#too much is never enough: misha

[unmeisenshi]

EPISODE BECK/MISHA

The pair ran towards the outskirts of town, a menacing outline of a Dynamax Centiskorch filling the horizon. The ashes falling grew larger as they got closer, and Misha began growing worried about the destruction that inevitably awaited them.

The pair arrived at a small town. The buildings were engulfed in flames, deceased Pokemon littered the ground - some in multiple pieces - and one Pokemon screamed as his body was drowned in fire. The sight made Misha sick to his stomach, eventually leading to him needing to stop and throw up.

"Gods..." Beck looked in horror, only to stop walking up on seeing his mate keeled over and dry heaving after emptying the contents of his stomach on the ground. "Misha, you okay?"

"Y-Yeah..." Misha responded. "This smell... It's nauseating..."

"Agreed... Let's-" The Feraligatr started talking, but heard the sound of their target approaching them. "Misha..."

"One second... I need to-" Misha looked up, seeing the huge size of the Centiskorch in front of them. "Holy... We have to fight that?"

The Centiskorch wasted no time, and charged at the pair. Beck threw Misha off to the side, and fired a Water Gun at it. The massive Pokemon recoiled and retreated, giving Beck and Misha a chance to breathe.

The Feraligatr rushed to the Ninetales' side, the latter now covered in dirt and soot. Misha would attempt to use some of his ice abilities, but they would fizzle out. Beck looked at Misha with worry. "Hun, what's wrong?"

"It's far too hot here. I can't use my ice; It's just melting the moment I conjure it." Misha looked up to see the Centiskorch back again. "I've got an idea! With me!"

Misha led Beck behind a building, the latter once again firing a Water Gun to deter the Centiskorch. Once hidden, Misha continued. "Okay... Can you send a ball of water up and burst it to make it rain?"

Beck thought for a moment, breathing heavily. "Make it rain, put the fire out. Okay. But... What about you?"

Misha looked outside, and sighed. "I'll distract it. Run around town to keep it away from you."

Beck shook his head. "Are you serious!? No way! But what if you-"

"I'll be fine, Beck! We don't have time to decide on this!" The Ninetales took a moment to grab Beck's head, and nodded to him. "Trust me, hun."

The Feraligatr would remain quiet for a beat, before nodding. "O-Okay... You're right. I just... I don't want to lose you, or see you get hurt again." Beck paused and pointed to the flask on Misha's hip. "Let me see your jug."

Misha would oblige, and Beck would quickly fill it up with a Water Gun from his hand. "If the Centiskorch gets close, throw some of that water on it. It'll buy you some time."

The Ninetales nodded. "Thanks, Beck. You ready?"

"Ready." Beck said, beginning to form a ball of water in his hands. Misha then sprinted outside, and stared down the Centiskorch. "Hey!"

The large Pokemon turned to face Misha, and began chasing him down. He then began sprinting away from it. Through the small pathways of the town, Misha ran. Ran as fast as his legs allowed him to. The Centiskorch would smash through some empty buildings, and nearly got close to Misha, but he would stop the large Pokemon with a drench of water before continuing to run.

After some time, Misha's legs began to burn and his chest began to ache from the amount of running he was doing. He was slowing down considerably, sweat and dirt matted his fur, and he nearly stumbled over from exhaustion. But Beck would finally be ready, throwing a very large orb of water into the air, which then burst and began raining down over the town.

Misha stopped and turned, noting the distance between him and the Centiskorch and letting the rain put the fire out around him. He spread his arms, and used Blizzard directly at the Centiskorch. The large insect would charge at Misha, intending to consume the Ninetales. But due to the distance it began to slow down, and icicles formed on its body. Misha continued staring down the large Pokemon, with it freezing solid right in front of him.

"Take this!" Misha seemed to skate backwards, and skated forward with great speed. He headbutted the now frozen Centiskorch, and it shattered into hundreds of shards of ice. Misha would then fall backwards from exhaustion, eyes closed and breathing heavily.

Beck came running out, kneeling next to Misha and grabbing his hand. "Misha! Hun, are you alright?"

After some time, one of the Ninetales' eyes opened, and his free hand gave a thumbs up. "Never better..." Misha's hand flopped down on the ground. "Good work... With that water ball... Cooooooould've had it a bit sooner, but I'll let it slide... This time." Misha playfully teased.

Beck chuckled. "I'll work on it for the next time we end up in this situation. It was one hell of a plan you put together, I have to say."

The Ninetales chuckled back. "It wasn't my best. But it worked." After a brief pause, Misha slowly sat up, his arms shaking as he did so. He grunted in pain, and he looked at Beck. "In the future... Don't let me do that, yeah?"

Beck nodded, and lightly patted Misha's chest. A drop of sweat slowly fell down the back of his head. "Well, we'll have to wait and see once Isaak returns from Jirachi's place. Let's get out of here so we can lay you down on something comfortable, yeah?"

Misha nodded, and motioned to Beck to teleport the two out of the small city, which he did soon after. The town then fell into silence once again."

[indooroutdoorboyfriend]

oh yeah. recently started hyperfixating on plane crashes (it started with a titanic hyperfixation and spiralled out of control, feel free to judge me) so anyway. now i have a (civil and public!!! airport hell required!!!) aviation-themed modern au in my mind that i will be inserting all of your ocs into right now 👍 no i am not gonna ask permission first :)

[danysdaughter]

Drown Me Gently

pairing | new!avenger!bucky x siren!reader

word count | 6.6k words

summary | a half-siren joins the new avengers, hiding centuries of shame beneath skin that was never yours to begin with. but when bucky barnes sees past the danger to the devastating loneliness underneath, the monster you fear you are finally begins to unravel.

tags | THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, (kind of ig) unprotected sex, comfort sex, emotional intimacy, hurt/comfort, emotional angst, identity crisis, soft!bucky, dark past, trust issues, body horror (light), self-hatred, non-accurate siren mythology, mutual pining, reader backstory, deep emotional healing, sensual tension, dark past, post-trauma connection

a/n | chat, I've literally had this fic in my drafts for almost a month. I lowkey don't know if I like this or not, anyway tell me what you think about it, because I'm second guessing. also based on this request

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You barely had a chance to take a seat before the interrogation began.

“Do you have gills?” Yelena asked, leaning forward like she was inspecting a specimen. “Or do they only show up when you're wet?”

You blinked. “Um—”

“Wait, hold on.” Ava cut in, arms crossed. “Do you eat people? Like, in a sexy way? Or like… teeth and blood?”

“Neither?”

Bob’s eyes lit up. “But hypothetically, if you were shipwrecked, would you rather lure sailors to their deaths or just vibe on a rock singing Adele?”

“I don’t—”

“Also,” Alexei boomed, squinting at you. “How do you have babies with tail? Is it like seahorses? Or salmon?”

“Why would it be like salmon?” Ava muttered.

“Maybe she lays eggs,” Bob said thoughtfully. “Do you lay eggs?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. This had to be a test. Some kind of extremely unorthodox hazing ritual.

“I’m sorry,” you finally managed. “Are these actual questions or did you all just watch The Little Mermaid before I got here?”

Walker, inexplicably sipping a protein shake at 8am, nodded solemnly. “So... do you explode if you drink salt water?”

You stared. “I'm from the ocean.”

“And what about chlorinated water,” he asked, completely serious.

Yelena snorted.

Before the next round of nonsense could begin, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

You turned. Bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes settled on you for a beat too long.

“Give her a second to breathe before you start asking about mating rituals.”

“Thank you,” you breathed.

He moved past the others, walking toward you with measured steps. You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until he got close enough that the rest of the room seemed to dim around him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, but couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Do you ask all the new recruits about their reproductive methods, or just me?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Only the ones who are rumored to eat people.”

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

You sat on the edge of the couch like a guest who wasn’t sure if they were invited or accidentally wandered in. Your posture was perfect, hands folded neatly in your lap, gaze fixed somewhere safe—like the TV that no one had turned on.

Yelena flopped down beside you with the grace of a feral cat. “You don’t talk much,” she observed bluntly. “Which is fine. Some of us overshare to make up for our emotional repression.”

“That’s just you,” Ava said from the kitchen, balancing a tray of chips and something that might’ve been experimental dip.

“Correct.”

Alexei hovered behind you, inexplicably trying to angle a photo of his dog toward your face. “This is Misha. He was trained to kill before he was housebroken. You would get along.”

“I’m… sure he’s lovely,” you replied politely, offering a tight smile.

Bob sat cross-legged on the floor like a camp counselor. “Okay, but seriously. Do you want anything to eat? We’ve got empanadas. And tofu stuff. And I think someone tried to make brownies.”

You shook your head. “Thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“No fish?” Walker smirked. “Or is it just... men on the menu?”

The room went dead quiet for half a second. Ava groaned.

“Really?” Yelena muttered.

“I’m a vegetarian,” you said quietly.

Walker blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s even more terrifying,” Bob said thoughtfully. “You choose not to eat meat. Yet you still eat men. For sport, right?”

“I do not eat men.”

“Sure,” Ava said with a shrug. “But if you did, it’d be poetic justice. Like, ‘Oops, your ship tried to colonize my homeland, now you're lunch.’”

You gave a tight-lipped smile again, but the joke didn’t quite sit right. They didn’t notice the way your gaze dropped or how your fingers fidgeted slightly at the hem of your sleeve.

Except Bucky.

He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes on you in that quiet, unreadable way of his. Watching. Not judging. Just… observing. Carefully.

“You always like this?” Ava asked, circling to sit nearby. “Polite. Mysterious. Quiet. Like a goth librarian who also knows how to drown people with her mind?”

You hesitated. “I try not to make people uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” Yelena said, popping a chip into her mouth. “We’re uncomfortable by default. It’s a trauma response.”

“You’re basically the least weird person in this room,” Bob added. “Which is suspicious in itself.”

That earned a small laugh from you—surprising even yourself. Heads turned, and you flushed faintly under the sudden attention.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. A sliver of trust cracked open just enough for light to slip through.

And across the room, Bucky eyes softened.

It had started with snacks and sarcasm. Someone had turned on a movie. Bob was quoting every line with annoying precision. Ava kept tossing popcorn into Walker’s protein shake. For a while, you had almost forgotten to be cautious.

Almost.

“Okay but seriously,” Yelena said, elbowing you gently, “you’ve got to let us see it sometime. The thing. With your voice.”

You hesitated. “It’s not something I do for fun.”

“But it’s, like... mind control, right?” Walker asked, overly casual. “Like Jedi mind tricks, but with falsetto?”

You glanced around. Ava watching with narrowed eyes, trying to read you. Bob leaned forward, too curious. Yelena still too close. Even Alexei had stopped mid-story. And Bucky—still across the room, still silent.

“It’s not mind control,” you said slowly. “It’s... influence.”

The air shifted.

“My voice can influence people. Not just emotion. Thought. Action.”

The joking stopped.

“And I can sense... intention. Urgency. Fear. Hunger. The things people hide.”

Then softly you added. “It’s not always... voluntary.”

There was something fragile in your voice then. Not a confession, but a warning.

Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers curling in your lap. You could already feel it. The subtle recoil in their posture. Not loud, but enough. Enough for your pulse to tick faster, warning you.

“Damn,” John muttered. “So you just walk into a room and feel everyone’s business?”

“I try not to,” you replied, softly.

That landed harder than you meant it to.

The silence that followed was heavier than any you'd felt all day. Thick with the kind of unease you’d learned to recognize long before you joined this team. Not fear. Not rejection. Just... awareness. The realization that your power wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was here. With them. Listening.

You felt the wall go up in them before they even realized they were building it.

So you did what you always did. What you were best at.

You retreated.

Your shoulders folded in. Your body went still. Not dramatically. Not enough to cause a scene. Just... quieter. Smaller. Like someone sinking slowly beneath the surface of the sea.

No one said anything.

But from across the room, Bucky watched you carefully—jaw set, brow furrowed—not at you, but at the room. At the shift. At how fast they’d gone from teasing to tiptoeing.

And you?

You didn’t need to read anyone’s mind to feel how far away you suddenly were.

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The wind was soft out here. Almost warm, brushing past your bare arms with the gentleness of something that wasn’t trying to take anything from you. You sat curled on a narrow bench, knees pulled to your chest, chin resting lightly on them.

You hadn’t meant to be found. That was kind of the point.

So when the door behind you slid open, your heart sank just a little. Until you heard his footsteps. Quiet. Measured. Familiar now.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. Just moved beside you slowly and sat down, leaving a respectful distance between you.

“I figured you might be out here,” he said, voice low. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You didn’t look at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

The corners of your mouth turned up, barely. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“You’re not. Just... noticed.”

For a while, you both sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward. Just... open. A space you didn’t have to fill.

“I didn’t mean to make them uncomfortable,” you said finally. Voice soft. Still watching the stars.

“You didn’t,” he said automatically.

You turned your head, just a little. “You felt it.”

He paused. “I felt them realizing they don’t understand you yet. That’s different.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

His eyes flicked to you. You didn’t see the way they narrowed.

“I know what I am,” you continued. “People don’t have to say it. I can feel it. The moment it shifts. That little breath of fear when they realize I can reach inside their heads without asking. It’s not wrong. I am what they think I am.”

You looked at him then, just briefly. Enough for him to see the resignation. The calm acceptance that only comes from long practice.

“A monster,” you said quietly.

His jaw clenched, barely. You saw it, even if he tried to hide it.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.” He turned toward you fully now. “You think you’re the only person on this team who’s scared of what they’ve done? What they’re capable of?”

You didn’t answer.

“You think any of us have clean hands?” His voice stayed even, but there was a tightness to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration. Or pained. “Ava’s killed for hire. Yelena was trained to be a weapon since she could walk. Walker…” He paused. “You saw the headlines.”

He let the silence hang for a beat.

“I spent seventy years hurting people with no choice. With no soul. If anyone here knows what it means to be used, to be feared—it’s me.”

You blinked. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because you're human.”

He stared at you. Then, quietly, “And you're not?”

You didn’t respond.

The wind picked up. You turned your head back toward the night.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, softly, “You scare them a little. Yeah. But not because you’re a monster.”

You glanced at him.

“They just don’t know you yet. And people fear what they don’t understand. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

You looked down at your hands, where your fingers were laced tight together. Like you were holding something in.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” he said.

And you believed him.

Not because his words were kind, but because they were quiet. Steady. Because they didn’t ask anything of you.

Because he didn’t look away.

And for the first time since you joined this mess of a team, you didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to be triggered.

You just felt... seen.

────────────────────────

Abandoned Shipping Yard

It was supposed to be a clean extraction. In and out. Minimal resistance. Ava had scoped the perimeter, Yelena laid out the breach pattern, Walker was already ten paces ahead being Walker, and Bucky had given you a nod just before the comms went live.

You were ready. Or you thought you were.

The cold air clung to your skin as you moved through the corridor of rusted containers. You kept to the shadows, as always, listening more than speaking, watching more than acting. A quiet presence, there when needed—never more.

The first wave of hostiles came fast—mercs, jittery and underpaid. Nothing the team couldn’t handle. You barely had to use your voice.

But something changed.

Second floor. A new group. More organized. You didn’t see them until they’d already flanked Alexei. You reacted before you thought—instinct firing faster than strategy.

They raised weapons.

And you hummed.

Not loud. Not full. Just enough to stop them.

A sound low in your throat, rich with warning and pressure and pull. It rolled over the air like a tide, a siren note pitched directly into their nerves.

They froze.

Then they turned.

Not toward Alexei.

Toward each other.

Guns half-raised. Hands twitching.

Confusion swelled, slow and dangerous. One man dropped his rifle. Another started crying. A third turned to face you like he couldn’t remember why he was holding a weapon at all.

Then Walker’s voice shouted through comms: “What the hell was that?!”

A sharp click—a trigger cocked.

Bucky got there first.

He shoved the last merc down before he could swing his weapon back around, snapping a zip tie around his wrists with clinical precision.

“Clear!” Yelena called from above.

“Room’s secure,” Ava confirmed, quieter, voice tinged with something more cautious.

You stood in the center of the room, throat tight, breath short. The air still trembled faintly with the residue of your voice.

Everyone was looking at you.

No one said anything.

Until Walker.

“Was that you?” he asked, not angry—just stunned. Like he’d seen lightning strike too close. “What even—what was that?”

“I didn’t mean to—” you started, but your voice wavered.

“That wasn’t just noise. That was... influence, right? You turned them on each other?”

“No.” You swallowed. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened. They were going to shoot Alexei, I—”

“But it wasn’t controlled,” Walker said sharply. Not cruel, just assessing. Calculating risk. “What if they’d turned on us?”

That stung. More than it should have.

“I wouldn’t,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She said it was involuntary,” Bucky cut in, stepping forward. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight. “She stopped them. That’s what matters.”

“She also almost made a guy kill himself,” Walker muttered.

“She saved Alexei,” Bucky said firmly, turning toward the others. “We’ve all lost control before. Don’t pretend we haven’t.”

You stood silent, heart pounding, the aftermath of your own power still vibrating under your skin. The others started moving again—resetting, clearing the area, checking gear. But they gave you space now.

Too much space.

You barely heard the rest of the debrief. Your voice was gone, locked behind clenched teeth. Guilt wrapped around your chest like a vice.

You walked ahead in silence.

No one stopped you.

────────────────────────

You hadn’t even taken off your boots. You sat on the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees like they might keep you from slipping any further into yourself.

The door creaked open softly.

You didn’t look up.

But you knew the sound of his steps.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Bucky said gently.

You didn’t respond.

He came closer but didn’t sit. Just leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed loosely. Watching. Waiting.

“I lost control,” you said after a long moment. “They’re right to be wary.”

“They’re wrong,” he said simply.

“You didn’t see their faces.”

“I saw yours.”

You glanced up, surprised.

“You looked like you were trying to tear yourself in half,” he said. “Because you cared more about hurting them than saving yourself.”

You looked away again.

“They don’t understand what it feels like,” you said quietly. “To have something inside you that people fear. That you can’t always lock down. That might one day hurt someone—even if you don’t want it to.”

His expression shifted. Pain, recognition, something deeper.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

The softness in his face, the tension in his shoulders—he knew. He knew.

And still, he was here.

Not afraid. Not flinching. Just... here.

You exhaled shakily.

“I think I made a mistake joining this team.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been watching you,” he admitted. “And not because I’m waiting for you to snap. I watch because I see you trying. Every damn day. Even when they don’t notice.”

Your throat tightened.

“You don’t scare me,” he added. “None of this does. You do more to hold yourself back than most of us ever have to.”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You belong here. Even if it takes them time to see it.”

────────────────────────

The Next Night

Bucky wasn’t looking for you.

That’s what he told himself.

He told himself he was going for a walk. That his muscles ached. That the silence in his room was too sharp around the edges tonight.

But when he passed the door to the training pool and saw it slightly ajar, lights off, humid air curling into the hallway like a whisper—he knew.

Of course it was you.

He stepped inside quietly, the heavy door hissing shut behind him. The sound echoed across the still water.

“Hey,” he called out softly, scanning the dark. “You left the lights off.”

He moved toward the control panel instinctively, fingers brushing the switch.

“Don’t,” came your voice.

Not a shout. Not even stern. Just quiet. Low.

Carried like a ripple across the water, echoing from somewhere deep in the pool.

He froze.

“…You okay?” he asked, softer now.

A pause.

Then, “Yes.”

But there was something in the way you said it—like you were holding your breath inside the word.

The pool was a long, Olympic cut of black glass. He could barely make out your shape beneath the surface—a flicker of motion in the far end, a slow shift of shadow.

“You’re in the water.”

“Yes.”

The silence stretched again, heavy but not uncomfortable. He stepped forward, letting the heat of the pool air wrap around him.

“I thought maybe you’d gone,” he admitted. “After yesterday.”

There was a sound, something like a soft splash. A flick of fin, maybe. Movement, not retreat.

“No,” you said. “I just needed to be… this. For a while.”

He squinted toward you, his eyes adjusting to the dark. It took a moment, but then he saw it—just barely. The curve of your back breaking the surface. The subtle gleam of something slick and scaled beneath the low ambient light.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t stare. Just stayed still.

You exhaled slowly, the sound barely above the waterline. “I’m not hiding.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I just don't want to be seen like this. Not… yet.”

He nodded, even though you probably couldn’t see it. “Alright. Then I won’t look.”

And to his credit, he didn’t.

He turned away slightly, gave you space, let you move without watching. But he still stayed. Because you hadn’t told him to go.

Because, maybe, you wanted someone to stay.

“I’m not human the way you are,” you said after a while. “Not just physically. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing skin that doesn’t belong to me.”

He breathed in slow. “I know that feeling.”

“Do you?” you asked, not unkindly. Just tired.

Bucky shifted his weight. “I’ve worn a lot of masks. But yeah. There are days where I look in the mirror and don’t see someone who belongs anywhere.”

The water rippled quietly.

“Then you understand why I needed to be in the dark tonight.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“You ever wish you could just… stay like that?” he asked gently. “Who you are in here. Not the version you have to show everyone else?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, “Sometimes I think the version they see is the monster. And this—the water, the dark, the scales—that this is the real me.”

“And is she the monster?”

“No.”

Then you added, softer, “She’s worse.“

The words sank like stones.

You waited for him to back away. To excuse himself. To do what most people did when they saw behind the illusion.

But he didn’t.

“You’re not a monster,” he said, steady as stone. “Not in any form.”

You let out a breath—half bitter, half broken. “You should be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be.” A sharp breath. “Especially you. After what you’ve been through. After what it’s like to have your mind twisted, your will taken—I could do that to you. Without even trying.”

Silence.

You expected him to leave. You preferred him to leave.

Then a soft rustle.

You heard it before you saw it—fabric sliding off. The quiet thud of boots meeting concrete. A belt unhooking. Then another sound: the shift of weight, the hiss of disturbed water.

Your head turned sharply in the dark. “What are you doing?”

Bucky’s voice came low and calm. “Showing you I’m not afraid.”

His bare feet met the water first, then his legs. He stepped slowly into the pool, each movement careful, deliberate—like he was approaching a wounded animal. Like he knew you might vanish if he moved too fast.

You froze.

The lights stayed off.

The water rippled gently around him, catching faint echoes of motion from where you were submerged.

“You can’t even see me,” you said.

“I don’t need to.”

Your voice trembled. “You don’t know what I look like like this.”

“I know what I feel,” he said. “I know it’s you.”

He moved further in, the water reaching his ribs, his breath slow, steady.

You stared across the dark, at the shape of him—a silhouette against nothing. Vulnerable. Unarmed. Open.

You whispered, “Why?”

He paused, standing still in the middle of the water.

“Because you’ve spent your whole life trying not to scare people,” he said. “Trying to keep yourself small, quiet, contained. And no one’s ever just... let you be.”

You blinked.

Something deep inside you shifted.

“I’ve been used too,” he said softly. “Controlled. Hurt. Turned into something I didn’t recognize. And I’m still here. Still fighting to believe I’m not what they made me.”

The ripples between you both softened. Fewer waves. Less space.

You whispered, “You’re not.”

“Neither are you.”

For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

Not in the way you did above water—but in the way that didn’t hurt.

“You shouldn’t trust me this much,” you said, a final warning. One last barrier.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But I do”

The water between you held its breath.

You didn’t move at first—didn’t trust the trembling in your limbs or the sharp edge of your pulse. But Bucky stood still, waist-deep, facing the other side of the pool, like he wasn’t waiting for danger—just for you.

So you moved.

Slowly. Silently. The water embraced your form the way it always had—your real shape, the one you kept hidden beneath flesh and clothes and fear. You glided like breath, like tide, like instinct. Your tail made no sound. Your scales caught no light. You were the shadow beneath the surface, and he didn’t flinch.

Not even when you came close.

Close enough to touch.

You hovered at his back, watching the curve of his spine rise and fall with every breath. Water clung to his skin, catching faint glints of motion—your motion—as you lifted a hand above the surface.

And touched him.

His shoulders tensed at first, just barely, but he didn’t pull away.

Your fingers were cool against his skin—webbed, slick, foreign. The pads of them brushed along the ridge of his shoulder blade, then down the line of his arm.

Still, he didn’t turn.

So you did it again.

This time, both hands—light and deliberate—placed just above his hips, fingertips resting at the base of his spine, gently urging.

He let out a slow breath.

And turned.

The water shifted as he faced you.

He still couldn’t see all of you—darkness and depth obscured your form—but he could feel you there. Close. Solid. Real.

His hands came to your waist, cautious, reverent. His thumbs brushed faint ridges along your sides—faint scales you hadn’t hidden, soft flesh beneath them. He could feel the texture of you, alien and familiar all at once.

You let him look.

Not completely. Not yet.

But enough.

You tilted your head up, and he bent just slightly toward you. His face a breath away, eyes searching yours in the dark.

“I see you,” he whispered.

And he did.

Not a siren. Not a monster. Not an aberration.

Just you.

The water lapped quietly around you, the two of you suspended in the dark.

Bucky was so close now. Close enough for the heat of his body to ghost across your skin despite the coolness of the water. Close enough that the contrast between you—his warmth, your chill—felt like static between touching wires.

He looked at you then, fully. His eyes locked on yours, no hesitation. Just slow awe.

You saw the flicker of realization behind his gaze.

Your eyes—icy and deep, nearly luminescent in the dark—weren’t human anymore. The pupils too sharp, the color too unnatural. You didn’t try to hide it.

And still, he whispered, breath brushing your mouth,

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Your lips parted, not to speak, but just to feel that warmth.

Then he leaned in—deliberate, drawn, inevitable—and kissed you.

The first touch was slow, hesitant only in reverence, like he was afraid of breaking something sacred. His lips were warm—so warm—pressing softly against yours, testing.

You didn’t hesitate.

You kissed him back, and the pull was instant. A current dragging you both under.

His hands rose, one settling against the back of your neck, the other at your waist, anchoring you to him. You opened your mouth against his—slowly—and his tongue slipped inside with a soft groan that vibrated low in his throat. You tasted him: salt, metal, heat, something earthy and real.

He tasted you: cool and mineral, like sea-salt and secrets, ancient and raw.

His tongue tangled with yours in deliberate strokes, slow and deep. It wasn’t frantic. It was exploration, mouth against mouth, breath mingling, like he was learning you piece by piece.

Then he felt them.

The faint edge of your fangs—barely exposed as your body stirred with instinct and desire.

He didn’t pull away.

He kissed you harder.

And you let him.

Your webbed fingers curled into his hair, claws grazing his scalp just enough to make him shiver. His hand slipped lower, across the slick curve of your back, dragging you flush against him in the water. Your tail brushed his legs—he felt the ripple of it, powerful and sinuous—and instead of flinching, he leaned into it.

He deepened the kiss with a quiet groan, tilting your head just enough to taste more of you, to chase the sharp edge of your teeth and the soft gasp you gave him when he sucked on your bottom lip.

He wanted more. You wanted.

But the kiss said it all: this wasn’t hunger.

It was surrender.

And when he pulled back—only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, breath fogging between mouths—his voice dropped again, rough and reverent.

“You’re not a monster.”

You trembled in his arms, not from cold.

And for the first time, you let someone hold you without fear of what they’d find in the dark.

The kisses evolved—mouths moving in rhythm, breathless and hungry, like they’d been holding back for far too long. The water around you rippled with every shift of your bodies, your bare skin slick against his, every nerve alive.

Bucky’s hands slid lower, smoothing over the firm plane of your back where slick, textured scales had shimmered moments ago. But now—he felt it.

They were fading.

His lips broke from yours just enough to murmur, breath hitched, “You’re changing…”

Your forehead pressed to his as your hands threaded through his wet hair. “I can’t stop it,” you whispered. “When I feel—”

He kissed you again, cutting the words off with a gentleness that said you don’t have to explain.

The transformation was slow, intimate.

You felt it first in your hands—your fingers unwebbing, reshaping. Human again. Your claws softened, becoming skin. You ran them down his chest, gasping softly at the warmth, the roughness of him against the new smoothness of you.

Bucky’s hands wrapped around your waist as you shifted again, the powerful muscles of your tail twitching, tensing—then separating.

Legs.

Human.

Bare.

You wrapped them around his hips instinctively, pulling him closer, water lapping between your bodies, heat blooming between where his skin met yours.

His breath caught, hard, sharp.

You were soft and solid and real in his arms, human now but still you—something wild and full of want beneath the surface. He kissed down your jaw, tasting salt and skin and a thrill he hadn’t felt in years.

His voice, low and rough, ghosted along your throat: “You don’t have to be afraid.”

You shivered in his hold, lips brushing his ear as you whispered back, “I’m not.”

And for once, you weren’t.

Not of what he’d think. Not of what you were. Not even of what you wanted.

Just the sound of your shared breath, the gentle churn of the water, the beat of two hearts finally in rhythm.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist as he held you against him, his hands roaming—slow, reverent, learning every curve and shape as if memorizing what it meant to have you.

Not to claim.

But to be allowed.

The warmth of him bled into you, his mouth trailing over the column of your throat, lips parting around your skin as he kissed lower—slowly, like he wanted to taste every shiver.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as his mouth returned to yours—hungrier this time. Tongues sliding together with unspoken urgency. He groaned into you, low and rough, when you rolled your hips into him beneath the water.

The sound you made—half gasp, half moan—hit him like a shot to the spine.

His hands cupped the back of your thighs, holding you up, keeping you close, guiding your body so you fit around him perfectly. The heat between you sharpened, pressed tight through soaked fabric and wet skin, every movement stoking something deeper.

There was nothing frantic.

Only build.

Only the slow, sacred pull of yes.

The kiss deepened until there was no air between you. His chest pressed to yours, heat meeting the coolness of your skin, fingers curling along your ribs, tracing the path where scales had once been.

You tilted your head back as he kissed his way down—jaw, neck, collarbone—tongue flicking against the hollow of your throat. Each touch lit up something low in your belly, and when you whispered his name, he froze just long enough to look at you.

Eyes dark, lips parted, hands still reverent.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, wet strands of hair clinging to his brow.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Bucky’s mouth returned to yours with hunger barely tempered now, his kiss pulling sounds from your throat you didn’t know you could make—not songs, not power. Just want.

He guided you back through the water, hands steady at your waist, until your spine met the edge of the pool wall. The tile was cool against your back; he was warm and solid against your front.

His fingers brushed along the curve of your ribs, then up—slowly—tracing the faint shimmer where scales had retreated. He explored each new inch of you with careful reverence, like he was learning you with his hands, like every discovery mattered.

Your breath hitched as he slid one palm beneath the water, low across your hip, then between your thighs—fingers ghosting over the softest part of you with a touch so achingly gentle you shivered.

He swallowed the moan that left your mouth as his other hand found your jaw, tilting your face up so he could kiss you again—deeper now, tongue claiming, teeth grazing your lip.

You gasped, fingers curling around the back of his neck as your legs tightened around his hips, urging him closer.

He groaned, low and wrecked, as he pressed his body into yours fully—his arousal hard against you, his mouth dragging kisses down your throat as you arched into him.

“God, you feel like…” he murmured, unfinished, overwhelmed, pressing his forehead against yours.

Your hand found his chest, feeling the steady, pounding rhythm beneath the scars. “I feel like what?”

He looked at you like you were unreal. “Like something I’ve never deserved. But I’m not letting go.”

He reached down again, guiding himself into you with aching care.

When he pressed into you—slow, stretching, deep—your mouth parted in a soundless gasp, nails sinking into his back as your body opened for him.

The sensation was molten. Your body slick and ready, still half-wrapped in water, and every movement felt amplified—rippled and weightless, like being made and unmade in slow motion.

He held still inside you for a beat—his breath stalling, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Don’t stop.”

So he moved.

Rhythmic. Deep. Rolling his hips into you with intense precision, like he wanted every thrust to be a memory etched into your bones.

You clung to him as you rocked together, lips never far, gasps exchanged like prayer. The water splashed gently around you with every movement, hiding and revealing, sheltering and exposing.

And when you came apart in his arms—body shaking, breath hitching, fingers tangled in his hair—he followed seconds after, groaning into your skin as he buried himself in you one last time.

Afterward, he didn’t let go.

He just held you, still wrapped in warmth and water, as if grounding himself in the shape of you—your real form, your chosen form.

And you stayed there, arms around him, mind quiet for the first time in days.

────────────────────────

You lay together outside the pool, still dripping, the tiled floor beneath you warmed by residual heat from the water and each other.

Bucky’s body was solid and relaxed beneath yours, your head resting on his chest, your arm draped across his ribs. His breathing was slow now, steady, one hand lazily tracing your back—his fingers brushing the faint outlines of where your scales had shimmered.

He didn’t speak for a while. Just let his fingers explore you softly, as if mapping something sacred.

Then, voice low, “So… the other you. The form in the water. Is that the real you?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your breath pushed gently against his skin, your eyes half-lidded with calm.

Then softly, “Both are the real me.”

He didn’t move, but you felt the weight of his silence.

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to brush your lips against his—light, unhurried, a kiss not driven by need but by quiet affection.

A moment passed before you added, “I’m half-human. Half-siren.”

His eyes opened, and he tilted his head to meet your gaze, brows furrowed—curious, but not skeptical.

You sighed, a faint smile ghosting your lips. “Tale as old as time. Sailor meets siren. Siren gets curious. Doesn’t immediately murder him.”

That made him huff a quiet breath against your temple.

“Sometimes… they mate. Rarely. Just to understand. Or because something stirs in them they don’t expect. The sailors rarely survive the interaction. Then they return to the sea.”

His fingers paused at your spine.

You shifted your weight slightly, eyes locked on his, and said quieter still:

“This time, the siren left with a baby.”

His breath caught, just barely.

You looked down.

“And that baby got left behind on land. Half-breed. Too human for the ocean, too strange for the shore.”

He said nothing.

But his hand moved again—this time higher, threading through your hair, cupping the back of your head gently as if trying to hold that pain, that truth, without crowding it.

You exhaled slowly, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“A monster on land. An abomination in the sea.”

The words hung between you like steam, curling and vanishing before they hit the air.

Bucky didn’t try to correct you. Didn’t rush to wrap those words in comfort. He just moved—his hand smoothing up your back, across your hair, anchoring you to his chest. Holding you like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

His hand never left you.

Now, it moved with a new purpose—his touch slower, more intentional, tracing the skin between your shoulder blades.

You stiffened slightly.

He’d found them.

The scars.

Faint, old, but still jagged—slashing diagonally across your back in places that seemed more symbolic than accidental. He ran a thumb along the longest one, slow and careful.

“They match,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Your claws,” he said. “From before. In the pool. The shape of them.” He traced another line. “These look like what they’d leave.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you whispered, “They did.”

“You mean—?”

“The sirens,” you said softly.

He froze. “Jesus.”

You pushed your face gently against his shoulder, hiding from the look you couldn’t bear to see on his face—pity, horror, heartbreak, you didn’t know which would be worse.

“I didn’t belong here,” you murmured. “On land. Never really fit. So I thought—maybe the ocean would feel like home. Maybe they would understand.”

His hand stilled on your back.

You swallowed. “They didn’t.”

You pulled in a shaking breath, voice tight but steady. “They said I was soft. Weak. That I smelled too human. Felt too much. That I’d taint their species if I stayed.”

A beat.

“They tried to tear the human out of me.”

Bucky closed his eyes. His jaw tensed beneath your hand where it rested on his chest.

You whispered, almost bitterly now, “All the myths are true. They are monsters. They don’t love. They don’t feel. They don’t keep anything they can’t control.”

Silence.

Bucky’s fingers paused again, still tracing the old scars like they were something sacred. “You survived them,” he said quietly. “That says more about you than them.”

Your breath hitched, then came slow and shallow.

“I didn’t just survive them,” you murmured. “I tried to be like them.”

He stilled.

“I thought if I let go of everything human in me, they’d let me stay. If I stopped feeling… stopped flinching when they hunted. When they—”

You stopped, your throat tightening.

Bucky’s eyes were open now, watching you with more than concern. With something like dread.

“I tried,” you said, barely above a whisper. “To become what they were. To be unfeeling. A real monster.”

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest. “I even did it. Their way. Took ships off course with my voice. Lured them close. And I fed.”

His hand faltered.

“I ate humans,” you said, the words fractured, sharp. “So they’d accept me.”

Silence.

The worst kind.

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t breathe, but you felt his body tense underneath you—hurt, not at you, but for you.

You turned your face further into his shoulder, shame crawling up your spine like ice.

“But it never worked,” you whispered. “I was still too soft. I felt everything. Even when I tried to bury it.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you—gently, but with purpose.

“I couldn’t keep it down,” you continued. “The guilt. The screaming. The way they laughed at me for choking on blood.”

Your voice cracked. “Meat makes me sick now. Just the smell of it.”

He breathed then, long and broken.

You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek. Steady. Solid. And somehow still here.

The silence between you became thick. Not with judgment, but with something worse—your own shame.

You whispered, barely audible, “I became something I hate. I wanted so badly to stop being an outcast, I turned myself into a real monster. And they still didn’t want me.”

You closed your eyes. “They didn’t need to kill me. I did that myself.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, his hand sliding up from your back to cup the back of your head again. He didn’t say it’s okay. He didn’t say you’re forgiven. He didn’t try to rewrite your past.

He just held you.

Because there are wounds too deep for words.

Because you had already condemned yourself, and he knew the last thing you needed was someone else trying to absolve what you hadn’t even survived emotionally.

Still, his voice reached you, low and rough and real,

“I hope someday you'll understand that you were never the monster in that story.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t believe it. But you didn’t pull away, either.

And for now—that meant something.

our girlie:

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@Ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @yvespecially @snake-in-a-flower-crown @mencantaleer @shellsbae00 @theewiselionessss @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @avivarougestan @xoxoloverb @superlegend216 @lori19 @sired4urmama @writing-for-marvel @thriving-n-jiving @ogoc-19 @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @its-in-the-woods @barnesonly

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[rixy-smurrey]

How they like to be overstimulated~ teasing edition

Tw: dubcon ( cnc ), overstimulation, submissive boys~

You have been warned~

These boys like to be teased. Run your hands along his body slowly. Touch his chest, his thighs, his neck, his ass... anywhere but where he wants it, where he needs it. Licking and sucking on his sensitive nipples like they're candy. They'll be sore and puffy when you're done~

Then, when you finally, *finally* touch him... it isn't enough. Make him beg. Make him whimper and cry. After so long spent bricked up and waiting for you to give him what he's craving, he's desperate for whatever you're willing to give.

Make sure to drag it out. He says he wants you to hurry up, that he hates the teasing... but secretly, he lives for it. Extend the foreplay as long as you want. The longer the better.

So when you finally wrap your hand around his cock, finally stroke him, bring him so, *so* close to orgasm... he's begging for more, for you to keep going, don't stop! The poor boy's waited long enough, don't you think? He's spewing thank you after thank you, praising you like you're his god/goddess. Only to gasp when you don't stop.

"Wa- wait, w-what are you doing?! I- I just- *AH!~* c-camee!!" His eyes are rolling back as his hips buck wildly, away from your hand, back into it. It feels so good. His body doesn't know what to do with the sensations you're giving him.

"I thought you wanted to cum, dear. Did you not? Next time I can edge you for longer if you'd like~"

He sobs at your words, realizing now that you never planned on giving him a break. He gasps and moans, begging, pleading with you.

"Stop, stop stop stop!! It's- *ah~* t-too much!! Too much!!"

"That isn't what you say when you want it to stop, dear. Do you need your safe word~?"

The boy can barely process your words, but he doesn't use his safe word. And you could've sworn you heard him whisper "more~" under his breath.

So you make him keep cumming. Your hand speeds up, the other one coming up to rub at the head of his pretty cock. He keeps on cumming and cumming until you're satisfied or he passes out from exhaustion. When you finally let him rest, let him *breathe*, he's all tuckered out.

Aftercare is gently massaging where the ropes dug into his skin, rubbing in lotion to prevent the flesh from being too sore in the morning. Cleaning him up with a warm towel, gently to avoid giving him any more stimulation.

"You were so good for me, darling. So perfect. Hush now... rest. Rest, my good boy."

He's nearly passed out on the bed, his eyes closed, a soft smile on his face. Holding him close in your arms, you can feel his gentle, slow breathing as he drifts off to a peaceful sleep.

Bennett, Xingqiu, FREMINET, Sethos, Mika, Welt Yang, Arlan, Dan Heng, Sampo, Misha, GOROU, Kaveh, Xiao, Rody Lamoree, Eren Yaegar, Lance

[sheisjoeschateau]

"Oh, so we do love Steve..."

🖤 An Ongoing Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library. ☾⋆ OSWDLS Full Series Masterlist here.

VOLUME II • CHAPTERS 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ SERIES MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

VOLUME II / CHAPTER 1-4 (WARNINGS/NOTES): t.w.'s - severe traumatic diagnosis for one of the main characters, heavy topics, language, sensitive mental health matters.

[These chapters are meant to be read directly after Part X, in chronological order.]

Tbh if you are not comfortable reading about traumatic situations that lead to trauma induced mental states, then this is jot the story for you. That said, this story has a very beautiful, warm ending and the light at the end of the tunnel is eternally bright. So in my humble opinion? It's worth every bit of the damn journey, if you wanna hold my hand and get there together (we can follow behind Steve & Bauman, as they hold each other tight through it all). 18+

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Oh we are so back. And now? We're doing a time jump skip before we travel back in time, to figure out what all led up to this moment. Not gonna say much this time, because I really wanna let these next few chapters & my writing speak for themselves.

But I will say... I *did* make sure to include the first 4 chapters since I've been away for so long... ;)

Huge immense thank you to everyone who has not only been following this story religiously, but as also had an absurd amount of patience with me in picking this back up. Life's been keeping me occupied, but I can't complain. This platform is my escape, and I've nurtured it (along with this story) so that it's never a platform that doesn't provide me joy, release and peace of f*cking mind. You all do that for me and ily all the more for it. :)

Xx, Misha

Bonus: If you listen to this song cover, wayyyylllp then you are in for a treat. It heavily inspired this series volume, and it will be back...

***

CHAPTER ONE Systems Processing

Two months later . . .

The bedroom was dim and still. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful. Just stale, heavy with breath not being taken deep enough and seconds that dragged instead of passed. 

Outside, spring pushed up from the thawed ground like it had every year, resilient and blind to the war they’d all just finished losing pieces of themselves to. Inside, the Harrington house felt like a museum. Untouched plates on the dining table, old jackets on doorknobs, too many pairs of shoes by the door. Haunted by the living.

Steve didn’t move.

He lay on his side on top of the covers, still dressed in yesterday’s shirt and sweatpants, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other hanging limp off the edge like it had forgotten it belonged to a body. He wasn’t asleep. Not really awake either. His eyes were open. Glazed over, red-rimmed, fixed somewhere past the wall, past reality, like he was watching something only he could see.

He hadn’t spoken in four days.

No one called it ‘catatonia’ out loud, not even Owens. Maybe because saying it would make it real. Maybe because nobody knew what the hell to do about it anyway. Even Robin, who normally refused to let anything rot in silence, had gone still around him now. Hopper kept pacing. Joyce kept cooking. Dustin cried exactly once in the garage and punched the wall when Steve didn’t flinch at the sound.

Everyone floated.

Steve sank.

Except when you were there.

The door creaked softly. No knock. Just you. 

Just Bauman.

Just his.

You slipped into the room with the slow ease of someone who’d already been here a hundred times. Which, to be fair, you had. First when Steve was an ass. Then when he was a friend, even though that took a solid four years in the making. And then it’d been whenever things shifted again, into something more. And again and again, as it kept being more. 

And then there was now.

Now, when he was… this.

You didn’t speak right away. Just eased the door shut behind you and made your way across the room with a quiet, practiced patience. You weren’t hurrying. You didn’t tiptoe either. You walked like it was any other Tuesday, like this was just another morning, like Steve wasn’t fractured behind his eyes and lost somewhere between what had happened and what he couldn’t stop reliving.

You climbed onto the bed.

Not over him, not around. Right in front. You lay on your side, facing him, tucking your forearm under your own head as you shifted until his vacant stare met your eyes. He was still looking right through you. You didn’t flinch.

“Morning, sunshine,” you said, voice low, dry, but warm like always. “You look like a man who got hit by a bus and is now haunted by the ghosts of every single wheel.”

Steve didn’t blink. But his jaw twitched. Just a little.

“I mean that in the sexiest way possible,” you added, deadpan. “Total roadkill vibe. My type. I’m into it.”

The corner of your mouth curved. You watched him with that unreadable, Bauman-brand expression you always wore, somewhere between ‘I might kiss you’ and ‘I might blackmail you with a secret I haven’t even discovered yet.’

He didn’t smile. Not yet.

You reached up, gently brushed your thumb under his eye. “You didn’t sleep again.”

He hadn’t.

I couldn’t, he thinks.

The nights were always worse. They always got started behind his eyelids. A twisted slideshow began the second he let them shut, VHS clicking into place and no remote in sight to keep it from pressing play all on its own, inside his own head.

Inside his own mind, the tape rolled. The images, the smells. Blood. Burnt hair. Electricity. Boots on tile. Your scream. Hopper’s fear. Dustin’s hands shaking as he pressed them against Steve’s chest, clinging, no longer play-fighting and begging him to not blame himself, no matter what. Max’s cries, raw and unfiltered, telling him she’s scared, she’s scared, “I’m so scared, Steve, please don’t leave me in there, I can’t go back there, please Steve, please.” It’s all so unfamiliar, hearing them all sound so broken, they’re not supposed to be broken like that. He doesn’t understand it. It’s foreign.

Just as foreign as his own voice had been, sobbing for you, shoving Jonathan’s chest whenever he’d stopped pumping yours, demanding him to fix you, “fix her, we have to fix her, Byers, she’s not breathing, no one stopped helping you find Will, she’s not fucking breathing—”

Steve blinked once. Just once. 

Slowly.

You leaned closer. Not to kiss him. Just to be there. In his line of sight. In the only patch of reality he seemed able to touch right now.

“I made coffee. It’s terrible. I thought about poisoning Hopper’s mug, just to keep the spark alive. But Joyce would probably revive him with a look and then shoot me in the foot.”

A breath huffed from Steve’s nose.

It wasn’t a laugh. But it was a reaction.

“Too soon?” you teased, voice of an angel, mind of the devil.

Your smile barely moved. But your eyes did. You looked at him, not through him, and didn’t treat him like glass. You never did.

“I know you’re in there,” you said gently. “Probably trapped in that stupid overachieving brain of yours, underneath that—” you inhaled, allowing yourself to sigh deeply, lackadaisical as the words finished your sentence and eyes shifted to his hair as you stroked it. “—stupid perfect head of hair that I swear has started styling itself. Because your brain just keeps overthinking that hard.” Your eyes soften slightly as you stroke his hair gently, your thumb against his temple. “Thinking about how you could’ve done it all better. How if you’d just gotten to us sooner, or stopped that Soviet with the gun faster, or stayed calmer, yelled louder, climbed faster, kicked harder…”

Steve’s lip quivered. 

You saw it.

So you leaned in a little closer, voice softer now. Letting truth find its way into the conversation without force, the way Owens had told you to do. Unforced, but not kept in an untouched vault. That’s what he’d said. Don’t mask it. Give it room to breathe.

“But I was dead, Harrington.”

His breath hitched.

“I mean, technically. Legally,” you clarified with ease, voice light, head tilting just slightly in the most subtle mock tease of the specifics. “Pulse-free and crispy. And you brought me back anyway.” Your brows lifted slightly. “You. Your hands. Your voice. Five minutes.”

Steve’s stare flickered. A slight twitch of his eyebrow. 

His throat moved as he swallowed, like it hurt. Burned.

The way that your lungs had when you…

“And before you start spiraling,” you added quickly, “Eddie kept time, so if you wanna blame anyone for the fact that my heart stopped for exactly five minutes and seven seconds, blame Munson. Pretty sure he got his CPR certification off the back of a Judas Priest album.”

Steve blinked. Once. Then again.

The silence pressed in again. He still didn’t speak. But his eyes weren’t glass anymore. They were there. Focused. Locked on you.

You held that gaze and didn’t move.

“It’s okay to rest now,” you said quietly. “As long as you want. You fought so hard, Steve. For everyone. For me. For Dustin.” Your eyes glittered, never leaving his face. His beautiful, sweet face. “You don’t have to carry it all anymore.”

His fingers moved. Just barely. A slight twitch against the edge of the comforter, like maybe they wanted to reach for yours but forgot how.

You noticed. Didn’t push it.

Instead, you let your fingers wiggle on top of the sheets. A little flutter, drumming the mattress, shifting just barely an inch towards his as you offered something lighter. “Also, I should let you know Dustin is trying to organize your VHS collection by genre and thematic arc. I told him you’d rise from the dead and end him if he even touched Die Hard, so now he’s avoiding eye contact with your bookshelf like it personally insulted him.”

Steve’s lips twitched. The faintest hint of a smile. 

You grinned gently.

Then softly, barely a whisper…

“...s’fine,” he rasped.

You froze.

Your eyes widened just a bit. “What?”

Steve swallowed hard, throat dry and tight. He blinked slowly, then looked at you, actually looked, and tried again.

“S’fine,” he finally repeated, voice hoarse. “Let him… alphabetize it.”

You exhaled through your nose like someone had just cracked a window in a smoke-filled room. Then blinked hard, as if not to cry.

Steve saw that, his hazy brown eyes never leaving yours. And for the first time in days, he moved on his own. One hand, his fingers slow and unsure, reached out. Touched your wrist. Like an anchor. 

A lighthouse in the vast sea, swelling in the storm.

You covered his hand with yours immediately.

Robin appeared in the doorway not long after. Dustin, too. Both of them froze when they saw you holding hands. Steve’s awake. Not smiling, but finally looking somewhat alive behind his eyes.

The sight of it makes Robin’s hand come up to her mouth. Dustin didn’t even hide the tears. He darted into the room and flung himself at the foot of the bed, landing belly-first on the mattress like a flying possum.

“DUDE,” he blurted. “You talked. That’s literally the hottest thing you’ve ever done. Well, second hottest. First is obviously the CPR thing, because you were like, ‘clear!’ and then—”

“Hey.” You extended your leg and lightly waved your foot at Dustin. “Hey. Volume.”

Steve’s eyes stayed on you. Watching your mouth move. Your eyes flicker, your smile fluttering upwards at the corner like you didn’t want it to, not wanting to risk overwhelming him, but couldn’t help it.

And the ghosts? They weren’t gone. But they were quieter. Just for a little while.

Because Steve didn’t see the bodies anymore. Dead and dying, bleeding and wilting. Gasping for air, pleading for help, croaking out one last breath before their eyes became lifeless… 

He only saw you. 

Dustin didn’t say anything. Not for a full minute. He just stayed right there, half-sprawled on the bed, arms curled under his chest, chin resting on the blanket like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons. That ridiculous, familiar grin was stretched across his face. The one that used to hide the gap from the baby teeth he never lost on time. The one that now revealed a full row of permanent teeth, like time itself had forgotten how young they all still were.

He didn’t even try to stop smiling. Just beamed, at you and at Steve, even though Steve still hadn’t looked at him.

Steve’s gaze was fixed on you like it couldn’t be pried away without breaking something fragile. Like you were the only thing that could anchor him in a world that still felt too loud, too bright, too fast. His hand was still under yours, his fingers curled a little tighter now. Not gripping, just holding. Like it was something his body had finally caught up with and realized that he needed.

Robin hadn’t moved. She stood just inside the doorway, still braced against the frame like her knees had gone weak. Her hand was still over her mouth, covering the trembling edges of a sob that didn’t quite make it out. Her eyes were red. Brimming. Silent.

She hadn’t spoken since you went into the room.

You didn’t turn to look at either of them. Not yet. You kept your eyes on Steve, kept your breathing even. Your voice stayed low and calm, your expression steady, but not blank. There was feeling behind all of it. Deep feeling. But you kept it all tightly coiled behind your eyes, refusing to let it all spill out and drown the moment. 

Refusing to let it drown him.

Because you knew better than to flood a fragile circuit. And Steve Harrington, for all his strength, was cracked glass right now.

“Okay,” you murmured, just loud enough for the three of you to hear. “That’s enough excitement for one minute.”

Steve’s lip twitched again, brows furrowing. Barely. But it was there.

You smiled gently and looked past him, for the first time, at Dustin. You didn’t need to speak, just extended your free hand slightly, palm out, a soft gesture of welcome.

It’s okay.

Dustin understood immediately. He always did, with you. Always listeners, and trusted. He nodded once, moving forward slowly. Carefully, like the air in the room might shatter if he walked too hard. He knelt beside the bed, right by where you and Steve’s hands met and held onto each other. He didn’t reach for Steve, though. Didn’t talk, or ask questions, or try to make him speak. He just sat there, patiently, close enough to be seen but not felt. 

Letting Steve see him.

And Steve didn’t flinch. His eyes, still on you, subtly flicked toward the movement. Toward Dustin.

His brother. 

Steve’s doe eyes softened. It was a microscopic shift, but it was beautiful all the same. He didn’t speak. Of course he didn’t.

Owens had told you it would be like this.

“He might echo things you say,” he’d warned you all quietly, three nights ago. “That’s the easiest form of communication for someone in a post-catatonic fugue. He’ll sound lucid, but it’s muscle memory. Like the mind is bouncing off the walls of someone else’s words until it finds its own again.”

And that’s exactly what it had been. Four days of silence. Then, the faintest whisper of your own words sent back at you. Like an echo from underwater.

Until now.

Until “it’s fine.”

Those were his own words.

The weight of it still hadn’t settled. Because it was easier to hear about symptoms than to live with them. Easier to nod while Owens spoke in that tired, professional way of his, full of disclaimers and caveats, than to sit here and watch someone you loved disappear inch by inch. To see them breathe and blink and not be in the room.

But now? Now, Steve was here. Not all the way. Not completely.

But here.

You exhaled quietly and glanced at Dustin. His eyes were still shiny, but he was beaming. God, he was so bright when he smiled like that. Like he didn’t even know the room was still full of ghosts.

“Hey,” you murmured.

Steve’s eyes came back to you immediately. Locked. Like gravity.

“Think maybe,” you said, soft but sure, “you should try some water. Or, you know, attempt the wild and crazy act of swallowing something that isn’t your own feelings.”

Steve didn’t answer. Didn’t even nod. But the little flex in his jaw again, that little tick of muscle like his body remembered the shape of response, was enough.

You turned to Dustin. “Can you grab me that water glass from the dresser?”

Dustin scrambled with quiet eagerness. He brought the glass over, hand shaking just slightly. You winked at him as he handed it to you, not Steve, and backed off again. Still watching. Still smiling.

You took the glass and touched it to Steve’s lower lip gently. “Try,” you whispered.

He didn’t open his mouth right away. Didn’t pull away either.

You watched him patiently. Felt his fingers twitch again beneath yours.

Then, slow as thawing ice, he parted his lips.

You tilted the glass carefully as he lifted his head, which was progress. A little water slipped inside.

He swallowed. It wasn’t graceful. His throat bobbed like it hurt. But he didn’t choke. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact with you for a second.

“Good,” you said softly. Your thumb rubbed his knuckles once.

Steve let out a long, shaky breath. And then something happened. Something subtle. Not movement. Not sound.

Shift.

The air changed. Or maybe he did. Something behind his eyes. Like the light finally touched a corner it hadn’t in days.

He still didn’t speak. But he blinked, and this time, the blink felt real. Felt like his, not like the mind stalling and resetting.

Robin made a soft noise behind her hand.

You turned your head finally, just enough to glance at her. Her eyes met yours, wide and wet.

You gave the smallest nod. It’s gonna be okay.

Robin’s shoulders sank like the air had gone out of her lungs. She nodded, and didn't try to speak. Just stayed there, hand still over her mouth, a silent sentinel by the door.

You turned back to Steve.

He was still looking at you.

“Hey,” you murmured. “Still with me, baby?”

Another blink. This one slower, all for you...

You smiled, soft and sure, and squeezed his hand. “Good.”

It’s been maybe three minutes since you said that. Four, at most. Steve still hasn’t looked away from you. Not really. His gaze has drifted, sure, over your shoulder, to the steady weight of Dustin leaned up against the window. Just in his line of sight past you, propped up on your elbow beside him, smiling gently. And right behind you, Dustin was grinning quietly, that toothy smile full of unspoken loyalty. 

But every time that Steve’s glossy eyes flicker over to him, they come right back to yours.

You don’t say anything about it. You just keep holding his stare. Soft, calm, right there. Because you know better than to shatter this with too many words. You don’t want to break whatever delicate thread he’s holding onto. 

And Steve? He’s holding onto you. 

With everything he has left.

He keeps blinking slowly, like it helps keep the noise out. Like he’s sorting through the thoughts that aren’t plagued, trying to cling to the rare ones that aren’t rotten. The only ones that feel real anymore.

Like how beautiful your smile is. Even when it’s small. Even when it’s sad. Especially when it’s sad. And even now, when you’re not trying, it’s there. Still for him.

All for him.

He thinks about how it was the first real thing he could remember after they dragged you back into the light. 

That fragile smile, cracked at the edges, tender around the eyes, pulled from something ancient and bottomless inside of you, had been the first thing on your face when breath found your lungs again. After you’d been sucked underneath the current. The electric current that zapped you over to the other side. Not the literal other side, as in the wall. No, the other-other side. Not upside down. Not right-side up. Past the veil. Somewhere that you weren’t supposed to reach at only 20 years old. 

Somewhere that isn’t supposed to be reached into you’re old enough to become dust in the wind. Not jolted into it by a surge of shock that takes your life decades too soon.

And yet, here you are. His.

It makes his chest hurt. In a good way. In the only way that still feels good.

When he looks at Dustin, it’s different, but not by much. That same warmth, buried somewhere deep under all the sharp panic and muscle tension. The kind of love that doesn’t make a sound. The kind he never even got from blood family. The kind you only ever feel once, and if you’re lucky, you get to keep it.

His little brother. The one he didn’t get to protect. The one they took.

The image is still burned behind his eyes. The frantic, horrible shrieking of tires on the road above, the crash through the back fence, the screaming, the uniformed men, the guns, the gag. 

But worse than all of it was watching them drag Dustin out of that basement.

Drag you.

It hadn’t even been ten minutes. One blink. One breath. Steve had been gagged by then. Arms restrained so tight they bruised deep into his joints. Robin had been crying. Hopper was shouting. Joyce had been holding him, her own wrists tied, still finding a way to be there for him and shout through the fear in her throat. Mike and Max and Lucas had been frozen, pressed together against the wall like kids in a goddamn earthquake drill. Jonathan and Nancy had been shrieking, restrained and petrified, while Eddie had blood on his nose, the heel of a soldier’s boot dug deep into his back, between the shoulder blades. And Steve? Was useless.

He’d screamed so hard into the cloth they stuffed in his mouth that he’d torn the back of his throat. Spit and blood soaked the gag until it stuck to his tongue like glue. And all he could see were your legs disappearing through the doorway. Your voice screaming his name, telling them not to hurt him, not to hurt your uncle. Or Susie, or Dustin. 

Dustin trying to kick someone. His own wrists tearing against the tape they’d slapped onto him. Robin’s voice trying to scream for him. Trying to scream for you. And Steve.

“Steve, Steve, look at me—Steve, look at me!”

He can still hear Robin saying it. After they’d dragged you through the same door where Steve used to let you crash after movie nights, down the same hallway where Dustin always sneaks down for snacks in the middle of the night.

The man cave. His swanky, overcompensating bachelor pad turned game room turned war zone. And now it feels like a coffin. And yet somehow, you’re all still breathing in it.

“—gonna need at least three jars of peanut butter,” Dustin now mumbles beside you, voice low, conspiratorial, but bright. Like he’s trying not to wake Steve up from something.

You glance over your shoulder, raise an eyebrow. “Three? What’re you, eating it by the spoonful?”

“You know I do.”

Robin lets out a little puff of air through her fingers, still covering her mouth. A non-laugh. Her eyes are glassy. Twinkly. She hasn’t said a word since she sat down.

“You gonna back me up here?” Dustin asks, flicking his gaze to her as he steps up behind your back.

You nudge him lightly with your elbow. “She’s in mourning. The last of her protein bars got stolen by Murray.”

“I told her not to leave them in the glove compartment,” comes a voice from around the corner.

Your uncle.

Murray rounds it like a ghost. Barefoot, carrying a mug of black coffee and a clipboard, because of course he is. He doesn’t speak too loud. He doesn’t let the sarcasm spike above a dull rumble. It’s uncharacteristically softened, the way he only does it when he knows someone’s not okay and in genuine distress. He doesn’t comment on Steve’s distant, unblinking eyes.

You don’t either.

“I’m not saying the breakfast situation is dire,” Murray continues, perching on the edge of the low dresser without asking. He doesn’t need to. “But I am saying the last two eggs were questionably expired and Argyle made something that looked suspiciously like psychedelic oatmeal.”

You smirk. “He’s still on the kale kick?”

“Unfortunately. And he brought yogurt. Vegan. Unsweetened. Tastes like damp cement.”

“Ugh,” Robin croaks through her fingers.

You sniff a laugh. Even Dustin makes a face.

“I told him to pick up normal groceries with Hopper and Jonathan.” You flick your eyes back to Steve. He’s still watching you. Barely breathing. “Hopper’s definitely gonna ignore at least half of the list I made for it.”

He stares at you.

“Not if you guilt him hard enough,” Murray mutters. “You’re good at that.”

“She’s excellent at that,” Dustin adds.

You shoot both of them a look. “I use my powers responsibly.”

“Sure you do,” Murray says, sipping his coffee. “That’s why I’m out three Twinkies and half a carton of Pringles.”

You raise your hands. “That’s called preserving morale.”

Clutch.

There’s a flicker. A movement at the edge of your vision.

Steve’s hand.

It shoots out, sudden and sharp, and grabs you by the wrist. Not hard, but tight. Tight enough that it startles you. Tight enough that the others stop talking for a good solid handful of seconds, like the oxygen’s changed.

Steve’s eyes are wide now. Not as scared like they were before. Not as panicked. Just fierce. Pleading. The kind of look that says please don’t go without him ever making a sound.

You weren’t going anywhere. Not even close. But God, it still guts you.

“Hey…” Your voice is steady. “Hey. No one’s going anywhere. I’m right here.”

He doesn’t answer. You didn’t expect him to. So you squeeze his hand back. Gently. Letting him know you mean it. That you always will.

Then, very slowly, you bring his hand to your lips. Press a kiss to the base of his palm. Another one to the inside of his wrist. One more on his knuckles. All tender. All without words. Like muscle memory, like prayer.

Steve breathes a little better. A little more audibly. A bit shaky, jaw tightening and loosening… until finally, it settles. 

You don’t stop smiling all the way through it. 

“Okay,” you say, clearing your throat, and looking back at the group like you didn’t just feel your soul split in two. “We’re making a new list. Items Argyle and Jonathan are actually capable of acquiring.”

“Chips,” Dustin says immediately.

“Done.”

“Chocolate,” Robin murmurs.

“Double done.”

“Eggs,” Murray says. “Preferably not pre-rotted.”

You’re still holding Steve’s hand. Still smiling, still at ease.

He doesn’t speak, but you feel him shifting closer. Subtly. Timidly. He lets himself move inch by inch until his head is pressed against your chest plate, tucked in tight, safe underneath your chin. One strong arm stays curled close to his own ribs. His breathing is soft, still a little shaky, but it’s steady.

You rest your cheek against his hair, willing yourself not to say anything about the way his fingers clutch tighter into your shirt.

Dustin keeps adding items to the list. Murray keeps making dry remarks about produce. Robin chimes in once or twice with a cracked voice and grateful eyes. 

And you, still holding Steve, you just keep guiding the conversation. 

Because you’re the lighthouse.

Because Steve needs to hear the waves crashing on something steady. He needs to hear life continuing. He needs to feel love in the room without it asking anything from him in return. Just letting him exist in it.

Just letting him be.

And you’re not going anywhere.

Steve hasn’t moved from your chest, his breath still faintly damp against the soft fabric of your shirt. The black one he loves so much, the long sleeve that he says always makes him feel feral, ‘because you look like a badass that looks like she always wants to be told what to do but can hold her own in a fight.’ That’s how he’d described it once and it never left your brain. It lived up there, rent free.

Right now, his hand still clutches the hem of it, tucked in against his ribcage like it’s all that’s holding him together. You never stopped cradling him, never moved your cheek from the crown of his head, your arms circled around him like a ring of protection.

Murray sits back on the shallow bureau with a grumble, flipping through his clipboard notes, his pen still tucked behind his ear. “Alright, eggs, bread, three jars of peanut butter to appease the peanut gallery…”

“Rude,” Dustin mutters, no heat behind it.

“—those dinosaur nuggets that El’s now hooked on, that soup Steve likes… Jesus, what brand is it again?”

You answer quietly, not moving your cheek. “The one with the basil swirl in it. He always gets the tomato basil swirl. From that organic aisle.”

Murray clicks his tongue and scribbles. “Right. Pretentious soup aisle.”

“Hey, he likes it,” you murmur, just enough for Steve to hear, brushing your lips against his hairline before resting your cheek right back where it was. “That’s good enough for me.”

Your uncle hums, writing it down.

Dustin is seated cross-legged on the floor by the window now, nodding along as he tosses a grape from one hand to the other. “Mm, and those cinnamon rolls from that one place. The really soft ones he warms up with butter.”

“And peach Snapple,” Robin chimes in from the wall, next to the doorframe. She pushes herself off it now, moving closer. “He always picks the peach. Even when I tell him strawberry’s better.”

“He also buys it even when it’s not on sale,” you smile softly, letting your palm drift in slow circles across Steve’s back. “It’s like his small rebellion.”

Murray scoffs a laugh. Fond, no heat behind it. He sighs. “You people spend money like you’ve never been broke a day in your lives.” 

He pauses, shaking his head, glancing up at you from his clipboard. He pursed his lips, lightly tapping his pen against the paper for a couple of beats while just taking in the side of you holding him in the morning light, tucked here safely in his bed with him, over the covers. 

Murray finally sighs again. “So do you, by the way.”

Your brow furrows slightly as you hum, glancing over at him curiously. He just lifts an eyebrow, still writing down the grocery list.

“The Peach Snapple,” he clarifies easily, not looking up from his clipboard as he scribbles. “The one he always gets. So do you.”

That makes the little knit between your brows smooth over, and your cheeks begin to warm. It’s true, you think to yourself. You’d let that become a habit of yours, opting to start liking it since you’d always go to the store with him and he’d always grab one from the cooler before you both would even start shopping. Even whenever you guys would hit a 7-Eleven, or some really nice grocery market, he always looked for it. So now, you did the same thing. It grew on you. 

Just like he did. 

You smile to yourself. And then, muffled and still buried in your chest… you hear the words again. Echoed.

“…so do you.”

Steve.

Silence drops like a pin in church. Even your newly irregular heartbeat stutters in time against Steve’s forehead.

Murray’s head ticks up in surprise. Robin’s eyes go wide. Dustin stops chewing, mid-grape.

Your arms tighten just slightly around Steve, eyes flickering to your uncle. You’re stunned. Not just because Steve had spoken, but because it was that. A mirror of Murray’s own words, mouthed back with just the faintest hint of knowing. Not entirely his voice, but not not his either.

Oh my god, you think.

Oh my god, oh my god.

Murray blinks, and then, with the smooth recovery only he’s capable of, scratches his beard. “Well. At least someone’s paying attention.”

You grin, watery and full of love, kissing Steve’s hair again. “Yeah. He always does.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to.

The conversation moves on, gentle and easy. Robin makes another comment about almond milk, Dustin tries to convince your uncle to get one of those pre-marinated chickens. Murray pretends not to be listening, even though he is as he lists every single thing that they ask, like the secret softie that he is.

And all the while, Steve stays right there, clinging, hidden, breathing shallow but steady.

Eventually, Murray rises from his perch, brushing his hands off on his jeans. He claps them once, casually. “Alright, you guys ready?”

It’s meant for Robin and Dustin. A polite cue. A quiet way of giving you and Steve the room.

But Steve hears it, and before you can even blink, he makes a small, high sound. Barely a noise. 

A soft hitch in his throat, more breath than voice. Squeaked. 

Steve’s whole body jerks slightly, muscles snapping taut. His grip tightens on your shirt like a vice. And then he’s pressing harder into your chest, panic blooming in every stiff line of his frame. He starts shaking his head a bit. As if to say no.

Murray looks over sharply, brows pulling tight.

You freeze, but only for a second. Then you’re wrapping him tighter, voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey, hey, no—Steve. Baby, no. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re safe. It’s just Jonathan and Hop going with Argyle, that’s all.”

Murray watches somberly, lips pressed into a hard line. Robin covers her mouth again, eyes widened with grief. Dustin looks like he wants to say something but he just swallows it, knowing better.

Your uncle waves them both down carefully, silently. As if to say don’t speak, let him do it.

You lock eyes with your uncle over Steve’s shoulder, and what passes between you in that look guts you. Because he’s never looked at anyone like this before. So carefully, so seriously, so heartbroken. Not even you, not even as a kid.

You know what that means.

He’s scared, too.

Steve’s breathing stutters through his nose a couple of times so Murray crosses the room slowly, movements deliberate. He crouches beside you both and keeps his voice low, gentle, like you didn’t know he could be.

“Kid, we’re not going anywhere, alright? You’re stuck with us. Me and her and Dustin. Robin, too. This house is on lockdown now. We’re practically self-quarantining just to annoy the government that no longer has us underneath their thumbs.”

No reaction from Steve. But no flinch either. 

That’s the win. That’s the progress.

Once he’s sure Steve can hear him, Murray reaches forward and firmly rubs his hand between Steve’s shoulder blades. Long strokes. Solid pressure. He doesn’t speak anymore. Just lets the silence hold.

Steve doesn’t flinch. Instead… he relaxes. Just a fraction. Just enough for you to notice the tension start to bleed from his spine.

You look back at Murray again, lips parted. He meets your eyes. And this time, the worry is quieter. Still there. But with something steadier. The same thing you’re both clinging to.

Hope.

Murray finally nods once and gets up. “C’mon,” he mouths to Robin and Dustin after he’s already reached the doorway.

Robin leaves first, fast. She has to. You can see the tears building on her lashes. Dustin follows, biting his lip, head ducked.

Then it’s just you and Steve.

And still, he hasn’t said another word. Just breathing now. His face turned in, almost buried against your chest. Still clutching your shirt. Still so very quiet.

You stroke your fingers through his hair, thumb brushing over the back of his ear. Your voice is barely audible.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, Steve. I swear to God. You’re not alone.”

He doesn’t respond. But he breathes. So you keep going.

“You don’t have to talk yet, okay? Not if it hurts. But I’m here. And when you’re ready to talk to me? I’ll still be here.”

A long pause. Long enough for your own throat to tighten. You bite back the ache. You can’t cry. Not right now. He doesn’t need that. He needs you to be steady. Needs you soft, needs you strong, needs you period.

So you whisper it again, lips brushing his temple.

“I’m right here.”

More silence. And then, so quiet it’s almost like breath itself…

“So do you.”

The same words again. The ones Murray said. The ones Steve had echoed.

But this time?

This time it feels like Steve.

This time it’s his.

You pull back just a little, enough to see him. His eyes are open. Glazed and distant and tired… but looking at you. Really looking at you.

And you smile. Through the tears now freely falling down your cheeks, you smile. Press your forehead to his.

“Murray will make sure they get it,” you whisper, nodding. “The soup, the Snapple. The rolls. He’ll get all of it.”

You kiss the tip of his nose. 

Peck. Peck. Once, twice. 

Then the space between his eyebrows. Each of his closed eyelids. His cheekbones. Peck, peck, peck.

“I promise.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, nor does he need to. His eyes flutter. His body softens just slightly more against you. And his hand stays right where it is, curled in the fabric of your shirt, like an anchor.

And you hold him.

You just hold him.

***

CHAPTER TWO "Steve 'The Hair' Harrington"

Steve’s wristwatch sits discarded on the bathroom sink, the clock face reading 10:03 AM.

The familiar tile is warm beneath your feet, steam still ghosting along the mirrors behind the shower curtain, thick and slow. You’ve gotten used to this space, his full private bathroom, sharing it more than you’ve ever spent inside of it alone.

You can’t hear much over the steady patter of the water, but it doesn’t matter. You’re not listening for anything.

You already know what you’ll hear.

Nothing.

Not from him, at least.

Steve stands in front of you in the shower tub, his tall frame bowed just slightly at the shoulders, like he’s holding invisible weight. His limbs are more relaxed now, despite the stiff posture, his forearms loosely crossed one over the other in front of his toned, scarred abs. 

His pretty brown-eyed gaze, hazier than the steamy air, is locked on the drain.  The water is gentler today, not the full pressure he usually likes. Because when it’s loud, it startles him. And right now, Steve doesn’t need another reason to flinch.

You’ve gotten used to this. Showering with him. It wasn’t always like this, of course. You used to avoid being in the same house with him if you could help it. You used to flinch when you passed each other inside the Byers’ hall whenever you all would meet there, or whenever you’d exchange dry barbs sharp enough to draw blood. Four years ago, you would’ve rather set yourself on fire than bathe beside Steve Harrington. And he would’ve helped light the match in a fucking heartbeat. Hell, he would’ve sponsored the matchbox with his daddy’s credit card and been all too pleased about it.

Because back when he was seventeen and dating Nancy Wheeler. And back when you, stupidly, maybe, had encouraged her and Jonathan to snap out of it, when you drove the two of them that night inside your uncle’s living to get over themselves, stop lying to themselves. Ever since Steve caught wind of that, he’d looked at you as if you’d ruined him. Talked to you cruelly, discarded you with pride, just like King Steve would’ve done. Treated you like you were the monster in the woods. 

And you were the monster, for a while. In his eyes, anyway.

But that was years ago. And since then, the two of you have clawed your way through with grudging tolerance, reluctant teamwork, long silences, longer conversations, slow trust, soft nights, warm laughter, and then…

Well. And then you kissed.

Or really, he’d kissed you.

Out of nowhere. That night in this house. His house. The one you all ended up retreating to after everything blew sideways again, whenever Vecna vanished into thin air and Max slipped into a damn end 6-month long coma. After that night you’d all gotten a little drunk on Smirnoff (thanks to Murray), a little loud, laughing way too hard at things that shouldn’t have been funny. Hopper had been there. With Joyce. And Nancy and Jonathan. Robin. Eddie. You. Steve.

Just the adults and the younger adults, all breathing in that rare quiet, like maybe for once the world was going to give you a damn break.

Then the next morning, he’d let you read Max’s letter.  The failsafes. The one she wrote to him in case she didn’t make it. 

In case she didn’t wake up. 

He’d gone quiet whenever he handed it to you. Or let you pick it up. He pretends not to remember, anytime you two bring that up, just knowing that it bugs you. Because you remember everything. Every little detail. 

You remember he definitely didn’t read it himself, nor did he want to. He couldn’t. 

So you did. And you didn’t let yourself cry until later, whenever you were alone.

Neither did he.

Then later that night, while you were in your room after brushing your teeth and coming through your wet hair, ready to try and get some sleep, he’d knocked on the door. Steve didn’t say a word when you opened it. He’d just looked at you for a moment. Just looked at you like you were the question he couldn’t answer.

And then kissed you like his life depended on it.

Next thing you know, the two of you were pulling each other close, hands desperate and shaking, mouths open and aching, both sets of limbs tangled in one of his extra beds with the extra set of sheets. All tongue and teeth, and quiet gasps, naked and exploring. Hungrily seeking warmth, seeking answers, seeking common ground. Somewhere in the bend of your knee, or the cut of his v-line, a back and forth of moans and groans sighed and hummed into each other's lips and throats.

One night became two. Then a week. Then two months.

Two whole months.

And now it was this. This silence, this ache. This boy, beautiful and battered and not gone, but not here, either.

You’re careful as you rub the shampoo into your palms, lifting your hands to his head. You don’t speak right away. Not until your fingers are combing through his hair.

“You know how many of these we’ve taken?” you murmur softly, massaging near his temples.

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even blink, or lift his gaze.

“At least two dozen. Maybe more,” you continue, gently. You ponder over them as you let the body wash turn to suds beneath your hands, reflecting. Remembering. “Romantic ones… steamy ones…” You carefully washed over his scars along his torso, silver and healed. Marking a mere chapter of his nightmares. “That one when we were washing bat guts off each other, which was… sexy in a very specific trauma-bond way.”

Still nothing.

You glance at him and smile anyway. “But this one’s new. You’re not bossing me around about conditioner ratios. Not telling me that my rinsing technique is flawed,” you tease gently, mock-serious.

Still quiet. Until… 

“Flawed.”

Your fingers stutter in his hair for a moment. 

It’s almost imperceptible, the way it’s spoken from him. 

You blink. And then you grin. “Exactly. Terrible technique. You should probably report me. Hair crimes, maximum sentence.”

You catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. Not yet. 

But you’ll take it. 

So you keep going, running the suds through your own hair while the water sheets down both of you. He’s so warm beside you. Not holding you, not quite touching. But not pulling away, either. And when your elbow bumps his side, he doesn’t shift.

That alone is worth more than gold.

You take turns on both of your behalf, just like that. Soaping your arms, then his. Your neck, then his. And whenever he looks like he might be trying to make sense of things, like he should probably be doing something, you don’t let him. You’re already on it. Steve’s always on it, so now it’s your turn to be. You don’t rush. And you also don’t stop kissing his shoulder every now and then. Or brushing the curve of his jaw with your mouth. Or pressing your lips to the soft, damp place just beneath his ear.

He never leans in. But he never leans out. 

And sometimes, he echoes something. Not a response. Just a mirror. A parroted echo, your uncle had once referred to it as. A faint repeat of your words, like maybe they mean something if he says them too. Which is why you treat it just like regular conversation. Like nothing’s wrong. Like this is your usual morning routine.

You talk about Dustin’s hair gel, how it still smells like pineapple and about how he needs to chill on it before his hair becomes uncooked ramen. About Robin’s meltdown over almond milk yesterday and how you’re pretty sure she’s going to end up getting arrested for smuggling raw milk by the time she’s thirty. About how Murray keeps writing oregano on the grocery list, even though there’s literally 5 bottles of it in the damn spice cabinet. About how Joyce and Hopper need to just get hitched already, how Jonathan and Nancy aren doing better. How they’re talking again. You even go on about how Mike and Lucas and Max have all actually started learning how to play instruments with Eddie, which is helping shape him out to be a great dad one day. Or maybe just the crazy uncle that he was born to be for those kids.

Steve listens, even when he’s not looking at you. He hums sometimes, looks at you sometimes like he wants to speak but can’t. He watches the bloodless water make sweet scented bubbles at his feet, where your toes kiss the top of his.

And finally, when it’s time to rinse, you ease him under the spray, guiding his head down so you can tilt it back. You’re on your toes a little, reaching, palms steady on either side of his head.  You chuckle softly, deep in your chest. The sound of it bubbles out before you can stop it.

“God, you really are happiest when someone’s doing your hair,” you whisper, smiling as the conditioner starts to rinse. “I swear, if I ever wanted to propose to you, I’d probably have to do it while rinsing your bangs.”

That’s when it happens. So fast and soft you almost miss it.

A smile. 

Steve Harrington smiles.

Not big. Not ultra wide. But it’s there, it’s right there and it looks just like him. Like one of those signature smiles of his, all charming and cocky and proud of himself. The one that you used to wanna smack right off his face with a bitch slap, only to end up chasing after it with your lips every goddamn day.

His lips just now had curved up into a flicker of that. Just barely. But enough to wreck you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “There he is. The King of Hair. The Crown Prince of Conditioner. My one and only shampoo deity.” You nuzzle your nose to his gently, teasingly, all featherlight and fond. Your hands keep working through the strands, rinsing the last of it out. “I should be charging for this. This is high-value spa work.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he lets you nuzzle him with hooded eyes that swim with love and don’t look completely lost as you do...

And that? That feels like a miracle.

After carefully flipping the water off, you go to reach for the towel hanging on the rack, one hand still in his, fingers loose. It’s right behind him, where he stands underneath the nozzle where the waterfall has ceased. It’s right within arms reach where you can still see him, still hold onto you as you do it.

But right before you move, Steve catches you.

Not fast. Not suddenly, not with a desperate grip on your wrist like he’d done this morning. Just a slow, deliberate lean forward.

…and then his nose presses into yours.

Just once. Gingerly, sweetly. 

Just Steve’s turn, to nuzzle your nose right back, albeit delayed. Just a few steps behind you.

You stop breathing. But only for a second. Then you smile again, steady and warm and careful not to show how badly you want to fucking cry.

Because he nuzzled back.

You nod like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like it’s just another Sunday morning, another moment in the life you’ve built together. Even though it’s not. Even though it’s everything.

Because Steve might not be talking. But right now, at just past 10AM, in the quiet hush of a half-steamed shower, with conditioner still dripping from your fingers, and hot water is clinging to both your skin instead of blood and grime… 

Steve Harrington is saying something.

And you’re here to listen to every single word of it.

***

CHAPTER THREE "Girlfriend"

It’s not long after the shower. Maybe twenty minutes, tops. The sun has risen higher in the sky now—barely peeking through the heavy curtains of Steve’s room, just enough to cast warm little streaks of light across the bedspread and rug. The room smells faintly of his shampoo, the one you use on both of you now. Cedarwood and citrus, clean and bright.

Steve is sitting at the edge of his bed, dressed in the off-white Henley you love most on him. The sleeves are pushed up to his forearms, loose and rumpled just enough, and he’s wearing those goddamn black joggers that cling perfectly to his hips, hanging just right off his thighs. The Henley and joggers combo? Criminal. It should be illegal how good he looks like this—towel-dried hair falling soft and boyish across his forehead, skin warm and pink from the shower, eyes somewhere far away but still… somehow home.

He looks like a dream. Your dream. Even hollowed out and lost inside himself, he’s still the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen.

And he’s letting you choose what he wears now.

That part, morbidly, makes you a little happy. You’re the one dressing him lately—picking out what’ll make him feel safest, softest, most like himself again. And selfishly, you get to choose all your favorite things on him. Because now you can. Because he lets you. Because you’re his. And he’s yours.

You’re still in your towel. Haven’t even gotten around to dressing yourself yet. You’re standing at his dresser, rifling through the drawers like you live here. Like you belong here. Because you do.

“Okay,” you mutter aloud, holding up one of his old Hawkins gym t-shirts and smirking to yourself, “I’m not even gonna pretend I’m not stealing all of these. I’m just—these are mine now. Sorry. That’s just the girlfriend tax.” You glance back over your shoulder. “You understand.”

He’s looking at you. Not in that faraway, glassy kind of way. Not completely. There’s something behind it now. A flicker. Something dancing in the honey-brown of his eyes like maybe he’s listening. Maybe not all of him, but enough. Enough to know you’re talking. Enough to be caught staring.

You flash him that grin of yours. The one he used to hate. That cocky, sunbeam grin he once swore made him want to walk into traffic. Back when you were seventeen and he’d still been with Nancy. Back before everything changed. Before the two of you grew up and broke down and clawed your way to this strange, undisturbed place. 

That’s the precise grin you wear for him right now, the only thing you’re wearing right now except one of the plushy towels that hangs around your frame. You tilt your head.

“Girlfriend,” you say again, real sing-song and light. “You like that word, don’t you?”

Steve doesn’t answer, but you see it. The way his shoulders shift, the way his mouth twitches. The way his eyes trail you as you take one slow step closer.

You say it again, quieter this time, eyes dancing. “Girlfriend.”

Another step.

And again. “Girlfriend.”

You’re barely a foot away from him now, towel still wrapped around you, your hair still dripping a little. Little beads of hot water are still clinging to your bare skin. You’re warm and damp and buzzing all over. And you’ve got this graceful saunter in your step. It’s lithe and teasing and slow, like a lioness, like something delicate and dangerous all at once. You watch him drink you in, even if he doesn’t mean to. Even if he doesn’t realize it.

You don’t reach out right away. You just kneel in front of him, slow and smooth, until you’re eye-level with where he’s sitting on the edge of bed. You’re smiling like you’re the happiest woman on the planet.

Because you are.

Because Steve makes you that.

You reach up, gently, and cradle his face in your hands.

He leans into it.

Oh, God, he leans into it.

Your thumbs press into the hollow of his cheeks, and you feel his skin… It’s still warm from the shower, still baby-soft and damp in the way that only Steve Harrington ever gets. His pretty eyelashes flutter for a second, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to look at you. But he does. He keeps looking. And it hits you all over again, just how much you love him.

How much you love him in the way that makes you ache and burn and swear to yourself you’ll never let anyone hurt him again. That nobody, nobody, is going to take you from him. Or take him from you. Not after everything. Not after what he’s survived.

And then, barely above a whisper… 

“…girlfriend,” Steve says.

Just that. Mild. Hesitant. Like he’s testing the sound of it.

You nod through the rush of heat in your throat, through the sting in your eyes. You smile wide and wicked, all fondness and joy, and you tease him like it’s no big deal, like yeah, you knew he liked it. Of course he likes it. You’re his fucking girlfriend.

Then Steve reaches up. Slowly, a larghetto movement. His fingers wrap around your wrists, right where your delicate hands still cradle his face. His touch is feather-light, but it’s real. He’s grounding himself. Holding on.

He says it again.

“Girlfriend.”

This time it’s stronger. Not loud, but his. It sounds like the way he says your name whenever he’s teasing you. The way that he says it when he’s kissing you and shutting you up. Like he’s not just saying the word, he’s claiming it.

Your chest tightens. Your hands tighten just a little around his jaw, and your eyes glisten even as your smile spreads wider. You lean in, just a fraction, and your nose brushes his.

“Yeah,” you breathe, so quietly. “Yours.”

His sad eyes twinkle, piercing into yours despite the trauma that hazes over them and tries to kill the light inside of them.

"All yours," you breathe against him with a gentle smile, eskimo kissing him the way that the two of you always do.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Steve’s eyes don’t look lost. They look like they’re finding their way back.

One patient, soft second at a time.

***

CHAPTER FOUR "Frozen Exstinction"

It was exactly 12:31 PM when the front door burst open like someone had just returned from war. Not the type of war that this crew was used to dealing with, though. 

Instead? They’d conquered a war waged in the fluorescent battlefield of supermarket aisles.

“Operation: Grocery Heist complete,” Argyle declared grandly, arms overloaded with a precariously teetering stack of brown paper bags. “We bring you tribute, o mighty household.”

Jonathan followed right behind him, far less theatrical, sunglasses still pushed up on his head and a bag of apples hooked onto his wrist like a purse. “He means we spent an embarrassing amount of money on exactly what everyone demanded, down to the five separate coffee listings.”

Hopper was already at the kitchen counter and halfway through pouring himself what had to be his third or fourth mug of coffee. He grunted like he had every intention of making it to five. “Six. That list said coffee six times.”

Murray didn’t even look up from the bag he was already rifling through. “That’s because we knew you’d think four was too low and five was some kind of trap. Six is your psychological sweet spot. You’re welcome.”

“You people are insane,” Joyce muttered, already reaching to help you unload the loot, her voice thick with amusement. “Who needs six kinds of coffee in one day?”

“You, apparently,” Murray quipped without missing a beat. “You’ve got Hopper’s taste in men, why not his taste in caffeine dependency?”

“Ouch,” you chimed in, stifling a laugh as you moved alongside Jonathan, digging through the mountain of groceries now overtaking Steve’s kitchen. “I felt that one from across the room.”

“I liked that one,” Jonathan grinned, elbowing you lightly. “We should start writing these down. Volume One: The Strangest Things That Piss Off Hopper and Murray: A Sibling Guide to Survival.”

“We are not siblings,” Murray snapped, already tossing a rogue orange back into the fruit bowl like it had personally offended him.

“Yeah,” you smirked beside him, “you wish you were in this bloodline.”

That earned a bark of laughter from Jonathan as you and your uncle high-fived. 

“See? Dangerous combo,” he warned the room, nudging Hopper’s shoulder in passing as he walked past. “You let two people like us exist in the same kitchen? Mistake.”

“I’ve made worse,” Hopper muttered into his coffee. “I’ve married worse.”

Joyce rolled her eyes, laughing. “Oh, please, spare me your sob st—”

“Ayyyye,” you and Murray both said in harmonic unison, your Cheshire-grinned faces both alight with wide eyes. 

You both snapped your fingers at Joyce, who buried her head in her hands, immediately catching onto what she’d just done. Hopper gaped at her.

“It’s sticking,” Murray sing-songs. 

“Exhibit A, Hop,” Jonathan gestured to his mother while looking at him. He gestured wildly between all three of you now. “Exhibit fuckin’ A.”

“Language,” Joyce feebly attempted, muffled into her hands.

In the middle of the chaos, Steve just sat there. Perched on one of the kitchen island stools, still wearing that off-white Henley and those loose black joggers you’d laid out for him earlier, his hair still slightly damp and towel-dried, like he hadn’t moved since you’d pulled it back from his face with your fingers and whispered how stupid hot he looked. Because he did. Even like this. Despite being this quiet, depleted, soft-edged and shell-like, Steve Harrington looked like a goddamn dream.

He wasn’t talking. Not contributing to the mayhem unfolding around him. But he was watching. You could tell, just from the way his eyes flicked from person to person. He tracked the lackadaisical way Argyle dumped a bunch of boxes labeled ‘snack cakes’ onto the counter with a proud “for morale” falling out of his mouth, to the way that you giggled beside Jonathan while Murray muttered “morale’s a scam.”

Steve didn’t smile. Not yet. But he was watching.

That was new. First time he’d actively done it like this in a group setting, for the last four days.

It was progress. And it mattered.

You kept sliding things out of bags, laughing with your uncle as you discovered the outrageous number of hot sauce bottles he’d sneakily requested, when Jonathan suddenly dropped a cold six-pack of peach Snapple right in front of you on the counter with a light thud.

“For the Harrington,” he said with a casual sort of grandiose, handing off another pack to Argyle to put in the fridge.

You blinked, then looked at the label, and instantly smiled. 

Without missing a beat in the flow of conversation, you plucked one cold bottle from the pack and wiggled your eyebrows at Steve, flashing him a tiny grin. Then, you set it down gently in front of him. He blinked at it, then looked up at you, eyes soft and slow and warm in a way that told you yes, he sees you. 

And the truth is, he always did, even when his catatonic state was at a level 2.

He watches as you pick up a second bottle, thinking that the first one had been for him, but then he watches as you silently pop the seal off this one. Not loud, not startling.  And then, you place it down in front of him — exchanging it with the first. And all the while, you kept talking to Murray and Jonathan about who was going to organize the pantry this time.

“Not it,” you said. “Not it,” Jonathan echoed, barely squeezing it in. “Absolutely not,” said Argyle like he had ten minutes to spare.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Steve finally reaching for the bottle. His fingers curled around it like it was made of porcelain. 

His blank expression flickers with glimpses of thoughts. Oh. 

You’d let the first one, kept sealed, register with him… 

…and then you actually opened a second one for him, and let him drink it…

…since he wouldn’t open his own.

Steve warily brought the opened peach Snapple into his lap, looking at it for a moment. And then slowly, so gently, he leaned sideways, his shoulder brushing against yours, the full weight of him subtle and seeking.

You didn’t stop talking. Didn’t react like it was precious, didn’t patronize or praise him. You just kept socializing and let him press into you, gradually and wordlessly, as you reached across the island for a box of granola bars and launched right back into teasing Hopper for having labeled beef jerky as “emergency rations.”

Steve just kept sipping. 

Just kept sitting there, watching and absorbing.

Letting himself be included.

And then, right on cue, like a sitcom entrance with stage lights behind him: Eddie Munson rounded the corner, freshly showered, black hair wild and damp, sporting jeans and a band tee that somehow made him look like he’d just wandered off a stage in 1987.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and traumatized royalty,” he sang, making a grand sweep of his arms as he entered the kitchen. “I bring peace, hydration, and the lingering smell of herbal shampoo.”

“Good god,” Joyce muttered with a fond smile.

Murray didn’t look up. “You’re worse than Argyle.”

Argyle gave him a thumbs up. “I taught him.”

Eddie leaned dramatically against the fridge, letting it hold him up like he was the star of his own soap opera. “So what’s for lunch, huh? What do you feed a recovering hero with a six-pack and the sad eyes of a wounded golden retriever?”

There was a pause as you hummed, pretending to consider that. Murray actually sniffed out a laugh, head still down, while Jonathan drummed the table and squinted as if he actually was searching for a witty answer. 

Joyce pursed her lips from the bread basket, starting to answer as she stocked it. “Well…” 

But then a tiny sound escaped and entered into the mix.

…from where Steve sat quietly nestled beside you, still leaning.

Not a word. Not a sentence. 

Just a soft, breathy puff of tinkered laughter. 

Like surprise had pushed the air out of him without asking.

Every head turned.

Eddie was frozen mid-lean, eyebrows raised high.

Joyce looked like someone had just handed her a puppy. Hopper went still, the coffee cup halfway to his mouth, mouth hung open behind the rim, while Murray flicked his eyes up towards the sound. 

Jonathan’s fingers drumming the counter ceased immediately. And you? Your heart just cracked open like a sunbeam through a stormcloud. You turned to look down at him, your eyes wide, seeing now that Steve’s expression had shifted just the smallest amount. It had the wholesome, innocent appearance of someone who had just caught onto the joke.

His mouth was tilted in a quiet, barely-there, subtly open-mouthed smile. And his eyes were on Eddie, having just processed the lighthearted joke that he’d tossed into the ring a good five or so seconds before he’d reacted. Delayed, larghetto, and wholesome.

It felt like watching a flower patiently turn toward the sun.

You moved before you even realized it, circling behind him and wrapping your arms around him from behind, arms looped around his chest with your hands dangling against his sternum. You leaned in to kiss his cheek. Then again, before moving to kiss his temple. Balmy, light presses of your lips like promises.

“Oh you heard that, huh,” you murmured against him fondly. Kiss kiss, promise promise. “Of course you liked that.”

“You sly dog,” Hopper murmured, shaking his head and finally sipped his coffee while grinning at Steve from behind it. Joyce was right beside him, eyes round and hazed over with emotion, watching Steve with motherly hope.

“Don’t let it go to his head,” Jonathan mumbled, but he was smiling so warmly, looking right at you and Steve.

You couldn’t even help the twittery, breathy laugh that caught in your throat but managed to escape anyway. “Oh yeah, you’re okay,” you murmured, quiet and gentle and just for him. “You’re so okay. And I love you so much.”

Steve still didn’t speak. But he did lean into you. And then, with one hand still holding onto that peach Snapple in his lap, the other reached up. 

Found your wrists. 

Held them there.

And when you murmured, “You’re safe,” against his ear, barely audible… 

He echoed it back.

“Safe.”

Soft, faint.

But there.

Joyce closed her eyes like she’d been praying for that exact moment.

And Eddie just stood there, jaw slack, blinking slowly as his eyes misted. “Holy shit,” he whispered to her. “Steve Harrington just laughed at my joke. I’ve peaked.”

Hopper spun it into something witty and roast-worthy towards him, to help “deflate his ego” but also keep the conversation flowing so that Steve wouldn’t retreat again. And also to keep from letting whatever thickness was crawling up his throat and made him have to keep clearing it every ten damn seconds.

They all resumed chattering. But you didn’t look at anyone else except Steve right now as you leaned closer, pressing your nose against his hair while he leaned against your chest, silent and sipping peach Snapple, surrounded by found-family absurdity, love, warmth, dry wit and everyone who mattered to him.

Safe.

Safe.

Safe.

And alive.

Jonathan has also learned how to immediately clock the hesitation in Steve’s eyes before it ever even forms in his body. It’s why he doesn’t hesitate, just like you and Murray, before drawing the reins of the conversation back into his own hands like it’s second nature.

“So what I’m hearing is,” he says, plopping a stool over for himself and resting on it with his hip, a half-empty bag of dried mangoes in one hand. “None of you trust me and Argyle to buy groceries unsupervised.”

“That’s what you’re hearing?” Hopper asks dryly as he settles into the bench near Joyce, arms crossed, legs kicked out. “Because I’m pretty dog-gone sure what I said was: ‘next time, I’m writing the list in crayon and attaching it to Eleven’s bike handles.’”

“Oh come on, man,” Argyle chimes dreamily from the fridge, holding a Tupperware of watermelon like it’s sacred. “You said you needed snacks, we got snacks.”

Hopper chews his doughnut hole very slowly.

Jonathan gestures at the kitchen like it's the Wheel of Fortune board. “We hath delivered!”

“Touched by an angel,” Hopper deadpans, mouthful of sugary dough.

“Um,” Murray lifts his head without even looking away from the receipt he’s been silently combing through for the last two minutes. “Did you or did you not purchase a novelty bottle of glow-in-the-dark pancake syrup?”

Jonathan doesn’t even flinch. “It was on sale.”

“You bought two.”

“Two-for-one.”

“I rest my case.”

“No one asked you to be the attorney general of the snack aisle,” you mutter, biting down on a smirk, one hand still draped gently across Steve’s chest as he stays leaned back into you, Snapple halfway to his lips. 

He hasn’t said another word yet, nor has he engaged or reacted, but he hasn’t checked out either. He’s looking at Jonathan. Then at Murray. Then back again. Following. Listening. His lips are slack but not grim. His eyes…they’re a little less glossed over now. A little brighter. They keep shifting from one speaker to the next, not unlike a lazy volley at a ping-pong table.

Joyce is already nodding toward the pile of grocery bags. “Please tell me you didn’t get the edible glitter sprinkles again.”

“No comment,” Jonathan mumbles.

“Jesus Christ,” Murray sighs, while Argyle tosses a grape into his own mouth without even blinking.

“Know what, I say let ‘em buy what they want,” you say breezily, leaning in to rest your chin a little more comfortably on top of Steve’s head, your voice like silk just for him. “Let them spend their money on stuff they’re clearly emotionally attached to.”

“Oh, like the inflatable margarita pool float,” Murray fires.

Jonathan lifts a finger. “That? Is for crowd surfing.”

“You live in Indiana.”

“And it was five dollars.”

Eddie whirls on him, grinning. “Whose five dollars?”

Hopper’s shoulders had started to shake, quietly at first. But then his chest joins in as you all keep jabbering, and the gruff, growling sound of him trying not to laugh just makes everything worse. You and Jonathan exchange a glance that only adds gasoline to the fire.

“I mean, let’s be real,” you grin at your uncle. “You’re just pressed you didn’t get the pool float first.”

“Oh please,” Murray snaps. “Sp—”

“Spaaaaare meeee,” Joyce says it for him, cupping her hands over her lips for emphasis, and not helping Hopper’s failed attempt at keeping his laughter in check.

Murray glares. “I wouldn’t be caught dead inside that avocado-shaped monstrosity. It has sunglasses.”

“And a cup holder,” Argyle points out like he’s reading the back of the damn box. 

You gasp lightly at that and tilt your head towards him, all while looking at Murray with the most robotic doll-like smile. As if you’re on a Truman show infomercial. “For your good ole buddy Smirnoff.”

“Oh, don’t encourage him,” Hopper groans, covering his face with both hands now.

“Smirnoff doesn’t help me float,” Murray your uncle quipped at you. “It helps me sink.”

“Poetic and emo,” you murmur into your Snapple.

“Don’t knock it till ya’ve floated in it,” Eddie sings, pleading your case.

Hopper wheezes miserably, like a dying animal behind his hands while Murray keeps failing miserably at holding his own and Jonathan bobs his head along with literally no music playing. Steve just stares at them, and you just snicker warmly next to his ear and let yourself sway with him a little bit. He honestly looks adorable right now, despite the fact that his expression is pretty blank. But the poor baby looks so focused right now, it makes your heart swell.

But it’s too late. The floodgates are open.

Eddie’s now cracking up from the freezer, tossing something into it without looking. “Hey Hopper, who’s responsible for this?”

“Responsible for what?” Hopper says on an exhale, not even looking up yet. Already dreading it.

“Three boxes of frozen dinosaur nuggets.” Eddie turns, holding one aloft in triumph. “Three. That’s a cry for help.”

Hopper drops his hands and just stares at Jonathan and Argyle. “Why.”

“They were on the list,” Jonathan says automatically.

“They were not on the list,” Murray deflects.

“Oh but they were,” you counter, already snickering.

“Well I didn’t jot it down,” he scoffs.

You clicked your tongue. “Marie Antoinette, why you lyin’ like dat?”

Eddie snorts hard, looking up from the box of frozen extinction. “Did you just call him—?”

“Really?” Your uncle literally gapes at you. 

You lift your eyebrows once, grinning like Satan’s spawn as a little sksksksk escapes from Jonathan.

Hopper, meanwhile, sighs so deeply it could trigger a weather system. 

“Let me guess,” he says in full-blown dad mode. “Ten plus one?”

Everyone knows exactly who they’re for, and that’s Eleven. No one says it, but the fat grin on Joyce’s face and the way Argyle nods solemnly confirms it before anyone has to verbalize it.

“Jesus, she’s obsessed.” Hopper huffs. “First it was Eggos, now it’s fucking prehistoric poultry.”

“She’s your kid,” Jonathan says.

“Your future sister,” you chime in, sipping your Snapple.

“Your daughter,” Joyce echoes, pointing a wooden spoon at him like a gavel, then at herself. “My future daughter.”

Hopper points at them both, then you, then them again. “Enablers.”

“Welp,” Eddie chirps. He’s now crouched like he’s proposing to the freezer. “I’ll eat the evidence if it helps.”

“I’m sure you will,” Hopper mutters, but he’s grinning now, and not just with his mouth. His eyes are soft. There’s no question who El is to him anymore. Not in the way he talks about her, not in the way he sighs, not in the way he pretends to be exasperated while looking at three goddamn boxes of chicken-shaped love.

Jonathan is all sksksksk again, when you absolutely deadpan at Hopper.  “C’mon, Jimothy, let our six little nuggets enjoy their Jurassic Park nuggets in peace, like goddamn.”

It’s the timing.

It’s the phrasing.

It’s the fact that you say it so completely straight-faced, while Eddie starts wheezing and Joyce just shakes her head like she regrets every life choice that led to this moment.

Hopper barks a laugh. It escapes him loud and fast, bouncing out like it was ripped from his chest before he could stop it. And then he schools his face immediately, glaring at you with narrowed eyes like that didn’t just happen.

Jonathan nearly collapses behind the counter trying not to fall over. Eddie is now bracing himself on the freezer door, head ducked into the ice box. And you’re grinning like you know you just won.

Hopper points at you as he walks by, heading toward the remaining bags. “You’re on thin ice.”

You just blink at him. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Send you back to college.”

“It’s trade school.”

“I’ll send you back to trade school.”

“I’m on break.”

“Then I’ll revoke it.”

Argyle hands him a cantaloupe slice without breaking rhythm. “Eat something, Hopper.”

“Yes,” Murray says with a sarcastically wry smile, looking like a fucked up informercial. “Please. Eat. You’re not you when you’re hungry.”

And somehow through it all, the back-and-forth, the rhythm, the pacing, the hum of warmth and memory and familiarity… you feel Steve move again.

Not flinching.

Just leaning.

Tilting his head back, so that he’s looking up at you now. His pupils are steady, glassy in a way that’s soft, not quite so distant. There’s something underneath that stare, something warmer than before, something quiet but whole.

“Oh hi,” you whisper, blinking down at him, cracking a smile.

He doesn’t smile back, at least not with his mouth. But his eyes… They dance. Right there in the middle of the chaos, they dance as they look up at you.

And then, barely above a breath, he murmurs, “six little nuggets.”

Your heart stops. Then flutters. Then folds in on itself, slow and radiant.

Because it’s not a joke, not to him.

It’s the dream he once told you Nancy about, but now shares with you. The one where you’ll both hit the road one day in a busted-up Winnebago, long after the world came crashing down again. Where the two of you will pull over wherever you want, whenever you want. Six kids. Loud. Happy. Messy. Yours. His. 

Both of your shared six little nuggets.

You lean down to him without hesitation, brushing the tip of your nose to his, nuzzling his tenderly.

“Yeah,” you whisper, smiling into him. “Our little nuggets.”

And this time, when he nuzzles back, it’s slower. Not quite in sync with you. Not as easy as it used to be. But also not as delayed as it was this morning. But it’s real. It’s movement, it’s progress... 

It’s Steve. 

Your Steve.

You stay right there, cheek to his temple, arms still around his middle.

And none of the others see it, except Murray. He watches from across the kitchen, arms crossed now, leaning against the fridge with a soft, unreadable smile.

Then he clears his throat. “Oh, yeah. Harrington?”

Steve turns his head almost immediately, his reaction so instinctive it’s almost childlike. Like he thinks he’s in trouble. But when he looks up, all he sees is Murray wagging that little tub of butter in the air, smug as hell.

“They found this hiding in the dairy,” Murray says, all too proud. “You’re welcome.”

Steve’s eyes catch the label. His go-to butter. The bougie kind. You all talked about it this morning, with him curled up in bed facing you, Dustin pressed against the wall, Robin leaning on the doorframe, Murray perched like a crow on the dresser.

His eyes flicker. There’s something shy and sad and grateful that curls its way into his eyes, piercing through his blank expression.

“Psssshhh,” Eddie puffs out a laugh through his lips. “Knew you were a bougie butter bitch.”

Everyone laughs. 

“My bougie butter bitch,” you purr affectionately, rubbing your hand up and down one of his arms with your free hand. The one that he’s not still holding onto with one of his hands.

Murray winks at Steve, while Hopper walks by and squeezes Steve’s shoulder. And the conversation starts right back up again, full throttle, ridiculous and warm. But Steve puts the Snapple down. And instead, he wraps both of your wrists tighter against his chest, like holding onto you is the only liferaft keeping him from floating straight up into the ceiling. His face folds in a little, not enough for tears, but enough for you to feel that sting behind his silence.

You just kiss the crown of his head and keep joking about nonsense with the rest of your friends.

You don’t need him to say anything else.

He’s here. You’re here. He’s yours, and you’re his.

And that’s enough.

***************************************************************

TAGLIST

@xprloki @erastourvip @get0ut0fmyr00m @Eddiemuns0nl0ver @marrowfrog00  @poppet05 @wiltedflowersundertowers  Originalthingparadise Pleuviors pumpkinonice Ihaveproblemsihaveproblems Brinleighsstuff Definitelynotherr sucker-4-angst bookkeeperlove notlilyyyy @xblueriddlex madaboutjoe ucannotcompare @goosy-goose nevillescomslut

[unsuperingyournatural]

determined to win

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader / featuring Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki, Karl Urban, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Misha Collins

flirting, allusions to...stuff

The lot was humming with the kind of energy that only came after hours of shooting on a show like The Boys—chaotic, irreverent, and a little too caffeinated for everyone’s own good. The crew was flipping setups, shuffling gear, calling out camera specs while makeup artists darted in and out with brushes and blotters. You were parked in your chair just off set, content for now to recharge in costume, your boots still on, gloves folded neatly beside you.

Your suit clung tight, the zipper at your collar loosened just enough to breathe. You’d been shooting most of the day—blood squibs, stunt cues, shouting across a smoldering set piece with Karl and Jensen in full Butcher and Soldier Boy gear. The adrenaline had long since ebbed, leaving behind the comfortable drag of fatigue. Your phone rested in your palm, the screen lighting up every so often as you scrolled in idle loops.

Off to the side, the showdown between Jensen and Karl was reaching gladiatorial levels. Backgammon had never looked so personal. Jensen leaned forward, jaw tight, eyes narrowing with each roll of the dice. Karl lounged like a king with a winning hand, expression calm and casual, that classic New Zealand drawl giving every jab a little extra charm.

“You gonna roll sometime this year, or are you still mapping constellations on the board?” Karl asked, sipping from a can with far too much smugness.

Jensen didn’t look up. “Keep talking, Urban. I’m one roll away from erasing you from the bracket.”

“Mate, you said that three rolls ago.”

Jeffrey Dean Morgan had the best seat in the house—in a director’s chair nearby, Coke in one hand, Sour Patch Kids in the other. Jared stood a few feet off, arms crossed and smiling as he watched the game. Pedro, suited up for his cameo, leaned against a grip stand just outside the cluster, phone in hand, thumbing casually through his messages while keeping one ear tuned to the surrounding chatter, amusement flickering now and then across his face.

Then Misha appeared, striding in with his usual whirlwind energy.

Fresh from his own scene, costume jacket open and hair pushed back, Misha slipped into the conversation with a force of nature grin. He lingered just behind Jensen, soaking in the rhythm of the conversation, then zeroed in on the most animated corner of the group—where Jeff and Jared were chatting.

Your phone buzzed.

Pedro: Send help.

Your lips twitched.

Pedro: He's deep in a story about rescuing a possum with a French accent. I'm barely hanging on.

You bit the inside of your cheek to hold back a laugh and glanced up. Sure enough, Pedro was standing just as before, now with Misha planted squarely at his side, animatedly holding court with Jeff and Jared while directing a steady stream of commentary to all three. Pedro's body was angled politely toward the group, head nodding occasionally, lips curving into the kind of laugh you could instantly recognize as courteous. Not fake. Just... polished. Polite. Reserved. He glanced down at his phone between chuckles, playing it off so smoothly it was almost impressive.

Another buzz.

Pedro: He's doing the possum voice. I think the possum just offered JP a cigarette.

Time for you to step in then and do the opposite of your character: save the day.

You stretched your legs out slowly and rose with care, joints popping quietly beneath the tight weave of your suit. The movement was deliberate, measured. No one gave you a second glance. That was the point.

Just as you were about to veer toward Pedro’s personal sitcom, a familiar voice rang out.

“Hey!”

You glanced over to find Jensen pointing dramatically toward the gaming table. “I need you in range. Two feet. Minimum. You’re my unofficial lucky charm now, and I’m not letting Urban mess with my stats.”

Jensen thought you were some kind of lucky charm of his now. Apparently, he finally beat Jared at some app game they played while on set, and it just happened to be the moment you plopped down into the cast chair next to him. A second victory happened when you appeared in front of him, kicking at his boot with yours, demanding to know why he told your PA to change your pineapple pizza order to something more palatable. Ever since then, if he engaged on any competitive games on set, your presence within a short range was required. You only humored him because it kept him from getting together with Jared and pranking the hell out of you—a deal you absolutely insisted on when you saw the wicked gleam in his green eyes at the word prank.

You raised a brow, deadpan. “Give me a minute. And by the way, I’m charging you for this. Full rate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “Just don’t let him throw his smug at me unchecked.”

“Love you too, Ackles,” Karl muttered, not looking up from the board.

You turned your steps toward Pedro and the others, your smile reserved but sly. Pedro clocked your approach immediately, though he didn’t move. His laugh timed perfectly with another of Misha’s stories, but his gaze flicked to you like a tether snapping taut.

“Hey, JareBear,” you said with an affectionate nudge to Jared’s arm. “Still letting Misha pull you into a one-man play?”

“I mean, it’s kinda impressive,” Jared said, grinning. “Possum’s got range.”

Jeff snorted, shaking his head. “Only Misha could turn a possum into a full character arc.”

“Excuse you,” Misha replied, deadpan. “That possum had layers. Tragic backstory. Existential dilemma. A deep love of unfiltered Gitanes.”

You nodded once. “While I'm sure it will be a strong Tonys contender, I’m stealing an audience member. Pascal, put your phone down and escort a lady back to the demanding asshat who's yanking on her shackles.”

Jeff lowered his sunglasses to look at you. "A lady?"

You shot him a mock glare. "Put a cork in it, Morgan." He snickered and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

Pedro glanced up, his expression one of mock-surprise. “What do you need me for?”

“Testing a theory,” you said. “Seeing if you’re Karl’s good luck charm. Ackles is convinced I’m his, but I’m trying to disprove it with science.”

Jared laughed. "Oof. Ackles, you hearing this?"

"Loud and clear," Jensen called without missing a beat, not looking up from the board.

Pedro fell into step beside you with an easy nod. "I’m just here to observe the carnage," he said lightly. "Call it moral support—maybe even strategic sabotage."

“That’s the spirit,” you murmured, lips twitching. “Let’s go rig the board.”

Pedro's mouth tilted into a slow, knowing grin. “What can I say? You're a terrible influence.”

You tilted your head in the direction of the gaming table, a silent signal he picked up on instantly. He moved when you did, matching your pace with a casual familiarity, as if he’d been doing it for years without needing to think twice.

"Thanks," he said lowly once you were out of earshot.

“No problem,” you said. “You owe me, though.”

“Anything specific you have in mind?”

His voice dropped into that deep, velvet register, the one that always felt like a palm sliding down your spine. The last time you heard him speak like that was the other night when he—you stopped that thought in its tracks and quietly cleared your throat.

Not the time. Not the place.

“I’ll think of something,” you replied airily.

“I’m sure you will.”

You tried to sneak a gentle nudge to the seat of his pants with your boot as you walked. He dodged it effortlessly, smirking.

“Nice try.”

You had to stop yourself from sticking your tongue out. You remembered what happened the last time you did that.

“About freaking time,” Jensen said as you both approached. “Thought you were gonna make me forfeit.”

“You dragged me off a perfectly good break. This is on you.” You gestured to Pedro. “And I brought your doom with me.”

Pedro dropped into the chair beside Karl, nodding cordially. “Let’s see what you got.”

“Glad to have ya, mate,” Karl said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Jensen narrowed his eyes at you. “You really gonna do me like that?”

You looked him dead in the eye. “Yeah. I’d do you like that. Hell, I’m doing you like that right now.”

He cocked an eyebrow, instantly leaning into the innuendo. “At least buy me dinner first.”

A low snicker came from Karl, who didn’t bother hiding it.

You ignored both of them and sank into the chair between Jensen and Pedro, folding one leg over the other with practiced ease.

Your phone buzzed.

Pedro: "Doing you like that right now"... Huh. I seem to remember you saying something similar the other night on my couch—but you were much bossier.

You stiffened ever so slightly, adjusting your posture rather than reacting outwardly. But your fingers were already moving. You tapped out a reply—letting the words drip slow and deliberate into the silence between you.

You: You didn’t seem to mind... in fact, I think you liked being told exactly what to do. If the way you kept begging for it is any indication.

His phone buzzed, and you saw the subtle shift in his posture as he felt the vibration, glanced down, and brushed his thumb across the screen with studied calm. His throat bobbed with a quick swallow, and he shifted slightly in his seat, fingers tapping once against his leg before stilling—a faint blush creeping just beneath the scruff along his jaw.

Then the bubble appeared—three dots blinking into existence. They vanished. Reappeared. Vanished again.

The quiet little smile pulling at your lips came unbidden, small but satisfied. You knew you’d landed your hit—even without seeing his face. The game might’ve been backgammon, but this? This was checkmate—and you were determined to win.

[enemymine2000]

It's official, US TikTok is going dark right now. Lives vanish bit by bit, East to West.

So time for the Tumblr house rules for those few, who'll find their way here:

Before everything else, personalize your blog! Put a different picture up, write a bio and/or make your first individual post, or people will think you are a bot. Then it's on sight. We block and report those immediately, thanks to the great porn bot wars.

Once that's done:

1. Speak clear and freely. Say what you mean, we don't do that 1984 Newspeek and emojis instead of words here.

2. Tags are a way to sort your stuff AND to communicate. But stay on topic. No spam tagging. And no censoring words or no one will ever be able find anything. Search system is shot enough to hell as is.

3. Don't like, don't read. The block button is your friend.

4. Reblog, don't repost. We don't steal content here. Always give credit. Which is also the reason for...

5. AI is not liked here. It is trained on stolen content. Just don't.

6. There is no such thing as a Tumblr influencer. Even our big names are just normal people, who just stick out due to longevity and/or weirdness.

7. Follower count doesn't matter. No one can see who has what amount of followers and we don't care.

8. Our "viral" posts are our heritage posts. Some might have breached containment and have been shared to other sites. We keep them going because we genuinely like them or want to keep the ancient magic alive.

9. Which leads to likes. They are nice and you obviously are not supposed not to give them, but they don't really matter apart from spamming the notifications of the OP. Reblogging keeps Tumblr alive.

10. We have our own holidays. Don't worry, you will not be forced to partake, but you will be confronted with them. Unless there is another round of The Boopening. Sorry, but no one escapes The Boopening! (Many prefer it to the Mishapocalypse, but this the SPN site, so never discount a Mishapocalypse. Or getting your news via Destiel meme.)

11. Our lore (Tumblr history) is wild. Stolen bones, human pets, dashcon, crucifix nail nipples, the bullying of John Green off the platform (the totally unrelated intern of a coffee company has forgiven us), female presenting nipples, Goncharov, crab raves... This site has been around for a very long time and a lot of us have been around for most of that. We are proud to have remained "ungovernable" and are unapologetic about it, thus we celebrate our history. Even the failures.

12. You can use the "discover" feed of course. But we basically only ever use the "following". No algorithm, just an endless reverse chronological scroll.

13. There is no verification system. We know that people like Wil Wheaton, Lynda Carter and Misha Collins are the real deal, because they verified themselves through other official means. Otherwise everybody can be whoever they want to be. Meaning also that you always should use common sense before chipping in with donations.

14. It's your blog, not some social media account. If you change interests (however often you want), just post about those. Your followers mostly won't care. Hell, about 90% of the blogs I follow have changed names, themes and topics so many times, I don't even remember why I followed in the beginning. (The amount of second hand knowledge about shows/movies I obtained...) If it gets too much, unfollow or block relevant tags.

15. Pixelated icons indicate that the blog has been flagged/self-reported as containing adult themes, mainly nudity. Goes back to great porn purge (see female presenting nipples). It's also why sometimes posts have pictures removed for going against Tumblr's content policy. There is still enough nudity going around.

Welcome, have fun, look around, find your niche, and don't worry. We don't bite. Much.

[wincestendgame]

The Day Misha Collins Came Out As Straight

Just a little bit of history for all of you who didn't get to be here during the funniest event that ever happened on this fandom.

The day was April 22nd 2022.

The cast (with the exception of Jared, who was recovering from a car accident) was once again reunited for a Supernatural Convention, this time in New Jersey.

Misha, just like the other unemployed actors who do conventions for a living, had his own little event on friday night, called "Dine in and see Misha Collins", where he reunited some of his crazy fans to talk about the things only they wanna hear about.

I'm not brave enough to watch him saying shit for God knows how long, but here's the clip of the moment it all began.

At some point during this event, for whatever reason, he started asking his fans "who is an introvert? who is an extrovert? and who is a bisexual?" and a few moments later, he's say the three words he'll regret saying for the rest of his life: I'M ALL THREE.

Now, see, I get that he was joking. Anybody with half a brain would get that he was joking, but hellers were never known for their intelligence, you know? of course they'd take it seriously, because it serves their interests.

The news about his latest "confession" were all over the internet the next day. His fans were thrilled. Excited. Making sure everybody knew they had won and they were right.

They made edits...

And t-shirts....

And had new ideas for ops...

I myself was delighted with the news.

Of course, the GA soon learned about it and did what they do best

Of course, being chronically online, it didn't take too long for him to realize he was all over the news, so he was forced to do the one thing he never wanted to do: tell the truth to the people who pay his bills.

I can't say it wasn't a special day to be on twitter.

But the internet will never live this down, and neither will we.

If you have any fun screencaps related to this, please add it to this post for all our new friends to enjoy as much as we did back then.

[impala-dreamer]

All I Ever Knew

A Short Story

~For a while now, you've been his secret, tucked away in the shadows for fear of fandom judgement and hate. Now, he's ready to set them straight, show you off, be out in public... but are you?~

Misha Collins x F!Reader

1,593 Words

Warnings: NSFW. Love and Fluff and Smut

Originally posted to Patreon August 2023

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

“Get over here.”

Misha sat on the foot of the bed and tapped his knee, calling to you as if you had any choice in the matter. He didn’t really need to say it; the look in his sapphire eyes told you what he wanted.

You stopped when your knees hit his, and he reached for you, taking each of your hands in his and threading your fingers together.

“I missed you,” he said softly.

It had only been a few days, but conventions always took their toll on him. Hundreds of people calling his name, all wanting something from him, begging for his attention. It was stressful despite the fun he had clowning around on stage and hanging with his former castmates, and by the end of each weekend, he was drained. The road home was always a tired one, his body and mind aching for the comfort of home and your arms.

Bringing your hands to close, he kissed your knuckles; black lashes falling as his eyes closed. He took a breath, flooding his senses with your presence, and a gentle smile tugged on his lips.

“I missed you too, baby,” you whispered, squeezing his hands. “It’s lonely without you here.”

In the early days together, you’d travel with him around the country, sitting quietly backstage or hiding in the audience as he enchanted the room. A few times, you’d even sat with him at the autograph table, acting as his handler while enthusiastic fans took their time with him. No one ever took notice of you, no one saw his hand sneak beneath the table to lay on your knee when he was overwhelmed. No one paid any mind to the secret glances or knowing smiles that passed between you. It had been exciting and arousing; always sneaking around, being his little secret.

Now, the crowds were too much; the rumors too close to the truth. The fandom was supportive when it came to his charity work and acting roles, but they could turn on a pin, harshly judging anyone that came close to him, anyone he showed interest in. They were mean, unyielding in their offensive comments. It was easier just to hide, to pretend you weren’t in love.

Staying home without him while he worked wasn’t easy, but it made the reunions all the more special, so much more intense.

Misha sighed. “You should come with me to Rome.”

You shied away, turning your head, trying to hide your blush against your right shoulder. “Mish, we can’t…”

“Why not?” He tugged on your hands, drawing your face back to his. “Everyone will be there- Jensen was asking about you last weekend. It’ll be nice. Besides, it’s Italy. You love Italy.”

Your heart ached. He looked like a little boy lost in a crowd, blue eyes sad but hopeful.

“Yeah, and what do we do when the rumor mill starts up again? We can’t even hold hands out in public. What if they catch us and then there’s pictures all over the internet. You know how insane those Tumblr fans are.”

He spread his knees and pulled you closer, dropped your hands and set his own on your hips. His touch calmed you but there was too much at stake.

“We can’t.”

His fingers tightened just enough to make your body tingle. “Why not? Who cares who knows. It’s been almost a year, Y/N/N.” His thumbs rubbed at the soft flesh below your hip bones. “I love you. I want everyone to know.”

His voice poured over you like warm honey and you took a deep breath, feeling desperately loved, insanely happy. And yet-

“Misha-”

He sat up a little straighter, craning his neck to capture your attention, keep you focused on him. “What’s stopping us? I want to be with you. I want to be open about it. It makes no sense to hide anymore. Never really did.” He laughed under his breath. “Be with me. I need you.”

There was really no way to resist, to deny him anything when he looked at you like that, when he held you so close, hard but careful. You could feel his soul in his touch, his need pulsing into you with every heartbeat.

You relented. “Maybe.”

He grinned; shadowed cheeks lifting, blue eyes gleaming. “I’ll take it.”

A swift tug of his hands made you fall, sinking into his kiss, your arms sliding quickly behind his neck. He licked at your lips, dragged his hands up and down your spine, lighting up every nerve.

“Fuck, I missed you,” you moaned, turning your head for him as he kissed his way across your jaw and down to your throat. He suckled against your pulse and your body twitched, shoulders turning inwards and nipples growing hard. “Want you so bad…”

His fingertips dug into your ass and you shifted, moving to sit in his lap; knees up at his sides, hips rolling against his stomach. He hummed into your mouth, pushed his tongue deep inside.

“You feel so good,” he breathed, blinking up at you with lust-blown eyes.

Another kiss, a push of your hand through his messy black hair. “You do too. So fucking good…”

With a turn of his wrist, he caught your nightie between his fingers and lifted the silky fabric over your head. He moaned out a deep breath at the sight of your nipples hard and dusky, your tits full and ready for his mouth. His warmth washed over your nakedness, his gaze made your pussy throb.

“Beautiful…”

Heat rose to your cheeks; arousal flushed across your skin. You scratched your nails against the nape of his neck, whimpering and dripping for him. “Fuck me… please…”

In seconds, you were on your back, head bouncing gently off the mattress. Misha dove down, covering you with his heaviness, attacking your lips with his. Desire clouded your mind and you pawed at him, desperate to pull his jeans down, to lift his shirt, to feel him, skin on skin.

“Please…” Your voice sounded distant, so needy, pathetic.

He smiled down at you as he sat back, kneeling between your legs. “Love to hear you beg for me,” he teased, pulling his shirt from his back with one hand. He emerged from the burgundy cotton with a grin. “Drives me crazy.”

A shiver wrecked your body and you bit your lip, holding in more, fighting the urge to beg aloud for his cock, for his mouth. Reaching up, you pressed your palm to his chest and let it slide down over his stomach, over the firm thickness of him, the heat. “Need you so fucking bad,” you whispered, unable to hold it in. “Need you inside of me.”

Misha licked his lips and fell down over you again. He tugged at his jeans, kicking them away while you caressed his shoulders, pushed your hands through his hair, scrapped at his scalp.

His cock was hard, already leaking for you. He pushed the tip through your folds, edging inside slowly. You jerked your hips, urging him to move, but he hesitated, staring down into your eyes.

“This,” he sighed, smiling. “This is all I need, all I ever knew… you.”

Love crept over your face and you smiled shyly. “Yeah?”

Blue eyes were glistening, flooding with love-struck tears. “Only you. Anyway you’ll have me. Public, secret, I don’t care. I just want you.”

Lifting your hand, you stroked his cheek, beamed up at him. “OK.”

He laughed softly. “OK? That’s all I get?”

“Mhm.”

Without another word, you squirmed away and rolled to the side of the bed. Misha watched with a furrowed brow, confused as you reached for your phone from the nightstand.

“Come here,” you said, unlocking your phone and pulling up instagram.

“You don’t have to,” he replied, shaking his head, but still grinning.

“I want to.”

Propped up against the headboard, you lay your head on his chest and steadied the camera, framing both of you perfectly. The bedroom light was soft and kind, and his smile was beautiful.

Two clicks and a tag later, the picture was posted and excitement coursed through your veins.

“Holy shit.”

Misha laughed. “You’re stuck with me now, ya know. You made it official.”

Turning, you snuggled into him and pecked his lips. “Yeah, but you better make sure you like it or they’ll think something fucky is going on…”

He traced his fingers down your cheek and smiled. “I will. Soon as we’re done here…” His hand drifted down and cupped your breast, thumb and middle finger teasing your nipple.

Your eyes rolled back and your lips parted as the need returned, stronger than before. “Don’t hurry,” you whispered. “The internet is forever.”

Misha dropped down and sealed his big lips around your nipple, sucking hard and lapping with his tongue. Electricity shot through your body straight down to your clit and you moaned loudly, calling his name as if he were a true life angel come to answer your prayers.

The phone buzzed and he let you go with a pop, reaching to turn it off. He swiped instead and smiled at the notification.

You sat up on your elbows and tried to see the screen. “What is it?”

Misha shook his head and tossed the phone away, ready to dive back in and make your thighs quake around him. “Jensen says congrats.”

You laughed and yelped in the same moment as his hand found your clit. “Whelp, I guess it really is official now…”

“Absolutely…”

 2025 Tag List:

@1313diana @alwaystiredandconfused @bettystonewell @caplanbuckybarnes @cevenasdove-baby 

@chevy-impala-1967 @cosicas-cuquis 

@Deans-spinster-witch @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 

 @impala67rollingthroughtown @Jackles010378 @jtink27 @justwhisperingfantasies 

@k-slla @luvr4miya @lyarr24 @mariekoukie6661 @mistressofallthingsgeeky 

@Mxtansy @nightxcreature @peytongoose @riteofpassage77 @shadyloveobject 

@somebrokeartstudent @that-stanford-girlie @the-wounded-healer05 @zepskies 

Add Yourself To The List

[yllzboohcultivationworld]

imagine being under intense hypnosis that you put yourself into for the sole purpose of 1. becoming strong enough to defeat your opponent 2. blinding yourself so that you can kill someone you care deeply about(more than what is recommended by your own sense of self-preservation) 3. fulfill the promise you made to never reveal what happened between you and a parental figure;

but then the person manages to bring you back to your senses with just the words of an oath that at the same time that takes away your freedom and is uncomfortable(why would someone submit to never leaving? staying forever? someone who has seen the worst of him?), it also means that you will no longer be alone and there will always be someone to have your back. and despite hypnosis(a process that is practically impossible to break as misha said), you free yourself from it and find yourself UNABLE to kill this person who swore to never free you.

he will never set you free, he is much too stubborn, and there is nothing you can do but back down.

[desired-fantasy-writings]

hello! hey!

I was thinking if you could maybe write some headcanons or maybe some comforting/tender imagines for the defence mercs with an s/o with low self esteem? the choice is yours really, I don't mind either way

Defense Mercs with an S/O that has low self esteem

A/N: I love these silly goobers sm I absolutely loved working on this. The past couple months for me have been tough so this was just as comforting to me as I hope it shall be for you, my dear readers. <3

Also all nicknames used are exclusively meant to be gender neutral!

Requested by: Anon Warnings: Tiny bit of angst, self doubt. Readers Gender: Gender Neutral Fanfic Type: Headcanons Fanfic Genre: Comfort Word Count: 677

Tavish (Demoman) 

The most he’ll do to cheer up his S/O is by making them laugh, giving them love - doing his drunk shenanigans or whatever else to see them smiling again.

Is not sure how to be the greatest support for them, but he’ll try until something works! When it comes to his partner, he never wants to give up.

If his S/O’s into board games (or poker) related he's pulling the whole collection out. 

Gets into super deep, non-stop drunk ramblings about how wonderful his S/O is when they bring up how they've been feeling about themselves lately. Will go far and beyond to prove all their doubts wrong. 

“Duckie, what you are… no I- You're so… Don’t say that… rubbish… ever again. You hear me? You're so beautiful. I wish you could see what I see in ya.” Tavish drunkenly mumbles against his S/O’s lips, giving them sloppy loving kisses all over. 

The man's not a poet or much of a romantic gentleman, but god damn nothing will stop him from expressing his love for his S/O… even if it's not in the most pleasant way.

Misha (Heavy)

Misha is a special kind of man who knows how to use his strengths - in this case physically and mentally. Will hold his S/O close if they desire that type of physical comfort from him. If his S/O would rather talk about it instead he's a very good listener and emotionally more mature than most men. Thank his mother and sisters for that. Will not speak unless his S/O is done talking about whatever's going on.

As emotionally mature as he is and intelligent - he often has trouble figuring out the right words to say at the moment.

When his S/O explains further about how they feel about themselves, Misha scoffs, a displeased rumble coming from his chest.

“Vhat?-” Misha says, surprised. Nothing about what his S/O said was true. He shakes his head, obviously disapproving, bringing his S/O close to him “-Heavy thinks vhat you say is nonsense, my милый. You're vonderful! Don’t say such awful things about self.”

Dell (Engineer)

Dell's used to this sort of thing being the person that most of the team go to for advice. When it comes to his S/O it hurts him seeing them so down and talking so lowly about themselves. What they're simply saying is SO untrue. 

In this situation he’ll take both him and his S/O out to the camping spot near the base, just the two of you. He finds being stuck inside when feeling like that isn't good for his S/O and will make them go outside no matter how much they protest. 

Simple peace and quiet, getting away from their colleagues for the night is his way of relaxing and getting out of his head. He wants to share that with his S/O, too. 

Dell of course brings his guitar with him, playing sweet ol’ songs just for his S/O. Dell hasn’t forgotten about bringing his S/O their favourite snacks and blankets as they cuddle by the fire all night. Dell’s such a sweetie pie and would do anything to get his S/O out of the negative headspace.

“Darlin’, the nonsense you’re simply spewing is untrue. You’re an incredible individual that's been such an asset for this team.” Dell mumbles into his S/O’s hair, the scent of them further relaxing him. He snuggles into them closer, nuzzling his nose into their hair - leaving a kiss.

“Look… me and the fellas don’t say it enough, but you really are somethin’ special. We wouldn’t have won as many matches as we have without you-" Dell pulls away for a moment, grabbing his S/O’s face gently to look up at him, he smiles warmly staring into their eyes so full of love “-And… you simply have captured my heart like no one has darlin’. Remember that. I love you for you and always sweet pea.”

[unmeisenshi]

Florence was awoken to the sound of knocking on the front door. She quickly got up and rushed to the door. "Hey... This is Team Neo Destiny how can... I..." Florence started, before she realized who it was she was looking at. A Feraligatr and an Alolan Ninetales stood at the door. Although she was expecting the Ninetales to be on four legs, this one was on two. But the visage was all too clear.

"Beck? Misha? What are you two doing here...?"

"We want to propose an idea to you. May we come in?" Misha asked. Florence stepped out of the way, inviting the pair inside. They say on the couch, while the Umbreon sat in a chair.

"What made you guys come all the way out here? It's rare for you two to not be in your café..." Florence nervously fidgeted with her hair. "And Misha... You're bipedal now..."

"Misha heard about that potion you and Morello took, and wanted in on it." Beck smiled. "It's made him even prettier. All of the guys and girls get so upset when they learn that I'm dating him."

"Beck, hun, please... You're embarrassing me..." Misha's face turned slightly red before he cleared his throat. "Regardless, in our off time we've been rehabbing our bodies. As you remember we were told we may never do rescue work again because of the injuries to our bodies." The Ninetales held onto Beck's hand. "Well, we've worked and trained these past years, and... We want to start helping out around here again. Seeing as the team is only Remi, Noel, Audie, Nobuo, and Kiske... We'd like to be of assistance to them."

Florence nodded as Misha spoke. "But... What does it have to do with me?" Her fidgeting increased slightly.

"Well... We were wondering if you would like to take over as a barista at the café. At least during the day. I know you've been through some rough stuff recently, and your mental health isn't the best. I have another 'mon set to work, her name is Carey. She'll be there to help you, and can hold down the fort if you need to take a bit to recharge." Misha said.

Florence looked down. "I... I don't know... There's a part of me that wants to, but... I'm just a bit scared..."

Beck nodded. "That's totally understandable. Like Misha said a second ago, Carey is there to back you up. We hired her because she's studying psychology. So she can double as another therapist. And we told her a bit about your condition, and she totally understands everything. She's patient and kind, and is behind you 100% and will drop everything to help you if you need it."

Florence looked up, a look of shock on her face. But the shock soon turned into something even she wasn't expecting. Her shock turned into a slight smile. "I'll... Give it a shot."

Misha smiled. "Wonderful. I'll let her know." Misha then walked over to Florence, and placed his hand on top of hers. "And Florence?"

The Umbreon looked down, then back up at Misha. "Y-Yeah?"

"I've seen your ups and downs when it comes to therapy. I watched as you cried all the way home several times. I've seen the defeated look in your eyes... Like nothing is going to work and it'll never get better. Trust me... I've been down that road too. But I just want you to know... You're doing great. When it comes to trying to get better... What you see as small steps, the world sees as giant leaps. I want you to remember that."

The words left Florence in tears. It has felt like so long since she had heard anything like that. And so for a few minutes, she embraced the Ninetales, sitting in silence as she was thankful for Misha. Thankful that the two were friends, and thankful that he was generous enough to provide extra help.

BECK THE FERALIGATR AND MISHA THE NINETALES ARE BACK

[after-urh34rt]

🍋WHOLESOME/ COMFORT

just imagine putting hair clips in his hair. All you see is bunny, heart, and star hairclips. Since he loves you so much he would keep it in for the whole day, knowing that he's going to be judged about it but since you did it and you will be upset if he took them out he keeps it in his hair and ignores every mean comment about him. Unlike some people, there are others who are just confused, or concerned. All of the gossip and comment about it. It would probably make people less scared or think less of him than they already do and more concerned for his well being and wonder if he's lost a bet or something. But no, he just wants you to be happy, proud of what you did, and honored that he's even walking around like this, let alone put those clips in his hair. Once asked about it he would brush it off, ignore the question, come up with an excuse, or just flat out say it depending on his mood and his character. Closest friends making fun of how easy it is for you to have full on control over him, teasing him because its so easy for you to do things he would've never thought he would let anybody do. Then again, it is you so there's no saying no.

GENSHIN

VENTI || DILUC || KAEYA || ALBEDO || AETHER || BENNETT || BAIZHU || CHONGYUN || XIAO (with enough convincing) || TARTAGLIA || XINGQIU || ZHONGLI || AYATO || GOURU || ITTO || KAZUHA || HEIZOU || THOMA || ALHAITHAM (on a good day ) || CYNO ( maybe not) || KAVEH || TIGHNARI || WANDERER (do not expect him to do this, 0.1% chance he will) || FREMINET || LYNEY ( he would recommend it to you) || NEUVILLETTE || WRIOTHESLEY || KINICH (..like Xiao, with enough convincing) || OURON ( MAYBE WITH ENOUGH CONVINCING??) || OTHER FATUI MEN (..dont expect it but its a once in a 5 year thing)

HONKAI : STARRAIL

ARGENTI || ARLAN || AVENTURINE || BLADE (he needs to trust and love you sm for this to happen) || BOOTHILL || DAN HENG *both forms* ( needs to get used to you first) || GALLAGHER || GEPARD || JIAOQIU || JING YUAN || LUKA || LOUCHA || MISHA || MOZE (50/50) || SAMPO (he would recommend it to you) || CAELUS || YANQING

ZENLESS ZONE ZERO

WISE (hesitant at first) || LYCAON ( once every 10 years) || BILLY KID (HE WOULD RECOMMEND IT!!)

WUTHERING WAVES

AALTO || CALCHARO (on a good day & a 50/50 depending on his mood) || JIYAN ( 50/50, depends on his mood) || LINGYANG || MALE ROVER (he doesnt have a cannon name from what i could find) || XIANGLI YAO (he would recommend, in a polite way) || YUANUWU (convincing is the answer!) || GESHULIN (...0.00001% chance)

-> if i didn't as your fav characters out of these Gacha games, its because I don't think they would do it, I did all characters from each game btw.) <-

-> -> -> OFC UR FAV ANIME CHARACTER TOO <- <- <-

REQUESTS ARE OPENED!!

[spirit-lanterns]

PORTAL 2 MENTIONED!

Also, haha, potato Kafka would be so ornery and >:I

I'm imagining Robot!Himeko just like, "Not looking too sharp, there."

And Kafka is just "ĐĪƏ!"

Oh, btw, did we even MAKE a Himeko backstory!?

No?

Okay then!

Himeko was kind of like a working prototype of a robot meant to pump out blueprints, inventions, and a repairbot.

Sooooo, kind of like how people want to make robots that make fast food and deliver it. But people want vehicle mechanic-ing and making screws and stuff an automatic process.

Himeko is like that, but is moreso meant to invent working blueprints and create things herself (maybe her briefcase is a 3-D printer? I think that would be pretty cute!)

Anyway, being a prototype, she probably had poor optimization in the GPU and RAM departments, leading to easy overheats and circuitry damage due to that, which the engineer has to repair.

Eventually, newer models come out (maybe in the form of Misha? But he's not really an inventor... idk) and, as older models are, Himeko is cast aside, deemed not good enough to use for long term, and no one wanted to use money and resources to try to update her, since she's not exactly brand-new anymore.

Perhaps her AI was copy-pasted to HI3 Himeko, but I know not much about that series to properly talk about it, oopsies...

The "coffee" She drinks is a special oil and fuel that helps to optimize her GPU usage, though the exact formula went out of production, the instructions and how to make it is still retained in Himeko's memory, which she probably tells to Engineer.

She likely tries to help the Engineer with her job, but since she was made more for inventing and her repairing doesn't specialize in robots, she can't help the engineer with her job-job, so helps to repair or create small trinkets the Engineer has. So maybe she makes screwdrivers, or wrenches.

I bet she has such a wholesome relationship with Robot!Stelle. When the Engineer's busy, Robot!Stelle probably goes to Himeko to ask for help with mending two things together, or finding out what something is and what it's used for, if it can still be useful, etc.

—🪽

EHEHEHE sassy and mean Potato Kafka makes me giggle 🤭

As for your whole deep dive on Android! Himeko, I am mighty impressed! I really like the idea of her being an android that’s sole purpose is to invent things, so I can see her being like a little assistant or helper in the Engineer’s laboratory. Maybe she’s really good at making coffee for you too <3

Oh and her relationship with Android! Stelle is just as sweet as their canon relationship in the game! I can see the two of them bonding over both being older model androids and Stelle looking up to Himeko like the mother figure she never had. It’s nice that Stelle finally has an android companion that doesn’t scare the oil out of her 😅

P.S: I can see some of the androids (besides Stelle and inevitably March) getting jealous over Android! Himeko because she works so closely to you. She spends almost every hour of the day holed up with you in your laboratory, and unless you are fixing up an android, you and Himeko are alone for majority of the day 👀

[kissi-shayar-ki-ghazal]

Okay so their is this influencer Misha agarwal I liked her so so much her way of talking her way of expressing views like Sort of My humour. She took her life 2 days before her B'day. At first when I saw that post I was like prank (cz she is capable of doing so) but until I realised it was. She committed suicide because her number of followers was getting low. She has like 1 M followers currently. Like 1M still loved her the way she was maybe the followers were getting low That's her livelihood she has cosmetics brand too for hair. But letting this kind of thing take over life isn't a good thing to do. Like this media made us all belive that even 10 people complimenting us is not enough like have you thought what it would be like if you're all dressed up and 10 people who love you come up to you and say "you're looking so beautiful" "You're so charming" .... That would make my day maybe whole week. But letting this kind of thing taking control of life isn't fair. Any Sort of career You choose you're Allowed to re-start at any moment. Average Human live for like 70 years that means you got 50+ chances to choose who you want to be after school. JUST DON'T LET THESE KINDS OF THING TAKE CONTROL FOR YOUR MIND OR TAKING STEPS THAT YOU WOULD REGRET LATER.

I miss her i miss her content i am not her friend or her anyknown just her follower she never knew my existence that's fair. But her content made me smile in moments when I feeling low So yeah even when she is a total stranger to me I miss her.

[diana-bluewolf]

On one surprisingly sunny November day, a young Merlin lands graciously on a tree not too far from where Chris and Misha are walking. It tilts its head while it observes the wizard and gives a few chattering calls before taking off again, something bright red tied to one of its legs. The presence of the wolf agitates the falcon a little, so it chooses not to land on the ground but instead on a branch of another nearby tree, high enough for the boy to reach but with plenty of distance to take off if the lupus decides to strike.

The object tied to Merlin's leg is an origami piece of an animal that easily comes off when touched, allowing the bird to leave. Upon closer inspection, it is a paper wolf that stirs on Chris' palms, stands on its wobbly paper feet and raises its head high up. Even without the sound it is clear that it is howling. Then, suddenly, the paper unfolds itself, revealing a letter.

Dear Chris, I can't believe we've known each other for so long already. We took a winding path towards becoming friends. It is still a little wild to me that you felt like I ever needed anything in return other than your genuine company. I know, we've talked about it, and I really should've seen it sooner. Will often says that I don't see things right under my nose. But I still want you to know that I'll never require anything from you in return for a chocolate frog or homework or a friendly chat. You are my friend. Anything you need — I'll never say no. I am unsure where to find you as we live in different dorms, but wherever you are right now, I wish you a Happy Birthday, from my whole heart. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to enjoy every day of your life. You deserve companionship (and I mean human, too, not just Misha's!) Perhaps I'll catch you at dinner? I think William got you some yummy goodies earlier today (I probably should not have said that), so don't fill your tummy up all the way! Happy Birthday, dear friend! Your shiny unicorn, Elland 🌙

Aww, it’s such a cute ask! Therefore, ahem…

TW↓: obscene language 🤨😁

"Merlin, why does he have to be so embarrassing?" muttered Chris after running his eyes over the letter. He was sitting on a large mossy rock with his leg tucked under him.  

"Have you ever felt that it's just…ugh… almost painful to read something?" he addressed Misha, who was stretching lazily beside him.

Misha didn't answer. Well, he tended to do that - not bothering to reply. Chris didn't blame him since he often was the same.

"Well, I guess the inability to read can solve this, can't it?" Chris smiled and petted Misha's ear.

"What I mean is all this… "deserving" stuff. Why wouldn't he just insult me? That would be much easier and fun to read. Like, I don't know, happy birthday, you prick? Bring your ass here, or I'll eat all the goodies, and then William? Not that I would care about the latter, but at least it would be fun. And this," Chris waved the letter in the air, "this is pure torture."

Chris sighed and made himself reread the letter, this time trying not to skip everything that started with “you deserve”. He was positively unbearable sometimes. Elland, that is. 

Maybe that’s why Chris was so glad to see his falcon today?

“Look, look,” Chris nudged Misha, pointing at the your shiny unicorn line. “He’s trying to joke here.” 

Misha looked at the parchment. The parchment wasn’t edible and hence wasn’t a feature of interest.

“Oh, don’t worry, mate, I didn’t get it, either,” Chris assured Misha. He then glanced at the letter again. 

“He’s a weirdo. Elland.” Chris smiled warmly. “But…have you ever met wolves that were not as bad as other wolves? Because I have. Quite a few, actually. Well, not wolves, people, and that makes it even stranger. I have only one explanation for this - it’s Hogwarts. And if so,” Chris grabbed his bag and fished out ink and a quill, “I freaking love magic.”

See you at dinner. Bring the goodies. You can leave the prefect where he is.

Chris smirked, aware that Will would probably read it anyway. Well, no one asked him peeking at Elland's correspondence.

Your grumpy dugbog, Chris. P.S. Those guys look peculiar as friends, don't they?

P.P.S. Thank you.

Chris shoved the letter into the bag and jumped to his feet. 

“My shiny unicorn is waiting,” he explained to Misha, who enthusiastically followed him on his way out of the forest. 

“I need to send an owl first and grab those pasties I bought for Will in Honeydukes. You see, Monsieur Tangerine, in addition to all his flaws, is a gourmet, and we often have differences of opinion on the matter of taste. But this time, I’m sure even he will like it!”

It was a surprisingly sunny November day.