#zaros x earis | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yoursinisforgiven · 3 months ago

Text

VIRTUE ──

pairing: zaros x reader (earis)

cw: very light dark content, smut, afab reader, dom–ish reader (?), bondage, sword play(?), oral (male and female receiving), overstimulation, power play, pain play, fear play, body worship, unconventional items used as gags, hair pulling, multiple orgasms, cumming without touch (?), denied orgasm, breeding with intentions of pregnancy, mentions of pregnancy, slut shaming (not towards reader), crying(?), earis is a tad bit mean, mentions of arranged marriages, mentions of ownership of a human(?) reader is implied to be anemic, mentions of blood.

you are responsible for your own media consumption, the piece of writing contains dark content; it’s not suitable or meant to be enjoyed by all readers.

The palace is deathly cold at night.

The kind of cold that seeps into your bones, clings to your skin, and turns even the grandest halls into desolate, lifeless spaces. You’d mentioned it once to your mother, your voice timid but earnest, hoping she might offer some comfort or explanation.

“Mother,” you had said as you wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders. “Why is it so cold at night?”

She’d looked up from her embroidery, her gaze sharp but detached, as though she were considering something far more pressing than your discomfort. “It is not cold,” she replied in that ever-gentle tone of hers, the kind that somehow dismissed you without sounding unkind. “You are simply imagining it. Focus your thoughts on something productive, and you will feel warm soon enough dear.”

And that was the end of it. No fires stoked higher, no thicker blankets fetched. Just another lesson in silence and endurance—a lesson the palace itself seemed intent on teaching.

Now, as you wandered its halls alone, your footsteps barely audible against the marble floors, the cold seemed more oppressive than ever. The flickering torchlight did little to dispel the shadows that stretched along the walls, their shapes shifting and twisting like restless spirits. The air smelled faintly of stone and wax, a scent that had grown so familiar it felt like part of your skin.

You pulled your cloak tighter, but it did little to keep the chill at bay. The palace seemed alive in its stillness, its emptiness a palpable weight that pressed down on you. The ornate arches and towering columns, so grand and imposing by day, now loomed like silent sentinels, their grandeur turned to menace.

It had become a routine now, so familiar you could probably navigate the winding halls to the library with your eyes closed. The route had carved itself into your memory—turn left at the grand staircase, pass the hall of tapestries, and follow the faint scent of parchment and aged wood.

When you reached the heavy wooden door, your palm rested against its surface, feeling the faint grooves and knots beneath your fingers. The library always seemed to breathe, even when the rest of the palace lay still. You pushed the door open carefully, wincing as it gave a low, resonant creak. The sound echoed like a whisper through the cavernous room, breaking the fragile silence.

The door had been like this for as long as you could remember—old and temperamental, perhaps older than time itself. You’d grown used to its groans, but tonight it felt louder somehow, as if scolding you for disturbing the library’s rest. You paused for a moment, listening to the stillness beyond. Nothing stirred. The palace was asleep, everyone tucked away in their chambers. Everyone except you.

Stepping inside, you pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the fabric brushing against your legs. The library welcomed you with its warmth, the wooden floors beneath your feet noticeably kinder than the cold, unforgiving marble of the palace corridors. The smell of the room was intoxicating—leather-bound tomes, faintly dusty shelves, and the lingering trace of candle wax. It was a sanctuary, a place untouched by the sharp edges of politics and duty.

The moonlight streamed through the high, arched windows, casting soft beams across the towering shelves. Shadows danced in the corners, and the faint glow of the embers in the hearth added an amber hue to the otherwise pale light. Your footsteps were soft as you moved deeper into the room, the floorboards creaking gently beneath your weight.

You made your way to your usual spot—a low table nestled near the hearth, surrounded by plush chairs that had seen better days. A stack of books sat waiting for you, some you had left behind the night before, others collected over countless visits. Their spines bore titles in languages both familiar and foreign, their pages promising escape from the weight of the waking world.

As you settled into one of the chairs, the cloak slipping from your shoulders, you exhaled a sigh of relief. The fire’s warmth brushed against your skin, chasing away the chill that had followed you from the halls. Your fingers traced the edges of the topmost book absently, the embossed title rough beneath your touch. You weren’t quite ready to open it yet, to dive into the words and lose yourself entirely. For now, you simply let the quiet wrap around you, as comforting as the firelight as you close your eyes.

The sudden feeling of an oddly warm hand brushing against yours made you jump, a sharp jolt of surprise shooting through your body. You let out a strangled sound—half gasp, half scream—and pulled your hand back instinctively, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Earis!”

His voice was low but laced with alarm, and when you whipped your head around, there he was—Zaros, standing beside you with one brow arched in a mixture of confusion and mild amusement. His usually composed expression faltered for just a moment, his dark eyes scanning your face as though trying to gauge the severity of your reaction.

“Zaros!” you hissed, clutching the edge of the table to steady yourself. “What in the void are you doing!”

He raised his hands slightly in mock surrender, though the faintest smirk played at the corner of his lips. “I might ask you the same. You screamed as though I’d come to murder you, and all I did was reach for a book.”

You blinked, following his gaze to the thick tome sitting on the table between you. Its spine was cracked from years of use, the faded title etched in a language you could barely decipher. It was one of the volumes you’d been meaning to dive into tonight, its pages promising insight into the histories of Serulla’s political alliances—a subject you’d grudgingly started studying yourself.

Zaros folded his arms, leaning slightly against the edge of the table as he watched you. “Well?”

“Well what?” you shot back, narrowing your eyes.

He gestured to the book. “I need it. That’s what.”

You stared at him incredulously. “You need it? I’ve been sitting here for the past 5 minutes. If you needed it so desperately, why didn’t you get it before I did?”

“I wasn’t aware there was a time limit on how soon I could claim a book,” he said smoothly, his voice tinged with humor. “Though, clearly, I’ve made a grave misstep by not consulting you first.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms defensively. “Well, you can wait until I’m finished with it.”

“Earis,” Zaros said, his tone softening just enough to make it clear he wasn’t looking for an argument. “I need it tonight. The council meets tomorrow, and I’d prefer not to walk in unprepared.”

You hesitated, glancing down at the book. A part of you wanted to dig your heels in, if only to annoy him. Zaros had a way of commanding attention and resources that always grated on your nerves, even when he didn’t mean to. But there was something in his voice tonight, something earnest and almost pleading, that made it hard to refuse outright.

Still, you weren’t about to make this easy for him.

“And what exactly are you studying?” you asked, tilting your head as you regarded him.

“The treaty proposals from the Third Era,” he said without missing a beat. “Specifically, the sections on land grants and mutual defense agreements. I assume that’s why you’re reading it as well?”

You blinked, surprised by his straightforward response. “...Yes, actually.”

“Good,” he said, moving to pull out the chair next to you .“Then we can study it together.”

“Wait—what?” You gawked at him as he settled into the seat, completely at ease. “No, no, no. That’s not how this works. If you’re here to steal the book, at least have the decency to leave me in peace afterward.”

“Steal it?” Zaros echoed, raising a brow. “Hardly. I’m merely proposing a compromise.”

“It doesn’t feel like a compromise when I don’t have a choice,” you muttered, but he was already flipping open the cover, his eyes scanning the first few pages with practiced ease.

For a moment, you considered protesting further, but the sight of him leaning over the book, his focus entirely on the text, gave you pause. Zaros, for all his charm and wit, rarely let his guard down. Yet here, in the quiet warmth of the library, he seemed almost... human.

With a reluctant sigh, you shifted your chair closer, leaning in to read over the page he’d stopped on.

“Fine,” you said, your voice tinged with exasperation. “But don’t think for a second that this means I’m sharing my notes.”

He glanced up at you, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

For the next hour, the two of you pored over the book together, your heads nearly touching as you leaned over the pages. Occasionally, your fingers would brush as you turned a page or pointed to a passage, and each time, you felt a small jolt of awareness, though you tried to ignore it.

As much as you hated to admit it, the collaboration worked. Zaros’s sharp insights balanced your methodical approach, and by the time you reached the final chapters, you found yourself grudgingly impressed by his depth of knowledge.

When you finally closed the book, the fire in the hearth had burned low, and the chill of the palace had begun to creep back into the room. Zaros leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied sigh.

The room had settled into an almost intoxicating quiet. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the dying fire and the occasional creak of the wooden floor as one of you shifted. You sat back in your chair, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and glanced toward Zaros.

He was still leaning back, his arms stretched above his head, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his chest and shoulders. You quickly averted your gaze, focusing instead on the flickering embers in the hearth.

"Not bad for a late-night study session, especially with a ‘leech,’" Zaros said, his voice carrying a subtle warmth that made the cold air seem less biting.

You huffed, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “Don’t flatter yourself. I did most of the work.”

Zaros chuckled softly, his head tilting as he regarded you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “Did you now? I seem to recall a few moments where you looked ready to throw the book at me.”

“I still might,” you quipped, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

His gaze lingered on you, his usual playfulness tempered by something softer, something unspoken. You felt it too—that strange, weighty stillness that seemed to hang between you, as though the library itself had paused to watch. The firelight cast golden shadows across his features, and for a brief, suspended moment, the room felt impossibly intimate.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the table, closing the already narrow distance between you. “You’ve got soot on your cheek,” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper.

You frowned, instinctively raising a hand to your face. “What? Where?”

“Here.” His hand caught yours before you could reach, guiding it away as he leaned closer. His touch was light, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment before he reached out, his thumb grazing your cheek in a deliberate, careful motion.

Your breath caught, your pulse quickening as his hand lingered, the warmth of his touch stark against the coolness of the room. His gaze locked onto yours, and in the dim light, his eyes seemed impossibly dark, their depths holding something you couldn’t quite name. Something dangerous, something that threatened to pull you deeper into him.

“Gone,” he said softly, though he didn’t pull away immediately.

The air between you felt electric, charged with a tension you hadn’t expected but couldn’t deny. Your heart pounded in your chest, and for a moment, you wondered if he could hear it. The stillness between you stretched, fragile yet full of meaning. In that instant, everything else—the weight of Serulla, the politics, your fractured alliances—faded into the background.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words caught in your throat as the library door creaked open, the sound slicing through the intimate stillness like a blade. You both froze, turning toward the source of the interruption.

The moment shattered in an instant. You slapped his hand away from your cheek, your heart racing, and shot him a venomous glare. Zaros’s hand lingered in the air for a moment before he quickly withdrew, his usual composed expression faltering for just a second.

Lady Nira stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the hall behind her. Her gaze swept over the scene with razor-sharp precision, taking in the closeness of your chairs, the faint flush still lingering on your face, and the way Zaros’s hand hovered just a breath away from yours.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asked, her voice cool and deliberate, each word laced with subtle menace.

Zaros straightened immediately, his composure snapping back into place like a well-worn mask. “Mother,” he said smoothly, his tone neutral but firm.

Nira’s gaze flicked between the two of you for a moment longer, before she turned her attention back to Zaros. "A word with you, in private," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Zaros hesitated, his eyes flicking to you briefly before he rose from his chair. “Of course,” he said evenly, his voice devoid of the softness it had held just moments ago. There was no apology in his gaze, but something about his expression seemed to say that he was sorry for the intrusion—not just for the moment, but for whatever it was that lingered between you.

As he followed his mother toward the door, he glanced back at you, a flicker of something in his gaze—something almost... regretful. Then the door clicked shut behind them, leaving you alone in the library.

The warmth of the fire suddenly felt much farther away, and the sudden emptiness of the room pressed in around you, as if the air had thickened. The tension from the brief moment you’d shared with Zaros hung heavily in the air, and for a moment, you wondered if it would ever dissipate.

As the morning light filtered through the high windows, you found yourself sitting in front of the mirror, furiously scrubbing at your cheek. The skin there felt raw, a slight redness still lingering from where Zaros’s thumb had brushed earlier. You had tried to wash it off, to erase the feeling of his touch, but no matter how much you scrubbed, the sensation remained, like an echo that refused to fade.

Your mother’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and worried. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice still laced with that unsettling calm, though there was now an edge to it.

You froze, the rough cloth still in your hand, and turned toward her. She stood at the doorway, her brow furrowed in confusion, watching you with a mixture of concern and mild bewilderment. Her gaze dropped to your face, her eyes narrowing at the redness spreading across your cheek.

You quickly dropped the cloth, irritated by the way her eyes studied you as if you were some foreign creature. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, trying to brush past her concern. “Just... a mistake.”

She was by your side in an instant, her movements quick and graceful, as if she knew exactly how to close the distance between you and her worries. “A mistake?” she repeated, her voice hardening. “A mistake that makes you draw blood?”

You didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, you focused on the floor, the empty space between you and the mirror feeling like a chasm you couldn’t cross.

──

You hadn’t been eavesdropping—at least, not intentionally.

The wind had whispered through the garden, and the rustling leaves had carried every word with an almost haunting clarity. The vastness of the garden, with its labyrinthine paths and towering hedges, amplified every syllable. And if you had been listening on purpose, it would have been entirely justified—after all, who wouldn’t want to overhear a conversation like this? Gossip in someone else’s garden was not only crass, but it also revealed truths, peeling back the layers of decorum and revealing the sharpness beneath.

Still, you lingered behind the towering hedge of pale roses, their petals creamy as moonlight. From here, you could hear every syllable exchanged without needing to strain. The voices—sharp and precise—carried across the open space like arrows aimed at unseen targets.

“Should you win,” came the clipped, commanding voice of Nira Atha'lin, Zaros’s mother. Her words cut through the air with the precision of a blade, demanding obedience. “If is not a word we will entertain. Should you ascend to the throne of Serulla, you must understand that your duty will not end with winning the Imperium Trials.”

The pause that followed felt like an eternity, loaded with weight. You could almost imagine her steel-gray eyes, narrowed and calculating, aimed directly at Zaros.

He laughed, low and mocking, his voice tinged with irreverence. “Ah, yes. Winning isn’t enough. You’d have me bound in chains of duty before the crown even settles on my head. How delightfully maternal of you.”

Her tone sharpened, slicing through his deflection. “You think this is a jest? You will need alliances, Zaros. Solid ones. The kind built on bloodlines and legacies—not petty camaraderie. Serulla cannot be secured with charm alone.”

“I suppose this is the part where you propose shackling me to some noble’s vapid daughter, all for the sake of political gain?” Zaros’s voice was colder now, every word carrying the bite of frustration. “Do you have a list prepared, Mother? Or perhaps you've already sent out invitations to my engagement banquet.”

The tension between them thickened, and you felt it too. The air was suffocating, the weight of their words pressing in on you like an unseen hand. You crept closer, careful not to snap a twig or disturb the delicate flowerbeds. The words carried across the garden, wrapping around you like a noose.

“Arrangements have already begun,” Nira Atha'lin’s voice was as sharp as ever, deliberate and polished. “It is only a matter of time before I finalize the alliance. The families are eager, and for good reason.”

“For good reason, indeed,” Zaros replied, his voice softer, contemplative. “They seek a claim to the throne through marriage, not to strengthen Serulla but to carve out a piece of it for themselves.”

A long silence followed, and in that stillness, the world seemed to stop. Nira’s response came, a quiet venom creeping into her tone, more terrifying than the earlier sharpness. “Refuse, and you will not only lose the throne but the very foundation upon which your name stands. You will doom us all, Zaros. And that, I will not allow.”

Her footsteps grew louder as she stepped closer to her son, her voice softening just enough to carry an undercurrent of something almost... maternal. “I have given you freedom, Zaros, to test your strength, to find your path. But that freedom has limits. You cannot rule alone, nor can you afford the luxury of foolish pride. The throne demands sacrifices—beginning with your own.”

You inched closer, trying to stay hidden behind the rose trellis. From your vantage point, you could see Zaros standing tall, his posture regal but unassuming. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Nira, towering in front of him, stood as a stark contrast—her steel-gray gown rippling in the breeze like storm clouds, her presence commanding and absolute.

“They seek stability,” Nira countered, unyielding. “And they are not alone in that desire. Serulla needs more than strength, Zaros. It needs allies—powerful ones. The trials may grant you the crown, but it will take alliances to hold it.”

Zaros exhaled slowly, his expression thoughtful rather than defiant. “I know my duty, Mother. I always have. But Serulla’s stability cannot come at the cost of its soul. An arranged marriage may secure borders, but it cannot forge loyalty—or love.”

At that, a sharp pang tugged at your chest, unexpected and unwelcome. You shouldn’t have been listening. You shouldn’t have cared. You reminded yourself of who you were—who he was. This was his duty, his world, far removed from your own. And yet, envy stirred beneath your skin, an unwelcome heat you could not shake.

“And what would you suggest?” Nira asked, her tone cold but curious. “Do you believe love has a place in politics? In war?”

Zaros met her gaze without flinching. “I believe Serulla deserves more than a hollow alliance. If I must marry for the throne, I will do so—but it will be to someone who understands what it means to serve this kingdom, not someone who sees it as a prize to be won.”

Nira’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Idealism will not protect Serulla. It is a luxury we cannot afford.”

“It is not idealism,” Zaros replied, his voice steady, unyielding. “It is resolve. You raised me to fight for what I believe in. Do not ask me to abandon that now.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind brushing through the garden, the faint rustling of the roses. Nira stepped closer, her voice softening just enough to reveal the faintest hint of affection. “You have always been stubborn. A trait you no doubt inherited from me. But resolve alone will not shield Serulla from its enemies. I pray you understand that before it’s too late.”

She turned and walked away, her footsteps fading into the distance. Zaros stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His expression remained unreadable.

You stepped back from your hiding spot—not because you were ashamed, but because, after all, you weren’t eavesdropping. You had simply been... observing. And yet, as you turned and made your way back toward your quarters, a heaviness settled in your chest. A weight that had nothing to do with Serulla, but with the strange, dangerous pull you had started to feel toward Zaros.

You scratched at your cheek, trying to shake the sensation that lingered there, as if you could scrub away the thoughts and feelings he had stirred in you. You had no time for this—no time for distractions, especially from someone like him. You had a throne to take, a future to secure. A leech’s business was of no concern to you.

And yet, as you walked through the quiet halls of the palace, the taste of his words—of his defiance—lingered in your mind.

──

You had ignored Zaros for an entire week, a feat you had set your mind to with surprising clarity. It helped that the trials had been temporarily halted, the tests needing to be updated to reflect the demands of the modern era. In the absence of the incessant pressure to prepare for the trials, you found yourself with more time to distance yourself from the chaos that had unfolded between you and him.

Throughout the week, Zaros had made several attempts to get your attention. His presence had lingered near your quarters, the sound of his voice reaching you through hallways or gardens. He would appear in places where you couldn’t avoid him, but each time, you had steeled yourself against his words, his gaze. He had faltered, of course, as he always did when he couldn't play his game. His charm and quick wit had been useless in his attempts to break through your defenses. He had not been able to summon a smile from you or evoke a response beyond indifference.

It was a victory. Or so you told yourself.

This wasn't about jealousy—right? No. Jealousy was born from insecurity, from the fear that someone else might hold the power you desired. And you, you had never been insecure. Zaros’s efforts, and the vague rumors of his arranged marriage, could not affect you. Neither he nor the woman he would marry—if such a thing truly came to pass—could ever hold more sway or influence than you did. You were a force in your own right, as capable and formidable as any noble of Serulla. You had your own ambitions, your own path to walk, and no one could distract you from that.

So why did it hurt so terribly?

The thought clung to your mind like a shadow, refusing to let go. You paced through the corridors of your quarters, trying to quell the gnawing discomfort. The walls that separated you from Zaros had seemed so strong when you first built them, but with each passing day, the cracks in your resolve had deepened, and the ache had worsened.

It was absurd, really. If Zaros had tried to worm his way into your thoughts a week ago, you would have crushed him beneath your ambition without a second thought. Yet, now... his absence seemed to echo in ways you hadn’t expected. The silence between you felt heavier than any confrontation.

You paused by the window, staring out at the garden where the pale roses bloomed in the dim light. The beauty of it all struck you then, more sharply than it ever had before. There was something sad about it, something that spoke to the fragility of all the structures you were so desperate to build. Power, alliances, and ambition—these were the tools you had always wielded, and yet... they had never once protected you from the messiness of human connection.

Was it really so much of a luxury to want something more?

Zaros, with his sharp words and sharp wit, had been nothing but a nuisance. And yet, there was something about him that felt so… real. He was as entrenched in the game as you were, but his sincerity—his unyielding belief in what he wanted for Serulla—struck a chord. His belief, however misplaced, in something beyond politics, beyond the throne... was that so foreign to you? Were you so different? Or had the very foundation of your existence been built on ideals that no longer made sense?

The deeper you thought about it, the more the ache spread. It wasn’t jealousy you felt—it wasn’t insecurity. It was a recognition of something you were afraid to admit. Zaros was not just a reflection of the game you were both caught in. He was a reflection of the part of you that had always longed for something more than power.

You clenched your fists at your sides. This is absurd. This is not what I’ve built my life for.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. You straightened, composing yourself quickly, but the uneasy flutter in your chest refused to be ignored. You didn’t need to ask who it was—the timing and the familiarity of the knock told you everything you needed to know.

You opened the door, and there he stood—Zaros. His gaze flicked over you for just a moment before he gave you a smile that was almost too practiced, too perfect.

“My Earis—”

“Get out.” The words were sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. Your voice, though calm, was firm, unwavering, the kind of command that left no room for negotiation.

Zaros stood in the doorway, his posture unyielding, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something vulnerable, a hint of frustration, maybe even something like regret. His usual smirk had faded, replaced by an expression you couldn't quite read. But the way he said your name—your full name, your title, your identity—it felt almost like a claim, like a reminder that, despite everything, he still thought he had a right to you.

“I’m not leaving until you at least listen,” Zaros said, his voice softening, though the determination behind it remained. He stepped into the room, the sound of his boots against the stone floor filling the space between you.

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms in front of you, a barrier between yourself and him. “You’ve had your chance, Zaros. Multiple chances. I’ve been more than patient with you.” Your gaze hardened, every inch of your demeanor cold, unyielding. “So, no. You’re leaving. Now.”

Zaros stopped a few paces away from you, his eyes intense, piercing. “You think pushing me away will make this go away? You think pretending I’m nothing more than an inconvenience will change what’s between us?”

You couldn’t help it. A small, bitter laugh escaped you. “What’s between us?” you echoed, your voice like ice. “There’s nothing between us. There never was. You’ve never been anything but an obstacle in my way.”

He took a step forward, his jaw tightening, but there was no anger in his eyes—only a quiet, almost painful understanding. “You’re lying,” he said, his voice low. “You’ve been lying to yourself. And you’ve been lying to me.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, a lump rising in your throat as you fought to keep your composure. You were supposed to be strong, to keep your walls high, but with each word he spoke, those walls felt a little less secure, a little more fragile.

“I don’t care about your marriage,” you spat, your voice dripping with contempt. “I doubt any woman or man would want to marry the whore of Serulla.”

The words hung between you like poison, the weight of them sinking into the space between you and Zaros. It was a calculated insult, something to wound, to deflect from the rawness you felt deep inside. You weren’t sure if you truly believed the words—or if they were just a defense, a shield to keep him from seeing the vulnerability that threatened to surface.

“I hadn’t mentioned marriage. I wouldn’t expect my mother to tell you—” Zaros started, his voice calm, controlled, like he was used to these exchanges. But you cut him off.

“She didn’t,” you snapped, your chest tight. “I… I just overheard.”

The pause that followed felt endless, his gaze unreadable as he processed your admission. You couldn’t quite bring yourself to meet his eyes, not after you’d thrown that insult at him, not after the uncomfortable truth you had unintentionally let slip. You stood, frozen, the tension between you crackling like a live wire.

Zaros didn’t move for a long moment, but you could feel his eyes on you, sharp and piercing, as if he were seeing right through you. Finally, he spoke, his tone quieter now, a note of curiosity lacing his words. “So, you overheard it, and that bothers you?”

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but the anger—the hurt—was too raw to ignore. “It doesn’t bother me,” you said, though the words sounded hollow even to your own ears. “It’s none of my business.”

Zaros took a step closer, his presence filling the room with an almost unbearable intensity. His voice was soft but insistent, cutting through the distance you had tried to put between you. “You’re lying,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “It bothers you more than you’re willing to admit. I think you’ve been pretending it doesn’t. But you’ve been watching me, haven’t you? Just like you overheard that conversation—just like you’ve been trying to ignore everything else.”

You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, the words struggling to break free, but you couldn’t speak them—not yet. Instead, you glared at him, your arms crossing defensively in front of you. “I don’t care, Zaros. You can do whatever you want. You don’t owe me anything.”

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Do I?” His lips curled into a small, almost mocking smile. “Do I really not owe you anything? Or is that what you’re telling yourself to keep from admitting what’s really going on here?”

You stepped back, frustration building in your chest. “Get out.” The command was sharp, and you turned toward the door, willing yourself to maintain some control over the situation. “Now.”

Zaros didn’t move immediately. Instead, his smile softened, and for a moment, it was as if he were letting down his guard—just slightly. He took another step closer, his voice low. “I have eyes for no one else, Earis,” he said, his words quiet but resonating with something deeper. “You know that. Don’t pretend you don’t see it.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. Your pulse quickened, and you fought to suppress the rising tide of emotion. The ache, the jealousy that had been simmering beneath the surface, suddenly felt like it was suffocating you. You refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words affected you, but you couldn’t push them away either.

“I told you to leave,” you said, your voice shaking slightly, but you couldn’t stop it. The words were sharp, desperate, as if pushing him away would make the feelings inside you disappear.

Zaros didn’t seem to take offense at your outburst. If anything, there was a flicker of something softer in his expression. He paused for a moment, studying you. Then, in a rare shift, he nodded, his shoulders relaxing.

“Fine,” he said, his tone gentler than before. “I’ll leave.”

You fix your gaze on the floor as you struggle to regain your composure. Zaros turned to leave, his footsteps soft against the stone floor. You heard the door open, and for a brief moment, the weight of his presence seemed to linger in the room.

The door clicked shut behind him, and you were left alone in the silence, the air thick with the aftermath of his words. You let out a shaky breath, running a hand through your hair, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something you hadn’t expected, something you weren’t ready to confront.

Why does it matter? you asked yourself, but the question remained unanswered. Because it did matter. And whether you were willing to admit it or not, Zaros was the last person you could afford to be distracted by.

──

The next night felt like an exact mirrored version of the last. The weight of the previous conversation lingered in the air, but you were determined to move past it. That was, until you opened the door and found Zaros standing there, as though summoned by some cruel twist of fate. The moment you saw him, an audible groan escaped your lips, frustration already bubbling inside you.

But your gaze immediately fell to the small box he held in his hand, and the frustration melted into something more complex. What now? You didn’t want to be intrigued, didn’t want to care, but the sight of it—small, simple—seemed like a symbol of something he was trying to force upon you.

Zaros’s lips curved into a knowing smile, though there was something else there, something you couldn’t quite read. “I thought we could try this again,” he said, his voice smooth but with an undercurrent of something softer, something more vulnerable than you were used to hearing from him.

You crossed your arms, doing your best to look unaffected. “Another attempt, Zaros?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m getting tired of this game.”

He stepped forward, the small box still resting in his hand. “I don’t think it’s a game,” he replied, his voice quieter now, a hint of something almost earnest beneath the surface. “Not for me, at least.”

The sincerity in his words cut through the tension, leaving you feeling strangely off balance. Why did he keep coming back?

“Don’t,” you said quickly, your voice firmer than you felt. “I told you last time—this doesn’t matter. Whatever you think is between us, it’s not real.”

Zaros’s eyes darkened, and he stepped closer, his presence suffocating, like the weight of his gaze was forcing you to confront something you’d been avoiding. “If that’s what you really believe, then why does it still bother you?” His voice was low, each word calculated to chip away at the walls you’d so carefully built.

You could feel your pulse quicken, your chest tightening with the emotions you refused to acknowledge. You did care. You had cared more than you were willing to admit. It had been weeks of pretending, of pushing him away, but deep down—no matter how much you tried to deny it—the ache remained.

“I told you to leave,” you repeated, though the command lacked its usual bite. “This isn’t something I’m interested in.”

Zaros’s smile softened, and for a moment, you saw the barest flicker of something genuine in his eyes—something unguarded. “You don’t have to be interested,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. “You crave power—control, it’s rooted deep within you.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, the sting lingering in your chest. You hated how well he saw through you, how he could pinpoint the very thing you fought so hard to hide. The truth of it—your need for control, your unyielding pursuit of power—was something you’d never allow anyone to exploit.

And yet, there he was, reading you. Exposing you. And it made you feel vulnerable in ways you couldn’t ignore.

Before you could respond, Zaros reached forward, taking the small box from your hand and opening it slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. Your heart raced, and the sudden tension in the room seemed to swell, filling the space between you both.

Inside the box was a coil of thick, dark rope—smooth and sleek, with a weight to it that immediately unsettled you. Your breath caught, and you couldn’t suppress the flicker of confusion that passed through you.

You stared at him, unsure of what exactly he was proposing, but the flicker of something between you both was undeniable. There was something in the air now—something that left you unsure of where the line was, where the rivalry stopped and something else began. It wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t manipulation. Zaros had always been an enigma, but now, he was offering something different, something raw.

“I don’t need this,” you said, your voice faltering slightly as you tried to push him away, even as a part of you longed to feel something else, to let go.

Zaros stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. “No, you need to choose.” His voice was firm, no longer teasing, but instead grounded in something more serious.

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling around the edge of the box, but you didn’t pull away. The temptation was there, the pull to let him—to allow the vulnerability that had long been buried beneath your ambition and fear to surface.

His hand hovered near your own, the space between you charged with a tension that was both electrifying and terrifying. “Take me, Earis. Let me be the one to surrender—if that’s what you need.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but every word seemed to slice through your defenses, each syllable leaving you raw, exposed.

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, a powerful mix of anger, fear, and something else—something you couldn’t name. Zaros had always been your enemy, always been the one who made the game more difficult than it should have been. And yet, there was no denying it—the connection between you two, this tension that had built and built, could no longer be ignored.

This was the moment. The line between you had blurred, the rivalry and ambition that had once defined you both now mingled with something more dangerous: desire. Power. Need.

Zaros took the rope from the box and held it out to you. “You’ve fought long enough, Earis. You don’t have to fight me anymore.”

The rope was a symbol, a question, and you stood there, uncertain but pulled by something you couldn’t resist. Every fiber of your being told you to fight him, to push him away, to remain the untouchable figure who controlled everything. But another part of you—the part you refused to acknowledge—was already reaching for the rope, already wanting to let go.

Your hand trembled slightly as you took it from him, your fingers brushing against his. The act of it, of taking that first step toward relinquishing control, felt almost dangerous. And yet, it felt inevitable.

As you gripped the rope, its weight in your hand felt like more than just a physical object. It was symbolic, a tether between you and Zaros that was heavier than it appeared—fragile, yet unyielding. You could feel your pulse racing, each beat hammering in your chest as your mind grappled with the gravity of the moment. Every instinct told you to turn away, to stop this before it went too far. But deeper still, there was a voice—one you had long silenced—that urged you to lean in, to step forward and face what you’d been avoiding.

Zaros stood before you, silent, his gaze steady. His expression didn’t waver as you moved, as you took control of the moment. It was as though he had known all along that you would get here—that you would be the one to decide how this played out. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no resistance. In this moment, he was giving you something—something real. And for the first time, you didn’t know whether to embrace it or tear it all down.

You reached for the sword at his side, the cold metal gleaming under the dim light. It was a part of him, a part of his power, his identity. It was the weapon that had defined him, just as much as his words had. But now, it felt like something you had to take from him—not out of malice, but out of the need to prove something to yourself. Something beyond what either of you had allowed.

Zaros didn’t flinch as you unclasped the sword from his belt. His gaze was unwavering, his posture relaxed, almost accepting. In that moment, he wasn’t the force of nature you had always seen him as. He wasn’t the untouchable, confident figure that had stood in your way. He was just him—vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected, but still not willing to shy away.

The weight of the sword in your hand felt different now, heavier in your grip. You set it down on the bed with a deliberate motion, the metal thudding softly against the fabric.

“Are you sure?” Zaros’s voice was quiet, almost too soft, as if testing the waters, searching for any sign of weakness.

But there was no hesitation in you anymore. You had crossed a line, and there was no turning back now.

You wrapped the rope around his wrists, tying it with deliberate care, each knot a testament to the decision you had made. The act was oddly intimate. Every movement felt like a small, tender exchange, a reminder of how close this connection was, how much of it you both had been denying. When you tightened the knot, the faintest whimper escaped him—a small sound, but enough to make you look up. His face, usually so composed, was contorted in pain, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of vulnerability and something you couldn’t quite place.

You paused for a moment, the power dynamic between you shifting with every breath you took. The tension hung thick in the air, like a storm that threatened to break. You could feel it—the pull between control and surrender.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, as you finished securing the knot.

But Zaros only looked at you, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

It was an unexpected admission, one that hit you harder than you cared to admit. Zaros had always been your rival, your equal, the one who had tested you at every turn. But now, here he was—vulnerable, offering something different. Trust. Surrender. Himself.

Once his wrists were securely bound, you guided him toward the bed. He moved without resistance, his eyes never leaving you, as though the very act of you taking charge of this moment was enough to strip away the bravado and reveal the man beneath.

You moved toward the bedframe, the rope still in your hands. The act of securing him felt almost ceremonial, as though each knot tied was a step further into uncharted territory, binding not just his wrists but something more. His eyes followed your every movement, unwavering, like a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken understanding that this moment was different—this was no longer about mere games or power struggles.

As you tied the rope to the bedframe, ensuring that the knots were tight, you looked toward his legs, considering the next move. But when you glanced back up at him, you were met with his unwavering gaze. There was no defiance there, no anger—just a quiet intensity, a vulnerability you hadn’t expected. His lips parted, and for a moment, you thought he might speak, but he remained silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you.

You furrowed your brows, a playful edge creeping into your voice despite the tension that still hung between you. “Will I need to tie your feet too?”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable, but his lips quirked into a half-smile, soft but tinged with something darker. “Only if you want to,” he said, his voice low and steady.

For a moment, the air between you was charged, filled with the electricity of the choices both of you had made. You hadn’t planned for this—none of this—but here you were, standing at the precipice of something raw, something that defied everything either of you had ever wanted to admit.

“My Earis…” His voice, low and quiet, cut through the tension in the room. It wasn’t the usual command or challenge you were used to hearing from him—it was something softer, more vulnerable.

You froze for a moment, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. There was no mocking, no playful defiance. Only the weight of his words, hanging in the air like a question neither of you had dared to ask before.

“Yes, Zaros?” you responded, your voice steady, though your heart was racing. You didn’t know what he would say, didn’t know what he wanted from you this time. But you felt it—something between you was shifting, and there was no turning back from this.

His eyes met yours, dark and intense, and for the first time, there was no wall between you. He wasn’t the calculating figure you had always known. He wasn’t the rival or the political opponent. In this moment, he was just Zaros—raw and unguarded, waiting for something you weren’t sure you were ready to give.

“Would you kiss me?” he asked, his voice quiet but carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a demand. It was a simple question—a plea, almost.

The room seemed to freeze in that moment. Your mind screamed at you to resist, to stay in control, to push him away, as you had done so many times before. But the words hung in the air, and for some reason, you didn’t want to ignore them. You didn’t want to push him away this time.

You looked at him, your breath shallow, your pulse quickening as you processed the question, the unspoken emotions between you both. He was waiting—waiting for your answer, waiting for something. His gaze was vulnerable, more open than you had ever seen, and it struck you harder than you expected.

There was no arrogance in him now. No confidence. Only a quiet longing that mirrored something deep inside you, something you had tried so hard to suppress. And as much as you hated to admit it, you were afraid. Afraid of what it meant. Afraid of what it would do to both of you.

But despite that fear, despite the walls you had worked so hard to build, something inside you shifted. The walls didn’t feel as impenetrable anymore. The mask you had worn so long was slipping.

You took a step closer towards the side of the bed, your heart beating faster with each movement, and when you finally stood in front of him, you didn’t need to speak. You didn’t need to ask. The answer was in the air, in the way he was looking at you, in the way your body responded to his presence.

You leaned down slightly, your hand trembling slightly as it brushed the side of his face, your fingers tracing the sharpness of his jawline. His breath caught, his body tensing at the touch, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his eyes closed for a brief moment, as though savoring the contact, as though he too was trying to process the intimacy of it.

Without another word, you leaned in, your lips brushing his gently at first, a soft meeting of two people who had spent so long circling around one another, too afraid to acknowledge the pull between them. But the moment your lips met, it was as if everything inside you, everything you had fought to ignore, came rushing forward.

The kiss deepened, slow but urgent, filled with a raw intensity that neither of you could deny. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was an unraveling, a breaking down of every defense, every wall you had built around yourselves. For a fleeting moment, there was no politics, no throne, no rivalry. There was just the two of you, caught in something neither of you could control.

Zaros whimpered softly into the kiss, the sound raw and filled with need, as though every part of him was desperate for more. He strained against the restraints, pulling gently at the rope around his wrists, a silent plea for closeness, for something deeper than the connection you had already shared.

You could feel the intensity of his reaction, the way his breath quickened, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your palm. Every instinct in you wanted to yield to him, to let the moment continue, but there was something you had to remind him of. Something that, despite the undeniable pull between you both, needed to be acknowledged.

You pulled away, your lips lingering near his, and your hand stayed gently cupping his cheek. His eyes were wide, clouded with want, but there was something else there too—something vulnerable, something you couldn’t quite name. The rawness of the situation made your heart race, but you couldn’t ignore the weight of the moment.

“If you continue to pull,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion, “you’ll bleed—likely leaving scars.”

The words felt heavier than you intended, but they were true. His struggle, his desire, could lead to something irreversible. His wrists were already red from the pressure of the ropes, and the strain in his body was evident. There was a sharpness to the moment—an awareness of the risks, not just physical, but emotional, too.

Zaros’s gaze flickered to your face, his breath shallow, eyes filled with something deeper than just longing. “I don’t care about the scars,” he whispered, voice thick with something raw, desperate. “I’ve lived my life covered in them—inside and out. If it means more of you, more of this...”

His lips parted as his voice broke the silence, hoarse and pleading, each word heavier than the last. "..Please. Mount me." The plea escaped him in a soft, desperate whisper, trembling in the air between you.

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his plea sinking deep inside you. The rope in your hands felt suddenly heavy, a physical reminder of how tightly you held his fate—his surrender. Yet in that moment, it was you who felt unmoored. His words had cut through your defenses with a force you hadn’t anticipated.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you swung a leg over to straddle his hips. The heat of his skin seared yours, even through the thin barrier of your clothing. You could feel the hard, rigid length of him pressing against your core, separated only by the fabric of your garments. It sent a shiver of anticipation rippling up your spine, a thrill of knowing that you were the cause of his arousal.

Zaros's hands clenched around the ropes binding his wrists, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat as he felt you settle over him, the warmth of your sex cradling his aching erection. His hips bucked up instinctively, seeking more of that delicious friction, that maddening pressure.

Your heart raced as you slowly peeled off your garments, baring your most intimate places to Zaros's hungry gaze. You could feel his eyes devouring every inch of newly exposed skin, his pupils dilating with unbridled lust. The air between your bodies felt charged, crackling with a palpable energy that made your skin tingle.

Once you were fully bared to him you shifted your position. Straddling Zaros's face, you hovered your dripping sex just above his mouth, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating off your core. His breath hit your sensitive folds in hot, desperate puffs as he panted with anticipation.

"Is this what you want, Zaros?" you asked, your voice a husky murmur.

Zaros could only let out a guttural moan in response, his hands fisting the ropes tighter as he bucked his hips up urgently. His tongue darted out, trying to catch a taste of your essence, but you kept yourself just out of reach.

Zaros's chest heaved, his breathing ragged and labored as he stared up at you with wild, fevered eyes. "Please, Earis," he rasped, his voice raw and broken. "Please, let me taste you. I need it, I need you. Please, I'm begging you."

His words sent a thrill through you, stoking the flames of your desire. The desperation in his tone, the way he pleaded so beautifully for the chance to serve you, filled you with a heady sense of power and lust. Slowly, torturously, you began to lower yourself onto his waiting mouth.

Zaros's tongue delved deep, plunging into your hot, slick center with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He lapped at your essence, his tongue swirling and stroking your most intimate places with a fervor that left you breathless. The feeling of his mouth on you, his tongue exploring every inch of your dripping sex, was pure ecstasy.

The muscles of his chest and abdomen flexed and rippled beneath you with each ragged breath, each muffled moan vibrating against your sensitive flesh.

His eyes remained closed, lost in the taste and scent of your arousal. He was drunk on it, intoxicated by the heady musk of your desire. He wanted to drown in it, to be consumed by it until there was nothing left. His tongue worked tirelessly, driven by a primal need to bring you to the heights of pleasure.

He could feel your body beginning to tremble above him, your thighs clenching around his head as your climax approached. It spurred him on, urged him to redouble his efforts to bring you to that pinnacle. He wanted to feel your release, to taste your essence flooding his mouth as you came undone.

Zaros's hips bucked up urgently, the rough fabric of his trousers created a delicious friction against his clothed erection, stoking the fires of his own need. But his focus remained solely on you, on worshipping your body with his mouth until you were sated and satisfied.

He could feel the heat of your core, could taste the slick evidence of your arousal coating his tongue. It was a flavor more intoxicating than the finest wine, more addictive than the strongest drug. He knew he would never have his fill of you, would always crave the taste of your essence on his tongue.

His mind was hazy, his thoughts consumed by the feel and taste of you. The world narrowed down to the slick heat of your sex against his mouth, the sound of your ragged breaths and muffled cries above him. In that moment, there was nothing else, only the all-consuming need to bring you to ecstasy.

Your body tensed, your back arching as your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave. A sharp cry tore from your throat, echoing off the chamber walls as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated bliss consumed you. Your fingers tangled in Zaros's hair, gripping the silken strands tightly as you held him to you, your nails digging into his scalp.

Zaros's eyes flew open at the sound of your cry, and he looked up to see your face contorted in a mask of ecstasy above him. The sight of you coming undone, of being the cause of such intense pleasure, sent a surge of male pride and satisfaction through him. He wanted to bask in the glory of your release, to sear the image of your rapture into his mind.

As your essence flooded his mouth, Zaros drank it down greedily, swallowing every drop of your offering. The taste of your climax was ambrosia to him, a nectar sweeter than the finest honey. He could feel your body shuddering and quaking above him, your thighs clamping down around his head as you rode out the aftershocks of your intense orgasm.

Zaros's own hips jerked and bucked against the bed, his arousal throbbing and pulsing with a desperate, almost painful need. The feeling of your release, the sound of your cries, the scent of your satisfaction - it all combined to drive him to the brink of his own end. But he held back, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists in the ropes binding him as he fought to maintain control.

With a guttural, almost feral growl, Zaros's body went rigid beneath you. His back arched off the bed, the muscles in his neck and shoulders straining as he threw his head back in ecstasy. At the same time, his hips surged upwards, pressing his aching, clothed erection tightly against your thigh as he found his own completion.

Through the fabric of his trousers, Zaros's essence pulsed and throbbed, his hot seed spurting forth in thick, heavy ropes. The damp patch on the front of his trousers quickly spread, growing larger and darker as his intense orgasm played out. The sensation of his release, the relief and rapture of finally achieving his own climax, was almost painfully exquisite.

His chest heaved with each shuddering, gasping breath as he rode out the waves of his pleasure, his body trembling and jerking beneath you.

You turn your head slightly. The sight of the damp patch spreading across the front of his trousers drew your gaze, and you couldn't resist the urge to tease him about his loss of control.

"Well," you murmured, arching an eyebrow as you traced a finger along the edge of the growing stain. "It seems someone couldn't quite hold himself back, could he?"

Zaros's eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at you with a sheepish, almost boyish grin. A faint blush colored his cheeks as he realized you had noticed his lack of restraint."It's not my fault," Zaros admitted breathlessly, a note of playful defense in his tone. The sheen of your arousal glistened on the lower half of his face in the flickering candlelight, painting a vivid picture of your intimate encounter. Unable to resist the temptation, Zaros poked his tongue out to lap at the remnants of your essence, savoring the taste with a soft, appreciative murmur.

You couldn't resist the urge to see more of Zaros's magnificent body, to feel his bare skin against yours. With a wicked grin, you began to slowly unbutton his shirt, revealing the toned chest and abdomen beneath. Each button popped open with a soft click, exposing more of his tanned, muscular flesh. You expose his chest though you couldn't push the shirt off his broad shoulders entirely due to the restraints

Next, you turned your attention to his lower half. Hooking your fingers into the waistband of his trousers, you slowly peeled them down, inch by tantalizing inch. The fabric slid over his muscular thighs and calves, baring his skin to your hungry gaze. You couldn't help but admire the way his muscles flexed and rippled as you stripped him bare, his body a work of art carved by the gods themselves.

Once Zaros was laid out before you, naked and exposed, you took a moment to drink in the sight of him. The candlelight danced over his skin, casting shadows that accentuated the hard planes and angles of his physique. Your eyes lingered on his cock, still slick with the evidence of your shared arousal, standing tall and proud against his abdomen.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, you leaned down and wrapped your hand around his thick shaft. Zaros gasped at the sudden contact, his hips jerking up involuntarily as he bucked into your touch. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, could see the way his chest heaved with each ragged breath.

Emboldened by his reaction, you took him into your mouth, your lips stretching around his girth as you began to suckle. Zaros let out a strangled moan, his head falling back against the pillows as he surrendered to the pleasure of your mouth on him. His hands clenched the ropes binding his wrists.

Tears of ecstasy pricked at the corners of Zaros's eyes, his vision blurring as he lost himself in the bliss of your skilled ministrations. His hips pumped and bucked, driving his length deeper into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth with each thrust. The sounds of his ragged breathing and muffled moans filled the room, a symphony of his all-consuming pleasure.

As you bobbed your head up and down his shaft, strands of saliva dripped down your chin, dripping onto your heaving breasts. The lewd sound of your slurping and suckling echoed through the chamber, a vulgar symphony of your unbridled lust. You could feel his cock throbbing and twitching against your tongue, growing even harder with each pass of your lips.

Your free hand gripped the base of his shaft, pumping and stroking in time with the movements of your mouth. Your fingers couldn't quite close around his girth, a testament to his immense size. The other hand reached down to gently fondle his heavy, cum-filled balls, rolling them in your palm and giving them a gentle squeeze.

Zaros's body shuddered and jerked beneath you, his muscles clenching and unclenching as he fought to maintain some semblance of control. His chest heaved with each gasping breath, the sheen of sweat glistening on his skin in the candlelight. Tears of pleasure streamed down his face, his eyes clenched shut as he surrendered to the overwhelming ecstasy of your mouth on him.

A broken sob tearing from his throat. "Fuck— please, need it, need you so bad," His words dissolved into a guttural moan as his hips bucked up sharply, burying his throbbing cock deep into the tight, wet heat of your throat. You could feel him pulsing and throbbing, his release fast approaching as you worked him with single-minded determination.

"So good—! feels so fucking good, don’t stop, please don’t stop—"

Just as Zaros teetered on the brink of his explosive climax, his body coiled tight and ready to unleash, you suddenly pulled your mouth off his throbbing shaft. The cool air hit his slick, overheated skin, making him gasp and shudder at the sudden change in sensation. Zaros's eyes flew open, hazy and unfocused, staring at you in a mix of confusion and desperate, aching need.

"No, wait!" Zaros cried out, his voice a ragged, pleading rasp. "Don't stop, please..." His hips jerked and bucked, trying to follow the movement of your mouth, seeking that blissful warmth and pressure that had been so close to bringing him to the pinnacle of ecstasy.

You sat back, wiping your saliva and his leaking pre-cum from your kiss-swollen lips with the back of your hand. A wicked, teasing smile played at the corners of your mouth as you gazed down at his straining, flushed body splayed out before you. The sight of Zaros, bound and desperate, his cock pulsing and twitching with the need for release, filled you with a heady sense of feminine power and control.

As Zaros's body shuddered and jerked beneath you, his cock pulsing and throbbing, you reached down and snatched your discarded panties from the floor. With a triumphant smile playing at the corners of your mouth, you balled up the delicate fabric and pressed it firmly against Zaros's lips, muffling his ragged moans and cries of pleasure.

Zaros's eyes, hazy and unfocused with the force of his orgasm, widened in surprise as the soft, damp fabric filled his mouth. He made a muffled sound of protest, his tongue darting out to lick at the material, no doubt tasting the heady essence of your arousal.

"Shhh," you cooed, trailing a single finger teasingly up the underside of his shaft, feeling it jump and throb at your touch. "Patience, Zaros."

You leaned down to press a feather-light kiss to the sensitive head of his cock, your tongue darting out to lap up the pearl of pre-cum that had gathered at the tip. The anticipation and frustration etched on his handsome face was almost comically adorable.

With a wicked glint in your eye, you reached over and grabbed the sword that had been carelessly tossed onto the bed earlier. The cold metal was a stark contrast to the heated, flushed skin of your body. You held it aloft, the blade glinting menacingly in the candlelight as you straddled Zaros's hips, positioning yourself above his throbbing, aching cock.

Zaros's eyes widened as he saw the sword in your hand, a flicker of surprise and a hint of fear flashing across his face. But as you settled yourself over him, the head of his shaft nudging against your slick, heated entrance, a fresh wave of lust and desire overrode any trepidation.

You slowly lowered yourself onto his cock, taking him inch by excruciating inch into your tight, wet heat. Zaros's eyes rolled back in his head, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as your walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing shaft. The sensation was exquisite, the feeling of being enveloped in your silken, grasping warmth almost too much for him to bear.

As you settled fully onto his hips, impaled on his thick cock, you brought the sword down and pressed the sharp point against his chest, right over his pounding heart. You move a gentle hand to take your pants out his mouth absentmindedly tossing them to some corner of your room, the cold steel of the sword was a jarring contrast to the scorching heat of your core gripping him like a vice.

"Don't move," you commanded, your voice a low, authoritative murmur. "Not until I say so."

Zaros swallowed hard, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple as he nodded jerkily. The thrill of the danger, the taboo nature of your actions, only served to heighten his arousal. He could feel every ridge, every vein of his shaft rubbing deliciously against your fluttering walls as you sat astride him.

Zaros's hands clenched and unclenched where they gripped the ropes, his knuckles white and trembling. "I am yours, Earis," he vowed, his voice a fervent, desperate promise. "My body, my heart, my very soul - all belong to you. Command me as you see fit, and I shall obey, come what may."

The air between you was charged, crackling with a dangerous, thrilling energy. The scent of your arousal, the ragged sound of Zaros's breathing, the cold kiss of the blade against his skin - all blended into a heady, intoxicating mixture that set your nerves alight. In that moment, you held the power of life and death, pleasure and pain, in your hands.

You began to move. Slowly at first, you rolled your hips in a sensual circle, grinding your slick heat against the base of Zaros's shaft. The sensation of your walls rippling and squeezing his sensitive flesh drew a strangled groan from his throat, his back arching slightly off the bed as he struggled to maintain control.

You could feel every ridge, every throbbing vein of his cock as it pulsed inside you, stretching your silken walls to their limit. The delicious drag of his thick length against your most sensitive spots sent jolts of electric pleasure racing up your spine, making your toes curl and your fingers tighten around the sword hilt.

As you rode him with languid, teasing undulations, you began to increase your pace. The sword remained pressed firmly against Zaros's heaving chest, the point biting into his skin just hard enough to leave a reddening mark. Beads of sweat trickled down his temples as he panted and moaned beneath you, his eyes glazed over with lust and a hint of fear.

“Gods," Zaros gasped out, his voice a broken, desperate rasp.

As you rode Zaros with wild abandon, the obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the chamber. Each powerful thrust of your hips drove his thick, throbbing shaft deep into your dripping core, your slick arousal coating every inch of his pulsing cock. The lewd, wet squelching noises of your coupling echoed off the stone walls, a debauched symphony of your all-consuming lust.

Zaros's hands gripped the ropes with a ferocity bordering on pain, the fabric straining and creaking under the force of his desperate, erratic tugs. His chest heaved with each ragged, panting breath, sweat dripping down the valleys and peaks of his muscular torso. The sword's point left a trail of angry red marks on his skin, the steel glinting with each roll and bounce of your hips.

Arousal dripped down your inner thighs, coating your skin and his in a glistening sheen of your combined essence. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, the musky, heady aroma of your coupling permeating every corner of the room.

You could feel Zaros's cock throbbing and pulsing inside you, growing harder and more insistent with each passing second. His shaft was slick with your arousal, coated in the evidence of your desire. The sensation of his thick length rubbing against your most sensitive spots, stretching you wide and filling you so completely, was almost too much to bear.

"Wait, wait!" Zaros suddenly cried out, his voice pitching with desperate urgency. "I... I can't hold back any longer, Earis. I'm going to... fuck, I'm going to cum!"

The sword wavered in your grip, the blade dipping and tilting as Zaros's body bucked and jerked beneath you. You could feel his cock throbbing urgently inside your clenching heat, the shaft pulsing and twitching as his orgasm approached.

His eyes, hazy and lust-darkened, searched yours imploringly. The scent of your arousal, the slick heat of your core gripping him like a vice, the very real possibility of you bearing his child - it was all too much for the conflicted warrior to bear. Zaros teetered on the brink, his body screaming for release, his mind awhirl with the consequences of succumbing to the moment. The choice was yours, and the weight of it hung heavy in the charged air between you.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against Zaros's ear as you whispered your decision, your voice low and filled with a dark, triumphant satisfaction. "You can't marry another if I'm carrying your child, can you Zaros?" you murmured, your breath hot against his sweat-slicked skin.

Zaros shuddered beneath you, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as your words washed over him. " Earis," he groaned, his voice a broken, desperate rasp.

"Say it, Zaros," you commanded, your voice a low, authoritative growl. "Tell me that I can have your child, Now."

His chest heaving as he stared up at you, his eyes blazing with a fevered, desperate light. He frantically nodded, still pushing himself into you as he began to feel his orgasm close in. “W–whatever you want, whatev—please, I'm going to cum.”

With a final, powerful thrust, Zaros let go. His cock jerked and pulsed inside you, erupting like a volcano as he spilled his hot, thick essence deep into your core. You could feel each throbbing spurt of his release painting your walls, filling you with his potent, virile seed. Zaros's body convulsed and shuddered, his hips jerking erratically as he rode out the intense, overwhelming waves of his climax.

As Zaros's hot seed flooded your core, you felt your own peak crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your inner walls clamped down around his pulsing shaft, rippling and squeezing as your climax consumed you.

Your body shuddered and jerked above him, your back arching as the intense pleasure radiated out from your center. Each spurt of Zaros's release triggered another surge of your own, your womb greedily accepting his potent essence.

“I love you... I love you... I love you, I love you…” Zaros began to babble, his voice frayed with desperation, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. His chest heaved with each labored breath, his body trembling beneath you as he lay there, bound and exposed, each confession more urgent than the last. The rawness in his voice, the way it cracked as he repeated those words, shattered the fragile control you had fought so hard to maintain.

You could see the way his hands strained against the ropes, the muscles in his arms flexing as he twisted in an attempt to break free—not physically, but emotionally. He wasn’t just begging for release; he was offering his vulnerability, his soul laid bare before you in a way that was impossible to ignore. The tremors that wracked his body only seemed to deepen the weight of the moment, as if the very act of being so open, so exposed, was pushing him to the brink.

His eyes searched yours, wild with need, pleading with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. “I love you…” The words were a mantra now, tumbling out of him, his eyes locked on yours with an almost frantic intensity. But there was something else there too—a silent cry for something more than just affection, something more than just love. There was a raw, aching need in him that you couldn’t look away from.

You felt the sword in your hand, it's cold metal pressing into your palm, the weight of it too much to bear in this moment. It was a symbol of power, of control—but that control felt so distant now, so irrelevant. Zaros's plea was louder than the sword, heavier than the ambition you had built your life on.

Without a second thought, you hurled the sword to the ground, the sharp clang of metal against stone echoing through the room. The sound reverberated in your chest, a stark contrast to the silence that followed, thick and suffocating. The sword’s heavy ring faded into the distance, leaving only the sound of Zaros’s shaky breathing and the rapid beating of your own heart.

You move to untie the knots with swift precision, your fingers working to release him. Each pull of the rope felt like a crack in the wall you had so carefully built around yourself, the barrier between control and surrender breaking apart with every knot that gave way. Finally, his arms were free, and the moment the ropes fell away, his hands dropped to his sides, his breathing ragged, his whole body trembling with the weight of what had just happened.

His gaze softened, even as his chest heaved with the aftershock of everything you had just shared. He was no longer fighting, no longer pleading. He had surrendered entirely—physically, emotionally—and there was an honesty in his eyes that you could no longer ignore. You had seen him bare his soul in ways you never thought possible, and now, the layers between you had melted away, leaving only raw, unspoken truth.

You lowered yourself gently onto his chest, your head resting there as his heartbeat reverberated through your very bones. The rhythmic thump of it calmed the chaos that still churned inside you, the storm of emotion that had no outlet, no name. With every beat of his heart beneath your ear, you could feel him—the weight of him, the presence of his essence, the very thing that had always called to you.

You closed your eyes, letting the sound of his heartbeat lull you, finding solace in the rhythm of it. The world outside faded, the tension in your body slowly unwinding as the steady thrum of his heart kept you anchored, kept you tethered to this moment. His hands, still trembling from the aftermath, rested gently against your back, offering the comfort you didn’t know you had been seeking.

It was only when you felt his breathing shift—slowing, deepening—that you allowed yourself to relax, the last vestiges of your own restlessness slipping away. You listened intently, the sound of his heartbeat guiding you, soothing you, until it became steady, until it became the only sound that mattered. Only then, with his pulse calming and his body finally sinking into the quiet of sleep, did you allow yourself to close your eyes his cum slowly dripping out of you, halted by his cock still buried in you.

In the stillness that followed, you could feel the weight of everything between you—the unspoken bonds, the rawness, the honesty of the moment. And as you drifted into sleep, it wasn’t because you were exhausted or overwhelmed by the emotions that had consumed you. It was because, for the first time in a long time, you had found a place of peace—a place where, despite everything, you could truly rest.

──

author's note: no comment..

#zsakuva #sakuverse #zsakuva fandom #zsakuva zaros #zaros atha’lin #sakuverse zaros #zaros x reader #zaros x earis #the noble trials #audio roleplay #audio drama #if saku ever sees this im deactivating my blog.

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baked-mango · 22 days ago

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following the my made-up laws to the poll Zaros is next

WHY DID SO MANY OF Y'ALL VOTE FOR HIM. JONAH WAS RIGHT THERE

but I oblige to the demands of the people

(　・ω・)

#small art account #sakuverse #zsakuva #zsakuverse #zsakuva zaros #zaros x earis #sakuverse zaros #zaros atha’lin #zaros x reader

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mskyrathefroggo · 3 months ago

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More Information On Kyranix

Debut post

Kyranix Nehellenia Calliomene Ilves

Alias: Earis (used affectionately by Zaros and within royal circles)

Role: Heir to the throne of Serulla

Traits: Graceful, fiercely independent, emotionally complex, narcissistic, self centered

Physical Appearance

Height: Tall and willowy, with a poised and elegant frame, reflecting her background in ballet.

Hair: Long, soft thick dark, and flowing. Bangs Often adorned with intricate braids or left cascading down her back like silk. Occasional strands of gray hair add a unique beauty, reflecting her wisdom beyond her years. (It takes her a while to get ready)

Skin: Vitiligo patterns map her skin like constellations, which she highlights as marks of individuality and beauty.

Eyes: Piercing and expressive Malachite, often revealing more emotion than she would like.

Cheeks: Naturally rosy, a soft feature that contrasts her more guarded demeanor.

Dimples: Visible only when she’s truly happy, offering a rare glimpse into her softer side.

Body Temperature: Naturally cold, often causing her to bundle up in extra layers to stay cozy.

Scars: Has two visible scars that being on her right bicep and left forearm

Fashion & Style

Signature Colors:

Rich blues and soft creams: Symbolizing her calm yet strong demeanor and her break from royal expectations.

Previously adorned in royal purples: A color traditionally associated with her status, often at Queen Roena’s request.

Clothing:

Wears elegant gowns with delicate lace trims, soft floral patterns, and intricate designs reflecting her love for nature and attention to detail.

Frequently incorporates golden bracelets and marigold earrings—a childhood gift from Zaros—into her outfits.

Self-Crafted Attire: Kyranix sews many of her garments herself. Though it’s not a passion, it’s a skill she’s honed over time. Queen Roena finds this habit “adorable,” a rare compliment from her.

Duality in Style: Whether donning a refined ballgown or the structured formality of ceremonial attire, Kyranix’s outfits serve as both armor and expressions of her unyielding strength.

Personality & Traits

Ballet Grace: Her years of training as a ballerina are evident in her elegant movements and dancer’s posture. Ballet serves as both an emotional outlet and a source of discipline in her life.

Vegetarian: Kyranix refuses to eat meat, as her love for animals makes it unbearable for her to see them treated poorly. She is deeply empathetic toward all living creatures.

Wit & Humor: While often perceived as serious, Kyranix has a sharp, sarcastic sense of humor that keeps those around her on their toes.

Ambidextrous & Double-Jointed: Her physical skills extend beyond ballet, showcasing her adaptability and precision.

Germaphobe: Maintains a fastidious level of cleanliness and order in her personal spaces.

Emotional Vulnerability: Despite her regal demeanor, Kyranix deeply longs for emotional connection, especially with her mother. She treasures memories of moments when Queen Roena brushed her hair or hugged her, though such displays of affection are now rare.

Quirky Habits:

Frequently winks without realizing it.

Unfocuses her eyes when lost in thought.

Randomly sings high notes, often startling those around her.

Practices smiling in private to ensure her expressions appear genuine.

Childhood Memories

As a child, Kyranix idolized her mother and often dressed up like Queen Roena, mimicking her poise and grace in a heartfelt attempt to connect with her.

Emotional Struggles

Identity Crisis: Struggles with the weight of expectations, torn between her duty to her people and her personal desires.

Panic Attacks: Moments of intense anxiety arise when she feels overwhelmed or trapped by her responsibilities.

Anorexia: Battles with disordered eating, rooted in a desire to control her life and cope with the pressures of her role.

Regrets: Feels deep sorrow for not asking more questions about her late brother, whose absence has left a void in her understanding of family.

Mental: Kyranix has battled with deep feelings of inadequacy, isolation, and an overwhelming need to prove herself. At her lowest points, she once experienced suicidal thoughts, though she never voiced them aloud and one time she nearly succeeded

Goals & Motivations

Parental Approval: Desperately seeks the approval of Queen Roena, longing to feel valued and loved as both a daughter and a future queen.

Public Image: Works tirelessly to maintain the image of a perfect heir, ensuring she lives up to the expectations of her people and the crown.

Self-Worth: Struggles to prove to herself that she is enough, striving to become everything she dreams of being while shedding the lingering fear of being "nothing."

Breaking Free: Yearns to explore beyond Serulla, seeking to define her identity outside the confines of royal expectations.

Study: a dream of hers before the crown was in her fate was to study the stars and see what’s just beyond the solar system

Likes & Dislikes

Likes:

Soft Textures: Keeps her hands soft and enjoys gentle, comforting sensations.

Nature: Finds solace in the beauty of flowers and quiet outdoor spaces.

Romantic Gestures: Though she’s never received flowers on “Valentine’s Day”, the idea secretly appeals to her. She once cried when a bouquet of poppies withered.

Black berries: hates when their not in stock or season but can’t blame the people

Wine: Kyranix’s favorite wine likely be Ice Wine (Eiswein)—a rare, luxurious dessert wine known for its rich sweetness and complex flavors. Given her refined yet subtly rebellious nature, she would appreciate the delicate balance of its crisp acidity and honeyed depth, much like the duality in her own personality. Ice wine’s rarity and meticulous production process would also appeal to her appreciation for beauty, craftsmanship, and things that require patience and effort to perfect. Alternatively, she might favor a deep, full-bodied red wine like Amarone della Valpolicella, which carries bold flavors, an air of sophistication, and an underlying intensity—mirroring her own layered character and emotional depth

Zaros:

Dislikes:

Emotional Distance: The growing gap between herself and her mother, as well as the superficial relationships tied to her royal status.

Animal Cruelty: Seeing animals mistreated breaks her heart, further fueling her vegetarianism.

Confinement: Yearns to explore beyond Serulla and experience life outside her royal duties.

Zaros:

Relationships

Queen Roena:

Roena’s insistence on royal norms has created a strained bond between mother and daughter. Despite this, Kyranix deeply misses the tender moments they once shared, like when Roena brushed her hair or hugged her as a child.

Zaros:

“Old” friend and rival since childhood probably even since diapers The marigold earrings she wears are a gift from Zaros during their childhood, symbolizing one of her few genuine connections. Their relationship is layered with tension, chemistry, and unresolved feelings.

Miscellaneous Facts

Dyslexia: Kyranix has learned to overcome challenges with reading, a fact she keeps private to avoid appearing “imperfect.”

Artistic Flair: Her style and garments often incorporate soft floral patterns, symbolizing her love for nature and her individuality.

Dreams of Exploration: Has always wanted to see what lies beyond the borders of Serulla, driven by curiosity and a desire for freedom.

Fragrance: Kyranix smells of a tart blueberry moon milk

Obsessive compulsive disorder: Kyranix’s OCD manifests in her need for precision and order, from the alignment of objects to the intricate details of her attire. Small rituals, like braiding her hair or sewing, help her regain control and manage her anxiety in chaotic moments. She often feels the need for her outfits to be flawless, with every stitch, fold, or accessory perfectly aligned. If something feels "off," she will restart the process until it feels right, even if it delays her.

Counting as a Coping Mechanism: When under stress, Kyranix counts in her head—sometimes her steps, the patterns in her surroundings, or even her breaths. This habit helps her regain a sense of control when she feels overwhelmed. The counting started because of how many beats she could hear from her mothers heart whenever the rare chance she could be held by her

Artwork: Many paintings of Kyranix depict her with her eyes closed, symbolizing her sense of peace and detachment. She believes that shutting out the world, even momentarily, offers a reprieve from its pain and chaos, allowing her to find solace within herself.

Water: Kyranix infact cannot swim a secret she keeps to herself out of embarrassment, as it feels like a vulnerability unfitting for someone of her status. Despite her graceful poise on land so much of her time has been devoted to being perfect or not seeing much of what life had to offer and learning to swim wasn’t an option Despite her profound affinity for water and hydrokinesis, it is somewhat ironic that she cannot swim. This explains her decision to carry her birthstone, an Aquamarine, particularly in situations where she may need to travel by boat. Historically, aquamarines were believed to provide protection to sailors and their vessels against maritime disasters.

Tarot Cards: Kyranix owns a deck of tarot cards, often using them for quiet reflection. One day, she accidentally knocked the deck over, scattering the cards across her bedroom floor—all landing face down except for one: The Chariot.This was an unusual and haunting moment, as Kyranix embodies the very essence of The Chariot—a symbol of determination, control, and the relentless pursuit of victory despite adversity. The card’s meaning aligns with her struggle to balance duty and self-identity, her resilience in the face of doubt, and her unyielding will to carve her own path.

Dreams & Nightmares: Kyranix once had what she considered a nightmare—Zaros confessing his love to her, and worse, her accepting it without hesitation. In the dream, she was completely infatuated, embracing a future by his side that felt strangely fulfilling. The lingering warmth of the vision unsettled her deeply; the idea of loving him, of finding happiness in something she had sworn to reject, disgusted her more than the dream itself.

Dyslexia Quirks & Humor

Pronunciation Struggles: Kyranix sometimes struggles to pronounce names, even her own or Roena’s. A classic moment:

Official: “State your name for the record.”

Kyranix: “I’m Kywanix.”

Roena (facepalming): “We’ll work on it later.”

These moments are often accompanied by Roena tutoring her one-on-one, providing rare bonding opportunities between mother and daughter.

Left & Right Confusion:

Kyranix uses clever tricks to remember her left and right, like engravings on her bracelets or pulling out her hands to check the "L" shape. But this doesn’t stop Zaros from exploiting her confusion:

Kyranix: punches Zaros in the chest “I’m gonna rip your cold heart out.”

Zaros (smirking): “My heart’s on the left side, my Earis.”

Kyranix (pauses, confused): “...What?”

She pulls out her hands, looking in between her hands and checks the engraving, looks at Zaros, then back at her hands.

Zaros (grinning): “What’s wrong, Earis? Can’t figure it out?”

Kyranix tears up out of frustration while Zaros dissolves into laughter.

Childhood Moments:

As a child, Kyranix cried when she accidentally put her shoes on the wrong feet. Zaros, of course, teased her relentlessly but secretly felt bad and tried to "fix" it by giving her new shoes.

Public Embarrassment & Quick Wittiness

In formal settings, Kyranix’s dyslexia occasionally makes her stumble over her words or get directions wrong, leading to hilarious exchanges:

Audience Member: “Your Eminence, can you tell your left from your right without using your hands?”

Kyranix: “ALL OF YOU ARE GETTING EXECUTED FOR HURTING MY FEELINGS!”

Random jeers and laughter.

that Audience Member: “That’s what you get for locking me in the freezer, Earis. Maybe you should chill out.”

Kyranix: “I should’ve left your ass in there!”

Audience Member: “Please, you would’ve right me in there.”

Kyranix stands there, hands clenched, absolutely fuming, while Zaros is silently wheezing in the background.

Her Humor & Reactions

Kyranix’s dyslexia is something she takes seriously, but as she grows, she learns to laugh at herself. Still, it’s like playing roulette:

If you joke about her struggles and it’s funny, she’ll laugh and give you brownie points.

If it hits a nerve on a bad day, she’ll glare daggers or send you a sharp retort.

Example:

Zaros: “How can the Earis rule Serulla if she can’t even tell her left from her right?”

Kyranix: “Shut up, leech.”

Occasionally, she’ll joke about it herself:

Kyranix (after mispronouncing a word): “Well, at least I’ll make my coronation memorable—tis majesty Kywanix, Lady of Muddling Words.’”

Future Reflection & Growth

By adulthood, Kyranix becomes better at managing her dyslexia and is openly proud of her progress. She shares her childhood struggles in moments of vulnerability, usually with Zaros or someone she trusts.

Zaros (teasing): “Remember when you cried because you couldn’t put your shoes on right?”

Kyranix: “Oh, I remember. I also remember punching you square in the chest for it. Want a round two?”

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peppymintdreams · 3 months ago

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Threads Rewoven

Zaros Kymen Atha’lin x Earis (Modern AU)

Request via @vionnette the children called and mother answered I had to sketch this out had to get back in my fashion phase to make some things make sense (I apologize if it didn’t meet your expectations)

───※ ·❆· ※───

The echo of his footsteps bounced off the polished marble floors as Zaros Kymen Atha’lin strode into the dimly lit corridors of the Serulla Vogue building. Once a bastion of creative brilliance and bold artistry, the iconic space was now a shadow of its former self, slated for demolition after this final, star-studded fashion show.

Zaros had promised himself he’d never return to this world. Not after that night—the royal ballroom show.

He clenched his jaw at the memory. That had been his finest work, a collection so daring, so avant-garde that it had left audiences breathless. But none of it mattered. The competition had been rigged. Every designer knew it, every critic whispered it: Earis Ilves had been given more time, more resources, more attention. When the scores came in and Earis was crowned Serulla’s Fashion Heir, Zaros had walked away, humiliated and furious.

He retired that night. Left the spotlight. Stopped creating.

But now, with the runway itself on the brink of destruction, he had returned—not as a designer, not as a makeup artist, but as a model.

For weeks, his inbox had been flooded with desperate pleas from designers, each clamoring for his name to bolster their collections. Zaros had skimmed the emails with disinterest, finally picking a request at random. To him, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to win.

He was here to advocate.

For the workers. For the designers. For the creative souls who had built this industry. The demolition of the Serulla Vogue building wasn’t just the end of a structure—it was the erasure of a legacy.

The Serulla Vogue building wasn’t just any runway. It had been the cradle of countless careers, the backdrop of every pivotal moment in fashion for decades. Zaros could still remember the first time he’d walked its gilded halls, fresh out of university and filled with ambition. Back then, it had felt like stepping into a dream—every corner was alive with the hum of sewing machines, the click of heels on polished floors, the hushed tones of designers whispering about upcoming collections.

It was here that Zaros had first met Earis Ilves.

The memory of that first encounter was etched into his mind. Earis had walked into a pre-show critique with the kind of effortless confidence that turned heads, their piercing gaze sweeping over Zaros’s collection before offering a curt, “It’s bold. But predictable.”

At the time, he had been too stunned to reply, but that single comment had lit a fire in him. Earis became his benchmark, his rival, and—though he’d never admit it—his equal. For years, they had competed on the same stages, their names often spoken in the same breath as the future of Serulla’s fashion world.

But no rivalry burned hotter than the one that culminated in the Royal Ballroom Show.

Zaros clenched his fists at the memory. The weeks leading up to the event had been a whirlwind of sleepless nights and frantic creation. He’d poured his soul into that collection—pieces that defied convention, blending traditional Serullan designs with sharp, modern silhouettes. He’d known it was his best work.

And yet, when the scores were tallied, it was Earis who stood victorious.

As he entered the makeup room, whispers erupted like a ripple in still water. Stylists clutched their pearls, makeup artists froze mid-stroke, and models exchanged wide-eyed looks.

“Is that…?”

“He’s back.”

“It’s really him.”

Zaros ignored the murmurs, his expression sharp and unreadable. He wasn’t here for their adoration or gossip. He was here to make a statement.

“The designer should be here soon,” his manager said softly, breaking through the tension.

“Thank you,” Zaros replied, his tone clipped. His manager nodded and left the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Zaros sat on the plush makeup chair, staring at his reflection. His sharp cheekbones, piercing emerald eyes, and perfectly styled hair mirrored the man he used to be, yet something in his gaze felt heavier.

He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the last time he’d been here. The photo of Earis on the magazine cover haunted him still:

EARIS TAKES THE CROWN AS SERULLA’S FASHION HEIR

The image still haunted him—Earis draped in their winning design, a shimmering gold-and-crimson ensemble that looked like it belonged to royalty itself. At the time, he’d told himself it was rigged. The whispers confirmed it: Earis had been given more resources, more time, and more leeway from the judges. It hadn’t been a fair fight.

But deep down, part of him had wondered if Earis had simply been better.

He remembers it vividly the last thing earis said to him before they had parted, it was after earis had won tears of joy streamed their face as they waved to the crowd backstage they told him “you are a disgusting leech who won my trust, only to break me after. Knowing you is my greatest regret, I never want to see your face again”. That was eight years ago.

The thought had eaten at him, gnawing away at his confidence until he could no longer bear to set foot in the fashion world. He’d walked away, leaving behind the world they had both shaped. And just like that, Earis disappeared too.

In the years that followed, Zaros had heard little of them. Rumors swirled—some claimed Earis had retired to the countryside, others that they had taken their talent abroad. No one knew for certain.

What had happened to them after that night? Where had they gone? Rumors swirled, of course. Some said Earis had disappeared entirely, retreating into the shadows of their victory. Others speculated they had gone abroad to build an empire. But no one truly knew.

Not even Zaros.

What happened to you, Earis?

A soft knock on the door snapped him out of his reverie.

“Come in,” he said, his voice steady.

The door opened, and Zaros’s breath caught in his throat. Standing there, holding a tape measure and a fabric swatch book, was Earis Ilves.

Time seemed to freeze as their eyes met. For a moment, neither spoke. Zaros, for once, was at a loss for words.

“You,” he finally managed, his voice low and laced with disbelief.

Earis’s expression mirrored his shock, though they quickly composed themselves. “Zaros.”

“What…?” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “What are you doing here, my earis?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Leech” Earis replied, their voice cool but tinged with something softer—hesitation?

Zaros’s lips twitched at the sound of that old nickname. It felt like a lifetime ago, yet hearing it again stirred something in him—annoyance, nostalgia, maybe even a touch of longing. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs as if to mask his unease.

“I’m here to protest the destruction of this building,” Zaros said, his voice regaining its sharp edge. “But I suppose I should have expected to find you lurking in its final moments. Are you here to celebrate your victory, my Earis?”

Earis closed the door behind them with an audible click, their movements measured and deliberate. They didn’t answer immediately, taking a moment to set their tools on the vanity table. Zaros watched them carefully, searching for cracks in their composure.

“Believe it or not, I’m here to work,” Earis replied, finally meeting his gaze. “I didn’t think I’d see you again, let alone like this.” They gestured to him, their tone as unreadable as their expression. “Modeling, of all things? How... unexpected.”

Zaros chuckled dryly, though the sound was devoid of humor. “Why bother designing when the game is rigged? It’s easier to just wear the clothes and leave the politics to someone else.”

A flicker of something crossed Earis’s face—guilt, perhaps, or regret. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “You’ve changed,” they said softly, pulling a tape measure from their pocket. “But then, I suppose we both have.”

Zaros bristled at the implication. “And yet, here you are. Still clinging to this world.”

Earis stepped closer, the scent of their perfume reaching him—a familiar, intoxicating blend of sandalwood and citrus. It stirred memories he’d long tried to bury. “I’m here because this is my world,” they said, their voice firm. “I wasn’t going to let it crumble without a fight.”

Zaros narrowed his eyes. “So, you’re here to save the building too? How noble of you, my Earis. Tell me, is this another chance for you to steal the spotlight?”

Earis stopped in their tracks, the tape measure dangling loosely in their hand. Their eyes met his, and for the first time, Zaros saw a crack in their armor. “Do you really think that’s all I care about? After everything?”

The vulnerability in their voice caught him off guard. Zaros hesitated, unsure how to respond. This wasn’t the Earis he remembered—the fierce competitor who had always been three steps ahead of him. This Earis seemed... tired. Worn.

“I don’t know what you care about anymore,” Zaros admitted, his tone quieter now. “I stopped trying to figure you out years ago.”

Earis looked down, fiddling with the edge of the tape measure. “I didn’t ask for what happened that night,” they said, their voice barely above a whisper. “The resources, the attention... none of that was my doing. But you wouldn’t listen. You just... left.”

Zaros scoffed, his eyes narrowing as the bitter memories surged back. "You didn’t ask for it?" he echoed, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "You didn’t stop it either. You didn’t say a word when they handed you the crown on a silver platter, my Earis. You stood there and soaked it all in—like it was your birthright."

You straightened, meeting his glare with one of your own. "What was I supposed to do, Zaros? Refuse? Hand it over to you out of pity? That’s not how this world works, and you know it."

"Pity?" Zaros laughed, but the sound was hollow. "You think I wanted pity? I wanted fairness! I wanted the recognition I earned, not to stand there like an idiot while you basked in the glow of a rigged victory."

Your jaw tightened, and for a moment, he could see the frustration simmering beneath your composed exterior. "It wasn’t rigged," you shot back, your voice sharper now. "Yes, I had more resources. More attention. But I didn’t control that, Zaros! I worked just as hard as you—harder, maybe. You think it was easy for me, carrying the weight of everyone’s expectations? Always being told I had to be perfect?"

"Spare me the sob story," Zaros snapped, rising from his chair. "You had everything handed to you. Connections, sponsors, the judges eating out of your hand. Don’t stand there and tell me it was the same for you."

You stepped closer, your eyes blazing with a fire that sent a shiver down his spine. "You think I didn’t see how much it hurt you that night? You think I didn’t care? I did, Zaros. But I wasn’t about to throw away my chance just to make you feel better. I wanted to win. I had to win."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at you. Your honesty was brutal, unyielding, and it struck a chord he wasn’t ready to confront.

"And you did," Zaros said bitterly, his voice quieter now. "You won. You got everything you ever wanted. So why do you look just as miserable as I feel?"

Your lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. For a moment, the tension between you hung thick in the air, charged with years of unresolved anger and something else neither of you wanted to name. Zaros’s gaze softened despite himself, and he hated that even now, you could still make his heart ache in ways he didn’t understand.

"Don’t flatter yourself," you said finally, your voice trembling just enough for him to notice. "I’m not miserable. I’m... I’m here to work. That’s it."

"Right," Zaros muttered, stepping back as if putting distance between you would shield him from the emotions threatening to surface. "And I’m just a model. That’s it."

The words felt like a lie, but he didn’t dare linger on them. He couldn’t afford to. Still, as he turned his attention back to the mirror, he couldn’t shake the feeling that you were just as lost in the past as he was. Neither of you would admit it, but the distance you’d created hadn’t erased the memories. It had only made them sharper, more painful.

He glanced at you through the reflection, catching the way your shoulders tensed, your fingers clutching the tape measure a little too tightly. You opened your mouth as if to say something, but closed it again, the words slipping away before they could take form.

Zaros turned to face you fully, his expression unreadable. "We’re not the same people we were back then," he said quietly, the anger in his voice giving way to something softer. "But if you think for a second that I don’t miss the way things used to be... then you’re as blind as I was."

Your eyes widened, the facade you’d carefully built cracking for just a moment. But then, just as quickly, you straightened your spine, masking whatever vulnerability had slipped through. "The past is the past," you said, your tone cold and final. "It’s better that way."

Zaros didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The weight of your words settled heavily in his chest, leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth. As you turned back to your tools, the silence between you was deafening.

And yet, in that silence, he couldn’t help but wonder if you were lying—to him, or to yourself.

The room felt suffocating, the tension between you and Zaros heavy with unspoken truths and lingering emotions. Zaros turned his back to you, his arms crossed as he stared out the dusty window. The faint glow of the city lights filtered through, painting shadows across his sharp features. He looked tired, worn—so different from the Zaros you remembered, who always carried himself with unshakable confidence, even in defeat.

And maybe that was why, despite everything, you found yourself speaking. "Do you ever think about how it could have been? If things had gone differently?"

Zaros’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn to face you. "Every damn day," he admitted after a moment, his voice low and tinged with vulnerability. "But thinking about it doesn’t change anything, does it? We made our choices, Earis."

You hesitated, your fingers gripping the edge of the vanity table. "Maybe we did, but that doesn’t mean it’s too late to make different ones."

He finally turned to look at you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to decipher your intentions. "What are you saying?" he asked, his tone cautious, almost disbelieving.

"I’m saying..." You took a deep breath, the words sticking in your throat. "I’m saying I don’t want to keep pretending like you don’t matter to me. Because you do, Zaros. You always have."

Zaros stared at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought you’d made a mistake—that he’d laugh it off or lash out, like he always did when things got too close to the heart. But then, to your surprise, he closed the distance between you in a few quick strides.

"You think I don’t know that?" he said, his voice trembling slightly. "You think I haven’t spent years trying to forget you, only to fail every single time?"

Your breath hitched as his words sank in, and for a moment, the space between you felt charged with something electric, something neither of you could deny anymore. His gaze softened, and for the first time in years, the walls he’d built around himself seemed to crumble just a little.

"But you hurt me, my Earis," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You took everything I wanted, everything I worked for, and you didn’t even look back. How am I supposed to forget that?"

You swallowed hard, the weight of his pain settling heavily on your chest. "I don’t want you to forget," you said softly. "I want to make it right. Or at least... try."

Zaros let out a shaky breath, his hand running through his hair as he looked away. "And what if trying isn’t enough? What if we’re too far gone for that?"

"Then we figure it out," you said, stepping closer. "Together. No more games, no more walls. Just... us."

He looked back at you, his eyes filled with a mix of hope and fear. "You make it sound so easy."

"It’s not," you admitted. "But I think it’s worth it. Don’t you?"

Zaros didn’t answer right away, his gaze locked on yours. Slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours in a tentative, almost hesitant gesture. The contact sent a spark through you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to hope.

"Maybe it is," he said quietly, his lips twitching into a small, almost reluctant smile. "But don’t think for a second I’m letting you off the hook, Earis. You owe me answers. And an apology."

You couldn’t help but smile back, your fingers tightening around his. "Then I guess we have a lot to talk about."

"Yeah," he said, his voice softening. "We do."

The tension in the room had shifted into something warmer, softer. You crouched underneath Zaros as he sat on a worn velvet chaise, as you measured his calves, an air of tentative understanding forming between you. For the first time in years, you allowed yourselves to talk—not as rivals or adversaries, but as two people trying to bridge a gap that once felt insurmountable.

"So," Zaros began, leaning back casually, "what’s it like being the golden child of the industry? Still stealing the spotlight wherever you go?"

You rolled your eyes, but there was no venom in the gesture. "I wouldn’t say that. It’s... a lot of work, actually. More than I ever imagined back when we were just two kids at the Academy. I’ve spent the last eight years chasing deadlines and sacrificing sleep. But I love it, even when it’s exhausting."

His brow arched as a hint of a smile played at his lips. "Earis Ilves admitting to exhaustion? I thought you were invincible."

"Hardly," you replied, shaking your head. "What about you? Modeling, huh? How’d that happen?"

Zaros let out a soft laugh, running a hand through his hair. "It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. After I left... everything, I needed something to keep me afloat. A friend of mine suggested it, and, well, apparently brooding pays well." He flashed a grin, his charm as infuriatingly effective as ever.

You chuckled despite yourself. "I’ll admit, you wear it well. But you always had that confidence—like you belonged wherever you stood."

"Confidence?" Zaros echoed, smirking. "I thought you’d call it arrogance."

You tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. "That too."

The two of you laughed, the sound unfamiliar yet comforting. For a while, the conversation flowed naturally. Zaros told you about his travels, the odd jobs he’d taken, and the people he’d met along the way. You shared stories of grueling fittings, surreal moments at fashion shows, and the occasional disaster that turned into a lesson.

"I missed this," Zaros admitted suddenly, his tone softer now. "Talking to you. It’s... strange, but it feels like no time has passed, even though it’s been eight years."

You looked at him, caught off guard by his honesty. "I missed it too," you confessed, the words surprising even yourself. "Even when I told myself I didn’t."

Before either of you could say more, a sharp knock at the door interrupted the moment. The assistant poked their head in, clipboard in hand. "[Ms./Miss./Mrs/Mr] Ilves, your next fitting is in ten minutes. We need to start clearing the space."

You sighed, standing reluctantly. "Duty calls."

Zaros rose as well, his movements deliberate as he stepped closer. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pen and a scrap of paper. Scribbling something down, he handed it to you with a casual flourish.

"My number," he said, his voice laced with teasing confidence. "Give me a call sometime, My Earis. Maybe we can pick up where we left off." He punctuated the statement with a wink, his grin making your cheeks heat despite yourself.

You took the paper, shaking your head with a bemused smile. "Still full of yourself, I see."

"Always," Zaros quipped, stepping back toward the door. "Don’t keep me waiting too long, though. I might just have to track you down."

And with that, he was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne and a strange fluttering in your chest. For the first time in a long while, you felt the faint spark of something you thought you’d lost: hope.

To be Continued…

@zsakuva

🍬

P.S. Hey… hey, you! 🫵🏾 Do you want more Sakuverse gay shit? Hit that follow button and send in a request! You’ll get notifications whenever I post new fics or incorrect quotes or head canons and maybe even a chance to have your OC featured in a story.

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odasantiago · 4 months ago

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I love them (very rough sketch but you get it)

#sakuverse #zsakuva #asmr #zaros atha’lin #zsakuva zaros #zaros x earis

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vionnette · 5 months ago

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Title of the Past

Zaros Atha'lin x Earis

The rays of the sun lit the library cool and warm, two people breathing steadily, and the sound of pages getting flipped and writing sounds were the only things that could be heard inside the room, both Zaros and the Earis are content with each other's presence not minding the lingering silence

"Should I just give up the Throne?" the Earis asked, breaking the comforting silence between the two. Zaros' eyes widened clearly taken back by the sudden question though he quickly recomposed himself before answering "I'll probably tease you for giving up the Throne but I know you won't do that my Earis"

the title sounded so bitter as it comes with a horrible past, Earis almost wanted to give up the title, maybe then they'll feel somewhat happy and full of life again. The Earis was bound to the throne, and the invisible chains that pulled Earis back to the Throne when they got a little bit of freedom reminded them why they were alive in the first place.

"How are you so sure about that?" The Earis asked looking at Zaros with a deep curiosity in their eyes. "You said it yourself when we had a debate in the garden that your greatest strength is being tenacious, that you would do anything to claim the Throne, or are you saying you're really not?" he asked clearly teasing the Earis.

The Earis scoffed annoyed by Zaros' teasing "I am. I..know when I need to soften my grip on something I'm not capable of handling it. Zaros' lips curled into a smirk "Are you implying that you can't handle being an Eminence?"

The Earis rolled their eyes at his comment "That's not what I meant. I have my reasons why I can't handle being in this kind of status with you-" The Earis quickly pressed their hands in their mouth to cut themself. Zaros on the other hand noticed the tense cut, Zaros immediately knew what the Earis wanted to say.

"Oh? Did you mean that you can't go against me anymore? are you scared? or did you somehow thought that I'll overpower you at some sort and win? and that you decided to just accept it?.

The Earis let out a big sigh "I didn't mean to say that.", Zaros chuckled clearly not believing the excuse "But it sounds like it? I can't imagine the Royal Earis of the long service Ilves Bloodline are scared of a leech that came from a new noble family line that is hated by other noble families." His voice became louder as he pushed the Earis to their limit.

"It wasn't that Zaros! I was scared because we have a past, a past that still haunts me to this day! every time I see you I think about what we have before and I can't help but miss it! I didn't want this! I never wanted us to be in this kind of relationship where we constantly throw hateful comments at each other but all I can do now is feel guilty for what I did in the past and blame myself for my stupidity and that I didn't believe the person who actually understand and know me more than my mother! I don't want us to be rivals anymore Zaros! I can't take it anymore!

Earis' heavy breaths are the only thing that can be heard after the confession, little sniffle came from the Earis, hinting that they were about to cry, a pool of water in the corner of their eyes threatening to fall down any second

Zaros tried to speak but nothing came out of his mouth when he opened it, he was too stunned at what the Earis just did, confessing everything to him was what he didn't expect.

"If giving up the Throne is the only way to end this then I'll gladly give it up to you."

The Earis said before exiting the library, leaving Zaros alone in a painful silence.

Some of the scenes here I find cringe but yeah..it's messy and bad it's my first time writing actual fanfic so I'll take some tips because I had a fun time writing this at school earlier lol

#zsakuva #sakuverse #the noble trials #zaros atha’lin #zaros #zsakuva zaros #zaros x earis #earis #zsakuva earis #angsty

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hearts4mxlay · 4 months ago

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I just watched Wicked,

Glinda and Elphaba were giving me Earis and Zaros

#zsakuva #sakuverse #zaros atha��lin #zsakuva zaros #zaros x earis

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norabugz · 3 months ago

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Zaros and Earis edit!!!! Do you get it????

(haven't watched their series in awhile so sorry if this is inaccurate!)

Again Earis/ listener is shown as all genders

Explanation because I put a pathetic amount of thought into this.

"oh golden boy don't act like you were kind" -their strained realtionship

"you were mine, but you were awful every time" - ex best friends/ lover coded.

"so don't tell them what you told me" Earis and Zaros have their own facades they show the nobility.

"don't hold me like you know me" they can't go back to what their relationship once was.

"I would rather burn forever" stubborn bastards.

"but you should know, that I died slow" they're both suffering as a consequence.

"running through the halls of your haunted home" ex best friends/ childhood reminiscent.

"and the toughest part is we both know, what happened to you, why you're out on your own" Earis' brother dying and them being forced into the role of heir to the throne.

#zsakuva #zsakuva zaros #zaros atha’lin #zsakuva earis #zaros x earis #sakuverse #zaros edit #audio rp #edit

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hinasxvii · 3 months ago

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you guys know that one audio/song that goes like

“i could never choose to love another”

“maybe one day i can learn to love you… too”

THIS right here IS earis and zaros coded and i will stand by that! 🙌

#zsakuva #sakuverse #zaros atha’lin #zsakuva zaros #the noble trials #zaros #zsakuva earis #zaros x earis

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boiledmang0s · 2 months ago

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Sense we’re talking about the noble trials and the theory that Queen Roena is starting to have dementia imagine Queen Roena calling Earis by their brothers name and the Earis always having to correct them like “no mom. I’m not him.”

TRUST I WILL BE DRAWING THIS!

#sakuverse #zsakuva #artwork #zsakuva earis #zsakuva zaros #zaros atha’lin #the noble trials #zaros x earis

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yoursinisforgiven · 6 days ago

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SWEET BLUE ──

pairing: zaros x reader (earis)

cw: ideally set after the issues between zaros and earis have been sorted, attempted killing of an animal (?) (a fish), kissing. ‘primary’ refers to grade school, ideally 6th or 7th.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

“She was the epitome of charm, effortless and—”

"It's pronounced epitome."

The words, smooth as silk yet edged with that ever-present teasing lilt, rolled off Zaros’s tongue with an ease that suggested he had been waiting—no, longing—for the moment to correct you. His voice wove through the still air between you both, a thread of amusement stitched into the fabric of an otherwise quiet evening.

You barely had time to process before your gaze lifted from the delicate print of the page, the carefully woven words dissolving under the weight of distraction. And there he was, leaning just enough to make his presence feel intrusive without crossing into rudeness, his head tilted at the perfect angle to emphasize the smirk stretched across his lips. It wasn’t just a smirk; it was the kind of expression that lived between confidence and arrogance, between amusement and challenge.

The dim light of the room—warm and flickering from the old brass lamp at your side—cast soft shadows against his features, accentuating the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the slight upturn of his mouth, the barely restrained glint in his eyes. They held something unreadable, something too intelligent, too knowing, as if he had already mapped out the next few steps of this interaction and was merely waiting for you to stumble into them.

You exhaled, slow and deliberate, a breath meant to center yourself but ultimately revealing your restraint. “Oh?” The single syllable lingered between you both, feigning disinterest, but Zaros was not one to be deterred by pretense.

“Yes.” He stretched the word, his amusement curling around it like smoke. “Eh-pit-oh-mee.”

Your fingers, still resting on the edge of the worn book cover, curled just slightly as if gripping it could anchor you against the weight of his presence. He had a habit of doing this—testing, prodding, pressing just enough to see what would break first: patience, composure, or the fragile boundary between casual conversation and something more.

“And I suppose you think that makes you superior?” you mused, tilting your chin ever so slightly. The fight for control in this exchange was subtle, a battle fought in microexpressions and measured words, an unspoken push and pull.

“Not superior.” He drew the word out, savoring it like a fine wine. “Just right.”

There was something almost philosophical in his certainty, in the way he presented knowledge as a weapon rather than a gift. Words were, to him, not just tools of communication but instruments of power, capable of shaping perception, altering reality. He was the kind of person who believed that knowing things—small things, trivial things, the difference between how a word was written and how it was spoken—somehow made him untouchable.

But the real question, the one that lingered beneath the surface of this exchange, was whether you would let him win.

Though you never had, had you?

Your fingers, chilled by the room’s soft draft, curled into the edges of the blanket draped around your shoulders. The fabric was thick, each thread woven so tightly it felt almost protective, as if it had been designed to shield more than just your skin from the cold. It had arrived at your door not long ago, boxed in quiet elegance, wrapped with the kind of care that suggested hands far too practiced had folded its corners and smoothed its surface before leaving it in your possession. The memory was a soft one, brushed with both fondness and something far more perplexing—an unsolvable riddle in the form of a gift.

The first time Zaros had seen your old blanket, his reaction had been something between amusement and irritation. He had picked it up with careful, almost reluctant fingers, examining its stretched fibers, its time-worn patches, its unremarkable origins. Then had come the scolding—not cruel, but sharp enough to linger.

"You didn’t make this?" he had asked, eyes flicking to yours with a look that suggested the answer had already disappointed him.

"I bought it."

"Ridiculous." He had let the blanket fall back into your lap, shaking his head as if the idea of owning something so impersonal was a sin against reason. "Such a simple article. You could have made something better yourself. What do your hands do if not create?"

That was when you had learned something new about him. Zaros, ever the self-appointed authority on knowledge, on correctness, on the proper way of things, knew how to knit. The revelation had struck you sideways, not because it was particularly shocking—he was always full of surprises, after all—but because it made a strange kind of sense. Zaros did not believe in letting others do what he could master himself. He was the kind of person who saw skill as necessity, self-sufficiency as law. The thought of purchasing something so basic when one had the capability to make it was, in his mind, an affront to logic.

Less than a week later, the new blanket had arrived at your door, folded so precisely it seemed almost sculptural, its surface flawless, its weight just enough to feel grounding. It had come accompanied by a single knock, the sound crisp and fleeting, an announcement that did not wait for acknowledgment before vanishing into silence. And when you had opened the door, there had been no one standing there. Only the neatly wrapped box, sitting just close enough to suggest an unseen presence had been lingering only moments before, waiting just long enough to ensure its discovery.

You had never thanked him for it. Not with words, at least.

Now, as you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, its fibers warmed from the heat of your own body, you met Zaros’s gaze again. He was still watching you, still smirking, still holding onto the pause between your exchange as if he already knew how you would break it. His confidence was infuriating. He was infuriating. But there was something else, something tangled between the letters of the words he spoke and the silences he left in their wake.

"Well?" he prompted, tilting his head just enough for a stray lock of dark hair to fall against his forehead.

You could argue. You should argue. It was the natural rhythm of your conversations, the expected cadence of your interactions. But for once, you found yourself hesitating, your mind caught on the weight of something unspoken. Not about the pronunciation of a word. Not about the game you played in these moments of back-and-forth.

But about the way he had once looked at a worn-out blanket and decided, without request or expectation, to replace it with something better.

"Why don’t you read it for me then? Since you know so much, of course."

The words should have landed sharp, should have carried the same crisp edge of defiance you had meant to wield against him, but somehow, somewhere between thought and utterance, the bite softened, turned into something closer to an invitation than an insult. It was only when silence answered you—when Zaros failed to deliver his usual immediate, self-satisfied retort—that you realized your mistake.

Had the light in the library not been so dim, had the shadows not stretched long across the walls and pooled at the edges of his frame, you might have caught it more clearly—the faint flush, barely-there, ghosting against the paleness of his skin. But the hesitation in his breath, the way he took just a fraction longer than usual to respond, that was undeniable. A flicker of something unspoken passed between you, slipping through the spaces between words.

He cleared his throat, the sound barely more than a ripple in the quiet, and took a slow step toward you, his movements measured, almost deliberate in their lack of urgency. The soft glow of the lamp beside you illuminated the sharp cut of his features as he approached, the light catching on the near-imperceptible shift in his expression. You held still, watching, waiting, as if sudden movement would shatter the moment entirely.

When he reached you, where you sat curled into the plush chair, wrapped in the warmth of the blanket he had once silently gifted you, he did not speak at first. Instead, he reached out, fingers brushing just barely against your own as he took the book from your hands, handling it with a carefulness that felt out of place for someone so often wrapped in arrogance. The absence of its weight left your hands empty, and somehow, the space between your fingers felt colder for it.

He turned then, searching for another chair, dragging it close enough that its legs made a low sound against the wooden floor. He sat, the movement slow, composed, but there was something else there, something softer beneath the surface. A memory unearthed.

"Just like in primary, huh?"

His voice was quieter now, lacking its usual sharpness, and the moment the words left his lips, something old stirred in your mind, something buried and half-forgotten. It came back all at once, the memory slipping into place like a puzzle piece you hadn't realized was missing.

Zaros, years younger but still so much himself—too smart for his own good, too smug in the way he knew things others didn’t. You, sitting beside him, frustrated and struggling over a page filled with words that refused to make sense, letters twisting into incomprehensible shapes no matter how hard you stared. It had been humiliating then, knowing he could read them with ease while you stumbled over them, but he had never mocked you for it. Never let anyone else know.

He had read to you instead. Quietly, patiently. Not with the careful, performative enunciation of a teacher, but with something else, something more genuine. He had read in a way that made the words feel alive, made them unfold in your mind like petals blooming in slow motion, soft and deliberate.

No one had ever known. You had made sure of it. It was a secret neither of you had ever spoken of, a quiet understanding sealed between the worn pages of old schoolbooks and exchanged glances in the corridors.

And now, all these years later, here he was again, a book resting in his hands, a presence beside you in the dim-lit library, as if the years between had folded in on themselves.

His fingers traced the spine absentmindedly before he exhaled, settling into his seat. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted, lost its usual sharp edges, softened just enough to remind you of how it had sounded back then, in those quiet stolen moments of understanding.

"Alright then," he murmured, opening the book to where you had left off. "Listen closely." he says teasingly, a small smirk curled on his lips.

And just like that, the world outside the library ceased to exist.

──

To be a leader, you were told, one must be strong—not merely in body, but in will, in presence. A leader must be well-trained, tempered like steel in the fires of hardship, disciplined and decisive. A leader must be prepared to defend their kingdom, to raise the banner and sound the call if war darkened the horizon. You were told these things often, sometimes as command, sometimes as cautionary tale. Strength, they said, was the foundation upon which sovereignty stood.

But then again, you had never seen a king pick up a sword.

Not truly. Not in the way soldiers did.

You had seen them hold swords, of course—gilded things, ceremonial and pristine, their edges dulled from disuse, their hilts adorned with jewels that had never known the weight of blood. You had seen them pose, standing high on balcony ledges, sunlight glinting off polished armor that had never been battered in battle. You had heard them speak of war, of bravery and sacrifice, of honor and loyalty, but their words always rang a little too hollow, like a blade swung without force behind it.

The actual fighting—the screaming, bleeding, dying—that was left to the men and women below the tower, in the mud, in the rot, where orders turned to chaos and names were forgotten as quickly as they were carved into headstones. That was the soldiers’ task. The pitiful, right? That’s how it was framed, at least. They who were born to die in the name of banners stitched by hands they would never shake, for causes whispered behind closed doors by voices they would never hear.

And yet it was they who held the true strength.

The air outside was sharp with cold, biting in a way that caught at your throat and stung the tips of your ears, but it was a welcome contrast. Serulla was infamous for its brutal summers—heat so oppressive it seemed to melt the days into each other, turning time thick and slow. In those sweltering months, survival meant adaptation, and adaptation, for Serulla, had come in the form of water. The rivers and estuaries that veined the land had become sacred in their own quiet way, offering not just relief but sustenance. Fish became the kingdom’s main source of food—not the small, silver-scaled things you could pluck from still ponds, but beasts of intelligence and instinct, made sharp by years of pursuit.

Zaros had told you that once, long ago, they were simple creatures, easily caught by nets or lines, docile enough to be fooled by glinting bait. But time and pressure had worked upon them the way water shapes stone—slowly, relentlessly, and with a quiet violence. Now, they were clever. Now, they resisted. Decades of being hunted had forced them to evolve into something nearly mythical: fish that could sense the tension in a line before it even tightened, that knew how to read shadow and scent and sound. Zaros spoke of them with a strange kind of reverence, as if they were no longer prey, but rivals.

You remembered raising an eyebrow at his story, folding your arms and scoffing. “They’re just fish,” you’d said flatly. “They swim, they eat, they die.”

Zaros had only smiled, one of those maddening, patient smiles he reserved for when he thought you were being particularly naïve. “So do we,” he’d said. “And yet, here we are.”

That had been yesterday. And now here you stood, gown bunched in one hand to keep the hem from trailing into the frigid shallows, the other gripping a long, polished spear that felt alien in your grasp. The wood was smooth from use, its weight uneven, the tip gleaming faintly in the morning light—too beautiful for a tool of killing.

The river was wide, its surface dark and rippling, disturbed only by the breeze that ghosted across it and the occasional flicker of movement beneath. You couldn’t see them—not really—but you could sense them, slipping like shadows through the reeds, darting just out of reach. It gave the unsettling impression that you were the one being watched.

You shifted your stance, knees half-bent, foot sinking slightly into the soft riverbed, and cast a glance toward the bank where Zaros stood watching, arms folded, face unreadable. He hadn’t offered to help you—not directly. He said this was something you had to feel, not be taught. Like balance. Or instinct. Or fear.

“Don’t hesitate,” he’d told you before you waded in. “They can smell doubt like blood.”

You weren’t sure if he meant the fish or something else entirely. With Zaros, it was difficult to separate metaphor from warning.

The cold pressed in on your legs, creeping up your calves like fingers of ice, making your muscles stiffen and your grip tighten. The water tugged gently at the edges of your gown, threatening to drag it down into the current, but you refused to release your hold. The spear in your hand trembled slightly—not from fear, you told yourself, but from the unfamiliar weight, the awkwardness of holding something designed for a task you were not trained to complete.

And yet, beneath the discomfort, beneath the quiet doubt curling at the edge of your mind, there was something else blooming. A kind of stillness. A strange, primal awareness. You were no longer just a figure standing in water. You were part of it—your breath syncing with the wind, your heartbeat echoing the rhythm of the current.

A flicker. A ripple. Then stillness again.

You drew in a slow breath, lowering the tip of the spear. This moment, you realized, was not about the fish. It was not even about the hunt. It was about you—your place in this world, in this life, in this quiet wilderness that asked nothing of you except your patience and your presence.

And perhaps Zaros was right. Perhaps it wasn’t just the fish that had grown smarter with time. Perhaps it was the act of pursuit itself that taught something to the pursuer. Something about silence. About tension. About the quiet defiance of standing in cold water, uncertain, but unmoving.

Your fingers tightened around the shaft of the spear.

You waited.

Though the moment you actually saw the damn thing—truly saw it, not just a ripple or a shadow but a real, living creature, scales glinting like tempered silver beneath the water’s surface, one large, wet, knowing eye blinking slowly up at you—you lost every ounce of composure you’d so carefully clung to.

A strangled, startled screech tore from your throat before you could stop it, primal and undignified, echoing off the water like some feral bird had just been struck mid-flight. Reflex took over—blind, panicked, graceless. You hurled the spear with all the coordination of someone who had never so much as sharpened a stick, let alone aimed a weapon. The force of your throw unbalanced you entirely. Your foot slipped on a slick patch of riverbed moss and the cold, cruel hand of gravity grabbed you by the waist. You flailed briefly, arms catching nothing but air and regret, before landing with a spectacular splash, flat on your back, water erupting around you in a great, undignified wave.

For a moment, the river swallowed you—gown heavy and dragging, hair splayed out like seaweed, limbs tangled awkwardly beneath the surface. Time fractured into silence. The cold kissed your skin in every direction.

And then—

Laughter.

Not yours.

Not kind.

Zaros.

You emerged gasping and sputtering, dragging yourself upright like a drowned cat, hair plastered to your face, the once-lovely folds of your gown now soaked and clinging, wrapping around your legs like wet vines. Your face burned—not just from the icy shock of the water, but from the unmistakable sound of him doubled over with amusement.

He stood on the bank, one hand pressed to his side, the other gripping the trunk of a willow as if he couldn’t support himself otherwise, his whole body shaking with barely contained mirth.

“Stars above, Earis,” he choked out between wheezing breaths, “did the fish wink at you or propose marriage? Gods, you reacted like it asked for your hand.”

You blinked water from your lashes, unamused. “You told me they were intelligent,” you snapped, trying to maintain what little dignity you had left as you waded closer to shore, “you never said they were sentient.”

Zaros wiped a tear from his eye and crouched at the river’s edge, clearly still enjoying himself far too much. “It blinked,” he said with mock gravity. “Imagine if it had spoken. Would you have fainted?”

You narrowed your eyes, pausing in the water. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands in faux surrender, but the smirk never left his face. “Come on, let’s get you out before you start growing gills.”

He reached for your hand. You stared at it. Considered it. And then, with all the vengeance your pride could muster, you lunged forward and grabbed his wrist—

—pulling with a sharp, well-timed twist.

Zaros stumbled forward with a shout of surprise, balance failing him as his boots skidded against the wet stone at the edge. There was a second of suspended time where his body twisted in the air, arms flailing in an almost graceful arc—then a great, glorious splash that drenched you both anew as he hit the water beside you.

He resurfaced with a gasp, hair slicked back, jaw slack in stunned betrayal.

“You absolute menace,” he coughed, blinking water from his lashes. “You drenched me!”

You simply smiled. “Leeches belong in water, no?”

And before you could retreat, a wave of cold river water smacked you in the side as he sent a mighty splash in your direction.

You shrieked in protest and retaliated, sending a tidal slap of water back at him, your movements wild and gleeful. What began as petty vengeance turned quickly into chaos—laughter, splashes, taunts thrown with the ease of old friendship. You danced in the river like children long removed from courtly titles or royal expectations, the world beyond the water fading to a hazy blur.

“Admit defeat” Zaros called between splash attacks, his teeth flashing in the sunlight.

“Never!” you shouted back, scooping another wave to send straight at his chest. “You’ll have to drown me!”

“I might!” he barked with a grin, “and I’ll tell the court it was a tragic fish-related accident!”

You laughed until your lungs ached and the cold didn’t matter anymore, soaked to the bone and surrounded by the sound of river and sky and joy.

And just for a moment, titles and duty disappeared, and all that remained was the thrill of the hunt, the warmth of a shared memory, and the unspoken truth that here—in the middle of nowhere, soaked and laughing—you were more alive than you’d been in weeks.

──

“Don’t be cheap, Earis.”

Zaros’s voice lilted across the open field with the audacity of someone who had never once known scarcity, his words coasting on the warm evening breeze. He didn’t even look up from his hand of cards, merely flicked one between his long fingers and let it land with a crisp snap against the worn leather mat laid out between you. His expression was the portrait of calm confidence—cool, composed, infuriatingly smug.

You rolled your eyes, but not without a touch of reluctant amusement. With a sigh of long-suffering drama, you began to slip the rings from your fingers—one by one. Gold, all of them. No trinkets. No meaningless baubles. Each one cast in weighty purity, some with stones set so finely they could’ve been mistaken for drops of captured sunlight or blood or midnight. They clinked gently together as you let them fall into the grass between you, landing among the soft tangle of wildflowers and moss with a kind of quiet finality.

Their glint felt almost sacrilegious here—luxury laid bare on the earth, nestled between tiny white blossoms that had never known coin or crown.

“Happy?” you said dryly, folding your now-bare hands in your lap. The sudden lightness on your fingers felt… odd. Vulnerable.

Zaros finally looked up, and there was something in his eyes—something soft, half-sigh, half-spark. “Ecstatic,” he replied, voice like velvet over a blade. But then, after a beat: “You’ve yet to ask what I’m wagering.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head. “That’s true. What will I win, should I take this round?”

Zaros’s smile curved slowly, the kind that made your skin tighten in both anticipation and warning. He reached forward—not for a card, but to pluck a small flower from the grass, twirling its stem between his fingers like it were part of the game.

“You’ll see, my dear Earis,” he murmured, not quite looking at you now. “Not all valuables are physical.”

You snorted. “How convenient for you.”

And the game began.

The cards were worn from travel and time, their backs faded to soft hues and the symbols nearly rubbed smooth in places. But that didn’t matter. You knew every card like an old lover—knew the way the King of Blades curled ever so slightly at one corner, the way the Chalice suit had bled red into the ivory with age. The game itself was old. One of strategy, half-luck and half-lie, favored by smugglers, aristocrats, and spies alike. You had learned it at Zaros’s insistence years ago, though he often claimed you had “too honest a face” to ever win consistently.

You dealt. You played. Each move between you was a veiled insult, a quiet dare. You raised with two Queens and a feigned flick of boredom. He matched with a blink too slow to be careless.

Your eyes stayed locked over the edge of your hands.

Time slipped.

The sun lowered, casting molten gold across Zaros’s cheekbones, sharpening the angles of his face and softening the sky into shades of dying lavender. The cicadas had started their song, and somewhere in the distance a stream whispered through the grass. The only real sounds between you were the shuffle of cards, the occasional mutter, and the barely-contained tension that crackled like static in the air.

You laid your hand down first. Three of a kind. Clean. Confident.

Zaros raised an eyebrow, tilted his head as if weighing something unsaid, and let his own cards fall in an elegant fan.

A full house.

Silence stretched between you. You could hear the faint wind tug at the branches above, feel the cool kiss of dusk begin to settle into your skin.

You swallowed. “Well.”

Zaros didn’t speak. Instead, he reached forward, slowly, with the same deliberate grace you’d seen him use when drawing a dagger or lacing a boot. His fingers swept your rings from the grass one by one, but he didn’t pocket them. Didn’t gloat. He gathered them carefully, then folded them into a cloth you hadn’t seen him carry in. Soft and dark—velvet, probably, because of course it would be.

Then he leaned forward again, slow and measured, as if the air between you had thickened into something sacred—something not to be disturbed. Close enough now that you could see the tiny flecks of amber in his eyes, like sunlit sap trapped in the grain of ancient wood, glimmering with a quiet fire. His gaze held yours without effort, and this time, it wasn’t smug. It wasn’t sharp with the edge of banter or cloaked in that usual veil of mockery.

It was something else entirely. Something deeper. Something unspoken.

“Tou-ché,” he murmured, the word lilting off his tongue with a velvet softness that caught in your chest like breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

The world paused—not for drama, not for theatrics, but for stillness. A rare kind. A moment that knew better than to announce itself.

Before you could form a thought, before your heart even had time to catch up with your mind, his hand moved—quiet and deliberate—and cupped the side of your face. His palm was cool from the breeze, but steady, grounding. There was something reverent in the way he held you, as though your skin were made of glass and he, for once, had no intention of breaking anything.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, no battle for dominance, no breathless frenzy like in the stories. It was slow. Confident. The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove itself. Like a secret the world had been keeping safe, waiting for you to be ready.

His lips were warm, the kind of warmth that seeps—not the heat of fire, but the glow of embers at dusk. Familiar, steady. The pressure was sure, but there was no urgency in it, only understanding. A silent confession. A question asked and answered all at once.

His thumb brushed over your cheekbone in a slow arc, as if memorizing the shape of you. Not in hunger, but in recognition.

And the world dimmed around the edges.

The fading sun dropped lower, turning the sky to soft violets and golds, casting long shadows that pooled like ink around the grass. You couldn’t hear the rustle of the wind anymore, or the distant hush of the trees swaying gently on the hillside. Even the birds seemed to quiet, as though nature itself had stepped back, allowing the moment its own cathedral.

No court.

No game.

No rules.

──

author's note: im sorry this was so short, i was low on ideas!

ps: yes, other request are being worked on as well, sorry for the wait!

psps: no i have NOT listened to the noble trials 💔

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

#zsakuva #sakuverse #zsakuva fandom #sakuverse zaros #zsakuva zaros #zaros x reader #zaros atha’lin #zaros x earis #the noble trials

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