itsswritten

[itsswritten]

Still taking requests 🫶🏼

So I think I might take drabble requests 👀 I’m in the mood to write, I’ve been in such a terrible slump and maybe this will help! Send me any suggestions 🤍

[itsswritten]

omg hi baby I’ve missed uuuuu

Thank you for always taking the time to just honestly hype me up 🥹🥹🥹🥹

But omg you’ve actually given me so many more ideas 👀👀👀 there’s so many ways we can take this and I’m not 100% entirely sure where to take it yet…all I know is what will happen in the next part and that’s pretty much it 🤣🤣

I’m excited to explore more of the Dusk court though, what does it look like, what are their traditions, how has it been to be trapped for 5 centuries, what problems have they faced being stuck in a forever eventide???

And for Az to maybe explore the dusk court? 👀 For Az to explore more of y/n too 🤫😉

For our reader to get a taste of other courts too would be good…but I guess we’ll have to see about that!

From where the shadows are born

Pairings: Azriel x fem reader

Word count: 1.2K

There wasn’t always seven. No, there had once been one more. To those who really looked, they would see that Prythian was always supposed to have eight courts— for those who truly respected balance would notice that the solar courts were missing their fourth.

That Dawn was missing her sister.

Dusk.

Dusk, where the world stilled for a moment within the inbetween. Where spoken secrets went to hide, where trees whispered the truths of those long forgotten and where wishes went to blink or die. A place that held so much promise of tomorrow, where the wonder of stars simmered in thought and the anticipation of the new day hummed. Where the fear for what the night may bring settled and stirred with remorse of what the day had held.

Dusk was liminal. It was neither good nor bad.

It was the yearning, the waiting, the vesper of the world— and it had been waiting centuries for its saviour.

***

You walked the same trail you had for the last decades. The same trial the knights usually patrolled, the same paths your parents, and their parents and their parents had walked before you.

No inch of this court was untouched, no stone unturned, no secrets left within the shadows.

When a court is sealed away for hundreds of years, let’s just say its inhabitants devote their lives to ensuring nothing is overlooked, lest it holds the very key to breaking the cage they find themselves in.

But even after almost 500 years the curse and its cage remained.

You continued, your feet moving softly over the worn-down earthy route, the mossy range faded to dirt by regular patrols along the woodland borders of Dusk.

And although this was a task for the knights, every now and then you wanted to do it yourself. Perhaps it was that devotion, that need — obsession— to meticulously check you hadn’t missed something. Check if there actually was a stone unturned, a secret the shadows had missed that could reveal how to break the curse. To see if there was a crack in the spell, see if there was something you had missed, something your ancestors had missed.

Your movements came to a stop as you stood at an edge of a clearing. The official border between Dusk and Night, just north of the Evening kingdom. You could see how there was a deep darkness that settled ahead of you, despite your own home stuck within a forever eventide. Ribbons of sunset danced on the edges of your sky, begging to bleed with its nightly neighbour. But the curse stopped the two colours from ever merging. An invisible wall, built with the wicked tongue of a curse.

A curse that turned Dusk’s very power against them.

Dusk had always been the liminal. It had always been the watchers of the land, could see and hear what laid within the inbetween. And over five centuries ago the rulers of this land discovered a cruel plan that would be laid before deliverance— Hyberns plan. Or at least the beginning of it.

Dusk had heard the whispers on the wind, seen plans take root in the earth all those years ago.

But what Dusk could see and understand wasn’t always so easy for the other courts to comprehend. It was like Dusk sometimes stood within a different plane, noticing patterns and plots before they were to exist that would be invisible to other courts. And despite them warning the other courts, Hybern had been quick to hide the truth Dusk had unearthed with a curse that turned Dusk’s greatest power into its greatest weakness.

A court that flourished in the shimmer of golden hour and thrived in the whisper of shadows was cursed to spend its time within the vesper. Hidden in plain sight and every memory of it wiped from the world.

You hitched your skirts up higher with your hands, allowing you space to stride wider and faster towards the invisible cage that had concealed you and your home from the rest of the world. It simmered in the evening sun, rippled tauntingly so.

In your almost 30 years of living, this was all you had known.

Like a bird trapped in a cage, wishing to feel the air between it’s feathers. You too wished for new air.

Desperate to taste the cool midnight breeze of Night, or the balmy air of Day. Your mind hummed wild at the mere thought of the seasonal courts, something you had only read about in books and seen in political drawings.

You often found yourself dreaming of a life outside of this cage, of the lands and people that were so close, yet so out of reach.

You came to a stop in front of the magic wall. It’s appearance deceiving at times, sometimes when the evening sun didn’t hit it, it almost looked as though nothing was there. As though you could march right through to the Night Court. But under the lucid rays of light, you saw the ripple of magic you recognised as your prison.

There was a stillness in you as you gazed ahead at the Night court woodlands ahead of you. So close you swear you smelt the cedar on the wind, but the magic billowed and pulled under your pink skies reminding you there was no way you could touch the night court, let alone scent it.

So after a few moments, you moved to turn away.

Another day the wall still stood, another day you dared to hope.

Another day you were still trapped.

A crunch in the distance stopped you though, something or someone was close to the border. That wasn’t new, there had been plenty of times those outside the curse stood so close that you were sure they were looking right into Dusk.

But they never were, always seeing what was further beyond.

But this time the presence of a stranger stopped you in your retreat, and you turned to look.

The male appeared from the darkness. The type of darkness that felt familiar.

Shadows.

He was a Shadowsinger. That was so clear to you.

Tall, broad and…an Illyrian? Your brows knitted together, your mind trying to make sense of the sight before you. You stumbled forward, catching yourself before falling so you could get a closer look. You felt your blood rush to your face, your heart pounding in your ears.

Could see your breath fan against the magical wall as you almost collided with it.

You almost went to speak.

Wait, please..excuse me…

You wanted to say, but stopped yourself, stilled yourself. Reminded yourself that he would not hear.

That the Shadowsinger would not hear you.

This spell made sure of that.

You swallowed hard, your eyes tracing down the male as he emerged from the trees. Stepping closer to the wall, non the wiser of the rippling magic in front of him.

Not aware, of you. Just a girl desperate to breathe new air.

Some shadows clung to him comfortably, some skirted across the ground but they were definitely shadows, that was no doubt. And not the kind that are bred in the deepest of nights or the brightest of days.

You see every court had their own kind of magic, their own kind of Fae. Spring had their pixies and wild floral magic, Day could spell cleave, the night court had their Illyrians and well Dusk…

Dusk— where the setting sun would cast the largest shadows across the land— was exactly where all shadows were born.

Which begged the question.

How was there a Shadowsinger outside of the wall?

***

A/N: testing the water with this intro that I’ve had sat in my drafts for agessssss but yeah let me know if we like this premise and we can dive more into Shadowsinger lore and Dusk court lore! Drop your theories below 😘

Forever tags: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria @flameandshadows @writingcroissant

[itsswritten]

Az coming back to readers apartment that is decorated for his birthday, reader says “ i love you” first and az comes to terms that he finally found someone who loves him just like he is

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word count: 664

a/n: I just realised I forgot to do the “I love you” part but I hope you like this anyway! Loved writing this drabble xx

***

It was late.

The soft glow of your shared apartment hummed under the faelights, as Azriel quietly took off his boots and leathers in the entryway.

A last minute mission had called him out, despite what day it was. Not that Azriel particularly cared about working on his birthday, but he noticed the way your expression had dropped just ever so slightly when he had told you.

You had been quick to conceal it with a smile but he had noticed. He noticed everything with you.

But it was hard for Azriel to take up space in that way. To hold a day solely for him in such high regard, it was just his birthday, it was the same as any other day he had told you.

He moved silently through the apartment, trying not to wake you while he found more comfortable clothing to put on before heading towards the bedroom.

“Az?” A soft tired voice carried from the living room, the door slightly ajar.

Azriel stopped for a moment then, turning and heading towards your voice expecting you to be curled up in bed.

He stepped into the warm room, lights flickering and low. His gaze settling on you wrapped in a blanket on the sofa. Your tired eyes landed on his, a lazy smile pulling onto your lips as his breath caught in his throat.

It was late.

Perhaps even past midnight now, past any point in celebrating.

But there you sat. Party hat lopsided on your head, slightly squished from where you had dozed off on it.

Handmade decorations hung behind you and draped down from the ceiling. Presents wrapped neatly and tied with ribbon were carefully positioned on the small table in front of you. And there was a cake too with a candle unlit waiting.

“Hello birthday boy,” you whispered, as Azriel approached leaning down to place a kiss on your lips, your arms instinctively wrapping around him.

Azriel was happy to be home, happy to be in your embrace again, but there was a tug on his chest at the thought of you waiting up for him over something so unimportant.

“What are you doing up at this hour? I told you not to wait up,” Azriel replied when he pulled away, sinking in beside you. His wings wrapping around the back of you both, his shadows softly brushing against you. His voice was caring but you could hear the guilt underneath.

Azriel carefully fixed your crooked party hat, the sight itself making his eyes smile. His gaze moved then, to properly take in your set up. The effort you had put in for him caused his brows to pull tight.

“Azriel,” you chastised then. A squint in your eye, that meant you were serious. Your own hands came up to cup his face, ensuring he was looking at you as you said this.

“Let me celebrate you Az,”

Azriel scoffed lightly at the comment, it catching him off guard. A tinge on his cheeks growing at the mere attention you were giving him.

“Let me spoil you,” you said firmer this time.

Azriel looked away then. This was hard for him. You knew that.

Azriel on the best of days didn’t even think he was worthy of you.

“Let me love you Az,” you spoke softer then. A sort of pained strain in your voice that mirrored how much it hurt you to know your mate didn’t think he was worthy of this kind of love, attention, celebration.

He looked at you then, a sad sort of look in his eyes. “You really didn’t have to do all this, not for me.”

“Oh Az…there’s no one more deserving,” you reminded him.

He nodded softly, before resting his head against yours.

When the sun finally rose, and the rays filtered through the windows. They flickered across your sleeping figures, wrapped in a blanket, with matching party hats, cake half eaten and wrapping paper all across the floor.

[itsswritten]

From where the shadows are born

Pairings: Azriel x fem reader

Word count: 1.2K

There wasn’t always seven. No, there had once been one more. To those who really looked, they would see that Prythian was always supposed to have eight courts— for those who truly respected balance would notice that the solar courts were missing their fourth.

That Dawn was missing her sister.

Dusk.

Dusk, where the world stilled for a moment within the inbetween. Where spoken secrets went to hide, where trees whispered the truths of those long forgotten and where wishes went to blink or die. A place that held so much promise of tomorrow, where the wonder of stars simmered in thought and the anticipation of the new day hummed. Where the fear for what the night may bring settled and stirred with remorse of what the day had held.

Dusk was liminal. It was neither good nor bad.

It was the yearning, the waiting, the vesper of the world— and it had been waiting centuries for its saviour.

***

You walked the same trail you had for the last decades. The same trial the knights usually patrolled, the same paths your parents, and their parents and their parents had walked before you.

No inch of this court was untouched, no stone unturned, no secrets left within the shadows.

When a court is sealed away for hundreds of years, let’s just say its inhabitants devote their lives to ensuring nothing is overlooked, lest it holds the very key to breaking the cage they find themselves in.

But even after almost 500 years the curse and its cage remained.

You continued, your feet moving softly over the worn-down earthy route, the mossy range faded to dirt by regular patrols along the woodland borders of Dusk.

And although this was a task for the knights, every now and then you wanted to do it yourself. Perhaps it was that devotion, that need — obsession— to meticulously check you hadn’t missed something. Check if there actually was a stone unturned, a secret the shadows had missed that could reveal how to break the curse. To see if there was a crack in the spell, see if there was something you had missed, something your ancestors had missed.

Your movements came to a stop as you stood at an edge of a clearing. The official border between Dusk and Night, just north of the Evening kingdom. You could see how there was a deep darkness that settled ahead of you, despite your own home stuck within a forever eventide. Ribbons of sunset danced on the edges of your sky, begging to bleed with its nightly neighbour. But the curse stopped the two colours from ever merging. An invisible wall, built with the wicked tongue of a curse.

A curse that turned Dusk’s very power against them.

Dusk had always been the liminal. It had always been the watchers of the land, could see and hear what laid within the inbetween. And over five centuries ago the rulers of this land discovered a cruel plan that would be laid before deliverance— Hyberns plan. Or at least the beginning of it.

Dusk had heard the whispers on the wind, seen plans take root in the earth all those years ago.

But what Dusk could see and understand wasn’t always so easy for the other courts to comprehend. It was like Dusk sometimes stood within a different plane, noticing patterns and plots before they were to exist that would be invisible to other courts. And despite them warning the other courts, Hybern had been quick to hide the truth Dusk had unearthed with a curse that turned Dusk’s greatest power into its greatest weakness.

A court that flourished in the shimmer of golden hour and thrived in the whisper of shadows was cursed to spend its time within the vesper. Hidden in plain sight and every memory of it wiped from the world.

You hitched your skirts up higher with your hands, allowing you space to stride wider and faster towards the invisible cage that had concealed you and your home from the rest of the world. It simmered in the evening sun, rippled tauntingly so.

In your almost 30 years of living, this was all you had known.

Like a bird trapped in a cage, wishing to feel the air between it’s feathers. You too wished for new air.

Desperate to taste the cool midnight breeze of Night, or the balmy air of Day. Your mind hummed wild at the mere thought of the seasonal courts, something you had only read about in books and seen in political drawings.

You often found yourself dreaming of a life outside of this cage, of the lands and people that were so close, yet so out of reach.

You came to a stop in front of the magic wall. It’s appearance deceiving at times, sometimes when the evening sun didn’t hit it, it almost looked as though nothing was there. As though you could march right through to the Night Court. But under the lucid rays of light, you saw the ripple of magic you recognised as your prison.

There was a stillness in you as you gazed ahead at the Night court woodlands ahead of you. So close you swear you smelt the cedar on the wind, but the magic billowed and pulled under your pink skies reminding you there was no way you could touch the night court, let alone scent it.

So after a few moments, you moved to turn away.

Another day the wall still stood, another day you dared to hope.

Another day you were still trapped.

A crunch in the distance stopped you though, something or someone was close to the border. That wasn’t new, there had been plenty of times those outside the curse stood so close that you were sure they were looking right into Dusk.

But they never were, always seeing what was further beyond.

But this time the presence of a stranger stopped you in your retreat, and you turned to look.

The male appeared from the darkness. The type of darkness that felt familiar.

Shadows.

He was a Shadowsinger. That was so clear to you.

Tall, broad and…an Illyrian? Your brows knitted together, your mind trying to make sense of the sight before you. You stumbled forward, catching yourself before falling so you could get a closer look. You felt your blood rush to your face, your heart pounding in your ears.

Could see your breath fan against the magical wall as you almost collided with it.

You almost went to speak.

Wait, please..excuse me…

You wanted to say, but stopped yourself, stilled yourself. Reminded yourself that he would not hear.

That the Shadowsinger would not hear you.

This spell made sure of that.

You swallowed hard, your eyes tracing down the male as he emerged from the trees. Stepping closer to the wall, non the wiser of the rippling magic in front of him.

Not aware, of you. Just a girl desperate to breathe new air.

Some shadows clung to him comfortably, some skirted across the ground but they were definitely shadows, that was no doubt. And not the kind that are bred in the deepest of nights or the brightest of days.

You see every court had their own kind of magic, their own kind of Fae. Spring had their pixies and wild floral magic, Day could spell cleave, the night court had their Illyrians and well Dusk…

Dusk— where the setting sun would cast the largest shadows across the land— was exactly where all shadows were born.

Which begged the question.

How was there a Shadowsinger outside of the wall?

***

A/N: testing the water with this intro that I’ve had sat in my drafts for agessssss but yeah let me know if we like this premise and we can dive more into Shadowsinger lore and Dusk court lore! Drop your theories below 😘

Forever tags: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria @flameandshadows @writingcroissant

[itsswritten]

I LOVEEEEEEE

What Happens in Adriata

Pairing: Azriel x Ex! Reader

Summary: After a weekend trip, you wake up married to Azriel, three people are missing, and you don’t remember a single thing about last night. Somewhere, there’s a priestess who can undo the vows you made — but first, you’ll have to retrace every disastrous step.

Warnings: drinking, bad hangovers, angst, fluff, a hangover style scavenger hunt, lots of complicated emotions, two exes awkwardly interacting, cassian getting banned from the summer court

OR: self indulgent crack fic that is equal parts stupid, angsty and fluffy

Word Count: 12.4k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

There are few things in existence that stand stronger than Morrigan’s will: A tidal wave. A mountain at its root. Maybe whatever promise keeps the sea from swallowing the shore. You, unfortunately, are not one of those things.

“It’s going to be so pretty,” she sings, taunting, and nudges your front door closed with her foot.

“I’m sure it is. You’ll have to tell me all about it when you get back—because I’m not going.”

She whines your name for the fourth time in as many minutes and follows you through your apartment.

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“Yes, I did.” You drop the bags of groceries onto your kitchen counter. The sun through the windows turns the room bright and golden.

“Two seconds is not thinking about it.”

“Mor, I just—”

“Are you mad at me?”

You glance at her, frowning, as you start unpacking. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

She shrugs, helping despite the pout in her voice. “I don’t know. You won’t even hear me out.” Together, you fall into an easy rhythm, navigating around each other to put things away. “And I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

You sigh, guilt prickling at your mind. She’s not wrong. It’s been a while.

“I know,” you admit. “I’ve been busy.”

It’s not a lie. You had been busy. The wards across Velaris were due for their generational reset—old magic re-stitched with the new. You’d been at it for months, mapping fault lines only you can see, weaving protections that last. Every corner of the city, from the Sidra’s bend to the foothills, needs rethreading.

A project of that scale usually doesn't leave much room for a social life.

Mor rustles behind you. “I get it. I just want to spend time with everyone. I guess I—Cauldron. How much fruit did you buy?”

When you turn, Mor’s holding up two hands full of fruit. You roll your eyes, crossing the room to relieve her of the weight, placing them in their designated areas.

“Don’t judge me. The farmer’s market was good today.”

She snickers. “Did you buy out every stand?”

“Some of us can’t survive on wine and snacks alone.”

She tsks. “Actually—”

“You need better eating habits. Come with me next week. Some of the booths have jewelry, too. Let me show you—”

Mor catches your hands in hers and spins you to face her, eyes narrowing in mock sternness. “You’re changing the subject.”

“Am I?”

She squeezes your palms. “Come to Adriata. Please.”

Adriata. The Summer Court trip. A lord’s wedding. A diplomatic affair dressed up as a simple vacation.

You knew about the trip. Rhysand told you early, his excitement neatly tucked beneath diplomacy. He’d offered the invitation plainly, no pressure either way. Whether you said yes or no, he’d made it clear: the decision was yours, and he wouldn’t push.

You hesitate. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

There’s a different tone in her voice now—softer. Younger, like she’s asking because she’s afraid of the answer.

“I’m really busy.”

Mor frowns. “Rhys will understand.”

“I’m not working solely under Rhys on this.”

“He can still help them understand.”

“That’s not professional. I don’t—”

“It’s two days.”

You hold her gaze.

It was possible you’d been half-lying. 

Yes, you had been busy—but you’re not anymore. You finished the work ahead of schedule, burned through your projects at a pace that left even Amren raising a brow. 

Not because you were efficient—though you are—but because you pushed. If your hands weren’t moving, if your mind wasn’t knotted around ancient spellwork, you’d think of him. Of the ache that returned the second you slowed down.

Mor whines. “C’mon. Fancy party. Beach vacation. Endless drinks.”

You look anywhere but her face—anywhere but the love in her eyes.

You realize, again, that you’re a liar. A big, fat liar.

You’d told her you were fine now. That things with Azriel weren’t hard anymore, that the ache in your chest was gone. That you could all be together again like before. That you missed them. That you wanted it back.

And Morrigan, despite her power of truth, hadn’t seen through that lie.

You are not fine. Seeing Azriel still hollows you out. You leave every event early, citing headaches or work—but the truth is you can’t stand the weight in your chest when he’s near. You can’t breathe around it.

But you’ve never told her that.

In her mind, this is just family time. This is her making a last-ditch attempt to bring you back into the fold. To remind you that you’re still wanted.

“I miss you,” she says quietly. “I know things were weird, but I’m selfish and lonely and I really want to spend time with you.”

Lonely. There it is—that soft, meek thing threaded under her voice this whole time. Amren’s been busy. The boys too, probably. And Mor, who has everything she could want, just wants her friends.

“It’s one weekend,” she says, a final card played. “What could possibly go wrong?”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You wake up to the sound of seagulls screaming and something sticky clinging to your cheek.

You blink, groaning, and pry your cheek from the tacky surface of the pillow beneath you—is that... syrup? Gods, you hope it’s syrup—then roll onto your back. Everything hurts.

The ceiling spins.

You sit up, slowly, and take stock of your surroundings. A couch cushion hangs halfway out a shattered window. Glitter is embedded in the grain of the hardwood. Somewhere nearby, the distinct, sour smell of potent liquor clings to the air.

At the edge of your bed, something stirs. Blonde hair spills over rumpled sheets, limbs sprawled at odd angles.

“Mor,” you croak. Your voice is sandpaper. You reach out with your foot, nudging her. “Hey.”

She makes a low, disgruntled noise, swatting lazily at your hand.

“Mor,” you say again, more insistent. “Wake up.”

She mumbles into the mattress.

“Morrigan.”

"What?" she groans, cracking one bloodshot eye. She squints at you like you’re the offense here. You squint back, then frown.

“What is that?”

Mor blinks at you. “What is what?”

You gesture at her face. “That. On your face.”

She frowns, reaches up, rubs at her cheek—and then pulls her hand back, smearing a line of ink.

There’s a long, slow moment of realization.

“There’s a dick on my face, isn’t there?”

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin. “There is, indeed.”

“Fucking hell,” Mor groans, pawing frantically at her skin. “Who drew a fucking cock on me?”

You crawl toward her and catch her chin gently, tilting her face into the morning light. It’s... impressively detailed. Even signed, scrawled crookedly along the curve of her jaw:

Cass.

You snort. “Wanna guess?”

Mor makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “Dead. He’s so dead.”

You laugh—despite the splitting pain behind your eyes—and push to your feet. You glance around at the wreckage. “Well, that might not be entirely out of the realm of possibilities,” you tell her.

Mor furrows her brow, following your gaze as you point to the bed Cassian had loudly claimed last night.

It’s empty.

“He’s missing,” you clarify.

Mor sits up, blinking blearily at the chaos.

“What the hell happened last night?”

You raise a brow. “Very good question.”

A muffled groan echoes deeper in the suite.

You and Mor exchange a look—and scramble toward the sound. She swears behind you, nearly tripping on the strappy heels still buckled to her feet.

You find the source in the living room: Azriel, slumped on a battered couch, face-down, wings limp. He’s clutching a wooden spoon in one hand.

“Azriel?” you ask cautiously, stepping over a broken lantern. He groans into the cushions.

You nudge his shoulder. “Come on. Wake up.”

You glance back at Mor. She nods, steps through the debris, and—without warning—shoves him off the couch.

You wince as he hits the ground with a heavy thud, wings flaring just enough to cushion the worst of it. He groans again, louder, and pushes himself up, shadows skittering from under the couch in a pile of black smoke. He blinks blearily at you both.

You hate that he still looks good. You’re sure you look like shit, judging by the pain behind your eyes. But Azriel is still Azriel. And some part of you still aches for him, in that familiar, insufferable way.

He glances at you—then looks away. But one of his shadows replaces his gaze, curling softly around your calf. It drifts up until it finds your left hand, curling around it loosely.

You close your eyes.

Then—gently—you brush it away. You can’t handle the feel of him on you. His shadows, delicate things you loved once, feel like a home you’re no longer allowed to enter.

Az doesn’t say anything. You don’t know if he even noticed.

“What happened last night?” you ask. Your voice is steadier than it feels.

Azriel blinks, slow. “No idea,” he mutters. “I can’t remember anything.”

“Just great,” Mor groans, slumping onto the couch. “Did we all collectively get amnesia?”

You wince. “I don’t think our issue is medical, Mor. Sure doesn’t smell like it.”

Az shifts. “Let me see. Just—give me a second.”

He lifts the spoon, frowns at it, and tosses it aside, shadows darting after it. He runs a hand through his hair.

Mor pauses, halfway sitting up again. Her face twists. “What is that, Az?”

You don’t like her tone.

Azriel frowns. “What?”

She stands—fast—and points at his left hand. “Your hand. Left hand.”

He follows her gaze. His wings lock rigid.

A solid, black band. Snug around the base of his ring finger.

Your stomach sinks.

Mor turns to you slowly, brows raised. “No,” you say flatly. “There's no way.”

But your stomach is already in freefall.

You glance down—at the hand that shadow had brushed. Your left.

You freeze.

A ring. Same finger. A delicate, dainty thing.

You shoot to your feet. “No. No, no, no.”

Lightheaded. The room feels wrong. Azriel is still staring at his hand.

Mor points between you both. “You two are... I think you’re fucking married.”

Az looks up—finally meets your eyes. Panic creases his expression, like the truth is only just settling. And gods, he’s still beautiful. Disgusting.

You can’t answer. Can barely breathe.

Azriel doesn’t speak either.

Mor grimaces at your twin expressions. Then—half-hearted—she offers,

“Congratulations?”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

“So there’s nothing we can do?”

The spellmaster, a wiry older male with sunspotted skin and a necklace made of shells, offers an apologetic smile and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

Behind you, Azriel sighs.

You resist the urge to throw something. Or cry. Or both.

“And you’re absolutely sure?” Mor presses, her voice sweetened by desperation. She leans on the counter, eyes wide and pleading. “Not even a sketchy third option?”

“It’s deep vow magic,” the male explains again. “Uncommonly used among our priestesses. And, unfortunately, also very binding. Only a matching counterspell will break it. Which, alas, I do not have.”

You stare at a knot in the wood wall, jaw tight. You can feel Az’s eyes on you—have felt them the entire time—but you haven’t looked at him once. You won’t. This whole mess, as absurd as it sounds, has made you feel exposed in a way you haven’t in years.

Mor exhales hard, clearly defeated. “Right. Thank you.”

The shopkeeper claps his hands together, bright-eyed, and turns to you. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

You blink. “I—” but you don’t finish it. You don’t trust yourself not to say the worst things aloud. No sir, we aren’t in love. He’s incapable of fighting for it.

“Strong couple,” the male says, beaming. “Strong spell.”

You freeze. Mor makes a quiet choking sound. “Nope. No congratulations. No couple.” She’s already grabbing your arm, Azriel’s too. “Thank you so much, you’ve been great,” she blurts, practically shoving you both toward the door. “We’re leaving now!”

The bell above the door clangs violently as she throws it open, and the three of you are spat into the blinding Adriata sunlight.

It’s blistering hot and your body reacts with a wave of nausea. Yesterday it felt glorious. Now it feels like divine punishment.

You drag yourself to the nearest café table and collapse into a wrought iron chair, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes.

“That wasn’t... ideal,” Mor mutters, tying her hair into a rough ponytail as she takes the seat beside you. The skin of her cheek is still faintly pink where she scrubbed away Cassian’s artwork. “But it’ll be fine. Right? Eventually. Probably.”

Azriel hovers just off the patio, wings pinned tightly. He’s doing his best not to be in anyone’s way—but they still stare. Hard not to, given who he is. A living shadow standing next to your table.

He's also your husband now, a voice in your mind whispers. You shove it deep, where you’ll never have to hear it again.

You press your fingers to your temples. “Where the hell is Rhys? He’ll know what to do.”

Mor gives you a long, flat look.  “Okay. Not going to take offense to that, considering the stressful circumstances.” She folds her arms across her chest, then gestures loosely toward Az. “But if anyone should know, it’s Az.”

You glance over at him without meaning to.

He straightens like he’s been caught, his hands still hovering near the band on his finger. He steps closer, catching a ray of sunshine, and his shadows bristle, recoiling from the light.

“I can’t reach any of them,” Azriel says, his voice quiet, meant for Mor. “Not Rhys. Not Cass. Not Amren.”

You sit up straighter. “But they’re okay... right?”

His gaze slides to you and his face softens.  Even his wings, for a brief second, hang lower. He opens his mouth—but Mor cuts in.

“Of course they’re okay!” she says, as if volume can make it true. “If a High Lord and three of the most powerful in Prythian got hurt, we’d know. There’d be chaos. Evidence. Right?” She looks at Az.

Azriel just stares back.

“Right?” she repeats, voice thinner.

Az hesitates, then slowly shrugs, palms up. The gesture says everything.

Mor goes still. “Oh, gods.”

You lean back, letting the sun heat your closed eyelids. The gulls scream overhead. Adriata is having a far better morning than you are.

You absently twist the ring on your finger. It doesn’t move.

Out of habit, not hope, you try again. Still nothing.

Beyond your better judgement, you peek through your lashes to look at it. Just for a second.

It’s beautiful. Pale gold, antique cut. You hate it.

Across from you, Azriel’s ring is different. You’d noticed earlier — the way it caught less light than yours, the way it seemed to disappear against the tan of his skin. But now, with the sun slipping in slats through the awning, you see it clearly.

It’s not metal. Not gold or silver. It’s rubber — matte, dark, fitted tight against the rough skin at the base of his finger.

 Azriel doesn’t wear rings. He never has. Not because he’s above it or uninterested, but because jewelry doesn’t sit well on his hands. His skin is too scarred, too textured in places. The nerves are unpredictable. Metal irritates, pinches. You’ve seen him try before — small, quiet attempts that lasted maybe half an hour. And then he’d take it off and never mention it again.

But this one — this ring — it doesn’t bother him. Doesn’t seem to be causing any pain or distress.

It fits. It’s safe. 

Which means someone had thought about that. Had chosen something that wouldn’t hurt him.

It had to have been you.

Even drunk, even oblivious—you’d remembered what would be gentle on him.

The thought makes you nauseous. Because it means that deep down, in some part of you that still loved him, you cared. Even unconscious, even ruined, you cared.

And that makes you feel small. Pathetic.

You shove it down until your chest aches.

“Okay,” Mor says again, too chipper as she fans herself. “Let’s regroup,  go back to what we do remember.”

You nod. “Right. The ceremony.”

“A dream,” she sighs. “Even the napkins matched the sky.”

“There was music,” you murmur.

“There was wine,” Azriel adds.

You glance at him, brief. He’s not looking at you.

“There was a lot of wine,” Mor mutters. “And then—”

“Afterparty,” you say.

Your mind strains. A hallway that sparkled. Something blue. Cassian’s voice laughing. Someone’s arm around your shoulders. You remember feeling weightless, free.

Then—nothing. Just black.

You chase the gap like it might give up something new, a sliver of a moment, a voice, a flash of memory. But there’s only static. The missing hours taunt you, no matter how hard you dig.

You don’t notice how far you’ve spiraled inward until—

“Oh!”

You blink. Mor is squinting near the patio edge. A little girl stands there—small, maybe six at most, hair a nest of tangles from the wind.

The child doesn’t respond, just gives Morrigan a shy smile and brings her gaze back to Azriel. She seems completely unfazed by the shadows that curl at his back like smoke, some of them now drifting out in lazy spirals, curious about their new, smaller audience.

She squints a little, tilts her head. Then lifts a hand and points.

“I like your wings.”

Az’s brow lifts, surprised. He looks down at her—then, briefly, at you—and says, “Thank you.”

She just stares, wide-eyed, like he’s the most magnificent thing she’s ever seen. His shadows drift toward her again—tentative, almost playful—and the girl giggles as one brushes her ankle.

Azriel begins to kneel.

“Would you like to touch them?” he asks.

She nods eagerly, and he shifts, ever so carefully, turning his body to angle one wing toward her. You watch, unable to speak, as he slowly extends it—broad and gleaming, catching the sunlight in waves of deep mahogany.

She reaches out, delicately, reverently, and his shadows shepherd her hand away from any overly sensitive areas. Az glances at you, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.

And your heart soars.

Because gods—he’s smiling. Not in the guarded way he so often does, not in polite dismissal or thin-lipped silence. It’s soft. Real.

It feels awfully like remembering something you forgot you lost —the whole dream of it. A future you’d once let yourself imagine. A different life, where you could’ve built something together. Where mornings like this might’ve been real. Where maybe you wouldn’t have been so scared.

He’s vulnerable for this little girl’s laughter—this male with a reputation that terrifies half of Prythian. He’s letting her touch what others fear. The version of him only a few ever got to see.

And you used to be one of them.

You mourn it. That closeness. That possible future.

The girl beams. “They’re even bigger than the other one’s!”

Your head snaps toward Mor at the same moment hers snaps toward you. 

“The… other one?” Mor echoes.

The child nods. “Yeah! He had wings too.”

Something shifts in Azriel. Not alarm—Azriel rarely shows anything that clearly—but an alertness you know all too well.

You sit forward. “Did he look like him?” you ask, pointing at Az.

She considers. Then raises her hand as high as she can. “Taller.”

You and Azriel lock eyes. His are already on you.

“Do you remember where you saw him?” 

And once again, the child nods. “My family’s shop.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Her family’s shop, as it turns out, is a pawn and trade shop, tucked into a narrow corner of the Adriata market.

Azriel goes in first—still holding Naela’s small hand since the moment she insisted on it.

You follow behind, trying not to melt at the sight.

She’s so small beside him, swinging his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he is no threat, no scarred monster. Your chest squeezes. Mor softly sighs beside you. You don’t look at her. You’re scared you’ll find the same expression you’re wearing now.

It isn’t until Naela spots a male near the counter that she lets go, grip loosening, eyes lighting up.

“Pappa!”

The man looks up just in time to catch her. He scoops her into his arms with an ease born of routine, pressing a kiss to her temple as she giggles and tucks herself under his chin.

“Oh, my little pearl,” he murmurs. “Where have you been, eh?”

The moment is so tender, so domestic, that you almost feel like you shouldn’t be watching. You’re not sure your heart can handle anymore.

You’re grateful, however, that the sweet nature of the past half hour has distracted you from your hangover—still humming beneath your skull now that you’re standing in a cooler, shaded space.

“I’m sorry if she caused any trouble,” her father says, glancing over her shoulder at the rest of you.

Mor waves him off with a warm smile. “Not at all. She’s... she’s a sweetheart.”

Naela’s still nestled against him, but she isn’t looking at her father. Her eyes remain fixed on Azriel. Wide, sparkling, utterly enamored.

You glance at Az. He’s already looking at you.

And—Cauldron—you swear he blushes. A soft flicker of color beneath his cheekbones before he shifts his gaze back to Naela. When you look at her again, she’s gone pink in the face too, tucking herself deeper into her father’s neck.

Someone has a crush, you think, and when you glance at Mor, she’s thinking the same thing. Her expression has gone misty. She mouths: baby fever. It tugs at something soft in you. You nod.

Az clears his throat. You barely hear it despite the silence that’s bloomed.

“We’re looking for someone,” he says carefully.

He steps forward—just one pace—but it’s careful, almost awkward. His body language tightens, like he’s trying to fold in on himself: shoulders hunched, wings pressed flush to his back. His shadows are mostly gone, except for one, flickering lazily at his side.

Naela’s father studies him with a flicker of apprehension. You frown. You can imagine the flicker of sadness in Azriel’s eyes without even looking at him. A small, small detail that only someone who has spent hours looking into his eyes can tell.

The sharp reminders that he has done his job too well. He is feared.

But then Naela leans in and whispers something in her father’s ear. The change is immediate. His shoulders drop and he nods.

“Ah. Yes.”

He sets her down gently, brushing her hair back. Then he turns toward the curtained doorway behind him and calls out for ‘Milo’. He uses another term of endearment, one that hums with familiarity. You can’t catch the exact words, but they sound like home.

A moment later, another male appears. His eyes move first to Naela, then sweep across your group. When they land on Mor, they widen.

“Hello,” he says. “You are the High Lord’s third in command—Morrigan, yes?”

“Guilty.” Mor beams. “I’m also his cousin. But that’s not as fun.”

She steps forward, launching into the explanation. “Your daughter said she saw someone. A male. Looked like him”—she gestures at Azriel—“but taller. Longer hair.”

Milo nods. “Yes. Cassian.”

You step forward, a small smile of relief on your face. “You know him?”

“Of course,” Milo says, “He was here last night.”

You glance back at Azriel instinctively, but he’s been intercepted. Naela is at his feet again, tugging on his hand with the determined energy only small children possess. Her tiny fingers wrapped tight around two of his—trying to drag him to the far end of the store.

Az looks mildly panicked, eyes darting to you like he’s begging for help. You bite back a laugh, give him a helpless shrug.

Then Mor’s voice cuts in. “Amazing news. When was the last time you saw him?”

Naela’s father—whom Milo had called Tovik when he first emerged—returns to the counter. He lifts a brow. “Not since the trade last night.”

Mor frowns. “The trade?”

“Yes.” Milo’s expression grows more serious, his tone careful. “But from the looks on your faces, I’m assuming something went wrong.”

You hesitate. For a second, you consider lying. You glance at Mor, who lifts her brows, a noncommittal shrug: your call.

You exhale. “Yes. We think so. And… we can’t find him. So any information you can share—it would be great.”

Behind you, a soft giggle. That particular, enchanted sound only a child makes. Both men glance past you, and you turn just enough to catch Naela gently wrapping one of Azriel’s wings in a delicate string of beaded necklaces.

He’s letting her. Az is letting her.

The sight should not ache the way it does.

The fathers smile faintly, then share a meaningful look—something quiet and knowing passing between them like a current.

Milo says, “We haven’t seen him since. But please, allow us to give you back the trade.”

Without waiting for a response, the two of them slip behind the curtain at the back of the shop. The beads clack softly behind them and the room falls quiet.

You repeat their words in your mind and glance at Mor. “Do we have any money for them?”

She frowns, already checking her form. “Nothing on me.”

“Shit,” you mutter.

Before either of you can panic further, the two males return. Milo carries a small wooden box, which he sets gently on the counter. Tovik unclasps the lid and pushes it toward you.

Mor leans in, peeks—then immediately flinches back. “Oh, gods spare me.”

Inside, nestled on soft velvet, are seven red siphons.

Shit. That isn’t good. Evidence, Mor had said. Evidence if something had happened. This, more than anything, seemed like evidence. Your shoulders sink.

“We don’t have anything on us,” you say quickly. “But if there’s any way we can make a bargain or—”

Both males lift a hand, stopping you mid-sentence.

“That,” Milo says, nodding past you, “is payment enough.”

You turn.

Azriel is in the corner, kneeling now, one arm resting on a low bench. Naela’s at his side, following the movements of his shadows. They’re both quiet, locked into whatever small project she’s dreamed up. You watch her little hands twist and braid, his shadows curling and responding with delight. Az doesn’t even flinch when she presses a tiny hand to his wing.

Tovik rests a hand on Milo’s shoulder. “She has a hard time,” he murmurs, “with the other kids.”

You meet Milo’s gaze. He smiles. “You’ve got a good husband,” he says. “Kind-hearted.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh—I—”

He nods toward your hand. You can’t even bring yourself to correct him. So you do the only thing you can. You nod.

It makes you feel small again, as if you’ve shrunk every time someone made you ache for Azriel.

Mor is already watching you. “Excuse me,” you say gently, “I need some air.” You look at her. “I’ll be right outside.”

She nods without question, already pivoting back toward the counter. You catch the tail end of her asking what Cassian traded for before the door swings shut behind you.

Outside, the breeze hits you full in the face. You squint and lift your left hand to block the sun.

Adriata is stunning. Alive like Velaris, but in a different way. Where Velaris shines, Adriata glows—soft and warm and golden. The sky is impossibly blue. Somewhere, not too far, music floats down from a rooftop.

You still feel a little sick, a little dizzy, but it’s easier now. The worst of the hangover has passed. Or, at least, quieted.

You close your eyes and breathe. Try to picture where Cassian might be. What kind of mess Rhysand is dealing with. Whether Amren is somewhere close.

“This air is more enjoyable now that my liquor has settled,” a voice says beside you.

You jump.

“Cauldron, Azriel,” you gasp, pressing your palm to your chest. “I forget how quiet you can be.”

He looks a little sheepish, mouth tipping into a small, guilty smile. His gaze flicks downward—to your hand over your heart. His expression shifts, softens into something heavier.

You follow his line of sight.

That godsdamned ring.

You drop your hand like it burns.

“I was actually thinking the same thing,” you say, voice wry. “About the air.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. Azriel doesn’t reply right away.

He’s still looking at you—still hasn’t moved—and you become acutely aware of how close he is. Maybe it’s not much, just a step or two, but it feels significant. It might even be the closest you’ve been to him in months. Maybe last night was closer, but you can’t remember last night. So, for now, this is the closest.

And under his stare, you feel bare.

Like he’s peeling you apart with nothing but his silence. And it’s not bad, exactly—it’s Azriel. But it’s too much. It’s just about to be too much.

You nod your head back toward the shop and say, “I think you’ve got an admirer in there.”

Az’s mouth twitches, that barely-there dimple pressed in place. “It appears so,” he murmurs.

"You can go back in. Wouldn’t want to take her male.”

He huffs a soft laugh. You laugh at your own joke too, which loosens something—makes the space between you feel less tight.

“I said my goodbyes,” Azriel says. “She’s a little too young for me.”

You laugh again—really laugh this time—and Az’s answering smile is soft in a different way. It seems like he’s not just amused, but surprised. Or grateful. Or in awe.

And then, quietly, he adds, “Besides, I’m a married man, apparently.”

You freeze—not all at once, but enough that he notices. His shadows lift slightly behind him, a soft twitch of reaction. His gaze flickers—uncertain, like maybe that was too far, too fast.

Before you can say anything, the door behind you opens. Mor steps out into the light, box clutched triumphantly in her hands. “I know where to go,” she announces, breathless with urgency. “I know where he is.”

You and Azriel both turn toward her, exchanging a hopeful glance.

Then Mor’s face crumples slightly. “Which one of you can winnow us?” she asks, grimacing. “Because I—I can’t.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The moment your feet hit the ground, the world tilts sideways.

You stagger, bracing yourself against a tree. Your stomach lurches—violently—but nothing comes up. Just dry heaving. It leaves you dizzy and sweating, like you’ve been wrung out.

Soft footsteps approach behind you. Then Azriel’s hand is at your back, steady and warm. His presence alone sends your mind spinning in two directions—one towards comfort, the other towards regret.

It transports you back to every drunken night you spent together. Returning home from Rita’s, giggling into the dark, the comfort of his hand trailing your spine until you fell asleep.

“I’m fine,” you manage, voice horse. “Just—give me a second.”

Behind you, there’s the sharp sound of retching. Real retching. Mor.

You glance over just in time to see Mor bent over, one hand on her knee, the other waving you off weakly. “I’m good,” she croaks, barely lifting her head. “Just needed to baptize the local flora.”

Even now—pale and bent over—she manages to look beautiful. It’s actually offensive.

Azriel helps you to your feet, hand pressed at your elbow. When you finally lift your head, you frown.

You’re surrounded by ruins. Soot-slicked stone, shattered windows, smoke stains stretched like fingers up the walls. It sags in on itself, the skeletal frame of what was once a building. You blink, hoping maybe your vision is just blurred from the winnow.

It isn’t.

“Mor,” you call, still catching your breath. “Not to question the credibility of Azriel’s girlfriend’s family, but Cassian isn’t here. There’s nothing here.”

Azriel rolls his eyes playfully. Dangerous territory, and you both know it. Picking at the thread, opening yourself up to banter, of all things. Still, he says nothing.

“Well, shit,” Mor mutters, wiping her mouth and straightening.

You survey your surroundings. "What would Cass have been doing here?"

Az’s body snaps upright, still as a bowstring. Before he can speak, a familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Because fourteen hours ago,” Rhysand says dryly, “it wasn’t ruins.”

You all whip around. Mor gasps—an honest, relieved sound—and launches herself at him.

“You’re okay,” she breathes, hugging him tightly.

Rhys hugs her back, his eyes sweeping over you and Azriel. “Of course I’m okay. Was that… in question?”

You stare. You're not sure what to say.

Rhys wrinkles his nose. “You smell like vomit.”

"I take my excitement back." Mor scowls, pulling away. “I liked you better when you were missing.”

“Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you,” you tell him.

“For me?” Rhys scans your faces, then waves off the question. “I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

“I couldn’t reach you,” Azriel says quietly. “None of you.”

Rhys sighs. He drags a hand through his hair. “It’s—it’s a long story.”

You hesitate. “Do you remember last night?”

“Because we have a situation,” Mor adds.

Rhys laughs, humorless. “Yeah. We have many, apparently.”

Azriel shifts beside you, still in that quiet, alert way that always means he senses something unsaid. “Where are Amren and Cassian?”

Rhysand’s sigh this time is heavier. “Cassian is in prison.”

“What?” You, Mor, and Azriel all blurt it at once. “For what?”

Rhys looks past you, at the blackened ruins. “You’re standing on it.”

Your stomach turns.

Mor surveys the destruction again, slower this time. “And Amren?”

Rhys closes his eyes. “She’s in prison too.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Cassian's cell is surprisingly beautiful.

Or, at least, it’s the kind of prison only the Summer Court could produce: all warm stone and curved archways, sunlight streaming through the barred windows, the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance. If not for the iron door and the heavily-armed guard outside, it might’ve passed as a very modest guest suite.

You're leaning against the bars, peering in at Cassian, who’s sprawled out dramatically on the low stone bench inside. His hair is still damp, and he looks both impossibly smug and slightly sick.

“I just don’t understand why you needed to trade your siphons,” you say, dragging a hand down your face.

Cassian sighs, draping his arm over his eyes. “I told you. You ever try to convince Amren not to tell Rhysand when you’re about to do something possibly damaging to his image?”

You blink at him. He's speaking too quick and his words barely make sense. “...No.”

“Well, I did,” he says, lifting his head just enough to squint at you. “And she wasn’t listening. So I needed leverage.”

“And the leverage,” you say slowly, “was a centuries-old puzzle box.”

Cassian beams. “A very rare one! Gold-inlaid. It sings when you touch it.”

Azriel, standing a few feet behind you with his arms crossed, mutters, “You gave up your siphons for a singing box. Gods.”

Cass lifts a brow. “Says the male who got married to his ex—”

“Don’t,” Azriel says, low and sharp. It’s a warning filled with promise. Cassian immediately holds up his hands.

“Shutting up,” he says, turning to you with a grimace. There’s an apology in his eyes. “Sorry.”

You wave him off, though your stomach twists. “Seems like we all made some... stupid, meaningless mistakes, right?”

Cassian gives a quiet, knowing nod. He doesn’t say anything else. But you feel his eyes flick toward Azriel, then back to you, and you do your best not to follow that look.

Rhys and Mor return before the silence stretches too long. They’re mid-conversation, Mor gathering her hair over one shoulder, Rhys rubbing at his temple like he’s aged a decade in the last twenty minutes. You’re not entirely sure he hasn’t.

“He’s going to be here for a while,” Rhys says, gesturing vaguely at Cass. “We need to stay until things are sorted.”

Cassian shrugs in his cell. “I’ve had worse vacations.”

“And Amren?” you ask, glancing between them.

Mor sighs. “They put her in solitary.”

“She asked for solitary,” Rhys corrects. “She said she wanted silence for a newly acquired project. Threatened them until they gave it to her.”

“Cauldron boil me,” you mutter, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay. But we still need to figure out this whole—” You hold up your left hand and wiggle your fingers, “—situation.”

Mor hesitates, like she wants to offer a solution, then glances at Rhys.

“I mean—I could maybe find a workaround,” she says. “Quickly run around and look.”

Rhys shakes his head. “We don’t have time. I need your help here.”

You shake your head. “It’s okay. I think we can figure it out.” You glance toward Azriel, meet his eye. “Right? Slowly but surely.”

He nods once. “Right.”

Cassian perks up from his bench. “They collected my personal items when they brought me in. Maybe something in there could help?”

You turn around, eyeing the little box by the wall.

You pick up a small foil packet, turn it over. “Cassian," you say flatly, "this is a stick of gum.”

“Yeah,” he says, utterly serious. “Never hurts after a hangover puke. Trust me.”

“Incredible. Truly.” 

Azriel approaches the small table and lifts something else. He holds it up between two fingers. “A condom?”

Cassian doesn’t miss a beat. “Better to be prepared.”

Mor and Rhys both groan.

Mor leans closer to the foil wrapper. “Wait—look at this.” She points to a corner. “There’s a seal.”

You squint. “A logo?”

Azriel tilts the condom toward the light, and sure enough, there it is again—etched faintly in silver: a half-moon inside a wave crest.

“Looks like you’ve got your next breadcrumb,” Mor says, grinning. Then her gaze cuts to you, suddenly serious. “Give me that stick of gum.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It’s different now, with just you and Azriel.

Not awkward, exactly, but it’s still too much. There’s something about being alone with him again that makes everything more sensitive. Every brush of his shoulder as you walk, every second you catch his eyes flicking toward your hand, your face, your mouth—each moment tightens a string that hasn’t fully snapped in years. You wish it would just break already.

You hate that you’re still so acutely aware of him. That his presence is still a gravity you haven’t figured out how to escape. That it makes your breath shallow. Makes your chest ache.

It’s a cruel joke, really.

The only male you ever imagined spending your immortal life beside—the only one you ever wanted—is the one you’re now trying to spiritually divorce. The ring on your finger is real. And yet it’s not. It never was.

Whether you were drunk or dreaming, it doesn’t matter. You’ve already been down that road. You know the answer.

He isn't not yours. He hasn’t been yours for a very long time.

You're not certain he ever was.

When you finally catch the silver-marked logo again, a club off the main strip of Adriata, a deep sense of relief rolls through you. One step closer to freedom.

The door opens, and daylight disappears.

Inside, the club is almost jarring in contrast. Everything is turquoise velvet and leather, dim and plush—faint laughter drifting from somewhere deeper inside. You glance around at the sleek decor, the draped fabrics, the silk-wrapped lounges, and snort.

“I can’t believe you guys took us to a pleasure hall.”

Azriel side-eyes you, one brow arched. “Who says it wasn’t you, Mor, and Amren who took us?”

There’s that faint mirth in his voice—dry, edged with something warm. Something that sounds suspiciously like a smile. You look over, your eyes catching his. “This doesn’t really scream me.”

Az lifts the condom from earlier, twirling it lazily between his fingers. “No? Branded condoms and gum. That’s very classy. Very you.”

You roll your eyes and swat at his hand, ignoring the terrible, ridiculous delight at the sight of his ring. “Put that away.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “What? You love branded things. It is a nice logo.” He shrugs one shoulder. “We could frame it. Commemorate the whole weekend.”

You try to grab it from him, but he moves just enough to dodge you, your fingers brushing the inside of his wrist. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in—just slightly.

Your hands fall between you. His shadows stroke gently across your forearm, light as breath. The space between you has narrowed so subtly, so dangerously, that you can smell him. That familiar scent of home. Your eyes flick to his mouth before you can stop yourself.

And his drop, just for a second, to yours.

It’s almost something.

But then a voice slices through the low hum of the club and shouts your name.

You turn, blinking in surprise—because the female who rushes toward you is a stranger. You don’t recognize anything about her.

She’s halfway across the room already, beaming, her arms flung open like she’s known you forever. She smells expensive—warm florals and sweet citrus—and the hug she gives you is enthusiastic, bordering on overwhelming. Her voice, when she pulls back, is just as bright.

“How was last night?” she asks, glancing between you and Azriel.

You conceal a frown. “Good?” you say, caught off guard.

Her expression falters, softening. “Oh. You don’t remember, do you?”

You hesitate, shoulders deflating. “I’m sorry—”

She waves you off. “Don’t be. You took so many courage shots, I should’ve expected it.”

Courage shots. Crafted elixirs that peel back fear, silence doubt. Supposedly designed to strip away hesitation, to make you the truest, bravest version of yourself for a few short hours.  That, or the most reckless and impulsive.

You resist the urge to look at Azriel.

Because if you do—if you meet his eyes—you’d want to know which one it was. If marrying you in a drunken haze had been some desperate kind of truth he could never speak while sober, or another dare his competitive ego couldn't turn down. 

You realize now, just how tired you are. It isn't simply the hangover, or the unbearable heat. Deep down, you're tired to your very soul. Tired of everything reminding you that you and Azriel are better at wanting each other than you are at having each other. 

And yet, it’s so damn easy to smile when, for a second, you forget everything else. Easy to laugh at his dry jokes and catch him looking at your mouth when you get too close. To let yourself lean in and know—know—that he would meet you halfway. That he would stay, as long as you didn’t ask for too much.

Some people you love like a habit. Some people you love like a wound. Azriel was both.

The female before you doesn’t seem to notice your dilemma. She’s still smiling. “Is Cassian around?”

You notice the blush rising on her cheeks. Subtle. But it’s there.

“Cassian is indisposed at the moment,” you tell her.

She pouts, just slightly. “That’s alright. I’m just glad to see you guys!” She’s about to move on—until her eyes catch the glint of your hand. “By the Mother! Let me see that.”

You don’t stop her. Can’t, really—she’s already lifting your hand before you can say anything.

She holds it delicately, turning it toward the light. “Gods. It’s beautiful.”

You can’t find your voice.

“Maybe Cass and I can take a trip to Theaemotherin sometime too,” she says wistfully, still admiring the ring.

You look up. “Theaemotherin?”

She nods. “The Temple of Theaemotherin, where the priestess bound you.”

Azriel’s voice is calm when he speaks. “Can you show us where this temple is?”

“Oh, of course! I can draw you another map.”

She hands it to you a few moments later, neat and beautifully detailed.

“Tell Cassian I’ll think about his offer, will you?”

You smile. “I will.”

You’re still holding the map when you and Azriel step back into the Adriata sunlight.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You land hard.

Not because the winnow was rough—Azriel’s never are—but because the moment his grip loosens, you’re already stepping away, tearing yourself from his reach. There's a pressure in your chest you can’t quite exhale, and you blame it on the fact that your body still thinks it’s allowed to recognize his warmth.

You need distance—some quiet correction to how easy it had been to almost slip into old patterns. His hands on your waist. The way his shadows curled around your wrist without thinking. The way your body remembered that once, he was home.

Never again.

You push that thought down like a sickness. Like bile.

The space around you is quiet—somewhere coastal, a stretch of weathered land and sun-bleached stone, the ocean curling blue at the edge of it all. The sun hangs low behind the cliffs, painting everything gold. It’s beautiful and open and it doesn’t help.

You take a few steps forward, trying to breathe through the weight still lodged in your chest. Your heel catches a ridge in the stone, and you stumble—but before you can fall, shadows snap to attention around your ankle, steadying you. Azriel’s hand lifts, too, half a second behind them.

You jerk your arm back before he can touch you.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to hold it back.

“I’m fine."

“I can give you a moment,” Az says quietly.

“I don’t need a moment.”

“You look a little—”

“I said I don’t need a moment.”

Your voice is sharper than you meant. It echoes off the cliffs.

You hear him exhale softly.

You don’t stop walking. You follow the path forward, using the map and directions Naera had given you. This wasn’t a temple in the traditional sense, she’d said. Not some grand structure or ancient hall. More of a hidden pocket—an old place tucked into the land itself, veiled by wards and old magic, meant only to be found by those who needed it. Winnowing was unreliable as a result.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Azriel’s voice follows you.

You don’t stop walking. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He pauses. “You’re very quiet.”

“Am I not allowed to be quiet?” You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch his expression. “It’s been a long day.”

“I only meant—back there, when we—”

“Don’t,” you snap, turning so fast the word hits like a whip.

Azriel halts to a stop. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t start, Azriel.”

He straightens slightly. “I’m not starting anything.”

“Yes, you are. You’re doing that thing where you ask and hover and pretend this is something we can talk about like it’s normal and we’re friends."

Azriel has sensed the shift in you. “I thought we were friends.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “I’m not interested in whatever version of friendship this is.”

“I’m trying to check on you,” he says. Softer now. “That’s all.”

“Well don’t.” You bite the words out. “Don’t check on me. Don’t ask me if I’m alright. Don’t act like this is some shared little secret we’ll laugh about in a week.”

Azriel’s brows draw in. His shadows coil tighter into the hollows beneath his wings, a restless sort of tension rolling through him. That gods-damned patience of his.

“We’re not doing this,” you say. “I don’t want to talk about what happened back there. I don’t want to analyze it or joke about it or pretend any of this means anything. I just want to find this priestess, take this stupid, ugly, meaningless thing off my finger—” you lift your left hand, the ring catching a bit of the sun, “—and forget this whole nightmare ever happened.”

It’s out before you can soften it.

Azriel doesn’t react at first, but something flickers in his eyes. A crack in the shield. A flicker of pain you wish you didn’t still recognize. It’s enough for you to know you hit something—something soft and open and still healing. 

And you blink, hard, because it was mean. It was cruel.

And you’re mean. You know that.

You’re mean and you love him.

You love him and it hurts.

And you wish you could look away, because all he does is stand before you—so still, so unreadable, the way he always gets when he’s hurt.

You hate this part. The part where Azriel doesn’t argue. Where he just takes it.

“It brings you that much pain?” he asks finally. “The idea of being married to me?”

Your heart stutters. The disbelief hits first, then the heartache, then the rage.

“Are you serious?”

His face is unreadable. Closed-off in that way only he can manage—dark and careful, but underneath it, you know his words are pressing against his ribs. He’s still waiting for you to read his mind instead of just saying it.

There’s a sense of contradiction built into Azriel. This quiet, simmering pride that exists right alongside the shame. He wants to prove something. Still. Even now. Even after pushing you away, even after all this, he wants you to say it doesn’t hurt. That maybe, just maybe, being married to him isn’t the worst thing in the world.

And it is. That’s the problem. It is the worst thing in the world.

“You are,” you whisper, laughing without humor. “You’re unbelievable, Azriel.”

“Does it?” he asks again.

“Marrying a coward is painful,” you bite, “Yes.”

Azriel’s wings twitch and you catch the feathering of a muscle in his jaw.

“And don’t—don’t ask me that shit,” you say, voice trembling with fury. “You don’t get to do that. You can marry me drunk, Azriel, but you couldn’t do it sober. And you are a coward.”

Azriel straightens a bit, nods once. It’s controlled—measured.

“Alright,” he says, and his carefully crafted mask slips right back on.

You want to scream. You want him to yell back. You want him to fight for it—no, not for it, for you. And yet, you don’t. Because that’s not fair. You don’t want it, and you do.

You just nod. You're agreeing to some invisible contract between you. Yes, this is how it is now. This distance. This version of you that used to know each other better than anyone, and now can hurt each other in ways no one else ever will.

He takes a step back, like he's giving you space. Always so careful. Always so respectful.

You turn away, following the faint markings etched into the rocks ahead���small trails of glowing faelight that shimmer between the cracks, barely visible to anyone who wouldn’t know to look.

You walk the rest of the way in silence, Azriel a few paces behind you.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The air has thickened, heavy like the hush before a storm— or a miracle. As it turns out, the path Naera marked had barely been a path at all.

Her voice rings in your ears: When you feel the pull, follow it. It is the only way you’ll find her. She’d said it like it should’ve meant something to you, some inherited instinct. Maybe it did, to priestesses and saints and those who believed. You weren’t so sure.

Your luck was so rotten that faith felt like a form of self-punishment.

You arrive at the marked location as the sun is tiring out, the horizon bruised with dusk. Azriel comes to a slow stop beside you. According to Naera’s map, you should be standing before the temple itself.

But there’s nothing. No gilded gates, no overgrown ruins, no temple laid out beneath the sky like something proud. Just a stretch of dry, trampled grass over a coastal cliff, the wind carrying the distant crash of waves up to where the sky feels almost too close.

You exhale, long and bone-tired. "There’s nothing here. We must’ve gotten lost."

You turn to leave and Azriel’s hand gently grabs your arm. “Wait.”

Frowning, you face him, his voice registering in your mind much faster than the word itself. You glance down at his hold and he quickly draws his hand back. Your skin aches with the ghost of his touch.

“I just want to say that I’m sorry.”

The same heat from earlier rises in your chest. An all-too-familiar sense of defensiveness. You feel the words readying themselves, another sharp retort perched behind your teeth—but his eyes stop you. They’re tired.

“I know,” Azriel says softly. Then again, slower: “I know.”

It stops you—because he does know, in some way, exactly what you’re going to say.

“But I am sorry,” he says again, voice steadier now. “For the stress of all of this. For—for everything. I really am.”

The wind catches the ends of your hair and tugs it across your mouth, but you don’t bother moving it. Your chest pulls tight and something inside you tugs like a knot finally loosening. You offer him a nod of acknowledgment—of something closer to forgiveness than you've been in years.

A thread pulled, but not yet broken.

Then Azriel’s wings flare before you register a change, his hand moving instinctively in front of you, the other flicking toward the shadows that curl tighter around his legs. “There’s something here,” he murmurs.

You feel it then, too. A hum in the air—something like pressure.

The world shimmers. You blink—and the air fractures, like glass catching light. A ripple spreads outward, and suddenly, impossibly, there is something where nothing had been.

A structure. Simple, soft-looking, almost grown from the cliffside itself. Pillars that look carved of sea-salt and bone. A roof overgrown with flowering vines, pink and lavender blooms swaying gently.

You exchange a glance with Azriel and take a cautious step forward. There’s a strange, soft pull that urges you closer. Az’s eyes scan the perimeter, wings still half-flared, but even his shadows have calmed.

A small sign hangs from one of the pillars, weather-worn and etched in a language you don’t fully recognize. But some words glow faintly, touched by magic:

THEAEMOTHERIN 

You tilt your head. “A little… casual,” you say, and Azriel exhales a quiet huff—almost a laugh.

The building looks nothing like any temple you’ve ever seen. It feels unceremonious. Familiar.

Before you can step forward, Azriel brushes a hand along your back. “Let me go first.”

You nod. He crosses the threshold— and thankfully, nothing happens. No wards, no pulse of ancient magic. You follow.

Inside, temple expands. Light filters in from nowhere and everywhere, catching motes in the air. Vines twist up columns. Alcoves in the walls hold candles, stones, and dried petals—offerings from those who came before.

“Welcome.”

The voice behind you is calm and rich, like earth soaked in summer rain.

You turn to see her: a female standing still, dark skin veined with gold just beneath the surface, thick, black curls haloed around her face. Her eyes are gold, her beauty almost unbearable.

You exchange a glance with Azriel. She doesn’t offer a name.

Still, something in your chest settles. Even Azriel’s shadows stretch curiously toward her. He pulls them back, protective.

“We were told this is where we’d—” You hesitate. “—find what we’re looking for.”

She smiles. You feel seen. As if she knows every sharp, ugly piece of you—and loves you anyway.

“I know,” she says, stepping closer. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?”

She hums, and the sound vibrates somewhere below your ribs. She looks to you, then to Azriel, then down to his shadows.

“Yes,” she says simply. “All of you.”

You almost ask how she knew. But you don’t. You don’t want to know.

Instead, you ask, “You can unbind it, then?”

Her gaze softens. “Yes. But the magic of my ceremonies is old. Stubborn. They unravel only one thread at a time.”

You glance at Azriel, heart ticking. “What does that mean?”

She lifts a hand and turns. “Come. I will show you.”

You both move to follow but she stops, looking to Azriel. “Not you.”

He stiffens. “But we are bound—”

“Yes.” She nods, kind. “Which is why you must face it alone.”

You hesitate, glancing at Azriel. He looks ready to protest.

But the priestess speaks again, quieter: “A thread tied by two hands cannot be unknotted if both pull at once.”

Well, she has a point. You give Az a small, reassuring smile. “It’s alright,” you murmur. He exhales and his shoulders drop.

The priestess steps aside for you, then offers Azriel a warm touch to his arm. “Please—rest. I will call for you when it’s your time, Azriel.”

Then she turns to you, her gold-flecked eyes kind. “Come, child. Let’s begin.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The room is warm—honey-thick and gold. You can’t tell if it’s candlelight or some enchantment that makes the air ripple, but everything feels soft around the edges. The priestess shuts the door behind you with a quiet click, then turns to face you.

“You have questions,” she says.

You open your mouth, then close it again. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

“That’s what life is for,” she says, tilting her head. “Wasting time. Chasing it. Grasping it before it’s gone. Please—ask.”

You glance around. The walls shift the longer you look: bare, then not. A shelf appears where there was none. A plant reshapes itself, vines retreating and unfurling in turns. The room is no longer still. You wonder if it’s responding to her or to you.

“I don’t remember last night,” you admit. “How did we find you?”

She walks past you slowly, her fingers brushing along the edge of a table that hadn’t existed a moment before. A bowl of water fades into view, the surface rippling.

“I imagine the memory of that journey will return to you when it’s ready.”

You frown. The answer doesn’t satisfy you, but you move on. “Was it just the two of us?”

“Yes.” She smiles. “Only you and Azriel.”

A knot inside you loosens—not relief, exactly, but the easing of a fear. Whatever humiliations last night held, at least no one else had witnessed them. That’s something. It’ll make it easier to carry when the memory returns.

You look down at your hand. The ring on your finger gleams faintly. “These rings,” you begin. “Where did they come from?”

“They are born of the thing between you,” she says simply.

You try not to sound stupid. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.”

She crouches near a cabinet that wasn’t there before. Velvet lines the interior, and nestled in its folds are smooth, pale river stones—each inscribed with gold runes that pulse faintly, like breathing.

“Every binding I perform begins with vows,” she says, more to the stones than to you. “You write a letter—each of you. You don’t share them. You don’t read them. I take the truth beneath your words and I shape it.” She gestures to your ring. “Your own words forged it.”

You run your thumb along the band. “Is that why it won’t come off?”

She nods. “They often reflect their maker.” Her eyes meet yours. “Love makes them stubborn things.”

“I don’t know if love is the right word,” you say. The words taste flat. Uncertain. “Not really.”

She studies you, but doesn’t correct you.

“Vows are strange things. Sometimes they know more than we do.”

Your shoulders ease, just slightly. You don’t know why. There’s something about her voice that feels like it’s speaking directly to the part of you that’s been hiding. It makes you want to believe her. All of it.

“Longing. Grief. Hope. Even desperation,” she continues. “They all wear love’s shape. Sometimes, they are love. Time reveals which.”

You nod—barely.

She reaches for a cushion and gestures for you to sit. You do.

“To begin, I must ask you one thing.” Her voice is a murmur. “Why do you want it undone?”

Your throat tightens. The room waits.

“It was a mistake,” you say, reflexively. “I don’t want to be bound to a drunk mistake.”

Something flickers across her face—patience. She brushes a loose strand of hair from your cheek, her touch light as air. “Try again. You don’t have to say it aloud. But it must be true. When your heart is ready to release what binds you, then—and only then—can the unmaking begin.”

“How will you know?” you ask.

She says simply, “My magic will know the truth.”

You look down at the ring on your hand. Yes, it was a mistake. You know that much. But the part that makes you want to cut it from your finger isn’t the mistake itself—it’s that you’ve grown used to it. Worse: you’ve grown fond of it. The weight of it, the way it fits. The knowledge that Azriel wears one too.

You like that. You like the idea of belonging to him. Of him belonging to you.

And you despise yourself for it.

Because it reveals what you’ve tried not to name: if he asked for this—if he wanted you, truly wanted you—you would say yes. You would gather every scattered piece and stitch them back together.

But he hasn’t.

The ring is a punishment. A private cruelty of your own making, forged from a want you cannot bear to admit.

You close your eyes. You hold the truth where she can find it.

She kneels before the river stones. Her hands move in slow, graceful arcs, fingers sketching symbols into the air. Her lips shape words you do not know—an old tongue. Light gathers—not candlelight, not sunlight—but something from her, from inside her. That same gold you noticed before, pulsing now like a heartbeat beneath her skin.

The ring tightens once. Then softens. It begins to fold—inward, again and again, until all that remains is a small slip of parchment resting in her palm. 

When you both stand, she holds it out to you. “These are Azriel’s vows.”

You don’t take it at first.

“I don’t perform many bindings anymore,” she says. “Fewer unbindings. But this is the one blessing: when untethered, you may read what was once sealed.”

You hesitate. Then, slowly, you take it from her.

“Thank you,” you say, and mean it.

She steps forward and folds you into an embrace. It is neither comfort nor pity. It is something older and kinder, and you breathe her in.

When you walk through the door, Azriel is waiting just outside. You don’t meet his eyes. His shadows brush against your hip as you pass—gentle, curious. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak.

The priestess murmurs something you don’t catch as she draws him inside.

And then the door closes behind you.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Outside, darkness has settled—thin and spare, save for the faelights still flickering behind you. The air stays warm, but a breeze from the ocean stirs your skin, waking you inch by inch. You keep walking, eyes fixed on the parchment in your hand, half-hoping that more distance might dull the temptation to open it. To read what was never meant to be heard.

You know you shouldn’t. There is no point.

And yet—of course—you do.

You unfold the paper, watching the creases smooth and breathe under your fingers. Azriel’s beautiful handwriting spills across the page.

To my wife, There is a version of me that existed before you. I don’t recognize him anymore. I moved through the world like I owed it penance. Survival was a sentence handed down that I had no right to question. I was allowed to exist, but not to want. Not to ask for more than what fate saw fit to give. I believed that what I carried inside me made me unworthy of good things. That all the worst things I’d done—the things I’d become—had already sealed my fate. I believed I'd made peace with that. But then I met you. And you looked at me, and you smiled, and I was never the same. I began to want. I began to hope. Overnight, my world became color. Light. Suddenly, I understood. I understood why people fight to stay alive. Why they pray for more time, why they beg for another dawn. Because it might mean one more laugh, one more glimpse of your face, one more second spent in the sun of your presence. You carry something sacred inside you. I feel it when you laugh. I see it when you smile. I hear it when you say my name. If there is grace in this world, then it has always been you. I look at you and I think—how foolish I was, to believe the world was only cruelty, when you are proof it can still be merciful. I love you in ways that make no sense. In ways that make me ache. I love you in the quiet moments no one sees. In the breath before I fall asleep, when your voice is the last thing I hear in my head. I love you when I’m scared. When I’m selfish. When I’m small. I love you when I’m ugly inside, when I feel hollow, when I think I have nothing left to give. There is no part of me you haven’t touched. You are written into me, marrow and bone. You have undone me. Unmade me. You have ruined me, my love, utterly and beautifully, and have built something new in my place. And what you’ve made is not perfect. But it is yours. And for as long as you’ll have me, I will keep becoming. I will keep trying. I vow to wake up every day and choose this devotion, to stand in the light of you and be remade, again and again. I vow to spend the rest of my life loving you, and learning how to love you better—louder, braver, clearer. Because there is no before you that matters. And there is no after you that I want. There is only you, and all that I will become because you love me. Yours forever, Azriel

Faintly, you hear footsteps approaching. You know it’s him. But you can’t move.

The words blur, smearing behind the tears you’ve been holding back since the first sentence. You try—gods, you try—to breathe through it, but your hand are trembling and your chest tight. Every word feels carved into you.

Every truth he never gave you when you still had time.

You swipe at your eyes, uselessly, and turn to face him. He stops a few feet away, the glow of the faelights casting him in soft shadow, and you think absurdly that he looks like a dream. Like something you’ll wake from.

"Why would you write this?" Your voice comes out cracked. Raw. "Why would you—Azriel, why would you say these things?"

His eyes don’t waver. "Because I meant them."

You shake your head, taking a half-step back, hoping distance will dull the ache.

"No," you whisper. "No, this is cruel. This is—" You hold up the paper, wrinkled now between your fingers. "This is the cruelest thing you’ve ever done."

You want to scream, to shake him, to demand how he could write these impossible, devastatingly beautiful words—words that feel like love, like forever—when he never found the courage to say them before.

"I read this," you say, broken, "and I think: if I’d known. If you’d told me. If you’d just let me see you. I would’ve fought. I would’ve stayed. I would’ve—"

You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together, forcing air through your nose.

Azriel’s eyes shine. "I know."

Your head snaps up. The breeze tugs at your hair and Az tracks the movement—memorizing you, desperate not to blink.

"Then why didn’t you fight for me?"

He finally steps forward. A few, careful, steps, like you might bolt. "You have to understand—"

"No. I don’t have to understand," you snap. "I spent years trying to understand you. Trying to love someone who wouldn’t let me in. I was going to marry you, Azriel. I was ready to promise you my whole life."

He flinches—visibly, painfully.

"I didn’t want to hold you back," he says, voice cracking. "I didn’t want to hurt you."

"You did hurt me." It comes out a sob. "You didn’t choose me."

Azriel’s face collapses into pure agony. His hands half-raise, like he’s desperate to touch you, to reach, but they fall again—fists clenched.

"No—no, my love—" His voice breaks entirely. "That’s not true."

You wait. He fills the silence.

"I did choose you," he says. "I do. I choose you."

Tears spill anew. Azriel watches them trace your cheek, and you force yourself to look away from the pain etched across his face. You turn, step away, but his footsteps follow, soft and pleading.

"I thought I was making sure you’d be happy," he says, louder, breaking open. "I thought—I was trying the only way I knew."

You spin to face him. "Don’t you get it? I just needed you. I needed this." You shake the letter. "I needed this years ago. Decades ago."

Azriel looks gutted, his shadows curling like they don’t know how to soothe him. For a long, aching moment, he says nothing.

"I was scared," he admits. His voice is hoarse, fraying at the edges. "I was so fucking scared. I thought you’d wake up one day and realize you made a mistake by tying yourself to me. I couldn’t even imagine it—losing you like that would’ve killed me."

He brushes your arm, barely there, his shadows brushing gently along your skin.

"But I’m not scared anymore," he says.

You shake your head. "That’s bullshit."

"Okay—maybe," he concedes, stepping closer. His hand wraps gently around your arm, tentative. You don’t pull away. "Maybe I’m still terrified. But I love you more than my fear. I love you more than my shame. More than the voice that said I wasn’t allowed to have you."

His other hand lifts, uncertain, reverent.

"I love you," he says. "More than I have words for. More than I have any right to."

He’s so close, forehead nearly to yours, his breath shaky with held tears.

"I’ll make this right," he promises. "I have to."

Your tears fall fresh and your shoulders fold inward—but you don’t move. And that’s all he needs. His hands come up, cradling your face, his thumbs gentle against your cheeks.

"Oh, my love," he breathes. "Please. Let me make this right. Tell me how."

His warmth is right there, in your skin, in your bones. You’ve missed him.

"What’s the point?" you whisper. "Why should I?"

He doesn’t even pause. "Because there is no other option. It’s only you. It’s only ever been you."

His forehead presses lightly to yours. "There’s no future I want without you in it."

Both hands are cradling you now. You are something fragile and precious in his hold. 

"I’ll marry you again," he whispers. "Sober. Awake. Ready. I’ll love you better. Braver. Clearer."

Your hands find his wrists. You melt into his touch further and his breath hitches, mouth now hovering just shy of yours.

"Let me choose you," he whispers. "Tell me how. It’s only ever been you and me. And I think—I think you meant your words to me, too"

You wonder, for a fleeting second, what vows you wrote that made him this brave. This open.

It shatters something in you. Finally.

You nod.

He pulls back just enough to see you, to make sure.

"Is that a yes?"

You recognize the tone in his voice. He needs to hear you say it, as if it won’t be real until then.

You’re breathless. "Yes."

His face breaks—unguarded, joyous. A smile cracks his mouth and his eyes close. "Thank the Mother."

You laugh, watery and helpless. There's nothing else to do.  After all of it, the heartache, the fear, this is what’s left. It almost feels ridiculous in its simplicity.

You think, stupidly: you both are so dramatic. Mor will have a field day telling your love story. 

Azriel is smiling, thumbs sweeping your mouth like he's relearning it by touch. "I’ve missed that," he murmurs. "That smile. That laugh."

You think of the vows you still hold, how he wrote of you like you were something sacred. Worthy of worship, even.  He holds you like that now. Like the divine is truly something you can touch.

If love is faith, Azriel is the closest you’ve ever come to religion.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pull him down, and kiss him like a prayer.

The world narrows to this—the warmth of his mouth, the way his hands tremble when they hold you closer.  You kiss him until there is nothing else. Until even the stars seem to retreat, leaving only the two of you beneath a sky made small by love.

Behind you, the temple ripples—soft, like a breeze across still water. The faelights vanish, one by one. Azriel’s shadows slip toward the sign by the threshold.

THEAEMOTHERIN.

For just a moment, they veil a few letters. Reframe it. 

THE MOTHER.

And then—like it was never there—it disappears.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

AUTHORS NOTE: silly, stubborn exes to lovers i will always adore you. i hope you guys enjoyed!!! this came to me in a dream and im using it to inspire myself back into writing more hehe

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[itsswritten]

So I think I might take drabble requests 👀 I’m in the mood to write, I’ve been in such a terrible slump and maybe this will help! Send me any suggestions 🤍

[itsswritten]

WTSCFT UPDATEPLSPLSPLS IM BEGGING ON MY KNEES LIKE A BITCHHHHHH 💔🥀

omg hi babe

I actually didn’t know anyone still cared…honestly I’m not too sure where to take it, you got any suggestions??

[itsswritten]

BABYDADDYAZZZZZZZZZ

Didn’t know how much I needed this masterpiece!!!!!

Sorry but I need more of them, I need to see them fall in love over this, need them to see how things didn’t work out with Gwyn and B-boy because this is how it was always supposed to be 🥹🥹

Also…can we just take a moment for Az making her finish what was it like 5 times? 👏🏼 I mean I wouldn’t expect anything less from him, but I gotta say it’s raising standards for one night stands 👀

Written beautifully as always Rae ❤️

An Honest Mistake

Pairing: Azriel x Illyrian! Reader

Summary: Lonely and bitter following Gwyn and Balthazar's mating ceremony, you and Azriel sleep together. As it turns out, one night is all it takes to change everything.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT, slight angst, talks of insecurity and unrequited love, unprotected sex, both reader and az are intoxicated, pregnancy :o

Word Count: 4.4k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

There’s a slight wind in the air tonight. It itches at your back and stirs up old instincts—makes you want to fly, to sing, to stretch your body open to the cold licking at your skin. But you don’t. You rarely do, anymore.

Laughter floats from the temple below you—grand and carved from obsidian and moonstone, veiled in wisteria and soft, glowing magic. A place of beauty where Gwyn, eyes glassy and glowing, kissed Balthazar in front of the Mother and the stars and everyone who mattered.

Your body scoffs at the sound and you grit your teeth against the tight wave of jealousy that laces your limbs. The flask in your hand trembles slightly before you take another long sip, willing the taste to burn away your bitterness.

You should be better than this. Stronger. You’ve spent centuries trying to be. And yet, you couldn’t even make it through the ceremony. Slipped away like a coward and climbed up to the roof, crouched like some silent, forgotten thing with nothing to show but your envy and a flask of liquor that’s quickly running out.

You thought you’d prepared yourself. For the music. For the speeches. For the look in Gwyn’s eyes when Balthazar promised her forever. But none of it helped. Nothing could have prepared you for how quietly devastating this night would be— how utterly lonely and hollow. 

At first, it was interesting—to see the overlap of worlds. Night Court royalty, Illyrian warbands, Valkyries in training dressed in twilight-toned leathers. To see the high-ranking court members assembled under the same sky. To see the Cursebreaker’s sister cry happy tears as she embraced her newly mated best friend. To see the Illyrians stand beside Balthazar, wings wide, ceremonial blades strapped to their backs.

So similar to Azriel, to Cassian—born of the same mountain—but still so fundamentally different as well. The way they took up space. The way they looked at each other. 

But the novelty wore off quickly. After you hugged Balthazar, there was no one left to drift to. No one waiting for you in the crowd. Just the slow, dawning realization that you were crushingly, humiliatingly in love with a male who had just bonded himself to someone else for eternity.

Being immortal and lonely feels almost humiliating. Years and years of life and still—no connection. You’ve spent centuries rebuilding yourself, crafting new versions from the wreckage of the last— and somehow, the only person you ever truly wanted stumbled upon love without even trying. 

But that isn’t the truth. Not really. You know it’s unfair to keep entertaining the sentiment. Gwyn fought hard to be who she is. And Balthazar… gods, if anyone deserved peace, it was him. You’re happy for them, somewhere deep down. But not now. Not here.

Not when your throat burns from more than just the alcohol, and the shame of being this bitter, this unremarkable, clings to your ribs like smoke.

You drink again. And again. You scold yourself for being dramatic. For being weak. For being pathetic.

There’s a sound behind you—soft footfalls. You turn just as they halt.

Before you, stands Azriel.

Your spine straightens, that old Illyrian instinct curling up tight in your belly. You hate it—that impulse to look more composed in front of a male like him. That ridiculous, buried thread of deference your body still remembers from another life.

He hadn’t expected you. That much is clear from the way his body tenses, his steps halting mid-motion. The shadows curling around him twitch and pull inward, disappearing into the folds of his suit. The night swallows him easily.

“I’m sor—” he stops, adjusting. His shoulders pull back, wings settling higher. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He sounds more polished than he looks—like he tried to summon formality but couldn’t quite finish the spell.

Azriel starts to turn.

And maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the envy in your ribs or the way your loneliness is humming just loud enough to override your shame. But you find yourself saying, “You can stay.”

He pauses. You nod to the space beside you. “I don’t mind.”

Azriel studies you. His gaze flicks from your eyes to your hands, your wings, your form. But it isn’t predatory, not like the others did back at the Camps. It’s not sexual. Not even curious. He isn’t calculating your worth as a female. He’s assessing a threat. Taking stock.

It’s strange, how openly he looks, but there’s something strangely comforting in it. He isn’t trying to hide the scan. Either he’s too tired to care, or he already knows you’re not a threat. 

You’ve met Azriel before. Shared rooms with him during the meetings Balthazar insisted you attend—when he filled in as Rhysand’s liaison to the more distant Illyrian camps. You’d crossed paths in training, too, when you’d said yes to Gwyn’s offer, relayed through Balthazar, to practice with the Valkyries. Make our stories count, Emerie had told you, glancing once at your wings—still intact, still stiff where they locked into your spine from disuse.

Azriel looks unconvinced, but once again, you feel compelled to make him stay. There's something about the look in his eyes, even from this far, that you feel a certain connection to. You lift your flask in offering. “I also have alcohol.”

You swear you catch the barest edge of a smile.

Azriel steps forward, pulling something from his coat. You flinch on instinct and you’re sure he notices. But all he produces is his own flask.

“Whiskey.” Azriel says.

You give him a small grin. “Gin,” you tell him, gesturing towards your hand. 

He nods, seemingly in approval, and joins you—leaning forward on the railing beside you. 

You stay that way for a while. Two bodies unwinding in the dark. Wordless, you pass flasks back and forth, letting your hands brush occasionally. 

It’s comforting, almost. To stand beside one of the most powerful males you’ve ever met and realize maybe you’re not the most pathetic person in the room. Maybe he’s just as wrecked as you are. Maybe that means there’s nothing wrong with you after all. Or maybe it means there’s something deeply, irreparably wrong with him, too.

But either way—you’re not alone in it. And that counts for something.

“So,” you say, curling into yourself slightly, “I’m assuming you’re here for the same reason I am?”

Azriel takes a sip, keeps his gaze on the view below. “And what reason is that?”

“You’re in love with Gwyn.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he lifts a brow. “You’re in love with Gwyn?”

Your expression flattens instantly. But somewhere under the mortification, there’s a flicker of amusement. You hadn’t expected humor from him. It throws you. Never would you have believed he was capable of teasing. Not genuinely, at least. 

“Smartass,” you mutter. “You know what I meant.”

Something like a smirk flickers across his mouth. It dies quickly. But not before you catch the edge of it. Below, the music swells again. A louder cheer rises with it.

“They looked good together,” you say.

It’s a cruel thing to admit, but it’s true. A part of you hopes it stings him, just a little, so he’s hurting like you, too.

Azriel exhales through his nose. “They did.”

You nod slowly. Let the shame settle deeper into your chest.

“I hated it.”

That gets his attention. You feel it, even without looking—his gaze snapping back to you, the movement of shadows quickening at the corner of your vision. You don’t meet his eyes. You watch the stars instead.

“I hated all of it,” you add. “And I should’ve never come.”

“Why did you?”

“There’s only one thing worse than being a lonely immortal.” You glance at him. “Being a lonely and bitter one.”

Azriel is quiet for a long moment. He’s staring out ahead again. You think he won’t answer. But then he says—low, clipped, almost matter-of-fact:

“Bitterness is honest.”

You huff, almost amused. “Then I’ve been painfully honest my whole life.” A beat.  “Are you? Honest?”

His eyes meet yours. “Incredibly.”

Something stirs in you—something slow and sharp and dangerous. It coils low, sparked by the flicker of something darker that moves through his expression. A glint of hunger, maybe. A recognition. Or maybe just the memory that you are still something someone could want.

“How honest are you feeling tonight?” you ask.

His gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts. He takes in your form again, eyes lingering on your wings, pulled taut against your shoulder blades. You tilt your chin up, just slightly.

“They’ll be dancing,” Azriel says, turning away again. His voice is even. Distant. “Probably until sunrise.”

Cold embarrassment crashes through you like a wave. You feel stupid. Pathetic. You’ve just bared something small and raw and fragile and been dismissed by the Night Court’s infamous spymaster. Of course.

You push yourself upright.

“Then I’ll do myself a favor and end my misery now,” you mutter. “Go home. Drink in peace.”

Azriel doesn’t move. “That’s how you want to spend your night?” 

You shrug, even though he can’t see it. “You got a better offer?”

A long pause. “I do.”

You blink. He turns to face you fully. “Would you like someone to walk you home?”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

His mouth is on yours the second your front door shuts.

You stumble through the dark, limbs bumping into half-unpacked boxes and furniture that doesn’t belong to you. The apartment is mostly empty—somewhere Balthazar helped you find, helped you settle into. It’s minutes from him. From Gwyn. From all the things you didn’t want to be near and somehow ended up close to, anyways.

Azriel kicks the door shut behind him without looking. His shadows slither forward before he does—like they’re checking the space for him, brushing over your arms, your ribs, curious and cold. His hands follow just behind them, warmer, rougher, pressing beneath your dress as you push blindly toward the bedroom.

You drag him with you by the front of his jacket, breathless, your wings twitching with every step, the sensitive membranes catching the edges of doorframes and walls. His wings flare slightly when you back him into the hallway, knocking a box over with your foot, but neither of you bothers to look.

He drags his mouth down your throat and you tilt your head without thinking. Your dress slips off in a single motion—he pulls, you let it go. He loses the jacket first, then the shirt, and you press your mouth to his collarbone just to see what it tastes like.

His breath stutters.

Then he crowds you again. His hands slide under your thighs and lift you up immediately. You don’t even think—you just wrap your legs around his waist and let him carry you the rest of the way, letting out a noise when your back hits the edge of the bed.

You reach for him instinctively, dragging him down with you.

Your wings drag behind you on the sheets, too sensitive from how worked up you are—already twitching. One of his shadows curls low and drags across the arch of your wing like it’s exploring. You shudder.

It’s… strange. Intimate. The cool ghost of a touch that isn’t quite physical. Something alive—sentient — that shares a mind with the male above you. At least, that’s how you’ve always assumed it worked. You’d never really put much thought into how his abilities translated into the bedroom. There was never any reason to.

Until now.

Azriel’s bigger than the male you long for. Stronger. He feels different. Moves different. His hand dips between your thighs and your hips jerk instinctively. It’s been a while. Longer than you want to admit. And his fingers are—

"Fuck," you whisper, hips rolling up into his hand as he strokes through your folds.

Azriel hums against your collarbone, lips dragging along your skin. “You’re soaked,” he says, voice ragged, like it surprises him.

You press your lips together, half-humiliated, half aching for more. You try to think of a response, something clever or dismissive—but it isn’t needed. Azriel kisses you again, hungrier now, and parts your folds with two fingers, coating them in your slick. 

"Azriel—"

“Yeah?” His voice—fuck, his voice. “This what you need?”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders before you even register the movement. You whisper his name again—softer this time—as he moves lower, kissing his way down your body, past your ribs.

You can’t think.

You should be thinking.

But you’re not.

And when he slides two fingers inside you—slow, curling them deep—you make a sound you’ve never made before. Your whole body jumps. Your face flushes hot. Your eyes flutter shut as your thighs threaten to close around his hand.

He’s got you pinned. One hand fucking into you, the other spread wide over your thigh, holding you open. You turn your face into the side, press your forearm over your eyes. You don’t mean to hide, not really, but it’s instinct.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he murmurs, charmed. “Tell me what you want.”

You shake your head, wordless, cheeks burning. 

“Have you never had someone talk to you like this?” His voice is soft with his conclusion, but his fingers thrust harder now, faster and filthy. “Someone to tell you how good you feel while they touch you?”

You shake your head, moaning. He’s right— he knows he is. You’ve never had someone this vocal. 

“No,” he says, darkly pleased. “That’s alright.” A kiss to the inside of your thigh. “I can fix that.”

He works you fast now — fingers pumping, thumb circling your clit — until you’re trembling, gasping, barely upright. You whimper and he groans.

“I liked that pretty sound,” he says. “Right there?”

There's heat licking up your spine, some roaring thing inside of you.

“Think you can take one more?” 

You nod, too far gone to speak, and his third finger circles your dripping cunt. His shadows tighten their hold. One strokes between your breasts, another curls beneath your knee, easing it higher. Opening you wider.

His thumb swipes over your clit, and you’re coming — hard — your body locking around his fingers as his shadows slither along your stomach, wrap around your thighs, coaxing the orgasm out of you like they’re worshiping you for unraveling under his touch.

You fall apart—body shaking, thighs clenching, mouth open in a silent cry—and Azriel holds you through it, fingers still working you gently through the aftershocks. He pulls out once you’ve stilled, drags his fingers along your thigh, and then licks them clean.

Well. Balthazar, for all his glory, had never done that. 

A second later, Azriel’s back above you, lips swollen, eyes dark and trained directly on you. You’re possessed to pull him into a messy kiss, hints of your taste still on his tongue.

You shift beneath him, needing more, and he pulls away just long enough to free himself. You watch through your lashes, biting the inside of your cheek. Gods.

Azriel is beautiful. It hits you in a sudden, painful way—like seeing something in too-bright light. The sight alone makes something in your chest twist. And you hate it. You hate that it makes you feel something at all. That this—him wanting you—makes you feel not just good, but alive.

Because if he wants you, if the infamous, untouchable Spymaster is here, looking at you like this, then maybe you’re not just something people pass over. If he needs you—desperate, hungry, barely holding it together—then maybe you’re worth needing.

It’s a self-indulgent thought. Pathetic, even. But you cling to it.

It’s only an added benefit that his cock is nearly as pretty as the rest of him. Thick, flushed, and heavy in his hand. Your cunt clenches just looking at it.

“You okay?”

You nod, breathless. He lines himself up, rubbing against you, teasing.

“Say it. Please.”

“Yes," you whisper. "I want you. I want you.”

Your words ease the tension between his brows and he thrusts into you in one smooth stroke. Your head falls back with a cry.

“Fuck,” Azriel groans. “That’s it.”

The stretch knocks the air from your lungs—your body forced open, filled in a way you forgot was possible. You can’t breathe. Can’t think. You just feel.

Azriel doesn’t move right away. His hands curl around your thighs, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin, and he lowers his head to watch himself inside you. Watch the way you pulse around him.

“You feel—fuck. You feel good,” he murmurs. The tone of his voice is almost reverent.

You clench around him in response, hips lifting without permission. Azriel groans again, deeper this time, and pulls out slow—agonizingly slow—before slamming back into you, harder now.

Your breath catches. Your nails drag down his back, circle around the base of his wings.

“Please,” you gasp, not even sure what you’re begging for. “Please.”

Azriel looks at you, pupils blown and mouth slightly open in pleasure, and nods. He seems to understand exactly what you're asking: Use me, fix me, make me feel good. Make me forget.

He fucks you hard, every grind of his hips dragging you closer to that fraying edge. The sound of it—the wet slap of skin, the obscene, slick noise of him pounding into you—is enough to make your cheeks burn.

Gods, it feels good. Unreasonably good. Too good. His hips grind down, slow and deep, and your body responds like it’s been waiting for him—like it knows him. Your chest rises sharply as the coil in your stomach tightens.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, and you do. His fingers cradle your jaw, turning your face to his. Your chest rises fast beneath his weight and you wrap your arms around his neck—bring him into another hungry kiss, all teeth and desire and desperation.

You part from him slightly, lips slipping from his, and when you open your eyes—when you finally look at him, really look—something deep inside you breaks a little.

Azriel is beautiful. Devastatingly so. 

But he is not Balthazar.

His eyes are lighter—greener, almost like forest moss, and none of the quiet, familiar warmth you used to find there. What looks back at you now is hunger. Raw and unsentimental. That look has never once belonged to Balthazar. Not for you.

Not Balthazar.

There’s a flicker in Azriel’s face. A stutter in the rhythm of his breath. Like something inside him caught up. Like he just realized who he’s looking at, too.

“Turn me around,” you murmur, desperate,  into his mouth as you bring him in for a kiss. You separate and Azriel blinks once. Then nods, helping you flip over.

He slides back into you with one smooth thrust and you moan, helpless and wrecked. One of his hands is pressing deep on your lower back, the other gripping your hip like he owns you.

For a brief moment, you’re tempted to say that he does, if only for the feeling of being wanted. Of belonging somewhere. Of being something more than alone. To be devoured, held down, seen. To be someone’s—even if it’s temporary. 

You think, briefly, that Azriel might feel the same way. 

He leans forward, one palm bracing beside your head, the other sliding between your wings—touching them gently, reverently. Something in you goes slack and electric at the same time, the feeling blooming in a place that isn’t your body. Some deeper, stranger part of you.

You wonder when the last time was that he touched someone like this.

Talented hands, skilled mouth, pretty cock. It makes you wonder how the Shadowsinger picks his lovers—what earns you a night in his bed, what makes him touch them like this, slow and attentive and knowing.

You hate that your mind starts pulling up names. Pictures. Gwyn.

The image flashes before you can stop it—her laughing, that soft smile, and the look you’ve caught in Azriel’s eyes in passing. That tenderness. That aching, reserved sort of love that’s always held just out of reach. The sort of love you’ve reserved for Balthazar. 

Your brain wants to torture you with it. To layer grief on top of lust. To ruin even this escape. 

You shove it all away. Cram it into the corner with the rest of the shit that’s rising up—Balthazar, and how angry you still are, and how fucked it all feels.

With his chest to your back, Azriel slides a hand under to cup your throat. He fucks you slow, deep—dragging it out while he whispers against your neck. Gods. Doing so good for me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

You gasp—and he starts to fuck you even harder, rougher, the pace building with each thrust. The slap of skin fills the room. Every stroke pushes you forward on the sheets, and his arm wraps tight around your waist, dragging you back into him again.

You choke on a moan and his shadows join the chaos of sensation.

Cool and sinfully curious, they slither around your thighs, over your stomach. One coils teasingly around your breast, circling your nipple—while another brushes lower, between your legs, flickering right over your clit with a ghost of pressure.

You jolt. Arch. The moan that rips from your throat is nothing short of primal.

“That’s it,” Azriel murmurs against your ear. “Taking us so good. So greedy for it.”

Your thighs are shaking. Your hands fist in the sheets. You try to speak—but nothing comes. Only a broken sound, a desperate nod.  Your mind goes silent. Balthazar is gone. The memory, the shape, the guilt of him—all gone.

And all that's left is Azriel, groaning behind you. 

“Oh gods,” you gasp. “Azriel—fuck—please—”

You’re already gone, bent over and panting, when you come for him—shaking violently, lights bursting behind your eyes. He follows with a rough groan, hips snapping against you once, twice, before he presses you flush against him and lets go.

You’re still catching your breath when he sinks to his knees behind you. When his mouth finds you—tongue dragging through the mess of your release and his.  You jolt, overstimulated, and whimper at the way he feasts on you.

It's filthy. You come again like it’s nothing.

And again. And again. 

He fucks you through the second round with his fingers, the third with his cock, the fourth with his tongue and shadows working in tandem. By the time you’re too sore to move, too spent to even speak, the sun has already begun to rise behind the curtains.

And when your eyes finally close—limp and boneless and flushed beneath your sheets—Azriel slips away without a word.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Velaris is nice. Much nicer, much safer, much softer than the places you’ve called home before.

And still—you don’t feel at peace. Maybe it’s too much to expect, to feel settled already. But that doesn’t stop the irritation from creeping in. You pick at it the way some people pick at scabs. Little mental chastisements you cycle through like a list. You should be grateful. You should feel lucky. 

But as you walk through the streets, you’re painfully aware of how different you are. Despite Velaris being home to lesser and high fae alike, you stand out. Your wings—still tightly folded against your back—make that obvious. You catch the lingering glances as you move through the city. 

You thought the citizens would be used to seeing Illyrians—after all, their High Lord and two of the highest-ranking members are Illyrian. But maybe it’s different seeing it on a stranger. A female, no less. You don’t have their grace. You’re the breed without the glamour.

It makes you weirdly homesick. No one would understand if you told them that, if you admitted that yes, you missed Illyria.

You missed your home, your mountains, the sound of your heritage. Your camp is gone now, but you know the homesickness would fade the moment you set foot back on that familiar land. You’d be reminded why you were lucky to escape, why you should be grateful for this chance.

It’s strange—to want to go back to the roots you spent so long trying to break free from. Your wings ache at the thought. 

You wish you could see Balthazar.

Your stomach tightens again, reminding you of your real reason for being out. The apothecary. You need medicine for the sickness that’s been dragging you down all week—the nausea, the constant discomfort. You figure it’s just your body adjusting to the new life here. Maybe your stomach is shocked by all the delicacies you’re finally allowed to eat.

You reach the apothecary and the scent of herbs greets you. A young fae behind the counter listens as you describe your symptoms, her brow furrowing. She disappears to the back. After a moment, another fae emerges—a healer, she says. The first is still learning, so she’s here to help find the right concoction.

She lays out options, explaining everything carefully. Then she points to a small vial. “This one’s best for morning sickness.”

You blink. “Oh no, I’m not— I’m not pregnant.”

She freezes for a moment. You feel something dark slip in—terror, cold and fast. She blinks, recovers quickly. “My mistake,” she says, brushing it off like it’s nothing.

But the damage is done. Your mind is starting to spiral. 

Your breath shortens for a moment, and you have to fight the sudden, irrational panic bubbling beneath the surface. It makes no sense.  You know it can’t be true. You’ve been careful—too careful. But the thought settles anyway, cold and unwelcome, and everything feels off balance. 

Suddenly you’re buying every bottle she pushes your way without really hearing what they do.

You leave the shop, clutching the small bags, your thoughts a mess of “not possible” and “why would she think that?” racing under your skin.

You’re barely halfway down the street when you almost run into her.

Elain Archeron. 

You don’t know much about her, but she’s impossible to miss— still as quietly beautiful as the first time you saw her, like she’s made of soft light and calm. She’s alone, without her mate, who you assume is off fulfilling the duties as the Day Court’s only heir—the recent, powerful news about him had even reached your old camp.

Her eyes widen when she sees you, caught just as off guard. Recognition flickers across her face. She knows you—and if you weren’t panicking, you’d feel almost honored that she remembered you.

For a moment, you want to say something. Anything. A simple hello. But your throat tightens, your stomach knots in that familiar way, and the words get stuck halfway out.

Her face changes. The warmth draining away as she blinks— for a second, she looks... gone. Hollow. Like she vanished into thin air.

It unsettles you.

Then, almost too fast, her gaze drops. You swear you see her eyes flick down to your midriff—the way they pause there, just long enough to make your skin crawl.

“Are you alright?” She asks. Her voice is soft, almost cautious, and her usual warmth quickly rolls over her once more. 

You force a nod, forcing down the rush of panic curling in your chest. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just—running late for something.”

You bid her a quick goodbye and all but run to your empty, awaiting apartment. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

A week and one healer’s visit later, your world flips inside out in less than an hour.

You’re sitting on your cold floor, back pressed against an empty wall, eyes fixed somewhere that isn’t really there. The healer’s soft, steady voice keeps looping in your mind—reassurances, warnings, instructions—but it all blurs together.

You don’t know if you want to cry, laugh, or just get up and run. You don’t even know what decision you’re supposed to make.

Gods, you wish you had someone to talk to.

But who is there, really?

You have one friend and he’s caught up in his own life, celebrating his mating ceremony, wrapped up in a happiness you can’t touch.

The silence presses in and you feel the sting of tears building. 

Then, a knock. A soft rap on the door, pulling you back.

You hesitate. Then stand. For the second time in a week, you come face to face with Elain Archeron.

Only this time, her eyes are wide, brows drawn tight with something fierce and urgent. 

“You’re pregnant.”  And then, after a beat, “Why do I know that you’re pregnant?”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: oh my god...hey.... where did this come from?? idk!!! i spun a wheel and it gave me unplanned pregnancy trope + az!!! (i also have one with eris... who said that...)

but its out here and im not mad at the idea of a slowburn, strangers to friends to lovers, babydaddy!az and two illyrians trying to come to terms with their culture kinda love story. also i KNOW this motherfucker has a breeding and a pregnancy kink thatll surface once he gets over the absolute dread of his new father status

maybe ill make this a lil universe and open up requests to ease back into writing <3 would yall be interested or want a taglist 😲😲

permanent tag list below🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

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[itsswritten]

YEEHAWWWWWW 🤠

I need more of this au 😭😭😭

You car breaks down while you’re driving through the countryside, spinning off into a field, and the hot rugged farmer James helps you out 👀

Pairing: Farmer!Bucky x Reader

Word count: 600

Warnings: Nothing but we got some tension here hehe

a/n: This was funnnn 👀 I'm having a little drabble spree on my blog!! Thank you for the request!! <3

____________________________________________

"Uh, you alright?"

Your responding scream was undignified and far too loud for the empty roads and accompanying farmland. You clutched at your chest and heaved breath into your lungs, stabilizing yourself with a hand on the hood of your useless car.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you," the man offered, an apologetic smile lighting up the small cab of his old truck.

Rather than answering, you continued to stare and attempted to answer, your mouth opening with no words to follow. It was hot out, and your business casual was far too stuffy for the weather. The man in the truck had on what you were pretty sure was an actual, authentic cowboy hat, his shoulders covered in a thin flannel and the bed of his truck loaded with hay.

"Sorry, honey, but you're kinda on my land. Can I... help you with somethin'?"

That got your brain working. After a few missteps, you pointed towards your car and braced yourself against the warm breeze ruffling your clothes. "My car broke down. I have no idea how to fix it, and I don't have service to call a tow truck. I'm so sorry for being on your land, please don't shoot me."

The man chuckled lightly, looking you up and down before yanking his truck into park and swinging the door open. It squeaked as he pushed it, his boots clicking against the dirt.

"Shoot you," he murmured to himself. "I'm not gonna shoot you. Who in their right mind would shoot you?"

"Um, thank you?" you stammered, stepping to the side as the man popped the hood of your car and leaned over the engine. You played with your fingers as he looked it over, unsure what you were supposed to offer. "It started making a weird noise and shaking. And then it just... died. Again, really sorry for being on your land. I'm not really... from here."

The man looked to the side and scanned your body once more, taking in the slacks and blouse. "You don't say."

"I was traveling for work. My directions were on 'avoid freeways' and I didn't realize like an idiot."

The man hummed slightly before leaning back with his hands on his hips. "Lucky me, then." A half smile framed by a sun-kissed face. "Look, I'm not much good with cars, but this is an old one, and I can tell you got a lot of erosion. I have a mechanic buddy down the road that could take a look at it."

"Really?" you perked up, a hopeful smile matching your clasped hands.

The man mirrored you with a slight upturn of his mouth, something soft in his eyes that you weren't sure was always present. He looked rugged and hard-pressed to find a laugh, but he was also helping you and had been nothing but nice, so it wasn't as if you could judge.

"Really. He owes me a favor."

"And you'd use that favor on this?"

"Pretty girl like you? It'd be my duty as a man." He flicked the rim of his hat back an inch.

You pressed your lips into a tight line to hide the growing smile. The heat of the summer was still pressing down on your shoulders as you held out your hand and offered your name. He was quick to take it.

"James," he replied, calloused fingers clasped in yours. "But you can call me Bucky."

[itsswritten]

Oh this is good guys, this is really good 🫶🏼

I Thought We Were Already Dating

pairing | congressman!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 4k words

summary | you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it).

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, established situationship, mutual pining (but one of them doesn't know), miscommunication, public confession, soft!bucky, domestic chaos, comedy & angst, bucky barnes is your boyfriend (he just forgot to tell you), reader is unhinged (affectionate), FLUFF & SMUT, friends to lovers (but they skipped the "friends" and the "lovers" just happened), poor congressional staff, possessive!reader, love confession, bucky is so in love it hurts

a/n | based on this request. i love writing chaotic reader

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Your back hit the mattress in a blur of limbs and low groans, Bucky’s mouth never leaving yours, his hands already sliding under the hem of your shirt like he needed to feel skin, all of it, immediately.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough from hours of holding back everything but this.

You barely managed to smile before his teeth grazed your jaw, his scruff dragging just enough to make you shiver. His body blanketed yours, warm and solid, pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.

“You saw me this morning,” you murmured, fingers curling into his hair.

“Not like this.”

The shirt came off.

Then his.

You didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Because being under Bucky Barnes like this—held like something he didn’t want to let go of—was the only time you felt whole. His touch, his mouth, his breath in your ear as he whispered how good you felt, how fucking perfect you were when you were under him like this.

It was all consuming.

He kissed his way down your chest, every inch of skin worshiped like he didn’t just want you—he needed you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down, slow, like he loved the way you sounded when you gasped just from anticipation.

You watched him from above, chest heaving, skin flushed—and in that moment, something tight twisted in your stomach that had nothing to do with arousal.

It was the ache.

The quiet question in the back of your head that always came right before you let him *n.

What are we?

You didn’t ask.

You just let your legs fall open, let his body settle between them, and swallowed the question whole.

He looked down at you once more, eyes so soft they burned.

“You want me?” he asked, voice hushed, reverent.

You nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered, leaning down, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He groaned, low and wrecked, and then he was inside you.

One thrust.

Slow. Deep.

Your back arched, your mouth parting in a gasp as he bottomed out, hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself in you.

He didn’t move at first.

Just breathed.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You always feel like home.”

You blinked.

Your heart stopped.

But then he started moving—hips rolling slow, dragging pleasure from your core in waves. Every stroke was measured, precise, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him. Like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding you, claiming you without a single word about what it meant.

You let your nails scrape down his back, your thighs tightening around his waist, chasing every thrust like it could answer the questions you didn’t dare ask.

He kissed you again.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Just soft.

Like a man who thought you already belonged to him.

His pace stayed slow at first—torturously so. Each thrust sank deep, dragging friction that had your nails pressing harder into his skin, a soft whimper caught at the back of your throat.

He was watching you now.

Eyes dark, focused, mouth parted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when he was buried inside you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, and the way he said it—it was too soft. Too real. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

You arched up to meet him, hips rising into each roll of his body, chasing that dizzying edge as the room dissolved around you. The only thing real was the heat building between your bodies, the slick slide of his skin against yours, the way he groaned every time your walls clenched around him.

You could feel your release winding tight, breath ragged, body shaking.

And then—

His hand cupped your cheek.

His lips found yours again, tender and aching as he whispered into your mouth, “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

It hit you like a wave.

You shattered underneath him, crying out as your body clamped down, orgasm tearing through you with a sharp, wet sound of skin against skin and your name on his tongue like it was sacred.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts faltering, rougher now, deeper, desperate.

“I can’t—baby, I’m gonna—fuck—” he groaned.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulled him tighter, wanted him closer.

“Inside,” you whispered, dazed.

His eyes locked on yours—wide, vulnerable, wrecked.

Then he was coming—hot and hard and raw, his whole body shaking as he buried his face in your neck and let himself fall apart in you.

His voice cracked.

“I love you,” he gasped, barely more than breath.

And you heard it.

Your body was still trembling. Your mind was still fogged.

But your heart?

It snapped to attention.

Because he said it like it was obvious.

Like he’d said it before. Like you knew.

His breathing had slowed.

His body lay heavy over yours, arms curled protectively around your waist, lips pressed to your collarbone in a lazy, half-conscious kiss. You could feel the weight of his affection in every touch—adoring, familiar, like this was just another Thursday night in the life of Bucky Barnes, the man who clearly thought you were his.

Because he said it.

He said I love you.

And not like it slipped.

Not like it was some heat-of-the-moment moan tangled in a climax.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he’d said it before.

Like he thought you already knew.

Your hand twitched on his back.

Your heartbeat, which had only just settled, started racing again—but not with pleasure. With full-blown panic.

Because—

What the actual fuck?

You stared up at the ceiling, body still bare, skin still warm from him, and yet—

Your brain screamed: WHAT ARE WE?

He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, mumbling something incoherent as he pressed a kiss to your chest.

Meanwhile, your soul was clawing its way out of your skin.

Because if he thought this was that—you being his, this being real—then you’d missed a crucial piece of the plot somewhere back in act one.

He never asked.

There was never a “will you be my girlfriend?” conversation. No official status talk. No expectations. Just great sex, unholy chemistry, soft sleepovers, texts that made your stomach flip, and a drawer at his place you never questioned.

You suddenly wanted to sit up and scream.

But instead, you lay there frozen, blinking at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you.

His hand rubbed slow circles on your hip.

You resisted the urge to launch yourself across the room.

What the fuck is going on.

Are we dating?

Is this real?

He sighed against your skin, content and sleepy.

You swallowed hard.

One Week Later

Your phone buzzed beside you on the kitchen counter.

It lit up with his name, the one you still hadn’t changed in your contacts—just “James 🇺🇸” with a dumb little flag emoji he’d added himself the first week you started… whatever this was.

James 🇺🇸:

On my way back—what do you want for takeout?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.

The question was simple. Casual. Routine.

And that’s what made your stomach twist.

Because it was routine.

The texts. The keys to your place. The way he dropped his jacket over your chair like he lived here. The way he smiled when he saw you, like everything else melted away.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

Finally, you sent:

You:

thai? the dumpling place. y'know the one.

Your phone buzzed two seconds later.

James 🇺🇸:

Already reading my mind, huh?

I’ll be there in 30.

Got you extra peanut sauce because I know you hoard it like a gremlin.

You huffed a small laugh, despite the weight still coiled in your chest.

Then you stared at that thread a little too long.

The little hearts you’d sent last week.

The blurry selfie he sent you from his office at midnight, captioned "Thinking about you and losing a vote at the same time 🫡”

The I love you that still echoed in your ears like a gunshot.

You set the phone down.

Walked into the bathroom.

And stared at yourself in the mirror.

You’d never called him your boyfriend.

He’d never asked.

But he acted like he was yours.

And the scary part?

You wanted him to be.

You just didn’t know if he knew that mattered.

The door creaked open with a familiar scrape—he still hadn’t fixed the hinge.

You turned from the couch, face carefully neutral.

He stepped inside in that unbuttoned suit jacket, tie half-loosened, hair tousled from a long day of pretending not to want to strangle half of Congress.

And he was smiling.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, like it was the most normal thing in the world, setting the takeout bags down on your kitchen counter without even looking.

Baby.

You froze.

Okay, he calls you that all the time.

Maybe he calls everyone that.

Does he call Sam that?

“Place was packed,” he continued, toeing off his shoes. “Some guy tried to skip the line and the little lady behind the counter threatened to beat him with a ladle. Reminded me of you.”

You stared.

He wandered to the fridge, pulled out your favorite seltzer—your specific lemon one—and cracked it open before sliding it your way.

You caught it on instinct, fingers brushing the condensation.

He hadn’t even asked.

Just knew.

Then, casually, he took off his jacket, draped it over the chair, and loosened his tie more, tossing it with a sigh. His white dress shirt stretched a little at the biceps. He was still talking—something about a subcommittee vote gone to hell—but you were barely hearing it.

Because now?

You were tracking everything.

The way he set down two sets of chopsticks like it was automatic. The way he separated the sauces—your peanut ones on your side, his spicier one near him. The way he snagged the remote and flopped down beside you like he lived here.

Like this was his couch.

Was it his couch?

Was he paying your utilities?

“I don’t know why I let them keep putting me in these budget meetings,” he muttered, cracking open a box of dumplings. “Every time I try to talk, someone from Indiana gives me a migraine.”

You nodded slowly.

Then: “Do you… have a toothbrush here?”

He blinked at you mid-chew.

“Yeah?” He swallowed. “Under the sink. Next to yours. Why?”

Your eye twitched.

“Do you… always leave a change of clothes here?”

He nodded again, popping another dumpling in his mouth. “Babe, half my henleys are in your closet. You know that.”

You did.

You just didn’t process it.

You turned toward him fully, food forgotten.

His arm was already around your shoulders, pulling you in.

You didn’t resist. You leaned in.

And then you stared blankly at the TV as he rested his chin on your head, warm and soft and so stupidly comfortable.

He sighed.

“I missed you today,” he murmured. “It was shit at the office.”

Your heart did a weird thing in your chest—flipped, twisted, frowned.

You blinked slowly.

“…Do you keep anything at anyone else’s place?” you asked, very casually. Too casually.

He snorted. “What?”

“Just wondering.”

He reached for a spring roll. “No? Why would I?”

“Just wondering,” you repeated, mechanically.

He made a soft mhmm noise and handed you a dumpling without looking, already distracted by the TV again, thumb grazing lazy circles against your arm like his body just knew where you were supposed to be.

Meanwhile, your brain was screaming.

Are we dating?

ARE WE DATING?!

And he just sat there, all warm and sleepy and Thai-food-happy beside you, like the man absolutely not at the center of an existential relationship spiral.

You chewed your dumpling, eyes narrow.

You were going to lose your mind.

A Few Days Later

The sky over Washington was a thick stretch of slate.

Fine rain fell in that soft, insistent way that made everything damp without ever fully raining. The streets were quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, and your lungs ached just enough to make you feel alive as your sneakers slapped against the wet pavement.

Beside you, Rachel kept pace effortlessly.

Of course she did.

She looked like she’d been born doing yoga on a yacht.

“I still don’t get how you convinced me to jog in this weather,” she said, breath easy, ponytail bouncing behind her. “You’re getting fit for a reason or just embracing the sad girl cardio?”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “Trying to keep up with a guy who’s genetically engineered and built like a statue.”

You didn’t answer right away.

She smirked. “Oh, right. The Bucky Barnes. Still a thing?”

Your feet hit a puddle, splashing your ankles.

Rachel didn’t wait.

“I mean… it’s cute. Really. Him bringing you coffee, showing up to all your little gallery events, texting you like a golden retriever with a crush.”

You squinted through the mist. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

She gave a mock innocent look. “No ‘but.’ I just think if he hasn’t made it official by now, he’s probably just riding the comfort wave. You know?”

Your stomach dropped—quiet, slow—like something sliding off a ledge in the dark.

“He’s… not like that,” you muttered.

Rachel made a noncommittal sound, the kind that sounded like “maybe” but meant “absolutely.”

“Sure,” she said lightly. “But a guy like that? Everyone wants him. Powerful, polished, and hot—but still gives off that ‘I could destroy you emotionally if I wanted’ vibe. It’s catnip.”

You bit your tongue.

She went on, like she didn’t just lob a grenade at your chest.

“I’m just saying. If I were dating him, I’d make damn sure everyone knew it. Otherwise…” She shrugged, smiling sweetly. “Kind of feels like letting a limited edition slip through your fingers.”

You slowed slightly, blinking rain from your lashes.

Rachel picked up her pace, unaware—or pretending to be.

Or maybe that was the point.

The worst part?

You didn’t even know what to say.

Because in your head, you were screaming: I don’t know if I’m dating him either.

You didn’t answer her.

You just picked up speed.

One second, you were jogging beside her—lungs aching, mind heavy—and the next, your legs were moving, not with purpose but with sheer emotional combustion.

“Wait—what the hell?” Rachel’s voice snapped from behind you, sharp with confusion. “Where are you going?”

You shouted over your shoulder, breath shallow, “Forgot—I left the oven on!”

It was a terrible excuse.

You hadn’t even used the oven that morning.

And Rachel, in all her smug, sculpted glory, definitely knew it.

But you didn’t care.

You turned down a side street without looking back, rain misting against your skin, hair sticking to your neck as you ran harder, faster, legs burning. You were vaguely aware of your own ridiculousness. You were sprinting through Capitol Hill in soaked leggings and adrenaline—not because of a fire, but because your chest was burning.

Because the words still a thing were still ringing in your ears.

Because her little smile made you want to scream.

And because deep down, you didn’t know how to answer her.

You didn’t know.

Your lungs ached, your sneakers skidded slightly on wet pavement as you turned a corner, and still—you kept going.

Toward the tall glass building you knew by heart now. The security desk that always smiled when you came in. The floor where the man who may or may not be your boyfriend spent hours arguing policy and quietly doodling in his tiny notebook between meetings.

You didn’t know what you were going to say when you got there.

You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

But you knew this:

You couldn’t keep playing house in your head while the floor beneath it kept shifting.

You needed an answer.

Even if it hurt.

Even if Rachel ended up being right.

You just prayed she got splashed by a Metro bus on the way home.

The doors of the administrative wing slammed open with a bang.

You stumbled in, soaked from drizzle, cheeks flushed, ribs on fire, and about three seconds from a full cardiac event. Your leggings were clinging to your thighs, your hoodie had definitely seen better days, and your lungs were currently staging a mutiny.

Several staffers at their desks froze mid-keystroke.

Someone dropped a pen.

Bucky looked up from where he was speaking with a few of his aides, a file in one hand, coffee in the other—and blinked at you like you’d just teleported in from an alternate timeline.

“Hey—what—?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Silence.

Every single head in the room turned.

Bucky’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.

You pointed at him, panting. “Because—I think it’s time. I want to be your girlfriend. Officially. Like—not just sleepovers and emotional eye contact over takeout—I mean actual, real-life, ‘we’re together’ kind of thing.”

You sucked in another breath and barreled on before you lost your nerve.

“I know you’re busy, and, like, technically running half of Congress with your jawline, but I just—I need clarity, okay? Because I was jogging with Rachel, who’s a menace to society, and she said some stuff and I started spiraling and I just—I ran here. I ran. Here. For this.”

There was a beat of complete silence.

Bucky’s eyes were wide.

His aides?

They were riveted.

One woman actually had her hand over her mouth like this was her favorite telenovela.

You blinked at the room.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You slowly lowered your arm.

“Okay,” you said, breathless. “So clearly, that was… too much.”

You looked around at the awkward stares, then back at Bucky, your voice flattening with pure, defeated embarrassment.

“So maybe I was delusional. Maybe this isn’t what I thought. And that’s fine.”

You nodded to yourself, a slow descent into insanity.

“If I’m just some situationship moron who caught feelings and made a public scene at a congressional office,” you continued dryly, “I’m going to kill myself and take everyone in this room with me.”

You made eye contact with one aide near the door.

He flinched.

Then you sighed heavily and scanned the room, noting every wide-eyed aide pretending desperately to become one with their laptops.

Then you snapped.

“Show’s over, folks. Go home. Or back to your unpaid Excel spreadsheets or whatever.”

No one moved.

One intern coughed.

You groaned, dragging both hands over your face in slow, mortified defeat, mumbling through your fingers, “This is literally my villain origin story.”

You barely heard his footsteps as Bucky approached, but you felt him—warmth, presence, tall and steady as he stopped just a few feet in front of you.

“Hey,” he said gently, “can you look at me?”

You shook your head without moving your hands. “I’ll die.”

“No you won’t.”

“I might.”

He chuckled quietly, and something about it made your heart twist. Like this wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe it wasn’t even close.

You slowly peeked between your fingers.

He smiled softly, eyes full of that same calm patience he used when trying to explain to you how Medicare reform worked.

He stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s 2 o’clock,” he said, glancing around the room. “They all get off at five.”

You stared up at him.

“Oh,” you said blankly. “Cool.”

A pause.

Then, softly—almost hesitantly—he added, “I thought we were already dating.”

Your arms dropped from your face as your expression completely short-circuited.

“…What.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Yeah. For, like… a while now?”

You just stared at him.

Unmoving.

Mouth parted.

One eyebrow quirked in silent disbelief.

“…What.”

He blinked again.

Now he looked confused.

“You… didn’t think we were?”

“…No?”

He gave you the most innocent, baffled look known to man.

“I brought you to Sam's birthday party. You met his nephews. You wear my boxers. What part of this didn’t scream boyfriend to you?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

“I—You never asked me!” you accused, voice pitching.

“I didn’t think I had to!” he exclaimed.

You stared at him, absolutely scandalized. “How was I supposed to know then?”

Bucky blinked. “I—what do you mean? Everything I do is—”

“You’re from the 40s, James!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “You guys used to, like, wear suits and give flowers and do grand declarations and ask girls to go steady in a diner over milkshakes! I was waiting for that!”

His jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“I watched Grease with you last week!” you cried. “You don’t get to act brand new!”

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “Okay, no more old movies for you.”

You crossed your arms, still damp and out of breath, glaring at him like he’d personally invented confusion.

Then he stepped back.

Took a slow, deep breath.

Straightened his posture.

And said, “Okay. Fine.”

He cleared his throat, eyes locked with yours, serious as a heart attack. Then he said your name—your full name.

“Will you do me the incredible honor of officially being my girlfriend?”

The room went so quiet you could hear someone’s chair creak.

You stared at him.

Then slowly, a dumb smile spread across your face.

“Wow,” you said, blinking. “This is… so sudden.”

Bucky paused, squinting

You pressed a hand to your chest. “I mean… we’ve only been sleeping together, sharing hoodies, texting nonstop, and eating Thai food three times a week for a few months. You barely know me.”

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t.”

“I mean, I barely know me, James. Are you sure about this? How could I possibly say—?”

He said your name—a low, gravelly warning that made your smile bloom full force.

You grinned.

“Yes,” you said. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

And before he could react—before he could breathe—you launched yourself into his arms, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his with every ounce of pent-up emotion and leftover adrenaline.

His arms instinctively caught you—one around your waist, the other beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around him like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He kissed you back, hard and fast, like he’d been waiting for this moment—like maybe he needed it as badly as you did.

Somewhere behind you, someone definitely muttered, “What the fuck.”

Another staffer fumbled their phone like they were torn between reporting this to H.R. and posting this on the internet.

Bucky didn’t care.

He just kissed you deeper, right there in the middle of his office, as if the whole damn building hadn’t just watched him get emotionally hijacked by the woman he thought was already his.

Eventually, you pulled back, breath a little ragged, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, arms still looped lazily around his neck.

Bucky was wrecked—eyes dazed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling under you like he’d just run a marathon and won.

You leaned in once more, planted a sweet, casual kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “See you at home.”

You slid off his lap and smoothed your hoodie like you hadn’t just climbed him like a tree in front of half his professional staff.

Bucky blinked. “Wait—what? I was just about to go on break—”

You turned at the door, already tugging your hood up. “Yeah, no, I gotta find Rachel.”

He frowned, still catching up. “Why?”

“To tell her to her face that you’re mine now,” you said flatly. “And so hopefully, she dies of jealousy in front of my eyes.”

You opened the door and strode out like a woman on a mission.

Bucky watched you go, completely speechless, still half-hard in his slacks, shirt wrinkled from where you’d yanked on him like you were trying to break his will to serve.

His aides were frozen, stunned, borderline traumatized.

And then, slowly, that grin started to grow on his face.

A little crooked. A little stunned.

But proud.

Because that?

That was officially his girl.

And God help anyone who tried to say otherwise.

[itsswritten]

IM TALKING FACTS, I DONT DO IFS BUTS AND MAYBES…I ONLY DO ABSOLUTESSSSSSS

Ahhhhh I get it girl, I get it ;)

But also thank you for the Bucky instalment, I’m in love 🤍

Ifs, Buts, and Maybes | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky and his love think about the life they could have had if they’d met in 1945. 

A/N: Not to toot my own horn but I almost made myself cry with this one (it’s very late here, but still) also, please someone tell me you get the joke with the title (@itsswritten don't leave me hanging)

Word count: 2.5 k

Warnings: all the fluff. all the feels. it’s so cheesy. a twinge of angst if you squint (also, not proofread)

-

Bucky was close to drifting off to sleep when he felt her stir against him. She turned in his arm, head leaning against his shoulder, and when he cracked open an eye, he found her peering up at him with her chin tilted up. At the sight, the corners of his lips twitched of their own accord.

His voice was thick with sleep when he asked, “What is it, darlin’?”

She stirred more, turning to her stomach until she lay half on top of him. She flattened a palm against his chest, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “I can’t sleep,” she whispered.

“Hmm,” Bucky hummed deep in his chest. Running cool metal fingers down the curve of her spine, he delighted in the slight shiver she gave. “Well, I can, so shush.”

He’d barely closed his eyes when a snort cut through the silence, and she poked the finger of her free hand into his side, drawing a grin to his face.

“Rude.”

A deep inhale rose his chest—and her with it. Bucky lifted his metal hand to his face to rub his eyes with his thumb and index finger. When he squinted at the alarm clock on his nightstand, he found the bright green numbers demoralizingly low.

Turning back, he found attentive eyes on him. The eery green light reflected in her irises. He could see her quite well despite the darkness.

Vibranium thumb brushing along her temple, he hummed again. “I love you.”

Her cheeks lifted, and when she nuzzled her head into his palm, Bucky felt his chest contract in an aching pull.

“I love you,” she echoed, skipping the ‘too’. She always skipped the ‘too’. She thought it made the phrase sound like less than it was. “What was it like in the 40s?”

Bucky’s brow quirked at the odd change of topic. “What?”

“Being in love,” she paused. “Dating. What would it have been like if we’d met back then?” Her voice was low as she spoke, breath fanning over Bucky’s chest. He could feel her words vibrate gently against him. 

“It would have been… I don’t know, different.”

“Different how?”

Bucky’s lips curled at the corners. “You have the most interesting midnight thoughts, darlin’.”

She rose a shoulder as best as her position allowed. “I just realised that I have no idea what you were like back then. All I know are those old photographs. The cheeky ones,” she added with a teasing glint in her eyes.

A quiet chuckle shook Bucky’s shoulders, hand once again beginning a slow tracing of her spine. Up, then down again, always halting just above the curve of her ass.

After a long moment, he said. “If we’d met in the 40s, I would have laid all my charm on ya.” Tilting his head deeper into his pillow, Bucky traced the lines of her lips with his eyes. “I would’ve spotted you from the other side of a dance hall, and after one or two shots of liquor I would have finally found the courage to talk to you.”

She giggled quietly. “Oh, please. Like you needed alcohol back then. Steve told me you were a smooth talker through and through, yapping your way into every girl’s heart.”

Bucky hummed, hiding a smirk. “Not with you. Woulda swallowed my tongue the minute you looked at me.”

“Sure you would have,” she smiled, eyes gleaming as she tilted her head to the side to place her cheek on the back of her hand, watching intently as Bucky continued talking.

“I would have asked you to dance. The jitterbug probably. I would have made an absolute fool of myself, but hearing you laugh would have made every embarrassment worth it.”

Her smile became soft now. “Don’t tell me James Buchanan Barnes can’t dance.”

“Have you seen a jitterbug before? It’s lucky we didn’t meet back then. I would’ve broken a hip trying to impress ya.”

Her laugh came through her nose this time—a gentle exhale to brush his skin once again. Bucky’s hand slowed now, coming to a rest in the crook of her neck, thumb running along the base of her hairline.

“I would have offered to buy you a drink after. Assuming you would have agreed to dance in the first place.”

“Of course I would have.” She sounded so sincere that Bucky did not dare question it. If anything, he was eager to believe her.

“We would’ve talked all night, and I would have offered to walk you home after, just to spend a little more time with you. Then I would’ve shown up at your doorstep the next morning with flowers I stole from my ma’s garden. Just to make sure you didn’t forget all about me already.”

“You wouldn’t have kissed me goodnight?”

“Oh, I would have been dying to kiss ya, darlin’,” Bucky mumbled deep in his chest. “But that wouldn’t have been very proper, now, would it?”

She giggled again. “Like you cared about what was proper and what wasn’t. I don’t believe you for one second.”

“Mind you, I was very proper.”

“You were a candyman.”

Bucky blinked. “A what now?”

“Like the song?” When Bucky’s expression remained blank, Y/N lifted her head from her hand, soft outrage on her face. “By Christina Aguilera? Sweet-talkin’, sugar-coated candyman. I can’t believe you don’t know that song!”

“Sounds like I really missed out,” Bucky deadpanned, to which she clicked her tongue and placed her head back on his chest.

“It’s a great song. And it’s exactly how I imagine you back then. Walking around, making all the panties drop.”

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t nearly as bad as you think I was. Being a candyman”—Bucky barley kept a straight face at the word—“back then is nothing like being one right now.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “So no goodnight kiss for little old me.”

Bucky smirked, curling his fingers into her hair on the back of her head, massaging gently. At once, her lids drooped a little heavier.

“I would have brought you flowers, and I would’ve asked you out properly. We would have gone to the pictures, or the fair; shared too much popcorn or cotton candy. You would have worn one’a those pretty dresses with the nice white collars and the petticoats, and I probably would’ve dragged Steve along to make a double date out of it with one of your girlfriends. If Steve and her hit it off, we would have snuck away at some point. We would’ve laughed a lot. I would’ve talked your ear off, telling you about ma and Becca, and then—behind a tent, or in an alley by the cinema—I would’ve kissed you a little.”

Her face pulled into a dreamy smile—like she was right there with him, in that alley in his mind, imagining another time, another universe where they shared an innocent kiss, high on sugar and infatuation.

“You would have held my neck the way you do when we kiss, and you would have tasted like cotton candy and watered-down lemonade,” Bucky continued quietly, almost wistfully. “And after, you would’ve wiped your lipstick off my face with your thumb. Steve probably would’ve taken one look at me and known I was done for.”

Her palm now found his face, and the soft pad of her thumb ran along his bottom lip as though she was reenacting the scene.

“You would’ve had me fully wrapped around your little finger by the second date,” Bucky muttered against her skin, eyes locked with hers. “I would’ve courted you properly. I would have introduced you to my family, and met yours, too. You would have gotten along phenomenally with Steve, and it would have been one of the reasons I would have known that you are the one.”

Silence settled like a blanket over them then, heartbeats blending into one, and slow hands tracing skin like the most precious of artworks.

Bucky had hoped that he was talking her to sleep, that a soothing tone would cure her momentary insomnia. But instead, he felt her heart pump hard against his chest, fluttering with the warmth that coated her cheeks at his story.

“I wouldn’t have tried anythin’ funny with you,” Bucky continued after a while, his voice suddenly gravelly and low. “We would’ve kissed a lot, maybe done some other things, too, but everything else… sex would have been totally up to you. It wasn’t as safe as it is now, and there was still a lot of judgement around it, especially for women.” Bucky paused, narrowing his eyes when he gently pressed his fingers against her scalp. “But if you’d decided that you wanted to, I would’ve gladly taken you back to my place. We would have had to be quiet so that the neighbours wouldn’t hear, and after, we would have smoked those nasty little cigarettes they used to hand out to soldiers. We would have sat at the window and talked. Just talked. For hours. Like we do now.”

Bucky could tell that she’d inched a bit closer now, a hazy look in her eyes as her gaze flickered between his eyes and his mouth. She craned her neck a little, and Bucky leaned forward to meet her in a slow kiss.

They took their time with it, and when they parted, he pressed another, quicker kiss to the corner of her lips. She smiled then.

“And after that?”

Bucky hummed, fingers brushing loosely through her hair in thought. He could taste her now. It distracted him.

“We wouldn’t have dated for too long,” he said quietly, smiling at the mild surprise that rose her brow just a breath higher. “My ma probably would’ve shoved my grandma’s ring in my hand the day you walked through the door. I would have held off on proposing for a few months, so as to not scare you off. But I would have known right away.”

“I would have said yes on that first date,” Y/N breathed with a soft smile to brighten her eyes.

Bucky leaned forward to kiss her again, deeper this time. His mind was swimming when he leaned back in his pillow.

Clearing his throat, he said. “Steve would’ve been my best man. We would have invited just a few people. Small. Intimate. And then… well then, I would have spent the rest of our lives wondering how I’d gotten so lucky.”

Bucky thought back to everything he had thought to one day have. “We would have moved in together right away, and we would have been able to be as loud as we wanted to be, because the neighbours wouldn’t matter anymore. We would’ve gotten some regular old jobs. You would have been a nurse, or a secretary, or a teacher, and I probably would have worked some construction, or maybe in a factory, or down at the docks. And who knows, after a while, maybe we would have had some kids.” Bucky paused for a moment, swallowing before he continued. “Steve would have visited regularly, probably married to Peggy at that point. We would have been… happy. At peace. And by now we would be well over 100, still happy. Still at peace. Still together. If not in this life, then in the next.”

It hung unspoken between them—the realities of what Bucky had lost through the war, through Hydra. The life he would have had, had things been just a little different back then.

She didn’t speak for a very long time, and Bucky thought he saw a shimmer in the green light of her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

When she smiled, she looked sad, a warm palm cupping his cheek for her thumb to run along his stubbled skin soothingly.

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” she breathed near inaudible.

Bucky’s brows twitched together at her words. Lifting his hand, he cupped hers against his cheek, turning his face to press his lips to the centre of her palm.

“Don’t be.”

She shook her head softly. “You lost so much.”

“I didn’t lose anything.” This time, actual confusion washed over his face. “It’s nice to think about, but it would never have happened, darlin’. You were born some 80 years after me.”

“But you still lost that future. Everything you wanted back then. If not with me, then with some pretty dame who was born in your half of the century.” Bucky noted the half-hearted joke when she copied his vernacular, but it fell flat in the context of her words.

Bucky’s eyes softened, both palms now finding her cheeks. He looked at her for a long while, memorising every inch of her face as he’d done so many times before. When he spoke, his voice was calm, assured.

“If I had to choose between this life with you and that life with someone else, I would always, always choose this one.” He shook his head in amazement. “It’s not even a question.”

“But—”

“No but,” he interrupted gently, wiping beneath her eye. “I much prefer the dating customs of this century anyway.”

She laughed thickly, and Bucky leaned in to seal their lips in yet another kiss. It was a little more desperate now, a little heavier after this change in mood, and after a long moment, they parted for air, panting gently in unison.

“I love you,” Y/N breathed as she pressed her lips to his jaw. “And who knows, with all of this multiverse nonsense going on, maybe there really is a version of us out there that met in your time.” She offered a smile, the tip of her nose almost touching his.

Bucky wrapped his arms around her. “I hope I will find you in every version of the universe.”

Her head found the crook of his neck then, breath once again fanning gently against his skin. She smiled against him. He could feel it. “So that I can keep every version of you awake at night?”

Bucky laughed quietly, pressing his lips to her hair. “It’s the best feeling in the world to wake up to you. No matter the time.”

-

“Hey Buck,” she whispered, palm finding a smooth cheek in the dim lighting of the moon that shone through the window. They’d kept the blinds open tonight. They no longer needed to hide from nosey Mrs Gusterson who lived across the street—not with the silver wedding band that gleamed on her finger.

Bucky stirred, nose scrunching as he came to. “What is it, doll?”

She was still giddy from the last few days, still giddy to be a wife now. With a smile that was a little too awake, she leaned her head against Bucky’s shoulder to peer up at him. His arm tightened around her, eyes softening with love as they met her gaze.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered.

[itsswritten]

rune + rain be like:

🦇👶🏻🦇

🦇👶🏻🦇

omg hi 🥹

Oh I love wings universe so much, there’s so much of this world still to explore I just wish I didn’t have this awful writers block!

[itsswritten]

They should block chatgpt on uni WiFi the way they used to block coolmathgames

[itsswritten]

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 always so good

Somewhere, There Was Love

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel meets you on a Saturday. He loses you on one, too.

Warnings: angst, some hurt/comfort, slow burn in reverse, bittersweet ending, love and everything broken it brings

Word Count: 3k

For @sjmxreaderweek Day 1: Beginnings/Endings

re-read one of my fav works of mine and got tempted to write in present tense again. enjoy this last min work <3

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Some poets argue that the greatest stories end in the same place they began.

Azriel is’t sure what he thinks about that— what he thinks about poets, and poetry, and pretty words in general. 

He only knows this: He met you on a Saturday. And he lost you on one, too.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s evening when Azriel sees you for the first time.

He’s trailing behind his family, half-listening to Cassian grumble about something or other as they stroll through the River District. His wings ache, the sky’s too blue, and he’s already planning how to disappear before dinner even starts. That’s when his shadows twitch, a subtle ripple of attention tugging him slightly off course.

Your eyes lift at the same time his do. You meet.

You’re standing across the street, half-hidden behind stacked moving boxes. Your hair catches in the wind and your sleeves are rolled up past your elbows. There’s a smudge of dust on your cheek.

For one, suspended second, you hold each other’s gaze. There’s nothing dramatic about it, not really—no lightning bolt, no crackling bond. Just a glance. But it hooks something in his chest.

He thinks, absurdly, that you must be a dream. 

He almost asks if you need help. Almost. But Cassian shouts his name, and by the time Azriel turns back, you’re gone.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You arrive with Feyre a week later.

She introduces you as her friend. A traveler who’s decided to settle in Velaris—for now.

“She’s been all over,” Feyre says. “Autumn, Day, even parts of the mortal lands.”

“I like movement,” you explain. “The idea of not belonging anywhere.”

Azriel watches the way you speak. The way your eyes flick toward him sometimes, like you remember him from that moment in the street. Like it meant something to you, too. 

After what feels like forever, Feyre steers you straight to him.

You smile at him like you know exactly what she’s doing. There’s amusement behind your eyes, mischief curling at the corners of your mouth. “Hi.”

Azriel’s shadows still. And his heart—traitorous, stupid heart—stutters. He doesn’t realize he’s smiling back until Cass elbows him.

“Azriel,” he says, holding out a hand. He’s never done that so naturally. “Nice to meet you.”

You shake his hand and hold his gaze. “I saw you when I was moving in.”

Azriel nods, caught. 

“You didn’t offer to help.”

“I almost did.”

Your smile deepens. “Almost doesn’t lift boxes.”

He’s never felt his shadows this interested in anyone before. They lean forward, curious. So does he. He’ll think about this later. How simple it all seemed. How dangerous it already was.

He knows, deep down, that he’s a goner.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You start showing up more.

Azriel considers you a friend, even. 

Dinner invitations. Walks. Late nights spent sitting near each other while everyone else is loud and laughing. You tease him, lightly at first, then with more confidence. Azriel isn’t used to someone challenging him like that. You laugh at his dryness, at the way he reacts. He finds himself smiling more than he ever has.

One night, you brush your foot against his under the table. A test. He doesn’t move away. You tilt your head. He mirrors you. There’s a private smile between you, and Azriel feels young. Reckless. Seventeen again.

That night, he tells you you’re beautiful.

He means it like a prayer.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The first kiss comes two weeks later. Azriel isn’t sure if thats fast or slow for him. Time doesn’t really exist when it comes to you, he’s noticed. It never feels real. 

You’re sitting beside him on the roof of your apartment. 

You talk about the world. About places you want to go, cities you want to see. Azriel listens like he always does—with everything he has.

“It’s fun,” you say, tipping your head to rest against his shoulder. “To think about all the places you and I can go.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. "It is."

He turns to look at you. Your eyes are already on him, and there's something soft there. Something he thinks might be meant just for him.

He kisses you then. Slowly. It feels like he’s beginning to learn the language of you.

And when you pull away, breathless, you whisper, “You taste like rain.”

He kisses you again. 

You make a small noise of contentment and curl your fingers in his shirt. He thinks, for a terrifying, beautiful second, that he could love you.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You redecorate all the time. Az thinks its funny—how unattached you are to furniture, how quickly your possessions cycle out of your hold. 

He helps you carry a shelf upstairs, and you thank him with a crooked smile and a story about the city you lived in before this one. You always talk like you're halfway out the door, like everywhere is temporary. But still, you stay for now.

He flies with you one night. You giggle against his chest at the way the wind tickles your skin. You land on the roof of a nearby apartment, your knees brushing as his shadows curl protectively around your shoulders.

You talk about traveling again. How you want to see every court, every continent. You tell him about the sea-glass beaches of the Summer Court, the northern stars in Winter, the caves in the wilds.

You want to see everything. “Even the places no one thinks are beautiful,” you say. “Because I think they are.”

Azriel listens. Nods. Smiles when you do.

You don’t notice that he never once says he wants to go.

He doesn’t know if you’ll ask him to come.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say if you do.

It’s all a fantasy anyway.

So he just says, “Tell me where we’d go first.”

And you do.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He finds a small bag in your closet one night. Just sitting there. Like it’s been packed for a while.

“You going somewhere?” he asks.

“I always keep one ready.”

“For what?”

You shrug. “In case I wake up one day and the air feels wrong.”

Azriel doesn’t ask if you’ve ever done it before. He doesn’t want to know the answer. But it sits with him for days, like some sort of warning. Some sort of promise.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You fall asleep on the couch beside him. Head tipped toward his shoulder.

Azriel doesn’t move for a long time. Not even to breathe too deeply. As if the whole room might shift and you’ll wake. Or worse—vanish. 

His shadows curl toward you and brush lightly against your hair. One of them flicks your wrist like it’s counting the beat of your pulse.

You don’t stir.

You trust him. That knowledge sits heavy in his chest.

Azriel gently reaches down, brushing a hand over your temple. He’s going to miss this moment. It’s already a memory.

He thinks—not for the first time—that he should leave. Walk away before it means something he can’t undo. Before you mean something more.

But his shadows refuse.

They’ve already decided.

And Azriel is starting to think he has, too.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You fall into a rhythm. Slow mornings. Rooftop evenings. Shared coffees. He reads journal entries you’re too shy to show anyone else. You sketch him once, from memory, and it unnerves him how well you capture the softness he tries to hide.

He tells you that you smell like smoke and sweet things. You kiss him in the quiet of his room. He starts keeping your favorite fruit in his kitchen. His nightstand looks like you.

“I’d like to disappear,” you say one night, sprawled across him. “Just pick a direction and keep walking until it feels like enough.”

“You’d get tired,” he murmurs.

“Maybe. But I’d get free, too.”

He falls asleep to your breathing, only to wake up an hour later. You’re still lying on his chest, fingers trailing across his exposed skin. His shadows are asleep and he can barely pry an eye open.

It’s funny how exhausted he is around you. In a good way. He’s never slept this good.

You trace shapes—stars, maybe. Then words.

“What are you drawing?” he murmurs.

“Nothing important.” He feels the pull in your cheeks as you smile against his skin. A teasing, little thing.

He tugs you closer, closes his eyes, and welcomes sleep again. 

Before he succumbs to the darkness, he focuses on the pattern of your fingertips. You’re writing something. Words. He can’t help it. He decodes them.

I love you.

He wraps his arms tighter around you, afraid to breathe, afraid to say it out loud and shatter it. But he feels it. Deep in his bones.

And the feeling already hurts.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s an early morning when he says something dry and sarcastic. You roll your eyes and call him a liar. He doesn’t deny it. You lean forward and say, “You’re not nearly as mysterious as you want everyone to believe.”

And then you kiss him.

He smiles into this kiss, as he always does now, and his hands come up, fingers curling around your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His shadows wrap around you both like instinct.

Later, he tells you that being with you has made him afraid in a way he’s never been before. You frown and ask him why. 

He tells you the truth. He’s never had anything of his own to lose.

You tell him, “Yeah. Me too.”

You make love that night and Azriel finds himself memorizing every part of your body— every sound, every movement. Like he knows, somewhere in his bones, he is bound to lose you. 

Azriel has always loved like this—as if time is already running out. He holds joy like it’s a ghost.

That night he says, “Stay.”

You blink. “I am. I’m spending the night.”

He shakes his head. His eyes are wide and pleading. He’s sure he looks like a hopeful child. “No,” he says, “You know what I mean.”

Your brow furrows. You still. Think. Then answer, “For how long?”

“I don’t know. Just—stay.”

You stare at him for a long time. Then nod.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The cracks start small.

You ask him where he’s going. He says he doesn’t know. Just a lead. Just a hunch. You tell him that it worries you. That he can’t expect you to be okay with these constant missions. 

He says, “I’ll be fine.”

You say, “You don’t know that.”

He tells you he’d never leave you. You say, “You do. Every time you walk out that door. And I’m not always going to be here when you come back.”

Azriel pretends he doesn’t hear it. For both of your sakes. He goes on the mission anyways. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Still, you stay. Because when it’s good, it’s so good. Azriel cooks you breakfast. You read to him while he sharpens his blades. He writes little notes and slips them into your journals.

You teach him how to write poetry. He never lets anyone else read it.

One night, Azriel props himself up on one elbow. 

“Okay,” he says, grinning proud and pink-cheeked. “I think, if we had a daughter, she'd be dramatic. Like you.”

“Like me?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Tiny. Stubborn. Would boss me around.”

“She sounds amazing,” you say, a little breathless.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I’d marry you, you know.”

You swallow hard enough for Az to track the movement.

“I’d marry you tomorrow.”

The wine is burning in his chest. He doesn’t look away. “We could do it barefoot. Somewhere stupid. I wouldn’t care. I just want—”

You kiss him before he finishes. Az keeps his eyes closed, floats in this dream of a life, as you murmur against his lips, “The Autumn court has beautiful chapels.”

You’re happy like this, Azriel thinks. Even when there’s a slight fantasy to it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You don’t go to dinner with his family. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t realized it before Rhysand brings it up. 

Azriel asks, “Are you coming tonight?” while pulling on a jacket.

You don’t look up from the book in your hands. “No, I’m alright.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for you to feel it settle. Then—

“You don’t like them,” he says. Not a question.

You sigh. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

You close the book. “They’re your people, Azriel. Not mine.”

“I thought you were friends with Feyre.”

“I’m friendly with Feyre.”

He frowns. “That’s different.”

“I know.”

Az studies you.  “I’m not trying to be cruel,” you say. “But this isn’t my home.”

Something shifts in him — not all at once, but a tilt. A slow dawning. He realizes, maybe for the first time, that you don’t want it to be.

Later, in bed, he turns toward you and whispers, “I used to think I liked being alone, too.”

You smile at the ceiling. “You don’t.”

Silence again.

“I need them,” he says eventually. “I need my family.”

“I know,” you whisper. 

He wants to ask if you have anyone like that. Wants to ask why you don’t need anyone the way he does. But he already knows you won’t answer. Not out loud.

So he doesn’t ask. It’s probably some answer about how you’re bound to leave, anyways. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“You’re concentrating awfully hard,” you muse, propping your chin in your hands. “It’s just a silly report, baby.”

“It’s not just a report,” Azriel mutters, still focused, his eyes never leaving the paper. “And you’re in my light.”

You gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “In your light? And here I thought I was the light of your life.”

Azriel doesn’t respond, eyes narrowed as he shifts the paper to the side. But his lips twitch, just slightly. He likes when you say things like that. When you acknowledge that, maybe, you have an important place in his life. Somewhere you fit.

You shift closer. “It must take an incredible amount of focus,” you muse, “I mean, what if you get distracted?”

“Won’t happen.”

“Mm.” You tilt your head, considering. “You don’t get distracted?”

“Never.”

“Even if I do this?”

You lean in, tracing your fingers over the ridges of his spine. Your fingers wander further, brushing over the sensitive base of his wings.

A slow inhale escapes him, but still, he doesn’t falter.

You lean closer, close enough that your lips nearly graze his ear as you whisper, “What about now?”

Azriel’s movements still.

Without warning, he turns, his wings flaring slightly, blocking your view of the table as he cages you in with his body.

His duties are long forgotten as he pushes you back onto his bed and devours you for the night. The way you say his name makes him shiver. Tonight, though, it also makes him sad. He’s mourning, he realizes. He’s preparing himself for a loss. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Az traces the beginning of the end back to a stormy Thursday night. 

It’s two in the morning when he comes back home. To your apartment. Not his. He stops in the doorway. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket still on, staring at the floor.

You don’t look up. “Were you going to tell me?”

Azriel hesitates. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“It was a suicide mission.”

“I knew I’d make it out.”

“But what if one day you can’t?”

Silence.

You let out a quiet laugh. “How can you be so sure of yourself and still hate yourself like this?”

He flinches. He doesn’t think that’s a fair thing to say. “You’re angry.”

“I’m tired.”

“Then come to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“I’m not that kind of tired.”

Azriel kneels. Reaches for your hand. You pull away.

“You keep doing this,” you say. “Throwing yourself into these dangerous missions, acting like it’s no big deal.”

“It’s what I’m meant to do.”

“No. It’s what you’ve convinced yourself you’re only good for.”

He doesn’t speak. Just looks at you like he’s hearing it for the first time.

“Love’s not enough if you don’t want to stay alive for it. What's the point of staying for a ghost?”

Azriel apologizes. You send him on his way and, for the first time in months, he lays awake in his own bed. Alone.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

There’s a lull. You try. You both do. He brings you dinner. You sit on his lap and kiss his cheek and he murmurs that he loves you before making love to you like you’re something holy, something divine, and he’s desperate for salvation.

But he’s always leaving. And you’re always waiting. Azriel knows it can’t last. Waiting is not in your nature. Not really. You’ve been inching toward the door for weeks. He’s been pretending not to notice. Pretending not to feel it.

Until one day, you sit across from each other, knees barely touching. And neither of you has the energy to lie about it anymore.

You say, “This isn’t working.”

He nods. There are tears in your eyes and he’s not sure if he’s allowed to wipe them when they fall. 

Azriel says, “But I love you.”

“I know,” you say. “I love you too.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because love wasn’t enough. Because it was love. So much love. And still—

He thought heartbreak would be louder. More cinematic. Shouting or slamming doors. But it’s this: A quiet room. Your knees touching. And the terrible understanding that you both meant it—all of it.

Azriel doesn’t cry.

He just sits there, blinking. Wondering why his chest feels cracked open and hollow and free, all at once. How grief and relief can sit beside each other like old friends.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s Saturday evening when Azriel sees you again.

It’s been weeks since that night.

He’s walking beside his family—shoulder to shoulder with Cassian, wings stretched and taking up space as they pass through the River District. The sky is a perfect, boundless blue. His shadows drift lazily in the sunlight.

He’s already smiling. It's a family dinner night. They’re having his favorite —Nyx’s favorite now, too. The boy has begged to help make it, and Azriel is going to let him, even if half the sauce will end up on the floor. Az is excited for his hands to smell like basil and roasted garlic for the rest of the night.

Then his shadows stir—not with warning, but recognition.

Azriel glances across the street.

You’re standing there, sleeves rolled up, half-hidden behind stacked moving boxes. There’s a smudge of something on your cheek. You laugh at something someone says, head thrown back in that way he used to love. Still does, maybe. A little.

Your eyes lift and meet his. A quiet ache settles in Azriel’s chest. Not the sharp kind it used to be. Not grief that grips the ribs or hollows him out. Just something soft. Lingering.

For one suspended second, he sees you as you are — happy. Free. You smile at him, and he breathes through it. He smiles back.

Cassian calls his name. Azriel turns, says something back, distracted. And when he glances over again, you’re gone. Just like the first time.

He never sees you again.

Eventually, he stops searching for your face in crowded streets.

But sometimes—when the air is quiet and the night feels like a memory—he lets himself think of you. Wonders where you are. If you found a place to settle. If you're happy.

He hopes you are. And he hopes he never hears about it. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

authors note: it feels diff when i write in present v past tense. like past tense is my usual writings, fun little stories with fun lil plots. present tense always makes me sad and nostalgic, strangely enough

i'm a bit scatter-brained rn bc of some family issues, but yall best believe ill post all my random wips soon!!

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[itsswritten]

Excuse me…what is this?

It’s a masterpiece, that’s what it is.

Super Soldier Domesticated | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Domestic scenes with Bucky Barnes, because Bucky Barnes deserves to be HAPPY.

A/N: I have returned to pray at the altar of James Buchanan Barnes. Thunderbolts dropped and flooded my insta feed. Oh, how past me would have rejoiced in all of this Bucky content.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: fluff, implications of smut, language, possible misinformation about various contraceptive devices (please inform yourselves lol)

-

Bucky Barnes was the fist of Hydra. 

He’d spent decades being shaped into the perfect asset—ruthless, detached, the ultimate killing machine. He was cruel. He was dangerous. He was violent.

He’d been tortured. He’d been torn apart and stitched back together, and only when barely an inkling of the man he used to be remained, they’d set him loose on the world.

It was almost funny, Bucky thought now as he looked down at his working hands. To think what this arm—this near indestructible artificial limb—had been created for. It had squeezed the life from many a target, had pulled the triggers of guns and survived explosions. It had brought unspeakable pain upon his victims.

And yet …

“Not too tight, Bucky.”

Her voice had come quietly, softly, and from where he sat on the edge of the bed, Bucky could tell that her eyes had slipped closed a while ago. She sat on the floor between his legs, with her own legs crossed and her back straight.

Bucky loosened his grip at once, the strands of her hair now looser in his palms.

“Like this?” he asked, only taking his eyes off her face once an approving hum resonated through her chest.

“Perfect.”

A smile tugged on the corners of his lips as he went back to work. Right strand over, pull the middle to the right, then repeat with the left. It was tough to keep each of the three strands separated—nimble work, delicate. This was his second attempt after the first had ended in a merging of the left and the middle strand. It had been chaos.

“I can’t believe you manage to do this behind your head,” he spoke quietly, fingers moving a little faster with every inch he managed to braid successfully.

“Years of practice.” There was a smile in her voice. It warmed Bucky’s chest. “Hey, Buck?”

He hummed to signal that he was listening, concentrating on getting the bottom of the braid right. She’d warned him that it could get tricky to avoid shorter strands of hair from sticking out at the side.

“Would you mind running to the store later?”

“’Course not, doll,” he mumbled, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he pinched the end of her braid between his fingers to carefully slip on the hair tie he kept on his wrist. It was one of his, but ever since he’d cut his hair, he didn’t need them anymore, and so they’d long been adopted by Y/N, merging with her own hair accessories in the small bathroom they shared.

When he finished, he carefully draped the braid over her shoulder, succumbing to the urge to touch her with a single finger brushing along her neck.

“What do you think?”

Delicate fingers found the braid, and Y/N turned her head far enough to peek down at his work. Bucky found himself holding his breath in anticipation of her verdict.

When she looked up at him, she offered a smile. It was the wide kind—the beaming kind. It was the kind to touch the corners of her eyes and have Bucky’s heart stutter in a way that would be worrying if it wasn’t for the serum in his veins that pretty much prevented cardiac arrest.

“Perfect job, baby,” she said, craning her neck towards him. Bucky smiled when he leaned forward to meet her in a kiss.

-

Left hand clutching the handle of the shopping basket, Bucky stuck to an empty aisle to study the yellow post-it note she’d written him.

Granola

Eggs (2 dozen)

Apples

Tomatoes

Grated cheese (Gouda or Cheddar)

Toothpaste (2x)

Tampons

Ice cream (!!!)

He smirked at the three exclamation marks behind ice cream, carved deep enough into the paper to leave grooves on the other side. There was exactly one type of ice cream she loved, and ever since he’d bought the wrong one once, she’d taken to reminding him on every note she wrote.

By now, he knew the layout of the supermarket well enough that he could find his way in the dark. They were good for him, these mundane tasks. He needed routine, needed something to do. It gave him peace to do something that was important but did not include guns, or bombs, or mission reports. It gave him peace to function in this little bubble he inhabited with Y/N.

He stood before the shelf with the period products now, two cartons with a dozen eggs each already secured in his basket. They were mainly for him. He ate four each morning.

Bucky could not recall a time when he didn’t know everything there was to know about the absorbency of Tampons. He knew the brands, knew the sizes, knew that Y/N preferred the ones without the applicator because she thought the extra piece of plastic was an unnecessary waste.

Two purple boxes fell into his basket before he moved on to the ice box.

-

The headboard pressed into Bucky’s back as he held out the tub of ice cream for Y/N to dig her spoon in. They’d agreed it was best he hold it, as his was the only hand that would not eventually freeze.

He loved these moments with her. He lived for them.

She lay next to him, one leg stretched before her, the other bend at the knee. She was wearing one of his shirts and a thick pair of socks, leaning most of her weight against his shoulder. Bucky found it soothing.

“It’s one of the only options without hormones,” she explained before her spoon vanished into her mouth, then adding with her mouth full, “But it’s supposed to hurt like a bitch when they put it in.”

Bucky gave a grunt, scraping some off the top of the ice cream with his own spoon. “I read that it increases bleeding. Makes your cramps worse, too.”

“Well, that only leaves hormonal birth control then.”

Bucky frowned.

It had taken some explaining for Bucky to fully understand the intricacies of new age contraception, but he found that he didn’t like the idea of something messing with her hormones—with her health.

“There’s nothing I could take?”

She thought about it for a moment, lips clasped tightly around her spoon. The sight almost took Bucky’s mind off the topic at hand. Almost.

“Afraid not,” she finally said with a small sigh through her nose. “Unless you want to get snipped,” she added with a pained smile.

Bucky offered her the tub and watched as she dug a large spoonful from the centre.

“I might be sterile anyway, darlin’,” he finally said quietly.

They’d spoken about it—the possibility that the serum had done some irreversible damage to Bucky’s system. He’d already gotten tested before he’d met her, but it had been hard for the doctors to tell. No one was accustomed to a super soldier organism. The best they’d been able to tell him was that it was likely either one extreme or the other.

“Sterile or super-soldier-fertile,” Y/N repeated what he’d told her. “And your body would likely just heal you if you got a vasectomy.”

Bucky tilted his head as he looked at her. “I don’t actually mind us using condoms.”

It had been Y/N who’d brought up the possibility for her to start taking birth control, but Bucky could not quite shake the feeling that she’d mentioned it mainly for his sake.

Y/N hummed in thought, lifting her free hand to push her fingers through his hair, tugging gently at the ends. Bucky’s eyes slipped close for just a second.

“Forever?” she asked pensively, pursing her lips. “It seems easier for me to just get something permanent. An implant, or an IUD.” A thought crossed her mind then, and she narrowed her eyes at him with interest. “What did you do in the 40s?”

Bucky pulled a face. “Ah, couldn’t tell ya. Pulled out and hoped for the best.”

Truth be told, Bucky had never really bothered with it back in his youth. He’d known that they were experimenting with jellies and creams—he’d heard it from a girl he’d been going out with. There’d been condoms of course, but they weren’t nearly as common as they were nowadays, and frankly Bucky wouldn’t have been able to afford them even if they had been.

Y/N snorted. It was a delightful sound.

“So what you’re telling me is you might have some unknown descendants scattered around the world?”

Bucky smirked down at the ice cream, a cold drop of water trickling in between the vibranium tiles of his hand.

“I would’ve heard,” he said. “Wasn’t like I was sleeping with the whole neighbourhood.”

She hummed, grinning when she pressed her nose into his cheek. “I don’t believe you for one second. Not with that charm of yours.”

“I don’t want you taking hormones,” Bucky said suddenly, turning to meet Y/N’s gaze. “Not for me. I read some horror stories online, doll. About blood clots, embolisms, heart attacks. I know they’re rare, but I would never forgive myself if something happened.”

She considered him for a moment, smiling when she lifted a hand to squeeze his chin between her thumb and index finger.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Condoms it is then.”

-

“I can’t believe this!”

There was anger in her voice, a deep crease between her brows when she turned to look at Bucky, throwing her arms up in exasperation.

“You are one hundred years old,” she snapped. “How are you this fucking good at Mario Kart?!”

Bucky felt his lip twist at the corners, smirking as he flicked through the different racetracks on screen. They’d been playing for a little over an hour, and so far, Bucky had managed to beat her in every single round, scoring first place with a substantial lead each time.

“How about this snowy one next?”

At her silence, he turned to find a deadpan expression adorning her features.

“Yes, Bucky,” she said, words dripping with sarcasm. “Let’s do the fucking snow track.”

Bucky couldn’t stop his grin from widening, reaching out his human hand to pinch her cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re competitive.”

Swatting after his hand, Y/N harrumphed and turned back towards the TV. She sat straight-backed as a soldier with her legs crossed beneath her, while Bucky lay back against the couch with his legs stretched out on the plush ottoman before him.

“I’m just saying it doesn’t make sense,” she muttered to herself. “You pause Netflix movies by clicking the pause button with your cursor. You shouldn’t be this good at a video game.”

Bucky snorted, pushing at her shoulder with the back of his wrist, to which her cheeks lifted, betraying her grin despite her attempts to hide it.

“Today’s youth is rude,” Bucky muttered.

He thought he heard her giggle, which had warmth seep through his chest. But of course, it felt nothing as good as the rush of triumph he experienced at the large golden 1 appearing on his side of the screen after a few minutes spent racing in concentrated silence.

“Unbelievable,” Y/N half-yelled at the TV, waving her hands so much, Bucky feared for a moment that her controller would go flying into the screen. “Un. Fucking. Believable.”

While Bucky’s little green dinosaur celebrated by waving from his motorcycle, Bucky lifted a shoulder. “I’m a good driver.”

“This game in no way reflects real life driving skills.”

“Sure, it does.”

Y/N opened her mouth, and Bucky could tell that she was readying herself to argue. Before she could, however, he discarded his controller and wrapped his arm around her waist to pull her down towards him.

At once, she began to laugh, struggling against his grip as he attempted to wrestle the controller from her hands.

“You need a time out,” Bucky announced, dodging her elbows as she attempted to keep the controller out of his reach.

“One more!” she gasped, twisting and turning in Bucky’s hold, giggling as she did so. “I need to beat you at least once.”

“You’re gonna have a heart attack with that road rage of yours.”

She scoffed in mock outrage, but Bucky lowered his lips to hers before she could continue. She was laughing against him, wiggling when he finally got hold of her controller without looking, pushing at his shoulder when he began to scatter small kisses across her face.

But with every second, her resistance lessened, her body melting into his hold, her laughter softening into amused hums, until finally, her fingers curled into the hair on the back of Bucky’s head, and she met his lips with enthusiasm. Her controller—finally acquired, but already long forgotten—slipped from Bucky’s grip to clatter to the ground.

-

Bucky’s fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, jaw tight and head tilted back into a pillow as the tension in his body slowly ebbed away to make room for a comfortable, cushy daze that warmed his body from head to toe.

She shook in his hands, the last of her breath rushing from her lungs in a hitched gasp. She tensed, thighs pressing firmly on the sides of his hips, and then it seemed her bones turned into something soft, pliable, as her body sank to his for her lips to rest in the crook of his neck.

For a moment, there was just their shared breathing to be heard—fast, choppy, warm. Bucky lifted his head only far enough to peer over her shoulder, watching the black metal of his hand detach itself from her skin without a mark left behind. Ever since those first times, those first bruises when he hadn’t yet gotten used to the strength of his arm in a context such as this, he paid extra attention.

With a soft groan, she pushed to her hands to look down at him with a glint in her eye. Bucky pushed the hair from her face, running his thumb along a swollen bottom lip, along the bridge of her nose, and the arch of her cheekbone.

Y/N pushed her face deeper into his palm, eyes slipping shut.

“I won’t ever get tired of this,” she breathed, to which Bucky smirked.

“I sure hope you won’t, dollface.”

Her nose scrunched at the drawled pet name. She’d always found it corny, but the corners of her lips curled higher nonetheless.

“I’m—”

“Hungry,” Bucky finished, sitting up with a groan of his own, one arm curled behind her back. “Comin’ right up.”

Y/N gasped in mock offence. “That’s not what I was going to say!”

Bucky rose a single brow, one arm pushing into the mattress behind him to keep him upright. She was always hungry after. Sometimes more, sometimes less. But most times ended in a late night snack shared on the couch, in the kitchen, in their bed.

“What were you going to say, then?”

She pursed her lips, letting a few seconds tick by silently, and Bucky knew then and there that she had nothing.

“I wanted to say,” she declared importantly, lifting her hands to hold his face between her palms. “That I’m in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you too, darlin’.” Bucky couldn’t help his rising cheeks. “I’m just gonna lay back down then—”

“And also,” she interrupted, pausing by kissing him deep enough for his mind to buzz when she pulled back with a satisfied smirk. “That I might just be a teensy bit hungry.”

A husky laugh slipped from Bucky’s throat, and with his arms wrapping around her tightly, he stood in a swift move, taking her with him as he went.

-

“So what I’m saying is,” Y/N said, swinging her legs as she lifted another piece of orange to her lips, chewing as she continued. “While I do agree that a beach vacation would be nice, I think going to Scotland would be a lot more interesting.”

Bucky kept his attention on the board before him, chopping tomatoes into somewhat uniform little cubes as he listened. She sat not far to his left on the countertop. The smell of citrus crawled up his nose.

“It rains a lot in Scotland.”

“Yes, but think of the castles. The highlands. The cows.”

“If we go to Portugal, we could lay in the sun all day. Swim. Fool around.”

An amused sound left her throat, her thumb pushing into the orange to break off another piece. She held it out to him, and Bucky leaned over to take it with his teeth.

“Fool around?” she giggled. “What are we, teenagers? Besides, we can do that anywhere. And it would be a lot cozier in a little hut in the highlands when it’s raining.”

Bucky weighed his head from side to side, considering her words.

“Think about it,” she added. “One is sweaty, sticky, and hot; the other is cozy and cuddly.”

“I honestly can’t tell which of those you think is the less desirable option.”

She laughed at that, chewing while Bucky scattered the tomatoes into the pan already holding a still liquid layer of egg, followed by shredded cheese, salt and pepper.

“I thought you didn’t like heat.”

“What made you think that?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well, you always kick away the blankets, and you never notice when it’s too cold in a room. I thought it was part of the whole supersoldier shebang.”

Bucky rose a shoulder. “I don’t mind heat. Especially not when a pretty dame is involved.”

She burst out laughing at that, and Bucky smiled as he watched from the corner of his eye.

“Fine, fine. You win, Barnes,” she chuckled, offering him another piece of orange that he took with a quick kiss to the back of her hand. “I will fool around with you at the beach. But if we get kicked out of Portugal for public indecency, we’re going to the highlands.”

“Deal.”

After flipping the omelette with a skilled flick of the pan, Bucky folded it in half and placed it carefully on a nearby plate. Y/N beamed as he handed it to her.

“You’re the bestest,” she said, craning her neck for a kiss. “Thank you.”

Bucky stepped between her legs, opening his mouth when she offered him a forkful of omelette, already chewing herself. His palms found her thighs, her skin covered by a plush bathrobe to match his own in both colour and pattern.

The fist of Hydra, standing in a dimly lit kitchen with his love and an omelette. He could get used to this—he already had gotten used to this—and as he looked down at the black metal thumb he ran along the smooth skin of a thigh, he wondered how this limb had ever been used for something other than making omelettes for his love.

-

A/N: Can you believe it's been three whole years since I wrote a Bucky fic????? TF

[itsswritten]

Oh this was so good Rae 🥹 so painfully sweet.

And you’ve written something that’s so painful and traumatic in the most accurate and beautiful way. I feel like it’s hard to explain to people what a panic attack feels like, think I’ll just send people this fic next time 🫶🏼

Also love this trope of potential second chances, I feel like we rarely see this dynamic and now I need more of them 🫢 how did they first get together, why did they break up, how awkward that must have been for the IC, how did it change that dynamic, will they get back together, please can they get back together 👀 I just know the angst would be delicious

Incredible as always Rae, there isn’t a piece of your writing that doesn’t amaze me 🤍

Breathe

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel has a panic attack. You help him through it.

Warnings: panic attack pov, symptoms of anxiety (heavy breathing, dissociation, bad mean internal narration), lots of talks of fear, breathing exercises, comfort/care

Word Count: 3.6k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel didn’t notice it at first— not really. 

But his shadows did. 

They curled in close, drawn silent and taut, as if bracing for something, getting ready to soothe him like a newborn babe.

It always started quiet. Or, it used to, when it happened more often. Like pressure building— something soft at first, something creeping.

Azriel shifted in his seat at the end of the table, half in shadow as he often was.  

He blinked once. Twice. 

He realized, rather quickly, that he was too warm.

Not the kind of warm that settled into your bones on a sunny day. Not comfort. No, this was the kind of warmth that crawled across his skin. Under it. Sticky, stifling. His leathers suddenly felt too tight, like his chest couldn’t fully expand. 

He shifted again, pushing himself to focus on Rhysand’s voice once more. On the words his brother, his High Lord, was speaking.

Nothing was wrong. Not really.  He was seated where he always sat, in the same chair, in the same meeting room, listening to the same details about the same rotations and intelligence reports. Nothing was out of place. Everything was all as doomed, as dismal, and as hopeless as it had been recently. 

They were losing a war. And Azriel knew it. 

The conversation turned toward intelligence failures– intercepted reports, broken leads.

Azriel couldn’t stop his thoughts from growing louder. Faster. Those were another failure on him. On his abilities, his spies. He’d fucked up. Again, and again. The one thing he was good at, the one thing he was supposed to do— and he couldn’t. 

No, no. Stop. He couldn’t afford to think like that. He’d been doing better. Azriel, deep in his rational mind, knew it wasn’t his fault. Not entirely, at least. Koschei was unpredictable. His devoted followers hadn’t been something anyone could’ve predicted — Children of the Blessed who had found another ruler to worship. Another god to bow to. That wasn’t on him.

But it was… wasn’t it? It felt like a failure.

His shadows stilled around him, began calling to him in the way only they could. But Azriel couldn’t pay attention. His mouth was dry now. His hands were cold.

And there was something curling in his chest. A pressure. A discomfort. A wrongness inside him, like something off-center. He was sure of it. A flaw, like some thread pulled too tight. 

Az tried to anchor himself. Tried to focus on the sound of his brother’s voices, the crinkle of paper beneath his hand. But his thoughts were racing ahead — spiraling. 

The room was too loud.

He gripped the edge of the table. Attempted to draw in a deep breath. When it resisted, when his lungs protested against the strain of his ribs— broken many times before, he opted for flexing his fingers. Uncurled them. Tried to breathe through it once more.

This was pathetic, Az thought bitterly, the sharpness of his own anger swallowing up all other thoughts. The soft voice that tried to tell him he wasn’t to blame for everything was drowned out. It sounded so much like a younger version of himself. And something else, too— a voice that sounded awfully like his mother. 

Azriel had been fine this morning. Hadn’t he? 

So why, now, was he in such pain? Why was his throat tight? Why couldn’t he breathe?

He needed to breathe.

None of this was real. It was all in his head. It would pass. 

He was fine, he repeated in his mind, even as his wings twitched– betraying him before he could catch them. A subtle flex at first, a slight stiffening in his membrane. Defensive, instinctual. 

He tucked them in closer to his back, as if he could subconsciously make himself smaller, less visible. 

He was losing it. Gods, he was losing it and he couldn’t even stand without drawing attention—without someone noticing, without Rhys or Cassian giving him that look.

His wings spasmed again—this time sharper, a visible shudder that raced down the spine between them. Panic, the primal kind, began to bleed into the edges of his breathing.

Not real. Not real. He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

He barely noticed when Rhysand’s voice faded into nothing, when the world outside of his own body dulled to a low hum. His vision blurred, not outwardly—no, that would’ve been merciful—but inside his mind. Thought tangled over thought until all that remained was one screaming, splintered thing: move.

Azriel refused to give in to that weaker, fearful side. He refused.

So, instead, he forced himself to lift his head– to act like he was still present. He gripped the edge of the table harder, forcing another breath through lungs that refused to expand. He forced his body to stay still even as every part of him screamed to run.

His eyes caught yours immediately.

You weren’t speaking. You hadn’t been speaking for a while—Az realized dimly that you’d fallen silent when he had.

You were staring at him, a brow furrowed in confusion, eyes darkened with worry. Real, devastating worry— written across your face like you’d felt his unraveling in your bones, like you knew exactly what he was fighting.

You always did that, Az thought briefly. Noticed things. Noticed him. Even when he tried to disappear, buried himself in shadows and distance and the anger only he knew how to hone, you still saw him.

And you were another thing he’d fucked up. Another thing, another person, he’d failed.

His panic hit him like a punch to the chest.

A wild, churning thing inside him lurched loose—sharp and wrong and too much.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. 

Not here. Not now.

Azriel tried to push to his feet smoothly, tried not to let the room tilt sideways around him. The scrape of his chair on the floor was deafening. His wings flared slightly behind him — a startled, instinctive reaction — before he forced them down again with trembling effort.

He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Couldn’t.

He just needed to get out. Get out.

By the time he stumbled into the hallway, the panic was a roaring thing in his chest. His wings kept twitching, muscles seizing like they couldn’t decide whether to shield or flee. His shadows seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, gathering in dark, frantic swirls at his feet, then dissipating and flickering against the walls, like they were trying—desperately—to anchor themselves, to pull him out of the fear gripping him.

The world narrowed to the thud of his boots and the pain in his chest. He was shaking now — his hands, his arms, his breath. He couldn’t get a full inhale. He couldn’t slow down. His mind was spiraling. He didn’t know where he was going.

Get out. Just get out. Get out get out get out.

He reached the end of the corridor, but his vision was still tunneling. He staggered sideways, shoulder slamming into the wall. They were getting closer. Tighter.

Get out.

He needed air. Real air.

Needed out.

He winnowed. All instinct, like a broken wild animal on the run from something it knew it couldn’t beat. And then—he landed. He didn’t even know where he was going until the cold hit him.

Dirt. Grass. Night air.

He fell to his knees in it.

Hard.

It knocked the breath out of him. He doubled over, fingers clawing into the earth. Trying to ground. Trying to focus. Trying to breathe.

Stupid. Stupid. This doesn’t happen. You’re fine. You’re not a child.

But he couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t stop the rising panic clawing up his throat.

You’re a joke. You’re unraveling. You’re slipping and they’re going to see. You’re a liability. A fucking mess. You’re going to ruin everything—

He shouldn’t have been like this — he’d trained for worse, he’d handled worse. His shadows crowded him, trying to ground him, to pull him back, just as they did when he was three hundred and covered in blood. Twenty-two and angry. Eight and afraid.

It didn't work. They were just more noise. The pressure behind Azriel’s ribs sharpened. His skin itched. He couldn't tell if it was sweat or fear crawling over him.

A cold wind rushed over his skin, sudden and powerful. And for a second—just a second—it grounded him.

Then the panic surged again. Harder.

His fingernails dug further into dirt, the movement straining and pulling at the tight skin at his hands, the raw tendons and everything that was wrong with him. 

He couldn’t fucking see anything. Couldn’t focus. Azriel was sure his heart was breaking itself against his ribs. He pressed his forehead to the ground, desperate to disappear into it. The skin between his shoulders was buzzing, crawling with invisible ants. The old, familiar impulse to tear his way free, to snap bone and tendon if it meant getting out—getting away—scratching out the thing inside him he couldn't reach.

Somewhere, deep in the marrow of him, the boy he'd once been was crying. Somewhere, even deeper, the soldier he'd become was roaring at him to stay still, stay quiet, get over it.

Azriel was vaguely aware of the wetness on his cheeks. Of a choked gasp that sounded too much like him. His shadows were scared now, concerned, louder as if they were trying to be louder than the voice in his head. But it was no use. 

His body was too small and the panic was too big.

And then—

A sound. A shape.

His name, maybe.

But it didn’t sound right. Didn't sound like anything.

It felt, almost, as if Az was trying to hear underwater— trying to breathe it in and choke.

He jerked away from the voice, instinctual. He didn't want to be seen. Not like this.

But then it came again. Warm. Gentle. Familiar. His shadows darted towards it.

“Azriel?”

And for the first time, he felt it. Felt you.

His eyes blinked open—wild, unfocused—but the world began to sharpen.

Not all at once. Not clearly, at least. But enough. Enough to see you there, from the corner of his eye, approaching him slowly, breath white in the cold air. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and pressed his palms flatter against the earth. His wings half-flared without permission. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It wasn’t working.

You’re weak. You’re not enough.

Your failures are going to get them all killed. Koschei. Koschei. Koschei. What if he kills them all? 

A flutter of heat brushed against his shoulder. He briefly registered the movement, somehow coherent enough to piece together the fact that you were crouching beside him. He could only imagine how pathetic he looked, a warrior, a spy— a feared male brought to his knees by his own damaged mind. 

For one harrowing moment, he wanted to snarl at you. To bare his teeth and tell you to go where you’re needed, to leave him alone— Because he didn’t want your pity. He didn’t want your help. He didn’t want to admit that he needed it. If he admitted it now, so vulnerable and exposed in front of you— embarrassingly so— you’d realize, for a second time, he wasn’t worth it. 

But he would never do that. He didn’t want to push you away again. 

A wave of shame hit him flat in the chest—flooding his system. Azriel forced his wings against his back until the muscles screamed. He gave a tight shake of his head, managed to say between jagged breaths, "I'm fine. Go home."

Your hand hovered at his back, near his wings. Gently pressed. He was shaking. 

He turned his face away. “Please.”

“Azriel,” you said again. Closer. 

Something crumbled in him when his shadows returned to his wrists, floating in soothing circles. He squeezed his eyes shut. Breathe. He just needed to breathe. Count, like his mother always taught him to. Trace the patterns of his shadows. 

But gods, it wasn’t working.

“I can’t,” Azriel rasped. His voice was barely there. 

A few seconds later, your hand was on his cheek, thumb brushing his jaw. You tilted his face toward yours.

“I’m right here,” you said. Your eyes were wide. Pleading, almost. Like he was lost and you were begging for him to find you again. 

And he would, wouldn't he? Find you, that was. In every lifetime. 

He blinked. It didn’t feel real. He didn’t deserve this tender touch.

 “Az, can you look at me?”

“I can’t—I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” 

You reached up, brushing a hand through the strands of his hair at the front — a soft, slow rake of your fingers like you were trying to soothe him back to himself. The touch startled him. His eyes opened wider, found yours again, even as his chest still heaved with shallow, broken breaths.

“I’m—” he sucked in a breath, but it hitched, harsh and shallow. “I’m not okay.  I’m— I’m scared and I don’t know what I’m doing and I can’t keep pretending—”

He was unraveling. Words spilling out of him like blood from a wound.

“I’m not enough. I’m not—stable. I can’t help with Koschei. I can’t find anything. People are dying. I’m letting everyone down and—fuck—” he squeezed his eyes shut. “I can’t breathe—”

You shifted without hesitation, lowering yourself to your knees before him, so you could meet him at eye level. Gently, delicately, you reached for one of his hands — still clawed into the dirt like an animal — and began to uncurl his fingers from the earth. He shifted his position with the movement. 

He blinked again at the sensation, disoriented, his brows furrowing as you guided his hand up and placed it over your chest. Over your heart. And covered it with your own.

“Feel that?” you whispered, taking an exaggerated deep breath. His hand rose with the motion. “All that air coming into my lungs. It’s really nice, Az. Refreshing. Don’t you think?”

He nodded. Or thought he did. It was hard to tell where his body was.

“I want you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”

He swallowed hard. His lungs still fought him. But he would try. Gods, for you — he would always try.

You inhaled again, slow and deep, and he followed — or tried to. Again. And again. Until something in his lungs finally loosened, like a muscle unclenching.

He closed his eyes.

The panic didn’t vanish. But it ebbed. Enough to come back into his body. Enough to feel the weight of the earth, the throb of his heart. The gentleness in your touch. His wings gradually relaxed. His other hand stopped trembling against the grass.

When he opened his eyes, he found yours already waiting.

And for the first time in what felt like hours, he could see you. Not through panic. Just… you.

His hand twitched under yours. You interlaced your fingers, pressing his palm against your skin even firmer. Finally, Azriel took a deep breath. A proper one. Felt the refreshing night air fill his lungs. 

And when you smiled — soft and aching and full of something he couldn’t name — he felt the last of the panic slip out of his bones.

He realized, with excruciating clarity, exactly where he was now. Realized that he was touching you. That you were so close. That somehow, impossibly, despite everything he’d ruined, you were here. 

He almost forgot to breathe again.

You shifted your free hand up slightly, brushing it back through his hair — a tender, absentminded thing, like it was instinct for you now. 

“There we go,” you said softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Azriel took advantage of his proximity to take you in— the curve of your mouth, the way the moonlight caught the shine of your hair. How close you were to him, how real it felt. It was almost enough to make him believe he had died after all— that this was some kind of fragile heaven he wasn’t meant to keep, a dream created by a brain deprived of oxygen. 

He let out a breath. His body went lax, sinking into the earth. Into you.

You glanced back at him again, your hand still in his hair, and for a moment, neither of you moved. He studied your face like he could memorize it all over again — the faint crease between your brows, the tremble you were trying to hide in your jaw, the way your eyes softened when you caught him looking.

Something inside him cracked open wider.

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then to your eyes. And then his gaze dropped once more, landing on where his hand still rested over your heart, your smaller one covering his. Without thinking, Azriel brushed his thumb across your skin. A slow, reverent sweep. He felt it immediately— the sudden, sharp skip of your heartbeat under his hand. 

“Your heart,” Azriel whispered, “It’s...beating really fast.”

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” you murmured, giving him a sheepish, crooked little smile.

“Why?”

Azriel swore he caught the faintest tint of pink at your cheeks.

“It tends to do that around you.”

Something inside him stumbled, caught on a beat he didn’t recognize. "Oh," he breathed out.

A few moments passed. And then, slowly, you shifted — separating just enough to ease down beside him. Azriel mourned the loss of your touch, of his hand on your skin. He settled into a similar position, watching as you tucked your knees to your chest and rested your head lightly atop them. 

The silence that followed felt easy. Comforting. Azriel was grateful for it, despite his longing to touch you again. His breaths, now more regular, were still slowly coming back to him. 

You turned to look at him, your cheek pressed against your knees. “What happened, Az?” 

Azriel squeezed his eyes shut. Shook his head once, almost imperceptibly.

Out of everyone, you were the only one he'd ever truly opened up to about these episodes. These small attacks — flashes of terror, of helplessness — they'd started creeping back after the second war against Hybern. A strange, ugly pattern.

He hated them. Hated the way they made him feel: weak, broken, like he was still the trembling boy locked away in a lightless cell. But he’d been doing better. He had been. And now — this — it felt like a step backward. Like a fall from a cliff he'd barely managed to climb. He felt like a failure. Like a burden.

“I…I don’t know. I just…”

He looked at you then. Really looked. At the way your eyes urged him to go on. And somehow, his thoughts came easier. More honest. 

The truth was — Azriel had spent most of his life benefiting from the image of someone fearless. The cold, steady blade in the dark. The one who didn’t flinch.

But Azriel was afraid all the time.

He moved through his fear like a second skin — worked off it, thrived off it. Fear of losing someone. Fear of being weak again. Fear of being proven wrong. Fear of being left behind. It sat in him like something feral, something sharp-toothed and restless, always on the edge of recognition.

He knew fear the way an animal knew the shift of the wind before a storm.

And lately, it was starting to take more than it gave. 

He hated it. Hated that for all the years he'd spent learning to master it, it still had the power to master him.

“I hate this,” Azriel said finally. Barely audible. “I hate that I can’t control this panic. That it’s still in me. That I freeze. When I’m needed most.”

“You’re not frozen now,” you said. “You came back.”

He shook his head. “I’m supposed to protect people. I’m supposed to keep our court safe. That’s what I’m for. If I can’t do that... if I’m just afraid…then what am I?”

“You’re still you. Even when you’re afraid. Especially then.”

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment. Nodded, just barely. “I think you’re the only one who thinks that.”

“The fearless don't win wars, Az. They just die faster. The ones who love... the ones who are afraid — they're the ones who survive. They're the ones who save people."

He blinked, like you’d struck him, and a wave of relief ran through his body. Azriel let out a rough breath — almost a laugh. “Since when did you get so philosophical?”

You shrugged, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “I used to date this guy…”

He arched his brow and you tilted your head, pretending to think. “Taught me a few things about war. About fear. About how important it is to find people worth being afraid for.”

Azriel’s mouth twitched upwards. “Sounds like a piece of work.”

You breathed a soft laugh and the quiet stretched again. He ran his fingers idly through a blade of grass, taking in the calm night surrounding him. 

“How did you know where I went?” Az asked.

Your arms were wrapped around your knees, chin resting on them, eyes tracing his shadows dancing along the grass. “I made a lucky guess.”

“Well… thank you," he said, his heart glowing. "For finding me.”

You glanced at him, your eyes softening as you replied,  “Always.”

Then you tucked your chin back onto your knees, looking up at the sky again. The stars spun lazy arcs overhead. Azriel watched you instead— for a few indulgent moments, at least. 

Eventually, Azriel’s gaze drifted from you, scanning the patch of grass beneath you both.  A soft smile tugged at his lips as the memory surfaced—of the first time he kissed you—here, in this exact spot.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

authors note: posting this randomly as i am...crawling...slowly....from the grave.... where uninspired writers.... and my abandoned wips.... go to rot...

as a girl who has suffered w panic attacks my whole life (thank u traumatic events!) i would rather die than have someone like...kiss me for example, but i cannot tell u how intimate those moments are after someone sees you so vulnerable and theyre just like so...casual abt it? so i simply had to write a lil something, idk anyways enjoy this random lazy ass work <3 onto my series i go!!!!

fun fact.... this is actually a scrapped scene from one of my drafted series, that full exes to lovers, second chance romance, best friends to luvers goodnesssss!!!!

permanent tag list 🫶🏻 (im going to revamp this soon, so if you wanna stay on it, let me know!!)

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli  @mrsjna

@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows @mellowmusings

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

@rottenroyalebooks @jurdanpotter @casiiopea2 @gamarancianne @weesablackbeak

@booksaremyescapeworld @knoxic  @wynintheclouds @dacrethehalls  @louisa-harrier

[itsswritten]

Happy to take drabble requests for our dark Az — think rabid guard day would sniff your panties stalk you for months before finally plucking to the courage to talk to you, will kill anyone who so looks at you the wrong way, doesn’t let you lift and finger and treats you like a princess but absolutely devours you in private and doesn’t give you a lick of personal space and privacy…I could go on

Would you guys wanna read about this kind of Az? 👀