#john walker au

[dark-silhouette]

Brutal Devotion (part 2)

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 that´s 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 John’s 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."

John’s jaw clenched minutely, the only sign he’d heard.

"You think you're hiding it?" Bucky continued, his gaze steady on John’s 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 John’s eyes, quickly shuttered. "You think the shield, the titles, the failures... they stripped you of the right to anything good. Especially love."

John’s 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 John’s uninjured shoulder. "Stop fighting her, Walker. And stop fighting yourself. It’s exhausting to watch."

Bucky rose to his feet, the joints in his knees protesting softly. He looked down at John for another moment – 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 what’s 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 Bucky’s 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 John’s 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 hadn’t 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 – 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 – 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 hadn’t 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. You’d 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. You’d 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 John’s face beneath yours on the gym mat – not defiant anymore, but resigned, accepting your blows, the blood on his lip and brow, the look in his eyes that wasn’t anger, but a profound, weary sadness that mirrored your own. He’d stopped fighting. And you’d hit him anyway. The memory was a physical blow, doubling you over with a fresh wave of sobs. The games hadn’t been funny anymore. They’d become a catastrophe, a self-inflicted wound that felt fatal.

You didn’t 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 didn’t eat. The thought of food turned your stomach. You didn’t 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 you’d broken.

---

The knock, when it came late the next morning, was soft. Tentative. You didn’t 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 –  sweet shampoo, and a faint, clean citrus – cut through the stale air of despair.

“Y/N,” Yelena’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, stripped of its usual sardonic edge.

You didn’t look up. You couldn’t.

Yelena didn’t say anything else for a long moment. She tried to talk to you after all happened but you did’t 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.

“Oh, honey,” Yelena murmured, sounding strangely tender. “Look at you.”

Slowly, painfully, you turned your head, peering out with one red-rimmed, swollen eye. The light, even dimmed, felt like needles. Yelena’s face swam into focus – 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 didn’t 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 Yelena’s 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.

“I am sorry,” Yelena whispered, her voice thick with her own emotion. “I 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.” She tightened her hold as another wave of sobs shook you. “Shhh. It’s okay. Let it out.”

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.

“You both,” Yelena said, her voice regaining a little of its usual directness, though it remained soft, “are the most stubborn, prideful, stupid people I have ever known.” There was no bite in the words, only weary truth. “Look at this. Look what you have done to each other. To yourselves.”

You looked down, fresh tears welling. “It’s too late,” you whispered, your voice a raw croak from crying and disuse. “We broke it. We broke everything.”

“No,” Yelena said firmly. She tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet her eyes. “It is only broken if you leave it broken on the floor. Like children who smash a toy and walk away.” She sighed, a deep, weary sound. “Y/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 – like you hung the damn moon and stars, even when he is arguing with you. You burn for each other. It is… blindingly obvious.”

You flinched. Hearing it stated so plainly, so undeniably, was both a relief and a fresh agony. “Then why?” you choked out. “Why is it so hard? Why does it hurt so much?”

“Because you are both idiots!” Yelena exclaimed, though her touch remained gentle. “Because 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!” She leaned closer, her gaze intense. “Loving 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.”

She smoothed your hair back again. “This game you played? It was armor. Hiding behind sarcasm, behind power, behind anger… safer than saying ‘I want you. I need you. I see you.’” Yelena’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “He stopped fighting, Y/N. On that mat. He let you hit him. What does that tell you?”

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.

“He needs to hear it,” Yelena said softly. “And 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.”

You closed your eyes, fresh tears leaking from beneath your lids. Yelena’s words weren’t a magic fix, but they were a lifeline thrown into the chasm of your despair. They were the simple, terrifying truth you’d 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. “The hard part is done,” she murmured. “You broke. Now you rebuild. But you don’t have to do it alone.” 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 – still trembling from the fight. Your temple throbs where his grip bruised you, but the deeper ache is in your chest. "No, you don’t. That’s the problem." His words replay like a knife twist. You cried – silent, furious tears – into your pillow, muffling sobs so no one hears. When Yelena knocked, you didn’t answer. You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep. You traced the ghost of his blood on your knuckles. 

 A purple bruise bloomed on your temple. Silver eyes are swollen, shadowed. You moved like a ghost through the Tower’s halls, avoiding the gym’s wreckage. 

 ---

He paces his room until dawn, Bucky’s words haunting him. "Do you want it?" He stared at his reflection: split lip, the fading scars of a man who’s lost everything. He rehearsed apologies in the mirror – "I’m sorry about your parents" – but choked on the words.

At 3 AM, he stood outside your door, fist raised to knock... then walked away. 

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. 

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 – a flash of shared agony – 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 – "Hit me" – and woke gasping. 

 Anger curdled into shame. You replied to his accusation: "You crossed the line." Part of you believed it. 

--

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 – to feel. The bottle whispers: She’ll never forgive you. 

Fear caged him. He wanted to say, "The dreams... I didn’t hate them." But the risk of your rejection felt like losing the shield all over again. 

On the third day…

You forced yourself into the common room. John was there, staring out at the city. The air crackled. You hesitated – just talk to him – but saw his white-knuckled grip on the couch. He regrets it. All of it. Defeated, you turned to leave... 

"Y/N." His voice was gravel. 

You stopped. Didn’t turn. Held your breath. 

"I... Never mind." He walked out. 

You slid to the floor, back against the wall, tears streaming silently. Coward. Both of us. 

He almost said it: "I’m sorry." But your flinch when he spoke gutted him. He spends hours cleaning his gear, avoiding everyone. In his mind, he repeated: “I don’t know how to fix this."

His bruises have faded to sickly yellow. But the hollowness in his eyes remained.

The Watchtower’s klaxons weren’t 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 – a heavy, blunt instrument compared to the star-spangled symbol he’d lost, but solid – and clipped it to his back. He turned, heading for the bay ramp, expecting you beside him.

"Walker. Y/N." Bucky’s 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?" John’s 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. You’re 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 John’s temple, the subtle tension in your shoulders. "What happened in the gym? That can’t 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 – apology? Regret? – 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, we’ll call. But until then… you’re benched."

John’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. The frustration wasn’t 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 – liability – 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 mission’s urgency. You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Bucky was right.

"Bob," Bucky said, turning to him, "you have the watch. Keep them looped in. Let’s move." He gave John and you one last, unreadable look – part command, part pity – 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 pilot’s 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 couldn’t hit Bucky. He couldn’t hit the mission. He spun on his heel, his gaze sweeping the bay – the pristine walls, the parked vehicles, the silent equipment – 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 – 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 didn’t look at the damage. He didn’t 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 didn’t stop, didn’t 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 hadn’t flinched when the trolley crashed. You hadn’t 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 city’s hum, then into silence. The team was gone. Into danger. Without you.

Bob cleared his throat awkwardly from his iPad. "Uh, Y/N? I’ve got the primary feeds up on Screen Three if you… uh… want to monitor?"

You didn’t 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 Bucky’s decision, the echo of John’s 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 couldn’t 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, “You are my friend and I… I would like to see you happy.” 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – not here, not now – 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 John’s 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 John’s 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 – 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!”.

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 – it was draining your reserves faster than you ‘d 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 – 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. Bob’s voice crackled over the comm, rapid-fire, guiding John through the labyrinth of collapsing tunnels towards Bucky’s fading signal. "Left at the next junction, John! Structural integrity at 15%! Thermal bloom ahead – 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. Bucky’s 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 won’t 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 – a high-grade, tactical adrenaline/stimulant cocktail, designed for superhuman metabolisms in extreme situations. A last resort. Temporary. You’d 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 – 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.

“Walker! Go! Now!” The shout tore from your raw throat, eyes locked on the advancing Goliath. John hesitated—you felt it, that familiar, agonizing second of his conflict. “TAKE HIM!” you screamed, raw and final.

The stimulant’s artificial fire was guttering out, leaving cold ash in its wake. Your power sputtered—a 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 wasn’t just fatigue; it was a leaden weight dragging your soul down.

His hand shot out—inhumanly 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.

Yelena’s 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.

“They…” Ava’s voice was a ghost of itself, barely audible over the engines and thunder. “…they pulled us out. All of us. While the place was coming down.” Her eyes fixed on the black void beyond the viewport. “We just… left them.”

Yelena didn’t turn. Her gaze remained locked on the navigation screen, a muscle jumping in her jaw. “There was no choice, Ava,” she stated, her voice clipped, devoid of its usual sharpness. It was a cold, hard fact. “Bucky is out. Alexei can’t walk. We can barely stand. Going back into that collapse, in this storm, with hostiles likely still active? It’s suicide. And it wouldn’t have helped them.” 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. “Pizdets! Trapped! Like rats! And those two… throwing themselves into fire!” His anger was a mask for the helplessness twisting his features, the pain making his eyes glassy. He’d seen Walker’s 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 Tower’s landing pad emerged like a mirage through the lashing rain. Bob -  looking worried – 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.  “What happened? Where’s— “. His eyes scanned the emerging, limping figures. “Where’s Y/N? John?”

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.

Bob’s gaze darted between them, searching faces that refused to meet his. “Guys… Yelena!” His voice rose, sharp with dawning dread, cutting through the roar of the storm. “Where are they?”

Yelena stopped. Rain plastered her blonde hair to her skull. She finally looked at him, and the raw, uncharacteristic sheen in her eyes – a mix of fury, bone-deep fatigue, and a grief she couldn’t yet name – was more terrifying than any enemy. Her voice, when it came, was low, hoarse, stripped bare.

” They didn’t make it to the jet.”

A beat of crushing silence, filled only by the howling wind.

” We’ll find them.”

The promise was fierce, absolute, but it landed like a stone in the pit of Bob’s stomach. Didn’t make it. It wasn’t 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 Tower’s med bay was a jarring contrast to the chaos they’d 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. “We have to go back! The jet— “.

“The jet wouldn’t survive takeoff in this, Bob,” Yelena cut in, still staring out at the lightning forking across the sky. “It’s 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.” She finally turned, her gaze meeting his, hard and pragmatic despite the exhaustion. “We are no good to them dead. Or captured again.”

Ava spoke softly from her gurney, drawing a thermal blanket around her shoulders. “They 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 Bucky…” Her voice cracked. “We failed them.” The quiet admission hung heavy in the antiseptic air.

“You´re talking as if they were… they… they are ok, right? Yelena?” Bob looked for an affirmation that no one could give.

Yelena didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.

Alexei, gritting his teeth as a med-tech examined his leg wound, growled, “Walker is cockroach. Hard to kill. And Y/N? That witch has tricks even Satan doesn’t know. If anyone survives falling off a dam into hell’s bathtub… it’s them.” 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 – 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 wasn’t 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 – a monstrous, churning serpent dragging them deeper, tumoring them violently against submerged rocks. Splintered wood from the dam slammed into John’s 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 couldn’t 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 – 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 – a shimmering, distorted silver sheet – 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 – 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 – 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. Don’t drop her. Don’t 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 water’s 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 – shallow, but present. No major bleeding he could see, but the pallor, the blue lips… Hypothermia.

He had to move. You couldn’t stay here, exposed on the bank. The storm he didn’t 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: ” Hold on, Y/N. Just hold on.”

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.

” Remember the gym? You… you slammed me good… arrogant bastard, yeah… deserved it…”

” Stupid damn mission… I’m going to kill Bucky… if we live…”

” Don’t you die on me, witch… not after… all this…”

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 storm’s 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 wasn’t 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 – against their wounds, the cold, the ghosts of your past, and the terrifying vulnerability of your present – 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 storm’s 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 metal— the hilt of his combat knife. He dragged it out, its blade glinting dully in the gloom. Steel and flint. The knife’s 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 knife’s 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.

“Come on you fucking shit,” 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 paper’s edge. He dropped the stones, cupping his shaking hands around the fragile glow, blowing with agonizing gentleness—each 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 fire’s 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 – of you, of the unspoken war between both.

“Don’t hate me for this…” 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 he’d never seen, and the intricate, swirling tattoo of thorns and daisies in the left part of your lower belly. He didn’t 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. “Thank God,” 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.

“Gotta… gotta stay awake, Y/N,” 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.

“Know I’m… an idiot,” he confessed, the words slurring slightly. His head lolled back against the wall. “Arrogant bastard. Screwed up… everything. Cap. Lemar. My family…” A wet, rattling cough shook him. He spat blood-tinged phlegm into the dust. “But you… You never let me forget it. Hated that. Hated you for it.” A weak, pained chuckle. “Love the way you hate it… when I call you ‘witch’.” He turned his head, his blurring gaze finding your profile. “Eyes flash… like lightning. Gets me every damn time.”

He was drifting. The warmth was a seductive trap. He fought it, focusing on your face. “You’re… amazing. Always thought that. Even when you were… crawling inside my head. Messing with me.” His breath hitched. “Five nights… Saw things… Felt things… Shoulda have made me hate you more. Didn’t. I think… I never did.” He swallowed hard, the admission scraping his throat raw. “Scared the hell outta me. Still does.”

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 – regret? Tenderness? – 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.

“I’m sorry,” 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 shouldn’t 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 ”That’s the problem.”

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 – 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.

“Walker?” 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. “Hey!” Louder now, laced with a fear you couldn’t contain. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, ignoring the lance of pain in your head, and shook him harder. “John! Wake up!”

Silence. A stillness deeper than sleep. Deeper than exhaustion.

No. No, no, no. The panic surged, icy claws digging into your chest. You’d 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 didn’t 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. He’d saved the others. He’d earned his escape. Instead, he’d 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 couldn’t lose him. Not like this. Not after that. Not after everything.

“Okay, okay…” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “Okay, John. Hold on.” Gritting your teeth against the migraine’s 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.

“Come on,” you pleaded, voice cracking. “Come on, please.” 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 didn’t 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 – sharper than any battlefield fear – 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: ” Hold on, Y/N… Don’t you die on me, witch… not after… all this…” 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: ” Love the way you hate it… when I call you ‘witch’… Gets me every damn time… You’re amazing… Scared the hell outta me…” The profound gentleness of his fingers brushing your hair from your forehead. The crushing weight of his whispered ”I’m sorry” before oblivion claimed him.

Tears streamed down your face, hot against your cold skin. You saw it all – his pain, his fear, his sacrifice, his regret, and the terrifying, unwanted depth of his feelings laid bare in delirium and desperation. It wasn’t just duty. It was him. John Walker, broken and arrogant and impossibly complex, choosing you against all logic, against his own survival.

“I’m sorry,” 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 you’d 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 John’s 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. That’s 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 he’d lit, but a softer, more persistent heat pressed against his side. Then came the dull, familiar ache – remnants of trauma, fatigue deep in his bones – but crucially, the knife was gone. How long has he been unconscious? His ribs, while tender, didn’t 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. You’d been a ghost, a ruin, and still you’d scraped the bottom of your shattered power to pull him back. You’d fought death for him, just as he’d fought the river and the storm for you. You both were a mess, a toxic tangle… but damn if you weren’t 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 – 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 didn’t even know. The team… Bucky, Alexei, the others… they wouldn’t be coming. Not in this. They’d 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 nature’s 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 who’d somehow become his anchor in the wreckage.

--

When you stirred, it was to profound disorientation. The migraine’s 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 – dry and smelling faintly of woodsmoke – brushed softly against your skin.

How? The last thing you remembered was collapsing forward, your forehead hitting John’s 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 didn’t spike your headache.

You scanned the cabin. The fire was brighter, healthier – he’d tended it. Logs crackled, casting long, dancing shadows. But John wasn’t there. A prickle of unease, quickly dismissed. He wouldn’t leave. Not now.

The cabin door creaked open, cutting through the storm’s 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 sarcasm’s 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 – serviceberries or juniper, perhaps – and some wrinkled, earthy-looking tubers. "Found these," he said gruffly, holding them out. "Not much. Won't poison us." He’d 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. “In the bathroom, there is a towel and water, if you need it.” He added, retreating to his chosen spot – the far wall, opposite the bed – 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 storm’s fury, he spoke without opening his eyes, his voice a low rumble. "Storm’s 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 – the exhausted soldier, the man who carried you for miles, the man whose deepest fears and unwanted desires you’d 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 wasn’t 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.

John’s 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.

“You’re pissed because I saved your life?! You should thank me, witch!” he said, anger growing inside him now.

“Don’t call me that!” Her index finger pointed at him with anger. "It’s the same damn cycle! You throw yourself into the fire, I drag you out, we hate each other a little more, rinse, repeat!”

“What the fuck was I supposed to do? Let you die?” he asked in disbelief.

“You should have left! I…” You shouted. Your hand rested on your forehead for a moment as you found the words. “Why, 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 it’s 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 I’d think things… deliberate things… loud enough for the telepath next door to hear. When I’d imagine what it would feel like to pin you against that gym wall for something other than a fight. When I’d 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.

“You know damn well the reason. So you tell me why.” He waited for your answer, but you didn’t 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, John—"

"NO!" He leaned in, his other hand bracing against the wall on your other side, effectively caging you. “You are pissed, aren’t you? Let it all out, it’s damn time. No more running away.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you… I…”

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! We’re 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. He’d 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 wasn’t 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. He’d said love. Not obsession, not twisted desire born of conflict, but love. The word felt foreign, terrifying, impossibly large in the decaying cabin where you’d only ever known how to wound.

He didn’t 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. I’m 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 control…" your voice cracked. "I break things. I hurt you…”

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. "We’re both fucked up, Y/N," he said, his voice low, intense. "We’re broken, we’re intense, we’re probably a little crazy. But that doesn’t mean we don’t 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 – 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 wasn’t there – it was a supernova threatening to consume you – 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. He’d laid his soul bare, and the silence was his answer. He thought you wouldn’t 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 you’d 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 – 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.”

He didn’t 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 didn’t. 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 you’d never imagined. He kissed you like a man drowning who’d 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 revelation—soft, 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. 

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 you—every curve, every scar, every place that made you gasp. 

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 hands—rough from battle, yet unbearably gentle—slid down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He wanted to leave marks, to claim you in ways no dream ever could. 

"Do you remember my thoughts?" His voice was a rough whisper against your pulse, sending a shudder through you. "The dreams?" 

You did. Every single one. The way he’d imagined you beneath him, over him, wrecked by him. The way he’d wanted to hear you say his name like a prayer, like a curse. 

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 who’d dared lay hands on you. His mouth followed, pressing tender, reverent kisses over each mark, as if he could erase the violence with devotion. 

"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." 

You whimpered, your body alight, every nerve singing under his touch. The contrast was intoxicating—the 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. 

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. 

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his breath hot against your lips. "Say it. I need to hear it."

You didn’t 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 I’m 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 cabin’s 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 – 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 you’d 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 – 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 – vulnerable, exposed, utterly his – 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 – 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 he’d projected, the illicit thoughts he’d broadcast, not with shame, but with a fierce, possessive pride. He’d 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 – 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 – 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 perfect—dominant, possessive—allowing 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 strong—brutally, beautifully strong—and the raw masculinity of him made you weak. 

He smirked against your lips. The bastard. He knew. He knew exactly what you loved, what made you melt, what made you his. 

"You love that, don’t you?" His voice was rough, dark with amusement and something far more dangerous. 

You didn’t answer—couldn’t. 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. 

"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 haven’t even touched you properly yet." 

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. 

His eyes darkened as he took you in—the 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. 

"I remember," he murmured, voice thick with lust, "exactly how I imagined you’d sound. How you’d feel." His hand slid down your throat, over the frantic pulse there, lower, lower—until his fingers brushed the waistband of your pants. "And now I get to find out." 

A shiver wracked your body. 

He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and the sound he made was almost animalistic. "I can smell you," he rasped. "Fuck, it’s intoxicating."

You whimpered, your nails biting into his skin. 

He grinned—a slow, wicked thing. "Tell me you want this." 

You didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

His grip tightened. "Say it." 

"I want this. I want you." 

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 firelight’s flickering embrace. Cool air ghosted over your skin, instantly replaced by the searing heat of his palms.

His touch wasn’t 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. "Don’t worry. I’ll 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 wasn’t 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 couldn’t articulate – 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 – 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. “Oh, yes, John!”

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 – hot, wet, seeking – 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 relentless—hot, 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 couldn’t escape—not that you wanted to. 

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 wasn’t just enjoying this—he was consumed by it. 

“I could live between your legs all my life, sucking your sweet pussy nonstop.”

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 couldn’t get enough.

"Jesus fucking Christ..." he muttered, his own control fraying at the edges.

“Fuck, look at you baby, you’re dripping, hot, so desperate for me. I love your pussy, I can’t get enough,” his fingers never stopped.

This was better than any fantasy, any dream. This was real—your taste, your sounds, the way you trembled for him. 

"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 didn’t 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.

“Open your legs wider for me, baby,” 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. 

"John! Oh my god—don’t stop, please! Don’t stop!" Your voice was raw with desperation, your legs shaking violently as the pleasure coiled tighter, tighter— 

And then it shattered you. 

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 didn’t relent, didn’t give you a moment to recover—he devoured you through it, drawing out every last tremor, every aftershock, until you were limp and trembling. 

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. 

You couldn’t 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. "I’m going to make you mine."

The promise in his voice—dark, possessive, final—sent a fresh wave of heat through you. 

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. 

When you finally released him, you purred, low and satisfied. 

"Fuck." His voice was wrecked. "You are so fucking sexy."

And then he kissed you—hard, deep, and filthy—claiming 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 – 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 – 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 – the ease with which he held you suspended – 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.”

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.

“This is so fucking amazing… Look at this beautiful mess.” 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 didn’t 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.

“Oh God, please… Faster!”

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 – 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 – raw, desperate, his – 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 – a map of his ownership.

“Jesus! I can feel the way your pretty pussy is clenching my cock, baby,” his eyes closed for a moment, focusing on that exact feeling. “It drives me mad, fuck!”

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. “Oh my God!”, you moaned wildly, lost in the maelstrom. “Mark me. Claim me, John!” 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 – the love, the obsession, the long time of battle and longing – 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 you’d 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 you’d 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 wouldn’t 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 –sweat, 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 you’d helped heal and the newer marks you’d 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... it’s 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. "Don’t worry, we’ll 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,” 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the strength in your shoulders, the soft curves of your backside – 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 – 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 – 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 he’d 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 he’d 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 – 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 – 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 – concern for the team you’d fought beside, the family you’d 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 let’s face it, we’re both stubborn as hell. But loving you more. Protecting you. Building something real. Something ours." His thumb stroked the back of your hand. "Forever. That’s 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 – 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 who’d 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

[romantacysblog]

John Walker P!links Pt1

MINORS DNI

"Huh? tell me"

treating you like a slut...plus it sounds like himmm

him letting you take control. also his molessss, just like john hasss

using your mouth

spanking your pretty pussy with his cock

he would 100% have you over his lap like this "You like that sweetheart? huh?"

john would tease your hole and whisper degrading words in your ear

how he talks to you

Slow but deep brushing against that spot with every thrust of his thick hard cock

"My pretty princess doesnt deserve my cock yet"

If you have any requests, don't be shy to put them in my inbox.

[eternalslover]

Incorrect quotes - thunderbolts

Ava: shut the fuck up im trying to sleep

Walker: im not saying anything

Walker: do you hear the dog

Ava: yeah i thought u were barking

Walker: why in the fuck would i be barking dumbass

Ava: idk

[bratty-in-boots]

✁--- yes, john walker likes you and he’s not subtle about trying to grab your attention. yes, he touches your hand when he hands you something. yes, he moves a little closer, nudging you with his shoulder. yes, john walker gently tugs at your sleeve, urging you to pay attention. and when he’s really desperate, he pulls you toward him, seeking that spark only you give him.

[nexxen24]

Every Wish Come True --- John Walker X FEM!Reader

MASTERLIST

Pairing: John Walker X Female Reader

Words: 11,223

Summary: You have worked your butt off at your job for years, trying to make a name for yourself, but your boss, a brooding man named Lenny, has other ideas. When he gives you an assignment for the holiday season to convince the owner of a small town Christmas tree farm in Holly Grove, New York to sell, things get interesting to say the least. Owned by a singular family and now managed by the tall, blonde, flannel wearing youngest son of the last generation. He's unwilling to let someone in after so much heartbreak and you're unwilling to see the true spirit of the season. But maybe your wish can come true, underneath the white blanketed pines of the cutest little Christmas tree farm.

Warnings: None.

Tags: Christmas, Christmas fic, Hallmark, fluff, feel good, Walker is a flannel wearing sweetheart, Lemar appears, single dad Lemar.

AN: This is the first of my two Christmas Fics!!! The next will be posted on either Christmas Day or the day after and will feature all the Thunderbolts, while being a Bucky X Reader and show some Christmas shenanigans. I hope you enjoy and it's been good to get back to Walker, I missed him. Also this one is dedicated to @dearwalker, Tumblr's #1 Walker fan who's been looking for some more whimsy. Dividers by @lunardividers

"Takes me back to that little farm, where every wish comes true."

New York

December 19th

For the past four years you had been busting your butt at your job, trying to prove yourself to your boss and get the promotion you knew that you deserved. But he was reluctant, claiming you still needed time and you’d been shoved to the corner for half the projects that your firm was in charge of. But when he mentioned needing some extra assistance for the biggest one in years, you didn’t expect to get an email summoning you to his office. But you went, nervous to say the least and played with the hem of your sweater as his assistant eyed you from the corner, brown eyes narrowed behind the thick lenses of her glasses as you gulped. 

“Do you know what this is about?” you asked but she stayed quiet and you sighed. “I hope that it’s a promotion, I want to be the head of the project, not just the girl who makes everyone else’s life easier.” You pulled out your phone, ignoring messages from your mother about coming home for the holidays and just scrolled, biding time while your foot tapped a steady rhythm against the floor. “He has to promote me. I’ve been here for years and I have battled for that top spot but he gave it to Jerry…do you remember Jerry?” She still stayed quiet. “God I hated that guy and his smug smile and that cologne he wore that smelled like stupid pine trees, who wants to smell like a pine tree.” 

“He is calling for you.” 

“Oh…” you said and stood since the door had swung open and you missed it. “Thank you.” 

“Whatever,” she muttered and you eyed the woman before brushing off the sweater and moving into the office where your boss, Lenny Havers, sat behind a large wooden desk. 

“Mr. Havers,” you greeted and took a seat as he glanced up, looking you up and down before letting out a huff and staring at his laptop. “Why did you summon me?” 

“I have a new project in the works,” he began and you nodded since he mentioned it in the email. “We have a spot planned but it’s currently occupied.” 

“Where?” 

“A one street light town called Holly Grove that is two hours outside of Albany and all the experts are calling it the next big spot, the next hub so I want to get in there, build a complex and make people come. They don’t want to live in the big cities of the state, so small towns are where it’s at and we need to take advantage of it and act fast.” 

“But you can’t?” you guessed and he nodded. 

“Our prime location is being occupied by a Christmas tree farm,” he deadpanned and you chuckled. 

“You have got to be joking,” you said but he shook his head and pulled out a flyer for a Christmas tree farm whose location was in fact Holly Grove. “Walker Family Farm.” 

“It’s been there since this damn town was just a thought but it occupies a prime location and we’d have to back out if we don’t get it, nowhere else is flat enough.” 

“What’s the problem?” 

“The owner, John Walker. It’s a family business and the guy has declined every other I’ve given him, even the massive ones that frankly only an idiot would deny.” 

“And I’m here because…” 

“Because he’s a man and men like pretty women,” he deadpanned and you wondered if you would still get promoted if you murdered him. 

Probably not.

“I guess you have a point,” you said through gritted teeth and decided to hold back and just deal with it. You could be petty when you got the promotion, if one was on the table. 

“Perfect and if you succeed, I’ll make you the project manager,” he said and your jaw dropped. 

“What?”

“I’ll make you the lead of this whole thing but we need that land.” 

“I will make him sell me that land,” you said and Lenny chuckled. 

“Let’s hope that you can,” he said and turned around his laptop screen. “I have you set up in a hotel in the middle of town called the Holly Grove Inn that’s near this diner that has a lot of good reviews. You’ll be back by Christmas Eve.” 

“You can extend it,” you said and he eyed you. “I don’t have any plans, might as well see what this town offers.” 

“Too much,” he muttered and also handed over a flyer detailing the events taking place in Holly Grove for the month of December. 

It was as if all the most cliched events of the season had vomited on the small town and your brow raised at the amount of cookie swaps going on in the main hall or the double tree lighting, one in case it was too cold. Even an event you had never heard of, something called a “Tree Ceremony” that was being done at the very farm that you were set to for lack of a better word…sabotage. It all sounded like a very small and close knit town and like everyone who lived in the town had been going to the events forever, they made time out of their busy schedules to engage in some Christmas magic or see a tree being lit for whatever reason. You’d never been a fan, never one to partake and assumed that getting close to this John Walker would require some participation. 

“Wow…what do these people do for the other eleven months of the year?” you asked and he chuckled. 

“They act normal,” Lenny shot back and you nodded, knowing he had to be right as you folded the flyer and shoved it in a pocket. “You have until Christmas Eve to convince him and I know that’s only four days after you arrive tomorrow but it should be enough.” 

“You really think so?” 

“Like I said…he’s a man,” he reiterated and you rolled your eyes. “You're checking out on the 26th so if you need another day, take it. But get in his good graces and mention the finances, he’s been struggling for a while. Not many people can support a business that’s only popular for one month of the year.” 

“Do you know what he does normally?” 

“Mechanic,” Lenny said and pulled the screen around to show you his website. “Oh look…he also has a horse, how nice.” 

“Horse riding, tree farming, blond guy from rural New York…what could go wrong?” 

“You’ll find out in about twelve hours,” Lenny said and you nodded, letting out a loud sigh and standing, gathering up the travel documents he printed, tickets and reservation included. 

“Any last piece of advice?”

“Your entire career hinges on this,” he said and you nodded, letting out a loud sigh before heading out and spotting Shirley the assistant still at her desk, eyes still narrowed. 

“It went well,” you said and she just shrugged. 

“Don’t care,” she muttered and you sighed, heading back to your desk with a new sense of determination to make it big, to make your boss happy and to get that promotion. 

But maybe a small Christmas obsessed town with a tall blonde man in flannel would make you feel a bit different when the push comes to shove and things would be a bit unexpected. Maybe the holiday spirit would squirm its way into your heart and melt the ice that had been covering it for as long as you could remember. 

Holly Grove, New York

December 20th

Lenny Havers had always been a bougie man so a rental car was waiting for you outside your apartment that morning despite the fact that you had a car and it was a nice one to say the least, one that not even you could afford on the salary he provided. But you weren’t complaining, this was more of a vacation than a work trip and you were ready to embrace all the perks that came with ruining a small town Christmas tree farm. You tried to ignore that part of the mission and focused on the hour drive to Holly Grove which was nice to say the least and the place definitely gave off the vibe of a small town. The town was still in your state so it was only one when you arrived and the town was decked to the nines for the holiday season from lights to decorations and oozed Christmas around every corner. 

Since it was still New York, the ground was littered with snow and the decorations didn’t let you forget that Christmas was right around the corner and you parked the car in a small lot behind the hotel. It was basically a bed and breakfast built into someone’s home and had a fake Santa sitting on a rocking chair that you raised a brow at. You dipped under a collection of garland draped over the doorway and stepped inside a front room that smelt like cookies and had a small desk sitting near the staircase. The woman at it was all smiles as you piled inside, dragging snow with you and a collection of bags despite only being in town for a few days.

“Hello and welcome to Holly Grove,” she said and you nodded in thanks, walking over and leaning against the desk. “Do you have a reservation?” 

“It’s under the name Havers,” you said and she looked it up on a computer that was likely from 2007 before giving you a nod. 

“You have a stay booked until the 26th and Mr. Havers requested the best room but all of ours are pretty much the same.” 

“They are?” 

“This house has been in town since it was founded and kept in the original condition, there was no need to renovate so we kept it the same, kept the rooms pretty equal.” 

“Oh well I guess that’s fine,” you muttered and tried to hide your disappointment as she produced a key with a velvet ribbon tied around it. 

“We have hot chocolate in the main room, cookies at night and there is a diner down the road called Maria’s that comes highly recommended.” 

“I’m actually here because of a Christmas tree farm,” you said and her eyes widened. 

“Oh! The Walker Tree Farm, god that place is a staple in Holly Grove. The Walker’s have owned it since this place was started.” 

“Do you know the owner?” 

“John Walker, he’s a town legend and has been since he was a kid.”

“Where is it?” 

“Just head out of town towards the south and you can’t miss it, the property is massive,” she said and you nodded, grabbing the fancy key and giving her a smile before dragging your bags upstairs. 

The room was at the end of the hall and was small to say the least with just a queen sized bed and a dresser and some scattered decorations to keep the Christmas vibes strong even in your own space. You glared at a wreath sitting on top of the dresser and moved it before grabbing a warmer coat out of a bag and a pair of boots that didn’t really work in snow but made your feet look good. Lenny picked you because you’re a woman, you have the vibes that he figured John would enjoy and you wanted to embrace that. It meant looking the part and while the fluffy scarf and hat were a pair of fashion items and not winter apparel, it helped to keep up appearances even though you shivered getting out of the car. 

The directions the hotel gave you were pretty accurate and a large sign was welcoming you to the Walker Family Farm located right outside town and to the south. It was big to say the least and heavily populated by locals who all looked to be enjoying themselves and wandering around with mugs of steaming hot chocolate. You ignored the pull of a warm drink and focused on Walker, wanting to find him before you froze and setting off on your quest. 

The farm was bigger than you expected, nearly an acre of land and you could tell why Lenny was so intrigued since it was in the perfect spot for a new development. Not far from town and right next to a main road with more than enough space for rows and rows of fancy homes that would take over from the large evergreen trees taking over the space. Someone offered a tour on the back of a cart pulling hay but you denied it, wanting to walk and see it for yourself which quickly turned into a mistake. The place was so big that you had gotten lost and were sandwiched between two groves of trees with no real landmarks in sight and also no cell service. 

“Good job me,” you muttered and trudged through snow that had only gotten deeper. “Come all the way to Holly Grove and die in the woods on the first day.” 

You pulled out your phone and sighed when it still claimed it had no service and stepped to the right when you meant to go left. There was a large root in the way and to no one’s surprise you slipped and ended up on your ass, in the snow with a loud groan since smacking your back on the ground hurt…go figure. You were ready to just sit there and give up, call yourself and forget about the promotion when someone started laughing and you tilted your head to find a horse standing a foot away from you. There was a man on its back and much to your annoyance he matched the tall, blond and flannel wearing description Lenny gave you and looked very pleased to find you on the ground. 

“Ha ha ha, very funny,” you shot back and sat up, grabbing your snow covered phone as he hopped off the very large and very dark brown horse. 

“Sorry,” he said and held out a hand that you took, ignoring how warm it was as you pulled back and began to brush snow off your wool coat. “Did you get lost?”

“I went for a walk,” you admitted and he chuckled. 

“Long ass walk, the main building is like an acre to the North.” 

“I lost track of time and direction,” you admitted and he chuckled. “All these trees look the same.” 

“They do yes, sorry about that,” he said and you shook your head. 

“Not your fault.” 

“But it is,” he admitted and you eyed him. “I own the place.”

“John Walker,” you stated and he nodded. 

“Guilty,” he said and held out a hand that you shook, still mesmerised by the warmth of it. “Are you new in town?” 

“Just here for the holidays,” you admitted and he nodded. 

“Tourist. Makes more sense why you got lost.”

“I have a good sense of direction when the directions don’t all look the same,” you said and he chuckled again, the sound as warm as his hands. 

“That is fair, I grew up among these trees so I know them quite well. My best friend has been bugging me to make some trail markers for the newbies, maybe I should.” 

“You're the town hero after all, people love to talk about you.”

“All nice things?” he asked and you shrugged. 

“Mainly tall, blonde and flannel wearing,” you admitted and he glanced at his lined flannel coat draped over a pair of dirty blue jeans. 

“Guilty as charged,” he said and smiled, blue eyes bright as you fully took him in.

John Walker looked to be in his early thirties and smiled like the world was always going to do it back, his light blue eyes bright and welcoming and that hair really was very blond. It was also fluffed up in all the right spots and dotted with shiny flakes of fresh snow since it had started since you had been talking. You were also not afraid to admit the flannel worked for him and the red and black coat was draped over a black sweater and those dirty blue jeans, not to mention the boots poking out from under the cuffs. He looked like he belonged in a town that sold too many peach pies and not some small one in rural New York that had an unhealthy obsession with Christmas. But he also fit the part to say the least and was patting the horse that you had been eyeing since he stopped and yanked your hand back as it got closer and tried to sniff it.

“Don’t worry, Green is a sweetheart.”

“Green?” 

“His sister is named Ever,” he admitted and you glanced at the trees lining the small clearing as John nodded. “Yeah, I thought that I was being clever.”

“I like it,” you admitted and he smiled. 

“Well, I can give you a ride on his back if you want.” 

“On the horse?” you asked and John shrugged. 

“It’s a long walk,” he admitted and you eyed him, not liking the idea but knew he was right and your feet were starting to freeze. 

“Alright,” you said and John smiled as you wandered over to the horse and put a foot in the stirrup before pulling yourself and ignoring the fact that he helped. 

John didn’t need much help and settled in front of you, grabbing the reins as you leaned a bit closer and held on when he mentioned the right might get a bit bumpy. His back was muscled and warm thanks to the coat and the ride was less of a thrill and more of a stroll through snow covered pines. You ended up where tall the people were, by the actual lot and hopped off when he did, stumbling a bit but he was right there to catch you, the smile still wide and on his face where it hadn’t left. 

“Thank you.” 

“Tomorrow there will be a toy drive in the parking lot and some food trucks, if you want.” 

“I’ll come by,” you said and he smiled with a nod as you held out your hand and shook his one last time. “Thank you.” 

“Anytime,” he assured and led Green back towards the lot as he got stopped by every local who could and said hello to all of them. 

First impressions were good to say the least and you sat in your car with a loud sigh, unable to get his smile out of your mind or the way that he smelled. It was a mix of coffee and the unmistakable scent of fresh pine trees that engulfed him as if he was smoking the stuff and for the first time in a while…you found yourself enjoying it. 

December 21st

It snowed during the night so the entire town was covered in a fresh layer of white powder, the flakes sparkling and catching the light in a way that made the place light up as if it was a dream. It looks pretty to say the least and you weren’t mad about spending the day outside at a tree farm and even filled up the back of your car with enough toys to make the drive worth it, smiling a bit too wide. Sure you were there to see if John would be willing to sell but the thought was in the back of your mind when you pulled up and spotted a collection of people waiting in line for Santa photos or munching on cookies and sipping hot cocoa. It oozed the spirit of the season and brought a smile to your face when you grabbed the very large bag in the trunk, nearly dumping it but your very own knight in shining armour was there to catch it. 

“Don’t want to fall again,” he said and you chuckled, gathering up your stuff again and making sure the bag was tied tight as he grabbed it. “Is this all for the drive?” 

“Did I go a bit too far?” you asked and he shook his head, a splattering of a red blush on his cheeks and neck. 

“No…it’s perfect,” John said and you smiled, moving to dump the bag in a large bin that looked a lot more full thanks to your donation. “You really didn’t have to.” 

“I’m only here for a few days, might as well make the most of it,” you shot back as he grinned, going to add something when he got hugged from behind by a very happy looking man. 

“Dude, don’t let this asshole deter you, it’s a perfectly acceptable donation,” he shot back and John glared, shoving him off as you smiled. “Lemar.” 

“Hello,” you greeted and told him your name, shaking his head as he smiled. “Are you the guy that’s been bugging John to add trail markers?” 

“Did he already mention that?” 

“He mentioned a best friend had the idea.”

“Well then yes, I am.”

“Make him do it,” you said and Lemar raised a brow as his face slowly morphed into one of recognition. 

“Oh…you’re the woman who got lost,” he deadpanned and you glared at him. “He told me all about that.” 

“Of course he did,” you muttered and glanced at John who had flushed a shade deeper, rubbing his neck in what almost looked like embarrassment. 

“Hey Lemar, where’s Maddie?” he asked and attempted to change the subject as his best friend rolled his eyes and pointed at a young girl a few feet behind you. 

“Waiting for Santa of course,” he said and John nodded, starting to head that way. 

“Well then, let’s join her and grab some hot cocoa,” he said and left the conversation as you rolled your eyes, turning to Lemar who looked amused to say the least. 

“Any dirt you have on John?” 

“He’s a terrible cook,” he said and you chuckled as the two of you wandered over to where he was kneeling next to the young girl. “He also is great with kids, Maddie is my daughter and her mom died a few years ago and he was a huge help, never making her feel like she was missing something.” 

You smiled and watched as John produced a small paper craft of what looked like a reindeer from his pocket and handed it to Maddie who couldn’t have been more than seven and looked absolutely enamoured with him. She grabbed it and smiled, wrapping him in a tight hug and you looked away, heart aching from what was still on your mind, the whole reason you were even there to witness that. You hadn’t mentioned selling, or brought up his dwindling finances and there was a part of you that was starting to regret agreeing to the job. Your degree was in urban planning and you had wanted to create outdoor spaces to brighten small towns and big cities, not destroy a livelihood like Lenny sent you all the way out there to do. You were half debating sending him an email and cancelling your plans when Maddie finally noticed someone new was with her dad and wandered over, brown eyes wide and hair pulled back in small little pigtails that you were impressed Lemar had managed to pull off.

“You’re new,” she declared and you nodded, leaning down a bit as she eyed you. 

“I am,” you said and she looked back at John and Lemar. 

“Why are you here?” 

“I’m on vacation,” you said and she nodded, looking down at the small reindeer. 

“Are you also here to get to know Uncle John?” she asked and you wondered how she caught that there was something brewing when you glanced at John and caught the look on his face before he could turn. 

He was staring and you had to assume he had been for a while, the pink cheeks an indication that the child caught him doing something he wanted to keep secret and you smiled as he did the same. You were there to make him notice, to get into his little life and root yourself in it before upending his lifestyle and for the most part it seemed to be working. You just weren’t sure if you wanted to build a budding relationship with the threat of your task looming over every interaction, it almost felt like cheating. 

“We only just met,” you said and John nodded in agreement as Maddie moved back to her dad and curled up against his side. 

“What’s your consensus?” Lemar asked and you glared at him. 

“She’s nice,” Maddie said and your eyes widened. “I like her hair.” 

“Thank you,” you said and caught John nodding in agreement. 

“Well,” he began and directed your attention back to him. “Would you like some hot chocolate?” 

“I’d love some,” you said and followed the guy over to the stand as he grabbed two steaming mugs of what he was calling the best peppermint hot cocoa in the state. “You really believe this is the best in the state.”

“Try it,” he challenged and you did, eyes widening. 

“Look at that.” 

“Wow…you might be right.” 

“Might?”

“Hey, the town already loves you and we’d hate to make that ego even bigger.” 

“It’s not that big,” he muttered and you rolled your eyes, taking a sip and trying to hide how much it really did make the chill a whole lot better. 

“I heard that your whole family owned this place.” 

“They did at one point.” 

“And now…” 

“It’s only me,” he said and got a bit quiet, leaning against a wooden fence and looking out at the crowd. “I’m grateful for the town, they make it better.” 

“Family,” you said and he nodded. 

“The biggest in the world,” he added and you chuckled. 

“I get that, I’m not close with mine,” you said and thought of your mother and her new husband and all those step kids, ones that replaced you ages ago. “I was with my dad but he died a while ago.” 

“Yeah I feel that, my dad was my hero,” John said and sighed. “He died about seven years ago when I took over the business. It was supposed to go to my brother but we lost them both about three months apart.” 

“God, I’m so sorry.” 

“No, it helped, I was supposed to leave town and be a lawyer but he prevented that.” 

“You have a law degree?” 

“A masters,” he said and your eyes widened. “I was all set with this corporate job in New York City but I got the call that Mike died and dad wasn’t doing well so I quit and sold my new apartment. I came back and ran the place and have been ever since.” 

“You were going to leave this place, go and see the world, or at least the state of New York and make a name for yourself but you threw it away to…run a farm.” 

“Yeah but that wasn’t my dream, I just thought I could make a bunch of money.” 

“Isn’t that the point?” you asked and he eyed you. “We work so hard for so long so we can retire one day and live a nice couple of final years with some people we care about.” 

“I like to think there’s a bit more than that,” he said and you looked at Lemar and Maddie who were throwing snowballs at each other, flakes and bits catching in the light and sparkling. 

“Maybe there is,” you muttered and finished off the hot chocolate. “But still…you’ve been here all your life.” 

“Sometimes small town dreams are all you really get and that’s okay,” he admitted and smiled wide, blue eyes bright despite it all and you smiled back, content to say the least. 

“Speaking of small towns. What the heck is a tree ceremony?” 

“Oh that,” he said and chuckled. “I started that a couple months after my dad died. There are a bunch of small businesses and families that basically adopt one of the unsold trees and they come by and decorate it. We encourage people to wrap some gifts for those that need it and even donate. All the money goes to the brain cancer foundation in New York, it’s what he died from.” 

“How much have you raised?” 

“In seven years?” he asked and you nodded. “About three and a half million.” 

“Wow…that’s amazing.” 

“I wish profits were the same,” he muttered and there was that in you had been in charge of finding the proof that he was struggling with finances. 

“Trouble?” 

“You can only sell trees for a few months of the year.” 

“What do you do all those other months?” 

“Odd jobs,” he admitted and sipped the rest of his hot cocoa. “What I can do basically and luckily the Christmas season has forever been good to me. It helps that the town loves my family, they make it worth it.”

“Family sticks out for each other,” you said and handed over the empty when he offered to take it. 

“So…I have to ask you something,” he said and you nodded, intrigued. “The Tree Ceremony is on the 23rd but tomorrow we have this big tree lightning that happens right in the middle of town and I was wondering if you’d want to join me.” 

“I have never seen a small town tree lightning.” 

“Well you have to, it’s almost like a rite of passage.” 

“Then I’ll be there,” you said and he smiled, handing over a small slip of paper. 

“My number is on there if you need it,” he said and you nodded, taking it just as Maddie ran over with a grin on her face. 

“Uncle John!” 

“Madelyn!” he exclaimed and grabbed her when she jumped at him. “What can I do for you?” 

“Where’s Ever?” 

“Oh you want to see the horse,” he said and she nodded. “I guess that can be arranged.” He began to walk off but stopped and turned with a smile on his face. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“I’ll count the hours,” you said and he chuckled, carrying Maddie off to the barn as you let out a sigh and knew things just got a lot more complicated. 

God, I’m so screwed. 

December 22nd

You had never understood the definition of a small town Christmas until you stepped out of the front door of the bed and breakfast and saw Holly Grove the night of the tree lightning. It was a nice change from staring at your laptop for hours, trying to compose an email to Lenny and tell him why you had second thoughts about his big development plan. You knew he wouldn’t be a fan and would claim that you had gone soft but you weren’t afraid to admit that he was right and maybe you had. Maybe the small town charm was starting to grow on you and the soft wool scarf you bought at a family run store in town was probably your new favourite clothing item. Or the biggest one, that the man waiting under a streetlight as flakes fell and made his blond hair shine like it was covered in glitter was starting to break your old ideals. 

You wondered how long he had been waiting as you walked down the steps and over to John who was watching Lemar and Maddie wander through the stalls of a Christmas market that had taken the main street. The entire place was closed off to cars and reserved for the market that ended about where a large plaza began with a very large dark and right now dark tree sitting in the middle of it. You had been watching them set it up the entire morning and marveled at how the town came together, how everyone pitched in and brought some goods to sell or food to share. Winter in New York City felt suffocating compared to this place and its bright lights and friendly smiles that followed you wherever you went and you hated to admit that you could get used to it. The city was also looking for an urban planner and you had glanced at some classified ads when the email to Lenny got too hard to write. It was tempting to say the least, much like the man who had finally noticed your arrival. 

His face lit up in a grin and you felt a blush on the back of your neck as you looked down, not meeting his gaze and tried to ignore how he looked. It had gotten colder so he added a Carhart jacket over a classic flannel but the dark grey complimented the red and you resisted the urge to brush a hand through his hair to get the flakes out of the blond strands. John looked like a stereotype to say the least and even grinned wide, adding that country bumpkin attitude to a guy who grew up not two hours from the big city. It was a nice change, like the rest of it, a welcome difference to all the other people you knew and his smiles came easy and the conversations flowed, what’s not to love. 

“Hi,” he said and you smiled. 

“Hello.” 

“We really go all out for Christmas, don’t we?” 

“It’s mildly overwhelming,” you muttered and glanced at the decorations which were bright to say the least and many. 

“We like the spirit of the season more than the decorations. This town has forever been about giving back to people and making the holiday season better for those that need it more.” 

“Hence the Tree Ceremony,” you said and he nodded. 

“Yeah…I made that a tradition and suddenly the whole town followed suit.” 

“But it must be hard,” you began and hated to bring it up, hated to even mention the finances. “Having your busiest season be one month of the year.” 

“It got dicey last year,” he admitted and you followed him along the main road, meandering through stalls of homemade goods and treats. “I had to borrow some cash from Lemar but it was okay when work picked up and some money started coming in and by the time the season rolled around again I was okay.” 

“But that’s a lot to worry about, money and making it every year.” 

“Small town problems,” he said and paid for two sugar cookies shaped like snowmen before handing one over to you. “I assume as someone from the city you have big town problems.” 

“Big town problems?” 

“Yeah like subways being late and too many tourists,” he said and you bit into the cookie with a chuckle, hating the fact that it was so damn good. 

“Oh those kinds of problems,” you said and sighed. “Those are always issues but I have my own Christmas problems. My mom remarried right after my dad died and now she has this new family in Jersey and always wants me to come by but I can’t, I can’t sit there and be with a whole new group of supposed family members. I just miss the old days, you know, when life was simpler.” 

“You haven’t been back?” 

“Not in years,” you admitted and sighed, spotting a group of people a few feet away, laughing and sharing a collection of sweets. “This place feels like life used to.” 

“Simple?” John guessed and you shook your head. 

“No…peaceful,” you muttered and sighed, returning the favour of the cookie by buying him a hot cocoa. “This place is like a breath of fresh air and sure the city has all their activities and whatnot but nothing like this. Nothing that really brings people together.”

“A cookie?”

You both turned to find an older woman with a wide smile on her face and holding a small bag. You eyed the label on the front that said cookie and turned to John who looked amused. He obviously knew what was going on and refused to share what this whole shenanigan was about. 

“In a bag?”

“You pick a cookie and it decides your future,” she said and you chuckled, shoving a ten dollar bill in her donation bin and digging a hand in. “Make sure to take your time, this cookie will not only decide the Christmas season but also the new year to come.”

“All this from a cookie?” You asked and John shrugged. 

“When I was getting ready to leave this town in the new year I got a tree,” he said and you smiled. “I guess even Lucy and her cookie bag knew that I was supposed to stay here.”

“I guess,” you said and finally got a cookie in hand, pulling it out and marveling at what ended up being a small sugar cookie heart.

“Oh the best of the bunch,” she said and you nodded. “A heart for love.”

“Yeah, love,” you muttered and she smiled, wandering off to try and get some more donations. “People really fall for the magic cookie bag.”

“They fall more for Lucy,” John said and you nodded, wandering off and shoving the cookie in your pocket. “She's a legend in this little town, people claim she's magic.”

“Magic cookies.”

“Maybe yours will come true and love will find you in the new year,” he suggested and you chuckled. 

“Maybe it will,” you said and looked towards Lemar and Maddie who were standing by the unlit tree. “He told me that you were there for him when his wife died. That you made them feel like they weren't alone.”

“Yeah it hit them quite hard and we were all childhood friends so it hit me just as hard as the rest of them. I missed her just as much and knew that they needed some help since he was there for me when I lost my dad.” 

“How did she die?”

“She had a heart defect and died of a heart attack a few days after she turned 30, it was a lot all at once and Maddie had just turned four. They both thought they had their entire lives with her and then…nothing.”

“I couldn't imagine losing someone like that, so sudden,” you said and didn't notice how tense John had gotten, the way he clenched his hand a bit tighter around his paper cup. 

“Mike was pretty quick as well.”

“Really?”

“He died in a helicopter crash in the army,” he said and your eyes widened as you moved closer to him, reaching down and grabbing the hand sittingly idly at his side. “We got the call and then…that was it. I got a flag handed to me with an I’m sorry note attached to it and a lump sum of money.” 

“Have you ever decorated a tree for him?” 

“No…I’ve never bothered, normally I don’t have time or I decorate one for dad, donate all my money to the cancer fund.” 

“You should debate making one for Mike this year.” 

“Maybe I will,” he said and you smiled, about to add something when you hit the plaza and caught that Lemar and Maddie had made it as well. 

“Uncle John!” Maddie called and ran over, hugging his leg as he chuckled. “You have a kissing plant above you!” 

“A what?” you asked and Maddie stepped back, pointing up and your eyes widened. 

“Oh…mistletoe,” John said and looked at you since a sprig of it was hanging from the entrance to a sort of Santa’s village that had been set up around the tree. 

“Oh people don’t always kiss under this,” you said and Maddie eyed you, not really believing that point. 

“My dad and mom used to always kiss under it,” she declared and you glanced at Lemar who wouldn’t meet your eyes and turned away before he could really get glared at. “So…I don’t know…it feels almost needed, like you have to do it, if you find yourself under it. Unless it means that it doesn’t exist…” 

There was a part of you that mildly hated children, not in a way that would translate to never having one but you hated the way they seemed to always have people eating out of their hands. A child could simply glance and half a town would be on their side and eager to do as they pleased, sing their praises and for the most part, Maddie’s sad little face was starting to work on you. You didn’t want to sour her perception of mistletoe and could tell that John felt the same when you looked at him and he wasn’t meeting your gaze, cheeks dusted in a light pink blush. The choice between making Maddie upset and making yourself horribly uncomfortable was a no brainer and you sighed before reaching over and kissing John on the cheek. 

“Happy?” you asked and looked at Maddie who grinned, suddenly a lot less upset than she was before. 

“Very,” she said and grabbed her dads hand before dragging him closer to the tree as you glared. “She knows the effect she has on people.” 

“That she does, you didn’t have to.” 

“No, it’s good to add a little whimsy into the everyday,” he said and you nodded in agreement, following him deeper into the small space around the tree, staring up at the still unlit piece of art. “This was from my farm.” 

“Really?” 

“Yep, we grow them for all the town events.” 

“It’s very well grown,” you said and he chuckled, cheeks still read as a man stepped up on a podium, welcomed the town to the square and had a small band play the opening of Silent Night before he pressed a button. 

All at once the square was lit up in bright colours and your eyes widened as it got brighter, showing off the intricately woven lights and ornaments hung with the utmost of care like someone spent years of their life perfecting the craft. You never understood the appeal of tree lighting, why it was so well known in small towns like Holly Grove but maybe there was something to love about a bright light in a sea of darkened streets. The tree was transformed into a hearth in a sense and became the heart of the town, its life force and the centre of its hope and prayers for the new year. 

“God…that was worth it,” you admitted and looked to John who nodded in agreement. 

“I agree.” 

“It’s also the best looking tree I’ve ever seen,” you admitted and he chuckled, running a hand through his snow soaked blonde hair. 

“Truly beautiful,” he added and you felt his hand curl around yours. 

A part of you was fully aware that he didn’t just mean the tree and you wished that you kissed him on the lips under that mistletoe and attempted to guarantee your fate according to that cookie. Lenny sent you here to get him to sell, to make John give up the place that meant the most to him and in doing so, you’ve found a place that was slowly starting to mean the world to you. 

December 23rd

For the life of you, you couldn't stop thinking about the look on John's face when he caught your eye at the tree lighting. It was like nothing you had ever seen before and wanted to exist in that moment for as long as you could, staring at his eyes reflecting the lights like a frozen pond. The blue was bright enough to be slightly reflective and it took until that moment to catch how pretty it looked, how they shone and you loved it. You loved it so much that you woke up early the day of the tree ceremony and spent the entire morning in Albany, picking out gifts for him, Lemar and Maddie. As much as you came to Holly Grove to get him to sell, you wanted to stay to see him live, to be a part of a town that changed you. You were all smiles after wrapping the gifts and sitting at the desk in your small, cozy room and typing a long email to Lenny about how you were grateful but had to say goodbye. 

You didn't know what the future held but the town hall had gotten your application for their new urban planner and you were pleased that rent in town wasn't half bad. Maybe this place could be your future and all it took was a chance, a small shift in perspective for the entire world to be a whole lot brighter. You hoped that John would like his gift and gathered up all your gifts before shoving them in the back of the rented SUV and driving it over to the farm. The event was already in full swing with people walking around with bundles of decorations and a few trees near the front were already ready. You had a plan, one that involved Lemar and were grateful when you spotted him with Maddie and no John in sight. He smiled when he saw you and his eyes widened when you handed over a gift and knelt down to give Maddie a pink bag with puppies all over it. 

“For me?”

“Yep and if your dad is nice, you can open it now,” you said and glanced at Lemar who chuckled and gave his daughter a nod. 

She tore into the bag and pulled off the pink tissue paper, digging a hand in and grabbing a pretty sizable plush horse. You tried to get one that looked like Ever, her favorite of John’s two horses and thought you did pretty good and the plush was damn soft. Maddie looked thrilled and gave it a big hug, claiming it was perfect and declaring that she was never in a million billion years ever going to let it go. You chuckled and agreed that sounded like a good idea before handing an envelope over to Lemar who looked surprised. 

“For me?”

“I had to,” you said and he chuckled before pulling it open, eyes widening to find two Rangers tickets sitting inside. 

“Wow…this is crazy.”

“You can take John if you want, make a whole day of it and don't worry about Maddie, we can hang.”

“Wait…”

“There's a hotel room as well if you're curious.”

“So…Maddie in New York with you?”

“No, I'll be here,” you said and he smiled. “I put in an application for an urban planner since I have all the experience and will be looking for a place in the new year.”

“John will be thrilled.”

“Perfect because I need your help,” you said and Lemar raised a brow. “I have a plan, a gift to give him and I want it to be a surprise so you need to distract John later so I can. I'll text you, send you a message when I need it.”

“Of course but you better tell him that you’re gonna move here.” 

“I will,” you assured and Lemar smiled, wrapping you in a tight hug as the man himself walked over with Green in tow, once again dressed in flannel and worn jeans with a bright smile on his face. 

“You made it,” he said and you nodded. 

“I wouldn’t miss it.” 

“Perfect because I have a horse and a question for you.” 

“Are they related?” 

“They are.” 

“Alright John, what’s your question.” 

“Will you join me on the far end of the farm?” 

“I’d love to,” you said and spotted a bag of stuff attached to Green and wondered what he had planned. 

John smiled wide and held out a hand that you took and let him help you onto the back of the horse as you settled behind him when he climbed up, feeling a bit calmer than the first time. You liked to be that close to John, close enough to press a cheek against the flannel of his jacket and drink in his scent that was a brilliant mix of a deep oak and what you had to assume was his deodorant and drank it in, hoping he wouldn’t notice how obsessed you seemed to be. But as you predicted, it wasn’t that hard, he was an easy man to find yourself falling for and you took it literally when you nearly dropped off the horse but he caught you. 

“Careful,” John said and you nodded, brushing some snow off your pants as he placed a wool blanket over the snow and smiled at a small tree not far that was already decorated. 

“Who’s tree is that?” 

“Mine,” he said and you walked over, spotting the ornaments that seemed to reference him in various ways from a scrap of flannel fabric to a few horses. “I always make one and shove it far out so I can relax and watch it without any distractions since this day is not the best.” 

“What happened?” 

“I told you Mike died but I never told you how.” 

“He died in a crash,” you said and sat on the blanket as John pulled a thermos from his bag and filled a small cup with hot chocolate. 

“I lied,” he admitted and your eyes widened. “He was military but he didn’t die in a crash, his best friend did. Mike was sick that day and assumed that taking the day off would mean nothing but it meant the world and he never got to say goodbye. It broke him and I found out when my dad died that he had been keeping a very big secret…his actual death record and the fact that he died 4 days after the crash on December 23rd.” 

“That’s why you do the Tree Ceremony today,” you said and he nodded. “But you’ve never made a tree for him.” 

“There’s a part of me that hates him and I know that sounds crazy and like I’m angry for nothing but Mike was always there for me, he was the big strong older brother and now…”

“He gave up when he told you that you never should,” you said and John nodded. 

“Bingo.” 

“I get it,” you admitted and John smiled, sitting a bit closer, shuffling and causing his legs to knock against yours. “I got mad at my dad and he died from cancer, it wasn’t fair to him but I didn’t know how else to feel, I needed to direct all that grief towards something and he felt like an easy target.” 

“Wow…you put it into words,” he said and you chuckled, glad that you could make him believe he wasn't that alone. 

“People have been saying it for years…Grief is simply love escaping with nowhere to go.”

“Ha, I might have to use that one,” he said and you raised a brow when John’s voice changed and glanced at him to discover his eyes were watery. “Sorry.”

“Why?”

“I didn't mean to get so emotional,” he said and looked over at the tree and the little photo of his family about halfway up. 

“Your love found a place to go,” you said and John nodded with a chuckle, clearing his throat and wiping his eyes on his sleeve as you moved to grab your gift from Green. 

The main part would be done when he brought you back and got pulled aside by Lemar who was waiting for your signal so the item in the bag was a bit of a throwaway but you hoped that he’d still like it. If anything he’d probably find it funny and John raised a brow when you dropped a small plaid coloured bag on his lap with a tuft of tissue paper hanging out the top. 

“You didn’t have to,” he said and you shrugged as he pulled off the paper and in turn pulled out a blue and red plaid jacket and a bag of coffee. “Wow…you know me.” 

“I had to fit the brand,” you said and he admired the coffee that clearly displayed a collection of trees on the front of the bag. 

“Thank you,” he said and you noticed the tears had returned and John shoved the items back in the bag before wrapping you in a very tight hug. 

“Anytime,” you said and pulled back as he stared at you, eyes wide and you thought for a second that he was going to close the gap but he stopped just before you. 

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” you said and his eyes widened as you moved to put a hand on his neck. “Close that gap if you want.” 

“Really?” 

“I’m not scared,” you said and John nodded, chuckling. 

“I am,” he admitted and you laughed, moving to hold his cheeks. 

“Don’t be,” you said and he nodded, going for it and moving so he could kiss you, lips rough and soft all at the same time. 

You were enveloped by the feel of John Walker from his lips on yours to his hands on your hips and the scent of him taking over every last bit that wasn’t being consumed. It was a privilege to be like that with a man that was slowly taking over your life and you hoped that moving to the small town would allow for even more. You could’ve spent hours wrapped up in him and wanted to but was interrupted when John’s phone rang and he sighed, pulling back and leaving you flushed. 

“Sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay, we have time,” you assured and fully planned on telling him about your idea to move as he answered the phone. 

“Hello?” he said and sighed. “Lemar…slow down…I was in the middle of something. Yes…that something and yes, you told me so.” John sent you a grin and you rolled your eyes. “Wait…repeat that? Shit. We’ll be right there.” 

“What happened?” you asked as John stood and began to pack everything up, rolling up the blanket after you got off it. 

“Someone is harassing my customers and he’s been asking for me,” he said and you nodded, making sure you grabbed the gift and jumping on the back of Green. 

You gave his tree one last longing glance, knowing you’d never forget it and hoped that this mystery annoying customer wasn’t too much of a hassle and you’d have time to complete his actual gift. But something was telling you that you knew exactly who this annoying man was and he wasn’t a fan of the email you sent him earlier that morning. 

You felt your heart drop when John pulled Green into the main part of the farm and you caught sight of your now old boss, Lenny Havers standing in the snow and screaming at Lemar. He looked out of place in his fancy suit and custom leather shoes and you sighed as you jumped off the horse, grateful for John’s hand so you didn’t almost fall. Lenny saw you as soon as you hopped down, eyes narrowing and he stomped over, pointing his bony finger at you. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“What am I doing here?” he asked and you nodded, eyes narrowed. “What are you doing? I sent you here on a job and you emailed this morning and QUIT!” 

“I did,” you said and caught John staring, eyes narrowed. 

“You can’t quit when you work for me, I own you,” he said and you scoffed. 

“I don’t anymore and you can’t own an employee.” 

“I can blacklist you from every agency in the city, you’ll never get a minute of work again.” 

“I don’t need to work in New York anymore, I’m moving here,” you said and John’s eyes widened. “I applied to be their new urban planner, got a few more days at that hotel and I’m gonna look for an apartment in the new year. I don’t need you anymore, you’re even dead to me and I have a whole town to enjoy.” 

“You do?” Lenny asked and moved to look at John who was glaring at him, eyes narrowed and he moved back a bit when he got pretty close. “Have you told him why you came here?” 

“No,” you admitted and John’s eyes widened. 

“He doesn’t know that you came to make him sell?” Lenny asked and you looked down, not meeting his eyes as his gaze hardened. “That you asked about money troubles and got to know this little town all because we wanted him to sell and turn this wretched tree farm into a glorious gated community. My new pride and joy.” 

“Is that true?” Lemar asked and you nodded as John scoffed, running a hand through his hair and looking distraught. 

“It is but it didn’t stay that way,” you said but they didn’t look that convinced. “John, please, I changed my mind the second you saved me. I saw this place and what it means to you and the town, your family and I couldn’t ruin it.”

“You still lied,” he said and you nodded. 

“Well…I think I’ve done my part. You might have quit but you’re also fired!” Lenny declared and stomped off to his fancy SUV, nearly slipping on a patch of ice as he went. 

“John…please…I never wanted to hurt you or Lemar or Maddie. I never expected this.” 

“So if you hated me and this town you’d still make us leave?” he asked and you went quiet. “I should’ve known you weren’t a tourist, you asked too many questions.” 

“I was getting to know you,” you said but he looked unconvinced. 

“No…it was all just a profile,” he shot back and your heart dropped as John sighed and walked off, looking uninterested to say the least and you couldn’t blame him. 

“John!” you called and ran after him but Lemar stopped you, putting a hand on your shoulder as you glared at him. 

“Let him go.” 

“But I want him to know I’m sorry,” you said and Lemar sighed. 

“I don’t think he cares,” he admitted and you nodded, feeling the tears prickle. “Just go back to the hotel, maybe he’ll calm down by tomorrow.”

“I have a gift to set up. Maybe he’ll be willing to see it tomorrow.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked but you were already walking back towards your car. 

“I said I’d get him one and I keep promises to myself,” you said and he nodded. “Convince John to see it tomorrow.” 

“I don’t…” 

“Please…if he still hates me I’ll leave right after.” 

“I’ll try,” he said and you nodded in thanks, hoping that it would be enough. 

You’d take back the application if he was still just as mad because you couldn’t live in a town where John hated you, it would be too much and knew that this gift was a make it or break it. It’d either make this Christmas the best there ever was or break your heart into a million little pieces. 

December 24th

John Walker spent most of the morning trying not to think about you as he went out of his way to make Christmas Eve memorable for the people at the farm. The Tree Ceremony the day before was a success like it always was, money was made and people were happy but the incident with Lenny Havers was the only thing on his mind. He hated it, hated to think that you came all that way just to make him sell and was trying desperately to ignore that kiss you shared the night before. But it was rightfully the only thing on his mind and he found it drifting as he stood by Ever and Green who both had antlers on and were pretending to be reindeer. He had roped Lemar into being Santa and was smiling as he sat with kids and adults alike, taking pictures and assuring them they’d get all they wanted and more for Christmas. He was also babysitting Maddie and she was standing next to Ever and petting her with a pensive look on her face and John wondered what was weighing on the young girl's mind until she spoke up. 

“I miss her,” she said and John was about to ask who when she said your name. “I liked her a lot and she gave me Ever 2.” 

“I know,” he said and caught the stuffed horse in her hand. “But she’s likely gone.” 

“She has a gift for you,” Maddie said and he glanced at the red and blue flannel, half wondering why he bothered to wear it. 

“I know, I have it on,” he said but she shook her head. 

“No, she has another, she worked on it last night.” 

“Really?” 

“Dad waited for her for a while, I was so tired.” 

“What is it?” 

“I don’t know, ask him,” she said and John sighed. 

“Maddie…she wasn’t here as a tourist, she wanted to take the farm.” 

“But she didn’t,” she declared and his jaw dropped since that one sentence put everything into perspective. 

She was right, you didn’t take the farm and had changed your mind, your entire worldview and was willing to risk a whole new life in a new town just for him. He glanced at his phone where a message you sent was sitting unread by him and knew that he needed to see the gift, needed to apologise for how he acted and hope you still wanted to move. John could admit he wasn’t that mad and liked you more than he’d ever let himself believe. 

You had been sitting in the forest for longer than you’d like to admit and hoping that John would see your message and come and find you, see the surprise you finished last night and give you a chance. But it was starting to get cold and your hopes were dwindling so you were about ready to leave, call it quits and return to the city when a horse stopped at the edge of the clearing with John atop it. It was Green, it always was and he walked right over and nuzzled your hand as John got off and stared at the small tree behind you, eyes a bit wide.

“You came.” 

“Maddie convinced me.” 

“What did she say?” 

“That you had the chance to take the farm, to convince me,” he said and you sighed. “But she also said that you didn’t.” 

“I didn’t,” you agreed and John sighed. 

“I’m sorry for being an ass last night but it was a lot all at once and my mind was still hung up on that kiss.”

“It was pretty good,” you said and he chuckled. 

“It was amazing,” he said and you smiled, wide as he placed a hand on your shoulder. “You’re amazing and you changed your mind and didn’t sell me out or choose to finish that job of yours. I should’ve seen that last night, saw the way you stood up to Lenny and been grateful, not angry.”

“I also lied.” 

“So what, you’re not right now,” he guessed and you nodded. 

“Never again.” 

“I’d love for you to stay and make this town a home and see where this can go.” 

“We’re something?”

“If you want,” he said and you grinned, giving him a very tight hug. 

“I want,” you said and stepped back only to be pulled into a kiss that could’ve lasted forever but you wanted John to see his gift and pulled back, smiling at his protests. “I want you to see the gift.” 

“Can I see it as I’m kissing you?” 

“Take it seriously,” you said and John nodded, following you over to the small tree in the far corner of the very clearing you first met him in. “So…I might’ve stayed a bit late last night and it’s not accurate but I grabbed some things that I assumed he’d like and made it work.” 

“It’s…” 

“A tree for Mike,” you said and he stared, bewildered at the small picture in the middle that you nabbed off the tree for his dad. “I know you’re mad at him, he broke your family apart and gave up but he still deserves a tree and a chance to be remembered. Mike is more than just a brother who lost his way, he was your hero and from what I’ve heard of him, a pretty damn cool guy. He at least helped to shape you and you’re cooler than anybody I know.” 

“Even with all my flannel?” 

“Especially,” you said and noticed he was wearing the one you bought him. “Being here has changed my entire life and my look at Christmas and I too was looking for somewhere for my love to go and I think I found it. I want to experience all the holidays in Holly Grove and decorate more trees and drink hot cocoa and partake in all the weird little traditions. Lenny might’ve wanted me to come here and ruin this but I think I came here and it saved me.” 

“He’d love the tree,” John said and reached out, brushing a hand on a little army man toy you strung up with a piece of string. “I think he’d also love you.” 

“Good, cause it has one last piece,” you said and pulled out a small polaroid ornament from your pocket. “Can’t celebrate Mike without the guy he loved the most.” 

John grabbed the picture which Lemar had taken at the tree lightning as a candid and smiled at the way you seemed to be looking at nothing but each other, eyes wide and reflecting the lights. It really was beautiful, exactly like he said and he reached up, placing it just above the picture he took with Mike as you settled against his side like it was made for you. 

“Thank you.” 

“Merry Christmas, John,” you said and he smiled, returning the statement and leaning down to give you another kiss. 

You sat back on the blanket you brought and shared more stories of the people who made the holiday a bit hard to bear but together it was better. You both were no longer alone and had a whole set of holidays to enjoy for many years and many more Tree Ceremonies were ahead of you. It was a bit like you had said, grief was love escaping with nowhere to go and you both had found where it belonged. 

“Any plans for New Years?” you asked and John chuckled.

“No, but I know who I’m kissing,” he said and leaned forward, kissing you softly at first but deepening it as you welcomed his lips on yours and his hand on your hips. 

A fresh flurry of snow began to drift down from the clouds above, painting the two of you in a patchwork of white as the lights of Mike’s tree shone long into the night. For once the holiday was perfect and you fell asleep smiling, having decided to share John’s bed for the evening and woke up on the new day with a grin that wouldn’t stop and a heart you knew was going to stay full for a very, very long time.

[birdy-bat-writes]

Secret Service Agent!John Walker x President's Daughter!Reader Headcanons/Drabbles

Summary: AU Headcanons where you're the First Daughter of the US and Agent John Walker fell into your life.

CW: fem!Reader, age gap(reader is 27-28 and walker in 33-34), smut, mentions of America? that counts a content warning actually

A/N: 18+ only, minors DNI. It's that time of year again when one of the many characters in the vast sea of fictional universes makes me feral enough that I write something, so, without further ado, hottie secret service agent John Walker :D Also, I made 2 moodboards because I couldn’t pick which one was better🫡😁 not proofread, so pls lmk if I left any errors in there, okay love you all!💕

Comments and reblogs are always greatly appreciated!! And feel free to share your thoughts or add on 😙💕💕

----

Agent John Walker is one of the President's most trusted security detail members.

He's sharp, precise, and he always has a plan, and everyone knows to follow it. His arrogance? Unavoidable, considering he’s constantly regarded as the best. You've heard of his stellar record in the Army, and after several promotions and a switch to the Secret Service, he was personally asked to join the President's personal security detail. You suppose that kind of praise would get to anyone's head.

You, on the other hand, are the First Daughter of the United States. Organized, composed, prim and proper like the Presdient's daughter should be. But you’re not the type to coast on privilege.

You're studying to become a lawyer, and you’ve worked for every opportunity you've ever had. Maybe that’s what caught John’s attention when he first met you.

He was assigned to your protection detail when you left for law school, a job he took very seriously.

It was not a smooth transition either; before the president assigned you to him, every client was easy and agreeable. You, however, didn't want a bodyguard, and didn't like being told what to do, nor did you like being forced to change your routines. You had a fire in you that rivaled even John's stubbornness. You butted heads and messed with each other until you finally had to make compromises for each other to maintain some ounce of professionalism.

Yet somehow, over the course of a year, “professionalism” turned into waking up entangled in your sheets and making breakfast together in the two-bedroom apartment your father insisted on renting for you two. John, of course, officially stays in the second room, with 2 guards stationed outside the main entrance.

He hasn't lost his teasing streak since you two got together either.

"If they catch us, I’ll just tell them you’re the one who couldn’t keep your hands off me."

It’s a secret, because it has to be. No one but the two of you knows. It's complicated but its worth it.

White House interns flirt with him SHAMELESSLY (can you blame them?) but you can’t exactly claim him as “taken.” Meanwhile, tabloids speculate about your dating life, pairing you with senators, ambassadors, or whoever else you’re seen with. You never correct them, even when it stings. And john hates seeing it, but when the doors close behind you two and you get to be together, it doesn't matter.

Its wholesome and sweet, bit also intense and risky.

John leaves notes in your files and classwork for you to read when you're in public. Sweet things like, "You look beautiful today."

He's also just generally flirty when no one's looking:

"Every time I see you in a room full of people, I’m reminded why you’re the only one who matters."

"If someone asks why I’m smiling, I’ll just say I’m enjoying the job. They don’t need to know which part."

He knows you like he knows his own mind. Every subtle change in your demeanor is like a flashing sign to him. When you have particularly harrowing arguments with your father, there's always an iced tea or cold drink at your desk when you come back, and hes standing silently, keeping his expression as neutral as he can when all he wants to do is hold you and tell you things will be okay.

He's also a dork. He still makes mix-tapes on CD's, and he made one for you! You suppose its better this way anyway; there's no digital footprint from his music streaming accounts to yours so you can freely play the cheesy, late-90's rock ballads he picked for you and think of him.

John’s protective, which most people chalk up to his role as your bodyguard. No one bats an eye when his hand lingers at the small of your back or when he steps in to dance with you at events under the guise of “assessing a threat.” But you know it’s more than duty, it’s personal.

And he’s the jealous type, too. He doesn’t let it show much, but you’ve learned to recognize the way his jaw tightens when someone stands just a little too close to you.

NAMELY CONGRESSMAN BARNES!!! He hates that guy.

For example, the gala where you danced with Congressman Barnes. The man was smooth, his charm teetering on the edge of inappropriate, and his hold on you just a touch too familiar. John stayed composed, but you felt his stare across the room, burning into your skin like a silent warning. When you finally stepped away, his hand was the first to meet yours, escorting you to the next dance with a quiet, “I needed to make sure everything was in order.”

Smut time? Smut time!

John has taken you out of events early and not even taken you to the car right away. After "saving" you from Congressman Barnes, you were whisked away into one of the Whitehouse's many rooms and pushed up against the wall.

He's strong, muscular, and much taller than you, even in your heels. You try to keep quiet for your sake and the sake of the guards you know are patrolling the hallways, but it's easier said than done when John's fingers are slipping under your gown and his lips are on your neck.

He knows you can't leave that room with a hair out of place so his hands are gripping your thighs, or covering your mouth.

"You’re gonna have to be quiet, princess. Unless you want the whole world to know who’s making you feel this good."

One hand holds you against the wall by your waist while the other works its way beneath the thin fabric of your panties.

He's slow and deliberate at first, taking in every subtle movement from your body, coaxing out every breathy whine and gasp. You see the wicked smirk playing on his lips before capturing yours in a searing kiss. It hot, its passionate.

Then rough, and relentless. You're gripping onto his shoulders like a lifeline. You're close and he knows it. He keeps his rhythm, deep and hard, and then he feels you come undone on his fingers.

He’s holding you flush against his body while you come down from your high, while you vision settles and the stars you were seeing a second ago fade. The first thing you see is the devilish grin on his face, he’s clearly proud of himself and you can’t help but blush.

"You’re mine, you know that? No one else gets to see you like this."

And when you get home, away from the prying and ears, he has you moaning, eyes shut tight while he fucks you senseless. "All those senators and congressmen eyeing you tonight… I hope they realize you’ll only ever scream my name."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep my hands off you when we’re in public? Let me make up for it."

Oh and quickies in the important buildings? Absolutely. He knows where all the cameras and blind spots are. He has security clearance for most areas, and most areas have a broom closet where you've hidden away when he's looking a little too good.

He likes this one black dress you wear when you want to get a rise of him. Maybe he wasn't paying enough attention to you yesterday, or maybe some secretary got a little too flirty with him, or maybe you were just bored. You paired it with a pair of simple heels and his coat and that did him in.

He locked the door to an office and no one saw either of you for an hour. You called it a lunch break.

He has such thing for you on top too. You swear you've never seen him as hard as he was when you straddled him in the backseat of a presidential limousine and made use of its tinted windows.

"Who would have thought..the ever-so-commanding Agent Walker who's tough, and intimidating, who's always barking orders, he's whimpering under my touch."

More than anything else, you get each other. He makes you feel seen, and you let him lower his guard.

It’s complicated. Messy, even. But at the end of the day, when it’s just the two of you, sharing quiet moments in secret, it’s worth every risk.

———

Guys, I lost my taglist, I’m so sorry🫠🥲 but please message me or comment to let me know if you want to be added to it! I’m going to go through some old fics and comments to see if I can find some of the users that asked to be on the permanent tag list.

[whollyshimmeringsword]

Thunderbolts queer headcannons:

Bucky- (he/him)GAYYYYY. Has just finally gotten over Steve.

Yelena-(she/her) aroace. In a relationship with Bob. She's cupioromantic about it.

Ava-(she/they) lesbian

John-(he/him) FtM because I think it would be neat and also defy stereotypes.

Alexei-(he/?) keeps dropping queer lore from the past before he had a word for the terms completely out of nowhere. "What? You've never kissed a man?" "I've had times where I've connected to the feminine spirit"

Bob- (he/him) straight and cis but the world's biggest ally. They adopted a token straight. In a relationship with Yelena. They call each other boyfriend and girlfriend for simplicity and are monogamous. But they function in some ways romantically and in some ways like a QPR. They have a non-conventional way of experiencing attraction and showing affection.

[magicalqueennightmare]

One Night

Corporal Lewis Ford (John Walker) x Reader

I’ve seen one too many “Overlord in MCU” aus 🤷🏻‍♀️

He just wants one night in your arms in exchange for signing what life he has left over to the government.

Fluff with some suggestiveness and angst

“We can’t” you knew this was a losing battle. Ever since they’d pulled him out of the ground in France, ever since you’d been assigned to help him “adjust” to the world since he’d been down since 1944 you found yourself drawn to the man in front of you. At first it was simply a curiosity on both of your ends. He was a super soldier of likes no one had ever seen. You were a woman born with abnormal healing capabilities. Two moths drawn to flames.

The more time you spent together the more that simple curiosity faded into friendship. He would tell you stories of the life he lived before the draft came knocking. He’d tell you of the horrors he’d seen in world war two and on one particularly rough night he finally told you about the day he died. You listened, sitting close to him on your couch and when you realized he had tears in his eyes and was expecting you to judge him that broke your heart. He was young when he’d been drafted and yet that day? He’d led his men, comforted the one he lost through death and still made a choice to sacrifice everything.

Not for the first time you wished your capabilities extended beyond physical injuries. You curled up next to him, falling asleep in each other’s arms and when the morning light found you still entangled it was a silent acknowledgement that everything had changed. 

He would ask for stories of your past, how you’d come to learn of your capabilities. He asked about your work, your exes. He was the most amazing man you’d ever met. Those bright blue eyes, dark blonde hair that would fall into his face if he moved just right and if you pushed it back a light blush would grace his cheeks. The scar that was under his right eye was slowly fading with the new serum on top of the previous one he’d taken. 

Now here you sat, three years after he’d been pulled out of the ground. Three years you’d been at each other's side every day and you were now facing being separated. He pulled you closer, tugging you into his lap. You gladly straddled his waist, hands going to his shoulders. He tilted his head to catch your eyes, that soft smile that as far as you could tell you’d been the only person to receive plastered on his face “Please Honey. I’ll be their golden boy puppet. I’ll do whatever I have to for you to have a future and for them to not replicate this damn serum that brings me back but for tonight, can I simply be a man in love with a woman?” 

Any and all pretenses fell at that moment. The thought of what his name was supposed to be escaped you. The only thing you could think about was how your heart was crumbling to bits in your chest. How you wished you would’ve known him then or that he would’ve been born now.  “Oh Lewis” you whispered and he pulled you into a slow kiss, lips devouring yours like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted and he wanted to memorize it so if he never experienced it again. 

“My name sounds so damn good coming from your lips” he murmured against your mouth. He pressed another hard kiss to your lips before dipping his head down to your neck, tongue flicking out across your collarbone “You’re the only person that cares to use my real name. I know after tonight I can’t be Lewis Ford anymore” he pressed a kiss to the hollow of your throat before leaning back to look you in the eyes “But can I please see how many times I can get that pretty little mouth to say my real name before it fades away?”

You nodded and he shook his head “Now honey, we talked about this. I don’t know how men do it now but I want to hear you say it” you laughed lightly, fingers tangling in his blonde locks “I want you Lewis, please” he groaned, gripping your hips tightly and a gasp left you when you felt how his body was already reacting to you “You have me darlin. Everything I am. You have” he promised and stood with your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms around his neck to walk towards your bedroom.

When the morning light found you, Lewis was wrapped around you. His arms were holding you against his chest, like he could somehow protect both of you against what was to come.  “I got something for you” he spoke low, voice still rough with sleep. You turned to face him with a small smile “Lewis you didn’t have to get me anything. Last night was amazing” he nodded “I know but still” he reached over to the nightstand and picked up his dog tags and turned to hold them out to you. You could feel tears in your eyes as he placed them in your hand “I want you to have these. That way you know that I’m yours. The real me, my heart will always be yours”

You slipped them around your neck and he ran a finger over the chain before using two fingers to tilt your chin up for a kiss “I love you” he spoke against your mouth. “I love you too” you replied and he laughed low “Lewis Ford or John Walker?” you ducked your head to rest it against his chest, fingers finding the long healed scar that killed him that first time “Anyone and anything you are. I love with everything I am”