SYNOPSIS: The sequel to Part I - Watcha Thinkin' About, Pips? , where Caleb comes over to make good on his promise and is met with a pipsqueak with plans of her own.
TAGS: MDNI!! NSFW CONTENT!! Seriously, this contains explicit content, so minors please stop reading and scroll away. Perv!Caleb, Caleb using hidden cameras, smut, like very filthy and depraved smut, wholesome fluff, angst if you squint, both Caleb and Y/N are freaks and down bad for each other, allusion to voyeurism and exhibitionism, creampie, unprotected sex (please wrap it before you tap it), Caleb occasionally referred to as gege, seriously just very depraved stuff
WC: 3.8K (oops)
A/N: A little New Year's treat for you all, especially for you lovely readers who requested a part 2! Hoping this quenches your thirst for this delicious man, and as always, let me know your thoughts in the replies or my inbox so I know if you ever want more depraved Caleb content. Taglist is at the end, but do let me know if you wanna be added. Enjoy! ^^
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In the time it takes Caleb to get to your apartment, a list of several realisations has formed in your head.
One, that the man that you had been pining over your entire life actually wants you, too. In what capacity, you had yet to know. But he did.
Two, that the boy you had grown up with had planted devices in your apartment to spy on you, and had been watching you for a good, long while. Your face betrayed you and warmed at the idea of just how much he must have seen and heard. Deeper down, you hated that you liked it, and had to manually think about uncrossing your legs.
Three, that you were about to give him hell for it. Sure, you were going to confront him first and maybe get a gauge on what he feels for you, but that didnât mean that you werenât planning on making him beg.
Any and all nervousness had turned into dead calm by the half hour mark.Â
None of this was scary, not really. This was Caleb.
The same Caleb who taught you how to ride your first bike, and helped you with all your homework whenever you asked. The Caleb who cooked for you and went out of his way to make all your wishes come true. The one who brought you comfort and thought about you with every breath he took. Your Caleb.
There was no need to be anxious. A little angry, sure, but not nervous.
Youâre lounging in the living room in your bathrobe, having decided to opt for it instead of getting fully dressed, when your train of thought is broken. You hear your front door click open, and a hesitant Caleb walks into your apartment, panting and obviously jittery.
He stills like a fawn in headlights, eyes slightly wide and Adamâs apple bobbing like the words are clawing at his throat. The door locks automatically, leaving the both of you in silence as he stares at you like heâs seeing you for the first time.
Calebâs eyes linger at your mostly bare legs and he swallows thickly, and you see him force his eyes to trail upwards and look into yours like it took all the effort in the world to do so. You scoff.
It seems you were right in your assumption; forty minutes was plenty of time for a smug Caleb to turn into an overthinking one.Â
Before he can speak, you point at the couch across from yours. âSit,â you command sternly, and you can visibly see his breath hitch as his body moves on autopilot and slumps onto the cushions.
âPipsqueak,â he begins shakily, but the click of your tongue stops him dead in his tracks.
âDonât you dare âpipsqueakâ me, Caleb,â comes your icy tone, and you see him flinch. âDid you think that you were just going to walk in here and get what you wanted? That I wouldnât ask about the fact that you have been watching me all this time?â
Heâs shaking his head in dissent before youâre even done, eyes pitiful as he stutters. âY/N, no, I didnât⊠I didnât think that â â
âDidnât think, what? That Iâd ever find out youâve been spying on me like the perverted creep that you really are?â you throw right back at him, but he doesnât flinch this time.
No. Instead, his hands grab a throw pillow nearby and slowly position it into his lap to hide his crotch. Your eyes widen.
âWow, Caleb,â you say with a tone heavy with shocked laughter and disbelief. âYouâre joking, right?â
Caleb looks slightly dazed, but he tries to blink the expression away when he answers you. âIâm sorry, I canât help it. Iâve been imagining what youâd sound like when you call me that for years now.â
All the words youâd rehearsed in your head disappear, and he takes your silence as an invitation to continue.
âI⊠I have a confession to make,â he tells you in an anguished voice, as though what heâs saying has been tearing him apart from the inside for the longest time. âIâm terrible, pips. I have been all this time, and Iâve been trying so hard to pretend not to be.â
You study him for a moment, taking in the way his broad shoulders seem to shrink in on themselves, the way his eyes look anywhere but at you now, and how his fingers grip the pillowâs fabric so tightly that theyâve begun to turn white. With furrowed brows, you hum to allow him to continue.
âIâm in love with you,â he confesses in a rush, the words tumbling from his lips like theyâve been desperate to spill out his entire life. âIâve been in love with you. For as long as Iâve known what love is, I have loved you. Everything I think of, everything I do, all of it leads me back to you. Itâs like I donât know how to exist if itâs not for you.â
Your breathing is suddenly uneven, and you feel a strange prickle of tears in your eyes. He goes on.
âI told myself I should just be thankful to be around you. That my feelings for you, my urges towards you, were wrong. But youâre you, and I couldnât stop myself no matter how hard I tried. Your smile only turned more beautiful, the way you say my name more breathtaking, and being away from you felt like losing a piece of my soul until I had you back at my side again.â
âCaleb,â you begin, the syllables wobbly, but he continues.
âThe year I spent without you was hell, Y/N,â he all but sobs out, his fingers leaving the pillow to rake through his brown locks in distress. âYou have no idea how ecstatic I was to learn that youâd been looking for me, for any leads that would tell you what had happened to me. But it made me sick to be away from you, even sicker when I found out that you had so many new men to rely on in your life after I had been forced to leave your side.â
Your eyes squeeze shut as you attempt to will the tears away. âItâs not like that, Caleb.â
âThey were all over you, just desperate to help. But thatâs my role. Your gegeâs, not theirs.â The fingers in his hair tug harder before he looks back up at you and meets your gaze, tone now eerily calm. âAnd then I found out that one of them lives here. Right upstairs.â
For a reason you canât quite pinpoint, the sound raises the goosebumps on your arms.
âThatâs when I put the cameras here. To watch over you. To make sure nobody took what was mine now that I was finally back,â he says a little breathlessly, the look in his eyes just a little far away.
âNobody was going to take anything, Caleb,â you say gently, an odd urge to comfort him welling up inside you despite the situation.
His eyes soften when he looks at you, pleading, as though he yearned to touch you. âYou donât know that, pips. I see the way he looks at you. The way they all do. How couldnât they? Youâre perfect.â
You try to protest but he stops you, as though he refuses to have you disagree with whatever image he has of you in his head.
âYou are, Y/N. I refuse, though. I refuse to let anyone else have you. The one who belongs by your side is me,â he interrupts brokenly, eyes gazing intently into yours.
You sigh, realising that heâs not willing to listen to any explanations regarding the others. Instead, you say, âI donât even want anyone else, Caleb. Only you.â
You count eight seconds before he blinks at you, as though his brain had to have a soft reboot to begin to comprehend what you had just said to him.
In the gentlest tone, he asks, âWhat?â
You canât help but laugh a little, the slight self-deprecation evident in your tone. âWasted years pining over you when we could have done something about it sooner, huh? I want you, Caleb. Iâve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.â
Before you can register his actions, Caleb is on his knees in front of you, hands wrapping around either of your ankles as he looks up at you like youâd just hung the stars in the sky.
Your breath hitches and he blinks back tears, the violet in his eyes shining in a way youâd never seen before. âSay it again,â he begs softly, âplease.â
âIâŠâ you start, but heâs already pulling you down by your robe to mould his lips to yours in the gentlest of kisses. He whimpers when his lips leave yours, then rises just enough to claim your lips again in a more passionate kiss, robbing you of your breath.
Your fingers make their way into the soft strands of his hair, drawing out a stuttered moan when your nails lightly graze his scalp. All this does is push him further, impatiently tugging on your lower lip with his teeth to make you gasp so his tongue could taste yours. When you part, the both of you are panting heavily, and he looks absolutely awestruck.
âYou taste even better than I fantasised you would,â he admits in a hushed voice, expression already dazed. Your thighs twitch at his words, and he notices, sinking back down to his knees. âWonât you let me taste more?â
Itâs like your words have abandoned you, your breath stuttering and body on edge while you feel his hands trail up from your ankles to caress your knees. His eyes are desperate, begging for permission, and a single nod from you is all he needs before he gently pulls your thighs apart.
The action makes your bathrobe fall open, exposing the rest of you to Calebâs ravenous gaze. He swallows thickly as his eyes wander, lingering on your chest, your stomach, and then down at your core. âFuck, pips, youâre even more gorgeous in person.â
In person.
Thatâs right. You were supposed to be angry with him, and Caleb had managed to distract you from things that made you angry with him, just like he always did.
You snap out of your daze instantly and your hold on his locks tightens as you pull his head back to look down at him with mild irritation. âYou know, you almost got away with making me forget why I was pissed at you.â
The tug on his hair only makes him moan, though, and Caleb looks up into your eyes knowingly while his lips tilt up into a lovesick smile. âYouâre a dream.â
You donât want him to know just how much you were also enjoying this, but he could see you get wetter. Of course he knew how equally depraved you were, heâd been watching you for months while youâd thought nobody could see the things you did to yourself in private. âYou sick perv, youâre a terrible influence. I should be running away, kicking and screaming.â
The adoration in his eyes only seems to deepen, and the rasp in his voice only gets more and more desperate. âWeâre a perfect match. Wonât you let me prove it to you, Y/N?â
âBeg for it,â you hum, and he whimpers without any shame.
âPlease, pips, Iâm on my knees for you. Please let me make up for spying on you all this time, hm? Wonât you please let gege make you feel good?â he pleads earnestly, fingers beginning to massage your twitching thighs as his pathetic state only made your arousal grow.
âThink you deserve it after what you did?â you ask sternly, but you hook your legs over either of his shoulders and slide down in your seat just enough for him, anyway.
âNo,â he replies sincerely, nuzzling into your thigh and inhaling your scent like a desperate dog in heat. âWonât you let me anyway? Please?â
You reach out to tangle your fingers in his soft brown hair again, pulling him closer so that his warm breath fanned over your wetness and made you whimper and squirm. It was all the instruction Caleb needed before leaning all the way in and making your back arch as his tongue met your folds.
The way Caleb ate you out was messy and obviously inexperienced, and you loved it. His nose nudged your clit with every lewd lick and suck, effectively making out with your pussy like a man starved while doing his hardest to shove his tongue as deep inside you as it would go.
It was overwhelming, making your thighs shake and your fists clench in his hair as you struggled to decide between pulling him even closer or pushing him away. You couldnât tell what was making you feel so hot and flushed â the borderline pornographic moans he was drawing out of you in sheer bliss, or his own moans that desperately vibrated against your folds while he ate you out and humped the air.
Your eyes were rolled halfway into the back of your head when the sound of something akin to the shattering of a glass mug came from the apartment above yours, pulling the both of you back from your trance as you panted for air and stopped for a second.
A look of mortification crept onto your face as you realised that youâd probably been loud enough for your neighbours to hear.Â
For Xavier, of all people, to hear.
With a shit-eating grin and a smug look in his eyes, Caleb laughed loudly, his deep tone carrying easily to ensure that the other man could hear.
âCaleb,â you hiss, your legs back on the ground immediately as you stand up and hide yourself in your bathrobe again.
Caleb remains intentionally loud and smug, standing with you and hoisting you up princess style with one arm. âYes, honey? I promised Iâll make you feel good, and I intend to deliver.â
Youâre naked and sprawled out on your mattress within seconds, the desperation returning to Calebâs eyes as he practically rips his clothes off of his skin. Your throat dries up immediately at the delicious sight of him, finally bare before you.
Every hour he had spent in training showed, and your mind quickly began to spiral down into depraved filth. Everything you had imagined him to be in the moments you touched yourself paled in comparison to the man now finally in front of you.
He approaches the bed and you instantly crawl forward, now equally dazed as your gaze zeroes in on his hard, leaking cock. âGege, you wonât fit.â
A strangled moan leaves him when you say that, your mouth watering when you see it twitch in response to your words. Without any hesitation, your hand reaches out to wrap around his aching cock and stroke it languidly.
The shiver and gasp that leave him surprise you, and his hand immediately wraps around your wrist to stop your movement. âDonât! Please Y/N, you canât. I wonât last, Iâll â â
Your fingers squeeze just a little harder, and his cum is already coating your chest and abdomen before his sentence is over. You look at how his eyes squeeze shut and his body shudders, biting your lip at the way his chest heaves and his head leans forward when he whimpers.
He opens his eyes to look at you, cheeks tinged pink and embarrassed at what had just happened, and you have the audacity to giggle at him.Â
You feel him twitch in your hand, giving away just how much he truly enjoyed this strange feeling of being laughed at by you so intimately, but something changes in Calebâs eyes. He retracts the hand that had wrapped around your wrist, and you suddenly feel an invisible force pull you back and down onto your mattress, exposed and vulnerable as he looked at you with a sadistic smile.
âHad a good laugh, pipsqueak?â he asks in an eerie tone, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. You try to speak, but your lips wonât move.
The bastard was using his evol to keep you pliant.
A most indignant sound escapes your throat, and now itâs his turn to laugh at you. âYou had your fun, didnât you? I begged for you like a good boy, made you feel good enough to traumatise my competition, and what do you do, hm?â
The tenor in his voice makes your blood run cold, and you whimper softly. Despite that, your traitorous folds only seem to drool even more. Caleb sees that, of course, and his sadistic smile turns wolfish. âTell me, Y/N, do you have anything else to laugh at me for?â
He knows you canât speak. Canât move. That youâre enjoying being completely at his mercy.
âIâll tell you what,â he muses, eyes glinting as he crawls over you. âHow about we make a deal? I amp down the gravity back to normal, and you make sure to moan the right name this time. Isnât your gege generous?â
You whimper again, the slick between your thighs becoming uncomfortable. You try to struggle against his evol, desperate for some friction, and he chuckles in a way that makes your skin feel like itâs on fire.
His fingers draw patterns atop your stomach, admiring the drying remains of his orgasm with a hum, then slowly trail down to your core. He pushes a finger into you, making your walls clamp down immediately while he moans and you whimper in response.
âYouâre so warm and tight, pips,â he almost whines, pumping inside your drenched pussy and adding another finger soon enough. Somehow, he managed to sound both desperate and smug at once. âIâve seen what you do to yourself. Drove myself insane imagining that the dildos you used were me, instead. Though none of them were ever the right size, were they?â
You feel his evol leave you and you can finally move, your back instantly arching as a debauched moan falls from your parted lips. You now sound just as desperate as he feels, and it ignites something primal within him when you say, âAlways thought about gege when I used them.â
âThatâs my good girl,â he purrs, the lovestruck expression returning as his now lubed up fingers leave you to stroke his still-twitching cock. âI knew I was right to save myself for you. No matter what anyone said, it would only ever be you in my eyes.â
This new bit of information makes you moan, your legs wrapping around his hips and pulling him closer as he finally lined himself up with your entrance. A part of you could hardly believe that this was finally happening.
âOnly yours,â you promise him shakily, letting him know that it was mutual while his tip teases your folds.
The look in his eyes is borderline delirious with pleasure and devotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another passionate kiss as he finally pushes inside, swallowing your moans and soothing your cries while his cock stretched you out to fit all of him.
Your nails rake down Calebâs back and you can feel him tremble as he tries to hold himself still, his whimpers melting against your tongue. When he could no longer wait, Caleb finally begins to move, remaining gentle at first and allowing you to get accustomed to his size.
âI love you,â he pants shakily, kissing along your jawline when you finally begin to moan with pleasure into his ear. âI love you, I love you, I love youâŠâ
The words make you clench around him and he groans, hips snapping sharply and making your breath hitch. âFuck, Caleb⊠more,â you whine, and he all but loses himself.
Knowing that youâve finally adjusted, Calebâs pace changes. His thrusts are unhurried but deep, hitting just the right spot with every plunge of his cock into your quivering walls. The sounds of both of your moans combined with the lewd squelching of where the two of you met made you feel even filthier, and you loved it.
Itâs not long before you feel a familiar sensation begin to coil within you, and your voice trembles by his ear. âAhh⊠Nngh, fuck, Iâm⊠Gege, Iâm going toâŠâ
That dazed, lovestruck look returns to his face, his hair slick with sweat and sticking slightly to his forehead as that necklace youâd gifted him so long ago swayed sinfully with every perfect thrust inside you. âThatâs it, honey, need you to cum for me.â
You whine and dig your nails deeper into his back, making him flex and moan even louder. The pleasure keeps building, making your body sing with desire in ways youâd never known were possible, and your eyes squeeze shut as you feel yourself approaching your orgasm.
Calebâs fingers tilt your chin up, forcing you to blink and meet his gaze while his thrusts turned more erratic. âEyes on me, pips. I wanna look at my beautiful girl when you cum for me.â
His words give you the final push you need, your orgasm ripping through you with an intensity that had you seeing stars and your back arching oh so prettily.
Your blissed out expression and the way your walls choke his cock have him tumbling into his own orgasm with you, painting your insides until your combined releases squelched and spilled with every thrust he continued to overstimulate you both with.
He almost collapses on top of you, catching himself at the last moment and holding you in his arms so he was now laying down with you on top of him, cock still inside and slowly softening as more of your shared filth dribbled down onto the sheets.
It takes you both a few minutes to catch your breath, limbs all but useless and your insides feeling warm and full.
Caleb absently draws patterns along your back with one hand and caresses your hair with the other, an adoring expression now permanently etched onto his features. âThis is quite possibly the happiest Iâve ever been in my life.â
You nuzzle against his chest shyly, ignoring the sweatiness. âYouâre just saying that.â
The hand playing with your hair moves to now tilt your face towards his. âYouâre the best part of every day, Y/N. Be mine.â
You place a soft kiss on his jawline, âI am.â
Neither of you makes an attempt to move, basking in the intimacy and subsequent lewdness you both now shared.
âWe should probably get cleaned up,â you say sleepily, nuzzling into him again, and Caleb chuckles.
âI did not wait my entire life to have you, just so I could finish up in one round. Besides, what would your neighbour think of me?â he asks smugly, making you smack his chest half playfully and half in absolute horror at the reminder that you both had an upstairs audience.
He rolls you onto your back again, and you feel him begin to harden inside you once more as his shit-eating grin returns. âCâmon, pipsqueak. I bet I can get you to be even louder, this time.â
calebslittlesecret writings are my own work and all rights are reserved. It is not allowed to plagiarise, edit/modify, republish, copy, or translate this or any of my works in any way.
â synopsis. in which the lads men are camboys and youâre their top donor
â a/n. late 4k special </3 i think every 1k iâll do a series with all the lads men! also these are going to be written in the process so bear with me if I have a late post. fem!reader only.
if you wanna be tagged for a certain character lmk!! - CLOSED
DEC 11 â RENT A BOYFRIEND !
â ć€ä»„æŒ : He said he was in desperate need of money for his rent. Even after begging his friends, family, and even his hell of a neighbour who also happened to be his ex-girlfriendâno one would listen and give him anything. So, Caleb decided to go for his last resort which was showing himself on cameraâŠcatch is, the highest donor gets a special night with him. Not a bad deal, right? Nothing can go wrongâŠ
extra 1 â extra 2 â extra 3
DEC 14 â MY MUSE âĄ
â ç„ç : You piqued his interest. Even if you never spoke to each otherâRafayel knew you were the one for him. However, thereâs just one problem⊠he has no money for the right art products to draw you! And as much as he didnât want to go back to his old ways, drawing you was important. Especially if it meant having a donor thatâs willing to help in more ways than one.
extra 1 â extra 2 â extra 3
DEC 17 â MY SWEET TREAT âĄ
â é»æ·± : Every single day the same man comes in at the exact same time, ordering the exact same thing. You didnât think much of itâmainly because heâd only order from you. But as time passed, there was something oddly familiar about him⊠something that you couldnât pinpoint. He started talking to you more often, ordering different things, and walking in with different outfits that looked familiarâŠtoo familiar like heâs trying to get you to remember himâŠBut from where exactly?
extra 1 â extra 2 â extra 3
DEC 20 â JEALOUS TYPE !
â æČæć : A private show. A private show was all your favorite camboy was willing to give you. He didnât care if you were busy one night, he didnât care if you werenât in the moodâhe needed to give that private show to prove he was more worthy than the other man you âunintentionallyâ donated to.
extra 1 â extra 2 â extra 3
DEC 23 â CYBER SEX â
â ç§Šćœ» : He was mesmerizing. The way he moved with such precision, spoke at the perfect tone, perfect pace; he was impossible to resist. The more you watched him, the more addicted you were getting. But even after donating a bunch of money to himâŠhe still wouldnât catch your attention! The only solution you had was to request a private live stream with just the two of you. Maybe then, heâll give you what you truly desire.
âno grave can hold my body down...iâll crawl home to herâ . . . meet yo mother, âźâđđđđ„đ„đŹ to his đđŁđŁđđ ! 2wentea1. brown. she/her. desi indian baddie. demi-pan. infj. cancer. lads centric blog. part time writer && student. full time worker. caleb's military wife. broken dreams && bleeding on papers.
RULES đđ AO3 đđ LADS M.LIST đđ SERIES M.LIST
âatest : kinktober 25. big bad colonel v/s fatherhood. lads menâthe art of giving head. using caleb in his sleep. SOULMATE? HOLEMATE!
inbox đČ reqs = closed. my inbox is always open for yapping, simping or screaming your thoughts. i absolutely love talkin' to you guys<3
â° jay/jayla - 21 - Black - she/her âą caleb is my baby daddy, big dawg, luva, aaand husband!!
i write for love and deepspace, but hope to branch out into other fandoms one day! i (personally) believe i do my best with zayne, sylus, and caleb, but i write for all the LIs!
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â special (multiple LIs)
â headcanons
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â bonus âą clark kent fic
most recent work
[One] ⥠[Two] ⥠[Three] ⥠[Four] ⥠[Five]
asks & requests â ... are closed. if you choose to still send something in, that is fine, but please do not have any expectations for me to fulfill it. and i want to make it clear that i will not write for all that i receive! if the idea sparks something, then great! i will get to cookin'. but writing is a hobby i enjoy and i would like to keep it that way. no hard feelings. i still love you.
â my inbox is open for yapping, casual chatting, and whatnot! i love talking to my baes! but i have a habit of not knowing if someone is just sending ideas and thoughts they want to talk about, or if it's a request. so, to help me with that: just say something like âjust yappingâ at the end of it if you think itâll confuse me loolll
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Now a full fic! > Erudition
⥠Caleb likes jacking off face-down in bed đ
âĄwarnings: fratboy!caleb x cheating fem!reader, toxic, possessiveness, drinking, daddy, spit, extreme denial, humiliation, praise, degrading, hair pulling for like five seconds, finger sucking,
⥠uhh caleb fucks you in a ghostface mask while your boyfriend is in the other room
⥠sound bite: âDidnât I tell you that weâ no, that this is over.â Your fingers gestured between the two of you.
âYeah, I think I do remember you saying that. I guess I got kind of confused, because right after that, you begged me to spit in your mouth. And then, right after that, you sucked my dick so fucking sloppy and then you said âplease daddyâââ
⥠a/n: this is a part two to ice cream cake!! if you haven't read it already some parts might be a little confusing, but the vibe is still there lolol. i think this is the longest thing i've written for here ngl. enjoyyy xx
âGuess who.â You could barely hear the masked figureâs voice over the music, which had its bass boosted so much that the beat had been making your stomach turn for the last fifteen minutes. It was a lazy costumeâ just a Ghostface mask, accompanied by a fitted black t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpantsâabsolutely no effort. The owner of the voice was towering over you, the mask obscuring their face, but the body was undeniably familiar.
âCanât you find anyone else to irritate tonight?â He let out a light chuckle before sliding the mask off, his face tinted under the neon red lights of the room.
âIrritate?â He scoffed. He took a second to run his fingers through his disheveled hair before the two of you were suddenly obscenely close. He leaned into you, arm reaching for the cabinet above your head, lips inappropriately close to your ear, as he whispered, âDo your nipples always get that hard when youâre irritated?â His chest brushed against yours ever so slightly before the heat of his body was gone again, a fresh plastic cup now in his hand after heâd shut the cabinet. You looked down and sure enough, there they were, the outline of your nipples popping through your too-tight costume.
âYou look good, by the way. The whole uhâwhore thing is working for you.â He said, letting out a melodic laugh while he poured himself a drink of whatever cheap liquor was in the closest bottle.
âWhat are you supposed to be anyway?â Itâs hard to mistake a Snow White costume for anything elseâhe knew who you were. Even if the bottom of your ass was hanging out of the skirt and your tits looked like they were one dance move away from falling out of the cheap velour top, a slutty Snow White costume is very clearly a slutty Snow White costume. He just wanted to see the annoyed look that was now staining your face. You rolled your eyes at the question before moving your cup closer to the mouth of the bottle, motioning for him to top off your drink.
âYou said Iâm dressed as a whore, didnât you? I decided to be your mother for Halloween.â He hissed out at the reply, feigning shock.
âWow⊠liquor makes you mean. Youâre so much sweeter when youâre high, huh, baby.â He wasnât even trying to be quiet, and if it werenât for the fact that everyone else was too busy playing a game of beer pong in the next room, which your boyfriend was currently enjoying, someone certainly wouldâve heard him on their way past the kitchen. You choked on your drink.
âAre you insane?â Your response only made him laugh even harder.
âWhat did I say wrong? I thought you liked it when I talked to you like thatâyou certainly did the other night when you were cumming all over me in the backseat of my car. What was it that you said again? HmâŠâ He took a second, pretending to rack his brain for the next line. âOh yeah, it was something to the effect of uhh âplease daddy, let me cum.â Uhh, you said something else tooâ'youâre fucking me so good, daddy. Please cum inside of me, I need your babies.â Youâre such a tough girl until I start playing with that pussy, huh? Then youâll do or say just about anything I tell you to.â He recalled the series of events so casually, as if he were talking about the weather.
âDidnât I tell you that weâ no, that this is over.â Your fingers gestured between the two of you.
âYeah, I think I do remember you saying that. I guess I got kind of confused, because right after that, you begged me to spit in your mouth. And then, right after that, you sucked my dick so fucking sloppy and then you said âplease daddyâââ You cut him off before he could finish, sensing another sequence of mocking was on the way.
âI told you that Iâm not doing this anymore. The sneaking around is just too much forââ Now you were the one getting cut off. Not by Caleb, though, no, instead the sound of a lilted voice floated through the room, causing you to take a larger-than-normal step away from the man.
âOh my god, baby! Iâve been looking for you everywhere.â It was a dark-haired girl in a cheap little red riding hood costume who had clearly enjoyed a few too many Jell-O shots, but still, you werenât quite sure who she was calling baby. That is, until she closed in on Caleb, their bodies now impossibly close as she craned her neck up, inviting a kiss. A sudden surge of rage boiled inside of you when he obliged, his veiny arm slithering around her waist, his tongue making its way past her lips. They were making out as if no one else was in the room. In fact, you wouldâve thought you had become invisible if it wasnât for Calebâs eyes locking onto yours over her shoulder. He was watching you, searching for some sort of reaction, and the more irritated you looked, the longer they kissed. In fact, if it hadnât been for someone calling for the girl to come play the next round of beer pong, you were almost positive they wouldâve fucked in front of you. Finally, their mouths parted, a filthy string of saliva connecting them before the girl skipped away, leaving the two of you alone once again. You took the rest of your drink to the head as Caleb continued studying you, a shit-eating grin painted across his face, his hair ruffled from her fingers running through it, the print of his dick evident in those sweatpants.
You poured another drinkâbrown liquor and some soda.
âSorry, we got interrupted. You were saying something earlier, right?â he asked. It was as if the earlier performance had never taken place.
âMmh, well yeah. You got a little busy there for a second, I guess. A new addition to your brothel?â
âJealous?â You immediately scrunched your face in response.
âIâm just asking because it would be crazy for you to be jealous, you know, considering uhhhâthe whole you cheating on your boyfriend with me thing, right?â You nodded in agreement, but Caleb noticed the way your nostrils flared when he said it.
âThereâs really nothing to be jealous of, though, is there? I would have to actually like you to get jealous, Caleb, and if I havenât made it clear by now, I donât like you. Youâre a good fuck, but thatâs about it.â
âOh wow, just âgood?ââ You nodded again, stomach now in knots, either from the recent production that had just taken place or from the cheap alcohol on an empty stomach.
âReally? So, you donât think about me when youâre with your boyfriend, right? Like when heâs inside of you, youâre not closing your eyes to imagine itâs me. I mean, I guess it would be hard toâafter all, you always seem to mention how Iâm so much bigger than he is.â
"I've never said that." You rolled your eyes as you replied.
"No? I could've swore you said, 'Oh my god, daddy, you're stretching me out so good.' Then I said, 'Does your boyfriend fuck you this good, baby?' And then you said... damn, I don't wanna mince words. I think it was, 'No one fucks me better than you, your dick is so big you're so much bigger. I can barely take it.' Blah blah blah. That was just the last time, by the way. Should I recount a few others? Hmm let me see, there was that one time where you--" You had to cut off the monologue that was about to ensue.
âCaleb, I donât think about you, ever. Iâm glad youâve found someoneâreally, sheâs quite classy.â He leaned back against the countertop as he surveyed your body language once more. You were far from convincing. You were jealous, and it was obvious and illogical, but it was true, nonetheless.
âI think about you, yâknow.â The smirk was gone, replaced by an expression that you hadnât really seen before, almost like he meant it.
âWhen Iâm with other girls, I meanâI think about you. The way your eyes roll back into your head when I slide my fingers inside of you, or the way you whine when I slow down to make you beg me. I think about the way you feel, how your mouth is always so warm and soâso fucking wet when you suck my dick. It keeps me up at night sometimes.â A wave of silence fell over the two of you, your eyes searching his now. Heâd never said anything like that before. In fact, unless he was looking for something filthy to say in bed, he never brought up your boyfriend or any of the members of his personal harem at all. At first, it was just sex, but then it turned into staying for another round, or do you wanna order something to eat? Before you knew it, the two of you would fall asleep in each otherâs beds. It was complicated, to say the least.
âRight. Well, what about your little girlfriend?â
âWhat about her? Sheâs something to do when you decide every two weeks that youâre gonna turn your life around and play the good, dutiful girlfriend. Weâre on and offââ His fingers motioned between your bodies. âWhen me and her are on, itâs only because me and you are off.â Brutal honesty has always been a quality of Caleb's.
âThatâs fucking awful, Caleb. Really, I mean, you canât just keep stringing these girls along ifââ
âAre you seriously giving me a fucking lecture right now, like youâre some saint?" He laughed through the words. "Youâre the one who's been smiling in your boyfriendâs face for the last year as if every other night you havenât been fucking me, so donât tell me about right and wrong, alright? If Iâm so awful, then what does that make you?â It was true. You were no better than Caleb was at the end of the day, and that thought was beyond unsettling. You wanted to say something back, give a witty rebuttal, but the words were caught in your throat. He had never thrown it back in your face like this before, and an overwhelming wave of emotions came over you once he did.
He knew he had gone a little too far when you didnât even bother to argue with him, but those words had been building in his chest for months now, and before he knew it, theyâd slipped out. Â You tossed your cup into the trash can and walked in the opposite direction. You couldnât even hear the sound of your heels clicking against the wooden floors as you paced down the hallway, desperately searching for whatever bedroom the host of this party had used as the designated coat closet for the evening.
Just as you thought you had spotted a familiar door, though, you felt a warm hand grip your wrist, pulling you into another room, shutting the door before flipping on the light switch. It was the same tall figure, Ghostface mask back on. Your heart was beating out of your chest as he cornered you until your back was against the door, his body glued to yours. His knee was between your thighs as he leaned down to meet your ear.
âDonâtâplease, donât walk away from me again.â It was a plea, his voice clear through the plastic mask which heâd only bothered putting back on, so none of his whores knew it was him going down the same hallway as you.
âCaleb, Iâm serious. I canât do this with you anymore. This is wrong. I canât keepââ
âI know, but just⊠just let me touch you one last time, then, yeah? Let me make you feel good one more time before you go.â It was horrible, really, the way you were squirming against him as his hand slowly slid under the bottom of your skirt. There was nowhere to hide; the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom quickly cut through the little buzz that you had.
âYou can tell me to stop, and I will.â He always said that. In fact, it seemed like the one time he wasnât joking around was whenever he said that.
âI know,â you whispered. His index finger halted just against the hem of your panties, right where your thigh meets your hip.
âTell me what you want, baby.â He could feel you tremble beneath his touch, little gasps leaving your lips as his fingers danced along your skin.
âPlease. Please touch me.â He hummed with approval.
ââPlease touch me,â who?â He wasnât being smug now or doing it to tease you; he just needed to hear it one last time.
âPlease, Caleb, touch me.â He did.
âOh my god. Youâre so fucking wet for me, huh? When did that happen, princess?â This was a new nickname, probably liquor-induced, or maybe your costume inspired the creativity.
âIâ I donât know.â That was a lie. He took his time sliding his finger along your slit, your wetness making it hard for him to concentrate.
âNo? You sure it wasnât when you saw me kissing her? When I was looking at you while I grabbed her, when I wasâshitâthinking about your fucking body when I touched her.â All you could do was whine, terrified that any sounds above a certain decibel would be heard through the door.
âYou gonna let me taste you, pretty girl, hm? Can I taste what a big fucking mess youâve been making for me all night?â You nodded fervently, desperately hoping that he would follow through with the offer, but he didnât. Instead, he placed his free hand against the hollow of your neck, your throat so little in his grasp that he could almost wrap his fingers all the way around you.
âSpeak,â he commanded as his middle finger slid past your entrance without warning. You bit your lip to hold back the nasty moan that was almost released.
âI wanna feel your mouth, please.â
âAw, look at you, using your manners. There she isâmy perfect girl. You gonna be good for daddy?â His fingers were so deep, curling just right inside of you, his entire palm rubbing against your clit with every thrust.
âYes, daddy. I promise, just pleaseâgo faster.â You heard a light chuckle escape the mask at your request.
âFaster? What, like this?â He sped up, so good and so deep, just how you liked it. He had learned your body so well, learned exactly what gets you off, and if it was up to him, heâd make you cum over and over again just to hear the pretty noises youâd make.
âOh wow, princess. Youâre getting so fucking tight around my fingersâyou gonna cum already?â A string of desperate pleas left your lips.
âYeah? Yeah, are you sure you wanna cum? You think you deserve it, baby?â He was whispering so sweetly in your ear. You were so closeâpainfully close, and Caleb knew it. Two more seconds and you were about to cumâso he pulled his hand away. Just before he could whine in protest, his grip on your neck tightened, his other palm slamming back down against your clit simultaneously.
âOw, what the fuck is your problem?â It was louder than youâd intended, but the sudden switch caught you by surprise.
âYou didnât actually think I was gonna let you cum, did you?â He was genuinely amused; a laugh, almost hysterical, erupted from his chest. It wasnât until right now that you realized, this wasnât a goodbye fuck, no, this was a revenge fuck. He had you pinned against the door, and no matter how hard you tried, you wouldnât be able to unwrap your leg from his body, giving him perfect access to your cunt. So, he smacked it again. You shut your eyes together at the sensation.
âWhy would you think that I would give you a gift, when youâve been so mean to me?â he asked. He wasnât being sarcastic either; this was a genuine question.
âWhat the fuck are you talking about?â His palm came down against your clit once again.
âSee, wowâthereâs that filthy mouth Iâm so used to. Yâknow, you always say how bad you feel for doing this to your boyfriendâhow it keeps you up at night because you just feel so terrible, but do you ever think about what youâve done to me?â he asked. Now you were really confused.
âIt makes me sick to think about him touching youâtouching what belongs to me,â he continued.
âYou donât own me, Caleb.â
âYou sure? Because Iâm pretty sure thisâ" he said, hand cupping your pussy entirely, the pressure on your clit forcing you to push against him. âThis fucking pussy is mine. It seems like sheâs who controls this body, huh? Not your brain.â
âSeeâyouâre fucking humping my hand all on your own. Iâm not even doing anything anymore. Is that something that someone who isnât controlled by their pussy would do?â It was true. You werenât trying to, but it was like you were drawn to his touch, the two of you clinging together like magnets as you desperately tried to get some sort of relief.
âWhose pussy is this?â He tightened his grip on your throat a little more, jerking your head to force your gaze back on him. The whole thing was so fucked upâyou writhing against him, his hand under your skirt, and he still hadnât even bothered to take the mask off.
âFucking answer me or Iâm gonna make you get caught.â Before you could even ask what he meant by that, his hand came down on your cunt harder than before, forcing you to let out a scream. You reached up to cover your mouth, but he stopped you in your tracks. âDonât move your fucking hands or Iâll slap your clit harder. Tell me who owns this little hole, huh?â He noticed your hands freeze in submission as he rolled his thumb around your clit, gently soothing the ache.
âYou doâshit. Itâs your pussy,â you whimpered in defeat.
âYeah? What about these, huh?â He let your throat go before roughly reaching into the top of your costume, his hand pulling one of your tits out. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and middle fingers, not shy about pinching it at all.
âThese mine too? Last time weâfuckââ he slid a finger back inside your cunt. âLast time we fucked, you said you wanted my babies. It made me so hard. Thinking about these pretty fucking tits getting so full if you were pregnant, yâknow. After you went home that night, I jerked off thinking about it. I just know, youâd look so cute⊠pregnant with my babiesâtits full of milk. Would you let me taste it, princess?â You couldnât even think clearly anymore. The feeling of the pad of his finger rubbing against your g-spot made your mouth hang openâCaleb thought it was cute how pathetic you looked.
âYes, yes, I would. I would let you because theyâre yoursâyour tits, please donât stop.â
âOh yeah? I donât know if I believe you, baby. You think you can convince me?â He slid his finger back out, rubbing his entire palm against your clit, reveling in the way you had to try so hard to stay quiet.
âGet on your knees.â Before you knew it, he took his hand out of your panties, leaving nothing but the wet fabric to rub against you. One by one, he watched as the soft skin of your knees touched the cool tile beneath you, your eyes wide and watery, thighs pressing together in agony.
âKiss my dick.â You reached for the waistband of his pants before he grabbed both of your wrists in his hand, forcing them above your head against the door.
âDid I tell you to take it out or did I tell you to kiss it?â
âYou said to kiss it.â
âRightâwhat a smart girl for daddy. So go ahead and kiss it.â He took a step closer to you, your knees between his legs, his clothed cock so close to your lips. You placed a soft kiss against the fabric.
âMmh, good job, baby. Now lick it for me.â You whined at the request.
âPlease justâŠâ The words were caught in your throat.
âJust what, baby, huh? Tell daddy what you want.â
âPlease just take it out. I want to taste you so bad.â He couldnât help but stifle a moan at the familiar sight, you beneath him, begging to suck his dick.
âBut you donât deserve it, baby. If youâre not mine, then Iâm not yours either.â He took another step forward, forcing your head against the door completely now. âThis is how I treat my toys, huh? The girls that you always bitch about seeing me withâthis is how I fuck them. This is what it feels like to not belong to me. Itâs what you wanted, so fucking lick my dick through my pants.â You did, sticking your tongue out flat against him, leaving a wet trail behind. You could tell he was forcing himself to be quiet, but all you wanted was to hear him moan.
âAgain. Make out with it, baby, come on. Maybe Iâll use your throat if you do a good job for me.â You left kisses and spit all over every inch of his clothed crotch as he kept you pinned against the door.
âDoes it not feel good? Youâre so quiet,â you whispered between kisses. He took his free hand to reach down and grab your face, forcing your gaze on him.
âIt does feel good, baby. But I have to be quiet because Iâm punishing you. I know it makes your cunt so fucking sloppy when I moan for you, right? So thatâs why Iâm not doing it.â He freed your wrists, kneeling in front of you on the tile, his other hand still on your cheeks.
âTurn around.â It wasnât much of a request, really, so you did. By now, both of your tits were hanging out of the dress, your panties barely concealing anything after being pulled to the side before. You felt his hand slip beneath your skirt again before he straightened out the fabric, covering your pussy fully now. Before you could fully comprehend how odd this was, you felt something warm between your thighs. It slipped in and out, brushing ever so lightly against your clitâit was unmistakably his cock.
âYou didnât thinkâmmhâ" he took a beat to continue, forcing himself to swallow his moans. âYou didnât think I was going to fuck you, did you?â His hands made their way to your hips, gripping them so tightly that it stung.
âBend over for me, princess. Elbows on the ground.â You wanted to protest, but he tightened his grip on your hips when he felt you hesitate, so you did as he asked. Your ass was in the air; a smooth arch left in your back as you got on all fours.
âNow seeâthis is just fucking pathetic, really. I mean, do you want me to play with you that bad, baby?â He wasnât going to move until you agreed, and you both knew it.
âPlease⊠use me.â The shit that was coming out of your mouth wouldâve been shocking if youâd said it to your boyfriend, but Caleb knew that getting you like this was inevitable. He wasted no time, sliding himself against the fabric of your panties again, his balls rubbing against your tulle skirt as he grinded into you.
âRepeat after me, pretty girl. Say âthank you, daddy.ââ You spat it back out verbatim. He pushed one of his hands against your spine, forcing you down even further.
âSay âIâm sorry for being such a slut.ââ You did.
âSay âI donât deserve to feel daddy inside of me.ââ Wait, what? Was he actually still not going to fuck you? He reached forward to grab your face once again, pushing your cheeks together in his grip.
âFucking say it,â he demanded, almost growling.
âCaleb⊠please. I needâ"
âI donât really give a fuck what you need, if Iâm honest, baby. Toys don't have needs, right? This isn't about you, right now. You just wanna fuck me, well this is what it's like when you fuck me instead of me fucking you. Make sense?â His fingers slid past your lips, forcing themselves towards the back of your throat as he kept grinding into you like he was fucking a pillow. You gagged against his hand, drool sliding down his wrist.
âYou make a mess, youâre gonna be the one cleaning it up, princess.â You were, indeed, making a mess; a pool of spit had now formed beneath you.
âFuck, this cunt is so warm, even through your little panties, baby, I can still feel how messy you are for me. You wanna feel daddy cum on your pussy, huh?â You were basically panting now, your hand limply wrapped around Calebâs wrist. You tried to speak against his fingers, but it was useless.
âHuh? Whatâs that, sweet girl? You do want me to cum all over these pretty fucking panties? Are you sure? I mean, if I cum now, then Iâm not sure Iâll have the energy to fuck you later.â You tried to protest, but you were so muffled that the words were indistinguishable.
âFuck, okay, baby. Whatever you want. Come on, princess, rub yourself on daddy so he can cum for you. Come on, pretty girl, do a good job for me.â You couldnât even stop your hips from moving if you wanted to, desperately hoping that if you grinded fast enough, youâd be able to cum too⊠but it was no use. Just before you were getting to the edge again, he stopped. You knew he was close too, but he was so determined to torture you that he refused to rub against you one second more if it meant you would cum when he didnât want you to. You were crying at this point, tears staining your face as the frustration finally caught up to you.
âAw, what? What is it, baby? Did you think I wouldnât notice you were trying to cum too?â You didnât even bother to respond at this point.
âI could tell. You were pushing these pretty hips against me so fast, humping me like a little bunny. Really, youâre not so stupid that you thought I couldnât tell what you were doing, are you?â He slid his fingers out of your mouth, forcing even more of your spit to drip onto the tile. He heard you sniffling over the soft sound of the music blasting in the other room.
âAre you crying, princess? Oh, my sweet girl. Daddy didnât mean to make you cry. Shhhh⊠Itâs okay, baby. I got you, yeah?â He wrapped his arm around your waist now, leaning you back so you were flat against his chest. You could feel his heart beating erratically against you, his dick flush against your lower back.
âLet me make it up to you, huh? Can you be a big girl and do one more thing for me? Iâll let you cum after, okay? Pinky swear.â He reached for your hand as you shook in his arms, wrapping his little finger around yours. You nodded weakly in agreement.
âAlright, princess.â He slid his fingers across your face, a trail of your own spit coating your skin before reaching around to the back of your head. He grabbed a fistful of your hair as he leaned into the crook of your neck to whisper.
âYou see all the drool you got on the floor, baby?â He took his free hand to pull off the mask, and finally, you felt the skin of his cheek against your shoulder. He leaned over you and stuck his tongue out above the floor, forcing a trail of his own saliva to coat the already slick ground. âLick it up.â You had never seen this side of Caleb before; this almost sadistic energy that he had was foreign. You were waiting for him to laugh or say a punchline because, clearly, he couldnât have been serious.
âCalebâthatâs so embarrassing.â It was beyond embarrassing. It was actually just gross.
âYouâve been embarrassing yourself all night, though, baby. When you stuffed your face against my cock trying to lick me through my pantsâthat was embarrassing. Or how about just now when you were calling me daddy and begging me to use youâalso embarrassing. Whatâs one more time?â His logic was ridiculous. He placed a soft kiss on your neck just below your ear. It was the first time you had felt his lips against you all night, and it made you squirm under his touch.
âShow me you can be good one more time and Iâll let you cum in my mouth, yeah?â Probably under any other circumstance, this would not have been enough to sway you, but being edged over and over and over again had made your brain fuzzy, and the only thing you wanted at this point was to cum.
So, you sat up on your knees, Calebâs hand still against your scalp as he guided your face towards the floor.
âThatâs it, baby.â You closed your eyes, the thought of licking saliva off of someone elseâs bathroom floor making your stomach turn. Either way, it wasnât long before your tongue was against the cool tile, lapping up a pool of yours and Calebâs drool.
âAw, youâre so fucking nasty for me, huh, princess. Look at you following directions so well. That's it. Eat up all of daddy's spit. Just a little moreâyou missed a spot.â He guided your head a little to the right, watching as your tongue danced along the tile before he was finally satisfied.
âThatâs my girl. You did such a good job for me. You ready for your treat now, princess?â You nodded like an excited puppy.
âOkay, turn around for me, hm. Let me see your pretty face.â You faced him now. Finally seeing his gaze again, skin flushed, pupils dilated, his hair was a mess, but he still looked so fucking good.
âAw, baby. Iâm sorry I had to be mean to you, yeah? No more tears, okay? Lie on your back for me. Let daddy kiss it better.â You wasted no time pressing your back against the wet tile. He laughed at your urgency.
âYou need it that bad, princess? Spread your legs for me, let daddy see you,â He grabbed one of your thighs, draping it over his shoulder as his fingers slid your panties to the side once more.
âBaby, sheâs so swollen, aw. Iâm so sorry. Daddyâs pussy must hurt real bad, huh?â You whined in response as he brought his lips closer to you.
âYeah? Let me get a better look at the damage.â He spread your lips apart with his thumbs, exposing your hole to him, which had been clenching around nothing for god knows how long at this point.
âDamn, baby. I bet if I just kiss this clit a little, youâd cum so quick, huh?â He did. His lips pressed the softest kiss on your clit before licking one long trail up your slit.
âYou taste so needy for me, princess. You need daddy to let you cum, huh? Should I make this pussy cum in my mouth?â A string of praise left your lips, begging him to lick you just a few more times.
âWhat if I suck on your clit a little bit? You think you can cum like that, baby?â He laughed at the way you whined beneath him, your thighs shaking against his grasp. You felt him spit onto your cunt before licking it back up again.
âYou wanna cum for me, sweet girl, hm? Repeat after me again,â He was muffled as he spoke against you, the vibrations from his mouth only bringing you closer.
âSay âthank you, daddy for licking my pussy even though Iâm an ungrateful brat.ââ You didnât even care anymore. You said it.
âMhm, now say âI promise I wonât be jealous of other girls anymore because daddy doesnât treat any of them as good as he treats me.ââ
âSay âdaddy eats my pussy so much better than my boyfriend.ââ
âSay âdaddyâs gonna let me cum on his tongue if I say the next thing he tells me to.ââ
âSay âIâm gonna break up with my boyfriend.ââ His mouth stopped moving immediately. You froze beneath him, knowing that this was really what all of this was about.
âAnd donât repeat it if itâs a lie, baby.â He whispered against you, placing a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh. You stayed quiet.
âThatâs what I thought.â He wasted no time picking his head back up, gently pulling your thigh down off of him.
âWait, Caleb.â
âYâknow, youâre right. We canât do this anymore.â He ran the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping the wetness from his face as he stood. You sat up, eyes wide in disbelief.
âUntil you get rid of himâIâm never touching you again.â He didnât laugh or crack a smile. He was dead serious.
âHappy Halloween, princess.â It wasn't a genuine statement, but it wasn't like he sounded sad. No, it was almost a dare, a challenge of some kind. He left you there, sitting on the bathroom floor, panties soaked against you, and he closed the door behind him without looking back.
â° Ex-Husband!Caleb âą Part One - 2.3K+ âĄïž âïž
â° Ex-Husband!Caleb âą Part Two - 4.2K+ âĄïž
â° Ex-Husband!Caleb âą Part Three - 4.6K+ âïž
â° Ex-Husband!Caleb âą Part Four - 7K+ â ïž âĄïž âïž
âą I do not consent to my work being translated or copied onto any other platform for any reason and I do not consent or allow for my work to be fed to or through Al.
âą Everything within this masterlist is my work. Do not try to claim or rework any of it.
Pairing: John Walker x Thunderbolt!Mutant!Fem!Reader
Summary: A year of tender love between a soldier and a mutant is shattered when it's revealed a painful secret, forcing them to navigate the devastating aftermath of broken trust within the Thunderbolts' found family.
Warnings: Fluff, Smut, ANGST!!, mentions of depression and bullying.
A/N: Ok, this is so long, I didn't know if it was better to make two parts but well... I let it all in one part D: I tried to do it right, I really hope you like it.
âš sorry if there is any mistake.
âšComments, likes, shares are appreciated! đâš
âšENJOY!! âșđ
W/C: 50k (IÂŽm so, so sorry) Please don't hate me :)
The first rays of the New York sun, sharp and molten gold, sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the former Avengers Tower. They illuminated galaxies of dust motes dancing in the still air and fell across the tousled blonde hair of John Walker. He was sprawled on his back, deeply asleep, one powerful arm flung possessively over your waist, anchoring you to him. In sleep, the sternness that was his armor melted away. The harsh lines etched by frustration, guilt, and the crushing weight of command were smoothed into an almost startling peace. He looked younger, unburdened.
Propped on one elbow, you watched him. Your enhanced senses painted a vivid tapestry: the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat against your side â a comforting drumbeat beneath the city's distant hum. The clean, masculine scent of his soap, layered over the unique, warm musk that was purely John â the salt tang of his skin, the faint, clean linen scent of their sheets, and beneath it, the vital, unmistakable signature of him.
A year. A year since the fiercely confident, winged mutant with a penchant for dramatic entrances had collided, quite literally, with the walking thundercloud that was US Agent. Sparks, literal from your kinetic descent and figurative from your clashing personalities, had flown.
And somehow, improbably, wonderfully, theyâd ignited this.
Your fingertip traced the familiar scar above his left pectoral, a feather-light caress. You smiled as the memory of your first meeting, summoned by the quiet intimacy, bloomed vividly behind your eyesâŠ
The mission had been going FUBAR. Trapped in a dusty canyon basin, the team was pinned down by enhanced mercenaries using gravitic tech. Ammo was low, comms were jammed, and Buckyâs worried voice crackled in Johnâs ear. Then Valâs static-laced message: âBackup incoming. ETA 30 seconds.â John, crouched behind shattered rock, gritted his teeth, tasting grit and blood. They needed an exit, fast.
Then Valâs voice, sharper than the static but still distorted, cut through: âBackup incoming. ETA 30 seconds.â John risked a glance around the rock. âBackup?â he barked into the dead comms, scanning the bleached, empty sky. âWhat backup? Where?â
A few yards away, Yelena pressed flat behind cover, snorted. âPerhaps Val sends a drone? Or... a very small missile?â Her tone was dry, skeptical.
Bucky, methodically checking his dwindling ammo, grunted without looking up. âUnless sheâs got a cloaked helicarrier parked behind the moon, itâs wishful thinking.â
Alexei, hefting a chunk of rock like a discus, boomed, âBah! What backup? I see only sky and suffering! Send more bullets, Contessa!â
Ava, shimmering slightly as she phased to avoid a ricochet, added tersely, âScanners show nothing incoming. Not a damn thing.â
The consensus was clear: they were expecting reinforcements they could see â maybe a squad fast-roping in, an aerial drone strike, perhaps even a surprise kinetic bombardment. Something tangible, military, predictable. Johnâs mind raced: Squad? Airstrike? What asset could Val possibly scramble this fast, this deep into hostile nowhere? He scanned the empty horizon again, finding nothing but heat haze and despair. Thirty seconds felt like an eternity under the mercenaries' relentless fire.
They never expected you.
Suddenly, the sun flared, blinding him. He threw up a hand, cursing. A massive shadow, impossibly swift and silent, swept across the canyon floor like a silent storm. John dropped to one knee, blinking furious tears to clear the burning afterimages. Around him, the relentless enemy fire⊠faltered, then stopped. Not with a bang, but a series of soft, almost musical thwips. He risked a look.
Disbelief froze him. A dozen mercenaries closest to the Thunderbolts' position were down, not dead but perfectly incapacitated, a single, impossibly long, silver-tipped feather embedded with surgical precision in a pressure point or neural cluster at the base of their necks. They lay scattered like broken toys, the sudden silence jarring.
But the fight wasn't over. Further out, alerted by their comrades' fall, five more mercenaries spun, their gravitic rifles seeking the new threat in the sky. They opened fire, crackling bolts of distorted energy lancing upwards.
You were already moving. One moment, you were a hovering silhouette against the sun; the next, you folded your magnificent wings and dove. Not away, but towards the fire. Just before impact, your wings snapped open like twin shields of living silver, deflecting the gravitic pulses in showers of sparks. You hit the ground in a three-point landing amidst the remaining foes, dust exploding outwards in a ring.
Before the dust even settled, you were a whirlwind. A mercenary lunged; a flash of a boot caught him square in the jaw with a sharp crack, sending him sprawling unconscious. Another swung a rifle like a club; your wing, impossibly fast and strong, swept low like a silver scythe, catching his legs and sending him crashing down. You spun, a dancer in the chaos, another kick finding its mark on a third attacker's solar plexus, doubling him over with a whoosh of air.
"Covering fire! Now!" one of the remaining mercs yelled, panic edging his voice. They backed up, rifles spitting bullets in a frantic, concentrated burst aimed directly at you.
You didn't flinch. Instead, you spun. Like a top wreathed in lightning, your wings became a solid, shimmering dome around you, deflecting the barrage with a cacophony of clangs and sparks. The energy pulses and bullets ricocheted harmlessly into the canyon walls. Then, as the mercenaries paused, momentarily stunned by the display, you stopped spinning.
With a powerful, resonant thrum that vibrated in John's chest, your wings snapped open wide. Not just open, but they pulsed. A visible shockwave of pure concussive force erupted outwards, a hurricane gust condensed into a single blast. It hit the two standing mercenaries like a physical wall, hurling them backwards off their feet. Simultaneously, a dozen silver feathers, sharp as arrows yet somehow non-lethal, shot forth from the leading edges of your wings with impossible speed and accuracy. They found their marks â shoulders, thighs, pressure points â pinning the winded mercs to the ground or embedding in their gear, effectively neutralizing them without drawing a drop of blood.
Silence descended again, deeper this time, thick with disbelief. The entire remaining force was down. Johnâs team stared, weapons slack in their hands, expressions ranging from Buckyâs stunned disbelief to Yelenaâs calculating appraisal to Alexeiâs open-mouthed grin of pure, exhilarated shock. Ava had solidified completely, her eyes wide. You had been relentless. A blur of silver wings, devastating kicks, impenetrable defense, and pinpoint non-lethal precision. It wasn't just power; it was controlled, breathtaking artistry applied to combat.
Suspended high against the vast blue. You hovered, an impossible silhouette of power and grace, sunlight blazing off the silver wings streaked with intricate patterns of purest white, the air shimmering around you like a halo. The world seemed to hold its breath...
You landed softly before him, your wings folding with a whisper of light against your back. Dust settled around your boots. You stepped forward, your expression calm, concerned. You extended a hand, not in challenge, but in offer, to help him to stand up. And then you smiled. It was like the sun breaking through storm clouds â warm, genuine, breathtakingly sweet.
"Are you ok?" Your voice was clear, melodic, cutting through the ringing in his ears from the earlier firefight.
John stared, utterly transfixed. He hadnât blinked. The words fell from his lips, raw and reverent, shredding a lifetime of discipline and ingrained cynicism: "You're an angel."
Angel. The name had stuck. A private beacon of tenderness in the harsh landscape of their lives.
--
Back in the present, nestled in the warmth of their bed, John stirred. A low, contented grumble rumbled in his chest before his piercing blue eyes blinked open. They found yours instantly, sleep-clouded but intensely focused. The transformation was profound. The lingering ghosts â the searing shame of the shield, the crushing weight of failures past â vanished from his gaze, replaced by a warmth so intense it still stole your breath. A slow, lazy, utterly real smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes â a sight reserved solely for you, his Angel.
"Morning, Angel," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and affection. He shifted, pulling you closer against the solid plane of his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brushed your skin, sending familiar, delicious shivers cascading down your spine. "Those damn senses of yours wake you at the crack of dawn every damn time," he grumbled, the complaint utterly devoid of heat.
"You snore," you countered playfully, your fingers threading through the soft strands of his hair. "Like a grizzly bear with a particularly stubborn sinus infection. My senses are just valiantly trying to cope with the sonic assault."
He lifted his head, feigning deep offense, but the sparkling amusement in his ocean-blue eyes betrayed him. "Lies. Slanderous propaganda. I do not snore." He leaned in conspiratorially, his breath warm on your cheek. "I⊠emit tactical sonar pulses. For perimeter defense. Very advanced." Before you could retort, he captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of sleep, warmth, and unspoken promises. It was a worshipful thing, unhurried and profound, as if you were the only source of light capable of banishing the shadows in his world. He pulled back slightly, just enough for his gaze to trace every beloved feature of your face with an intensity that made your heart flutter against your ribs. "Perfect," he breathed, the word a vow, his calloused thumb stroking the curve of your cheekbone with infinite tenderness. "Utterly perfect."
You watched him, still propped on one elbow, tracing another scar above his left shoulder with a feather-light touch. Enhanced senses meant you could hear the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat, smell the lingering scent of his soap, and the unique, warm musk that was purely John. It was a symphony of comfort.
A familiar, deep ache pulsed between your shoulder blades. You shifted subtly. John noticed, he always did.
His expression instantly shifted to concern. He knew the discomfort of keeping your wings compressed within your body for too long. "Theyâre cramping again?" He sat up immediately, the sheet pooling around his waist, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen. "C'mere. Turn around."
You obeyed, sitting up and turning your back to him. He moved behind you, his large, warm hands settling gently on your shoulders, a familiar anchor. You took a deep breath, focusing inward. With a soft, silken whoosh, unfurling like priceless fabric catching the dawn light, your wings emerged. They spanned nearly twelve feet, shimmering silver like moonlight on mercury, edged with intricate patterns of purest white that seemed to glow faintly from within. They filled the space behind you, majestic and powerful, yet utterly vulnerable in this moment of release.
This. This quiet intimacy was a balm you cherished. After a childhood marked by fear, stares, and whispered cruelties â being seen as a thing, a freak, something unnatural because of the very essence of your being â finding acceptance, let alone adoration, in John's eyes felt like a miracle. The journey to self-acceptance had been long and painful. You'd learned you were special, yes, powerful even, but the deep-seated fear of being other had lingered... until John. He never saw the wings as appendages, as something strange to be tolerated. He saw you. And he loved them. He loved all of you. He saw their beauty, their strength, and understood the vulnerability they represented.
A memory surfaced, sweet and potent, triggered by his touch and the familiar relief of release.
The first few weeks after joining the Thunderbolts. You were careful, keeping your wings suppressed for days on end, being on the Tower and debriefs, wincing subtly when the ache became a sharp throb across your shoulders and spine. You'd developed a routine: slipping away to the Tower's top just before dawn, the only time you felt safe to truly breathe. John, already fascinated by the quiet, sweet, and fierce woman who'd dropped from the sky into his life, had noticed. He saw the tightness in your posture, the way your fingers would press into the base of your neck, the slight grimace you couldn't always hide. Curiosity burned, but respect held his tongue. One pre-dawn, he found himself drawn to the quinjet pad, needing air after a nightmare. He arrived silently, leaning against the access door frame, just in time to see you step to the edge. He didnât know you were there.
With a sigh that seemed to release the weight of the world, you let them out. The unfurling in the pale light was breathtaking. He watched, transfixed, as you launched into the cool air, soaring in wide, liberating circles, stretching muscles held too long in confinement.
The cool dawn air rushed past you as you landed lightly on the platform, the familiar thrum of your wings settling back into your muscles. The flight had worked its magic; the deep, persistent ache across your shoulders and spine had eased into a warm, satisfied hum. You felt lighter, freer, truly yourself for the first time in days. Turning, you smoothed a stray strand of hair back â and froze.
John Walker stood silently, leaning against the access door frame. He wasn't in uniform, just sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, his hair tousled. He must have been there the whole time, watching your flight. Your breath hitched. You hadn't sensed him, lost in the liberation of the sky. A wave of shyness washed over you, hotter than the rising sun. You felt exposed, vulnerable in a way combat never made you feel.
But his eyes⊠they held no shock, no disgust, no prurient curiosity. Only deep, genuine fascination and something softer, warmer â a quiet awe. He didn't recoil. He didn't bombard you with questions. He simply met your gaze, then gestured with a small, almost hesitant nod towards the empty spot beside him on the wide ledge overlooking the waking city.
Hesitantly, you walked over, the soft rustle of your wings the only sound besides the distant city murmur. You perched beside him, leaving a respectful foot of space, tucking your wings close. The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged.
"Hi," you murmured, the word soft and shy, barely more than a breath.
He didn't respond with words, but a slow, understanding smile touched his lips, and he gave you a single, gentle nod. It was an acknowledgment, a quiet thank you for bridging the gap. You stared out at the hazy skyline, the rising sun painting streaks of pink and gold. You could feel his gaze on your profile, not demanding, just⊠present. Waiting.
The question hung unspoken in the air between you, loud as a shout. Why?
"I needed to spread them," you finally murmured, the words escaping softly, almost awkwardly, and shyly. You kept your eyes fixed on the horizon, tracing the silhouette of a distant building. "They⊠get restless."
He shifted slightly beside you. "Restless?" His voice was low, rough with sleep or emotion, matching the quiet of the dawn. "They⊠hurt?" The question was hesitant, carefully formed, as if afraid of trespassing.
You glanced at him then, surprised heâd pinpointed it. "When they're hidden too long, yes," you admitted, turning your body slightly towards him. The vulnerability was terrifying, yet his expression â open, concerned, utterly lacking judgment â made the words flow easier. "It starts as a stiffness, deep in the muscles where they anchor. Then it becomes a constant, sharp ache. Like⊠like holding your breath for days." You unconsciously rubbed the base of your neck where the tension always gathered first.
He was quiet for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought. You saw the moment the pieces clicked, his observant nature connecting the dots. "So that's why," he said slowly, his voice deepening with understanding. "That's why you wince sometimes. Why you rub your shoulders like there's a knot you can't reach. Why you seemâŠ" he searched for the word, "...pained, especially after long ops or debriefs." His gaze was intense, focused solely on you. "You weren't just tired. You were hurting."
Your breath caught. He had noticed. Not just the wings now, but the subtle signs of discomfort you thought you'd hidden so well. The realization was a warm shock spreading through your chest, melting the last remnants of shyness. "You saw that?" you whispered.
"Hard not to," he replied, a hint of something like self-reproach in his tone. "Just⊠didn't know why. Didn't feel right to pry." He paused, then added, his voice dropping even softer, "Must've been hell, keeping them locked down."
The simple empathy in his words unlocked something inside you. The dam broke that first night. You told him about the childhood fear â the panic attacks when they first emerged, the desperate attempts to bind them, the cruel names and isolating stares that made you feel like a monstrous thing. You spoke of the years spent hiding, the exhausting vigilance, the slow, hard-won journey towards accepting that this power, this difference, was part of who you were, not a curse. You talked about the sheer, unadulterated relief of flight, the way it wasn't just physical freedom, but a release for your soul.
He didn't interrupt. He just listened. Truly listened. His body angled towards you, his blue eyes fixed on your face, absorbing every word, every flicker of remembered pain or hard-earned pride. He asked quiet, thoughtful questions when you paused â not probing, but seeking understanding. "How old were you?" "Did anyone ever try to help?" "Is flying⊠is it like thinking? Or more like breathing?"
The sun climbed higher, painting the glass towers in fiery hues. The city's murmur grew into a steady hum. Hours slipped away unnoticed in that shared space on the ledge. It wasn't just him learning about your wings; it was him seeing you, the person behind the power, the history etched into your spirit. And in his quiet acceptance, his focused attention, his simple acknowledgment of your pain and your strength, you felt a connection spark â fragile, unexpected, and breathtakingly beautiful. The fear of exposure began to recede, replaced by a dawning sense of safety. He hadn't just witnessed your wings; he'd witnessed your truth, and he hadn't flinched.
"You know," he said, his voice low and impossibly gentle, breaking the comfortable silence. "You don't ever have to hide from me. Or from the team."
You couldn't respond. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, hopeful drumbeat that felt too loud in the quiet morning. You were utterly glad by his words, overwhelmed by their simple, profound weight. In a world that had so often been messed up and cruel, and after a past filled with fear and hiding, the kindness and acceptance he offered felt like a miracle. It was so nice. So beautiful.
When you could find your voice, you answered, âThank you,â. A soft, genuine smile touched your lips, and you felt a warm flush bloom on your cheeks. He noticedâof course, he did. A quiet, understanding smile softened his own features in return, but he didn't press. He didn't say another word, simply letting the promise hang in the air between you, a new and solid truth in the dawn's light.
That was the beginning.
--
You were tracing the intricate white pattern on a secondary feather one morning, telling him more about your past. He listened, wanted to know everything about you. Â "I needed therapy. Lots of it. Still go sometimes." John watched your fingers moving, his gaze thoughtful. "It helps?"
"Most days. Learned I wasn't broken. Just... different." You let out a soft, shaky breath. "My parents... they were the only ones who ever made me feel that way. They were my safe place. They loved me, wings and all, helped me figure everything out when I was so scared...". You paused, the memory of a more recent, sharper grief tightening your throat. "The therapy... a lot of it was for the⊠depression.â He noticed the sadness and almost⊠fear, just for mentioning that last word. âAnd I had a few bad relapses...". The words felt heavy and dark. "When my parents... it hit hard. Still does."
You didn't elaborate, but you didn't need to. The silence that followed was filled with the unspoken truth: that the time when your powers and wings manifested and your parentsâ loss had been the darkest moments of your life. It was a pain that had changed you forever, a deep, suffocating void that had swallowed you whole. You'd had to fight every single day to claw your way back from it, to find a reason to breathe again, to heal enough to simply function. It was a battle you knew you'd carry with you always.
His hand almost covered yours on the ledge, a gesture of shared understanding, but he hesitated, and instead, he looked forward, giving you the space to sit with that heavy truth. "Yeah," he said, his own voice rough with an intimately familiar pain. "Loss... it doesn't really leave, does it? Just learns where to sit."
"No. It doesn't." After a moment, he looked at you again. "And good days?"
You gave him a genuine smile. "More of them now. Especially since landing here. Since... this." You nudged his shoulder. He smiled wider.
--
During another day, he watched you stretch your wings wide, catching the nascent sun. "What does it feel like? Up there?". You closed your eyes, remembering. "Weightless. Powerful. Free. Like... like your first perfect landing after a brutal op. The air isn't empty; it's something you push against, something that holds you. Itâs⊠peace." A soft, almost wistful smile appeared on his lips. "Sounds damn near holy." "Sometimes it is."
You both smiled and looked at the city waking up. "Thirty, right? You mentioned."
You chuckled. "Almost. My birthday is in 2 months. Feel older already. What about you, Captain Serious? Ancient military secrets?"
He snorted. "Ancient? Watch it, Angel. Thirty-six. And yeah, military. West Point. Rangers. Then... the whole Captain America debacle." A shadow crossed his face. Married once. Didn't survive the uniform, the pressure... me." He said it flatly, a statement of fact, but you heard the buried regret.
âNot everything happens the way you want it to, right?â He said with a hint of sadness in his eyes. âNo, but it opens new paths. Worthwhile paths.â You responded. You both looked at each other for a moment; your gazes lingered.
--
Another day, John was staring out at the city, jaw tight after a nightmare-fueled night. "Failed my team. Failed Lamar. Failed the shield. Failed my marriage. Pattern seems pretty damn clear." His voice was rough, self-loathing simmering beneath the surface. You turned fully to him, your wing brushing his arm gently. "John Walker." Your voice was firm, making him look at you. "Your failures don't make you less. They make you human. They make you real. They make you a diamond." You held his gaze, seeing the storm in his blue eyes.
He froze, his blue eyes wide, searching yours. "A diamond?"
"A diamond," you affirmed. "You think diamonds start perfect? They get forged under pressure. Scratched, chipped... but they come out shinier. That's you. You carry the weight, you own, the mistakes... and you keep trying. That's not failure. That's a strength. That's why you're amazing. Not despite the scars, but with them."
He looked at you, utterly still. He searched your face, looking for pity, for judgment. Finding only absolute conviction. His throat worked. "How...?" The word was barely a whisper, raw with disbelief. "How can you see that?"
Your hand cupped his cheek. "Because I see you. All of you. The good, the bad, the stubborn, the fiercely loyal, the man who carries too much. You are amazing, John Walker. Exactly as you are. You just need to see it yourself. Look forward, keep trying, especially with yourself. Be kind to the man who carries all that weight."
He didn't speak for a long time. He just covered your hand with his, a silent thank you trembling between you. His eyes were clearer, the self-recrimination banked, replaced by a fragile, determined hope.
--
Other times, there were no words. He sat hunched, elbows on knees, staring at nothing. The nightmare still clung to him like smoke. You simply sat beside him. Your presence, the soft warmth of your feathers against his shoulder, the quiet solidarity â it was enough. An hour passed, the sun climbing higher. You didnÂŽt push. Eventually, he let out a long, shuddering breath. "Bad one," he rasped.
"Want to talk about it?" you asked softly. He shook his head, then paused. "Just... the noise. The falling." "I'm here. You're not falling now."
He turned his head, his blue eyes pierced into yours. "I know."
--
You both shared all you could. That also included fun. He watched you meticulously preen a primary feather. "You know, if you ever need a side gig, a high-end feather duster is a definite option. Dust the Tower in record time."
You gasped in mock outrage, flicking the feather you were holding towards his face. "Excuse me? These are precision instruments! Not dust mops!"
He dodged the feather-tickle, grinning â a rare, full, unguarded grin. "Precision dusting! Think of the efficiency! We could market it: 'Angel's Touch: Dust Be Gone!'"
âShut up!â you said as you pushed him playfully.
He caught you easily, laughing, the sound rich and warm, pulling you against him. "Alright, alright! Truce! Your wings are majestic killing machines and delicate works of art, completely unsuited for menial labor. Happy?"
You laughed, trying to threaten him. "Much better. And don't you forget it."
--
Day by day, the conversations deepened. The silences grew more comfortable, filled with an understanding that needed no words. You learned the specific set of his shoulders that meant frustration, the slight tremor in his hand after a nightmare, the way his eyes crinkled just before a rare, genuine smile. He learned the subtle tension in your back that signaled your wings needed release long before you mentioned it, the slight catch in your voice when grief brushed too close, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about flying near the clouds. You shared fears, dreams (yours to never have to be in the darkness of depression again, his of building something lasting and good), bad jokes, and the quiet comfort of simply being together as the city woke below.
You understood him â the driven soldier, the burdened man, the surprisingly tender heart beneath the armor. He understood you â the powerful mutant, the wounded healer, the woman who found peace in the sky and, improbably, with him. You knew each other, scars and wings and all, not just despite them, but through them. It was a connection forged in the quiet dawn light, stronger than steel.
--
One crisp morning, a few weeks after your rooftop ritual began, John arrived significantly earlier than usual. He carried two steaming mugs â his thick black coffee, and yours, prepared just how you liked it: a generous splash of milk and a spoonful of golden honey swirling within. He hadnât told you, but heâd developed a near-reverence for watching you fly. Seeing you launch yourself into the pale sky, those magnificent wings catching the first true rays of sun, carving graceful arcs and spirals against the awakening city⊠it was mesmerizing. Peaceful. But what truly captivated him was the look on your face when your eyes were closed mid-flight â an expression of pure, unadulterated serenity, almost divine. It was a side of you that few ever saw, a vulnerability wrapped in power.
He leaned against the cool concrete parapet, sipping his coffee, hidden in the deep shadows near the access door. He watched as you soared, a silver-and-white silhouette dancing with the dawn wind, eyes blissfully shut, a faint smile touching your lips. His own breath caught. It was a private benediction.
When you finally descended, landing with practiced lightness, you stretched your wings wide before folding them loosely. Thatâs when you saw him, stepping out of the shadows. Surprise flickered across your face, followed by a warm, perfect smile that lit up the rooftop more than the rising sun. "You came earlier," you observed, your voice soft with the lingering peace of flight.
John stepped forward, holding out your mug. "Yeah," he murmured, his gaze lingering on your face, still flushed with the cool air and exertion. He took a breath, deciding honesty was the only path. "I wanted to see you flying." The simple admission hung in the air.
Your cheeks flushed a delicate pink, a reaction that never failed to undo him. He smiled back, a slow, genuine curve of his lips that crinkled the corners of his eyes. âThank you,â You said gently as you took the mug, warming your hands. You noticed his gaze wasn't on your face anymore. It was tracing the lines of your wings, lingering on the intricate patterns of white against silver, following the elegant sweep of the primaries. It wasn't intrusive; it was filled with a quiet, almost boyish fascination. It was⊠cute.
"They seem soft," he breathed, the words barely a whisper, almost lost in the morning breeze. He seemed startled heâd spoken aloud.
You felt a familiar flutter of shyness, but beneath it, a surge of warmth. His curiosity was respectful, earnest. "They are," you replied, your voice equally soft. You tilted your wing slightly towards him, an unspoken invitation. "You want to touch them?"
John froze, his blue eyes widening slightly. He looked from the offered wing to your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. "I... Iâm sorry," he stammered, uncharacteristically hesitant. "It must be awkward for you. I shouldn't haveâ"
You cut him off gently, your smile reassuring. "Itâs okay, John. Really. I don't mind." Your trust in him, established over weeks of dawn conversations, was absolute in this moment.
He hesitated for only a second longer, then slowly, almost reverently, lifted his hand. His fingers, calloused from years of gripping weapons and shields, hovered for a heartbeat just above the soft downy coverts near the base of your wing. Then, with infinite care, he made contact.
A soft sigh escaped you, not of pain, but of profound sensitivity. His touch was feather-light, tracing the velvety texture. He smoothed his fingertips over the tiny, intricate barbs of a covert, marveling at their impossible softness. He gently brushed the stronger, resilient shaft of a secondary feather, feeling its smooth, almost cool surface. His gaze was intense, studying the way the light played on the iridescent silver, the stark beauty of the white patterns woven through them like lace. A gentle breeze ruffled the tips, and his fingers followed the movement, captivated.
It was an intensely intimate moment, charged with a quiet awe. There was no fear, no revulsion, only pure, unadulterated wonder and appreciation emanating from him. This powerful, often stoic man was utterly transfixed by the beauty of what made you you. His touch wasn't clinical or curious; it was worshipful. He wasn't touching an appendage; he was connecting with your essence. You stood perfectly still, letting him explore, feeling a wave of acceptance so deep it threatened to bring tears to your eyes. This simple act â his large, capable hand gently stroking your feathers â felt like a silent vow, a deeper level of understanding blooming between you both in the hushed dawn light. It was intimate, beautiful, and forged a new, unspoken connection that vibrated in the quiet space between you.
After a long, breathless moment, his hand stilled, resting lightly on the curve of your wing. He finally met your eyes again. His own were wide, filled with a warmth and sincerity that took your breath away. He didn't need words. The reverence in his touch had said it all.
--
You both became closer, the bond deepening with startling speed in the quiet sanctuary of dawns and shared confidences. It bled into everything. The lingering gazes across the crowded briefing room lasted a heartbeat too long. The private smiles that flickered between you when no one else was looking â small, secret things that lit up your eyes and softened the hard lines of Johnâs jaw. The way your cheeks would flush a delicate pink whenever his hand accidentally brushed yours, reaching for a file or giving you a cup of your favorite coffee, or when his low murmur of "Angel" reached your ears across the communal space. You were magnets, constantly orbiting each other â him leaning against the counter while you prepped coffee, you finding a reason to linger near his workstation, your wings unconsciously angling towards him like a compass finding true north. The way he always seemed to know when you needed a glass of water pushed silently towards you, or how youâd wordlessly place your hand over his for a moment after a difficult mission.
The Thunderbolts noticed. Of course they did.
Yelenaâs sharp eyes missed nothing, her expression often a mix of dry amusement and something almost... approving. Buckyâs stoic facade would crack with the faintest upward quirk of his lips whenever John was near you. Alexei would boom with laughter, nudging John heavily, making cryptic comments about "strong birds" and "lucky captains". Ava and Bob would simply watch the interplay with a quiet, knowing smile.
The inevitable moment came one Saturday morning. You were in the Towerâs large kitchen, attempting a batch of honey-glazed cinnamon rolls â a nostalgic comfort food from your childhood youâd mentioned once. John, claiming he was just "supervising quality control," was actually being surprisingly helpful, fetching ingredients, greasing the pan with meticulous care, and taste-testing the icing with a solemnity usually reserved for mission debriefs. His shoulder brushed yours constantly as you moved around each other in the familiar space, a silent dance perfected over weeks of rooftop intimacy.
"More vanilla?" he asked, holding the bottle close, his breath warm near your ear as you stirred the frosting.
"Just a drop," you murmured, leaning slightly into his solid presence. You added it, your fingers brushing his as he handed it over. The contact sent the usual pleasant jolt up your arm, and you shared a quick, warm glance, a silent conversation passing between you.
From the breakfast bar where the others were slowly gathering, nursing coffees, Yelena cleared her throat. Not loudly, but pointedly. Her gaze flickered between Johnâs hand, still hovering near yours on the counter, and the faint blush dusting your cheeks. "So," she drawled, stirring her tea with exaggerated slowness. "This is 'supervising'. Does it often involve such... intense ingredient inspection, Walker? Or is the frosting truly that fascinating?"
Bucky snorted into his coffee. Alexei grinned, slamming a meaty hand on the counter. "Is love! Is obvious! Look at them! Like two pigeons cooing over sugar!"
John stiffened almost imperceptibly beside you, his hand withdrawing quickly. Your blush deepened from pink to crimson. "We're just friends, Alexei," you said quickly, your voice a little higher than usual. You focused intently on spreading the frosting. "Helping out. That's all."
"Yeah," John added, his tone deliberately casual, gruff even. He busied himself with wiping a non-existent spot on the counter. "Just friends. Making breakfast for the team. Don't read into it."
The denial hung in the air, thin and unconvincing. Yelena raised an eyebrow, her expression plainly saying 'Really?'. Bucky just took another sip, his eyes knowing. Alexei chuckled, not buying it for a second. Ava offered you a small, sympathetic smile.
Deep down, you both knew the charade was flimsy. The word "friends" felt woefully inadequate, a flimsy shield against the tidal wave of feeling that surged every time his blue eyes met yours, every time the low rumble of "Angel" vibrated in your bones. It wasn't just friendship. It was the shared vulnerability on the rooftop, the reverence in his touch on your feathers, the way his presence felt like finally coming home. It was the terrifying, exhilarating precipice of something profound, something neither of you was quite ready to name aloud in the bright light of the kitchen, surrounded by your observant, smirking found family.
You finished frosting the rolls in a slightly flustered silence, acutely aware of Johnâs warmth beside you and the teamâs poorly concealed amusement. Later, as you both carried the warm pan to the table, your fingers brushed again. This time, he didn't pull away. He held your gaze for a charged second, a silent apology for the denial and a promise held in the depths of his eyes. Just friends? The thought echoed, hollow, as the sweet scent of cinnamon and honey filled the air. You both knew the truth, simmering just beneath the surface, as undeniable and warm as the rolls fresh from the oven.
The connection with John was the blazing sun at the center of your world within the Tower, but the warmth radiated outwards. You weren't just John's "Angel"; you'd woven yourself into the very fabric of this ragtag, extraordinary team, finding genuine kinship with each of them.
Ava's quiet intensity and Yelena's razor-sharp wit formed an unexpectedly perfect counterbalance. You often found yourselves slipping out into the electric pulse of New York City with them. Sometimes it was purposeful â tracking a lead, scouting a location â but often, it was simply because. Walking through bustling streets or quieter neighborhoods, the city's rhythm became your shared heartbeat. Ava moved like a ghost beside you, observant and calm, while Yelena dissected passersby and storefronts with acerbic, hilarious commentary that never failed to crack you up. Evenings sometimes ended curled up in someone's quarters (usually yours or Yelena's, deemed 'neutral territory'), sharing a bottle of wine or potent vodka Alexei had 'liberated', talking about everything and nothing â missions gone sideways, frustrating tech, fleeting moments of beauty spotted in the city, the absurdity of their lives. Yelenaâs dry humor and surprising flashes of vulnerability, paired with Avaâs grounded wisdom and quiet empathy, created a space of easy camaraderie. They saw your wings as an asset, your power as impressive, but you â your humor, your worries, your kindness â that's what they connected with.
Alexei was like a force of nature. Time with him was guaranteed laughter, usually loud and belly-deep. His booming voice, outrageous stories (only half of which you believed), and unshakeable, slightly delusional optimism were infectious. He treated your wings like magnificent accessories, occasionally demanding demonstrations of their strength, "Lift fridge, little bird! Is good exercise!" or comparing them favorably to various Soviet aircraft. His bear hugs were legendary and slightly terrifying, but beneath the bluster was a fierce, protective loyalty. Heâd clap John heavily on the back, wink outrageously at you, and loudly declare you both "Good catch!" much to John's exasperation and your amusement. He was pure, unadulterated life, a chaotic counterpoint to the team's often grim reality, and you cherished the sheer, uncomplicated joy he brought.
You had a different kind of bond with Bob, forged in shared quietude and the solace of small things. Bob carried a universe of pain and fractured power within him, a vulnerability you instinctively understood, having navigated your own internal storms. Your connection wasn't about loud adventures but shared stillness. Movie nights were common, often just the two of you in the dimmed common room, sharing a giant bowl of popcorn, finding comfort in familiar narratives or exploring fantastical worlds together. The most poignant moments came in the kitchen. You'd listen as he tentatively described a dish from his childhood â the smell of his mother's apple pie. Then, together, you'd try to recreate it. The focus required, the shared purpose of chasing a memory through flavor, was profoundly grounding for both of you. It wasn't always perfect, but the attempt, the shared focus on something warm and ordinary, was a balm. You saw the flicker of genuine peace in his eyes during those moments, a respite from the golden storm within.
And then, there was Bucky Barnes. The steady center, like a quiet leader. Serene wasn't quite the right word â it was more a deep, hard-won calm, like the eye of a hurricane. He'd seen too much, endured too much, yet carried it with a dignity and weary wisdom you respected immensely. He was the mediator, the one who could cut through tension with a single, softly spoken word or a pointed look. Training with him on Tuesdays and Thursdays was more than just physical; it was a dialogue in movement. He pushed you, respected your strength and speed, and offered insights honed by a century of combat. One evening, after an intense session, you were both wiping down equipment in companionable silence. He paused, looking at you with an expression that held layers of memory. "You know," he said, his voice softer than usual, almost hesitant, "you remind me of my sister, Rebecca." The admission, simple yet profound, struck you deeply. It wasn't just about shared traits; it was an acknowledgment of a fundamental goodness, a spark of light he recognized and cherished, linking you to a cherished part of his long-lost past. It was one of the highest compliments you'd ever received, spoken with such quiet sincerity that it brought a lump to your throat. You simply smiled, understanding the weight of the comparison, the trust it implied. "Thank you, Bucky," youâd whispered, the words carrying immense meaning.
They were a family. Dysfunctional? Wildly. Prone to bickering, clashing egos, and the occasional property damage? Absolutely. But also fiercely loyal, bound by shared battles and hard-won respect, finding humor in the darkness, and offering unexpected pockets of deep understanding. Standing amidst them â Yelena rolling her eyes at Alexei's latest boast, Ava sharing a quiet smile with Bob over a book, Bucky offering you a rare, small smile as you recounted Alexei's latest antics â you felt it settle deep in your bones, warm and certain: You belonged. This chaotic, magnificent, broken, and beautiful patchwork family was yours. Your wings had carried you to them, and their acceptance had finally given you a place to truly land.
--
John let out a soft sigh, a sound of pure reverence. His fingers began to work with surprising tenderness, kneading the tense muscles at the base of your wings where they met your back. "Christ, Iâll never get tired of telling they're beautiful," he murmured, his touch both firm and incredibly gentle. "Like something out of a damn dream." His fingers traced the leading edge, feeling the resilient, almost metallic texture of the primary feathers, then smoothed over the softer, downy coverts near your spine. "Hurts when you have to keep 'em locked away all the time."
"It's worth it," you sighed, leaning back into his touch as the delicious release spread through your muscles. "For moments like this. For privacy." You flexed them slightly, the feathers rustling softly. "Besides, not exactly practical in the kitchen."
He smiled as his hands continued their ministrations, moving with practiced ease. He knew every inch, every sensitive spot, every scar earned in battles fought together. This intimacy, his utter fascination and care for this fundamental part of you, was a cornerstone of your bond. He worshipped not just your body, but your power, your uniqueness, your very essence.
The steam from the shower curled around you both, a warm, private cloud in the spacious stall. The hot water beat a soothing rhythm on your shoulders, and you leaned back against the solid, familiar plane of Johnâs chest with a soft sigh. His arms encircled you, his hands splayed possessively yet tenderly across your stomach, holding you close.
âTired, Angel?â he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, barely audible over the spray.
âMmm. Just⊠perfect,â you breathed, tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder. Your eyes fluttered closed. âThis is perfect.â
His chuckle vibrated through you. âGood.â
His hands began to move again, but this was different from the focused massage of before. This was slower. More deliberate. One hand slid up to your chest, not with intent, but with reverence, his palm resting over your heart, feeling its strong, steady beat against his skin. The other hand, slick with soap, glided down your arm, tracing the line of muscle from your shoulder to your wrist, then back up again, his thumb rubbing slow, hypnotic circles into your palm before lacing his fingers through yours.
He loved this. Loved being your anchor, your safe harbor.
He released your hand to reach for the shampoo. You expected him to hand it to you, but instead, he poured a generous amount into his own palm. âTurn around,â he said softly, his voice leaving no room for argument, only care.
You obeyed, turning within the circle of his arms to face him. The water cascaded over your hair, plastering it to your scalp. Johnâs expression was one of absolute focus, his piercing blue eyes soft in the misty light. He gently guided your head back, cradling your nape with one strong hand to shield your eyes from the suds as he began to work the shampoo into your hair.
His fingers were magic. They massaged your scalp with a firm, knowing pressure, working out knots of tension you didnât even know you were carrying. It was an act of such simple, profound service that tears pricked your eyes, hidden by the water and steam. This powerful man, whose hands were made for wielding weapons and shields, was now utterly devoted to your comfort. He took his time, his touch never rushing, every movement an unspoken vow.
When every strand was clean and lathered, he guided you back under the spray. âClose your eyes,â he whispered, and you did, trusting him completely. He rinsed your hair with infinite care, his fingers combing through the strands to ensure every last bit of soap was gone.
As the water ran clear, he didnât stop. His hands slid from your hair, down the column of your neck, his thumbs pressing gently into the base of your skull, earning a soft, involuntary moan from you. He smiled, a small, private curve of his lips reserved only for you.
You stood there, eyes closed, supported by his presence, letting him care for you in this most fundamental way. The vulnerability was absolute, but so was the safety. In his hands, you were not a weapon, not a mutant, not a hero. You were just his. Loved. Cherished. Understood.
His piercing blue eyes were soft, stripped of all their usual defensive sharpness. Here, he was just John. Your John. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, wiping away a trickle of water like it was a tear.
"Hi," he breathed, the word simple, yet filled with a universe of meaning.
"Hi," you whispered back, a soft smile touching your lips.
His gaze held yours as he began to wash your front, his lathered hands moving over your collarbones, down your sternum, across your stomach. Every pass of his hands was a reaffirmation, a rediscovery. He knelt before you in the water, his expression one of quiet reverence as he soaped your legs, his strong hands massaging your calves, your thighs, the fierce strength in them earned from countless landings. He paid attention to every part of you, as if ensuring you were whole, safe, and cherished.
When he rose, water streamed from his blonde hair and down the sculpted planes of his chest. You reached for the soap, returning the favor. Your enhanced senses took over, hyper-aware of the feel of his skin under your fingertipsâthe ridge of an old scar along his ribs, the powerful beat of his heart, the way his breath hitched when you traced the defined lines of his abdomen. You washed him with the same deliberate care, your touch saying everything words couldn't: You are loved. You are safe with me. Every scar, every story, I cherish.
When the last trace of grime and soap had swirled down the drain, he didn't move to get out. He simply pulled you into his arms, skin to skin, under the warm spray. Your head found its home on his chest, your ear pressed against the steady, strong drum of his heartbeatâa rhythm more comforting than any symphony. His arms encircled you, one hand splayed across the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your wet hair.
He held you as if you were the most precious thing heâd ever been trusted to hold, and in the shelter of his arms, you felt utterly, perfectly whole.
Slowly, almost reverently, your hands began to move from where they rested against his chest. Your fingertips, sensitive and seeking, traced the powerful contours of his biceps. You had always loved his armsâthe defined strength, the clear map of veins that stood in stark relief under his skin, a testament to his relentless power and the life that pulsed so fiercely within him. You followed those rivers of blue with a feather-light touch, feeling the solid, unyielding muscle beneath, a silent acknowledgment of the strength he used to protect, to hold, to build.
Your exploration drifted inward, over the broad plane of his chest. Your palms flattened against his sternum, feeling the strong, steady thrum of his heart against your skinâa rhythm that had become your own personal anthem of safety. You traced the familiar scars, each one a story you knew by heart, not with pity, but with a quiet reverence for the battles heâd survived to become the man holding you now.
Your journey continued upward, over the column of his throat, feeling the faint, vulnerable flutter of his pulse quicken under your gentle caress. A soft, shaky breath escaped him, his eyes drifting closed for a moment as he surrendered to your touch. This was your worship. Your way of saying, I see all of you, and I love every part.
Finally, your hands slid around his neck and shoulders, pulling him into a tight, heartfelt embrace. You held him not with passion, but with a deep, abiding gratitude, your face buried in the warm, wet skin of his neck. You inhaled the clean, masculine scent of him, a scent that meant home.
In response, a low, contented hum rumbled in his chest. His hands, which had been resting on your back, moved. One rose to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that made your eyes prickle with emotion. The other slid down the damp skin of your arm, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, until his fingers intertwined with yours.
He leaned back just enough to look into your eyes. The steam and water had softened everything, but the intensity in his blue gaze was crystalline, focused solely on you. He saw the love, the trust, the faint sheen of tears that had nothing to do with the shower. He saw his entire world reflected in your eyes.
Slowly, he lowered his head. His lips found yours not in a kiss of hunger, but of homecoming.
It was achingly soft, a mere brush of warmth against warmth. A silent question and its immediate, breathless answer. It was a kiss that spoke of shared mornings, of quiet understanding, of battles faced side-by-side. It was a reaffirmation of every unspoken vow that had passed between them.
The water continued to fall, cocooning them in its warm, rhythmic whisper, a private benediction on the sacred, quiet love unfolding within its mist.
The tender kiss soon turned into a passionate and hungry one. Your lips moved in tandem, caressing each other while your tongues danced deliciously within the kiss. Your breathing increased with each heartbeat. Your hands turned almost to jelly at the sides of your body. His hands applied more pressure to your cheeks as he took a few steps forward, forcing you to take steps back, colliding with the cold tiles. You let out a moan as his tall, strong, and imposing body left you caged in that corner. He never stopped kissing you, his tongue dominating yours in a wet fight. You moaned again, and then his teeth lightly bit your lower lip before beginning to descend towards your neck.
His hands began to squeeze the soft skin of your hips while his mouth, hot and eager for more, traveled along your throat and collarbone with wet, open kisses. Your hands traveled down his back as he went down. His mouth followed the path, reaching the curve of your breasts as his hands went there as well. There, he paused for a moment to give them the attention they deserved. His hands cupped your breasts and squeezed gently, applying exquisite pressure. Then his mouth found your left nipple, and his tongue licked slowly in circles. You moaned and let your head fall back against the tiles. Your fingers tangled with his short hair at the nape of his neck.
You couldn't think of anything, your mind was blank, lost in the pleasure your lover was giving you. You felt every delicious stroke of his tongue over your nipple, making it impossibly harder. From your position, when his mouth moved to your right breast, you could see that John was incredibly hard, painfully hard. You bite your lower lip just looking at him. His hands moved down, almost completely cupping your ribs. His mouth sucked, his lips kissed, and his tongue licked again and again, leaving that nipple in the same condition as the other. He separated from your skin for a moment, only to look up and find a perfect view. You were already incredibly aroused, and he had barely begun. Your gaze met his. Your body trembled slightly as he looked down at you with such an intense, hungry gaze that it made you both moan instantly, and his hands slowly moved down to your stomach, hips, thighs, and ass. It was so erotic.
He said nothing, just watched and reveled in the way your body responded to him. The tremors, your parted lips, your moans, and your rapid breathing that made your chest rise and fall rapidly. Your body was hot and wet, and he could feel it. Oh god, he could smell it. He could smell how wet you were. Only for him. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, rejoicing in that scent he craved and that drove him wild. And he was almost there, on the verge of not only smelling you, but tasting you. His lips left open-mouthed kisses on your ribs, hips, and lower belly. He paused for a moment to look into your eyes again. "Can I devour you, Angel?" He didn't need to ask; he didn't need to, given how long you'd been together and how many times he'd done it before. But even so, the thought of asking melted your heart. It let you know that even in the throes of the ecstasy he was feeling, he was still thinking of you.
A beautiful shiver ran down your spine at his question before you permitted him. "Yes," was all you could say. Then his hands moved. His right hand rested behind your left knee, lifting you and positioning your left leg on his right shoulder. His left palm rested on your stomach, for support and to keep you there against the tiles. Just where and how he wanted you. And then his mouth moved to your core.
His tongue made the first lick from the center to your clit. You moaned at the divine sensation, and your head automatically tilted back again. He continued his ministrations, licking again and again, then circling your clit with his tongue, finding an amazing rhythm. It was a terribly devastating and beautiful sensation. Your hips moved forward, seeking friction and more of his mouth. This only drove him crazy and increased the intensity. Once again, his lips kissed and his tongue licked relentlessly. You were a moaning mess, moaning louder and louder. His right hand left your thigh to join his mouth's assault on you. First, he positioned a finger at your entrance. You were completely wet, dripping down your inner thighs. Gently but in one slide, his finger slid inside. His tongue continued licking your clit in rapid circles while his finger increased the speed of its movement. You were close, so close to reaching that precipice of complete ecstasy. "Oh my God, John!" you moaned desperately. A second finger entered your warm hole. It was dripping all the way down his hand.
"Please don't stop, oh my god..." you moaned again. The sound his hand and mouth were making on you was so filthy and obscene, and it only excited you both further, bringing you closer to the release you so desperately sought.
Your hands gripped the hair on his head, tugging lightly. He could feel how close you were. His fingers plunged in and out of you over and over again, his tongue still licking and sucking at your clit. He let out a groan of pure pleasure. His mouth and hand worked in tandem for a few more moments until finally, a powerful, blinding pleasure overwhelmed you completely. He continued to work through the waves of pleasure until they slowed their intensity.
The moment stretched, thick with steam and the echo of his worship. Then, with a fluid, powerful grace that never failed to steal your breath, John rose from his knees. The water sluiced over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders, and for a heartbeat, he was just a silhouette against the mist, a giant carved from shadow and devotion.
He looked at you intensely, a promise that there was more coming. Without breaking his gaze, he lifted his hand and placed his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean of your fluids. He wasn't going to waste a drop. âI fucking love your taste,â he groaned. You were exhausted and coming down from the peak of your orgasm, following his movements in detail. And God, that was so hot.
Then his left hand came up, not in a caress, but in a claim. His palm, warm and broad, slid along the side of your neck, his calloused thumb finding the delicate point of your chin. With a gentle, undeniable pressure, he tilted your head back and up, opening you to him completely. His eyes, dark and blazing with a hunger that mirrored the one coiling deep in your belly, held yours for a single, electrifying second before his mouth crashed down on yours.
This was not the tender kiss from moments before. This was a storm. It was messy, sloppy, and utterly, devastatingly passionate. There was no finesse, only a raw, desperate need to consume and be consumed. His lips moved over yours with a frantic intensity, stealing the air from your lungs, replacing it with the taste of him. And beneath it, you could taste the faint, sweet echo of yourself on his tongue, an intimate feedback loop that made your head spin.
A broken moan vibrated against his mouth, and you werenât sure if it came from him or you. His right arm banded around your waist, his hand splaying across the small of your back, pulling your slick body flush against his. You could feel every hard inch of him, the frantic hammer of his heart against your sternum, the solid strength of him that made you feel both incredibly fragile and absolutely safe.
Then he was lifting you. Effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all. Your back met the cool, smooth tiles, a shocking contrast to the heat of his skin and the steam swirling around you. The world narrowed to the press of his body, the cold at your back, and the scorching heat of him at your front. He held you there, pinned between the unyielding wall and the unyielding man, his mouth never leaving yours, his kiss a relentless, breathless conquest.
This was possession. Not of force, but of mutual, desperate surrender. He was claiming you, and you were yielding, glorying in the sheer power of him, in the way he made you feel totally and completely his.
The shift from desperate kissing to seamless joining was as natural as a tide coming in. With a low, guttural sound of pure need against your lips, he guided himself into you.
The first entry was a slow, breathtaking invasion, a deliberate, deep claiming that made you cry out into his mouth. He filled you, a perfect, stretching fit that stole the air from your lungs and replaced it with a wave of pure, white-hot sensation. You felt every inch of him. He fit perfectly, as if you both were made for each other. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing in ragged, shared gasps, feeling the incredible, throbbing connection. The world was reduced to the feeling of him inside you, the slick heat, the faint tremor in his muscles as he fought for control.
Then, the slow, deep rhythm began. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony, each thrust a homecoming that punched a soft, broken sound from your throat. His grip on your thigh tightened, his other hand still cradling your head, his thumb stroking your jaw even as his mouth devoured yours with a relentless passion.
The pace built gradually, the slow, deep rolls transforming into something more urgent, more primal. The gentle rocking became a driving, powerful rhythm that had your back sliding against the wet tiles. The slapping of wet skin, the ragged gasps, the groan of the shower wall under the force of his thrustsâit all merged with the drumming water into a symphony of raw, unvarnished need.
"God, youâre so deep⊠John⊠pleaseâŠ" You gasped between thrusts.
There were no more gentle caresses, only the relentless, beautiful friction, the desperate clutch of hands, the meeting of mouths in messy, breathless kisses.
His hands went to your thighs for support, and he picked up the pace as his cock entered your pussy again and again nonstop. His blue eyes looked at your face, contorting in pleasure, your lips parted, your eyes shut in a pure ecstasy that only he can give you.
"Fuck, Angel⊠You feel⊠God⊠so perfect." His voice was a ragged whisper.
You could feel the coil of your own pleasure tightening, a brilliant, unbearable pressure building deep within you with every rough, perfect stroke. You clung to him, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, your legs locked around his hips, meeting his ferocity with your own.
You felt the exact moment his control shattered. "Look at me, baby. Let me see you while you come for me." A ragged groan was torn from his chest, and his thrusts became erratic, deeper, harder, losing their rhythm in the frantic pursuit of release. It was the final, glorious push that sent you both spiraling over the edge. Your climax ripped through you, a silent, seizing wave of pure ecstasy that clenched around him, pulling his own release from him with a hoarse shout of your name that was swallowed by the steam.
He collapsed against you, his body shuddering, his face buried in the wet curve of your neck. You held him there, both of you trembling, breathless, and utterly spent, pinned between the wall and the weight of his love as the warm water cascaded over you, washing away everything but the profound, echoing peace of becoming one.
The water cascaded over you both, sealing you in this private, primal world where nothing existed but love.
--
An hour later, showered and dressed, you walked into the Tower's communal kitchen. Chaos reigned. Bucky Barnes was stoically flipping pancakes while dodging flying blueberries expertly aimed by Alexei, who was booming in Russian about American breakfast inadequacies. Bob, the only one calmed was reading a book. Ava was grabbing orange juice from the fridge. Yelena, perched on a countertop, nibbled her favorite dry cereal straight from the box, her sharp eyes missing nothing, as usual.
"Well, well," Yelena drawled, her voice cutting through the din. "Look who decided to grace the peasants with their presence. Did the lovebirds finally untangle themselves? Or are you still practicing synchronized brooding, Walker?"
John, pouring himself a truly alarming amount of black coffee, shot her a glare that could curdle milk. "Belova, if I wanted your commentary, I'd install a tiny, annoying speaker in my ear. Which, come to think of it, might be less grating."
You slid onto a stool next to Bucky, accepting a perfectly flipped pancake with a smile. "Ignore him. Heâs just grumpy because I beat him at sparring yesterday." You winked at John.
John sputtered into his coffee. "A cheap shot! You distracted me!"
"Distracted you?" You feigned innocence, fluttering your eyelashes. "By existing? How terribly inconvenient for you, Agent."
Bucky hid a smirk behind his coffee mug. Ava materialized beside you. "He does seem perpetually distracted when you're in the room, Y/N. It is⊠disgustingly alarming." Her voice held a hint of dry amusement.
"See?" you grinned triumphantly, stealing a piece of bacon from John's plate. He snatched it back playfully, his fingers brushing yours, the earlier grumpiness replaced by a fond exasperation.
Yelena hopped down, landing silently. She sauntered over to John, poking him sharply in the ribs. "Admit it, Walker. You are less⊠how to say⊠asshole? Grumpy? When your winged goddess is near." She grinned wickedly. "It is almost tolerable."
John swatted her hand away, but there was no real force behind it. A faint, reluctant smile touched his lips. "Shut up, Belova."
"Ah, see!" Alexei boomed, gesturing with a half-eaten sausage. "The American eagle smiles! It is a miracle! We must mark this day! Perhaps a parade?"
John rolled his eyes heavenward. "God, give me strength. Or better yet, give me a mission far, far away from this circus."
--
Later that afternoon, you found John on the top of the tower. He was leaning against the wall near the landed Quinjet, looking out over the city, the setting sun painting his profile in shades of gold and orange. The usual tension was back in his shoulders, a familiar weight settling over him. You approached silently, your enhanced senses picking up the subtle shift in his breathing.
"WhatÂŽs in your mind, Soldier?" you asked softly, leaning your hip against the wall beside him.
He didn't turn immediately. "Just⊠thinking about how damn normal it feels sometimes," he said, his voice low. "Having breakfast. Arguing with Belova. Watching you laugh." He finally looked at you, his blue eyes intense, vulnerable. "After everything⊠the divorce, losing Lemar, the shield, the disgrace⊠I didn't think I'd ever have normal again. Didn't think I deserved it." He reached out, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your jawline. "Then you crash-landed into my life."
You covered his hand with yours, turning your face to kiss his palm. "You deserve this, John. You deserve happiness. You're trying. Every single day. We see it. I see it."
He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. He held you tightly, as if you were his anchor in a stormy sea. "You are⊠everything, Y/N," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "My light. My sanity. My perfect, impossible angel." He tilted your chin up, his gaze searching yours. "I love you. More than I ever thought possible. Sometimes it scares the hell out of me."
"Why?" you asked, tracing the line of his stubbled jaw.
"Because losing youâŠ" He swallowed hard, the shadow of his past losses darkening his eyes for a moment. "That would destroy what's left of me."
You pressed a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips. "I'm not going anywhere, John Walker. You're stuck with me and my inconvenient wings." You stretched them slightly behind you, catching the last rays of the sun, making the silver and white blaze like captured fire. "Besides, who else would put up with your grumpy ass?"
A genuine laugh, deep and warm, rumbled in his chest. He kissed you again, deeper this time, pouring all his gratitude, his fierce devotion, his hard-won hope into it. Below, the city lights began to sparkle like scattered diamonds. Up here, wrapped in his arms, your wings a protective arc around you both, the world felt perfect. He was yours. You were his. The Tower, with its chaotic inhabitants, felt like home. The past was a scar, not an open wound. The future, bathed in the golden light of this love, seemed limitless, bright, and achingly beautiful.
This was the apex. The pinnacle of happiness, hard-earned and fiercely cherished. John Walker, the fallen soldier, the grumpy antihero, found his peace, his purpose, his redemption in the arms of his silver-winged angel. The team saw it. Yelenaâs teasing was a testament to it. Buckyâs quiet nods acknowledged it. Even Alexeiâs booming pronouncements celebrated it. Love had softened his edges, not weakened his core, but given him something precious to fight for beyond duty or vengeance.
As the last light faded, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "I'll always catch you, Angel," he vowed, his voice a low rumble of absolute certainty. "Always."
And in that suspended moment, high above the bustling city, surrounded by the quiet hum of the Tower and the warmth of the man who loved you with a ferocity that matched your own, you believed him utterly. The world was golden. The heartbreak was a specter banished to some distant, impossible future. Here, now, with Johnâs arms around you and your wings shimmering softly in the twilight, you were invincible. You were loved. You were home. The happiness wasn't just a feeling; it was a tangible force, a brilliant, blinding sun at the center of your shared universe. You kissed him again, sealing the perfection of the moment, your head tilted up, his tilted slightly down, the tip of your noses touched while you both closed your eyes and chuckled in complete happiness, blissfully unaware of how fragile that sun truly was, and how quickly twilight can descend into the deepest, most shattering night.
--
Two days later, the Tower had settled into the deep, bone-deep quiet of a Saturday evening. The week's tension had finally dissolved, leaving behind a serene, almost palpable calm. A golden, slanted light poured through the windows, not casting sharp shadows but bathing everything in a warm, syrupy glow that made the air itself feel thick and peaceful. Outside, the distant, steady murmur of the city was a gentle lullaby, a sound that spoke of weekends and rest. The very silence in the room felt soft and earned, a comfortable blanket after the noise of the week.
The steady, rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Johnâs fingers on his datapad was the only sound in the room. A soft, grey afternoon light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his room, painting everything in muted, silvery tones. He was hunched over his desk, a fortress of focus amidst the organized chaos of mission reports, tactical maps, and a half-dismantled pistol. The line of his shoulders was rigid, a familiar tension he carried when the weight of command pressed down on him.
You were curled on the large leather couch opposite him, a book open in your lap. Or, it was supposed to be open. Youâd read the same paragraph three times, the words failing to capture your attention. Your focus wasnât on the page; it was on the man at the desk. On the subtle furrow between his brows, the way his jaw was set just a little too tight.
A slow, playful smile touched your lips. The book was forgotten.
You slid off the couch with a whisper of sound, your bare feet silent on the cool floor. You padded over to him, not with any specific intent, but drawn like a moth to the quiet intensity of his flame. You stopped behind his chair, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the screen. He didnât jump, but his typing slowed. He was always hyper-aware of your presence.
âWhatâre you working on, soldier?â you murmured, your voice soft as the dusk outside.
âSupply requisition forms,â he grumbled, not taking his eyes off the screen. âThrilling stuff. Someone has to make sure Belova and Alexei donât order enough C4 to level a small country. Again.â
You hummed, resting your chin on the top of his head, your arms looping loosely around his shoulders. You could feel the knotted muscles there, hard as stone beneath his thin cotton shirt. âSeems important.â
âItâs paperwork,â he corrected, though a slight relaxation crept into his neck at your touch.
Your fingers began to move, tracing idle, soothing patterns on his chest. You felt him sigh, a slow release of breath. Encouraged, you let your hands drift up to his shoulders, your thumbs pressing gently into the tight cords of muscle at the base of his neck.
He groaned, a low, involuntary sound, and his head tipped forward slightly. âAngelâŠâ
âYouâre all knots, John,â you whispered, your lips close to his ear. âYouâve been sitting here for hours. Your spine is going to fuse into this shape.â
âIâm almost done,â he protested, but it was weak. His eyes had drifted closed.
âNo, youâre not,â you argued gently, your thumbs working a particularly stubborn knot. âYouâre just going to keep grinding your teeth until you get a headache. You need to relax.â
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. âRelaxation isnât in the job description, sweetheart.â
âWell, itâs in mine.â You straightened up and gently took the datapad from his hands, ignoring his half-hearted grunt of protest. You set it aside on the desk, screen down. Then, you took his hands in yours. âCâmon. Up.â
He allowed you to pull him to his feet, a rare, acquiescent smile playing on his lips. âBossy today.â
âOnly when my favorite soldier is being stubborn,â you led him a few steps to the couch and pushed him down gently until he was sitting. âTurn around. Scoot forward.â
He obeyed, a look of bemused curiosity on his face as he settled himself on the edge of the couch, presenting his back to you. You climbed onto the cushions behind him, kneeling so you were level with his shoulders.
Your hands found their place again, but this time with purpose. You started slowly, kneading the formidable muscles of his shoulders and back through his shirt. He was solid, powerful, a landscape of earned strength and carried tension.
âChrist,â he breathed out, his entire frame seeming to sag under your touch. âYour hands are magic.â
You smiled, focusing on your work. You used the heels of your palms, your fingers, your thumbs, working out the tension with a firm, steady pressure you knew he could take. You felt him unravel beneath your touch, muscle by locked muscle. The only sounds were his deepening breaths and the soft rustle of fabric.
After a long, quiet while, you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his chest from behind and resting your cheek against his back. You could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart. âBetter?â you whispered.
He covered one of your hands with his own, his calloused fingers lacing through yours. âWorld's better.â He turned his head slightly, his stubble brushing your temple. âThank you, Angel.â
You kissed his shoulder blade through the shirt and untangled yourself, moving to sit beside him. âAnytime.â
But he wasnât done. A thoughtful look crossed his face, that intense focus now turned entirely on you. âMy turn.â
âYour turn for what?â
In one smooth, effortless motion, he shifted, turning to face you. His hands went to your waist, and he lifted you, pulling you onto his lap so you were straddling him. Before you could process the movement, he twisted you both, laying you down lengthwise on the couch cushions with a soft oomph. He settled himself at the other end, his back against the armrest, and gently tugged until your legs were draped over his lap.
âHey!â you laughed, propping yourself up on your elbows. âWhat are you doing?â
âReturning the favor,â he said, his voice a low, affectionate rumble. His hands settled on your calves, his thumbs immediately finding the tension there. âYouâre always on your feet. Or in the air. These,â he said, squeezing gently, âdeserve some attention too.â
Your protest died in your throat. His touch was⊠exquisite. Firm and knowing, he began to massage one leg, starting from the ankle and working his way up to your thigh. It wasnât a prelude to anything else, yet; it was purely, simply, an act of reciprocated care. An intimate offering.
You melted into the cushions, a soft sigh escaping you. âOh⊠wow. Okay. You win.â
He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. âI do have talented hands. Good for more than just field-stripping a rifle.â
âIâll say,â I mumbled, your eyes fluttering closed. The rhythm of his hands was hypnotic. He paid attention to every part, from the arch of your foot to the tight muscle of your calf, his fingers working out aches you didnât even know you had.
You lapsed into a comfortable silence, the grey light deepening into twilight. The city below began to sparkle, a distant, glittering world that felt a million miles away from your quiet cocoon.
âYou know,â he said after a long while, his voice soft, âI used to hate quiet moments.â
You opened your eyes to look at him. His gaze was on your leg, his expression contemplative, almost tender. âYeah?â
âMhm. Silence meant the noise in your own head was too loud. The failures. The regrets.â His thumb pressed a perfect circle into your calf. âIt was⊠lonely.â
Your heart ached for the man he used to be. âAnd now?â
He looked up then, and his blue eyes found yours, clear and utterly focused. The storm in them was calm, replaced by a depth of feeling that still, after all this time, stole your breath.
âNow,â he said, his voice barely above a whisper, âthe silence is my favorite place to be. As long as youâre in it with me.â
The honesty in his words, the raw vulnerability he offered so freely only to you, filled the room with a warmth that had nothing to do with the setting sun. This was the real John Walker. Not the US Agent, not the gruff soldier, but the man. The man who carried the world on his shoulders but found his peace with his hands on your skin.
âItâs my favorite place, too,â you whispered back.
He held my gaze for a long moment, a silent conversation passing between you two. Then, a slow, lazy, utterly real smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. âGood.â
He returned his attention to your legs, his touch gentler now, more of a caress than a massage. His gaze followed the path of his hands with a kind of rapt fascination, as if memorizing the landscape of you. He loved thisâthe quiet intimacy of it, the privilege of having your trust so completely that he could worship you in these small, profound ways. He loved the feel of your legsâlong, smooth, and impossibly soft against his work-roughened palms. He loved the subtle strength in them, the power that could launch you into the sky, now resting so pliant and trusting in his lap. His eyes darkened with a soft, possessive awe as he watched his hands slowly glide up your calf, over the gentle curve of your knee, and along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You closed your eyes again, surrendering to the sheer, pleasant sensation of being adored so thoroughly.
The atmosphere began to shift, almost imperceptibly at first. The caring massage slowed, the firm pressure of his thumbs softening into something more deliberate, more intimate. His hands grew bolder, the strokes becoming languid caresses that lingered on the softest parts of your skin. Then you felt itâthe warm, soft press of his lips against your ankle. A kiss, so gentle it was almost a whisper. Then another, a fraction higher on your calf. He was mapping your skin with his mouth, a slow, tender pilgrimage up your leg. Each kiss was a brand of devotion, a silent promise spoken against your flesh. The sensation was exquisite, a trail of fire following the path of his lips, warming you from the inside out.
A soft, involuntary gasp escaped you as his mouth reached the sensitive hollow behind your knee. Your eyes flew open. The comfortable haze of relaxation was gone, burned away by a new, electric current that crackled in the air between you. Your gaze met his, and the look you found there stole the air from your lungs. His eyes were no longer soft with contemplation; they were dark, intense, blazing with a fire that mirrored the one now roaring to life within you. The silent question in them was answered by the heat in your own. The intimate care had seamlessly, inevitably, transformed into a different kind of worshipâone of pure, consuming desire.
âThe team is going to wonder where we disappeared to,â you mused, your voice now a husky whisper, the words feeling irrelevant in the face of the tension thrumming between you.
âThe team is going to wonder where we disappeared to,â you mused, content to stay right there forever.
âLet them wonder,â he said, his tone playful and possessive. âAlexei can boom at someone else. Bucky can brood unsupervised. Yelena can find someone elseâs coffee to threaten.â His hand slid down to your ankle, his thumb stroking the delicate bone there. âIâm exactly where Iâm supposed to be.â
His lips continued their achingly slow ascent, his hands smoothing a path up your thighs, over the soft, worn cotton of your shorts. Your breathing hitched, growing shallower, and your heart began to drum a frantic, eager rhythm against your ribsâa rhythm you were sure was audible in the sudden, thick silence of the room.
He heard it. Of course he did.
His lips were pressed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath a hot ghost through the thin fabric, when he went perfectly still. He didnât look up. He simply listened, a slight, predatory smile touching his mouth where it met your skin.
âI can hear it,â he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your flesh that made you shiver. âYour heart. Itâs beating so fast.â His thumb stroked a slow, maddening circle on your other thigh. âAnd your breathing⊠Itâs changed. It hitches every time I get⊠here.â To emphasize his point, he let his lips brush against the exact same spot, a feather-light touch that had you arching off the cushions with a sharp intake of air.
The intimacy of it was overwhelming, devastating. He wasnât just touching you; he was listening to your bodyâs most primal, involuntary responses to him. He was attuned to every shudder, every skipped beat, every soft gasp, and he cherished each one like a secret only the two of you shared. It was the most exposed and cherished you had ever felt.
A weak, breathless laugh escaped you, a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control in the face of his utterly disarming intensity. âWell,â you managed, your voice trembling, âyou did say you were⊠talented with your hands.â You paused, swallowing hard as his fingers traced the hem of your shorts. âI guess I should have asked if your⊠other assets⊠were just as⊠proficient.â
The effect was instantaneous. A deep, rich chuckle rumbled from his chest, the sound vibrating through you. He finally lifted his head, his blue eyes dark with promise and gleaming with wicked amusement. He looked entirely captivated.
âIs that a challenge, Angel?â he asked, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that never failed to liquefy your bones. He shifted his weight, moving over you with a fluid, predatory grace that made your breath catch all over again. He caged you between his arms, his face inches from yours, his gaze holding yours captive.
âBecause,â he continued, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his whisper a sinful, delicious threat, âif youâre conducting a full performance review of my⊠assets⊠I feel obligated to point outâŠâ His hand slid from your thigh, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your cotton shorts. ââŠmy mouth is arguably my greatest talent.â
The promise in those words, spoken against your skin, burned away the last vestiges of thought. There was no more teasing, no more city lights, no more world outside. There was only him, the overwhelming certainty of his touch.
The challenge hung in the air, a delicious, electric charge between you. His words, a sinful whisper against your ear, were a promise that shattered the last of your composure. You saw the dark, possessive gleam in his eyes a second before he moved.
There was no more teasing. The need was too urgent, a live wire sparking between you. His mouth found yours in an all-consuming kiss. It wasn't gentle or questioning; it was a claiming, a desperate, passionate seal of everything that had been building. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met him with equal fervor, tasting the promise heâd just made.
True to his word, his hand slid beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts, his fingersâthose incredibly skilled, knowing fingersâdipping lower. A broken cry was torn from your throat against his lips as he found the slick, aching heart of you. His touch was not tentative; it was confident, exact, a master playing an instrument he knew intimately. He drew a rhythm from you that had you bucking against his hand, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders.
But he was a man of his word, intent on a full demonstration. His mouth left yours, trailing a searing path down your jaw to the frantic pulse pounding in your neck. He lavished attention there, with lips, tongue, and the gentle scrape of teeth, each sensation layering over the exquisite torture his hand was delivering. You were unraveling, completely at the mercy of his devastating proficiency.
His fingers entered your core. There was no more time to waste. Your back arched responding to him. He didnât wait; he didnât need to. His fingers moved inside you nonstop, feeling how wet you were for him.
âJohnâŠâ you gasped, the word a ragged plea. You could feel the hard ridge of his desire pressed against you, and it was all you could think about. The layers of fabric were an intolerable barrier. âPlease⊠I need you. Right now. I need to feel you.â
It was all the command he needed. The âpleaseâ shattered the last of his control. With a growl that vibrated through your very core, he obeyed. His hands, trembling with a reined-in urgency, made quick work of your clothes, peeling away the soft cotton shorts and everything beneath with a reverence that belied his speed. He shed his own with a few efficient, sharp movements, never breaking the intense, heated lock of his gaze with yours.
And then, skin met skin.
The sensation was electric, a shock of pure, undiluted heat. His body was a solid, warm weight atop you, every hard plane and defined muscle aligning with your softer curves. You melted into the couch cushions beneath him, a perfect fit. He kissed you again, hard and deep, pouring every ounce of his love, his desire, his soul into that connection.
He entered you in one slow, devastatingly perfect stroke that stole the breath from both your lungs. There was no rush, only the profound, breathtaking sensation of becoming one. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut as if in prayer. The only sound was your shared, ragged breathing.
âI love you,â he breathed, the words a raw, broken vow against your lips.
Then he began to move. It was a slow, deep, rocking rhythm that was pure, unadulterated love made physical. Each removal was a sweet agony, each thrust a homecoming. His eyes never left yours, the blue depths holding a universe of emotionâawe, devotion, a tenderness so fierce it brought tears to your eyes. This was more than passion; this was communion. This was John, showing you with his entire body and soul exactly how much he loved you, how he cherished you, how you were his whole world. The city lights blurred into distant stars outside the window, witnesses to the silent, sacred promise being renewed in the quiet twilight of the room.
--
The metallic tang of blood, the ozone sting of discharged energy weapons, and the pervasive grit of concrete dust clung to them like a second skin as the Quinjet settled into the Towerâs hangar bay. The mission had been a success â a Hydra cell dismantled, hostages freed â but it had been messy. Close-quarters combat in crumbling warehouses rarely ended without souvenirs.
John Walker moved stiffly beside you, the usual arrogant swagger replaced by a weary determination. A deep gash marred his left bicep, courtesy of a reinforced knife, and angry purple bruising was already blooming across his ribs where a concussive burst had caught him off-guard. His uniform was torn and smeared with grime, his jaw set in a familiar line of pain heâd never admit to. The team dispersed with tired nods â Bucky heading straight for the showers, Alexei loudly proclaiming his need for vodka and a hot bath, Yelena giving John a pointed, assessing look before vanishing with Ghost.
You matched Johnâs pace as he limped towards the elevator, your own wings a dull ache beneath your skin from rapid maneuvers and shielding blows. Your enhanced senses picked up the hitch in his breath with every other step, the subtle tremor in his right hand. "Your room," you stated softly, not a question but a gentle command. "Now."
He grunted, a non-committal sound, but didnât argue. The defiance that usually sparked in his blue eyes was dimmed by fatigue and pain. The elevator ride was silent, the only sound the hum of machinery and Johnâs controlled breathing. When the doors slid open on his floor, the familiar scent of leather, gun oil, and him enveloped you â a stark contrast to the battlefield stench.
His room was tidy, functional. A large bed, a weapons locker, a sturdy desk strewn with tactical reports. No frills, no lingering ghosts of his past life beyond the invisible weight he carried. He leaned heavily against the doorframe as you closed the door behind you, the city lights painting stripes of gold and silver across the floor.
"Alright, Soldier," you said, your voice a low murmur that filled the quiet space. You stepped closer, your fingers brushing the torn fabric near his bicep. The wound beneath was ugly, deep, still oozing sluggishly. "Undress. Let me see the damage."
A flicker of his usual stubbornness surfaced. "I'm fine. Just need a shower and some tape." He tried to straighten, wincing immediately as the movement pulled at his ribs.
You didn't budge. You simply looked up at him, your gaze steady, unwavering, filled with a quiet authority born of love and concern. "John," you said, his name a soft plea and an unyielding order all at once. "Undress. Please."
The fight drained out of him. He sighed, a rough exhale, and began the laborious process of peeling off the damaged tactical suit. The Kevlar suit hit the floor with a thud, followed by the undershirt, sticky with sweat and blood. Revealed, the extent of the injuries was clearer. The gash on his bicep was indeed deep, needing stitches no medic could match. The bruising across his ribs was a sprawling, violent map of purple and black, promising fractured bone beneath. Smaller cuts and abrasions marked his knuckles and chest.
He sank onto the edge of the bed with a low groan, the springs protesting softly. The city lights cast long shadows across the powerful planes of his chest and shoulders, highlighting the tension in every corded muscle, the stark white of older scars against tanned skin. He looked exhausted, vulnerable in a way few ever witnessed.
You moved then, stepping smoothly between his knees. The proximity was intimate, grounding. You placed your hands gently on his shoulders, feeling the tremor running through him. "Breathe," you instructed softly. "Just breathe."
Closing your eyes for a moment, you centered yourself. Then, you brought your hands to the worst injury â the gash on his bicep. Your fingertips hovered just above the ragged edges of skin. A soft, warm golden light began to emanate from your palms, gentle as dawn but potent. It wasn't blinding; it was a comforting radiance that filled the space between you.
John sucked in a sharp breath as the light touched his skin. Not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming sensation of it. It was warmth that sank deep into his marrow, a soothing balm that chased away the sharp, grating agony. He watched, utterly transfixed, as the light intensified slightly where your fingers traced the edges of the wound. The torn flesh seemed to shimmer, the ragged edges softening, knitting together with impossible speed. Blood flow ceased instantly. New skin, pink and healthy, flowed like liquid silk over the injury, leaving only a faint, silvery line where moments before there had been a gaping cut.
His gaze wasn't on the miracle happening to his arm. It was locked on you. On the intense concentration etching your beautiful features â the slight furrow between your brows, the soft part of your lips as you focused your energy. The golden glow reflected in your eyes, making them look like molten amber. Strands of hair escaped your usual style, framing your face. He saw the absolute care in your touch, the deep well of power harnessed solely for his healing, his comfort.
You shifted your attention lower, your hands hovering over the brutal bruising on his ribs. The golden light pulsed gently, sinking into the discolored flesh. The deep, sickening purple began to lighten, fading through blues and greens to a faint yellow before disappearing entirely. The underlying ache, the sharp protest of fractured bone, dissolved under the tender onslaught of your power, replaced by a profound sense of wholeness and warmth. You smoothed your hands lightly over the now unblemished skin, feeling the solidity of healed bone and muscle beneath your fingertips.
The silence was profound, thick with unspoken emotion. The only sounds were your soft breaths and the distant hum of the Tower. You worked meticulously, moving to the smaller cuts on his knuckles, the abrasions on his chest, your touch feather-light, the healing glow a constant, gentle pulse. He remained still, his breathing evened out, his eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every detail. The curve of your cheek, the sweep of your lashes, the determined set of your jaw. He saw the faint sheen of effort on your skin, the subtle concentration that spoke of the energy this took, even for you.
The sheer magnitude of what he felt â the awe, the gratitude, the overwhelming, terrifying love â built inside his chest like a physical pressure. It was more potent than any adrenaline rush, more profound than any victory. It threatened to crack open the hardened shell heâd spent years building. He watched your hands, so capable and gentle, erase the evidence of the fight, and he felt something fragile and precious shatter within him, not broken, but finally set free.
You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch; he wasn't watching the healing light; he was staring at you.
Your eyes met his, once, twice, a silent question hanging in the charged air. Finally, you murmured, "What?" He didn't look away, his piercing blue eyes holding yours for a long, potent moment before his voice, rough with residual pain but utterly sincere, filled the space: "God, you are so beautiful." A slight, almost shy smile touched your lips. "You said it like I'm holy." His expression didn't waver; it deepened, becoming fiercely intense, utterly serious as he answered, the words a quiet vow: "You are to me." The hum of your power seemed to soften, absorbed into the profound stillness his declaration created.
Your hands stilled for a fraction of a second on a nearly healed abrasion near his collarbone. You looked up, meeting his gaze. The intensity in his blue eyes stole your breath. It wasn't just admiration; it was pure, unadulterated reverence. Awe. A love so deep it seemed to radiate from him, mirroring the golden light fading from your hands.
A soft, warm smile touched your lips, reaching your eyes, and your cheeks flushed. "Flattery won't get you out of trouble, John," you murmured, but your voice was thick with emotion. You finished smoothing away the last trace of injury on his knuckles, your touch lingering.
He caught your hand before you could pull away, his calloused fingers wrapping around yours. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss there that was infinitely tender. "It's not flattery," he rasped, his voice rough with feeling. "It's the truth. Watching you... what you do... what you are..." He shook his head, struggling to articulate the maelstrom inside him. "I've never... Christ, Y/N, I've never felt like this. Ever." His other hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb stroking the curve. "You heal more than just the cuts and bruises, Angel. You heal... me."
Tears pricked your eyes, but they were tears of profound happiness. You leaned into his touch. "Then be more careful," you whispered, the worry youâd held back surfacing in your voice. "Please, John. Seeing you hurt... it tears me apart." You looked directly into his eyes, your gaze serious, loving. "I know the job is dangerous. I know youâre a soldier. But try. For me. Because I love you too damn much to lose you to recklessness."
The raw vulnerability in your plea, the depth of your fear mirroring his own deepest terror, hit him like a physical blow. He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, drawing you fully into the space between his knees. He buried his face against your stomach, inhaling the scent of you â sunshine, jasmine â mingled with the faint, clean scent your healing power left behind.
"I promise," he mumbled against your shirt, his voice muffled but fierce. "I swear, Angel. I'll try." He lifted his head, his eyes blazing with a love so intense it was almost frightening. "You're my light. My reason. Losing you isn't an option." He pulled you down into a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of that terrifying, overwhelming love into it. It was a vow, a prayer, a desperate anchor in the storm of his emotions.
Your wings, hidden but always present, seemed to hum with the shared energy, the profound connection. He stood so his lips found yours with desperate tenderness, the golden city lights painting your embrace, and the battlefield was forgotten. There was only this: the healed soldier, the healing angel, bound by scars both seen and unseen, and a love so powerful it felt like it could mend the very fabric of their broken worlds. In the quiet aftermath of violence, tenderness reigned, more potent than any super-soldier serum, more beautiful than any silver wing. He held you like you were his salvation, and in that moment, bathed in the soft glow of recovered peace, you both knew it was true.
--
The first, pearly light of dawn of a new day was just beginning to bleed through the high windows of John Walkerâs room, painting the world in soft shades of grey and rose. The city below was a hushed murmur, a distant heartbeat. You lie on your stomach, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting near your head, lost in the deep, peaceful sleep that only comes with absolute security. The sheets were a soft tangle around your hips, leaving your back bare â a smooth, flawless expanse of skin that seemed to drink in the nascent light.
John stirred beside you. Unlike you, his sleep was often fractured, haunted by echoes of the past. But this morning, he woke not to a nightmare, but to paradise. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, blinked open, adjusting to the dimness. His gaze immediately found you, the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the elegant slope of your shoulders. A profound sense of peace, still novel enough to feel miraculous, washed over him.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his movements deliberately silent. His gaze traced you with a reverence that bordered on the sacred. This. This was what he fought for. This peace. This beauty. You.
He couldnât resist. With infinite tenderness, he lowered his head. His lips, warm and slightly chapped, brushed against the delicate skin just below your shoulder blade. It wasnât a kiss demanding anything; it was an offering. A silent hymn of adoration. You murmured in your sleep, a sound like distant thunder, a vibration of pure contentment against his lips.
Encouraged, he continued his pilgrimage. His lips traveled slowly, deliberately, along the path of your spine. Each kiss was a soft press, a benediction whispered onto your skin. Between the kisses, his hands began to move. His fingers, calloused and strong from countless battles, traced patterns of exquisite gentleness. He skimmed over the subtle ridge of your shoulder blade, his palm smoothing down the dip of your waist, his thumb rubbing slow, hypnotic circles just above the curve of your hip. He mapped the territory of your back with a loverâs intimate knowledge, rediscovering every beloved inch of your sleep-warmed, silk-smooth skin in the pearly light of dawn, his fingers occasionally pausing to gently gather the spill of your hair and draw it aside like a curtain, ensuring nothing obstructed his reverent exploration.
"You're perfect," he breathed the words against the small of your back, his voice a low, sleep-roughened rasp that vibrated through your core. "So damn perfect, Angel." His hand slid up, spanning your back possessively, his warmth seeping into you. "My perfect girl."
A soft, involuntary purr rumbled in your chest, escaping your lips as a contented sigh. You shifted slightly, pressing back almost imperceptibly into his touch, into the shelter of his large hand. "Mmmph... JohnâŠ" Your voice was thick with sleep, muffled by the pillow. "S'early... sun's barely up." You cracked one eye open, peering blearily over your shoulder.
He met your sleepy gaze, a soft, almost shy smile playing on his lips â a rare expression reserved solely for these private dawn moments. "Didn't mean to wake you," he murmured, his fingers never stopping their gentle exploration, tracing the subtle definition along your side. "Go back to sleep. I'm just... appreciating the view." He punctuated this with another kiss, this time on the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, eliciting another soft sigh from you. "And leaving a few reminders of who you belong to."
A sleepy laugh escaped you, turning into a yawn. "Reminders, huh? Like a big, blonde, grumpy claim tag?" You wriggled slightly, trying to turn, but his hand on your back held you gently in place.
"Exactly like that," he affirmed, his voice laced with amusement and a deep, possessive affection. He continued his ministrations, his lips finding the curve of your shoulder, his hand now sliding down to rest possessively on your hip, his thumb stroking the soft skin just above the sheet line. "Best view in the whole damn Tower. Better than the skyline. Better than anything."
You relaxed back into the mattress, surrendering to the sheer luxury of his touch. "Flatterer," you mumbled, but the smile was evident in your voice. "You just like having a warm pillow."
"Warm, beautiful, perfect pillow," he corrected, nuzzling the back of your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair and skin â sleep and comfort and home. "Who purrs when kissed properly."
"Only because your stubble tickles," you retorted, though the purring sound started up again as he deliberately rubbed his cheek against your shoulder blade.
A comfortable silence descended, filled only with the soft sounds of the waking city and their breathing. His hands continued their worshipful journey, learning your contours anew with each pass. "Did I ever tell you," he began, his voice a low rumble against your skin, "that Lemar would have absolutely adored you?"
You stilled slightly, touched by the mention of his lost friend. "No," you whispered.
"Yeah," John said softly, his fingers tracing a slow circle on your back. "He'd have teased me mercilessly about how whipped I am." A small, genuine chuckle escaped him. "But he'd have loved your spirit. Your fire. The way you don't take any of my shit." His hand tightened slightly on your hip. "He'd be glad... so damn glad... that I found you." You didnÂŽt know what to say to that. John had told you everything about his friend, but you knew they were all good friends with his ex-wife since they were younger. You doubted the possibility that his friend would want a woman other than JohnÂŽs ex-wife to be with him.
John noticed your silence and hesitation. He knew you too well to know what was going through your mind. "Hey," he said, his hand resting on your chin and turning your head back, enough to look into your eyes. He was silent for a moment, then he gently talked, "He knew and saw that I loved my marriage the best I could, and when it ended, I felt like I was in the dark and would stay there forever. Alone. But I know he'd be happy for me if he could see me now. Because I don't feel alone and I'm not in that darkness anymore. You got me out, you gave me hope. I'm really happy, and I know he would have liked you."
Tears pricked your eyes as you smiled. "I wish I could have met him," you said softly.
"Me too, Angel. Me too." He kissed your shoulder blade again, a kiss that held both sorrow and profound gratitude. His gesture encompassed the room, the bed, and you.
You finally managed to twist gently under his touch, turning onto your side to face him. Dawn light caught in his blonde hair, turning it into a halo, and illuminated the deep blue of his eyes, filled with a love so raw and overwhelming it stole your breath. Your wings, compressed but always present, hummed with the shared emotion.
"Hey," you whispered, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead.
"Hey," he echoed, his gaze drinking you in â your sleep-soft face, your eyes still heavy-lidded, your lips slightly parted. The possessiveness in his eyes softened into pure, tender adoration. He leaned in slowly, deliberately. His lips met yours not with hunger, but with a breathtaking tenderness. It was a kiss of reverence, of homecoming, a silent communication of everything words couldn't possibly hold. Soft, lingering, exploring the familiar contours with infinite care. A sigh escaped you, melting into him.
For long moments, there was only this: the soft meeting of lips, the shared breath, the gentle pressure. The world outside the Tower ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of the bed, the scent of each other, and the profound connection thrumming between you both.
Then, inevitably, beautifully, the tenderness deepened. The kiss grew less tentative, more assured. His hand slid from your hip to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair. Your own hand came up to rest against his stubbled cheek. The soft exploration gave way to a slow-building heat, a familiar spark igniting. The gentle pressure increased, lips parting slightly, inviting a deeper connection. The kiss became a slow, passionate dance, a languid search fueled by the depth of your love and the intimacy of the shared dawn. It was a promise, a reaffirmation, a silent vow whispered in the language of touch and taste.
The early morning light gilded your entwined forms as the kiss deepened further, a slow burn replacing the gentle embers. Then his arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him, eliminating any space between you. His hand went then to your neck, his thumb caressing your pulse point, feeling the pulse rising. The world outside the room, the Tower, the city, the future with its potential heartbreak â it all faded into insignificance. Here, in this sanctuary of tangled sheets and shared breath, bathed in the soft glow of dawn and the incandescent light of your love, there was only John and his Angel. Hearts impossibly full, bodies speaking the language words could never fully capture, lost in the exquisite, tender, and increasingly passionate devotion of the morning. The grumpy soldier was gone. In his place was a man utterly, irrevocably, gloriously in love, worshipping his goddess with every touch and every kiss.
The deep dawn kiss quickly flared into an inferno. His kisses were impossibly deeper, hungrier, stealing your breath and replacing it with the taste of him. His hands grew more demanding, roaming your back again and again, tracing the dip of your spine, the curve of your hip, the swell of your backside, your thigh. Each touch was electric, sending shivers cascading over your skin despite the warmth radiating from him.
He broke the kiss for a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours, blue eyes dark with desire, pupils blown wide. His gaze traced your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. A familiar, wicked smirk played on his lips, the one that promised trouble.
"Y'know, Angel," he rasped, his voice rough, sending another delicious tremor through you. His hand slid lower again, possessively cupping your backside, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. "All this worshipping... got me thinking about altars." His smirk deepened, pure, unadulterated Walker mischief. "And how much I'd love to have you spread out on mine."
"John Walker!" Your eyes flew wide in mock scandal, but a helpless, breathless laugh bubbled up instantly, followed by a fierce blush that spread from your cheeks down your neck. The heat pooling low in your belly flared violently at his filthy, irreverent words. You swatted lightly at his shoulder, but the effect was ruined by the huge, involuntary smile splitting your face and the way your body instinctively arched into his touch.
He chuckled, a low, dark sound of pure satisfaction that vibrated against your skin. He knew. He always knew. He saw the spark in your eyes, the way your breath caught, the flush that had nothing to do with indignation. He knew the sweet, confident woman he loved secretly thrived on his crude, adoring brand of possessiveness. "What?" he rumbled, leaning in to nip playfully at your earlobe, his stubble scraping deliciously. "Just stating theological facts. You are divine. Requires proper veneration. Thoroughly." His hand flexed again, pulling you tighter against the hard evidence of his own devotion.
The combination of his words, his touch, and that infuriatingly knowing smirk shattered your last vestige of restraint. The heat inside you wasn't just burning; it was a supernova demanding release. A slow, deliberate smile curved your own lips, matching his mischief with your own boldness. You held his smoldering gaze, biting your lower lip â a gesture you knew drove him wild.
Then, with a fluid grace that always captivated him, you moved. Leveraging your strength and agility, you pushed against his chest just enough to create space, then swung a leg over his hips. In one smooth motion, you were straddling him, settling firmly onto his lap, pinning him beneath you on the rumpled sheets. The dawn light haloed your form, casting your face in soft gold and shadow.
Johnâs breath hitched audibly. His hands flew to your hips, gripping them instantly, his gaze locked on yours, surprise and intense approval warring in his eyes. The smirk softened into something deeper, more primal â pure, awestruck desire. "Well, hello there," he breathed, his voice thick. His hands slid up your sides, mapping the warm skin of your waist, your ribs. "Taking charge, Angel? Didn't know morning prayers could get this... interactive."
You leaned down, bracing your hands on his solid chest, feeling the powerful beat of his heart beneath your palms. "Maybe I'm tired of just being worshipped," you murmured, your voice husky, trailing a finger down the center of his chest. "Maybe I want to do some claiming of my own." His breathing started to increase, and you haven't done anything yet.
âBesides,â you said, whispering, âdidn't you say you'd love to see me spread out on your altar?â His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard. You lowered your head, brushing your lips against his in a feather-light tease that was pure torture. Part of your hair fell over your right shoulder, gently caressing his face. "This grumpy soldier... he's mine. Isn't he?"
A groan tore from his throat, part surrender, part fierce agreement. "Christ, yes," he growled, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you down completely into a searing kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a collision of heat and need, a desperate affirmation. His tongue plunged into your mouth, claiming, demanding. His hands were everywhere â tangling in your hair, gripping your hips to grind you against the hard ridge of his arousal, sliding up to grab the weight of your breast, his thumbs finding your peaked nipples and rubbing slow, maddening circles.
The world narrowed to the feel of him beneath you, the taste of him, the sounds he made â low groans, rough whispers of your name, the sharp intake of breath when you rocked against him just right. His earlier sarcasm was gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered need and adoration. "God, you feel so fucking good," he gasped against your lips, breaking the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. "Perfect. Mine." He punctuated the word with a sharp nip at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, making you cry out, arching into him.
Your hand moved between you, gently grabbing his cock, stroking a few times, his eyes closed instantly, feeling the pleasure of your touch. You positioned him at your entrance and slowly lowered yourself onto him, feeling him enter every inch until he was completely inside you, making you feel a delicious yet sharp pleasure. You waited a moment, looking down at him; his eyes were now dangerously on you. His eyes roam over your body, delighting in every detail. Starting with your hungry gaze, parted lips, your delicate neck and throat exposed, strands of your hair falling over your shoulders, and your arms held forward, holding you against his chest, forcing your delicate breasts together. Your beautiful, perfect, warm body, the soft curve of your waist, your flat stomach, the valley below your navel, and your strong, delicate, and smooth legs. And of course, that beautiful physical connection that was already driving him wild.
You began to move, slowly, delicately up and then down, feeling his cock enter you each time. He was so hard, and you were already wet. You both never needed too much to be ready; the love and desire you felt for each other were amazing. Your gaze never left his as you gained speed in your movements. Your hands then rested on his at your hips, allowing him to see everything completely.
He could see every time his cock disappeared into your warm pussy, hear every moan that escaped your mouth as his cock filled you deliciously as your hips lowered. After a beautiful, agonizing moment of slow, careful movements, you began to go faster. Your breasts bounced up and down. It was an extraordinary view. âJesus Christ,â he moaned.
You met his passion with your own, rolling your hips in a deliberate rhythm that had him cursing fervently. Your hands explored again the hard planes of his chest, his shoulders, the powerful cords of his neck, learning him anew in this position of delicious dominance.
"Say it again, say IÂŽm yours," you demanded breathlessly, capturing his lips once more, your kiss fierce and possessive.
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with love, lust, and utter surrender. His hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with surprising tenderness amidst the frenzy. "You're mine, Y/N,â he vowed, his voice raw, stripped bare. "My Angel. My heart. My impossible, perfect woman." He surged up, capturing your lips again in a kiss that was both a claiming and a surrender, a desperate prayer and a fervent answer. "All mine."
The playful power dynamic â the teasing jabs, the sarcastic retorts that defined so much of your daily rhythm â dissolved like mist under the dawn sun. What remained was pure, unadulterated passion, a desperate joining of mouths and bodies that spoke a language older than words. Lips met in a fierce, consuming kiss, tasting of shared breath and whispered promises tangled with low moans. His groan vibrated against your mouth as you shifted, the slick heat between your bodies intensifying the connection. He looked up at you, eyes darkened to stormy blue, reflecting the pale morning light and something far deeper: raw, unguarded awe mixed with fierce, tender possession. It was the look he reserved only for you, the look that laid bare the grumpy soldierâs soul and revealed the devoted man beneath.
As you moved above him, finding a rhythm as ancient as the tides, he suddenly stilled you, his hands framing your face. You looked at him, surprised, and before you could ask what happened, his thumb brushed your kiss-swollen lip, his gaze intense, vulnerable. "Angel," he rasped, his voice rough with need and emotion. "Let them out. Please. I want to see you... all of you. I want to feel you like this."
A tremor of vulnerability, chased instantly by a surge of trust, ran through you. You closed your eyes, focusing inward. With a soft, silken whoosh that seemed to echo the beating of your hearts, your wings unfurled. Moonlight on mercury, edged with intricate, glowing white patterns, filled the space above the bed, spanning wide and majestic. The early sun caught the silver, scattering prismatic shards of light across the rumpled sheets and Johnâs sweat-sheened skin.
The sight stole his breath. "Christ..." he breathed, utterly transfixed.
Then you moved again, riding him with the full, glorious expanse of your wings spread wide behind you. From beneath you, Johnâs perspective was nothing short of transcendent. He loved this view, even more with your beautiful wings in full display. It was a sight of pure ecstasy and sin, savage and beautiful. Extremely erotic. Your delicate form arched, bathed in golden light, your head tilted back, throat exposed in a perfect line of surrender and frenzy. Your breasts moved with the rhythm, a mesmerizing bounce that spoke of life and abandon, your skin exquisitely sweaty. But it was the wings that completed the vision, framing your body like a living sculpture, powerful and ethereal. They werenât separate; they were an extension of you, of the passion flowing between you. He could feel the faint stir of air they created, see the subtle shift of muscles in your back controlling them, and sense the immense power held in graceful check. He watched, utterly rapt, as you became a vision of divine sensuality â fierce, beautiful, and utterly free.
"Look at you," he breathed, the words thick with emotion. "My God... you're not just beautiful. You're a goddess." The words tore from him, raw and reverent, not a whisper but a declaration ripped from the depths of his soul. There was no doubt, no hesitation. Seeing you like this â powerful, vulnerable, surrendering and claiming him simultaneously, your wings a testament to the miraculous being you were â shattered any last barrier. You weren't just beautiful; you were holy. A goddess made flesh, choosing him. His hands slid down to grip your hips, not to control, but to anchor himself in the face of such overwhelming awe, to feel every shift, every tremor, every pulse of connection as you moved together.
âFuck!â he groaned.
The sensation was overwhelming. The silken heat where your bodies joined, the cool brush of dawn air contrasting with the furnace of your combined heat, the faint, clean scent of your feathers mingling with the musk of lovemaking. The visual feast of your body moving above him, the wings casting shifting patterns of light. The sound of your shared breaths, your moans, his groans, the soft rustle of feathers against the sheets. Every sense was saturated, every nerve ending alight. The profound hum of your wings seemed to resonate with the frantic beat of your hearts, amplifying every touch, every thrust, into something beyond physical sensation. It was a merging of body and soul, a communion where laughter had no place, only gasps, sighs, and the profound, wordless language of two souls utterly, irrevocably entwined.
Your movements were a study in devastating leisure, a slow, hypnotic, consuming ride that was all your own. You used the full, graceful length of your body, rising until he was almost free before sinking back down with a luxurious, weighty finality that stole his breath, each descent a step closer to his blissful ruin.
The rhythm between you shifted, deepening from exploration to urgent necessity. Every nerve ignitedâthe slick, molten heat where their bodies joined, the delicious friction coiling tension low in your belly, the answering pressure building in his hips with every lift and fall. His hands, rough yet reverent, slid from your hips to your waist, thumbs pressing into the dip above your pelvis, grounding you as you moved. Your wings trembled, then flared wider with a powerful sweep, catching the golden light, the rush of displaced air cool against your feverish skin. âOh God, John!â You gasped, head falling back further, exposing your body to him as the sensation crestedâa brilliant, tightening spiral. He felt it too, the inevitable pull, his groan vibrating through your core as his fingers dug possessively into your flesh. "Look at me, Angel," he rasped, voice shattered. Your eyes, dark with ecstasy, snapped to his, locking onto the storm of awe and desperate love you found there. That connection, the raw vulnerability in his gaze, shattered your last restraint. A cry tore from your lipsânot of pain, but of pure, unadulterated releaseâas your inner muscles clenched around him in rhythmic waves, the silken walls fluttering wildly. The sight, the feel of your soaring above him, wings arched like a raptorâs in the moment of triumph, your cry echoing his name, undid him completely. With a guttural shout that was pure surrender, he thrust up one final, powerful time, spilling himself deep within you, his own release a hot, pulsing counterpoint to your tremors. Pleasure detonated through him, white-hot and all-consuming, radiating outwards until his vision blurred at the edges, leaving only the image of his goddess, radiant and claimed, burned into his soul. For endless, suspended seconds, you both were lost in the shared tempestâyour wings shuddering, his body arching beneath you, your cries mingling with the rustle of feathers and the frantic drumbeat of your hearts slamming against each otherâs ribs. The world dissolved into pure, shuddering sensation: the pulse of him still deep inside you, the aftershocks rippling through your own core, the scent of sex and salt and warm feathers thick in the air, the golden light painting your sweat-slicked, trembling bodies as you clung to each other, breathless and absolutely spent in the sacred silence of your shared peak.
Silence descended, thick and sweet, broken only by the frantic hammering of two hearts gradually slowing, syncing. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath your cheek. His hands moved slowly, soothingly, up and down your sweat-slicked back, tracing the skin where your wings were born, a gentle, grounding pressure. He pressed soft, lingering kisses into your hair, your temple, the curve of your shoulder â each one a whispered benediction.
You shifted slightly, just enough to lift your head and meet his gaze. His eyes were soft now, the earlier fire banked to a deep, contented warmth, filled with a love so vast it made your breath catch. A slow, entirely unguarded smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. You smiled back, tracing the line of his jaw with a fingertip.
"I love you, grumpy," you murmured, the words soft but resonant, landing against his lips like a feather.
His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. He captured your lips in a kiss that was pure tenderness, slow and deep, a languid exploration that tasted of salt, satisfaction, and utter devotion. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his blue eyes holding yours captive. "I love you, my Angel," he breathed, the intensity in his gaze a tangible force. "More than anything.â
You stayed like that for long, precious moments, wrapped in each other, skin still humming, hearts full to bursting. The early sun had climbed higher, bathing the room in a stronger, golden light that felt like a blessing on their tangled limbs. Eventually, the stickiness of sweat and the pleasant ache in muscles prompted movement.
He nudged you gently. "C'mon," he murmured, his voice rough but soft. "Shower. Before Belova hacks the intercom, demanding breakfast." He pressed another quick kiss to your lips, his smirk returning, though softened immeasurably by the lingering warmth in his eyes.
You laughed, the sound light and happy. Extracting yourself reluctantly, you stretched, feeling deliciously used and utterly cherished. He watched you, that same look of awe and possession softening into pure, domestic affection. He swung his legs out of bed, offering you his hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. Standing naked before him in the morning light, no longer in the heat of passion but in the quiet aftermath, felt just as intimate. He traced a finger down your arm, his touch feather-light. Once standing, your wings hid behind your back.
Together, still touching, fingers loosely entwined, you walked towards the bathroom, the promise of warm water and shared closeness a sweet continuation of the sanctuary youâd built within these walls, within each other. The grumpy soldier and his silver-winged angel claimed, complete, and blissfully, messily in love, ready to wash and face the day, together.
--
The next morning dawned with a different energy in the Tower. Gone was the lazy, intimate warmth of the previous dawn. Instead, the air crackled with the focused tension of mission prep. John stood near the weapons locker in the common area, meticulously checking the loadout on his specialized pistol. His movements were economical, precise, the familiar mask of the US Agent firmly in place â jaw set, blue eyes sharp and assessing. The softness you cherished, the tender vulnerability reserved solely for you, was tucked away beneath layers of Kevlar and steely resolve.
Bucky Barnes leaned against a nearby console, similarly armed and armored, his vibranium arm gleaming dully under the harsh lights. He offered you a brief, almost imperceptible nod as you entered. Alexei Shostakov, already bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet in his Red Guardian suit, boomed a greeting. "Ah! The radiant Angel! Come to wish your scowling eagle luck? Do not worry! We will bring him back! Perhaps only a little dented!" He thumped his chest plate.
You smiled at him, âI came to wish luck to all of you. Donât do stupid things⊠Alexeiâ. You told that last part especially to the cheerful man. He laughed harder than ever at your words.
John didn't look up immediately, but you saw the subtle shift in his posture, a slight relaxation in the rigid line of his shoulders as he sensed your presence. He finished clicking a magazine into place and finally turned. The professional mask remained, but his gaze, when it met yours, held a warmth that was unmistakably yours. It softened the hard edges, just for a moment.
"Morning," he said, his voice clipped but lacking its usual bite. He holstered the pistol and took a step towards you.
"Morning," you replied, stepping close. You resisted the urge to reach out and smooth the invisible furrow between his brows, knowing the persona he needed to wear. "Everything set?"
"Standard recon and extraction. Hydra splinter cell holed up in an old SSR bunker in the Alps. Should be in and out in forty-eight hours, tops." He shrugged, trying to project nonchalance, but you knew him. You saw the slight tension around his eyes, the way his hand flexed at his side. He hated leaving you. Hated the separation, even for a short while.
Yelenaâs crisp voice crackled over the comms. "Walker, Barnes, Alexei. Wheels up in five. Hangar Bay."
Alexei clapped his hands together. "Excellent! Time to crush some capitalist-fascist traitors! Or... Hydra. Whatever they call themselves this week!" He lumbered towards the exit, humming a Russian folk tune.
Bucky pushed off the console. "See you in a couple of days," he said to you. His tone was kind, and he smiled. âTake care, Bucky,â You smiled softly at him, and as he nodded and followed Alexei.
That left just you and John in the suddenly quiet corner of the room. The mission-ready facade slipped a fraction further. John closed the distance, his large hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones. "Be good," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register reserved only for you. "Try not to burn the Tower down while I'm gone. And keep Belova away from my coffee machine."
You smiled, leaning into his touch. "No promises on Yelena. But I'll try. Just... be careful, John." The worry you tried to keep out of your voice seeped through. "Come back to me. In one piece. Preferably grumpy."
A ghost of his familiar smirk touched his lips. "Grumpy is my default setting, Angel. Wouldn't be me without it." He leaned in, his gaze holding yours. "I'll be back before you know it." The kiss wasn't the desperate, passionate one from the morning before, nor the tender worship of dawn. It was firm, grounding, a promise sealed. It spoke of his absolute certainty of return and the depth of his connection to you. His lips lingered, warm and reassuring against yours.
He pulled back, his hands sliding down to squeeze your shoulders briefly. "Forty-eight hours," he reiterated, his eyes intense. Then, with a final nod, the mask snapped fully back into place. He turned, his stride confident and purposeful as he headed towards the hangar bay, joining Bucky and Alexei.
You watched him go, a familiar ache settling in your chest â the price of loving a soldier. This wasn't new; the team often carried out missions in smaller groups when the situation called for it. During your time on the team, a year and a half now, you've done this many times. Although that didn't stop you from worrying about their well-being, especially John's. But he always returned to you, and your concern was tempered by the lingering warmth of his kiss and the fierce certainty in his eyes.
Inside the Quinjet, as the ramp hissed shut, John sank into his seat, the familiar pre-mission tension already coiling in his muscles. Almost instinctively, his fingers went to the small, cool metal of the wing pendant resting against his sternum beneath his suit. He rubbed the delicate silver feathers between his thumb and forefinger, a grounding touchstone. A slight, private smile touched his lipsânot of joy, but of profound connection. The pendant was more than jewelry; it was a vow, a tangible piece of your faith in him. His mind flashed to the image of you just minutes ago: the fierce love in your eyes, the soft, worried press of your lips against his, the whispered "Come back to me" that was his most powerful talisman. The memory was a shield, fortifying his resolve. He held onto that image, letting it eclipse the mission ahead, and promised himself he would absolutely be returning to the woman who had given him a reason to.
--
The Tower felt emptier that night. Quieter. You, Yelena, Ava, and Bob had commandeered the massive living room. The screen flickered with the chaotic action of some over-the-top superhero movie Bob had chosen, mountains of popcorn overflowing on the coffee table. Bob himself kept accidentally vibrating the bowl, sending kernels flying like miniature projectiles. Ava would phase her hand through them, letting them scatter harmlessly.
"Bob," Yelena sighed dramatically, plucking a kernel from her hair, "if you cannot control your molecular instability, perhaps you should eat the popcorn before it becomes an aerial hazard."
"Sorry! Sorry!" Bob stammered, blushing furiously. "It's just... the tension! Will Captain Quantum defeat the Anti-Matter Man?"
"Itâs statistically improbable given the established power differential," Ava stated matter-of-factly from her perch on the armchair. "But the narrative suggests he will."
You chuckled, snuggling deeper into the plush sofa, wearing one of Johnâs old Army hoodies youâd âborrowedâ. It smelled faintly of him. It was a comforting anchor.
As the credits finally rolled on the movieâs improbable victory, Yelena stretched languidly. "Well. That was... loud." She eyed you, a familiar, mischievous glint in her eyes. "So. How is the Walker withdrawal? Has the Tower imploded from lack of brooding yet?"
You threw a piece of popcorn at her. "He's been gone twelve hours, Yelena. The Tower is fine. I'm fine."
"Fine?" Yelena scoffed, expertly dodging the popcorn. "You are wearing his hoodie like a security blanket. You sighed five times during the car chase sequence. And you have that... look."
"What look?" you asked, trying to sound innocent and failing miserably.
"That disgustingly happy, lovesick look," Yelena declared, wrinkling her nose playfully. "Even when he is not here, he is here." She gestured vaguely at your face. "It is nauseating. And also... strangely heartwarming. Like watching a particularly grumpy cactus bloom unexpectedly."
Ava solidified slightly. "Know this: The frequency of your smiles increased when discussing Walker earlier, and your pheromone levels suggest elevated oxytocin despite his absence. It is... Â significant affection." Her tone was analytical, but there was a hint of something like approval.
Bob beamed. "It's really nice! He's way less... shouty... since you two got together. And he smiles! Actual smiles!"
You felt your cheeks flush, but you couldn't suppress the wide smile spreading across your face. Yelena was right. You were disgustingly happy. The thought of John, even his absence, filled you with a warm, fizzy feeling. "Okay, okay," you laughed, holding up your hands in surrender. "Guilty as charged. He... makes me happy. Ridiculously happy. Even when he's being a grumpy ass."
"See?" Yelena pointed triumphantly. "Disgusting! But," she added, her smirk softening into something genuine, "it is good. For him. For you. For all of us, frankly. Less broken furniture from frustrated punching." She stole a handful of popcorn from Bob's bowl. "Forty-eight hours, Angel.â She joked with the nickname he used with you. âThen you can resume your mutual admiration society."
The rest of the evening passed in easy camaraderie. Yelena recounted a ridiculous story about a mark in Marrakech. Bob nervously described trying to help an old lady cross the street. Ava offered dry commentary. It was fun, comforting. But underneath it all, like a steady bass note, was the awareness of John's absence.
Later, back in your own room, the quiet settled more deeply. You changed, the soft fabric feeling different without the promise of his warmth beside you. You slipped into bed, pulling the covers up. The hoodie lay folded on the chair, but his scent still lingered faintly in the air.
You thought of him. His rare, genuine smile. The intensity in his blue eyes when he looked at you. The feel of his calloused hands on your skin. The way his gruff voice softened when he called you 'Angel'. The ridiculous, sarcastic jokes that somehow always made you laugh. The sheer, overwhelming force of his love, a love that had cracked open his hardened shell and revealed the fiercely loyal, surprisingly tender man beneath.
A wave of longing washed over you, sharp and sweet. You missed him. Missed the weight of his arm across your waist, the rumble of his breathing, the quiet conversations in the dark. You missed his grumpy morning face and his possessive touches. You missed him.
But intertwined with the ache was an undeniable joy. A profound gratitude. You were so deeply, irrevocably in love. The thought alone made your heart feel too big for your chest. You pictured his face, the way it would light up when he saw you again, the feel of his arms wrapping around you, crushing you close. The promise in his kiss.
A soft, contented sigh escaped you. You turned onto your side, hugging a pillow, but it wasn't the pillow you imagined holding. A silly, helpless smile curved your lips, refusing to fade even as your eyes drifted closed. Disgustingly happy? Absolutely. Blissfully, wonderfully, incandescently happy. And you wouldn't trade a single second of it, not even the ache of waiting, because you knew what waited on the other side. Him. Your grumpy soldier. Your love. And forty-eight hours suddenly felt like far too long. You fell asleep with his name a silent whisper on your lips and a smile still warming your face, the tangible warmth of his love a comforting presence even across the miles.
--
Thirty-two hours. The Towerâs common area hummed with a quiet, domestic rhythm utterly at odds with the mission unfolding continents away. You were curled on the vast sofa, immersed in the dense, philosophical sci-fi novel Bob had pressed into your hands with earnest enthusiasm. "It explores the nature of consciousness across parallel dimensions, Y/N. Truly profound!" Bob himself sat beside you, utterly absorbed in a sprawling fantasy epic, occasionally murmuring appreciatively about world-building. Across the room, Yelena flicked through channels on the massive screen with restless precision, her brow furrowed in mild disgust at the offerings. Near the kitchenette, Ava Starr shimmered slightly, she meticulously prepared a pot of jasmine tea, the delicate scent a calming counterpoint.
"Channel 47 has a documentary on Soviet-era ballet," Yelena announced flatly. "Marginally less offensive than the reality show about people marrying their pets." She took a vicious bite of an apple.
"The thematic resonance of the protagonist's journey through the Shadow Marshes is quite compelling," Bob offered, looking up briefly. "The author uses the fungal ecosystem as a metaphor for societal decay."
"It's... intricate," you agreed, forcing a smile, trying to ignore the low-level thrum of anxiety that had been your constant companion since John left. Your enhanced senses, usually a source of comfort, now felt hyper-alert, straining for any sound from the comms room down the hall. You traced a line of text without absorbing it, your mind drifting to John, hoping he was safe, wishing for the familiar weight of his arm around you.
The tranquility shattered like dropped glass. The discreet comm unit embedded in the wall console near Yelena flared to life, Bucky Barnesâ voice crackling through, stripped of its usual stoic calm, laced with urgency and the unmistakable whine of energy weapons in the background.
"Tower, this is Bucky! Mission compromised! Heavy resistance, unexpected reinforcements â tech we haven't seen before. Alexeiâs pinned, Walkerâs down, bad! Need immediate backup! Coordinates transmitting NOW!"
Time seemed to compress and fracture. The book slipped from your numb fingers, thudding softly onto the plush rug. Bob gasped, his own book forgotten. Yelena was already on her feet, the remote clattering to the floor. Ava turned instantly, the teapot forgotten, steam curling into the suddenly charged air.
"Shit!" Yelena spat, already sprinting towards the armory corridor. "Move! Suit up! Five minutes, tops! Bob, hold the fort!"
Ava vanished, reappearing moments later near her specialized suit, phasing through the wall separating the common area from the gear lockers. Your own heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure terror. Johnâs down. Bad. The words echoed, cold and terrifying. Enhanced senses amplified the frantic pounding in your own ears, the sharp scent of ozone and blood that seemed to cling to Buckyâs transmission even through the comms.
You moved on autopilot, the training kicking in. Minutes later, you were strapped into your tactical gear, wings compressed but humming with nervous energy beneath the reinforced panels. Yelena, face a mask of lethal focus, checked her Widowâs Bites. Ava, fully suited and shimmering with unstable energy, nodded curtly. The backup Quinjet was prepped, engines whining as you boarded.
--
The flight was a tense blur. Bucky kept feeding fragmented updates over the comms, his voice tight with strain. The Hydra splinter cell had lured them into a trap within the decaying, labyrinthine SSR bunker. Advanced energy dampeners had disrupted communications intermittently, and theyâd encountered heavily armored mercenaries wielding unfamiliar sonic weaponry. Alexei had taken a blast meant for Bucky but was mobile. John⊠John had taken the brunt of an ambush protecting Buckyâs flank. Stabbed. Multiple hits. Bleeding out.
Each word was a knife twist. You gripped the handrail until the metal groaned, your knuckles white. The image of John, strong and vital just yesterday morning, now bleeding and broken, filled your mind, threatening to drown out everything else. The love you felt curdled into a cold, sickening dread.
Landing was rough, the jet setting down in a concealed valley, miles from the bunkerâs main entrance. The plan was swift and brutal: split up for speed, find the targets, extract under fire, rendezvous back at the jet.
"Alright,â Yelena snapped, checking her grapple. "Alexeiâs last ping was Sector Gamma, lower levels. Sounds like heâs making enough noise. Iâll grab the old bear. Ava, Buckyâs signal is flickering near the central reactor core â likely interference. Youâre fastest through walls. Y/N," her gaze locked onto yours, sharp and assessing, "Walkerâs bio-signature is faint but holding, last known position⊠Sub-Level 4, Corridor Echo. Go. Comm silence unless critical. Move!"
You didnât need telling twice. You were out of the jet before the ramp fully lowered, silver wings snapping out with a powerful whoosh that stirred the snow-dusted pines. The cold mountain air bit at your face, but you barely registered it. Your senses expanded, filtering the wind, the distant crackle of gunfire from the bunker, the scent of ozone and burning metal. John. Find John.
The infiltration was a deadly ballet. You moved with lethal grace through Sub-Level 3âs labyrinthine corridors, the air thick with the ozone stink of energy weapons and the metallic tang of fear. Your wings werenât just adornments; they were instruments of salvation. A patrol rounded the corner â three Hydra troopers in tactical gear. Before their startled shouts could fully form, your wings snapped open with a resonant crack, solidifying instantly into shimmering silver shields. Pulse rifle fire spanged off the hardened feathers, throwing sparks into the gloom. You didnât flinch. In the same heartbeat, you drew your compact sidearm â Johnâs spare, the grip still warm with his imprint â and fired twice. Two troopers dropped, neat holes blooming in their foreheads.
The third lunged, vibro-blade humming. You pivoted, a wing-edge sweeping low like a silver scythe. It connected with his knees with a sickening crunch, dropping him screaming. Before he hit the ground, a single, needle-sharp primary feather detached with a soft thwip and embedded itself in his neck pressure point. Silence. You didnât break stride, retracting your wings just enough to navigate the corridor, the faint hum of their energy field fading.
Your healing power thrummed like a caged star beneath your skin, a desperate, aching pulse synced to your racing heart. Too slow. Youâre taking too long. Every second scraped raw against your nerves. Buckyâs voice crackled briefly in your comms, strained but clear: "Ghost has me. I'm mobile. Alexei?"
A burst of static, then Yelenaâs voice, punctuated by the distinctive crack-hiss of her Widowâs Bites and a guttural cry: "Got the noisy one. Heâs singing like a drunk nightingale. Heading to the jet." A grunt, the sound of a body hitting metal. "Try not to die, Angel."
Relief warred with intensified fear, sharp as a knife twist. They were okay. They were clear. But John⊠your John⊠The mental image of him bleeding, alone, fueled the fire in your veins. The comms signal from his suit tracker was flickering, fading like a dying heartbeat on your internal HUD.
Deeper into Sub-Level 4. The air choked you â dust, ozone, and the thick, cloying stench of blood and death â much of it freshly spilled by you. Corridor Echo was a testament to Johnâs fierce last stand, now overlain with the brutal signature of your approach. Bodies weren't just down; they were broken. One agent lay with his head wrenched backwards at a grotesque angle (your hands, seeking the fastest silence). Another was impaled on a jagged shard of conduit you'd ripped free and driven home. Hand-to-hand wasn't a technique; it was savage dismantling. You used a fallen rifle stock to cave in a helmet, and felt the skull give way beneath the impact. You disarmed a trooper and rammed his own knife up under his ribs into his heart, twisting the blade as you met his wide, terrified eyes. No hesitation. No quarter. They were obstacles. Living speedbumps between you and John. Removing them permanently was the fastest route.
You took hits. The stun baton jolt that numbed your arm? Met with a roar and a headbutt that shattered the attackerâs nose, followed by a stomp to the throat. The grazing shot across your ribs? Ignored as you vaulted debris, firing Johnâs pistol one-handed to drop the shooter before he could fire again. Warm blood trickled freely, soaking your suit, painting silver feathers crimson. Your healing stitched the worst, but the raw, burning ache remained â a constant companion to the white-hot rage. It didn't slow you down. It defined you. You were a weapon now, honed to a single, terrible purpose.
Then, the HUD blip steadied. Junction 7. You rounded the final corner, your wings slick with blood â yours and theirs â flared wide like banners of wrath.
Devastation. Johnâs handiwork, now underscored by your brutal path. And there, slumped against the buckled bulkhead, half-hidden in shadow, was John. Pale. Still. Blood pooling beneath him. That wet, rattling gasp tore through the silence â and through you.
"JOHN!" The scream ripped from your throat, raw, primal, shattering the grim stillness. Mercy was gone. Ruthlessness had served its purpose. Now, only desperation remained as you surged forward, healing light erupting from your palms like a fallen star, your bloodstained wings collapsing around him in a protective, trembling shroud. You had fought like a demon. Now you had to heal like an angel.
Your breath hitched, sharp and painful in your dust-choked throat. He was pale. Not just pale, but terrifyingly bloodless beneath the grime and the drying streaks of crimson that painted his face like war paint. The stark white of his exposed collarbone above the torn neckline of his undersuit looked almost luminous against the grime and the alarming pallor of his skin. His tactical vest had been shredded, peeled back like foil to reveal the dark, wet horror beneath. A massive bloom of crimson, nearly black in the flickering emergency lights, stained his abdomen and lower chest, spreading like a vile inkblot across the dark fabric of his suit. It was still spreading. One arm hung limp at his side, a steady, rhythmic drip⊠drip⊠drip of blood falling from his slack fingers onto the debris-strewn floor, each drop echoing like a death knell in the sudden, grim silence. His head lolled weakly against the buckled bulkhead.
Then, as you landed softly just a few feet away, the silken whoosh of your wings folding, breaking the dreadful quiet, his eyes snapped open. Recognition flared instantly in the pain-glazed, stormy blue depths â a spark of fierce intelligence cutting through the haze. It was followed by a wave of profound, almost childlike relief that softened his features for a split second. But beneath that relief, lurking in the tightness around his eyes and the slight clench of his jaw even now, was something else⊠something guarded. Haunted. A shadow you couldnât immediately name.
"AngelâŠ" The word was a broken rasp, scraped raw from a throat tight with pain and effort. Each syllable was a struggle. "Knew⊠youâd comeâŠ" A ghost of his usual stubborn defiance flickered as he tried, agonizingly, to push himself up against the metal. A strangled groan tore from his lips, harsh and guttural, as the movement clearly sent fresh agony lancing through him. Fresh blood welled at the edge of the main wound.
"Don't move!" Your voice was sharper, louder than intended, cracking with the raw terror that had been your constant companion since Buckyâs strained voice had crackled over the comms. It echoed in the ruined corridor, startlingly loud. You dropped to your knees beside him in a fluid rush, uncaring of the sharp debris digging into your legs or the warm, sticky pool of his blood soaking into your suit. Your hands were already moving, palms radiating the warm, urgent golden light of your healing power before they even made contact. The light cast shifting, hopeful patterns on the grimy walls and the stark planes of his face.
Your enhanced eyes scanned the injuries with terrifying clarity, cataloging the damage beneath the blood: deep, vicious puncture wounds, ragged at the edges, likely from a vibranium-tipped blade or some similarly cruel implement. They were serious, bleeding heavily â arterial spray mixed with slower, darker ooze â but crucially, within your power. The organs felt intact beneath your scanning energy, the damage localized to muscle and vasculature. You could fix this. You had to. The alternative was unthinkable. "Just hold still," you murmured, your voice softening now, thick with emotion you couldn't suppress. "Let me work. Please, John. Just hold on for me."
You placed your hands gently, reverently, over the worst wound low on his abdomen. The golden light intensified, bathing your hands and his ravaged torso in its warm glow. You poured everything into it â your desperate energy, your boundless love, your bone-deep fear, the frantic pulse of your own heart. You felt the intricate work begin beneath your palms: knitting severed capillaries, coaxing torn muscle fibers to weave themselves back together, stimulating clotting pathways. It was a race against the relentless seep of his lifeblood onto the cold floor. He sighed then, a ragged, shuddering exhalation that held a universe of pain beginning to relent. Some of the terrifying tension eased from his rigid frame as the agony receded under the insistent warmth of your power. His breathing, still wet and labored, seemed to find a slightly less desperate rhythm. Tears fell all along your cheeks while you worked. Seeing him like this, injured, bleeding out, pale, weak, too near to death, terrified you.
His uninjured left hand lifted weakly from the floor, trembling visibly. Fingers, cold and slick with a mix of his blood and grime, brushed tentatively against the back of your hand where it rested on his stomach. The contact was feather-light, seeking reassurance. You didnât pull away, your focus absolute on the life-giving flow channeling through you. His hand shifted slightly, his cold, strong fingers curling clumsily to cover yours where you pressed against his wound. It was a gesture of profound vulnerability, seeking connection, seeking the anchor of your touch amidst the storm of his pain. His thumb moved weakly, a faint stroking motion against your knuckle.
And thatâs when you saw it.
His movement had shifted the angle of his hand. The weak emergency lights glinted dully off something metallic encircling the base of his ring finger on his left hand. It wasn't part of his tactical suit. It was a simple, thick band of what looked like white gold or platinum, worn smooth with age and constant wear. It was smeared with blood and grime, almost blending in, but the shape was unmistakable. His wedding ring. The one from his failed marriage. The one he never talked about, the one that represented a past life of loss he carried like a hidden weight. He still wore it. Even now, bleeding out in a Hydra hellhole, even after months with you, sharing his bed, his heart, his deepest vulnerabilities⊠he still wore the symbol of that broken bond with another woman.
Your heart didn't just drop; it plummeted into an icy abyss. The warm, focused energy flowing from your hands stuttered and died. The golden glow winked out. You froze, utterly still, your gaze locked onto that band of gold. Time stopped. The sounds of distant battle, Johnâs labored breathing, the drip of blood â everything receded into a muffled roar. The world narrowed to that ring, gleaming accusingly against his blood-stained finger.
He followed your frozen gaze. Saw what you saw. The fragile color that had begun to seep back into his cheeks under the golden glow of your healing vanished instantly, draining away to leave a corpse-like, sickly pallor. His eyes, moments ago, softened with relief and the comfort of your touch, widened in pure, unadulterated horror. They werenât just guilty; they were shattered, reflecting a gut-wrenching maelstrom of panic, shame, and the dawning, devastating understanding of what heâd done. He knew. In that single, horrifying second, he knew the magnitude of his error, the sacred trust heâd just obliterated with a simple, silent lie worn on his finger.
"Y/N⊠Angel, waitâŠ" he choked out, his voice thick not just with physical pain now, but with raw, clawing panic. His hand, the one still covering yours, twitched convulsively, as if trying to physically pull the ring off or hide it, but he was too weak. It was too late. "I can explain⊠PleaseâŠ"
"Silence."
Your voice wasn't loud. It was flat. Arctic. Devoid of every ounce of warmth, worry, and tender sweetness that had defined you moments before as you poured your soul into saving his life. That single word cut through his desperate stammering like a scalpel, cold and final. You couldnât look at him. Couldnât bear to see the guilt warring with fear in those familiar blue eyes, eyes youâd gazed into a thousand times with love. Couldnât trust your own voice not to shatter into a million jagged pieces, revealing the raw, bleeding wound beneath the ice. Couldnât trust your thoughts, swirling in a vortex of agony. Couldnât trust the heart pounding against your ribs, the heart that had belonged utterly to him, now feeling like a traitorous, broken thing.
The despair hit first. A physical blow to the chest, stealing your breath. It was a black hole opening inside you, sucking in the light, the hope, the future youâd dared to imagine. He wore it. He still wore it. After everythingâŠ
Then came the anger. White-hot and searing, rising like bile. It burned through the icy shock, a furious counterpoint to the despair. How dare he? How dare he lie there, letting me touch him, heal him, pour my love into him, while wearing her symbol? While carrying that ghost between us?
And beneath it all, a crushing, suffocating sadness. The profound grief for what was lost, for the beautiful illusion that had just shattered. The sweetness of mornings, the intimacy of shared secrets, the reverence in his touch on your wings⊠it all curdled into ash in your mouth.
Your mind spiraled, a hurricane of tormenting questions shredding the foundation of your shared world:
Why was he wearing it? Right now? On this mission? When I wasnât here? The implication was a knife twist. Was it a talisman? A reminder? A connection he couldnât sever?
Has he worn it on every mission I didnât join? The thought was poison. How many times had he suited up, kissed you goodbye, and then slipped her ring back on? How many times had he carried that hidden weight into danger while you waited, oblivious?
Does he always put it back on when he leaves me? Was taking it off only for your benefit? A performance for the "Angel"? Did he slip it back on the moment he walked out the door, a secret ritual separating your world from his?
Does he still think about her? The ghost suddenly felt terrifyingly present. Did he compare? Did he regret? Did he wish�
Does he still� You couldn't even finish the thought. The possibility of lingering love, of unresolved longing, was a physical pain.
What does that mean? For us? For the love he swore was only mine? If the ring was still there after a year, what did that say about his commitment? About the truth behind every "I love you," every whispered promise?
The tender moments, the whispered devotions, the way he worshipped you⊠Was it all just⊠convenient? A distraction? While his heart still held space for the ghost of his past?
Why? Why, after a year of my love, my trust, my body, my soulâŠ? The sheer injustice of it choked you. Hadnât you been enough? Hadnât you chased away the shadows of his past?
Was everything we had⊠everything he said⊠a lie? The most devastating question of all. Had the rooftop confessions, the tender moments, the fierce passion, the whispered "Goddess"⊠had it all been built on sand? Had his devotion been a mask?
Did I do something wrong? The insidious whisper of self-doubt, the cruel reflex to blame yourself. Was I not enough? Too much? Did I push him? Did I fail him somehow?
The golden light emanating from your hands faltered, flickering like a dying star. The intricate work of healing stuttered, the flow of energy disrupted by the violent tempest within you. You took a sharp, shuddering breath, forcing your focus back to the immediate, brutal necessity: stopping the blood leaking from his body. Not because the warmth had returned â that was gone, replaced by a hollow, aching cold â but because you were not a monster. Because your friends were fighting, waiting. Because retreat to the Quinjet wasn't optional; it was survival. For him, physically. For you, emotionally. You couldn't break down here. Not now. The ice was your armor. The silence, your shield. You would get him out. You would get yourself out. And then⊠You actually didnât know what was next.
"I have to focus," you stated, your tone mechanical. You forced the golden light back into your hands, pressing them back onto his wound with deliberate force, ignoring his flinch. The healing energy flowed again, efficient, clinical, but utterly devoid of the love that usually infused it. It was a job now. A necessary task. Nothing more. You worked in furious, icy silence, your jaw clenched so tight it ached. You could feel his eyes on you, feel the weight of his guilt, his desperation to speak, but you shut him out. The connection, the intimacy of the healing touch, was gone, replaced by a chasm of betrayal.
"Y/N, status?" Yelenaâs voice crackled in your ear, startling you. "Weâre at the jet. Where are you?"
You finished sealing the last of the major wounds. The bleeding had stopped. He was stable. Functional. "Found him," you reported through the comms, your voice disturbingly level. "Stable. Heading to the jet now." You withdrew your hands, the light vanishing. You stood up, avoiding his outstretched hand, avoiding his pleading eyes. "Can you walk?"
He pushed himself up, wincing but managing. "Yeah. Yeah, I can walk." His voice was raw. "Angel, pleaseâŠ"
"Then move," you commanded, turning towards the corridor exit.
The journey back to the surface was a nightmare sculpted from grim silence and punctuated only by the brutal symphony of violence. Hydra stragglers, like roaches emerging from the shadows, tried to block your path. You dispatched them not with your usual controlled precision, but with a chilling, detached efficiency that froze Johnâs blood. Gone were the disabling strikes, the non-lethal feather barrages. A mercenary lunged from a side corridor; your wing snapped forward, not to shield, but to spear â the hardened leading edge punching through his throat with a sickening crunch. You didnât pause to watch him choke. Another fired wildly; you didnât dodge, you closed. Two shots from Johnâs spare pistol â center mass, then the head as he fell â executionerâs cadence. Your movements were sharp, economical, utterly devoid of hesitation or mercy. You moved like a blade honed for slaughter.
John fought beside you, his own movements stiff and painful despite your initial healing, every step a fresh agony he ignored. His focus, however, was fractured. His gaze constantly flicked to you, drawn with horrified fascination and deepening anguish. He saw the cold set of your jaw, the unnerving lack of expression in your eyes â eyes that usually held warmth, mischief, or fierce determination, now flat and empty as polished stones. Heâd never seen you like this. Not in the fiercest battle, not under the heaviest fire. The Angel he knew was fierce but merciful, powerful but gentle. This⊠this was something else. Something terrifying.
He desperately tried to rationalize it. Adrenaline. Survival. The stress of the mission, of finding me like that. Sheâs in shock. Sheâs protecting us. He clung to these thoughts, a fragile lifeline against the dread coiling in his gut. She isnât like this. Sheâs sweet. Warm. Delicate, even in her strength. She doesnât kill ruthlessly in cold blood. But the evidence was irrefutable in the corpses left cooling in your wake. The mercenary whose neck you broke without breaking stride. The one you shot point-blank as he tried to crawl away, pleading. This wasn't survival instinct; it was purgative fury.
He tried to stay close, his instinct screaming to shield you, to pull you back from the brink he sensed you were teetering on. He angled his body, attempting to position himself between you and potential threats, his battered frame a meager bulwark. But you maintained a deliberate, icy distance. Always three precise steps ahead, forcing him to push his injured body harder to keep up. Or slightly to the side, your posture angled away, your wings held tight and defensive, forming a physical and emotional barrier. You never looked back at him.
Then, rounding a blind corner stacked with smoldering debris, a flicker of movement caught Johnâs peripheral vision near a half-collapsed doorway. Instinct, honed by years of combat and a desperate, aching need to protect you â even from yourself, even now â surged. "Look out!" he rasped, lunging forward, his good hand shooting out to grab your arm and yank you back behind him.
Your reaction was instantaneous and visceral. You didn't just pull away. You flinched. Violently. As if his touch were a white-hot branding iron. You twisted out of his grasp with serpentine speed, putting another foot of space between you, your wings flaring defensively, not towards the potential threat, but towards him. Your head snapped around, and for a split second, your eyes met his. In that frozen instant, John saw it all: not fear of the enemy, but raw, icy revulsion aimed squarely at him. It was a look that pierced deeper than any Hydra blade.
He stopped dead, his hand hanging uselessly in the air where your arm had been. He stared at it, then at you, his face a mask of stunned hurt and dawning, terrible comprehension. That flinch⊠it wasn't just anger. It was rejection. It was contamination. "Y/NâŠ" he started, his voice thick with a pain that had nothing to do with his wounds â a raw scrape of hurt and frustrated helplessness. "Why did youâ"
"It would be a stupid question, John." Your voice cut him off, colder than the void of space, devoid of any inflection beyond weary contempt. You didnât even turn your head fully, your attention already snapping back down the corridor. You raised the pistol, sighted with unnerving calm, and fired once. A choked gurgle echoed from the shadows near the doorway, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Another threat eliminated. Another piece of his heart turned to ash. You started moving again, your stride purposeful, lethal, leaving him standing amidst the carnage, the taste of blood and betrayal thick in his mouth. "Move."
The command hung in the acrid air, not an instruction, but a condemnation. He knew why. The ring. The hidden lie. The shattered trust. And the terrifying realization settled over him like a shroud: the warm, healing Angel was gone. In her place walked an Avenger of ice and wrath, and he had forged her himself.
"Y/N, Walker, report!" Buckyâs voice was tense over the comms as you neared the bunker entrance. "Weâre taking fire near the exit!"
"Iâm hit," you stated flatly, registering the sharp impact and sudden bloom of heat in your left shoulder almost as an afterthought. A lucky shot from a flanking position youâd missed because your mind was a thousand miles away, lost in a labyrinth of betrayal. The pain was distant, secondary to the crushing weight in your chest. "Superficial. Proceeding."
"Hit?!" John was beside you in an instant, his face contorted with renewed fear and fury, all his own pain forgotten. "Where? When? Let meâ" He reached for your arm.
You recoiled sharply, stepping back. "Donât touch me." The words were out before you could stop them, sharp as broken glass. The raw hurt in his eyes was almost physical, but you couldnât bear it. Couldn't bear his touch, his concern, not now, not with that ring still gleaming on his finger. "Just⊠get to the jet." You pressed a hand briefly over the wound, a faint golden glow stemming the bleeding. "Iâll deal with it later."
The final push to the Quinjet was a nightmarish blur â the percussive crack of Buckyâs rifle, Alexeiâs booming shouts and the heavy thump of his impacts, the acrid sting of smoke stinging your eyes, and the frantic whine of the jetâs engines powering up. Yelena, efficient and grim, hauled John up the ramp, her sharp eyes flicking between his pained movements and your rigid, blood-smeared form, absorbing the shattered tension with a single, knowing glance. Ava phased through the closing bulkhead, her expression unreadable but her posture radiating concern. Bucky, pale and favoring his side but resolute, slammed himself into the gunnerâs seat, his metal hand already gripping the controls.
You stood rooted on the edge of the ramp. The cold Alpine wind tore at your hair, whipping strands across your face sticky with drying blood. It howled in your ears, but beneath it, a deeper, insistent ringing had taken hold, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the engine roar, Buckyâs shouted orders, everything. You werenât looking at the closing hatch, the safety it promised. Your gaze was locked back down the ramp, into the smoke-choked valley, towards the gaping maw of the Hydra bunker. It wasn't just a stronghold anymore; it felt like a tomb â a tomb for the trust youâd built, for the future youâd believed in.
The throbbing ache in your shoulder where the sniperâs shot had grazed you was a dull, distant pulse. It was nothing. Nothing compared to the vast, hollow void where your heart had been violently ripped out. The adrenaline that had fueled your brutal ascent was leaching away, leaving behind a terrifying numbness, punctuated only by the icy fury that had sustained you and the crushing weight of betrayal.
Then, you looked down.
Your hands. They were coated. Not just smudged, but slick with drying, rust-brown blood. Johnâs blood, mingled with the darker crimson of the Hydra agents youâd executed. It was caked under your nails, streaked across your knuckles, painting your palms in a grotesque abstract. You stared, uncomprehending for a moment. Your hands. The hands that healed. The hands that traced Johnâs scars with tenderness, that cupped his face at dawn. Now, they were instruments of cold slaughter. You flexed them slightly. The blood cracked.
Your gaze drifted upwards. Your suit was torn, the fabric around the graze on your ribs dark and wet, a fresh trickle of your own blood weaving a slow path down your side, warm against the chill. And your wings⊠your magnificent silver wings, etched with pure white patterns, symbols of grace and freedom⊠they were desecrated. Spattered with gore, dark streaks marring the luminous metal sheen, feathers matted with blood â his, yours, theirs. The sight was profoundly wrong. Profoundly yours.
Shock, cold and deep, washed over you. It wasn't just physical exhaustion; it was a mental and spiritual disconnect. The world seemed to tilt, the snow-capped peaks blurring, the smoke swirling in nauseating patterns. The constant ringing intensified, a physical barrier separating you from reality. You didnât even hear Yelena calling your name when she stepped a little closer to you, standing on the ramp.
You felt sick, bile rising hot and acidic in your throat. You were adrift, trapped in a silent, blood-red trance, staring at your stained hands without truly seeing them, the horror of the past hour and the shattering discovery crashing over you in relentless, icy waves.
"Y/N! Get in! NOW!"
Buckyâs voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the high-pitched whine in your ears like a physical blow. It jolted you back into your body with painful suddenness. Your head snapped up, your eyes wide, momentarily unfocused before locking onto the scene inside the Quinjet.
Everyone was staring at you. Yelena paused near the cockpit door, her usual sardonic mask replaced by stark worry and disbelief. Ava, solidified near, her eyes wide, reflecting the ghastly sight you presented. Alexei, half-strapped into a seat, looked uncharacteristically subdued, his brow furrowed in confusion and concern. Bucky, twisted in the seat, his expression etched with deep alarm beneath the strain of his own injuries.
Except John.
He was braced against a bulkhead near the front, supported by a webbing strap, his face ashen beneath the grime. But his eyes⊠his piercing blue eyes weren't filled with worry like the others. They held a raw, profound hurt. A deep, bewildered pain that mirrored the chasm opening inside you. His uninjured hand was clenched tightly into a fist, knuckles white. You knew, instinctively, the ring was hidden within that fist. But it didn't matter. The image â the cold metal glinting amidst the blood on his finger â was seared onto your retinas, branded onto your soul. âIâŠâ You tried to talk, but your words failed with everything you were feeling right now.
The thought of stepping into that confined metal tube with him, breathing the same air, feeling his gaze⊠it was suffocating. The questions â Why? How long? Do you still love her? Was it all a lie? â screamed inside your skull, a cacophony threatening to split your head open. The betrayal wasn't just a memory; it was a fresh, open wound, pulsing with every beat of your damaged heart.
"I⊠I needâŠ" Your voice emerged, miraculously steady now, a flat monotone that sounded alien even to your own ears. It betrayed none of the violent tremor threatening to consume you from the inside. "...I need to stretch my wings." You gestured vaguely upwards, towards the vast, cold sky. "Iâll fly back.â The excuse was paper-thin, ludicrous, given your visible injuries and state of shock. But it was the only barrier you could erect. The only escape. "Iâll be at the Tower later."
Johnâs face didn't just fall; it crumpled. The raw hope that had flickered when Bucky shouted died instantly, replaced by utter devastation. "Angel, no!" His voice cracked, raw with panic and a pain that mirrored your own, yet somehow felt like a further violation. "Please, we need toâ We need to talk! Youâre hurt! Let meâ"
But you were already moving. You couldn't listen. Couldn't bear another word from him. Couldn't risk him taking a step closer. With a powerful, almost violent downstroke, your magnificent wings â stained, burdened, no longer symbols of freedom but heavy shields against the world, against him â unfurled to their full, bloodied span. They caught the fierce, icy updraft roaring around the hovering jet. The lift was immediate, effortless, pulling you backwards off the ramp before Yelena could lunge, before Bucky could shout another order, before John could utter another plea.
You didnât look back. You couldnât. You angled your wings, banking sharply away from the Quinjetâs downdraft, climbing into the vast, indifferent expanse of the Alpine sky. The metallic thud of the ramp sealing shut echoed faintly, swallowed by the wind and the relentless ringing in your ears. You left behind the jet, the missionâs carnage, and the shattered, irreparable pieces of your relationship scattered on the cold steel floor.
The golden band, that tiny, insignificant circle of metal, burned brighter in your mindâs eye than the glare of the rising sun reflecting off your own tarnished silver feathers. The flight back would be long. It would be bitterly cold. And it would be utterly, desolately alone.
--
The wind wasn't cold; it was numbness. It whipped past your face, stinging your eyes, but you barely felt it. The rhythmic beat of your silver wings, usually a source of exhilarating freedom, felt mechanical, heavy, like lifting leaden weights through tar. You flew not towards the Tower, not towards home, but away. Away from the suffocating confines of the Quinjet, away from the crushing weight of his guilt-stricken gaze, away from the gleaming, accusatory circle of gold burned onto your retina.
Altitude didnât bring clarity. It brought a terrifying, hollow silence inside your own head. The frantic whirlwind of questions that had torn through you in the bunker corridor had settled into a chilling, heavy fog. They weren't sharp shards anymore; they were thick, suffocating blankets smothering every coherent thought.
Why?
The single syllable echoed in the vast emptiness of your mind. It wasn't a scream anymore; it was a broken whisper, lost in the howling void left behind. Why wear the ring? Why that ring? Why after all this time? Why on a mission? Why, when you weren't there? Had it become a talisman? A superstition? A⊠connection? He hasn't gotten over his marriage yet?
Your enhanced senses, usually so sharp, felt dulled, overwhelmed by the internal static. The scent of pine and snow from below was distant, irrelevant. The panoramic vista of the snow-capped Alps unfolding beneath you might as well have been a grey void. All you could see was his hand, blood-smeared, trembling, covering yours⊠and the gold. All you could feel was the instant freezing of your own blood, the way the healing light had died, not from lack of power, but from a shattering of faith.
He worshipped you. The memory surfaced, unbidden and cruel. His lips are tracing your spine at dawn. He whispered, "Perfect". The awe in his eyes as you healed him. The ferocity of his possession. Had it all been⊠what? A performance? A way to fill the void she left? Was his love for you just⊠a rebound? Convenience? While the symbol of his commitment to her stayed hidden in his gear, waiting for the moments he stepped away from you and back into his old life?
Tears didn't fall immediately. They pooled, hot and heavy, behind your eyes, blurring the magnificent, indifferent landscape below. A choked sob escaped, ripped from your throat by the sheer, brutal force of the betrayal. It felt like a physical wound, deeper and more agonizing than the bullet graze on your shoulder, which throbbed with a dull, distant ache you actively ignored. This pain was in your chest, a cavernous emptiness where your heart, so impossibly full just hours ago, now felt like shattered glass.
He promised. The thought was a fresh lance of agony. He promised to be careful. He promised to come back to you. He promised you were his light, his reason. Promises whispered against your skin, sealed with kisses that now tasted like ash. Had the promises to her been etched in gold, while the ones to you were written on sand, washed away by the tide of his unresolved past?
Logic offered no solace, no lifeline in the howling void of your thoughts. You werenât a jealous little girl. You prided yourself on understanding complexity, on respecting the past that shaped the man you loved. You knew his ex-wife would always be a part of him. Theirs wasnât some fleeting fling; theyâd shared years, built a life, brought a child into the world. That bond, forged in shared history and parenthood, was indelible. You knew Olivia was a good woman. From the rare, unguarded moments when John spoke of her â usually about their son â youâd pieced together an image of someone competent, kind, a devoted mother who had tried her best in a marriage ultimately broken by the relentless pressure of Johnâs acts and the crushing weight of the shield. You harbored no ill will towards the ghost of Olivia. How could you? Olivia was the mother of Johnâs child, a boy whose laughter occasionally echoed through the comms when he called his dad. That connection was sacred, untouchable.
But this? The ring. The physical symbol of a romantic union, a vow of love and fidelity, specifically between John and her. What did it mean that he still wore it? Not kept it. Not stored it respectfully. Wore it. And worse â he deliberately put it on when you werenât there. When he suited up for missions you werenât part of. That detail was the knife twisting in the wound. He knew. He wasnât oblivious. He knew it was weird. He knew it was a choice he shouldnât be making. He knew, deep down, how inexplicable, how hurtful it would be to explain away after a year of sharing his bed, his secrets, his fragile hope for the future with you. He knew the questions it would raise; the trust it would erode. He knew all of that, and he did it anyway.
How many times? The question was a poison ivy, wrapping around your heart, constricting. How many times had he kissed you goodbye in the morning, his lips warm and promising, only to slide that cold band of metal onto his finger the moment the Tower doors closed behind him? How many times had he fought alongside the team, your hand perhaps brushing his armored one, while her ring sat snug against his skin beneath the glove? How many times had he returned to you, smelling of gunpowder and sweat, pulling you into his arms, murmuring "Angel" with that tender gruffness that melted you, all while that symbol of another womanâs claim was tucked back into some hidden pocket, the ghost of it still warm on his skin? He wore the ring that represented his love, his vows, to her, and then he came home and told you he loved you? Which love was real? What was the performance? Was the ring the anchor to his truth, and you⊠Were you the comforting illusion? The thought was a physical sickness, a vertigo that threatened to send you plummeting from the sky.
It was too much. The contradictions collided like tectonic plates inside your skull. The John who looked at you with awe, who touched your wings like they were sacred, who whispered his deepest fears and fiercest hopes against your skin in the quiet dark⊠could that man coexist with the one who kept this intimate secret, this tangible link to a past love, active and present? You didnât know what to think. Your mind, usually so sharp, so analytical, felt fractured, overwhelmed by the sheer dissonance. Fury warred with a desperate, aching need to understand. To find some scrap of logic that could mend the rending tear in the fabric of their reality.
You wanted to give him the chance to explain. The part of you that still loved him, the part that remembered rooftop dawns and shared laughter, screamed for it. Maybe⊠maybe there was a reason. A stupid reason, a hurtful reason, but a reason nonetheless. A talisman for luck? A morbid reminder of past failures? A bizarre sense of obligation? But each potential explanation you conjured felt flimsy, insulting. It crumpled under the weight of the central, devastating truth: He knew how it would look. He knew how it would feel. And he chose to wear it anyway. He chose secrecy. He chose the ghost over your peace of mind. He chose to carry that symbol into danger, a hidden weight you never knew he bore.
But is this a logical explanation? The question echoed in the hollow space the fury had momentarily vacated, leaving only cold, bleak despair. Was there any explanation that didnât fracture the very foundation of the year youâd built together? Keeping the ring? Maybe. Understandable, even. A memento of a significant chapter, tucked away in a drawer with old medals or his sonÂŽs picture. A tangible piece of history, respected but archived.
But wearing it? Actively, deliberately sliding it onto his finger when he prepared for a mission without her? You thought of the same questions over and over again. That wasn't sentimentality; it felt like a secret ritual. A private observance. A hidden allegiance is maintained. It whispered that a part of him â a part he felt the need to physically reconnect with when stepping away from you â was still fundamentally bound to her. Bound by love? By guilt? By unresolved pain? It didn't matter. The binding itself, the act of wearing the symbol, was the betrayal. It meant that even as he held you, loved you, called you his Angel, a silent vow to another lingered on his skin, a counterpoint to every promise he made to you.
The questions kept spiraling, each one a shard of glass grinding deeper into your heart, and the rationalizations collapsed as fast as you could build them. And then, your fingers instinctively touched the pendant hanging around your neck, inside your suit. A small, perfect replica of John's shield. And like ice water dumped down your spine, another thought pierced the chaos:
He wears his wedding ring⊠but did he wear the pendant you gave him?
The question hit with a fresh wave of nausea, somehow sharper, more personal than the ring itself. Because the pendant wasn't just a gift; it was a covenant, a symbol forged in the purest moment of your burgeoning love. The memory, vivid and agonizing, flooded in, a stark counterpoint to the bloodstained reality of the Quinjet ramp and the icy Alpine windâŠ
Three Months After Joining the Thunderbolts - Rooftop Dawn
The air was crisp, the city below a tapestry of twinkling lights slowly yielding to the soft gold of dawn. You sat side-by-side with John on the familiar ledge, shoulders brushing, sharing the comfortable silence that had become your sanctuary. Steam curled from the mug of coffee heâd handed you â your favorite, brewed strong with just the right amount of milk and honey, learned by heart after weeks of these shared mornings.
It was your birthday. You hadnât made a fuss, but the quiet acknowledgement hung in the air. You had told him once when your birthday was, but you didnât know he would remember it. After a while, John cleared his throat, uncharacteristically hesitant. He pulled a small, velvet-covered box from his jacket pocket, the dark blue fabric soft against his calloused fingers.
"Happy Birthday, Angel," he murmured, his voice rough with a tenderness that still made your heart skip.
You looked at him, surprised. "John⊠you didn't have toâŠ"
"Open it," he insisted, a faint, almost shy smile touching his lips.
Inside, nestled on black satin, lay a pendant. Not extravagant, but exquisitely crafted. A perfect, miniature replica of his own shield, rendered in gleaming silver. Your breath caught. You remembered, weeks ago, watching him train with the real thing â the controlled power, the defiant glint â and offhandedly mentioning you admired its symbolism, its weight of duty, hope, and him.
"ItâsâŠ" you stammered, tracing the cool metal with a fingertip. "John, it's beautiful."
He shifted, looking out at the waking city. "It represents⊠what I'm trying to be," he said, his voice low and earnest. "The good man. The protector. The one worthy of⊠helping and saving people." He met your gaze, his blue eyes intense and vulnerable. "It's important to me. And⊠I wanted you to have a piece of that. To have something that means⊠something." A pause. âAnd to remember me when Iâm far away.â
Tears, warm and sudden, pricked your eyes. This wasn't just a gift; it was an offering. A piece of his identity, his aspiration, his fragile hope for redemption, entrusted to you. The significance washed over you, profound and humbling. Without a word, you turned and threw your arms around him, burying your face in the solid warmth of his shoulder. It wasn't just a hug; it was an outpouring of the deep, wordless connection you both felt, a silent promise. His arms wrapped around you instantly, strong and secure, pulling you close. He rested his cheek against your hair, his breath warm on your scalp. You stayed like that for a long, timeless moment, wrapped in the dawn and the shared understanding that something profound had just shifted between you. It was a silent declaration, more powerful than words. Special didn't begin to cover it.
One Month Later - Tower Hangar Bay
The air crackled with pre-mission tension. John stood near the Quinjet ramp, suited up in his US Agent gear, the familiar stern mask settling over his features. But you saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight tightness around his eyes. This mission was high-risk. You walked up to him, your own heart pounding with worry.
"Hey," you said softly, forcing a smile. "Take care of yourself out there."
He turned, the sternness softening slightly when he saw you. "Always do, Angel."
You took a deep breath, pulling a small, identical velvet box from your pocket. "Here. Something⊠something to remember me by. When you're far away." Your voice was barely above a whisper, suddenly shy.
He looked surprised, then touched. He took the box, his gaze fixed on it as he lifted the lid. Nestled inside was another pendant. Two delicate, intricately crafted silver wings, spread as if in flight, catching the harsh hangar lights. They were small, elegant, undeniably you.
You held your breath, searching his face. He didn't smile right away. His expression grew strangely serious, almost solemn. His fingers, clad in tactical gloves, reached into the box and gently lifted the pendant out. He held it up, turning it slowly, studying the fine details of each feather, the curve of the wings. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the jet. Your stomach clenched. He doesn't like it. It was too muchâŠ
Then, his gaze lifted from the pendant to meet yours. The seriousness hadn't faded; if anything, it had deepened, intensified into something raw and profound. There was no smile, but his eyes held a blazing certainty that stole your breath.
"It's perfect," he said, his voice low, gravelly, vibrating with an emotion that resonated deep in your bones. "Exactly perfect." He paused, his gaze never leaving yours, pinning you in place. "When I get backâŠ" He took a step closer, the air between them crackling. "...I want you to be with me, to be my girlfriend. Officially. No more⊠whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between you, his expression fierce. "I want it real. I want it known. I want everything with you."
Your heart stopped, then slammed against your ribs. The world narrowed to his intense blue eyes, the pendant glinting in his hand, the sheer, terrifying vulnerability and conviction in his words. In that exact moment, he knew. The love, the connection nurtured on the rooftop, solidified by the shield pendant, had become undeniable, monumental. It demanded acknowledgement. It demanded commitment.
Your smile bloomed, wide and radiant, chasing away the shadows of worry, filling your eyes with tears of pure, unadulterated joy. It was all the answer he needed. His own serious expression finally broke, transforming into a wide, brilliant grin that lit up his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Without hesitation, he unclasped the chain and fastened the wing pendant around his own neck, tucking it securely beneath the collar of his undersuit, close to his heart.
He leaned in, his forehead briefly touching yours, his hand warm on your cheek. "Wait for me, Angel," he murmured, the promise vibrating with anticipation and certainty. Then he pulled back, that brilliant grin still in place, and turned to board the Quinjet.
You watched him go, your hand instinctively covering the shield pendant resting against your own chest. Your heart wasn't just melting; it was overflowing, incandescent with the sheer, perfect rightness of it all. He was yours. You were his. And he carried your wings, your symbol, next to his heart as he flew into danger. It was the moment everything became real.
--
The cold began to seep in, not just from the high altitude wind, but from the inside out. A deep, bone-chilling cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. It was the cold of isolation, of realizing the person you trusted most profoundly, the person whose soul you thought you knew, had kept a fundamental part of himself locked away, hidden behind the fortress of his grumpy exterior and the intensity of his love for you.
Your wings grew heavy. The powerful muscles screamed with fatigue, not just from the flight, but from carrying the crushing weight of heartbreak. You scanned the jagged peaks below, seeking not shelter, but oblivion. A high, isolated ledge, jutting out like a broken tooth on the face of a sheer cliff, caught your eye. Desolate. Exposed. Perfect.
You landed with less grace than usual, stumbling slightly on the uneven rock. The silence here was absolute, broken only by the mournful sigh of the wind through crevices. The city lights were a distant, indifferent glitter miles below. You sank onto the cold stone at the very edge, legs drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, trying vainly to hold the broken pieces together. The tears finally broke free.
They weren't the quiet, cinematic tears of sadness. They were harsh, wrenching sobs that tore through you, shaking your shoulders, stealing your breath. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks, freezing almost instantly in the biting wind. You buried your face in your knees, the rough fabric of your tactical pants scraping against your skin, a minor discomfort lost in the tidal wave of grief. You cried for the trust obliterated. You cried for the future that now lay in ruins. You cried for the man you thought you knew, the man you loved with every fiber of your being, who now felt like a devastating stranger. You cried for the sheer, stupid, overwhelming pain of it.
Hours bled away unnoticed. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange â colors that felt mocking in their beauty. One by one, the stars emerged, cold, distant pinpricks in the vast, uncaring blackness. They offered no answers, no comfort. Only a reminder of your own smallness, your own devastating insignificance in the face of this personal cataclysm.
Then, you saw it. Far on the horizon, beyond the glittering cityscape. Not the comforting dark of night, but an encroaching wall of deeper, more ominous darkness. Lightning flickered within it, silent from this distance but unmistakable â jagged forks tearing through the bruised sky. Thunderheads boiled, rolling towards you with a terrifying, inevitable majesty. It mirrored the storm raging inside you perfectly: the dark clouds of betrayal, the jagged lightning bolts of pain and confusion, the deafening thunder of your own shattered heart.
You watched it approach, the tears still falling freely, tracing icy paths on your wind-chapped cheeks. The numbness was giving way to a deep, aching sorrow, a profound sense of loss that felt permanent. The ring wasn't just a piece of jewelry; it was a key. A key that had unlocked a door you never knew existed in the fortress of John Walker, revealing a hidden chamber still occupied by the ghost of his past. And standing there, bathed in the cold starlight with a storm gathering on the horizon, you had no idea if that door could ever be closed again, or if your love could survive the draft blowing through it. The only certainty was the icy rock beneath you, the hollow ache in your chest, and the terrifying, beautiful, destructive storm drawing ever closer.
--
The storm didnât cleanse; it drowned. Rain, cold and relentless, lashed against your silver wings, plastering your hair to your skull, soaking through your tactical suit until it clung like a second, icy skin. You flew slowly, mechanically, towards the distant, glittering spike of the Tower. The initial, shattering sobs had subsided, replaced by a profound, echoing hollowness. Your chest felt scraped raw, a cavern where only the cold wind of betrayal now whistled. Tears still mingled with the rain on your cheeks, but they were silent, automatic. The fierce, vibrant love that had filled you felt like a distant memory, replaced by a weary ache and a chilling numbness.
You had to go back. The thought was a lead weight. There was nowhere else. The Tower was home, the team was family, and John⊠John was the storm center you inevitably orbited. You loved him. That terrifying, all-consuming truth hadn't vanished with the discovery of the ring. You could still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, hear the rasp of his voice calling you 'Angel,' see the fierce, vulnerable love in his blue eyes. You knew he loved you. That wasn't the question tearing you apart.
The question was: Was your love enough? Enough to truly bury the ghost of Olivia? Enough to finally shed the skin of the man who failed his wife, his son? Enough to deserve the future youâd dared to dream of together?
You feared, deep in the newly hollowed-out core of your being, that the answer was no. Love was powerful, yes. But it couldn't force healing. It couldn't erase a past someone clung to, symbolized by a circle of gold worn in secret. If he couldn't let go, truly let go, then his past wasn't just a scar; it was an anchor, dragging you both down. And you couldn't build a future on the wreckage of his unresolved yesterday. The thought made the cold seep deeper, past your bones, into your soul. The rain felt like the tears the sky was shedding for your broken heart.
***
The moment the Quinjet ramp had sealed, cutting off the sight of your silver wings vanishing into the grey Alpine sky, John Walkerâs world collapsed inward. The pain from his mostly healed wounds was nothing compared to the vise tightening around his chest, the acid churning in his gut. The flight back was a blur of tense silence, punctuated by Buckyâs grim updates and Alexeiâs boisterous recounting of his fight, oblivious to the suffocating tension radiating from John. Yelena watched him with unnervingly sharp, knowing eyes, saying nothing, which was worse than any barb. They all knew something happened but didnât ask.
He practically bolted from the jet the second it touched down in the Tower hangar, ignoring Buckyâs clipped demand for a debrief. "Later!" he snarled, the sound raw and desperate, startling even Alexei into momentary silence. He didnât run; he stalked, a wounded animal seeking its den, leaving a trail of water and blood â his own, from reopened scrapes ignored â on the polished floor.
He slammed the door to his room, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence. The space felt alien, charged with the phantom scent of you, your perfume, the memory of tangled sheets and whispered devotion now a cruel mockery. He ripped off the torn, bloodied tactical suit, hurling it across the room. Then the undershirt. He stood bare-chested, breathing hard, staring at his left hand.
The gold band gleamed dully under the harsh overhead light, a malevolent eye. It felt heavy. Filthy. A brand of his monumental, catastrophic stupidity.
"What the FUCK did I do?" The words tore from his throat, a guttural roar of pure agony directed at the empty room, at himself. He slammed his fist against the reinforced wall. Once. Twice. Pain flared through his knuckles, a welcome counterpoint to the soul-crushing guilt. He welcomed the sting, the split skin, the smear of blood. It was real. Tangible. Unlike the devastating fracture heâd caused in the one good thing left in his shattered life.
Fumbling, his hands shaking violently, he grabbed the ring. It felt cold. Alien. How long had it been since heâd consciously registered its presence? He yanked it off, the skin catching, protesting. He stared at it, lying innocently in his bloody palm. This tiny, insignificant circle of metal had just detonated his entire world.
Why? The question echoed your own, a frantic, panicked drumbeat in his skull. Why did I put it on? Habit? Stupid fucking superstition? Heâd started wearing it again on missions after Lemar died, after he lost the shield, after Olivia took his son. It felt like⊠armor. A reminder of a time when he wasnât a complete failure, a monster. A time before the darkness swallowed him whole. Heâd worn it automatically, thoughtlessly, packing his gear. It wasn't about Olivia, not anymore. It was about him. His brokenness. His fear.
And look where that fear got you, you fucking idiot. He closed his fist around the ring, the metal biting into his palm. You ruin everything. Everything you touch turns to shit. Lamar. His marriage. The shield. His reputation. And now⊠you. His Angel. The one pure, perfect light in his endless night. The woman who saw the wreckage he was in and somehow saw something worth saving. Worth loving. Heâd shown her his darkness, his rage, his grief, and she hadnât flinched. Sheâd healed him, body and soul. And how had he repaid her? With a hidden lie. A symbol of a past he claimed was buried, worn like a secret shield against the world, a shield that had now shattered your trust.
He loved you. God, he loved you with a ferocity that terrified him. It was the only thing keeping him upright now, the only anchor against the tsunami of self-loathing. What did that love matter now? How could he possibly explain that the ring wasn't about missing Olivia, but about hating himself? About clinging to a dead identity because the man he was now felt unworthy, especially of you? Who would believe that? How could you believe that, after seeing it there, glinting on his finger as you saved his life? The irony was a knife twisting in his gut. You saved me, and I destroyed us.
Panic surged, cold and sharp. Where are you? Hours had bled away. The storm was raging outside the Tower windows. Were you still flying? Were you hurt? That graze on your shoulder⊠had you healed it? The image of you flinching away from his touch, the raw rejection in your voice â "Don't touch me!" â lanced through him again. Heâd caused that. Heâd put that distance, that pain, in your eyes. He paced the small room like a caged tiger, the ring a burning coal in his clenched fist. He needed to see you. Needed to know you were safe. Needed to fix this, even though the damage felt irreparable.
He needed to hold you. To kiss you. To beg. To explain, even if the explanation sounded pathetic even to his own ears. He needed to feel the warmth of your skin, the solidity of your presence, to prove to himself that he hadn't lost you completely. But the fear was paralyzing. What if you wouldn't listen? What if you looked at him with that hollow emptiness forever? What if you never flew back? The thought was a physical blow, stealing his breath.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, the same bed where heâd worshipped your body with reverence just two mornings ago. He dropped the ring onto the nightstand. It landed with a tiny, final clink. He buried his face in his hands, the scent of blood and rain and his own despair filling his nostrils. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within â thunder rumbling like his own choked sobs, lightning flashing behind his closed eyelids like the devastating clarity in your eyes when you saw the gold.
He was an idiot. A colossal, self-sabotaging idiot. Youâd flown into hell to save him, and all youâd found was proof he was still chained to his own. He waited in the suffocating silence of his room, the rain hammering against the window, every creak of the Tower, every distant hum of machinery making him jerk his head up, heart pounding with futile hope. Come back. Please, Angel. Come back. Let me try. Let me explain. The hours stretched, agonizing and empty. The hollow space beside him on the bed yawned wide, a physical manifestation of the chasm heâd ripped open between them. He waited, a monument to guilt and desperate, terrified love, listening for the sound of wings that might never return.
--
The Towerâs familiar hum felt alien. You landed on the rain-slicked helipad, the wind whipping strands of wet hair across your face. The storm had followed you, or perhaps youâd carried it within. Your wings folded inward with a weary sigh, disappearing completely, leaving you feeling strangely vulnerable, diminished. The vibrant silver felt tarnished. You walked through the access door, water pooling at your feet with every step, tracing a cold path behind you. The elevator ride was silent, the mirrored walls reflecting a ghost. Pale, hollow-eyed, lips slightly parted, breath shallow. The wound on your shoulder, a jagged tear in the tactical suit fabric, throbbed dully. Blood, diluted pink by rainwater, seeped steadily, staining the dark material. You registered the discomfort distantly, a minor annoyance compared to the gaping void where your heart used to be.
You bypassed his room. The instinct to go there, to seek the warmth and sanctuary youâd always found within its walls, was a physical ache. But the image of the gold band, gleaming against his bloodied finger, slammed that door shut in your mind. It felt contaminated. Betrayed. Your own room felt cold and impersonal, a space barely used in the past year, filled only with echoes of solitude. You entered, the door sighing shut behind you.
Mechanically, you began peeling off the soaked, ruined suit. Every movement felt leaden. The fabric clung stubbornly to your skin, peeling away like a scab to reveal the angry, untreated graze on your shoulder. You didn't look at it. You didn't summon the familiar golden warmth. The physical pain was a grounding counterpoint, a tangible manifestation of the internal devastation. You deserved to feel it. You pulled on a soft, oversized sleep shirt and shorts, the clean cotton a stark contrast to the grime and blood still clinging to you. You picked up a towel, running it slowly, absently, over your dripping hair, staring blankly at the wall.
***
He heard the muffled thud of the access door closing. Heard the faint whir of the elevator ascending to your floor. The sound was a physical blow. You went to your room. The realization slammed into him, colder than the Alpine rain. You never went to your room anymore. Not unless he was deployed for weeks. That small, instinctive choice spoke volumes louder than any scream.
He waited, frozen in the agonizing silence of his own room, the discarded ring burning a hole in his vision where it lay on the nightstand. Minutes stretched into an eternity. Worry warred with crippling guilt. Were you okay? Had you healed yourself? The image of you flinching away, the raw pain in your eyes when she saw the ring, the blood on your shoulder youâd ignored⊠it fueled a frantic, desperate need to see you, to know you were physically whole, even if everything else was broken.
He couldn't bear it. He crossed the hallway, the short distance feeling like miles. He knocked softly on your door, the sound hesitant, almost fearful. Silence answered. He knocked again, louder. "Angel? Y/N? Please." Still nothing but the muffled sound of movement inside. His heart hammered against his ribs. He turned the handle. It was unlocked.
He pushed the door open slowly, stepping into the dimly lit room. The sight that greeted him stole his breath, not with desire, but with gut-wrenching horror. You stood by the bed, towel in hand, drying your hair with slow, lifeless strokes. You were facing away, but the oversized shirt slipped off one shoulder, revealing the angry, bleeding wound. Untouched. Unhealed. Fresh blood welled and trickled sluggishly down your arm, stark against your pale skin.
"Y/N..." His voice cracked, thick with emotion. "God... you're soaked. And your shoulder..." He took a hesitant step closer. "I was... I was so worried. Where were you? Are you...?" He trailed off, seeing the utter lack of reaction in your posture. You didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him. Just kept the slow, mechanical motion with the towel. The silence was suffocating, worse than any accusation. "Please," he begged, his voice raw. "Please, heal yourself. Let me... let me help? Just... please heal it."
You remained still. Silent. A statue carved from grief and rain. You simply stopped drying your hair, the towel hanging limply in your hand, waiting.
He took your stillness as permission to speak, desperation clawing at him. The words tumbled out, a frantic, disjointed torrent.
"Y/N... Angel, please..." His voice was a broken rasp, scraping raw against the stillness. He took a hesitant step further into the room, stopping as if an invisible barrier held him back, radiating helpless frustration. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. "I... I know what you saw. What you think it meant." He swallowed hard, his throat working. "It wasn't⊠it wasn't her. Not Olivia. Not like that. Not anymore. Please, you have to believe that."
He launched into his explanation, words tumbling out in a desperate, disjointed flood, each sentence punctuated by a tremor in his voice or a gesture of helplessness. "It was⊠God, it was the stupidest thing. The dumbest fucking habit. I'm so sorry. So unbelievably sorry." His eyes were wide with anguish. "After⊠after everything fell apart. LemarâŠ" His voice hitched on his best friend's name, a fresh wave of grief twisting his features. "...the shield⊠the fucking world crashing down⊠Olivia taking my son..." The words were choked, each one a blow. "I was⊠I was nothing. Less than nothing. A ghost walking around in my own skin. And that ringâŠ"
He looked down at his clenched fist, as if seeing the phantom band. "It was⊠it was like⊠armor? A stupid fucking reminder of a time⊠a time before I was just⊠broken. When I thought I had it figured out. When I thought I was⊠worthy of something good." He shook his head violently, disgusted with himself. "I started wearing it on missions. Solo missions, mostly. At first, maybe it was about her, about failure⊠but then⊠it just became⊠like a fucked-up good luck charm? A stupid superstition? A reminder of⊠of failure? Of what I lost before I found you? Something to ground me when things got dark? Or maybe⊠maybe just me punishing myself? I don't know!" His voice rose, thick with frustration and profound self-loathing. "My head⊠Itâs a mess, Angel. You know that. It was just⊠me. My damage. My fucked-up way of coping."
He took another half-step forward, pleading with his whole being. "It became automatic. Like putting on the vest. Like checking my sidearm. I forgot it was even there most of the time. It was just⊠part of the gear. I never thought⊠I never imagined..." He gestured wildly, encompassing the room, the history, you. "...that I could ever have this. Have you. I never dreamed I'd find someone who looked at me like you do⊠who saw past the wreckageâŠ" His voice cracked again. "It didn't mean I loved you less! Not for a second! It wasn't about holding onto her; it was about⊠about trying to hold onto some semblance of the man I thought I was supposed to be, before everything went to hell. Before I lost it all. It was a weakness. Stupidity. But it wasn't a lie about us! About how I feel about you!"
He looked at you, tears finally welling in his own eyes, mirroring yours but born of desperation and the dawning horror of irrevocable loss. "Please," he whispered, the word barely audible, a final, broken plea against the silent weeping that filled the space between them. "It was just⊠my damage. Trying to armor a broken piece, I didn't know how to fix it. It didn't mean I loved you less."
He took another step closer, his eyes fixed on your rigid back, pleading.
"I love you. Only you. You have to believe me. You are everything. My light. My reason. I worshipped you because you are a goddess to me. You saved me, Y/N. In every way possible. Please... please trust me. Please forgive me. I'll throw it away. I'll melt it down. Just... please. Look at me. Talk to me."
His words washed over you. Explanations. Excuses. Pleas. They buzzed like angry flies around the numb void inside you. They couldn't penetrate the icy wall of betrayal. The core issue remained, unaddressed, festering.
Slowly, deliberately, you turned. The movement wasn't angry; it was heavy. Final. You faced him, your eyes lifting to meet his desperate blue gaze. What he saw there made the blood drain from his face. The vibrant warmth, the teasing sparkle, the deep love â all gone. Replaced by a hollowness so profound it was terrifying. A deep, inconsolable sadness. And beneath it, a crushing disappointment that seemed to age you instantly.
The silence stretched, thick and charged. He saw the tears welling, not falling yet, just pooling in those devastated eyes. Your eyes were already red from crying so much. Your voice, when it finally came, was low, flat, devoid of all inflection, yet carrying the weight of the world.
"One question." The words were like stones dropped into still water. "Answer me honestly."
He knew. With a sickening lurch in his gut, he knew what was coming. Please, he screamed silently, please don't ask me that. Don't make me say it. His throat closed. He couldn't breathe.
You held his gaze, the tears beginning to spill over, tracing silent paths down your cheeks. "We've been together a year. You have hugged me, kissed me, made love to me... You have told me that you loved me. In that time... you've had many missions. Missions where I wasn't by your side." You paused, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy in the air between you. "Did you wear that ring... every single time you went on a mission without me?"
The silence that followed was absolute. Agonizing. He stared at you, his own eyes wide with dawning horror, his jaw working soundlessly. He saw the knowledge already etched in your hollow gaze. You knew. But you needed to hear it. Needed him to confirm the scale of the deception.
"Answer me." Your voice was a whip-crack, sharp and cold, cutting through his paralysis.
He flinched. His gaze dropped to the floor, unable to bear the devastation in yours any longer. A strangled sound escaped him. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could erase the truth. When he forced them open, looking back at you, it was with the expression of a man facing his executioner.
"...Yes."
The single syllable hung in the air. Final. Devastating.
It wasn't just the admission. It was the confirmation of a pattern. A deliberate, repeated choice. Not a forgotten relic, but a conscious act he performed every time he stepped away from you. He hadn't trusted you enough to explain this quirk, this piece of armor he felt he needed. He'd hidden it, knowing â knowing â it would hurt you if you discovered it. Because he knew you. He knew your heart, your capacity for understanding. If heâd come to you, explained this strange, broken piece of himself â this need to wear the ghost of his old life as armor when facing danger alone â you would have listened. You had listened to his darkest confessions about Lamar, about his failures, about his fear of never seeing his son again. You had even encouraged him to reach out to Olivia, for his sonâs sake. You had never been threatened by his past; youâd only ever tried to help him heal it.
A bitter, broken sound escaped you, half-laugh, half-sob. "Every single timeâŠ" The words tasted like ash. "So⊠you take it off when you come back to me? When you hold me? When you kiss me? And then⊠You just⊠put it back on?" Your voice rose, trembling with disbelief. "Like clockwork? Like itâs⊠routine? Like, I am just part of the routine you leave behind?"
He opened his mouth, but no sound came.
"Why?" The word tore from you, ragged and raw. "Why, after a year? After everything we built? After every promise, every 'I love you' whispered in the dark⊠why does that," you gestured wildly towards his empty hand, "still have a place on your skin when you walk away from me?" Your breath hitched, tears mixing with the blood on your shirt. "Does it mean you still think about her? Does it meanâŠ" Your voice dropped to a shattered whisper, the most terrifying question of all, "...you still do?
He recoiled as if struck. "No! God, Y/N, no! Itâs not like that! I told youâ"
"You told me nothing!" you screamed, the numbness shattering into razor-sharp shards of rage and agony. "For a YEAR! You hid it! You wore it knowing you were hiding it!" The image burned in your heart. "What does that mean, John? Was it allâŠ" Your voice broke, the foundation of your world crumbling. "Was everything we had⊠everything you said⊠was it just⊠a lie? A beautiful, comforting lie you told yourself⊠and me?"
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, rocking slightly, the questions turning inward, corrosive and devastating. "Did I do something wrong?" The whisper was barely audible, yet it filled the room. "Was I not enough? Not strong enough? Not⊠her?" The name hung unspoken but deafening.
He didnât answer; he couldnât. He truly loved you, but he couldnât choose the correct words because, hearing your words, your questions, his mind was slowly beginning to understand the magnitude of his mistake, and the fact that perhaps no explanation would fix this.
He hadn't trusted you with this. Heâd chosen secrecy. Heâd chosen to wear that symbol of a life before you, deliberately, every time he left your side. The "why" â whether armor, superstition, or self-flagellation â was almost irrelevant now. The repeated act of concealment was the death knell for your trust. You walked away from him, facing the floor-to-ceiling window now. Your tears were falling freely. Your hands covered your eyes, trying to control your crying.
He cleared his throat, the sound raw. "AngelâŠ" His voice was a broken whisper, scraping against the sudden silence. "Please. Look at me."
You didn't turn. You couldnât. The memory of his blood on your hands, the icy revulsion at his touch on the ramp, the image of that damned ring⊠it played on a loop behind your eyes.
His words washed over you, hollow echoes in the cavern of your hurt. Logic offered no solace. A habit? He chose to put it on, deliberately, knowing you wouldn't be there. A superstition? He'd never mentioned it. A reminder of failure? Why wear the symbol of a marriage to remember failure? A grounding tool? He had your pendant for that. The thought struck like a physical blow.
"Did you wear it?" Your voice, when it finally came, was terrifyingly flat, devoid of inflection. You still didnât turn. "The pendant? My wings? Did you wear it⊠while you wore her ring?"
The silence behind you thickened, became charged. You heard his sharp intake of breath.
Slowly, forcing yourself to move through the crushing weight of dread, you turned.
John stood frozen, his face a mask of dawning horror. His hand instinctively flew to the base of his throat, where the chain of the wing pendant usually lay beneath his shirt. His eyes, wide and desperate, met yours. He didn't need to speak. The guilt, the sheer wrongness radiating from him was answer enough.
âOh, my GodâŠâ you whispered.
He had worn both.
The shield pendant he gave you â a piece of his aspirational self, shared. The wing pendant you gave him â a symbol of your love, accepted and declared. And nestled against his skin, hidden beneath the armor, hidden from you, the cold circle of metal that bound him to a ghost. He had carried your symbol of love alongside the symbol of his vows to another woman.
A silent sob wracked your frame, violent and involuntary. It felt like your ribs were cracking. More tears broke free, not in noisy wails, but in a relentless, silent river that streamed down your cheeks, dripping onto the front of your still-bloodstained shirt. It wasn't dramatic; it was the quiet, soul-deep weeping of absolute devastation, the sound of something precious and irreplaceable shattering beyond any hope of repair.
He saw it. Saw the final, irrevocable shattering reflected in your eyes â the light, the trust, the future, extinguished. "Angel, no... please..." His voice was a ragged sob now, mirroring your silent agony. He took a stumbling step forward, hand outstretched, instinctively wanting to pull you to him, to absorb the immeasurable pain heâd caused, to somehow glue the pieces back together with his own desperation.
"If you use it," you whispered, more to yourself, but he heard every agonizing word, "it's because you still remember your marriage⊠because you still remember her. Because you want to remember. And even when you say you love meâŠ" You looked down at the blood on your shirt, then back at him, utter desolation in your eyes. "...you still choose it. Over and over. You put it back on. Every time you left me."
"No, no! I swear; I love you! It was just... me! My fucked-up head! Please, please, let me explain properly! Let me stay! Let me fix this!" His plea was raw, stripped bare, filled with a terror that mirrored your own desolation.
"Get out." The words were low, almost a whisper, but they vibrated with the titanic effort of containing the volcanic rage and soul-crushing pain threatening to erupt beneath the numb surface. Your knuckles were white where you gripped your own arms.
"Y/N, please!" He took another step, his hand still reaching, tears now tracking through the grime still on his own face. "You have to believe me! I love you! I love only you!" His voice cracked, desperation turning into a ragged, broken wail.
"HOW CAN I BELIEVE YOU WHEN YOU DIDN'T TRUST ME?" The roar tore from your throat, shocking in its primal intensity, shattering the fragile silence like glass. It wasn't just anger; it was the raw, bleeding edge of ultimate betrayal finally finding its voice, amplified by the horrifying image of the pendant and ring sharing space on his skin. "You hid it! You wore it knowing you were hiding it! You wore it with my wings! You chose to wear it every single time! You chose to keep that part of yourself locked away, separate from me! You never gave me the chance to understand! You never trusted me enough to tell me! So how, John? HOW CAN I BELIEVE A SINGLE WORD WHEN YOUR ACTIONS FOR A YEAR SCREAMED YOU WERE STILL HOLDING ONTO HER?"
You pointed a trembling finger towards the door, your whole body shaking with the force of your anguish. "GET OUT!"
The final command echoed in the devastated space. It wasn't just a demand for physical distance; it was the slamming shut of a door on a shared life, a shared future. It was the expulsion of the man who had been your sanctuary, now the architect of your ruin. John flinched as if struck, his outstretched hand falling limply to his side. The look on his face wasn't just hurt; it was the desolate realization that he had indeed destroyed the most precious thing he'd ever found. He stared at you for one more agonizing second, seeing only the broken angel he had shattered, then turned and walked out, shoulders slumped under the unbearable weight of his own catastrophic failure. The door clicked shut softly behind him, the sound echoing with the finality of a tomb sealing.
Alone, the silent weeping began again, the only sound in the hollowed-out shell of what was once your home.
He slumped against the wall in the hallway outside, sliding down to the floor, his head in his hands, the devastating sound of your now freely noisy weeping the only sound in the world. The storm raged outside the Tower windows, but the true tempest, the one that had shattered his world, raged silently behind the door he could never cross again. The ring, a tiny circle of gold, lay forgotten on his nightstand, its cost immeasurably higher than he could have ever imagined.
--
The click of the door latch echoed like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of your room. The fury that had propelled your shout drained away instantly, leaving behind a chilling vacuum, a numbness so profound it felt like falling through ice into black water. You stood frozen, arm still outstretched towards the now-closed door, trembling not with anger, but with the aftershock of utter devastation. The raw, bleeding wound on your shoulder pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat, a mocking counterpoint to the gaping tear in your soul.
You stood there, your hands holding your head, trying to dull some of the deep pain you felt in your heart. The crying erupted again without warning. The sobs echoed in your room, and you felt like a pulse was pounding in your head, aching.
After an agonizing and endless while, slowly, your arms dropped. You turned, mechanically, back towards the bed. The towel slipped from your nerveless fingers, landing in a damp heap on the floor. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy, broken only by the ragged, uneven sound of your own breathing and the relentless drumming of rain against the Tower's windows. You could hear him â a muffled, choked sound from the hallway, the scrape of fabric against the wall as he slid down. A sob, raw and broken. The sound twisted like a knife in your already shattered heart. Heâs crying. The image, the grumpy, stoic John Walker brought low by his own colossal mistake, should have evoked pity. Instead, it fueled a fresh wave of icy, hollow despair. His tears couldn't wash away the year-long deception.
Hours passed, you didnât even know how many. You walked to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered on, harsh and unforgiving. You avoided the mirror. You couldn't face the ghost staring back. Instead, you focused on the sink. Turning on the cold tap, you cupped water in your hands, splashing it onto your face, trying to wash away the tear tracks, the grime, the feeling of his desperate pleas clinging to your skin. The water was shockingly cold, a brief, sharp sensation that pierced the numbness for a fleeting second. You looked down at your shoulder. The graze was ugly, inflamed, blood still oozing sluggishly. It hurt. A deep, insistent throb.
Heal it. The thought was automatic. Your power hummed beneath your skin, a warm, golden potential. But summoning it felt like a betrayal of a different kind. Healing required focus, required channeling the life-force within you. And that life-force felt extinguished. The warmth felt like a lie. Why erase this pain? It was real. Tangible. A physical anchor to the emotional cataclysm. A punishment you deserved for loving too blindly, for trusting too completely. You left it. A stark, bleeding testament.
Everything hurt: your heart, your shoulder, your eyes, your head. You just wanted it to stop. I just wanted it all to stop.
You returned to the bedroom, leaving the bathroom light on, casting a long, lonely rectangle across the floor. You didn't sit. You stood by the window, staring out at the storm-lashed city. The glittering lights below seemed indifferent, mocking. The world kept turning. Life went on. Except yours felt like it had stopped dead the moment you saw that glint of gold.
***
Outside your door, John Walker sat slumped against the cool metal wall of the corridor. His knees were drawn up, his forehead pressed against them. His shoulders shook with silent, wrenching sobs he tried desperately to stifle, biting down on the fabric of his pants. The sound of your roar â "How can I believe you when you didn't trust me?" â played on a loop in his shattered mind. It wasn't the volume; it was the raw, broken truth in it. The accusation was unanswerable.
He replayed the year in his head, a torturous slideshow. Packing his gear for solo missions. The familiar, almost unconscious ritual: check weapons, check comms, check armor... slip on the ring. A habit born in the deepest pit of his self-loathing after losing everything. It had felt like armor then. A flimsy shield against the feeling of being a ghost, a failure. A reminder of a time when heâd had a wife, a son, a best friend, a purpose he hadn't utterly corrupted. He hadn't thought of Olivia in years â not romantically, not longingly. He thought of his son, a constant ache, but the ring wasn't about her or his son. It was about John. His brokenness. His fear that the darkness inside him was all he deserved.
And heâd worn it. Every. Single. Time. Like putting on a second skin of failure. Heâd never once thought. She should know. She would understand. Why? Because deep down, beneath the love he genuinely felt, festered the unworthy conviction that if you saw this pathetic, broken piece of him, clinging to a dead past, youâd realize your mistake. Youâd see the monster he feared he still was. So he hid it. He lied by omission. He betrayed the one person who saw past the monster and loved the damaged man beneath.
The muffled sound of movement from inside your room â the splash of water, the soft pad of feet â was agony. He pictured you alone, bleeding, hollow. Because of me. The self-loathing was a physical weight, crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to bang on the door again. To scream his apologies until his voice gave out. To beg for a chance to prove his love was real, that the ring meant nothing compared to you. But your final roar, the devastation in your eyes, the way youâd flinched from his touch⊠they were walls he couldnât breach. Heâd destroyed the bridge of trust.
Time lost meaning. He sat there, a broken statue in the dim hallway light, listening to the storm outside and the terrifying silence from within your room. His tears eventually dried, leaving his face stiff and sore, his eyes burning. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw. The only thing left was a gnawing, terrified certainty: heâd lost you. Heâd finally succeeded in destroying the only truly good thing heâd ever had.
***
Downstairs, the uneasy tension was palpable. Yelena paced the common area like a caged panther, her usual sardonic expression replaced by grim concern. Bucky sat stiffly at the table, methodically cleaning a knife, his gaze distant. Ava shimmered near the window, observing the storm, her form unusually still. Bob fidgeted nervously, radiating anxious energy.
"They haven't come down," Bob whispered, breaking the heavy silence. "It's been hours. And... did you see her shoulder? When she flew off? It was bleeding."
Yelena stopped pacing, her sharp eyes fixed on the ceiling as if she could see through the floors. "Something is very wrong. Walker looked like death warmed over when he bolted from the jet. And she... flying off alone in that storm?" She shook her head, a flicker of genuine worry in her eyes. "The grumpy one finally did something monumentally stupid, I am certain of it."
Bucky set the knife down with a soft *clack*. "Give them space," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Whatever it is... it's bad. Pushing won't help."
"But the shoulder," Bob insisted, wringing his hands. "She heals everything! Why wouldn't she...?"
Ava phased slightly, her voice calm but carrying an edge. "Physical wounds are often secondary to psychological trauma. Her bio-signature, when she returned, indicated extreme emotional distress. The suppression of her healing ability is a known physiological response to severe emotional shock."
Yelena muttered a curse in Russian. "Psychological trauma? From what? They were disgusting loved-up idiots yesterday!" She resumed pacing, her boots clicking sharply on the floor. "That ring," she suddenly hissed, stopping dead. "When Barnes hauled him onto the jet... Walker was clutching his left hand. Like it hurt. But his hand wasn't injured. And in the Quinjet... she looked at his hand." Her eyes narrowed, piecing it together with lethal accuracy. "The ring. His old wedding ring. He was wearing it." The disgust in her voice was thick.
Bucky closed his eyes briefly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He knew about the ring. Knew John kept it. Heâd never imagined he still wore it. Especially not now. "Idiot," he breathed, the word heavy with disappointment and understanding.
Bob looked horrified. "He... wore his wedding ring? But... but he loves Y/N! Why would he...?"
"Because men are idiots," Yelena spat, fury replacing worry. "Stupid, self-sabotaging idiots clinging to ghosts." She looked towards the elevator bank, radiating protective anger. "If he broke her heart over that sentimental..."
Upstairs, John finally pushed himself up from the floor. His legs were stiff, his body aching. He leaned his forehead against your door, the cool metal a shock against his skin.
"I'm so sorry, Angel," he whispered, the sound raw and barely audible. "I'm so... so sorry." He listened. Nothing. Not a breath, not a sob. Just the endless drumming of the rain and the hollow echo of his own shattered heart in the empty hallway. He pushed away from the door, the movement heavy with defeat. He couldn't stay out here forever. He couldn't fix this tonight.
He walked back to his own room, each step an effort. The space felt alien, cavernous, filled only with the accusing silence and the ghost of your presence. His gaze fell instantly on the nightstand. The ring sat there, a small, innocuous circle of gold gleaming dully under the dim light. He walked over, staring at it. The armor. The shield. The shackle. He picked it up. It felt cold. Heavy. Not with the weight of memory, but with the crushing weight of consequences. The symbol of a past failure had just ensured his greatest one. He closed his fist around it, the metal biting into his palm, a tiny, insignificant pain compared to the devastation heâd wrought. He didn't throw it. He didn't melt it. He just stood there, in the center of his empty room, holding the tiny instrument of his own destruction, listening to the storm rage outside and the terrifying silence from the room next door, knowing he had no idea how to survive the dawn.
--
The days bled into weeks, each one longer and bleaker than the last. The Tower, once a vibrant hub of chaotic energy and shared warmth, became a mausoleum of unspoken grief and stifling tension. The air itself felt thick, charged with the invisible, agonizing current flowing between your room and his.
You existed. You didn't live. You moved through the Tower like a ghost haunting its own life. Sleep was fractured, filled with nightmares of gleaming gold and John's desperate, tear-streaked face. You woke exhausted, the hollow ache in your chest a constant companion. You trained. Relentlessly. Brutally. Pushing your body to its limits in the gym, the *thwack* of your fists against reinforced bags echoing the blows your heart had taken. You flew. Long, solitary patrols over the city, the wind a cold balm against the numbness, the silver wings beating a rhythm of escape rather than freedom. You ate when reminded, mechanically, tasting nothing. Conversations with the team were monosyllabic, your eyes perpetually distant, fixed on some internal horror only you could see. The wound on your shoulder? It healed, eventually. But only when the physical pain became a distracting nuisance. The act of summoning your golden light felt like a betrayal, a reminder of the power youâd used to save him while heâd been harboring his secret. You slept in your own room, the bed vast and cold, the silence a screaming void where his breathing, his warmth, his presence should have been.
John Walker became a specter of remorse. The usual grumpy bluster was gone, replaced by a crushing quiet. He moved with a heavy tread, his shoulders perpetually slumped, the light in his piercing blue eyes extinguished, replaced by a haunted shadow. He saw you everywhere â a flash of silver wings out the window, the echo of your laugh (now painfully absent) in the common room, the scent of your shampoo lingering in a hallway. He passed your door a dozen times a day, pausing each time, hand raised as if to knock, before letting it fall limply to his side. The memory of your shattered expression, your roar of betrayal, stopped him cold every time.
He tried, in small, clumsy ways. Heâd leave a steaming mug of your favorite tea outside your door in the morning. It would sit there, untouched, growing cold, until someone else cleared it away. Heâd notice the book Bob had given you was finished and leave the next in the series silently on the coffee table near your usual spot. It remained unopened. Heâd linger awkwardly in the kitchen when you came in, hoping for a glance, a word, anything. Youâd walk past him as if he were furniture, gaze fixed straight ahead, the air crackling with your silent anguish. Each rejection was a fresh wound, a confirmation of the devastation heâd wrought.
The team watched this agonizing dance with varying degrees of pity, frustration, and sorrow. Bucky maintained a stoic silence, his own past whispering warnings about the difficulty of rebuilding broken trust. Alexei, initially baffled and booming inappropriate questions ("Did you forget anniversary? Did you insult her mother?"), eventually fell quiet, recognizing a grief too deep for his usual bluster. Bob radiated anxious sadness, flitting between you both like a worried moth, wanting to fix the unfixable. Ava observed with analytical detachment tinged with a flicker of something resembling sympathy.
Yelenaâs gaze was the sharpest. She saw the hollow devastation in your eyes, the raw, impotent guilt in Johnâs. She witnessed the untouched tea, the unread books, the silent meals eaten at opposite ends of the long table. Her usual teasing sarcasm was absent, replaced by a simmering anger on your behalf and a reluctant pity for the broken man who clearly loved you with a desperation that bordered on self-destruction.
--
One evening, the weight became too much. John found himself standing outside Yelenaâs door, fist clenched, knuckles white. He knocked, a sound more like a thud of desperation than a request for entry.
Yelena opened the door, leaning against the frame, her expression unreadable. "Walker. To what do I owe this⊠pleasure?" Her tone was flat, devoid of its usual bite.
He couldnât meet her eyes. He stared at a point just past her shoulder, his voice rough, choked. "Belova⊠I⊠I donât know what to do." The admission cost him everything. Pride, dignity, the illusion of control.
Yelena raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting.
He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat painful. "She⊠she wonât look at me. Wonât speak to me. I try⊠I leave things⊠I justâŠ" He ran a trembling hand through his already disheveled hair. "How⊠how do I fix this? How do I make her seeâŠ?" He trailed off, unable to articulate the depth of his love or the magnitude of his stupidity.
Yelena studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment. The raw pain in his posture, the genuine desperation in his voice â it wasn't the act of a cad. It was the agony of a man whoâd finally found something precious and then, in a moment of profound idiocy, smashed it to pieces. "You are," she stated bluntly, "an idiot. A colossal, self-sabotaging, emotionally constipated idiot."
He flinched but didn't argue. He just nodded, a jerky movement.
"But," Yelena continued, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, "even I can see it. The way you look at her when she isn't watching. Like she lit up your whole damn world, and every shadow fled before her. Even now. Especially now." She sighed, a rare sound of genuine weariness. "What you did? Hiding that ring? Wearing it behind her back? It wasn't just stupid, Walker. It was a betrayal. You told her she wasn't enough. That your broken past was more important than your present with her. That you didn't trust her with your ugly little secret."
John closed his eyes, her words landing like hammer blows, each one true. "I know," he whispered, the sound ragged. "God, I know. But I swear⊠it wasn't about Olivia. Not like that. It was⊠me. My fucked-up head."
"Doesn't matter," Yelena cut him off. "The action mattered. The lie mattered. Trust isn't a light switch. You shattered it. You think leaving tea and books is going to glue it back together?" She shook her head. "You broke something vital in her. Something beautiful. That hollowness you see? That's the echo of what you destroyed."
He looked up then, his eyes pleading. "So what do I do? Give up? Walk away?" The thought was physical agony.
Yelena met his gaze, her own surprisingly serious. "If you love her? Truly? Then no. You don't get to walk away because it's hard. You don't get to give up because you feel sorry for yourself." She paused. "You be patient. More patient than you've ever been in your miserable, grumpy life. You be consistent. Every single day. You show up, even when she ignores you. You prove, through actions, not pathetic words, that you understand the magnitude of what you broke. You respect her space, her pain, even when it tears you apart. You become someone worthy of the trust you threw away. And you do it knowing it might take months. Years. Knowing she might never look at you the same way again. Knowing that the best you might ever get is her tolerance, not her love." Her voice dropped lower. "That's the price, Walker. That's the penance. You work for it. Every damn day. Without expectation. Because you love her enough to endure the agony of hoping for a sliver of forgiveness you might never earn."
John stood frozen, absorbing her words. The sheer scale of the task, the years-long marathon of atonement she described, was terrifying. Yet, the alternative â a life without you â was unthinkable. A deeper, more profound darkness than any he'd known. He nodded slowly, a grim determination settling over the despair in his eyes. "Okay," he rasped. "Okay."
He turned to leave, shoulders squared with a new, heavy resolve.
"And Walker?" Yelena called softly. He paused. "Keep that ring far away or throw it into the Hudson. It's not armor. It's a shackle. And you don't deserve to wear it anymore."
He didn't look back, just gave another stiff nod and walked away, the weight of Yelenaâs impossible advice settling onto his already burdened shoulders. The path ahead was desolate, paved with silence and his own guilt. But it was the only path that led even remotely towards you. Heâd walk it. One agonizing, patient step at a time. Even if it took forever. Even if it killed him. Because the alternative was a death he couldn't survive.
Back in your room, you sat on the edge of your cold bed, having overheard the muffled voices in the hall. You hadn't caught the words, just the low rumble of his voice and Yelenaâs sharper tones. You didn't need to hear. You knew it was about you. About the wreckage. A fresh wave of that soul-deep weariness washed over you. You picked up the discarded Army hoodie youâd worn the movie night before the mission â the last night of normalcy. It still faintly smelled of him. You pressed it to your face, inhaling deeply, a sob catching in your throat before you viciously stuffed it into the back of the closet, slamming the door shut. The echo in the empty room was the loudest sound of all. The days stretched ahead, endless and grey, a purgatory of shared space and shattered hearts.
--
The silence in the Towerâs common room was oppressive. Not peaceful, but hollow, like the air after a bomb blast. John Walker sat slumped in an armchair, bathed in the sterile glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He wasn't looking at the view. His gaze was fixed, unseeing, on an object held loosely in his right hand.
A single, unspent bullet.
His thumb moved with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, turning the cold brass cylinder over and over against his calloused fingers. The metallic shlick sound was the only thing breaking the silence, a morbid counterpoint to the frantic, silent storm raging behind his vacant blue eyes. He saw nothing of the room. He saw you. Your hollow eyes, the devastating disappointment, the silent tears. He saw the gold band on his finger, glinting like an accusation. He heard Yelenaâs brutal assessment echoing: "You broke something vital... That's the echo of what you destroyed." Patient. Consistent. Years. âMight never look at you the same way again.â The words were a crushing weight, a sentence handed down. The bullet turned. Shlick. Shlick.
He was drowning in it. The guilt wasn't just emotional; it was a physical presence, a leaden cloak pressing him into the chair. The carefully constructed persona of US Agent, the grumpy soldier, the man trying to be better â all stripped away, leaving only this raw, exposed nerve of regret. The bullet was a focus point, a tiny, dense weight representing the enormity of his failure. A morbid talisman.
The soft hiss of the automatic door broke the rhythm. Bucky Barnes walked in, heading towards the kitchen area. His vibranium arm glinted faintly in the low light. He moved quietly, a ghost in his own right. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. He glanced towards the living area, his sharp eyes immediately registering the figure in the armchair, the unnatural stillness, the repetitive motion of the hand.
John didnât react. Didnât turn his head. Didnât acknowledge Buckyâs presence in any way. He remained locked in his internal purgatory, the bullet turning, turning, turning. Shlick. Shlick.
Bucky watched him for a long moment. He saw the utter desolation in the slump of Johnâs shoulders, the thousand-yard stare, the way his fingers moved over the bullet with a familiarity that spoke of deep, dark thoughts. He saw a man teetering on an edge. Bucky wasn't one for unnecessary conversation, especially with Walker. Their history was⊠complicated. Mistrust layered on antagonism, barely tempered by shared trauma and forced proximity on Valâs team.
He started to turn away, water bottle in hand. Not my problem. Let him stew. But the image of you flashed in his mind. The hollow ghost youâd become. The vibrant, confident woman with silver wings, reduced to a shadow walking the halls. And then he saw Walker again, not as the arrogant rival, but as a man shattered by his own monumental stupidity. A man who, against all odds, had genuinely seemed⊠better, happier, human⊠when he was with you. Until he wasnât.
Bucky sighed, a low, rough sound. He hesitated, then walked deliberately towards the living area. He didn't sit next to John. He pulled a straight-backed chair from the nearby dining nook, turned it around, and sat down facing John, resting his forearms on the chair back. He leaned forward, his gaze steady on Walkerâs profile.
John remained oblivious. The bullet turned. Shlick. Shlick. His breathing was shallow, uneven.
"Walker," Bucky said, his voice low but cutting through the silence.
No reaction. The vacant stare didn't waver. The thumb kept moving. Shlick.
Bucky waited. A full minute passed, marked only by the turning bullet and the faint hum of the Towerâs systems. He knew dissociation. Knew the frozen state of shock and guilt that locked down higher functions. Heâd lived there himself for decades.
"John," Bucky tried again, firmer.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Johnâs head turned a fraction. His eyes shifted, focusing not on Bucky but somewhere near his vibranium shoulder. Awareness flickered, dim and distant, behind the blue irises. The movement of his thumb slowed but didnât stop.
Bucky held the gaze, such as it was. He saw the depth of the agony there, the self-loathing so profound it was almost tangible. He saw the echo of the Winter Soldierâs own guilt, a reflection that unnerved him.
Another sigh escaped Bucky, this one heavy with reluctant understanding. "Look," he began, his voice gravelly but lacking its usual edge. "Weâre not friends." He paused, choosing his words carefully, a rare effort for him. "But I see her. Every day. Walking around like someone ripped her heart out and just left the space." His vibranium fingers tightened slightly on the chair back. "And I see you. Sitting here looking like you're trying to figure out how to load that bullet into your own head."
John flinched, a minute tightening around his eyes. His thumb stilled on the bullet. He didn't deny it.
"Yelenaâs probably already told you youâre an idiot," Bucky continued bluntly. "Sheâs not wrong. What you did? That was a gut punch, Walker. A betrayal of trust on a fundamental level. You know why? Because she trusted you with everything. Her wings, her power, her heart. She saw the mess you were, the grumpy asshole, the guy drowning in his own failures, and she didn't run. She stayed. She tried to fix it. With you. For you." Buckyâs gaze intensified. "And you repaid that by keeping a secret. A stupid, selfish secret that screamed you didn't trust her enough to see that broken piece of you."
Johnâs jaw clenched, a muscle jumping. He looked down at the bullet in his hand, his knuckles white.
"I watched you," Bucky said, quieter now. "After she came into your life. Saw the edges soften. Saw you actually smile, for Christ's sake. Saw you trying. Really trying. Not just playing soldier, but trying to be a better man. For her. Because of her. And yeah, you were still a pain in the ass, but⊠it was different. It was progress." He shook his head slowly. "Until you blew it sky-high."
He leaned forward a little more. "Hereâs the thing, Walker. I care about her. I want her to be happy. And for some godforsaken reason I haven't figured out yet, she was happy with you. Genuinely, disgustingly happy. And youâŠ" Bucky hesitated, the admission costing him. "...you seemed happy too. Actually happy. Not just less grumpy. Happy."
John finally looked up, meeting Buckyâs eyes directly. The raw pain and desperate hope warring there were almost painful to witness.
"So," Bucky said, holding the gaze. "If there's even a sliver of a chance that you can both get back to something resembling that? You fight for it. But not like this." He gestured vaguely at John, the bullet, the despair. "Sitting here playing with ordinance and feeling sorry for yourself? Thatâs not fighting. Thatâs wallowing. Thatâs selfish. Again."
He pointed a metal finger at him. "Yelena told you to be patient? To work? Sheâs right. But it starts with getting your head out of your ass. Stop focusing on how much you hurt. Focus on the hurt you caused. Understand the depth of that crater you blew in her trust. And then? You get up. Every damn day. You show her, through every single action, no matter how small, that you understand what you broke. That youâre not hiding anymore. That youâre trying to be worthy, even if you feel like you never can be."
Bucky stood up, the chair scraping softly. "Throw that bullet away, Walker. Or better yet, use it on the next Hydra goon who deserves it. But stop pointing it at yourself. It doesn't fix anything. Only consistent, patient, selfless work might do that. Might." He picked up his water bottle. "And for Godâs sake, shower. You look like hell."
Bucky walked away, leaving John alone once more in the heavy silence. The words hung in the air, stark and challenging. The condemnation was clear, but so was the reluctant acknowledgment of his potential for change, and the sliver of hope tied to your happiness.
John looked down at the bullet in his hand. It felt heavier than ever. Buckyâs words echoed Yelenaâs, but with a different weight â the weight of reluctant witness, of seeing the before and after. Selfish. Again. Stop wallowing. Work.
He closed his fist tightly around the cold brass, the edges biting into his palm. It wasn't comfort. It wasn't a solution. But it was a focal point for the resolve that began to stir, fragile and desperate, beneath the crushing guilt. He had to get up. He had to try. Not for himself, but for you. For the echo of the happiness heâd destroyed and the terrifying, infinitesimal chance of rebuilding something from the ruins. He slowly uncurled his fingers, staring at the bullet lying in his sweaty palm. A symbol of despair⊠or perhaps, now, a reminder of the battle he had to fight. The longest, hardest mission of his life.
--
Dawn bled into Johnâs room, grey and indifferent. He hadnât slept much, Buckyâs words and the cold weight of the bullet blending with Yelenaâs brutal roadmap in his mind. But when his eyes snapped open, it wasn't with the crushing despair of the previous weeks. It was with a grim, hard-edged determination.
Fight.
The word echoed, a command barked in the silent barracks of his soul. Not for himself, not for absolution he didn't deserve, but for you. For the ghost of your smile, the echo of your laugh, the light in your eyes that his monumental stupidity had extinguished. Bucky was right: wallowing was selfish. Patience wasn't passive; it was relentless, daily action. Yelena was right: it might take forever. It might fail. But giving up? Letting you remain that hollow, shattered version of yourself? Never. He would try. Every single day. For the rest of his life, if necessary. Even if the only victory was seeing you happy again, even if that happiness existed in a world where he was only a tolerated shadow.
The resolve hardened like steel as he showered, the water sluicing away the physical grime but not the deep-set guilt. He dressed methodically, his movements precise, focused. The first battle of the day commenced immediately.
The Coffee Ritual
He brewed your favorite coffee, a generous splash of milk, and a spoonful of golden honey swirling within. He poured it into your favorite mug, the chipped one with the tiny silver wing design Bob had found at a thrift store. He carried it, steaming gently, down the silent hallway. He placed it outside your door, just like before. But this time, he didn't slink away, hoping. He stood there for a moment, hand hovering near the wood. He didn't knock. He simply whispered, low enough only he could hear, "Good morning, Angel." Then he turned and walked away, back straight. It would go cold. He knew it. But he would bring it tomorrow. And the next day.
The Silent Vigil
He started showing up in common spaces when you were there. Not crowding you, not forcing interaction. Heâd sit at the far end of the massive sofa while you read, pretending to study mission reports. Heâd be in the kitchen, meticulously cleaning already-clean equipment when you came in for water. He offered no words, just a quiet presence. Acknowledging your space, respecting your silence, but refusing to vanish. His gaze, when it flickered to you, held no pleading expectation, only a deep, aching sorrow and unwavering focus. He watched the way you moved, slower now, less fluid. He noted the books you picked up and put down unread. He cataloged the shadows under your eyes. Intel. Understanding the battlefield. Your pain was his map.
The Gestures
He remembered you loved the obscure pistachio croissants from that tiny bakery three blocks down. He went early, before dawn ops meetings, and left one in a small paper bag outside your door. It sat there all day, untouched, the pastry growing stale. He didn't retrieve it until late at night, disposing of it with a pang.
He saw you looking tiredly at a wilting succulent on your windowsill. The next day, a vibrant, healthy replacement appeared, along with a small, simple note tucked under the pot: "Needs less water than the last one. - J" No plea, no apology. Just practical care.
He even Googled. Desperately. "How to show someone you're sorry when words aren't enough." "Grand gestures vs consistent small actions." "Rebuilding trust after betrayal." The results felt hollow, inadequate, but he mined them for ideas. He remembered that you had a strange fascination with small rocks of different colors, shapes, and shine. He started leaving small, smooth stones he found on his city patrols â grey, white, flecked with quartz â on the corner of your desk in your room (when he dared to peek in and see you weren't there). A silent, pointless offering of something small and solid.
The Words
He wrote letters. Long, rambling, tear-stained drafts filled with explanations, apologies, self-recrimination, and desperate declarations of love. He crumpled them all. They weren't for you; they were his own catharsis. Instead, he started writing simple notes on crisp, plain cards:
"The sky is clear today. Good for flying. - J"
"Bob made too much chili again. Itâs⊠edible. - J"
"Yelena threatened to poison my coffee. Business as usual. - J"
âI miss you, Angel. - Jâ
He slipped them under your door. No demands for a response. Just⊠communication. A quiet signal: Iâm here. I see the world. I remember youâre part of it.
The Team Watches
The change in John was subtle but seismic. The crushing despair was overlaid now with a tireless, almost grim energy. He wasn't less sad; he was working through the sadness.
Yelena watched him place the coffee mug with military precision. Saw the untouched croissant bag disappear later. A flicker of something almost like approval crossed her face before the usual sardonic mask slid back. "Still an idiot," she muttered to Ava one morning, "but at least he's a busy idiot now."
Bucky observed John sitting silently across the room from you, radiating focused calm instead of abject misery. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod one evening. The path was being walked.
Bob was the most visibly affected. He saw the stones appearing, the notes. "He's trying, Y/N!" he blurted out one day when you passed him in the hall, clutching one of the discarded notes youâd left on a table. You didn't react, walking on, but Bob looked heartened. "He is!"
Alexei clapped John heavily on the back one day, nearly knocking him over. "Good! You fight! Like Red Guardian! Never surrender! Win back your fierce bird!" John just nodded stiffly, accepting the painful encouragement.
Weeks Blurred. The coffee appeared. Every. Single. Morning. Sometimes accompanied by a fresh croissant, just the mug. Always untouched. Heâd retrieve it later, wash it meticulously, repeat the process.
The notes continued. Simple observations. Mundane updates. Never pushing. Never mentioning the past, the ring, the pain. Just⊠presence. A quiet, persistent drumbeat: I am here. I see you. I remember.
He started fixing small things around your room when you weren't there â a loose shelf bracket, a flickering light panel. Leaving no note, just the evidence of care.
He didnât try to talk to you. Not directly. He respected the fortress walls. But he maintained his silent vigil, a sentinel of remorse and unwavering intent.
--
You felt it. The relentless, quiet tide of his presence. The coffeeâs aroma was a ghost each morning. The notes were small weights you couldn't ignore, accumulating like fallen leaves. You saw him, a still, watchful figure at the periphery, no longer radiating desperate need but a somber, patient resolve. It didnât erase the hollowness. The betrayal was a cold stone lodged deep in your chest. The image of the ring, the confirmation heâd worn it every time, was a wound that throbbed.
But⊠the sheer, dogged persistence wore at the edges of the numbness. The consistency was a new factor. This wasn't a frantic burst of apology; it was a campaign. It was him, stripped of bluster and arrogance, showing up day after day with nothing but quiet, unwavering effort. It was infuriating. It was⊠confusing.
One rainy afternoon, you found a book on your desk â a rare, beautifully illustrated volume on celestial navigation youâd mentioned offhandedly months ago. No note. Just the book. You traced the embossed cover, a strange tightness in your throat. Heâd remembered. Heâd sought it out. The gesture was so specific, so unlike the earlier clumsy offerings. You didn't open it. But you didn't throw it away either. You left it there. A small, silent concession in the desolate landscape of your heart.
John saw the book still on your desk the next day. It wasn't a smile. It wasn't forgiveness. But it wasn't rejection. It was⊠presence. A tiny foothold on the sheer cliff face, he had to climb. He felt no surge of triumph, only a deeper resolve. The road was endless, paved with cold coffee and silent notes. But he would walk it. For you. To see the light return to your eyes, even if he was never again the one to put it there. He picked up the coffee mug from outside your door, its contents long cold. He washed it. He would bring it again tomorrow. The relentless tide would keep coming in.
--
Weeks bled into a monotonous, grey tapestry of pain. The hollow ache inside you wasn't just an absence; it was a living, breathing entity, a cold weight crushing your lungs, constricting your throat. You functioned. You trained, you ate, you slept (fitfully), you even occasionally exchanged clipped words with the team. But you were a ghost haunting your own life.
The irony was the sharpest knife: you missed him with a ferocity that stole your breath. Not the idealized version, but the real him. The infuriating, cocky smirk that secretly thrilled you. The startling blue of his eyes when they softened, looking only at you. The possessive warmth of his kisses, the way his hands mapped your skin like uncharted, sacred territory. You missed waking tangled in his sheets, the scent of his cologne and sleep-warmed skin filling your senses. You missed the rumble of his voice, the dry, sarcastic jokes that made you laugh despite yourself, the way heâd argue passionately over the most trivial things just to see you engage. You missed the gravelly whisper of "I love you, Angel" against your neck in the dark. The memories were shards of glass, beautiful and agonizing, cutting deeper with every recollection.
You saw his campaign. The relentless, quiet tide of effort. The daily coffee ritual, the simple notes observing the mundane, the small, thoughtful gestures like the book on celestial navigation. You registered the change in him â the grim determination replacing despair, the silent respect for your space. Part of you, a traitorous, wounded part, ached to respond. To let the dam break, to run back into his arms and pretend the ring, the betrayal, never happened.
But you couldn't. The image was burned onto your soul: the glint of gold against his bloodied finger. The confirmation â "Yes" â that heâd deliberately put it on every single time he left you behind. It wasn't jealousy of Olivia. Youâd never hated her. Youâd even encouraged him to rebuild a bridge for his sonâs sake. You respected the love theyâd once shared. The devastation was born from a far more profound wound: Your love wasn't enough. Despite a year of devotion, of healing his wounds, body and soul, of building a sanctuary together⊠he still needed that piece of his past as armor. He hadn't trusted you enough to share that broken piece, to let you help him lay that ghost to rest. The symbol screamed that the man you loved still belonged, in some fundamental way, to a life before you. And that knowledge was a poison slowly killing you from the inside.
The pain became unbearable. Physical. A constant, grinding agony in your chest that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. Days blurred into a meaningless procession of grey hours. Smiling felt like a torn muscle. Living felt like dragging chains. Seeing him, a constant reminder of what was lost and what could never be fully reclaimed, became torture.
Self-preservation, raw and desperate, finally kicked in. You needed air. Space. A world where his presence wasn't a constant, agonizing pressure on your shattered heart. You requested a private meeting with Val.
Valâs office was all sharp angles, polished steel, and cold, efficient light â a stark contrast to the storm raging silently within you. You stood rigidly before her imposing desk, posture locked like armor, your eyes shadowed pits holding a terrifying, hollow emptiness Val hadn't witnessed before. It wasn't grief; it was an absence. A soul vacancy.
"I need out," you stated, your voice unnervingly flat, devoid of any inflection, any of the warmth or vibrancy Val associated with the fiercely competent, winged asset sheâd recruited. It was the voice of a ghost. "Solo assignments. Black ops. Deep cover. AnythingâŠ" You swallowed hard, the action visible in the taut line of your throat, the words like shards of glass forcing their way out. "...anything where I donât have to be here. Where I donât see him."
Val leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers, her sharp, calculating eyes missing nothing. She scanned you like a malfunctioning weapon: the unhealthy pallor beneath the bruises and grime from your last mission, the subtle, persistent tremor in your hands that you couldnât quite suppress, the way your gaze seemed to drift, unfocused, even now. Most telling was the profound deadness in your eyes â the light that usually sparked with fierce intelligence or dry humor was utterly extinguished. Sheâd seen operatives break under pressure, crack under torture, drown in guilt. This was different. This was a soul fracture. The Angel wasn't just grounded; she was shattered.
"Walker?" Val asked, her tone deceptively neutral, though the name landed like a stone in the sterile silence.
A single, stiff nod was your only answer. The name itself seemed to trigger a minute flinch you couldnât control.
Val sighed, a short, sharp exhalation that held a rare note of something almost like⊠weariness? A flicker of regret for the efficient asset sheâd lost? "Heâs been⊠different since you," she conceded, her gaze fixed on you. "Less of a loose cannon. More focused.â A pause, heavy with unspoken assessment. "But I need functional operatives. And you, currently, are not functional. Not here."
She tapped a key on her console, pulling up a dense file on the holoscreen embedded in her desk. The glow reflected in her impassive eyes. "Your recent performance metrics are⊠concerning. Hesitation in critical engagements. Lapses in situational awareness â you zone out, Y/N. Youâve become clumsy. Reckless in a way that isn't calculated aggression; itâs distraction. Your reflexes are off. Your judgment is clouded." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a low, pragmatic murmur. "Frankly, your relocation isn't just your request; itâs starting to look like an operational necessity. You seem like you havenât got a soul or a heart left in the fight here."
The brutal honesty should have stung. It barely registered. You just felt numb.
"Thereâs a persistent rot festering in Madripoor," Val continued, gesturing to the holoscreen displaying schematics of the chaotic city-state. "Low profile insertion. High risk of messy termination. Requires someone with your specific talents â flight, healing, enhanced senses â and⊠significant discretion. Absolute deniability. Think permanent relocation. New identity burned deep. Minimal contact, potentially for years. Radio silence protocols." Her eyes locked onto yours, searching for any flicker of understanding, or perhaps sanity, in the void. "Is that truly what you want? A clean break?"
Clean break. The words echoed mockingly in the cavernous hollow inside you. There was nothing clean about this. It was a brutal amputation performed with a rusty saw. Staying here, seeing him in the corridors, hearing his voice on comms, feeling the phantom ache of his betrayal every single day⊠that was a slow, agonizing death by a thousand cuts. Madripoor offered oblivion, a chance to drown the pain in different shadows. Maybe the darkness there could finally match the one inside you.
"Yes," you whispered, the word scraping your throat raw, tasting like ash and defeat. It wasn't a desire; it was a desperate need for survival. "Thatâs what I need."
"Done," Val declared crisply, the word final. She tapped another key. "Safehouse apartment secured in Hightown. Details, credentials, and extraction protocols will be transmitted via secure burn channel within the hour. Report to the designated insertion point in 72 hours." She didnât offer condolences. Val dealt in assets, geopolitical chess pieces, not broken hearts. But as you turned to leave, a ghost of somethingânot pity, perhaps cautionâflickered in her gaze. She held it for a fraction longer than strictly necessary.
"One more thing, Y/N," Val said, her voice regaining its usual steel, but with an undercurrent of grim warning. "Madripoor eats idealists for breakfast. The missions I funnel there⊠theyâre dark. The kind of wet work I usually reserve for agents whose souls are already halfway down the drain. Agents who fit the grime, notâŠ" She paused, her gaze sweeping over your bloodstained, weary form, lingering for a heartbeat on the faint, ethereal glow still clinging to your feathers despite the grime. "...not sweet angels who hang the damn moon for broken soldiers. Tread carefully. Donât mistake the numbness for invincibility."
Her final words landed like a physical blow, stripping away the last pretense. "Donât get dead. Youâre still useful."
Useful. Not healed. Not whole. Just useful. It was the only epitaph left for the Angel who once was. You nodded once, a stiff, mechanical movement, and walked out of Valâs office, not towards a new beginning, but into the waiting jaws of a different kind of hell. Anything was better than staying. Anything to stop the madness slowly consuming you from the inside out.
***
The sterile efficiency of Valâs office clung to you like a second skin. Back in the Tower â your Tower, his Tower, the place that had briefly been home â the silence felt heavier, charged with ghosts. You moved through the familiar space like an automaton. The first stop was the shower. You stood under the scalding spray for a long time, water sluicing over skin that felt alien, numb. You scrubbed mechanically, as if you could scour away the grime of the mission, the phantom stickiness of Johnâs blood, the scent of what happened that seemed embedded in your pores. The water ran pink, then clear, but the feeling of contamination remained. You emerged raw, wrapped in a towel, steam fogging the mirror. You avoided looking at your reflection. The eyes staring back wouldnât be yours; theyâd be the hollow ones Val had assessed.
Packing was a clinical exercise. A single, sturdy duffel bag. No sentimentality. No favorite sweaters, no books, no trinkets from shared missions. Just tactical essentials: your compact sidearm, ammunition, encrypted comms, basic medkit, and a few protein bars. Valâs sleek, untraceable credit card went into a zippered inner pocket â lifeline to an anonymous future. Clothes? Shoes? Youâd buy nondescript, disposable things on route or in the fetid streets of Madripoor. The less you carry from here, the better. Speed was the only imperative.
Then, your gaze snagged. On the small, simple frame perched on the desk beside the bed youâd shared. A photo. Taken months ago, on a rare day off. You were both laughing, genuinely laughing. John had an arm slung around your shoulders, his head thrown back, sunlight catching the gold in his hair. You were leaning into him, your wings relaxed behind you, a radiant smile lighting your face. You looked⊠happy. Unburdened. Whole.
The dam broke.
A choked gasp escaped you. You reached out, fingers trembling violently, tracing the glass over his smiling face, over your own vanished joy. The numbness shattered, replaced by a tsunami of raw, exquisite pain. Silent tears, hot and relentless, streamed down your face, dripping onto the polished wood of the desk. You remembered the warmth of his arm, the rumble of his laughter against your side, the impossible lightness of that moment. The utter, devastating trust. It felt like a lifetime ago. A life belonging to someone else. The contrast with the hollow shell you were now, preparing to flee into darkness, was a physical blow. You crumpled forward, elbows on the desk, forehead pressed against the cool frame, shoulders shaking with silent, soul-wrenching sobs. The sound of your own heart breaking filled the room, muffling the world outside.
You didnât hear the soft knock. Didnât register the door easing open. Bucky stood framed in the doorway, a steaming mug of coffee held carefully in his metal hand â his habitual peace offering, his quiet way of checking in. His sharp eyes took in the scene instantly: the half-packed duffel bag gaping open on the bed, the tactical gear laid out with grim purpose, the credit card peeking from the pocket⊠and you. Hunched over the photo, your body wracked by silent tears, the raw, unguarded agony radiating from you like heat.
He didnât need an explanation. He knew. The grim set of his jaw tightened. He stepped fully into the room, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the latch finally pierced your grief-soaked haze. You jerked upright, hastily swiping at your tears, trying to compose your shattered face, but it was futile. The devastation was written in every line of you.
"Y/NâŠ" Buckyâs voice was low, gravelly with concern. He set the untouched coffee mug down on the desk, deliberately away from the photo. He didnât approach further, giving you space. "Donât do this."
You couldnât speak. You just shook your head, fresh tears welling.
"Stay," he urged, his voice firm but gentle. "Itâs⊠Itâs bad now. Real bad. I know. But youâll heal. Takes time. A lot of damn time. But you do." His gaze held yours, steady, anchoring. "Heâs⊠heâs trying; you know? Heâs a mess, worse than you, maybe. Barely functional. But heâs trying⊠to understand what he did. To⊠to fix it."
That was the knife twist. Heâs trying. The image flashed â John, earnest, devastated, pleading, his own eyes red-rimmed. The memory of his desperate explanations, the self-loathing, the raw need for forgiveness. The knowledge that he was suffering, that he wanted to mend what heâd shattered⊠it didnât lessen the pain. It deepened the wound. Because you wanted to believe him. You wanted to let him try. But the fracture was too deep, the trust too obliterated. The thought of seeing him in the halls, the kitchen, the gym⊠of watching him try while you drowned in the aftermath of his choices⊠it was unbearable.
"You donât understand, Bucky," you whispered, your voice shredded, raw with a pain that felt terminal. "If⊠if I heal⊠I canât do it here. Not seeing him⊠every day. Every hour. A constant reminder." You wrapped your arms around yourself, a futile attempt to hold the pieces together. "It hurts. It hurts so much I feel like Iâm dying. Like Iâll just⊠stop breathing if I stay. I need this. I need to be gone."
Bucky studied you for a long, silent moment. He saw the truth in your eyes â the absolute, desperate necessity for distance, for survival. The fight drained out of his posture, replaced by profound sadness and acceptance. He wouldnât push. He knew about running from pain, about the prison's memories that could build.
"Alright," he said softly, the word heavy with resignation. He took a step closer, then another, closing the distance slowly. "Just⊠know this. I care about you. We all do. Whatever you need⊠wherever you end up⊠if you need backup, extraction, intel⊠hell, if you just need someone to listen⊠anything." He placed his flesh hand gently on your shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. "You call. Anytime. Day or night. You understand?"
You nodded, a fresh wave of tears blurring your vision. Not just from the pain now, but from the unexpected anchor of his loyalty in the midst of your shipwreck.
He didnât ask for promises. He simply opened his arms. You didnât hesitate. You stepped into the embrace, burying your face against the worn leather of his jacket. His arms closed around you, strong and steady, offering a fleeting sanctuary. It wasnât the embrace you craved, but it was safe. It was a human connection in the desolation. He held you for a long minute, a silent vigil for the love lost. "Take care of yourself out there," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion against your hair. "And remember⊠the teamâs here. Weâll be waiting when youâre ready. If youâre ready."
You pulled back, wiping your eyes roughly. "Tell the others⊠tell them goodbye for me? Please? Yelena, Ava, Alexei, Bob⊠Tell them Iâm sorry. And⊠thank you."
Bucky nodded, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Iâll tell them."
You took a shaky breath, squaring your shoulders with a resolve that felt brittle. You zipped the duffel bag closed with finality. One last, lingering look around the room â the bed, the desk, the photo still damp with your tears â and you turned your back on it all. You slung the bag over your shoulder, its weight insignificant compared to the burden you carried within.
Bucky didnât follow you out. He stayed rooted in the center of your room, a silent sentinel in the space youâd vacated. He watched you go, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway long after youâd disappeared down the corridor. The untouched coffee cooled on the desk beside the photograph of a happiness that felt like a cruel, fading dream.
You moved through the Tower corridors like a ghost, footsteps silent on the polished floors. The distant, rhythmic thuds and shouts from the communal gym were your cover. Everyone was there â training, venting, living. You timed it perfectly. The car park was cavernous, echoing, and deserted. Your SUV, a sturdy, unremarkable vehicle perfect for disappearing, stood waiting. You threw the duffel bag onto the passenger seat.
You paused, hand on the driver's door handle, taking one last look back at the entrance to the Tower. The place that had become your unlikely home, your found family⊠the place where youâd found love and lost it catastrophically. A fresh pang, sharp and desolate, lanced through you. Then, you hardened your resolve. Survival. Escape. Madripoorâs shadows beckoned, offering a different kind of pain, one you might learn to navigate. Anything was better than staying here and bleeding out slowly.
You slid into the driverâs seat, started the engine.
Johnâs knuckles stung, raw from pounding the heavy bag with a fury that felt less like training and more like self-flagellation. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud hadnât drowned out the static roar of guilt and dread in his head. Heâd left the gym early, the aggressive energy spent, replaced by a gnawing, urgent need. He had to see you. Not to plead again â he knew words were ash now â but just⊠to see you. As if he knew. To assure himself you were still there, still within reach, even if that reach was across an uncrossable chasm. Maybe he could stand silently outside your door for a moment. Maybe the simple fact of your proximity would offer a sliver of oxygen in his suffocating world.
He took the stairs two at a time, his boots echoing too loudly in the quiet corridor. Your door, when he reached it, was slightly ajar. A sliver of light spilled into the hallway. His heart hammered against his ribs â hope, fear, a desperate kind of longing. He pushed the door open gently.
Bucky.
Not you. Bucky Barnes stood rigid in the center of the room, his back mostly to the door. He wasn't moving. He wasn't speaking. He was just⊠standing there, a statue carved from grief and resignation. The air felt thick, hollowed out, like the aftermath of an explosion.
Johnâs gaze swept the room instantly, a soldierâs assessment honed by panic. The bed was neatly made, too neatly. The usual clutter of her life â a discarded sweater, a book by the bed, the small potted plant Ava had given you â gone. The surface of the desk was bare except for⊠the photo frame. One of them laughed. It sat alone, a stark monument to what was lost. And beside it, a cooling mug of coffee, Bucky had clearly brought and never been offered.
His eyes snapped back to Bucky, who had slowly turned. Their gazes locked. Buckyâs face was grim, etched with a profound sadness, but his eyes held a terrible, knowing stillness. There was no surprise at Johnâs arrival, only weary acknowledgement of the inevitable.
"Where is Y/N?" Johnâs voice was tight, strained, the question ripped from him. The silence stretched, heavy and accusing. Bucky didnât answer immediately. He just looked at John, the weight of unspoken truth pressing down.
"Bucky! Where is she?" John demanded, his voice rising, cracking on your name. The panic wasn't creeping in; it was flooding him, icy and paralyzing. He saw the answer in the emptiness of the room, in the finality of Buckyâs posture, in the untouched coffee meant for a conversation that wouldn't happen. He already knew. He just needed to hear the words that would make it real. And unbearable.
"She left." Buckyâs voice was flat, quiet, carrying the weight of a tombstone being laid.
No. The denial wasn't a word; it was a physical convulsion, a punch to the solar plexus that stole his breath and doubled him over for a split second. You can't be gone. Not like this. Not without⊠Without what? A chance he hadn't earned? A goodbye he didn't deserve? The thought was obliterated by a tsunami of raw panic, cold and sharp, slicing through the grim determination heâd worn like armor since the confrontation. It was primal. Stop her.
He was moving before conscious thought formed. He shoved past Bucky, a blur of desperate motion. The hallway blurred. He bypassed the elevator â too slow, too confining, a death trap of waiting â and hit the stairwell door with his shoulder. He took the concrete steps three, four at a time, gravity and terror lending him a reckless, plummeting speed. His boots slipped on a landing, skinning his palm raw on the railing, but he barely registered it. The only sound was the frantic hammering of his own heart and the ragged gasp of his breath echoing in the hollow shaft.
He burst through the door to the underground garage level like a shot, the heavy metal door slamming back against the wall with a resounding clang. The cavernous space smelled of oil, concrete dust, and damp. Rain sheeted down outside the massive open bay door, a grey curtain obscuring the world beyond, casting the garage in a watery, melancholic light.
There.
His eyes found you instantly. You were at the driverâs side door of a sleek, anonymous black sedan, rain already spotting the dark paint. The trunk was closed. You weren't loading anything. You were leaving. One hand was on the door handle, the other held a small, plain key fob. Your posture was rigid, prepared. You were dressed for disappearance: dark jeans, a nondescript black jacket, your hair pulled back severely. No trace of the vibrant Angel remained in the practical, shadowed figure.
As if sensing his violent arrival, you turned. Your expression was carefully, terrifyingly neutral. A mask carved from ice. But your eyes⊠your eyes were wide, startled by his sudden appearance, and in that unguarded instant, he saw it: oceans of raw, unprocessed pain. A reflection of the desolation heâd created. It was there for only a heartbeat before the shutters slammed down, replaced by a cold, impenetrable wall.
He stood frozen for a microsecond, chest heaving, rain dripping from his hair and gym clothes, his scraped palm stinging. The sleek black car, the rain, your closed-off face â it was the image of finality heâd dreaded since seeing Bucky in the empty room. You hadn't just packed a bag; you were erasing yourself. And you were seconds from vanishing into the grey downpour.
--
The rain hammered the sedanâs roof like a frantic drumbeat. John stood frozen in the downpour, ten feet away, looking less like the indomitable US Agent and more like a shipwreck survivor clinging to driftwood. "Y/N! Wait!" His voice wasn't just ragged; it was a raw scrape against the storm, echoing with a terror that vibrated in your bones.
You flinched, your hand tightening on the cold metal of the trunk lid. You didnât turn. Couldnât. You squeezed your eyes shut, drawing in a slow, shuddering breath that did nothing to steady the earthquake inside. The mask of numb practicality youâd worn since packing was crumbling, replaced by the raw, gaping wound beneath. When you finally forced yourself to face him, the rain plastered your hair to your cheeks, mingling with the tears you could no longer hold back. "John," your voice was a broken whisper, barely audible over the downpour. "Donât. Just⊠move."
He didnât move. He took a jerky step forward, hands outstretched, not in demand, but in desperate, futile supplication. Rain streamed down his face, indistinguishable from the tears carving paths through the grime. "Please!" The word was a sob. "Don't go! Not like this! Not withoutâŠ" He choked, searching for words he didnât have. "Give me more time! Iâll⊠Iâll do anything! Iâll quit the team! Walk away from everything! Iâll go to therapy every damn day! Iâll⊠Iâll cut off my damn hand if it makes you believe me!" His voice shattered completely, raw and stripped bare. "Please, Angel. Please. Donât leave. I canât⊠I canât breathe without you here. It feels like drowning."
The raw, animal agony in his voice, the sight of this powerful man reduced to a trembling, rain-soaked wreck by his own catastrophic failure, was the final blow. Your carefully constructed walls dissolved. A choked cry escaped you, ragged and broken. Tears, hot and relentless, flooded your vision, blurring his anguished face. "I can't!" you cried, the words tearing from a place of pure, shredded agony. "Don't you understand? I can't live like this! Seeing you in the halls⊠hearing your voice⊠smelling your damn soap⊠rememberingâŠ" Each word was a gasp, laced with a pain so profound it felt physical. "It hurts, John! Every single second, it hurts! Itâs carving me up from the inside out! I feel like Iâm dying just standing here!"
He flinched violently, as if each word were a physical lash. "I know!" he roared back, the sound raw with shared agony. "God, I know what I did! I was a fool! A selfish, broken fool who didnât deserve you! But I love you! I love you more than my own damn life! More than breathing! Please⊠just⊠stay. Let me fix it. Let me try!"
"Love isn't enough! My love isnât enough!" you screamed, the dam finally bursting. A torrent of fury, betrayal, and soul-crushing grief exploded out of you, fueled by weeks of silent torment. "Not when youâre still holding onto your past! Not when you strap on a symbol of another life every time you walk out the damn door!" You took a step closer, the rain plastering your hair to your face, your eyes blazing with a pain so deep it was incandescent. "But you know what breaks my heart even more than the ring itself, John? It's the lie. The routine of it. The knowing that every single time you suited up for a mission I wasn't on, you deliberately put that ring on."
Your voice dropped, trembling with a mixture of disgust and profound hurt. "You slid it onto your finger, a conscious choice, a secret ritual. And thenâŠ" A bitter, choked sob escaped you. "And then, every single time you walked back through that door to me, to us... You took it off. You hid it away. Tucked it back into its little box, its little pocket, like dirty laundry you didn't want me to see."
You gestured wildly, encompassing the Tower, your room, the life you'd built. "You washed your hands, maybe changed your clothes, and then you walked into my arms. You kissed me. You held me. You told me you loved me. You acted like everything was perfect, like that hidden piece of metal, that hidden allegiance, didn't exist!" The disbelief curdled into something darker. "How could you? How could you stand there, look me in the eye, swear your love, after just performing that⊠that sick little vanishing act? Shedding one skin to put on another? It wasn't just a ring, John! It was a performance! A daily betrayal you rehearsed and executed!"
The raw incredulity returned, sharpened by nausea. "I donât hate Olivia, John! I never did! Iâm glad you had someone who loved you! But our love? My love?" Your voice cracked, raw with shattered disbelief that now encompassed the sheer, brazen duplicity of his actions. "It wasn't enough to make you let her go! It wasn't enough to make you trust me! It wasn't enough to make you choose me â completely! It wasn't even enough to make you stop the charade! To stop pretending that ring didn't exist between us every single damn day!"
You were trembling violently now, the rain soaking you to the skin, plastering your clothes to your body, mixing with the ceaseless flow of your tears. The cold was nothing compared to the icy desolation within. "Do you have any idea?" you whispered, the fury momentarily replaced by a devastating emptiness. "Any idea what that does? To pour your soul into loving someone? To heal their wounds? To build a life⊠only to find out they were secretly clinging to a ghost?" Your voice dropped to a shattered whisper, barely audible over the rain. "That your love⊠your perfect, beautiful, everything love⊠wasn't enough to make them whole? To make them yours?" A sob racked your frame. "It destroys you, John. It makes you feel⊠worthless. Unfixable. It makes you want toâŠ" You choked, the truth too vast, too dark to voice fully. "Die."
"Then do it!" John pleaded, taking another step closer, his eyes blazing with a desperate, reckless intensity. "Shout at me! Curse me! Scream until your voice gives out! Hit me! Break my nose, crack my ribs, I don't care! Do anything! Anything but leave! Just⊠just feel it! Don't run! Don't take the easy way out!"
"The EASY way?!" The words detonated within you. White-hot fury, hotter and purer than anything before, surged through your veins, burning away the numbness. "YOU THINK THIS IS EASY?!" You slammed the trunk lid shut with a force that echoed like a gunshot in the garage. You stood facing him in the downpour, inches away, trembling not just from cold, but from the sheer, incandescent force of your pain.
"Leaving is the hardest fucking thing I've ever done!" you screamed into his rain-streaked face, your voice raw and ragged. "Staying would kill me! Do you understand? Kill me! Every time I look at you, I see the ring! I see the lie! I feel the knife you left in my chest twisting! I'm not strong enough, John! I don't have the strength to heal that wound while you're standing right there, a constant reminder of how deeply you cut me!" Your voice broke, the anger momentarily swamped by the tidal wave of grief. Tears streamed freely, indistinguishable from the rain. "DO YOU KNOW WHY THIS HURTS SO FUCKING MUCH?!" you roared, the question bursting out, raw and ragged, cutting through the echo of your own scream. You surged forward half a step, driven by the unbearable pressure in your chest. "DO YOU?!" The rain lashed your face, mingling with tears of pure anguish. Your voice cracked, but the intensity didn't waver. "Because I gave you everything! Everything I had! My heart, my soul, my trust, my stupid wings! I built us with my bare hands, John! I poured every ounce of love, every shred of hope, every broken piece Iâd ever carefully glued back together⊠I poured it all into you! Into this!" You gestured wildly between you, the movement encompassing the ruins of your relationship.
"I neverâŠ" Your voice hitched, a sob tearing through the fury. "I never felt this for anyone! Not even close! This loveâŠ" You pressed a fist hard against your sternum, as if trying to physically contain the agony tearing you apart. "It wasn't just love. It was⊠consuming. Terrifyingly huge. Like standing too close to the sun. You were my gravity, my air, my entire damn sky! I hung the moon for you, John! I burned for you!"
The raw confession hung in the rain-soaked air, more vulnerable than any accusation. "That's why!" you cried, the sound dissolving into a wretched sob. "That's why this pain isn't just bad⊠It's unbearable! It's ugly! It's devastating! Because what you brokeâŠ" Your voice dropped to a shattered whisper, filled with immeasurable loss, "...wasn't just a relationship. It was the only time I ever truly let myself exist completely in love. And you made it feel like a lie." He couldnât find the words to say something to you, anything. "So it hurts! It hurts so much I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't breathe without feeling like I'm suffocating! It feels like⊠like that darkness is back. That void I thought I'd escaped. That..." The words were a whisper filled with terror.
Then, the memory surfaced â sharp, bright, agonizing. A rooftop dawn months ago, your head on his shoulder after a nightmare about the suffocating blackness of your past depression. His arms tight around you, his voice thick with fierce conviction: "Never again, Angel. I swear it. You'll never feel that alone, that lost in the dark, ever again. Not while I'm here. I won't let it touch you. I promise."
"YOU PROMISED!" The accusation tore from your throat, a guttural scream that echoed off the concrete walls, louder than the thunder outside. It wasn't just anger; it was the shriek of ultimate betrayal. "YOU PROMISED ME I WOULDN'T FALL BACK INTO THAT DARKNESS! YOU SWORE YOU'D KEEP IT AWAY!" You pointed a trembling finger at him, your whole body shaking with the force of your anguish. "AND NOW? YOU PUT ME THERE! YOU ARE THE DARKNESS, JOHN! THE VOID I'M DROWNING IN IS YOU!"
The impact was instantaneous. John staggered back as if physically struck, all color draining from his face beneath the rain and grime. The wild desperation in his eyes vanished, replaced by dawning, absolute horror. He hadn't just broken your heart; he'd shattered the sacred vow he'd made to protect you from your deepest fear. He'd become the very monster he'd sworn to slay. He looked down at his hands â the hands that had held you, healed you, promised you safety â as if seeing them for the first time, stained with an invisible, unforgivable guilt. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Only a silent, shattered gasp. The fight, the pleas, the desperate hope â it all bled out of him, leaving only the hollowed-out shell of a man staring into the abyss of his own irrevocable failure.
He didn't move as you turned, your fury spent, leaving only a crushing, hollow exhaustion. He just stood there, paralyzed by the devastating truth echoing in the rain-filled silence: He hadn't just lost you. He'd destroyed the woman he loved, and the instrument of your destruction was his own broken promise.
The fury that had fueled the screaming accusations spent itself as abruptly as it had ignited. You sagged back against the cold, wet metal of the sedan door, the fight draining out of you like blood from a fatal wound. Your breathing was ragged and rapid, fogging briefly in the chilly, rain-lashed air before being swept away. The downpour was relentless now, soaking your hair, plastering your clothes to your skin, running in icy rivulets down your face, mingling with the hot tracks of your tears. You lifted trembling hands, pressing your palms hard against your closed eyes as if you could push the pain back inside, then dragged them slowly, heavily up through your soaked hair, fingers tangling in the wet strands. The storm raged outside, but inside, a terrifying quiet descended, broken only by your shuddering breaths.
Your eyes remained closed, hidden from the wreckage standing before you in the rain. When you finally spoke, your voice was low, hoarse, stripped of its earlier fire, vibrating with a profound, bone-deep weariness. "It was okay," you whispered, the words barely audible over the drumming rain. "If you couldn't get over it... Your old marriage. If you struggled... all this time." You swallowed hard, the admission tasting like ash. "I understand that, John. I do. You had a partner... a life... for so many years. You built something. You had a son together." A bitter, humorless sound escaped you, lost in the downpour. "Fuck, I understand that. More than you think."
You finally opened your eyes, but you didn't look at him. Your gaze was fixed on the rain-slicked concrete floor, seeing nothing. The anger was gone, replaced by a crushing, icy clarity. "But if that was the case..." Your voice dropped even lower, filled with a finality that was more devastating than any scream, "...you should never have told me that you loved me."
Slowly, with immense effort, you lifted your gaze from the rain-slicked concrete. Not to plead. Not to rage. Simply to deliver the epitaph. Your eyes, when they finally met his, were devoid of the fire that had burned there moments before. They held only an ocean of immeasurable sadness, a deep, weary grief that had settled into your bones.
"You promised me a future together," you said, your voice a low, rasping whisper, barely audible over the downpour. It wasn't accusatory; it was a simple statement of a fact now rendered meaningless. A ghost of a smile, fragile and infinitely sorrowful, touched your lips. "I even dared to fantasize," you continued, the words soft, almost lost. "About you. Me. Your son." Your voice hitched slightly. "And maybe⊠maybe a little brother or sister for him someday." The smile faded as quickly as it appeared, leaving only bleak emptiness. "Silly dreams."
You held his gaze for one more heartbeat, the depth of that lost future reflected in your sorrowful eyes. "But we can't build a future," you stated, the finality absolute, crushing, "if you refuse to let go of your past."
The words hung there, the simple, undeniable truth that sealed everything. There was nothing left to say. No plea, no bargain, no explosion of anger could bridge the chasm his secrecy had carved.
Your eyes, holding only that profound, world-weary sadness, finally broke contact. They drifted down again, fixing on nothing. Your arms, which had gestured wildly in anguish, now hung limply at your sides, utterly devoid of energy, of fight, of hope.
John stared at you, his face a mask of horrified understanding and crushing guilt. He saw the abyss of pain heâd created. He saw the love that still warred with the betrayal in your eyes, even now. He took a hesitant step closer, then another. Rain streamed down his face, indistinguishable from tears.
He stopped inches from you. His hands rose, trembling violently, hovering near your rain-soaked cheeks. He hesitated, terrified youâd flinch away. When you didn't move, didn't recoil, just stood there trembling and broken, he gently, reverently, cupped your face. His touch was warm against your cold skin, achingly familiar and unbearably painful.
"I'm so sorry," he breathed, his voice thick with tears, his thumbs brushing away the wetness on your cheeks with infinite tenderness. "I'm so, so sorry I made you feel that. That I made you feel anything less than everything. You are everything. You were enough. More than enough. The failure was mine. My brokenness. My fear. Not you. Never you." His blue eyes, swimming with tears, held yours with a desperate intensity. "You were perfect. You are perfect. And I ruined it. I ruined us."
The proximity, his touch, his tears, the rain, the raw, unfiltered pain and love in his eyes â it was too much. A new sob tore from your throat. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. Your hands rose to rest over his. His lips brushed yours, a feather-light touch at first, tasting of salt rain and desperate sorrow. Then, with a soft, broken sound from deep in his chest, he kissed you. Not with passion, but with a profound, aching farewell. It was a kiss saturated with a love that was real and deep and utterly shattered, a final communion of broken hearts.
You kissed him back, one last time. Pouring a year of blinding happiness, a lifetime of shattered dreams, and an ocean of unbearable grief into that single, rain-drenched touch. It was the sweetest, most agonizing kiss of your life.
He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against yours for a fleeting, precious second, his breath mingling with yours. His hands lingered on your face, a final, trembling caress.
"Be safe, Angel," he whispered, the words barely audible over the drumming rain. "Please⊠just be safe."
He stepped back, releasing you. The absence of his touch was immediate, a fresh wave of cold emptiness. You looked into his eyes one last time, seeing the reflection of your own utter devastation, the ghost of the future youâd both murdered. His lips parted, breath catching. "I love you," he choked out, the words a final, desperate plea thrown against the storm, a raw confession hanging in the space between annihilation and goodbye. His tears fell from his blue eyes.
You said nothing. But he knew you loved him; thatÂŽs why you couldnât stand this.
Your eyes, holding only the vast, desolate landscape of your broken heart, remained locked on his for one endless, suspended moment. The rain fell. His confession echoed, unanswered, into the void. Then, without a word, without a sound, you turned. Your movements were slow, deliberate, and final. You opened the car door, the sound a dull, hollow thunk in the rain-filled silence. You slid inside. The door closed with soft, devastating finality. The engine roared to life, a mechanical snarl against the organic drumming of the rain. The headlights cut through the grey gloom, illuminating the rain-slicked concrete and the solitary, broken figure standing in their path for a split second before you shifted into gear.
John Walker stood rooted to the spot, rain soaking him to the bone, watching the red taillights of the sedan blur and vanish into the grey curtain of rain. The empty space where the car had been felt like the hollow space in his chest. He brought a hand up, touching his lips where the ghost of your kiss still lingered â a bittersweet brand of finality. The relentless tide had finally receded, leaving only a barren, desolate shore. He stood alone in the garage, the sound of the rain the only witness to the silent shattering of what remained of his world. The fight was over. He had lost. And the victory heâd sought â your happiness â was now a distant, unknown star, moving further away with every beat of his broken heart.
Pairing: John Walker x Thunderbolt!Mutant!Fem!Reader
Summary: A year of tender love between a soldier and a mutant is shattered when it's revealed a painful secret, forcing them to navigate the devastating aftermath of broken trust within the Thunderbolts' found family.
Warnings: Fluff, Smut, ANGST!!, mentions of depression and bullying.
A/N: Ok, this is so long, I didn't know if it was better to make two parts but well... I let it all in one part D: I tried to do it right, I really hope you like it.
âš sorry if there is any mistake.
âšComments, likes, shares are appreciated! đâš
âšENJOY!! âșđ
W/C: 50k (IÂŽm so, so sorry) Please don't hate me :)
The first rays of the New York sun, sharp and molten gold, sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the former Avengers Tower. They illuminated galaxies of dust motes dancing in the still air and fell across the tousled blonde hair of John Walker. He was sprawled on his back, deeply asleep, one powerful arm flung possessively over your waist, anchoring you to him. In sleep, the sternness that was his armor melted away. The harsh lines etched by frustration, guilt, and the crushing weight of command were smoothed into an almost startling peace. He looked younger, unburdened.
Propped on one elbow, you watched him. Your enhanced senses painted a vivid tapestry: the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat against your side â a comforting drumbeat beneath the city's distant hum. The clean, masculine scent of his soap, layered over the unique, warm musk that was purely John â the salt tang of his skin, the faint, clean linen scent of their sheets, and beneath it, the vital, unmistakable signature of him.
A year. A year since the fiercely confident, winged mutant with a penchant for dramatic entrances had collided, quite literally, with the walking thundercloud that was US Agent. Sparks, literal from your kinetic descent and figurative from your clashing personalities, had flown.
And somehow, improbably, wonderfully, theyâd ignited this.
Your fingertip traced the familiar scar above his left pectoral, a feather-light caress. You smiled as the memory of your first meeting, summoned by the quiet intimacy, bloomed vividly behind your eyesâŠ
The mission had been going FUBAR. Trapped in a dusty canyon basin, the team was pinned down by enhanced mercenaries using gravitic tech. Ammo was low, comms were jammed, and Buckyâs worried voice crackled in Johnâs ear. Then Valâs static-laced message: âBackup incoming. ETA 30 seconds.â John, crouched behind shattered rock, gritted his teeth, tasting grit and blood. They needed an exit, fast.
Then Valâs voice, sharper than the static but still distorted, cut through: âBackup incoming. ETA 30 seconds.â John risked a glance around the rock. âBackup?â he barked into the dead comms, scanning the bleached, empty sky. âWhat backup? Where?â
A few yards away, Yelena pressed flat behind cover, snorted. âPerhaps Val sends a drone? Or... a very small missile?â Her tone was dry, skeptical.
Bucky, methodically checking his dwindling ammo, grunted without looking up. âUnless sheâs got a cloaked helicarrier parked behind the moon, itâs wishful thinking.â
Alexei, hefting a chunk of rock like a discus, boomed, âBah! What backup? I see only sky and suffering! Send more bullets, Contessa!â
Ava, shimmering slightly as she phased to avoid a ricochet, added tersely, âScanners show nothing incoming. Not a damn thing.â
The consensus was clear: they were expecting reinforcements they could see â maybe a squad fast-roping in, an aerial drone strike, perhaps even a surprise kinetic bombardment. Something tangible, military, predictable. Johnâs mind raced: Squad? Airstrike? What asset could Val possibly scramble this fast, this deep into hostile nowhere? He scanned the empty horizon again, finding nothing but heat haze and despair. Thirty seconds felt like an eternity under the mercenaries' relentless fire.
They never expected you.
Suddenly, the sun flared, blinding him. He threw up a hand, cursing. A massive shadow, impossibly swift and silent, swept across the canyon floor like a silent storm. John dropped to one knee, blinking furious tears to clear the burning afterimages. Around him, the relentless enemy fire⊠faltered, then stopped. Not with a bang, but a series of soft, almost musical thwips. He risked a look.
Disbelief froze him. A dozen mercenaries closest to the Thunderbolts' position were down, not dead but perfectly incapacitated, a single, impossibly long, silver-tipped feather embedded with surgical precision in a pressure point or neural cluster at the base of their necks. They lay scattered like broken toys, the sudden silence jarring.
But the fight wasn't over. Further out, alerted by their comrades' fall, five more mercenaries spun, their gravitic rifles seeking the new threat in the sky. They opened fire, crackling bolts of distorted energy lancing upwards.
You were already moving. One moment, you were a hovering silhouette against the sun; the next, you folded your magnificent wings and dove. Not away, but towards the fire. Just before impact, your wings snapped open like twin shields of living silver, deflecting the gravitic pulses in showers of sparks. You hit the ground in a three-point landing amidst the remaining foes, dust exploding outwards in a ring.
Before the dust even settled, you were a whirlwind. A mercenary lunged; a flash of a boot caught him square in the jaw with a sharp crack, sending him sprawling unconscious. Another swung a rifle like a club; your wing, impossibly fast and strong, swept low like a silver scythe, catching his legs and sending him crashing down. You spun, a dancer in the chaos, another kick finding its mark on a third attacker's solar plexus, doubling him over with a whoosh of air.
"Covering fire! Now!" one of the remaining mercs yelled, panic edging his voice. They backed up, rifles spitting bullets in a frantic, concentrated burst aimed directly at you.
You didn't flinch. Instead, you spun. Like a top wreathed in lightning, your wings became a solid, shimmering dome around you, deflecting the barrage with a cacophony of clangs and sparks. The energy pulses and bullets ricocheted harmlessly into the canyon walls. Then, as the mercenaries paused, momentarily stunned by the display, you stopped spinning.
With a powerful, resonant thrum that vibrated in John's chest, your wings snapped open wide. Not just open, but they pulsed. A visible shockwave of pure concussive force erupted outwards, a hurricane gust condensed into a single blast. It hit the two standing mercenaries like a physical wall, hurling them backwards off their feet. Simultaneously, a dozen silver feathers, sharp as arrows yet somehow non-lethal, shot forth from the leading edges of your wings with impossible speed and accuracy. They found their marks â shoulders, thighs, pressure points â pinning the winded mercs to the ground or embedding in their gear, effectively neutralizing them without drawing a drop of blood.
Silence descended again, deeper this time, thick with disbelief. The entire remaining force was down. Johnâs team stared, weapons slack in their hands, expressions ranging from Buckyâs stunned disbelief to Yelenaâs calculating appraisal to Alexeiâs open-mouthed grin of pure, exhilarated shock. Ava had solidified completely, her eyes wide. You had been relentless. A blur of silver wings, devastating kicks, impenetrable defense, and pinpoint non-lethal precision. It wasn't just power; it was controlled, breathtaking artistry applied to combat.
Suspended high against the vast blue. You hovered, an impossible silhouette of power and grace, sunlight blazing off the silver wings streaked with intricate patterns of purest white, the air shimmering around you like a halo. The world seemed to hold its breath...
You landed softly before him, your wings folding with a whisper of light against your back. Dust settled around your boots. You stepped forward, your expression calm, concerned. You extended a hand, not in challenge, but in offer, to help him to stand up. And then you smiled. It was like the sun breaking through storm clouds â warm, genuine, breathtakingly sweet.
"Are you ok?" Your voice was clear, melodic, cutting through the ringing in his ears from the earlier firefight.
John stared, utterly transfixed. He hadnât blinked. The words fell from his lips, raw and reverent, shredding a lifetime of discipline and ingrained cynicism: "You're an angel."
Angel. The name had stuck. A private beacon of tenderness in the harsh landscape of their lives.
--
Back in the present, nestled in the warmth of their bed, John stirred. A low, contented grumble rumbled in his chest before his piercing blue eyes blinked open. They found yours instantly, sleep-clouded but intensely focused. The transformation was profound. The lingering ghosts â the searing shame of the shield, the crushing weight of failures past â vanished from his gaze, replaced by a warmth so intense it still stole your breath. A slow, lazy, utterly real smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes â a sight reserved solely for you, his Angel.
"Morning, Angel," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and affection. He shifted, pulling you closer against the solid plane of his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brushed your skin, sending familiar, delicious shivers cascading down your spine. "Those damn senses of yours wake you at the crack of dawn every damn time," he grumbled, the complaint utterly devoid of heat.
"You snore," you countered playfully, your fingers threading through the soft strands of his hair. "Like a grizzly bear with a particularly stubborn sinus infection. My senses are just valiantly trying to cope with the sonic assault."
He lifted his head, feigning deep offense, but the sparkling amusement in his ocean-blue eyes betrayed him. "Lies. Slanderous propaganda. I do not snore." He leaned in conspiratorially, his breath warm on your cheek. "I⊠emit tactical sonar pulses. For perimeter defense. Very advanced." Before you could retort, he captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of sleep, warmth, and unspoken promises. It was a worshipful thing, unhurried and profound, as if you were the only source of light capable of banishing the shadows in his world. He pulled back slightly, just enough for his gaze to trace every beloved feature of your face with an intensity that made your heart flutter against your ribs. "Perfect," he breathed, the word a vow, his calloused thumb stroking the curve of your cheekbone with infinite tenderness. "Utterly perfect."
You watched him, still propped on one elbow, tracing another scar above his left shoulder with a feather-light touch. Enhanced senses meant you could hear the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat, smell the lingering scent of his soap, and the unique, warm musk that was purely John. It was a symphony of comfort.
A familiar, deep ache pulsed between your shoulder blades. You shifted subtly. John noticed, he always did.
His expression instantly shifted to concern. He knew the discomfort of keeping your wings compressed within your body for too long. "Theyâre cramping again?" He sat up immediately, the sheet pooling around his waist, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen. "C'mere. Turn around."
You obeyed, sitting up and turning your back to him. He moved behind you, his large, warm hands settling gently on your shoulders, a familiar anchor. You took a deep breath, focusing inward. With a soft, silken whoosh, unfurling like priceless fabric catching the dawn light, your wings emerged. They spanned nearly twelve feet, shimmering silver like moonlight on mercury, edged with intricate patterns of purest white that seemed to glow faintly from within. They filled the space behind you, majestic and powerful, yet utterly vulnerable in this moment of release.
This. This quiet intimacy was a balm you cherished. After a childhood marked by fear, stares, and whispered cruelties â being seen as a thing, a freak, something unnatural because of the very essence of your being â finding acceptance, let alone adoration, in John's eyes felt like a miracle. The journey to self-acceptance had been long and painful. You'd learned you were special, yes, powerful even, but the deep-seated fear of being other had lingered... until John. He never saw the wings as appendages, as something strange to be tolerated. He saw you. And he loved them. He loved all of you. He saw their beauty, their strength, and understood the vulnerability they represented.
A memory surfaced, sweet and potent, triggered by his touch and the familiar relief of release.
The first few weeks after joining the Thunderbolts. You were careful, keeping your wings suppressed for days on end, being on the Tower and debriefs, wincing subtly when the ache became a sharp throb across your shoulders and spine. You'd developed a routine: slipping away to the Tower's top just before dawn, the only time you felt safe to truly breathe. John, already fascinated by the quiet, sweet, and fierce woman who'd dropped from the sky into his life, had noticed. He saw the tightness in your posture, the way your fingers would press into the base of your neck, the slight grimace you couldn't always hide. Curiosity burned, but respect held his tongue. One pre-dawn, he found himself drawn to the quinjet pad, needing air after a nightmare. He arrived silently, leaning against the access door frame, just in time to see you step to the edge. He didnât know you were there.
With a sigh that seemed to release the weight of the world, you let them out. The unfurling in the pale light was breathtaking. He watched, transfixed, as you launched into the cool air, soaring in wide, liberating circles, stretching muscles held too long in confinement.
The cool dawn air rushed past you as you landed lightly on the platform, the familiar thrum of your wings settling back into your muscles. The flight had worked its magic; the deep, persistent ache across your shoulders and spine had eased into a warm, satisfied hum. You felt lighter, freer, truly yourself for the first time in days. Turning, you smoothed a stray strand of hair back â and froze.
John Walker stood silently, leaning against the access door frame. He wasn't in uniform, just sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, his hair tousled. He must have been there the whole time, watching your flight. Your breath hitched. You hadn't sensed him, lost in the liberation of the sky. A wave of shyness washed over you, hotter than the rising sun. You felt exposed, vulnerable in a way combat never made you feel.
But his eyes⊠they held no shock, no disgust, no prurient curiosity. Only deep, genuine fascination and something softer, warmer â a quiet awe. He didn't recoil. He didn't bombard you with questions. He simply met your gaze, then gestured with a small, almost hesitant nod towards the empty spot beside him on the wide ledge overlooking the waking city.
Hesitantly, you walked over, the soft rustle of your wings the only sound besides the distant city murmur. You perched beside him, leaving a respectful foot of space, tucking your wings close. The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged.
"Hi," you murmured, the word soft and shy, barely more than a breath.
He didn't respond with words, but a slow, understanding smile touched his lips, and he gave you a single, gentle nod. It was an acknowledgment, a quiet thank you for bridging the gap. You stared out at the hazy skyline, the rising sun painting streaks of pink and gold. You could feel his gaze on your profile, not demanding, just⊠present. Waiting.
The question hung unspoken in the air between you, loud as a shout. Why?
"I needed to spread them," you finally murmured, the words escaping softly, almost awkwardly, and shyly. You kept your eyes fixed on the horizon, tracing the silhouette of a distant building. "They⊠get restless."
He shifted slightly beside you. "Restless?" His voice was low, rough with sleep or emotion, matching the quiet of the dawn. "They⊠hurt?" The question was hesitant, carefully formed, as if afraid of trespassing.
You glanced at him then, surprised heâd pinpointed it. "When they're hidden too long, yes," you admitted, turning your body slightly towards him. The vulnerability was terrifying, yet his expression â open, concerned, utterly lacking judgment â made the words flow easier. "It starts as a stiffness, deep in the muscles where they anchor. Then it becomes a constant, sharp ache. Like⊠like holding your breath for days." You unconsciously rubbed the base of your neck where the tension always gathered first.
He was quiet for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought. You saw the moment the pieces clicked, his observant nature connecting the dots. "So that's why," he said slowly, his voice deepening with understanding. "That's why you wince sometimes. Why you rub your shoulders like there's a knot you can't reach. Why you seemâŠ" he searched for the word, "...pained, especially after long ops or debriefs." His gaze was intense, focused solely on you. "You weren't just tired. You were hurting."
Your breath caught. He had noticed. Not just the wings now, but the subtle signs of discomfort you thought you'd hidden so well. The realization was a warm shock spreading through your chest, melting the last remnants of shyness. "You saw that?" you whispered.
"Hard not to," he replied, a hint of something like self-reproach in his tone. "Just⊠didn't know why. Didn't feel right to pry." He paused, then added, his voice dropping even softer, "Must've been hell, keeping them locked down."
The simple empathy in his words unlocked something inside you. The dam broke that first night. You told him about the childhood fear â the panic attacks when they first emerged, the desperate attempts to bind them, the cruel names and isolating stares that made you feel like a monstrous thing. You spoke of the years spent hiding, the exhausting vigilance, the slow, hard-won journey towards accepting that this power, this difference, was part of who you were, not a curse. You talked about the sheer, unadulterated relief of flight, the way it wasn't just physical freedom, but a release for your soul.
He didn't interrupt. He just listened. Truly listened. His body angled towards you, his blue eyes fixed on your face, absorbing every word, every flicker of remembered pain or hard-earned pride. He asked quiet, thoughtful questions when you paused â not probing, but seeking understanding. "How old were you?" "Did anyone ever try to help?" "Is flying⊠is it like thinking? Or more like breathing?"
The sun climbed higher, painting the glass towers in fiery hues. The city's murmur grew into a steady hum. Hours slipped away unnoticed in that shared space on the ledge. It wasn't just him learning about your wings; it was him seeing you, the person behind the power, the history etched into your spirit. And in his quiet acceptance, his focused attention, his simple acknowledgment of your pain and your strength, you felt a connection spark â fragile, unexpected, and breathtakingly beautiful. The fear of exposure began to recede, replaced by a dawning sense of safety. He hadn't just witnessed your wings; he'd witnessed your truth, and he hadn't flinched.
"You know," he said, his voice low and impossibly gentle, breaking the comfortable silence. "You don't ever have to hide from me. Or from the team."
You couldn't respond. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, hopeful drumbeat that felt too loud in the quiet morning. You were utterly glad by his words, overwhelmed by their simple, profound weight. In a world that had so often been messed up and cruel, and after a past filled with fear and hiding, the kindness and acceptance he offered felt like a miracle. It was so nice. So beautiful.
When you could find your voice, you answered, âThank you,â. A soft, genuine smile touched your lips, and you felt a warm flush bloom on your cheeks. He noticedâof course, he did. A quiet, understanding smile softened his own features in return, but he didn't press. He didn't say another word, simply letting the promise hang in the air between you, a new and solid truth in the dawn's light.
That was the beginning.
--
You were tracing the intricate white pattern on a secondary feather one morning, telling him more about your past. He listened, wanted to know everything about you. Â "I needed therapy. Lots of it. Still go sometimes." John watched your fingers moving, his gaze thoughtful. "It helps?"
"Most days. Learned I wasn't broken. Just... different." You let out a soft, shaky breath. "My parents... they were the only ones who ever made me feel that way. They were my safe place. They loved me, wings and all, helped me figure everything out when I was so scared...". You paused, the memory of a more recent, sharper grief tightening your throat. "The therapy... a lot of it was for the⊠depression.â He noticed the sadness and almost⊠fear, just for mentioning that last word. âAnd I had a few bad relapses...". The words felt heavy and dark. "When my parents... it hit hard. Still does."
You didn't elaborate, but you didn't need to. The silence that followed was filled with the unspoken truth: that the time when your powers and wings manifested and your parentsâ loss had been the darkest moments of your life. It was a pain that had changed you forever, a deep, suffocating void that had swallowed you whole. You'd had to fight every single day to claw your way back from it, to find a reason to breathe again, to heal enough to simply function. It was a battle you knew you'd carry with you always.
His hand almost covered yours on the ledge, a gesture of shared understanding, but he hesitated, and instead, he looked forward, giving you the space to sit with that heavy truth. "Yeah," he said, his own voice rough with an intimately familiar pain. "Loss... it doesn't really leave, does it? Just learns where to sit."
"No. It doesn't." After a moment, he looked at you again. "And good days?"
You gave him a genuine smile. "More of them now. Especially since landing here. Since... this." You nudged his shoulder. He smiled wider.
--
During another day, he watched you stretch your wings wide, catching the nascent sun. "What does it feel like? Up there?". You closed your eyes, remembering. "Weightless. Powerful. Free. Like... like your first perfect landing after a brutal op. The air isn't empty; it's something you push against, something that holds you. Itâs⊠peace." A soft, almost wistful smile appeared on his lips. "Sounds damn near holy." "Sometimes it is."
You both smiled and looked at the city waking up. "Thirty, right? You mentioned."
You chuckled. "Almost. My birthday is in 2 months. Feel older already. What about you, Captain Serious? Ancient military secrets?"
He snorted. "Ancient? Watch it, Angel. Thirty-six. And yeah, military. West Point. Rangers. Then... the whole Captain America debacle." A shadow crossed his face. Married once. Didn't survive the uniform, the pressure... me." He said it flatly, a statement of fact, but you heard the buried regret.
âNot everything happens the way you want it to, right?â He said with a hint of sadness in his eyes. âNo, but it opens new paths. Worthwhile paths.â You responded. You both looked at each other for a moment; your gazes lingered.
--
Another day, John was staring out at the city, jaw tight after a nightmare-fueled night. "Failed my team. Failed Lamar. Failed the shield. Failed my marriage. Pattern seems pretty damn clear." His voice was rough, self-loathing simmering beneath the surface. You turned fully to him, your wing brushing his arm gently. "John Walker." Your voice was firm, making him look at you. "Your failures don't make you less. They make you human. They make you real. They make you a diamond." You held his gaze, seeing the storm in his blue eyes.
He froze, his blue eyes wide, searching yours. "A diamond?"
"A diamond," you affirmed. "You think diamonds start perfect? They get forged under pressure. Scratched, chipped... but they come out shinier. That's you. You carry the weight, you own, the mistakes... and you keep trying. That's not failure. That's a strength. That's why you're amazing. Not despite the scars, but with them."
He looked at you, utterly still. He searched your face, looking for pity, for judgment. Finding only absolute conviction. His throat worked. "How...?" The word was barely a whisper, raw with disbelief. "How can you see that?"
Your hand cupped his cheek. "Because I see you. All of you. The good, the bad, the stubborn, the fiercely loyal, the man who carries too much. You are amazing, John Walker. Exactly as you are. You just need to see it yourself. Look forward, keep trying, especially with yourself. Be kind to the man who carries all that weight."
He didn't speak for a long time. He just covered your hand with his, a silent thank you trembling between you. His eyes were clearer, the self-recrimination banked, replaced by a fragile, determined hope.
--
Other times, there were no words. He sat hunched, elbows on knees, staring at nothing. The nightmare still clung to him like smoke. You simply sat beside him. Your presence, the soft warmth of your feathers against his shoulder, the quiet solidarity â it was enough. An hour passed, the sun climbing higher. You didnÂŽt push. Eventually, he let out a long, shuddering breath. "Bad one," he rasped.
"Want to talk about it?" you asked softly. He shook his head, then paused. "Just... the noise. The falling." "I'm here. You're not falling now."
He turned his head, his blue eyes pierced into yours. "I know."
--
You both shared all you could. That also included fun. He watched you meticulously preen a primary feather. "You know, if you ever need a side gig, a high-end feather duster is a definite option. Dust the Tower in record time."
You gasped in mock outrage, flicking the feather you were holding towards his face. "Excuse me? These are precision instruments! Not dust mops!"
He dodged the feather-tickle, grinning â a rare, full, unguarded grin. "Precision dusting! Think of the efficiency! We could market it: 'Angel's Touch: Dust Be Gone!'"
âShut up!â you said as you pushed him playfully.
He caught you easily, laughing, the sound rich and warm, pulling you against him. "Alright, alright! Truce! Your wings are majestic killing machines and delicate works of art, completely unsuited for menial labor. Happy?"
You laughed, trying to threaten him. "Much better. And don't you forget it."
--
Day by day, the conversations deepened. The silences grew more comfortable, filled with an understanding that needed no words. You learned the specific set of his shoulders that meant frustration, the slight tremor in his hand after a nightmare, the way his eyes crinkled just before a rare, genuine smile. He learned the subtle tension in your back that signaled your wings needed release long before you mentioned it, the slight catch in your voice when grief brushed too close, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about flying near the clouds. You shared fears, dreams (yours to never have to be in the darkness of depression again, his of building something lasting and good), bad jokes, and the quiet comfort of simply being together as the city woke below.
You understood him â the driven soldier, the burdened man, the surprisingly tender heart beneath the armor. He understood you â the powerful mutant, the wounded healer, the woman who found peace in the sky and, improbably, with him. You knew each other, scars and wings and all, not just despite them, but through them. It was a connection forged in the quiet dawn light, stronger than steel.
--
One crisp morning, a few weeks after your rooftop ritual began, John arrived significantly earlier than usual. He carried two steaming mugs â his thick black coffee, and yours, prepared just how you liked it: a generous splash of milk and a spoonful of golden honey swirling within. He hadnât told you, but heâd developed a near-reverence for watching you fly. Seeing you launch yourself into the pale sky, those magnificent wings catching the first true rays of sun, carving graceful arcs and spirals against the awakening city⊠it was mesmerizing. Peaceful. But what truly captivated him was the look on your face when your eyes were closed mid-flight â an expression of pure, unadulterated serenity, almost divine. It was a side of you that few ever saw, a vulnerability wrapped in power.
He leaned against the cool concrete parapet, sipping his coffee, hidden in the deep shadows near the access door. He watched as you soared, a silver-and-white silhouette dancing with the dawn wind, eyes blissfully shut, a faint smile touching your lips. His own breath caught. It was a private benediction.
When you finally descended, landing with practiced lightness, you stretched your wings wide before folding them loosely. Thatâs when you saw him, stepping out of the shadows. Surprise flickered across your face, followed by a warm, perfect smile that lit up the rooftop more than the rising sun. "You came earlier," you observed, your voice soft with the lingering peace of flight.
John stepped forward, holding out your mug. "Yeah," he murmured, his gaze lingering on your face, still flushed with the cool air and exertion. He took a breath, deciding honesty was the only path. "I wanted to see you flying." The simple admission hung in the air.
Your cheeks flushed a delicate pink, a reaction that never failed to undo him. He smiled back, a slow, genuine curve of his lips that crinkled the corners of his eyes. âThank you,â You said gently as you took the mug, warming your hands. You noticed his gaze wasn't on your face anymore. It was tracing the lines of your wings, lingering on the intricate patterns of white against silver, following the elegant sweep of the primaries. It wasn't intrusive; it was filled with a quiet, almost boyish fascination. It was⊠cute.
"They seem soft," he breathed, the words barely a whisper, almost lost in the morning breeze. He seemed startled heâd spoken aloud.
You felt a familiar flutter of shyness, but beneath it, a surge of warmth. His curiosity was respectful, earnest. "They are," you replied, your voice equally soft. You tilted your wing slightly towards him, an unspoken invitation. "You want to touch them?"
John froze, his blue eyes widening slightly. He looked from the offered wing to your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. "I... Iâm sorry," he stammered, uncharacteristically hesitant. "It must be awkward for you. I shouldn't haveâ"
You cut him off gently, your smile reassuring. "Itâs okay, John. Really. I don't mind." Your trust in him, established over weeks of dawn conversations, was absolute in this moment.
He hesitated for only a second longer, then slowly, almost reverently, lifted his hand. His fingers, calloused from years of gripping weapons and shields, hovered for a heartbeat just above the soft downy coverts near the base of your wing. Then, with infinite care, he made contact.
A soft sigh escaped you, not of pain, but of profound sensitivity. His touch was feather-light, tracing the velvety texture. He smoothed his fingertips over the tiny, intricate barbs of a covert, marveling at their impossible softness. He gently brushed the stronger, resilient shaft of a secondary feather, feeling its smooth, almost cool surface. His gaze was intense, studying the way the light played on the iridescent silver, the stark beauty of the white patterns woven through them like lace. A gentle breeze ruffled the tips, and his fingers followed the movement, captivated.
It was an intensely intimate moment, charged with a quiet awe. There was no fear, no revulsion, only pure, unadulterated wonder and appreciation emanating from him. This powerful, often stoic man was utterly transfixed by the beauty of what made you you. His touch wasn't clinical or curious; it was worshipful. He wasn't touching an appendage; he was connecting with your essence. You stood perfectly still, letting him explore, feeling a wave of acceptance so deep it threatened to bring tears to your eyes. This simple act â his large, capable hand gently stroking your feathers â felt like a silent vow, a deeper level of understanding blooming between you both in the hushed dawn light. It was intimate, beautiful, and forged a new, unspoken connection that vibrated in the quiet space between you.
After a long, breathless moment, his hand stilled, resting lightly on the curve of your wing. He finally met your eyes again. His own were wide, filled with a warmth and sincerity that took your breath away. He didn't need words. The reverence in his touch had said it all.
--
You both became closer, the bond deepening with startling speed in the quiet sanctuary of dawns and shared confidences. It bled into everything. The lingering gazes across the crowded briefing room lasted a heartbeat too long. The private smiles that flickered between you when no one else was looking â small, secret things that lit up your eyes and softened the hard lines of Johnâs jaw. The way your cheeks would flush a delicate pink whenever his hand accidentally brushed yours, reaching for a file or giving you a cup of your favorite coffee, or when his low murmur of "Angel" reached your ears across the communal space. You were magnets, constantly orbiting each other â him leaning against the counter while you prepped coffee, you finding a reason to linger near his workstation, your wings unconsciously angling towards him like a compass finding true north. The way he always seemed to know when you needed a glass of water pushed silently towards you, or how youâd wordlessly place your hand over his for a moment after a difficult mission.
The Thunderbolts noticed. Of course they did.
Yelenaâs sharp eyes missed nothing, her expression often a mix of dry amusement and something almost... approving. Buckyâs stoic facade would crack with the faintest upward quirk of his lips whenever John was near you. Alexei would boom with laughter, nudging John heavily, making cryptic comments about "strong birds" and "lucky captains". Ava and Bob would simply watch the interplay with a quiet, knowing smile.
The inevitable moment came one Saturday morning. You were in the Towerâs large kitchen, attempting a batch of honey-glazed cinnamon rolls â a nostalgic comfort food from your childhood youâd mentioned once. John, claiming he was just "supervising quality control," was actually being surprisingly helpful, fetching ingredients, greasing the pan with meticulous care, and taste-testing the icing with a solemnity usually reserved for mission debriefs. His shoulder brushed yours constantly as you moved around each other in the familiar space, a silent dance perfected over weeks of rooftop intimacy.
"More vanilla?" he asked, holding the bottle close, his breath warm near your ear as you stirred the frosting.
"Just a drop," you murmured, leaning slightly into his solid presence. You added it, your fingers brushing his as he handed it over. The contact sent the usual pleasant jolt up your arm, and you shared a quick, warm glance, a silent conversation passing between you.
From the breakfast bar where the others were slowly gathering, nursing coffees, Yelena cleared her throat. Not loudly, but pointedly. Her gaze flickered between Johnâs hand, still hovering near yours on the counter, and the faint blush dusting your cheeks. "So," she drawled, stirring her tea with exaggerated slowness. "This is 'supervising'. Does it often involve such... intense ingredient inspection, Walker? Or is the frosting truly that fascinating?"
Bucky snorted into his coffee. Alexei grinned, slamming a meaty hand on the counter. "Is love! Is obvious! Look at them! Like two pigeons cooing over sugar!"
John stiffened almost imperceptibly beside you, his hand withdrawing quickly. Your blush deepened from pink to crimson. "We're just friends, Alexei," you said quickly, your voice a little higher than usual. You focused intently on spreading the frosting. "Helping out. That's all."
"Yeah," John added, his tone deliberately casual, gruff even. He busied himself with wiping a non-existent spot on the counter. "Just friends. Making breakfast for the team. Don't read into it."
The denial hung in the air, thin and unconvincing. Yelena raised an eyebrow, her expression plainly saying 'Really?'. Bucky just took another sip, his eyes knowing. Alexei chuckled, not buying it for a second. Ava offered you a small, sympathetic smile.
Deep down, you both knew the charade was flimsy. The word "friends" felt woefully inadequate, a flimsy shield against the tidal wave of feeling that surged every time his blue eyes met yours, every time the low rumble of "Angel" vibrated in your bones. It wasn't just friendship. It was the shared vulnerability on the rooftop, the reverence in his touch on your feathers, the way his presence felt like finally coming home. It was the terrifying, exhilarating precipice of something profound, something neither of you was quite ready to name aloud in the bright light of the kitchen, surrounded by your observant, smirking found family.
You finished frosting the rolls in a slightly flustered silence, acutely aware of Johnâs warmth beside you and the teamâs poorly concealed amusement. Later, as you both carried the warm pan to the table, your fingers brushed again. This time, he didn't pull away. He held your gaze for a charged second, a silent apology for the denial and a promise held in the depths of his eyes. Just friends? The thought echoed, hollow, as the sweet scent of cinnamon and honey filled the air. You both knew the truth, simmering just beneath the surface, as undeniable and warm as the rolls fresh from the oven.
The connection with John was the blazing sun at the center of your world within the Tower, but the warmth radiated outwards. You weren't just John's "Angel"; you'd woven yourself into the very fabric of this ragtag, extraordinary team, finding genuine kinship with each of them.
Ava's quiet intensity and Yelena's razor-sharp wit formed an unexpectedly perfect counterbalance. You often found yourselves slipping out into the electric pulse of New York City with them. Sometimes it was purposeful â tracking a lead, scouting a location â but often, it was simply because. Walking through bustling streets or quieter neighborhoods, the city's rhythm became your shared heartbeat. Ava moved like a ghost beside you, observant and calm, while Yelena dissected passersby and storefronts with acerbic, hilarious commentary that never failed to crack you up. Evenings sometimes ended curled up in someone's quarters (usually yours or Yelena's, deemed 'neutral territory'), sharing a bottle of wine or potent vodka Alexei had 'liberated', talking about everything and nothing â missions gone sideways, frustrating tech, fleeting moments of beauty spotted in the city, the absurdity of their lives. Yelenaâs dry humor and surprising flashes of vulnerability, paired with Avaâs grounded wisdom and quiet empathy, created a space of easy camaraderie. They saw your wings as an asset, your power as impressive, but you â your humor, your worries, your kindness â that's what they connected with.
Alexei was like a force of nature. Time with him was guaranteed laughter, usually loud and belly-deep. His booming voice, outrageous stories (only half of which you believed), and unshakeable, slightly delusional optimism were infectious. He treated your wings like magnificent accessories, occasionally demanding demonstrations of their strength, "Lift fridge, little bird! Is good exercise!" or comparing them favorably to various Soviet aircraft. His bear hugs were legendary and slightly terrifying, but beneath the bluster was a fierce, protective loyalty. Heâd clap John heavily on the back, wink outrageously at you, and loudly declare you both "Good catch!" much to John's exasperation and your amusement. He was pure, unadulterated life, a chaotic counterpoint to the team's often grim reality, and you cherished the sheer, uncomplicated joy he brought.
You had a different kind of bond with Bob, forged in shared quietude and the solace of small things. Bob carried a universe of pain and fractured power within him, a vulnerability you instinctively understood, having navigated your own internal storms. Your connection wasn't about loud adventures but shared stillness. Movie nights were common, often just the two of you in the dimmed common room, sharing a giant bowl of popcorn, finding comfort in familiar narratives or exploring fantastical worlds together. The most poignant moments came in the kitchen. You'd listen as he tentatively described a dish from his childhood â the smell of his mother's apple pie. Then, together, you'd try to recreate it. The focus required, the shared purpose of chasing a memory through flavor, was profoundly grounding for both of you. It wasn't always perfect, but the attempt, the shared focus on something warm and ordinary, was a balm. You saw the flicker of genuine peace in his eyes during those moments, a respite from the golden storm within.
And then, there was Bucky Barnes. The steady center, like a quiet leader. Serene wasn't quite the right word â it was more a deep, hard-won calm, like the eye of a hurricane. He'd seen too much, endured too much, yet carried it with a dignity and weary wisdom you respected immensely. He was the mediator, the one who could cut through tension with a single, softly spoken word or a pointed look. Training with him on Tuesdays and Thursdays was more than just physical; it was a dialogue in movement. He pushed you, respected your strength and speed, and offered insights honed by a century of combat. One evening, after an intense session, you were both wiping down equipment in companionable silence. He paused, looking at you with an expression that held layers of memory. "You know," he said, his voice softer than usual, almost hesitant, "you remind me of my sister, Rebecca." The admission, simple yet profound, struck you deeply. It wasn't just about shared traits; it was an acknowledgment of a fundamental goodness, a spark of light he recognized and cherished, linking you to a cherished part of his long-lost past. It was one of the highest compliments you'd ever received, spoken with such quiet sincerity that it brought a lump to your throat. You simply smiled, understanding the weight of the comparison, the trust it implied. "Thank you, Bucky," youâd whispered, the words carrying immense meaning.
They were a family. Dysfunctional? Wildly. Prone to bickering, clashing egos, and the occasional property damage? Absolutely. But also fiercely loyal, bound by shared battles and hard-won respect, finding humor in the darkness, and offering unexpected pockets of deep understanding. Standing amidst them â Yelena rolling her eyes at Alexei's latest boast, Ava sharing a quiet smile with Bob over a book, Bucky offering you a rare, small smile as you recounted Alexei's latest antics â you felt it settle deep in your bones, warm and certain: You belonged. This chaotic, magnificent, broken, and beautiful patchwork family was yours. Your wings had carried you to them, and their acceptance had finally given you a place to truly land.
--
John let out a soft sigh, a sound of pure reverence. His fingers began to work with surprising tenderness, kneading the tense muscles at the base of your wings where they met your back. "Christ, Iâll never get tired of telling they're beautiful," he murmured, his touch both firm and incredibly gentle. "Like something out of a damn dream." His fingers traced the leading edge, feeling the resilient, almost metallic texture of the primary feathers, then smoothed over the softer, downy coverts near your spine. "Hurts when you have to keep 'em locked away all the time."
"It's worth it," you sighed, leaning back into his touch as the delicious release spread through your muscles. "For moments like this. For privacy." You flexed them slightly, the feathers rustling softly. "Besides, not exactly practical in the kitchen."
He smiled as his hands continued their ministrations, moving with practiced ease. He knew every inch, every sensitive spot, every scar earned in battles fought together. This intimacy, his utter fascination and care for this fundamental part of you, was a cornerstone of your bond. He worshipped not just your body, but your power, your uniqueness, your very essence.
The steam from the shower curled around you both, a warm, private cloud in the spacious stall. The hot water beat a soothing rhythm on your shoulders, and you leaned back against the solid, familiar plane of Johnâs chest with a soft sigh. His arms encircled you, his hands splayed possessively yet tenderly across your stomach, holding you close.
âTired, Angel?â he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, barely audible over the spray.
âMmm. Just⊠perfect,â you breathed, tilting your head back to rest on his shoulder. Your eyes fluttered closed. âThis is perfect.â
His chuckle vibrated through you. âGood.â
His hands began to move again, but this was different from the focused massage of before. This was slower. More deliberate. One hand slid up to your chest, not with intent, but with reverence, his palm resting over your heart, feeling its strong, steady beat against his skin. The other hand, slick with soap, glided down your arm, tracing the line of muscle from your shoulder to your wrist, then back up again, his thumb rubbing slow, hypnotic circles into your palm before lacing his fingers through yours.
He loved this. Loved being your anchor, your safe harbor.
He released your hand to reach for the shampoo. You expected him to hand it to you, but instead, he poured a generous amount into his own palm. âTurn around,â he said softly, his voice leaving no room for argument, only care.
You obeyed, turning within the circle of his arms to face him. The water cascaded over your hair, plastering it to your scalp. Johnâs expression was one of absolute focus, his piercing blue eyes soft in the misty light. He gently guided your head back, cradling your nape with one strong hand to shield your eyes from the suds as he began to work the shampoo into your hair.
His fingers were magic. They massaged your scalp with a firm, knowing pressure, working out knots of tension you didnât even know you were carrying. It was an act of such simple, profound service that tears pricked your eyes, hidden by the water and steam. This powerful man, whose hands were made for wielding weapons and shields, was now utterly devoted to your comfort. He took his time, his touch never rushing, every movement an unspoken vow.
When every strand was clean and lathered, he guided you back under the spray. âClose your eyes,â he whispered, and you did, trusting him completely. He rinsed your hair with infinite care, his fingers combing through the strands to ensure every last bit of soap was gone.
As the water ran clear, he didnât stop. His hands slid from your hair, down the column of your neck, his thumbs pressing gently into the base of your skull, earning a soft, involuntary moan from you. He smiled, a small, private curve of his lips reserved only for you.
You stood there, eyes closed, supported by his presence, letting him care for you in this most fundamental way. The vulnerability was absolute, but so was the safety. In his hands, you were not a weapon, not a mutant, not a hero. You were just his. Loved. Cherished. Understood.
His piercing blue eyes were soft, stripped of all their usual defensive sharpness. Here, he was just John. Your John. He cupped your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, wiping away a trickle of water like it was a tear.
"Hi," he breathed, the word simple, yet filled with a universe of meaning.
"Hi," you whispered back, a soft smile touching your lips.
His gaze held yours as he began to wash your front, his lathered hands moving over your collarbones, down your sternum, across your stomach. Every pass of his hands was a reaffirmation, a rediscovery. He knelt before you in the water, his expression one of quiet reverence as he soaped your legs, his strong hands massaging your calves, your thighs, the fierce strength in them earned from countless landings. He paid attention to every part of you, as if ensuring you were whole, safe, and cherished.
When he rose, water streamed from his blonde hair and down the sculpted planes of his chest. You reached for the soap, returning the favor. Your enhanced senses took over, hyper-aware of the feel of his skin under your fingertipsâthe ridge of an old scar along his ribs, the powerful beat of his heart, the way his breath hitched when you traced the defined lines of his abdomen. You washed him with the same deliberate care, your touch saying everything words couldn't: You are loved. You are safe with me. Every scar, every story, I cherish.
When the last trace of grime and soap had swirled down the drain, he didn't move to get out. He simply pulled you into his arms, skin to skin, under the warm spray. Your head found its home on his chest, your ear pressed against the steady, strong drum of his heartbeatâa rhythm more comforting than any symphony. His arms encircled you, one hand splayed across the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your wet hair.
He held you as if you were the most precious thing heâd ever been trusted to hold, and in the shelter of his arms, you felt utterly, perfectly whole.
Slowly, almost reverently, your hands began to move from where they rested against his chest. Your fingertips, sensitive and seeking, traced the powerful contours of his biceps. You had always loved his armsâthe defined strength, the clear map of veins that stood in stark relief under his skin, a testament to his relentless power and the life that pulsed so fiercely within him. You followed those rivers of blue with a feather-light touch, feeling the solid, unyielding muscle beneath, a silent acknowledgment of the strength he used to protect, to hold, to build.
Your exploration drifted inward, over the broad plane of his chest. Your palms flattened against his sternum, feeling the strong, steady thrum of his heart against your skinâa rhythm that had become your own personal anthem of safety. You traced the familiar scars, each one a story you knew by heart, not with pity, but with a quiet reverence for the battles heâd survived to become the man holding you now.
Your journey continued upward, over the column of his throat, feeling the faint, vulnerable flutter of his pulse quicken under your gentle caress. A soft, shaky breath escaped him, his eyes drifting closed for a moment as he surrendered to your touch. This was your worship. Your way of saying, I see all of you, and I love every part.
Finally, your hands slid around his neck and shoulders, pulling him into a tight, heartfelt embrace. You held him not with passion, but with a deep, abiding gratitude, your face buried in the warm, wet skin of his neck. You inhaled the clean, masculine scent of him, a scent that meant home.
In response, a low, contented hum rumbled in his chest. His hands, which had been resting on your back, moved. One rose to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek with a tenderness that made your eyes prickle with emotion. The other slid down the damp skin of your arm, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, until his fingers intertwined with yours.
He leaned back just enough to look into your eyes. The steam and water had softened everything, but the intensity in his blue gaze was crystalline, focused solely on you. He saw the love, the trust, the faint sheen of tears that had nothing to do with the shower. He saw his entire world reflected in your eyes.
Slowly, he lowered his head. His lips found yours not in a kiss of hunger, but of homecoming.
It was achingly soft, a mere brush of warmth against warmth. A silent question and its immediate, breathless answer. It was a kiss that spoke of shared mornings, of quiet understanding, of battles faced side-by-side. It was a reaffirmation of every unspoken vow that had passed between them.
The water continued to fall, cocooning them in its warm, rhythmic whisper, a private benediction on the sacred, quiet love unfolding within its mist.
The tender kiss soon turned into a passionate and hungry one. Your lips moved in tandem, caressing each other while your tongues danced deliciously within the kiss. Your breathing increased with each heartbeat. Your hands turned almost to jelly at the sides of your body. His hands applied more pressure to your cheeks as he took a few steps forward, forcing you to take steps back, colliding with the cold tiles. You let out a moan as his tall, strong, and imposing body left you caged in that corner. He never stopped kissing you, his tongue dominating yours in a wet fight. You moaned again, and then his teeth lightly bit your lower lip before beginning to descend towards your neck.
His hands began to squeeze the soft skin of your hips while his mouth, hot and eager for more, traveled along your throat and collarbone with wet, open kisses. Your hands traveled down his back as he went down. His mouth followed the path, reaching the curve of your breasts as his hands went there as well. There, he paused for a moment to give them the attention they deserved. His hands cupped your breasts and squeezed gently, applying exquisite pressure. Then his mouth found your left nipple, and his tongue licked slowly in circles. You moaned and let your head fall back against the tiles. Your fingers tangled with his short hair at the nape of his neck.
You couldn't think of anything, your mind was blank, lost in the pleasure your lover was giving you. You felt every delicious stroke of his tongue over your nipple, making it impossibly harder. From your position, when his mouth moved to your right breast, you could see that John was incredibly hard, painfully hard. You bite your lower lip just looking at him. His hands moved down, almost completely cupping your ribs. His mouth sucked, his lips kissed, and his tongue licked again and again, leaving that nipple in the same condition as the other. He separated from your skin for a moment, only to look up and find a perfect view. You were already incredibly aroused, and he had barely begun. Your gaze met his. Your body trembled slightly as he looked down at you with such an intense, hungry gaze that it made you both moan instantly, and his hands slowly moved down to your stomach, hips, thighs, and ass. It was so erotic.
He said nothing, just watched and reveled in the way your body responded to him. The tremors, your parted lips, your moans, and your rapid breathing that made your chest rise and fall rapidly. Your body was hot and wet, and he could feel it. Oh god, he could smell it. He could smell how wet you were. Only for him. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, rejoicing in that scent he craved and that drove him wild. And he was almost there, on the verge of not only smelling you, but tasting you. His lips left open-mouthed kisses on your ribs, hips, and lower belly. He paused for a moment to look into your eyes again. "Can I devour you, Angel?" He didn't need to ask; he didn't need to, given how long you'd been together and how many times he'd done it before. But even so, the thought of asking melted your heart. It let you know that even in the throes of the ecstasy he was feeling, he was still thinking of you.
A beautiful shiver ran down your spine at his question before you permitted him. "Yes," was all you could say. Then his hands moved. His right hand rested behind your left knee, lifting you and positioning your left leg on his right shoulder. His left palm rested on your stomach, for support and to keep you there against the tiles. Just where and how he wanted you. And then his mouth moved to your core.
His tongue made the first lick from the center to your clit. You moaned at the divine sensation, and your head automatically tilted back again. He continued his ministrations, licking again and again, then circling your clit with his tongue, finding an amazing rhythm. It was a terribly devastating and beautiful sensation. Your hips moved forward, seeking friction and more of his mouth. This only drove him crazy and increased the intensity. Once again, his lips kissed and his tongue licked relentlessly. You were a moaning mess, moaning louder and louder. His right hand left your thigh to join his mouth's assault on you. First, he positioned a finger at your entrance. You were completely wet, dripping down your inner thighs. Gently but in one slide, his finger slid inside. His tongue continued licking your clit in rapid circles while his finger increased the speed of its movement. You were close, so close to reaching that precipice of complete ecstasy. "Oh my God, John!" you moaned desperately. A second finger entered your warm hole. It was dripping all the way down his hand.
"Please don't stop, oh my god..." you moaned again. The sound his hand and mouth were making on you was so filthy and obscene, and it only excited you both further, bringing you closer to the release you so desperately sought.
Your hands gripped the hair on his head, tugging lightly. He could feel how close you were. His fingers plunged in and out of you over and over again, his tongue still licking and sucking at your clit. He let out a groan of pure pleasure. His mouth and hand worked in tandem for a few more moments until finally, a powerful, blinding pleasure overwhelmed you completely. He continued to work through the waves of pleasure until they slowed their intensity.
The moment stretched, thick with steam and the echo of his worship. Then, with a fluid, powerful grace that never failed to steal your breath, John rose from his knees. The water sluiced over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders, and for a heartbeat, he was just a silhouette against the mist, a giant carved from shadow and devotion.
He looked at you intensely, a promise that there was more coming. Without breaking his gaze, he lifted his hand and placed his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean of your fluids. He wasn't going to waste a drop. âI fucking love your taste,â he groaned. You were exhausted and coming down from the peak of your orgasm, following his movements in detail. And God, that was so hot.
Then his left hand came up, not in a caress, but in a claim. His palm, warm and broad, slid along the side of your neck, his calloused thumb finding the delicate point of your chin. With a gentle, undeniable pressure, he tilted your head back and up, opening you to him completely. His eyes, dark and blazing with a hunger that mirrored the one coiling deep in your belly, held yours for a single, electrifying second before his mouth crashed down on yours.
This was not the tender kiss from moments before. This was a storm. It was messy, sloppy, and utterly, devastatingly passionate. There was no finesse, only a raw, desperate need to consume and be consumed. His lips moved over yours with a frantic intensity, stealing the air from your lungs, replacing it with the taste of him. And beneath it, you could taste the faint, sweet echo of yourself on his tongue, an intimate feedback loop that made your head spin.
A broken moan vibrated against his mouth, and you werenât sure if it came from him or you. His right arm banded around your waist, his hand splaying across the small of your back, pulling your slick body flush against his. You could feel every hard inch of him, the frantic hammer of his heart against your sternum, the solid strength of him that made you feel both incredibly fragile and absolutely safe.
Then he was lifting you. Effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all. Your back met the cool, smooth tiles, a shocking contrast to the heat of his skin and the steam swirling around you. The world narrowed to the press of his body, the cold at your back, and the scorching heat of him at your front. He held you there, pinned between the unyielding wall and the unyielding man, his mouth never leaving yours, his kiss a relentless, breathless conquest.
This was possession. Not of force, but of mutual, desperate surrender. He was claiming you, and you were yielding, glorying in the sheer power of him, in the way he made you feel totally and completely his.
The shift from desperate kissing to seamless joining was as natural as a tide coming in. With a low, guttural sound of pure need against your lips, he guided himself into you.
The first entry was a slow, breathtaking invasion, a deliberate, deep claiming that made you cry out into his mouth. He filled you, a perfect, stretching fit that stole the air from your lungs and replaced it with a wave of pure, white-hot sensation. You felt every inch of him. He fit perfectly, as if you both were made for each other. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing in ragged, shared gasps, feeling the incredible, throbbing connection. The world was reduced to the feeling of him inside you, the slick heat, the faint tremor in his muscles as he fought for control.
Then, the slow, deep rhythm began. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony, each thrust a homecoming that punched a soft, broken sound from your throat. His grip on your thigh tightened, his other hand still cradling your head, his thumb stroking your jaw even as his mouth devoured yours with a relentless passion.
The pace built gradually, the slow, deep rolls transforming into something more urgent, more primal. The gentle rocking became a driving, powerful rhythm that had your back sliding against the wet tiles. The slapping of wet skin, the ragged gasps, the groan of the shower wall under the force of his thrustsâit all merged with the drumming water into a symphony of raw, unvarnished need.
"God, youâre so deep⊠John⊠pleaseâŠ" You gasped between thrusts.
There were no more gentle caresses, only the relentless, beautiful friction, the desperate clutch of hands, the meeting of mouths in messy, breathless kisses.
His hands went to your thighs for support, and he picked up the pace as his cock entered your pussy again and again nonstop. His blue eyes looked at your face, contorting in pleasure, your lips parted, your eyes shut in a pure ecstasy that only he can give you.
"Fuck, Angel⊠You feel⊠God⊠so perfect." His voice was a ragged whisper.
You could feel the coil of your own pleasure tightening, a brilliant, unbearable pressure building deep within you with every rough, perfect stroke. You clung to him, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, your legs locked around his hips, meeting his ferocity with your own.
You felt the exact moment his control shattered. "Look at me, baby. Let me see you while you come for me." A ragged groan was torn from his chest, and his thrusts became erratic, deeper, harder, losing their rhythm in the frantic pursuit of release. It was the final, glorious push that sent you both spiraling over the edge. Your climax ripped through you, a silent, seizing wave of pure ecstasy that clenched around him, pulling his own release from him with a hoarse shout of your name that was swallowed by the steam.
He collapsed against you, his body shuddering, his face buried in the wet curve of your neck. You held him there, both of you trembling, breathless, and utterly spent, pinned between the wall and the weight of his love as the warm water cascaded over you, washing away everything but the profound, echoing peace of becoming one.
The water cascaded over you both, sealing you in this private, primal world where nothing existed but love.
--
An hour later, showered and dressed, you walked into the Tower's communal kitchen. Chaos reigned. Bucky Barnes was stoically flipping pancakes while dodging flying blueberries expertly aimed by Alexei, who was booming in Russian about American breakfast inadequacies. Bob, the only one calmed was reading a book. Ava was grabbing orange juice from the fridge. Yelena, perched on a countertop, nibbled her favorite dry cereal straight from the box, her sharp eyes missing nothing, as usual.
"Well, well," Yelena drawled, her voice cutting through the din. "Look who decided to grace the peasants with their presence. Did the lovebirds finally untangle themselves? Or are you still practicing synchronized brooding, Walker?"
John, pouring himself a truly alarming amount of black coffee, shot her a glare that could curdle milk. "Belova, if I wanted your commentary, I'd install a tiny, annoying speaker in my ear. Which, come to think of it, might be less grating."
You slid onto a stool next to Bucky, accepting a perfectly flipped pancake with a smile. "Ignore him. Heâs just grumpy because I beat him at sparring yesterday." You winked at John.
John sputtered into his coffee. "A cheap shot! You distracted me!"
"Distracted you?" You feigned innocence, fluttering your eyelashes. "By existing? How terribly inconvenient for you, Agent."
Bucky hid a smirk behind his coffee mug. Ava materialized beside you. "He does seem perpetually distracted when you're in the room, Y/N. It is⊠disgustingly alarming." Her voice held a hint of dry amusement.
"See?" you grinned triumphantly, stealing a piece of bacon from John's plate. He snatched it back playfully, his fingers brushing yours, the earlier grumpiness replaced by a fond exasperation.
Yelena hopped down, landing silently. She sauntered over to John, poking him sharply in the ribs. "Admit it, Walker. You are less⊠how to say⊠asshole? Grumpy? When your winged goddess is near." She grinned wickedly. "It is almost tolerable."
John swatted her hand away, but there was no real force behind it. A faint, reluctant smile touched his lips. "Shut up, Belova."
"Ah, see!" Alexei boomed, gesturing with a half-eaten sausage. "The American eagle smiles! It is a miracle! We must mark this day! Perhaps a parade?"
John rolled his eyes heavenward. "God, give me strength. Or better yet, give me a mission far, far away from this circus."
--
Later that afternoon, you found John on the top of the tower. He was leaning against the wall near the landed Quinjet, looking out over the city, the setting sun painting his profile in shades of gold and orange. The usual tension was back in his shoulders, a familiar weight settling over him. You approached silently, your enhanced senses picking up the subtle shift in his breathing.
"WhatÂŽs in your mind, Soldier?" you asked softly, leaning your hip against the wall beside him.
He didn't turn immediately. "Just⊠thinking about how damn normal it feels sometimes," he said, his voice low. "Having breakfast. Arguing with Belova. Watching you laugh." He finally looked at you, his blue eyes intense, vulnerable. "After everything⊠the divorce, losing Lemar, the shield, the disgrace⊠I didn't think I'd ever have normal again. Didn't think I deserved it." He reached out, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your jawline. "Then you crash-landed into my life."
You covered his hand with yours, turning your face to kiss his palm. "You deserve this, John. You deserve happiness. You're trying. Every single day. We see it. I see it."
He pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. He held you tightly, as if you were his anchor in a stormy sea. "You are⊠everything, Y/N," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "My light. My sanity. My perfect, impossible angel." He tilted your chin up, his gaze searching yours. "I love you. More than I ever thought possible. Sometimes it scares the hell out of me."
"Why?" you asked, tracing the line of his stubbled jaw.
"Because losing youâŠ" He swallowed hard, the shadow of his past losses darkening his eyes for a moment. "That would destroy what's left of me."
You pressed a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips. "I'm not going anywhere, John Walker. You're stuck with me and my inconvenient wings." You stretched them slightly behind you, catching the last rays of the sun, making the silver and white blaze like captured fire. "Besides, who else would put up with your grumpy ass?"
A genuine laugh, deep and warm, rumbled in his chest. He kissed you again, deeper this time, pouring all his gratitude, his fierce devotion, his hard-won hope into it. Below, the city lights began to sparkle like scattered diamonds. Up here, wrapped in his arms, your wings a protective arc around you both, the world felt perfect. He was yours. You were his. The Tower, with its chaotic inhabitants, felt like home. The past was a scar, not an open wound. The future, bathed in the golden light of this love, seemed limitless, bright, and achingly beautiful.
This was the apex. The pinnacle of happiness, hard-earned and fiercely cherished. John Walker, the fallen soldier, the grumpy antihero, found his peace, his purpose, his redemption in the arms of his silver-winged angel. The team saw it. Yelenaâs teasing was a testament to it. Buckyâs quiet nods acknowledged it. Even Alexeiâs booming pronouncements celebrated it. Love had softened his edges, not weakened his core, but given him something precious to fight for beyond duty or vengeance.
As the last light faded, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "I'll always catch you, Angel," he vowed, his voice a low rumble of absolute certainty. "Always."
And in that suspended moment, high above the bustling city, surrounded by the quiet hum of the Tower and the warmth of the man who loved you with a ferocity that matched your own, you believed him utterly. The world was golden. The heartbreak was a specter banished to some distant, impossible future. Here, now, with Johnâs arms around you and your wings shimmering softly in the twilight, you were invincible. You were loved. You were home. The happiness wasn't just a feeling; it was a tangible force, a brilliant, blinding sun at the center of your shared universe. You kissed him again, sealing the perfection of the moment, your head tilted up, his tilted slightly down, the tip of your noses touched while you both closed your eyes and chuckled in complete happiness, blissfully unaware of how fragile that sun truly was, and how quickly twilight can descend into the deepest, most shattering night.
--
Two days later, the Tower had settled into the deep, bone-deep quiet of a Saturday evening. The week's tension had finally dissolved, leaving behind a serene, almost palpable calm. A golden, slanted light poured through the windows, not casting sharp shadows but bathing everything in a warm, syrupy glow that made the air itself feel thick and peaceful. Outside, the distant, steady murmur of the city was a gentle lullaby, a sound that spoke of weekends and rest. The very silence in the room felt soft and earned, a comfortable blanket after the noise of the week.
The steady, rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Johnâs fingers on his datapad was the only sound in the room. A soft, grey afternoon light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his room, painting everything in muted, silvery tones. He was hunched over his desk, a fortress of focus amidst the organized chaos of mission reports, tactical maps, and a half-dismantled pistol. The line of his shoulders was rigid, a familiar tension he carried when the weight of command pressed down on him.
You were curled on the large leather couch opposite him, a book open in your lap. Or, it was supposed to be open. Youâd read the same paragraph three times, the words failing to capture your attention. Your focus wasnât on the page; it was on the man at the desk. On the subtle furrow between his brows, the way his jaw was set just a little too tight.
A slow, playful smile touched your lips. The book was forgotten.
You slid off the couch with a whisper of sound, your bare feet silent on the cool floor. You padded over to him, not with any specific intent, but drawn like a moth to the quiet intensity of his flame. You stopped behind his chair, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the screen. He didnât jump, but his typing slowed. He was always hyper-aware of your presence.
âWhatâre you working on, soldier?â you murmured, your voice soft as the dusk outside.
âSupply requisition forms,â he grumbled, not taking his eyes off the screen. âThrilling stuff. Someone has to make sure Belova and Alexei donât order enough C4 to level a small country. Again.â
You hummed, resting your chin on the top of his head, your arms looping loosely around his shoulders. You could feel the knotted muscles there, hard as stone beneath his thin cotton shirt. âSeems important.â
âItâs paperwork,â he corrected, though a slight relaxation crept into his neck at your touch.
Your fingers began to move, tracing idle, soothing patterns on his chest. You felt him sigh, a slow release of breath. Encouraged, you let your hands drift up to his shoulders, your thumbs pressing gently into the tight cords of muscle at the base of his neck.
He groaned, a low, involuntary sound, and his head tipped forward slightly. âAngelâŠâ
âYouâre all knots, John,â you whispered, your lips close to his ear. âYouâve been sitting here for hours. Your spine is going to fuse into this shape.â
âIâm almost done,â he protested, but it was weak. His eyes had drifted closed.
âNo, youâre not,â you argued gently, your thumbs working a particularly stubborn knot. âYouâre just going to keep grinding your teeth until you get a headache. You need to relax.â
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. âRelaxation isnât in the job description, sweetheart.â
âWell, itâs in mine.â You straightened up and gently took the datapad from his hands, ignoring his half-hearted grunt of protest. You set it aside on the desk, screen down. Then, you took his hands in yours. âCâmon. Up.â
He allowed you to pull him to his feet, a rare, acquiescent smile playing on his lips. âBossy today.â
âOnly when my favorite soldier is being stubborn,â you led him a few steps to the couch and pushed him down gently until he was sitting. âTurn around. Scoot forward.â
He obeyed, a look of bemused curiosity on his face as he settled himself on the edge of the couch, presenting his back to you. You climbed onto the cushions behind him, kneeling so you were level with his shoulders.
Your hands found their place again, but this time with purpose. You started slowly, kneading the formidable muscles of his shoulders and back through his shirt. He was solid, powerful, a landscape of earned strength and carried tension.
âChrist,â he breathed out, his entire frame seeming to sag under your touch. âYour hands are magic.â
You smiled, focusing on your work. You used the heels of your palms, your fingers, your thumbs, working out the tension with a firm, steady pressure you knew he could take. You felt him unravel beneath your touch, muscle by locked muscle. The only sounds were his deepening breaths and the soft rustle of fabric.
After a long, quiet while, you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around his chest from behind and resting your cheek against his back. You could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart. âBetter?â you whispered.
He covered one of your hands with his own, his calloused fingers lacing through yours. âWorld's better.â He turned his head slightly, his stubble brushing your temple. âThank you, Angel.â
You kissed his shoulder blade through the shirt and untangled yourself, moving to sit beside him. âAnytime.â
But he wasnât done. A thoughtful look crossed his face, that intense focus now turned entirely on you. âMy turn.â
âYour turn for what?â
In one smooth, effortless motion, he shifted, turning to face you. His hands went to your waist, and he lifted you, pulling you onto his lap so you were straddling him. Before you could process the movement, he twisted you both, laying you down lengthwise on the couch cushions with a soft oomph. He settled himself at the other end, his back against the armrest, and gently tugged until your legs were draped over his lap.
âHey!â you laughed, propping yourself up on your elbows. âWhat are you doing?â
âReturning the favor,â he said, his voice a low, affectionate rumble. His hands settled on your calves, his thumbs immediately finding the tension there. âYouâre always on your feet. Or in the air. These,â he said, squeezing gently, âdeserve some attention too.â
Your protest died in your throat. His touch was⊠exquisite. Firm and knowing, he began to massage one leg, starting from the ankle and working his way up to your thigh. It wasnât a prelude to anything else, yet; it was purely, simply, an act of reciprocated care. An intimate offering.
You melted into the cushions, a soft sigh escaping you. âOh⊠wow. Okay. You win.â
He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. âI do have talented hands. Good for more than just field-stripping a rifle.â
âIâll say,â I mumbled, your eyes fluttering closed. The rhythm of his hands was hypnotic. He paid attention to every part, from the arch of your foot to the tight muscle of your calf, his fingers working out aches you didnât even know you had.
You lapsed into a comfortable silence, the grey light deepening into twilight. The city below began to sparkle, a distant, glittering world that felt a million miles away from your quiet cocoon.
âYou know,â he said after a long while, his voice soft, âI used to hate quiet moments.â
You opened your eyes to look at him. His gaze was on your leg, his expression contemplative, almost tender. âYeah?â
âMhm. Silence meant the noise in your own head was too loud. The failures. The regrets.â His thumb pressed a perfect circle into your calf. âIt was⊠lonely.â
Your heart ached for the man he used to be. âAnd now?â
He looked up then, and his blue eyes found yours, clear and utterly focused. The storm in them was calm, replaced by a depth of feeling that still, after all this time, stole your breath.
âNow,â he said, his voice barely above a whisper, âthe silence is my favorite place to be. As long as youâre in it with me.â
The honesty in his words, the raw vulnerability he offered so freely only to you, filled the room with a warmth that had nothing to do with the setting sun. This was the real John Walker. Not the US Agent, not the gruff soldier, but the man. The man who carried the world on his shoulders but found his peace with his hands on your skin.
âItâs my favorite place, too,â you whispered back.
He held my gaze for a long moment, a silent conversation passing between you two. Then, a slow, lazy, utterly real smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. âGood.â
He returned his attention to your legs, his touch gentler now, more of a caress than a massage. His gaze followed the path of his hands with a kind of rapt fascination, as if memorizing the landscape of you. He loved thisâthe quiet intimacy of it, the privilege of having your trust so completely that he could worship you in these small, profound ways. He loved the feel of your legsâlong, smooth, and impossibly soft against his work-roughened palms. He loved the subtle strength in them, the power that could launch you into the sky, now resting so pliant and trusting in his lap. His eyes darkened with a soft, possessive awe as he watched his hands slowly glide up your calf, over the gentle curve of your knee, and along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You closed your eyes again, surrendering to the sheer, pleasant sensation of being adored so thoroughly.
The atmosphere began to shift, almost imperceptibly at first. The caring massage slowed, the firm pressure of his thumbs softening into something more deliberate, more intimate. His hands grew bolder, the strokes becoming languid caresses that lingered on the softest parts of your skin. Then you felt itâthe warm, soft press of his lips against your ankle. A kiss, so gentle it was almost a whisper. Then another, a fraction higher on your calf. He was mapping your skin with his mouth, a slow, tender pilgrimage up your leg. Each kiss was a brand of devotion, a silent promise spoken against your flesh. The sensation was exquisite, a trail of fire following the path of his lips, warming you from the inside out.
A soft, involuntary gasp escaped you as his mouth reached the sensitive hollow behind your knee. Your eyes flew open. The comfortable haze of relaxation was gone, burned away by a new, electric current that crackled in the air between you. Your gaze met his, and the look you found there stole the air from your lungs. His eyes were no longer soft with contemplation; they were dark, intense, blazing with a fire that mirrored the one now roaring to life within you. The silent question in them was answered by the heat in your own. The intimate care had seamlessly, inevitably, transformed into a different kind of worshipâone of pure, consuming desire.
âThe team is going to wonder where we disappeared to,â you mused, your voice now a husky whisper, the words feeling irrelevant in the face of the tension thrumming between you.
âThe team is going to wonder where we disappeared to,â you mused, content to stay right there forever.
âLet them wonder,â he said, his tone playful and possessive. âAlexei can boom at someone else. Bucky can brood unsupervised. Yelena can find someone elseâs coffee to threaten.â His hand slid down to your ankle, his thumb stroking the delicate bone there. âIâm exactly where Iâm supposed to be.â
His lips continued their achingly slow ascent, his hands smoothing a path up your thighs, over the soft, worn cotton of your shorts. Your breathing hitched, growing shallower, and your heart began to drum a frantic, eager rhythm against your ribsâa rhythm you were sure was audible in the sudden, thick silence of the room.
He heard it. Of course he did.
His lips were pressed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath a hot ghost through the thin fabric, when he went perfectly still. He didnât look up. He simply listened, a slight, predatory smile touching his mouth where it met your skin.
âI can hear it,â he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your flesh that made you shiver. âYour heart. Itâs beating so fast.â His thumb stroked a slow, maddening circle on your other thigh. âAnd your breathing⊠Itâs changed. It hitches every time I get⊠here.â To emphasize his point, he let his lips brush against the exact same spot, a feather-light touch that had you arching off the cushions with a sharp intake of air.
The intimacy of it was overwhelming, devastating. He wasnât just touching you; he was listening to your bodyâs most primal, involuntary responses to him. He was attuned to every shudder, every skipped beat, every soft gasp, and he cherished each one like a secret only the two of you shared. It was the most exposed and cherished you had ever felt.
A weak, breathless laugh escaped you, a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control in the face of his utterly disarming intensity. âWell,â you managed, your voice trembling, âyou did say you were⊠talented with your hands.â You paused, swallowing hard as his fingers traced the hem of your shorts. âI guess I should have asked if your⊠other assets⊠were just as⊠proficient.â
The effect was instantaneous. A deep, rich chuckle rumbled from his chest, the sound vibrating through you. He finally lifted his head, his blue eyes dark with promise and gleaming with wicked amusement. He looked entirely captivated.
âIs that a challenge, Angel?â he asked, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that never failed to liquefy your bones. He shifted his weight, moving over you with a fluid, predatory grace that made your breath catch all over again. He caged you between his arms, his face inches from yours, his gaze holding yours captive.
âBecause,â he continued, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his whisper a sinful, delicious threat, âif youâre conducting a full performance review of my⊠assets⊠I feel obligated to point outâŠâ His hand slid from your thigh, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your cotton shorts. ââŠmy mouth is arguably my greatest talent.â
The promise in those words, spoken against your skin, burned away the last vestiges of thought. There was no more teasing, no more city lights, no more world outside. There was only him, the overwhelming certainty of his touch.
The challenge hung in the air, a delicious, electric charge between you. His words, a sinful whisper against your ear, were a promise that shattered the last of your composure. You saw the dark, possessive gleam in his eyes a second before he moved.
There was no more teasing. The need was too urgent, a live wire sparking between you. His mouth found yours in an all-consuming kiss. It wasn't gentle or questioning; it was a claiming, a desperate, passionate seal of everything that had been building. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you met him with equal fervor, tasting the promise heâd just made.
True to his word, his hand slid beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts, his fingersâthose incredibly skilled, knowing fingersâdipping lower. A broken cry was torn from your throat against his lips as he found the slick, aching heart of you. His touch was not tentative; it was confident, exact, a master playing an instrument he knew intimately. He drew a rhythm from you that had you bucking against his hand, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders.
But he was a man of his word, intent on a full demonstration. His mouth left yours, trailing a searing path down your jaw to the frantic pulse pounding in your neck. He lavished attention there, with lips, tongue, and the gentle scrape of teeth, each sensation layering over the exquisite torture his hand was delivering. You were unraveling, completely at the mercy of his devastating proficiency.
His fingers entered your core. There was no more time to waste. Your back arched responding to him. He didnât wait; he didnât need to. His fingers moved inside you nonstop, feeling how wet you were for him.
âJohnâŠâ you gasped, the word a ragged plea. You could feel the hard ridge of his desire pressed against you, and it was all you could think about. The layers of fabric were an intolerable barrier. âPlease⊠I need you. Right now. I need to feel you.â
It was all the command he needed. The âpleaseâ shattered the last of his control. With a growl that vibrated through your very core, he obeyed. His hands, trembling with a reined-in urgency, made quick work of your clothes, peeling away the soft cotton shorts and everything beneath with a reverence that belied his speed. He shed his own with a few efficient, sharp movements, never breaking the intense, heated lock of his gaze with yours.
And then, skin met skin.
The sensation was electric, a shock of pure, undiluted heat. His body was a solid, warm weight atop you, every hard plane and defined muscle aligning with your softer curves. You melted into the couch cushions beneath him, a perfect fit. He kissed you again, hard and deep, pouring every ounce of his love, his desire, his soul into that connection.
He entered you in one slow, devastatingly perfect stroke that stole the breath from both your lungs. There was no rush, only the profound, breathtaking sensation of becoming one. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut as if in prayer. The only sound was your shared, ragged breathing.
âI love you,â he breathed, the words a raw, broken vow against your lips.
Then he began to move. It was a slow, deep, rocking rhythm that was pure, unadulterated love made physical. Each removal was a sweet agony, each thrust a homecoming. His eyes never left yours, the blue depths holding a universe of emotionâawe, devotion, a tenderness so fierce it brought tears to your eyes. This was more than passion; this was communion. This was John, showing you with his entire body and soul exactly how much he loved you, how he cherished you, how you were his whole world. The city lights blurred into distant stars outside the window, witnesses to the silent, sacred promise being renewed in the quiet twilight of the room.
--
The metallic tang of blood, the ozone sting of discharged energy weapons, and the pervasive grit of concrete dust clung to them like a second skin as the Quinjet settled into the Towerâs hangar bay. The mission had been a success â a Hydra cell dismantled, hostages freed â but it had been messy. Close-quarters combat in crumbling warehouses rarely ended without souvenirs.
John Walker moved stiffly beside you, the usual arrogant swagger replaced by a weary determination. A deep gash marred his left bicep, courtesy of a reinforced knife, and angry purple bruising was already blooming across his ribs where a concussive burst had caught him off-guard. His uniform was torn and smeared with grime, his jaw set in a familiar line of pain heâd never admit to. The team dispersed with tired nods â Bucky heading straight for the showers, Alexei loudly proclaiming his need for vodka and a hot bath, Yelena giving John a pointed, assessing look before vanishing with Ghost.
You matched Johnâs pace as he limped towards the elevator, your own wings a dull ache beneath your skin from rapid maneuvers and shielding blows. Your enhanced senses picked up the hitch in his breath with every other step, the subtle tremor in his right hand. "Your room," you stated softly, not a question but a gentle command. "Now."
He grunted, a non-committal sound, but didnât argue. The defiance that usually sparked in his blue eyes was dimmed by fatigue and pain. The elevator ride was silent, the only sound the hum of machinery and Johnâs controlled breathing. When the doors slid open on his floor, the familiar scent of leather, gun oil, and him enveloped you â a stark contrast to the battlefield stench.
His room was tidy, functional. A large bed, a weapons locker, a sturdy desk strewn with tactical reports. No frills, no lingering ghosts of his past life beyond the invisible weight he carried. He leaned heavily against the doorframe as you closed the door behind you, the city lights painting stripes of gold and silver across the floor.
"Alright, Soldier," you said, your voice a low murmur that filled the quiet space. You stepped closer, your fingers brushing the torn fabric near his bicep. The wound beneath was ugly, deep, still oozing sluggishly. "Undress. Let me see the damage."
A flicker of his usual stubbornness surfaced. "I'm fine. Just need a shower and some tape." He tried to straighten, wincing immediately as the movement pulled at his ribs.
You didn't budge. You simply looked up at him, your gaze steady, unwavering, filled with a quiet authority born of love and concern. "John," you said, his name a soft plea and an unyielding order all at once. "Undress. Please."
The fight drained out of him. He sighed, a rough exhale, and began the laborious process of peeling off the damaged tactical suit. The Kevlar suit hit the floor with a thud, followed by the undershirt, sticky with sweat and blood. Revealed, the extent of the injuries was clearer. The gash on his bicep was indeed deep, needing stitches no medic could match. The bruising across his ribs was a sprawling, violent map of purple and black, promising fractured bone beneath. Smaller cuts and abrasions marked his knuckles and chest.
He sank onto the edge of the bed with a low groan, the springs protesting softly. The city lights cast long shadows across the powerful planes of his chest and shoulders, highlighting the tension in every corded muscle, the stark white of older scars against tanned skin. He looked exhausted, vulnerable in a way few ever witnessed.
You moved then, stepping smoothly between his knees. The proximity was intimate, grounding. You placed your hands gently on his shoulders, feeling the tremor running through him. "Breathe," you instructed softly. "Just breathe."
Closing your eyes for a moment, you centered yourself. Then, you brought your hands to the worst injury â the gash on his bicep. Your fingertips hovered just above the ragged edges of skin. A soft, warm golden light began to emanate from your palms, gentle as dawn but potent. It wasn't blinding; it was a comforting radiance that filled the space between you.
John sucked in a sharp breath as the light touched his skin. Not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming sensation of it. It was warmth that sank deep into his marrow, a soothing balm that chased away the sharp, grating agony. He watched, utterly transfixed, as the light intensified slightly where your fingers traced the edges of the wound. The torn flesh seemed to shimmer, the ragged edges softening, knitting together with impossible speed. Blood flow ceased instantly. New skin, pink and healthy, flowed like liquid silk over the injury, leaving only a faint, silvery line where moments before there had been a gaping cut.
His gaze wasn't on the miracle happening to his arm. It was locked on you. On the intense concentration etching your beautiful features â the slight furrow between your brows, the soft part of your lips as you focused your energy. The golden glow reflected in your eyes, making them look like molten amber. Strands of hair escaped your usual style, framing your face. He saw the absolute care in your touch, the deep well of power harnessed solely for his healing, his comfort.
You shifted your attention lower, your hands hovering over the brutal bruising on his ribs. The golden light pulsed gently, sinking into the discolored flesh. The deep, sickening purple began to lighten, fading through blues and greens to a faint yellow before disappearing entirely. The underlying ache, the sharp protest of fractured bone, dissolved under the tender onslaught of your power, replaced by a profound sense of wholeness and warmth. You smoothed your hands lightly over the now unblemished skin, feeling the solidity of healed bone and muscle beneath your fingertips.
The silence was profound, thick with unspoken emotion. The only sounds were your soft breaths and the distant hum of the Tower. You worked meticulously, moving to the smaller cuts on his knuckles, the abrasions on his chest, your touch feather-light, the healing glow a constant, gentle pulse. He remained still, his breathing evened out, his eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every detail. The curve of your cheek, the sweep of your lashes, the determined set of your jaw. He saw the faint sheen of effort on your skin, the subtle concentration that spoke of the energy this took, even for you.
The sheer magnitude of what he felt â the awe, the gratitude, the overwhelming, terrifying love â built inside his chest like a physical pressure. It was more potent than any adrenaline rush, more profound than any victory. It threatened to crack open the hardened shell heâd spent years building. He watched your hands, so capable and gentle, erase the evidence of the fight, and he felt something fragile and precious shatter within him, not broken, but finally set free.
You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch; he wasn't watching the healing light; he was staring at you.
Your eyes met his, once, twice, a silent question hanging in the charged air. Finally, you murmured, "What?" He didn't look away, his piercing blue eyes holding yours for a long, potent moment before his voice, rough with residual pain but utterly sincere, filled the space: "God, you are so beautiful." A slight, almost shy smile touched your lips. "You said it like I'm holy." His expression didn't waver; it deepened, becoming fiercely intense, utterly serious as he answered, the words a quiet vow: "You are to me." The hum of your power seemed to soften, absorbed into the profound stillness his declaration created.
Your hands stilled for a fraction of a second on a nearly healed abrasion near his collarbone. You looked up, meeting his gaze. The intensity in his blue eyes stole your breath. It wasn't just admiration; it was pure, unadulterated reverence. Awe. A love so deep it seemed to radiate from him, mirroring the golden light fading from your hands.
A soft, warm smile touched your lips, reaching your eyes, and your cheeks flushed. "Flattery won't get you out of trouble, John," you murmured, but your voice was thick with emotion. You finished smoothing away the last trace of injury on his knuckles, your touch lingering.
He caught your hand before you could pull away, his calloused fingers wrapping around yours. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss there that was infinitely tender. "It's not flattery," he rasped, his voice rough with feeling. "It's the truth. Watching you... what you do... what you are..." He shook his head, struggling to articulate the maelstrom inside him. "I've never... Christ, Y/N, I've never felt like this. Ever." His other hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb stroking the curve. "You heal more than just the cuts and bruises, Angel. You heal... me."
Tears pricked your eyes, but they were tears of profound happiness. You leaned into his touch. "Then be more careful," you whispered, the worry youâd held back surfacing in your voice. "Please, John. Seeing you hurt... it tears me apart." You looked directly into his eyes, your gaze serious, loving. "I know the job is dangerous. I know youâre a soldier. But try. For me. Because I love you too damn much to lose you to recklessness."
The raw vulnerability in your plea, the depth of your fear mirroring his own deepest terror, hit him like a physical blow. He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist, drawing you fully into the space between his knees. He buried his face against your stomach, inhaling the scent of you â sunshine, jasmine â mingled with the faint, clean scent your healing power left behind.
"I promise," he mumbled against your shirt, his voice muffled but fierce. "I swear, Angel. I'll try." He lifted his head, his eyes blazing with a love so intense it was almost frightening. "You're my light. My reason. Losing you isn't an option." He pulled you down into a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of that terrifying, overwhelming love into it. It was a vow, a prayer, a desperate anchor in the storm of his emotions.
Your wings, hidden but always present, seemed to hum with the shared energy, the profound connection. He stood so his lips found yours with desperate tenderness, the golden city lights painting your embrace, and the battlefield was forgotten. There was only this: the healed soldier, the healing angel, bound by scars both seen and unseen, and a love so powerful it felt like it could mend the very fabric of their broken worlds. In the quiet aftermath of violence, tenderness reigned, more potent than any super-soldier serum, more beautiful than any silver wing. He held you like you were his salvation, and in that moment, bathed in the soft glow of recovered peace, you both knew it was true.
--
The first, pearly light of dawn of a new day was just beginning to bleed through the high windows of John Walkerâs room, painting the world in soft shades of grey and rose. The city below was a hushed murmur, a distant heartbeat. You lie on your stomach, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting near your head, lost in the deep, peaceful sleep that only comes with absolute security. The sheets were a soft tangle around your hips, leaving your back bare â a smooth, flawless expanse of skin that seemed to drink in the nascent light.
John stirred beside you. Unlike you, his sleep was often fractured, haunted by echoes of the past. But this morning, he woke not to a nightmare, but to paradise. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, blinked open, adjusting to the dimness. His gaze immediately found you, the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the elegant slope of your shoulders. A profound sense of peace, still novel enough to feel miraculous, washed over him.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his movements deliberately silent. His gaze traced you with a reverence that bordered on the sacred. This. This was what he fought for. This peace. This beauty. You.
He couldnât resist. With infinite tenderness, he lowered his head. His lips, warm and slightly chapped, brushed against the delicate skin just below your shoulder blade. It wasnât a kiss demanding anything; it was an offering. A silent hymn of adoration. You murmured in your sleep, a sound like distant thunder, a vibration of pure contentment against his lips.
Encouraged, he continued his pilgrimage. His lips traveled slowly, deliberately, along the path of your spine. Each kiss was a soft press, a benediction whispered onto your skin. Between the kisses, his hands began to move. His fingers, calloused and strong from countless battles, traced patterns of exquisite gentleness. He skimmed over the subtle ridge of your shoulder blade, his palm smoothing down the dip of your waist, his thumb rubbing slow, hypnotic circles just above the curve of your hip. He mapped the territory of your back with a loverâs intimate knowledge, rediscovering every beloved inch of your sleep-warmed, silk-smooth skin in the pearly light of dawn, his fingers occasionally pausing to gently gather the spill of your hair and draw it aside like a curtain, ensuring nothing obstructed his reverent exploration.
"You're perfect," he breathed the words against the small of your back, his voice a low, sleep-roughened rasp that vibrated through your core. "So damn perfect, Angel." His hand slid up, spanning your back possessively, his warmth seeping into you. "My perfect girl."
A soft, involuntary purr rumbled in your chest, escaping your lips as a contented sigh. You shifted slightly, pressing back almost imperceptibly into his touch, into the shelter of his large hand. "Mmmph... JohnâŠ" Your voice was thick with sleep, muffled by the pillow. "S'early... sun's barely up." You cracked one eye open, peering blearily over your shoulder.
He met your sleepy gaze, a soft, almost shy smile playing on his lips â a rare expression reserved solely for these private dawn moments. "Didn't mean to wake you," he murmured, his fingers never stopping their gentle exploration, tracing the subtle definition along your side. "Go back to sleep. I'm just... appreciating the view." He punctuated this with another kiss, this time on the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, eliciting another soft sigh from you. "And leaving a few reminders of who you belong to."
A sleepy laugh escaped you, turning into a yawn. "Reminders, huh? Like a big, blonde, grumpy claim tag?" You wriggled slightly, trying to turn, but his hand on your back held you gently in place.
"Exactly like that," he affirmed, his voice laced with amusement and a deep, possessive affection. He continued his ministrations, his lips finding the curve of your shoulder, his hand now sliding down to rest possessively on your hip, his thumb stroking the soft skin just above the sheet line. "Best view in the whole damn Tower. Better than the skyline. Better than anything."
You relaxed back into the mattress, surrendering to the sheer luxury of his touch. "Flatterer," you mumbled, but the smile was evident in your voice. "You just like having a warm pillow."
"Warm, beautiful, perfect pillow," he corrected, nuzzling the back of your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair and skin â sleep and comfort and home. "Who purrs when kissed properly."
"Only because your stubble tickles," you retorted, though the purring sound started up again as he deliberately rubbed his cheek against your shoulder blade.
A comfortable silence descended, filled only with the soft sounds of the waking city and their breathing. His hands continued their worshipful journey, learning your contours anew with each pass. "Did I ever tell you," he began, his voice a low rumble against your skin, "that Lemar would have absolutely adored you?"
You stilled slightly, touched by the mention of his lost friend. "No," you whispered.
"Yeah," John said softly, his fingers tracing a slow circle on your back. "He'd have teased me mercilessly about how whipped I am." A small, genuine chuckle escaped him. "But he'd have loved your spirit. Your fire. The way you don't take any of my shit." His hand tightened slightly on your hip. "He'd be glad... so damn glad... that I found you." You didnÂŽt know what to say to that. John had told you everything about his friend, but you knew they were all good friends with his ex-wife since they were younger. You doubted the possibility that his friend would want a woman other than JohnÂŽs ex-wife to be with him.
John noticed your silence and hesitation. He knew you too well to know what was going through your mind. "Hey," he said, his hand resting on your chin and turning your head back, enough to look into your eyes. He was silent for a moment, then he gently talked, "He knew and saw that I loved my marriage the best I could, and when it ended, I felt like I was in the dark and would stay there forever. Alone. But I know he'd be happy for me if he could see me now. Because I don't feel alone and I'm not in that darkness anymore. You got me out, you gave me hope. I'm really happy, and I know he would have liked you."
Tears pricked your eyes as you smiled. "I wish I could have met him," you said softly.
"Me too, Angel. Me too." He kissed your shoulder blade again, a kiss that held both sorrow and profound gratitude. His gesture encompassed the room, the bed, and you.
You finally managed to twist gently under his touch, turning onto your side to face him. Dawn light caught in his blonde hair, turning it into a halo, and illuminated the deep blue of his eyes, filled with a love so raw and overwhelming it stole your breath. Your wings, compressed but always present, hummed with the shared emotion.
"Hey," you whispered, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead.
"Hey," he echoed, his gaze drinking you in â your sleep-soft face, your eyes still heavy-lidded, your lips slightly parted. The possessiveness in his eyes softened into pure, tender adoration. He leaned in slowly, deliberately. His lips met yours not with hunger, but with a breathtaking tenderness. It was a kiss of reverence, of homecoming, a silent communication of everything words couldn't possibly hold. Soft, lingering, exploring the familiar contours with infinite care. A sigh escaped you, melting into him.
For long moments, there was only this: the soft meeting of lips, the shared breath, the gentle pressure. The world outside the Tower ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of the bed, the scent of each other, and the profound connection thrumming between you both.
Then, inevitably, beautifully, the tenderness deepened. The kiss grew less tentative, more assured. His hand slid from your hip to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling gently in your hair. Your own hand came up to rest against his stubbled cheek. The soft exploration gave way to a slow-building heat, a familiar spark igniting. The gentle pressure increased, lips parting slightly, inviting a deeper connection. The kiss became a slow, passionate dance, a languid search fueled by the depth of your love and the intimacy of the shared dawn. It was a promise, a reaffirmation, a silent vow whispered in the language of touch and taste.
The early morning light gilded your entwined forms as the kiss deepened further, a slow burn replacing the gentle embers. Then his arm wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him, eliminating any space between you. His hand went then to your neck, his thumb caressing your pulse point, feeling the pulse rising. The world outside the room, the Tower, the city, the future with its potential heartbreak â it all faded into insignificance. Here, in this sanctuary of tangled sheets and shared breath, bathed in the soft glow of dawn and the incandescent light of your love, there was only John and his Angel. Hearts impossibly full, bodies speaking the language words could never fully capture, lost in the exquisite, tender, and increasingly passionate devotion of the morning. The grumpy soldier was gone. In his place was a man utterly, irrevocably, gloriously in love, worshipping his goddess with every touch and every kiss.
The deep dawn kiss quickly flared into an inferno. His kisses were impossibly deeper, hungrier, stealing your breath and replacing it with the taste of him. His hands grew more demanding, roaming your back again and again, tracing the dip of your spine, the curve of your hip, the swell of your backside, your thigh. Each touch was electric, sending shivers cascading over your skin despite the warmth radiating from him.
He broke the kiss for a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours, blue eyes dark with desire, pupils blown wide. His gaze traced your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. A familiar, wicked smirk played on his lips, the one that promised trouble.
"Y'know, Angel," he rasped, his voice rough, sending another delicious tremor through you. His hand slid lower again, possessively cupping your backside, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. "All this worshipping... got me thinking about altars." His smirk deepened, pure, unadulterated Walker mischief. "And how much I'd love to have you spread out on mine."
"John Walker!" Your eyes flew wide in mock scandal, but a helpless, breathless laugh bubbled up instantly, followed by a fierce blush that spread from your cheeks down your neck. The heat pooling low in your belly flared violently at his filthy, irreverent words. You swatted lightly at his shoulder, but the effect was ruined by the huge, involuntary smile splitting your face and the way your body instinctively arched into his touch.
He chuckled, a low, dark sound of pure satisfaction that vibrated against your skin. He knew. He always knew. He saw the spark in your eyes, the way your breath caught, the flush that had nothing to do with indignation. He knew the sweet, confident woman he loved secretly thrived on his crude, adoring brand of possessiveness. "What?" he rumbled, leaning in to nip playfully at your earlobe, his stubble scraping deliciously. "Just stating theological facts. You are divine. Requires proper veneration. Thoroughly." His hand flexed again, pulling you tighter against the hard evidence of his own devotion.
The combination of his words, his touch, and that infuriatingly knowing smirk shattered your last vestige of restraint. The heat inside you wasn't just burning; it was a supernova demanding release. A slow, deliberate smile curved your own lips, matching his mischief with your own boldness. You held his smoldering gaze, biting your lower lip â a gesture you knew drove him wild.
Then, with a fluid grace that always captivated him, you moved. Leveraging your strength and agility, you pushed against his chest just enough to create space, then swung a leg over his hips. In one smooth motion, you were straddling him, settling firmly onto his lap, pinning him beneath you on the rumpled sheets. The dawn light haloed your form, casting your face in soft gold and shadow.
Johnâs breath hitched audibly. His hands flew to your hips, gripping them instantly, his gaze locked on yours, surprise and intense approval warring in his eyes. The smirk softened into something deeper, more primal â pure, awestruck desire. "Well, hello there," he breathed, his voice thick. His hands slid up your sides, mapping the warm skin of your waist, your ribs. "Taking charge, Angel? Didn't know morning prayers could get this... interactive."
You leaned down, bracing your hands on his solid chest, feeling the powerful beat of his heart beneath your palms. "Maybe I'm tired of just being worshipped," you murmured, your voice husky, trailing a finger down the center of his chest. "Maybe I want to do some claiming of my own." His breathing started to increase, and you haven't done anything yet.
âBesides,â you said, whispering, âdidn't you say you'd love to see me spread out on your altar?â His breath hitched, and he swallowed hard. You lowered your head, brushing your lips against his in a feather-light tease that was pure torture. Part of your hair fell over your right shoulder, gently caressing his face. "This grumpy soldier... he's mine. Isn't he?"
A groan tore from his throat, part surrender, part fierce agreement. "Christ, yes," he growled, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you down completely into a searing kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a collision of heat and need, a desperate affirmation. His tongue plunged into your mouth, claiming, demanding. His hands were everywhere â tangling in your hair, gripping your hips to grind you against the hard ridge of his arousal, sliding up to grab the weight of your breast, his thumbs finding your peaked nipples and rubbing slow, maddening circles.
The world narrowed to the feel of him beneath you, the taste of him, the sounds he made â low groans, rough whispers of your name, the sharp intake of breath when you rocked against him just right. His earlier sarcasm was gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered need and adoration. "God, you feel so fucking good," he gasped against your lips, breaking the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. "Perfect. Mine." He punctuated the word with a sharp nip at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, making you cry out, arching into him.
Your hand moved between you, gently grabbing his cock, stroking a few times, his eyes closed instantly, feeling the pleasure of your touch. You positioned him at your entrance and slowly lowered yourself onto him, feeling him enter every inch until he was completely inside you, making you feel a delicious yet sharp pleasure. You waited a moment, looking down at him; his eyes were now dangerously on you. His eyes roam over your body, delighting in every detail. Starting with your hungry gaze, parted lips, your delicate neck and throat exposed, strands of your hair falling over your shoulders, and your arms held forward, holding you against his chest, forcing your delicate breasts together. Your beautiful, perfect, warm body, the soft curve of your waist, your flat stomach, the valley below your navel, and your strong, delicate, and smooth legs. And of course, that beautiful physical connection that was already driving him wild.
You began to move, slowly, delicately up and then down, feeling his cock enter you each time. He was so hard, and you were already wet. You both never needed too much to be ready; the love and desire you felt for each other were amazing. Your gaze never left his as you gained speed in your movements. Your hands then rested on his at your hips, allowing him to see everything completely.
He could see every time his cock disappeared into your warm pussy, hear every moan that escaped your mouth as his cock filled you deliciously as your hips lowered. After a beautiful, agonizing moment of slow, careful movements, you began to go faster. Your breasts bounced up and down. It was an extraordinary view. âJesus Christ,â he moaned.
You met his passion with your own, rolling your hips in a deliberate rhythm that had him cursing fervently. Your hands explored again the hard planes of his chest, his shoulders, the powerful cords of his neck, learning him anew in this position of delicious dominance.
"Say it again, say IÂŽm yours," you demanded breathlessly, capturing his lips once more, your kiss fierce and possessive.
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with love, lust, and utter surrender. His hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with surprising tenderness amidst the frenzy. "You're mine, Y/N,â he vowed, his voice raw, stripped bare. "My Angel. My heart. My impossible, perfect woman." He surged up, capturing your lips again in a kiss that was both a claiming and a surrender, a desperate prayer and a fervent answer. "All mine."
The playful power dynamic â the teasing jabs, the sarcastic retorts that defined so much of your daily rhythm â dissolved like mist under the dawn sun. What remained was pure, unadulterated passion, a desperate joining of mouths and bodies that spoke a language older than words. Lips met in a fierce, consuming kiss, tasting of shared breath and whispered promises tangled with low moans. His groan vibrated against your mouth as you shifted, the slick heat between your bodies intensifying the connection. He looked up at you, eyes darkened to stormy blue, reflecting the pale morning light and something far deeper: raw, unguarded awe mixed with fierce, tender possession. It was the look he reserved only for you, the look that laid bare the grumpy soldierâs soul and revealed the devoted man beneath.
As you moved above him, finding a rhythm as ancient as the tides, he suddenly stilled you, his hands framing your face. You looked at him, surprised, and before you could ask what happened, his thumb brushed your kiss-swollen lip, his gaze intense, vulnerable. "Angel," he rasped, his voice rough with need and emotion. "Let them out. Please. I want to see you... all of you. I want to feel you like this."
A tremor of vulnerability, chased instantly by a surge of trust, ran through you. You closed your eyes, focusing inward. With a soft, silken whoosh that seemed to echo the beating of your hearts, your wings unfurled. Moonlight on mercury, edged with intricate, glowing white patterns, filled the space above the bed, spanning wide and majestic. The early sun caught the silver, scattering prismatic shards of light across the rumpled sheets and Johnâs sweat-sheened skin.
The sight stole his breath. "Christ..." he breathed, utterly transfixed.
Then you moved again, riding him with the full, glorious expanse of your wings spread wide behind you. From beneath you, Johnâs perspective was nothing short of transcendent. He loved this view, even more with your beautiful wings in full display. It was a sight of pure ecstasy and sin, savage and beautiful. Extremely erotic. Your delicate form arched, bathed in golden light, your head tilted back, throat exposed in a perfect line of surrender and frenzy. Your breasts moved with the rhythm, a mesmerizing bounce that spoke of life and abandon, your skin exquisitely sweaty. But it was the wings that completed the vision, framing your body like a living sculpture, powerful and ethereal. They werenât separate; they were an extension of you, of the passion flowing between you. He could feel the faint stir of air they created, see the subtle shift of muscles in your back controlling them, and sense the immense power held in graceful check. He watched, utterly rapt, as you became a vision of divine sensuality â fierce, beautiful, and utterly free.
"Look at you," he breathed, the words thick with emotion. "My God... you're not just beautiful. You're a goddess." The words tore from him, raw and reverent, not a whisper but a declaration ripped from the depths of his soul. There was no doubt, no hesitation. Seeing you like this â powerful, vulnerable, surrendering and claiming him simultaneously, your wings a testament to the miraculous being you were â shattered any last barrier. You weren't just beautiful; you were holy. A goddess made flesh, choosing him. His hands slid down to grip your hips, not to control, but to anchor himself in the face of such overwhelming awe, to feel every shift, every tremor, every pulse of connection as you moved together.
âFuck!â he groaned.
The sensation was overwhelming. The silken heat where your bodies joined, the cool brush of dawn air contrasting with the furnace of your combined heat, the faint, clean scent of your feathers mingling with the musk of lovemaking. The visual feast of your body moving above him, the wings casting shifting patterns of light. The sound of your shared breaths, your moans, his groans, the soft rustle of feathers against the sheets. Every sense was saturated, every nerve ending alight. The profound hum of your wings seemed to resonate with the frantic beat of your hearts, amplifying every touch, every thrust, into something beyond physical sensation. It was a merging of body and soul, a communion where laughter had no place, only gasps, sighs, and the profound, wordless language of two souls utterly, irrevocably entwined.
Your movements were a study in devastating leisure, a slow, hypnotic, consuming ride that was all your own. You used the full, graceful length of your body, rising until he was almost free before sinking back down with a luxurious, weighty finality that stole his breath, each descent a step closer to his blissful ruin.
The rhythm between you shifted, deepening from exploration to urgent necessity. Every nerve ignitedâthe slick, molten heat where their bodies joined, the delicious friction coiling tension low in your belly, the answering pressure building in his hips with every lift and fall. His hands, rough yet reverent, slid from your hips to your waist, thumbs pressing into the dip above your pelvis, grounding you as you moved. Your wings trembled, then flared wider with a powerful sweep, catching the golden light, the rush of displaced air cool against your feverish skin. âOh God, John!â You gasped, head falling back further, exposing your body to him as the sensation crestedâa brilliant, tightening spiral. He felt it too, the inevitable pull, his groan vibrating through your core as his fingers dug possessively into your flesh. "Look at me, Angel," he rasped, voice shattered. Your eyes, dark with ecstasy, snapped to his, locking onto the storm of awe and desperate love you found there. That connection, the raw vulnerability in his gaze, shattered your last restraint. A cry tore from your lipsânot of pain, but of pure, unadulterated releaseâas your inner muscles clenched around him in rhythmic waves, the silken walls fluttering wildly. The sight, the feel of your soaring above him, wings arched like a raptorâs in the moment of triumph, your cry echoing his name, undid him completely. With a guttural shout that was pure surrender, he thrust up one final, powerful time, spilling himself deep within you, his own release a hot, pulsing counterpoint to your tremors. Pleasure detonated through him, white-hot and all-consuming, radiating outwards until his vision blurred at the edges, leaving only the image of his goddess, radiant and claimed, burned into his soul. For endless, suspended seconds, you both were lost in the shared tempestâyour wings shuddering, his body arching beneath you, your cries mingling with the rustle of feathers and the frantic drumbeat of your hearts slamming against each otherâs ribs. The world dissolved into pure, shuddering sensation: the pulse of him still deep inside you, the aftershocks rippling through your own core, the scent of sex and salt and warm feathers thick in the air, the golden light painting your sweat-slicked, trembling bodies as you clung to each other, breathless and absolutely spent in the sacred silence of your shared peak.
Silence descended, thick and sweet, broken only by the frantic hammering of two hearts gradually slowing, syncing. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath your cheek. His hands moved slowly, soothingly, up and down your sweat-slicked back, tracing the skin where your wings were born, a gentle, grounding pressure. He pressed soft, lingering kisses into your hair, your temple, the curve of your shoulder â each one a whispered benediction.
You shifted slightly, just enough to lift your head and meet his gaze. His eyes were soft now, the earlier fire banked to a deep, contented warmth, filled with a love so vast it made your breath catch. A slow, entirely unguarded smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. You smiled back, tracing the line of his jaw with a fingertip.
"I love you, grumpy," you murmured, the words soft but resonant, landing against his lips like a feather.
His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. He captured your lips in a kiss that was pure tenderness, slow and deep, a languid exploration that tasted of salt, satisfaction, and utter devotion. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his blue eyes holding yours captive. "I love you, my Angel," he breathed, the intensity in his gaze a tangible force. "More than anything.â
You stayed like that for long, precious moments, wrapped in each other, skin still humming, hearts full to bursting. The early sun had climbed higher, bathing the room in a stronger, golden light that felt like a blessing on their tangled limbs. Eventually, the stickiness of sweat and the pleasant ache in muscles prompted movement.
He nudged you gently. "C'mon," he murmured, his voice rough but soft. "Shower. Before Belova hacks the intercom, demanding breakfast." He pressed another quick kiss to your lips, his smirk returning, though softened immeasurably by the lingering warmth in his eyes.
You laughed, the sound light and happy. Extracting yourself reluctantly, you stretched, feeling deliciously used and utterly cherished. He watched you, that same look of awe and possession softening into pure, domestic affection. He swung his legs out of bed, offering you his hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. Standing naked before him in the morning light, no longer in the heat of passion but in the quiet aftermath, felt just as intimate. He traced a finger down your arm, his touch feather-light. Once standing, your wings hid behind your back.
Together, still touching, fingers loosely entwined, you walked towards the bathroom, the promise of warm water and shared closeness a sweet continuation of the sanctuary youâd built within these walls, within each other. The grumpy soldier and his silver-winged angel claimed, complete, and blissfully, messily in love, ready to wash and face the day, together.
--
The next morning dawned with a different energy in the Tower. Gone was the lazy, intimate warmth of the previous dawn. Instead, the air crackled with the focused tension of mission prep. John stood near the weapons locker in the common area, meticulously checking the loadout on his specialized pistol. His movements were economical, precise, the familiar mask of the US Agent firmly in place â jaw set, blue eyes sharp and assessing. The softness you cherished, the tender vulnerability reserved solely for you, was tucked away beneath layers of Kevlar and steely resolve.
Bucky Barnes leaned against a nearby console, similarly armed and armored, his vibranium arm gleaming dully under the harsh lights. He offered you a brief, almost imperceptible nod as you entered. Alexei Shostakov, already bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet in his Red Guardian suit, boomed a greeting. "Ah! The radiant Angel! Come to wish your scowling eagle luck? Do not worry! We will bring him back! Perhaps only a little dented!" He thumped his chest plate.
You smiled at him, âI came to wish luck to all of you. Donât do stupid things⊠Alexeiâ. You told that last part especially to the cheerful man. He laughed harder than ever at your words.
John didn't look up immediately, but you saw the subtle shift in his posture, a slight relaxation in the rigid line of his shoulders as he sensed your presence. He finished clicking a magazine into place and finally turned. The professional mask remained, but his gaze, when it met yours, held a warmth that was unmistakably yours. It softened the hard edges, just for a moment.
"Morning," he said, his voice clipped but lacking its usual bite. He holstered the pistol and took a step towards you.
"Morning," you replied, stepping close. You resisted the urge to reach out and smooth the invisible furrow between his brows, knowing the persona he needed to wear. "Everything set?"
"Standard recon and extraction. Hydra splinter cell holed up in an old SSR bunker in the Alps. Should be in and out in forty-eight hours, tops." He shrugged, trying to project nonchalance, but you knew him. You saw the slight tension around his eyes, the way his hand flexed at his side. He hated leaving you. Hated the separation, even for a short while.
Yelenaâs crisp voice crackled over the comms. "Walker, Barnes, Alexei. Wheels up in five. Hangar Bay."
Alexei clapped his hands together. "Excellent! Time to crush some capitalist-fascist traitors! Or... Hydra. Whatever they call themselves this week!" He lumbered towards the exit, humming a Russian folk tune.
Bucky pushed off the console. "See you in a couple of days," he said to you. His tone was kind, and he smiled. âTake care, Bucky,â You smiled softly at him, and as he nodded and followed Alexei.
That left just you and John in the suddenly quiet corner of the room. The mission-ready facade slipped a fraction further. John closed the distance, his large hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones. "Be good," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register reserved only for you. "Try not to burn the Tower down while I'm gone. And keep Belova away from my coffee machine."
You smiled, leaning into his touch. "No promises on Yelena. But I'll try. Just... be careful, John." The worry you tried to keep out of your voice seeped through. "Come back to me. In one piece. Preferably grumpy."
A ghost of his familiar smirk touched his lips. "Grumpy is my default setting, Angel. Wouldn't be me without it." He leaned in, his gaze holding yours. "I'll be back before you know it." The kiss wasn't the desperate, passionate one from the morning before, nor the tender worship of dawn. It was firm, grounding, a promise sealed. It spoke of his absolute certainty of return and the depth of his connection to you. His lips lingered, warm and reassuring against yours.
He pulled back, his hands sliding down to squeeze your shoulders briefly. "Forty-eight hours," he reiterated, his eyes intense. Then, with a final nod, the mask snapped fully back into place. He turned, his stride confident and purposeful as he headed towards the hangar bay, joining Bucky and Alexei.
You watched him go, a familiar ache settling in your chest â the price of loving a soldier. This wasn't new; the team often carried out missions in smaller groups when the situation called for it. During your time on the team, a year and a half now, you've done this many times. Although that didn't stop you from worrying about their well-being, especially John's. But he always returned to you, and your concern was tempered by the lingering warmth of his kiss and the fierce certainty in his eyes.
Inside the Quinjet, as the ramp hissed shut, John sank into his seat, the familiar pre-mission tension already coiling in his muscles. Almost instinctively, his fingers went to the small, cool metal of the wing pendant resting against his sternum beneath his suit. He rubbed the delicate silver feathers between his thumb and forefinger, a grounding touchstone. A slight, private smile touched his lipsânot of joy, but of profound connection. The pendant was more than jewelry; it was a vow, a tangible piece of your faith in him. His mind flashed to the image of you just minutes ago: the fierce love in your eyes, the soft, worried press of your lips against his, the whispered "Come back to me" that was his most powerful talisman. The memory was a shield, fortifying his resolve. He held onto that image, letting it eclipse the mission ahead, and promised himself he would absolutely be returning to the woman who had given him a reason to.
--
The Tower felt emptier that night. Quieter. You, Yelena, Ava, and Bob had commandeered the massive living room. The screen flickered with the chaotic action of some over-the-top superhero movie Bob had chosen, mountains of popcorn overflowing on the coffee table. Bob himself kept accidentally vibrating the bowl, sending kernels flying like miniature projectiles. Ava would phase her hand through them, letting them scatter harmlessly.
"Bob," Yelena sighed dramatically, plucking a kernel from her hair, "if you cannot control your molecular instability, perhaps you should eat the popcorn before it becomes an aerial hazard."
"Sorry! Sorry!" Bob stammered, blushing furiously. "It's just... the tension! Will Captain Quantum defeat the Anti-Matter Man?"
"Itâs statistically improbable given the established power differential," Ava stated matter-of-factly from her perch on the armchair. "But the narrative suggests he will."
You chuckled, snuggling deeper into the plush sofa, wearing one of Johnâs old Army hoodies youâd âborrowedâ. It smelled faintly of him. It was a comforting anchor.
As the credits finally rolled on the movieâs improbable victory, Yelena stretched languidly. "Well. That was... loud." She eyed you, a familiar, mischievous glint in her eyes. "So. How is the Walker withdrawal? Has the Tower imploded from lack of brooding yet?"
You threw a piece of popcorn at her. "He's been gone twelve hours, Yelena. The Tower is fine. I'm fine."
"Fine?" Yelena scoffed, expertly dodging the popcorn. "You are wearing his hoodie like a security blanket. You sighed five times during the car chase sequence. And you have that... look."
"What look?" you asked, trying to sound innocent and failing miserably.
"That disgustingly happy, lovesick look," Yelena declared, wrinkling her nose playfully. "Even when he is not here, he is here." She gestured vaguely at your face. "It is nauseating. And also... strangely heartwarming. Like watching a particularly grumpy cactus bloom unexpectedly."
Ava solidified slightly. "Know this: The frequency of your smiles increased when discussing Walker earlier, and your pheromone levels suggest elevated oxytocin despite his absence. It is... Â significant affection." Her tone was analytical, but there was a hint of something like approval.
Bob beamed. "It's really nice! He's way less... shouty... since you two got together. And he smiles! Actual smiles!"
You felt your cheeks flush, but you couldn't suppress the wide smile spreading across your face. Yelena was right. You were disgustingly happy. The thought of John, even his absence, filled you with a warm, fizzy feeling. "Okay, okay," you laughed, holding up your hands in surrender. "Guilty as charged. He... makes me happy. Ridiculously happy. Even when he's being a grumpy ass."
"See?" Yelena pointed triumphantly. "Disgusting! But," she added, her smirk softening into something genuine, "it is good. For him. For you. For all of us, frankly. Less broken furniture from frustrated punching." She stole a handful of popcorn from Bob's bowl. "Forty-eight hours, Angel.â She joked with the nickname he used with you. âThen you can resume your mutual admiration society."
The rest of the evening passed in easy camaraderie. Yelena recounted a ridiculous story about a mark in Marrakech. Bob nervously described trying to help an old lady cross the street. Ava offered dry commentary. It was fun, comforting. But underneath it all, like a steady bass note, was the awareness of John's absence.
Later, back in your own room, the quiet settled more deeply. You changed, the soft fabric feeling different without the promise of his warmth beside you. You slipped into bed, pulling the covers up. The hoodie lay folded on the chair, but his scent still lingered faintly in the air.
You thought of him. His rare, genuine smile. The intensity in his blue eyes when he looked at you. The feel of his calloused hands on your skin. The way his gruff voice softened when he called you 'Angel'. The ridiculous, sarcastic jokes that somehow always made you laugh. The sheer, overwhelming force of his love, a love that had cracked open his hardened shell and revealed the fiercely loyal, surprisingly tender man beneath.
A wave of longing washed over you, sharp and sweet. You missed him. Missed the weight of his arm across your waist, the rumble of his breathing, the quiet conversations in the dark. You missed his grumpy morning face and his possessive touches. You missed him.
But intertwined with the ache was an undeniable joy. A profound gratitude. You were so deeply, irrevocably in love. The thought alone made your heart feel too big for your chest. You pictured his face, the way it would light up when he saw you again, the feel of his arms wrapping around you, crushing you close. The promise in his kiss.
A soft, contented sigh escaped you. You turned onto your side, hugging a pillow, but it wasn't the pillow you imagined holding. A silly, helpless smile curved your lips, refusing to fade even as your eyes drifted closed. Disgustingly happy? Absolutely. Blissfully, wonderfully, incandescently happy. And you wouldn't trade a single second of it, not even the ache of waiting, because you knew what waited on the other side. Him. Your grumpy soldier. Your love. And forty-eight hours suddenly felt like far too long. You fell asleep with his name a silent whisper on your lips and a smile still warming your face, the tangible warmth of his love a comforting presence even across the miles.
--
Thirty-two hours. The Towerâs common area hummed with a quiet, domestic rhythm utterly at odds with the mission unfolding continents away. You were curled on the vast sofa, immersed in the dense, philosophical sci-fi novel Bob had pressed into your hands with earnest enthusiasm. "It explores the nature of consciousness across parallel dimensions, Y/N. Truly profound!" Bob himself sat beside you, utterly absorbed in a sprawling fantasy epic, occasionally murmuring appreciatively about world-building. Across the room, Yelena flicked through channels on the massive screen with restless precision, her brow furrowed in mild disgust at the offerings. Near the kitchenette, Ava Starr shimmered slightly, she meticulously prepared a pot of jasmine tea, the delicate scent a calming counterpoint.
"Channel 47 has a documentary on Soviet-era ballet," Yelena announced flatly. "Marginally less offensive than the reality show about people marrying their pets." She took a vicious bite of an apple.
"The thematic resonance of the protagonist's journey through the Shadow Marshes is quite compelling," Bob offered, looking up briefly. "The author uses the fungal ecosystem as a metaphor for societal decay."
"It's... intricate," you agreed, forcing a smile, trying to ignore the low-level thrum of anxiety that had been your constant companion since John left. Your enhanced senses, usually a source of comfort, now felt hyper-alert, straining for any sound from the comms room down the hall. You traced a line of text without absorbing it, your mind drifting to John, hoping he was safe, wishing for the familiar weight of his arm around you.
The tranquility shattered like dropped glass. The discreet comm unit embedded in the wall console near Yelena flared to life, Bucky Barnesâ voice crackling through, stripped of its usual stoic calm, laced with urgency and the unmistakable whine of energy weapons in the background.
"Tower, this is Bucky! Mission compromised! Heavy resistance, unexpected reinforcements â tech we haven't seen before. Alexeiâs pinned, Walkerâs down, bad! Need immediate backup! Coordinates transmitting NOW!"
Time seemed to compress and fracture. The book slipped from your numb fingers, thudding softly onto the plush rug. Bob gasped, his own book forgotten. Yelena was already on her feet, the remote clattering to the floor. Ava turned instantly, the teapot forgotten, steam curling into the suddenly charged air.
"Shit!" Yelena spat, already sprinting towards the armory corridor. "Move! Suit up! Five minutes, tops! Bob, hold the fort!"
Ava vanished, reappearing moments later near her specialized suit, phasing through the wall separating the common area from the gear lockers. Your own heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure terror. Johnâs down. Bad. The words echoed, cold and terrifying. Enhanced senses amplified the frantic pounding in your own ears, the sharp scent of ozone and blood that seemed to cling to Buckyâs transmission even through the comms.
You moved on autopilot, the training kicking in. Minutes later, you were strapped into your tactical gear, wings compressed but humming with nervous energy beneath the reinforced panels. Yelena, face a mask of lethal focus, checked her Widowâs Bites. Ava, fully suited and shimmering with unstable energy, nodded curtly. The backup Quinjet was prepped, engines whining as you boarded.
--
The flight was a tense blur. Bucky kept feeding fragmented updates over the comms, his voice tight with strain. The Hydra splinter cell had lured them into a trap within the decaying, labyrinthine SSR bunker. Advanced energy dampeners had disrupted communications intermittently, and theyâd encountered heavily armored mercenaries wielding unfamiliar sonic weaponry. Alexei had taken a blast meant for Bucky but was mobile. John⊠John had taken the brunt of an ambush protecting Buckyâs flank. Stabbed. Multiple hits. Bleeding out.
Each word was a knife twist. You gripped the handrail until the metal groaned, your knuckles white. The image of John, strong and vital just yesterday morning, now bleeding and broken, filled your mind, threatening to drown out everything else. The love you felt curdled into a cold, sickening dread.
Landing was rough, the jet setting down in a concealed valley, miles from the bunkerâs main entrance. The plan was swift and brutal: split up for speed, find the targets, extract under fire, rendezvous back at the jet.
"Alright,â Yelena snapped, checking her grapple. "Alexeiâs last ping was Sector Gamma, lower levels. Sounds like heâs making enough noise. Iâll grab the old bear. Ava, Buckyâs signal is flickering near the central reactor core â likely interference. Youâre fastest through walls. Y/N," her gaze locked onto yours, sharp and assessing, "Walkerâs bio-signature is faint but holding, last known position⊠Sub-Level 4, Corridor Echo. Go. Comm silence unless critical. Move!"
You didnât need telling twice. You were out of the jet before the ramp fully lowered, silver wings snapping out with a powerful whoosh that stirred the snow-dusted pines. The cold mountain air bit at your face, but you barely registered it. Your senses expanded, filtering the wind, the distant crackle of gunfire from the bunker, the scent of ozone and burning metal. John. Find John.
The infiltration was a deadly ballet. You moved with lethal grace through Sub-Level 3âs labyrinthine corridors, the air thick with the ozone stink of energy weapons and the metallic tang of fear. Your wings werenât just adornments; they were instruments of salvation. A patrol rounded the corner â three Hydra troopers in tactical gear. Before their startled shouts could fully form, your wings snapped open with a resonant crack, solidifying instantly into shimmering silver shields. Pulse rifle fire spanged off the hardened feathers, throwing sparks into the gloom. You didnât flinch. In the same heartbeat, you drew your compact sidearm â Johnâs spare, the grip still warm with his imprint â and fired twice. Two troopers dropped, neat holes blooming in their foreheads.
The third lunged, vibro-blade humming. You pivoted, a wing-edge sweeping low like a silver scythe. It connected with his knees with a sickening crunch, dropping him screaming. Before he hit the ground, a single, needle-sharp primary feather detached with a soft thwip and embedded itself in his neck pressure point. Silence. You didnât break stride, retracting your wings just enough to navigate the corridor, the faint hum of their energy field fading.
Your healing power thrummed like a caged star beneath your skin, a desperate, aching pulse synced to your racing heart. Too slow. Youâre taking too long. Every second scraped raw against your nerves. Buckyâs voice crackled briefly in your comms, strained but clear: "Ghost has me. I'm mobile. Alexei?"
A burst of static, then Yelenaâs voice, punctuated by the distinctive crack-hiss of her Widowâs Bites and a guttural cry: "Got the noisy one. Heâs singing like a drunk nightingale. Heading to the jet." A grunt, the sound of a body hitting metal. "Try not to die, Angel."
Relief warred with intensified fear, sharp as a knife twist. They were okay. They were clear. But John⊠your John⊠The mental image of him bleeding, alone, fueled the fire in your veins. The comms signal from his suit tracker was flickering, fading like a dying heartbeat on your internal HUD.
Deeper into Sub-Level 4. The air choked you â dust, ozone, and the thick, cloying stench of blood and death â much of it freshly spilled by you. Corridor Echo was a testament to Johnâs fierce last stand, now overlain with the brutal signature of your approach. Bodies weren't just down; they were broken. One agent lay with his head wrenched backwards at a grotesque angle (your hands, seeking the fastest silence). Another was impaled on a jagged shard of conduit you'd ripped free and driven home. Hand-to-hand wasn't a technique; it was savage dismantling. You used a fallen rifle stock to cave in a helmet, and felt the skull give way beneath the impact. You disarmed a trooper and rammed his own knife up under his ribs into his heart, twisting the blade as you met his wide, terrified eyes. No hesitation. No quarter. They were obstacles. Living speedbumps between you and John. Removing them permanently was the fastest route.
You took hits. The stun baton jolt that numbed your arm? Met with a roar and a headbutt that shattered the attackerâs nose, followed by a stomp to the throat. The grazing shot across your ribs? Ignored as you vaulted debris, firing Johnâs pistol one-handed to drop the shooter before he could fire again. Warm blood trickled freely, soaking your suit, painting silver feathers crimson. Your healing stitched the worst, but the raw, burning ache remained â a constant companion to the white-hot rage. It didn't slow you down. It defined you. You were a weapon now, honed to a single, terrible purpose.
Then, the HUD blip steadied. Junction 7. You rounded the final corner, your wings slick with blood â yours and theirs â flared wide like banners of wrath.
Devastation. Johnâs handiwork, now underscored by your brutal path. And there, slumped against the buckled bulkhead, half-hidden in shadow, was John. Pale. Still. Blood pooling beneath him. That wet, rattling gasp tore through the silence â and through you.
"JOHN!" The scream ripped from your throat, raw, primal, shattering the grim stillness. Mercy was gone. Ruthlessness had served its purpose. Now, only desperation remained as you surged forward, healing light erupting from your palms like a fallen star, your bloodstained wings collapsing around him in a protective, trembling shroud. You had fought like a demon. Now you had to heal like an angel.
Your breath hitched, sharp and painful in your dust-choked throat. He was pale. Not just pale, but terrifyingly bloodless beneath the grime and the drying streaks of crimson that painted his face like war paint. The stark white of his exposed collarbone above the torn neckline of his undersuit looked almost luminous against the grime and the alarming pallor of his skin. His tactical vest had been shredded, peeled back like foil to reveal the dark, wet horror beneath. A massive bloom of crimson, nearly black in the flickering emergency lights, stained his abdomen and lower chest, spreading like a vile inkblot across the dark fabric of his suit. It was still spreading. One arm hung limp at his side, a steady, rhythmic drip⊠drip⊠drip of blood falling from his slack fingers onto the debris-strewn floor, each drop echoing like a death knell in the sudden, grim silence. His head lolled weakly against the buckled bulkhead.
Then, as you landed softly just a few feet away, the silken whoosh of your wings folding, breaking the dreadful quiet, his eyes snapped open. Recognition flared instantly in the pain-glazed, stormy blue depths â a spark of fierce intelligence cutting through the haze. It was followed by a wave of profound, almost childlike relief that softened his features for a split second. But beneath that relief, lurking in the tightness around his eyes and the slight clench of his jaw even now, was something else⊠something guarded. Haunted. A shadow you couldnât immediately name.
"AngelâŠ" The word was a broken rasp, scraped raw from a throat tight with pain and effort. Each syllable was a struggle. "Knew⊠youâd comeâŠ" A ghost of his usual stubborn defiance flickered as he tried, agonizingly, to push himself up against the metal. A strangled groan tore from his lips, harsh and guttural, as the movement clearly sent fresh agony lancing through him. Fresh blood welled at the edge of the main wound.
"Don't move!" Your voice was sharper, louder than intended, cracking with the raw terror that had been your constant companion since Buckyâs strained voice had crackled over the comms. It echoed in the ruined corridor, startlingly loud. You dropped to your knees beside him in a fluid rush, uncaring of the sharp debris digging into your legs or the warm, sticky pool of his blood soaking into your suit. Your hands were already moving, palms radiating the warm, urgent golden light of your healing power before they even made contact. The light cast shifting, hopeful patterns on the grimy walls and the stark planes of his face.
Your enhanced eyes scanned the injuries with terrifying clarity, cataloging the damage beneath the blood: deep, vicious puncture wounds, ragged at the edges, likely from a vibranium-tipped blade or some similarly cruel implement. They were serious, bleeding heavily â arterial spray mixed with slower, darker ooze â but crucially, within your power. The organs felt intact beneath your scanning energy, the damage localized to muscle and vasculature. You could fix this. You had to. The alternative was unthinkable. "Just hold still," you murmured, your voice softening now, thick with emotion you couldn't suppress. "Let me work. Please, John. Just hold on for me."
You placed your hands gently, reverently, over the worst wound low on his abdomen. The golden light intensified, bathing your hands and his ravaged torso in its warm glow. You poured everything into it â your desperate energy, your boundless love, your bone-deep fear, the frantic pulse of your own heart. You felt the intricate work begin beneath your palms: knitting severed capillaries, coaxing torn muscle fibers to weave themselves back together, stimulating clotting pathways. It was a race against the relentless seep of his lifeblood onto the cold floor. He sighed then, a ragged, shuddering exhalation that held a universe of pain beginning to relent. Some of the terrifying tension eased from his rigid frame as the agony receded under the insistent warmth of your power. His breathing, still wet and labored, seemed to find a slightly less desperate rhythm. Tears fell all along your cheeks while you worked. Seeing him like this, injured, bleeding out, pale, weak, too near to death, terrified you.
His uninjured left hand lifted weakly from the floor, trembling visibly. Fingers, cold and slick with a mix of his blood and grime, brushed tentatively against the back of your hand where it rested on his stomach. The contact was feather-light, seeking reassurance. You didnât pull away, your focus absolute on the life-giving flow channeling through you. His hand shifted slightly, his cold, strong fingers curling clumsily to cover yours where you pressed against his wound. It was a gesture of profound vulnerability, seeking connection, seeking the anchor of your touch amidst the storm of his pain. His thumb moved weakly, a faint stroking motion against your knuckle.
And thatâs when you saw it.
His movement had shifted the angle of his hand. The weak emergency lights glinted dully off something metallic encircling the base of his ring finger on his left hand. It wasn't part of his tactical suit. It was a simple, thick band of what looked like white gold or platinum, worn smooth with age and constant wear. It was smeared with blood and grime, almost blending in, but the shape was unmistakable. His wedding ring. The one from his failed marriage. The one he never talked about, the one that represented a past life of loss he carried like a hidden weight. He still wore it. Even now, bleeding out in a Hydra hellhole, even after months with you, sharing his bed, his heart, his deepest vulnerabilities⊠he still wore the symbol of that broken bond with another woman.
Your heart didn't just drop; it plummeted into an icy abyss. The warm, focused energy flowing from your hands stuttered and died. The golden glow winked out. You froze, utterly still, your gaze locked onto that band of gold. Time stopped. The sounds of distant battle, Johnâs labored breathing, the drip of blood â everything receded into a muffled roar. The world narrowed to that ring, gleaming accusingly against his blood-stained finger.
He followed your frozen gaze. Saw what you saw. The fragile color that had begun to seep back into his cheeks under the golden glow of your healing vanished instantly, draining away to leave a corpse-like, sickly pallor. His eyes, moments ago, softened with relief and the comfort of your touch, widened in pure, unadulterated horror. They werenât just guilty; they were shattered, reflecting a gut-wrenching maelstrom of panic, shame, and the dawning, devastating understanding of what heâd done. He knew. In that single, horrifying second, he knew the magnitude of his error, the sacred trust heâd just obliterated with a simple, silent lie worn on his finger.
"Y/N⊠Angel, waitâŠ" he choked out, his voice thick not just with physical pain now, but with raw, clawing panic. His hand, the one still covering yours, twitched convulsively, as if trying to physically pull the ring off or hide it, but he was too weak. It was too late. "I can explain⊠PleaseâŠ"
"Silence."
Your voice wasn't loud. It was flat. Arctic. Devoid of every ounce of warmth, worry, and tender sweetness that had defined you moments before as you poured your soul into saving his life. That single word cut through his desperate stammering like a scalpel, cold and final. You couldnât look at him. Couldnât bear to see the guilt warring with fear in those familiar blue eyes, eyes youâd gazed into a thousand times with love. Couldnât trust your own voice not to shatter into a million jagged pieces, revealing the raw, bleeding wound beneath the ice. Couldnât trust your thoughts, swirling in a vortex of agony. Couldnât trust the heart pounding against your ribs, the heart that had belonged utterly to him, now feeling like a traitorous, broken thing.
The despair hit first. A physical blow to the chest, stealing your breath. It was a black hole opening inside you, sucking in the light, the hope, the future youâd dared to imagine. He wore it. He still wore it. After everythingâŠ
Then came the anger. White-hot and searing, rising like bile. It burned through the icy shock, a furious counterpoint to the despair. How dare he? How dare he lie there, letting me touch him, heal him, pour my love into him, while wearing her symbol? While carrying that ghost between us?
And beneath it all, a crushing, suffocating sadness. The profound grief for what was lost, for the beautiful illusion that had just shattered. The sweetness of mornings, the intimacy of shared secrets, the reverence in his touch on your wings⊠it all curdled into ash in your mouth.
Your mind spiraled, a hurricane of tormenting questions shredding the foundation of your shared world:
Why was he wearing it? Right now? On this mission? When I wasnât here? The implication was a knife twist. Was it a talisman? A reminder? A connection he couldnât sever?
Has he worn it on every mission I didnât join? The thought was poison. How many times had he suited up, kissed you goodbye, and then slipped her ring back on? How many times had he carried that hidden weight into danger while you waited, oblivious?
Does he always put it back on when he leaves me? Was taking it off only for your benefit? A performance for the "Angel"? Did he slip it back on the moment he walked out the door, a secret ritual separating your world from his?
Does he still think about her? The ghost suddenly felt terrifyingly present. Did he compare? Did he regret? Did he wish�
Does he still� You couldn't even finish the thought. The possibility of lingering love, of unresolved longing, was a physical pain.
What does that mean? For us? For the love he swore was only mine? If the ring was still there after a year, what did that say about his commitment? About the truth behind every "I love you," every whispered promise?
The tender moments, the whispered devotions, the way he worshipped you⊠Was it all just⊠convenient? A distraction? While his heart still held space for the ghost of his past?
Why? Why, after a year of my love, my trust, my body, my soulâŠ? The sheer injustice of it choked you. Hadnât you been enough? Hadnât you chased away the shadows of his past?
Was everything we had⊠everything he said⊠a lie? The most devastating question of all. Had the rooftop confessions, the tender moments, the fierce passion, the whispered "Goddess"⊠had it all been built on sand? Had his devotion been a mask?
Did I do something wrong? The insidious whisper of self-doubt, the cruel reflex to blame yourself. Was I not enough? Too much? Did I push him? Did I fail him somehow?
The golden light emanating from your hands faltered, flickering like a dying star. The intricate work of healing stuttered, the flow of energy disrupted by the violent tempest within you. You took a sharp, shuddering breath, forcing your focus back to the immediate, brutal necessity: stopping the blood leaking from his body. Not because the warmth had returned â that was gone, replaced by a hollow, aching cold â but because you were not a monster. Because your friends were fighting, waiting. Because retreat to the Quinjet wasn't optional; it was survival. For him, physically. For you, emotionally. You couldn't break down here. Not now. The ice was your armor. The silence, your shield. You would get him out. You would get yourself out. And then⊠You actually didnât know what was next.
"I have to focus," you stated, your tone mechanical. You forced the golden light back into your hands, pressing them back onto his wound with deliberate force, ignoring his flinch. The healing energy flowed again, efficient, clinical, but utterly devoid of the love that usually infused it. It was a job now. A necessary task. Nothing more. You worked in furious, icy silence, your jaw clenched so tight it ached. You could feel his eyes on you, feel the weight of his guilt, his desperation to speak, but you shut him out. The connection, the intimacy of the healing touch, was gone, replaced by a chasm of betrayal.
"Y/N, status?" Yelenaâs voice crackled in your ear, startling you. "Weâre at the jet. Where are you?"
You finished sealing the last of the major wounds. The bleeding had stopped. He was stable. Functional. "Found him," you reported through the comms, your voice disturbingly level. "Stable. Heading to the jet now." You withdrew your hands, the light vanishing. You stood up, avoiding his outstretched hand, avoiding his pleading eyes. "Can you walk?"
He pushed himself up, wincing but managing. "Yeah. Yeah, I can walk." His voice was raw. "Angel, pleaseâŠ"
"Then move," you commanded, turning towards the corridor exit.
The journey back to the surface was a nightmare sculpted from grim silence and punctuated only by the brutal symphony of violence. Hydra stragglers, like roaches emerging from the shadows, tried to block your path. You dispatched them not with your usual controlled precision, but with a chilling, detached efficiency that froze Johnâs blood. Gone were the disabling strikes, the non-lethal feather barrages. A mercenary lunged from a side corridor; your wing snapped forward, not to shield, but to spear â the hardened leading edge punching through his throat with a sickening crunch. You didnât pause to watch him choke. Another fired wildly; you didnât dodge, you closed. Two shots from Johnâs spare pistol â center mass, then the head as he fell â executionerâs cadence. Your movements were sharp, economical, utterly devoid of hesitation or mercy. You moved like a blade honed for slaughter.
John fought beside you, his own movements stiff and painful despite your initial healing, every step a fresh agony he ignored. His focus, however, was fractured. His gaze constantly flicked to you, drawn with horrified fascination and deepening anguish. He saw the cold set of your jaw, the unnerving lack of expression in your eyes â eyes that usually held warmth, mischief, or fierce determination, now flat and empty as polished stones. Heâd never seen you like this. Not in the fiercest battle, not under the heaviest fire. The Angel he knew was fierce but merciful, powerful but gentle. This⊠this was something else. Something terrifying.
He desperately tried to rationalize it. Adrenaline. Survival. The stress of the mission, of finding me like that. Sheâs in shock. Sheâs protecting us. He clung to these thoughts, a fragile lifeline against the dread coiling in his gut. She isnât like this. Sheâs sweet. Warm. Delicate, even in her strength. She doesnât kill ruthlessly in cold blood. But the evidence was irrefutable in the corpses left cooling in your wake. The mercenary whose neck you broke without breaking stride. The one you shot point-blank as he tried to crawl away, pleading. This wasn't survival instinct; it was purgative fury.
He tried to stay close, his instinct screaming to shield you, to pull you back from the brink he sensed you were teetering on. He angled his body, attempting to position himself between you and potential threats, his battered frame a meager bulwark. But you maintained a deliberate, icy distance. Always three precise steps ahead, forcing him to push his injured body harder to keep up. Or slightly to the side, your posture angled away, your wings held tight and defensive, forming a physical and emotional barrier. You never looked back at him.
Then, rounding a blind corner stacked with smoldering debris, a flicker of movement caught Johnâs peripheral vision near a half-collapsed doorway. Instinct, honed by years of combat and a desperate, aching need to protect you â even from yourself, even now â surged. "Look out!" he rasped, lunging forward, his good hand shooting out to grab your arm and yank you back behind him.
Your reaction was instantaneous and visceral. You didn't just pull away. You flinched. Violently. As if his touch were a white-hot branding iron. You twisted out of his grasp with serpentine speed, putting another foot of space between you, your wings flaring defensively, not towards the potential threat, but towards him. Your head snapped around, and for a split second, your eyes met his. In that frozen instant, John saw it all: not fear of the enemy, but raw, icy revulsion aimed squarely at him. It was a look that pierced deeper than any Hydra blade.
He stopped dead, his hand hanging uselessly in the air where your arm had been. He stared at it, then at you, his face a mask of stunned hurt and dawning, terrible comprehension. That flinch⊠it wasn't just anger. It was rejection. It was contamination. "Y/NâŠ" he started, his voice thick with a pain that had nothing to do with his wounds â a raw scrape of hurt and frustrated helplessness. "Why did youâ"
"It would be a stupid question, John." Your voice cut him off, colder than the void of space, devoid of any inflection beyond weary contempt. You didnât even turn your head fully, your attention already snapping back down the corridor. You raised the pistol, sighted with unnerving calm, and fired once. A choked gurgle echoed from the shadows near the doorway, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Another threat eliminated. Another piece of his heart turned to ash. You started moving again, your stride purposeful, lethal, leaving him standing amidst the carnage, the taste of blood and betrayal thick in his mouth. "Move."
The command hung in the acrid air, not an instruction, but a condemnation. He knew why. The ring. The hidden lie. The shattered trust. And the terrifying realization settled over him like a shroud: the warm, healing Angel was gone. In her place walked an Avenger of ice and wrath, and he had forged her himself.
"Y/N, Walker, report!" Buckyâs voice was tense over the comms as you neared the bunker entrance. "Weâre taking fire near the exit!"
"Iâm hit," you stated flatly, registering the sharp impact and sudden bloom of heat in your left shoulder almost as an afterthought. A lucky shot from a flanking position youâd missed because your mind was a thousand miles away, lost in a labyrinth of betrayal. The pain was distant, secondary to the crushing weight in your chest. "Superficial. Proceeding."
"Hit?!" John was beside you in an instant, his face contorted with renewed fear and fury, all his own pain forgotten. "Where? When? Let meâ" He reached for your arm.
You recoiled sharply, stepping back. "Donât touch me." The words were out before you could stop them, sharp as broken glass. The raw hurt in his eyes was almost physical, but you couldnât bear it. Couldn't bear his touch, his concern, not now, not with that ring still gleaming on his finger. "Just⊠get to the jet." You pressed a hand briefly over the wound, a faint golden glow stemming the bleeding. "Iâll deal with it later."
The final push to the Quinjet was a nightmarish blur â the percussive crack of Buckyâs rifle, Alexeiâs booming shouts and the heavy thump of his impacts, the acrid sting of smoke stinging your eyes, and the frantic whine of the jetâs engines powering up. Yelena, efficient and grim, hauled John up the ramp, her sharp eyes flicking between his pained movements and your rigid, blood-smeared form, absorbing the shattered tension with a single, knowing glance. Ava phased through the closing bulkhead, her expression unreadable but her posture radiating concern. Bucky, pale and favoring his side but resolute, slammed himself into the gunnerâs seat, his metal hand already gripping the controls.
You stood rooted on the edge of the ramp. The cold Alpine wind tore at your hair, whipping strands across your face sticky with drying blood. It howled in your ears, but beneath it, a deeper, insistent ringing had taken hold, a high-pitched whine that drowned out the engine roar, Buckyâs shouted orders, everything. You werenât looking at the closing hatch, the safety it promised. Your gaze was locked back down the ramp, into the smoke-choked valley, towards the gaping maw of the Hydra bunker. It wasn't just a stronghold anymore; it felt like a tomb â a tomb for the trust youâd built, for the future youâd believed in.
The throbbing ache in your shoulder where the sniperâs shot had grazed you was a dull, distant pulse. It was nothing. Nothing compared to the vast, hollow void where your heart had been violently ripped out. The adrenaline that had fueled your brutal ascent was leaching away, leaving behind a terrifying numbness, punctuated only by the icy fury that had sustained you and the crushing weight of betrayal.
Then, you looked down.
Your hands. They were coated. Not just smudged, but slick with drying, rust-brown blood. Johnâs blood, mingled with the darker crimson of the Hydra agents youâd executed. It was caked under your nails, streaked across your knuckles, painting your palms in a grotesque abstract. You stared, uncomprehending for a moment. Your hands. The hands that healed. The hands that traced Johnâs scars with tenderness, that cupped his face at dawn. Now, they were instruments of cold slaughter. You flexed them slightly. The blood cracked.
Your gaze drifted upwards. Your suit was torn, the fabric around the graze on your ribs dark and wet, a fresh trickle of your own blood weaving a slow path down your side, warm against the chill. And your wings⊠your magnificent silver wings, etched with pure white patterns, symbols of grace and freedom⊠they were desecrated. Spattered with gore, dark streaks marring the luminous metal sheen, feathers matted with blood â his, yours, theirs. The sight was profoundly wrong. Profoundly yours.
Shock, cold and deep, washed over you. It wasn't just physical exhaustion; it was a mental and spiritual disconnect. The world seemed to tilt, the snow-capped peaks blurring, the smoke swirling in nauseating patterns. The constant ringing intensified, a physical barrier separating you from reality. You didnât even hear Yelena calling your name when she stepped a little closer to you, standing on the ramp.
You felt sick, bile rising hot and acidic in your throat. You were adrift, trapped in a silent, blood-red trance, staring at your stained hands without truly seeing them, the horror of the past hour and the shattering discovery crashing over you in relentless, icy waves.
"Y/N! Get in! NOW!"
Buckyâs voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the high-pitched whine in your ears like a physical blow. It jolted you back into your body with painful suddenness. Your head snapped up, your eyes wide, momentarily unfocused before locking onto the scene inside the Quinjet.
Everyone was staring at you. Yelena paused near the cockpit door, her usual sardonic mask replaced by stark worry and disbelief. Ava, solidified near, her eyes wide, reflecting the ghastly sight you presented. Alexei, half-strapped into a seat, looked uncharacteristically subdued, his brow furrowed in confusion and concern. Bucky, twisted in the seat, his expression etched with deep alarm beneath the strain of his own injuries.
Except John.
He was braced against a bulkhead near the front, supported by a webbing strap, his face ashen beneath the grime. But his eyes⊠his piercing blue eyes weren't filled with worry like the others. They held a raw, profound hurt. A deep, bewildered pain that mirrored the chasm opening inside you. His uninjured hand was clenched tightly into a fist, knuckles white. You knew, instinctively, the ring was hidden within that fist. But it didn't matter. The image â the cold metal glinting amidst the blood on his finger â was seared onto your retinas, branded onto your soul. âIâŠâ You tried to talk, but your words failed with everything you were feeling right now.
The thought of stepping into that confined metal tube with him, breathing the same air, feeling his gaze⊠it was suffocating. The questions â Why? How long? Do you still love her? Was it all a lie? â screamed inside your skull, a cacophony threatening to split your head open. The betrayal wasn't just a memory; it was a fresh, open wound, pulsing with every beat of your damaged heart.
"I⊠I needâŠ" Your voice emerged, miraculously steady now, a flat monotone that sounded alien even to your own ears. It betrayed none of the violent tremor threatening to consume you from the inside. "...I need to stretch my wings." You gestured vaguely upwards, towards the vast, cold sky. "Iâll fly back.â The excuse was paper-thin, ludicrous, given your visible injuries and state of shock. But it was the only barrier you could erect. The only escape. "Iâll be at the Tower later."
Johnâs face didn't just fall; it crumpled. The raw hope that had flickered when Bucky shouted died instantly, replaced by utter devastation. "Angel, no!" His voice cracked, raw with panic and a pain that mirrored your own, yet somehow felt like a further violation. "Please, we need toâ We need to talk! Youâre hurt! Let meâ"
But you were already moving. You couldn't listen. Couldn't bear another word from him. Couldn't risk him taking a step closer. With a powerful, almost violent downstroke, your magnificent wings â stained, burdened, no longer symbols of freedom but heavy shields against the world, against him â unfurled to their full, bloodied span. They caught the fierce, icy updraft roaring around the hovering jet. The lift was immediate, effortless, pulling you backwards off the ramp before Yelena could lunge, before Bucky could shout another order, before John could utter another plea.
You didnât look back. You couldnât. You angled your wings, banking sharply away from the Quinjetâs downdraft, climbing into the vast, indifferent expanse of the Alpine sky. The metallic thud of the ramp sealing shut echoed faintly, swallowed by the wind and the relentless ringing in your ears. You left behind the jet, the missionâs carnage, and the shattered, irreparable pieces of your relationship scattered on the cold steel floor.
The golden band, that tiny, insignificant circle of metal, burned brighter in your mindâs eye than the glare of the rising sun reflecting off your own tarnished silver feathers. The flight back would be long. It would be bitterly cold. And it would be utterly, desolately alone.
--
The wind wasn't cold; it was numbness. It whipped past your face, stinging your eyes, but you barely felt it. The rhythmic beat of your silver wings, usually a source of exhilarating freedom, felt mechanical, heavy, like lifting leaden weights through tar. You flew not towards the Tower, not towards home, but away. Away from the suffocating confines of the Quinjet, away from the crushing weight of his guilt-stricken gaze, away from the gleaming, accusatory circle of gold burned onto your retina.
Altitude didnât bring clarity. It brought a terrifying, hollow silence inside your own head. The frantic whirlwind of questions that had torn through you in the bunker corridor had settled into a chilling, heavy fog. They weren't sharp shards anymore; they were thick, suffocating blankets smothering every coherent thought.
Why?
The single syllable echoed in the vast emptiness of your mind. It wasn't a scream anymore; it was a broken whisper, lost in the howling void left behind. Why wear the ring? Why that ring? Why after all this time? Why on a mission? Why, when you weren't there? Had it become a talisman? A superstition? A⊠connection? He hasn't gotten over his marriage yet?
Your enhanced senses, usually so sharp, felt dulled, overwhelmed by the internal static. The scent of pine and snow from below was distant, irrelevant. The panoramic vista of the snow-capped Alps unfolding beneath you might as well have been a grey void. All you could see was his hand, blood-smeared, trembling, covering yours⊠and the gold. All you could feel was the instant freezing of your own blood, the way the healing light had died, not from lack of power, but from a shattering of faith.
He worshipped you. The memory surfaced, unbidden and cruel. His lips are tracing your spine at dawn. He whispered, "Perfect". The awe in his eyes as you healed him. The ferocity of his possession. Had it all been⊠what? A performance? A way to fill the void she left? Was his love for you just⊠a rebound? Convenience? While the symbol of his commitment to her stayed hidden in his gear, waiting for the moments he stepped away from you and back into his old life?
Tears didn't fall immediately. They pooled, hot and heavy, behind your eyes, blurring the magnificent, indifferent landscape below. A choked sob escaped, ripped from your throat by the sheer, brutal force of the betrayal. It felt like a physical wound, deeper and more agonizing than the bullet graze on your shoulder, which throbbed with a dull, distant ache you actively ignored. This pain was in your chest, a cavernous emptiness where your heart, so impossibly full just hours ago, now felt like shattered glass.
He promised. The thought was a fresh lance of agony. He promised to be careful. He promised to come back to you. He promised you were his light, his reason. Promises whispered against your skin, sealed with kisses that now tasted like ash. Had the promises to her been etched in gold, while the ones to you were written on sand, washed away by the tide of his unresolved past?
Logic offered no solace, no lifeline in the howling void of your thoughts. You werenât a jealous little girl. You prided yourself on understanding complexity, on respecting the past that shaped the man you loved. You knew his ex-wife would always be a part of him. Theirs wasnât some fleeting fling; theyâd shared years, built a life, brought a child into the world. That bond, forged in shared history and parenthood, was indelible. You knew Olivia was a good woman. From the rare, unguarded moments when John spoke of her â usually about their son â youâd pieced together an image of someone competent, kind, a devoted mother who had tried her best in a marriage ultimately broken by the relentless pressure of Johnâs acts and the crushing weight of the shield. You harbored no ill will towards the ghost of Olivia. How could you? Olivia was the mother of Johnâs child, a boy whose laughter occasionally echoed through the comms when he called his dad. That connection was sacred, untouchable.
But this? The ring. The physical symbol of a romantic union, a vow of love and fidelity, specifically between John and her. What did it mean that he still wore it? Not kept it. Not stored it respectfully. Wore it. And worse â he deliberately put it on when you werenât there. When he suited up for missions you werenât part of. That detail was the knife twisting in the wound. He knew. He wasnât oblivious. He knew it was weird. He knew it was a choice he shouldnât be making. He knew, deep down, how inexplicable, how hurtful it would be to explain away after a year of sharing his bed, his secrets, his fragile hope for the future with you. He knew the questions it would raise; the trust it would erode. He knew all of that, and he did it anyway.
How many times? The question was a poison ivy, wrapping around your heart, constricting. How many times had he kissed you goodbye in the morning, his lips warm and promising, only to slide that cold band of metal onto his finger the moment the Tower doors closed behind him? How many times had he fought alongside the team, your hand perhaps brushing his armored one, while her ring sat snug against his skin beneath the glove? How many times had he returned to you, smelling of gunpowder and sweat, pulling you into his arms, murmuring "Angel" with that tender gruffness that melted you, all while that symbol of another womanâs claim was tucked back into some hidden pocket, the ghost of it still warm on his skin? He wore the ring that represented his love, his vows, to her, and then he came home and told you he loved you? Which love was real? What was the performance? Was the ring the anchor to his truth, and you⊠Were you the comforting illusion? The thought was a physical sickness, a vertigo that threatened to send you plummeting from the sky.
It was too much. The contradictions collided like tectonic plates inside your skull. The John who looked at you with awe, who touched your wings like they were sacred, who whispered his deepest fears and fiercest hopes against your skin in the quiet dark⊠could that man coexist with the one who kept this intimate secret, this tangible link to a past love, active and present? You didnât know what to think. Your mind, usually so sharp, so analytical, felt fractured, overwhelmed by the sheer dissonance. Fury warred with a desperate, aching need to understand. To find some scrap of logic that could mend the rending tear in the fabric of their reality.
You wanted to give him the chance to explain. The part of you that still loved him, the part that remembered rooftop dawns and shared laughter, screamed for it. Maybe⊠maybe there was a reason. A stupid reason, a hurtful reason, but a reason nonetheless. A talisman for luck? A morbid reminder of past failures? A bizarre sense of obligation? But each potential explanation you conjured felt flimsy, insulting. It crumpled under the weight of the central, devastating truth: He knew how it would look. He knew how it would feel. And he chose to wear it anyway. He chose secrecy. He chose the ghost over your peace of mind. He chose to carry that symbol into danger, a hidden weight you never knew he bore.
But is this a logical explanation? The question echoed in the hollow space the fury had momentarily vacated, leaving only cold, bleak despair. Was there any explanation that didnât fracture the very foundation of the year youâd built together? Keeping the ring? Maybe. Understandable, even. A memento of a significant chapter, tucked away in a drawer with old medals or his sonÂŽs picture. A tangible piece of history, respected but archived.
But wearing it? Actively, deliberately sliding it onto his finger when he prepared for a mission without her? You thought of the same questions over and over again. That wasn't sentimentality; it felt like a secret ritual. A private observance. A hidden allegiance is maintained. It whispered that a part of him â a part he felt the need to physically reconnect with when stepping away from you â was still fundamentally bound to her. Bound by love? By guilt? By unresolved pain? It didn't matter. The binding itself, the act of wearing the symbol, was the betrayal. It meant that even as he held you, loved you, called you his Angel, a silent vow to another lingered on his skin, a counterpoint to every promise he made to you.
The questions kept spiraling, each one a shard of glass grinding deeper into your heart, and the rationalizations collapsed as fast as you could build them. And then, your fingers instinctively touched the pendant hanging around your neck, inside your suit. A small, perfect replica of John's shield. And like ice water dumped down your spine, another thought pierced the chaos:
He wears his wedding ring⊠but did he wear the pendant you gave him?
The question hit with a fresh wave of nausea, somehow sharper, more personal than the ring itself. Because the pendant wasn't just a gift; it was a covenant, a symbol forged in the purest moment of your burgeoning love. The memory, vivid and agonizing, flooded in, a stark counterpoint to the bloodstained reality of the Quinjet ramp and the icy Alpine windâŠ
Three Months After Joining the Thunderbolts - Rooftop Dawn
The air was crisp, the city below a tapestry of twinkling lights slowly yielding to the soft gold of dawn. You sat side-by-side with John on the familiar ledge, shoulders brushing, sharing the comfortable silence that had become your sanctuary. Steam curled from the mug of coffee heâd handed you â your favorite, brewed strong with just the right amount of milk and honey, learned by heart after weeks of these shared mornings.
It was your birthday. You hadnât made a fuss, but the quiet acknowledgement hung in the air. You had told him once when your birthday was, but you didnât know he would remember it. After a while, John cleared his throat, uncharacteristically hesitant. He pulled a small, velvet-covered box from his jacket pocket, the dark blue fabric soft against his calloused fingers.
"Happy Birthday, Angel," he murmured, his voice rough with a tenderness that still made your heart skip.
You looked at him, surprised. "John⊠you didn't have toâŠ"
"Open it," he insisted, a faint, almost shy smile touching his lips.
Inside, nestled on black satin, lay a pendant. Not extravagant, but exquisitely crafted. A perfect, miniature replica of his own shield, rendered in gleaming silver. Your breath caught. You remembered, weeks ago, watching him train with the real thing â the controlled power, the defiant glint â and offhandedly mentioning you admired its symbolism, its weight of duty, hope, and him.
"ItâsâŠ" you stammered, tracing the cool metal with a fingertip. "John, it's beautiful."
He shifted, looking out at the waking city. "It represents⊠what I'm trying to be," he said, his voice low and earnest. "The good man. The protector. The one worthy of⊠helping and saving people." He met your gaze, his blue eyes intense and vulnerable. "It's important to me. And⊠I wanted you to have a piece of that. To have something that means⊠something." A pause. âAnd to remember me when Iâm far away.â
Tears, warm and sudden, pricked your eyes. This wasn't just a gift; it was an offering. A piece of his identity, his aspiration, his fragile hope for redemption, entrusted to you. The significance washed over you, profound and humbling. Without a word, you turned and threw your arms around him, burying your face in the solid warmth of his shoulder. It wasn't just a hug; it was an outpouring of the deep, wordless connection you both felt, a silent promise. His arms wrapped around you instantly, strong and secure, pulling you close. He rested his cheek against your hair, his breath warm on your scalp. You stayed like that for a long, timeless moment, wrapped in the dawn and the shared understanding that something profound had just shifted between you. It was a silent declaration, more powerful than words. Special didn't begin to cover it.
One Month Later - Tower Hangar Bay
The air crackled with pre-mission tension. John stood near the Quinjet ramp, suited up in his US Agent gear, the familiar stern mask settling over his features. But you saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight tightness around his eyes. This mission was high-risk. You walked up to him, your own heart pounding with worry.
"Hey," you said softly, forcing a smile. "Take care of yourself out there."
He turned, the sternness softening slightly when he saw you. "Always do, Angel."
You took a deep breath, pulling a small, identical velvet box from your pocket. "Here. Something⊠something to remember me by. When you're far away." Your voice was barely above a whisper, suddenly shy.
He looked surprised, then touched. He took the box, his gaze fixed on it as he lifted the lid. Nestled inside was another pendant. Two delicate, intricately crafted silver wings, spread as if in flight, catching the harsh hangar lights. They were small, elegant, undeniably you.
You held your breath, searching his face. He didn't smile right away. His expression grew strangely serious, almost solemn. His fingers, clad in tactical gloves, reached into the box and gently lifted the pendant out. He held it up, turning it slowly, studying the fine details of each feather, the curve of the wings. The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the jet. Your stomach clenched. He doesn't like it. It was too muchâŠ
Then, his gaze lifted from the pendant to meet yours. The seriousness hadn't faded; if anything, it had deepened, intensified into something raw and profound. There was no smile, but his eyes held a blazing certainty that stole your breath.
"It's perfect," he said, his voice low, gravelly, vibrating with an emotion that resonated deep in your bones. "Exactly perfect." He paused, his gaze never leaving yours, pinning you in place. "When I get backâŠ" He took a step closer, the air between them crackling. "...I want you to be with me, to be my girlfriend. Officially. No more⊠whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between you, his expression fierce. "I want it real. I want it known. I want everything with you."
Your heart stopped, then slammed against your ribs. The world narrowed to his intense blue eyes, the pendant glinting in his hand, the sheer, terrifying vulnerability and conviction in his words. In that exact moment, he knew. The love, the connection nurtured on the rooftop, solidified by the shield pendant, had become undeniable, monumental. It demanded acknowledgement. It demanded commitment.
Your smile bloomed, wide and radiant, chasing away the shadows of worry, filling your eyes with tears of pure, unadulterated joy. It was all the answer he needed. His own serious expression finally broke, transforming into a wide, brilliant grin that lit up his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Without hesitation, he unclasped the chain and fastened the wing pendant around his own neck, tucking it securely beneath the collar of his undersuit, close to his heart.
He leaned in, his forehead briefly touching yours, his hand warm on your cheek. "Wait for me, Angel," he murmured, the promise vibrating with anticipation and certainty. Then he pulled back, that brilliant grin still in place, and turned to board the Quinjet.
You watched him go, your hand instinctively covering the shield pendant resting against your own chest. Your heart wasn't just melting; it was overflowing, incandescent with the sheer, perfect rightness of it all. He was yours. You were his. And he carried your wings, your symbol, next to his heart as he flew into danger. It was the moment everything became real.
--
The cold began to seep in, not just from the high altitude wind, but from the inside out. A deep, bone-chilling cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. It was the cold of isolation, of realizing the person you trusted most profoundly, the person whose soul you thought you knew, had kept a fundamental part of himself locked away, hidden behind the fortress of his grumpy exterior and the intensity of his love for you.
Your wings grew heavy. The powerful muscles screamed with fatigue, not just from the flight, but from carrying the crushing weight of heartbreak. You scanned the jagged peaks below, seeking not shelter, but oblivion. A high, isolated ledge, jutting out like a broken tooth on the face of a sheer cliff, caught your eye. Desolate. Exposed. Perfect.
You landed with less grace than usual, stumbling slightly on the uneven rock. The silence here was absolute, broken only by the mournful sigh of the wind through crevices. The city lights were a distant, indifferent glitter miles below. You sank onto the cold stone at the very edge, legs drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, trying vainly to hold the broken pieces together. The tears finally broke free.
They weren't the quiet, cinematic tears of sadness. They were harsh, wrenching sobs that tore through you, shaking your shoulders, stealing your breath. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks, freezing almost instantly in the biting wind. You buried your face in your knees, the rough fabric of your tactical pants scraping against your skin, a minor discomfort lost in the tidal wave of grief. You cried for the trust obliterated. You cried for the future that now lay in ruins. You cried for the man you thought you knew, the man you loved with every fiber of your being, who now felt like a devastating stranger. You cried for the sheer, stupid, overwhelming pain of it.
Hours bled away unnoticed. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and orange â colors that felt mocking in their beauty. One by one, the stars emerged, cold, distant pinpricks in the vast, uncaring blackness. They offered no answers, no comfort. Only a reminder of your own smallness, your own devastating insignificance in the face of this personal cataclysm.
Then, you saw it. Far on the horizon, beyond the glittering cityscape. Not the comforting dark of night, but an encroaching wall of deeper, more ominous darkness. Lightning flickered within it, silent from this distance but unmistakable â jagged forks tearing through the bruised sky. Thunderheads boiled, rolling towards you with a terrifying, inevitable majesty. It mirrored the storm raging inside you perfectly: the dark clouds of betrayal, the jagged lightning bolts of pain and confusion, the deafening thunder of your own shattered heart.
You watched it approach, the tears still falling freely, tracing icy paths on your wind-chapped cheeks. The numbness was giving way to a deep, aching sorrow, a profound sense of loss that felt permanent. The ring wasn't just a piece of jewelry; it was a key. A key that had unlocked a door you never knew existed in the fortress of John Walker, revealing a hidden chamber still occupied by the ghost of his past. And standing there, bathed in the cold starlight with a storm gathering on the horizon, you had no idea if that door could ever be closed again, or if your love could survive the draft blowing through it. The only certainty was the icy rock beneath you, the hollow ache in your chest, and the terrifying, beautiful, destructive storm drawing ever closer.
--
The storm didnât cleanse; it drowned. Rain, cold and relentless, lashed against your silver wings, plastering your hair to your skull, soaking through your tactical suit until it clung like a second, icy skin. You flew slowly, mechanically, towards the distant, glittering spike of the Tower. The initial, shattering sobs had subsided, replaced by a profound, echoing hollowness. Your chest felt scraped raw, a cavern where only the cold wind of betrayal now whistled. Tears still mingled with the rain on your cheeks, but they were silent, automatic. The fierce, vibrant love that had filled you felt like a distant memory, replaced by a weary ache and a chilling numbness.
You had to go back. The thought was a lead weight. There was nowhere else. The Tower was home, the team was family, and John⊠John was the storm center you inevitably orbited. You loved him. That terrifying, all-consuming truth hadn't vanished with the discovery of the ring. You could still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, hear the rasp of his voice calling you 'Angel,' see the fierce, vulnerable love in his blue eyes. You knew he loved you. That wasn't the question tearing you apart.
The question was: Was your love enough? Enough to truly bury the ghost of Olivia? Enough to finally shed the skin of the man who failed his wife, his son? Enough to deserve the future youâd dared to dream of together?
You feared, deep in the newly hollowed-out core of your being, that the answer was no. Love was powerful, yes. But it couldn't force healing. It couldn't erase a past someone clung to, symbolized by a circle of gold worn in secret. If he couldn't let go, truly let go, then his past wasn't just a scar; it was an anchor, dragging you both down. And you couldn't build a future on the wreckage of his unresolved yesterday. The thought made the cold seep deeper, past your bones, into your soul. The rain felt like the tears the sky was shedding for your broken heart.
***
The moment the Quinjet ramp had sealed, cutting off the sight of your silver wings vanishing into the grey Alpine sky, John Walkerâs world collapsed inward. The pain from his mostly healed wounds was nothing compared to the vise tightening around his chest, the acid churning in his gut. The flight back was a blur of tense silence, punctuated by Buckyâs grim updates and Alexeiâs boisterous recounting of his fight, oblivious to the suffocating tension radiating from John. Yelena watched him with unnervingly sharp, knowing eyes, saying nothing, which was worse than any barb. They all knew something happened but didnât ask.
He practically bolted from the jet the second it touched down in the Tower hangar, ignoring Buckyâs clipped demand for a debrief. "Later!" he snarled, the sound raw and desperate, startling even Alexei into momentary silence. He didnât run; he stalked, a wounded animal seeking its den, leaving a trail of water and blood â his own, from reopened scrapes ignored â on the polished floor.
He slammed the door to his room, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence. The space felt alien, charged with the phantom scent of you, your perfume, the memory of tangled sheets and whispered devotion now a cruel mockery. He ripped off the torn, bloodied tactical suit, hurling it across the room. Then the undershirt. He stood bare-chested, breathing hard, staring at his left hand.
The gold band gleamed dully under the harsh overhead light, a malevolent eye. It felt heavy. Filthy. A brand of his monumental, catastrophic stupidity.
"What the FUCK did I do?" The words tore from his throat, a guttural roar of pure agony directed at the empty room, at himself. He slammed his fist against the reinforced wall. Once. Twice. Pain flared through his knuckles, a welcome counterpoint to the soul-crushing guilt. He welcomed the sting, the split skin, the smear of blood. It was real. Tangible. Unlike the devastating fracture heâd caused in the one good thing left in his shattered life.
Fumbling, his hands shaking violently, he grabbed the ring. It felt cold. Alien. How long had it been since heâd consciously registered its presence? He yanked it off, the skin catching, protesting. He stared at it, lying innocently in his bloody palm. This tiny, insignificant circle of metal had just detonated his entire world.
Why? The question echoed your own, a frantic, panicked drumbeat in his skull. Why did I put it on? Habit? Stupid fucking superstition? Heâd started wearing it again on missions after Lemar died, after he lost the shield, after Olivia took his son. It felt like⊠armor. A reminder of a time when he wasnât a complete failure, a monster. A time before the darkness swallowed him whole. Heâd worn it automatically, thoughtlessly, packing his gear. It wasn't about Olivia, not anymore. It was about him. His brokenness. His fear.
And look where that fear got you, you fucking idiot. He closed his fist around the ring, the metal biting into his palm. You ruin everything. Everything you touch turns to shit. Lamar. His marriage. The shield. His reputation. And now⊠you. His Angel. The one pure, perfect light in his endless night. The woman who saw the wreckage he was in and somehow saw something worth saving. Worth loving. Heâd shown her his darkness, his rage, his grief, and she hadnât flinched. Sheâd healed him, body and soul. And how had he repaid her? With a hidden lie. A symbol of a past he claimed was buried, worn like a secret shield against the world, a shield that had now shattered your trust.
He loved you. God, he loved you with a ferocity that terrified him. It was the only thing keeping him upright now, the only anchor against the tsunami of self-loathing. What did that love matter now? How could he possibly explain that the ring wasn't about missing Olivia, but about hating himself? About clinging to a dead identity because the man he was now felt unworthy, especially of you? Who would believe that? How could you believe that, after seeing it there, glinting on his finger as you saved his life? The irony was a knife twisting in his gut. You saved me, and I destroyed us.
Panic surged, cold and sharp. Where are you? Hours had bled away. The storm was raging outside the Tower windows. Were you still flying? Were you hurt? That graze on your shoulder⊠had you healed it? The image of you flinching away from his touch, the raw rejection in your voice â "Don't touch me!" â lanced through him again. Heâd caused that. Heâd put that distance, that pain, in your eyes. He paced the small room like a caged tiger, the ring a burning coal in his clenched fist. He needed to see you. Needed to know you were safe. Needed to fix this, even though the damage felt irreparable.
He needed to hold you. To kiss you. To beg. To explain, even if the explanation sounded pathetic even to his own ears. He needed to feel the warmth of your skin, the solidity of your presence, to prove to himself that he hadn't lost you completely. But the fear was paralyzing. What if you wouldn't listen? What if you looked at him with that hollow emptiness forever? What if you never flew back? The thought was a physical blow, stealing his breath.
He sank onto the edge of the bed, the same bed where heâd worshipped your body with reverence just two mornings ago. He dropped the ring onto the nightstand. It landed with a tiny, final clink. He buried his face in his hands, the scent of blood and rain and his own despair filling his nostrils. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within â thunder rumbling like his own choked sobs, lightning flashing behind his closed eyelids like the devastating clarity in your eyes when you saw the gold.
He was an idiot. A colossal, self-sabotaging idiot. Youâd flown into hell to save him, and all youâd found was proof he was still chained to his own. He waited in the suffocating silence of his room, the rain hammering against the window, every creak of the Tower, every distant hum of machinery making him jerk his head up, heart pounding with futile hope. Come back. Please, Angel. Come back. Let me try. Let me explain. The hours stretched, agonizing and empty. The hollow space beside him on the bed yawned wide, a physical manifestation of the chasm heâd ripped open between them. He waited, a monument to guilt and desperate, terrified love, listening for the sound of wings that might never return.
--
The Towerâs familiar hum felt alien. You landed on the rain-slicked helipad, the wind whipping strands of wet hair across your face. The storm had followed you, or perhaps youâd carried it within. Your wings folded inward with a weary sigh, disappearing completely, leaving you feeling strangely vulnerable, diminished. The vibrant silver felt tarnished. You walked through the access door, water pooling at your feet with every step, tracing a cold path behind you. The elevator ride was silent, the mirrored walls reflecting a ghost. Pale, hollow-eyed, lips slightly parted, breath shallow. The wound on your shoulder, a jagged tear in the tactical suit fabric, throbbed dully. Blood, diluted pink by rainwater, seeped steadily, staining the dark material. You registered the discomfort distantly, a minor annoyance compared to the gaping void where your heart used to be.
You bypassed his room. The instinct to go there, to seek the warmth and sanctuary youâd always found within its walls, was a physical ache. But the image of the gold band, gleaming against his bloodied finger, slammed that door shut in your mind. It felt contaminated. Betrayed. Your own room felt cold and impersonal, a space barely used in the past year, filled only with echoes of solitude. You entered, the door sighing shut behind you.
Mechanically, you began peeling off the soaked, ruined suit. Every movement felt leaden. The fabric clung stubbornly to your skin, peeling away like a scab to reveal the angry, untreated graze on your shoulder. You didn't look at it. You didn't summon the familiar golden warmth. The physical pain was a grounding counterpoint, a tangible manifestation of the internal devastation. You deserved to feel it. You pulled on a soft, oversized sleep shirt and shorts, the clean cotton a stark contrast to the grime and blood still clinging to you. You picked up a towel, running it slowly, absently, over your dripping hair, staring blankly at the wall.
***
He heard the muffled thud of the access door closing. Heard the faint whir of the elevator ascending to your floor. The sound was a physical blow. You went to your room. The realization slammed into him, colder than the Alpine rain. You never went to your room anymore. Not unless he was deployed for weeks. That small, instinctive choice spoke volumes louder than any scream.
He waited, frozen in the agonizing silence of his own room, the discarded ring burning a hole in his vision where it lay on the nightstand. Minutes stretched into an eternity. Worry warred with crippling guilt. Were you okay? Had you healed yourself? The image of you flinching away, the raw pain in your eyes when she saw the ring, the blood on your shoulder youâd ignored⊠it fueled a frantic, desperate need to see you, to know you were physically whole, even if everything else was broken.
He couldn't bear it. He crossed the hallway, the short distance feeling like miles. He knocked softly on your door, the sound hesitant, almost fearful. Silence answered. He knocked again, louder. "Angel? Y/N? Please." Still nothing but the muffled sound of movement inside. His heart hammered against his ribs. He turned the handle. It was unlocked.
He pushed the door open slowly, stepping into the dimly lit room. The sight that greeted him stole his breath, not with desire, but with gut-wrenching horror. You stood by the bed, towel in hand, drying your hair with slow, lifeless strokes. You were facing away, but the oversized shirt slipped off one shoulder, revealing the angry, bleeding wound. Untouched. Unhealed. Fresh blood welled and trickled sluggishly down your arm, stark against your pale skin.
"Y/N..." His voice cracked, thick with emotion. "God... you're soaked. And your shoulder..." He took a hesitant step closer. "I was... I was so worried. Where were you? Are you...?" He trailed off, seeing the utter lack of reaction in your posture. You didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him. Just kept the slow, mechanical motion with the towel. The silence was suffocating, worse than any accusation. "Please," he begged, his voice raw. "Please, heal yourself. Let me... let me help? Just... please heal it."
You remained still. Silent. A statue carved from grief and rain. You simply stopped drying your hair, the towel hanging limply in your hand, waiting.
He took your stillness as permission to speak, desperation clawing at him. The words tumbled out, a frantic, disjointed torrent.
"Y/N... Angel, please..." His voice was a broken rasp, scraping raw against the stillness. He took a hesitant step further into the room, stopping as if an invisible barrier held him back, radiating helpless frustration. He ran a trembling hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. "I... I know what you saw. What you think it meant." He swallowed hard, his throat working. "It wasn't⊠it wasn't her. Not Olivia. Not like that. Not anymore. Please, you have to believe that."
He launched into his explanation, words tumbling out in a desperate, disjointed flood, each sentence punctuated by a tremor in his voice or a gesture of helplessness. "It was⊠God, it was the stupidest thing. The dumbest fucking habit. I'm so sorry. So unbelievably sorry." His eyes were wide with anguish. "After⊠after everything fell apart. LemarâŠ" His voice hitched on his best friend's name, a fresh wave of grief twisting his features. "...the shield⊠the fucking world crashing down⊠Olivia taking my son..." The words were choked, each one a blow. "I was⊠I was nothing. Less than nothing. A ghost walking around in my own skin. And that ringâŠ"
He looked down at his clenched fist, as if seeing the phantom band. "It was⊠it was like⊠armor? A stupid fucking reminder of a time⊠a time before I was just⊠broken. When I thought I had it figured out. When I thought I was⊠worthy of something good." He shook his head violently, disgusted with himself. "I started wearing it on missions. Solo missions, mostly. At first, maybe it was about her, about failure⊠but then⊠it just became⊠like a fucked-up good luck charm? A stupid superstition? A reminder of⊠of failure? Of what I lost before I found you? Something to ground me when things got dark? Or maybe⊠maybe just me punishing myself? I don't know!" His voice rose, thick with frustration and profound self-loathing. "My head⊠Itâs a mess, Angel. You know that. It was just⊠me. My damage. My fucked-up way of coping."
He took another half-step forward, pleading with his whole being. "It became automatic. Like putting on the vest. Like checking my sidearm. I forgot it was even there most of the time. It was just⊠part of the gear. I never thought⊠I never imagined..." He gestured wildly, encompassing the room, the history, you. "...that I could ever have this. Have you. I never dreamed I'd find someone who looked at me like you do⊠who saw past the wreckageâŠ" His voice cracked again. "It didn't mean I loved you less! Not for a second! It wasn't about holding onto her; it was about⊠about trying to hold onto some semblance of the man I thought I was supposed to be, before everything went to hell. Before I lost it all. It was a weakness. Stupidity. But it wasn't a lie about us! About how I feel about you!"
He looked at you, tears finally welling in his own eyes, mirroring yours but born of desperation and the dawning horror of irrevocable loss. "Please," he whispered, the word barely audible, a final, broken plea against the silent weeping that filled the space between them. "It was just⊠my damage. Trying to armor a broken piece, I didn't know how to fix it. It didn't mean I loved you less."
He took another step closer, his eyes fixed on your rigid back, pleading.
"I love you. Only you. You have to believe me. You are everything. My light. My reason. I worshipped you because you are a goddess to me. You saved me, Y/N. In every way possible. Please... please trust me. Please forgive me. I'll throw it away. I'll melt it down. Just... please. Look at me. Talk to me."
His words washed over you. Explanations. Excuses. Pleas. They buzzed like angry flies around the numb void inside you. They couldn't penetrate the icy wall of betrayal. The core issue remained, unaddressed, festering.
Slowly, deliberately, you turned. The movement wasn't angry; it was heavy. Final. You faced him, your eyes lifting to meet his desperate blue gaze. What he saw there made the blood drain from his face. The vibrant warmth, the teasing sparkle, the deep love â all gone. Replaced by a hollowness so profound it was terrifying. A deep, inconsolable sadness. And beneath it, a crushing disappointment that seemed to age you instantly.
The silence stretched, thick and charged. He saw the tears welling, not falling yet, just pooling in those devastated eyes. Your eyes were already red from crying so much. Your voice, when it finally came, was low, flat, devoid of all inflection, yet carrying the weight of the world.
"One question." The words were like stones dropped into still water. "Answer me honestly."
He knew. With a sickening lurch in his gut, he knew what was coming. Please, he screamed silently, please don't ask me that. Don't make me say it. His throat closed. He couldn't breathe.
You held his gaze, the tears beginning to spill over, tracing silent paths down your cheeks. "We've been together a year. You have hugged me, kissed me, made love to me... You have told me that you loved me. In that time... you've had many missions. Missions where I wasn't by your side." You paused, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy in the air between you. "Did you wear that ring... every single time you went on a mission without me?"
The silence that followed was absolute. Agonizing. He stared at you, his own eyes wide with dawning horror, his jaw working soundlessly. He saw the knowledge already etched in your hollow gaze. You knew. But you needed to hear it. Needed him to confirm the scale of the deception.
"Answer me." Your voice was a whip-crack, sharp and cold, cutting through his paralysis.
He flinched. His gaze dropped to the floor, unable to bear the devastation in yours any longer. A strangled sound escaped him. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could erase the truth. When he forced them open, looking back at you, it was with the expression of a man facing his executioner.
"...Yes."
The single syllable hung in the air. Final. Devastating.
It wasn't just the admission. It was the confirmation of a pattern. A deliberate, repeated choice. Not a forgotten relic, but a conscious act he performed every time he stepped away from you. He hadn't trusted you enough to explain this quirk, this piece of armor he felt he needed. He'd hidden it, knowing â knowing â it would hurt you if you discovered it. Because he knew you. He knew your heart, your capacity for understanding. If heâd come to you, explained this strange, broken piece of himself â this need to wear the ghost of his old life as armor when facing danger alone â you would have listened. You had listened to his darkest confessions about Lamar, about his failures, about his fear of never seeing his son again. You had even encouraged him to reach out to Olivia, for his sonâs sake. You had never been threatened by his past; youâd only ever tried to help him heal it.
A bitter, broken sound escaped you, half-laugh, half-sob. "Every single timeâŠ" The words tasted like ash. "So⊠you take it off when you come back to me? When you hold me? When you kiss me? And then⊠You just⊠put it back on?" Your voice rose, trembling with disbelief. "Like clockwork? Like itâs⊠routine? Like, I am just part of the routine you leave behind?"
He opened his mouth, but no sound came.
"Why?" The word tore from you, ragged and raw. "Why, after a year? After everything we built? After every promise, every 'I love you' whispered in the dark⊠why does that," you gestured wildly towards his empty hand, "still have a place on your skin when you walk away from me?" Your breath hitched, tears mixing with the blood on your shirt. "Does it mean you still think about her? Does it meanâŠ" Your voice dropped to a shattered whisper, the most terrifying question of all, "...you still do?
He recoiled as if struck. "No! God, Y/N, no! Itâs not like that! I told youâ"
"You told me nothing!" you screamed, the numbness shattering into razor-sharp shards of rage and agony. "For a YEAR! You hid it! You wore it knowing you were hiding it!" The image burned in your heart. "What does that mean, John? Was it allâŠ" Your voice broke, the foundation of your world crumbling. "Was everything we had⊠everything you said⊠was it just⊠a lie? A beautiful, comforting lie you told yourself⊠and me?"
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, rocking slightly, the questions turning inward, corrosive and devastating. "Did I do something wrong?" The whisper was barely audible, yet it filled the room. "Was I not enough? Not strong enough? Not⊠her?" The name hung unspoken but deafening.
He didnât answer; he couldnât. He truly loved you, but he couldnât choose the correct words because, hearing your words, your questions, his mind was slowly beginning to understand the magnitude of his mistake, and the fact that perhaps no explanation would fix this.
He hadn't trusted you with this. Heâd chosen secrecy. Heâd chosen to wear that symbol of a life before you, deliberately, every time he left your side. The "why" â whether armor, superstition, or self-flagellation â was almost irrelevant now. The repeated act of concealment was the death knell for your trust. You walked away from him, facing the floor-to-ceiling window now. Your tears were falling freely. Your hands covered your eyes, trying to control your crying.
He cleared his throat, the sound raw. "AngelâŠ" His voice was a broken whisper, scraping against the sudden silence. "Please. Look at me."
You didn't turn. You couldnât. The memory of his blood on your hands, the icy revulsion at his touch on the ramp, the image of that damned ring⊠it played on a loop behind your eyes.
His words washed over you, hollow echoes in the cavern of your hurt. Logic offered no solace. A habit? He chose to put it on, deliberately, knowing you wouldn't be there. A superstition? He'd never mentioned it. A reminder of failure? Why wear the symbol of a marriage to remember failure? A grounding tool? He had your pendant for that. The thought struck like a physical blow.
"Did you wear it?" Your voice, when it finally came, was terrifyingly flat, devoid of inflection. You still didnât turn. "The pendant? My wings? Did you wear it⊠while you wore her ring?"
The silence behind you thickened, became charged. You heard his sharp intake of breath.
Slowly, forcing yourself to move through the crushing weight of dread, you turned.
John stood frozen, his face a mask of dawning horror. His hand instinctively flew to the base of his throat, where the chain of the wing pendant usually lay beneath his shirt. His eyes, wide and desperate, met yours. He didn't need to speak. The guilt, the sheer wrongness radiating from him was answer enough.
âOh, my GodâŠâ you whispered.
He had worn both.
The shield pendant he gave you â a piece of his aspirational self, shared. The wing pendant you gave him â a symbol of your love, accepted and declared. And nestled against his skin, hidden beneath the armor, hidden from you, the cold circle of metal that bound him to a ghost. He had carried your symbol of love alongside the symbol of his vows to another woman.
A silent sob wracked your frame, violent and involuntary. It felt like your ribs were cracking. More tears broke free, not in noisy wails, but in a relentless, silent river that streamed down your cheeks, dripping onto the front of your still-bloodstained shirt. It wasn't dramatic; it was the quiet, soul-deep weeping of absolute devastation, the sound of something precious and irreplaceable shattering beyond any hope of repair.
He saw it. Saw the final, irrevocable shattering reflected in your eyes â the light, the trust, the future, extinguished. "Angel, no... please..." His voice was a ragged sob now, mirroring your silent agony. He took a stumbling step forward, hand outstretched, instinctively wanting to pull you to him, to absorb the immeasurable pain heâd caused, to somehow glue the pieces back together with his own desperation.
"If you use it," you whispered, more to yourself, but he heard every agonizing word, "it's because you still remember your marriage⊠because you still remember her. Because you want to remember. And even when you say you love meâŠ" You looked down at the blood on your shirt, then back at him, utter desolation in your eyes. "...you still choose it. Over and over. You put it back on. Every time you left me."
"No, no! I swear; I love you! It was just... me! My fucked-up head! Please, please, let me explain properly! Let me stay! Let me fix this!" His plea was raw, stripped bare, filled with a terror that mirrored your own desolation.
"Get out." The words were low, almost a whisper, but they vibrated with the titanic effort of containing the volcanic rage and soul-crushing pain threatening to erupt beneath the numb surface. Your knuckles were white where you gripped your own arms.
"Y/N, please!" He took another step, his hand still reaching, tears now tracking through the grime still on his own face. "You have to believe me! I love you! I love only you!" His voice cracked, desperation turning into a ragged, broken wail.
"HOW CAN I BELIEVE YOU WHEN YOU DIDN'T TRUST ME?" The roar tore from your throat, shocking in its primal intensity, shattering the fragile silence like glass. It wasn't just anger; it was the raw, bleeding edge of ultimate betrayal finally finding its voice, amplified by the horrifying image of the pendant and ring sharing space on his skin. "You hid it! You wore it knowing you were hiding it! You wore it with my wings! You chose to wear it every single time! You chose to keep that part of yourself locked away, separate from me! You never gave me the chance to understand! You never trusted me enough to tell me! So how, John? HOW CAN I BELIEVE A SINGLE WORD WHEN YOUR ACTIONS FOR A YEAR SCREAMED YOU WERE STILL HOLDING ONTO HER?"
You pointed a trembling finger towards the door, your whole body shaking with the force of your anguish. "GET OUT!"
The final command echoed in the devastated space. It wasn't just a demand for physical distance; it was the slamming shut of a door on a shared life, a shared future. It was the expulsion of the man who had been your sanctuary, now the architect of your ruin. John flinched as if struck, his outstretched hand falling limply to his side. The look on his face wasn't just hurt; it was the desolate realization that he had indeed destroyed the most precious thing he'd ever found. He stared at you for one more agonizing second, seeing only the broken angel he had shattered, then turned and walked out, shoulders slumped under the unbearable weight of his own catastrophic failure. The door clicked shut softly behind him, the sound echoing with the finality of a tomb sealing.
Alone, the silent weeping began again, the only sound in the hollowed-out shell of what was once your home.
He slumped against the wall in the hallway outside, sliding down to the floor, his head in his hands, the devastating sound of your now freely noisy weeping the only sound in the world. The storm raged outside the Tower windows, but the true tempest, the one that had shattered his world, raged silently behind the door he could never cross again. The ring, a tiny circle of gold, lay forgotten on his nightstand, its cost immeasurably higher than he could have ever imagined.
--
The click of the door latch echoed like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of your room. The fury that had propelled your shout drained away instantly, leaving behind a chilling vacuum, a numbness so profound it felt like falling through ice into black water. You stood frozen, arm still outstretched towards the now-closed door, trembling not with anger, but with the aftershock of utter devastation. The raw, bleeding wound on your shoulder pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat, a mocking counterpoint to the gaping tear in your soul.
You stood there, your hands holding your head, trying to dull some of the deep pain you felt in your heart. The crying erupted again without warning. The sobs echoed in your room, and you felt like a pulse was pounding in your head, aching.
After an agonizing and endless while, slowly, your arms dropped. You turned, mechanically, back towards the bed. The towel slipped from your nerveless fingers, landing in a damp heap on the floor. The silence pressed in, thick and heavy, broken only by the ragged, uneven sound of your own breathing and the relentless drumming of rain against the Tower's windows. You could hear him â a muffled, choked sound from the hallway, the scrape of fabric against the wall as he slid down. A sob, raw and broken. The sound twisted like a knife in your already shattered heart. Heâs crying. The image, the grumpy, stoic John Walker brought low by his own colossal mistake, should have evoked pity. Instead, it fueled a fresh wave of icy, hollow despair. His tears couldn't wash away the year-long deception.
Hours passed, you didnât even know how many. You walked to the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered on, harsh and unforgiving. You avoided the mirror. You couldn't face the ghost staring back. Instead, you focused on the sink. Turning on the cold tap, you cupped water in your hands, splashing it onto your face, trying to wash away the tear tracks, the grime, the feeling of his desperate pleas clinging to your skin. The water was shockingly cold, a brief, sharp sensation that pierced the numbness for a fleeting second. You looked down at your shoulder. The graze was ugly, inflamed, blood still oozing sluggishly. It hurt. A deep, insistent throb.
Heal it. The thought was automatic. Your power hummed beneath your skin, a warm, golden potential. But summoning it felt like a betrayal of a different kind. Healing required focus, required channeling the life-force within you. And that life-force felt extinguished. The warmth felt like a lie. Why erase this pain? It was real. Tangible. A physical anchor to the emotional cataclysm. A punishment you deserved for loving too blindly, for trusting too completely. You left it. A stark, bleeding testament.
Everything hurt: your heart, your shoulder, your eyes, your head. You just wanted it to stop. I just wanted it all to stop.
You returned to the bedroom, leaving the bathroom light on, casting a long, lonely rectangle across the floor. You didn't sit. You stood by the window, staring out at the storm-lashed city. The glittering lights below seemed indifferent, mocking. The world kept turning. Life went on. Except yours felt like it had stopped dead the moment you saw that glint of gold.
***
Outside your door, John Walker sat slumped against the cool metal wall of the corridor. His knees were drawn up, his forehead pressed against them. His shoulders shook with silent, wrenching sobs he tried desperately to stifle, biting down on the fabric of his pants. The sound of your roar â "How can I believe you when you didn't trust me?" â played on a loop in his shattered mind. It wasn't the volume; it was the raw, broken truth in it. The accusation was unanswerable.
He replayed the year in his head, a torturous slideshow. Packing his gear for solo missions. The familiar, almost unconscious ritual: check weapons, check comms, check armor... slip on the ring. A habit born in the deepest pit of his self-loathing after losing everything. It had felt like armor then. A flimsy shield against the feeling of being a ghost, a failure. A reminder of a time when heâd had a wife, a son, a best friend, a purpose he hadn't utterly corrupted. He hadn't thought of Olivia in years â not romantically, not longingly. He thought of his son, a constant ache, but the ring wasn't about her or his son. It was about John. His brokenness. His fear that the darkness inside him was all he deserved.
And heâd worn it. Every. Single. Time. Like putting on a second skin of failure. Heâd never once thought. She should know. She would understand. Why? Because deep down, beneath the love he genuinely felt, festered the unworthy conviction that if you saw this pathetic, broken piece of him, clinging to a dead past, youâd realize your mistake. Youâd see the monster he feared he still was. So he hid it. He lied by omission. He betrayed the one person who saw past the monster and loved the damaged man beneath.
The muffled sound of movement from inside your room â the splash of water, the soft pad of feet â was agony. He pictured you alone, bleeding, hollow. Because of me. The self-loathing was a physical weight, crushing his chest, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to bang on the door again. To scream his apologies until his voice gave out. To beg for a chance to prove his love was real, that the ring meant nothing compared to you. But your final roar, the devastation in your eyes, the way youâd flinched from his touch⊠they were walls he couldnât breach. Heâd destroyed the bridge of trust.
Time lost meaning. He sat there, a broken statue in the dim hallway light, listening to the storm outside and the terrifying silence from within your room. His tears eventually dried, leaving his face stiff and sore, his eyes burning. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw. The only thing left was a gnawing, terrified certainty: heâd lost you. Heâd finally succeeded in destroying the only truly good thing heâd ever had.
***
Downstairs, the uneasy tension was palpable. Yelena paced the common area like a caged panther, her usual sardonic expression replaced by grim concern. Bucky sat stiffly at the table, methodically cleaning a knife, his gaze distant. Ava shimmered near the window, observing the storm, her form unusually still. Bob fidgeted nervously, radiating anxious energy.
"They haven't come down," Bob whispered, breaking the heavy silence. "It's been hours. And... did you see her shoulder? When she flew off? It was bleeding."
Yelena stopped pacing, her sharp eyes fixed on the ceiling as if she could see through the floors. "Something is very wrong. Walker looked like death warmed over when he bolted from the jet. And she... flying off alone in that storm?" She shook her head, a flicker of genuine worry in her eyes. "The grumpy one finally did something monumentally stupid, I am certain of it."
Bucky set the knife down with a soft *clack*. "Give them space," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Whatever it is... it's bad. Pushing won't help."
"But the shoulder," Bob insisted, wringing his hands. "She heals everything! Why wouldn't she...?"
Ava phased slightly, her voice calm but carrying an edge. "Physical wounds are often secondary to psychological trauma. Her bio-signature, when she returned, indicated extreme emotional distress. The suppression of her healing ability is a known physiological response to severe emotional shock."
Yelena muttered a curse in Russian. "Psychological trauma? From what? They were disgusting loved-up idiots yesterday!" She resumed pacing, her boots clicking sharply on the floor. "That ring," she suddenly hissed, stopping dead. "When Barnes hauled him onto the jet... Walker was clutching his left hand. Like it hurt. But his hand wasn't injured. And in the Quinjet... she looked at his hand." Her eyes narrowed, piecing it together with lethal accuracy. "The ring. His old wedding ring. He was wearing it." The disgust in her voice was thick.
Bucky closed his eyes briefly, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He knew about the ring. Knew John kept it. Heâd never imagined he still wore it. Especially not now. "Idiot," he breathed, the word heavy with disappointment and understanding.
Bob looked horrified. "He... wore his wedding ring? But... but he loves Y/N! Why would he...?"
"Because men are idiots," Yelena spat, fury replacing worry. "Stupid, self-sabotaging idiots clinging to ghosts." She looked towards the elevator bank, radiating protective anger. "If he broke her heart over that sentimental..."
Upstairs, John finally pushed himself up from the floor. His legs were stiff, his body aching. He leaned his forehead against your door, the cool metal a shock against his skin.
"I'm so sorry, Angel," he whispered, the sound raw and barely audible. "I'm so... so sorry." He listened. Nothing. Not a breath, not a sob. Just the endless drumming of the rain and the hollow echo of his own shattered heart in the empty hallway. He pushed away from the door, the movement heavy with defeat. He couldn't stay out here forever. He couldn't fix this tonight.
He walked back to his own room, each step an effort. The space felt alien, cavernous, filled only with the accusing silence and the ghost of your presence. His gaze fell instantly on the nightstand. The ring sat there, a small, innocuous circle of gold gleaming dully under the dim light. He walked over, staring at it. The armor. The shield. The shackle. He picked it up. It felt cold. Heavy. Not with the weight of memory, but with the crushing weight of consequences. The symbol of a past failure had just ensured his greatest one. He closed his fist around it, the metal biting into his palm, a tiny, insignificant pain compared to the devastation heâd wrought. He didn't throw it. He didn't melt it. He just stood there, in the center of his empty room, holding the tiny instrument of his own destruction, listening to the storm rage outside and the terrifying silence from the room next door, knowing he had no idea how to survive the dawn.
--
The days bled into weeks, each one longer and bleaker than the last. The Tower, once a vibrant hub of chaotic energy and shared warmth, became a mausoleum of unspoken grief and stifling tension. The air itself felt thick, charged with the invisible, agonizing current flowing between your room and his.
You existed. You didn't live. You moved through the Tower like a ghost haunting its own life. Sleep was fractured, filled with nightmares of gleaming gold and John's desperate, tear-streaked face. You woke exhausted, the hollow ache in your chest a constant companion. You trained. Relentlessly. Brutally. Pushing your body to its limits in the gym, the *thwack* of your fists against reinforced bags echoing the blows your heart had taken. You flew. Long, solitary patrols over the city, the wind a cold balm against the numbness, the silver wings beating a rhythm of escape rather than freedom. You ate when reminded, mechanically, tasting nothing. Conversations with the team were monosyllabic, your eyes perpetually distant, fixed on some internal horror only you could see. The wound on your shoulder? It healed, eventually. But only when the physical pain became a distracting nuisance. The act of summoning your golden light felt like a betrayal, a reminder of the power youâd used to save him while heâd been harboring his secret. You slept in your own room, the bed vast and cold, the silence a screaming void where his breathing, his warmth, his presence should have been.
John Walker became a specter of remorse. The usual grumpy bluster was gone, replaced by a crushing quiet. He moved with a heavy tread, his shoulders perpetually slumped, the light in his piercing blue eyes extinguished, replaced by a haunted shadow. He saw you everywhere â a flash of silver wings out the window, the echo of your laugh (now painfully absent) in the common room, the scent of your shampoo lingering in a hallway. He passed your door a dozen times a day, pausing each time, hand raised as if to knock, before letting it fall limply to his side. The memory of your shattered expression, your roar of betrayal, stopped him cold every time.
He tried, in small, clumsy ways. Heâd leave a steaming mug of your favorite tea outside your door in the morning. It would sit there, untouched, growing cold, until someone else cleared it away. Heâd notice the book Bob had given you was finished and leave the next in the series silently on the coffee table near your usual spot. It remained unopened. Heâd linger awkwardly in the kitchen when you came in, hoping for a glance, a word, anything. Youâd walk past him as if he were furniture, gaze fixed straight ahead, the air crackling with your silent anguish. Each rejection was a fresh wound, a confirmation of the devastation heâd wrought.
The team watched this agonizing dance with varying degrees of pity, frustration, and sorrow. Bucky maintained a stoic silence, his own past whispering warnings about the difficulty of rebuilding broken trust. Alexei, initially baffled and booming inappropriate questions ("Did you forget anniversary? Did you insult her mother?"), eventually fell quiet, recognizing a grief too deep for his usual bluster. Bob radiated anxious sadness, flitting between you both like a worried moth, wanting to fix the unfixable. Ava observed with analytical detachment tinged with a flicker of something resembling sympathy.
Yelenaâs gaze was the sharpest. She saw the hollow devastation in your eyes, the raw, impotent guilt in Johnâs. She witnessed the untouched tea, the unread books, the silent meals eaten at opposite ends of the long table. Her usual teasing sarcasm was absent, replaced by a simmering anger on your behalf and a reluctant pity for the broken man who clearly loved you with a desperation that bordered on self-destruction.
--
One evening, the weight became too much. John found himself standing outside Yelenaâs door, fist clenched, knuckles white. He knocked, a sound more like a thud of desperation than a request for entry.
Yelena opened the door, leaning against the frame, her expression unreadable. "Walker. To what do I owe this⊠pleasure?" Her tone was flat, devoid of its usual bite.
He couldnât meet her eyes. He stared at a point just past her shoulder, his voice rough, choked. "Belova⊠I⊠I donât know what to do." The admission cost him everything. Pride, dignity, the illusion of control.
Yelena raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting.
He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat painful. "She⊠she wonât look at me. Wonât speak to me. I try⊠I leave things⊠I justâŠ" He ran a trembling hand through his already disheveled hair. "How⊠how do I fix this? How do I make her seeâŠ?" He trailed off, unable to articulate the depth of his love or the magnitude of his stupidity.
Yelena studied him for a long, uncomfortable moment. The raw pain in his posture, the genuine desperation in his voice â it wasn't the act of a cad. It was the agony of a man whoâd finally found something precious and then, in a moment of profound idiocy, smashed it to pieces. "You are," she stated bluntly, "an idiot. A colossal, self-sabotaging, emotionally constipated idiot."
He flinched but didn't argue. He just nodded, a jerky movement.
"But," Yelena continued, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, "even I can see it. The way you look at her when she isn't watching. Like she lit up your whole damn world, and every shadow fled before her. Even now. Especially now." She sighed, a rare sound of genuine weariness. "What you did? Hiding that ring? Wearing it behind her back? It wasn't just stupid, Walker. It was a betrayal. You told her she wasn't enough. That your broken past was more important than your present with her. That you didn't trust her with your ugly little secret."
John closed his eyes, her words landing like hammer blows, each one true. "I know," he whispered, the sound ragged. "God, I know. But I swear⊠it wasn't about Olivia. Not like that. It was⊠me. My fucked-up head."
"Doesn't matter," Yelena cut him off. "The action mattered. The lie mattered. Trust isn't a light switch. You shattered it. You think leaving tea and books is going to glue it back together?" She shook her head. "You broke something vital in her. Something beautiful. That hollowness you see? That's the echo of what you destroyed."
He looked up then, his eyes pleading. "So what do I do? Give up? Walk away?" The thought was physical agony.
Yelena met his gaze, her own surprisingly serious. "If you love her? Truly? Then no. You don't get to walk away because it's hard. You don't get to give up because you feel sorry for yourself." She paused. "You be patient. More patient than you've ever been in your miserable, grumpy life. You be consistent. Every single day. You show up, even when she ignores you. You prove, through actions, not pathetic words, that you understand the magnitude of what you broke. You respect her space, her pain, even when it tears you apart. You become someone worthy of the trust you threw away. And you do it knowing it might take months. Years. Knowing she might never look at you the same way again. Knowing that the best you might ever get is her tolerance, not her love." Her voice dropped lower. "That's the price, Walker. That's the penance. You work for it. Every damn day. Without expectation. Because you love her enough to endure the agony of hoping for a sliver of forgiveness you might never earn."
John stood frozen, absorbing her words. The sheer scale of the task, the years-long marathon of atonement she described, was terrifying. Yet, the alternative â a life without you â was unthinkable. A deeper, more profound darkness than any he'd known. He nodded slowly, a grim determination settling over the despair in his eyes. "Okay," he rasped. "Okay."
He turned to leave, shoulders squared with a new, heavy resolve.
"And Walker?" Yelena called softly. He paused. "Keep that ring far away or throw it into the Hudson. It's not armor. It's a shackle. And you don't deserve to wear it anymore."
He didn't look back, just gave another stiff nod and walked away, the weight of Yelenaâs impossible advice settling onto his already burdened shoulders. The path ahead was desolate, paved with silence and his own guilt. But it was the only path that led even remotely towards you. Heâd walk it. One agonizing, patient step at a time. Even if it took forever. Even if it killed him. Because the alternative was a death he couldn't survive.
Back in your room, you sat on the edge of your cold bed, having overheard the muffled voices in the hall. You hadn't caught the words, just the low rumble of his voice and Yelenaâs sharper tones. You didn't need to hear. You knew it was about you. About the wreckage. A fresh wave of that soul-deep weariness washed over you. You picked up the discarded Army hoodie youâd worn the movie night before the mission â the last night of normalcy. It still faintly smelled of him. You pressed it to your face, inhaling deeply, a sob catching in your throat before you viciously stuffed it into the back of the closet, slamming the door shut. The echo in the empty room was the loudest sound of all. The days stretched ahead, endless and grey, a purgatory of shared space and shattered hearts.
--
The silence in the Towerâs common room was oppressive. Not peaceful, but hollow, like the air after a bomb blast. John Walker sat slumped in an armchair, bathed in the sterile glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He wasn't looking at the view. His gaze was fixed, unseeing, on an object held loosely in his right hand.
A single, unspent bullet.
His thumb moved with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, turning the cold brass cylinder over and over against his calloused fingers. The metallic shlick sound was the only thing breaking the silence, a morbid counterpoint to the frantic, silent storm raging behind his vacant blue eyes. He saw nothing of the room. He saw you. Your hollow eyes, the devastating disappointment, the silent tears. He saw the gold band on his finger, glinting like an accusation. He heard Yelenaâs brutal assessment echoing: "You broke something vital... That's the echo of what you destroyed." Patient. Consistent. Years. âMight never look at you the same way again.â The words were a crushing weight, a sentence handed down. The bullet turned. Shlick. Shlick.
He was drowning in it. The guilt wasn't just emotional; it was a physical presence, a leaden cloak pressing him into the chair. The carefully constructed persona of US Agent, the grumpy soldier, the man trying to be better â all stripped away, leaving only this raw, exposed nerve of regret. The bullet was a focus point, a tiny, dense weight representing the enormity of his failure. A morbid talisman.
The soft hiss of the automatic door broke the rhythm. Bucky Barnes walked in, heading towards the kitchen area. His vibranium arm glinted faintly in the low light. He moved quietly, a ghost in his own right. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. He glanced towards the living area, his sharp eyes immediately registering the figure in the armchair, the unnatural stillness, the repetitive motion of the hand.
John didnât react. Didnât turn his head. Didnât acknowledge Buckyâs presence in any way. He remained locked in his internal purgatory, the bullet turning, turning, turning. Shlick. Shlick.
Bucky watched him for a long moment. He saw the utter desolation in the slump of Johnâs shoulders, the thousand-yard stare, the way his fingers moved over the bullet with a familiarity that spoke of deep, dark thoughts. He saw a man teetering on an edge. Bucky wasn't one for unnecessary conversation, especially with Walker. Their history was⊠complicated. Mistrust layered on antagonism, barely tempered by shared trauma and forced proximity on Valâs team.
He started to turn away, water bottle in hand. Not my problem. Let him stew. But the image of you flashed in his mind. The hollow ghost youâd become. The vibrant, confident woman with silver wings, reduced to a shadow walking the halls. And then he saw Walker again, not as the arrogant rival, but as a man shattered by his own monumental stupidity. A man who, against all odds, had genuinely seemed⊠better, happier, human⊠when he was with you. Until he wasnât.
Bucky sighed, a low, rough sound. He hesitated, then walked deliberately towards the living area. He didn't sit next to John. He pulled a straight-backed chair from the nearby dining nook, turned it around, and sat down facing John, resting his forearms on the chair back. He leaned forward, his gaze steady on Walkerâs profile.
John remained oblivious. The bullet turned. Shlick. Shlick. His breathing was shallow, uneven.
"Walker," Bucky said, his voice low but cutting through the silence.
No reaction. The vacant stare didn't waver. The thumb kept moving. Shlick.
Bucky waited. A full minute passed, marked only by the turning bullet and the faint hum of the Towerâs systems. He knew dissociation. Knew the frozen state of shock and guilt that locked down higher functions. Heâd lived there himself for decades.
"John," Bucky tried again, firmer.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Johnâs head turned a fraction. His eyes shifted, focusing not on Bucky but somewhere near his vibranium shoulder. Awareness flickered, dim and distant, behind the blue irises. The movement of his thumb slowed but didnât stop.
Bucky held the gaze, such as it was. He saw the depth of the agony there, the self-loathing so profound it was almost tangible. He saw the echo of the Winter Soldierâs own guilt, a reflection that unnerved him.
Another sigh escaped Bucky, this one heavy with reluctant understanding. "Look," he began, his voice gravelly but lacking its usual edge. "Weâre not friends." He paused, choosing his words carefully, a rare effort for him. "But I see her. Every day. Walking around like someone ripped her heart out and just left the space." His vibranium fingers tightened slightly on the chair back. "And I see you. Sitting here looking like you're trying to figure out how to load that bullet into your own head."
John flinched, a minute tightening around his eyes. His thumb stilled on the bullet. He didn't deny it.
"Yelenaâs probably already told you youâre an idiot," Bucky continued bluntly. "Sheâs not wrong. What you did? That was a gut punch, Walker. A betrayal of trust on a fundamental level. You know why? Because she trusted you with everything. Her wings, her power, her heart. She saw the mess you were, the grumpy asshole, the guy drowning in his own failures, and she didn't run. She stayed. She tried to fix it. With you. For you." Buckyâs gaze intensified. "And you repaid that by keeping a secret. A stupid, selfish secret that screamed you didn't trust her enough to see that broken piece of you."
Johnâs jaw clenched, a muscle jumping. He looked down at the bullet in his hand, his knuckles white.
"I watched you," Bucky said, quieter now. "After she came into your life. Saw the edges soften. Saw you actually smile, for Christ's sake. Saw you trying. Really trying. Not just playing soldier, but trying to be a better man. For her. Because of her. And yeah, you were still a pain in the ass, but⊠it was different. It was progress." He shook his head slowly. "Until you blew it sky-high."
He leaned forward a little more. "Hereâs the thing, Walker. I care about her. I want her to be happy. And for some godforsaken reason I haven't figured out yet, she was happy with you. Genuinely, disgustingly happy. And youâŠ" Bucky hesitated, the admission costing him. "...you seemed happy too. Actually happy. Not just less grumpy. Happy."
John finally looked up, meeting Buckyâs eyes directly. The raw pain and desperate hope warring there were almost painful to witness.
"So," Bucky said, holding the gaze. "If there's even a sliver of a chance that you can both get back to something resembling that? You fight for it. But not like this." He gestured vaguely at John, the bullet, the despair. "Sitting here playing with ordinance and feeling sorry for yourself? Thatâs not fighting. Thatâs wallowing. Thatâs selfish. Again."
He pointed a metal finger at him. "Yelena told you to be patient? To work? Sheâs right. But it starts with getting your head out of your ass. Stop focusing on how much you hurt. Focus on the hurt you caused. Understand the depth of that crater you blew in her trust. And then? You get up. Every damn day. You show her, through every single action, no matter how small, that you understand what you broke. That youâre not hiding anymore. That youâre trying to be worthy, even if you feel like you never can be."
Bucky stood up, the chair scraping softly. "Throw that bullet away, Walker. Or better yet, use it on the next Hydra goon who deserves it. But stop pointing it at yourself. It doesn't fix anything. Only consistent, patient, selfless work might do that. Might." He picked up his water bottle. "And for Godâs sake, shower. You look like hell."
Bucky walked away, leaving John alone once more in the heavy silence. The words hung in the air, stark and challenging. The condemnation was clear, but so was the reluctant acknowledgment of his potential for change, and the sliver of hope tied to your happiness.
John looked down at the bullet in his hand. It felt heavier than ever. Buckyâs words echoed Yelenaâs, but with a different weight â the weight of reluctant witness, of seeing the before and after. Selfish. Again. Stop wallowing. Work.
He closed his fist tightly around the cold brass, the edges biting into his palm. It wasn't comfort. It wasn't a solution. But it was a focal point for the resolve that began to stir, fragile and desperate, beneath the crushing guilt. He had to get up. He had to try. Not for himself, but for you. For the echo of the happiness heâd destroyed and the terrifying, infinitesimal chance of rebuilding something from the ruins. He slowly uncurled his fingers, staring at the bullet lying in his sweaty palm. A symbol of despair⊠or perhaps, now, a reminder of the battle he had to fight. The longest, hardest mission of his life.
--
Dawn bled into Johnâs room, grey and indifferent. He hadnât slept much, Buckyâs words and the cold weight of the bullet blending with Yelenaâs brutal roadmap in his mind. But when his eyes snapped open, it wasn't with the crushing despair of the previous weeks. It was with a grim, hard-edged determination.
Fight.
The word echoed, a command barked in the silent barracks of his soul. Not for himself, not for absolution he didn't deserve, but for you. For the ghost of your smile, the echo of your laugh, the light in your eyes that his monumental stupidity had extinguished. Bucky was right: wallowing was selfish. Patience wasn't passive; it was relentless, daily action. Yelena was right: it might take forever. It might fail. But giving up? Letting you remain that hollow, shattered version of yourself? Never. He would try. Every single day. For the rest of his life, if necessary. Even if the only victory was seeing you happy again, even if that happiness existed in a world where he was only a tolerated shadow.
The resolve hardened like steel as he showered, the water sluicing away the physical grime but not the deep-set guilt. He dressed methodically, his movements precise, focused. The first battle of the day commenced immediately.
The Coffee Ritual
He brewed your favorite coffee, a generous splash of milk, and a spoonful of golden honey swirling within. He poured it into your favorite mug, the chipped one with the tiny silver wing design Bob had found at a thrift store. He carried it, steaming gently, down the silent hallway. He placed it outside your door, just like before. But this time, he didn't slink away, hoping. He stood there for a moment, hand hovering near the wood. He didn't knock. He simply whispered, low enough only he could hear, "Good morning, Angel." Then he turned and walked away, back straight. It would go cold. He knew it. But he would bring it tomorrow. And the next day.
The Silent Vigil
He started showing up in common spaces when you were there. Not crowding you, not forcing interaction. Heâd sit at the far end of the massive sofa while you read, pretending to study mission reports. Heâd be in the kitchen, meticulously cleaning already-clean equipment when you came in for water. He offered no words, just a quiet presence. Acknowledging your space, respecting your silence, but refusing to vanish. His gaze, when it flickered to you, held no pleading expectation, only a deep, aching sorrow and unwavering focus. He watched the way you moved, slower now, less fluid. He noted the books you picked up and put down unread. He cataloged the shadows under your eyes. Intel. Understanding the battlefield. Your pain was his map.
The Gestures
He remembered you loved the obscure pistachio croissants from that tiny bakery three blocks down. He went early, before dawn ops meetings, and left one in a small paper bag outside your door. It sat there all day, untouched, the pastry growing stale. He didn't retrieve it until late at night, disposing of it with a pang.
He saw you looking tiredly at a wilting succulent on your windowsill. The next day, a vibrant, healthy replacement appeared, along with a small, simple note tucked under the pot: "Needs less water than the last one. - J" No plea, no apology. Just practical care.
He even Googled. Desperately. "How to show someone you're sorry when words aren't enough." "Grand gestures vs consistent small actions." "Rebuilding trust after betrayal." The results felt hollow, inadequate, but he mined them for ideas. He remembered that you had a strange fascination with small rocks of different colors, shapes, and shine. He started leaving small, smooth stones he found on his city patrols â grey, white, flecked with quartz â on the corner of your desk in your room (when he dared to peek in and see you weren't there). A silent, pointless offering of something small and solid.
The Words
He wrote letters. Long, rambling, tear-stained drafts filled with explanations, apologies, self-recrimination, and desperate declarations of love. He crumpled them all. They weren't for you; they were his own catharsis. Instead, he started writing simple notes on crisp, plain cards:
"The sky is clear today. Good for flying. - J"
"Bob made too much chili again. Itâs⊠edible. - J"
"Yelena threatened to poison my coffee. Business as usual. - J"
âI miss you, Angel. - Jâ
He slipped them under your door. No demands for a response. Just⊠communication. A quiet signal: Iâm here. I see the world. I remember youâre part of it.
The Team Watches
The change in John was subtle but seismic. The crushing despair was overlaid now with a tireless, almost grim energy. He wasn't less sad; he was working through the sadness.
Yelena watched him place the coffee mug with military precision. Saw the untouched croissant bag disappear later. A flicker of something almost like approval crossed her face before the usual sardonic mask slid back. "Still an idiot," she muttered to Ava one morning, "but at least he's a busy idiot now."
Bucky observed John sitting silently across the room from you, radiating focused calm instead of abject misery. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod one evening. The path was being walked.
Bob was the most visibly affected. He saw the stones appearing, the notes. "He's trying, Y/N!" he blurted out one day when you passed him in the hall, clutching one of the discarded notes youâd left on a table. You didn't react, walking on, but Bob looked heartened. "He is!"
Alexei clapped John heavily on the back one day, nearly knocking him over. "Good! You fight! Like Red Guardian! Never surrender! Win back your fierce bird!" John just nodded stiffly, accepting the painful encouragement.
Weeks Blurred. The coffee appeared. Every. Single. Morning. Sometimes accompanied by a fresh croissant, just the mug. Always untouched. Heâd retrieve it later, wash it meticulously, repeat the process.
The notes continued. Simple observations. Mundane updates. Never pushing. Never mentioning the past, the ring, the pain. Just⊠presence. A quiet, persistent drumbeat: I am here. I see you. I remember.
He started fixing small things around your room when you weren't there â a loose shelf bracket, a flickering light panel. Leaving no note, just the evidence of care.
He didnât try to talk to you. Not directly. He respected the fortress walls. But he maintained his silent vigil, a sentinel of remorse and unwavering intent.
--
You felt it. The relentless, quiet tide of his presence. The coffeeâs aroma was a ghost each morning. The notes were small weights you couldn't ignore, accumulating like fallen leaves. You saw him, a still, watchful figure at the periphery, no longer radiating desperate need but a somber, patient resolve. It didnât erase the hollowness. The betrayal was a cold stone lodged deep in your chest. The image of the ring, the confirmation heâd worn it every time, was a wound that throbbed.
But⊠the sheer, dogged persistence wore at the edges of the numbness. The consistency was a new factor. This wasn't a frantic burst of apology; it was a campaign. It was him, stripped of bluster and arrogance, showing up day after day with nothing but quiet, unwavering effort. It was infuriating. It was⊠confusing.
One rainy afternoon, you found a book on your desk â a rare, beautifully illustrated volume on celestial navigation youâd mentioned offhandedly months ago. No note. Just the book. You traced the embossed cover, a strange tightness in your throat. Heâd remembered. Heâd sought it out. The gesture was so specific, so unlike the earlier clumsy offerings. You didn't open it. But you didn't throw it away either. You left it there. A small, silent concession in the desolate landscape of your heart.
John saw the book still on your desk the next day. It wasn't a smile. It wasn't forgiveness. But it wasn't rejection. It was⊠presence. A tiny foothold on the sheer cliff face, he had to climb. He felt no surge of triumph, only a deeper resolve. The road was endless, paved with cold coffee and silent notes. But he would walk it. For you. To see the light return to your eyes, even if he was never again the one to put it there. He picked up the coffee mug from outside your door, its contents long cold. He washed it. He would bring it again tomorrow. The relentless tide would keep coming in.
--
Weeks bled into a monotonous, grey tapestry of pain. The hollow ache inside you wasn't just an absence; it was a living, breathing entity, a cold weight crushing your lungs, constricting your throat. You functioned. You trained, you ate, you slept (fitfully), you even occasionally exchanged clipped words with the team. But you were a ghost haunting your own life.
The irony was the sharpest knife: you missed him with a ferocity that stole your breath. Not the idealized version, but the real him. The infuriating, cocky smirk that secretly thrilled you. The startling blue of his eyes when they softened, looking only at you. The possessive warmth of his kisses, the way his hands mapped your skin like uncharted, sacred territory. You missed waking tangled in his sheets, the scent of his cologne and sleep-warmed skin filling your senses. You missed the rumble of his voice, the dry, sarcastic jokes that made you laugh despite yourself, the way heâd argue passionately over the most trivial things just to see you engage. You missed the gravelly whisper of "I love you, Angel" against your neck in the dark. The memories were shards of glass, beautiful and agonizing, cutting deeper with every recollection.
You saw his campaign. The relentless, quiet tide of effort. The daily coffee ritual, the simple notes observing the mundane, the small, thoughtful gestures like the book on celestial navigation. You registered the change in him â the grim determination replacing despair, the silent respect for your space. Part of you, a traitorous, wounded part, ached to respond. To let the dam break, to run back into his arms and pretend the ring, the betrayal, never happened.
But you couldn't. The image was burned onto your soul: the glint of gold against his bloodied finger. The confirmation â "Yes" â that heâd deliberately put it on every single time he left you behind. It wasn't jealousy of Olivia. Youâd never hated her. Youâd even encouraged him to rebuild a bridge for his sonâs sake. You respected the love theyâd once shared. The devastation was born from a far more profound wound: Your love wasn't enough. Despite a year of devotion, of healing his wounds, body and soul, of building a sanctuary together⊠he still needed that piece of his past as armor. He hadn't trusted you enough to share that broken piece, to let you help him lay that ghost to rest. The symbol screamed that the man you loved still belonged, in some fundamental way, to a life before you. And that knowledge was a poison slowly killing you from the inside.
The pain became unbearable. Physical. A constant, grinding agony in your chest that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. Days blurred into a meaningless procession of grey hours. Smiling felt like a torn muscle. Living felt like dragging chains. Seeing him, a constant reminder of what was lost and what could never be fully reclaimed, became torture.
Self-preservation, raw and desperate, finally kicked in. You needed air. Space. A world where his presence wasn't a constant, agonizing pressure on your shattered heart. You requested a private meeting with Val.
Valâs office was all sharp angles, polished steel, and cold, efficient light â a stark contrast to the storm raging silently within you. You stood rigidly before her imposing desk, posture locked like armor, your eyes shadowed pits holding a terrifying, hollow emptiness Val hadn't witnessed before. It wasn't grief; it was an absence. A soul vacancy.
"I need out," you stated, your voice unnervingly flat, devoid of any inflection, any of the warmth or vibrancy Val associated with the fiercely competent, winged asset sheâd recruited. It was the voice of a ghost. "Solo assignments. Black ops. Deep cover. AnythingâŠ" You swallowed hard, the action visible in the taut line of your throat, the words like shards of glass forcing their way out. "...anything where I donât have to be here. Where I donât see him."
Val leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers, her sharp, calculating eyes missing nothing. She scanned you like a malfunctioning weapon: the unhealthy pallor beneath the bruises and grime from your last mission, the subtle, persistent tremor in your hands that you couldnât quite suppress, the way your gaze seemed to drift, unfocused, even now. Most telling was the profound deadness in your eyes â the light that usually sparked with fierce intelligence or dry humor was utterly extinguished. Sheâd seen operatives break under pressure, crack under torture, drown in guilt. This was different. This was a soul fracture. The Angel wasn't just grounded; she was shattered.
"Walker?" Val asked, her tone deceptively neutral, though the name landed like a stone in the sterile silence.
A single, stiff nod was your only answer. The name itself seemed to trigger a minute flinch you couldnât control.
Val sighed, a short, sharp exhalation that held a rare note of something almost like⊠weariness? A flicker of regret for the efficient asset sheâd lost? "Heâs been⊠different since you," she conceded, her gaze fixed on you. "Less of a loose cannon. More focused.â A pause, heavy with unspoken assessment. "But I need functional operatives. And you, currently, are not functional. Not here."
She tapped a key on her console, pulling up a dense file on the holoscreen embedded in her desk. The glow reflected in her impassive eyes. "Your recent performance metrics are⊠concerning. Hesitation in critical engagements. Lapses in situational awareness â you zone out, Y/N. Youâve become clumsy. Reckless in a way that isn't calculated aggression; itâs distraction. Your reflexes are off. Your judgment is clouded." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a low, pragmatic murmur. "Frankly, your relocation isn't just your request; itâs starting to look like an operational necessity. You seem like you havenât got a soul or a heart left in the fight here."
The brutal honesty should have stung. It barely registered. You just felt numb.
"Thereâs a persistent rot festering in Madripoor," Val continued, gesturing to the holoscreen displaying schematics of the chaotic city-state. "Low profile insertion. High risk of messy termination. Requires someone with your specific talents â flight, healing, enhanced senses â and⊠significant discretion. Absolute deniability. Think permanent relocation. New identity burned deep. Minimal contact, potentially for years. Radio silence protocols." Her eyes locked onto yours, searching for any flicker of understanding, or perhaps sanity, in the void. "Is that truly what you want? A clean break?"
Clean break. The words echoed mockingly in the cavernous hollow inside you. There was nothing clean about this. It was a brutal amputation performed with a rusty saw. Staying here, seeing him in the corridors, hearing his voice on comms, feeling the phantom ache of his betrayal every single day⊠that was a slow, agonizing death by a thousand cuts. Madripoor offered oblivion, a chance to drown the pain in different shadows. Maybe the darkness there could finally match the one inside you.
"Yes," you whispered, the word scraping your throat raw, tasting like ash and defeat. It wasn't a desire; it was a desperate need for survival. "Thatâs what I need."
"Done," Val declared crisply, the word final. She tapped another key. "Safehouse apartment secured in Hightown. Details, credentials, and extraction protocols will be transmitted via secure burn channel within the hour. Report to the designated insertion point in 72 hours." She didnât offer condolences. Val dealt in assets, geopolitical chess pieces, not broken hearts. But as you turned to leave, a ghost of somethingânot pity, perhaps cautionâflickered in her gaze. She held it for a fraction longer than strictly necessary.
"One more thing, Y/N," Val said, her voice regaining its usual steel, but with an undercurrent of grim warning. "Madripoor eats idealists for breakfast. The missions I funnel there⊠theyâre dark. The kind of wet work I usually reserve for agents whose souls are already halfway down the drain. Agents who fit the grime, notâŠ" She paused, her gaze sweeping over your bloodstained, weary form, lingering for a heartbeat on the faint, ethereal glow still clinging to your feathers despite the grime. "...not sweet angels who hang the damn moon for broken soldiers. Tread carefully. Donât mistake the numbness for invincibility."
Her final words landed like a physical blow, stripping away the last pretense. "Donât get dead. Youâre still useful."
Useful. Not healed. Not whole. Just useful. It was the only epitaph left for the Angel who once was. You nodded once, a stiff, mechanical movement, and walked out of Valâs office, not towards a new beginning, but into the waiting jaws of a different kind of hell. Anything was better than staying. Anything to stop the madness slowly consuming you from the inside out.
***
The sterile efficiency of Valâs office clung to you like a second skin. Back in the Tower â your Tower, his Tower, the place that had briefly been home â the silence felt heavier, charged with ghosts. You moved through the familiar space like an automaton. The first stop was the shower. You stood under the scalding spray for a long time, water sluicing over skin that felt alien, numb. You scrubbed mechanically, as if you could scour away the grime of the mission, the phantom stickiness of Johnâs blood, the scent of what happened that seemed embedded in your pores. The water ran pink, then clear, but the feeling of contamination remained. You emerged raw, wrapped in a towel, steam fogging the mirror. You avoided looking at your reflection. The eyes staring back wouldnât be yours; theyâd be the hollow ones Val had assessed.
Packing was a clinical exercise. A single, sturdy duffel bag. No sentimentality. No favorite sweaters, no books, no trinkets from shared missions. Just tactical essentials: your compact sidearm, ammunition, encrypted comms, basic medkit, and a few protein bars. Valâs sleek, untraceable credit card went into a zippered inner pocket â lifeline to an anonymous future. Clothes? Shoes? Youâd buy nondescript, disposable things on route or in the fetid streets of Madripoor. The less you carry from here, the better. Speed was the only imperative.
Then, your gaze snagged. On the small, simple frame perched on the desk beside the bed youâd shared. A photo. Taken months ago, on a rare day off. You were both laughing, genuinely laughing. John had an arm slung around your shoulders, his head thrown back, sunlight catching the gold in his hair. You were leaning into him, your wings relaxed behind you, a radiant smile lighting your face. You looked⊠happy. Unburdened. Whole.
The dam broke.
A choked gasp escaped you. You reached out, fingers trembling violently, tracing the glass over his smiling face, over your own vanished joy. The numbness shattered, replaced by a tsunami of raw, exquisite pain. Silent tears, hot and relentless, streamed down your face, dripping onto the polished wood of the desk. You remembered the warmth of his arm, the rumble of his laughter against your side, the impossible lightness of that moment. The utter, devastating trust. It felt like a lifetime ago. A life belonging to someone else. The contrast with the hollow shell you were now, preparing to flee into darkness, was a physical blow. You crumpled forward, elbows on the desk, forehead pressed against the cool frame, shoulders shaking with silent, soul-wrenching sobs. The sound of your own heart breaking filled the room, muffling the world outside.
You didnât hear the soft knock. Didnât register the door easing open. Bucky stood framed in the doorway, a steaming mug of coffee held carefully in his metal hand â his habitual peace offering, his quiet way of checking in. His sharp eyes took in the scene instantly: the half-packed duffel bag gaping open on the bed, the tactical gear laid out with grim purpose, the credit card peeking from the pocket⊠and you. Hunched over the photo, your body wracked by silent tears, the raw, unguarded agony radiating from you like heat.
He didnât need an explanation. He knew. The grim set of his jaw tightened. He stepped fully into the room, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the latch finally pierced your grief-soaked haze. You jerked upright, hastily swiping at your tears, trying to compose your shattered face, but it was futile. The devastation was written in every line of you.
"Y/NâŠ" Buckyâs voice was low, gravelly with concern. He set the untouched coffee mug down on the desk, deliberately away from the photo. He didnât approach further, giving you space. "Donât do this."
You couldnât speak. You just shook your head, fresh tears welling.
"Stay," he urged, his voice firm but gentle. "Itâs⊠Itâs bad now. Real bad. I know. But youâll heal. Takes time. A lot of damn time. But you do." His gaze held yours, steady, anchoring. "Heâs⊠heâs trying; you know? Heâs a mess, worse than you, maybe. Barely functional. But heâs trying⊠to understand what he did. To⊠to fix it."
That was the knife twist. Heâs trying. The image flashed â John, earnest, devastated, pleading, his own eyes red-rimmed. The memory of his desperate explanations, the self-loathing, the raw need for forgiveness. The knowledge that he was suffering, that he wanted to mend what heâd shattered⊠it didnât lessen the pain. It deepened the wound. Because you wanted to believe him. You wanted to let him try. But the fracture was too deep, the trust too obliterated. The thought of seeing him in the halls, the kitchen, the gym⊠of watching him try while you drowned in the aftermath of his choices⊠it was unbearable.
"You donât understand, Bucky," you whispered, your voice shredded, raw with a pain that felt terminal. "If⊠if I heal⊠I canât do it here. Not seeing him⊠every day. Every hour. A constant reminder." You wrapped your arms around yourself, a futile attempt to hold the pieces together. "It hurts. It hurts so much I feel like Iâm dying. Like Iâll just⊠stop breathing if I stay. I need this. I need to be gone."
Bucky studied you for a long, silent moment. He saw the truth in your eyes â the absolute, desperate necessity for distance, for survival. The fight drained out of his posture, replaced by profound sadness and acceptance. He wouldnât push. He knew about running from pain, about the prison's memories that could build.
"Alright," he said softly, the word heavy with resignation. He took a step closer, then another, closing the distance slowly. "Just⊠know this. I care about you. We all do. Whatever you need⊠wherever you end up⊠if you need backup, extraction, intel⊠hell, if you just need someone to listen⊠anything." He placed his flesh hand gently on your shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. "You call. Anytime. Day or night. You understand?"
You nodded, a fresh wave of tears blurring your vision. Not just from the pain now, but from the unexpected anchor of his loyalty in the midst of your shipwreck.
He didnât ask for promises. He simply opened his arms. You didnât hesitate. You stepped into the embrace, burying your face against the worn leather of his jacket. His arms closed around you, strong and steady, offering a fleeting sanctuary. It wasnât the embrace you craved, but it was safe. It was a human connection in the desolation. He held you for a long minute, a silent vigil for the love lost. "Take care of yourself out there," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion against your hair. "And remember⊠the teamâs here. Weâll be waiting when youâre ready. If youâre ready."
You pulled back, wiping your eyes roughly. "Tell the others⊠tell them goodbye for me? Please? Yelena, Ava, Alexei, Bob⊠Tell them Iâm sorry. And⊠thank you."
Bucky nodded, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Iâll tell them."
You took a shaky breath, squaring your shoulders with a resolve that felt brittle. You zipped the duffel bag closed with finality. One last, lingering look around the room â the bed, the desk, the photo still damp with your tears â and you turned your back on it all. You slung the bag over your shoulder, its weight insignificant compared to the burden you carried within.
Bucky didnât follow you out. He stayed rooted in the center of your room, a silent sentinel in the space youâd vacated. He watched you go, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway long after youâd disappeared down the corridor. The untouched coffee cooled on the desk beside the photograph of a happiness that felt like a cruel, fading dream.
You moved through the Tower corridors like a ghost, footsteps silent on the polished floors. The distant, rhythmic thuds and shouts from the communal gym were your cover. Everyone was there â training, venting, living. You timed it perfectly. The car park was cavernous, echoing, and deserted. Your SUV, a sturdy, unremarkable vehicle perfect for disappearing, stood waiting. You threw the duffel bag onto the passenger seat.
You paused, hand on the driver's door handle, taking one last look back at the entrance to the Tower. The place that had become your unlikely home, your found family⊠the place where youâd found love and lost it catastrophically. A fresh pang, sharp and desolate, lanced through you. Then, you hardened your resolve. Survival. Escape. Madripoorâs shadows beckoned, offering a different kind of pain, one you might learn to navigate. Anything was better than staying here and bleeding out slowly.
You slid into the driverâs seat, started the engine.
Johnâs knuckles stung, raw from pounding the heavy bag with a fury that felt less like training and more like self-flagellation. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud hadnât drowned out the static roar of guilt and dread in his head. Heâd left the gym early, the aggressive energy spent, replaced by a gnawing, urgent need. He had to see you. Not to plead again â he knew words were ash now â but just⊠to see you. As if he knew. To assure himself you were still there, still within reach, even if that reach was across an uncrossable chasm. Maybe he could stand silently outside your door for a moment. Maybe the simple fact of your proximity would offer a sliver of oxygen in his suffocating world.
He took the stairs two at a time, his boots echoing too loudly in the quiet corridor. Your door, when he reached it, was slightly ajar. A sliver of light spilled into the hallway. His heart hammered against his ribs â hope, fear, a desperate kind of longing. He pushed the door open gently.
Bucky.
Not you. Bucky Barnes stood rigid in the center of the room, his back mostly to the door. He wasn't moving. He wasn't speaking. He was just⊠standing there, a statue carved from grief and resignation. The air felt thick, hollowed out, like the aftermath of an explosion.
Johnâs gaze swept the room instantly, a soldierâs assessment honed by panic. The bed was neatly made, too neatly. The usual clutter of her life â a discarded sweater, a book by the bed, the small potted plant Ava had given you â gone. The surface of the desk was bare except for⊠the photo frame. One of them laughed. It sat alone, a stark monument to what was lost. And beside it, a cooling mug of coffee, Bucky had clearly brought and never been offered.
His eyes snapped back to Bucky, who had slowly turned. Their gazes locked. Buckyâs face was grim, etched with a profound sadness, but his eyes held a terrible, knowing stillness. There was no surprise at Johnâs arrival, only weary acknowledgement of the inevitable.
"Where is Y/N?" Johnâs voice was tight, strained, the question ripped from him. The silence stretched, heavy and accusing. Bucky didnât answer immediately. He just looked at John, the weight of unspoken truth pressing down.
"Bucky! Where is she?" John demanded, his voice rising, cracking on your name. The panic wasn't creeping in; it was flooding him, icy and paralyzing. He saw the answer in the emptiness of the room, in the finality of Buckyâs posture, in the untouched coffee meant for a conversation that wouldn't happen. He already knew. He just needed to hear the words that would make it real. And unbearable.
"She left." Buckyâs voice was flat, quiet, carrying the weight of a tombstone being laid.
No. The denial wasn't a word; it was a physical convulsion, a punch to the solar plexus that stole his breath and doubled him over for a split second. You can't be gone. Not like this. Not without⊠Without what? A chance he hadn't earned? A goodbye he didn't deserve? The thought was obliterated by a tsunami of raw panic, cold and sharp, slicing through the grim determination heâd worn like armor since the confrontation. It was primal. Stop her.
He was moving before conscious thought formed. He shoved past Bucky, a blur of desperate motion. The hallway blurred. He bypassed the elevator â too slow, too confining, a death trap of waiting â and hit the stairwell door with his shoulder. He took the concrete steps three, four at a time, gravity and terror lending him a reckless, plummeting speed. His boots slipped on a landing, skinning his palm raw on the railing, but he barely registered it. The only sound was the frantic hammering of his own heart and the ragged gasp of his breath echoing in the hollow shaft.
He burst through the door to the underground garage level like a shot, the heavy metal door slamming back against the wall with a resounding clang. The cavernous space smelled of oil, concrete dust, and damp. Rain sheeted down outside the massive open bay door, a grey curtain obscuring the world beyond, casting the garage in a watery, melancholic light.
There.
His eyes found you instantly. You were at the driverâs side door of a sleek, anonymous black sedan, rain already spotting the dark paint. The trunk was closed. You weren't loading anything. You were leaving. One hand was on the door handle, the other held a small, plain key fob. Your posture was rigid, prepared. You were dressed for disappearance: dark jeans, a nondescript black jacket, your hair pulled back severely. No trace of the vibrant Angel remained in the practical, shadowed figure.
As if sensing his violent arrival, you turned. Your expression was carefully, terrifyingly neutral. A mask carved from ice. But your eyes⊠your eyes were wide, startled by his sudden appearance, and in that unguarded instant, he saw it: oceans of raw, unprocessed pain. A reflection of the desolation heâd created. It was there for only a heartbeat before the shutters slammed down, replaced by a cold, impenetrable wall.
He stood frozen for a microsecond, chest heaving, rain dripping from his hair and gym clothes, his scraped palm stinging. The sleek black car, the rain, your closed-off face â it was the image of finality heâd dreaded since seeing Bucky in the empty room. You hadn't just packed a bag; you were erasing yourself. And you were seconds from vanishing into the grey downpour.
--
The rain hammered the sedanâs roof like a frantic drumbeat. John stood frozen in the downpour, ten feet away, looking less like the indomitable US Agent and more like a shipwreck survivor clinging to driftwood. "Y/N! Wait!" His voice wasn't just ragged; it was a raw scrape against the storm, echoing with a terror that vibrated in your bones.
You flinched, your hand tightening on the cold metal of the trunk lid. You didnât turn. Couldnât. You squeezed your eyes shut, drawing in a slow, shuddering breath that did nothing to steady the earthquake inside. The mask of numb practicality youâd worn since packing was crumbling, replaced by the raw, gaping wound beneath. When you finally forced yourself to face him, the rain plastered your hair to your cheeks, mingling with the tears you could no longer hold back. "John," your voice was a broken whisper, barely audible over the downpour. "Donât. Just⊠move."
He didnât move. He took a jerky step forward, hands outstretched, not in demand, but in desperate, futile supplication. Rain streamed down his face, indistinguishable from the tears carving paths through the grime. "Please!" The word was a sob. "Don't go! Not like this! Not withoutâŠ" He choked, searching for words he didnât have. "Give me more time! Iâll⊠Iâll do anything! Iâll quit the team! Walk away from everything! Iâll go to therapy every damn day! Iâll⊠Iâll cut off my damn hand if it makes you believe me!" His voice shattered completely, raw and stripped bare. "Please, Angel. Please. Donât leave. I canât⊠I canât breathe without you here. It feels like drowning."
The raw, animal agony in his voice, the sight of this powerful man reduced to a trembling, rain-soaked wreck by his own catastrophic failure, was the final blow. Your carefully constructed walls dissolved. A choked cry escaped you, ragged and broken. Tears, hot and relentless, flooded your vision, blurring his anguished face. "I can't!" you cried, the words tearing from a place of pure, shredded agony. "Don't you understand? I can't live like this! Seeing you in the halls⊠hearing your voice⊠smelling your damn soap⊠rememberingâŠ" Each word was a gasp, laced with a pain so profound it felt physical. "It hurts, John! Every single second, it hurts! Itâs carving me up from the inside out! I feel like Iâm dying just standing here!"
He flinched violently, as if each word were a physical lash. "I know!" he roared back, the sound raw with shared agony. "God, I know what I did! I was a fool! A selfish, broken fool who didnât deserve you! But I love you! I love you more than my own damn life! More than breathing! Please⊠just⊠stay. Let me fix it. Let me try!"
"Love isn't enough! My love isnât enough!" you screamed, the dam finally bursting. A torrent of fury, betrayal, and soul-crushing grief exploded out of you, fueled by weeks of silent torment. "Not when youâre still holding onto your past! Not when you strap on a symbol of another life every time you walk out the damn door!" You took a step closer, the rain plastering your hair to your face, your eyes blazing with a pain so deep it was incandescent. "But you know what breaks my heart even more than the ring itself, John? It's the lie. The routine of it. The knowing that every single time you suited up for a mission I wasn't on, you deliberately put that ring on."
Your voice dropped, trembling with a mixture of disgust and profound hurt. "You slid it onto your finger, a conscious choice, a secret ritual. And thenâŠ" A bitter, choked sob escaped you. "And then, every single time you walked back through that door to me, to us... You took it off. You hid it away. Tucked it back into its little box, its little pocket, like dirty laundry you didn't want me to see."
You gestured wildly, encompassing the Tower, your room, the life you'd built. "You washed your hands, maybe changed your clothes, and then you walked into my arms. You kissed me. You held me. You told me you loved me. You acted like everything was perfect, like that hidden piece of metal, that hidden allegiance, didn't exist!" The disbelief curdled into something darker. "How could you? How could you stand there, look me in the eye, swear your love, after just performing that⊠that sick little vanishing act? Shedding one skin to put on another? It wasn't just a ring, John! It was a performance! A daily betrayal you rehearsed and executed!"
The raw incredulity returned, sharpened by nausea. "I donât hate Olivia, John! I never did! Iâm glad you had someone who loved you! But our love? My love?" Your voice cracked, raw with shattered disbelief that now encompassed the sheer, brazen duplicity of his actions. "It wasn't enough to make you let her go! It wasn't enough to make you trust me! It wasn't enough to make you choose me â completely! It wasn't even enough to make you stop the charade! To stop pretending that ring didn't exist between us every single damn day!"
You were trembling violently now, the rain soaking you to the skin, plastering your clothes to your body, mixing with the ceaseless flow of your tears. The cold was nothing compared to the icy desolation within. "Do you have any idea?" you whispered, the fury momentarily replaced by a devastating emptiness. "Any idea what that does? To pour your soul into loving someone? To heal their wounds? To build a life⊠only to find out they were secretly clinging to a ghost?" Your voice dropped to a shattered whisper, barely audible over the rain. "That your love⊠your perfect, beautiful, everything love⊠wasn't enough to make them whole? To make them yours?" A sob racked your frame. "It destroys you, John. It makes you feel⊠worthless. Unfixable. It makes you want toâŠ" You choked, the truth too vast, too dark to voice fully. "Die."
"Then do it!" John pleaded, taking another step closer, his eyes blazing with a desperate, reckless intensity. "Shout at me! Curse me! Scream until your voice gives out! Hit me! Break my nose, crack my ribs, I don't care! Do anything! Anything but leave! Just⊠just feel it! Don't run! Don't take the easy way out!"
"The EASY way?!" The words detonated within you. White-hot fury, hotter and purer than anything before, surged through your veins, burning away the numbness. "YOU THINK THIS IS EASY?!" You slammed the trunk lid shut with a force that echoed like a gunshot in the garage. You stood facing him in the downpour, inches away, trembling not just from cold, but from the sheer, incandescent force of your pain.
"Leaving is the hardest fucking thing I've ever done!" you screamed into his rain-streaked face, your voice raw and ragged. "Staying would kill me! Do you understand? Kill me! Every time I look at you, I see the ring! I see the lie! I feel the knife you left in my chest twisting! I'm not strong enough, John! I don't have the strength to heal that wound while you're standing right there, a constant reminder of how deeply you cut me!" Your voice broke, the anger momentarily swamped by the tidal wave of grief. Tears streamed freely, indistinguishable from the rain. "DO YOU KNOW WHY THIS HURTS SO FUCKING MUCH?!" you roared, the question bursting out, raw and ragged, cutting through the echo of your own scream. You surged forward half a step, driven by the unbearable pressure in your chest. "DO YOU?!" The rain lashed your face, mingling with tears of pure anguish. Your voice cracked, but the intensity didn't waver. "Because I gave you everything! Everything I had! My heart, my soul, my trust, my stupid wings! I built us with my bare hands, John! I poured every ounce of love, every shred of hope, every broken piece Iâd ever carefully glued back together⊠I poured it all into you! Into this!" You gestured wildly between you, the movement encompassing the ruins of your relationship.
"I neverâŠ" Your voice hitched, a sob tearing through the fury. "I never felt this for anyone! Not even close! This loveâŠ" You pressed a fist hard against your sternum, as if trying to physically contain the agony tearing you apart. "It wasn't just love. It was⊠consuming. Terrifyingly huge. Like standing too close to the sun. You were my gravity, my air, my entire damn sky! I hung the moon for you, John! I burned for you!"
The raw confession hung in the rain-soaked air, more vulnerable than any accusation. "That's why!" you cried, the sound dissolving into a wretched sob. "That's why this pain isn't just bad⊠It's unbearable! It's ugly! It's devastating! Because what you brokeâŠ" Your voice dropped to a shattered whisper, filled with immeasurable loss, "...wasn't just a relationship. It was the only time I ever truly let myself exist completely in love. And you made it feel like a lie." He couldnât find the words to say something to you, anything. "So it hurts! It hurts so much I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't breathe without feeling like I'm suffocating! It feels like⊠like that darkness is back. That void I thought I'd escaped. That..." The words were a whisper filled with terror.
Then, the memory surfaced â sharp, bright, agonizing. A rooftop dawn months ago, your head on his shoulder after a nightmare about the suffocating blackness of your past depression. His arms tight around you, his voice thick with fierce conviction: "Never again, Angel. I swear it. You'll never feel that alone, that lost in the dark, ever again. Not while I'm here. I won't let it touch you. I promise."
"YOU PROMISED!" The accusation tore from your throat, a guttural scream that echoed off the concrete walls, louder than the thunder outside. It wasn't just anger; it was the shriek of ultimate betrayal. "YOU PROMISED ME I WOULDN'T FALL BACK INTO THAT DARKNESS! YOU SWORE YOU'D KEEP IT AWAY!" You pointed a trembling finger at him, your whole body shaking with the force of your anguish. "AND NOW? YOU PUT ME THERE! YOU ARE THE DARKNESS, JOHN! THE VOID I'M DROWNING IN IS YOU!"
The impact was instantaneous. John staggered back as if physically struck, all color draining from his face beneath the rain and grime. The wild desperation in his eyes vanished, replaced by dawning, absolute horror. He hadn't just broken your heart; he'd shattered the sacred vow he'd made to protect you from your deepest fear. He'd become the very monster he'd sworn to slay. He looked down at his hands â the hands that had held you, healed you, promised you safety â as if seeing them for the first time, stained with an invisible, unforgivable guilt. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Only a silent, shattered gasp. The fight, the pleas, the desperate hope â it all bled out of him, leaving only the hollowed-out shell of a man staring into the abyss of his own irrevocable failure.
He didn't move as you turned, your fury spent, leaving only a crushing, hollow exhaustion. He just stood there, paralyzed by the devastating truth echoing in the rain-filled silence: He hadn't just lost you. He'd destroyed the woman he loved, and the instrument of your destruction was his own broken promise.
The fury that had fueled the screaming accusations spent itself as abruptly as it had ignited. You sagged back against the cold, wet metal of the sedan door, the fight draining out of you like blood from a fatal wound. Your breathing was ragged and rapid, fogging briefly in the chilly, rain-lashed air before being swept away. The downpour was relentless now, soaking your hair, plastering your clothes to your skin, running in icy rivulets down your face, mingling with the hot tracks of your tears. You lifted trembling hands, pressing your palms hard against your closed eyes as if you could push the pain back inside, then dragged them slowly, heavily up through your soaked hair, fingers tangling in the wet strands. The storm raged outside, but inside, a terrifying quiet descended, broken only by your shuddering breaths.
Your eyes remained closed, hidden from the wreckage standing before you in the rain. When you finally spoke, your voice was low, hoarse, stripped of its earlier fire, vibrating with a profound, bone-deep weariness. "It was okay," you whispered, the words barely audible over the drumming rain. "If you couldn't get over it... Your old marriage. If you struggled... all this time." You swallowed hard, the admission tasting like ash. "I understand that, John. I do. You had a partner... a life... for so many years. You built something. You had a son together." A bitter, humorless sound escaped you, lost in the downpour. "Fuck, I understand that. More than you think."
You finally opened your eyes, but you didn't look at him. Your gaze was fixed on the rain-slicked concrete floor, seeing nothing. The anger was gone, replaced by a crushing, icy clarity. "But if that was the case..." Your voice dropped even lower, filled with a finality that was more devastating than any scream, "...you should never have told me that you loved me."
Slowly, with immense effort, you lifted your gaze from the rain-slicked concrete. Not to plead. Not to rage. Simply to deliver the epitaph. Your eyes, when they finally met his, were devoid of the fire that had burned there moments before. They held only an ocean of immeasurable sadness, a deep, weary grief that had settled into your bones.
"You promised me a future together," you said, your voice a low, rasping whisper, barely audible over the downpour. It wasn't accusatory; it was a simple statement of a fact now rendered meaningless. A ghost of a smile, fragile and infinitely sorrowful, touched your lips. "I even dared to fantasize," you continued, the words soft, almost lost. "About you. Me. Your son." Your voice hitched slightly. "And maybe⊠maybe a little brother or sister for him someday." The smile faded as quickly as it appeared, leaving only bleak emptiness. "Silly dreams."
You held his gaze for one more heartbeat, the depth of that lost future reflected in your sorrowful eyes. "But we can't build a future," you stated, the finality absolute, crushing, "if you refuse to let go of your past."
The words hung there, the simple, undeniable truth that sealed everything. There was nothing left to say. No plea, no bargain, no explosion of anger could bridge the chasm his secrecy had carved.
Your eyes, holding only that profound, world-weary sadness, finally broke contact. They drifted down again, fixing on nothing. Your arms, which had gestured wildly in anguish, now hung limply at your sides, utterly devoid of energy, of fight, of hope.
John stared at you, his face a mask of horrified understanding and crushing guilt. He saw the abyss of pain heâd created. He saw the love that still warred with the betrayal in your eyes, even now. He took a hesitant step closer, then another. Rain streamed down his face, indistinguishable from tears.
He stopped inches from you. His hands rose, trembling violently, hovering near your rain-soaked cheeks. He hesitated, terrified youâd flinch away. When you didn't move, didn't recoil, just stood there trembling and broken, he gently, reverently, cupped your face. His touch was warm against your cold skin, achingly familiar and unbearably painful.
"I'm so sorry," he breathed, his voice thick with tears, his thumbs brushing away the wetness on your cheeks with infinite tenderness. "I'm so, so sorry I made you feel that. That I made you feel anything less than everything. You are everything. You were enough. More than enough. The failure was mine. My brokenness. My fear. Not you. Never you." His blue eyes, swimming with tears, held yours with a desperate intensity. "You were perfect. You are perfect. And I ruined it. I ruined us."
The proximity, his touch, his tears, the rain, the raw, unfiltered pain and love in his eyes â it was too much. A new sob tore from your throat. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. Your hands rose to rest over his. His lips brushed yours, a feather-light touch at first, tasting of salt rain and desperate sorrow. Then, with a soft, broken sound from deep in his chest, he kissed you. Not with passion, but with a profound, aching farewell. It was a kiss saturated with a love that was real and deep and utterly shattered, a final communion of broken hearts.
You kissed him back, one last time. Pouring a year of blinding happiness, a lifetime of shattered dreams, and an ocean of unbearable grief into that single, rain-drenched touch. It was the sweetest, most agonizing kiss of your life.
He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against yours for a fleeting, precious second, his breath mingling with yours. His hands lingered on your face, a final, trembling caress.
"Be safe, Angel," he whispered, the words barely audible over the drumming rain. "Please⊠just be safe."
He stepped back, releasing you. The absence of his touch was immediate, a fresh wave of cold emptiness. You looked into his eyes one last time, seeing the reflection of your own utter devastation, the ghost of the future youâd both murdered. His lips parted, breath catching. "I love you," he choked out, the words a final, desperate plea thrown against the storm, a raw confession hanging in the space between annihilation and goodbye. His tears fell from his blue eyes.
You said nothing. But he knew you loved him; thatÂŽs why you couldnât stand this.
Your eyes, holding only the vast, desolate landscape of your broken heart, remained locked on his for one endless, suspended moment. The rain fell. His confession echoed, unanswered, into the void. Then, without a word, without a sound, you turned. Your movements were slow, deliberate, and final. You opened the car door, the sound a dull, hollow thunk in the rain-filled silence. You slid inside. The door closed with soft, devastating finality. The engine roared to life, a mechanical snarl against the organic drumming of the rain. The headlights cut through the grey gloom, illuminating the rain-slicked concrete and the solitary, broken figure standing in their path for a split second before you shifted into gear.
John Walker stood rooted to the spot, rain soaking him to the bone, watching the red taillights of the sedan blur and vanish into the grey curtain of rain. The empty space where the car had been felt like the hollow space in his chest. He brought a hand up, touching his lips where the ghost of your kiss still lingered â a bittersweet brand of finality. The relentless tide had finally receded, leaving only a barren, desolate shore. He stood alone in the garage, the sound of the rain the only witness to the silent shattering of what remained of his world. The fight was over. He had lost. And the victory heâd sought â your happiness â was now a distant, unknown star, moving further away with every beat of his broken heart.
Tag list from my first fic â€
@rm-mononucleosis
@alexwinchester23
@blackparacosm
@yallgotkik
@grathy
Pairing: John Walker x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader
Summary: You and John are in a established relationship. You both find peace away from all the chaos during your week off. A week that will change everything. đ
Warnings: Nothing, just Fluff!! â€
A/N: I want to post this while I finish the other story, which will be ready soon (it already has 57k words lol). I hope you like this short story and a sweet John, who deserves to be happy. đ„°đâș
sorry if there is any mistake.
âšComments, likes, shares, are appreciated! đâš
âšENJOY!! âșđ
W/C: 7k
The world outside was a revelation. The cool air rushed in, cleaner and sharper than anything found in a city, carrying the intensified perfume of pine and damp earth, mingled with the faint, mineral scent of distant stone. Stepping onto the dew-slicked wooden balcony, the chill was bracing, waking your skin fully. Below, the valley was still shrouded in thick, cottony mist, a rolling sea of white that obscured the forest floor. Above, the sky continued its transformation. The lavender and rose bled into softer peaches and golds as the sun climbed unseen behind the eastern ridges, gilding the very tops of the tallest pines. The distant bird calls were multiplying now, a complex, layered chorus echoing in the stillness â chickadees, thrushes, the mournful cry of a lone hawk circling high above the mist.
You leaned against the rough-hewn wooden railing, the dampness seeping into the thin cotton of the white shirt sleeve beneath your forearm. The silence wasn't empty; it was profound, a living thing composed of a thousand tiny sounds: the drip of moisture from a pine needle onto a leaf below, the rustle of some small creature in the underbrush far down the slope, the almost imperceptible sigh of the wind moving through the highest branches. This deep, enveloping quiet was what youâd craved â a balm after the relentless noise of missions, the constant hum of tension that vibrated through your lives. Here, it felt possible to just be, to let the weight of the world dissolve into the mist.
You closed your eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, filling your lungs with the purity of the mountain air. The worn fabric of Johnâs shirt against your skin was a tangible anchor, a reminder of the solid, warm presence still asleep inside. Years of shared dangers, whispered fears in the dark, quiet moments of understanding that needed no words, the unshakeable trust forged in fire â it had all led here, to this suspended moment of perfect peace. A small, contented smile touched your lips. This week was a gift, a stolen pocket of time carved out of the relentless storm of their lives. You felt incredibly, quietly lucky.
Behind you, inside the shadowed cabin, John Walker stirred. He lay on his back, one arm flung above his head on the pillow, the lines of tension that usually etched his face in waking hours smoothed away in sleep. The sheet pooled around his waist, revealing the powerful planes of his chest and shoulders, bathed in the soft, grey light.
He hadnât fully woken at your kiss, but the shift in the bed, the subtle change in the roomâs atmosphere as the door slid open, had nudged him towards consciousness. He blinked slowly, the deep relaxation of sleep receding. His gaze, still hazy, found the empty space beside him, then drifted towards the open balcony door, framing your silhouette against the awakening sky. He watched you for a long moment â the curve of your back under his shirt, the fabric slightly falling down from your right shoulder, your impossibly soft, long and bare legs, the way your hair caught the nascent light, the absolute stillness of your posture as you absorbed the mountain morning. The fierce tenderness heâd seen on your face earlier mirrored in his own chest, swelling until it was almost painful. This. This peace, this quiet strength beside him, this was everything. The small, heavy velvet box hidden in the toe of his boot, tucked safely in the closet, seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Today. This was the perfect moment heâd been waiting for. He took a slow, deep breath, the scent of pine and you filling him, gathering his courage like a shield as the soft dawn light painted the room.
You lost track of time, simply being, bathed in the tranquility. The sun began to warm your skin, gilding the tops of the tallest trees like molten gold. Then, warmth of a different kind enveloped you. Strong arms slid around your waist from behind, pulling you back gently but firmly against a solid, familiar chest. You hadn't heard him approach â the man who moved with the stealth of a soldier even barefoot on his own balcony â but his presence was as unmistakable as the sunrise itself, as vital as the air you breathed.
"Couldn't sleep?" John's voice was rough with sleep, a low, intimate rumble vibrating against your back as he nuzzled the sensitive spot just below your ear. His chin rested heavily, comfortably, on the top of your head, his stubble catching softly in your hair. The scent of him â sleep-warm skin and the faint, clean linen of the sheets â mingled perfectly with the pine-laden air.
"Just wanted to breathe this in," you murmured, melting back fully into his embrace, your body molding instinctively to the hard muscle and steady, reassuring heartbeat pressed against your spine. His arms tightened possessively, holding you secure against the world, his large hands splayed warmly over your stomach beneath the soft cotton of his old shirt. "Itâs so perfect here. So⊠quiet. We needed this." The words were a sigh, an acknowledgment of the deep, soul-level respite youâd both been starving for.
He hummed in deep agreement, the sound resonating through you. His breath was a warm caress on the side of your neck. For a long, suspended moment, you stood like that, wrapped in each other and the hushed beauty of the awakening mountains. The comfortable silence stretched between you, profound and effortless, filled only with the burgeoning birdsong and the soft sigh of the wind in the pines. It was a silence built on years of shared battles and quiet nights, on trust so deep it needed no words. His right hand slid slowly up your torso beneath the shirt, his thumb tracing idle, loving circles just below your ribs, while his left arm remained anchored around your waist. Then, his lips found the curve of your right shoulder, pressing a series of feather-light, lingering kisses on your soft skin. Each touch was a whisper of adoration, a testament to the affectionate, deeply loving man he was with you, away from the demands of duty and the weight of the shield.
Peace, true and profound, settled over you both. It wasn't just the mountain air or the absence of gunfire. It was the hard-won harmony in John's life: seeing his son regularly, the easy rapport and genuine affection between them that healed old wounds. It was the respectful understanding with his ex-wife, who genuinely liked you and welcomed the stability you brought to her son's father. And it was the pure, uncomplicated love his son held for you. Everything, for once, was genuinely okay. More than okay. It was perfect. John breathed you in, the scent of your hair mixing with the mountain dawn and the familiar fabric of his shirt on your skin. The utter contentment radiating from you, the absolute stillness of the world around you both, the feeling of your body trusting and pliant in his arms⊠âThere is not a more perfect moment than this,â he thought, the certainty settling into his bones like bedrock. The beautiful little jewelry in the pocket of the sweatpants heâd pulled on seemed to pulse with its own warmth against his thigh.
"It feels like we stepped outside of time," you said softly, breaking the silence not because it needed breaking, but to share the thought. Your hand came up to rest over his where it lay flat against your stomach, your fingers lacing instinctively with his.
"Doesn't it?" His voice was thoughtful, quieter now, softened by emotion and the intimacy of the moment. He squeezed your hand gently. "A week⊠feels like both a lifetime and a heartbeat." He paused, and you felt a subtle shift in his energy, a gathering of something profound and tender. His lips brushed your shoulder again, a silent punctuation. "Makes you think⊠about what comes after. When we have to go back." There was no fear in his voice, just a quiet acknowledgment of the inevitable return to the thunder.
You turned your head slightly, your cheek brushing against the comforting roughness of his stubbled jaw. You tilted your face up, meeting his gaze. The dawn light caught the deep blue of his eyes, reflecting a love and a peace you rarely saw so unguarded. "We'll handle it," you whispered, your voice steady with absolute conviction. "Together. Like always." Your free hand reached up, fingertips gently tracing the strong line of his jaw, a touch full of promise and unwavering support.
He held your gaze, the intensity in his eyes deepening, the love shining brighter than the rising sun. The perfect moment, cradled in silence, wrapped in peace, and anchored by the profound rightness of you both, had arrived. His arms tightened almost imperceptibly around you, a prelude.
The single word, "Yeah," escaped Johnâs lips not as mere agreement, but as a deep, resonant exhale, heavy with the weight of a thousand shared battles and a future he desperately craved. It vibrated against the shell of your ear, warm and intimate. "Together." His arms, already a secure haven around you, tightened almost imperceptibly â not restraint, but an anchor, a grounding force. "Thatâs⊠thatâs all I want, you know?" His voice roughened, scraped raw by the vulnerability of the admission. "To face whatever comes⊠the chaos, the noise, the hard choices⊠with you. Always." He buried his face for a second in the crook of your neck, breathing you in, the scent of sleep, mountain air, and you filling his senses like a lifeline. When he spoke again, his lips brushed your skin, the words a low rumble felt deep in your bones. "This⊠this peace weâve found here? Itâs not just the mountains, the quiet. Itâs this. You. Us. Like this." His hand splayed wider across your stomach beneath the worn cotton, a possessive, loving weight. "I want this. Every damn day. Not just stolen weeks hidden away. I want mornings like this, wrapped around you. Quiet nights where the loudest sound is your breathing. The messy in-between, the ordinary⊠the whole damn thing." He paused, his breath hitching slightly. "With you."
His words resonated deep within you, vibrating in your chest, echoing the secret longings you carried. A surge of love, fierce and bright, urged you to turn fully into his embrace, to see the emotion blazing in his eyes. But his arms held you gently firm, keeping your back pressed securely against the solid warmth of his chest. Your eyes were closed, feeling his words and skin directly on your heart. "Shhh," he murmured, a soft puff of air against your temple. His hand, large and capable, the hand that wielded weapons and bore the weight of impossible decisions, slid up from your waist with infinite tenderness. Calloused fingers, marked by a lifetime of grit and strength, found the curve of your jaw with surprising delicacy. He gently grasped your chin, his thumb brushing the corner of your lips, and turned your head up and slightly back. The angle was intimate, trusting, your gaze meeting his in your peripheral vision, the dawn light painting his profile in soft gold and lavender.
His eyes. Oh, his eyes. Usually sharp, intense, focused like laser sights, now held a breathtaking softness that stole the air from your lungs. The familiar, piercing blue was deep and clear as a mountain lake at dawn, reflecting the pale sky, but infinitely more profound was the vulnerability shining there, raw and unguarded. They searched yours, a silent question hanging in the quiet air between you. The lines etched around them, deepened by years of command, loss, and relentless pressure, weren't just marks of stress in this gentle light; they were the map of a life fiercely lived, now softened, almost blurred, by the overwhelming tide of love and peace he found in this moment, with you. A faint, tremulous smile touched his lips, tentative and achingly sincere, transforming the familiar sternness into something heartbreakingly beautiful.
"I love you," he said. Three simple words, spoken without flourish, direct and unadorned like a soldier stating a fundamental truth. Yet they carried the weight of a sacred vow, forged in shared fire and tempered in quiet devotion. "More than anything. More than breath. More than I ever thought this battered heart was capable of." He held your gaze, the world beyond the balcony railing dissolving into insignificance. There was only the solid warmth of him at your back, the tender grip of his fingers on your chin, the soft dawn light gilding his face, and the profound connection arcing between you, silent and electric. Time stretched, thin and luminous, holding you both captive in the perfect, aching beauty of the moment.
Then, slowly, deliberately, with a reverence that spoke volumes, he lowered his head. His focus shifted from your eyes to your lips. The world narrowed further, the chorus of birdsong fading to a distant hum, the chill mountain air forgotten. His breath mingled with yours, warm and intimate. The calloused pad of his thumb traced the line of your lower lip once, a silent, tender prelude. His eyes, still holding that devastating softness, flickered back up to yours for a fleeting, final confirmation, a silent question answered a thousand times over in the quiet language you shared. The tremulous smile returned, a little stronger now, a promise blooming at the corners of his mouth. He closed the remaining breath of space. His lips met yours â not a demand, not a conquest, but a homecoming. Soft, achingly gentle at first, a brush of warmth and shared breath that held the echo of every unspoken dream, every hard-won moment of peace, and the quiet, earth-shattering certainty of always. It was a kiss that tasted of mountain dawn, of profound gratitude, and the breathtaking, terrifying promise of forever, finally spoken without words.
The brush of his lips was a whisper, a ghost of contact that nonetheless sent a delicious shiver cascading down your spine, a stark contrast to the solid, enveloping warmth of his body pressed flush against your back. It wasn't a kiss of hunger, not yet, but one of profound reverence. A silent benediction, a wordless affirmation of the deep, abiding affection that was the bedrock of your years together. You felt the slight tremor in his hand still cradling your chin, the barest hint of the emotion surging beneath his calm surface.
Then, as if pulled by a force deeper than gravity, an irresistible current flowing between you, the kiss deepened. Not abruptly, but with infinite care, a slow, inevitable yielding. His mouth moved over yours with a consuming tenderness that stole the breath from your lungs and replaced it with the essence of him â sleep-warm, faintly minty, and uniquely John. It was a kiss that spoke of time, of knowing, of a love that had weathered storms and now basked in the sun. His free arm, already a secure band around your waist, tightened further, pulling you impossibly closer, molding your back to the hard planes of his chest, your hips to his. He anchored you not just physically, but in the very core of your being, a fixed point in the swirling sensation.
Instinctively, your hands moved, seeking connection. Your left hand found the large, warm shape of his hand resting possessively on your stomach. Your hand gripped his, squeezing tight, anchoring yourself to his touch there, a silent affirmation of the hold he had on your heart. Simultaneously, your right hand lifted. Your fingers slid into the soft, surprisingly thick hair at the nape of his neck, just above the collar of his t-shirt. The sensation of the short strands against your fingertips was electric.
Feeling this dual connection â the firm clasp of his hand and the anchoring grip in his hair â you exerted a gentle, insistent pressure. You pulled, not just leaning back, but actively drawing his mouth impossibly closer, deepening the angle he'd created. It was an instinctive, yearning response, eliminating any remaining fraction of space. A soft sound, half-sigh, half-moan, escaped you as you surrendered completely, lost utterly in the taste of him â familiar as your own heartbeat, yet endlessly, thrillingly new in this suspended moment of perfect intention. The feel of his hair between your fingers, the solid weight of his hand clasped in yours, and the consuming tenderness of his kiss merged into a single, overwhelming point of connection.
The world dissolved. The cheerful chorus of birdsong became a distant, pleasant hum. The crisp bite of the mountain air vanished, replaced by the shared warmth radiating between your bodies. The sharp, clean scent of pine needles was overwhelmed by the intimate, comforting aroma of his skin, the fabric of his shirt you wore, and the sleep-soft scent clinging to him. Everything faded into a soft, golden haze.
Lost in the taste of him, you surrendered utterly. It was a slow, deep exploration that felt less like a taking and more like a remembering, a rediscovery of a sacred map written on each other's lips. The solid safety of his embrace, the unyielding wall of his chest against your back and his arms like steel bands softened by devotion, became your entire universe. You were adrift, yes, but adrift in a sea of pure, luminous feeling â a current of love, longing, and profound peace so intense it vibrated in your very bones.
Awareness narrowed to a single, radiant point: John. The warmth of his lips moving against yours with deliberate, consuming tenderness, a pressure that promised forever.
The slight, delicious scratch of his morning stubble against the delicate skin of your cheek and jaw, a beloved friction that sent sparks skittering down your nerve endings, raising goosebumps on your arms despite the shared warmth.
The possessive strength of his arms â one a secure anchor around your waist, the other cradling your face with heartbreaking gentleness. The solid, rhythmic thud of his heartbeat against your spine, a primal drum echoing your own frantic pulse.
The soft, intimate symphony of shared breath â the quiet sigh escaping you, the low hum resonating in his chest, the mingling exhales that hung warm and intimate in the cool dawn air.
As the kiss deepened further, evolving into a slow, languid exploration that stole time and thought, a new layer of connection bloomed. His left hand, the one that had been resting possessively on your stomach beneath the borrowed shirt, shifted. His fingers, calloused and strong yet imbued with infinite care, gently sought your left hand where it rested against his. They didnât just find yours; they recognized yours. With a deliberate slowness that felt like a vow, he interlaced his fingers with yours, palm to palm. The sensation was electric: the warm, slightly rough texture of his skin pressed fully against yours, the firm pressure of his grip, the perfect fit of your fingers slotting between his. It was more than a hold; it was a fusion, a silent declaration of unity that resonated deeper than any words.
A soft, shuddering sigh escaped you, muffled against his mouth. It was a sound of melting into the profound rightness of this connection. Your fingers tightened instinctively around his, a reflexive, desperate clutch that mirrored the fierce protectiveness swelling in your chest. The simple act of interlaced hands, there in the quiet dawn, felt monumental. It anchored the dizzying sweetness of the kiss, grounding the soaring emotion in a tangible, steady point of contact. It spoke of partnership, of facing everything â the breathtaking peace and the inevitable thunder â side-by-side, hand-in-hand. In that entwined grasp, you felt the echo of every battle fought together, every quiet moment shared, and the unshakeable promise of every dawn yet to come.
The kiss continued, a slow, deep communion. Then, almost imperceptibly, the pressure shifted, deepened in a new, profoundly vulnerable way. His lips parted yours further, a gentle invitation rather than a demand. And you yielded, opening to him as naturally as breathing. The first soft, tentative touch of his tongue against yours sent a fresh wave of liquid warmth cascading through you, a sensation both startlingly intimate and deeply familiar. It wasn't fierce or demanding, but a gentle seeking, an exploration as tender as the dawn light itself. The warm, velvety slide of his tongue met yours in a slow caress, a silent language older than words.
The sensation was exquisite: a soft, heated velvet glide, tasting faintly of sleep and him, a shared warmth that flooded your senses. It was an intimacy that bypassed thought, speaking directly to the core of your being. This gentle, languid dance of tongues deepened the connection immeasurably, transforming the kiss from profound affection into a wordless vow of complete belonging. It was vulnerability and trust offered freely, a silent, "I am yours," spoken in this most primal, tender way.
Now layered with this new, profound intimacy â the silent language of palms pressed together, fingers tightly woven, and the soft, seeking communion within the kiss itself â the moment became utterly transcendent. The hushed mountain morning held its breath around you, the world reduced to the solid warmth of his body at your back, the strong clasp of his hand in yours, the possessive cradle of his arm, the scratch of his stubble, and this slow, deep, soul-speaking exploration where breath mingled and tongues met with aching tenderness. It was peace. It was promise. It was home, found in the quiet slide of warmth against warmth, speaking volumes in the sacred silence.
The kiss slowed, becoming a series of soft, lingering brushes of lips â tender benedictions sealing the depth of what had just passed between you. He finally drew back just enough to break the sweet contact, but kept his forehead resting lightly against yours, a bridge of warmth and intimacy. You were still breathless, eyes closed, swaying slightly within the unyielding circle of his arms, utterly consumed, every nerve ending humming with the aftershocks of that soul-deep kiss. The cool mountain air felt fresh against your heated skin, a gentle counterpoint. You felt the pad of his thumb gently stroking the back of the hand he still held captive, a rhythmic, grounding caress over your knuckles.
"Look at me," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion â hope, love, and a tremor of vulnerability that resonated deep within you.
Blinking your eyes open, your vision slightly blurred and dazed from the intensity, you tilted your head back further within the cradle of his hand at your jaw, seeking his gaze fully. He was smiling. Not just a hint, but a real, wide, breathtaking smile that transformed his entire face. It crinkled the corners of his eyes into deep, joyful lines, banishing every trace of his usual guarded intensity, replacing it with pure, unadulterated joy and love. It was a smile you cherished above all others, a rare glimpse of his heart utterly unshielded. Yet, beneath the radiant joy, you could see it â a flicker of nervous energy, a hopeful vulnerability shining like starlight in the deep blue depths of his eyes.
Confused but utterly captivated, mesmerized by the sheer love pouring from him, you felt your own lips curve into an answering smile, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "What?" you breathed, the word barely a whisper, stolen by the magnitude of the moment and the lingering haze of the kiss.
He slowly guided you and turned your body to facing him, his right hand replaced his left hand grabbing yours.
His smile softened, becoming impossibly tender, a silent promise. He lifted your left hand, the one heâd been holding and stroking, bringing it slowly up between your bodies, turning it gently so your palm faced the ground. "Look," he murmured, the single word weighted with a lifetime of intention.
Your gaze dropped, following the movement of your hand. Nestled on the base of your ring finger, catching the first bright, slanting rays of the morning sun, was a ring.
It was breathtakingly beautiful and elegant in its simplicity. The band was a slender, cool whisper of polished platinum, smooth and timeless. But it was the setting that stole the breath from your lungs. Centered perfectly was a stunning circle-shaped diamond. It wasn't a cold, geometric circle, but a brilliant, perfectly proportioned round cut, its facets catching the dawn light with dazzling intensity, throwing off sparks of pure white fire. Flanking this central star, nestled seamlessly into the band on either side, were two tiny, exquisite diamonds. They weren't mere accents; they were perfect smaller stars, mirroring the brilliance of the center stone, creating a harmonious trio that spoke of balance, unity, and a love that was both singular and expansive. The sunlight danced across all three stones, refracting through their crystalline depths and scattering tiny, shimmering rainbows onto your skin â ephemeral jewels painted by the promise held within the real ones.
It wasn't ostentatiously large, demanding attention with sheer, vulgar size. Nor was it overly small or timid, easily overlooked. It was⊠perfect. Timeless. Classic. Understated yet undeniably significant. It spoke of quiet confidence, enduring strength, and a love meant to weather any storm â a reflection of the complex, fiercely devoted man whose arms held you anchored to the earth while your heart soared. The central diamond held the light like a captured piece of the morning star itself, blazing against the backdrop of the misty, awakening forest, a beacon of forever offered in the quiet mountain hush. The sight of it, resting where it belonged, sent a fresh wave of pure, dizzying wonder crashing through you, stealing your voice and tightening your throat with overwhelming emotion. The world narrowed to the cool platinum against your skin, the dazzling fire of the diamonds, and the achingly hopeful love shining in John Walkerâs eyes.
Your breath hitched, stopping completely. Time itself seemed to freeze, the mountain dawn holding its breath. Your eyes widened impossibly, disbelief warring with a dawning, overwhelming surge of pure, unadulterated joy that threatened to lift you off the dew-slicked balcony. You stared at the ring â the elegant platinum band cool against your skin, the central circle diamond blazing with captured dawn, its twin sentinels winking beside it â a constellation of commitment resting where it felt both impossibly new and utterly right. Then your gaze snapped back to Johnâs face, your mouth opening slightly, but no sound emerged, stolen by the magnitude. Your mind raced, a frantic flutter against the lingering haze of his kiss. When? The feel of his arms, the consuming tenderness of his lips, the solid warmth of his chest⊠your senses had been drowning in him, lost in the sea of feeling. Heâd orchestrated this perfect theft of your attention, slipping the symbol of forever onto your finger while you were utterly captivated by the man himself. The sheer, breathtaking intimacy of it â the vulnerability and the certainty â shattered you.
"JohnâŠ" It wasn't a name, but a gasp, a strangled whisper torn from a heart overflowing. Tears welled instantly, hot and insistent, blurring the dazzling fire of the diamond and the beloved, achingly hopeful lines of his face. Your free hand flew to your mouth, fingers trembling violently against your lips, as if trying to hold back the sob of pure, overwhelming emotion swelling in your chest.
His own eyes, fixed intently, desperately on yours, were suspiciously bright, shimmering with unshed tears that mirrored the diamondâs captured fire. He didnât look away. Gently, reverently, as if handling something infinitely precious, he brought your ring hand to his lips. Your hand, always elegant, looked impossibly delicate in that moment â the fine bones beneath the skin, the slender fingers that wielded strength with such surprising grace on missions, now seeming almost ethereal cradling this new, dazzling weight. The cool platinum band rested perfectly against the base of your finger, its classic simplicity highlighting the graceful lines.
He kissed not the ring itself, but the knuckle just beside it, where the smooth metal met the vulnerable warmth of your skin. His lips, warm and slightly chapped from the mountain air, pressed a fervent, lingering kiss against the trembling skin there. The contrast was striking: the weathered strength of his mouth against the exquisite delicacy of your hand. Your perfectly polished French manicure caught the soft light â the crisp white tips a pristine counterpoint to the natural pink of your nail beds, looking impossibly refined, almost fragile, against the backdrop of his stubbled jaw and the raw emotion of the moment. It was a kiss that spoke of profound reverence for you, for the slender, capable fingers that had bandaged his wounds, steadied his aim, and held his hand through the darkest nights, long before they bore this glittering symbol of forever.
The touch of his lips on that sensitive knuckle, beside the symbol of his pledge, sent another tremor through you, a silent acknowledgement of the sacred trust he placed in those delicate, beautifully cared-for hands. He kissed the hand that was yours, the hand he cherished, before honoring the promise it now carried.
Then, he lifted his gaze, locking onto yours with an intensity that held the weight of every shared mission, every whispered fear in the dark, every moment of hard-won peace. His voice, when it came, was clear and strong, carrying the unshakeable conviction of a man who knew his purpose, yet imbued with a raw, trembling vulnerability that laid his soul utterly bare before you.
"Marry me," he said, the words not a question, but a plea forged in the deepest fires of his heart. "Please." That single syllable cracked, thick with hope and fear. "Build that future with me. Not just stolen weeks, but every dawn like this one â waking up to the quiet, the pine scent, you beside me, wearing my shirt, my ring, my heart. Face every challenge the world throws, side-by-side, hand-in-hand, stronger together than we ever were apart. Share every moment of peace we carve out, every quiet night, every ordinary joy, knowing we earned this⊠earned us." His perfect blue eyes held yours. "I want⊠I need you to be the heart of my family. Be the mother of my children, lets fill a home with more laughter. More chaos. More love. Help me be a better father for my son.â He paused, his thumb stroking the ring finger just below the band, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that vibrated with pure, adoring certainty. "Be my partner. Be my strength. Be my sanctuary. Be my wife. Let me spend every breath I have loving you, building this beautiful, messy, perfect life⊠together. "
The world narrowed to the cool platinum band, the warm pressure of his lips still imprinted on your knuckle, the desperate hope and profound love blazing in his tear-bright eyes, and the echo of his words â a vow, a promise, a map to a future brighter than the diamond catching the sun â hanging in the sacred mountain air between you. It was the most beautiful, terrifying, perfect moment you could ever imagine. The silence after his plea wasn't empty; it was thick with the pounding of two hearts and the breathless wait for your answer.
The tears didn't just spill; they overflowed, a warm, silent cascade tracing paths down your chilled cheeks, catching the nascent sunlight like liquid diamonds. A tremor started deep within your core, radiating outwards until your whole body was shaking â not with cold, but with the sheer, overwhelming force of the moment. It was a tempest of pure, unadulterated emotion: the breathtaking tenderness of his proposal, the unexpected, perfect elegance of the ring gleaming on your finger, and the most profound â the staggering, radiant depth of love pouring from John, washing over you like a warm tide, erasing every shadow, every doubt. You looked from his earnest, hopeful face â the crinkled eyes, the vulnerable curve of his lips, the tears mirroring your own â down to the sparkling diamond, a captured star declaring his vow, and back again. The world seemed hyper-real, etched in gold and platinum and the brilliant blue of his gaze.
Words deserted you utterly, stolen by the magnitude of the feeling swelling in your chest, threatening to burst. Language felt too small, too frail for this. All you could manage was movement. You nodded. Vigorously. Frantically. Your head bobbed, tears flying, vision dissolving into a kaleidoscope of light and color â the blur of his beloved face, the brilliant flash of the ring, the golden dawn. A choked sob escaped, raw and full of disbelief, instantly followed by a breathless, disbelieving laugh that bubbled up from a wellspring of pure, dizzying joy. It was the sound of a heart cracking open, not in pain, but in ecstatic release.
You moved without thought, propelled by the tidal wave of happiness. Your arms flew around his neck, fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape. You buried your face hard against the solid warmth of his shoulder, the cool metal of the ring band pressing a tangible promise into the skin at the base of his neck. The scent of him â pine, sleep, and pure John â filled your senses, the final anchor in this whirlwind. You clung to him, your shaking body seeking the unshakeable strength of his.
He caught you instantly, his arms snapping around you like steel bands softened by devotion. He lifted you slightly off your feet in a crushing, all-encompassing embrace, absorbing your tremors, your tears, your laughter into his own being. His own laugh burst forth against your hair â a shaky, ragged sound, a release of breath he seemed to have been holding for years. It was pure, undiluted relief and elation, vibrating through his chest and into yours. You could feel the frantic thud of his heart against your own, a wild, joyous drumming in sync. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath warm and uneven.
"Is that a yes?" he murmured, his voice thick with a hope so bright it could outshine the diamond. The words vibrated against your skin, tentative yet desperate for confirmation in the whirlwind.
You pulled back just enough within the circle of his arms, your feet finding the deck again. Your hands, still trembling but now steadied by certainty, rose to frame his beloved face. Your thumbs brushed the stubble on his cheeks, your touch infinitely tender. The diamond on your left hand caught the full morning sun as you cupped his jaw, throwing dazzling prismatic sparks across his skin â a silent, brilliant answer even before you spoke.
"Yes!" The word finally burst free, loud and clear, riding on a sob-laugh that echoed the pure, uncontainable joy within. It wasn't just an answer; it was a declaration, a promise flung out into the mountain dawn. "Yes, John!" Your voice strengthened, filled with absolute conviction, your eyes locked on his, shining brighter than the ring. "A thousand times yes! Forever yes!" The words tumbled out, each "yes" a hammer blow sealing the pact, a vow echoing the depth of the love reflected in his tear-bright, now radiantly joyful eyes. In that shared gaze, amidst the tears and laughter and the cool platinum band warming against your skin, you saw it all: the quiet mornings, the shared challenges, the laughter of their son, the family built on this unshakeable love. It wasn't just a future promised; it was a future begun, right there, on a dew-kissed balcony, bathed in golden light and the sound of two hearts finally beating as one.
His smile returned, brighter than the sun now blazing above the mountain peaks. It was a beacon of pure, unrestrained joy. Before you could draw another breath, he moved. With a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan of pure elation, his arms locked around your waist, crushing you to him. Then, with effortless, exhilarated strength, he lifted you clean off your feet. You gasped, your own laughter mingling with his as your arms tightened around his neck, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The world tilted, the balcony and the misty valley spinning for a dizzying second.
The force of his joy was unstoppable. He stumbled back a step, then another, his bare feet sliding slightly on the dew-damp wood. His back connected solidly, but gently, with the wooden frame of the open balcony door. The soft thud reverberated through you both, punctuating the moment with a touch of endearing, breathless clumsiness. He didn't loosen his grip for an instant, merely braced himself against the frame, holding you suspended, your faces level, inches apart.
Your laughter caught in your throat as his gaze, blazing with love and triumph, met yours. He didn't hesitate. He captured your lips again. This kiss wasnât tender or languid; it was fierce with unleashed joy, fierce with possession, fierce with the absolute certainty of your âyesâ. It was a seal stamped on the promise, a claiming and a surrender all at once. You kissed him back with equal fervor, the cool metal of the ring pressed between his shoulder and your cheek a tangible symbol of the fire igniting between you.
You broke apart, gasping, foreheads touching, only for him to dive back in for another kiss, shorter but no less intense, fueled by the shared laughter bubbling up again. And then another â softer this time, a lingering press of lips against lips, against the corner of your mouth, tasting the salt of shared tears and the sweetness of boundless happiness. You were both smiling so widely it was impossible to kiss properly, the joy radiating from you both as palpable as the morning sun warming your skin.
"I love you, John Walker," you breathed against his lips, the words thick with emotion but clear, a vow echoing his own.
He pulled back just enough to look directly into your eyes, his own swimming with tears of pure, unadulterated happiness. The hand not supporting you came up, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek with infinite tenderness. His voice, rough with emotion yet filled with a profound, anchoring certainty, was the only sound that mattered in the vast mountain quiet.
"I love you too," he murmured, the words a deep rumble you felt in your chest as much as heard. A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face, crinkling his eyes, transforming him utterly. "Future Mrs. Walker."
The title â "Future Mrs. Walker" â spoken with that potent blend of loving possession, playful promise, and absolute certainty, sent a fresh wave of electric warmth cascading through you, pooling low in your belly. He finally lowered you slowly, gently, until your bare feet touched the cool, dew-slicked wood of the balcony again. But he didn't relinquish his hold; his arms remained a steel-and-velvet fortress around you. The kiss that followed was a deep, slow communion, tasting of shared tears, the dizzying certainty of a future chosen together, and the profound intimacy of a love anchored forever in the mountain dawn.
He rested his forehead against yours once more, his breath â warm, steady, alive â washing over your lips. "Always," he whispered, the word resonating like a struck bell, carrying the weight of every vow spoken and unspoken, of sunrises and sunsets yet unseen. Nestled against him, the platinum band cool where your left hand rested over the thunderous beat of his heart against his t-shirt, you knew with bone-deep certainty: this peace, this anchoring love, was your foundation. Him. You. The family youâd build â him, his boy, and the whispers of futures yet dreamed. It was always.
For a heartbeat, you simply breathed each other in, foreheads pressed, souls entwined. Then, twin grins broke across your faces, spontaneous reflections of the incandescent joy threatening to burst your chests. Your hands, trembling only with the force of your happiness, lifted from his chest. They framed his beloved face, thumbs tracing the damp tracks of joyful tears through the rough velvet of his morning stubble, fingertips brushing the laugh lines etched deep by this perfect moment. His eyes, impossibly blue and bright, held yours â a mirror reflecting pure adoration and the dawning heat of shared desire stoked by the promise now shimmering on your hand.
Your voice, when it came, was a husky whisper, thick with emotion yet blazing with unmistakable intent. "Take me to the bed, John." Your eyes, locked on his, were no longer just tear-bright with joy; they were dark pools of want, reflecting the fierce love and the primal need to seal this promise in the most intimate way possible. A breath hitched, then the words, bold and tender, tumbled out, binding your future hopes to this present fire: "Make me a mommy."
The air crackled. His breath stopped. For a fraction of a second, the world stilled. Then, a low sound â part growl, part reverent groan â rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating against your palms. The raw need in your eyes, the vulnerability and fierce hope in your words, ignited something primal and protective within him.
"God, yes," he rasped, the words rough with unleashed desire and profound commitment.
In one fluid, powerful motion born of exhilarated strength, his arms banded around your waist and under your thighs. He lifted you effortlessly again, your legs instantly wrapping tight around his hips, anchoring yourself to the solid heat of him. The cool morning air rushed over your bare legs beneath the oversized shirt. He didn't set you down. Holding you securely against him, your bodies pressed flush from chest to thigh, he turned, his bare feet sure on the wooden deck despite the urgency thrumming through him. He carried you, not towards the bedroom door, but through the open balcony threshold heâd stumbled against moments before in his joy â stepping back into the warm, shadowed intimacy of the cabin, leaving the dazzling dawn and singing birds as witnesses to the sacred, joyous consummation of the promise gleaming on your finger. His steps were purposeful, his gaze locked on yours, the shared laughter now simmering into an intense, silent understanding of the beautiful, life-altering journey they were embarking on, body and soul.
â€â€â€
Tag list from my first fic â€
@rm-mononucleosis
@alexwinchester23
@blackparacosm
@yallgotkik
@grathy
Pairing: John Walker/US Agent x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader Enemies To Lovers! <3
Summary: You and John face the consequences of your fight at the gym.
Here is the first part ----> (Part 1)
Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Fighting, Violence, Cursing. (I think thatÂŽs all?)
A/N: The final of this chaotic story <3
In this part, Bob is the team member who handles the tech part (plot requirement lol) I really hope you like it!!! <3
Comments, opinions and shares are very welcome and appreciated!
WC: 27k
Yelena, her earlier bravado utterly extinguished, swallowed hard, her face pale. "I... I'll check on Y/N," she murmured, her voice lacking its usual purr, replaced by a tremor of genuine concern and guilt. She hurried out, avoiding looking at the destruction she'd instigated.
Ava exchanged a worried glance with Bob, then silently followed Yelena. Alexei, for once without a quip or food, gave John a long, somber look, then clapped Bob heavily on the shoulder before lumbering out, leaving Bob hovering uncertainly.
"Come on, Bob," Bucky said quietly, his voice heavy. "Give him a minute." Reluctantly, Bob followed the others, leaving Bucky alone with the shattered remnants of John Walker.
Bucky stood for a long moment, his metal hand clenched, his gaze sweeping over the devastation before settling on John. The silence stretched, punctuated only by Johnâs shallow, ragged breathing. Bucky walked over slowly, his boots crunching on scattered composite shards. He stopped beside John, looking down at the ruin of a man.
"You okay, Walker?" Bucky asked, his voice low but firm. It wasn't just about the physical injuries.
John didn't answer. Didn't blink. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling, vacant and hollow.
Bucky sighed, a sound of profound weariness. He crouched down beside John, the movement deliberate, bringing himself to eye level. The stench of sweat, blood, and dust was sharp.
"Stop being an idiot," Bucky stated, his voice devoid of judgment but laced with a blunt honesty that cut through the silence. "This... this whole mess? It's gone on long enough. Months, John. Too long Months. The whole team sees it. We see the heat, the sparks, the way you orbit each other like damned neutron stars about to collapse. We see it, even when you're throwing insults or trying to kill each other."
Johnâs jaw clenched minutely, the only sign heâd heard.
"You think you're hiding it?" Bucky continued, his gaze steady on Johnâs profile. "You think the anger covers it? It doesn't. It amplifies it. You're making it harder on yourselves, harder on everyone in this tower, for no damn reason except stubborn pride and whatever guilt you've got festering inside that thick skull."
He paused, letting the words sink into the heavy quiet. John remained motionless, but his breathing hitched slightly.
"And I know," Bucky said, his voice dropping lower, becoming almost gentle, a tone rarely used. "I know you think that after Olivia... after everything you lost... that you don't deserve it. That you don't deserve to feel that again. To risk it. To be happy." He saw the flicker of raw pain in Johnâs eyes, quickly shuttered. "You think the shield, the titles, the failures... they stripped you of the right to anything good. Especially love."
Johnâs throat worked, but no sound came out. His gaze remained fixed upwards, but Bucky could see the sheen of unshed tears mingling with the dust on his lashes.
"Everyone deserves a second chance, John," Bucky said, his voice firm with conviction. "Everyone. Even you. Especially you. Hell, look at me. Look at this team. We're all walking disasters who got second, third, fourth chances. The question isn't if you deserve it. It's whether you want it. Whether you're brave enough to reach for it, even knowing it could blow up in your face. Especially knowing that." He placed his metal hand briefly, firmly, on Johnâs uninjured shoulder. "Stop fighting her, Walker. And stop fighting yourself. Itâs exhausting to watch."
Bucky rose to his feet, the joints in his knees protesting softly. He looked down at John for another moment â the battered face, the vacant stare, the utter stillness that screamed louder than any rage. The choice, the next move, wasn't his to make.
"Just... talk to her," Bucky said finally, the words hanging in the dusty air. "Before you destroy whatâs left. Or before she finishes the job."
He turned and walked out of the ruined gym, leaving John Walker alone on the mat, staring at the ceiling, the weight of Buckyâs words settling onto his already fractured soul like another layer of debris. The silence returned, deeper now, filled only with the echo of truth and the terrifying, unresolved question of what came next. The trembling in Johnâs jaw was the only sign of the storm still raging within the stillness.
--
The sterile quiet of your room pressed in on you, a suffocating counterpoint to the roaring chaos still echoing in your skull. You hadnât made it past the threshold before collapsing onto the cold, smooth floor, your back against the wall beside the door. The adrenaline that had fueled the fight, the telekinetic burst, the desperate grappling â it had vanished, leaving behind a crushing void filled only with a raw, aching sorrow that seemed to emanate from your very bones.
Your chest felt tight, constricted, like your heart was a physical weight too heavy to bear, bruised and bleeding internally. Each breath hitched painfully. The tears started to fall again, hot tracks carving paths through the dust and sweat on your cheeks, remnants of the gym floor and your own fury. Then came the sobs â deep, shuddering gasps that wracked your entire frame. You curled in on yourself, knees drawn to your chest, forehead pressed against them, as if trying to physically contain the pain spilling out.
How? The question circled like a vulture in your mind, sharp and relentless. How did we get here? Images flashed: the initial spark of challenge in his eyes across the common room, the dangerous thrill of their verbal sparring, the electric tension always present between you both, the intoxicating power of invading his dreams, his thoughts, the devastating intimacy of feeling his surrender in that fabricated space. You wanted each other. Fiercely. Undeniably. It hadnât been just a game, not really. It had been a dance, a terrifying, exhilarating dance on the edge of something real.
But pride. Stubbornness. Fear. Youâd weaponized it. Turned desire into ammunition, attraction into a battlefield. Each provocation, each retaliation, each psychic intrusion and physical clash had been another brick in a wall built of mutual hurt and misunderstanding. Youâd seen the precipice, known you should stop, wanted to stop somewhere deep down⊠but the momentum of your own damned stubbornness had been too strong. Like watching a train wreck in slow motion, powerless to derail it.
The tears flowed harder, a torrent of regret and self-recrimination. You saw Johnâs face beneath yours on the gym mat â not defiant anymore, but resigned, accepting your blows, the blood on his lip and brow, the look in his eyes that wasnât anger, but a profound, weary sadness that mirrored your own. Heâd stopped fighting. And youâd hit him anyway. The memory was a physical blow, doubling you over with a fresh wave of sobs. The games hadnât been funny anymore. Theyâd become a catastrophe, a self-inflicted wound that felt fatal.
You didnât move. Hours bled into each other. The light filtering through the window shifted, casting long, accusing shadows. The dust motes danced in the fading beams, indifferent to your grief. You didnât eat. The thought of food turned your stomach. You didnât shower; the lingering, phantom smell of the gym, sweat, blood, and ozone from your power felt like a fitting shroud. You simply lay on the cold floor, then eventually crawled onto the rumpled bed, curling into a tight ball, your face buried in a pillow that quickly grew damp. Sleep was impossible, a distant luxury. Your head throbbed with a vicious, unrelenting headache, a physical manifestation of the emotional maelstrom. You just wanted to dissolve, to cease existing, to escape the crushing weight of what youâd broken.
---
The knock, when it came late the next morning, was soft. Tentative. You didnât stir. You barely registered it. Your eyes felt swollen shut, gritty and raw. Your body ached with a deep, pervasive exhaustion. The headache was a constant drumbeat behind your temples.
The door hissed open. You flinched, burrowing deeper into the pillow, wishing the intruder away.
Footsteps, quiet but purposeful, crossed the room. The mattress dipped beside you. A familiar scent â sweet shampoo, and a faint, clean citrus â cut through the stale air of despair.
âY/N,â Yelenaâs voice was uncharacteristically soft, stripped of its usual sardonic edge.
You didnât look up. You couldnât.
Yelena didnât say anything else for a long moment. She tried to talk to you after all happened but you didât want to talk. She let you rest, thinking that maybe you need time, a little at least, and decided to try again the next day.
Now, she was there. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then, you felt a gentle hand on your back, resting between your shoulder blades. The touch was hesitant at first, then firmer, warm and grounding.
âOh, honey,â Yelena murmured, sounding strangely tender. âLook at you.â
Slowly, painfully, you turned your head, peering out with one red-rimmed, swollen eye. The light, even dimmed, felt like needles. Yelenaâs face swam into focus â her sharp features softened with concern, her blonde hair pulled back simply. There was no judgment in her eyes, only a deep, aching sympathy that somehow made you feel even worse.
The sight cracked the fragile dam holding back your tears again. A fresh sob escaped, ragged and broken.
Without a word, Yelena shifted. She didnât ask permission. She simply gathered you into her arms, pulling you upright and against her shoulder. You stiffened for a second, unused to such open comfort, especially from the usually prickly Widow. But the warmth, the solidity of Yelena, the sheer humanity of the embrace shattered your remaining resistance. You collapsed against your friend, burying your face in Yelenaâs neck, your body shaking with silent, wracking sobs. Yelena held you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back.
âI am sorry,â Yelena whispered, her voice thick with her own emotion. âI am so sorry, Y/N. My plan⊠it was stupid. I thought⊠I thought forcing you together would make you see. I did not see this.â She tightened her hold as another wave of sobs shook you. âShhh. Itâs okay. Let it out.â
Both sat like that for a long time, Yelena a silent anchor in your storm. The tears eventually subsided into hiccupping shudders, leaving you feeling hollowed out, utterly drained, but the crushing weight had lessened, fractionally, by being shared.
Yelena gently pulled back, keeping her hands on your shoulders, her gaze searching your ravaged face. She brushed a tangled strand of hair away from your damp cheek with surprising gentleness.
âYou both,â Yelena said, her voice regaining a little of its usual directness, though it remained soft, âare the most stubborn, prideful, stupid people I have ever known.â There was no bite in the words, only weary truth. âLook at this. Look what you have done to each other. To yourselves.â
You looked down, fresh tears welling. âItâs too late,â you whispered, your voice a raw croak from crying and disuse. âWe broke it. We broke everything.â
âNo,â Yelena said firmly. She tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her eyes. âIt is only broken if you leave it broken on the floor. Like children who smash a toy and walk away.â She sighed, a deep, weary sound. âY/N, listen to me. Everyone. Everyone in this tower sees it. Bucky sees it. Ava sees it. Bob, Alexei⊠even me. We see how you look at him when you think no one is watching. The fire, the challenge⊠and the want. We see how he watches you â like you hung the damn moon and stars, even when he is arguing with you. You burn for each other. It is⊠blindingly obvious.â
You flinched. Hearing it stated so plainly, so undeniably, was both a relief and a fresh agony. âThen why?â you choked out. âWhy is it so hard? Why does it hurt so much?â
âBecause you are both idiots!â Yelena exclaimed, though her touch remained gentle. âBecause you are both carrying so much hurt, so much pride, so much fear of being vulnerable, that you turned the easiest thing in the world into a war!â She leaned closer, her gaze intense. âLoving someone? It is simple. Admitting it? That is the hard part. Especially for people like you. Like him. Soldiers. Broken things. Used to fighting, not⊠surrendering. To trust.â
She smoothed your hair back again. âThis game you played? It was armor. Hiding behind sarcasm, behind power, behind anger⊠safer than saying âI want you. I need you. I see you.ââ Yelenaâs voice dropped to a near whisper. âHe stopped fighting, Y/N. On that mat. He let you hit him. What does that tell you?â
It told you everything. It told you of his exhaustion, his defeat, his willingness to take your pain because he felt responsible. It told you of a surrender deeper than physical.
âHe needs to hear it,â Yelena said softly. âAnd you need to say it. Not with your mind. Not with your fists. With your words. Stop fighting the inevitable. Stop hiding. Go to him. Talk. Not to argue. Not to win. Just⊠talk. Be honest. Be⊠human. It is the only way the bleeding stops.â
You closed your eyes, fresh tears leaking from beneath your lids. Yelenaâs words werenât a magic fix, but they were a lifeline thrown into the chasm of your despair. They were the simple, terrifying truth youâd been desperately avoiding. The games were over. The war was lost by both sides. All that remained was the terrifying vulnerability of truce⊠or the desolate silence of permanent defeat.
Yelena pulled you into another firm hug. âThe hard part is done,â she murmured. âYou broke. Now you rebuild. But you donât have to do it alone.â She held you until the trembling subsided, offering the silent strength of a friend who had seen darkness and knew that even the deepest wounds could, eventually, scar over. The path forward was terrifyingly simple: lay down the weapons, open the door, and speak the truth. The question was, did either of you have the courage left to do it?
---
Silent days passed again, just the same way after the thoughts and after the dreams.
Locked in your room, you stared blankly at your hands â still trembling from the fight. Your temple throbs where his grip bruised you, but the deeper ache is in your chest. "No, you donât. Thatâs the problem." His words replay like a knife twist. You cried â silent, furious tears â into your pillow, muffling sobs so no one hears. When Yelena knocked, you didnât answer. You didnât eat. You didnât sleep. You traced the ghost of his blood on your knuckles.Â
 A purple bruise bloomed on your temple. Silver eyes are swollen, shadowed. You moved like a ghost through the Towerâs halls, avoiding the gymâs wreckage.Â
 ---
He paces his room until dawn, Buckyâs words haunting him. "Do you want it?" He stared at his reflection: split lip, the fading scars of a man whoâs lost everything. He rehearsed apologies in the mirror â "Iâm sorry about your parents" â but choked on the words.
At 3 AM, he stood outside your door, fist raised to knock... then walked away.Â
His knuckles were raw, ribs bruised from your telekinetic blast. He avoided the med-bay, wore long sleeves to hide the wounds. His gait is stiff, pride masking pain.Â
By the second day, you sat alone in the darkened common room at night, nursing cold coffee. When John entered, you froze. Your eyes met â a flash of shared agony â before you left. Later, you overheared Ava whisper, "They look so... broken." You slammed your fist into your thigh, hating the tears that returned. You dreamed of his resignation â "Hit me" â and woke gasping.Â
 Anger curdled into shame. You replied to his accusation: "You crossed the line." Part of you believed it.Â
--
He trained alone in the ruined gym, punching the only standing bag until his hands bled. He watched you from afar: how you picked at food, how your shoulders slumped when you thought no one saw. That night, he drank. Not to forget â to feel. The bottle whispers: Sheâll never forgive you.Â
Fear caged him. He wanted to say, "The dreams... I didnât hate them." But the risk of your rejection felt like losing the shield all over again.Â
On the third dayâŠ
You forced yourself into the common room. John was there, staring out at the city. The air crackled. You hesitated â just talk to him â but saw his white-knuckled grip on the couch. He regrets it. All of it. Defeated, you turned to leave...Â
"Y/N." His voice was gravel.Â
You stopped. Didnât turn. Held your breath.Â
"I... Never mind." He walked out.Â
You slid to the floor, back against the wall, tears streaming silently. Coward. Both of us.Â
He almost said it: "Iâm sorry." But your flinch when he spoke gutted him. He spends hours cleaning his gear, avoiding everyone. In his mind, he repeated: âI donât know how to fix this."
His bruises have faded to sickly yellow. But the hollowness in his eyes remained.
The Watchtowerâs klaxons werenât blaring; they were screaming. Crimson emergency lights bathed the common room, stripping everything of color, painting faces in stark relief. The mission brief scrolled across the main holo-screen: **OPERATION: SHATTERPOINT. NEURO-TOXIN RELEASE IMMINENT. STRIKE TEAM DEPLOY: IMMEDIATE.**
John Walker was already moving before the first syllable finished. Muscle memory, honed by a thousand scrambles, kicked in. He slammed his coffee mug onto the table, the ceramic cracking, and lunged for the weapons locker embedded in the wall, his movements sharp, focused, the fog of the last three days burned away by adrenaline. Finally. Action. Purpose. Something to hit.
You were a half-step behind him, your own weariness shoved aside by the raw urgency vibrating through the tower. You reached for your tac-vest hanging nearby.
Bucky Barnes stood like a pillar of grim resolve near the entrance to the Quinjet bay, his face set in lines of cold command. Yelena, Ava, and Alexei were already geared up, checking weapons with practiced efficiency, the usual banter silenced by the threat level.
John grabbed his shield â a heavy, blunt instrument compared to the star-spangled symbol heâd lost, but solid â and clipped it to his back. He turned, heading for the bay ramp, expecting you beside him.
"Walker. Y/N." Buckyâs voice cut through the din, cold and final. "Stand down."
John froze mid-stride, halfway to the ramp. You stopped beside him, your hand still on your vest buckle. You both turned, identical expressions of disbelief etched onto your faces.
"What?" Johnâs voice was dangerously low, a growl building in his chest.
"You heard me," Bucky stated, his gaze unwavering. "You two are staying. Bob will coordinate comms and surveillance from here. Youâre backup."
"Backup?" John took a step towards Bucky, his frame radiating incredulous fury. "That place is about to spew death across three states! You need every hand!"
"I need a team that functions," Bucky shot back, his voice like titanium. "Not a liability. Not a powder keg." His eyes flicked pointedly between John and you, landing on the faint, lingering yellow-green bruise near Johnâs temple, the subtle tension in your shoulders. "What happened in the gym? That canât happen out there. Not with stakes this high."
Yelena paused at the top of the Quinjet ramp, her usual smirk absents. She met your eyes, a flicker of something unreadable â apology? Regret? â before turning away. Ava looked stricken, her gaze darting between Bucky and the grounded pair. Alexei grunted, hefting his pulse rifle. "Is waste of good fighters, James," he rumbled, but didn't challenge the order.
"The best thing you can do for the team right now," Bucky continued, his tone softening marginally but losing none of its steel, "is stay put. Monitor. If things go sideways and we need you, weâll call. But until then⊠youâre benched."
Johnâs hands clenched into fists at his sides. The frustration wasnât just tactical; it was deeply personal. Being sidelined again. Judged unfit. A liability. It scraped against the raw nerve of every failure, every loss. He looked at the Quinjet, the open ramp a gateway to purpose, to redemption, slamming shut in his face. His jaw worked, teeth grinding, a vein pulsing in his temple. He looked like he might explode.
You, in contrast, went utterly still. The color drained from your face, leaving you pale beneath the emergency lights. Your gaze dropped from Bucky to the floor. The accusation â liability â landed with the weight of a physical blow. This is my fault. The thought was a cold knife. Your reckless telekinesis, the uncontrolled fury that shattered the gym, the toxic war with John that poisoned the team⊠it had led here. To be deemed untrustworthy when lives hung in the balance. Shame, hot and acrid, washed over you, momentarily eclipsing the missionâs urgency. You didnât argue. You couldnât. Bucky was right.
"Bob," Bucky said, turning to him, "you have the watch. Keep them looped in. Letâs move." He gave John and you one last, unreadable look â part command, part pity â then turned and strode up the Quinjet ramp without looking back. Yelena, Ava, and Alexei followed, their expressions grim. Ava offered you a small, helpless glance before disappearing inside.
The heavy hydraulic whine of the ramp closing was the loudest sound in the suddenly too-quiet bay. Through the closing gap, John caught a final glimpse of the team strapping in, Bucky settling into the pilotâs seat, his face set. Then the ramp sealed with a definitive sound.
The engines whined, building to a deafening roar that vibrated the floor plates beneath their feet. The Quinjet lifted, sleek and lethal, hovering for a moment before pivoting and accelerating out through the open bay doors into the crimson-lit dusk.
John stood rigid, staring at the empty space where the jet had been. His breath came in short, sharp bursts through flared nostrils. The frustration, the humiliation, the sheer impotent rage boiled inside him, a pressure cooker with no release. He couldnât hit Bucky. He couldnât hit the mission. He spun on his heel, his gaze sweeping the bay â the pristine walls, the parked vehicles, the silent equipment â all symbols of his confinement.
With a raw, wordless roar of pure fury, he lashed out. Not at a person, but at the nearest inanimate object â a reinforced steel maintenance trolley laden with tools. He kicked it with all his enhanced strength. The trolley screeched across the polished floor, tools scattering like shrapnel with a deafening clatter, before slamming into the far wall with a resounding **BANG**, leaving a significant dent.
He didnât look at the damage. He didnât look at you. He just stood there for a second, chest heaving, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. Then, without a word, he stormed past you, his shoulder brushing yours in a jarring, unintentional contact. He didnât stop, didnât look back, just disappeared down the corridor towards the ruined gym, leaving behind the echoing clang of metal and the thick scent of ozone and thwarted fury.
You remained rooted to the spot. You hadnât flinched when the trolley crashed. You hadnât moved when he brushed past. Your eyes were fixed on the open bay doors, on the spot where the Quinjet had vanished into the blood-red horizon. The roar of the engines faded into the cityâs hum, then into silence. The team was gone. Into danger. Without you.
Bob cleared his throat awkwardly from his iPad. "Uh, Y/N? Iâve got the primary feeds up on Screen Three if you⊠uh⊠want to monitor?"
You didnât answer. You just stood there, a lone figure in the vast, echoing bay, the emergency lights painting you in stark red and shadow. The weight of Buckyâs decision, the echo of Johnâs rage, and the crushing burden of your own guilt pressed down on you, making the air feel thick and suffocating. Liability. The word echoed in the silence left by the departed jet. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a silent, solitary sentinel watching an empty sky, the taste of ash and failure heavy on your tongue. The mission had begun, and they were already drowning.
Hours bled into the Watchtower's tense silence. The common room, usually vibrant, felt like a tomb lit by the cold blue glow of mission feeds. Bob hunched over the console, fingers flying across holographic keys, his brow furrowed in concentration. Screens displayed chaotic thermal signatures, fragmented comms chatter, and shaky helmet-cam footage from Yelena: crumbling concrete corridors, flashes of energy weapons, the grim set of Bucky's jaw as he fired.
Thank God the team taught Bob how to monitor for missions while he couldnât go. He was really good at it.
You sat rigidly in a chair besides him, your gaze fixed on the screens. Silver eyes tracked every movement, every flicker of threat, your face pale and drawn. The bruise on your temple seemed darker in the monitor's light. You hadn't moved much since the Quinjet left. The weight of being grounded, of being the liability that kept you from your friends, pressed down on you like stone. Every grunt of pain over the comms, every shouted warning, twisted the knife.
John was conspicuously absent. He hadn't emerged from his room since storming off. The silence from his quarters was heavier than any outburst.
"Y/N?" Bob's voice was soft, tentative, breaking the rhythmic hum of the computers and the tense crackle of the comms. Ava was calling for covering fire; Alexei roared in pain.
You didn't look away from the screen showing Yelena ducking behind shattered machinery. "Hmm?"
"You okay?" Bob asked, swiveling slightly in his chair to face you. His kind eyes held genuine concern, cutting through the digital fog of the mission.
A bitter, humorless sound escaped your lips. "Does it matter? They're out there. We're... here." Your voice was flat, devoid of its usual fire.
"It matters," Bob insisted gently. He paused, watching your profile, the way your knuckles were white where you gripped the armrests. "Look... I know things are... complicated. With Walker. With everything." He took a breath, choosing his words carefully over the sound of Bucky barking orders. "He's... he's a good man. Flawed, yeah. Angry, definitely. Carries a lot of hurt. But deep down? Good. And you..." He met your eyes when you finally glanced at him, startled. "You're a good woman. Strong, brilliant, fierce. You both have your demons. Who here doesn't?" He gestured vaguely around the empty room. "But... maybe you should give yourselves a chance. A chance to be something other than enemies." He sighed, âYou are my friend and I⊠I would like to see you happy.â He smiled shyly.
You stared at him, the raw sincerity in his words piercing through your numbness. Bob, gentle and sweet, always sees the potential, the good, even in the wreckage. Your throat tightened. You looked back at the screen just as a blast rocked Yelena's feed, sending static across the image. Ava screamed Bucky's name.
"Thank you, Bob," you whispered as your hand gently cupped his. The words thick with unshed tears and the crushing weight of the unfolding disaster. You meant it. For his kindness, for seeing you when you felt like a failure. But his words felt distant, irrelevant against the immediate horror on the screens.
Suddenly, Bucky's voice cut through, sharp and strained, overriding the chaos: "--overwhelmed! Fall back to Point Delta! Repeat, fall back to--" His transmission dissolved into a burst of static and a bone-jarring *crunch*.
The main tactical screen flashed red. Blinking icons representing Yelena, Ava, and Alexei clustered near a flashing red marker labeled **POINT DELTA - CLIFF EDGE**. Bob's face drained of color. "Oh no... structural collapse detected near their position! They're pinned!"
He frantically worked his console. "Bucky! Yelena! Do⊠do you copy? What's your status?!" Static hissed back. The helmet cams showed frantic movement, glimpses of a sheer drop beyond crumbling concrete, enemy fire intensifying from multiple angles. Alexei was limping badly, supporting Ava who clutched her side. Yelena fired desperately, her expression grim. Bucky was nowhere in the feeds.
"They're cornered," Bob breathed, horror-struck. "The cliff... if they get pushed back any further..." He looked desperately at you.
You were already moving. Bob's words about chances and goodness evaporated. The only thing that mattered was the terror on your friends' faces, the certainty of death on that crumbling edge. The liability label burned away in the furnace of protective fury.
You didn't run; you stormed. Past Bob, out of the common room, down the corridor towards the secondary hangar bay on the roof. Your movements were swift, silent, purposeful. Years of combat focus slammed down over your emotional turmoil. Save them. Nothing else matters.
You hit the roof access panel, the cool night air hitting your face as the doors slid open. The sleek, angular shape of the secondary Quinjet sat ready. You sprinted towards it, the ramp already descending at your approach command.
You were halfway up the ramp when a heavy boot landed beside yours. You froze, whirling around.
John Walker stood on the ramp, breathing slightly hard, his expression unreadable in the dim hangar light. He must have heard the alerts, the panic in Bob's voice over the intercom, and moved like lightning. He wore his tac-gear â the shield strapped to his back, his jaw set. There was no anger in his eyes now. Just a terrifying, focused intensity. He met your gaze.
No words. No accusations. No "I told you so." Just a shared, desperate understanding reflected in your eyes: Our team is dying. Go.
Your locked gaze lasted only a heartbeat, a silent pact forged in the crucible of imminent loss. You gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod. John turned and vaulted into the co-pilot's seat.
You didn't hesitate. You slammed your hand on the ramp control. As the hydraulic whine started and the ramp began its ascent, you were already sliding into the pilot's seat, fingers flying over the ignition sequence. The engines roared to life with a throaty scream that drowned out the distant city sounds and the frantic pounding of your own heart.
You didn't wait for the ramp to fully seal. As soon as there was clearance, you yanked the controls. The Quinjet shot upwards like a bullet, punching through the thin layer of city haze into the cold, star-dusted sky. The Watchtower roof fell away below them.
On the comm, Bob's voice crackled, frantic: "Y/N?! John?! What are you--? Bucky just managed a burst! They're falling back! The cliff section is unstable! You can't--!"
"We're already on route, Bob," you stated, your voice cold steel, cutting him off. Your eyes were fixed on the nav screen, plotting the shortest, most dangerous route to the dam's coordinates. The jet screamed through the night. John, beside you, was a silent, grim statue, scanning tactical data on his screen.
No discussion. No plan. Just speed. Just the unspoken, desperate drive to reach your family before the cliff, the enemy, or time itself claimed them. The only sound was the howl of the engines and the frantic beating of two hearts finally united by a single, terrifying purpose: Save them.
--
The secondary Quinjet slammed down on a relatively stable plateau a quarter-mile from the collapsing dam, kicking up dust and gravel. Before the engines fully whined down, the ramp was crashing open. The scene before them was chaos rendered in smoke, fire, and the echoing cacophony of battle. The cliff face near the dam was crumbling, sections shearing away into the churning river far below. Enemy fire spat from fortified positions along the access road and higher vantage points.
"Bob, status!" You barked into your comm, already striding down the ramp, twin vibranium-alloy knives snapping into your hands from your thighs sheaths with a lethal *shink*.
"Yelena and Alexei are pinned 200 yards northwest, behind a collapsed generator housing! Ava is 100 yards due west, trapped in a drainage culvert under heavy fire! Bucky's signal is intermittent, last ping was near the main control room access tunnel â deep inside, surrounded!" Bob's voice was frantic but precise. "Enemy converging on all positions! Structural integrity failing!"
John hit the ground beside you, shield already unslung, his eyes scanning the terrain with predatory focus. Dust coated his face, his earlier fury replaced by a terrifyingly calm lethality. He didn't look at you; his gaze tracked the tracer fire stitching the air towards Ava's position.
"We clear a path," he stated, his voice a low rumble cutting through the din. "Work together. I go first, draw fire. You shield us, push back. Get to Ava first, she's closest and exposed."
You hesitated for a fraction of a second. His plan made tactical sense. But trusting him, relying on him after everything⊠your knuckles whitened on your knives. Ava's faint cry of pain over the comms decided it. This wasn't about you.
"Okay," you said, the single word clipped but clear. No argument. No sarcasm. Just acceptance. The mission. The team.
John didn't wait. He was already moving, a blur of motion, his shield snapping up as enemy fire immediately zeroed in on the new threat. Energy bolts *SPANGED* off the reinforced surface.
"NOW!" he roared.
Your silver eyes narrowed. You flung out a hand. A shimmering, concave telekinetic barrier bloomed into existence just behind John, wider than his shield, catching the crossfire he couldn't block. Concrete chips and energy blasts dissipated against the invisible wall. You pushed, physically straining, sending a kinetic pulse rippling outwards that knocked two advancing mercenaries off their feet. John exploited the opening, charging forward, shield bashing one enemy aside while his sidearm barked, dropping another.
It was brutal, efficient, and terrifyingly coordinated. John was the battering ram, the unyielding point, drawing fire and shattering defenses with sheer aggression and the impact of his shield. You were the protector and the unseen weapon. You deflected sniper rounds aimed at his back, used telekinetic shoves to knock enemies off balance into his path, and once, when a grenade arced towards them, you caught it mid-air with your mind and hurled it back towards the thrower with devastating effect.
Both moved like extensions of each other â he advanced, you covered his flanks and rear; you identified a threat, he neutralized it before you fully voiced the warning. Bob fed you constant updates, guiding you both around collapsing structures and enemy strongpoints.
"Left, Walker! Three hostiles behind the burnt-out truck!"
"Shield up, Y/N! RPG incoming!"
"Push right! Culvert access is clear!"
Both reached the drainage culvert under a hail of fire. John slammed his shield down, creating instant cover as you dropped to your knees beside Ava. The Ghost was curled up, clutching her side, her suit torn and soaked with blood. Her face was pale, eyes wide with pain and fear.
"Hey, hey, look at me," you said, your voice surprisingly gentle despite the chaos. Your hands, glowing faintly silver, pressed against the worst wound. Ava gasped, then sighed as the sharp agony dulled under the warm rush of healing energy. You focused, knitting torn tissue, sealing punctures, staunching internal bleeding just enough to stabilize her. It wasn't a full heal â not here, not now â but it was life-saving. "Can you move?"
Ava nodded weakly, gritting her teeth. "Y-yeah. Thanks, Y/N."
"John! Get her to the jet!" You commanded, already rising, your eyes scanning for the next threat. John didn't question. He hauled Ava carefully to her feet, half-supporting, half-carrying her, his shield still deflecting fire as he moved back towards the relative safety of the Quinjet ramp.
You covered their retreat, knives flashing to deflect a close-quarters attacker while your telekinesis held back a renewed barrage. As soon as John deposited Ava inside the jet, he was back at your side, shield raised.
"Yelena and Alexei next," he stated, breathing hard but eyes blazing with determination. "Northwest. Generator housing."
You met his gaze. Dust, sweat, and soot streaked both your faces. There was no anger there now, only the shared, desperate resolve forged in fire. You both had saved one. You would save the others.
"Lead the way," you said, your voice tight with focus. Your knives dripped with fresh ichor, your power hummed around you like a barely contained storm. John nodded once, a grim understanding passing between you. The dance of war resumed, their movements synchronized, relentless, cutting a bloody swathe towards their trapped comrades. The dam groaned ominously behind you, but your world had narrowed to the next enemy, the next step, the next life to pull from the jaws of death. Together.
Reaching Yelena and Alexei was a gauntlet carved through fire and crumbling concrete. The generator housing was a twisted tomb of metal and sparks, offering scant cover. Enemy fire poured in from elevated positions along the access road and the dam's crumbling superstructure.
John became a relentless storm. He charged fortified nests, his shield a battering ram against makeshift barricades, his enhanced strength tossing aside debris or enemies foolish enough to get close. He drew fire like a lightning rod, trusting you to be his shadow, his shield, his unseen executioner.
And you were. Your twin knives weren't just blades; they were extensions of your will. With sharp flicks of your wrist and focused telekinetic bursts, you sent them flying. They became silver streaks of death, whistling through the air to find throats, sever gun barrels, or lodge deep into the chests of enemies sighting John from blind spots. A mental tug, a twist of power, and they ripped free, arcing back to your waiting hands, slick with blood, only to be launched again. You wove a lethal tapestry of steel and psychic force around them.
A mercenary aiming a heavy machine gun at Johnâs exposed flank dropped, a knife buried in his eye socket. Another screamed as a blade severed his firing hand before returning to your grasp. You used telekinetic shoves to trip attackers into Johnâs path, or deflected ricochets that would have found your mark.
"Left flank! Heavy weapons team setting up!" Bob's voice crackled, urgent.
John pivoted, shield raised just as a hail of armor-piercing rounds slammed into it, the impacts driving him back a step. You saw the danger behind him â two more mercenaries rushing from cover with plasma rifles.
Your knives were engaged elsewhere. No time. You threw up a broad telekinetic shield just as the plasma bolts seared the air. The impact against your psychic barrier sent a jolt through your system, a sharp spike of pain behind your eyes. You gritted your teeth, holding it.
"Walker! Yelena's position is collapsing!" Bob yelled.
John roared, surging against the heavy weapons fire, using your shield as mobile cover. You were meters from the generator housing. Yelena popped up, firing precise bursts, her face smudged with soot but eyes blazing. Alexei lay behind her, a crude bandage soaked red around his massive thigh, his face pale but his expression furious.
"Y/N! Took you long enough!" Yelena shouted, a flicker of relief in her voice.
"Get Alexei ready to move!" John bellowed, deflecting another volley. "We're getting you out!â.
You focused on clearing the immediate path, knives flashing, telekinetic pulses shoving debris and enemies aside. The strain was immense. Healing Ava, constant shielding, the precision knife-work â it was draining your reserves faster than you âd anticipated.
Suddenly, a chilling *WHOOSH* cut through the din. From a higher vantage point on the dam's cracking wall, a mercenary stood, an RPG launcher smoking on his shoulder. The rocket snaked through the air, trailing fire, aimed directly at the cluster around the generator housing â John, you, Yelena, and the injured Alexei.
Time slowed.
"RPG!" John roared, instinctively raising his shield, knowing it wouldn't be enough against the high explosive at this range.
You didn't think. You reacted. With a raw, guttural cry that tore from your throat, you threw everything you had left. Not a shield. A force. A massive, concussive wave of pure telekinetic energy erupted from you, not towards the rocket, but towards the air in front of it, compressing it violently.
***BOOOOOOM!***
The RPG detonated prematurely, ten meters short of its target. The explosion was deafening, a blinding fireball that hurled shrapnel and a concussive wave in all directions. John was thrown back hard against the generator housing, his shield ringing like a gong. Yelena ducked, shielding Alexei. You took the brunt of the psychic backlash. The force of your own power rebounded through you. You staggered, a blinding pain lancing through your skull. A torrential nosebleed gushed over your lips and chin, dripping onto your tac-suit. Your vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges. You swayed, catching yourself on a jagged piece of metal, gasping for air.
"Y/N!" John was beside you instantly, his hand gripping your arm, steadying you. His eyes scanned your face, the blood, the dazed expression, with raw alarm cutting through the battle focus.
"I'm... I'm okay," you gasped, wiping blood from your nose with a trembling, dirty hand, leaving a crimson smear. The world tilted, then steadied. The pain was excruciating, but the immediate danger was past. "Just... drained. Get them... get them moving!"
John didn't hesitate. He hauled Alexei up, the big man groaning but clamping a massive hand on John's shoulder. "Is good time for rescue, Captain Pain-in-Ass!" Alexei grunted through gritted teeth.
Yelena provided covering fire, her shots precise and lethal. "Move! This whole section is coming down!"
You pushed through the dizziness and pain, summoning the dregs of your power. You couldn't throw knives anymore, but you could create a weak, shimmering barrier behind them as they retreated, deflecting stray fire as John half-carried Alexei and Yelena covered their six. It was a slow, agonizing retreat under constant fire, you stumbling, your head pounding with every step, every use of power.
Somehow, they made it back to the Quinjet. Ava, pale but alert, helped pull Alexei up the ramp. Yelena leaped on last, spinning to lay down suppressive fire.
"Get us airborne!" John yelled, dragging you up the ramp as you sagged against him, your strength failing. The ramp whined shut just as a hail of fire slammed into it.
You collapsed against the bulkhead inside, breathing raggedly, blood still trickling from your nose, your face ashen. John dumped Alexei onto a jump seat and whirled to the cockpit controls Ava had managed to prep.
"Bob! Status on Bucky!" John barked, slamming his hands on the console, bringing engines back to full shriek.
"Signal's weak! Deep in the access tunnel network! Bio-signs erratic! He's not moving! Enemy converging on his last known position!" Bob's voice was frantic. "The main control room structure is failing!"
John's knuckles were white on the controls. He looked back at the bay. Yelena was binding Alexei's leg. Ava was trying to stem your nosebleed with a med-pad, the telepath trembling with exhaustion and pain.
They had two critically injured teammates. You were spent, possibly concussed. The jet was damaged. And Bucky was deep in the collapsing, enemy-infested heart of the dam, seconds from death or catastrophic failure.
The impossible choice hung in the smoke-filled air of the Quinjet. Save Bucky and risk everyone? Or leave him to save the others?
John's eyes met yours across the bay. Yours were clouded with pain, but the fierce determination hadn't extinguished. You gave the faintest nod, pushing yourself slightly upright against the bulkhead, wiping blood from your chin. You both had come this far. You weren't leaving him. Not now.
"Plot me a course, Bob," John growled, his voice like grinding stone. "Deepest penetration point. Now." He slammed the thrusters forward, the jet screaming towards the dam's breached flank, towards the heart of darkness where Bucky Barnes awaited his fate.
The air inside the battered Quinjet tasted of blood, ozone, and desperation. Bobâs voice crackled over the comm, rapid-fire, guiding John through the labyrinth of collapsing tunnels towards Buckyâs fading signal. "Left at the next junction, John! Structural integrity at 15%! Thermal bloom ahead â likely hostiles!"
John brought the jet to a shuddering halt deep within a crumbling access chamber, the ramp groaning open to reveal smoke, falling debris, and the ominous creak of failing concrete. Buckyâs signal pulsed weakly nearby.
"Y/N..." John started, his voice tight with concern. "You're in no shape. Stay in the jet. I'll get Bucky."
You met his eyes, a flicker of defiance battling the overwhelming fatigue. He wonât be able to do it alone. Without a word, you reached into a small, reinforced pouch on your utility belt. Your fingers closed around a slim, pre-filled injector pen. John recognized it â a high-grade, tactical adrenaline/stimulant cocktail, designed for superhuman metabolisms in extreme situations. A last resort. Temporary. Youâd mentioned having it, but never using it. But now was the moment.
Your hand shook slightly as you pressed the injector against your thigh, through your tac-suit. A faint *hiss*. You closed your eyes for a second as the potent cocktail hit your system. A shudder ran through you, then your spine straightened. Color flooded back into your cheeks, chased by a dangerous, artificial vibrancy. Your silver eyes snapped open, blazing with renewed, almost feverish intensity, though the deep shadows of exhaustion remained beneath the surface.
"Let's go for Bucky," you stated, your voice clipped, sharpened by the stimulant. The tremor was gone, replaced by a brittle, hyper-alert readiness.
John saw the worry warring with necessity in your eyes. The stim would keep you going, but it was borrowing strength you didn't have, and the crash would be brutal. But Bucky was dying. He nodded curtly. "Yelena! Be ready to launch the second we're back on that ramp! Don't wait for niceties!"
"Da, Captain Obvious!" Yelena called back, already strapping Alexei in tighter, her eyes fixed on the access point, pistol ready.
They plunged into the choking smoke. The stimulant coursing through your veins turned your exhaustion into razor-wire focus. Your knives flew with renewed, almost reckless speed, guided by sharp telekinetic flicks. John was a whirlwind of violence, his shield shattering barricades, his fists breaking bones. They fought in terrifying harmony, clearing a path through the converging enemy towards the flickering red light of Bucky's locator beacon.
You found him slumped against a shattered control panel, unconscious, bleeding from a head wound and a deep gash across his ribs. John scooped him up effortlessly but grimly. Carrying Bucky meant his shield was his only weapon, his mobility hampered.
You took a moment to heal him, just enough to put his life out of danger. You quickly finished and you were moving.
"Cover us!" John barked, turning to retrace their steps.
You became a one-woman rearguard. Knives whirled, telekinetic pulses shoved debris into pursuers' paths, and shields flared to deflect bullets aimed at John's back. The stimulant fueled you, but the drain was immense. Your movements started to regain a slight tremor as they neared the access chamber.
Suddenly, a figure materialized from the smoke â not a mercenary, but a hulking brute in reinforced armor, cybernetic enhancements glinting. He moved with unnatural speed, ignoring your flying knives that skittered off his plating. He slammed a fist into your telekinetic shield. The impact reverberated through you, staggering you, breaking your focus.
He was on you before the disorientation cleared. A backhanded blow, more machine than muscle, caught your ribs. Air exploded from your lungs. You hit the ground hard, grit biting into your palms, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. Get up. GET UP. You lashed out blindly with a surge of telekinetic force, a desperate shove that bought a single, gasping second. It scraped him back a meter, boots grinding on concrete.
âWalker! Go! Now!â The shout tore from your raw throat, eyes locked on the advancing Goliath. John hesitatedâyou felt it, that familiar, agonizing second of his conflict. âTAKE HIM!â you screamed, raw and final.
The stimulantâs artificial fire was guttering out, leaving cold ash in its wake. Your power sputteredâa dying star. You threw everything left: chunks of debris, a wave of concussive force, a psychic scream meant to scramble circuits. He absorbed it, shrugged it off like rain. Each step he took vibrated the crumbling floor beneath you. Exhaustion wasnât just fatigue; it was a leaden weight dragging your soul down.
His hand shot outâinhumanly fast, impossibly strong. Not a punch. A vice. Cold, plasteel-reinforced fingers closed around your throat. Your own hands clawed uselessly at his forearm, finding only unyielding metal and cable. He lifted you. Your boots left the ground. The world tilted, narrowed to the red glare of his cyber-eye and the terrifying absence of breath. Pressure built behind your eyes.
John, ten yards from the ramp with Bucky, froze. He saw you dangling, your face purpling, your struggles weakening. Saw Yelena in the jet doorway, screaming at him, waving frantically. Saw the entire structure shaking violently, huge chunks of concrete plunging from the ceiling.
Leave her. Save Barnes. Orders. Logic.
His gaze locked with yours, fading, desperate for a split second. Logic died.
He surged forward, not towards the jet, but back towards you. He dumped Bucky unceremoniously but carefully just inside the access chamber entrance, within sight of the ramp. "Yelena! GET HIM!" he roared, then turned and charged the brute.
The enhanced enemy barely had time to register the new threat before John slammed into him like a runaway train. The impact tore the giant's hands from your throat. You crumpled to the ground, gasping, retching, vision swimming.
What followed was pure, savage brutality. John fought with no shield, no finesse, only desperate, enhanced fury. He dodged crushing blows that cratered the concrete floor, landed shattering punches that dented armor, and took hits that would have broken bones in a normal man. He used debris, leverage, sheer bloody-mindedness. He fought for every second, every inch, knowing the dam was seconds from total collapse. You, on your hands and knees, tried to summon your power to help, but only weak sparks flickered. You could only watch, helpless, as John wrestled the monstrosity.
Finally, John found an opening. He jammed a jagged piece of rebar into a seam in the brute's neck armor, twisting with all his strength. The enhanced enemy gurgled, eyes wide with shock, then collapsed, dark fluid welling around the impaled metal.
John staggered back, breathing in ragged gasps, blood dripping from his mouth and a gash on his forehead and cheekbone. He turned towards you, relief warring with urgency on his battered face. "Y/N! Come on!"
He took a step towards you.
***KABOOM!***
The hidden C4 charge, likely planted as a final trap or triggered by the collapsing structure, detonated directly beneath where the brute had fallen. The force was cataclysmic. The floor erupted in a blinding fireball and a shockwave of pure destruction.
You were lifted off your feet and hurled backwards like a ragdoll, straight towards the gaping maw where the access chamber met the sheer cliff face and the roaring river far below.
John reacted on pure instinct. He didn't think. He leaped. Not away from the blast, but towards your tumbling form. He tackled you mid-air, wrapping his arms and body around you, pinning you flush against his chest. He twisted violently in the air, bringing his shield around to face the expanding fireball and the falling debris.
You, battered consciousness clinging by a thread, felt the searing heat, heard the deafening roar. With the last vestige of your power, amplified by adrenaline and sheer will to survive, you threw up the strongest telekinetic shield you could muster. It wasn't a bubble, but a concentrated barrier layered over John's physical shield, reinforcing it.
The combined blast wave and plummeting debris slammed into both. John's shield buckled under the impact, the kinetic force driving the breath from his lungs. Your psychic barrier flared blindingly bright, absorbing the worst of the energy, then shattered like glass, the backlash snapping your head back with a cry. You were falling, tumbling through smoke and debris, the world a chaotic blur of fire, dark rock, and churning white water rushing up to meet you both.
The icy embrace of the river hit you like a sledgehammer. The impact drove you deep into the freezing, turbulent darkness. John's grip on you never loosened, his shield still instinctively angled to deflect the chunks of concrete raining down around them. You went limp in his arms, the stimulant's false energy utterly spent, consciousness fleeing as the freezing water and crushing pressure claimed you. Both plunged into the depths, locked together, swallowed by the river and the roaring aftermath of the dam's final death throes. The surface, and the world above, vanished.
--
The Quinjet shuddered violently as Yelena wrestled it through the maelstrom. Lightning strobed against the reinforced viewport, illuminating the grim tableau within. Bucky Barnes lay strapped to a med-cot, unconscious, face pale beneath smears of grime and blood. Alexei Shostakov slumped against a bulkhead, teeth gritted, his leg hastily bound with torn fabric already soaked crimson. Ava Starr hovered near Bucky, her hands clenching into fists of frustrated impotence. The acrid smell of burnt wiring, blood, and ozone hung thick in the recycled air.
Yelenaâs knuckles were white on the controls. Every jolt of turbulence sent fresh agony rippling through the cabin. Alexei hissed a stream of Russian curses. Ava flinched, her form flickering like a dying bulb. Below them, the churning blackness where the dam had been, was swallowed by the storm unleashed. Where John and you had fallen.
âTheyâŠâ Avaâs voice was a ghost of itself, barely audible over the engines and thunder. ââŠthey pulled us out. All of us. While the place was coming down.â Her eyes fixed on the black void beyond the viewport. âWe just⊠left them.â
Yelena didnât turn. Her gaze remained locked on the navigation screen, a muscle jumping in her jaw. âThere was no choice, Ava,â she stated, her voice clipped, devoid of its usual sharpness. It was a cold, hard fact. âBucky is out. Alexei canât walk. We can barely stand. Going back into that collapse, in this storm, with hostiles likely still active? Itâs suicide. And it wouldnât have helped them.â The words tasted like ash. The logic was sound, the reality brutal.
The quinjet flew over the area several times, scanning for signs of either of you, but no sign appeared. "Shit," Yelena cursed under her breath as a tear escaped and ran down her cheek. There was nothing they could do now.
Alexei slammed a massive fist against the bulkhead, making the jet vibrate. âPizdets! Trapped! Like rats! And those two⊠throwing themselves into fire!â His anger was a mask for the helplessness twisting his features, the pain making his eyes glassy. Heâd seen Walkerâs desperate shove that saved Bucky, seen you, veins standing out like dark cords on your neck as you pushed your telekinesis past breaking to shield them all for those critical seconds.
The Towerâs landing pad emerged like a mirage through the lashing rain. Bob -Â looking worried â stood braced against the gale under the meager shelter of the entrance canopy. His eyes widened as the battered jet touched down, engines screaming against the wind.
He was moving before the ramp fully lowered, ducking under the downpour. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the hem of his sleeves. His expression was pure anxiety. He helped Bucky. âWhat happened? Whereâsâ â. His eyes scanned the emerging, limping figures. âWhereâs Y/N? John?â
Yelena pushed past him, water streaming down her face, her movements stiff with exhaustion and concealed injury. Alexei hobbled heavily, leaning on Ava, providing support, her face etched with hollow exhaustion. They moved with the grim focus of survivors desperate for sanctuary.
Bobâs gaze darted between them, searching faces that refused to meet his. âGuys⊠Yelena!â His voice rose, sharp with dawning dread, cutting through the roar of the storm. âWhere are they?â
Yelena stopped. Rain plastered her blonde hair to her skull. She finally looked at him, and the raw, uncharacteristic sheen in her eyes â a mix of fury, bone-deep fatigue, and a grief she couldnât yet name â was more terrifying than any enemy. Her voice, when it came, was low, hoarse, stripped bare.
â They didnât make it to the jet.â
A beat of crushing silence, filled only by the howling wind.
â Weâll find them.â
The promise was fierce, absolute, but it landed like a stone in the pit of Bobâs stomach. Didnât make it. It wasnât confirmation of death, but it was the void of uncertainty, the image of that collapsing dam face and the raging river below.
The sterile brightness of the Towerâs med bay was a jarring contrast to the chaos theyâd left. Doctors and med-techs that were sent by Val, swarmed Bucky and Alexei. Ava sank onto a gurney, her form shimmering weakly as the adrenaline crash hit. Yelena stood rigidly by the window, watching the storm rage against the panoramic view of the city, her arms crossed tight as if holding herself together.
Bob paced, anxious energy radiating off him. âWe have to go back! The jetâ â.
âThe jet wouldnât survive takeoff in this, Bob,â Yelena cut in, still staring out at the lightning forking across the sky. âItâs a Category 5 system sitting directly over the impact zone and the river basin. Winds are tearing trees out of the ground. Visibility zero. Thermal scans are useless. Any search pattern would be suicidal and blind.â She finally turned, her gaze meeting his, hard and pragmatic despite the exhaustion. âWe are no good to them dead. Or captured again.â
Ava spoke softly from her gurney, drawing a thermal blanket around her shoulders. âThey saved us. Dragged us out one by one while the C4 timers were counting down⊠John carrying us⊠Y/N using the last of her focus to shield BuckyâŠâ Her voice cracked. âWe failed them.â The quiet admission hung heavy in the antiseptic air.
âYouÂŽre talking as if they were⊠they⊠they are ok, right? Yelena?â Bob looked for an affirmation that no one could give.
Yelena didnât look at him. She couldnât.
Alexei, gritting his teeth as a med-tech examined his leg wound, growled, âWalker is cockroach. Hard to kill. And Y/N? That witch has tricks even Satan doesnât know. If anyone survives falling off a dam into hellâs bathtub⊠itâs them.â It was bravado, but laced with a desperate hope they all clung to.
Bob slumped into a chair, running his hands through the hem of his hoodie. The image of John, arrogant and broken, and you, fierce and fragile, facing that explosion⊠it was seared into his mind. The frustration was a physical ache.
Monitors beeped softly. Rain lashed the windows. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within the med bay â the howl of helplessness, the thunderclap of guilt, the relentless downpour of fear for their missing, broken comrades. They were safe, patched up, sheltered. But two vital, volatile pieces of their fractured family were out there, somewhere in the dark and the drowning rain, fighting a battle for survival they might already have lost.
---
The river hit like concrete. The cold wasnât just cold; it was a shock that seared his nerves, punched the air from his already bruised lungs, and sent agony screaming through his broken ribs. Water, thick with mud and debris, swallowed you both whole. Darkness pressed in. The current was a living thing â a monstrous, churning serpent dragging them deeper, tumoring them violently against submerged rocks. Splintered wood from the dam slammed into Johnâs back. He gritted his teeth against a scream, swallowing icy water that burned like acid.
You were unconscious. Utterly still in his arms. Dead weight in the murderous flow. Panic, colder than the river, seized him. No pulse? Drowned? He couldnât check. Not yet. Survival first. He clamped his arms around your torso, locking you against his chest with a grip fueled by desperation and failing adrenaline. His legs kicked furiously, fighting the downward suck of the current. Every movement sent shards of glassy pain through his ribs. His vision pulsed black at the edges. Air. Need air.
Debris battered you both â chunks of concrete, twisted rebar, branches torn from the banks. One branch scraped across his temple, legs and arms. Blood swirled, dark tendrils in the murk. He saw the surface â a shimmering, distorted silver sheet â impossibly far above. He kicked harder, ignoring the fire in his chest, the screaming protest of his muscles. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your face deathly pale, lips tinged blue. Hold on. Just hold on.
The ascent felt like an eternity. His lungs screamed. Spots danced before his eyes. His kicks grew weaker, more erratic. Just as darkness threatened to consume him completely, his scrabbling hand slammed against something solid and unmoving â a massive, algae-slick boulder wedged deep in the riverbed. Anchor. With a final, Herculean heave fueled by pure terror for the woman in his arms, he pushed off the rock, driving you upwards with his legs.
Both breached the surface with a gasp that was half sob. John choked, spewing river water, sucking in great, ragged gulps of rain-lashed air that felt like knives in his chest. He immediately tightened his grip on you, keeping your head above the churning surface. The current was still fierce, trying to rip you from his grasp. He scanned the bank â steep, muddy, treacherous. Twenty yards downstream, a slightly less vertical slope offered a chance.
Every stroke was agony. He swam one-armed, clutching you with the other, his legs churning against the current. Debris continued to pummel you both. He took a glancing blow from a floating log on his already injured ribs. Stars exploded behind his eyes. He tasted copper. Donât drop her. Donât you fucking drop her. If he drops you, you are dead. He reached the muddy bank, clawing at roots and slick earth with his free hand. It gave way. He slid back. Tried again. Finally, he hooked his arm around a thick, exposed root, anchoring you. Heaving, gasping, trembling with exhaustion and pain, he dragged you first, then himself, onto the cold, sucking mud beyond the waterâs reach.
He collapsed beside you, chest heaving, each breath a wet, rattling gurgle that terrified him. Punctured lung? Rain sheeted down, plastering his hair to his face, washing mud and blood in runnels down his skin. He rolled onto his side, ignoring the protest in his ribs, and pressed trembling, numb fingers to your throat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Weak. Erratic. But there. Relief, sharp and dizzying, washed over him, almost as potent as the pain. You were alive. Unconscious, hypothermic, and utterly vulnerable, but alive. He checked your breathing â shallow, but present. No major bleeding he could see, but the pallor, the blue lips⊠Hypothermia.
He had to move. You couldnât stay here, exposed on the bank. The storm he didnât even know when it started, was worsening; thunder boomed like artillery, lightning fracturing the sky. The forest loomed, dark and unwelcoming. He had no idea where you were. Miles from the dam? Further? Direction was meaningless. Shelter. Fire. Now.
Gritting his teeth, John pushed himself up. Agony lanced through his side; he choked back a cry. Then, with a groan that ripped from his soul, he bent and gathered you into his arms. You were slight, but dead weight was dead weight, and his body was a symphony of broken parts.
He walked.
The forest floor was a treacherous mix of mud, slick leaves, and hidden roots. Rain lashed his face, blinding him. Wind howled through the trees, sounding like lost souls. Every step sent jolts of pain through his ribs and up his spine. His breathing grew more labored, the wet rattle deepening. He stumbled often, catching himself against trees, jarring his injuries, and nearly dropping you. Each time, he tightened his grip, whispering hoarse, unheard reassurances: â Hold on, Y/N. Just hold on.â
Hours bled together in a haze of pain, cold, and exhaustion. Night, absolute and suffocating, broken only by the terrifying strobe of lightning. The temperature plummeted. His shivering became uncontrollable tremors. You remained frighteningly still in his arms, your skin icy even through your soaked clothes. He talked to you, nonsensical things, just to stay conscious, to fight the creeping numbness in his own mind.
â Remember the gym? You⊠you slammed me good⊠arrogant bastard, yeah⊠deserved itâŠâ
â Stupid damn mission⊠Iâm going to kill Bucky⊠if we liveâŠâ
â Donât you die on me, witch⊠not after⊠all thisâŠâ
Doubt gnawed at him. Was he walking in circles? Was he taking you deeper into nowhere? He was running on fumes, on sheer, stubborn willpower forged in a hundred hellholes. But even that was fading. His vision tunneled. His legs felt like lead. He was going to collapse. You were both going to die here, cold and broken in the dark.
Then, during a blinding lightning flash, he saw it. A stark, angular silhouette against the roiling sky, nestled in a small clearing ahead. An old cabin. Wooden walls weathered grey, roof sagging, windows dark and gaping like empty eye sockets. Abandoned. Possibly unstable. But shelter.
A surge of desperate hope, sharp as the pain in his side, propelled him the last hundred yards. He stumbled into the small, overgrown clearing, collapsing to his knees just feet from the rickety porch. He gently lowered you onto the relatively drier ground under the eaves, then slumped forward, forehead pressed to the muddy earth, gasping, coughing violently. Blood speckled the mud. Bad. Getting worse.
Summoning the last dregs of his strength, he crawled onto the porch. The door hung askew on rusted hinges. He shoved it open with his shoulder, the screech of metal echoing unnaturally loud in the stormâs din. The interior was a single room, thick with dust, cobwebs, and the smell of decay and rodent droppings. Empty. Dank. But blessedly dry and out of the punishing wind and rain. A stone fireplace dominated one wall. A rusted metal bedframe with collapsed springs and a thin mattress stood in a corner. A rickety table and one chair lay overturned. And a door leading the way to a small bathroom.
It wasnât salvation. But it was a chance.
John dragged you inside, then collapsed beside you, shivering violently on the dusty wooden floor. The storm raged outside, a furious counterpoint to the terrifying silence within the cabin and within you. You both were alive. Barely. Trapped. Injured. And the true battle â against their wounds, the cold, the ghosts of your past, and the terrifying vulnerability of your present â was just beginning.
The world tilted violently. Darkness pulsed at the edges of his vision, promising sweet, painless oblivion. Just rest⊠just a moment⊠you lay crumpled on the dusty floorboards a few feet away, your stillness more terrifying than the stormâs fury outside. Your skin was the color of river silt under the flickering glare of lightning.
No. The thought was a guttural command, ripped from the core of his military conditioning. Fire or die. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the dust and rainwater stinging his vision. The stone fireplace yawned before him, filled with ancient ash and the skeletons of long-dead birds. Agony was a living thing coiled around his ribs, tightening with every shallow, wet gasp. Punctured lung. Definitely. He dragged himself forward on his elbows, each movement a fresh hell. The floorboards felt like ice against his soaked pants.
Gathering tinder was torture. Brittle twigs blown into a corner. Dry moss peels from between the wall logs. He found a few pages of a disintegrated journal under the bedframe.
Desperation clawed at him. He fumbled through his boot, fingers brushing cold metalâ the hilt of his combat knife. He dragged it out, its blade glinting dully in the gloom. Steel and flint. The knifeâs hardened spine. He scanned the debris near the hearth, vision swimming. A fist-sized chunk of quartzite, fractured and sharp-edged, lay half-buried in ash. He seized it. Flint. Numb, blood-slicked fingers positioned the knifeâs spine against the quartzite, angled over the dry journal page. His first strike was weak, clumsy. The blade skittered, producing only a pathetic shower of white sparks that died instantly on the stone. Focus. For her. He sucked in a searing breath, ignoring the coppery taste flooding his mouth, and struck again. Harder. *CRACK.* A single, bright spark leapt, landing on the paper. It glowed orange for a heart-stopping second⊠then faded to grey. A sob of frustration choked him.
âCome on you fucking shit,â he cursed, frustrated.
He struck a third time, pouring every shred of will, every ounce of failing strength into the motion. *CRACK-SSST.* A cluster of fierce sparks rained down. One caught, a tiny, defiant ember on the paperâs edge. He dropped the stones, cupping his shaking hands around the fragile glow, blowing with agonizing gentlenessâeach exhale a rattling cough that brought fresh warmth to his tongue. The ember pulsed, breathed, then bloomed into a frail, hungry tongue of flame, licking at the dry moss. The fire grew, casting long, desperate shadows that danced like specters on the decaying walls. Heat. Life.
Heat began to seep into the frigid air, a tangible promise. Now the wet clothes. His own were easier, in theory. Peeling the soaked undershirt over his head was an exercise in pure agony. Broken ribs grated. He cried out, a harsh, animal sound swallowed by thunder, as the fabric pulled free. His torso was a canvas of brutal purple bruising spreading across his left side, a shoulder, and back, scrapes, and the angry, reopened gash on his temple. He shivered uncontrollably despite the growing fireâs warmth. Then he slowly took off his boots and pants.
He crawled to you. The intimacy was clinical, born of dire necessity, yet it felt like a profound violation â of you, of the unspoken war between both.
âDonât hate me for thisâŠâ he whispered.
His numb fingers fumbled with the zipper of your tac vest, then your tactical shirt. Every brush against your icy skin sent a jolt through him. He worked methodically, focusing on the task, refusing to let his gaze linger⊠until he had to lift your limp torso to pull the sodden fabric free.
Lightning flashed, illuminating your bare shoulders, the stark lines of your collarbones, the faint tracery of old scars heâd never seen, and the intricate, swirling tattoo of thorns and daisies in the left part of your lower belly. He didnât know you had. Well, why would he know that? He thought it was sexy, but seeing it now, on her vulnerable, near-lifeless form, was a punch to the gut. If you survive this, he would ask you about it.
He looked at the bruises already blooming on your ribs from the river rocks and his desperate grip. Your trousers were next, a necessary, awkward struggle. He left you in your underwear. Your legs had big bruises too.
He placed the clothes near the warmth of the fire to dry and managed to find a couple of old blankets in a small cabinet in the bathroom of the abandoned cabin. âThank God,â he murmured.
He dragged you near the fire. As he worked, the silence pressed in, broken only by the storm and the crackle of the fire. The pain, the exhaustion, the sheer, overwhelming aloneness with your unconscious form cracked something open inside him. Words spilled out, raw and unfiltered, a desperate ramble to keep himself conscious, to fill the void where your sharp wit should be.
âGotta⊠gotta stay awake, Y/N,â he rasped, his voice thick with pain and fatigue. He gently rolled you onto the blanket near the hearth, then collapsed beside you, dragging half the blanket over himself. He propped himself against the wall, inches from you. The firelight played on your pale face.
âKnow Iâm⊠an idiot,â he confessed, the words slurring slightly. His head lolled back against the wall. âArrogant bastard. Screwed up⊠everything. Cap. Lemar. My familyâŠâ A wet, rattling cough shook him. He spat blood-tinged phlegm into the dust. âBut you⊠You never let me forget it. Hated that. Hated you for it.â A weak, pained chuckle. âLove the way you hate it⊠when I call you âwitchâ.â He turned his head, his blurring gaze finding your profile. âEyes flash⊠like lightning. Gets me every damn time.â
He was drifting. The warmth was a seductive trap. He fought it, focusing on your face. âYouâre⊠amazing. Always thought that. Even when you were⊠crawling inside my head. Messing with me.â His breath hitched. âFive nights⊠Saw things⊠Felt things⊠Shoulda have made me hate you more. Didnât. I think⊠I never did.â He swallowed hard, the admission scraping his throat raw. âScared the hell outta me. Still does.â
He pulled the heavy blanket over you both, tucking it awkwardly around your shoulders, his movements growing slower, more uncoordinated. The effort drained the last dregs of his strength. He slumped lower against the wall, his shoulder brushing yours. The firelight painted the cabin in shifting oranges and deep blacks. Dust motes danced in the air. Outside, the wind screamed like a banshee.
His gaze, clouded with pain and encroaching unconsciousness, settled on your face. So still. So unlike the fierce, defiant woman who haunted his days and invaded his nights. A surge of something vast and terrifying â regret? Tenderness? â washed over him, colder than the river. His hand, trembling violently, lifted with monumental effort. His calloused, blood-streaked fingers, infinitely gentle, brushed a strand of wet, dark hair from your icy forehead. The touch lingered, a silent benediction in the howling dark.
âIâm sorry,â he whispered, the words barely audible over the storm and the crackling fire. It was an apology for everything: for the thoughts, for the dreams he shouldnât have craved, for the cruel words in the gym, for failing to protect you better, for dragging you into his wreckage, for the terrifying, unwanted truth of âThatâs the problem.â
The final thread of consciousness snapped. His hand fell limply onto the blanket beside your shoulder. His head slumped forward, chin resting on his chest. His labored, wet breathing grew shallower, more erratic. The firelight glinted on the sweat and rain still beading on his bruised skin. He was out. Utterly spent. Broken. Beside the woman who was his poison and his only solace, in the fragile sanctuary of firelight, while the relentless storm raged its fury against the decaying walls of the abandoned cabin.
---
Consciousness returned to you like a thief in the fog. First came the pain: a migraine jackhammering against the inside of your skull, a deep, hollow ache in your bones, and a terrifying absence where your telekinesis usually hummed. Then came the sensations: gritty dust beneath your cheek, the rough weave of an unfamiliar blanket, the dry, smoky scent of a dying fire, and a residual, fragile warmth radiating from embers glowing feebly in a stone hearth.
Fire?
Your eyes fluttered open, vision swimming. Darkness, punctuated by the dull orange pulse of the embers and the sporadic, blinding flash of lightning through grimy windows. Rain hammered relentlessly on the roof. Where� Fragmented memories slammed into you: the concussive roar of C4, the sickening lurch of freefall, the crushing embrace of water, the terrifying stillness of John Walker shielding you as both plunged⊠John!
Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the disorientation. You jerked your head to the side.
There he was. Slumped against the rough stone wall beside you, head lolled forward onto his chest, utterly motionless. The firelight painted stark shadows on the brutal map of bruises discoloring his torso â deep, angry purples and blues blooming across his ribs and shoulder. Your clothes were gone, replaced by the scratchy, moth-eaten blankets pooled around you both. The clinical logic of hypothermia prevention registered dimly, overshadowed by the sheer vulnerability of his stillness.
âWalker?â Your voice was a dry rasp, barely audible over the storm and the frantic thudding of your own heart. You reached out, fingers trembling, and tapped his shoulder. No response. Not even a flinch. âHey!â Louder now, laced with a fear you couldnât contain. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, ignoring the lance of pain in your head, and shook him harder. âJohn! Wake up!â
Silence. A stillness deeper than sleep. Deeper than exhaustion.
No. No, no, no. The panic surged, icy claws digging into your chest. Youâd been out for hours. How long had he been like this? You scrambled closer, the blanket falling away. Your hands, cold and shaking, cupped his face, lifting his head. His skin was clammy, pale beneath the grime and the bruise on his temple. His breathing⊠You strained to hear⊠it was shallow, wet, and terrifyingly irregular. A horrible, rattling gurgle accompanied each weak inhale.
Inside. The realization was a sucker punch. No gaping wounds, just the horrific bruising. Internal injuries. Bleeding. A punctured lung. Things that killed slowly, agonizingly, without immediate, advanced medical care. Things you didnât have.
He needed a healer. You were the healer. But you were a drained battery, a cracked vessel. The stimulant crash had left your mind a desert, your psychic reserves scoured raw. Telekinesis was a distant dream. Healing? It felt impossible, but you had to do something.
He shielded you. Took the blast, the fall, the river rocks. Carried you for miles. Lit the fire.
Why? Why did he do it? He should have been on that jet. Safe. Heâd saved the others. Heâd earned his escape. Instead, heâd thrown himself back into the inferno for you. Grabbed you when the enhanced brute had you by the throat, pure oxygen cut off, terror blinding you. Jumped towards you as the world exploded, wrapping himself around you like human armor as both plummeted into darkness. Taking the impact, the cold, the pain⊠all for you.
You couldnât lose him. Not like this. Not after that. Not after everything.
âOkay, okayâŠâ you whispered, more to yourself than him. âOkay, John. Hold on.â Gritting your teeth against the migraineâs scream, you placed your palms flat against the worst of the bruising on his ribs. You closed your eyes, reaching inward, searching for the faintest spark of your power in the desolate void.
Nothing. Just the gnawing emptiness, the psychic equivalent of static.
âCome on,â you pleaded, voice cracking. âCome on, please.â You pushed, mentally scrabbling against the walls of your own exhaustion. A faint, sickly flicker of silver light sparked beneath your palms, then died instantly. Pain lanced through your temples. You whimpered.
He walked for hours. In agony. For you.
You took a shuddering breath, forcing yourself into a semblance of calm you didnât feel. Focus. Breathe. He needs you. You drew in air slowly, deeply, ignoring the way it made your ribs ache. You visualized the power not as a raging river, but as a single, stubborn ember in the ashes of your mind. You nurtured it. Fed it with sheer, desperate willpower. For him.
A soft, silvery glow began to emanate from your palms, weak at first, like moonlight through thick cloud. It grew steadier, brighter, infused with tiny, dancing sparks of energy that moved around your hands, posing directly into his bruised ribs. The light seeped into his skin, illuminating the network of damaged tissue beneath. As your power connected, fragments of his recent memories flooded your mind, vivid and overwhelming:
The Chokehold, your own face, contorted in terror, feet dangling. The crushing pressure on your throat. His raw, blinding panic â sharper than any battlefield fear â as he charged, roaring your name.
The Fall, The deafening blast. Debris flying. Your body tumbling through smoke. His desperate leap, arms outstretched. The impact of catching you, the jarring pain in his ribs instantly eclipsed by the primal need to shield. The terrifying rush of air as both fell.
The River, Cold like a thousand knives. Darkness. Your limp weight in his arms. The crushing fear you were gone. The agonizing fight against the current, every kick a torment. The desperate scramble onto the mud.
The Walk, The crushing weight of you in his arms. Agony screamed through his side with every step. The relentless cold, rain, and wind. The terrifying stillness of your face. His voice, raw and broken, whispering: â Hold on, Y/N⊠Donât you die on me, witch⊠not after⊠all thisâŠâ The sheer, grinding willpower it took to keep moving, driven only by the need to save you.
The Fire, The agony of stripping your wet clothes, the clinical detachment warring with something deeper, more terrifying, when he saw the tattoo on your vulnerable skin. His rasping confession by the firelight: â Love the way you hate it⊠when I call you âwitchâ⊠Gets me every damn time⊠Youâre amazing⊠Scared the hell outta meâŠâ The profound gentleness of his fingers brushing your hair from your forehead. The crushing weight of his whispered âIâm sorryâ before oblivion claimed him.
Tears streamed down your face, hot against your cold skin. You saw it all â his pain, his fear, his sacrifice, his regret, and the terrifying, unwanted depth of his feelings laid bare in delirium and desperation. It wasnât just duty. It was him. John Walker, broken and arrogant and impossibly complex, choosing you against all logic, against his own survival.
âIâm sorry,â you choked out, not just for your past cruelty, but for the cost he was paying now. The silver light flared brighter, fueled by your grief, your guilt, and a sudden, fierce protectiveness. You focused your dwindling power, directing it into the shattered ribs, the bruised lung, knitting torn tissue, and stemming internal bleeding. It was excruciating work. Your migraine intensified into a white-hot agony. A trickle of warm blood seeped from your nose. A metallic taste filled your mouth. Your hands trembled violently over his ribs, the light flickering precariously.
You pushed harder. He pushed for hours. For you. The light stabilized, pulsing with your own heartbeat, sinking deeper into his battered body. You felt the ragged wetness in his breathing begin to ease, the terrible rattle softening. The bruised tissues beneath your palms seemed to warm, the angry discoloration subtly lightening at the edges.
You knew youâd pass out but it was the least important problem right now. Your injuries would heal on their own. This was the most important right now. Save him.
The last vestiges of your power drained away. The silver light winked out. Darkness rushed in, not just around you, but within. The migraine became an all-consuming void. The world tilted violently. You had nothing left. Not a spark.
With a soft, broken sigh, you collapsed forward. Your forehead came to rest against Johnâs sternum, just above where your hands still lay over his healing ribs. Your tears soaked into his skin. Your body was a lead weight, wracked with shivers that were no longer just from the cold. You felt the faint, steadying rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. Stronger now. Clearer.
He was breathing. He was alive. Thatâs all that matters.
The fire had dwindled to embers. The storm still raged. And you, the fierce telepath who weaponized vulnerability, lay broken and unconscious across the chest of the man who had weaponized sacrifice to save you, your hand curled protectively over his heart.
---
John surfaced slowly, painfully, from the depths of exhaustion. The first sensation was warmth. Not the fierce blaze of the fire heâd lit, but a softer, more persistent heat pressed against his side. Then came the dull, familiar ache â remnants of trauma, fatigue deep in his bones â but crucially, the knife was gone. How long has he been unconscious? His ribs, while tender, didnât scream with each breath. His lungs drew air cleanly, deeply, without the wet, drowning rattle. He knew instantly, viscerally: you did this.
He cracked his eyes open. Firelight, low but steady now, flickered in the hearth. You were curled against him, your head resting just below his collarbone, one arm flung loosely across his waist. The moth-eaten blankets covered you both. Your breathing was slow, deep, and the harsh lines of pain and strain smoothed from your face in sleep. Utterly drained, yet peaceful.
A little smile touched his lips, fleeting and private. Youâd been a ghost, a ruin, and still youâd scraped the bottom of your shattered power to pull him back. Youâd fought death for him, just as heâd fought the river and the storm for you. You both were a mess, a toxic tangle⊠but damn if you werenât a team when the world tried to break you both.
He shifted his gaze to the grimy window. Beyond the streaked glass, daylight fought a losing battle. The storm raged on â rain sheeting down, wind howling through the pines, turning the forest into a writhing, grey-green sea. The ancient trees blocked what weak light dared penetrate, casting the cabin in perpetual, storm-choked twilight. More than twelve hours. Maybe a full day lost to pain and oblivion. He didnât even know. The team⊠Bucky, Alexei, the others⊠they wouldnât be coming. Not in this. Theyâd be licking their own wounds, grounded by damage and weather. The thought brought no anger, only weary acceptance. You were on your own.
But the clawing fear of imminent death had receded. You were battered, exhausted, stranded⊠but not dying. Not anymore. Survival now meant rest, recovery, and waiting out natureâs fury to find a way back to the tower. He gently adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, tucking it against the chill seeping through the cabin walls. The simple act felt monumental. He looked at you again, he could appreciate your profile, his thumb gently caressed your cheek, slowly, all the way down to your chin. You were warm again. He smiled, then he closed his eyes, not to sleep deeply, but to drift, lulled by the drumming rain and the warmth of the woman whoâd somehow become his anchor in the wreckage.
--
When you stirred, it was to profound disorientation. The migraineâs iron grip had loosened to a dull throb. You felt⊠warm. Properly warm, deep-down warm. And comfortable. Not slumped against cold stone, but cushioned. You blinked open heavy eyelids. Firelight danced on rough-hewn wooden walls. You were⊠on the bed. The rusty springs groaned faintly beneath you. Your clothes â dry and smelling faintly of woodsmoke â brushed softly against your skin.
How? The last thing you remembered was collapsing forward, your forehead hitting Johnâs chest, utterly spent after pouring the dregs of your power into him. You hadn't been in bed. He must have⊠moved you. Lifted you, injured and exhausted as he still was, and placed you here. For comfort. The realization sent a shy, unexpected warmth blooming in your chest, separate from the fire. A small, tentative smile touched your lips as you pushed yourself up slowly, relief washing over you as the movement didnât spike your headache.
You scanned the cabin. The fire was brighter, healthier â heâd tended it. Logs crackled, casting long, dancing shadows. But John wasnât there. A prickle of unease, quickly dismissed. He wouldnât leave. Not now.
The cabin door creaked open, cutting through the stormâs drone. John stumbled back inside, soaked to the skin. Rainwater streamed from his hair, plastering dark strands to his forehead and temples. Droplets traced paths down his stubbled jaw, his neck, dripping onto the bare skin of his torso. He shook his head like a dog, spraying water, wincing immediately as the motion jarred his still-bruised ribs and shoulder. Deep purple blooms still marred his skin, stark against the pallor left by exhaustion and cold. Fresh scratches from the forest laced his arms.
Your eyes met across the dim space. A heavy, electric silence hung in the air, thick with everything unspoken: the river, the healing, the confessions whispered in firelight, the raw vulnerability of your survival. The easy venom was gone, replaced by a profound, awkward tension. It felt like the fragile, charged quiet after their brutal gym fight, stripped even of sarcasmâs armor.
"You're awake." His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, a careful neutrality. He shut the door against the howling wind. "How do you feel?"
You met his gaze, the shy warmth retreating behind a familiar, instinctive wall. "Fine," you replied, your tone matching his careful evenness. You gestured vaguely towards him with your chin. "You?"
He peeled off the soaked upper tactical clothes, revealing the full map of bruises and healing cuts. He moved stiffly, deliberately. "Better." He draped the wet garment over the broken chair near the fire, steam already beginning to rise from it. The firelight played over the planes of his chest, the water gleaming on his skin, the stark evidence of his sacrifice for you. He was handsome, you thought again, the observation startling in its clarity and unwanted intensity. You quickly looked away, focusing on the rough-hewn wall beside the bed.
He approached the bed, movements still careful. In his hand were a few handfuls of small, dark wild berries â serviceberries or juniper, perhaps â and some wrinkled, earthy-looking tubers. "Found these," he said gruffly, holding them out. "Not much. Won't poison us." Heâd gone out alone, into the storm-lashed woods, foraging for you both.
Your expression softened, just for a moment. The gesture, small as it was, pierced through the awkwardness. "Thanks," you whispered, taking the meager offering. Your fingers brushed his, cold and wet. A tiny spark, quickly suppressed.
He didn't linger. âIn the bathroom, there is a towel and water, if you need it.â He added, retreating to his chosen spot â the far wall, opposite the bed â he slid down to sit on the dusty floorboards, back against the wood, putting deliberate distance between you. He stretched his legs out with a barely audible groan, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, looking utterly spent despite the healing. The silence descended again, heavier this time, filled only by the crackle of the fire, the drumming rain, and the unspoken weight of the past days.
After a long stretch of quiet, broken only by the stormâs fury, he spoke without opening his eyes, his voice a low rumble. "Stormâs gotta break sometime. When it does⊠we walk. Find a road. Get to the Tower." A statement of fact. A plan. Something solid in the uncertainty.
Silence answered him. You picked at the berries, the tart burst on your tongue a small anchor to the present. You watched him across the firelit space â the exhausted soldier, the man who carried you for miles, the man whose deepest fears and unwanted desires youâd seen flicker in his memories. The man sat as far away as the small cabin would allow. The silence wasn't hostile. It wasn't comfortable. It was simply⊠there. A fragile truce woven from shared trauma, exhaustion, and the terrifying, unacknowledged shift in the war between them. You waited, not just for the storm outside to pass, but for the one within to find its new, uncertain shape.
The silence wasnât peaceful. It was a live wire strung taut between you, humming with everything unsaid. You sat rigidly on the edge of the old bed, picking listlessly one more of the bitter berries. The fire crackled, the only sound besides the relentless drumming of rain on the roof and the occasional groan of wind in the ancient timbers. John remained against the far wall, a brooding statue carved from shadow and exhaustion, eyes closed but jaw clenched. The air felt thick, suffocating.
He could feel your anger. It radiated off you in waves, a psychic heat even without your powers actively projecting it. It wasn't the sharp, defensive anger of your usual sparring. This was deeper, darker, simmering with self-loathing and a terrible, gnawing guilt. It scraped against his own raw nerves.
He could hear your breathing a little loud, he knew and could feel your brows were furrowed, your shoulders were tense, and the way you ate the berries, not even enjoying them. He knew, even without having to see you.
"You're pissed," he stated flatly, not opening his eyes. It wasn't a question.
Your head snapped up. "What gave me away? The near-death experience? The hypothermia? Or maybe it was watching you almost die on the floor because of me?" Your voice was low, dangerous, each word a shard of ice.
Johnâs eyes opened, sharp and weary. "I didn't die. You fixed me. Again." He said flatly. "And it wasn't because of you. It was for you. There's a difference."
"Semantics!" You spat, surging to your feet. The berries were scattered forgotten on the dusty floorboards.
âYouâre pissed because I saved your life?! You should thank me, witch!â he said, anger growing inside him now.
âDonât call me that!â Her index finger pointed at him with anger. "Itâs the same damn cycle! You throw yourself into the fire, I drag you out, we hate each other a little more, rinse, repeat!â
âWhat the fuck was I supposed to do? Let you die?â he asked in disbelief.
âYou should have left! IâŠâ You shouted. Your hand rested on your forehead for a moment as you found the words. âWhy, Walker? Why keep doing this?"
"Maybe because someone has to!" he shot back. He pushed himself off the wall, wincing only slightly. The movement was deliberate, testing the fragile tension, taking a step closer. The space between you crackled. "Maybe because when that psycho had his hand around your throat, all I saw was red! When that dam blew, all I knew was I had to get to you! Is that so hard to understand?"
"YES!" You screamed, the sound raw and startling in the confined space. "Because itâs stupid! Because you should have been on that jet! Because you knew what I was doing to you! You knew it was me in your head, twisting your dreams, playing with your desires like some sick puppet master for five nights straight! And you just⊠let me!"
And in a heartbeat, the whole conversation changed. It wasn't just about the mission anymore; it was about everything. Everything that wasn't resolved came out in an outburst driven by anger and frustration.
He stopped advancing, his face hardening into a mask of bitter comprehension. "Of course I knew! From the first goddamn night. That sensual whisper that sounded just a little too much like your sarcastic bite? The way the illusion felt⊠familiar? Like it was pulling from something real I shouldn't have wanted? Yeah. I knew."
Your breath hitched. The admission hung between you, heavy and damning. "Then why?" You demanded, your voice trembling now, laced with fury and a terrifying vulnerability. "Why didn't you stop me? Barricade your mind? Throw me out? If it felt so violating, why let me keep crawling back inside?!"
A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. He took another step, then another, closing the distance with predatory slowness. His gaze was intense, serious. "Why? For the same reason you didn't slam the door shut on my thoughts. When Iâd think things⊠deliberate things⊠loud enough for the telepath next door to hear. When Iâd imagine what it would feel like to pin you against that gym wall for something other than a fight. When Iâd picture shutting that smart mouth up with something other than an insult."
You froze, your back instinctively seeking the solidity of the cabin wall behind you as he advanced. Your eyes were wide, pupils dilated, reflecting the flickering firelight and a dawning horror.
"You heard those, didn't you?" John pressed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He was close now, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from his battered body, smell the damp earth and rain on his skin. "Every single one. Loud and clear. And you didn't stop me. You didn't throw up a shield. You didn't call me out. You just⊠listened."
He stopped inches from you, forcing you to crane your neck to meet his burning gaze.
âYou know damn well the reason. So you tell me why.â He waited for your answer, but you didnât say anything, you looked down.
You were always that smart and confident woman who answered his advances without fear, always pushing a little further. But in this moment, in front of him, totally vulnerable, angry, and frustrated. You chickened out, not knowing what to say, or how. You didn't want to admit it, but deep down, you were afraid. Not of him, but of what you felt. That feeling was so powerful that even without having him yet, you were already afraid of losing him. And he knew this, he saw it and felt it. But this was it, you have to face it and say it out loud once and for all. And seeing you hesitating made him more frustrated.
His hand came up, not to touch you, but to slam his fist into the rough wooden wall beside your head with a thunderous *CRACK* that made you flinch. Dust rained down.
"WHY, Y/N?!" he roared, the sound raw, scraping his throat. The carefully maintained control was gone, obliterated by exhaustion, pain, and too long time of pent-up, toxic longing. "Jesus! Tell me why you let me scream those thoughts into your head if it disgusted you so much!"
You tried to turn your head away, tears welling hot and furious in your eyes. "Stop it, Johnâ"
"NO!" He leaned in, his other hand bracing against the wall on your other side, effectively caging you. âYou are pissed, arenât you? Let it all out, itâs damn time. No more running away.â
âI donât have anything to say to you⊠IâŠâ
His breath fanned your face, hot and ragged. "Stop being a GODDAMN COWARD! Stop running! Stop hiding behind your powers and your sarcasm and your goddamn walls! Weâre past games! Past dreams! Past screaming our feelings through psychic static and fistfights!"
You looked at him, your eyes widened.
His voice dropped again, thick with a desperation that bordered on agony. "Tell me what you want. Right here. Right now. No more lies. No more illusions. Just the fucking truth."
Your chest heaved. You tried to shove against his chest, but he was an immovable force, fueled by a lifetime of frustration and a revelation that couldn't be contained. "Get off me,"
"TELL ME!" he demanded, his forehead almost touching yours, his eyes boring into yours, demanding surrender. "Say it! Scream it! Whisper it! I don't care! But say what you really want! Because I am so tired... so goddamn tired... of pretending..."
He paused, the words catching, the admission a seismic shift in the foundation of your war. His voice cracked, raw and utterly vulnerable, stripped bare of every defense. "...that I'm not desperately, completely, fucked-up-ly in love with you!"
Silence.
Deafening, absolute silence. Even the storm seemed to hold its breath.
You stared at him, your eyes impossibly wide, the tears spilling over, tracing paths through your cheeks. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. The world narrowed to the cage of his arms, the intensity in his shattered blue eyes, the brutal honesty of his confession hanging in the charged air between you like a physical thing. The carefully constructed fortress of your anger, your guilt, your control, crumbled into dust. Heâd reached through the wreckage, past the violence and the manipulation, and laid his broken heart bare.
And in that terrifying, silent void after the explosion of his truth, the only sound was the frantic, shared hammering of your hearts.
The silence after his confession wasnât just absence of sound; it was a physical pressure, thick and suffocating. You stared up at him, trapped between the unyielding wall and the heat of his battered body. His bare arms, corded with muscle and marked by deep purple bruises from carrying you, from shielding you, from surviving for you, framed you like prison bars you never wanted to escape. Tears, hot and unchecked, mirroring the rainwater still tracing paths down his own skin.
"What?" The word was a broken whisper, torn from a place of raw disbelief. Had the river water filled your ears? Had the psychic burnout finally shattered your mind? Love. Heâd said love. Not obsession, not twisted desire born of conflict, but love. The word felt foreign, terrifying, impossibly large in the decaying cabin where youâd only ever known how to wound.
He didnât retreat. He leaned in, his forehead brushing yours, the contact sending a jolt through both of you. The dam holding back his truth had burst, and the flood was dark, fierce, terrifyingly honest.
"I want you," he rasped, the words rough gravel against the charged air. "Not in some fucked-up dream, not as some twisted game. You. All your sharp edges, your vicious tongue, your goddamn terrifying power, the way you look at me like you want to set me on fire and put me out." His breath hitched, a wet sound that spoke of lungs still healing, of emotions too long caged. "I love you, Y/N. Iâm in love with you. And when you crawled into my head⊠yeah, it was a violation. It was cruel. But I let you stay because I liked it, and so did you. I craved it. Because it was the only way I could feel you⊠touch me⊠want me⊠without you pulling a knife or slamming me through a wall." His voice dropped, raw with a vulnerability that stripped him bare. "It was the only way I could pretend, for five fucking nights, that you might⊠love me back. Even just a little. In a dream."
He pulled back just enough to see your eyes, his gaze burning into yours, demanding an answer. The predator wasn't hunting prey anymore; he was offering his own throat.
You flinched, looking down, unable to bear the intensity. The weight of his confession, the sheer, terrifying size of his feeling, crushed you. "I⊠I don't know how," you stammered, the tears flowing freely. "What to do. I don't⊠I don't know if I am good. If I can be⊠good. For you. After everything⊠the dreams, the fights, the⊠the controlâŠ" your voice cracked. "I break things. I hurt youâŠâ
A harsh, almost tender sound escaped him. He cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes again. His thumbs brushed away your tears, a gesture so achingly gentle it shattered your defenses completely. "Weâre both fucked up, Y/N," he said, his voice low, intense. "Weâre broken, weâre intense, weâre probably a little crazy. But that doesnât mean we donât deserve⊠this. I love you. And I know," he insisted, his gaze holding yours prisoner, "I know you love me too. You just have to stop being afraid of it. Stop being afraid of us."
You saw it then, reflected in his eyes â not just his love, but his own bone-deep fear of rejection, of being unworthy. The same fear that had always made you lash out first. You hesitated, not because the feeling wasnât there â it was a supernova threatening to consume you â but because the sheer immensity of it terrified you. Could you hold it? Could you possibly be enough for this damaged, brilliant, infuriating man who had carried you through hell?
He waited. The silence stretched. He saw the hesitation, the flicker of fear winning. His eyes shuttered, the fierce hope dimming. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He started to pull away, his hands leaving your face, his body turning slightly, the movement radiating a crushing resignation. Heâd laid his soul bare, and the silence was his answer. He thought you wouldnât say it.
In an instant, different memories of moments appeared in your mind: the dreams you both saw that last night before the mission, your deepest desires, your desire to be with him and send everything to hell. Because you deserved it, you both deserved it. To feel love and everything that entails, to face it together without thinking about the future.
You remembered his smile, his real smile, when he wasn't carrying the usual weight on his shoulders, and the intense, carefree gaze of those impossible blue eyes when they rested on you. You wanted to always see him like that, you wanted to be the cause of that smile that melted your heart. You wanted to be happy with him. You wanted all. And in that moment, your walls finally fell.
The sight of him retreating, of that raw vulnerability hardening back into familiar, weary defeat, was the final push.
"John."
His name, a desperate whisper, stopped him cold. He froze, half-turned, not daring to look back.
Your voice, when it came, was soft, trembling, but utterly clear in the storm-lashed cabin. "I've always loved you."
He turned back slowly, disbelief warring with dawning, incredulous hope in his eyes. He searched your face, finding only the raw, terrifying truth mirrored in your tear-filled gaze. No sarcasm. No armor. Just you, finally, devastatingly, open.
He closed the distance in one stride. Your hands, small and cold, lifted instinctively, pressing flat against the center of his chest, over the fierce, steady beat of his heart. The heart youâd mended. The heart that was yours. You could feel the powerful thud beneath your palms, the warmth of his skin, the faint ridges of scars earned in battles long before you met.
"I thought I would lose you," you breathed, voicing your deepest, most primal fear â the fear that had driven your cruelty, your control, your desperate dream-weaving. The fear that had almost become reality. "Down there⊠in the water⊠on the floor⊠I thought you were gone. I was scared.â
He didnât speak. Words were useless now. His hands, calloused and strong, came up to frame your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw, wiping away the last traces of tears. His gaze held yours, blue eyes blazing with an intensity that stole your breath. In that look, you saw everything: the years of conflict, the shared trauma, the unbearable longing, the fierce protectiveness, your fear, your guilt, your fire, the love that had always burned beneath the venom, and finally, the bone-deep relief that you were here, alive, and finally his.
He dipped his head slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didnât. You tilted your face up, meeting him halfway.
The kiss wasn't hesitant. It wasn't a tentative exploration. It was a reunion. Slow, deep, and profoundly meaningful. It was the sealing of a pact forged in blood, water, and fire. It was the end of a war and the terrifying, exhilarating beginning of something entirely new. His lips were firm yet yielding against yours, tasting of rain and exhaustion and a sweetness youâd never imagined. He kissed you like a man drowning whoâd finally found air, like a soldier laying down his weapons after a lifetime of battle.
It was a kiss that spoke of love fiercely won, of wounds acknowledged but not defining the future. It was a kiss that melted the icy core of your fear, replacing it with a warmth that spread through your entire being, making your legs tremble and your heart pound against your ribs in a rhythm that matched his own. Inside, within the circle of his arms, against the wall where your war had finally ended, there was only this: a deep, abiding stillness, a profound understanding, and the slow, sweet burn of a love that had finally broken free.
The first kiss had been a revelationâsoft, deep, and trembling with the weight of everything unspoken. But now, restraint was a distant memory. The fire between you, long fed by cruel games and aching restraint, roared to life, consuming you both.Â
Soon, his hands were everywhere, mapping your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. He took his time, savoring every inch of you, learning the way you shivered when his lips traced the delicate shell of your ear, the way your breath hitched when his teeth grazed the column of your throat. His touch was deliberate, possessive, as if he needed to memorize youâevery curve, every scar, every place that made you gasp.Â
You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping his scalp in a silent demand for more. He growled against your skin, the sound vibrating through you, dark and approving. His handsârough from battle, yet unbearably gentleâslid down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He wanted to leave marks, to claim you in ways no dream ever could.Â
"Do you remember my thoughts?" His voice was a rough whisper against your pulse, sending a shudder through you. "The dreams?"Â
You did. Every single one. The way heâd imagined you beneath him, over him, wrecked by him. The way heâd wanted to hear you say his name like a prayer, like a curse.Â
His lips crashed back into yours, swallowing your moan as his tongue swept against yours, hot and demanding. He tasted like salt and smoke, like the storm outside and the fire between you. One hand pinned your wrists above your head, his grip unyielding, while the other traced the bruises left on your neck by the enemy whoâd dared lay hands on you. His mouth followed, pressing tender, reverent kisses over each mark, as if he could erase the violence with devotion.Â
"Mine," he growled against your skin, the word a dark promise. "No one touches you like this. No one hurts you. No one takes from you. Not ever again."Â
You whimpered, your body alight, every nerve singing under his touch. The contrast was intoxicatingâthe way he could be both tender and ruthless, how his hands could be gentle even as his grip on your wrists tightened. He was overwhelming, all-consuming, and you never wanted him to stop.Â
His free hand slid lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before gripping your thigh and hitching it around him. The sudden press of his body against yours drew a ragged gasp from your lips. He was already hard, so hard, and the friction was maddening.Â
"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his breath hot against your lips. "Say it. I need to hear it."
You didnât hesitate. "You, John. All of you. Now."
A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. He kissed you again, deep and filthy, before murmuring against your mouth, "Good. Because Iâm not stopping until you forget every dream, every thought, every fucking second you ever doubted this."
And God, he made good on his word.
The storm outside raged, a furious counterpoint to the tempest both unleashed within the cabinâs decaying walls. That first tender kiss had ignited a fuse, and now the explosion consumed you both. Restraint, honed through months of bitter games and desperate denial, shattered completely. What remained was a raw, devouring hunger â a love forged in darkness, tempered by violence, and now blazing with an intensity that threatened to burn you both to ash.
He meant every growled word, every possessive claim. His fingers, calloused from combat yet shockingly deft, played at the hem of your tactical shirt. The rough fabric was a final, flimsy barrier. He pushed it up, inch by agonizing inch, his knuckles brushing the burning skin of your abdomen. You gasped, a sound swallowed instantly by his mouth as he reclaimed your lips. It was wet, messy, a clash of teeth and tongues fueled by desperate need. He could taste the faint, tart ghost of the berries youâd eaten, a fleeting sweetness lost beneath the overwhelming salt of sweat and the primal, metallic tang of want.
Your hips arched instinctively, seeking the hard, demanding pressure of him. The friction was electric, maddening, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest. He loved it â loved your involuntary surrender, the way your body answered his even as you tested his control. You strained against the iron grip pinning your wrists high above your head, a token resistance that only fueled the fire. The sheer, effortless strength it took to hold you there â vulnerable, exposed, utterly his â sent a dark thrill through you. God, you loved it. Loved his dominance, the unyielding certainty of his possession in every touch, every kiss, every graveled word.
His free hand slid fully under your shirt, a brand against your heated skin. There was no hesitation, only a reverence bordering on obsession as his palm smoothed over the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist. He wasn't just touching; he was mapping, claiming, worshipping. His mouth left yours, trailing a searing path down your jaw, finding the column of your throat. He bit down, not gently, a sharp, possessive sting that drew a sharp cry from your lips â a cry that melted into a shuddering moan. His teeth grazed the marks, a dark promise whispered against your pulse.
"Mine," he repeated, the word vibrating against your skin. "Every scar, every gasp, every fucking tremor. Remember the dreams, Y/N? How I wanted you just like this? Pinned. Wanting. Mine." His voice was thick with dark intent, filthy and thrilling. He spoke of the fantasies heâd projected, the illicit thoughts heâd broadcast, not with shame, but with a fierce, possessive pride. Heâd wanted you to know, to feel the depth of his twisted craving even then.
The raw, unfiltered obsession in his tone, the way his fingers dug possessively into the flesh of your hip, the relentless pressure of his body holding yours immobile against the wall â it was intoxicating. It made you tremble, not with fear, but with a desperate, writhing need. This wasn't gentle love; it was a conflagration. It was dark, possessive, undeniably toxic in its intensity, yet it resonated with the deepest, most fractured parts of your soul. It fueled your own fire, making you crave more â more of his bruising touch, more of his filthy promises, more of the all-consuming oblivion only he could offer. You loved this dangerous, consuming side of him, the side that mirrored your own hidden shadows. He wasn't just loving you; he was devouring you, and you surrendered to the feast, arching into the storm of sensation, lost to everything but the feel of his hands, his mouth, his body, and the dark, possessive love that bound you together in the heart of the tempest.
The cabin, the storm, the world beyond ceased to exist. There was only him, the heat, the pressure, the delicious, terrifying sense of being utterly claimed, and the shared understanding that this was your ruin and your salvation, forged in fire and finally embraced.
His lips swallowed your gasp as his hands framed your face, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. The angle was perfectâdominant, possessiveâallowing him to plunder your mouth with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue.
His body pressed flush against yours, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen molding to your softer curves. Every inch of him was sculpted, honed by war and violence, and you reveled in it. Your fingers traced the ridges of his abs, the powerful swell of his pectorals, before gripping his arms. His biceps flexed under your nails, the muscles taut from the force of holding you in place. He was strongâbrutally, beautifully strongâand the raw masculinity of him made you weak.Â
He smirked against your lips. The bastard. He knew. He knew exactly what you loved, what made you melt, what made you his.Â
"You love that, donât you?" His voice was rough, dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.Â
You didnât answerâcouldnât. Not when his knee pressed between your thighs, parting them just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you. A moan tore from your throat, and he swallowed it greedily, as if your sounds were something to be devoured.Â
"Fuck," he growled, pulling back just enough to watch you. His thumb brushed your lower lip, swollen from his kisses, and his gaze burned with something feral. "Look at you. Already a mess, and I havenât even touched you properly yet."Â
You were a mess. Breathless, trembling, your skin flushed with heat. Your fingers dug into his arms, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you upright. And maybe he was.Â
His eyes darkened as he took you inâthe rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted on shaky exhales, the way your body arched toward his, seeking more. Needing more.Â
"I remember," he murmured, voice thick with lust, "exactly how I imagined youâd sound. How youâd feel." His hand slid down your throat, over the frantic pulse there, lower, lowerâuntil his fingers brushed the waistband of your pants. "And now I get to find out."Â
A shiver wracked your body.Â
He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and the sound he made was almost animalistic. "I can smell you," he rasped. "Fuck, itâs intoxicating."
You whimpered, your nails biting into his skin.Â
He grinnedâa slow, wicked thing. "Tell me you want this."Â
You didnât hesitate. "Yes."
His grip tightened. "Say it."Â
"I want this. I want you."Â
His mouth found yours again as his hands tore at your tactical shirt. Fabric ripped, buttons scattered like fallen stars across the dusty floorboards. The sports top beneath followed, baring you to the waist in the firelightâs flickering embrace. Cool air ghosted over your skin, instantly replaced by the searing heat of his palms.
His touch wasnât gentle; it was a claim. Calloused fingers mapped the delicate landscape of your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His mouth followed, a scorching brand descending from the hollow of your throat, across the slope of your shoulder. He worshipped you not with reverence, but with the desperate hunger of a man starved. When his lips closed over the peak of your breast, hot and wet and demanding, a ragged cry tore from your throat.
One large hand slid down, possessive and firm, cupping the curve of your backside, squeezing with a familiarity that made you gasp, then laugh breathlessly against his hair. "Forgot you were obsessed with my ass," you managed, the words thick with arousal.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes dark pools of molten desire. A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. "Guilty," His thumb traced the swell possessively. "Donât worry. Iâll give it the worship it deserves⊠soon." The promise was a dark caress before his mouth descended again, capturing your other breast, his tongue swirling, teeth grazing lightly, drawing another deep, shuddering moan from your core.
Your head fell back, eyes squeezing shut, lost in the onslaught of sensation. His free hand roamed your back, tracing the line of your spine, pressing you impossibly closer. "So fucking beautiful," he rasped against your damp skin, the words vibrating through you. It wasnât just admiration; it was awe laced with dark possession. A soldier kneeling before a goddess forged in battle and fire, his devotion fierce and consuming.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, not pushing him away but anchoring yourself, pulling him harder against you. He answered with a sharp nip below your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark â a dark, blooming bruise against the pale canvas of your skin. A brand. His brand. You cried out his name, a raw, broken sound that seemed to ignite him further.
Abruptly, he straightened, pulling you flush against him for a searing, possessive kiss. Then, with effortless strength, he turned you. Your palms slammed against the rough, cold wood of the cabin wall, a shocking contrast to the heat radiating from his body pressed tight against your back. Your spine arched instinctively, pushing your ass against the hard ridge of his arousal. His arms banded around your waist like iron, holding you captive, his hands sliding up to cup the weight of your breasts, thumbs circling the hardened peaks, drawing gasping whimpers from your lips.
His mouth found the exposed column of your neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, as you willingly tilted your head to the side, offering him everything. One of your hands remained braced against the wall, the other flew back, fingers twisting in his hair, holding him to your skin. He groaned, the vibration a dark rumble against your throat.
Your hard nipples and breasts pressing against the wall, feeling the cold in your feverish skin was an exquisite sensation.
His hands began a slow, deliberate descent. Palms smoothed over the trembling plane of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the soft skin of your lower belly. The anticipation was agony, exquisite and sharp. Then came the sound â the deliberate, agonizingly slow scrape of his knuckles against the fabric of your pants. His fingers found the button. The snick of it releasing echoed like thunder in the charged silence. The zipper followed, a slow, torturous descent that bared your skin inch by inch to the cool air and the heat of his intent. His breath hitched against your neck, a low growl building in his chest. The storm raged outside, but the true tempest was here, pinned between the cold wall and the inferno of his body, waiting for the final barrier to fall.
His left hand splayed possessively across your lower belly, holding you firm against him, a hot brand searing through the thin fabric still separating you both. His right hand⊠Gods, his right hand. Fingertips brushed the delicate lace edge of your underwear, a maddening whisper of contact that had your hips jerking back involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking him. The hard ridge of his arousal pressed against your backside, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest that vibrated through your entire being. His lips traced a path of fire â open-mouthed, wet kisses down your neck, across the slope of your shoulder, along the upper ridges of your spine. Each kiss was a brand, a claim laid over the marks of battle.
Desperation clawed at you, a primal need that overrode thought. You pressed back harder, grinding against him, a silent, urgent plea. The groan that tore from him this time was pure animal hunger, followed by a sharp, possessive bite on your earlobe. "John," you gasped, the single syllable thick with everything you couldnât articulate â the eagerness, the raw desperation, the dark, consuming obsession that mirrored his own. It was a volatile cocktail, terrifying and perfect.
He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound that rumbled against your skin. "Yes?" he murmured, feigning innocence even as his teasing fingers dipped lower, tracing the lace hem, deliberately avoiding the aching heat beneath. The denial was exquisite torture. Your eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in ragged pants. "Touch me," you begged, the words torn from you, raw and vulnerable. "Please."
The sound of your plea, laced with need, seemed to ignite him further. He laughed again, low and dangerous, a predator savoring its prize. "Yes, ma'am," he breathed against the shell of your ear, the formal address a shocking contrast to the intimacy, sending another violent shiver cascading down your spine.
Then, finally, his fingers slid beneath the waistband of your pants, encountering only the thin barrier of damp lace. The groan he let out wasn't just arousal; it was awe. His breath hitched, his brow furrowing as he encountered the undeniable, slick evidence of your desire. "Jesus Christ, baby," his voice was thick, rough with wonder and fierce pride. "You're soaked." The revelation thrilled him â that just his kisses, his touch, his presence could reduce you to this state. It was power, it was validation, it was intoxicating. He was doing this. To you.
Your lips parted on a silent cry as his fingers pressed against you through the lace, the contact electric even through the fabric. He worked with agonizing slowness, tracing patterns that promised everything and delivered nothing substantial, his teeth grazing and biting the sensitive skin of your shoulder, leaving fresh marks while his hand teased your core. Your hips moved of their own volition, seeking more pressure, more friction, your mind dissolving into a haze of pure sensation. "God..." escaped you, a broken sound.
His fingers moved the fabric to the side so he could finally feel your warm and wet pussy. It was amazing. You moaned louder, lost in the perfect sensation. âOh, yes, John!â
You were so warm, wet, sensitive and terribly aroused that almost made John cum right there.
His hand moved faster for a fleeting, blissful moment, applying just enough pressure to make you cry out, before abruptly withdrawing.
A protest died on your lips, silenced before it could form. He didn't give you time. Strong hands gripped your hips, spinning you slightly as he sank to his knees behind you. The cool air hit your exposed skin as, in one swift, decisive motion, he tugged your pants and underwear down your legs, discarding them. The vulnerability was absolute, obscene. And utterly exhilarating. You looked at him over your shoulder.
"I can't wait anymore, baby," his voice was a dark rasp, filled with a hunger that matched your own. "I need to taste you." His hands returned to your hips, fingers digging in possessively as he pulled you back towards him. Instinctively, you arched your back, presenting yourself, offering everything to him. Just him.
The sight that met him stole his breath. Firelight danced on smooth skin, illuminating the slick evidence of your desire trailing down your inner thighs. The position was profoundly intimate, vulnerable, and charged with a dark, beautiful obscenity. A low growl of pure appreciation rumbled in his chest. "So fucking perfect..." The words were barely a whisper, a reverent observation before he closed the distance.
His mouth found your core with a reverence that bordered on worship, yet held the fierce intensity of a conqueror claiming his prize. The first touch of his tongue â hot, wet, seeking â was a lightning bolt. Your hands flew back, fingers tangling in his hair, not to guide, but to anchor yourself as the world dissolved into the exquisite, devastating sensation of his mouth on you, devouring you with a hunger that mirrored the storm raging outside the cabin walls. The storm within had found its perfect, devastating expression.
His mouth was relentlessâhot, wet, and devastatingly skilled. Every flick of his tongue, every deliberate stroke, sent waves of pleasure crashing through you. You were drowning in sensation, your fingers clawing at the rough wood of the cabin wall for purchase, your knuckles white with the force of your grip. His hands held you firmly in place, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your backside, opening you more to have better access and ensuring you couldnât escapeânot that you wanted to.Â
He pulled back only for a moment, his lips and beard glistening, his breath ragged. "You taste exquisite, baby," he growled, voice thick with reverence and raw hunger. The words sent another shudder through you. He wasnât just enjoying thisâhe was consumed by it.Â
âI could live between your legs all my life, sucking your sweet pussy nonstop.â
Then his fingers joined the assault, sliding into you with effortless ease, curling just so, drawing a broken cry from your lips. His eyes darkened as he watched you, mesmerized by the way your body arched, the way your breath hitched, the way you fell apart under his touch.
He could swear he was in heaven right now. That sight made his pupils dilate even more: your pussy completely soaked, dripping down your legs and the floor. Your hole sucking in his fingers as he pushed them in and out. He was mesmerized. He has been dreaming of this exact moment, and now it is a reality. And couldnât get enough.
"Jesus fucking Christ..." he muttered, his own control fraying at the edges.
âFuck, look at you baby, youâre dripping, hot, so desperate for me. I love your pussy, I canât get enough,â his fingers never stopped.
This was better than any fantasy, any dream. This was realâyour taste, your sounds, the way you trembled for him.Â
"I need more," he rasped, before diving back in, his mouth sealing over you once more. His tongue worked in sinful harmony with his fingers. He licked your folds with expertise and hunger again and again. He didnât stop. Then, he alternates between licking and sucking your clit, his mouth closing around your sensitive pearl, sucking gently at first and adding more pressure then.
âOpen your legs wider for me, baby,â he commanded. And you obeyed. His palms squished your ass harder as his mouth ate roughly your pussy. He was so fucking starved and your dripping pussy was his feast. His head moves up and down to let his mouth eat you out all the way through your clit, folds, and hole.
He was savoring everything you offered him, and the sounds that he made while his mouth sucked at your cunt and his fingers came in and out of your hole without mercy, were so erotic and filthy.
The combination pushed you higher, faster, until you were gasping and moaning his name like a prayer.Â
"John! Oh my godâdonât stop, please! Donât stop!" Your voice was raw with desperation, your legs shaking violently as the pleasure coiled tighter, tighterâÂ
And then it shattered you.Â
Your climax crashed over you in a relentless wave, your body bowing under the force of it. Your head and arms leaned on the wall for support. He didnât relent, didnât give you a moment to recoverâhe devoured you through it, drawing out every last tremor, every aftershock, until you were limp and trembling.Â
Only then did he finally pull away, rising to his feet slowly, while his lips left little gentle kisses all the way up your spine. His arms wrapped around your waist, steadying you. His hands turned you gently, bringing you to face him. You were dazed, wrecked, your lips parted, your eyes glazed with pleasure.
"You okay?" His voice was rough but impossibly tender.Â
You couldnât speak. You nodded weakly, your breath still uneven. Your entire body is still trembling.
"Good." His thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip, his gaze burning into yours. "Because now..." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch featherlight. "Iâm going to make you mine."
The promise in his voiceâdark, possessive, finalâsent a fresh wave of heat through you.Â
His fingers, still slick with your arousal, traced your lips. Without hesitation, you opened your mouth, taking them in, your tongue swirling around them in slow, deliberate strokes. His breath hitched, his eyes turning black with lust. You held his gaze the entire time, a silent challenge, a surrender.Â
When you finally released him, you purred, low and satisfied.Â
"Fuck." His voice was wrecked. "You are so fucking sexy."
And then he kissed youâhard, deep, and filthyâclaiming your mouth with the same intensity he had claimed the rest of you.
The kiss dissolved into something primal, messy with shared breath. His hands didn't fumble; they moved with deliberate, lethal grace to his belt buckle. The rasp of leather sliding free, the snick of the button, the agonizingly slow descent of the zipper â each sound was a drumbeat in the charged silence, amplified by the storm outside and the tempest within. His eyes never wavered from yours, holding you captive with a gaze that promised possession, worship, and ruin all at once.
When he finally pushed his clothing away, revealing himself fully, it wasn't just his arousal that commanded attention. It was the raw, powerful masculinity, the strength etched into every line of his body, the lingering bruises â badges of sacrifice for you. He was painfully hard, magnificent in his intensity, a force of nature barely contained. He was big, thick, with a prominent vein deliciously adorning its length. He was beautiful, and so painfully hard.
You bite your lip again, hard enough this time that a bead of crimson welled. His gaze tracked the tiny rivulet, a dark fascination flaring in his eyes. Before you could react, his thumb swept the blood away, then his tongue followed, a hot, intimate stroke that tasted your fear, your excitement, you. He sealed the taste with another kiss, fervent and deep, sharing the coppery intimacy, binding you further.
Then his hands were under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly against the rough cabin wall. The sheer, unthinking strength of it â the ease with which he held you suspended â stole your breath, sending a fresh jolt of desperate need through your core. Your hands flew to his neck, fingers digging into the corded muscle there, anchoring yourself as your bodies slammed flush together, skin slick with sweat and desire. Your breathing was ragged, desperate gasps mingling in the small space between your mouths.
His hand slid between your tightly pressed bodies, fingers finding your heat, slick and ready. He teased, circling, applying maddening pressure just outside where you needed him most. "This," he rasped, his voice thick with dark triumph, "This is all I dreamed about. For so long..." The confession vibrated against your lips. Your head thumped back against the wall, a low whine escaping you as you arched, hips seeking friction, seeking him. A predatory smirk touched his lips. "You want it so desperately, witch?" The old nickname, laced now with dark possession, ignited you. Your nails raked down his shoulder, finding the deep purple bruise marring his skin. He groaned, a sound of exquisite pain-pleasure, and you captured his mouth again in a kiss that was pure fire, pure love, pure claiming. "Yes," you gasped against his lips, the words raw, stripped bare. "I want you so badly, John. Please, fuck me.â
It was the final surrender he craved.
He filled you slowly, achingly, a searing stretch that stole your breath and made you cry out against his mouth. Heat radiated from the point of connection, spreading through you like molten gold. For a heartbeat, he held still, buried deep, letting you feel the sheer, overwhelming reality of him. Then the stillness shattered. He moved, a driving rhythm that started deep and claiming. His gaze dropped between you both where you were connected. The sight of it, filthy and hot, sent a wave of fire through his body. His cock, incredibly hard, slowly enters your pussy, pushing impossibly deep, disappearing inside you, and then pulling out just to repeat the process again and again and again nonstop. His cock is fully covered with your slick.
âThis is so fucking amazing⊠Look at this beautiful mess.â He said mesmerized.
You felt every inch of him, his pace was an amazing agony. God, you regretted all the time you both wasted fighting instead of being together fucking like this. This moment didnât even finish, and you were already thinking about all the places and ways he could fucked you again.
You felt so good, he felt so damn good. He knew what he was doing, he knew exactly how you like it and when, and Jesus, was that even possible?
You loved every second of it, but you wanted more; you needed to feel that devastating orgasm again.
âOh God, please⊠Faster!â
His pace quickly escalated into something rougher, more desperate, fueled by your plea and months of pent-up longing and the raw edge of your shared darkness.
The sound of his skin against yours was maddening, so obscene.
You were a symphony of sensation in his arms â a gasping, moaning mess, your head thrown back, your body arching to meet every powerful thrust. He watched you, utterly enthralled. The sight of you unraveling for him, the sounds you made â raw, desperate, his â the sheer, unguarded love and desire shining through the ecstasy⊠it was more exquisite, more beautiful, than any dream. He couldn't get enough. His mouth found the column of your throat again, not gentle now, but claiming. Your skin was shining with light perspiration, and he felt the salty taste with his lips and tongue. Kisses morphed into sharp nips and possessive sucks, leaving a constellation of darkening marks on your skin â a map of his ownership.
âJesus! I can feel the way your pretty pussy is clenching my cock, baby,â his eyes closed for a moment, focusing on that exact feeling. âIt drives me mad, fuck!â
A sharp hiss escaped him when your wandering hand found another deep bruise on his shoulder. But instead of recoiling, his rhythm increased, becoming harder, faster, driving you both towards the precipice. The line between pain and pleasure dissolved into a white-hot blur. He craved your touch, even the sting. "Shit, do that again," he begged, his voice wrecked.
You obeyed, fingers pressing deliberately into the tender flesh. A shudder wracked him, a groan ripped from his chest, and his grip on your thighs tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh with bruising force. âOh my God!â, you moaned wildly, lost in the maelstrom. âMark me. Claim me, John!â He loved every single one of your words. In response, he adjusted the angle slightly, sinking impossibly deeper, hitting that place that sent stars exploding behind your eyelids. "John! Yes! Right there!" Your cry was frantic, pleading, utterly surrendered. Your nails are leaving red marks on his broad back and shoulders. He groaned with a smirk on his lips.
"Yeah, baby? Right there?" His voice was guttural, strained. "Fuck! You feel so perfect." Your fingers then tangled in the hair at his nape, tugging hard, a silent demand, a shared anchor. The sensation, combined with the relentless pressure inside you and the exquisite sting of your nails on his bruise and the tug of his hair, shattered the last vestiges of control.
The climax hit you both not as individuals, but as a single, detonating force. Yours ripped through you first, a convulsive wave of pure, blinding ecstasy that tore a scream from your throat. He followed instantly, triggered by your clenching heat and the raw sound of your release. He buried himself to the hilt, his own cry a harsh, guttural sound against your skin as he pulsed within you, pouring everything â the love, the obsession, the long time of battle and longing â into that searing connection. It wasn't just pleasure; it was annihilation and rebirth, a claiming so profound it echoed in your very bones.
You clung together, trembling, slick with sweat, hearts pounding a frantic, synchronized rhythm against each other's chests. The storm still lashed the cabin, but inside, there was only the heavy silence of utter saturation, the lingering echoes of your shared fall, and the profound, terrifying beauty of two broken souls finally welded together in the consuming fire of your dark, possessive love. He held your weight effortlessly, his forehead resting against yours, your ragged breaths mingling in the aftermath of the beautiful ruin youâd made of each other.
The world narrowed to the rough wood against your back, the solid heat of his chest against yours, and the profound, trembling connection between you. You stayed locked together, suspended against the wall, breathing harshly into the shared space between your lips. His forehead rested heavily against yours, a point of grounding intimacy. His arms, still wrapped securely under your thighs, keeping you flush against him. The storm outside was a distant roar, the crackling fire a soft counterpoint to the frantic drumming of your hearts slowly settling. He was still buried deep within you, a lingering, possessive anchor in the aftermath of the tempest youâd unleashed.
Eyes closed, you simply existed in the saturated silence. The frantic energy, the desperate need, had burned itself out, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep stillness. A shared exhaustion that was pure, blissful peace.
Slowly, you opened your eyes. His face was inches away, etched with the same dazed satiation you felt. Your hands, trembling slightly, lifted from his shoulders. One traced the strong line of his jaw, rough with stubble. Your thumb brushed the curve of his lower lip, swollen from your kisses. The tenderness of the gesture felt monumental after the raw intensity that had preceded it.
He stirred, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the pad of your thumb. Then, one of his large hands enveloped yours where it rested against his cheek. He brought it to his lips, turning it over to press a slow, reverent kiss into the center of your palm. The warmth of his breath, the soft pressure of his lips against that sensitive skin, sent a fresh wave of quiet emotion through you, entirely different from the earlier frenzy. He held your hand there for a long moment, covering it with his own, pressing your palm firmly against his cheekbone. It was a silent language, speaking volumes of a protective, cherishing love that ran just as deep as the passionate possession.
Your heart clenched, melting entirely. You watched his face, the stark vulnerability in his usually guarded eyes now laid bare for you alone. He opened his eyes then, the deep blue meeting yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that was now tender, not demanding. A soft, utterly genuine smile touched your lips, radiating pure, unguarded love meant solely for him. "I love you, John," you whispered, the words barely audible, yet echoing louder than any shout in the quiet cabin.
He didn't hesitate. A matching smile, startling in its tenderness and lack of cynicism, softened his features. "I love you, Y/N" he murmured back, your name a caress on his lips. It was simple. It was profound. It filled the space between you with a golden light, the shared daze transforming into a deep, settled contentment.
Carefully, reluctantly, he eased himself from your embrace, lowering you gently until your feet found the dusty floorboards. A soft sigh escaped you both at the separation. Without a word, he guided you towards the rickety old bed. He put the mattress on the floor, the old bed wouldnât support your weights.
He went to the bathroom, took the towel he had found before and dampened it with water, and with surprising gentleness, began to clean the sweat and evidence of your passion from your skin. His touch was meticulous, almost worshipful, a stark contrast to the bruising grip of moments before. He wrapped the thick, musty blanket around your shoulders, tucking it close.
Then, he joined you, settling onto the thin mattress. His strong arms enveloped you instantly, pulling you back flush against the solid warmth of his chest. You nestled into him, your head finding the perfect hollow beneath his shoulder. He rested his cheek against your hair, breathing in your scent âsweat, berries, and you. A profound sense of peace, of rightness, settled over him, deeper and more fulfilling than any victory he'd ever known. He felt⊠home. Utterly at peace.
For a long while, you both simply lay there, listening to the storm gradually lessen its fury outside, the fire crackle, and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. Your fingers traced idle, loving patterns on the skin of his chest, over the faint remnants of bruises youâd helped heal and the newer marks youâd left in passion.
"Why," you murmured, your voice husky with spent emotion and contentment, "did it take us so long?"
A low chuckle vibrated in his chest beneath your ear. "Because we're idiots," he stated simply, the truth undeniable. "Stubborn, proud, fucked-up idiots." The shared laughter that followed was warm, free of bitterness, an acknowledgment of your shared flaws and the sheer relief of having finally overcome them.
His hand drifted up, fingers gently tilting your chin so you looked up at him. The playful glint faded, replaced by a deep seriousness. His gaze held yours, intense but soft. "I'm sorry," he said, the words weighted. "For everything I said. Everything I did. That hurt you. The gym... the words... pushing you away when all I wanted was to pull you close."
He continued, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "I wasted so much time. Precious, stupid time. Playing the damaged hero, the unlovable asshole, when all I ever wanted, from the moment you looked at me with those beautiful silver eyes and smiled... all I wanted was this." His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against the solid warmth of him. "You. In my arms. Safe. Wanted. Loved."
He took a shaky breath, his gaze unwavering, intense. "No more wasting time. No more games. No more hiding. I promise you, Y/N. I promise to take care of you. Not because you need it," he added quickly, a ghost of his old defiance flashing, "but because I want to. Because seeing you safe, seeing you happy... itâs the only mission that matters now."
Tears pricked your eyes, not from sadness, but from the sheer force of his sincerity. "I'm sorry too," you whispered back. "For the dreams. The invasion. Using my power to hurt you instead of loving you as you deserve. Because you deserve to be happy, John." You trailed off. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss, yes, but infused with a profound tenderness and forgiveness that sealed your apologies more effectively than any words.
When you parted, breathless again but in a gentler way, a familiar, roguish grin touched his lips. "Though," he drawled, his thumb brushing your lower lip, "gotta admit... those hot dreams you cooked up? Pretty damn spectacular. Might miss those."
You swatted his chest playfully, laughing despite yourself. "Donât worry, weâll make them a reality."
He kissed your temple, pulling you closer.
As drowsiness began to claim you, wrapped in the blanket and each other's warmth, you nestled deeper against him. "Mmm," you sighed contentedly. "First thing when we get back to the Tower... a proper shower. A long, hot one."
He nuzzled your hair, his arms tightening possessively, yet comfortingly, around you. "Deal, and we can make the bathroom dream come true,â he murmured playfully, his voice thick with impending sleep. "But right now... this is perfect."
And it was. In the decaying cabin, amidst the aftermath of the storm and the echoes of your own personal war, you both had found something far more powerful: a fierce, enduring love, forged in fire and tempered in tenderness, finally cradled in peace. You drifted into sleep, entwined, safe, and utterly, completely belonging to each other.
The thin mattress, the scratchy blanket, the lingering scent of woodsmoke and sex â none of it mattered. Both slept deeply, peacefully, tangled together in a way that spoke of profound trust finally won. The frantic energy of the storm, both outside and within your own hearts, had finally quieted.
--
John woke first, as dawn painted the cabin's grimy windows in shades of pale gold and grey. The silence was soft, filled only with the gentle patter of residual rain and your steady breathing against his chest. He lay still for a moment, simply absorbing the reality: the warm weight of you in his arms, the smooth silk of your skin pressed against his side, the utter peace radiating from your sleeping form. A feeling, vast and tender, swelled in his chest, unfamiliar and utterly perfect.
Unable to resist, he pressed a feather-light kiss to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair â smoke, sweat, and something uniquely you. Another kiss followed, this time on your temple. Then the curve of your shoulder. Each touch was a quiet celebration, a whisper of adoration against your skin. He traced the line of your spine with a gentle fingertip, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath smooth skin.
A soft sigh escaped you, a sleepy murmur as you instinctively burrowed deeper into his warmth. He smiled against your skin, continuing his tender assault: kisses along your shoulder blade, the nape of your neck, the sensitive spot just behind your ear. He felt the exact moment consciousness truly returned â a subtle tensing, a deeper inhale, followed by a slow, languorous stretch that pressed your backside more firmly against him, drawing a low hum of contentment from his own throat.
Your eyes fluttered open, blinking slowly in the dim light. You turned your head slightly, finding his gaze already fixed on you, filled with a warmth that made your breath catch. No words were needed. A slow, drowsy smile spread across your face, radiant and utterly unguarded. It was a smile just for him, born of safety and deep, abiding happiness.
"Morning, witch," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep but laced with undeniable affection. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead.
"Morning, soldier," you whispered back, your voice husky. You shifted slightly, turning more fully within the circle of his arms until you faced him, though your back remained nestled against his chest. His arms tightened instinctively, pulling you closer. One hand slid up to cradle your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair, while the other rested possessively, protectively, on the curve of your hip.
Both lay like that for long, precious moments, bathed in the quiet dawn light. Affection flowed between you in a tender current: soft, exploring kisses exchanged without urgency; his thumb tracing idle patterns on the skin of your hip; your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his forearm where it held you. Playful gazes met and held, speaking volumes of shared joy and disbelief that you were finally here. Soft laughter bubbled up over nothing â a shared memory sparked by the creak of the mattress, a silly observation about the dust motes dancing in a sunbeam finally piercing the window.
It was a happiness so profound it felt fragile, yet solid in its newness. The long time of friction, the battles, the cruel words â you were ghosts momentarily banished by the sheer, overwhelming rightness of this quiet intimacy.
Eventually, with a sigh that was part contentment, part reluctant practicality, you began to stir more purposefully. "We should..." you started, making a small movement to sit up.
His arms instantly became steel bands, pulling you firmly back against him. "Nope," he declared, nuzzling your neck. "Stay."
You laughed, the sound bright and warm in the quiet cabin. "John, we have to get dressed. The storm's passed. The team will come looking for us."
He groaned dramatically, burying his face in the curve of your neck and shoulder. "Don't care," he mumbled against your skin, his breath warm. "Want to stay like this. Forever." His hand slid up from your hip to splay possessively across your stomach, holding you close. "Just you. Just like this."
You melted into his embrace for a moment longer, savoring the feel of him â the solid strength, the warmth, the sheer rightness. Then you turned your head, capturing his lips in a slow, sweet kiss that held a promise. When you pulled back, your eyes, soft and full of love, held his. "We will be," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Like this. Every day. From now on. I promise. But right now," you added with a gentle, teasing smile, "we need pants."
His answering smile was slow, wide, and utterly besotted. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to your lips, then released you with obvious reluctance, his fingers trailing down your arm as you finally sat up.
He propped himself up on an elbow, watching you as you rose. The dawn light caught your silhouette as you moved towards your discarded clothes. He didn't just look; he gazed. With unabashed admiration and lingering awe, his eyes traced the lines of your body â the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the strength in your shoulders, the soft curves of your backside â now illuminated in the soft, new light. It was a look devoid of simple lust, filled instead with reverence and the sheer, overwhelming love of a man seeing something infinitely precious.
Naturally, John Walker couldn't let the moment pass without comment. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his face. "Y'know," he drawled, his voice still sleep-rough but laced with familiar, playful arrogance, "the view from this angle? Definitely rivals the one last night."
You rolled your eyes, but a blush stained your cheeks, and a smile played on your lips. You bent to pick up his pants, balling them up playfully. "Shut up, Walker," you retorted, your voice fond. With a mock scowl that didn't reach your eyes, you tossed the bundle directly at his head.
He caught them easily, laughing â a genuine, carefree sound that filled the small space. "Just stating facts, sweetheart" he grinned, finally pushing himself up.
Both dressed in comfortable silence. You pulled on your layers, the fabric feeling strangely foreign against skin that still hummed with the memory of his touch. As you fastened your boots, you watched John pull his undershirt over his head. The movement pulled taut the skin over his ribs and shoulder, revealing the deep, lingering bruises â stark purple and blue maps against his skin, souvenirs from the river rocks, the fall, the desperate trek carrying your weight.
A pang went through you. Without a word, you crossed the small space between you. Your hands lifted, palms glowing faintly with the soft silver light of your power, reaching instinctively towards the worst of the discoloration on his ribs. You could mend this. You wanted to mend this last trace of pain heâd endured for you.
But at the moment your palms could make contact, his hands closed gently but firmly around your wrists, stopping you. You looked up, surprised, and a flicker of question in your eyes. The silver light winked out.
He met your gaze, a soft, understanding smile touching his lips. It wasn't rejection; it was something else, something profoundly tender. "Leave them," he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion. His thumbs stroked the inside of your wrists.
"But..." you started, frowning slightly at the vivid marks.
"I know you can," he said, his smile deepening as he looked down at the bruises, then back into your eyes. "But I want to keep them. For a little while."
Your brow furrowed. "Why? They hurt."
"They remind me," he said simply. His gaze held yours, intense and open. "They remind me of this place. Of carrying you. Of keeping you safe. At that moment, everything changed." He released one wrist to gently trace the edge of the largest bruise with a single fingertip, a gesture almost reverent. "I'll never forget, Y/N. Not a second. But these... they're proof. Tangible proof of the day I finally got it right. The day I fought for what truly mattered and won." He brought your captured hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "And you," he added, his voice thick with gratitude, his eyes shining with it, "you've already done so much. You saved me, truly saved me, in more ways than one. Let me carry these. Just for now. A reminder of the battle that brought me home."
Your resistance melted. The love and fierce protectiveness swelling within you transformed into a deep, aching tenderness. You understood. These bruises weren't just injuries; they were medals. Testaments to his sacrifice and your survival. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss not to the bruise, but to the center of his chest, over his heart. "Okay," you whispered against his skin. "Just promise you'll let me kiss them better later."
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Every damn day, witch," he vowed, pulling you close for a moment, resting his forehead against yours. "Thank you. For everything."
You finished dressing in a silence filled with a new layer of profound intimacy. As John shrugged into his suit over the shirt covering the bruises heâd chosen to keep, you watched him, your heart full. He was a man marked by battles, inside and out. But these marks, borne for you, kept by choice, spoke louder than any words of the fierce, devoted love that now bound you.
Ready, you stood for a moment in the center of the dilapidated cabin. The fire was cold ash now. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams. It was just a ruin, a place of hardship and survival. But to you, it was hallowed ground. The place where walls had crumbled, wars had ended, and two fractured souls had finally, irrevocably, become one â in heart, in flesh, and in spirit.
John reached out, his hand finding yours. His fingers laced through yours, strong and sure. He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss that was a silent vow. No words were needed. Your eyes met, holding a universe of understanding, love, and the fierce, tender future you would build together.
The morning air was cool and clean, sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth after the storm. Sunlight, bright and hopeful, streamed through the towering canopy, dappling the forest floor in patterns of gold and deep green. You walked hand-in-hand through the quiet woods, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the profound understanding forged in the crucible of the cabin.
The roar of the river grew louder as you approached the bank. It looked different in the daylight â powerful, yes, but no longer the churning monster that had tried to claim you both. Sunlight glittered on the rushing water, transforming it into a ribbon of liquid light cutting through the emerald forest.
You paused, your gaze distant for a moment, a slight frown of concentration touching your brow. A faint, familiar thrum vibrated the air, felt more than heard. A slow smile spread across your face, radiant and relieved.
"They're here," you said softly, your voice carrying over the river's song.
John stopped beside you, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. His eyes, scanning the sky through the gaps in the trees, held a flicker of the old tension â concern for the team youâd fought beside, the family youâd endangered and saved. "Who?" he asked, his voice low, the unspoken question hanging: Are they all okay? After the trap, the dam, our... disappearance?
You turned to him fully, the smile still lighting your features, warm and certain. "All of them," you affirmed, your psychic senses confirming the familiar presences aboard the approaching craft. Relief washed over him, visible in the slight relaxation of his shoulders.
You took a step forward, towards the riverbank, ready to signal your position. But his hand held firm, anchoring you.
"Y/N."
His voice, rough yet impossibly tender, stopped you. You turned back, your breath catching at the intensity in his eyes. The sunlight caught the blue, turning them into deep, clear pools reflecting the forest and your own image. All the guardedness, the sarcasm, the defensive aggression was gone, stripped away. What remained was a love so vast, so fiercely devoted, it stole your breath. He wasn't afraid to show it anymore. Not to you. Never to you again.
He took your other hand, holding them both gently but firmly, grounding you before him. "I love you," he stated, the words simple, profound, and utterly unshakeable. "More than I ever thought possible. More than I deserve." He took a breath, his gaze unwavering, locking onto yours with the same focus he brought to a battlefield, but now directed solely at your future. "I want to pass my entire life with you. Every damn day. Fighting with you, sure," a ghost of his familiar smirk touched his lips, "because letâs face it, weâre both stubborn as hell. But loving you more. Protecting you. Building something real. Something ours." His thumb stroked the back of your hand. "Forever. Thatâs what I want. You and me."
Your smile blossomed, brilliant and unrestrained, lighting up your entire face, chasing away the last shadows of your past battles. It was the smile of a woman who had fought through darkness and found you home.
He looked down at your eyes, truly looked. The sunlight filtering through the leaves above played across your face â illuminating the curve of your cheek, the determined set of your jaw softened by love, the intelligence and fire in your eyes. Shadows danced like gentle kisses over your skin, contrasting with the golden light. In that moment, framed by the vibrant forest, bathed in the dappled sun, your eyes shining with love and unshed tears of pure joy, John Walker swore he was looking at an angel. His angel. Forged in fire, tempered by war, and utterly, breathtakingly his.
He was no poet. His romance wasn't flowery words or grand gestures. It was this: raw honesty, fierce devotion, unwavering commitment, spoken with the gruff sincerity of a soldier whoâd finally found his reason to lay down his weapons and build. And you loved it. You loved him.
He didn't wait for words. He leaned down, his hands releasing yours only to slide around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your forearms rose, hands cradling the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, almost touching his shield in the process. Your lips met.
It was a kiss that held everything. The slow, deep tenderness was born in the quiet dawn on the cabin floor. The passionate fire that had consumed you in the night. The profound relief of survival. The dizzying joy of promises made and a future claimed. It was love, pure and fierce, sealed under the open sky, by the river that had tried to end you both but instead became the backdrop to your beginning.
His arms held you secure, a shelter against the world. Yours held him close, the anchor to his soul. You breathed each other in, lost in the perfect, silent language of your joined hearts.
In the distance, the distinct, growing thrum of the Thunderbolts Quinjet broke through the forest sounds, a beacon drawing closer. Your family was coming. Home was coming. But for this one, suspended moment, standing on the riverbank bathed in sunlight and shadow, wrapped in each other and the profound peace of love finally, completely won, you and John were already home. Together. And the future, bright and fierce and yours, was just beginning.
Thank you for reading! <3
Tag list:
@rm-mononucleosis
@alexwinchester23
@blackparacosm
@yallgotkik
@grathy
I LOVED this story!!!! The ending was just đđđđđđđđ Everybody needs to read this and love it and share it because it is perfection!!!!!!
Pairing: John Walker/US Agent x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader
Enemies To Lovers! <3
Summary: Y/N and John Walkerâs explosive rivalryâa cocktail of biting sarcasm and electric tensionâspirals into a dangerous game of provocation. What starts as flirtatious warfare soon ignites an obsession that shatters their control, threatening to destroy them both.
(PART 1 OF 2 because it was too long lol)
Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Smut, Angst, Fighting, violence, mentions of sad past., provocation, cursing. (I don't know what else lol)
A/N: i've finally finished my first john fanfic, it took me way too long. Reader has silver eyes here, with abilities: telpathy, telekinesis, healing.
it was supposed to be short but i ended up writing 57k words lol. anyways, i split it into 2 parts. i originally wrote it with an oc and then edited it to be x reader, so if there's any part where i forgot to edit it, i'm sorry! i really hope you like it.
WC: 30k (ups)
The common room of the tower was a battlefield. Not the kind with bullets and explosions (though those had happened more than once), but the kind where sarcasm and stubbornness clashed like vibranium shields.Â
John Walker leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you with a smirk as you scowled at the coffee machine.Â
"Need help with that, or are you just gonna glare it into submission?" he asked.Â
You didnât even glance at him. "Iâd ask for your help, Walker, but last time you âfixedâ something, we had to call Starkâs old AI to undo the damage."Â
Bucky, sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, muttered, "Here we go again."Â
John feigned offense. "That was one time. And in my defense, the toaster was already broken."Â
"It was brand new," Yelena called from the other side of the room, flipping through a magazine. "You just have a gift for destruction."Â
You finally got the machine working and poured herself a cup, taking a slow, deliberate sip before turning to John. "You know, if you put half as much effort into not being insufferable as you do into breaking things, the world would be a better place."Â
John grinned, stepping closer. "Aw, Y/N. You do care."Â
You rolled your silver eyes. "I care about not having to replace appliances every week."
Alexei, lounging in an armchair, chuckled. "Ah, young love."Â
Both John and you whipped your heads toward him.Â
"Love?" You scoffed.Â
John made a disgusted noise. "Yeah, no. Hard pass."Â
Bucky smirked. "Methinks they doth protest too much."Â
You flipped him off before striding out of the room, your long hair swaying behind you. John watched you go, his smirk fading just slightly.Â
Yelena sighed. "You two are exhausting."Â
John shrugged. "What can I say? Arguing with her is the highlight of my day."Â
Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Thatâs sad, man."Â
Johnâs grin returned, but there was something behind itâsomething none of them called him out on.Â
Because deep down, they all knew the truth. And so did he.Â
---
The Watchtower was silent at 3:17 AM. The city lights bled through the panoramic windows, casting long, shifting shadows across the sleek, empty common room. You padded barefoot into the kitchen, the cool floor a welcome contrast to the restless energy humming beneath her skin. Sleep had been elusive, chased away by fragments of thoughts and the residual buzz of your telepathy brushing against the dormant minds of your teammates.
You hadnât bothered with much. A faded, worn band t-shirt that barely reached mid-thigh, and a pair of soft, grey cotton shorts that clung lovingly to your curves, particularly the generous swell of your backside. Alone in the quiet dark, you didnât need armor, physical or emotional.
The coffee machine hissed and gurgled, a comforting ritual. You leaned against the cool granite of the breakfast bar while it brewed, the silence wrapping around you like a cloak. When it was ready, you poured a generous mug, inhaling the rich, bitter aroma like a lifeline.
Cradling the warm mug in both hands, you turned and leaned against the table's edge. Your spine arched slightly, elbows propped on the surface. You brought the mug to your lips, eyes drifting shut as the first, perfect sip of scalding liquid hit your tongue. A low, involuntary purr of pure contentment vibrated in your throat. The warmth spread through your chest, momentarily silencing the internal noise. Your head tilted back a fraction, long strands of inky black hair cascading over one bare shoulder. Your tongue darted out, tracing the fullness of your lower lip, savoring the lingering taste. One bare foot absently rubbed up the calf of your other leg, a picture of relaxed, unguarded sensuality.
Your powers sometimes were exhausted, it demanded too much focus. At first, they were difficult to control, and the headaches were too painful. The thoughts of people became a problem; you heard them all the time. It was too much. But with time, practice, and the guidance of Wanda, you could eventually control them properly. You were truly grateful for her help.
The Avengers had saved you years ago. Youâve been used by Hydra as an experiment. Thatâs how you met the heroes, and Wanda helped you for a while until you learned to control your powers. And then you met Bucky, and thatâs how you are in this team.
Your abilities had been so helpful for all the team. Especially your healing powers, for obvious reasons.
Your relationship with the team was good. Alexei was the personification of fun and was like a father to you.
You and Bucky were too good friends, you felt him like a brother.
Yelena was like a crazy sister to you. In just a little time she understands you too well.
Ava was a great friend too, although she was so quiet all the time.
Bob was so sweet and considerate. One of your best friends too.
And there was John Walker. The man was an asshole. But actually, you didnât blame him. He has lost everything he fought and strived for. He just wanted to do good and be the best version of his Captain America, he wanted to be enough. But when he failed, everyone turned their back on him.
He lost his rank, he lost the title of Captain America, his wife left him, and he lost his son.
Itâs not that it wasnât his fault but he tried, and he was alone until now.
Now, he has a very dysfunctional family that supports him, in its own way.
And you see him, he may be an impulsive, aggressive, cocky, and insecure asshole, but deep down he is a good person. He is strong, confident, determined, and protective. He is trying.
You were lost in the simple pleasure of your warm coffee, you were utterly unaware.
John Walker stood frozen in the shadowed archway leading to the living quarters. Heâd come down for water, his own sleep fractured by the ghosts of failure and the too-loud silence of his empty life. The sight before him punched the air from his lungs.
God Almighty, he thought to himself.
You, bathed in the dim, ambient light, were⊠breathtaking. The thin cotton of your shirt did nothing to hide the perfect lines of your body, the gentle swell of your breasts unconfined beneath the fabric. His enhanced senses, usually a tool for combat, now betrayed him with excruciating clarity â the faint scent of your sleep-warmed skin, the soft texture of the cotton, the subtle shift of muscle beneath smooth skin as you moved. The curve of your back, the way your posture accentuated the fullness of your hips and backside in those shorts⊠it looked impossibly soft. His hands clenched instinctively at his sides, a phantom memory of touch he had no right to imagine.
Jesus, stop. he thought again, shutting his eyes for a moment.
His pulse hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat drowning out the quiet hum of the tower. His breathing hitched, becoming shallow and rapid. Heat, entirely different from the coffeeâs warmth, flooded his veins. This wasnât the sharp, competitive spark of their usual friction. This was raw, primal attraction, a wave so powerful it left him dizzy. He hadnât felt anything like this in a very long time. Not this visceral, this consuming. You were fierce, brilliant, infuriating⊠and in this unguarded moment, devastatingly beautiful. You were everything he wasnât supposed to want, shouldnât even look at like this. But *Christ*, he was just a man. A flawed, lonely, damned man standing in the dark, captivated.
You took another slow sip, your eyes still closed, a small, blissful smile playing on your lips. Then, a subtle shift. A flicker of awareness brushed against the edge of your telepathy â a spike of adrenaline, a chaotic swirl of intense, focused emotion nearby. Your eyes snapped open, silver irises catching the low light like mercury.
You turned your head, expecting annoyance, perhaps Yelena or Bucky catching you in a moment of vulnerability. Instead, your gaze locked onto John. He stood rigid, half in shadow, his expression unreadable in the dimness but radiating an intensity that crackled in the air between them.
For a heartbeat, the familiar sarcasm, the defensive quip, hovered on your tongue. But seeing him there, frozen, looking at you with something far deeper than irritation or arrogance⊠it disarmed you. The usual shield didnât snap into place.
Instead, a slow, genuine smile bloomed on your face. Soft. Curious. Almost⊠innocent. It wasnât flirtatious or challenging; it was simply open, surprised warmth. âHey Walker,â you murmured, your voice husky with sleep and the remnants of your purr. âCouldnât sleep either?â
That smile. That simple, unguarded expression. It didnât just disarm John Walker; it melted something brittle and cold deep inside his chest. His carefully constructed walls, the armor of arrogance and cynicism, felt perilously thin. He swallowed hard, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden, charged silence. The steaming mug felt suddenly precarious in his own hand, forgotten.
No, he thought, the internal voice a ragged whisper. Not arguing. Not tonight. He cleared his throat, the sound rough. âUh⊠no. Water.â The excuse sounded pathetic even to him. His eyes, betraying him utterly, flickered down your form for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your face, a traitorous flush creeping up his neck.
He loved that smile. He loved the way you could keep up with his sarcastic jokes and bickering, you never retreat, you charge. You were infuriating yes, but so was he. You were relentless, bold, funny, intelligent, you were a complete woman, and so fucking beautiful.
But then there was the other side of you. You were also sweet and tender, understanding the others' struggles and always being there to help. Even when you had your own demons to fight with. You were stronger than him in that way. You never let your past define you. Not like him.
Your silver eyes held his, that soft smile lingering, understanding dawning in their depths. The air in the kitchen was no longer just silent. It was thick, electric, and filled with everything theyâd never dared to say.
He smiled back.
The tension didnât dissipate after the coffee encounter. If anything, it thickened, settling over the tower like humid summer air â heavy, charged, impossible to ignore. John found himself hyper-aware of you. The subtle sway of your hips as you walked down a corridor, the way your laughter sounded sharper, brighter when it wasnât aimed at him, the maddening perfection of your backside showcased in anything you wore â tactical gear, sweatpants, it didnât matter. His enhanced senses felt like a curse, constantly feeding him details he didnât need but couldnât stop absorbing.
âJesus Christ, Walker, stop looking at her ass,â he growled internally one afternoon, watching you bend over a console in the operations room. He raked a hand down his face in frustration, the familiar sting of self-loathing mixing with the undeniable pull. He needed an outlet. Something physical. Something punishing.
The gym was his sanctuary â harsh fluorescent lights, the smell of rubber mats and sweat, the rhythmic thud of fists against heavy bags. He worked himself ruthlessly. Push-ups became clap push-ups. Weights were loaded heavily. The heavy bag wasnât just a target; it was his frustration, his past failures, the ghost of the shield, the hollow ache Olivia left behind, the gnawing attraction he couldnât seem to kill.
He was drenched, shirt discarded on a nearby bench, muscles straining and gleaming under the lights. Sweat traced paths down his defined chest and abs, plastering dark blond hair to his forehead and temples. Each punch against the bag was a release, a growl escaping his lips with the impact. He was lost in the rhythm, the burn, the desperate attempt to purge Y/N from his nervous system.
You hadnât been able to focus all day. The memory of Johnâs intense gaze in the kitchen, the raw vulnerability youâd momentarily glimpsed beneath the usual arrogance, kept replaying. You needed to move, to clear your head. The gym was usually empty this time of day.
You pushed open the heavy door and froze.
John Walker. Shirtless. Gleaming. Every sculpted line of his torso, shoulders, and arms was on brutal, beautiful display. Sweat darkened the waistband of his grey sweatpants, highlighting the powerful V-cut leading down. His movements were raw, powerful, almost feral. Controlled violence radiates from every flexing muscle. The air crackled with his focused energy and the sheer, undeniable physicality of him.
â Oh. My. God.â The thought slammed into your mind, unbidden and utterly truthful. â He is so fucking hot.â your silver eyes widened, taking him in â the ripple of his back muscles as he pivoted, the defined ridges of his abdomen tightening with each strike, the sheer presence of him filling the space. A flush crept up your neck, warmth pooling low in your belly. It was primal, visceral, and utterly disconcerting.
Your instinct screamed ÂŽretreatÂŽ. This was dangerous territory. You started to pivot silently, intending to vanish before he noticed.
But John Walker, even lost in his punishing rhythm, was a soldier. Enhanced senses or not, the sudden shift in the roomâs energy, the faint scent of her shampoo cutting through the sweat, the almost imperceptible sound of your intake of breath â it registered. His fist stopped mid-swing against the shuddering bag. His head turned slowly, chest heaving, eyes locking onto yours.
He saw it instantly. The lingering stare you hadnât quite masked. The faint blush high on your cheeks. The way your gaze had just been tracing the lines of his shoulders and chest. The usual sharp retort, the defensive barb, died on his lips. A slow, dangerous smirk began to spread across his face, replacing the grimace of exertion. It wasnât his usual cocky grin. This was predatory. Amused. Triumphant.
âWell, well, Y/N,â he rasped, his voice rough from exertion but laced with a new, unfamiliar heat. He didnât move towards you, just leaned a forearm casually against the still-swaying heavy bag, letting you look. Sweat dripped from his chin onto his chest. âSee something you like?â
Your flush deepened, but your spine straightened. You wouldnât be easily flustered, not by him. âJust assessing the equipment, Walker,â you shot back, forcing your voice to be cool, though it lacked its usual bite. âMaking sure you havenât broken anything else.â your gaze, however, flickered again, betraying you, drawn to the sweat-slicked planes of his stomach.
Johnâs smirk widened. He pushed off the bag, taking a deliberate step towards you, not closing the distance entirely but emphasizing his presence. âEquipmentâs fine,â he drawled, his eyes roaming over you with the same intense scrutiny youâd just given him, lingering on the curve of your hips, the line of your neck. âSeems like you were doing a pretty thorough inspection, though. Admiring the craftsmanship?â
The air between you two sizzled. You held his gaze, refusing to back down, even as your heartbeat hammered against your ribs. The arrogance was back, but laced with something else now â a challenge, an invitation. He was enjoying this. Enjoying seeing you off-balance for once. Enjoying the reversal.
âMaybe I was just surprised,â you countered, tilting your chin up. âDidnât realize vanity was part of your workout routine. All that flexing⊠compensating for something?â
John chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in the charged space. He took another step, close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the sharp, clean scent of his sweat mixed with soap. âJust working off some⊠tension, Y/N,â he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. His eyes held yours, intense, unblinking. âSeems Iâm not the only one who needs an outlet.â
He let the implication hang, watching the flicker of awareness in your silver eyes. The predator had scented the prey, and for the first time, the roles felt deliciously reversed. He saw the brief struggle in your expression â the desire to snap back warring with the undeniable pull.
You held his gaze for another charged second, your own internal battle raging. Then, without another word, you turned on your heel. But this time, your retreat wasnât silent or unnoticed. It was deliberate, a strategic withdrawal. You felt his eyes on your back all the way to the door, the weight of his stare and that infuriating, knowing smirk burning into your skin.
John watched you go, the predatory satisfaction warming him far more effectively than the workout had. He picked up his discarded shirt, wiping his face, a low chuckle escaping him. The tension was still there, coiled tight. But now, it felt less like frustration and more like⊠potential. And John Walker, ever the opportunist, was suddenly very interested in exploring that potential.
The air in the tower felt thinner after the gym. Johnâs infuriating smirk, the blatant satisfaction radiating off him as heâd watched your retreat â it had ignited something in you. A competitive fire, yes, but something hotter, sharper. If he wanted to play this game? Fine. You knew the rules better than he did.
Late that night, the familiar restlessness returned. But this time, it was focused. Intentional. You sensed him first â a low thrum of restless energy emanating from the kitchen, a familiar signature of insomnia and simmering frustration. A slow, knowing smile curved your lips. Perfect.
You chose your weapons carefully: impossibly soft, thin cotton shorts that hugged every devastating curve of your backside like a second skin, and an oversized t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the elegant line of your neck and collarbone. Comfortable, innocent⊠and utterly lethal. You ran a hand through your sleep-tousled black hair, letting it fall artfully over your bare shoulder. Game on.
Padding silently into the kitchen, you feigned surprise. âOh. Hey, Walker.â Your voice was soft, sleep-roughened, deliberately unguarded. You saw the exact moment he registered your presence â the subtle hitch in his breathing, the way his broad shoulders tensed beneath his thin t-shirt, the sudden, intense focus in his eyes that swept over you like a physical touch. The tension radiating from him was almost palpable, thick and electric.
Casually, you moved towards the counter where he stood frozen near the sink. You needed⊠something. Anything. Your eyes landed on a forgotten glass near his elbow. âJust grabbing this,â you murmured, your tone light, innocent. You slid past him, your movement deliberate. The soft swell of your backside brushed, ever so lightly, against the front of his hips as you reached across him.
âShit.â The single, desperate thought slammed into your telepathic awareness, raw and unfiltered. You felt the involuntary jolt that went through him, the sudden clench of muscle. Heat bloomed where theyâd touched, brief but incendiary.
You pulled back smoothly, glass in hand, acting as if nothing momentous had just transpired. You turned, offering him a small, benign smile, acutely aware of his gaze burning into you, tracking the deliberate, sensual sway of your hips as you walked a few steps away. You felt the weight of his stare like a brand, knew exactly where it lingered.
âControl yourself. Donât look down. Donât fucking look down.â His internal mantra was frantic, a drumbeat of fraying willpower. You heard the sharp intake of breath, felt the spike of frustrated arousal he couldnât suppress. And then, the inevitable defeat: he *looked* down. The sharp spike of pure, unadulterated lust that followed â âJesus Christâ â was almost overwhelming. Triumph, sweet and hot, surged through you.
âGoodnight, Walker,â you called softly over your shoulder, your voice a velvet purr. You didnât turn back. You didnât need to. You poured every ounce of deliberate, hypnotic grace into the walk back towards your room, letting your hips move in a slow, mesmerizing rhythm designed to sear itself into his mind.
The moment your door hissed shut down the corridor, Johnâs control shattered. He was across the kitchen and down the hall to his own quarters in a blur, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning his forehead against the cool metal, chest heaving. Sweat beaded on his temples, his skin felt feverish, and the persistent, aching throb low in his abdomen was impossible to ignore. It pulsed in time with the image of you â the feel of you against him, the maddening sway of your hips, the devastating curve outlined by that thin cotton, the innocent smile masking pure provocation.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to summon cold water, mission protocols, Buckyâs disapproving frown â anything to douse the fire. It was useless. Your scent, the phantom warmth of your skin, the sound of your husky voice saying goodnight⊠it flooded his senses, drowning out reason. It was worse than any battle rush, worse than needing air. A raw, primal need clawed at him, demanding release.
Frustration warred with desperate arousal. He was a soldier, trained for discipline, yet here he was, undone by a pair of cotton shorts and a knowing look. His hand, seemingly of its own volition, pressed against the painful tightness straining the front of his sweatpants. A low groan escaped him, part surrender, part sheer, agonized need. He needed relief. Now. The image of you, smiling innocently while setting him ablaze, filled his vision as his hand finally moved, seeking the frantic, solitary release his body demanded. The silence of his room was broken only by his ragged breathing and the furious, desperate rhythm of his own hand.
He hated how good it felt, how vividly his traitorous mind conjured you. And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous provocation of all.Â
John stood under the scalding spray of the shower long after his release had left him hollow. Steam curled around him, thick and suffocating, but it did nothing to cleanse the images burned into his mind. The way youâd movedâslow, deliberate, tauntingâlike you knew exactly what you were doing to him. And you had known. That was the worst part.Â
You had played him. And he had let you.Â
You knew how he felt about you, you saw it in his eyes, the desire, the want.
Both of you loved to fight with each other, but this was another thing completely different. You had flirted, but never at this point. And God, this was just getting started.
His hands braced against the tiles, water sluicing down his back, his breathing still uneven. He should be furious. He was furious. But beneath the anger, beneath the frustration, something darker coiled. Something hungry.
This wasnât a game anymore. This was war.Â
---Â
It was Saturday night, and the girls and Bob decided to go out for a couple of drinks. They needed to go out of the tower and breathe fresh air. The rest of the boys would join them later. John, especially, needed fresh air.
Knowing that the boys would be there, that he would be there, you put on a tight black dress that barely covered your mid-thighs. Its straps accentuated the swell of your breasts and the bare back, letting the delicate curve of your spine come into view. And heels, of course. Your hair is loose and wild just as you are tonight.
The bar was loud, messy, crowded. The three of you sat and ordered.
Drinks had been flowing steadily â cosmopolitans for Yelena, something complex and smoky for Ava, a Diet Coke for Bob, and for you, a succession of vibrant, fruity cocktails that matched the electric energy humming just beneath your skin.
The conversation was easy, full of laughter and shared stories that had nothing to do with missions or near-death experiences. They teased Bob about his latest book obsession, Yelena recounted a disastrous undercover op involving a flock of angry geese, and Ava shared surprisingly dry observations about the other patrons.
Then, inevitably, the topic shifted.
"So, Y/N," Yelena purred, swirling the pink liquid in her glass, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Walker looked particularly brooding today during training. Any idea why? Or should we just blame it on his general personality?"
You took a slow sip of your brightly colored drink, feigning nonchalance. "Probably just annoyed Bucky corrected his stance again. You know how fragile his ego is." You offered a casual shrug, the movement making the thin straps of your dress dig slightly into your skin.
Ava leaned forward, her expression serious but playful. "Come on, Y/N. We see the way you two orbit each other. The bickering, the staring contests that last just a little too long... the tension." She emphasized the last word. "It's thicker than Alexei's accent after three vodkas."
Bob just smiled tenderly at you, silently agreeing with Yelena and Ava.
You felt a familiar warmth creep up your neck, unrelated to the alcohol. "You're all imagining things," you protested, though your voice lacked its usual conviction. You traced the condensation on your glass. "We work together. Sometimes we argue. It's nothing."
"Nothing?" Yelena scoffed, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. "Darling, the way he looks at you when you walk into a room? Like he's trying to solve a complex equation involving your dress and the nearest horizontal surface." She smirked. "And the way you look at him when he's all sweaty and shirtless in the gym? Don't think we haven't noticed. You practically purr."
You opened your mouth to retort, but Ava cut in gently. "It's okay to admit it. We're your friends. We see it. You light up around him, even when you're yelling. And he... well, he looks at you like you hung the damn moon, even when he's calling you a pain in the ass." She smiled softly. "Why not just... say something? End the suspense?"
You felt a pang of something complicated â desire, yes, but also fear, pride, the ingrained habit of their combative dance. "It's not that simple," you murmured, avoiding their gazes. "It's... complicated."
"Complicated is just another word for scared," Yelena stated bluntly, finishing her cosmo. "But fine. Play dumb. See how long you can keep setting the tower on fire with just eye contact." She signaled the waiter for another round. "More drinks! Clearly, we need them to penetrate the denial field."
The fresh drinks arrived, vibrant and tempting. You felt the pleasant buzz intensify into a slight, warm dizziness. The music seemed louder, the lights brighter. The conversation flowed back to safer topics, but the questions lingered in the air, humming beneath the surface like the bassline.
Feeling the rhythm pulse through you, needing to move, to escape the scrutiny and your own tangled thoughts, so you stood. "Dancing," you declared, grabbing your new, brightly colored cocktail. You downed half of it in one smooth motion, the sweet liquid burning pleasantly. "Be right back."
You weaved through the crowd, the music wrapping around you. Finding a small space near the edge of the dance floor, you closed your eyes, letting the beat take over. Your body began to move, a natural, sinuous flow. Your hips swayed with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, your arms lifting gracefully. A genuine, relaxed smile touched your lips as you lost yourself in the sensation, the music washing away the tension, the questions, leaving only the thrum of life and the pleasant haze of the alcohol. Your hair swirled around your bare shoulders, catching the light. The dress moved with you, clinging and flowing, emphasizing every curve â the long line of your neck, the swell of your breasts rising and falling with your breath, the dip of your waist, the perfect, mesmerizing sway of your hips, the elegant length of your legs in those heels. You were pure, unselfconscious sensuality, a dark goddess moving to the pulse of the night.
For a moment while you danced, you forgot everything.
Unseen by you, the lounge entrance parted. Bucky, Alexei, and John Walker stepped in, scanning the crowd. Bucky headed straight for the bar with a weary sigh. Alexei boomed a greeting, already eyeing the dance floor with enthusiasm.
Johnâs gaze, however, froze.
He saw you instantly. A beacon in the shifting crowd. You, lost in the music, dancing alone. The sight punched the air from his lungs. The black dress, the bare skin, the way it clung and moved... the effortless grace, the pure, unadulterated sex radiating from your every movement. Your hair tumbled around your face, your lips curved in that beautiful, unguarded smile he rarely saw. His enhanced senses picked up the faint sheen of sweat on your neck, the rhythm of your breath, the intoxicating scent of your perfume mixed with the club air.
His blue eyes darkened, tracking the hypnotic sway of your hips, the line of your back, the curve of your ass in that damn dress. Every nerve ending sparked. Jesus Christ. You were breathtaking. A primal heat surged through him, fierce and undeniable. He felt like he was about to combust. His hand tightened reflexively around the beer bottle Bucky had just shoved into it when they joined Bob, Ava and Yelena.
"Bozhe moi," Alexei chuckled, clapping John heavily on the shoulder, jolting him. "Look at our little witch! Moves like serpent, yes?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Very distracting for poor Agent?"
Bucky followed Johnâs fixed stare and sighed. "Walker. Breathe. And maybe stop staring like youâre trying to set her dress on fire with your mind. Itâs getting creepy."
John finally dragged his gaze away, taking a long, desperate swig of the cold beer, trying to douse the fire inside. It didnât help. The image was seared into his retinas. "Shut up, Barnes," he muttered, his voice rough.
"See?" Alexei nudged Bucky. "He is practically melting! Go, little Agent! Go talk! Ask her to dance! Show her your... American moves!" He made a vaguely suggestive hip thrust.
John shot him a glare. "Iâm good right here." He took another long pull from the bottle, his eyes inevitably drifting back to you. Sheâd opened your eyes now, still dancing, your gaze sweeping the room. For a fleeting second, your silver eyes met his across the crowded space. He saw the flicker of recognition, the slight widening, perhaps a hint of challenge... or something else? Then you looked away, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as you continued to move.
Fuck. John slammed the now-empty bottle down on a nearby high table. He was playing dumb, clinging to the familiar armor of indifference, but the heat in his veins, the tightness in his chest, and the unwavering focus of his gaze told a different story. The goddess was dancing, and the soldier was utterly, helplessly enthralled. He signaled the waiter for another drink. He was going to need it.
The energy shifted palpably. Alexei immediately commandeered the dance floor with surprisingly fluid (if slightly alarming) moves, pulling a laughing Yelena into his orbit. Bucky gravitated towards Ava and Bob at the booth, exchanging weary but amused glances as they watched their teammates. John remained a fixed point near the high table, a fresh beer in hand, his gaze an anchor constantly drawn back to the dark whirlwind on the dance floor.
Despite the earlier teasing, the group dynamic settled into a comfortable rhythm fueled by shared laughter, more drinks, and the sheer relief of being off-duty. Stories flowed â exaggerated mission mishaps (mostly Alexei), dry wit (Bucky and Ava), Bobâs laughing, and Yelenaâs razor-sharp commentary. You, flushed and pleasantly buzzed, drifted between dancing and the booth, your laughter bright and infectious. You caught John watching you more than once, a silent, intense observation that sent a different kind of warmth through you than the alcohol. Each time, you held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary before looking away, a secret smile playing on your lips.
As the night deepened and the crowd thinned slightly, a subtle orchestration began. Yelena caught Buckyâs eye and tilted her head meaningfully towards John and you. Bucky gave an almost imperceptible nod. Alexei, declaring he needed "stronger drink in another place, like Russian man!" loudly, steered a slightly tipsy Bob towards the exit. Yelena linked arms with Ava. "Come, Ava, I'm already tired" Ava, catching on, grinned and followed. Within moments, their corner booth was empty, and the group had strategically dispersed, leaving you near the dance floor and John standing alone by his table, the space between them suddenly charged and conspicuously private.
You felt the shift. The music pulsed, the bass vibrating in your chest. You'd just finished swaying to a slower beat, catching your breath. John pushed off from the table and walked towards you, his movements deliberate. He stopped close, the scent of his cologne cutting through the club smells â clean, masculine, uniquely him.
"Think it's time we head back," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated pleasantly against the music. His blue eyes were dark, intense, fixed on your face.
You tilted your head up, meeting his gaze. The slight dizziness from the drinks made the world tilt pleasantly. "One more song?" You asked, the request soft, almost pleading. "I love this one." It was a sultry, rhythmic track, perfect for the languid way you felt.
Johnâs lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something warmer than his usual smirk. He didn't look away. "One more song," he agreed, his voice rough.
He didn't join you on the floor, but he didn't move back either. He stood just at the edge, leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed. His attention was absolute, a laser focus that made you feel simultaneously exposed and exhilarated. You closed your eyes again, letting the music flow through you. Your body moved with a slow, undulating grace, your hips tracing fluid circles, your arms weaving through the air. You felt the heat of his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the line of your bare back, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, the length of your leg accentuated by the heels. You knew he was watching every shift of the fabric over your breasts, every strand of dark hair that brushed your shoulder. It was intoxicating. A powerful, silent communication thrummed between them, louder than the music.
God, sheâs incredible. The thought slammed into Johnâs mind with the force of a physical blow. Every damn move... hypnotic. He tracked the delicate column of your throat as you tilted your head back, the pulse fluttering there. The way your lips parted slightly as you lost yourself in the rhythm. The sheer, breathtaking sensuality you radiated without even trying. I fucking love her. The realization, stark and undeniable, hit him like a bucket of ice water. His breath caught, panic warring with the fierce surge of possessiveness and desire. Love? Shit. No. Canât...
Suddenly, the overhead lights above you flickered violently, a sharp, jarring interruption to the club's ambiance. It wasn't the whole club, just the cluster near you.
A man, emboldened by too much liquid courage and your captivating solo dance, chose that moment to lurch forward. He was tall, bulky, his eyes glazed. "Hey, gorgeous," he slurred, stepping far too close, invading your space. "You dance like fire. Wanna ditch this noise? I know a hotel just 'round the corner..." He reached out, his hand closing roughly around your bare upper arm.
Your eyes snapped open, silver flashing with instant fury and a flicker of alarm. The lights flickered again, more erratically. "Get lost," you spat, trying to yank your arm back, your telepathy instinctively pushing against the haze of alcohol to project a wave of pure back off.
But the man just grinned, tightening his grip. "Aw, come on, don't be like thaâ"
He never finished. John was a blur. One second, he was leaning against the pillar; the next, he was between you and the man, his hand a vice on the drunkard's wrist, forcing it away from your arm with brutal efficiency. Johnâs expression was terrifying â cold fury etched into every line of his face, his blue eyes glacial.
"You heard the lady," John growled, his voice low but carrying an edge that cut through the music. He didn't shout, but the menace radiating from him was palpable. "Get lost. Now." He gave the man's wrist a sharp, painful twist for emphasis.
The drunkard yelped, his bravado evaporating instantly under Johnâs murderous glare and enhanced strength. He stumbled back, muttering apologies, and vanished into the crowd.
John turned immediately to you, his hand shifting from the man's wrist to gently cup your elbow where the drunk had grabbed you. His touch was startlingly gentle after the violence of moments before. "You okay?" he asked, his voice rough with residual anger but laced with concern. His eyes scanned your face, checking for any sign of distress.
You nodded, slightly breathless, the flickering lights didn't stabilize yet. You winced slightly as your hand grabbed your head. You were losing control. And John saw it. The shock of the encounter and the suddenness of Johnâs intervention cut through her buzz. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks." Your voice was steadier than you felt.
His hand remained on your elbow, a warm, grounding point. "Let's get out of here." There was no room for argument in his tone, only protective finality.
He kept his hand lightly on your back, guiding you firmly but carefully through the thinning crowd towards the exit, a shield between you and the rest of the world.
The cool night air hit you as you stepped outside, a welcome shock. John hailed a sleek, automatic car. He opened the door for you, his hand hovering near the small of your back as you slid into the plush leather interior. He followed, the door closing with a soft thud, sealing them in sudden, intimate quiet. The city lights streamed past the tinted windows.
You leaned your head back against the seat, the adrenaline fading, leaving you feeling drained and pleasantly fuzzy again. You closed your eyes for a moment. John sat beside you, not touching, but the space between you felt charged, electric. The silence wasn't awkward; it was thick with everything unspoken, amplified by the night's events and the lingering intimacy of his protective intervention.
"You okay?" He asked, referring to the wince he saw you make earlier. You nodded.
Then you felt him shift. Opening your eyes, you found him looking at you, his profile illuminated by the streetlights. The cold fury was gone, replaced by a deep, unreadable intensity. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. The air in the car crackled.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he leaned towards you. Your breath hitched. Your own gaze fixed on his lips. The distance between you is closing inch by inch. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint scent of beer and his cologne. His hand, resting on the seat between them, twitched as if to reach for yours. Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was it. The tension that had simmered for weeks, months, was about to snap.
His lips were a breath away. You could almost feel them. Your own lips parted slightly in unconscious invitation.
Then, his eyes flickered. Something shifted â a shadow of doubt, fear, the crushing weight of everything heâd lost and everything he feared losing again. He froze. The spell shattered.
He pulled back abruptly, clearing his throat and turning to stare rigidly out the window. The moment was gone, leaving a yawning chasm of silence and unfulfilled promise hanging heavy in the air.
You closed your eyes again, a confusing mix of disappointment, relief, and a profound ache flooding you. You leaned your head against the cool window, watching the city blur past as he started to drive, the echo of his nearness and the taste of the almost-kiss lingering like a phantom touch.
John clenched his jaw, his knuckles white where they gripped the wheel. The ride back to the tower was completed in a silence louder than any club music, the ghost of what almost happened a tangible presence between them. He escorted you silently to your door, a perfect, frustrating gentleman to the end.
"Night, Y/N," he said, his voice gruff.
"Night, Walker," you whispered back, slipping inside your room.
The door closed. John stood alone in the corridor for a long moment, the image of you dancing, the feel of your arm under his hand, the nearness of your lips, burning in his mind. He slammed his fist lightly against the wall beside your door, a muffled thud of pure frustration, before turning and striding towards his own room, the unresolved tension coiled tighter than ever.
You changed slowly. You were tired, frustrated, and sad. You let your body fall onto the bed, face down. You didnât understand why he hesitated, why he backed down. The kiss was almost there. It's supposed you wanted the same, right? He never told you but you saw it in his eyes. Or it was just flirting? Your head started to spin, so you preferred to stop thinking and sleep. As if you could control that⊠your body curled and your head started to think about him until you fell asleep.
In his room, John rested looking at the ceiling. idiot he sighed. He felt frustrated and angry with himself. He didnât know if he had acted correctly. He was sure that he couldnât kiss you in that state, you were drunk. He couldnât take advantage of that. But God, he wanted to. He wanted to kiss you. The thought of grabbing your wrists and putting you in his lap and fucked you senseless in the car was still present in his head. Shit.
How could he look at your eyes now? It was all he could think of.
He would figure it out tomorrow.
--
The morning light spearing through your viewport felt like a spike directly into your brain. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow, which smelled faintly of expensive club air and... regret? A desperate, Sahara-desert thirst clawed at your throat. Water. You needed water immediately, or death was preferable.
Stumbling into the common kitchen felt like navigating a minefield blindfolded. Every sound â the hum of the coffee maker, the clink of a spoon â was amplified to torturous levels. You clutched your throbbing head, squinting against the offensive brightness.
Yelena, annoyingly pristine and sipping espresso at the counter, arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "God, Y/N. You look like something the cat dragged in, chewed on, and then regretted. Rough night?" Her tone was pure, unadulterated amusement.
You grunted, beelining for the water dispenser and gulping down three glasses in rapid succession. The cool liquid was a minor miracle. "Define 'rough'," you rasped, your voice sounding like gravel. "Bits are... fuzzy."
Yelena's smirk widened into a predatory grin. "Bits? Oh, honey, the best bits were after the rest of us conveniently evaporated. You and Captain America Junior were putting on quite the show." She took a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her tiny cup. "Well, you were putting on a show. He was mostly just... watching. Intently. Like a hawk eyeing a particularly juicy mouse. Or," she added with a wink, "a man desperately trying not to combust."
You froze, the water glass halfway to your lips again. He took care of me? Fragments slammed back: the predatory intensity of his gaze as you danced, the flickering lights, the drunk idiot's hand on your arm, John materializing like an avenging angel, the cool leather seats of the car, the heat of his body beside you... the almost. The breath-stealing, world-tilting almost-kiss. Your cheeks flushed, a warmth unrelated to the hangover.
You forced your expression into careful neutrality, turning to face Yelena. "Walker? Took care of me?" You feigned confusion, rubbing your temple. "What happened? Did I... fall over? Spill a drink on someone important? Please tell me I didn't sing."
Yelena laughed, a bright, knowing sound that grated on your nerves. "Oh, no singing. Just world-class hip-swaying that had our dear Walker looking like he needed an ice bath. Then some idiot tried his luck, Walker intervened with maximum scowling efficiency, and then... he whisked you away like a grumpy Prince Charming." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "So? Details. Did the grumpy prince get his kiss?"
You busied yourself refilling your water glass, avoiding Yelena's piercing gaze. "Honestly, Yelena, it's a blur after the third... whatever those blue drinks were. I remember dancing. I remember someone being grabby. I remember the car ride being... quiet." You shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere near strained indifference. "Walker brought me home? That was... decent of him, I suppose. Guess he drew the short straw."
Yelena studied you for a long moment, her amusement fading into something sharper, more perceptive. She slowly lowered her espresso cup. "You," she stated, her voice losing its teasing edge, "are a terrible liar." A slow smile spread, but it was different now â understanding, almost sympathetic. "Ah. That's the hangover. Not the alcohol. The frustration." She nodded sagely. "Nothing happened. And you wanted it to. And now you're pretending amnesia to save your pride and spare his awkwardness. Classic. Predictable. And utterly tragic."
How the hell does she know?
You opened your mouth to protest, but the kitchen door hissed open.
John Walker stood framed in the doorway. He looked... rumpled. Like he hadn't slept much either. His usual cocky swagger was absent, replaced by a hesitant tension. His eyes immediately sought you, scanning your face with an intensity that made your pulse skip despite herself. He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud.
"Morning," he rasped, his voice rough. He hovered near the doorway, looking like heâd rather face a HYDRA battalion than this kitchen. "Y/N. You... uh... functioning?"
You seized the lifeline of your fabricated amnesia with both hands. You turned, offering him a slightly strained but convincingly polite smile. "Walker. Morning. Mostly functioning, thanks. Bit of a head-thumper." You gestured vaguely towards your temple. "Listen... Yelena mentioned you got me home last night? Thanks. Really. Appreciate it. Sorry if I was... incoherent." You forced a light laugh. "Bits are a bit hazy after the tequila shots Ava dared me to do." you shot a quick, pleading look at Yelena.
Yelena, the picture of innocence, nodded solemnly. "Oh, yes. Very hazy. Practically comatose by the end. Walker had to practically carry you to your door. Very heroic. Very... chaste." She emphasized the last word just enough.
John's shoulders visibly relaxed. A wave of profound relief washed over his face, smoothing the tense lines. The awkwardness evaporated, replaced by his familiar, slightly arrogant demeanor. The near-kiss, the charged tension in the car â safely relegated to the realm of her "hazy" memory. A problem avoided.
"Hey, no problem," he said, his voice regaining its usual confidence. He strode fully into the kitchen, heading for the coffee pot. "Just doing my civic duty. Saving teammates from dubious cocktails and their own questionable dance moves." He poured a large mug, turning to lean against the counter, a familiar, challenging glint returning to his blue eyes as he looked at you. "Though, 'incoherent' is putting it nicely. You were babbling something about telekinetically rearranging the DJ's playlist. Sounded terrifying." He took a long sip, watching you over the rim, the ghost of his old, infuriating smirk playing on his lips. "Try to keep the psychic meltdowns to mission hours, yeah?"
The familiar barb, the easy arrogance â it was your normal. The safe ground you both desperately needed. you managed a weak glare, the frustration of the missed opportunity warring with a strange sense of relief at the return to your combative status quo. "Says the man who looked like he was trying to set the dance floor on fire with his mind. Jealousy is unbecoming, Walker."
He just chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, as he pushed off the counter. "Keep dreaming, Witch. I'll stick to methods that don't involve giving people migraines." He gave you a final, lingering look â a look that, for a fraction of a second, held a flicker of the previous night's intensity â before nodding at Yelena and heading out, coffee mug in hand.
Yelena watched him go, then turned back to you, raising her espresso cup in a silent, knowing toast. "Mmhmm. Smooth, witch. Very smooth. Back to bickering like an old married couple by breakfast." She took a final sip. "The sexual tension in here could power the Tower for a week. Pass the painkillers?"
You just groaned again, reaching for the bottle, the taste of the almost-kiss and the bitter tang of aspirin mingling on your tongue. Normal was back. And it was excruciating. The scrape of Yelena's spoon against her empty cup was deafening.
--
A week after that night, you walked into the common area with the same effortless confidence you always carried. The air smelled of coffee and the faint metallic tang of the city outside the towerâs windows. Things were, as always, although a little calmer than before.
You didnât expect him to be waiting for you.Â
He was sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the back, legs spread in that infuriatingly arrogant way that took up too much space. He was dressed in a tight black Henley that clung to the hard planes of his chest, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. His hair was still damp from a shower. And his eyesâthose sharp, calculating eyesâlocked onto you the second you stepped into the room.Â
A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips.Â
You felt it immediatelyâthe shift in the air. The challenge. The promise in that look. Â
âMorning, witchâ he drawled, voice rough like heâd just woken up, like heâd spent the night thinking of all the ways to ruin you. âSleep well?âÂ
You knew why he was doing this, where he was going to. But you didnât plan what happened last nightâŠ
The water in your tub was scalding, steam curling thick in the air as you braced one hand on the bathtub edge. Your head was tipped back, your breath uneven. Youâd woken tangled in sweat-damp sheets, the phantom feel of his hands was still burning your skin. The dream had been too vividâJohnâs mouth on your neck, his voice rough in your ear while he was fucking you from behind with that infuriating, knowing smirk.Â
You shouldnât have. You did.
Your fingers found your folds, already wet from that perfect dream. You needed that bath to calm down, but you couldnât help it; you felt so damn aroused. The dream played in your mind like an endless loop.
His hot mouth on your neck. Your fingers found your folds.
His hard thrusts in your pussy. Your fingers are doing circles around your clit.
His rough hands gripping tightly your hip and your neck, tilting your head back. You moaned, your fingers moving faster as two entered your pussy.
His so infuriating smirk and his voice whispering things to your ear while his cock ruins you faster and harder. âYou like this, donât you? You like being fucked like this by my cock.â
God.
Your release was sharp and intense, bitten off behind your teeth. Guiltless. Shameless. Just *his* name echoing in your skull like a taunt. Â
**The Kitchen, 2:47 AM**Â
After your bath, you went to the kitchen for water before going back to bed and finally sleeping peacefully. You didnât know he was already there.
John froze mid-sip of coffee the second you walked in.Â
Your hair was damp from the bath, your hair loose, wearing that godforsaken thin sleep shirt that rode up your thighs and short shorts. And scentâsoap, steam, and something warmer, muskier, unmistakable. His enhanced senses betrayed him instantly. His grip tightened on the mug.
Christ.Â
âOh, hey,â you said quietly while you went for a glass of water.
âHey,â he said with a raspy voice, almost hesitating.
âInsomnia?â you asked vaguely. Just making a quick conversation before you go to your room.
You noticed his hesitation again but he answered. âA nightmare.â
âSorry.â You said at the same time you passed in front of him and filled the glass. It all happened too fast. You saw and felt him breathe deep in the exact moment your body passed in front of him.
You saw him close his eyes for a second as he took in your scent. His body tensed instantly and you swore you saw his pupils dilate a little.
 You would never have understood what happened at that moment if a small glimpse of his thoughts had not appeared in your mind.
The thought was loud, unbidden, clear.Â
She⊠her scent. Warm. Sweet. Arousal.Â
Fuck.
You paused, your telepathy brushed the edges of his mind before you could stop it. Just a flickerâbut it was enough. Â
Oh.Â
You snapped the connection shut immediately, your cheeks flushed. You didnât mean to pry. But now you knew: he knew.Â
Your eyes met at the counter.
Johnâs gaze was dark, predatory. He put the mug down with deliberate calm. âAnd you? A little late for a shower, donât you think?â
Bastard, he wanted to investigate, to know more. A shy smile and a thought crossed your mind. Why donât you have fun with this? He already knew.
You swallowed a little loudly. âOh, I needed it.â You turned and stopped in front of him, the glass of water in your hand, and you looked up at him. âI had⊠sweet dreams.â You whispered to him, like telling a secret, just for him.
His smile disappeared, his jaw clenched and his breath hitched.
He understood what you meant. Of course he did. So you smirked and turned, walking lazily to your room. âSweet dreams to you too, Walker.â You said without turning to see him.
He stood there for a while, frozen, thinking about what had just happened. You practically had told him you had wet dreams and he knew you had touched yourself. He smelled it.
And God, he shouldnât have, but he wished he could feel that sweet scent again, and to know more about those dreams that made you do that.
So this morning, that smirk of his means that he was thinking and remembering the events of last night. Of course he did.
You arched a brow, refusing to let him see how that tone sent a shiver down your spine. âLike a baby. And Iâm not a witchâÂ
His smirk deepened. âFunny. I didnât sleep at all.âÂ
The implication was clear. You did this to me. And now itâs your turn.Â
âAnother nightmare? you look tense,â you said innocently.
âYou have no idea.â He said, his tone was low now.
You shouldâve walked away. You would have, if you were smarter. But the thrill of the game was too intoxicating. So you stepped closer instead, tilting your head. âMaybe you need to work off some of that⊠tension.âÂ
His gaze darkened. âOh, I plan to.â
The words were a threat. A vow.Â
And you realized, with a rush of heat, that you wanted him to make good on it. You smiled sweetly at him, your teeth biting a shiny red apple. âGood luck with that.â You said smiling before you walked away, letting him alone with his thoughts and feelings.
--
Day after day, things started to escalate. It became a silent, vicious dance, pushing a little more.
A brush of fingers when passing a coffee mug. A lingering stare when the other wasnât looking. A strategically placed hand on the small of your back as he moved past you in the hallway, just firm enough to make your breath catch.Â
John was relentless.Â
And you gave as good as you got.Â
You wore tighter clothes, lower necklines, let your hair fall just so when you knew he was watching. You bent over consoles in front of him, stretched in ways that made his jaw clench, let your telepathy skim the surface of his thoughts just to hear the filth he imagined doing to you.Â
You knew you shouldnât hear his thoughts. It wasnât right. You always said that you had to respect peopleâs privacy, and as a telepath, that includes not entering into their minds. And you always respect it. Until now.
Because after that night when you accidentally heard his thoughts, just a little bit, enough for you to know that he knew what you did. And now, you canât stop. You wanted more. Just a peek.
This game was intoxicating. It was maddening.
It was dangerous.Â
And it was only a matter of time before one of you broke.
The storm hit during a mission. Rain lashed against the windows of the Quinjet as it cut through the night sky, the team returning from a routine extraction that had gone sideways. Bucky was in the cockpit with Yelena, Ava, and Bob were checking gear, and Alexei was already snoring in the back.Â
Which left John and you alone in the middle of the jet.Â
Drenched, bruised, adrenaline still singing in your veins.Â
You were peeling off your soaked gloves when you felt his presence behind you. Close. Too close.Â
âYou almost got shot today,â he said, voice low.Â
You turned, arching a brow. âI had it under control.âÂ
His eyes burned. âLike hell you did.âÂ
There was something raw in his voice. Anger, yes, but something else. Something that made your pulse jump.Â
You smirked. âWorried about me, Walker?âÂ
His hand shot out, gripping your wrist, pulling you closer. The sudden contact sent a jolt through you. His breath was warm against your damp skin, his body radiating heat despite the chill of your soaked uniforms.
âTry that shit again,â he growled, âand Iâll put you over my knee myself.âÂ
Your lips parted. Not in protest. In anticipation. You looked at him a little surprised, your heart hammered in your chest.
He was angry, his gaze burned into yours. He wasnât playing this time, he was being honest, dangerously honest. He was worried about you and he made it clear. And God, you loved that intensity in him.
The air between you crackled.Â
And thenâÂ
The cockpit door slid open.Â
âStop eye-fucking and strap in,â Yelena called, not even looking back. âWeâre landing.âÂ
John released you like youâd burned him. But the look in his eyes promised one thing:Â
This was just getting started.
You just looked at him when he got out of the quinjet. He didnât look back.
Back at the tower, you retreated to your room, heart pounding.Â
You should stop this. It was reckless. Dangerous.Â
But God, you craved it.Â
Meanwhile, John stood at his window, staring out at the storm.Â
He had crossed a line tonight. He let out his sincere concern about you. And instead of regretting it, all he could think was that he knew he was playing with fire too, but he couldnât stop. He didnât want to stop.
--
The next day, the common room hummed with late-afternoon lethargy. Sunlight streamed through the panoramic windows, catching dust motes dancing in the air. Ava was meticulously cleaning her ghost suit gauntlets at the table, the soft *hiss-whirr* of compressed air a rhythmic counterpoint. Yelena lounged on the sofa, flipping through a fashion magazine with the intense scrutiny usually reserved for mission briefings, occasionally twirling a small, wicked-looking knife absently. Bob sat cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, engrossed in a thick, new hardcover book. You sat opposite him in an armchair, nursing a mug of tea, idly watching the city below.
John lingered near the doorway, pretending to review mission files, but his attention was locked onto the conversation.
Bob suddenly snapped his book shut with a satisfied sigh. "Interesting," he announced. "Did you know recurring dream motifs can be directly linked to unprocessed shame stimuli?"
Yelena didn't look up from her magazine. "Is this going to involve charts, Bob? My brain is allergic before 5 PM."
"Not charts, Yelena! Just... profound implications." Bob turned his earnest gaze towards you. "Y/N, you deal with minds directly. Telepathy. Dreams are subconscious landscapes, aren't they? Like... internal archives?"
You took a slow sip of your tea, your silver eyes thoughtful. "In a way. Though navigating them isn't exactly recreational reading."
"Oh, absolutely." Bob nodded vigorously. "The ethical quandaries alone! It made me think... back during the Void incident." His voice dropped slightly, a shadow passing over his usually open face. "When it... pushed me... I didn't just see people's fears. Sometimes, it was shame. Deep, personal shame. Things people buried so deep..." He shuddered slightly. "It was... invasive. Violent. Not pleasant at all."
Your expression softened with understanding. "No," you agreed quietly, setting your mug down. "Entering someone's mind uninvited, brushing against their rawest thoughts, their hidden shames... It's never pleasant. It's a violation. Even accidentally." You met his gaze. "It's not a power I use lightly, or willingly, for that kind of... exploration."
Bob tilted his head, curiosity overcoming the brief gloom. "But... you can? Read thoughts, I mean? Like... right now? Could you, hypothetically, know what we're all thinking?" He gestured vaguely around the room â encompassing Ava, Yelena, and himself.
Ava paused her gauntlet cleaning, her head tilting slightly, her expression unreadable but intensely focused. Yelena slowly lowered her magazine, the knife pausing mid-twirl. Both pairs of eyes were fixed on you.
You leaned back in your chair, a slow, enigmatic smile spreading across your lips. You let the silence stretch for a beat, watching the sudden tension coil in the room. Bob looked fascinated, Ava wary, Yelena... calculating.
"Oh, absolutely, Bob," you said, your voice smooth as silk, your silver eyes glinting with mischief. "All the time. Constantly. Like background noise." You let your gaze drift slowly from Bob to Ava, then land pointedly on Yelena. "I know all your dirty little secrets. Every last, filthy, deliciously dark thought flitting through those brilliant, twisted minds of yours right this second."
The effect was instantaneous and profound.
Bob flinched as if physically struck, his face draining of color. His book slipped from his fingers with a soft *thump*. He looked utterly horrified, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
Ava went preternaturally still. Her knuckles whitened around the gauntlet she was holding.
Yelena merely arched one eyebrow. The knife resumed its lazy twirl, but her eyes narrowed, cold and analytical, dissecting your expression. A faint, predatory smile touched her own lips, challenging.
The room felt suddenly airless. The playful atmosphere had evaporated, replaced by a thick, icy dread. Bob looked like he might be sick. Ava looked ready to phase through the floor. Yelena looked... intrigued.
You held the tableau for one more heartbeat, savoring the delicious panic you'd unleashed. Then, you tilted your head back and laughed â a rich, genuine sound that shattered the tension like glass.
"Your faces!" You gasped between laughs, wiping a non-existent tear from your eye. "I'm kidding! Mostly." Your laughter subsided into a warm chuckle. "Honestly, the lot of you. Jumpy."
Bob exhaled explosively, slumping forward and grabbing his book like a shield. "Y/N! That was... terrifying!"
Ava slowly released her grip on the gauntlet, the tension easing from her shoulders, though her eyes remained watchful. "Not funny," she stated flatly, but a hint of reluctant relief touched her voice.
You shrugged, unrepentant. âOnly when you think really loud.â You said playfully.
Then you smiled, picking your tea back up, your expression turning serious again, though the amusement lingered. "But, to answer your actual question, Bob: Yes, I could. But," you emphasized, your gaze sweeping over all three of them, "it would be a gross violation. Privacy isn't just a concept; it's sacred. I wouldn't peek into your minds any more than I'd rifle through your underwear drawers." You took a sip of tea.
"Unless," you added with a faint, sharp glint returning to your eyes, "it was a matter of life, death, or stopping one of you from doing something catastrophically stupid. Or, when you are thinking too loud, like shouting, those times itÂŽs more difficult to not hear, but that rarely happens so, all bets are off."
Bob nodded vigorously, clutching his book. "Understood. Life, death, not mind shouting or catastrophic stupidity only! Boundaries noted." He looked profoundly relieved, but also deeply thoughtful about the implications.
Yelena just smirked, returning to her magazine. "Good to know where the line is. Try not to cross it." The unspoken challenge hung in the air: Or else.
The group dissolved into laughter, the tension easingâexcept for one person.Â
John stood frozen near the door, his grip tightening on the datapad.Â
You could read minds. Of course. How didnât he think about this before?
Which meant⊠You could have heard his.Â
Every filthy, desperate, unhinged thought heâd had about you. Every time he imagined you bent over the training mats, every dark fantasy of you gasping his name, every time heâd mentally undressed you in the middle of a damn briefingâÂ
Oh, fuck.
His pulse spiked.Â
But then⊠a slow, dangerous realization crept in.
If you hadnât already heard his thoughts⊠maybe you would now.Â
And if you had? Well. That just meant you knew exactly what he wanted.Â
Either way, he could use this. He could have fun with the interesting information he had now.
And you, your mind was a war right now. Your gaze was lost through the window. You talked about boundaries and privacy⊠It was funny the way you said you wouldnât read your teammates' thoughts because of that. But you knew the truth.
You have already broken your own rule.
--
The next morning, at 5:30 AM, you walked into the kitchen for a bottle of water before going running. You found John already there, leaning against the counter, shirtless, drinking coffee like some kind of goddamn romance novel cover.Â
You arched a brow. âYouâre up early.â
He didnât even glance at you. â Couldnât sleep.âÂ
Liar.Â
You could feel the tension rolling off him, the deliberate way he was holding himself still, like he was restraining something.Â
He noticed your dark sports bra and those black leggings that traced your curves so perfectly.
You were going to leave.
ThenâÂ
â You ever peek into my head, Witch?âÂ
The question was casual. Too casual.Â
You looked at him suspiciously. âDo you want to know?â
His lips twitched. âYeah. I do.âÂ
You smirked. âMaybe I have. Maybe I havenât.âÂ
He finally turned his head, his gaze searing into you. â Guess youâll never know for sure.â You smiled.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he let his eyes trail down your bodyâlingering on your breasts, your hips, your long legs, the curve of your lipsâbefore meeting your gaze again.Â
God, his gaze.
And thought, loud and clear, right at you:Â
â Unless youâre in there right now.â
Your breath caught, your eyes widened a little bit. Because you were.Â
And what you found was filthy.Â
Bastard.
All he was thinking of was in the rough way he would rip off those leggings of yours, lifting you onto the kitchen counter and making you scream his name right there.
You shut your eyes instantly and got out of his mind. You practically run out of the kitchen with your heart beating too fast.
He stood there, grinning like a maniac. He saw every detail of your reaction, and of course, he had heard your heartbeat. He felt like a victory. And it was a victory, actually.
He chuckled before leaving the kitchen, walking directly to the gym. I feel fucking amazing he thought.
That fucking grin was on his face all day.
You had always prided yourself on control.Â
But this? This was warfare. And you were losing it.
From that day, John didnât just let his thoughts run wildâhe directed them at you like a weapon.
You didnât do it on purpose, well, sometimes you did, but most of the time, his thoughts appeared in your mind because they were too loud. And when you lost focus, it was worse.
He thought about you every time he looked at you, in every place you shared. You couldnât deny it, deep down you loved it. But it was getting difficult not to react to those thoughts.
The rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* of your fists against the heavy bag filled the gymâs air. You were lost in the punishing rhythm, sweat plastering dark strands of hair to your temples, the black sports bra and leggings doing little to hide the powerful flex of your back and shoulders with each strike. Focus. You needed focus. Especially when he walked in.
Shit.
John Walker sauntered into the gym, his presence immediately disrupting the energy. He didnât look at you directly, but you felt the shift, the predatory awareness. He headed straight for the pull-up bar mounted near your bag station. Of course he did.
He gripped the bar, knuckles white, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his grey tank top taut. Without preamble, he began. Slow, deliberate, powerful. Each pull-up was a showcase of raw strength and control. His back muscles â lats like wings, traps like corded steel, the deep groove of his spine â rippled and bunched beneath the sweat-dampened cotton with every ascent. His descent was equally controlled, a testament to the sheer power coiled in his frame.
You tried to ignore him. *Thump.* Jab. *Thump.* Cross. *Thump.* Hook. But your rhythm faltered. Your eyes kept flickering, drawn against your will to the sheer physicality of him. The way his biceps strained the sleeves, the definition in his forearms, the sweat starting to darken the fabric across his chest and back. You felt a familiar, unwelcome heat prickle under your own skin.
He knew. Oh, he knew. You could feel the satisfaction radiating off him even without your telepathy. He loved this. Loved making you look. Loved forcing you to acknowledge the power he wielded so effortlessly, the body he knew drove you crazy. A low grunt escaped him on the tenth rep, a sound that vibrated in the charged air and sent an unwanted shiver down your spine.
Focus.
He dropped from the bar after fifteen perfect reps, landing lightly. He grabbed his water bottle, taking a long swig, his eyes finally meeting yours over the rim. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, over the sharp line of his jaw. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a slow, deliberate movement.
âProblem, Y/N?â he called out, his voice rough from exertion but laced with that infuriating, knowing amusement. âBag giving you trouble? Need a spot?â
You gritted your teeth, channeling your frustration into a vicious combo against the bag. *Thump-thump-THUMP!* âJust working off some frustration, Walker,â you retorted, your voice tight. âUnlike some people, I donât need an audience for my workout.â
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that did nothing to cool you down. âWho said I needed an audience?â he countered, stepping closer. He was still breathing deeply, the tank top clinging obscenely. âJust getting warmed up.â He paused, his gaze raking over you, lingering on the sweat-slicked skin of your shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. Then, with a deliberate slowness designed to maximize the impact, he grabbed the hem of his tank top.
He pulled it off in one smooth motion.
Son of a bitch.
Your breath hitched. God. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating the sculpted perfection of his bare torso. Sweat sheened over defined pectorals, ridged abs like carved stone, the powerful V-cut leading down. Water droplets traced paths over hard muscle, catching the light. He ran a hand through his damp blonde hair, making the muscles in his arm and shoulder flex gloriously. He wasnât just fit; he was a fucking masterpiece of strength, and he knew it. Arrogance radiated off him like heat.
He tossed the damp shirt aside, a smirk playing on his lips as he turned back to the pull-up bar. He didnât get back on immediately. He just stood there, letting you look your fill, radiating pure, unadulterated male confidence. Then, he gripped the bar again.
âSee something you like, witch?â The thought slammed into your mind, loud, clear, and deliberately projected. It wasnât just words; it was accompanied by a vivid, filthy image: his hands sliding over the sweat-slicked skin of your back, pulling you against that bare, hard chest, his mouth finding the pulse hammering in your throat. âBet you taste like victory.â
You gasped, staggering back a step from the bag as if physically struck. Your face flushed crimson, not just from exertion but from the raw, intrusive heat of his mental provocation. The heavy bag swung wildly on its chain from your abandoned punch. Your silver eyes were wide, locked on him, a mixture of fury, shock, and undeniable arousal you couldnât hide.
John saw it all. The stumble, the flush, the dilated pupils. He began his pull-ups again, slower this time, each powerful contraction of his back and arms a blatant display. His smirk widened into a full, cocky grin as he met your gaze mid-ascent. He didnât need to say another word. His thoughts, loud and clear, were weapon enough: âYeah. Thatâs what I thought. Falling apart already? And I havenât even touched you yet.â
Breath. Focus, damn it!
He reveled in it. The power he had over you in that moment, the way he could shatter your focus with just his body and the dark heat of his thoughts. It was an intoxicating game, and he was winning. His arrogance was a palpable force as he continued his relentless, showy pull-ups, daring you to look away, knowing you couldnât.
You breathe deeply and force yourself back to the heavy bag, planting your feet, driving your fists into the leather with renewed, almost desperate, force. *Thump. Thump. THUMP.* Each impact echoed the frantic beat of your own heart.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to build a mental wall, brick by psychic brick. Donât listen. Donât feel. Donât look. But Johnâs presence was a physical weight, a magnetic field pulling at your senses. And his thoughts⊠they werenât just background noise anymore; they were a targeted assault.
He dropped from the bar again, landing with a soft thud just a few feet away. He didnât immediately resume. Instead, he grabbed a towel, slowly wiping the sweat from his face, his neck, his chest. The movement was deliberate, hypnotic. The sunlight caught the water droplets clinging to the hard planes of his abdomen. âFocus achieved,â his voice purred in your mind, echoing your own caption from the texts, laced with dark amusement.
You gritted your teeth, throwing a vicious hook.
âImagine this,â his mental voice cut through your concentration, low and intimate. âThis sweat? Itâd taste like salt on your tongue. Right here.â A vivid image flooded your senses: not just the thought of you licking the hollow of his throat, but the phantom sensation â the heat of his skin, the tang of salt, the pulse beating beneath your lips. It was so visceral, so real, your breath hitched mid-punch, throwing your rhythm off completely. The bag swung wildly.
He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in the charged air. He moved closer, ostensibly to grab a weight from the rack near your station. His bare arm brushed yours as he reached past you. A jolt of electricity shot through you at the contact, amplified tenfold by the telepathic onslaught.
âYour skin against mineâŠâ The thought was a caress, rough and possessive. âThat little gasp you make when I pin youâŠâ Another image: not the gym mat, but your quarters. His body pressing yours against the door, his mouth hot on your neck, your head falling back with that exact gasp. âIâd make you say my name. Beg for it.â
âStop it!â The words ripped from your throat, raw and furious. You whirled around, abandoning the bag, your silver eyes blazing. Your chest heaved, your face flushed crimson with a potent mix of anger and unwanted arousal. You pointed a trembling finger at him. âJust⊠stop!â
John feigned wide-eyed innocence, dropping the weight heâd picked up with a clang. He held his hands up, palms out, the picture of bewildered confusion. âStop what, Y/N? Breathing? Existing within fifty feet of you?â His voice was smooth, but his eyes held a predatory gleam. The corner of his mouth twitched. âIâm just working out. You seem a little⊠distracted today. Everything okay?â
The sheer audacity, the blatant lie wrapped in mock concern, was infuriating. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was toying with you, using his mind as a weapon because he knew you couldnât fully block him, knew he could make you feel things you desperately tried to hide. The frustration boiled over, hot and suffocating. You couldnât prove it. He hadnât said anything out loud. It was your word against his⊠and your own traitorous reactions.
Before you could unleash the torrent of words burning your tongue, the gym door hissed open. Bucky Barnes walked in, instantly sensing the nuclear tension in the room. His gaze flickered between you, vibrating with barely contained fury and humiliation, and John, standing shirtless and radiating smug, arrogant satisfaction.
âEverything alright in here?â Bucky asked, his voice flat, his eyes narrowing at John.
You didnât give John a chance to spin another lie. With a final, searing glare that promised retribution, you snatched your towel and water bottle. âFine,â you spat, the word dripping with venom. You shoved past Bucky without another word, storming out of the gym, the door slamming shut behind you with a force that made the weights rattle.
Silence descended, thick and heavy. Bucky turned his full attention to John, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression was pure, weary disapproval. âWhat the hell did you do to her now, Walker?â
John watched the door where you had vanished for a beat. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned back to the pull-up bar. He gripped it, his back muscles flexing powerfully as he hoisted himself up. He didnât look at Bucky. He just began another set of slow, controlled pull-ups, the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining beautifully.
A wide, utterly unrepentant grin spread across Johnâs face, sharp and triumphant. He met Buckyâs disapproving stare mid-ascent, sweat dripping from his chin, his eyes alight with fierce, cocky victory. He didnât need to answer. The grin said it all.
Heâd gotten to you. Deeply. Viscerally. Heâd made the cool, controlled Y/N lose her composure completely. Heâd made you feel, made you react, made you run. And the knowledge that he could, that he had that power over you⊠It was the most potent drug heâd ever experienced.
He was winning. And the game had never been more exhilarating.
--
The bastard had no compassion. He didnât miss an opportunity.
Bucky was talking about infiltration routes on the main holoscreen in the meeting room. Yelena looked bored, Ava attentive, Alexei snored softly, Bob took meticulous notes. You sat across from John, trying to focus on the schematics.
He leaned back, fingers steepled, looking thoughtfully at the map. His mind, however, was a filthy open book aimed directly at you.
â That pencil youâre tapping⊠imagine it tracing a path down your spine instead. Slow. Deliberate.â
The pencil in your hand snapped clean in half. You flinched, dropping the pieces. âClumsy,â you muttered, avoiding Buckyâs brief glance.
â Wonder if the tableâs cold. Bet youâd gasp if I pushed you back onto it right now. Right here. While Barnes talks about sewer access.â
A vivid image flooded your mind: your legs wrapping around his waist, the holoscreen casting blue light on their tangled forms, stifled moans against his shoulder.
Your knuckles turned white gripping the edge of the table. The broken pencil pieces trembled, then slowly lifted an inch off the surface. The overhead lights flickered erratically. Ava frowned, glancing up.
He continued. âCould make you forget your own name before Bucky finishes this slide. Just a touch. Right⊠there.â
He mentally focused on the sensitive spot just below your ear.
A water glass near Bob trembled violently, sloshing water over the rim. The flickering lights surged brightly, making Alexei jerk awake with a snort. âVoltage problem?â he grumbled.
âY/N?â Bucky paused, concern etched on his face. âYou alright? You look pale.â
You forced a shaky breath, slamming your shields down with monumental effort. The pencil pieces and glass clattered down. The lights stabilized. âFine, Bucky. Just⊠tired. Didnât sleep well. Please continue.â you refused to look at John, but the furious heat radiating from you was palpable. John just sipped his coffee, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
Even in the elevator.
The doors slid shut, trapping you, John, Bob, and Alexei in the cramped space heading down to the garage. Alexei hummed tunelessly. Bob adjusted his hoodie.
He stood deliberately close behind you, his chest almost brushing your back. The scent of his soap and sweat filled your personal space.
You closed your eyes trying to be still and calm.
âSo small in here. Nowhere to run. Bet I could make you come undone before we hit sub-level 2. Just my hand⊠sliding under your shirtâŠâ He projected the sensation of calloused fingers skimming your bare stomach, moving upwards.
You stiffened, your breath catching audibly. A tiny spark jumped from the elevator control panel with a sharp zap.
Alexei sighed. âHuh. Static.â
âImagine Bob and Alexei hearing you try to stay quiet. The little whimpers youâd bite backâŠâ The mental image was excruciatingly vivid and dangerous.
You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. The elevator lights dimmed significantly.
â Your heartâs racing. I can hear it. Like a trapped bird. Makes me want to trap you harder.â He let the thought linger, heavy with dark promise.
As the lights dipped again, Bob looked nervously at the panel. Alexei just shrugged. John caught your furious reflection in the polished elevator doors. His grin was wide, triumphant, and utterly indecent.
âWalker, why you grinning like cat who stole cream?â Alexei boomed, oblivious. âSee funny meme?â
 John chuckled, the sound low and intimate in the small space. âJust appreciating the engineering, Alexei. Smooth ride.â His eyes never left your reflection. You looked like you wanted to phase through the floor.
He was pushing too far, but he couldnât stop. He wanted more.
It was the teamâs movie night. Dim lights, explosions on screen, Alexei cheering, Ava engrossed, Bob drinking a Diet Coke, Yelena stealing popcorn. You sat rigidly on the couch, John a deliberate, tempting foot away on the same couch. His thigh brushed yours whenever he shifted.
John had been relatively quiet, mentally. He let the proximity, the shared blanket Yelena had tossed over them (much to your silent horror), and the occasional brush of his arm do the work. You were strung tight as a wire, hypersensitive, already sweating, waiting for the blow.
During a quiet scene, he leaned over as if to grab more popcorn. His lips brushed your ear, a whisper only you could hear, but the thought he projected alongside it detonated like a bomb: âYour body is betraying you. I can smell you. Right through the blanket. Sweet. Hot. Needy.â
Your eyes widened. It was too much. The weeks of torment, the public humiliation, the raw, unwanted arousal he constantly provoked, the intimacy of the scent heâd detected â it overloaded your fragile control. Your telekinesis erupted violently.
 The massive popcorn bowl in Yelenaâs lap exploded, showering everyone in kernels. Two lamps flanking the couch shattered simultaneously, plunging half the room into darkness. The holoscreen fizzed and died. A decorative vase on a shelf across the room imploded with a sharp crack.
Alexei roared in surprise. Bob yelped, covered in popcorn. Ava phased instinctively. Bucky jumped up. âWhat the hell?!â
Eyes darted at you.
You doubled over on the couch, hands clawing at your temples, a low, agonized groan escaping you. You werenât hurt by the debris; it was the psychic backlash, the utter loss of control, the humiliation.
âI⊠Iâm sorry!â you gasped, voice trembling violently. You shoved the blanket off, staggering to your feet, avoiding the stunned, popcorn-dusted faces. âMigraine!â You practically ran from the room.
Yelena wiped popcorn from her hair, her gaze laser-focused not on you, but on John. He hadnât flinched during the explosion. He sat perfectly still in the semi-darkness, the flickering light from the hallway catching the lingering, satisfied curve of his smirk. It wasnât concern on his face; it was the look of a man whoâd finally achieved his goal. Yelenaâs eyes narrowed to slits. âMigraine, my ass,â she muttered, her voice cutting through the shocked silence. Johnâs smirk widened fractionally, saying nothing. He didnât need to. Heâd pushed you to the edge, and the explosion had been spectacular.
The silence was the worst part. For days, you offered no retaliation. No sharp telepathic jabs, no lingering stares heavy with unspoken challenge. You moved through the tower with cool indifference, treating John with the same detached professionalism youâd show Bob or Ava. It unnerved him. Heâd braced for an escalation, a psychic scream, something â but got only frosty silence. He started to wonder if heâd finally pushed too far, if the game was over. A hollow, unfamiliar feeling settled in his chest â disappointment, sharp and unwelcome. Maybe he had won. Maybe heâd disgusted you into retreat.
Oh, John. You sweet, arrogant fool.
He didnât see the trap until it was sprung inside his own mind.
The silence in the tower these past few days had been a balm. After the constant, grating friction, the explosive arguments, the charged silences that felt like live wires, this⊠quiet⊠was almost unnerving. John Walker stood under the spray of his shower, letting the near-scalding water beat down on the knotted muscles of his neck and shoulders. Steam billows around him, thick and comforting, fogging the glass enclosure.
He exhaled, a long, slow breath that felt like it carried weeks of tension out with it. The mission debrief was done. The paperwork (mostly) filed. No urgent alerts blared. No Y/N-shaped storm cloud hovered on the horizon, hurling psychic barbs or incendiary glares his way. Youâd been⊠quiet. Remarkably, blessedly quiet. Neutral, even.
But that was just the calm before the storm.
A smug satisfaction, warm and lazy, spread through him as he lathered soap over his chest. Finally. Heâd weathered your retaliations, matched your blow for blow, psychic and otherwise. Heâd held his ground. And now? Silence. Peace. Victory. The thought settled in his mind, solid and undeniable. Heâd won the war. Y/N, formidable as you were, had finally conceded. Or at least, called a truce he was more than happy to accept. The corner of his mouth lifted in a self-congratulatory smirk. Heâd earned this hot shower, this quiet evening.
He took his time. The water sluiced away grime and lingering adrenaline, leaving his skin flushed and tingling. He lingered under the spray, replaying the lack of conflict, the absence of your challenging presence. It felt good. Damn good. Like reclaiming territory.
Stepping out, he grabbed a thick, absorbent towel, rubbing it roughly over his hair and then down his body. The cool air of the bathroom raised goosebumps, a pleasant contrast to the showerâs heat. He pulled on a pair of soft, grey sweatpants, the fabric comfortable against his skin. No shirt. The room was warm enough.
Padding barefoot into his dimly lit bedroom, the quiet hum of the tower felt soothing, not oppressive. He flicked off the main light, leaving only the soft glow of the city filtering through the panoramic window. The bed looked inviting. He slid between the cool sheets with a grunt of pure contentment, settling back against the pillows. The quiet was profound. His own. He closed his eyes, the smug certainty of his victory the last conscious thought before sleep began to pull him under.
Across the hall, in a room bathed in soft, ambient light, you sat cross-legged in the center of your bed. You werenât relaxing. You werenât sleeping.
Your posture was unnervingly still, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your knees. Your long black hair fell loose around your shoulders, framing a face that was a mask of eerie calm. But your eyes⊠your silver eyes glowed with an unnatural, internal light, like captured moonlight or mercury swirling in the dark. A slow, dangerous smirk played on your lips, not reaching the fierce intensity of your gaze.
You werenât reading a book. You werenât meditating in the usual sense. You were focusing. A deep, thrumming energy vibrated just beneath your skin, contained but potent. Your telepathy was a finely tuned instrument, its focus narrowed to a single point: the mind slipping into unconsciousness in the room next door.
You felt the exact moment Johnâs conscious thoughts dissolved, replaced by the slower, deeper rhythms of sleep. The smug satisfaction heâd carried to bed was a fading echo. Now, his mind was vulnerable. Open.
Your smirk widened, a predator savoring the moment before the strike. Your retaliation hadnât been absent these past quiet days. It had been brewing. Simmering. Gathering its strength. John Walker, lounging in his shower, basking in his imagined victory, hadnât won a damn thing.
Heâd merely wandered, blissfully unaware, into the absolute center of the hurricane.
The quiet was an illusion. The peace, a mirage. John Walker was asleep. And you, your eyes burning like cold stars in the dim room, were wide awake and ready to unleash the storm youâd meticulously prepared. His dreamscape wasnât a sanctuary tonight. It was your battlefield. And you were about to make your final, devastating move. The silence in the Watchtower wasnât peace.
It was the deep, resonant quiet of a bowstring drawn taut, aimed at the heart of his subconscious. You took a slow, deliberate breath, the glow in your eyes intensifying. The retaliation began.
The sensation pulled him from the depths of a dreamless sleep. Not sudden, but insidious. A warmth, soft and deliberate, spreads across his chest. Fingertips? Yes. Tracing the hard ridges of his abdomen, sliding upwards with agonizing slowness, mapping the planes of his pectorals, the dip of his collarbone. The touch was real, tangible, igniting trails of fire under his skin. He groaned, still submerged in sleep, arching slightly into the phantom caress.
Then, another touch. Cooler, at his neck. Fingers brushed the line of his jaw, the rough stubble, then slid into his hair. A thumb grazed his pulse point, feeling the frantic beat kick-start beneath it. Weight settled on his hips, firm and familiar. The scent â jasmine and ozone, uniquely yours â flooded his senses.
His eyes flew open.
You. Silhouetted against the faint city glow filtering through his window, straddling him. Your long black hair cascaded over one shoulder, your silver eyes gleaming like molten mercury in the darkness. You wore only a thin slip of silk, the shadowed curves of your body a maddening promise.
âY/N⊠whatâŠ?â His voice was thick with sleep and raw desire, his hands instinctively finding your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the waistband of his own sleep pants.
âShhh,â you breathed, pressing a finger to his lips. Your touch burned. âClose your eyes. Just feel me.â Your voice was a low purr, vibrating through his bones.
Compelled, mesmerized, he obeyed. Darkness returned, amplifying every sensation. Your hands became his entire world. One traced the powerful lines of his shoulders, down the corded muscle of his biceps, back up to tangle possessively in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a ragged gasp from him. The other continued its devastating exploration: the hard plane of his stomach, the sensitive skin just below his ribs, the curve of his pectoral muscle, her thumb brushing a nipple, making him arch off the bed with a choked sound. Your touch was worship and torment, achingly slow, building a pressure inside him that threatened to shatter his control.
This is all he has ever wanted.
You leaned forward, your warmth enveloping him. He felt the whisper of your breath against his lips, the phantom brush of your breasts against his chest. The scent of you, the heat radiating from your skin, the intoxicating weight of you on him â it was overwhelming, perfect torture. He tilted his head back, baring his throat, offering himself.
Your lips grazed the pulse hammering in his neck â not a kiss, just the ghost of contact â and he shuddered violently.
âJohnâŠâ His name, breathed against his skin like a secret, a plea, a command.
It shattered him. With a guttural sound torn from deep within, he surged upwards, desperate to capture your lips, to finally claim the maddening phantom consuming him.
His eyes snapped open.
Darkness. The faint hum of the tower. The cool sheets tangled around his legs. The frantic, thunderous pounding of his own heart against his ribs.
He was alone. Panting. Sweat slicked his skin. Every nerve ending screamed, still echoing with the phantom touch, the phantom heat, the phantom weight of you. The ache in his groin was a brutal, physical demand. He looked wildly at the chrono on his bedside table: 04:48.
âFuck!â The curse was ripped from him, raw and desperate. He slammed his fist onto the mattress. It had been a dream. A goddamn dream. So vivid, so real he could still smell you, feel the indent of your fingers on his skin. He ran a trembling hand over his face. Of course it was a dream. Heâd been thinking about you constantly, obsessively. His subconscious had just⊠supplied the details with cruel, hyper-realistic clarity. It made sense. It had to be.
He threw back the sheets, the cool air doing nothing to douse the fire under his skin. He needed a shower. A very cold shower. Again. Now. He stumbled towards the bathroom, his body still humming with the desperate, unfulfilled need youâd so expertly conjured.
In your own room, you let out a slow, satisfied breath. Your eyes were closed, a faint sheen of sweat on your own brow. Projecting that intricate, sustained sensory illusion â weaving touch, scent, sound, and the overwhelming presence of yourself into the fabric of his sleeping mind â had taken immense focus. It wasnât just showing him images; it was making him feel you. Every phantom caress, every breath, every shift of weight â youâd crafted it, sustained it, felt the echo of his reactions vibrate back through the psychic link like live wires.
Youâd felt the moment he surrendered, the raw, unchecked desire flooding him. Youâd felt his pulse race under your projected touch, heard the choked sounds he made, experienced the desperate surge when he tried to kiss you. The power was intoxicating. A slow, predatory smirk curved your lips, sharp and dangerous in the dim light.
He thought it was just a dream born of his own obsession. He thought he was safe in his confusion, in his cold shower.
He thought you were done.
You opened your silver eyes, the ghost of his phantom touch still tingling on your own fingertips. The game had just entered a new, far more intimate arena. And John Walker had no idea who he was really playing with.
Let him simmer in that frustration, you thought, the smirk deepening. Let him drown in the memory of a touch that wasnât real⊠yet.
Retaliation wasnât just about anger anymore. It was about control. It was about making him crave the very thing he fought against. It was about turning his own desire and obsession into your sharpest weapon.
The war was far from over.
--
The air in the Watchtower common room the next morning was thick with unspoken electricity. You sat curled on the oversized couch, cradling a steaming mug of coffee. Your posture radiated a serene, almost unnerving calm. The faintest hint of a satisfied smile played at the corners of your lips as you watched the city wake through the panoramic windows. Inside, the echo of Johnâs desperate arousal, the phantom sensation of his skin under your projected touch, still thrummed like a low, pleasant hum. Control tasted sweet.
Yelena bustled into the kitchen area, grabbing her own mug. The silence was broken only by the gurgle of the coffee maker and the soft hum of the tower systems. Then, John Walker appeared in the doorway.
He looked like hell. Shadows bruised the skin beneath bloodshot eyes. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked visibly. Every line of his body screamed exhaustion and coiled, frustrated tension. He moved with a stiff, jerky gait, bypassing both women without a word or a glance, heading straight for the coffee pot. The usual arrogant swagger was replaced by a raw, simmering edge.
Yelenaâs blonde brow arched nearly to her hairline. She watched him pour coffee with hands that trembled slightly, then drain half the scalding mug in one long, desperate gulp. He winced, either from the heat or the sheer act of forcing liquid into his hollowed-out state.
âRough night?â Yelena drawled, leaning against the counter, her tone laced with knowing amusement.
John didnât answer. Just grunted, a low, animal sound of pure aggravation. He slammed the empty mug down on the counter with unnecessary force, the clatter loud in the quiet room. His gaze, when it finally flickered towards the couch, landed on you. It wasnât the heated challenge of before. It was darker, more confused, haunted by the lingering sensory ghosts of his dream. He quickly looked away, a muscle flexing in his cheek, before turning on his heel and stalking towards the gym, his movements radiating pent-up energy with nowhere to go.
Yelenaâs gaze followed him, sharp and calculating. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned her head to look at you. The telepath met her gaze, your expression carefully neutral, but your silver eyes held a depth Yelena recognized instantly â the cool satisfaction of a predator whoâd just landed a perfect strike.
âGod,â Yelena muttered under her breath, a smirk finally breaking through. She grabbed her coffee and sauntered over to the couch, dropping down beside you with feline grace. She leaned in conspiratorially.
âAlright, Y/N. Out with it.â Yelenaâs voice was low, her eyes gleaming. âWhat did you do to him now? He looks like he wrestled a bear and lost. Badly. And then dreamed about it. Repeatedly.â She took a sip of coffee, watching you closely then sighed. âThis little game of yours? Itâs getting pathetic. And boring. For the rest of us.â
You took a slow, deliberate sip of your own coffee, feigning wide-eyed innocence. âGame? I have no idea what you mean, Yelena. Perhaps John just had a⊠restless night.â your lips curved in a hint of a smile that didnât reach your eyes. âHappens to the best of us.â
Yelena snorted. âRestless? He looks like he hasnât slept in a week and spent the night running laps in hell. The tension between you two is thicker than Alexeiâs borscht and twice as likely to give someone indigestion.â She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. âLook, I get it. The bickering, the heat⊠Itâs fun. For a while. But this?â She gestured vaguely in the direction of the gym, where the rhythmic, punishing thuds of fists hitting a heavy bag had already started. âThis is just stupid. Youâre both adults. Sort of. Mostly. So sort it out. Or,â she added, a wicked glint in her eyes, âlet us sort it out for you. Lock you in a storage closet. Or the armory. Somewhere soundproof. Let you either finally fuck or kill each other. Either way, the rest of us win. Peace and quiet.â
You merely arched an eyebrow, maintaining your facade of calm. âHow dramatic. We work together just fine, Yelena.â
âFine?â Yelena scoffed. âYou âwork togetherâ like two scorpions in a bottle. One wrong moveâŠâ She made a sharp stabbing motion with her finger. â*Pfft*. Explosion.â She finished her coffee in one decisive gulp. âThis is ridiculous. Someone needs to intervene before you give us all an aneurysm.â She stood up, stretching languidly. âConsider this your warning, Y/N. The adults are taking over.â
--
Yelena found Bucky in the operations room, meticulously cleaning a disassembled rifle. His expression was its usual stoic mask, but the slight tension around his eyes spoke volumes.
âBarnes,â Yelena announced, leaning against the doorway. âWe have a problem. Two problems. Specifically, Problem A and Problem B are currently trying to murder gym equipment and pretending they donât fantasize about murdering each other. Or⊠you know. The other thing.â
Bucky didnât look up. âWalker and Y/N.â
âGold star for observation,â Yelena purred. âItâs reached critical levels of annoying. And potentially mission-compromising. Did you see him this morning? He looked like heâd been ridden hard and put away wet. By a ghost.â
Bucky sighed, finally setting down a rifle component. âWhat do you propose? Chain them together?â
âClose,â Yelena grinned. âNext week recon op in the Catskills. The old HYDRA sensor outpost. Intel suggests minimal hostilities, likely automated defenses. Low risk. Perfect for a two-person team.â Her grin widened. âGuess who gets to play nice together in the woods? Alone. With no annoying teammates to interrupt their⊠negotiations.â
Bucky stared at her. âYou want to send Walker and Y/N on a solo op? Together? Voluntarily?â
âNot voluntarily,â Yelena corrected smoothly. âAssigned. By the mission coordinator. Thatâs you, by the way. Effective immediately. Tell them itâs a test of their âcooperative abilitiesâ or some other bullshit Val used to spout.â She pushed off the doorway. âPrivacy, Barnes. Thatâs all they need. Either theyâll finally snap and resolve this tension with their fists or⊠well.â She winked. âThe other kind of snapping. Either way, problem solved. For us.â
Bucky looked pained. âYelena, this is a terrible idea. What if they do kill each other?â
âThen we have two fewer headaches,â Yelena shrugged, utterly unconcerned. âAnd we bill the government for cleanup. Win-win. Just assign the mission.â She patted his metal shoulder as she walked past. âTrust me. Itâs for the greater good. Our greater good.â
Later that afternoon, mission briefings pinged on individual comms. You were in your quarters, methodically checking your gear â sleek black tactical suit, psi-dampening headband (mostly for show, a nod to privacy concerns), utility belt. Your mind was still replaying the delicious chaos youâd sewn in Johnâs subconscious. The notification lit up your screen: **MISSION BRIEFING: CATSKILLS SENSOR OUTPOST RECON. TEAM: WALKER, SLOANE. DEPARTURE: 0800 NEXT WEEK.**
You blinked. A solo op? With Walker? A slow, predatory smile spread across your face. Interesting. A challenge. An opportunity. Your telepathy brushed the edges of the towerâs awareness, catching the faint echo of Johnâs reaction in his own quarters â a surge of surprise, immediately followed by a wave of intense irritation, then⊠something hotter, darker. Anticipation? Anger? Both?
Perfect, you thought, running a finger along the edge of a knife. Letâs see how well he sleeps tonight, knowing heâll be alone with me in the woods in the next mission. The game was entering a new, tangible phase. No more phantoms. Just the two of you, miles from interference, and a whole lot of unresolved, dangerously escalating tension. Yelenaâs meddling might just have handed you the perfect battlefield.
Across the hall, John stared at his own mission briefing, a scowl deepening on his exhausted face. A week ago, the thought of being alone with you would have been pure aggravation. Now? After the dream⊠after the constant, maddening awareness⊠it felt like walking into a trap. Or an invitation. He couldnât tell which was more terrifying. He slammed a fist down on his desk. âDamn it.â
 --
The Watchtower was silent in the dead of night, the hum of its systems a distant, mechanical lullaby. The city beyond the windows glittered like scattered embers, casting shifting shadows across the walls. You lay in your bed, restless, your silver eyes reflecting the ambient glow as you stared at the ceiling.Â
You should sleep. You *needed* to sleep. But you have work to do.
But the memory of Johnâs reaction the night beforeâhis ragged breathing, the way his body had arched into your phantom touch, the raw, unfiltered want in his voiceâhad seared itself into your mind like a brand.Â
You told yourself it was just another move in your game. Another way to unbalance him, to torture him.
But the truth was far more dangerous.Â
You liked it.
Liked the power. Liked the control. Liked the way his pulse had jumped under your imagined fingers, the way his breath had hitched when you whispered in his ear.Â
And you wanted more. You have just gotten started.
With a slow exhale, you closed your eyes. And reached out.Â
John was peacefully asleep when it began.Â
His body, exhausted from the night before and frustrated tension, had finally succumbed to deep, dreamless oblivion.Â
Until it wasnât dreamless anymore.Â
A weight settled on his hips again, warm and familiar. Soft hands traced the hard lines of his chest, fingertips skating over the ridges of his abdomen, the curve of his pectorals, the sensitive skin of his neck.Â
He stirred, a low groan escaping him before he even opened his eyes. His hands moved on instinct, finding the soft swell of your hips, gripping tightâpossessive.Â
âY/NâŠâ His voice was rough with sleep, thick with desire.Â
His eyelids fluttered open, heavy-lidded, his vision blurred at the edges. But he didnât need clarity to know it was you. The scent of jasmine and ozone, the heat of your skin, the way your body fit against hisâhis mind recognized you even before his eyes adjusted.Â
You leaned down, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.Â
âYou want me, John?â you asked sensually.
A shudder wracked his body, his fingers tightening on your hips hard enough to bruise.Â
âYes.âÂ
No hesitation. No pretense. Just raw, unfiltered hunger.Â
Your lips trailed up the column of his throat, not quite kissing, just the ghost of contact, the tease of your breath against his skin. He arched into it, a ragged sound tearing from his chest as your hips rolled against his in slow, deliberate circles.Â
One.Â
Two.Â
Three times.
His grip on you tightened even more, his own hips lifting off the bed to meet yours, chasing the friction, the heat.Â
Thenâyour tongue. A hot, wet stripe from the base of his neck to his jaw.Â
He moaned, the sound guttural, desperate. His body moved without thought, without restraint, lost in the sensation of you.Â
You pulled back just enough to look down at him, your silver eyes gleaming in the dim light. Your lips were parted, your breathing as uneven as his.Â
His gaze dropped to your chest, to the bare skin revealed by the thin fabric of your shirt.Â
Thenâyou pulled it off.Â
No bra.Â
Just smooth, flawless skin, the perfect curves of your breasts, the peaked nipples begging for his touch.Â
âYouâre so damn beautiful,â he rasped, the words spilling out unbidden.Â
You smiledâslow, knowingâand took his hands in yours, guiding them up from your hips to your bare breasts.Â
His fingers flexed instinctively, kneading the soft flesh, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting a sharp gasp from you. Your head tipped back, exposing the elegant line of your throat, your body moving in rhythm with his touch.Â
The sight of youâundone, writhing above himâwas almost too much.Â
âJesus, youâre so sexy. You drive me so fucking insane,â he almost moaned the words.
His control was fraying, unraveling with every roll of your hips, every breathy sound you made.Â
You leaned down again, your lips hovering just above his.Â
âYou want me, John?â you asked again, your voice a sinful purr.Â
âYes.âÂ
Your nails dragged down his chest, leaving fiery trails in their wake. He gasped.
âI didnât hear you, John,â you teased, your hips moving faster now, grinding against him in a way that made his vision blur. âYou want me or not?â you demanded.
He growled, his grip on you tightening, his hips bucking up to meet yours with desperation.
âYes! Fuckâyes, I want you so fucking badly!âÂ
The admission tore from him, raw and unfiltered, his voice breaking on the words.Â
Your lips crashed onto his in a searing kiss, fierce and demanding, your tongue sliding against his in a mimicry of what both craved.Â
And thenâÂ
He woke up.Â
Gasping. Sweating. His heart was hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.Â
The room was dark. Empty. He was alone.Â
His chest heaved as he dragged a hand down his face, his skin still burning from the phantom feel of you.Â
Thenâhe noticed. The dampness in his sweatpants.Â
âShit.â
He threw an arm over his eyes, his breath coming in ragged bursts.Â
Another dream. Another goddamn dream.Â
But this oneâthis one had been worse. More vivid. More real.Â
And the worst part? He didnât want it to stop.
Your eyes snapped open, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your skin flushed.Â
You could still feel the echo of his hands on youâno, not yours, the dream-youâthe way his fingers had dug into your hips, the way his voice had broken when he admitted he wanted you.Â
Your lips tingled with the memory of his kiss.Â
Your body ached.Â
You exhaled shakily, pressing your thighs together, trying to ignore the throbbing need between them.Â
This was dangerous.Â
You were losing control.Â
And worseâyou werenât sure you cared.Â
--
The third night you were in your room, sitting with your legs crossed in your bed again. Waiting for him to fall asleep. You have something special for him tonight.
In his bedroom, he hesitated to go to sleep, but it was late and he was tired. The last two days he almost didnât sleep at all. He felt frustrated and thought about them all the time. Those dreams felt strange, different, too⊠specific. He forced himself to stop thinking and just go to bed. He just wanted to sleep well, just one night. But he couldnât help but think about whether he would dream about you again tonight. Deep down, he wanted to find you there.
He breathed slowly and deeply, and after a while, his exhausted body and mind allowed him to fall asleep.
And wasting no time, you were already there.
John finds himself standing at the foot of his own bed when he opens his eyes, disoriented at firstâuntil his gaze lands on you stretched across his sheets.
You looked beautiful in his bed, he thought.
You were wearing nothing but a sheer white lace slip, the delicate fabric doing little to conceal the curves beneath. The soft peaks of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the shadow between your thighsâall laid bare for him in the dim light. Your silver eyes gleam as you watch him, your lips parted just slightly, a slow, knowing smirk playing at the corners.Â
You looked at him, biting your bottom lip. Your hands slowly touch the gray sheets.
âMmm. Your bed is so comfortable,â you said lowly.
He followed the movements of your hands, your fingers tugging slightly on his sheets. He saw your teeth biting your lip.
Oh, he wanted those teeth on his skin.
His gaze follows the curves of your body, giving special attention to your long legs. He wondered how smooth and soft they would feel under his hands. How much pressure would he have to use to cause bruises? How would your thighs feel under his lips? Would you shiver? Would you moan?
God, he loves your thighs.
Then you began to move.
Your hands glide over your own body in a hypnotic, sensual danceâfingers tracing the swell of your breasts, skimming down your stomach, teasing along the lace hem of your slip. His breath hitches as you lift the fabric just enough to slip a hand beneath, your touch disappearing under the delicate barrier of your panties.Â
â This is for you, John,â you murmur, arching into your own touch.Â
Heâs frozen, unable to move, unable to look awayâforced to watch as you pleasure yourself in front of him. Your breath quickens, your body responding to a fantasy meant only for him. The sight is intoxicating, maddening, designed to unravel him completely.Â
His fists were at his side, trying to control himself. His breathing increased and his lips parted. Was this really happening?
Your fingers moved in slow circles under the fabric of your lace thong. Your left hand went up your body, lifting the slip and letting him see more of your hot skin. You opened your eyes and looked at him.
âDo you know how many times Iâve touched myself thinking about you?â you moaned the last word.
âHave you⊠have you done that?â he asked, looking at her in awe.
âToo many timesâ you nodded. Your fingers never stopped.
You moaned when your fingers touched your clit.
âJesus Christ⊠youâre killing meâ he sounded desperate.
âI can stop if you want,â you asked, your fingers almost stopping their work.
âNo! God, no, please⊠please donât stopâ he almost shouted his answer.
He hated that he couldnât move, but he didnât say anything; he wouldnât risk ruining this moment. He could watch you writhe for him, coming undone thinking of him.
Your movements started to be more urgent, you were close.
He was breathing faster, he wanted to touch you and fuck you so badly. He was so hard that hurt.
He didnât even dare to blink, he didnât want to miss any second of that amazing moment you were giving just for him.
âPut your fingers inside, I want to see you fucking yourself with your fingersâ he commanded.
His eyes were dark with desire and something raw, dangerous.
You smiled and obeyed. Two fingers slowly entered you. You moaned as your eyes shut.
âSpread your legs for me, baby. Open them wide so I can see how you please yourself.â His voice was desperate, he wanted to see you cum.
You did as he said, your other hand put the fabric aside and he had a perfect view of your pussy.
âFuck, youâre so perfect. Youâre doing it so fucking well. Now faster, baby, I want to see you ruin my sheetsâ
Your movements were now faster, your back arched beautifully and your moans were louder. The filthy sounds your soaked pussy made were pure sin.
He was about to explode right there. He was sweating and so painfully hard.
âOh God, John, Iâm gonnaâŠ.â You moaned.
âDonât fight it, baby, let me see you, let it goâŠâ he demanded.
That was it, he was desperate to see you finally reach that perfect orgasm. It was right there, you were about to come undone and that was all he wanted to see.
And just as you moaned his name one las timeâŠ
He woke up.
âFuck!â
Angry. Alone. Hard. And more desperate for you than ever. His breathing was erratic, his heart beat desperately. His gaze focused instantly in his painful cock. He didnât think. His hands pulled his pants and boxer down and he started to fist his cock up and down. He did it fast and hard, he had no time to waste. He was too hard so it didnât take him too long to cum. His hand moved impossibly faster at the same time his head tilted back and his eyes shut as he remembered the hot dream he just had. He remembered your moans, your body writhing, and your fingers inside you.
His lips parted and his brows furrowed. He could hear you moan his name and then it hit him. Powerful and intense as he spilled in his hand and abdomen.
He lay there, breathing hard, his eyes still shut.
After a while, he stood up and he slowly went to the bathroom to take a cold shower.
In your own room, you were panting, trying to calm your breathing and heartbeats. An intense orgasm hit you hard at the same time you were projecting the dream in Johnâs mind.
You stood there, still, looking at the ceiling. You didnât want to admit it. You thought you still were in control. But, you were getting affected too.
That day you and John barely got out of your rooms. He was too tired and exhausted. He couldnât think straight, and he couldnât sleep properly. He didnât go to the gym, and he didnât eat in the kitchen.
You should stop, you should let him recover, and end this stupid war. But you were too stubborn, too selfish and this has become an obsession.
It didnât take long. What you felt, what you wanted, was too strong for you to stop. You knew this wasnât going to end well. But you didnât stop anyway. You wanted more.
---
By the fourth night, you were there again.
The water was scalding, a near-punishing cascade pounding against John Walkerâs neck and shoulders. He stood braced in the shower, forearms flat against the cool, slick tiles, head bowed low. Steam billowed thickly, filling the stall, blurring the edges of the world. Rivulets traced the hard lines of his back, the ridges of old scars, the coiled tension in his muscles. It was the kind of shower meant to scour away the lingering ghosts in his head. He breathed deeply, the rhythmic drumming on his skull a temporary anesthetic.
Then, a shift in the steam. A presence. Not a sound, but a feeling.
Soft hands slid around his torso from behind, pressing flat against the planes of his stomach, splaying wide over his ribs. Cool against his water-heated skin. Familiar. You.
He didnât startle. Didnât turn. Just let out a slow, shuddering breath he hadnât realized he was holding. His head dipped a fraction lower. Your touch wasnât demanding; it was grounding. Solid. A silent anchor in the swirling steam. Your forehead pressed gently against his shoulder blades, as if you were tired. Your body is a warm line against his back.
Time dissolved. There was only the roar of the water, the heat, the feel of your hands smoothing over his skin, tracing the waterâs path, kneading the knots at the base of his spine. No words. None were needed. The language both spoke now was older, simpler: touch, warmth, shared breath in the humid air.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he turned. The movement displaced the water cascading over him, sending rivulets splashing against you. You didnât flinch. Your silver eyes, luminous and wide in the humid gloom, met his. Rainwater, or something else, traced a path down your cheek, catching the dim light before vanishing into the steam. One silent tear. You looked exhausted. Not physically â the kind of exhaustion that comes from waging a war inside your own head, from hurling psychic thunderbolts only to have them ricochet back as longing. Tired of the dreams, the games, the distance you had weaponized. And yet⊠here you were.
He looked down at you. Really looked. Saw the vulnerability beneath the fierce intelligence, the weariness beneath the power. Saw the tear, and understood its source wasnât weakness, but surrender. A different kind of battle fatigue. Words crowded his throat â apologies, accusations, questions. None escaped.
You were both exhausted of this game.
His blue eyes looked like yours, a raw intensity. His hand, dripping, rose. Not roughly, but with deliberate certainty. His fingers, calloused and strong, curved around the line of your jaw, tilting your face up towards the falling water and towards him.
He didnât hesitate. He bent his head, capturing your mouth with his own. It wasnât gentle. It was necessary. A deep, claiming kiss that spoke of possession and surrender all at once. Rainwater and steam mixed on your lips. Your hands slid up his slick back, fingers digging into the muscle, pulling him closer, meeting his hunger with your own silent answer. Another tear fell.
The kiss broke only for breath, a shared gasp lost in the waterâs roar. His eyes, blazing blue, held yours for a heartbeat. His thumb wipes your tear away. Then, with a fluid, powerful movement, he guided you. He backed you gently but firmly against the now-warm tiles heâd just vacated. You went willingly, your palms flattening against the smooth surface, fingers splayed.
He didnât release your jaw. His other arm came up, bracing beside your head, his body following, caging you perfectly between his solid form and the wall. Water streamed over his shoulders, down his chest, cascading over your body trapped against him. His chest pressed against your back, the heat of him radiating even through the water. His left hand gripped your jaw, tilting your head back to expose the delicate column of your throat. His breath was hot against your wet skin before his teeth scraped over your pulse point, not gentle, not askingâtaking.Â
Your gasp echoed off the shower walls, your fingers tightening against his where they were pinned beside your head, your hands interlaced against the tile. You arched into him, your body a taut bowstring, every nerve alight. His right arm remained braced beside you, a cage of muscle and intent, while his left hand slid downâslow, deliberateâalong the front of your body.Â
He knew every inch of you by now, every place that made you shiver, every spot that drew those breathless sounds from your lips. His touch was relentless, fingers tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before finallyâfinallyâdipping lower, seeking the heat between your thighs.Â
You shuddered, your head falling back against his shoulder, a broken moan tearing from your throat.Â
â Johnââ.
His name was a plea, a curse, a prayer. He didnât answer. Didnât slow. His fingers moved with devastating precision, coaxing your higher, tighter, until your breath came in ragged pants, until your legs trembled, until your nails dug into his hand hard enough to leave marks.Â
He could feel the moment you unraveledâthe way your body clenched around his touch, the way your back arched impossibly further, the way your cry fractured against the steam. He held you through it, his mouth still at your throat, drinking in every sound, every shudder.Â
Only when you sagged against him, boneless and gasping, did he finally ease his touch. But he didnât let go.Â
Not yet. Not until you were fully his.Â
And you always would be.
The dynamic had now shifted. The subtle control you usually wielded in these dreamscapes was absent, replaced by a palpable, simmering intent radiating from him. He wasn't waiting. He wasn't watching. He was done.
He didn't ask. He manhandled. One powerful arm hooked under your knee, lifting your leg, bending you slightly forward, exposing you completely. His grip on your hip was iron, anchoring you. There was no preamble, no tender preparation. He was beyond patience.
With a single, brutal thrust, he sheathed himself fully within you.
A choked cry tore from your throat, mingling with his own ragged groan of pure, desperate relief. The sensation was overwhelming â the shock of the invasion, the impossible fullness, the sheer, unadulterated rightness of it. He didn't pause. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, deep and hard, driving into you with a focused intensity that brooked no resistance. Each powerful stroke pushed you against the slick tiles, pinned between the unyielding surface and the relentless force of his body.
His face was buried in the crook of your neck, teeth scraping skin, breath hot and ragged against your ear. His hands held you immobile, one gripping your hip, the other braced beside your head, fingers still interlaced with yours in a perverse mockery of tenderness amidst the ferocity. He moved with the single-minded determination of a man starved, finally consuming what he craved.
You couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could only feel. The stretch, the burn, the overwhelming friction, the delicious ache of being utterly filled, utterly claimed. The water sluiced over both, cooling nothing, only heightening the slick heat where your bodies joined. Your moans were ripped from you, involuntary, raw sounds swallowed by the steam and his own harsh breathing against your skin. You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, your own need a wildfire matching his.
It wasn't tender. It wasn't sweet. It was raw, desperate, almost violent in its intensity. It was possession. It was surrender. It was the culmination of every frustrated glance, every heated argument, every dream where he could only watch. He wasn't watching now. He was taking. And you were letting him, yielding completely to the storm he unleashed within you.
The pressure built, coiling tighter, hotter, until it shattered. Your climax hit like a seismic wave, tearing through you with blinding force, your body clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses, a silent scream locked in your throat. It triggered his own release, a hoarse shout muffled against your skin as he drove deep one final time, spilling himself inside you with a shudder that felt like his very soul being wrenched free.
He held you there, pinned, trembling, both of them gasping, slick bodies pressed together under the relentless downpour. The steam curled around them. No words. Just the frantic beating of two hearts slamming against ribs, the aftershocks of sensation, and the profound, bone-deep knowledge that something fundamental had shifted.
It was brutal. It was perfect. He had finally taken what was his.
Silence descended, heavy and thick, broken only by the drumming water and their harsh, synchronized breathing. Slowly, his grip on your hip loosened. He turned you, water sluicing over you both. His hands, rough but deliberate, came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away water â and tears â from your cheeks.
He looked down at you. Really looked. His blue eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were dark pools, fathomless and intense, holding yours captive. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was overlaid with something else: exhaustion, profound understanding, and a piercing, almost sorrowful clarity. The smugness of your control, the thrill of the game â it evaporated under that gaze. You felt exposed, vulnerable, seen in a way you hadnât anticipated.
He searched your face, his own expression unreadable yet devastatingly potent. The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Then, his voice, low and gravelly, cut through the steam, laced with a weary finality that struck your core:
âDid you get what you needed?â
The words werenât shouted. They were a quiet statement, heavy with implication. He didnât accuse you of creating the dreams, but the meaning was crystal clear in the dark depths of his eyes, in the utter certainty of his tone. He knew?. And this raw, brutal dream â his dream, not yoursâ was his subconscious forcing the confrontation youâd been orchestrating, but on his terms. He held your gaze for a heartbeat longer, the unspoken acknowledgment hanging between you like the steam: I see you. I see your game. And Iâm done playing. Then the dream, or the awareness within it, began to fray at the edges, leaving you staring into those knowing, storm-darkened eyes as the world dissolved. The retaliation had reached its end, not with your victory, but with his stark, undeniable recognition.
He woke, alone in the dark, the phantom feel of you around him, the taste of your skin on his lips, and a terrifying, exhilarating certainty: the game was over. The war was won. And the prize was everything.
When you woke up, tears fell from your tired eyes. You were done with this, with everything. No more dreams, no more games. You gave up.
The blinds of Johnâs room stayed shut. The only light cutting through the gloom was the faint, unchanging glow of the city beyond the reinforced window, casting long, accusing shadows across the unmade bed. John hadnât eaten in 48 hours. The thought of food turned his stomach, knotted with a cocktail of fury, humiliation, and a profound, bone-deep weariness that sleep couldnât touch.
He lay on his back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. The dreams. They weren't just images; they were visceral assaults. The phantom touch on his skin still lingered, a cruel echo. The taste of your kiss, the scent of your arousal, the sound of your moans â all branded into his senses with hyper-real clarity.
He felt⊠broken. Not physically, though exhaustion weighed on him like lead. Emotionally shattered. The constant arousal had curdled into a sickening frustration. The anger at your manipulation warred with a terrifying ache. He punched the mattress beside him, a weak, futile gesture. Why? Why keep pushing? Why tear him open like this just to leave him bleeding in the dark? He was tired of the fight, tired of the games, tired of feeling like a raw nerve exposed to the elements. The silence of his room was deafening, a stark contrast to the sensory onslaught of the nights. He didnât get out of the room, he tried to focus on the next day, the mission. He needed to rest and be focused. He hoped he could finally sleep properly. Will that be possible?
Across the hall, the silence was different. Thick, heavy, saturated with regret. You sat on the edge of your bed, wrapped in a robe, your damp hair plastered to your neck after a shower that had done nothing to cleanse the feeling of profound weariness. The hot water had stung your skin, mirroring the sting in your eyes. Youâd cried in the shower, silent tears lost in the spray. Youâd cried *during* the last dream.
Sustaining the intensity, the sensory detail, the emotional resonance of those dreams⊠it had drained you. Not just tour telepathic reserves, which felt scraped raw, but your spirit. The initial thrill of retaliation, the satisfaction of seeing him squirm, had long since vanished, replaced by a leaden sadness. Youâd crossed a line. A line you hadnât even seen until it was far behind you.
What am I doing? The question echoed in the quiet room. It had stopped being fun. It had stopped being a game days ago. Now it felt like mutual destruction. You were tearing him apart, thread by thread, and in the process, you were tearing yourself apart too. The intensity that had drawn you both together â the fire, the challenge â was now the very thing burning you both to ash. Youâd wanted to make him feel, to force a reaction⊠but seeing the raw, wounded fatigue in his dream-eyes, feeling the echo of his emptiness in your own drained core, was a reaction you hadn't anticipated and couldn't bear.
Youâd given up. No more dreams. The retaliation was over. But the damage was done. The silence in your room wasn't peaceful; it was the hollow aftermath of a battle where both sides had lost. You stared at your hands, the hands that had wielded such potent psychic power, now feeling useless and stained. The only thing left was the crushing weight of regret and the terrifying question: Where do we go from here? The game was over, but the war within each of them, and between them, felt more devastating than ever. Both were prisoners in your own rooms, isolated islands of exhaustion and sorrow in the quiet Watchtower, bound together by shared pain and the ruins of a conflict that had cost you both far more than pride.
You tried to rest and be prepared for tomorrow, youâll have to face him and go to a mission with him. You thought of asking somebody else to go in your place, but it would be worse. They would ask and you didnât have the strength for that.
The Watchtower common room hums with its usual low thrum, but the atmosphere is tense. Bucky methodically reads the next missionâs file, his brow furrowed. Yelena paces near the window, her gaze flicking towards the hallway leading to the living quarters.
She stopped pacing, turned sharply to Bucky. âTwo days. His door hasnât opened. Not for food, not for the gym, not even to glare at the coffee machine.â
Bucky didnât look up. âY/N has been holed up too. Whole day, silent. Lights out early. Somethingâs rotten in Denmark. Or, you know, the Watchtower.â
âAnd tomorrowâs mission? Just the two of them.â The blonde asked.
Bucky sighed. âWe need to know if theyâre functional. Or if weâre sending two walking time bombs into a mission.â
âFunctional? Barnes, he looks like death warmed over whenever he does slink out. Pale. Shadows you could park a Quinjet in. And Y/N⊠she moves like her bones are made of glass. Whatever game theyâre playing now, itâs eating them alive.â
âAlright. Divide and conquer. You take Walker. Iâll check on Y/N. Try not to make him punch the wall.â
She snorted. âIf he has the energy to punch anything, itâll be an improvement.â
They split up. Bucky walked down the corridor to your door. He knocked firmly, waited. After a long moment, the door slid open. You stood there. You were pale, your silver eyes dull, hair pulled back messily. You wore loose sleep pants and a tank top.
âHey. You okay? Havenât seen you around.â He asked looking at your fragile form.
Your voice was slightly hoarse, thin. âHey, Bucky. Yeah. Just⊠just a killer headache. Migraine kind. Needed the dark and quiet.â
He saw the exhaustion etched deeper than any migraine, the faint tremor in your hand on the door frame. Youâre lying, but the weariness is real. âYou sure? You look wiped. Need anything? Meds? Soup?â
Y offered a weak, unconvincing smile. âNo, no. Iâm good. Really. Just need rest. Promise Iâll be fit for tomorrow. Wouldnât jeopardize the mission.â
He stared at you for a beat longer, his brotherly concern warring with respect for your boundaries. He knew pushing wonât help. âOkay. But you know where I am if that changes. Get some real sleep. Please.â
You nodded, the movement slight. âThanks, Bucky. I will. Night.â
You closed the door softly. Bucky stood there for a moment, frowning deeply before turning away.
Meanwhile, Yelena stood outside Johnâs door. She knocked. No answer. She knocked again, harder.
âWalker! Open up. Need to know if youâre still breathing in there. Or if I need to send a cleaning bot for the smell.â
Silence. Then, the lock disengaged, and the door opened. John filled the doorway. He was with a white shirt and black sweatpants. The exhaustion on his face was staggering â deep purple smudges under bloodshot eyes, skin pallid, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. He looked like he hadnât slept in a week, radiating a volatile mix of anger and profound weariness.
His voice was gravelly, strained. âWhat?â
She raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his glare. âChecking inventory. Making sure our assets are operational for tomorrow. You look like shit warmed over.â
His eyes narrowed, a spark of irritation flaring. âIâm fine. Just⊠busy. Prepping.â
She scoffed softly. âBusy staring at the ceiling? You havenât prepped. You havenât eaten. You look like you lost a fight with a freight train. And Y/N looks like the freight train hit her on the rebound. What the hell is going on with you two?â
His hand gripped the doorframe, knuckles white. He looked past her, jaw working. The question about you seemed to hit a nerve deeper than his fatigue. âNothing. Itâs handled. Weâll be ready for the mission. Weâre professionals. Now, if youâre done with the inspectionâŠ?â
She studied him, seeing the raw edge beneath the defiance. Heâs hanging on by a thread. âProfessionals? But tomorrow isnât just about being professional. Itâs about trusting the person next to you not to space out or collapse. Can you do that? Can she?â
John net her gaze, a flicker of something desperate in his blue eyes before itâs banked by sheer stubbornness. âYes. Weâll be functional. Weâll get the job done. Now. Goodnight, Belova.â
He didnât wait for a response. The door slid shut firmly in her face. Yelena stared at the closed door, her lips pressed into a thin line. She didnât believe him for a second.
Later, she met Bucky in the common room.
âWell?â He asked.
She sank into a chair, rubbing her temples. "Fine," He said he was "fine." Looked like he crawled out of a grave. Smelled like despair and cheap whiskey, though I saw no bottle. Insisted theyâll be "functional" tomorrow. Your turn.â
"Migraine." Said sheâd be ready. Looked⊠hollow. Like someone drained her battery. Same promise: mission ready.â
âFunctional. Ready.â She scoffed again, the sound harsh in the quiet room. âThey are lying through their teeth, Bucky. To us. Probably to themselves.â
He nodded grimly. âYeah. But what choice do we have? They say they can do the job. We have to trust that. Or bench them, which might be worse right now.â
âTrust? After whatever psychic trench warfare theyâve been waging?â She shook her head, a rare shadow of unease in her eyes. âTomorrow feels like walking into a hurricane and hoping the eye holds. But... We trust the mission. We trust their skills. We just⊠hope whatever storm is between them doesnât get us all killed.â
They sat in heavy silence, the unspoken fear hanging thick in the air. Bucky picks up the file again, not to read, but to hold, a grounding weight. Yelena stared out at the city lights, seeing not the view, but the image of Johnâs shattered exhaustion and your brittle fragility.
âItâs late. Get some rest, Yelena. Big day tomorrow.â
She didnât turn. âYou too.â
Neither knew, as they finally retreat to their own quarters, that John and you, separated by a corridor and a chasm of their own making, are about to plunge into the most devastating shared dream yet â a final, brutal confrontation in the landscape of their own tormented minds. The quiet Watchtower holds its breath.
---
The dream didnât feel like an invasion this time. For John, it felt like waking up inside a memory heâd never made, yet one his soul recognized with terrifying clarity. One moment, the oppressive darkness of his room. The nextâŠ
Warm, golden sunlight streamed through unfamiliar yet comforting windows. He was sitting at a small, cluttered kitchen table. The air smelled of rich coffee and⊠you. You stood by the counter, bathed in the gentle light. Not in lace, not in tactical gear, but in his old, faded Army t-shirt. It swallowed your frame, hanging down to mid-thigh, revealing the long lines of your legs. Your hair was a messy halo around your face, sleep-soft and beautiful. You turned, holding two steaming mugs.
Before he could process the overwhelming sense of rightness, you were there. You leaned down, your free hand gently cupping his cheek, and pressed your lips to his. It wasnât fierce or demanding. It was tender. Deeply, achingly tender. A kiss that spoke of countless mornings, shared silence, and profound belonging. He melted into it, a helpless sigh escaping him as the familiar tension, the constant low-grade anger, simply dissolved.
You pulled back just enough, your silver eyes warm, crinkling at the corners with a soft smile. âMorning, Mr. Grumpy,â you murmured, your voice husky with sleep and affection. You placed his favorite black mug in front of him. âReady to lose the gunshot accuracy contest again today? Or shall I go easy on you?â Your tone was light, teasing, devoid of any competitive bite. It was your joke. A shared language.
He could see his shield resting in a corner, his gun and two knives, yours, besides the table. And besides those weapons, a photo: you two with your suits, his shield in his arm, you were laughing and with your eyes shut, and he was looking at you, smiling. A genuine and adorable smile that was reserved just for you.
Then, one heartbeat, the sun-drenched kitchen. The next, the roar of gunfire, the acrid tang of smoke, the chaotic geometry of a crumbling urban battlefield. But there was no disorientation, no frantic scramble. John was exactly where he needed to be.
He materialized, covering your flank as you pinned down two enhanced HYDRA operatives behind a scorched vehicle. He didnât need orders. He didnât need to shout. He knew. He moved with lethal precision, his movements an extension of yours. A grenade sailed towards your position; his shield was a blur, deflecting it skyward before it could land. You didnât flinch, didnât look back. You knew he was there. You trusted.
You both flowed through the chaos like a single organism. He covered your advance; you cleared his angles. He disarmed a charging brute with an enhanced kick; you telekinetically slammed another into a wall before he could bring his weapon up. It wasnât just competence; it was perfect, instinctive synergy. You were more than partners; you were two halves of a devastating whole.
The last operative fell. Silence descended, heavy with dust and the fading echoes of combat. You stood amidst the rubble, breathing hard, a smear of grime on your cheek. You looked across the ruined street at John. Not with assessment, not with challenge. With pure, unadulterated joy.
A genuine laugh, bright and free, escaped you. You reached your thigh, drew a gleaming combat knife from its sheath, and with a flick of your wrist, sent it spinning towards him. Not as a weapon, but as a gesture. An offering of trust, of shared triumph.
Johnâs hand snapped out, catching the knife effortlessly by the handle, his movement fluid and instinctive.
âGood job, Mr. Grumpy.â She smiled.
He didnât smirk. He smiled. A real, unguarded smile that transformed his face, reaching his tired eyes. He looked at the knife, then back at you, the shared understanding passing between them wordlessly. This. This is us.
 Then that moment faded, and he was in another place. And you were in front of him, perched on the kitchen counter, bare feet swinging. You bit into a ripe strawberry, juice staining your lips. John stood between your knees, methodically field-stripping his Glock 17 on the counter beside your thigh.  Â
"Still insisting that an overcompensating piece of metal is better than a good blade?" You asked playfully.
He smirked, didn't look up. "Precision at 50 yards beats waving a shiny toothpick, sweetheart."Â
You kicked his hip lightly with your heel. "Says the man who needs *eighteen rounds* to feel secure."
He smiled, looked at you a moment, narrowing his eyes, and before you could eat the strawberry you had in your hand, he quickly grabbed your wrist and took the strawberry into his mouth. His lips brushed your fingers. He ate it, looking at you with a winner's smirk.
"Hey! That was my strawberry!" You said to him pretending to be annoyed.
"Not anymore, sweetheart." He said playfully as a drop of strawberry juice fell from the corner of his mouth. You lean forward to catch it with your lips, and then give him a little kiss on the lips, then another and a third one. Both smiled and laughed while his hands cupped your cheeks and didnât let you break the kiss until you had to breathe. You giggled and looked at his eyes.
âI love you, John Walker.â You said smiling, completely in love with this man.
âI love you, Y/N.â He kissed you again, slowly and deeply this time.
Immediately after that moment faded, another appeared.
A late night in the Watchtower common room. John slumped on the couch, bruised from a mission, icing his knuckles. You silently sat beside him, pressing a cold compress to a cut on his temple.
He grumbles. "Shouldâve let Bucky take point. Dumbass move, charging that turret."Â
Your fingers still. You set the compress aside and turns to face him fully. Your silver eyes arenât impatient or judging. Theyâre soft, fierce, and utterly focused.
Your voice was low, unwavering. "John, look at me."
He met your gaze, braced for criticism. Instead, your hand cupped his bruised jaw, your thumb brushing the cut.
"You saw that family trapped behind the collapsed beam. You saw people. Thatâs not recklessness. Thatâs who you are."Â
Your voice dropped, thick with conviction.
"You think youâre not enough? That you have to be Steve Rogers? Or Bucky? Or some idea of a hero?"Â
You leaned closer, your eyes blazing.
"Youâre better than an idea. Youâre real. Youâre messy. You care so damn much it terrifies you. Thatâs why you break things. Thatâs why you save things."Â
Your thumb traced the scar above his brow.
"That little boy you pulled from the fire today? He doesnât care about a shield or a title. He cares that the man who looked like hell itself ran toward him when everyone else ran away."Â
Your voice broke, just slightly.
"Thatâs heroism, John. Not perfection. Sacrifice. Not for glory. For them. And itâs enough. Youâre enough. Right here. Like this."
Your silver eyes werenât judging his recklessness. They were blazing with utter adoration â not for the hero, but for the man who breaks rules to save lives, whoâs reckless and righteous and infuriatingly good in his own messy way.Â
He saw it, the total, unconditional acceptance of his morally gray, protective, grumpy soul.
This wasnât lust. This wasnât manipulation. This was your deepest, most vulnerable desire laid bare and projected into the shared space of your minds: A love built on radical acceptance and effortless partnership. You loved the soldier and the man who needed quiet mornings. You loved the grumpy protector and the one who melted under a tender kiss. You chose all of him â the broken pieces, the moral compromises, the fierce loyalty, the simmering anger â because they made him him. And in this dream, he thrived within that acceptance. He was seen, truly seen, and loved precisely for who he was, not for a role he had to play.
He didnât have to be perfect. He just had to be John Walker, intense and broken and good and an asshole, and he was loved. He saw the home he craved, not just a place, but a person who was his sanctuary and his equal in the storm.
The echo of shattering glass was loud in the pre-dawn silence, followed by a low, guttural curse. John stood before the broken bathroom mirror, his reflection splintered into a dozen jagged shards, each showing a fragment of his face â pale, hollow-eyed, raw with an anguish too deep for rage. Blood dripped from his knuckles onto the sink, stark red against the white porcelain, but he barely felt it. The pain was a dull throb compared to the gaping void inside him.
The dream wasn't a phantom; it was a phantom limb. He could still feel the warm weight of your gaze, taste the coffee youâd handed him. Hear the specific cadence of your laugh when he caught your knife. See the utter adoration in your eyes as you called him enough.
It wasn't a victory. It was⊠homecoming. A belonging so profound, so desperately needed, it felt like his soul had finally slotted into place. And waking up had been like having it ripped out.
He braced his hands on the sink, head hanging, breath coming in ragged gasps. Devastation wasn't a strong enough word. It felt like annihilation. He hadn't just lost a dream; he'd lost a future he hadn't dared believe in until you showed it to him. The anger that followed was directed inward, at himself, at the universe, at the cruel trick of your power showing him paradise only to slam the door.
04:18 AM:
You woke with a choked gasp, tears already streaming down your face, hot and relentless. You clapped a hand over your mouth, stifling a sob. The images were burned onto your retinas: John's genuine, unguarded smile as he caught the knife, the way his shoulders relaxed in the sunlight, the depth of feeling in his eyes when he looked at you in the dream-kitchen â a look you hadn't fabricated, but had somehow pulled from the core of him.
"What did I do?"The whisper was raw, ragged, echoing in the dark. Your hands flew to your head, fingers digging into your temples as if you could claw the dream out. "What did I DO?" Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through you. You hadn't meant this. This wasn't retaliation. This was your soul laid bare, your deepest, most vulnerable desires projected directly into his mind. Youâd shown him everything â your yearning for a home built with him, your acceptance of his jagged edges, your belief in the good man buried under the grumpy soldier, and the weight of failure. You'd shown him the love you couldn't voice.
The horror wasn't just the invasion; it was the intimacy of it. Youâd forced him to witness your most private longing, and in doing so, forced him to witness a version of himself he clearly didn't believe he could be. The thought of facing him, after heâd seen that⊠after heâd felt your desperate, unspoken love⊠it sent waves of nausea through you. You curled into a tight ball, shaking, the tears coming harder. Sleep was a distant memory. Dread pooled in your stomach, cold and heavy.
Morning came too soon.Â
Down in the Quinjet bay, the air hummed with pre-flight checks. Bucky, looking weary, and Yelena, radiating poorly concealed anticipation, stood near the open ramp. You approached, forcing a semblance of calm into your posture. Your silver eyes met Yelenaâs worried gaze, but you ignored her
âFinal check, Y/N,â Bucky stated, his voice flat. âLow-risk recon. Sensor outpost is likely automated, with minimal heat signatures on the last sweep. Map the interior, download any active data cores, and plant the scramblers. In and out. Four hours max.â
âUnderstood,â you replied, your voice carefully neutral. You avoided looking towards the cockpit.
âRemember,â Yelena chirped, leaning against the hull. âCooperation is key. Teamwork makes the dream work.
You offered a thin, humorless smile, but she saw the sadness, the fragility in you. Before she could retort, heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed on the bay floor. John Walker strode in, radiating a storm cloud of palpable fury and exhaustion. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath bloodshot eyes. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful. He ignored Bucky and Yelena entirely. He didnât spare you a single glance. He moved like a man pushed far beyond his limits, radiating a dangerous, brittle energy. Without a word, he brushed past them all and slammed into the pilotâs seat, his movements jerky with suppressed rage.
Bucky and Yelena exchanged a loaded look. Buckyâs expression was grim, foreseeing disaster. Yelenaâs smirk faltered slightly, replaced by a flicker of doubt.
âWalker,â Bucky started, his tone cautious. âBriefingââ
âI read it,â John snapped, his voice gravelly and tight, not turning around. He began powering up the Quinjetâs systems with aggressive stabs at the controls. âLetâs just get this over with.â
The air crackled with unspoken tension. You boarded without comment, taking the co-pilotâs seat purely because it was farthest from him. The silence as the Quinjet lifted off was heavier than lead. Yelena watched it ascend through the bay doors, her earlier confidence evaporating.
âGod,â she muttered, crossing her arms. âHe looks like he wants to murder the controls. And her. Possibly both. At the same time.â
Bucky just sighed, a long, weary sound. âTold you it was a bad idea.â
âIt could still work!â Yelena insisted, though her voice lacked conviction. âForced proximity! Adrenaline! Shared hardship! Classic romance tropes!â
The flight to the Catskills was a study in hostile silence. John flew with grim, focused aggression, barely acknowledging your presence. The tension inside the cabin was thick enough to choke on. The mission itself started poorly the moment their boots hit the muddy forest floor near the dilapidated HYDRA outpost â a concrete bunker half-swallowed by vines and neglect.
It began with the approach. âLeft flank is clearer,â you stated, your telepathy brushing the perimeter, sensing only dormant machinery.
âRight offers better cover for insertion,â John countered, his tone clipped, already moving right without waiting.
âCover from what? Squirrels?â you shot back, falling in step behind him, annoyance flaring. âMy scan shows nothing active.
âYour scan doesnât account for surprises,â he retorted, not looking back. âOr bad intel. Something you seem prone to trusting.â
The barb hit home. âProne to trusting? Unlike you, who trusts nothing but his own bruised ego?â
Inside the dank, dripping bunker, it escalated. Navigating the crumbling corridors was treacherous. John insisted on the point, his movements tense and aggressive.
âSlow down, Walker,â you hissed as he rounded a corner too fast. âThis isnât a charge.â
âItâs recon, not a picnic,â he snapped, his voice echoing in the empty space. âWeâre on the clock.â
âWeâre on the clock because you insisted on the long route!â
âThe safe route!â
A low hum started emanating from deeper within the complex. You focused. âPower core cycling up. Automated defenses might be initializing. We need to move carefully to the data hub.â
âOr we disable the source,â John argued, gesturing towards a side corridor leading downwards. âCut the head off.â
âThat could trigger a full lockdown! The objective is the data!â
âThe objective is completing the mission securely!â
Your hissed argument continued as you moved deeper, the air thick with mildew, decay, and mutual animosity. Frustration curdled into genuine anger. The lack of sleep, the unresolved tension, the proximity â it was a pressure cooker. Every word was a spark.
You both reached the central data hub â a room filled with humming, outdated servers. As you moved to interface your datapad, John scanned the room. A rusted grating covered a floor vent near the wall.
âVentilation access,â John muttered, prying at it with a tipped glove. âCould be a secondary route out, or another access point.â
âLeave it!â you warned, your telepathy picking up a surge of hydraulic pressure beneath the floor. âItâs connected to the waste reclamation system. Itâs unstable!â
He ignored you, giving the grating a final, forceful yank. With a shriek of protesting metal, it came loose. Simultaneously, a brittle pipe directly below, corroded beyond recognition, gave way.
What erupted wasnât just air.
A geyser of decades-old, semi-solidified sludge â a putrid cocktail of biological waste, industrial runoff, and stagnant water â exploded upwards with horrific force. John, directly over the vent, took the brunt of it. The thick, foul-smelling muck hit him like a physical blow, coating him from head to waist in a layer of viscous, reeking brown filth. He stumbled back, gagging, spitting out unspeakable residue.
âGAAAH! SON OF AâÂĄâ
You, standing slightly to the side, werenât spared. The spray caught your legs, side, and one arm, splattering your pristine black suit with grotesque stains that immediately began soaking through. The smell hit you a second later â a gut-churning miasma of rot and decay that made your eyes water.
âYOU IDIOT!â you screamed, recoiling in horror, wiping desperately at your suit, only succeeding in smearing the filth. âI TOLD YOU!â
John, wiping sludge from his eyes with a filthy forearm, fury warring with revulsion, roared back. âYOU COULD HAVE WARNED ME LOUDER! OR BETTER YET, STOPPED ME WITH YOUR DAMN WITCH POWERS!â
âItâs not âwitch powers,â you Neanderthal! Itâs telepathy! And maybe if you listened instead of charging around like a bull in a china shopâÂĄâ
âMaybe if you werenât so busy playing mind gamesâÂĄâ
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Automatic gunfire erupted from a dark side corridor John had dismissed moments before in his angry sweep. Muzzle flashes lit the gloom like malevolent stars. Decades of grime and rust rained down from the ceiling.
Instincts honed by combat overrode their argument, but you both were a split-second too slow, too distracted by your rage.
John lunged sideways, but not fast enough. A searing hot line of pain ripped across his left bicep, tearing through his suit. He grunted, stumbling back against a server rack, clutching the wound. Blood welled instantly between his fingers.
You reacted, throwing up a shimmering telekinetic shield just as another burst came your way. The bullets spanged off the energy barrier, ricocheting wildly. But the force of the impacts staggered you, breaking your concentration for a critical instant.
A third figure â a HYDRA remnant in patched tactical gear, likely drawn by their shouting â emerged from the shadows behind you. Before your shield could fully re-stabilize, he slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of your head.
You cried out, the world exploding into white light and ringing pain. Your telekinetic shield flickered and died. You crumpled sideways, your temple connecting hard with the jagged edge of a broken console. Blood, shockingly bright against your pale skin and dark hair, began to trickle down your temple.
The sudden, brutal violence was a cold bucket of water. Survival instinct surged.
"SON OF Aâ!" John bellowed, ignoring the burning pain in his arm. His right hand snapped up, the compact sidearm he carried barking twice in rapid succession. The HYDRA soldier whoâd struck you jerked and collapsed.
You, dazed but conscious, pushed yourself up, one hand pressed to your bleeding head. You saw the other shooter taking aim at John, still leaning against the server rack. With a snarl fueled by pain and fury, you unleashed a focused telekinetic blast. It wasnât elegant, but it was powerful. The shooter was lifted off his feet and hurled backwards into a wall with a sickening crunch, his weapon clattering away.
Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breathing and the dripping of water (and now blood) somewhere in the gloom. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with the damp decay.
John pushed off the server rack, wincing as he put weight on his injured arm. His eyes scanned the room, weapon ready, then landed on you. You were swaying slightly, blood painting a stark line down your face and neck, staining the collar of your suit. A flicker of something primal â concern, alarm â cut through his anger for a millisecond before being buried under fresh resentment. This wouldn't have happened if we weren't screaming at each other.
You met his gaze, your silver eyes clouded with pain but still burning with defiance. You saw the dark stain spreading on his sleeve. Your hand instinctively lifted, faint silver light gathering at your fingertips â your healing power activating. "Walker, your armâ"
"Don't!" The word was a whip-crack. He flinched back as if her offered hand held venom. "Don't you dare touch me, Y/N! I don't need your help! Not your powers, not your pity, nothing! Just stay the hell away from me!" The rejection was absolute, layered with the blame he placed squarely on you for the argument that led to this.
The healing light died instantly. Your expression hardened into ice, colder and sharper than before. The brief impulse to help vanished, replaced by a wave of bitter humiliation and renewed anger. "Fine!" You spat the word, dripping with venom. "Bleed out for all I care, you stubborn bastard!" You turned your back on him, pressing a torn piece of your suit lining to your bleeding temple with trembling fingers. The pain throbbed in time with your fury.
The rest of the mission was a grim, silent slog. They retrieved the data core and planted the scramblers with mechanical efficiency, moving like hostile automatons.
The air between you was colder than the Catskill mountain air seeping into the bunker. John moved stiffly, favoring his injured arm, the wound left untreated. Your head throbbed relentlessly, the blood drying tacky on your skin. The stench of cordite, blood, and ancient decay clung to them, a fitting olfactory signature for the disaster.
The flight back was a silent, reeking purgatory. John piloted with grim focus, his jaw clenched against the pain radiating from his arm. You sat rigidly in the co-pilot seat, staring blankly at the console, the coppery taste of blood faint in your mouth, your head pounding. The unspoken accusations hung heavier than the foul air.
The pristine, brightly lit common room of the Watchtower was a jarring assault on the senses as the Quinjet landed. Bucky, Yelena, Ava, and Alexei (munching on a sandwich) and Bob, were relaxing when the elevator pinged. Heads turned expectantly, perhaps hoping for resolved tension, or at least weary professionalism.
The elevator doors slid open.
A wave of nauseating stench â a potent cocktail of stale blood, gunpowder, wet earth, mildew, and something deeply, fundamentally foul â washed over the room. Alexei paused mid-bite, his nose wrinkling in disgust. Ava and Bob recoiled. Buckyâs expression froze. Yelenaâs hopeful look vanished, replaced by horrified disbelief.
John Walker stepped out first. He was a vision of battered, filthy rage. His left sleeve was dark and stiff with dried blood, his arm held awkwardly. Dirt, grime, and dark, suspicious stains smeared his face, neck, and tactical suit. His hair was matted. But it was his expression â pure, undiluted fury, eyes blazing with contempt â that was most alarming.
You followed. Blood had dried in a dark, crusted streak from your temple down your jawline. Your usually sleek black hair was tangled and matted with dirt and dried blood on one side. Your suit was torn near the shoulder, stained with blood, mud, and other unidentifiable, reeking muck. Your face was pale beneath the grime, etched with pain and icy, controlled wrath.
Both ignored the stunned team completely. You didnât look at each other. You stalked straight down the corridor towards your respective rooms, leaving behind the overwhelming stench and faint, muddy footprints on the pristine floor.
The silence in the common room was absolute, thick with shock and revulsion. It was shattered only by your furious, overlapping voices as you neared your doors:
"...reckless, arrogant child! Charging in blind!"
ââŠshould have left you in that sludge pit where you belong, you manipulativeââ
"...covered in shit, Walker! Actual, literal shit and blood and God knows what else! Because of your bullheadedâ"
"...EVIL witch! This is on YOU!"
John slammed his door shut with a force that rattled the wall. A second later, your door slammed with equal fury.
The final, furious shout from behind your door echoed down the suddenly silent hallway, clear as a bell in the stunned common room:
"I SMELL LIKE A SEWER RAT AND ITâS YOUR FAULT!"
Silence descended again, heavier than before. The smell lingered, an undeniable presence. Alexei slowly lowered his sandwich, staring at the hallway with wide eyes. Ava fanned the air in front of her face, Bob looked faintly ill. Bucky slowly closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, a long, weary sigh escaping him.
Yelena stood frozen, her matchmaking dreams utterly obliterated, replaced by the visceral reality of blood, sewage, and homicidal rage. Her plan hadn't just failed; it had detonated a grenade in the middle of the teamâs fragile peace.
Bucky opened his eyes and looked at her, his voice flat, devoid of any surprise, stating the painfully obvious: "Well. Your plan didn't work."
Yelena blinked, slowly shaking her head, her voice a small, defeated whisper in the foul-smelling silence. âNo, Bucky. It did not." The only thing dissipated by forced proximity was any lingering doubt about the sheer, toxic intensity of the war between John Walker and you. It was still raging very much.
--
The sterile air of the Watchtower gym, usually thick with exertion and focus, crackled with a different kind of energy three days after the Catskills disaster. The lingering stench of failure had mostly aired out, replaced by the acrid scent of unresolved fury. John Walker was a study in controlled violence, hammering the heavy bag with blows that echoed like gunshots. Sweat plastered his dark-blond hair to his forehead, his expression a mask of grim concentration that barely contained the storm beneath. Every punch was aimed not just at the leather, but at the phantom feel of sludge, the phantom feel of you, the phantom feel of his own helplessness in those dreams.
Sparring with Yelena, Bucky, and Ava was usually a sharp, exhilarating challenge. Today, it was a disaster. Distracted, slow, your reactions dulled by the same unresolved tension coiling in your own gut, you found yourself repeatedly pinned, disarmed, or flat on your back. Your silver eyes lacked their usual focused fire; they were clouded, distant. The playful jabs from tour teammates felt like needles. The air in the gym was thick with unspoken strain, the quiet punctuated only by the thud of Johnâs fists and the sharp grunts of exertion.
Yelena saw the tension and decided to pour gasoline on it with another of her possible solutions to the problem. "Walker!" she called out, her voice slicing through the rhythmic thuds. She wiped imaginary sweat from her own brow, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Stop beating up the defenseless bag. Spar with Y/N. Show her how it's really done. Might knock some sense into one of you."
"No," Bucky snapped, stepping forward, metal hand clenched. "Worst possible idea."
Ava nodded urgently, eyes wide. "Heâs right, this is not going to end well".
Bob fidgeted. "The tension... it feels dangerous, Yelena."
You didn't hesitate. "Absolutely not," you said, your voice arctic, turning sharply to leave the mat. The thought of being that close to him, feeling his hands, seeing that fury directed solely at you â it was too volatile.
John just stopped mid-swing, the bag shuddering violently. He glared at Yelena over his shoulder, his chest heaving. "Not interested." His voice was gravel scraped raw.
Yelena, however, was a master of pressure points. She slid off the bench and sidled up to you, blocking your path. Her voice dropped to a low, taunting purr meant only for your ears, but carrying in the sudden quiet. "Whatâs the matter, Y/N? Scared? After all that big talk about control? Afraid heâll see how weak you really are without your little tricks?" She poked your shoulder, a deliberate provocation. "Or maybe..." her smirk widened, "...maybe youâre afraid youâll like getting pinned down by him?"
Your spine snapped ramrod straight. The barb struck deep, igniting the volatile mixture of guilt, shame, and fury simmering inside you. The insinuation about your desires â it was too much. "Iâm not scared of him," you hissed, the coldness replaced by a dangerous heat as you turned back to face the room, your silver eyes blazing at Yelena and then locked onto John.
Johnâs laugh was a harsh, humorless bark that grated on the air. "Couldâve fooled me." He released the bag, turning fully to face you, wiping sweat from his jaw with the back of his hand. His gaze was scathing. "Seems like hiding behind your powers is safer. Always has been."
"Safer than what?" You shot back, taking a deliberate step towards him, your voice rising, cracking the fragile silence. "Safer than charging headfirst into literal shit because youâre too arrogant to listen? Safer than getting shot because you were too busy playing the wounded victim to watch your six?"
His eyes narrowed, the carefully constructed wall cracking wider. Raw pain flickered beneath the anger. "At least I act. At least I face things head-on, even when it blows up in my face. Instead of..." his voice dropped, low and venomous, laced with a devastating vulnerability, "...instead of playing puppet master in peopleâs dreams like some creepy, cowardly voyeur. Did you get off on it? Watching me twist in the sheets? Feeling me want you? Was that your revenge? Making me feel like a desperate, pathetic fool?"
The raw accusation, the confirmation he knew and the depth of his devastation laid bare, stripped away any remaining pretense. Fury, white-hot and blinding, surged through you, mixed with a sharp stab of defensive shame. "You have no idea what youâre talking about!" You spat, the words trembling with rage.
"Donât I?" John took two aggressive steps forward, closing the distance until barely a foot separated you. The heat radiating off him was palpable. "You think I donât know? You think Iâm stupid? Those dreams⊠they weren't just dreams. Too real. Too specific. Too you." He leaned in, his voice a vicious whisper meant only for you, but echoing in the gym's stillness. "The way you touched me. The things you whispered. The way you rode me. Was it fun? Playing with me like that? Getting your kicks twisting the knife while I slept?" The pain in his eyes was raw, heart-wrenching, fueling his anger. "You crossed the line, Y/N."
You recoiled as if physically struck, the accusation landing like a hammer blow. But your own fury found its target. "I crossed the line?" You snarled, stepping even closer, refusing to be cowed, your own voice trembling with outrage. "Don't you dare play the victim, Walker! What about your thoughts? All those filthy thoughts you deliberately imagined for me to read and see? Those degrading things you imagined doing to me? Every time you looked at my ass? Every time you pictured me bent over? You took advantage too, every damn day! You think that doesn't feel like crossing the line? You're just as guilty
His control finally, irrevocably, snapped. The mention of his own intrusive thoughts, the mirror held up to his own culpability in your toxic dance, was the final spark. "FINE!" he roared, the sound bouncing off the walls. He jabbed a finger towards the center of the mat. "You want to fight? Letâs fight! Hand-to-hand. No powers. No tricks. No hiding in someone else's head. Prove youâre more than just a cheap psychic voyeur! Prove you can face me without your crutches!"
The challenge hung in the air, thick and suffocating. You met his blazing gaze, the accusation of cowardice burning away the last shred of hesitation. You gave a single, sharp nod. "Gladly."
âWalker, Y/N, donât do this!â Bucky almost pleaded with you both, but he was ignored.
It started controlled, almost ritualistic. You circled each other on the mat, wary predators. Testing jabs were thrown and blocked, feints executed and read. But the fury simmering beneath the surface was a volcano waiting to erupt. With every blocked strike, every evaded grab, the verbal daggers flew, each one sharper and more venomous than the last, fueling the physical escalation.
"Always dancing away, Y/N?" John taunted, deflecting a kick with a forearm block that rattled your leg. "Can't stand the heat? Typical coward."
"Better than charging like a mindless bull, failure!" You shot back, ducking under a wild hook and landing a sharp, stinging jab to his ribs. "Didn't learn a thing in the Catskills, did you? Or from losing the shield? Or your wife?"
John growled, the mention of his losses striking deep. He lunged, not with a punch, but to grab you. He caught your arm, using his superior strength and leverage to shove your back hard. You stumbled but kept your feet. "Hit me!" he goaded, spreading his arms mockingly. "Or are you too weak? Too used to winning fights with your mind instead of your hands?"
"Wouldnât want to bruise your fragile ego!" You spat, launching a flurry of faster strikes â jabs, crosses, a snap kick aimed at his knee. He blocked most, absorbed one on his shoulder, and swept your legs out from under you with ruthless efficiency. You hit the mat with a grunt, the breath momentarily knocked out of you. Before you could scramble up, he was on you, pinning your shoulders down, his weight pressing you into the foam. His face was inches from yours, sweat dripping onto your cheek. "Fight like you mean it! Hit me! Show me you can feel something besides smug superiority and creepy mind games!" He released you immediately, springing back, a sneer twisting his features. "Or is this all you've got?"
Humiliation and rage ignited a firestorm in you. You rolled to your feet, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your silver eyes narrowed to slits of pure fury. You were both sweating profusely, exhaustion warring with adrenaline and the toxic cocktail of your shared history.
âYouâre a fucking asshole, Walker!â you spat. âAlways lashing out, always blaming everyone else for your fuck-ups! I see why your wife left you! Too weak to handle a real partner, too arrogant to admit you need anyone!â
The words landed like a sledgehammer. Johnâs eyes, already blazing, seemed to ignite from within. The pain and humiliation of Olivia leaving, taking his son, was a wound far deeper than any bullet graze. He used a surge of strength to flip you onto your back, pinning your wrists beside your head, his weight pressing down. His voice, when it came, was low, guttural, and laced with a cruelty honed by his own agony.
âAt least I had a family, Y/N,â he hissed, leaning closer, his bloodied lip almost touching your forehead. âWhereâs yours? Huh? Where are your precious parents? Orphaned little witch, lashing out âcause nobody ever wanted you? Is that why you crawl into peopleâs heads? Trying to steal what you canât have?â
You froze beneath him. The color drained from your face, replaced by a terrifying pallor. Your parentsâ fate â a void you kept sealed with steel â had been violently ripped open. The raw, agonizing loss, the years of loneliness, surged up, momentarily eclipsing your rage with pure, crippling hurt. Your silver eyes shimmered with unshed tears of shock.
John saw the hit land, saw the devastation. He released you by a second.
Then, it happened. Fueled by pure, unadulterated fury at his words, his touch, his existence in that moment, you threw a wild, looping haymaker. It wasn't technical. It wasn't smart. It was pure emotion. It connected solidly with the point of Johnâs jaw.
His head snapped violently to the side. A bright trickle of blood instantly appeared at the corner of his split lip. He touched it slowly, looked at the crimson smear on his gloved fingers, and then back at you. A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face, completely at odds with the blood and the swelling already starting. He spat a glob of blood onto the mat near your feet.
"You hit like a little girl," he mocked, his voice thick with contempt, pain, and a perverse, challenging heat. "That all your righteous anger amounts to? A love tap?"
That was it. The final thread of your control snapped with an almost audible *twang*. With a guttural cry of pure, unfiltered rage, you launched yourself at him, abandoning any pretense of technique. You both became a whirlwind of desperate violence. Punishes landed with sickening thuds â his ribs, your shoulder. Kicks connected â his thigh, your hip. Both grappled fiercely, rolling across the mat in a tangle of limbs, grunts, and snarled curses replacing coherent insults. The team watched, frozen in horrified fascination.
Bucky took a step forward, his face grim. "That's enough! Walker! Y/N! STOP!"
"Y/N, please!" Ava called out, her voice laced with fear.
âOh God, this is⊠this is not ok, heâs pushing her too far, sheâs going to lose control,â Bob said with a shaky voice.
The team looked at him for a moment, considered his words, and then looked at you both again.
They didnât have time to react.
But you both were beyond hearing. Beyond reason. John, stronger and heavier, managed to trap one of your arms and twist you onto your stomach, his knee driving into your back, his other arm snaking around your neck, locking into a brutal chokehold, not to render you unconscious, but to dominate, to control. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a ragged, hateful rasp. "Use them! Go on! Use your precious powers! Or are you finally admitting youâre nothing without them? Just a scared little girl playing at being strong? Just like you played at caring in those dreams!"
The words â "scared little girl," the dismissal of your strength, the final twist of the knife about the dreams â struck the deepest nerve of all. Something primal and desperate within you shattered. Your silver eyes blazed with an incandescent, unnatural light that filled the gym. Things in the gym started to shake and then levitate. A concussive wave of pure, unfocused telekinetic force erupted from your core, invisible but devastating.
***WHOOMF!***
John was ripped off you and hurled backwards like a cannonball. He flew across the gym, crashing through a heavy, reinforced training dummy, shattering it into composite shards, and slamming into the far wall with a sickening crunch of metal and concrete. A section of the reinforced wall panel buckled inwards, showering dust and debris. He crumpled to the floor amidst the wreckage, groaning, dazed, blood now welling from a fresh cut on his forehead, his arm bleeding anew.
Silence descended, profound and terrifying. Dust motes danced in the harsh fluorescent lights. The team was frozen, mouths agape, eyes wide with shock. Ava covered her mouth. Yelena's earlier smirk was gone, replaced by stark horror.
Then, movement. Groaning, coughing dust, John pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He shook his head, blinking rapidly, his expression morphing from stunned confusion to pure, unadulterated, feral fury. He saw you standing across the ruined mat, breathing in ragged, shallow gasps, your eyes wide with a flicker of genuine horror beneath the fading psychic glow and the residue of your rage.
He moved. Fast. Faster than pain, faster than sense, propelled by enhanced reflexes and volcanic fury. Before you could react, before you could even gather your scattered thoughts, he was on you. Not with a wild punch, but with the ruthless, efficient brutality of a soldier pushed beyond endurance. He didn't aim for your head; he aimed for control. One arm snaked around your neck from behind, locking into a crushing headlock, cutting off your air and, crucially, disrupting any focus needed for telekinesis. His other hand gripped your wrist like a vise, twisting your arm up painfully behind your back. He applied pressure, immobilizing you completely, using his weight and leverage to drive you down onto your knees on the broken mat.
"LET HER GO, WALKER! NOW!" Bucky roared, finally surging forward, Yelena and Ava close behind, Alexei lumbering after them.
"NO!" You gasped out, your voice strangled against the pressure on your windpipe. Your eyes, still glowing faintly with residual power, locked onto the approaching team. A desperate, powerful pulse of telepathic command slammed into them â STAY BACK! It wasn't a request; it was a desperate, pride-fueled imperative, a refusal to be saved. Bucky stumbled as if hitting a wall, clutching his head. Yelena and Ava cried out, reeling back, disoriented. Alexei just grunted, shaking his head like a bull.
John tightened his grip slightly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a guttural rasp thick with blood and hatred. "Not so powerful now, are you? Just flesh and blood. Just weak."
You thrashed with desperate strength, fueled by terror and humiliation. You managed to twist your hips, using leverage and a surge of adrenaline to break his hold on your arm and partially reverse your positions. You ended up straddling his waist, pinning his shoulders with your knees, your fist drawn back, trembling with the effort to hold the telepathic barrier and contain your power. Dust coated you both, mixed with sweat and blood.
He looked up at you, breathing raggedly, his face a mask of cuts, bruises, and swelling, blood smearing his temple and lip. There was defiance in his eyes, a feral challenge, but beneath it, something else had surfaced⊠an ocean-deep exhaustion? A terrifying, hollow resignation? He didnât raise his hands to block you. He didnât struggle. He just⊠stopped. Stopped fighting. Stopped resisting. He lay beneath you, utterly still except for the ragged rise and fall of his chest.
"Go on," he rasped, his voice raw and broken, echoing in the sudden, awful quiet of the gym. "Do it. Hit me. Since itâs all you seem to know how to do. Hit me like you did in my sleep. Hit me like you shattered the wall. Prove you can finish what you start." He looked directly at your eyes, tired. "Just make it count."
You hesitated, your fist trembling violently. The fury was still a molten core in your chest, but seeing him beneath you, battered, bleeding, utterly broken and not resisting⊠it was profoundly disorienting. The raw vulnerability in his voice, the utter surrender⊠it disarmed your rage like nothing else could. You drew back your fist, fueled by the last dregs of adrenaline and the desperate need to hurt him back, to make him feel the humiliation, the impossible tangle of hate and want.
You struck him. Once. A hard, jarring punch to his uninjured shoulder. He grunted, his body jerking under the impact, but his gaze was still locked in yours. You hit him again, on the chest, the blow losing force, landing more like a thud. A third time, a weak, open-handed slap against his already bruised and swollen jaw. It made a pathetic sound.
And then, the dam broke. Not with a scream, but with a choked sob. Hot, furious tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision of his broken face. Not tears of pain, but of overwhelming, inarticulate rage, frustration, crushing humiliation, and a profound, terrifying sense of loss â loss of control, loss of the upper hand, loss of the simple, clean hatred you thought you felt. They spilled over, tracing clean, glistening paths through the dust and sweat and grime on your cheeks. You looked down at him, at the man who infuriated you, challenged you, saw through your manipulations, invaded you with his thoughts, accused you of crossing the line, and who now lay passively accepting your blows, utterly defeated. Your fist unclenched, falling limply to your side. The telepathic barrier holding the team back flickered and died, and the debris and everything that was levitating fell instantly to the ground.
âI hate you,â you said with a broken voice.
He looked at you for a moment; he actually didnât feel that. He didnât believe you. Because after all, he knew it was a lie.
âNo, you donât. Thatâs the problem.â He whispered.
Silence, heavier than before, filled the ruined gym. The only sounds were your ragged, tear-filled breaths and Johnâs labored, defeated gasps beneath you. The war had reached its brutal, messy culmination, leaving only wreckage and the terrifying question of what came next.
You stared into Johnâs eyes for one long, agonizing moment. Then, without a word, you pushed yourself off him. You stood, swaying slightly, ignoring the concerned looks from your frozen teammates. You didn't look back at John sprawled on the debris-strewn mat. You just turned and walked out of the gym, your shoulders slumped, the sound of your retreating footsteps echoing in the heavy silence, the tracks of your tears still glistening on your face.
John remained on the floor, staring at the ceiling, the taste of blood and defeat sharp on his tongue, the echo of your silent tears burning hotter than any punch. The war wasn't over. But the battlefield had just changed irrevocably.
The silence after you fled was thick and suffocating, broken only by the settling dust and the frantic pounding of hearts slowly calming. The wreckage of the gym â the buckled wall panel, the shattered training dummy, the scattered debris of weights and tools â stood as stark, accusing monuments to the catastrophic.
Bob was the first to find his voice, a hesitant whisper cutting through the heavy air. "John? Are... are you okay?" He took a tentative step towards the figure still prone on the ruined mat.
John didn't move. He lay exactly as you had left him, sprawled on his back, arms limp at his sides, staring unblinkingly at the cracked ceiling tiles. Dust coated his bloodied face, mingling with sweat and the tracks of your tears that had fallen on him. He looked less like a super-soldier and more like a broken statue.
I laughed..... I cried ..... I got so mad I couldn't see straight ..... Two stubborn ass people ( and one reading it)..... This gripped me and ripped me in half.... I just need them to figure their shit out.... đđđđđ
Stubbornness level: 1000000 lol That means my work here is done. đ„čđ Thank you so much for reading! đđ» I'm so glad to know I was able to make you feel so many emotions and that you liked my story! đ I hope you like part 2!! đ„°
