Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Hi! I would like to request a Tewksbury x femâReader (romantic)! Reader is Enola Holmesâ sister
So basically, I was hoping for this to take place in Enola Holmes 2 in the theater fight scene. If you remember, Enola almost gets stabbed, but her corset protected her. So what if it was reader instead, and the corset didnât protect her? Reader does finish the fight like in the movie because sheâs just a girlboss like that and has that whole moment with Tewksbury after, but the stab wound finally takes its toll. Thatâs sort of just the base of the idea, you can do whatever you come up with after that! I sort of think of this as an angst + fluff? Thank you!
Just a Little Longer - V.T.
word count: 1.2k
requested: yes | no
requests: open | closed
request rules here
warnings: fem!reader, fluff to angst (but mostly angst bc i love to make myself miserable but in a cute poetic way), brief mentions of fighting, talk of blood, major injury, main character death, best friends to lovers/idiots in love, tragedy, holmes!reader, NOT PROOFREAD
a/n: i'm SOOOO sorry, ik it's been ages since you put in this ask, but my adhd slump was a pain in my ass. it has finally been forcibly lifted (by yours truly) bc i want to write again, and i found the start of this fic in my drafts and decided to finish it. i hope you're still active and able to read this, lovely anon! <3
remember to like, comment, and reblog to support my writing <3
Everything went by in a blur. You were fighting alongside Tewkesbury and Enola, dodging weapons and fists. The next thing you know, youâre on the floor, wind knocked out of you.
A loud crack rings out and you feel an intense pounding in your head, so you guess you must have hit it when you fell back. As you begin to stand, you feel a dull ache in your ribs. You look down to see the cause, and you thank the heavens that youâre wearing one of those god-awful corsets you've always hated so much. Shouldnât leave more than a nasty bruise.
You hear Tewksbury âwhoâs still fighting from across the roomâ call out your name to make sure youâre alright, but you donât have time to respond. Your sister reaches a hand out to help you up off the floor as she dodges a hit. A bit preoccupied in a fight of her own she misses the silver handle sticking out of your corset.
âAre you alright?â she screams over the chaos.
You stand firm on your feet, still staring down your opponent. âFine. Just a little fall, nothing I canât handle.â
Pulling the blade from your abdomen, you miss the red glint of blood as you resume the fight.
âââââââ
The battle is over, and the energy is high. You and Tewkesbury bounce off the walls blabbering on about the recent events, adrenaline running through you while Enola concludes the investigation with your brother, Sherlock.
âDid you see me! I got some really good ones in there. Think I got him in the nose!â
You laugh, breath like shard of glass in your lungs from the cold, "You were wonderful! Just like I showed you."
He beams at that, his cheeks glowing a warm pink, which he hopes could be chalked up to the biting chill outside, âYou didnât do so bad out there yourself.â
âNot bad?â you scoff, "You must have missed the look on that guyâs face when I threw him across the room!"
You both laugh softly, your breath visible in the winter air. You ignore the tight feeling in your lungs.
Suddenly youâre both hyper aware of the lack of space between you. Looking between his cold pink lips and his glassy doe eyes, you hold your breath as he begins to lean closer.
Just as you feel his intoxicating lips graze yours, your knees buckle beneath you. You try to steady yourself against Tewksbury, hand pressed against his chest, as he quickly grabs your waist to hold you up. He chuckles a bit as he tries to help you regain your footing, but immediately stops when notices that youâre practically limp in his hold.
âWhat's wrong? Talk to me.â
It feels like your chest is collapsing in on itself, and your head starts to spin. âOh- Iâm fine. Just cold.â Mostly reassuring yourself, nothing bad could happen right? You won after all. You beat them. Your family is safe and your best friend that you've been in love with for years is finally kissing you. Those are all good things. Really good things. So it's just the cold making you feel weak and breathless, right?
âIâm just really, really tired.â
Just as you begin to stand up straighter, sharp pain shoots through your stomach and your knees buckle again, causing Tewkesbury to almost fall over. He panics when he hears a gasp that sounds too much like youâre in pain.
âEnola! Somethingâs wrong!â
Enola and Sherlock stop their current debate and immediately notice your uncharacteristically frail state, rushing over to help Tewkesbury get you on the ground. They sit you down as quickly as possible without hurting you, your back to Tewksburyâs chest so he can keep you stable. His shaky hand tremble against your hips as he surveys your body for injuries. Enola kneels to be eye-level with you, âWhat's going on? Are you hurt?â
"No-" You nod your head, "I'm fine, I just-" you cut yourself short, unable to create a more convincing reply as a groan of pain rips through you. Thats when Enola notices a deep tear in your dress.
âHer corset. Take off her corset!â
Enola and Sherlock work to quickly remove the thick article of clothing, Tewksbury squeezing your hand reassuringly when you wince at the movement of him lifting your arms. Once the corset is successfully removed, a deep cut reveals itself, crimson red seeping through your under-dress.
"Oh my god-"
You look up, the concern in Tewkesburyâs voice making you nervous. âWhat is it? Is something wrong?â
Enola grabs your focus when she presses her hands against your wound.
"Oh..."
Sherlock frantically removes his coat to tie around you and try to stop the bleeding. âNothing's wrong. Nothing at all. Youâre going to be just fine.â He rambles out, trying to calm both you and himself.
In your hazy state you can't fully sense the anxiety all around you, or how serious your injury truly is. You only register one thing. Youâre going to be just fine. Your brother would never lie to you. Not ever.
Your breathing begins to slow as you relax, leaning your head back against Tewkesbury's shoulder. You begin to feel your own shoulder dampen. Looking over at the cause, you see Tewksburyâs face tacked with glistening streaks down his cheeks, staring at Enola and Sherlock frantically try to stop the bleeding as he helps where he can.
âTewks?â His eyes jump to yours, sniffling. âWhat's the matter? Why are you crying?â
Much to your dismay, that makes him cry harder. "Nothingâs the matter."
You reach a weak hand up to wipe tears from his cheek as more roll down in their place. âThen why are you crying?â
Thereâs a long pause, your siblingâs desperate shouting falling deaf on your ears as a faint ringing replaces it. "Iâm just so proud of you is all."
You smile at that, "I'm proud of you too, fighter." You tease. He chuckles weakly, not surprised that your wit is still intact even as you're bleeding out. Your eyes begin to feel heavy as you stare into his, eyelids fluttering open and closed.
âHey! Hey, keep your eyes open for me. Just a little bit longer.â He stammers, squeezing your hand to keep you awake. "We just need a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes, and then you can rest, alright?"
You groan in discomfort, feeling all of your energy go into the one simple task as your body begins to feel floaty and numb. âTired.â
âI know, I know. Just a little longer. I promise everything will be fine. I promise. Just please, donât close your eyes.â He sobs out desperately, interlacing his fingers with yours.
Enola and Sherlock keep trying everything in their power to stop the bleeding, sobbing and begging for anything to work. For you to be okay. You try your best to keep your eyes open for them, you really do, but itâs just too difficult. You can hear distant shouts of your name as you finally let the peaceful darkness consume you.
Hi! I would like to request a Tewksbury x femâReader (romantic)! Reader is Enola Holmesâ sister
So basically, I was hoping for this to take place in Enola Holmes 2 in the theater fight scene. If you remember, Enola almost gets stabbed, but her corset protected her. So what if it was reader instead, and the corset didnât protect her? Reader does finish the fight like in the movie because sheâs just a girlboss like that and has that whole moment with Tewksbury after, but the stab wound finally takes its toll. Thatâs sort of just the base of the idea, you can do whatever you come up with after that! I sort of think of this as an angst + fluff? Thank you!
Just a Little Longer - V.T.
word count: 1.2k
requested: yes | no
requests: open | closed
request rules here
warnings: fem!reader, fluff to angst (but mostly angst bc i love to make myself miserable but in a cute poetic way), brief mentions of fighting, talk of blood, major injury, main character death, best friends to lovers/idiots in love, tragedy, holmes!reader, NOT PROOFREAD
a/n: i'm SOOOO sorry, ik it's been ages since you put in this ask, but my adhd slump was a pain in my ass. it has finally been forcibly lifted (by yours truly) bc i want to write again, and i found the start of this fic in my drafts and decided to finish it. i hope you're still active and able to read this, lovely anon! <3
remember to like, comment, and reblog to support my writing <3
Everything went by in a blur. You were fighting alongside Tewkesbury and Enola, dodging weapons and fists. The next thing you know, youâre on the floor, wind knocked out of you.
A loud crack rings out and you feel an intense pounding in your head, so you guess you must have hit it when you fell back. As you begin to stand, you feel a dull ache in your ribs. You look down to see the cause, and you thank the heavens that youâre wearing one of those god-awful corsets you've always hated so much. Shouldnât leave more than a nasty bruise.
You hear Tewksbury âwhoâs still fighting from across the roomâ call out your name to make sure youâre alright, but you donât have time to respond. Your sister reaches a hand out to help you up off the floor as she dodges a hit. A bit preoccupied in a fight of her own she misses the silver handle sticking out of your corset.
âAre you alright?â she screams over the chaos.
You stand firm on your feet, still staring down your opponent. âFine. Just a little fall, nothing I canât handle.â
Pulling the blade from your abdomen, you miss the red glint of blood as you resume the fight.
âââââââ
The battle is over, and the energy is high. You and Tewkesbury bounce off the walls blabbering on about the recent events, adrenaline running through you while Enola concludes the investigation with your brother, Sherlock.
âDid you see me! I got some really good ones in there. Think I got him in the nose!â
You laugh, breath like shard of glass in your lungs from the cold, "You were wonderful! Just like I showed you."
He beams at that, his cheeks glowing a warm pink, which he hopes could be chalked up to the biting chill outside, âYou didnât do so bad out there yourself.â
âNot bad?â you scoff, "You must have missed the look on that guyâs face when I threw him across the room!"
You both laugh softly, your breath visible in the winter air. You ignore the tight feeling in your lungs.
Suddenly youâre both hyper aware of the lack of space between you. Looking between his cold pink lips and his glassy doe eyes, you hold your breath as he begins to lean closer.
Just as you feel his intoxicating lips graze yours, your knees buckle beneath you. You try to steady yourself against Tewksbury, hand pressed against his chest, as he quickly grabs your waist to hold you up. He chuckles a bit as he tries to help you regain your footing, but immediately stops when notices that youâre practically limp in his hold.
âWhat's wrong? Talk to me.â
It feels like your chest is collapsing in on itself, and your head starts to spin. âOh- Iâm fine. Just cold.â Mostly reassuring yourself, nothing bad could happen right? You won after all. You beat them. Your family is safe and your best friend that you've been in love with for years is finally kissing you. Those are all good things. Really good things. So it's just the cold making you feel weak and breathless, right?
âIâm just really, really tired.â
Just as you begin to stand up straighter, sharp pain shoots through your stomach and your knees buckle again, causing Tewkesbury to almost fall over. He panics when he hears a gasp that sounds too much like youâre in pain.
âEnola! Somethingâs wrong!â
Enola and Sherlock stop their current debate and immediately notice your uncharacteristically frail state, rushing over to help Tewkesbury get you on the ground. They sit you down as quickly as possible without hurting you, your back to Tewksburyâs chest so he can keep you stable. His shaky hand tremble against your hips as he surveys your body for injuries. Enola kneels to be eye-level with you, âWhat's going on? Are you hurt?â
"No-" You nod your head, "I'm fine, I just-" you cut yourself short, unable to create a more convincing reply as a groan of pain rips through you. Thats when Enola notices a deep tear in your dress.
âHer corset. Take off her corset!â
Enola and Sherlock work to quickly remove the thick article of clothing, Tewksbury squeezing your hand reassuringly when you wince at the movement of him lifting your arms. Once the corset is successfully removed, a deep cut reveals itself, crimson red seeping through your under-dress.
"Oh my god-"
You look up, the concern in Tewkesburyâs voice making you nervous. âWhat is it? Is something wrong?â
Enola grabs your focus when she presses her hands against your wound.
"Oh..."
Sherlock frantically removes his coat to tie around you and try to stop the bleeding. âNothing's wrong. Nothing at all. Youâre going to be just fine.â He rambles out, trying to calm both you and himself.
In your hazy state you can't fully sense the anxiety all around you, or how serious your injury truly is. You only register one thing. Youâre going to be just fine. Your brother would never lie to you. Not ever.
Your breathing begins to slow as you relax, leaning your head back against Tewkesbury's shoulder. You begin to feel your own shoulder dampen. Looking over at the cause, you see Tewksburyâs face tacked with glistening streaks down his cheeks, staring at Enola and Sherlock frantically try to stop the bleeding as he helps where he can.
âTewks?â His eyes jump to yours, sniffling. âWhat's the matter? Why are you crying?â
Much to your dismay, that makes him cry harder. "Nothingâs the matter."
You reach a weak hand up to wipe tears from his cheek as more roll down in their place. âThen why are you crying?â
Thereâs a long pause, your siblingâs desperate shouting falling deaf on your ears as a faint ringing replaces it. "Iâm just so proud of you is all."
You smile at that, "I'm proud of you too, fighter." You tease. He chuckles weakly, not surprised that your wit is still intact even as you're bleeding out. Your eyes begin to feel heavy as you stare into his, eyelids fluttering open and closed.
âHey! Hey, keep your eyes open for me. Just a little bit longer.â He stammers, squeezing your hand to keep you awake. "We just need a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes, and then you can rest, alright?"
You groan in discomfort, feeling all of your energy go into the one simple task as your body begins to feel floaty and numb. âTired.â
âI know, I know. Just a little longer. I promise everything will be fine. I promise. Just please, donât close your eyes.â He sobs out desperately, interlacing his fingers with yours.
Enola and Sherlock keep trying everything in their power to stop the bleeding, sobbing and begging for anything to work. For you to be okay. You try your best to keep your eyes open for them, you really do, but itâs just too difficult. You can hear distant shouts of your name as you finally let the peaceful darkness consume you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
F - fluff S - smut A - angst
⥠- series â - one shot â - imagines and drabbles
last updated - 19/05/2026
@astralee ââââââââââ
â hot weather | F.
@aurynsia ââââââââââ
â like father, like son | F.
‷ james discovers harry has inherited his lover boy geneâŠ
@berrieluv ââââââââââ
â james doesn't know | S.
‷ for remus and the rest of the marauders; james was untouchable. the boy has done too much for them to ever go against his wishes. and that was the reason why remus hanged out with james annoying girlfriend without a word.
@colouredbyd ââââââââââ
â about you | F.
‷ in a world where soulmates see color only when they meet, james potter has always lived in vivid hues without knowing why. the girl who once lit up his world in childhood vanished, leaving only fragments of memory behind. years later, when she returns, tangled memories and aching hearts reveal a truth heâs longed for â that everything has always been about you.
@daenysx ââââââââââ
â james potter x fem!reader | F. S.
‷ gym rat!james looks perfect when he works out and you're definitely turned on by watching him
@lucyrose191 ââââââââââ
â obsessed | F.
‷ itâs no secret that james potter is absolutely obsessed with his girlfriend and he couldnât be more in love.
@luveline ââââââââââ
â coworker!james x fem!reader | F.
‷ you close your eyes on a whim, and he kisses you soundly. his lips part against yours to encourage a similar movement, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side and your noses smudged together. âplease,â he murmurs against your lips.Â
@marauroon ââââââââââ
â the blueprint | F.
‷ you and james love each other loudly. even when thereâs nobody else around to see it.
@mischievousmoony ââââââââââ
â building blocks | F.
‷ your husband and son are equally obsessed with you, and james finds out what your little one does when he's not so nice to you
â crawl home to her | F. A.
‷ after one of the warâs bloodiest battles to date, james goes missing in action. but not even the brink of death will keep him from coming home to you
⥠side effects may include | F.
‷ after snagging veritaserum from slughornâs office, sirius is convinced he has concocted the perfect prank for his next victim, you. and what better way to start the day than revealing all your true feelings about your friends.Â
⥠sanctuary at the potters' | A. F.
‷ after your parents cross the line, you and your older brother sirius find sanctuary at the potters
â another round | F.
‷ reader finally feels comfortable getting drunk while going out with their group because she knows james is there to take care of her.
â boyfriend!james potter x fem!reader | F.
‷ ânot that iâm happy youâre sunburnt, but i am enjoying getting to be the one helping you put aloe vera on.â
â come in with the rain | A. F.
‷ you comfort your darling boyfriend after an overwhelming sight at your muggle grandparents' house.
â the manuscript | F.
‷ telling james you're pregnant again is scary.
@prettydaisygirl ââââââââââ
â boyfriend!james potter x fem!reader | A.
‷ james potter x fem!reader who disagree about peter
â boyfriend!james potter x fem!reader | A.
‷ james potter x fem!reader who thinks he's cheating
⥠streamer!james potter | S. F.
â period comfort
â meet cute
@reysdriver ââââââââââ
â a grandmaster of sorts | F.
‷ your husband james falls victim to harry's new obsession around the game rock, paper, scissors
â settle down | F. A.
‷ tension between you and james is on the rise as you reach the last couple weeks of your pregnancy, and insecurity starts getting the best of your husband
@soupandsimple ââââââââââ
â just the three of us | F.
‷ you and james console your little boy after harry leaves for hogwarts
@starksweasley ââââââââââ
â throwing books | F. A.
‷ in which both you and james have been too stressed and you finally break
â home is where you are | A. F.
â shut up mom | F.
â like father like son | F.
@wintrsoul ââââââââââ
â pickles and chocolates | F.
‷ in which james and harry teased the reader for her unusual cravings.
@yasministration ââââââââââ
â jealousy, jealousy | F.
‷ you kiss lucius to make james jealous since he was too slow at making a move...
â not drunk | F. S.
â think again | F. S.
‷ on your fifteenth anniversary, sirius and remus gift you and james a photo album that has you gasping in embarrassment in front of harry and closing it with a loud slam. despite that, and the warning on the front page that says 'harry, if youâre reading this, think again', your son can't help himself. he should have thought again. and again. and maybe perhaps just one more time.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Want to see all of my fics? Check out my links below for over 200 fics across Aaron Taylor-Johnson, Mathew Baynton, and Fred Hechinger fandoms (and more) đ
AO3: Otaku_girl |Â Fics only blog: @otaku_girl_fics | ATJ: Aaron Taylor Johnson masterlist | Main: Otaku-girl-ao3 masterlist
Key: |â slash |đ het | đ« multi |âš gender neutral | đ none | đ authorâs favourite | đ„° most popular | Smut đ„ |
Requests: open | open | closed
If it's an ATJ character, I'll consider it~ Just drop an ask to my main: @otaku-girl-ao3 I have a backlog at the moment so I may be slow to respond đ«¶
Please be aware that the majority of my ATJ fics are 18+ as many contain explicit smut. Please keep an eye out for the đ„ emoji, as these fics are explicit. Thank you.
Bullet Train
đWant to see all of my Bullet Train fics? Check out my Bullet Train Master list for over 40 Bullet Train ficsđ
All rights reserved. Do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. No part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. Transformative works (e.g. podfics, fanart) are welcome. I do not consent to any of my work being used or input into any AI related software or websites including AI roleplay sites.
You've had to make loads of hard decisions in your life, ranging from which shade of green to shade the bushes in your kindergarten colouring book, to which friend group to roll with in high school, to which Uni to join. But nothing was harder than the decision before you.
"I think that..."
"Choose wisely, your sobriety's dependent on this, darling.", teases the man you know only as Tangerine â which he's swearing is his real name â before gesturing at the shot glass.
"I think that... you having to have your thumb sewn back on and having been to France are the truths, and meeting the Queen is the lie?"
He raises a brow, as though daring you to reconsider. "Sure?"
"Yeah."
He waggles both his thumbs. "All natural."
"Fuck!", you exclaim, accepting the shot glass he so reverently holds up before downing the liquor in it. "You've met the Queen?!"
"Yeah, sort of. Had to go on a mission for her once. Almost got knighted, then they heard my accent was Cockney, and, well, y'know. The monarchy."
"Mm, right. Because you're a deadly assassin."
"Yes, we established that in Round 1. You seemed alarmingly neutral to that information.", he states, cracking his knuckles. "Your turn."
You laugh, half because of the tipsiness from all the shots you've taken because you've been comically unable to accurately guess which of his statements were true and which were lies over the past half an hour, and half because of the sheer absurdity of the fact that you were still here.
You don't think men are actually capable of leaving a woman who's alone at the bar... alone at the bar. They have to come and ruin her night, her peace of mind, or both, simultaneously. You'd thought Tangerine was no different, and initially, he hadn't been. He'd still come to sit by you, still ordered his drink and added "and one for the pretty lady next to me". But his first words to you were not his name, his proclamation of interest, a "so where are you from?", or even a "what's someone like you doing alone tonight?", no it was something else. Something that hooked you and kept you there.
"Ever played Two Truths and a Lie?"
And hence, here you are, pondering on what statements you haven't already used, while observing him pouring out the shot he's supposed to take if he fails to guess it accurately. "Okay. One : I've seen the Northern and Southern lights, Two : I sleep with a knife under my pillow, and Three : I once dated a B-List celebrity."
His smirk grows, though you're not sure what the look in his eyes means. "I knew you looked familiar. That one actor that was only famous because he used to date that singer, yeah? You dated him right after that, yeah?"
"You saw the pictures?", you groan, covering your face in your hair.
He chuckles, reaching over to part the hair that's covering your face and tucking it behind your ear before tilting his head. "There she is. And yes, the tabloids are social media for assassins. So that's one debunked."
You shake your head.
"And didn't you say, a few drinks ago, that you've never seen Aurora Australis? So, that's two. So, the knife-thing's the lie. See? I decode people for a living, darling, soâ"
Suddenly, your face brightens. "I've actually seen both. I knew I'd use the Lights in an upcoming Round and have your guard down."
He laughs, like a good sport, before downing his shot, closing his eyes so hard you could see the veins of his eyelid before opening them again. "Fuck. Shot through me like a vendetta."
You grin, shrugging.
"So you sleep with a knife under your pillow."
You nod.
"Any reason, or did you just come out of the womb armed?"
You shrug. "I dunno, I guess someone taught it to me growing up and I just continued it."
He cocks his head at that. "Right. Who?"
Another shrug. "Can't remember."
"Ever, or because of the alc?"
"Probably both. Haven't thought about it, though."
The dim glow of the single, wonky bulb above you is severely overshadowed by the alternating blue and purple strobe fluorescents lined around the walls of the bar, flickering weakly. But they both do a perfectly fine job of highlighting whatever that look is in his eyes that you can't tell. Oh, no. Is this the part where you get abducted?
"What's your real name?", you find yourself asking, instead of getting the fuck out.
He pops a piece of bubblegum into his mouth â lord knows where he got that â before grinning. "Guess."
"I'm not doing that."
"What if I told you you know it? It's just deep inside that pretty little head, ya know?", he taunts, sliding over to sit right by you instead of across from you.
"So you lied to me."
"I did, yeah. Does that upset you? Have you led a life of morality and virtue since â", he cuts himself off, huffing before he wraps an arm around your shoulder. "Since birth?"
"No. Just thought you'd give up the whole Tangerine-schtick much sooner."
He narrows his eyes at you before shaking his head for what must be the thousandth time tonight. "That's my name. Don't wear it out.", he whispers, nosing at your hair. "You alright to get home?"
"I don't want to."
"I know you don't, but you're gonna have to. Remember? I said I'm here for a mission?", he asks, squeezing your shoulder in some sort of familiar pattern you'd expect from someone you've known for half your life, not half an hour.
"What sort of mission is here in these ends of London? No one of worth to murder."
"Who said anything about murder?"
And then, he pinches your chin to bring you closer to him. And then he kisses you. And then he grins. And then, he tells the bartender to get you home â you don't know this, but it's so that he doesn't get the urge to show up at your address and kiss you again. And then, you're back in your own bed, somehow. With a wicked migraine and half your lipstick on.
That startling, heart-stopping, adrenaline-inducing slam.
Any hangover you may have had evaporates in the face of it.
You live alone. Have for quite a while. No pets. Your rational mind attempts to explain it. Not explain it away, because you're already groping in the dark for the knife you keep under your pillow â something an old friend had taught you that stuck with you â and gripping onto the handle because it did mean the difference between life and death.
But it does try to explain it. Burglars. Demons. A stalker â this neighbourhood has no shortage of creeps. Maybe your druggie ex owed some dealer money and had given your address as his own. Or you as collateral. Your best case scenario? A stalker. Who was in love with you. Who you could talk down. Your mind's last-ditch attempt at explanation, the most timid, most tame, most calming, but least plausible? A stray, rabid dog had got into the rickety elevator of your four story apartment complex and had made it up here somehow.
God, none of this mattered, did it?
Who cares what the sound was â the point is that there was one, and you're currently in some sort of danger. Be it robbery or rabies. It's doing your head in, actually, your mind's incapacity to come up with something other than useless theories for the sort of danger you're in, instead of activating your fucking fight-or-flight so that you could combat it! Though, you suppose that's just part-and-parcel of living in such a shite neighbourhood. You're conditioned. Desensitized. Used to it.
You're also wise about such matters.
Because the moment the slam doesn't repeat itself, and isn't followed by some sort of aggressive clatter or clash, you immediately rule out the stray dog, as well as the drug dealer who might want to destroy everything out of rage.
This leaves someone with purpose. Intent.
And you're powerless against that, truly. So you suck it up. You do the smart thing and hide in your closet, stuffing a cloth into your mouth to muffle any loud breathing you might have, and tightening your grasp of the knife's handle â though the nerves are making your palms sweaty.
Whoever this is, they know their way around your house, or at least how to not disrupt anything during an abduction. You wouldn't be surprised if they're walking with sponged-up shoes to cover tracks as well as minimize sound.
You can't hear much anymore. There's a faint creak of opening drawers, but an immediate, subsequent closing of them, even in the living room, where you've kept jewellery â stupidly, in retrospect â meaning it's not a robber. So you're left with stalker.
And you'd expect a lovesick psycho to call out for his Juliet's name, so you conclude that it's just a psycho. Brilliant. Just your luck. It's morbidly hilarious, actually. You battle a chortle of sheer doom.
But no. Now, your best shot is to keep biting on that cloth â no, actually, it's suffocating you and making your breaths louder. You gently spit it out. You cover your mouth with both hands, and you've done a pretty decent job at stifling your breathing, actually. So now, you wait.
Wait for this person's perusal of your personal belongings out in the living room, after which, you hear them pick up one of your wine glasses â well, your best mate's, which you suppose you won't get the chance to return â in your kitchen, before you hear no object-related sounds. Meaning that this person's stopped exploring. The footsteps get closer and you realize you actually never meant it anytime you'd said "I'm gonna kill myself" during a minor inconvenience. You actually love life. Sunshine, birds, dogs, ice-cream, you love it, really. You'd give anything to live anotherâ fuck.
The door to your bedroom groans, almost, as the person opens it. Fuck. Okay. You fight the urge to go all guerilla, and catch this person by surprise, stabbing them repeatedly while screaming something cathartic, like : "Not today, arsehole!"
But then you realize you're an idiot for that, because the person sits down on your bed, facing the closet you've concealed yourself in, and you realize they're ten steps ahead of you, and your breathing is actually probably Darth-Vader-esque right now.
"You comin' out, or would you like the whole you-see-my-perfectly-polished-shoes-through-the-slits-in-the-door bit with a touch of sense-of-impending-doom on the side?"
It's the casualness of that sentence that gets you. It's also the voice. The person â a man, you've gathered, and a familiar one at that â seems a bit bored with all this, like this is his average Tuesday, it's two minutes to clocking-out, and you're a new pile of paperwork that's just been dropped on his desk.
"Oh, my bad, apologies, miss, would you like a countdown, as well? To reflect said impendin' doom?"
Okay, for someone who was about to commit a crime and most likely not get away with it, seeing as you did have people who'd notice your absence, he was getting a bit too cheeky for your liking.
"Alright. I'll bite. Three."
You don't know what'll be worse â you slowly creaking the door open, knees tucked to your chest, with a disappointing knife clutched in your hand, or him coming in, towering over you in your pitiful state.
"Two."
No, seriously, you're not sure what you're going to do.
You nearly jump, because a phone rings. Not yours.
"One... one second. What, mate? I'mâ yeah, I'm sort of in the middle of it. No, I don't need backup. Just a bird, and she's terrified, mate. Trust me, I'll handle it."
That pissed you off. Alright, so you were scared, but you had a knife in your hand, and you'd been alert enough to not chalk it up to an accidental sound, so what in the world did he mean by 'no I don't need backup'?! He might very well! "Just a bird" was also very patronizing, you reckon.
You're not stupid enough to yell that out, though.
"Alright, where were we? Two? No. One."
Okay, fuck. You stand up â shoot up, rather â and place your fingers on the door, pushing gently at it to open it.
"Ah. Well. Hello, there."
"What do you want?"
"Are you Arlene Harkin?"
"What?"
"Says here this flat's owned by someone called Arlene Harkin. That you?", he questions, pointing a finger down at his phone as though you could read it from all the way over there.
You shake your head. "That's my landlady."
"That a knife?", he asks, squinting at the reflection of moonlight off the blade. "You armed yourself with a knife? What, had a late night snack or summat, did ya?"
No, you always sleep with a knife under your pillow in case arseholes like him come 'round trying to kill your sweet old landlady. 'Course, you're not about to tell him that. Assassin. That's all he can be. He has a list, with her personal details in it. Someone had once told you they had a mission here, as well, but it's very foggy in the wake of all the adrenaline pumping furiously through your system.
He tilts his head, and though it's dark and you can only trace out features with the sparse amount of moonlight shed on his face, you can already tell he's simultaneously a serious man and the opposite of it, all because of his eyes. "Not the chatty type, are you, love?", he asks. "Yeah, just as well. Mind if I turn on the lights? Wanna see what a not-Arlene-Harkin looks like."
He takes your lack of response as agreement.
The lights buzz on, painting the room a yellowish white, and you're forced to flinch. Through your squint, you can sort of make out this guy. Familiar. But you chalk it up to your body trying to downplay the threat by making him look nice enough that you can ignore the palpable threat you're in. He's tall, quite tall, though that's the entry-requirement for being an assassin, you suppose. He's also... really well dressed. Overconfident. Overcompensating, you feel like. You get it, truly. If you were a super successful assassin, you'd be dressed like that all the time, too.
But what you don't get is why he's looking at you like that. Like you've just told him he's got his mother's eyes, or been beamed up by a passing U.F.O, or summat as surprising, because that's exactly what his expression looks like. His lips are parted, and he also gulps quite a bit, like some sort of Tom and Jerry character.
He shakes out of it pretty quick, though, to his credit.
"Where's your landlady?"
"She's in the States. Visiting her grandkids."
He nods, eyes dancing around the room like some things just made sense. "She tell you that?"
You nod. The fuck was his issue, accussing a sweet old lady of lying like that? "I helped her book the tickets."
He snorts, his fingers disappearing and reappearing as they comb through his hair. "Figures. Look, love, I'll give it to ya plain and simple because that's just who I am, yeah? I'm honest, like. So... the bint's been offed."
"English, please." You remember once speaking to someone with this thick Cockney accent. You used to be better at decoding it, but the adrenaline's still shrouding your comprehension skills.
He rolls his eyes as if you'd inconvenienced him. "She's been killed. Offed. Bumped off. Taken off the census. Oh, don'tâ", he huffs, crossing his arms across his chest as he sees you cover one hand over your mouth, and your eyes widen. Were you actually grieving for the cunt?
"It'sâ love, it's actually very good, the world's better off for it."
"Shut up!" You almost start at him with the knife, but then you realize he's still an assassin. He could be straight up lying to get you vulnerable, to catch you by surprise.
"Okay, sorry, grieving tenant, my mistake. But sheâ"
"Why are you here, then?! If you know she's dead?"
"Ah, smart girl.", he states, beaming with pride as he nods to you. "I came for her. But the whole spiel about 'the States' she fed you is bullshite. She went to Copenhagen. That's in Denmark, by the way!", he adds, dimpled grin emerging before he realizes you're not really in the mood for a geography lesson right now. "And she got offed."
"How do you know that?"
He decides it's not really in his own best interest to tell you he offed her. Well, his brother, but he watched.
"I tried her apartment first, y'know? The one above you? Please, miss, I'm a gentleman. I tried it, but she wasn't there. I didn't know she was dead until you told me the whole 'States' thing. You spent your own money on those tickets, did ya?"
"Wellâ"
"Oh, I almost feel sorry for you, sweetheart.", he muses, his hand on his chest, rings glistening in the gold of your bedroom light. "No bother. You're the next target, though."
Oh, fuck, you'd nearly forgotten who this character was! An assassin.
Your hand shoots out, holding the knife in front of you as you back away, into the closet.
"Whâ not mine! Jesus, are you dumb? I'm not about to have a nice chat with someone I'm meant to off!"
"So you're here to protect me?"
He chortles, looking down at his phone as it rings before silencing it. "No."
"But you're not here to kill me."
"I'm not paid to, no."
"So who is?"
"Same people that sent granny to the big guy."
"Why?"
"You know, you're a little mouthy. Loads of questions. I mean, I get it, I'd have questions, too, but... just... shh! For a tiny bit, alright?"
"No! No, I will not 'shh'! I want to know who's after me!"
"It's not personal, y'know? They're just tyin' up loose ends, like."
"What?"
"Her real name was not Arlene Harkin, she was an assassin in hiding because she fucked up a mission in Copenhagen decades ago, and her superiors have been trying to get her killed for it. Sheâ excuse me.", he stopped abruptly, holding a ringed finger up before answering his phone. "Lemon, I swear on my life, I will fuckin' end you. What? No, no, it's the tenant. Yeah. Nah. Young, imagine my surprise. Just tellin' her about Portia. Mhm. No, she's grieving the cunt, can you imagâ"
"Hey!"
"Listen, she was a bitch, love, puttin' it plain and clear! She probably hated your guts, or wanted them strewn on her wall!", he chuckles, shaking his head before turning his attention back to his phone. "Yeah, not chatty, but mouthy. What you studyin', love? Uni?"
You nod, unsurely. Why was this traumatizing interaction, that's got your bones like jelly and your heart racing like it's about to explode, a simple gossip session for this bloke?
"Yeah, Uni. No. No. No fuckin' way, are you mental? She won't wannaâ fuck. Love, would you want to come with us to Paris, to a safehouse or summat? No, right? You'd rather stay here and wallow in your pathetic dingy Uni life, like that bunny from Zootopia with the one carrot."
But your mind clung onto that word. Safe-house. Safe. Which is what you needed to be right fucking now. Plus, he's been really oddly polite with you, so far. Not so much the badmouthing the probably still-warm corpse of who used to be your old landlady, but to you, he's been quite nice, actually. Explained shite like he would to a five year old. He didn't care, of course, but at the very least... he minded? That, at this point's enough for you.
"Yeah, I'll come."
The bloke's mouth gapes open. "You mental?", he mouths.
"I have nowhere to go after this!"
He ends the call, crossing his arms across his chest one more. "You're the same. The exact same. Fuckin'... ruinin' everything!", he groans, running his hands across his face. You assume he means the same as Arlene Harkin â Portia, apparently â but you're not sure.
"Well, you've really gone and done it now, haven't ya?"
"What?"
He shakes his head, flexing his knuckles in front of him. "Go get packed. Essentials only."
"So... toothbrush?"
"You think they don't have toothbrushes in France? I'm talking about the big three. Phone or laptop, wallet, keys. Unless you've got half a mil' lyin' about that might be useful."
You nod, grabbing the "big three", plus your charger and passport.
"This is insane, this is insane, this is insane.", you mutter under your breath.
"That was clever, by the way. The knife under your pillow â I assume that's where it was â thing. Who taught you that?"
You shrug. "Dunno."
He bites his lip for a moment, some indiscernible emotion passing through his eyes, a shooting star, really, before he claps his hands together. "Chop-chop."
It's all bludgeoning you in the face now, striking you in the gut, and searing through your heart. That's where you know this bloke from! Tangerine â not his real name, and you remember that now â had been one of many kids to get 'adopted' by the Hench Man. A sort of urban legend, at least in the orphanage, he'd come by every other Tuesday and pick up one child â one at a time, only â and leave. At first, neither you nor Tangerine had wanted to go with him. He wasn't called 'Hench' for no reason, he was scary! But soon, he'd started bringing presents, as well, for some of the kids he was looking to adopt â you later learned that the proper term for what he was doing was recruiting â which included Tangerine. Actually, only him, which you supposed was because he was the smartest boy there.
The two of you had spent ages trying to figure it out.
"What d'you suppose it is?", he'd asked you once, in the dead of night, out in the main hall with a crackling static TV providing the only source of illumination. "What am I going to do with a bloody Beyblade with no one else to play it with?"
"It doesn't look like a Beyblade. They've only got the same shape, but it seems different."
He'd scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Girls. Fine. What do you suppose it is, then, smarty-pants?"
"I think it's a weapon. Just need to figure out how to unlock it."
You'd been right. It had been a weapon, and after a few minutes of groping around for some sort of button or switch, he'd managed to get it to open, blades in a perfectly hexagonal shape and all. "Am I a superhero now?", he'd gushed, unable to take his eyes off of it.
"No, I think this means the Hench Man is a superhero and you're his new sidekick!"
He'd gasped at that, turning to you. "You think?"
You'd nodded eagerly. "That means all the kids he's adopted so far are living in his cool superhero mansion!"
"A penthouse, maybe?!"
God, you'd been so naive, the both of you. This explained a lot, actually. The Hench Man was not a bloody superhero, but was in fact recruiting him for some sort of real-life version of the Red Room or something. He was the new Black Widow. Of course, you hadn't known that, and neither had he before he'd gone and promptly pointed you out to the Hench Man. "Can she come too? I might need a sidekick, as well."
He'd laughed. "You don't need a sidekick, and I don't need her. C'mon."
And Tangerine had been dragged out before he could even process it.
He'd met Lemon, and nearly forgotten all about you until this new friend had told him about his past, triggering Tangerine to word vomit all about you, his best friend back at the orphanage. He got taken the mick out of for calling a girl his best friend, but whatever.
Flash forward to now, he wishes Lemon could ask him about his past again, just to see how much he actually remembers, and how much he's repressed.
"Bloody bulging bollocks.", he grits out, glaring at the prick staring back at him in the mirror before wrangling himself out of his tie. He loves pretty much everything about himself. He's sophisticated, knows how to dress, and is pretty good at reading through people like they're glass, he reckons. So why the fuck did he feel like he was about to bloody spew?
It's you.
It is you. He'd thought it was a trick of the light, or some uncanny coincidence that the world thought would be hilarious to present before him, but no, it is you.
Knock-knock-thud.
"Hello?"
Ugh. Fuck, great, phenomenal. It's you. Honestly speaking, you should be back in England, sitting in your dingy little flat, wondering whether the peelers would believe you if you said an almost illegally dashing man in a deeply sexy waistcoat had come in, not killed you, and told you your landlady was an assassin who was also assassinated. Not here in Provence with him and his brother, crashing their well-earned month off. Well-fucking earned. He likes plans. He likes schedules. Itineraries are his turn-on. And it had been simple. Track Portia down in Copenhagen, kill her, come to London to tie up loose ends. Erase any traces of her bar the paper-lad (he was only twelve, seemed a bit extra). But no, here you were. Also fucking up his scream-into-his-reflection-time.
"Occupied."
"Sorry, it's urgent."
"Menses?"
"No."
He rolls his eyes. "Then sorry. Can't help you there."
"Please?"
He clenches his jaw, getting the door open. "You don't look like your bladder's about to explode.", he comments, letting you shoulder past him into the bathroom. He leans against the wall, arms crossed across his chest as he waits for you. You'd better be doing a pregnancy test or summat in there, the way you said 'urgent' like it was a matter of life or death.
It's been 10 hours. 600 minutes, that is, since you've left London, flown to Paris, and then driven from Paris to Provence. And you haven't asked him one thing about Oak's Orphanage. He thought you might've, but no. You'd just sat there, both on the plane and in the car, clicking away on the stupid laptop you've deemed 'essential', figuring out borderline useless things like, where to go from here, or how you'll complete your degree or who's hunting you. Like, come on. Have some priorities, mate, seriously.
But honestly, it's also a bit of his fault. He'd been a right prick to you on the plane, and now he was assuming you would just ask him 'hey, mate, been a long time since we saw each other, how come you got recruited and I didn't, and is your favourite colour still blue?'
He sighs. He'll have to do this the hard way, then.
You finish up in the bathroom, wiping your hands on the napkin before unlocking the door, slowing palpably in your movement out of the bathroom when you see him near the door. He can also tell you've done fuck-all in there, by the weird timing between hearing the tap go and the pretend-flush you pull is very infuriating, because he's the master of pretense-flushes for the purpose of dramatic mirror-moments. How dare you. You're still as audacious as he remembers from Oak's. "Did you not need to go anymore?"
Then you notice where his fingers are. Not the doorknob, but the door lock. Fuck.
"Who taught you the knife thing?" His voice is a meadow on a summer's day a second before a storm hits. Seemingly calm.
"What?"
"The knife thing. Who taught you the kniâ come back here."
Your plan to slowly back into the bathroom again was a bust, then. You close the door, lingering on the threshold of the door.
He rolls his eyes, fixing you with his glare. "Who taught you the knife thing?"
"I don't know."
A small smile, almost pitiful, but too sinister to imply care. "Who?"
"I told you, I don't know."
He throws up his hands suddenly, startling you. "Now, why would you lie to me?"
"I'm not. I don't know."
He's a gentleman, the gentlest of men, but this quality is finite, like his patience. The two are very inextricably correlated, actually, so he grabs your wrist, twisting only slightly so that you didn't attempt to run, his other hand pulling his gun out. "Who?"
He won't lie and say it wasn't satisfying watching your eyes widen and all the determination to preserve the truth drain right out of them.
"You!"
A wider smile than before, but sardonic this time.
"Right. So you remember. So what the fuck are you playin' at, love?", he growls, jaw clenched. "Why'd you pretend you didn't?"
"I was scared!"
"What d'you mean you were 'scared'?"
You don't respond in favour of trying to catch your terrified breath, so he presses the gun to your throat. "Oi."
"Iâ it's all happened so quick, I don't know what's going on!"
"You said you wanted to come. Was it just because we said 'safe'- house?"
You nod, eyes furrowing upwards in sheer fright. "Right. Now we're gettin' somewhere. Elaborate on that, please. How are those two things related?"
"You're an assassin now, I didn't want to look like I knew you, or your real identity, in case you'd... y'know?! Tie up your own loose ends."
Ugh. Fuck. Now, he just feels like a prick. "Fine. But we're dropping you off at the Aix-en-Provence tomorrow, giving you a specific train ticket that you're to follow to the T, with the name of a contact where you'll be placed, then we don't know each other."
Uh, what? No, no! This wasn't what was promised, you need to be in a safe house! "What? I don't understâ"
"Off you pop."
"Does he know? Your... your brother?"
What.
The door slowly squeaks open, and his head sticks out. "Come again?"
"The one who offered? Is he okay with this dumping and abandoning of me?"
"Sorry, so you're saying â and correct me if I'm wrong here, love â that you'll snitch on me to my brother? God, you haven't changed, have you?"
You back away, but not down, which he still finds wonderful about you.
"You don't really think he cares? He was bored when he offered, darling, that's about it." Lie. Lemon had this habit of taking pity on a certain demographic of civilians : Uni students. Summat about that being such a ripe, hopeful age. He just reckons it has to do with Lemon not being able to complete his education â or get one, for that matter ; always wanted to go to Uni. Can't relate. He's never thought Uni made any sense. He learns well enough by living in the real world, away from textbooks and the like.
"He seemed to care."
"Don't fall for it, sweetheart. Deadly assassins, me and him. He's worse, I'd say. I just give it to ya straight. He'll smile before he shoots ya point-blank in the eyes."
He almost feels bad for how terrified you look but hey. Had to be done.
"Look.", he sighs, rubbing at his temple. "My brother's... better at the whole nice-cop thing. I just sort of say what's on my mind."
Is this an apology, or just a declaration?
"I can tell."
"Can you? Wonder how, seein' as you've barely spoken to him, and I've treated you with nothing but Prince Charming type kindness, minus that little gun thing I pulled.", he scoffs, raising a brow as though expecting an answer.
"Uhâ"
"Rhetorical. Off you fuckin' pop, snitch."
He watches you scramble back to your seat on the chair of the living room â temporarily christened yours â before shaking his head. Civilians. It's good, he thinks, that you remember him. Saves him a lot of yearning for lost time and clawing at his own insides waiting for the glint of recognition in your eyes. It's even better, he thinks, that you understand not to mention the fact that you know him to Lemon. It's... oddly mature. Very responsible of you. He's glad. You're reasonable. He hadn't expected it. He splashes more water on his face, but this time, it's joyfully. Because the plan's still on. Provence, ah! Lemon will go indulge in the little organic farming hyperfixation he's developed since their Jutland job, and Tangerine can learn how to become a produce-mogul and make even more money. And plus, he can also do nothing. Right up his alley it is, lounging about.
But yeah. From the orphanage to the bar to the flat, you've been a stunning little thorn to his side, a complication that he keeps trying to forget every time he encounters you, but you're always popping back up, making him suddenly believe in higher powers and pray that it isn't you.
But it is you. Because he can't ever forget you. I mean, that's giving him a bit too much credit. He has forgotten you, but not really. You may not come up into his conscious thoughts much, but you're there, he knows that for sure. He's the one who taught you the blasted knife thing. But he was eleven and you were nine and he loved you â in the way only an eleven year old could â and you'd forgotten and he hadn't.
So he was playing around with your feelings a bit, making you believe that you knowing his real identity and name was some unspeakable fact that would bring everything crashing down, that you hold immeasurable amounts of power with that information, when the most it would do would be mildly annoying, seeing as Lemon would just start taking the mick out of him for harping on about you, like he had back when they'd been eleven at the Hench Man's institute. But it's good that you think you've got at least a metaphorical weapon in your arsenal.
But Lemon's just got no reason to pretend it's not you, if he finds out. No guilt.
But there's guilt for Tangerine, because he'd seen you, once, after the orphanage that had intertwined your fates inextricably. Eighteen, he'd been. And the Hench Man had remembered you. And had told him to shoot you dead, for his final task.
He did shoot you. Rather, he shot at you. He was better at punches and direct strikes with weapons than guns, honestly. And from way up there in his sniper-post, you seemed so small. So unattainable, shooting-wise. "I'm not close enough.", he'd muttered. Your head was what he needed to aim at.
"You are. Others have shot more alert targets from farther away. Shoot."
And so he had. Again. He'd shot at you, and done nothing more than incite panic amongst the people in the street where you and some of your friends had been standing.
"Rule Number One. Recite it to me.", yelled the Hench Man, shoving him over and aiming at a moving car, one that he'd heard was housing some diplomat or summat, he didn't know, before gently pulling the trigger.
Tangerine had stuttered, but got it out. "Never be noticed."
"Never be fucking noticed!", said the Hench Man, slapping Tangerine straight across the cheek. "Never falter like that again. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Come down for cleanup."
Ironically, he'd never quite felt clean since then.
The fork clinks against the ceramic of your plate and you flinch at how loud it is.
"How's the food?", asks Lemon.
You nod, a clipped smile on your face before it fades, looking back down at your food.
He narrows his eyes, before leaning over to his brother. "Thought you said she was mouthy."
"The promise of mortality does that to you.", he replies.
"So, what's the plan? Provence, with us?", tries Lemon.
You shake your head. "I don't know who's hunting me, so."
"You? Who'd be hunting you?"
"The people who killed Mrs. Harkâ Portia."
Lemon snorts, a sort of funny look on his face as he takes a sip of his wine. "We're the people who killed Portia."
Your eyes widen, and you look to Tangerine, who simply shrugs. "Thought you'd have pieced that together by now."
"So no one's hunting me?"
"No, the people who hired us to tie up all loose ends probably are. And finding you here with us in the cabin we were provided to check in to after killing you is just bad business, innit?"
"Wait, soâ"
"We're not killin' ya, darling.", clarifies Tangerine. He's failed before and he doesn't think he'll succeed this time around, either, even without the Hench Man breathing down his neck. "Just relocating."
"What, to a hotel?", asks Lemon, stabbing at his steak once more. "Wouldn't booking her a hotel in Paris while we sit in our comfy, very safe house in Provence beat the whole purpose of bringing her to France?"
"Yeah!", you say.
"Don't remember asking you. Shut up.", warns Tangerine, pointing his fork at you. "Listen, I was sayingâ"
"Is it the Hench Man? Is he the one hunting me?"
Oh, you were getting on his fucking tits. Lemon's fork nearly clatters onto the plate. The Hench Man. "You know the bird?!"
"You fuckin' snitch!", he hisses, cracking his knuckles to pretend like he was about to charge at you.
"I'm sorry, but I need to be somewhere safe!"
"I wasn't gonna kick you to the streets, you twat! I was getting you safe!"
"What's safer than the safehouse where two wanted assassins are?!"
"We're not wanted!"
"SHUT UP, both of you! How the fuck do you know each other?"
"Oak's. Yeah, from before I was recruited."
A spark behind Lemon's eyes, one that Tangerine wants to muffle immediately. "Before you met me. The girl-best-mate."
He nods. "Still suspicious of her, though, now."
Lemon raises a brow, tilting his head at him. A sort of 'should I be as well?'. Tangerine offers him a tiny shrug. Lemon turns back to you.
"Tell you what. Britain's too dangerous for you, and it's too late for us to turn back, anyway. We'll drive you back to Paris, then you're free to go, if you don't feel safe with us."
No! Fuck, sometimes, he forgets that his brother's not just an extension of himself, and they don't share the same mind.`
"Fuck you mean she's free to go?! No, she's bloody not! She's seen what we look like, heard Portia's name as well as her alias, mate, c'monâ"
"You are not thinking clearly, because of ulterior motives, alright?"
"What ulterior motives?"
Lemon's an idiot if he thinks you didn't catch that subtle head nod toward you. He scoffs, hushing Tangerine up. "Well, what's your million-dollar plan, then?!"
"The escape plan we installed in case Portia somehow didn't kick the bucket, or there was summat above our pay-grade in the flat that would lead to the psychopath who's employed us killing us?"
Lemon's mouth opens and closes in a little 'ah' motion.
"Remember that plan? Figured she can use it until we get the all-clear from the cash-cow that has so graciously donated this little cabin to us! Jesus, no one fucking let's me talk, huh?!", exclaims Tangerine, emphasizing with a slam of his fist down onto the table. For extra flair.
"Yeah, that plan's good."
"Will the contact be staying with me?"
They both snort in synchronicity, before going back to their respective meals. It's Tangerine who looks up first. "You were serious?"
You nod.
"No. No one's gonna be there with ya. We've just upgraded you from pathetic London flat life to pathetic Paris flat life."
"What if your boss isn't satisfied with the work you've done?", you ask. Honestly, you'd take your afternoon class where you feel like it's taking the power of all the Gods to ever be spoken about to keep you awake rather than this.
"Oh, yeah, then we won't have an escape plan.", states Tangerine, setting his fork down in realization. Lemon snaps his fingers, nodding, muttering a 'right' every two seconds.
"I was talking about me!"
"Well, then, you're fucked, love, but we're thinking about us for a moment, if you don't mind!"
Ugh. Maybe a month without these two â especially Tangerine, the prick â wouldn't be so bad.
It's been an entire week. That's 168 hours. 10080 minutes, that is, since you'd reached Paris after boarding the TGV and meeting their escape plan contact. And you haven't called back. Haven't asked him one thing about Oak's Orphanage. He thought you might've, but no. And, honestly, fair. The last person you'd want to visit you is him. He'd got you into this mess, and was just adding more and more dirt and mud to make it into an even bigger mess.
He's an idiot.
And yet, he knocks.
He knocks on your door like his life depends on it, even though it's more like your life depends on it.
When he sees your face through the slit in that split second before you unlock the safety chain, he almost yells at you to keep it closed. He almost pulls out his gun and shoots you. He almost scrambles away and hides like a kid doing ding-dong-ditch. But these are all almosts. Because what he actually does isâ
"Oak's Orphanage."
Phenomenal. He just spits it out.
"I'm sorry?"
He shakes his head, mumbling under his breath as he shoulders past you into your hotel room, a refreshing refuge from the harsh Parisian summer outside. "Oak's Orphanage. I taught you the knife thing? We were best mates till I got transferred? Ring a bell? It's you. It's me."
You nod, pouring yourself out a glass of juice from the minifridge. This buggering apartment was unfortunately still a step up from your place back at London. Eurgh. "Yeah?"
"Why don't you care?", he groans, nearly a whine, as he runs his hands through his hair exactly one moment before snatching the glass of juice from you. "You Parisians. No hospitality."
"What am I supposed to do, reminisce?", you scoff, pouring one for yourself.
"Fine. Be like that. The Bullet Bar? Two truths and one lie?"
You freeze, your hand pausing mid-air with the juice carton teetering dangerously above the glass. "That was you?"
"Yeah, wanna come find out? My lips are ready for Round 2.", he teases, dodging the carton flying at him at how-many-ever-kilometres-per-hour, the orange liquid spilling out in some sort of cathartic, slow-motion still from a film. "There she is.", he repeats, in almost the same softness he'd used at the bar, but now in an entirely different context.
"You fuck off!"
The glass darts across the room now â bit more dangerous, but still enthralling to him â and he full-on laughs, like the fucking insane person he is. "What now?"
"You left me!"
"I was eleven!"
"I was nine!"
"And a half!"
"You can shove that 'half ' up yourâ"
"Darling, darling, are you just mad you didn't get your little Rapunzel ending? What with that handsome bloke with the satchel? What was his name?"
You scoff. The fucking nerve. "You think you're Flynn Rider?"
"Yeah, dashing, daring, gets the girl.", he laughs, watching you rifle through drawers for summat to throw at him. "Counts money on an enormous island that he owns."
"Yeah, gets the girl drunk, then snogs her!", you scream, throwing a spoon at him. Last-ditch attempt, but he's had worse. And A for effort, honestly.
"Gets the girl to snog him back and follow his instruction about weapons under pillows!", he retorts, arms crossed as he leans against the kitchen counter, right opposite you, still pent up and rage-brimming. Oh, he'll snog this anger off if you'd let him.
"You know what?"
"Ooh, please, tell me.", he says, crossing one leg over the other while he stands.
"You are like Flynn Rider."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm. You're still a pathetic little orphan child under all of that gaudy jewellery and clothing, who got such an insane blow from reality that you created an entirely new one that you're living in, where you're not a depraved arsehole who kills for money and snogs drunk birds in bars and are instead a hard-working man like the rest of us, simply with 'good style', or whatever you tell yourself.", you spit, because you can't find a fork to poke into that smug little eye of his.
You'd hoped for a little shift in his exterior. You know. A little microexpression. Maybe a little fading of his smirk. Maybe his eyes moving away from yours for a fleeting moment. But he just laughed. "Feel better picking apart a bloody children's film for your own personal vendetta?"
"Sod off.", you grit out, but his fingers are on your wrist, yanking you to him.
"You get it all out of your system?"
"Fuck off, mate, I'm not joking."
And, of course, what logical next-step existed but snogging you like you'd never hurt him, like he'd never uprooted your entire life and brought you to the city of love with nothing but the Big Three, as he called it?
"I was the one who shot up Camden Town that day.", he murmurs against your lips, pulling you in for more and more, because whatever venom and wrath your tongue was about to spew out at him, he'd rather feel it directly from the source.
He's not sure if you're kissing back or not, but it doesn't seem like you're actively thrashing around trying to get away from his grasp, and it pretty much feels the same way as it did at The Bullet, sans l'alcool. So you have to be into it on some level.
"You fucking what?", you hiss, and he decides that's a good time to pull back and stop testing the waters. He'd incite a tsunami. "Were you trying to kill me?!"
And, yeah, he should've shut up, because wow. Look at that. You're back to flinging things at him left and right and he's not sure how long he can go without being able to kiss you to make up for lost time again.
"Alrâ hey! HEY! That's enâ", he splutters, dodging utensils, books, and even the cordless phone, left and right.
"You kill my landlady!", you yell, followed by a spork just barely missing his throat. "You offer to take me to a safehouse then change your mind once you realize you know me!", you continue, and he has to narrowly avoid a bunch of pens, this time. "Then you snog me like I'm your unreasonable wife you'll need to shut up, while telling me you tried to murder me years ago!" There's your laptop charger, that he catches mid-air. "What else? Were you the one that got my graduation cancelled?"
"Uh, no, that'd be COVID."
You scream, throwing a â thankfully plastic â plate at him, which he once again, catches. "When else have you seen me? Hm?! How many times have our paths crossed and I didn't know it!?"
This is a question he's actually willing to answer.
But in his own way.
"Well." He smiles, dimples and warmth, as he sets the plate down, patting the couch next to him for you. "Ever played two truths and a lie?"
Words I long to Say | Tangerine x Reader | 3k | Bullet Train | T | Series Update
AO3: Otaku_girl |Â Fics only blog: @otaku_girl_fics | ATJ: Aaron Taylor Johnson masterlist | Main: Otaku-girl-ao3 masterlist
Words I long to say
Fandom: Bullet Train (2022)
Pairings: Tangerine x Reader
Rating: T
Summary: In the aftermath of your latest session, you share a soft moment with Tangerine, and learn a little bit more about the stories told across his skin.
Can be read as a standalone fic, or part of my Call me (Yours) Tangerine x Mistress!Reader series.
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
âThis one is new.â
Tanâs breath hitches as your fingers brush against the pink-tinged expanse of skin.
It isnât until your final hour together that you mention it. Tangerine lies sprawled on the hotel room bed, the warm glow of streetlights and distant hotels, office blocks, and landmarks invading your little pocket of silence and calm. In here, the city feels distant â contained safely behind glass and easily forgotten.Â
You spotted it almost as soon as he began to strip, each later of his suit removing another layer of his defences in a near tangible way that never fails to make your stomach clench. A wisp of worry passes in your chest at the way that his tension begins to ease. He should see you more often. Or if not you, another professional â someone who can give him what he needs more frequently than he is getting it.
Once you are sure that it will not affect his movement too much, that it will not cause the wrong kind of pain, you spare the new tattoo no more than brief looks and glancing touches until he is spent and soft, his sharp edges and etched-deep lines gone in lieu of hazy blue and loose-limbs.Â
You donât allow yourself to have favourite clients â or so you keep telling yourself â but if you did, Tan would be an easy winner. There is something so satisfying about seeing the tension ease from his limbs the longer he is with you, as if weeks upon weeks of stress and strain are finally being given an outlet. As if he is the one finally being given permission to let go.Â
Just what exactly is it that you do, Tan, that leaves you tied up in knots like this?
âââ ââ ââ â âââ
Read the full fic (and series) on AO3.
Like what you read? Consider leaving a kudos or a comment on AO3, or liking & reblogging really helps đđđ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Summary: A High Lordâs mate becomes pregnant, and their supernatural hounds sense it first, becoming fiercely protective. Their bond deepens through pregnancy, the birth of their daughter Anastasia, and future pregnancies they instinctively detect before anyone else.
The nausea, the strange cravings, the way you can't seem to get through a morning without needing to sit down and breathe through a wave of dizzinessâall of it feels inconvenient, but not alarming. Not enough to sound the alarm. Not enough to pull Eris into concern.
You've lived in the Autumn Court long enough to know what real sickness feels like here, and this isn't that. There's no fever burning through your skin, no sharp pain warning you something is wrong. Just a quiet imbalance, like your body has shifted slightly out of sync with you and refuses to settle back into place.
Eris notices the changes before you ever name them, of course he does, but even he doesn't speak on it at first. He watches instead. Watches the way you pick at fruit in the middle of the night like your appetite can't decide what it wants.
Watches how you push away breakfast only to return to it minutes later, as if your body is negotiating with itself. Watches you fall asleep sitting upright in the library and wakes you later with a blanket already placed over your shoulders. He doesn't ask questions. Not yet. He simply observes, quiet and unreadable, as if gathering information only he can interpret.
It is only when the hounds change that everything begins to shift.
They were always his firstâthat was never in question. Massive, flame-eyed creatures of Autumn Court magic and ancient loyalty, they tolerated you at best, respected you when they chose to, but they belonged to Eris. Or so everyone thought. Until suddenly, they don't behave that way anymore.
It begins subtly. One of them lowers itself across your feet while you sit in the garden, as if deciding you are no longer something to be observed from a distance. Then another begins following you through the halls without waiting for Eris's command.
Then all of them start doing it. By the third day, you cannot move through the estate without at least one shadow at your side, pressed close enough that it feels like they are anchoring you to the world itself.
And then the growling starts.
Not at you. Never at you. At everyone else.
Servants who pass too quickly. Guards who linger too long. Courtiers who glance at you with polite curiosity. Even Eris, when he approaches you in the hallway one afternoon, is met with a wall of teeth and warning growls.
You freeze at the sudden shift, one hand instinctively resting against your stomach as another wave of nausea rolls through you. "They've never done that before," you whisper, unable to tear your eyes from them.
Eris stops so abruptly it feels like the air itself tightens around him. His gaze flicks between you and the hounds, something unreadable tightening in his expressionânot anger, not fear, but something more unsettling. Calculation mixed with uncertainty. "That's enough," he says firmly.
The hounds do not move.
He tries again, softer this time, more controlled. "Move."
They shiftâbut not away. Closer to you. Protective in a way that feels almost instinctual, as though something older than obedience has taken over. As though you are no longer simply part of their court, but something they have claimed to guard.
Your fingers curl slightly at your side. "Eris... what is happening?"
He does not answer immediately. His attention remains locked on the hounds like he is seeing them for the first time in a way he does not understand. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual. "That is what I intend to find out."
That night, neither of you sleep properly.
You sit on the edge of the bed, exhaustion weighing heavily on your body, while Eris paces slowly near the window, his movements controlled but restless. The silence between you is thick with thoughts neither of you is willing to voice yet.
"They are responding to you," he says at last, breaking the quiet.
You frown slightly. "That doesn't make sense. They barely tolerate me most days."
Eris shakes his head once, correcting you without hesitation. "They do not tolerate you. They assess. They choose." He pauses, then adds more carefully, "And now they have chosen differently."
The words make your chest tighten for reasons you cannot quite place. You rub at your arms as another wave of nausea rolls through you. "Chosen me for what? I'm not injured. I'm notâ"
You stop mid-sentence. Something about the thought that tries to form feels wrong, too large to say aloud.
Eris notices immediately. "What?"
You shake your head quickly. "No. It's ridiculous."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Say it."
You hesitate, then admit it reluctantly, as if speaking it might make it real. "It's just... they're acting like I'm fragile. Like something is wrong with me."
The word hangs in the air between you.
Wrong.
Eris stills completely.
For the first time, there is something like hesitation in himâsomething uncertain and uncharacteristically careful. His gaze shifts over you in a way that feels different now, more searching than assessing. "...Have you been sick?"
"No," you answer immediately.
"Fever?"
"No."
"Pain?"
You pause. "No pain. Just nausea. Tiredness. Cravings that don't make sense."
The silence that follows is heavy. Outside the room, one of the hounds lets out a low, uneasy sound, as if even they are waiting for something to be named.
Eris exhales slowly, controlled, but his gaze drops brieflyâjust brieflyâto your middle before lifting again. Then away. Like he is refusing to assume anything too quickly. Or too hopeful.
"They have never reacted like this before," he says quietly. "Not for illness."
Your stomach tightens in a different way now. "You think I'm sick."
"I think something has changed," he corrects carefully.
Another pause.
Then, almost reluctantly, he adds, "And I think they know before we do."
After that, sleep becomes impossible.
By morning, nothing has changed. The hounds remain exactly where they wereâone pressed against your side, another curled at your feet, all of them positioned like silent guardians watching the world beyond the door.
Eris stands across from you in the early light, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in a way that feels heavier than usual.
"I'm going to bring a healer," he says.
You nod slowly. "Good."
But neither of you moves.
Because neither of you truly believes this is simple. And for the first time in a long time within the Autumn Court, Eris looks like a man standing on the edge of knowing something that will change everythingâand not knowing whether he is ready for it.
â â â â â
The week doesn't ease into anything normal. If anything, it gets worse.
The hounds stop leaving your side entirely, as if some silent agreement has been made without your consent or understanding. Wherever you go, they follow. When you sit down, they settle around you immediatelyâheavy bodies curling against your legs, pressing into your sides, their warmth grounding you in a way that feels almost intentional.
And one of them, without fail, always lowers itself carefully across your stomach, as though that specific place has become the most important thing in the entire world.
At night, the distinction between where you end and they begin disappears completely. They follow you to bed like quiet, watchful shadows given shape and weight. When you finally lie down, exhaustion settling into your bones in a way you still can't explain, they arrange themselves with unsettling precision.
One presses against your back, another settles at your feet, and alwaysâalwaysâone curls protectively against your middle, guarding you with a vigilance that feels older than instinct itself.
Eris tries to act normal about it.
He doesn't succeed.
Not really.
You catch him watching them more often than he watches you, his gaze narrowing slightly as if he is trying to decipher a language only they understandâsomething tied to bloodline and magic and ancient loyalties that predate even him. There's tension in the way he observes them now, quiet and controlled, like a man standing before a puzzle he doesn't like not having already solved.
When the healer is finally summoned, the estate shifts into controlled chaos. The moment the doors open, however, everything changes.
The hounds lose their composure entirely.
Not in aggression toward you. Never toward you. But toward everyone else.
They descend the staircase landing as one, planting themselves in a living barricade of fur, muscle, and ancient magic. Their eyes flash, their growls low and unyielding, every line of their bodies communicating the same message: nothing passes.
It takes Eris nearly two hours to break through it.
Two hours of steady commands, sharp authority, and finally something colder in his voice that makes even the hounds hesitate for the first time.
The air in the estate feels thick with resistance until, eventually, they give groundânot obediently, not willingly, but enough to allow passage. They do not retreat far. They simply... allow.
The healer arrives pale and slightly shaken, as if he already senses he has stepped into something far more complicated than a routine examination.
Eris does not leave your side after that. He locks the doors behind the healer and remains standing close, his presence firm and grounding while the questions begin.
You answer them absently, your mind still weighed down by fatigue and the strange fog that has been following you for weeks, unable to focus on anything that feels sharp enough to hold onto.
Then the question comes.
"When was your last cycle?"
Silence settles instantly.
You blink once. Then again.
"I... don't remember," you admit quietly, uncertainty threading through your voice.
Beside you, Eris goes completely still.
The healer exhales slowly, his expression shifting into something careful and resigned, as though he has already begun narrowing down possibilities he would rather not name aloud. "I will need to perform a pregnancy examination."
Your head snaps up sharply at the words.
Eris reacts at the exact same moment.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves or speaks. The room feels suspended in place, like even the air is waiting for permission to continue.
Then Eris reaches for your hand immediately, his grip steady and grounding without hesitation. He leans down and presses a slow, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his voice soft when he speaks. "I'll be right here."
The examination is quick, clinical, and quiet in a way that makes every passing second feel stretched and heavy. You barely register it until it is over.
When the healer straightens, everything in the room seems to shift at once.
He looks at you. Then at Eris.
A small, careful smile appears.
"Congratulations, High Lord and Lady," he says gently. "You have an heir."
The words do not land immediately. For a moment, they hang in the air without meaning, as though your mind refuses to accept their shape.
Then they settle.
At the same time.
Your breath catches. Your lips part slightly. Beside you, Eris goes utterly still, his expression frozen in a way you have never seen before.
Silence stretches between you bothâheavy, stunned, disbelieving.
The healer bows quickly and retreats without another word, clearly recognizing he is no longer needed in the room.
The door closes softly behind him.
And suddenly, it is only the two of you.
Your hands begin to shake before you even notice. The realization breaks through you slowly, unevenly, and then all at once, spilling over in tears you cannot hold back.
"I don't..." Your voice cracks as you try to breathe through it. "I don't know if I should be happy or sad."
Eris's expression softens instantly.
He is at your side in an instant, both hands cupping your face gently, grounding you in place as if afraid you might slip away from him in the weight of the moment. "What is there to be sad about?" he asks quietly.
A shaky, broken laugh escapes you, turning into something heavier as tears continue to fall. "We've never talked about this. About any of it. About children. About what it would mean."
His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, wiping away a tear before it falls further. "And?" he murmurs.
You swallow hard. "And now it's real."
Eris exhales slowly, something like relief and certainty finally settling in his expression. He presses another kiss to your forehead, slower this time, deeperâlike an anchor. "Do you not want this?"
Your breath catches immediately.
"No," you say quickly, then pause, your voice softening. "No, I do. I've... always dreamed of it. I justâEris, we never spoke about it."
A faint, quiet smile touches his mouth.
"I want this," he says simply. "I want you. I want us. Everything elseâ" His gaze softens further. "âis yours to decide."
Something in your chest finally loosens.
You let out a trembling breath and pull him closer.
"We're having a baby," you whisper.
"Yes," he answers softly.
You kiss him thenâimperfect, emotional, overwhelmed in a way neither of you tries to hide. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment, steadying you both in the aftermath of everything that has just shifted.
And thenâ
The sound of pounding paws erupts outside the door.
It bursts open before either of you can react.
The hounds flood in all at once, filling the room with movement and noise and overwhelming loyalty. One barrels straight into Eris, knocking him backward onto the bed with an undignified grunt as he curses under his breath, trying to push the massive creature off while it licks his face as if celebrating victory.
You laugh through your tears, watching him struggle for a moment before your attention shifts.
Smokey enters more slowly.
He always does.
The oldest, the quietest, the one who observes more than he acts. He does not rush or jostle or demand attention. He simply walks to you with steady certainty, as if he has already decided what matters most.
Gently, he lowers his head and presses his nose to your stomach.
Then stays there.
Completely still.
Guarding.
Your breath catches softly, and your hand instinctively comes to rest on his head, fingers threading gently through his fur.
Around you, the other hounds settle in as well, filling the room like a living circle finally at ease.
Eris pushes himself upright slightly, still partially pinned under one of them, and looks between you and Smokey with an expression you rarely see from himâsoft, stunned, and almost disbelievingly fond.
"They knew," he murmurs quietly.
You wipe your face with the back of your hand, letting out a small laugh through the lingering tears. "Apparently before we did."
Smokey huffs softly against your stomach in response, and this time your laugh comes easierâlighter, real.
And for the first time since everything began to change...
it doesn't feel like uncertainty anymore.
Only the beginning of something neither of you are facing alone.
â â â â â
The months that follow do not soften the Autumn Court so much as reshape it around you. The estate itself seems to adjust its rhythms, as though it has learned a new center of gravity and decided, without question, that it is you. The hounds become constant shadows of devotion, no longer simply loyal to Eris but to the life you carry.
Wherever you walk, they walk. Wherever you sit, they settle. Wherever you sleep, they form a living circle around youâalways one pressed carefully against your growing bump, as though they have decided long before anyone else that nothing in the world will reach you without first passing through them.
Eris is not much different.
Only quieter about it.
More controlled, more precise in the way his protectiveness manifests. If someone lingers too long in the hallway and glances at you with anything other than respect, his stare cuts across the room like a blade being drawn.
If someone smiles at youâpolitely, harmlessly, even courteouslyâhis hand is already at your lower back, his presence shifting in a way that makes the entire room subtly realign itself.
And if anyone so much as looks at your stomach with anything less than reverence, a low, dangerous sound rolls from his chest before words are even necessary.
You begin to sigh at him more often than you'd like to admit.
Especially in court.
"Eris," you murmur one afternoon, catching his wrist just as he begins to turn toward yet another unfortunate noble who had simply existed too close to you. "They are not threats."
His gaze snaps to you immediately.
"They are too close," he replies without hesitation, as if that alone justifies everything.
A slow blink. "You are terrifying them."
"Good," he says flatly.
That earns him a look, one he feels immediately. His jaw tightens for a moment, like he is actively restraining something instinctive and older than reason.
After a beat, he exhales and lowers his handâbut even then, it does not truly leave you. It settles instead against your stomach, warm and steady, possessive in a way that has long since stopped being something he tries to hide.
It has become habit now.
Even his quiet moments betray him.
You wake some mornings to the sound of his voice against your skin, low and calm, as if he is speaking to a sovereign rather than an unborn child. His hand rests there as though it belongs, as though it has always belonged.
"You are giving your mother a difficult time," he murmurs once, tone almost conversational.
Later, as the evening settles and the court grows quieter, you hear him again.
"Be kind to her," he says softly. "She is already stronger than you."
You always pretend you don't hear it.
You always do.
The hounds, unsurprisingly, agree with him on every front. There is no debate, no division in their loyalty. They move with you as if you are the only truth worth acknowledging, forming a protective presence that makes your life feel both safer and significantly more crowded. It is an existence defined by watchfulnessâsoft in its devotion, overwhelming in its intensity.
Until the day everything shifts again.
The day the screams begin.
Labor does not arrive gently or with warning. It crashes into the estate like a breaking storm, sudden and absolute. The carefully maintained order dissolves in momentsâhealers rushing through corridors, servants calling for one another, doors opening and slamming as if the entire household has been thrown into motion at once.
Somewhere in the middle of it, Eris is already there, as if he has always been there, waiting for this exact moment.
But even he is not prepared for what comes next.
Not for the sound of you.
The first cry you release tears something loose inside him that he does not allow himself to show. The second changes the air entirely, his composure fracturing at the edges as raw instinct surges forwardâmagic tightening, temperature dropping, the room itself reacting to the violence of his control slipping. It is not rage at you, never at you, but at anything in existence that could bring you harm.
The healers feel it before they understand it.
Even the hounds outside fall silent.
You see him then, through the haze of pain and breathless focusâEris standing too still, too rigid, his expression sharpened into something dangerous and unfiltered.
"Eris," you manage through it, reaching for him despite everything.
He is at your side instantly, taking your hand as though it is the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His grip is firm, grounding, deliberate.
"I'm here," he says, though it sounds less like comfort and more like a vow spoken into existence itself.
Time becomes fractured after that.
There is movement. Blood. Voices. Instructions you barely register. The world narrows to sensation and breath and his hand refusing to let go of yours. At one point, his voice cuts through everythingâlow, lethal, directed at a healer with a calm that is far more terrifying than shouting.
"If she suffers unnecessarily, I will end you."
And then, immediately after, softerâonly for you.
"I'm here. I'm here. I'm here."
Eventually, everything stops.
The noise fades.
The chaos stills.
And thenâ
A cry.
Small. Sharp. Alive.
The entire world seems to pause around it.
Eris moves first.
Always Eris.
When they place the baby in his arms, he looks momentarily as though he has forgotten how to exist. She is so small it seems impossible that she could fill so much space, her face red, her expression furious in the way only newborns can manage. And then, just like that, she stops crying.
The moment her tiny hand curls around his finger.
Silence falls in a way that feels sacred.
Eris does not move.
"...Hello," he whispers.
Nothing more.
Just that.
And something in his expression shiftsâsomething that looks like relief so deep it borders on reverence.
He holds her as if she might break, though she does not. She only grips him tighter, as if she recognizes him in a way words cannot explain.
Then, carefully, he brings her to you.
Your hands shake as you take her, the weight of her both fragile and absolute. The moment she is in your arms, something inside you finally releases, as though your body has been holding its breath for months without realizing it.
She is warm.
Real.
Here.
Tears spill freely as you look down at her face for the first time without distance between you.
"Oh my beautiful Anastasia," you whisper.
Eris stills behind you at the name, just for a heartbeat, as if hearing it aloud makes something inside him lock into place. Then his expression softens in a way few have ever seenâunguarded, overwhelmed, real.
He reaches forward and gently wipes your tears away with his thumb, careful as if you are the one who has just been brought into the world instead of her.
You had chosen the name together long before this moment, but saying it now makes it final in a way neither of you could have prepared for.
Anastasia.
Your daughter.
Your everything.
You lean back slightly, exhaustion settling into your bones in a way that no longer feels like breaking, but like completion. Turning your face toward Eris, you find him already there, bending instantly as if he has been waiting for you to look at him.
His kiss is soft. Unhurried. Full of everything neither of you are able to put into words.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for a moment, steadying you both.
You whisper it before you can second-guess yourself.
"Everything is perfect."
Eris looks at you, then at the child in your arms, then back at you again.
For once, there is no war behind his eyes. No calculation. No distance.
Only certainty.
He nods once.
"Yes," he says quietly. "It is."
â â â â â
After Anastasia is born, the estate changes againâbut this time, it doesn't feel like tension or fear settling into the walls. It feels like something gentler has taken root, something that softens even the sharp edges of the Autumn Court without ever weakening them.
The atmosphere becomes quieter in a way that is not empty, but full. Watchful, yesâbut no longer tense. Like the entire court has learned a new rhythm and decided, unanimously, to follow it.
The hounds adore her.
It begins immediately, without hesitation or adjustment period. The moment she is old enough to be placed on a blanket instead of constantly held, they are there. Always there.
They approach her as if she is something delicate and sacred, made of sunlight and fragile glass, and every movement around her is measured with unnerving care.
One of them curls behind her like a living wall, unmoving and steadfast. Another settles at her feet so she can kick at their fur freely without consequence, without restriction, as though her smallest movements are worth more than anything else in the world.
Smokey becomes her favorite almost instantly.
It is never spoken, but it is obvious in the way he allows her to grab his ears without flinching, lets her tug his tail with clumsy hands that still haven't learned gentleness, and simply lies beneath her when she falls asleep, half draped over his side as though he is nothing more than the softest, safest place she could possibly choose.
And he never moves. Not once. Not even when she shifts in her sleep or presses her face into his fur with complete trust.
Eris watches all of it like a man trying very hard not to acknowledge what it is doing to him.
The first time he sees Anastasia gigglingâbright, unrestrained laughterâas one of the younger hounds deliberately rolls onto its back so she can "win" whatever game she has invented, his jaw tightens instinctively. It is immediate, protective, ingrained.
"They're too close," he mutters under his breath.
You don't even look up from where you are carefully brushing your daughter's hair, fingers moving slowly through soft strands. "They're protecting her."
His eyes flick toward you. "They could hurt her."
That finally makes you pause. You glance at him properly now, expression flat in a way that has stopped him from arguing with you many times before.
"They could also level half the Court if they wanted to," you say evenly. "They're choosing not to. That's the point."
A low sound escapes himâfrustration more than disagreement, something caught between instinct and reason. It sounds almost like a growl, but softer, controlled. Like he is arguing with something inside himself rather than with you.
Still, he doesn't intervene.
Not really.
He just steps closer. Always closer. As if proximity alone is enough to satisfy whatever instinct refuses to fully settle.
And when Anastasia eventually reaches for him with sticky hands and a grin full of missing teeth, something in him shifts so completely it is almost impossible to miss. The hesitation disappears. The tension falls away. He picks her up like she is the most valuable thing in existence.
Because to him, she is.
As she grows, nothing about that devotion changes.
The hounds age alongside her but never drift away, never lose their vigilance. They follow her through the gardens like silent guardians carved from shadow and flame.
They nap outside her room as if sleep itself is something to be shared in shifts. They escort her through the halls with a calm, unspoken authority, guiding her wherever she goes as though it is the most natural duty in the world to keep her safe.
And Erisâdespite every warning, every instinctive concern he cannot seem to fully silenceâeventually stops trying to resist it.
He simply watches.
Always watching.
Years later, one evening, you notice it before he does.
The change is subtle at first. Smokey, who rarely leaves your side unless called, suddenly refuses to move away from you at all. Another hound quietly positions itself in the doorway when you try to step through it, not aggressive, but firm. Certain. And then you realize what is happening.
They are circling you again.
Not Anastasia.
You.
Your steps slow, one hand instinctively lowering to rest against your stomach without thought, without decision. The motion is quietâbut Eris sees it at the exact same moment you do.
Silence falls between you instantly.
It is not heavy with fear this time. It is heavy with recognition.
"...Again," you whisper, almost disbelieving.
It is not a question.
The hounds press closer immediately, their movements subtle but absolute. Protective in the same way they were beforeâonly now there is history behind it. Memory. Certainty.
Eris steps in behind you, his presence immediately grounding, one hand sliding over yours where it rests against your stomach. His touch is steady, familiar, his thumb brushing slowly as if confirming something he already knows without needing to be told.
"They're doing it again," he says quietly.
You glance up at him. "So we are not imagining this?"
A faint, knowing curve touches his mouthânot quite a smile, but something softer. Something that understands more than it says.
"No," he replies simply. "We are not."
There is a pause, brief but full of everything neither of you say out loud.
Then his voice softens further, almost fond now as he looks toward the hounds surrounding you both.
"They protect who they love," he murmurs.
His gaze lingers on them for a moment longer before returning to you.
"They love our children," he adds quietly.
A breath leaves you, half laugh, half disbelief, as you shake your head slightly. "Of course they do."
Eris hums under his breath, low and steady, and leans down to press a brief kiss to your temple. It is gentle, groundingâless reassurance now, and more acceptance. As if this, too, is simply part of the life you have built.
And just like before, and just like every time before that, you are not the first to know.
Falling Leaves - Eris Vanserra x Reader (Chapter 1)
Summary: Youâre no Lady Death, nor are you a seer, nor are you the High Lady of the Night Court. While the Cauldron had blessed your sisters with powers beyond your comprehension, it had left you a fat load of nothing. Your ears are pointed now, and your periods are killer, but thatâs about it. Frustrated at your lack of talents and struggling to fit in amongst the Night Courtâs specialized Inner Circle, you start to wonder if Velaris will ever feel like home. After an unfortunate incident during which Rhysand lets slip that he thinks youâre just as useless as you believe yourself to be, he tries making amends by inviting you on official Night Court business. It means a trip to the Autumn Court, but youâre refused from the meeting room by the cruel Lord Beron. He tasks his eldest son Eris with babysitting you, and an unfortunately timed mating bond snap leaves you drifting between worlds like a falling leaf caught in an autumn breeze.
Contents/Warnings: autumn court typical angst, mating bonds, insecurities, self-deprecation, eris is actually not in this chapter yet but you need the night court prologue </33, adding as i post
WC: 2.8K / navigation / inbox
A/N: i've been cooking this one up since last fall, i can't wait to share it with you!!! i've got the biggest crush on eris and i hope you enjoy just as much as i do :D more tags and warnings will be added per chapter so that nothing is spoiled, there's a few plot twists >:) please please please let me know how you feel, I'd love to hear your feedback and i'm already working on your next chapter!! so excited <3
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
Youâre useless and you feel it. Your sisters and Rhysandâs Inner Circle try hard to overlook your lack of⊠anything, really, but thereâs no denying it when Rhysandâs tongue slips and he throws out the word âimportantâ to describe everyone but you.
âAnyoneâs invited,â He throws a kind smile at you, âBut Iâll need the most important of us there for certain.â
Itâs clear what he means.
He blinks sharply just after he says it, like he knew it was a rotten thing to say halfway through. But thereâs no taking it back, nor is there any way he can backtrack after seven heads snap his way.
âRhysand.â Feyreâs strong voice cuts through the air, and her mate is already raising his hands palms-out.
âI didnât intend for it to sound like-â
Cassian merely scoffs, dropping his chin into his hand to scruff at his stubbly beard. Azrielâs shadows billow and swarm around his shoulders looking like theyâre begging their singer to let them loose.
âIâm sorry.â Rhysand gazes at you, his eyes admittedly shining with guilt. He sounds sincere when he reaches for your hand, squeezing it in a tender grip, âThatâs really not what I meant. Powerless or not-â
âPowerless!â Nesta hisses, her teeth clenched, and Rhysandâs grimace only spreads further over his cheeks. You tug your hand from his grip, and his expression crumples.
âWithout magic,â He clarifies, sounding very much like a man who might manage to figure out time travel for how badly he wants it in this moment, âPlease, excuse me, Iâve been dealing with official court nonsense for weeks. My head is not where it needs to be.â
âItâs okay,â You hum softly, and you really mean it. You forgive him. Itâs the truth. You know that even if Rhysand was the only one tactless enough to say it, that everyone else has thought about it one time or another. None more than yourself, of course, as you stare at the high ceiling in your bedroom and wonder if youâre good for anything more than a bartending job down in the city, or a street vendorâs stall, âI understand what you meant.â
Rhysand doesnât look convinced, and Feyre plants a hand on your shoulder, squeezing tightly.
âJust because you donât have powers doesnât mean youâre useless.â Morâs eyes blaze with determination as she nudges her foot against yours beneath the table, âReally. Consider yourself lucky you donât have to deal with any of the specialized bullshit we do.â
Specialized.
Because thatâs what they are.Â
Azriel, the spymaster. Cassian, the general. Morrigan, the- the Morrigan. Feyre, the High Lady. Nesta, Lady Death. Elain, the Seer. Amren, the⊠creature. Each one has their label, their title, their branch on the Night Courtâs sprawling tree. And youâre merely a leaf, dried and browned and drifting in the wind. Destined to land in the dirt and be trampled. You know that Morrigan had been meaning kindness- they all had, even Rhysand. So you smile at her and nod, even if you donât even fool yourself with the gesture.Â
âPlease forgive me,â Rhysand asks again, his voice soft and aching, and you glance at him only when youâre sure it wonât bring a sheen of tears over your eyes, âYour lack of magical abilities puts you at no lower of a value than anyone else in this house. Nor in this Court,â Rhysand promises, and you wonder if Feyreâs going to make him sleep on the couch tonight, for all the despair written on his face, âYouâre as welcome here as any of your sisters- as any of my friends. Please- understand that.â
Welcome, youâll believe. Important? Thereâs a reason he hasnât used that word a second time around.
You nod gently, and he seems to realize that thereâs not much else anyone can do for now. Itâs a wound that can be cleaned, bandaged, left to rest but it will bleed until it clots, and thereâs nothing he can do to fix that. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, hands hovering at his sides like he doesnât know what to do with them anymore.
âAzriel,â Rhysand calls, his voice a shade rougher than it had been at the start of the conversation, and your eyes drift listlessly towards a knot in the dining tableâs wood, âCassian, Feyre, Mor. Iâll need you ready for Autumn tomorrow morning.â
âSee, girl?â Amren calls to you, and you turn to see even her face softened a tad in sympathy, âIâm useless too.â
âAmren.â Feyreâs nails dig into your shoulder, and you have a feeling the only way she gets away with her tone is because sheâs technically Amrenâs High Lady. But it makes you laugh, however weary the sound.
Morâs foot is still pressed against yours under the table, but it shifts when Rhys calls her attention. Things have been⊠smoothed, but not healed for Mor in terms of the autumn court. Eris had given Lucien permission to discuss the night sheâd been left for dead in the forest, and Lucien admitted sheepishly that, had Eris wanted her dead, his hounds would have torn her to pieces on the walking trail. Her family had been the one to brutalize her, and had Eris not led the hunt in the wrong direction Beron would have done the same. Instead, heâd given her just enough time to be winnowed away. Even so neither like each other, but politics arenât about liking people, theyâre about duty; the two are on just civil enough terms to scrape by in a political landscape, and thatâs going to have to be good enough. Beron, though, heâs irked by her. And Rhysand knows that, and Mor knows that, which is why sheâs going along. Never mind the way her teeth will grit as soon as Beronâs oily gaze narrows in her direction- she is needed, so she will go.
To be needed sounds very enticing and very burdensome all at once. To think of Mor muscling down the phantom searing of a torn womb just to step into the meeting room and needle Beron⊠but at least she is needed. At least she has a purpose.
You attempt to stand quietly and unimposingly, excusing yourself from a conversation you have no part in, but Rhysand is quick to catch you.
âThe Autumn Court is lovely.â He steps into your path, eyes still round and pleading like a dog whose play-bites had turned too rough and drawn blood, âAnd I meant what I said before, about anyone being welcome. Itâll only be a day trip. You can bring a book to read, or you can ask Lucien for a tour,â He reaches out to grasp your hand again, and you let him press it between his palms, âOr- if you want, you can join us. Get a feel for the politics of it all. Magic or not, you could train to be one of my emissaries. Anything- anything youâd like.â
Grand gestures seem to be Rhysandâs only function. You wonder if heâs ever simply apologized, if heâs ever offered a single pastry up as compensation instead of a feast. Though- a trip to the Autumn Court sounds lovely, the rich hues of reds, yellows, and browns making your stomach flip with excitement despite yourself. Fall has always been your favorite season, and perhaps taking a novel deep into the forests of Autumn might distract you from the emptiness gnawing at your insides.
Besides, everyoneâs watching you. Everyoneâs eyes are sharp, wide, anxious. Everyoneâs waiting to see if youâll cry, or refuse, or flat-out kick Rhysand in the balls, so you nod easily, letting your hand go limp in your High Lordâs.
âA day trip sounds lovely.â You force your face to smile again, âI can be ready in the morning.â
Rhysand grins now, unencumbered by much of the pity he usually wears when talking to you. But some of itâs still there, and you think it might always be.
You pray to the Mother every night for something to offer, but every night youâre ignored.
âYouâre all dismissed,â Rhysand calls to the table, and you take the opportunity of the bustle to slip out of his grasp, heading for your room to be even more useless, âTomorrow morning, no later than ten.â
You hear rushed footsteps following after you before you even get to the hallway. You let Cassian and Azriel flank you until youâre in a private-enough space, then you linger instead of rounding the corner.
Cassian doesnât stop, barrelling into you with a murmur, âCâmere.â
Youâre crushed in his grasp, but you let him bruise you, happy to be able to tuck your face against his chest and feel pressure against you.
âThatâs not how he feels.â Azrielâs jagged voice comes from behind Cassian, his shadows swirling at your ankles as the general sets you back on your feet, âAnd itâs not how we feel either.â
âItâs okay,â You promise, tears stinging at your eyes, âHe wasnât technically wrong. Iâm not important in a political sense, and I donât have any sort of blessing from the Cauldron.â
Each man bristles at your statements, but theyâre factual, and they canât dispute them. Azrielâs face darkens in a tight frown, and Cassian glowers at the floor.
âHe shouldnât have said it like that, though.â Cassian grumbles, âJust- donât get it in your head that youâre unwanted here. Okay?â
âOkay.â You nod, smile coming a little easier to the Illyrians in front of you than to the entire table, âItâs okay. Iâm okay.â
âOkay.â Cassian repeats, his face ticking up in a small grin, Azrielâs lips doing the same.Â
âCome on.â Azriel shoulders past Cassian in the hallway, his hand drifting to the small of your back, âIâll walk you to your room. Cassian should go find Nesta before she kicks Rhysâs teeth in.â
âHe doesnât need them all,â Cassian mutters, but he dutifully takes off to wrangle your sister into something civil-shaped. Azrielâs shadows keep you quietly comforted as they whisper against your skin, chilling you to the bone with a cold thatâs comforting against the barely-too-warm air in the House of Wind. Itâs like a cool breeze- you hope you feel them in Autumn tomorrow.
Itâs always been just a tad too suffocating to breathe inside the House. You wonder if itâs the temperature, or if itâs you.
âHe really didnât mean it.â Azriel promises, his voice defeated like heâs loathing coming to his brotherâs defense, âHeâs just stupid.â
âItâs fine.â You canât manage to look him in the eyes, glancing at the blue siphon that adorns his chest instead, âReally, Azriel, I understand. I feel- that way, sometimes. And I know no matter what anyone says, you feel it too. Even if you donât want to-â You back into your door as he reaches for you with sad eyes, your feet tripping over one another, âEven if you wouldnât have said it, or would have felt bad for even thinking it, I- I know itâs crossed your minds. I can tell by the way you look at me sometimes.â
Heâs shaking his head but it doesnât matter, youâve felt his pitying gaze before, youâve felt the cool caress of a shadow whenever someone brings up your cauldron-blessed sisters, âNo, thatâs not true.â
âIâm not angry with you for it.â You promise, your head pressed against the door, âI forgive all of you. Thereâs- nothing to forgive, even. I canât contribute to this court.â
âThe court isnât what matters,â Azriel steps forwards, but keeps his hands to himself. Still, it puts you inches away, his chest almost pressed against yours, his wings blocking out the hallway behind him as they flare, âThe family is what matters. You contribute to that. And I actually prefer that you arenât crippled with mind-shattering visions at the Motherâs leisure, and that youâre not commanding the dead.â
It makes your lips quirk up at the corners like a bent sewing pin, narrow and rounded at the end in a dimple.Â
âMaybe it would have been worse if I had powers.â You hum, but youâre putting a band-aid on a bullet hole and you know it, âMaybe it would have granted me the power to kill anyone I touched, and I couldnât ever indulge in a mating frenzy.â
Azriel knows youâre poking fun at Nesta and Cassian, who were dared to go a full minute without touching each other in the height of their craze. Azriel had murmured to you that theyâd die if they never touched, and youâd remembered the odd, longing look in his eyes despite his grumblings.
âThatâd be a shame.â His voice is warm, but not suffocating like the House is, just something to heat the trails of goosebumps left behind by his shadows. His amused smile straightens into something more serious, but he doesnât speak further, he only stares.
Your fingers dance along the door in search of the knob, and when you find it, you step backwards as the door gives way against your back.
âI want to sleep.â You dodge his intense gaze, âIâve become accustomed to sleeping in lately, and I want to be well-rested before the trip.â
âIâll escort you.â Azriel nods, âAnd Iâll come and wake you if youâre still dozing by nine.â
âEight.â You point assertively at him, âI need time to shower.â
âIt takes two hours for you to shower?â His jet black brows raise, and one of his shadows tries escaping him over the threshold of your door. You gladly scoop it into your cupped palms, but it swirls in displeasure as you plod across the floor to dump it back on Azrielâs shoulder.
âIt takes me two hours to decide I need to get out of bed to shower,â You explain, letting the shadow spill dramatically down his leather-clad chest like a cracked egg, âShowering doesnât take me more than a half-hour, but the deliberation is what kills me.â
His grin is back when you step away again, wider than before but still tight-lipped, âI see. What takes you that long, smelling yourself and trying to rationalize skipping a bath?â
âSometimes I read,â You huff, âSometimes I go back to sleep for a bit, sometimes I contemplate what Iâll wear for the dayâŠâ Sometimes I wonder if everyone would be better off if Iâd stayed human and gone back over the wall.
Azriel nods, his lips tightly pursed so that he doesnât laugh aloud, his composure slipping quick, âOf course. Important stuff.â
âI donât have fighting leathers,â You jab a finger into his chest, âAnd if I did I wouldnât wear them every day. You do wash them, yes?â
âYes,â Azriel insists, âMore often than Cass or Rhys do.â
âI believe that,â Your nose wrinkles in a grimace, and the shadow youâd just plopped back on Azrielâs shoulder makes a break for it again, curling around your finger and crawling up your arm, âThis one seems to think you stink regardless.â
âYou should keep it,â Azrielâs face softens, some of his perpetually-tensed muscles giving way and letting his youth- relative youth - show on his features.
âEspecially in Autumn tomorrow,â Azriel leans against the doorframe, his wings still blocking the outside world, âI think Iâd feel better letting you out of our sight if I knew youâd be protected.â
Because you donât have any way to defend yourself.
You swallow hard, shaking your head and pressing the shadow back into Azrielâs scarred fingers, âGive it to me tomorrow, then. I want a nightâs sleep that doesnât involve a shadow shoving itself up my nose for shits and giggles.â
Really, itâs because youâre about to crumple into your bedsheets and sob until theyâre soaked through. You donât want Azriel finding that out, so you refuse to humor his wayward little shadow any further, âGoodnight, Azriel.â
âGoodnight,â His face has dimmed, but it still looks hauntingly young, moonlight from the corridorâs windows sparkling against his skin, and you shut your door before he can say whatever his lips were parted for.
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
