Your arm crosses over your chest, thumb anxiously running over your opposing bicep, “How long have you been here?”

“I’ve lost count.” He says.

You wonder if he actually wants to be in conversation with you, or if any stimulation is a better alternative to staring at these four walls, alone with nothing but his own thoughts.

You take another deep breath, accustomed to the overwhelming smell of fish by now.

You’re not sure what to say to him. No words could offer someone in his situation comfort. Instead you watch as he finishes his meal and simultaneously bathes his appendages. It’s oddly alluring, how he moves. You wonder just how many things he’s capable of doing at once. Such a being must be very efficient.

He doesn’t seem to mind your company or curious stares. If he does, he certainly doesn’t voice them. You think he must be used to staring by now, and you wonder if you’re no better than the rest.

When you return the next day, you’ve brought a door jam. You’ve got too many things in your arms to carry in to be able to manage the door all at once. Konig watches from his restrained position as your cluttered silhouette stumbled into the cell. You set the buckets down with a thud, letting the extra bags roll off your shoulders. You have to huff, the trek down the hall weighed down supplies stealing your breath from you. Once you’ve removed the door jammer, silencing the annoying alarm and leaving you both with privacy, you return to his meal.

“I brought you some stuff.” You say as you shake the food bucket before tossing the contents in his direction. Various seafoods you could scrounge up in the fridge scatter to the floor. Shrimp, clams, oysters, a few different species of fish. Whatever seafood hadn’t turned rotten in the walk-in fridge.

His tentacles wriggle and reach out, suckers gripping to the food before him as he brings it to his mouth.

You’re not sure, but by the way his tentacles are wiggling you think you’ve won at least a few brownie points.

You turn from him to walk the bucket of water to the boundary, letting it dangle between your legs in an awkward waddle.

“I brought something else, too.” You say with a hint of hesitance, straining a bit as you set the bucket on the concrete.

His tentacles curl in… anticipation? Curiosity? Hatred? You’re not sure, but you’ve been trying to piece together his body language back in your lab for quite some time.

He doesn’t say anything, so once you’ve got the water bucket over the boundary, you cross back to the discarded bag and rummage through it.

You reveal a small black box, setting your bag down as you extend the antennae.

“A radio.” You say with a sheepish smile. He doesn’t say anything and you look to your gift with uncertainty, “I just thought - well y’know, I wouldn’t want to be trapped with my own thoughts. Everyone deserves some sort of distraction, yeah?” You say, kneeling on the floor as you set the it into his radius.

His glowing eyes stare down the present, and you’re not sure what he’s thinking. “Not a music guy?” You ask tentatively, a hand finding the back of your neck.

A tentacle slowly extends in your direction, carefully wrapping the radio in its grip. He brings it to his face, examining it with his glowing eyes. He sets it down carefully, and while he doesn’t say anything, you’ll take it as a win that he didn’t immediately fling it into the wall, shattering it to a thousand pieces.

You stare down at the floor for awhile, the only sound filling the room is his slick tentacles tending to his meal and bath, clam shells clattering to the ground as he quickly works the meat from them.

“Thank you.” He says, in between bites. It comes out low and vulnerable, as if the words were foreign to him, or possibly held down by the weight of things unsaid. Maybe it’s because he’s having to be kind to a captor, forced to be cordial to someone holding him prisoner here - and for what? Meeting his basic nutritional requirements?

He could be playing the long con, hiding his deep hatred for you so he can lure you into trusting him. You’ll end up like the ones before you, destined to the fate of a sudden and unfortunate accident.

Your stomach turns at your predicament. You could be educating the future about the miracle that is the powerhouse of the cell, but no, you just had to take the government research job, flashy paycheck and hopes of changing the world.

He tenses for a moment, tentacles stilling except for one that loops up underneath his hood, picking something from his teeth. He holds it in front of his eyes to get a better look at his find.

His gaze flicks to you, another undecipherable stare that sends a chill up your spine. You watch with bated breath as his gaze returns to the item in his grip, tentacle moving in your direction before carefully placing it at the boundary. You watch as his appendage curls like a snake to gently nudge it in your direction. Like a marble it rolls to you, over the red tape and bouncing off your shoe. Shaking hands stop its slowing roll before you pick it up between your fingers.

A pearl, from one of the oysters you’d given him. It’s uneven, not a perfect sphere, but its texture is still smooth in your fingers. You wipe the spit and oyster remains on your lab coat before letting the pearl rest in your palm, tilting it in the light to get a better look at it. It’s a purplish gray, iridescent colors shifting as you move it.

“How neat.” You say, tone that of an interested biologist, “Poor guy must of had a splinter.”

Once you get a good look at it, you set the small treasure back across the tape to return it to him, but he stops you.

“For you.” He says, definitively enough that you can’t argue.

You lips part as you look to him, stunned and wide-eyed at his gesture.

Maybe he hadn’t hated you.

You wrap your hands carefully around the pearl, bringing it close to your chest.

“Thank you,” You say, voice breathy in awe.

You unwrap your hand to study it carefully in your hands, your little pearl. Cradling it as if it’s a fragile being if it’s own, not a resilient clump of calcium carbonate that survived both a life in an oyster at the bottom of the ocean and engineered predator teeth capable of cleaning the meat off a skeleton in seconds.

He watches you study your gift, the same way you had studied him with eyes wide in amazement and curiously. You don’t see his muscles relax against his restraints. He continues to eat, slowing his pace as his stare stays on you.

You hadn’t exchanged any other words during that interaction, but you think the silence that encompassed the cell was comfortable. At least on your end, you’re not sure about Konig.

He passes the empty water bucket back you, and before you gather all of your things, you tuck your precious pearl away in a pocket of your lab coat.

Back in the lab, you rolled the pearl in your fingers, wondering if Konig’s gesture had meant the same to you as it had to him.

Humans regard pearls as highly as a precious gem, but maybe to him it was no different than discarding trash, just as he had flung the fish bones that got stuck in his teeth. He may have even been demonstrating his annoyance with you.

How dare you not clean his oysters before you serve him, do you want him to choke?

Does he know the rarity of a pearl? How we string them into necklaces? Adorn ourselves with them to elevate our look? How we gift them to our loved ones?

There was so much you didn’t know about him. His mystique kept you up at night and your mind wondered with the possibilities. You were a researcher at heart, aching to get an understanding of him from the inside out. Endless analyses filled your days and black tentacles swarmed your dreams. In the hours between night and dusk you considered your own morality. You’d never met one of the biowarfare creations up close before. You didn’t realize they were capable of sentient thought. That they are truly beings of their own freewill instead of a programmed organic weapon.

You think you’ve already crossed too far over the line, that there was nothing you could do to make it right.

The next time you visit Konig, the sound of the radio floods the cell between the calls of the grating alarm. Once the door secures behind you, you can make out a talk show. The news or perhaps something educational, judging by the dry voices and even tones you hear before he turns the dial off with a tentacle, his glowing eyes giving you his full attention. You don’t say anything, but it does make your chest fill with a slight warmth to know he’s using your gift.

“I took a trip to the dock this morning,” You start as you drag the bucket of seafood to the tape, “I don’t think I’ll be able to get the smell out of my car, but it’s crab season, so, I got some. Got a tuna, too. Oh, and scallops, you eat those?”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes narrow and his tentacles twitch and curl behind him.

“Lobster was a bit steep, but I can keep my eye out.” You say, setting the entire bucket just over the boundary. He had earned his trust with the bucket, and it was too demeaning to force him to eat his food off the filthy concrete floors.

His eager tentacles pull the bucket to his feet, digging into it to uncover your gifts. He wastes no time getting them underneath his hood, you can see his arms tense and steady beneath his restraints as his teeth sink into his meal.

You slide him the bucket of water and then stand back to observe as his slick tentacles take it from you. Simultaneously he’s able to clean multiple crabs at once, expertly working the meat out of its complex exoskeleton and leaving nothing but shell. Much faster than you’ve ever seen any octopus feed.

You think briefly to the feeders before you, wondering if their sudden and unfortunate accidents were just Konig cleaning the meat off a skeleton. You wonder if he was designed to feast on his enemies, if his diet had held space for human.

Another meal.

You look down to the space between you and the red tape. Three paces away. You casually make it four, just for good measure.

“Thank you.” He says, and it’s slowly becoming your language. The words thank you uttered a thousand different ways, each with a different meaning, weight, and inflection, neither of you fluent or able to decipher the other.

You don’t feel comfortable prodding, instead you steady your feet and watch him mesmerizingly tear apart his meal, body restrained but tentacles still fully dexterous. You wondered if he minds you watching him eat, or if he felt like a zoo animal under your watch. Your hand creeps into your pocket to nervously play with the pearl, fingers running over the smooth surface.

After he clears a few more crabs, he looks up from his meal to eye you carefully. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, how disheveled you look.

“Tired?” He asks.

One hand stays with the pearl while the other rubs the back of your neck. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep last night, uh, so I went to the docks early this morning.”

He flicks another shell into his pile, studying you carefully. After a few moments his tentacles outstretch welcomely, some resting against the concrete floor, “You can rest here.”

You tense under his stare, your eyes shifting hesitantly to his tentacles. “Oh, no - I just have a lot of work to do.” You eye his core for a moment before returning to his gaze, “I can sit for a little, though.”

He gives a pleased hum as you do, eyes narrowing as he watches you prop yourself against a wall on his side, leaving about three feet between you and the red tape. His gaze turns back to the seafood as he works. You observe him, resting your head against the cool concrete and staring down your nose. You can’t help but close your heavily eyelids, listening to the sound of shells snapping and being tossed to the floor.

Your fingers continue to smooth over the pearl in your pocket. It became a habit of yours, fingers finding the pearl absentmindedly, rolling it between your touch to soothe yourself.

You’re thinking about all the things you want to ask him. About his physiology, his full capabilities. About how he feels, what thoughts and emotions exist in a brain engineered for warfare. About his opinion of you, if he’s disgusted with you or if he understands that you’re both just products of a horrific environment.

Is he capable of empathy?

You couldn’t ask. Your relationship seemed so fragile and delicate as it was, so you both opt for silence.

You’re not sure how much time has passed when you open your eyes again, but he’s done his feeding and bathing, both buckets emptied and placed at the boundary in the center of the room. He’d tidied his cell, the floor cleared and the food bucket now holding his cleaned crabs, various shells, and fish bones.

His tentacles stir when your eyes meet his, and you take a sharp inhale as you rouse. You touch a hand to your heart, the other feeling for the pearl through your pocket. Your eyes find the red tape, and you’re still in your spot, propped up on the wall three feet from the boundary.

“Did I fall asleep?” You say, touching your forehead. If you had, you don’t remember having a nightmare.

His hood tilts up and he shrugs.

“How long’s it been?”

After a moment he shrugs again, tentacles working in rhythm to his movements.

Right, he wouldn’t know. You give a small nervous laugh at your foolish question, leaning forward and resting your arms on your knees.

“I should probably get going.” You say, but you don’t move from your spot, and he doesn’t wish you goodbye.

You stare at the floor on your side of the red tape. You can see his larger tentacles wriggling in the corner of your eyes, along with the glow of his stare.

Your back ached from sitting on concrete for an extended period. It made you wonder how sore Konig was, his arms having been restrained to their position bent behind his head for ages, forced into a standing position every hour of the day.

“I’ve made a huge mistake.” You say with a laugh, one in disbelief of yourself. You lay your palm flat on your forehead again. “I don’t know how it got this far, really.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing at you. He doesn’t say anything, and you continue.

“I’m just in too deep, right?” You huff, throwing your hand back down to your thigh. “I’m all torn up about this. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I’m just thinking about this nightmare of a job I’ve got myself in. You get so caught up in the paperwork and day-to-day, you forget what the end result is. I didn’t realize you were so sentient.” You give another nervous laugh, exasperated.

“Now I don’t know what to do.” A hand moves to your pocket and pulls out your pearl, holding it tightly in a closed palm by your side. “I’d try to make it right, but I don’t know how, okay? I really don’t know what the right thing to do is. I don’t know if there is a right thing to do, I think that ship has sailed.”

The right thing would have been never getting involved in this line of work, to never have learned of or aided in the creation of beings like him in the first place. But you’re both here, together, and there’s no way out.

You gnaw on your lip, looking to the ground. His eyes don’t leave you. Silence drapes over the cell as your words echo through both of you.

After the long pause he speaks, harsh voice layered with a hint of optimism, and his tentacles twitch and curl with his words.

“It’s not too late.”

You’re not able to meet his gaze, so you solemnly shake your head at the floor. You already know what he’s suggesting.

“You understand why I can’t do that, right?” You ask, soft and defeated.

He tenses under his restraints. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push. You hope that means he understands. That he understands the risks he’s asking you to take. The threat of your employers, the threat of him, fully realized and unrestrained. That you wouldn’t stand a chance against a powerful being like him. That no matter how many gifts and thank yous are exchanged, your actions will always layered with a high probability of deceit. That trust is inherently not possible in a relationship between a prisoner and the keeper. Between a being made for killing and the target he’s designed to kill.

The silence falls over you both again.

When you finally stand to retrieve the buckets, his gaze follows you.

“Perhaps in another life, we’ll get it right.”

Your shoulders tense at his words, your pace slowing. You don’t meet his eyes as you leave to discard his scraps, the harsh alarm and clunk of the door concealing your exhausted sigh.

The next few visits, you wordlessly hand over his meals and water before sitting on your spot against the wall, resting as you wait for him to return the buckets. It feels so nice to close your eyes, and it’s hard for him to haunt your thoughts when you know exactly what he’s doing. Your subconscious has a difficult time running wild when presented face to face with reality. It’s the best rest you’ve gotten in weeks, even if the concrete hurts your back and leaves your neck stiff. You feel oddly comforted being in the presence of the only other being who understands your struggle, even if he was the heart of your conflict.

Konig doesn’t seem to mind when you doze off, at least he doesn’t complain. He may just not want to bite the hand that feeds him anything other than mackerel on the brink of decomposition. Sometimes you’re out for a few minutes, sometimes hours, not waking up until well into the evening, long after you should have left the building.

He never disturbs you, letting you rest as long as you need. Listening to the light snores you make, his gaze fixed on the rise and fall of your chest.

He can tell you’re still afraid of him, when the first thing you do as you stir is search with wide eyes for the red tape to ensure you’re still safely outside his radius. You always relax when you meet his stare, though, watching his tentacles curl as you rouse.

You always run your hand over your left coat pocket, usually at the same time you’re searching for the red tape in a panic.

He wonders if you’ve brought something to defend yourself if things go wrong for you. If your hand reaches for the outline of a weapon in your pocket, some feeble defense to soothe your fears of him.

You usually offer an embarrassed laugh or coy smile as you adjust, usually while rubbing out a knot on your back.

Sometimes, especially if you haven’t gotten a lick of sleep the night prior, you’ll readjust from your spot against the wall to the floor, curling up on the concrete and positioning your arm underneath you as a pillow. You’ll rub the sleep from your eyes when you wake, propping yourself up on your elbow to look for a watch that doesn’t exist.

Little words are exchanged. What words could be shared to offer either of you comfort? Anything he says could just be a ploy to gain your trust. Anything you say does little to aid his position as prisoner.

There’s one visit, when you stir, where your back is fully flush to the concrete and you get a view of the ceiling of his cell. Your eyes widen, always with a sharp inhale, as you turn over and prop yourself up to search for the red tape. It takes you too long to find it, having to press your chin to your chest to get it in your view.

You had rolled over in your sleep, bust having crossed over the boundary, forearms propping yourself up in Konig’s radius.

You freeze, eyes wide as you look to him, wondering if he was aware of the easy prey ready for the taking.

He stares at you, tentacles still wriggling, but not outstretched. He keeps them pulled close to him, unlike his usual intimidating posture.

You’re still frozen in your spot, eyes wide and locked onto him as you process.

He could have easily wrapped a tentacle around your neck and ended your life before you had even woken up. Or worse, he could have restrained you, tortured you, and held you hostage as a mean to earn his freedom.

But he didn’t.

He’d left you undisturbed while you rested, as he always does.

Your heartbeat has made its way to your ears, muffling the sounds of hitched breaths escaping your parted lips. You two haven’t broken eye contact as you lay paralyzed on the floor.

He had spared your life, that was clear to you. He had resisted the urge to effortlessly snap your neck or get revenge on you for assisting in holding him prisoner.

You slowly sit up, locked on to his gaze.

Another trick to gain for your trust, you wonder. Spare your life now and stab you in the back later.

You slowly scoot outside his radius, not turning your back on him as you hesitantly stand and clear your throat.

Once you’re outside of his reach, you feel for the pearl through your pocket, but you can’t find the telling bump through the fabric of your lab coat. You reach into your pocket, finally taking your eyes off Konig’s glowing stare. Your fingers come up empty and you look to the floor where you had fallen asleep, and your eyes find it a few paces from the boundary.

When Konig sees what you had been hiding in your pocket all this time, and your hesitance to step back over the red tape, a tentacle carefully reaches to pick up your pearl. Instead of nudging the pearl back over to the tape and letting it roll to you as he did the first time, he flips his tentacles over so it’s sucker-up, unfurling it to his maximum length to present the pearl to you at waist height.

You can’t help the way your brows retract and your mouth parts as you study his slick appendage. You’ve never gotten this close of a look at his tentacles before. Each sucker wriggles independently, just as his tentacles did. You wonder if it’s autonomous to him, or if he has control over each one. Your shoes scrape the concrete as you shuffle nervously to the boundary, toes pressed up on the red tape to take the pearl from him. He could easily wrap his appendage around your wrist and pull you fully into his reach, just as he does with the buckets. Your fingers tremble as you reach for your possession, the involuntary shaking causes you to brush against his tentacle, leaving behind a clear slick on both you and your pearl.

His appendage retracts once you’ve taken it from him. A heat creeps up your cheeks, embarrassed that you’ve been caught hanging onto his gift like this. Carrying it around with you and visibly worried when you lose it.

If he had been simply discarding his trash instead of giving you a gift, unaware of the value of such an item, he probably thinks it’s strange of you to continue carrying it around.

He doesn’t voice his thoughts if he has any, just watched quietly as you tuck the pearl back into your pocket, smoothing over it once it’s secured.

“Thank you.” You say sheepishly, your eyes still wide as you digest his actions and lack there of. You’re not sure if you’re thanking him for returning your belonging or for refraining from killing you.

You have trouble making eye contact with him, eyes glued to the floor.

You’re thinking that maybe there might be some trust between you two after all. You’re thinking about the new details you noticed on his tentacles from your close view that you’ll surely record later. About gifts and thank yous and curious states and defined muscles engineered to kill. About how you can only get rest when you sleep under his watch. About what’s hidden under that hood. About how he didn’t kill you when given the opportunity like you had suspected he would.

You think about what he’s thinking.

Then you look to the buckets, still at his feet and not emptied and placed back at the boundary like your usual routine follows. Your brows furrow as you meet his glowing eyes.

Your chest rises and falls as you study him.

“I should probably get going.” You say, nodding to the buckets in an attempt to get him to pass them back over to you.

His tentacles curl and writhe at your statement, and his head tilts upwards. He lets your words hang in the air before he responds.

“Not finished.” He says evenly.

Your brow quirks at the unusual occurrence. It’s not like him to leave a meal unfinished, to stray from the routine.

You give him the benefit of the doubt, choosing to remain optimistic about your new step in trust, “I’ll come by for it later, then.”

You turn on your feet to leave, hands reaching for the lanyard of your badge like muscle memory. You swipe for it a few times, fingers coming up empty. Your chin meets sternum as you look down to confirm its absence, patting pockets and swiveling on your feet to look to the floor where you had lost your pearl.

You don’t see it, so you eye Konig, stare narrowed.

Time slowed as a tentacle, previously obscured behind his back, unfurls and stretches far above his head. The end of his appendage loops around your lanyard, light reflecting off the lamination of your ID as it rotates in the air. He dangles it above you both tauntingly.

Your gaze switches between Konig’s stare and the badge. It feels as if the air has been sucked out of the room. You don’t want to believe it - you’re in denial waiting for him to pass it back to you just as he did the pearl. He doesn’t, keeping your badge far on his side of the boundary a few feet above his head, playing keep-away with your freedom.

You shift in your spot and swallow.

“Yeah?” You ask, voice breathy but with an edge. You need him to verbally confirm he was stabbing you in the back, hoping he says anything to clear up the misunderstanding.

The tentacle holding the badge shakes, and the rest of his appendages outstretch, just as he had when you approached his cell the first time.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He says definitively, a few of his tentacles curling inwards with his words.

You rub your lips together and nod your head, digesting your predicament. He must have worked the badge off your neck when you rolled into his reach, delicately enough not to wake you.

You’re not scared, surprisingly, not afraid that you’re locked in here with him, most likely on a path to a sudden and unfortunate accident.

You’re more shocked at his betrayal, though you understand you probably shouldn’t have been. You’d been predicting this outcome from the beginning, that he was just hedging his bets and getting on your good side until you let your guard down. It appears your heart still bleeds regardless of your logical analysis, and you can’t help the lump that forms in your throat. You really had wanted to believe you two had an unspoken friendship, that regardless of the circumstances, you had his trust. You felt naive that some part of you had fallen for it. That you had invested enough of yourself to him to be hurt by his betrayal.

Your face burns as tears well in your eyes. You shift in your spot, sure the pain is obvious on your features.

“Don’t do that.” He pleads, tone a lot softer than his words. A few empty tentacles reach in your direction to offer comfort.

You don’t take it, your hand covering your mouth as you screw your eyes shut, tears escaping down your cheeks. You sink to your knees in defeat, almost perfectly between the middle of the cell door and your side of the red tape. All of the worry and ache and exhaustion you’ve experienced in the last few weeks involuntarily floods out of you in broken sobs.

Konig’s tentacles writhe as he watches you cry.

After a few moments, you sniff, wiping snot and tears from your nose with your coat sleeve, “Just give it back, please.” You plead at a whisper, stare desperate, “We can pretend this never happened, it can go back to how it was before.” You look up at him, face red and eyes brimmed with tears, “Please.”

It takes him a moment to consider your proposition. He lowered the tentacle holding your badge, but keeps it close to him. His words come out strained.

“You understand why I can’t do that, right?”

A loud sob escapes you at having your words thrown back at you. Without much other choice, you bury your face into your knees.

You cry for the better part of an hour, muffling your sobs into your thighs, curled up in a ball on the concrete.

When you’ve finally regained some composure, you wipe your face for the final time with a sniff.

When you speak again, your voice is forceful but nasally from the congestion of crying. Your head cocks back and you put your palm flush to the concrete, leaning back almost casually to support yourself.

“So what’s the plan?”

He tilts his head at you, and you don’t wait for him to answer before you continue.

“I don’t get the badge until I let you out, right? We both wait, you waiting for me to give in to starvation, and me waiting for someone to come to my rescue before it gets to that point - is that it?” It’s obvious you’re angry with him, words dripping with malice.

He huffs, muscles tensing against his restraints. His eyes narrow at you, tentacles outstretching to fill the space of his cell. You’ve grown accustomed to his bluffing behavioral response and it does little to intimidate you now.

“It doesn’t have to be this way.” He says, appendages curling inwards. “We can work together.”

You give your own huff, breaking eye contact with him. “It’s a little late for that.”

“I tried.” He said firmly, “I tried to do it the right way.”

You think back to your rebuff of his first proposal and groan.

“What choice did I have?” He asks, leaning against his restraints, ropes digging into his arms as the badge lowered to his side, “You wouldn’t have done the same if you were me?”

Your lips purse as you mull it over. Your eyes are still locked on to the floor and another frustrated groan leaves you. You didn’t want to put yourself in his shoes, you just wanted to be mad.

You do what you can to be spiteful with your limited resources, lying to the floor with your back facing him. Your arm is propped under you and your legs curled up. You stare at the cell door, brows pinched as you fume.

Rationally, you know you won’t last long. That you just cried all the hydration out of your body and haven’t been feeding yourself well in the past few weeks, including today. Meanwhile Konig’s been consistently eating full meals with your help and kept his buckets of food and water unemptied and close for him to ration over the coming days. You’re not in the best shape mentally, either, compared to Konig who has absolutely nothing to lose in his position. Even if soldiers bust down the cell door and filled him with lead, would it really be a worse fate than locked and bound in these four concrete walls?

Regardless of your long lists of disadvantages, you’re too upset with him to even consider giving into his demands at the moment.

You stew for hours.

You’ll occasionally adjust in your spot, sitting up to stretch the ache in your muscles before switching to lay on your other side, never facing Konig or even so much as sneaking a glance in his direction. You’re too upset with him to look at him.

Your mind is swirling, thoughts interject thoughts, throwing you new details to fuss over. You’re angry that he stole from you, that he took advantage of your vulnerability, the restlessness he was responsible for. You’re angry that he trapped you in here, imprisoned you even though he knows how awful it feels to be a prisoner. You’re angry that he can stomach sitting back and watching you starve and dehydrate yourself out of spite. You’re angry that he had plotted against you, made you out to be the fool, even if you’d suspected he had been doing so this whole time.

Mostly you’re just upset that you got your hopes up.

Instead of thank yous, your new shared language becomes silence.

You wonder if he can tell the difference. Between the solemn silence, the seething silence, the desolate silence. The thoughtless silences that come after running your mind in circles enough to physically exhaust yourself. The silence that falls on you when you finally shut your eyes, slipping into the comforting arms of unconsciousness.

You wake with a sharp inhale, desperately searching for your precious red tape. It takes you a moment, when you stir, to remember the events of yesterday. Or today, you’re not sure how long you were asleep and you have no way to tell the time.

You had already locked eyes with Konig. His tentacles wriggled and stretched when you looked at him for the first time since his betrayal, but when you see your damned badge on his side of the boundary it comes flooding back to you. An audible groan leaves you as you roll back over to face the wall.

You try to fall back asleep, desperate to escape from reality, but the dryness in your mouth is impossible to ignore.

Your mouth is begging for moisture and your joints are stiff. A dehydration headache had settled behind your eyebrows.

You need water.

You have two options.

Beg Konig to share his water bucket, or let Konig free and you’re free to get your own.

You decide you’ll just rot on the floor, instead.

You close your eyes and try to ignore the sandpaper feeling in your mouth enough to lull yourself back to sleep. You’re mulling over your options for water, and a detail you can’t believe you’d missed makes you sit up to look at Konig for the first time intentionally. Your head had swiveled around quickly, brows lowered in offense, “How do you expect me to get you out of here without giving me my badge back?”

He lets your question hang as his glowing eyes meet yours. His stare is intense, but yours doesn’t falter.

“I asked you a question, Konig. I don’t have anything to free you with. I know you don’t have anything to free yourself with.”

Your words are sharp and dangerous.

“So what’s the plan? You’ll have to give me my badge back to get something to cut you free.”

He looks to the pocket that held your pearl. His plan had one flaw - that he had not accounted for the outline in your pocket you’d reached for whenever you stirred being anything other than a weapon. He was sure you had brought something to defend yourself with if he had attacked you. Something that you could use to cut his restraints once you gave in to your starvation. He miscalculated the amount of trust you’d placed in him and it should have become obvious to him the moment you had looked to the pearl after finding your pockets empty.

He eyes the mounts that hold his restraints, two on the floor to his left and right and one in the ceiling directly above his head, all out of his reach.

“You’ll untie it at the base.” He says definitively.

Your teeth grit as you look to the ceiling, “How do you expect me to get-“ You cut yourself off when you realize what he’s suggesting, “No! No.”

His head tilts down but his stare says on you.

“No. Too far.”

A few of his tentacles curl, “I don’t want to watch you starve.”

“Then give me my badge back, Konig!”

His body tenses at the way you say his name. Coated in wrath and following a harsh demand. Your aggressive volume and fists clenching by your sides trigger his bluff behavior, tentacles stretching to fill the space of his cell.

He says nothing, and your eyes dart around his features before you let out a huff, turning away from him again.

You regretted saying anything to him. You’d wished you’d just swallowed your realization a little longer to mull it over before your compulsive outburst.

You hadn’t had a chance to consider that he would offer to give you a lift. You had been so focused on avoiding his reach that the thought of him wrapping around you and lifting you up in a tentacle was foreign to you. You’re not sure you would have thought of it even if you had taken time to consider it. The idea of getting close to him once he was cut free from his restraints was nerve wracking enough, let alone trusting him enough to hold you steady a story in the air as you free him.

You manage to sit with your spite and dehydration for a few more hours, even sneaking in short nap before you break.

You sit up slowly, head pounding as you prop yourself up with a palm flush to the concrete. You look at him, eyes pleading.

“Konig,” You say, so much softer than the last time you said his name, “I need water.”

His tentacles twitch, but he says nothing, glowing eyes staring you down.

“Please, Konig.” You say, voice broken.

He doesn’t respond, and you can’t help but sob, no tears escaping your dry tear ducts.

Your voice raises in desperation.

“Konig, don’t do this to me!”

He closes his eyes, the glow of his stare disappearing behind black eyelids. A tentacle reaches down to turn on his radio, and he dials the volume up to drown out your pleads.

A heartbroken expression spreads on your features. How could he do this to you? How could he put you in this position, after everything?

Your eye catches the water bucket by his side.

He doesn’t want to give it to you?

He thinks he can make you beg and plead for your lifeblood?

Fine.

You’ll just get the damn water yourself.

Your brows pinch as you check on Konig, who still has his eyes closed to rid the visual of your crying.

Your palms have already sprung yourself forward before your feet catch up to you, having to straighten your upper half as your shoes scrambled for concrete. After light fumbling you quickly pass over the red tape, beelining for the water bucket. You’re running so fast you overshoot, having to extend your leg to skid the sole of your shoe on the floor to slow yourself. Your body lowers to the ground with your extended leg as fingers wrap around the handle of the bucket. You’d looked to Konig, whose glowing eyes had snapped open and darted straight to you at the sound of your shoe skidding and plastic scraping against the concrete as you struggled with the bucket.

You catch a glimpse of his tentacles writhing furiously before starting your dash back to safety. You’re reminded of the heavy weight of the water bucket, stumbling over yourself as you struggle to manage both its heft and your panic at the same time. You’re inches from safety when a tentacle shoots out and loops around your ankle, pulling your leg out from under you when you go to take your final leap over the red tape. Your palms extend to brace the concrete, and while you manage to narrowly avoid hitting your head, you hear an internal rip that makes your stomach turn and a blinding hot pain bracelets around your wrist, stunning you. The bucket had crashed to the ground on its side, water spilling to the floor and soaking your clothes.

“No!” You grit, but you don’t have time to think about the water or your wrist because Konig starts to drag you backwards through the puddle and into the air with the tentacle wrapped firmly around your ankle.

A gasp escapes you and fingers desperately scratch at wet concrete until you’re fully airborne, hanging upside down and clawing for the ground.

You curl up in an attempt to rip his firm grip off your ankle, but your core isn’t strong enough to reach, so you end up just wriggling in his grasp like a fish out of water.

Another meal.

You hear the radio turn off, and your eyes find the ground, partially curtained by the tail of your lab coat. Your soaked shirt has slipped down, revealing your core. Water drips from your soaked clothes and splash onto the concrete. You can tell the ground is a long fall away and when you give up reaching for your ankle, your hands stretch out towards the ground and preemptively brace your fall, injured wrist pulsing as you follow your instincts. Involuntarily squeals are leaving your parted lips as he stills, dangling you so your body is above both of your heads and you’re eye to eye with him as you hang.

You look at him with fear swelling in your eyes. You’ve never seen him up close before like this, even if upside down. You’re inches from the hood that covers his face, glowing eyes reflecting off yours. You still, free limbs falling in line with gravity as you stare into his narrowed gaze with wide eyes. Your headache is severely exacerbated by hanging upside down, feeling your own pulse in your head as the blood drains to it.

When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous, and he gives you a slight shake with his tentacle for emphasis.

“I think it’s time for you to let me out.”

His growled yet arrogant words send a chill up your spine. Reminded you the being you’ve come to feel so much for was still a monster.

He’s left no room for argument. He’s given you plenty of chances to let you make the choice yourself, and yet you resisted. You had opted for the hard way, and you had left him no choice.

Release him, or suffer a sudden and unfortunate accident.

“Okay! Okay!” You squeak out with a slight flail, hoping it pleases him enough to prevent him from slamming you as hard as he can into the concrete.

You still again, slowly holding your hands up, palms showing. You calmly let out one more, “Okay.”

His head tilts backwards slightly, silently keeping your stare.

“Can I at least be upside-right? Please?” You squeak out, heart racing intensely enough you can hear it in your ears.

He lets you dangle for a few more moments before a tentacle curls around your waist. Instead of using the end of his tentacle like the one around your ankle, he had secured around your bare waist with the middle part of another appendage, the thicker grip giving him a sturdier hold on you. You think this must what it be like to be in the hold of a boa constrictor, trapping you and reminding you of its strength but not yet squeezing the breath from you.

He slowly flips you upside right, but keeps your flushed face inches from his. Your feet are only a few feet from the floor now, but you don’t bother trying to remove the tentacle on your waist. You’re well aware of his strength and you can feel his grip threatening to tighten around you. You won’t stand a chance against even one of his appendages, let alone all the others at attention behind him.

He takes his time looking you over, watching your eyes flick nervously between him, the tentacle firmly coiled around your waist, and the floor beneath you. Your mouth was stretched in fear and unease, breath hitched. You weren’t flailing anymore, but your feet did still mindlessly search for foundation and your hands had gripped on to his slick tentacle in an attempt to steady yourself.

He gives a huff before moving you through the air again. He goes slow, extending you out to the wall to his right. He has to pass you off to the end of another tentacle in order to use his full reach. You can’t help but feel felt up as he wraps and curls around you to keep you steady in the air.

He has to lay you almost diagonally with your head tilted towards the floor to get you close enough to the mount that tied off his binds. He uses some extra appendages to secure around your lower thighs and hips.

You let out a few breathy expletives as he adjusts you, grabbing and moving you against your will through the air.

You had to reach your arms out in a full extend, and even then the cool metal of the mount is just barely grazing your fingertips.

You wriggle in his grip, swiping at the post, grunting as you do so. He does his best to use the very end of his appendages to hold you in order to get you closer.

“Got it.” You say breathily as your hand grabs the mount. You give a light huff as you try and pull yourself closer, but Konig is extended his full range and instead you yank against his tentacles.

The knot of his ropes are tight around the loops of the metal post. You’re not sure if you’ll even be able to untie them with just your fingernails, but you don’t think Konig will accept an excuse.

He’s not hurting you, but his grip is definitively still tight, putting an uncomfortable pressure on your ribs. Had your clothes not already been soaked with water he would have left stains on your lab coat from the slick of his tentacles.

Your hands shake violently as you fuss with the knot. You’re forced to stretch, already sore muscles aching as you overextend them. Involuntary grunts escape through your gritted teeth as you dig at the knot, feet kicking as if you’re trying to swim closer to it. You try for minutes, but the knot is way too tight for you to even get a fingernail into. It doesn’t help that you’re being suspended, squished, and held at an angle, and your hands are soaked with water and Konig’s slick. You think your wrist is most definitely sprained, possibly broken, judging by the sharp decline in dexterity and searing pain that’s impossible to ignore as you fidget with the ropes.

The panic bubbles quickly, fingers scratching desperately at all of the loops of rope. You’re pleading under your breath for one of them to loosen, loosen just enough you can slip a finger in - but it doesn’t budge. One of your nails snap as you force it against a crease in the taught knot.

You’re guessing every time Konig has ever pulled against or leaned on the restraints it only forced the knot tighter, and with how long he’s been in this cell the rope has fused together with friction and time.

The panic isn’t on your side, causing you to thrash at the ropes and undo whatever insignificant progress you had made. Your whines would be matched with tears of irritation and fear if you had any water left in you.

“Konig?” You sob, “I can’t do it! I’m trying, really - the knot’s too tight!” You give the knot another frustrated claw with your broken nail, “I need a knife, scissors, something!”

You sigh and go limp, arms and top half dangling as his tentacles support you.

“Just kill me,” You whisper through your dry throat, eyes screwed shut and voice cracking.

You pause, and when you speak again your voice is quiet in defeat, but still holds an edge of malice, “Just do it and get it over with, hopefully the next feeder will be smart enough to bring a weapon.”

You’re still facing the wall, but you can feel his tentacles tense around your middle and lower limbs.

You both still, aside from the involuntarily and uneven heaving of your chest as you sob and wait for death.

All the appendages wrapped around you pull you closer to him. Two additional tentacles move to coil around your upper arms, and he tilts you so you’re upright instead of diagonal. You stay limp, feet and sprained wrist dangling. You let him move your body like a marionette, with your head tilted all the way forward and hair obscuring parts of your face.

He stops when you’re right in front of him again, you would be eye to eye if your chin hadn’t been pressed to your chest, feet only a few feet from the ground.

He holds you steady.

Considering how he wants to kill you, probably. Drag it out a little perhaps? Get a little torture in before he does it maybe?

Maybe your kindness will have not been for nothing, maybe he’s thinking about all the food and gifts and thank yous and he’ll repay you by making it quick. One swift snap of the neck or extra hard hit to the concrete, maybe.

He doesn’t do either.

He slowly lowers you to the ground. When your feet touch the floor and they don’t move to support your weight, he lifts you up an inch and comes in a second time at an angle, gently lying you on the ground so you’re flush with the concrete. His tentacles gently release from you and retract to his sides. Your badge gets placed gently on your stomach, and then all of his tentacles are off of you.

You don’t rush for the badge or the exit. You had already given up, and you weren’t about to give up on giving up, too. Your ass backwards way of maintaining some scrap of dignity.

You continue to lay limp on the floor, ignoring the badge he’d returned to you and keeping your eyes closed, tearlessly crying.

You’re not sure how long you lay on the floor, waiting for him to change his mind and kill you.

You think maybe he wants a challenge, maybe he likes a hunt. Or maybe he just wants to look you in the eyes while he does it.

So once your sobs subside you slowly sit up, your red and puffy eyes staring into his glowing eyes. His whole body is tensed, but he keeps all of his appendages close to him as they curl and twist alluringly.

You’re slouched as you stand, arms hung in front of you before you shift sloppily on your shoes, badge hitting the floor as it falls from your stomach.

You cock your head back to look at him and lick your chapped lips before giving a broken hum. You hold your arms out on either of your sides, as if inviting him to a fight, but you’re weak from dehydration, starvation, and your injury, so your movements are slowed.

You don’t speak, but your face reads Come on, kill me! What are you waiting for?!

He just stares at you, a look you’re unable to decipher from under his hood. His tentacles are writhing, but he keeps them close to his body, even if your stance is aggressive.

You let out a huff and roll your eyes, breaking the stare off. You walk over to his food bucket and empty out its contents onto the floor before stepping over to water bucket, shoes splashing in the puddle it sat in. You stack both buckets so you can carry them with one hand, before doubling back and swiping your badge off the floor with your broken nail, not so much as looking at Konig before you exit the cell.

Your first stop is to the bathroom, where you shed your lab coat, its thick fabric still wet.

You bend your aching muscles to awkwardly crane your head underneath the faucet, gulping down the streaming water. The sweet, precious water. Bathroom sink tap water has never tasted so good.

You’re drinking so fast you don’t even stop for breath. When you pull away, chin dripping and face puffy, you’re gasping for air. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror behind the sink you had drank from.

Your hair was disheveled from being dragged and hung in the air, face puffy and swollen from crying, and skin showing your dehydration. Clothes soaked from the water bucket and Konig’s slick, face still dripping as you breathe deep.

You take a few more sips from the sink for good measure before turning the faucet off with force. You drape your coat over your injured arm and grab the buckets with the other before you march out of the bathroom and straight to your supervisor’s office.

Oh, the speech you were going to give him was going to be therapeutic. You are planning on letting him have it, telling him to post your position because you’re done, and then you’re going to tell him where he can shove his buckets.

You open his door hard enough the doorknob slams into the wall and bounces back with a shake, but his office is empty, and you let out another groan at the discovery through gritted teeth.

You go back to the lab, gather your things and leave, regardless of the time. You’re caught off guard when you get to the nearest window and see the dark sky. Nighttime.

You cry the entire ride home, not yet ready to process the events but stuck with an overwhelming feeling of dread and exhaustion in the pit of your stomach.

Your wrist was red and swollen and the movements of your steering wheel turned the pain to a cruel pulsing throb.

Once back in your home, you think about a list of things to do to take care of yourself, but opt for wrapping your wrist and popping a few over-the-counter pain relief pills while finishing a bottle of water at the same time. You crawl into bed and pass out without even getting under the covers.

—————————————————————-

You hadn’t set an alarm, so you wake to a tentacle-ridden nightmare with a sharp gasp. You jolt to a sit, wincing when you feel the searing hot pain that bracelets around the sprained wrist you’d used to support yourself.

You get your weight off of it, holding your wrapped arm in front of your face. It triggers the memories of Konig tripping you and your wrist hitting the concrete. Of him dragging you across the concrete floor by your ankle. Holding you prisoner. Starving you. Making you cry. Betraying you.

Threatening your life and then sparing it.

Had it all just been another one of his bluffs? Had he known from the beginning he wouldn’t be able to follow through with his plan, or did he change his mind about killing you once you’d pathetically given up, going limp in his tentacles?

When had he changed his mind?

Somewhere between the first day when he threw that bucket at your head and the moment he’d laid your limp body down on the ground he had changed his mind about killing you, that you knew.

He wasn’t just a mindless programmed weapon, he was capable of some amount mercy. Control.

Unless he knew that if he had killed you, he wouldn’t have been able to get his varied meals and water buckets. Maybe he had kept you alive as just another means to an end.

But he had kept you alive, that was understood.

You close your eyes, falling back onto your mattress. You’d been thinking about Konig non-stop these past few weeks. Obsessing, even. It was exhausting, him and you and both of your mortalities and the constant threat haunting you in and out of your dreams.

You decided you weren’t going to think about him now, that for the sake of your own sanity you needed to focus on yourself.

You treat yourself to a full breakfast for the first time in awhile, topping it off with more pain reliever and water. A long shower eases your aching muscles, but the one-handedness makes it awkward to bathe yourself.

You put on loungewear after you towel off and reapply your wrist wrap, in need of the extra comfort. You leave your dirty lab coat at home before you head back to the office, still in your lounge clothes. You won’t be there long, you decide. You’re going to tell your supervisor what happened, chew him out a little bit, and then let him know he’ll need someone to feed Konig while you take time off to heal and process.

You stop by the lab to pick up your buckets before heading straight to your supervisors office.

You open his office door without knocking and when his eyes meet yours his brows furrow as he gives your clothes a scan.

“I’m going to need some time off,” You say firmly, gesturing to your wrapped arm.

“What happened?” He says, brow quirking.

You laugh, “What happened? What happened?” You use your uninjured hand to shove the buckets to the ground forcefully, your tone dangerous, “Is that I accepted this shitty job offer in the first place. What were you thinking?”

He’s sweating now, eyes wide with shock as you raise your voice to him.

You continue, “You saddled me with feeding him. You gambled with my life.” Your tone goes from angry to quiet and stern, “He almost killed me.” Your gaze flicks to between each of his nervous eyes.

He sputters, “What- What do you mean? What happened?”

“He stole my badge and trapped me in that cell with him! He starved me! NONE of you came for me, NONE of you checked on me.” Your animated tone lowers to one of cold malice, “You saddled me with a deadly job and then left me to die. Not a single reinforcement.”

“How did he steal your badge?” He asks, face stretched in confusion.

You hesitate, “I-“ You cut yourself off. You can’t tell him you fell asleep in there. Because then you’d have to tell him about how you had fallen asleep waiting for him to empty his bucket. The bucket he wasn’t supposed to have. The loitering you were instructed not to do. The conversations you were forbidden from having. The unauthorized tape crossing.

“It doesn’t matter! I’m-“ You’re frazzled now, face reddening, “I’m leaving! Just make sure someone feeds him!” You fumble for the doorknob, leaving him with a bewildered expression and two colorful buckets.

“Are you quitting?!” He yells out after you’re already down the hall.

“Yes! No! I mean - maybe! I’ll let you know!”

You take three days off to take it easy, catch up on sleep, and ice your injuries. It’s been awhile since you’ve been able to relax, just getting lost in a mindless TV show and forgetting your worries for awhile. You didn’t want to think about Konig, it was too painful, but your thoughts kept leading you to him and you had to often remind yourself that you were supposed to be taking a break from him.

After three days, you’ve managed to steady yourself enough to get back to your research. The work had piled up during your stint as a feeder and you thought your normal work would be a good distraction.

The first time your supervisor catches a glimpse of you, he does a double take through the circular glass pane of the lab’s swinging doors before he enters.

He says your name, surprised but still cheerful, “It’s good to see you! Lab coat and all.” He lowers his voice, “I, uh, I didn’t think you’d be back.”

You don’t say anything, attention still to your work.

He clears his throat before continuing, “How’s your wrist?”

“Still sprained,” You say dryly, still not turning to him.

He sputters a bit, “Hope you feel better soon, uh.” He clears his throat again, “You’ll be happy to hear that,” he trails off for a moment before continuing, “It’s being put down.”

Your eyes finally find him, darting over quickly as you set down your notes.

“What’s being put down?”

“The creature.” He says with a smile, as if he’s offering his saving grace.

“No!” Leaves you involuntarily. The wrist with the bandage finds your heart as you stand, shaking your head at your supervisor, “You can’t do that!”

His brows pinch, “What do you mean? I thought you’d be happy about this. He tried to kill you.”

“No, if he tried to kill me I’d be dead, he almost killed me, he spared me!”

Your supervisor steps closer you, holding his palms up in a weak attempt to calm you. You back away from him with each step he takes, still shaking your head.

“He hurt you!”

“That was an accident!” You say, angrily. The edge in your tone causes him to still his stride. You don’t usually speak to him like this.

He says your name again, voice soft and eyes full of pity, “He put your replacement in the hospital.”

Your face goes slack as you look at him with wide eyes, shaking your head slowly, “No!”

He says your name again, “Yes. Listen, I see this has left you on edge. Maybe you should take some more time off, no problem. We can even get you in touch with a counselor specialized in war trauma.”

“No, listen to me, you can’t kill him!”

“How many more sudden and unfortunate accidents do you think we can continue reporting before the wrong person starts asking questions?!” His voice has lost his pity, obviously frustrated with your disapproval.

“You can’t be mad at a wasp for stinging when you whack its nest, can you?! He was made for that purpose!”

He raises his voice, stern enough it stuns you, “And what do you expect us to do with a monster made for the purpose of killing? Let it out into the public? Let it rot in a jail cell while we keep feeding him our employees?!”

“He didn’t kill me!” You say exasperatedly, “He didn’t kill me because you guys are starving him! You’re not feeding him enough. That’s enough to make any man kill.”

“Why are you sympathizing with it? It’s a monster!”

You look at him with squinted eyes and mouth parted in disgust, “He’s not a monster! He’s-“ You cut yourself off.

Your supervisor lowers his head in your direction and crosses his arms over his chest. “Go on.” He says.

You put your palms together gently in front of you, careful not to bend your injured wrist. A sigh leaves you.

“Look, I’ve been doing research on him, okay? He’s rather remarkable and he’s surprised me more time than I can count.”

He scoffs, “I’m sure it has.”

Your eyes screw shut for a moment as you groan in frustration, “No! I mean, sure, he is a miraculous biowarfare weapon equipped with superior predator features, that’s a given, but in addition to that he’s an intelligent creature capable of independent thought! He is capable of being kind and showing mercy. You don’t understand!”

He cocks a brow at you and sighs, “I guess I don’t.” He reaches out, as if he’s going to put a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, but stops himself. “Look, it’s been a rough week for everyone here, okay? Why don’t you take some more time off and we’ll take care of things here.”

You realized there was going to be no getting through to him. That there would be no way to get him to see that Konig was an intelligent being capable of restraint, that he had no say in his creation as a weapon, that he was misunderstood due to the weight of being a prisoner, and that even the worst behaving prisoner deserved not to starve.

“You’re still going to kill him, aren’t you?” You say, more of a statement than a question.

He doesn’t say a word, pity still flooding his stare. He turns slowly, stopping once he’s got the lab door ajar at his finger tips,“I’ll see you when you’re feeling better.” He slips out, and you watch the lab door swing to a still as you swallow his words.

It doesn’t matter how you feel about Konig right now, all of your complex feelings have been pushed to the side. They can’t kill him, he doesn’t deserve that fate, that’s for sure. You can’t hold a being prisoner, underfeed him, and then expect him not to act on his primal urges. Not even a human would pass that test.

That and the idea of him disappearing from your life permanently is enough to make your heart pound and your head spin, having to press your uninjured hand to your forehead to wipe away your sweat.

This is your fault, you’re thinking. That if you hadn’t let a substitute go in there after you left things so messy with him maybe this fate would have been spared.

No, no. You can’t afford to think like that. You can’t afford to blame yourself for his actions.

But your actions could save his life.

“Yes,” you say, out loud frantically to yourself at your own idea, “Yes!”

You’re searching the lab, pulling open cabinets hard enough they slam against their holds, leaving their doors open as you dig out their contents and leave them scattered on the floor.

You find what you’re looking for, the sharpest object you could think of in the lab, a scalpel.

You had grabbed the entire dissecting kit with the firm grip of your uninjured hand, finding a sprint as soon as it’s in your grasp. As you run you lay your injured arm across your chest, setting the pouch on top of it like a makeshift table as you pry the zipper open and dig for the scalpel. Your feet are hitting the tile hard and each step jostles your injured wrist but you’re not sure how much time you have.

You have the horrible thought that it might be too late, that when you get there you’ll find an empty cell and you’ll never have the chance to say goodbye, I’m sorry, or thank you again. The lump in your throat and the prick of tears in your eyes makes you stumble, and you use the opportunity to slow to find the scalpel, pulling it from the hold of the pouch through blurry vision. You let the pouch slide off your bandaged arm and crash to the hall floor, returning to your quick pace, damned be lab rules of running with sharp instruments.

You slam your badge into the receiver in a panic, the tears already threatening to spill over at the thought of never seeing Konig again. The scalpel scratches against your badge and when the alarm sounds, you’re looking frantically down the halls to see if anyone is going to try and stop you. When you pry open the heavy metal door enough you stumble into his cell.

He’s still in there, alive, and your tears quickly turn to that of relief.

You’re don’t hesitate, crossing the red tape and closing the distance between you, scalpel in hand.

His tentacles are at a bluff, writhing and fully extended as you dash at him. You realize that sprinting at him full speed with a weapon after the way you left things was probably not the best way to approach the situation.

“Konig!” You say, out of breath and slowing to turn your direction towards the ropes instead of him. You waste no time scraping the scalpel against the taught restraint with your uninjured hand, “We got'ta get you out of here - they’re going to kill you!” The tears are flowing down your cheeks again. You’re not sure if it’s the panic, your upset feelings of him bubbling up at seeing him, or the thought of him being killed.

“We gotta get out of here, we have to go!”

You struggle through the first rope, handicapped by your injury and fraying it in multiple spots as your hand shakes. The scalpel slices all the way through, and the rope snaps back, the loops around Konig’s bicep releasing in large coils.

You make a dash for the rope restraining his other arm, out of breath and tears blurring your vision. Your hands shake as your uninjured hand slices the ropes, unable to grip the restraint with your other hand. You fumble it for moment, panic slowing you down. Something grazes your hand and you flinch, but relax when you see Konig’s tentacle gently tapping your palm. He flips it sucker up, offering to take the scalpel from you.

“Oh, yeah.” You say, a dizzy heat creeping up your cheeks. You hand him the scalpel, blade facing your chest so the end of his appendage can safely coil around it.

He takes slices precisely through one of the indents you started in the rope with ease.

You can’t help the awe as you watch him, mouth slightly part as your eyes follow the tentacle slice through the rope securing his wrists to the ceiling. You take a step back, hands slightly braced at your sides.

His free tentacles are curling and writhing in excitement as he gets the final swipe through his restraints, the slack releasing and dropping to the ground in loops. Once fully unrestrained, he takes his time stretching his muscles, eyes closed and small grunts leaving his lips as his tentacles move in synchronization with his movements. He rubs out the red and irritated lines the ropes left behind on his arms.

You’re still in awe as you watch him, eyes wide and slack jawed. You hadn’t given yourself time to prepare for being in a the same room as a fully unrestrained superbeing designed for killing.

Had he just been being nice to you for his own benefit, you’re thinking this would be the time for him to kill you.

Once he’s done working out his muscles, he steps over to you slowly, eyes not leaving you as his boots make their commanding presence known on the concrete.

“Oh, I-“ You cut yourself off, looking to the side as you take a few steps back. Your palms are out, and you’re thinking maybe you should have thought this through a bit more.

He says nothing, his glowing gaze boring into you as he closes the gap, leaving only inches between you two.

The nerves are apparent on your face as you stare up at him, having to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. He frame towered over you and his tentacles curled behind him alluringly. You flinched when the end of a tentacle came up to brush your cheek, leaving behind a small line of clear slick.

“Thank you.” He says, and for once you know what he means.

“Thank you.” You respond with a shaky voice, eyes flicking around his features nervously.

“Are you ready?” He says, nodding to your badge.

You’d forgotten he’s being hunted. Your unease of him is overtaken by the panic to save him.

“Yes, yes! We should hurry.” You say, starting a sprint for the door, but a tentacle loops firmly around your waist and lifts you up, your feet still searching for floor. Another tentacles comes underneath you like a swing, allowing you to place to weight on it. You can’t help but let out a few nervous squeaks as you’re adjusted in the air. Once you get your bearings you he puts you close to his back, letting your head sit next to his so you’re looking over his shoulder. You’re in a nest of slick tentacles, securing around you to keep you steady, and you’re reminded of the nightmares you’d experienced with a sea of tentacles swallowing you whole.

One appendage is offered to your injured wrist so you could rest it. He does all of this without looking at you, his focus on carrying your through the cell.

He stills and a tentacle reaches out, sucker up, and it takes you a moment to understand he’s asking for your badge. You give a nervous laugh when you realize, pulling it from your neck and ruffling your hair with the lanyard as you do. His tentacle curls around the badge and it disappears from your view.

You hear the grating alarm and the clunk of the lock. Two tentacles return instead of one, opening the lanyard of the badge to place it gently around your neck so you don’t have to. He simultaneously gets the door you struggled so much with opened with ease, and he’s careful as he gets both of you through the doorway.

“Which way?” He whispers through his harsh voice.

You point over his shoulder so he can see your arm from behind him. “That way, I need to grab my keys.”

As soon as he’s starts moving you realize why he didn’t let you run. He’s scarily fast, moving efficiently through the hallways as his tentacles allow him lengthier strides. You’re mesmerized by the way they shoot out, using the walls, floor, and ceiling to support himself as he moves. It’s like something from a horror movie, you think, and you can’t help imagine the fear a victim would feel being charged at like this.

“In here!” You point to the swinging doors of the lab. He’s got you smoothly inside, careful to make sure the doors don’t hit you on the recoil. His tentacles place you down gently, ensuring your feet are steady on the tile before removing his support.

You’re quick once on your feet, running to one of the undisturbed cabinets and shoving your stuff into your lab coat pockets with your good hand before dashing back to him.

“Okay, let’s go!”

But he doesn’t move, because some papers strewn on the lab table had caught his attention. He picks up a piece of paper with his hands and holds it up. The light shining through the page lets you see ink of a sketch you did of him during your obsessive research.

“Oh, that- yeah, that’s, uhm.” You purse your lips together and squint, trying to find an ending to the sentence you hastily started, “Hard to explain.”

He sets it down gently, using his hands to sift through a few more sketches of himself, anatomy labeled and fully detailed. Separate sketches of just the close details of his tentacles. Theories to what’s under his hood and his skeletal structure. His eyes scan over more pages and he find logs of your interactions, his diet, body language.

You laugh nervously, flush creeping up your neck as your eyes dart to the side.

“We should go.” You say, less urgent and more breathy than you meant it to.

He looks at you, glowing eyes piercing into you and you’re not sure how to decipher his stare.

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, stacking the papers together and rolling them up in a way not to crease them. He tucks them into the waist band of his pants as he wordlessly returns you to your spot on his shoulder as he takes you from the lab.

“Which way?” He says once you’re both in the hallway, but a screams echoes from behind you, and you both whip around to look.

“Go, go, go!” Your hands frantically tap his shoulders to emphasize your words after meeting the horrified stare of a coworker, who had turned quickly on her heels to flee from you two.

He starts to sprint towards the person running from him and you tap his shoulders more forcefully, “No, the other way! Away from people!”

He gives a single nod, grunting in response as he turns on his heels and heads the opposite direction.

There were workers at the end of this hall, too. Three of them, and you can see your supervisor as he rips his attention away from the conversation he was having and turns to the mass in the corner of his eye.

He stumbled backwards, and the others turn to gawk too, screaming and fleeing from you both in a panic. You supervisor had froze, pressing his body against the wall as his shock and horror melds with confusion when he made eye contact with you, perched on Konig’s shoulder.

He shouts your name in panic, eyes searching frantically for aid.

As you Konig tentacles reach out to the halls to quickly pass him, you put one finger up on your good hand. “Don’t forget this!” You say cheerfully.

The dumbfounded and offended look on his face leaves you with an overjoyed smile as you turn back around to rest your arms back on Konig’s shoulder, lower half still supported by his tentacles.

“The stairs are through that door.” You say, leaning forward on his bare shoulder to point.

You both stop in your tracks at the sound of a blaring alarm, much more shrill than the one of his cell. It’s deafening, shrilling through the entire building. There’s bright emergency lights that reflect off the walls from the lockdown sirens.

He looks to you, and instead of yelling over the loud alarm you just point to the doors to the stairs and tap his shoulder frantically again, hoping your urgency translates.

It does, and he continues through the halls, tentacles clearing his strides and pushing open the door to the stairs. The alarm can still be heard, but you’re farther away from the speakers and it’s easier to hear the chorus of heavy footsteps echoing up the stairwell. You grip tightens on Konig’s shoulder, a nervous squeak escapes you.

You both lean over hand rail to see the commotion below, and you can make out flashes of tactical gear and weapons of dozens of soldiers moving in a group up the stairs.

Your eyes widen and you look to him nervously, unsure of your next move.

You really did not think this through.

It’s hard to tell with his hood, but he seems unnerved. He watches carefully over the stairs, and you’re tapping him quickly, silently pleading with him to keep moving to search for another way out.

A free tentacle reaches out to rest on your palm, leaving behind a slick and letting you know that he’s got this. You swallow and let your hand lay on his shoulder. You can’t help the way your fingers dig in to his firm shoulder.

The soldiers are close enough you can hear their voices below you. You screw your eyes shut, trying to search for your trust in Konig and hoping this hasn’t just turned into a suicide mission.

The soldiers are almost in your view when Konig’s tentacles moves you both to the gap in the middle of the stairwell that drops all the way to the ground floor. He’s got you both suspended in the air, his grip on you tight, with tentacles laced onto either side of the handrails of the floor you’re on.

He releases the rails he had held in his tentacles for support, letting you both free fall past the soldiers and down to the ground floor in a blur, catching you both with his tentacles against the bottom floor hand rails.

Expletives leave you without thought, and he turns his head to you to check on you as he exits the stairwell, now on the ground floor.

The alarm is defeating again, so you resort back to using the taps and points to direct him out of the building.

He freezes when the sun hits him, having to hold a tentacle up to shade his eyes.

Does he even remember the last time he saw the sun?

It takes him a moment to steady himself.

“My car’s over there!” You point once he’s steady.

You can hear yelling from the building behind you, the lockdown drill still blaring.

Once you’re at your car he sets you down, and you race to fling the driver door open, fingers fumbling as you start the engine.

He opts for the backseat, and you think it’s a bit odd before you consider the need for him to have room on both sides of him. He’s forced to hunch over in the middle seat, his head is pressed up against the ceiling. His tentacles had spread to the trunk, the front seats, pressed against the windows and coiled up on the seats next to him to get them all to fit. He’s blocking your view of the rear windshield window but you can make it work, you think.

You throw your car in reverse, using just the side mirrors to guide yourself out of your parking spot. You can see the building doors burst open, soldiers pouring from the building. One points to your car.

“Shit, shit, shit!” You say, pressing on the gas, tires squealing as you exit the parking lot.

You hang a skidding right and shoot for twenty over the speed limit, but get slowed by traffic.

“C’mon…” You say to the car preventing you from speeding as you nervously eye your rear view, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. You drive with just one hand, your bandaged arm resting in your lap.

You get a glimpse of a familiar military vehicle in your sideview and you squeal, “OhfuckOhfuckOhfuck.”

The gas pedal slips out from under you and you slide your knees over to glance down in a panic before your eyes return to the road.

You weren’t going fast enough for Konig’s liking, apparently, because his tentacle had stole the pedal from you, pressing it to its full extend against the floor mats. The engine roars as it struggles to keep up, and you have to used your injured hand to steady the steering wheel as you swerve off the road to desperately navigate the other cars.

Your foot desperatly searches for the break, but another tentacle shoots out from your left, coiling around the metal that held the brake pedal and holds it firmly in place. You tried to push it down with all your might, but you were no match for his strength, as if you were trying to crack a boulder with just one foot.

He doesn’t let you use your arm for long, two tentacles coming in to take the steering wheel from you. Your engine is roaring and your eyes find the odometer, you’re going 40 over and climbing.

He coils a few tentacles around you and your seat for good measure, bracing your head and core in the event of a crash.

The expletives are falling from your lips without thought. You’re going well over 100mph now, never having gone this fast in your car before.

“Konig, slow down!”

He’s navigating with ease but too many close calls makes you screw your eyes shut to brace yourself.

He finally lets up once you two are out sight of the soldiers tailing you, letting off the pedal and offering you back control of the wheel.

It takes a few deep breaths and expletives before you take the wheel from him, leaning forward once his tentacles release you.

“Don’t!” Sharp inhale, “Ever do that again!” You say, heart pounding in your chest as you nervously eye the sideview mirrors for signs of trouble.

“I didn’t want them to catch us.” He says evenly. There’s a pause, and you catch each other’s eyes in the rearview mirror in between checks of the road.

“I’m sorry if I scared you.�� He says with a flick of his tentacle.

You take a few more deep breaths, wiping away the clear stick Konig had left behind on your forehead, “Well, we didn’t crash.” You’ve regained the wheel and find your groove going twenty over.

“I don’t know where to take us.”

“You don’t have a home?” He asks.

“I do, but they have my address in my employee files. It won’t take long for my place to be flooded with soldiers looking for you.” You say, briefly holding the wheel with your bandaged hand so you can put on your indicator to change lanes, sprained wrist returning to your lap.

Silence falls on you both mull it over. You keep driving, wanting to put as much distance between his capturers as possible.

The tentacle stretched in the passenger seat moves close to your bandages, “What happened?” He asks, voice low.

“Oh, uh,” You keep your eyes on the road. You had assumed he would have been aware of what he did to you. It made sense he didn’t realize it happened when it did, his attention elsewhere at the time.

You debate telling him in your head, but decide it’s best to be honest with him, “My wrist sprained when it hit the concrete. When I uh, tripped.”

You swallow hard, glancing at him in the rearview. He’s leaning forward between the two seats, his head close to yours.

“I did that to you?” He asks with a tense frame.

You look at him again briefly before your eyes find the road. “It happened so fast. Neither of us were thinking properly.”

He leans back in his seat, still having to hunch over to fit under the car’s roof. The tentacle outstretched to you retracts to the back seat with him.

Another silence falls over you both as he digests the new information.

“I’m sorry.” He says, voice strained, “I never wanted to hurt you.”

You glance at him in the mirror again, his eyes are turned to his boots. “It’s okay.” You offer a weak smile, even if he can’t see it. “I would have done the same, remember?”

He doesn’t say anything, but he gives a slow shake of the head, and in between checks of the road you can see the fabric of his hood rippling with his movements.

You continue down the highway in silence, keeping your eyes on the stretch of road ahead of you. You drive until the sun sets, making stops for gas only when the station is empty, quickly filling your tank in fear someone will spot the ultimate creation of biowarfare resting in your back seat.

You see a sign for a motel and you decide you’ve covered enough ground today.

“Ready to stop? We can rest for the night here. Give you a chance to stretch out in privacy.”

He hums, but ignores the question, attention directed out the window and over the horizon, “I forgot how beautiful the sunset is.”

It catches you off guard, the sweet words whispered in awe from his intimidating frame.

Your eyes find the clouds reflecting the orange of the sun’s warmth. The bright colors gradually shift to the calm blue of dusk as the sky stretches on. Some of the brighter stars of the night sky are already making an appearance on the other end of the sky.

“It is beautiful tonight.” You say.

A small smile creeps on your features, finally feeling anything other than regret and worry about your impulsive decision to free him. Maybe the hasty ruining of your life and being forced to live on the run was all worth it, because now Konig gets to see the sunset again.

You pull into the parking lot of the motel, pulling out your wallet as you speak, “Stay out here and try to lay low. I’ll get us a room.”

You leave the engine running for him as you handle things at the front desk. The motel was as shady as it looked, not requiring your ID and accepting cash for payment.

Perfect. Untraceable, that’s what you needed. The man in the white stained undershirt doesn’t even give you a second look when he hands over the room key.

You turn your head both ways to scan the parking lot before preemptively unlocking the door to your room. You return to the car with an awkward jog, opening the driver side door to gather anything you’d need.

“We should be good. Just move quick.” You say, closing the driver door behind you.

You watch as he gets out, tentacles pouring out of the car one after another.

He doesn’t seem to be in as much of a rush as you, taking a moment to stretch out his back with a pop.

You’d gotten a head start to the motel room, but he still catches up before you reach the door, opening it for him so he can get all of his appendages inside. You nervously peek out to the parking lot one last time to make sure no one saw you two, closing and locking the door behind you before securing the blinds shut.

“Okay, we should be safe.” You say as you move to pull the sheets up on the mattresses to check for bed bugs.

The room is as dingy as you expected it to be. Peeling wallpaper stained with years of cigarette smoke. Outdated decor and furniture. Stained and faded carpets. An old box television perched on a dresser facing the two queen beds.

“No bugs.” You announce once you’ve thoroughly checked both mattresses. You look to Konig, who’s standing in the doorway of the tiny bathroom, eyeing up what you assume is the shower. You hear the water turn on in a spray against the shower’s porcelain followed by the sound of a belt jiggling.

Your brow quirks as you kick off your shoes and shed your lab coat, stretching your sore back as you settle in on one of the mattresses.

He starts a shower and you can’t help but picture him soaking his tentacles and sore body through the wall of the motel room. He left the door open, and some sinful part of you thinks about peeking.

You don’t, forcing your attention to the TV. You mindlessly flipped through channels with the remote, thoughts lingering on Konig showering. You settle on reruns of a lighthearted show.

You hear the shower turn off with a hearty thud of its noisy pipes. Some more time passes, and you can see flicks of corners of a white motel towel from the doorway.

The jingle of his belt makes an encore, and after a few more moments he reappears, turning the light off for the bathroom with a free tentacle. Another continues to works the towel, dabbing off stray water beads from his skin.

Your cheeks flush, and you catch his wet muscles flexing from the corner of your eye as he makes his way to the other mattress, laying down on his front with a relieved huff. His tentacles relax as well, draping themselves on the duvet and hanging off the sides, the ends lazily flicking and curling as they dangle.

You both sit silently for awhile, forcing your attention towards the TV set while you watch his tentacles curl alluringly in your peripherals. You’ve settled into your spots on your respective beds, trying to find some respite after such a stressful day.

He breaks the silence first.

“I will never forget your kindness.”

“Oh,” You start, heat still flushing your features but keeping your stare towards the television, “It’s nothing.”

“You sacrificed everything to save my life.” He says definitively, “Even after what I did to you.” His eyes linger on your bandages.

“It just seemed like the right thing to do.” You shrug, your eyes finally meeting his. “I was really only at that job for the paycheck.” You pause again, fingers fidgeting with the TV remote, “The guilt was starting to weigh on me anyway. Better to live honestly and on the run than settled-in but trapped, right?”

His glowing eyes stare into yours as he considers your words.

He nods slowly, tentacles twitching and curling.

You give him a cheeky smile and a point, “But no more killing people, okay? I’m responsible for your actions from here on out.”

He huffs in amusement, lifting up one tentacle in the air as if giving an oath, “I promise.”

He stirs suddenly, as if he had remembered something.

“I have something for you,” he says as he sits up, reaching into his pants pocket. You quirk your brow as he stands, closing the gap between your beds and as he presents his fist to you. He towers over you, even more so from your spot sitting slouched on the bed.

You look at him with intrigue, cupping your hand underneath his, “It’s not a bug, is it?”

He laughs, and it’s the first laugh you’ve heard from him aside from the wicked laugh from that first day you met him, the laugh that raised the hairs on your neck and haunted your dreams. This one’s different, softer and playful. It makes your chest warm and you can’t help the goofy smile you give in return.

“No, it’s not a bug.”

He lets the small item drop into your palm and your brows scrunch as you study it.

Your pearl!

You let out a quiet gasp, eyes darting to him once you understand. It must have slipped from your pockets when he had held you upside down during your altercation in his cell. You hadn’t even thought about it, didn’t realize that you had lost your precious pearl. You had been avoiding thinking about Konig up until you heard about his pending execution, and at that point you had bigger things to worry about.

You pick up the uneven pearl with two fingers, moving it in the light, “You had it all this time?”

“I’ve been keeping it safe for you. I was worried I’d never be able to return it to you.”

You purse your lips at the way you had left things. Leaving him without closure in that sterile cell, forcing him to sit with his unresolved feelings and thoughts without an explanation. Never knowing if you’d be back.

“I’m ashamed, at how I treated you. I thought I had ruined the one good thing I had in there.”

Your cheeks flush at his words and you wrap your fist around the pearl. You’re forced to break eye contact with him, hoping he can’t see the heat beneath your skin.

“I’m sorry I left you alone.” You say, eyeing the floor by his feet. “I just needed time.”

He considers your words carefully. “I can’t blame you for that.”

His eyes flick down to the hand that held the pearl and both of you bask in the silence for a moment.

“Maybe tomorrow we can get you a necklace for it, so it doesn’t get lost again.”

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, mouth parted and eyes wide. A tentacle brushes the apple of your cheek, and he looks at you like he had eyed the sunset, in awe and stunned with its beauty.

He had understood the significance of the pearl this whole time, and he returned it to you post-freedom, meaning there was no chance of him attempting to gain your trust for his benefit.

“Konig,” You whisper, voice breathy.

“Yes, meine perle?”

“Thank you.” You hold the pearl in a fist placed over your heart and keep your eyes fixed up at him.

His hand reaches down to your face, tracing a finger on the underside your jaw. Your breath hitches at the chill that shoots down your spine.

“I’ve been watching you.” He says, finger resting just under your chin, keeping your gaze on him. Your eyes flick nervously to his tentacles curling alluringly over his shoulder before returning to his stare.

You’re not sure what he means, but you’re too stunned by his words and the light touch of strong fingers, breath still hitched and heartbeat pulsing in your ears.

He pulls out the rolled up stack of papers he took from the lab and held close. All of the sketches and logs and theories you’d made during your obsessive research, “Looks like you’ve been watching me, too.”

He gestures to the papers in his hand before placing them on the nightstand to his side.

The tentacle that brushed your cheek moves to your hair, curling strands gently between the slick end of his appendage. Another gently takes the pearl from you, setting it down with the papers.

“Am I wrong, meine perle?”

Your jaw slacks open a little further as you stutter out the beginning of a few sentences, each quickly abandoned one after another.

You settle for a shake of your head accompanied by a full flush of your features.

He gives a hum of satisfaction as he leans down close enough that his hood almost brushes up against your skin. His glowing eyes are inches from yours.

“I want to repay you, meine perle.”

His thumb continue to soothingly stroke your jaw, His voice drops, soaked in a sultry tone as his gaze maps your features.

“You worked so hard for me. Went through so much, didn’t you? So good for me.”

You give a sharp inhale at the praise, a warmth suddenly pooling in your lower abdomen. You’re hypnotized by his large frame, his gentle touch, the inflection of his words. You can only stare up at him in anticipation, caught off guard by his change in demeanor.

A tentacle rests on your knee and begins to creep up your thigh. You try to look down but his hand under your chin keeps you steady.

“I want to make you feel so good, meine perle. Will you let me do that?” His voice dropped to a low whisper, and another tentacle creeps up behind you, making you flinch as it slithers down your shoulder and curls around your collarbones, “Will you let me reward your hard work?”

Your thighs spread obediently at the touch of his tentacle and Konig takes the opportunity to stand between your thighs, keeping them open. When you go to answer the only thing that comes out is a nervous squeak, so you opt for nodding your head.

The grip on your face tightens, a few of his fingers indent the soft flesh of your cheeks, “Ah, ah.” He gives a slight shake of his head. “You have to say it, meine perle.”

It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Yes, Konig.” You whisper through shallow breath, eyes wide as you look up at him. “Please.”

He gives another pleased hum, a tentacle eagerly coiling around your waist and picking you up from your spot on the edge of the bed.

A gasp leaves your parted lips, hands finding the slick coiled appendage at your center for leverage. Your socks scraped the duvet as he repositioned you to the middle of the bed.

Two tentacles work the button of your pants, a sharp inhale leaves you as they yank your zipper down and slide the waistband to your thighs. His eyes trace every inch of newly revealed skin as his tentacle placed you down on the bed, removing the appendage looped around your middle. By the time he gets your jeans off and discarded to the floor, two more tentacles have already begun sneaking up the hem of your shirt, slithering up your stomach and lifting your slick stained shirt with it. You obediently, albeit hesitantly, put your hands over your head to let him take your shirt and bra off in one swipe, ruffling your hair as he does.

You’ve got your upper half propped on your good arm, palm sunk in to the mattress. He corrects this by looping a tentacle around your good wrist, giving it a careful but firm yank as another presses to your sternum and guides your back flush with the mattress. Another simultaneously wraps around the forearm above your injured wrist, gently pinning it to the bed and forcing it to rest on the mattress above you. The two tentacles that removed your shirt trace down your exposed core and down each leg, giving you goosebumps behind the trail of slick they leave behind. The tentacles stop at your ankles, wrapping around them and up your calves like a snake coils its prey.

In quick movements your ankles are forced to in the air, extended and spread. He kneels onto the bed at your feet, positioning himself so he’s kneeling in the new space between your thighs.

He stills, tentacles holding you firmly but comfortably. You can feel his suckers against your bare flesh, each having their own independent wriggling grip on you. Your chest rises and falls, trying to swallow your nerves of being undressed and fully restrained at the hands of the powerful being you’d freed.

His eyes are tracing all of the newly exposed flesh, and you can’t help but squirm against his appendages as you fight the urge to cover yourself. He holds you steady, all your limbs extended as he takes his time committing the curves and dips of your delicate body to memory.

His eyes find your panties, already stained with arousal at the way he spoke to you, manhandled you.

“Such a delicate thing you are, meine perle.“ He says, eyes half-lidded as they admire you.

“You knew you wouldn’t stand a chance against me, didn’t you little one?” His voice is low but gentle, and you’re stunned by his words, his forwardness. You can’t help but be intimidated pinned beneath him.

“You knew the risk you were taking. You knew I was deadly.”

One of his tentacles come up to gently smooth the hair he had disheveled when removing your shirt. You flinch at his touch, and he gives a pleased hum once he successfully fixes your hair.

“And yet you couldn’t help but throw yourself at me.” His eyes briefly widen before returning to their half-lidded boring stare, “Time and time again,” He shrugs in casual disbelief of you, “I’ve never seen anything like it, your carelessness.”

A free tentacle sneaks up your leg again, curling to stroke your spread inner thighs.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re self-destructive. Suicidal, even.”

The tentacle at your thigh creeps up, teasing the waist band of your underwear, and you suck in a breath through your teeth.

“But I do know better, though, don’t I?”

The tentacle lets your panties snap back to your hips, and the appendages holding you as restraints tighten on your limbs threateningly, excluding your injured arm.

His eyes narrow and his voice drips of arrogance.

“You’re just a little masochist.”

The tentacle drags down your front, teasing your slit over the fabric of your panties.

“Aren’t you meine perle?”

Your thoughts are clouded with a haze as you cling to his words, hypnotized by his chilling voice, domineering tone, and arousing touches.

He lets you get away with not responding this time, studying your responses to his teases before he continues. He gives another hum, a tentacle tracing down your neck and core, leaving behind a cool trail of his slick.

The tentacles tracing your cunt curls around your waistband again, while the two appendages securing your ankles maneuver your legs as they slide your panties down.

“Do you like that I have so much power over you?”

He has to unravel the appendages on your ankles to remove your underwear, discarding them over his shoulder. The cool breeze on your dripping cunt makes you shiver, tensing your core and arms in his restraint.

“That I’m a predator and you’re just a sweet defenseless little thing?”

His tentacles quickly rewrap around your ankles, but this time he secures the thick middles around you, covering the tops of your feet in his slick suckers as he forces your legs spread. His tentacles slither all the way up your legs from foot to upper thigh like thick black vines, and he leaves the ends of his tentacles with extra slack so the tips can tease the lips of your dripping cunt.

“Does the danger turn you on, meine perle?”

He gives a hum as he eyes your exposed and spread cunt, thoroughly slicked with your own arousal.

“I can see it does.”

You flush under his stare, still mesmerized by his words and the heat pooling in your lower abdomen.

He leans forward, his hands finding the mattress on either side of your core. You shrink under him as he leans down. He presses the front of his pants against your cunt, spread open by the tentacles looped around your legs.

“You were afraid of me.” He says, and you let out a broken sigh as he grazes your clit, your hips giving small involuntary grinds against him, “Yet you still gave yourself to me, so willingly.”

He hovers his face inches from yours, glowing eyes reflecting off your wide eyes. His voice drops low, and the hem of his hood drags across the curve of your breasts. The smaller tentacles that pour from under his hood curl around your tits, and you flinch under his touch when the ends of slick appendages start to tease your nipples to attention.

“I think someone that brave deserves to be thoroughly rewarded.”

He keeps his face close to you, leaving the equivalent of kisses through his hood down your middle as his smaller tentacles trace your skin.

He kisses all the way down to your cunt, spread open by the larger appendages coiled around your legs. You lift your head to watch him, and he keeps his half-lidded stare on you as the tip of a smaller tentacle swirls slowly around your clit. Another traces your dripping entrance.

A breathy sigh leaves you, your thighs tensing under his tentacles, but he holds firm.

“I am curious,” He starts, eyes locked on yours as he lays his chest flush to the mattress between your wrapped legs. He props himself up on his elbows, and brings a hand up to his hood to slowly pull it up halfway. His smaller tentacles part like curtains to reveal his mouth, and your eyes widen at the sight.

Your dreams had been scarily accurate, a taunting smile made up of rows of predator teeth. Razor sharp and killer. Concern and awe melded on your features, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide.

“Are you still afraid?”

He sticks out his tongue, and your face twitches as you watch it extend unnervingly far from his pointed teeth. The length and curl reminded you of another tentacle, but made of the flesh of tongue.

He dives his tongue up the slit of your cunt, a long deep stripe from hole to clit.

You let out a pathetic whine, your thighs begging to clench around him but tentacles forcing you spread. He hums, tongue sending the vibration straight to your pulsing clit.

He starts slow, tracing circles around you with his precise tongue.

Your hips grind into the pleasure, and he huffs in amusement at your eagerness. He lets his tongue unfurl, completely smothering your cunt with his slick tongue. He loosens his grip on your thighs just enough to allow you to get a better range to thrust into his face.

You give another whine when he stops teasing you, but continue to grind your clit against him in a desperate search for pleasure.

You give him a pleading look, mouth slightly parted for breathy exhales. He lets you grind long enough to embarrass you, waiting for the telling flush of your cheeks.

He finally pulls away with a long swipe along your cunt as you let out a sinful moan. The tip of his tongue returns to your aching clit, flicking side to side. He starts teasingly slow but hungrily picks up once he hears the hitched breaths you take.

You have to lay your head back to the mattress, closing your eyes as you give in to the pleasure.

He presses the tip of his tongue to your clit head on, pushing his tongue forward and letting it slither down your cunt. It curls around like a ribbon, the wide part of his tongue rolling down your clit as the tip curls back to your entrance, rimming your dripping hole. He teases you for a few moments before diving the tip of his tongue into your warmth, keeping the middle of his tongue pressed against your clit.

You let out a gasp as he enters you, and he gives a low pleased hum into your dripping cunt in return. His tongue slithers further into your warmth, the thick of his tongue continuing to graze your clit.

You start to grind down on him again but the tentacles around your legs climb further up your thighs, securing your hips as the ends continue spreading your cunt open for him. You give a whine, and he complies by pushing his tongue in and out of you, fucking you while stimulating your clit.

Your toes curl under his suckers and the moans are falling from your lips without thought as he tastes you.

When you tilt your head up to meet his eyes, cheeks flushed and breaths shallow, he’s eyeing you the same way he had eyed the meals you brought him. Free tentacles twitch in excitement as his hungry gaze follows his prey.

The corners of his mouth curl into a smile as he quickens the movement of his tongue, causing you to pull against the tentacles restraining your limbs, desperate moans leaving your parted lips.

He retracts his tongue, an arrogant laugh leaving him as he leaves your dripping cunt rutting into the air.

He licks another deep stripe against your entire cunt one more time, letting his nose swipe against your slit as he drags up. His eyes roll once he retracts his tongue again, a sinful moan leaving him.

“You taste so sweet, meine perle.”

You let out a whimper, rutting your hips in desperation at the sudden lack of touch. He gives another pleased hum as he sits up on the bed, eyeing you from above.

A free tentacle creeps between the mattress and your middle, and when you obediently arch your back he coils an additional appendage around your waist. He hauls you into the air with ease, the four tentacles on your limbs still spreading and supporting you. The tentacle on your injured hand, still less taut than his restraints, slithers up further to keep your wrist in-line with the rest of your arm in absence of the support of the mattress.

He puts you above his head, cunt resting just above his head. He tilts his neck back before burying his tongue back into your cunt while keeping you in the air above him.

A squeak leaves you as you tense against him, unnerved by the sensation of being suspended in the air. Your worry melts to pleasure as he fucks his tongue into you, his tentacle restraints bouncing you up and down in rhythm with his slick tongue.

The jostling and the tentacle coiled firmly around your ribs allows the moans and squeaks to leave you with ease, and he hums in satisfaction at the cute little noises you’re making for him.

He retracts his tongue again, letting his hood drop, and you look to him with pinched brows - as if offended he revoked your pleasure.

“I could eat this cunt everyday and not get tired of it.” He says, and even though you can’t see his mouth you can tell he’s wearing a cocky grin.

You let out a pathetic little whine, giving a weak tug against his restraint.

“Don’t worry,” He says, almost mockingly, before you feel a thick tentacle slither up to tease your cunt, a relieved whimper escaping you.

He uses his thick appendage to swirl around in the slippery mixture of your own arousal, his slick, and spit. He uses the smooth side of his tentacle, curling it against your slit as he moves your restraints, forcing you to grind your dripping cunt on his tentacle. Two more free tentacles slither up your chest, cupping your tits and teasing your nipples with the ends of his slick appendages. He continues grinding you against him as he lays the two tentacles over your tits, a sucker on each covering your nipple and applying suction. The stimulation makes you gasp and pull against his restraints, overwhelmed with him sucking both your nipples and forcing your clit to grind on his thick appendage at the same time. Your squeaky and broken moans echo throughout the motel room.

“I’m just getting started with you.” He says, low and dangerous, “Make sure to save some of those pathetic whines.”

The thick tentacle swirling your cunt teases your entrance before impatiently slipping into you.

You let out a pornographic moan as he plunges into you. You’re sure it was loud enough for the neighboring rooms to hear but being filled up by Konig’s tentacle felt too incredible for you to care. His slick tentacle was thicker than anything a human could offer, and his suckers allowed for a ribbed sensation as he fucked his appendage in and on of you. His dexterity allowed him to find your g-spot with ease, the end of his tentacle massaging it as he fucks in and out of you.

Your eyes close at the overwhelming pleasure, weak and limp as he puppets you up and down on his tentacle.

He’s using all of his tentacles on you now, and you’re helpless to stop him as he removes the appendage that secured your waist and coiled it around your neck, close enough to graze your flesh but not yet applying pressure. Your eyes open at the touch, half-lidded in pleasure as you find his glowing stare. Even through the overwhelming stimulation, it’s an unnerving feeling having him wrap around your neck, reminding you of his power. He could end your life, easily, and there would be nothing you could do to stop him.

He slithers further around your neck, and you can help but shiver under his threatening touch. He sees your brows pinch in worry and his eyes squint. While his hood obscures his mouth you’re guessing it’s twisted into a smile, as if he knows what you’re thinking and had planted the idea on purpose, reigniting your fears before you get too lost in the pleasure.

There’s a sinful glint in his eye, “Do you trust me, meine perle?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, his tentacle tightens around your neck, cutting off your moans with a harsh gasp.

Your eyes widen in fear, your fingers scratching the air instinctively as you wiggle in his grasp.

The tentacle fucking your tight cunt doesn’t let up. You’re left with your mouth open as you ride him, the moans that would be coming out silenced by his tight grip on your airway. The lack of oxygen allows a fuzzy haze to cloud your brain, and suddenly you’re not even thinking about the danger or the tentacles restraining and choking you. All you can think about is the sensation of your cunt being teased and fucked as your nipples are milked by his suckers. You let your body go limp in his grasp, no longer anxious for release. You’re still looking at him, but he’s getting farther and farther away, your vision blurring his bold silhouette.

He waits for your eyelids to unevenly flutter shut before he loosens his grip, keeping his tentacle looped around your neck like a scarf.

Your first sharp inhale is involuntary, followed by desperate sharp gasps for air. He continues pounding your cunt, his tentacle diving further into you, stretching you open as you return from your haze.

His smug snicker progresses to a deep hum of satisfaction.

He gives no warning before he cuts off your air again, watching as you fight against his restraints while managing the overstimulating pleasure.

“I like watching you struggle, meine perle.”

He takes a moment to look you over, watching you tense and feebly wriggle against his strong grip. He soaks in the look of concern and arousal on your features. You fade away quicker this time, eyes going cross as you zero in on the tentacle fucking your soaked cunt, suckers clinging to your walls as he massages your g-spot.

“I’d feel bad about it, but I know you like it too.”

He releases his grip on your neck, tentacle unfurling and leaving behind a necklace of clear slick and imprints of his suckers. You’re sputtering and coughing as he allows you breath, struggling to steady yourself as you’re bounced up and down on his thick tentacle.

Once you catch your breath you’re giving him breathy moans again, tensing beneath the tentacles on your limbs.

“Look how aroused you get when I threaten your life. This tight little cunt is so wet.”

One of the smaller tentacles that extends from under his hood runs circles on your pulsing clit. The tentacle that had retracted from your neck traces a line down your spine, stopping to rim your ass.

Your eyes widen at him as he slicks up the entrance of your hole. You’re nervous about anal, but you don’t find your voice to stop him. He slips a slick tip in, allowing you time to relaxing on just a few inches as he continues working the rest of you.

You were right about him being good at multitasking. It’s a lot to handle a once, your clit being teased, cunt pounded, nipples being sucked, and ass being stretched around the end of his appendage, all while being restrained and unable to relieve the tension building inside your body.

You’re lost to the stimulation, moans and expletives and sweet nothings pouring from your mouth in jumbles.

Konig’s enjoying the show, reveling that he’s made you come undone under his power. The mess he was making over you, covering you in his slick and getting you drunk off his touch.

A white heat steadily builds underneath your skin, pooling to your lower abdomen.

“Konig! It’s too much- it’s too much I’m gonna -"

“Come for me meine perle.”

The waves of pleasure rip through you, convulsing in his grip as you come. Konig doesn’t let up as he fucks you through orgasm. Mercilessly pounding your cunt with his thick tentacle while you clench at the intense euphoria.

“There you go, so good for me.”

You let out a strangled moan, hands searching for something to grab onto for stability but they come up empty, straining against his restraints while powerless to the pleasure.

“Konig - please.” You manage out between your broken moans and meaningless stuttering.

He gives another low hum of approval and he still doesn’t let up, the tentacles still working all your sensitivities.

“Not done with you yet, meine perle.” He warns, and you let out a whine in response.

You’re quivering in his touch now, futilely arching away from him, your pleasure turning to over-sensitivity.

“‘s too much.” You mutter out, shaking in his grip and too weak to escape his touch.

“I know, but you’re going to take it for me, aren’t you meine perle?”

You let out another whine in response, twitching at the stimulation that was turning nearly painful.

He offers some relief by removing the smaller tentacle from your clit, but he keeps the rhythm of both tentacles inside you, filling you up and forcing you to bounce on him. He continues teasing your nipples with his suckers, enjoying watching your back arch desperately as you squirm under the sensitivity.

You keep his gaze, teeth still grit at the overstimulation, eyes pleading.

He removes the tentacle from your cunt as he holds you steady, no longer bouncing you but still teasing your ass as he undoes his belt. He pulls it free with one firm tug, discarding it with the rest of your clothes.

His hands ease his zipper down and he takes his time, amused by your expression seeped in curiosity, desperation, and awe. He inches his pants down enough to expose his genitalia.

A fleshy appendage, a few inches longer than what a standard human male would have, springs to attention from the waistband of his clothes. The entire appendage was a uniform deep pink with no head. The shape reminded you of another tentacle, larger at the base and ending in a slick tip. Slight indents that ran up the sides of his shaft.

He lets you admire him for a few moments before he lines your used cunt with his appendage, plunging into you without mercy.

You let out a loud moan at being filled again, and he rock his hips, letting his appendage grind in you as you sit on his full length.

“Shh,” he whispers teasingly, “Don’t want anyone finding out how much of a desperate slut you are for me, hm?”

He brings the tentacle that had occupied your cunt up to your lips, and you obediently open your mouth to let his tentacle slip in, silencing you as you suck on the end, tasting the mixture of your arousal and his slick.

Your moans and whines are muffled by his tentacle as he pounds into you, his restraints moving you up and down in rhythm with his hips, meeting your hips in the middle as he fills you up.

He lets out a low growl that shoots a tingle of excitement down your spine.

“This pussy feels even better than I thought. So fucking tight, meine perle.” His pace quickens, now pounding ruthlessly into your soaked cunt.

His hands find your hips, fingers pressing into your skin as he guides you on his appendage. The tentacles supporting you allow you to lift almost all the way off him before forcing you down his entire length over and over again.

The moans are pouring from you again, but gagged by the appendage fucking your mouth - slick, arousal, and spit dripping down your chin.

When he pulls his appendage away from your cunt, the rest of thick tentacles still work your ass and nipples as he works to flip you over. He forces you into an all-fours position in front of him, letting you rest your forearms and knees on the duvet, his restraints staying firm on your limbs as he bends them into position as if you’re his doll.

You obediently arch your back and lower you head down on the mattress, sticking your ass into the air. He can see you spread open from behind, and he watches the tentacle work your tight little ass as he shifts to his knees behind you.

He gives you a firm smack on the ass with his hand, huffing in amusement at your shocked gasp around his tentacle gag. He gives you a few more, alternating cheeks as the sound of flesh on flesh echoes throughout the motel room.

He hums in amusement at the squeaks that come from your gagged mouth.

“Such a naughty perle,” He teases in his arrogant tone, “Always putting yourself in danger, hm?”

You whine, fingers clawing at the duvet as you brace yourself, flushing at the idea someone might hear your punishment.

He stops not long after, leaving behind his handprints on your flushed cheeks. He’s getting impatient, so when he lines his appendage back up with you he slides in without warning, hands finding your hips for grip as he slides in and out of you.

He’s too excited, he can’t refrain from letting his hips flush with your pink sore ass.

The tip of his appendage curls forward inside of you, massaging your g-spot as he fills you.

He doesn’t let up, keeping a steady rhythm with his hips and all of the tentacles working you. Your tits groped, nipples sucked by his tentacles, mouth and both holes filled and fucked - it’s overwhelming enough to make you go limp in his hold, not a single thought occupying you as you mindlessly work your tongue around the tentacle gagging your mouth. You’re too focused on the pleasure, how good it feels to be at his mercy.

“Watching you got me so excited, meine perle.” He says though heavy breaths, his grip tightening on your hips, “I’m already getting close.”

His thrusts get more intense, and you think you’d be yelling if you hadn’t been gagged. You probably wouldn’t have been able to warn him about your second finish even if you hadn’t been silenced, too cockdrunk off the overstimulation to properly string together a coherent sentence.

Your cunt clenches around him as another orgasm rips through you, causing your muscles to tense in his restraint.

He lets out a hearty moan, his thrusts becoming slightly uneven as he struggles to keep his composure in your tight walls.

He comes everywhere, his finish not only marking his claim deep in your cunt, but also from each of his tentacles, tips releasing his come into your ass and mouth while coating your tits and spread cunt.

He twitches inside you throughout his finish, fingers digging into your hips as he gives a few light thrusts, milking every drop of his finish into your filled cunt.

You’re still limp when he finally pulls away with a strained moan, his tentacles placing you down gentle on the mattress. You’re on cloud nine, too high from your finishes to be able to support yourself. You let the mattress support you, basking in the warmth of the afterglow, bliss settling over you as you recover.

He gives another hum of satisfaction at the sight, having completely unraveled you and marked you with his seed. He leans down to plant a kiss through his hood on your back, his hands giving a light squeeze on your hips as he props himself up next to you. He runs his fingers up and down your back, swirling through the clear slick his tentacles had left behind.

He lets you rest for a few moments, waiting for your breathing to settle before a tentacle gently drapes across you.

“How about we get you cleaned up, meine perle?”

You let out a dazed hum of approval, letting his tentacles coil around you to carry you to the shower. He presses you to his chest, your head resting against him as he cradles your back and the crease of your knees.

When your eyes flutter open, and you meet his glowing stare, your face stretches into a warm sleepy smile. He unwraps your bandages carefully, and he doesn’t let you lift a finger once you’re both in the cramped bathroom, standing outside of the tub as he scrubs you down. You exchange little words, both of you still basking in the afterglow.

He takes his time wiping the slick and come off your skin, easing around the flushed marks his suckers had left behind on you.

It’s soothing - the warm water embracing you, and Konig smoothing a washcloth over your skin. Intimate, even, how he’s washing your upper arms as he holds your hand with his free hand, watching you while you relax into the water. He’s extra gentle with your injured wrist as he cleans you.

He’s in no hurry as he cleans your middle and legs, enjoying the glisten of the water on your plush breasts and thighs. He thumbs the bubbles on your skin under his soft grip.

He even washes your hair, his large hands massaging your scalp as he runs the suds through. He’s careful not to get soap in your eyes when he rinses the bubbles from your hair, using a tentacle to shield your forehead as he guides your head back under the stream of the shower, disregarding the water spraying all off the motel bathroom floor.

He’s being so careful with you, so sweet and soft, it was a jarring contrast to the Konig that had been ruthlessly pounding you moments before or the Konig you’d come to know trapped in his cell.

Once you were all clean, he shut off the showers with its noisy clunk of old pipes, he was quick to wrap one of the motel towels around your dripping body before he carried you back to the beds. When he stilled you meet his eyes, resting your hand on his chest.

“Guess we’ll have to share a bed.” He says in his cocky tone as you follow his gaze to the mattress, thoroughly soiled and stained from your session.

You roll your eyes at him, giving a soft tap on his chest in your disapproval of his corny flirting, but the smile on your face betrays any hope of hiding your enamor.

His eyes squint from under his hood with a smile, you assume, as he carries you to the bed with his strong arms.

It’s not easy for a being with tentacles shooting from his spine to cuddle. He wasn’t designed for cozy naps and soft embraces, but he does what he can. He presses against the pillows sitting up, at an angle to leave space between the headboard and his back for his tentacles to settle. He nestles you at his side, keeping your head on his chest as your arm rests against over his core. Your leg props up on his as you rest the side of your body on the mattress.

His arm wraps snuggly around your back, fingers making soft circles at your curve.

You’re already halfway to sleeps clutches when you mumble into his chest.

“Thank you, Konig.”

“Thank you, meine perle.”

———————————————————-

If you enjoyed this fic, you may enjoy…

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN - Loser!Konig x Reader - Konig & Reader must compete in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death. (122k word slow burn)

Original Works Masterlist

9K notes · View notes

mahalachives · 4 days ago

Text

Part 9: The Rise of the High Lady of Autumn

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

The wind rushed past, cold against your tear-streaked face as Azriel's wings cut through darkness. His arms formed an unbreakable cage around you, keeping you pressed against the steady beat of his heart.

Below, the world stretched in shadow-painted patches: forests giving way to hills, plains to mountains, all rushing by as he flew with desperate speed.

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Eris was captured. Your safe haven in Dawn Court had crumbled in moments.

"It's my fault," you whispered, the words torn away by wind. "Beron wants me."

Azriel's arms tightened fractionally. "No." The word vibrated through his chest, against your cheek. "Beron sealed his fate the moment he betrayed you. What happens now was always coming."

The charm between your bodies pulsed with shared warmth, fire and shadow interwoven. It offered comfort where words failed, a silent promise that transcended the chaos below.

When the most imposing mountain range you'd ever seen loomed ahead, Azriel banked sharply.

You closed your eyes against vertigo, burying your face in his leathers. He smelled of night-chilled stone and cedar, of safety and danger in equal measure.

"Look," he commanded softly, his breath warm against your ear.

You opened your eyes.

And there it was.

Velaris. The City of Starlight.

Nestled between mountains and sea, it glowed with a light that owed nothing to the sun. Instead, thousands of lamps, pearl and gold and silver, cast their glow across buildings that somehow managed to be both ancient and alive.

A river cut through its heart, midnight blue and glittering with reflected stars. Bridges arched gracefully across the water, each one uniquely beautiful.

In this moment, suspended between sky and earth, you understood something profound: beauty could exist alongside terror. Light could persist through darkness. Perhaps this was what the bond had been trying to teach you all along.

"Home," Azriel offered, the word rife with meaning.

It wasn't a demand or expectation, merely an invitation. A possibility.

He circled lower, wings extended to catch thermal currents as he guided you toward a house built into the side of a mountain.

A balcony extended outward like an offering hand, glowing with warm light that spilled from tall windows.

"The House of Wind," he explained. "Where the Inner Circle gathers."

The mention of his family sent anxiety coiling through you. The bond reacted instantly, tightening between you as golden light briefly illuminated your joined bodies.

Azriel landed with practiced precision, wings folding with mechanical efficiency as he set you carefully on your feet. Your legs wobbled, unaccustomed to solid ground after hours of flight.

His scarred hand steadied you, the touch brief but grounding.

His eyes, normally warm when they looked at you, turned to ice as they shifted toward the waiting figures. "They're here."

The glass doors opened. A male of such devastating beauty it seemed almost cruel stepped onto the balcony. Violet eyes flickered between you and Azriel, noting the proximity, the lingering touch.

Rhysand's power rolling off him in midnight waves, stars glittering within that darkness like predator eyes. Yet there was wisdom there too, ancient and considering.

"Az," he greeted, voice cultured and carefully neutral. "I see your mission was successful."

Something in his tone made your spine stiffen.

Not hostile, precisely, but measured. Assessing.

"High Lord," you responded before Azriel could speak, straightening to your full height despite your exhaustion. "Thank you for your hospitality."

Rhysand's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across those perfect features. "Lady of Autumn. Welcome to Velaris."

Behind him, others appeared. Feyre and beside her, Cassian, his wings tucked loosely against his broad back.

And then, a golden-haired female, beautiful in ways that transcended conventional prettiness. Her eyes assessed you with such cold hostility it felt like a physical blow.

Morrigan. The cousin who had once been promised to Eris in marriage, before he'd left her bleeding at the border between their courts.

Your brother's victim.

The air thickened with tension as her gaze slid from you to Azriel, noting how he'd positioned himself half a step ahead of you, wings still partially extended in unconscious protection.

"What is she doing here?" Mor demanded, voice sharp enough to cut. "We discussed this, Rhys."

Rhysand's expression tightened fractionally. "Mor..."

"No," she interrupted, her beautiful face contorted with a fury that seemed to transform her from within. "This is Velaris. Our sanctuary. Our home. And you bring Autumn Court royalty here?"

Azriel didn't speak. Didn't warn.

His shadows simply expanded, darkness slithering across the balcony floor toward Mor like living things with purpose, with intent. The temperature plummeted so rapidly that frost crystals formed on the railing beside you.

"Az," Cassian said, voice low with warning.

Azriel's face remained perfectly expressionless, but his shadows darkened, swallowing nearby lamps with cold precision. When he finally spoke, his voice carried none of the gentle cadence he'd used with you. Each word fell like a shard of ice.

"She is under my protection."

Four words. Simple. Final.

Mor's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "We're talking about Beron's daughter. Eris's sister. Have you forgotten..."

"I forget nothing." Azriel's interruption was soft yet somehow more threatening than any shout. His shadows coiled tighter, their edges hardening into something closer to blades than mist. "Nor do I need reminding of my own experiences, Morrigan."

The use of her full name, not the casual "Mor" of five centuries' friendship, fell like a blow between them. Something fractured in the air, invisible yet undeniable.

The bond between you flared in response to the building tension, golden light not just briefly visible beneath your skin but radiating actual warmth that pushed back against the frost his shadows had created. It was like standing in a ray of winter sunlight, your joined magics creating a balance neither could achieve alone.

"I don't expect welcome," you said quietly, meeting Mor's hostile gaze despite the instinct to retreat. "Only temporary sanctuary."

"Well, you won't find it here," Morrigan replied, her voice cold as Winter Court frost. "Not as long as I have any say."

Feyre stepped forward, diplomatic mask firmly in place. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion inside. Our guest has traveled far under difficult circumstances."

"Our guest," Morrigan repeated with venomous emphasis, "shouldn't be here at all."

The charm against your chest burned painfully hot as Azriel moved, not toward Mor but toward you. His body shifted until he stood between you and the others, a physical barrier of muscle and wings and shadow.

"She is my mate," he said, each word precise as a blade strike. "That should be enough for you, for all of you."

The declaration fell into stunned silence. Even Rhysand seemed momentarily at a loss for words. His violet eyes widened fractionally, power momentarily faltering around him as the implications registered.

In that silence, you felt something shift within the shadowsinger beside you. A weight lifting, perhaps.

"Mate or not," Mor said, recovering first, "she's still Beron's daughter. Still Eris's sister. Or have you forgotten what Autumn Court nobility is capable of?"

Azriel didn't turn to face her, his body remaining a shield between you and the others. His wings flared slightly, an unconscious display of aggression that made even Cassian's hand drift toward his weapon.

"You know nothing about her," he said, voice midnight given sound. "Nothing about what she's endured or survived."

Cassian shifted uncomfortably, the movement drawing your eye. The general's expression held none of Mor's hostility. Instead, he watched the exchange with something approaching concern, recognition flickering in his eyes.

"Az," Cassian said quietly, "maybe now isn't the time..."

"There is no better time," Azriel cut him off, his normally controlled voice edged with emotion. "Before assumptions become actions."

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your shoulders, sensing your distress. Their tiny flame forms brightened defensively, casting warm, pink light across Azriel's shadowed wings.

In their appearance, you understood something about magic you hadn't before. It answered to emotion as much as to will. Perhaps that was why the bond had formed in the first place, answering to something beyond conscious choice.

Rhysand's expression shifted subtly as he studied you with renewed interest.

Feyre moved closer to her mate, her own gaze thoughtful. She slipped her hand into Rhysand's, a silent communication passing between them. As High Lady, she would understand better than anyone what it meant to be bonded to a powerful male, to have that bond form against all expectations.

"She can't stay here," Morrigan insisted, crossing her arms. "I won't have it."

Something cold and resolute settled in your chest.

The truth was simple. You didn't belong here. You couldn't heal in a place where your very presence caused others pain.

"She's right," you said, the words falling into sudden silence. "I shouldn't be here."

Azriel turned to you then, shock evident in his expression, his shadows momentarily dispersing with his surprise. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I won't stay where I'm not wanted," you replied, voice steady despite the pain radiating through the bond.

"Where would you go?" Feyre asked, genuine concern in her voice. She, of all of them, had once been the outsider, the human in a world of immortals.

"Somewhere else," you answered simply. "Somewhere new."

"Alone?" Cassian's brow furrowed.

"If necessary." You lifted your chin, refusing to bend beneath the weight of Morrigan's hatred. "I've survived worse."

Azriel's shadows exploded outward, dark tendrils lashing the night air. The temperature on the balcony plummeted until breath fogged before faces. Even Rhysand took an involuntary step back, momentarily stunned by the ferocity of Azriel's reaction.

"You won't go alone," he growled, the words vibrating with conviction. "Wherever you go, I go."

The declaration stunned everyone into silence. Even Mor's hostility faltered, replaced by disbelief.

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. The bond between you blazed golden-bright beneath your skin, responding to the absoluteness of his choice. Through that connection, you felt what he felt, centuries of isolation crashing against the terrifying freedom of choice. Five hundred years of darkness giving way to a light he'd never believed himself worthy of claiming.

A choice made not out of duty or obligation, but something infinitely rarer. Free will.

"Az," Rhysand began carefully, "think about what you're saying."

But there was something beyond caution in Rhysand's voice now, something like understanding. His gaze flickered to Feyre, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. He, too, had once chosen his mate over everything else.

Azriel turned to face his High Lord fully, his body shifting to stand beside you, equals, not protector and protected.

"I have thought," Azriel replied, his voice colder than you had ever heard it. Gone was the shadowsinger who had flown with you through the night. In his place stood a warrior hewn from winter frost and ancient darkness. "For five centuries, I've served the Night Court. I've spilled blood and shadow without complaint or hesitation."

His wings snapped fully open, an intimidation display that made even Cassian take an instinctive step back. His shadows formed patterns of such complexity and rage that they hurt the eye to follow.

"But I tell you now, clearly, so there can be no misunderstanding." His gaze swept the gathered circle, lingering longest on Mor. "If the choice is between my mate and my court, I choose her. Every time. Without hesitation or regret."

The words fell like a thunderclap. Mor's face drained of color. Rhysand's expression remained carefully controlled, but something like pain flickered in those violet eyes, the understanding of a High Lord who might lose not just his spymaster but his brother.

Your body went completely still, breath caught in your lungs. Five centuries of brotherhood. Five centuries of loyalty. Five centuries of shared battles and blood and nightmares. And he would walk away from it all, for you.

The bond between you vibrated with the magnitude of his choice, golden light spilling from beneath your skin, illuminating the night around you both. It wasn't just light; it was truth made visible. Undeniable. Absolute. The warmth it generated seemed to push back against the chill, creating a pocket of heat around you both, as if the magic itself rebelled against the coldness of potential separation.

"No one is asking you to choose, brother," Rhysand said, voice deceptively calm despite the power now coiling around him like a storm waiting to break. His eyes, though, betrayed deeper emotion, the memory of his own sacrifice for Feyre shadowing his features. "There are other solutions. We can find another place within Night Court territory..."

"No," you interrupted, your decision solidifying with each passing moment. "This is your sanctuary. Your safe place." Your eyes met Mor's, acknowledging her pain without minimizing it. "Some wounds can't heal in the presence of what caused them. I understand that better than most."

"You don't have to leave," Feyre insisted, stepping forward. "Mor doesn't speak for all of us." She, perhaps alone among them, fully understood what it meant to be separated from a mate.

"But she speaks truth," you replied. "And I respect that more than false welcome."

You looked at Azriel, heart pounding against your ribs. "You don't have to come with me. This is your family. Your home."

Azriel's scarred hand found yours, cool fingers slipping between your warm ones with careful deliberation. "You are my home now," he said simply.

Through the bond, his emotions crashed into you, raw and unfettered: centuries of silent longing, of watching others find connection while he remained in darkness. The terrible, wonderful freedom of finally choosing something for himself. The fear of unknown pathways balanced against the certainty of what he'd found in you.

Not out of obligation. Not out of duty. But out of choice.

Cassian moved forward, genuine alarm in his features. "Az, think about this. Five centuries together. We're brothers."

Azriel's gaze shifted to Cassian, something almost like regret flickering briefly in those hazel depths before ice reclaimed them. "And brothers understand when one must follow his own path," he replied, though the slight roughness in his voice betrayed the cost of his choice. "This isn't goodbye, Cassian. Just... a different road."

"Where will you go?" Rhysand asked, power now visibly swirling around him, tiny stars coalescing and fading within the darkness that clung to his skin.

"West," Azriel answered after a moment. "Beyond Prythian's borders. Beyond the reach of courts and politics."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with finality. Rhysand's face remained impassive, but his eyes, those star-flecked violet eyes, revealed the depth of his shock. Centuries of brotherhood, of shared battles and blood and loyalty, suspended in this single, fragile moment.

"I won't command you to stay," Rhysand finally said, each word weighed and measured. "I never would. But I ask you, as your High Lord and your friend, to reconsider."

Though his tone remained controlled, Rhysand's power betrayed his turmoil, stars burning brighter, darkness swirling more intensely. He understood the choice Azriel faced, had made similar sacrifices himself, yet still struggled with the reality of losing his shadowsinger.

Azriel's expression remained coldly resolute,"I've made my choice, Rhys. As you once made yours for Feyre."

The comparison wasn't lost on any of them. Rhysand had once risked everything, including his own life, for his mate. The parallel hung between them, uncomfortable but undeniable.

Morrigan stepped forward, her earlier hostility tempered by dawning realization. "You would really leave? For her?"

"Not just for her," Azriel corrected quietly, his shadows calming as they settled around you both. "For myself as well. For what we might become together, without the weight of past sins and obligations."

The admission stole your breath. This wasn't just about protection or duty. This was about something far more profound, a future neither of you had dared imagine possible. The knowledge of it settled in your chest like a stone, heavy with potential and terror in equal measure.

"At least wait until morning," Feyre urged. "Rest. Eat. Make this decision with clear heads."

Before you could answer, a sudden tug pulled at your awareness, a sensation like blood calling to blood. Your head snapped toward the city streets below, an instinct more primal than thought drawing your attention.

Chaos erupted below a heartbeat later. Shouting rose from the streets of Velaris, the sounds of panic reaching even the lofty heights of the House of Wind.

Rhysand was at the balcony's edge in an instant, power rolling off him in midnight waves as he scanned the city below. Cassian and Feyre flanked him, their own magic rising in response to potential threat.

"What is it?" Morrigan asked, moving forward despite her earlier hostility.

"Something's wrong," you whispered, the familial connection pulling at you with increasing urgency. "Someone's here. Someone of my blood."

Azriel's shadows stretched outward, tasting the air, gathering information beyond normal senses. His expression shifted from confusion to grim determination as they confirmed what your blood already knew.

"Lucien," he said, shadows confirming what his eyes could now see. "He's wounded."

You pushed past him to the balcony's edge, eyes straining to see through darkness.

There, in the street below, stood your brother. His clothing was torn and bloody, his hair matted with what could only be more blood. But he was alive, standing proud despite obvious injury.

"Lucien," you whispered, relief and fear warring within you.

Azriel's hand found yours, scarred fingers twining with your own. "I'll take you to him," he said, voice rough with shared concern.

As he gathered you in his arms and launched from the balcony, you caught a glimpse of the Inner Circle's faces, shock, concern, and in Mor's expression, something complicated that couldn't quite eclipse her earlier rejection.

The shadowsinger carried you down toward your brother with swift purpose, his wings creating eddies in the night air.

Landing lightly beside Lucien, Azriel set you carefully on your feet. Your knees nearly buckled as you took in the full extent of your brother's injuries, a deep gash across his forehead, burns along his arms, a limp that spoke of damage to his right leg.

"What happened?" you demanded, moving to your brother's side. "Where's Eris?"

Lucien's mismatched eyes were haunted, the mechanical one whirring erratically. "I couldn't get to him in time," he said, voice ragged with exhaustion and grief. "Beron caught him organizing the rebellion. He..." Lucien's voice broke. "He's torturing him. Using him as an example."

Horror flooded through you, cold and paralyzing. "No," you whispered. "No, no, no..."

"I tried," Lucien continued, the words tearing from his throat. "Mother above, I tried to reach him. But Beron's guards were everywhere. I barely escaped with my life."

Cassian landed beside you, having followed from the House of Wind. His face hardened as he took in Lucien's condition and his news.

"We need to get you to a healer," Cassian said, military precision taking over. "Then we plan our next move."

"There is no next move," Lucien replied, his voice hollow. "Beron has sealed the borders of Autumn Court. Every entry point is guarded by his elite. He's sent a message to all High Lords, any interference will be considered an act of war."

"And the rebellion?" Azriel asked quietly.

"Still fighting," Lucien confirmed, though his expression held little hope. "But with Eris captured... their leadership is in chaos. Beron is systematically hunting down anyone connected to the resistance."

The implications settled over you like a physical weight. Eris, your eldest brother who had risked everything to help you escape, was now paying the price for his defiance. The brother who had always seemed so untouchable, so invulnerable, was at Beron's mercy.

And Beron had none.

"We have to do something," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "We can't just leave him there."

Azriel's shadows coiled tighter around you, as if trying to shield you from a truth too painful to bear. "We won't abandon him," he promised, the gentleness in his voice a stark contrast to the coldness he'd shown his Inner Circle moments before. "I promise you that."

"But we need a plan," Cassian added, his battle-trained mind already working through scenarios. "Not a suicide mission."

You glanced back at the House of Wind, where Rhysand and Feyre still watched from the balcony. Morrigan had disappeared back inside.

"We still need to leave," you said quietly to Azriel. "But not until we've done everything possible for Eris."

"We'll find a way," Azriel agreed, his shadows swirling protectively around both you and Lucien. "Then we go."

Lucien's gaze shifted between you and Azriel, confusion evident in his mismatched eyes. "Go? Go where?"

"Somewhere new," you said simply. "The Night Court isn't the right place for me. For us."

Understanding dawned in Lucien's tired face. "Mor," he guessed, accurately reading the situation. "She's still blinded by the past."

"She has reason," you acknowledged, refusing to villainize someone whose pain was so clearly genuine. "And I won't heal in a place where my presence causes others to suffer."

Lucien's gaze shifted to Azriel, assessment clear in that mechanical eye. "And you? You would leave everything for my sister? Your court? Your High Lord? The family you've served for centuries?"

Azriel's expression remained neutral, but his shadows curled possessively around your joined hands. "I would."

The words shimmered between you, a truth so profound it left you breathless. The realization of what this male was offering, not just protection, not just loyalty, but a future built on mutual choice rather than obligation or duty, made your heart pound against your ribs.

"We stay until we've done everything we can for Eris," you said, your decision made. "Then we find our own path."

Lucien nodded slowly, acceptance settling in his weary features. "I understand. More than most."

The healing center of Velaris melded practicality with comfort in ways that spoke to the Night Court's character. Stone walls, softened by tapestries in deep midnight blue, captured and reflected the perpetual night of the city. Windows stood open to the cool air, carrying the distant hum of city life and the faint scent of salt from the nearby sea. Rooms glowed with starlight captured in floating glass orbs, their light gentle enough for healing but bright enough for precision work.

The air carried the distinctive scent of healing herbs: night jasmine to induce restful sleep, crushed moonberries for pain, and the sharp tang of wintermint for clarity of mind. Beneath it all lingered the subtle sweetness of healing magic itself, like honey dissolved in water.

Healers, quiet and efficient in midnight-blue robes embroidered with silver stars, had immediately taken charge of Lucien, guiding him to a treatment room where they now worked on his injuries with methodical precision. Their hands moved with the confidence of those who had mended far worse wounds than his.

You waited outside, pacing the smooth stone floor. Each step echoed softly in the quiet corridor, marking time like a heartbeat. Azriel stood motionless by the window, his shadows stretching periodically down the hallway, gathering information, monitoring for threats. His stillness made your restlessness all the more pronounced.

The door at the end of the hallway opened, admitting a slender female you had seen.

Elain Archeron.

"Where is he?" she asked, voice melodic yet urgent. "Is he..."

"He's being treated now," you answered, instinctively stepping forward.

Elain. Lucien's mate.

The female whose face appeared in his rare, unguarded moments, whose name he sometimes spoke in his sleep. The female who had sent warning, created diversion, saved Lucien's life.

Azriel's shadows maintained their steady patrol, neither reacting to her presence nor acknowledging any shared history. His face remained calm, completely unperturbed, as if greeting a casual acquaintance rather than someone with whom he might have once shared deeper connection.

"You helped him escape," you said softly to Elain.

Elain's gaze finally focused on you fully, wariness evident in her posture. Her fingers twisted a small silver ring with nervous energy. "You're his sister. The Lady of Autumn."

"Just his sister," you corrected automatically. "Nothing else matters right now."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing you with unexpected sharpness. Then, apparently satisfied with whatever she saw, she nodded once. "He called for you. In my visions. Before they happened."

The words sent a shiver down your spine. "Visions?"

"I'm a Seer," she explained simply, no pride or apology in the statement. Just fact. "I See what's coming. Sometimes. Not always clearly. Not always in time." Her gaze drifted to the treatment room door, guilt shadowing her features. "Not soon enough for Eris."

Azriel's shadows curled inward at the mention of Eris, growing denser, almost defensive. "You did what you could," he said.

Elain looked at him fully for the first time, her expression complicated. "Az," she acknowledged, something like resignation briefly crossing her features at his professional demeanor.

Before any of you could say more, the treatment room door opened. A healer stepped out, bowing formally to Elain.

"He's asking for you," she said simply, stepping aside.

Elain moved forward, then hesitated, glancing back at you. "Will you come? He needs his family too."

The unexpected inclusion startled you. You looked to Azriel, whose shadows had gone utterly still, as if holding their breath. He nodded once, a tiny movement that nonetheless conveyed complete support for whatever you chose.

"Of course," you said, stepping forward to follow Elain into the room.

Lucien lay on a bed of midnight blue, his injuries already partially healed. The gash on his forehead had closed, leaving behind a thin red line that would fade to silver. The burns on his arms were covered in a translucent green salve that smelled of mint and something sweeter, like crushed berries. His mechanical eye had been removed for repair, the empty socket covered with a patch of dark silk.

His remaining eye widened at the sight of you and Elain together. Surprise, then something like wonder, crossed his features. Beneath it, you caught the flash of vulnerability, the momentary disbelief that his mate and his sister would stand together at his bedside.

"My two guardian angels," he said, voice rough with exhaustion but touched with genuine amusement. "Come to ensure I don't slip away?"

Elain moved to his bedside without hesitation, her hand finding his with practiced familiarity. The moment they touched, a barely perceptible sigh escaped him, his body relaxing as if a hidden tension had finally released. "You're not going anywhere," she said, the dreamy quality entirely gone from her voice. In its place was steel, determination, a will that seemed at odds with her delicate appearance.

His eye never left her face, drinking in her presence as if storing it against future drought. The nakedness of his need was almost painful to witness, a male so thoroughly claimed by the mating bond that even the presence of others couldn't mask it.

You approached from the other side, relief making your movements unsteady. "The healers say you'll recover fully."

"They always say that," Lucien replied with a weak smile, finally tearing his gaze from Elain. "Makes the patients feel better." His gaze shifted to Azriel, who had remained by the door, shadows wrapped tight around him. "They're treating me better than I expected, Shadowsinger. Your doing?"

Azriel's face revealed nothing, but his shadows briefly formed a pattern that might have been confirmation. "The Night Court respects loyalty to family," he said quietly. "Even when that family belongs to Autumn."

Lucien's eye narrowed, studying Azriel with unnerving intensity. The mechanical gold eye, temporarily removed, would have been whirring with calculation.

Lucien's expression sobered. "We need to act quickly. Beron won't keep him alive indefinitely."

"We need a plan," you agreed, anxiety clenching your stomach at the thought of Eris in Beron's clutches. The bond with Azriel flared briefly, responding to your distress with golden warmth that pushed back against the cold fear. "A way to reach him."

"I can help with that," Elain said, her dreamy voice returning, eyes going slightly unfocused. "I've Seen a path. Through shadows and flame. A way beneath mountains where guards don't look."

Azriel straightened, interest sharpening his features. "What did you See, exactly?"

Elain's gaze turned inward, focusing on something none of you could perceive. "A tunnel. Ancient. Forgotten. It runs beneath the border mountains between Night and Autumn. It emerges in a grove where the trees burn eternally without being consumed."

Recognition flashed across Lucien's face. "The Sacred Grove. It's less than a mile from the Autumn Court palace."

"How did you know about this tunnel?" Azriel asked Elain, his voice remaining professionally curious rather than personally invested.

Elain's eyes refocused, meeting his with unexpected directness. "I Saw it after you left the House of Wind. When I knew what you'd chosen." She shrugged lightly, acceptance rather than hurt shaping her features. "The Cauldron shows me what's needed, Az. Not what's wanted."

The atmosphere remained calm, without the charged tension of unresolved feelings. Azriel's shadows continued their steady vigilance, neither reaching for Elain nor recoiling from her. Whatever history lay between them seemed settled, at least on his part.

Lucien watched this exchange with careful neutrality, though his fingers tightened slightly around Elain's. The movement was subtle, possessive yet insecure. A male who had found his mate but still feared losing her, even to a male who clearly had no interest.

"This tunnel," you interjected, "can it get us to Eris?"

"Yes," Elain said, attention returning to you. "But not all of us. Two, at most. More would draw attention."

"I'll go," Azriel said immediately, shadows coiling with deadly purpose.

"Me too," you added, the decision requiring no thought. "He's my brother."

"You can't," Lucien protested, struggling to sit up. "Beron wants you most of all. If he captures you..."

"He won't," Azriel interrupted, his voice midnight-cold and absolute. "I won't allow it."

The conviction in his voice silenced Lucien's objections. The scarred male exchanged a long look with Elain, some silent communication passing between them.

"When?" you asked.

"Tomorrow night," Elain answered, certainty in her voice. "When the moon is highest. The guards change shifts. There's a gap in their rotation, seven minutes when the eastern dungeon corridor is unwatched."

"How do you know that?" Azriel asked, shadows stretching toward her as if testing the truth of her words.

"I Saw it," she replied simply.

The finality in her voice sent a chill down your spine. Azriel's shadows recoiled slightly, then settled into watchful stillness.

"Then we leave tomorrow night," you said, decision made. "And afterward..."

"You go your own way," Elain finished for you, no judgment in her tone. "West, beyond Prythian's borders."

Lucien's eye widened, realization dawning. "You're leaving the Night Court?"

"I'm not welcome here," you said simply.

The bond's golden light briefly shimmered beneath your skin as you spoke, carrying warmth and certainty despite the unknown path ahead. In that moment, you realized that "home" was no longer a place for you, but a connection. A bond not forced by fate but chosen in defiance of it.

"And I go where she goes," Azriel added, voice softening when he looked at you despite the distance he maintained from the others.

A complicated series of emotions crossed Lucien's face. "I understand," he finally said, gaze lingering on Elain. "Sometimes the place you're meant to be isn't where others think you belong."

Elain's hand tightened on his, an unspoken acknowledgment of his words. "I'll draw you a map," she said to Azriel. "Of what I've Seen. The tunnel entrance, the guards' positions, the cell where they're keeping Eris."

Azriel nodded, gratitude softening his severe features. "Thank you, Elain."

She met his gaze directly, simple kindness in her eyes. "Be happy, Az," she said quietly. "That's all any of us ever wanted for you."

The words struck him visibly, shadows briefly dispersing in surprise before gathering closer than before. He didn't respond, but his eyes flickered to you before returning to her, answer enough.

The bond burned beneath your skin, molten gold tracing veins of fire through your borrowed body as you walked the streets of Velaris.

Each pulse echoed the question that had haunted you since waking in this world. Which life is truly mine?

The Night Court's famed city of starlight unfurled around you in painful, breathtaking beauty. Artists captured moonlight on canvas beneath silver-starred streetlamps. Music spilled from taverns like liquid joy, mingling with laughter and the scent of cinnamon and sea salt. Couples strolled arm-in-arm, their faces illuminated by faelights hovering like captured stars.

Too beautiful. Too perfect. A dream you'd never dared imagine.

"Are you cold?" Azriel's voice slipped through your thoughts, quiet as shadow. He walked beside you, wings tucked tight, shoulders angled to shield you from curious stares without touching you.

You shook your head, not trusting your voice. The golden thread of the bond twisted tighter as another wave of panic crashed through you.

Eris in chains. Lucien fighting alone. Beron's flames consuming all you'd begun to care for.

Azriel's shadows reached toward you before retreating at your rigid posture. You pretended not to notice the hurt that flashed across his face when you stepped further away.

"Just ahead," he said, gesturing toward a townhouse nestled between two larger buildings. Three stories of pale stone with midnight-blue shutters, a small balcony dripping with night-blooming jasmine. "Rhys and Feyre arranged it. Privacy until..."

He didn't finish. Until you left. Until he abandoned everything for you. Until you made choices that would shatter one world or another.

You nodded and walked ahead, climbing the few steps without waiting. The scent of jasmine clung to your clothes as you passed beneath the flowering vines, sweet and foreign and heartbreaking.

Inside, the townhouse breathed quiet elegance—plush furniture in midnight blues and silvers, windows strategically placed to capture moonlight, walls adorned with paintings of star-strewn skies. A fire burned in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the polished wood floor.

Too much. Too real.

The flames reminded you of Eris. Of his face when he'd declared rebellion against Beron. Of what your father must be doing to him now.

Not your father, you reminded yourself. Not your blood. Not your world.

Azriel stood in the doorway, shadows darker than the night outside wreathing his powerful frame. His face remained carefully blank, but his shadows betrayed him, curling into agitated patterns that revealed his concern.

"There are two bedrooms upstairs," he said, voice carefully neutral despite the golden light flickering beneath his skin whenever the bond pulsed. "You can choose whichever you prefer."

You moved toward the stairs without answering. Each step felt like wading through water, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and fear.

At the landing, you paused, throat tight with words you couldn't say.

Don't throw your life away for me. Don't sacrifice everything for someone who doesn't belong here. Don't care for me—please, don't care.

"I need to rest," you managed, the words hollow.

"Of course." The shadows around him shuddered with something like despair.

You turned away, entering the nearest bedroom and closing the door with a soft click that somehow felt deafening in the silence.

Alone at last, you sagged against the door, sliding to the floor as exhaustion claimed you. Ember and Sizzle materialized in twin pops of flame, immediately nuzzling against your trembling hands.

"What am I doing?" you whispered, voice breaking. "He's giving up everything for someone who can't stay. Someone with a body lying in a hospital across worlds, family keeping vigil, machines beeping out the rhythm of a life half-lived."

The flame bunnies chirped softly, climbing into your lap, their tiny warmth both comfort and burden. Hadn't they, too, become real? Hadn't this body, this magic, this life begun to feel more substantial than the ghostly memories of a human existence?

You pushed yourself up and crossed to the bed, not bothering to change out of travel-worn clothes. Sleep claimed you almost instantly, dragging you into dreams of hospitals and beeping monitors and sobbing aunts who had long since given up hope.

You woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding against your ribs with enough force to hurt. In your dream, Eris had been screaming your name as Beron's flames consumed him, the scent of burning flesh so vivid you gagged.

The room was pitch black, moonlight long since faded. The city below slumbered, only occasional lights visible in distant windows.

Decision crystallized in your chest, cold and final. You couldn't wait until tomorrow. Not with Eris suffering at Beron's hands. Not with Azriel preparing to throw away five centuries of brotherhood, of family, of purpose—for a female he barely knew.

For an imposter in a body not her own.

You dressed silently, strapping on the knife Lucien had pressed into your hands before you'd left the healing center. The blade thrummed with old magic, protection spells etched into its hilt.

Ember and Sizzle watched from the bed, unusually still, their tiny flame ears laid flat against their heads.

"Stay with him," you whispered. "I need to do this alone."

Your palm curled around the silver charm Azriel had given you.

Break it and I'll come to you, across any distance.

You removed it carefully, placing it on the bedside table. You wouldn't drag him into this. Wouldn't be responsible for another sacrifice.

You eased the door open, heart in your throat, and nearly collapsed at the sight that greeted you.

Azriel.

Sitting on the floor outside your room, back against the wall. His magnificent wings were folded tight against his spine, shadows wrapped around him like a living blanket against the chill.

Not sleeping—you doubted he ever truly slept—but guarding.

Waiting.

His head snapped up at your appearance, and the naked emotion in his eyes stole your breath.

Concern, yes, but something deeper. Something that made the bond sing gold and fire between you.

Shadows writhed around him, betraying his agitation even as his face remained carefully neutral. Several tendrils reached toward you before he called them back with visible effort.

"You're leaving." Not a question. His voice, velvet darkness wrapped around steel, betrayed nothing of his feelings.

"I have to try," you admitted, unable to lie to that piercing gaze. "For Eris."

"Alone?" The word carried more emotion than any outburst could have.

"Yes." You moved to step around him, refusing to acknowledge how the bond screamed against the distance you insisted on maintaining.

Azriel rose in a single fluid motion that reminded you what he was—warrior, predator, death on silent wings. He blocked your path without touching you, his body a wall of night and shadow.

"You'll die," he said. The starkness of it, the absolute certainty, sent ice down your spine.

"Better me than him." You straightened, meeting his gaze despite the effort it cost. "Better me than you."

Something fierce flashed across his face, breaking through that careful mask of control. "That's not your choice to make."

"And throwing away your life for mine isn't yours," you countered, frustration finally cracking your careful indifference. "Five centuries with the Night Court, with family who loves you, and you'd walk away for what? A broken bond with someone who isn't even supposed to be here?"

His expression shifted, surprise briefly visible before his shadows receded slightly.

"Is that what this is about?" The gentleness in his voice threatened to shatter you. "You think I don't know what I'm choosing?"

"I think you're making a sacrifice you'll regret for the rest of your immortal life," you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze despite the pain it caused. "And I can't let you do that."

"Let me?" A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained grave. "I've been making my own choices for five hundred years."

The words sent heat curling through your veins, unwelcome and undeniable. The bond flared in response, golden light briefly visible beneath your skin, beneath his, a betrayal of bodies despite minds' protestations.

"Come downstairs," he said, soft as night breeze. "Please. Before we both do something we'll regret."

The request was reasonable enough that you found yourself nodding, following him to the small sitting room on the main floor.

Shadows settled into corners as you both sat on the same couch, a careful distance between you that somehow felt both too great and not nearly enough.

The silence stretched, alive with all you couldn't say.

"Why have you been shutting me out?" he finally asked, directness catching you off-guard.

You stared at your hands, at the borrowed skin with its too-smooth texture, its too-perfect nails, its too-bright veins of gold that danced beneath the surface like trapped sunlight.

"Because this isn't real," you whispered. "None of it."

"It feels real to me," he replied, the simplicity of it cutting deeper than arguments ever could.

"It's not," you insisted, looking up at last. "This bond, this world, this body—none of it belongs to me. And I can't... I can't let you destroy your life for an illusion."

His scarred hand moved slightly closer, not quite touching yours. Even that small movement sent the bond into a frenzy of golden heat beneath your skin.

"What if it's not an illusion?" he asked, voice dropping lower. "What if this is precisely where we're both meant to be?"

The words struck closer to your secret fear than you'd thought possible.

What if he was right? What if the hospital room was the dream, and this—this magic, this bond, this male whose mere presence eased an ache you hadn't known you carried—was your truth?

"I don't belong here," you said, throat tightening around the words. "My body—my real body—is waiting for me to come home."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by compassion so genuine it hurt to witness. "The hospital. The human world."

You nodded, tears threatening. "I can't stay here, Azriel. No matter how much I might..." Want to. Belong to you. Need you. "I have family waiting. A life."

"And you think I'm following you out of obligation?" The question was gentle, offering understanding where you'd expected hurt. "Out of some misguided sense of duty to the mating bond?"

"Aren't you?"

His shadows stilled completely—a rare occurrence that drew your attention more effectively than any shout could have.

"I have spent five centuries in darkness," he said, voice so low you had to lean closer to hear, to breathe in his scent of night-chilled stone and cedar. "Five centuries as weapon and warning, as the nightmare that keeps enemies at bay. Five centuries watching others find connections I believed I could never have."

His eyes, when they met yours, contained such vulnerability that your breath caught. The golden light beneath his skin pulsed in time with your heartbeat, the bond singing recognition between your bodies even as your minds fought its pull.

"I thought I loved Mor once," he continued, the confession clearly costing him. "Then Elain. But it was always the idea of love that drew me. The possibility of light. Not the females themselves."

His scarred fingers traced patterns on the cushion between you, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the coolness radiating from his skin.

"With you, it's different," he said, voice roughened with emotion. "From the moment the bond snapped into place, even as I rejected it, I knew. This wasn't just magic. This wasn't just fate. This was recognition."

"Of what?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

His shadows stirred, curling into shapes that reflected his words—wings and flames dancing together, darkness and light intertwined.

"Of the only person who's ever seen me," he replied, each word carefully chosen, heavy with significance. "Not the shadowsinger. Not the spymaster. Not the weapon." His voice dropped lower. "When you look at me, your eyes don't reflect centuries of blood and darkness. They show me something I thought I'd lost long ago."

"What?" you whispered, unable to look away from the raw emotion in his gaze.

"Possibility," he said simply. One word that contained worlds.

His shadows curled toward you with heartbreaking hesitancy, stopping just short of contact. "I'm not following you out of duty or obligation. I'm following you because for the first time in five hundred years, I've found something that's mine alone. Not given by Rhysand. Not shared with Cassian. Not demanded by war."

"I can't give you what you want," you finally said, each word a shard of glass in your throat. "I can't stay here, Azriel. I can't be your mate. Not permanently."

"Why?" His voice remained gentle despite the pain that flashed across his beautiful face.

"Because I don't belong to this world," you whispered. "This body isn't mine. This life isn't mine. And someday—somehow—I have to find my way back home."

His scarred hand finally reached across the distance between you, not grasping, simply offering. "What if this is home? What if that human girl is the dream, and this is your reality?"

The question struck deeper than you'd expected, touching the fear that had haunted you since waking in this fae body.

What if he was right? What if the hospital was the illusion, and this strange, magical world was where you truly belonged?

"I don't know," you admitted, the confession leaving you raw. "I don't know which is real anymore."

"They both are," he said, shadows forming shapes that looked like doorways, like bridges between worlds. "And whichever you choose, I'll respect it. Even if it means losing you."

The words hung between you, heavy with sincerity. This wasn't just about the bond anymore. This was about choice—his and yours. About making decisions with open eyes and full awareness of the consequences.

"Why would you do that?" you asked, voice breaking. "Why would you leave everything for someone who might not stay?"

His scarred fingers extended further, an invitation without pressure. "Because some moments are worth an eternity of loss."

Your heart stuttered in your chest, the bond responding with a flare of golden warmth that momentarily eclipsed all doubt, all fear. This male who had known only duty and shadow for centuries was offering you something no one in either of your lives had ever given: complete freedom to choose your own fate, without expectation or demand.

His shadows brushed your wrist, cool as night air, gentle as a whisper. "I would rather know you for a single heartbeat than live an eternity wondering what might have been."

The bond between you shimmered, visible now as golden threads spanning the distance between your bodies, delicate as spider's silk but stronger than steel. Each breath you took made them glow brighter, a constellation of shared possibility.

"Tomorrow we rescue Eris," you finally said, pulling your hand back despite the bond's protest. "After that... I don't know. I don't know what happens next."

Azriel nodded, accepting your withdrawal without question. His shadows retreated, curling back around his shoulders in patterns that spoke of restraint, of patience, of understanding beyond what you'd thought possible.

"One day at a time, then." He spoke the words like a promise.

"One day at a time," you agreed, rising from the couch. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, the weight of his truths, of your fears, threatening to pull you under.

He stood as well, shadows gathering around him like a living cloak. "Would you prefer I remain downstairs tonight?"

There was no judgment in the question, no hurt, only simple respect for your boundaries. The consideration—so at odds with the fearsome reputation that preceded him—made your throat tighten with emotions you weren't ready to name.

"You don't have to sit outside my door," you said quietly, the bond aching as you forced distance between you. "But... I wouldn't mind knowing you were nearby."

The admission cost you, revealed more than you'd intended, but you couldn't bring yourself to regret it when understanding flashed in his eyes, followed by something that might have been hope.

"I'll be here if you need me," he promised, shadows reaching toward you one last time before he pulled them back. "Always."

You nodded once, then turned toward the stairs, unable to bear the weight of his gaze any longer.

In your borrowed bedroom, you sank onto the edge of the bed, Ember and Sizzle immediately materializing to nudge against your trembling hands.

"What am I doing?" you whispered to them, the question you couldn't ask Azriel. "What am I going to do?"

The flame bunnies had no answers, only warm comfort as they curled against you, tiny embers of promise in a night that seemed endless.

Outside your door, shadows whispered quiet vigilance, a promise kept without words. Downstairs, the shadowsinger of the Night Court—who had offered you his scarred heart without demanding yours in return—waited patiently for a decision you weren't sure you could make.

And in another world, separated by barriers of reality itself, machines beeped a steady rhythm beside a hospital bed where a body lay suspended between life and death, while family members whispered, "Please come home."

Two lives. Two worlds. Two hearts beating across an impossible divide.

The bond pulsed once more, golden light briefly illuminating the darkness of your room, carrying with it the echo of his words: Some moments are worth an eternity of loss.

Tomorrow, you would rescue Eris. Tomorrow, you would fight for family—chosen and given and made. Beyond that lay choices that terrified and tempted in equal measure.

You closed your eyes, the weight of worlds pressing against your chest.

One heartbeat at a time.

The High Lords converged on Velaris like gathering storm clouds.

The emergency conclave had been called by Rhysand after news of Beron's actions spread across Prythian. War loomed on the horizon, and even ancient enemies now sought common ground against Autumn Court's growing madness.

You stood on the balcony of the townhouse, watching as entourages made their way through the streets below. Each High Lord had brought a small contingent, enough to demonstrate power without appearing threatening. The air itself seemed to thicken with magic as they passed, a tangible pressure against your skin.

"Are you certain you want to attend?" Azriel asked from the doorway, his voice quiet. His shadows curled restlessly near the railing but never touched you.

You didn't turn. "I need to be there," you replied, fingers whitening as they gripped the cold stone. "For Eris."

Azriel said nothing more, but his presence shifted closer, a silent offering of strength.

The River House had been transformed for the gathering. The central chamber now held an enormous circular table, each seat marked with the sigil of a different court. Rhysand and Feyre stood at the entrance, greeting each arrival with careful diplomacy.

You entered with Azriel at your side, his presence a cold comfort as curious gazes tracked your movement. His shadows remained tightly controlled, but you could feel the tension radiating from him, a predator walking willingly into enemy territory.

Tarquin of Summer Court nodded politely as you passed, sea-salt scent clinging to his turquoise robes. Helion of Day Court studied you with scholarly interest, golden eyes missing nothing beneath his crown of light. Kallias of Winter Court remained expressionless, his silver-white hair contrasting sharply with his midnight blue attire.

Something strange fluttered in your chest at the sight of him, not recognition but a sudden chill that traced your spine despite the warmth of the room. You swallowed hard, attributing the feeling to general anxiety about the meeting.

The discussions began with Rhysand outlining the situation in Autumn Court, his voice measured despite the rage that occasionally flashed in his violet eyes. The rebellion, Eris's capture, Beron's increasingly erratic behavior. Maps were spread across the table, territories marked in colored ink.

"Winter Court has intelligence suggesting Beron has moved Eris to the eastern dungeons," Kallias was saying, his voice crystalline and sharp as ice. "Our late Lord Kieraven provided similar information before his death in the war with Hybern."

The name hit you like a physical blow.

Kieraven.

Your vision blurred at the edges, the room suddenly too bright, too hot. Your heartbeat accelerated, a fluttering bird trapped in your chest. Something about that name made your skin crawl, though you couldn't place why. Your fingers curled into fists beneath the table, nails cutting into your palms.

"These dungeons have access points through the servant corridors," another Winter Court advisor added, pointing to the map with fingers that seemed too long, too pale.

A phantom sensation of cold hands gripping your wrists flashed through your body. Your throat tightened as if invisible fingers pressed against it.

Beside you, Azriel shifted slightly in his seat.

To anyone else, the movement would appear negligible, a simple adjustment of posture. But you felt his attention sharpen, felt his shadows condense beneath the table, pooling around your feet in silent vigilance. His face remained impassive, yet something in his eyes had changed, a dangerous awareness that hadn't been there moments before.

"Are you well?" Tarquin asked from across the table, sea-glass eyes noting your pallor.

"Yes," you managed, though your voice sounded thin even to your own ears. "Just concerned for my brother."

The meeting continued, but you felt increasingly detached, a strange buzzing filling your head. Whenever your gaze drifted toward the Winter Court contingent, unease rippled through you, gooseflesh rising on your arms. You deliberately looked away, focusing instead on the maps spread across the table, tracing the familiar outlines of Autumn Court territories.

Azriel remained silent throughout, his contributions limited to precise tactical observations when directly addressed. But his attention never wavered from you, from the cold sweat beading at your temples, from the minute tremors in your hands that you tried to hide.

"The eastern corridor has twelve guards stationed at regular intervals," the Winter Court representative continued, "but there are passages between guard rotations where..."

Thirteen.

The thought came unbidden, bewildering in its certainty. There were thirteen.

"...where infiltration would be possible with proper timing."

When the Winter Court advisor mentioned "corridors in the eastern wing," your stomach twisted violently. Without warning, tears sprang to your eyes, though you had no idea why. The scent of frost and blood filled your nostrils, a memory that couldn't be yours.

Stone walls. Cold floor. Hands holding you down.

"The structure of these dungeons suggests a weakness in the northwestern corner," Kallias added, his pale finger tracing a path on the map.

Voices whispering things that couldn't be forgotten. Pain beyond naming.

You blinked back tears furiously, refusing to show weakness in front of these powerful beings. But Azriel noticed, of course he did. Nothing escaped the shadowsinger's attention, especially not concerning you.

His hand found yours beneath the table, scarred fingers wrapping around your trembling ones. A touch so light it might have been imagined, yet anchoring you to the present. His face remained distant, focused on the maps, but his thumb traced a small circle against your wrist, steadying your frantic pulse.

"Each rotation changes at midnight," the Winter Court advisor was saying. His voice seemed to come from far away, distorted as if through water. "Which gives a window of approximately seven minutes..."

Seven minutes. Seven minutes where no one came. Seven minutes of desperate hope before the eighth male arrived.

The room began to spin, colors bleeding into one another. Your lungs couldn't seem to draw enough air, each breath shallow and insufficient. The bond beneath your skin pulsed erratically, your borrowed Fae body remembering what your human mind could not.

When you tried to speak, your throat closed. Panic rose without explanation, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The room seemed to shrink around you, the voices of the High Lords becoming distant and indistinct.

A single tear escaped despite your efforts, tracking silently down your cheek.

Azriel was on his feet in an instant, his movement so smooth it seemed he'd simply materialized standing. His shadows flared around him, tendrils whipping in patterns that spoke of deadly intent, though his face remained controlled.

"My lady requires air," he announced, his voice giving no room for question or challenge. "Continue without us."

Before anyone could object, he had gathered you into his arms. Not gently, not tenderly, but with efficient, impersonal precision that would appear as duty rather than concern to watching eyes. His wings unfurled as he strode toward the balcony, his face a mask of cold indifference that belied the protective fury radiating from him.

"My apologies for the interruption," he said to Rhysand, his tone suggesting anything but remorse. "We'll return shortly."

Then you were airborne, the cool night air rushing past as Azriel carried you away from the River House. Your body trembled against his, tears flowing freely now though you still couldn't understand why.

"I don't know what's happening to me," you whispered against his chest, embarrassment and confusion warring within you. "I don't know why I'm reacting this way."

Azriel said nothing, his silence almost comforting as he flew through the darkness. The city fell away beneath you as he climbed higher, banking toward a sheer cliff face that towered over Velaris. Stars scattered across the vast expanse of night sky, cold and distant as ancient memories.

He landed on a small ledge invisible from below. A tiny flat space carved into the rock, overlooking the entire city and the sea beyond. A single bench made of polished stone sat against the cliff wall, worn smooth from centuries of use. The air here smelled of wild thyme and night jasmine, undisturbed by the scents of the city below.

"No one knows about this place," he said, setting you carefully on the bench. "Not even Cassian or Rhys." The admission hung in the air between you, significant in its rarity.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to stop the trembling that seemed to come from somewhere deep within. "I'm sorry for disrupting the meeting. I don't understand what came over me."

Azriel moved to the ledge's edge, wings partially extended as if ready for flight. His shadows swirled in agitated patterns around him, occasionally forming shapes that looked almost like protective shields before dissolving back into formless dark.

"You have nothing to apologize for," he said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

"I do," you insisted, wiping at tears that wouldn't stop. "Breaking down like this when Eris needs us to be strong, to be focused..."

Azriel turned to face you, and the expression in his eyes made you fall silent. Not tenderness or concern, but something darker, more knowing. His shadows quieted, gathering close to his body as if containing secrets too dangerous to share.

"The body remembers what the mind forgets," he said, each word carefully chosen. "Sometimes it warns us of dangers we don't consciously recognize."

You shook your head, confusion only deepening. "What are you talking about? I've never even met these people before."

Azriel didn't answer directly. His gaze shifted to the city below, to the River House where the conclave continued without you. "The Winter Court," he said finally, voice so low you had to strain to hear it. "Your reaction wasn't without cause."

"I don't understand," you whispered, another tear sliding down your cheek.

He moved to sit beside you, not touching, a precise distance maintained between your bodies. His shadows, however, encircled you both, creating a barrier between you and the rest of the world. The scent of night-chilled stone and cedar enveloped you, bringing strange comfort.

"You're safe here," he said, voice gentle despite its underlying steel. "No one can reach you. No one can hurt you."

The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made you cry harder, great gulping sobs that seemed to rise from some hidden well of grief you hadn't known existed. Your body remembered something your mind could not access, a trauma buried beneath layers of magic and dimensional walls.

"Why do I feel like this?" you gasped between sobs. "Why does it hurt when I don't even know what's hurting me?"

Azriel remained silent for a long moment, his shadows shifting restlessly. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "Some wounds run deeper than memory."

You turned to face him fully, frustration cutting through your tears. "Stop speaking in riddles. Tell me what you know."

His eyes met yours, ancient and knowing and filled with a darkness that made you shiver. "I can't," he said softly. "This is something you must discover for yourself, when you're ready."

The bond between you pulsed, golden light briefly visible beneath both your skins. It thrummed with truth, with connection deeper than conscious thought.

"Your human life," Azriel continued carefully, "and this Fae existence... they're more connected than you know."

Before you could press further, he removed his outer leathers and draped it around your shoulders. The leather was still warm from his body, carrying his scent. The weight of it was grounding, pulling you back from the edge of panic.

"For now," he continued, "just know that your reactions are valid. That what you feel is real, even if you don't understand why."

The certainty in his voice gave you pause. There was more to this, much more, than he was saying. But the gentleness underlying his cold exterior suggested whatever knowledge he held was being withheld out of protection, not cruelty.

"Will you tell me someday?" you asked, pulling his jacket tighter around you.

"When you're ready to hear it," he promised, shadows briefly touching your hand before retreating. "Not before."

After a long while, when your tears had finally subsided, you found yourself leaning against him despite your earlier resolve to maintain distance. His body tensed momentarily at the contact, then relaxed, one arm coming around you with cautious precision.

You both sat in silence, watching the stars reflect on the distant sea. The panic had receded, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The night air carried the salt scent of the ocean mixed with the wild herbs growing in crevices of the cliff face.

"I sometimes think about what life would be like," you whispered into the night, voice raw from tears, "if I stayed in Prythian."

The moment the words left your lips, the entire world seemed to still. Even the wind paused, holding its breath with you.

Azriel's body went rigid against yours, but his arm remained, a steady anchor around your shoulders. His shadows, ever-moving, froze in mid-air like fractured pieces of night. The only sound between you was the soft rhythm of his breathing, more careful now, more measured.

"Tell me," you continued, heart hammering against your ribs, "if you could choose any life for us, what would it be?"

The question hung between you, fragile as spun glass.

For several heartbeats, he didn't move, didn't speak. Then his shadows pulled tight around his body, as if he were gathering parts of himself that had never been exposed to light.

"Not here," he finally said, voice so low you felt it more than heard it, rough-edged with longing he'd never allowed himself to voice. "Not in Velaris or any court."

You tilted your face to study his profile, severe and beautiful against the backdrop of stars. "Where then?"

He swallowed, the movement visible in the strong column of his throat.

"There's a place..." He faltered, then began again. "Beyond the western mountains. Past Illyrian territory."

His voice softened into something you'd never heard from him before, something almost reverent. "A valley hidden between two peaks where the snow never falls too heavily and the summers are mild."

As he spoke, his shadows formed shapes you could almost recognize. Mountain peaks. Pine trees. A lake surface rippled by gentle wind.

"No High Lords," he continued, something in his voice breaking open. "No war. Just forest and mountains and a lake clear enough to see the stars reflected in its depths."

Your breath caught. "It sounds beautiful."

"I found it centuries ago," he admitted, the confession weighted with significance. "During a mission for Rhys. I've never told anyone about it." The words that followed were quieter still.

The knowledge settled in your chest, a precious gift. This wasn't simply a fantasy he was spinning; this was a secret he had kept, a dream he had nurtured in solitude for centuries.

"Why not?"

His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, as if he could see this valley even now, waiting beyond the darkness. "Because some sanctuaries must remain untouched." His voice dropped further. "Because some dreams are too fragile to share."

The bond between you pulsed, golden and warm, as if in recognition of truth freely given.

"Would we have a house there?" you asked, allowing yourself to fall into this impossible future.

"A cabin," he corrected softly. "Built of pine and stone. Simple but strong."

He hesitated, then added in a voice that made your heart crack open. "Windows facing the sunrise."

"With a porch," you added, your own voice thick with emotion. "Where we could watch thunderstorms rolling across the mountains."

His shadows stirred, curling toward you before retreating. "Yes," he agreed. "And space behind it for a garden, if you wanted one."

"I would," you whispered, the vision so vivid you could almost feel soil beneath your fingernails. "Herbs and vegetables. Maybe wildflowers. Things that heal and feed and bring beauty."

You closed your eyes, imagination carrying you further into this shared dream. "What would we do there? So far from everything?"

"Live," he said softly.

The word hung between you, heavy with all it contained. No wars. No courts. No duty. No pain. Just existence without the weight of the world on your shoulders. Without the pressure of a bond neither of you had asked for. Without the pull of another world where machines kept a body breathing while you inhabited this one.

"No missions," you murmured. "No courts summoning you away."

His arm tightened fractionally around you. "No more shadows used as weapons," he said, voice roughened with longing that cut you to the bone. "Just shadows as they were meant to be, cast by trees and mountains and ordinary things."

Something tight in your chest unraveled at his words. This wasn't merely a dream of escape. This was his deepest yearning—to be defined not by his power or utility, but by simple humanity.

"Ember and Sizzle would love it," you said, thinking of your flame bunnies exploring forest trails.

A sound escaped him—so close to a laugh it made your heart stumble. "They'd terrorize the local wildlife," he replied.

"I'd want coffee," you said, surprising yourself with the mundane desire.

Azriel turned his face toward you then, his expression softer than you'd ever seen it. "I'd find a way to get it for you," he promised. The certainty in his voice made something within you ache. "Whatever it takes."

"I'd bring other things too," you continued, warming to the idea. "Music. Books. Ridiculous holiday traditions that would make no sense to you."

His brow lifted slightly. "Like what?"

"Christmas trees," you said, smiling despite the tears still drying on your cheeks. "Bringing an entire pine tree inside the house and covering it with shiny objects. For no logical reason whatsoever."

His brow furrowed. "That sounds... hazardous. Especially with your flame bunnies."

The laugh that escaped you was unexpected, bright and clean in the night air. "It is! People's houses catch fire all the time. But we do it anyway because it's beautiful."

Something shifted in his expression as he watched you laugh—a softening, a wonder, as if he'd just witnessed something rare and precious. His shadows reached toward you, hesitant, almost shy.

"Tell me more," he said, voice hushed with quiet hunger. "About these strange human traditions."

"We'd have movie nights," you said, leaning into him. "Which would be impossible without electricity, but let's pretend. We'd huddle under blankets and watch stories play out on a screen."

"I don't understand what that means," he admitted. The honesty in his face, the genuine desire to know this part of you, made your throat tight with emotion.

"It doesn't matter," you whispered. "I'd find other stories to share. We'd make our own traditions."

His eyes held yours, something unspoken passing between you. The bond thrummed, golden threads weaving tighter with each heartbeat.

"Would we have children?" you asked, the question slipping out before courage failed you.

Azriel went completely still, even his breathing suspended. For a terrible moment, you thought you'd shattered everything with that single question.

Then his arm tightened around you, so subtly you might have imagined it if not for the way his shadows trembled, forming and reforming shapes that looked suspiciously like tiny winged figures near your joined hands.

"Would you want them?" he asked, voice controlled to the point of breaking.

"Yes," you admitted, the word falling like a stone into still water. "Two, I think. A boy and a girl."

"With wings?" he asked, the question barely audible.

You turned to face him fully, heart in your throat at the vulnerability in his expression. "Of course with wings," you said fiercely. "Beautiful wings like their father's."

His breath caught, the small sound devastating in its honesty. His hand found yours, scarred fingers intertwining with your own as if they'd always belonged there.

"And your fire," he said, voice rough with emotion. "Your courage. Your heart."

The bond between you blazed, golden light spilling from beneath your skin to illuminate the darkness around you. His shadows didn't recoil from the light but danced with it, twining together in patterns that spoke of possibility.

"They'd be free," you whispered, the realization settling bone-deep. "No courts claiming them. No ancient grudges to inherit. Just mountains and forests and stars."

"I'd teach them to fly," Azriel said, voice breaking on the final word. "Among the peaks at sunrise."

You could see it so clearly—his powerful hands steady on small backs, his fierce protectiveness tempered with patience as tiny wings learned to catch the wind.

"I'd teach them stories from both worlds," you said, tears gathering again. "So they'd understand where they came from. Who they are."

"They'd know peace," he said, the word like a prayer on his lips. "True peace."

You both fell silent, the shared vision suspended between you—so vivid, so beautiful, so achingly out of reach. The cabin in the valley. The children with wings. The life built on choice rather than duty or obligation.

Yet for the first time, you found yourself wondering which world truly felt like home. The human one, with its beeping monitors and grieving family? Or this one, with its magic and pain and the possibility of a valley beyond the mountains?

"It's a beautiful dream," you finally said, unable to keep the longing from your voice.

Azriel shifted, turning to face you fully. "It doesn't have to be just a dream," he said, and for the first time in all your encounters, you heard naked pleading in his voice—an emotion you'd never expected from the controlled, deadly shadowsinger.

When you looked up, what you saw stole your breath. Azriel—the Night Court's most feared assassin, the male who had witnessed five centuries of darkness without flinching—had tears in his eyes. Not falling, not yet, but there, shimmering in the starlight like diamonds.

"Azriel," you whispered, reaching up without thinking to touch his face.

He caught your hand with his scarred one, pressing your palm against his cheek in a gesture so vulnerable it fractured something essential inside you. His skin was cool beneath your touch, but warming rapidly. The bond between you pulsed, a heartbeat shared across bodies and worlds.

"Whatever you choose," he said, each word weighted with centuries of solitude, "know that the cabin waits. Whether in a month or a century." His voice faltered. "Whether we go together or—"

The words died in his throat, but you heard them nonetheless.

"Or I return to my world," you completed for him, the possibility that had always stood between you.

He nodded once, barely perceptible. But his eyes, those ancient, haunted eyes that had witnessed centuries of darkness, held yours with unflinching courage.

"Either way," he said, "I wanted you to know. That somewhere, there is a place that belongs to us alone. Without courts or duty or pain."

The first tear fell then, tracing a silver path down his scarred cheek and onto your joined hands.

The bond between you flared, golden light spilling from your joined hands, illuminating your faces in the darkness. Not a chain binding you together, but a bridge between worlds, between possibilities.

"Thank you," you whispered, voice breaking. "For showing me this. For letting me see."

His only response was to draw you against him, wings unfurling to create a private sanctuary around you both. Against your cheek, you felt the steady rhythm of his heart, its beat perfectly synchronized with your own.

Tomorrow would bring danger—Eris's rescue, confrontation with Beron, an uncertain future beyond. But for now, cradled against the shadowsinger's chest while his rare tears mingled with your own, you allowed yourself to hold that impossible dream close.

The cabin in the valley. The children with wings. The life beyond the courts.

A dream, perhaps.

But with the golden bond pulsing beneath your skin, the solid warmth of his body against yours, the scent of night-chilled stone and cedar surrounding you, the human world of beeping monitors and grieving family seemed increasingly distant. Like a half-remembered dream fading with the dawn.

For the first time since waking in this borrowed Fae body, you felt something settle inside you. Not certainty, not yet. But possibility. Hope.

Home.

Which was real? Which was home?

For the first time, you weren't certain you knew the answer.

The golden bond thrummed beneath your skin as you woke, an urgent pulse matching your heartbeat. Outside, Velaris slept under indigo skies, last stars fading as dawn approached.

Perfect timing. Perfect silence.

You dressed in shadow, fingers finding Lucien's enchanted blade without looking. Its weight at your hip felt both foreign and familiar, like muscle memory that didn't belong to you.

Ember and Sizzle materialized at your feet, tiny flame bodies flickering with anxiety. They sensed your intentions without words. You pressed a finger to your lips, and they quieted, though pink embers sparked with protest.

"Stay," you whispered, stroking each once. "Wait for him to return."

They settled on the windowsill, sentinels against the pale horizon, their glow dimmed to near-invisibility.

Downstairs, the townhouse held its breath. Azriel's jacket hung by the door, night-chilled stone and cedar wrapping around you as you slipped it over your shoulders. One last comfort before what must be done.

Your fingers found the silver charm at your throat, his parting gift. Break it and I'll come to you, across any distance. You placed it on the small table, a note beneath in your hurried hand.

Forgive me.

Three heartbeats later, Velaris's pre-dawn streets enveloped you. The rising sun gilded rooftops with the same golden light that pulsed beneath your skin, a warning you ignored.

What you planned was foolish. Suicidal, even.

Going alone to rescue Eris when the combined might of multiple courts had organized for tomorrow. But another day meant more torture for your brother. Another day risked Azriel's life for your family's conflict.

Another day meant facing him with the truth. That you planned to return to your world. That his dream of a cabin in the valley, of children with wings and your shared future, would remain just that, a dream.

Between one step and the next, reality fractured.

The hospital room blurred over Velaris's cobblestones. Your aunt's face, tear-stained and haggard, superimposed over dawn-touched buildings.

"The doctors say it's time to consider letting you go," her voice echoed, "but I can't. I just can't."

You stumbled, shoulder striking stone. A passing Night Court citizen glanced with concern, but your forced smile sent them on their way.

The winnowing point beckoned from the edge of the city, a place to bend reality and step directly into Autumn's territory. You'd memorized it from the war maps, burned it into your mind while the High Lords plotted.

But first came the hardest part.

In an alcove away from prying eyes, you pressed your hand to your chest. The bond pulsed steadily, familiar as breathing. A constant presence anchoring you to this world, to him.

"I can't let you suffer when I go," you whispered to no one, to him, to yourself. Golden light spilled between your fingers. "It would destroy you."

Better a clean break. Better mercy than slow torment.

"I release you."

The golden light flared, blinding.

"I sever this bond, not out of hatred but mercy."

Pain lanced through your chest, not external but from within, like ribs cracking outward.

"Not out of rejection..."

Your knees struck cobblestones.

"...but protection."

Tears blurred your vision, golden light pulsing erratically.

"I reject this bond." The words tasted like ash and iron. "I reject it so you may be free when I am gone."

Something inside you tore, not muscle or bone but something essential, something primal. Your vision whited out, breath stolen.

"I reject it because..." a gasping sob interrupted, "...because I love you."

The golden light pulsed once more, then dimmed. The connection that had hummed between you since that first moment in the Autumn Court didn't vanish but receded, like music heard underwater, distorted, distant, muffled.

Cold swept through spaces where warmth had lived. Hollowness echoed where completeness had dwelled. Your hand pressed against your sternum, searching for the familiar pulse, finding only silence.

You dragged yourself upright, swaying. The world felt wrong, off-balance. You'd grown so accustomed to the bond's weight that its absence left you lightweight, untethered.

No time for mourning.

Dawn broke fully now, spilling gold across the city. Soon Azriel would return. Soon he'd find the charm. Soon he'd feel the muted bond and know.

The winnowing point shimmered as you approached. Your magic felt diminished without the bond's amplification, but determination burned hotter than power. You gathered what remained, world dissolving around you.

Reality reassembled. Endless autumn spread before you, trees burning with color that never faded, crimson and gold leaves against a perpetual sunset sky.

You stepped forward, then stumbled as another merged memory hit, hospital corridors overlaid with forest paths. Medical staff around your bed, discussing options, timelines, prognoses. "Irreversible" floated through the air as your doctor shook his head.

"Not yet," you gasped, forcing clarity. "I'm not finished here."

The castle loomed in the distance, Beron's ancestral seat. Eastern dungeons, according to intelligence. Servant passages with specific guard rotations.

You moved toward it, staying to shadows, avoiding patrolled roads. The spice-and-smoke scent of autumn wrapped around you, so different from Velaris's salt-touched breeze. Yet something in you recognized it, a distant familiarity you refused to acknowledge.

Spires pierced a blood-orange sky as you approached. Your body ducked beneath a low archway without conscious decision, hands finding servant passages your mind shouldn't know existed. Stone whispered beneath your fingers, hidden doors responding to touches that felt both foreign and instinctive.

Memory flashed, running these same passages as a child, hiding from brothers who sought to torment, servants who sought to tame.

Not your memory. Not your life.

You pushed it away.

The first guard appeared at the dungeon approach, young, barely more than a boy, bored with his assignment. His eyes widened at sight of you, recognition blooming.

"My lady," he breathed, dropping to one knee. "We were told you were..."

Your hand found his forehead before he finished, sleep spell springing to your lips without thought or practice. He slumped forward, consciousness fleeing.

The magic drained you more than it should have. Without the bond's strength flowing through you, your powers were diminished, hollowed. You leaned against stone, breath ragged.

"Just a little further," you told yourself, pushing away.

The main dungeon entrance waited ahead, an iron door carved with moving flame patterns. Two alert guards stood before it, hands on weapons.

You couldn't risk another sleep spell. Not when Eris waited beyond, not when escape would demand whatever magic remained. You drew Lucien's blade instead, its enchanted edge catching torchlight.

Then you stepped into view.

"My lady," one gasped, shock evident. "Lord Beron said..."

"Lord Beron says many things." Your voice emerged colder than you'd ever heard it, a tone that didn't belong to you but to the body you inhabited, the cruelty cultivated over centuries.

Both guards hesitated, confusion and fear battling across their features. They'd been trained to obey the High Lord, but generations of instinct told them to defer to the Lady of Autumn.

You exploited that hesitation, moving with deadly grace you'd never possessed in your human life. The blade found the first guard's throat, not killing, but promising.

"Open the door," you commanded the second, "or watch your companion bleed."

He fumbled with keys, fear making him clumsy. The heavy door swung open with a groan of metal, revealing a staircase spiraling into darkness.

"Down," you ordered, pushing the first guard ahead while keeping the second at blade-point.

The stairs descended endlessly, air growing colder, damper with each step. Blood and fear-scent thickened as you descended, your stomach knotting with dread.

At the bottom waited another door, this one reinforced with both iron and magic.

You studied the symbols carved into its surface, pulsing with malevolent energy. Following instinct that wasn't yours, you pressed your palm against the center where Beron's sigil burned brightest.

Fire erupted beneath your hand, searing your palm. You gritted your teeth, refusing to pull away as the sigil flared once, recognized something in you, then faded to ash. The door swung open.

You turned to them, fire of the Autumn Court burning in your eyes. "Leave," you commanded.

They fled, taking the stairs two at a time.

The chamber beyond was lit by a single brazier, shadows dancing across stained stone. The air reeked of blood and burned flesh, of bile and sweat and despair.

And there, chained to the far wall, hung Eris.

Your breath caught. You'd prepared yourself for injury, for pain. Not for this.

The once-handsome face swollen beyond recognition. His right arm hung at an unnatural angle, broken in multiple places. Blood had dried in rusty streaks down his chest and legs. The stench of infection and charred flesh made your eyes water.

His breathing came in wet, labored gasps. Each inhale bubbled with what might be blood in his lungs.

"Eris," you whispered, rushing forward.

At your voice, his head lifted slightly. One eye, the only one not swollen shut, focused on you with effort.

"You... fool," he croaked, each word a struggle. "Trap."

"I'm getting you out," you said, examining the chains that bound him.

His laugh was a broken thing, dry as autumn leaves. "Sister... you need to..."

You reached for the chains, examining the enchanted metal. "I need to get you out of here."

"Be careful," he warned, words slurring. "Spelled to..."

You pressed Lucien's blade against the lock before he finished. The enchanted metal glowed briefly, then clicked open. Eris slumped forward as the chains released, his weight falling against you.

"Can't walk," he mumbled against your shoulder. "Ankle... shattered."

"Then I'll carry you," you replied, though you had no idea how you'd manage it without the bond's strength.

Before you could figure out a solution, slow clapping echoed through the chamber.

You whirled, pushing Eris behind you as best you could while drawing your blade.

Beron stood in the doorway, flame crown burning atop his head. Behind him, a dozen guards filled the stairway, weapons drawn.

"How touching," the High Lord of Autumn said, voice like silk over steel. "The wayward daughter returns for her traitorous brother."

"Father," you acknowledged, keeping your blade steady despite the fear coursing through you.

Beron studied you, head tilting slightly. "But you're not really my daughter anymore, are you?"

A chill ran down your spine.

Beron circled you slowly, flames dancing at his fingertips. "My daughter was cruel. Calculating. Vicious." His eyes narrowed. "She would never have risked herself for anyone, least of all Eris."

The way he said it, not with anger but something like baffled wonder, unnerved you more than rage would have.

"I'm not her," you said flatly. "I never claimed to be."

"And yet..." Beron's voice softened unexpectedly, "...you opened the sigil door. Only the power of the High Lord can do that."

Something in his expression shifted, a flicker of recognition that made your heart stutter.

"I remember when you were born," he said, each word deliberate. "So small. The first female born to Autumn in three centuries."

"Stop it," you snapped. "These mind games won't work."

A memory flashed unbidden, sitting on Beron's knee as a child, watching in wonder as he formed fire animals in his palm.

You shook your head violently. "Those aren't my memories."

"You don't want them to be," Beron corrected. His flame crown dimmed slightly as he studied you. "But they are yours. As is this body. As is this court."

"I have a family," you insisted. "A life waiting for me."

"And yet you're here." Beron gestured to the dungeon around you. "Risking everything for a brother who would have let you die without a second thought."

"He's lying," Eris rasped from behind you, somehow finding strength to stand straighter. "Tell her, Beron."

"Tell me what?" you repeated, unwillingly drawn into the conversation.

"After Winter Court," Eris said, each word costing him. "Thirteen nobles. Left you for dead."

Beron's jaw tightened. "Ancient history. Diplomatic matters."

"Not... diplomatic," Eris forced out, blood speckling his lips with the effort. "Assault. Torture. Abandonment."

Ice flooded your veins as another memory surfaced, cold hands on your skin. Laughter echoing off stone walls.

Pain beyond imagining.

"No," you whispered, the blade trembling in your grasp. "That's not... I'm not..."

"Your soul fractured that night," Eris continued, each word a blade between your ribs. "Split in two. Half fled to another world."

"That's not possible," you said, but your voice lacked conviction.

Because it made sense. It explained everything, the foreign memories, the body that felt both alien and familiar, the life in another world that seemed increasingly distant.

"My little flame," Beron said, and the childhood endearment struck like a physical blow. "I made you into something terrible because I had to. The courts would have devoured you otherwise."

Another memory, Beron teaching you to hurt servants, to hide weakness, to cultivate cruelty as armor.

"You were so gentle as a child," he continued, something like regret coloring his tone. "I remember how you wept when you accidentally burned a butterfly. How you tried to heal it with your fingers."

The memory crashed through your defenses, the orange butterfly, its wings blackened by your untrained magic. The desperate attempt to save it, tiny hands cupping its broken body.

"Stop," you begged, but the memories kept coming.

Beron took a step toward you. For an instant, his face transformed, not the cruel High Lord but the father who'd once lifted you to his shoulders. "I wasn't there when Winter took you. I thought... I thought it was politics. By the time I realized..."

"It was too late," you finished, the words rising from somewhere deep inside. "I was already torn apart..."

Beron nodded, something like pain flashing across his features. "Your mother warned me. She said making you cruel would destroy what made you special. I didn't listen."

The blade wavered in your hand, your voice breaking. "You left me to them. You let them..."

"I didn't know what they planned," Beron said, but his eyes slid away from yours. The lie sat heavy between you.

"You knew," Eris snarled, finding strength from somewhere deep inside. Blood trickled from his mouth with each word. "You knew and did nothing. Then covered it all up."

"You understand nothing of ruling," Beron snapped, anger flaring. "Sacrifices must be made. Alliances preserved."

"I was your daughter," you whispered, the truth of it settling into your bones. "Your only daughter."

Something in Beron's face cracked then, a glimpse of the father beneath the High Lord's mask. "Yes," he admitted. "And I failed you."

The words hung in the air between you, unexpected in their sincerity.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

Then Eris moved.

It happened so fast you barely registered it. Eris, who moments ago could barely stand, lunged forward with hidden strength. Something flashed in his hand, a small blade concealed somewhere on his broken body.

It struck Beron in the chest, driving deep. Directly into his heart.

Beron's eyes widened in shock, his gaze locked with Eris's. "Son?" he gasped, blood bubbling at his lips.

"For her," Eris whispered, holding his father's gaze without flinching. "For what you let happen."

Beron's flame crown sputtered, then flared blindingly bright. Power, ancient and terrible, erupted from his body as he collapsed. It swirled like a living tornado, seeking its new vessel.

Eris fell to his knees, arms outstretched, face lifted to receive what had been promised him for centuries, the High Lord's power.

But the magic had other ideas.

It swirled around Eris, examined him, then veered sharply toward you. Golden fire engulfed you, lifting you from the ground as it poured into your chest, your veins, your very soul.

You whimpered as centuries of power and knowledge invaded your body, not just magic but memory, history, duty.

The fractured pieces of yourself collided, human and Fae, present and past, nurse and Lady of Autumn.

When the transfer ended, you collapsed beside Beron's motionless form. The High Lord of Autumn was dead. His power now resided in you.

"No," you whispered, staring at your hands where flames now danced unbidden. "No, this isn't right."

Eris stared at you in shock, his face drained of what little color remained.

"It chose you," he said, disbelief evident. "The magic recognized its own."

Around you, the guards had fallen to their knees, recognizing their new High Lady in the same moment you did.

"I didn't want this," you said, tears streaming down your face. "I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be..."

But where were you supposed to be?

The hospital room seemed like a distant dream now, your human life fading like mist in morning sun. This, the flames dancing at your fingertips, the memories flooding back, the fractured soul finally reunited, this was real.

"Long live the High Lady of Autumn," Eris said, bowing his head despite his injuries. "My sister. My High Lady."

Fire danced across your skin, responding to emotions too complex to name. You weren't just who you'd been in that hospital bed. You weren't just the cruel Lady of Autumn from before.

You were both. You were neither.

You were something new entirely, forged in trauma, tempered by two lives, crowned in fire.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the shock and grief and power, a small voice whispered.

This is who you were always meant to be.

Author's Note: I could apologize for the emotional damage... but let’s not lie to each other. You came here willingly. 😌🔥 Beron’s toast (literally), your girl’s a High Lady, and Azriel is one "where is she?!" away from emotionally combusting in a corner. Buckle up. It only gets worse better from here.

💌 Thanks for reading, crying, and mentally punching Beron with me. Now the real questions: Will our girl embrace her inner fire queen or sprint back to her coma body like it’s the last bus home? Will Azriel survive this emotional rollercoaster without setting something (or someone) on fire? Will Eris finally get a nap?

Stay tuned. I have no idea either. 😇

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