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dark-silhouette · 12 hours ago

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Brutal Devotion

Pairing: John Walker/US Agent x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader Enemies To Lovers! <3 Summary: Y/N and John Walker’s explosive rivalry—a cocktail of biting sarcasm and electric tension—spirals into a dangerous game of provocation. What starts as flirtatious warfare soon ignites an obsession that shatters their control, threatening to destroy them both. (PART 1 OF 2 because it was too long lol) Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Smut, Angst, Fighting, violence, mentions of sad past., provocation, cursing. (I don't know what else lol) A/N: i've finally finished my first john fanfic, it took me way too long. Reader has silver eyes here, with abilities: telpathy, telekinesis, healing. it was supposed to be short but i ended up writing 57k words lol. anyways, i split it into 2 parts. i originally wrote it with an oc and then edited it to be x reader, so if there's any part where i forgot to edit it, i'm sorry! i really hope you like it. WC: 30k (ups)

The common room of the tower was a battlefield. Not the kind with bullets and explosions (though those had happened more than once), but the kind where sarcasm and stubbornness clashed like vibranium shields.

John Walker leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you with a smirk as you scowled at the coffee machine.

"Need help with that, or are you just gonna glare it into submission?" he asked.

You didn’t even glance at him. "I’d ask for your help, Walker, but last time you ‘fixed’ something, we had to call Stark’s old AI to undo the damage."

Bucky, sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, muttered, "Here we go again."

John feigned offense. "That was one time. And in my defense, the toaster was already broken."

"It was brand new," Yelena called from the other side of the room, flipping through a magazine. "You just have a gift for destruction."

You finally got the machine working and poured herself a cup, taking a slow, deliberate sip before turning to John. "You know, if you put half as much effort into not being insufferable as you do into breaking things, the world would be a better place."

John grinned, stepping closer. "Aw, Y/N. You do care."

You rolled your silver eyes. "I care about not having to replace appliances every week."

Alexei, lounging in an armchair, chuckled. "Ah, young love."

Both John and you whipped your heads toward him.

"Love?" You scoffed.

John made a disgusted noise. "Yeah, no. Hard pass."

Bucky smirked. "Methinks they doth protest too much."

You flipped him off before striding out of the room, your long hair swaying behind you. John watched you go, his smirk fading just slightly.

Yelena sighed. "You two are exhausting."

John shrugged. "What can I say? Arguing with her is the highlight of my day."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "That’s sad, man."

John’s grin returned, but there was something behind it—something none of them called him out on.

Because deep down, they all knew the truth. And so did he.

---

The Watchtower was silent at 3:17 AM. The city lights bled through the panoramic windows, casting long, shifting shadows across the sleek, empty common room. You padded barefoot into the kitchen, the cool floor a welcome contrast to the restless energy humming beneath her skin. Sleep had been elusive, chased away by fragments of thoughts and the residual buzz of your telepathy brushing against the dormant minds of your teammates.

You hadn’t bothered with much. A faded, worn band t-shirt that barely reached mid-thigh, and a pair of soft, grey cotton shorts that clung lovingly to your curves, particularly the generous swell of your backside. Alone in the quiet dark, you didn’t need armor, physical or emotional.

The coffee machine hissed and gurgled, a comforting ritual. You leaned against the cool granite of the breakfast bar while it brewed, the silence wrapping around you like a cloak. When it was ready, you poured a generous mug, inhaling the rich, bitter aroma like a lifeline.

Cradling the warm mug in both hands, you turned and leaned against the table's edge. Your spine arched slightly, elbows propped on the surface. You brought the mug to your lips, eyes drifting shut as the first, perfect sip of scalding liquid hit your tongue. A low, involuntary purr of pure contentment vibrated in your throat. The warmth spread through your chest, momentarily silencing the internal noise. Your head tilted back a fraction, long strands of inky black hair cascading over one bare shoulder. Your tongue darted out, tracing the fullness of your lower lip, savoring the lingering taste. One bare foot absently rubbed up the calf of your other leg, a picture of relaxed, unguarded sensuality.

Your powers sometimes were exhausted, it demanded too much focus. At first, they were difficult to control, and the headaches were too painful. The thoughts of people became a problem; you heard them all the time. It was too much. But with time, practice, and the guidance of Wanda, you could eventually control them properly. You were truly grateful for her help.

The Avengers had saved you years ago. You’ve been used by Hydra as an experiment. That’s how you met the heroes, and Wanda helped you for a while until you learned to control your powers. And then you met Bucky, and that’s how you are in this team.

Your abilities had been so helpful for all the team. Especially your healing powers, for obvious reasons.

Your relationship with the team was good. Alexei was the personification of fun and was like a father to you.

You and Bucky were too good friends, you felt him like a brother.

Yelena was like a crazy sister to you. In just a little time she understands you too well.

Ava was a great friend too, although she was so quiet all the time.

Bob was so sweet and considerate. One of your best friends too.

And there was John Walker. The man was an asshole. But actually, you didn’t blame him. He has lost everything he fought and strived for. He just wanted to do good and be the best version of his Captain America, he wanted to be enough. But when he failed, everyone turned their back on him.

He lost his rank, he lost the title of Captain America, his wife left him, and he lost his son.

It’s not that it wasn’t his fault but he tried, and he was alone until now.

Now, he has a very dysfunctional family that supports him, in its own way.

And you see him, he may be an impulsive, aggressive, cocky, and insecure asshole, but deep down he is a good person. He is strong, confident, determined, and protective. He is trying.

You were lost in the simple pleasure of your warm coffee, you were utterly unaware.

John Walker stood frozen in the shadowed archway leading to the living quarters. He’d come down for water, his own sleep fractured by the ghosts of failure and the too-loud silence of his empty life. The sight before him punched the air from his lungs.

God Almighty, he thought to himself.

You, bathed in the dim, ambient light, were… breathtaking. The thin cotton of your shirt did nothing to hide the perfect lines of your body, the gentle swell of your breasts unconfined beneath the fabric. His enhanced senses, usually a tool for combat, now betrayed him with excruciating clarity – the faint scent of your sleep-warmed skin, the soft texture of the cotton, the subtle shift of muscle beneath smooth skin as you moved. The curve of your back, the way your posture accentuated the fullness of your hips and backside in those shorts… it looked impossibly soft. His hands clenched instinctively at his sides, a phantom memory of touch he had no right to imagine.

Jesus, stop. he thought again, shutting his eyes for a moment.

His pulse hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat drowning out the quiet hum of the tower. His breathing hitched, becoming shallow and rapid. Heat, entirely different from the coffee’s warmth, flooded his veins. This wasn’t the sharp, competitive spark of their usual friction. This was raw, primal attraction, a wave so powerful it left him dizzy. He hadn’t felt anything like this in a very long time. Not this visceral, this consuming. You were fierce, brilliant, infuriating… and in this unguarded moment, devastatingly beautiful. You were everything he wasn’t supposed to want, shouldn’t even look at like this. But *Christ*, he was just a man. A flawed, lonely, damned man standing in the dark, captivated.

You took another slow sip, your eyes still closed, a small, blissful smile playing on your lips. Then, a subtle shift. A flicker of awareness brushed against the edge of your telepathy – a spike of adrenaline, a chaotic swirl of intense, focused emotion nearby. Your eyes snapped open, silver irises catching the low light like mercury.

You turned your head, expecting annoyance, perhaps Yelena or Bucky catching you in a moment of vulnerability. Instead, your gaze locked onto John. He stood rigid, half in shadow, his expression unreadable in the dimness but radiating an intensity that crackled in the air between them.

For a heartbeat, the familiar sarcasm, the defensive quip, hovered on your tongue. But seeing him there, frozen, looking at you with something far deeper than irritation or arrogance… it disarmed you. The usual shield didn’t snap into place.

Instead, a slow, genuine smile bloomed on your face. Soft. Curious. Almost… innocent. It wasn’t flirtatious or challenging; it was simply open, surprised warmth. “Hey Walker,” you murmured, your voice husky with sleep and the remnants of your purr. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

That smile. That simple, unguarded expression. It didn’t just disarm John Walker; it melted something brittle and cold deep inside his chest. His carefully constructed walls, the armor of arrogance and cynicism, felt perilously thin. He swallowed hard, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden, charged silence. The steaming mug felt suddenly precarious in his own hand, forgotten.

No, he thought, the internal voice a ragged whisper. Not arguing. Not tonight. He cleared his throat, the sound rough. “Uh… no. Water.” The excuse sounded pathetic even to him. His eyes, betraying him utterly, flickered down your form for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your face, a traitorous flush creeping up his neck.

He loved that smile. He loved the way you could keep up with his sarcastic jokes and bickering, you never retreat, you charge. You were infuriating yes, but so was he. You were relentless, bold, funny, intelligent, you were a complete woman, and so fucking beautiful.

But then there was the other side of you. You were also sweet and tender, understanding the others' struggles and always being there to help. Even when you had your own demons to fight with. You were stronger than him in that way. You never let your past define you. Not like him.

Your silver eyes held his, that soft smile lingering, understanding dawning in their depths. The air in the kitchen was no longer just silent. It was thick, electric, and filled with everything they’d never dared to say.

He smiled back.

The tension didn’t dissipate after the coffee encounter. If anything, it thickened, settling over the tower like humid summer air – heavy, charged, impossible to ignore. John found himself hyper-aware of you. The subtle sway of your hips as you walked down a corridor, the way your laughter sounded sharper, brighter when it wasn’t aimed at him, the maddening perfection of your backside showcased in anything you wore – tactical gear, sweatpants, it didn’t matter. His enhanced senses felt like a curse, constantly feeding him details he didn’t need but couldn’t stop absorbing.

’Jesus Christ, Walker, stop looking at her ass,’ he growled internally one afternoon, watching you bend over a console in the operations room. He raked a hand down his face in frustration, the familiar sting of self-loathing mixing with the undeniable pull. He needed an outlet. Something physical. Something punishing.

The gym was his sanctuary – harsh fluorescent lights, the smell of rubber mats and sweat, the rhythmic thud of fists against heavy bags. He worked himself ruthlessly. Push-ups became clap push-ups. Weights were loaded heavily. The heavy bag wasn’t just a target; it was his frustration, his past failures, the ghost of the shield, the hollow ache Olivia left behind, the gnawing attraction he couldn’t seem to kill.

He was drenched, shirt discarded on a nearby bench, muscles straining and gleaming under the lights. Sweat traced paths down his defined chest and abs, plastering dark blond hair to his forehead and temples. Each punch against the bag was a release, a growl escaping his lips with the impact. He was lost in the rhythm, the burn, the desperate attempt to purge Y/N from his nervous system.

You hadn’t been able to focus all day. The memory of John’s intense gaze in the kitchen, the raw vulnerability you’d momentarily glimpsed beneath the usual arrogance, kept replaying. You needed to move, to clear your head. The gym was usually empty this time of day.

You pushed open the heavy door and froze.

John Walker. Shirtless. Gleaming. Every sculpted line of his torso, shoulders, and arms was on brutal, beautiful display. Sweat darkened the waistband of his grey sweatpants, highlighting the powerful V-cut leading down. His movements were raw, powerful, almost feral. Controlled violence radiates from every flexing muscle. The air crackled with his focused energy and the sheer, undeniable physicality of him.

’ Oh. My. God.’ The thought slammed into your mind, unbidden and utterly truthful. ’ He is so fucking hot.’ your silver eyes widened, taking him in – the ripple of his back muscles as he pivoted, the defined ridges of his abdomen tightening with each strike, the sheer presence of him filling the space. A flush crept up your neck, warmth pooling low in your belly. It was primal, visceral, and utterly disconcerting.

Your instinct screamed ´retreat´. This was dangerous territory. You started to pivot silently, intending to vanish before he noticed.

But John Walker, even lost in his punishing rhythm, was a soldier. Enhanced senses or not, the sudden shift in the room’s energy, the faint scent of her shampoo cutting through the sweat, the almost imperceptible sound of your intake of breath – it registered. His fist stopped mid-swing against the shuddering bag. His head turned slowly, chest heaving, eyes locking onto yours.

He saw it instantly. The lingering stare you hadn’t quite masked. The faint blush high on your cheeks. The way your gaze had just been tracing the lines of his shoulders and chest. The usual sharp retort, the defensive barb, died on his lips. A slow, dangerous smirk began to spread across his face, replacing the grimace of exertion. It wasn’t his usual cocky grin. This was predatory. Amused. Triumphant.

“Well, well, Y/N,” he rasped, his voice rough from exertion but laced with a new, unfamiliar heat. He didn’t move towards you, just leaned a forearm casually against the still-swaying heavy bag, letting you look. Sweat dripped from his chin onto his chest. “See something you like?”

Your flush deepened, but your spine straightened. You wouldn’t be easily flustered, not by him. “Just assessing the equipment, Walker,” you shot back, forcing your voice to be cool, though it lacked its usual bite. “Making sure you haven’t broken anything else.” your gaze, however, flickered again, betraying you, drawn to the sweat-slicked planes of his stomach.

John’s smirk widened. He pushed off the bag, taking a deliberate step towards you, not closing the distance entirely but emphasizing his presence. “Equipment’s fine,” he drawled, his eyes roaming over you with the same intense scrutiny you’d just given him, lingering on the curve of your hips, the line of your neck. “Seems like you were doing a pretty thorough inspection, though. Admiring the craftsmanship?”

The air between you two sizzled. You held his gaze, refusing to back down, even as your heartbeat hammered against your ribs. The arrogance was back, but laced with something else now – a challenge, an invitation. He was enjoying this. Enjoying seeing you off-balance for once. Enjoying the reversal.

“Maybe I was just surprised,” you countered, tilting your chin up. “Didn’t realize vanity was part of your workout routine. All that flexing… compensating for something?”

John chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in the charged space. He took another step, close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the sharp, clean scent of his sweat mixed with soap. “Just working off some… tension, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. His eyes held yours, intense, unblinking. “Seems I’m not the only one who needs an outlet.”

He let the implication hang, watching the flicker of awareness in your silver eyes. The predator had scented the prey, and for the first time, the roles felt deliciously reversed. He saw the brief struggle in your expression – the desire to snap back warring with the undeniable pull.

You held his gaze for another charged second, your own internal battle raging. Then, without another word, you turned on your heel. But this time, your retreat wasn’t silent or unnoticed. It was deliberate, a strategic withdrawal. You felt his eyes on your back all the way to the door, the weight of his stare and that infuriating, knowing smirk burning into your skin.

John watched you go, the predatory satisfaction warming him far more effectively than the workout had. He picked up his discarded shirt, wiping his face, a low chuckle escaping him. The tension was still there, coiled tight. But now, it felt less like frustration and more like… potential. And John Walker, ever the opportunist, was suddenly very interested in exploring that potential.

The air in the tower felt thinner after the gym. John’s infuriating smirk, the blatant satisfaction radiating off him as he’d watched your retreat – it had ignited something in you. A competitive fire, yes, but something hotter, sharper. If he wanted to play this game? Fine. You knew the rules better than he did.

Late that night, the familiar restlessness returned. But this time, it was focused. Intentional. You sensed him first – a low thrum of restless energy emanating from the kitchen, a familiar signature of insomnia and simmering frustration. A slow, knowing smile curved your lips. Perfect.

You chose your weapons carefully: impossibly soft, thin cotton shorts that hugged every devastating curve of your backside like a second skin, and an oversized t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the elegant line of your neck and collarbone. Comfortable, innocent… and utterly lethal. You ran a hand through your sleep-tousled black hair, letting it fall artfully over your bare shoulder. Game on.

Padding silently into the kitchen, you feigned surprise. “Oh. Hey, Walker.” Your voice was soft, sleep-roughened, deliberately unguarded. You saw the exact moment he registered your presence – the subtle hitch in his breathing, the way his broad shoulders tensed beneath his thin t-shirt, the sudden, intense focus in his eyes that swept over you like a physical touch. The tension radiating from him was almost palpable, thick and electric.

Casually, you moved towards the counter where he stood frozen near the sink. You needed… something. Anything. Your eyes landed on a forgotten glass near his elbow. “Just grabbing this,” you murmured, your tone light, innocent. You slid past him, your movement deliberate. The soft swell of your backside brushed, ever so lightly, against the front of his hips as you reached across him.

‘Shit.’ The single, desperate thought slammed into your telepathic awareness, raw and unfiltered. You felt the involuntary jolt that went through him, the sudden clench of muscle. Heat bloomed where they’d touched, brief but incendiary.

You pulled back smoothly, glass in hand, acting as if nothing momentous had just transpired. You turned, offering him a small, benign smile, acutely aware of his gaze burning into you, tracking the deliberate, sensual sway of your hips as you walked a few steps away. You felt the weight of his stare like a brand, knew exactly where it lingered.

‘Control yourself. Don’t look down. Don’t fucking look down.’ His internal mantra was frantic, a drumbeat of fraying willpower. You heard the sharp intake of breath, felt the spike of frustrated arousal he couldn’t suppress. And then, the inevitable defeat: he *looked* down. The sharp spike of pure, unadulterated lust that followed – ‘Jesus Christ’ – was almost overwhelming. Triumph, sweet and hot, surged through you.

“Goodnight, Walker,” you called softly over your shoulder, your voice a velvet purr. You didn’t turn back. You didn’t need to. You poured every ounce of deliberate, hypnotic grace into the walk back towards your room, letting your hips move in a slow, mesmerizing rhythm designed to sear itself into his mind.

The moment your door hissed shut down the corridor, John’s control shattered. He was across the kitchen and down the hall to his own quarters in a blur, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning his forehead against the cool metal, chest heaving. Sweat beaded on his temples, his skin felt feverish, and the persistent, aching throb low in his abdomen was impossible to ignore. It pulsed in time with the image of you – the feel of you against him, the maddening sway of your hips, the devastating curve outlined by that thin cotton, the innocent smile masking pure provocation.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to summon cold water, mission protocols, Bucky’s disapproving frown – anything to douse the fire. It was useless. Your scent, the phantom warmth of your skin, the sound of your husky voice saying goodnight… it flooded his senses, drowning out reason. It was worse than any battle rush, worse than needing air. A raw, primal need clawed at him, demanding release.

Frustration warred with desperate arousal. He was a soldier, trained for discipline, yet here he was, undone by a pair of cotton shorts and a knowing look. His hand, seemingly of its own volition, pressed against the painful tightness straining the front of his sweatpants. A low groan escaped him, part surrender, part sheer, agonized need. He needed relief. Now. The image of you, smiling innocently while setting him ablaze, filled his vision as his hand finally moved, seeking the frantic, solitary release his body demanded. The silence of his room was broken only by his ragged breathing and the furious, desperate rhythm of his own hand.

He hated how good it felt, how vividly his traitorous mind conjured you. And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous provocation of all.

John stood under the scalding spray of the shower long after his release had left him hollow. Steam curled around him, thick and suffocating, but it did nothing to cleanse the images burned into his mind. The way you’d moved—slow, deliberate, taunting—like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. And you had known. That was the worst part.

You had played him. And he had let you.

You knew how he felt about you, you saw it in his eyes, the desire, the want.

Both of you loved to fight with each other, but this was another thing completely different. You had flirted, but never at this point. And God, this was just getting started.

His hands braced against the tiles, water sluicing down his back, his breathing still uneven. He should be furious. He was furious. But beneath the anger, beneath the frustration, something darker coiled. Something hungry.

This wasn’t a game anymore. This was war.

---

It was Saturday night, and the girls and Bob decided to go out for a couple of drinks. They needed to go out of the tower and breathe fresh air. The rest of the boys would join them later. John, especially, needed fresh air.

Knowing that the boys would be there, that he would be there, you put on a tight black dress that barely covered your mid-thighs. Its straps accentuated the swell of your breasts and the bare back, letting the delicate curve of your spine come into view. And heels, of course. Your hair is loose and wild just as you are tonight.

The bar was loud, messy, crowded. The three of you sat and ordered.

Drinks had been flowing steadily – cosmopolitans for Yelena, something complex and smoky for Ava, a Diet Coke for Bob, and for you, a succession of vibrant, fruity cocktails that matched the electric energy humming just beneath your skin.

The conversation was easy, full of laughter and shared stories that had nothing to do with missions or near-death experiences. They teased Bob about his latest book obsession, Yelena recounted a disastrous undercover op involving a flock of angry geese, and Ava shared surprisingly dry observations about the other patrons.

Then, inevitably, the topic shifted.

"So, Y/N," Yelena purred, swirling the pink liquid in her glass, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Walker looked particularly brooding today during training. Any idea why? Or should we just blame it on his general personality?"

You took a slow sip of your brightly colored drink, feigning nonchalance. "Probably just annoyed Bucky corrected his stance again. You know how fragile his ego is." You offered a casual shrug, the movement making the thin straps of your dress dig slightly into your skin.

Ava leaned forward, her expression serious but playful. "Come on, Y/N. We see the way you two orbit each other. The bickering, the staring contests that last just a little too long... the tension." She emphasized the last word. "It's thicker than Alexei's accent after three vodkas."

Bob just smiled tenderly at you, silently agreeing with Yelena and Ava.

You felt a familiar warmth creep up your neck, unrelated to the alcohol. "You're all imagining things," you protested, though your voice lacked its usual conviction. You traced the condensation on your glass. "We work together. Sometimes we argue. It's nothing."

"Nothing?" Yelena scoffed, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. "Darling, the way he looks at you when you walk into a room? Like he's trying to solve a complex equation involving your dress and the nearest horizontal surface." She smirked. "And the way you look at him when he's all sweaty and shirtless in the gym? Don't think we haven't noticed. You practically purr."

You opened your mouth to retort, but Ava cut in gently. "It's okay to admit it. We're your friends. We see it. You light up around him, even when you're yelling. And he... well, he looks at you like you hung the damn moon, even when he's calling you a pain in the ass." She smiled softly. "Why not just... say something? End the suspense?"

You felt a pang of something complicated – desire, yes, but also fear, pride, the ingrained habit of their combative dance. "It's not that simple," you murmured, avoiding their gazes. "It's... complicated."

"Complicated is just another word for scared," Yelena stated bluntly, finishing her cosmo. "But fine. Play dumb. See how long you can keep setting the tower on fire with just eye contact." She signaled the waiter for another round. "More drinks! Clearly, we need them to penetrate the denial field."

The fresh drinks arrived, vibrant and tempting. You felt the pleasant buzz intensify into a slight, warm dizziness. The music seemed louder, the lights brighter. The conversation flowed back to safer topics, but the questions lingered in the air, humming beneath the surface like the bassline.

Feeling the rhythm pulse through you, needing to move, to escape the scrutiny and your own tangled thoughts, so you stood. "Dancing," you declared, grabbing your new, brightly colored cocktail. You downed half of it in one smooth motion, the sweet liquid burning pleasantly. "Be right back."

You weaved through the crowd, the music wrapping around you. Finding a small space near the edge of the dance floor, you closed your eyes, letting the beat take over. Your body began to move, a natural, sinuous flow. Your hips swayed with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, your arms lifting gracefully. A genuine, relaxed smile touched your lips as you lost yourself in the sensation, the music washing away the tension, the questions, leaving only the thrum of life and the pleasant haze of the alcohol. Your hair swirled around your bare shoulders, catching the light. The dress moved with you, clinging and flowing, emphasizing every curve – the long line of your neck, the swell of your breasts rising and falling with your breath, the dip of your waist, the perfect, mesmerizing sway of your hips, the elegant length of your legs in those heels. You were pure, unselfconscious sensuality, a dark goddess moving to the pulse of the night.

For a moment while you danced, you forgot everything.

Unseen by you, the lounge entrance parted. Bucky, Alexei, and John Walker stepped in, scanning the crowd. Bucky headed straight for the bar with a weary sigh. Alexei boomed a greeting, already eyeing the dance floor with enthusiasm.

John’s gaze, however, froze.

He saw you instantly. A beacon in the shifting crowd. You, lost in the music, dancing alone. The sight punched the air from his lungs. The black dress, the bare skin, the way it clung and moved... the effortless grace, the pure, unadulterated sex radiating from your every movement. Your hair tumbled around your face, your lips curved in that beautiful, unguarded smile he rarely saw. His enhanced senses picked up the faint sheen of sweat on your neck, the rhythm of your breath, the intoxicating scent of your perfume mixed with the club air.

His blue eyes darkened, tracking the hypnotic sway of your hips, the line of your back, the curve of your ass in that damn dress. Every nerve ending sparked. Jesus Christ. You were breathtaking. A primal heat surged through him, fierce and undeniable. He felt like he was about to combust. His hand tightened reflexively around the beer bottle Bucky had just shoved into it when they joined Bob, Ava and Yelena.

"Bozhe moi," Alexei chuckled, clapping John heavily on the shoulder, jolting him. "Look at our little witch! Moves like serpent, yes?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Very distracting for poor Agent?"

Bucky followed John’s fixed stare and sighed. "Walker. Breathe. And maybe stop staring like you’re trying to set her dress on fire with your mind. It’s getting creepy."

John finally dragged his gaze away, taking a long, desperate swig of the cold beer, trying to douse the fire inside. It didn’t help. The image was seared into his retinas. "Shut up, Barnes," he muttered, his voice rough.

"See?" Alexei nudged Bucky. "He is practically melting! Go, little Agent! Go talk! Ask her to dance! Show her your... American moves!" He made a vaguely suggestive hip thrust.

John shot him a glare. "I’m good right here." He took another long pull from the bottle, his eyes inevitably drifting back to you. She’d opened your eyes now, still dancing, your gaze sweeping the room. For a fleeting second, your silver eyes met his across the crowded space. He saw the flicker of recognition, the slight widening, perhaps a hint of challenge... or something else? Then you looked away, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips as you continued to move.

Fuck. John slammed the now-empty bottle down on a nearby high table. He was playing dumb, clinging to the familiar armor of indifference, but the heat in his veins, the tightness in his chest, and the unwavering focus of his gaze told a different story. The goddess was dancing, and the soldier was utterly, helplessly enthralled. He signaled the waiter for another drink. He was going to need it.

The energy shifted palpably. Alexei immediately commandeered the dance floor with surprisingly fluid (if slightly alarming) moves, pulling a laughing Yelena into his orbit. Bucky gravitated towards Ava and Bob at the booth, exchanging weary but amused glances as they watched their teammates. John remained a fixed point near the high table, a fresh beer in hand, his gaze an anchor constantly drawn back to the dark whirlwind on the dance floor.

Despite the earlier teasing, the group dynamic settled into a comfortable rhythm fueled by shared laughter, more drinks, and the sheer relief of being off-duty. Stories flowed – exaggerated mission mishaps (mostly Alexei), dry wit (Bucky and Ava), Bob’s laughing, and Yelena’s razor-sharp commentary. You, flushed and pleasantly buzzed, drifted between dancing and the booth, your laughter bright and infectious. You caught John watching you more than once, a silent, intense observation that sent a different kind of warmth through you than the alcohol. Each time, you held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary before looking away, a secret smile playing on your lips.

As the night deepened and the crowd thinned slightly, a subtle orchestration began. Yelena caught Bucky’s eye and tilted her head meaningfully towards John and you. Bucky gave an almost imperceptible nod. Alexei, declaring he needed "stronger drink in another place, like Russian man!" loudly, steered a slightly tipsy Bob towards the exit. Yelena linked arms with Ava. "Come, Ava, I'm already tired" Ava, catching on, grinned and followed. Within moments, their corner booth was empty, and the group had strategically dispersed, leaving you near the dance floor and John standing alone by his table, the space between them suddenly charged and conspicuously private.

You felt the shift. The music pulsed, the bass vibrating in your chest. You'd just finished swaying to a slower beat, catching your breath. John pushed off from the table and walked towards you, his movements deliberate. He stopped close, the scent of his cologne cutting through the club smells – clean, masculine, uniquely him.

"Think it's time we head back," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated pleasantly against the music. His blue eyes were dark, intense, fixed on your face.

You tilted your head up, meeting his gaze. The slight dizziness from the drinks made the world tilt pleasantly. "One more song?" You asked, the request soft, almost pleading. "I love this one." It was a sultry, rhythmic track, perfect for the languid way you felt.

John’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something warmer than his usual smirk. He didn't look away. "One more song," he agreed, his voice rough.

He didn't join you on the floor, but he didn't move back either. He stood just at the edge, leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed. His attention was absolute, a laser focus that made you feel simultaneously exposed and exhilarated. You closed your eyes again, letting the music flow through you. Your body moved with a slow, undulating grace, your hips tracing fluid circles, your arms weaving through the air. You felt the heat of his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the line of your bare back, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, the length of your leg accentuated by the heels. You knew he was watching every shift of the fabric over your breasts, every strand of dark hair that brushed your shoulder. It was intoxicating. A powerful, silent communication thrummed between them, louder than the music.

God, she’s incredible. The thought slammed into John’s mind with the force of a physical blow. Every damn move... hypnotic. He tracked the delicate column of your throat as you tilted your head back, the pulse fluttering there. The way your lips parted slightly as you lost yourself in the rhythm. The sheer, breathtaking sensuality you radiated without even trying. I fucking love her. The realization, stark and undeniable, hit him like a bucket of ice water. His breath caught, panic warring with the fierce surge of possessiveness and desire. Love? Shit. No. Can’t...

Suddenly, the overhead lights above you flickered violently, a sharp, jarring interruption to the club's ambiance. It wasn't the whole club, just the cluster near you.

A man, emboldened by too much liquid courage and your captivating solo dance, chose that moment to lurch forward. He was tall, bulky, his eyes glazed. "Hey, gorgeous," he slurred, stepping far too close, invading your space. "You dance like fire. Wanna ditch this noise? I know a hotel just 'round the corner..." He reached out, his hand closing roughly around your bare upper arm.

Your eyes snapped open, silver flashing with instant fury and a flicker of alarm. The lights flickered again, more erratically. "Get lost," you spat, trying to yank your arm back, your telepathy instinctively pushing against the haze of alcohol to project a wave of pure back off.

But the man just grinned, tightening his grip. "Aw, come on, don't be like tha–"

He never finished. John was a blur. One second, he was leaning against the pillar; the next, he was between you and the man, his hand a vice on the drunkard's wrist, forcing it away from your arm with brutal efficiency. John’s expression was terrifying – cold fury etched into every line of his face, his blue eyes glacial.

"You heard the lady," John growled, his voice low but carrying an edge that cut through the music. He didn't shout, but the menace radiating from him was palpable. "Get lost. Now." He gave the man's wrist a sharp, painful twist for emphasis.

The drunkard yelped, his bravado evaporating instantly under John’s murderous glare and enhanced strength. He stumbled back, muttering apologies, and vanished into the crowd.

John turned immediately to you, his hand shifting from the man's wrist to gently cup your elbow where the drunk had grabbed you. His touch was startlingly gentle after the violence of moments before. "You okay?" he asked, his voice rough with residual anger but laced with concern. His eyes scanned your face, checking for any sign of distress.

You nodded, slightly breathless, the flickering lights didn't stabilize yet. You winced slightly as your hand grabbed your head. You were losing control. And John saw it. The shock of the encounter and the suddenness of John’s intervention cut through her buzz. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks." Your voice was steadier than you felt.

His hand remained on your elbow, a warm, grounding point. "Let's get out of here." There was no room for argument in his tone, only protective finality.

He kept his hand lightly on your back, guiding you firmly but carefully through the thinning crowd towards the exit, a shield between you and the rest of the world.

The cool night air hit you as you stepped outside, a welcome shock. John hailed a sleek, automatic car. He opened the door for you, his hand hovering near the small of your back as you slid into the plush leather interior. He followed, the door closing with a soft thud, sealing them in sudden, intimate quiet. The city lights streamed past the tinted windows.

You leaned your head back against the seat, the adrenaline fading, leaving you feeling drained and pleasantly fuzzy again. You closed your eyes for a moment. John sat beside you, not touching, but the space between you felt charged, electric. The silence wasn't awkward; it was thick with everything unspoken, amplified by the night's events and the lingering intimacy of his protective intervention.

"You okay?" He asked, referring to the wince he saw you make earlier. You nodded.

Then you felt him shift. Opening your eyes, you found him looking at you, his profile illuminated by the streetlights. The cold fury was gone, replaced by a deep, unreadable intensity. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. The air in the car crackled.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he leaned towards you. Your breath hitched. Your own gaze fixed on his lips. The distance between you is closing inch by inch. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell the faint scent of beer and his cologne. His hand, resting on the seat between them, twitched as if to reach for yours. Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was it. The tension that had simmered for weeks, months, was about to snap.

His lips were a breath away. You could almost feel them. Your own lips parted slightly in unconscious invitation.

Then, his eyes flickered. Something shifted – a shadow of doubt, fear, the crushing weight of everything he’d lost and everything he feared losing again. He froze. The spell shattered.

He pulled back abruptly, clearing his throat and turning to stare rigidly out the window. The moment was gone, leaving a yawning chasm of silence and unfulfilled promise hanging heavy in the air.

You closed your eyes again, a confusing mix of disappointment, relief, and a profound ache flooding you. You leaned your head against the cool window, watching the city blur past as he started to drive, the echo of his nearness and the taste of the almost-kiss lingering like a phantom touch.

John clenched his jaw, his knuckles white where they gripped the wheel. The ride back to the tower was completed in a silence louder than any club music, the ghost of what almost happened a tangible presence between them. He escorted you silently to your door, a perfect, frustrating gentleman to the end.

"Night, Y/N," he said, his voice gruff.

"Night, Walker," you whispered back, slipping inside your room.

The door closed. John stood alone in the corridor for a long moment, the image of you dancing, the feel of your arm under his hand, the nearness of your lips, burning in his mind. He slammed his fist lightly against the wall beside your door, a muffled thud of pure frustration, before turning and striding towards his own room, the unresolved tension coiled tighter than ever.

You changed slowly. You were tired, frustrated, and sad. You let your body fall onto the bed, face down. You didn’t understand why he hesitated, why he backed down. The kiss was almost there. It's supposed you wanted the same, right? He never told you but you saw it in his eyes. Or it was just flirting? Your head started to spin, so you preferred to stop thinking and sleep. As if you could control that… your body curled and your head started to think about him until you fell asleep.

In his room, John rested looking at the ceiling. idiot he sighed. He felt frustrated and angry with himself. He didn’t know if he had acted correctly. He was sure that he couldn’t kiss you in that state, you were drunk. He couldn’t take advantage of that. But God, he wanted to. He wanted to kiss you. The thought of grabbing your wrists and putting you in his lap and fucked you senseless in the car was still present in his head. Shit.

How could he look at your eyes now? It was all he could think of.

He would figure it out tomorrow.

The morning light spearing through your viewport felt like a spike directly into your brain. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow, which smelled faintly of expensive club air and... regret? A desperate, Sahara-desert thirst clawed at your throat. Water. You needed water immediately, or death was preferable.

Stumbling into the common kitchen felt like navigating a minefield blindfolded. Every sound – the hum of the coffee maker, the clink of a spoon – was amplified to torturous levels. You clutched your throbbing head, squinting against the offensive brightness.

Yelena, annoyingly pristine and sipping espresso at the counter, arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "God, Y/N. You look like something the cat dragged in, chewed on, and then regretted. Rough night?" Her tone was pure, unadulterated amusement.

You grunted, beelining for the water dispenser and gulping down three glasses in rapid succession. The cool liquid was a minor miracle. "Define 'rough'," you rasped, your voice sounding like gravel. "Bits are... fuzzy."

Yelena's smirk widened into a predatory grin. "Bits? Oh, honey, the best bits were after the rest of us conveniently evaporated. You and Captain America Junior were putting on quite the show." She took a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her tiny cup. "Well, you were putting on a show. He was mostly just... watching. Intently. Like a hawk eyeing a particularly juicy mouse. Or," she added with a wink, "a man desperately trying not to combust."

You froze, the water glass halfway to your lips again. He took care of me? Fragments slammed back: the predatory intensity of his gaze as you danced, the flickering lights, the drunk idiot's hand on your arm, John materializing like an avenging angel, the cool leather seats of the car, the heat of his body beside you... the almost. The breath-stealing, world-tilting almost-kiss. Your cheeks flushed, a warmth unrelated to the hangover.

You forced your expression into careful neutrality, turning to face Yelena. "Walker? Took care of me?" You feigned confusion, rubbing your temple. "What happened? Did I... fall over? Spill a drink on someone important? Please tell me I didn't sing."

Yelena laughed, a bright, knowing sound that grated on your nerves. "Oh, no singing. Just world-class hip-swaying that had our dear Walker looking like he needed an ice bath. Then some idiot tried his luck, Walker intervened with maximum scowling efficiency, and then... he whisked you away like a grumpy Prince Charming." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "So? Details. Did the grumpy prince get his kiss?"

You busied yourself refilling your water glass, avoiding Yelena's piercing gaze. "Honestly, Yelena, it's a blur after the third... whatever those blue drinks were. I remember dancing. I remember someone being grabby. I remember the car ride being... quiet." You shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere near strained indifference. "Walker brought me home? That was... decent of him, I suppose. Guess he drew the short straw."

Yelena studied you for a long moment, her amusement fading into something sharper, more perceptive. She slowly lowered her espresso cup. "You," she stated, her voice losing its teasing edge, "are a terrible liar." A slow smile spread, but it was different now – understanding, almost sympathetic. "Ah. That's the hangover. Not the alcohol. The frustration." She nodded sagely. "Nothing happened. And you wanted it to. And now you're pretending amnesia to save your pride and spare his awkwardness. Classic. Predictable. And utterly tragic."

How the hell does she know?

You opened your mouth to protest, but the kitchen door hissed open.

John Walker stood framed in the doorway. He looked... rumpled. Like he hadn't slept much either. His usual cocky swagger was absent, replaced by a hesitant tension. His eyes immediately sought you, scanning your face with an intensity that made your pulse skip despite herself. He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud.

"Morning," he rasped, his voice rough. He hovered near the doorway, looking like he’d rather face a HYDRA battalion than this kitchen. "Y/N. You... uh... functioning?"

You seized the lifeline of your fabricated amnesia with both hands. You turned, offering him a slightly strained but convincingly polite smile. "Walker. Morning. Mostly functioning, thanks. Bit of a head-thumper." You gestured vaguely towards your temple. "Listen... Yelena mentioned you got me home last night? Thanks. Really. Appreciate it. Sorry if I was... incoherent." You forced a light laugh. "Bits are a bit hazy after the tequila shots Ava dared me to do." you shot a quick, pleading look at Yelena.

Yelena, the picture of innocence, nodded solemnly. "Oh, yes. Very hazy. Practically comatose by the end. Walker had to practically carry you to your door. Very heroic. Very... chaste." She emphasized the last word just enough.

John's shoulders visibly relaxed. A wave of profound relief washed over his face, smoothing the tense lines. The awkwardness evaporated, replaced by his familiar, slightly arrogant demeanor. The near-kiss, the charged tension in the car – safely relegated to the realm of her "hazy" memory. A problem avoided.

"Hey, no problem," he said, his voice regaining its usual confidence. He strode fully into the kitchen, heading for the coffee pot. "Just doing my civic duty. Saving teammates from dubious cocktails and their own questionable dance moves." He poured a large mug, turning to lean against the counter, a familiar, challenging glint returning to his blue eyes as he looked at you. "Though, 'incoherent' is putting it nicely. You were babbling something about telekinetically rearranging the DJ's playlist. Sounded terrifying." He took a long sip, watching you over the rim, the ghost of his old, infuriating smirk playing on his lips. "Try to keep the psychic meltdowns to mission hours, yeah?"

The familiar barb, the easy arrogance – it was your normal. The safe ground you both desperately needed. you managed a weak glare, the frustration of the missed opportunity warring with a strange sense of relief at the return to your combative status quo. "Says the man who looked like he was trying to set the dance floor on fire with his mind. Jealousy is unbecoming, Walker."

He just chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, as he pushed off the counter. "Keep dreaming, Witch. I'll stick to methods that don't involve giving people migraines." He gave you a final, lingering look – a look that, for a fraction of a second, held a flicker of the previous night's intensity – before nodding at Yelena and heading out, coffee mug in hand.

Yelena watched him go, then turned back to you, raising her espresso cup in a silent, knowing toast. "Mmhmm. Smooth, witch. Very smooth. Back to bickering like an old married couple by breakfast." She took a final sip. "The sexual tension in here could power the Tower for a week. Pass the painkillers?"

You just groaned again, reaching for the bottle, the taste of the almost-kiss and the bitter tang of aspirin mingling on your tongue. Normal was back. And it was excruciating. The scrape of Yelena's spoon against her empty cup was deafening.

A week after that night, you walked into the common area with the same effortless confidence you always carried. The air smelled of coffee and the faint metallic tang of the city outside the tower’s windows. Things were, as always, although a little calmer than before.

You didn’t expect him to be waiting for you.

He was sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the back, legs spread in that infuriatingly arrogant way that took up too much space. He was dressed in a tight black Henley that clung to the hard planes of his chest, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. His hair was still damp from a shower. And his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—locked onto you the second you stepped into the room.

A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips.

You felt it immediately—the shift in the air. The challenge. The promise in that look.

“Morning, witch” he drawled, voice rough like he’d just woken up, like he’d spent the night thinking of all the ways to ruin you. “Sleep well?”

You knew why he was doing this, where he was going to. But you didn’t plan what happened last night…

The water in your tub was scalding, steam curling thick in the air as you braced one hand on the bathtub edge. Your head was tipped back, your breath uneven. You’d woken tangled in sweat-damp sheets, the phantom feel of his hands was still burning your skin. The dream had been too vivid—John’s mouth on your neck, his voice rough in your ear while he was fucking you from behind with that infuriating, knowing smirk.

You shouldn’t have. You did.

Your fingers found your folds, already wet from that perfect dream. You needed that bath to calm down, but you couldn’t help it; you felt so damn aroused. The dream played in your mind like an endless loop.

His hot mouth on your neck. Your fingers found your folds.

His hard thrusts in your pussy. Your fingers are doing circles around your clit.

His rough hands gripping tightly your hip and your neck, tilting your head back. You moaned, your fingers moving faster as two entered your pussy.

His so infuriating smirk and his voice whispering things to your ear while his cock ruins you faster and harder. “You like this, don’t you? You like being fucked like this by my cock.”

God.

Your release was sharp and intense, bitten off behind your teeth. Guiltless. Shameless. Just *his* name echoing in your skull like a taunt.

**The Kitchen, 2:47 AM**

After your bath, you went to the kitchen for water before going back to bed and finally sleeping peacefully. You didn’t know he was already there.

John froze mid-sip of coffee the second you walked in.

Your hair was damp from the bath, your hair loose, wearing that godforsaken thin sleep shirt that rode up your thighs and short shorts. And scent—soap, steam, and something warmer, muskier, unmistakable. His enhanced senses betrayed him instantly. His grip tightened on the mug.

Christ.

“Oh, hey,” you said quietly while you went for a glass of water.

“Hey,” he said with a raspy voice, almost hesitating.

“Insomnia?” you asked vaguely. Just making a quick conversation before you go to your room.

You noticed his hesitation again but he answered. “A nightmare.”

“Sorry.” You said at the same time you passed in front of him and filled the glass. It all happened too fast. You saw and felt him breathe deep in the exact moment your body passed in front of him.

You saw him close his eyes for a second as he took in your scent. His body tensed instantly and you swore you saw his pupils dilate a little.

You would never have understood what happened at that moment if a small glimpse of his thoughts had not appeared in your mind.

The thought was loud, unbidden, clear.

She… her scent. Warm. Sweet. Arousal.

Fuck.

You paused, your telepathy brushed the edges of his mind before you could stop it. Just a flicker—but it was enough.

Oh.

You snapped the connection shut immediately, your cheeks flushed. You didn’t mean to pry. But now you knew: he knew.

Your eyes met at the counter.

John’s gaze was dark, predatory. He put the mug down with deliberate calm. “And you? A little late for a shower, don’t you think?”

Bastard, he wanted to investigate, to know more. A shy smile and a thought crossed your mind. Why don’t you have fun with this? He already knew.

You swallowed a little loudly. “Oh, I needed it.” You turned and stopped in front of him, the glass of water in your hand, and you looked up at him. “I had… sweet dreams.” You whispered to him, like telling a secret, just for him.

His smile disappeared, his jaw clenched and his breath hitched.

He understood what you meant. Of course he did. So you smirked and turned, walking lazily to your room. “Sweet dreams to you too, Walker.” You said without turning to see him.

He stood there for a while, frozen, thinking about what had just happened. You practically had told him you had wet dreams and he knew you had touched yourself. He smelled it.

And God, he shouldn’t have, but he wished he could feel that sweet scent again, and to know more about those dreams that made you do that.

So this morning, that smirk of his means that he was thinking and remembering the events of last night. Of course he did.

You arched a brow, refusing to let him see how that tone sent a shiver down your spine. “Like a baby. And I’m not a witch”

His smirk deepened. “Funny. I didn’t sleep at all.”

The implication was clear. You did this to me. And now it’s your turn.

“Another nightmare? you look tense,” you said innocently.

“You have no idea.” He said, his tone was low now.

You should’ve walked away. You would have, if you were smarter. But the thrill of the game was too intoxicating. So you stepped closer instead, tilting your head. “Maybe you need to work off some of that… tension.”

His gaze darkened. “Oh, I plan to.”

The words were a threat. A vow.

And you realized, with a rush of heat, that you wanted him to make good on it. You smiled sweetly at him, your teeth biting a shiny red apple. “Good luck with that.” You said smiling before you walked away, letting him alone with his thoughts and feelings.

Day after day, things started to escalate. It became a silent, vicious dance, pushing a little more.

A brush of fingers when passing a coffee mug. A lingering stare when the other wasn’t looking. A strategically placed hand on the small of your back as he moved past you in the hallway, just firm enough to make your breath catch.

John was relentless.

And you gave as good as you got.

You wore tighter clothes, lower necklines, let your hair fall just so when you knew he was watching. You bent over consoles in front of him, stretched in ways that made his jaw clench, let your telepathy skim the surface of his thoughts just to hear the filth he imagined doing to you.

You knew you shouldn’t hear his thoughts. It wasn’t right. You always said that you had to respect people’s privacy, and as a telepath, that includes not entering into their minds. And you always respect it. Until now.

Because after that night when you accidentally heard his thoughts, just a little bit, enough for you to know that he knew what you did. And now, you can’t stop. You wanted more. Just a peek.

This game was intoxicating. It was maddening.

It was dangerous.

And it was only a matter of time before one of you broke.

The storm hit during a mission. Rain lashed against the windows of the Quinjet as it cut through the night sky, the team returning from a routine extraction that had gone sideways. Bucky was in the cockpit with Yelena, Ava, and Bob were checking gear, and Alexei was already snoring in the back.

Which left John and you alone in the middle of the jet.

Drenched, bruised, adrenaline still singing in your veins.

You were peeling off your soaked gloves when you felt his presence behind you. Close. Too close.

“You almost got shot today,” he said, voice low.

You turned, arching a brow. “I had it under control.”

His eyes burned. “Like hell you did.”

There was something raw in his voice. Anger, yes, but something else. Something that made your pulse jump.

You smirked. “Worried about me, Walker?”

His hand shot out, gripping your wrist, pulling you closer. The sudden contact sent a jolt through you. His breath was warm against your damp skin, his body radiating heat despite the chill of your soaked uniforms.

“Try that shit again,” he growled, “and I’ll put you over my knee myself.”

Your lips parted. Not in protest. In anticipation. You looked at him a little surprised, your heart hammered in your chest.

He was angry, his gaze burned into yours. He wasn’t playing this time, he was being honest, dangerously honest. He was worried about you and he made it clear. And God, you loved that intensity in him.

The air between you crackled.

And then—

The cockpit door slid open.

“Stop eye-fucking and strap in,” Yelena called, not even looking back. “We’re landing.”

John released you like you’d burned him. But the look in his eyes promised one thing:

This was just getting started.

You just looked at him when he got out of the quinjet. He didn’t look back.

Back at the tower, you retreated to your room, heart pounding.

You should stop this. It was reckless. Dangerous.

But God, you craved it.

Meanwhile, John stood at his window, staring out at the storm.

He had crossed a line tonight. He let out his sincere concern about you. And instead of regretting it, all he could think was that he knew he was playing with fire too, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.

The next day, the common room hummed with late-afternoon lethargy. Sunlight streamed through the panoramic windows, catching dust motes dancing in the air. Ava was meticulously cleaning her ghost suit gauntlets at the table, the soft *hiss-whirr* of compressed air a rhythmic counterpoint. Yelena lounged on the sofa, flipping through a fashion magazine with the intense scrutiny usually reserved for mission briefings, occasionally twirling a small, wicked-looking knife absently. Bob sat cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, engrossed in a thick, new hardcover book. You sat opposite him in an armchair, nursing a mug of tea, idly watching the city below.

John lingered near the doorway, pretending to review mission files, but his attention was locked onto the conversation.

Bob suddenly snapped his book shut with a satisfied sigh. "Interesting," he announced. "Did you know recurring dream motifs can be directly linked to unprocessed shame stimuli?"

Yelena didn't look up from her magazine. "Is this going to involve charts, Bob? My brain is allergic before 5 PM."

"Not charts, Yelena! Just... profound implications." Bob turned his earnest gaze towards you. "Y/N, you deal with minds directly. Telepathy. Dreams are subconscious landscapes, aren't they? Like... internal archives?"

You took a slow sip of your tea, your silver eyes thoughtful. "In a way. Though navigating them isn't exactly recreational reading."

"Oh, absolutely." Bob nodded vigorously. "The ethical quandaries alone! It made me think... back during the Void incident." His voice dropped slightly, a shadow passing over his usually open face. "When it... pushed me... I didn't just see people's fears. Sometimes, it was shame. Deep, personal shame. Things people buried so deep..." He shuddered slightly. "It was... invasive. Violent. Not pleasant at all."

Your expression softened with understanding. "No," you agreed quietly, setting your mug down. "Entering someone's mind uninvited, brushing against their rawest thoughts, their hidden shames... It's never pleasant. It's a violation. Even accidentally." You met his gaze. "It's not a power I use lightly, or willingly, for that kind of... exploration."

Bob tilted his head, curiosity overcoming the brief gloom. "But... you can? Read thoughts, I mean? Like... right now? Could you, hypothetically, know what we're all thinking?" He gestured vaguely around the room – encompassing Ava, Yelena, and himself.

Ava paused her gauntlet cleaning, her head tilting slightly, her expression unreadable but intensely focused. Yelena slowly lowered her magazine, the knife pausing mid-twirl. Both pairs of eyes were fixed on you.

You leaned back in your chair, a slow, enigmatic smile spreading across your lips. You let the silence stretch for a beat, watching the sudden tension coil in the room. Bob looked fascinated, Ava wary, Yelena... calculating.

"Oh, absolutely, Bob," you said, your voice smooth as silk, your silver eyes glinting with mischief. "All the time. Constantly. Like background noise." You let your gaze drift slowly from Bob to Ava, then land pointedly on Yelena. "I know all your dirty little secrets. Every last, filthy, deliciously dark thought flitting through those brilliant, twisted minds of yours right this second."

The effect was instantaneous and profound.

Bob flinched as if physically struck, his face draining of color. His book slipped from his fingers with a soft *thump*. He looked utterly horrified, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

Ava went preternaturally still. Her knuckles whitened around the gauntlet she was holding.

Yelena merely arched one eyebrow. The knife resumed its lazy twirl, but her eyes narrowed, cold and analytical, dissecting your expression. A faint, predatory smile touched her own lips, challenging.

The room felt suddenly airless. The playful atmosphere had evaporated, replaced by a thick, icy dread. Bob looked like he might be sick. Ava looked ready to phase through the floor. Yelena looked... intrigued.

You held the tableau for one more heartbeat, savoring the delicious panic you'd unleashed. Then, you tilted your head back and laughed – a rich, genuine sound that shattered the tension like glass.

"Your faces!" You gasped between laughs, wiping a non-existent tear from your eye. "I'm kidding! Mostly." Your laughter subsided into a warm chuckle. "Honestly, the lot of you. Jumpy."

Bob exhaled explosively, slumping forward and grabbing his book like a shield. "Y/N! That was... terrifying!"

Ava slowly released her grip on the gauntlet, the tension easing from her shoulders, though her eyes remained watchful. "Not funny," she stated flatly, but a hint of reluctant relief touched her voice.

Yelena snorted.” Bullshit. You’ve definitely peeked.”

You shrugged, unrepentant. ”Only when you think really loud.” You said playfully.

Then you smiled, picking your tea back up, your expression turning serious again, though the amusement lingered. "But, to answer your actual question, Bob: Yes, I could. But," you emphasized, your gaze sweeping over all three of them, "it would be a gross violation. Privacy isn't just a concept; it's sacred. I wouldn't peek into your minds any more than I'd rifle through your underwear drawers." You took a sip of tea.

"Unless," you added with a faint, sharp glint returning to your eyes, "it was a matter of life, death, or stopping one of you from doing something catastrophically stupid. Or, when you are thinking too loud, like shouting, those times it´s more difficult to not hear, but that rarely happens so, all bets are off."

Bob nodded vigorously, clutching his book. "Understood. Life, death, not mind shouting or catastrophic stupidity only! Boundaries noted." He looked profoundly relieved, but also deeply thoughtful about the implications.

Yelena just smirked, returning to her magazine. "Good to know where the line is. Try not to cross it." The unspoken challenge hung in the air: Or else.

The group dissolved into laughter, the tension easing—except for one person.

John stood frozen near the door, his grip tightening on the datapad.

You could read minds. Of course. How didn’t he think about this before?

Which meant… You could have heard his.

Every filthy, desperate, unhinged thought he’d had about you. Every time he imagined you bent over the training mats, every dark fantasy of you gasping his name, every time he’d mentally undressed you in the middle of a damn briefing—

Oh, fuck.

His pulse spiked.

But then… a slow, dangerous realization crept in.

If you hadn’t already heard his thoughts… maybe you would now.

And if you had? Well. That just meant you knew exactly what he wanted.

Either way, he could use this. He could have fun with the interesting information he had now.

And you, your mind was a war right now. Your gaze was lost through the window. You talked about boundaries and privacy… It was funny the way you said you wouldn’t read your teammates' thoughts because of that. But you knew the truth.

You have already broken your own rule.

The next morning, at 5:30 AM, you walked into the kitchen for a bottle of water before going running. You found John already there, leaning against the counter, shirtless, drinking coffee like some kind of goddamn romance novel cover.

You arched a brow. “You’re up early.”

He didn’t even glance at you. ” Couldn’t sleep.”

Liar.

You could feel the tension rolling off him, the deliberate way he was holding himself still, like he was restraining something.

He noticed your dark sports bra and those black leggings that traced your curves so perfectly.

You were going to leave.

Then—

” You ever peek into my head, Witch?”

The question was casual. Too casual.

You looked at him suspiciously. ”Do you want to know?”

His lips twitched. ”Yeah. I do.”

You smirked. ”Maybe I have. Maybe I haven’t.”

He finally turned his head, his gaze searing into you. ” Guess you’ll never know for sure.” You smiled.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he let his eyes trail down your body—lingering on your breasts, your hips, your long legs, the curve of your lips—before meeting your gaze again.

God, his gaze.

And thought, loud and clear, right at you:

” Unless you’re in there right now.”

Your breath caught, your eyes widened a little bit. Because you were.

And what you found was filthy.

Bastard.

All he was thinking of was in the rough way he would rip off those leggings of yours, lifting you onto the kitchen counter and making you scream his name right there.

You shut your eyes instantly and got out of his mind. You practically run out of the kitchen with your heart beating too fast.

He stood there, grinning like a maniac. He saw every detail of your reaction, and of course, he had heard your heartbeat. He felt like a victory. And it was a victory, actually.

He chuckled before leaving the kitchen, walking directly to the gym. I feel fucking amazing he thought.

That fucking grin was on his face all day.

You had always prided yourself on control.

But this? This was warfare. And you were losing it.

From that day, John didn’t just let his thoughts run wild—he directed them at you like a weapon.

You didn’t do it on purpose, well, sometimes you did, but most of the time, his thoughts appeared in your mind because they were too loud. And when you lost focus, it was worse.

He thought about you every time he looked at you, in every place you shared. You couldn’t deny it, deep down you loved it. But it was getting difficult not to react to those thoughts.

The rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* of your fists against the heavy bag filled the gym’s air. You were lost in the punishing rhythm, sweat plastering dark strands of hair to your temples, the black sports bra and leggings doing little to hide the powerful flex of your back and shoulders with each strike. Focus. You needed focus. Especially when he walked in.

Shit.

John Walker sauntered into the gym, his presence immediately disrupting the energy. He didn’t look at you directly, but you felt the shift, the predatory awareness. He headed straight for the pull-up bar mounted near your bag station. Of course he did.

He gripped the bar, knuckles white, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his grey tank top taut. Without preamble, he began. Slow, deliberate, powerful. Each pull-up was a showcase of raw strength and control. His back muscles – lats like wings, traps like corded steel, the deep groove of his spine – rippled and bunched beneath the sweat-dampened cotton with every ascent. His descent was equally controlled, a testament to the sheer power coiled in his frame.

You tried to ignore him. *Thump.* Jab. *Thump.* Cross. *Thump.* Hook. But your rhythm faltered. Your eyes kept flickering, drawn against your will to the sheer physicality of him. The way his biceps strained the sleeves, the definition in his forearms, the sweat starting to darken the fabric across his chest and back. You felt a familiar, unwelcome heat prickle under your own skin.

He knew. Oh, he knew. You could feel the satisfaction radiating off him even without your telepathy. He loved this. Loved making you look. Loved forcing you to acknowledge the power he wielded so effortlessly, the body he knew drove you crazy. A low grunt escaped him on the tenth rep, a sound that vibrated in the charged air and sent an unwanted shiver down your spine.

Focus.

He dropped from the bar after fifteen perfect reps, landing lightly. He grabbed his water bottle, taking a long swig, his eyes finally meeting yours over the rim. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, over the sharp line of his jaw. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a slow, deliberate movement.

“Problem, Y/N?” he called out, his voice rough from exertion but laced with that infuriating, knowing amusement. “Bag giving you trouble? Need a spot?”

You gritted your teeth, channeling your frustration into a vicious combo against the bag. *Thump-thump-THUMP!* “Just working off some frustration, Walker,” you retorted, your voice tight. “Unlike some people, I don’t need an audience for my workout.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that did nothing to cool you down. “Who said I needed an audience?” he countered, stepping closer. He was still breathing deeply, the tank top clinging obscenely. “Just getting warmed up.” He paused, his gaze raking over you, lingering on the sweat-slicked skin of your shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of your chest. Then, with a deliberate slowness designed to maximize the impact, he grabbed the hem of his tank top.

He pulled it off in one smooth motion.

Son of a bitch.

Your breath hitched. God. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating the sculpted perfection of his bare torso. Sweat sheened over defined pectorals, ridged abs like carved stone, the powerful V-cut leading down. Water droplets traced paths over hard muscle, catching the light. He ran a hand through his damp blonde hair, making the muscles in his arm and shoulder flex gloriously. He wasn’t just fit; he was a fucking masterpiece of strength, and he knew it. Arrogance radiated off him like heat.

He tossed the damp shirt aside, a smirk playing on his lips as he turned back to the pull-up bar. He didn’t get back on immediately. He just stood there, letting you look your fill, radiating pure, unadulterated male confidence. Then, he gripped the bar again.

“See something you like, witch?” The thought slammed into your mind, loud, clear, and deliberately projected. It wasn’t just words; it was accompanied by a vivid, filthy image: his hands sliding over the sweat-slicked skin of your back, pulling you against that bare, hard chest, his mouth finding the pulse hammering in your throat. ‘Bet you taste like victory.’

You gasped, staggering back a step from the bag as if physically struck. Your face flushed crimson, not just from exertion but from the raw, intrusive heat of his mental provocation. The heavy bag swung wildly on its chain from your abandoned punch. Your silver eyes were wide, locked on him, a mixture of fury, shock, and undeniable arousal you couldn’t hide.

John saw it all. The stumble, the flush, the dilated pupils. He began his pull-ups again, slower this time, each powerful contraction of his back and arms a blatant display. His smirk widened into a full, cocky grin as he met your gaze mid-ascent. He didn’t need to say another word. His thoughts, loud and clear, were weapon enough: ‘Yeah. That’s what I thought. Falling apart already? And I haven’t even touched you yet.’

Breath. Focus, damn it!

He reveled in it. The power he had over you in that moment, the way he could shatter your focus with just his body and the dark heat of his thoughts. It was an intoxicating game, and he was winning. His arrogance was a palpable force as he continued his relentless, showy pull-ups, daring you to look away, knowing you couldn’t.

You breathe deeply and force yourself back to the heavy bag, planting your feet, driving your fists into the leather with renewed, almost desperate, force. *Thump. Thump. THUMP.* Each impact echoed the frantic beat of your own heart.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to build a mental wall, brick by psychic brick. Don’t listen. Don’t feel. Don’t look. But John’s presence was a physical weight, a magnetic field pulling at your senses. And his thoughts… they weren’t just background noise anymore; they were a targeted assault.

He dropped from the bar again, landing with a soft thud just a few feet away. He didn’t immediately resume. Instead, he grabbed a towel, slowly wiping the sweat from his face, his neck, his chest. The movement was deliberate, hypnotic. The sunlight caught the water droplets clinging to the hard planes of his abdomen. ‘Focus achieved,’ his voice purred in your mind, echoing your own caption from the texts, laced with dark amusement.

You gritted your teeth, throwing a vicious hook.

‘Imagine this,’ his mental voice cut through your concentration, low and intimate. ‘This sweat? It’d taste like salt on your tongue. Right here.’ A vivid image flooded your senses: not just the thought of you licking the hollow of his throat, but the phantom sensation – the heat of his skin, the tang of salt, the pulse beating beneath your lips. It was so visceral, so real, your breath hitched mid-punch, throwing your rhythm off completely. The bag swung wildly.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in the charged air. He moved closer, ostensibly to grab a weight from the rack near your station. His bare arm brushed yours as he reached past you. A jolt of electricity shot through you at the contact, amplified tenfold by the telepathic onslaught.

‘Your skin against mine…’ The thought was a caress, rough and possessive. ‘That little gasp you make when I pin you…’ Another image: not the gym mat, but your quarters. His body pressing yours against the door, his mouth hot on your neck, your head falling back with that exact gasp. ‘I’d make you say my name. Beg for it.’

“Stop it!” The words ripped from your throat, raw and furious. You whirled around, abandoning the bag, your silver eyes blazing. Your chest heaved, your face flushed crimson with a potent mix of anger and unwanted arousal. You pointed a trembling finger at him. “Just… stop!”

John feigned wide-eyed innocence, dropping the weight he’d picked up with a clang. He held his hands up, palms out, the picture of bewildered confusion. “Stop what, Y/N? Breathing? Existing within fifty feet of you?” His voice was smooth, but his eyes held a predatory gleam. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m just working out. You seem a little… distracted today. Everything okay?”

The sheer audacity, the blatant lie wrapped in mock concern, was infuriating. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was toying with you, using his mind as a weapon because he knew you couldn’t fully block him, knew he could make you feel things you desperately tried to hide. The frustration boiled over, hot and suffocating. You couldn’t prove it. He hadn’t said anything out loud. It was your word against his… and your own traitorous reactions.

Before you could unleash the torrent of words burning your tongue, the gym door hissed open. Bucky Barnes walked in, instantly sensing the nuclear tension in the room. His gaze flickered between you, vibrating with barely contained fury and humiliation, and John, standing shirtless and radiating smug, arrogant satisfaction.

“Everything alright in here?” Bucky asked, his voice flat, his eyes narrowing at John.

You didn’t give John a chance to spin another lie. With a final, searing glare that promised retribution, you snatched your towel and water bottle. “Fine,” you spat, the word dripping with venom. You shoved past Bucky without another word, storming out of the gym, the door slamming shut behind you with a force that made the weights rattle.

Silence descended, thick and heavy. Bucky turned his full attention to John, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression was pure, weary disapproval. “What the hell did you do to her now, Walker?”

John watched the door where you had vanished for a beat. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned back to the pull-up bar. He gripped it, his back muscles flexing powerfully as he hoisted himself up. He didn’t look at Bucky. He just began another set of slow, controlled pull-ups, the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining beautifully.

A wide, utterly unrepentant grin spread across John’s face, sharp and triumphant. He met Bucky’s disapproving stare mid-ascent, sweat dripping from his chin, his eyes alight with fierce, cocky victory. He didn’t need to answer. The grin said it all.

He’d gotten to you. Deeply. Viscerally. He’d made the cool, controlled Y/N lose her composure completely. He’d made you feel, made you react, made you run. And the knowledge that he could, that he had that power over you… It was the most potent drug he’d ever experienced.

He was winning. And the game had never been more exhilarating.

The bastard had no compassion. He didn’t miss an opportunity.

Bucky was talking about infiltration routes on the main holoscreen in the meeting room. Yelena looked bored, Ava attentive, Alexei snored softly, Bob took meticulous notes. You sat across from John, trying to focus on the schematics.

He leaned back, fingers steepled, looking thoughtfully at the map. His mind, however, was a filthy open book aimed directly at you.

’ That pencil you’re tapping… imagine it tracing a path down your spine instead. Slow. Deliberate.’

The pencil in your hand snapped clean in half. You flinched, dropping the pieces. “Clumsy,” you muttered, avoiding Bucky’s brief glance.

’ Wonder if the table’s cold. Bet you’d gasp if I pushed you back onto it right now. Right here. While Barnes talks about sewer access.’

A vivid image flooded your mind: your legs wrapping around his waist, the holoscreen casting blue light on their tangled forms, stifled moans against his shoulder.

Your knuckles turned white gripping the edge of the table. The broken pencil pieces trembled, then slowly lifted an inch off the surface. The overhead lights flickered erratically. Ava frowned, glancing up.

He continued. ’Could make you forget your own name before Bucky finishes this slide. Just a touch. Right… there.’

He mentally focused on the sensitive spot just below your ear.

A water glass near Bob trembled violently, sloshing water over the rim. The flickering lights surged brightly, making Alexei jerk awake with a snort. “Voltage problem?” he grumbled.

“Y/N?” Bucky paused, concern etched on his face. “You alright? You look pale.”

You forced a shaky breath, slamming your shields down with monumental effort. The pencil pieces and glass clattered down. The lights stabilized. “Fine, Bucky. Just… tired. Didn’t sleep well. Please continue.” you refused to look at John, but the furious heat radiating from you was palpable. John just sipped his coffee, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

Even in the elevator.

The doors slid shut, trapping you, John, Bob, and Alexei in the cramped space heading down to the garage. Alexei hummed tunelessly. Bob adjusted his hoodie.

He stood deliberately close behind you, his chest almost brushing your back. The scent of his soap and sweat filled your personal space.

You closed your eyes trying to be still and calm.

’So small in here. Nowhere to run. Bet I could make you come undone before we hit sub-level 2. Just my hand… sliding under your shirt…’ He projected the sensation of calloused fingers skimming your bare stomach, moving upwards.

You stiffened, your breath catching audibly. A tiny spark jumped from the elevator control panel with a sharp zap.

Alexei sighed. “Huh. Static.”

’Imagine Bob and Alexei hearing you try to stay quiet. The little whimpers you’d bite back…’ The mental image was excruciatingly vivid and dangerous.

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. The elevator lights dimmed significantly.

’ Your heart’s racing. I can hear it. Like a trapped bird. Makes me want to trap you harder.’ He let the thought linger, heavy with dark promise.

As the lights dipped again, Bob looked nervously at the panel. Alexei just shrugged. John caught your furious reflection in the polished elevator doors. His grin was wide, triumphant, and utterly indecent.

“Walker, why you grinning like cat who stole cream?” Alexei boomed, oblivious. “See funny meme?”

John chuckled, the sound low and intimate in the small space. “Just appreciating the engineering, Alexei. Smooth ride.” His eyes never left your reflection. You looked like you wanted to phase through the floor.

He was pushing too far, but he couldn’t stop. He wanted more.

It was the team’s movie night. Dim lights, explosions on screen, Alexei cheering, Ava engrossed, Bob drinking a Diet Coke, Yelena stealing popcorn. You sat rigidly on the couch, John a deliberate, tempting foot away on the same couch. His thigh brushed yours whenever he shifted.

John had been relatively quiet, mentally. He let the proximity, the shared blanket Yelena had tossed over them (much to your silent horror), and the occasional brush of his arm do the work. You were strung tight as a wire, hypersensitive, already sweating, waiting for the blow.

During a quiet scene, he leaned over as if to grab more popcorn. His lips brushed your ear, a whisper only you could hear, but the thought he projected alongside it detonated like a bomb: ’Your body is betraying you. I can smell you. Right through the blanket. Sweet. Hot. Needy.’

Your eyes widened. It was too much. The weeks of torment, the public humiliation, the raw, unwanted arousal he constantly provoked, the intimacy of the scent he’d detected – it overloaded your fragile control. Your telekinesis erupted violently.

The massive popcorn bowl in Yelena’s lap exploded, showering everyone in kernels. Two lamps flanking the couch shattered simultaneously, plunging half the room into darkness. The holoscreen fizzed and died. A decorative vase on a shelf across the room imploded with a sharp crack.

Alexei roared in surprise. Bob yelped, covered in popcorn. Ava phased instinctively. Bucky jumped up. “What the hell?!”

Eyes darted at you.

You doubled over on the couch, hands clawing at your temples, a low, agonized groan escaping you. You weren’t hurt by the debris; it was the psychic backlash, the utter loss of control, the humiliation.

“I… I’m sorry!” you gasped, voice trembling violently. You shoved the blanket off, staggering to your feet, avoiding the stunned, popcorn-dusted faces. “Migraine!” You practically ran from the room.

Yelena wiped popcorn from her hair, her gaze laser-focused not on you, but on John. He hadn’t flinched during the explosion. He sat perfectly still in the semi-darkness, the flickering light from the hallway catching the lingering, satisfied curve of his smirk. It wasn’t concern on his face; it was the look of a man who’d finally achieved his goal. Yelena’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Migraine, my ass,” she muttered, her voice cutting through the shocked silence. John’s smirk widened fractionally, saying nothing. He didn’t need to. He’d pushed you to the edge, and the explosion had been spectacular.

The silence was the worst part. For days, you offered no retaliation. No sharp telepathic jabs, no lingering stares heavy with unspoken challenge. You moved through the tower with cool indifference, treating John with the same detached professionalism you’d show Bob or Ava. It unnerved him. He’d braced for an escalation, a psychic scream, something – but got only frosty silence. He started to wonder if he’d finally pushed too far, if the game was over. A hollow, unfamiliar feeling settled in his chest – disappointment, sharp and unwelcome. Maybe he had won. Maybe he’d disgusted you into retreat.

Oh, John. You sweet, arrogant fool.

He didn’t see the trap until it was sprung inside his own mind.

The silence in the tower these past few days had been a balm. After the constant, grating friction, the explosive arguments, the charged silences that felt like live wires, this… quiet… was almost unnerving. John Walker stood under the spray of his shower, letting the near-scalding water beat down on the knotted muscles of his neck and shoulders. Steam billows around him, thick and comforting, fogging the glass enclosure.

He exhaled, a long, slow breath that felt like it carried weeks of tension out with it. The mission debrief was done. The paperwork (mostly) filed. No urgent alerts blared. No Y/N-shaped storm cloud hovered on the horizon, hurling psychic barbs or incendiary glares his way. You’d been… quiet. Remarkably, blessedly quiet. Neutral, even.

But that was just the calm before the storm.

A smug satisfaction, warm and lazy, spread through him as he lathered soap over his chest. Finally. He’d weathered your retaliations, matched your blow for blow, psychic and otherwise. He’d held his ground. And now? Silence. Peace. Victory. The thought settled in his mind, solid and undeniable. He’d won the war. Y/N, formidable as you were, had finally conceded. Or at least, called a truce he was more than happy to accept. The corner of his mouth lifted in a self-congratulatory smirk. He’d earned this hot shower, this quiet evening.

He took his time. The water sluiced away grime and lingering adrenaline, leaving his skin flushed and tingling. He lingered under the spray, replaying the lack of conflict, the absence of your challenging presence. It felt good. Damn good. Like reclaiming territory.

Stepping out, he grabbed a thick, absorbent towel, rubbing it roughly over his hair and then down his body. The cool air of the bathroom raised goosebumps, a pleasant contrast to the shower’s heat. He pulled on a pair of soft, grey sweatpants, the fabric comfortable against his skin. No shirt. The room was warm enough.

Padding barefoot into his dimly lit bedroom, the quiet hum of the tower felt soothing, not oppressive. He flicked off the main light, leaving only the soft glow of the city filtering through the panoramic window. The bed looked inviting. He slid between the cool sheets with a grunt of pure contentment, settling back against the pillows. The quiet was profound. His own. He closed his eyes, the smug certainty of his victory the last conscious thought before sleep began to pull him under.

Across the hall, in a room bathed in soft, ambient light, you sat cross-legged in the center of your bed. You weren’t relaxing. You weren’t sleeping.

Your posture was unnervingly still, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your knees. Your long black hair fell loose around your shoulders, framing a face that was a mask of eerie calm. But your eyes… your silver eyes glowed with an unnatural, internal light, like captured moonlight or mercury swirling in the dark. A slow, dangerous smirk played on your lips, not reaching the fierce intensity of your gaze.

You weren’t reading a book. You weren’t meditating in the usual sense. You were focusing. A deep, thrumming energy vibrated just beneath your skin, contained but potent. Your telepathy was a finely tuned instrument, its focus narrowed to a single point: the mind slipping into unconsciousness in the room next door.

You felt the exact moment John’s conscious thoughts dissolved, replaced by the slower, deeper rhythms of sleep. The smug satisfaction he’d carried to bed was a fading echo. Now, his mind was vulnerable. Open.

Your smirk widened, a predator savoring the moment before the strike. Your retaliation hadn’t been absent these past quiet days. It had been brewing. Simmering. Gathering its strength. John Walker, lounging in his shower, basking in his imagined victory, hadn’t won a damn thing.

He’d merely wandered, blissfully unaware, into the absolute center of the hurricane.

The quiet was an illusion. The peace, a mirage. John Walker was asleep. And you, your eyes burning like cold stars in the dim room, were wide awake and ready to unleash the storm you’d meticulously prepared. His dreamscape wasn’t a sanctuary tonight. It was your battlefield. And you were about to make your final, devastating move. The silence in the Watchtower wasn’t peace.

It was the deep, resonant quiet of a bowstring drawn taut, aimed at the heart of his subconscious. You took a slow, deliberate breath, the glow in your eyes intensifying. The retaliation began.

The sensation pulled him from the depths of a dreamless sleep. Not sudden, but insidious. A warmth, soft and deliberate, spreads across his chest. Fingertips? Yes. Tracing the hard ridges of his abdomen, sliding upwards with agonizing slowness, mapping the planes of his pectorals, the dip of his collarbone. The touch was real, tangible, igniting trails of fire under his skin. He groaned, still submerged in sleep, arching slightly into the phantom caress.

Then, another touch. Cooler, at his neck. Fingers brushed the line of his jaw, the rough stubble, then slid into his hair. A thumb grazed his pulse point, feeling the frantic beat kick-start beneath it. Weight settled on his hips, firm and familiar. The scent – jasmine and ozone, uniquely yours – flooded his senses.

His eyes flew open.

You. Silhouetted against the faint city glow filtering through his window, straddling him. Your long black hair cascaded over one shoulder, your silver eyes gleaming like molten mercury in the darkness. You wore only a thin slip of silk, the shadowed curves of your body a maddening promise.

“Y/N… what…?” His voice was thick with sleep and raw desire, his hands instinctively finding your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the waistband of his own sleep pants.

“Shhh,” you breathed, pressing a finger to his lips. Your touch burned. “Close your eyes. Just feel me.” Your voice was a low purr, vibrating through his bones.

Compelled, mesmerized, he obeyed. Darkness returned, amplifying every sensation. Your hands became his entire world. One traced the powerful lines of his shoulders, down the corded muscle of his biceps, back up to tangle possessively in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a ragged gasp from him. The other continued its devastating exploration: the hard plane of his stomach, the sensitive skin just below his ribs, the curve of his pectoral muscle, her thumb brushing a nipple, making him arch off the bed with a choked sound. Your touch was worship and torment, achingly slow, building a pressure inside him that threatened to shatter his control.

This is all he has ever wanted.

You leaned forward, your warmth enveloping him. He felt the whisper of your breath against his lips, the phantom brush of your breasts against his chest. The scent of you, the heat radiating from your skin, the intoxicating weight of you on him – it was overwhelming, perfect torture. He tilted his head back, baring his throat, offering himself.

Your lips grazed the pulse hammering in his neck – not a kiss, just the ghost of contact – and he shuddered violently.

“John…” His name, breathed against his skin like a secret, a plea, a command.

It shattered him. With a guttural sound torn from deep within, he surged upwards, desperate to capture your lips, to finally claim the maddening phantom consuming him.

His eyes snapped open.

Darkness. The faint hum of the tower. The cool sheets tangled around his legs. The frantic, thunderous pounding of his own heart against his ribs.

He was alone. Panting. Sweat slicked his skin. Every nerve ending screamed, still echoing with the phantom touch, the phantom heat, the phantom weight of you. The ache in his groin was a brutal, physical demand. He looked wildly at the chrono on his bedside table: 04:48.

“Fuck!” The curse was ripped from him, raw and desperate. He slammed his fist onto the mattress. It had been a dream. A goddamn dream. So vivid, so real he could still smell you, feel the indent of your fingers on his skin. He ran a trembling hand over his face. Of course it was a dream. He’d been thinking about you constantly, obsessively. His subconscious had just… supplied the details with cruel, hyper-realistic clarity. It made sense. It had to be.

He threw back the sheets, the cool air doing nothing to douse the fire under his skin. He needed a shower. A very cold shower. Again. Now. He stumbled towards the bathroom, his body still humming with the desperate, unfulfilled need you’d so expertly conjured.

In your own room, you let out a slow, satisfied breath. Your eyes were closed, a faint sheen of sweat on your own brow. Projecting that intricate, sustained sensory illusion – weaving touch, scent, sound, and the overwhelming presence of yourself into the fabric of his sleeping mind – had taken immense focus. It wasn’t just showing him images; it was making him feel you. Every phantom caress, every breath, every shift of weight – you’d crafted it, sustained it, felt the echo of his reactions vibrate back through the psychic link like live wires.

You’d felt the moment he surrendered, the raw, unchecked desire flooding him. You’d felt his pulse race under your projected touch, heard the choked sounds he made, experienced the desperate surge when he tried to kiss you. The power was intoxicating. A slow, predatory smirk curved your lips, sharp and dangerous in the dim light.

He thought it was just a dream born of his own obsession. He thought he was safe in his confusion, in his cold shower.

He thought you were done.

You opened your silver eyes, the ghost of his phantom touch still tingling on your own fingertips. The game had just entered a new, far more intimate arena. And John Walker had no idea who he was really playing with.

Let him simmer in that frustration, you thought, the smirk deepening. Let him drown in the memory of a touch that wasn’t real… yet.

Retaliation wasn’t just about anger anymore. It was about control. It was about making him crave the very thing he fought against. It was about turning his own desire and obsession into your sharpest weapon.

The war was far from over.

The air in the Watchtower common room the next morning was thick with unspoken electricity. You sat curled on the oversized couch, cradling a steaming mug of coffee. Your posture radiated a serene, almost unnerving calm. The faintest hint of a satisfied smile played at the corners of your lips as you watched the city wake through the panoramic windows. Inside, the echo of John’s desperate arousal, the phantom sensation of his skin under your projected touch, still thrummed like a low, pleasant hum. Control tasted sweet.

Yelena bustled into the kitchen area, grabbing her own mug. The silence was broken only by the gurgle of the coffee maker and the soft hum of the tower systems. Then, John Walker appeared in the doorway.

He looked like hell. Shadows bruised the skin beneath bloodshot eyes. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked visibly. Every line of his body screamed exhaustion and coiled, frustrated tension. He moved with a stiff, jerky gait, bypassing both women without a word or a glance, heading straight for the coffee pot. The usual arrogant swagger was replaced by a raw, simmering edge.

Yelena’s blonde brow arched nearly to her hairline. She watched him pour coffee with hands that trembled slightly, then drain half the scalding mug in one long, desperate gulp. He winced, either from the heat or the sheer act of forcing liquid into his hollowed-out state.

“Rough night?” Yelena drawled, leaning against the counter, her tone laced with knowing amusement.

John didn’t answer. Just grunted, a low, animal sound of pure aggravation. He slammed the empty mug down on the counter with unnecessary force, the clatter loud in the quiet room. His gaze, when it finally flickered towards the couch, landed on you. It wasn’t the heated challenge of before. It was darker, more confused, haunted by the lingering sensory ghosts of his dream. He quickly looked away, a muscle flexing in his cheek, before turning on his heel and stalking towards the gym, his movements radiating pent-up energy with nowhere to go.

Yelena’s gaze followed him, sharp and calculating. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned her head to look at you. The telepath met her gaze, your expression carefully neutral, but your silver eyes held a depth Yelena recognized instantly – the cool satisfaction of a predator who’d just landed a perfect strike.

“God,” Yelena muttered under her breath, a smirk finally breaking through. She grabbed her coffee and sauntered over to the couch, dropping down beside you with feline grace. She leaned in conspiratorially.

“Alright, Y/N. Out with it.” Yelena’s voice was low, her eyes gleaming. “What did you do to him now? He looks like he wrestled a bear and lost. Badly. And then dreamed about it. Repeatedly.” She took a sip of coffee, watching you closely then sighed. “This little game of yours? It’s getting pathetic. And boring. For the rest of us.”

You took a slow, deliberate sip of your own coffee, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “Game? I have no idea what you mean, Yelena. Perhaps John just had a… restless night.” your lips curved in a hint of a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Happens to the best of us.”

Yelena snorted. “Restless? He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week and spent the night running laps in hell. The tension between you two is thicker than Alexei’s borscht and twice as likely to give someone indigestion.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Look, I get it. The bickering, the heat… It’s fun. For a while. But this?” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the gym, where the rhythmic, punishing thuds of fists hitting a heavy bag had already started. “This is just stupid. You’re both adults. Sort of. Mostly. So sort it out. Or,” she added, a wicked glint in her eyes, “let us sort it out for you. Lock you in a storage closet. Or the armory. Somewhere soundproof. Let you either finally fuck or kill each other. Either way, the rest of us win. Peace and quiet.”

You merely arched an eyebrow, maintaining your facade of calm. “How dramatic. We work together just fine, Yelena.”

“Fine?” Yelena scoffed. “You ‘work together’ like two scorpions in a bottle. One wrong move…” She made a sharp stabbing motion with her finger. “*Pfft*. Explosion.” She finished her coffee in one decisive gulp. “This is ridiculous. Someone needs to intervene before you give us all an aneurysm.” She stood up, stretching languidly. “Consider this your warning, Y/N. The adults are taking over.”

Yelena found Bucky in the operations room, meticulously cleaning a disassembled rifle. His expression was its usual stoic mask, but the slight tension around his eyes spoke volumes.

“Barnes,” Yelena announced, leaning against the doorway. “We have a problem. Two problems. Specifically, Problem A and Problem B are currently trying to murder gym equipment and pretending they don’t fantasize about murdering each other. Or… you know. The other thing.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Walker and Y/N.”

“Gold star for observation,” Yelena purred. “It’s reached critical levels of annoying. And potentially mission-compromising. Did you see him this morning? He looked like he’d been ridden hard and put away wet. By a ghost.”

Bucky sighed, finally setting down a rifle component. “What do you propose? Chain them together?”

“Close,” Yelena grinned. “Next week recon op in the Catskills. The old HYDRA sensor outpost. Intel suggests minimal hostilities, likely automated defenses. Low risk. Perfect for a two-person team.” Her grin widened. “Guess who gets to play nice together in the woods? Alone. With no annoying teammates to interrupt their… negotiations.”

Bucky stared at her. “You want to send Walker and Y/N on a solo op? Together? Voluntarily?”

“Not voluntarily,” Yelena corrected smoothly. “Assigned. By the mission coordinator. That’s you, by the way. Effective immediately. Tell them it’s a test of their ‘cooperative abilities’ or some other bullshit Val used to spout.” She pushed off the doorway. “Privacy, Barnes. That’s all they need. Either they’ll finally snap and resolve this tension with their fists or… well.” She winked. “The other kind of snapping. Either way, problem solved. For us.”

Bucky looked pained. “Yelena, this is a terrible idea. What if they do kill each other?”

“Then we have two fewer headaches,” Yelena shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “And we bill the government for cleanup. Win-win. Just assign the mission.” She patted his metal shoulder as she walked past. “Trust me. It’s for the greater good. Our greater good.”

Later that afternoon, mission briefings pinged on individual comms. You were in your quarters, methodically checking your gear – sleek black tactical suit, psi-dampening headband (mostly for show, a nod to privacy concerns), utility belt. Your mind was still replaying the delicious chaos you’d sewn in John’s subconscious. The notification lit up your screen: **MISSION BRIEFING: CATSKILLS SENSOR OUTPOST RECON. TEAM: WALKER, SLOANE. DEPARTURE: 0800 NEXT WEEK.**

You blinked. A solo op? With Walker? A slow, predatory smile spread across your face. Interesting. A challenge. An opportunity. Your telepathy brushed the edges of the tower’s awareness, catching the faint echo of John’s reaction in his own quarters – a surge of surprise, immediately followed by a wave of intense irritation, then�� something hotter, darker. Anticipation? Anger? Both?

Perfect, you thought, running a finger along the edge of a knife. Let’s see how well he sleeps tonight, knowing he’ll be alone with me in the woods in the next mission. The game was entering a new, tangible phase. No more phantoms. Just the two of you, miles from interference, and a whole lot of unresolved, dangerously escalating tension. Yelena’s meddling might just have handed you the perfect battlefield.

Across the hall, John stared at his own mission briefing, a scowl deepening on his exhausted face. A week ago, the thought of being alone with you would have been pure aggravation. Now? After the dream… after the constant, maddening awareness… it felt like walking into a trap. Or an invitation. He couldn’t tell which was more terrifying. He slammed a fist down on his desk. “Damn it.”

The Watchtower was silent in the dead of night, the hum of its systems a distant, mechanical lullaby. The city beyond the windows glittered like scattered embers, casting shifting shadows across the walls. You lay in your bed, restless, your silver eyes reflecting the ambient glow as you stared at the ceiling.

You should sleep. You *needed* to sleep. But you have work to do.

But the memory of John’s reaction the night before—his ragged breathing, the way his body had arched into your phantom touch, the raw, unfiltered want in his voice—had seared itself into your mind like a brand.

You told yourself it was just another move in your game. Another way to unbalance him, to torture him.

But the truth was far more dangerous.

You liked it.

Liked the power. Liked the control. Liked the way his pulse had jumped under your imagined fingers, the way his breath had hitched when you whispered in his ear.

And you wanted more. You have just gotten started.

With a slow exhale, you closed your eyes. And reached out.

John was peacefully asleep when it began.

His body, exhausted from the night before and frustrated tension, had finally succumbed to deep, dreamless oblivion.

Until it wasn’t dreamless anymore.

A weight settled on his hips again, warm and familiar. Soft hands traced the hard lines of his chest, fingertips skating over the ridges of his abdomen, the curve of his pectorals, the sensitive skin of his neck.

He stirred, a low groan escaping him before he even opened his eyes. His hands moved on instinct, finding the soft swell of your hips, gripping tight—possessive.

“Y/N…” His voice was rough with sleep, thick with desire.

His eyelids fluttered open, heavy-lidded, his vision blurred at the edges. But he didn’t need clarity to know it was you. The scent of jasmine and ozone, the heat of your skin, the way your body fit against his—his mind recognized you even before his eyes adjusted.

You leaned down, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

”You want me, John?” you asked sensually.

A shudder wracked his body, his fingers tightening on your hips hard enough to bruise.

”Yes.”

No hesitation. No pretense. Just raw, unfiltered hunger.

Your lips trailed up the column of his throat, not quite kissing, just the ghost of contact, the tease of your breath against his skin. He arched into it, a ragged sound tearing from his chest as your hips rolled against his in slow, deliberate circles.

One.

Two.

Three times.

His grip on you tightened even more, his own hips lifting off the bed to meet yours, chasing the friction, the heat.

Then—your tongue. A hot, wet stripe from the base of his neck to his jaw.

He moaned, the sound guttural, desperate. His body moved without thought, without restraint, lost in the sensation of you.

You pulled back just enough to look down at him, your silver eyes gleaming in the dim light. Your lips were parted, your breathing as uneven as his.

His gaze dropped to your chest, to the bare skin revealed by the thin fabric of your shirt.

Then—you pulled it off.

No bra.

Just smooth, flawless skin, the perfect curves of your breasts, the peaked nipples begging for his touch.

”You’re so damn beautiful,” he rasped, the words spilling out unbidden.

You smiled—slow, knowing—and took his hands in yours, guiding them up from your hips to your bare breasts.

His fingers flexed instinctively, kneading the soft flesh, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, eliciting a sharp gasp from you. Your head tipped back, exposing the elegant line of your throat, your body moving in rhythm with his touch.

The sight of you—undone, writhing above him—was almost too much.

“Jesus, you’re so sexy. You drive me so fucking insane,” he almost moaned the words.

His control was fraying, unraveling with every roll of your hips, every breathy sound you made.

You leaned down again, your lips hovering just above his.

”You want me, John?” you asked again, your voice a sinful purr.

”Yes.”

Your nails dragged down his chest, leaving fiery trails in their wake. He gasped.

”I didn’t hear you, John,” you teased, your hips moving faster now, grinding against him in a way that made his vision blur. ”You want me or not?” you demanded.

He growled, his grip on you tightening, his hips bucking up to meet yours with desperation.

”Yes! Fuck—yes, I want you so fucking badly!”

The admission tore from him, raw and unfiltered, his voice breaking on the words.

Your lips crashed onto his in a searing kiss, fierce and demanding, your tongue sliding against his in a mimicry of what both craved.

And then—

He woke up.

Gasping. Sweating. His heart was hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

The room was dark. Empty. He was alone.

His chest heaved as he dragged a hand down his face, his skin still burning from the phantom feel of you.

Then—he noticed. The dampness in his sweatpants.

”Shit.”

He threw an arm over his eyes, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

Another dream. Another goddamn dream.

But this one—this one had been worse. More vivid. More real.

And the worst part? He didn’t want it to stop.

Your eyes snapped open, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your skin flushed.

You could still feel the echo of his hands on you—no, not yours, the dream-you—the way his fingers had dug into your hips, the way his voice had broken when he admitted he wanted you.

Your lips tingled with the memory of his kiss.

Your body ached.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your thighs together, trying to ignore the throbbing need between them.

This was dangerous.

You were losing control.

And worse—you weren’t sure you cared.

The third night you were in your room, sitting with your legs crossed in your bed again. Waiting for him to fall asleep. You have something special for him tonight.

In his bedroom, he hesitated to go to sleep, but it was late and he was tired. The last two days he almost didn’t sleep at all. He felt frustrated and thought about them all the time. Those dreams felt strange, different, too… specific. He forced himself to stop thinking and just go to bed. He just wanted to sleep well, just one night. But he couldn’t help but think about whether he would dream about you again tonight. Deep down, he wanted to find you there.

He breathed slowly and deeply, and after a while, his exhausted body and mind allowed him to fall asleep.

And wasting no time, you were already there.

John finds himself standing at the foot of his own bed when he opens his eyes, disoriented at first—until his gaze lands on you stretched across his sheets.

You looked beautiful in his bed, he thought.

You were wearing nothing but a sheer white lace slip, the delicate fabric doing little to conceal the curves beneath. The soft peaks of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the shadow between your thighs—all laid bare for him in the dim light. Your silver eyes gleam as you watch him, your lips parted just slightly, a slow, knowing smirk playing at the corners.

You looked at him, biting your bottom lip. Your hands slowly touch the gray sheets.

“Mmm. Your bed is so comfortable,” you said lowly.

He followed the movements of your hands, your fingers tugging slightly on his sheets. He saw your teeth biting your lip.

Oh, he wanted those teeth on his skin.

His gaze follows the curves of your body, giving special attention to your long legs. He wondered how smooth and soft they would feel under his hands. How much pressure would he have to use to cause bruises? How would your thighs feel under his lips? Would you shiver? Would you moan?

God, he loves your thighs.

Then you began to move.

Your hands glide over your own body in a hypnotic, sensual dance—fingers tracing the swell of your breasts, skimming down your stomach, teasing along the lace hem of your slip. His breath hitches as you lift the fabric just enough to slip a hand beneath, your touch disappearing under the delicate barrier of your panties.

” This is for you, John,” you murmur, arching into your own touch.

He’s frozen, unable to move, unable to look away—forced to watch as you pleasure yourself in front of him. Your breath quickens, your body responding to a fantasy meant only for him. The sight is intoxicating, maddening, designed to unravel him completely.

His fists were at his side, trying to control himself. His breathing increased and his lips parted. Was this really happening?

Your fingers moved in slow circles under the fabric of your lace thong. Your left hand went up your body, lifting the slip and letting him see more of your hot skin. You opened your eyes and looked at him.

“Do you know how many times I’ve touched myself thinking about you?” you moaned the last word.

“Have you… have you done that?” he asked, looking at her in awe.

“Too many times” you nodded. Your fingers never stopped.

You moaned when your fingers touched your clit.

“Jesus Christ… you’re killing me” he sounded desperate.

“I can stop if you want,” you asked, your fingers almost stopping their work.

“No! God, no, please… please don’t stop” he almost shouted his answer.

He hated that he couldn’t move, but he didn’t say anything; he wouldn’t risk ruining this moment. He could watch you writhe for him, coming undone thinking of him.

Your movements started to be more urgent, you were close.

He was breathing faster, he wanted to touch you and fuck you so badly. He was so hard that hurt.

He didn’t even dare to blink, he didn’t want to miss any second of that amazing moment you were giving just for him.

“Put your fingers inside, I want to see you fucking yourself with your fingers” he commanded.

His eyes were dark with desire and something raw, dangerous.

You smiled and obeyed. Two fingers slowly entered you. You moaned as your eyes shut.

“Spread your legs for me, baby. Open them wide so I can see how you please yourself.” His voice was desperate, he wanted to see you cum.

You did as he said, your other hand put the fabric aside and he had a perfect view of your pussy.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect. You’re doing it so fucking well. Now faster, baby, I want to see you ruin my sheets”

Your movements were now faster, your back arched beautifully and your moans were louder. The filthy sounds your soaked pussy made were pure sin.

He was about to explode right there. He was sweating and so painfully hard.

“Oh God, John, I’m gonna….” You moaned.

“Don’t fight it, baby, let me see you, let it go…” he demanded.

That was it, he was desperate to see you finally reach that perfect orgasm. It was right there, you were about to come undone and that was all he wanted to see.

And just as you moaned his name one las time…

He woke up.

“Fuck!”

Angry. Alone. Hard. And more desperate for you than ever. His breathing was erratic, his heart beat desperately. His gaze focused instantly in his painful cock. He didn’t think. His hands pulled his pants and boxer down and he started to fist his cock up and down. He did it fast and hard, he had no time to waste. He was too hard so it didn’t take him too long to cum. His hand moved impossibly faster at the same time his head tilted back and his eyes shut as he remembered the hot dream he just had. He remembered your moans, your body writhing, and your fingers inside you.

His lips parted and his brows furrowed. He could hear you moan his name and then it hit him. Powerful and intense as he spilled in his hand and abdomen.

He lay there, breathing hard, his eyes still shut.

After a while, he stood up and he slowly went to the bathroom to take a cold shower.

In your own room, you were panting, trying to calm your breathing and heartbeats. An intense orgasm hit you hard at the same time you were projecting the dream in John’s mind.

You stood there, still, looking at the ceiling. You didn’t want to admit it. You thought you still were in control. But, you were getting affected too.

That day you and John barely got out of your rooms. He was too tired and exhausted. He couldn’t think straight, and he couldn’t sleep properly. He didn’t go to the gym, and he didn’t eat in the kitchen.

You should stop, you should let him recover, and end this stupid war. But you were too stubborn, too selfish and this has become an obsession.

It didn’t take long. What you felt, what you wanted, was too strong for you to stop. You knew this wasn’t going to end well. But you didn’t stop anyway. You wanted more.

---

By the fourth night, you were there again.

The water was scalding, a near-punishing cascade pounding against John Walker’s neck and shoulders. He stood braced in the shower, forearms flat against the cool, slick tiles, head bowed low. Steam billowed thickly, filling the stall, blurring the edges of the world. Rivulets traced the hard lines of his back, the ridges of old scars, the coiled tension in his muscles. It was the kind of shower meant to scour away the lingering ghosts in his head. He breathed deeply, the rhythmic drumming on his skull a temporary anesthetic.

Then, a shift in the steam. A presence. Not a sound, but a feeling.

Soft hands slid around his torso from behind, pressing flat against the planes of his stomach, splaying wide over his ribs. Cool against his water-heated skin. Familiar. You.

He didn’t startle. Didn’t turn. Just let out a slow, shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His head dipped a fraction lower. Your touch wasn’t demanding; it was grounding. Solid. A silent anchor in the swirling steam. Your forehead pressed gently against his shoulder blades, as if you were tired. Your body is a warm line against his back.

Time dissolved. There was only the roar of the water, the heat, the feel of your hands smoothing over his skin, tracing the water’s path, kneading the knots at the base of his spine. No words. None were needed. The language both spoke now was older, simpler: touch, warmth, shared breath in the humid air.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he turned. The movement displaced the water cascading over him, sending rivulets splashing against you. You didn’t flinch. Your silver eyes, luminous and wide in the humid gloom, met his. Rainwater, or something else, traced a path down your cheek, catching the dim light before vanishing into the steam. One silent tear. You looked exhausted. Not physically – the kind of exhaustion that comes from waging a war inside your own head, from hurling psychic thunderbolts only to have them ricochet back as longing. Tired of the dreams, the games, the distance you had weaponized. And yet… here you were.

He looked down at you. Really looked. Saw the vulnerability beneath the fierce intelligence, the weariness beneath the power. Saw the tear, and understood its source wasn’t weakness, but surrender. A different kind of battle fatigue. Words crowded his throat – apologies, accusations, questions. None escaped.

You were both exhausted of this game.

His blue eyes looked like yours, a raw intensity. His hand, dripping, rose. Not roughly, but with deliberate certainty. His fingers, calloused and strong, curved around the line of your jaw, tilting your face up towards the falling water and towards him.

He didn’t hesitate. He bent his head, capturing your mouth with his own. It wasn’t gentle. It was necessary. A deep, claiming kiss that spoke of possession and surrender all at once. Rainwater and steam mixed on your lips. Your hands slid up his slick back, fingers digging into the muscle, pulling him closer, meeting his hunger with your own silent answer. Another tear fell.

The kiss broke only for breath, a shared gasp lost in the water’s roar. His eyes, blazing blue, held yours for a heartbeat. His thumb wipes your tear away. Then, with a fluid, powerful movement, he guided you. He backed you gently but firmly against the now-warm tiles he’d just vacated. You went willingly, your palms flattening against the smooth surface, fingers splayed.

He didn’t release your jaw. His other arm came up, bracing beside your head, his body following, caging you perfectly between his solid form and the wall. Water streamed over his shoulders, down his chest, cascading over your body trapped against him. His chest pressed against your back, the heat of him radiating even through the water. His left hand gripped your jaw, tilting your head back to expose the delicate column of your throat. His breath was hot against your wet skin before his teeth scraped over your pulse point, not gentle, not asking—taking.

Your gasp echoed off the shower walls, your fingers tightening against his where they were pinned beside your head, your hands interlaced against the tile. You arched into him, your body a taut bowstring, every nerve alight. His right arm remained braced beside you, a cage of muscle and intent, while his left hand slid down—slow, deliberate—along the front of your body.

He knew every inch of you by now, every place that made you shiver, every spot that drew those breathless sounds from your lips. His touch was relentless, fingers tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before finally—finally—dipping lower, seeking the heat between your thighs.

You shuddered, your head falling back against his shoulder, a broken moan tearing from your throat.

” John—“.

His name was a plea, a curse, a prayer. He didn’t answer. Didn’t slow. His fingers moved with devastating precision, coaxing your higher, tighter, until your breath came in ragged pants, until your legs trembled, until your nails dug into his hand hard enough to leave marks.

He could feel the moment you unraveled—the way your body clenched around his touch, the way your back arched impossibly further, the way your cry fractured against the steam. He held you through it, his mouth still at your throat, drinking in every sound, every shudder.

Only when you sagged against him, boneless and gasping, did he finally ease his touch. But he didn’t let go.

Not yet. Not until you were fully his.

And you always would be.

The dynamic had now shifted. The subtle control you usually wielded in these dreamscapes was absent, replaced by a palpable, simmering intent radiating from him. He wasn't waiting. He wasn't watching. He was done.

He didn't ask. He manhandled. One powerful arm hooked under your knee, lifting your leg, bending you slightly forward, exposing you completely. His grip on your hip was iron, anchoring you. There was no preamble, no tender preparation. He was beyond patience.

With a single, brutal thrust, he sheathed himself fully within you.

A choked cry tore from your throat, mingling with his own ragged groan of pure, desperate relief. The sensation was overwhelming – the shock of the invasion, the impossible fullness, the sheer, unadulterated rightness of it. He didn't pause. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, deep and hard, driving into you with a focused intensity that brooked no resistance. Each powerful stroke pushed you against the slick tiles, pinned between the unyielding surface and the relentless force of his body.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, teeth scraping skin, breath hot and ragged against your ear. His hands held you immobile, one gripping your hip, the other braced beside your head, fingers still interlaced with yours in a perverse mockery of tenderness amidst the ferocity. He moved with the single-minded determination of a man starved, finally consuming what he craved.

You couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could only feel. The stretch, the burn, the overwhelming friction, the delicious ache of being utterly filled, utterly claimed. The water sluiced over both, cooling nothing, only heightening the slick heat where your bodies joined. Your moans were ripped from you, involuntary, raw sounds swallowed by the steam and his own harsh breathing against your skin. You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, your own need a wildfire matching his.

It wasn't tender. It wasn't sweet. It was raw, desperate, almost violent in its intensity. It was possession. It was surrender. It was the culmination of every frustrated glance, every heated argument, every dream where he could only watch. He wasn't watching now. He was taking. And you were letting him, yielding completely to the storm he unleashed within you.

The pressure built, coiling tighter, hotter, until it shattered. Your climax hit like a seismic wave, tearing through you with blinding force, your body clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses, a silent scream locked in your throat. It triggered his own release, a hoarse shout muffled against your skin as he drove deep one final time, spilling himself inside you with a shudder that felt like his very soul being wrenched free.

He held you there, pinned, trembling, both of them gasping, slick bodies pressed together under the relentless downpour. The steam curled around them. No words. Just the frantic beating of two hearts slamming against ribs, the aftershocks of sensation, and the profound, bone-deep knowledge that something fundamental had shifted.

It was brutal. It was perfect. He had finally taken what was his.

Silence descended, heavy and thick, broken only by the drumming water and their harsh, synchronized breathing. Slowly, his grip on your hip loosened. He turned you, water sluicing over you both. His hands, rough but deliberate, came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away water – and tears – from your cheeks.

He looked down at you. Really looked. His blue eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were dark pools, fathomless and intense, holding yours captive. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was overlaid with something else: exhaustion, profound understanding, and a piercing, almost sorrowful clarity. The smugness of your control, the thrill of the game – it evaporated under that gaze. You felt exposed, vulnerable, seen in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

He searched your face, his own expression unreadable yet devastatingly potent. The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Then, his voice, low and gravelly, cut through the steam, laced with a weary finality that struck your core:

”Did you get what you needed?”

The words weren’t shouted. They were a quiet statement, heavy with implication. He didn’t accuse you of creating the dreams, but the meaning was crystal clear in the dark depths of his eyes, in the utter certainty of his tone. He knew?. And this raw, brutal dream – his dream, not yours– was his subconscious forcing the confrontation you’d been orchestrating, but on his terms. He held your gaze for a heartbeat longer, the unspoken acknowledgment hanging between you like the steam: I see you. I see your game. And I’m done playing. Then the dream, or the awareness within it, began to fray at the edges, leaving you staring into those knowing, storm-darkened eyes as the world dissolved. The retaliation had reached its end, not with your victory, but with his stark, undeniable recognition.

He woke, alone in the dark, the phantom feel of you around him, the taste of your skin on his lips, and a terrifying, exhilarating certainty: the game was over. The war was won. And the prize was everything.

When you woke up, tears fell from your tired eyes. You were done with this, with everything. No more dreams, no more games. You gave up.

The blinds of John’s room stayed shut. The only light cutting through the gloom was the faint, unchanging glow of the city beyond the reinforced window, casting long, accusing shadows across the unmade bed. John hadn’t eaten in 48 hours. The thought of food turned his stomach, knotted with a cocktail of fury, humiliation, and a profound, bone-deep weariness that sleep couldn’t touch.

He lay on his back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. The dreams. They weren't just images; they were visceral assaults. The phantom touch on his skin still lingered, a cruel echo. The taste of your kiss, the scent of your arousal, the sound of your moans – all branded into his senses with hyper-real clarity.

He felt… broken. Not physically, though exhaustion weighed on him like lead. Emotionally shattered. The constant arousal had curdled into a sickening frustration. The anger at your manipulation warred with a terrifying ache. He punched the mattress beside him, a weak, futile gesture. Why? Why keep pushing? Why tear him open like this just to leave him bleeding in the dark? He was tired of the fight, tired of the games, tired of feeling like a raw nerve exposed to the elements. The silence of his room was deafening, a stark contrast to the sensory onslaught of the nights. He didn’t get out of the room, he tried to focus on the next day, the mission. He needed to rest and be focused. He hoped he could finally sleep properly. Will that be possible?

Across the hall, the silence was different. Thick, heavy, saturated with regret. You sat on the edge of your bed, wrapped in a robe, your damp hair plastered to your neck after a shower that had done nothing to cleanse the feeling of profound weariness. The hot water had stung your skin, mirroring the sting in your eyes. You’d cried in the shower, silent tears lost in the spray. You’d cried *during* the last dream.

Sustaining the intensity, the sensory detail, the emotional resonance of those dreams… it had drained you. Not just tour telepathic reserves, which felt scraped raw, but your spirit. The initial thrill of retaliation, the satisfaction of seeing him squirm, had long since vanished, replaced by a leaden sadness. You’d crossed a line. A line you hadn’t even seen until it was far behind you.

What am I doing? The question echoed in the quiet room. It had stopped being fun. It had stopped being a game days ago. Now it felt like mutual destruction. You were tearing him apart, thread by thread, and in the process, you were tearing yourself apart too. The intensity that had drawn you both together – the fire, the challenge – was now the very thing burning you both to ash. You’d wanted to make him feel, to force a reaction… but seeing the raw, wounded fatigue in his dream-eyes, feeling the echo of his emptiness in your own drained core, was a reaction you hadn't anticipated and couldn't bear.

You’d given up. No more dreams. The retaliation was over. But the damage was done. The silence in your room wasn't peaceful; it was the hollow aftermath of a battle where both sides had lost. You stared at your hands, the hands that had wielded such potent psychic power, now feeling useless and stained. The only thing left was the crushing weight of regret and the terrifying question: Where do we go from here? The game was over, but the war within each of them, and between them, felt more devastating than ever. Both were prisoners in your own rooms, isolated islands of exhaustion and sorrow in the quiet Watchtower, bound together by shared pain and the ruins of a conflict that had cost you both far more than pride.

You tried to rest and be prepared for tomorrow, you’ll have to face him and go to a mission with him. You thought of asking somebody else to go in your place, but it would be worse. They would ask and you didn’t have the strength for that.

The Watchtower common room hums with its usual low thrum, but the atmosphere is tense. Bucky methodically reads the next mission’s file, his brow furrowed. Yelena paces near the window, her gaze flicking towards the hallway leading to the living quarters.

She stopped pacing, turned sharply to Bucky. “Two days. His door hasn’t opened. Not for food, not for the gym, not even to glare at the coffee machine.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Y/N has been holed up too. Whole day, silent. Lights out early. Something’s rotten in Denmark. Or, you know, the Watchtower.”

“And tomorrow’s mission? Just the two of them.” The blonde asked.

Bucky sighed. “We need to know if they’re functional. Or if we’re sending two walking time bombs into a mission.”

“Functional? Barnes, he looks like death warmed over whenever he does slink out. Pale. Shadows you could park a Quinjet in. And Y/N… she moves like her bones are made of glass. Whatever game they’re playing now, it’s eating them alive.”

“Alright. Divide and conquer. You take Walker. I’ll check on Y/N. Try not to make him punch the wall.”

She snorted. “If he has the energy to punch anything, it’ll be an improvement.”

They split up. Bucky walked down the corridor to your door. He knocked firmly, waited. After a long moment, the door slid open. You stood there. You were pale, your silver eyes dull, hair pulled back messily. You wore loose sleep pants and a tank top.

“Hey. You okay? Haven’t seen you around.” He asked looking at your fragile form.

Your voice was slightly hoarse, thin. “Hey, Bucky. Yeah. Just… just a killer headache. Migraine kind. Needed the dark and quiet.”

He saw the exhaustion etched deeper than any migraine, the faint tremor in your hand on the door frame. You’re lying, but the weariness is real. “You sure? You look wiped. Need anything? Meds? Soup?”

Y offered a weak, unconvincing smile. “No, no. I’m good. Really. Just need rest. Promise I’ll be fit for tomorrow. Wouldn’t jeopardize the mission.”

He stared at you for a beat longer, his brotherly concern warring with respect for your boundaries. He knew pushing won’t help. “Okay. But you know where I am if that changes. Get some real sleep. Please.”

You nodded, the movement slight. “Thanks, Bucky. I will. Night.”

You closed the door softly. Bucky stood there for a moment, frowning deeply before turning away.

Meanwhile, Yelena stood outside John’s door. She knocked. No answer. She knocked again, harder.

“Walker! Open up. Need to know if you’re still breathing in there. Or if I need to send a cleaning bot for the smell.”

Silence. Then, the lock disengaged, and the door opened. John filled the doorway. He was with a white shirt and black sweatpants. The exhaustion on his face was staggering – deep purple smudges under bloodshot eyes, skin pallid, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, radiating a volatile mix of anger and profound weariness.

His voice was gravelly, strained. “What?”

She raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his glare. “Checking inventory. Making sure our assets are operational for tomorrow. You look like shit warmed over.”

His eyes narrowed, a spark of irritation flaring. “I’m fine. Just… busy. Prepping.”

She scoffed softly. “Busy staring at the ceiling? You haven’t prepped. You haven’t eaten. You look like you lost a fight with a freight train. And Y/N looks like the freight train hit her on the rebound. What the hell is going on with you two?”

His hand gripped the doorframe, knuckles white. He looked past her, jaw working. The question about you seemed to hit a nerve deeper than his fatigue. “Nothing. It’s handled. We’ll be ready for the mission. We’re professionals. Now, if you’re done with the inspection…?”

She studied him, seeing the raw edge beneath the defiance. He’s hanging on by a thread. “Professionals? But tomorrow isn’t just about being professional. It’s about trusting the person next to you not to space out or collapse. Can you do that? Can she?”

John net her gaze, a flicker of something desperate in his blue eyes before it’s banked by sheer stubbornness. “Yes. We’ll be functional. We’ll get the job done. Now. Goodnight, Belova.”

He didn’t wait for a response. The door slid shut firmly in her face. Yelena stared at the closed door, her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t believe him for a second.

Later, she met Bucky in the common room.

“Well?” He asked.

She sank into a chair, rubbing her temples. "Fine," He said he was "fine." Looked like he crawled out of a grave. Smelled like despair and cheap whiskey, though I saw no bottle. Insisted they’ll be "functional" tomorrow. Your turn.”

"Migraine." Said she’d be ready. Looked… hollow. Like someone drained her battery. Same promise: mission ready.”

“Functional. Ready.” She scoffed again, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “They are lying through their teeth, Bucky. To us. Probably to themselves.”

He nodded grimly. “Yeah. But what choice do we have? They say they can do the job. We have to trust that. Or bench them, which might be worse right now.”

“Trust? After whatever psychic trench warfare they’ve been waging?” She shook her head, a rare shadow of unease in her eyes. “Tomorrow feels like walking into a hurricane and hoping the eye holds. But... We trust the mission. We trust their skills. We just… hope whatever storm is between them doesn’t get us all killed.”

They sat in heavy silence, the unspoken fear hanging thick in the air. Bucky picks up the file again, not to read, but to hold, a grounding weight. Yelena stared out at the city lights, seeing not the view, but the image of John’s shattered exhaustion and your brittle fragility.

“It’s late. Get some rest, Yelena. Big day tomorrow.”

She didn’t turn. “You too.”

Neither knew, as they finally retreat to their own quarters, that John and you, separated by a corridor and a chasm of their own making, are about to plunge into the most devastating shared dream yet – a final, brutal confrontation in the landscape of their own tormented minds. The quiet Watchtower holds its breath.

---

The dream didn’t feel like an invasion this time. For John, it felt like waking up inside a memory he’d never made, yet one his soul recognized with terrifying clarity. One moment, the oppressive darkness of his room. The next…

Warm, golden sunlight streamed through unfamiliar yet comforting windows. He was sitting at a small, cluttered kitchen table. The air smelled of rich coffee and… you. You stood by the counter, bathed in the gentle light. Not in lace, not in tactical gear, but in his old, faded Army t-shirt. It swallowed your frame, hanging down to mid-thigh, revealing the long lines of your legs. Your hair was a messy halo around your face, sleep-soft and beautiful. You turned, holding two steaming mugs.

Before he could process the overwhelming sense of rightness, you were there. You leaned down, your free hand gently cupping his cheek, and pressed your lips to his. It wasn’t fierce or demanding. It was tender. Deeply, achingly tender. A kiss that spoke of countless mornings, shared silence, and profound belonging. He melted into it, a helpless sigh escaping him as the familiar tension, the constant low-grade anger, simply dissolved.

You pulled back just enough, your silver eyes warm, crinkling at the corners with a soft smile. “Morning, Mr. Grumpy,” you murmured, your voice husky with sleep and affection. You placed his favorite black mug in front of him. “Ready to lose the gunshot accuracy contest again today? Or shall I go easy on you?” Your tone was light, teasing, devoid of any competitive bite. It was your joke. A shared language.

He could see his shield resting in a corner, his gun and two knives, yours, besides the table. And besides those weapons, a photo: you two with your suits, his shield in his arm, you were laughing and with your eyes shut, and he was looking at you, smiling. A genuine and adorable smile that was reserved just for you.

Then, one heartbeat, the sun-drenched kitchen. The next, the roar of gunfire, the acrid tang of smoke, the chaotic geometry of a crumbling urban battlefield. But there was no disorientation, no frantic scramble. John was exactly where he needed to be.

He materialized, covering your flank as you pinned down two enhanced HYDRA operatives behind a scorched vehicle. He didn’t need orders. He didn’t need to shout. He knew. He moved with lethal precision, his movements an extension of yours. A grenade sailed towards your position; his shield was a blur, deflecting it skyward before it could land. You didn’t flinch, didn’t look back. You knew he was there. You trusted.

You both flowed through the chaos like a single organism. He covered your advance; you cleared his angles. He disarmed a charging brute with an enhanced kick; you telekinetically slammed another into a wall before he could bring his weapon up. It wasn’t just competence; it was perfect, instinctive synergy. You were more than partners; you were two halves of a devastating whole.

The last operative fell. Silence descended, heavy with dust and the fading echoes of combat. You stood amidst the rubble, breathing hard, a smear of grime on your cheek. You looked across the ruined street at John. Not with assessment, not with challenge. With pure, unadulterated joy.

A genuine laugh, bright and free, escaped you. You reached your thigh, drew a gleaming combat knife from its sheath, and with a flick of your wrist, sent it spinning towards him. Not as a weapon, but as a gesture. An offering of trust, of shared triumph.

John’s hand snapped out, catching the knife effortlessly by the handle, his movement fluid and instinctive.

“Good job, Mr. Grumpy.” She smiled.

He didn’t smirk. He smiled. A real, unguarded smile that transformed his face, reaching his tired eyes. He looked at the knife, then back at you, the shared understanding passing between them wordlessly. This. This is us.

Then that moment faded, and he was in another place. And you were in front of him, perched on the kitchen counter, bare feet swinging. You bit into a ripe strawberry, juice staining your lips. John stood between your knees, methodically field-stripping his Glock 17 on the counter beside your thigh.

"Still insisting that an overcompensating piece of metal is better than a good blade?" You asked playfully.

He smirked, didn't look up. "Precision at 50 yards beats waving a shiny toothpick, sweetheart."

You kicked his hip lightly with your heel. "Says the man who needs *eighteen rounds* to feel secure."

He smiled, looked at you a moment, narrowing his eyes, and before you could eat the strawberry you had in your hand, he quickly grabbed your wrist and took the strawberry into his mouth. His lips brushed your fingers. He ate it, looking at you with a winner's smirk.

"Hey! That was my strawberry!" You said to him pretending to be annoyed.

"Not anymore, sweetheart." He said playfully as a drop of strawberry juice fell from the corner of his mouth. You lean forward to catch it with your lips, and then give him a little kiss on the lips, then another and a third one. Both smiled and laughed while his hands cupped your cheeks and didn’t let you break the kiss until you had to breathe. You giggled and looked at his eyes.

“I love you, John Walker.” You said smiling, completely in love with this man.

“I love you, Y/N.” He kissed you again, slowly and deeply this time.

Immediately after that moment faded, another appeared.

A late night in the Watchtower common room. John slumped on the couch, bruised from a mission, icing his knuckles. You silently sat beside him, pressing a cold compress to a cut on his temple.

He grumbles. "Should’ve let Bucky take point. Dumbass move, charging that turret."

Your fingers still. You set the compress aside and turns to face him fully. Your silver eyes aren’t impatient or judging. They’re soft, fierce, and utterly focused.

Your voice was low, unwavering. "John, look at me."

He met your gaze, braced for criticism. Instead, your hand cupped his bruised jaw, your thumb brushing the cut.

"You saw that family trapped behind the collapsed beam. You saw people. That’s not recklessness. That’s who you are."

Your voice dropped, thick with conviction.

"You think you’re not enough? That you have to be Steve Rogers? Or Bucky? Or some idea of a hero?"

You leaned closer, your eyes blazing.

"You’re better than an idea. You’re real. You’re messy. You care so damn much it terrifies you. That’s why you break things. That’s why you save things."

Your thumb traced the scar above his brow.

"That little boy you pulled from the fire today? He doesn’t care about a shield or a title. He cares that the man who looked like hell itself ran toward him when everyone else ran away."

Your voice broke, just slightly.

"That’s heroism, John. Not perfection. Sacrifice. Not for glory. For them. And it’s enough. You’re enough. Right here. Like this."

Your silver eyes weren’t judging his recklessness. They were blazing with utter adoration – not for the hero, but for the man who breaks rules to save lives, who’s reckless and righteous and infuriatingly good in his own messy way.

He saw it, the total, unconditional acceptance of his morally gray, protective, grumpy soul.

This wasn’t lust. This wasn’t manipulation. This was your deepest, most vulnerable desire laid bare and projected into the shared space of your minds: A love built on radical acceptance and effortless partnership. You loved the soldier and the man who needed quiet mornings. You loved the grumpy protector and the one who melted under a tender kiss. You chose all of him – the broken pieces, the moral compromises, the fierce loyalty, the simmering anger – because they made him him. And in this dream, he thrived within that acceptance. He was seen, truly seen, and loved precisely for who he was, not for a role he had to play.

He didn’t have to be perfect. He just had to be John Walker, intense and broken and good and an asshole, and he was loved. He saw the home he craved, not just a place, but a person who was his sanctuary and his equal in the storm.

The echo of shattering glass was loud in the pre-dawn silence, followed by a low, guttural curse. John stood before the broken bathroom mirror, his reflection splintered into a dozen jagged shards, each showing a fragment of his face – pale, hollow-eyed, raw with an anguish too deep for rage. Blood dripped from his knuckles onto the sink, stark red against the white porcelain, but he barely felt it. The pain was a dull throb compared to the gaping void inside him.

The dream wasn't a phantom; it was a phantom limb. He could still feel the warm weight of your gaze, taste the coffee you’d handed him. Hear the specific cadence of your laugh when he caught your knife. See the utter adoration in your eyes as you called him enough.

It wasn't a victory. It was… homecoming. A belonging so profound, so desperately needed, it felt like his soul had finally slotted into place. And waking up had been like having it ripped out.

He braced his hands on the sink, head hanging, breath coming in ragged gasps. Devastation wasn't a strong enough word. It felt like annihilation. He hadn't just lost a dream; he'd lost a future he hadn't dared believe in until you showed it to him. The anger that followed was directed inward, at himself, at the universe, at the cruel trick of your power showing him paradise only to slam the door.

04:18 AM:

You woke with a choked gasp, tears already streaming down your face, hot and relentless. You clapped a hand over your mouth, stifling a sob. The images were burned onto your retinas: John's genuine, unguarded smile as he caught the knife, the way his shoulders relaxed in the sunlight, the depth of feeling in his eyes when he looked at you in the dream-kitchen – a look you hadn't fabricated, but had somehow pulled from the core of him.

"What did I do?"The whisper was raw, ragged, echoing in the dark. Your hands flew to your head, fingers digging into your temples as if you could claw the dream out. "What did I DO?" Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through you. You hadn't meant this. This wasn't retaliation. This was your soul laid bare, your deepest, most vulnerable desires projected directly into his mind. You’d shown him everything – your yearning for a home built with him, your acceptance of his jagged edges, your belief in the good man buried under the grumpy soldier, and the weight of failure. You'd shown him the love you couldn't voice.

The horror wasn't just the invasion; it was the intimacy of it. You’d forced him to witness your most private longing, and in doing so, forced him to witness a version of himself he clearly didn't believe he could be. The thought of facing him, after he’d seen that… after he’d felt your desperate, unspoken love… it sent waves of nausea through you. You curled into a tight ball, shaking, the tears coming harder. Sleep was a distant memory. Dread pooled in your stomach, cold and heavy.

Morning came too soon.

Down in the Quinjet bay, the air hummed with pre-flight checks. Bucky, looking weary, and Yelena, radiating poorly concealed anticipation, stood near the open ramp. You approached, forcing a semblance of calm into your posture. Your silver eyes met Yelena’s worried gaze, but you ignored her

“Final check, Y/N,” Bucky stated, his voice flat. “Low-risk recon. Sensor outpost is likely automated, with minimal heat signatures on the last sweep. Map the interior, download any active data cores, and plant the scramblers. In and out. Four hours max.”

“Understood,” you replied, your voice carefully neutral. You avoided looking towards the cockpit.

“Remember,” Yelena chirped, leaning against the hull. “Cooperation is key. Teamwork makes the dream work.

You offered a thin, humorless smile, but she saw the sadness, the fragility in you. Before she could retort, heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed on the bay floor. John Walker strode in, radiating a storm cloud of palpable fury and exhaustion. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath bloodshot eyes. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful. He ignored Bucky and Yelena entirely. He didn’t spare you a single glance. He moved like a man pushed far beyond his limits, radiating a dangerous, brittle energy. Without a word, he brushed past them all and slammed into the pilot’s seat, his movements jerky with suppressed rage.

Bucky and Yelena exchanged a loaded look. Bucky’s expression was grim, foreseeing disaster. Yelena’s smirk faltered slightly, replaced by a flicker of doubt.

“Walker,” Bucky started, his tone cautious. “Briefing–”

“I read it,” John snapped, his voice gravelly and tight, not turning around. He began powering up the Quinjet’s systems with aggressive stabs at the controls. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The air crackled with unspoken tension. You boarded without comment, taking the co-pilot’s seat purely because it was farthest from him. The silence as the Quinjet lifted off was heavier than lead. Yelena watched it ascend through the bay doors, her earlier confidence evaporating.

“God,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “He looks like he wants to murder the controls. And her. Possibly both. At the same time.”

Bucky just sighed, a long, weary sound. “Told you it was a bad idea.”

“It could still work!” Yelena insisted, though her voice lacked conviction. “Forced proximity! Adrenaline! Shared hardship! Classic romance tropes!”

“Or,” Bucky countered dryly, “shared hatred festers. Shared incompetence breeds blame. Shared misery… stinks. Literally, probably, knowing those two.”

The flight to the Catskills was a study in hostile silence. John flew with grim, focused aggression, barely acknowledging your presence. The tension inside the cabin was thick enough to choke on. The mission itself started poorly the moment their boots hit the muddy forest floor near the dilapidated HYDRA outpost – a concrete bunker half-swallowed by vines and neglect.

It began with the approach. “Left flank is clearer,” you stated, your telepathy brushing the perimeter, sensing only dormant machinery.

“Right offers better cover for insertion,” John countered, his tone clipped, already moving right without waiting.

“Cover from what? Squirrels?” you shot back, falling in step behind him, annoyance flaring. “My scan shows nothing active.

“Your scan doesn’t account for surprises,” he retorted, not looking back. “Or bad intel. Something you seem prone to trusting.”

The barb hit home. “Prone to trusting? Unlike you, who trusts nothing but his own bruised ego?”

Inside the dank, dripping bunker, it escalated. Navigating the crumbling corridors was treacherous. John insisted on the point, his movements tense and aggressive.

“Slow down, Walker,” you hissed as he rounded a corner too fast. “This isn’t a charge.”

“It’s recon, not a picnic,” he snapped, his voice echoing in the empty space. “We’re on the clock.”

“We’re on the clock because you insisted on the long route!”

“The safe route!”

A low hum started emanating from deeper within the complex. You focused. “Power core cycling up. Automated defenses might be initializing. We need to move carefully to the data hub.”

“Or we disable the source,” John argued, gesturing towards a side corridor leading downwards. “Cut the head off.”

“That could trigger a full lockdown! The objective is the data!”

“The objective is completing the mission securely!”

Your hissed argument continued as you moved deeper, the air thick with mildew, decay, and mutual animosity. Frustration curdled into genuine anger. The lack of sleep, the unresolved tension, the proximity – it was a pressure cooker. Every word was a spark.

You both reached the central data hub – a room filled with humming, outdated servers. As you moved to interface your datapad, John scanned the room. A rusted grating covered a floor vent near the wall.

“Ventilation access,” John muttered, prying at it with a tipped glove. “Could be a secondary route out, or another access point.”

“Leave it!” you warned, your telepathy picking up a surge of hydraulic pressure beneath the floor. “It’s connected to the waste reclamation system. It’s unstable!”

He ignored you, giving the grating a final, forceful yank. With a shriek of protesting metal, it came loose. Simultaneously, a brittle pipe directly below, corroded beyond recognition, gave way.

What erupted wasn’t just air.

A geyser of decades-old, semi-solidified sludge – a putrid cocktail of biological waste, industrial runoff, and stagnant water – exploded upwards with horrific force. John, directly over the vent, took the brunt of it. The thick, foul-smelling muck hit him like a physical blow, coating him from head to waist in a layer of viscous, reeking brown filth. He stumbled back, gagging, spitting out unspeakable residue.

“GAAAH! SON OF A—¡”

You, standing slightly to the side, weren’t spared. The spray caught your legs, side, and one arm, splattering your pristine black suit with grotesque stains that immediately began soaking through. The smell hit you a second later – a gut-churning miasma of rot and decay that made your eyes water.

“YOU IDIOT!” you screamed, recoiling in horror, wiping desperately at your suit, only succeeding in smearing the filth. “I TOLD YOU!”

John, wiping sludge from his eyes with a filthy forearm, fury warring with revulsion, roared back. “YOU COULD HAVE WARNED ME LOUDER! OR BETTER YET, STOPPED ME WITH YOUR DAMN WITCH POWERS!”

“It’s not ‘witch powers,’ you Neanderthal! It’s telepathy! And maybe if you listened instead of charging around like a bull in a china shop–¡”

“Maybe if you weren’t so busy playing mind games–¡”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Automatic gunfire erupted from a dark side corridor John had dismissed moments before in his angry sweep. Muzzle flashes lit the gloom like malevolent stars. Decades of grime and rust rained down from the ceiling.

Instincts honed by combat overrode their argument, but you both were a split-second too slow, too distracted by your rage.

John lunged sideways, but not fast enough. A searing hot line of pain ripped across his left bicep, tearing through his suit. He grunted, stumbling back against a server rack, clutching the wound. Blood welled instantly between his fingers.

You reacted, throwing up a shimmering telekinetic shield just as another burst came your way. The bullets spanged off the energy barrier, ricocheting wildly. But the force of the impacts staggered you, breaking your concentration for a critical instant.

A third figure – a HYDRA remnant in patched tactical gear, likely drawn by their shouting – emerged from the shadows behind you. Before your shield could fully re-stabilize, he slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of your head.

You cried out, the world exploding into white light and ringing pain. Your telekinetic shield flickered and died. You crumpled sideways, your temple connecting hard with the jagged edge of a broken console. Blood, shockingly bright against your pale skin and dark hair, began to trickle down your temple.

The sudden, brutal violence was a cold bucket of water. Survival instinct surged.

"SON OF A–!" John bellowed, ignoring the burning pain in his arm. His right hand snapped up, the compact sidearm he carried barking twice in rapid succession. The HYDRA soldier who’d struck you jerked and collapsed.

You, dazed but conscious, pushed yourself up, one hand pressed to your bleeding head. You saw the other shooter taking aim at John, still leaning against the server rack. With a snarl fueled by pain and fury, you unleashed a focused telekinetic blast. It wasn’t elegant, but it was powerful. The shooter was lifted off his feet and hurled backwards into a wall with a sickening crunch, his weapon clattering away.

Silence descended, broken only by their ragged breathing and the dripping of water (and now blood) somewhere in the gloom. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with the damp decay.

John pushed off the server rack, wincing as he put weight on his injured arm. His eyes scanned the room, weapon ready, then landed on you. You were swaying slightly, blood painting a stark line down your face and neck, staining the collar of your suit. A flicker of something primal – concern, alarm – cut through his anger for a millisecond before being buried under fresh resentment. This wouldn't have happened if we weren't screaming at each other.

You met his gaze, your silver eyes clouded with pain but still burning with defiance. You saw the dark stain spreading on his sleeve. Your hand instinctively lifted, faint silver light gathering at your fingertips – your healing power activating. "Walker, your arm–"

"Don't!" The word was a whip-crack. He flinched back as if her offered hand held venom. "Don't you dare touch me, Y/N! I don't need your help! Not your powers, not your pity, nothing! Just stay the hell away from me!" The rejection was absolute, layered with the blame he placed squarely on you for the argument that led to this.

The healing light died instantly. Your expression hardened into ice, colder and sharper than before. The brief impulse to help vanished, replaced by a wave of bitter humiliation and renewed anger. "Fine!" You spat the word, dripping with venom. "Bleed out for all I care, you stubborn bastard!" You turned your back on him, pressing a torn piece of your suit lining to your bleeding temple with trembling fingers. The pain throbbed in time with your fury.

The rest of the mission was a grim, silent slog. They retrieved the data core and planted the scramblers with mechanical efficiency, moving like hostile automatons.

The air between you was colder than the Catskill mountain air seeping into the bunker. John moved stiffly, favoring his injured arm, the wound left untreated. Your head throbbed relentlessly, the blood drying tacky on your skin. The stench of cordite, blood, and ancient decay clung to them, a fitting olfactory signature for the disaster.

The flight back was a silent, reeking purgatory. John piloted with grim focus, his jaw clenched against the pain radiating from his arm. You sat rigidly in the co-pilot seat, staring blankly at the console, the coppery taste of blood faint in your mouth, your head pounding. The unspoken accusations hung heavier than the foul air.

The pristine, brightly lit common room of the Watchtower was a jarring assault on the senses as the Quinjet landed. Bucky, Yelena, Ava, and Alexei (munching on a sandwich) and Bob, were relaxing when the elevator pinged. Heads turned expectantly, perhaps hoping for resolved tension, or at least weary professionalism.

The elevator doors slid open.

A wave of nauseating stench – a potent cocktail of stale blood, gunpowder, wet earth, mildew, and something deeply, fundamentally foul – washed over the room. Alexei paused mid-bite, his nose wrinkling in disgust. Ava and Bob recoiled. Bucky’s expression froze. Yelena’s hopeful look vanished, replaced by horrified disbelief.

John Walker stepped out first. He was a vision of battered, filthy rage. His left sleeve was dark and stiff with dried blood, his arm held awkwardly. Dirt, grime, and dark, suspicious stains smeared his face, neck, and tactical suit. His hair was matted. But it was his expression – pure, undiluted fury, eyes blazing with contempt – that was most alarming.

You followed. Blood had dried in a dark, crusted streak from your temple down your jawline. Your usually sleek black hair was tangled and matted with dirt and dried blood on one side. Your suit was torn near the shoulder, stained with blood, mud, and other unidentifiable, reeking muck. Your face was pale beneath the grime, etched with pain and icy, controlled wrath.

Both ignored the stunned team completely. You didn’t look at each other. You stalked straight down the corridor towards your respective rooms, leaving behind the overwhelming stench and faint, muddy footprints on the pristine floor.

The silence in the common room was absolute, thick with shock and revulsion. It was shattered only by your furious, overlapping voices as you neared your doors:

"...reckless, arrogant child! Charging in blind!"

“…should have left you in that sludge pit where you belong, you manipulative–“

"...covered in shit, Walker! Actual, literal shit and blood and God knows what else! Because of your bullheaded–"

"...EVIL witch! This is on YOU!"

John slammed his door shut with a force that rattled the wall. A second later, your door slammed with equal fury.

The final, furious shout from behind your door echoed down the suddenly silent hallway, clear as a bell in the stunned common room:

"I SMELL LIKE A SEWER RAT AND IT’S YOUR FAULT!"

Silence descended again, heavier than before. The smell lingered, an undeniable presence. Alexei slowly lowered his sandwich, staring at the hallway with wide eyes. Ava fanned the air in front of her face, Bob looked faintly ill. Bucky slowly closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, a long, weary sigh escaping him.

Yelena stood frozen, her matchmaking dreams utterly obliterated, replaced by the visceral reality of blood, sewage, and homicidal rage. Her plan hadn't just failed; it had detonated a grenade in the middle of the team’s fragile peace.

Bucky opened his eyes and looked at her, his voice flat, devoid of any surprise, stating the painfully obvious: "Well. Your plan didn't work."

Yelena blinked, slowly shaking her head, her voice a small, defeated whisper in the foul-smelling silence. “No, Bucky. It did not." The only thing dissipated by forced proximity was any lingering doubt about the sheer, toxic intensity of the war between John Walker and you. It was still raging very much.

The sterile air of the Watchtower gym, usually thick with exertion and focus, crackled with a different kind of energy three days after the Catskills disaster. The lingering stench of failure had mostly aired out, replaced by the acrid scent of unresolved fury. John Walker was a study in controlled violence, hammering the heavy bag with blows that echoed like gunshots. Sweat plastered his dark-blond hair to his forehead, his expression a mask of grim concentration that barely contained the storm beneath. Every punch was aimed not just at the leather, but at the phantom feel of sludge, the phantom feel of you, the phantom feel of his own helplessness in those dreams.

Sparring with Yelena, Bucky, and Ava was usually a sharp, exhilarating challenge. Today, it was a disaster. Distracted, slow, your reactions dulled by the same unresolved tension coiling in your own gut, you found yourself repeatedly pinned, disarmed, or flat on your back. Your silver eyes lacked their usual focused fire; they were clouded, distant. The playful jabs from tour teammates felt like needles. The air in the gym was thick with unspoken strain, the quiet punctuated only by the thud of John’s fists and the sharp grunts of exertion.

Yelena saw the tension and decided to pour gasoline on it with another of her possible solutions to the problem. "Walker!" she called out, her voice slicing through the rhythmic thuds. She wiped imaginary sweat from her own brow, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Stop beating up the defenseless bag. Spar with Y/N. Show her how it's really done. Might knock some sense into one of you."

"No," Bucky snapped, stepping forward, metal hand clenched. "Worst possible idea."

Ava nodded urgently, eyes wide. "He’s right, this is not going to end well".

Bob fidgeted. "The tension... it feels dangerous, Yelena."

You didn't hesitate. "Absolutely not," you said, your voice arctic, turning sharply to leave the mat. The thought of being that close to him, feeling his hands, seeing that fury directed solely at you – it was too volatile.

John just stopped mid-swing, the bag shuddering violently. He glared at Yelena over his shoulder, his chest heaving. "Not interested." His voice was gravel scraped raw.

Yelena, however, was a master of pressure points. She slid off the bench and sidled up to you, blocking your path. Her voice dropped to a low, taunting purr meant only for your ears, but carrying in the sudden quiet. "What’s the matter, Y/N? Scared? After all that big talk about control? Afraid he’ll see how weak you really are without your little tricks?" She poked your shoulder, a deliberate provocation. "Or maybe..." her smirk widened, "...maybe you’re afraid you’ll like getting pinned down by him?"

Your spine snapped ramrod straight. The barb struck deep, igniting the volatile mixture of guilt, shame, and fury simmering inside you. The insinuation about your desires – it was too much. "I’m not scared of him," you hissed, the coldness replaced by a dangerous heat as you turned back to face the room, your silver eyes blazing at Yelena and then locked onto John.

John’s laugh was a harsh, humorless bark that grated on the air. "Could’ve fooled me." He released the bag, turning fully to face you, wiping sweat from his jaw with the back of his hand. His gaze was scathing. "Seems like hiding behind your powers is safer. Always has been."

"Safer than what?" You shot back, taking a deliberate step towards him, your voice rising, cracking the fragile silence. "Safer than charging headfirst into literal shit because you’re too arrogant to listen? Safer than getting shot because you were too busy playing the wounded victim to watch your six?"

His eyes narrowed, the carefully constructed wall cracking wider. Raw pain flickered beneath the anger. "At least I act. At least I face things head-on, even when it blows up in my face. Instead of..." his voice dropped, low and venomous, laced with a devastating vulnerability, "...instead of playing puppet master in people’s dreams like some creepy, cowardly voyeur. Did you get off on it? Watching me twist in the sheets? Feeling me want you? Was that your revenge? Making me feel like a desperate, pathetic fool?"

The raw accusation, the confirmation he knew and the depth of his devastation laid bare, stripped away any remaining pretense. Fury, white-hot and blinding, surged through you, mixed with a sharp stab of defensive shame. "You have no idea what you’re talking about!" You spat, the words trembling with rage.

"Don’t I?" John took two aggressive steps forward, closing the distance until barely a foot separated you. The heat radiating off him was palpable. "You think I don’t know? You think I’m stupid? Those dreams… they weren't just dreams. Too real. Too specific. Too you." He leaned in, his voice a vicious whisper meant only for you, but echoing in the gym's stillness. "The way you touched me. The things you whispered. The way you rode me. Was it fun? Playing with me like that? Getting your kicks twisting the knife while I slept?" The pain in his eyes was raw, heart-wrenching, fueling his anger. "You crossed the line, Y/N."

You recoiled as if physically struck, the accusation landing like a hammer blow. But your own fury found its target. "I crossed the line?" You snarled, stepping even closer, refusing to be cowed, your own voice trembling with outrage. "Don't you dare play the victim, Walker! What about your thoughts? All those filthy thoughts you deliberately imagined for me to read and see? Those degrading things you imagined doing to me? Every time you looked at my ass? Every time you pictured me bent over? You took advantage too, every damn day! You think that doesn't feel like crossing the line? You're just as guilty

His control finally, irrevocably, snapped. The mention of his own intrusive thoughts, the mirror held up to his own culpability in your toxic dance, was the final spark. "FINE!" he roared, the sound bouncing off the walls. He jabbed a finger towards the center of the mat. "You want to fight? Let’s fight! Hand-to-hand. No powers. No tricks. No hiding in someone else's head. Prove you’re more than just a cheap psychic voyeur! Prove you can face me without your crutches!"

The challenge hung in the air, thick and suffocating. You met his blazing gaze, the accusation of cowardice burning away the last shred of hesitation. You gave a single, sharp nod. "Gladly."

“Walker, Y/N, don’t do this!” Bucky almost pleaded with you both, but he was ignored.

It started controlled, almost ritualistic. You circled each other on the mat, wary predators. Testing jabs were thrown and blocked, feints executed and read. But the fury simmering beneath the surface was a volcano waiting to erupt. With every blocked strike, every evaded grab, the verbal daggers flew, each one sharper and more venomous than the last, fueling the physical escalation.

"Always dancing away, Y/N?" John taunted, deflecting a kick with a forearm block that rattled your leg. "Can't stand the heat? Typical coward."

"Better than charging like a mindless bull, failure!" You shot back, ducking under a wild hook and landing a sharp, stinging jab to his ribs. "Didn't learn a thing in the Catskills, did you? Or from losing the shield? Or your wife?"

John growled, the mention of his losses striking deep. He lunged, not with a punch, but to grab you. He caught your arm, using his superior strength and leverage to shove your back hard. You stumbled but kept your feet. "Hit me!" he goaded, spreading his arms mockingly. "Or are you too weak? Too used to winning fights with your mind instead of your hands?"

"Wouldn’t want to bruise your fragile ego!" You spat, launching a flurry of faster strikes – jabs, crosses, a snap kick aimed at his knee. He blocked most, absorbed one on his shoulder, and swept your legs out from under you with ruthless efficiency. You hit the mat with a grunt, the breath momentarily knocked out of you. Before you could scramble up, he was on you, pinning your shoulders down, his weight pressing you into the foam. His face was inches from yours, sweat dripping onto your cheek. "Fight like you mean it! Hit me! Show me you can feel something besides smug superiority and creepy mind games!" He released you immediately, springing back, a sneer twisting his features. "Or is this all you've got?"

Humiliation and rage ignited a firestorm in you. You rolled to your feet, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your silver eyes narrowed to slits of pure fury. You were both sweating profusely, exhaustion warring with adrenaline and the toxic cocktail of your shared history.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Walker!” you spat. “Always lashing out, always blaming everyone else for your fuck-ups! I see why your wife left you! Too weak to handle a real partner, too arrogant to admit you need anyone!”

The words landed like a sledgehammer. John’s eyes, already blazing, seemed to ignite from within. The pain and humiliation of Olivia leaving, taking his son, was a wound far deeper than any bullet graze. He used a surge of strength to flip you onto your back, pinning your wrists beside your head, his weight pressing down. His voice, when it came, was low, guttural, and laced with a cruelty honed by his own agony.

“At least I had a family, Y/N,” he hissed, leaning closer, his bloodied lip almost touching your forehead. ”Where’s yours? Huh? Where are your precious parents? Orphaned little witch, lashing out ‘cause nobody ever wanted you? Is that why you crawl into people’s heads? Trying to steal what you can’t have?”

You froze beneath him. The color drained from your face, replaced by a terrifying pallor. Your parents’ fate – a void you kept sealed with steel – had been violently ripped open. The raw, agonizing loss, the years of loneliness, surged up, momentarily eclipsing your rage with pure, crippling hurt. Your silver eyes shimmered with unshed tears of shock.

John saw the hit land, saw the devastation. He released you by a second.

Then, it happened. Fueled by pure, unadulterated fury at his words, his touch, his existence in that moment, you threw a wild, looping haymaker. It wasn't technical. It wasn't smart. It was pure emotion. It connected solidly with the point of John’s jaw.

His head snapped violently to the side. A bright trickle of blood instantly appeared at the corner of his split lip. He touched it slowly, looked at the crimson smear on his gloved fingers, and then back at you. A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face, completely at odds with the blood and the swelling already starting. He spat a glob of blood onto the mat near your feet.

"You hit like a little girl," he mocked, his voice thick with contempt, pain, and a perverse, challenging heat. "That all your righteous anger amounts to? A love tap?"

That was it. The final thread of your control snapped with an almost audible *twang*. With a guttural cry of pure, unfiltered rage, you launched yourself at him, abandoning any pretense of technique. You both became a whirlwind of desperate violence. Punishes landed with sickening thuds – his ribs, your shoulder. Kicks connected – his thigh, your hip. Both grappled fiercely, rolling across the mat in a tangle of limbs, grunts, and snarled curses replacing coherent insults. The team watched, frozen in horrified fascination.

Bucky took a step forward, his face grim. "That's enough! Walker! Y/N! STOP!"

"Y/N, please!" Ava called out, her voice laced with fear.

“Oh God, this is… this is not ok, he’s pushing her too far, she’s going to lose control,” Bob said with a shaky voice.

The team looked at him for a moment, considered his words, and then looked at you both again.

They didn’t have time to react.

But you both were beyond hearing. Beyond reason. John, stronger and heavier, managed to trap one of your arms and twist you onto your stomach, his knee driving into your back, his other arm snaking around your neck, locking into a brutal chokehold, not to render you unconscious, but to dominate, to control. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a ragged, hateful rasp. "Use them! Go on! Use your precious powers! Or are you finally admitting you’re nothing without them? Just a scared little girl playing at being strong? Just like you played at caring in those dreams!"

The words – "scared little girl," the dismissal of your strength, the final twist of the knife about the dreams – struck the deepest nerve of all. Something primal and desperate within you shattered. Your silver eyes blazed with an incandescent, unnatural light that filled the gym. Things in the gym started to shake and then levitate. A concussive wave of pure, unfocused telekinetic force erupted from your core, invisible but devastating.

***WHOOMF!***

John was ripped off you and hurled backwards like a cannonball. He flew across the gym, crashing through a heavy, reinforced training dummy, shattering it into composite shards, and slamming into the far wall with a sickening crunch of metal and concrete. A section of the reinforced wall panel buckled inwards, showering dust and debris. He crumpled to the floor amidst the wreckage, groaning, dazed, blood now welling from a fresh cut on his forehead, his arm bleeding anew.

Silence descended, profound and terrifying. Dust motes danced in the harsh fluorescent lights. The team was frozen, mouths agape, eyes wide with shock. Ava covered her mouth. Yelena's earlier smirk was gone, replaced by stark horror.

Then, movement. Groaning, coughing dust, John pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He shook his head, blinking rapidly, his expression morphing from stunned confusion to pure, unadulterated, feral fury. He saw you standing across the ruined mat, breathing in ragged, shallow gasps, your eyes wide with a flicker of genuine horror beneath the fading psychic glow and the residue of your rage.

He moved. Fast. Faster than pain, faster than sense, propelled by enhanced reflexes and volcanic fury. Before you could react, before you could even gather your scattered thoughts, he was on you. Not with a wild punch, but with the ruthless, efficient brutality of a soldier pushed beyond endurance. He didn't aim for your head; he aimed for control. One arm snaked around your neck from behind, locking into a crushing headlock, cutting off your air and, crucially, disrupting any focus needed for telekinesis. His other hand gripped your wrist like a vise, twisting your arm up painfully behind your back. He applied pressure, immobilizing you completely, using his weight and leverage to drive you down onto your knees on the broken mat.

"LET HER GO, WALKER! NOW!" Bucky roared, finally surging forward, Yelena and Ava close behind, Alexei lumbering after them.

"NO!" You gasped out, your voice strangled against the pressure on your windpipe. Your eyes, still glowing faintly with residual power, locked onto the approaching team. A desperate, powerful pulse of telepathic command slammed into them – STAY BACK! It wasn't a request; it was a desperate, pride-fueled imperative, a refusal to be saved. Bucky stumbled as if hitting a wall, clutching his head. Yelena and Ava cried out, reeling back, disoriented. Alexei just grunted, shaking his head like a bull.

John tightened his grip slightly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a guttural rasp thick with blood and hatred. "Not so powerful now, are you? Just flesh and blood. Just weak."

You thrashed with desperate strength, fueled by terror and humiliation. You managed to twist your hips, using leverage and a surge of adrenaline to break his hold on your arm and partially reverse your positions. You ended up straddling his waist, pinning his shoulders with your knees, your fist drawn back, trembling with the effort to hold the telepathic barrier and contain your power. Dust coated you both, mixed with sweat and blood.

He looked up at you, breathing raggedly, his face a mask of cuts, bruises, and swelling, blood smearing his temple and lip. There was defiance in his eyes, a feral challenge, but beneath it, something else had surfaced… an ocean-deep exhaustion? A terrifying, hollow resignation? He didn’t raise his hands to block you. He didn’t struggle. He just… stopped. Stopped fighting. Stopped resisting. He lay beneath you, utterly still except for the ragged rise and fall of his chest.

"Go on," he rasped, his voice raw and broken, echoing in the sudden, awful quiet of the gym. "Do it. Hit me. Since it’s all you seem to know how to do. Hit me like you did in my sleep. Hit me like you shattered the wall. Prove you can finish what you start." He looked directly at your eyes, tired. "Just make it count."

You hesitated, your fist trembling violently. The fury was still a molten core in your chest, but seeing him beneath you, battered, bleeding, utterly broken and not resisting… it was profoundly disorienting. The raw vulnerability in his voice, the utter surrender… it disarmed your rage like nothing else could. You drew back your fist, fueled by the last dregs of adrenaline and the desperate need to hurt him back, to make him feel the humiliation, the impossible tangle of hate and want.

You struck him. Once. A hard, jarring punch to his uninjured shoulder. He grunted, his body jerking under the impact, but his gaze was still locked in yours. You hit him again, on the chest, the blow losing force, landing more like a thud. A third time, a weak, open-handed slap against his already bruised and swollen jaw. It made a pathetic sound.

And then, the dam broke. Not with a scream, but with a choked sob. Hot, furious tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision of his broken face. Not tears of pain, but of overwhelming, inarticulate rage, frustration, crushing humiliation, and a profound, terrifying sense of loss – loss of control, loss of the upper hand, loss of the simple, clean hatred you thought you felt. They spilled over, tracing clean, glistening paths through the dust and sweat and grime on your cheeks. You looked down at him, at the man who infuriated you, challenged you, saw through your manipulations, invaded you with his thoughts, accused you of crossing the line, and who now lay passively accepting your blows, utterly defeated. Your fist unclenched, falling limply to your side. The telepathic barrier holding the team back flickered and died, and the debris and everything that was levitating fell instantly to the ground.

“I hate you,” you said with a broken voice.

He looked at you for a moment; he actually didn’t feel that. He didn’t believe you. Because after all, he knew it was a lie.

“No, you don’t. That’s the problem.” He whispered.

Silence, heavier than before, filled the ruined gym. The only sounds were your ragged, tear-filled breaths and John’s labored, defeated gasps beneath you. The war had reached its brutal, messy culmination, leaving only wreckage and the terrifying question of what came next.

You stared into John’s eyes for one long, agonizing moment. Then, without a word, you pushed yourself off him. You stood, swaying slightly, ignoring the concerned looks from your frozen teammates. You didn't look back at John sprawled on the debris-strewn mat. You just turned and walked out of the gym, your shoulders slumped, the sound of your retreating footsteps echoing in the heavy silence, the tracks of your tears still glistening on your face.

John remained on the floor, staring at the ceiling, the taste of blood and defeat sharp on his tongue, the echo of your silent tears burning hotter than any punch. The war wasn't over. But the battlefield had just changed irrevocably.

The silence after you fled was thick and suffocating, broken only by the settling dust and the frantic pounding of hearts slowly calming. The wreckage of the gym – the buckled wall panel, the shattered training dummy, the scattered debris of weights and tools – stood as stark, accusing monuments to the catastrophic.

Bob was the first to find his voice, a hesitant whisper cutting through the heavy air. "John? Are... are you okay?" He took a tentative step towards the figure still prone on the ruined mat.

John didn't move. He lay exactly as you had left him, sprawled on his back, arms limp at his sides, staring unblinkingly at the cracked ceiling tiles. Dust coated his bloodied face, mingling with sweat and the tracks of your tears that had fallen on him. He looked less like a super-soldier and more like a broken statue.

The damage was done.

@witchygagirl @goldnhabitx

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