#steve's an empath

[queenie-ofthe-void]

Steddie soulmate drabble (shared pain) || 3.9k words || rating: E || tags: homophobic slurs, period-typical homophobia, physical and emotional distress, panic attacks, Canon-divergent soulmate AU, Eddie Munson Whump, Steve Harrington Whump, one brief sex scene (so so brief) between Steve and the girl he brought to the basketball game in S4

Eddie experienced his first soul pain at twelve years old. Younger than most, but not worryingly so. The concern was the intensity of the pain. His momma held him tight, shushed him as he cried about how he feels all alone, doing her best to reassure him that loneliness wasn’t his and that she would never hit him. She held the frozen bag of peas to the blossom of red on his soft, round cheek and rocked him until he fell asleep in her arms.

The pains continued, giving him headaches on and off for years. He always wondered what his Half was going through for Eddie to have this much soul pain before puberty, but he grew used to it, stashing tiny vials of aspirin in his backpack or jacket pocket. The intensity was never as bad as the first time, eventually decreasing to a dull ache when they cropped up. His momma told him stories about people who could temper their pain to spare their other half, a difficult feat for even adult souls who’d spent years bound together. It was more likely the pain for his other half was dulling over time. He hoped it was true, but couldn’t push away the uneasiness he felt lying in bed each night and knowing the feeling wasn’t his.

Eddie was fourteen the first time he felt his own pain connect to his Half. Daddy called him a fag and locked him in his room for the weekend with nothing but the snacks and water bottle in his backpack. Unlike a sharp slap or the break of a bone, the pain of hunger was slow to build. Eddie still felt the tell-tale pop in the back of his mind as his stomach cramped. Unexpectedly, he also felt something almost akin to surprise riding the coattails of the pain. When the surprise faded into a distant comfort, he couldn’t object. Eddie knew this wasn’t normal, and decided from then on out to keep his soul pains a secret.

After his momma died, and his daddy grew drunk and violent, Eddie couldn’t stop his pain from connecting like he knew his Half could. Even after he’d moved in with Wayne, everything from the smallest shove to hushed slurs passed through the invisible bond, and even though pain connections can’t be controlled, most people only sent their most intense pains. It felt like he sent everything. Any little thing that set him off, the signature crack followed by soft comfort settled in his mind. 

The only consolation was that he felt less and less of his Half’s pain. Eddie wished that’d meant his Half was happy, with no pain to speak of. Between the dullness of the sensations when he happened to notice, and the immediate comforting response he received at his own suffering, he doubted that was it.

At sixteen Eddie had started looking into what it meant to experience some sort of response after connections, but couldn’t find anything in the low budget collection of soulmate information at Hawkins’ Public Library. Most likely on the banned book list, he figures, since that’s something kids are supposed to learn at home. 

Eddie couldn’t help wondering if the stories about Empaths were real. Rare, with absolutely nothing to do with pairings, it’s rumored Empaths experience the emotions of anyone physically close to them, but more importantly, are able to control the intensity of their own emotions and pain as how it’s experienced through their bond. Eddie’s couldn’t find anything about actually sending feelings through the bond as some kind of response. But like with his Daddy, he knows what happens after asking too many questions, so he keeps it to himself.

Eddie’s almost eighteen when there’s an intense, piercing crack behind his eyes. He’d been on his way back from the picnic table out behind school when the sudden pain had him curled up on the forest floor completely out of breath. It took him a few moments to get his bearings back, but he managed to walk to the van and get home. 

Wayne made him soup that night, let him put whatever he wanted on TV as long as he held the bag of peas over his bruised eye. At least it was light in color, barely noticeable, and would most likely fade by morning. However it was only a few hours later when shot off like a bullet from the couch, falling to the carpet on his hands and knees. He could hear Wayne saying something to him, could feel the gentle circling of his uncle’s hand on his back. None of it mattered. 

Eddie was filled with adrenaline. He’d never had a panic attack before, but his heart pounded as his breaths came in short spurts, the pungent fear squeezing his stomach. His hands vibrated and he clutched the carpet in a white knuckle grip to stave the phantom sensation. After what felt like hours, entirely wrung-out, Wayne let him have two shots of whiskey before climbing into bed.

It was quiet for another year. Unless, of course, he counted his own soul pains that crossed over, which he tried not to. Eddie’s emotions felt more in control of him than the other way around. Pressed into lockers, a scuffle at the picnic table with Hagan, being roughly kissed and then immediately knocked to the ground by Hargrove. It all connected. He tried to temper it, to be strong like his Half, but he always failed. Eddie was a coward, too scared to handle his pain alone. Like clockwork, the warm reassurance of love was quick to follow.

It was November 1984 the first time Eddie thought he was going to die. The panic set in, but unlike a year ago, it didn’t go away. He paced the living room, violently wiping tears from his face because even though the pain wasn’t his, the distress was so palpable he broke into cold sweats. Eddie did everything he could to think of to stave off the adrenaline– jumping jacks, whipping his hands around like a mad-man, screaming his voice hoarse.

Uncle Wayne suggested exercise, reminding him most athletes’ Half’s were people with an abnormal intensity of emotions and chronic pain, since it helps them process the constant stream of excess energy. So for the first time in Eddie Munson’s life, he went for a run. 

They started out at a jog, but it wasn’t enough. It felt worse than curling into himself on the ground like a pillbug. The only relief he felt was at a dead sprint, able to focus on the burn of his underutilized muscles. They ran until the adrenaline trickled from his system, and as always, was followed with love and comfort.

Halfway through their third lap around the park, an intense dread hit Eddie so abruptly he fell to his knees and vomited. They’d just made it back inside when Eddie’s vision went white. He came to only a few moments later, as Wayne hauled him across the kitchen and dropped him onto his bed. He held his mouth closed tighter than a vise, keeping every sob and groan deep inside himself to stop it from exploding out of him. Worried he wouldn’t be able to stop sobbing once he started. Wayne watched in horror as purple bloomed across Eddie’s face in real time, like a dye spreading under the skin. He placed a cold, wet cloth over his nephew’s eyes. 

Early into the morning, once the crying stopped, the migraine leveled out, he followed his uncle out onto the front porch to share a joint. The swelling in both eyes went away after two days, and he went back to school as usual. 

He noticed Harrington looked pretty fucked up, definitely worse than Hargrove. A panicked, fleeting part of Eddie’s brain worried Hargrove could be his Half, but he knew better. There’s always at least some amount of chemistry and attraction between soulmates, and all he needed was the one, ill-fated kiss to remind him his Half was still out there. Kudos to The King’s Half, however. If The Hair himself wasn’t at the hospital, then his Half surely would be. With a face like that, he can only imagine the pain Harrington’s soulmate had to manage during that fight.

It’s the fourth of July, and it’d been almost eight months since the last time he experienced this level of pain. Not his own, of course. No it never seemed to be his own when he’s left gasping for air, nails clenched into Wayne’s hand in the back of an ambulance they can’t afford.

He felt the bruises explode across his face, on his sides, behind his eyes. A sharp stab of pain in his neck lit up every nerve in his body. The howl ripped from him was grotesque, animalistic. His back arched up from the bed, thrashing his limbs into the metal bars of the stretcher until the medics did their best to restrain him. A pinch on the back of his hand. The world started to slow until he was wrapped in heavy darkness. 

Four days later there were still yellow, mottled stains on the sides of his ribcage and dark bags under his eyes. A routine of Tylenol during the day and painkillers from his own stash at night helped. Every night, Eddie layed in bed and silently cried. Their pain mixed now and the thought haunted him as much as it comforted. He only wished he could help his Half the same way they always soothed him. 

The guilt of his failure to help ate away at him, so it connects. Of course Eddie couldn’t control his emotions enough to spare the person who’s actually hurting, injured with no pain meds to help them, if Eddie had to guess. To top it all off, the cherry on the shit cake was that there's still the warm comfort at the back of his mind. His Half was living in excruciating pain, yet used what little energy they had left to help him with his. 

Eventually, Eddie had asked Wayne about different types of connections between Halfs. Not surprisingly he knew a bit more about it than the library, and didn’t hit him for it like his Daddy. 

“Each Half is meant to balance out the whole. Most people live somewhere near the middle, mild pain and mild emotional distress.” Eddie nodded, rapt with attention as Wayne continued. “But there’s always gonna be people at the fringes, the extremes. Like how I told ya about athletes usually being paired to trauma survivors. Why d’ya think you’re always so damn depressed after your incidents?” When Eddie had mentioned the soothing presence, Wayne had replied, “yep, sounds like an Empath,” like it was nothing to be ashamed of.

“Wait,” Eddie interrupted, “so the only reason I’m so emotional is because my half is an Empath? Or is it because they get hurt all the time. And if I'm so emotional, does that mean they're athletic?” Questions flooded his mind before Wayne cut him off.

“Could be because you were so young for your first connection. Could be because the severity of their pain made you feel it more. Or, maybe you were born that way, made that way for each other– destiny and all that.”

The pain lessened. The comfort remained. And Eddie felt the whisper of love each morning he woke up and every night before he fell asleep.

~~~ ~~~

Hands underneath Brenda’s shirt, her tongue moving across his bottom lip, anticipation glistens across Steve’s open chest as he grinds down into her. She moans into the kiss and runs her finger tips over his shoulders, grazing her nails down his back. Goosebumps erupt over his skin. He’s panting into her open mouth when his thrusts turn erratic, desperate and rushed. Her legs wrap around him, she crosses her ankles to pull him in closer and a moan crawls from the depths of his chest. His abs clench, hurtling towards his climax when he’s interrupted by the signature pop of a soul pain behind his eyes.

A cold sweat travels down his spine, adrenaline punching him in the gut. Horror claws Steve’s throat, he can’t seem to catch his breath as he hurriedly pulls out of her and falls to the floor. She’s saying something he can’t make out through the screaming urge to leave, run, hide. With enough faculties to grab his clothes on the way out, he dashes into the night where the chilled March air cools his sweat soaked skin. Distress clouds his mind on the drive home, so he pushes comfort, pleading with them to relax, breathe. The pain fades, but only slightly. 

The next day, Steve parks outside of a boat house. He doesn’t know Eddie Munson well, outside of the table top tirades and the glowing accolades from Dustin, Lucas, and Mike. They’ve never been friendly, even sometimes slightly antagonistic when Munson’s not satisfied with ranting about the government and decides he needs an actual face to point the finger at. No one better than The King, apparently. 

Steve played the role of snotty royalty to appease his shitty friends, but Eddie’s rants were contagious and always left Steve buzzing and manic. Of course Steve had thought about it before. Let himself wonder if his Half was some nice, pretty suburban girl, or if his Half was actually a crazed super senior he had absolutely nothing in common with. It was easier to consider the residual energy just a side effect of being an Empath, and not because he could actually feel Eddie’s emotions in his own subconscious. 

Robin told him about a Zine where she’d read it was possible for Empaths to absorb emotions from people in the same physical space as him, but they would have to be very close by and the emotions much stronger than normal. Which, in Steve’s mind, explained Munson to a tee. The guy always made sure to wander across the jock’s table, where his emotions were highest, typically with annoyance and disdain. Did Eddie’s eyes linger a bit longer on Steve than Tommy or the other athletes? Maybe. Maybe not. Steve did his best not to think about it too much.

Right now, with the tip of a broken bottle grazing his neck, he’s failing miserably at not thinking about it. Panic seeps out of every pore in his body. Adrenaline chokes him like it had the night before, but this time it’s from both himself and his Half. It’s too much. Steve can’t focus, can’t hear anything Dustin’s saying. There’s a sharp poke, then a trail of wet on his neck, and Eddie gasps. His grip loosened just enough for Steve to tilt his head away, readjusting his hold on Eddie’s sleeve, where his fingers accidentally brush against cold, pale skin. 

The panic gives way to euphoria. Steve breaks out into a fit of giggles, and morphs into hysterical laughter. He sounds completely unhinged, now doubled-over and furiously wiping his misted eyes with his free hand. Because his other hand has clamped itself around Eddie’s small wrist. The fizzing sensation like tiny bubbles flows from where they’re joined. The tingles climb his arm, root into his chest, and sprout in the back of his mind. 

Steve’s overcome with the hiccups. Robin’s rubbing small circles into his back and he works towards matching his breaths to her counts. It’s enough to pull his focus back to reality. 

He is Steve Harrington. He’s in Reefer Rick’s boat house with Robin, Dustin, and Max. The Upside-Down is probably back. Something wet drips down his neck. The dock is rough beneath his knees, even through the denim. His back aches where it hit the wall. And Eddie Munson is his Half.

Eddie is crying. Steve registers the shock, the guilt, the despair at the back of his mind. Eddie’s guilt– iit’s always guilt. It dulls his own joy, but just a little. 

Tentatively, Steve pushes comfort. To his delight, Eddie gasps again. His big, dark eyes lock onto his, and Steve can’t help but smile. He knows now isn’t the time to talk, that there’s so much more happening to Eddie than just finding his soulmate in a rundown boathouse on the edge of town. But they’ve come so far, been through so much that Steve decides they can spare a moment, just for them. 

He cups the back of his hand behind Eddie’s neck before releasing his wrist, unwilling to lose contact, and guides his Half into his lap. The guilt spikes. Steve knows Eddie doesn’t want to be here, with him, on some level. But Eddie crawls between his legs, pushes his face into Steve’s neck and inhales. The crush of Steve’s grip calms him, and panic eventually subsides. It’s quiet. Steve looks to find Robin corralling the kids towards the door. She throws him a thumbs up as she closes it behind her.

He pushes to her too, and he feels her relax in return.

Eddie mumbles something, but it’s muffled into his neck. Steve leans back as he scruffs his Half’s hair, pulling him away just far enough to make eye contact. The poor boy still hasn’t stopped crying. Steve’s still pushing, pushing love into him.

“I’m sorry. Steve, I’m so sorry,” Eddie sobs. Steve watches as Eddie rubs his dripping nose on the sleeve of his leather jacket, the snot smearing with the drag instead of absorbing into it. Steve uses his own free arm to wipe Eddie’s nose for him which earns him a pinched expression and a small, awkward chuckle. “That was disgusting.”

Steve smiles. “I’ve seen worse.”

Eddie’s eyes dart away, and guilt spikes again. Steve gently swipes his thumb under his eyes to catch the stray tears. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in there.” He taps on the back of Eddie’s head.

“You– you’ve been through so much. Like, so much awful shit, Steve, and I don’t even know. I just–” Eddie pauses, scrubs his hands over his face until Steve pulls one away, slowly guides it toward the side of his own neck–skin to skin– places the tip of Eddie’s thumb in the cradle of his jaw. Momentarily entranced, Steve squeezes the back of Eddie’s neck again to regain his focus.

“You just, what, Eddie? You’re going to be ok, just tell me.” He pushes. Eddie shudders, the effect intensified with proximity.

“See! That, exactly that. You always comfort me when I need it. When my dad kicked me out, anytime Wayne and I argued, every time I got shoved into someone’s locker. You were always there, just wrapping me up in love. Which is such fucking shit.” Eddie’s cold huff of laughter is wet and self-deprecating and Steve hates it. Doesn’t have to feel it in the back of his skull to know Eddie’s full of misery. “All I could ever give you back was shit. Just anger, frustration, depression and fucking teenage angst. I tried so hard to hold it back, like I knew you could. I tried so fucking hard, Steve, to send you anything good, like you always did for me. And all you got was my bullshit.”

Steve’s own eyes water as Eddie dissolves back into a fit of sobs. He tucks his Half’s head back into his neck as he rocks them back and forth. Struggling with his own thoughts, Steve chooses each word slowly and carefully. “Eddie, I felt everything. Your happy moments might not have been as strong as your bad, but they were still there. Like how I know Hellfire plays Friday nights, and I always thought I felt great on Friday nights because I finally got a break from the kids. Or how my best games were always after you’d do your little cafeteria table speeches, because it filled me with so much energy I would practically vibrate. Every single day, I’d feel little pops of bubbles that could only be you. You were always the best part of my bad days, Eddie.”

He feels raw, laid bare and exhausted as Eddie looks up to stare at him, lips parted in disbelief. “You knew? You knew it was me the whole time?” His voice croaks, and Steve makes a mental note to get him some water when they leave. 

Smiling, he grazes Eddie’s sweat and snot and tear-soaked bangs off his forehead. “I had a hunch. I just–”

“Just what?” The swell of heat behind Steve’s eyes pinpoints Eddie’s anger, rejection, and more guilt. Always guilt. “You were just hoping you could go as long as possible without mentioning it. Hoping maybe you were wrong, and your soulmate wasn’t the satan-worshiping, drug dealing Freak of Hawkins?”

With one hand still woven into the hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck, Steve uses his other hand to cover Eddie’s mouth, and he’s thrilled to discover his hands almost completely wrap around his head. He pushes hard again. Eddie squints, glaring at him over the ridge of Steve’s pinky finger, but Steve still feels him relax, so he counts it as a win. 

“I didn’t want to drag you into my bullshit.” The pinprick sensation of curiosity heightens and he answers before Eddie can even ask. “You know exactly what bullshit. That’s why I’m the one who should be sorry. Fuck I can’t– I can’t imagine how all of that must’ve been for you. How painful it was, especially when you didn’t know what was happening, or why. You were forced to bear through all of my shit and just hope it would end.”

Eddie gently pried Steve’s hand from his mouth and eyed him warily before using Steve’s own sleeve to wipe at the boy’s tears. “Steve, what happened to you?”

Steve sniffles before he places a feather-light kiss to Eddie’s brow, reveling in a champagne pops of love and awe. “I’m sorry, baby, but probably the same thing that’s happening to you right now.”

A heavy silence settles between them. Steve feels a separate, more distant curl of anxiety in the back of his mind and knows they’re running out of time. Robin can only keep the kids distracted for so long. Steve pushes more comfort at her, receiving her expected impatience in return.

“Come on,” Steve says, rising to his feet and he reaches down to help Eddie up as well. “You can tell us what happened, and we’ll fill you in on the rest.” He takes Eddie’s hand as they walk towards the boathouse door. No use in forcing him to sleep here when Steve’s house is always empty. 

“What about us?” Eddie’s voice is timid, but still hopeful.

(Continue for one-sentence hurt/no comfort)

Steve smiles, squeezing his Half’s hand before softly kissing his knuckles, cool metal rings grazing his chin. “After this is over, we’ll have all the time in the world.”

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~~~

The pain is Eddie’s, sharp and piercing in places that bleed the most. It’s agony and it’s death, but he only feels a surge of love as he falls to darkness.

[florallylly]

steve harrington so used to people's eyes on him, doesn't notice when someone is watching him OR hyper vigilant but also really good at reading people, knows eddie has been sneaking peeks at him from behind his textbook

[grandwretch]

a snippet from something empath steve that I'm never going to finish

Later, while Steve cleaned the snot and tears from his face, Robin watched him soberly from the toilet. She sat sideways, cross-legged on the closed seat, balanced precariously and stared up at him. Steve ignored her gaze, rubbing at his face until it stung.

"So," she said, eventually. Her words were careful, as if any poorly chosen phrase could send Steve into another spiral. "Can I ask... why Eddie?"

It was a question with many interpretations. Why care fixate Eddie, when so many people Steve had grown up with had died in the last week? Why sob yourself to sleep over someone you had barely known? What was it about Eddie that haunted Steve far beyond the vague ache of failure? Why was Steve's grief for one man strong enough to block out the pain and suffering of an entire town in mourning?

"Did I ever tell you why I fell in love with Nancy?" he said, instead of answering any of those questions.

Robin hesitated, then shook her head.

"The thing about emotions is that they don't make sense. I know I compared it to noise, before, but it's not-- It's not like a song. It's not even like a bunch of different songs played at once. It's more like being in a room with twenty radios, and all of them might change channels at any time. They all have their own rhythms, their own triggers-- And I can figure it out, sure, but it takes time and effort and sometimes I just... can't be bothered."

"Does my radio at least play something good?" Robin asked, raising an eyebrow. She was trying to distract him, tease him away from her own question-- An automatic response after seeing the pained look on his face. God, Steve loved her.

"We have the same radio," he said, waving his hand. Which was true, mostly. Sometimes, during the worst spirals he would feel a little pressure from Robin, but outside of that her emotions were felt just like his own-- in his own heart, not against his skin. "Not the point."

Robin grinned.

"Nance's mind is one of the steadiest I've ever felt. I was, like, addicted to it. Even when we were going through the worst shit we've ever been through, she was like a rock, and I-- I loved that. I needed that. And then..." Steve swallowed, his gaze flitting back to the mirror above the sink. He still looked ill, pale and gaunt. "I realized she wasn't, really. I thought she was the rock, and instead, it's just walls. I never... I never really figured out how to get past them. Probably never will."

"Steve..." Robin began, a frown starting to form on her face, but Steve cut her off with a shake of his head.

"No, 'cause, see-- Eddie was steady, too, right? So I thought, oh, good, more walls, don't want anything to do with that, and then--" Steve closed his eyes, letting himself remember the way Eddie's emotions had felt butting up against Steve's, the way the warmth had enveloped him even as he shivered through the shock and cold.

"Eddie was steady the way the ocean is steady. He was so alive," Steve continued, choking on the word, "and so warm, always moving but you could-- You could just float along on his train of thought. He was always just there, all around, pressing in. He never hid his emotions, but it didn't hurt. No static. It was like the tides coming in. I don't... I don't think I've ever felt that safe in someone's emotions, before. And I guess... I guess I'm having trouble processing that I might never feel it again."

[kellykadesperate]

incredibly late to the party but i'm watching the haunting of hill house and it's like. do we ever escape childhood trauma? can we ever be truly happy???

[ribbonknot]

u know i really just want to understaand the male psyche. ive only met one genuinely nice straight man in my life.. are the rest of them just evil? like i really dont want to believe straight men have deeply cruel souls but like sometimes i really wonder if the system of toxic masculinity have cursed all of them after the age of like. 5..hm

[epitome-the-burnkid-viii]

🧩🔑🪄Part infotainment, part D.I.Y. intuitive scrolling mystery school! Fortified with art, philosophy, memes, music, movies & more!📺 Welcome!🎱#youtuberecommendedchronicles🔮 Find my podcasts #SupplementalBroadcast & #PanPanenPiousPropheticPonderings on YouTube & Rumble!🎙️ Soundtrack available on #C0P3RN1CANR3C0RD5 via #SoundCloud & look for #TheC0P3RN1CANDispatch across all major music platforms!!!📻 #TheGreatsResist #TheGreatAwakening #TheGreatTaking #ChosenOnes #Lightworker #Starseed #144K🪬🕯️😱🙏🧿🫶🏼👽👹👼🏼🎪🤹🏽‍♀️🤡🔥🎟️

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶

Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.

Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.

A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.

“You still with us over there?”

John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.

Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.

Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.

The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.

Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.

Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.

“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.

“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”

“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.

The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.

Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.

The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.

Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.

Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.

The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.

As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.

“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.

“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.

“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.

Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.

Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.

John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.

He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.

Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.

“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.

It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”

“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.

Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.

Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.

As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”

The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.

Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.

The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.

He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.

Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.

The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.

Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.

John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.

Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.

Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.

It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done it hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.

When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.

“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.

Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.

Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.

A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.

Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.

Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.

You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.

Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.

A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.

No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.

His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.

“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.

Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.

“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.

Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.

“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.

“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.

“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.

John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.

There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.

You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.

Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.

He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.

It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.

“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”

John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.

With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.

Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.

It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.

“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”

“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”

John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”

Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.

He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.

“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”

For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.

His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.

It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.

Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.

In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.

He could’ve been a better man.

In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.

“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn���t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.

When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.

Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.

Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.

A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.

Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.

“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you’ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.

“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.

“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.

“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”

Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.

“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.

Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”

John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.

His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.

He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.

John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.

With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.

Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”

Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”

He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.

Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.

John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.

His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.

The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.

In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.

When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.

Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.

Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.

John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.

A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.

Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.

When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.

Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.

“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.

He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.

Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.

There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.

His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.

He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.

Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.

“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.

“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.

He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.

A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.

It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.

Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.

His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.

With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.

“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.

A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.

He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.

“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.

“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.

Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.

Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.

His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue shyly mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch upon your bottom lip.

John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.

“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”

His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.

A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.

Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.

The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.

Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.

“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.

With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.

“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.

A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.

You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.

His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.

Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.

John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.

That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.

The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.

With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.

Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.

John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.

A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.

He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.

One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.

The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.

“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”

It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.

Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.

John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.

Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.

“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.

If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.

His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.

He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.

“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”

It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.

“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.

With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.

Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.

He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.

“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.

John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.

“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.

He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.

You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.

As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.

John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.

Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.

He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.

“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.

Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.

John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.

“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.

“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.

With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.

He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.

Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.

“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.

Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.

Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.

John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.

He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.

“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.

He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.

Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.

The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.

Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.

Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.

Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.

Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.

His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.

From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.

When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.

The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.

Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.

Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.

His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.

John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.

Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.

“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.

“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”

As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.

Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”

“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.

In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.

John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.

[stellarspecter]

Ok guys st daemon au what would robin's daemon be. I've seen squirrel, ladybug, fruit bat, bat-eared fox, hummingbird, hawk, and sugar glider in different fics. I feel like making her a robin feels too on the nose lol and I kind of like the small mammal route but I'm not sure which one. If I had more concrete options I would make a poll but idk, does anyone have any thoughts on this

[criminalamnesia]

random scenario my brain made up a few nights ago!!

you and bucky and steve had been childhood best friends. when the boys enlisted, you followed close behind, donning white as you learned your role as a military nurse.

after steve’s transformation into the captain, he specifically requested that you and bucky were assigned to stay by his side. although other officials tried to deny him this— they said it would be distracting— steve refused to fulfill his role without the two of you.

although unspoken, you had always had something more with bucky. steve knew, but it didn’t bother him. you were like a sister to him, and bucky was like his brother. he was ecstatic that his two favorite people were finding solace in one another.

and then the train incident happens, and you both lose bucky. it tears the both of you to shreds— all you can do is hold each other and sob, unable to articulate how soul-crushing it is to lose a man you both loved in your own ways.

a month after bucky dies, steve loses you too. it’s really unclear how it happens. one minute you’re there, tending to the wounded, dragging soldiers back toward the medical tents. the next you’re gone, your stained nurse’s cap left forgotten in the dirt.

steve is beside himself. two parts of him have gone, both presumably dead, and he struggles to cope.

he tries sacrifice himself against the red skull, but against his will, is reawakened a century later in a time he doesn’t know with people he doesn’t understand.

but then he starts to heal, starts to let others in again. after all, steve can’t help his kind heart. he empathizes with natasha, comes to understand tony. finds companionship in sam and finally feels like his two childhood friends, although gone, have come back in the form of a redhead assassin and the falcon.

and then he meets the winter soldier and his shadow.

her name isn’t known to shield’s records. those that have seen her rarely live to tell the tale. natasha is able to offer even less information on her than she is about the brute with the metal arm.

it takes steve aback, how in sync the soldier and his shadow fight. it’s eerie— the soldier tosses up a knife, a hand appears out of the shadows and grabs it. no words spoken, none needed. a deep understanding of one another, the trauma endured and the bond forged making the two into one.

the mask falls from the solider first, and steve swears his heart stops. bucky. his bucky. his best friend, his brother, alive and standing in front of him.

nothing happens for a second— a second that feels like a lifetime to steve as he relives watching bucky fall to his death. to holding you as the both of your mourned a body that would never be found.

the winter soldier extends a hand to the side, and his partner steps out of shadows, placing a knife into his open palm. she had taken to holding back natasha and sam while bucky fought steve. sometime during the fight, she had lost her mask as well.

and steve falls to his knees as you fully materialize out of the dark, shadows receding around you, curling from the tips of your fingers and finally dissipating.

hydra had gotten you, too.

it made too much sense. you and bucky had always had a bond deeper than friends, deeper than lovers, even. you were intertwined so deeply, one could not take a step without the other knowing. (if only the two of you had acted on things sooner).

the one key to bucky’s heart, the one that could influence him even more than steve could, was you. the greatest weakness. hydra capitalized on that weakness, turning you into something that killed instead of something that healed.

stressing your bond with your lover, manipulating it so perversely and making you into two killers, two halves of a whole.

at least you had each other, he thinks.

(he later finds out that having each other was no solace, no escape. it was double the torture— physical and emotional— as they took one’s transgressions out on the other.)

and even though this has happened, that he barely recognizes the two souls standing in front of him, he feels whole again. because you are both alive and seemingly healthy and able to be reached.

bucky tucks the knife into his belt and extends his hand to you once again.

you take it, and the two of you melt away, darkness filling the space you once occupied.

[avengxrz]

the difference between love and longing ; steve rogers

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 10.5k

summary: you know that you will never be peggy carter. you are not her, and steve rogers is not the same man he used to be, but even when your heart tries not to hope, his gaze still lingers. his hands still find yours. his voice still softens when he says your name. so what do you do when the man you love still dances with a ghost… but holds onto you like you're real?

warnings: angst, slow burn-ish tension, emotional hurt/comfort, bittersweet longing, one bed trope (kind of), found family dynamics, telepath/empath reader, mentions of peggy carter, interrupted kisses, soft confessions, steve rogers being sad and soft, reader being tony stark’s daughter (with overprotective dad energy), hopeful ending, and a lot of quiet moments that might just feel like love.

note: i am back on tumblr, baby. this is me giving steve rogers the softness he deserves and also projecting a little bit (a lot). english is not my first language so pls be kind. this is all brain and vibes. thank u for reading and i hope it made your heart hurt in the good way. enjoy <3

masterlist

The Quinjet rumbles to a halt like it's sighing in relief. The doors creak open to reveal a world too quiet, too normal, too... soft for the blood on your boots and the ghosts still trailing behind you.

You step onto the gravel, gravel that crunches like it's trying not to break under the weight of six exhausted Avengers and one very pregnant secret.

“Is this a safe house?” Thor asks, clearly scandalized by the quaint barn and white fence vibes. There’s hay. Real hay.

Tony gives a dry chuckle. “Let’s hope.”

Clint, already halfway to the front porch, calls out with the most domestic line you've ever heard him say: “Honey, I’m home.”

You almost choke on your own tongue.

From the kitchen emerges the enigma herself—Laura Barton, barefoot, beautiful, glowing. The kind of peace you’d murder to experience for five whole minutes.

“Company. Sorry I didn’t call ahead,” Clint adds, like he didn’t just bring a war into her living room.

She welcomes him with a kiss like this is just another Tuesday. The others shift uncomfortably, and your brain’s already starting to ache from the noise—the storm of emotions coming off your teammates like static electricity. Regret, fear, confusion... whatever that enhanced woman did back there, it cracked them open like glass jars.

But not you. Not all the way. You’re an empath and a telepath, which is either a cosmic joke or a tragic combo depending on the day. You didn’t see a dream because your mind is locked up tighter than Stark’s old lab vaults. But you felt everything.

Still do.

When Cooper and Lila come running out, all legs and laughter, it pulls a ghost of a smile from you. Cooper beams when he sees you.

“Y/N!”

You crouch to ruffle his hair before he can tackle you. “Hey, Coop, buddy. Missed me already?”

He nods too enthusiastically and your heart does a weird lurch. He has a tiny crush on you. He’s like… eight, or nine? You pretend you don’t notice, because what are you gonna do, crush a child’s soul?

“This is an agent of some kind.” Tony, meanwhile, is trying to process the domestic bombshell that’s just gone off. “These are... smaller agents,” he mutters to you as Clint sweeps his daughter up in a hug.

You tilt your head. “You say that like you didn’t just meet my kid pen-pal.”

Tony’s head snaps toward you. “Wait—you knew about all this?”

You blink. “What, you never asked?”

The look he gives you is somewhere between betrayed dad and malfunctioning toaster. You rolled your eyes.

Laura pulls Natasha in for a warm chat, touching her bump. Nat lights up for a second—she’s better with kids than she lets on. You lean into the doorway and try not to grimace at the ache behind your eyes. The emotional noise is deafening. Someone should really invent empath earplugs.

Outside, you catch Thor hesitating. His shoulders are stiff, like he’s seeing something none of you can. Then—woosh. Mjolnir lifts, thunder cracks softly in the clouds, and the god of thunder disappears into the sky.

You wince, because the second he’s airborne, the silence in his wake is loud as hell. Steve turns to follow him, but stops. You feel him freeze. 

And then—Peggy.

You don’t hear the voice, but the emotion is strong enough to slam into your ribcage: longing, loss, the cruel comfort of almost.

Steve doesn’t go inside.

You don’t follow either.

Eventually, Clint rounds you all up. “Alright, listen up. House rule: no exploding, breaking furniture, or turning the fridge into a science experiment. Rooms are tight, so you’re bunking up.”

You’re about to throw your bag next to Natasha’s when she tosses a glance at Bruce and casually says, “I’ll bunk with Banner.”

You turn slowly. “You traitor.”

Nat just smirks.

You scoff dramatically, arms crossed, then glance to your right—only to see Tony perking up with that hopeful dad-face.

“No,” you say immediately.

“But I thought maybe—”

“I said no.”

His face falls like a kicked Roomba.

You don’t even look at Steve. You just grab his hand like it’s a totally normal thing to do and march toward the stairs.

“I’m with Steve.”

Steve lets you lead him up the staircase without a word, but you feel the way his surprise flares for a second—then settles into something warm. You don’t comment.

Clint watches you both, then shrugs. “Alright. Don’t break the bed.”

“No promises,” you call back, just to watch Tony short-circuit.

“Fine!” he yells. “More room for me since PointBreak bailed! Ugh!”

You and Steve follow Clint, Bruce, and Natasha up the stairs.

Your hand stays in his a little longer than it should.

And yeah, maybe—just maybe—your walls aren’t that high when it comes to him.

You were not a fool.

You knew exactly where Steve Rogers’ heart belonged, and it wasn’t here—wasn’t now. His soul echoed the name of a woman wrapped in sepia-toned memories, someone he danced with once beneath the shadow of a war. 

Peggy. That name carried weight. Carried history. Carried love.

You could never compete with a ghost.

And you weren’t trying to.

You just… wanted to be near him. Close enough to feel his calm in the chaos. Close enough to steady your own mind when the screams of other people’s emotions got too loud. Close enough to pretend that maybe, just maybe, if the world was kinder or quieter, things might have been different.

But that wasn’t the game you were playing.

You knew your role.

You were the friend. 

The teammate. 

The one who always said “I’m fine” with a shrug and a joke and meant it less every time. You were the one who noticed when he didn’t sleep, who slipped him tea instead of coffee, who never asked him to explain the faraway look in his eyes when the world went still for a moment too long.

Because you understood silence.

And you understood pain that didn’t want a spotlight.

That was what friends did, right?

They stuck around.

Even when it hurts.

Even when your chest felt too tight and your name never sounded as sweet coming from his mouth as hers probably did. Even when he looked at you and saw loyalty instead of love.

You were still here.

Because he was still here.

And that was enough.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

You don’t know how long you sat by the window, brushing through the knots in your damp hair, untangling strands like you wish you could untangle the ache in your chest. Sunset was starting to paint the sky in hues of apology—soft peach bleeding into deep gold, like the world was trying to say sorry for being so damn cruel.

The house dress Laura lent you was a bit too big, soft cotton and floral print, nothing fancy—but comfortable. You hadn’t really packed for a spontaneous countryside war recovery trip. Clint had offered it casually, like this was all normal. Like the world wasn’t unraveling outside.

You exhaled through your nose, long and slow, feeling every fray at the edge of your sanity from today. From Wanda’s attack. From all the minds cracked open like eggs around you, except yours. Except yours.

Click.

The bathroom door creaked open behind you.

Your spine straightened, brushing paused mid-stroke. You didn’t turn around immediately.

You knew it was him. It was Steve.

“I was wondering if you fell in,” you said dryly, brushing down another stubborn strand.

Steve chuckled, that low, quiet sound that always made your stomach pull tight in confusing ways. “I was debating if I should just hide in there all night.”

You turned slightly, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

He was in a plain grey t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. His expression was softer now, less weighed down. For the first time all day, he looked... human. Tired, yes, but real.

You hummed. “Would’ve been a shame. This room’s got all the ambiance. Trucks on the bedspread. Glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Real romantic.”

He smiled, stepping further in. “Kid’s got style.”

“Cooper’s got a Star Wars nightlight,” you pointed out, gesturing to the tiny plastic Darth Vader glowing faintly in the corner.

Steve followed your gaze, grinning. “That’s actually kind of impressive.”

You finally faced him fully, folding your legs beneath you on the windowsill seat. The brush dangled lazily from your fingers. “Better than any gear Stark designed. You can quote me.”

He laughed again, but it faded quicker this time. He looked at you like he wanted to say something else. Something deeper. You didn’t press.

“I didn’t see anything,” you murmured, breaking the quiet first. “Back there. When the girl—when she got into everyone’s heads.”

Steve looked up, brows lifting slightly. “You didn’t?”

You shook your head, setting the brush down in your lap. “My mind’s... closed. On purpose. Walls thick enough to keep anyone out. But I still felt everything. Every scream. Every fear. I just didn’t get a slideshow of my worst memories.”

“That sounds worse,” he said quietly.

You met his eyes. “Sometimes it is.”

He nodded slowly, taking a few steps closer. “Is that why you volunteered to room with me?”

You smirked, leaning your head against the windowpane. “What, because you’re emotionally constipated and I assumed I’d get a full night’s sleep?”

Steve cracked a grin. “You wound me.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll live.”

Another beat passed. The orange sunlight spilled over his face, and you watched the way it made his hair shine gold, the way the lines around his eyes softened when he looked at you.

The bed behind him creaked when he sat down.

“You didn’t have to, you know,” he said after a while.

You blinked. “Didn’t have to do what?”

“Stay by my side.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked back out the window.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I did.”

Steve didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the nightlight in the corner, watching Darth Vader’s tiny red saber glow against the shadows. It should’ve been funny. You should’ve made a joke about it. But something in his silence felt heavier than usual. Not tense, just... full. Like he was trying to breathe through a weight on his ribs.

You didn't push. That was the trick with Steve Rogers—he didn’t crack under pressure. He cracked under kindness.

So you waited.

The night buzzed with crickets outside, and the faint creak of the farmhouse settling into silence. You shifted slightly on the windowsill, folding your arms around your knees.

“I saw her,” he said at last.

You knew exactly who he meant. You didn’t even need your empathy to know. His voice cracked too softly to be about anyone else.

“Peggy,” you said.

He nodded.

You stayed quiet. Let him build the words the way he always did—slow, careful, like setting bricks.

“It was a dance hall,” he murmured. “Forties music. People are laughing. And she... she asked me if I was ready. Said the war was over. That we could go home.”

You looked at him then, really looked. His face was still turned away, but his jaw was tight, and his hands—his hands were clasped like he was trying not to let something shake free.

“She said we could go home,” he repeated, softer now. “And then everyone disappeared. The music stopped. It was just the two of us, dancing in an empty room.”

Your heart ached.

And you, stupid, foolish you, had the audacity to be jealous of a memory.

An old woman’s ghost had more of Steve Rogers’ heart than you ever would. And that should’ve made you bitter. But all you felt was... grief. Not for yourself. For him.

Because Steve Rogers never got to go home. He was at war. And the world never let him stop fighting.

You stood slowly, knees cracking a little from sitting too long. You didn’t know where your body was going until you found yourself walking over to him, quiet steps on the wood floor, until you were standing in front of him.

He looked up at you.

You looked down at him.

His legs were spread just slightly where he sat on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his knees like he’d been preparing to fight something again. But you weren’t something to fight. And neither was this.

You stepped forward. Right into the space between his legs.

His eyes widened just barely, lips parting.

You hesitated.

“Can I?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Steve didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

You reached for him gently, hands rising to cradle the sides of his head, fingers ghosting through his hair with a touch so light it almost didn’t feel real. His breath hitched, just once.

Then the blue came.

It seeped from your fingertips like mist, like moonlight filtered through water—cool, soft, alive. Not the violent scarlet haze that haunted the others. Not chaos. Not fear.

This was calm.

For the first time in what felt like hours, Steve exhaled without effort. His shoulders dropped. His body stilled.

And then—his mind opened.

Not violently. Not all at once. Just... slowly. Like a flower at dusk.

You stepped inside gently, mentally and emotionally, your abilities easing you in like a tide rolling over sand. You didn’t rip memories apart. You didn’t dig. You read. Softly. Carefully. You let him show you what he couldn’t say.

And there it was.

The dance hall. The lights. The colors that looked too bright to be real. Peggy’s smile, so warm and whole. Her words: The war’s over, Steve. We can go home.

And then—emptiness. Her voice echoed in a hollow place. The ache that followed. The longing. You felt it so clearly it made your throat tighten.

He wasn’t just sad.

He was lonely.

Steve didn’t move for a long moment. Then—his head dropped forward. Right onto your stomach.

You stilled.

His arms, slow and careful, wrapped around your waist. A little desperate. A little tired. All vulnerability. He didn’t look up. Just stayed there, pressed into you, breathing like this was the first time in days he remembered how.

Your hands slid down from his hair to cradle the back of his head.

You held him there. Neither of you said a word, but you didn’t need to.

Not tonight. Not like this.

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he sighed against you—soft, like a man who’s been carrying the weight of the world and just now realized he didn’t have to.

His head was heavy against your stomach, but you didn’t mind. His arms around your waist were loose, but steady. Not possessive. Just... present. Like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.

His thoughts weren’t screaming anymore. The noise had gone quiet. You could still feel the edges of sorrow curling around the memory of that dream, but your presence had soothed the storm. Calmed the tide. The ache was still there—of course it was—but it wasn’t drowning him anymore.

You threaded your fingers gently through his hair, combing back the damp strands. It was still a little wet from his shower. Still warm from the steam. Still real, which is more than anything in his dream had been.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Neither did you.

But the voice in your head wouldn’t shut up.

Don’t fall. Don’t fall. He doesn’t look at you like that. He never will. This isn’t a moment—it’s a mercy. He’s grieving, not reaching. Don’t mistake the difference.

You closed your eyes. And you stayed.

Not because you were hoping for more, but because you couldn’t walk away from him.

Not when he let himself break. Not when he trusted you with the pieces.

After a few long, aching minutes, Steve pulled back just enough to look up at you. His eyes were glassy, but clear. Like whatever haze Wanda had left in him had been swept away by your soft little storm.

“You’re good at that,” he murmured.

You quirked a brow. “At what? Standing awkwardly while a supersoldier uses me as an emotional pillow?”

His lips curved upward, barely. “That too. But mostly... calming people down. You don’t just read minds. You make the noise stop.”

You shrugged, though your chest fluttered. “The side effect of being born weird, I guess.”

“You’re not weird.”

You tilted your head. “Please. You’re talking to a woman in a borrowed house dress with bare feet and psychic powers who just invaded your head with blue sparkles. If I’m not weird, the bar’s too low.”

His smile faltered. Not in a bad way—just softened. His hands were still on your waist, and he hadn’t moved them. You hadn’t either.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “For what?”

“For this. For staying. For... not looking at me like I’m broken.”

You blinked. “Steve, you’re not broken.”

He looked like he didn’t quite believe you.

So you leaned down a little, fingers brushing his cheek, grounding him again.

“You’re just tired,” you said. “You’ve been fighting a war that never ends. Everyone expects you to be made of iron—but you’re not. You’re just a man with a good heart and too many ghosts.”

His jaw clenched just a little.

“But guess what?” you added, softer now. “You’re still standing.”

You straightened again, and he stared up at you like he didn’t quite know what to say.

So you gave him an out.

“Now scoot,” you said, nudging his leg with your knee. “We’re both exhausted and this bed is like... child-sized.”

Steve let out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was trying to figure out how we were gonna fit.”

“You sleep like a log, right?”

He shrugged. “I can.”

“Then I’m calling dibs on not being the one to fall out.”

He moved over, lying back onto Cooper’s little twin bed, his legs almost too long for it. You climbed in next to him, careful not to crowd. But not too far either.

You faced opposite directions, backs turned, the weight of the night still pressing soft and quiet around you both.

But you didn’t feel alone.

And neither did he.

You woke up to the sound of screaming.

Not in the air. Not in the halls.

In your head.

Thoughts—dozens of them, tangled and loud, pressing in from every corner of the house. Dreams turned into nightmares. Subconscious anxieties. Fears that bled into the walls. It was like the whole farmhouse had started humming at a frequency only you could hear.

You winced and blinked hard, groggy and disoriented.

The soft blue glow of the Star Wars nightlight spilled across the room. You squinted at the little digital clock on the dresser—red digits blinking quietly.

1:00 A.M.

Of course it was.

Your body had stiffened at some point in the night, but what caught your attention more was the arm wrapped around your waist. Steve. Still asleep. Still warm. Still holding you like whatever dream he was having hadn’t dragged him under again.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, grounding yourself. The noise was worse now. Thoughts tumbling over each other—dreams from Clint, Laura, the kids, even Bruce down the hall.

Steve’s mind, thankfully, was quiet. Like a lake after the storm.

You slid away from his arm slowly, inch by inch, holding your breath so you wouldn’t wake him. The bed creaked softly under the movement, but he didn’t stir. His brow stayed relaxed. His breathing deep.

You exhaled through your nose and gently rolled out of bed, bare feet hitting the floor silently. The nightdress swayed softly around your calves as you moved toward the door, careful not to trip over a stray action figure on the floor.

The hallway was dark, moonlight slanting in through the windows.

The stairs creaked.

You winced at each step, weight pressed into your heels to soften the sound. You didn’t need Clint waking up and scolding you like a sitcom dad.

Downstairs, the kitchen was cold and quiet. You moved on autopilot—glass from the cupboard, fridge door swinging open, the hum of it briefly masking the thoughts rattling your skull.

You poured water with shaking fingers and drank it fast, letting the cold shock snap you back into your body.

Too loud.

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, willing the noise to dial down, even just a little. You weren’t sure how long you stood there, breathing slow, glass against your lips, trying to steady the tide—

“Y/N?”

You jumped.

Your heart practically launched out of your chest as you spun around. “Jesus.”

There she was. Lila Barton. Tiny in her little pajama set, hair mussed from sleep, clutching a plush unicorn to her chest with wide eyes.

You blinked hard, trying to reset your face.

“Lila,” you breathed. “You scared the psychic outta me.”

She giggled a little, then rubbed at her eyes.

“I had a nightmare,” she whispered, lower lip wobbling. “And I didn’t wanna wake Mom or Dad.”

You softened instantly. The noise in your head quieted for just a second.

You knelt down in front of her, setting your glass on the counter behind you.

“You okay, kiddo?” you asked gently.

She shook her head. “There were... monsters. Not real ones. Just... bad dreams.”

You nodded slowly, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Yeah. I know those.”

Her eyes were glossy. “Do you ever get them?”

“All the time,” you admitted. “But I’ve got a secret weapon.”

She leaned in, eyes curious. “What is it?”

You smiled, raised your hands to either side of her tiny face.

“I can make them go away.”

She blinked, skeptical. “Like magic?”

“Sort of,” you whispered. “But better. It’s heart magic.”

She gasped. “That’s a real thing?”

“For you?” you said. “Always.”

You let your fingers rest lightly on her temples, and with a breath, let the power flow. Not the full thing—just enough. A ripple of soft blue shimmered between your hands, a light like moonlight on still water. It touched her mind gently, soothing the fear there, brushing away the leftover shadows.

Lila’s shoulders relaxed almost instantly. Her little body melted into a sigh, and she blinked up at you like you’d just fixed the sky.

“I feel better,” she whispered.

You smiled, pulling her into a soft hug. “That’s the idea.”

She squeezed you tight.

“Thank you,” she mumbled into your shoulder.

You closed your eyes.

“Anytime, Lila.”

The water helped, but it didn’t solve everything.

Standing there in the kitchen’s pale yellow nightlight, you realized that the voices that pulled you from sleep hadn’t just been background noise. They weren’t random. They weren’t just emotional echoes left behind.

No—your teammates were dreaming.

All of them.

The house was full of nightmares.

And your head, caught somewhere between psychic receiver and emotional sponge, had taken the brunt of it.

You glanced down at Lila, now rubbing sleep from her eyes, little fingers still curled around her unicorn.

With slow, careful movement, you bent down and scooped her into your arms. She didn’t protest. She just tucked her head under your chin, small body warm and trusting, as if this was something you’d done a hundred times.

The creaking of the stairs felt louder now, but you made the climb with practiced quiet, one hand against the banister to steady your balance, Lila's tiny snores soft against your collarbone. The farmhouse smelled like cedar and old laundry detergent, warm and lived-in, faint scent of something sweet baked into the walls—maybe muffins from the morning before.

At the top of the stairs, you shifted your weight and leaned close to her ear.

“Time to head back, agent,” you whispered.

Lila gave a sleepy little nod, eyes fluttering. You opened the door to her parents’ room with your foot, inching inside on near-silent steps. Laura stirred faintly when you laid Lila down, but didn’t wake. You pulled the blanket over the small girl’s chest, brushing a thumb over her cheek.

“Goodnight,” Lila mumbled, not fully awake.

You smiled, brushing hair from her forehead. “Goodnight, baby bird.”

She turned toward her unicorn and curled into it, safe again.

You stepped back into the hallway and exhaled quietly. The house groaned gently beneath your feet—old wood and older dreams. The noise in your head still hadn't settled. You could feel it humming deeper now, like standing too close to an overloaded generator.

Your eyes tracked down the hallway, toward where the buzz was strongest.

Natasha. Bruce.

You didn’t hesitate.

Lila’s room was just a few doors down. The pink wooden sign with glitter letters hung a little crookedly on the door. You turned the knob slowly, expecting it to be locked—but it wasn’t. Of course not. It was a child’s room, and Clint was a father first. He didn’t believe in locking doors where little ones might need comfort.

The room was dim, lit faintly by the soft swirl of glow-in-the-dark butterflies on the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of baby powder and lavender, like stuffed animals and bedtime stories. There were teddy bears lined up on a shelf, some with bows. A small princess nightlight blinked from the corner.

And on the bed, Bruce and Natasha.

They were tangled up together in a way that made your chest pinch—in the sweet way, not the jealous one. Natasha had her head resting on Bruce’s chest, arm draped across his stomach. He was angled slightly toward her, forehead pressed into her hair. It wasn’t messy or suggestive. Just intimate. Familiar. Two tired people clinging to the quiet.

But their minds were screaming.

You didn’t see the dreams. Not exactly. But you felt them.

Bruce’s was full of shadows—cold, sharp, flickering memories of cages and labs and needlepoints that made your throat close. A green haze lingered at the edge, rage balled up tight in his subconscious like a caged animal pacing.

Natasha’s was colder—quieter. But somehow worse. Hers wasn’t rage. It was control. Pain masked as purpose. You felt sterile walls, red lights. Not that door, she was whispering, even in her dream. Don’t make me open it again.

You stepped closer. The floor creaked slightly, but neither stirred. They were too far under.

You didn’t want to invade. But this wasn’t about watching. This was about relief.

You stood at the edge of the bed, raised your hand, and let your fingers hover in the air between them.

The mist unfurled slowly. That soft, silken blue light—cool and quiet, like a lullaby sung by the sea. It wrapped around both of them in threads of calm, not erasing the pain, but smoothing it. Buffering it. Their breathing evened. The lines on Bruce’s forehead faded. Natasha’s grip on his shirt loosened.

The noise—blessedly—stopped.

And you stepped back, letting your arm fall to your side.

You smiled faintly at the sight of them. Somehow, it felt like seeing something sacred. You were going to absolutely tease them in the morning. Nothing cruel. Just enough to make Nat roll her eyes and Bruce stammer through a defense. You’d earned it, honestly.

You stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind you.

Another breath. Another heartbeat.

But the storm wasn’t over.

You turned toward the end of the hall. The last door.

Tony.

His mind wasn’t loud, not the same way. His nightmares came in like static—messy, scattered. Fragmented shards of regret and guilt. You could feel it already. You didn’t need to see his dreams to know the truth:

He never forgave himself for anything.

You padded quietly to the door. This one was cracked open slightly. Probably forgot to close it properly when he stumbled in earlier, still running off adrenaline and sarcasm.

You slipped in.

The room smelled faintly of whiskey and motor oil. Old shirts lay draped over a suitcase, a half-packed bag on the dresser. A tablet blinked low battery from where he’d left it beside the bed. He hadn’t even changed out of his shirt—just kicked off his shoes and collapsed sideways.

Tony was sweating.

Not heavily, but just enough. A faint sheen along his brow. His hand twitched every now and then, fingers curling into the blanket. His jaw was clenched.

His dream wasn’t coherent.

You felt it in fragments: a pair of hands reaching up from under rubble, a flash of a child's shoe, Pepper walking away without turning back. His dad’s voice—cruel and cold—echoing in his mind like a scratched record.

You’re not enough. You’ll never be enough.

You closed your eyes, teeth clenched. “Oh, Dad,” you whispered under your breath. “You idiot.”

You moved closer, careful not to make noise. Your feet sank into the carpet near the bed. You reached out—no hesitation this time.

Blue mist swept out from your fingertips, curling like smoke in the low light. It danced over his temples, behind his ears, down to his chest.

The noise faded.

His breathing slowed.

His hand, curled in a tense fist, unclenched slightly.

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

You just stood there, your hand hovering above the man who built your life from scratch but never quite figured out how to show love without sarcasm. The man who once gave you a Rolex for a birthday you cried through.

The room fell quiet.

And your head, at last, stopped hurting.

You slipped back into Cooper’s bedroom just as the grandfather clock downstairs struck two, the low chime echoing up through the floorboards like a reminder that time was always ticking—too fast, too slow, never on your side.

The room was dim, moonlight cutting pale stripes through the blinds. Steve had shifted slightly in the bed. He was lying on his back now, one arm thrown across the empty space where you’d been, like he’d reached for you and missed.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, your heartbeat still steady from calming everyone else’s storms.

And now here he was.

The one storm you didn’t want to calm.

Because he could break you if he wanted to. And you’d let him.

You crossed the room slowly, the worn floor soft under your feet, and slid carefully back under the covers.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

Until—

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice thick with sleep but laced with something else. Something warmer. Something that made your stomach twist.

“I’m fine,” you lied, as naturally as breathing.

He was silent for a few seconds, and you thought maybe he’d fallen back asleep. But then—

“I woke up and you were gone.”

You hesitated. “Just needed a walk. Too much noise.”

He turned onto his side to face you, one hand supporting his head, elbow on the pillow.

“I figured that’s what it was,” he said. “It’s always noise for you, isn’t it?”

You shrugged. “Perks of being a glorified human antenna.”

His eyes searched your face, soft and unreadable. You hated when he looked at you like that—like he was trying to solve you. Like you were a puzzle he was too close to finish.

“You helped us,” he murmured. “I felt it. When you touched my mind.”

You looked away.

“It was gentle,” he continued. “Like... like someone putting their hand on your shoulder when you’re about to fall.”

You swallowed hard.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

Your fingers curled in the blanket. “Because I care about you. About all of you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His voice was low now. Steady.

You froze.

He shifted closer. The air between you thickened.

“You didn’t just care,” he said. “You held me together. You always do. And I’ve been lying to myself for a long time, pretending it was just friendship. That it was just... teammates sticking together.”

You closed your eyes.

“Steve,” you whispered, warning in your tone.

But he didn’t stop.

“I keep thinking about that dream. About Peggy. About how it felt to see her again. And I realized it wasn’t about going home. It wasn’t about the dance. It was about the part of me that still wants something... that feels like home.”

Your chest tightened.

“And when I woke up,” he said, voice catching, “you were gone, and the bed was cold, and I panicked because I didn’t want you gone.”

Your eyes snapped open.

He looked at you then—really looked. And he said it:

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The air left your lungs.

You sat up immediately, fingers trembling, eyes burning.

“No,” you said, too fast, too sharp.

Steve blinked, confusion and hurt flashing across his face.

You shook your head, heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Don’t. Don’t say that to me.”

“Why not?” he asked, sitting up too, voice strained now.

“Because I’m not her, Steve!” you snapped, louder than intended, but gods, it was too late to be quiet now.

His expression froze.

“You’re still holding onto her,” you whispered, softer this time. “Even now. You’re just trying to find pieces of her in me. Kindness. The loyalty. The sarcasm wrapped in warmth. And maybe I remind you of her. Maybe I move like her, talk like her, care like her. But I’m not her.”

Steve opened his mouth—but you didn’t let him speak.

“You want to love me? Then love me. Not the ghost of someone you couldn’t save.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

He stared at you like you’d just punched him in the gut.

Maybe you had.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and looked away, fists clenched in your lap.

“You deserve something real,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “So do I.”

He didn’t answer.

And for once, you didn’t fill the silence.

You let it sit.

Between the two of you.

Like a wall neither of you were ready to break.

The silence in the room wasn’t just heavy.

It was crushing.

You sat on the edge of the bed, breathing like your ribs were glass—slow, careful, scared of shattering. You didn’t dare look at him. If you did, you might take it all back. And you meant what you said.

Didn’t you?

Across from you, Steve didn’t move. You could feel the tension rippling off him—could hear the thoughts in his head, loud as church bells and quiet as confessions. He wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. No, he was something else.

Wrecked.

You heard the way his breath hitched. The way his hands curled into fists, resting on his knees like anchors. The bed dipped under his weight, still too small for two broken people who didn’t know what to do with their pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally.

You flinched.

Not because of the words—but because of the way he said them.

Like he meant them for a thousand different moments he could never take back.

“For what?” you asked, still not looking at him. “For saying it? Or for meaning it?”

Steve didn’t answer right away. And that told you everything.

You turned to him slowly.

He was looking down, staring at his hands like they held answers. His jaw was clenched, the muscle ticking. His eyes were glassy, lips parted, like he had a hundred words he wanted to say but none that would make a difference.

“I don’t know how to stop comparing,” he admitted. “And I hate that. Because it’s not fair to you.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His broad shoulders slumped. His spine curled forward slightly, like the weight on it was just too much tonight. His whole body—always so strong, so steady—looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with regret.

“I keep looking for things I lost,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And when I see them in you, it... it feels like hope. But maybe it’s just me trying to glue the past to the present.”

“Exactly,” you said, choking on your own voice. “That’s exactly what it is.”

“But it’s not just that,” he said, more firmly now. “You think I don’t see you? That I don’t know who you are?”

You stared at him. “Then why now? Why after that dream? You see her, you wake up, and suddenly I’m what—convenient?”

“No,” he said quickly. “God, no. You’re not convenient. You’re everything I’m afraid to want.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you like he was pleading with you to understand. “You’re not soft and perfect. You’re sharp. You’re chaos and compassion all rolled into one. You challenge me. You make me feel like I’m not just a man frozen in time. And yeah, sometimes I look at you and I hear her voice, but more often than not... I hear yours.”

Your chest tightened so hard it ached.

“But I’m scared,” he said. “I’m scared because what if I’m too broken to know the difference between love and longing? What if I already ruined this by seeing ghosts in your shadow?”

Tears stung your eyes—but you blinked them away. “You didn’t ruin it. You just made it real.”

Steve looked up.

You stared at him with all the pain in your chest cracked wide open. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And it killed me—kills me—to know I’ll always be second to someone who’s not even here.”

His expression crumbled.

“I tried to be okay with it,” you continued, voice trembling. “I told myself being near you was enough. Being your friend, your anchor, your whatever you needed. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Steve reached for you, but you flinched.

“I need you to love me for me,” you said, softly now. “Not because I’m safe. Not because I’m similar. Not because I made your nightmares go quiet.”

His hand hovered in the air for a second before falling to his side.

Neither of you moved.

The clock ticked in the background.

Outside the window, the sky was starting to hint at dawn—just barely. The kind of blue that isn’t day or night, but the ghost of both.

You sat there, side by side, not touching. Two hearts beating too loudly in the quiet.

And somehow, silence said more than either of you could bear.

You didn’t sleep after that.

Neither did he.

The silence between you stretched on, delicate as spider silk, humming with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t trust yourself to speak. You sat on opposite ends of the bed, feet dangling, bodies heavy with unshed grief.

Eventually, Steve turned away and laid down, but not to sleep. You could tell by his breathing—too steady. Too rehearsed. He wasn’t drifting off.

He was trying to disappear.

And you let him.

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and stared at the glow-in-the-dark constellations stuck to Cooper’s ceiling. They were shaped like tiny promises, and every one of them felt like a lie.

The room smelled faintly like the remnants of Lila’s bubblegum shampoo and Steve’s cologne. Warm cotton. Faint traces of cedar and something older, like dust on a forgotten letter. The scent of almost.

You didn’t cry.

There weren’t any tears left.

When the sky finally cracked open, painting soft gold across the old wooden floorboards, you climbed quietly out of bed, careful not to brush against him. Steve stayed still, eyes closed, one hand over his chest like he was holding himself together.

You tiptoed across the room, grabbed your jacket from the chair, and slipped into the hallway.

Downstairs, the farmhouse was still quiet. Clint’s kids weren’t up yet. Laura was likely curled into Clint’s side. Natasha and Bruce, probably still tangled in each other’s warmth—dreams finally quiet thanks to you. Tony, passed out and drooling into a pillow he pretended cost $600.

You moved like a ghost through the kitchen, fingers wrapping around a chipped ceramic mug. You poured yourself coffee—black, because anything else felt like trying too hard. The mug was warm between your palms, but it didn’t chase the chill out of your bones.

You sat at the table and stared out the window.

The barn caught the sunrise first. All golden wood and long shadows. Somewhere, a rooster crowed like it was auditioning for a movie.

And then you heard it.

Steps. Barefoot. Soft.

You didn’t turn around.

Steve entered the kitchen with that same slow, unsure quiet he always wore after a battle. His hair was a mess. He looked like hell. And somehow, he still moved like a leader trying to figure out how to ask forgiveness without words.

He stopped at the opposite end of the table.

You still didn’t look at him.

A beat.

Then another.

Then—

“Didn’t sleep,” you said softly, staring into your mug.

“Me neither,” Steve murmured, voice rough. “Didn’t really want to.”

You nodded, more to yourself than to him. “Coffee’s fresh.”

Steve moved to pour himself a cup. You heard the clink of ceramic, the slow gurgle of the pot. He sat down across from you, hands wrapped around the mug like it might burn away the things he couldn’t fix.

Another beat.

Then he said it.

“I meant it.”

You looked at him now.

His eyes were tired. Honest. Exposed.

“I don’t care if you think it’s too late,” he said. “Or if I said it for the wrong reasons. I meant it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“Steve,” you said finally, “I can’t be someone’s second choice.”

“You’re not.”

“You just saw her. You danced with her in your dream.”

He leaned forward. “I didn’t wake up wanting her.”

You froze.

He swallowed. “I woke up missing her, yes. But I looked over and I—” He faltered. “I looked over and I needed you. Not her.”

Your heart thudded.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted. “I just know I’ve never felt this calm around anyone else. Never felt seen like this. You get into my head and you don’t run. You see the worst of me and you stay.”

You let the silence fill the space.

Then:

“I don’t want to love someone who’s still haunted.”

Steve’s eyes dropped.

“I want someone who chooses me. All of me. Not just the pieces that look like someone else.”

He looked up again. And this time—his voice cracked.

“Then let me prove it’s you.”

You stared at him.

Two mugs of cooling coffee. Two exhausted souls. One moment balanced on the knife-edge between breaking and beginning.

And for once, you didn’t know what to say.

So you just whispered:

“Then don’t disappear.”

And he whispered back:

“I won’t.”

away every crack in your chest with nothing but care.

Steve kissed you like you mattered.

Like you weren’t just a comfort or a memory or an afterthought—but a choice.

His lips were warm, patient, but there was something deeper beneath the softness—a tension held back, something he’d buried for too long. And when your fingers curled into his hair and your body pressed closer, he melted into you.

His arm slid around your waist. Yours moved up around his neck. The kiss deepened, slow and sweet, the kind that steals the air from your lungs but gives you back your name.

And then—

“OH. MY. GOD.”

You froze.

Steve pulled back an inch, lips still ghosting over yours.

You both turned slowly toward the voice.

Tony Stark was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, holding a coffee mug mid-sip like he’d just walked in on a crime scene.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF STARK INDUSTRIES IS HAPPENING HERE.”

You scrambled to sit up. Steve nearly fell off the chair. Your face went nuclear red.

“Tony—” you started, but he held up a hand like he was stopping traffic.

“No. Nope. Absolutely not. I need therapy. I need bleach for my eyeballs. I need—I need Jesus.”

Steve opened his mouth, only to immediately close it again.

Tony’s jaw dropped further. “You—you kissed my daughter?!”

“She kissed me,” Steve blurted.

You whipped around. “Excuse me?!”

Steve winced. “Okay, bad defense, but—mutual! Totally mutual!”

Tony gagged.

“OH GOD, I CAN HEAR YOU!”

That was when Natasha walked in, looking like a goddess in sweatpants, holding her mug like it was her morning sword.

“What’s happening?” she asked casually.

Bruce appeared right behind her, adjusting his glasses. “Did Tony scream ‘Jesus’ or was that my imagination?”

You were halfway to combusting.

Natasha glanced between you and Steve—your kiss-swollen lips, your guilty spacing—and immediately smirked. “Well well well.”

Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

“Oh?!” Tony shouted. “OH?! You’re older than me, Rogers! Older than me!”

“Technically—” Steve tried.

“Do not say ‘time doesn’t work like that,’ I swear,” Tony groaned. “You wore suspenders unironically.”

From upstairs, Clint shouted, “Did someone die?!”

“I WISH I HAD,” Tony roared back.

You buried your face in your hands. “This is not happening. This is not real. I’m still dreaming. This is Wanda’s fault.”

Natasha walked over and ruffled your hair. “Relax, lovebird. You could do worse.”

Tony gasped. “Excuse you?!”

“Not helping, Nat!” you yelped.

Bruce patted Steve’s shoulder with tragic sympathy. “Good luck, man.”

Steve just buried his face in his hands. “I was a war hero.”

“You still are,” Natasha said, smirking. “Just not in Tony’s house.”

The kitchen exploded with laughter. Well—everyone but Tony.

Tony, who took a long, dramatic sip of his coffee, stared at the ceiling and muttered:

“God, if you’re listening… please smite me.”

Tony was still dramatically mumbling into his coffee like a man who had just watched his favorite sports team lose and then spontaneously combust. He paced the kitchen like a sitcom dad in full breakdown mode, muttering things like “My daughter’s dating a man who fought Hitler” and “Why didn’t I just build Ultron a girlfriend and retire.”

You sat back down in your chair, cheeks still a bit flushed, hair tousled from soft hands and even softer kissing, while Steve sat beside you, trying very hard to look like he hadn’t just been emotionally stripped and publicly roasted.

Natasha was still sipping her coffee, now lounging on the counter with all the smugness of a cat watching a dog get scolded.

“So, how long’s this been a thing?” she asked casually, gesturing at the space between you and Steve like it was a soap opera.

“It’s not a thing,” you said quickly.

Steve blinked. “I thought—”

“I mean not a thing thing,” you stammered, panicking. “Just a—like—we kissed. Once. That’s it. Calm your shield, Cap.”

Nat’s smirk widened. “Uh-huh. Sure. You looked like you were seconds from writing each other vows with that kiss.”

Bruce cleared his throat, ever the peacekeeper. “Let’s maybe not interrogate the new couple before coffee’s fully metabolized.”

“Not a couple,” you and Steve said in unison.

Tony groaned. “You’re finishing each other’s sentences now?! I’m gonna be sick.”

“Do you need a hug?” Clint asked, suddenly appearing in the kitchen in pajama pants and an I ❤️ NY hoodie, a cup of tea in his hand.

“I need a restraining order,” Tony hissed.

Clint looked at Steve, then at you, then at the empty coffee mugs, then back at Steve. “Huh. Took you long enough.”

Steve blinked. “You... knew?”

Clint shrugged. “Come on, Cap. You look at her like she’s the Statue of Liberty and you just came back from war.”

Tony gagged again. “He did. That’s the problem!”

Nat grinned. “It’s true. You give her the look.”

Steve frowned. “What look?”

Bruce, deadpan: “The ‘I’d jump on a grenade for you and then bake you pancakes’ look.”

“Pancakes?” you repeated, grinning now.

Natasha pointed her spoon at Steve. “He literally made you pancakes last week.”

“They were protein pancakes,” Steve mumbled, ears turning pink.

Tony dragged his hands down his face. “Great. This is how I die. Betrayed. In my own kitchen. Watching my daughter make googly eyes at Uncle Sam.”

Clint snorted. “Steve’s more like Grandpa America, actually.”

You nearly spit out your coffee.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Steve said, his voice somewhere between amused and mildly offended.

Tony pointed dramatically. “That’s my line! That’s what I say when the team roasts me. You can’t just—oh my god, are you wearing socks with sandals?!”

Steve looked down at his feet. “They’re slippers—”

“Slippers are just socks with ambition.”

Bruce leaned against the fridge and tried not to laugh. “Tony, you’ve built AI, rebuilt your heart, and flown to space. You can survive this.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Tony huffed. “This is my daughter. This is like... betrayal. World War, Farmhouse Edition.”

Natasha raised a brow. “I mean... we do need a sequel.”

You leaned into Steve and whispered just loud enough for Tony to hear: “So, uh... wanna kiss me again just to see what happens?”

Tony shrieked, “I’M STILL HERE.”

Steve’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, and his hand found yours under the table again. This time, he didn’t let go.

The sun had fully risen now, stretching lazy golden fingers across the quiet farm. It was one of those mornings that smelled like dew and dust and warmth—like something old and kind. Birds chirped high in the trees, and everything felt like it had finally exhaled after a long, aching breath.

You stood just outside the barn, arms crossed loosely, wearing a borrowed hoodie that was definitely not yours. (Okay, it might’ve belonged to Steve. But no one needed to know that.)

In front of you, Steve was chopping firewood.

And you were... well.

You were shamelessly staring.

Not just at the strength in his arms or the way his shirt clung to his back in all the right ways (though, yeah, duh), but at the way he moved—focused, quiet, content. It was rare to see him like this, outside of the suit and the weight of a world expecting him to save it.

He lifted the axe again, brought it down with a solid thud—the wood split clean in two, scattering chips across the dirt.

You whistled low under your breath.

He paused, glanced over his shoulder, clearly trying (and failing) not to smirk. “You always make that noise when someone chops wood, or am I just special?”

You leaned against the fence post with a dramatic sigh. “I dunno. The lumberjack thing? Kind of doing it for me.”

He barked out a laugh and wiped the sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt—lifting it just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach.

You blinked.

He noticed.

And grinned.

“Oh, you’re evil,” you muttered, biting your lip and trying to look anywhere else. “How dare you use your super soldier abs against me.”

He walked over to you, grabbing a bottle of water from the post. “I thought I was Grandpa America?”

You shrugged, innocent. “Gramps can still get it.”

Steve choked on his water.

“Jesus,” he coughed, eyes wide, laughing through it. “You’re unbelievable.”

You took the bottle from his hands and sipped. “Takes one to know one.”

He was still smiling when he stepped closer, hands loosely on his hips, a little dirt smudged across his cheek. “You just gonna watch, or you planning to help?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, and ruin my new career as your personal eye candy appreciation society?”

Steve gave you a look.

You gave him one right back.

Then—slowly—you walked forward, closing the distance between you, until you were toe-to-toe. You reached up, thumb brushing the dirt off his cheek. He didn’t move—just watched you with those soft blue eyes that made your heart twist.

“Y’know,” you said gently, “I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

You shrugged. “Here. Now. Not in the suit. Not saving the world. Just... you. Chopping wood and smiling at me like I’m not a complete disaster.”

He leaned in, just a little. “You’re not a disaster.”

You grinned. “I’m definitely a disaster.”

He reached for your hands, lacing his fingers through yours. “Maybe. But you’re my disaster.”

Your cheeks flushed, and your smile softened.

There it was again. That look.

Like you hung the stars in the sky. Like he never wanted to look away.

You rested your forehead against his chest and sighed. “God, this is stupid.”

“What is?”

“This,” you mumbled into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m gonna fall so hard for you it’s gonna ruin me.”

Steve tilted your chin up, eyes searching yours with that quiet intensity he always had. “Then let’s ruin each other.”

You laughed, soft and breathless, and leaned in to kiss him again—this time slow, warm, with the smell of pine and the sun on your face. His hands cupped your jaw, steady and grounding, and you melted into him like you were always meant to be here.

No chaos. No noise.

Just the two of you.

And for once, that was enough.

The work was done.

The firewood sat stacked in neat rows by the side of the porch, and Steve had finally tossed the axe aside with a satisfied grunt. His shoulders glistened slightly under the heat of the late afternoon sun, the edges of his shirt darkened with sweat. The farm had quieted—no Avengers stomping through the yard, no chaos spilling out of the house. Just birdsong, the distant murmur of a breeze, and the soft creak of the wooden fence where you now sat, legs dangling lazily over the side.

Steve leaned beside you, elbow propped up on the post, drinking the last of his water. His eyes weren't on the sky. They were on you.

"You've been quiet," he said gently.

You shrugged. “I like the quiet. It’s rare.”

He nodded. “It is.”

The sun had started its slow descent behind the trees, casting everything in that golden amber light that made even the worn-down barn look like something out of a painting. Dust motes danced in the still air. The breeze smelled faintly of hay and honeysuckle.

You sighed, leaning your head back against the wood. “You ever think about what it’d be like if this was... it?”

Steve glanced sideways. “What do you mean?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the open field, the house, the firewood. “Peace. A normal day. No aliens. No missions. Just... existing.”

Steve’s jaw tensed slightly. “More than you know.”

You looked at him.

Really looked.

The lines around his eyes. The soft pink at the tip of his nose from the sun. The small smile he tried to hide when you caught him staring.

“You could have it, you know,” you said. “You could hang up the shield. Be done.”

His smile faltered. “You think I deserve that?”

You nodded. “I think you deserve more than that.”

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes dropped to the ground, jaw working through something heavy.

Then—quietly—he said, “I didn’t think I could ever feel something like this again.”

You swallowed. “Like what?”

He looked at you, and this time, he didn’t look away.

“Hope.”

It hit you like a whisper and a storm all at once.

You sat there, blinking up at him, heart stumbling like it had forgotten how to beat on rhythm.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he added, voice rough around the edges. “Talking. Letting people in. But you...” He reached for your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You make it feel easy.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen tomorrow,” he continued. “But right now—this—” He squeezed your hand. “—this feels real.”

You didn’t pull away.

You leaned in, your voice soft. “It is.”

The silence between you thickened, but not in a bad way. In a way that made your skin hum. The sunlight caught the edge of his hair, turning the golden strands even lighter. The light made him look impossibly soft—like a memory in motion.

And then—you did it.

You reached up, fingers brushing along the side of his face, thumb dragging gently across the line of his jaw.

He leaned into your touch without hesitation.

No more hesitation.

No more ghosts.

Just him.

Just you.

Just this moment.

Your forehead touched his, and for a long, sweet breath, you both stayed like that—eyes closed, hearts steady. The heat of the day melting into something calmer. Safer.

You whispered, “We could stay here a little longer, y’know.”

He smiled, barely. “I’d like that.”

Then, finally, he kissed you again.

Slower this time.

Softer.

There was no rush. No adrenaline. No fear.

Just two people who’d found something quiet and good in the middle of chaos.

And for once, neither of you pulled away.

You weren’t sure when you both ended up lying side by side on the patch of tall grass just behind the barn, but the stillness of it was a balm. The sun had begun to dip low, casting warm light across the world, catching in the strands of Steve’s hair, painting everything in gold.

You turned your head on the rough wool of the old blanket Clint had lent you and looked at him—his profile soft in the last light of day. His eyes were on the sky, calm and unreadable, but his thumb was tracing soft, distracted patterns on the back of your hand.

It was quiet. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just... peaceful.

Safe.

“Steve?” you asked softly.

“Yeah?” he murmured, not turning, but you could hear the smile in his voice.

You hesitated. Then: “Do you ever think about the future?”

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb stilling on your skin.

“All the time,” he said.

You shifted to lie on your side, propped on one elbow, watching him. His expression was unreadable at first—like he was still somewhere else. Then slowly, his eyes found yours.

“I don’t let myself get too far ahead,” he admitted. “But lately… I don’t know. It’s getting harder not to want something more.”

You swallowed. “More like what?”

He smiled, slow and unsure, like the words felt too delicate to say out loud.

“A house,” he said finally. “Quiet. Out here, maybe. Far from everything. Big porch. Two chairs. One dog.”

Your lips curled. “Just one?”

“Just one. I’ll name him something dumb like Sergeant Bark.”

You snorted. “Okay, first of all, you’re banned from naming anything.”

He laughed, head tilting toward you slightly, light in his eyes. “Fine. You can name the dog.”

Your heart clenched.

He was teasing, but there was something real under the surface. Something he wasn’t quite saying. You knew that tone. You knew what it meant to speak softly about things you didn’t think you could ever have.

You let your eyes drift to the horizon. “And kids?”

The question hung there for a second, caught on the wind.

Steve’s voice was gentler when he answered. “Yeah. I think about that too.”

You met his gaze again.

“I didn’t used to,” he added. “Back in Brooklyn, it didn’t feel like something people like me were supposed to have. Then the war happened. And after that… I just stopped letting myself want it.”

You reached out and brushed your fingers against the curve of his jaw.

“But now?” you asked.

His hand found yours again, curling around it like it was something precious.

“Now I want it with you,” he said.

You didn’t know what to say. The words hit like warmth and ache all at once. He meant it. He meant you.

“You’d be a good dad,” you whispered, the lump in your throat rising fast.

He shook his head slightly. “I’d be terrified. What if I mess it up?”

You smiled. “We’d mess it up together. That’s the deal.”

His eyes softened like he was memorizing you.

“You’d be a great mom,” he said, voice barely audible.

You blinked hard.

Then, because your chest hurt with how much this meant—this moment, this man—you tried to tease again, just to breathe.

“Let’s name one of the kids after Tony, just to mess with him.”

Steve grinned. “Only if we name the other one Natasha.”

You paused. “No joke, I actually love that.”

You both laughed. Not loudly. Not the kind that echoed. Just the soft, chest-humming laughter of people letting go.

The kind of laugh that tastes like home.

Steve rolled onto his side to face you, his palm resting over your heart now. His fingers curled there, like he could feel every beat. Maybe he could.

“Do you think we’ll get there?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to scream it. But your throat was tight, and your heart was full in a way that made it hard to speak.

So you whispered, “If the world lets us, I’ll build that life with you brick by brick.”

His hand slipped to the back of your neck and he pulled you in—slow, reverent, like the world had finally stood still long enough to let you breathe.

The kiss was softer this time. Less hungry. Less breathless. Just… full. Steady. Familiar. It felt like the answer to a question neither of you had ever known how to ask.

When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

You could feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady.

And then—he whispered it. Soft. Like a vow.

“I love you.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then you smiled.

Not because it surprised you.

But because you felt it too.

“I love you,” you whispered back, voice thick with something tender and raw. “I think I always have.”

Steve exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since the war.

You both lay there under the fading sun, holding each other. No fear. No need to rush. The world was still out there. The chaos. The battles. The uncertainty.

But for now, it was just two hearts. A patch of sky. And the dream of something more.

A life not yet lived.

But close.

So close.

And maybe, just maybe—worth fighting for.

Later, as the stars carved quiet paths across the darkening sky and the barn lights flickered on in the distance, you stayed curled against Steve, the world hushed around you. There was no war at this moment. 

No ghosts, no shields, no broken pieces needing to be picked up. Just skin pressed to skin, hearts aligned like constellations, and the shared breath of two people who had survived enough to finally let themselves want more. 

You didn’t need promises. You didn’t need forever wrapped in certainty. What you had—this raw, beautiful now—was more than enough. 

And if the future ever came with a house, a porch, a dog with a terrible name, and laughter echoing through hallways built from healing… you’d be there. Hand in hand. With him. 

Building peace in the shape of each other.

[menaceadored]

the way that people disregard nancy’s grief in fic is my biggest pet peeve- like she didn’t break up with steve because she wanted to be with jonathan :) she broke up with him bc she was overwhelmed with grief from the death of her closest friend and couldn’t stand the fact that barb’s family were still wondering what happened to her - even going so far as to sell their house to pay murray to look into barb’s disappearance- Nancy broke up with Steve because he wanted to bury the trauma they had experienced and pretend to be normal teenagers. Nancy wasn’t saying that Steve’s love for her was bullshit. She was saying- look at us. Look at everything we’ve been through. Pretending like none of that happened, burying the grief I feel, that is bullshit.- She didn’t go looking for Murray with Jonathan because she had feelings for him and wanted to leave Steve for him. Jonathan, he validated her feelings and was willing to go against the NDA to give Barb justice and give Barb’s family peace. (Or as much peace that can come from at least knowing that they don’t have to wonder where their daughter is any longer- to know that in the least she is no longer suffering.) That was what was most important to Nancy. And being validated in those feelings and seeing that Jonathan could truly empathize with her grief after believing he had lost his brother and that he would be there for her and support her in doing what she believed to be the most important thing she could do- that inspired romantic feelings and led them to get together.

Some of y’all write her like she’s this heartless one dimensional person who just left Steve in the dust because she wanted another guy and that is a huge disservice to her character.

[heavymetalmachine]

This coming from a Steve Harrington fan, of all people, is hilarious.

major hornets nest moment here but i must speak my truth. its so fascinating to me how will byers was clearly written with the driving motivation and intention of making him a beloved fan favorite character and instead he falls so flat that, if you asked the average casual viewer of the show who doesn't engage in the fandom like, say, your coworker, the odds of him even being in their top five of favorite characters is pretty low.

will's disappearance kicks off the plot, singlehandedly. the first episode is literally called the vanishing of will byers. his name is shouted so much in the first season that most people would recognize the reference if you used the right cadence and desperation that winona ryder does. after not being featured much in season one, you'd think season two would've just like launched will/noah schnapp into stardom with how much more screentime he's given and how dramatic his plot is that season. but instead the fan favorites of season 2 were by and large el, hopper, dustin, steve, max, even bob who's barely there. that's not to say that there AREN'T will fans out there (and online i understand there are like entire armies dedicated to him/byler, but i'm talking about the average opinion of viewers as a whole, not just in fandom spaces) but think about all the stranger things merch you see in stores, the halloween costumes, the characters that appear in promotional materials when the show has partnerships with brands....will is so rarely featured. idk if any of yall ever got the chance to visit the stranger things pop up shop in any of its various locations, but there was such little mention of will in the stores theming or merchandise that it was almost funny. actually it WAS funny, to me, someone who does not care for him

i think the flop can be attributed to many things. one, noah schnapp is just not a very good actor and he doesn't have the same appeal in his performances that millie, sadie, caleb, gaten, priah, or finn do (although finn i've noticed is also kinda falling out of favor from majority audiences). one could argue that noah schnapp intentionally isn't given much to do, which is true and i'll circle back to that, but the decline in his acting between seasons 2 and 3 is truly a sight to behold. when he's not like tied up and screaming, he reallllllly struggles on the smaller scale performances compared to the other cast members his age. he doesn't really have the charm that gaten does or the humor that priah does or the depth that caleb does. (i don’t feel bad about saying this, btw, given noah schnapp’s behavior)

back to the vanishing of will byer's screen time. my beloved prettymuchit's eric striffler commented on how diminished will and mike's roles in the story have become in s4. "noah schnapp is below the grips on the call sheet" is my fav line, but he also makes an observation on finn's role that i think is soooo accurate. when mike and will are kneeling down next to the pizza dough freezer and watching el just kinda twitch while she fights vecna in her mind, eric and his co-host miles say "this is so embarrassing! finn's like, 'oh so gaten's fighting the monster? and i'm kneeling next to a tub at a pizza place? i used to be this show" and i think the same exact sentiment can be superimposed onto will

but i think this happened naturally, as the nature of the show is to shift its focus from character to character. not to mention the duffer brothers' obsession with tweaking their story to give audiences what they want. i've always held the belief that there isn't one main character of stranger things, rather a rotating circle of characters depending on the season you're watching. season one is mike, season two is hopper, season three is el, season four is max imo. again that's a little subjective and arguments could be made to swap those a little, but overall i think those characters stories and point of views take center stage during each of their respective seasons. by season 3, the duffers wanted to kick things up to a larger scale. the UD is no longer targeting just will, it's targeting the entire town. this works because a THIRD season in a row where this one kid specifically gets possessed would just be bonkers, so they kinda had to let him take a backseat. i'm not sure why they didn't let will be more involved in the mystery-solving portion of season 3....to this day that decision baffles me, but what's done is done and the will that everyone watched in season 3 literally just kinda follows everyone around and gets a small little slice of a plotline about wanting things to go back to normal, but alas

it like totally worked, though. though there are MANY complaints commonly made about season 3, i've never heard anyone offline complain that there wasn't enough will byers. i think the group in s3 that had the most success like, commercially, would be scoops troop and then a bit farther back i think most audiences enjoyed hopper/joyce/murray's dynamic. i think if there had been a huge outcry in the minimizing of will's role, the duffers would've backpedaled immediately. they aim to please. they can't even commit to killing of a main character out of fear that audiences will lose interest if we permanently lose hopper or max, so they just do some creative writing that allows them to milk the emotional consequence of those characters deaths without actually writing them off. if audiences on a large scale demanded that will be center stage, he would be. but they dont!

final point: i think will gets fucked over by the duffers obsession with romance. in season one, two of will's strongest dynamics are with his mom and brother. which like, yeah. theyre his immediately family and he is 12. but in seasons 2 and 3, jonathan spent all his screen time with nancy and from 2-4, joyce has spent all her screen time either with hopper or in the pursuit of finding hopper. these characters are written together as a package deal, typically. it was refreshing and unexpected to see jonathan get a whole season with a friend of his very own and his siblings, but they barely took advantage of that. jonathan and will get ummmm one (1) scene to talk about their emotions in a fucking 20 hour season. it's hard for will to be a main character when he rarely gets to interact with the people that make up the other half of his main dynamics.

as for byler, im of the belief that it will not be endgame because i just don't think they're going to break up mike and el at this point. i could be completely wrong and stand corrected, but im like 90% sure lol. i do think that will's s4 storyline resonated with a lot of people. even eric striffler! i think the issue is that the vastttt majority of people who watch this show above the age of like 15 do not feel invested about the romantic relationships between any of the kids. because why would they!!! theyre literally in middle school for 3/4 of the show. you would be hard pressed to find a vocal will stan online who doesn't also dedicate 90% of their engagement with the show to byler. which makes sense, because most if not all of will's scenes revolve around mike to some degree. but according to neilsen, the majority of stranger things audience is consistently in the 18-49 age range season by season. its more likely for adult audiences to identify with adults (or characters who are narratively treated like adults, like steve and nancy) than with any of the kids. esp when the kid in question, despite being written as the focal point of the show, has less relevant plotlines, less interaction with other characters, and an actor who just doesn't deliver on charm the way his fellow younger costars do

[ladykailitha]

Steve is powered AU.

It's after Vecna and the Upside Down collapsing on itself before anyone finds out.

When Steve was seven, his mother had a psychotic break, saying that Steve was a changeling and tried to drown him the large bath tub in his parents' bathroom.

It was during this time she was admitted to Pennhurst.

They're cleaning up the Harrington Estate when his mother comes home and just starts screaming about the mess. Steve finally gets her calm down and tells Eddie that she didn't always used to be that way, she used to be a sweet and loving mother.

That's when Stella Harrington comes screaming back in that she didn't change. He did. He was the imposter. She knows her son and this creature before her isn't him.

But she won't explain how she knows.

Then a couple days later Nancy was talking to Robin about how someone should go back to Pennhurst to tell Victor Creel, that his son survived and is the cause of the all the destruction.

Robin is against it, because his mind was already shattered and that might destroy it. Nancy thinks he would want to know that he wasn't crazy.

When the name finally pinged in Steve's head. When they were trying to figure out who Vecna was, the name kept ringing a bell in his head. And just then it hit him.

His mother had been admitted there when he was younger.

But he keeps it to himself, because the last person he wants to know his mother was/is crazy is Nancy.

So he calls up the Hospital and requests her file and finds out that someone else recently accessed her file. Her doctor, Martin Brenner, had called just two weeks before the events that would lead to his death.

The receptionist asks if the address in Reno, Nevada is still good.

Steve's blood turns to ice in his veins.

Holy shit.

He corrects the address to Hawkins, Indiana and she brightens. Tells him that it's nice she's home again.

Steve needs to talk to El and he needs to do it away from Hopper. Because Hopper can't know about this. No one can.

Only Eddie starts noticing how withdrawn and twitchy Steve has become lately and manages to show up at the house when Steve gets his mother's medical files.

They learn that only reason Stella survived the Nina Project massacre was because she was on her to another facility for testing.

When Steve was seven his powers manifested so strongly, that his mother who was an empath, tried to suppress it so that Dr. Brenner wouldn't get his hands on Steve and it broke her mind. But Dr. Brenner didn't want Steve. Incorrectly assuming that she had succeeded, he wanted to harness her ability to break other's powers. Because if she could break Steve's, maybe she could break Henry's.

It was that research that led the device that controlled Henry's powers.

But Dr. Brenner realized that Stella didn't suppress Steve's powers. Steve did.

But his exposure to the Upside Down had eroded the block and that's why Steve was able to sense what was wrong with Nancy, knew that Max was in trouble.

He could sense it.

Dr. Owens tries to be respectful when asking Steve if they could run tests on him.

Everyone shouts NO at the same time.

But now everyone knows that Steve is powered, too, and El helps him learn to control it and take the break off completely. The first time they tried Steve got so overwhelmed with Eddie's love and affection for him that he passed out.

They were both pretty embarrassed that that was the way they got together. But Eddie liked to joke that his charm literally knocked Steve over.

Over the years it gets more fine-tuned. He knows Eddie is going propose before he does.

Knows when Max is pregnant with her first. Lucas couldn't keep his emotions down for shit.

Knows when Mike and El finally break up and realize they're better as friends. Their emotions are very angry for awhile before they mellow out.

Knows about Will and Mike's first kiss. Will is practically bursting with it.

[acowardinmordor]

Hey so MK ultra style experiments plus a soulmate thing that connects to the idea of severing a daemon but also empaths.

An unconnected soulmate bond is neutral, it’s inactive, right? The possibility is there, but the switch hasn’t been flipped. But a connected, stable soulmate bond is fully active, and deeply woven into the people, so far that for a really really strong bond, killing one soulmate often kills the other. A new connection though, when it’s active but not sunk into place yet?

Those can be cut, and the possibilities it opens are extremely interesting to the scientists. The soulmate capacity isn’t destroyed by it, but the bond is disconnected. So the current of energy that would travel to the other half can now be directed to something else. Since every bond manifests in slightly different ways with sharing thoughts, emotions, health, pain, etc as primary features, that means the power that the connection can manipulate varies too.

There is greater plasticity in a bond if it’s formed when they’re children, and the scientists are fascinated by, but also pleased to learn that after a soulmate connection is split, it can impact their personality and behavior, making them more compliant and persuadable if it is done evenly.

It isn’t a well known thing, but there are groups that parents can contact if they have …concerns… about their child’s soulmate name.

The Harringtons contact one, furious when their four year old son wakes up with a boy’s name on his ribs. The group they contact explains the options, and the Harringtons don’t care about the expense, so they demand that the other boy be located and the connection split.

What good luck for Al Munson, three years later, to be offered a large payment if he’ll agree to bring his son to have his soulmate severed.

Not every split soulmate results in the kind of powers that the lab cares about. If it creates one of those, the parents are given the heartbreaking news, and the soulmates sent to different labs for training.

For Steve and Eddie, who have less than an a day of being soulmates, the lab doesn’t care.

The split was off alignment, or the timing was bad, or their connection was too weak to use. It splits, obviously, that was always certain, but the result is barely worth the paper to take the notes. An emotion based soulmate connection. Correctly done, it could give someone the ability to project or control emotions in others — once the child was taught to restrain their own, of course. The initial screening looks for an emotional outburst, and how much the scientists in the room feel from it, indicating the strength of their powers.

But after the procedure is done, neither boy does more than look at each other across the room and frown. It could have been worth more testing in the years to come, but the compliance was unbalanced. One boy was too persuadable. The other was entirely unpersuadable. Not worth the cost to keep them, especially when the Harringtons have paid an inflated cost to do this, and the money can be better spent.

Useless, so the parents are handed their children, Al Munson gets his payoff, and they’re told that under no circumstance should the boys see each other again. And they don’t, until the Harringtons have given up on their son being useful around the time he enters high school, until Wayne Munson finally gets custody of his nephew.

[listofwhyyouloveher]

Hii your works really good !! But anyways, could you do the gang and if they saw your sh scars? Or like what they’d do?

Summary: The Outsiders seeing your sh scar Warnings: Mentions of SH scars, mentions of bad past, dealing with current trauma. Overprotective greaser men (??!!) Author's Note: tryna pump these out as fast as possible before i vacation PONYBOY CURTIS

Ponyboy is quite oblivious to your deeper emotions, in the sense he can’t always tell something is bothering you unless you’re crying or telling him yourself.

Because of this, he only saw your scar and noticed what you were going through by accident.

He’s brushing it off at first, blaming it on your clumsiness but the more he thinks about it the more he realizes that they were too perfectly clumped to the consequence of a simple fall.

He’s rushing over to you when he realizes, holding you close and telling you to never leave him because he loves you too much.

JOHNNY CADE

Johnny is no outsider to self-harm. He’s done it to himself because of how harsh his life is, so he immediately recognizes it 

He’s also more aware of emotions and tries to console you when he feels you’re a little off.

He’s immediately consoling you, telling you that he’s sorry that he let you harm yourself and that he should’ve kept a better eye on you.

He also tells you that while sh provides temporary relief, it does no good in the long run and that next time he wants you to come to him instead.

SODAPOP CURTIS

Soda isn’t oblivious to emotions but rather how hard they can hit a person so he’s never really understood the whole sh thing

He notices your shift in moods right away though, and he’s also noticing the little scars on your skin

When he asks you where they’re from he notices how flustered you get and you stutter out an excuse that doesn’t make sense.

Once he understands what is happening he totally melts and he’s apologizing for not noticing soon and pressing kisses on your forehead.

STEVE RANDLE

Steve doesn’t have a clue on what’s going on in your mind, he’s just happy to be around him and he thought you’d feel the same.

While you are happier around him, being near him won't solve everything. 

Even though he's oblivious, he's not dumb and he notices the scars that are on your skin and he knows why they're there

He assures you that the past is in the past and that he won't let you hurt yourself like that again.

TWO-BIT MATHEWS

one of the better ones at understanding emotions, especially yours because of how much he loves you.

He notices immediately when your mood changes and what triggers you too.

He notices the scars and asks you calmly if you're still doing it because he'd rather approach you nicely than have you be upset with him.

If you are still doing it, he'll tell you that he's rather you find a better coping mechanism and would observe you to see if you continued.

DARRY CURTIS

Darry is really observant because he doesn't feel the need to talk all that much.

That doesn't mean that he's able to do much about it because he finds it hard to comfort people.

He'll watch you until it gets too bad and then pull you aside and hug you tightly.

He won't talk much about it but he'll give you special treatment the whole month.

DALLAS WINSTON

Dallas sees emotion as weakness and has a hard time empathizing or sympathizing with people.

He usually just bottles up his emotions and gets pissed when people around him don't

Nonetheless, if he sees you with scars, he'll nudge you to get your attention and gesture to your scars

the interaction is completely silent and the cigarette never moves from his mouth and no one notices your interaction.

Although hes not dropping his personality for you, it shows that he's paying attention to you and that he cares, slightly.

[liedownquisition]

Hi, Hello, and welcome to:

Snowbirds Don't Fly is Kind of Good, Actually, and You Should Read it and Rethink Your Biases About The Story It's Telling You

By yours truly.

OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: now like a lot of people who read older comics, I do have my beefs with dear ol' Denny, but there are a handful of things that your criticism starts to teeter into more than a little bit of a red flag. I'm going to discuss why that is, alongside why I think more people need to learn the core message of this arc.

I HIGHLY encourage people to read Green Lantern/Green Arrow #85-86, which depending on where you read might just be listed as part of the Green Lantern (1960) series because it is in fact technically part of that.

And when you do so I want you to actually read what's being said in the comic, in particular I want you to read Roy's lines. Because it is so, so important to acknowledge that, as a whole, this particular arc SIDES WITH HIM. Which is, honestly incredible.

Like, guys, I'm not going to say you're wrong when you say this is an anti-drugs PSA. I'm saying that if you read this comic and saw it only as an avenue for the "War on Drugs" then I'm not sure you really processed some of the messages in this comic. Because most War on Drugs propaganda is NOT interested in empathizing with the addicts in question, and encourages isolating them ("Just say no, and stop hanging out with people like that" being a familiar refrain from school assemblies over the years.)

Listen, I'm American, I've been having anti-drug PSAs preached at me my whole life. War on Drugs all around me. Grew up in somewhat poorer neighborhoods, literally was told to my face by multiple people that they were surprised how well I turned out because they thought that despite everything I was going to grow up to become a "drug whore." I'm not fucking joking about that one. I had family members say that to me, even.

Anyways, just, keep that in mind. I grew up around dealers and addicts and I have a lot of feelings about their portrayals in media. This whole thing was originally going to be part of a different media but it's probably best to split it up this way anyways.

TW: Slurs, drugs (obviously)

SO, without further ado,

Dennis O'Neil, in addition to comics, has a background in Journalism and some investment in social activism. He actively stated that he thought that he could use this in his comics, especially because, at the time, Green Lantern comics were potentially getting cancelled so he had a bit more freedom to do whatever he wanted. Basically, if it flopped in a probably-cancelled comic anyways, nobody had anything to lose. Think something along the lines of that Flinstones Comic by Mark Russel and Steve Pugh.

Ignore the goddamned cover, it's sensationalist and meant to get your attention, and it does the job. READ the WORDS. The above image is straight off the first page of the book. O'Neil takes off running with the utmost of compassion for the addicts in question, emphasizing their humanity, their mistreatment, and their suffering.

Now, lets be realistic with ourselves: Not every addict is so nobly tragic* as are depicted in Adams & O'Neil's story, but if you've heard people talk about addicts, both then and now, you'd know that it really does mean a lot that they come into this from an empathetic angle. *Yes I'm aware that I called them "nobly tragic" despite actively betraying Ollie & Hal and helping to drug them & leaving them to get caught by the cops while drugged up. Though they do express some hesitation at different parts along the way. The fact of the matter is people often ascribe a certain "nobility" to "victims" that they have enough distance from - whether by them being fictional or by not knowing them personally or changing their narratives after people's deaths to support themselves. in real life it's not uncommon for victims to be unpleasant to be around, they can also be perfectly pleasant people. They're human, and humans cover the whole range of personality and experience. Even if they are not "noble" & even if you do not have that distance, they deserve dignity.

Now, while our first introduction to the addicts (who we don't immediately know are that) they are trying to mug Ollie for money for dope (the dope part is implied). The second time we're introduced to one, however...

We are immediately thrust into the struggle of: quitting. Not using, but how difficult it is to quit. That's the worst part. This won't be the last time we discuss this.

Now, this is an arc where we see Green Arrow, who's typically the more liberal voice voice to Hal's politically neutral straight man, but I have to admit that as a Flawed Ollie enjoyer, I like to see him make a mistake, and he makes a LOT of them here. He is, in particular, harsher with the kids than he should be, and he holds a very very common position of seeing addicts simultaneously as "victims" of their dealers, while also refusing to sympathize with them.

The world is hard for everyone, why can't they Just Say No?

Up to this point, we're looking at pretty standard War on Drugs-style propaganda. But near the end of the story in #85 and for the bulk of #86, this is where I'm going to flat out say that the most important voice in this entire comic, is Roy's.

Roy doesn't at any point hesitate to stand up for himself (verbally) and call his generally well-meaning guardian out for his bling hypocrisy and ignorance. We see that neglect and loneliness led him here, but lets go back a bit and look at the reasons from a few of the other addicts:

Discrimination, cruelty, a need for an "escape." Any even mildly sympathetic media will have addicts explain that's their motivation, and I worry sometimes that people hear this and don't process it, because it's only one part of the circumstances that lead them there. the War On Drugs not only took the people who needed the "escape" the most and shoved at them a bad "solution" then imprisoned and profited off them.

From here we go back into Green Arrow's flawed logic:

He's a good, flawed man. He's like many parents who bring up their kids a certain way, a way they think is right perhaps because it's not unlike how THEY were brought up and absolutely missing the ways that they're harming them. Ollie will eventually see the error of his ways and regret these mistakes, but they're very common and very mundane flaws for him to have.

Alright, I'll admit I included this page mostly because that composition makes me giddy. Like, holy SHIT that's gorgeous. And now we are once again introduced to the idea of the struggle we were shown at the beginning: Quitting Cold Turkey.

It's extremely painful. It's dangerous. It could potentially even kill you as sure as the dope does. This is not something for everyone, and definitely not something to handle alone, which Hal himself expresses some uncertainties over, before inquiring what led Roy to this.

Is he wrong? Are the things he's saying any less true now than they were back then?

Even now there is plenty of pro-war propaganda (Just the other day I overheard someone talking about how their grandfather was in a war "Not World War 2, but one of the other Good Ones."). Even know there's lots of explicit and implicit racism that is treated as if it's justified and really MEANS anything about our humanity (Immigration/border control/ect). Even now we have people who believe that wealth is a measure of a man's worth to society or that it makes them inherently better (... I mean, I don't think I have to explain this one).

Hell, this doesn't even touch on gender (Whether discussing strictly feminism or if it's a trans issue) or sexuality or ableism (Whether physical or mental). Do you know how many people I've heard tell me they won't go to a therapist because they don't want to be reliant on a drug that might get prescribed to them? (ignoring the distinction between different branches of the psych field here, they never know the difference)

These are all things that get parroted to kids. We've seen the rising resurgence of gender essentialism, we've SEEN the rise of neo-nazi-ism, and TERFdom, and all these extremist views and movements and they ALL originate in the exact same place.

"What does that have to do with drugs?"

It's the same story. They're dismissed, they're disdained, they're not treated as equal living and learnign human beings. They are TOLD but they are not EDUCATED and they aren't treated with the kind of respect that leads them to think that they can even believe adults when they ARE being taught.

That neglect will be filled, whether by ideological groups preying on the vulnerable or by drugs or something else.

And here we meet our villain. We see society tossing the children away... and a man profiting off their despair. A CEO of a pharmaceutical company, even. Though, that's not really revealed until a few pages later.

... I'm so obsessed with this page you guys have no idea.

Our villain could have been a foreigner, a slumlord, a stereotypical drug kingpin, but it's not. It's a man with an abundance of wealth and a pristine reputation. A man so well known that he's on TV.

Denny O'Niel may or may not have known about the deliberate efforts to put drugs into black communities and prosecute them for them, but he clearly did see that the root of the issue was NOT someone among them, but something that someone else who could exploit them was bringing down to them.

Bringing this back to the dismissal of the youth and Roy's voice being the single-most important one in the story. Roy explicitly states that he only made it because he had support. Kicking a habit when you're on your own isn't impossible, but it's sure as hell not that far off. And, as I've mentioned, going "cold turkey" can also be deadly.

Now, yes, we have managed to create pharmaceuticals that can be useful for getting people off the harder drugs, and sometimes you can even find it for fairly "cheap"... but in our current day and age I don't think I should have to explain how predatory "Big Pharma" (and the health insurance industry) tends to be for those who have a need.

Like many things these days, even something like a rehab center is an industry - largely for profit, and the ones that aren't are often religiously and ideologically motivated. Even THOSE have issues that many result in incredibly dehumanizing conditions. (I was trying to find an article I read a while back including a few interviews from people discussing the conditions and treatment they faced while in rehab to link here, but I can't seem to find it. Must've gotten lost in all my other links and bookmarks.)

Despite there being places online you can look for how to spot a bad rehab center, the fact that these places will continue to exist with bad treatment methods and a complete lack of regulation and many people fall prey to them especially because they don't know to look for this stuff remains. Even still, and this particular one might be a bit outdated, It's not fully understood how best to treat addiction, especially since the one thing we do know of for absolute certain is that it has to be judged on a case-by-case basis. Though there have been good outcomes recently using MORE.

Social stigma and discrimination Including in media and news journalism plays a huge role in perpetuating these systems. And most people have this mentality of thinking it can be "cured", rather than being a chronic disorder with a management system. Here's another page discussing addiction treatments. Have I made my point yet?

My point is that this comic only reads as war on drugs propaganda if you're only listening to Ollie, who is FREQUENTLY being challenged on this throughout the entire arc by every person around him. Ollie in this is someone who has heard and fully bought into the propaganda, despite being a good person who typically tries to help those in need, He Is Not Immune To Propaganda.

There is a reason that this comic starts with a statement emphasizing that the story is about humans being mistreated, and ends with Roy calling Ollie out.

Ollie comes away from this with a changed perspective. It's not outright stated at this point but it's strongly implied because of how proud he is at the end there, and the ways he tries to repair his relationship with Roy down the line without (mostly) being too overbearing.

I would definitely say the worst part of this comic is that the solution our "hero" (Roy) uses is going cold turkey, which is a miserable, godawful, and dangerous experience. I will allow some forgiveness because it's likely that better addiction treatments weren't well understood back then.

So, in conclusion, Denny O'Neil is not without faults, but if you're issue with his works are "He wrote one of the most human-focused anti-drug propaganda pieces of his time, if not also compared to a lot of our time as well" or "He incorporated a lot of social justice topics into his comics" then I genuinely think you need to reevaluate yourself. Maybe he's a little heavy-handed with it, but have you SEEN people's reading comprehension even TODAY?

Sometimes a heavy hand reminding you that other people are human too, and you need to face the "ugliness" of our society and how it treats them and how YOU treat and think about them is the kind of kick in the ass people need.

I'm not even mad that they used Roy, because nobody is above addiction - not even a hero. It doesn't ruin him, because addicts aren't ruined. It's interesting and dynamic. If later writers take this history and write dehumanizing storyline that frame Roy as the villain of his own addiction, that's their biases, not the original story.

Anyways, ending this on my favorite moment that's not fully relevant but not irrelevant, from Justice League of America (2006) #7: