Healer!reader - Blog Posts

I need help finding an azriel fic.

I hasn’t finished it and when I left the app it just disappeared.

It’s an enemies to lovers where the reader is a healer and specialises in healing Illyrian wings. At some point azriel and reader have to fly together to Windhaven. The last part i read was when Morrigan and Cassian came to Readers house after reader had hooked up with someone they met at Rita’s.

The fic also switches between first person readers pov and third person azriel pov.

The Price of Saving Until You Care

Summary: You have the power to heal others by transferring their injuries onto you. After healing Bucky from a serious wound, he confronts you about constantly sacrificing your own well-being for him and you confront him about his recklessness in throwing his life away. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to transfer injuries onto herself. You and Bucky get injured in this. ANGST. References and/or talk of death & suicide. (It doesn’t happen here.) Bucky’s self-worth issues. You are responsible for the media you consume

Word Count: 1.5k+

A/N: Here’s that other version of Healer!reader where her powers can transfer injuries onto herself. I also had another thought while writing this. Same concept, but she can’t feel the pain she transfers. But this version had more depth to it.

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

Pain was a strange thing.

Most people avoided it, feared it, or resented it. You? You made peace with it, letting it in like a familiar guest.

Your hands could heal, not with any glowing light, magical song, or celestial warmth, but with quiet, invisible sacrifice. Every wound you closed on someone else opened in your own body. A broken bone, a stab wound, a punctured lung, you could mend them all. But the damage had to go somewhere, and it always chose you.

At first, it felt noble. Heroic, even. Like you were doing something pure in a world full of compromise. Over time, though, that feeling didn’t last. Not after your body started to break faster than it could rebuild. Not after people began expecting it of you. And not after he started looking at you with that hollow-eyed grief every time you touched him.

Bucky Barnes was the only one who never asked.

That’s why you kept doing it for him.

He never demanded your gift, never leaned on it. If anything, he flinched when you reached for him. He stitched his own wounds in silence, like penance, like punishment. But he bled so often and so deeply, and there was only so much you could watch before stepping in.

So you made the choice he never would.

You took the pain he refused to burden anyone else with and carried it like a secret.

The first time you healed him, it was a gunshot to the thigh. He’d collapsed behind cover, gritting his teeth, trying to keep firing with one hand pressed hard over the bleeding wound. You crawled to him, pressed your palm against his jeans, and told him to breathe.

He didn’t understand right away. Not until later, when he saw you limping and pieced it together.

“What did you do?” He had asked, panic breaking through the walls he always wore.

You lied then and said it was a stray bullet. Said you were fine. You weren’t, of course. But the look on his face, that was worse than any pain. So you kept the truth buried.

Now, you’d done it too many times to count.

You didn't talk about your ability much. People either praised it or pitied it, and you didn’t need either. To you, it was like… math. You had a body that could endure pain and a world that couldn’t survive without help. It wasn’t heroism. It was simple. It was balance.

But even balance breaks when it leans too hard in one direction. And lately, Bucky had been leaning too hard and the rest of the team noticed it too. He became too reckless, too self-destructive, too tired of being saved.

That’s why you stood in the medbay now, chest already aching from a gash you took earlier, watching him sit bloodied and bruised and already trying to push you away.

The medbay lights buzzed faintly above, casting a harsh white sheen across the steel counters and bloodied gauze. Bucky sat shirtless on the edge of the gurney, one hand clamped over a ragged tear in his side. Blood still leaked between his fingers. His metal arm hung loose by his side, stained red.

You stepped forward quietly and approached slowly.

He heard you though. Evident in how his gaze flicked up, icy blue and already narrowing. “Don’t.”

You didn’t answer as you just moved to stand in front of him, reaching into the tray for a cloth. His blood had soaked deep into the fabric around the wound. Too deep for bandages.

“I mean it,” He growled, more force behind it this time. “You’re not doing that thing again.”

Your hand hesitated in the air before dropping. “It’s not a thing, Bucky. It’s me.”

He flinched. Just slightly. A beat of hesitation long enough for you to press your palm against his ribs.

Heat bloomed between your fingers. Your power worked silently, no fanfare, no shimmer of light, just the subtle pull, the invisible trade. His flesh knit together, the muscle reforming under your touch, sealing like it had never been torn.

Then came the pain as your breath hitched, feeling it bloom sharply through your ribs, mirroring the exact placement of his injury. The gash tore itself into you now; hot, wet, and burning deep. You exhaled through gritted teeth, willing yourself to stay upright.

Bucky grabbed your wrist.

“Stop. Please.” His voice was hoarse now. “Stop.”

“It’s already done,” You whispered.

He stood up too fast, panic flashing in his eyes. His hand hovered just short of touching you again. “Why would you do that? You said… You said you wouldn’t anymore.”

“I didn’t say that,” You leaned against the gurney now slightly, murmuring your defense. “You asked. I didn’t answer.”

“You’re bleeding.” His voice cracked. “You’re always bleeding for me.”

You looked down to see blood was spreading across your shirt now, warm and slow, the price of one man’s survival. You’d felt worse. Your pain tolerance was higher than others' after all, but that didn’t make this easy.

“You don’t get to die just because you’re tired,” You let out before you could think of the consequences, staring at anything else but him. “You don’t get to throw yourself at death like it’s the only thing you deserve.”

“And you don’t get to keep hurting yourself just to prove that I matter!” He shouted, voice echoing off the sterile walls. “You can’t keep doing this. You’ll…. disappear.”

He couldn’t bring himself to say the correct word. You finally met his gaze, taking a trembling step closer.

“I will. If you keep doing this. If you don’t stop treating yourself like you’re expendable.”

His expression twisted, a painful, broken thing. “Why?”

“Because you won’t save yourself,” You whispered. “So I will. Until you start caring about your life… or until you realize I gave you mine.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then, quietly, like a thread unraveling:

“I care.”

You blinked.

“I care,” He repeated. “I just… didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

Your breath caught.

He reached for you slowly, fingers brushing the edge of your shirt where the blood had bloomed red. “Let me try,” he said. “Let me start now.”

He stared at the blood staining your shirt, the way your breath hitched with every movement. His hands hovered like he didn’t know how to touch you gently, like anything he did would break you more. So, you helped him out by sitting down first. The gurney was cold under you, the pain a dull, pulsing throb in your side. It would last a few hours, maybe a few days, like most of them did. But you didn’t regret it. Not when he was alive. Not when he was here.

Bucky slowly stepped in front of you. He moved like he was approaching something sacred. Or fragile. He unzipped one of the emergency medkits and grabbed clean gauze, then glanced up to meet your eyes as if to ask for permission. You gave a small nod.

His fingers trembled just slightly as he lifted your shirt, revealing the angry gash blooming across your side.

He hissed through his teeth. “It should’ve been me.”

You smiled at him, dry and tired. “It was you.”

“No,” He muttered. “I meant… it should’ve stayed on me. I could’ve taken it.”

You cupped the back of his metal hand, pressing it gently against your knee. “You already take too much.”

This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he focused on cleaning the wound, his hands methodical, precise. You watched the way his brow furrowed, the way he avoided your eyes like he couldn’t bear to look at the pain he’d caused. A similar look to the guilt people wore when they found out how your power worked.

“You don’t have to punish yourself every day,” You sighed.

“I’m not trying to.”

“Then stop flinching every time I help you.”

Bucky let out a low breath. “I flinch because you matter. Because every time you do this, I remember what it feels like to watch someone choose my life over theirs. And… I’m scared one day, you’ll make that choice for the last time.”

He finished dressing the wound in silence before he rose slowly and sat beside you.

For a moment, the room was quiet, the soft hum of overhead lights still present, and the echo of shared breath.

“You said something earlier,” He began finally, voice low. “That I wouldn’t save myself. That I don’t care if I die.”

You looked at him, quiet.

He nodded to himself. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not for a long time. But watching you hurt for me? Watching you bleed and not even hesitate? That scares the hell out of me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Then let it change you.”

Bucky was still for a beat. Then he shifted, slowly wrapping an arm around you, careful of your wound, careful of everything. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real. Warm. Grounded.

“I don’t know how to start,” He admitted.

“You just did,” Your eyes slipping closed.

And in that quiet room, beneath too-bright lights and the weight of too many regrets, he held you like someone trying, finally, to be worth saving.