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fr0stf4ll · 2 days ago

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 23

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 6k

Trigger warning; war, death, blood, violence

notes; hello everyone ! hope that everyone is doing great, here is the new chapter of this story. Tbh it was the funniest for me to write i just love Ather's character, i hope that you will have a great time with him too ! Either way please enjoy this chapter, i'm finally with less work so i'm able to be more regular with the posts, really don't hesitate to comment because that motivates a lot !!! see you soon everyone <3333

previous ✧

Azriel

The front line was soaked in blood—mud and ash caked over scorched stone, crimson pooling in trenches, staining armor, painting the battlefield in a shade of death that would never wash out. Smoke curled from splintered trees, from the bodies of fallen beasts and warriors alike, and above it all… the scent of rot. Of magic too old and wrong for this world.

Azriel spun, blades flashing as another creature lunged out of the mist—misshapen, all teeth and shadow. Not quite dead, not quite living. He ducked, slashed once, and the thing crumbled to the dirt in a heap of shriveled bone and tar-thick blood.

But it didn’t scream when it died. It didn’t bleed right. They never did.

He didn’t even flinch anymore.

Another wave came—Koshiev’s army was relentless. There was no breath between attacks, no lull to regroup. These monsters, these vessels, didn’t tire. Didn’t think. They just moved. With precision, with hunger. Azriel had already managed to cut down dozens of them. And still—they kept coming.

Whatever technique Koshiev had used to twist these things into being, it was working. Azriel wasn’t even sure what half of them had once been. Animals? Fae? Humans? Nothing moved like them. Nothing bled like them. And every time he killed one, another emerged from the fog—dark as pitch, limbs that bent the wrong way, eyeless and snarling.

He’d seen horrors before. He’d fought in more wars than he cared to count. But this?

This was something else.

This was the kind of fight that whispered in the back of your skull, that made you wonder if you were going to wake up screaming weeks, months from now—if you were lucky enough to survive.

He didn’t know how long they’d been fighting. Hours? Days?

He didn’t know how many vessels were still out there. How many Koshiev had sent. How many more would come.

And that—not the monsters, not the blood, not even the screaming—

That was what scared the shit out of him.

Because for the first time in centuries, Azriel couldn’t see when this war would end.

And if he couldn’t see the end…

Then maybe there wasn’t one.

Steel clanged on steel. Wings battered against wind and ash. Azriel moved like shadow incarnate, slicing through one creature’s throat and twisting away just in time to avoid the snapping jaws of another. Every inch of him was slick with sweat and blood—most of it not his. His siphons burned, casting dull light through the smoky battlefield, and his magic strained with every strike.

He didn’t pause. Couldn’t.

And then he spotted him—Cassian, a whirlwind of blade and brute force, carving a path through the ranks with fire in his eyes and blood streaking his armor. Relief crashed through Azriel’s ribs. He veered left, wings flaring as he cut down another beast and landed hard beside his brother.

Cassian glanced his way. “Took you long enough.”

“Had to kill a few hundred things on the way,” Azriel panted, ducking as Cassian cleaved through a malformed thing that howled in a voice that wasn’t its own.

They barely had a moment to breathe.

A soldier—a young male from the Summer Court—was three feet away from them, eyes wild with fear but still holding his line. Azriel barely had time to call a warning before the air shifted.

It didn’t come from the front.

It came beneath.

With no warning, the ground under the soldier cracked open like a mouth—dark magic shattering the stone, tendrils of something black and slick grabbing him by the waist and dragging him down. Not slowly.

Snapped. Like a trap closing. His scream split the air—and then half his body was gone. The rest followed in a wet, crunching sound that would stay in Azriel’s ears for the rest of his life.

The crack sealed shut a moment later. As if the earth had never opened.

Both Azriel and Cassian froze—just for a breath.

“Mother’s fucking bones,” Cassian said under his breath, eyes wide, face pale beneath his war paint.

Azriel didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He just stared at the bloody smear on the stone where the male had stood.

Whatever that was… it wasn’t a beast.

That was Koshiev.

That was intent.

And it was only getting worse.

Just as the blood from the soldier’s death had finished soaking into the dirt, the message came—sharp and sudden in Azriel’s mind.

"The camp was attacked.”

Rhysand’s voice, clipped and strained, cracked across the bond like lightning.

Azriel froze.

So did Cassian.

“What?” Cass barked, already turning toward him, reading the horror written across his brother’s face.

But Azriel wasn’t listening.

Because a second later, he felt it—

Nothing.

The bond—your bond—was still there but quiet. Too quiet. As if something had pressed down on it, smothered it into silence. No thoughts. No emotions. No heartbeat pulsing at the edge of his soul.

Just a void.

Azriel’s entire body went ice-cold.

Cassian swore, grabbing his arm. “Go. I’ve got it here—go find her.”

That was all he needed.

Azriel didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

He vanished.

Through shadows, through sky, through sheer, frantic will—he soared above the battlefield, the world a blur of smoke and fire below. He didn’t stop to rest, didn’t pause to calculate. He pushed every thread of his power to its edge, moving like a dying star across the sky, desperation cutting through him like a blade.

You were silent. And Azriel had never, ever, been more afraid in his life.

The world stopped.

Where there should have been tents, noise, faelight, the copper-sweet scent of blood and burn salves, there was… nothing.

The camp was gone.

Not destroyed. Not burned or broken. Just… gone.

Azriel landed hard, boots hitting soft ground where your tent used to be—where the medical pavilion, the triage rows, the healer quarters should’ve stood. Now, there was only grass. Dirt. Wind whispering through quiet trees.

As if none of it had ever existed.

As if you had never existed.

A choked, broken sound tore from Azriel’s throat.

A sound that wasn’t meant for battle. Wasn’t meant for war.

It was the kind of sound that was made only when the world ended.

He stumbled forward, eyes wide, lungs locked. His heart beat so loud he thought it might rupture, then collapse entirely.

No movement.

No scent.

No bond.

“No…” he whispered, knees nearly giving out beneath him. “No, no, please…”

Was this it?

Was this how Elain’s vision was supposed to happen?

Not even a goodbye.

Not even a fucking chance to hold you one last time. To say he loved you. To feel your skin beneath his hands. Your lips against his.

He had just kissed you hours ago. Just whispered promises against your skin. And now?

Now there was only emptiness.

Azriel fell to one knee, hands in the dirt where your tent should have stood.

His jaw clenched. His throat burned. And for the first time since he was a boy in a cell, helpless and broken and bleeding—

Tears pricked his eyes.

He stepped forward slowly, like walking through a dream that made no sense. The kind of dream that clawed at your ribs and left you gasping when you woke up. Except he wasn’t waking up. This was real.

The bond still felt wrong. Not severed—but quiet. Blurred. Faint. Like you were behind thick glass, miles away, or like someone had submerged your presence in water and he was clawing to reach it.

It didn’t look like an attack. There were no bodies. No smoke. No blood.

But with what he knew of Koshiev’s power… anything was possible.

Then—

A flicker of cold. Of movement.

His shadows.

The ones that had refused to leave you, the ones that had stayed curled at your side even as he left.

His shadows whipped around him in a frenzy—restless, searching, calling.

And then—one of them touched the side of his neck.

Insistent. Pulling.

South. Far south. Not just meters—kilometers.

Azriel’s breath caught. His eyes widened.

The shadows didn’t say you were taken. They said: find her.

He stood in a single movement. Wings flaring, heart thundering.

You had moved the camp. You’d teleported the entire thing.

And his shadows had stayed behind to guide him home.

He didn’t hesitate.

He launched into the sky like a shadow-made storm, burning through the wind with only one thought echoing through him:

Find her. Now.

Azriel landed so hard he cracked the earth.

The camp was there—intact. Tents standing, faelights flickering, familiar shadows moving through the rows. The scent of healing salves, steel, and blood still hung in the air—but it was all real. Safe.

You’d moved it.

You had moved the whole gods-damned camp.

He didn’t pause to marvel at how. He just ran.

Straight into the healer’s tent, shoving the flap aside so fast the wood creaked.

He scanned the space—until his eyes locked on the Illyrian boy he’d seen shadowing you since the start of the war. The one who never left your side. Ather.

The male was slumped on a chair, one wing pinned with two vicious black arrows, sweat beading on his pale forehead. Elira—Azriel recognized her immediately from Velaris—was tending to the injury, hands glowing faintly.

It didn’t matter.

Azriel was on him in a breath.

He grabbed Ather by the collar, hauling him forward with enough force to jostle the cot. “Where is she?! Where, is, she?!” he roared, voice a lash of pure, frantic fury. Each word came with a shake that made Ather whimper in shock.

The boy was already ashen, eyes wide with remembered horror—and now, staring into the face of a raging shadowsinger, he looked moments away from passing out.

Elira grabbed Azriel’s arm hard. “Calm down, would you?! You’re going to kill him, and he’s the one who saved your wife!”

Azriel froze.

Elira scowled. “Y/N is fine. She’s sleeping. In your tent. She used too much power and passed—”

She didn’t finish.

Azriel was already gone.

Elira sighed, dropping her head back with a groan. “Aaaaahhhh, men…”

“I know, right…” Ather muttered, grimacing as she resumed stitching the damage to his wing.

A few hours before

“For fuck’s sake… fuck this shit.”

It was all you could say as you stared into the distance, where dust clouds were beginning to rise—heralds of the coming enemy. Your heart thundered against your ribs, not from fear, but from calculation. From the pressure that cracked through your spine like lightning.

You took one breath.

Then another.

Then turned toward Ather.

“Your wings—are they strong enough for you to fly with me?”

He blinked at you, confused. “I mean… yes? Not for long distances, though. I—I’m not as strong as the more experienced Illyrian, but I can fly.”

You didn’t wait.

You were already walking. Past the first row of healer tents. Past the storage pavilion. Past the outer sentry post. Toward the edge of camp. Toward the enemy.

Ather scrambled after you. “Wait—wait—Y/N, what are we doing? Are we evacuating? Is this, like, some sort of fallback protocol? Are we running away? Should I be writing a goodbye note? Do you have one? We should maybe have left that for Azriel, don’t you think?!—I mean, he’s going to kill me. He’s going to skin me alive. I don’t want to die being skinned—”

You smacked the back of his head.

“Ow!”

“Shut up.” You didn’t look at him as you stopped at the very edge of camp, just before the first trees of the old forest. “Be ready. The moment I finish, grab me and fly south. As far as your wings can take us.”

He stared at you. “Finish what? What are you—”

You didn’t answer.

You inhaled deeply, letting the air burn through your lungs, as if it could hold your ribs together for what was coming. You reached—up, out, in—and found the celestial threads humming all around you. You had always called the moon your ally. Gentle, intuitive, unwavering. But the sun? The sun roared. The sun commanded.

And today, it answered.

Light surged in your chest. The very air shimmered with it. Around the entire camp, the sky itself rippled—golden, blinding, a silent warning to whatever forces approached.

It felt powerful. It felt alive. It felt raw.

And it felt like it might break you.

Your knees trembled. Your breath grew shallow. You could taste copper.

Blood slipped from your nose first.

Then your ears.

The magic clawed through you, not gentle like moonlight but searing like solar flame. Your fingers twitched as the spell stretched wide—so wide. You were folding space. Bending the air, the soil, the living threads of every healer, every tent, every goddamn cot and supply chest. You were taking everything.

Ather’s voice rang beside you, panicked and high and desperate. “Y/N—they’re close, they’re so close! I can see them, we don’t have time! Finish it! For Cauldron’s sake—please—”

You couldn’t hear him fully anymore. The rush of blood in your ears was a tidal wave. Your limbs shook violently now. Your vision swam.

The ground quaked beneath your feet as hundreds—maybe thousands—of enemy soldiers approached. The woods rustled with their shadows. The ground thundered. Your power stuttered once. Once.

And the clock screamed in your mind—NOW. NOW. NOW.

You screamed with it.

Light erupted.

A violent, blinding flash engulfed the camp.

And then— Silence.

The entire camp vanished.

Every healer, every patient, every supply—all gone.

Ather blinked—just once—before you crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.

“Y/N!”

He barely had time to catch your limp body before the enemy force burst through the trees, crashing into the clearing where a camp had once stood.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

He clutched you tight and launched into the sky, wings howling in protest as he lifted you into the air. Below, the enemy spread through the empty earth like ants—searching, confused, too late.

Blood trailed from your nose, your ears, your fingertips.

You didn’t stir.

But you were alive.

And he was flying—because you told him to.

Ather flew harder and faster than he ever had in his life.

The wind tore at his wings. The weight of your limp body in his arms made every pump of his muscles feel like fire. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Because he knew. He knew the monster below had seen him. That it had looked right at him with those eyes that weren’t eyes—black pits of death that knew.

And it knew who he carried.

The moment the camp had vanished, the forest had exploded with chaos. He’d barely cleared the treetops before the shrieking started—inhuman and guttural. And then the arrows came.

The first one missed his right wing by a hair.

The second lodged in his boot.

The third he had to dodge mid-air or it would’ve gone through you.

“Cauldron-fucking-DAMN IT!” he snarled, twisting sharply, wings howling as he dove behind a burst of trees, bark exploding behind him as more arrows sliced the air.

He held you tighter—gods, you were so still—and it made him sick. Sick with fear, sick with rage, sick with the crushing truth that he had no idea where he was going.

Because of course you hadn’t told him.

Of course you’d passed out like a martyr before saying, “Hey Ather, the whole camp is going to rematerialize southwest near a large, helpful clearing.”

No.

No, instead he was half-dead, flying through a fucking nightmare, with arrows hissing past him and hell only knew how many monstrous things tracking his scent and yours, and he was flying blind.

He should’ve never said he liked working with you.

He should’ve kept his mouth shut, kept his distance, and stayed on the front lines where people just died quickly.

Now he was going to die slowly, on fire, probably, and you—gods, he didn’t even want to think—

But then.

Then.

A shadow flickered out of nowhere.

Small. Quick. Familiar.

Ather nearly wept.

“Oh, bless you, you little shit,” he gasped, adjusting his hold on you as the shadow darted in front of him, curling like smoke toward the south.

He didn’t question it.

Didn’t dare.

He followed the shadow like it was the only star in the sky. Arrows still flew. The enemy still roared below.

And all Ather could do was pray—

That he wasn’t flying into a trap. That the shadow was truly Azriel’s. That the gods—or hell, anyone—were still watching over you.

“Just hold on,” he whispered against your hair, voice cracking. “Please hold on.”

And he flew. Bleeding. Cursing. Terrified.

But he flew.

He didn’t know how long he’d been flying.

Hours. Days. Maybe three years. In reality? Barely forty-five minutes. Probably less.

But tell that to his lungs, currently trying to crawl out of his chest cavity. Or to his wings, one of which had two actual fucking arrows in it. Or to his foot, which still had that charming little arrowhead lodged in it, singing sweet nothings up his leg every two minutes like some demonic lullaby.

He was sweating. And freezing. And panting like an animal that had already died once and just hadn’t gotten the message yet.

“Are you happy now?” he hissed into the air, glaring down at your completely unconscious face. “Is this what you wanted? Me—dying—like some overcooked pigeon because you wanted to heroic teleport an entire camp?!”

You didn’t answer.

Because, of course, you were still completely out cold.

“Of course you’re not answering,” he gritted. “Because that would be helpful. And you—you’re all about the dramatic silence, aren’t you? You just had to pass out with zero explanation.”

He adjusted his grip as another gust of wind tried to yank him sideways, groaning as his wing screamed in pain. “You know, I used to think you were cool. I really did. You’re badass, you’re powerful, you make people explode from the inside out—all the usual things that make a guy respect someone.”

Another sharp jolt of pain lanced through his leg, and he yelled.

“But this?! This is not cool!” He huffed, half-sobbing now. “This is war crimes level uncool. You are so lucky I like you.”

Still, the shadow ahead of him—his only lifeline—twisted through the sky, relentless and steady, leading him somewhere. Hopefully not the afterlife.

Ather clung to that flicker of shadow like it was holy.

“I swear to all the gods,” he muttered, breath hitching, “if you die after making me go through this—I will find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself.”

Another gust. Another fucking pulse of pain in his foot. He could feel the stupid arrow vibrating in his bone.

“Why the foot? Who aims for a foot?!”

You still didn’t stir. Just a limp weight in his arms, your brow faintly furrowed from power long since burned out.

He looked down at your face again. Blood had dried around your ears and nose. Your lips were pale.

And just like that, all the fury evaporated.

Ather’s throat closed up. “Don’t you dare leave,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if we’re halfway across the world—I’ll carry you the rest of the way. But don’t you fucking leave me, Y/N.”

He sniffed. “Also, your husband owes me a very expensive bottle of something very strong.”

And with that, wings still trembling, vision blurred from exhaustion and fury and sheer dumb hope—Ather followed the shadow onward. Toward safety. Toward the camp.

By the time Ather finally staggered through the perimeter of the relocated camp, he was done.

Done with flying. Done with bleeding. Done with holding you like a sack of divine potatoes while using one arrow-impaled foot to drag his soul across whatever-the-fuck terrain this was.

“AAAAUUUGGHHHHHH,” he groaned—loudly, dramatically, sweat pouring down his temple, wobbling so hard he was seeing three of every tent. “I swear to the Cauldron if I collapse now, after ALL OF THAT, I want a statue built of me!”

His left wing twitched violently. His arms burned. His foot—don’t even mention the foot.

He lurched forward, nearly tripping over air as he adjusted your weight in his arms. “Why are you so heavy?! I thought powerful people were supposed to be light with magic, but nooo,” he grunted, dragging his leg behind him like a dead fish. “It’s like carrying a sack of bricks soaked in divine energy and sarcasm!”

People were staring.

He glared at them. Actually glared.

“WHAT?! Don’t just stand there like a bunch of decorative pigeons, HELP ME, DAMMIT!”

Two startled volunteers ran forward to finally take you from his arms—Ather nearly sobbed in relief as he slumped forward, gripping the edge of the nearest table.

Elira emerged from the main tent just in time to see him faceplant into the nearest chair with all the elegance of a drunk wyvern.

“DON’T EVER leave me alone with her again,” he gasped between wheezing breaths. “I thought—I saw my ancestors, Elira. I saw them. They told me I was stupid. I AGREED.”

She blinked. “Ather, breathe.”

He wheezed harder. “You’re supposed to always be with her! Isn’t that your job? She’s terrifying. I mean—she glowed, Elira. She started bleeding from the nose and I thought, ‘Well, guess I die now.’”

Elira pulled up his sleeve and began dabbing at a particularly nasty cut. “You're being dramatic.”

“I am NOT—ow—being dramatic. I’m being traumatized!”

He slumped further, clutching his head. “She said, ‘Be ready to catch me.’ What does that mean, Elira?! Do I look like someone built for divine emergency teleportation?!”

He let out a long, miserable, guttural noise.

“AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH—”

And that was the moment a dark hand gripped his shoulder and shook him hard enough that his brain nearly fell out of his nose.

Ather screamed.

Azriel stood over him like an avenging shadow, eyes wild, hair a mess, wings still dusted with frost and blood.

“Where is she?!” he demanded, already halfway turned, eyes sweeping the tent like he was seconds from vaporizing it.

Elira grabbed his other shoulder and yanked. “She’s fine! Calm down before you break him in half!”

“She’s in your tent,” she added more firmly. “Passed out. Drained, but safe. Lila and Telyan are with her.”

Azriel was gone before either of them could say another word.

Ather flopped back in the chair, limp as a boiled vegetable. “Men,” Elira muttered.

“I know, right?” Ather groaned, tossing an arm over his face. “And somehow, I’m the one screaming.”

And then he passed out. Just like that. In the chair.

Absolutely done.

Azriel was running—wind slicing past his face, shadows pulling ahead of him like panicked hounds on the scent.

Then, “Where are you? Where is the camp? What the fuck happened?” Rhysand’s voice cracked in through the bond like a blade.

Azriel didn’t slow. “I don’t fucking know how,” he snapped, mentally already halfway to the camp, “but the entire fucking camp was teleported. Twenty-five kilometers southwest.”

A pause. Then Rhys again, more tense this time: “What do you mean, teleported?”

Azriel’s wings flared wide as he shifted around a rocky outcrop. “I don’t have the time to explain it to you. Just pass the message.”

That silence—just a breath’s worth—was enough. Azriel felt the shift in Rhys’ energy. The worry.

“Take care of her,” Rhys said, quiet.

Azriel didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Because that was the moment he found the tent.

He burst inside.

And the world stopped.

It reeked of blood. Her blood.

Teylan and Lila were hunched over you, carefully tending to wounds and soaking towels already stained deep red. Most of your clothes had been stripped—your skin pale and clammy, dark stains drying down your jawline, across your chest.

You were upright—but barely. The second the cold air of the door rushed in with him, you turned to the side and threw up, wet, violent, and full of something that was far too close to pure blood. Azriel’s heart stopped.

"What the fuck is going on?” His voice shook with raw fear, with rage barely tethered. “What happened to her?!”

He was already halfway to your cot, shadows thickening at his back like they were ready to destroy anything that stood between you. He didn’t care if it was a healer, a High Lord, or a god.

Teylan turned, startled by Azriel’s sudden presence. Lila was behind you, gently helping you lie back onto the cot, brushing your hair from your sweat-soaked face.

“She burned out,” Lila snapped, eyes blazing with equal parts panic and frustration. “That crazy, dumbass woman saved all of us by teleporting the entire fucking camp.”

“Lila!” Teylan hissed, not even bothering to hide the edge in his tone. “Language.”

“I don’t give a shit about her language,” Azriel growled, stepping forward, shadows flickering with every breath. “Is she going to be okay?”

He moved closer—but just as his hand reached out, Teylan blocked him with a firm arm.

“If you want to go near her,” he said flatly, “clean up first. She’s too weak, Azriel. And whatever blood or poison those creatures carried—you might be coated in it.”

Azriel looked down—realizing only now the black blood splattered on his leathers, the scratches across his skin that still oozed. He swore violently, wings twitching as he backed away with visible reluctance, gaze never leaving you.

You were still, your breaths thin and wheezing. Every inch of him wanted to be by your side. Touch you. Ground you. Protect you.

But Teylan was right.

So Azriel stepped back. Shadows curled around him like they ached, too.

“I’ll be back,” he said, voice like gravel. “The second I’m clean.”

And with that, he vanished into the dark again—leaving behind the wreckage of power, blood, and the woman he couldn’t, wouldn’t lose.

To say that it was the fastest Azriel had ever cleaned himself was an understatement. He had barely finished scrubbing the blood from his skin before he was throwing his leathers back on and sprinting back to the tent, water still dripping from the ends of his hair.

When he stepped inside again, breathless, heart thudding with that same cold fear still coiled in his ribs—Teylan and Lila were finishing up. The scent of blood had faded slightly, replaced now with clean bandages, salves, and bitter herbs meant to bring fevers down.

You were still in the cot, buried beneath layers upon layers of blankets, only your face visible. Pale. Still. A sheen of sweat remained on your skin, your lashes unmoving.

Lila turned to Azriel with a tired expression, her own hands red-raw from washing and healing. “She should be fine now. We gave her something to stop the internal bleeding and the vomiting. The fever broke once we got her temp stabilized.”

Teylan added, “She just needs rest. Sleep and food. That’s it. No more magic. Not until her power levels out again.”

Azriel nodded once, sharp and fast.

“We’ll handle the healers and the meeting for now,” Teylan continued. “But if anything—anything—changes, you call us. No matter the hour.”

Azriel gave another short nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

They slipped out a moment later, quiet as ghosts, leaving him alone with you.

He moved toward the bed slowly, eyes tracking every twitch of your brow, every shallow breath. You looked too small under the covers, too fragile. Like even the wind could break you now.

He dropped his clothes one by one until only his undergarments remained. His hair was still damp, plastered lightly to his forehead, but he didn’t care. He climbed into the narrow bed, careful not to jostle you too hard, and pulled you gently into his arms. You didn’t stir.

He shifted until your body lay sprawled across his chest, his arms wound tightly around your waist. His wings unfurled with a whisper and curled around both of you, cocooning you in warmth, shielding you from everything—light, cold, the world outside.

His shadows nestled close, quiet, grieving in their own way. He tilted his head down, brushed his lips across your temple.

You had teleported an entire fucking camp. Gods above. And it had nearly killed you.

Azriel held you closer.

He didn’t know how you did it—how you channeled that much power, how you still chose to give everything you had to keep everyone safe. He knew you were more than powerful. But this…

This had terrified him.

He buried his face in your hair and exhaled slowly, trying to steady the quake still sitting in his bones.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin. “I love you so gods-damned much…”

And he stayed there—his heart beating against yours, his wings sheltering you from a world at war—until sleep finally took him, wrapped in the fragile peace of your breathing.

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tag list : @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @bravo-delta-eccho @messageforthesmallestman @celestialgilb @tiredsleepyhead @annamariereads16 @arcanefeelingz @fuckingsimp4azriel @adventure-awaits13 @diaouranask @rcarbo1 @6v6babycheese @goodvibesonlyxd @sa54va87to90re12 @firefly-forest @babypeapoddd @hailqueenconquer @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @judig92 @pinklemonade34 @sourapplex @wickedshadowsinger @shinyghosteclipse @rose-girls-world @leptitlu @acourtofsmutandstarlight @feyrescanvas @dreamloud4610 @plants-w0rld @tele86 @dragonsandrinks @making-it-big @itsbonniebabe @motheroffae @azrielswhore @casiiopea2 @whyucloudingmymind @onebadassunicorn @prettylittlewrites @moondustxy @panickedmushroom @ly--canthrope @xlosttdreamss @phoenix666stuff @runningoncoffeeandchaos @zanaorian @prettty-thing @wxveysun @aslut4percyjackson @ailoda @byteme05 @elisabethch82 @eatsleepreadance1 @rainy-day-lady @breademoji @zuhashah-09 @quiettuba @magicaldragonlady @ajxsquish @hibye02 @am-riel @thorins-queen-of-erebor@casiiopea2 @whore-of-many-hot-men @bodhiscurls

#azriel fic #azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar fanart #acotar #rhysand #azriel acotar #cassian #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x y/n #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #elain #feyre

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mcmactictac · 2 days ago

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it’s 2025 and here I am trying to explain to one of my coworkers that the dsmp was actually really good and the streaming format allowed for a level of connection and involvement with different areas of the stories and characters that is unprecedented. It’s 2025 and I am fully prepared to drag him down into the trenches with me so if anyone has good dsmp video essays please reblog with them help me spread the agenda <3

#dsmp #dream smp #dsmp lore

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dangermousie · 8 hours ago

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So, dealer @aysekira linked me to a bunch of trailers released by Tencent and here is my biased take.

LOVE

Swords into Plowshares - my n1 trailer, it looks grim and adult and larger than life and epic.

Against the Current - with Seven Tan and Liu Xueyi. The slice of life vibe and the gorgeousness and the light and the rhythm - this is my second most favorite out of the ones I’ve seen. Dare I say, a little Minglan vibe there?

Generation to Generation - based on a novel from the author of Minglan and set in the jianghu, that trailer was fire!!! The chemistry and intensity and I will like BSE as the FL but it’s Zhou Yiran who stole the trailer for me.

In the Moonlight - it’s a teaser but it got the intense, longing, restrained vibe exactly right.

Yu Sheng You Ya - the adaptation of one of my favorite novellas - about a woman dealing with the aftermath - the trauma and the judgment - of her being raped, with her husband trying to assist her, her family not supporting her, the town gossiping about her etc - looks so very on point. Li Muge directs and Mao Xiaotong and Zhang Bin Bin have been utterly deglammed.

Light of Dawn - I would watch Zhang Ruoyun in almost anything but this modern intense dark tale looks great on its own.

Coming to Myself - another modern! What is the world coming to! But Jing Tian and Zhang Xincheng and a dark mystery and tortured romance and aaaaa!

Our Generation - Zhang Linghe and Zhao Jinmai reunite in an angsty modern and I am so on board.

Chasing Jade - the trailer looked like all my favorite tropes in a trench coat.

COULD BE OK

Love Beyond the Grave - the design is tacky enough to be a Halloween ad but I like fantasy especially costume fantasy and have a huge soft spot for CFY.

Love on Turquoise Land - this looks like a fun actioner.

Main Character - looks arthouse and amazing.

Mo Li - I am mildly allergic to my former fave Bai Lu by now, between MM and Feud, but let’s hope she’s back on form and I will be tuning in for that hope and because of Cheng Lei’s torso, which is clearly so crucial to the plot it is prominently and lengthily featured even in that very short teaser.

Liao Zhai - horror, even period horror, is not really my genre but it looks gorgeous and love the cast.

PENALTY BOX

Fight for Love - to take a book about loss and letting go and second chances and turn it into that?!? Ding Yuxi is on track to star in a second abomination of an adaptation of a favorite novel. WHYYYYYY

#cdrama

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freyafrida · 1 day ago

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rilla of ingleside book club, chapter one

yay, let's go!!!

It's kind of funny to be properly rereading this! I have the Gutenberg version open 90% of the time to check stuff while I'm writing fanfic so I don't ever feel like I'm not reading this book, lmao -- but it really has been some time since I actually sat down and read it all the way through. I have the classic Bantam version as well as the version edited by Benjamin Lefebvre, but I thiiink I'll go with the Lefebvre version since it's unabridged? It also has a glossary that explains some of the stuff in the book which I was obsessed with -- I distinctly remember being fascinated by the explanation of rural party phone lines, lmao. (I also have Readying Rilla! Will crack that open for comparison if I remember to ^_^)

(Side story: the same summer that I read Rilla and became obsessed with WWI, Scott Westerfeld -- one of my fave authors at the time -- announced he was doing a series set during WWI and I was sooo excited and thought the upcoming fall was going to be an epoch in baby freyafrida's life, and then I ended up not enjoying Leviathan at all, RIP. I remember getting the Lefebvre version of Rilla, reading the glossary, and being like Hmm Leviathan was really missing the trench warfare and people using party lines. Anyway.)

The early chapters of Rilla fascinate me so much because they're the only glimpse we get of the Blythes and Merediths as young adults before the war colors their lives -- what their ambitions were, what they talked about, etc.

Admittedly, Carl's only personality trait is still that he likes bugs 😭 It's pretty funny that the book never defines what exactly he plans to do with entomology, just that, you know. Bugs. He likes them.

As mentioned, it's pretty clearly an excuse for exposition that there's a whole section for "Jottings from Glen St. Mary" in the Charlottetown paper. (I do love the that the Enterprise just reports on whatever the book needs it to, I think there's an Enterprise reporter at like half the weddings in the Glen.) That said, I thiiiink the Glen is often treated as the main settlement in their particular area of the Island? IIRC that's why Anne and Gilbert move there from the isolated House of Dreams and...I can't remember any other moments exactly, but I want to say there's the Vibe that while the Glen isn't large -- tbf, I'm not sure anywhere besides Charlottetown really qualifies as large, even today -- it is the area's main town (my impression is that it spans the harbor, with over-harbor being more settled than the side the Blythes live on). So like...if there had to be a local gossip section of the paper, I guess it makes sense for the Glen to be there.

(Also, Shirley mention in this paragraph that he's coming back from Queen's! Equally funny/bizarre that the paper not only reports on the kids coming back from college, but also the comings and goings of the equivalent of high schoolers, too. LMAO. But anyway, interestingly Susan doesn't take the opportunity to discuss Shirley here!)

Rosemary's not a regular mom, she's a cool mom

Not to expose my Walter/Una and Rilla/Carl agenda, but Jem/Faith and Jerry/Nan had to be the two most boring Blythe-Meredith combinations possible. Baffled by the decision to let them get married and be happy, tbh. (Jerry and Nan never interact -- or even think about each other -- in Rainbow Valley, and now they're meant to be Anne/Gilbert-style arguing sweethearts? Odd choice.)

You ever think about how afraid that Blythes must've been that they were going to lose Walter, and their relief that he survived? :(((((

I love how much information about Gertrude is crammed into Anne's ramble about her. Gotta get us up to speed on this character we've never met before, you know.

Speak on it, Susan.

I love that even before he reveals his pacifism, nobody likes Whiskers-on-the-moon and he has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. We couldn't have the characters wrestle with disagreeing with someone they actually liked, or anything like that. (Obvs this has to do with the book being written so close to the war, although I also think this is an issue with the later Anne books in general -- see also Christine going from nice and simply misunderstood by Anne in Anne of the Island to being jealous and gossipy and fat, too when she shows up to antagonize Anne in Anne of Ingleside. Anyway.)

It's interesting that all of the Blythe-Meredith kids, save Rilla and Una, go to Queen's, when it's something only a small group of Anne's peers did. I mean, it makes sense -- Anne and Gilbert def. value education and would want their kids to go to college (and have jobs similar to their own like doctors, writers, academics, etc), which Queen's was basically a stepping stone to. IDK that preachers' children were expected to be highly educated (someone lmk if you do?) but given that Rev. Meredith would've had to go to school for theology, a similar principle probably applies. That said, it's kinda funny to think that they all follow the same trajectory their parents (and LMM herself) did. It also sticks out to me that the Blythe kids seemed to take a few years to teach instead of going straight to college -- in contrast, Rev. Meredith wants Carl to go to straight to Redmond instead of actually teaching. Maybe Anne and Gilbert thought it would build character? (idt it's financial concerns, what with the trips to Europe and the offhand way Rilla mentions getting new dresses, and i get the vibe the Merediths aren't as well-off, but Rev. Meredith still offers to put Carl through school).

Oh, another thought about Anne vs. Rilla's vanity -- also interesting to think that, in an effort to avoid her children having the sort of starved childhood she did, Anne ends up spoiling them and then regretting it (although fwiw, Rilla is the only kid who's frivolous to the point of worry).

Readying Rilla stuff I thought was interesting: nothing really in this chapter, but Mrs. Elliott originally called Miller Douglas "a penniless ne'er-do-weel", lol.

#anne of green gables #rilla of ingleside book club

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horny-marbles · 7 hours ago

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Hihi! Unsure if you’d recognize me as 🧃 anon over on Tiv’s blog,,(I’m always found in the trenches over there) but I’ve been lurking on here for a bit now and can hold silent no longer!

As a fellow Ej main,,,, I gotta ask u. Erm what’s ur take on what HE would be like during period sex??? 👉👈

Ehe I love your work sm!!!!

hiiii yes i know u!! OK SO i'm using this as an excuse to post this fic i wrote a few months ago because i wasn't sure if i'd be shunned off this app for it lmfao, so like. i hope you got your answer ��

(also this is just some munch behaviour, but p in v is basically the same. he WILL get rabies. godspeed if you're on your period while he has his rut, you might actually get dicked into a coma)

(also also i'm not the proudest of this one but i've been fiending to post it so WHATEVER go my cannibal bf)

Bloodhound (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: period oral, multiple orgasms, kinda public

wordcount 2.6k

It took forever to get to this point with Jack.

He’s not emotionally available. He doesn’t date. He doesn’t cuddle. He doesn’t care—at least, that’s what everyone at the mansion thought. He always keeps a distance, clinically cold, silent unless necessary. Most creeps only interact with him when they're dying and hoping he’d patch them up in time. You? You got in somehow.

It started with shared silences. You didn’t push, didn’t ask invasive questions. You treated him like a person, not a monster, not someone you can get something from. Maybe that’s what cracked him open.

Nothing about it was fast. It was Jack, after all. Glacial patience, iron self-control. And he… was a project in erosion. Small conversations, slow touches. Letting him fix a cut on your hand, not flinching at his claws, letting him hear your heartbeat up close while he stitched you up.

It took weeks for him to even look at you like something more than another resident of the mansion. Even longer to speak to you like you mattered. And months before you saw him with his guard down. Just a little. A crooked smile when you said something that caught him off-guard. He was cautious—frustratingly so—but over time, he allowed you closer.

Something changed along the lines. Eventually, you broke through. Maybe it was your quiet persistence. Maybe it was just time. Maybe he got tired of pretending your presence hadn't become sought out rather than just a nice surprise on the occasion.

Whatever it was, you were his now. And he was yours. Carefully. Quietly. Privately. Like something precious. It was gentler than you could've anticipated, but it felt monumental.

You knew he was demon enough to survive off flesh. You knew his senses were heightened—he’d mentioned it once, bluntly, like a clinical report. “Everyone in this house reeks. I ignore it. Easier that way.” You didn’t ask more.

So when your period started, you didn’t even think to tell him. Why would you? You weren’t the kind of person to make a big deal out of it out loud. You’d stuff a pad in your jacket, pop some ibuprofen, sulk, call it a day. Maybe mention it if sex came up to make sure he wasn't squeamish, but otherwise—whatever.

He was NOT squeamish.

He was a fucking wreck, in such a visceral way that it knocked him off balance.

He didn’t realize it at first. Not consciously. There was just… a difference.

Your heartbeat was lower. Your temperature ran hotter. A subtle change in the chemistry of your sweat. Not bad—nothing ever was with you. But different. Complicated.

Jack tuned these things out. Hormones, sweat, stress, sex—this mansion stank of it. He’d learned long ago that the only way to keep his sanity was to ignore everything that wasn’t essential. If he let it in—really let it in—he’d never get peace again.

But this wasn’t the house. This wasn’t “ambient noise.” This was you.

And your scent had changed.

At first, it was small. Just enough to raise the hair on his arms. His instincts whispered to him in the background, tugged at the base of his spine like a hooked wire. Something important was happening. Something ripe.

The smell started sweet. Then it got wet. Iron and heat. Blood and sugar and skin. A slick, dizzying cocktail of copper and pheromones that made something deep in his gut twitch.

He realized—too late—that you were bleeding.

He’d smelled it before, of course. Lived with women in this house. It had never meant anything to him. Just another reason to stay away for a few days, let the hormone cloud settle and spare himself the migraine.

But this wasn’t just any blood. It wasn't the viscera and gore he was so used to when feeding. This wasn't about hunger and survival. It was about you. About everything else that came with it — your hormones, the heat under your skin, the scent of pain and lust and life. You were a walking furnace, and he was standing downwind from the smoke.

Jack hadn’t accounted for that when he lowered his defenses to let you in. He hadn’t even considered that it might affect him differently.

But now it was like every cell in his body was tuned to you. Your scent dragged claws down his brainstem, lit every nerve like a chemical explosion. His mouth filled with saliva he didn’t need. His muscles locked so tight it hurt to move.

And his cock was constantly throbbing. There was barely any angle to adjust, no distraction strong enough. His body was betraying him, rock-solid and aching, cock flushed and twitching behind his jeans like it wanted to rip through.

Not just hard. Rigid. Like his entire body was bracing against some invisible force. His shoulders tense. Jaw clenched. Claws scraping gouges into the inside of his palm just to focus.

He stayed away that first day. Locked himself in his room. Didn’t answer when you knocked.

But the second day, your scent wafted behind you when you passed by him in the hall, grazing under his nose like it was both mocking and luring him in, and his knees buckled.

You were too busy chasing your cramps away with painkillers and heat pads to notice your boyfriend's change in behaviour, though.

You never noticed the way he breathed around you, measured and tight and absolutely refusing to inhale through his nose. The way he kept his hands in his pockets, hidden, clenched. The way his voice went low and clipped when you got too close.

But the way he wouldn't even look in your general direction—allusive to an actual glance as it would've been—became too on the nose. The way his shirt clung to his chest. The sheen of sweat permanently on his collar.

His breath stuttered when you leaned over the sink at some point before heading to bed. You were just getting a glass of water.

And Jack folded like laundry.

“Sit down.” His voice was low, firm, strained. Out of nowhere.

You blinked and turned around slowly. “What?”

His head was tilted slightly downward, jaw clenched like he was about to snap it off at the hinge. “The couch. Sit.”

You sat, confused. Bracing for the talk. Surely, the strange behaviour meant he was just done, for some reason. That's what your homonal mind jumped to anyway.

He knelt between your legs without another word. Okay, so no talk.

You stare down at him.

He's kneeling. Still. Broad hands braced on your thighs, fingers twitching like he’s holding himself back from shredding you to ribbons. He’s staring at your padded pussy like he can see it through your pajamas, like it owes him money. Like it promised him something and he came to collect.

Your legs spread a little—not even fully open—but his breath shudders out like he’s been punched.

“Jack?” you murmur, half-laughing, half-nervous. “What are you doing?”

His claws curl tighter into your thighs. He doesn’t answer right away. You can see the war in his head, muscles in his jaw doing Olympics when they twitch. He lifts a hand and rubs his face hard, dragging clawed fingers from brow to chin like he’s trying to scrape the hunger out of his skull.

He leans closer. Breathes in. Then again.

“Fuck—”

It’s a hiss. Half-formed. Desperate. Almost makes you jerk back, not with fear or disgust, but with realization.

“Jack—people could walk in—”

“Don’t care,” he growls. Not harsh—just raw. Like it costs him to speak at all. “I'll kill them. You need to—fuck—open your legs.”

You’re already open, but you listen. You shift. Knees wider. Hips tilted forward.

The second you do it, he twitches. Full body.

And then he leaps. Not violent—but like a man dying of thirst finally handed a glass of water. He buries his face in your clothed pussy and groans.

You feel it all: heat, vibration, desperation. He’s nuzzling hard through the fabric like it’s not enough, like he needs skin, taste, your fucking soul. His breath is hot, fast. You can feel him mouthing you over the cotton, and it sends sparks ripping through your spine.

“Jack—Jesus—wait, I'm on my—”

“Exactly,” he growls again, this time muffled against your cunt. “I need this.”

He yanks at your waistband, fast but careful. Pants and padded panties yanked off your ankles and tossed behind him on the floor. He looks deranged, mouth slightly parted, nostrils flaring, sweat beading at his temples.

And then—without asking, without warning—he leans in.

You jolt when you feel the first tongue.

Wet. Hot and starved. It licks from the bottom of your pussy to your clit in one slow, savoring drag. A moan vibrates against you—deep, long, throaty—and you feel how hard he’s gripping your thighs now, claws pressing in like they’re the only things tethering him to the floor.

The second tongue follows. Then the third. One on your clit. One swirling around your folds to pick up any trace of blood like he's licking a plate clean. The last one dips inside.

You choke out a sound that’s not even a word.

Jack doesn’t stop. Doesn’t breathe. He’s full-body focused, shuddering between your legs like he’s being electrocuted with pleasure just from tasting you. His tongues move in urgent patterns—suckling, lapping, sliding inside you—and the third one curls deep, pumping in slow, sinful thrusts like he’s tongue-fucking your cervix.

He's drinking you. Literally. You feel the small gush as your blood mixes with your arousal and his growl deepens. His head tilts, adjusting his angle like he’s trying to get more of it, and he moans again.

Jack doesn’t moan. He barely talks.

But right now, he’s loud and messy and desperate, to the point where—if you could have a moment of clarity—you would think his mating season came early.

Slurping noises echo off the walls, obscene and wet. You realize again where you are—the common room—and your whole body flushes.

“Jack—fucking hell, w-what if someone walks in—”

His only answer is to suck your clit into his mouth while his third tongue curls up inside you, pressing so deep it makes your vision stutter.

Your hips buck. He groans, and the vibration rattles your bones.

He moves faster.

Tongue on your clit flicking now, licking in fast little swipes. Second tongue dragging figure-eights across your folds. Third tongue fucking you like it’s trying to crawl into your womb.

Your thighs are trembling. Your head tips back, hand flying to his head, burying in his hair. You feel his body—solid, trembling, tense with restraint.

You cum so fast it makes you choke.

It hits you like lightning, shattering through your spine, hips jerking, thighs locking around his head. You hear yourself whimper trying to stay silent, feel your body clamp around his tongues, and Jack just growls into you like it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever experienced.

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you’re shaking. Not even when the blood runs thicker.

He just pulls back slightly to breathe—and fuck, he looks wrecked. His mouth is soaked—chin slick with blood and spit, dark red smeared halfway up to his cheeks, coating his skin like warpaint. He stares at your cunt like he’s starving, heaving like it's hurting him to unlatch his mouth from your taste.

You see his hand now. The one not gripping your thigh with bruising force, wrapped around his cock. Fist pumping slow and vicious—like he’s trying not to cum from the taste of you alone.

Because he almost did.

You feel the heat of his stare. Like he’s burned every inch of your cunt into his brain. Like nothing else exists in this moment but your flushed, swollen pussy and the mess he just made of you.

He looks up at you with bloodied lips parted and tongues curling, one of them flicking over his bottom lip in a slow, hungry drag.

“You’re gonna cum again,” he says, voice rough and quiet like a threat. “You're gonna give me everything."

You whimper simply from the way he leans back in like he owns you, like he was born for this.

The first tongue enters slow this time—broad and heavy, pushing past your bullied entrance with a wet, obscene squelch. Your hips twitch. You’re already sensitive, but your body opens for him anyway, clenches like it knows what’s coming.

He groans low in his throat. You feel the way your blood drips down his tongue, how he laps it deeper inside you like honey from the comb.

Then the second tongue slips in. Coiling around the first like a twisting vine, filling and stretching.

You cry out softly, biting your lip. Jack moans, long and muffled and fuck just drown me in this pussy.

His third tongue curls upward, lashes across your clit in maddening, lazy strokes like he’s teasing you on purpose. Tongue-fucking up into your walls with two thick lengths, while the third plays you like an instrument.

You don’t even realize your legs are shaking again until your hips lift off the couch.

He follows, grinding his face deeper, mouth slightly clumsy from the way he's stroking his cock—so hungry and fast it's shaking his whole body between your legs. You glance down through half-lidded eyes just to see him leaking, twitching with every slick drag of his tongues inside you.

He’s drenched in you.

From the mouth down. His chin, neck, part of his chest where he pressed in too close. The scent of blood and heat clings to him like paint, thick and sweet and wrong, but he looks exalted.

“Fffuck,” he slurs against you. “Your blood—fuck, your cunt, tastes like fucking life—”

The words shake you. Filthy and sincere. He’s never been this devastated before, this starved. His tongues are working you over like you’re his last meal, like he’s feeding off of you. And fuck, maybe he is. Maybe something deep in his instincts, something more primal, is actually reveling in this.

His pace quickens. You can feel it—that edge coming again. Too fast. Too hard. Overstimulated but desperate, everything in your body pulling tight like a bowstring.

You grab at his hair, desperate to ground yourself.

One tongue thrusts hard, firm and deep. The second curls tighter, twisting against your walls. The third presses flat to your clit, and when he moans into you again, the vibration alone is enough to split you.

“Jack—Jack I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he growls. Muffled, throat clicking and rasping. Tongue still deep inside you. “Cum with my fucking name in your mouth.”

You do, and it leaves you raw.

Back arching. Hands clawing at the couch. Legs locking around his head so tight he grunts, but doesn’t stop. He leans into it, forces the orgasm to drag out, mouth still moving until you’re jerking, twitching, moaning high and sharp as your body convulses under the weight of your second release.

You have to pry him away with a weak hand on his forehead and a choked sob for him to unlatch his lips from your clit with a wet pop.

He’s panting against your pussy, blood and slick coating his face, and you can feel his body shaking between your legs with every feral pump of his fist, tight and harsh around his cock.

And he growls, low and feral, and you can only jerk back and look around to make sure no one was around as he cums hard between his knees, untouched by you, just from tasting your cunt and blood. Hot ropes splatter against the floor. His head tips back, face the most beautifully grotesque picture of bliss.

The room is silent but for your breaths. Heavy. Laced with the obscene stink of sex and blood and pure animalistic worship.

Jack wipes his face with the back of his hand only to lick the smeared blood off his knuckles. Not slow. Not seductive. Just hungry.

He looks at you like you’re the last thing he’ll ever need to taste.

“…We’re doing this every month,” he says, voice hoarse. “Every month.”

#eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack #eyeless jack x you #eyeless jack smut #eyeless jack creepypasta #eyeless jack headcanon #eyeless jack x y/n #period sex #blood k1nk #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x female reader #creepypasta x you #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta fanfic #jack nyras #creepypasta smut #smut

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mandoalorian · 7 hours ago

Text

let down and hanging around

an introspective study of bucky barnes’ depression

now playing: let down by radiohead

ᯓ★ bucky barnes masterlist

set pre-tfatws

warnings for descriptions of emptiness and depression. i write how i feel & this one feels very private to me, but i share in the hope that it reaches the people who maybe need it; for the people who might feel less alone knowing bucky has felt the same. ༊*·˚

The Brooklyn apartment was too small for the weight it held.

Bucky sat on a thin purple blanket he’d picked up from a market, elbows on knees, staring at the floorboards like they might split open and swallow him. The wood was scuffed, worn by decades of other lives, other stories. He envied their ghosts—people who’d lived here, loved here, left marks without carrying a century of blood on their hands. The room smelled of dust and faintly of the coffee he’d brewed hours ago, now cold in a chipped mug on the counter. Outside, the city hummed, alive and indifferent. He was a stranger in its pulse.

Loneliness wasn’t new. It had been his shadow since the trenches of war, since the fall from the train when the world fractured into steel and ice. But this was a different breed—slow, gnawing, less a guest than a permanent resident. It clung to him in Wakanda’s peace, in the brief camaraderie of battle, and now here, in this borrowed life he didn’t know how to live.

Steve was gone. Not dead, but gone—chasing a life Bucky couldn’t follow. The choice hadn’t been a betrayal, not really, but it cut all the same. Steve had found his home. Bucky was still drifting, untethered, a man out of time in a world that didn’t need him.

He stood, metal arm catching the dim light from the window, and crossed to the sink. The dishes were clean—had been for days. He washed them anyway, scrubbing at nothing, because the motion was something to do. His reflection in the faucet’s curve was warped, a smear of dark hair and hollow eyes. He didn’t look long. Mirrors were cruel, showing a face too young for its memories. Ninety years of violence, of being unmade and remade, and yet the world saw only a man in his thirties, tired but unremarkable. He wondered if that was worse—being invisible in his pain.

Depression wasn’t a word he used. It felt modern, clinical, like something from the therapist he’d been dodging. But it fit, the way it settled in his bones, heavy as the vibranium in his shoulder. It wasn’t just sadness. Sadness had edges, a beginning and end. This was vast, formless, a fog that blurred the days into one long twilight. He woke, he breathed, he moved through the world, but it was like wading through water—every step deliberate, every thought sluggish. He’d fought gods and monsters, but this quiet enemy was harder to face. It didn’t bleed. It didn’t die.

He’d tried to fill the void. He’d bought a notebook, leather-bound, thinking he’d write down memories to anchor himself. But the pages stayed blank. The good memories—Steve’s laugh, his mother’s voice, Coney Island’s lights—were faded, fragile things, like photographs left in the sun. The bad ones were sharper: screams, gunfire, the cold bite of cryo. He’d torn the first page out, crumpled it, and hadn’t touched the book since. It sat on the shelf, mocking him, next to a plant he kept forgetting to water. The leaves were yellowing, curling inward. He didn’t throw it out. Killing something else felt too final.

Nights were the worst. Sleep was a battlefield, dreams stitching together fragments of lives he’d lived and lives he’d taken. He woke gasping, sweat-soaked, the phantom weight of a rifle in his hands. He stopped trying to sleep most nights, choosing the TV’s flicker instead. Old sitcoms, news, documentaries—it didn’t matter. The noise was a tether, proof the world was still turning. He’d sit on the floor, back against the couch, knees drawn up, and let the voices wash over him. Sometimes he’d catch himself almost smiling at a joke, then the guilt would crash in. What right did he have to joy when his ledger was so red?

He thought about reaching out. Sam’s number was in his phone, a lifeline he couldn’t bring himself to pull. Sam was good, steady, but Bucky didn’t know how to talk without breaking. He’d spent decades as a weapon, words stripped away, and now they felt clumsy, inadequate. What could he say?

I’m drowning in my own head. I don’t know who I am without a fight. I’m scared I’ll never feel human again.

Sam would listen, maybe even understand, but Bucky couldn’t burden him with that. He’d carried enough for others.

The city outside kept moving. Kids shouted in the street, horns blared, life spun on. Bucky watched it from his window, a spectator to a world he couldn’t join. He’d walk sometimes, hood up, hands in pockets, blending into the crowd. But even surrounded by people, the loneliness was suffocating. They had lives—friends, families, futures. He had a past that wouldn’t let go and a present that felt like limbo. He’d pass couples laughing, kids chasing pigeons, and feel a pang so sharp it stole his breath. Not jealousy, but grief—for the man he might’ve been if the world hadn’t broken him.

He sat back on the blanket, the material scrunching up under his weight. The clock read 2:17 AM. Another night bleeding into dawn. He closed his eyes, not to sleep but to shut out the room, the city, the weight of being alive. In the dark, he could almost pretend he was nothing—just a shadow, weightless, free. But the morning would come, and with it, the fight to keep going. Not for himself, not yet, but because giving up would mean letting the Winter Soldier win. And Bucky Barnes, fractured as he was, wasn’t ready to lose that war.

————⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅————

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fan fic #imsebastianstan #marvel #the falcon and the winter soldier #mental health #gonna tag some things that fit my usual agenda #bucky barnes x reader #buck barnes x you #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader #the avengers #tfatws #falcon and the winter soldier

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