dee-writes-angst

[dee-writes-angst]

TERMS AND CONDITIONS (Chapter Two)

FEATURING Batboys x Reader

SUMMARY When a lead turns into a hunt through the cliffs, you barely survive a vampire’s attack before Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian sweep you into their court with an offer you can’t refuse—answers for your cooperation. But in Velaris, every kindness feels like a calculated move, and every look from them feels far too close to possession.

CONTENT WARNINGS vampires, predator/prey undertones, dangerous court politics, violence, blood, life-threatening situations, kidnapping/abduction, sexual tension, intimidation, forced relocation, mild language

AUTHORS NOTE another chapter for you! I recently got a new computer (shout out student discounts) and decided to test drive it by writing this. Safe to say, it was a fun, but grueling process. Hopefully there aren't any weird typos T-T

SERIES MASTERLIST

You’d told yourself it was just a masquerade. Just a dangerous night in a dangerous city, and you’d walked away with your head still attached to your shoulders. That should’ve been the end of it.

And yet.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw them. The sweep of onyx hair over a pale brow, the gleam of a predator’s grin in the dim light, the heat of a hand lingering at your lower back like it had every right to be there. You could still smell them, gods help you — spice and steel, midnight air over some place much warmer than this city.

You should’ve been working. You had files to comb through, merchants to track down, a lead on the smuggled shipment you’d braved Hewn City to confirm. Instead, you’d spent most of the morning glaring at the same line of text while your stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

It was infuriating. You weren’t the type to get rattled by a pretty face or three — especially not ones attached to the most infamous High Fae in Prythian. Especially not when they were the wrong species, the wrong court, the wrong everything.

You shoved your chair back hard enough to scrape the floor, the sound cutting through your office like a blade. This was fine. You’d file your report, track down the goods, and forget all about the way Cassian’s gaze had burned down your spine. Or the way Azriel had moved like shadow and steel made flesh. Or how Rhysand had looked at you like he could peel you open with a thought.

Gods. You needed air.

The knock came just as you were deciding between ignoring lunch or making the sad walk to the bakery down the street. Three slow raps. Too deliberate to be a neighbor. Too confident to be a stranger asking for directions.

You didn’t open the door. “Who is it?”

Silence. Then, “you should start locking your windows.”

You spun toward the back of the room, and sure enough, the shadows by your desk stretched unnaturally long. They moved before your eyes, coalescing into broad shoulders, folded wings, and a face carved from shadow and stone.

Azriel. The Spymaster. The silent one. The one whose eyes you’d caught at the ball only once—yet the weight of that single look had followed you all night.

“You’re not welcome here,” you said, keeping your voice sharp.

“That’s not true.” His voice was low, almost… warm. “If it were, your pulse wouldn’t have jumped the moment you heard me.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the sting in your cheeks. “You broke into my office to… what? Harass me? Scare me? I’ve had scarier visitors this week.”

“Not here to scare you.” He stepped forward, shadows clinging to his frame like they feared the light. “I’m here because you’re chasing something you shouldn’t.”

You stiffened. “And what exactly am I chasing, shadow-man?”

His gaze flicked to your desk — the spread of maps, shipping ledgers, and coded manifests you’d been poring over for two days. “A shipment that doesn’t belong to you. A shipment that doesn’t belong to your… employer, either. Tell me—how much do you know about him?”

Your jaw tightened. “Enough to finish what he started before he disappeared.”

Azriel’s mouth quirked — not a smile, exactly. “And if I told you that shipment you’re so eager to find contains things that could get you killed before you ever open the crates?”

“I’d tell you you’re wasting your breath,” you said, folding your arms. “Because I’m finding it. And if that means getting under the skin of every smug bastard in Hewn City, so be it.”

He didn’t move closer, but somehow the room felt smaller. “You already have.”

You blinked. “What?”

“They noticed you at the ball,” he said simply. “You should be careful whose attention you court.”

“That almost sounded like concern,” you shot back.

The shadows shifted—then stilled. “Not concern. Awareness.”

And just as you were about to tell him exactly where he could shove his awareness, the air shimmered. The scent of night-blooming flowers curled into the room, silk and shadow twining together.

Rhysand was leaning against your desk before you even registered the movement, violet eyes fixed on you with the easy confidence of a man who knew exactly how dangerous he was. “Awareness,” he mused, glancing at Azriel, “is such a polite word for obsession, don’t you think?”

Azriel said nothing. Rhys’s gaze slid back to you, his smile slow and sharp. “Care to tell me why you’ve been sniffing around cargo docks that belong to me?”

“I didn’t know the docks were yours,” you lied, voice steady even as Rhys’s violet gaze pinned you like a butterfly.

“Oh, you knew,” he purred. “You’re far too clever to stumble into my territory by accident.” He circled your desk like a cat, fingertips grazing the edge of your maps, pausing over a coded column of figures. “This is impressive work for someone without… training.”

Azriel didn’t move from the shadows, but you could feel his eyes on you. Watching. Measuring.

Rhys tapped the manifest. “You cracked half the code already. That’s more than most of my men could do without help.” His grin sharpened. “So tell me, little human—who taught you?”

You lifted your chin. “A man who doesn’t go missing without a fight. And I’m going to find him.”

“Even if it kills you?”

“Especially if it kills me.”

The room went still. Not silent—because you could hear Azriel’s slow, controlled breathing, and the faint rustle of Rhys’s wings—but still in the way prey realizes the predator has stopped playing.

Rhys leaned closer, bracing a hand on the desk beside you. His scent was overwhelming—night air after rain, something electric beneath it. “Your employer,” he said softly, “was mixed up in things you can’t possibly understand. And if you keep digging, you’re going to end up on someone’s dinner plate.”

“Yours?” you shot back before you could stop yourself.

The smile he gave you wasn’t kind. “Not unless you ask nicely.”

Azriel’s shadows stirred, but Rhys didn’t break eye contact. “That shipment you’re chasing,” he went on, “left the docks three nights ago. It’s heading inland, to a place you don’t want to find. Walk away, and I might even forget you’ve been sniffing around my business.”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your legs deliberately. “Yeah, see, here’s the thing: I’m not afraid of you.”

Rhys’s laugh was low, almost genuine. “You will be.”

And with that, the air between the three of you tightened—thick with challenge, curiosity, and something far darker—before they both vanished as quickly as they’d arrived.

You stared at the maps on your desk, heart still hammering. Three nights ago. Inland. If they thought a little scare was going to keep you from your goal, they didn’t know you at all.

The train station reeked of rust, coal, and the kind of damp that got into your bones. Not the clean, bustling stop the tourists saw in the middle of the day—this was the freight side, half-forgotten, where the lamplight was too dim and the shadows too long.

Your boots crunched over gravel as you followed the trail Rhys had so graciously—unintentionally—handed you. Three nights ago, inland. The manifest’s route codes pointed here, to the southern freight line, and you weren’t about to waste the only solid lead you’d gotten since your employer vanished.

You’d dressed for speed, not charm: fitted trousers tucked into worn boots, your thick sweater cinched at the waist with a belt to keep your satchel from bouncing. Not your most flattering look, but you’d learned long ago that curves were still curves whether you wrapped them in silk or wool, and the men who underestimated you because of them were always the easiest to surprise.

A freight clerk leaned against the loading dock, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. His eyes flicked over you, and you gave him a tight smile. “You see a shipment come through three nights ago? Big one. Hewn City seal.”

He hesitated, flicked ash into the gravel. “Could be.”

You slipped a silver coin from your belt pouch, letting it glint in the lamplight. “Could be isn’t worth silver.”

The coin vanished into his pocket like a magic trick. “Went north. Special order. Loaded onto a black coach as soon as it came off the train. Didn’t stop for supplies.”

“Where north?”

The clerk glanced toward the dark edge of the platform, where a row of coal cars sat idle. “Follow the old road out past the cliffs. But if you’ve got any sense, you won’t.”

You thanked him, already moving toward the shadows at the far end of the station.

And that was when you felt it—the distinct, prickle-down-your-neck awareness of being watched.

You didn’t need to turn around to know whose presence was stalking the edge of your senses. Rhys’s gaze was heavy, almost amused. Azriel’s was quieter, the kind that knew exactly how many breaths you’d taken since you stepped off the street.

You kept walking. If they were going to follow, let them.

Two can play at this game.

The road north curled like a snake through the cliffs, the drop on your right so sheer the moonlight couldn’t touch the bottom. Salt wind whipped at your hair, stung your cheeks, carrying the low, rhythmic crash of waves far below.

You stayed close to the cliff wall, one palm brushing rough stone for balance, boots crunching over gravel and loose shale. The air had that heavy stillness that warned you the Hewn City’s reach lingered here—like even the sea kept quiet.

The trail ended in a cluster of abandoned shipping crates wedged between two jagged rock outcroppings. Their dark, swollen wood was splintered at the edges, the Hewn City’s silver-embossed seals cracked. You crouched by the largest one, running your gloved fingers along the broken emblem. The split was fresh; the fibers were still sharp enough to snag your skin. Someone had been here recently. Maybe hours ago.

You bent lower, examining faint drag marks leading toward the narrow path on the opposite side—

The sound behind you was wrong. Not the howl of wind through stone. Not the scuttle of a rodent. Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.

You straightened, fingers already slipping under your sweater to the dagger at your hip. “Who’s there?”

No answer.

The shape that slid from the cliff’s shadow wasn’t one of them. This figure was leaner, hunched in a way that suggested both hunger and glee. Its skin was pale to the point of translucence, veins spiderwebbing from a mouth smeared red.

And its eyes glowed—a wet, sickly crimson that locked on you and didn’t blink.

The vampire’s smile was wrong, a stretch of thin lips over jagged teeth. “Human,” it whispered, like it was tasting the word.

You stepped back, weight shifting to your rear foot. The cliff’s edge was closer than you remembered.

It lunged.

You ducked low, blade flashing up in a desperate arc. Steel kissed its forearm, tearing skin, but the wound barely slowed it. Cold hands like iron bands clamped your shoulders, shoving you toward the edge. Your boots skidded in loose gravel.

Its breath was fetid against your face, a graveyard reek as it tilted your head back, baring your throat.

You slammed the dagger hilt into its jaw. It snarled, grip tightening on your chin until spots burst in your vision.

The wind shifted—pressure and motion so sudden your ears popped.

The vampire was gone. In its place, Azriel stood in a whirl of shadow and steel, siphons burning like distant stars. His dagger was buried deep in the thing’s throat, blood dripping dark and slow down the blade. The creature spasmed once before collapsing in a boneless heap at his boots.

Rhys landed a heartbeat later, wings flaring wide enough to block the moonlight. His gaze found you, swept from head to toe, and the cold rage there was far sharper than the night air.

“What,” he said, voice soft in a way that made it worse, “are you doing out here?”

You steadied yourself against the crate, forcing the tremor from your knees. “Following a lead.”

Rhys’s stare didn’t waver. “Following a lead into a hunting ground. At night. Alone.”

“Worked fine until you showed up,” you snapped, the aftertaste of adrenaline making your tongue sharper than it should be.

“You could’ve been killed.” His power stirred around you, curling at the edges of your thoughts, testing for weakness. “Our mate—”

“I am not your anything.” You shoved the words between you like a blade. “And I’m not dropping this. My employer is still missing. I’m not waiting for permission.”

Rhys took a step forward, his shadow falling over you, and the air between you tightened like drawn wire.

Cassian landed hard enough that the crates rattled, his presence breaking the invisible thread before it snapped. One big hand clapped onto Rhys’s shoulder. “Easy, brother.”

His hazel eyes flicked to you, sharp but not without humor. “What if we gave you everything you want? Full access to our information, our records, our resources. No games. You help us, we help you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And the catch?”

A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. “All you have to do is come to our court.”

Rhys didn’t give you a chance to argue. One moment you were standing on a cliffside road littered with vampire blood, the next his hand clamped around your upper arm and shadows snapped shut around you.

The world ripped sideways. The salt wind vanished. When your boots touched stone again, it wasn’t Hewn City’s jagged black halls or the chill damp of the cliffs—it was… sunlight.

Well, not exactly sunlight. The streets you stood in now glowed with soft lanternlight that spilled from carved stone facades. Balconies dripped with flowers, their petals spilling gold and crimson against pale walls. Laughter—real, unguarded laughter—drifted from a nearby courtyard. A river cut through the heart of the city, its surface catching the starlight in fractured, shimmering pieces.

It was beautiful.

And you hated that you noticed.

You twisted out of Rhys’s grip, your heart still thudding from the fight. “This isn’t the Hewn City.”

“No,” Rhys said, voice flat. “This is our court.”

The way he said it made it sound like a sentence, not an invitation. Azriel and Cassian flanked you, one a wall of quiet shadow, the other radiating a watchful, simmering energy.

“Why?” you demanded. “What game is this?”

Rhys’s gaze was like ice. “No game. You’re going to get your answers. But not tonight. You’re going to rest.”

Your mouth went dry. “I don’t need rest, I need to finish what I started.”

“Mate—” Rhys caught himself like the word had slipped without his permission. His jaw tightened. “You need to not get yourself killed before we’re done.”

You blinked at him, the strange syllable snagging in your mind like a burr. Mate? The word meant nothing to you, but the weight in his tone said it meant something. You tucked it away, a question for later.

Azriel spoke, his voice quieter but no less sharp. “You want the truth about your missing employer? The deals they were making in the Hewn City? We’ll give it to you.”

Your brows rose. “Just like that?”

Cassian’s grin was humorless. “Not just like that. You answer our questions, too. You stay here. In our court. You don’t leave until we’re done.”

You crossed your arms, trying to look unmoved despite the rapid-fire thump of your pulse. “And if I say no?”

Rhys’s shadows stirred around his boots, curling toward you like smoke. “Then we can always take you back to where we found you.”

You stared at them, three dangerous, beautiful monsters in fine clothes and sharper smiles, and knew they weren’t bluffing.

“Fine,” you said finally, each syllable bitten off. “But I’m not here to play host to your curiosity. You answer me first.”

Rhys’s answering smile was razor-thin. “We’ll see.”

The suite they’d given you wasn’t a cell. Which somehow made it worse.

The moment Rhys swept you inside, you were hit with warmth—the low crackle of a fire in a blackstone hearth, golden light spilling over rich rugs and high shelves lined with books that looked older than your entire family line. Sheer curtains billowed lazily over tall windows, the breeze carrying the faint scent of riverwater and summer citrus.

It was… perfect. And perfect meant calculated.

“Your clothes will be brought up shortly,” Rhys said, lingering in the doorway like a polite jailer. “There’s food on the table. The bath is through there.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you said, crossing your arms.

“I didn’t ask to save you from getting your throat ripped out,” he replied, velvet voice edged with steel.

Cassian lounged against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with that sharp amusement that felt one wrong word from turning dangerous. Azriel stood in the corner like a shadow carved into the wall, wings just brushing the edge of the firelight.

“I’m not your guest,” you said. “And I’m not your prisoner.”

Rhys’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re… ours, for now.” That odd weight returned to his tone, a ghost of the word he’d almost said before. Mate.

The syllable flared again in your mind, a puzzle piece with no picture. Yours? For now? You bit back the urge to demand what the hell he meant—you’d get further if you kept your questions quiet, let them slip their guard first.

Instead, you walked past them toward the window, noting the river glittering below and the moonlit mountains beyond. The city was silent but alive—warm lanterns in every shopfront, music drifting faintly from somewhere unseen. Not the cruel, blood-stained sprawl you’d expected from vampires.

“Sleep,” Azriel said at last, his voice low, carrying no room for argument.

You turned, “you’re not standing guard outside my door.”

Cassian’s grin said otherwise.

The door clicked shut behind them. Alone, you sank into one of the plush chairs by the fire, fingers drumming against your knee. Every muscle in your body screamed to move, to dig, to finish what you’d started for Rennar before he vanished. You’d risked everything to follow his trail into the Hewn City. And now, somehow, you’d been dropped into a den of the very monsters he’d been warning you about, monsters who seemed intent on keeping you here.

You stared into the flames, replaying the night’s events until one word burned brighter than all the rest.

Mate.

Whatever it meant, you were going to find that out too. And then you were getting the hell out of here.

TAGLIST: @sophieliz @raisam @hyruledemigod20 @rachelnicolee

[dee-writes-angst]

FORBIDDEN FRUIT SERIES MAIN MASTERLIST

Vampire!Bat Boys x Reader

You’re chasing a dangerous lead when the Vamp Bat Boys intervene, pulling you into their hidden court in Velaris. Confused by their cryptic hints and a mysterious bond you don’t understand, you resist their obsessive attention while trying to finish your mission. But the closer you get, the harder it becomes to fight the feral, forbidden desire building between you.

Content Warnings Include: violence, blood, life-threatening situations, kidnapping/abduction, supernatural creatures, sexual tension, explicit sexual content, forced relocation, intimidation, slow-burn/obsessive romance, language, suspense, predator/prey dynamics, themes of power imbalance, mild gore

IN PROGRESS

The Game Begins | none? | At a dangerous Hewn City masquerade, a sharp-tongued human sneaks in on a personal mission, only to cross paths with Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel—three powerful vampire High Fae wearing their most ruthless masks. Mistaking their cold, predatory interest for mere arrogance, you throw barbs instead of bowing, but the moment your pulse spikes, they know you're something far more than you realize… and they aren’t about to let you slip away.

Terms and Conditions | d (violence) | When a lead turns into a hunt through the cliffs, you barely survive a vampire’s attack before Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian sweep you into their court with an offer you can’t refuse—answers for your cooperation. But in Velaris, every kindness feels like a calculated move, and every look from them feels far too close to possession. |

The Fine Print | a, h/c, d(slight) | coming soon! |

Breach of Contract | ??? | coming soon! |

Forfeit | ??? | coming soon! |

[dee-writes-angst]

Hello my fave writing goddess I hope you are absolutely amazing! I read war room too many times to count. You made magic of my request. I had an idea for a fic... If you hate it just scrap the idea but I have a feeling you will EAT THIS UP😏 Hear me out a slow burn Vamp batboys x reader… the reader is a curvy goddess spitfire of a human and yes it's forbidden for vamps to have relations with humans butttt when our boys meet her and discover she's their mate they become obsessed and simply MUST have her so when they try to make the reader fall for them she resists and fights back then runs… but you can’t escape fate. So something happens where the bond snaps for her and she gives in to temptation and they have absolutely FERAL FORBIDDEN FRUIT FREAKY SMUT like got ya mouthwatering type shiiiii. I felt like you would make this a killer series or one shot honestly I will take whatever crumbs you give me cause I will DEVOUR YOUR AMAZING WRITING 🥰🤩

THE GAME BEGINS (Chapter One)

FEATURING Batboys x Reader

SUMMARY At a dangerous Hewn City masquerade, a sharp-tongued human sneaks in on a personal mission, only to cross paths with Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel—three powerful vampire High Fae wearing their most ruthless masks. Mistaking their cold, predatory interest for mere arrogance, you throw barbs instead of bowing, but the moment your pulse spikes, they know you're something far more than you realize… and they aren’t about to let you slip away.

CONTENT WARNINGS vampires, predator/prey undertones, dangerous court politics, mild threats, verbal sparring, sexual tension, power imbalance, canon-typical violence references

AUTHORS NOTE your brain genuinely astonishes me, girl. Like, vampire batboys is seriously genius! I'm excited to see where this mini series goes and I hope you enjoy it!

SERIES MASTERLIST

The invitation wasn’t yours.

It belonged to a man named Rennar—a mortal emissary from the Dawn Court who went missing two weeks ago with a satchel full of forbidden documents and a secret you weren’t supposed to know.

But you did know. Because Rennar had been your friend. And when no one came looking, when everyone shrugged and said, “he should’ve known better,” you decided to do something reckless.

You decided to follow the trail.

It led you here.

To the Hewn City. To a masquerade where no human should ever set foot.

But you weren’t just any human.

You were a woman with hips that wouldn’t lie even if you begged them to, thighs that claimed every inch of a slit too high for decency, and a mouth that had been getting you in trouble since you could talk. You weren’t small, quiet, or easy to overlook—and that had always been a curse.

Tonight, it would be your disguise.

No one would expect the pretty, plump little mortal in velvet and heels to be digging for truths that could get her killed.

You stepped through the gates like you belonged there—your stolen invitation crumpled in your fist, your mask pinned high across your cheekbones—and told yourself this was just a party.

Not a trap.

The Hewn City rose like a wound beneath the mountain—chiseled from black rock and lit from within by a thousand blood-red crystals. The air shimmered with magic, old and thick as smoke, curling through the tunnels in gentle pulses like breath.

The ballroom itself was carved into the heart of the city.

Cathedral-high ceilings disappeared into darkness, columns twisted like thorned vines framed the walls, and fountains spilled not water—but wine. Or maybe something thicker. Something darker.

Candles floated midair in wrought iron cages. The music—low and ancient, all string and ache—seemed to come from nowhere, echoing off walls too far to see.

Everything dripped with power. Nothing looked real.

The guests shimmered in the gloom, all glass and silk and bare shoulders, moving like they had forever to kill. Predators. Every one of them. Tall, sharp, cruelly beautiful.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t shrink. You strutted.

The dress was stolen from a forgotten closet in the embassy—stitched with threads of shadow and lined in soft, wicked velvet. It clung to your stomach and hips unapologetically, your breasts nearly spilling from a neckline designed to entice and threaten at once. The slit in the skirt climbed high, brushing your thick thigh with every step. You hadn’t even tried to tailor it.

It wasn’t made for you.

But gods, did you make it your weapon.

Let them stare. Let them sneer. Let them hunger. You were here for a reason—and it wasn’t to be anyone’s meal.

You scanned the room, eyes sweeping past a woman in a jeweled cage-skirt, a tall male with antlers made of bone, and a trio of nobles laughing around a goblet that looked suspiciously too red.

Nothing. No sign of Rennar. No whispers of a human emissary gone missing.

But you hadn’t come this far just to give up.

You grabbed a glass of whatever the server handed you (it smelled like cherries and copper) and leaned your back against one of the obsidian columns.

Act like you belong. Don’t let them see your pulse.

You didn’t notice the music had stopped until it hurt.

Like your body had leaned too far over a ledge and your ears popped from the drop. A silence too sharp to be accidental. A silence that warned.

And then you felt it.

The power. It wasn’t a hum, or a tremor. It was a drag—pulling you down, down into the stone, into the dark. Like the mountain itself took a breath and tasted you.

The crowd rippled. Moved.

Three males entered through the great archway, and the room parted like it knew better.

You didn’t.

You looked.

The one in crimson towered over most of the room, thick and scarred, with wings tucked behind him like a threat barely leashed. The one in midnight moved like silk unraveling—graceful, deadly, unreadable. And the one in black…

Gods.

He wore his mask like a crown—carved black stone veined with onyx, sharp along the cheekbones, dripping with cold elegance. His clothes looked like liquid darkness. His presence struck like a slap.

Every instinct in you screamed: don’t look at him.

And you did anyway.

His head tilted.

Your breath stuttered.

And behind his mask—just barely—his lips curved into a smile.

You didn’t run. Even as the crowd rippled around them, even as those three males moved like gravity itself bent to accommodate them—you didn’t move an inch.

It wasn’t bravery. Not exactly. More like… rage. That you were still looking for your friend. That no one else cared he was gone. That these monsters walked like gods in halls built of blood while mortals like you were expected to grovel, obey, disappear.

So when the one in black turned and walked straight toward you—you stayed exactly where you were.

Not prey.

Not tonight.

He stopped two steps away. Close enough that you had to tilt your head to keep your eyes on his face. Closer still, and you'd smell what he had for dinner.

His mask was gone now, tucked into the crook of his elbow.

Violet eyes, glowing faintly, swept over you—not in the hungry way most males looked at you, but… like he was reading something written on your skin.

“You don’t smell like anyone,” he murmured. Voice rich as wine. He smiled, slow and deliberate. “But gods, you do smell good.”

You arched a brow. “I’d say the same, but I don’t flirt with corpses.”

A pause.

Then—he laughed. A real one. Low and surprised and absolutely delighted.

You could feel it when heads turned.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“You first.”

He stepped forward. Just a fraction. But your back hit the column behind you like you’d been shoved. Not physically—just the force of him.

“Rhysand,” he said. “High Lord of this court.”

High Lord? You barely masked your flinch.

“Bold of you to assume I care.”

His eyes lit like struck amethyst. “Oh, you are delicious.”

A new voice—lower, edged with velvet: “She’s human.”

You snapped your head sideways.

The male in navy stood just beyond the edge of your peripheral vision. His mask was still on, shadows clinging to the edges like smoke. His siphons gleamed like dying stars.

You hadn’t heard him approach.

Rhysand hummed. “Yes. That explains the heartbeat.”

“You’re very calm,” the shadowed male said, head tilting slightly. “Considering where you are.”

“I don’t scare easy.”

He didn’t respond. But you felt it—the shift in the air. The way the tension between them wrapped tighter.

And then the third one stepped in.

Bigger than both. Broader. His wings curled behind him, dragging shadows. His hair was tied at the nape of his neck, and his chest was practically poured into his red silk shirt.

He let out a low whistle.

“Rhys, I didn’t know they made humans like this anymore.”

You rolled your eyes. “Is that your idea of a compliment, or are you just incredibly stupid?”

Cassian barked a laugh. “Both.”

Azriel remained still. Rhysand was watching you with rapt attention.

“So,” Rhys said slowly, “why is a curvy little mortal crashing a vampire-only masquerade in the most dangerous court on the continent?”

“I like parties.”

“No,” Azriel said. “You’re looking for something.”

You ignored him. Kept your eyes on Rhys. “And you’re looking at me like I’m on the menu.”

Cassian grinned. “She’s got fangs.”

You didn’t return it. “Touch me and I’ll bury my heel in your groin.”

“Oh, please do,” he purred.

“You’re not afraid of us,” Rhysand said softly.

It wasn’t a question.

You held your ground. “I’ve met worse monsters.”

Rhys took one final step forward. His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—fingers brushing your gloved hand where it rested on the column. His skin was cool.

Everything in your body screamed: Danger.

Your heart tripped.

And his pupils dilated.

“There it is,” he whispered.

You ripped your hand back. “Stay out of my space.”

“You’re in our court,” Azriel said.

“She doesn’t care,” Cassian said brightly. “That’s why she’s fun.”

Rhysand leaned in—so close you could see the faint shimmer of power in his eyes.

“You really don’t know what you are,” he murmured.

That made you blink. “Excuse me?”

But Azriel was already stepping between you—his wings flicking out, subtle and sharp.

“Enough. Someone’s watching.”

Cassian sighed. “Party’s over already?”

Rhysand stepped back, but not before giving you one final, long look. One that made your blood burn.

“We’ll see you again, little masquerader,” he said.

You met his gaze. “Don’t count on it.”

But even as you turned and walked away—heels clicking, breath tight in your chest—you knew.

You’d already been caught.

You made it to the far edge of the ballroom before you realized your hands were shaking.

Not visibly—your mask and expression were still perfectly in place. But under the gloves, your fingers twitched, your pulse a living drumbeat against your throat. You didn’t let it show. Didn’t stop moving.

Too many eyes were still watching.

You slipped into a shadowed corridor near the wine fountains, a little-used hallway with red velvet curtains swaying in a breeze that didn’t exist. Cool air pressed to your skin, and for the first time since arriving, you could breathe.

Almost.

Because your mouth was dry, your legs were still tense, and every part of you felt like it had been stared at, dissected, and marked.

Not physically. No one had touched you.

Not really.

But Rhysand’s voice still rang in your ears like silk on skin, “you don’t know what you are.”

And Azriel’s, “you’re looking for something.”

Gods. You should have walked away as soon as you saw them. You should have played scared. Should have kept your head down like a smart little mortal and waited for your moment.

But they’d looked at you like…

Like they knew something you didn’t.

And worse—like they wanted it.

You stopped at the far end of the corridor, pressing your back to the cool stone.

The sound of the masquerade buzzed behind you—laughter, music, glasses clinking—but it felt distant now. Muffled.

You’d survived the encounter. That’s all it was.

You were leaving soon anyway. Get what you came for, and get the hell out. You’d heard whispers that Rennar’s documents had been taken from his room and smuggled through this ball—possibly as a trade. You didn’t know who had them, but you knew one thing:

They weren’t in that ballroom anymore.

And neither should you be.

You pulled off your gloves to cool your skin, flexing your fingers. Stared down at them like they weren’t yours. Rhysand’s touch had been brief—but lingering. Like static. Like his power had left fingerprints on your soul.

“Leaving already?”

You jumped.

Cassian.

He stepped from the shadows like he’d been waiting there the whole time. Not creeping. Just… waiting. Arms folded, wings tucked tight. His red shirt had been unbuttoned slightly since your last look—enough to show the sweep of muscle and a few ink-black tattoos down the center of his chest.

“Gods,” you muttered, hand flying to your chest. “Do you all have a habit of creeping up on women in dark hallways, or is it just your party trick?”

He grinned. “Only the ones who look like they might bite back.”

You stared at him. “What do you want?”

Cassian leaned a shoulder against the wall, still watching you like you were a puzzle that might snap his fingers off. Not hungry. Not quite. But interested.

“There’s a rule in the Hewn City,” he said.

“Oh joy,” you deadpanned. “A lecture.”

Cassian’s grin only widened. “The rule is: Don’t come here unless you’re ready to be hunted.”

You tilted your head. “That supposed to scare me?”

“No,” he said. “Just reminding you that you broke the rule. You’re not just prey, sweetheart. You’re bait.”

You bristled. “Is that a threat?”

He stepped forward.

Just one step. But it was enough to bring him into your space—towering, broad-shouldered, gaze suddenly less teasing and more… something else.

Cassian looked down at you like you were made of fire and he wasn’t afraid of getting burned.

“I don’t threaten girls who can tear out throats with a smile,” he said quietly. “But I do wonder what the hell a mortal like you is really doing here.”

“I told your friends—I like parties.”

“Right. And I like formal dinners,” he said dryly, “but I don’t crash human banquets for the finger food.”

You rolled your eyes. “Charming.”

He stepped closer. “Why did you come here?”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Cassian didn’t press. He just watched.

You swallowed hard. Gods, he smelled like heat and something spiced—like leather soaked in sun and smoke. Your brain was telling your legs to move, but your body…

Wasn’t ready to leave.

“You don’t trust us,” he said.

“No shit,” you whispered.

“Good,” he said. “Don’t.”

He stepped back then—just a bit—and the spell broke. You exhaled sharply, realizing you’d been holding your breath.

Cassian’s eyes raked over you one last time.

Then he grinned again—wolfish, warm, warning.

“Be careful, little masquerader,” he said, backing toward the shadows. “You keep poking fangs, and you might end up bitten.”

You lifted your chin. “Maybe I bite back.”

Cassian winked. “We’re counting on it.”

And then he was gone.

No footsteps. No sound.

Just a whisper of wind and the dull, steady ache in your chest as your heart finally remembered how to beat again.

[dee-writes-angst]

Fox in the Den

FEATURING Lucien Vanserra x Reader

SUMMARY you’re huge, sore, leaking, and one kick away from a meltdown. Lucien’s trying his best, too gentle, too good, too Lucien, and it eventually gets to a point where you can't hold it in anymore.

CONTENT WARNINGS explicit sexual content (18+), lactation kink, pregnancy discomfort, penetrative sex, oral (f receiving), creampie, overstimulation, crying, changing positions, emotional vulnerability, nipple play, light praise kink, aftercare, my soft king Lucien

AUTHORS NOTE the way I need Lucien Vanserra like no other

Lucien knocked. Which meant he knew better than to just come in.

You were curled sideways in bed like a croissant, one hand tucked under your belly, the other propped uselessly under your head. It was hot. Your back hurt. You were soaked between your thighs but not in a good way. Your nipples ached. And when you shifted even an inch, your whole spine screamed.

Lucien’s voice was gentle through the door. “Can I come in?”

You didn’t answer.

The door opened anyway. Carefully.

He took one look at you and you saw the guilt slam into him like a wall. His face crumpled, just a little. He came to the bed, crouching beside it like you were something sacred. “Hey.”

You blinked at him. Didn’t say anything.

His hand smoothed over your arm, calluses catching slightly against your skin. “You didn’t eat.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You’ve barely had water today.”

“I don’t want anything, Lucien.” You winced as you tried to adjust again. “I just want this to be over.”

He hesitated, then gently, gently rested a hand on your belly. You didn’t stop him.

“I’d trade you if I could,” he said quietly. “I’d carry it. I swear I would.” Your throat closed up. That stupid burn behind your eyes was back again.

“I know,” you whispered.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Then to your cheek. Then the tip of your nose. He lingered just there, noses brushing, before his lips drifted down again.

You sighed. “Lucien…”

“Mm?”

“If you start kissing me, I’m going to want to fuck, and I’m so uncomfortable I might cry halfway through.”

He smiled a little. “Then we’ll stop if you need to. Or I’ll take care of you another way.”

“You always take care of me,” you muttered. “You’re too good.”

“I’m yours. That’s the job description.”

He kissed you again, properly this time. His mouth was warm and slow, his hand cradling your face like it was fragile. Your body was a mess—too hot, too sore, too swollen—but you still wanted, still needed. Even through the discomfort.

When he pulled back, you were already panting a little.

“Okay?” he asked.

“No. But keep going.”

He helped you out of your shirt—carefully, carefully, like he’d memorized which movements made you wince—and groaned under his breath at the sight of your breasts. Leaking again. So sensitive it made your thighs twitch when the air hit them.

“Gods,” he breathed, cupping one with reverence. “They’re so heavy…”

“Don’t you start,” you warned, half-laughing, half-miserable. “They hurt.”

“I know, love. Let me help.”

He kissed one nipple gently, then ran his tongue around it, easing the pressure before sealing his lips around it and suckling. You jolted, your hands fisting in his hair. The release sent a dizzying kind of pleasure through you, like a tight wire finally unwinding.

“Fuck, Lucien…”

“Just like that,” he mumbled. “Let me taste you.”

His tongue was slow, methodical. One hand braced your belly, the other tugged your thighs apart as he kissed his way down. You were wet—gods, you were soaked. Not just from arousal, but your body’s chaotic, hormone-fueled confusion. Lucien didn’t flinch. He licked into you like it was nothing, like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

And then the baby kicked.

You gasped, one hand flying to your side. “Wait, fuck—wait—”

Lucien immediately stopped, concern flooding his features. “Are you okay? What happened—?”

You were already crying. Hot tears running down your cheeks, snot gathering in your throat.

“I’m sorry, I just—I can’t, everything hurts and I was enjoying it and then they kicked me in the ribs and—and—”

He climbed up beside you, wrapping his arms around your shaking body. “Shh. Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. We don’t have to do anything, alright? Just breathe.”

But gods, you didn’t want to stop.

You curled into his chest, face wet, heart pounding. “Can we just—can we try again? I want you. I really want you, Lucien.”

He cupped your face in both hands, kissed you like he meant it, and said, “Then let’s find a way that feels good. Whatever you need.”

He ended up behind you again, spooning you as he eased two fingers between your thighs. You clung to his forearm, gasping at the stretch—full, but not too much. Just what you could take. Your hips rolled against his hand. The pressure was building again.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Gonna make you feel good, I promise. Just let me take care of you.”

You were already clenching around nothing, thighs trembling as his fingers curled just right. He pressed hot kisses to your shoulder, still holding your belly steady, always aware of where you were sore or swollen.

When you came, you sobbed. Loud, full-bodied, overwhelmed. Lucien groaned like he felt it too.

“Can I—?” he asked, cock nudging against your thigh. “Just a little. Just let me inside, sweetheart.”

You nodded, still shaking.

He entered you so slowly, so carefully, holding your leg up just enough to ease the angle. His jaw was tight like he was aching to move faster, but didn’t dare. Every inch felt like too much and not enough, the ache of fullness crashing over you in waves.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered into your neck. “So full for me. So fucking perfect.”

It didn’t take long. Your body was too sensitive, too raw. You came again with a cry, sobbing his name as your walls clamped around him.

He spilled inside you with a broken groan, hips pressed flush to yours, holding your belly like it was the most sacred thing in the world. His seed was hot, thick, and you could feel it leaking down your thighs as you came down.

Lucien kissed your temple, brushing away your tears.

“Still too much?”

You sniffled. “Everything hurts. But it helped.”

He smiled, wrapping you tighter in his arms. “Then we’ll do it again tomorrow.”

BONUS

By the time you opened your eyes again, Lucien was gone from the bed, but the indent where he’d been still cradled your hip, and his scent lingered like a warm blanket—earth, spice, smoke, and the faintest breath of citrus.

Your whole body throbbed in that empty, floating way it always did after he made you come hard. But it wasn’t just the sex. You were wrung out emotionally too. Shaky and sore and… content. Tired, in a way that reached deep into your bones.

Lucien padded back into the room barefoot, shirtless, a towel slung over one shoulder. His hair was loose—still damp with sweat, sticking to his chest in coppery strands. He took one look at you and smiled.

“Still alive?”

“Barely.”

He leaned over and kissed your cheek. “Good. Come on.”

“I can’t move.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll carry you.”

You snorted—until he actually reached for you, carefully looping one arm under your knees and the other around your back.

“Lucien!”

“Shh, don’t argue. You earned it.”

He lifted you like you weighed nothing. The warmth of his chest against your side, the subtle shift of his muscles under your cheek—it was the most comfort you’d felt all day. You let your eyes flutter shut again as he carried you through the doorway into the adjoining bathing room.

The tub was steaming. Rose petals floated on the surface. You blinked. “Did you—?”

Lucien’s grin was sheepish. “You like them. I remembered.”

You were too tired to cry again, but the feeling was there, blooming low in your chest.

He lowered you into the water like a priceless thing, one hand still bracing your belly as you adjusted. The moment your body settled into the heat, you sighed—a long, broken little sound that made his throat bob.

“There she is,” he murmured, kneeling beside the tub. “My poor sore girl.”

You rolled your head lazily toward him, damp strands sticking to your temples. “I’m disgusting. Don’t look at me.”

“I’m never going to stop looking at you.”

“Even when I’m leaking and crying and yelling at you for breathing too loud?”

“Especially then,” he said, and kissed your hand.

He grabbed a small cloth, dipped it in the water, and began trailing it over your skin. Gentle strokes across your thighs, your belly, your swollen breasts. When you flinched, he paused.

“Still sensitive?”

“Yes, obviously.”

He chuckled. “Sorry, sorry.” But he didn’t stop entirely—he just softened the motion even more, eyes locked on your face, reading you with every pass of the cloth.

He washed between your legs last, moving with slow, reverent care. You shivered. Not from arousal, exactly. From the intimacy. The way he touched you like you were still his whole world, even when you felt like nothing but exhaustion and pain and overstimulated nerve endings.

Lucien pressed a kiss to your knee.

“You don’t have to be perfect for me to love you,” he murmured. “You don’t have to feel good. You don’t have to pretend anything.”

“I know,” you said softly. “That’s why I can fall apart with you.”

His eyes shimmered a little at that. He leaned in again, brushing his lips over your belly.

“I know this hasn’t been easy,” he whispered. “But I’m so proud of you. I love you more every day.”

“You really mean that?”

“With everything I am.”

He helped you rinse, then dried you off with a towel warm from the hearth. When you winced again, he immediately adjusted, switching the angle, kissing your shoulder.

“You want lotion on your back?”

You nodded weakly. “Only if you do it.”

He smirked. “Gladly.”

You ended up back in bed, belly supported by pillows, Lucien behind you rubbing slow circles into your back with the lavender-scented balm you liked best. Occasionally, his hands would drift down to stroke your hips, or trace the faint stretch marks blooming across your thighs. Not once did he shy away. Not once did he look at you like anything less than his mate.

“You’re going to make me horny again,” you muttered. Lucien pressed a kiss to your neck. “Don’t worry. You’re safe. For now.”

You smiled into the pillow, exhaustion finally pulling you under for real this time.

Lucien stayed awake a little longer, just to hold you.

[dee-writes-angst]

THE HIGH LORD’S ROOM

FEATURING Rhysand x Reader

SUMMARY After surviving unimaginable trauma, you’ve built a quiet, careful life in Velaris. But when Rhysand, watchful, patient, and infuriatingly charming, starts to break past your walls, you’re forced to confront feelings you thought you'd buried forever. Healing isn’t linear, but maybe… love can be safe, too.

CONTENT WARNINGS past captivity and slavery, trauma recovery, PTSD symptoms (flashbacks, hypervigilance, panic), dissociation, mentions of food neglect and insomnia, emotionally vulnerable protagonist, explicit sexual content (nipple play, oral sex, penetrative sex, praise kink, mild dominance), explicit consent and aftercare, found family, protective friends (Azriel & Cassian), implied voyeurism risk (brief scene interruption)

AUTHORS NOTE I absolutely could not hold myself back from completing the smutty bat boys set, so here is Rhys'! I'm actually really interested in further exploring the librarian reader lore, so let me know if you're interest in seeing more!

Check out Azriel’s and Cassian’s versions here! The Interrogation Room and The War Room

You were shelving the last stack of books when you felt it—that unmistakable shift in the air, like a ripple of starlight brushing across your skin.

Rhysand.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. His presence always arrived like a hush before thunder—smooth, soft, but laced with power.

“I thought I told you to stop working so late,” he said from behind you, voice all silk and shadows.

Your fingers tightened around the spine of a worn volume. “And I thought I told you that I like the quiet.”

His laugh curled through the high-arched rows of the library, deep and warm. You hated how much it affected you—how your heart tripped and your skin prickled just from the sound.

He stepped closer, unhurried. “Cassian says you’ve barely eaten today. Azriel threatened to drag you out by your ankles.”

You smiled despite yourself, gaze still focused on the shelves. “I’ll be sure to add that to the list of times he’s threatened me this month.”

Rhys didn’t respond right away. You could feel his eyes on you—studying, searching.

“Are you okay?” he asked at last, softer now.

You swallowed. That question always felt heavy, even from him. Maybe especially from him. Because somehow, Rhys saw through everything—the quiet smiles, the polite distance, the armor you'd spent years forging after your rescue.

Azriel had found you barely conscious in a slaver's den outside the Illyrian border, and Cassian had been the one to hold you upright during your first days in Velaris when you couldn’t sleep, eat, or speak without trembling. They never pushed. Never pried. They just stayed—and eventually, so did you.

Rhys, though… Rhys was different.

He didn’t just see you. He noticed things. The way your hands shook when someone got too close. The way you flinched at sudden movement, even now. The way you sometimes looked at the sky like it might fall on you again.

But he never treated you like you were fragile. Never tiptoed.

And that terrified you more than anything.

“I’m fine,” you said eventually. “Just tired.”

Rhys was quiet again. You turned toward him, and gods—he was unfair. All midnight hair, violet eyes, and impossible grace wrapped in that damned smirk.

“You shouldn’t lie to your High Lord,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks gave you away. It always did.

He stepped close enough that the scent of him wrapped around you, warm spice and crisp night air, calming and intoxicating at once.

“You know,” he said, head tilting just slightly, “you blush every time I get near you. It’s adorable.”

“Rhys-”

“I’m just saying.” That grin deepened. “You make it very difficult to behave.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to scold him, maybe to tell him to leave, maybe to confess that the idea of him not behaving was the only thing you’d thought about for weeks—but the words didn’t come.

Instead, his hand lifted. He didn’t touch you, not yet. Just hovered, waiting. Always waiting for you to close the space.

“I would never hurt you,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “You know that, don’t you?”

You did.

You weren’t sure when you started trusting him—not just liking him, or admiring him from afar, but trusting him with the mess of you. Maybe it was the way he never pushed you. Maybe it was the way he always asked. Maybe it was the way he let you be small, scared, quiet, and still looked at you like you were powerful.

Maybe it was just him.

You leaned forward, just enough to let your forehead rest against his chest. His hand finally touched you—curling around the back of your neck, steady and warm.

He let out a slow breath, as though your touch had undone something in him.

“You make me want to be gentle,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

“And I didn’t know I still had that in me.”

His thumb brushed the side of your neck, slow and reverent, as if he knew exactly how fast your heart was racing beneath his hand.

“You’re sure?” he murmured, his voice low and velvet-rich, his mouth near your temple but not quite touching.

You hesitated—but only for a breath. Then you leaned into him just a little more, allowed his scent wrapped around you, spice and cedarwood and something darker, like storm clouds after the heat.

“I trust you,” you whispered, and meant it.

Those three words were small, but they unraveled something in him.

Rhys let out a long, shaky breath and wrapped his arms around you, holding you to his chest. One large hand cradled the back of your head, fingers sinking into your hair, the other flattening over your spine. He held you like he’d waited centuries for you to offer him this closeness—this chance.

“I’ll go slow,” he said quietly, like a promise. “You lead, okay?”

You nodded, cheek still pressed against him.

Rhys pulled back enough to meet your eyes. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone. His gaze searched yours for any sign of hesitation, but all he found was a slow-burning need—years of loneliness and restraint finally breaking open.

He kissed you.

This time it wasn’t teasing or smug—it was devotional. His mouth was warm and patient, tongue coaxing, exploring—never taking, only asking. You parted for him easily, melting into the kiss as his fingers tilted your chin just right. The feeling of him was overwhelming—his scent, his magic, the soft weight of his body as he guided you backward, deeper into the shadowed stacks of the library where no one would find you.

The world slowed.

Books, stone, distant wind against the windows—it all faded as Rhys pressed you gently against a wall lined with ancient tomes. He kissed you again, slower this time, hands braced beside your head. His magic curled around your ankles like a cat, purring in delight.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered.

You swallowed hard, shivering at the heat pooling between your legs. “I just want… you.”

A growl rumbled in his chest. “Then you’ll have me, darling.”

His hands slid down your sides, fingers skimming your ribs, your waist, the soft dip of your hips. He gripped the hem of your tunic and paused, giving you another silent chance to stop him.

When you didn’t, he pulled it up, slow and careful, and you lifted your arms to help. The cool air kissed your skin as your top slipped away, and Rhys inhaled sharply as his star-filled eyes drank you in.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “You’re unreal.”

Your arms twitched, instinctively trying to cover your chest—but he caught your wrists and pressed them gently to the wall behind you.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmured. “You’re perfect.”

He dipped his head to kiss along your collarbone, each press of his mouth slow and worshipful. He trailed lower, his tongue tracing the swell of your breast before closing around a nipple, sucking lightly, then licking over the sensitive peak until you arched into him.

“Rhys—”

“Shh, darling,” he said, switching to the other. “Let me take care of you.”

You were already trembling when he dropped to his knees.

“You’re so responsive,” he said, voice husky. “So good for me.”

His hands slid beneath your skirts, slowly drawing them up until the fabric pooled around your waist. You felt the heat of his breath against your bare thighs, his palms smoothing up the backs of your legs until he hooked a single finger into the band of your underwear.

He looked up at you again. “Still okay?”

You nodded, already dizzy with need. “Yes. Please.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh first—then again, higher this time, until his mouth pressed just beside the place you needed him most. He breathed you in with a soft growl that made your stomach flip.

“Look at this pretty little pussy,” he murmured, dragging your underwear down and off. “You’re already soaked for me.”

You whimpered and leaned back against the wall, your legs trembling as he spread your thighs apart. The sight of him—on his knees, eyes dark with hunger, shoulders bracketed between your legs—was almost too much to bear.

And then he touched you.

His tongue slid between your folds, slow and luxurious, tasting you like he was savoring the richest dessert in existence. He groaned against you, hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady as he licked and sucked, circling your clit with maddening patience.

You cried out, fingers flying to tangle in his hair.

He moaned again, like your sounds drove him wild. “That’s it, darling. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

Your hips bucked involuntarily, and he held you down, tongue flicking faster now, lips sucking until you were gasping, whimpering, falling apart in his hands.

“Rhys—gods—I’m—”

“Come for me,” he growled against your cunt. “Let me taste it. Let go.”

You shattered.

Your climax crashed through you in waves—hot, intense, shivering—and Rhys didn’t stop. He licked you through every flutter, every desperate moan, drawing out every second until your legs nearly gave out.

Only then did he rise, catching you as you sagged into him, your whole body flushed and trembling.

He kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “You’re divine,” he whispered. “I could worship you for hours.”

You reached between you, fingers fumbling at the laces of his pants. “Then do it. Let me feel you.”

Rhys groaned low in his chest, and with another whispered spell, you felt the echo of magic sink into your belly—gentle and warm, preparing your body for what came next.

He lined himself up and pressed in slowly, his jaw tight with restraint.

“Gods, you’re tight,” he rasped. “So warm. So fucking perfect.”

You whimpered, your head falling back against the wall as he filled you—inch by inch—until he was fully seated, his body flush against yours, every inch of him trembling.

“Look at me,” he said, voice hoarse.

You met his gaze.

And that’s when he started to move.

Each stroke was deep and unhurried, the grind of his hips against yours sending sparks up your spine. He kissed you through it, whispering praises between every thrust—how good you felt, how proud he was, how long he’d wanted this.

How safe you were with him.

And when your second climax built, it wasn’t from teasing or magic or even pleasure—it was from the way he held you, like you were precious. The way he moaned your name like a vow. The way he made you feel cherished.

Your release hit hard and sweet, your walls fluttering around him as he groaned your name and spilled into you with a final, desperate thrust.

You stayed there like that for a long time, wrapped in his arms, hearts pounding in time.

And deep in your chest… something clicked.

A glowing warmth bloomed behind your ribs, spreading through your veins like starlight.

Your eyes met his—and you both knew.

The bond had snapped into place.

The world felt like it had gone quiet.

Not silent—just still. Like the whole library, the entire House of Wind, had taken a deep breath and was holding it.

You were wrapped in Rhys’s arms, chest against his, face tucked beneath his jaw. His scent surrounded you—smoke and midnight and that subtle sweetness he always carried when he let his guard down. His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, slow and steady. Anchoring.

Neither of you had spoken yet.

Because there was something else now. Something new.

That tug—that golden-threaded, star-kissed pull in your chest. It hummed just beneath your skin, like music in your bones.

You knew what it was. You knew what it meant.

And the realization hit you like a crash of cold water.

You jerked back—just slightly, but enough that Rhys’s brow furrowed.

“Darling?” he asked softly, still breathless, hands instantly gentle on your waist. “What is it?”

You tried to breathe.

Tried to speak.

But the pressure in your chest swelled too fast—like you were going to burst.

“I—” Your voice cracked. “Rhys, I think something’s wrong. I feel—too much, I feel everything, and it’s—it’s too much—”

He sat up quickly, still holding you, easing you to sit in his lap. “Okay, okay,” he murmured, voice soothing but focused. “Look at me. Just breathe.”

You tried. Gods, you tried. But your vision was already swimming, and your throat was tight, and all you could feel was him—his heartbeat, his breath, his worry. His love. Pouring into you through that tether in your chest like sunlight you weren’t ready to hold.

“I—I didn’t mean for this,” you choked out. “The bond—it's the bond, isn't it? I can feel you and it's—I didn't think—I’m not—how is this happening?”

Rhys’s hands framed your face.

“Because it's real,” he said quietly, reverently. “Because it's us.”

Your lip trembled.

“I’m not ready,” you whispered.

“Then we won’t do anything,” he said instantly. “Not until you are.”

You blinked at him, breath still shaky. “But it’s already there.”

“I know,” he murmured, stroking your cheek with the backs of his fingers. “And it’ll wait. I’ll wait.”

You stared at him—at the man who had just wrecked you so gently you barely knew where you ended and he began. The man who could take cities with his power but only looked at you like you were something fragile and miraculous.

“You’re not angry?” you asked, voice small.

He smiled, just a little, and pressed his forehead to yours. “I just made love to the woman I’ve been falling for since the moment she told Cassian to fuck off in the training ring.”

You blinked, startled. “You were there?”

“Of course I was there. He came flying into my office to tell me a terrified little librarian threatened to set his wings on fire with a candle stub.” His smile softened further. “You’ve had my attention ever since.”

A shaky laugh escaped you. And something in your chest—where the bond pulsed, steady and glowing—eased.

“I don’t want to lose myself,” you said quietly. “I’ve fought so hard to become someone again.”

Rhys kissed your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the tip of your nose.

“Then I’ll help you stay exactly who you are,” he said. “I don’t want to own you. I want to walk beside you.”

You leaned into him.

Not because you were ready to finish the bond. Not yet.

But because it didn’t feel so scary anymore.

Because you weren’t alone.

And for the first time in a long, long time… you didn’t want to run.

A few days later, you were shelving returned texts when a familiar flutter of shadows curled across the back of your neck—followed almost immediately by a soft kiss to your cheek.

You startled, nearly dropping the heavy tome in your hands.

“Rhys,” you hissed, glaring at him over your shoulder.

He was already grinning, perfectly unrepentant. “Sorry, darling. Couldn’t resist.”

You turned fully, swatting his arm with the corner of your book. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m the High Lord,” he said, far too smug for your liking. “I’m allowed anywhere. Especially if I’m here to check on my favorite librarian.”

You tried not to smile. Really, you did. But the sparkle in his eyes, the softness in the corners of his grin… it made something flutter low in your belly.

“Favorite, hmm?” you asked, trying to keep your voice cool.

“Well, you are the only one who’s ever let me make out with her in the back room.”

Your face flamed instantly. “Rhys!”

He just chuckled, that rich, starry sound echoing off the ancient stone and high, book-lined walls. You turned back to your cart, muttering under your breath, but your cheeks were still on fire and he knew it.

Of course, he knew it.

“You’re glowing,” he said, voice low as he stepped behind you again—closer this time. “Blushing just for me. It’s very distracting.”

You were about to snap back with something vaguely threatening—maybe involving throwing him off the balcony—when the air shifted.

You felt it before you heard them: two male figures approaching from the main archway, steps familiar, the magic they carried unmistakable.

Azriel. Cassian.

Shit.

You stepped back from Rhys instantly, your hands smoothing your tunic, your pulse spiking hard enough that Rhys’s eyes flicked to yours.

“Hey,” he said softly, steadying you with a hand on your arm. “It’s okay. Nothing to hide.”

You gave him a tight look. “Maybe you don’t think so.”

Before he could respond, the footsteps rounded the nearest corner—and there they were.

Cassian and Azriel both halted mid-step.

They looked between you and Rhys, eyes scanning the too-small space between your bodies, the slight flush in your cheeks, the way Rhys’s hand lingered on your wrist.

Azriel’s brows lowered in that quiet, assessing way that always made you feel like he was seeing far more than you wanted him to.

Cassian’s gaze shot to your face, then Rhys’s, then back again.

No one spoke for three full seconds.

Then: “Rhys,” Cassian said slowly, smile polite—but tight.

“Cass,” Rhys drawled, completely relaxed. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “You’re awfully far from your office.”

“I needed a break,” Rhys replied easily. “And a certain someone,” he added with a glance your way, “is very good at helping me relax.”

You made a strangled sound that might’ve been a cough.

Cassian blinked. “What.”

“Oh my gods,” you whispered under your breath, covering your face with your hands.

“I’m joking,” Rhys said quickly—though the smirk he aimed at his brothers said otherwise. “Mostly.”

Azriel tilted his head. “How long?”

You froze.

Rhys didn’t.

“A few days,” he said, quiet now. “But it’s been coming for a while.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened—not angry, but visibly processing. He glanced at you again, gaze softer now. “Are you okay?”

That was what undid you.

Not the shock on their faces, not Rhys’s amused teasing, not even the underlying panic still fluttering in your chest.

It was that question.

That they still asked it.

You nodded slowly. “I am. I really am.”

Azriel stepped forward first. His eyes, always sharp, lingered on yours. “You don’t owe anyone anything, you know.”

“I know.”

“And if this changes anything—if you feel it changing anything—you can tell us.”

You smiled, just barely. “I think it’s changing everything. But not in a bad way.”

Cassian was still watching Rhys like he was trying to decide if he should shake his hand or punch him. Possibly both.

Finally, he let out a long breath, muttered, “Shit,” and crossed the space to pull you into a hug so fierce it lifted you off your feet.

“You better treat her like she’s sacred,” he told Rhys over your shoulder.

“I already do,” Rhys said simply.

Azriel was quieter, but when you stepped toward him, he met you halfway. His arms came around you with familiar care, one hand on the back of your head like he always did when you were overwhelmed. He didn’t say anything, just pressed his cheek to your temple and held you there.

You felt tears sting the backs of your eyes. Not from sadness. Just… from being seen. Still held. Still safe.

Rhys’s hand found yours as you stepped back, lacing your fingers gently. He didn’t pull, didn’t take. He just stood there, tethered beside you.

Azriel glanced between the two of you once more, then said, with the barest flicker of a smile, “We’re going to talk later.”

“Looking forward to it,” Rhys said, somehow managing not to sound smug.

Cassian groaned. “This is going to be worse than that time you stole my boots and blamed it on Mor, isn’t it?”

“Oh, definitely worse,” Rhys agreed.

You just groaned into your hands again.

It was late. Late enough that the sun had long dipped below the cliffs, but you were still tucked into your favorite corner of the library, curled up on a chaise with a blanket draped over your legs and a cup of tea cooling in your hands.

You weren’t reading. Not really.

Your mind was too full—spinning with soft kisses, Rhys’s voice in your ear, the weight of his hand on your wrist when Cassian and Azriel had walked in.

And the bond—still quietly glowing beneath your skin, like a candle that never fully went out.

You heard the door before you saw him. The gentle click of it closing behind him, then the shift of shadows as he approached—quiet, but not hiding.

You didn’t look up right away.

“Az.”

He stopped beside the chaise. “You left before dinner.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

A pause.

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

You looked at him then.

Azriel’s expression was unreadable to anyone else—but you knew better. You’d studied those careful lines, those layered silences. You’d been wrapped in his shadows when you couldn’t stand sunlight. He’d held your shaking hands after nightmares, said nothing when you cried on the floor, and never once asked you to be stronger than you were.

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

Az’s brows drew together, and he crouched beside you, one knee on the carpet.

“I don’t.”

You searched his face—his dark, steady eyes, the faint crease between his brows, the way he tilted his head slightly when something mattered.

“You looked… surprised.”

“I was,” he admitted. “Not because I don’t trust him. But because you’ve been through so much. And I know how long it took you to even let me sit this close.”

He was right. The first time Azriel touched you—truly touched you—it was weeks after your arrival in Velaris. You’d had a panic attack in the library, shaking and gasping behind a stack of encyclopedias. He hadn’t said a word. Just knelt beside you and offered his hand. Nothing more.

You’d gripped it like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

“I wasn’t expecting it,” you whispered. “The bond. The… way I feel around him. But he’s been so patient, Az. He never pushes. He just… waits.”

Azriel nodded slowly, his eyes scanning your face, like he was reading each tremble and pause in your voice.

“Does he make you feel safe?”

You nodded.

“Wanted?”

You flushed, but nodded again. “More than I know what to do with.”

A flicker of something moved through his expression—maybe grief, maybe relief, maybe both. Then he reached forward, his gloved fingers brushing lightly against your wrist.

“You don’t have to be afraid of what’s good,” he said softly. “You deserve good. You always did.”

Your breath caught.

And before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Az froze for half a second—then sank into the hug, arms strong around you, chin resting lightly atop your head.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly. “Even if he’s in your life now. You don’t lose me.”

You buried your face against his chest, overwhelmed by the simplicity of it.

“You promise?”

Azriel’s voice rumbled low. “On my shadows.”

You pulled back enough to look at him—eyes rimmed with tears, but smiling now.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, and rose, smoothing your blanket over your legs like you hadn’t just shaken his heart open with those few words.

At the door, he paused. “You know,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “he’s probably pacing the hallway waiting for me to give him permission to see you.”

You groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow and launching it at him. He caught it with one hand, smirking faintly.

“Tell him if he makes you cry, I’ll shove a siphon somewhere very anatomically inconvenient.”

And with that, he vanished into shadow.

A few seconds later, a knock at the door.

“Azriel?” came Rhys’s muffled, hopeful voice. “Is it safe?”

You sighed. Loudly, but your heart was already fluttering again. “Yes.”

The door cracked open a sliver, then fully—revealing Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, ruler of Velaris, and your current biggest problem. He poked his head in with an exaggerated wince, as if he expected a second pillow to come flying at him.

His grin deepened when you didn’t.

“Still in one piece,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “That’s a good sign.”

You raised a brow. “Is it?”

“Considering Azriel most likely looked like he was mentally composing my obituary on his way out? Yes.”

You tried not to smile. You really did.

But something about him—his voice, his ease, that stupid smirk—it tugged at the corners of your mouth until you were shaking your head.

Rhys’s eyes softened when he saw it. He crossed the room in two long strides and sat beside you on the chaise, one arm stretched behind you, not touching—just there.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Better. Azriel’s just… he’s always been there.”

“I know.”

You peeked at him. “What did they say to you?”

Rhys sighed dramatically and tilted his head back against the cushion. “Azriel spent a full minute staring at me without blinking. I think he was debating whether to gut me or drag me into a shadow dimension for questioning.”

You laughed, muffled behind your hands.

“Cassian,” Rhys went on, “paced. A lot. Then he asked me what my intentions were like this was a chaperoned courtship in the Autumn Court. Then he said if I broke your heart he’d snap my wings and feed them to Amren.”

Your eyes widened. “He did not.”

“Oh, he did,” Rhys said, completely deadpan. “Azriel even nodded in agreement. Which is frankly terrifying, because when he agrees with Cassian, it’s always about murder.”

You giggled into your hands, face burning. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Rhys turned toward you now, his hand lifting to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “They love you. Fiercely. And I’d be worried if they weren’t protective.”

You looked at him—really looked.

He wasn’t teasing anymore. Not fully.

And just like that, your pulse stuttered again.

“You’re still okay with this?” you asked softly. “With waiting?”

Rhys cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye. “There’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t wait for if it meant you were ready.”

Gods.

You tried to look away, but he leaned in just enough that your noses brushed.

“And besides,” he added, voice low and wicked, “I’m very good at entertaining myself in the meantime.”

Your breath hitched. “Rhys—”

“Really, darling, you should’ve seen Cassian’s face when I told him how gorgeous you sound when you come.”

You choked. “Rhysand!”

“Worth it,” he murmured, clearly delighted, even as you buried your face in your hands and made a noise halfway between a squeak and a groan.

“I hate you.”

“You adore me.”

You mumbled something unintelligible, which only made him laugh.

And then, quieter, he said, “You really are glowing, you know.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Is that your subtle way of calling me flushed and panicked?”

“No,” he said, softer now. “It’s my not-so-subtle way of saying you look happy.”

You blinked.

And the truth was… you were.

You still didn’t know exactly what this was becoming. Or where it would go. But right now, curled beside him in the quiet hush of the library, after Azriel’s quiet approval and Cassian’s half-threatened one, it didn’t feel scary anymore.

It just felt right.

You leaned your head on Rhys’s shoulder, and he immediately tucked his arm around you, pulling you closer.

After a long moment, you said, “So what did you say to them?”

Rhys smirked, gaze fixed lazily on the far wall. “I told them I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“And?”

“And that I’m completely, irreversibly, stupidly in love with you.”

Your heart skipped.

“…Oh.”

Rhys turned toward you then, his violet eyes bright and open and sure. “Just thought I’d get that out of the way.”

You stared at him, warmth blooming behind your ribs like starlight, “I think I might be stupid about you, too.”

His grin was slow and devastating. “See? I knew I was your favorite.”

You groaned again—but this time, you were laughing.

And when he kissed you, slow and smiling, thumb brushing your cheek, you didn’t feel nervous or unsure or afraid.

You felt home.

[dee-writes-angst]

HOLY. CRAP….interrogation room did something to me you REALLY DID THAT! Like I ate it UP THEN REREAD IT THREE TIMES LMAO🥵🥵 could you pleaseeeeeeeeeeeee write a cassian x fem reader enemies to lovers smutty angsty feral yummy masterpiece. Hear me out our reader is a badass curvy strong stunning GENERAL from another court and they don't get along (but secretly like one another) and end up having to work together on something…cass knows they are mates but ignores reader cause he wont admit it to himself he's mated to someone who hates him or something yada yada one thing leads to another…some forced proximity occurs BAM FERAL FERAL DIRTY SMUT LIKE GIVE ME YOUR WORST QUEEN lol😝🔥🙌🏻 Your AMAZING and imma devour this 🫶🏻❤️ P.S. totally might request some more delicious fics in the near future! Cause you literally SLAYYYYY!

THANKS 🤩❤️

THE WAR ROOM

FEATURING Cassian x Reader

SUMMARY You were supposed to win a war, not fall for the cocky, battle-scarred general beside you. But Cassian fights like he loves—with teeth, fire, and no interest in letting go. Politics be damned—you just might stay.

CONTENT WARNINGS combat scenes, blood mention, mild injury, political tension, inter-court power dynamics, aggressive romantic/sexual tension, explicit sexual content (including rough sex, consensual power exchange, light biting), possessive language and behavior (mutual and romanticized), verbal conflict, angst, abandonment themes, fear of vulnerability/intimacy, depictions of emotional repression, reference to societal and gendered expectations, explicit language, mating bond themes (magical and emotional), references to court hierarchy and trauma-informed decision-making

AUTHORS NOTE WOWIE I LOVED THIS IDEA!!! I actually had a lot of fun writing this, I hope you enjoy it enough to reread it FIVE times 😉

Check out Azriel’s and Rhysand’s versions here! The Interrogation Room and The High Lord’s Room

Cassian hadn’t even finished his drink before the room shifted. Not literally—though it may as well have, judging by the way Rhysand straightened in his seat and Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter at his back.

You walked in like you owned the place—like Velaris was just another soft-bellied city full of flinching men and breakable furniture. Your posture was easy, loose even, but your eyes held the cold glitter of a blade just pulled from the forge. You were in full leathers, polished and layered with a red-stitched Autumn crest over your heart. Your hair was twisted back in a braid that looked like it had been done by a soldier, not a servant. You didn’t nod. Didn’t bow. Just looked straight at Cassian and let your mouth curl.

And flanking you like a smug fox came Eris.

“Well,” Eris drawled, spinning a gold ring on his finger as he sauntered forward. “I see the Night Court’s finest still drinks like a village brute. Hello, Cassian.”

“Hello, Eris,” Cassian muttered, gaze unmoving from you. “Nice to see you didn’t send someone competent in your place.”

“Oh, I did,” Eris said smoothly, gesturing toward you with something between condescension and pride. “General of the Third Legion. Or had you not heard? Autumn’s been doing quite a bit of cleaning up lately.”

Cassian knew. Everyone with a functioning pair of wings knew. You’d gained a reputation for your brutality in the border skirmishes—strategic and swift, but merciless. Your army didn’t just win. They eradicated.

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” you said dryly, voice rich like aged whiskey. “Though I’m sure you’ve told yourself all kinds of things about me.”

Cassian smiled tightly. “Only the ones that sound fun.”

Rhys cleared his throat with the tired air of a male already regretting this. “Now that we’re all here…”

He motioned to the large map table in the center of the room, lined with carved pieces representing units, routes, and encampments. A blue-flagged territory near the mountain border glowed faintly—Illyrian territory. South of it, an orange-bronze marker blinked: Autumn.

“We’ve confirmed reports of multiple rogue warbands,” Rhys said, voice clipped. “Former Illyrian soldiers who’ve abandoned their ranks and taken up mercenary work—raiding villages on both sides of the border. They’re targeting supply lines and using the confusion to incite rebellion. It's escalating faster than expected.”

“They’re not only ex-Illyrians,” Azriel added, stepping from the shadows. “Some are being funded. Trained. Their weapons are not cheap.”

Eris made a low sound of distaste. “So your sloppy discipline problem has become our border problem. Shocking.”

Rhys ignored him. “Given that these attacks affect both our courts, we’ve agreed to form a joint response team. Two high-ranking officers—one from each court—will investigate the source of these attacks, identify the leaders, and shut them down before we’re dragged into a larger conflict.”

“And I’m to play babysitter to that?” you asked, arching a brow at Cassian with open disdain.

“You’re not babysitting anyone,” Rhys said. “You’re working with him. Cassian is the Commander of our armies, and I expect mutual professionalism.”

Cassian barked a dry laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t cry if she glares at me.”

“I might,” Azriel muttered.

Rhys didn’t smile. “This is serious. We’ve seen what happens when tensions between courts spiral out of control. You both have the experience and authority to end this quickly. So you’ll go together. You’ll cooperate. And you’ll finish it.”

Silence fell.

You studied the map, then turned your gaze to Eris. “You’re fine with this?”

Eris gave a shrug. “Think of it as a… diplomatic opportunity.”

“I’m not a diplomat,” you said coldly.

“You’re a general,” Eris replied, smile twitching. “You’ll do what needs to be done. And I’m trusting you to represent Autumn well.”

Cassian didn’t miss the subtle exchange of power—Eris wasn’t just handing you off. He was testing you, calculating how far you could go in Night Court territory without burning the bridge they were just barely keeping stable.

You turned back to Rhys. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Rhys said. “You’ll fly south and begin with the villages hit along the mountain edge.”

Cassian watched your jaw tick. “Fine.”

“Any questions?” Rhys asked.

Cassian lifted a hand. “Yeah. Are we staying in the same tent or do I get to pitch mine somewhere far, far away from the sound of her voice?”

You smirked at him. “Don’t worry, Cassian. If you can’t handle sleeping near me, I’m sure there’s a cave somewhere you can crawl into.”

The wind cut sharp along the mountain pass as the two generals trudged side by side—though “side by side” was generous. Cassian walked just ahead, his wings twitching with restrained annoyance, while you kept to his left, boots crunching over snow-dusted stone, gaze cold and hard beneath your crimson hood.

You hadn't spoken much since leaving the war camp near the border. Not beyond clipped logistical updates and barely civil insults. You didn’t need to—each of you understood the mission. Investigate the rising tensions along the Autumn-Winter edge, determine if the scattered unrest among rebel Illyrians and rogue Autumn soldiers posed a unified threat, and eliminate the problem before it caught fire.

What neither of you had expected was the weather to turn so quickly. And Cassian, always the optimist, hadn’t thought to prepare for a damn blizzard.

“Nice planning,” you muttered under your breath, hugging your fur-lined cloak tighter around you. “Didn’t think the general of the Night Court would be undone by a little ice.”

Cassian threw you a look over his shoulder. “I figured a flame-wielding general from the Autumn Court wouldn’t be whining about the cold.”

“Flames don’t fix your lack of foresight.”

He bit back a growl and kept walking.

By the time you stumbled upon the old outpost—half-buried in snow and abandoned for decades—the sun had already dipped behind the peaks. The wood creaked as Cassian forced the door open, stepping aside to let you in first. You didn’t thank him. Of course you didn’t.

The inside was just barely livable. One room. A stone hearth, cracked and dusty. A table, two chairs, a narrow bed that sagged in the middle, and not nearly enough space for two warriors bred for war and mistrust.

You eyed the room, then him. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Oh, believe me,” he said, tossing his gear into a corner, “I’m fantasizing about being literally anywhere else.”

“Good,” you snapped, and peeled your gloves off, revealing calloused, ink-lined fingers—the map of battle etched on skin.

Cassian watched you for a beat too long. You were always like this—sharp edges, barbed wit, power coiled under skin like a whip waiting to snap. But under the frost, under the armor… there was fire. And he felt it every time you fought. Every time you stood too close. Every time your scent hit him like a war drum in his chest.

He hated it.

He hated that he knew what it meant. He hated that he knew you didn’t.

You knelt by the hearth and lit a flame with a flick of your fingers, feeding it slowly until warmth began to creep through the stone walls. Cassian dragged a chair toward the fire and dropped into it, wings aching from the wind and cold.

You took the other chair. Silence stretched long between you, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the storm screaming outside.

Cassian leaned back, studying you from the corner of his eye.

“So,” he said, voice low. “You gonna tell me why you hate me, or should I just keep guessing?”

You didn’t look at him. “I don’t hate you.”

He arched a brow. “You’ve been acting like I kicked your favorite pet since day one.”

“That’s just how I am.”

“No,” he said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re not like this with Eris. You’re not like this with Rhys. Just me.”

You finally looked at him, and gods, your eyes were wildfire—dangerous and untamable. “That’s because they don’t get under my skin.”

He froze. So did you. The fire popped.

A beat passed. Then another.

You stood abruptly, pacing to the window, arms crossed tight. “You’re reckless. Arrogant. You act like you know what’s best for everyone, and you don’t even see how much damage you do.”

“And you think I don’t carry every ounce of it?”

“Maybe you do,” you said over your shoulder. “But you cover it with jokes and brute force. That doesn’t impress me.”

“I’m not trying to impress you.”

You turned back. “Good. Because it wouldn’t work.”

Another silence fell, hotter this time. He rose, slowly. You were barely three feet apart now.

“You’re lying,” he said.

You swallowed. “Don’t start.”

“You feel it,” he said, voice hoarse. “Don’t you?”

Your jaw clenched.

“I wish I didn’t,” he whispered.

And there it was—that heavy, humming pause between you, like the air knew something you didn’t want to admit.

Your voice dropped. “Then don’t.”

Cassian stepped closer. “I’ve tried.”

So had you. Gods knew you had. But this? This wasn’t trying anymore. This was surrender.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Cassian’s breath was shallow, ragged at the edges. The firelight danced across your armor, glinting off the red stitching like it was soaked in blood.

“You think I don’t fight it?” you said, voice low. “You think I haven’t tried to kill it every time I look at you?”

His throat bobbed with the effort not to reach for you.

“You make me insane,” you breathed. “I hate how loud you are. How cocky. How you throw yourself into danger like it’s a sport.”

Cassian’s wings flared behind him, muscles coiled like a bowstring. “Then stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to tear me apart.”

You blinked. Once. Then twice. Your expression twisted—equal parts rage and need—and when you moved, it was fast.

Cassian caught you around the waist as you slammed him against the wall, your mouths crashing together in a kiss that wasn’t soft or slow or anything close to sane. It was war—teeth and tongue, armor scraping, a growl vibrating from deep in his chest as you yanked at the buckle of his chest strap like you’d been waiting years to do it.

His hands fisted in your leathers, pulling you flush against him. Your curves pressed hard into his body, and he felt it—that snap deep in his bones, in his soul, the one he’d been ignoring for far too long.

Mine.

You bit his lip.

“Fuck,” he snarled, shoving his knee between your legs, forcing you back just enough to rip the outer layers of your armor open. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”

“Good,” you gasped, nails dragging down his chest. “Now you know how it feels.”

He spun you, slamming you into the wall, and kissed you again—harder, deeper, like he could bury the bond with his mouth. But it only snapped tighter, louder with every second you moaned against him.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he growled against your throat.

You didn’t answer.

“Say it,” he demanded, dragging his tongue along the curve of your jaw. “Say it and I’ll stop.”

Still, silence.

“Gods,” you whispered. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” he said, voice wrecked.

And then you grabbed his hand and shoved it between your thighs.

Cassian’s world went white, narrowed to the heat pulsing beneath your leathers, to the slick warmth coating his fingers as he pressed them against you through your soaked underthings. You were dripping for him—soaked through from rage, from tension, from want so sharp it had fangs.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re soaked and we haven’t even started.”

Your only answer was a breathy, defiant sound—half snarl, half moan—as you ground your hips against his hand.

He didn’t give you a warning. Didn’t bother with teasing. He shoved past the soaked fabric and sank two thick fingers inside you, groaning at the way you clenched around him.

Your head hit the wall with a dull thud. “Shit—Cassian—”

“Oh, now you remember my name,” he growled, pumping his fingers hard, deep. “You’re gonna be screaming it soon, so you might as well get used to it.”

You arched into him, panting, nails scraping across his armored shoulders as you tried to stay upright. But he didn’t let you—he pinned you to the wall with his body, rutting his hand into you like he could carve himself into your heat. His thumb found your clit and circled, hard and merciless, until you choked on a gasp.

“You gonna admit it now?” he breathed against your throat. “That you want me? That this bond is real?”

“Go to hell,” you gasped.

He slammed you down on his fingers in reply, curling them until your knees buckled.

“Already there, sweetheart.”

He tore your pants down the moment you started to unravel, your cries high and raw against his shoulder. You came on his hand with a sharp, shaking jolt—hips jerking, muscles locking up—biting down on his neck hard enough to leave teeth marks.

Cassian groaned like a dying man.

Then he spun you around.

Bent you over the table.

And ripped your shirt open from the back like it offended him.

“No armor now,” he muttered, pushing your braid aside, mouth dragging down your spine. “Nothing between us.”

He dropped to his knees behind you, spreading your thighs with calloused hands and burying his face in your soaked, aching cunt like he was starved for it. His tongue was brutal—licking, sucking, fucking into you with a rhythm that had your fists slamming the table, your voice cracking on curses you hadn’t meant to say.

“Cassian—fuck—gods, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growled, voice wrecked between licks. “Say my name.”

You did. Again and again. Until you came a second time, shaking so hard your legs gave out, collapsing over the table like he’d wrung the fight from your body.

But not your mouth.

“You’re still an arrogant prick,” you muttered hoarsely.

Cassian laughed. Then he stood and dropped his own leathers in one swift motion, cock already hard and leaking, thick and flushed and angry.

“Yeah?” he rasped, dragging the head through your slick folds. “You gonna take this arrogant prick, General?”

You looked over your shoulder—glared at him, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. “Try me.”

He sheathed himself in you in one brutal thrust.

You both groaned—deep and guttural—as your body clenched around him like a vice. He didn’t give you a moment. Just gripped your hips and fucked, hard and fast and furious, his chest pressed to your back, teeth dragging up your neck like he was seconds from claiming you.

You pushed back against him just as desperately, meeting every thrust like a challenge, like this was still a battle you could win. But he felt the bond between you like a chain now—hot and heavy and howling, pulling tighter with every movement, every cry.

“Say it,” he gasped. “Say you feel it.”

“I won’t.”

He fucked you harder.

“You’re mine,” he snarled. “You’ve always been mine.”

“Then take me,” you hissed. “If you want me so bad—take me.”

He did.

He grabbed you by the back of the neck and pulled you upright, keeping himself buried deep as he pounded into you from behind. One hand splayed over your stomach, the other braced against your throat, forcing your head back as he drove up into you again and again, harder, deeper.

Your moans were filthy. Obscene. The slap of skin echoed between the stone walls. The bond sang like a live wire, just on the edge of snapping—

Until you came again, screaming.

And this time, the bond howled back.

Cassian lost it.

He bit down on your shoulder, hard enough to bruise but not break skin, and spilled into you with a raw, shuddering groan, grinding as deep as he could, like he could brand you from the inside out.

You collapsed together—sweaty, panting, ruined.

And still, even after all that, you said:

“You’re still insufferable.”

Cassian let out a wrecked, hoarse laugh against your back.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But you’re mine now.”

They made it back in one piece.

Mostly.

The rogue warbands were dealt with, the supply routes secured. A victory, technically. But it didn’t feel like one—not to Cassian, anyway. Not with you standing by the open balcony, already dressed in your travel leathers, crimson cloak fluttering like a flag of retreat.

“You’re just leaving?”

You didn’t look at him. “My job here’s done.”

“So that’s it?”

Silence.

Cassian stalked across the room, jaw tight, wings half-flared. “You really think you can fuck me like that, fight beside me, feel what we both felt—and then just disappear back to Eris like none of it mattered?”

“I don’t belong here,” you said flatly.

He laughed, but there was no humor in it—just something raw. “You belong with me.”

Your mouth twisted. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” he snarled. “Because it’s true?”

You finally turned, eyes blazing. “Because if I let myself believe it, I won’t leave. And I have to leave, Cassian. You think I can just stay here—like I’m not a general from a rival court? Like my presence wouldn’t be a threat the second politics shift?”

“You think I give a shit about politics?”

“You should. Because I do. Because if I stay, I’m not just your mate—I’m a liability. For you. For Rhys. For everyone.”

“Fuck that,” he said, crossing the distance in a blink. “You’re not a liability. You’re the only one who didn’t flinch when things got ugly. You’re the only one who’s ever stood toe-to-toe with me and made me feel something real.”

You shook your head, jaw trembling. “You don’t get it. I’ve spent my whole life building this—earning power, respect. I walk into a room and males move. I command. And with you—” You broke off, eyes glittering. “You make me feel like I’m going to burn from the inside out.”

“Then let it burn,” he said, stepping closer, voice hoarse. “Let it all burn.”

You backed away. “Don’t ask me to choose.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m asking you to stop running.”

“I’m not running.”

“You are,” he snapped. “Because you felt the bond snap into place that night. I know you did. And you’re too fucking scared to admit it.”

“I’m not scared,” you growled.

“Then stay.”

You stared at him, breathing hard.

“I’ve lived my whole life thinking I’d never have this,” he said, softer now. “That I’d fight and bleed and die alone. But then there you were—fucking fire and fury and everything I never let myself want. And I can’t pretend it doesn’t gut me to watch you walk away like none of it mattered.”

You swallowed. “It mattered.”

“Then why leave?”

A long silence.

You looked away, toward the mountains in the distance, toward home. Your voice came quiet.

“Because if I stay, I won’t be a general anymore. I’ll just be yours. And I don’t know who I am without that armor.”

Cassian stepped in close, so close you had to tilt your chin to meet his eyes.

“Then take it off,” he whispered. “Just for a minute. Let me see you.”

Your lip trembled.

You could have shoved him away.

Instead, you whispered, “I hate you.”

And Cassian smiled, soft and wrecked. “I know.”

Then you kissed him like you were about to break.

And maybe you were.

But you pulled away first. Breathless. Shaking. Still you.

“I want you,” you said, voice hoarse. “I want this. But I am not some prize you won on the battlefield, Cassian. I am not going to be your mate and fade into the background of your war room. I bled for my command. I earned it. And I’m not giving it up for a bond—no matter how loud it screams.”

His brow furrowed. “You think I want that? You think I’d ask you to choose between me and your command?”

“You wouldn’t ask,” you said. “But it would happen. Slowly. Quietly. One compromise after another until I look in the mirror and I don’t see the female who fought her way out of Autumn. I’d see someone who bent for love. And I won’t be bent.”

Cassian stepped back—not in anger, but in understanding. Respect. His wings dropped. So did his guard.

“Then don’t,” he said simply. “Don’t bend. Don’t follow. Don’t change a single godsdamned thing.”

Your eyes snapped up.

He met them, steady and unflinching. “I want the general. I want the woman who told Rhys to his face that she doesn’t take orders from anyone. I want the female who looked me in the eye and challenged me. You think I want a mate who bows?”

A beat passed.

“I want a partner,” he said. “I want you.”

Something broke open behind your ribs—sharp and terrifying and real.

You crossed the room in three strides and kissed him again, fierce and unapologetic. You pushed him back into the nearest wall and said into his mouth, “Then remember that. Every time you look at me.”

He kissed you like a vow. “Every time.”

And you stayed.

Not because the bond demanded it.

But because you chose to.

BONUS!

Rhys was already smirking when you walked into the war room.

Cassian’s hand brushed against yours—barely a touch, a whisper of heat as subtle as the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. You didn’t reach for him. He didn’t reach for you. But the energy between you sang like a string drawn tight.

Rhys, lounging in his chair like he owned the realm and then some, steepled his fingers and said, far too mildly, “So. You’re not dead.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Disappointed?”

“I wouldn’t say disappointed.” Rhys tilted his head. “Surprised, maybe. Last I heard, you two were halfway to throttling each other on a snow-covered cliff.”

“Progress,” you said coolly.

“Mm.” Rhys’s violet eyes slid to you. “And now you’re… here.”

Cassian crossed his arms and leaned against the wall like he didn’t have a care in the world. “She’s staying.”

Rhys blinked. Then his gaze darted between you and Cassian with growing amusement. “Staying?”

You met his look without flinching. “Temporarily.”

Cassian coughed. “Indefinitely.”

You elbowed him. Lightly. Not that it made much impact on the walking mountain.

Rhys grinned, all teeth and wicked delight. “Well. This is going to be fun.”

“I didn’t come here for fun,” you said.

“No,” Rhys said, rising from his chair and circling the table. “You came here to tell the High Lord of the Night Court that one of the Autumn Court’s most volatile assets has decided to take up residence in his palace. Just after a cross-court skirmish that nearly turned into a diplomatic nightmare.”

Your arms crossed. “Are you objecting?”

Rhys smiled, too pleased. “Gods, no. I’m thrilled. Eris, on the other hand…”

Right on cue, the door swung open, and Eris sauntered in with the smug displeasure of a male who'd had just enough warning to be irritated, but not enough to prepare a speech.

“You’re joking,” he said, not even looking at Cassian. Just you.

“I’m not.”

“You’re staying?”

You nodded once. “Yes.”

“And this is because…?” His gaze flicked to Cassian.

Cassian smiled brightly. “Because I’m irresistible.”

“Because I chose to,” you said over him.

Eris looked at you for a long moment, then at Cassian, then let out a sharp, unamused breath. “Perfect. Just what I needed—another complication with wings.”

Cassian’s wings twitched. “Want me to write it out for you? Draw a little diagram?”

“I want you to shut up,” Eris snapped.

“I want a drink,” you muttered.

Rhys laughed. “There’s wine in the cellar. Go before Azriel shows up and demands a report with footnotes.”

Cassian straightened, already heading for the door. “Come on, General. Let’s toast to terrifying everyone we work with.”

You didn’t look back. But you felt their eyes on your back as you left—Rhys’s quiet satisfaction, Eris’s reluctant acceptance, the ripple you’d just sent through the world with one choice.

And Cassian at your side, smug and steady and real.

Just before you turned the corner, you heard Eris mutter, “You owe me fifty gold marks.”

Rhys replied, far too gleeful, “Told you she’d pick him.”

Cassian’s grin was pure sin. “You bet on us?”

You rolled your eyes. “Idiots.”

But you didn’t stop smiling.

[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!

Check out Cassian’s and Rhysand’s version here! The War Room and The High Lord’s Room

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.

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[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]