[sunshinepeachx]

There is no way that I just happened to turn to Criminal Minds on tv and Shawn Hatosy is the first face I see.

[lucyrose191]

NOBODY ELSE | A Z R I E L

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand!sister!reader

Summary: It would only ever be you, no matter how much time had passed.

Warnings: fluff, angst, reader described to have the same eyes as Rhys.

A C O T A R M A S T E R L I S T

There had been many times over the course of being chained within the depths of this cave in which you had thought yourself to have officially gone insane but the moment you felt as though the shadows in the corners of this prison began moving was when you had accepted that insanity had taken over you but the moment you began hearing them whispering to you was truly the loss of all hope.

You had long since lost count of time, with nothing but darkness surrounding you and no hope for any light to work its way into this godforsaken pit, days were passing by without your knowledge. It had been years at this point, how many, you didn’t know but long enough for the world outside to be a distant echo and for your presence to have faded into a pitiful whisper.

Years passed by with only the reminders of your old life to keep you company; you often dreamed of those times your brother carved out time in his day to braid your hair or when you would both jump out of the windows late at night to fly over Velaris together. You’d dream of your mother, how she’d let you sit and ‘help’ her make dresses or that time you were so outraged when you were learning how to fly and she pushed you straight from the balcony of the House of Wind so that you had no choice but to fly.

Your days were filled with flashes of them all; your mother, Rhysand, Mor and Cassian.

You wondered how much of life had moved on without you.

Was Rhysand High Lord yet?

If he was, how had your father died?

Had Rhysand found his mate?

Had he made her High Lady like you both always spoke about?

In those extra difficult times that your control slipped even further, those memories of the Shadowsinger would linger the harshest.

You did not like thinking of how much his life had moved on without you.

Rhysand and Feyre stood together in the kitchen of the townhouse, looking through the window into the garden where Elain was tending to the flower garden and Azriel was sprawled out nearby, sunning his wings.

“Do you think the Cauldron can make mistakes with mates?” Feyre asked him, a look of confused anguish on her face.

Rhysand looked towards his mate, surprise dancing in his eyes at her question. “Nobody truly knows what makes the cauldron put two people together. They’re not always perfectly compatible, my own parents were examples of that, they never truly loved each other. Others, like us, are lucky to find love with their mate.”

Feyre continued looking out into the garden. “Why couldn’t the cauldron have made Azriel, Elain’s mate, instead of Lucien. Lucien is good but they look good together,” Feyre pointed out to where the Shadowsinger was still sprawled on the grass.

A pulse of pain pulled through their bond causing Feyre to snap her eyes back to Rhys. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes, it wasn’t just any pain. It was the sort of pain that lingered and dwelled, a grief that would forever remain no matter how much time passed but there was also a subtle protectiveness in his eyes that could almost be missed.

Feyre was confused.

Rhysand swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Do not mistake Azriel’s kindness towards your sister as affection. He is spending time with her because I ordered him too, to try and understand her powers. You’re reading into something that isn’t there.” His voice was stern but not unkind.

Feyre’s brows furrowed at his words. “It would be an honour for Azriel to find his mate, with anyone.”

“Azriel does not want a mate, Feyre.” The sheer confidence in Rhysand’s words only confused her even more.

“But why would he not want a mate? I thought everyone dreams of having one.” She questioned, looking out at Azriel’s figure in the garden.

She thought Azriel of all people would want a mate.

“Azriel has already had his great love,” Rhysand said. “No mating bond could ever live up to that for him. There are loves that even the cauldron cannot compete with.”

“What?” Feyre asked, shock taking over her face. “Who?”

That pain appeared in Rhys’ eyes again, a quick flash but it was there. “I meant it when I said I have no secrets to keep from you but not all stories are solely mine to tell. I am not going to tell you Azriel’s secrets.”

Feyre nodded silently. She understood, it didn’t diminish her curiosity but she would not pry for answers that weren’t hers to have.

Azriel’s footsteps were silent as always, shadows licking at his heals and fingertips as he walked towards Rhys’ office.

Not bothering to knock, his gloved hand unlatched the handle as he stepped inside. “You called, brother?”

Rhys was sat back in his chair, unsurprisingly dressed in his formals but the conflicted look on his face ruffled his demeanour. “I’d like to preface by saying you haven’t done anything wrong, my mate simply is too nosey for her own good and sees things she hopes are there rather than reality at times.”

Azriel’s face remained at an impasse other than the slight narrowing of his golden, hazel eyes.

Rhysand sighed. “Feyre is under the impression that you and Elain may make for a better match than her and Lucien.”

The control Azriel had on himself immediately slipped as he stepped back, eyes widening in shock, fists clenching by his sides as his shadows fluttered around him. “No. Rhys, I would never-”

“I know” Rhys interrupted. “I am not accusing you of doing anything, Az. I just thought it best to let you know.”

Azriel shifted uncomfortably at his words. “You know there is no one else, there never has been and there will never be anyone else.” He insisted, wanting his brother to believe him.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “I know. I have never doubted that even though it would be okay if eventually-”

“No!” Azriel’s cut him off, “There will never be another.”

“Okay,” Rhys conceded. “I just wanted to let you know, Azriel.”

Azriel nodded his head, not hesitating in taking his exit, leaving Rhys there in a suffocating silence of loss.

“You’re distracted,” Cassian dropped his stance, looking towards Feyre intently.

His High Lady sighed in frustration, leaning back against the ropes of the sparring ring.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked.

Feyre pursed her lips in contemplation before relenting. “Did you three actually used do things in the same room as each other?”

Cassian barked out a deep laugh at her question. “That’s what’s on your mind?”

Feyre shrugged sheepishly.

Cassian shook his head, a large smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, Rhys and I did. It would be a bit weird and incredibly uncomfortable for us all if Azriel did.”

Feyre tilted her head curiously, “Why?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice for Rhys to see his best friend having his way with the girl he loves more than anything, would it?” He said, as though it was obvious. “Besides, Azriel has way too much respect for him to do that anyways.”

Feyre’s eyes widened in shock but there was also a sickening feeling of jealously bubbling in her stomach. “So, Azriel and Rhys loved the same girl?”

Cassian, way too focused now on stretching to acknowledge how his words had been interpreted. “We all love her but those two always have and always will love her most. She’s their number one girl.”

Number one girl.

Feyre did not like the sound of that at all. She hated it and she hated herself even more because of the jealously that gnawed at her. “They didn’t hate each other for that?” She questioned.

Cassian shook his head, mid lunge. “Azriel had no reason to hate Rhys. It was difficult for Rhys to accept in the beginning and Azriel understood that but Rhys saw how much love was there, it was impossible to miss so who was he to stand in the way of that?”

Feyre stood in thought for a moment. “So, Rhys loved her first?”

Cassian laughed. “Of course he did. It’s not really a competition though, is it?”

She didn’t answer him, she simply stood there, thoughts swirling.

Feyre hated herself, she hated that she could not stop thinking about this girl who must have been something really special for both Rhys and Azriel to both love.

She’s their number one girl.

No matter how hard she had tried to not think about it, she couldn’t help it.

“What’s on your mind, Feyre darling?” Rhys’ smooth voice slipped through the silence of their bedroom.

She looked up at him from her place at the edge of their bed. “It’s nothing,” she stated simply.

Rhys frowned at her dismissal, placing his watch on his bedside table before walking to stand in front of her. He pressed a palm to the side of her face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”

She sighed, mostly in frustration at herself, partially in his insistence to talk about it. “Where you in love with Azriel’s mate?”

The utter bewilderment that appeared on Rhys’ face made her immediately regret her words and watch to shrink back in on herself. “What!?”

Feyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she tried to pull away but Rhys kept his hand on the side of her face, steadying her.

“Azriel doesn’t have a mate,” he told her, utter confusion lacing his words.

Feyre shrugged, “Were you in love with the same girl then?”

“I’m so confused, no?” Rhys said, having absolutely no idea where she could’ve gotten this from. “Where have you gotten this from?”

Feyre looked at him, frustration beginning to build within her. “I asked Cassian about how you used to do things in the same room, he said you and him did but not Azriel because it wouldn’t be nice for him to be pleasuring a girl that you loved! He said she was yours and Azriel’s number one girl.”

Rhys pulled his hand from her face and placed it over his mouth. The confusion in his eyes had faded into a an amusing sparkle as his shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.

“What!?” Feyre huffed. “What are you laughing at!?”

Rhysand released a full deep chuckle at her frustrations. “Cassian is an idiot and you are utterly beautiful when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!” She argued.

Rhys simply raised an eyebrow at her, completely unconvinced. “You’ve completely misinterpreted Cassian’s words, Feyre darling. It is still not my story to tell but I can promise you that Azriel and I have never been in love with the same girl.”

It had been five centuries since the disappearance of you and your mother and Azriel had never been the same.

Long before he met you, Azriel had learned what it meant to live in loneliness with nothing but his shadows for company but loneliness in response to your absence was never quite something anyone could become familiar with.

It was an endless void of nothing. Normally the thread of silence would at least end somewhere; a place where you simply got used to the feeling of someone not being there; but not with you.

It had been five centuries since your last laugh and that entire time Azriel has spent sleeping in your room. The room that sat right next to his own where your beds were pushed against the shared wall so even in your own beds you would be sleeping as close as you could get to each other.

It remained exactly how you left it, the same books sat on the nightstands, the same jewellery littered across a dressing table and a beautiful dress of deep blue with glittering silver stars on the bodice hung from the door of the closet, preparing to be worn for a day that never came.

Each morning that Azriel woke and got ready for the day, his last words to the House of Wind always remained the same. Leave it exactly how she left it, please.

The House always listened.

Whilst Azriel no longer slept in his own room, it had changed. The walls that were once a basic white had been transformed into a purple so unique it could only reflect the colour of your eyes.

In those rare moments that Azriel was able to relax away from the world, he would lay in his bed and stare at the walls of his room and whilst they could never reflect the light in a sparkle the way your own eyes could, the paint would simply have to do.

The winter chill of the Illyrian Steppes bit harshly into your cheeks as you ran through the thick snow into the forests surrounding the Windhaven camp.

The males were awful here, brutal even but even they knew to leave the daughter of the High Lord alone and so you were free to wander without the risk of your wings being torn from your back.

The trees created sanctuary for you here, as you weaved in between them you thought of your brother, Rhys and how quickly he would lose his mind once he found you gone.

A deep rooted feeling of being watched suddenly stirred in your stomach causing you to pause. It was the most subtle weight you had ever felt and yet you could not help but feel it as it settled into your bones.

You cast a quick glance up into the branches of the trees above you, where their leaves and twigs clashed and combined with one another, it took a moment for you to spot them but eventually you did.

Within a particular tall tree that was shaped in all groves and turns towards the top, deep within the shadows is where you saw him.

A male.

Sitting, observing.

“Hello,” you greeted softly.

No answer.

“What are you doing up there?” You asked.

The shadows fluttered and twitched at first before melting away into a black mist behind the males shoulders, revealing his face.

“Oh,” you whispered, taking in the hard expression of his face. He had hair of a dark midnight sky, eyebrows just a shade lighter that were furrowed deeply, shadowing his eyes that, against his dark features, seemed to glow golden when they narrowed towards you. He was all sharp lines and tensed muscles.

He shifted slightly in his place against the branches of the tree before stepping forward and allowing himself to gracefully drop down in front of you, merely inches away as he stared down into your eyes.

“How did you see me?” He asked, his voice was rough and deep for his age, possibly a couple years older than you, but his tone was steady.

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “I felt your eyes on me.”

It was then that you took notice of just how tightly his wings were pulled in at his back, a complete contrast to yours that were much more relaxed; pulled in just enough to protect them but let out enough that you didn’t have to consciously hold them in all the time, “you’ll get back pain holding them in like that,” you told him, pointing briefly at his wings.

They twitched in response, shadows fluttering wildly around the tips of his wings. It wasn’t a purposeful movement, that you could tell.

“I can’t control them,” He admitted to you.

Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”

“I cannot fly,” he said. “I never learned how to control them.”

You stepped back at his words. “You can’t fly!?” You spluttered in outrage. “Why can’t you fly? Are you injured?”

He shrugged in a way that showed this wasn’t a big deal to him, as though it was normal. “I wasn’t allowed outside,” he stated simply.

You frowned, the idea of not being allowed outside was unfathomable to you. “You weren’t allowed?”

“My father didn’t let me,” his words remained even, unaware of the turmoil that was stirring in your gut the more he spoke, a turmoil that you couldn’t quite explain.

“Why?” You asked.

“Because I am a bastard,” he said, his tone empty and detached, as though he had long since accepted that was all he was reduced to.

You did not like how he seemed to convinced that that’s all he was worth.

“You’re a Shadowsinger,” you pointed out, remembering old tales of myths and legends you had read before. “Those are very rare.”

The shadows clinging to him fluttered and preened at the tips of his wings and over his shoulders as though they understood your words.

Azriel nodded in response, feet scuffing into the dirt often forest uncomfortably at your words.

“That’s so cool!” You whispered in awe, the admiration you felt was completely authentic but you were also hoping it comforted him a bit.

He looked at you, the only hint of confusion on his face was the soft crease between his browns and the subtlest tilt of his head. “You’re not scared?” He asked.

“Of what?” You laughed, as though the idea was absurd.

“Of me,” he raised one of his gloved hands, tapping his index finger into his chest.

“Have you given me a reason to be scared?”

He paused at your question, internally baffled at this entire interaction. “I suppose not,” he muttered to himself, the idea of you not being scared simply just from his presence was beyond him.

“What’s your name?” You abruptly changed the subject.

He was silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell you or not. “Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeated softly, testing how it sounded. “That’s a beautiful name,” you told him.

His shadows twitched, his wings almost flinched at your complement, Azriel shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you want to be my friend, Azriel?”

“I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

You pursed your lips in response, looking around the forest floor before speaking. “I’ve never really had a friend either, there’s my brother, Rhys, but he doesn’t count. Do you have any siblings?”

Azriel tensed at your question, his entire body stiffening, hands clenching in his gloves. “No, it’s just me.”

“Well,” you began, “I’d be honoured to be your first friend, if you’ll be mine?”

You were beyond confusing to Azriel, the first person besides his mother to not look at him with fear or disgust, to look at him and just see a person.

Azriel did not reply verbally but he didn’t need to, you didn’t mind and so he simply nodded in response earning a beaming smile from you.

“Spread your wings out wide,” you instructed softly.

“They’re heavy,” Azriel muttered, wings spreading in stuttering movements, face twisting slightly as he concentrated on holding them.

Your eyes ran along his wings now that they weren’t tucked in painfully right, taking in the large span of them, they fluttered under your gaze, completely against Azriel’s control.

“That’s because your back muscles aren’t used to holding their weight, we’ll need to strengthen them,” you explained, eyes snapping away from his wings, towards his own hazel eyes instead.

“How do we strengthen them?” He asked.

“Exercises, most are trained from babies to use their wings so it comes a lot more naturally but we can do it together.” You smiled at him encouragingly.

You knew this was hard for him, you knew he thought he wasn’t worth your help and you knew that this entire situation was uncomfortable for him but you wanted to help him and you liked spending time with him.

“I struggled with flying at first,” you admitted, hoping it would comfort him in some way.

His eyes stopped glancing to the trees around you, now focused. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Rhys was flying before he could walk but I was too scared to do it. I didn’t trust myself. I kept imagining my wings just not working one day and falling to my death.”

Azriel shifted subtly, shadows restless. “How did you do it?”

“I had no choice,” you said. “One day my mother and I were looking at the stars from the balcony of our home and she just pushed me off, I had no choice but to trust my wings or fall and I flew for the first time that day.”

Azriel’s eyes widened. “She pushed you off the balcony!?”

You smiled widely. “Yeah, I was so angry, I didn’t speak to her for a week but it worked. I won’t be pushing you off ledges until you can hold your wings properly though.”

You could detect the subtle relief that reflected in the golden hazel hue of Azriel’s eyes, as though he expected you to be able to push him off of any ledge and force him to command his wings that didn’t seem willing to answer him yet.

At some point, you will take great joy in pushing him off a cliff.

Not yet though.

Only when he was ready.

“Where does my starlight keep running off to?” Your mother’s gentle voice filtered through your ears as she brushed through your hair carefully.

You were silent for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal your secret. “I made a friend.”

You felt the comb pause briefly against your head before it continued. Your mother hummed absentmindedly. “Did you? Do I get to meet this friend?”

You pursed your lips in contemplation, an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness surging through your body. “He’s shy, he doesn’t like being around people,” you told her.

You missed the amused smile that appeared on your mother’s face, no doubt intrigued at the strange protectiveness that you had for your age. “He?” She asked, almost teasingly.

You huffed in response but a smile grew on your face that you couldn’t stop. “Yes,” you said strongly before your tone shifted to pride. “He’s my friend, I’m teaching him to fly.”

Your mother paused entirely, turning your body to face her own causing your eyes to meet her own that held the same violet hue she passed down to you and your brother. “Teaching him to fly? How old is this friend?”

Your shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Rhys’ age. His father never let him outside so he can’t fly.”

Worry clouded your mother’s face at your words. “Is he a good boy?”

A bright smile overtook your face at her question. “He’s the best! He’s very quiet but he still speaks to me and he listens to all of my complaining and his shadows play with my hair!”

“Shadows?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“He’s a Shadowsinger,” you whispered. “Those are very rare.”

“They are,” she repeated. “Don’t tell your father about him, starlight.”

“I would never,” you swore, your voice demonstrating the dramatic outrage of a child who couldn’t fathom sharing information like that to your father. “Mama?”

“Yes, starlight?” She asked, turning you back around so she could start braiding your hair.

“Don’t tell Rhys, okay?” You told her, your brother could get way too protective, it was embarrassing.

“I would never tell Rhys, starlight. Or Cassian.” She promised.

“Definitely not Cassian.” You agreed.

“I’m not ready!” Azriel protested, warily looking over the edge of the cliff you had pretty much dragged him too.

“You are ready!” You argued. “You’ve got great control of your wings and your muscles are as strong as can be!”

Azriel shook his head, shadows darting around him, showing his nerves. “What if I fall?”

“Then I’ll catch you!” You replied simply.

“I’m too heavy for you to catch me!” He protested.

“You are not, I’m strong!” You argued, outraged at his accusation. “I’ll hold your hands?” You proposed, already reaching out towards his own gloved hands.

Azriel looked down at your outstretched hands, hesitation clear on his face, he really wasn’t sure about this but he did really want to be able to fly.

He relented, placing his hands in yours, earning himself one of your bright smiles, stars twinkling happily in your eyes.

Your wings fluttered slowly, not enough to lift you off the ground, just enough to encourage Azriel to copy your actions.

You slowly increased the force at which your wings beat, air building with the crevice of each controlled flap of the membrane.

Azriel copied your movements, his own wings much larger in comparison to any you’ve seen on other children your age, your own were quite big for a female Illyrian so young.

Azriel felt the change in gravity, the way his feet were itching to leave the ground on their own accord, as though his body was fully attuned and aware to what was currently happening even if it was unfamiliar.

“You’re doing it,” you whispered proudly, your own feet lifting off the ground before Azriel’s but your hands stayed in his as you remained stationary in the air, feet just slightly off the ground as you waited patiently for his own body to rise into the wind.

“You’re so close, just a bit more.” You encouraged him.

The second the air swept beneath Azriel’s feet for the first time, it felt as though his entire body was about to fall backwards as he had nothing to stand on but your hands tightened on his own, keeping him straight as he unsteadily rose with you, trying to focus on keeping his wings moving.

“It’ll come naturally the more you do it,” you told him. “You won’t even have to think about it.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure about that but as he felt the wind beneath his wings as he became airborne for the first time, with your hands holding his, he chose to believe you anyway.

“You’re flying Azriel!” Sheer joy and pride filled your face as you looked at him, he thought you looked beautiful like this.

The wind causing your hair to flutter around your face, eyes sparkling at the freedom that flying gave you and your smile took up your whole face as it always did.

Distracted by the sight of you in your element, Azriel lost focus of his wings causing him to quickly drop a few feet but your hands tightened on his just as his heart dropped in his chest out of panic.

He concentrated on beating his wings again, fluttering slightly higher than previously.

But even as he concentrated on flying, his mind was also on something else.

You had caught him, just like you said you would.

Wake. Wake. Wake.

Their hissing little whispers nudged you from unconsciousness. The cold concrete of the cave dug uncomfortably into your back. You groaned, shifting as your eyes opened, adjusting to the thick, clouded darkness you had been forced to endure for five centuries.

Another day it remained the same.

A sharp, slithering coldness nudged against your cheek, and again against your fingertips. You looked down in confusion, taking in the grey-black strands of darkness fluttering around your hands.

You raised your hands slightly, it was hard to see clearly but they resembled beings you had not seen in a very long time. The dark strands fluttered around your fingertips as you stared intently at them and in a movement so sharp, one lone sentient being jumped to your shoulder.

Your head snapped to the side as you looked at it, moving around, nestling into your clothes that had long since been reduced to scraps of fabric.

The beating beneath your chest stuttered as you stared at them.

Shadows.

They were shadows.

Master. Master. Master.

She hears us. She hears us.

They fluttered around you in a way that seemed to portray excitement.

Was that them talking?

“Azriel?” You whispered, broken yet that sick part of you still held a bit of hope.

Many years you had locked out memories of the Shadowsinger yet it never worked too well, you could never forget him and you would never forget the sentient beings that obeyed him either.

No.

They almost sounded like hisses.

“Not Azriel then.” You muttered. It did not surprise you, not really.

You didn’t understand.

“Another Shadowsinger?” You asked, it earned that same excited fluttering dance as before. Yes.

But who? You wondered.

It seemed they knew your thoughts too.

You. You.

Your face contorted into confusion. You weren’t a Shadowsinger.

You allowed yourself to think of Azriel again. Not of him exactly or the feeling of his love that had faded long ago but of his story.

Azriel had not been born a Shadowsinger.

How had Azriel become a Shadowsinger?

He had been locked in a dark cell for eleven years and had no choice but to find companionship within the darkness itself.

Oh.

“You’re my shadows.” You did not question this time.

Yes. They hissed again.

“But the faebane chains?” You wondered aloud.

“Shadows are not magic, they’re simply part of me.” Azriel had told you that before.

You studied them again, more intently this time and whilst they resembled the shadows of Azriel’s so very much there was the slightest hint of a difference; they weren’t just a grey-black, they had the slightest underlying tint of purple.

They truly were yours.

Release chains. They muttered, not to you, to themselves, fluttering around frantically.

“I can’t,” you whispered in long accepted defeat. “They won’t come off, someone else needs to do it.”

Your newly acquired shadows ignored you, muttering to themselves.

Shadowsinger will do it. Spymaster will do it.

But your energy was draining again, conscious slipping into darkness, your shadows slipping through the cracks of the cave without you knowing.

Azriel had been born alone and he would die alone.

He had accepted that was all life was made for him, there were those years he had you, moments were he thought he’d have you forever but you were taken, brutally slaughtered along with your mother in the spring court.

He had never and will never forgive himself for not being there to protect you. Truthfully he did not know how Rhysand could go on with life after that, not that his High Lord and brother didn’t deserve to live, he did, but how had grief not taken his sanity Azriel would never know.

He would never know how Rhys could look in the mirror and not see the shadows of his mother and sister, not when some days Azriel could not look into his eyes and see the very reflection of the young woman he lost, his woman.

It would forever just be Azriel and his shadows.

Another night that Azriel slept in your room alone, beneath your sheets, on the pillows you always hid that ridiculous stuffed bat beneath.

When he awoke this time though, it was different.

His shadows, usually fluttering lazily were muttering and batting around recklessly, their unease settling in Azriel’s chest, having the spymaster looking around the room carefully.

The only thing that seemed wrong were his shadows themselves, it was as though they were fighting each other?

Intruder. Intruder. They hissed, flying into each other as though they were in a sort of disorientated state. Azriel had never seen anything like it before.

Deep down, Azriel understood that there was no intruder in the House of Wind but he did not understand what they could be referring to.

The bond between himself and his shadows was strange. They told him things yes, but a lot of their communication came down to feelings, he felt their unease, their frustration, as though they were participating in an internal battle.

But why?

He sat up in your bed and observed them closely. He too, could see that there was something off but couldn’t quite put his mind to it.

Intruder. But where?

The shadows hissed at each other, floating around the room in distress, it was when the golden rays of the morning sunrise shone through the balcony window that he saw it.

His eyes, always so sharp, caught that difference in his shadows. Not his shadows, he concluded. Eyes widening, he reached out to that invisible thread and called his shadows back to him with a snap.

There it was.

A small cluster that did not return to him, a cluster of shadows that looked just the slightest different to his own. That underlying purple tint was not his.

He tried to reach out, tried to find that tether to them.

Nothing.

They did not seem threatening though.

They fluttered and danced around before him, as though they were trying to communicate with him but could not.

Help. His own shadows muttered.

“Help?” He questioned.

They plead help. They hissed into his ears. Another Shadowmaster. Trapped.

Azriel shook his head, he was the only shadowmaster.

No. They hissed, more stern this time, as though telling him he was wrong.

Azriel removed himself from your bed, pulling on his Illyrian leathers as quickly as possible, not even strapping his weapons to himself. Instead he simply grabbed Truthteller alone into its sheath.

He approached the bedroom door, turning to see if those other shadows would follow, they were.

He let himself out of the room, shadows, his and not his following behind closely, he barged into Rhys’ study causing the High Lord to jump, not that he would ever admit.

“Azriel?” Rhys greeted, looking up from his papers in barely concealed surprise. “A knock would be nice.”

“We have a problem.” Azriel simply responded earning Rhys’ full attention.

“What is it?”

Azriel held out a gloved hand and while Azriel had no means to communicate with these shadows, they understood him and gathered into his palm, fluttering into a rounded shape.

Rhys simply looked at them in confusion. “What am I looking at? New party trick?”

Azriel shook his head, face contorting as he studied them. “They’re not mine, I can’t communicate with them.”

“What?” Rhys uttered to himself.

“There’s another Shadowsinger out there,” Azriel responded, mostly to himself. “They communicate with my shadows but I can’t understand them myself.”

“Another Shadowsinger?” His High Lord mumbled, shaking his head. “No, you’re the only Shadowsinger alive.”

“Not anymore,” Azriel argued, his and the guest shadows beginning to flutter wildly in their own disagreement. “Apparently they’re trapped.”

Chained. His shadows corrected. Caved.

“Chained,” he spoke aloud.

“Perhaps for good reason,” Rhys argued, whilst Azriel was his brother and he trusted him beyond measures, he was well aware just how powerful Shadowsingers were, if this other Shadowsinger was locked away then perhaps it was because it was deserved.

Azriel shook his head, a sort of confused anguish taking over his features as he observed the shadows sitting in his palm. “They don’t feel threatening, or evil. They’re scared, pleading for help, for freedom.”

“How do you know they’re not pretending? That this other Shadowsinger hasn’t sent these here to play a ruse just to get their freedom?” Rhys asked.

The guest shadows in his palm shrunk down in defeat whilst his own fluttered in agitation around his shoulders and the tips of his wings.

She doesn’t know they’re here. She can’t control it yet.

Azriel listened to their whispers with widened eyes before looking at Rhys. “She cannot control them, this ability must be newly manifested, they came here on their own. Besides, shadows don’t work like that, they can’t fake feelings or emotions.”

“She?” Rhys sat up straighter in his chair at the newfound information.

“I can’t explain it, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, deep in thought. “I have this feeling that I need to free her, I don’t know why, it just feels right to.”

Those lone little shadows of yours clung to Azriel in the following days, against your knowledge. Azriel spent that time preparing himself for rescuing you, not that he knew it would be you he was rescuing, trying to gain as much information as he could through his own shadows translating messages back and forth with yours.

It was strange for Azriel, not only that there were sentient echoes of darkness that for some reason he could not communicate with but also knowing that somewhere out there, trapped and alone, there was another like him, another who could communicate with the darkness and melt into the shadows, even if it was a new manifestation.

The cave you were imprisoned in, he learned, was located somewhere in The Middle, because of course it was.

What other place would be sick enough to have trapped a person so long that the shadows had sought them out?

Trapped for centuries. The shadows had told him.

Bound by faebane chains, tormented by memories of a time that had long since faded.

Azriel, in all he had been through and in all his grief and terror over the years, could not imagine being trapped within the same four walls for hundreds of years.

He had barely lasted eleven, Rhys had hardly lasted fifty and yet out there, a poor woman had lasted hundreds of years, alone.

A woman of his kind.

The cave, as Azriel stood before it, was hardly a cave. It was more a carved hole in the ground, hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery that even he, a spymaster, would have overlooked had he passed by without your shadows leading him to it.

He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to squeeze his overgrown body into it.

Your shadows shot forward like whips, diving into the underground cave, no doubt snapping back to you, even though your lack of control, they were drawn to you, desired to be close to your being.

Azriel crouched down, inspecting the gap in the ground, his own shadows fluttering around in agitation, some even darting ahead into the cave. He peeled off his outer layers that he strapped his weapons to, sending them down into the cave before him.

Risky, no doubt, but he felt no threat towards whatever presence was inside this cave, only an innocently, trapped Shadowsinger.

One that meant no harm, only desiring freedom.

He heaved himself through the gap, the concrete lining the underground cave scratching against his arms and shoulders as he dragged himself through, gravity doing most of the work, allowing him to drop down onto solid stone and rock.

It smelled awful; blood, dirt, faebane and a hell of a lot like someone had long since lost the will to live.

He saw the chains, loads of them, hanging from the ceiling, from the walls, even some bound to the ground with bolts.

Even as someone bound by shadows and member of the Night Court, Azriel could not see clearly in the darkness of this pit but his shadows led the way, they led him to your shadows.

Your shadows that covered just about every part of you, hiding you as though attempting to protect your presence from anyone who could possibly mean harm, leaving you just the image of a darkened, fuzzy blur.

“I will not harm her,” Azriel promised. “I only want to free her, take her back to the Night Court, help her heal and gain control.”

He saw the way they hesitated, how they debated whether they had made the right decision in finding him or not.

She trusted you. They whispered, confessed. His own shadows translating. Long time ago.

Azriel did not know what they meant by that. Had he known her once upon a time?

It was when they finally relented and made the decision to fade away from covering your body that Azriel, despite all the gore and torment he had witnessed in his life, felt like he was going to be sick as his eyes fell upon the battered figure of a young, fae woman.

His fae woman.

No. He shook his head, as though it would shake the sick illusion from his mind.

Yet you remained in his sight.

He knew that figure, that hair, those lashes. It has all haunted his every sleep and movement for the last five hundred years. The colour beneath your eyelids that he had drenched his walls in, that he would look upon every morning and every night.

Even unhealthily slimmer than you had been five hundred years ago, there would not be a single moment or a single version of you in which Azriel would not recognise.

The first person who had shown him grace, who had shown him that kindness and love does in fact exist, the person who had given him the family that he still clings to today in hopes of grasping at every last remainder of you that he had believed was long lost.

Your name was a ghost on his lips as he surged forward, shadows following, your own fluttering at his shoulders now as he unsheathed truth-teller and sliced through the chains binding you to this sick prison.

The dagger you had given him.

The first gift he had ever received.

He collapsed to his knees beside your battered, unconscious body.

Your breaths shallow, wrists and ankles raw from centuries of imprisonment, body all but skin and bones.

He smoothed a marred thumb over your cheekbone, hands shaking as he took you in, your body surrendered to his touch as though finally, it had found something safe it could relax itself in.

And though you were unaware, still in the depths of your mind, your eyes had fluttered open, a deep purple hue that he had missed for hundreds of years.

Azriel choked on a sob as he gazed upon you again, his soul shattering open at the sight of the only person he had ever loved in his five hundred years walking the lands of Prythian.

He felt the moment part of his soul tore from his chest and landed straight into yours, a golden thread deep within him keeping it tethered to himself even though it now sat with you.

Because even though Azriel had never needed the confirmation of the Cauldron to know what you were to him, why had it taken him finding you after so long to finally snap into place?

[sunshinepeachx]

Hello? Absolutely amazing fic! Love it immensely.🩵

[danhumphrey]

as a human my ideal way to die would be something quick and painless in a national park at a very old age. as a bug my ideal way to die would be being accidentally crushed by a little girl playing outside and cried over and buried with a leaf headstone

[inadvertently-biblical]

FATE: THE WINX SAGA (2022) - 2x02

[sunshinepeachx]

And now I’m 30🎉

How crazy is that.

[metanarrates]

the slow casual creep of misogyny back into every point of our lives both digital and physical is making me feel fucking insane

[sunshinepeachx]

Caffeine at noon is a no go for me.

Specifically two quite large cups of coffee at noon is a terrible choice.

I’m so damn wired it’s really annoying. I just want to sleep.

[sunshinepeachx]

I did it again. But just one large cup which really equates to 2 cups of normal size coffee. Awful, terrible, no good idea.

[normasshearer]

l imagined him getting out at Churley... giving up his ticket, walking back through the streets... letting himself in his house with his latchkey. His wife, Madeleine... would probably be in the hall to meet him. Or perhaps upstairs, not feeling very well. "Small, dark, and rather delicate." l wondered if he'd say, "l met such a nice woman at the Kardomah... We had lunch and went to the pictures." But suddenly l knew he wouldn't. l knew he wouldn't say a word. Then the first awful feeling of danger swept over me.

BRIEF ENCOUNTER 1945, dir. David Lean

[sunshinepeachx]

Caffeine at noon is a no go for me.

Specifically two quite large cups of coffee at noon is a terrible choice.

I’m so damn wired it’s really annoying. I just want to sleep.

[sunshinepeachx]

My house smells like cigarettes.

I don’t smoke.

[levanterhaze]

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬

pairing: steve harrington x hopper!reader summary: You've known about the prophecy since the day you were born. The curse of the older sister.  Ever since you and El were raised together in that sterile, white hell—shaped into weapons of war—you knew your life wasn't yours. Dying wasn’t brave. It wasn’t noble. It was simply the inevitable conclusion you had been walking toward since birth. wc: 3.7K warnings: mentions of violence, cursing, mention of y'know, since she choose to die, heartbreak and angst. if you don't feel comfortable reading this, even if it's a 'rewrite' scene from the tv show, please don't read and preserve yourself. a/n: I was obsessed with the idea of Steve taking Mike's place when El leaves. So, here it is. I think I cried a few times while writing it (help). I was inspired by Ethel Cain's Nettles and Purple Rain to write it.

To love me is to suffer me And I believe it.

The cacophony was absolute—a craggy wall of voices, the sharp clack of assault rifles being readied, and the guttural curses of men who had forgotten how to be human.

Steve was shoved forward, the momentum of the crowd carrying him along with Dustin, Mike, and Robin. He caught a glimpse of Robin’s hands, bound tight enough to turn her fingers white, before a soldier’s gloved hand slammed into the back of his neck.

His face was crushed against the cold metal of the transport truck. The smell of oil and old blood filled his nostrils. He couldn't breathe. Every gasp was a battle, his lungs struggling against the weight of a man twice his size pinning him down.

The problem was, he couldn't find you anywhere.

“Hey—hey,” He grimaced, a sharp, sickening pop echoing in his ears as his zygomatic bone groaned under the pressure against the metal panel. “Have you seen her?”

Dustin twisted his head as far as the restraints allowed, face pale but steady. 

“She was with El, they must've escaped.”

The relief hit Steve like a physical wave. Good. That was more than good, it was the only thing that mattered. If the plan had worked—if the girl he loved was somewhere safe, somewhere far away from the screaming and the cold steel—then he could endure whatever was coming.

So a small, genuine smile blossomed on Steve's lips. It lasted only a second, because when he looked up, the smile died where it was born.

Where the sky had torn itself open, where the portal to the Upside Down bled a bruised, pulsating violet into the world, he saw you.

You weren't running. You were standing at the threshold, your silhouette framed by the apocalypse, your eyes fixed on the military line with a gaze so deadly it looked like it belonged to a different person.

“No… no, no, no—” Steve’s voice rose from a whimper to a raw, jagged roar. The realization settled in his gut like lead: you had stayed.

You were going to fight a war you couldn't win.

With a strength that shouldn't have existed in his broken, battered frame, Steve threw his head back. He felt the icky thud of his skull connecting with the soldier’s chin. He didn't wait for the man to fall. Two other guards lunged for him, their hands like iron claws on his sleeves, but something had snapped inside him. It wasn't bravery anymore, it was an animalistic, primal instinct.

“Steve!” Robin’s scream was high and thin, a desperate warning as a soldier leveled the butt of a rifle.

Steve didn't hear her. He stumbled, his legs heavy and uncoordinated, and when he finally fell to his knees, he didn't hit the pavement. Cold water splashed against his skin. He realized then, he was in your mind.

You walked quickly toward him and he got up, running to you.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice broke on the words. “Please—please don’t do this.”

His hands gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if the sheer force of his touch could tether you to the earth.

He was shaking. There were tears welling up in his eyes, and despite everything, it was his broken expression that haunted you the most.

“Steve,” you whispered, swallowing the thick knot of grief in your throat. You looked into those deer-like eyes, your own vision blurring as the first hot tears spilled over. “You need to listen to me. We don’t have much time.”

He was hyperventilating, his chest heaving under his bruised ribs. His eyes searched yours, begging for a lie, begging for a misunderstanding he could desperately fix.

“What? No—no, whatever you’re thinking, we’ll find another way. We always find another way.”

“I need you to understand my decision.”

“No. No. I don't—Please.”

You kept going because stopping would mean breaking. “I need you to tell the others the truth. Tell Hop that Jane's safe. I need you to tell them—” Your voice faltered. You forced it steady. “Tell them how grateful I am. For being so kind to me. For loving me.”

Tears slid freely down your cheeks. Steve lifted his hand without thinking, brushing them away with his thumb like he always did, like it was a reflex built into him. He was crying too, silent and helpless, but still trying to take care of you. He always would put you first.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, pleading now, like if he said it enough times, reality might listen.

“I do. Steve, this will never ends. El will be hunted for the rest of her life. She’s just a kid. She deserves a chance to grow up without blood on her hands.”

You caught his hands, pulling them from your face to hold them against your chest. His fingers were calloused, covered in the fresh scratches and deep purple bruises of the fight. They were the hands of a protector, and they were the only things you were going to miss.

He stared at you like you were speaking another language.

“What about you?” The question came out with a sharp edge of accusation, a jagged shard of resentment born from pure, unadulterated heartbreak. “Don’t you deserve to live? Don't I deserve for you to stay?”

You've known about the prophecy since the day you were born. The curse of the older sister.  Ever since you and El were raised together in that sterile, white hell—shaped into weapons of war—you knew your life wasn't yours. Dying wasn’t brave. It wasn’t noble. It was simply the inevitable conclusion you had been walking toward since birth.

You were the burden that was meant to be dropped so the light could keep shining.

And Steve—sweet, stubborn, endlessly kind Steve—was the only thing that had ever made you wish, just for a moment, that fate might be wrong.

But then Hopper found you and Jane together in that forest, clinging to each other like a second skin, desperate and afraid of what fate had planned. And that changed everything.

He had reached through the brush and pulled you into a life you were never supposed to have. He was resilient, jaggedly caring, and he tended to your wounds with a gentleness that felt like an assault on everything the lab had taught you. He fed you, gave you shelter, and advised you—doing all the things a father was supposed to do. A father you and Jane had only ever seen in child storybooks.

You had been reluctant at first, a wild thing trapped in a cabin. You ran away a dozen times because you were convinced that this life—the warm blankets, the Eggo waffles, the safety—was for Jane, not for you.

But Hopper had been immovable. He insisted, with a gruff, stubborn love, that you deserved that comfort too. It wasn't a luxurious life, but it was a life full of affection.

And what was supposed to be just a life for three became a big dysfunctional family, but one that you loved with every shattered piece of your heart.

Joyce, Jonathan, and Will. The family that went through hell on earth when little Byers was possessed and captured by darkness. There was Joyce, who taught you what it meant to be a woman, who brushed your hair with a mother’s tenderness and hugged you until the cold in your bones finally began to thaw. There was Jonathan, the quiet observer, who always stayed close enough to make sure you were alive.

The kids, who followed you like you were something out of a comic book. They made you feel brave when you were anything but. They welcomed Jane like she had always been theirs, and through them, you learned what friendship really was, unconditional, loud, forgiving.

Nancy showed you worlds hidden in books and taught you how to hold a gun without flinching. She kept your secret without ever asking for anything in return. Let you sleep in her basement when Hopper’s house became unbearable. Robin taught you sisterhood—real sisterhood. Movie nights, bad jokes, honesty without fear. She made life feel lighter just by standing beside you.

“Every moment of my life has led me here,” you said softly.

“Bullshit.” His voice cracked, raw and furious. “This is all bullshit. You can’t—you don’t deserve this. You can stay, I—”

“Steve,” you whispered. “Look at me.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands. His skin was cold, damp with sweat and tears. He pressed his lips together, a sob catching in his throat, and you felt the hot, thick tears roll down his cheeks until they pooled in the palms of your hands.

“From day one, you saw me. You saw beyond what I could see in myself.”

Steve let out a broken, animal sound and leaned into your touch, his eyes searching yours for a way out that didn't exist. He had spent years trying to convince you that you were worth saving, and now, he was watching you use that very life to save everyone else.

How could you ever forget that first night in the Wheeler basement? You had been a mess, bruised and soaked from head to toe, looking like you’d gone ten rounds with a nightmare. But even then, he didn’t look at you like a wounded animal. He didn’t look at you like a disposable tool of war. He looked at you with a careful, tentative affection that felt like the first warm sun after a lifetime of winter.

But the words had been written in the stars long before you met him and your story couldn't have been written any other way. If you were here now, it was because fate had allowed you to live. And if you lived, it was because Steve Harrington happened in your life.

It was because he accepted you for who you are. Because he fell first, pretending that all that fascination wasn't masked as love. Because he held your hand that Fourth of July and kissed you under the fireworks. It was because he saved you from near death and allowed you to still have some time together. It was the way he had knocked on Hopper’s door with a bouquet of flowers, his knees literally shaking with fear of your father, just to take you to a movie date. It was because he loved you devotedly, respected you, adored you with everything he had.

“If I know what it's like to love and to be loved, it’s because of you,” you whispered. “And you don't know how forever grateful I'll be to you for giving me that.”

“Please,” Steve murmured repeatedly, his hands trembling as he held your body against his. He was clutching you as if he could absorb you into his own skin, as if he could hide you from the fate that was coming for you.

“You made everything easier. All my life I believed I wasn't worthy of being loved, but then you came along and changed everything.” You smiled through the tears, a fragile, beautiful thing. “I wouldn't do anything differently, Steve. Not a single second.”

“Don't do this to me, babe—please, please—”

It was breaking your heart. Each plea was a physical blow. You felt your heart cracking, tiny pieces of it falling away one by one. 

“I need you to promise me something, okay? Look at me, Steve.” You sought his eyes and had to exercise a lot of self-control not to break down right there. “I want you to be happy. I want you to live the life of your dreams.”

His laugh was broken, almost soundless. “I fucking hate this,” he said. “How am I supposed to do that without you?”

“I’ll always be with you,” you said, even though you both knew what that promise cost. “You have a life ahead of you, Steve. A good one. Promise me you won’t stop. Promise me you’ll fight for it.”

He couldn't speak. He just looked at you, his chest heaving, his face a mosaic of soot, drying blood, and fresh, hot tears. He looked like he was physically dying, like his soul was being pulled through his ribs.

“I love you,” was all he managed to choke out between the jagged, guttural sobs that racked his body.

You smiled, even as your heart felt like it was being torn in two. 

“I love you, Steve Harrington.”

When you moved, you collided like lightning meeting thunder, violent, inevitable, and destructive. Your mouths crashed together in a disastrous mess of tears, salt, and terror.

Steve wanted time. God, he had wanted time so badly. He had built plans around it, trusted it like it was something guaranteed. The weight of his mother’s ring, hidden on a small chain beneath his shirt, felt like it was branding his skin. He had decided he'd propose the moment you got home, the moment the world was safe. He knew how much you dreamed of Alaska—of the frozen, silent mountains and the way the northern lights painted the sky—and he had spent every spare cent he had for a year to make that happen.

The initial plan was to propose to you with that breathtaking view as a witness to your youth, reckless, love. But Steve had always been haunted by the feeling that time was a thief. That was why he’d put the ring around his neck that morning. 

He just hadn’t known how little time he had left.

As he kissed you with a painful, bruising intensity, he reached for the chain. He ripped it from his neck, the metal snapping with a faint ping that was lost to the chaos. He pressed the cold silver into your palm, his fingers trembling as he closed your hand around it.

You felt it when he placed it in your hand, the cold metal against your palm.

You felt the weight of it, the history of a family you would never officially join. You deepened the kiss, holding him with a strength that defied your tired body. You were holding your first love, your only love, the boy who had made you human.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads touching, both of you breathless and ruined, you closed your fingers around the chain and held his hand instead.

“Please, please—” he whispered, the word barely there. “Don’t leave me.”

You wanted to say everything. You wanted to stay forever.

You were at the end of the road, and the time for promises had run out.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

The sound never fully left his throat. It caught there, raw and animal, and when reality slammed back into place, it did so cruelly. Hands dragged him backward. Boots scraped asphalt. Someone shouted orders he couldn’t hear because all he could hear was his own voice breaking apart as he screamed your name.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Everyone was frozen, witnesses to a sacrifice they were powerless to stop. Robin had collapsed to her knees, her sobs racking her frame until she was doubled over. Hopper stood paralyzed, his eyes brimming with tears he couldn't shed, his path blocked by a wall of military personnel. Nancy’s hands were pressed tight over her mouth, a single, silent tear tracking through the soot on her cheek.

These were your people. The one you had built out of chaos and survival and love. The one that had taught you what it meant to belong.

Steve fought like a caged animal, his boots scraping against the asphalt as he begged them to let him go, shouting your name until his lungs burned. He was thrown to the ground, the grit biting into his skin, but he never took his eyes off you.

You looked at Hopper one last time. Not to ask. Not to beg. Just to let him see that this was your choice. That you were at peace with it. That Jane would live. That she would grow up safe, loved, ordinary in all the ways you never got to be. She was now the age you had been when he found you in that forest, feral, terrified, alive. She deserved the life he had fought to give her.

“I'm sorry,” you whispered.

Then, the air crackled. You felt the surge of energy before the world white-outed—a hum that vibrated in your very marrow. A flash swept across the perimeter, a titanic force field that pushed the entire world back. The C4 charges detonated in a synchronized roar, and the Upside Down didn't just break, it folded. Everything was sucked into a violent whirlwind, a chaotic abyss that began to erase itself from existence.

The noise was horrifying, a primal scream of a dying dimension. You closed your eyes, letting go of the tethers that held you to the world of the living. In the fading distance, you could still hear them screaming your name.

But this was the end. This was your story, and as the darkness rushed in to claim you, you realized you were happy. You have lived. You have loved.

One last tear tracked down your cheek. And then, nothingness.

A deafening silence took over the place. Steve stared in sheer, unadulterated horror at the space where you should have been. There was no portal. Just a building in ruins, smoking under a normal, mocking sky.

You were gone. Truly, finally gone.

He dropped to his knees, skin splitting against dust, pain flaring uselessly through his hand. He didn’t feel it. There was no room for it. All he could see was you, every version of you he had ever loved, layered one on top of the other until it crushed him.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in broken hitches. It was then that he realized his fist was clenched tight around something cold. He raised his hand, blinking through the tears, and saw it: the silver chain, the wedding ring dangling from the end. He hadn't noticed, but you had put it back in his hands as a promise you were forcing him to keep. You wanted him to move on.

You wanted him to be happy. A future you were asking him to live without you.

Steve let out a sound that barely resembled a sob and curled forward, clutching the ring to his chest like it might still anchor him to you.

But it would never be the same.

Without you, there was no happy ending. 

“All right, all right—let’s go.”

Steve planted his hands on his hips, scanning the parking lot as the kids—who absolutely were not kids anymore—filed into the trailer. “Jeez, did you have to buy the whole store?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting as Robin struggled with a bag that looked one bad move away from tearing.

“In my defense,” she said, breathless but defiant, “we have, like, a small army to feed. And I needed a Kit Kat.” She held one up proudly. “I even brought one for you.” She tapped a second bar against Steve’s chest.

He caught it between his fingers, let out a long, grounded breath, and stuffed it into his pocket. “All right. Enough. Everyone here?” He poked his head into the trailer, performing the mental head-count that had become second nature.

Lucas glanced around. “Uh—Dustin’s not back yet.”

Steve opened his mouth to complain about the schedule when a familiar voice grumbled behind him.

“Jesus Christ, the bathroom in this place should be classified as a biohazard.” Dustin shrugged, his face twisted in a look of pure disgust.

“Everything okay, bud?” Steve took off his shades and patted Dustin’s shoulder, fighting back the laugh that threatened to break through his responsible adult mask.

“Barely,” Dustin said. “I stared death in the face in there, ‘cause—.”

“Biohazard,” Max interrupted, rolling her eyes with a smirk. “We get it.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“All right,” Steve said, gentle but firm, clapping hands to get everyone moving and get things in place. “Everybody, buckle up. Right now!” 

Max and Lucas were already arguing about who got to lean on whom for the next leg of the trip.  Dustin went back to his astrophysics book while Mike, Will, and El chatted happily in the back. 

Steve caught El’s eye in the mirror. She gave him a small nod, there was a depth of respect and gratitude in her eyes that always made Steve’s heart ache. 

When she had returned to Hawkins eighteen months after the Upside Down took you, it had been a bittersweet miracle. Hopper and Mike had known she was safe because of your final message, but for Steve, her return was the final, broken proof that you were gone.

He didn't blame her. He loved her. But looking at her was a constant, living reminder of the price you had paid.

“All right, dingus,” Robin said, already buckled in, watching him closely. “We doing this or what?”

Steve slid into the driver’s seat and fastened his seatbelt. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

He pressed play.

The familiar, melancholic chords of Piano Man filled the cabin, your favorite song. Billy Joel’s voice drifted through the speakers, steady and nostalgic. Steve turned the key, the engine roaring to life, and before they even cleared the gas station parking lot, the chaos in the back reached a fever pitch. Max was yelling at Lucas, Dustin was laughing at something Will said, and the air was thick with the life you had died to protect.

Beside him, Robin offered a small, closed-mouth smile: a look of pure solidarity. 

Before hitting the highway toward the long road to Alaska, Steve glanced in the rearview mirror. Hanging from the glass was the silver chain, the wedding ring catching the afternoon sun. It swung gently with the movement of the car, a North Star to guide him.

A small, genuine smile touched his lips. This was what you wanted. This was the life you would have led if fate had been kinder.

“All right, Alaska,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the music and the kids. “Here we come.”

He shifted the trailer into gear and pulled onto the open road. It was for the kids. It was for the future.

But most of all, it would always be for you.

[sunshinepeachx]

My heart is in shambles. This was beautiful in the most painful way. 🖤

[sunshinepeachx]

Just a girl continuously disappointed by her dad.

[bbyxdarlinnnn-deactivated202602]

daily reminder: fuck ice. fuck ice agents. fuck trump. and fuck you if you support them.

[radiowavesteve]

Steve x fem!reader | angst, eventual smut, pregnancy fic, descriptions of vomiting | 2.7k | miniseries

inspired by a post that I saw on my dash and lost track of!

The makeshift doctors clinic still has the same sterile white walls as your old office. Despite it being in a bunker, it smells the same. Like antiseptic and a mustiness that could only come with any medical setting. There was a photo on the panelling, a nondescript painting of a meadow with wildflowers growing amongst the trees.

It blurred and twisted.

“Miss?”

The whole room was spinning, actually, your feet suddenly feeling far too high from the linoleum floor, despite only sitting on the edge of the bed. The plastic covering crinkled under your weight and your fingers curled into the creases of it. God, you were too warm. The collar of your sweater was too tight, too scratchy.

Why couldn’t you breathe?

“Miss? Did you hear me?”

The hum of the generator that had become a high hum suddenly snapped back into focus, a dull droning sound in the background of the office. The doctor stood before you in a white coat, a woman with greying brown hair and glasses, eyeing you with concern. You sucked in a breath and ignored how it made your chest burn, how the scent of bleach stung your eyes.

Or maybe you were just crying.

“Is there someone you can call? Someone who can collect you?”

L

You sniffed, shaking your head and coming to life. You slid from the day bed and blinked, the overhead fluorescents making the entire scene seem glaringly real. Oh my god, this was real. You felt clumsy on your feet, the soles of your boots sinking into the imaginary sand beneath you and when you bent to grab your bag, your head rushed at the movement. Everything felt upside down, violently so.

You were sure you were going to be sick.

“What?” Your voice didn’t sound like your own. Maybe this wasn’t your body. It didn’t feel like it.

“I said, do you have someone you can call—?”

“No.” You shook your head, startled. Dazed. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

You weren’t fine.

You don’t remember walking out of the medical centre. You barely registered the electric buzz and the shriek of the electric gate as six guards with guns holstered at their hips let you out of the military zone. You stood at the side of the road, the November air nipping at your exposed skin, stinging your cheeks and ears. In a daze, you remembered you hadn’t driven there, instead choosing to ask your co-worker to drop you off after your shift. It felt clumsy to walk still, a numbness settling into your bones that felt harsher than the winter chill.

You walked. One foot in front of the other, you told yourself, that’s all you had to do right now. So you walked with your arms folded over your chest, your cold fingers tucked into your jacket sleeves in order to salvage what little heat you could. Your stomach was still rolling, your heart thudthudthudding in your chest.

You kept walking.

The Wheeler’s station wagon was parked outside or Steve’s house, along with Joyce’s car. Stepping over Dustin and Will’s bikes that were left haphazardly on the lawn, you hesitated at the front door. You never knocked, not when Steve’s parents were out of town.

But now, you weren’t sure what to do. You still felt like you were going to throw up and the red door blurred in front of you, your breath quickening. You could hear familiar voices inside, conversations and debates and the microwave beeping in the kitchen, the smell of pizza rolls reminding you of the lurching wave in your stomach.

You opened the door, immediately assaulted with the kind of chaos you’d grown accustomed to in the past year. Too much chatter, voices overlapping and a living room table full of empty soda cans and hand drawn maps and blueprints. El was on the couch with Mike and Lucas, a packet of hot Cheetos levitating above Dustin’s head across the room, just out of his reach.

Nancy was sitting on the stairs, barely looking up from the printed papers of god knows what as she greeted you with a distracted hello. Hopper was at the table in the kitchen, sitting with Jonathan as they spoke about the last crawl and the lack of findings. Robin was pulling popcorn out of the microwave, Joyce was pouring a cup of coffee and Steve—

Steve wasn’t there.

“Hi, sweetie,” Joyce smiled warmly at you as you stepped into the kitchen, scanning the space once more for the boy, as if you’d missed him, as if he was hiding in the fridge. “Coffee? I’ve just made a new po— are you okay?”

Joyce was in front of you, frowning with motherly concern and she placed the back of her hand on your forehead. You couldn’t help but flinch.

“Are you sick? You look like—”

Robin was staring. Hopper had looked up, his brow creased like Joyce’s.

Your tongue felt too big in your mouth and swallowing was a behemoth task. Your throat was thick, your mouth sticky, but you managed, “where’s Steve?”

Everyone in the room exchanged looks, not that you noticed. The patterned tiles behind the Harrington’s cooker was blurring, the colours swimming into the walls, leaning onto the counters. Your chest was heaving, your throat too tight, too thick. You couldn’t breathe.

“He’s, uh, he’s upstairs,” Robin answered softly, moving from where she had been leaning against the counter, as if to approach you. “Do you want me to go get him?”

You shook your head, the movement jerky and out of sorts. You should’ve replied. You should’ve said thank you. You should’ve tried to pretend you were okay but instead you just walked out of the room and stepped over Nancy on the stairs, not aware of the whispers, the looks, the worry.

Steve’s bedroom door was ajar, as was the one to his small en-suite. The sink was running, the sound of your boyfriend muttering to himself escaping through the crack. His room looked different to how it did when you first met him, the space lacking its personal belongings, his favourite pillow. Most of it was in your apartment, small trinkets, his radio and favourite cassettes, most of his clothes, a few framed photos. It still smelled like him though, like his cologne and fabric softener, the deodorant he always used.

It made the tears that had lingered in the corners of your eyes finally spill over; hot and fat and wet over your cheeks, salt leaking into the seam of your wobbling lip. You sucked in a breath that was shuddering and Steve stepped out, pulling at the neck of his t-shirt.

“Oh, hey babe, I didn’t hear you come in.” He wasn’t looking at you yet, too busy smoothing down the front of his shirt, a frown pulling at his brows. “Henderson spilled a damn soda on me, had to come change. How’d med check g— babe?”

Oh god, you couldn’t. You couldn’t tell him. How were you supposed to tell him?

Steve was in front of you, hands coming to cradle your elbows and he looked so worried, he looked overwhelmed with concern. He bent down just a little, so he could meet your gaze with his own and he looked so frightened it made your breath hiccup, the sound getting stuck in your throat and you were sobbing now, openly, heartwrenchingly.

“Baby, what’s wrong.” It was barely a question. Steve demanded it in the softest way, in the most gentle way. Quiet in his worry, frenzied in the way he looked at you. His eyes spent too long searching every inch of you, as if he could sense the hurt, as if he could diagnose the injury. “Baby, you’re scaring me. You hurt? Are you sick? Wha—”

You shook your head, feeling like it was a lie. You felt sick. But you weren’t ill. Not really.

Steve was blurry now, a streak of colours in front of you, a mosaic of concern and you couldn’t stop the tears, not even when the boy’s big hands reached up to cradle your face, thumbs doing their best to wipe away the tracks on your hot cheeks. Strands of your hair stuck to them and your once cold hands were now throbbing from the heat inside, the tips of them stinging. You felt messy, everything felt messy.

You stepped back, hiccuping still, you hands pulling clumsily at your jacket, the zip catching as you whimpered and you wrestled off the offending material, hoping that without it, you could breathe a little easier.

You couldn’t.

Steve looked desperate, hands still outstretched for you. “You’re scaring me, sweetheart, please, c’mere. You gotta breathe, what’s going on?”

You bit down on your lip so hard you tasted blood, tart and metallic. You met Steve’s gaze and sucked in a breath, filling your lungs as if you’d just spent the last hour underwater.

You felt like you had.

Like you were in too deep.

Like you were drowning.

“I’m pregnant,” you whispered.

The room felt too big all of a sudden, but your admission filled the space. Big, booming words, painted in bright red across the walls, your whisper bouncing around the floor, hurtling against the furniture, wrecking everything in its path.

No one moved, but it felt like the world was tipping over.

“Oh,” Steve uttered, stepping back awkwardly until his back met his dressers. The trinkets atop it swayed and clattered, Steve’s hands catching the edge of the wood as he braced himself. “Fuck.” He swallowed roughly, his face stricken. “I thought— we— we were careful? We were being safe.”

Steve looked how you felt, like he’d joined you on the bottom of the ocean, sinking downdowndown until he was drowning right there beside you. The company did nothing to ease your heavy chest.

Your voice was hoarse when you responded, your breath catching in your throat between each word. “We were. It just… it doesn’t always—”

“Work,” Steve finished for you. He dragged a hand down his face and looked at you, his lips parted and his eyes wild. “Fuck, baby…”

You were sobbing again, openly, wildly. You crumpled entirely, dropping to your haunches before you sagged to the floor, your face in your hands, hot and wet. Steve caught you, moving to lean against the bottom of his bed and he gathered you into his arms, pulling at you until you were in his lap, a mess of his limbs and your own as he wrapped you up in himself.

He figured if he held you tight enough, maybe he could save you from falling apart. But as your shoulders shook and your breath came out in wrenching gasps, Steve wondered if he was too late.

Your tears soaked his fresh shirt, a wet patch he felt through to his chest and he held you tight, his nose pressed into your hair as he rocked the both of you in whatever way he could from the uncomfortable position you were in. He whispered to you the whole time; soft, timid affirmations that you barely heard, his own voice cracking between each word.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m here.”

“I love you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, baby, it’ll be okay, I swear.”

Because being twenty something and almost-sharing a one bed apartment was one thing whilst young and pregnant. It was entirely another problem to attempt that whilst young, pregnant and living in a town where monsters were real.

—————

You only moved from Steve’s lap when your stomach finally gave in. The situation, your emotions, the tears you’d shed giving way to the churning that had been happening inside you since the doctor had returned from the lab with your stupid pot of pee and a stick in her hands.

You leapt from Steve’s lap, ignoring the way he called after you in worry, stumbling against the doorframe as you shoved your way inside of the bathroom. You didn’t even manage to close the door, your hands grasping the cold porcelain of the sink before you could reach the toilet bowl and you stomach emptied itself of what little breakfast it had had.

Shoulders heaving, you wretched and spat as tears rolled down your face all over again, your skin too hot, bile coating your tongue and you wanted to sleep, you wanted to close your eyes and forget.

Big hands found you, skimming over your back and gathering your hair, holding it for you as another pathetic heave shuddered through your body but you were empty. Done.

You shook as you accepted the towel and bottle Steve had grabbed from his bedside. His stare was on you the entire time you swished the lukewarm water around your mouth, spitting it out and down the sink as the tap washed everything away. Sitting on the edge of the toilet seat, Steve bent down to your level, his hands on your knees.

His face was pale, his eyes wide. “Is that..? Was that like, was that because of,” his gaze dropped to your stomach, panicked, “or is it just, like, I—”

Morning sickness. Pregnancy symptoms. That was what he was trying to say. Your stomach threatened to curdle again but you shook your head.

“Uh, no. No, I just… I don’t know.” You sniffed, blinking against the too bright light. Everything felt jarring, off kilter. Not real. “I’m six weeks.”

“Oh.”

“So, I don’t even know… I don’t know if I’d be feeling… anything yet? Fuck, I don’t know.” You swiped at your face, meanly, uncaring, wishing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. “I don’t know what to do, Steve.” Your voice was tiny, childlike in its softness and your face crumpled once again, cheeks hot with too emotion, throat raw with it all.

“Heyheyhey,” Steve soothed, pulling you into his chest. One hand clasped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, the other holding your hip. You felt like he was holding you together. “We do whatever you wanna do, alright?” Steve swallowed tightly, his voice hoarse, scared, reverent, hopeful, terrified. “What do you wanna do? What can I do right now, huh? I wanna help, honey, let me help, yeah?”

So you let Steve guide you to his bed, the mattress much softer and bigger and comfier than the one you shared with him in your shitty apartment. You let him tuck you into his sheets, let him drag your shoes from your still cold feet and he let them tumble down somewhere near his old desk. He climbed in beside you at your quiet request, curling around your frame until his knees were tucked into the bend behind your own and he lay with tou on the same pillow until the sun set and the light in the room turned from yellow to pink to lavender to blue.

He held you until your breathing evened out, until it stopped hitching and hiccuping and holding itself in your throat. He held you until you shoulders stopped shaking and your eyes closed and your lips parted softly with a sigh of release.

Steve moved to kiss you, to press his lips to where he could reach. Your head, your temple, your shoulder, your neck. He pushed kiss after kiss to those spots, his eyes glassy in the navy darkness, shining in what little light was left. It was only then did he venture downstairs into the kitchen. Nancy was gone and so were the kids, the house a lot quieter without the youngest of them there to bicker about the last pizza roll.

Hopper, Joyce and Robin sat at the kitchen table, a place he rarely saw anyone he loved sit at, but with his parents out of town, there was a lot more room for family. Jonathan was refilling the coffee jug when he slipped into the kitchen, his entire body tense and tight and ready for whatever it was that was about to happen—

“She’s pregnant, isn’t she,” Joyce spoke from her seat, hands clasped around a lukewarm mug and if Steve had ever felt naive enough to think that your bombshell news wasn’t as big a problem as he’d initially thought, Joyce’s facial expression made him think otherwise.

It wasn’t a question, it was a woman's intuition. Steve’s mouth went dry, his shoulders sagged.

He didn’t speak.

Everyone stared.

Everyone waited.

Steve nodded.

Hopper punched the wall.

[sunshinepeachx]

Chefs kiss 💋

10/10. <3

[djo]

JOE KEERY Ask Me Anything | ELLE

[sunshinepeachx]

I fear he’s just like me😭 😂

[eldritchbauble]

Food stamps may stop in November if the shutdown continues. This may be a good time to look into food banks, kitchens, meal trains, and discount markets and programs for outdated foods if you are depending on SNAP.

[eldritchbauble]

As it stands, SNAP benefits end October 31st.

There's at least one regional org where we live doing a massive food drive in response, so we'll be participating. I'm openly asking anyone who can help out to do the same for your local communities.

[littleoblivions]

findhelp.org is a resource that can help you find food banks/pantries in your area

[rosesonkittens]

Once hurricane season is over I'll be donating some non perishables to the food bank near us. Since I can afford to replenish my supplies.

It's mostly ramen, instant mashed potatoes in various flavors and canned tuna and fruit but hopefully that helps others around here.

A large part of our demographic is elderly though so maybe I'll buy some canned soups and such.

[laurierrose]

want to help your local food bank?

food banks accept cash donations that they use to buy perishable food like meat and dairy

consider donating low sugar/sugar free items for people with diabetes and soft foods for people with dental issues--that weird bag of sugar-free pudding or instant mashed potatoes that's been sitting in your pantry could really help someone

some food banks can accept expired foods and dented cans. just ask them!

consider volunteering for a few hours--your local food bank might have a 100lb bag of rice that they can't distribute because they need volunteers to put it into individual-sized bags

[sacred-portal]