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mintyys-blog · 3 months ago

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BABYDADDY — ex convict! pietro maximoff x reader

WARNINGS: mention of dark themes, prison, crime, implied sex, violence, eventually pregnancy, stalking, blood, murder.

The bar was dimly lit, the scent of liquor and cigarettes clinging to the air. Music pulsed through the room, but she barely registered it over the buzz in her head. She was drunk—recklessly so—but that didn’t stop her from leaning in close to the man beside her, her fingers toying with the rim of her glass.

“Your accent is so hot,” she murmured, her words slurring slightly as she tilted her head to look at him. “Where are you from?”

The man chuckled, a smooth, almost amused sound as he took a slow sip of his whiskey. His blue eyes—sharp and knowing—glimmered under the low lights as he regarded her with an air of quiet confidence.

“Sokovia,” he answered, voice thick with his native tongue, making her shiver despite the warmth of the bar.

“Sokovia,” she repeated, rolling the word over her tongue. “That’s sexy.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he studied her. “You are drunk, printsessa,” he mused, voice laced with something close to amusement. “Flirting with strangers… dangerous habit.”

She smirked, undeterred. “And are you dangerous?”

He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath against her skin. “Very.”

That should have been the moment she walked away. That should have been her warning.

Instead, she grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him into a heated kiss.

She woke up with a pounding headache and tangled sheets twisted around her bare legs. The scent of whiskey and cologne lingered in the air, mixed with something unmistakably him. Her body ached in the best way, a reminder of the night before, of the way his hands had gripped her, of the way he had whispered in that thick accent against her skin.

She sighed, blinking against the morning light as she turned over in bed—only to freeze when she saw him.

Pietro Maximoff.

A man she had only seen in blurry mugshots on the news.

A man who had been released from prison just a few months ago.

Her blood ran cold.

He was sitting at the small table near the window, casually sipping his coffee, shirtless, his silver hair a mess from the night before. His gaze flicked up, locking onto hers with a slow, knowing smirk.

“Good morning, printsessa,” he murmured, voice deep and smooth.

Panic flooded her veins. She sat up too fast, the sheet clutched tightly to her chest. “I—I need to go.”

Pietro’s brows furrowed, his smirk fading slightly. “What?”

“I—I didn’t—” She stumbled over her words, heart racing. Her hands were shaking. How could I be so stupid?

She barely registered the confusion in his eyes before she bolted.

She nearly tripped over her own feet as she scrambled for her clothes, shoving them on haphazardly. Pietro rose from his chair, brows drawing together as he took a step toward her.

“Hey—wait—”

But she didn’t wait.

She ran out of his apartment before he could stop her, barely breathing as she hit the street.

Anxiety twisted in her stomach, bile rising in her throat as she fumbled with her keys, forcing herself to walk fast—faster—until she reached her own door.

The moment she was inside, she slammed it shut, locking it behind her before pressing her back against it, chest heaving.

What the hell did I just do?

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. She had slept with a man fresh out of prison. A dangerous man. A man seeking revenge. And worst of all—he didn’t seem like the kind of man to let something slip through his fingers.

Even if she ran.

Days passed, then weeks. She threw herself into routine, trying to drown out the memory of him. Work, gym, drinks with friends—anything to keep herself distracted.

But it wasn’t that easy.

She still felt him.

The ghost of his touch lingered on her skin, his voice—low, teasing, dangerous—echoed in her mind at the worst moments. She’d catch glimpses of silver hair in crowded places and feel her stomach drop, only to realize it was just some stranger.

And at night, in the quiet of her apartment, she couldn’t stop herself from remembering.

The way he had looked at her across that bar, like he already knew how the night would end. The way he had touched her—possessive, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. The way he had been so calm, so steady, sipping his coffee that morning as if he hadn’t just shattered her world with the simple truth of who he was.

She tried to forget.

But the thing about dangerous men is that they don’t like being forgotten.

It started small.

A feeling. A weight on her shoulders, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end as if someone was watching. She told herself it was paranoia. Guilt.

Then she started noticing things.

A familiar scent lingering in places it shouldn’t. Her apartment door locked when she knew she had forgotten to turn the deadbolt. The feeling of being followed when she walked home late at night.

She told herself she was imagining it.

Until she wasn’t.

She saw him.

She had been coming out of a coffee shop when she spotted him across the street, leaning against a lamppost like he had all the time in the world.

Pietro.

He looked different than that night at the bar. Dressed in all black, his hair shorter, sharper. His arms were crossed, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as if he had been waiting for her to notice him.

She froze.

Her breath caught in her throat, heart hammering in her chest.

Then, just as quickly as she saw him, he was gone. A blink. A shadow slipping into the crowd.

She could have convinced herself it wasn’t real.

If it hadn’t happened again. And again.

In the grocery store. At the gym. A flicker of silver at the edge of her vision.

Never close enough to touch. Never close enough to prove it wasn’t just in her head.

But she knew.

Pietro Maximoff hadn’t forgotten about her.

And he was making damn sure she wouldn’t forget about him either.

The first time it happened, she nearly screamed.

She had just gotten home, kicking off her heels with an exhausted sigh, when she saw them.

Roses.

A dozen deep red roses sat in a glass vase on her kitchen counter, the petals so perfect they almost didn’t look real. Her breath hitched, her body going rigid.

She hadn’t bought them.

She hadn’t let anyone in.

With shaking fingers, she reached for the small card tucked between the stems. The paper was thick, expensive. The handwriting was elegant, almost old-fashioned.

Missed you, printsessa. Don’t run next time.

Her stomach dropped.

The card slipped from her fingers, floating to the floor as she stumbled back.

No.

This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real.

Her hands trembled as she grabbed her phone, ready to call someone—the police, anyone—but then she hesitated.

What would she even say?

That a man she had a one-night stand with weeks ago had broken into her home just to leave her flowers? That he hadn’t stolen anything, hadn’t hurt her, hadn’t even stayed to watch her reaction?

It sounded insane.

She forced herself to breathe, pressing her fingers against her temples. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe someone had delivered them to the wrong apartment. Maybe—

Missed you, printsessa. Have you missed me?

Her blood ran cold.

He had been here. In her home.

Watching. Waiting.

And the worst part?

The roses were her favorite.

It didn’t stop there.

The next time, she found another bouquet—this time on her bedside table.

She hadn’t even been gone long. Just a quick run to the store, twenty minutes at most. And yet, when she came back, there they were, the scent of roses thick in the air.

Another note, the same elegant script.

You looked beautiful today.

Her hands shook as she tore the card in half, her breath ragged.

She checked every lock, every window. Nothing was broken. Nothing was out of place.

Except for the flowers.

Except for the knowledge that he had been inside.

And he had taken nothing. Because he didn’t need to. Because he was only leaving things behind.

She tried to tell herself it wasn’t real. That it was some elaborate prank. That it wasn’t him.

Until the third time.

This time, there were no roses.

Just a single black box waiting on her pillow.

With trembling fingers, she opened it.

Inside was a delicate silver necklace. A locket.

She didn’t want to open it. She did anyway.

Inside was a picture. A photo of her—taken at the bar the night they met. Smiling happily at him, while he had his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

She hadn’t known it had been taken.

And underneath it, a second picture.

One of him.

With her, in bed. Her body tangled in his, both of them lost in sleep.

Her stomach twisted.

There was no note this time. There didn’t need to be. The message was clear.

Pietro Maximoff wasn’t going anywhere. And whether she liked it or not— She belonged to him.

She had been feeling sick for days.

At first, she thought it was just stress. The constant anxiety, the sleepless nights, the weight of knowing Pietro was always near—even when she couldn’t see him. It had taken a toll on her body.

Then came the nausea.

She couldn’t stomach coffee. The smell alone made her gag. She barely ate, everything tasting off, her body rejecting even the thought of food.

But the worst part?

Her period was late.

Not just a little late. Three months late.

The realization hit her like a freight train.

No. No, it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

She counted the days again, fingers shaking as she scrolled through her phone calendar. No. No. No.

Her stomach twisted violently.

A cold sweat broke out across her skin as she stared at the unopened box sitting on her bathroom counter. The pregnancy test felt like a death sentence, the plastic stick inside holding an answer she wasn’t ready for.

But she had to know.

With trembling hands, she took the test.

The minutes stretched on forever. Her ears rang, her vision blurred as she sat on the edge of the tub, knees pulled to her chest, rocking slightly.

She told herself it would be negative.

It had to be.

And then— Two pink lines.

Positive.

Her breath hitched. The world tilted. And then she broke. A sob tore through her throat as she curled in on herself, pressing her forehead to her knees. Tears streamed down her face, her body shaking uncontrollably.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This couldn’t be happening.

But no matter how much she cried, no matter how hard she tried to deny it— There was a piece of him inside her now.

And she had no idea what to do.

She didn’t leave her apartment for two days.

She barely ate, barely moved. The test sat on her nightstand, a cruel reminder of the reality she couldn’t escape.

Pregnant.

With his child.

Terror clawed at her chest.

Pietro wasn’t just a man fresh out of prison. He was dangerous. A ghost lurking in the shadows, watching her, reminding her with every carefully placed gift that he hadn’t forgotten her.

She had been trying to forget him.

And now?

Now she was carrying his baby.

Her stomach twisted violently, and she barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up.

She clutched the toilet bowl, shaking, gasping for breath. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a mistake.

But she knew it wasn’t.

Three missed periods. The nausea. The exhaustion.

The proof was right there, staring at her in the form of two pink lines.

She had to do something. She had to—

A knock at the door made her freeze.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. No.

Slowly, she pushed herself up, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

The knock came again. This time, softer.

She swallowed hard, forcing her feet to move toward the door. She peered through the peephole, her heart nearly stopping.

Pietro.

He stood there, casual as ever, dressed in all black, his silver hair slightly tousled like he had just run his fingers through it. His hands were in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

She backed away from the door, panic clawing at her throat. No. No. Not now.

But then—

“I know you’re in there, printsessa.” His voice was soft. Amused.

Her stomach lurched.

She didn’t answer.

Her breath was shallow, heart slamming against her ribs as she backed away from the door. Maybe if she stayed silent, he would leave.

But Pietro wasn’t the kind of man who left empty-handed.

“Printsessa.” His voice was smooth, coaxing. “Open the door.”

She pressed a hand over her mouth, willing herself to stay quiet.

Then, she heard it.

The lock clicked.

Her blood ran cold.

The door swung open slowly, and Pietro stepped inside as if he had always belonged there.

“You forgot to lock it,” he murmured, closing it behind him with a soft click. His sharp blue eyes scanned the room before settling on her. His lips curled into a slow smirk. “Miss me?”

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

He looked different up close. Or maybe she was different now. The heat of his gaze that had once thrilled her now made her stomach churn with fear.

His smirk faded slightly. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

She forced herself to stand straighter, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His head tilted, studying her like he could see right through her. “You ran from me, printsessa. That was rude.” He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “I don’t like being left behind.”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “I—I made a mistake. That night. I just—” She swallowed hard. “I need you to leave.”

Pietro chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You think I’m just going to walk away? After everything?” His eyes darkened. “No, dorogaya. That’s not how this works.”

She stiffened, heart hammering. “I don’t belong to you.”

He exhaled sharply, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “We’ll see about that.”

Then—his eyes flickered past her, to something on the counter. His expression shifted, curiosity sharpening into something else.

Her stomach dropped.

She followed his gaze.

The trash can.

The open pregnancy test box sat right on top, the instructions unfolded beside it. The test itself was gone—hidden in her bedroom—but it didn’t matter. The implication was clear.

Pietro stilled.

For the first time since she had met him, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

Slowly, he turned back to her. His expression unreadable.

“Printsessa,” he murmured. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Her throat tightened.

This was her worst nightmare.

She could see the way Pietro’s entire demeanor shifted. The amusement was gone. The teasing edge in his voice had vanished. What remained was something far more dangerous—stillness.

Predatory. Calculating.

He was waiting.

She could lie. She should lie. But what good would it do? He wasn’t stupid. He had already put the pieces together.

Her silence was all the confirmation he needed.

Slowly, Pietro stepped forward. She instinctively moved back, but he caught her wrist before she could escape.

“Let me go,” she whispered, pulse hammering.

“Let you go?” His grip tightened slightly—not painful, but unyielding. “You’re carrying my child, and you want me to just walk away?”

She flinched. Hearing it out loud made it feel more real.

“I didn’t plan this,” she breathed, voice shaking. “I don’t want this.”

His jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me!” she snapped, trying to yank her wrist free. “I don’t want you involved, Pietro. You—” She exhaled sharply, trying to stay calm. “You’re dangerous. I can’t—”

His fingers caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. His blue eyes burned into hers, something dark and unreadable swirling behind them. “You think you have a choice, printsessa?” His voice was almost gentle, which somehow made it worse.

She swallowed hard. “Pietro—”

“No.”* His voice was sharper this time. “You don’t get to shut me out. You don’t get to disappear and pretend like this isn’t happening.”

She shook her head. “I don’t need you.”

His grip on her chin tightened just enough to make her heart pound faster. “That’s where you’re wrong, dorogaya.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her ear. “You need me more than you realize.”*

A chill ran down her spine.

She had been so desperate to avoid him. To pretend that one night hadn’t meant anything.

But now?

Now he wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither was she.

Pietro exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before looking at her again. His expression had softened, the tension in his shoulders easing.

“Listen to me, printsessa,” he said, voice quieter now. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. I know you’re scared. But I’m not going to run from this.”

She swallowed hard, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“I want to be involved.”* His blue eyes searched hers, sincere, unwavering. “I want to help. Whatever you need—money, emotional support, anything. I’ll be there.”*

Her stomach twisted.

Pietro Maximoff—ex-convict, dangerous, unpredictable—was offering to support her. To stand by her through this.

But how could she trust him?

“I—” she hesitated, licking her lips. “Pietro, I don’t know.”*

He nodded slowly, like he expected that response. “I get it.”* He sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. “I can’t force you to accept my help. But I want you to think about it.”*

She bit the inside of her cheek.

“I’ll give you time,” he said. “I’ll come back in a few days. You don’t have to decide anything now.”*

Her fingers twitched against her arms. “You’re really going to just leave?”

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “For now.”*

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

She stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where he had been.

Then, her body moved on autopilot.

She rushed to her laptop, flipping it open with shaking hands.

Her fingers hovered over the keys for only a second before she started typing.

Pietro Maximoff criminal record.

Her heart pounded as she scrolled through the search results. Articles, court records, headlines—there was so much.

And then she found it.

Her breath caught.

Convicted of first-degree murder.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

The name of the victim stared back at her in bold letters.

His ex-girlfriend.

The woman he had allegedly killed after finding out she was cheating on him with a rival.

Her stomach twisted violently.

He had gotten out early because years later, evidence proved he wasn’t guilty. But the doubt lingered. People still questioned it.

She pressed a hand over her mouth, nausea churning inside her.

What have I gotten myself into?

The days passed in a blur.

She barely slept. Barely ate.

Her mind kept circling back to the articles, the court records, the headlines screaming murderer before whispering wrongfully convicted.

But the world still thought he did it. And maybe—just maybe—so did she.

She had been avoiding mirrors, afraid of seeing her own fear reflected back at her. Afraid of what it meant that, despite everything, a small part of her wanted to believe him. That same part that remembered the warmth of his hands on her skin, the way his voice softened when he spoke to her.

He was so sweet when he left. He gave me time.

But wasn’t that how these stories always started?

A knock at the door sent a shockwave through her body. She knew who it was before she even looked.

Pietro.

She exhaled shakily, forcing herself to move.

Her fingers trembled as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

He stood there, just as he had promised.

But this time, he was holding a bag in one hand. And in the other— A bouquet of roses.

Soft pink, delicate, freshly bloomed.

Her breath hitched.

“Printsessa,” he greeted, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She swallowed hard, eyes darting to the flowers. “What is this?”

“A peace offering.” He lifted the bag. “And dinner with a little surprise. I figured you weren’t eating well.”

She stared at him, her nails digging into the doorframe.

Pietro sighed, stepping forward slightly—not inside, just closer. “Did you think about what I said?”

Her throat was dry. “I did.”

“And?” His blue eyes searched hers, patient, but there was something else there too—something expectant.

Her mind was screaming at her. Telling her to slam the door. To run.

But instead— She stepped aside.

An invitation. A test. Pietro’s smirk widened, slow and knowing, as he stepped inside.

The scent of warm food filled the air, but it couldn’t fully mask the tension hanging between them.

Pietro set the bag down carefully on the table and pulled out the items one by one. First, a takeout container of Chinese food—her favorite. Then, a medium-sized box.

Her brow furrowed when he placed it gently in front of her.

“What’s this?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“A gift,” he replied, his voice surprisingly soft.

He opened the box, revealing tiny baby clothes, a plush teddy bear, and a baby pacifier. The soft colors of the clothes—a pale blue, gentle green—were undeniably adorable. The teddy bear had a little blue bow around its neck, looking almost too perfect for a newborn.

Her breath caught.

“I thought…,” Pietro started, pausing as he watched her reaction carefully. “I thought I’d start with something small. Something to show you I’m serious about being there for you.”

Her chest tightened as she looked at the items. The teddy bear seemed to stare back at her with its innocent, wide eyes.

She swallowed, trying to steady her nerves. “You didn’t have to do this, Pietro.”

He didn’t respond right away. He just sat across from her, his eyes never leaving hers as he began to unpack the food. They ate in silence, the clink of utensils against plates the only sound between them. The food was comforting, familiar, but it did little to ease the storm raging inside her. The tension in the room thickened as the minutes dragged on.

Then, Pietro broke the silence.

“I know you’re scared,” he said quietly, setting his fork down. “But you have to understand—I’m not like I was back then.”

She looked up, her heart racing. “What do you mean by that?”

He hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. “I’ve done bad things in my past, I’m not proud of it. But I’ve changed. I’m not the man I was when they locked me up.”

Her stomach twisted. “How can you expect me to believe that?”

His gaze softened, his tone gentle. “I know it’s hard. But I’m trying. I want to be there for you and our child. I don’t want to be some figure from the past you’re afraid of.”

She pressed her lips together, fingers tightening around her fork. “And what if the past catches up with you?”

Pietro didn’t flinch. “I’ll handle it.”

“You can’t just bury it,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You killed someone.”

The words hung heavy in the air, thick with accusation and fear. Pietro exhaled slowly, his eyes briefly flicking to the baby clothes before he met her gaze again. “I didn’t kill her. I was framed.”

“How do you expect me to trust that?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. “How do you expect me to just ignore everything I’ve read, everything that’s happened?”

He leaned forward, his eyes searching hers, almost pleading. “I know. I know it’s hard. But I’ve spent years rebuilding, fighting to prove I didn’t do it.” His voice dropped lower, rawer. “And now, I’m trying to rebuild what matters. Starting with you and this baby.”

Her heart beat faster, her emotions a whirlwind. She had seen the stories, read the court records. The name of his ex-girlfriend—the woman he was accused of killing—haunted her thoughts.

But as she looked into his eyes, she couldn’t deny the sincerity there. She wanted to believe him.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered, looking down at the food in front of her, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by it all. “I don’t know if I can trust you with this.”

Pietro’s hand reached out slowly, his fingers brushing hers lightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me all at once,” he said, his voice low, soft. “Just take it one step at a time. Let me show you.”

She bit her lip, torn.

But in that moment, something in her cracked.

Maybe it was the baby clothes. Maybe it was the teddy bear. Maybe it was the way he was looking at her—like he was trying so hard to prove he could be the man she needed.

Maybe it was just the desperation to believe in something, anything, that wasn’t fear.

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” she admitted, her voice barely audible.

“You don’t have to be,” Pietro reassured her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

Pietro’s persistence was undeniable, and over the weeks, it slowly wore down the walls she had built around herself. He didn’t push her, didn’t demand answers or promises. He simply showed up.

He brought her flowers—small bouquets of roses, peonies, and lilies, all different colors—sometimes leaving them at her doorstep if she wasn’t home. He took her out to dinners at quiet little cafés, treating her with a gentleness that was so different from the man she had read about. He paid for everything without her protest, despite her insistence that she could manage on her own.

And when she finally told him about the leaking sink that had been driving her mad, he fixed it before she even had the chance to call a plumber. He showed up one morning, toolbox in hand, a quiet smirk on his face as he worked efficiently, making her wonder how many times he had done something like this for someone else.

“There,” he said, standing up from under the sink and wiping his hands on a rag. “All fixed.”

She had stood there, eyes wide with surprise. “You… you just fixed that?”

He grinned, giving her a wink. “A man’s gotta know a thing or two about plumbing if he’s going to keep a place like this running smoothly.”

She had to admit it was the little things that made her start seeing him differently—those quiet acts of kindness that spoke louder than any words he could have said.

But there was still a part of her that held back. The part of her that remembered the past—the one that feared trusting him too fully, too quickly.

Still, she couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward him. Slowly, her walls began to crumble, the icy guard around her heart slipping little by little.

It was a week before her first ultrasound when she realized she couldn’t keep him at arm’s length any longer.

She had been to the doctor alone—sitting in the sterile waiting room, heart pounding, unsure of what to expect. But as the technician applied the cold gel to her stomach and the sound of the baby’s heartbeat filled the room, something shifted inside her.

She wasn’t alone in this.

And for the first time, she wanted to share this moment with him.

That evening, after dinner, as they sat together on the couch—him casually scrolling through his phone, her own hands resting on her lap—she hesitated before speaking.

“Pietro?”

He looked up from his phone, his expression soft. “Yeah?”

“I… I have an ultrasound appointment in a few days.” Her voice was quiet, unsure.

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he leaned forward, placing his phone down on the coffee table. “When?”

“Friday morning.”

“I want to come with you,” he said without hesitation. “If that’s okay with you.”

Her heart fluttered at his words.

“You sure?” she asked, biting her lip. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, or… or force you into anything you don’t want to do.”

Pietro’s expression softened, a rare seriousness in his gaze. “I want to be there.” His voice was quiet but firm. “I want to be a part of this, all of this. With you.”

The sincerity in his words made her chest tighten. For the first time, she didn’t feel like he was pushing or trying to win her over. He wasn’t just offering to be a part of her life—he was choosing to be there.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’d like that.”

The morning of the ultrasound, Pietro was waiting outside her apartment, wearing a simple jacket and a soft, concerned look on his face.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice gentle but full of anticipation.

She nodded, taking a deep breath. “I think so.”

Together, they drove to the clinic. Pietro’s hand hovered near hers as he drove, his fingers brushing against hers briefly before pulling away, giving her the space she hadn’t quite asked for but clearly needed.

At the clinic, they sat together in the waiting room. Pietro’s presence beside her was a calming influence—his quiet, steady energy helping to soothe her nerves as she anxiously tapped her foot against the floor.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low as he leaned closer.

She looked up at him, her lips curving into a small, uncertain smile. “I’m just nervous. I don’t know what to expect.”

Pietro reached out, gently taking her hand. “It’s okay to be nervous. But I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

A lump formed in her throat at his words, and she squeezed his hand back, feeling the warmth of his touch grounding her.

When they were called into the ultrasound room, the technician was polite but efficient, instructing her to lie back on the table. Pietro remained by her side, sitting in a chair near her head, watching her with an intensity that was almost protective.

The technician applied the gel to her stomach, and she flinched at the coldness of it.

“It’s okay,” Pietro murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’m right here.”

The technician moved the wand across her stomach, and the first image appeared on the screen. The baby was tiny, its heartbeat flickering like a small flame.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she glanced over at Pietro.

His eyes were wide, but there was a softness in his gaze that she hadn’t seen before.

“That’s our baby,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

She squeezed his hand again, feeling a surge of warmth, of something real between them. And for the first time, despite all the uncertainty, she couldn’t help but believe—maybe, just maybe, this could work.

Maybe they could make it work.

The afternoon sun filtered through the windows as she and Pietro worked together in the kitchen, the rhythmic sound of items being placed on the countertop and stored away filling the air. She had insisted she could handle the grocery bags herself, but Pietro had already been one step ahead, following her around the store and lifting the heavy bags from her hands the moment she reached for them.

Now, as they stood side by side, putting away the last of the groceries, there was a comfortable quiet between them, something unspoken yet understood. She felt his presence behind her, his movements smooth and effortless as he reached for a jar of pickles, his hand brushing lightly against hers.

She glanced over at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. His hair was slightly disheveled from their trip, his jacket now discarded on the chair, and the soft expression on his face made her heart flutter.

“You know,” she said, her voice light and teasing, “you really don’t have to carry everything for me, you know? I can manage.”

Pietro chuckled softly, closing the cupboard door with a gentle push. “I know you can,” he replied, his tone still warm but with a hint of mischief, “but I like taking care of you. It feels… right.”

She turned to face him, her hands still on the counter, feeling a rush of warmth flooding her chest. She could tell he was serious, and his words settled deeper than she expected, stirring a fluttering sensation inside her.

“You’ve been doing a lot already,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “Helping me with… everything. The sink, the baby stuff. You’ve been so patient with me. I… I don’t deserve all of this.”

Pietro’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer, his body almost in perfect sync with hers. “Don’t say that.” His voice was low, gentle, but firm. “You deserve more than you think. More than anyone realizes.”

Her heart beat faster as his words wrapped around her, and before she could stop herself, she moved toward him. The space between them closed as if pulled by some invisible force, her lips pressing softly against his. It was a slow kiss at first, tentative almost, as if testing the waters—but then it deepened, a quiet tension between them, a sweet release.

Her arms slid around his neck as his hands cupped her face, pulling her closer. She felt the warmth of his body against hers, the soft, familiar weight of him that seemed to anchor her. The kiss was gentle, but there was an undercurrent of longing, something more that neither of them could ignore anymore.

When they finally broke apart, her breath was shallow, her cheeks flushed. They both stood there for a moment, their foreheads pressed together, as if savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

Pietro chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I thought you’d never make the first move.”

She smirked, her fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “I don’t usually. But you make it hard to resist.”

His eyes glinted with something she couldn’t quite place—a mixture of amusement, affection, and something deeper that sent a spark of heat through her.

“Then don’t resist,” he murmured, his lips brushing lightly against her temple. “I’ll always be here.”

She melted into his embrace, the weight of the moment pressing in on her, but it felt… right. She could feel the warmth of his promise, the unspoken words hanging in the air, and for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to believe it.

The week stretched out like an eternity, each day dragging longer than the last. The initial comfort of their connection seemed to fade with each passing moment, leaving a nagging emptiness in her chest.

She had convinced herself that, despite everything, things were different with him—that there was something genuine in the way he looked at her, the way he cared. But as the days turned into a full week with no word from Pietro, doubt began to creep in. She found herself replaying their last moments in the kitchen, trying to decipher if there had been a hint of hesitation in his touch or in his words that she had missed.

Had she misunderstood him? Was it just a fleeting moment, a spark that burned too quickly? Maybe she had been too forward, too trusting. Maybe she had scared him off, and he’d simply decided to disappear without saying a word.

Each time her phone buzzed with a new notification, she couldn’t help but hope it was him, a simple text or call just to check in, but each time, her heart sank when it wasn’t.

She kept herself busy, but the distractions never quite worked. The baby’s movements were becoming more frequent now, a gentle reminder of what she was carrying, what was about to change. Yet, without Pietro by her side, the weight of it all felt so much heavier.

She stood in her apartment late one evening, staring at the phone on the counter, waiting. Hoping. But nothing came.

She thought back to the moments they shared—the way he’d kissed her in the kitchen, the way his words had felt so real, so grounded. But now, standing in the silence of her apartment, the reality settled in. Maybe he’s gone for good.

Her thoughts spiraled, insecurities rising up with every passing hour. What if it was all too much for him? What if, when he realized how real everything was getting, he decided he couldn’t handle it after all?

The self-doubt began to eat at her, the constant questions without answers pushing her to the edge. It wasn’t like him to vanish without explanation. But then again, who was she really to him?

She shook her head, trying to dismiss the feelings as quickly as they came. She had no time for self-pity, no time to dwell on what could be or what might never be.

Yet, in the stillness of the night, the uncertainty clung to her, and the doubt gnawed at her from the inside out.

Days turned into a blur of frustration and restless searching. She’d tried everything—searching his name online, asking around places she knew he frequented, even visiting the few spots he had mentioned during their brief time together. But every lead came up empty. Pietro was nowhere to be found.

She didn’t want to admit it, but the sinking feeling in her chest was growing by the hour. He had simply vanished, like a ghost. And the harder she tried to find him, the more elusive he became.

It wasn’t like him to just disappear. When they were together, there had been something in his eyes, something real. The way he’d looked at her, the way he’d taken care of her—it felt like it wasn’t just for the baby, it was for her too. Or maybe she had just convinced herself of that because she wanted to believe in something good. But now, all that was left was the silence, the growing sense of abandonment that she couldn’t shake off.

Her mind raced, turning over every conversation, every moment they shared. Had she said something? Done something? Was this just his way of letting her down gently? Or had something happened to him?

She couldn’t bear the thought of the latter.

But still, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he’d just gotten scared. Maybe he realized he wasn’t ready for any of this. For her. For the baby. It made sense, didn’t it? He was a man with a dark past. He was a convict. She knew it was impossible to ignore, no matter how much he seemed to change around her. The weight of it, the constant reminder that he wasn’t just anyone, hung over her every moment.

She found herself wandering the streets late one night, her mind clouded with confusion and fear. The city felt colder now, quieter in a way that matched the turmoil inside her. She stopped at a bar she hadn’t been to in weeks, hoping—stupidly—that he might show up, that somehow, he’d just walk in and make everything feel okay again.

But he didn’t. And after a few more hours of fruitless searching, she was left with nothing but the harsh echo of her own footsteps in the quiet city streets.

Exhausted and defeated, she returned home, her thoughts more scattered than ever. The empty apartment felt so much lonelier without him. It wasn’t just the physical absence—it was the unanswered questions, the fear of being alone again.

She slumped down onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. Her fingers pressed against her temples, as if she could will the anxiety and frustration away, but nothing changed. She wanted to cry, but no tears came. Only silence.

Her phone sat on the coffee table, taunting her, but no matter how many times she stared at it, it didn’t buzz. It wouldn’t. Not anymore.

Her heart raced as the uncertainty began to settle in for good. She had no answers. No Pietro. Nothing.

With a shaky breath, she stood up, staring out the window, her reflection mingling with the darkened cityscape outside. She didn’t know where he was. She didn’t know if he’d ever come back. And that terrifying thought lingered, gnawing at her resolve.

She couldn’t keep waiting forever.

But what else was there to do?

The sound of crashing glass echoed through the apartment, sharp and unsettling, snapping her out of her sleep. Her heart leaped in her chest as she slowly pulled herself upright, eyes wide with panic. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, but it wasn’t there. The silence that followed was almost suffocating, and then—another noise. It came from the living room.

She hesitated for only a moment before her feet hit the cold floor, and she moved toward the sound, every step tentative, a cold sweat breaking out along her skin. Her hand trembled as she reached for the doorknob, her mind racing through a dozen possibilities. Had someone broken in? Was it another break-in like the one a few months ago?

As she stepped into the living room, her breath caught in her throat at the sight of a figure slumped on her couch. The room was dimly lit, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. But when they did, her stomach dropped.

There, hunched over and barely conscious, was Pietro.

His once neatly combed hair was messy and matted with blood, his face pale under the soft glow of the lamp. His hand was pressed to his side, but his body trembled with every shallow breath. She froze for a second, caught between disbelief and concern, before the urgency of the situation hit her.

“Pietro?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, her words hesitant but full of desperate hope.

He looked up slowly, his gaze flickering with recognition before his eyes fluttered shut again. She moved closer, hands shaking, before flicking on the light above the kitchen counter.

He hissed sharply, the sudden brightness making him wince, but it was enough to show her the full extent of the damage. Blood was pooling in his side, the dark stain of it soaking through his shirt, and his face was streaked with dirt and something darker—evidence of the violent struggle he’d endured. She gasped in shock, her hands instinctively reaching out to him, but she stopped herself before she could touch him.

“What happened to you?” she asked, panic rising in her chest.

His lips curled into something that might have been a smile if not for the blood trickling from his mouth. “Remember when you said my past would catch up to me?” he murmured, his voice raspy, hoarse. “You were right.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. She knew then—he hadn’t disappeared on his own. Someone had come for him, someone from his past. She stepped closer, her legs shaking, unsure what to do. She knew she should call for help, but the way he looked at her stopped her.

“Pietro…” She crouched next to him, her eyes scanning his face. “Who did this to you?”

He coughed, a sharp, painful sound that made her heart skip. “It doesn’t matter,” he said quietly, though his eyes were beginning to glaze over. “I’m… I’m just trying to make sure you’re safe.”

She swallowed, her thoughts racing as she tried to hold herself together. Safe? How could she be safe now, with him here, bloodied and broken? She didn’t know who had hurt him, but she had an overwhelming sense that whoever they were, they weren’t done with him—or her.

“Don’t leave me, Pietro,” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. “Please.”

His eyes found hers, dark and haunted, as if he were fighting to stay awake, his expression weary, yet there was still that fire in him, the part of him that she’d come to trust, even if it was complicated. He reached out weakly, his hand brushing her cheek in a gesture that was almost tender. “I’ll be here…”

Her heart ached at the sincerity in his voice, even as her mind screamed that she should do something, anything, to get him help.

She stood abruptly, grabbing her phone off the table and quickly dialing for an ambulance. “Please, please hang on, Pietro,” she muttered, her voice shaking as she gave the operator the information. But all she could focus on was him—his condition, his blood staining her carpet, the way his body seemed to sag further with each breath.

When she hung up, she turned back to him, but he had already slumped over, the tension leaving his body as if he couldn’t fight it anymore.

“Please don’t pass out on me,” she whispered desperately, crouching beside him once again, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “Pietro, stay with me.”

But as she watched him fight to keep his eyes open, her own heart began to break, knowing the danger he was still in—and the danger that was closing in on both of them.

He gave her a faint, strained smile, but it wasn’t enough to reassure her. “I told you I wouldn’t leave,” he rasped, but she could hear the weariness in his voice, the exhaustion that made it sound like his words were hanging by a thread.

The sirens wailed in the distance, but even as they grew closer, she felt an overwhelming fear settle into her bones. This wasn’t just about him anymore. Whoever had done this to him—they were coming. And she had no idea if she would be able to protect them both.

The sirens grew louder, their wail cutting through the heavy silence that had settled in the apartment. Her heart pounded in her chest, but it wasn’t the relief she had expected from the approaching help. It was a sharp, visceral panic—like the calm before a storm. She looked down at Pietro, his body barely propped up against the couch, his once-vibrant eyes now clouded with pain and exhaustion.

His breathing was shallow, labored, and his grip on her hand was barely there, but she could feel the faint pulse of his fingers. “Stay with me, Pietro…” she whispered, more to herself than to him, her voice thick with desperation. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t leave me.”

His lips parted in a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not… leaving you,” he managed to croak, but even as he spoke, his words sounded distant, as though he were slipping away.

She could feel her stomach tighten with fear, but she couldn’t break down. Not yet. Not while he was still breathing. The ambulance would be there soon, but it felt like an eternity. She fought to hold it together, her breath coming in jagged gasps as she knelt beside him, the weight of everything crashing down. The truth of their situation. Of his situation.

This wasn’t just some fleeting moment of chaos. This was real. His past had come for him. For both of them.

Her eyes flicked to the door, her mind racing. Whoever had done this to him was out there—somewhere. She didn’t know who they were or how close they were, but there was a gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach. The world was closing in on them. And when Pietro had said it didn’t matter, when he’d tried to downplay the danger… part of her had wanted to believe him. But now, it was clear he was just trying to protect her from the weight of his reality.

She looked at him again, trying to find something to hold onto. Some hope. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, and she could see a flicker of something behind the pain, a vulnerability that was almost too much to bear. His hand weakly lifted, brushing against her cheek as if to reassure her that he was still there, still with her.

“I never wanted this for you,” he whispered, his voice barely a rasp. “I thought… I thought I could protect you from my mess.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she swallowed them down, refusing to let him see her break. “You didn’t ask for this, either,” she murmured, her fingers trembling as she cupped his face. “But I’m here, Pietro. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll get through this.”

She could feel the tremor in his hand as it slid from her face, and she knew she had to act fast. She needed him to hold on, needed him to stay awake long enough to get medical attention. The idea of losing him, of him slipping away in front of her, was something she couldn’t even bear to entertain.

Suddenly, she heard a knock at the door. Her heart leaped in her chest, but she didn’t hesitate. She rushed to answer, throwing the door open to reveal two paramedics standing in the hallway.

“We got a call about an emergency,” one of them said, looking past her into the apartment. “Where’s the patient?”

“He’s on the couch,” she said quickly, stepping aside so they could move past her. “He’s been shot. Please, please help him.”

They rushed to Pietro’s side, the urgency in their movements sending a wave of relief through her. She couldn’t breathe until they started working on him, checking his vitals, prepping him for transport.

As one of the medics applied pressure to his wound, she could hear the sound of sirens growing louder. They had arrived, and Pietro was going to be okay. At least for now.

But even as they loaded him into the ambulance, her thoughts raced ahead. What had happened to him? Who had done this to him? And how much of his past was coming for him now? The danger wasn’t over. It was just beginning. And if they wanted to get out of this, she knew she couldn’t hide from it any longer.

Once they arrived at the hospital, she sat in the waiting room, her hands clutched tightly together, her thoughts swirling. She tried to keep her mind from spiraling, tried to hold onto the shred of hope that Pietro would be okay. But as the hours ticked by, the uncertainty grew, gnawing at her insides.

And then, just when she thought she couldn’t bear it anymore, a nurse came out from the back.

“He’s stable,” the nurse said, her voice calm. “He lost a lot of blood, but we’ve got him patched up. He’s in recovery now. You can see him in a bit.”

The wave of relief was almost too much to handle. She let out a shaky breath, a tear slipping down her cheek as she finally allowed herself to relax, just for a moment.

But the question lingered in her mind: What would happen when Pietro woke up?

And what would they both have to face next?

The harsh fluorescent lights above flickered softly, casting an eerie glow over the sterile hospital room. Pietro lay in the bed, his face pale, but his eyes wide open now, the pain of his injuries dulled by the heavy medication. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the water cup beside him, taking a sip, and then he met her gaze.

She had been sitting in the corner, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her mind racing. She had been waiting for this moment—waiting for him to wake up, for him to tell her the truth. But hearing it now, seeing it in his eyes as he finally spoke, felt like it was too much to bear.

“I never wanted this for you,” he began, his voice hoarse but steady, the words coming out as if they had been buried deep inside him. “I thought I could keep you safe from it.”

Her heart sank as she leaned forward, watching him with a mixture of anger and sadness. “What happened, Pietro? Why were you in prison?”

His eyes flickered away from hers for a moment, a shadow of pain crossing his face. He took a breath and let it out slowly, as though trying to find the right words to explain the nightmare he had been living.

“It was her… my ex,” he muttered, his eyes hardening. “She was cheating on me with a man I thought was an ally. A man I trusted. And when I found out… when I confronted her… she tried to leave me for him. I couldn’t stop her, couldn’t fix what we had.” His voice dropped lower, and his gaze became distant. “But within the hour, she was dead. He killed her—my so-called friend—and framed me for it. I went to him to make him pay for it… and I ended up in prison instead.”

His hands gripped the sheets tightly, his knuckles white. “It was the perfect setup. Everyone believed the lie. I was convicted of murder… for something I didn’t do.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she tried to process what he was saying. The man she had been growing to trust, the man she had started to care for, had been dragged into a nightmare beyond her comprehension. She could see it in his eyes—the weight of everything he had been through.

“And now… now they’re after me. They want me dead,” Pietro continued, his voice filled with quiet rage. “They know I’m out, and they know about you… and the baby. They won’t stop until they’ve destroyed everything I care about. Including you.”

The words hit her like a blow to the chest. Her heart raced, her pulse quickening at the thought of the danger that was closing in on them. She could feel the blood drain from her face, her mind spiraling into panic. She had never wanted any of this. She had wanted a normal life—a life with him, with the baby, away from the chaos. But the reality of his past, of the enemies who wouldn’t stop until they had their revenge, had shattered her peace.

“That’s why I disappeared,” Pietro said, his voice soft but insistent. “I thought if I stayed away, if I kept them focused on me, they wouldn’t go after you. I was trying to protect you, trying to lead them away from you.”

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and she bit her lip, fighting to stay composed. “You could have told me, Pietro. You didn’t have to disappear.”

He shook his head, his gaze filled with regret. “I couldn’t. You don’t deserve this… you don’t deserve to be caught in my mess. You’re better than this. Better than me.”

But she couldn’t bring herself to hate him. Not now, not after everything he had done for her. He may have been running from his past, but he had been there for her, for the baby, in ways she never expected. She had to believe that the man she was falling for wasn’t the same person he had been all those years ago.

“I can’t just walk away, Pietro,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “You’re in this… and so am I. We’re in this together, whether we like it or not. I won’t let you fight this alone.”

He reached out to her, his hand weak but steady, as he took hers in his. His touch was warm, a silent promise. “I don’t want to drag you into it, but I know you won’t listen,” he said with a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “But I won’t let them hurt you. I won’t let them take you from me.”

A tense silence stretched between them, both of them grappling with the weight of their situation. And then Pietro looked her in the eyes again, his expression darkening with the seriousness of his words.

“They know about the baby, too,” he said quietly. “And they won’t stop until they’ve gotten what they want. So we need to be careful. We need to make a plan.”

She nodded, the fear and anxiety creeping into her chest once more. She didn’t know what their next move would be, but one thing was clear—this was far from over. And now, more than ever, they would need each other to survive.

Pietro was silent during the car ride, his fingers tapping restlessly against his leg as they sped toward a place he never thought he’d return to: the house he and Wanda had once shared. The weight of their strained relationship was thick in the air between them, but he had no choice. He needed her.

She could help.

The journey felt long, each mile adding more tension to the already heavy atmosphere. It wasn’t just the drive that made his stomach churn—it was the realization that he hadn’t spoken to Wanda in years. Not since he’d left her behind when his world had crumbled, when he was locked away behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit. She had no reason to trust him anymore. And he had no reason to expect her forgiveness.

But he had to try. For Y/N. For their unborn child.

When they finally arrived at the old house, the silence inside was suffocating. He had no idea what to expect. The door creaked open, and there she was.

Wanda Maximoff stood at the threshold, her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze unreadable. Her hair, now longer than before, cascaded down her back like a dark waterfall, and her piercing eyes locked onto Pietro’s for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Pietro,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, as if testing the air between them. “You really thought you could just waltz back into my life after all these years?”

Her words stung more than he expected, but he didn’t flinch. He wasn’t here for an argument. He wasn’t here to dredge up old wounds. He needed her help.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he said quietly, his voice laced with regret. “I don’t expect anything. But I need your help, Wanda. They’re after me—”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips pressed into a tight line. She wasn’t going to make it easy on him, and he didn’t expect her to.

“Who is ‘they’?”

“The people who framed me,” he answered, his voice strained, the anger and fear in his chest bubbling just under the surface. “The same people who want me dead. They’ve found me, and they know about Y/N—about the baby.”

Wanda’s posture softened ever so slightly, but she didn’t immediately respond. Instead, she stepped aside and gestured for them to come in. “You’re lucky I haven’t killed you on sight, Pietro,” she muttered under her breath as she closed the door behind them. “But this… this isn’t about us. This is about the people coming after you.”

Pietro nodded, relieved she hadn’t kicked him out. He had expected no less. Her powers were formidable, and if anyone could offer them a chance at survival, it was her.

“Thank you,” he said, though the words felt small compared to the weight of his request.

Wanda walked into the living room and sat down on the couch, staring at them both, as though calculating how much of a risk helping him would be.

“What do you need from me?” she asked, her voice flat but sharp.

Y/N hesitated, glancing between the two siblings. Her heart raced in her chest. She had heard the rumors about Wanda’s powers, but seeing them together like this, seeing the tension that lingered in the air—it was clear how dangerous the Maximoff twins were.

“We need a safe place,” Y/N spoke up, breaking the silence. “Somewhere to hide, to regroup. They know about me… about the baby. And they’ll stop at nothing to get to us. Pietro’s already been shot. If we don’t get ahead of them, it could be too late.”

Wanda’s eyes flickered to Y/N, her gaze softer now, but still calculating. She nodded, once.

“Alright,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “I’ll help. But I want something in return.”

Pietro’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Wanda didn’t look at him, her eyes instead focused on Y/N. “I want you to promise me that when this is over, when everything settles, you’ll both leave. You’ll walk away and never look back.”

The request hung heavy in the air, and Pietro felt his heart drop. He knew his sister was still angry with him, still hurt by the things he had done—but this was different. She wasn’t offering to help just because of the past. This was her way of drawing a line.

“Wanda,” he said softly, his voice laced with desperation, “you know that’s not possible. I can’t walk away from this… from her. From the baby.”

Wanda gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “Then you can’t have my help.”

Pietro swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides. The stakes were too high for them to be playing games. “Please,” he pleaded, his voice urgent. “I need you. We need you. And I swear, once this is over, we’ll do whatever you want. Just—just help us now. Please.”

The room fell silent again, the air thick with unspoken tension. And then, finally, Wanda sighed, her shoulders slumping in resignation. “Fine,” she said. “But you owe me, Pietro. I don’t forgive easily. And I will not forget this.”

Pietro exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, relief flooding through him. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means.”

Wanda looked at Y/N for a long moment before finally nodding in her direction, her expression softening. “You’re not alone in this, alright? We’ll figure it out.”

The weight of everything that had been said settled over them. Pietro knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but he also knew he wasn’t alone anymore—not really. They were going to fight. And with Wanda’s help, maybe, just maybe, they could win.

The days in hiding seemed to stretch on forever, each one feeling heavier than the last. Pietro and Y/N spent their time holed up in Wanda’s apartment, waiting for the next move. The silence was suffocating, and though Wanda’s help had given them a momentary sense of security, they both knew it wouldn’t last forever.

Pietro tried to keep his focus, but his thoughts often wandered to the enemies still hunting him. His past was like a shadow that followed him everywhere, always just out of reach, yet ever-present. He wasn’t used to feeling like this—vulnerable. But with Y/N by his side, he at least felt like there was something worth protecting. Y/N, too, felt the weight of their situation. She hated hiding, hated that they were always looking over their shoulders, waiting for the next attack. But every time she looked at Pietro, she remembered why she was doing this. He was here, and she wasn’t ready to lose him. Not now.

“Pietro?” Y/N asked one night as they sat together on the couch. She could sense the tension radiating from him, his muscles tight, his jaw clenched.

“Yeah?” His voice was quieter than usual, though she could tell he was listening.

“Do you ever think about… what happens after this? Once we get through it all?” she asked, her voice a little hesitant. Pietro turned to her, his brow furrowing slightly as he tried to make sense of her words. “What do you mean?”

“Like, after everything is over—will we go back to normal? Will it all just be a bad memory?” she asked, her hands restless as she fiddled with the hem of her shirt.

The question hung in the air, neither of them sure of how to answer it. He didn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes clouded with his own thoughts. “I don’t know. I don’t know what happens next. I’ve been running for so long, Y/N. I didn’t think I’d make it out of the prison alive, and now, even with everything that’s happened… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to leave my past behind. But I’m trying. I’m trying for you. For us.”

Her heart tightened in her chest at his words, and she leaned closer to him, her hand finding his. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together.”

Pietro’s gaze softened as he looked at her, his thumb gently brushing over her hand. He wanted to believe her, wanted to believe that they could have a future free from the darkness of his past. But the truth was, he was terrified. What if it was too late? What if their lives were always going to be defined by the things they couldn’t control?

That night, after a long silence, Pietro finally spoke again. “I’ll do anything to keep you safe, Y/N. Even if it means leaving everything else behind.”

Her eyes met his, and she knew what he meant. He was willing to sacrifice everything—to give up his past, his enemies, his freedom—just for a chance at a future with her. And she knew she couldn’t ask for more. A week later, Wanda’s plan was set into motion. It wasn’t much—just a way to get them out of the city, to a place where the people chasing them couldn’t find them easily. But as Wanda had warned, it came with a price: once they were safe, they would have to disappear. No more contact. No more looking back.

The morning they were set to leave, Pietro packed up a small bag of clothes and essentials, and Y/N did the same. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this might be their last chance to really live without fear, but the thought of leaving behind everything they had known was overwhelming.

Before they left, Pietro turned to her, his hand on the door. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be”

201 notes · View notes

cece693 · 2 months ago

Text

So I had this silly idea of a character being super duper shy around you and who better else to write about than Pietro Maximoff. Not many fanfics are on Tumblr about him (which isn't all that suprising considering he dies by the end of his first movie) but in my heart he's very much alive. Hope you enjoy!

Tongue Tied

pairing: pietro maximoff x gender neutral reader tags: Pietro is a mess, wanda is a good sister, reader is amused but likes Pietro, the speedster is adorable

Pietro had a routine: wake up, shower, eat breakfast in a hurry (sometimes literally), and then spend the day reminding the Avengers just how fast he was. Confidence was basically his middle name. That is, until you came along. All it took was your shy smile—once—and boom. Suddenly, Pietro was about as smooth as a pothole-filled road.

Accident #1:

Your first week at the Avengers compound was a whirlwind. And when you asked Pietro for a tour, he practically teleported to your side. Wanda, arms folded, watched with a mischievous grin from the corner, ready to document his inevitable blunders.

Pietro cleared his throat. “So, um, this is the training room,” he said, gesturing to a door. “And that’s—” Only, the door he pointed to was actually a storage closet. Wanda snickered.

“Oh,” you said, peeking inside at a broom and mop. “State-of-the-art training gear, huh?”

Pietro’s eyes widened, cheeks burning. “Ha! Yes, definitely not the training room. That’s…um…storage. This—this is the training room.” He zipped across the hall to the correct door so fast, he nearly tripped over his own feet.

An awkward silence filled the space between you while Wanda silently mimed a facepalm. Pietro didn’t look remotely cool as he tried to recover, but you just smiled, amused. “I like the personal touch,” you teased. “Broom-fighting is a lost art.” Pietro managed a shaky laugh. Maybe you found it endearing—he could only hope.

Accident #2:

The Avengers often hosted casual cookouts on the compound’s spacious lawn, complete with steaks, veggie burgers, and unfortunate attempts at comedic karaoke from Tony. You and Pietro ended up manning the grill together—a recipe for comedic disaster. “I got this,” Pietro insisted confidently. He flipped burgers at record speed, so quickly that half of them landed in questionable angles on the grill.

You tried not to laugh as one burger sailed off into the grass. “Huh, I think that one tried to make a break for it.”

“Yeah, well…” Pietro pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to hide his embarrassment. “I’ll just pick it up.” He was back in a flash, depositing the rogue burger in the trash can while giving you a sheepish grin.

Wanda breezed by, eyeing Pietro’s stumbling attempts. Leaning in close so only he could hear, she teased, “Your face is as red as hot sauce.”

He rolled his eyes. “Go away, Wanda.”

But you overheard, chuckling. “I think it’s cute,” you said lightly, hoping to ease his nerves. Immediately, Pietro dropped his spatula. It clanged onto the grill with a loud metallic thunk. He stared at it, wide-eyed, while Wanda practically had to bury her face in her hands to stifle her laughter.

Accident #3:

Pietro loved nicknames. He threw them around like confetti—“Hawky” for Clint, “Tin Man” for Tony, “Red” for Wanda. But he hadn’t come up with one for you yet. Not for lack of trying…he just kept choking on his words each time he tried.

One afternoon, you were in the common lounge, reading a book, when Pietro zoomed in, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process. He waved it off casually, muttering something about “lousy furniture placement.”

“Hey,” you greeted. “What’s up?”

“Um. Nothing. You, er, do you want to—” He exhaled in frustration. “Grab a bite to eat? Maybe see a movie?”

Your eyes lit up. “Oh! That sounds great.”

Pietro’s relieved smile nearly split his face. “Cool! That’s—great. Awesome. Perfect.” He then tried to do his usual flirty finger-gun move, but ended up accidentally pointing at Wanda behind you. Which made him look more than a little unhinged.

Wanda arched an eyebrow from the kitchen. “You see, this is painful for me. Personally, I never thought I’d watch my brother turn into…this.”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing at Wanda’s dramatic pity act, placing your book down. “Don’t be too hard on him,” you said, sending Pietro a fond smile.

The speedster, desperately trying to salvage his cool, opened his mouth to retort—but all that came out was a strangled cough. He quickly cleared his throat, mentally cursing himself for failing to say something suave like, I’m just dazzled by you, obviously.

Wanda decided she’d seen enough: her brother might never confess how he felt unless he got some help. She cornered you in the gym, where you were finishing up a routine. “You know my brother’s head-over-heels for you, right?” she said matter-of-factly.

You blinked in surprise, setting down a dumbbell. “I had a feeling. I…uh, like him too.” Your smile was bashful but unguarded. “He’s sweet, in his own weird, speedy way.”

Wanda smirked. “Well, I’m tired of watching him embarrass himself. Let’s do something about that.”

She proposed a plan: she’d lure Pietro to the observation deck, a quiet place perfect for stargazing, conveniently around the same time you’d be there. An accidental rendezvous, if you will. That evening, you stood on the open-air platform, staring up at the twinkling sky. The gentle wind ruffled your hair as you waited. Right on cue, Pietro arrived—though not at his usual breakneck speed. He sauntered in, probably coached by Wanda to “act normal,” though you could see the pulse in his neck beating fast.

“So,” you said, turning to face him. “Wanda said you wanted to talk?”

Pietro swallowed, his confidence visibly slipping. “I—yes, I did. But I—I didn’t know she’d, you know, ambush me like this. Not that I mind talking to you!” He paused to take a breath, clearly annoyed at himself for rambling. “Look,” he began again, more softly, “I like you. A lot.”

Your face heated at his directness. “Well, that’s good, because I feel the same way.”

The relief that flooded Pietro’s features was priceless, like he was finally able to breathe. “Seriously? Because sometimes I worry I’m, uh, coming off as a total dork—”

“Dork’s a strong word,” you teased, stepping a bit closer. “I’d say adorable.”

Pietro blinked. “Adorable? Me? That’s new.”

You laughed, the sound echoing sweetly under the stars. Without thinking, Pietro reached for your hand. Not to whisk you away at supersonic speed, but to gently lace his fingers through yours. “Maybe,” he ventured, “we could do something not orchestrated by my meddling sister? Like an actual date?”

Your nod was immediate. “I’d love that.”

When the two of you finally returned inside, hand in hand, it was as if the entire compound had been lying in wait. Clint almost dropped a bowl of popcorn in shock, while Tony paused mid-sip of his coffee, eyebrows shooting up. “Well, well,” Tony said, smirking. “Looks like Speedy finally found his voice.”

Pietro rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Tin Man." From across the room, Wanda gave a thumbs-up, wiggling her eyebrows. You mouthed a “thank you,” and she winked.

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gingerteafairy · 4 months ago

Text

𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙞𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙬𝙞𝙠𝙞𝙝𝙤𝙬 (𝙥𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙖𝙭𝙞𝙢𝙤𝙛𝙛 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧)

Peter had to thank wikiHow creator for finally getting a girlfriend.

tags n warnings: smut, idiots in love, kinda fluff, virgin!peter, cockwarming, piv, cursing, mdni, porn w little plot. word count: 3.1k

masterlist

You were sprawled out on the carpet next to Peter, your heads almost touching as you watched yet another one of his dumb Facebook videos. Feet nudging each other, the usual deal with your weird best friend. "Check this out—dude literally fires a gun with just his toes."

"Peter, I’m over this!" you groan, suddenly sitting up and breaking the rhythm.

Peter shoots you a confused, slightly annoyed glance before sitting up too, his eyebrows knitting together. "Over what? We’re just chillin’ on our phones." He tosses his phone down like it betrayed him.

"Exactly! We’re supposed to be hanging out, and instead, we’re glued to our screens. It’s so lame!" you exclaim, throwing your hands up for emphasis before crossing your legs on the floor.

"Oh, my bad," he smirks, leaning back on his hands. "What’s next? Tea party with stuffed animals?"

"Ha-ha, you’re hilarious," you deadpan, grabbing your phone and unlocking it. "No, but we’re doing something—anything but this."

"Wait a sec. You’re the one yelling about phones, and now you’re all up in yours again?" He shakes his head, laughing, his knees bumping against yours as he leans forward.

"I’m looking for ideas, genius. Clearly, neither of us can think of something fun on our own," you fire back, scrolling until your face lights up. "Got it. This is perfect."

You spin your phone around, showing him the screen. He leans in, squinting suspiciously. "No way. 150 Questions to Ask Your Boyfriend? And it’s from freakin’ wikiHow?"

"It’s better than watching you scroll through those ancient Facebook memes. You’re, like, the only dude under 25 who still uses that app," you tease, tilting your head at him while scrolling through the list.

"Hey, Facebook is underrated. Some of the groups on there are gold, like—"

"'Looking for an Inmate to Date.' Don’t even start. I know about that one," you interrupt, breaking into laughter. "I’ll give you that—it’s iconic. Alright, here’s one for you: what color would you erase from the world, and why?"

Peter stretches out his legs and grins. "Ooo, deep question. Hmm... pink."

"Pink? What did pink ever do to you?" you ask, laughing as you shift closer to him, sitting on your knees now.

"I don’t know; it just bugs me. Especially that blinding hot pink. You know, the shade old ladies wear to the grocery store like it’s a fashion statement," he says, gesturing dramatically with his hands.

You snort, nudging his shoulder. "Alright, your turn—ask me one."

"You’re not gonna answer the color thing?" He raises an eyebrow, his mouth quirking up in challenge.

"Nope. Gotta keep the mystery alive," you reply, leaning back on your palms.

"Fine," he smirks, scrolling dramatically through the questions. "Alright, here’s one: pick three items from the store to guarantee the cashier gives you weird looks." Peter’s grin widens as he leans toward you. "And don’t even think about copping out with something boring."

“Lub, car wax, and cat litter," you laugh as you count them off on your fingers. “It's always the sex ones.”

"I’ve got a better one: Condoms, yogurt, and pliers," Peter chimes in with a smug grin.

Your jaw drops in exaggerated shock, and you lightly smack his shoulder. "You’re disgusting!" you exclaim, laughing so hard you almost lose your balance. “That's criminal.”

He leans back with a smirk as you scroll for another question. “I'm just more creative than you.”

"Alright, here’s a good one," you announce, eyes twinkling. "What’s your favorite thing about me?"

Peter tilts his head, resting his chin in his hands as he looks you over, scanning your face and, embarrassingly, your whole body. The intensity of his gaze makes your cheeks heat up. It wasn’t exactly a secret that you had a crush on Peter Maximoff. The problem was he was dumb enough to miss that this question was a trap—a way to find out if he might feel the same. He felt. Bad. And just like him, you were stupid enough to not notice.

"You’re funny," he says plainly, snapping you out of your thoughts.

The simplicity of his answer makes your smile falter for a split second, and he notices immediately. Concern flashes in his eyes as he leans closer.

"That’s it?" you shot, eyebrows furrowing as you lean forward, trying to catch his gaze.

Peter’s cheeks turn pink—faster than anything else about him, really—and he shifts awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. "Having a good sense of humor is important," he adds quickly, smiling nervously. "And...you’re cute. That’s cool too."

The reassurance makes your heart do a weird little flip, though you try to keep your face neutral. "Your turn," he spat, clearly eager to move the spotlight off himself.

"You’re smart," you reply confidently, straightening your posture as if declaring a fact. "You’re handsome, funny, and it’s like you can read my mind because you always know what makes me laugh. You’re always on time—because, well, you’re fast. You’re interesting in literally everything you do, and—"

You stop mid-sentence, realizing how much you were rambling.

"Wow, didn’t know I was all that," Peter teases, grinning at you like the cat that got the cream. Then, of course, because he’s Peter, he leans in to push your buttons further. "You’re gorgeous. You smell amazing. You’re funny. Super smart. And you’ve got killer taste in music."

Your cheeks practically catch fire, and you manage to stammer, "Thanks...Peter..."

But before you can regain your composure, he snatches your phone and grins. Next question. Same topic. Let’s keep this going.”

"If you could ask me anything, what would it be?" Peter’s voice carried that teasing edge you’d come to know too well, and you immediately felt your throat tighten.

You swallowed hard, a nervous laugh bubbling up as you looked away, pretending to focus on the texture of the carpet. Your mind was racing with unspoken questions—Do you like me as much as I like you? Do you ever think about kissing me? Have you ever fantasized about me?—but instead, you chickened out and asked, "What song reminds you of me?"

He chuckled, a little too casually, like it was the silliest question ever. You pouted instinctively, your lips forming an adorable little curve that he secretly loved.

"Sorry," he said, waving a hand as if to dismiss his laugh. "Uh... I don’t know, maybe something old, like Can’t Take My Eyes Off You or something. This is a tough one—requires actual brainpower."

"Unbelievable," you said, shaking your head with a soft laugh. "It’s not that hard."

Peter smirked, shifting closer to you, his shoulder lightly bumping yours. He loved how easily flustered you got, and you could feel his gaze lingering on you again, just enough to make your cheeks burn.

"Okay, if I could ask you anything," he started, leaning in slightly, "it’d be...what’s your favorite memory of us?"

"Uh...I think it’s that time I was craving chocolate, and you brought me some in, like, two seconds," you said, smiling softly. "Then you told me about your powers, and you were so worried I’d freak out or something. But I just laughed."

Peter laughed too, relaxing his posture as he propped himself up on one elbow. "Man, I really thought you’d throw a frying pan at me or something dramatic like that."

"Why would I do that?" you giggled, feeling lighter just from the sound of his laugh.

"Because it’d be funny," he shot back, grinning. Then, shifting uncomfortably on the floor, he groaned. "Alright, this carpet’s killing me. Let’s move to the bed—it’s comfier."

You nodded, trying not to overthink the casual suggestion, and followed him as you both climbed onto the soft mattress. He sprawled out on his side, scrolling through more questions on your phone while you perched next to him, your legs tucked underneath you.

"If you were a sandwich, what would you be?" you asked, breaking the silence with a grin.

"Easy. Bacon cheeseburger. 100%," he said confidently, barely missing a beat as he handed your phone back and stole a glance at you out of the corner of his eye.

You noticed, of course—you always did. Instead of calling him out, you just smiled to yourself, feeling your heart race every time your gazes met. The room was filled with a quiet, happy tension, both of you a little shy but still enjoying the moment.

Even when he turned back to the phone, scrolling for another question, Peter couldn’t help but smirk to himself. He loved how easy it was to make you blush, and the fact that you didn’t seem to mind? That made it all the better. “What's your kinks?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you just stared at him, blinking as if your brain had short-circuited. And suddenly you remembered Peter's dirty mind. What could be worse than saying your biggest kink was your best friend fingerfucking you at light speed?

“Uhm… I don't know…the usual. Missionary or doggy. Dunno.” you shrugged, obviously. “What about you?”

“Alphabetically or chronologically?” he shot and you rolled your eyes, nudging him. But the way you looked up at him, so curious with those eyes he could steal the world for you to look at him again this way gave courage for him. “Cockwarming…I guess…”

“Have you ever tried it?” you questioned, biting your lip to calm your heartbeats. It was the first time you really made a move onto Peter's oblivious being.

“Not actually.” He giggled, scratching his head. “I'm virgin. Yes. I said it. Virgin as olive oil. Boom society. Peter Maximoff is a virgin as hell.”

“That's ironic, virginity is something pure in our culture.” You joked, untucking your legs as you pressed your thighs together. “Would you…you know… like to try?”

“Pfft, obvious.” He giggled, rolling his eyes. “But who will I make it? I don't picture anyone interested in me.”

“How can you be so fucking dumb?” You spat and shut instantly by realizing you said it out loud. Talking alone wasn't a good thing.

“Why am I dumb? You are dumb for calling me dumb, you idiot.” He scoffed, offended. And yeah. Peter was dumb enough to not realize your intentions.

“You're dumb because I'm fucking offering me to cockwarm you, asshole.” You exploded in a low voice, eyeing him through your lashes, focusing on Peters trying to search the right words.

“Really?” He stammered, shifting his weight on the mattress.

“Y-Yeah…” you stuttered, three tones redder than before, nodding.

“Uhm…Okay…Yeah…Great…” He looked down, scratching his neck just to get his eyes back on you, completely shy about the situation. “You…You wanna do it now?”

You nodded, timid enough that nothing understandable came out of your mouth. Peter swallowed and looked at you several times before coming with the decision of kissing you. Yeah. That would be great. He thought.

“What are you doing?” You ask, frowning weirdly when his face comes closer to yours.

He groaned, downing his head, lifting just as fast. “I thought that kissing you would be a great start, you dumb.”

You snorted, taking a deep breath. Okay, you were dumb on that. “Fine. Let 's… do it.” you mumbled, turning your face in that weird position where your shoulders touched to close the gap between you, brushing your lips on his and wow, Peter had surprisingly soft lips way better than any of your dirty imaginations before bed.

Fast as the speed of light, Peter hummed in your mouth feeling his cock already rock hard on his pants. He broke the kiss, opening his eyes slowly to focus on yours. “it…it was good. You're a good kisser.”

“Yeah.” You muttered, glancing at his lips mid-parted. “You unzip your pants or…you want me to do it?”

“Whatever's good for you. I…can do it.” He shrugged, freezing before shaking his head and unzipping and down his pants in one second, his cock standing deliciously on his belly.

Your mouth instantly watered at the sight, obligating you to swallow to get rid of the excess saliva. “Uhm… I'll… get undressed.” You announced, gazing his tip wet in pre-cum.

“Great.” he muttered, waiting for you, deep breathing when you lifted your hip to get rid of your shorts, crawling to toss it on the floor. And when you did, fuck, Peter had to concentrate on anything for not cumming by seeing your covered ass up and wet sweet patch on your panties. Pink. The color he hated. Whatever, he loved pink now. Pink was definitely his favorite color. He would buy anything pink from the supermarket.

You came back to your place, eyeing his tip, wetter than a few seconds ago. Shit, you were going crazy. “Can I…”

“Sure.” He promptly agreed, opening his legs a little wide so you could fit on his lap.

You nodded and took off your panties, crawling again to sit on his lap, carefully wrapping your hand on his length while you placed it on your entrance. “I'll…I'll do it now, okay?” You purred, hating yourself for sounding so desperate. Fuck, his veiny cock was facing your pussy. You. Peter. Cockwarming. This wasn't your imagination.

“Okay.” He grunted, breathing heavily. You slowly inserted his tip, sliding down with your eyes on the back of your head when you both moaned together. Nothing could describe how good Peter's cock felt on your pussy. Bad news. You got a new addition.

You moaned needy when his dick was fully inside you, not helping your hips to wiggle slowly, enjoying the sensation. “Uhm…Peter.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. It's wet. Oh my god it's so wet.” He estates, throwing his head back. You were warm, tight, so fucking wet for him he thought he was in a pool. “I love your pussy.”

You hummed, swaying your hip back and forth to increase the friction. He grabbed your hip, helping you with the movement. “Yeah, Peter. Just like this. Hmmm, this is fucking good. You feel so fucking good on me.” You mewl, giving him a piece of heaven when you made a dirty round movement on his cock, clenching your walls when he pulsate on you.

Peter shutted his eyes, opening to gaze at your intimates together, especially on his dick juiced by your juices, lewd and noisy delicious sounds from it echoing in the room. “Can…can I touch you?”

“Uh-huh.” You nodded, absorbed in the pleasure. “Please… Please touch me, Peter…Uhmmmm...”

Peter licked his lips, pushing your body to crash on his chest, where he wasted no time to kiss you roughly while his fingers snaked to your cunt, at first, touching slowly, but he had a better idea. He buzzed his fingers, feeling proud when he felt you trembling on him, moving your legs desperately and moaning lustfully on him, dropping your head on his shoulder.

“m gonna cum. Peter, shut, cumming.” you whined, arching your back by melting on his cock, screaming his name on your orgasm, fire pooling on your lower belly.

“Fuck. Yeah…you're so hot. This…oh my god.” He interrupted, moaning when your pussy just clenched him so right that he twisted the positions with your ass up, fucking you miserably fast and good with your face on his fluffy pillow.

“Peter!” You screamed muffled, fisting your nail on the duvet, biting it as it was enough to make that overstimulation less crazy. Not effective, you just had the feeling of cumming again when his cock kissed your cervix multiple times as he fucked himself deep on your cunt, stuffing it with his fat cock.

“Your…pussy…it's so fucking good. God, i…had…uhmm…” he moaned, rocking his hips so fast that it could be confused by the same buzz his fingers did on your clit. “You're so hot, you're so beautiful…uhmm…say my name, baby. Please…”

“Peter, fuck…more…” you sob. Fucking Peter was a drug, he was shamelessly good on that, having you cumming again with your vision fading black.

He breathed, slowing his sway on a magnetic decrescendo, burying his head on your neck as he forked his fingers on your hair. “Didn't know cockwarming was…this…fucking good.”

You nodded, mind blank as your mouth opened synchronized to his balls deep on you, the same swing on your tits, where he cared to cup them on one hand while the other continued to buzz. All your mind could think was Peter's veins and tip stuffing you perfectly. “Peter…your cock is so…fucking good. Why…why didn't you do it later?”

“Fuck, dunno.” he gasped, forcing a fast pace again, harder then before, humming when his thrust touched your beloved place that made you squeak and grin under him. “Is…is it here?”

“Yes! Yes,yes, fuck yes.” You babbled, soaking his bed on drool and melting juices of your abused cunt who seemed never to give up on taking him well.

“Shit, im gonna cum.” He moaned, taking his cock out, pumping him and spreading his seed on your back, thick wires of cum on your skin and it seemed like it wasn't enough, it just came and came. Til he finished, crashing on the mattress facing the ceiling.

You groaned, plopping your elbows on the bed to sit up, shaking your sweaty hair off your face to look at Peter. You grinned, giggling stupidly while he chuckled gazing at you. Soon, the giggles turned into laughter as you fell on his body, relaxing on a fulfilling peace.

“D’you even realize that we used wikiHow to fuck?” You chortled, pursuing his lips.

“Yeah. Like how to dig your best friend. Wikihow knows the best.” he snorted, stroking your hair, his eyes demanding a different shine that told secretly all his feelings for you. It wasn't enough, though. Peter had to say. “Do you know I have a thing for you, right?”

“Yeah, how big is this thing?” You ask, resting your chin on your palm to glance at him, a gesture that made him squeeze your exposed breast.

“Big as your booba.” He teased, sticking his tongue. “I'm kidding. It 's like…really big. I kinda love you.”

“You do?” you teased back, giggling when he shifted positions to peck your lips. Your heart exploded when he deepened carefully, wrapping his arms on your waist.

“Yes, I do.” He remarked, kissing the tip of your nose. “Do you love me or you just wanted to use my cock for your own selfish purpose?”

You frowned, pretending to think. “Both.”

“You little…” he laughed, running his hands on your sides to briefly tickle you as a light punishment. Kissing as a sorry. “But you can use me for that. I won't complain.”

“I will.” You reassured, pushing him by the back of his neck to another kiss. “And I love you.”

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rjunhuang · 2 months ago

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song for lovers ✰ peter maximoff

pairing: peter maximoff x reader

summary: headcanons of dating peter.

warnings: lowercase intended. gender neutral reader. mentions of death (jokingly). modern au for like one (1) headcanon.

note: my man my man my man. can't believe i'm posting here again after 2? 4? yrs. my hyperfixation on this man is so intense that i ended up writing a bunch of hcs for him on my notes app.. and where else better than to post here? hope yall fw this

divider by enchanthings | comments & reblogs are appreciated! <3

• peter slows down time a little just to hear your laughter for a few seconds longer.

• he also does it at random moments so he can see you smile. just think: those cliché moments in films where the lovers hold eye contact and time seems to slow down. it would be exactly like that but you'd be blissfully unaware of peter admiring you.

• does the peter + lara jean thing where he slides his hand into the back pocket of your jeans when y'all are walking together.

• hates texting people. he'd just rather zip to their room if he knows they're there. also oddly ominous with his texts and soo blunt. texts you 'sos' so much that you stopped believing it's an emergency. also randomly sends a string of emojis and expects you to understand what he's trying to say.

• i might be projecting but he'd be into traits that aren't 'conventionally attractive': glasses, short hair, not skinny, big noses. and he loves a person with a quirky style.

• "my partner didn't laugh at my joke i hope i die"

• peter would be so obsessed with you. not in a concerning way but every thought resolves around you. with his adhd brain, you're his hyperfixaction. so damn obsessed that the thought of being with anyone else is near impossible.

• that's why him cheating on you would NEVER happen. he worships you. down freaking bad. brings you up in every conversation. would wear those 'i love my partner' tees.

• i know i'm really skipping ahead here but marrying peter maximoff would be far from traditional. the music would be bomb, his suit would be formal enough.. but he'd most definitely add his own quicksilver touch to it! he would walk down the aisle WITH you. his face so smug and probably dancing to whatever catchy (yet secretly meaningful) song you two picked with your arm in his. it's two best friends in love, a partnership.

#peter maximoff x y/n #peter maximoff x you #peter maximoff x reader #peter maximoff #imagine #x reader #reader insert #fanfic #evan peters #x men #quicksilver x y/n #quicksilver x you #quicksilver x reader #quicksilver #enchanthings #— rika's works.

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raspberrirot · 3 months ago

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"And a pair of boots with really good soles. Do you have any idea what those boots cost me?"

"Let me guess. Your virginity?."

"Fuck you, Fisher."

"Sure." He smirked. "But I'm afraid I don't have any new boots to trade you for your time."

Callie Hart, Quicksilver

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dinogoofymutated · 10 months ago

Note

Please, when u have the time, more Pietro stuff 😭😭😭 ur writing for him is excellent and I need more!! Headcanons, stories, idc I just need more Quicksilver written by u.

Enemies to lovers!Quicksilver/GN!reader - pt 2

Here's part 1

It's finally here!! I'm sorry if there are any spelling mistakes. Also, I think the ending is probably the most dialogue heavy scene I've done so far, and I'm not entirely happy with it, but i wanted to post this so bad!! I might go back and edit later though. Hope you all enjoy!! TWS: Fighting, passive aggression, full on aression kinda, logan is a worried asshole big brother, Professor X watching his tragedy not quite repeat. Pietro is kinda an ass but he's a broken ass so its okay.

You and Pietro had a weird relationship. And it seemed to just spiral into even weirder territories and murkier waters. Each and every interaction tiptoed into something a little more than just enemies, and one night you think the two of you fully crossed the line. You were sure of it, and it was just the start.

You’re finally starting to fall asleep when there’s a sudden whoosh of air and grunt of pain. It startles you, and you sit straight up in bed, leaning over to flicker on the light. When your eyes finally adjust, you see Pietro standing by the window, hunched over in clear distress.

“Pietro? What are you doing here?” You ask, But he doesn’t respond. His suit is ripped and bloody, and various deep cuts litter his skin. You swear he’s about to pass out as he stands in front of you, swaying just a little like he did on that day at the beach. Whatever fight he had just been through, it had taken a little more out of him than that fast metabolism could heal so quickly.

“Are you okay?” You ask, wide-eyed at him. Pietro grimaces in a way that looks more angry than it does pained, and yet he still says nothing. Unable to deal with the idea of admitting he needs help, you assume.

He’s sitting on your bed now, naked from the waist up as you stitch his wounds. He’s been silent the whole time, only offering a wince or grunt every now and then with particularly tender wounds. Right now you’re on your knees as you stitch up a rather deep cut on his upper side, his arms keeping his balance as he leans back on your bed.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” You ask eventually. Pietro’s chest pulls on the stitches just a little as he huffs in annoyance, regretting the action a moment too late.

“If I did, I would be.” He snaps. You raise an eyebrow at him as you begin a new stitch, piercing the skin perhaps a tad less cautious than you had been before.

“Take it easy, speedster. ‘Last time I checked I was the one with the needles in my hand.” You snark. Pietro has nothing more to say to that, instead turning his head away so that he doesn’t have to look at you. It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s a bit embarrassed at this whole situation, and you feel a bit bad for him. Out of all the places he could have gone to, there had to be a reason he chose to come here. You just couldn’t tell what that reason was.

You’re gentle while you finish wrapping him in bandages, and he can’t seem to look you in the eyes even for a second. When you reach out to brush some dirt off of his face, he finally meets your eyes. He’s a little less guarded than he was before, but the wall between the two of you still remains. There's a quick gust of wind as he moves towards the open window, stopping just before he leaves.

“...Thank you.” He says after a moment, looking at you from the corner of his eye. You smile at him, a warm feeling in your chest. The difference in his attitude was noticeable, and the fact that he was acting even a little less cold with you was reassuring.

“You’re welcome.” You reply, and then he’s gone again, having closed the window behind him this time.

The difference between the two sides of Pietro you saw was so jarring. You were so used to the cocky asshole that spent all his effort in terrorizing you, not the quiet, almost angry, and guarded man that stood before you that night- and the many nights afterward.

The second time he showed up, this time woundless and simply laid on your bed to rant, you were surprised but didn’t mind it. Then it happened again, and again, and then came the board games, the nights of talking endlessly, and the midnight snacking.

And eventually, Pietro started to climb into your bed. He never spoke a word when he did, simply pulling back the covers and pulling you close, pressing his face into the back of your neck. Nights like this were vulnerable, and tender. Quiet. He came to you in need of comfort often, and you were willing to be his safe space for as long as he wanted.

The more he came to you, hurt or angry or sad, the more concerned you became. And you were upfront about it, much to his dismay.

“You know, I get that we’re on two different sides of things- but you know that the school’s doors are always open to those who need it, right?” You ask, late one night after he had crawled into bed by your side. You were facing him, hand curling on the pillow an inch away from his face, fighting the urge to brush his bangs away from his forehead. Immediately, he has a negative reaction to it. He scowls, recoiling away from you as he glares. You know it should hurt worse than it does, but all you can see is the hurt he's feeling right now.

“The last thing I need is for another person to tell me what to do.” He snaps, turning his head away from you as he sits up and runs his hand through his hair, aggravated. You sit up on the bed a little further, almost wanting to reach for him, but you don’t.

“Pietro, You know that’s not what I meant-” You say, softy.

“Does it matter what you meant?” Pietro practically cuts you off. His tone is sharp, and it hurts you for a second. You frown at him- not that he could see it anyway, and the hurt quickly turns to aggravation on your end.

"Yes, it does. I'm not bossing you around, I'm just telling you that the X-men- myself included- are here if you need any help." You huff, watching as he practically rolls his eyes at you and stands, looming over the bed as he turns to look at you.

"The telling part is the problem. Everyone tells me that I could do something, but what they mean is that I should do it." He snaps. You move over to his side of the bed before standing, almost in a challenge. The two of you are now almost uncomfortably close, to the point where you’re sure if you moved an inch your noses would be touching.

"Well, What if that's not what I’m doing but you're just reading it that way?" You say, meeting his gaze. Pietro was never one to back down from a confrontation, especially not one with you. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this angry at you before, rocky past be damned.

"So you’re saying I'm overanalyzing?" He says, and you groan at the fact that nothing you said was getting through to him, pushing the palms of your hands into the outer edge of your eye sockets.

"I'm saying that I'm not your dad-"

"And what would you know about my family?!" Pietro yells, and you’re quick to look back up at him, scowling.

"Don't raise your voice at me!” You snap, pushing a finger into his chest. “I know enough to know that your dad controls every aspect of what you do, and that's not fair to you." You tell him.

"Don't pretend that you understand or care about any of that" Pietro says, grabbing ahold of your hand rather tightly. God! You did not understand why he couldn’t get it through his thick fucking skull!

"I do care, Pietro!" The words burst out of you, almost uncontrollably. You slam your other fist into his chest, tears of frustration welling in your eyes as you look at him. His eyes are wide, looking shocked and confused. You’re beginning to lose your fight, leaning against his chest, still somewhat caught in his grip despite the fact that his hold on your hand had become light, and still, it felt confining.

"I may not understand why you do what you do, but I do care about you." Your words come out quieter this time, blinking away those stupid tears that had started to well. Pietro’s eyebrows are furrowed, eyes searching your own, but you don't know what for. The two of you stand there for what feels like forever for both of you speedsters, but was surely more like a split second. You’re still pressed up against his chest, faces so close they could touch.

And then they did.

Pietro is the first to kiss you, leaning in and quickly cupping the back of your neck with his free hand, almost in a possessive manner. Once his thoughts have finally caught up with his actions, he pulls back. He looks at you, wide-eyed at his own actions before you gently pull him back in for another kiss. It only takes a moment to click before he sighs into you, melting into the kiss. His kisses are tender, sweet presses of his lips against your own. After a few long moments, you slowly pull away from him. He rests his forehead against your own, a fond look in his eyes that you were sure you mirrored.

From that night on, his nightly visits to you meant something more than they had in the past.

That didn’t mean that they went unnoticed by others, however, and one day you found yourself being called into the professor's study. Of course you were a little worried, but you were so sure that there was no way anyone could have noticed, right?

Logan is standing next to the professor's desk when you enter the room, frowning with his arms crossed. Professor Xavier on the other hand sits rather calmly, inviting you to sit down. You choose to stand instead, cocking your head at them.

“Wow. What is this, an intervention?” You joke, trying to laugh off the oddness of the situation.

“Yup.” Logan snorts. You shoot him a confused and slightly panicked look that the professor picks up on immediately.

“There’s no need to worry, my dear.” The professor says calmly. “We just had a few concerns about-”

“We know that Magneto’s brat has been sneaking into your room.” You almost flinch at Logan's accusatory tone, bristling with a sudden flash of embarrassment and then anger at him for what he calls Pietro. “I’ve been smelling his scent on you for weeks.” Logan finishes, and you’re so taken aback you don’t know what to say at first, mouth hanging open in shock.

“Easy, Logan.” The professor says, raising an eyebrow at the furry man, but Logan isn’t listening, approaching you with a scowl on his face.

“Have you ever heard the phrase, no fraternizing with the enemy, kid?” He continues, and the close contact has you bristling again, unwilling to back down.

“Logan.” The professor tries again, unsuccessfully.

“Look, the first time he came to me he was injured. I wasn’t going to turn him away.” You finally say, fists clenching as you ignore Logan before looking back at the professor instead.

“I understand that. In fact, I’m thankful that you could be so forgiving towards Pietro, despite the past the two of you share.” The professor states, but his words hardly relieve you.

“Then what is the problem?” You ask, exacerbated by this whole interaction already. Logan seems to be angry that you’re ignoring him but snorts at your question.

“-The problem is that you shouldn’t be letting him in your knickers.” You gasp at Logan's accusation, and the professor looks appalled.

“Logan!” Professor X scolds as you struggle and scrabble for words, now both embarrassed, mortified, and rather flush in the face.

“-Excuse you! We weren’t- we’ve never!” It’s a struggle to finally find your words, and even more embarrassing to be so caught off guard. What kind of asshole accuses someone of that out in the freaking open?! In front of your mentor no less?!

“Sure you haven’t. That’s why your bed doesn’t smell like him.” Logan rolls his eyes, and you refrain from punching him in the face right then and there.

“Well if your stupid nose was as good as you say it is, you would know that we haven't done anything just by the smell!”

“Just because it hasn’t happened now-”

ENOUGH! Both of you! The professor silenced the argument with a single thought. Both you and Logan feel scolded, and yet still bitter about the other. You cross your arms in a bit of a defensive manner ad the two of you turn back to face the professor.

“This was never supposed to be an argument, simply a conversation.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. You scoff at that, sending a pointed look in Logan’s direction.

“Well maybe, Logan should learn to stay out of my business!” You say, only for the professor to hold his hand up for you to stop, simply hoping both you and Logan would quit continuing to dig this hole deeper and deeper.

“I’ve heard enough.” Professor X states. “We were simply concerned about the nature of the relationship between the two of you, seeing that you have been growing closer. I know your mind, and I trust you to stay by the X-men’s side.”

“Then what is this?” You ask, the words coming out as more of a whisper. Logan sighs, looking regretful but ever the stubborn ass. He looks at you, moving to where he can lean against the professor’s desk again.

“... Look, Kid. we just don’t want you to get hurt. Anything between you and Pietro isn’t going to end well.” Logan says. You feel a little more understanding of him now, but only a bit, with him back to acting like he normally did. He was always an older brother figure to you, but that did not give him the right to air out your business, even if the professor could find out everything that had been happening with the barest glimpse into your mind. Still, you scowl just slightly at Logan, looking away from him. He sighs again, and with a nod from the professor, leaves the room. The professor nods you over to his side, wheeling his way towards the bookshelf with one particular photo on it. One of him and Magento in their college days.

“You are an adult. I cannot stop you from making your own decisions.” The professor starts. You find yourself tracing the features of the young Erik, finding the image of Pietro in every part of his father's face. The professor looks at you, and all he can see is a face so similar to his own. “I too, understand what it is like to hold affection for someone so distantly aligned from you. It’s due to that understanding that I worry for you. I…” The professor trails off and you turn to look at him with a frown. You knew. You know. The two of you are so different from each other, but surely that didn’t mean you would be enemies forever? He wouldn’t hurt you in the way that Magneto had hurt the professor so many times before… would he? Professor Xavier reaches out to take your hand in both of his own, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Just be careful, my dear.”

“I understand, professor.”

253 notes · View notes

hiraet3h · 1 month ago

Text

Alate { Pietro Maximoff x FEM!Reader }

Alate - Adjective (Latin) |

~ Having wings; lifted up in flight

Summery:

"The past dripped slowly in places like this—quiet, empty, and full of ghosts. The ground doesn’t forgive, it just waits."

An 'impromptu' encounter with a boy she never quite really knew. And a man she never had any interest in meeting.

Too bad they were the same person.

Pairings: Primarily: Pietro Maximoff/Fem!Reader, Slight John Allerdyce/Fem!reader, Slight Remy LeBeau/Fem!Reader

Word Count: 11.5K

Warnings: strong language, canon typical violence, reader gets hurt, smoking, cigarettes, bad bird puns/nicknames, Use of (Y/n)! I'm sorry if that bothers you, but i use it quite a bit, Pietro being an asshole, Reader is also an asshole to be fair, Gambit and Pyro too honestly, so everyone really, an excessive use of em dashes, Reader has curly hair! It's pretty vague and not specified what kind of curls, but it's mentioned a couple times! other than that, her appearance is pretty neutral i think. Let me know if I forgot something!

Fic Type: Oneshot/standalone

Author's Note: Omg! this is the first time i'll ever be posting to tumblr, and it being my shitty fanfic is kinda nerve-wracking! I've posted on Ao3 and Wattpad before, but tumblr always intimidated me for some reason. But there are SOOO many incredible writers on here, and i thought someone else might appreciate a non movieverse/fox/MCU Pietro x reader, so i decided to post it here as well! I hope it makes someone out there happy as well!

Anyways, this take place in a semi -alternate AU? In the way that, i didn't quite have a specific variation of Pietro or the x-men universe i was writing for. It's a mesh between an aged up X-men Evolution AU and the Wolverine and the X-men universe. With some comic elements thrown in. So it's my playground essentially.

This fic will also be available on AO3! I have other nonsense on my AO3 if the curiosity ever strikes and you want to check it out!

Please, if anyone wants to chat about anything, my door is always open!

The wind carried more than cold that night. It howled like a wounded creature through the hollow veins of the abandoned train yard, weaving around rusted steel and splintered wood and forsaken motors with a kind of sorrow only old places knew. (Y/n) stood near the skeletal remains of a cargo car, arms crossed, her shadow carved in sharp lines by the moonlight above. She found comfort in places like these. In places filled with things long abandoned and things that should have been. A feeling of tragedy she couldn't help but chase. A masochistic tendency she’d hoped she would have outgrown in her adolescence but had unfortunately been a habit that had followed her into adulthood.

Maybe she found comfort in things and places and stories she could relate to.

Romanticizing life, or whatever the hell the kids were calling it these days.

She hopped onto the train tracks, her arms outstretched to her sides in an attempt to keep her balance as she walked along the stealrail of the track, as though she was a tightrope walker, dangling dangerously on the brink of doom and death.

A single misstep and she’d be gone, and nothing but her memory would remain, before that too would inevitably wade out of existence, time chipping away at the ghost she used to be.

The metal creaked under her boots like it remembered her from all those years ago—like it knew she didn’t belong to war or missions or field assignments. Not really.

But she'd always show up anyway.

"You’re late, L/N."

The voice skittered through the dark, cocky and cruel and cold, like a blade dragged across glass.

A sharp exhale through her nose.

She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to.

The air told her he was close. It always did, vibrating with the static of him, with the feeling of electricity that he would leave in his wake and upon his arrival. With a disruption in the winds as it bowed to his whims.

"Punctuality has never been your thing, has it?" she replied, dry. "I figured if I gave you an extra ten minutes, you'd still manage to make an entrance."

In a blink, he was standing where moonlight met shadow—just on the edge of it, and the light of a street lamp which was miraculously still working save for the occasional flicker before being resurrected by the currents running in the wiring.

Quicksilver. Pietro Maximoff.

Silver hair tousled like he’d just stepped out of a storm, windswept and wild but in a way that looked intentional and effortless all at once. And smirking, of course. Always smirking. His eyes were electric with the kind of arrogance only someone who could outrun time itself had any right to wield.

"Nightingale," he drawled, crossing his arms with exaggerated ease as he leaned against the streetlamp with a casual grace that could only be achieved by a man who had been trained in combat for years upon years. A confidence that came with self assurance and a pride that wasn’t completely unearned "Did you miss me?"

She rolled her eyes. “Like a migraine.”

"Oof. And here I thought we were finally building something resembling camaraderie."

"No, but we can build something else entirely. Like a coffin for you to lie in. Or your gravestone. If you’re here to finally do the honors and give me the relief that would come with you dropping dead.”

He chuckled, stepping closer with the kind of laid-back threat that came from someone who didn’t need to try hard to be dangerous. "Come on, (L/n). You think anyone else could put up with your holier-than-thou shtick and still show up like clockwork?"

Her jaw tightened. Her glare was met with a look of mirth. A punchable one, if she was able to say so herself.

"Why are you here, Maximoff?"

“Birdwatching,” he says, a smug grin playing on his lips. He looked proud of that one.

She gives him a bored look, unamused.

He rolls his eyes at her, not at all intimidated, nor deterred. And he had not enough shame to ever feel a lick of embarrassment, so that was out of the question as well, despite his ill-received pun.

“C’mon, that was a good one. Even you have to admit it.”

She spins on her heels, ready to walk away from him, and this train yard and the whole useless encounter, when his voice stops her in her tracks before she’s made more than a couple feet away.

“Magneto wants a word,” Pietro said suddenly, almost too casually.

She turned slowly, narrowing her eyes. He remained at ease.

“Then he should send someone with better people skills.”

He chuckled. “He did. I’m charming. Ask literally anyone.”

“Not your ex-wife, I presume.”

That got a crack in his cool, his brows furrowing and a frown marred his lips quickly. It filled her with a satisfaction she’s not proud of.

“Low blow,” he muttered, eyes flashing. “He wants to make you an offer.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard it yet.”

“I don’t need to.”

Pietro tilted his head, undeterred, voice still carrying humor of a joke she wasn’t in on. “You always this stubborn, or is it just around me?”

“I know how he sees people. How he turns them into pieces on a board. I’m not interested in being another one of his knights, thanks.”

“You’d be a rook, if anything,” he said, thoughtful. “Straight lines. Limited. Boring.”

“Funny, coming from a pawn.”

That one seemed to have also landed. His jaw clenched, but only for a second

He recovered with a grin. “You used to be more fun, birdie.”.

“And you’ve always been annoying.”

He sighs. And rubs the back of his neck, his eyes closing for a brief reprieve from her insults.

“Look, he only wants to talk right now. There’s no harm in a conversation, right?”

She stepped back. Not far. But enough. Enough to make the space between them suddenly mean something deliberate.

"Not interested."

"Didn’t ask if you were," he said smoothly, straightening and taking a step forward to reclaim lost distance "Only told you what’s happening."

"Not to me, it’s not."

She turned as if to leave, but in a flash, he was in front of her again. This time closer. Too close. She could feel the charge in the air between them. Like standing beside a live wire. He towered over her, and she was face to chest with him. She tilts her head up to meet his eyes, and his gaze is firm. Jaw tight and lips pressed into a firm line, almost resembling a frown but not quite.

It seems her jeers and refusal were getting to him. Good.

"I’m not here to play tag, (L/n). I’m here to bring you in."

She blinked. Slowly. As if the words themselves needed processing.

Then her laugh—a low, bitter thing—cracked through the lighting-tension like a sharp knife.

“You're pathetic. Running after daddy’s approval by doing tasks he couldn't be bothered to do himself.”

His jaw tensed. Just a flicker. But she saw it. She knew all his sore spots. That one was particularly tender, she knew.

"You think I have a choice?" he said quietly.

"You always do." Her voice was sharper now. Not louder, but colder. "You just stopped pretending to care."

Pietro's expression shifted then—like clouds over the moon. Not anger. Not yet. But the storm was there, gathering behind his eyes.

"You think you know anything about choices, L/N? You, with your perfect little X-men who’ll pat you on the back every time you try and fail to throw a punch? You don’t know what it’s like to be needed by someone who only values what you can do, not who you are."

Her jaw tenses at his words of vulnerability. But she knew a farce when she saw one. He wasn't going to emotionally manipulate her tonight.

"And yet, here you are," she said cooly, stepping past him. “I’m not going with you.”

He grabbed her wrist. Gently—but firmly. His touch was warm. Steady. Frustrating.

"(Y/n). You don’t get it. He’s not asking.”

She looked up at him, chin lifted, heart pounding like war drums beneath her ribs.

She hated that he said her name like that. Like it meant something. She rips her arm out of his grip and takes a step back, insistent on keeping space between them

“I’m not going to be a pawn, Pietro.”

"You're already in the game. You just don’t want to admit it."

“I'm not in shit.”

Her fingers sparked with energy then—just barely. A shimmer of violet light flickered up her arm like fire in a hearth. Slow and steady. Pietro's eyes dropped to it, then back to hers.

"You sure you want to do this, moon girl?"

"I’ve never been more sure of anything."

He didn’t move. For a moment, the silence held its breath. The wind paused. The night listened.

Then he stepped back. Let her go.

“You’d lose.” he says like it's a fact. Like no other outcome could be possible.

She holds his gaze for a beat. Then two.

He was probably right. She couldn’t fight to save her life. Which, coincidently, was exactly when she needed it. And she needed it often.

Her sigh then cuts through the air like a slow exhale of a long-forgotten lullaby. The kind of sound a soul made when it was too weary to fight the silence, but too stubborn to surrender fully.

She was stretched thin with exhaustion, not from the confrontation, but from everything. From war and missions, from expectations and choices. From a world that hated them for simply being, and the constant requirement to prove themselves worthy of existing in places that deemed them undeserving. And the inevitability of running into him. Again. Always.

The past dripped slowly in places like this—quiet, empty, and full of ghosts. The ground doesn’t forgive, it just waits.

A reluctant truce between instinct and exhaustion and pure curiosity had overcome her.

So she turned. Slowly. Her boots whispered against the gravel as she moved, the oversized denim jacket she adorned slipping from her shoulder just enough to show the moonlight pale on her skin before she pulled it back up into place. It was approximately five sizes too big— ill-fitting, like a life she never asked for but lives anyway cause there’s no other choice. A little girl lost in grown-up‘s clothes. A soldier pretending she knows how to play war. The cold of the freight train bled through her layers when she leaned back against it, metal biting down through fabric and resolve alike at her back. She flinched only slightly, then settled, one boot scuffed against the asphalt, the other kicked up behind her to rest flat against rusted steel.

It was the posture of someone who wasn’t going to run, but wasn’t going to be dragged either.

Quicksilver hadn’t moved. Maybe he was waiting for her to bolt. Maybe he was calculating how many steps it would take to reach her if she did. But she wasn’t running.

Her eyes flicked back to him with a gaze she wore like armor. Bored. Tired. Disinterested. Except it was a lie, of course. She was studying him. Every angle. Every slight change.

His hair was longer now. Not by much, but enough for her to notice. Enough to know she hadn’t seen him in months. Time had been kind to him in the way it was kind to cruel people—preserving their beauty like a warning sign. His silver strands, always unnatural, gleamed in the moonlight like silk laced with mercury. She remembered thinking, once, that he looked like he’d been touched by the stars. Moonkissed, she had called it.

But that was before she knew who had really touched him.

Before she knew who had carved him from the same sharp stone and set him loose on the world.

It had always been like that, even when they were teenagers, even when he was just some cocky blur of a boy who annoyed her on missions and flashed too many teeth when he smirked. She’d initially thought the color was dye, some edgy brooding Brotherhood thing.

She'd been wrong. It was blood. It was legacy. It was Magneto’s, like everything else about him. The sharp lines of his jaw. The eerie grace of his movement. The cold glacier- blue in his eyes, That intensity beneath the bravado, coiled tight like a spring, waiting to snap. The anger. Oh, the anger. Constant and bitter. Angry at a world that wouldn’t change no matter how hard anyone tried.

He looked more like Erik than Wanda did. More than Lorna ever could, despite her having her father’s powers. It unsettled her. That resemblance. That inheritance. Sure he was younger, the lines of time yet to set into his face. He was taller and leaner and wore his cockiness out and arrogant, but at the core they were alike in a way that was undeniable. She wondered if he ever looked in the mirror and saw himself, or only the man he’d been chasing his entire life like a ghost, despite him always being right there, just unwilling. She wondered what Magneto thought when he looked at him. His eldest child? Or the reminders of the failures of the man he used to be? Maybe that’s why he was so cold towards his only son.

Her eyes lowered briefly. Civilian clothes, tonight. That was interesting.

No combat gear, no flashy insignias. No weight of war on his shoulders, only a dark leather jacket that suits the season, resting just right across a frame broader than it used to be. He’s taller now, more filled in. Still lean, still quick—but not all sharp corners anymore. There’s muscle under that snug black tee. Probably more than he needs. Probably more than she needs to know about.

Of course the shirt clings like it always did, tighter than it probably needed to be. Not that he needed help drawing attention. But Pietro Maximoff didn’t know how to wear anything without a little arrogance sewn in.

“What could that man possibly want with me?” she asked at last, voice level, somewhere between disinterest and disdain.

Pietro didn’t answer at first. He just looked at her.

And maybe it was the moonlight, or maybe it was something else, but for a moment, he wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t mocking her. He just stood there, staring like she was something just slightly out of reach, slightly more dangerous than she'd ever let herself be.

"You're asking the wrong guy," he said eventually, voice lower now, almost thoughtful. “I don’t play chess, remember? I’m the piece that gets moved.” He tilted his head. “You, on the other hand… you’re a piece Magneto can’t quite figure out.”

"Or maybe I'm just not worth the effort," she replied.

His smile returned, sharp and annoying. “If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be here.” He took a step closer, boots crunching on gravel. “You think he sends me to do grunt work?”

“Yes,” she says, not even hesitating for a second. Voice flat and deadpan, like it was an obvious answer to that question

“Ouch. You wound me, little bird.”

She gave a lazy shrug, the oversized jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder once more. She didn’t bother pulling it back up this time. “That’s the idea.”

Pietro's gaze slips to the newly revealed skin for a brief second, eyes mapping out her collarbone and the slope of a shoulder that was now exposed due to the sleeveless shirt she wore underneath, before his eyes snapped back to hers. She pretends not to notice.

They stood there, not quite talking. Not quite fighting. The wind carried a whistle down the tracks, eerie in the emptiness. The city was far away now, nothing but a glow on the horizon.

"Why are you really here?" she asked, softer this time. "You hate taking orders. You cannot stand your father. I’ve seen the way you flinch when he speaks to you like you’re a tool. So why are you still running his errands?”

His jaw worked. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then:

“Because I’m good at it,” he said finally. “And when you’re good at something, you’re not given a choice. Not really.”

Her brows furrow at his words.

“That’s not true.”

He scoffed. “Says the girl who stayed with the X-Men even after they kept sending her out there like bait.”

That one stung.

He noticed. His voice softened just a little. “You ever wonder what it’d be like to stop trying to be what they expect?”

“I don’t take advice from someone who also does exactly what’s expected of him,” she shot back. “You think you’re a rebel, but all you’ve ever done is chase your father’s shadow. You talk big, but you’re still a scared little boy running after a man who will never give you what you’re looking for and everybody knows it.”

That did it.

His expression hardened, and he took a threatening step forward. Once again the distance between them has shrunk to a considerably small size. Like a waltz, they ebb back and forth. The air seems more hostile this time, however. It seems her words had finally stung as deeply as intended.

“I came here,” he said through clenched teeth, “to give you a chance. You could’ve walked away from all of this. Could’ve had power. Could’ve stopped playing foot soldier for Xavier and his pathetic dream.”

God he was insufferable.

“Firstly, it’s not pathetic, you self-absorbed-”

“Please, i’m self-absorbed that’s actually rich coming from you-”

“-And you’re no better, following orders like a dog-”

“-considering the moral high-horse you lot sit on. it’s actually nauseating-”

“-for a man who has no idea he’ll become what he hates-”

“-the way things are going is gonna get us all killed, we don't have time to-”

“-he’s a damn hypocrite, and you’re no better-”

“-and the X-men are useless at best, hoping if you do enough dirty work, they’ll accept mutant-”

“-Have you and any of your buddies actually done anything except prove every mutant stereotype down to a T or-”

“-Who the fuck cares? They’re gonna blame everything on us anyways-”

“-yeah, so proving them right is the move-”

“-God, you reek of self-righteousness and privilege-”

“-better than playing terrorist-”

“-you’re saying this from up in your ivory tower-”

They were yelling over each other at this point. And it was beyond unproductive, considering neither was willing to even attempt to hear the other out.

“Enough!” she yells, and it's actually enough to get him to shut up. He continues to glare at her and she lets her eyes close, and her head drop as a sigh pulls from between parted lips, her breath fogging in the cold air with the exhale.

“I didn’t come to debate politics with you,” she says, voice tired. She takes a few steps away from him and slips further against the freight train, letting the rusting junk take on the brunt of her weight so she wouldn't have to carry it all on her own. Her bones feel heavy. They have for a while and she was getting tired of carrying them with her everywhere she went.

(Y/n)'s words fell like slow, deliberate raindrops—each one dampening the tension rather than snapping it. They weren’t meant to wound. Not really. But they were heavy, and the weight of truth had a way of bruising.

“Xavier’s a bastard,” she said, voice steady, eyes narrowed as she watched him. “But Magneto’s no better. ‘Sides, Cyclops has been calling the shots for a while now.”

Pietro scoffed, but said nothing. Not yet. So she kept going.

“I’ve disagreed with Charles plenty, especially the older I get and the more I see what he's willing to overlook for the sake of the dream. But his ideology doesn’t rest on bloodshed, or dominance, or this superiority complex your father breathes like air.”

his eyes narrow back at her words.

‘Not talk politics, my ass.’

“It’s not a superiority complex.” He says, voice cold and agitated. “News flash, Nightingale—they hate us. They want us dead. We have to fight back with the same force or we’ll be wiped out. Why cant you and those spandex-wearing freaks get it through your thick heads.”

He also lets himself rest against the cart, his shoulder to the metal so his body is facing her, but his head is looking out into the rail yard, nothing in particular catching his interest. He just didn’t want her to see him seething.

“You think ‘peaceful coexistence’ means anything to the people outside that mansion, praying we disappear? We’re fighting for our lives, and you're still acting like it's some kind of moral debate club.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not doing this with you, Pietro .”

“You’re the one who started it.”

“Just shut up.”

He fumes, but relents.

The quiet overtakes, and they let it settle between them and the night like a balm on a burn, meant to soothe. Frustration and anger easing out of both bodies slowly and slightly.

He steps closer—not all the way, but enough that she could feel the cold static of his presence again. That same subtle tension in the air, like a thunderstorm waiting behind glass.

“You’re scared of it,” he said, softer now. “Of your powers.”

Her lips parted, just slightly but no words came out. He’d hit something. Something she didn’t like people seeing.

“I’m not afraid,” she said eventually. “I’m cautious.”

“Same thing,” he said, and for once, there was no tease nor malice in it. Just truth.

She swallows a huff, breathing slowly through her nose. “Maximoff, I can go borderline nuclear in five seconds flat if i dont have the reins all the way in check. What would you have me do?”

He gives a lazy shrug. Nonchalant and noncommittal. Like she couldn't level a city block with a flick of her wrist if her head was on wrong.

“Don’t be afraid.” He says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. Like the answer has always been obvious and she’d been looking in all the wrong places for it.

She shakes her head, not bothering to answer him. She doesn’t really know how.

Maybe he was right. Maybe not. It didn't particularly matter. Because she didn’t know how to stop being afraid. It was etched into her soul, the fear she had of herself. It took over a decade of training to get where she was, to the mastery she possessed of her own mutation. And even then, it felt like a bandaid over a gaping wound. Superficial. Only there to cover the damage so nobody had to look at the bloody, ugly thing.

Another sigh slipped from her lips like the wind blowing between forgotten cracks. It was quieter this time. Less a sound of defeat and more the weary exhale of a woman who'd been holding her breath too long. Her head dipped forward, curls swaying gently kissing the sides of her face, as she reached up with a manicured hand to rub the back of her neck, her fingers digging into a knot that had formed like a stone lodged beneath her skin. Firm and pulsing like the echo of the tension she'd been carrying for days. Weeks. Years, if she was being honest.

This place—the X-Men, the mansion, the maddening missions and miscommunications, the quiet understanding that no one really knew what they were doing—they were home. Not perfect. But hers. The family she never had. The one that fought like hell and screamed in the halls and cried behind closed doors. The children running around, learning to use and accept and be with their mutations. The one that let her be broken, and still let her stay.

There was never a version of this where she left the X-Men. Not even in dreams. Not even when the mansion got too loud, or too quiet, or too full of ghosts.

They were hers. Her ragtag, squabbling, loyal, impossible family. The one she chose. The one that stayed.

Scott with his leadership and saviour’s complex. Ororo with her soft reprimands. Kurt, always trying to make her laugh even when her world was falling apart. Kitty, with her quiet strength. Rouge with her southern charm and a shoulder she always had to cry on. Logan with his gruff grunts that somehow meant love.

Even the ones who were gone. Even the ones who’d stayed too long.

She would not leave them.

And she definitely wasn’t trading them for Magneto’s army of true believers and half-broken boys pretending they weren't scared.

Her gaze slid lazily back to Pietro, head tilting, curls catching moonlight. Her voice came soft, almost amused, like a cat playing with something half-dead between its paws.

“He still hates you, y’know?”

Pietro blinked, clearly not expecting it. “Who?”

She smirked. “Scott.”

The reaction was instantaneous. That deadpan look returned to his face like a well-worn mask as he stared at her in exhausted disbelief.

“Good,” he snapped.

A pause.

And then, quieter, sharper: “Mutual.”

She laughed.

Not a scoff, not a sneer. A laugh.

It burst from her, sharp and musical, and it knocked the cold out of the air for a second. It was unexpected, unguarded—like a bell ringing in a quiet cathedral. Genuine, melodic, light. It peeled from her like sunlight through fog. And Pietro, who’d spent a lifetime outrunning things—responsibility, feelings, his own name—froze in place.

Because it was the kind of sound a man might go into reverence for.

It undid something in him. Made the space between them feel impossibly close, impossibly far.

Pietro would’ve done anything she asked to hear it again.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. There was a soft twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides, like they ached to hold something they knew they couldn’t.

It was unfair, honestly, how good it sounded. How alive it made her look, even draped in fatigue and denim too big. The smile that followed bloomed across her face, softening her features into something sweeter than he had any right to see after threatening to drag her back to his father like a prize.

The smile on her face was gentle now, real. Something that didn’t belong on a battlefield, didn’t belong in the ruined husk of a rail yard at midnight. It belonged in gardens. In sunlit kitchens. On slow Sunday mornings and soft cotton sheets. It made her look younger, somehow—like this war hadn’t touched her quite as deeply as he knew it had.

She rolled her eyes, but there was no sharpness in the gesture. Just… tired affection. Fondness. Soft-edged history. The kind that tasted of years they pretended didn’t matter.A thread of memory pulling through the decade. The old days, back when the fights were mostly verbal and the stakes were mostly pride.

Some things didn’t change. Not really.

She slipped a hand into her pocket then, the movement smooth, easy. Like instinct. Her fingers closed around the battered pack she hadn’t even dared touch for months now. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the company. Maybe she just wanted to reclaim a little vice for herself tonight.

The Camel menthols box were practically falling apart. The cardboard was soft with wear, corners dented and edges fraying like the last edge of self-control in a stressful week. But she popped the lid open and plucked a cigarette from the pack like it was routine.

Then her eyes flicked back to him, one brow arched high.

A silent offer.

Pietro’s eyebrows rose, a soft scoff escaping him. “You smoke?” he asked, arms crossing over his chest again, the leather of his jacket groaning softly under the strain. His too-snug shirt pulled tighter across his chest with the movement. It was entirely too obvious, and he was entirely too unaware of just what he was doing to her unconsciously. She ignored it expertly.

She shrugged, the cigarette dancing slightly between her fingers. “Not really,” she said. “Sometimes.”

Another scoff. But he reached out anyway.

She didn’t hide her surprise at that, though she disguised it behind a curl of her lip. He plucked a cigarette from the pack she held, slipping it between lips that were always slightly wind-chapped, with practiced ease.

And for a moment, they just stared at each other, smoke-less, caught in the absurdity of it all.

She tucked the pack away again, reached into the same pocket and produced a cheap plastic lighter—one of those corner-store things, half-broken and temperamental. She flicked it once, twice, three times before the flame danced alive in the dark. She gave him a look, one of those universal gestures that meant you’re too damn tall, get down here.

He snorted but obliged, bending at the waist, so their faces were close. Too close. With only the lighter’s flame flickering in the narrow space between them. It danced like a restless spirit, casting his face in shifting gold and shadow, tracing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth.

The flame caught his eyes like a hook in water, drawing out something ancient and quiet and furious. An impossible shade of blue, not sky, not sea, not anything she’d ever seen. Something colder, deeper—like the gleam of lightning before it strikes.

There was anger in that gaze, a deep, smoldering kind—the kind that burned low and endless. Anger at the world. At how it had turned him hard when he might’ve been something else.

He was painfully handsome. Unfairly so. Like a statue half-broken by time—still beautiful, but not untouched. Not innocent.

But it wasn’t like she wasn’t, either. Innocence wasn’t something she could claim anymore—hadn’t been for a long time. It had been taken, not lost. Ripped away in pieces, sharp and sudden, in the way only the world could do when it didn’t care how young you were.

They’d all been too young. Too soft, too full of things like hope and wonder and the foolish belief that the world might give back what it took.

And yet—here she stood. Still holding onto that hope like a lifeline, knuckles white around it. Because that was all she had. Cause it was all she could believe in to keep herself going. Because without it, everything unraveled—everything turned gray and senseless, and she needed something to tether her to the fight. Hope was the thread she stitched herself together with each morning. Fragile, foolish, maybe, but hers.

He didn’t seem to need something as delicate as hope. Anger was enough. There was no softness in the way he looked at the world—just that simmering fury and a drive so relentless it was almost frightening.

She stepped forward, closing the last inches of space, the heat from her hand near his jaw, the flare of fire catching the end of his cigarette. He kept his eyes on hers, unmoving. That’s when he caught a whiff of her perfume—soft, powdery, clean and sweet. Something candied-floral tucked beneath warm skin and the faint scent of ozone that always clung to her after she used her powers.

It hit him harder than expected. It made him dizzy.

It was her. And it was comfort. And it was memory. And it was the scent of someone who made abandoned train yards feel like the edge of something beautiful.

Then she stepped back, putting space between them again as she lit her own cigarette with the same soft detachment, as though she hadn’t just handed him a memory he’d crave for the rest of his life. The flame briefly illuminates the gentle curve of her face, the shadows beneath her eyes, that seemed darker these days. She inhaled, slow and long, and exhaled just as steady, smoke curling from her lips like fog rolling through forgotten hills.

Her absence was immediate. Like being snapped out of a dream too soon. The distance felt wrong, like something sacred had been broken.

Pietro took a drag, the nicotine burning hot and sharp in his chest, and for a second, they were just two people in a forgotten train yard, caught somewhere between what they were and what they could’ve been.

He savored the moment. He wanted to memorize it. To stretch it out so it could last forever. The ease. The quiet affection of an enemy who still remembered what he used to look like when he was seventeen and angry at the world.

He supposed not much had changed. He was still angry at the world. Angry at all of it.

He took another drag, this time, without looking at her, letting the menthol numb his tongue and sting the back of his throat. His jaw worked as he exhaled slowly, letting the smoke unfurl into the cold night air, curling like ghosts between them.

She leaned against the train again, one leg bent, boot still planted on the metal behind her, cigarette now resting between her fingers like an old friend. Her eyes were on the stars.

“You ever think,” she said, voice quiet now, like the moment between them had shifted into something not quite safe to name, “that if we’d met under different circumstances... things might’ve been different?”

Pietro’s gaze drifted toward her.

The wind carried her curls across her cheek. The cherry of her cigarette glowed faintly red. Her lips were parted just slightly, flushed a deeper color from the cold. She looked something straight out of a painting. A masterpiece.

He didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t want to lie.

So he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he said eventually, exhaling smoke from the corner of his mouth. “I think about that a lot.”

She turned to look at him then. Just once.

And in the silence that followed, they both said everything they couldn't say out loud.

The smoke curled from her lips, delicate and transient, vanishing into the cold night like the moment they were standing in—fragile, stolen, doomed. They stood in that half-silence, the kind that only exists when two people are trying not to admit there’s nothing left to say. The train yard stretched around them, rusted and quiet, a graveyard of motion and memory. A place suspended in time, where the past dragged its heels and refused to die.

For a breath—a single breath—it felt like peace.

But peace was never meant to linger.

Not for people like them.

The leaves rustled in a way that wasn’t wind. In the way that whispered company. Her spine straightened before she even processed why, cigarette frozen halfway to her lips. Years of training kicking in subconsciously like reflex. Her eyes narrowed, scanning the shadows between the train cars. She heard them before she saw them—footsteps too coordinated to be casual. Too numerous.

Pietro noticed it too. She caught the flick of his eyes, the way his jaw locked tight. Not fear. Not surprise. Just cold understanding.

Then they stepped out of the shadow and into the moonlight.

Three men.

Monsters, some would say. Freaks.

She knew them all.

The first wore a grin that stretched too wide over his sharp face, flame-red hair catching the dim light as if already half-ignited. His eyes sparked with glee, like he loved the idea of having an audience for whatever carnage he planned. As unstable as the fire he worshipped.

The second was all smooth swagger and subtle menace, red-on-black eyes glowing faintly under the brim of his hood. With those cards of his and a mouth that dripped charm like venom. She remembered him kissing her hand once, years ago, as a distraction to swipe something from her pocket.

And the last…

The sight of him made her stomach turn.

His footsteps were heavy and slow and sure. A beast in human skin. A hunter stepping into the world. Taller than the other already tall men, Older. Broader. Wild blond hair tangled like a lion’s mane, falling around his face like a curtain. His eyes were yellow—sharp, detachteched, cold, predatory. She didn’t even need to see the claws to feel them at her throat.

She remembered that feeling all too well. It still haunts her nightmares sometimes.

Her fingers tensed around the cigarette. Her lips parted in a breath that didn’t come. Her heart plummeted.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Her eyes moved to look at Pietro then, with a slow turn of the head, as if she could somehow will him into explaining this away.

But he didn’t.

He stood still, expression unreadable, back straight and spine rigid like a soldier at attention. His face was blank, so carefully composed it almost hurt to look at. He wasn’t surprised.

He’d known.

The realization hit her like a blow to the gut.

She’d been set up.

The look she gave him wasn’t betrayal. Not quite. No, it was something softer, something older. The weight of inevitability. The quiet ache of knowing they’d always end up here, drawing lines in the dirt only to find themselves standing on opposite sides again and again.

Her heart dropped through her chest, nonetheless. She didn’t need to say it. The betrayal wasn’t loud, wasn’t dramatic. It bloomed quietly in her eyes, like the first crack in a stained-glass window. Barely visible.

But once it started—it never stopped.

She looked at him like someone who had almost let herself believe in something, only to be reminded why she never could.

He would say it if she gave him the chance.

I don’t owe you anything.

And he’d be right.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t defend himself.

Didn’t say anything.

Because what could he say?

They always ended up here.

Different sides. Same battlefield. The same war they never asked for. Both fighting for mutantkind in their own way, but walking paths that would run parallel for all of existence, never crossing. Not when one was lit in fire and fury and the other was a tightrope balanced over a chasm of compromise and restraint.

Maybe it was fate.

Or maybe it was another cruel trick of the universe.

Or maybe it was just survival.

She took a final drag of her cigarette, the burn of menthol sharp and grounding. She exhaled smoke slowly, deliberately, as the three men came into clear proximity. They didn’t run. They didn’t need to. The way Pyro’s grin widened, the way Gambit rested his hands in his pockets lazily, the way Sabertooth sniffed the air like he was already tasting the hunt—it was clear.

Magneto had sent his Acolytes.

They were here to collect her.

And it was clear they didn’t think they’d have to try very hard.

"You never were very subtle, mate," Pyro called out, an Australian accent thick, “Bit dramatic for a snatch-and-grab, don’tcha think? Having a smoke under the moonlight?”

Her eyes turn back to Quicksilver’s face. "How long?"

His jaw clenched. Just a flicker.

"Since the start."

She nodded once. Not big. Not dramatic. Just an acknowledgment of something already known in her bones.

"Well, well, well," Pyro purred, voice coated in gasoline. As the three had made their way over to them. “Didn’t think we’d find you out here alone, Nightingale. Guess the songbird strayed too far from the nest, eh?”

(Y/n) didn’t answer. unblinking, unreadable.

Sabertooth chuckled low, like gravel sliding down a mountain. It was a sound that was familiar in all of the worst ways. “This her, Maximoff?”

Pietro’s voice came steady. Empty. “Yeah.”

That was all he said.

Not a warning. Not a protest. Just confirmation.

Her blood ran colder.

“You’re not walking away tonight, chère,” Gambit said smoothly, his voice sliding around her like smoke, Cajun accent as heavy as she remembered. “We’ve got business. You, me, and the boss.”

She straightened, finally, letting the cigarette fall from her fingers to the dirt below. She ground it out beneath the heel of her boot, slow and silent. When she lifted her head, there was no fear in her expression. Only resolve. Contained. Contoured.

Like a fuse lit but not yet burning.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said, voice steadier than she felt.

“Come on, now,” Pyro crooned. “Don’t be like that, love. Magneto’s got plans. Big ones. And you’re on the guest list, baby bird.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He just flashed his teeth at her with a knowing wink that went completely unacknowledged.

The weight of the situation came pressing on her chest. Hot and heavy, and cold and unfeeling all at once. She looked around uselessly already knowing there wasn’t an out for her. She wouldn't be able to escape or flee. Not with Quicksilver and not with Sabretooth. And fighting seemed laughable. She was outnumbered, outclassed and outranked. She couldn't take on one of the assholes, much less all four. It was a losing situation for her no matter the hand dealt.

She sighed for what felt like the thousandth time that night.

Besides, she didn’t want to fight.

Not tonight. Not now.

The adrenaline was starting to mix too heavily with the nicotine in her blood, and she knew if she let her panic take the wheel, she’d regret what followed. So she reached back into her jacket instead—hands steady, slow, deliberate—and pulled out the battered pack of Camels. Her fingers dipped inside and came out with one last cigarette, slightly bent, a little weathered, but still perfectly smokable.

“Quite the party,” she murmured, voice soft but steady, refusing to look away from the approaching threat. “Didn’t realize I was so popular.”

It perched delicately between her lips, the curve of her mouth pulling around it like it belonged there.

A girl playing dress-up in her father’s jacket. A delicate, pretty thing made of soft curves and sharper edges. The cigarette looked out of place in her hand. On her mouth. She didn’t look like a smoker. But the ease with which she moved—the practiced, habitual precision of it—betrayed the truth.

It looked out of place until it didn’t. Not when it had clearly lived a few lives with her already.

Because nothing about her was simple.

She let her eyes drag lazily over the men in front of her, as though they weren’t here to drag her to some gilded prison of Magneto’s making. As though they were just three guys she might see in a dive bar or waiting outside a concert venue.

They were dressed like civilians, the same way Pietro was. Their attempt at blending in, at pretending this was anything less than an ambush. Gambit, of course, wore that damn trench coat—dramatic as ever, even without the armor or gear. Pyro looked like he’d stepped out of an indie band lineup, something almost artistic in the haphazard way his clothes clung to him, flannels and baggy jeans and some obscure band’s t-shirt she couldn’t tell you the first thing about .

And Sabertooth?

Sabertooth looked like a monster in borrowed clothes.

Nothing on earth could domesticate that man.

She studied them with the same gaze one might give a gallery painting from across the room. An art critic trying to decide if they were charmed or offended.

Gambit caught her eye first.

He’d changed. Gambit looked older now—matured. The boy she remembered was long gone, replaced by a man who hadn’t lost a drop of that swamp-born charm. Heavily shadowed stubble now lined the sharp angles of his face, making him look older, rougher, better, honestly. His charm had deepened—ripened with time like some expensive wine. The smirk on his face was criminal, lethal, and she knew if the smile didn’t get a woman, the voice would. Honey-dipped and sin-slick, he’d always known how to draw hearts like blood from a wound. The kind of thing that would make a girl trip over herself and thank him for it.

But his eyes—those unforgettable eyes were the same as she remembered them. Oddly beautiful; red irises and black sclera like spilled ink and blood. They seemed amused. Like he could hear every thought in her head. Roguish charm was an understatement.

He caught her looking.

Of course he did.

He offered her a lazy grin, slow and smooth, like molasses poured from a silver spoon. “Ma chérie,” he said with a wink that probably made hearts flutter from miles away. “If you keep lookin’ at me like that, I might start thinkin’ you missed me.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response, just raised one unimpressed brow and moved on.

Pyro—he hadn’t changed as much. His frame had filled out some, arms defined beneath the thin long-sleeved tee he wore under an open flannel. Shoulders broader than she remembers, and he might’ve been an inch or two taller than he used to be. His vibrant hair had grown a little longer, hanging in his face, which was sharper now, in artful chaos. Tonight, he’d swapped his flamethrowers for something subtler. He stood with one hand in his pocket and the other fidgeting with a matchbook—flicking it open and closed, the snap-snap-snap a rhythmic tic she remembered from years ago. There was still that unhinged brightness behind his eyes. That barely-contained chaos that looked like a spark always about to ignite.

Her eyes lingered on him a little longer.

Old crushes were a strange thing.

She remembered liking him once. Maybe it was the accent. Or the danger. Or that brand of reckless energy. Or maybe just the way his eyes used to light up when he talked about fire like it was a living thing. Like he was in love with it. That kind of devotion was rare. It was foolish, in retrospect. But she had been seventeen, and he had laughed at her jokes. Sometimes that was all it took.

And then there was Sabertooth.

She swallowed.

He hadn’t aged a damn day.

He still looked older than any of them but was aging like some slow-turning curse. Healing factor made him almost eternal.

Out of everyone, he had changed the least. He was still enormous. Still terrifying. Still too quiet and too aware for someone so feral. Still exuding the kind of hunger that wasn’t about food or sex, but something deeper, more primal—an instinct to devour whatever he couldn’t control. His golden eyes didn’t blink as he watched her. They never had. He was the same the day she met him, and he’d be the same long after she was dead. Time didn’t touch men like him and Logan. Not the way it did everyone else.

She looked at him, and in the quiet between her thoughts, wondered—not for the first time—how long he and Logan had been circling each other, roaming the earth. How many times had they torn chunks from each other’s flesh, only to heal and meet again?

And how many more times were left? It seemed they’d be here till the end of the universe itself.

Star-crossed lovers, Shakespeare had written.

She supposed Logan and Creed were something else entirely.

Star-crossed enemies.

The term didn’t exist, but maybe it should’ve.

Destined to destroy, and somehow, destined not to die.

Her voice broke the stillness like glass underfoot. She turns her attention back to Pyro, her head cocked to the side, a dry smile on her lips.

“Got a light?”she asked, utterly casually. As if she wasn’t surrounded. As if they weren’t here to kidnap her. She thought she was funny. She brought the cigarette up in front of her and waved it nonchalantly, as though that explained everything.

Pyro blinked.

A heartbeat passed.

Then a shit-eating grin spread on his face, like a fire catching wind. God help her, he looked like the type who’d light a match just to watch it burn down to his fingers and laugh about the scars.

Oh, he liked that. Not just the question, but the whole performance. The cigarette dangling from her lips like punctuation. The way her curls framed her face in disheveled poetry. The tilt of her head like she was unbothered, like this was just another Tuesday and not a setup spiraling into something dark.

Gambit let out a low whistle under his breath. “Mon dieu chérie… bold of you.”

“Oh, Darlin’,” Pyro drawled, pulling his lighter from the inside of his coat like it was a holy relic, flicking the silver Zippo open with a practiced snap. A distinct cling sound filling the hollow air. A tiny flame danced to life, flickering gold in the shadows. “You know I always have a light.”

He took a step forward, hand outstretched. Even though he didn’t need to. They both knew that. He could’ve lit her up from ten feet away with a thought and a twitch of his fingers.

She raises a brow at him in question, and he just flashes her a brilliant smile.

“Don’t mind sharin’. Any excuse to get close to you, songbird.”

(Y/n) didn’t flinch. She didn’t laugh either. But her lips twitched, like she was amused. Maybe she was. In a twisted sort of way.

Pietro let out a slow breath through his nose, muttering something under it that sounded suspiciously like you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

She stepped forward as well with casual ease, cigarette held delicately between her lips. She didn’t rush. The men around her, the fear clawing up her ribs, the betrayal still scalding behind her breastbone—all of it could wait.

“Let me guess. You want me to say something cheesy. ‘Light your fire, birdie?’”

“I’d actually prefer it if you’d shut up, but I never get what I want.”

“Aw don’t be like that, love.”

Pietro’s voice cut in then. Cold and sharp.

“She has her own lighter.”

(Y/n) didn’t even look at him. “It’s out of fluid.”

That was a lie. Her plastic Bic was full. She just didn’t feel like using it.

She could practically hear him grit his teeth from somewhere behind her. She didn’t really care.

She leaned in, letting the thin cylinder of her cigarette rest against the edge of Pyro’s flame. It caught with a soft flick and a brief flare, the scent of menthol curling up in the air between them. For a second—just a second—they stood close enough that she could see the ash flecks in his eyes, the faint scar near his temple she didn’t remember from before, the way his grin faltered as if surprised by the calm in her gaze. Like maybe she wasn’t scared of him. Like maybe she never had been.

She stepped back once her cigarette was lit, giving a little flick of her fingers in a mock salute. Smoke twisted in lazy ribbons around her face.

“Thanks, Johnny. Glad to see you’re good for something still” Her voice was breezy, offhanded, cut from the same cloth as the smoke curling from her lips—soft and biting at once.

He chuckled low, licking the inside of his cheek. “You know how much I like watching things burn. I take any chance I can get to light one up for pretty girls.

A beat.

“Especially the mean ones”

She rolled her eyes, but the sharp edge of her mouth softened just a touch, betraying the ghost of reluctant amusement.

Behind her, somewhere closer to the rusted freight train, Quicksilver grunted.

Not loud. But sharp. Meant to be heard.

(Y/n) didn’t turn.

Pietro hadn’t moved since the moment the others arrived, but the tension had twisted his spine into something steel-cable tight. He looked like he wanted to punch something—preferably Allerdyce’s stupid face.

And Pyro, the bastard, caught his eye over her shoulder.

Met his stare.

And gave him a slow, lazy grin, mouth quirked like a match head begging for a strike. His expression said What? Jealous? as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud.

Go on, do something

Pietro’s finger’s twitch, every bit of self restraint he had going into not choking the redhead right here, right now.

He could. God, he could do it before anyone blinked. Pyro wouldn’t even see it coming.

But he didn’t.

“Mm. Therapy might help with that.” Nightingale replies, unaware of the silent threats the two men shared in a split second.

The flame snapped closed with a flick, and Pyro watched her with something unreadable in his gaze as she took a drag. Something one could mistake as veneration.

Not lust. Not infatuation. Something deeper.

The kind of quiet awe a boy might carry for the storm that ruined his hometown—beautiful, destructive, unforgettable.

Behind her, the moon hung low, swollen and bruised against the indigo sky like it had seen too much and said too little. A witness draped in borrowed light. She turned her head and exhaled smoke up toward the stars. Ironic, how peaceful it looked. How quiet. Like the world wasn't holding its breath around them.

Like nothing was about to break.

“You’ve changed,” he said eventually, almost admiring.

She exhaled again, eyes on him like steel under velvet. “So have you. Still an asshole, though.”

His lips pulled into a smirk. Crooked. Honest. “Fair.”

A low growl cut through the air then like a scalpel through skin—feral, throaty, primal. The kind of sound that made your bones remember what fear was even if your brain insisted you were fine.

“You’re stalling,” Sabretooth rumbled. His voice was gravel soaked in blood, low and sharp, the warning in it unmistakable.

(Y/n)’s head snapped toward him on instinct, her pulse hitching despite her best efforts. For just a flicker—just a breath—panic danced behind her eyes, a sliver of raw instinct. The kind that came when someone called your bluff before you could salvage the illusion. Her expression didn’t falter long, but it was enough to make the corners of Sabretooth’s mouth twitch.

She covered it with a lazy draw from her cigarette, but the damage was done.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I just wanted a smoke before your people started throwing punches.”

“You always this mouthy before a beating?” Sabretooth asked. He was watching her the way a lion watches a cornered gazelle—curious, patient. Hungry. A confidence that comes with knowing you’ve already won.

Something in his gaze said: Run. It’ll be more fun for me.

(Y/n) inhaled, and let the smoke sit in her lungs for a heartbeat. Then exhaled slowly through her nose, eyes trained on the older mutant like he didn’t terrify her down to the marrow.

So she opened her mouth and said something she knew was beyond stupid.

“You always this eager to play attack dog for someone who keeps you on a leash? Or is this your way of proving you still got it after that thrashing Logan gave you?”

The silence that followed was deep and sharp, like the breath before a scream.

Sabretooth’s snarl was instant—teeth bared, hackles raised, the line between man and beast erased in one second.

He lunged a half-step forward, claws twitching into view—

And Pietro moved.

In a blink, he was between them, arm outstretched, fingers splayed—not touching her, but blocking the space between her and the coming storm. His voice came low

“Enough.”

“You got a real goddamn mouth on you, girl,” he hissed. “Let’s see if you still got any jokes when I tear out your fucking throat—”

“Whoa, whoa—easy, mon frère,” Gambit cut in, stepping slightly in front of him, one hand raised.“Ain’t no need for that just yet. She's just talkin’, homme,” Gambit said lazily, though his tone was a notch more serious than before. “You know how birds get when they’re backed in a cage. She don’ mean nothin’ by it.”

(Y/n) turned her gaze sharply to Gambit. “Don’t speak for me.”

The look Gambit gave her was pleading—bordering on annoyed. Like a man trying to keep a bar fight from turning into a body count.

Quicksilver turned toward her at that, eyes burning. His jaw clenched hard enough to tremble at the edges.

“Stop talking,” he bit out. “Just—stop. You’re not helping yourself.”

His face was unreadable, but his eyes flickered—furious.

And beneath it all—he looked scared.

For her?

She nearly scoffed. Yeah, right.

He’s the one who got her into this fucking mess.

From off to the side, Pyro chuckled lowly, breaking the tension just enough to turn all eyes.

“Bloody hell, love. Ain’t you just a little spitfire.” His voice was darkly amused, tinged with something she couldn��t quite place. “Careful now, Creed,” he added, eyes flicking toward Sabretooth. “Looks like the little birdie’s got claws too.”

Sabretooth growled again, a low, guttural threat vibrating up from his chest. But Pyro wasn’t finished.

“She’s not wrong though,” he mused, head cocked, genuinely entertained. “Wolverine did mop the floor with you last time. What was it—three minutes? Two?” He grinned, wicked. “Not that anyone’s counting.”

Sabretooth snarled—really snarled this time, shoulders bunching, claws arching forward like he meant to carve someone in half right then and there—

“Say that again, you little—!”

“Don’t,” Pietro snapped, venom sharp and sudden, his voice cracking like thunder across dry air. “We’re not doing this now.”

Gambit threw up a hand in warning, cool and casual but firm.

“Let it go, Victor.”

(Y/n) glanced at him, a ghost of a smirk tugging the corner of her mouth despite the pulse thudding behind her ribs.

“Thanks for the assist,” she murmured.

Pyro winked. “Anytime, birdie.”

Quicksilver made a strangled sound like he might actually implode. “Somebody shut him up” he hisses.

Gambit’s eyes slid to (Y/n) again, sharp and steady now. The flirtation had bled out of his expression, replaced by a sort of grim calm.

“You come now, chérie. Quiet-like. We walk, we talk. No one gets hurt.”

“And if I don’t?”

No one answered.

They didn’t have to.

Sabretooth’s claws flexed in the still air with a slow, deliberate snikt.

And the night held its breath once again.

A pin drop could’ve echoed like a gunshot in the stillness that followed.

It was that quiet.

like the world itself had gone silent, teetering on the knife’s edge of violence. (Y/n)’s heart thundered in her chest, a frantic drumbeat behind her ribs. Fear had its hands on her—tight around her lungs, threading through her limbs, trembling just beneath the surface. It was there in the way her shoulders stiffened, in the twitch of her fingers at her sides, in the shallowness of each breath that left her.

She knew it.

They knew it.

She would have gotten mauled in five seconds flat had Quicksilver and Gambit not stepped in.

And still, she was stubborn.

Stupid, reckless, gut-deep stubborn. The kind that burns out stars before it ever yields.

She moved before she thought.

Shoved Quicksilver back with both hands—palms pressed to the cold leather over his chest. The contact was brief, but unexpected, and he stumbled—not from force, but from shock. His silver brows lifted a fraction, mouth parting in disbelief.

“Get away from me!,” Her voice cracked like glass, and still she stood her ground “All of you.”

Son of a bitch. The whole damn lot of them.

She smashed the cigarette under her boot’s heel, twisting her toe into the gravel until the last ember died with deliberate finality, grinding it into the rocks like it was something she could control.

Then she straightened slowly, lifting her chin like a blade drawn from a sheath. Her voice rang out like something final—low and serious.

“I thought I made myself perfectly clear. Tell Magneto he can rot in whatever hole he crawled out of.”

Her gaze swept over them, unflinching now despite the way her pulse screamed behind her ears.

“And if you're all so eager to follow him to hell.” her eyes landed on each of them, one by one. “be my guest, but I'm not gonna roll over so easily.”

There it was.

The line.

For one raw moment, no one breathed.

Then—

“Oh, come on,” Pietro snapped, throwing his hands up. “Are you trying to die tonight?”

Gambit winced and muttered something in French under his breath, something that sounded a lot like a prayer—or a curse.

“Merde,” he muttered under his breath. “Girl really don’ know when to shut up.”

Pyro’s expression was hard to read now. The flame in his grin had gone out, replaced by something pensive, almost cold. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—not admiration, but maybe... regret. Maybe just the echo of it.

“You’re makin’ this harder than it needs to be, love,” he said, and for once, his voice wasn’t teasing. No lilt, no smirk hiding behind his words. Just truth. And something that could have almost been pity.

And Sabretooth?

Sabretooth laughed.

A low, guttural sound that crawled up his throat and slithered across the night air.

“Well, that settles it,” he growled, flexing his claws with audible delight. “We do this the fun way.”

A wind stirred through the train yard then, sharp and cold as an icicle pick in winter. It slid past (Y/n)’s cheeks like a warning.

The sound of Sabretooth’s laughter rooted her in place, that deep, lupine rumble clinging to the insides of her ears like cobwebs. He stepped forward again, slow and heavy—each movement a flex of coiled muscle and malevolent intent. The moonlight caught on his claws as they extended fully, glinting silver like the teeth of some ancient trap.

He stepped again—deliberate, savoring the moment, the way monsters do when they’re certain the end has already been written. His bulk loomed larger with each stride, shoulders rolling like tectonic plates, hands relaxed but twitching with promise.

And still—she didn’t move.

Didn’t dare to.

Every instinct screamed at her to run. But where would she go? There were four of them. Trained. Ruthless. Men who had bathed in battle since their bones were half-grown. She’d be tackled in seconds, ripped apart before she could so much as scream.

Still, she couldn’t stop her legs from tensing, couldn’t stop her fingers from curling, couldn’t stop her power from flaring just a little too bright behind her ribs.

She took one breath. Another. And then—

The air around her began to shimmer.

Faint, at first— like a flickering lightbulb.. Then stronger. A ripple of something soft and silver-blue, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks, the stars above catching in her eyes like pin-lights reflected in water.

Pietro saw it first.

“No—no, don’t,” he snapped, his voice slicing the air like a whip as he turned to her. His hand lifted, palm open, like he might physically push the power back into her chest. “(Y/n) stop!. Don’t make this worse—”

Sabretooth lunged.

Fast.

Too fast for anything but panic.

But Pietro was faster.

In a blur of black and silver and wind, he caught Sabertooth mid-leap—shoulder crashing into the older mutant’s side with the full force of a sonic boom. The impact sent both of them tumbling across the gravel in a burst of motion and fury, a cloud of dust exploding where they fell.

“Get her!” Pietro shouted mid-scuffle, his voice a gruff and a whip-crack of command as he fought to keep Sabretooth’s claws from his throat.

But (Y/n) was already turning—already moving—legs pushing off the earth like a raven. Her power bloomed behind her eyes now, lighting her skin in soft purple pulses. She moved with desperation, hands splayed, eyes scanning for the narrowest exit between rusted freight cars and stacked debris, and wooden carts.

And then Gambit stepped into her path.

He didn’t raise a hand. Had no cards visible. Didn’t reach for the bo staff strapped to his back. He just looked at her, red eyes almost glowing under the yellow streetlight

“Don’ do this, chère.”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t even hesitate.

She ducked low and lunged past him—

—only to feel his arm loop around her waist mid-sprint, catching her momentum and spinning her hard into the wall of a derailed car. He was holding back, just wanting to use enough force to stop her. But it still hurt like a motherfucker.

She gasped, the air knocked clean out of her chest, her shoulder slamming into rusted metal with a sick clang.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he said softly, arm tightening around her middle like a steel band. “Please.”

‘Too fucking late for that.’ She thinks bitterly in her head as her body continued to thrash, desperate and fierce.

A burst of shimmering energy flickered from her palms, reading herself to break free from his grip—only for Gambit to seize her wrists in his gloved hands and pin them to the wall beside her head.

‘Son of a bitch.’

“Enough, Nightingale,” Pietro barked from across the yard, his voice ragged with effort. Sabretooth had him pinned now, but not for long—the black blur of his limbs still jerking, struggling under the larger man’s weight. “Goddammit, get off Creed—”

“Let go of me,” she hissed, still writhing, her voice gone hoarse from panic and fury as she fought tooth and nail to break Gambit’s hold.

“LeBeau, I will kill you, I swear to god-!”

He pulls her restrained wrists away from the wall of the car, the movement forceful enough to peel her entire back from the surface just for him to slam it back in with a force that makes a grunt leave her lips, and she bites her lip to restrain the whimper that want to follow.

“Chère you need to calm the hell down-”

“Fuck you-!”

That’s when she sees him from her peripheral vision. Pyro approached slowly now, arms outstretched—not threatening, not mocking, almost placating, like trying to sooth a frightened animal. His brows were drawn tight, mouth a grim line.

“You’re not gonna win this fight, love,” he said, gently now. “Not here. Not tonight.”

Her lips parted, breath catching on a sob she didn’t let out. Her wrists ached in Gambit’s grip. Her heart ached worse.

Pietro finally shoved Sabretooth off with a surge of speed and landed, panting, one arm cradling his ribs.

“Let her go,” he said, voice gravel-rough. “I’ve got her.”

Gambit hesitated.

Then slowly, he stepped back.

(Y/n) staggered forward—but not far. Pietro caught her by the elbow, not unkindly, just firm. Like a leash. Like gravity. An unstoppable force.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t look at any of them.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the tracks ahead—long, endless steel rails stretching toward darkness.

And the night felt colder than before.

She felt a ringing in her ear.

Sharp, high, incessant.

She didn’t know if it was from the panic attack crawling up her throat like a hand around her windpipe, or if it was from Gambit bashing her damn head—twice—into cold, unyielding steel. Probably both. Either way, it wouldn't stop.

There was an unabating throbbing at the back of her head as well. One she was desperately trying to ignore.

Her knees threatened to give out, breath rattling, but she didn’t fall. Wouldn’t give them that.

She hated this.

Hated the stifling heat of her own skin, hated the pounding of her blood in her ears, hated the hands that had touched her, gripped her, held her down.

She hated the freight yard, the scent of rust and ash, the cold press of gravel under her boots. She hated them—every last one of them. Why couldn’t they have just left her alone?

She hated the way Pietro’s hand still gripped her elbow like he was the only thing keeping her from shattering.

But most of all—

She hated herself.

For letting it happen. For not being faster. For not being stronger.

She was supposed to be better than this. She had promised herself she would never be this helpless again.

She was an X-Man, dammit.

And yet—here she was.

Surrounded. Dragged from the only sense of control she’d managed to carve out for herself in this brutal, unforgiving world. Caged like a bird with clipped wings and too much pride.

(Y/n) sucked in a breath that caught in her chest like broken glass, blinking against the pressure behind her eyes.

She was not going to cry. She doesn’t think she’d be able to survive the humiliation that would come with her breaking down into tears right now.

“Get off,” she muttered. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady—knife-steady. “Don’t touch me.”

Pietro didn’t move for a beat too long.

Then—slowly—he released her.

She stepped away from him like his touch burned. Like she could scrub it from her skin if she just moved fast enough.

Pyro watched her with a strange stillness now, all the fire in him dimmed to embers.

Gambit’s mouth was tight, eyes unreadable beneath the glint of shadowed red.

And Sabretooth… Sabretooth looked pleased.

Pietro’s voice came again, quiet, but with a thread of command under the weariness.

“We're leaving.”

(Y/n) didn’t answer.

Just stood there, staring at the ground. Her jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“You can walk,” Pietro said, voice a bit softer, “or someone’s going to carry you. But we’re going.”

Her fingers curled at her sides.

And after a long breath, she moved.

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themanedwolfbr · 1 month ago

Text

Imagine:

The rain softly drummed against the window, and you nestled deeper into your blanket, holding a cup of hot chocolate in your hands. The clock read 8:37 PM. Pietro had promised to meet you precisely at 8:00, but as always, saving the world came first.

You didn’t really mind—not truly. You loved him, and you knew that being an Avenger meant he was always on the move. Yet, that fact did little to stop the pang of longing each time the world needed him more than you.

With a sigh, you reached for your phone to send a message, but before your fingers could touch the screen, a warm breeze tousled your hair, and in the blink of an eye, he was there. His rain-damp hair fell over his forehead, and that crooked smile always made your heart race.

"Before you get mad at me..." he said, retrieving something from behind his back. It was a red rose, its petals still glistening with droplets of rain.

"I picked this up along the way," he added.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning seriousness, but your expression softened when you saw the guilty look in his eyes.

"Where exactly did you pick it up?" you asked.

Pietro scratched his neck.

"Paris."

You blinked several times.

"Paris… in France?"

"Yes?" he replied with a mischievous smile, waiting for your reaction.

You took the rose and shook your head, smiling.

"Alright... this time you get off the hook."

Before you could say another word, he vanished in a blur and, in less than two seconds, reappeared holding a paper bag with the logo of a famous French bakery.

"I brought croissants as well," he announced.

You laughed, pulling him onto the sofa next to you.

"A boyfriend who crosses the world for me? I think I could get used to that."

He smiled, intertwining his fingers with yours, his eyes shining with tenderness.

"I would traverse the universe for you."

Your heart melted. You leaned in, feeling the warmth of his presence, and he didn't hesitate. With a gentle motion, he cupped your face and pressed his lips against yours in a sweet kiss full of promises.

And in that moment, time finally seemed to slow down.

• I'm sorry if there are any mistakes in the writing, English is not my language.

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cas-backwards-tie · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter One: Tough Terrain

Peter Maximoff x Reader

As Cold As Ice Masterlist | Next Chapter

Summary: After your trial, you're brought to the X-Mansion by the will of a man with hopes of offering you a second chance at life. You don't want this, and aren't so sure you can have whatever redemption this man is offering.

Words: 3.1k

Warnings: Being Bound, Guns, Law Enforcement, Prejudice, Shame, Guilt, Cursing, Injury, Fear, Political Undertones

A/N: I kind of watched all the X-Men movies recently because of Marvel Rivals, and well.. it drug up a lot of personal experiences, parallels in my life that I thought maybe I could try writing about? Plus, I mean, Evan Peters was super cute in this role! Still, pretty self-indulgent, but thought I'd post it.

You hadn't meant to be there that long; you hadn't meant to be caught. Avoiding capture was only a matter of time, you had to know that... right? After all, all good things come to an end.

Maybe you were just tired of running. Maybe that's why you let them grab you off the corner store that day.

Yet, there's never the consideration of how much dignity the consequences of your own actions would cost. Whether or not you've changed, whether you haven't, doesn't matter.

"Uncuff her," the bald man before the armored van's doors commands.

The soldiers hop down off the back, their arms interlocked with yours, wrists bound in the handcuffs they'd subdued you with upon capture. Your Converse catch on the lip of the truck causing you to trip, only held up by their strong arms, their hands still wielding the guns they'd originally intimidated you with. The gravel beneath your feet only further causes you to stumble in search of a grasp on anything for balance.

"I'm afraid we can't do that, Sir." One of the soldiers--Williams was scrawled across his chest--states in response. Classic cop move, what else would anyone expect? While the man might not be a regular cop, you'd seen enough to know they're all the same when it comes down to it.

"It wasn't a request," the bald man retaliates. While your eyes had been on the sandy gravel beneath your feet, hair hanging in your face and obstructing your view, you finally raise your head to meet the man's face. It looks familiar somehow; eyebrows furrowing, you try to place where you'd seen him before. Yet, that's not what truly catches your attention. Behind him stands the boy you'd spotted during the trial a few days ago, his appearance far too peculiar to forget.

The court room was almost completely empty save strictly for the necessary people involved in your case. That is, it was, right up until just before your sentencing. You'd heard the creaky door let in a breath of fresh breeze from the hallway faintly in the back of your mind, yet you couldn't bother to care when the fate of the rest of your life lie in the hands of the jury and this judge. The school district's defense attorney was brutal, while the one you'd been assigned was surprisingly progressive and kind. He was unlike anything you'd expected. A gift from God? Or a trap disguised by the Devil?

As you braced for the inevitable punishment you deserved, you couldn't help but feel eyes on the side of your head. With a quick glance to your right you'd spotted a group of witnesses simply watching the case unfold. Your life, really, if anyone bothered to think about what this was all really about. And while your heart was stuck in your throat, body practically paralyzed with fear as time seemed to slow to an impossibly agonizing pace, you couldn't help but stop and stare at the boy for a moment, if only just this moment. Everyone seemed to be busy watching the case, except one: him.

Sure, maybe it was the odd hair color, or the way his reflective silver jacket matched his hair, but it didn't really matter. The curious and sympathetic look in his eyes gave you pause. Out of the dozens of people in the courtroom, no one had looked at you that way. His penetrating stare alike his hair in that reflective quality; forcing you to confront yourself for all you are. All you'd done. Gaze refocusing on the old and slightly splintered wooden table in front of you, hair obscuring your face from him, you're too ashamed to truly be seen. While you await the people's decision, await the consequence you rightfully knew you deserved after that day. The one you're tired of hearing about.

"Are you threatening us, Xavier?" The other solider on your left speaks up, the rustling of the strap on his rifle is a sinister reminder that you're trapped. Easily at one's disposal if they care to do so. An undignified transfer from one group of men to another. Rendering you down to nothing but a dangerous possession. It was obvious the fear the men held for you just based off the disgusted looks and lack of eye contact they'd made with you on the ride over.

"That depends on how you look at it," the bald man answers, an unwavering confidence imbued in his demeanor. There's a fire in his eyes that you wish you could place, but you're completely lost in all the heightened emotions and despairing thoughts that sweep up your mind in their monsoon.

'Do Not Be Afraid'

The words ring out as if someone had spoken, but no one seems to react, and no one's mouth had moved. A quiet gasp leaves your lips and you attempt to whip your head around to spot if someone had gotten behind you, the movement jostling you within the soldiers' grasp. Confusion is surely written all over your face as everyone's attention shifts on you. "Nevertheless, the restraints are not helping anything. If she's to be in my custody, you'll have to remove them sooner or later," the man they'd called Xavier posits.

It wasn't that you hadn't heard him, but the back and forth between the men doesn't exactly register in your mind as your eyes flit around your surroundings trying to spot a way out. With all the events in the past four months, you'd learned one of the most important lessons: You're on your own. No one is coming to rescue you. You have to look out for yourself, because if you don't... who will?

Their voices feel like you're hearing them from underwater as you look past the boy with silver hair and spot many faces in the windows of the mansion. Everyone's watching you, everyone's seeing this, everyone knows. And there's nothing you hate more than being a spectacle. It's then that you feel the locks on the handcuffs pop open as the guards are reaching into their pockets for the keys, begrudgingly complying. The piece of metal falls toward the Earth, but you don't waste a second. This is your chance! This is your out.

Before you can think of your next move, you're already committed to the first idea that pops into your mind. Your elbows swing backward with all your strength as you jab both guards in the stomach. While they're doubling over, you run for it. "Peter go!" Grunts of pain and anger ensue, followed by the rustling of fabric and the metallic clicking of rounds being slid into their chambers.

"NO!" You hear the same someone yell as the sound of gunfire follows. Your heart pounds tremendously fast within your chest as your feet carry you further through the grass toward the wall of trees bleeding into a forest from what you can see. The encroaching sound of bullets whizzing by and pitting into the soil by your feet has you jumping in your skin as you momentarily cower and curl in on yourself before the instinct to take off only amplifies tenfold. To stop now would undoubtedly be a death sentence.

You're already three-fourths of the way to the tree line when you feel the Earth skating by much faster than you know you can run. Eyes widening, you look down only to spot that you've unintentionally aided your effort by subconsciously creating tracks of ice beneath your feet. The realization sends you stumbling, feet slipping atop the ice until muscle memory kicks in. You'd done a brief stint of ice skating when you were younger. Able to balance yourself, you continue onward, praying you can create enough distance between where you were and wherever you're going. Anywhere safe, ideally.

Wind races across your face as you soar past the terrain far faster than your feet could naturally take you. If ever there was a time or reason to be glad for your powers, it was now! Weight forward on your thighs and knees, you propel yourself in ways you'd only seen on television during the Winter Olympics. Just as you hear the gunfire stop and think you're finally far enough way to stop, you're met with a silver blur and a figure directly in front of your path. Swerving into a Hockey Stop, your body is launched up into the air, spiraling and spinning with the momentum you'd gained.

There's a series of 'oof's that tumble past multiple lips before you're able to open your eyes and take in your surroundings properly. Suddenly you're in someone's arms, eyes wide as you don't know how or when you'd even gotten there. He doesn't look surprised, yet he also doesn't look comfortable either.

"Ah!" The scream automatically rips itself from your throat as you scramble to your feet and out of his hold. The only thought you have is to get him away from you; going for a shove to his chest, your eyes widen as it feels like time suddenly slows down as you watch your hands change color before your very eyes. Hands hitting his chest with a thud, there's a crisp tink to it as your hands go white and ice spreads across his chest just where you'd touched him. That's all you see in the split second it'd taken before he's being launched backward into the air several feet away, ultimately falling into the shrubbery.

The shrill shriek that leaves the boy's body isn't anything you can bother to laugh at in the moment, your lips parted as shock completely covers your face. Stuck in the same position you'd been in, you can't fathom how or what you just did to him! Is he...? He can't be! Absolutely not! He can't be... can he? You definitely didn't just...

"Ughh..." the groan comes from the indented shrubs and while you can't see him from where you're standing, a relieved sigh escapes your body, every part of you sagging with the tension dissipating.

"Oh, thank God!" You praise the universe this time. With a moment to catch your breath, your attention falls back to your hands. They're skin color now. Did you only imagine it? It felt so real, though? So how did...?

It's then that the crunching branches and rising appearance of the boy elicits your attention. He doesn't look pleased... like, at all. With a drop of his neck from side to side in an attempt to crack it, he follows suit by crunching one fist's knuckles before the other. Stepping over the shrubs he'd been blasted into, he storms right your way. "Oh, I don't think so, Sweet Cheeks," he taunts.

Within a blink you're being set down on crunchy gravel, yet dizziness and nausea cause you to stumble. Somewhere in the back of your mind you register the hand around your shoulder, but can't question it at the moment. All you see before you is the van you'd been contained in, the guards at the ready with their guns pointed at you before you feel like you're falling, your world going black.

You wake with a start, body surging forward to sit up. "Ow!" You go from gasping for breath to groaning in pain in mere seconds as your eyes snap open in search of what you'd hit.

"Really?!" Someone yells before moaning. Pain emanates from your forehead, and a look to your right shows you the other person is also clutching theirs.

"Told you not to stand that close," a man with glasses teases from across the room behind an ornate writing desk.

"I know, Hank! I just didn't think she'd-" the boy complains, rubbing at his forehead. It's obvious you'd bumped heads, yet your mind is still spinning with questions. Where are you? How long had you been out?! Who are all these people? "You've gotta heck of a lot of fire there, babe. Or should I say-"

"Peter," You hear another voice say in a warning tone. Eyes flitting to the direction it'd come from, you can't help the way your face drops as you gawk at the person.

"Holy shit," you curse under your breath, the whole room going quiet.

"What?" The boy asks, looking at you with confusion until you guess it clicks for him as his eyes fall down over himself.

"Y-you're blue?" The words leave your lips before you can stop them, and while you can't look away, the others in the room apparently take the moment to redirect things.

The call of your name garners your attention. "Do you know who I am?" As your eyes slowly peel over the three people standing by the ornate wooden desk, you find that the blonde woman looks eerily familiar to you. Wasn't she at the trial too? All the events of today make you feel like your mind is turning to Jello.

"Should I?" Attention ultimately falling back onto the bald man addressing you, you're unsure how to approach this situation. Manners might already be thrown out the window with the way you can't really bother to care anymore. Everything that's happened the past four months has taken more of a toll on you than you'd realize.

"I would assume not, no," he responds, an indifferent look on his face. "My name is Charles Xavier, I'm the Headmaster of this school," he explains.

"You've never heard of the X-Men?" The silver-haired boy sat on the coffee table before you finally stops rubbing his forehead as he turns to you, a questioning and judgmental look on his face.

It feels like a lightbulb goes off in your brain as a look of bewilderment crosses your expression. "Oh, fuck!" Without thinking you hop up onto the couch you'd been lying on, pointing to the blue boy you'd questioned earlier. "That's why I know you! You're one of them, right?" An excited grin overtakes your features before you turn to the adults at the desk expectantly, as if for confirmation.

"Yeah," the silver-haired boy lets out a puff of air. "Cause he's the only X-Men here," he says sarcastically.

"If you'd refrain from standing on the furniture-" Charles Xavier begins.

"Oh! Sorry," you apologize, quickly hopping off onto the floor before the couch. "You're the guy who... what? Leads the X-Men? I saw something on TV-"

"Actually, that'd be me," the silver-haired boy says, to which everyone gives a disapproving look.

"You could say that, I suppose," Charles replies without a thought, ignoring the boy's response. "Peter, if you're going to be a problem, you'll have to go." By the silver-haired boy's frown, you can tell he's Peter. With that, Xavier's attention shifts back to you. "As you're probably aware, I testified on your behalf during the trial. Hence, your sentencing lessened and your arrival here."

"I'm not... this isn't..." you shake your head as you try to gather your thoughts into the question you're actually trying to ask. "That's not a part of it, right? I don't have to be an X-Men?"

"You don't want to?" The man standing to the right of the blonde woman asks, you finally take in the way he looks like a scientist with his white lab coat, glasses, and clipboard.

"Why would I? Glory? Fighting on behalf of the government and giving up my life for what, exactly?" You question.

"To save people's lives," the blonde woman responds, her figure shifting and changing into something... someone... blue. You recognize her. She's... Mystique, right? One of the most recognizable X-Men, the one a lot of people supposedly look up to in their community.

"Woah," you whisper under your breath.

"It's not an easy decision, I wouldn't expect just anyone to do it." While her response comes off passive-aggressive, you can't deny that saving people is probably one of the best things Mutants could do with their powers.

"Raven's right, however it is not a stipulation of your rehabilitation," Charles explains, "You are here in the hopes that you can learn to control your powers and show the government you are not all that they've been claiming you to be."

This gives you pause. You know what they've surely been saying about you while you'd been on the run. Though, while you haven't directly seen much of the news, you can only imagine the worst. Even during the trial they'd made it a point to call you a 'terrorist', 'monster', and a whole lot of other awful names. Yet, as someone who's never been considered a freak, you do not want to admit it, nor own up to it.

"What you did out there was remarkable," Charles compliments, "I do believe we would not have been able to save you if it weren't for someone with Peter's expertise," the man smiles at the boy. "Did you mean to do what you did out there? Quite a smart attempt to remove yourself from the situation."

It's then that you decide you hate this Peter guy. He's the reason you're here, why you're trapped right now, and have to endure whatever dull stipulations they'd dolled onto your sentence.

"This is a whole lot better than prison," Raven, or as you'd known her, Mystique, taunts. "I'd be thanking Charles right about now if I were you." Hand lightly drug along the man's shoulders in passing as she rounds the desk and heads toward the door, you can't help but feel embarrassed. Do they all know what you'd done? Why you're here? Shame and guilt begin to gnaw at your stomach again.

"This is a second chance for you," Charles repeats your name again, his tone encouraging and softer this time. "It's not a punishment to be here, I assure you. If anything, I hope it will help you grow to your fullest potential. Now, if you boys wouldn't help her with a tour, we've arranged a room for her up with the girls," he waves toward the door and it opens. "The boys will help acquaint you with the premise, and once you're done I'm sure Hank will be ready to meet you downstairs for preliminary testing."

While you sit on the couch unmoving your heart beating in your chest feels all too slow for the way fear takes hold of you. Paranoia, hatred, anger, resentment, grief, and guilt all dig their claws into you and you're left weighed down with no words. Nodding is the only thing you can do. There's no way out of this one. They'd just get this Peter kid to bring you back again.

Sullen, you slowly rise from the brown olefin couch and walk toward the doorway. You're unsure whether it was more ominous in the office, or if the utter silence within the empty foyer is more daunting. "It is not usually this empty," the blue boy speaks.

"Everyone's in class," Peter adds on, holding the door open for you kindly, even if he's frowning as you pass.

"Welcome to the X-Manor," blue boy announces with a smile you can only interpret as genuine.

~~~~~~~~

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo , @penelopepine

#peter maximoff x reader #quicksilver x reader #x men reader insert #marvel reader insert #slow burn #enemies to lovers #forced proximity #mutant!reader #angst #peter maximoff x mutant!reader

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lovelyladyabsinthewrites · 1 year ago

Text

Just What You Wanted

Pairing(s): onesided!Pietro Maximoff x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: pietro really misses his chance here, oocpietro? (first time writing him), reader being a big adult and moving on, pietro acting like a child, mentions of sexy time (readerxbucky), toxic!pietro, protective!bucky

Words: 4430

Summary: You decided to take your chance and ask Pietro out. There had to be more to his flirting right? Unfortunately he turns you down but you won't waste your time mourning what could have been. You move on and find a perfect partner in the Winter Soldier.

"Maybe I got the signals mixed up?" You lightheartedly muse to Wanda. Carefully, you push down on the button stopper of the wine box that was situated between the two of you.

Wanda shakes her head. "Don't even give it a second thought. He's my brother and I love him, but you can do WAY better than him." She couldn't fathom why Pietro would reject your proposition of a date. Wanda knew her twin brother liked you. Painfully obvious in the obnoxious manner both of you flirt.

Making a mental note to chew him out later, Wanda tilts the remainder of her own wine glass into her mouth. "He's been acting like a complete ass since we arrived in America. I think now that he has freedom, he's overdosing on it. What was the term Tony used?"

You choke on your wine, a snort burning your nose and throat. "Man-whore."

She nods. "Yes! That is it. He's become quite a man-whore!"

Near dying next to her, you're forced to put down your wine glass or you would ruin your bedspread. Once your hands were free, you use them to clutch your stomach as it aches from your laughter.

Really you weren't that upset about it. You thought you would give it a shot, maybe something was there. No big duh to you.

"Did he really say he didn't want to date you because you're coworkers?" Confusion still plagued Wanda as she slowly blinks her eyes. Trying to understand what her brother was thinking. They didn't have that type twin telepathy. That was mainly based on feelings. "That's complete bull."

"Honestly it's okay. Really." You tell Wanda trying to calm her down. "He's probably right. No harm done."

Wanda placates her own feelings with a smile at how unperturbed you were by the rejection. Pietro was a fool. His loss will be someone else's gain.

Not long after someone else did stumble upon you.

Never before had you worked with the Winter Soldier. You'd seen him around Avenger's HQ and spotted him in the common areas, but you wouldn't say you were close to Bucky Barnes. Only a handful of friendly words had ever been shared between you.

The assignment that paired you together with him would ultimately turn out to be a blessing in disguise. A simple mission that you confidently thought you could finish in no time. The run of the mill shadow organization that possessed weapons of mass destruction and infiltrating said organization. You and Bucky were picked for this based on your success record and skill set. You found it a compliment as you heard nothing but great things about Bucky. He was a fine soldier and outstanding friend to Steve Rogers.

Fury told you the timeline looked to be a month before this organization known as 'Specter' planned to launch its weapon. A major problem was that their base was hidden so both you and Bucky would have to go deep undercover.

You shared an close space with Bucky and found him pleasurable to be around. He was easy on the eyes too. His smile makes every inch of you flutter delightfully. Similar to how flirting with Pietro made you feel.

Patience was required when gathering intel. An operation like this couldn't be rushed. That meant learning more about Bucky. He even manages to pry some stories from your childhood out of you. Things you hadn't remembered in a long time.

When passing binoculars, fingers linger against one another. Excuses of offering warmth just so that you could press yourself against him. His jacket might as well have belonged to you now due to how often you were wearing it now.

"It looks better on you anyway." Bucky would tell you. A heaviness in his gaze puts all of your functions at a halt.

You started noticing how kissable his lips looked. Or the fine veins that run along his hands. Beautiful as they held a gun. Between your legs start to ache for him when you watch Bucky strangling a man for information. You never found violence. . . attractive until you worked with Bucky. It was just a means to get by. A requirement for the world you lived in.

Throughout the mission, you manage to keep things professional. Even though the burning gazes exchanged were still frequent. You had to focus your efforts on completing your assignment. Bucky respects that type of work ethic.

Identifying the main figures within Specter was easy once missing pieces were filled with the information you received along the way. One would be spared for questioning, the other two were quickly disposed of.

When your prisoner was handed over to the government which held dominion, you and Bucky head back to the room you'd been using to hide out in.

You were excited to go home and tell Wanda all about it. You're giddy, imagining her scandalized reaction that you loved. Her eyes would get so big, hands clutching onto your arm begging for more details.

A knock at the door puts a pause in your packing as you go to check the peephole. You open it once you verify it's just Bucky. "You all done packing? Sorry, I'll just be five more minutes."

He closes the door behind him. "It's not that."

The depth of his voice has you shivering, turning back to him with your full attention. He's cleaned off the dirt from his face and changed his clothes. Appeared Bucky even brushed his dark hair. Disheveled Bucky was sexy but cleaned up Bucky was a god damn smoke show. Your bones become trembling jelly as he stalks up to you.

"I believe, we have some personal business to take care of." The corner of his lips twitch up in a predatory manner to show off his sharp cuspids.

"By all means," You breathe out and internally cheer when it doesn't come out as a squeak "lets commence the business Mr. Barnes."

The delay of your return to headquarters did raise brows.

Especially Pietro's.

You took Wanda by the arm and she knew you had a story to tell. Using her magic-like ability, she conjures a bottle of wine accompanied by two glasses.

Two schoolgirls giggling and kicking their legs as they talk about one's crush.

"And he told me-" your cheeks hurt from your smile "that he wants to take me out on a proper date."

Wanda swoons backwards as she falls against your bed. She says something in her native Sokovian before switching to English "I told you that you could do much better than Pietro."

From then on it was a common occurrence to find you and Bucky together. You visit one another's room frequently day and night. Time spent not on assignment, Bucky would take you out on both fun and romantic dates. He wooed you like no other man had before. A goddamn gentleman who ate and slurped your pussy in a way that sucked the soul right out of you.

There were men before Bucky but sweet mercy they couldn't compare to the beast that was Bucky once he got your legs perched atop his shoulders. You would never had taken him for a sloppy eater, not by the way he used his fork and knife when he took you out to fancy restaurants. When he slides in his cold metal fingers, your back spikes up in a arch off the bed.

However, not everyone in the Avenger's Headquarters was happy for you and Bucky.

When Pietro first walked into the communal kitchen to find Bucky's hand up your shirt, he nearly suffered from an aneurysm on the spot. Thankfully his feet reacted faster than his brain and took off in the opposite direction before either of you noticed his presence. He'd heard the office gossip that you and Bucky were an item now. Pietro arrogantly thought that your relationship with the winter soldier was a fling or some fucked up way for get back at him for turning you down.

Hitting the two month mark had Pietro sweating. Your relationship with Bucky was thriving. The sting of betrayal sears his insides. When he voices his woes to his twin, Wanda held no comforting words for him.

"Oh well. They love each other now. So you have to move on." Uncaringly, her attention goes back to her phone. "You had your chance, Pietro."

He shoots his sister a glare. "Have some empathy."

That makes her laugh but at least Wanda puts her phone down and turns back to Pietro. "Empathy? Refresh my memory, what was the real reason why you didn't date her?" He'd told you it was because you were coworkers. Claimed he didn't want things to be weird around HQ. Conveniently forgetting that Wanda and Vision were in a happy relationship. But she knew the disgusting truth.

His eyes turn pleading, round and lined with those pretty lashes he flaunted. "Wanda-"

"No, I want to hear you say it again and really help me try to understand." Her arms cross in front of her.

Pietro takes his bottom lip between his teeth to give it a worrying chew. "I. . . I wasn't ready to be in a monogamous relationship- Hey, I'm being serious." He adds the last part after he hears Wanda snort. "We spent all of our adolescence and young adult lives under HYDRA control. It's only been two years since we were liberated. I want to live a little bit more before settling down."

"And look what that has cost you."

"I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't." Wanda's exasperated. "That's not a good excuse. Bucky is in the same boat as us and just because he missed out on having a life he didn't let that stop him from making things official with her."

In short, Pietro simply had no choice but to deal with it. And his way of dealing with it was bringing home his current ladies in the hopes of catching your attention. If you see him with another woman, maybe your jealous would remind you of your feelings for him. That tactic didn't work and only gained him disapproving looks from his twin. He stopped when it was clear your heart eyes weren't straying from Bucky.

Evident that he wasn't going to win you back, Pietro's disbelief curdled to jealousy.

Words weren't enough to bring him to his senses; none in English or Sokovian reached his ears. Exhausted from trying to speak reason to him, Wanda stops all together. Perhaps her brother needed to fall on his ass to wake up.

You weren't blind to Pietro's spike in hostile conduct. Lately there were a few close calls between Bucky and Pietro. Bucky refused to stand for Quicksilver's attitude. Fists weren't raised- not yet. But if looks could kill, both would be incinerated.

Unable to ignore Pietro at Headquarters, you and Bucky take the plunge and buy an apartment together and move out of the superhero facility all together. The apartment complex was still relatively close to headquarters; mainly housing other staff that worked out of there.

Just because you removed yourselves, you were still Avengers and required to attend functions for different movie fundraisers or anything else that had you in hair and make-up for two hours. It paid off to watch Bucky's mouth near drop at the sight of you. This once-assassin who has blood on his hands truly did something to you when he wore a sharp suit. Seams that are streamline and highlight his broad shoulders. Even his waist was deliciously framed. You wanted to hop on him and wrap your legs around that sinfully sexy waist.

Alas, neither you or Bucky could just continue to stand there drooling over the other.

"Wipe your chin, Barnes." Natasha teases as she passes by. To you she shoots a lively smile. "Come on you two. Free booze and food await us."

Pietro had already found the said free booze; ignoring the free food part. He was obligated to attend the gala, agreed to it months ago. If he backed out now, everyone else would have his ass over the fire.

Though he felt like maybe it would have been better had he just said fuck it and stayed home. Especially when you and Bucky walk in looking like the perfect couple. Cameras went off yet people kept a respectful distance from the two of you. You basically had your own guard dog in the form of the Winter Soldier. He towers over you in a way that told others to back off; a protective hand holding onto your's. Both of you are quite the sight standing next to Wanda and Vision. Wanda happily hugs you, her words lost to the loud background music.

He can't take his eyes off of you.

Alcohol warming his system, Pietro downed glass after glass. There was a momentary warmth he felt inside of him before he caught sight of you again.

Hating seeing the two of you together, Pietro spirals in his own head. Plenty of pretty girls around him, all he could focus on was you and the fact that you were hanging off the arm of a murderer. Everyone seemed to have so quickly forgotten that this man killed Howard and Maria Stark.

The moment you unlatched yourself from Bucky's side to go to the bar, Pietro descent upon you.

Your heightened senses barely register the high velocity sound that you associated with Quicksilver. Half a step back was all you were able to make before you heard his husky voice "You find killers sexy?"

His question rakes claw marks against your mind. "What?"

A mocking laugh puffs out of him and he rolls his eyes over in Bucky's direction. "The Winter Soldier. You like the fact that he's murdered innocent people?"

On edge, you notice in your periphery how people were starting to turn to look your way. The volume of Pietro's voice was gradually starting to rise and draw onlookers.

Flushing and attempting to retain your composure, you keep your shoulders back confidently. “Looks like you’ve had too much to drink.” Your eyes search the crowd for Wanda so that she could take him home before he said or did anything he’d regret later. You couldn’t see her or her floating man among the many bobbing heads. Even unable to find Bucky despite his stature.

“Deflecting the question, I see.” Pietro smugly smirks at you; a sway in the step that he took forward. “Shall I raise my voice so you can hear better?”

You narrow your eyes into deadly slits as you squint at him. He was clearly not in his right mind. “What do you want, Pietro?” What was this sudden change in him about? The moment your relationship became public knowledge, Pietro had been pissy ever since. He was the one who rejected you. The one who told you that you shouldn't date because you're coworkers. He had no right to be jealous.

Bucky suggested a few weeks ago that Pietro may still be interested in you. Proposed that his peaked interest must have been from seeing you and Bucky together. At the time you laughed it off. A corner of your mind was screaming at you to listen to him.

Not appreciating how closely he leaned into you, Pietro snarls "That guy has taken numerous, innocent lives. How could you fuck someone with that kind of blood on their hands?" Now you were sure more and more people were pulling out their phones and recording to send to whatever social media platform.

Heat rises off of your cheeks as they blare like alarms. You felt your body tremble not because you were afraid, no, you tremble under the weight of your own fury. Your powers rattled the bars of the cage you kept it in. Clenching down hard against your back teeth with the effort to keep them at bay.

"You know why he did those terrible things. It wasn't him." Growling softly you try desperately to keep a semblance of a calm tone. You were never the type to show your anger. The public might turn against you if they see you break from Pietro's cruel words. Even the bits you were letting slip was enough for your audience to know you were beyond furious. "He was under HYDRA mind control. You of all people should understand the ways HYDRA implements their tools of pain." It wasn't working.

You needed Bucky before you really snapped your last strand of patience.

At least Pietro had enough sense to take a step away from you. In his drunken stupor, he hadn't noticed the crowd. Dozens of people holding up their smartphones, a few reporters who were allowed in were snapping bright pictures. That's when he saw Bucky and Wanda toward him.

Wanda uses her power to wrap him up in scarlet bindings and drag him to where she stood at the cusp of the crowd. She spits something out in Sokovian toward him, motioning for Bucky to go to your side and get you out of there. He looked more ready to rip Pietro apart but valued your wellbeing over all else and easily strode to you.

He slings a protective arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his side in an attempt to keep you out of the sight of cameras.

Those involved were taken back to Avengers HQ so the situation could be straightened out. That is, after Fury was done yelling at everyone for how they acted at what was supposed to be an extravagant gala. Admonished how you and Pietro were acting like dramatic high schoolers with your stunt and how this would definitely tarnish the reputation of earth's mightiest heroes. Pietro was still as drunk as a skunk, hissing at everyone who tried to get near him. Only being held back by Wanda who was still yelling at him in Sokovian. As everyone argued back and forth, only you and Bucky remained quiet.

A small upside could be found. Though it was quite the public altercation, popularity for you and Bucky as a couple sky rocketed. Within the hours of it happening, many social media websites exploded with praise at how you defended your man.

That news wasn't enough to make anyone happy at the moment.

Seeing that nothing would be resolved with such bickering, Bucky clears his throat to draw everyone's attention to him. "May I get a word with Pietro alone?"

Fury doesn't look like he wants to allow it. He was assured though that if anything were to happen, Bucky would be able to stand on his own and fend off an angry Pietro. His single dark eye roves around the room before conceding to Bucky's request.

Motive unclear, you arch a brow in his direction. He just offers you a smile and leans toward you to say "It'll be alright. Jus' wanna talk to him."

"I've seen you 'just talk' to people before." You remind him trying to keep your voice stern. "Don't make things worse. Okay?"

"Yes ma'am." That smirk of his will be the death of you, you just know it. There's a silent exchange between you and Wanda who finally relinquishes her scarlet restraints on her twin brother. Pietro staggers without the additional support that held him up.

"Fifteen minutes. Cameras are rolling." Fury warns as he escorts the others out.

Comfortably strolling forward, Bucky pulls out one of the conference chairs that had been entirely ignored. "Take a seat, Maximoff." Immediately there's a snarl curling Pietro's lips until Bucky rolls his eyes. "Or stand. Doesn't matter I guess. Just, listen to me for a moment."

Inebriated individuals don't understand reason, too caught up in their own tilted perception. He wants to do anything else but listen to Bucky prattle on about how he needs to back off of you. That you belonged to him now and how he wouldn't tolerate Pietro's pursuit of you.

Luck appeared to be on Bucky's side for the alcohol was wearing off of Pietro as he started to lose his steam and reluctantly slink down into the chair opposite Bucky's. His dark eyes hold steady onto the metal armed man. Remembering all too clear the stories that HYDRA would tell him and Wanda about the best operative they've ever had: the Winter Soldier. Would this legend of a man be able to hold off Pietro's speed attacks if he were to try?

Honestly he was tired of being angry. Emotions both positive and negative were siphoned out of him until there was nothing left.

Bucky could see that.

"Whatever we say here, stays here." Bucky speaks again, each word cruelly clipped. They strike Pietro like small arrows. Nothing could prepare him for the dead eyed glare that now pinned him to his chair. "Your behavior stops here. I've been more than patient. Held my tongue and my fist when I wanted to knock some sense into you. I didn't, for her sake since she didn't want to cause any trouble among the team. But you're spoiled brat act can't be tolerated anymore. You embarrassed all of us at the gala and made the Avengers look like fools."

His metal hand curls its fingers inwards toward his palm before releasing; an attempt to calm himself before his tone became too heated.

Pietro waits for any sign of movement for Bucky as the larger man deeply inhales. Finally, Bucky's eyes flick back up to him. "I get it."

With a heavy tongue, Pietro croaks out "Get what?"

"I know why and what has fueled your actions. Underneath it all you may have possibly loved her. You're upset that you lost your chance with her. It sucks, it has to to lose someone as amazing as her. I couldn't imagine. . ."

There's a flicker of anger at how the Winter Soldier spoke to him. Reminded Pietro of when his father would scold him as a child.

Bucky's voice soften when he detects the subtle twitch of Pietro's nose. He promised you that he wouldn't escalate things. "I'm sorry. I feel for you. But. . . I'm not going to be stupid enough to let her go. As long as she'll have me, she's mine."

He wanted to ignore the sincerity that warmed Bucky's words. Wanted to keep what little resentment remained inside.

Abruptly, Bucky stands from his chair; bottom of the legs scraping against the floor and startling Pietro in the process. In half a second, Pietro is up on his feet, taking a defensive position. Though his movements were sloppy as his perception was still muddled from his quickly consumed drinks.

Whatever camaraderie had been built between them in those short minutes of Bucky talking was gone. Back were those assassin sharp eyes. "If you upset her one more time, it won't be me you'll have to deal with. It will be the Winter Soldier coming after you. And I can guarantee not even your speed will be able to stop that monster."

"I told you."

He didn't want to hear it from Wanda right now. Damn her for always being right. Right now he just wanted to forget how he made such an ass of himself in front of so many people. When he wasn't trying to fend off his massive hangover migraine he was scrolling through social media, coming upon videos of how he spat in your face saying all sorts of cruel and vindictive things to you. So many mean comments slandering Quicksilver and adoring the hero couple.

In an attempt to drown out Wanda, Pietro grabs his pillow and lays it over his head.

That wouldn't stop her as she was on the war path. He'd hurt her best friend.

Red tendrils of her power rip his pillow off of his head. Pietro hisses in response and whips his head to narrow his eyes in her direction. "You're going to apologize to her. Because if you don't and pull this kind of shit again, Bucky is going to kill you and I won't be able to stop him. You're an idiot for not realizing how protective he is of her." She mumbles something about how lucky he was that Bucky hadn't smashed his face in the conference room during their private chat.

Quiet for a moment, Pietro sits up and leans his back against the bed's headboard. "I know. . . I know I've fucked everything up. I just. . ."

Wanda still has her arms crossed in front of her chest, posture vibrating with the need to throttle her twin. The frostiness in her expression slackens though at Pietro finally admitting that he was in the wrong. Not like she got satisfaction out of it. It pained her watching her brother act like a total dick head toward her best friend. It wasn't long ago that she thought you and Pietro would make a nice couple.

He sighs and runs a hand through his ash blonde hair, repeating "I've fucked everything up."

"At least you're owning up to it." quietly points out Wanda.

Time was necessary for all wounds to heal. That applied toward the ones Pietro had caused. He gave you space for two days before he came up to you to ask for a private word; promising he'd behave and that he just wanted to apologize for everything. Even told you about what Bucky had said to him.

You knew he told the truth because his face was the definition of genuine remorse and repentance.

For most of his speech he looked at his hands, but when he dared to glance up at you Pietro would hold your gaze. His earnestness brimming in his blue eyes. For so long they had been darkened by his discontent. Now they remind you of the pretty bright hue they used to be.

After a moment of silence, Pietro hesitantly asks "Are you happy with him? Truly?"

"I am. I've never been this happy in my entire life. He makes me happy." A bright smile flourishes on your face. "I love him."

Pietro nods.

"Hey, even if things didn't work out romantically with us doesn't mean I don't want to be friends with you. I do. We had fun as friends." You bump him with your elbow.

A wisp of a smile beckons at his lips but couldn't quite get all the way there. "I'd like that. Eventually. . ."

"Eventually." You repeat in agreement.