maximoff-pan

[maximoff-pan]

weapons don't dream | john walker

summary: You and John Walker have a past — you're a mind-reading ex-Hydra assassin and he's a disgraced soldier — similar in one too many ways. When forced to work together, old ghosts resurface, sparks ignite, and the line between enemy and something more begins to blur.

pairing: john walker x fem!reader

word count: 2.6k

warning(s): enemies to whatever the hell this is, angst, mentions of violence, slightly dark, comfort fic — possibly a very screwed up timeline that makes absolutely no sense (sue me, marvel is too complicated for me)

a/n: hello there! Long time no see haha...This is my first attempt at diving into the thunderbolts universe (which I have totally fallen in love with)... I hope you all enjoy this quick little fic! Feedback is always appreciated <3

New Avengers Tower, 2027.

The Thunderbolts compound smells like gunpowder, sweat and recycled air. A place you once called home reduced to a mere mimicry of its former glory – now devoid of all the people that once made it so. Its body…its bones still look the same…but its organs are missing. 

Bile rises up your throat. You can’t help but hate it already.

The walls are sterile, everything’s matte black and seemingly made of soulless steel. There's a chill in the air that doesn’t come from the AC but from the place itself—like the ghosts of bad decisions still linger. There’s no traces of Tony’s greatness or the visions he had for this tower. Nothing but the stench of business business business – lifeless and cold. It’s like everything you once knew is gone. All that’s left behind are the shadows of your past, one only you can remember.

You wonder how Bucky can stomach it. How he can work with this team knowing what it once was – knowing that even the greatest of heroes couldn’t make it out alive – let alone a group of morally grey individuals whose abilities to work as a team, you seriously question. 

Undoubtedly, they’re a ticking time bomb. One that Sam has warned you against joining, and yet, you can’t let your curiosities die. Always yearning for a little danger. 

You’ve only just arrived when the briefing room door swings open. And of course he’s the first one you see.

John Walker—U.S. Agent. Patriot. Killer. Whatever they’re calling him these days…whatever branding Valentina is using to polish the blood off. 

He stops cold when your eyes meet. Not in shock, not even in regret. There’s something more dangerous floating across his cerulean orbs. Like familiarity wrapped in friction. Just that tight expression of someone biting down on something too bitter to say aloud.

“Well, shit.” He mutters. “They let you in?”

You don’t answer. You don't even bother dignifying it with a smile. You already know what he’s thinking.

His thoughts come in low and sharp.

‘Still cold. Still reading minds. Still dangerous.’

You let him feel your presence scrape along his mind’s edges. Not enough to intrude, just enough to remind him: you're still here. And you're still listening.

He flinches when he realizes you heard him. Good. Let him flinch.

“Nice to see you too, Walker.” You say completely unenthused, dropping your go-bag beside a chair. “Didn’t think you’d be the Thunderbolts’ official welcoming committee.”

“I’m not.” He grunts. “But I guess someone’s gotta make sure you don’t stab anyone before you meet the rest of the team.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Tempting.”

Silence oozes with tension as you take a seat at the table in front of you, gaze trained solely on him. John’s doing a good job keeping his thoughts shielded from you – something he’d always struggled to maintain. 

His stare breaks from yours, and a sigh passes from his lips. Apprehensive. Curious.

“So what, does Barnes just dig you up every time the assignment smells like Hydra?” He asks, dropping into a chair across from you.

You shrug off your jacket, revealing the shoulder holster beneath. “Better than digging up another American PR disaster.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. You don’t look at him again, but you can feel the weight of him—his thoughts, his regrets, the bruised, barely patched ego that still aches from everything he lost in that goddamn suit. Because of the shield.

You were there when he wore it. When he fell apart in it.

Madripoor. 2023. The rooftop.

He was bleeding from the mouth, hands shaking, and you watched him pace like a caged animal, the blood of that man still drying on his knuckles.

John was spiralling. You knew the signs—you'd lived them. Years ago, in another life, in what felt like another body.

“You don’t know what it’s like.” He snapped.

You didn’t flinch, staring at him calmly, even as his presence loomed. “Don’t I?”

You let your walls drop just enough for him to feel it—your past, your training, the blood on your hands. The screams. The pain you didn’t ask for. For just a second, you let your mind touch his—like the graze of a knife across skin. Not deep enough to bleed. Just enough to show him the flash of what you once were.

The reprogramming. The red room. The memories that weren’t yours but lived inside you anyway. The manipulation. The misuse of your powers—used to hurt the people you cared for most. 

He went still.

He stared at you for a long time after that. Said nothing. Didn’t need to.

‘It’s going to be okay.’ You spoke into his mind, repeating it like a prayer he needed to hear. 

For one second, he saw you. And you saw him. This was the first time he looked at you like a person. And the last time you’d see him for nearly four years. 

Then everything went to hell, and the government gave him a new shield and a black suit and told him to behave. John Walker—a trained soldier—didn’t want to follow those orders. But what choice did he have?

And you? You went underground. For four years.

Until Bucky called. The New Avengers – a chance at a new home. A chance at redemption.

Dahlonega, Georgia. 2027.

Valentina helps make the mission assignments, much to your (and Bucky’s) dismay. She seems to have an obsession pairing you with Walker. Maybe it’s because she can sense the history between you—the glaring dislike you have for one another is a crumbling facade.  

You don’t hate him because of who he is. You hate him because he’s too much like you. Your own self-hatred has left John Walker at a disadvantage. 

They've send you both to extract a rogue HYDRA biochemist hiding in Georgia. Rural, backwoods, half-flooded farmland. A decaying plantation house tucked behind a screen of swamp trees and slow-draining rivers.

You hate the symmetry. You hate the assignment.

You hate that it’s just the two of you. That leaves you vulnerable.

“I’ll take point,” John says as the quinjet descends.

“No.” You snap, already checking your gear. “You’re too loud. I'll go first.”

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus. Are you still pulling the lone wolf crap?”

You glance at him. “I don’t like being shot because you can’t shut up.”

The pilot makes a show of not hearing.

You drop from the jet into wet grass, your boots sinking into the mud like the land itself is trying to swallow you. The air smells like mildew and rot. You ghost through the tree line, eyes sharp, mind open just wide enough to catch stray thoughts drifting in the mist.

The compound is buried behind a cornfield, stalks yellowed and rotting from stagnant water. Vines curl over rusted fencing. Drones buzz faintly overhead, but you dispatch one with a silenced shot before it can alert the perimeter.

You signal Walker to move. Valentina had put you in charge – a fact John refuses to admit to himself. He hates that it makes sense.

He approaches from the southern fence line—less subtle than you, but fast. Efficient. You both converge at the target's front steps.

“Basement lab.” You murmur. “Underground. Reinforced. One heat signature. Two upstairs.”

“Copy that.” He says gruffly. He doesn’t question how you know. He’s learned not to. Even in the short time you’ve been back in his life, he feels like he’s known you forever.

He supposes he has. Outside of Bucky, he’s known you longer than anyone on the team.

You breach from the roof—silent, practiced, a shard of darkness slipping through rotted rafters. You land light on your feet and sweep the hall.

Glass from the skylight cuts your forearm, but adrenaline surges. Below, Walker busts in through the ground-level entrance, clearing the stairwell like a battering ram. That had been exactly the plan. 

You move in tandem. Like a dance choreographed by grudging familiarity. You clear the top floor while he moves to extract the target.

You round a corner—And then: static. Your radio hisses. Your head pulses.

Something’s off.

An unnatural hum surges in your skull, vibrating at the edge of your telepathy like barbed wire.

“Walker.” You hiss into the comm, but there’s no answer.

You take the stairs two at a time. The basement door is ajar. You step into a white, sterile hallway—

—then everything explodes.

You don’t hear it. You feel it. The floor bucks, the air implodes. Fire licks up the stairwell. Heat and pressure slam into your body like a truck.

You hit the ground with a sickening thud, shoulder screaming, ribs cracking against concrete. There’s glass in your thigh and the taste of blood in your mouth.

Your vision sways. Your ears ring. And then, barely, just as the world goes dark—

“Hey—HEY! Stay with me—don’t you dare—”

John screams your name. Not your code name. Not a title.

Your name.

His voice.

John.

Back at the compound, you sit on a gurney in the infirmary, arm stitched, pride shattered. Head absolutely pouding. You’ve just woken up, unaware of how long you’ve been out. It has to have been hours. 

John leans against the wall, arms crossed, bruised and breathing heavy. He looks like he hasn’t moved since dragging you from the basement in Georgia.

You haven’t said a word since awakening.

“You could say thank you, ya know?”” He murmurs as a joke.

You surprise him when you respond with a quiet and genuine thank you John. He wasn’t expecting you to listen—wasn’t expecting you to be so nice after almost dying. 

You sit up, wincing at the movement. “How bad is it?” You don’t know if you’re asking about his injuries or yours.

“I’m fine, just a couple scrapes and superficial bruises.” His arms are crossed as he takes a step toward you, gesturing to your physique. “The Doctor says you’ve got a dislocated shoulder and a minor concussion. I helped take care of it—popped that baby right back in place.”

You blink at him. “You took care of me?”

He shrugs. “Don’t look so surprised.”

Silence. Then: “Why?” You ask. Quiet. “Why did you pull me out?”

His jaw clenches. “Because I’ve seen enough people die on me. Especially ones who know what it’s like to be used up and tossed away.”

That silences you. Because under the anger and ego, you remember what lives in him.

Shame. Guilt. Loss. The same things you carry in your chest like weapons.

You look away.

His voice is softer now. “I didn’t forget what happened in Madripoor. You didn’t look at me like everyone else did.”

“I saw what you were capable of.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t run.”

“No,” you say, voice breaking just slightly, “because I’m capable of it too.”

Silence.

And just like that, his mind opens up for half a second, unguarded. You feel the way he’s always looked at you—with resentment, sure, but also curiosity. Attraction. Fear.

He doesn’t hate you. He hates how much you remind him of himself.

“I should go.” He whispers.

But he doesn't move.

Neither do you.

You spar in the gym three days later. It's supposed to be rehab. It's not.

Punch. Block. Kick. Grab. Repeat.

You sweep his leg. He slams you into the mat.

You flip him over. He rolls, pins you.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, fast and hot and ragged. You’re nose to nose, panting.

He doesn’t move.

You blink. His hands are on either side of your face like he forgot how to touch softly. John’s mind flares—desire, restraint, something raw and frantic trying not to surface. But you can feel it. You can hear it in his thoughts. 

You try to resist it. Try to let him keep that part of himself a secret. But it’s like your own desire is mixing with his, not allowing you the chance to preserve his privacy. 

“I should hit you.” You whisper.

His voice is low. “I’d let you.”

Silence. One beat, then two, then three. 

Your hands grip his shirt. His thumb brushes your jaw.

“I don’t know what this is.” You murmur. “And I know you’re trying, but I’m not someone you can fix John.”

His name feels foreign on your tongue. 

“I don’t want to fix you.” He responds. “I just want to stop pretending like you’re not under my skin.”

Then, he leans in. Stops. Breath brushes your lips. You could kiss him. You could kill him.

Instead, you shove him off and walk out. It’s too much, too real, too raw. He doesn’t follow. But he doesn’t leave either.

Seven days of avoidance and aching tension. Of him watching you from across the compound, always with that haunted, heated look.

Until one night, you find him on the roof, staring at the midnight inky black void like it might offer him redemption. It feels eerily similar to that night in Madripoor. Different skyline, same ghosts. 

You step beside him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just says, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

You hesitate. Then: “I used to dream in Russian. Still do, sometimes.” You’ve never told anyone that. It’s such a trivial piece of information to withhold but telling him feels good. 

He exhales. “I still hear his screams. The guy I…” He can’t bring himself to say it.

You nod. Understanding flashes in your eyes. “We don’t get to undo what we were made into Walker. Only decide what we do with what’s left.”

His voice cracks. “I don’t think I know how.”

You look at him, really look. See the broken soldier, the boy who wanted to be Captain America, the man who lost everything and kept going anyway.

“You start by letting someone in.” You whisper.

He turns to you. “You offering?”

Your heart stutters.

Then you say it—soft, brave, real: “Yeah. I think I am.”

You find yourself leaning, and so does he, until you meet each other, your breath whispering across his face. There’s a faint hint of a smile on his features – he wants this more than anything. And without much thought, he kisses you.

And his mind goes silent. You can’t hear anything but the sound of breaths colliding. 

It’s not gentle and it’s certainty not sweet.

It’s desperate. Hungry. Two broken people clawing toward something they don’t fully understand.

John’s hands cradle your face like you’re fragile. Yours grip his shirt like you’ll fall apart otherwise. They move up his back achingly; blonde tufts of hair find your fingertips like you’re spinning gold strings. 

When you break apart, you rest your forehead against his.

You whisper, “We may never feel like true heroes John, but maybe it means we’re not just weapons anymore.”

“Hmm,” he hums with a smile, “That’s something.”

And for now, something is enough. For the first time in a long time, you’ll go to sleep without ghosts clawing at your door. 

So will John.

tags: @bmyva1entine @kjmonster111

thank you to anyone who took the time to read this fic. I'd love to write more for walker and the other thunderbolts in the future.

[maximoff-pan]

weapons don't dream | john walker

summary: You and John Walker have a past — you're a mind-reading ex-Hydra assassin and he's a disgraced soldier — similar in one too many ways. When forced to work together, old ghosts resurface, sparks ignite, and the line between enemy and something more begins to blur.

pairing: john walker x fem!reader

word count: 2.6k

warning(s): enemies to whatever the hell this is, angst, mentions of violence, slightly dark, comfort fic — possibly a very screwed up timeline that makes absolutely no sense (sue me, marvel is too complicated for me)

a/n: hello there! Long time no see haha...This is my first attempt at diving into the thunderbolts universe (which I have totally fallen in love with)... I hope you all enjoy this quick little fic! Feedback is always appreciated <3

New Avengers Tower, 2027.

The Thunderbolts compound smells like gunpowder, sweat and recycled air. A place you once called home reduced to a mere mimicry of its former glory – now devoid of all the people that once made it so. Its body…its bones still look the same…but its organs are missing. 

Bile rises up your throat. You can’t help but hate it already.

The walls are sterile, everything’s matte black and seemingly made of soulless steel. There's a chill in the air that doesn’t come from the AC but from the place itself—like the ghosts of bad decisions still linger. There’s no traces of Tony’s greatness or the visions he had for this tower. Nothing but the stench of business business business – lifeless and cold. It’s like everything you once knew is gone. All that’s left behind are the shadows of your past, one only you can remember.

You wonder how Bucky can stomach it. How he can work with this team knowing what it once was – knowing that even the greatest of heroes couldn’t make it out alive – let alone a group of morally grey individuals whose abilities to work as a team, you seriously question. 

Undoubtedly, they’re a ticking time bomb. One that Sam has warned you against joining, and yet, you can’t let your curiosities die. Always yearning for a little danger. 

You’ve only just arrived when the briefing room door swings open. And of course he’s the first one you see.

John Walker—U.S. Agent. Patriot. Killer. Whatever they’re calling him these days…whatever branding Valentina is using to polish the blood off. 

He stops cold when your eyes meet. Not in shock, not even in regret. There’s something more dangerous floating across his cerulean orbs. Like familiarity wrapped in friction. Just that tight expression of someone biting down on something too bitter to say aloud.

“Well, shit.” He mutters. “They let you in?”

You don’t answer. You don't even bother dignifying it with a smile. You already know what he’s thinking.

His thoughts come in low and sharp.

‘Still cold. Still reading minds. Still dangerous.’

You let him feel your presence scrape along his mind’s edges. Not enough to intrude, just enough to remind him: you're still here. And you're still listening.

He flinches when he realizes you heard him. Good. Let him flinch.

“Nice to see you too, Walker.” You say completely unenthused, dropping your go-bag beside a chair. “Didn’t think you’d be the Thunderbolts’ official welcoming committee.”

“I’m not.” He grunts. “But I guess someone’s gotta make sure you don’t stab anyone before you meet the rest of the team.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Tempting.”

Silence oozes with tension as you take a seat at the table in front of you, gaze trained solely on him. John’s doing a good job keeping his thoughts shielded from you – something he’d always struggled to maintain. 

His stare breaks from yours, and a sigh passes from his lips. Apprehensive. Curious.

“So what, does Barnes just dig you up every time the assignment smells like Hydra?” He asks, dropping into a chair across from you.

You shrug off your jacket, revealing the shoulder holster beneath. “Better than digging up another American PR disaster.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. You don’t look at him again, but you can feel the weight of him—his thoughts, his regrets, the bruised, barely patched ego that still aches from everything he lost in that goddamn suit. Because of the shield.

You were there when he wore it. When he fell apart in it.

Madripoor. 2023. The rooftop.

He was bleeding from the mouth, hands shaking, and you watched him pace like a caged animal, the blood of that man still drying on his knuckles.

John was spiralling. You knew the signs—you'd lived them. Years ago, in another life, in what felt like another body.

“You don’t know what it’s like.” He snapped.

You didn’t flinch, staring at him calmly, even as his presence loomed. “Don’t I?”

You let your walls drop just enough for him to feel it—your past, your training, the blood on your hands. The screams. The pain you didn’t ask for. For just a second, you let your mind touch his—like the graze of a knife across skin. Not deep enough to bleed. Just enough to show him the flash of what you once were.

The reprogramming. The red room. The memories that weren’t yours but lived inside you anyway. The manipulation. The misuse of your powers—used to hurt the people you cared for most. 

He went still.

He stared at you for a long time after that. Said nothing. Didn’t need to.

‘It’s going to be okay.’ You spoke into his mind, repeating it like a prayer he needed to hear. 

For one second, he saw you. And you saw him. This was the first time he looked at you like a person. And the last time you’d see him for nearly four years. 

Then everything went to hell, and the government gave him a new shield and a black suit and told him to behave. John Walker—a trained soldier—didn’t want to follow those orders. But what choice did he have?

And you? You went underground. For four years.

Until Bucky called. The New Avengers – a chance at a new home. A chance at redemption.

Dahlonega, Georgia. 2027.

Valentina helps make the mission assignments, much to your (and Bucky’s) dismay. She seems to have an obsession pairing you with Walker. Maybe it’s because she can sense the history between you—the glaring dislike you have for one another is a crumbling facade.  

You don’t hate him because of who he is. You hate him because he’s too much like you. Your own self-hatred has left John Walker at a disadvantage. 

They've send you both to extract a rogue HYDRA biochemist hiding in Georgia. Rural, backwoods, half-flooded farmland. A decaying plantation house tucked behind a screen of swamp trees and slow-draining rivers.

You hate the symmetry. You hate the assignment.

You hate that it’s just the two of you. That leaves you vulnerable.

“I’ll take point,” John says as the quinjet descends.

“No.” You snap, already checking your gear. “You’re too loud. I'll go first.”

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus. Are you still pulling the lone wolf crap?”

You glance at him. “I don’t like being shot because you can’t shut up.”

The pilot makes a show of not hearing.

You drop from the jet into wet grass, your boots sinking into the mud like the land itself is trying to swallow you. The air smells like mildew and rot. You ghost through the tree line, eyes sharp, mind open just wide enough to catch stray thoughts drifting in the mist.

The compound is buried behind a cornfield, stalks yellowed and rotting from stagnant water. Vines curl over rusted fencing. Drones buzz faintly overhead, but you dispatch one with a silenced shot before it can alert the perimeter.

You signal Walker to move. Valentina had put you in charge – a fact John refuses to admit to himself. He hates that it makes sense.

He approaches from the southern fence line—less subtle than you, but fast. Efficient. You both converge at the target's front steps.

“Basement lab.” You murmur. “Underground. Reinforced. One heat signature. Two upstairs.”

“Copy that.” He says gruffly. He doesn’t question how you know. He’s learned not to. Even in the short time you’ve been back in his life, he feels like he’s known you forever.

He supposes he has. Outside of Bucky, he’s known you longer than anyone on the team.

You breach from the roof—silent, practiced, a shard of darkness slipping through rotted rafters. You land light on your feet and sweep the hall.

Glass from the skylight cuts your forearm, but adrenaline surges. Below, Walker busts in through the ground-level entrance, clearing the stairwell like a battering ram. That had been exactly the plan. 

You move in tandem. Like a dance choreographed by grudging familiarity. You clear the top floor while he moves to extract the target.

You round a corner—And then: static. Your radio hisses. Your head pulses.

Something’s off.

An unnatural hum surges in your skull, vibrating at the edge of your telepathy like barbed wire.

“Walker.” You hiss into the comm, but there’s no answer.

You take the stairs two at a time. The basement door is ajar. You step into a white, sterile hallway—

—then everything explodes.

You don’t hear it. You feel it. The floor bucks, the air implodes. Fire licks up the stairwell. Heat and pressure slam into your body like a truck.

You hit the ground with a sickening thud, shoulder screaming, ribs cracking against concrete. There’s glass in your thigh and the taste of blood in your mouth.

Your vision sways. Your ears ring. And then, barely, just as the world goes dark—

“Hey—HEY! Stay with me—don’t you dare—”

John screams your name. Not your code name. Not a title.

Your name.

His voice.

John.

Back at the compound, you sit on a gurney in the infirmary, arm stitched, pride shattered. Head absolutely pouding. You’ve just woken up, unaware of how long you’ve been out. It has to have been hours. 

John leans against the wall, arms crossed, bruised and breathing heavy. He looks like he hasn’t moved since dragging you from the basement in Georgia.

You haven’t said a word since awakening.

“You could say thank you, ya know?”” He murmurs as a joke.

You surprise him when you respond with a quiet and genuine thank you John. He wasn’t expecting you to listen—wasn’t expecting you to be so nice after almost dying. 

You sit up, wincing at the movement. “How bad is it?” You don’t know if you’re asking about his injuries or yours.

“I’m fine, just a couple scrapes and superficial bruises.” His arms are crossed as he takes a step toward you, gesturing to your physique. “The Doctor says you’ve got a dislocated shoulder and a minor concussion. I helped take care of it—popped that baby right back in place.”

You blink at him. “You took care of me?”

He shrugs. “Don’t look so surprised.”

Silence. Then: “Why?” You ask. Quiet. “Why did you pull me out?”

His jaw clenches. “Because I’ve seen enough people die on me. Especially ones who know what it’s like to be used up and tossed away.”

That silences you. Because under the anger and ego, you remember what lives in him.

Shame. Guilt. Loss. The same things you carry in your chest like weapons.

You look away.

His voice is softer now. “I didn’t forget what happened in Madripoor. You didn’t look at me like everyone else did.”

“I saw what you were capable of.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t run.”

“No,” you say, voice breaking just slightly, “because I’m capable of it too.”

Silence.

And just like that, his mind opens up for half a second, unguarded. You feel the way he’s always looked at you—with resentment, sure, but also curiosity. Attraction. Fear.

He doesn’t hate you. He hates how much you remind him of himself.

“I should go.” He whispers.

But he doesn't move.

Neither do you.

You spar in the gym three days later. It's supposed to be rehab. It's not.

Punch. Block. Kick. Grab. Repeat.

You sweep his leg. He slams you into the mat.

You flip him over. He rolls, pins you.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, fast and hot and ragged. You’re nose to nose, panting.

He doesn’t move.

You blink. His hands are on either side of your face like he forgot how to touch softly. John’s mind flares—desire, restraint, something raw and frantic trying not to surface. But you can feel it. You can hear it in his thoughts. 

You try to resist it. Try to let him keep that part of himself a secret. But it’s like your own desire is mixing with his, not allowing you the chance to preserve his privacy. 

“I should hit you.” You whisper.

His voice is low. “I’d let you.”

Silence. One beat, then two, then three. 

Your hands grip his shirt. His thumb brushes your jaw.

“I don’t know what this is.” You murmur. “And I know you’re trying, but I’m not someone you can fix John.”

His name feels foreign on your tongue. 

“I don’t want to fix you.” He responds. “I just want to stop pretending like you’re not under my skin.”

Then, he leans in. Stops. Breath brushes your lips. You could kiss him. You could kill him.

Instead, you shove him off and walk out. It’s too much, too real, too raw. He doesn’t follow. But he doesn’t leave either.

Seven days of avoidance and aching tension. Of him watching you from across the compound, always with that haunted, heated look.

Until one night, you find him on the roof, staring at the midnight inky black void like it might offer him redemption. It feels eerily similar to that night in Madripoor. Different skyline, same ghosts. 

You step beside him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just says, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

You hesitate. Then: “I used to dream in Russian. Still do, sometimes.” You’ve never told anyone that. It’s such a trivial piece of information to withhold but telling him feels good. 

He exhales. “I still hear his screams. The guy I…” He can’t bring himself to say it.

You nod. Understanding flashes in your eyes. “We don’t get to undo what we were made into Walker. Only decide what we do with what’s left.”

His voice cracks. “I don’t think I know how.”

You look at him, really look. See the broken soldier, the boy who wanted to be Captain America, the man who lost everything and kept going anyway.

“You start by letting someone in.” You whisper.

He turns to you. “You offering?”

Your heart stutters.

Then you say it—soft, brave, real: “Yeah. I think I am.”

You find yourself leaning, and so does he, until you meet each other, your breath whispering across his face. There’s a faint hint of a smile on his features – he wants this more than anything. And without much thought, he kisses you.

And his mind goes silent. You can’t hear anything but the sound of breaths colliding. 

It’s not gentle and it’s certainty not sweet.

It’s desperate. Hungry. Two broken people clawing toward something they don’t fully understand.

John’s hands cradle your face like you’re fragile. Yours grip his shirt like you’ll fall apart otherwise. They move up his back achingly; blonde tufts of hair find your fingertips like you’re spinning gold strings. 

When you break apart, you rest your forehead against his.

You whisper, “We may never feel like true heroes John, but maybe it means we’re not just weapons anymore.”

“Hmm,” he hums with a smile, “That’s something.”

And for now, something is enough. For the first time in a long time, you’ll go to sleep without ghosts clawing at your door. 

So will John.

tags: @bmyva1entine @kjmonster111

thank you to anyone who took the time to read this fic. I'd love to write more for walker and the other thunderbolts in the future.

[maximoff-pan]

this is so so sweet, thank you!! And that makes me so happy to hear! I would absolutely love to write more for John — and I’m so glad you enjoyed the reader — I was kind of worried about her portrayal 🥰🥰🥰

weapons don't dream | john walker

summary: You and John Walker have a past — you're a mind-reading ex-Hydra assassin and he's a disgraced soldier — similar in one too many ways. When forced to work together, old ghosts resurface, sparks ignite, and the line between enemy and something more begins to blur.

pairing: john walker x fem!reader

word count: 2.6k

warning(s): enemies to whatever the hell this is, angst, mentions of violence, slightly dark, comfort fic — possibly a very screwed up timeline that makes absolutely no sense (sue me, marvel is too complicated for me)

a/n: hello there! Long time no see haha...This is my first attempt at diving into the thunderbolts universe (which I have totally fallen in love with)... I hope you all enjoy this quick little fic! Feedback is always appreciated <3

New Avengers Tower, 2027.

The Thunderbolts compound smells like gunpowder, sweat and recycled air. A place you once called home reduced to a mere mimicry of its former glory – now devoid of all the people that once made it so. Its body…its bones still look the same…but its organs are missing. 

Bile rises up your throat. You can’t help but hate it already.

The walls are sterile, everything’s matte black and seemingly made of soulless steel. There's a chill in the air that doesn’t come from the AC but from the place itself—like the ghosts of bad decisions still linger. There’s no traces of Tony’s greatness or the visions he had for this tower. Nothing but the stench of business business business – lifeless and cold. It’s like everything you once knew is gone. All that’s left behind are the shadows of your past, one only you can remember.

You wonder how Bucky can stomach it. How he can work with this team knowing what it once was – knowing that even the greatest of heroes couldn’t make it out alive – let alone a group of morally grey individuals whose abilities to work as a team, you seriously question. 

Undoubtedly, they’re a ticking time bomb. One that Sam has warned you against joining, and yet, you can’t let your curiosities die. Always yearning for a little danger. 

You’ve only just arrived when the briefing room door swings open. And of course he’s the first one you see.

John Walker—U.S. Agent. Patriot. Killer. Whatever they’re calling him these days…whatever branding Valentina is using to polish the blood off. 

He stops cold when your eyes meet. Not in shock, not even in regret. There’s something more dangerous floating across his cerulean orbs. Like familiarity wrapped in friction. Just that tight expression of someone biting down on something too bitter to say aloud.

“Well, shit.” He mutters. “They let you in?”

You don’t answer. You don't even bother dignifying it with a smile. You already know what he’s thinking.

His thoughts come in low and sharp.

‘Still cold. Still reading minds. Still dangerous.’

You let him feel your presence scrape along his mind’s edges. Not enough to intrude, just enough to remind him: you're still here. And you're still listening.

He flinches when he realizes you heard him. Good. Let him flinch.

“Nice to see you too, Walker.” You say completely unenthused, dropping your go-bag beside a chair. “Didn’t think you’d be the Thunderbolts’ official welcoming committee.”

“I’m not.” He grunts. “But I guess someone’s gotta make sure you don’t stab anyone before you meet the rest of the team.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Tempting.”

Silence oozes with tension as you take a seat at the table in front of you, gaze trained solely on him. John’s doing a good job keeping his thoughts shielded from you – something he’d always struggled to maintain. 

His stare breaks from yours, and a sigh passes from his lips. Apprehensive. Curious.

“So what, does Barnes just dig you up every time the assignment smells like Hydra?” He asks, dropping into a chair across from you.

You shrug off your jacket, revealing the shoulder holster beneath. “Better than digging up another American PR disaster.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. You don’t look at him again, but you can feel the weight of him—his thoughts, his regrets, the bruised, barely patched ego that still aches from everything he lost in that goddamn suit. Because of the shield.

You were there when he wore it. When he fell apart in it.

Madripoor. 2023. The rooftop.

He was bleeding from the mouth, hands shaking, and you watched him pace like a caged animal, the blood of that man still drying on his knuckles.

John was spiralling. You knew the signs—you'd lived them. Years ago, in another life, in what felt like another body.

“You don’t know what it’s like.” He snapped.

You didn’t flinch, staring at him calmly, even as his presence loomed. “Don’t I?”

You let your walls drop just enough for him to feel it—your past, your training, the blood on your hands. The screams. The pain you didn’t ask for. For just a second, you let your mind touch his—like the graze of a knife across skin. Not deep enough to bleed. Just enough to show him the flash of what you once were.

The reprogramming. The red room. The memories that weren’t yours but lived inside you anyway. The manipulation. The misuse of your powers—used to hurt the people you cared for most. 

He went still.

He stared at you for a long time after that. Said nothing. Didn’t need to.

‘It’s going to be okay.’ You spoke into his mind, repeating it like a prayer he needed to hear. 

For one second, he saw you. And you saw him. This was the first time he looked at you like a person. And the last time you’d see him for nearly four years. 

Then everything went to hell, and the government gave him a new shield and a black suit and told him to behave. John Walker—a trained soldier—didn’t want to follow those orders. But what choice did he have?

And you? You went underground. For four years.

Until Bucky called. The New Avengers – a chance at a new home. A chance at redemption.

Dahlonega, Georgia. 2027.

Valentina helps make the mission assignments, much to your (and Bucky’s) dismay. She seems to have an obsession pairing you with Walker. Maybe it’s because she can sense the history between you—the glaring dislike you have for one another is a crumbling facade.  

You don’t hate him because of who he is. You hate him because he’s too much like you. Your own self-hatred has left John Walker at a disadvantage. 

They've send you both to extract a rogue HYDRA biochemist hiding in Georgia. Rural, backwoods, half-flooded farmland. A decaying plantation house tucked behind a screen of swamp trees and slow-draining rivers.

You hate the symmetry. You hate the assignment.

You hate that it’s just the two of you. That leaves you vulnerable.

“I’ll take point,” John says as the quinjet descends.

“No.” You snap, already checking your gear. “You’re too loud. I'll go first.”

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus. Are you still pulling the lone wolf crap?”

You glance at him. “I don’t like being shot because you can’t shut up.”

The pilot makes a show of not hearing.

You drop from the jet into wet grass, your boots sinking into the mud like the land itself is trying to swallow you. The air smells like mildew and rot. You ghost through the tree line, eyes sharp, mind open just wide enough to catch stray thoughts drifting in the mist.

The compound is buried behind a cornfield, stalks yellowed and rotting from stagnant water. Vines curl over rusted fencing. Drones buzz faintly overhead, but you dispatch one with a silenced shot before it can alert the perimeter.

You signal Walker to move. Valentina had put you in charge – a fact John refuses to admit to himself. He hates that it makes sense.

He approaches from the southern fence line—less subtle than you, but fast. Efficient. You both converge at the target's front steps.

“Basement lab.” You murmur. “Underground. Reinforced. One heat signature. Two upstairs.”

“Copy that.” He says gruffly. He doesn’t question how you know. He’s learned not to. Even in the short time you’ve been back in his life, he feels like he’s known you forever.

He supposes he has. Outside of Bucky, he’s known you longer than anyone on the team.

You breach from the roof—silent, practiced, a shard of darkness slipping through rotted rafters. You land light on your feet and sweep the hall.

Glass from the skylight cuts your forearm, but adrenaline surges. Below, Walker busts in through the ground-level entrance, clearing the stairwell like a battering ram. That had been exactly the plan. 

You move in tandem. Like a dance choreographed by grudging familiarity. You clear the top floor while he moves to extract the target.

You round a corner—And then: static. Your radio hisses. Your head pulses.

Something’s off.

An unnatural hum surges in your skull, vibrating at the edge of your telepathy like barbed wire.

“Walker.” You hiss into the comm, but there’s no answer.

You take the stairs two at a time. The basement door is ajar. You step into a white, sterile hallway—

—then everything explodes.

You don’t hear it. You feel it. The floor bucks, the air implodes. Fire licks up the stairwell. Heat and pressure slam into your body like a truck.

You hit the ground with a sickening thud, shoulder screaming, ribs cracking against concrete. There’s glass in your thigh and the taste of blood in your mouth.

Your vision sways. Your ears ring. And then, barely, just as the world goes dark—

“Hey—HEY! Stay with me—don’t you dare—”

John screams your name. Not your code name. Not a title.

Your name.

His voice.

John.

Back at the compound, you sit on a gurney in the infirmary, arm stitched, pride shattered. Head absolutely pouding. You’ve just woken up, unaware of how long you’ve been out. It has to have been hours. 

John leans against the wall, arms crossed, bruised and breathing heavy. He looks like he hasn’t moved since dragging you from the basement in Georgia.

You haven’t said a word since awakening.

“You could say thank you, ya know?”” He murmurs as a joke.

You surprise him when you respond with a quiet and genuine thank you John. He wasn’t expecting you to listen—wasn’t expecting you to be so nice after almost dying. 

You sit up, wincing at the movement. “How bad is it?” You don’t know if you’re asking about his injuries or yours.

“I’m fine, just a couple scrapes and superficial bruises.” His arms are crossed as he takes a step toward you, gesturing to your physique. “The Doctor says you’ve got a dislocated shoulder and a minor concussion. I helped take care of it—popped that baby right back in place.”

You blink at him. “You took care of me?”

He shrugs. “Don’t look so surprised.”

Silence. Then: “Why?” You ask. Quiet. “Why did you pull me out?”

His jaw clenches. “Because I’ve seen enough people die on me. Especially ones who know what it’s like to be used up and tossed away.”

That silences you. Because under the anger and ego, you remember what lives in him.

Shame. Guilt. Loss. The same things you carry in your chest like weapons.

You look away.

His voice is softer now. “I didn’t forget what happened in Madripoor. You didn’t look at me like everyone else did.”

“I saw what you were capable of.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t run.”

“No,” you say, voice breaking just slightly, “because I’m capable of it too.”

Silence.

And just like that, his mind opens up for half a second, unguarded. You feel the way he’s always looked at you—with resentment, sure, but also curiosity. Attraction. Fear.

He doesn’t hate you. He hates how much you remind him of himself.

“I should go.” He whispers.

But he doesn't move.

Neither do you.

You spar in the gym three days later. It's supposed to be rehab. It's not.

Punch. Block. Kick. Grab. Repeat.

You sweep his leg. He slams you into the mat.

You flip him over. He rolls, pins you.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, fast and hot and ragged. You’re nose to nose, panting.

He doesn’t move.

You blink. His hands are on either side of your face like he forgot how to touch softly. John’s mind flares—desire, restraint, something raw and frantic trying not to surface. But you can feel it. You can hear it in his thoughts. 

You try to resist it. Try to let him keep that part of himself a secret. But it’s like your own desire is mixing with his, not allowing you the chance to preserve his privacy. 

“I should hit you.” You whisper.

His voice is low. “I’d let you.”

Silence. One beat, then two, then three. 

Your hands grip his shirt. His thumb brushes your jaw.

“I don’t know what this is.” You murmur. “And I know you’re trying, but I’m not someone you can fix John.”

His name feels foreign on your tongue. 

“I don’t want to fix you.” He responds. “I just want to stop pretending like you’re not under my skin.”

Then, he leans in. Stops. Breath brushes your lips. You could kiss him. You could kill him.

Instead, you shove him off and walk out. It’s too much, too real, too raw. He doesn’t follow. But he doesn’t leave either.

Seven days of avoidance and aching tension. Of him watching you from across the compound, always with that haunted, heated look.

Until one night, you find him on the roof, staring at the midnight inky black void like it might offer him redemption. It feels eerily similar to that night in Madripoor. Different skyline, same ghosts. 

You step beside him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just says, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

You hesitate. Then: “I used to dream in Russian. Still do, sometimes.” You’ve never told anyone that. It’s such a trivial piece of information to withhold but telling him feels good. 

He exhales. “I still hear his screams. The guy I…” He can’t bring himself to say it.

You nod. Understanding flashes in your eyes. “We don’t get to undo what we were made into Walker. Only decide what we do with what’s left.”

His voice cracks. “I don’t think I know how.”

You look at him, really look. See the broken soldier, the boy who wanted to be Captain America, the man who lost everything and kept going anyway.

“You start by letting someone in.” You whisper.

He turns to you. “You offering?”

Your heart stutters.

Then you say it—soft, brave, real: “Yeah. I think I am.”

You find yourself leaning, and so does he, until you meet each other, your breath whispering across his face. There’s a faint hint of a smile on his features – he wants this more than anything. And without much thought, he kisses you.

And his mind goes silent. You can’t hear anything but the sound of breaths colliding. 

It’s not gentle and it’s certainty not sweet.

It’s desperate. Hungry. Two broken people clawing toward something they don’t fully understand.

John’s hands cradle your face like you’re fragile. Yours grip his shirt like you’ll fall apart otherwise. They move up his back achingly; blonde tufts of hair find your fingertips like you’re spinning gold strings. 

When you break apart, you rest your forehead against his.

You whisper, “We may never feel like true heroes John, but maybe it means we’re not just weapons anymore.”

“Hmm,” he hums with a smile, “That’s something.”

And for now, something is enough. For the first time in a long time, you’ll go to sleep without ghosts clawing at your door. 

So will John.

tags: @bmyva1entine @kjmonster111

thank you to anyone who took the time to read this fic. I'd love to write more for walker and the other thunderbolts in the future.

[maximoff-pan]

weapons don't dream | john walker

summary: You and John Walker have a past — you're a mind-reading ex-Hydra assassin and he's a disgraced soldier — similar in one too many ways. When forced to work together, old ghosts resurface, sparks ignite, and the line between enemy and something more begins to blur.

pairing: john walker x fem!reader

word count: 2.6k

warning(s): enemies to whatever the hell this is, angst, mentions of violence, slightly dark, comfort fic — possibly a very screwed up timeline that makes absolutely no sense (sue me, marvel is too complicated for me)

a/n: hello there! Long time no see haha...This is my first attempt at diving into the thunderbolts universe (which I have totally fallen in love with)... I hope you all enjoy this quick little fic! Feedback is always appreciated <3

New Avengers Tower, 2027.

The Thunderbolts compound smells like gunpowder, sweat and recycled air. A place you once called home reduced to a mere mimicry of its former glory – now devoid of all the people that once made it so. Its body…its bones still look the same…but its organs are missing. 

Bile rises up your throat. You can’t help but hate it already.

The walls are sterile, everything’s matte black and seemingly made of soulless steel. There's a chill in the air that doesn’t come from the AC but from the place itself—like the ghosts of bad decisions still linger. There’s no traces of Tony’s greatness or the visions he had for this tower. Nothing but the stench of business business business – lifeless and cold. It’s like everything you once knew is gone. All that’s left behind are the shadows of your past, one only you can remember.

You wonder how Bucky can stomach it. How he can work with this team knowing what it once was – knowing that even the greatest of heroes couldn’t make it out alive – let alone a group of morally grey individuals whose abilities to work as a team, you seriously question. 

Undoubtedly, they’re a ticking time bomb. One that Sam has warned you against joining, and yet, you can’t let your curiosities die. Always yearning for a little danger. 

You’ve only just arrived when the briefing room door swings open. And of course he’s the first one you see.

John Walker—U.S. Agent. Patriot. Killer. Whatever they’re calling him these days…whatever branding Valentina is using to polish the blood off. 

He stops cold when your eyes meet. Not in shock, not even in regret. There’s something more dangerous floating across his cerulean orbs. Like familiarity wrapped in friction. Just that tight expression of someone biting down on something too bitter to say aloud.

“Well, shit.” He mutters. “They let you in?”

You don’t answer. You don't even bother dignifying it with a smile. You already know what he’s thinking.

His thoughts come in low and sharp.

‘Still cold. Still reading minds. Still dangerous.’

You let him feel your presence scrape along his mind’s edges. Not enough to intrude, just enough to remind him: you're still here. And you're still listening.

He flinches when he realizes you heard him. Good. Let him flinch.

“Nice to see you too, Walker.” You say completely unenthused, dropping your go-bag beside a chair. “Didn’t think you’d be the Thunderbolts’ official welcoming committee.”

“I’m not.” He grunts. “But I guess someone’s gotta make sure you don’t stab anyone before you meet the rest of the team.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Tempting.”

Silence oozes with tension as you take a seat at the table in front of you, gaze trained solely on him. John’s doing a good job keeping his thoughts shielded from you – something he’d always struggled to maintain. 

His stare breaks from yours, and a sigh passes from his lips. Apprehensive. Curious.

“So what, does Barnes just dig you up every time the assignment smells like Hydra?” He asks, dropping into a chair across from you.

You shrug off your jacket, revealing the shoulder holster beneath. “Better than digging up another American PR disaster.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. You don’t look at him again, but you can feel the weight of him—his thoughts, his regrets, the bruised, barely patched ego that still aches from everything he lost in that goddamn suit. Because of the shield.

You were there when he wore it. When he fell apart in it.

Madripoor. 2023. The rooftop.

He was bleeding from the mouth, hands shaking, and you watched him pace like a caged animal, the blood of that man still drying on his knuckles.

John was spiralling. You knew the signs—you'd lived them. Years ago, in another life, in what felt like another body.

“You don’t know what it’s like.” He snapped.

You didn’t flinch, staring at him calmly, even as his presence loomed. “Don’t I?”

You let your walls drop just enough for him to feel it—your past, your training, the blood on your hands. The screams. The pain you didn’t ask for. For just a second, you let your mind touch his—like the graze of a knife across skin. Not deep enough to bleed. Just enough to show him the flash of what you once were.

The reprogramming. The red room. The memories that weren’t yours but lived inside you anyway. The manipulation. The misuse of your powers—used to hurt the people you cared for most. 

He went still.

He stared at you for a long time after that. Said nothing. Didn’t need to.

‘It’s going to be okay.’ You spoke into his mind, repeating it like a prayer he needed to hear. 

For one second, he saw you. And you saw him. This was the first time he looked at you like a person. And the last time you’d see him for nearly four years. 

Then everything went to hell, and the government gave him a new shield and a black suit and told him to behave. John Walker—a trained soldier—didn’t want to follow those orders. But what choice did he have?

And you? You went underground. For four years.

Until Bucky called. The New Avengers – a chance at a new home. A chance at redemption.

Dahlonega, Georgia. 2027.

Valentina helps make the mission assignments, much to your (and Bucky’s) dismay. She seems to have an obsession pairing you with Walker. Maybe it’s because she can sense the history between you—the glaring dislike you have for one another is a crumbling facade.  

You don’t hate him because of who he is. You hate him because he’s too much like you. Your own self-hatred has left John Walker at a disadvantage. 

They've sent you both to extract a rogue HYDRA biochemist hiding in Georgia. Rural, backwoods, half-flooded farmland. A decaying plantation house tucked behind a screen of swamp trees and slow-draining rivers.

You hate the symmetry. You hate the assignment.

You hate that it’s just the two of you. That leaves you vulnerable.

“I’ll take point,” John says as the quinjet descends.

“No.” You snap, already checking your gear. “You’re too loud. I'll go first.”

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus. Are you still pulling the lone wolf crap?”

You glance at him. “I don’t like being shot because you can’t shut up.”

The pilot makes a show of not hearing.

You drop from the jet into wet grass, your boots sinking into the mud like the land itself is trying to swallow you. The air smells like mildew and rot. You ghost through the tree line, eyes sharp, mind open just wide enough to catch stray thoughts drifting in the mist.

The compound is buried behind a cornfield, stalks yellowed and rotting from stagnant water. Vines curl over rusted fencing. Drones buzz faintly overhead, but you dispatch one with a silenced shot before it can alert the perimeter.

You signal Walker to move. Valentina had put you in charge – a fact John refuses to admit to himself. He hates that it makes sense.

He approaches from the southern fence line—less subtle than you, but fast. Efficient. You both converge at the target's front steps.

“Basement lab.” You murmur. “Underground. Reinforced. One heat signature. Two upstairs.”

“Copy that.” He says gruffly. He doesn’t question how you know. He’s learned not to. Even in the short time you’ve been back in his life, he feels like he’s known you forever.

He supposes he has. Outside of Bucky, he’s known you longer than anyone on the team.

You breach from the roof—silent, practiced, a shard of darkness slipping through rotted rafters. You land light on your feet and sweep the hall.

Glass from the skylight cuts your forearm, but adrenaline surges. Below, Walker busts in through the ground-level entrance, clearing the stairwell like a battering ram. That had been exactly the plan. 

You move in tandem. Like a dance choreographed by grudging familiarity. You clear the top floor while he moves to extract the target.

You round a corner—And then: static. Your radio hisses. Your head pulses.

Something’s off.

An unnatural hum surges in your skull, vibrating at the edge of your telepathy like barbed wire.

“Walker.” You hiss into the comm, but there’s no answer.

You take the stairs two at a time. The basement door is ajar. You step into a white, sterile hallway—

—then everything explodes.

You don’t hear it. You feel it. The floor bucks, the air implodes. Fire licks up the stairwell. Heat and pressure slam into your body like a truck.

You hit the ground with a sickening thud, shoulder screaming, ribs cracking against concrete. There’s glass in your thigh and the taste of blood in your mouth.

Your vision sways. Your ears ring. And then, barely, just as the world goes dark—

“Hey—HEY! Stay with me—don’t you dare—”

John screams your name. Not your code name. Not a title.

Your name.

His voice.

John.

Back at the compound, you sit on a gurney in the infirmary, arm stitched, pride shattered. Head absolutely pouding. You’ve just woken up, unaware of how long you’ve been out. It has to have been hours. 

John leans against the wall, arms crossed, bruised and breathing heavy. He looks like he hasn’t moved since dragging you from the basement in Georgia.

You haven’t said a word since awakening.

“You could say thank you, ya know?”” He murmurs as a joke.

You surprise him when you respond with a quiet and genuine thank you John. He wasn’t expecting you to listen—wasn’t expecting you to be so nice after almost dying. 

You sit up, wincing at the movement. “How bad is it?” You don’t know if you’re asking about his injuries or yours.

“I’m fine, just a couple scrapes and superficial bruises.” His arms are crossed as he takes a step toward you, gesturing to your physique. “The Doctor says you’ve got a dislocated shoulder and a minor concussion. I helped take care of it—popped that baby right back in place.”

You blink at him. “You took care of me?”

He shrugs. “Don’t look so surprised.”

Silence. Then: “Why?” You ask. Quiet. “Why did you pull me out?”

His jaw clenches. “Because I’ve seen enough people die on me. Especially ones who know what it’s like to be used up and tossed away.”

That silences you. Because under the anger and ego, you remember what lives in him.

Shame. Guilt. Loss. The same things you carry in your chest like weapons.

You look away.

His voice is softer now. “I didn’t forget what happened in Madripoor. You didn’t look at me like everyone else did.”

“I saw what you were capable of.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t run.”

“No,” you say, voice breaking just slightly, “because I’m capable of it too.”

Silence.

And just like that, his mind opens up for half a second, unguarded. You feel the way he’s always looked at you—with resentment, sure, but also curiosity. Attraction. Fear.

He doesn’t hate you. He hates how much you remind him of himself.

“I should go.” He whispers.

But he doesn't move.

Neither do you.

You spar in the gym three days later. It's supposed to be rehab. It's not.

Punch. Block. Kick. Grab. Repeat.

You sweep his leg. He slams you into the mat.

You flip him over. He rolls, pins you.

Your chest rises and falls beneath him, fast and hot and ragged. You’re nose to nose, panting.

He doesn’t move.

You blink. His hands are on either side of your face like he forgot how to touch softly. John’s mind flares—desire, restraint, something raw and frantic trying not to surface. But you can feel it. You can hear it in his thoughts. 

You try to resist it. Try to let him keep that part of himself a secret. But it’s like your own desire is mixing with his, not allowing you the chance to preserve his privacy. 

“I should hit you.” You whisper.

His voice is low. “I’d let you.”

Silence. One beat, then two, then three. 

Your hands grip his shirt. His thumb brushes your jaw.

“I don’t know what this is.” You murmur. “And I know you’re trying, but I’m not someone you can fix John.”

His name feels foreign on your tongue. 

“I don’t want to fix you.” He responds. “I just want to stop pretending like you’re not under my skin.”

Then, he leans in. Stops. Breath brushes your lips. You could kiss him. You could kill him.

Instead, you shove him off and walk out. It’s too much, too real, too raw. He doesn’t follow. But he doesn’t leave either.

Seven days of avoidance and aching tension. Of him watching you from across the compound, always with that haunted, heated look.

Until one night, you find him on the roof, staring at the midnight inky black void like it might offer him redemption. It feels eerily similar to that night in Madripoor. Different skyline, same ghosts. 

You step beside him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just says, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

You hesitate. Then: “I used to dream in Russian. Still do, sometimes.” You’ve never told anyone that. It’s such a trivial piece of information to withhold but telling him feels good. 

He exhales. “I still hear his screams. The guy I…” He can’t bring himself to say it.

You nod. Understanding flashes in your eyes. “We don’t get to undo what we were made into Walker. Only decide what we do with what’s left.”

His voice cracks. “I don’t think I know how.”

You look at him, really look. See the broken soldier, the boy who wanted to be Captain America, the man who lost everything and kept going anyway.

“You start by letting someone in.” You whisper.

He turns to you. “You offering?”

Your heart stutters.

Then you say it—soft, brave, real: “Yeah. I think I am.”

You find yourself leaning, and so does he, until you meet each other, your breath whispering across his face. There’s a faint hint of a smile on his features – he wants this more than anything. And without much thought, he kisses you.

And his mind goes silent. You can’t hear anything but the sound of breaths colliding. 

It’s not gentle and it’s certainty not sweet.

It’s desperate. Hungry. Two broken people clawing toward something they don’t fully understand.

John’s hands cradle your face like you’re fragile. Yours grip his shirt like you’ll fall apart otherwise. They move up his back achingly; blonde tufts of hair find your fingertips like you’re spinning gold strings. 

When you break apart, you rest your forehead against his.

You whisper, “We may never feel like true heroes John, but maybe it means we’re not just weapons anymore.”

“Hmm,” he hums with a smile, “That’s something.”

And for now, something is enough. For the first time in a long time, you’ll go to sleep without ghosts clawing at your door. 

So will John.

tags: @bmyva1entine @kjmonster111

thank you to anyone who took the time to read this fic. I'd love to write more for walker and the other thunderbolts in the future.

[maximoff-pan]

writing a john walker fic rn if anyone would like to be tagged :)

[maximoff-pan]

I know this is random but I was reading your why do fools preview of your steve fic (which I love and can't wait for more of), and I was wondering if you could write a blurb about will byers coming out to the reader? I feel like with her being so close to jonathan and the byers family, it would be such a pivotal moment 💕

oh my goodness this idea warms my heart, of course I can — I also would love more requests in this universe before I post the next part (if anyone has some

pairing: will byers x fem!(platonic)reader

set in the why do fools universe (read here) — eventually steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 600+

“I think I like Mike.”

The implication is clear; right as the words pass quietly through his lips, you understand what he means. But almost like he thinks there’s no way you could possibly get it, he feels the urge to clarify. Because in his mind, why would you ever understand? “More than–” he struggles with it. This is much harder than he thought it would be.

Except as he glances towards you, your eyes locking steadily, he knows he doesn’t need to say any more. 

“More than a friend.” You finish delicately. And there’s no judgement in your tone, only love.

Will nods. This has to be one of the scariest things he’s ever done: admitting how he really feels. “I’ve never…” he trails, trying to form the right words, “you’re the only one I’ve told.” 

And you can’t quite describe it, the warmth that spreads through your chest. It’s almost surreal, thinking about how much he must trust you…enough to be the first person he feels he can talk about this with. Initially, it catches you by surprise. What could you have possibly done to deserve this kind of trust? But in your heart, you know why.

The love you hold for Will Byers is unconditional; he’s the little brother you never had. The little brother you didn’t ask for, but who fell into your life and changed it for the better. Of course, with that came Dustin, Mike, and Lucas, (and later El and Max), as well as an interesting friendship with the one and only Steve Harrington, but you suppose, everything had worked out for the best. 

“C’mere.” You gesture to him, arms outstretched and a soft smile gracing your features. “You know I love you right? No matter what?”

You can feel him nearly collapse into you, feeling as he releases a breath of relief. He’s crying, his tears a combination of fear and happiness. They wrack through him in intense waves, and yet paradoxically, his demeanor remains as delicate and fragile as you remember it being. Ethereal. 

It brings you peace knowing that he feels safe with you. Because as much as you adore each of the kids equally, (and while you hate to admit it), Will has always been the one you gravitated towards. Something about his timid nature drew you in. From the moment your friend Jonathan introduced you to his little brother, you knew how special he was. With his gentle brown gaze and shaggy bowl cut, he exuded pure innocence. 

The first thing you remember about him was how reserved he seemed. Minimal words were spoken in those early months. Until he started to open up. Regardless, he was always a bit of a scared kid, a kid who didn’t have a fair shot right from the jump.

Maybe you just got that. And unlike others in his life, you refused to give up on him, or Jonathan.

“Oh Will.” He’s clinging on to you now, grip tight as he shakes like a leaf. “I’ll always be here for you. I promise.”

He breathes heavily, beginning to apologize profusely. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs. “I was just so scared.”

“Never be sorry for your emotions.” 

He pulls back from you, calmer now, allowing you to get a good look at him.

"Never apologize for being who you are." You tell him. "Not to me, not to your brother — not to anyone. You hear me?"

Your tone is delicate, but Will knows just how serious you are. He nods, unable to find the words to thank you, unable to describe the feeling of warmth that has spread through his entire body.

You are a safe haven. You always have been. You always will be.

Will knows what it's like to feel accepted by you, to be loved by you. And he never wants that to change.

"Thank you." He clings to you still.

It's silent and left unsaid, but in your mind you think, always.

I will always be here for you.

[maximoff-pan]

John Walker: what are we gonna do….just like—ride Bob into the sky?

um actually that sounds like a fantastic plan…me first please 🙋‍♀️

[maximoff-pan]

I saw thunderbolts* the other day and I feel like I need to write for Robert Reynolds (Bob) — and I was wondering if any of you would want that or if you have any requests?

I’d also totally be down to write something for Bucky 👀

[maximoff-pan]

maybe, okay? | michael robinavitch

summary: after a hard shift, robby comforts you

pairing: dr. michael (robby) robinavitch x resident!reader

word count: 1.2k

warning(s): mentions of death, sad thoughts & roof talks, the usual

a/n: this is my first time writing for the Pitt— I hope you guys like it (and I would love requests if you have any)... Please let me know what you think! ❤️

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“Rough night?” Robby’s question lingers. You don’t need to turn around to know he’s smiling – you can hear it in his voice. It’s a genuine query laced with equal parts teasing and concern. 

“You could say that.” You murmur in response, taking a deep inhale. A gust of wind breezes by. It cools your skin, sobers you to your surroundings, reminding you where you are. 

This shift had been something. Trauma after trauma that came rolling in, the hours ticked by, each one more exhausting than the last. You might think after years of med school and residency – with more than three years in the Pitt — the last two under your attending Jack Abbot, it would make it easier. But as you’d learned, the pain from patient deaths never eases, and this night had been no exception. 

It’s hard to forget the frantic nature that had emerged in the ED over the last number of hours. A family had come in around 4am. A mother, a father, and a 5-year-old boy. MVC, T-boned by a drunk driver – both parents were dead on scene, their child was still fighting for his life. You worked on him for an hour before Dr. Abbot called time of death. He let you go longer than he should have, trying to save this boy’s life. Jack, who never lets emotions cloud his judgment, had given you more time — not for the boy, but for you.

He had seen firsthand how much you cared for each one of your patients over the last two years, but this one felt different. You were usually so composed, just like him. This case, for whatever reason, got to you. It broke something. And he knew who you needed right now. 

Robby steps over the railing to stand at your side, the roof giving way to his presence. He’s always known when to find you. Like he’s tuned into your frequency somehow, even when you barely understand it yourself.

“Jack told me I could find you up here. Said something about you stealing his spot – kinda sounded like he was a little worried you might jump, kid.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Nah, it’s shift change.” Your tone is light as you elbow him gently. “If I was gonna jump, I’d do it on Abbot’s watch – never yours.”

“I appreciate that.” He says. “Wouldn’t want to lose my favourite resident.”

“You won’t.” Your response is serious, assuring. “Just—”

“Thinking about that kid?” Robby finishes for you. The first rays of light catch on the edges of his jawline, and you hate how beautiful that looks, here of all places.

“Yeah... I–uh, I don’t know what happened to me.” You admit, your fingers grasping at the sleeve of your shirt. 

“Talk to me (Y/n).” His voice drifts. “Don’t bottle it up.”

You nod, the motion almost imperceptible, like you're afraid acknowledging it out loud will make it hurt more. “I keep seeing his face,” you say. “The way he kept reaching for his mom, even after... even after she was gone.”

Robby doesn’t speak right away. He gives you space, something he’s always been good at. Not filling the silence with platitudes. Just being there, solid and steady. You feel him shift closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

“There was nothing more you could’ve done.”

You sigh, scrubbing your hands over your face. “I know that. Logically, I know. But emotionally... it doesn’t feel like enough. It never does.”

Robby’s voice softens. “That’s because you give a damn. It’s what makes you good, even when it hurts like hell.”

You glance over at him. His hair is a little messy, like he’s run his fingers through it too many times this morning. His scrubs are clean, unstained, showing no signs of the incoming shift that’s likely to be just as brutal as yours. But his eyes — they’re steady. Kind. And watching you with a kind of care that cuts through the fog in your chest.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out for this.” You whisper.

He turns toward you, fully now. “Don’t,” he says, firm but not harsh. “Don’t say that.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. If you left, he’s not sure he could continue. Jack might kill him if he can't talk you off this ledge.

“You’re one of the strongest people I know.” He stands firm. “I’ve seen you do the impossible on less sleep and more pressure than anyone should be under. You belong here. The fact that you feel this much? That’s not a weakness. That’s what sets you apart.”

You look down at your shoes, throat tight. “Thanks, Robby.”

“I mean it.” He bumps your arm gently. He watches you for a moment, one, two, then three. There’s something unreadable in his expression — not quite a smile, but close.

“What?” You ask.

He pauses, like he’s weighing something. “Just thinking,” he says finally. “You spend so much time holding it together, I don’t think I’ve ever really seen you let go.”

You snort. “What does that even mean?”

He gives a soft chuckle. “It means… I’ve seen you save lives without flinching. Seen you stand toe-to-toe with Jack when he’s in one of his moods. You don’t rattle easily. But tonight—”

“Tonight was different.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t press. Just confirms it.

You sink down onto the concrete of the ledge, letting your head rest back against the railing. “I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t get to me.” You admit. “Like if I act detached enough, maybe I won’t crack.”

Robby sits beside you, careful not to crowd your space. “There’s nothing weak about cracking.” He says quietly. “What matters is that you keep showing up.”

You turn to look at him. He’s closer now, the warmth of his body radiating across the narrow space. There’s a softness in his gaze that you hadn’t noticed before — not the usual sarcasm or light teasing, but something gentler. Something more careful.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Why do you care so much?”

His lips twitch, like he’s debating whether to deflect. But then, he just says, “Because you matter. Because you walk into the fire every day, and I don’t think anyone tells you often enough how much that means.”

You feel your heart stutter, just a little. “You don’t have to fix me, Robby.”

“I’m not trying to.” He tilts his head slightly, earnest. “I just want you to know you’re not alone in it.”

The silence stretches again, but this one feels changed. Less heavy. More charged.

You don’t reach for him. He doesn’t reach for you. But there’s something in the air — not quite spoken, not acted on — just held between you like breath.

You watch silently as the sun spills gold across the skyline, your head now leaning on his shoulder. Your cheek warms where it rests against his scrubs.

“Still thinking about jumping?” He teases, voice low.

“Maybe into your arms,” you murmur, half-joking.

Robby chuckles, warm and quiet. “Careful. You keep saying things like that and I might start getting ideas.”

You smile, more than content. "I think I'm alright with that."

You’re definitely alright with that…

[maximoff-pan]

maybe, okay? | michael robinavitch

summary: after a hard shift, robby comforts you

pairing: dr. michael (robby) robinavitch x resident!reader

word count: 1.2k

warning(s): mentions of death, sad thoughts & roof talks, the usual

a/n: this is my first time writing for the Pitt— I hope you guys like it (and I would love requests if you have any)... Please let me know what you think! ❤️

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“Rough night?” Robby’s question lingers. You don’t need to turn around to know he’s smiling – you can hear it in his voice. It’s a genuine query laced with equal parts teasing and concern. 

“You could say that.” You murmur in response, taking a deep inhale. A gust of wind breezes by. It cools your skin, sobers you to your surroundings, reminding you where you are. 

This shift had been something. Trauma after trauma that came rolling in, the hours ticked by, each one more exhausting than the last. You might think after years of med school and residency – with more than three years in the Pitt — the last two under your attending Jack Abbot, it would make it easier. But as you’d learned, the pain from patient deaths never eases, and this night had been no exception. 

It’s hard to forget the frantic nature that had emerged in the ED over the last number of hours. A family had come in around 4am. A mother, a father, and a 5-year-old boy. MVC, T-boned by a drunk driver – both parents were dead on scene, their child was still fighting for his life. You worked on him for an hour before Dr. Abbot called time of death. He let you go longer than he should have, trying to save this boy’s life. Jack, who never lets emotions cloud his judgment, had given you more time — not for the boy, but for you.

He had seen firsthand how much you cared for each one of your patients over the last two years, but this one felt different. You were usually so composed, just like him. This case, for whatever reason, got to you. It broke something. And he knew who you needed right now. 

Robby steps over the railing to stand at your side, the roof giving way to his presence. He’s always known when to find you. Like he’s tuned into your frequency somehow, even when you barely understand it yourself.

“Jack told me I could find you up here. Said something about you stealing his spot – kinda sounded like he was a little worried you might jump, kid.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Nah, it’s shift change.” Your tone is light as you elbow him gently. “If I was gonna jump, I’d do it on Abbot’s watch – never yours.”

“I appreciate that.” He says. “Wouldn’t want to lose my favourite resident.”

“You won’t.” Your response is serious, assuring. “Just—”

“Thinking about that kid?” Robby finishes for you. The first rays of light catch on the edges of his jawline, and you hate how beautiful that looks, here of all places.

“Yeah... I–uh, I don’t know what happened to me.” You admit, your fingers grasping at the sleeve of your shirt. 

“Talk to me (Y/n).” His voice drifts. “Don’t bottle it up.”

You nod, the motion almost imperceptible, like you're afraid acknowledging it out loud will make it hurt more. “I keep seeing his face,” you say. “The way he kept reaching for his mom, even after... even after she was gone.”

Robby doesn’t speak right away. He gives you space, something he’s always been good at. Not filling the silence with platitudes. Just being there, solid and steady. You feel him shift closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

“There was nothing more you could’ve done.”

You sigh, scrubbing your hands over your face. “I know that. Logically, I know. But emotionally... it doesn’t feel like enough. It never does.”

Robby’s voice softens. “That’s because you give a damn. It’s what makes you good, even when it hurts like hell.”

You glance over at him. His hair is a little messy, like he’s run his fingers through it too many times this morning. His scrubs are clean, unstained, showing no signs of the incoming shift that’s likely to be just as brutal as yours. But his eyes — they’re steady. Kind. And watching you with a kind of care that cuts through the fog in your chest.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m cut out for this.” You whisper.

He turns toward you, fully now. “Don’t,” he says, firm but not harsh. “Don’t say that.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he shakes his head. If you left, he’s not sure he could continue. Jack might kill him if he can't talk you off this ledge.

“You’re one of the strongest people I know.” He stands firm. “I’ve seen you do the impossible on less sleep and more pressure than anyone should be under. You belong here. The fact that you feel this much? That’s not a weakness. That’s what sets you apart.”

You look down at your shoes, throat tight. “Thanks, Robby.”

“I mean it.” He bumps your arm gently. He watches you for a moment, one, two, then three. There’s something unreadable in his expression — not quite a smile, but close.

“What?” You ask.

He pauses, like he’s weighing something. “Just thinking,” he says finally. “You spend so much time holding it together, I don’t think I’ve ever really seen you let go.”

You snort. “What does that even mean?”

He gives a soft chuckle. “It means… I’ve seen you save lives without flinching. Seen you stand toe-to-toe with Jack when he’s in one of his moods. You don’t rattle easily. But tonight—”

“Tonight was different.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t press. Just confirms it.

You sink down onto the concrete of the ledge, letting your head rest back against the railing. “I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t get to me.” You admit. “Like if I act detached enough, maybe I won’t crack.”

Robby sits beside you, careful not to crowd your space. “There’s nothing weak about cracking.” He says quietly. “What matters is that you keep showing up.”

You turn to look at him. He’s closer now, the warmth of his body radiating across the narrow space. There’s a softness in his gaze that you hadn’t noticed before — not the usual sarcasm or light teasing, but something gentler. Something more careful.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Why do you care so much?”

His lips twitch, like he’s debating whether to deflect. But then, he just says, “Because you matter. Because you walk into the fire every day, and I don’t think anyone tells you often enough how much that means.”

You feel your heart stutter, just a little. “You don’t have to fix me, Robby.”

“I’m not trying to.” He tilts his head slightly, earnest. “I just want you to know you’re not alone in it.”

The silence stretches again, but this one feels changed. Less heavy. More charged.

You don’t reach for him. He doesn’t reach for you. But there’s something in the air — not quite spoken, not acted on — just held between you like breath.

You watch silently as the sun spills gold across the skyline, your head now leaning on his shoulder. Your cheek warms where it rests against his scrubs.

“Still thinking about jumping?” He teases, voice low.

“Maybe into your arms,” you murmur, half-joking.

Robby chuckles, warm and quiet. “Careful. You keep saying things like that and I might start getting ideas.”

You smile, more than content. "I think I'm alright with that."

You’re definitely alright with that…

[maximoff-pan]

So real 👀🫡

Band of Brothers is such a comfort show. Not sure what that says about me.

[maximoff-pan]

okay okay I know I shouldn’t be trying to get into more fandoms with my track record — but — how would you guys feel if I started writing for HBOs The Pitt?

because Dr. Robinavitch and Dr. Abbot have literally consumed my heart and soul and would love to write for them.

so please, if you have any ideas or requests, feel free to send ‘em my way

[maximoff-pan]

What if I told you this would be coming out in a couple of weeks after months of writer’s block — and a busy as fuck uni schedule — has been kicking me in the ass?

The ultimate deception part two anyone? Here’s part one for anyone curious: here

And here’s a little snippet of the ongoing draft if you’re curious at all…

[maximoff-pan]

reader holding steve’s hand (but their really only holding one or two of his fingers) and steve’s like “you alright there?”

this is such a cute idea, I love it <3

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 1.7k

warning(s): mentions of the mindflayer and demodogs, unedited writing, set in season 2 (because I’m currently rewatching and that’s where I’m at rn), so if you haven’t seen that, you have been warned… although it has been five years, you’ve had your chance for it not to be spoiled...

quick a/n: this is very much an AU of the season 2 scene where the kids make a plan to go help El (no Billy because I didn’t feel like including him)... hopefully this is okay, and thank you all for sticking with me!

Holding his hand seems like such a small thing, something so easy and so instinctual that it shouldn’t be this hard. But it is. Because for whatever reason, this doesn’t feel real. 

You’d think it would feel grounding, that it would maybe force you back into a clearer head space. But it’s doing the opposite. As the butterflies fly freely through your stomach, you feel yourself falling further and further from reality. 

This is what all the girls at Hawkin’s High meant when they said Steve Harrington was dreamy. But all that gossip could never have prepared you for this feeling right now. Oh lord is his touch ever hypnotizing. Even if it is just a platonic attempt at reassuring each other that everything is going to be okay. Even if it is nothing. 

Despite it all, you want to curse yourself for falling for it. As if you ever should have thought yourself immune to his charms; you were so naive, so adamant that you could never like someone like him. Little did you know how quickly he could crack that superiority complex of yours.

And as the saying goes, oh how the mighty have fallen.

Or is it, the pride comes before the fall? Either way, you’re fucked.

More than anything, it’s such a strange thing to feel yourself fall into something (or someone) that you promised yourself you never would. Never in your wildest dreams did you think you would be sitting in Jonathan Byers’ living room, your hand reaching for Steve Harrington’s as you await answers on what feels like the fate of the universe. 

Holding his hand seems like it should be the least of your problems, and yet it has wormed its way to the forefront of your mind. 

Honestly, for the life of you, you cannot seem to grip his entire hand. You convince yourself that it must be nerves, your fingers merely clinging on to the tips of two of his. It’s more of a grazing touch really… a weak bid at trying to hold on. If your mind was in a more settled state, you might not have missed the blatant metaphor shining in your face. You also might have even laughed.

But this? The impending doom of the mind flayer and its pack of demodog minions? Not a laughing matter…not in the slightest. And all you can do is wait.

You don’t even want to think about it, how much longer you’ll have to stay here, just waiting. Let alone allowing yourself to stew in the immense pressure you’re feeling right now. If you’re being honest, it’s the most soul crushing stress you’ve ever felt; it’s like you can almost feel the grey hairs forming. Because these kids, they’re just, kids, innocent and losing their last ounce of childhood by the very second. Fuck, you’re barely an adult yourself. And as much as you know you’re not their parent, you feel responsible for each of them in your own silly way. You’d die before you’d let anything happen to them, and you know Steve would too.

That’s what makes this all so scary, and yet paradoxically, reassuring all the same. You’ve got something to live for, people who are depending on you to be okay. And that’s oddly comforting to you, as much as it can be.

“You alright there?” Steve’s voice echoes in your ears. You’re not sure how long he’s been trying to gain your attention, but by the knowing smile on his face, you’d have to take a guess that this isn’t the first time he’s asked you how you’re doing.

Breathing even, he lets go of your fingers, the warmth of his touch suddenly gone, and equally as noticeable. To your surprise, it doesn’t last long before he’s nudging you playfully, his arm gently meeting yours with a soft bump.

When you don’t respond like you usually would, with a bubbled up laugh or a reassuring sigh of, perfectly peachy, Steve’s shoulders drop. He follows your gaze to the kids who are gathered at the Byers’ kitchen table, arguing over what to do next. 

They want to fight back and help their friend, an admirable if not risky idea to act on, you must admit. But they’re brave kids, — albeit impulsive ones — much braver than any other kids you’ve ever met. So, you’re not surprised when you overhear their plan to lure the demodogs away from El, allowing her better access to the mind flayer. 

It doesn’t draw the most confidence in you to know that you and Steve are at a disagreement. While you know where Steve’s opinion lies, and you agree with him that keeping the kids safe is one of your top priorities, you can’t help but want to hear them out. Maybe it’s delusion talking, or maybe you’ve taken one too many hits to the head, but the more time you spend here waiting for any news, the more your heart wants to fight back too, even if your brain knows how stupid that would be. 

“I think we should go.”

Steve’s head turns so fast you think he might have whiplash, and when your eyes meet his, they’re wider than saucers. His deep amber orbs blink in confusion as his brow furrows in surprise.

Shock even.

“You, what?”

Standing from your previous spot on the couch next to Steve, you make your way over to the kids, hands placed firmly on your hips. Facing him now, you echo, “I think we should go.”

“Fucking right!” Dustin’s holler causes a chorus of ‘yeah’s’ and vigorous nods to be shared amongst the group. All except for Steve. He’s less than impressed. 

You’re supposed to be on his side, not theirs. 

“No, no, no, no, no, no.” He repeats the word like a mantra, flicking his wrist in objection while simultaneously signalling to the kids to keep quiet from agreeing any further with your declaration. “Absolutely not.”

Clenching your jaw at his immediate dismissal, your voice raises ever so slightly. “We’re supposed to protect them Steve.” 

He almost scoffs at your words, because how could bringing the kids into the most dangerous place they could go, possibly be classified as protecting them? That sounds like pure ludicrous, the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing. But then you say something that somehow makes sense to him. And for a moment, it has him rethinking everything.

“All of them.”

It’s Mike’s added assertion that seals it for him, his voice stern and steady. “That includes El.” He says, lips pulling into a tight line.

Steve doesn’t know this El girl very well, only having just met her a few hours ago, but already, she means a lot to him. Because she clearly means so much to everyone else. By proxy, that makes her important in Steve Harrington’s world.

“We can’t sit here and let her get hurt,” Max’s eyes shine with tears, gaze pleading with him, “especially if we know we can help her.” It’s oddly strange to see her like this. Max doesn’t show emotion at the best of times, let alone the worst, so despite having known her for less time than the rest, Steve is more than aware how much this means to her.

Tilting your head, you lay on the most convincing voice you can, while still maintaining a genuine tone. You don’t want him partaking in something he’s not comfortable doing. But, you suppose, at this point, it’s far past that.

“Steve, I know how risky this is, and I know you’re doing the logical thing, because God knows I’ve been nearly incapable of it” your (e/c) eyes find his brown ones and he can feel himself beginning to give in, “but nothing about this shit is logical.” You can see it in his demeanour that he’s fighting with himself not to give in. “If we have a chance to help her, we have to take it.”

“We have to.” Lucas cuts in.

“C’mon Steve.” Is Dustin’s attempt.

Whether it’s your words that do it, or Mike and Max’s pleadingly puppy dog-like stares, he’s not sure. But in a matter of seconds, his posture is deflating, and a long sigh is released from his lips.

One second passes in anticipation, then two, and lastly three, before:

“Fine.” Steve finally agrees with a huff, realizing he was never going to win this fight. He hears a quiet mumble of victory from Max and notices a quick fist pump she shares with Lucas, but it’s your beaming smile that assures him that he’s made the right decision. You look not only relieved, but genuinely happy, something that Steve wishes he could see more of from you. It’s hard to be happy when it feels like the universe is crumbling at your feet, but it’s nice to see nonetheless.

Grabbing the car keys, he tosses them to you as you lead each of the kids out the door. 

As you usher them out, you lean your head over your shoulder, sending Steve a soft smile, and mouthing a quick thank you to him. You’re grateful, truly.

Wordlessly, he nods. I’d do anything for you, he thinks to himself. He’d give you the world if you asked. Not that you would. You never ask for anything from anyone.

He wishes you’d change your mind on that.

Taking note of the brief moment shared between you two, Dustin hangs back with Steve, eyeing the older teen in amusement. He watches him lock up the Byers’ residence, hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline of it all. Following a few steps behind the rest of the group, Dustin smiles at Steve slyly, his gaze full of mischief.

“Not a word.” Steve warns, the sound of the car engine starting is enough to put a pause to his words. But Dustin doesn’t listen. Since when has he ever?

“You’re so whipped man…” Steve doesn’t deny it as Dustin shakes his head with a smirk. He watches as Steve steps through the passenger side door, a slight grin on his face. 

Muttering to himself as he slides in beside Max, Dustin huffs, “So fucking whipped.”

[maximoff-pan]

It’s so nice to see you active again. How are you doing? -E

Hi my darling E! How I’ve missed you 🩷

I’m going well! How are you?

[maximoff-pan]

The ultimate deception part two anyone? Here’s part one for anyone curious: here

And here’s a little snippet of the ongoing draft if you’re curious at all…

[maximoff-pan]

please write another benedict fanfiction i beg😭😭 they're TOO good

Oh my gosh, thank you! I’d be more than happy to, I just don’t have a ton of ideas at the moment…