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[dee-writes-angst]

THE INTERROGATION ROOM

FEATURING Azriel x Reader

SUMMARY When an Autumn Court spy gets caught sneaking through the Night Court, she expects torture — not Azriel, shadowsinger, spymaster, and utter bastard, determined to break her down one orgasm at a time.

CONTENT WARNINGS smut, p in v, no mentions of protection - wrap it up!, knife play (yes, he brings it to bed), bondage (wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, shadow ropes, and one very rude spreader bar), vibrator use, orgasm control (he’s mean about it), overstimulation, impact play, degradation, dom!Azriel (capital D), bratty sub!reader, light choking, semi-public setting (interrogation room turned sex dungeon), possessive/territorial behavior, pain kink, blood (a drop, for flavor), hate sex

AUTHORS NOTE uh hey guys heh... sorry I dropped off the face of the Earth for like a year, have some smut!

The cell door creaked open, and Azriel stepped in like a storm made flesh.

“You didn’t cover your tracks very well,” he said, voice low and lethal. Shadows curled at his shoulders like they knew they were about to feast. “Autumn Court spy. Thought you could sneak in, play diplomat, seduce a few courtiers—”

You smirked from where you were chained to the chair. Ankles cuffed. Wrists restrained above your head, secured by siphon-enhanced steel. You’d stolen the map. You’d almost gotten away. You leaned back and crossed your legs — as much as the chains would allow.

“I wasn’t seducing anyone,” you said. “You just wanted a reason to throw me in here. Bet you’ve been dying to see me like this.”

His mouth twitched. Not a smile — something sharper. “You think I need a reason?”

He moved like smoke, crossing the room in a blink. Gloved hands braced on either side of your chair, wings flaring wide. His scent hit you like a drug — dark spice, leather, and shadow. You refused to flinch.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you act when I’m near,” he murmured. “Mouthy little thing. Always pushing, waiting for someone to push back.”

Your chin lifted defiantly. “What are you going to do, Spymaster? Hurt me?”

A pause. Then a grin — cold, slow, vicious. “Beg for it.”

He pulled a slender blade from his thigh sheath. It gleamed like moonlight. The tip dragged slowly along your jawline — just pressure. No slice. Yet.

“You like pain,” he said flatly, reading your pulse like it was written on your skin. “You want it to mean something. You want someone to take control because you can’t stand giving it willingly.”

You clenched your thighs. He noticed.

The blade traveled down your neck, then lower, to where your shirt was already torn from your earlier scuffle. A flick — fabric parted. Another — the front of your bra gaped open, and cool air kissed your nipples. His eyes didn’t even drop.

“Let’s make something clear,” he said, fingers ghosting the edge of the blade between your breasts, down your ribs, to your belly. “This isn’t sex. This is consequence.”

He stepped behind you, and the chains above your head retracted, forcing you to stand. When you tried to twist away, Azriel caught your throat with one hand and shoved you against the stone wall, body pressing flush to your back. Hard length grinding against your ass through his leathers.

“Still so cocky,” he growled into your ear. “You don’t get to be in control here.”

You laughed — breathless. “Try me.”

A snarl. Then pain. His hand cracked across your ass, open-palmed, and you gasped as the sting bloomed instantly. Again. Harder. A third, and he didn’t stop — striking you until your thighs trembled, ass blazing, slick already pooling between your legs.

“Color?” he rasped.

“Green,” you spat.

His shadows tightened around your wrists like living rope. He dragged a short bar from a nearby drawer — steel, sleek, curved. A spreader bar.

“No closing your legs now,” he said, voice like sin.

You should’ve been scared. Instead, you were soaked.

He knelt, parting your legs with the bar and securing it to your cuffs. Then — something cold pressed to your clit. A sleek, vibrating toy, strapped tightly in place.

Azriel’s shadows coiled around your throat as he murmured, “Don’t come until I say.”

The toy clicked on.

You jerked against the restraints instantly — the vibration sharp and fast, relentless. He watched from the chair across from you, gloved fingers idly stroking the blade still in his lap. Your breathing turned ragged.

“You’re drooling for it already,” he sneered. “Filthy little traitor. Look at you. Legs spread, tits out, whining through your gag reflex.”

“Fuck you,” you choked.

His wings flared. “You will.”

He crossed the room and shoved two fingers between your legs — rough, ungloved now. Curling, stroking, commanding. He watched your face as your body betrayed you, grinding down on his hand despite the ache, despite the humiliation.

“I bet they trained you to seduce, didn’t they?” he said darkly. “Did they show you how to fake an orgasm, little spy?”

You nodded, desperate, hips twitching. His fingers stopped.

“Show me.”

You blinked. “What—?”

“Fake it.”

You moaned — loud, over-the-top, back arching like a porn star. He laughed once. Cold. Cruel. Then—

“Now do it for real.”

His fingers slid back in — three now — and the toy at your clit kicked into a new setting, meaner, sharper. You couldn’t fake anything now. Your body thrashed in the chains, the bar keeping your legs wide open while he watched you unravel.

“You don’t come,” he warned. “You don’t get that until you beg me like the pathetic little whore you are.”

You whimpered. “Please…”

“Not good enough.”

His shadows slithered over your breasts, pinching your nipples with cruel precision. You sobbed through gritted teeth.

“Say it,” he snarled. “Say you’re a filthy little traitor who needs to be ruined.”

You were panting, soaked, dizzy. “I’m a filthy—fuck, I’m a filthy little traitor who needs—needs to be ruined, please—”

The second the words left your mouth, he slammed you onto the table in the middle of the room. Bent you over it. Yanked your hips back. Freed himself from his leathers — and the stretch of him was brutal. Immediate. Unforgiving.

“Take it,” he hissed in your ear as he bottomed out.

You screamed. He didn’t slow. Just held you down by the throat and fucked you like he was punishing every lie, every mission, every flirtatious smile you’d ever weaponized.

The knife was back. Cool against your spine. Just pressure — and then the tiniest prick, enough to draw a drop of blood.

You moaned.

He laughed, low and mean, fucking you harder.

“Gonna fuck the secrets out of you,” he snarled. “Gonna fill you so full you forget who you work for.”

You were already there — sobbing, babbling nonsense, the toy still humming against your clit as he pounded into you like he hated you. Maybe he did. Maybe you loved it.

When he finally let you come, it hit like lightning. Full-body, legs shaking, body writhing in the chains as you shattered around him, crying out his name like it was carved into your throat.

He followed with a groan, spilling inside you, hips jerking against your ass as he growled against your shoulder, teeth sinking into your skin.

Silence fell — broken only by your shuddering breaths, the wet sounds of your bodies still pressed together, and the soft coil of his shadows retreating.

Then:

“I hope you got what you needed,” you rasped.

Azriel leaned in, teeth grazing your ear. “Not even close.”

[dee-writes-angst]

Hug time! Pass this around and hug whoever you think is an amazing mutual 💖🌹🌹

WARNING!!!!

I am actually outside your house and we're about to smash ^.^

[dee-writes-angst]

LOOK AT HER GO!!!!! CONGRATS MY DARLING IM SO SO HAPPY FOR YOU AHHHHHHH

HOLY FUCK HOLY FUCK HOLY FUCK

Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhh

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG.

I'm so fucking happy right now omg... I have no words...

My first 1k 🥺🥺 thank y'all for being here with me

[dee-writes-angst]

Emotional warfare missile launched!

[dee-writes-angst]

THIS! WHY TF ARE WE BLOCKING PEOPLE FOR LIKING OUR CONTENT?!?!

"spam liking will get you blocked" spam liking will get you a kiss on the mouth

[dee-writes-angst]

Everyone is currently testing my will to live at the moment and I hate to break it to everyone, but it’s not that strong. I will fucking do it. Just give me one more excuse istg. 😻

[dee-writes-angst]

We’re a good combo @littlest-w01f 😼

Tagging: @surielstea @daycourtofficial @milswrites @lilah-asteria @lokissweater and anyone else who wants to join! 😻

Thank you for the tag, @dressycobra7 ! I've started a new post because the other was getting lengthy.

Challenge: Take the test and learn what type of toast you are.

Part of me was a little sad, and part of me was not surprised. (And another part was shocked how really accurate this is??)

No Pressure Tags:

@humanitys-strongest-bamf, @banasheefan56, @thestarryfalls , @littlerequiem , @dorydotcom , @abiatackerman , @AsexualAxolotl, @hideandgopeep, @amywritesthings , @sixpennydame,  and anyone else who wants to play!

-> Click Here to join my Tag Game List! <-

[dee-writes-angst]

LOVE me a desperate man 😩

The reverent touches, the carnal need, YES MA’AM

First Impressions

Pairing: Rhysand x Fem!Reader

Summary: Rhys is a bumbling buffoon when it comes to meeting his mate for the first time.

Warnings: awkward tension, reader lives in the hewn city

A.Note: not totally proud of this one since it’s hard for me to write first meeting stories with a concluding ending, but I hope you guys enjoy :)

Word count: 4.8k words

The scratching at my door had me sitting up in an instant, my back pressing against the cold stone wall as my hand slid beneath my pillow, fingers curling around the worn hilt of my dagger. My breath came shallow, controlled, as I listened—waiting for another sound, another shift in the air that might give away whoever had decided to test their luck tonight.

Life in the Hewn City never allowed for restful sleep. Not when shadows slithered in every alley when cruelty pulsed like a second heartbeat through its streets. And especially not now that Morrigan was gone.

Her father's estate had been far from a sanctuary, but at least the sheer power Keir wielded had kept the worst of the monsters at bay. Here, in my apartment on the outskirts of town, I had no such protection. Only thin walls, shattered locks, and neighbors who wouldn't need a reason to break into a young female's bedroom—who wouldn't care that I was High Fae, not when my magic was little more than a flickering candle in the wind.

A shiver danced down my spine as I gripped my dagger tighter, pulling it free just as the handle of my door twisted. My breath stilled.

Wards should have held. I'd watched Mor herself etch them into the worn wood, her golden power laced with every careful stroke. And yet the door creaked open, the darkness beyond bleeding into my already shadowed room.

I made myself as small as possible, the blanket of night cloaking me enough to fool a drunk—most in this wretched place were—but if they stepped inside if they came closer...

A head popped through the gap.

Gold hair caught the dim light.

My breath punched from my lungs. "Morrigan."

I tumbled out of bed, my dagger forgotten as I all but threw myself at her. She caught me effortlessly, her arms wrapping tight around my waist, solid and real, her familiar scent washing over me.

"Oh, I've missed you," she murmured, holding me as if she'd been gone for years rather than two unbearable weeks.

I pulled back just enough to take her in, my hands framing her face, my eyes darting over her features, searching for any sign of injury. My stomach knotted at the gauze wrapped around her waist, but otherwise, she seemed unharmed.

"I thought you got out safe?" I whispered.

She smirked. "Forgot some things."

There was something reckless in her eyes, something sharp and unyielding.

My stomach tightened further. "Mor—"

"I'm getting you out of here."

Her grin was edged with mischief, with certainty.

—

I had heard the rumors—the hushed whispers exchanged between patrons in dimly lit taverns, drunken murmurs of a secret city our High Lord kept hidden from the rest of us. A place untouched by the cruelty of the Hewn City, a myth spun to keep fools hopeful.

I never believed a word of it.

But Velaris was real.

"The City of Starlight," Morrigan had said, her voice breathless with something I hadn't seen in her since we were reckless, ignorant children. She'd smiled then—wild, unguarded. And I had known, in that moment, that every whispered legend had been true.

The city thrived even in the late hour. Laughter and music curled through the streets, golden lights casting soft glows against dark stone. I had never dreamed a place like this could exist, not outside of bedtime stories and half-formed wishes. And yet, Mor guided me through its winding paths as if it were the most natural thing in the world, showing me pieces of the Night Court I had never dared to imagine.

Until, finally, she led me to a small cabin at the edge of a quiet clearing.

Warm light spilled from its windows, shadows dancing against the wood as the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter leaked into the night. It was a thrilling sound—carefree, safe.

Mor stepped onto the porch, her fingers curling around my wrist as she turned back to me with a smirk. "I've been living here for the past few weeks," she hummed, as if it were no great thing. "And I decided I missed my roommate."

Her words barely registered over the clatter of voices inside. I could hear the easy teasing, the playful shouts.

I hesitated.

"It's Rhysand's cabin, but—"

"The High Lord's?" I whirled on her, my stomach clenching.

Mor blinked, as if I'd said something absurd. "He's my cousin, you know?"

I did know that. Of course I did. But the knowledge didn't stop the shiver that traced my spine.

I had seen Rhysand twice in my life—twice was enough.

Both times, I had been convinced I would die right there on the spot, crushed beneath the weight of his power. It exuded from him like a second set of wings, dark and monstrous. The ground itself seemed to quake beneath his steps. To say he was powerful was an insult to the very meaning of the word. He was terror incarnate, the nightmare that lived in the dark corners of every court.

I had heard the stories—of him reaching into minds and shattering them from the inside out, twisting their own fears into weapons sharper than any blade. He did not need to lift a hand to kill.

My throat went dry. "He's not in there, is he?"

The words were barely a whisper, but Mor only shrugged, far too casual. "Sure he is."

I nearly choked. What?

"Mor—"

She didn't give me a chance to protest.

Her fingers curled around mine, firm and unwavering, and before I could think to dig in my heels, she had pulled me forward—up the steps, through the doorway, past the foyer—until I was standing in the heart of the house.

The moment we entered, the conversation stopped.

Four sets of eyes locked onto me.

Hazel. Silver.

And then—

A violet gaze, piercing and unrelenting, dilated with something unreadable.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Rhysand.

The High Lord of Night. The male who could level entire armies with a flick of his wrist, who could peel apart minds like flower petals and leave nothing behind. The nightmare whispered about in every corner of the Hewn City.

And he was staring at me.

His lips parted slightly, as if words had caught in his throat.

Mor, of course, was entirely unaffected. "Gentlemen," she said, grinning as she strode deeper into the sitting room. "And Amren."

The silver-eyed female merely flicked a gaze over Mor before cutting straight to me, a sharp, assessing glance that made my stomach twist.

I was still trying to school my expression into something other than imminent death panic when Mor gave my wrist a final squeeze and released me.

"I'd like you all to meet—"

"She's my mate."

Silence.

Utter, perfect silence.

Then—

A choked sound came from the male lounging in an armchair, wings draped lazily over its sides. He had dark hair, hazel eyes gleaming with delight, and an unmistakable aura of shit-eating amusement. That one must be Cassian.

Next to him, another male, shadows curled at his feet like living things, merely blinked—slowly, deliberately—before glancing at Rhys and murmuring, "That was subtle." And there's Azriel.

Rhys, for all his legendary cunning, looked like he wanted to launch himself into the Sidra.

"Mate?" I rasped, my stomach flipping over itself.

No. No, surely not. That was—impossible. I would've felt something.

Or have I all along?

"You must forgive our dear High Lord," Amren drawled, sipping from a glass of something dark. "He usually has more tact when announcing these things."

Rhys finally seemed to snap back into his body, straightening his spine with something like composed horror.

"What I meant to say," he amended, his voice dropping into something far smoother, far silkier—too smooth as if he were compensating, "is that it's a pleasure to meet you."

Cassian snorted. "You just said she was your mate."

"Yes, thank you, Cassian."

Azriel's lips twitched. "I think she got the message."

My head was spinning, my throat tight. But my body had stilled—not from fear, exactly, but from something else. Something coiling in my chest, something aware.

Rhys's gaze flicked to mine, and his expression softened instantly, all humor melting into something devastatingly gentle.

"It's late. You must be exhausted." His voice had dipped, his usual charm tempered with something achingly sincere. "Let me get you something to eat. Or drink. Or—are you warm enough? I can get you a blanket—"

Cassian was shaking with silent laughter. Azriel merely watched, like he was filing this away for later use.

Amren, however, had no such patience. "Oh, for Cauldron's sake," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "She's not a wounded animal, Rhysand, stop circling her like a mother hen."

"I just want her to be comfortable," he argued, flashing her a glare before turning back to me with something so devastatingly earnest that I nearly forgot who he was. What he was.

He liked me.

No—he wanted me to like him.

Rhysand, the most powerful High Lord in history, was tripping over himself to win my favor.

And somehow, that was more terrifying than any of the rumors I'd ever heard.

—

I wasn't entirely sure how I ended up sitting on a plush couch in the middle of the High Lord's cabin, wrapped in a ridiculously soft blanket that I didn't remember agreeing to. A cup of tea—also not requested—was placed carefully in my hands, steam curling in the dim candlelight.

Rhysand hovered nearby.

And I meant hovered.

He was standing at an awkward, not-quite-close, not-quite-far distance, shifting slightly as if debating whether he should sit or stand or vanish into the floor. His normally easy, fluid grace had been utterly abandoned, leaving him looking... well. Uncertain.

Cassian, sprawled in the armchair across from me, was barely keeping it together. His wings twitched every few seconds, his lips pressed tightly as if physically holding in his laughter.

Azriel, seated beside him, was far more composed—but the slight upward tilt of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

I took a sip of my tea, trying to make sense of all this.

The High Lord of the Night Court—the terror of the Hewn City, the most powerful male in existence—had declared me his mate. And then proceeded to fall apart before my very eyes.

I was still trying to process it when Rhys spoke.

"Would you like more pillows?"

I blinked. "What?"

His violet eyes were very, very wide. "You look like you could use more pillows."

Cassian made a strangled noise.

Azriel coughed into his fist.

"I—I'm fine," I said slowly, watching as Rhys's shoulders sagged in relief.

Too fast. All of this was happening too fast, I couldn't keep up.

"Are you sure? Because I can get more."

Cassian let out a wheezing breath, eyes shining with unrestrained delight. "Yes, Rhys. More pillows. That's definitely what she needs."

Rhys shot him a withering glare before turning back to me, smoothing his expression into something intended to be charming, but coming across as deeply, deeply desperate.

"Or food!" he blurted. "Have you eaten? I can make you something. Or, well, I can't make you something, but I can get someone to—"

"She has tea, Rhys," Amren cut in dryly. "You shoved it into her hands two minutes ago."

"I did not shove—"

"You definitely shoved," Cassian confirmed, barely containing his cackle. "I thought you were going to spill boiling tea all over your mate."

I flinch slightly at the term as Rhys shoots back with, "I was being thoughtful."

Azriel hummed, taking a slow sip of his own drink, the amber color telling me it was something much stronger than tea. "Is that what we're calling it?"

I had absolutely no idea what to do with any of this.

Rhysand—the charmer, the schemer, the legend—was unraveling at the seams in front of me.

Because of me.

"I can make my own food," I finally said, mostly just to say something.

Rhys visibly straightened. "Of course! Yes, I knew that. I just—" He ran a hand through his hair, his usual ease nowhere to be found. "I want you to feel at home."

Cassian grinned. "I think she'd feel more at home if you stopped looming over her like a lovesick bat."

Rhys's glare could have melted stone.

Azriel just leaned back in his chair, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders. "I don't think I've ever seen you like this," he mused.

Rhys turned his attention back to me, clearly trying to regain some dignity. He attempted one of his infamous smirks. "You must forgive them. They're not used to seeing me flustered."

Cassian clapped a hand to his chest, eyes sparkling. "Oh, it's a gift, truly."

Azriel nodded solemnly. "We should savor this moment."

Rhys looked seconds away from throttling them both.

I just stared at him, still gripping the cup of tea like it was the only solid thing in the world. "Are you okay?" I asked before I could stop myself.

His breath caught.

And for a moment, the amusement, the chaos—it all faded. His eyes softened, something raw flickering behind them.

"I'm fine," he said, voice lower now, steadier. "I just... I wasn't expecting this."

Neither was I. But still, something shifted in my chest at the way he looked at me—like I was something precious.

I wasn't ready to name that feeling.

But for the first time since I'd arrived, I didn't feel like running.

Slowly—mercifully—Rhys seemed to remember how to function again.

He settled into the chair across from me, still watching me with those impossibly violet eyes, but at least he wasn't hovering like I might vanish if he so much as blinked.

Not that he'd relaxed entirely.

No, because the moment I so much as shifted—adjusting the blanket, setting my tea down—he twitched as if preparing to leap to his feet and fix something.

If I asked for anything, I had no doubt he'd be up and fetching it before I could even finish the sentence.

But at least he was sitting.

Amren, on the other hand, was done with the entire situation.

With a long-suffering sigh, she stood and stretched. "Alright. That's enough of this."

Cassian perked up. "Of what?"

She shot him a withering look. "The two of you sitting here, watching this disaster unfold like it's a theatrical event."

Cassian grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Oh, but it is."

Azriel just sipped his whiskey, but the small smirk on his lips said everything.

Amren turned her glare to them both, then pointed at the door. "Out."

Cassian gaped. "But—"

"Out," she repeated, already making her way toward him.

Cassian barely had time to dodge before she grabbed his arm, yanking him up with surprising strength for someone so small. "Azriel, move," she barked.

Azriel, for all his shadows and lethal grace, barely managed to stifle a chuckle before obeying.

Rhys, looking very much like a male clinging to the last shred of his dignity, just sighed. "Amren, I hardly think—"

"Oh, please." She shot him a knowing look. "You want them gone."

Rhys opened his mouth. Closed it. Then glanced—too quickly—at me.

Cassian cackled. "Oh, this is so good."

"I hate all of you," Rhys muttered.

Cassian just grinned, throwing an arm over Azriel's shoulder as Amren shoved them both toward the door. "Love you too, brother!"

The door shut behind them then silence settled.

I exhaled slowly, my mind still spinning from all of this—this place, these people, Rhysand, sitting before me and looking as though he didn't quite know what to do with himself.

Mor, still seated beside me, gave a soft, reassuring smile. "Ignore them," she said. "They're menaces, but they mean well."

I nodded, unsure what to say.

She nudged me gently. "You doing okay?"

I hesitated.

Then, quietly, "I think so."

Mor's smile warmed. "Good." She stood, stretching. "I'm just down the hall if you need anything, okay?"

I nodded again. "Thanks, Mor."

She winked. "Get some rest."

And then, just like that, I was alone. With Rhysand.

Who, despite his best attempts to seem relaxed, looked about two seconds away from combusting.

The silence stretched for a beat too long before Rhys cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "So," he started, voice smoother now, steadier, "what do you think of Velaris?"

I exhaled, my grip loosening on the blanket around my shoulders as I glanced toward the window. The city lights still twinkled beyond the glass, mirroring the stars above.

"It's..." I searched for the right word. Magnificent."

His lips curved. "It is." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Not what you expected?"

A soft huff of breath left me. "In all honesty, I didn't even expect it to be real."

Rhys chuckled, low and warm. "Most don't."

I looked back at him. "How long has it been hidden?"

His expression turned thoughtful. "Since the war." His gaze flickered to the window, a distant look in his eyes. "My family—my court—has fought to protect it for centuries. It's the one place in all of Prythian untouched by war, by cruelty." He met my gaze again, and this time, there was something softer there. "Now it's yours, too."

Something shifted in my chest at that. The way he said it like I belonged here. I swallowed. "And the court?"

His smile returned, easy and knowing. "You've already met the worst of them."

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "I don't believe that."

"Oh, you should." He smirked. "Cassian and Azriel? Winged buffoons. Mor? Chaos incarnate." He placed a hand on his chest, feigning solemnity. "And me? Well, the stories you've heard don't paint me in the best light, do they?"

A teasing edge now, that sharp, clever humor creeping into his voice.

I tilted my head. "No, they don't."

He grinned, but it softened as he glanced back outside. "You'll see for yourself, though." He hesitated, then added, "You'll be here for Starfall."

"Starfall?"

His eyes lit up, and suddenly, it was as if the shadows in the room no longer existed.

"You've never heard of it?"

I shook my head.

Rhys leaned closer, his voice dropping to something conspiratorial, enticing. "Once a year, the sky does something extraordinary."

I raised a brow, peering out the large arched window to look at the galaxy of stars just outside. "More extraordinary than usual?"

A chuckle. "Much more." He sat back again, watching me with a quiet sort of delight, as if he already knew I'd love it. "The stars don't just shine that night. They fall."

I blinked. "They fall?"

"Mmm." He traced a circle on the arm of his chair. "Not like shooting stars—though it looks similar. The souls of long-lost beings drift across the sky, shimmering trails left in their wake. It's..." He trailed off, searching for the word.

"Magnificent?" I supplied, unable to help the small smile tugging at my lips.

Rhys gave a slow, approving nod. "Very."

Something warm settled in my chest. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

And then, finally, I allowed myself to really look at him.

Not the High Lord. Not the nightmare. Just Rhysand.

And gods, he was handsome.

The kind of handsome that made the room feel smaller, the air feel warmer. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, those impossibly violet eyes that seemed to catch every flicker of candlelight. And the way he looked at me—like I was something precious. Like he already knew me, in some deep, unspoken way.

I cleared my throat, shoving away the thought. "It sounds magical."

He grinned, and for the first time, it wasn't the grin of a High Lord, or a male who held the power of nightmares in his hands.

It was just a smile. For me.

A slight yawn slipped from me, Rhys was instantly moving.

"Mother above, I've kept you up too late—" He was already leading me toward the hall, his steps brisk, his hands half-lifted as if he wanted to guide me but thought better of it.

I barely had time to keep up as he strode toward a door across from Mor's, gesturing to it like it was some grand reveal. "This is yours—of course, if you don't like it, we can find you another room, or a different house entirely, or—"

"Rhys—"

"I really should have let you rest earlier, I can be insufferable when I ramble, and—"

"Rhys."

"I hope you find everything comfortable, but if you need anything—extra pillows, a softer mattress, a different view—"

I pressed my palm to his chest. He froze.

His breath hitched, just barely—but I felt it beneath my hand, the sharp inhale, the slight stutter of his heartbeat.

His eyes locked onto mine, the violet darkening, blazing.

I had only meant to stop his spiraling apologies, but now... Now the air between us was thick with tension.

Something unseen curled and tightened, coiling like a living thing beneath my skin.

Rhys exhaled sharply through his nose. Slowly—reverently—his hand lifted, covering mine where it lay over his chest. His fingers curled just enough to hold me there, as if... as if he couldn't bear to let go.

Something between us shifted and I didn't have time to decide if it was for the better or not.

A pull, deep in my ribs. An ache that hadn't been there before.

Rhys went completely still.

Like he was waging some great internal war, fighting against a force that neither of us had yet spoken aloud. But I felt it.

The way his fingers tightened just slightly over mine. The way his lips parted like he was about to say something, only to think better of it.

The way his eyes—those star-flecked, devastatingly beautiful eyes—searched mine like they held the answer to something he'd been waiting for.

I should have stepped back.

I should have moved.

Instead, I stood there, heart pounding, fingers twitching against the soft fabric of his tunic.

Rhys swallowed, his throat working around the motion, but he said nothing. Did nothing. Just stood there, his chest rising and falling beneath my palm, his fingers flexing ever so slightly over mine like he was grounding himself—like he needed to hold on. I knew I should step back.

We had only just met.

Yet that fact seemed irrelevant, insignificant compared to the weight of the moment curling between us, thick as smoke.

Because I could feel it—something pulling me toward him, that bond deeper than attraction, sharper than longing. It was in the way his breath came uneven, in the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to my lips before snapping back up to my eyes, a flicker of something raw, something wanting, breaking through his carefully placed walls.

His lips parted, like he might say something. Like he might stop this before it went too far.

I didn't let him. Didn't give myself the chance to second-guess, to think, to reason.

I surged forward.

Rhys barely had time to exhale before my lips met his. Soft. That was my first thought—how soft his lips were, warm and parting against mine as if in stunned surrender.

And then he was kissing me back.

A sharp inhale, his hand sliding up my wrist, curling around it like he couldn't quite believe this was happening—but wouldn't dare let go, either.

His other hand found my waist, light, hesitant, his fingers pressing in just enough to ground me, to anchor us both in the storm of whatever this was.

It wasn't desperate. It wasn't hurried. It was slow, tentative, a gentle exploration.

His nose brushed mine as he tilted his head, his lips parting wider, and I felt the way he breathed me in—like I was something to be savored, something he hadn't known he was starving for until now.

A small sound left me—something between a sigh and a whimper—and Rhys shuddered, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his fingertips pressing into my skin like he needed to remind himself this was real.

We lingered there, caught in something we didn't have a name for, something neither of us had expected but couldn't seem to pull away from.

His thumb brushed along my wrist, slow, reverent, as our lips moved together in a rhythm that felt achingly natural.

Like we had done this a thousand times before. Like we would do it a thousand times more.

When we finally parted, it was only enough to breathe, our foreheads pressing together, breaths mingling.

Rhys's fingers flexed at my waist.

"I—" His voice was hoarse, rough with something unspoken. He swallowed. "We should stop."

I exhaled shakily, my hands still fisting the fabric of his tunic.

"We should," I admitted.

His thumb traced slow, lazy circles along my wrist, like he was memorizing the shape of me, the feel of me.

And then, softer—softer than I'd ever heard anyone speak my name—

"But I don't want to."

I barely had time to whisper, "Neither do I," before he kissed me again.

His lips were still on mine, still moving, still taking, even as he rasped against my mouth, "We can't."

But he didn't stop. Didn't pull away.

If anything, his hands tightened at my waist, fingers pressing into my skin like he was anchoring himself—like he was fighting a losing battle against whatever force was unraveling between us.

I gasped as his tongue slid against mine, slow and thorough, like he was trying to memorize me, like he was desperate to learn every piece of me with nothing more than his lips, his hands, his breath.

"Rhys," I whispered, not knowing if it was meant to be a plea or a warning.

He groaned, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath coming out in short, uneven pants.

"I want to know you," he said, his voice so raw, so gutted that it sent a shiver down my spine.

Then his lips were on mine again, harder, deeper, like he was proving it, like he needed me to believe him.

"I want to know everything," he murmured against my mouth, between kisses that left me gasping, left me trembling, my fingers still tangled in his hair. Another kiss, this one rougher, hungrier. "Everything."

I whimpered against his lips, barely able to think, barely able to breathe with the way he was consuming me, the way his words were carving themselves into my ribs.

He groaned, like the sound was being ripped from him. "I—" He shuddered. "Tell me to stop."

I froze beneath him, blinking up at him, my head spinning, my lips swollen from his kisses.

He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven, his hands flexing at my sides.

"Tell me to stop," he repeated, voice ragged, "because I don't think I can on my own."

His words hung between us, raw and trembling, his breath fanning against my lips. I could still taste him, still feel the imprint of his hands at my sides, as if he had branded himself into my very skin. My heart pounded against my ribs, my body warring between the pull of the bond and the sliver of hesitation curling in my chest.

I slipped my hands from his hair, brushing my fingers along his jaw, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. "Rhys," I whispered, my voice barely a breath.

His eyes, dark and blazing with emotion, searched mine. I saw the restraint there, the war he was fighting within himself, the way his hands trembled against my sides.

I swallowed, forcing myself to find the words through the haze of want clouding my mind. "I'll accept the bond," I murmured. His breath hitched, his entire body going utterly still. "I just need some time."

A heartbeat passed. Then another. And then—he exhaled, his forehead pressing against mine, his entire frame shuddering. His hands skimmed up my sides, gentle now, reverent, like he was memorizing every inch of me before letting go.

"You could take centuries," he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple, featherlight. "Beyond that, if you wanted. I'd wait for you, always."

Something in my chest ached, something too big to name. I closed my eyes, breathing him in, the warmth of him, the endless patience laced in every word.

I tilted my head up, pressing the softest of kisses against his lips—nothing like the desperate, fevered ones from before. Just a promise. Just a thank you.

His hands lingered on my waist, like he wasn't quite ready to let go, but he didn't stop me as I pulled away. A small smile tugged at my lips. "Goodnight, Rhys."

His eyes softened, something almost wistful in them. "Goodnight, my love."

With a final glance, I turned and slipped into my room, closing the door behind me. And even then, I could still feel him—like a shadow, like a promise—waiting.

Comment or reblog with a “💙” to be added to the general taglist!

General Taglist: @fxckmiup @olive-main @iluvyewman-blog @gaymistakeboi @glitterypirateduck @amara-moonlight @impossibelle @fauxdette @going-through-shit @glam-targaryen @hufflepuff-pa55 @sarawritestories @tele86 @rogerbarnesxx @azriels-shadowsinger @stinkinstuffie @sandramalikstyles-blog @sassyangel16 @lilah-asteria @starsinyourseyes @inloveallthetime @melsunshine @nighttimemoonlover @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @cumuluscranium @adharanotfound @azrielsmate3 @aelincaddel @hiddlestonspassionsackx @dee-writes-angst @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @pit-and-the-pen @mybestfriendmademe @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @circe143 @bubybubsters @joshysloshy @username199945 @ivy-34 @notsarareallynot @vixenshiftsvrs @aurorab99 @pey2618 @loving-and-dreaming @mmg777 @andreperez11 @thatacotargirl @123345566 @one-big-fangirl @moonslitluna @imyherondale @salvawhxres @bookishbabyyyy @anuttellaa @breadsticks2004 @azriels-human @mamita-vera @demetercabingreen-thumb @lorosette @daughterofthemoons-stuff @tothestarsandwhateverend @ahaha0246 @mellowmusings @mythicalcookie

[dee-writes-angst]

Did you remove your Eris fics? I try searching for them on your page and they are not pulling up.

I have not! My links aren’t working for some reason because tumblr doesn’t like me :(((

I have been super sick lately so I won’t be able to update them, I’m sorry! I’ll fix my Masterlist link and hopefully that will work, I’m sorry again for the inconvenience!

You could also try searching Eris fics, I try and tag all of my Eris works under that.

[dee-writes-angst]

The Sun: A Short Story

A/N: Hello everyone! I know this isn't something I normally post, but after too much time spent agonizing over it, I decided I wanted to share this with you. I have spent several months working on this short story and didn't want it to go to waste sitting in my drafts and figured I might as well share it with all of you. I really hope you like it and please let me know what you think! <3

----

THE SUN by ME <3

The streets are quieter than I remember. Cracked sidewalks still wind through the neighborhood like they always had, but the houses lining the street feel different– darker, smaller. The sun is low, casting long shadows across the pavement and cutting out silhouettes of the homes surrounding me. They look like claws, reaching out, swallowing the light, refusing to give it back. This place– where I could remember laughter filling the streets, screams of joy cracking through the air– now feels abandoned, a thick layer of ash and the smell of burnt wood and flesh all that remains.  

Another headline flashes across my phone screen, all too familiar by now: Thirty killed in an attack today, several more injured and misplaced. The words blur together, but it’s not like I really need to read them. Not when I already know, when I’m standing here taking in the carnage. Despite the heat of the lingering fire in the air, I can’t help but pull my coat tighter around me, trying to abate the chill creeping up my spine as I force myself to stare at it, to know what I caused. And for a moment, I wonder if he carries it too, if he feels the weight of all the pain he’s caused. 

Or maybe I’m the only one left who feels anything at all and maybe I deserve that too.  

The man with the ability to produce fire from his hands, white-hot and devastating, has struck again. My son. Not that anyone knows, not that they care when they just assume he is some heartless monster. They simply think he struck a street full of innocent families out of cruel whimsy, a senseless display of power. They can’t see the truth etched into the fractured pavement and crumbled walls, the weight of a thousand shadows that linger in the dust-filled air. To them, it's just another scar on the city’s surface. But to him, every crack in the asphalt screams with memories too dark to be silenced—laughter that turned to screams, windows once alight with warmth now shattered and cold. They don’t know the weight of a past that grips his chest like a vice, forcing his hands to destroy the very place that destroyed him. 

I tuck my phone away, unable to look at the placid faces of the reporters as they describe the devastation and implore people to evacuate the area. Murderer, arsonist, cold-blooded killer. The words ring through my mind in distorted, faceless voices as I take it all in. It feels strange to be standing here again, a feeling akin to shoving a square peg in a round hole: it just doesn’t fit. Instead, I think about how different things could have been. How much I’d give to go back to that day, to pull him into my arms and tell him– don’t go, don’t give up.  

I walk slowly, letting my eyes trace past charred homes and burn marks to those familiar cracks in the road, to the collapsed porch where a swing would creak in the summer air as I sat and watched him play. I moved away years ago, just after he left. I refused to come back since, but somehow, when I heard what had happened, I couldn’t help myself as I felt pulled here, dragged almost against my will through the past. It all feels so heavy, like the weight of my mistakes has been personified into my very own ball and chain forcing me to face it all. I can’t outrun what he’s done. What I let him become. 

Our old house took the brunt of the damage, the windows charred, some shattered or even melted– but I can still see him there, a small boy with messy hair, darting through the yard, laughing so hard that his cheeks turned a dark shade of red. I can almost hear the ghost of his voice calling out to me, “Mommy! Watch me!” 

 I stop, my feet frozen to the ground. For a moment, I’m not sure I can keep going.  

I allow my eyes to fall shut, remembering him as a boy– his smile wide, as bright as the sun reflected in his grassy eyes. His name, one I had picked from a magazine in a waiting room, now holds a deeper meaning than just the warm feeling in my chest as I called after him. Now Achilles more accurately reflects its true meaning, one of sorrow and despair.  

There was a time when he wasn’t so afraid, when he wasn’t angry. Before the world became cruel, before the grass grew frost and a scar marred his face, taking any light left behind just like the shadows crowding the street.  

My feet move again, carrying me toward the house, past the memories, past everything I’ve tried to leave behind. It all feels inevitable now. The path, the return. This is where it was always leading, wasn’t it? Back to where it all began, where things first went wrong. 

The neighborhood is so still, like the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. For me to see him again. For the truth to hit me in the face, like it always does. 

I round the corner, and my breath catches in my throat. 

There he is. 

Standing at the end of the block, his back turned to me. His silhouette is unmistakable, the way his shoulders hunch forward, the way he tilts his head to the side when he's thinking. For a moment, I can't move. I don't know if it's shock or fear or some horrible combination of both. But he doesn't see me. Not yet. 

The world narrows down to him, to the space between us. My heart pounds in my chest, loud, like it’s trying to break free. There’s no escaping this now. 

I should turn around, leave before he notices. I should run. But I don't. 

This was always going to happen. We were always going to meet again, here, in this place. There’s no avoiding it anymore. 

I take a step forward. Then another. The distance between us shrinks, and with it, the years of separation, of silence, of wondering where it all went wrong. All those moments I spent running from this, from him, were pointless. 

When he turns around, his eye locks onto mine, and time stops. 

— — — 

It was his teenage years. That much I remember clearly. Back then when flames would dance so elegantly from fingertip to fingertip and I would marvel. An elemental child, already so rare and prejudiced in our world, but one of fire, the most unlikely of all. He still had friends, he laughed at stupid jokes, and he’d stay up late playing video games until I had to force him to bed. But something changed—gradually, quietly, until it wasn’t quiet at all. 

I think it was that day. It had to have been. 

I can still see it: the blood, smeared across his face like a mask. His hands shaking as he pressed them against his eye, the other one wide with shock and fear. I wasn’t there when it happened—he never told me the full story, and I never asked. But I know it was that boy he was dating. The one I never liked. The one who had a temper, quick to raise his voice, quick to make my son shrink beneath the weight of his anger and extinguish his flames. 

There was a fight. I don’t know who started it, but I know how it ended. That jagged scar, cutting deep across his right eye, so deep it stole his sight. When he came home that night, bleeding and bruised, I wanted to scream. To kill that boy for what he did. But my son—he didn’t let me. 

“No, Mom,” he said, his voice cold, dead. “It was my fault. I deserved it.” 

I didn’t believe him. How could I? He was my child, my little boy. He couldn’t have deserved that. But he wouldn’t let me call the police, wouldn’t let me take him to the hospital. He just disappeared into his room, locking the door behind him. 

That’s when I started to lose him. Slowly, at first. He’d spend hours in his room, sitting in the dark, letting the world pass him by. I’d knock, sometimes, trying to talk to him, but the conversations only got shorter. He stopped telling me things. He stopped laughing. 

It was the scar. It had to be the scar. It took more than his eye—it took the light out of him. It turned him hard, distant, and angry. His flames no longer danced and jumped, they burned and blazed and hurt. I know it wasn’t my fault—how could it be? I wasn’t the one who hurt him, wasn’t the one who pushed him away. But still, I couldn’t reach him after that. Couldn’t fix whatever was breaking inside him. 

He started staying out late, disappearing for days at a time, coming home with new bruises, new injuries that he wouldn’t explain. He’d look at me with that one good eye, but it was like he wasn’t seeing me anymore. Like I wasn’t even there. 

I tried. I tried to help him, to be there for him, but every time I reached out, he pulled further away. I didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t talk to me. He wouldn’t let me in. 

By the time he stopped coming home, his eyes had hardened and his lips were permanently pressed in that tight line that said more than his words ever could. No more smiles, no more grassy Saturdays. He didn’t even hug me when he left, didn’t even say goodbye. He just disappeared into the night like every day before, but somehow I knew that he wasn’t ever going to come back, that I had truly lost him. 

He had slipped into something I couldn’t pull him out of, falling deeper into whatever dark place had swallowed him whole. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know why it happened. But I know it was that boy, that fight, that scar. That was the beginning. 

It had to be. 

— — — 

“Achilles,” I breathe, and time has seemed to start again as his face shifts and his brows furrow– he resents me.  

I ask myself why over and over again, but I simply can’t come up with an answer. The bitter part of me wants to yell, to scream in my defense– I didn’t cut you, I tried to help– but the other part, the part that always wins, is the guilt, the feeling that I could’ve done something more, that I could have been more.  

I watch as fire fills his hand, it’s so abrupt, so well mastered during both years of happiness and sorrow, that it doesn’t even seem like he has to think about it anymore. I don’t think he’s actually thinking, not as I watch the flames arc through the air like a tidal wave and I can’t move, can’t think, as those flames slam into me like a wall.  

It’s like being submerged, but this isn’t water—it’s flame, licking at my skin, biting into my flesh with sharp, searing teeth. 

Pain blooms in waves, overwhelming every other sensation until my body is foreign. It doesn’t belong to me anymore, it belongs to those hot, hot streaks of blue as they move over my chest, my legs, burning through both fabric and skin alike until it all melds into one. 

I want to move, to pull away and run from it, but my legs; they won’t obey as the weight of the fire pins me in place. My skin feels tight, like it’s shrinking around my bones, cracking and peeling under the relentless heat.  

The pain—God, the pain. It’s beyond anything I could have imagined, worse than the most petrifying of nightmares. My muscles twitch involuntarily, spasming as the flames crawl higher, dancing up my body, their fingers weaving through my hair, across my face. 

I can smell it—my body burning. My hair singeing, my skin crisping beneath the fire. It’s sickening, thick and acrid, filling my nose, coating my throat. I want to gag, to scream, but my voice is gone. The heat has taken it. My chest tightens, every breath coming in short, painful gasps, as if I’m trying to suck oxygen through molten glass. 

My eyes cloud with boiling hot tears as I stare at him standing just a few feet away, his face menacing as it’s bathing in the flickering light of his flames. I forget the pain as I look at him, watching as my mind shifts his reality until I am staring at a little boy with grassy green eyes again. But there is something on his face that doesn’t quite match the memory– something lost, broken. He is not the monster they say he is. He is not a villain. He’s just a child, one that went through too much pain too young.  

And when the image melts, there is no recognition in his eyes, no spark of the child that would cling to me when he was scared, or call for me as he proudly executed a new trick. The boy I knew is gone. Instead, a stranger stands in his place, one with tight lips, sagging skin, and tired eyes. 

I want to apologize, but my fingers don’t move and my lips won’t part. The pain is too much. It’s everywhere, a thousand burning needles driving deeper and deeper into my flesh. 

My skin is splitting, cracking open like overripe fruit. I can feel blisters forming, feel the raw, exposed flesh beneath. My hands—pointless things—they don’t even look like hands anymore. Just blackened, twisted, curled in on themselves, utterly and completely useless. 

Is he watching me die? 

Does he see what he’s done? Does he care? 

Through the haze, I watch him stand there, frozen in the aftermath of the chaos he created. His hands fall limp at his sides and for the first time in what feels like forever, he is motionless. 

He’s staring at me. 

At first, it’s like he doesn’t understand. His face is still hard, blank—expressionless, like he’s in shock, like he’s not seeing me at all. But then something changes. Slowly, so slowly, I watch the realization dawn in his eyes. 

He steps closer, and for a moment, I think he’s going to stop it. That he’ll extinguish the fire roaring in my skin, that he’ll save me. But he just stands there, his one good eye fixed on me with something like...horror. 

It’s only then that I realize—he’s seeing me. He’s really seeing me. 

I don’t know if it’s the fire, or the way my body is crumpling under the heat, but something in him is breaking. His chest is heaving, his face contorting, as if he’s struggling to understand what’s happening—what he’s done. 

And then it happens. 

His hand trembles, the flames flickering like they’ve lost their strength. His lips part, a soft gasp escaping as his gaze drops to the blue inferno consuming me. 

“Mom…” 

It’s barely a whisper, but I hear it. I feel it. The way his voice cracks, breaking like glass under the weight of it. That word—Mom—carries so much pain that it cuts through the fire, cuts through the searing heat and agony. For just a moment, the pain dulls, and all I feel is the pull of that single, broken word. 

I try to reach for him, but my body is failing, the fire too strong. My vision is darkening, my legs giving way as I collapse to the ground. The pavement is rough under me, but I hardly feel it. 

He moves forward again, just a step, his hands shaking as the fire slowly begins to die in his palms. His face—it’s changing. The rage, the fury—it’s gone, replaced by something else. Something far more human and familiar. 

His mouth opens again, as if he wants to speak, to say something, to apologize maybe. But no words come. 

Instead, his face collapses, his good eye—the one that isn’t hidden behind that scar—fills with anguish the kind of horror that only comes when you realize you’ve crossed a line you can never come back from. The green of his iris reflects the dying embers around us just as it once did the sun. 

He steps forward, his movements slow, hesitant. His hands tremble at his sides, the fire in his palms now completely extinguished. His face twists with something I can’t quite place—recognition, maybe? Regret? I don’t know. 

His face crumples, the hardness that he’s worn like armor for so long suddenly falling away. His hands start to shake, trembling like leaves in the wind, his fingers twitching as though they want to reach for me but don’t know how. 

I try to move, lift my hand again, reach for him, tell him it’s okay, that I’m still here. But my body doesn’t respond. The pain is fading, replaced by a kind of numbness that I know I shouldn’t feel. 

And then– he hesitates, his gaze darting away, avoiding mine. The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating, filled with everything neither of us can say. 

For a moment, I think he’ll reach for me. That he’ll drop to his knees, pull me close, and tell me it’s going to be okay. That he’s sorry. That he didn’t mean it. 

But he doesn’t. 

He stays there, standing over me as his expression shifts until it’s unreadable. And then—slowly, almost imperceptibly—he turns away. His shoulders sag under the weight of something I can’t see, and he takes a single step back. 

Then another. 

The embers glow faintly around us, the world growing quieter, darker. I want to call out to him, to beg him not to leave. But the words stay trapped in my chest. All I can do is watch as he fades into the haze, his figure swallowed by the smoke. 

And just like that, he’s gone. 

I lay there, staring up at the sky, the silence pressing down on me. The fire crackles faintly in the distance, but even that seems to grow quieter, softer, until it’s nothing more than a whisper. 

“Mom…” His voice lingers in the air, faint and fragile, like a memory slipping through my fingers. 

I can’t move, can’t feel anything anymore. The world fades into darkness, and all that remains is the memory of him—of the little boy who used to wrap his arms around me, who used to laugh and call me Mommy. The little boy who I loved more than anything in the world. 

I close my eyes. And let it go. 

[dee-writes-angst]

[dee-writes-angst]

wilf (wip i’d like to finish)

[dee-writes-angst]

Thank you for the tag mommy @surielstea! As all fanfic writers, I too have an endless pit of drafts, but the most recent ones I’ve been working on are:

Chapter 3: The Witch’s Craft (for my Sukuna x reader series on my other blog @dee-writes-anime)

The Day Court (for the courts series: Lucien x reader) (SMUTT IMBOUND)

Super secret potential individual bat boys x reader one shot

These are slow in the making, but I’m excited to share them with you at some point!

Tagging @littlest-w01f @daycourtofficial @milswrites

Thanks for the tag @olenvasynyt and @sapphiresandgold

WIP FOLDER GAME:

Rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Tag as many people as you have wips. People send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

Lots of abandoned drafts but I'll focus on the ones I'm working on-ish:

Torpe

Wolf's Den

RomanceWeek Favorite Trope

No pressure tags!

@bonecarversbestie @sad-scarred-sassy @clarafae @sadiegirl2021 @sunshinebingo

[dee-writes-angst]

Happy new years, my darlings, I’m so grateful for each and every one of you. Here’s to another amazing year with all of you 🥳❤️

[dee-writes-angst]

Something new this way comes on my side blog @dee-writes-anime!!! If you’re into jjk, Sukuna, or even witches, then please feel free to keep and eye out!

I have a feeling this is going to be a fun one 😼

Queen of Curses

Ryomen Sukuna x Witch!Reader

In the Heian era, where curses reign and fear festers, one woman stands accused of causing death and despair. Dragged before the King of Curses, Ryomen Sukuna, her defiance and quiet ruthlessness captivate him in a way no other ever has. What begins as an act of survival becomes a battle of power, strength, and control as she rises to claim her place by his side—not as a victim, but as his equal. In a world ruled by chaos, she is the queen destined to match his reign of terror. -IN PROGRESS

Leave a comment if you want to be added to the tag list!

Content Warning: This story contains dark themes, including graphic depictions of violence, death, destruction, and power dynamics that may be unsettling to some readers. It is intended for mature audiences and explores morally gray characters in a high-stakes, brutal setting. Reader discretion is advised.

dividers by @strangergraphics

Chapter 1: The Witch Accused

“Fear is a flame that consumes the weak and forges the strong.”

Chapter 2: A Caged Beast

“The eyes of the defiant are sharper than any blade.”

Chapter 3: The Witch’s Craft

“True power lies in control, not chaos.”

Chapter 4: Claiming Her Place

“A queen does not ask for a throne; she commands it.”

Chapter 5: A Test of Worth

“The fire that burns can also temper steel.”

Chapter 6: The Queen Rises

“The crown is not given; it is taken, bloodied and unbowed.”

Chapter 7: The King’s Consort

“Power is greatest when shared between those who can wield it without fear.”

Chapter 8: A Reign of Terror

“To rule without fear, one must become the fear.”

Chapter 9: The Queen’s Will

“When the king falters, the queen’s hand steadies the throne.”

Chapter 10: Eternally Bound

“Together, they are the storm that no force can withstand.”

[dee-writes-angst]

This is simultaneously hilarious and adorable, thank you friend 🩷🩷🩷

[dee-writes-angst]

Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!!

A huge thank you to this amazing blog! What a beautiful idea to spread kindness and appreciation during the holidays—I highly recommend checking out all the incredible creators featured in their advent.

I feel so fortunate to be surrounded by such supportive readers whose thoughtful messages never fail to brighten my day. I can’t even begin to express how grateful I am for the opportunity to share my stories with all of you.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your support. Let’s keep spreading the love! ❤️

-Dee

This fandom, especially the x-Reader community, is so lucky to have the three of you and all your amazing stories. Thank you for everything you contribute, you are amazing!

Here are just a few of their stories, but I would recommend checking out all their works!

Lazy Mornings (Cassian x Reader, @dee-writes-smut) A Bitter Farewell (Eris x Reader, @dee-writes-smut)

The Void (Azriel x Reader, @sirenpearldust) Mating Bond (Azriel x Reader, Eris x Reader, @sirenpearldust)

No One, But You (Cassian x Reader, @surielstea) A Fatherly Fear (Eris x Reader, @surielstea)

*divider by tsunami-of-tears