#that he locks away during the war

[yanderedrabbles]

Private Military Contractor - Yandere Noncon

Yandere Male x Fem Reader Heavily inspired by this incredible fic.

He took you. Plucked you straight off the street on the way back from class. He must have known your routine down to a tee, because he did it all with a casual, brutal efficiency. Parking his rented van on the quietest road on your route, stacking a ladder and some paint cans outside so you'd think he was just a regular workman. The door open and waiting just for you, though you didn't know it yet.

You remember greeting him ‐ a quick good morning to be polite - without stopping or even really looking at him. You walked a little bit past the van without realising he was following you. Oblivious right up until the moment he grabbed you, one paw against your mouth to swallow your scream.

He was quick. So ruthlessly quick. Yanking you inside the van and closing the door before you even fully registered what was happening.

He wants you around for one thing and one thing only. He made that abundantly clear on the first day, when you were scarcely through the front door and he was already tearing off your skirt. He would have fucked you in the van the second he took you if he thought he could get away with it.

He isn't gentle. He bends you over the couch with your wrists held together in the small of your back. If you squirm too much, he twists your arm so hard you scream that he's going to break it.

He fucks you dry. Shoving himself inside of you despite how tight you are, how unready and unwilling. He groans at the first thrust, so obscenely satisfied. Like he's finally tasting a prize long differed.

He doesn't last long during the first round. Spilling himself into you after less than three minutes.

He's big - too fucking big. The cum that drips out of your cunt is tinged pink with blood. If he notices it, he doesn't care. He just stands there for a minute, stroking himself hard again and then it's time for round two. Your tears haven't even had time to dry.

He fucks like a soldier in a foreign war zone. Taking, claiming, stealing. It doesn't matter that you're not his to have; he has his guns and his training and to him that's all the reason he needs.

He fucks like he hasn't had a woman in years. With all the pent up energy of long, lonely nights spent in the ugliest parts of the world. He fucks you like a man who's finally gotten his hands on the fantasy he's nursed through all the worst moments of his life.

He fucks like he's terrified of losing you now that he finally, finally has you.

You can't stand after he's done with you. Your cunt burning so bad you think you're on fire from the inside out. He doesn't care that you hang limp from his grip. He just picks you up and tosses you over one broad shoulder and takes you to his bedroom.

You come out of your shock only when you feel the handcuffs closing around your wrist. He's literally chained you to his bed.

You start screaming again then. Frightened and begging and finally realising that this is really happening. It's not a bad dream or a story on the news, it's actually fucking happening to you.

He ignores you, pulling off his heavy combat boots and locking his pistol in the draw across the room. Maybe he's waiting for you to tire out, for your throat to start hurting and for you to quiet down. You don't.

He sighs like you're nothing more than an inconvenience and then slaps you so hard your ears ring and white dots spark across your vision.

His use of violence is so causal, so easy. It's shock that keeps you quiet more than the pain.

Before evening on the first day, he fucks you four more times. He doesn't listen when you beg him to be gentle, beg him to go slow. He ignores you when you plead with him to fuck your mouth instead, as much as he wants, just so long as he gives your pussy a break.

Men like him exist on the knife edge between life and death. Is it any surprise that it leaves its mark? That he wants to take whatever pleasure he can because god alone knows how much time he has left?

He doesn't kiss you until the very end, when he's deep between your thighs and you've dug your nails so deep into his back that you're going to leave scars. He kisses you when you're too hurt and sore and scared to turn away. He kisses you and it feels like he's finally staking his claim. Like part of him didn't believe you were real until he'd fucked you again and again and there was no one to stop him.

The next morning, he shoves a bitter tasting pill under your tongue and keeps his hand over your mouth until he's sure it's dissolved.

"No kids," he says simply and it makes you want to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Yeah, you agree silently, no fucking kids. Especially not if you're the father. Especially not in a world where men like you exist.

He has an appetite that's borderline impossible to satisfy. Once he starts kissing you, he doesn't stop. Teeth nipping at your lips until you give in and even then it's not enough. He wraps one massive hand around your throat and squeezes.

"Kiss me back," he breathes, his lips just an inch from yours.

You kiss him and he takes it like you're everything he's ever dreamed about, the prize he's somehow earned.

After that, he spends a lot more time exploring your body. It's like he needed to get some of that desperation out of his system before he could think straight.

He's less feverish when he touches you, but no less impatient. He pries your thighs apart with one brutal yank and drops his face to your pussy. You try and jerk away from him, try and close your legs despite the massive forearms keeping them spread. You don't want him there. It's too intimate, it's too vulnerable. Hasn't he taken enough?

He licks you like he has no shame. Not even a little shy about having his tongue deep in your cunt. He tries different tricks - slow and sensual, rough, tight little flicks. He doesn't seem to care how you respond to any of it. It's more so an experiment to see which way he enjoys eating you out.

You cum on his tongue, your eyes screwed shut in guilt. You hope he won't notice, hope he'll just get bored and leave you alone.

He growls in a pleased sort of way, looking up at you with his mouth and chin slick. Oh, he definitely noticed.

You can't meet his eyes after that.

He's not a doomsday prepper. Or at least not exactly. But everything he has is off the grid. A house with its own solar panels and borehole, no technology except for his old fashioned satellite phone.

He doesn't talk much. Not even when he's fucking you. You might get the occasional good girl or a snarl for you to take it, take it just like that.

But he doesn't talk. Doesn't comfort you, doesn't insult you, doesn't even explain himself. (Though you suppose the way he holds you at night - tight, like you're going to be ripped away from him if he doesn't sink his claws in - is explanation enough).

He has money. Blood money you suppose. He doesn't go to work or leave the house much but still manages to buy you all sorts of expensive things. Silk negligees, satin panties, scented candles that melt into body oil. You aren't sure why he bothers. He's usually too impatient to appreciate any of it - most of the panties end up a torn, wet mess by the time he's done with you.

You look through his closet one day. There's a box full of military patches - Blackwater, Raytheon, MPR, a dozen more you don't recognise. And you know for a fact they aren't just some stupid collectibles, aren't there just so he can play out some militaristic power fantasy. He really worked for these companies. The patches feel real - their quality designed for hard weather and harder work. You understand him a little better after seeing them.

You don't know him. Don't recognise him in the slightest. He's a stranger to you - to the point you don't even know his name. At first you assume he took you because you were the only one stupid enough to get caught. But a few days with him and you realise that's not true at all. He knows you.

He feeds you your favourite cereal every morning, even though you can tell by his frown that he doesn't approve of your dietary choices. He has a closet packed full of your clothes. You thought he somehow raided your house but it's all new. He went out and bought exact copies of all your regular outfits, down to the tiny Victoria's Secret thongs that you like.

How? How could he gather so much information about your life while you didn't even realise you were being watched?

He takes you down to his basement one day, when you've been particularly insistent about asking him who he is. There are rows and rows of guns. Semi and fully automatic rifles, sniper rifles, shotguns. Shit you aren't even sure is fully legal.

You aren't sure why he's showing you this. Is he trying to scare you? Is he trying to goad you into escaping just so he'll have an excuse to punish you?

You look into his eyes - monster, monster in the shape of a man - and finally realise what he's trying to say.

No one is coming to save you. No one even knows where you are. But if by some slim chance they try and take you away, they'd better hope to be fucking bulletproof.

You stop asking him about himself after that.

He decides he wants anal one day in the shower. He's pressed up against your back and running his cock up and down between your ass. The tip keeps getting caught on your puckered entrance and maybe that's what puts the idea into his head.

You're too slow to realise what he's planning and he has one thick hand gripping the back of your neck before you can even think of running.

It's slow, painful going. He wants to shove himself in like he always does but the nature of it stops him. The tip is the worst part. You bite your lip so hard you can taste blood, your hands and tits both pressed up against the glass.

He presses his lips against your temple, watching your face screw up as he gets deeper.

"It's okay to cry."

There's a sick pleasure to his voice. He flicks your clit and your entire body clenches around him. He hums at that, amused and pleased.

And the worst part? He somehow makes you come. When he's finally loosened you up enough to start thrusting, he hits something deep inside you. He notices it - he notices everything about you. He laughs a little and slips his fingers into your pussy. That's all it takes to send you crashing over the edge, your whole body pulsing and aching all at once.

"That's what I like about you," he snarks into your ear when he's done, "I can make you come no matter how much you don't want it."

He turns you around and looks down at you. The expression on his face makes you want to vomit. He looks at you with a kind of loving softness. A tenderness that ignores all the awful, awful things he's done to you.

If you didn't realise it already, you knew it for a fact right then and there.

He's never going to let you go.

He takes your chin between his fingers and pulls you onto your tip toes to kiss him.

"Why?" you ask for the millionth time since he took you. And for once, he answers.

"Because I could. Because I can."

[padawan-snack-packer]

Don't imagine Rex quietly fixing a younger clone’s armor after hours, muttering, "you gotta take better care of yourself, kid," while he polishes each scratch like it’s sacred.

Don't imagine Fives trying to teach shinies how to play cards, cheating outrageously so they win, whooping and hollering like they’re champions of the galaxy, and slipping a few credits into their pockets when no one's looking.

Don't imagine Cody staying up all night after a tough battle because he's personally stitching medals of bravery into the empty bunks of fallen troopers, so when they’re remembered, they’re remembered right.

Don't imagine Hardcase giving away his dessert rations to any clone who looks even remotely sad, acting like it’s a prank or a dare so no one knows he’s doing it out of love.

Don't imagine Echo re-learning how to shoot left-handed after his injury, stubbornly, painstakingly, so he can teach other injured clones that they’re not broken — just different.

Don't imagine Jesse carving tiny little messages into the walls of every base they’re stationed at. Messages like "501st were here. We fought. We lived." like he's trying to leave proof they mattered.

Don't imagine Dogma leaving tiny notes in people's lockers that just say "you’re doing good." "you’re brave." "I believe in you." — and then feeling too shy to admit it was him.

Don't imagine Wolffe pretending to be annoyed when Boost and Sinker sneak stray animals into the barracks, but secretly building a little hidden shelter for them behind the hangar.

Don't imagine Kix memorizing the medical charts of every single brother in his battalion — birthdays, allergies, old injuries — because he doesn’t trust the GAR systems to care enough (and he's 30000% right).

Don't imagine Tup tending to a tiny makeshift garden in the middle of a warzone with whatever seeds and scraps he can find, because "something’s gotta grow, sir."

Don't imagine Rex carrying every goodbye letters and notes he never got to say or give tucked in the seams of his armor or in a chest under his bed — every brother he couldn’t save, every friend he couldn’t reach — and still standing up the next morning because someone has to lead, and if not him, then who?

Don't imagine Waxer carrying around a crumpled, dirty drawing of Numa from Ryloth in a hidden pocket inside his armor, smoothing it out and smiling every time he feels like the war is eating him alive.

Don't imagine Boil pretending to grumble about it but secretly checking the drawing too, mouthing, "stay safe, little one," before every mission because part of his heart never left Ryloth.

Don't imagine Bly sketching little comic strips in the margins of his field reports to make Aayla laugh during debriefings — and still carrying the last one he never got to show her, tucked inside his chest plate.

Don't imagine Colt teaching his new ARC trainees how to properly tie a tourniquet and lecturing them seriously, but at the end quietly handing each of them a little lucky charm, like an old Republic credit or a braided cord, "for good luck, kid."

Don't imagine Appo still wearing a piece of Fives' blue paint on his armor as a "tradition" without telling anyone where it came from or why it matters so much.

Don't imagine Fox locking himself in his office after long shifts guarding Coruscant because he can’t stand seeing the brothers’ faces when they look at him like he’s a stranger now — so he sits in the dark and listens to the old 501st comms chatter recordings, just to feel something again.

Don't imagine Jesse and Kix starting a stupid prank war in the barracks where they replace each other's ration packs with terrible "mystery meat," laughing until Rex threatens to demote them — but Kix sneaks Rex a spiked caf packet later as revenge.

Don't imagine Tup painting tiny flowers on the inside of his helmet where no one can see them, tiny bursts of color against the cold plastoid — because he wants to carry beauty into battle even if no one else knows.

Don't imagine Dogma standing at the memorial wall and reading every single name out loud, even the ones he never knew, because he thinks someone should.

Don't imagine Waxer and Boil talking about "after the war" plans, like opening a repair shop on Ryloth, taking in lost kids, making sure no one else has to grow up the way they did — and laughing about it like it could actually happen.

Don't imagine Fives pulling a prank so chaotic that even Rex laughs — real, loud, helpless laughter — and Fives looking absolutely stunned before grinning like he'd just been handed the whole galaxy.

Don't imagine Rex tracing the scars on his hands sometimes without realizing, as if he’s trying to memorize every mistake, every battle, every time he almost didn’t make it — and then closing his fist around them like a promise to keep going.

Don't imagine Kix secretly saving every "thank you" note the boys have ever given him — crumpled sticky notes, bad handwriting, a piece of torn armor that just says "thanks doc" — tucked into his med kit like the most valuable supplies he owns.

[invoncible]

KEEP AWAY with the INVINCIBLE VARIANTS ! ✧˚. — after finding you in this universe, they're not gonna let you go! w/ mohawk, viltrumite, no goggles w/ gn! reader cw. suggestive. no goggles is a freak

— a continuation of running into the variants during the war :)

"donald, give me some good news." cecil had his hands on his hips as he stared at all the destruction broadcasted to the pentagon control room.

"uh... some variants seem to be slowing down on their escapades, sir."

"that could go both ways," cecil's eyes narrowed. "depending on what they've decided to do instead."

the big screen zeroed in on a version of mark dragging some random through the air. the blood drained from cecil's face as he walked closer, eyes narrowing at the footage.

"who the fuck is that?" cecil snapped. he deprived them of the chance to respond when he followed up with, "get me an ID on that kid. and prep the next squad of reanimen to go after them."

now, did cecil really think that was gonna do anything against him? he was hopeful, but his top priority was saving a life. but mark was not going to make that easy for him.

MOHAWK MARK

mark was having the time of his life! he was set to conquer dimensions, he'd killed so many people, and he was making out with the love of his life on the roof of some random building against the napalm skyline.

he was so content kissing you silly. imposing his body into your space, his forearm flattened against the wall behind you right next to your head, his other tilting your jaw up; being in your arms felt like coming home, and he'd kill anyone to stay there.

his eyes only broke open when he heard the wailing screams of cecil's undead soldiers in the distance. he sighed heavily, pulling away slowly and smiling proudly when he swiped his thumb over your swollen lips.

"c'mon, baby," he muttered lowly, pulling you in his arms. he scoffed amusedly at your dazed state, pressing one last kiss to the fat of your cheeks before his feet left the ground. "some bad guys are tryna take you from me."

"who?" you responded, wrapping your arm around his shoulders.

"no one you need to worry your pretty little head about!" he laughed, taking off into the sky. "i'm not letting anyone ruin this."

you could only hold on for your life as he wove through the clouds, avoiding the squadron of reanimen pursuing him.

"mark!" you screamed, ducking into his chest as one frantically launched itself into the air, swiping at your head.

"yeah, hold on, baby." mark's grin would scare you if you hadn't realized how devoted he was to you within the hours of meeting him. "i've got you."

an undead solider leaped into the air, clasping its metal hand around his shin and letting its weight drag him down. mark grit his teeth, swinging his leg in an attempt to shake it off.

but the soldier held firm, climbing up mark's body.

"are you fucking kidding me?" mark groaned in annoyance. he turned to you. "i'm gonna need you to trust me, y/n." you felt his grip around you loosen.

your body tensed, nails digging into his shoulder. "no—"

"trust me." he braced himself, muscles coiling as he prepared to throw you.

"mark, what—"

"it's gonna take a minute, tops, and i'll catch you."

"what the fuck?!"

"pretty please with a cherry on top?"

catch me? your eyes blew open, grappling at his arms even as he lowered you down before catapulting you into the air.

mark immediately turned to the bitch on his leg, grabbing its throat and twisting until its head popped off. he shifted his weight as he zipped through the rest of the hordes of reanimen, ripping them limb from limb.

all the while you were on the verge of passing out, falling from who knows how high back onto the abandoned streets. you regretted all your life choices in that moment, especially getting involved with this half-bald freak of nature.

your stomach lurched as the ground rushed up to meet you. you barely had time to scream before something caught you midair, arms locking around you like a vice. the impact rattled through your bones, but before you could process the relief, you realized it wasn’t mark—it was one of the sentries he was fighting. held in someone’s arms for the second time that day, you were whisked away from the battlefield, your head spinning.

"what the fuck is going on?" you whispered to yourself, dizzy and lightheaded from your some-hundred ft. fall.

mark's head turned as if he had a sixth sense. he saw the red light fading in the distance. he snapped the final limb before ricocheting towards you.

his hands curled around the base of its neck, stopping its escape in its tracks. "think you got something of mine..." he said lowly, lifting the cyborg off the ground.

its jaw snapped wildly, thrashing to try and dislodge itself from his grip. mark clicked his tongue, laughing. "aww, look, y/n!" he grinned and pointed his free hand to the reaniman. "it's trying to get away!"

you just stared at him, dumbfounded. thankfully, he got his satisfaction and snapped the neck of the soldier, wrapping an arm around your waist as he tossed the dead agent over the rooftop.

"there," he pressed his lips to the side of your head as he took to the sky again. "see? wasn't so bad. now, where were we?"

you rolled your eyes, but rested your head against his shoulder anyways.

VILTRUMITE MARK

"first, we'll get married."

"married?"

"as soon as possible."

"uh-huh."

"then kids."

"kids?!"

"at least... four."

you rolled your eyes, shaking your head with a smile. reaching over, you took a french fry from the package he was holding (the same one he’d terrorized a McDonald's to get for you). you two were sitting atop the golden gate bridge, and for some reason, the shitshow beneath your feet didn't make you feel queasy anymore.

mark, as you've learned, saved the softest spot in his heart for you and his mother. he was adamant on just talking to you, rekindling the love he knew he had for you.

"it seems like you're trying to replace your y/n with me." you hum, passing him a look. "we're not the same person."

he shook his head, resting his head in your lap. you softened against your will, dragging your nails against his scalp.

"you say that like it matters." he sighed, eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzled into your thighs. "you’re mine. you’ve always been mine. doesn’t matter what version of you i started with—i like this one just fine."

"that's—"

mark's head hit the cool metal of the bridge in the next second, his eyes flying open as he saw a squadron of reanimen bolting away with you in their arms.

his eye twitched, a crazed genre of rage rushing through his veins. not again. not my y/n. he shot off the landing after them.

other soldiers fell out of formation to slow him down, thrusting the reinforced soles of their feet into his face. he barely flinched, grabbing anything he could and throwing them off into the distance. carnage could come later; right now, he needed you back with him.

what was cecil thinking sending these zombies after the mark raised on viltrum? mark shut that whole thing down real quick, snatching you by your waist and throwing you over his shoulder as he mopped the rest of them up.

he held you in front of him, a frown on his lips as he asked oh-so-gently, "are you okay?"

brain rattled by being treated like a football, you settled for nodding. your eyes drifted behind him, too slow to warn him about the lone zombie throttling through the air towards him.

the sentry's feet slammed into mark's back. its hand grabbed onto you, preventing you from being sent to the ground with mark. you dangled in the air, watching the asphalt below crack under the impact of his fall.

"mark!" you yelled after him, gagging in disgust when you were brought closer to the agent's rotting flesh. "shit—"

below, mark stood slowly, letting the gravel fall off his white uniform. he exhaled in annoyance, like a bull grunting before charging. he watched you struggle in the soldier's arms as you were carried farther and farther away, and he's never felt his heart beat so erratically.

he zipped towards you. a sonic boom tore through the air as he slammed into the reaniman's side, driving it into the ground. right before the agent could be reduced to paste on the pavement, you were ripped from its grasp into mark’s.

he barely spared a glance at the corpse, scowling as he shifted his grip on you. his next words were muttered, spoken more to himself than to you.

"more reason this stupid planet needs our oversight. they waste their time with their arrogant pursuits." he sneered, flying to another location you two could be alone.

your pulse began to steady, body sinking against his.

mark exhaled, softer this time. his grip around you tightened, but his lips were gentle when they pressed against your temple. then your cheek, then your lips—languid, warm and slow, savoring the way you felt in his arms.

"they could never keep us apart." he murmured against your lips. "if they want to figure that out the hard way... so be it."

NO GOGGLES MARK

mark came back to you, like he promised. he wasn't going to miss the opportunity in front of him! you handled him so well.

there was nowhere he wanted to be other than under you, your hands wrapped around his neck. at first you were weirded out. he claimed you were together in another dimension, and with everything he knew about you, you believed him. now you were just... intrigued.

"squeeze harder, baby, come on." he gasped, winking up at you in his delirium. "i can take it."

you pouted, eyebrows knitting. "i don't like this game." you needed to work up to the level he was expecting from you, as much as you were enjoying this too.

he laughed hoarsely, curling his fingers around your wrists. "we got a couple more we can play. but i dunno if you'd want to do them all out in the open."

you rolled your eyes, a small chuckle slipping through your lips. you dragged your nails down his chest, noting the way he shivered. the maniacal grin you've come to know him for grew on his face once again.

"i wouldn't mind, of course." his eyes glinted with a twisted delight, his hands squeezing at the fat of your thighs. "don't think i can wait any longer, actually."

"you might just get lucky," you giggled so sweetly that mark's fucked up mind paused its depraved thoughts to really take it in.

he began to respond when the rooftop caved under you. soldier after soldier emerged through the hole, bombarding you with numbers. their half-metal bodies blotted out the setting sun. mark growled in frustration, swiping through the swarm. when the smoke cleared, you were nowhere to be found.

"fuck," he chuckled, cracking his neck. "making me chase you, huh?"

mark grinned, tilting his head as he watched them try to drag you away. fun! did they really think they could outpace him?

he shot forward, cracking through the air like a bullet. he didn’t even slow down as his fist caved into the first reaniman’s spine, sending it crashing into the pavement below. the next got a foot to the chest—its entire torso collapsing under the force, mechanical parts sparking and hissing as they fell.

you yelped as one tried to launch itself away, still holding you tight in its arms. mark barely had to think yet he caught its ankle, spun it mid-air, and slammed it into the ground so hard it cratered on impact.

you didn't have the time to register you were falling; you landed in his arms a second later.

"there we go," he hummed, dusting debris off your clothes. "still breathing?" he pressed his ear to your chest, heat blooming across his skin with every thundering beat of your heart, head rising and falling as you inhaled and exhaled.

your chest heaved, adrenaline buzzing under your skin. he laughed, delighted by the look on your face.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face up. "hey, don't tap out yet. you said i was getting lucky."

"i said you might get lucky." you corrected, even though you already decided how the night was going to go.

he grinned. "will you actually choke me out this time?"

"i'll fucking slap you." you hummed, a pleasant breeze drifting past your face as he carried you off to a more secluded location.

"i love you so fucking much." he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. his hands tightened around you. when you looked up, he was biting his lip to conceal his excitement.

"this planet better give you a medal of honor or some shit the way you're saving lives right now," he chuckled, leaning down and gnawing on the fluff of your cheek. "how long do you think you can keep me occupied?"

he didn’t need to hear your answer—he was already planning to keep you up all night. but the look in your eyes told him he didn’t have to do much convincing.

© invoncible

[rafes-slut]

Your enemie dares you during truth or dare to fuck him

Pairing: enemies! Rafe cameron x reader

Warning: Enemies-to-lovers, hate sex, explicit smut, rough sex, degradation, dirty talk, bruising grip, light choking, slight dom!Rafe, unprotected sex, intense angst, strong language.

---

The party was already a mess of sweaty bodies, cheap liquor, and poor decisions. You never wanted to come in the first place, but your friends insisted. So here you were, sandwiched between people you barely tolerated, playing the dumbest game of all time—Truth or Dare.

And of course, Rafe Cameron had to be there.

If there was one person on this planet you genuinely could not stand, it was him. His cocky smirks, his rich-kid arrogance, the way he carried himself like the world owed him something—it made your blood boil. Every time you were in the same room, it ended the same way: insults exchanged like gunfire, stares that could kill, and the occasional near-physical altercation when things got really bad.

You didn’t know why he hated you so much. But honestly? You hated him right back.

So when the bottle spun and landed on you, the last person you wanted daring you to do anything was the smug asshole sitting across from you.

Rafe leaned forward, one arm resting lazily on his knee, his sharp blue eyes locking onto yours with something you didn’t like. Something dangerous.

Then, his lips curled into that signature smirk. The one that made you want to slap him.

"Fuck me."

Silence.

The entire circle erupted in laughter, cheers, and gasps. Someone choked on their drink. Another girl squealed in disbelief. But all you could do was sit there, your body frozen as his words settled over you like a thick, suffocating fog.

He wasn’t joking.

Rafe sat there, cool and collected, like he hadn’t just dropped the most insane dare of the night. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes told a different story—he was waiting. Daring you to say no.

You should say no.

You should.

But then you thought about it. Thought about all the times he got under your skin, all the times he pushed your buttons just to see you snap. The pent-up rage, the tension that followed you both like a storm cloud, the way your fights were always so personal.

Maybe this was how it needed to end. Maybe this was how you finally put an end to whatever this was between you.

You lifted your chin, your pulse hammering in your throat.

"Fine."

Rafe’s smirk deepened, and for the first time that night, you felt a shiver crawl down your spine.

The game barely mattered after that. The moment someone else took their turn, you were already standing, already heading upstairs, already knowing that he was right behind you.

-----

The second the bedroom door shut, everything exploded.

Rafe barely let you breathe before he was on you, shoving you back against the wall with a force that made the framed picture rattle. His hands gripped your face roughly, fingers digging into your jaw as his mouth crashed onto yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a war.

His lips were demanding, biting, forcing you to open for him, and you refused to let him win. You kissed him back just as hard, your fingers fisting in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to make him grunt. His grip on your waist tightened in response, nails digging into your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"You’re such a fucking brat," he growled against your lips.

"And you’re a fucking dick," you spat back, shoving at his chest.

But it didn’t push him away. If anything, it made him hungrier.

Rafe’s hands were on your shirt before you could process it, yanking it up and over your head in one swift motion. You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you again, pressing his body against yours, pinning you between him and the wall.

"You gonna back out now?" he taunted, his lips brushing against your ear. "Gonna run away like a scared little—"

You cut him off by grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him into another bruising kiss.

"Shut the fuck up and take your clothes off, Cameron."

A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, and fuck, it shouldn’t have sounded so good. His hands dropped to your jeans, unbuttoning them so fast it made your head spin. You kicked them off, your heart hammering as he reached for his own belt, yanking it open with an almost angry pull.

Your nails dragged down his chest, scratching at the skin as you pushed his shirt up. He took over, ripping it off and tossing it aside. His body was all lean muscle, tanned skin stretched over sharp lines and hard ridges, and you hated how fucking perfect he looked.

"Staring?" he smirked, breathless.

You rolled your eyes. "Hardly."

Rafe’s eyes darkened. Before you could react, he grabbed you by the thighs and lifted you, forcing a gasp from your lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he carried you to the bed, tossing you onto the mattress with zero hesitation.

"You think you’re so fucking tough," he muttered, climbing over you, his body pressing you down into the sheets. "Always running your mouth. Always looking at me like you want to kill me."

You panted, your nails raking down his back as his lips found your neck, biting hard enough to leave marks.

"Maybe I do."

Rafe pulled back, his smirk twisting into something more dangerous. His hands slid down your body, gripping your thighs before prying them apart. His fingers ghosted over your core, teasing, taunting, not giving you what you wanted.

"Then why are you so wet for me, huh?"

Your breath hitched, your body betraying you. You hated him, you did. But fuck, the way he was touching you, the way his breath was hot against your skin—it was making you lose your mind.

"Shut up," you snapped, trying to shift your hips away, but he grabbed them, holding you down.

"Nah, you don’t get to act shy now," he mused, slipping a finger under the waistband of your underwear. "You’re the one who took the dare, sweetheart."

Before you could throw another insult, he slid your panties down your legs, letting them drop to the floor. Then he was on you again, his mouth crashing into yours as his fingers finally touched where you needed him.

Your back arched as he ran them through your slick folds, the touch too light, too teasing.

"Rafe," you growled in frustration, nails digging into his shoulders.

"What?" he taunted. "Thought you hated me?"

"I do," you hissed. "Now either fuck me or—"

He cut you off by slamming two fingers inside you, making you gasp, your words dying in your throat. His smirk grew as he pumped them slowly, watching your reaction like he was studying you.

"That’s what I thought."

You refused to give him the satisfaction of begging, but fuck, he was good at this. He curled his fingers just right, hitting that perfect spot that made your legs tremble. Your breathing turned ragged, your body betraying you completely.

"Look at you," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "So desperate. And for me of all people. That must kill you, huh?"

You wanted to punch him. You wanted to scream. But most of all, you wanted more.

"Rafe," you grit out.

"Say it," he murmured, his fingers still working inside you. "Say you want me."

Your pride fought against it, but your body won.

"Fuck you," you bit out.

"That’s the plan, sweetheart."

And then he was lining himself up, his tip teasing your entrance, making your breath catch.

"You sure you can handle this?" he asked, smirking.

You grabbed the back of his neck and yanked him down.

"Try me."

Rafe groaned as he pushed in, stretching you open inch by inch. Your nails clawed down his back, the sting making him curse under his breath. He didn’t stop, didn’t give you a second to adjust—he just took.

"Fuck," he muttered against your lips, his hands gripping your thighs as he sank deeper.

The stretch was almost unbearable, but the pleasure that followed was instant, overwhelming. You gasped as he pulled back and thrust again, harder this time.

"God, you feel so fucking good," he groaned, his forehead dropping against yours.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

He set a brutal pace, each thrust deep and rough, making the bed creak beneath you. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his breath coming in sharp pants. Every time you moaned, he swallowed the sound with a desperate, biting kiss.

"This what you wanted?" he muttered against your lips. "To be fucked like this? To have me ruin you?"

You could only nod, your body completely at his mercy.

"No smart-ass comments now, huh?" he taunted. "Nothing to say?"

"Shut up," you managed to choke out, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist.

He chuckled darkly, gripping your chin and forcing you to look at him.

"Nah, I like hearing you like this," he murmured.

His pace grew erratic, each thrust harder, deeper, sending you hurtling toward the edge. You could feel it building, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your stomach.

"Rafe—"

"I know," he muttered, his thumb slipping between your bodies to rub at your clit.

That was all it took. The coil inside you snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cried out his name as you came, your body tightening around him, pulling him over the edge with you.

With a low groan, he buried himself deep one last time, his body shuddering as he found his own release.

The room was silent except for the sound of your heavy breathing.

Rafe collapsed beside you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Then, he turned his head to look at you.

"That was a mistake," you muttered.

His smirk was back.

"Yeah? Didn’t sound like you thought that a few minutes ago."

You scowled, shoving him, but he only laughed.

"Face it, sweetheart," he murmured, rolling onto his side. "You can hate me all you want, but that? That’s happening again."

[eraenaa]

Virginal Whore

Aemond Targaryen x Celtigar Reader

Synopsis: Prince Aemond sets out to find a whore to warm his bed; he finds a virgin instead. 

Warnings: Dub-Con, Oral Sex (f receiving), Mature, 18+, P in V Sex, Not Proof Read

Word Count: 3,345

Sequel: Prince's Whore

Strife, suffering, and sorrow are all the Prince now feel— perhaps even then. He could no longer stomach the tolls of the war that was reigning havoc on the lands of Westeros. He sought a moment of reprieve, solace in the arms of a lover that he could take into his bed. Harrenhall was bent to his will; everyone was taken and at his mercy. He had women in his grasp, serving girls and some highborn ladies, even a bastard of House Strong, yet as comely and shapely as they were, none were able to stir the need brewing deep inside him. He could not find the want to take them into his bed and warm his cock.

He was, for a moment, entranced by a witch who held the name Rivers. The sorceress tried to seduce him with her lingering glances and mysterious presence, and he was ready to give in, to take her to his bed, but he had caught her placing her spell upon him. Slipping a vial of an unknown substance into his wine, Aemond could not tolerate such acts. He invited her into his chambers, luring her in with the pretense that he had succumbed to her charms, and as she sank to her knees before him, his cock in her mouth, and he was on the verge of spilling his seed in her throat, he took a dagger and slit her throat— him coming undone as her lifeless body fell and her blood pooled onto the floor. 

That sufficed the need in Aemond for a short moment, but just a few days later, he found himself in want of release again— something that would quench the ache in his loins and the fire in his veins. Not just a mouth around his cock but a cunt as well.

He blended into the night and reached town; slipping into a whore house, he heard a few of the soldiers muttering about. When he entered the establishment, nothing of note came into view. It was the same as any houses of pleasure he had stumbled upon during the night. He was in desperate need of company. Scattered around him were the perfumed bodies that masked the smell of vile scents wafted about the room. His eye searched for something that could possibly sedate his raging cock. 

He peeled away his hood, uncaring that the whores and their patrons could see his silvery locks; surely they have more pleasing matters to attend to rather than his presence. As he announced himself, he was quickly approached by a rather well-dressed man who he supposed was the owner. “My prince, welcome… you honor us with your presence.” He bowed lowly, and Aemond simply scanned his eye about the room once more. Without another word, the owner snapped his finger, and Aemond saw some workers hastily running across the establishment, surely readying themselves for him. 

Aemond was led deeper into the den of depravity and into a secluded room where a bed waited along with a line of whores on their knees, waiting for the prince to take his pick. Aemond still paid no mind to the owner as he tried to sell the girls. Aemond assessed each one of them, presenting him with their seductive gazes and trying to allure them with their smiles, pushing together their breasts in the hope that would press even further desire into the prince. 

He sneered as he almost finished assessing the lines of girls, ready to demand the owner to present him with a new batch, but his gaze was then caught by a cowering figure. Her eyes were planted on the floor, and she had used her long, flowing hair to cover her body, trying to display at least one ounce of modesty. 

Aemond strayed closer to you, his curiosity peaking. When the owner’s gaze noticed the prince had focused on you, he quickly stood by your side, who was kneeling at the end of the line. “A newcomer, my prince,” He said and forcefully yanked the back of your head in order to raise your face so the prince could see your features. “I think you would like her, my prince… the prettiest one we have.” 

Aemond said no word nor made any reaction, only studying the way your lips quivered and your eyes pooled with tears as you tried to avoid his gaze. “If her face does not please you enough, I am inclined to tell you that she is a highborn lady snatched away from her traitorous lord father’s care at the start of the war,” He added in pride. It was most beneficial for his business to have an asset such as yourself. Pretty, filled with youth, and had the blood of nobles coursing through your veins. 

Aemond blinked as he felt his cock strain further into his trousers. You were certainly far from his usual type, but only you had stirred such a need in him that he had not felt in many moons. “And if that still isn’t enough to please you, your highness… I shall as well inform you that she is a virgin. Untouched by any man… but I do warn you that may not be the case in a short while.” The owner heinously laughed. Aemond did not know how to take such facts. He was accustomed to experienced hands bringing him pleasure and comfort… but there was just something in your innocence that he found wholly more appealing. 

He turned to the owner and gave a nod. You breathed sharply as the room quickly emptied out, leaving you alone in the presence of a cruel prince. You were still on your knees, and your gaze quickly panted themselves on the floor once more. Aemond placed his hood by a chair and assessed your trembling frame that still knelt on the cold floor. “What house do you come from?” He questioned and brought a chalice already filled with wine to his lips. He drank two sips from it, but you still have not answered his query. “Speak, girl. Are you a mute?” He questioned, stepping before you. “N— no… my prince,” You say, ever so silently. He reached to grab your face in his hands, his fingers squeezing your soft cheeks together, a horrified expression screaming in your eyes. 

“What traitorous house do you come from?” He almost spat. “House… House C—Celtigar, your Highness,” You almost cried, and Aemond was silently surprised. The blood that coursed through your veins was not from any plain noble house; the blood in your veins was the blood of Old Valyria. “Hm,” Aemond hummed as his fingers that held your cheeks savored the way your soft flesh felt. “And how have they taken you?” He questioned and raised the cup of wine to his lips once more, waiting for your answer. 

“I was to be sent to Essos, but they— they commandeered the ship and slain the captain, and I was— was sold off from one man to another.” You explained, your hands clenching at the sheer fabric they made you wear, the material so thin that it did nothing to hide your body. 

You boldly raised your gaze at the prince, hoping to find at least one speck of empathy in his lone eye, but you paled further as you saw a sinister smirk rise to his lips. How fortunate was Aemond to stumbled to the whorehouse at this moment, having the pick of the litter. An overly pretty, untouched noblewoman is now kneeling before him; the gods seem to take pity on his needing state that had plagued him for moons that had left him restless and irritated. “Stand,” he commanded and finally let go of his hold on your cheeks. Watching as you slowly and wobbly obeyed and stood on your feet. 

He raked his eye upon your body, from your pretty face to the apex of your neck to your breast that hid behind the curtain of your hair. His gaze continued to travel downward from the curves of your hips and waist to your sex that was hidden by a dark shadow and to your plush thighs— as he saw the limbs of lavish flesh, a deeper sense of lust overcame him. He placed the chalice down and stepped closer to you. Aemond’s smirk widened as he heard a whimper leave your lips and your eyes tightly closed as he tore away the sheer fabric they made you wear. 

He threaded closer and brushed away the hair that covered your frame, feeling you shiver beneath his touch as his hand trailed to the small of your waist, then upward to your ample tit, your nipple pebbling beneath his cold and calloused touch. He lowered his head and placed it in the nook of your neck, inhaling your scent that was not riddled with the generic perfume that they bathed the whores with. Compared to them— you were a breath of fresh air. 

You gasped and turned stiff as the prince, without warning, pushed you upon the silk-covered bed. You cowered towards the headboard, petrified at the sinister smirk on the prince’s lip, completely enjoying your fear. “I must admit… I’ve never fucked a virgin before,” He said lowly as he took off his tunic, and you looked away as you felt your cheeks heat. “I’ve always preferred my women to be ones with experience… but there is, I suppose, something appealing in being the one first to taint a maiden— perhaps that is why my brother could smell them from a mile away,” Aemond said, a bit amused as he now realized the reason for his brother’s preference of seeking out virgins to be brought to his bed. 

Aemond undid his trousers, standing bare before you as you curled into a ball at the head of the bed. Aemond relished in your cry for help as he pulled you toward the edge of the bed— thrashing upon his hold. You feel your tears slip from your eyes as the prince spreads your legs, and your cunt is fully exposed before him. You inhaled a sharp breath as you felt his breath fanning your folds, assessing you. Aemond bore witness to the truth that you truly were a virgin, your maidenhead still intact and just waiting for him to be ruined. 

He thought about how to proceed; usually, he would have a maiden on their knees or on her stomach and take her from behind— no tenderness or foreplay, simply taking what he wanted and be done with all the bother. But somehow, your cunt was calling for his lips. He never found the appeal of it, feasting on a cunt that had been used and abused by differing men, sullying himself with the taste of other men on the body of a woman. However, you were untouched, and Aemond indulged himself with an act he was rather more curious about. 

You froze as you felt the prince’s fingers trace along the slit of your cunt, the sensation new and disturbing as no one had ever touched you in such a place before. You felt his hand press your fold together, his eye on every movement you made. Aemond marveled at your cunt, never truly assessing one before— he never thought a cunt could be so… captivating. When he ran his fingers in the middle of your slit again, he chuckled darkly as he felt wetness gathering in them; despite your reluctance and defiance, your cunt was begging to be touched. Aemond’s mouth salivated at the thought. 

A gasp left your lips, and you tried to close your legs as you felt the prince’s tongue replace his finger and lick a clean stripe in the middle of your folds. Aemond could not help but moan at the taste of you, tart and sweet, and he began to wonder if this was how his depravity would begin, with a taste of a virginal whore.

You bit your tongue as you felt his lips latch on the sensitive pearl, his tongue darting out and licking you further, teasing your hole and bringing further wetness. “Stop acting so demure and coy; you enjoy this, do you not, my lady?” He menacingly said against you, refusing to let his lips stray away from the sweet nectar of your womanhood. 

You shook your head and felt your tears fall further, but any denial you do did nothing to stop the arousal dripping from your cunt. Aemond chuckled and used his tongue to tease you further, slipping it into the void of pleasure. 

You finally let out a moan, one that was unexpected, and you felt shame as you found pleasure in such actions. That spurred further determination in the prince, darting his tongue in and out of you, his fingers sinking into your plush thighs as he, too, was overwhelmed by the pleasure of feasting on your cunt. Your sensitive pearl rubbed itself against the high bridge of his nose, your blood alight, your skin glimmering with a thin sheet of sweat, and your body ready to succumb to pleasure. Aemond felt it too, that you were close to what he concluded to be the first climax of your life, your body agitated and uncertain, your moans wry and held fear. He was debating if he should let you come undone now or wait when until his cock was buried deep inside your cunt. He was straying towards the latter, but as the thought of tasting you further infiltrated his mind, the prince obliged you to reach your peak and taste your orgasm. Your uncertain moans turned loud and sure, and your hands instinctively clutched the silver locks of the prince’s hair as you came undone by his tongue. 

Aemond hummed in content, feeling his cock weeping at the taste of you. “I’ve never thought a cunt could taste so delectable,” He mused and planted his weight on his knees, staring down at your bare, flushed body and your face that was still trying to comprehend your first taste of pleasure. 

The prince did not give you much time to grasp what had happened as his rough hands found home on your waist, and his cock was aligned against your dripping entrance. Your pleasured-clad face morphed into one of pain as you felt his length penetrating your undefiled hole. It was mean and sadistic, but Aemond found pleasure in taking away your innocence. He was filled with further satisfaction as he glanced down and saw how his cock was tainted with red, your maidenhead taken by him. 

“What lord will have you now, my lady? Now that you’re the prince’s whore?” He grunted as his cock was fully sheathed inside you, the tip of it brushing a spot he knew all too well. “Are those tears of pain or pleasure?” Aemond taunted as he bent down closer to your face, his fingers brushing away the salty water that spilled from your eyes. “If it is the former, I will try not to take it as an offense. There are worst fates than being my whore, my lady— just ask the girls that served my brother,” He smirked and kissed away your tears, his lips straying further to yours.

He never found much pleasure in the act; he would only sometimes oblige the old madame in his once-favored whorehouse with the act because she seemed quite keen on it, but he never liked the way she tasted on his tongue after. But you, gods, was it too much if he would say that just one taste of you has had him on the verge of addiction?

You took in sharp breaths of pain as the prince thrust into you; he was kind enough to slow down his movements, letting you accustom yourself to his length, but by the second, Aemond was growing impatient. His moves started to move at a faster, almost violent pace, ignoring your cries of pain as he was certain they would soon turn into cries of pleasure. He had never had a cunt as tight as yours before; he had never truly paid enough attention to every fluter, every clench, every movement of the woman he was fucking, but now he could not help but focus on anything that you did underneath him. 

He savored every moan and sigh that left your lips, every line on your furrowed brows, every scratch of your nail on his back as you felt his length rutting inside you. Aemond let out a groan as the moons of need started to overwhelm him. He was close to the peak he desperately sought, but he was genteel enough to coax one out of you first; you were a noble lady; after all, it would be terribly rude of him to leave you need and unsatisfied. 

Aemond straightened his back and felt his cock twitch as he saw the site of you laid before him, your legs on his shoulder, his fingers sinking on your soft thighs, and your tits bouncing at his every thrust. You watched through hazy and pleasured-filled eyes as the prince licked his thumb and placed it flat against your nubbin, and his other hand pressed down on your lower stomach and spurred you further into pleasure. Your lips spewed out his name as you came undone, and the prince was quick to follow you. Filling your cunt with his seed, and finally, Aemond felt relief and satisfaction over him. 

The prince panted heavily as he tried to regain his thoughts; he removed his length from your cunt and felt a lazy grin come to his lips as he saw the essence of both of you spill from your hole. Through your haze, you did not expect the prince to dip down and capture your lips into a kiss once again; tongue sought entrance, and you could not find it in yourself to deny him. 

Both of you panted as your lips parted. You stared into the unique lilac eye of the Targaryen prince and were soon overcome with the implications of what had just happened. Your cheeks further turned red as you avoided his gaze once more, ashamed at how you relished and had enjoyed being defiled by him. 

Aemond smirked and collapsed atop of you, savoring the feel of your intertwined bodies for a moment. You just lay there beneath him, and somehow, that was enough for him. But as he felt your hands wrap around him and your hand went to comb through his hair, he let out a further satisfied sigh at the feeling of comfort he never thought he could find in another. 

It did not take long before Aemond had drifted into slumber. The cacophony of his release, fatigue, and you lulled him into a deep yet quick slumber. When he woke, he found you asleep beath him as well, looking so peaceful with your tear-stained cheeks and plush parted lips. Aemond delicately removed himself from you and silently walked out of the room. 

When you woke, you found a pouch filled with coins by your side and the distant sound of moans and footsteps approaching. You raised the sheet of the bed to cover your naked frame as the curtain was lifted, revealing the silver prince. You stared in confusion as he tossed the dress you wore when you were abducted on the bed. “Get dressed,” You could only stare at him in further confusion, your limbs refusing to move. 

Aemond smirked as the fear returned in your eyes. He was halfway through his return to Harrenhall, but the thought of you haunted him. He finally found the release he sought, and it would be foolish of him to let it wander free. Aemond was a selfish man. He could not oblige the others and let them have a taste of the pleasure that only you could present.  

“Get dressed. I have brought you from your master. You’re all mine now, my lady.” 

[be-xkyy]

𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑅𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙

Warning: Smut, Dubious consent, Forced breeding, Bad language, Alcohol and drugs, Bullying, r4pe.

Divider credits: @cafekitsune ★ @bernardsbendystraws ★

Masterlist

Yandere rival who has known you since you were kids as your parents were old friends and business partners.

Yandere rival who used to constantly bother you when you were kids, pulling your hair, taking your toys away only to run into his mother's arms when you did the same to him, smiling at you when your mother scolded you.

Yandere rival who doesn't improve his attitude over the years and only became more annoying and unbearable, bothering you with unpleasant jokes, bothering you through social media, bothering you at meetings his parents organize (he doesn't want to get your attention at all... ok?).

Yandere rival who you start a real war with when you start going to college (one of the best colleges in the country by the way) competing in everything, who gets the best grades, who has the most important friends, who will have a better future, who is more relevant.

Yandere rival who has been secretly in love with you since you were kids when you pulled his hair hard because he had taken your favorite toy from you, his love (cough obsession) for you was born at that moment.

Yandere rival who always dates girls who look suspiciously like you, same hair color, same eye color, same height... but his relationships never last too long everyone claims he's a womanizer who can't keep it in his pants but the reality is that even though they look like you they're not YOU.

Yandere rival who decides to make a move on you at one of his parents' meetings when you said you're planning on going abroad when you finish college, so he approaches you when you're alone in the kitchen, he casually says that you two should go out sometime since he thinks you'd make an "acceptable" couple, only to get annoyed when you burst out laughing and say you'd rather die than go out with him.

Yandere rival who feels a switch go off inside him at your rejection, he decides to take drastic measures... and during one of the frat parties at a friend's house he makes them put pills in your drink when you're not looking and when you're really drunk (and high) he kindly approaches you and takes you to one of the empty rooms saying something like “I don't want anything bad to happen to you... there are a lot of perverts out there...”

Yandere rival who leaves you in bed his sharp eyes roam over your limp body he leans over you his hands cup your face, his finger rubs your plump lips then his hands move down your neck to your tits he lifts your top and pulls down your bra freeing your tits, he lets out a whistle when he sees your tits and his fingers pinch your nipples the sensation makes your eyes widen and your unfocused vision fixates on him above you and you can only stutter out a.

“D–dariel... w–what... are you doing—?”

Your hands fall to his chest and try to push him away weakly but he just chuckles and his hands grab your wrists pulling them away and holding them above your head, his face is very close to yours his blonde locks brush your forehead and he says in a honeyed voice close to your ear.

“I just want to make you feel good, nothing more... don't fight it baby”

He ignores your stunned moans of protest and uses one of his hands to hold your wrists above your head while his other hand pulls down your skirt and panties freeing your pussy, his fingers playing with your dry entrance, he spits on his fingers and rubs the saliva over your bud lubricating you before pulling down his own pants along with his boxers freeing his cock as a drop of precum glistens on its red tip.

He pumps his cock a few times and when he's satisfied he lines his cock up at your pussy and slowly enters your tight heat he growls as he feels your walls try to accommodate his girth inside of you, he lets go of your wrists and his hands settle on your hips his fingers dig into your skin, he hums as he bottoms out and you gasp softly as his tip touches your womb uncomfortably.

He gives you just a few minutes to adjust before he starts to rock his hips vigorously letting out low growls as you gasp and moan the dirty slapping sound fills the room and you mentally thank him for the loud music from the party downstairs, Dariel leans down kisses and bites your neck as he rams into you mercilessly mumbling against your neck.

“Fuck you're so tight, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this, you're such a perfect little whore”

The assault on your poor pussy spreads and you don't know how much time is passing, you can barely think you feel your brain go blank, Dariel pinches your clit and your legs tense a creamy white ring forms at the base of his cock and you feel your orgasm wash over you like a tidal wave your walls tense on his cock and he growls giving a few more erratic thrusts and then he stops you feel him cum deeply ropes of warm semen fill your womb and he speaks in an agitated voice.

“You won't be able to leave if you get pregnant with my baby will you? Don't worry baby I will marry you after all our parents know that we make a perfect couple, they will be happy to have a grandchild”

[callsigns-haze]

Greatest treasure

Summary: Eris, newly crowned High Lord of Autumn, prepares for a grand ball while keeping his wife and their three-year-old son, Azer, a secret from the courts. During the event, Azer accidentally reveals his fire magic, causing panic and leading the Inner Circle to discover his existence. Meanwhile, Eris and Y/N, lost in their own world, share a passionate moment in the rain before returning to find their son distressed.

Warning: Contains alcohol, cursing, teasing, mentions of smut, kissing, court politics, mentions of war, distress.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x reader

English is not my first language so I apologies for mistakes

Eris stands by the window of Azer’s nursery, the late-afternoon sun casting a warm golden glow over the room. The space is cozy, filled with soft autumn hues—deep oranges, rich reds, and browns, like the leaves of the season his court embodies. Your three-year-old son, Azer, sits on the plush rug near his bed, his copper hair glinting like flames in the light. His amber eyes, so much like his father’s, are rimmed with unshed tears as he clutches a small wooden fox, one of his favourite toys.

“Mama, Dada,” Azer says, his tiny voice trembling. “Why can’t I come? Wanna come, too!”

You kneel beside him, smoothing back a lock of his fiery hair. “Oh, my little love,” you say gently, your heart breaking at the wobble in his voice. “This ball is for grown-ups. You get to stay here and have fun with Miss Lyra tonight.”

“But I wanna see,” he hiccups, his face crumpling as tears begin to fall. He tries to hold them back, but soon, soft sobs wrack his small body. “I wanna be with you, Mama. With Dada.”

Eris moves from the window, his regal presence as commanding as ever, though his sharp features soften as he crouches beside you. He reaches out, his long fingers tenderly brushing away Azer’s tears. “Little firefox,” he murmurs, his voice rich and soothing, “I know you’re upset. But you’re my biggest treasure, and treasures like you need to be kept safe.”

Azer hiccups again, his small chest heaving as he shakes his head. “Not treasure. Azer!” he cries, his voice breaking. “Wanna go with Mama and Dada!”

Eris chuckles softly, though his eyes glisten with emotion. “Oh, you are most definitely Azer,” he says, his lips quirking into a smile. “But you’re also my treasure. And treasures stay where they’re safe. Do you understand, little firefox?”

Azer clings to your dress, burying his face against your leg, his tiny fingers fisting the fabric. His sobs quiet slightly, though his hiccups continue. “No ball,” he mumbles, still unconvinced.

You exchange a glance with Eris, your heart aching at the sight of your son’s distress. Eris leans forward, lifting Azer into his arms despite the toddler’s reluctance to let go of you. “Come here, little one,” Eris says, his voice soft as he cradles Azer against his chest. “I know it’s hard, but I promise we won’t be gone forever. And while we’re away, you’ll have a grand time with Miss Lyra. She’ll tell you stories, maybe even about foxes.”

Azer sniffles, his arms wrapping tightly around Eris’s neck as he presses his tear-streaked face into his father’s shoulder. “Don’t wanna,” he whispers, though his sobs are slowing.

A knock at the door signals Lyra’s arrival. The young fae woman steps inside, her kind smile unwavering even as she takes in the scene. “Hello, Azer,” she says gently. “I hear we’re going to have an adventure tonight.”

Eris looks at her over Azer’s head, his expression unreadable but his tone laced with quiet authority. “Good luck,” he murmurs.

Lyra nods, her smile unwavering. “We’ll be just fine, my lord.”

Gently, Eris pulls Azer away from his shoulder, holding him so they’re eye to eye. “Be good for Miss Lyra, little firefox,” he says softly. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

Azer sniffles but nods reluctantly, his small hand reaching out for you one last time. You kiss his forehead, murmuring reassurances before Eris passes him to Lyra.

As you and Eris leave the nursery, the sound of Azer’s soft hiccups follows you, tugging at your heart. Eris takes your hand in his, squeezing gently. “He’ll be fine,” he says, though you suspect he’s reassuring himself as much as you.

Eris strides down the corridor beside you, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back. The grandeur of the Autumn Court is on full display tonight, with servants bustling to and fro, preparing the grand hall for the event of the decade. Despite the meticulous perfection surrounding you—the gleaming floors, the intricate floral arrangements of russet and gold—you can feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a flame.

His jaw is set, his golden eyes narrowed in thought, and his long fingers occasionally twitch at his side, as though yearning for something to grip. You pause mid-step, turning to face him fully.

“Eris,” you say softly, resting a hand on his chest. “We still have two hours before the ball. What’s on your mind?”

He blinks down at you, momentarily startled, before his expression softens. Still, the strain remains etched in his features. “All the High Lords and their families under one roof,” he murmurs, his voice low and thoughtful. “It’s an honour, but also a risk. There’s no telling what alliances may shift tonight—or what grievances may surface.”

You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he leans into your touch for just a moment, closing his eyes. “You’ve worked so hard for this, Eris,” you say, your voice steady and reassuring. “Your father ruled with fear, but you’ve brought peace. Everyone will see that tonight.”

His lips twitch into a faint smile, though his eyes remain shadowed. “Peace is fragile,” he replies, his hand covering yours where it rests on his face. “One misstep, one word out of place, and it can shatter.”

Before you can respond, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes down the corridor. You turn just in time to see Lucien rounding the corner, his auburn hair slightly dishevelled as though he’d been in a rush. His russet eye sparkles with mischief, but the golden mechanical one remains as stoic as ever.

“Ah, there you are,” Lucien says, his tone light as he approaches. “And here I thought you might still be in the nursery with Azer. Poor kid looked ready to stage a rebellion when I passed by earlier.”

Eris snorts softly, though the tension in his shoulders eases ever so slightly. “He’s not happy about missing tonight,” he admits, glancing toward the direction of the nursery.

Lucien raises a brow, his trademark smirk firmly in place. “Well, can you blame him? I wouldn’t want to miss a chance to see all the High Lords bickering like children either.”

You laugh, and even Eris’s lips curve into a reluctant smile. “You always know how to lighten the mood, Lucien,” you say, grateful for his timing.

Lucien winks at you, then looks back at his brother. “Don’t let them get to you, Eris. This is your court now. They’re all just guests in your house.”

Eris inclines his head, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. “Wise words,” he says, his tone laced with amusement. “For once.”

Lucien feigns offense, clutching his chest dramatically. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he quips before straightening. “I’ll see you both later. Just try not to burn the place down before the ball starts.”

As he saunters off, you glance at Eris, catching the way his lips have softened into a true smile. For a moment, the weight on his shoulders seems lighter, and you take his hand in yours.

“Lucien’s right,” you say quietly. “This is your court. And tonight, they’ll see the ruler you’ve become.”

Eris squeezes your hand, his gaze holding yours with a warmth that speaks louder than words. “With you by my side,” he murmurs, “I can face anything.”

Eris’s golden eyes hold yours as the tension in his frame melts away, replaced by something softer, more intimate. Without a word, he steps closer, his hand sliding from your waist to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, and presses a feather-light kiss to your lips. It’s tender and unhurried, a quiet moment in the chaos of the day.

When he pulls back, his gaze searches yours, his expression open in a way he allows only for you. “How are you feeling?” he asks softly, his voice low and laced with concern.

You hesitate, glancing down at your joined hands before looking back up at him. “Nervous,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “This is my first ball, Eris. And not just any ball—it’s your ball. Everyone will be watching, judging.”

His brows knit together, and he shakes his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a reassuring smile. “Let them watch,” he says, his tone firm but soothing. “Let them judge. You are my wife, my queen. No opinion matters more than mine, and in my eyes, you are perfection.”

Your chest tightens at his words, emotion welling up inside you. “You make it sound so simple,” you murmur, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

He leans down again, his lips brushing your forehead this time, lingering as though to anchor you. “Because it is,” he murmurs against your skin. “They’ll see your strength, your grace, just as I do. You’ve already won them over, my love. They just don’t know it yet.”

His confidence, steady and unwavering, wraps around you like a protective shield. You nod slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing as you draw strength from his presence. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice steadier now.

Eris straightens, his hand still cradling your face, his thumb tracing idle circles on your cheek. “Thank me later,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes. “After you’ve dazzled them all.”

A laugh escapes you, soft and light, and you realize how much he’s managed to calm you with just a few words and a single kiss. “I’ll hold you to that,” you reply, your smile widening.

“You always do,” he says with a smirk, his fingers lacing through yours as he leads you further down the hall, his hand a steady, grounding presence in yours.

The grand staircase of the Autumn Court’s palace gleams before you, each step a work of art with intricate carvings of leaves and vines, polished to a mirror-like sheen. You descend slowly, your arm looped through Eris’s, the weight of the evening settling over you with each step. The chandeliers above—crafted from amber and crystal—cast a warm glow that dances across the walls, making the entire space seem alive.

As you step onto the marble floor of the ballroom, you pause, taking in the sheer magnitude of the space. The room stretches farther than you remember, its high vaulted ceilings adorned with autumn leaves that seem to flutter as though caught in a gentle breeze. The rich hues of gold, crimson, and burnt orange dominate the décor, and the air is filled with the soft hum of string instruments warming up in the far corner.

You glance around, your brows furrowing slightly as you take in the grandeur. “Did it… get bigger?” you ask, your voice quiet but tinged with awe.

Eris glances down at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Not exactly,” he replies, his tone amused. “Though I did make a few… adjustments.”

“Adjustments?” you repeat, arching a brow as you look back at the ballroom.

He gestures subtly toward the far end of the room, where a raised dais now sits, flanked by towering arrangements of fiery flowers. “The ceiling was enchanted to give the illusion of more space,” he explains, his voice laced with pride. “And the dais was added to ensure everyone has a clear view of their High Lord and Lady tonight.”

You bite back a smile, glancing up at him. “You mean so they can have a clear view of you.”

His golden eyes glint mischievously as he leans in closer, his breath brushing your ear. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, his voice low, “but I suspect they’ll find their gazes drawn to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at his words, but you quickly compose yourself, your gaze sweeping over the ballroom once more. The attention to detail is staggering, from the delicate leaf patterns etched into the marble columns to the soft golden light that seems to bathe everything in warmth. The room hums with anticipation, even though most of the guests have yet to arrive.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you say, your voice soft but sincere.

Eris tilts his head, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “It’s not just for me,” he says quietly. “This is your debut as well. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

Your heart swells at his words, and you squeeze his arm gently, your nerves settling ever so slightly. “It’s perfect,” you assure him, and for the first time that evening, you truly believe it.

As you and Eris walk further into the grand ballroom, the low hum of the musicians tuning their instruments fills the air, mingling with the soft rustle of your gown as it sweeps across the polished marble floor. Despite the grandeur surrounding you, your thoughts drift back to the nursery, to the way Azer clung to you, his little hands trembling as he sobbed.

You stop walking, your steps faltering as a pang of guilt twists in your chest. Eris notices immediately, turning to face you, his golden eyes filled with concern. “What is it?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.

You glance around the empty room, ensuring no one is near enough to overhear, before looking back at him. “I feel terrible about leaving Azer,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “He was so upset, Eris. The way he cried, the way he begged to come with us…” Your throat tightens, and you shake your head, willing yourself not to let the guilt overwhelm you.

Eris’s expression softens, and he steps closer, his hand coming to rest against your cheek. “Little firefox is safe,” he says gently. “Lyra will care for him as if he were her own. You know that.”

“I know,” you murmur, your voice trembling slightly. “But it doesn’t make it any easier. He doesn’t understand why we had to leave. All he knows is that we’re not there, and he wanted to be with us.”

Eris sighs softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a soothing gesture. “I feel it too,” he admits, his tone quieter now. “Every time he cries like that, it feels like my heart is being torn apart. But this—tonight—is important. For our court, for our family. He’ll understand one day.”

You look up at him, searching his face for reassurance. “What if he doesn’t, Eris? What if he remembers this as the night we chose the court over him?”

His brows knit together, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. “He won’t,” he says firmly. “Because when this ball is over, we’ll go straight back to him. We’ll hold him, kiss him, tell him how much we love him. Azer knows he’s our world—he feels it every day in the way we care for him.”

The conviction in his voice eases some of the tension in your chest, and you close your eyes, drawing strength from his presence. “I just hate seeing him so upset,” you whisper.

Eris tilts your chin up, his golden eyes locking with yours. “So do I,” he says softly. “But Azer is strong, just like his mother. And Lyra is with him. He’s safe, loved, and cared for. That’s what matters most.”

You nod slowly, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. “You’re right,” you say, though the ache in your chest lingers. “I just needed to say it.”

His lips curve into a small smile, and he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment. “You never need to keep anything from me,” he murmurs. “Not your fears, not your guilt. I’ll carry them with you, always.”

The grand ballroom is serene for a moment, the soft hum of the musicians and the flicker of enchanted autumn leaves overhead creating a tranquil atmosphere. You’ve just started to steady yourself, leaning into Eris’s calming presence, when the sound of frantic footsteps echoes through the halls.

Eris straightens, his golden eyes narrowing as he turns toward the source of the commotion. The double doors at the far end of the ballroom burst open with a resounding thud, and Alev, one of Eris’s younger brothers, comes barrelling in. His crimson hair is wild, his face flushed with exertion. Behind him, Lucien storms into the room, his expression murderous, his mechanical eye glowing ominously.

“You little bastard!” Lucien shouts, his voice reverberating off the marble walls. “I’m going to kill you!”

Alev skids to a stop in the centre of the ballroom, his chest heaving as he glances around wildly. His gaze lands on you and Eris, and he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Eris! Help! Your psychotic brother’s lost it!”

Lucien’s growl is low and dangerous as he stalks toward Alev, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. “Lost it? You set my bloody room on fire, you little menace!”

Alev’s eyes widen in mock innocence, his lips twitching as though he’s holding back laughter. “I didn’t set it on fire! I just—enhanced the ambiance! You know, for the ball.”

“Enhanced the ambiance?” Lucien roars, his mechanical eye flaring brighter. “You scorched half my wardrobe!”

Eris pinches the bridge of his nose, a long-suffering sigh escaping him. “For the love of the Cauldron,” he mutters under his breath before stepping forward, his authoritative presence silencing the chaos.

“Alev,” Eris says, his tone calm but laced with warning. “What did you do?”

Alev shifts nervously, the smirk fading slightly under his older brother’s piercing gaze. “It was just a little spell,” he admits, his voice lighter than it should be. “A small spark to set the mood. I may have underestimated how... flammable Lucien’s curtains were.”

Lucien points an accusatory finger at him. “Curtains, rugs, half the bloody furniture—Eris, I swear, if you don’t deal with him, I will.”

Eris raises a hand, silencing Lucien with a single look. “Alev,” he says slowly, his voice like a crackling flame, “do you have any idea how much chaos you’ve caused? Tonight of all nights?”

Alev grins sheepishly. “I was trying to help! You know, add a little Autumn Court flair to his otherwise... bland quarters.”

Lucien lets out an incredulous laugh, clearly seconds away from lunging at his brother. “Bland? You—”

“Enough,” Eris snaps, his voice sharp and commanding. Both brothers freeze, their gazes snapping to him. He exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Alev, go fix what you’ve destroyed. Now. And if I hear so much as a whisper of another incident tonight, you’ll wish it was Lucien dealing with you instead of me.”

Alev blinks, then nods quickly. “Right. Fix it. Got it.” He turns on his heel and bolts for the doors, though not without throwing Lucien a cheeky grin over his shoulder.

Lucien groans, running a hand through his hair as he turns to Eris. “You see what I have to deal with? How have you not strangled him yet?”

Eris smirks faintly, his composure returning. “Patience,” he replies, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “And the knowledge that one day, he’ll slip up enough to give me a good excuse.”

You can’t help but laugh softly, the tension from earlier momentarily lifted. Eris turns to you, his expression softening. “Shall we expect more dramatics tonight, or are you ready to face the ball?”

“With your family?” you tease lightly. “I’d say both are inevitable.”

Eris chuckles, offering you his arm once more. “You’re learning,” he says with a smirk, leading you toward the doors. “Now, let’s see if we can survive the evening without another catastrophe.”

You pause just before the grand ballroom doors, your arm still looped through Eris’s. Your gaze lingers on him, soft and questioning, and he stops in his tracks. He knows that look of yours—he’s learned it all too well. The unspoken request, the subtle tilt of your head, the way your lips press together as though you’re carefully choosing your words.

“You want to go check on him,” Eris says quietly, his voice laced with understanding.

You nod, biting your lip. “I know Lyra is with him, and I know he’s fine, but… this is the longest I’ll have been away from him since he was born. It feels—”

“Strange,” Eris finishes for you, his golden eyes softening as they meet yours. “I know.”

You glance down at the floor, guilt pooling in your chest. “I just… I need to see him, Eris. Just for a moment.”

He gently lifts your chin with his fingers, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “My love,” he says softly, his tone carrying a calm authority, “I understand how you feel. Truly. But Azer is safe. This is good for him. He needs to learn a little independence, and so do you.”

You blink at him, your emotions warring within you. “I just feel like I’m abandoning him,” you whisper.

Eris sighs, his hand slipping to rest on your waist. “You’re not abandoning him. You’re showing him that his mother is more than just his caretaker. That she’s strong, graceful, and capable of leading beside me. And when we go back to him tonight, he’ll see that too.”

You nod slowly, his words sinking in, though the ache in your chest remains. Before you can reply, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes behind you, and you both turn just as Alev comes bounding into the room.

“Alev,” Eris says sharply, his brows furrowing, “what now?”

Alev skids to a stop, his hair still slightly dishevelled, though his grin is as irreverent as ever. “Relax, brother,” he says, holding up his hands. “I just thought I’d let you know—I stopped by the nursery on my way back down.”

You inhale sharply, your attention snapping to him. “And? How was Azer?”

Alev hesitates for half a second, glancing nervously over your shoulder. It’s only then that he sees the warning glare Eris is shooting him—a silent command to tread carefully.

“Oh, uh… he’s fine!” Alev says quickly, his grin widening. “Totally fine. Lyra had him all snuggled up in his favourite blanket. He wasn’t crying or anything. Just… looking at his little fox toy. Happy as can be.”

You exhale a shaky breath, relief washing over you. “Thank you, Alev,” you say sincerely, your shoulders relaxing.

Alev shrugs, his grin turning a little sheepish. “No problem. Figured you’d want to know.”

Behind you, Eris arches a brow, his golden eyes still fixed on his younger brother. “Thank you for your… insightful report,” he says dryly, though his tone carries an unspoken promise of consequences if Alev had dared say anything to upset you.

Alev throws him a mock salute before backing away, his grin still in place. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”

As he disappears back into the corridor, Eris sighs and turns to you, his hands sliding to rest on your arms. “See? He’s fine,” he says softly. “And now, so are you. Let’s do this together.”

You nod, leaning into him for a brief moment before squaring your shoulders. “Okay,” you whisper, allowing him to guide you forward.

With Eris by your side, you take the final step into the ballroom, ready to face whatever the evening holds.

-----

The ballroom is alive with music, laughter, and the soft clinking of glasses, but it all feels distant, a blurred backdrop to your rising tension. You sit at one of the ornately carved tables near the edge of the room, the deep burgundy of your wine a sharp contrast to the delicate gold trim of the goblet you hold. You take another sip—no, more like a gulp—your grip on the stem tight enough to make your knuckles ache.

Three hours. Three endless hours. You’ve smiled, curtsied, and exchanged pleasantries with the High Lords of Spring, Dawn, Summer, and Winter. Each interaction had felt like a delicate dance, one misstep away from disaster. Tamlin of Spring had been cordial enough, though his words carried a stiffness that matched the tight line of his jaw. Thesan of Dawn had been polite and warm, his genuine curiosity about your role as Lady of Autumn easing some of your nerves, if only for a moment. The Summer Court’s Tarquin had offered a quiet strength in his presence, his words measured but kind. Kallias of Winter had been formal, his icy demeanour a stark contrast to the fiery warmth of the Autumn Court.

And through it all, you’d managed to maintain the poised, composed exterior that Eris had assured you would command their respect. But now, seated alone at the table, your mask of grace and elegance is beginning to crack.

Your gaze flicks across the room to the Night Court delegation, where Lucien is engaged in animated conversation with Rhysand, Feyre, and their inner circle. Even from this distance, you can see the easy camaraderie between them, the subtle smiles and the occasional laughter that spill from their group. You know Lucien feels more at home with them than he does here, and while you understand, it does little to soothe your unease.

Helion, at least, had been a comforting presence earlier in the evening. You’d known him long before tonight, ever since Eris’s mother, Arlene, had moved into the Day Court after Beron’s death. Helion’s warmth and humour had provided a brief reprieve from the relentless formalities of the evening, but now, with him occupied elsewhere, you feel untethered.

Eris is across the room, locked in conversation with one of his advisors, his expression sharp and unreadable. You know he’s keeping an eye on you, even from afar, but right now, his watchful presence does little to ease the knot of anxiety in your chest.

As you lift your goblet for another sip, a familiar voice cuts through the noise. “You look like you’re plotting someone’s demise,” Alev remarks, his tone laced with amusement as he slides into the seat beside you.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “And if I were?”

He grins, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual defiance. “Depends. Is it someone I’d enjoy watching you take down?”

A small, reluctant smile tugs at your lips, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I think the only thing keeping me from snapping is this wine,” you admit, swirling the liquid in your goblet. “And even that might not be enough.”

Alev chuckles, his crimson hair catching the golden glow of the chandeliers above. “Come on, it can’t be that bad. You’ve survived half the High Lords already. What’s one more?”

You cast a pointed glance at the Night Court, where Lucien is still deep in conversation. “It’s not just one more,” you say quietly. “It’s Rhysand and his entire inner circle. They’re… intimidating.”

Alev follows your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “They don’t look so scary to me. Lucien seems to be holding his own.”

“Lucien is used to them,” you counter. “I’m not.”

He shrugs, his grin returning. “Well, if they give you any trouble, just sic Eris on them. Or me. I’d be happy to cause a little chaos on your behalf.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “That’s the last thing we need tonight, Alev.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, his tone teasing. “But it’d make for a more entertaining evening, wouldn’t it?”

You can’t help but smile at his antics, the tension in your shoulders easing just slightly. Alev may be a troublemaker, but in moments like this, his irreverent humour is exactly what you need.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, your voice barely audible over the din of the ballroom.

He glances at you, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “Anytime,” he says, his voice steady and sincere.

As the night drags on, the noise in the ballroom seems to grow louder, the laughter and chatter blending into an indistinct hum. You glance over at Eris, still engaged in conversation with his advisor, his posture rigid and his expression betraying the strain of the evening.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you see him step away from the group. His stride is slower than usual, his shoulders slightly slumped, and his usually sharp golden eyes seem dimmer, weighed down by the demands of his title.

He spots you immediately, his gaze softening as he makes his way across the room. The exhaustion etched into his features is stark, his mask of courtly perfection slipping now that he’s out of the scrutinizing eyes of the other lords and advisors.

When he reaches your table, he lets out a long, quiet sigh and sits down heavily beside you. His hand brushes over yours briefly before he leans back, rubbing his temples.

“Tired already, my Lord?” you tease lightly, though your voice carries a note of sympathy.

He lets out a dry chuckle, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. “If I hear one more thinly veiled threat disguised as flattery, I might set the whole ballroom on fire.”

You laugh softly and pick up your goblet, extending it toward him without a word. He glances at you, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, but he doesn’t hesitate. He takes the wine from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours, and drinks deeply.

When he sets the goblet down, he exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

“Anytime,” you reply, your lips quirking into a small smile. “Consider it a perk of having me as your wife.”

His golden eyes meet yours, a spark of warmth cutting through his exhaustion. “The best perk,” he says quietly, his hand finding yours under the table and giving it a gentle squeeze.

His hand still resting over yours, his thumb tracing idle circles against your skin. There’s a spark of something in his eyes now, a lightness that hadn’t been there earlier. He shifts in his seat, straightening slightly, and turns to face you fully.

“Dance with me,” he says softly, his voice low and inviting, though it’s more a request than a command.

You blink at him, momentarily surprised. “Here? Now?”

His lips curve into a faint smirk. “Why not? I’m owed at least one dance tonight, and I’d rather have it with you than anyone else.”

You glance around the bustling ballroom, the glittering gowns and polished boots of the other guests reflecting the glow of the chandeliers above. Before you can voice any hesitation, Eris stands and offers his hand to you, his golden eyes glinting with determination.

“Come,” he murmurs. “I know a better place.”

Intrigued, you slide your hand into his, letting him guide you away from the crowded floor. He leads you toward the grand doors that have been opened to the gardens, where the fresh, crisp scent of rain drifts in on the cool night air. The gardens, transformed into an extended ballroom, glimmer under the soft glow of floating lanterns.

The rain is gentle, a light mist that barely kisses your skin as Eris steps into the open garden, the soft patter against the stone tiles creating a melody of its own. He turns to you, his hair catching the golden light, and extends his hand again.

“Will you dance with me here?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost tender.

You glance up at the misty sky, the droplets shimmering like tiny diamonds as they fall. “It’s raining,” you say, though there’s no protest in your tone.

“A little rain never hurt anyone,” Eris replies, his lips quirking into a playful smile. “Besides, it’s quieter here. Just us.”

Your heart flutters at the sincerity in his words, and you place your hand in his once more. He pulls you close, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other holds your hand, his grip steady and sure.

As the music from the ballroom drifts faintly into the garden, Eris begins to sway with you, guiding you effortlessly across the rain-slicked tiles. The world feels smaller here, the distant chatter and laughter fading away until it’s just the two of you, moving together under the soft drizzle.

The rain cools your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of Eris’s touch as he holds you close. His gaze never leaves yours, golden and intent, filled with a quiet affection that steals your breath.

“You’ve been incredible tonight,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the gentle patter of rain. “I know how hard this is for you. But you’ve handled it all with grace.”

You shake your head slightly, a small laugh escaping you. “If grace means aggressively sipping wine and hiding from the High Lords, then sure.”

Eris chuckles, his breath warm against your temple as he pulls you even closer. “To me, it means being yourself. Even when it’s hard.”

The sincerity in his words makes your chest ache, and you rest your head against his shoulder, letting him lead you in the quiet dance. The rain falls softly around you, catching in his fiery hair and soaking into the rich fabric of his suit, but neither of you care.

In this moment, with the garden as your ballroom and the rain as your accompaniment, the weight of the evening lifts, leaving only the warmth of his presence and the steady rhythm of your hearts.

-----

From the balcony overlooking the garden, the Night Court’s inner circle had gathered, drawn by the faint sound of laughter and the soft glow of lanterns spilling into the misty rain. Feyre leaned against the railing, her hand loosely intertwined with Rhysand’s, while Cassian and Azriel stood nearby, their dark wings slightly folded, their gazes sharp. Mor and Amren were seated on a cushioned bench, but even they couldn’t resist peering out into the rain-soaked garden below.

The scene unfolding before them was nothing short of surprising.

“There,” Mor murmured, gesturing with a tilt of her chin.

Eris Vanserra, of all people, was dancing in the rain. But it wasn’t the stiff, performative kind of dance they’d expect from the newly crowned High Lord of Autumn. This was… intimate. Genuine.

He moved with an easy grace, his hands firmly guiding his partner—you, his wife—across the rain-slicked stones. The faint music from the ballroom drifted into the night, but it seemed almost irrelevant. The two of you were lost in your own rhythm, your laughter carrying softly on the cool breeze.

“Is that…?” Cassian began, leaning forward as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“It’s his wife,” Feyre confirmed, her lips curving into a faint smile.

Rhysand said nothing, his violet eyes narrowing as he observed Eris’s expression.

They had seen him many times before: sharp, calculating, cruel. A predator dressed in finery. But now? Now, he looked like someone entirely different.

As the inner circle watched, Eris suddenly dropped to one knee, his fiery hair damp with rain, his hand disappearing beneath the delicate folds of your gown. The motion was quick, fluid, and in an instant, he pulled out a dagger from some hidden sheath at his side.

“What the hell is he doing?” Azriel murmured, his shadows swirling with tension.

But their apprehension faded as Eris took the dagger to the hem of your dress, his movements precise as he carefully cut another slit along the fabric. The silk parted easily beneath the blade, creating a matching slit opposite the one already present. He sheathed the dagger just as quickly, the glint of the blade vanishing into the folds of his coat.

You were laughing, your head thrown back as you leaned against his shoulder, and Eris stood, brushing his fingers along the edge of the fabric to ensure it wouldn’t catch. He whispered something to you, too soft for the onlookers to hear, and then—without warning—he lifted you off the ground.

Your laughter rang out, light and joyful, as he spun you in a circle, his hands steady at your waist. The movement was effortless, as though he had done it a thousand times before. The lantern light caught the droplets of rain clinging to his hair, his suit, and most notably, the smile on his face.

A real smile.

Not the cunning smirk he so often wore, nor the sly grin meant to unsettle his enemies. This was something deeper, something softer, something the inner circle had never seen before.

“Is he… smiling?” Cassian asked, incredulous.

Mor leaned forward, her golden hair glinting in the light. “I think he is,” she said, her voice tinged with equal parts awe and disbelief.

“That’s a first,” Amren muttered, though even her silver eyes softened at the sight.

Feyre glanced at Rhys, her brow slightly raised. “Do you think he’s actually happy?” she asked quietly.

Rhysand didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on Eris, watching as he set you back on your feet with a gentleness that seemed impossible for the man they thought they knew. The way his hands lingered at your waist, the way his head tilted down to hear your laugh more clearly—it wasn’t an act.

“I think,” Rhys finally said, his voice low, “we’ve never seen the real Eris Vanserra before.”

Below, Eris leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, his smile lingering as he pulled you closer. The rain continued to fall, unnoticed by either of you, and the inner circle watched in silence, captivated by the unguarded, unexpected display of love from a man they had always considered unfeeling.

For the first time, Eris Vanserra seemed… fae. And it left them with far more questions than answers.

The inner circle remained silent, captivated by the unexpected scene unfolding in the rain-soaked garden below. None of them had ever thought Eris capable of such tenderness, let alone joy. It was a moment so foreign, so incongruous with the man they had come to know, that they could hardly look away.

“Enjoying the show, are we?”

The voice came from behind them, sharp and laced with amusement. They all turned to see Alev Vanserra, Eris’s younger brother, leaning casually against the doorway that led to the balcony. His crimson hair was damp from the rain, and his amber eyes gleamed with a mischievous light.

Cassian narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. “You’re surprisingly cheerful for someone who just fled the ballroom with your brother shouting after you.”

Alev smirked, shrugging one shoulder. “Eris is always shouting about something. I’ve learned to tune it out.”

Mor arched a brow, stepping closer. “And what about you? Shouldn’t you be inside, causing chaos?”

“I could,” Alev said with a mock-serious nod. “But then I wouldn’t get to see all of your reactions to this.” He gestured toward the garden, where Eris had just twirled you again, your dress fanning out as you laughed.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter around him, his expression unreadable. “What do you want, Alev?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Alev said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just thought I’d join the peanut gallery for a moment. Watching Eris act like an actual person is a rare event, after all. Wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Feyre tilted her head, studying him. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Alev’s grin softened, just slightly. “Why would I be? He’s always been like this with her. The rest of you just never get to see it.”

That earned a flicker of interest from Rhysand, who regarded Alev with his usual inscrutable expression. “You’re saying this is common?”

“With her? Absolutely,” Alev replied, his gaze drifting back to the garden. “With everyone else? Not so much. She’s… different for him. Special.”

Cassian scoffed, but there was no real malice in it. “Hard to imagine Eris Vanserra being soft for anyone.”

“Maybe that’s your problem,” Alev shot back, his tone still light but carrying an edge. “You’ve all only ever seen the mask he wears for court. That’s not who he is—not completely.”

Rhys’s violet eyes narrowed slightly. “And you’d defend him, after everything?”

Alev’s smirk faded, and for a moment, his gaze hardened. “I’m not defending him,” he said quietly. “I’m just saying there’s more to him than you know. That’s all.”

The inner circle exchanged glances, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

“And if you’ll excuse me,” Alev added, his usual smirk returning, “I’ve got a drink waiting for me inside. Enjoy the show.”

With that, he turned and disappeared back into the ballroom, leaving them to mull over his words as they returned their attention to the rain-drenched garden below.

The rain had picked up slightly, but you hardly noticed, lost in the rhythm of Eris’s movements as he twirled you around the garden. The music from the ballroom drifted faintly on the air, but the sound of your laughter drowned it out, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

Eris spun you faster this time, his hand firm on yours, the other resting at the small of your back. You let out a surprised laugh, swatting at his arm when the spinning became a little too enthusiastic.

“Eris!” you exclaimed, breathless. “You’re going to make me fall.”

He smirked, the playful glint in his golden eyes shining brighter than the lanterns. “I’d never let you fall, my love,” he replied, his voice smooth and teasing. “But you do look rather adorable when you’re dizzy.”

Before you could retort, he abruptly caught you mid-spin and pulled you close, dipping you dramatically. The world tilted, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself, but his grip was unyielding, his strength evident even in the gentlest touch.

“I’ll have to remember that move,” he teased, his fiery hair falling slightly into his eyes as he leaned down. “It keeps you right where I want you.”

Your heart fluttered at the intensity of his gaze, at the way the rain clung to his lashes and dampened the sharp lines of his face. “You’re impossible,” you said, though your voice lacked any true heat.

“And yet, you’re still here,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a fleeting, tantalizing kiss.

You let out a soft laugh, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. “For now.”

He arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Careful, little fox,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he dipped you even lower, his grip unshakable. “You wouldn’t want me to think you’re challenging me.”

The rain fell heavier now, but the warmth of his breath against your skin, the steadiness of his hold, and the fire in his eyes made you forget the chill. Then, without warning, he kissed you again, this time deeper, his lips stealing the last of your breath and leaving you utterly lost in him.

When he finally pulled back, he straightened, bringing you with him as he set you back on your feet. “Admit it,” he said, his voice a mix of smugness and affection. “You’re having fun.”

You rolled your eyes, though your flushed cheeks and lingering smile betrayed you. “You’re lucky I love you,” you muttered, swatting his arm again.

He caught your hand this time, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before spinning you once more, his laughter blending with yours as the rain continued to fall.

Back on the balcony, the inner circle remained transfixed, watching the scene unfold below. Eris’s laughter—actual, genuine laughter—carried faintly through the rain, blending with the sound of your own.

Cassian let out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief. “I think I’ve seen everything now. Eris Vanserra laughing, smiling, and dancing in the rain? Who knew he had it in him.”

Mor leaned against the railing, her golden hair glinting faintly in the lantern light. “It’s not just the laughing,” she said, her voice quieter, more contemplative. “Look at him. He’s… happy. Like, actually happy.”

“That’s what love will do to you,” Feyre murmured, her lips curving into a small smile as she watched Eris dip you low, your laughter ringing out like a melody.

Amren snorted from her seat, her sharp silver eyes flicking briefly toward the scene. “Or madness. The line between the two is thinner than most think.”

Azriel, standing slightly apart from the group, didn’t respond. His shadows swirled around him, reflecting the tension in his stance, but his gaze remained fixed on Eris. “He’s not who we thought he was,” he said finally, his voice low and even.

Rhysand, who had been quiet for some time, rested his hands on the balcony rail, his violet eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “No,” he agreed. “He’s not.”

The High Lord’s gaze flicked to Alev’s empty chair, a shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips. “His brother wasn’t wrong. We’ve only seen the side of him that benefits his games. This…” He gestured vaguely to the garden below, where Eris had just spun you again, your dress fanning out as you swatted at him, both of you laughing. “This is new. For us, at least.”

“And you’re telling me this,” Cassian said, pointing toward Eris with an incredulous look, “is the same bastard who tried to burn Lucien alive as a kid? The same Eris who—”

“Yes,” Rhys said simply, cutting him off. “But people are more complicated than their worst moments, Cassian. He’s been playing a role for a long time. Maybe too long.”

Cassian grunted, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t argue further.

Mor crossed her arms, her gaze still fixed on the garden. “Do you think he’s changed?”

“Not entirely,” Rhys replied, his tone careful. “But maybe he’s… trying.”

“Or maybe she’s the one who changes him,” Feyre added softly, her eyes warm as she watched you laugh and lean into Eris’s chest.

Amren huffed. “Let’s not start romanticizing the brute just yet. A few dances in the rain don’t erase centuries of cruelty.”

“No,” Feyre agreed, turning her gaze toward Rhys. “But it does mean there’s more to him than we thought. And maybe that’s worth watching.”

As the conversation continued, Eris dipped you once more, pressing a kiss to your lips that left you smiling even as the rain began to drench your hair and dress. The sight of his rare, unguarded happiness lingered in their minds, sparking a quiet, uneasy realization: the man they thought they knew might not be the whole story after all.

The rain, which had started as a light drizzle, suddenly intensified into a downpour. The soft patter turned into a symphony of heavy drops, soaking through your dress and Eris’s fine clothes in seconds.

You let out a startled laugh, trying to shield your face with your hands as the water cascaded down. “Eris!” you exclaimed, blinking against the deluge. “This is no longer romantic—it’s a storm!”

Eris, his fiery hair plastered to his forehead, grinned mischievously. “Didn’t you say you wanted an unforgettable night, little fox?”

Before you could respond, he grabbed your hand, tugging you forward with an energy that made your heart race. “Come on!”

“Where are we going?” you called, laughing even as you stumbled after him.

“To the other side of the garden!” he shouted over the roar of the rain, his voice carrying above the chaos.

The two of you darted through the garden, your soaked skirts clinging to your legs and slowing your pace. Eris kept a firm grip on your hand, guiding you expertly around puddles and flowerbeds as you both ran toward the sheltered pavilion on the far side.

The rain lashed harder, drenching every inch of you, but neither of you seemed to care. Your laughter mingled with the storm, and despite the chill, there was a warmth in the way Eris glanced back at you, his golden eyes bright with exhilaration.

Finally, you reached the pavilion, the stone archway offering a reprieve from the downpour. You collapsed against one of the columns, breathless and laughing, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

Eris joined you, his hands braced on either side of the column as he leaned in close, droplets of rain rolling down his sharp jawline. “You’re drenched,” he said, his tone teasing but his gaze soft.

“So are you,” you shot back, flicking a strand of wet hair from your face.

He chuckled, his fingers reaching up to tuck the errant strand behind your ear. “You look beautiful like this,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sincerity in his words. “You’re impossible,” you whispered, though your smile betrayed your affection.

“And you love me for it,” he replied, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your rain-slicked lips.

For a moment, the world faded—the storm, the ball, the weight of the crown Eris now wore. It was just the two of you, drenched and laughing, hidden away in your own little corner of the garden.

The inner circle remained on the balcony, now huddled beneath the stone awning to avoid the storm's reach. The rain lashed against the marble, a distant echo to the laughter that had accompanied you and Eris as you darted out of sight into the garden. The scene below was empty now, the storm masking all but the faint music from the ballroom.

Lucien approached from the stairwell, his auburn hair slightly damp, his gold and russet eye catching the flickering light of the lanterns. He paused when he saw them, his lips curving into a wry smile.

“You’re all watching him like he’s some sort of rare creature in the wild,” he said, crossing his arms as he joined them at the railing.

Cassian leaned against the stone, smirking. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t worth watching. Your brother, spinning his wife like a lovestruck fool in the middle of a downpour?” He chuckled. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Lucien arched a brow, his good eye narrowing slightly. “Careful, Cassian. Eris isn’t as oblivious as you’d like to think. He’s likely aware of every one of you standing here gawking.”

Mor scoffed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “He didn’t even glance this way. He was too busy playing prince charming.”

“He didn’t need to,” Lucien said, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “Eris always knows his surroundings, especially now. But I suppose none of you would understand how much that crown weighs—on him, on her.”

Rhysand tilted his head slightly, watching Lucien with mild curiosity. “You sound almost… sympathetic, Lucien.”

Lucien shrugged, his gaze drifting toward the rain-soaked garden. “I know what it’s like to have people assume they know you, to reduce you to your worst moments. And I know what it’s like to see someone you care about carry more than they should.”

His words hung in the air, a quiet truth none of them could argue.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter, his voice breaking the silence. “Do you believe he’s changed?”

Lucien hesitated, his jaw tightening as if weighing his words. “I believe he’s trying. For her, for their-... And that’s more than I ever thought possible.”

Feyre studied him, her expression softening. “You’ve seen it firsthand, haven’t you?”

Lucien nodded, a faint, almost reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “He’s still Eris—sharp edges and all. But when he’s with her…” His gaze flicked to the garden again, where the rain still fell heavily. “It’s like those edges dull, just a little. He loves her. Fiercely. And I think that scares him as much as it comforts him.”

Cassian snorted, shaking his head. “Fierce or not, he’s still the same arrogant bastard who—”

“Cassian,” Rhys warned, his tone light but carrying enough weight to make the Illyrian warrior pause.

Lucien’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a dangerous gleam in his russet eye as he turned toward Cassian. “He is arrogant,” he agreed smoothly. “And he’s made mistakes. But don’t let your biases blind you to what’s in front of you.”

Mor looked ready to interject, but Rhys raised a hand, silencing her. “That’s enough,” he said, his gaze lingering on Lucien. “We’re not here to pass judgment—yet.”

Lucien inclined his head, though the tension in his frame didn’t ease. “Just remember, Rhysand. Whatever you think of Eris, she chose him. And she seems happy.”

With that, Lucien stepped back, his gaze once again drawn to the stormy garden. His expression softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his face before he turned and walked back into the ballroom, leaving the inner circle to ponder his words in silence.

The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets as Eris led you deeper into the garden, his steps purposeful despite the mud slicking the stone paths. The storm seemed to heighten everything—the cool, wet air against your skin, the pounding of your heart, the way his golden eyes burned with something primal and unrestrained.

Before you could fully process his intent, he stopped abruptly, turning to face you. Without a word, his hands slid to your waist, and in one swift, commanding movement, he pressed you back against the soft grass beneath the open sky.

“Eris,” you murmured, your voice breathless as your hands instinctively reached up to grip the lapels of his soaked coat.

He leaned down, his body caging yours, every line of him sharp and unyielding against the storm’s chaos. “Shh, little fox,” he whispered, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver through you. “You’re mine tonight. All of you.”

His lips descended on yours, fierce and demanding, yet somehow achingly tender. The rain pelted down around you, but you barely felt it, too consumed by the heat of his kiss. His hands roamed your sides, his touch grounding you even as it left you utterly undone.

The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours with a skill that left you breathless. You arched into him, your fingers threading through his damp hair as his hand slid to the curve of your hip, pulling you impossibly closer.

When he finally broke the kiss, his lips brushed against your jaw, your neck, trailing heat in their wake. “You drive me mad,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and unguarded. “Do you know that?”

Your heart thundered in your chest, your voice a trembling whisper as you replied, “You’re one to talk.”

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through you as he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze. The storm raged on around you, but in his eyes, there was only fire—fire that promised he’d never let you go.

“You’re mine,” he said again, the words a vow as his lips claimed yours once more, his body sheltering you from the storm even as his kiss consumed you completely.

Eris pulled back slightly, his breath warm against your rain-cooled skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His golden eyes roamed over your face, his expression caught somewhere between reverence and possessiveness, as though he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You opened your mouth to say something, to tease him or demand another kiss, but he beat you to it. “I should take you back inside,” he murmured, though his hands stayed firm on your hips, pinning you to the soft, rain-drenched earth. “But I can’t seem to let you go.”

You let out a shaky laugh, brushing a soaked strand of his hair away from his face. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

His grin was slow and wicked, the kind that always made your pulse race. “Is that so?” he asked, lowering his lips to the hollow of your throat, pressing a kiss there that made you shiver despite the heat pooling in your stomach.

The rain continued to fall, soaking through both your clothes and the soft earth beneath you, but neither of you cared. Eris shifted slightly, his body a solid, grounding weight against yours, his hands sliding from your waist to your thighs, his thumbs tracing lazy circles through the fabric of your dress.

“You’re everything to me, little fox,” he said softly, his voice raw with emotion. “Do you know that? My world begins and ends with you.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, though you weren’t sure if it was from the intensity of his words or the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered. “Eris,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you cupped his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I love you. More than anything.”

His breath hitched at your words, his lips parting as if to respond, but instead, he kissed you again, pouring every ounce of his devotion into it.

The storm raged on, but in that moment, nothing else existed—just you, Eris, and the fire that burned between you, unquenchable even by the rain.

-----

The ballroom carried on in its lively revelry, the swirling gowns and vibrant music disguising the absence of its new High Lord and his lady. Most were too engrossed in their conversations, drinks, or dances to notice that Eris and you had slipped away, though the inner circle, seated near the grand doors, had kept an eye on the evening’s events with quiet curiosity.

Feyre, lounging at the table beside Rhysand, tilted her head toward the doorway, her brows furrowing. “Do you see that?” she murmured, her voice low but sharp enough to catch her companions’ attention.

Cassian, who had been nursing his drink, looked up and followed her gaze. Near the doorway, a small figure stood hesitantly, his auburn hair glinting in the flickering light of the chandeliers. His clothes were finely made but slightly rumpled, as if he’d been running or hiding.

“That’s a child,” Mor said, her tone incredulous. “What in the Mother’s name is a child doing here? This isn’t exactly a family gathering.”

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter around him as he observed the boy. “He’s too young to be here alone,” he said quietly. “Someone should—”

Before he could finish, Feyre gestured toward Lucien, who was standing nearby. “Lucien,” she called, her voice cutting across the noise. “Come here for a moment.”

Lucien approached, his gaze sharp as he followed their pointed looks toward the boy. The moment he saw him, his body stiffened, his eyes widening in recognition. “Azer?” he muttered under his breath before suddenly striding forward.

The inner circle exchanged puzzled glances as they watched Lucien kneel in front of the boy, his expression softening as he gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Azer,” Lucien said, his tone both firm and kind. “What are you doing here, little one? Where’s your sitter?”

The boy’s wide, teary eyes looked up at him, his lower lip trembling. “There was… a fire in my room,” Azer hiccupped, his voice high and distressed. “She told me to step away.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “A fire?”

Azer nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I—I made a spark, Uncle Lucien,” he confessed, his tiny voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know I could do that.”

The revelation hit Lucien hard, but he quickly scooped the boy into his arms, holding him close as Azer began to sob in earnest. “Shh, little fox,” he murmured, trying to calm him. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

“Where’s Mama? Dada?” Azer cried, his small hands clutching at Lucien’s tunic.

Lucien’s heart clenched at the desperate plea, but his focus remained on soothing the boy. He turned back toward the inner circle, carrying Azer with a protective arm around him.

As he approached, the group’s expressions ranged from confusion to shock. Feyre, in particular, seemed stunned. “That’s—” she started, her gaze darting between Azer and Lucien. “Is he…?”

Lucien didn’t meet her eyes. “Yes,” he said shortly. “This is Azer. Eris and Y/N’s son.”

The table fell silent, the revelation striking like a thunderclap.

Cassian was the first to break the silence. “Wait, Eris has a kid? And no one told us?”

Mor blinked, her mouth opening and closing as if trying to find words. “How… when…?”

Before anyone could press further, Alev appeared, his expression one of mild alarm as he approached the group. “What’s going on?” he asked, his gaze flicking to Azer.

Lucien, his tone sharp, said, “Azer lit a spark in his room. It’s his first time using his powers.”

Alev’s face paled, his hand instinctively running through his hair. “Oh, cauldron,” he muttered. “This might be my fault. I told him a story earlier—about how I accidentally set your curtains on fire. He must’ve…”

Lucien’s glare was deadly. “You what?”

Azer hiccupped, his small body trembling in Lucien’s arms. “I didn’t mean to,” he sobbed, his face buried in Lucien’s shoulder. “I just wanted to see if I could make a spark like Uncle Alev.”

Alev looked stricken, his guilt plain as he reached out to touch Azer’s back. “Little fox, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to try that.”

The inner circle exchanged stunned glances, their earlier judgments of Eris and you now tempered by the sight of the distraught child.

Rhysand, always the calmest, leaned back in his chair and said quietly, “Well, this certainly explains a few things.”

“It explains everything,” Feyre added softly, her gaze lingering on Azer, who clung to Lucien as though his life depended on it.

Cassian let out a low whistle, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. “So, not only does Eris have a kid, but he’s been hiding him? Makes you wonder what else he’s keeping secret.”

“More like why he hid him,” Mor added, her voice laced with sharpness. “If he was so proud of his son, why wouldn’t he—”

“Enough,” Lucien snapped, his voice cutting through their remarks like a blade.

The group stilled, turning to face him. Lucien’s expression was uncharacteristically hard, his russet eye blazing with anger while his mechanical one whirred faintly as it focused on each of them. Azer, still clinging to him, hiccupped softly, his tiny hands fisting in Lucien’s tunic.

“You can say what you want about me,” Lucien began, his voice low and fierce. “And you can say what you want about Eris. But you will not speak of Azer like he’s some kind of scandal to be dissected.”

“Lucien—” Feyre started, but he cut her off with a glare.

“No,” he said firmly. “You don’t understand. Azer wasn’t hidden because Eris wasn’t proud of him. He was hidden because he was born during Beron’s rule.”

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier at the mention of Beron, the former High Lord of Autumn whose cruelty was well-known.

“If Beron had known Azer existed,” Lucien continued, his voice shaking with restrained fury, “he wouldn’t have lived to see his first birthday. Eris and Y/N kept him hidden to protect him, not because they were ashamed.”

Mor’s expression softened slightly, but her tone remained skeptical. “I’m not saying they didn’t have reasons, Lucien. But keeping a child secret for years—”

“You don’t get to judge them,” Lucien bit out, his tone sharp. “You have no idea what it was like in this court. What it took to survive, let alone to keep a child safe.” He adjusted Azer in his arms, his hold protective. “Azer is not to be a topic on your tongues. Not now, not ever.”

Azriel, who had been silent until now, leaned forward slightly, his shadows curling tighter around him. “We weren’t trying to judge the child,” he said carefully. “But it’s… surprising. That’s all.”

Lucien’s gaze narrowed, but he nodded curtly. “Surprising or not, Azer is off-limits. I don’t care what you think of me or Eris, but you will leave him out of it. He’s innocent in all of this.”

The inner circle exchanged glances, a mixture of unease and understanding passing between them. Rhysand finally spoke, his tone measured. “Fair enough, Lucien. We’ll respect your wishes.”

Lucien’s shoulders relaxed marginally, but the fire in his gaze didn’t fade. “Good. Because Azer isn’t just Eris’s son. He’s my nephew. And I won’t let anyone treat him like he’s some kind of stain on our family.”

Azer whimpered softly, his little voice breaking through the tense silence. “I want Mama and Dada.”

Lucien’s expression softened immediately, and he pressed a kiss to the boy’s rain-damp hair. “I know, little fox,” he murmured. “We’ll find them soon.”

For the first time, the inner circle seemed to see Azer not as a symbol of Eris’s secrets but as a scared, vulnerable child. And in that moment, no one dared say another word.

Alev came rushing back into the ballroom, his normally composed expression frazzled as his eyes scanned the crowd. His coat was slightly askew, his hair damp from the rain outside.

“I’ve looked everywhere,” he said breathlessly, his voice tight with frustration as he approached Lucien and the inner circle. “I can’t find Eris or Y/N anywhere.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened as he shifted Azer, still rocking the boy gently in his arms. Azer clung to him, his tiny fingers fisting in Lucien’s tunic, his sobs quieter now but no less heart-wrenching.

“Keep your voice down,” Lucien hissed, glancing around to ensure no one else overheard.

“They’re probably somewhere in the gardens,” Alev muttered, running a hand through his hair. “But it’s pouring out there, and they’re not answering any of the usual signals.”

Before Lucien could respond, a soft but firm voice interrupted. “Azer? What are you doing down here?”

Everyone turned to see Lady Arlene, her elegant figure framed by the light from the grand chandeliers. She moved with a regal grace, her auburn hair swept up, her amber eyes sharp but filled with concern. Helion followed closely behind her, his expression curious as his golden gaze flicked to Azer.

“Mother,” Lucien said, his voice heavy with relief.

Arlene’s eyes widened when they fell on her grandson, who was still trembling in Lucien’s arms. Her expression softened instantly as she stepped closer, her skirts brushing the floor. “What happened?” she asked, her voice gentle as she reached out to stroke Azer’s hair.

Lucien sighed, his grip on Azer tightening protectively. “There was a fire in his room,” he explained, keeping his voice low. “He… lit a spark. For the first time.”

Arlene froze, her hand stilling against Azer’s curls. “A fire?” she repeated, her tone laced with both shock and understanding. “Oh, my little firefox.”

Azer sniffled, lifting his tear-streaked face to look at her. “I didn’t mean to, Grandmama,” he whimpered. “I just wanted to try like Uncle Alev said.”

Alev visibly winced, muttering, “I really shouldn’t have told him that story.”

Arlene shot him a pointed look but said nothing, focusing instead on her grandson. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice soothing. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Powers like yours can be tricky at first.”

Helion stepped forward then, his golden armour glinting in the light. His expression was equal parts curiosity and pride as he looked at Azer. “First sparks, hmm?” he said, his voice warm and deep. “A sign of strength, little one. Nothing to fear.”

Azer sniffled again, his big, teary eyes meeting Helion’s. “But I scared my babysitter. And I couldn’t find Mama and Dada.”

Lucien tightened his hold, rocking Azer gently. “They’ll be back soon,” he promised. “You’re safe now.”

Arlene exchanged a glance with Helion, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I’ll go find them,” she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Helion nodded, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. “I’ll come with you.”

As they turned to leave, Arlene glanced back at Azer, her expression softening once more. “Stay with your uncle, little fox. I’ll bring your parents back to you.”

Azer nodded weakly, his head resting against Lucien’s shoulder. The boy was exhausted, his earlier sobs having worn him out, but the occasional hiccup still shook his small frame.

The inner circle watched the exchange in silence, a mix of emotions flickering across their faces. Feyre’s gaze lingered on Azer, her expression unreadable, while Cassian and Mor exchanged wary looks. Rhysand leaned back in his chair, his eyes sharp as they followed Arlene and Helion’s retreating forms.

Lucien finally broke the silence, his voice low and firm. “Say what you want about Eris and me, but Azer isn’t up for discussion, I said it more than once but I'll say it again. Not tonight, not ever. He’s a child—a good child—and he deserves better than to be the subject of your scrutiny.”

Feyre nodded slowly, her tone soft as she said, “You’re right. He doesn’t deserve that.”

Lucien’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though the fire in his gaze didn’t dim. He glanced down at Azer, his voice softening as he murmured, “You’re safe, little fox. Your parents will be here soon.”

As the room settled into a tense quiet, Azer stirred in Lucien’s arms, his hiccups subsiding into soft breaths. He sniffled, his small hands clutching at Lucien’s tunic as he lifted his tear-streaked face. His wide, amber eyes—so much like his father’s—scanned the room, landing on Cassian, Azriel, and Rhysand.

Azer blinked, his curiosity breaking through the haze of his earlier tears. “Why do they have wings?” he asked, his voice small but clear as he pointed a tiny finger toward the three Illyrians.

The question caught everyone off guard, and for a moment, the tension in the room softened. Cassian exchanged a glance with Azriel, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“We were born with them,” Cassian said, leaning back in his chair and giving his wings an exaggerated stretch. “They’re part of being Illyrian.”

Azer tilted his head, his small brows furrowing in confusion. “What’s an Illyrian?”

“They’re warriors,” Lucien explained gently, his tone patient. “They come from a different part of the Night Court.”

Azer’s eyes grew even wider as he looked back at the three males. “Warriors? Like Dada?”

Azriel’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile, though his shadows curled tighter around him. “Something like that,” he said quietly.

Cassian chuckled, his grin widening. “I bet we could teach you a thing or two about being a warrior, little one.”

Lucien shot him a sharp look. “He’s three, Cassian. Let’s not give him ideas.”

Azer ignored the exchange, his attention fixated on Rhysand now. “Can I have wings too?”

Rhysand, who had been watching the interaction with quiet amusement, leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “I don’t think wings are something you can grow, little one,” he said, his tone light. “But you don’t need them to be strong. You’ve got fire in your veins, just like your father.”

Azer’s face scrunched up as he considered this, then turned back to Lucien. “But wings would be fun,” he insisted, his small voice earnest.

Lucien sighed, a soft chuckle escaping him despite himself. “You’ll have to make do without them, little fox.”

The inner circle exchanged subtle glances, their earlier wariness giving way to quiet intrigue as they observed the boy’s innocent curiosity. For a moment, the weight of secrets and past grievances seemed to lift, replaced by the simple wonder of a child discovering the world around him.

Azer’s gaze lingered on the Illyrians for a moment longer before he nestled back into Lucien’s shoulder, his tiny voice murmuring, “Maybe one day…”

Lucien smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Maybe one day,” he agreed, his voice filled with quiet affection.

The tension in the room only deepened when Lady Arlene, Helion, and Alev returned, their faces marked with worry. Alev’s hair was even more dishevelled than before, and both Arlene and Helion looked like they had braved the worsening storm outside.

“No sign of them,” Arlene announced, her voice tight as she approached Lucien and Azer. “The gardens are sprawling, and the rain is turning into a storm. They could be anywhere.”

Helion placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, though his own concern was evident. “They’re clever. They’ll be fine. But we should keep searching.”

Azer, still in Lucien’s arms, babbled softly to himself, seemingly unaware of the adults’ growing unease. His little voice carried a mix of words and toddler gibberish, his fingers playing with the collar of Lucien’s tunic. His eyes, though still red-rimmed from crying, were wide with curiosity as he noticed the way Azriel’s shadows danced around him.

“’Shadows,” Azer murmured, his small hand stretching out toward the wisps of darkness that curled and swirled around Azriel like living things. “Wanna play.”

Azriel glanced down at the boy, his expression unreadable. His shadows seemed to hesitate for a moment before one daring tendril crept closer, teasingly twirling around Azer’s outstretched fingers.

Azer giggled softly, the sound tinged with sniffles as he tried to grab at the shadow. “Gotcha!” he exclaimed, his toddler speech slightly garbled. “No… no run!”

Azriel allowed a rare, faint smile to tug at the corner of his lips as his shadow darted away, only to circle back and flick at Azer’s tiny fingers.

Lucien sighed, adjusting Azer in his arms as he watched the interaction. “Don’t encourage him, Azriel,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real bite.

“I’m not doing anything,” Azriel replied smoothly, though there was a flicker of amusement in his voice.

Azer giggled again, distracted from the earlier upset as he babbled nonsense words to the shadow, his sniffles gradually fading. The storm outside intensified, the sound of rain pounding against the grand windows of the ballroom filling the room.

Arlene stepped closer, her hand brushing over Azer’s curls. “We need to find them,” she said softly, her worry now etched plainly on her face.

Helion nodded, his gaze moving toward the doors. “They can’t have gone far, even with the storm. We’ll keep searching.”

Alev, standing nearby, hesitated before adding, “I’ll check the garden pathways again. Maybe they found cover somewhere.”

As the adults strategized, Azer turned his attention back to Azriel’s shadows, a tiny smile breaking through his lingering tears. His little hand swiped through the air again as he mumbled, “Come back, shadow. No hide!”

The sight of the toddler’s innocent determination seemed to soften even the tension between the inner circle and the Vanserras, at least for a moment. But the storm outside raged on, a reminder that the ones they were all looking for were still nowhere to be found.

-----

The storm had turned the garden into a shimmering maze, the rain coming down in heavy sheets that drenched everything in its path. You ran through it, your laughter ringing out despite the chaos, your hand clasped tightly in Eris’s. The muddy ground squelched beneath your feet, and your gown, once pristine, clung to your body, the fabric soaked through.

Eris, his hair plastered to his forehead, glanced back at you, his golden eyes alight with amusement even as the rain poured down around you both. “You’re going to ruin that dress,” he teased, though his own immaculate attire wasn’t faring much better.

“Better the dress than my ankles!” you shot back, already fumbling to pull off your soaked shoes. The delicate heels were no match for the slippery garden paths, and you nearly tripped as you tugged them free.

Eris caught you before you could fall, his strong hands steadying you as he grinned. “Careful, love. I’d hate for you to twist an ankle before our grand re-entrance.”

You laughed breathlessly, finally kicking the shoes off and tossing them onto the wet grass. “I think it’s a little late for grand, don’t you?”

Eris raised a brow, clearly unbothered by the state of your dishevelled appearance. “You forget who you’re with.” His voice was low, teasing, and entirely too self-assured as he pulled you closer. “I can make anything grand.”

Rolling your eyes, you tugged him forward, your bare feet splashing through puddles as you both ran toward the faint glow of the ballroom ahead. The rain was relentless, but it only added to the thrill of the moment, each step a mix of wild abandon and shared laughter.

As you reached the edge of the gardens, the sound of music from the ballroom grew louder, mingling with the rhythm of the rain. You paused for a moment under the partial cover of a sprawling oak tree, catching your breath as Eris leaned down, his hands braced on his knees.

“You know,” you panted, brushing wet strands of hair from your face, “we probably look ridiculous.”

Eris straightened, his golden eyes gleaming despite the storm. “We look like royalty,” he said smugly, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “Just… slightly soggier than usual.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you grabbed his hand again. “Come on, Your Highness. Let’s get back inside before they send a search party.”

As you reached the edge of the gardens, the rain pelting down harder than ever, Eris tugged you back beneath the shelter of a sprawling oak tree. His golden eyes glimmered with mischief as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Do we really have to go back inside?” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, barely audible over the storm. “The ballroom’s full of people I’d rather avoid… and you’re far more interesting.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours, warm and insistent despite the chill of the rain soaking through both your clothes. His hand slid up your back, fingers tangling in your damp hair as he kissed you with a fervour that made you momentarily forget the storm raging around you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven. “Why don’t we just stay out here?” he suggested, his tone teasing but his intent unmistakable. “The rain, the grass… It’s far better than listening to advisors drone on or exchanging pleasantries with people who don’t matter.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, though your teeth chattered from the cold. “Eris, it’s freezing, and we’re both covered in muck. Look at us!”

He glanced down, his shirt clinging to his chest and the once-immaculate fabric smeared with dirt. His boots were caked with mud, and your gown was a waterlogged mess. He grinned, utterly unbothered. “We’ve looked worse. And I still think you’re stunning.”

You swatted at his chest, though it lacked any real force. “As flattering as that is, I’m not about to let my teeth chatter out of my skull just to indulge you.”

Eris sighed dramatically, though his grin remained. “You ruin all my fun, you know that?”

You arched a brow, stepping back and tugging him toward the glowing lights of the ballroom. “Come on, High Lord. Let’s go before the muck starts seeping into places it shouldn’t.”

Eris followed reluctantly, though his hand remained firmly clasped in yours. “Fine,” he said, his tone half playful, half resigned. “But don’t think for a second that I’m done with you tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, your heart still pounding from the intensity of his kiss. “You’re insatiable,” you muttered, though the warmth in your chest betrayed how much you loved it.

“And you’re freezing,” he shot back with a smirk. “Let’s get you inside before you catch cold.”

The grand ballroom was alive with music and chatter as you and Eris entered, soaked from the rain and slightly dishevelled. The golden chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, a stark contrast to the storm still raging outside. Water dripped from the hem of your dress, forming a small trail as you both walked further in. You reached up to smooth your hair, hoping to appear somewhat presentable, but Eris was already scanning the room, his sharp eyes cutting through the crowd.

It was then that his entire demeanour shifted. His gaze landed on Lucien, seated at a table near the far side of the ballroom, cradling a familiar bundle in his arms. Eris froze for a fraction of a second, his shoulders tensing before he took off in a sprint, leaving you to trail behind him, startled.

The inner circle, seated with Lucien and Azer, noticed Eris immediately. Cassian leaned back in his chair, exchanging a look with Rhysand and Feyre. They’d spent the past hour piecing together the puzzle of the little boy, thanks to Lucien’s quiet but firm explanation, but now they were about to witness the truth first-hand.

Eris reached Lucien in moments, his golden eyes darting over Azer’s tear-streaked face. Azer was clutching Lucien’s tunic with trembling fingers, his breaths coming in quick hiccups as his wide amber eyes filled with tears.

“Dada!” Azer cried out, reaching for Eris with both arms. His voice cracked with the effort, his small body shaking as his emotions overwhelmed him.

Eris immediately knelt, his hands steady as he took Azer from Lucien’s arms. “Shh, little firefox,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing despite the storm of worry in his gaze. “I’m here. Dada’s here.”

Azer buried his face in Eris’s soaked chest, sobbing uncontrollably. His little fists clutched at Eris’s tunic, his cries muffled but heart-wrenching. The room seemed to shrink as the High Lord of Autumn cradled his son, his usual composed mask cracking just enough for those closest to see.

Lucien stood, his expression grim as he addressed Eris. “There was a fire,” he explained quietly, his voice laced with both worry and frustration. “The babysitter told him to step away, but… Azer lit the spark. His powers manifested for the first time.”

Eris’s jaw tightened, his pride momentarily overshadowed by the need to comfort his son. “He’s alright?” he asked, his voice steady but low.

“He’s fine,” Lucien assured him. “Just shaken. And terrified.”

Eris closed his eyes for a moment, pressing a kiss to Azer’s curls. “It’s okay, little one,” he whispered. “You’re safe now. You’re so brave.”

Azer tried to speak, but his words came out in broken sobs. “D-Dada… fire… I—”

“Shh,” Eris soothed, rubbing small circles on Azer’s back. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just like me, aren’t you? Full of fire.”

The pride in his voice was subtle, carefully masked by his fatherly concern, but those who knew him well could hear it. Cassian and Azriel, who had been quietly observing, exchanged a glance before stepping forward.

“You’ll soak him through,” Azriel said, his voice calm as he shrugged off his jacket. Cassian did the same, handing theirs to Eris.

“Wrap him in these,” Cassian added, his tone unusually soft.

Eris hesitated for a moment, his pride warring with practicality, before taking the jackets and wrapping them around Azer’s trembling form. The little boy clung to him, his cries quieting to soft hiccups as the warmth of the jackets and his father’s presence surrounded him.

The inner circle continued to watch, their expressions ranging from surprise to quiet understanding. This was not the cold, calculating High Lord they had expected. This was a father—protective, proud, and deeply devoted to his son.

Rhysand leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as he observed Eris murmuring soft reassurances to Azer. “I never thought I’d see the day,” he said quietly, his voice just loud enough for Feyre to hear.

Feyre glanced at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. “There’s more to him than we realized,” she said.

“Clearly,” Rhysand replied, watching as Eris stood, cradling Azer close as if shielding him from the world.

The moment you spotted Eris standing with Azer wrapped in the jackets, your heart clenched. You ran toward them, your bare feet still damp from the rain, your gown dragging slightly behind you. The sight of your little boy nestled against his father, his tear-streaked face peeking out from the folds of fabric, was enough to quicken your pace.

As you reached them, you instinctively placed a hand on Eris’s arm, your gaze immediately falling to Azer. “What happened? Is he okay?” you asked breathlessly, brushing damp curls from your son’s forehead.

“He’s fine,” Eris assured you softly, his golden eyes meeting yours. “Just a little shaken. He—”

Lucien cleared his throat, stepping forward. “I’ll explain later,” he said, his voice low but steady. “He’s alright now, though.”

It was then you noticed the table behind them, where a group of unfamiliar faces watched the interaction with curious and calculating eyes. You quickly straightened, smoothing your sodden dress as best you could.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” you said, addressing the group with a polite smile despite your racing heart. “I’m Y/N, Eris’s wife. Thank you for… for helping with Azer. It means more than you know.”

The High Lady of Night Court—Feyre, you recognized her from Eris’s descriptions—was the first to speak. She stood, her expression warm and welcoming. “It’s lovely to meet you, Y/N,” she said. “You have a beautiful family.”

You smiled, a touch nervously, as the others introduced themselves: Rhysand, Azriel, Cassian, and Mor. Their gazes flicked between you, Eris, and Azer, a mix of curiosity and guarded interest in their eyes.

Azer squirmed slightly in Eris’s arms, his small hand reaching out for you. “Mama,” he mumbled, his voice still thick from crying.

You took him gently, cradling him close as he rested his head on your shoulder. His little body relaxed almost immediately in your embrace, though his pout remained firmly in place.

“This is a boring ball,” he mumbled, his tone disgruntled.

The room went silent for a beat before laughter rippled through the group. Even Eris let out a low chuckle, his hand resting on your back as you shook your head, biting back a smile.

“Well,” you said, kissing the top of Azer’s head, “he’s not wrong.”

Cassian grinned, leaning back in his chair. “I like this kid,” he said, earning a glare from Eris that only made him smirk wider.

Azer peeked up from your shoulder, his amber eyes still wet but curious as they scanned the group. He gave a little sniffle, then buried his face back against you with a contented sigh.

“Thank you,” you said again, your voice softer now as you looked at the group. “For everything.”

Feyre smiled warmly. “He’s lucky to have you both.”

You nodded, your heart swelling as you looked down at Azer. Despite the chaos of the night, everything felt a little more steady now with him in your arms.

[crazeno]

HI i come baring an au i’ve been stupid ab and lowkey forgot i had tumblr and can share it here

A very basic summary so sorry for the plot holes and shitty wrriting

> CRYOGENIC AU

> Thousands upon thousands of years into the cybertronian war, Decepticon Mad Scientist, Shockwave, revealed his new experiment to dictator, Megatron, in hopes it would wipe out the Autobot faction for good. An infectious Bio-weapon dubbed the “Hate Plague” was unleashed onto the unknowing war soldiers.

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> A violent virus spread through a prolonged touch, of which the infected would succumb to severe amounts of agitation, a loss of control and morality, as well as exhibiting violent behaviours towards any other life forms.

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> Quickly they exhibited aggression towards each other, hoping the Autobots would tear their own faction apart. However the plague backfired, quickly advancing through cybertronian kind, both factions finding themselves trapped.

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> Autobot inventor, Wheeljack, quickly explained the situation to the autobot commanders, having found a momentary solution to the virus during recent encounters, Cold Temperatures, a drop in the atmospheres temperature would halt the spread of the plague on an individual, but would not reverse the effects. Information that could be crucial in reversing the outbreak. But a task as such would be almost impossible with the large spread around the planet.

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> The Decepticon faction had been completely overrun in attempt to fight back against the virus. Megatron reluctantly fleeing from the war grounds to save his own life, finding the remaining alive Autobots with their base in a secure lockdown.

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> In a last ditch effort and attempt to prevent further bloodshed amidst the pandemic, Optimus Prime and Megatron formed an uneasy alliance, the raging war between the two factions had been shattered.

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> Inventor Wheeljack believed he would be able to overcome the virus with a cure, but the current outbreak conditions on cybertron would make time and work near impossible.

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> Optimus prime reluctantly left Cybertron, taking a handful of remaining autobot survivors, Megatron and what early stage infected bots they could safely secure with them, locked away in a frozen stasis.

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> The first movements were rather slow, with little time to prepare their travel, energon and resources started to dwindle to dangerous levels, the crew travelling through the vast space for a safe place to land, until eventually crash landing on a near deserted frozen planet, Earth (1 million BCE), where they would be able to safely study and work towards curing the plague, as well as keep their energon stocked and collect resources to fix their ship and hopefully restore their dying planet.

With blood and rage of crimson red ripped from a corpse so freshly dead.

[linoxpudding]

Intern (Pt 1)- Lee Know

summary: during your six-month internship as skz stylist, you start crushing on him—what starts as harmless flirting soon grows into something more

pairing: lee know x fem!reader

genre: angst, fluff, humor

word count: 3742 words

a/n: this series is based on this concept we did a voting poll on—thank you for participating and showing so much love!

Intern Series: Part Two

Masterlist

~°~

The first time you stepped into the JYP building, your hands were shaking with both nervousness and excitement. It was the beginning of your styling internship, a dream you had poured sweat and sleepless nights into. Armed with your sketchpad, a crossbody bag stuffed with emergency safety pins, and a heart full of ambition, you told yourself: Don’t screw this up.

You had done your homework. When you got assigned as a styling intern for SKZ, you took your preparation seriously. Since the night after your mentor gave you the assignment, you stayed up until 3 a.m., watching their music videos, live stages, interviews, and even casual airport appearances. You took detailed notes about their individual fashion preferences.

You told yourself to stay focused, keep your head down, and make a good impression because if this internship went well, there was a high chance of being hired full-time by the company.

The hallway buzzed with the energy of people who had long since grown used to the rhythm of stardom. You were the newcomer, the wide-eyed intern trailing behind your mentor stylist like a puppy, trying to absorb every little detail — how the stylists laid out the racks by color, how accessories were paired last minute, how the idols lit up when they liked a look. And then your eyes found him.

Lee Minho.

He wasn’t the loudest in the room, no, he was far from it. He was perched near the corner mirror, scrolling on his phone, brows slightly furrowed. He had this aura — quiet, detached, intense — like he was perfectly content in his own little world. And yet, your eyes were locked on him.

“You’re staring.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the chirpy voice beside you. Han Jisung was grinning, an unopened bottle of water in his hand as he leaned toward you teasingly.

“No, I’m not,” you lied.

“Don’t worry. Everyone falls for Minho hyung at least once,” he said with a wink. “It’s the cheekbones. And the way he’s mean but not actually mean.”

“I wasn’t—” You stopped mid-denial when Minho glanced in your direction. Your eyes met for a fraction of a second before he turned away again, pretending to fix his sleeves.

“See?” Jisung chuckled.

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying not to smile. “You’re very confident for someone I just met.”

“Hi, I’m Han Jisung. Rapper, genius, snack hoarder, and chaos king,” he said with a bow.

You laughed. “Y/N. Intern, chaos coordinator, and apparently a known starer.”

He beamed. “We’ll get along great.”

Before you could reply, your mentor stylist clapped her hands to gather attention. “Everyone, can I have a moment?”

The boys turned one by one, murmuring greetings. Your heart sped up when eight pairs of eyes landed on you—including one very unreadable stare from the corner.

“This is Y/N,” your mentor said. “She’s the new styling intern assigned to your team for the next six months. She’ll be helping with fittings, accessories, stage prep, and hopefully keeping Han Jisung from dyeing his own hair again.”

“I swear that only happened once,” Jisung whined.

You bowed slightly. “I’m really excited to work with you all.”

Bang Chan came forward first, offering a warm handshake. “Welcome. Don’t let these guys scare you.”

Hyunjin gave a dramatic gasp. “Me? I’m an angel.”

Felix smiled sweetly, waving both hands. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

Then, your gaze flicked to Minho.

He gave a small nod. No smile. No handshake. Just that same quiet, composed expression that made your skin buzz. You told yourself not to take it personally.

The rest of the members greeted you excitedly, making you feel at ease. Your chest warmed at the sincere welcome, each of them so wildly different from the next—but all kind, open, and vibrant in their own way.

*******************

The days passed in a blur of hangers, lint rollers, and steaming oversized blazers. The boys were friendly and made your work fun. Felix always complimented your fashion choices, Seungmin offered sarcastic banter and teased you, Hyunjin was your gossip partner, and Changbin gave you surprisingly helpful gym tips. Han quickly became your food buddy—your shared obsession with trying new restaurants meant you were always ordering food delivery together during late-night fittings. Chan was respectful and constantly checked in, making sure you weren’t overwhelmed. And Jeongin, the maknae, affectionately called you noona, often hanging around you like a little shadow when the others teased him too much. 

And Minho?

He wasn't exactly warm, but he wasn’t cold either. He tossed out sarcastic remarks and clever retorts, never quite letting you in—but never truly pushing you away. He’d roll his eyes when you teased him, but you swore you saw the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips right after. There was a tension there, simmering quietly beneath the surface. And you… well, you were hopelessly drawn to it.

“You pinned this unevenly,” he murmured once, as you adjusted the collar of his shirt.

You glanced up, noticing the tiniest smirk on his lips. “You have a very picky neckline, Minho-ssi.”

“It’s Lee Know,” he corrected, eyes narrowing.

“But your name is Minho.”

He didn’t reply, only looked away, clearly pretending he wasn’t affected. You didn’t miss the way his ears flushed pink again.

*******************

Few weeks passed, and your crush on Lee Minho didn’t fade. If anything, it got worse.

It wasn’t just his looks—though, let’s be honest, that was a huge part of it. It was the way he moved, so effortlessly precise, the way he always seemed like he was holding back—like there was something underneath that cold exterior, but he refused to let anyone see it.

And that only made you want to push harder.

Your teasing didn’t stop. If anything, it became a routine. Every morning, you greeted him with an overly cheerful, “Good morning, sunshine,” just to watch him roll his eyes. You stole glances whenever he wasn’t looking, memorizing the way his jaw tensed in concentration, the way his lips pursed slightly when he was focused.

The longer this went on, the more you realized he wasn’t actually ignoring you anymore. At first, it was subtle. You’d catch him watching you through the mirror when you were fixing his accessories, but the second your eyes met, he’d look away, pretending he wasn’t. You’d brush past him in the dressing room, and while before he used to step away without a word, now you noticed the way his fingers grazed yours, just for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to do it.

It was driving you insane.

Because for all the tiny moments of warmth he let slip, there was always a wall he refused to let down completely. He was softer now, his usual sharp remarks lacking their previous bite, but there was still a distance, an invisible line he wouldn’t cross.

It only made you want him more.

One particular evening, after a long day of rehearsals, you were fixing his stage outfit, adjusting the belt around his waist. His shirt had ridden up slightly, and your fingers accidentally grazed the bare skin of his stomach.

Minho tensed.

It was brief— so quick that anyone else wouldn’t have noticed— but you did.

You looked up, meeting his gaze through the mirror. “Relax. I’m just doing my job.”

“You take your job very seriously, don’t you?” His voice was quiet, unsteady.

“Of course.” You grinned. “Besides, I’d hate for you to trip and fall on stage because your stylist didn’t tighten your belt properly.”

Minho exhaled through his nose, something between a scoff and a laugh. “Wouldn’t that be tragic.”

You patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Minho. I’d catch you.”

He turned to look at you then, really look at you. Something flickered behind his eyes, something you couldn’t quite place. Then, just like always, it was gone.

“You talk too much.”

“And you never talk at all,” you shot back.

For the first time since you met him, his lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close. “Maybe that’s why this works.”

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

Because maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t playing as indifferent as he wanted you to believe.

*******************

The flirtation began slowly. Playful, subtle — like a game neither of you admitted to playing.

“You have something in your hair,” you said one morning, plucking a nonexistent speck off his bangs. Your fingers brushed his forehead, and he flinched.

“You’re annoying.”

“But you love it.”

He didn’t respond, but his lips twitched — not a smile, not really, but something that made your heart skip.

And it became a rhythm. A comment here, a teasing glance there. The way your fingers lingered a beat too long when adjusting his rings. The way his eyes always seemed to find yours in the mirror while you fixed someone else’s outfit.

The rest of the members noticed it before either of you did.

“Just date already,” Changbin muttered one day under his breath while watching you and Minho argue over sock colors.

Minho turned bright red and threw a pair of socks at him.

But the truth was — you weren’t in love.

Not yet.

What you had was a crush. A dizzying, butterflies-in-the-stomach, blushing-when-he-looks-your-way kind of crush. The kind that made you dress a little better each morning. That made you learn how to make his favorite iced coffee. That made your day when he, quietly and without a word, handed you a hairclip when yours had broken.

It wasn’t serious.

But it felt like it could be something.

If only you could break through that thick, tsundere wall of his.

And if only he’d stop looking at you like that — like maybe he was harboring a little crush too.

*******************

You successfully completed two months with the team and the novelty of chaos was beginning to wear off. Not because you didn’t enjoy it—you did, immensely—but because chaos was now your norm. Early mornings, late nights, and endless outfit changes in between. If you weren’t hauling a steamer, you were chasing Han around with lint rollers because he always sat somewhere dusty right before a shoot.

You were packing up at the end of the day, with only the band members around, before you heard Chan’s voice.

“Group dinner tonight,” Chan announced, looking both exhausted and excited. “Everyone, don’t bail. That includes you, Minho.”

The dancer in question raised a brow, leaning against the wall. “Didn’t say I was bailing.”

“You always have that look like you might,” Seungmin chimed in with a smirk.

You stood in the corner, folding costume pieces into a garment bag, half-listening until Hyunjin slung an arm around your shoulder dramatically.

“You’re coming too,” he said.

“What? Me?”

“You’re part of the crew now.” He waved at the others. “She survived two months of our collective nonsense. She deserves tteokbokki.”

Han popped his head in from behind the doorframe. “And kimchi pancakes. And beef bulgogi.”

“And peace,” you added dryly, zipping the bag. “Which I will never get with you guys.”

Felix giggled from where he sat on the floor, helping Jeongin lace up his boots. “That means you like us.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, shaking your head. Changbin bumped your shoulder, eyes kind. “Come on. You need a break.”

You finally relented with a soft, “Okay, okay. I’ll go.”

*******************

The restaurant was cozy, with warm wooden booths and steamy windows from all the hotpots bubbling on tables. The place smelled like garlic and soy sauce and warmth—comfort food at its finest. You sat between Hyunjin and Felix, across from Chan and Minho, whose usual expressionless face hadn’t changed since you walked in.

You tried not to be obvious, but you kept stealing glances.

He was in a black hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his silver bracelet glinting each time he picked up his water. He rarely looked up. He listened more than he spoke. And yet, when he did speak, the entire table naturally gave him the floor.

You tried not to stare. You really, really tried. But the way his hair slightly curled around his forehead, the way he methodically arranged his chopsticks and napkin before the food even arrived—it was all infuriatingly attractive.

A waiter arrived to take your orders, and the table erupted into chaos as everyone argued over which sides to order. You instinctively leaned forward, flicking your eyes to Minho.

“Do you want tteokbokki or kimchi fried rice?” you asked casually, heart hammering like it was some kind of proposal.

Minho glanced at you, then at the menu. “Both.”

“Bold,” you teased, nudging Hyunjin with your elbow. “Should we listen to the king’s command?”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes. “If we don’t, he’ll make that face again.”

Minho didn’t even blink. “What face?”

“That one,” Felix snickered, pointing across the table. “The one where you look like you’ve already imagined five different ways to kill us.”

You giggled, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. 

Halfway through the meal, Chan was recounting a chaotic photoshoot where Hyunjin had nearly fallen off a prop chair. Everyone was laughing, Hyunjin dramatically reenacting the fall beside you, his hand grazing your arm.

You laughed until your eyes teared, wiping them carefully with a napkin. When you leaned back into your seat, still giggling, your gaze drifted across the table.

Minho was already looking at you. Just for a second. Then he looked away, like nothing had happened. But your stomach dipped. You busied yourself pouring water into your glass.

Just then, Jeongin called you, “Noona, if you could only eat one banchan (side dish) for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“Easy,” you said without thinking. “Sweet and spicy anchovies.”

A hush fell over the table.

Minho blinked slowly. “You have no taste.”

You gasped. “Excuse me?!”

“They’re chewy nightmares,” Minho deadpanned.

“I like the crunch!”

“They squeak against your teeth,” Seungmin said with a visible shudder.

“That’s the charm!”

Han leaned over to Chan, quietly whispering, “Hyung, I give it two weeks before they either kill each other or make out.”

Minho, somehow hearing him despite the chatter, didn’t react. Just took another sip of water. But the corner of his mouth curled. Barely. Meanwhile, the bickering continued at the table as everyone started debating about the best banchan.

*******************

Later, after dinner, the group lingered outside in the cool night air. Some of the guys were discussing whether to go for dessert, while others were calling it a night. You stood off to the side, while carrying your styling bags, laughing about how Seungmin was complaining to you about Chan nearly spilled sauce all over his white hoodie when Han approached.

“You need a ride?” he asked.

You blinked. “Oh…I was going to grab a cab or bus, it’s not too far—”

“Nope,” Han cut you off with a smile. “You’re not standing at a bus stop at midnight with arms full of styling bags. I’m driving you.”

“I’ve done it before—”

“C’mon, me and Minho hyung live nearby. We can drop you off. No big deal.”

You glanced back at Minho. He wasn’t looking at you—his hands were shoved deep into his pockets, eyes fixed on a vague point down the street.

You were conflicted but seeing Han’s pleading eyes, you finally agreed, “Thanks, Han.”

“Of course,” he grinned while taking the bags from you, you insisted you were fine, but he still carried it.

The walk to the car was casual, filled with light chatter and the occasional laugh from Han as he nudged Hyunjin about something he said earlier. You trailed behind them, the cool air nipping at your skin.

As you reached the car, Han popped the trunk open and helped you stash your things. Then, without a word, he circled around to the back seat and slid in, leaving the passenger door wide open.

You blinked at him. “Wait, aren’t you driving—”

Han suddenly yawned, very theatrically. “Ugh. Actually, I’m too tired to drive. I’ll sit in the back and crash. Hyung, let her ride shotgun.”

Your eyes flicked to Minho, who was already in the driver’s seat, expression unreadable as he adjusted the mirrors.  

 “You coming or not?” Minho asked, looking at you.

You hesitated, just for a second, then climbed in and shut the door.

The moment the seat clicked beneath you, Han muttered, barely loud enough to hear, “Perfect.”

Minho didn’t say anything. But his jaw tensed just a little, and he started the car.

The ride began in silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the quiet shuffle of Han finding a playlist on his phone.

“Hope you don’t mind a detour,” Han said from the back, voice teasing. “Minho’s the designated night driver. He likes to take the scenic route.”

You glanced at Minho, who still didn’t look at you—but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting off a smirk.

And just like that, the car pulled away from the curb, the city lights casting soft glows through the windows as Han leaned back, playing cupid from the shadows.

Minho didn’t speak. His hands stayed steady on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. The glow from the dashboard lit up the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the quiet concentration on his face. You tried not to stare.

From the back seat, Han was pretending to scroll through music, but you could practically feel the smugness radiating off him.

“I can play a playlist,” you offered, breaking the silence, voice a little too casual. “If you want.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I got one,” Han said, and almost immediately, a mellow beat started playing—a dreamy, slow-tempo track that sounded suspiciously like it was chosen with a mood in mind.

You glanced at him through the rearview mirror. He caught your eye and winked.

Of course. He definitely planned this.

The car turned down a quieter road, and the noise of the city faded into the distance. You shifted in your seat, unsure if the air felt warmer or if it was just Minho’s presence beside you, silent but unignorable.

“You really didn’t have to drive me,” you said, mostly to say something. Anything.

Minho’s eyes flicked toward you, “Didn’t mind.”

You waited for more, but that was it. Just two words, perfectly even, like he was keeping everything locked tight.

“Minho hyung’s always like that,” Han piped up from the back, leaning forward slightly. “All gruff and broody, but secretly soft. Like a very stylish cactus.”

You snorted, covering your mouth with your hand. Minho’s knuckles tightened slightly on the wheel, but this time, you caught the smirk.

“I’m not broody,” he said quietly.

Han snickered but didn’t argue further. The playlist shifted to another soft, melodious, romantic track, and no one reached to change it. Minho must’ve noticed the way your arms shifted uncomfortably in your lap, because after a while, his voice cut through the soft music.

“You should’ve let someone carry those bags earlier.”

You blinked, looking over. “Huh?”

“At dinner. All those styling bags. You were struggling.”

You scoffed lightly, but a smile tugged at your lips. “I’ve carried more. I’m fine.”

Minho didn’t respond right away. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel, slow and rhythmic, like he was working up to something.

“It’s not about whether you can,” he said finally, tone low. “You shouldn’t have to.”

The words weren’t dramatic. Weren’t delivered with any fanfare. But something about the quiet conviction in them made your stomach twist unexpectedly. You glanced at him, only to find him already looking back at the road, jaw set like he regretted saying anything at all.

From the back seat, Han shifted. You peeked over your shoulder—his head was tilted against the window, eyes shut, lips parted slightly. Fake sleeping. Very obviously fake sleeping.

You turned back around, biting back a smile before mumbling, “He’s such a bad actor.”

Minho huffed a laugh under his breath. “I know.”

The car finally pulled up in front of your building. You reached for the door handle, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Thanks again, really. Both of you—”

The click of a door unlocking cut you off.

Your head whipped to the side.

Minho was already stepping out of the car.

You froze. “Wait—what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. Just rounded the front of the car in a few long strides, expression unreadable as always. When he reached your side, he opened the door for you—not with exaggerated politeness, but with quiet certainty, like it wasn’t even a question.

Your eyes met his.

Up close, he looked unfairly good under the streetlight—eyelashes casting soft shadows, hair falling slightly into his eyes. He didn’t say anything, just waited, one hand resting on the top of the door.

You stepped out slowly, surprised. “You didn’t have to…”

“I know,” he said simply.

You paused, suddenly aware of how close he was. Of how the air between you was warmer now, more charged than before. His gaze lingered on yours for a second too long before he stepped back, giving you space.

From behind you, Han let out a dramatic snore.

You turned to glance at him—his head now resting awkwardly against the seatbelt, clearly committed to his fake-sleep bit.

Minho sighed. “He’s gonna make me carry him upstairs at this rate.”

You laughed softly. “Good luck.”

Minho shook his head, almost smiling as he silently handed you the bags from the trunk.

You lingered for a second, standing on the sidewalk with your hand still clutching the strap of your bag, unsure if this was the moment to say goodnight or… something else.

“Goodnight,” you said quietly.

Minho met your eyes. “Text me when you’re inside.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

He looked away, pretending to adjust something on the car. “Just. To make sure you’re safe.”

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest despite the cool night air. “Okay. I will.”

As you turned to step into the building’s lobby, you swore you heard Han whisper, just loud enough to carry:

“Smooth, hyung.” 

“Shut up,” Minho’s voice echoed from the distance.

You bit back a grin as the elevator dinged open.

Once inside your apartment, you dropped your bags and leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closed, pulse steadying.

Smooth, indeed.

--------------

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[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

cw: menstruation (not graphic), afab anatomy

Part 4: “Girl Problems”

You shift in the office chair, stomach lurching uncomfortably. It’s been bothering you today - groaning and moaning nonstop. So far you blamed it on the suspicious chicken salad you got from the discount grocery store. You took every stomach soother you could, all the way down to chugging tea on the hottest day of spring so far.

With a rather pathetic groan you stand to meander your way to the bathroom. Surely sitting on the pot will help - at least as a placebo. Just as you do, though, a very distinct wet feeling makes itself known. You freeze, briefly, as if it will go away if you stand still enough.

“Ah, fuck!” You gasp, grabbing your purse and jogging down the hall to the single bath stall and popping the lock shut.

As soon as you sit, you let out a small sigh of relief. At least you caught it before you turned your underwear into a total crime scene. You’d rather not have to explain to John why you need to go home and change. You dig through your bag to your usual pocket of various supplies. From lotion to a sewing kit. It never hurts to be prepared.

Except, as you rifle around, you’re not finding your usual stash. There should be at least three in here… when did-?

The very loud, distinct memory of a girl at a bar stopping you while canvassing for some sanitary products hits you like a train.

“Whatever you’ve got I’ll take.” She practically begged. So, you handed them all over because got forbid someone get stranded during the most hellish week of the month. Like you are now.

You make a deep, frustrated noise in your throat and bury your face in your hands. You’ve been meaning to put a basket of backup wipes, pads, and tampons in the little bathroom cabinet - not just for you but for customers, too. It just kept getting pushed off when you got busy with other things.

Shit. What are you gonna do? If you put your pants back on you’ll just bleed through them in ten minutes. Cursed with a heavy flow (or blessed with a strong connection to the moon, as your former hippie roommate insisted.) Less time than that, probably, based on the vicious cramp that travels from your lower back to pelvis. You won’t be able to get to the corner store with out leaving a war crime in your path.

John’s the only person in the studio right now. He doesn’t have a client for another hour or so but you’d rather die than tell your hot boss you’re bleeding everywhere. For a few, quiet moments, you violently bounce your knee and go through every possibility. Maybe you’ll suddenly turn into the flash and you can get home before anyone even notices. You don’t really have much of a choice, do you?

With another groan you pull your phone from your pocket, thumb hovering over his contact for just a few beats too long while you work up the courage.

>> ok so this is terrible

>> im so sorry

>> but im having girl problems and am stuck in the bathroom

>> im so sorry this is so unprofessional

Girl problems? What are you? In fucking middle school? Before you can send yet another in a long string of planned apologies, John answers.

J >> How can I help?

>> i dont have any products on me

>> meant to stock the bathroom

>> sorry

J >> Stop apologizing

J >> What kind do you use? I’ll go to the corner store up the street

You breathe out a sigh of relief, still nervously gnawing at your lip as you send him what you need with an example picture (just in case) and profusely insist you’ll pay him back. John refuses. You’ll just have to sneak the cash in his tips or something.

It isn’t long before you hear the front doorbell ring, heavy footsteps, then a gentle tap on the bathroom door. “Y’alright, love?”

You perk up. “John, I’m so sorry-“

“Didn’t ask if you were sorry. Asked if you were alright.”

You snort. “Yeah…”

“I’m goin’ to unlock the door to slide these in. No lookin’ I swear.” John says. As if you were worried about that. You trust John. More than maybe any other man you’ve known (not that the bar is very high.) It’s nice of him to say, though. The door barely cracks open, just enough for him to toss the box to you across the floor and shut it immediately. You barely even see his arm. “That all you need?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” You murmur, bending awkwardly and snatching up the box. “I’m really sorry. I know it’s not really… appropriate.”

“Love, it’s normal. It happens. Just get y’self situated.” John taps the door once before you hear his footsteps drift down the hall toward the front.

You feel a bit skittish the rest of the day. You know it’s stupid. John’s a grown man and it’s a natural thing that happens and it’s fine. He said it’s fine. If it wasn’t fine you probably wouldn’t still look up to him the way that you do - the way that you have since you came here. The way everyone else seems to. Even so, you step around him a little wider than usual on your way out - keeping your head hung low and both hands tightly gripping your purse.

You chew your lip, shifting in place as he locks the front door. “Look, John, I-“

“If you apologize again I’m gonna fire you.” John mutters, pulling on the door to make sure it’s properly secured. There’s humor in it, though, the corners of his lips quirked up slightly.

You scoff, still not quite able to meet his eye.

“Sweetheart, look at me.” When you don’t move fast enough, apparently, he tilts your head up with a light touch. His eyes are so warm despite their icy blue shade. Sparkly in the setting sun. “Any man worth his breath wouldn’t give a shite. I’m sorry if that hasn’t been your experience, but really, it’s fine. I’ll help you out a thousand times over if y’need.”

“Okay…” You murmur, suddenly very distracted by the feeling of his fingers touching your chin, light as is it. You pull away and clear your throat, hoping he doesn’t notice the growing heat in your cheeks. “Well, uh, see you tomorrow, then.”

John nods, still smiling. “Sleep well, dove.”

When you come in the next day, you expect to get teased. A snide comment or a sideways look. You would have at any other job you’d worked - especially one with all men. All giggling and poking at you like a bear they know can’t bite back. No one says a thing outside of their usual greetings when you make your way to the front desk, though. Johnny pinches your hip like normal, Simon greets you with his new pun of the day, Kyle gives you a distracted wave over the hum of his practice gun. John doesn’t bat an eye when he says hello and checks in about the plan for the day.

You open the bottom drawer that you usually tuck your purse into, pausing before you set it inside. At the bottom, neatly tied together with a piece of twine, sits a king size chocolate bar and a pack of Midol.

If John notices the way you become extra smiley after that discovery, he doesn’t comment.

A/N: This was very self-indulgent but I’m having a bad time over here and need to be saved.

[bbygirl-aemond]

okay now that i've slept on this episode (and watched the behind the scenes) i want to talk more about this idea of rhaenyra as a cult leader who has completely drunk her own kool-aid. it's an a+ development for her character and i truly hope the writers continue to lean into it further.

hotd has built up this idea of dragons being a conduit for the divine from the very beginning of season one, when viserys and rhaenyra talk about how the targaryen's perceived proximity to the gods comes via their control of dragons. earlier in season two we also heard the smallfolk describe the dragons as invulnerable gods during the parading of meleys's head. this is a deliberate narrative that the targaryens have cultivated (as jace pointed out) to provide themselves with a divine mandate to justify their rule.

this idea of the dragons as a divine mandate is beginning to intersect with the conqueror's dream for rhaenyra in a fascinating way. rhaenyra has always placed more importance on the conqueror's dream than, say, daemon or jace, but this episode goes much further, and is full of rhaenyra talking about being given signs and instructions from the gods. i think addam claiming seasmoke was a transformation for her- she was smiling and had this look of near elation once he claimed her as queen.

i think she genuinely believes that the gods broke the rules of dragon claiming in order to give her a loyal dragon rider right when she needed one. we then see this same elated smile again when she successfully brings vermithor to heel.

each of these little moments is something she takes as confirmation that she's being aided by the gods. this is why she is so convinced that the dragon seeds who claim vermithor and silverwing will be loyal to her- she has convinced herself that all of this is the gods signaling to her and that they will bring her loyal dragon riders the way they brought her addam. the dragon tamers point out what rhaenyra is not willing to acknowledge; these are not true signs from the gods, but things that rhaenyra herself is reading into and arranging for herself. she is seeing what she wants to see. and this will be proven true when hugh and ulf betray rhaenyra, likely due to rhaenyra's own actions in locking the dragonseeds in to die. they were not loyal believers sent from the gods to serve her; they were just men, and she's given them the fantasy equivalent of nuclear missiles.

a large part of this belief in divine validation is definitely due to rhaenyra's own deep seated insecurity due to viserys neglecting her in her childhood and her small council not taking her seriously enough, but i also think this is a coping mechanism on rhaenyra's part. she has no choice but to lean into this war as fully as she can now, to describe herself as helpless in the wake of what the gods have set before her, because she needs her losses to mean something. she needs visenya's death and luke's death to mean something. she needs the loss of her relationship with alicent to mean something.

but in doing this, she is already beginning to push others away from her. she has lost the support of the dragon tamers, and she has also pushed away jace; when he confronted her about a valid concern about how this would make his own ascension even more fraught, she just parroted more of that divine mandate nonsense back to him, which he is clearly not buying. i'll be curious to see how much deeper she falls into this cultish spiral and how much more it costs her.

[talesofesther]

I'll crawl home to her

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Tales of Aemond's love for you.

A/N: In Ewan's words; the only thing that can beat Aemond is love. If you like this story, you'll like my ongoing series too. ;)

Masterlist

Aemond loves you behind closed doors.

He loves you with the way his pinky hooks around yours under the tables, during supper and council meetings.

He loves you with subtle looks and barely there smiles across rooms filled with people where he can only see you.

He loves you when he comes back tasting of heartache and guilt, with raindrops or tears staining his cold skin and clothes clinging to his body. When he stumbles into your room whispering sins against your embrace only for you to kiss the words, kiss his cheeks, kiss his scar, kiss the tears away. He clings to your body, your nightgown nearly ripping with his desperation.

But it's alright, because there's only you and him and the soft light of the candles in your room. It's alright because you cradle his head, fingertips burying between wet silver locks. It's alright because you whisper forgiveness into his ears, even if he feels undeserving.

And maybe war is now inevitable, but for a fraction of a moment, Aemond feels entirely at peace.

He loves you when you watch him from afar and notice the stiffness of his shoulders, the tapping of his fingers on the table. And then you'll find an excuse to call his name and get him away from the crowds, asking for some help with something mundane. You lace your fingers together, loose and yet so present. You take a familiar route through a lone hallway, you open the doors to the library hidden away in the confines of the Keep, pull him in, and close it again.

Aemond falls to you, his forehead is leaning against yours, his eye is closed, and he can breathe. You feel like fresh air. He nuzzles his nose to yours before asking for a kiss, it's all timid and bashful, he's not sure how to love yet, all he knows is that he feels it, insistent and warm; all-consuming.

But you hold his cheeks, you guide him, you teach him. Your fingers are in his hair and your soft lips touch the corner of his mouth; all delicate and devoted, Aemond doesn't know what to do with this much love, he might crumble.

His hands are around you, all over, and he's almost afraid to hurt you; even if you promise time and time again that he could never. Aemond sighs against your lips, and it sounds a lot like; "I am yours."

He loves you because there is no need for words with you. When he holds himself back from going to you all day—between planning for a war he's fighting alone and hearing his own mother talk of him as if he were a monster—the arrival of the night feels like a reprieve. It's the moment he waits for the most, for he can lay down his armor.

Aemond walks by the garden, picking up a single blue flower. He hides it away as he walks to your chambers, no one needs to know—even if everyone already knows anyway. He gives you the blue flower, with pink on his cheeks; he feels like a young boy in love—perhaps he is.

You kiss him, sweet and soft and tasting like the blueberries you stole from the kitchen earlier. And Aemond could cry, because if he has you, he's not alone.

You're the one who takes off his eyepatch, and then his coat, and his pants, and pulls loose his hair—you brush your lips over his shoulders when you do it, and he knows no one could love him the way you do. There's nothing sexual about it even if you're the muse of all his desires. He simply lays with you in bed, his head on your chest, and you trace the outlines of his body as you speak about your day. There are goosebumps on his skin, and he loves to hear you speak, about anything and everything, it soothes his troubled soul.

It's quiet, and Aemond falls asleep with the feeling of you braiding his hair. It'll be a little curly in parts when morning comes. He never minds it.

And he loves you with the way he won't be able to speak the three words. But he'll trace and kiss them on your skin every single night. And you understand, because you always say them back.

He loves you because of the way you sometimes hold the tip of his fingers with yours behind your backs.

He loves you with the way he'll threaten death to anyone who looks at you wrong.

He loves you with the way he could burn the whole world and yet not let a single flame touch your skin.

He loves you because you'll kiss his lips even if he tastes of blood and war.

He loves you because you'll hold his pieces together when everyone else is trying to tear him apart.

He loves you because even in the darkest of days, you're always there in the end.

He loves you because even if you exchange nothing but glances when amidst other people, you'll embrace his very soul in private.

He loves you because you wait with bathed breath when he takes Vhagar to the skies, and never think twice about mounting on a horse to gallop towards the woods outside of King's Landing when you spot the dragon's large silhouette bringing him back.

You jump from the white horse, Aemond jumps from Vhagar, and you meet each other in the middle. He holds you close in a needy embrace, as if each minute could be the last. And when you pull back, you don't ask questions or make demands, you simply run your thumbs over his cheekbones and breathe easiness into his skin. The feeling of you is always like coming home.

Amidst a world of war, you're a safe haven.

He loves you because you are the one who taught him what love feels like.

Aemond loves you behind closed doors. Wholly, truly, passionately. And with all of him that no one else is allowed to see.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Aemond's taglist is open, let me know if you'd like to be added. Or you can follow @talesofesther-library and turn notifications on to know when I’ve posted a new story/chapter.

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

[lunarxcity]

Why me?

Azriel x rhys sister! reader!

angst/eventual comfort (there will be 2 more parts to this series with an eventual happy ending)

Summary: When you walk in on Azriel and Elain the mating bond snaps leading you to flee to Autumn with Eris so you can be free of Azriel. Your absence causes Azriel to come to some drastic realisations, but is it already too late and has your time in Autumn led to you moving on?

-

They always said fate is a cruel mistress, but you never believed that to be true, until you saw Azriel about to kiss Elain on the night of the solstice. Fate had allowed you to survive all these years. Fate had brought you and Rhys, Azriel and Cassian. She and the mother must be scheming together to conspire against you because the minute you saw him with her you had felt something shift within you, and you knew that the mating bond just snapped.

After all these years of being Azriel’s closest friend and confidant. After the first few years after your and Rhys' mother first brought him home and you would sit in silence with him, keeping him company when he was too uncomfortable to speak much. After he almost got exiled from Illyria for slaying the men who were trying to clip your wings at camp. After he made a bargain with your father, the high lord, his lifelong servitude for your safety. After you decided you realised you were in love with him after you watched him give away his freedom for your wings.

After years of Azriel defying orders during the war to let you know that your brother and Cassian were alive. After he dragged you out of your depression after your mom and sister died. After watching him pine after Mor for centuries, while you pushed down your feelings. After him being the only thing that kept you going when Rhys was under the Mountain. After befriending Feyre and her sisters.

All you could think is why? Why me? Why now?

You run out of the room before they can see you, breathing heavily and rapidly with tears streaming down your face. The room was spinning, your body processing what was happening a lot quicker than your thoughts which were in completely disarray. You have no idea where you were running to, all you knew is that you had to run faster. Away from Azriel and Elain, away from this cruel situation, and away from this mating bond you knew you were going to have to eventually reject against your will.

You are about to pick up the pace when you slam into wall. It was not a wall, but Rhys’s chest. He's grabbing both your arms as you sink to your knees, unable to control your breathing. He tries to hold you up when you lock eyes with him and the only words you’re able to get out are, “it’s him. He’s my mate. And- he’s with-” You begin to hyperventilate on the floor while sobbing into Rhys’s chest, his arms rubbing soothing circles over your back. Rhys had known about your one-sided love for Azriel since the beginning. He was the one who had to stop you from killing your father when you found out that he had basically enslaved Azriel, the reason for your anger apparent to your overly perceptive brother. You told him to stay out of it then and he has tread lightly throughout the years, but you knew if it came down to it he would cut Azriel down where he stands for ever disrespecting you if it came down to it.

Despite the storm brewing in his violet eyes, his voice is soothing and comforting, “I’ll take care of it," he says. You hug him tightly, thankful for his support, but you knew in your heart you couldn't handle staying in the Night Court and seeing Azriel and Elain every day. At least not while the mating bond was still fresh, not when it had reopened old wounds that had never fully closed. "Rhys I can't be in this court. I need to go. Tell everyone that the situation in Autumn worsened and you needed to send someone to keep the peace. Tell them whatever you need, I just need to get out." You gave him a pleading look and he knew by looking in your eyes that you had made your mind. He gives you a solemn nod and just says, "Okay, but write to me if you need anything and don't be gone for too long. This is only a temporary solution. Use your judgement and be safe okay?" "Okay," you nod back and give him a hug before he starts angrily walking to go handle the Azriel situation.

You immediately winnow to your room and send a letter to an old friend calling in a favour. You quickly packed your things, getting ready to leave the Night Court until you can fully process this staggering new information. You close your final chest, when Cassian comes barreling through the door tears beginning to form in his eyes. "YOU'RE LEAVING WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE?" The mother must really have it in for you today. You schooled your features into indifference, "Cassian I need to go. This mission is crucial for the stability of the courts." You try to make it sound believable, but you're honestly so overwhelmed and so exhausted that you end up sounding monotone. "But-" Nesta walks in and shushes Cassian. While you had initially been closer to Feyre, you and Nesta have recently grown closer even starting a book club together bonding over your love for trashy romance books. Nesta looked at you up and down. It felt like her eyes were bearing into your very soul. She gave you a knowing look and something akin to pity flickered in her eyes, "It snapped for you didn't it? He has no idea?" Cassian's eyes went from glassy and pleading to confused, he sat down, and you watched everything finally fall into place for him. He jumps up, wings on alert, "Oh my god. IM GONNA KILL HIM-" You and Nesta run to hold him down. "NO-"

Mor and Feyre come barging in, trying and failing to hide the disbelief written across their faces. They were followed by a sauntering Amren, who looked as unphased as ever. From the looks of it, Rhys had told Feyre via mind to mind, who told Mor while Amren had been in the room and of course had already known everything, as she always does. Great you had intended to leave silently and now the entire house knew about the predicament that you're in. Mor looks at you guilt written on her features, she slowly begins to approach you. "We couldn't let you leave like this without saying goodbye first." She hugs you and tears begin to well up in your eyes. Then everyone else comes in and it turns into a group hug. Even Amren begrudgingly joins. Too emotionally exhausted to say anything more you thank everyone and get ready to winnow to the one court you know Azriel wouldn't follow you to when a shadow frantically darts to you and holds your wrist down against your desk.

Where there is smoke there is fire, and where there are shadows there is a shadowsinger. You fight against the shadow, but it frantically circles itself around your wrist. Desperate to hold onto you, when Azriel comes in looking as frazzled as you had ever seen him. You nor Azriel had never left for a mission without saying bye or at least communicating to one another. This was a first and to say it bothered him was an understatement, he was frantic. His shadows were radiating off of him, rapidly swirling and darting around the room in a way you had never seen before.

You really didn't want to talk to him, but his shadow was preventing you from leaving. You didn't even want to look at him. It hurt. Everything hurt. Being in his presence was already a stab to the heart, but Elain following seconds behind him is what twisted the knife and put you in the grave.

It would have made it easier if you actually hated Elain, but you didn't. She was honestly a lovely, kind, and beautiful person and you could see why Azriel would fall for her. Which honestly made it so much harder to deal with because while you considered yourself to be all rough lines and hard edges, Elain was smooth and perfect in a way you knew you would never be. Not after everything you had endured in your long life.

The moment you guys met eyes, everyone else in the room had gone eerily silent a mix of not trying to look like they were listening too hard and a mix of not trying to give away what they now knew. You tried, you tried really hard to stay mad at him, but it's hard to remain mad at someone when the very fibers that make up your soul are screaming at you to be near them.

"Why would you just leave without saying anything?"The audacity he has to look hurt when he wouldn't have noticed you were gone if Rhys hadn't gone and busted him with Elain. Emotions swirl around inside of you, none of them good all of them lethal if you fall victim to them. He didn't know it but your relationship with Azriel was on a knife's edge and it was taking everything in your right now to maintain whatever composure you had left. As stoicly as you have ever spoken to him you respond, "It's urgent. Autumn could fall if I don't go and that would send Prythian into chaos. It's my duty to go." The air in the room stilled. You were a lit match, and his presence was gasoline; if he got any closer, it would not be good for anyone.

"You should have told me first. Autumn isn't safe, if you wait a few days I could accompany you and together we could-" Azriel frantically begins to rant. He's pulling on a lose thread, not realising what he's unraveling. You immediately shut him down, "No. I need to do this myself and frankly I don't need to disclose all my missions to you." He looks at you apalled.

This isn't the you that he knows, the one who can decipher what he is thinking from a single glace. The one who he can speak to without words as though it was a second language. The one who offers him peace when the world becomes too difficult to bear. The sharpness of your tone is grating and he begins to wonder how he was able to turn the one good constant in his life against him. His chest feels heavy with emotions he cannot even begin to decipher. Panic? Fear? Despair? So much despair. It becomes overwhelming. He is usually fairly good at compartmentalising his emotions. What in mother's name is happening to him?

You break him out of his downward spiral by clearing your throat and looking at the shadow currently frantically swirling and holding your wrist down like an anxious child crying and clinging onto it's mother anytime she's not near. The shadows had always been rather fond of you. A look of surprise and then shock coats his features as he appears to be struggling to reel his shadow in. Certain shadows have defining features, and you recognise this one to be the one that would always dote on you. When you and Azriel were kids and his shadows were far and few there was always one that favored you the most. When you're wings were almost cut off and you isolated yourself to your chambers, the shadow had stayed with you until you were comfortable enough to be alone. You hadn't been able to recognise it since you had never seen it this frantic.

"I can't reason with him. He's refusing to leave you." Azriel admits defeated. At this the shadow releases you and starts frantically swirling around Azriel, darting away from Elain when she reaches a hand out to try and help, and immediately comes to you and perches itself on your wrist. "Take it with you," He says sheepily. "He was always more yours than mine anyways. He cries in your absence and only makes himself known in your presence."

Azriel nervously laughs trying to get rid of the tension in the room, it was so thick a knife couldn't cut through it. The rest of the occupants of the room didn't look at him worried that their eyes would reveal to the spymaster the secret that was now only secret to him.

You don't care if he doesn't know how what he's saying affects you. All you know is that you're in pain. There are stories of fae that have been driven to madness by an unrequited mating bond, you had thought them dramatic but right now you can feel it taking a physical toll on your body. You need to leave. You have to go against everything your body and heart are telling you to run to him, to be with him, to never let him go. You have to chose yourself and whatever is left of your dignity. At this point you're fighting every emotion you have ever felt towards Azriel tenfold, praying to the mother you don't explode and cause irreparable damage.

"It's not your duty to look after me. I am well equipped to handle my own missions and I certainly don't need your shadow to look after me. So if that is all, I must now be on my way." Azriel's face is a mix of hurt and confusion, something you had not seen in all your years of knowing him. His mouth opened to say something to you, but Elain put a gentle hand on his shoulder and you had summoned every ounce of self-restraint you possessed to stop yourself from lunging at her when someone there was a burst of air and the smell of cedar and oak permeated the room.

"Am I interrupting something? Surely the Night Court's entire political standing isn't dependent on a lover's quarrel?" the biting tone matched the mischievous eyes and the fox-like grin. Elain looked like she wanted to explain herself when Eris looked her way and cooly responded, "Relax, what you do or don't do with my brother is none of my business, but I would at least give it a try before invoking a blood duel those aren't really great for pr. Not like you're court already has the best reputation as is."

Mor blanked. Elain hid behind Azriel. Amren and Nesta raised a brow. Cassian scowled. Both Feyre and Azriel straighted on alert and were about to take a step forward to take care of the intruder when he lifted a hand to stop her. "I kid. No one in this court can take a joke it seems." He would have been charismatic if he wasn't... well Eris. He held his hands up, although his smile remained and sarcastically said, "I am here on business to escort your wonderful princess to my personal estate to ensure her safe keeping for her time in Autumn."

While Rhys had always been scarily perceptive, he had met his match with Eris. He has been in the room for a minute, maybe two max and he had already begun to look for the cause of the tension in the room. His eyes scanned everyone, only halting once they reached the shadowsinger on seemingly high alert with Elain right behind him. He looked back to you and his eyebrows raised. He figured it out.

Azriel's wings fan out, casting half the room in shadow due to their span. "Why would you be her escort. We are perfectly capable here in Night to maintain the safety of the members of this Court." He was glaring Eris down, he might as well have been puffing his chest out at this point. Cauldron knows what he's doing or what he thinks he's going to get out of this.

You already knew Eris was going to toy with him from the glint in his eyes. "I believe it, but when my dear, old friend, who I hold in such high esteem, writes to me calling in a centuries-old favour, how could I refuse? Even without the favour, there are very few who can resist the will of the Princess of Night. She's as formidable as she is convincing as you would know." Good to see that Eris is still as calculated and provoking as ever. Now if Azriel had known he was your mate, Eris would be a dead man but right now he just stood there glaring him down with a look so cruel it sent shivers down your spine.

Eris just shrugged it off and rolled his eyes. "Well it was lovely seeing all of you but we must be going now." With a wave of his hand all your luggage had disappeared and he holds out his left hand to you. You give your family a curt nod, not meeting Azriel's gaze. You turn your back on them and take Eris' hand and then the world falls away.

-

The stars in Autumn don't compare to the ones in Night. It's hard to believe that it was even the same sky. The same sky that your family and Azriel are under right now. You're just realising now that you had never given Azriel your solstice present, not leaving it under the tree because you wanted to give it to him personally. Your mind begins to stray to a cruel place, questioning what if he had known all this time and didn't tell you to avoid having to reject you.

Eris snaps you out of your spiral before it can consume you. "Are you in the same situation as my brother or does he just not know he's your mate. Frankly, you guys should start a support group because I don't know which is worse." He says trying to lighten the mood in the most Eris way possible.

You feel weary in your bones from the exhaustion of the night and you lash out at Eris. "I know you weren't hugged enough as a child, but can you please refrain from the comments for one evening?" Your voice drops along with your demenour, "The bond snapped when I walked in on him almost kissing Elain. I needed an out. Thank you for being one Eris." Tears began to well up in your eyes. It was just too much everything was too much. Eris slings an arm over your shoulder and leads you to his manor. "Come on princess, I have hot chocolate and mulled wine on the stove and cookies in the oven. Well Lucien does but that's just semantics. You have tomorrow to cry over that overgrown bat and his emotional constipation."

The manor is a large cream Tudor-style manor with dark brown wood lining all the doors and windows. You walked in and were immediately hit with the warmth and the smell of maple cookies and cinnamon. For all of Eris' brashness, his home was very warm and welcoming. You saw Lucien pulling cookies out of the oven, his head snapped to you and he ran over to pull you into an embrace. You guys are practically in the same situation now; unrequited mating bonds really bring people together, apparently.

You just realised that Lucien is here, celebrating with Eris instead of in Velaris. You look to him confused and ask, "Shouldn't you be in Velaris?" He responds with an immediate retort and a raised brow, "Shouldn't I be asking you the same thing?" Touché.

Cut off by the sound of a cork popping, you guys turn to see Eris uncorking a bottle of wine. He then pulls out two identical ones, branded with the signature Autumn maple leaf. He then somehow fits a bottle each into his almost comedically large wine glasses, also adorned with maple leaves and foxes on the stem.

He brings over the glasses of wine handing one to you and one to Lucien. He raises his glass and goes, "Here's to us. When the mother challenges us, we laugh in her face and keep going. Here's to being misfits and outcasts and being so much better than everyone else." Half the time no one knows what Eris is saying, but you'll drink to it. Everyone in your family has found their mate or person and here you are on Solstice drinking a bottle of wine from a fox glass. How the mother has her ways, maybe fate bribed her to give you a harder time with the amount of times you've defied her over the years.

Solstice wasn't all bad. You laughed and drank with Lucien and Eris. Telling them the story of you and Azriel, drunkenly crying your eyes out with Lucien who responded with his own sad backstory. Eris looking at the two of you crying with a murderous look, when you forgot why you were crying and ran outside to try and domesticate a fox with Lucien on your coattails. You guys had succeeded much to Eris' dismay as he now had an entire den of foxes in his home. Eris only proclaimed it was bedtime when the sun had started to rise. He carried Lucien into bed first, who was much to drunk to protest. Then it was your turn, you insisted you needed no help but he got fed up and threw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

He threw you onto your bed and then paused, his eyes glued to your right wrist. You look over to see what had drew his gaze and were shocked to find a stowaway shadow hiding on your wrist. It was the shadow. Immediately you remembered why you were here and felt the part of your that was missing from Azriel's absence. You try shooing it away wanting to send it back, you don't want Azriel to know the state you're in or worse have the shadow tell him about the bond.

"I don't think he controls this shadow anymore. Maybe it's because this is probably his first one." His first shadow? What does that even mean? "His first shadow should have a connection with him on a soul-level. It's basically an external manifestation of himself in it's purest form unlike the rest of the shadows. The first shadows rarely show themself, since they're the ones who called the other shadows in the first place. Not much is known about shadowsingers, but if he's leaving you his first shadow I wouldn't give up hope just yet."

You are about to give a retort, but he cuts you off. "I didn't say don't move on and try to live your life for yourself. Just don't be too closed off when the time comes. Goodnight, princess. I hope you had a good solstice." Eris says as he closes the door of your new bedroom behind him and you drift off to sleep before you could think too much about his words.

-

Part 2

[unsolicited-opinions]

I generally detest the New York Post, but they're the ones reporting on the EEOC complaint of Mr. Wilson and Mr. Torres, Columbia janitors.

Both men are making claims under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act, alleging that they faced retaliatory harassment at the institution for “reporting antisemitic and racist conduct.”

...

“Hours after President [Minouche] Shafik issued her statement [that the university had become ‘unsafe for everyone‘], an antisemitic mob assaulted two janitors inside Columbia’s historic Hamilton Hall, calling them ‘Jew-lovers,'” the two complaints for both men recalled of the Hamilton Hall takeover in April last year.

It all began around November 2023, shortly after the bloody Oct. 7 Hamas attack on Israel sparked a war. Racist and antisemitic graffiti started to pop up, scrawled all around Hamilton Hall — and the campus’s janitors were forced to clean it up. “Mr. Wilson recognized the swastikas as symbols of white supremacy,” Wilson’s complaint alleges. “As an African-American man, he found the images deeply distressing. He reported them to his supervisors, who instructed him to erase the graffiti.” “No matter how many times Mr. Wilson removed the swastikas, individuals kept replacing them with more.”

Wilson lost track of how many swastikas he had to scrub, but his colleague Torres, who is Latino, pegged it in the dozens and eventually reached a point where he had enough, his complaint said

“They were so offensive, and Columbia’s inaction was so frustrating, that he eventually began throwing away chalk that had been left in the classrooms so vandals would not have anything to write with,” Torres’ complaint alleged. “However, Mr. Torres was reprimanded by his supervisor for doing so.” ...

In one instance, around Dec. 6, 2023, Torres and Wilson observed masked protesters storm through Hamilton Hall chanting “From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free” and scrawling swastikas as well as other obscene graffiti in the building.

After Wilson reported that, he was told by campus security that “the trespassers and vandals were exercising their First Amendment rights” and that “nothing could be done,” per the complaint.

On the takeover of Hamilton Hall:

Rioters had moved vending machines and zip-tied doors to barricade the exits and entrances. After deciding he was out of options, Torres decided to battle his way through the mob. ‘”I’m going to get twenty guys up here to f— you up,'” one masked rioter who had “violently” shoved Torres threatened, per the complaint. “Mr. Torres pulled a fire extinguisher, which was within arm’s reach, off the wall to defend himself and replied, ‘I’ll be right here.’” During that confrontation, Torres was repeatedly struck on his back by other rioters. After repeatedly navigating to blocked-off exits, he eventually found a way out that had been blocked by zip ties and a bike lock. Following his pleas, one of the rioters cut the zip ties and let him out. Wilson had been separated from Torres during the havoc and had quickly tried to escape after determining the rioters were taking over. During his scramble to get out, rioters smashed furniture into him and pushed him repeatedly, per the complaint.

“He recalls saying, ‘I work here. Let me out,'” the complained alleged. “The rioters responded by laughing at him and mocking him. He remembers being told, ‘You work for the Jews,’ and ‘You’re a Zionist.’ Eventually, someone opened a door and Mr. Wilson was physically pushed out of the building.”

Added 3/18/25, from May 2024:

If you have paywall issues, use this.

[kxsagi]

Hello girlie I loved you april fools day post. I wanted to ask if u could make abt crack post the blue lock boys being police officers. Like rin is in the drug invetigation bc with his tongue outside he looks like he is on crack😂. Could you pls make it for isagi,rin,sae,bachira nagi and Kaiser and maybe Ness. 🩷

“𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢'𝐦 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐫”

a/n: ASNFSLNGSLNGS I LOVE THIS REQUEST

(don't know art credits)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael, ness alexis

isagi yoichi – “the golden retriever cop who accidentally becomes the face of justice”

he’s not even supposed to be out there. he’s just vibing. assigned to desk duty because he’s “too emotionally involved” (he called a suspect “bro” during a chase), but he still ends up in every major bust because he “took a shortcut through that shady alley for fun.” 

has no idea how he keeps getting tangled in crimes. one minute he’s picking up a coffee, the next minute he’s wrestling a jewel thief to the ground while still holding his caramel macchiato. 

will 100% try to de-escalate situations by talking about soccer. “sir, you don’t have to rob this bank. have you considered football?” 

is weirdly beloved by the public. grandmas bake him pies. criminals call him “that one nice cop.” internal affairs doesn’t know whether to promote or arrest him. 

famous quote: “you have the right to remain silent, but like, if you wanna talk about your trauma, i’m here, bro.” 

itoshi rin – “narcotics officer who looks like he invented cocaine”

they only put him in narcotics because every time he walks into a room, people assume he’s either: 1) the supplier, 2) high off his mind, 3) both. 

has that look. the messy hair. the tongue constantly sticking out. the eyes that say “i haven’t slept since 2012.” when he stares at you during interrogation, you confess out of fear, even if you didn’t do anything. 

his motto is “if it looks suspicious, tackle it.” he once tried to arrest a 5-year-old holding powdered sugar. 

drinks black coffee that tastes like war. has never smiled on duty. the closest he’s come is a slight smirk when someone sneezed and he got to yell “possible contaminant.” 

he doesn’t do paperwork. he just sends his reports as voice memos that are five minutes of silence and one “they were lying.” 

famous quote: “do drugs look at you the way i do? didn’t think so.”

itoshi sae – “internal affairs king, aka the fun police for the police” 

his job is to catch corruption. and he loves it. like a little freak. his coworkers hate seeing him because if he’s in your department, someone’s getting fired. 

interrogates officers like a disappointed dad. says things like “you stole evidence bags for what? to impress your tinder date?” while looking at you like you’re a worm on the pavement. 

refuses to join team-building activities. said “i’m not building anything with idiots.” 

once investigated himself for conflict of interest and found that he was, in fact, too perfect to be guilty. 

he lets no one get away with anything, except rin. but only because he doesn’t want to fill out paperwork. 

famous quote: “just because you’re wearing a badge doesn’t mean you’re not stupid.” 

bachira meguru – “undercover cop who ends up forming emotional connections with every criminal”

he’s supposed to be subtle. blend in. instead, he walks into an illegal casino wearing glitter and a hello kitty shirt, and somehow they all believe he’s just a quirky new member of the gang. 

laughs too loud. reveals his real name by accident. once shouted “FBI, freeze!” during karaoke because he got too into the role. 

his sting operations always go sideways, but it’s okay because the suspects love him. like, “this is bachira. he’s chaotic, but he’s family.” 

he’s single handedly dismantled three criminal rings just by being himself. they trust him too much and end up confessing while painting his nails. 

famous quote: “okay technically i wasn’t authorized to go undercover, but i was bored and they had snacks.” 

nagi seishiro – “cyber crimes detective who hasn’t left his chair since 2021”

works in a pitch-black room with eight monitors, a gaming chair, and a suspicious number of empty pringles cans. doesn’t even show up to roll call anymore. they just assume he’s alive if the servers are still running. 

he hacks faster than people blink. cracked a billion-dollar crypto scam while watching anime in a tab next to it. accidentally hacked NASA once because he was bored. 

he only talks in internet slang. someone once messaged him a serious question about a murder suspect and he responded with “lmao idk he looks sus.” 

has a robot dog named “proxy” that does his patrols. was supposed to be temporary. it’s now got its own badge and a little hat. 

famous quote: “technically i’m not asleep, i’m buffering.” 

kaiser michael – “traffic cop with main character syndrome”

he turned a boring job into a reality TV show. gives tickets like they’re autographs. will literally tell you “you’re welcome” after citing you for illegal parking. 

rides a motorcycle with LED underglow, blasting german techno. wears designer sunglasses at night. 

pulls people over not based on violations, but on vibes. once ticketed a guy for “driving a beige car and ruining the aesthetic of the road.” 

he’s gotten reported 27 times for arrogance, but all his violations mysteriously disappear. probably because the chief owes him money from poker night. 

famous quote: “this isn’t about road safety. this is about setting an example. and the example is: look at me, i’m flawless.” 

ness alexis – “forensic analyst who thinks he’s starring in a drama”

takes blood samples like he’s in grey’s anatomy. has a dramatic gasp every time he finds a single fingerprint. 

writes his reports like novels: “and in the crimson shade of blood splatter, the truth was finally revealed...” 

doesn’t walk, he glides into crime scenes wearing latex gloves like they’re part of his personality. 

he’s scarily smart, but emotionally volatile. cried once because the lab’s coffee machine broke and said “how am i supposed to solve murder on decaf?” 

takes kaiser's orders like gospel, but also keeps a secret blackmail folder “just in case.” it's organized alphabetically and color-coded. 

famous quote: “i speak three languages: DNA, sarcasm, and disappointment.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[whoistartaglia]

genshin men when you fall asleep on the couch

a/n: tiktok is gone, locked into writing again

alhaitham

alhaitham knew this would happen. even when you insisted that you “wouldn’t fall asleep this time” and told him you would “stay awake the entire time,” alhaitham just knew you’d end up asleep by the second act. and tonight, it’s even earlier than that.

not even a half hour into the movie you’re fully asleep, snoring lightly and—even though you insist that you don’t—drooling ever so slightly.

“[name],” he says, shifting ever so slightly. you’re leaning on him in what he can only guess is an uncomfortable position, but you don’t budge.

“i’m not… asleep…” you murmur, moving slightly, but only to get closer to him. if the lights were on, and if you were awake, you would see him blush slightly. you’ve been dating for a while now, and still this gets to him.

he nudges you and coaxes you again, to no avail. you’ve fallen to dreamland, and it didn’t even take thirty minutes.

alhaitham sighs and clicks off the tv. the movie wasn’t very good anyways; maybe you were right to snooze through it. he turns his attention back to you, and just like all those other nights you’ve fallen asleep on the couch during a movie, he gently lifts you into his arms and carries you back to the bedroom.

“i’m… awake,” you say as he lays you down.

“sure you are,” alhaitham says. “and i’m a cat.”

“are you?” you ask, straightening yourself slightly and opening your eyes.

alhaitham fights the urge to laugh and lets out a quiet chuckle.

“no, of course not.” he watches as you physically relax, your eyes becoming glazed with sleep once more.

“good…” you say, turning over. alhaitham opens his mouth to say something else, but quickly closes it once he realizes your asleep once more.

he sighs and whispers a quiet, “good night, [name],” before getting into bed himself.

tomorrow morning, you’ll tell alhaitham you dreamed of him as a cat and that you jokingly prefer his prickly self as such, and he’ll have to fight the urge to tell you that yes, you indeed drool when you fall asleep once the couch.

neuvillette

neuvillette didn’t know this would happen. of course, he liked it when you waited for him on his especially late nights working, though he never expected nor demanded it. and he was always pleasantly suprised when you were awake to greet him when he got home.

but tonight, on a late night, so late it’s the early morning, he thought you would be sleeping at this hour. and you are… just not where he expected you to be.

when neuvillette opened the door to your shared residence, he was suprised to see you laying on the couch, tucked under a blanket, likely having tried to stay up to wait for his arrival. immediately neuvillette is crouched down next to you, wiping away a rouge strand of your hair from face, gently whispering your name.

“[name]? i’m home now,” he says.

you don’t wake, though. you instead lean towards him, subconsciously wanting to be closer. neuvillette smiles down at you, touched and charmed. even in your sleep you’re able to make him blush like the first day he met you.

but this is no place for you to be sleeping. if you stay here for any longer, you’ll have neck and back pain tomorrow, and neuvillette simply does not want that for you. so he goes to dutifully pick you up, but when he does, you let out a sound of protest.

he adjusts and tries again, to which you murmur in your sleep, “i don’t… want to move…”

“hmm? and why’s that?” neuvillette asks, half amused, half concerned.

you don’t answer for a second, but then reply, “i’m… waiting for my husband… so i can’t move.”

“but he’s here,” neuvillette says. this, unlike his previous message, falls on sleeping, unhearing eyes. he tries again, “[name]…”

“i’m staying… here…” you reply, your face turning cross even in your sleep. neuvillette sighs and realized he won’t be winning this war; you’re much more stubborn in sleep than you are when awake.

so he reigns himself. heads to the bedroom—but not to sleep, oh no. he grabs a blanket, and a pillow, and comes back to the living room. he takes up residence right next you; the cold hard floor is his mattress for tonight. it’s terribly uncomfortable, but his comfort is a cheap price to pay to be close to someone who even in sleep cares for him.

(neuvillette will remind himself this tomorrow morning, when you inevitably accidentally step on him when you wake up.)

childe

childe wanted this to happen. well, no, not really. but that’s what he told you in the midst of a heated fight, and you can’t just take words like those back so easily, now can you?

it started out as what should have been a spat, really. but you and him were both already stressed about others things and a slight disagreement evolved into what is now a not-speaking, not-currently happy, dynamic. at the end of the fight, you proclaimed you were sleeping on the couch, and childe, not believing you, told you to do just that.

so that’s what you did. you marched into your shared bedroom, grabbed only a pillow, and marched past childe, still lingering in the living room, and set up camp on the couch. he scoffed and left the room, thinking you’d be back later, when your and his wrath both died down.

but, as childe reads the clock at 2 am, he realizes that isn’t what’s going to happen. and an hour later at 3 am, childe realizes that really is not what is going to happen.

part of him wants to let you sleep in solitude, if only at vice of his own stubborn streak, but the other half knows better. this other half that cherishes you won’t let him fall asleep like this, when you’re really so upset that you’d rather sleep in another room than be with him.

“[name]?” childe calls as he heads towards the living room. he tries again to no answer. he wonders if you might be giving him the silent treatment, but when he sees you fast asleep on the couch, that particular worry melts away—only to be replaced by a new one seconds later.

you didn’t even grab a blanket. yes you’re asleep and look peaceful now, but childe knows that’s not it. there’s a particular crease between your brows that gives away your state, that your worried and likely cold; childe knows your tells like the back of his own hand.

guilt instantly rushed over him. really, it was just a trivial matter, not even worth this fight. he should have tried to stop you earlier. childe sighs and crouchs down next to you.

“[name]?” he asks again, more gently this time.

you don’t respond, and childe tries one more time, before sighing and standing up. it is this that causes you to stir, makes you reach out towards him with a faint, “don’t go,” mumbled in your sleep.

childe doesn’t listen. he gently redirects yout hands and heads back to the bedroom. your subconscious must detect this, because you’re awake now, albeit drowsy and weary, confused if his presence just now was a dream, a fleeting memory.

that’s the state childe finds you in when he returns, wide eyed and tired and confused, with a blanket in hand. you turn towards him, regaining some of conciousness, but childe gently eases you back down as he drapes the blanket over you. your body relaxes at the new found heat, and you whisper a small, “i’m sorry.”

“me too,” childe says, and knowing you’re both tired and you’re again seconds away from sleep, he continues, “we can talk in the morning. you go back to sleep.”

“you’ll stay?” you ask, sleepiness taking over.

childe nods, meaning it, and that’s enough for you, as you close your eyes. and this time, when you fall back asleep, there’s no crease in your brow, a slight, so slight, smile on your face. and childe keeps his word; you’ll find him asleep in the same kneeling position next to you tomorrow, when the day is fresh, and you can start anew.