damnedwhispers

[damnedwhispers]

Who Did That to You?

Enemies-to-lovers fans, isn’t there something electric about a perfectly timed “Who did that to you?” moment? It’s a trope I adore, and writing Chapter 17 (just released!) of my fanfic was pure ✨magic✨ because of it.

Whispers of the Broken and Damned

ACOTAR Fic // Azriel x OC // 44k Words // AO3

True Enemies-to-Lovers ~ Trauma ~ Hurt/Comfort

Chapter 17 Excerpt ⬇️

Something brushed a damp strand of hair off my shoulder—soft, fleeting, my eyes flicked to the spot but caught his pain filled gaze instead. He’d turned despite his vow, as if the black tide drowning my mind had called him. His hazel eyes, heavy with the same burden I carried in my chest traced the scars etching my arms. “Who did that to you?” The question struck like a blade, laced with a silent, lethal promise—death to their name—each word deliberate. As if he’d carried that question with him since first seeing the marks.

“No one,” I whispered, a half-truth that left my mouth bitter. “It’s the cost of my power—severing threads, ending Fae lives. It burns. It scars.” My voice splintered, frayed by memories—fractured faces, nameless now, lost to the wreckage of my mind. Each thread I’d burned blazed through me, guilt and loss squeezing my heart in their vice. I saw them every day, gone but never forgotten.

Azriel’s gaze held, unflinching, the pain in it softening into something raw—recognition. His jaw tightened, but he leaned closer, shadows still, wings steady. “A death at your hands, not born in your heart, isn’t blood on your soul,” he said, voice low and rough, each word a quiet anchor, like he’d had to tell himself the same thing every day since his first kill. He knew it too—the weight of ending, of lives taken by duty, not desire. His eyes traced my scars again, not with judgment, but a shared pain. The weight in my chest didn’t lift, but it shifted—less a beast, more a shadow we both carried.

“I told you not to look,” I choked out, voice broken as my past bled out. My fingers dug into my arms, nails biting skin to drag the ache from memory to flesh, a restless itch I couldn’t still. I didn’t deserve this—his understanding, this breath of life. I was a reaper, a weapon, guilt my own forged chain.

“I’m not afraid of what I see,” Azriel said, voice steady, eyes fixed on mine. “You deserve to be seen, Lyra.”

🔗 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/62181382/chapters/164482861

[damnedwhispers]

Has anyone else ever started writing a chapter—armed with an outline you swore would keep you on track—only to have your characters turn around, look you dead in the eye, and say, ‘Nah, we’re doing this our way’? Because that’s what happened with Chapter 16 of my ACOTAR fanfic. It’s Azriel and Lyra’s story—Lyra being this fierce, unapologetic FMC who’s been clawing her way out of my heart and onto the page. I had a plan. She wasn’t supposed to feel this alive yet, wasn’t supposed to be cutting down eyeless, nightmare-fueled creatures or leaping off cliffs with this wild, reckless abandon by Chapter 16. But there she was, dragging me along, and I couldn’t stop her if I tried.

This fic—it’s a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers that digs deep, the kind where every glance and every fight feels like it’s carving something permanent. Lyra embodies female rage in a way that’s messy and raw, and honestly, it’s been pouring out of me in ways I didn’t expect. I’ve spent weeks plotting, tearing up at 2 a.m. over scenes that hit too close to home, and putting everything—blood, sweat, tears, you name it—into this thing. It’s still got that ACOTAR soul: Azriel’s brooding, Velaris glowing in the background, the Inner Circle tossing out their sharp-edged banter. But it’s also grown into something bigger—new characters, expanded world-building, a heartbeat of its own. One day, I dream of turning it into an original book. It’s a long shot, I know, but it’s the kind of dream that keeps me up at night.

If you stumble across this and think, ‘What the hell is happening here?’—I get it. Just know there’s a reason for the chaos, a thread I’m weaving that’ll make sense eventually. It’s fanfiction through and through, but it’s also me trying to say something real. So if you’re into emotional, heavy stories with a badass FMC who fights like she’s got nothing left to lose, maybe give it a chance. I’d love for you to meet Lyra—and see what she does next, because apparently, I don’t get to decide that anymore.

Whispers of the Broken and Damned

Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/62181382/chapters/163839367

[damnedwhispers]

✨ New Chapter Dropped! Dive into the Shadowy Feels! ✨

Hey Tumblr fam, chapter 15 of my fanfic just hit AO3, and it’s a mood you NEED in your life! 💔🔥

Imagine Azriel, our soft-yet-broody Shadowsinger, sharing a cold cave with a soul brimming with wild magic. 🌧️ Her power’s itching to break free, his shadows flicker with old pain, and their hands brush as they spill their hearts—her lost brother Elior from a sun-kissed ivory estate, his mother’s fairytales cut short by war. 🖤 The tension? Palpable. His wing wraps around her like a cozy shield, and you can FEEL the quiet spark between them.

But plot twist! Just as the vibes get good, eyeless, soulless creatures crash the party, jaws snapping—talk about a cliffhanger! 😱 Will they survive? You’ll have to read to find out!

📖 Check it out here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62181382/chapters/163618552

Leave your questions and comments and let’s chat about it! 🌌 Follow for more chapters—this story’s got HEART. 💬 Reblog to spread the love!

Tumble into this emotional rollercoaster and so we can cry together! 🖤

[damnedwhispers]

Princess & Pawn

Rhysand x Original Character

Tropes ~ Enemies to Mates, Forced Proximity, Female Rage

Summary ~ Traded by her father for peace, the Princess of Hybern is given to Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, as his future consort. Forced into enemy territory, she expects hostility—but neither she nor Rhysand anticipate the snap of a mating bond, binding their futures irrevocably. Can enemies bound together by fate ever find common ground, or will their enmity set everything ablaze?

Word Count ~ 1,230

Note ~ This tension filled one-shot is the first in a potential series exploring the complicated and gripping relationship between Rhysand and the Princess of Hybern. Let me know if you'd like to see more of their story!

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The grand throne room of the Hewn City thrummed with a dark, living pulse, its ink-black walls glistening like the scales of some ancient beast. Shadows writhed in the flickering faelight, curling around the towering obsidian doors that had slammed shut behind her with a clang that still echoed in her bones. Rhysand sprawled across his onyx throne, a god of night and ruin, violet eyes blazing as they raked over her—Hybern’s princess, a crimson-clad offering on a sable altar. The air tasted of iron and cold stone, thick with the anticipation of the kneeling courtiers who lined the polished, midnight-black marble walkway she’d been forced down mere minutes ago.

“You say such atrocious things with that mouth of yours, princess.” His voice was a blade wrapped in silk, slicing through the silence with lethal precision. “Did your king raise you to spew such filth, or is it custom in Hybern for a consort to insult her future husband?”

Snickers and scoffs burst from the Night Court’s denizens, a jagged symphony of delight that ricocheted off the cavernous walls. They savored their High Lord’s cruelty from their knees, safe so long as it wasn’t their blood he craved. Time had slowed to an agonizing crawl after she’d crossed that threshold—shoved forward by Hybern guards, her silver-and-ruby crown glinting like a taunt atop her dark curls. The fae had bowed as she passed, their eyes glinting with hunger and scorn, her gown trailing behind her like spilled blood across the polished marble.

“It’s custom in Hybern for royalty to forge their bloodlines with pure, unbroken power,” she fired back, her voice a low, defiant hymn despite the storm raging in her chest. “Why the king would stoop to a bastard, I’ve yet to unravel.” A smirk carved itself onto her lips, sharp and daring, stoking the inferno that flared in Rhysand’s gaze—malice given flesh, a living, breathing thing that promised retribution. No laughter greeted her words, no jeers, just as there’d been none when she’d stood before them and claimed her title: Princess of Hybern, future consort to the High Lord of bats. The silence was a noose, tightening with every breath.

Rhysand rose, a shadow unfurling, all lethal grace and coiled power as he stalked toward her. “Manners, it seems, were not deemed worthy of your education,” he purred, his voice dropping to a caress that sent shivers racing down her spine. He stopped too close, the heat of him a brand against her skin, his scent—night-blooming jasmine and something darker—flooding her senses. “No matter, princess. We’ll begin your lessons tonight, after the ceremony. We’ll start with what should go in—and come out of—that wicked mouth.” His lips twisted into a smirk, a cruel twin to hers, and the words struck like lightning, searing through her bravado. Her heart lurched, her jaw falling slack as the weight of his promise crashed over her, drowning her in its undertow.

The fight bled out of her, her words crumbling to ash, as useless as the crown perched atop her head. Consort, not queen. Given, not chosen. She’d been her father’s prize, his shadow through Hybern’s cold, echoing halls—trailing him as he penned edicts, sharpened blades, bent the court to his will. She’d mirrored his every move, a child desperate to earn his pride, to one day wield a title of her own. She’d clawed for his approval through endless days of ink-stained fingers and bruised pride, only to be cast aside—a glittering pawn traded for peace. A prize, yes, but one he’d judged unworthy of his hoard.

The throne room’s air thickened, a storm brewing between them as Rhysand’s smirk held, a blade’s edge glinting in the faelight. The princess straightened, her silver-and-ruby crown catching the cold glow, a fragile defiance against the weight of his stare. She refused to drown—not yet.

“Perhaps Hybern’s lessons were less about manners and more about survival,” she mused, her voice a silken taunt, threading through the silence. “A pity you didn’t learn the same, High Lord. Fifty years groveling for Amarantha, and you still don’t know how to wield that tongue effectively.”

A deathly hush gripped the court, the silence broken only by a stalactite’s faint drip, sharp as a pulse. Her words hung, lethal and taut, until Rhysand’s laugh—dark, molten—tore through, sending a shiver down her spine. He moved too fast, a blur of night, and suddenly his fingers twisted in her hair, yanking her face up. His canines gleamed—moon-sharp—as his power crashed into her, night and stardust stealing her breath. Her pulse raced, heat sparking under her skin, his scent—jasmine and shadow—daring her to yield.

“We don’t tolerate brats in this court,” he growled, voice a velvet whisper, violet eyes glinting with wicked delight. “But it would appear your all bark, no bite.”

Her lips curled, canines flashing—small, fierce—as she spat, “Why waste the energy on something so small?” The words barely escaped when it struck—snapped. A silver thread, molten and wild, ignited between them, slamming into her chest with a force that buckled her knees. She gasped, a ragged sound, as the mating bond roared to life, searing through her veins like liquid fire. Her eyes flew wide, disbelief crashing over her—no, not him, not this arrogant, conceited High Lord. Her mate? The thought was a sword, twisting in her gut, as she stared into his face—violet irises flaring, his own shock mirrored there before it melted into something feral, triumphant.

“Well, princess,” he rasped, voice thick with primal heat, “that changes things.” His hand slid from her hair to her wrist, and with a yank, he dragged her toward the obsidian doors, her three-inch heels scraping the opulent marble. She stumbled, caught in his grip and the bond’s dizzying pull, her mind reeling—this can’t be real. Her chest ached, the thread thrumming, alive, binding her to him as the courtiers parted, silent as wraiths, the doors groaning open to swallow them whole.

The corridor’s chill pierced her like an arrow to the chest, torchlight flickering over sable walls. Rhysand let her go, stepping back, and his mask splintered—his grin fading to a raw, unguarded glint. His gaze swept over her—too thin, a tempest caged in crimson silk, her emerald eyes still wide with the bond’s aftershock. “You’re a vicious little creature,” he murmured, voice a low caress, teasing yet laced with a quiet ache. “Tell me, did your king forge you into this weapon, or did you willingly shred yourself to ribbons for a taste of his approval?”

She drew herself up, legs unsteady but chin defiant, disbelief warring with the wildfire in her veins. “Spare me your pity, bat,” she bit out, her voice a jagged edge despite its tremble, the bond thrumming beneath her skin like a drumbeat. “You’re no mate of mine—I’d sooner slit my throat than accept you.”

He lounged against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk curling his lips—wicked yet tender as his eyes lingered on her gaunt cheeks. “Oh, princess, fate doesn’t bend to your whims,” he purred, mischief lacing his concern. “My mate, with a heart sharp as thorns. Food, a bath—let’s keep you breathing long enough to despise me properly.”

[damnedwhispers]

🌧 CHAPTER 14 JUST DROPPED 🌧

The storm is endless. The climb is brutal. And Lyra—she’s barely keeping up.

Four days of exhaustion, four days of failing over and over again. Her power only knows how to destroy, and every misstep feels like proof that she’ll never be more than the weapon Hybern made her to be.

But Azriel doesn’t waver. He doesn’t scold, doesn’t push—he just watches, waits. Makes sure she eats. Hands her extra rations with that sharp, unreadable look. And when the mountain finally claims her, when her footing vanishes and the abyss opens at her back—his hands are the ones that pull her back.

Now, they’re trapped in the storm. Just the two of them. And if Lyra thought the mountain was dangerous, she hasn’t even begun to realize the weight of Azriel’s attention.

⚔️ Chapter 15 is closer than you think—more secrets, more tension, and maybe, just maybe… something she’s not ready to face. ⚔️

Read now. Stay ahead. Don’t miss what’s coming next.

AO3 Link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/62181382/chapters/163305853

[damnedwhispers]

She’s Trying to Remember. He’s Trying Not to Forget.

Whispers of the Broken and Damned

"What are you?" The question is a whisper, a blade against her skin. "A mistake," Lyra breathes.

She was never supposed to kill him. She was never supposed to escape. And yet, she did.

There are three realms.

☀ The Above – A kingdom built on power. 🌑 The Below – A court where souls are sent for judgement. 🔥 The In-Between – A nightmare that should have never been.

She doesn’t remember everything. But she remembers enough.

She remembers him. She remembers the pain. And she remembers what she lost.

The King of Hybern made her into a weapon. Someone left her shattered. Lyra is trying to pick up the pieces. And Azriel? He’s the one keeping them from slipping through her fingers.

"You need to learn to control your power, Reaper." "Or what?" His voice is steady. "Or it will control you."

She is learning to wield. She is starting to remember. And soon—she will have to choose.

But the past isn’t done with her. And neither is the King.

✨ SLOW-BURN. WAR. MAGIC. SECRETS. ENEMIES-TO-??? ✨

If you love dark romantasy, slow-burn tension, and unraveling mysteries that just keep twisting—this is the story you’ve been looking for.

💥 Chapter 14 drops Saturday. Start reading now. 💥

📖 AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62181382/chapters/159060838

[damnedwhispers]

🔥 CHAPTER 13 – NOW LIVE 🔥

She killed her father. And she liked it. But why?

🎵 I can feel the flames on my skin…

“You think your power defines who you are?”

I look at him. Really look at him. “Doesn’t it?”

Azriel exhales slowly, wings shifting slightly. “All power can be deadly. We’re not saints, and we’ve never claimed to be. I’ve done unspeakable things—things I’ll never atone for. But I did them for a reason, to protect the ones I love. Until you remember your reason, don’t call yourself a monster.”

“What reason could justify the death of thousands?”

He doesn’t answer.

🎵 Crimson red paint on my lips

I barely had time to push up onto my hands before bile surged up my throat.

Azriel moved fast. Before I collapsed forward, he was there, steadying me, guiding me onto my knees as I heaved into the blackened dirt beside my bedroll. His hands, firm but careful, held my hair back, keeping it from my face as my body trembled.

I cut threads in my sleep. I killed in my sleep.

It didn’t matter how hard I tried to bury it, how much I refused to wield it. It still came anyway.

My stomach rolled again, empty and aching, but I felt it—a weight draped over my shoulders.

My blanket.

And then—feather-soft pressure circled along my back, slow and deliberate. A touch so gentle, for a moment, I thought I imagined it.

🎵 If a man talks shit then I owe him nothing

“You shouldn’t have gone to the lake alone.”

“I was fine.”

“You were reckless.” His voice isn’t harsh, just steady. “You need to learn how to control your power, Lyra. Not just for us. Not just so we can contain it. But so that when the time comes, you can protect yourself.”

Something about the way he says it—the concern, the weight—makes my stomach pull tight. I don’t know how to answer. Because no one’s ever cared before—at least, not like this.

🎵 I don’t regret it one bit, ‘cause he had it comin’

Lyra is unraveling. Her mind is tangled. Her past is clawing its way back. And her power? It’s slipping through her fingers, sinking its teeth into everything she touches.

The mountains are waiting.

Something is watching.

And in the dark, in the freezing wind, Lyra is getting closer—to the past she left behind. To the truths she’s spent years trying to forget.

And to him.

📖 Read Chapter lucky #13 now on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62181382/chapters/159060838

🎵 They say I did something bad

🎵 Then why’s it feel so good?

I’d say it’s my favorite chapter. So far…

[damnedwhispers]

🔥 TEASER — CHAPTER 13 🔥

The fire had been waiting.

It had lived inside me for years—coiling in my marrow, licking at my ribs, pressing against my lungs. Waiting for the moment I’d finally set it free. Finally let it burn.

And I did.

Silence drapes over the room, broken only by the steady rise and fall of his breath. Slow. Deep. Asleep. Vulnerable.

I had never seen him like this before. At rest. Calm. Gentle.

It should have stopped me. Made me hesitate.

It didn’t.

I find it without thought, as if drawn by something deeper than choice. His thread is rough beneath my fingers—thick, pulsing, wrong. A living thing. A dying thing.

The fire roars to life.

It rips through me, a searing, all-consuming inferno that spreads from my chest to my fingertips, down my spine, igniting every nerve in my body. The pain is instant, brutal, merciless.

My veins turn to molten lava, my bones white-hot steel, my skin cracking, blistering from the inside out. My throat tears open in a silent scream, my muscles locking as if my body were trying to contain the agony.

But it is nothing compared to what I feel in the thread.

His soul convulses under my touch, struggling, fighting, twisting in desperate, futile resistance. The fire takes hold of it, eats through it, piece by piece, devouring him from the inside out.

His body jerks once in his sleep, a single breath caught in his throat—then his eyes snap open. Black. Hollow. A void where he had once been.

I feel it—the sharp, panicked realization. Feel his confusion coil into fear, then terror, then nothing.

His soul shatters.

And I—

I shudder.

Because beneath the pain, beneath the unbearable burn that has me clawing at my own skin, there is something else.

Pleasure.

Sick, twisted, euphoric pleasure.

I gasp, my vision swimming, but I don’t let go. I can’t let go. The fire won’t let me go.

It surges, ravenous, searing through my ribs, carving me from the inside out, its embers licking at my throat, curling around my heart like a lover’s embrace.

Heat licks at my forearm—slow at first, then consuming, blistering.

I feel it form—my flesh searing, cracking, burning, as the invisible mark of what I’ve done brands itself into my skin. The fire left its mark on me, as I had on him. A reminder. A balance. A trophy.

And I savor it.

Every inch of the pain, every ember of suffering, every flickering remnant of his life snuffed out beneath my hands—I drink it in.

I weep at the sensation of it, my body wracked with exhaustion, agony, bliss.

And when the thread finally snaps, when his soul finally dies, when the fire finally ebbs—

I ache for more.

I barely feel myself collapse. Barely register the raw, gasping sobs ripping from my throat. Because here, in the stillness that follows, with his desiccated body cooling beside me, his soul nothing more than scattered remnants in the abyss—

I have never felt more alive.

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✨ Who did Lyra kill? And why? ✨

Find that out (and possibly more) in the next chapter—lucky number 13—dropping Saturday night, March 1st!

🔗 Read Chapters 1 - 12 NOW on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62181382/chapters/1590608

🎵 Cue ‘I Did Something Bad’ by Taylor Swift playing in the distance…

[damnedwhispers]

“Stop calling me that.”

Azriel doesn’t so much as blink. “Why? You didn’t hesitate to wield when it meant reaping thousands of souls.”

His voice is even, calculated. Measured.

“But now?” His gaze flicks to her, assessing, cutting. “Now you refuse to use it for something as simple as survival—to light a fire, to dry your own leathers?”

The words land, burrow deep, scrape at wounds she doesn’t have the strength to acknowledge.

She grips her thighs, nails digging into leather. Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him.

But the anger—the fire—twists inside her, rising.

“Do you think I want to be on this trip?” The words snap, sharp and furious. “Do you think I bury my power because I enjoy it?”

Azriel doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. His face is calm, cold—mocking.

And then—he laughs.

Low. Quiet. Cruel.

“I don’t see anything worth fearing. If this is all that’s left, then maybe you really are broken-”

The flames roar.

Her fingers twitch. They ache to move to tear to pull.

She tries to bury it. To force it down.

It’s already too late.

A pulse surges outward, silent and unseen.

Threads snap.

Life unravels.

And the forest dies.

The clearing is left barren, the air thick with something neither seen nor spoken. The weight of what she has done—what she is—settles around them like a storm waiting to break.

Cassian shifts, his wings flaring slightly, his entire body watching. Measuring.

But Azriel—Azriel just stands there.

Unmoved. Unshaken.

Waiting.

“Finally.”

His wings shift, shadows curling lazily at his feet, as if this had been inevitable.

As if he had been waiting.

His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the command in it.

“We train as we walk, Reaper.”

—

🧵Lyra’s power is waking.🪡

Or should we be asking—what was keeping it asleep?

Who was the last Thread Bearer? Why is the scholar hiding? And what lays hidden in Lyra’s fractured memories?

More importantly, who do you think falls first, if ever?

Don’t get mad at me, I said this would be a true enemies-to-lovers.

Chapter 12 of Whispers of the Broken and Damned is live!

AO3 link - https://archiveofourown.org/works/62181382/chapters/159060838

Read now & reblog to spread the word!

[damnedwhispers]

Whispers in the Shadows | ACOTAR Fanfic Debut

Step into Prythian as you’ve never read before with Whispers of the Broken and Damned—an angst-filled, true enemies to lovers tale of shadows, threads, and shattered souls. A broken Thread Bearer, haunted by whispers and scars, navigates the pasts secrets under the Shadowsinger’s silent watch.

“Deafening. The lack of voices in my head leaves me questioning if I finally succeeded in escaping this living hell.” —Lyra, Chapter 1

“I want you to beg for forgiveness on your knees. I want you to burn, to feel the agony of every thread you’ve frayed.” —Azriel, Chapter 1

Read the first 11 chapters on AO3 for slow-burn tragedy, possible mate bonds, and twists in the dark.

AO3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/62181382/chapters/159060838

New chapter every Sunday—come for Azriel, stay for the heartbreak. What do you think Lyra’s shadows hide? Drop an ask or comment 👇